Hello! This, as promised, is the follow-up story to The Shadow Directive! It's been too long of a wait, I know, but I've had massive technical difficulties to contend with as well as an insane college semester.

Only a few format changes from the previous writing, mainly since I discovered that FanFiction's bolded font is really difficult to distinguish from regular. Thus, signs will be glossed in parentheticals, since I will still have Henley's stream-of-conscious thought narratives in italics when necessary. Hoping to go back and change this in the original at some point, but haven't got to it yet. If there's a mention of Deaf culture or signing terms, it will once again be explained at the bottom of the page.

If you have read my previous story, some of this first chapter will probably seem like a rerun, but I wanted to make sure everyone would remember what happened last time since it has been a while since I last wrote! If you're new to this, I suggest reading the Shadow Directive first, since this makes more sense if you've read the original.

Disclaimers: All recognizable characters are owned by Marvel. I do not own any of them except my OC Henley. My version of Clint is based on both the movies and the recent Matt Fraction comics, so if you don't recognize something about the character, that could be why.

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I'd be lying if I said I don't love my life. I mean, how many people get to be part of the most elite strike team on the planet?

Strike Team Delta. A task force that few people even know exists, highly classified missions, in and out before most people even know we're there. Three people, three skill sets, one job.

The most visible, or I guess it would be more correct to say the most active, member of the team is Agent Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow. Agent Romanoff is the epitome of what I always imagined as the female secret agent. She's drop-dead gorgeous-literally, intelligent, seductive, agile, and cunning, the only survivor of the most intensive Russian agent training program ever used, she's calm under fire, incredibly deadly, and intensely secretive. Sometimes I think even Natasha doesn't know all her own secrets. She's also the most ambiguous team member, having been an assassin first for the Soviets, then as a freelancer, until she was recruited for S.H.I.E.L.D. in a risky move by none other than the second member of Delta, Agent Clinton Barton.

Clint, AKA Hawkeye, is the eyes in the sky of the team. He's far more likely to be perched on a rooftop with his favorite bow than mingling in a crowded society event like Natasha. Nonetheless, he's still the classic super spy. Strong, silent type, good with weapons more so than words, athletic, smart and smart-mouthed, and pretty damn good-looking and that is an unbiased observation thank you very much for thinking otherwise-I know you are. There's only one thing about him that people might consider a flaw-besides his perpetual disregard for basic safety protocol-and that's the fact that he's eighty percent deaf in both ears.

That little point is what brings us to me, the third and somewhat unusual member of Strike Team Delta, Probationary Agent Henley McBride. Nightshade.

The name makes me sound a lot more badass than I really am. I mean, I've got skills, but not the ones you typically think of for secret agents. I can't kill a man five ways with a toothpick like Nat, or scale a fifteen-foot hotel with only windowsills for handholds like Clint, but I'm still pretty proud of my abilities. Because what I do is the reason Clint and Natasha can continue to do their jobs. I'm the interpreter.

S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't want to lose their best marksman after Clint was deafened, but they also couldn't send him back into the field with just hearing aids and hope they worked through whatever conditions he was in. Which left them with a bit of a quandary.

They ended up pulling out a dusty protocol that they'd never actually used in practice, the Shadow Directive. A program designed to pair a disabled field agent with a civilian qualified to work with them so they could return to active duty. A 24/7 presence on mission, freeing up an agent's partner but still allowing for easy communication and the lowest possible profile.

That meant tracking down me. Self-described high risk situation ASL interpreter. I'd worked in freelance for multiple agencies and police departments, handling everything from potential suicides to hostage situations, wherever the person in question was Deaf.

I's promised myself I'd never take a contract job, never tie myself down to one place, or one person, but that all changed when I met Agent Phil Coulson, my recruiter. He'd managed to convince me, against all protest, that this was where I was needed. He cares about Clint like the good father Clint never had, and he was willing to do anything to make sure that someone could keep the archer doing what he was best at. And when I realized that, I was in.

There's no way it was easy. Clint, stubborn as always, didn't even want me around at first. I was just another reminder that he was 'broken', that he couldn't do his job. Which didn't make training, no walk in the park of itself, any easier to bear.

After a few field missions, though, Clint warmed up to me, and lately, it's been a little more than that. I'm not sure what to think yet, seeing as inter-office romance is off limits in S.H.I.E.L.D., but I'm the first of something unique and maybe we can work that in our favor. That is, if we survive our current mission first.

(Either you really want to say 'passion' fifty times or your hands are cold.) Clint smirks sideways at me.

(I hate rain.)

I'm currently crouching in the corner of an alley with Clint, staking out a target. This would be fine, if it weren't forty degrees and pouring rain. We're trying to keep a low profile, which in this case means we're not allowed to wear our insulated, waterproof, uniforms.

Nope. Instead, we're supposed to blend in with the ever-present homeless population of Denver, which means shabby, thin clothes that aren't doing a damn thing for the chill.

I blow on my fingers and try not to think about the way my hands are going stiff. If I end up really needing to sign, I may not be able to. Which is gonna be an issue since the rain and wet mean Clint's not wearing his aids. Even though they are waterproof, supposedly, he's not taking chances when he's got me. The fingerless gloves I have are soaked and making my hands even colder, so I peel them off.

My sweater and jeans are waterlogged too, heavy and clinging to my skin. I hate clingy wet clothes worse than just being wet, and I know I'm going to start shivering any minute.

Pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them only does so much, and when the first shiver hits, I cringe. Even seven months later, cold still triggers memories of being injured and lost in the Kirgawe mountains after the Quinjet crash.

I used to not mind the cold, and winter was actually my favorite season. I used to go for long walks and sit on park benches and watch the snow fall. But this winter I couldn't. At first I was still recovering and my body was too sore to do much walking. But then I would go out and trigger flashbacks so intense that I felt like I couldn't breathe again.

I spent most of the last few months in my apartment in Clint's building, which I moved into as soon as I was mobile again, reading, curling up in heavy sweaters, and drinking coffee.

Next to me, Clint shifts a little closer, and the unexpected warmth is comforting. The cold, fragmented thoughts of the mountain crash fade away, even though I'm still far from comfortable. I glance over at Clint and decide he's got it even worse than I do. I have a heavy wool sweater that is at least trapping warmth, and a scarf protecting my head and neck to some extent, but Clint's worn jean jacket is thin and soaked, and the dirty ball-cap he wears is no help.

I can feel him starting to shiver too, and I lean as close as I can and tuck an arm around him so we're sharing warmth.

In any other situation, this would probably be weird for people who have known each other less than a year, but in the world of espionage, something that might seem intimate is often just part of necessary field work. Like kissing your partner for show at some gala.

Of course, just when we finally figure out a way to sit so that the roof overhang of the building next to us blocks the worst of the storm, our target steps out of the house, climbs into a car that we've already managed to place a tracker on-actually something I'm rather proud of since I managed to do it subtly while convincing the driver I was an incoherent and uncoordinated junkie-and drives off.

Clint stands up stiffly, then shivers when a gust of wind whips down the alley. Rain is dripping off his hair and clothes and he looks as miserable as I feel.

(Four hours of surveillance for three minutes of information. Great. Typical.) I stand up too, trying to ignore the way my clothes, which had warmed a bit from my skin where they touched me, are now cold again. (We have to walk all the way back to the hotel in this, too.)

(Then I guess we should get going.) Clint digs his bow and quiver out from under a pile of trash bags and moldy cabbages. (Let Coulson know we're moving out.)

Clint shoulders his gear and we start walking while I dig my comm out of a small waterproof pouch in my pocket.

"Coulson, this is point team. We're pulling out, over." I'm so prepared to hear his familiar voice acknowledging that the empty static at the other end feels like a physical shock.

"Coulson, this is point. The target is on the move and we are pulling out, over." I repeat, thinking maybe the storm is screwing with the transmission. But I already know that is not the case. The static is wrong. It's not bad connection, it's no one on the other line. I nudge Clint's arm to get his attention

(Clint, I can't get through to Coulson. And it's not the storm.)

(It's probably nothing serious. Maybe yours isn't working right. Here, try mine.) Clint digs his own comm out and I try again, with the same results.

(Clint, I do not like this. Coulson isn't responding. Do you think something might be wrong?)

(I don't know. But just to be safe, let's hurry.)

We pick up the pace, hurrying through the streets back to the hotel. My heart is pounding and not just from the speed. Coulson is nothing if not obsessive about staying in touch. For him to go off comm, it's got to be bad. The only thing I don't know is how bad.

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Well, this is the beginning! Sorry to leave it on a cliffhanger, but I should have the next part up soon! Christmas break is good for my writing :). Hope everyone is staying healthy and having a great holiday season.

Comments and critiques welcome! I've so appreciated the feedback I got on my last stories, and people's suggestions really improved my writing! You guys are the best!

Until next time- N1ghthawk