Thanks very muchly twinchaosblade and discordchick for reviewing!

Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul - your moment has arrived. At least the beginning of it. lol

Bibliophile109 - Everytime I say 'Hawkeye' around the house (which is a really embarrassing number, I have to admit), my husband accuses me of saying 'Hot Guy.' lol ... I think you've triggered the Muse.

pushing up daisies - I had no idea who Hawkeye even was when I was dragged to a midnight screening of The Avengers; I thought he was just another bad guy. boy, was I glad to be wrong! Thanks for your review, I really appreciate it!

Thanks too for the favorites/follows! Because you are all so awesome, as a token of thanks I present the next chapter - I wish I could do more to thank you for noticing this crazy little fic and for the genuinely well-thought comments and reviews. You guys are amazing!

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Slipping

By: Syntyche

Clint's Chucks hit the ground lightly, gracefully, even though he's bone weary and trudging. His weary body is reminding him that he's pushed it too damn far lately and he needs to get his act together; even so, he feels a little better, a little less resigned, maaaybe even a little more hopeful than he has since Phil died, since those fucked up few days with Loki where even the meager pitiful scraps of familiar orderliness in Clint's life got sent straight to hell along with the archer's mind and sanity.

As he draws nearer to Tony's Tower of Awesome Wonderful Amazingness (which is beginning to sound like a circus attraction in Clint's mind, and this makes him smile just a little), he thinks about Natasha, and if his plan of Moving Forward should involve telling her anything about those hated days, if that might ease even a little the burning knot of guilt that's been consuming him for months.

Nothing, he ultimately decides firmly. She doesn't need to know anything. He's moving forward; there's no need to take those two - or twenty - steps back by rehashing…

Clint absently scratches at the close-cropped sandy hair above his collar awkwardly. Natasha doesn't need to know his shame, his agony, his humiliation at being Loki's personal lapdog. Fuck, he wishes he didn't know. But because Loki wanted to torment him, because Loki despised the archer for fighting his control, Clint does know, because Loki liked to wake him up just when he was at his most vulnerable, his most abused, his most defiled, and laugh at his horror. And just when Clint would have crumbled from the realization of what was happening, the sapphire scepter would touch his chest again, and the hawk's eyes melted back into streams of Tessaract blue as he was returned to the terror of just existing while another used his hands, his skills, his body mercilessly.

Oh, shit.

Clint realizes that he's trembling; it's not from the cold. Forget it, forget it, forget it! he demands of himself firmly, but he's shaking so hard the usually graceful archer has to reach out a hand to steady himself against the chilly brick of the closest building. Clint wraps his other arm around his middle reflexively to ward off the iciness that refuses to dissipate because it's coming from within him.

He shouldn't have let himself think about Loki.

Clint drags his eyes away and up and sees Stark Tower; he's staggering closer but he wishes he were already there. This little adventure has been fun, thanks, but Clint's tired of flying Fucked Up Air and he's ready to just go back to Tony's, plant his butt firmly in a chair, and wait for Tasha to return so they can maybe finally sort out his jumbled up self. He needs to feel his bow in his hands, needs to get his life back.

He doesn't know that Natasha has already gone, and that in a few minutes it wouldn't matter if she had still been waiting for him.

Clint pushes off the building and resumes. He's almost there. The archer wonders if he should have brought the team a pie, but does a pie really say hey, I'm sorry I'm so fucked up but can I still join the club? Clint's not sure.

A whisper of displaced air ghosts the hair at the back of Clint's neck but it's all he needs.

The archer spins instinctively to face the two men suddenly looming at his back; Clint's hand is already closing around the wrist attached to the thick fingers reaching for him - Clint twists his grip sharply and hears a satisfying crack! as bones snap. The palm of his other hand slams against crunchy cartilage and Clint can make the number of noses he's broken in the last few days two.

Shit, shit, shit. They've been waiting for him.

He's not that far from Tony's. It's Right. Fucking. There. He could probably shout and JARVIS would hear him. Actually, that's not a bad idea, because more bodies are spilling from the shadows and even though Clint loves a challenge, he's been neglecting himself far too long and he's still fast, still strong, but six-to-one aren't good odds for the lithe archer right now. Clint opens his mouth, willing to try, but a beefy muscular arm hooks around his throat, cutting off his voice and his air and his shout dies in a strangled whisper. The archer feels the pressure increase as his body starts moving; he's being dragged like a fucking toy into the shadows of the alley because obviously the mostly deserted street even in the middle of the night is no place for whatever these assholes intend for him.

Plan B it is, Clint thinks, bringing both heels down hard on the SHIELD-issue boot behind him, and Clint likes his Chucks but he really, really wishes that he were wearing his boots; one, for their greater mass than his canvas sneakers, and two, mainly, for the knife he keeps sheathed there.

But the Hawk is swift and calculating, and still manages to break a few of his assailant's toes as he impacts at just the right angle. For some reason, this only enrages the mini-Hulk further, and spots are starting to blink in Clint's vision as the grip around his larynx tightens. A few agents are taking potshots at the archer's unprotected ribs and another is approaching from the front; Clint scrabbles his fingers into the meaty forearm cutting off his breath so he can lift his legs off the ground and propel them into the man closing in on him, sending the fucker staggering off to the side in a gratifying and somewhat amusing pinwheel of flailing arms and legs.

Clint grins grimly. He's weakening, but he's nowhere near done. The archer tenses, ready to lash out again, when a familiar voice cuts through the roaring in his ears.

"Barton! Stand down!"

Hill.

Obediently, Clint ceases his assault though his body still quivers in readiness, and Hill steps into his line of vision.

They regard each other quietly for a heartbeat, Clint's body still jerking reflexively at his limited air supply, and he wonders where the hell this is going. Hill looks sad, just a little - they've known each other by sight for years - but more than that she is angry, seething, determined. She is another person who is hurting because of him. Clint knows she'd take a bullet for Fury in a heartbeat.

But she hadn't been there to take Clint's bullet for Fury.

He watches her stonily as his body gasps and spasms, sees her nod and turn to walk away. Clint almost doesn't register the bullet that slides into his left side, followed by one that turns the already dirty blue of his jeans crimson across his thigh. He doesn't hear them, really, because of the silencer, and it takes a minute before he can feel the agonizing blossom of pain because his brain is already oxygen-deprived and the spots in his vision are growing thicker, coming together to wash out his world in a haze of greys.

Clint's body slumps against his will, and he spares the thought that this is just stupid-ironic to happen now, and Tasha, I'm sorry, but he thinks the Avengers will take care of her, they seem pretty decent all around, and Clint really doesn't want his last thoughts to be of Tony so he focuses on Natasha's fiery red hair and soft skin, and sparring sessions that ended in a tangle of limbs and laughter shared only between the two of them.

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