Title: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
Author: Syntyche
Rating: T, for violence and much language
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own any of this. Like I even need to say it.
Synop: The Council finds a questionable way to test Clint's loyalty post-Chitauri. The rest of the team is less than happy about it.
Review: Yes, please. It'd be awesome of you.
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Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
By: Syntyche
One: The Day Has Come
"I'll do it," Clint says, and he's looking at her with those eyes.
Over the years of their partnership, during which they've packed in more living than anyone should really have a right to, Natasha has seen those eyes more times than she cares to: the glinting challenge in his storm-colored gaze that says, "You wanna live forever, Romanoff?" which Clint thinks is goddamn hilarious because he likes to give her that raised eyebrow and sly look and compare her to the scantily-clad and extremely tactically inept warrior woman from Conan the Barbarian, which usually somehow spirals into completely one-sided speculation from Clint about how "Red Sonja" may actually be a more appropriate designation for his redheaded Russian partner than Conan's ill-fated lover.
Sometimes she hates that she loves him.
But not really.
She actually loves that she loves him.
But she hates those eyes that are looking at her with resolve burning past the love and sadness.
"Clint … " she says hesitantly, and he lifts a grimy finger and, in a rare PDA, tweaks her nose with a weary grin that's belied by the sorrow in his expression. It's a suicide mission, and they both know it.
"I got this," Clint assures her, adjusting his fraying quiver strap over his shoulder. The archer leans in to kiss her and he tastes like sweat and blood and Clint and she loses herself for a minute wondering why they wasted so much time before becoming them, while knowing it was because of their own stubborn natures and hesitation born of the crippling scars they both carry.
There's so much to say. There's even more they want to do. Clint stares at her for a long moment before offering her a final, sweet smile and turning on his boot heel to walk away. Natasha watches him head into the sagging, gutted building with a tingling numbness trickling through her limbs as he disappears from sight.
"I'll see you soon, hawk," she murmurs, because even though Clint is resigned to his fate, Natasha knows something the archer doesn't - which is why she put up much less of a protest than normal when he demanded to be the one to carry out the far more dangerous aspect of this final task. Still, watching him calmly and resolutely stride to what he's certain will be his death triggers scalding tears the Black Widow's not ashamed to cry since there's no one else real here to see them.
Clint thinks death is waiting for him inside that building, but he's wrong. So much worse is coming.
Worse is barreling down on them, and if she could save him from it right now she would.
But it has to be Clint, because this is all in Clint's head, and the sooner he reaches the end of this little test, the sooner the Avengers can collect their archer and just go the hell home, and the Council and SHIELD can go fuck themselves for making Hawkeye jump through these goddamn hoops because a crazy god hijacked Clint's mind for a brief stay and now the Council's "not certain" they can trust the currently suspended SHIELD agent who has put his life on the line for them more times than they can count.
And then some pencil-pushing genius had come up with this idea.
There's nothing Natasha can do but wait, and console herself with the knowledge that Clint's sacrifice won't hurt him in the physical world; he's just going to be left with another crapload of angst issues to work out when he finally opens his eyes and realizes he's not dead after all, he's just hooked up to a half-dozen machines in a clinically sterile lab in the middle of goddamn nowhere where white-coated techs are monitoring his vitals and his every move, every choice he makes in this damned test.
But Clint's team is waiting, too. The Avengers aren't supposed to be here - they weren't even supposed to be able to find their archer, let alone infiltrate the twisted nightmare unfolding in Clint's mind long enough to drop the real Natasha in to help him along the way. But Tony's a genius and Bruce can be very persuasive when he wants to be, and if the bastards in charge of this sideshow complain - Natasha imagines Clint rolling his eyes longsufferingly at the circus reference - well, that's too damn bad because they can't test how far Hawkeye's loyalty to SHIELD and his team goes without also testing the team's loyalty to Clint.
Finish the job, Clint, she thinks, calm and cool and hard as iron as she imagines the different ways she will punish those responsible once the archer's back in his proper mind. Finish the job and let's go the hell home.
Natasha settles herself cross-legged in the rubble of the wasted landscape, twists the slim silver chain of her arrow necklace between her slender fingers, and waits for her partner to die.
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