Clint Barton stood on the roof, overlooking the Avengers property. Acres in either direction it stretched to the distant high-security fence, with fields wide enough to land even the largest spacecraft and trees to provide cover in case of ground attack. Since the snap it had become overgrown and wild, the grass tangled up nearly knee-high in some spots, but with less foot traffic and fewer insects for 5 years everything was lush and green and healthy.
It was a beautiful view.
He always loved being up high. The way the wind rushed past, trusting your feet to keep you steady. A clear shot in every direction, no surprises. It was like electricity, grounding him in the moment and lightening his heart, making it that much easier to take the next shot, leave for the next mission. It was a simple pleasure, one of the few he kept from when he was young, before he ever joined the carnival, joined SHIELD, joined the Avengers. Even after months of hunkering down undercover in some shithole of a town with forced radio silence, he could always find his way up a fire escape and still feel that small thrill, that spark.
But this time as he stood on the roof, toes gripping the edge, looking out to the horizon, he couldn't feel anything besides the never-ending, all-encompassing, indescribable ache of grief.
Nat.
Just thinking her name caused a hitch in his breath and his vision to blur.
20 years. They had been partners for 20 years. From fresh-faced young assassins with matching chips on their shoulders, to hardened professionals with hundreds of kills under their belts, to superheroes and back again.
Where there was distrust there became trust. Trust became partnership. And over the years and years of mission after mission, partnership grew deeper, transforming into a friendship so strong it seemed to be woven into them, binding them in ways too complex to be unraveled, too iron to be severed. He knew every interrogation tactic, every strategy before she said it. He saw the combat move before she made it, and she knew his. He knew how she packed her gear, and her style of driving, and the exact number of seconds it took her to reload in the heat of battle. They were perfectly in sync, two souls working perfectly in tandem.
And there was more than that, too. Before Laura, before Bruce. He knew every line of her face, the quirk of her eyebrow when she was teasing. He knew how she liked her coffee, and how she hated fish and tomatoes but would eat them anyway. He knew about the night terrors, rarer as they got older but still there. He knew every scar on her body like they were his own, knew the stories of each one, whispered in the darkness like curses or prayers. He knew how her skin tasted under his tongue, and the Russian profanities she used to gasp into his ear and the loneliness of cold nights spent far from home with no one but each other.
But they only ever needed each other. Whether it was Budapest or Sao Paolo or Sokovia, it didn't matter. It was always Barton and Romanov. Hawkeye and Black Widow. Clint and Natasha.
Now it was just him. Alone.
His earpiece crackled to life, startling him. It was Steve Rogers' voice, solemn but not unkind.
"Barton, Tony and Rocket are almost done calibrating the gauntlet for the stones. I think you should make your way back down here."
Clint straightened, pulling himself back into the present. Focusing on the current mission was the priority, and he forced himself to put up the mental walls of his years of training. You don't matter, only the mission at hand. Get that done, no matter the cost. The gaping rawness inside him reduced to a pounding throb.
He tapped his earpiece.
"Copy that. On my way."
He allowed himself another second to enjoy the view, then turned and walked through the roof access door and down the stairs. Alone.