Title: Blood on My Name

Chapter title: When the Lights Fade Out

Author's Note: And we have another chapter! Don't know how long it's been since posting, but my guess is probably too long! To anyone still reading this, here is another chapter as we come to the epic conclusion! Review please! (-:

Disclaimer: All rights go to Marvel, Disney and whoever else is lucky enough to have a part in the glorious MCU and its characters!

A loud thrashing and the sound of a heavy body colliding with the floor interrupted his peace. Clint might have given op, but Steve hadn't.

He had bucked his body the best he could and the sudden, violent movement caught two of the men off-guard and the Big Guy holding most of Steve's weight fell off and landed face first on the ground. The super soldier made a move to get up, but already five other guards rushed in to help. Four of them bodily threw themselves at the rising soldier while the fifth slammed his weapon into the back of Steve's head. The super soldier slammed right back down on the floor, momentarily dazed and the small pause allowed Big Guy to heave himself on top of Steve again, landing another solid punch in his face for good measure.

Steve continued to struggle as much as he could, grunting and heaving with the effort, and Big Guy growled at him to stay still.

"Shut up!" Coleman whipped his head around and practically yelled the order out loud. "If you can't hold him still and shut him up, shoot him!"

Big Guy moved and grabbed a firmer hold of the tossing Rogers' arm. While the other guards held the soldier's body as still as possible while Big Guy pulled the limb as hard as he could.

"No!" Clint screamed.

The resounding snap seemed to echo as loud as a gunshot in his ears. He looked on in shock as Steve gritted his teeth loudly as the no-doubt-overwhelming pain radiated from his now broken arm and his whole body went stiff, the fight briefly forgotten.

It returned however in Clint. And before Coleman could turn his head towards him again, he was already moving.

He pushed his shoulder into one of the guards holding him down and used the momentum to get one foot under him. As he rose he kicked out with his other foot. The boot connected with Coleman's hand and it sent the gun flying across the room. Another kick sent the man himself flying several feet back, clutching his aching chest. Clint turned to the guards. He head-butted the one to his left and the man let go of his bicep and took a wild swing in hopes of hitting flesh. The archer easily deflected the punch with a parade, which left the guard's face completely open. A fast jab at his throat and he went down like a sack of potatoes. When Clint turned to face the other he was met with a foot aimed directly at his ribs. He dodged it by stepping to the right. Avoiding another fist aimed at his cheek, he managed to wrap his arms around the man's neck and a small twist later, the guard went limp and too dropped to the floor.

As Clint turned he saw some of the guards had left Steve to help containing the now free archer and Steve had used that distraction to pick himself off of the floor. He had taken out five of the nearby men, despite his broken arm and was busy exchanging punches with Big Guy. He couldn't see how well the soldier was doing, but at least Steve was still standing.

Clint didn't see the fist aiming for his face either.

It slammed into his cheek and sent him reeling back several steps. A well-placed kick and a twist of the neck later and the guard that had come after him collapsed to the floor. Several more waited to take his place though. They charged him at once.

Had Clint been a hundred percent, he could have taken more punches. He had always been good at taking a punch. It didn't matter how hard it was or who threw it; his drunken father, the douche bag from orphanage number two he and Barney had been sent to after their parents died, or the countless criminals he had been up against most of his adult life. He would gladly take it and get back up again after. But he felt his body slowly decaying and the toxins of an infected wound rushing through his veins. He had to focus all of his energy to ducking and avoiding the fists and boots aimed in his direction because he was confident that one well-placed hit and he would go down. If that happened, he wasn't sure if he was able to get up this time.

So he spent whatever concentration he had on leaning back from the blurred fists and diving away from the kicks. He made sure that whenever he launched a counter attack it would be efficient enough that the guard would go down. Clint was certain he broke at least three noses and at least one arm. It gave him a hint of satisfaction after hearing the terrible crack as Steve's arm had snapped.

It was slow-moving but one by one the guards crashed to the floor.

Block. Shove away. Roll clear and stand.

Avoidance was simple but it was a game that couldn't go on forever. Clint suspected it was sheer luck that none of them had managed to hit his burning side yet.

He felt the sweat roll down his cheek from his forehead and he could hear his heart pumping away in his ears. It felt like it was about to pop out of his chest. From behind him he vaguely heard two heavy bodies colliding with each other. It was followed by Steve's pained grunts. Clint couldn't turn around to see how the soldier was fairing but it did not sound positive. With renewed energy, the archer surged forward and with a quick flip he didn't know his body was still capable of making followed by an uppercut, the guard in front of him dropped the floor, completely incapacitated.

Breathing heavily with the strain, Clint turned around. He only had a second to see Big Guy straddling the super soldier and pummeling his fists into his face mercilessly before Clint found himself sailing through the air and connecting with the wall. He shook his head to clear the daze and accompanying pain away and looked around to face the new threat. In front of him stood Andrew Coleman, his eyes once again burning with anger and disgust. Every other guard lay moaning or silent on the ground, their bodies littering the floor.

"So, it's down to the final man," Coleman said, his voice loaded with an odd mixture of confidence and trepidation. He gestured with his hands to the non-moving men around him. "It comes down to this. To the two of us. Are you going to kill me now?"

"I never wanted that," Clint defended, as he used the wall to haul himself straight.

"Perhaps that's the lie you've told yourself from time to time, but you and I both know we can't both walk out that door."

"You truly believe that?"

"After having tried to kill you over and over again, do you really think I want to let you live?" Coleman answered, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "And you can't let me live because you know I will keep trying. And eventually I will succeed; either I'll kill you or I'll get the redheaded Russian instead. Or maybe one of your new friends."

Clint had to hold his tongue when Coleman mentioned Natasha. If that lunatic as much as went anywhere near her again he would end up begging for death, not toying with it. He found that the sentiment held true for the rest of the Avengers.

But Coleman went on, drawing strength from seeing the furious look in the archer's eyes. "But in time, I will finally get my revenge on you and you know it. And you have no other way to stop what's coming."

Clint hadn't given much thought whether or not he should reveal his trump card to the man standing in front of him. He had kept the secret hidden in case he didn't make it out of here or Coleman didn't. He didn't know what he expected really when he waltzed in here, but perhaps some foolish part of him believed that this could actually be fixed. Seeing what all the hatred had come to, it was an easy decision. He needed Andrew Coleman to know that he had won. That Clint Barton, the orphan assassin-turned-Avenger, beat the odds and came out on top.

"I know there's one thing you've forgotten," he said. He couldn't help the proud smirk that stretched out across his face. "I'm not the killer you think I am anymore. I've come a long way since I first joined SHIELD."

He pulled out the small round recorder he had hidden underneath his vest. A red dot in the middle was blinking rapidly as it was still recording every word spoken. "I got you, you son of a bitch."

Coleman stood breathing heavily as the fury burned in his gaze. He simply stood there, fuming for a second and then he lunged himself at the archer so fast, Clint didn't have any time to react. The two men collided with heavy grunts. Clint dropped the recorder.

He jerked back as a fist came flying at his face. It whizzed by in a blur of knuckles. But instead of returning a punch of his own he simply pivoted away from the man. He had no desire to fight him. He had gotten the confession he wanted and he had caused enough harm as it was. Coleman however had other ideas. He threw himself at Clint again and this time he hit his mark. Clint stumbled a few steps back and practically heard his body screaming at him to stop moving. Coleman's polished shoe connected with his side and he went down with a cry. He landed, dodged the shoe coming for him again and rolled away.

For a second his whole world was just filled with blinding pain and a beckoning darkness on the edge of his vision. He didn't know how on earth he would get his body to cooperate with him. The simply task of opening his eyes seemed impossible. Then his senses returned.

Up. He had to get up.

He was on his feet, shaking his head as he tried to see through a grey haze. He staggered with the fog of confusion and pain. It wouldn't be long before his body gave up on him completely. He looked around for the recorder, making sure it was still in one piece. Coleman seemingly had the same idea. They both found it lying by the wall.

The two men dived for it at once, but Coleman had been closer and reached it first. Clint fell on top of him and desperately tried to claw it out of his hand. The politician gasped at the weight. He grinded his teeth as he started to squeeze the small piece of technology as hard as he could.

"No!" Clint grunted. He grabbed a hold of Coleman's wrist and twisted. The man didn't let go, only tightened his own grip. The recorder started fizzing and breaking under the pressure.

Clint twisted harder. Coleman cried out as his wrist broke. He released his grip and the device fell to the ground.

Coleman retaliated by craning his body around before he stuck his thump directly into Clint's wound. The reaction was instantaneous as Clint rolled away from the pain with a hoarse scream. Coleman didn't let him breathe this time though as he launched himself at the archer. He started throwing frantic punches. Every hit felt like concrete slamming into Clint's flesh and he wondered if he might actually break under the heavy pressure.

He didn't know why he was allowing the punches to keep hitting his flesh. His failing body or his subconscious that was whispering in his ear that he deserved every bit of it.

Then something shifted. His fevered brain got too tired to keep up. His instincts took over. He dodged more of Coleman's fists or blocked those he couldn't. He started giving out punches of his own. He managed to roll away and rise to his shaking feet. This time he didn't hesitate as the politician came at him. He glided his upper body to the side when Coleman launched at him and returned the favor with a right hook that sent the older man flying several feet across the room.

Coleman changed tactics then and tackled the archer by the legs and they went down in a tangled heap. Both tried desperately to gain the upper hand. Limbs connected with whatever flesh they could find. Grunting and panting.

Then Clint got a hold of Coleman's wrist and pulled. The fractured bones grounded together and Coleman cried out in pain. The distraction was all Clint needed. He pushed Coleman's body away with his foot. Before the man could recover Clint was on top of him. His knuckles burned as he landed punch after punch. He felt Coleman go limp underneath him. It was only then he stopped.

Coleman's wrinkled face was a mass of swelled bruises and cuts. His nose was twisted and gushing blood. Whatever fire that had been burning in his grey eyes had extinguished completely. All that was left was the sorrow and pain.

"Go ahead!" he rasped. "Kill me. You have everything you need. You can do it now and still get away with it. No punishment. Just do it!"

Clint felt his whole body trembling violently as he leaned over Coleman. He didn't know what to do. He had no idea what he could say. Everything was muddled together. He just sat there and stared down at the beaten man.

"Do it!" Coleman cried, a single tear running down his busted up face.

Everything disappeared then. All Clint saw was the devastated father, who cried for five hours while he held his son's lifeless body and begged him to open his eyes. The father who couldn't stop screaming until his voice ran out and who vowed to destroy whoever dared take his boy from him. Clint was taken back 11 years where all he felt was the guilt and shame for his horrendous crimes, and the overwhelming sensation that he needed to be punished for what he had done.

His felt his own breathing hitch and his vision blurred. Was it with tears or fatigue he had no idea. And he didn't really care. All he knew was that he could not finish the job and never would. He was done.

"I'm so sorry," Clint whispered, his voice weak and raw.

His fist connected with Coleman's cheek. He was out before his head had fully snapped to the side with the blow.

And just like that every ounce of energy seemed to leave Clint's body at once. The adrenaline was completely gone and he had nothing else to give.

Clint crawled off of the limp body of Andrew Coleman and headed slowly towards the cracked recorder lying forgotten on the floor. He barely managed to get there. When he did he just managed to clutch the device tightly in his hand before his arms started shaking uncontrollably. His whole body soon followed suit and every joint seemed to lock into place. He stood there on all fours while his body collapsed in on itself, as it finally gave up.

His thoughts were racing around in his head with no form of coherence or pattern. His heart was constricting painfully as it thumped away madly. His vision dipped and blackened. He vaguely felt himself tipping to the side and hitting the floor.

He simply laid there for what felt like hours, feeling his life slowly ebbing away as unconsciousness drew closer.

It was over.

His eyes blinked shut. Steve's low voice calling his name was the last thing he registered before darkness came and carried him away.

TBC