A/N: New fandom. Hey. This is my take on what a Hawkeye movie would look like, in story format, and I'm doing my best to handle it seriously. I own nothing. Review as you feel led. Stay tuned for more!

A hiss of escaping air filled the silent room as the lock disengaged. The man turned and looked at him. He kept his gaze facing forward; as hard as the steel door at which he stared.

"Are you sure you want to see this?" the man confirmed. His voice held the tenure of a commander, yet an undertone of gentleness pierced the question.

"It is my right," he replied evenly. He flexed his fists at his side.

"Technically? It isn't. But I understand what you're going through." The man stepped forward and gripped the metal handle. The click from his boot echoed around the hall.

His look finally shifted from the door and focused on the man. "How could you possibly know what I'm going through?" he rumbled steadily.

The man sighed. "I didn't say I know. I just said I understand." With a quick flick of the wrist he tugged hard on the handle. The door of the human-sized drawer swung open, and the man yanked on the tray inside and rolled it out.

His breath fogged in the chilling air.

A sheet covered the body. It seemed so thin. He swallowed hard and raised his hand to touch it. It shook. He clenched it into a fist until it stopped shaking. The man watched silently as he struggled to control himself.

At last, he breathed out and uncurled his fingers. He flipped the sheet off of the body's head, and looked down at the still face.

"He looks so peaceful," he said after a moment. "Like he's just sleeping."

"The doctors say there's hardly a mark on him," the man replied.

He never took his gaze away from the dead man. Reaching out with his other hand, he smoothed a few errant strands of grey hair down on the corpse's scalp. He bit his lip to control himself emotionally- rage, grief, hatred and anger all swirled violently beneath. How could this happen? How could this happen?

"I want a job," he stated flatly. He did not look over his shoulder at the man.

"You're young," was the reply.

"I don't care. I'm a legal adult. I want to work for you."

The man lifted his head, assessing the situation. "I need to be sure you're doing this for the right reasons."

"Trust me, I'm doing this for the only reason worth doing anything."

The man waited a moment. "Revenge?"

He froze, and then barked out a laugh. "You think I have a vendetta, Colonel?" he looked over his right shoulder; the left side of his face remained encased in shadow. "Can't I just honor my father by following in his footsteps?"

The man crossed his arms, looking him over. Their breath swirled between them.

"I'll see you at my office at 0700 tomorrow, sharp."

He grinned, and emitted a half-laugh half-sob. He took his time and swallowed it, putting on a grin. "Thank you, Colonel."

The colonel did not acknowledge that. He stepped over (click-clack) and pulled the sheet back over the body. "Time to let go, kid."

He watched as the remains were locked back up in the chilly drawer.

The two turned sharply and head back out of the hall. He kept his gaze directed forward. Control, he had to keep things under control…

"Oh by the way," he started casually. "Since a man just doesn't drop dead, there must be one mark on him."

"That's true," the colonel replied gravely. He too, looked forward, but for different reasons. He did not want to follow this line of thought, yet knew it would be vastly unfair to keep silent.

"What did they find? That was buried in his chest." They reached the exit and he stopped before the door, blocking the man into an answer.

The colonel sighed and looked down as he shifted his strong stance. His eyes flicked back up to his.

"An arrowhead."