A/N: The parts in italics are flashback-ish things/from the past.
In his heart, he knows what she won't tell him, and when he looks in the mirror he sees only in blue.
There's no need for a definite number of people he's responsible for silencing- every heart stopped against his will- because he takes them all onto his shoulders, carries their souls, holds their screams in his mind.
The glass shatters against his fist and the blood is tinted into a purple haze.
Guns are failing her. The whizzing of the bullets can't drown out the chant of lies that fills her ears, and the thwack of the hole through the book cover isn't as satisfying as she needs.
For a girl whose world has been flipped upside down, she thinks she's handling this very well; maybe that's just the programming talking.
Long distance isn't her friend tonight and she looks down at shiny, well-cleaned black barrel, the hatred and fear wells up inside her: she hates the men who've made her so afraid of herself.
Tears start slowly and it's an emotion so outlandish she wants to scream, and her hand grows heavy when she places her most trusted weapon against skin she can't even believe is her own.
Nothing can save him at this point.
He will walk the path to Hell with the weight of the universe on his shoulders, and he only wishes this time could come faster. Taking his own life would be too easy, a sign of weakness, and resigned to this, he slumps against the wall of the bathroom, thinking he could stay there, alone, forever.
Blood stains the white paint and he thinks the color is rather nice, a splash of death in a place too sterile.
Even white walls cannot be innocent.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
She would be ashamed to admit his voice made her jump, ashamed she'd become so sloppy as to not notice his presence in the first place, but her thoughts are so muddled it takes all her concentration to turn around without collapsing. Her mind tells her she's weak, and maybe after all this time, she is.
The safety clicks off when he tries to step closer and he stays where he is, hands in his pockets and making sure the panic remains in a place she can't see it.
"I can hear them," she whispers and her eyes are wide, her voice raspy. For the second time in the last month, she thinks she might be truly afraid. "In my head, all the time. They scream and scream and scream and it's my fault.
It's all my fault."
They've been telling her the opposite, that its brainwashing and manipulation, but everything is lies.
He takes a deep breath and she thought he was farther away than this, and she pushes the barrel harder against her temple to try and stop her hand from shaking.
"You're right."
She would hate to admit she's worried about him, but she is.
Worried about how he acts, how he doesn't sleep at night, how he's pushing her away.
The bathroom door is unlocked and the glass crackles under her feet and she curses in Russian, in the gravely tones reserved for her native tongue, and stops moving.
"Jesus, Clint," she sighs at the sight before her, with another mirror gone and red painting the walls and the dust of pain covering the floor.
He's leaning dependently on the side of the bath tub, wide eyes in contrast with tired body language, and she works her way across the danger zone to sew closed some more scars.
She will carry them both, if she has too, she decides and she pulls him from the ground, lets him fall against her for support.
This is not the way they are going to end.
"Everything you've done in the past is your fault." His voice isn't venom and she almost wishes it was. The calm and relaxed tone is unsettling. "But it's in the past. It's gone, it's done.
This is not the way to fix it."
She's not sure when he got to be an inch away, but his hands are warm as he lowers her arm, uncurls her fingers, and pulls the weapon from her shaking hand.
"You be better, not be weak."
He flips the safety back on and tosses the gun across the training room. She flinches when it hits the concrete and it worries him to have to be worried about her: now she's close and he can see how much she's been crying.
On impulse, he hugs her, because she's nineteen and lost and afraid and he's not sure he can help her the way she needs.
He wants to, so he says, "We'll get through this, and we'll be better."
She doesn't believe in promises.
She wishes she did.
They're lying on the bed and his head is in her lap. His hair is soft between her fingers.
She wishes he would close his eyes and sleep, and knows he won't, and he continues staring off to space when she grabs his newly bandaged hand. The white gauze is peaceful, but slightly disturbing.
"It may be your fault," she says and he finally meets her eyes. "But a man once told me that the past is the past and it's gone and done, and this is not the way to fix it."
A pale and spindly digit traces between his sore knuckles.
"Be better, not weak," he whispers and it's been so long since she heard his voice without the strangled tone that she lets out a breath of peace.
She kisses his forehead, her hand returning to the rhythmic combing across his scalp, and she says, "We'll be better."
He almost smiles because he doesn't believe in promises, but he believes in her.