Next short oneshot of the series-this one is a little bit darker than the last. Many thanks to those who have favorited and reviewed this collection so far!

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Countdown (Post-Shadow Directive)

I lean on the edge of the roof, staring down at the constant stream of cars and people below. The beer Deke handed me is still cold, and I can feel drips of condensation running down my cheeks from where I've got it pressed against my aching forehead.

I don't normally drink, but tonight feels like the time for it. It's been three hours, ten minutes, and twelve seconds since Coulson cleared us from debriefs. It's been seven hours, forty-five minutes, and twenty seconds since we landed in New York. It's been thirteen hours, eight minutes, and fifty-six seconds since our Quinjet left Mexico City. And it's been fifteen hours, eight minutes, and twenty-nine seconds since we let thirty-eight children die.

Coulson kept reminding us it wasn't our fault. A series of unexpected complications put us in the wrong place, at the wrong time, to prevent the catastrophe this mission had become.

We'd gone in to stop a mercenary bomber from assassinating an official who was cracking down on the drug trade. All our intel pointed to a drug ring who'd hired Francis DeLaurier, our bomber, wanting to send a message by staging the bombing in the middle of Senator Marquez's public address on the drug problem.

No one had anticipated how much of a loose cannon the ring's second-in-command was. Apparently, he decided that killing Marquez publicly would simple make him a martyr, and had his own ideas on what would be most effective. So, within the twenty-four hours before the address, he killed his own brother, who had been head of the cartel, assumed command, and ordered DeLaurier to instead target the bus taking Marquez's son and the rest of his class on a field trip.

Clint and I were searching buildings near the public forum, counting a ticking clock as Marquez's speech drew to a close, when our contact, Diego SanDoval, radioed us to say that the bus had been hit. Apparently the bombing was staged to appear that the engine overheated and caught fire, spreading instantly to the gas tank and killing everyone on the bus. Two teachers, the driver, and all thirty-eight children. In the tick of a second. The seconds I can't stop counting.

I've seen worse. I've literally watched people die in front of me. Hell, I've killed people. But somehow this is different. Even if I never saw it.

I pull out my phone and glance at the screen, where the playback of a video of the forum is frozen at one hour, twelve minutes, nineteen seconds. It's the moment when Senator Marquez was told by one of his aides what had happened. The moment you can see his face change from that of an enthusiastic orator who has just finished an influential speech to that of a grieving father trying desperately to process his loss.

I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's Clint, come up behind me.

"Does it ever get any easier?" I ask without turning, knowing he'll have his hearing aids in because he was talking to the others eating up here.

"Nope. Every time a call comes down to that, each time you lose someone, you wonder what you could have done differently, if you could have saved them all. And that's a good thing. You learn, and you're better the next time."

"But people still die."

"We all die, Hen. Some of us just get there a lot faster." Clint takes a drink of his own beer and looks out across the roofs. "Every day we go out there, every life we do save-and every life we end-we make some kind of difference; we have a hand in making destiny. That's the only way I can make sense of it."

I stand there with him, watching the city, so full of life that it's hard to believe death exists. But I know it does. It's out there lurking now, waiting to attack the innocent, the weak, the unseen, the outcasts. And the rich, and the powerful. No one is safe.

Not even us, no matter how much we'd like to pretend we have an advantage. But as we're all too familiar with-especially Clint, that moron; why does he think he can do stupid things and there won't be consequences? God, he's scared the hell out of me so many times getting hurt-we're no safer than anyone else. All the training in the world can't stop a bullet, can't counteract poison, can't halt a speeding car or stop a countdown of a bomb. And if you survive all that, you still have to deal with all the crap ordinary people do. Training can't cure cancer or reverse aging.

I guess in the end, Clint's pretty right. When my time comes, I'm going to meet it like I've faced every other challenge. And until that day comes, I'm going to do what I do best. Keep on changing fate, a little at a time.

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Sooo…that got a little dark, but I feel like Henley's going to hit that low point because you can't have a job like hers and not get depressed eventually. I wanted to show some of the serious side of what she and Clint do and how they can be each other's support systems. I really like the idea of them helping each other deal with all the awful things that happen. Although it's way out of order chronologically, I think my next oneshot will be the aftermath of Loki from the Avengers because I'm going to have this story work into that universe. We've seen Clint helping Henley process her issues, and now we'll find out how she can help him.