Chapter title: A Couple of Master Assassins
Author's Note: And onwards! Review!
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of anything or anyone you might recognize. Everything goes to Kevin Feige, the MCU, Marvel or whatever else.
Carry You – Ruelle & Fleurie
SHIELD Facility, New York – 1 month post the Battle of New York
Natasha purposefully stalked down the hallway.
Her determined gaze was aimed sternly ahead, which caused the agents, analysts and technicians she passed to quickly dive out of her way. She allowed the whispers that ran through the facility to guide her path until she found her target.
It wasn't difficult.
The rumors and gossiping were a steady constant and had been the entire month since Loki and New York. She ignored all of the looks and murmurs thrown her way. They weren't anything new. They just said something else than when she had first been recruited. And most of those that circulated now didn't focus on her. But her partner.
The door of the shooting gallery clicked open then closed just as soundlessly, as Natasha entered the large space. Most of the room was deserted and the unused space shrouded in blackness. The lights were only on in the eastern corner, where a long line of targets was lined up by the wall. The fluorescent lights starkly illuminated the crumpled figure in the middle of the room.
Natasha didn't hesitate to approach.
Her steps echoed loudly in the quiet as she drew nearer. She glanced at the targets to the right, littered with arrows. Some were meticulously buried in the bullseye drawn on either the heads or chests. One arrow was completely off-kilter, with the shaft embedded deeply into the right shoulder area. A practically harmless shot if it had been made in the field.
The realization slowly dawned on her and a sudden tight feeling spread in her chest at the sight. It only grew worse when she knelt down in front of her partner. Clint was on his knees, his arms hanging lax with his hands resting on his thighs. The recurve bow lay discarded and forgotten on the ground beside him. His eyes were aimed at the floor, but they were unseeing and haunted, as if he was trapped somewhere in his mind and unable to escape. He barely acknowledged her presence, even when Natasha put a careful hand on his shoulder.
"Clint?" she coaxed, keeping her voice low and gentle.
"I missed," came the raspy answer. He raised his gaze to hers then, his eyes swimming with despairing emotion. It completely broke her heart.
In one fluid motion, she leaned forward and firmly wrapped her arms around his shaking body. "I know."
Clint seemed to melt into her embrace, his forehead resting on her collarbone as he accepted her comfort. They remained there for quite some time, long enough that Natasha's legs started to cramp and tingle. But she was content to give him as much time as he needed. He was still healing. As was she. Mind control, aliens and superheroes were sure to leave a mark and none of them knew where they would fit into this strange, new world. Clint had gotten the serious short end of the stick this time around. She wasn't entirely sure what or how she could help him recover, to accept what he had been forced to do under Loki's control. And who they had lost in the process.
Phil Coulson's death still tore at her heart. He had been their handler for a lot of missions, both during solo runs and STRIKE's delta team. He was compassionate, determined and believed in the ideals that had supported the Avengers Initiative, even when it had still just been a loosely metaphorical project.
He had been one of the first to welcome her into SHIELD and not treat her like a fickle time bomb that was about to explode. He had done the same for Clint back in the day, too. He made everyone feel at ease and valued, no matter your position or skillset. He believed in people. And in the end, that had gotten him killed. Natasha was broken-hearted about his loss.
Clint was devasted.
And a lot of that grief came from the massive guilt he still carried from his part in Loki's scheme. And she wasn't sure how to snap him out of it. She needed help. And Coulson wasn't around anymore to help her.
Eventually, Clint pulled away from the hug. No doubt, he had lost the feeling in his legs too. He sat down properly, not bothering to get up off the floor, and sighed heavily. His eyes roamed across the empty shooting range, his thoughts churning, until they landed on the arrow-riddled target with the one arrow that was off center.
"What's going through your head?" Natasha asked as she settled cross-legged onto the floor in front of him.
"It's messing with my aim," he said, his eyes still staring intently at the arrow. "I can't sleep and now apparently, I can't shoot either. So, what good am I?"
"Don't go there, Clint. Loki might have compromised you, but he didn't break you. So, don't let him win."
Clint looked back at her with so much sadness and despair, it almost threatened to overwhelm her. "Natasha, you know what I've done. How many agents I hurt. Or killed." He nodded towards the exit. "And they know it too."
He didn't need to specify who 'they' were. It was easy enough to guess. 'They' walked the very halls she had come from. 'They' whispered and conspired in the corners. 'They' were coworkers and friends. She tuned most of it out but she had still picked up on how most seemed to tip-toe around her partner, and even herself, and how they treated him like a dangerous animal that could pounce at any second. Natasha knew it wasn't entirely their fault. Trusting got you dead in this business and Clint had been a pawn in Loki's backstabbing plan. It might not have been him, but it was his face. It didn't hurt any less to witness, though.
"They'll get over it," she stated firmly. They just needed time. All of them. "Until they do, you just gotta lay low. Somewhere else. Somewhere uncompromised."
"Yeah, where?"
She sent him a knowing look. Understanding dawned on his face and was then quickly replaced with discomfort and doubt.
"Oh no. No. No."
"Banner and Rogers are still there," Natasha steadfastly argued. "Stark too, when he isn't loudmouthing in Malibu. You won't be alone."
"Maybe I wanna be alone, how's that?"
"No, you don't. And you shouldn't."
"I tried to kill them, Nat. Not exactly roommate material."
"You tried to kill me too. You don't see me holding it against you."
"Maybe you should."
The low statement was a broken one and it only fueled Natasha's resolve. He needed this as much as she did. Who knew, the rest of the team probably needed it too. It would be good for all of them to get to know Clint as something else than Loki's puppet. Or a simple comrade in arms. Maybe they could knock some sense into his head.
Natasha placed a hand on his cheek and forced him look into her eyes, making sure he believed her words. "But I never will. And neither will they. Look, they are damaged and unstable and even dangerous…"
A small, delicate smile stretched her lips, as she remarkably found her next sentence to be true. "I think we can trust them."
"Yeah, well, it's not them I don't trust," Clint said with a dejected voice and Natasha understood.
"He's gone, Clint. He can't make you hurt anyone again."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I trust you. Do you trust me?"
"You know I do."
Natasha smiled confidently at the unwavering answer. "Then start acting like it."
It would take time, but eventually, Clint would learn to forgive himself. And Stark Tower – or Avengers Tower, as Stark so fervently claimed to be its new name – would be the perfect place to start.
Present
Clint stared disbelievingly at the man towering above him.
Coulson looked entirely unfazed as he stood in the same black suit, he had been wearing the last time Clint had seen him. Except for the large patch of dark red that had blossomed on the left side of his blue shirt where Loki's scepter had torn through his heart. Even though it was half hidden by his jacket, the blood was still strikingly clear.
"You're dead," Clint stated dumbly.
"So will you be, if you don't get off the ground soon."
Just like that. The statement was simple and encouraging, like old conservations of the past and nothing more. Like Phil Coulson wasn't exactly dead. Like Clint's biggest shortcoming of his entire career, his own most painful failure, wasn't embodied and personified into a single figure standing in front of him in an ironed suit and a light-hearted smirk on his face.
Clint mentally took stock of his bruised body. Pre-existing injuries aside, which definitely didn't benefit from the tumble, he got off surprisingly unscathed. Sure, his ankle was sore but it wasn't broken or sprained, and the bleeding cut on his forehead was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Nothing hallucinogenic. Apparently, it was just his tired, damaged and guilt-ridden mind that had decided things weren't bad enough. Or that he had been getting too complacent.
"I'm hurt," Coulson spoke up. "You think I'm here just to haunt you? It's like you don't know me at all."
"No offense, sir, but I can't imagine any other reason why you should be."
Coulson crouched down in front of him so that they were closer to eyelevel. There was no anger or accusation to be found anywhere in his brown eyes. Only his usual calm kindness. "I'm here to get you home. So, how about you get off your ass and help me out."
"You're still dead," Clint muttered as he gingerly sat up with a wince. "And I'm not taking orders from a ghost."
"Consider it taking orders from yourself, then."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever," Clint grumbled under his breath.
But he still moved to rise to his feet and he was too preoccupied with the painstaking process to notice the concerned but hopeful smile that stretched over Phil Coulson's face.
TBC
