A/N: I read my friend's Hawkeye comic book, so she figured that was enough motivation for me to work on the next chapter. Therefore, here's the next update! Thanks for the reviews; they're always helpful :)
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You remain kneeling beside Fury's immobile form, a hand placed palm-down over his bleeding chest. The warm blood cakes your hand, and you shudder, but find yourself unable to move. You're not entirely sure how much time passes, but it can't be long; on instinct, you know you must do what you can to try and save him, even if your mind is trying to tell you it's too late.
"Captain Rogers?"
You and Steve both jump, on high alert. You draw your gun and spin around, fighting back hot tears welling up in your eyes. Now is not the time to let your guard down, and you know Fury would reprimand you for letting your emotions take control at a time like this.
Steve's cute neighbor from before pokes her head in, pointing a gun in the room. You circle each other, sizing one another up, neither one lowering your firearm. "Captain, I'm Agent 13 of SHIELD's Special Service." She keeps her dark eyes on you as she speaks. "What are you doing here, Agent (L/n)?" she demands. "I saw you downstairs before, but I couldn't question you without making myself known."
"I could say the same of you," you reply, quirking a brow. You've never heard of this woman, but apparently, she knows you. "How do I know you're even a SHIELD agent?"
Agent 13 nods her head at Steve. "I'm assigned to protect him."
"On whose order?" Steve interjects.
The woman's eyes dart momentarily down to see Fury, suddenly aware of his presence and the blood on your hands. "His." Tucking away her gun, she rushes to his side.
You slowly set your own weapon aside, still wary. Though you don't want to admit it, part of you feels a little agitated that Fury assigned some other Agent to protect Steve. You've known him the longest, and the best; why would he put Captain America under this woman's watch? And not even have the decency to tell you? You ball your hands into fists, but shove the envy from you mind. You can dwell on this later, but right now, there are more pressing issues at hand.
"Foxtrot is down, he's unresponsive," Agent 13 says into her radio, frantic. "I need EMTs."
"Do you have a twenty on the shooter?" is the somewhat garbled reply.
Surprisingly, Steve is the one to answer. "Tell him I'm in pursuit." He rushes at the window, and you immediately follow, throwing out a hand to try and stop him (though you know it's no use). "Steve—!"
Steve smashes through the window, falling in a heap on the apartment building below. He springs up a moment later, then takes off, shield in hand as he chases down the assassin. You consider giving chase, but think better of it. You're not a serum-induced super soldier, and therefore won't be able to keep up or do half of the shit he does without seriously injuring yourself.
Instead, you watch him go before turning back to return to Fury's aid, heart hammering.
"You better be okay," you order, clutching Fury's cold hand in yours again. "If you die, I'll murder you."
You stand outside the glass of the operating room, hands clasped together at your middle. You stand together with Steve, silent and still. Though you want to question Steve more about the masked assassin from before, you feel that now isn't the best time to bring it up. Instead, you remain quiet and focus your attention on Fury's body, unable to send your mind elsewhere. You should be used to blood and death by now, but Directory Fury's the last person you'd imagine lying in that hospital bed. Everything seems so...surreal.
"Is he gonna make it?"
You startle and turn, having not realized that Natasha and Clint have joined you two. What a terrible time for them to show up, with you red-faced and stuffy from crying. Glancing away again, you admit, "I don't know."
Agent Romanoff turns her focus to Steve, her expression hard. "Tell me about the shooter."
Steve hesitates. "He's fast and strong. He had a metal arm."
Just then, Agent Hill materialized on your left side, hands linked behind her back. You've never seen her up close before, but you don't want to meet her eyes, for fear of her seeing how bloodshot they currently are. Under normal circumstances, you would begin to flip shit over having this many top-ranked agents surrounding you at one time, but right now, you only feel weak, vulnerable.
"Ballistics?" Natasha asks Agent Hill
"Three slugs. No rifling and completely untraceable."
"Soviet made?"
"Yeah."
"He's dropping!"
You jerk your head upright, suddenly alert as you hear the doctor's sudden shout. The medical personnel begin scattering like ants, hurrying about with surgical tools and equipment. You can only watch the scene play out before you, helpless, hearing the doctors and nurses calling to one another in alarm, their voices distant echoes in your head.
"Crash cart coming in."
"Nurse, help me with the gauzes, please. BP is dropping. Defibrillator!"
Fury begins to flat-line, and you bring your hands up to your mouth, covering it as you feel your own heart nearly stop.
"Charge to one hundred."
"Don't do this to me, Nick," Natasha whispers, voicing your exact thoughts.
"He'll pull through," Clint assures her, but he sounds as though he's speaking more to himself.
One of the doctors prepares a defibrillator, yelling, "Stand back! Three, two, one. Clear!"
Fury's body shakes as the machine shocks his chest, but there is no sign of life.
"Pulse?" the first doctor calls to the other.
"No pulse."
"Okay. Charge to two hundred, please. Stand back! Three, two, one. Clear!"
You avert your eyes, unable to see Fury's lifeless body writhing with the force of the shocks, feeling as though you might hurl.
"Give me epinephrine! Pulse?"
"Negative."
"Don't do this to me, Nick," Natasha repeats over and over again, like a broken record. "Don't do this to me."
The doctors continue to try and revive Fury to no avail. You feel sick to your stomach and your skin breaks out in a cold sweat.
To your absolute horror, the first doctor says, "What's the time?"
"One o' three, Doctor."
"Time of death, one o' three A.M."
In your peripheral vision, you see Steve take off down the hall, his head down. You consider following him, but you feel your consolation won't do any good here; he probably needs some alone time.
Come to think of it, so do you. Talking to Steve would be all well and good, but he hasn't known Nick the way you did, and you feel he won't be of much help with your despair.
You duck into the nearest room—a break room, it would seem—and sink to the ground at the farthest corner possible, cramming yourself in between the refrigerator and the wall. The initial numbness is seeping away, leaving you shaking and grief-stricken. What the hell had happened? Fury was your mentor, your friend...When you first started here, he took you "under his wing," so to speak. You'd felt special, in a sense, as many of your peers were taught by lesser-known Agents, people of lower rankings.
But Fury must have seen something in you, and he did his damnedest to kindle it. He was even like a father to you, if you were honest with yourself...You were so naive, thinking nothing could ever happen to Fury, that he was the one person who couldn't possibly ever be taken down. The very thought never once crossed your mind, not once you'd seen what he was capable of.
You dig your nails into your knees, angry with yourself, with the assassin, with the world...You begin to let the tears flow freely now, your face wrinkling up as you let a small sob escape you. You know that SHIELD and Fury have enemies, but you can't even begin to think of who would actually kill him, let alone be able to kill him—
"(Name)?"
You jerk your head upright, startled. Clint stands in the doorway, his muscular shoulder leaning against the framing. Hastily, you wipe your eyes on your sleeve, hoping there's no snot or anything like that on your face. Why is it every time you two meet, you look an absolute, disgusting mess? You hurriedly stand, hoping to regain your professional demeanor, but bang your head on the shelf above.
You fall right back down with your hands clutching your head, face and ears burning with embarrassment. God, it's a wonder Clint even still hangs out around you...
But Clint has only compassion in his pale, blue eyes as he kneels in front of you, placing a hand surprisingly gently on your shoulder. "You okay?"
"Y-yeah," you lie, on two different levels. You're heart is heavy with grief, and your head hurts like a motherfucker, but you refuse to let him know that.
Shocking you even more so, Clint lowers one hand to your waist and the other to your back, pulling you flush against him. He rests his chin in your hair, and you can hear your own heart beating erratically. "You can't lie to a trained professional," he points out.
You hesitantly set your own chin atop his right shoulder, but don't move your hands to hug him, for fear that this is either a dream, he's not real, or you might seem pathetic. It's nice to have his arms around you, though. He's strong, but his grip betrays this fact, his hands gently cradling you to him. He's warm, you note.
"How long did you know him?"
You shrug against his chest. "Oh, man, I-I...I don't even remember, it's been so long." The words spill from your lips without a barrier. "I mean, maybe it wasn't even that long, I don't know—but it sure seemed like an eternity. After he saved me from Hydra's experimentation, I...it's like he was a father to me. A distant one at times, maybe, but..." You shrug again, feeling like you're rambling. You've probably said too much.
Clint releases his grip on you, and you reluctantly part from his warmth. "Hydra?"
You wipe your eyes, nodding. "Yeah, it's that German organization fro—"
"Yeah, I know." Clint's piercing gaze makes you look away. "But you said he saved you from it?"
"W-well, not personally, no," you acknowledge. "Nick sent some SHIELD agents to help me. I owe him my life, really." This is not something you would typically share with anyone outside of Steve, but there's something about Clint that just seems familiar and comfortable, like you've known him your whole life. It sounds silly, honestly, but you feel so at ease with him here now.
Clint's fallen silent, and you feel the air begin to grow tight, awkward. You're trying to think of something to say when Clint suddenly stands abruptly, and offers you his hand.
"C'mere. I want to show you something."
You blink up at him through a few stray tears, taken aback by his sudden demand. But you take his hand nonetheless, and he helps you to your feet. As soon as you're standing, he leads the way down the hall, motioning for you to follow. You've no idea where you're going, but he seems adamant that you go together. Clint doesn't say a word the whole way down, until you reach one of the rooms on the bottom floor.
"I'd like you to meet someone, (Name)." He smiles toothily, then unlocks the door and lets you in first. What you see is the last thing you'd expect:
A dog.
The golden-colored canine hops to its feet, its tail wagging excitedly. It's missing one brown eye, which reminds you painfully of Fury. Before you can even speak, it comes running at Clint—a blur of fur and paws—and practically throws itself at him.
Chuckling, Clint greets, "Hey, bud," scratching him behind the ears. "This is Lucky, my friend. Lucky, this is (Name), my other friend."
Friend? Not co-worker? Huh. He did just essentially cradle you while you probably got snot and tears all over his clothes, but you hadn't even considered the fact that you were actually becoming more than casual acquaintances.
Lucky peers up at you with his one eye, his tongue lolling comically out the side of his mouth. He leaps at you, too, licking your face and leaving it covered in a trail of slobber. You giggle and rub him under the chin as he bounces about, already feeling immensely better. "Aw! What a cutie."
You appear to be in another break room, as Clint maneuvers around you to get to the fridge. He tugs it open and removes a poorly-wrapped object in aluminum foil, revealing a slice of pepperoni pizza. Wordlessly, he tosses it on the ground.
Lucky abandons you momentarily, bounding across the room to gobble up the slice of pizza. You arch a brow at Clint, smiling. "Pizza?"
"It's his favorite." Clint returns to where you're now sitting (having been knocked over by Lucky), settling down beside you. "He was hit by a car and beaten by these fuckers a while back, but he's in perfect health now. Aside from the one eye, that is," he added, grinning down at you.
You hold out your hand and Lucky comes barreling back at you, nuzzling his muzzle against your arm. "Beaten? God, that's awful. Who would do that to a dog?"
"Exactly what I said."
You smile sidelong at him as you pat Lucky on the head, your (e/c) eyes meeting his. He's obviously trying to cheer you up, and it's working swimmingly.
But what you haven't considered up until this point is how Hawkeye is feeling. He's one of Fury's best agents, so they must have been close. Clint's good at hiding his emotions with a smile, but the joy doesn't reach his eyes.
"How are you doing?" you ask. "I imagine, um...you and Nick were—"
"Yeah." Clint sighs through his nose and leans back, letting Lucky (who is far too big for a lap dog) crawl into his lap and curl up. "We worked together a long time, him and I..." He folds his arms behind his head, seeming lost in thought. "I don't think he's really gone, personally."
You frown, shooting him a questioning look. "We saw him die, Clint."
"And what, you don't think he could've pulled a Sherlock Holmes?" Clint sneaks a glance at you, then seems to regret his words. "Sorry. I'm not meaning to sound uncaring, I just...I don't think Fury would be taken down that easily."
"We can only hope, I suppose," you murmur. Lucky's tail wags idly, thumping against your arm. "I like your dog," you add.
"He likes you, too." He flashes you a broad grin, and for a moment, you wonder if his words have a double-meaning. You immediately correct the thought, however—such a silly thing to even consider.
After a long pause, consisting of only Lucky's panting and the hum of the air conditioner, you ask, "Do you really think Nick could've faked his death?"
"Might just be wishful thinking here, but yeah, I do."
You're not sure what it is about Clint, who you've only just met days before, but you feel like he's someone you can trust (despite Fury's dying wish of "trust no one"). You let your head fall against his shoulder, and he jolts a little, obviously surprised at you finally relaxing around him. He turns his head to look at you, a smirk on his face.
"I knew that stick couldn't have been jammed too far up your ass," he remarks, and you playfully nudge him in the ribs.
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I wrote this at like 2:00AM, after eating a bunch of mozzarella sticks and cream soda, so forgive any mistakes/grammatical errors.
Review, please! Thank you 3
