Author's note: I wrote this little thing before The Winter Soldier was even announced, so this is operating on pre-Cap2 canon.
He's not crying. Of course he's not. That'd be illogical, weak, absurd, a waste of valuable and extremely limited time and energy.
Fingers curling around the delicate, glimmering metal object as tightly as he dares, he takes a tentative step forward and into the sheet of rain pouring from the sky. His jacket, already damp, is soaked through in seconds and his face and hands tingle as huge raindrops beat relentlessly against all exposed skin. Rain runs through his short-cropped hair and down his scalp and face, pooling in the neck of his kevlar suit and quickly filling the small spaces of his quiver—empty, save for one arrow. The faint metallic pings as his collapsible bow enters the onslaught of the storm are unnoticeable to him even with the amplifier pressed into one ear.
He takes another step forward, blinking furiously in a vain attempt to clear the water from his eyes. It doesn't matter now what's rain and the raw physical manifestation of his misery, it all blends together in the bone-chilling cold seeping into every fiber of his aching body.
He takes another step, then a third, each one requiring more energy than the last to muster up the motivation to just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
It's impossible to tell with the perpetually gray skyline, but his internal clock is saying thirty two hours, give or take one. So, he's held it together for thirty-two hours of work through mindless reflex, his internal autopilot repeating a steady mantra of finish the job, finish the job.
His legs are numb, unsure in each step; there's been so much running, running, running, and despite his exhaustion, his mind and body want to keep running, keep moving, because the minute he stops he's going to have to deal with things and he doesn't want to, if he can just keep moving it's not over, the mission hasn't ended, one foot, other foot, walk farther, run faster, keep going…
The toe of his boot hovers just past the pitted concrete ledge and he stops, eyes refocusing, first on the scuffed toe of his combat boot, then the empty sidewalk twenty two stories below and the canal just beside it.
He blinks a few more times and clenches his fists. He sharp bite of metal in his left palm drags rather than jolts him back to the here and now as he claws at the blessed trancelike numbness he's wrapped around himself, fighting to hold on to that blank canvas of thought and the buzzing white noise filling his ears.
Uncurling his fingers, he lifts his hand and stares at the shining silver arrow, its broken silver chain curled around itself in his palm. The ever-growing pool of rain in his hand takes on a reddish tint as the tiny cut in his hand seeps a droplet or two of blood into the stream of water falling through his unsteady fingers.
Didn't even let me see her afterward.
Eight years of her working for them, and they determine her as DOA and extract her from RV point beta with what might as well be a fucking meathook because it's expedient, and then incinerate her body ninety minutes later. No "thank you," no visitation, no grave much less a gravestone, no files left on any known SHIELD servers, all existing images that they can reach are wiped from existence, no inter-office moment of silence is held. And why would they? Hero, killer, lover, liar: the sum of her parts don't matter. Secret assassin, spy—those take precedence, and spies don't get the luxury of a memorial. She was always destined to be as discreet in death as she was in life.
He knows that, of course. It's protocol and he's not arguing with the idea or the practice; he knows he'll get the same treatment when he ultimately bites the likely-literal bullet. But knowing something and being okay with it happening to someone close? It doesn't fall remotely within the same realm of Things Made Bearable with Time and Alcohol.
His other boot scrapes along the concrete, dragging through a puddle and sending a wave of water splashing over the edge of the roof. He stands, feet side by side, toes just over the ledge, and looks up, closing his eyes and letting the rain wash away the dried blood—not all his own—that is splattered across his cheek; allowing the steady pat pat pat of water to clear out the numbness that clouds his mind and hinders his movements.
He could hold onto this, keep it for himself. Hell, he'd been holding onto it since the first week he'd seen her.
Tucking his dripping bow under his arm, he reaches over his head with his right hand and retrieves the last arrow. Trembling but reverent fingers try to tie the thin silver chain around the arrow's carbon shaft, then give up and settle for tangling it into a messy knot.
Shit. She was always better with jewelry.
"I see better from a distance."
And he had. He'd had that proverbial bird's eye view as she crumpled, her valiant clenched fists giving way to shaking hands that tried to hold in what was left of her shredded abdomen. He'd watched, utterly helpless as she was consumed with convulsions and choked on arterial blood and half-words as she bled out on the asphalt.
He'd run to her but he'd known the second she murmured his name that it was over. He'd gotten to her just in time to snatch the necklace from her throat as her corpse was airlifted out, leaving him to clean up a potential international catastrophe.
Thunder rolls, shaking the roof beneath his feet as he nocks the arrow, lifts the bow, and allows himself a final look at the chain. The simple charm dangles free, glinting in the low light as it's battered back and forth by the rain. Bringing the bowstring back, he aims as far down the canal as he can see, preparing to let the arrow fly into the gray horizon and blinking back what he keeps telling himself is just rain.
"I'll keep a little less distance next time, Tasha."