I had him.

I finally had Hawkeye trapped, choking in the crook of my elbow.

I pulled my gun out and pointed it at his head.

But he wasn't Hawkeye; not to me. He was Clint Barton, and he was my friend.

Not anymore.

I pressed the gun to his skull. He weakly struggled in my arms, choking and gasping for breath.

My eyes slipped shut as I pressed a kiss to the back of his head.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save you in time," I whispered.

"Natasha, you can't do this to me. I'm your friend!"

I placed my finger on the trigger. "No, you're not. Clint is."

"Wait, you can't—"

"Goodbye."

"Na—"

I pulled my finger back.

Blood splattered on my hands. Blood of my best friend.

I lowered his body to the ground, his limp head falling back on my lap. I had just a few moments to see his eyes return to their natural color before they glazed over.

He had still been in there.