Disclaimer—Recognizable characters belong to Marvel… No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Author's Notes—In a very dark space this morning, and the plot bunny wouldn't let me be. Beta'ed by Cindy Ryan. All mistakes, of course, are mine.
Unmade—Clint struggles in the aftermath of what happened.
Clint wasn't sure who he was anymore. If the truth were told, he wasn't sure if he ever knew. He blew whichever way the breeze carried him, always had. From town to town at first, getting caught up in the whirlwind of the circus, before joining SHIELD. It wasn't that he was ungrateful for the experiences and opportunities. He just couldn't be sure if the psychological shifts were there before or after Loki.
The memories of his time with the so-called god of mischief were hazy, as though he remembered but had watched it all through grainy, old-time home movies, or the kind of cheap flicks they showed at the carnival for a pittance. It added to the surreal feeling of working for the madness, against the people who had become his family.
Somewhere along the way, SHIELD had adopted him, calling him one of their own. The change, from carnival worker to secret agent, had been peculiar from the outset but the culture surrounding both groups wasn't all that dissimilar. Both had a great distrust of outsiders, and loyalty was paramount. He knew, once he left the world of trick shots in the center ring, that he'd never be allowed back. He'd accepted that decision, made it on his own. While it hadn't been his idea, his goal, or his dream to leave SHIELD, Loki made that call for him.
He understood why he'd woken up restrained to a bed aboard the hellicarrier, why the others looked at him with a kind of reproach. Hell, he'd have wanted himself dead for killing SHIELD agents, for being the cause of such devastation.
Frequently, he did want those things.
While he never acted on those impulses, the guilt he carried was a tremendous weight. The once-jovial archer rarely smiled or, if he did, it was tinged with such a manic depression that it was more frightening than reassuring to the others, especially Natasha.
It was like a dark cloud followed her partner. No matter how far removed they became from Loki and the invasion, the pain never eased and the guilt never lessened. Clint dragged it along with him, until his shoulders slumped, until he hid his sleep-deprived, red-rimmed eyes behind his sunglasses on a near constant basis.
"Clint?"
His attention never wavered from his target on the practice range. "What?" he asked flatly, pulling another arrow from his quiver.
"You've been out here for hours."
"Practice is a good thing," he said, sinking yet another bull's eye.
"Don't you think they've suffered enough?" she asked, referring to the paper-thin inky bodies down range.
His laugh was cold and unlike the playful Clint she knew. "They don't care, Nat." It felt like very few cared. After the initial shock of his returning to normal and the battle itself, nothing had happened. Fury hadn't even batted an eye at the realization that Clint had done more to help bring about the destruction of New York City than anyone else left on the planet. He hadn't been made to face disciplinary actions. He was left to his own devices, returned to previous assignments. There had been no discussion whatsoever, no threat against it happening again, and no demands for apologies on behalf of the good men and women who had been killed or injured.
"I care."
He slowed, but didn't stop in his repetitive training. "I don't see how."
"You've always said you see better from a distance. Right now, you're far too close to even begin to comprehend—"
He loosed the arrow in the middle of her sentence before he'd been truly ready, and it grazed the exterior edge of the target. Rounding on her, however, he couldn't let her finish. "I comprehend just fine what I did wrong. I know too well who died at my hands or because of the chain of events that I caused. Don't tell me I don't get it. I understand far better than you do."
She stood her ground. She wasn't about to go tiptoeing past him, not when he needed her the most. "Do you? Do you understand that, when your actions aren't your own, that it's not your fault?"
"That's a crap line and you know it. I killed people. I can see them taking their last breath, all because of what I've done." He looked at his open, empty palm. It was as though no level of scrubbing could ever fully cleanse it of the blood he'd shed.
"You told me once that good can undo bad," she said softly.
"That's different."
"How?" she challenged.
"Because it is! Because it's more than just bad; it was control. I couldn't even think that what I was doing was wrong. I had no option, no choice. I was worse than just some kind of puppet; he made me want to do those things. When we fought, you and me, my goal was to kill you. And I wanted to. I wanted to spill your blood on the floor of that carrier more than anyone else's."
The gasp she gave was unintentional, but his confession had startled her—and that was saying something.
"You were—you are—my partner. And I knew you'd try to save me." He shook his head. "I didn't want to be saved."
"Yes, you did," she insisted.
"No," he told her. "Mind-controlled me, blue-eyed freak me didn't. And that was who I was then. Maybe who I still am."
She shook her head, completely at a loss as to where this was coming from. "Why?"
"Why what? Why didn't I want to be saved?" Off her single-shouldered shrug, he drew a heavy breath. "I'm more of a pariah than Banner these days. No one wants to talk to me or come around me. And why would they? How do we really know that I'm fine, that I'm clear… that I'm back to me? The truth is we don't. I don't. You can believe what you want, that's fine, but I…" He deflated, shaking his head. "I can't be that naive, Nat."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? Haven't you always told me love is for children? Maybe hope is, too."
End.