Aliens.
Damn fucking aliens.
Why was it always aliens?
His fists hit the wall. Again. Again. Again.
Clint screamed and cried and roared, emotions bubbling up inside of him faster than he could process. Rage and loss and despair.
The friends that had died, the family that he had lost – all because of aliens. And he thought he'd put it all behind him. Working in covert operations should have given him more than enough of a warning to make himself scarce. Because yes, coward that he was, he was not going to risk dealing with aliens again.
But this time, the aliens looked so normal and it didn't dawn on him until it was too late, until they had wormed their way into his brain, taken him over and taken away his free will. Again.
He had killed people. There was blood on his hands, placed there not by his own volition. Worst of all? He couldn't remember any of it. How was he supposed to know what to atone for, if he couldn't damn-well remember! He punctuated the last few words with a punch each. His knuckles stung.
A knock sounded at the door, and he swerved towards the sound, his bow already in his hands and being drawn. He waited, barely breathing, as his heart threatened to pound right through his chest.
"Clint?" Came the tentative question. He didn't think he'd ever heard Natasha sound so… soft. The seconds dragged on before he could even summon the courage to loosen the death grip on his bow.
"Clint? I know you're there. I just want to see if you're okay."
If anyone could understand, it was her. Having been brainwashed herself from a young age and made to do unspeakable things. He could trust her. Right? Their earlier conversation… he could barely recall it through the haze of the lingering mind-control and drugs but the idea of someone doing anything to harm her made him want to hiss and spit and curl around her protectively. The thought that it might have been him that hurt her, made him want to gouge out his own eyes.
He breathed and lowered his bow. It's just Nat, he told himself as he walked with heavy feet over to the door.
He opened the door and for some reason, his mind went where he hadn't allowed it to go in years.
He opened the door and wanted, needed, hoped that it would be a blonde girl with bright blue eyes and a fierce smile dressed in a leotard, waiting for him.
It was just Nat, though, and she was his friend. But she didn't know all that there was to know about him, so she wouldn't understand why his insides were hurting as much as they were, or why he wanted to hug her close, cry, and never let go. He didn't know that side of him anymore, and neither did she.
"Clint, you know that nobody blames you for any of this, right?" she said, trying to get a read on him. He kept his face impassive, tried to channel his inner hawk who didn't care about death and love. His old friend was waiting just underneath his skin, so close that unconsciously his gaze sharpened, and his skin prickled with unbidden feathers.
"Thanks, Nat," was all he could muster, swallowing down the instinctual desire to disappear into his hawk half. He was just so tired of everything. Of hiding, of lying, of fighting, of feeling.
Natasha stared at him for a while longer, seeming to debate something with herself. He could see the shards of her own sanity shifting within her gaze. It was like looking into a mirror. Before he could stop himself, he stepped closer and pulled her into a hug. He felt her flinch but gently held on until she relaxed and squeezed back. If she was anything like him, the only reason why she was still fighting so fiercely to just hang on, was because of this – they were fighting for the people they loved.
"What did Loki do to you?" He remembered asking.
Well, for one, he made us realise that we still had something worth fighting for.
Clint was in the bathroom, staring at his reflection. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn't see any of Loki's power lingering in his eyes. But he imagined he could still feel it. The shower had helped clear his thoughts at least. He had decided that it was time to tell Nat the truth about who he was, or rather, who he had been.
He heard sounds coming from the other room.
"Go where?" He caught Natasha asking and perked his ears.
"I'll tell you on the way," came the answer. The voice sounded male, mature and vaguely familiar. Whoever this man was, he carried authority like a second skin. Whatever he was planning on going was where Clint wanted to be. "Can you fly one of those jets?"
"I can." He stepped outside and firmly took his fate into his own hands.
I was going to set this as a crossover, but I honestly don't know if anyone still remembers what this is a nod to and you don't really need to know in order to understand this as a one-shot. Bonus, however, if you do (the hints are very subtle) comment below because this is dedicated to you and me and everyone who still remembers the good old days.