Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

...

Cold steel touched the side of his neck, the pressure a familiar sensation as it forced him up onto his knees. His hands chained above his head and locked in place. The manacles around his wrist had long since stopped rubbing and bleeding. Now only a dull throb was left, his skin raw and irritated. His fingers twitched and he tried to ignore the pain and the blood pooling around his body.

Cold hazel eyes stared at his captors. There were four men this time, each with a weapon and a grin. All of them looked eager to cause more pain. The room was filled with the sweet copper scent of blood.

Fools. They had no idea of who they kidnapped.

The first blow struck the right side of his chest, cracking a rib. His body arched away and the chains held him steady. The next came quickly, aimed low and to the right. The third and forth strike were on the upper right side.

When he began to laugh they paused. Their gazes locked, but the archer continued to chuckle. One of them cursed, a dark expression settling across his face.

"What are you laughing about?" Hissed the one he assumed was the leader.

"You don't know who I am do you?" Asked the prisoner.

"You're just some old man," shrugged the leader.

He laughed harder as he caught the man's gaze, "I am a Tavern Owner. And you have royally fucked up. I will make sure each of you die slow and painfully."

His words were a promise and the leader blanched.

"Who the fuck is going to kill us? You're not going anywhere!"

"No," he smirked, "But they will. If I'm not back soon an alert will go out. Mercenaries current and retired will be notified. You should pray to whichever God has Blessed you."

He continued to laugh unsettling everyone in the room.

...

The training room was packed when Phil walked in. All the younger and more inexperienced agents were crowded along the walls and on the floor. In the center two figures circled one another. A crowd gathered around the two and it was difficult to see exactly what was happening.

"What's going on?" He asked the nearest agent.

"Barton's beating the shit out of Agent Jackson."

"Agent Jackson," repeated Phil, "why?"

"He made some comment that no one else could hear," answered another agent with a shrug.

"Is anyone doing anything to stop him?"

"Do we want to stop him sir?" Asked the first agent, his gaze darting between his superior and the fight.

Good point. Over the past five years Barton's temper had eased. Now it took quite a bit to get him angry. However once Barton got started the results were explosive and deadly.

"Yes. Someone get the other's attention."

Three people detached themselves from the group and moved to break up the fight. Phil went straight for Clint, the others could handle Jackson. Phil caught the gaze of Natasha Romanoff, the other member of Phil's stroke team. She was leaning against the far wall watching the scene with a slight smile. Her gaze met his and she pushed herself off the wall and sauntered towards the fighters.

Barton was in a long sleeved black shirt and pants. As usual he was wearing gloves something Phil never understood. No matter how cold or hot it was inside Barton always had the gloves. He also seemed to prefer clothing that covered every inch of his skin. Even the rare times when Barton had gone swimming he was the only one wearing a swim shirt.

Phil called out calm and reasonable, "Barton that's enough. Agent Jackson has had enough."

Glazed blue eyes met Phil's hazel ones and his gut twisted. Barton wasn't in the here and now. His mind was somewhere else. Somewhere terrible.

"Barton," he said softer this time bending down so that they were eye level.

Other agents were pulling a bleeding Jackson away. Natasha stood on standby in cade Barton decided to lunge for Jackson.

"You are at SHIELD," murmured Phil, "It is 8:43 in the morning. Today is Wednesday the 15th. The date is January 15th 2003. Your name is Clinton Francis Barton. We are in the New York Headquarters."

Phil's voice was low and calm. His gaze held the archers and refused to release. Slowly Clint's expression shifted. Pain and confusion turned into recognition and awareness.

"Coulson?" he asked uncertain.

"Yes," answered Phil relieved Barton was back.

Clint nodded and glanced at the crowd around him. Then his eyes drifted over to where the other's had dragged Jackson. There was a flash of anger.

"You've drawn quite the audience," noted Phil, his lips curving upwards.

Clint winced, "Yeah. How bad was it?"

Romanoff dropped a towel over Barton's shoulders. Her eyes met Phil's briefly.

"Pretty bad," she admitted, "What did he say to you, Clint?"

Clint's head lowered, his eyes avoiding both of their gazes, "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

Another one of the things that Barton refused to talk about then. The list wasn't long, but it did contain some key information. He didn't talk about his family, Gods and their Blessings, or soulmates. The topics weren't a big deal, but the fact that Barton didn't even acknowledge their existence was odd. Most people did, some had their own opinions about them. But Barton didn't seem to care about the topics.

"Come on," encouraged Phil, "Let's grab breakfast. Unless you're injured?"

"Just a few cuts and bruises," confirmed the archer.

Phil searched his agent's gaze looking for any sign that he was lying. The archer seemed steady, but Phil still watched him. Clint could mask his feelings like no one else, his emotions buried deep.

"Okay, let's go."

...

"Are you going to eat that?" asked the assassin.

The archer glared, "Don't you have your own?"

"Sure, but yours tastes better," she shot back.

"Nat, it's a damn waffle," he grumbled into his coffee.

"Still..."

She snatched the uneaten pieces off his plate. He sighed and finished his coffee in silence. Coulson was watching them with a hint of amusement.

"Why are you so grumpy?" she demanded, "It's a waffle."

"It's early," he deflected.

Both Coulson and Natasha snorted into their respective drinks. They knew he didn't sleep for more than a couple hours at a time. That he was likely awake long before 90% of the base.

"You didn't sleep did you," sighed Natasha.

Clint's shoulder lifted in a non-committal shrug, "You didn't either."

"You didn't try," she replied, her tone disapproving.

"It's fine," he muttered.

"No, its not," cut in Coulson, "Barton you have to sleep."

He didn't need this lecture again. The last one had been from the Director himself. Fury's disappointment and frustration had lingered throughout the whole lecture.

"Sir," he ground out, "Drop it."

"No," repeated Coulson, "Barton-"

"Sir. Stop."

The room had gone silent and several heads were turning their way. Barton clenched his jaw and tried to control his breathing. This wasn't a conversation to have in public.

"We're not done," insisted Coulson.

"Yes sir. We are," he refuted before standing and leaving the cafeteria.

The moment his feet were in the hall Clint took off. He could feel his heart pounding. Each step and breath felt loud and jarring. His body ached and he was ready to collapse.

The halls were busy. Everyone was hurrying around getting ready for work or eating their breakfasts. Most paid him little attention.

Half way to his quarters his phone rang. Clint had half a mind to ignore it as it was likely Coulson. However he could have an emergency. So instead Clint dug the small device from his pocket.

"If you're going to lecture me," he snapped without checking the caller ID.

"Barton," hissed a familiar voice he never thought he'd hear again.

Clint froze mid-step and stared at his cell, "Tatalla?"

"I know you're retired, Barton," she said and Clint went down a deserted hallway.

There he leaned his back against the wall. His free hand curled and pressed into his sternum. Tatalla was Heron's second in command. A former mercenary who took shit from no one.

"That hasn't changed," he whispered, "What's wrong? You wouldn't have called me unless it was something important."

"Heron was taken," her voice was tight.

"How long?" asked Clint, his stomach twisting.

"Six days. He hasn't been found. The last transmission was two days ago. You know the rules, the moment the owner goes missing a distress call is sent. Every agent, active and retired, are supposed to get the alert."

"Gods be damned," roared Clint.

He had the urge to throw the phone down the hallway. His hands shook and his teeth ground together. Five years. He had been out of the game for five years. And now he was being sucked back in. But it was Heron and Clint owed him everything. There was no choice here he had to go.

"I'll take the next flight," he told Tatalla, "Get ahold of the others."

"Everyone has been notified, but it will take some time for them to arrive. I'll see you when you arrive."

"Right," he agreed.

Then she hung up. Clint closed his eyes and pressed his palm hard into his chest. Heron... the old fool. He couldn't believe out of everyone who could have been kidnapped it had to be him.

Clint's head fell backwards until his skull connected with the concrete wall. His eyes stung and the phone shook in his hand.

"Fuck."

The next breath was a struggle and Clint shoved his fist into his mouth to keep from crying. Fuck, he cursed again. He would have to leave and soon.

If it was anyone else, Clint would have told them to fuck off. He wasn't part of that world anymore. He was retired as a mercenary and in good standing. He had a life and friends. He was a Shield agent.

"I have no choice," he groaned.

And he didn't. For Heron and what he did. Clint would step back into the world. Hopefully he could be back before anyone realizes he was gone.

Chapter Text

...

Clint staggered into his room. It was well maintained and impersonal. Not much was personal to him anyway. There were a few books and some clothing, but everything could be packed up quickly and moved.

In the dresser Clint grabbed a few items and shoved them into his bag. Next he moved to his nightstand and pulled out the small wooden box. It was plain and unremarkable, perfect for the item he kept locked away.

A silver chain with a red fox pendant slipped into his hand. It was his most prized possession. He rarely wore it as there were very few occasions for him to.

Carefully he slipped the necklace on. The fox's head was pointed up, it's mouth open in a grin. It sat above his heart, the metal warm and comforting.

It was the sign of the trickster. Heron gave it to him on his 18th birthday. Ironic all things given. Clint bent down to press his hand into the false backing of the wall. Inside was a small stack of passports and fake id's. Clint chose two that weren't known to Natasha or SHIELD.

His next stop was the locker room. No one else was present so he didn't have to waste time talking to anyone. After changing into civilian clothes he placed his badge, gun, and cell in a locker. All three items had tracking devices or microphones.

Sorry Coulson. You can't help with this one.

From there he left the locker room. Instead of going back the way he came Clint entered a ventilation shaft. From there he traveled through the air ducts and dropped into a service tunnel. In the tunnels he changed his jacket, his shirt and added a hoodie. He switched his boots for a pair of black tennis shoes.

He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he pulled off his gloves and flexed his hands. Without the gloves they looked normal. There was the swirling fractal pattern on the underside of his right wrist. It was dark green with specks of white, gold, and purple. His soulmate whoever they were would have the same fractal pattern.

On the left wrist the symbol was a different story. It was the mark of his patron or the God who cursed him depending on one's views. For Clint it was a curse. He was chosen by the Gods of Mischief and Luck.

Clint rubbed his hands over his face. The idea of leaving his life was frightening.

"I can do this," he whispered, "This is the last time. For Heron. He would do the same for me."

Then Clint continued to move. If he wasn't fast he would miss his chance. He exited the service tunnel and moved towards the main lobby. It was busy with the usual traffic, agents entering and leaving. Some were dressed in business attire and some were wearing exercise clothes.

Clint didn't stop moving. He kept his gaze low and walked past the security checkpoint. The alarms didn't blare and no one tried to stop him. When his hand touched the cool metal handle he breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he opened the door and was outside.

...

Phil gave Clint time to calm down before he went to the other man's room. Barton's outburst had drawn attention, and the last thing Phil wanted was a group of curious agents.

When he arrived, the agent scanned his card and pushed the door open. Inside was quiet. The lights were on, but Barton was no where to be seen.

"Barton?" he called out.

Silence greeted him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood and a feeling of dread settled into his stomach. Phil walked further inside, his eyes scanning for the archer.

"Barton?"

Where was he? Why hadn't he answered him? Phil's instincts were telling him something was wrong. Given the events of the morning, Phil doubted he would have gone into the vents.

The bedroom was also empty, and the bathroom door was open. Something wasn't right. He looked by the dresser and found the false backing. Fake ids and passports. He knew Barton and Romanoff had them, but why were these ones in here.

"Shit," hissed Phil.

Clint had left the base. Where the hell would he go without letting anyone know? He couldn't have. Unless he thought Phil would stop him.

He dialed the other man's number. The line clicked and went straight to voicemail. Damn it!

Next he tried Romanoff's number. She picked up.

"Have you seen Barton?"

"Not since breakfast," she admitted, "Do you want me to start a search for him?"

"Yes. Get his trackers checked too. Make sure he isn't in the building," he ordered.

"On it," she promised.

"Thank you," murmured Phil.

He hung up the phone and began to pace. There had to be a reason why Clint had left.

"Come on Barton. Where are you?"

...

The first thing he did was catch a cab to an airport. He needed put as much distance between him and Coulson as possible. There was a chance he would figure out that Clint was gone before he returned.

There he bought a one way ticket to Chicago. He hated the place, but it would be the last place anyone would look for him.

Once inside the gate area, he took a seat in the corner. Clint's gaze searched the crowd for anything suspicious. Nothing stuck out.

"You're a long way from home," purred a soft male voice.

Clint's spine stiffened even as he greeted with a fake smile, "Trick, it's been a long time. I distinctly remember you saying if we ever crossed paths again you would shoot me."

Clint tilted his head back to look up at Trickshot, also known as Buck Chisholm. His brown hair was longer than Clint remembered but the coldness of his eyes was the same.

"I still might," he said his lips curved in a smirk, "How have you been Trickster? Still chasing some imaginary sense of justice?"

"I don't like repeating myself," stated Clint, "What do you want Trick? We're not friends. If you're looking to recruit me again. It's a no."

Trickshot laughed, "No. That ship sailed years ago. I'm just curious. What brings the Trickster out of retirement?"

"Heron's been taken," he snapped.

Trickshot froze. His entire posture was rigid like he was turned to stone. Clint waited, his own muscles coiled and ready to strike.

"You're shitting me," whispered the archer.

"Why would I lie about this?" demanded Clint, "Do you know who took him?"

"No but I'll find out," assured Trick, "What are you going to do? It's a suicide mission."

"I'm aware," he replied, "but it's Heron. I cannot standby and do nothing. This will likely be my last job. So no one can say I didn't try."

Trick stared at him, "You've really grown up. Fine. Meet us at the bar."

Clint nodded and Trick stepped away. Clint released the breath he had been holding. Trick, Trickshot, had been his mentor after joining the circus. He was the first to teach Clint the bow. Swordsman had taught him to use a sword during the same time. Though Swordsman was always closer to Barney.

Barney had been his brother and Clint's hero growing up. Barney however never felt the same. He blamed Clint just like their father did for their mother's death. Then Barney betrayed him and Clint was kicked out of the circus. Heron had saved his life and offered him a new path. Clint hadn't realized how much his mentor cared. He regretted not being more appreciative of his efforts.

The archer slumped and ran a shaking hand through his hair. Gods, this was turning out to be a bad day. First, Jackson had angered him enough that he lost control. Then the news of Heron and his forced return to his past.

"Get your act together Barton," he muttered, "Heron's life depends on it."

...

"Where are we on Barton's location?"

Coulson was pacing in his office, his hands behind his back and his jaw clenched. He had already spoken to the director. Fury had promised that every effort would be made to recover Barton. However they could only go so far. If Barton truly didn't want to be found they would not find him.

"I habe him in the airport waiting for a direct flight to Chicago," answered on the Level 2 agents, "Here is the ID he's using."

The agent showed Coulson a photo of a 26 year old man named Jack Williams. His hair was short and dirty blonde, and he had brown eyes. Colored contacts.

"How long has he been at the airport?" asked Coulson.

"Since 8:15 sir," said the agent, "he boarded the flight fifteen minutes ago."

"So Barton had planned to leave," muttered the agent, "but why? What is going on in Chicago?"

"Nothing sir," answered another agent, "There has been no reports from the field office."

"Sir, his badge was left in the locker room," informed the Level 2 agent, "His phone is here."

"Thank you, agent," he muttered offhandedly.

He turned on the phone. Barton's password was simple to guess. On the phone there was a single incoming call, an unknown number. The timing was a little bit too convenient.

"Track this number," he ordered the nearest agent, "Find out where it is.

"Yes sir!"

He was trying to stay calm and professional. It was difficult when he knew his agent and how he acted. This was completely different from what his usual behavior was.

"Agent Coulson, I've tracked the number."

"Report."

"It was a burner phone. Its now turned off. But the call came from Chicago. The exact address is unknown. The tower closest to the signal is the one at the airport."

Chicago. So there was something there.

"Call the Field office and have them keep an eye out for Agent Barton," instructed Coulson.

"Yes sir."

Barton what are you doing?

Chapter Text

...

When the plane landed Clint's backup phone started ringing. No one wqw supposed to have the number. With obvious reluctance he checked the number. Fuck. Coulson. He was a fucking dead man.

"What the hell Barton?!" Roared the handler, his tone pissed.

"Now is not the time, sir," he responded as he pulled his bag out.

"You disappeared," snarled the senior agent, "Without a word or a warning. What the hell are you thinking, Barton!?"

Clint ignored the older man and left the plane. People were rushing around and talking on cell phones. Others were dragging bags behind them or were standing around staring.

A person brushed against him and something is dropped into his pocket. Clint didn't pause or break stride. They were already walking away.

"Are you listening, Barton?" demanded Coulson.

"Of course," lied the younger man, "Listen sir. I don't have time for this. I will report in when I have free time."

"Like hell," cursed the senior agent.

Clint hung up the phone. His gut twisted and a sour taste settled on his tongue. He had never been disrespectful to Coulson before. They worked well together. Clint's mouth had often gotten him in trouble with Fury. But never once had he shown disrespect towards Coulson.

"Fuck," he cursed again.

"I take it you had a fun ride," asked a familiar female voice.

Clint whirled and saw a tall, thin, dark skinned woman dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and a blue sweater. Her short black hair was cropped close to her skull and a grin split her lips.

A part of him relaxed as he greeted, "Tatalla, it's been a long time. I never thought I'd see you again."

"Neither did I, but we both know why you're here," she said her eyes sad, "You have always had a strong bond with Heron. How have you been, Trick?"

"Don't call me that," he pleaded, his expression pained, "I haven't used that name for a long time."

"But that is who you are. Just because you work for the government now doesn't mean the past goes away," she shot back.

Clint glared and then glanced down the hallway, "Let's continue this conversation outside."

He didn't want to be overheard. Knowing Fury, he'd have hacked the airport security cameras. He wouldn't risk being seen by his superior.

Tatalla shrugged, "Sure."

Then she spun and walked down the hallway. Clint followed. Once outside Tatalla pulled a cigarette and lighter from her bag. The smoke filled the air. She held out one to him. He took the offering and lit his.

"Thanks for coming," she said, "I know you've been with SHIELD. Heron would appreciate you coming."

Clint huffed as he replied, "Even after five years, I'll never forget him. Do we know who's taken him?"

"Not yet," sighed Tatalla, "Trident is contacting his network. Hopefully we can get the information quickly. You're room is waiting."

"Right," he said with a nod.

His mind was racing. He could not get distracted. Heron was counting on him.

"Trick?" asked Tatalla, her voice quiet and hesitant, "Are you okay? Really?"

Clint hesitated. Before now he would hage said he was fine. After all these years the pain was less, but he could still feel the sting of his brother's betrayal.

"I'm better," he admitted.

She smiled, "Good. That's good. I've missed having you around."

"Missed you too, T," he murmured, "as Heron's Tavern changed locations?"

"Yeah, we're further south now. I'm sure you can find it without me showing the way," she joked.

"That I can," he confirmed, "See you there."

He finished his cigarette and ground the bud under his heel. His nerves were settled and he could focus. First things first. Get his mercenary gear.

...

Phil stormed into Nick's office. The moment he opened the door, the other agent jumped. His gaze was startled.

Then Nick snarked, "No, Phil please come right on in."

"This is serious, sir," insisted Phil, "Barton has gone AWOL."

"Sit down, agent," ordered Fury, "and tell me what's going on."

"Barton has been acting off for a week or so now," Phil held up a hand to stop Nick from interrupting, "Off for even Barton. I'm sure you've heard about the argument this morning. And you're aware that he took a trip."

"I've been briefed, yes," agreed the director.

"He received a phone call. When I looked for his tracking devices. Two were found. One was inside a locker in the men's shower and the other was inside the bathroom stall. With some help I got help on a backup phone he has. His main phone was left here. He's already arrived at the Chicago airport."

"What else do you have?"

"That's all, sir," stated Phil, his hands clenching into fists.

Nick wouldn't look at him. Why was he not more concerned? This wasn't normal behavior, and Phil knew something was wrong.

"Did he have a bag with him?"

"What?" asked Phil, his brows drawn together.

"It's a simple question, did he have a bag with him or not?" repeated Fury.

"Yes, sir," Phil replied not understanding.

"What has Barton told you about his past?"%

Phil stiffened and narrowed his eyes. Why was Nick changing the subject?

"Nothing," snapped the handler, "He refuses to acknowledge it exists. Every time I ask he shuts me down. It's like talking to a damn wall."

"Hmm," Fury nodded, "A few years ago I found this."

He pulled up a picture on the screen behind him. On it was a group of people with one noticeable figure with his arm slung an middle aged man's shoulders. He looked happier than Phil had ever seen him.

"What is this?" Demanded Phil.

"This is Barton, about six months before he was picked up by you," supplied the director, "The one he has his arm around is the Chicago Tavern Owner, Heron."

Phil froze, the blood drained from his face. There was a sick feeling in his stomach and a roaring filled his ears. Taverns, the information and training network for mercenaries. Phil didn't even know that Clint had been a part of one.

"How is it you know this and not me, his handler?" growled the agent, "And how do you know it's him?"

Fury stared him down and stated, "We have been known about the Taverns for decades. Generally they aren't a problem and stay out of SHIELD'S way. We have never been able to confirm Barton's membership. Hawkeye, as a mercenary never participated in any Tavern event. Even the picture isn't confirmation given Heron is known to take in strays."

Phil stared at the picture. None of Barton's typical weapons or uniform was visible. His head was bent slightly as he talked to the older man.

"How does this answer the questions I have?"

"It doesn't," Fury admitted, "If you hadn't mentioned Barton leaving. I wouldn't have been concerned. However given the fact that he has. It's top much to be a coincidence. Heron, has been kidnapped and per mercenary protocol everyone affiliated with the Tavern, active or retired has been called in."

Phil's mouth fell open. The picture clicked into place. Barton's actions were starting to make sense.

"So, if you had told me," he muttered, "We wouldn't be here."

"Maybe, but not likely," corrected Fury, "You're his handler and his friend. Barton has kept his secrets for years. For him to run off to help a kidnap victim isn't too surprising."

"What is his next move?" asked the handler, his mind running through all the possibilities.

"He's going to gather his equipment and return to his Tavern. From there he will work with his old team."

"You're not concerned he will do something against SHIELD?"

"No," Fury denied, "Barton is many things but disloyal isn't one of them. He knows his duty to us and the oaths he swore. He also has a loyalty to Heron. Given his choice. If anyone tried to attack his mentor he would kill them without hesitation."

Phil felt numb. Everything Fury had just said. Phil hadn't realized was true. Clint was loyal to him, the director and to SHIELD. To think otherwise would be a disservice.

"Okay," Phil sighed and rubbed his forehead, "So what are we doing?"

"Go to Chicago," ordered Fury, "Find your stray. Don't interfere with the mercenaries, as a whole. Offer the aid of yourself and Romanoff. Make sure he comes home."

"Sir," acknowledged Phil.

"Dismissed, agent."

Phil left straight to find Natasha. He needed her help.

"I will get him back," vowed Phil, "You can count on that."

...

Clint arrived at the bus station with his key in one hand. The lockers were in the back, far away from the public. His was in the darkest corner, and the light was flickering.

The key turned with a soft click. The door opened and his old bow case was pushed forward. Carefully he grabbed it. His heart was beating a rapid rhythm and his lungs didn't seem to have enough air.

Inside were a variety of items. An extra quiver full of arrows. His bow needed a new string but the arrows looked fine. Next was a sword, his favorite weapon. Then two hand guns and his tactical knife. It was his Ronin and Hawkeye gear. While he could use his Ronin gear inside the Tavern, Hawkeye's was too different.

Clint strapped on his holster. Next was the knives. He would leave behind the bow and arrows. What he didn't find was his Trickster uniform. Only his Ronin and old Hawkeye uniform. Both of which would only cause trouble if he wore here.

Reluctantly Clint grabbed his Ronin gear. It was a loose fitted shirt, and black leather pants. Over his head went a black hooded jacket with gold on its sides. Then finally the mask. He hadn't worn his Ronin gear in three years. It felt heavy.

"Come on Barton," he muttered, "Move."

When he left the station, Clint hailed a taxi. The driver's eyes were wide when Clint gave the address.

"Uh, buddy are you sure about this?" asked the cabbie.

"Positive," affirmed the archer, "Problem?"

"Nope. Not at all."

Clint sat in the backseat. Who would have thought after so long he'd come back? Hang on Heron. Just hang on.

Chapter Text

...

The Tavern was busier than it had been in a decade. Mercenaries new and long retired all sat at the tables. They were tense and quiet. Each and every person had their attention focused on the center of the room.

Kavar sat with his back in the corner barely listening to the arguments. He was the retired mercenary, Shadow. More than twenty years out of the game he had been surprised to receive the call. He was even more shocked to hear about the kidnapping.

Heron was well respected and loved. Most wouldn't even think of taking him. Unless they were looking for a painful death. Kavar's jaw clenched, and his fingers flexed. He wanted to be apart of the retrieva team but he couldn't.

His retirement was forced as his right arm was almost completely dead. All he could do was help plan. He could provide a fresh perspective.

In the left corner he could see the T Group. Those who were not only brought in by Heron, but personally trained and named by him. There was always something different about that group. They had a connection not seen with others.

A handful were still missing. Most had arrived and the "planning" was going downhill. The mercenaries were a hotheaded bunch, and were used to working alone or in a small group. Getting the large group to cooperate was proving difficult. It was why Tavern owners were so important. They banded the mercenaries under a single banner.

A loud argument was happening between the newer mercenaries and older ones. No surprise there. New mercs were usually arrogant and cocky. They would have the best ideas and refuse to listen to anyone else. The old guard didn't want the young upstarts trying to lead.

Kavar caught Trickshot's eye, the other mercenary's expression was dark and tight. His fingers were white from his grip. He was just as annoyed as Kavar was.

"We should just storm the compound," snapped a tall, dark-haired, muscular male, "Take a direct approach and get Heron. He's our brother."

"That won't work," retorted an elderly woman, her tone sharp and cutting, "If we don't have the blueprints we're going in blind. The owner won't survive."

"Well we can't sit here and talk all day. Every minute that passes the chances of getting the owner alive go down," argued another.

Kavar closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Their arguing was making his headache worse. He should have just ignored the damn alert. If only the Trickster was there, he could rally both new and old.

"We can't just leave Heron there!" Shouted one of the newest kids.

"We aren't saying to leave Heron there," interrupted Trickshot darkly, "But not everyone is here. We need to take stock on which of the old guard can still take on a missions. There are many of the old guard who cannot fight due to injuries or mental ones."

"So, what's the plan? Wait until everyone is here, or wait until the enemy has killed him," mocked the first.

"Enough," barked Trick, his tone sharp and furious, "We are aware of the risks and consequences of every possible action. I would not risk Heron's life for anything less."

"I'm curious," said Tanner, a one eyed mercenary from the old guard, "Has anyone heard from, Him? As Heron's greatest accomplishment shouldn't he be here?"

"Trickster not part of this anymore," retorted a new girl, "I heard he died."

She had curly, red hair and freckles. The rest of the tavern quieted, and the air thickened with tension. The girl paled and shrank back.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, "I didn't mean..."

"We all know the rumors," stated Kavar, his tone harsh and clipped, "None have ever been confirmed. He hasn't taken a job or stepped foot inside a tavern since he retired. Only Heron knows where he went but a select few members of the Tavern have a way to contact him. Tatalla?"

"Yes," agreed the backup bar owner, her hands gripping the bartop, "He'll come."

"How do you know that?" asked the boy who started the argument, "You have no idea what he'll do. What if he decides not to help?"

"Then you had better pray we are able to rescue Heron without him," hissed the woman.

Trident interrupted, "It's Trickster. He will be here. He follows the rules the rest of us do."

"Which is what," demanded a middle aged man.

"Protect your brethren and the owners," said a male, "They are our family."

"What is the plan?" questioned an old man, his skin wrinkled, and his eyes dark, "Do we know the location? Or are we waiting for someone?"

"We're waiting," confirmed Trickshot, his tone cold, "And until then the planning will continue. If we are going to bring the bastard down. Then we are going to need every resource."

The younger mercenaries began talking and asking questions. Many of the older veterans were glaring at the kids. There was a clear divide and the only hope was the arrival of the missing people.

Such a rowdy group. Just looking at them made Kavar tired. Why couldn't they behave?

"Are they always like this?" asked a female.

"Always," groaned Kavar, "Every time."

"Why does anyone try to lead?" she wondered.

"Because a good Tavern will protect those within it," explained Kavar, "Many will move on from the Taverns after a time. But we all remember the first time our Tavern Owner offered his hand and a warm drink."

An argument broke out again. Kavar should step in and call them to order. He was the most experienced here. But by the Gods he was tired.

"Should we help?" suggested the woman, "Or just watch?"

"No point. They would just reject any offer we give," he said.

"Why is that?" she sounded amused.

"Old guard verses new blood," he replied, "Neither likes the other and are both stubborn. The longer the argument goes the louder it will get. The newbies have forgotten that we have years of experience working together. While they may think the old guard is too stuck in their ways, the truth is the old guard has a wealth of information."

"Ah. And neither side will give an inch," mused the female, "How do we know that someone is telling the truth about who they are?"

Kavar nodded his chin towards a rune above the bar and explained, "That glows when someone enters who is Blessed by the Gods in the color of their God."

"Only the Blessed?"

"Yes," Kavar agreed, "Most of the people here have some connection to a God or Goddess. The rune is also tied into the security system."

Then he nodded to the almost hidden rune on the bar where Heron would stand and nodded, "That one glows if someone is Cursed by the Gods."

"Oh. So the owner can quickly tell the difference," the female commented.

"Yeah. There is another set of runes that are linked to the owner and his closest friends and advisors. It will show the person's affiliation," Kavar said.

Most people were Blessed or Cursed by the Gods. It came with a perk or something that would hurt them. Kavar was one of the rare few who was neither.

Just then both runes glowed green and grey, a swirling mix of colors. A person who was both Blessed and Cursed at birth. He arrived.

The door opened and a figure in black and gold stepped in. Trickster. Everyone fell silent.

...

The Tavern was on the east side of Chicago. People walked or drove by it without knowing the significance. In the front window was the symbol, a golden heron.

It had been a long time since he stood in a Tavern. Memories flooded through his mind and caused a dull ache in his chest. He shook his head, now was not the time.

Clint pushed the door open and was immediately assaulted by noise. Voices were overlapping each other and rising. The runes glowed the green and grey of his Gods. Blessed and Cursed, the only one of his kind.

Only a few recognized the importance of the glow. They turned to look at him while the others continued to argue. Trickster shoved aside the part of himself that was Clint. He had no place here.

"Who are you calling a fake, boy," roared an elderly voice, "I was taking down drug lords and assassins while you were still playing with Barbies."

"I am a better fighter," shouted a young female.

"I bet," cackled a young boy.

"Everyone shut up!" yelled Trickster startling those who hadn't noticed him.

His gaze raked over the entire building and took note of each person present. Many of the old guard and several of the newer generations. All eyes were on him, their gazes assessing and wary.

"We can't accomplish anything like this," growled the archer, "This isn't helping. We don't have time for these pointless arguments. Tanner!"

The older man startled and stepped forward as he said, "I'm here, Trickster."

"Get me everything on those who are able to fight," demanded Trickster, "The old guard and the younger generation."

Tanner nodded and ran off. The room was still staring at the mercenary.

"Trickshot," said Trickster, "Tell me what we know."

"There is little, but the enemy has a grudge against Heron and has taken him hostage," answered the other mercenary.

"Why?"

"That has not been revealed," Trickshot stated.

"Any chance of negotiation?" asked Trickster.

"We doubt it," Trickshot said.

Of course. Trickster huffed before he looked at each mercenary in turn. One, a youngster maybe 17 however stepped forward angry brown eyes catching his.

"Who died and made you in charge?" demanded the kid.

"Shut it, newbie," snapped Tanner.

"No. I'm not taking orders from some guy who looks barely older than me," snarled the boy, "If he wants to boss around the old timers, fine. I won't listen to someone like you."

You won't huh? It had been awhile since someone challenged him like this. The others might be willing to back off but he wouldn't. Trickster pulled off one glove. One second of contact should be enough to get his point across.

"Boy, do not make an enemy out of the Trickster," warned an elder.

"What the hell can he do? Huh, grandpa," jeered the boy, "I bet he doesn't have a clue how to even fire a gun..."

Trickster darted forward. He was on the kid in a flash, the archer's fingers touched his wrist. For a moment nothing happened and the Tavern was silent. They watched expecting something flashy.

Then the boy tried to rush Trickster. The archer sidestepped the clumsy punch. The boy tripped over his laces a case of "bad luck". The old guard would recognize it for what it was. His Curse.

"Fuck," cursed the boy, his expression furious, "Stop messing with my head, asshole."

Trickster snorted. The kid didn't know what had happened. That was okay. He wouldn't bother trying to explain.

"Don't worry. It'll only last a moment," he said with a dark smile, "For those of you who don't know, my name isn't just a title. It is information to my ability given to me by my patron. I am the Luck Stealer, Trickster. I am Blessed by the God of Mischief and Cursed by the God of Luck. If you value your existence you will obey me."

Silence filled the room. They understood the danger and knew his reputation. Trickster was the Trickster, and no one fucked with him.

"I understand," muttered the boy, "I apologize."

"Good," approved Trickster, his expression and posture changing, "Now that the fun and games are done. We are all here for the same reason. To save Heron."

Chapter Text

...

Trickster leaned agaisnt the table and pointed to a schematic.c Next to him was Tanner. On his left were the older guard and his right the younger ones. The group had finally managed to settle and get the plan in place.

"We will be dividing into three groups," announced Trickster, his gaze raking over the room, "I'll enter here with Group One. Any volunteers?"

Several hands went up giving their Blessings. Trickster's hands flexed he'd have to use his own Curse. Hopefully his skill was as good as he remembered.

"Okay," he accepted, "Group Two, here. Three, here."

"What will the groups do once inside," asked an elderly male, his eyes squinting and his hair pure white.

"Split up and find Heron," answered Trickster coldly, "Kill everyone we come across. We will make an example of whoever did this. Don't mess with the Taverns."

Murmurs rose among the mercenaries. None objected or protested the action. Anyone who hurt the Owners and the Tavern were a dead man.

Trickster fiddled with his gloves. He listened with half an ear as the other discussed options. Mostly weapons to use.

Trickshot caught his gaze then tilted his chin to the door. He wanted a word, alone.

"Continue without me," instructed Trickster, "Make sure your group is organized and ready. We'll go when I return."

"Understood," answered the others only half listening.

Trickster stepped outside into the cooler night air. It was refreshing. It cleared his head. He breathed out and pushed his Trickster self to the side.

"You're a pain, you know," Trickshot muttered.

"And why's that?" questioned Clint, "I got the job done."

"You used your Curse," hissed Trick, his expression and body language worried.

"A necessary evil," Clint shrugged, "They needed to know I wasn't fucking around. Surely you understand?"

Trick nodded, "Yeah. Still you need to be careful."

"When don't I?" countered the archer.

"Never," confirmed Trick, "But you're a reckless brat."

Clint snorted, "Whatever."

"You should stay behind," advised Trickshot, "You're too close to this and you've been out of the game for a long time. This could kill you."

"So what, should I send another to take my place?" Barked Clint, his tone sharp and annoyed, "I'm not out of practice, Trickshot. I have kept my skills up since leaving behind the mercenary life. And no. I won't let someone else handle this."

Trickshot was staring at him. There was an intensity that unnerved the agent. Clint held his gaze not backing down.

"Okay," conceded Trickshot, "Stay with your group. Try not to get yourself killed. Or worse, captured. Heron would have our hides if something happened to you."

This wasn't like Trickshot. Something was wrong. Clint could see it, sense it.

"Are you going to be okay," the agent asked, "I've never seen you hesitate."

"Fine," dismissed Trickshot, his gaze drifting, "Well well well. If it isn't the Widow. SHIELD certainly works fast when it comes to one of their own going off the reservation."

Fuck.

Whack!

The smack to the back of Clint's head sent him stumbling forward slightly. He turned to glare at Natasha and felt the blood drain from his face. Behind her was a very angry looking Phil Coulson. The anger made his knee ache from where the man shot him in their first meeting.

Turning his back on Trickshot was a mistake. His former mentor took advantage to get a shot in.

WHACK!

"Mother fucker!" Swore Clint angrily, "What is your problem Trickshot? Those two I can understand but you have no reason to hit me!"

"Oh, really?" sneered the man, his eyes glittering, "Then what the fuck are you thinking? Running off and leaving without a word. Did you think those of us in T-Group didn't know you joined SHIELD? Barton we aren't stupid."

Clint rubbed the back of his head sulkily. Trickshot eyed him for a moment then sighed.

"Talk to your people kid," ordered Trickshot, "I'm going back inside. Get whatever business you need out of the way."

Clint watched him leave and had a sinking feeling in his gut. He never told them about his blessing/curse. Hiding it had been second nature for years. Now he regretted it.

"What is your relationship with that man," inquired Coulson, his expression serious and his posture tight.

Clint swallowed nervously as he considered his options.

Then he took a deep breath and stated, "That's Trickshot. My former mentor from when I was in the Circus."

Coulson's lips tightened, his brows pinched, and his jaw clenched. He was furious and his blue eyes were sharp.

"How are you connected with the Chicago Tavern?" Coulson demanded.

Clint shifted uncomfortably and glanced towards the door. He couldn't answer.

"Hawkeye," Coulson's voice was quiet, almost gentle, "We are on the same team. I thought you trusted me."

He did! Clint's fingers were tense and his arms hung stiff. But how did he respond. But he never told Coulson about his curse/blessing. He lied for years about it.

"Hawkeye, I can't help if I don't have the whole picture," coaxed Coulson, "It's important."

Clint ran a gloved hand through his hair. It was tangled and unruly. The wind was cool against his skin and his heart was pounding.

"Can we not do this now?" he murmured, "There is a lot going on. Please. I'll explain things after we get Heron back."

Coulson approached slowly and Clint's head dropped. His shoulders slumped, and the agent's gaze softened.

"After," promised Phil, "but until then no more running off."

"Right," agreed the archer, his body loosening, "Sorry."

"You better be," scolded the senior agent, "Next time. You tell me where you're going. Got it."

"Yes, sir," confirmed Clint.

Chapter Text

...

Clint's hands flexed over his weapon as he waited for the others to get in position. Coulson was next to him a hand on his shoulder. The handler's presence was comforting and reminded the sniper to stay focused.

"Is everyone in place?" he inquired quietly.

Clint waited watching the darkness and there were two faint signals. Everyone was in place and just waiting on his signal to launch the raid. Clint tugged off his gloves and touched his sword. The metal was cool beneath his finger tips and the familiar sensation of his curse rushed through him.

"Ready," whispered the archer, his nerves steadied and the tension eased, "Three...Two...One."

All three teams breached the outer defenses. Clint took the first guard down with his sword. Blood spattered on his cheek and clothes. Then he moved on the the next. A bullet was fired and whizzed past him. Ducking low, Clint swung his blade. Another kill.

A third man came from the left, Clint grabbed the man's wrist where there was skin exposed. The ticking began in the back of his mind. Stolen luck.

The man was shot by another guard and Clint took that guard out. Finally they reached the building and broke in. Inside were guards, but none of them were a match for the three groups. Bodies dropped and the rooms were searched.

"Where is Heron?" he asked a shaking woman, "Tell me or I will end your life right now."

"First room, on the left," she gasped, her brown eyes wide and her pupils dilated.

She was scared and terrified of him. Good. Let her fear him, let her remember her actions and the price of going after a Tavern Owner. He stole some of her good luck increasing the ticking in the back of his mind. It wasn't enough to kill her but she'd have a very unfortunate ten minutes. Enough time to escape.

"Go," ordered Clint, his voice cold, "Run and pray I don't change my mind. Your luck is short. Leave quickly and you might live."

She whimpered and scrambled away. Clint's attention turned to the door. He kicked it in the hinges breaking and wood shattering. Tied to a chair was a man in his late fifties with brown hair flecked with grey and hazel eyes.

"Heron," breathed Clint.

Clint rushed to Heron's side tugging on a glove. With his gloved hand he pressed two fingers to the pulse point. Alive. Relief coursed through his body. Thank the Gods. He was alive and mostly unharmed.

"Trickster," called a male voice from the doorway, "We've found the enemy. He's a mercenary who was rejected from joining a tavern and has a grudge."

"Kill them all," ordered Clint sharply, "No exceptions. Anyone else?"

Then he cut Heron free of his binds. Heron sagged forward and Clint carefully caught him avoiding skin contact. It was difficult since there was little left of Heron's shirt. Bruises and cuts littered the older man upper torso.

White hot anger rushed through him. Someone had tortured Heron. He would kill them. Slow and painful.

Clint replaced his other glove and slung Heron's arm around his shoulders. The weight was heavy. Heron was dead to the world. Not even a grunt escaped the older man. Somehow they made it to the door and were met halfway by Coulson who took the other arm. Together they carried Heron outside where they were met by a medic.

Clint lowered Heron and relinquished control to them. Then he re-entered the building. He would ensure that no one was left alive in the building.

...

Phil returned with Natasha to the Tavern. Medics took Heron into the back to treat injuries. A group of the mercenaries did not return with them. Including Clint and Trickshot.

As a whole the mercenaries who hadn't stayed behind were cleaning their weapons. Everyone was waiting to hear that Heron would be okay. Otherwise they would be taking their anger out on whoever did this.

"Any word from Hawkeye?" inquired Natasha as she finished cleaning her weapon.

"None," replied Phil, "He stayed back with a handful of others."

He was sure that he knew what they were doing. Killing anyone that may have been left alive in the building. They would not leave witnesses or survivors. This was a message to the rest of the criminal underworld. Do not touch a Tavern.

As if summoned by thought the doors to the Tavern opened. One by one blood covered mercenaries entered. They were dull eyed and weary. Some had wounds that were being treated or were getting treatment. No one spoke a word to the group.

The last two to appear were Clint and Trickshot. Neither of the men were clean. Blood was on their faces and gear. Clint half collapsed in the closest chair while Trickshot went to the bar.

Both he and Natasha stood preparing to go to speak with Clint. The man, Tanner stopped them.

"Don't," he ordered, "Let Trickster get his mind in order. He's used his Curse tonight and it takes time to process."

"Clint doesn't have a God's Blessing or Curse," refused Phil.

"He doesn't like to talk about it," said Tanner with a shrug, "But yes, he does. He is Blessed by the God of Luck while being Cursed by the God of Mischief..."

"Shut up, Tanner," dully said Clint.

His head was in his hands and his fingers were tangled in his blond locks. It was a sign of distress that Phil hadn't seen since the early days of his training. Clint's distress was a clear indicator of how bad things had become.

"Tanner, you've said too much," snapped a female, her dark hair pulled into a loose bun and her eyes hard, "You know that the Trickster has every right to his privacy."

"Sorry kid," apologized the man.

Phil decided to ignore the warning and approached Clint. The archer looked exhausted, his blue-grey eyes dull. For the first time Phil took note of Clint's gear. Black leather pants, a black hooded jacket and a mask. The gold stripes and sword gave Phil a pause.

Black and gold, a mercenary. Oh for fucks sake. The only mercenary who was active during Clint's time in those colors was Ronin. Which was why Coulson had never connected the dots. Because no one had heard of Ronin in several years. Within months of Clint joining shield.

"Barton," acknowledged Phil, his tone neutral, "How are you feeling?"

"Sir," acknowledged Clint tiredly, "I'm not sure. Everything's still catching up. What I do know is that I want a shower and sleep."

"Of course," agreed the senior agent, "You'll come back with Romanov and I to the safe house. We'll debrief in the morning."

"Not until Heron is awake," argued Clint.

His gaze was hard, his body tense. Phil was not surprised. Clint was protective of those he cared about. Even at the detriment of himself.

"Okay," conceded Phil, "When Heron wakes up. But until then. You can clean yourself up and get some rest."

"Yes, sir," nodded Clint.