I brainstormed this this week, getting the idea from the first episode of A.O.S. (not saying anything else for my people who haven't seen it yet).
I don't write sad things often, and usually can not write them well, so please tell me how this is, and whether or not you enjoyed it.
"Natasha, stop nagging me, okay? So what if I'm only a centimeter from the target?"
"That's way more than a centimeter. You used to be able to hit it right in the center."
"Yeah, well, nothing has been the same since Moscow, for you, or me. I can't see or hear half as well as I used to, and you-"
"I still can't go on active duty because I'm weak and mentally unstable, yeah. I get it. But that's your fault. I told you not to use that explosive arrow. I could have taken Ivan on myself."
"And gotten killed? I don't think so. And you're nagging again."
Clint Barton stalked across his room and wriggled a smooth black arrow from a rather beat up target nailed to the wall. He returned to the opposite side of the room, and shot a glance at the beautiful red head curled up in his chair before sending the arrow flying again.
Clint squinted his eyes, then stared down at the sleek grey bow in his hands.
"Maybe this thing needs to be restrung," he mumbled, shaking his head as he moved to get the arrow that was clearly left of the center of the target. Natasha made sure Clint wasn't looking, then rolled her eyes.
They were both confined in a dark, musty room, with the only light source coming from a window covered with blinds.
The room was a mess; filthy clothes lay in heaping piles in every corner; the bed wasn't made, and hid containers of half eaten food; the desk was littered with pens, magazines, and crumpled papers from old assignments. The only part of the floor that was visible was the path Clint took to retrieve his arrows. The walls were bare, except for a small, black camera in the top right corner of the room, directly above the door.
Natasha ran her eyes over the camera, then immediately glanced back at Clint.
"Are they still monitoring you, Clint?"
Clint sighed, then looked up at the camera, making a face. "Yeah, they still think I need to be under observation. They say I'm 'mentally unhinged.' Which is stupid, because I'm perfectly fine," he mumbled, sending another arrow flying.
Natasha scoffed. "Says the man who can't even hit a target."
Clint squinted his eyes and swore out loud, while Natasha failed to hide her laughter.
Clint's arrow was sunk, shaft deep, into the wall.
"God, Coulson's going to kill me," sighed Clint, using both hands to yank the arrow from the wall. " I blame you, Tasha."
"Me!? You're the one with the bow!"
"You distracted me! Plus, you've always been terrible with a bow."
"Have not!"
"Have so!"
"Have not!"
"Have so, and you know it."
Natasha growled at Clint, while he finally pulled the arrow from the wall, a triumphant look in his eyes.
"If I'm so terrible with a bow, and you're the expert, why don't you show me how it's done?"
Natasha gave a half smile, then stood up as Clint nodded his head, trying his best not to grin.
Clint grabbed Natasha by the waist, then rotated her so that her hips were perpendicular to the target, and placed her about ten feet away from said target. He placed the bow in her hands, and wrapped his arms around her, standing right against her so that he could lead her through it.
"Keep your feet shoulder width apart, and keep your chest facing the target. Pinch the end of the arrow, and draw it back as far as you can, but make sure the string doesn't recoil and hit your arm. You don't want to get hit by that thing, trust me. Look down the shaft of the arrow, and aim slightly above the target. Concentrate, breath in, exhale, then let it fly."
Thwack!
Clint heard the arrow hit, so he opened his eyes. Natasha let out a HA! and Clint couldn't help but grin.
The arrow was in the dead center of the target.
"Who's the better archer, huh Barton?" Natasha asked, not bothering to hide her smile.
"I guided you, so technically, still me."
"Yeah right. That was all me and you know it."
"I don't think your ego needs to be inflated any more, Romanoff."
"And yours does?"
"Yes, because you keep putting me down so much!"
"Please, Barton! Your ego is bigger than mine!"
As the two assassins began bickering yet again, the camera in the corner of the room continued to watch them innocently.
"He's still talking to her, sir."
"He's not getting any better?"
"No sir, and what's worse is that he isn't recognizing anyone anymore. Everyone he sees is now classified as a threat in his mind. This morning, when Max tried to go in there to give him his meds like he does every morning, Barton tackled him to the ground, and put an arrow at his throat. Somehow Max talked Barton down, but then he accidentally implied that, well, that she wasn't there. He got so mad, he was taking aim when I finally pulled Max out. It's getting worse faster than we had expected. And remind me why we let him keep his bow and arrows in the first place?"
"We let him keep them because we thought that they might help him cope. Evidently, it just makes him worse."
Director Fury sighed, then caught Phil's eye. It was time to make a decision.
"All right, thank you, Agent Rockwell. You're excused."
"Yes sir."
The young agent saluted the Director and Coulson, then walked quickly from the room. He was all too aware of what the following discussion would be about, and wished to be no where around when the decision was made.
Director Fury and Phil Coulson stared at the video feed for a while, just watching. They didn't move, and didn't say a word; they just watched.
Sorrow could plainly be seen in their eyes, every expression on their face was sad. Finally, Fury broke the heavy silence.
"He's violent. Moody. Unstable. She seems to be the only thing keeping him sane, which is funny, considering everything that happened."
Fury paused as Coulson raised a hand to his head.
"I hate to do this to you Phil, but it's your call. You're his S.O. You're the person who knows what he would want. You discussed his will."
Coulson removed his hand, showing the tears spilling out of his eyes, and rolling down his face. His breaths came in small, ragged sobs as he tried to control himself enough to speak.
"He wanted to save her. That's what he wanted. He never meant to kill her. He never meant for her to die."
"We know that, Phil. Everyone knows that. But the explosive arrow was too much. I mean, sure, it took out Ivan, but it also took out half of the building as well."
Fury rubbed his head, and sighed.
"We just got the tapes from the Russian government. You can watch them if you want. Ivan had Natasha in a head lock, and Barton was down to his last arrow. The bomb was still going to go off, so he needed to do something that would be effective. Romanoff signaled to him to do it. So he did what she said. He let it fly, and some serious bad luck followed."
Coulson turned away, disgusted by what he was hearing. He didn't care how it had happened, but that it had happened, and there was nothing he could do to change it.
Coulson glanced back at the video feed, where Clint was engaging in a shouting match with an empty chair. Coulson's heart ached, and he felt like he was going to be sick. A fresh wave of tears came over him, and it was a few minutes before he could speak again.
"She didn't suffer, did she?"
The silence in the room turned painful, and when Fury spoke, his voice was low, and sorrowful.
"No. Once the building caved in, she died almost instantly. She wasn't in any pain at all."
Coulson nodded, and took a few shaky breaths.
"Clint once told me, that if he were to ever go insane, to the point where he could hurt anyone else, he told me to cross him off. To do it quickly, so that he wouldn't have to feel guilt for too long. I can't stand to see him like this. It's been months, and he's just getting worse. I don't want him to live with the guilt of killing her anymore, sir."
Coulson glanced up at Fury, who was trying to remain emotionless, but failing. Water was welling up in his eye, but he was doing everything in his power to hold his tears back.
"Sir, I'm requesting that we end his misery."
Fury nodded, then he and Coulson turned back to the screen, letting their tears flow freely and silently.
"Oh, come on Tasha! You sound like Phil. I'm not going to clean my room. I like it just the way it is."
"It's a mess!"
"It's not that bad."
"Ha! Whatever you say, archer."
Natasha scoffed at Clint, while he rolled his eyes.
He had given up on his bow and arrows at the moment, and was content scrounging around in his bed, looking for anything he hadn't eaten. Natasha watched him, with utter disgust on her face.
Suddenly, Clint was crouching behind his bed, aiming his bow at the door. The door knob wiggled as a key was inserted into the lock and opened. Clint took a deep breath, then raised an eyebrow at Natasha, who was wearing a smirk.
"Who is it?" Clint asked her.
She didn't answer, but someone else did.
"It's Phil. Come on out Clint. I need to talk to you."
Clint's face lit up, and he jumped out from behind his bed, eager to see his mentor and friend.
"Hey Coulson. Tasha and I were just shooting some arrows. Wanna join?" Clint paused, and dropped his cheerful vibe. "Phil, what's wrong?"
Coulson, red eyed and stuffy nosed, shook his head, and motioned for Clint to sit down. Clint shot a worried look at Natasha, before he took his seat.
"How are you, Clint?" asked Coulson, sitting down beside him.
Clint was still wearing a puzzled look, but decided to back off.
"I'm great. Couldn't be better actually."
Coulson couldn't bring himself to look at Clint, so he let his eyes wander around the filthy room. He immediately saw the hole in the wall.
"Clint, what's that?" he asked, pointing to the space beside the target.
Clint grinned sheepishly. "Oh, that, um, haha, Natasha was distracting me, and I might have accidentally shot the wall..."
"I was not distracting you! You just can't shoot."
"Can too!"
"Clint, could you do me a favor and ignore Natasha for right now? I'll deal with her later," implored Coulson, trying to keep himself calm.
"So polite, Phil," growled Natasha.
Clint snorted, while Coulson just stared.
Suddenly Clint remembered something.
"Phil, this morning, one of those rookie caretakers came in, at least I think he was a rookie because I had never seen him before, and asked me who I was talking to. I swear they're getting dumber and dumber because Tasha was sitting right in front of him. She was right there."
Coulson sighed, and looked at Clint with heavy eyes. Clint looked sad, scared, and broken.
Before the accident, and before their whole world came crashing down, Coulson remembered a Clint Barton who would never let his feelings show, and would never open up to anyone. Except for Natasha.
The weight of the world dropped onto Coulson's shoulders, as he realized why Clint was imagining Natasha, and why he couldn't believe she was gone. She had been the only person he had ever trusted, and ever would trust, and he had killed her.
Coulson fought back his tears, and cleared his throat. He had to say something that would help Clint understand what was about to happen.
"Clint, I-"
Someone knocked loudly, and Coulson swore under his breath.
Time was up.
Two guards strode into the room, and grabbed Clint by the arms. He struggled mildly, and made an attempt to grab his bow, but Coulson moved it out of reach.
"Clint, listen to me. Don't fight them, okay? Listen to me. Guys, can you hang on a minute?" Coulson asked the guards.
They paused, but Clint was in distress, betrayal burning in his eyes.
"Clint I need you to listen to me. You're going to be okay. I promise. You'll see the real Natasha soon Clint. Just know that this is what you asked me to do when you told me your will. Yeah, we never wrote it down, but I remembered. You never wanted to leave Natasha, and I should have done this sooner, I know I should have, but I'm a selfish person, Clint. I'm so sorry Clint. I am so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen, and remember, it wasn't your fault. No matter what she tells you, it wasn't your fault, okay? Because she will tell you differently, just to see if she can get away with it. Give her a hug for me."
The guards started pulling a hysterical Clint from the room, while Coulson watched on, tears streaming from his blank eyes. It was a long time before he moved again.
"Phil! Don't let them take me! Phil! Natasha! Please! What's going on! Help, please! Phil!"
Clint broke down into tears, half crying, half screaming. He tried to fight the guards, but after months of being shut up in his room, he had grown weak.
The guards strapped Clint down on to a stretcher, and began wheeling him down the hall. Clint kept struggling, straining his muscles to the point where he began to sweat. He realized his best way of survival would be to get someone else's attention.
He opened his mouth, and began screaming bloody murder, until one of the guards shoved a rag into his mouth.
They kept rolling him to who knows where, and Clint began to feel a cold chill. He also noticed that everything had turned sterile white, blinding his eyes that were used to the musty darkness of his room.
Suddenly images seared across Clint's mind, images of a beautiful red head, a hot summer, a building in Budapest, and a giant explosion that seemed all too familiar. He couldn't think of where the explosion had come from, but all he knew was that he suddenly felt so guilty, that he leaned his head over, and threw up.
The guards guiding him along stopped, pulled the rag from his mouth, and cleaned him up before moving him along again.
Clint knew now that he was in the infirmary due to the strong antiseptic smell burning through his nose, and he wondered what they were going to do to him. Coulson's words rang in his head.
"You're going to see the real Natasha now."
So the one back in his room was fake? Why hadn't anyone told him? And did that mean that the real Natasha was somewhere in the infirmary too?
The guards pulled the stretcher into a blinding white room, then turned to leave as a team of nurses took to the machines behind him. Before they left, though, one of the guards, Agent Rockwell it read on his name tag, grabbed Clint's hand and nodded before turning to leave.
Clint was puzzled by this, but he didn't have much time to think. The nurses were hooking him up to a whole bunch of machines, and a steady beeping noise filled Clint's ears while an oxygen mask was slid over his face.
After a few minutes, Clint noticed a crowd gathering in the hall, but only two people came into his room. Fury and Coulson stood side by side at the foot of his bed, watching, and trying their best not to cry.
Clint was so confused, he didn't understand any of it, until something else Coulson had said came back to him.
"Just know that this is what you asked me to do when you told me your will."
Years ago, the issue came up that Natasha and Clint didn't have wills, so Coulson had asked them about it. Neither Clint nor Natasha owned anything valuable, so their things would just go into storage, but Clint had mentioned that if he ever went brain dead, mentally insane, or was living without Natasha, that he wanted his life to end.
That whole conversation came back to Clint, and understanding rushed over him. He had been living for months without his Tasha, pretending, but he was going to see her now. He was going to be alright.
Clint knew it must be time, because nurses were having to help Fury lead Coulson from the room, for he was crying hysterically. Clint couldn't hear him though, because there was a rushing noise in his ears, almost like the ocean.
He saw a nurse out of the corner of his eye insert something into a tube, and felt the icy chill of the poison course through his veins. It felt good.
Dying wasn't so bad, Clint thought. There was a soft, easy silence, and slowly everything turned dark. It was peaceful, and Clint was happy.
One thing he didn't understand though, was that Natasha was no where to be found. Confusion swept over him again, but it was too late.
Everything just faded to darkness, until there was nothing.
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Epilogue
It was a few days after Clint's death. Fury sat at his desk, writing up the report. He knew Coulson could never do it, so even though he himself really didn't want to write it up, he knew it would be worse if anyone else did it.
A knock on his door brought him back to consciousness, and he glanced at the clock. It was almost two in the morning.
Fury stood up, and flicked on a lamp, then strode to the door. He stretched, then pulled it open.
No one was there.
Puzzled, he closed the door, then locked it, and turned around. He stopped, mid-step.
A figure stood by the open window, their face hidden by shadows cast by the walls.
Fury reached for the gun at his waist, but the intruder was already pointing one at him.
"What do you want," Fury growled, his eyes narrowing.
"My partner."
Fury recognized the voice, but couldn't place it. It was a woman's voice, but a voice filled with a lot of anger.
"What do you mean?"
The woman threw a file that landed at Fury's feet. He stooped to pick it up, and saw the bright red letters stamped across it.
It read T.A.H.I.T.I.
"What is this?" Fury demanded.
The woman lowered her gun, then stepped out of the shadows.
"It's something I need you to do for me," Natasha growled, an evil smirk playing on her mouth.
Fury took a step back.
"I thought you were dead."
"I was. But now I'm not. And I want my partner back."
What did you think? I don't know if I'm going to continue this or not. Sometimes it's fun to let your mind come up with its own conclusion. If a lot of people want me to write more, I shall, but if not, then I hope you enjoyed it!