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.
