This story was requested (with a basic outline and everything - so awesome) by the lovely Niom Lamboiselike, two months ago, but I'm the basically the slowest person on the entire planet, so it's taken forever. The story is five chapters, wholly completed, and I intend to post one chapter a day (except for tomorrow).

This totally disregards Thor: The Dark World as, tragedy that it is, I have yet to see it. I probably butcher more than just that plot though.

I tossed in a little bit of Matt Fraction's Hawkeye, but nothing major enough that will confuse you if you haven't read them.

Disclaimer: Aw, Marvel, no

He ached.

Like a lot.

It wasn't like it was any wonder with how fantabulous his week had been, but just because it was predictable didn't mean it sucked less ass.

He and Nat had walked closely from the wreckage to shawarma - that weird but surprisingly tasty crap Stark had insisted upon. He hoped it looked like just that - they were walking closely - and not like they [he] were leaning on each other [her] to remain upright.

But they made it, and here they were silently munching on some foreign shit while contemplating the world and its prevented demise.

Of course he had to break the silence with a stupid-ass comment like,

"Coulson's gonna' have my ass when he finds out we didn't invite him to shawarma. Remember - ?"

He cut himself off at the utter stillness that blanketed the table and suddenly he couldn't hear over the pounding in his ears and he couldn't breathe with the tight, sick feeling gripping his chest.

No one would meet his eyes; even Stark was quiet and reluctant to so much as flicker his gaze in Clint's direction.

One look from Nat was all it took.

"Fuck," he exhaled, swiping a hand down his face.

And that was all that was said, though the silence went from slightly reflective to heavy and constricting.

. . .

Finding out the first person you had learned to trust wholeheartedly (that hadn't betrayed said trust) had not only died, but had died on an attack you fucking led kinda damaged something inside a person.

Not like he wasn't already screwed to hell, but still.

Returning to SHIELD had been rough as it was. About eighty percent were seasoned enough to know it was out of his hands (even if he wasn't one of them). Quite a chunk had been under some form of mind-influence at one point or another, so a vast majority didn't blame him. They told him that. In fact, he'd been told that so many times (by Nat, the psych department, hell, even Fury) that he was considering getting it on a T-shirt.

But there were those who did blame him, who did toss crude insults and even the occasional crude punch. And when he had those two opposing sides constantly berating him, he lost track of just who to believe (usually it was the latter - the ones who called him traitor and murderer).

He'd gotten better over time. He'd certainly never accepted it or come to terms with it or whatever psychological shit he was supposed to have reached. But soon the nightmares lessened and the ache in his chest shifted to a weight and then to a dull presence, and he was able to ignore the whole thing.

But there were days - a fucking lot of them, actually - where that part of him lost to the other voices in his head that screamed murderer, traitor, at him until he couldn't breathe, and the dull presence transformed into a painful throb.

Those were what he affectionately called "bad days".

. . .

He had a lot of bad days.

Like, today, for instance.

Fury had had his back through the whole thing - he and Hill both. It'd been almost two years since the Avengers short-lived union in Manhattan (he still got the occasional annoying text from Stark or Cap, both of whom he ignored and got yelled at by Nat for doing so), which meant, at the very least, the whole Loki mind-fuck thing was basically ancient history.

But all it would take was one mini soulful reflection that would inevitably lead to Coulson which would lead to his death and, oh, yeah, Loki. It just so happened that his "mini soulful reflection" came in the form of a nightmare. Just to keep things interesting, he mused.

He'd been slumped on his couch in his apartment in Bed-Stuy, trying to get back to sleep without actually sleeping, all the while ignoring the tracksuit mafia dudes hovering in the room across the street when the call came.

It was Fury, so his bleary-eyed pre-caffeinated, barked-out, "What?" probably wasn't the greatest greeting.

He wasn't the greatest.

Clint could practically feel Fury's one-eyed glower through the phone once he realized who it was, but luckily the cyclops-badass was used to grumpy morning people.

"I have a mission for you."

He heaved out a sigh. He was supposed to be on goddamn vacation, thank you very much.

"Don't sound too thrilled or anything," Fury huffed in his natural sarcastic way.

"What is it?"

"Nothing too spectacular," which meant something stupidly complicated that would inevitably turn into a clusterfuck, which made Clint the perfect candidate. "Found some Asgardian tech - " that didn't freak him out; nope, not one bit " - and we need someone to guard it and make sure the whole mission doesn't go to hell."

Again, he blew out a sigh.

"Where?"

"Canada."

"Canada." Clint repeated flatly.

"Canada," Fury confirmed, sounding much too pleased.

Goddamn fucking Canada. It was a nice place, don't get him wrong, but as cold as New York was, Canada made it seem like a tropical paradise.

"When can you get to the 'carrier?"

That had become Fury's home basically, even though SHIELD HQ was elsewhere.

Clint glanced at the clock. Hell, it was only 7:30 now. He shouldn't even be awake for another five hours.

"Give me an hour," Pizza-dog made his presence known with some heavy panting and tail-wagging, so Clint ammended, "Better make it two. Gotta take care of some stuff first."

"I'll give you an hour and a half," came the director's curt reply, followed by the monotone beep of a disconnected call.

. . .

Two hours later - because fuck Fury - Clint was boarding the 'carrier and stalking through the halls to the big cheese's office.

It was nice that everyone greeted him like a friend, but his head was in a bad space and it did nothing to improve his morbid outlook, which only got darker when Kawolski (they'd hated each other since day one) made some snide comment. For like the gazillionth time and yet it still cut just as deep.

Because the bastard was right and it was Clint's fault and - . He sighed, rubbing his forehead in a nervous trait he hadn't done since he was a kid. (Until Loki. Now he did it all the time and he knew it. Couldn't find it within him to care).

When he finally barged into Fury's office, the man's eye twitched almost humorously then grunted,

"About time you got your ass here."

Normally he would have snarked back with something about how much the dude loved his ass, but Clint just wasn't feeling it. He offered a half-hearted shrug and now the twitching eye narrowed.

The man moved on, at least, and slid a thin file across his desk toward Clint, who accordingly plopped himself down in the chair before it.

He opened it up to find several different shots of what looked to be a sword. Flicking through the pages, he noticed something odd,

"What? No magical powers?"

"Not that any of the scientists have found. That's why we're moving it to the Fridge and letting them work on it there," Fury explained. "It should be a pretty straightforward mission, but I would sure as hell feel better having someone I trust there to watch its back."

Yeah, well, trust is often misplaced.

An autobiography by Clint Barton.

But, hey, it was just guarding a goddamn sword. How hard could that be?

. . .

In Fury's infinite wisdom, the mission would take place over the course of three days, and there wasn't to be any contact with SHIELD (barring dire emergencies) during that time. The first one, Clint and his fellow SHIELD buddies who would be overseeing the transaction were to familiarize themselves with the layout of the area.

According to the charts, pictures, maps, and fucking videos, it would take place in Canada - cold Canada - in the middle of its foresty mountains, in the one spot there was a convenient clearing of sorts. There was a nearby slope that would be perfect for Clint to perch on; it would give him a solid vantage point of the entire landscape, except for a few parts on ground level he wouldn't be able to see due to the angle of the trees and shit (which his fellow agents, Reynolds and Jackman would be in charge of watching).

The clearing was surrounded by his perch on one side, the part that was basically just rocks and ice and snow, because the steep trek up was on the side and only properly accessible from where the back of the jet would be. (He mused maybe he'd have to get Nat to come with him and go sleigh riding.) On the other three sides of the clearing was dense forestry; it sucked in that it wouldn't be too terribly hard for enemies to come spilling out, but on the other hand it was prime terrain for them to flee into should the need arise.

Not that it should, because the mission was straightforward and only, like, three other people knew about it.

It would be easy.

The second day was extra padding to make sure intel was good, no leaks were to be had, and, probably the real reason for it, was to ensure the scientists had an extra day to tinker with the sword.

The third and final day would be the exchange itself, which would be a relief.

Clint really hated Canada.

. . .

Reynolds and Jackman weren't so bad. Reynolds was a bit obnoxious, and didn't seem to know which jokes were appropriate and which were not (such as calling a picture of Jackman's twenty year old daughter "sexy as hell"). Jackman was older, quiet, and actually pretty wise and shit.

He'd seen a lot in his days at SHIELD, the marine corps beforehand, and had a sort of presence to him many strove to achieve. Clint liked him a lot, and would definitely miss him when he retired in three months.

They debated whether to fly out to the position and get a view of it firsthand, but dubbed that overkill so ordered pizza and beer and chatted aimlessly over the TV they'd flicked on.

Clint just tried to ignore the way his stomach flip-flopped about having to go to sleep, the way he knew he would wake up the trained soldiers if he so much as breathed too loudly in the throes of his inevitable nightmare.

. . .

Somehow, he made it through the night. He had nightmares - two, both of which sucked ass and left him shaky and unsure afterwards - but either the other two men didn't notice or were tactful enough not to mention (he was betting on the latter).

But today the scientists - Grammar and Jansen (total dweebs) - would be joining their little party, and he was already grumpy as it was. Nosy geeks weren't going to help anything, which is why he volunteered to chill in the lobby then the cafe across the street to monitor the area in the event of something going down.

It was unnecessary, thank God, and he returned to the large suite bearing Chinese take out and praying that he could survive the night peacefully.

Grammar complained that the pizza wasn't healthy, and Jansen - for once in his fucking life - actually agreed with the man. All Jackman had to do was glare and then dart his gaze pointedly to the rifle lying on the bed before the two scientists shut their mouths with audible snaps and began to dig into the food.

Clint ate a few bites of the noodles, then proclaimed he'd go to bed early, grabbing a blanket and curling up in the other room on the floor.

Shot a rueful smile at Reynolds who looked horrified at being left alone with Mr-Stick-Up-His-Ass and the Wonder Twins (his words, not Clint's.)

. . .

Clint huffed out a breath - a breath that, because it was fucking 17 below, misted out before him and all but crystallized right then and there.

This mission sucked. It was too cold.

He was currently perched on his slope - recognizing that the position was even better than the pictures (and fucking videos) had shown it to be.

The dweebs - scientists - were arguing about something stupid and totally beyond him involving polarities and angles and god-knew-what.

Reynolds' incessant chatter was obvious even from the distance with the way he was flailing about with his hands, and the grim but almost-amused line that was Jackman's mouth.

And, because he didn't have anyone right there to distract him (idiotic doctors and flamboyant agents only worked for so long), his thoughts kept shooting back to Loki and his goddamn mind control.

He'd gotten over it.

Years ago.

And yet it still hurt like he was plowing his way through the secret base and driving the jeep into Maria as fast as he could, leaving dead agents in his wake. Like he was picking through the assembly and relaying data to Loki about whose eye he should go for. Like he was boarding the Helicarrier and picking off agents like maggots, in a siege that was always planned to fail anyway.

And, in a lot of ways, maybe that was why it was so hard.

The mission had always been for Loki to get captured; he'd planned to be on the 'carrier which meant every life lost was even more of an utter waste.

Fuck, he missed Phil.

He was so used to having him in his ear, exhaling those little puffs of breath every time Clint made some smart-ass comment that meant he was amused but not going to show it.

"Barton. Status."

The fact that the voice over the comms made him jump just proved that his pity-party had to come to an end.

"Still all clear," he replied cleanly, his eyes once again flitting around for something - anything - out of the ordinary.

As if on cue, the jet that would be taking the goods to the Fridge could be heard zooming along in the distance, and he gave the order to get ready to make the exchange.

Why the scientists couldn't just take it to Fridge themselves was beyond him, but he mused that it was more secret-agency-like to have a million exchanges rather than one straight shot.

"We're ready down here. Just keep an eye out."

Clint sighed. Like he really needed to be told that.

Like he said, the clearing was huge - it had to be to fit two mini-jets and still have room - but when the second one settled itself, it looked suddenly tiny.

Which was maybe a metaphor, or maybe a sign, or maybe a whatever that should have clued him in.

This op was going to Hell in a handbasket.

. . .

His position was angled so he didn't have a single blindspot (barring the trees, obviously), except for the ramp of the jet because he'd have to be level with it to see.

As it were, that was really the only view that mattered.

He'd had a pit in his stomach the whole time, but he assumed it was all his fucked-up angsty feelings, not foreshadowing of imminent failure (besides, ever the pessimist, he pretty much always had that feeling).

But when Reynolds and Jackman started firing off rounds at the second jet - and the bullets fucking stopped midair, he kinda got the hint that they were all screwed.

Grammar and Jansen were already starting to shove the crate with the artifact back to their jet, desperately trying to keep it out of enemy hands, but as he scrambled to get a better shot, he watched each one take fatal hits from the bullets that had been hovering in the air for a few beats there.

Reynolds and Jackman were next.

Fuck.

Clint slid the rest of the way down the incline, ignoring how his jacket rode up and snow and ice made their way into his clothes and instead already nocking an arrow for the instant he had a visual.

And shit did he get a visual.

Loki.

Goddamn fucking Loki was standing there in all his glory, a smug smirk plastered to his face as he strode to the crate.

Clint launched an arrow, followed by an explosive one. Loki dodged the first and lobbed the other to the side.

Except he didn't really dodge the first one because he'd used his boomerang arrow and it swung around and impaled him in the back (suck it, Kate Bishop).

The look of amusement the douche had had on his face when he first locked eyes on Clint vanished in a wave of irritation, and he reached behind him to pluck the arrow from his back.

"New tricks, I see, Little Hawk," He called, smarmy grin back on his face and a glint in his eye that Clint could see even from the distance.

Yeah, I haven't really missed that voice, was the last sentient thought Clint had, for, suddenly, Loki was hovering above his crouched position.

Lowering that goddamn staff to his heart.