Crept into my head in the wee hours of the night. Based off a prompt from 'Prompts Assemble'.

Barton never noticed how cold it could get in the training room at night. Then again, he'd never been down there in nothing but his boxer shorts before, shooting at two o'clock in the morning. The lights were set to their dimmest setting, but even so they managed to reflect off of the sheen of sweat that glistened on his fevered skin. He felt hot all over – heat that radiated from his core outward, until it met with the frigid air surrounding him and dissipated into a haze of steam that left him feeling too hot and too cold all at the same time.

Clint took a deep breath in and hoisted his bow back up level with his shoulder. He stretched his left arm out, tilting his elbow out to the side. The bowstring pulled on the skin of his fingers, digging harshly into the calluses that existed on the first joints of his index and middle fingers, where he always held his bowstring. The pain was somewhat worse when he didn't have his hand guard on. He ignored the tugging sensation, drawing the string back until his fingers touched his cheekbone, caressing the sharp features of his face under rough skin. Clint sighted along the arrow at his target, the silhouette of a man about a hundred yards away, and his fingers twitched with anticipation. He released, holding his bow in a steady straight line. The arrow flew in a narrow arch towards its target...

And missed.

Barton cursed, dropping his fisted bow back down to his side. His free hand automatically reached over his should to grab an arrow out of his quiver, before he remembered that it wasn't even strapped to his back. In his haste to leave his room, he hadn't even bothered to pick it up, only taking his bow and the single arrow that he had already notched and had held at ready next to his bed in his sleep. There were other quivers, of course, but they were across the room, and Clint had no desire to go searching for them in the dark.

He dropped the hand searching for an arrow that wasn't there, and sank down to his knees. His bow clattered to the floor at his side, and Barton fell forwards, catching his weight on the heels of his hands. His teeth clenched together in a soundless scream, one of exhaustion and frustration, and his eyes squeezed as tight shut as they could possibly go. Even so, behind his closed lids, images flashed across the black like a home movie being shown on a projector screen.

The air around him was hot with gunfire, and the smoke that issued from the spent barrels of the targeted shotguns hung about in the air. He himself was perched out of the way of the firefight; on the fifth story of an office building located across the street from the National bank. He scanned the scene below him with a keen, practiced eye, taking in the SWAT cars that littered the road; some overturned, others smoking from beneath their hoods, and the miniscule forms of the black-clad police officers as they scrambled away from the scene, or else back into position at their squad leader's orders.

Inside the National bank, at least 30 men stood, armed to the teeth with assault rifles and shotguns and grenades. Their faces were obscured by ski masks; only their eyes showed through small slits in the dark fabric. Crouched on the floor at their feet, 50 hostages, ranging in age from about 8 to older than 70, covered their heads with their hands and struggled to maintain brave faces. They didn't need to try; Clint could see right through their facades. It didn't take a practiced eye to see that they were scared shitless.

"Hawkeye." His earpiece hissed, popping with static once or twice before the sound came in more clearly. It was Stark, and he did not sound too happy. "The fuck is going on here? I mean, seriously, I leave for three days, on a business trip, and as soon as I make it in my front door, JARVIS tells me that Fury called an assemble while I was gone? You guys couldn't hold the world together for three days without me?"

"Sorry to disappoint you," Barton murmured quietly, his voice travelling in vibrations up his jawbone to reach his earpiece. "You've been updated on the situation, then?"

"Yeah, Widow filled me in on my way over. Cap's still touring the US of A, huh? And Hammer-time is back on Ass-gard, and Bruce-y won't let the Hulk out to play, which means it's just the three of us. Saving the world, like we always do. Just a trio of heroes."

"Stark, are you drunk again?" Barton questioned, spitting the words out in exasperation. He rolled his eyes as he heard a sigh from the Tony.

"No, Bird Brain. I'm buzzed, if anything. It was just a nightcap."

"It's three o'clock in the afternoon!"

"It's ten in Japan, Legolas. Cut me a break, here, I'm still jet lagged."

"Will you two shut up?" That was Natasha, her voice coming in sharply through the earpiece. "We've got injured civilians, a couple dead cops and 50 hostages still being held at gunpoint in that bank. Feel free to catch up later, but while we're on a mission, can we please maintain radio silence unless you have something to say that is of complete relevance to whatever is happening?"

"Roger that."

"On second thought, Stark, just don't speak at all." Clint could picture the furious glower and eye roll that Tasha must have been giving Tony at that moment. "Hawkeye, what have you got for me?"

"50 hostages, like you said. 30 armed thugs; about 25 inside, the rest pacing the perimeter. Armed to the teeth, Kevlar vests on every one of them. One clear leader, red symbol on his jacket. Too organized to be gang violence, so I'm guessing that they're mercenary. So far, they haven't made any demands or damaged any of the hostages. No casualties inside the bank itself, but like you said, 3 civilians were carted out after the initial firefight, and two cops after that."

"The leader?"

"Pacing in front of the windows. If you can eliminate his bodyguards out front, I should be able to take him out with a clear shot. That might throw them into enough confusion that we can exterminate the rest."

"Or we run the risk of aggravating them so they start attacking the hostages," Tony input. There was a long pause, where the static between the three of them stretched out in static disbelief. "What? I watch Flashpoint, I get how the whole hostage situation thing works!"

"Maybe, but we can't just sit and wait for them to get bored and start killing hostages," Natasha mused. "Alright, Hawkeye. Iron Man and I will eliminate the guards. Fix your sights on the leader, and I'll give you the signal as were in the clear. Stark, I know that it isn't your forte, but please, try to be discreet."

"Hey! I'll have you know that I am very stealthy! As a matter of fact, stealthy is my middle name!"

"I thought it was Edward."

"That too."

Barton tuned them out, turning his gaze back towards the shattered windows of the bank. He could glimpse the presumed leader through the bricks and beams that remained of the formerly glassed-in wall. The red spot on his coat stood out like a spot of blood against the stark blackness. Clint raised his bow up, turning his elbow out to avoid the snap of his bow string. He reached over his shoulder in a familiar motion, grasping at an arrow and pulling it up carefully, smoothing the feathers as he went. The arrows slid onto his bowstring, notching into place just above the knot in the string, He pulled back to his cheek, feeling his fingernails graze his skin.

At the end of his arrow point, the spot of red gleamed. The leader was bent over now, talking to one of the hostages – a pretty young woman with long, pale blonde hair. They were fairly close, but Clint was confident in his aim. He would not miss. He kept his arms steady, trained on the leader, waiting for Natasha's signal. "In position, Widow. Whenever you're ready." Clint waited for a response. Silence. "Widow?" Still nothing. Perhaps she was close to one of the men now, and wouldn't speak... Or perhaps she couldn't. "Tasha?" Clint had learned long ago that using her real name of the com was a big no-no with Natasha, but her silence had unnerved him. "Tasha, you there?"

"Urk."

To Clint, that was the subtle sound of someone suddenly having the breath choked out of them. But in this scenario, who was it. "Tasha!?" There was a long pause, then Clint heard a quiet scream, one that was definitely female. "Tasha!" He tore his gaze away from the mercenary leader, though he kept his bow trained on his position. His eyes instead swept the alley ways surrounding the National bank, looking for his partner. A flash of red hair – there she was.

Her feet dangled in the empty air, and her hands scrambled desperately at her throat, clawing and grasping at the meaty fist of one of the muscle bound thugs. His face was twisted into a cruel smirk, even as he held her up by her throat, and Clint could almost see the wicked thoughts forming in the man's head as he raked his eyes over Natasha's slim but curvaceous body. "Tasha!" This time Clint yelled. He leaned forward... and his hand slipped. The arrow flew free, soaring in a sharp downward arch towards its target, the spot of red on the mercenary leader's jacket...

And missing.

The pretty young women with the blonde hair collapsed in on herself, falling forwards, the ends of her long hair staining red at the tips from her own blood as it seeped out of the puncture in her throat. Inside the bank, several people screamed, bloodcurdling cries of pain and shock, and Clint found himself screaming with them. He reached desperately for another arrow, but his vision had clouded over, and he doubted he would be able to take another shot. The world had turned red, seeping into his vision like the red had seeped from that woman's neck...

The mission was ended fairly quickly after that. Natasha had escaped the hold of the beefy mercenary man, and had proceeded to take out the rest of the guard and half of the men inside the bank besides. Any one that she missed, Stark was quick to take out with a well placed blast from his repulsors. Meanwhile. Clint just sat there, horrified, watching the blood pool onto the ground around the dead woman, around the woman that he had killed. He had only been vaguely aware of Tasha wrapping her arms around his body and hoisting him to his feet, he had barely been conscious as she had loaded him onto the Quinjet as they headed back towards SHEILD headquarters. He had ignored the stares and grunts of sympathy that had followed him as he fled at walking speed past the debrief room, ignoring Fury's summons and heading towards his bedroom.

Inside his room, he locked the door, snapping closed the three different deadbolts that he had installed himself to keep out unwanted visitors. The lock itself was keyed to open only at the touch of certain registered members of SHIELD, and then only if they had a pass card, but Clint still did not trust anyone enough to leave his security at that level. He did not trust anybody but Natasha. He did not even trust himself. He had stripped off his clothes and crawled into his bed, tugging the sheets up to his face, and closing his eyes. People came to his door, and demanded entrance, but Clint ignored them, and their offers for help. He just kept his eyes closed. He told himself that he wasn't really hiding – that it wasn't hiding when you closed your eyes and pretended that everyone else wasn't there.

Eventually, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep – until his nightmares woke him. Nightmares stained red with blood, blonde hair soaked in red and pretty faces turning ashen and cold, withering away into hollow skulls that crumbled into dust. He woke up, panting and sweating sweltering with fevered heat – and he decided to escape to the training room. That was at quarter to two in the morning, and he had not left since. He didn't intend on leaving, he would lock himself away in this room as long as he had to.

Clint rested his weight back from his hands, settling onto the heels of his feet. His bare feet rested against his ass, cold through the thin fabric of his boxer shorts. He breathed in slowly, inhaling as much as he could and exhaling until all that air was spent – once, twice, three times. "How long have you been standing there?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Long enough." Natasha stepped forward out of the shadowy nook by the doors to the training room. Her red hair, curly with sleep, was rumpled and unruly – a dishevelled side to her that very few people in the world ever got to see, Clint being included. She wore a pearly gray tank top and matching sweatpants, her own pajamas on this slightly chilly night. Clint kept his body turned away from her, his back still rigid as he faced the target in front of his and the arrow that stuck out from the wall about a foot too far to the left and too far down. He heard the soft sounds of her feet as she paced forwards, lightly stepping onto the tile directly behind him, and settling down to the ground, crossing her legs. One slim arm reached around his body, clutching to his bare chest and pulling him back so that he had leaning into her warm body. Clint did not object; quite contrary, he leaned back into her body, blinking slowly.

"I missed." He stated. Whether he was talking about the silhouette of the man in front of his, or the silhouetted phantom of the man he had intended to shoot earlier, the meaning was the same. He had missed. He, who prided himself on being the man with infallible aim, had missed twice, and someone had lost their life because of it. Natasha hummed sympathetically, the sound of it reverberating around Clint's head against her chest.

"We both made mistakes today. I underestimated our opponents, and I caused you to worry." Natasha shifted her hand against his chest, lowering it so that she could stroke his arm soothingly, curled as it was against his abdomen. "We aren't perfect, Clint. We're both human; we're going to screw up."

"You're mistake didn't cost someone their life." Clint said it frankly, but he flinched slightly. Blonde hair, dripping red... "She was innocent, Tasha. She was young, and she was probably going to do something great with her life. I took that from her. I stole away her future." Clint felt his eyes burning hotly, and he raised a hand to wipe away the impending tears. He was surprised when Natasha grabbed his hand and stopped him.

"Don't. You need to remember this feeling. You need to know this pain that comes from making a mistake. Next time, you won't make the same one." Natasha rubbed his hand soothingly within her own, drawing it back towards her face so that she could press her cool lips against it. "I would have been fine, Clint. I am fine." She punctuated each sentence with another touch of her lips. "We're both fine."

"I haven't killed an innocent since..." Since the first battle of the Avengers, when Loki had commandeered his brain. How many innocent people had he killed then? SHIELD agents? Civilians? The team of crack SHIELD psychologists had eventually cleared him for active duty, confirming that his actions while under Loki's influence had not been his fault, and that he could not be held responsible for the deaths that had occurred , but Clint still felt guilty. He felt guilty as hell, a feeling that only grew each time he passed an agent in the halls who shot him a resentful glare from beneath furrowed brows. Only Natasha knew how he still felt about that, almost a year later. Only she knew that he still sometimes woke up in a cold sweat, dreaming of Loki's icy tongue and webbed lies.

"You're a good man, Clint. One of the few." Natasha returned his hand to him, and Clint slid it into her hand resting on his arm. She clutched at his fingers almost as tightly as he clung to hers. "You've done things in the past, thing you regret. So have I. I've learned that there's no hiding from it. You can't just close your eyes and pretend that the world isn't still there every time you feel broken."

Clint closed his eyes, tilting his head back so he was resting it across her breasts. They rose and fell with her steady breathing, and Clint fluttered his lids open again to stare up at his only true companion. Her eyes looked straight ahead, shadowed and dark, deep green with no hint of the flecks of gold that played around their edges in the daylight. Her perfect lips were set into a hard line, one that Clint found himself staring at as he asked: "Well, what can I do, then?"

Natasha glanced down at him for the briefest instance, her eyes flicking to meet his deep grey gaze before quickly shifting upwards to stare down the offending arrow stuck deep into the padded wall of the training room. "You keep your eyes open, and looking ahead. You stop worrying about the past, or questioning the future. You just live."

"Live, huh?" Clint turned his head downwards again, so that he sighted along the same arrow that had captured Tasha's attention. Its pale white tip, painted as to make it easier to find while in battle, stared accusingly back at him. "Sounds a bit too simple to be true. How's living working out for you?" Clint asked knowingly. "You done hiding from all the world but me, Tash?"

This time, Natasha met his gaze full on, and her lips quirked into what could almost be identified as a smile. "I'm trying." He didn't answer, and she didn't say anything more than that. The two of them sat like that, leaning into each other in perfect silence, for hours until they drifted off to sleep against each other. The first lights of dawn crept in through the training room windows, tingeing the white tipped arrow a bloody red.

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