Here we are. Once again.
This time with Argentina.
Sorry it took forever.
Starting off with a dark chapter for once.
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Draw. Aim. Release.
Draw. Aim. Release.
Draw. Aim. Release.
The words came as a steady drone in the background of Clint Barton's thoughts despite his attempt at distracting himself.
Draw. Aim. You failed. Release.
The unwelcome reminder cut into his mantra and he growled, hurling his bow at the wall to his right. He'd thrown it with enough force to shatter the weapon. Clint didn't even pause long enough to feel even the slightest bit remorseful for destroying the third bow SHIELD tech had manufactured for him this week. He spun on his heel, bracing his arms against the wall as he tried to catch his breath. His body rocked against the wall, keeping time with his shaky breathing. Red flooded his vision and he pushed away from the wall, threading his fingers through his hair as he stalked towards the still moving targets. His arrows protruded from dead center, setting him off for reasons that the man's observing friend would never know.
Phil watched cringing as Clint lashed out at each and every target, kicking them with the full force of his body weight behind the strikes. The targets splintered off their stands without so much as a second of resistance.
The younger man stumbled back against the wall, sinking to the cement floor of the shooting range and tilting his head back. His eyes eased open and his head rolled forward, Phil's cue to show himself. Clint followed the handler with wary eyes only looking away when Coulson crouched in front of him.
"How's she?" Clint muttered, staring over Phil's shoulder at the grey walls that surrounded them. Coulson rocked back on his heels, sliding up beside his agent.
"I've had to call off three security squads, Clint. She's tearing the training room to pieces." The older friend answered, allowing Hawkeye his evasion tactic. Clint nodded and Phil let them fall into silence; the briefing could wait.
"Those kids…" he finally started, quietly enough that Phil had to resist the urge to lean closer. "They were my responsibility." Clint continued detachedly. "They're dead, Phil. Every last one of them." He growled angrily, slamming his head back against the wall with an echoing crack.
"You and Romanoff couldn't have known Fujiku would get involved. You two didn't stand a chance against his guards, especially while trying to protect thirteen kids, Barton. Those odds weren't possible." Coulson argued. Clint just shook his head.
"Doesn't matter. Romanoff and I are alive. They aren't." his voice was packed with more self-deprecation than should've been possible for a twenty-three year old. It was clear in his tone that he believed he should've and would've died in place of those children and that somehow he failed by living.
"Barton." Phil snapped, pushing his back against the wall to propel himself into his spot in front of Clint. The younger man's glazed eyes stared straight at his friend. "Clint. I know it hurts losing those kids. I was there, remember?" he prompted, pulling Clint's head forward with a firm grip around the back of his neck. "But you cannot tear yourself up about this. It was not your fault." Phil repeated, fighting with every word to keep the desperate pleading out of his tone. Barton would undoubtedly pick up on it and additional guilt would only make the situation that much worse. "Do you understand?" he demanded gently. Clint stared blankly. "Clint." He prodded.
"Yeah, Phil." He muttered hoarsely. Phil nodded, blowing out a shaky breath. He stood with his hand locked around Clint's forearm, hauling him to his feet in the same movement.
"Training room 4-36." Phil told him knowingly as he punched his access code into the pad beside the door, causing it to slide open. "Brief in Con-13 when you're done with her." Phil called over his shoulder as the elevator doors slid shut, two halves of the SHIELD emblem meeting to form a whole.
Clint stood, listening to the faint humming of the elevator as it dropped through the base, until he heard it screech to a stop in the shaft. He threaded his fingers together behind his head, stalking off down the hallway in the direction of 4-36. He ignored the retinal scanner, knowing Natasha had most likely shot the access pad during her breakdown. He threw his body weight against the door and it opened with a groan. He froze in the doorway, wondering if it had been this terrifying for Phil.
The training room lie in absolute ruins. Sand bled from slits in punching bags that littered the ground. Water leaked from bullet holes in the bases of destroyed practice dummies. Plaster crumbled from holes in the walls. His partner's anguished grunts echoed in the room as she wildly beat the last intact punching bag. He listened to the unfamiliar sound of Natasha's fists thudding unevenly against the leather. It was unnervingly different from her usual rhythmic pattern. Her already haphazard punches stuttered and she stumbled uncharacteristically, pulling her arm against her body with a repressed wince.
Clint counted to twenty before she moved again. For twenty seconds the Russian firecracker didn't move a muscle. Until something set her off, much like the arrows had pushed Clint over the edge. She reached up and closed her hand over the edge of the punching bag, using the leverage to pull her knee into the base. He had every intention of letting her go at it. Then she started throwing her indisputably injured hand at the wall behind her, biting down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
Her partner hissed a curse in Hungarian, rushing at her before she could shatter her hand. He barreled into her, knocking her to the ground and pinning the Black Widow under his body weight. She didn't thrash, or fight back, or try to push him off; only stared up at him with forced calm.
"A bit presumptuous, aren't we Barton?" she said dryly. Ignoring her, his hand shot out to catch her hand, ignoring the wince the action brought on from Natasha. He cradled her bloodied, black and blue hand in front of him, inspecting it with eyes that had seen a considerable total of injuries.
"Is it broken?" he asked bluntly. Her head twitched to the side once, 'No'. His posture relaxed with the reassurance as he rolled off of her, helping her into a sitting position.
"That should've been us." She hissed venomously. "Мы заслуживаем того, чтобы умереть. Они этого не сделали." Clint winced.
'We deserved to die. They didn't."
"I know that, Tasha." He sighed, closing his hand over her knee.
"Call me Tasha again and I will throw you head first out your bedroom window while you're asleep." She warned seriously, jerking her leg out of his reach.
"Then it's a good thing birds can fly, isn't it Nat?" he winked, jumping to his feet and bolting out the door before she could reach her gun. "Briefing in Con-13. Now." He reminded, poking his head around the corner.
The archer smirked as bullets harmlessly tore through the wall where his head had been seconds before.
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