Disclaimer: I own nothing.
And another bunny trail crossed my path. Wouldn't that figure? So, I've decided since I've given you guys so many happy little stories, it's time for a tear-jerker.
This story is based off of the idea that Natasha didn't survive the New York fiasco. Each chapter, seven in all, will chronicle Clint's journey through the seven stages of grief.
Not much to talk about, so I'll let you get right to it. Sit back and enjoy!
Love always,
Avoline
Clint stared at the floor, shaking his head. It couldn't be true. Selvig had to be lying. The man had lost his mind once the Tesseracts spell had worn off. He could tell that much. But he could not process what the scientist was saying.
"No," he muttered. "No, no, no, it can't be true. Selvig, she can't be dead." The older man squeezed the archer's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, son," he replied. "The blast was too powerful. She didn't stand a chance." The blond closed his eyes and took a shaky breath.
"She's not dead," he repeated. "She's fooling us. She found a way to survive. She always does."
"Clint," Tony called firmly. "Natasha's dead. There's no use in denying it." Clint shook his head one more time before putting it in his hands. This was Natasha Romanoff they were talking about. There was no way she was dead. She would always show up, very much alive, and give them all a piece of her mind for even thinking she was dead. More often than not, he would get the majority of her fury.
"Clint, listen to me," Tony continued. "When she hit the cube with the spear, it caused a blast. She was standing closest to it, and she got the brunt of the blast. She really didn't have a single chance of surviving." The grey-eyed man bit his lip to hold back the sobs, his mind wandering to when he first met her.
He had an arrow trained on her, ready to fly. All he had to do was let it loose, and he could go home. His hands shook, though. If he followed his orders exactly, he would be no different than his father. He had to be different, and it would start with her.
He put the arrow back in it's quiver and slid the bow across his torso. He still had an eye on her, even as he leapt from one rooftop to another to get to her. His lungs burned from the strain, but he refused to stop. Someone had to make this call and give her a chance.
He landed on his feet, and looked up to find himself face to face with the barrel of a Glock .9.
"What do you want," she demanded, her voice thick with a Russian accent. He raised his hands and slowly stood.
"To make you an offer," he answered evenly. "You can make your choice later, just hear me out first." He watched her carefully, hoping that she wouldn't pull the trigger before he could speak to her.
"Do you know who I am," she questioned warningly. He nodded.
"You're Natasha Romanoff," he responded. "Trained by the Red Room for years, starting when you were very young. You have killed more men than anyone else alive, and you've been running for your life for a while now." She cocked her head at him, and he took the chance to continue. "I was sent to kill you, but I've decided on a different course of action. You've got a choice: you can kill me, and continue running, or you can stop now, join me, and lead a totally different life. A life where you don't have to be afraid anymore. Where, after doing whatever is asked of you, you can actually go home, wherever that maybe be, let your guard down, and not worry about anyone trying to kill you ever again. It's completely up to you, Natasha."
They stood, staring at each other, for what felt like hours. His eyes flickered from the gun to her face, then back again. If this was the day he died, at least he could die knowing that he tried to make a difference in someone's life. He was too late to save his brother, but he could at least save her.
Finally, she lowered the gun, and he let out a breath he wasn't even aware he had been holding.
"Take me away from here," she pleaded softly. "Show me what this other life is like."