Being Someone Who Pays Attention
PROLOGUE
He thinks I pay no notice. He also knows I do. It is a dance between us, the knowledge of another's past. I let him believe I do not observe the solemn look of sadness and his inability to keep eye contact and anchor himself to the world on that day. I let him believe because he's done the same thing. It is like a wounded animal. We retreat when we mourn, when we deal. To extract oneself from our lives is the only means we own. Privacy is a simple and misinterpreted principle. There is no such thing. He and I are the closest thing I've ever encountered to be even remotely close to a point of mutual understanding, mutual solitude.
I do not flicker or flinch when I see people suffering. That does not mean I can walk away with a clear conscience. I don't believe I could anyway. If there is such a thing, if such a thing exists, mine will be the dirtiest of all, stained with the blood of so many. How many victims have there been? I do not know. It is not that victims have not mattered, although back then, I barely raised a brow at the mindless slaughter, but they have been wiped from my mind. Not knowing my own kill count destroys me slowly. Just as not knowing kills him. It may not be in the same way as a bullet, but on that particular day, the world just might have ended for Clint Barton. On that day, he lives in the could-have-beens of his mind, and it's unbearable to watch but someone will have to. I fear that he would do without supervision, just as he once feared what I would have done without his. In this world, falling asleep requires the most trust of all, and while I am honored to bear the privilege, it hurts me to see why such is required.
I've caused so much pain and suffering. Had I known, I would have had the courage to flee this life so long ago. Now I have duties, and a meaningless redemption. What does it matter, redemption, if I can only remember a spoonful of the blood I've spilled? When I'm at my weakest, he gives me the gentlest of comfort and I, in return, try to be there for him although incapable of the same tenderness and emotional attachment. If I speak of pain and hurt, he will know that I speak the truth, but outside what he's shown me I have endured little love and tenderness—the true kind. Luckily, or perhaps bitterly, it is not what he needs. He doesn't need a friend to be a shoulder to cry on—he needs a partner to cover for any mistakes and to pull him in when he gets too out of hand. I am that, especially on that day.
I do not compile dossiers on my partner. He's far too valuable for that and it'd be a break of the trust we've worked hard to establish. A break of the unsaid vow we agreed to. He's beginning to notice, though, even though I've tried to be subtle about it. I was a spy, one of the greatest spies, still am, but subconsciously I might have wanted to get caught. An unorthodox confrontation, but a confrontation nevertheless. I sent him a look of sadness and although it was barely an imitation of his, he was struck speechless by the tragedy relayed. He let go of my wrist and walked away.
I try not to pry, but I became what I imitate so long ago that it is no longer refutable. I extract knowledge as I provide services. My companionship has a price, but not in Clint's case, never in Clint's case. I will always be a spy even though I wish to some day be more. It is a foolish hope, childishly so, but if he is allowed his make-beliefs, am I not? I look out for him without being asked to. It has become utterly natural. He has healed me on so many occasions, taking me to the infirmary himself when I was sick and convulsing in pain, too proud to admit my body's defeat. He teases and we have our banter, but I know that I can trust him to have my back. That's what matters. We watch over each other, the watchers. So much we are stripped of, and he reminds me to remain being human even as I crumble. He does not give up on me, so why should I him?
I wonder, though, and I research. I know my words do a poor imitation of his healing hands, and my actions have yielded priceless results in the past. But I question myself, the hands that have done so much bad, can they do good, too? Of that I will always be skeptic. It forces Clint not to be, I guess. I am broken and on that day, I'd do anything to force him to be healing instead of burdened with sadness of immeasurable amount and a stillness that worries me. Certain things are sacred, even to us, and I respect my partner's wish to bear his cross, his hurt, in silence. I let him know, though, that he's not alone. I try so hard to be what he's been for me, but it lacks the results.
After years of being partnered with Clint Barton, I know him well. We have our secrets—I surely have mine, but not by choice, but because it would do more harm than good to share my worries. I say I know him because I can tell his behavior apart and predict the emotional outcomes. I'm sure he can do the same with me. It's a comfortable thought. It comforts me on dark missions or when faceless nightmares haunt my nights and he's away on missions. I never sleep well when he's away. It's not that I worry. I have seen his abilities with weaponry of all character: the odds are in his favor, but I've only recently come to realize that there's only one person I trust to watch over me while I sleep, while I'm truly vulnerable. I'll never voice it, but it helps me sleep at night.
Our lives are so alike that it frustrates me and breaks my heart to no end to see him suffer so easily. Like mine, his heart has been hardened by the things he's lived through, the things he's done, the things he's seen. He doesn't trust me enough to take part in the burden of his secret—or worse, he wants to, but considers it too much for another person to bear. It's foolish, I'm his partner, and I'm supposed to have his back. How can I do that if I can't even be allowed to handle his heart? Nevertheless, I accept his choice to be silent. But I cannot deny, or worse, remain passive while the man I've grown to trust—in my world, our world, in the modern world where the word love is so carelessly thrown about, that is a truest virtue—slowly succumbs to his own annual despondency on the insignificant day of February 19th.