A/N: This chapter does touch upon depression, so just wanted to give you a warning ahead of time. It's alluded to throughout but features more heavily in the 27 May 2018 - PM entry.

23 May 2018

I didn't want to write. I don't want to do anything. But if I don't, I'll go insane.

We've all hidden ourselves away.

We don't talk.

We don't even look at each other.

Those words echo in my head. A reminder of the evil that finally beat us.

I am inevitable.

There was finally a problem we couldn't solve. Our untouchable reputation, frayed since the Accords, was unravelled now. Finally ended.

Nothing lasts forever.

Trouble.

Sometimes Nick's words would talk over Thanos' final gloat. His deep voice resonating with calm.

Nick the undefeatable.

Nick the unflappable.

Nick the unsaveable.

I wish I knew what he'd do next.

Tony and Pepper left for home. They moved under the cover of our grief. Not wanting to bother anyone, not wanting to stir up feelings that would make things worse. They went without saying goodbye. At least, I think that's what they planned. A quiet exit, slip away in the night.

Not counting on insomnia.

I wondered the halls, counting my steps. Feeling my breaths. Begging silently for the numbness to come back. Discovering them with everything packed, slung over their shoulders and across the back of Tony's wheelchair was an accident.

The two of them tried to keep it low key, suffering the grief of knowing their last chance to save everybody was gone while riding the high of new life. New life to be born into a world of ash. There were smiles between them. A lift to the eyes, upturn to the mouth they couldn't help.

Clint had the same affliction when Laura was pregnant.

What he didn't have, though, was the crushing wave of guilt that landed next second when they remembered the world they lived in now. The only world their new life would ever know.

In the unwelcoming hours of early morning I gave Pepper a nod and squeezed Tony's shoulder as I passed. He reacted quickly, his right hand coming up to cover mine. A look in his eyes most people would say was uncharacteristic but had been there since 2012.

"We'll talk."

It wasn't a question or even a promise. But a certainty. As if he already knew it would happen, and he was just waiting for me to come round to his way of thinking.

They went. I stayed here.

Stuck.

Back at square one, not knowing what to do.

I'm lost, Tom. I don't know how to get back.

24 May 2018

Rhodey and Danvers headed to D.C. today.

The Whitehouse wants a debrief.

Once he's done that Rhodey's going to head out to Stark's. He promised to keep an eye on Pepper, Tony's still not exactly in a condition to help anyone.

She emailed me earlier, Pepper. She's made a few enquiries through her contacts. Looks like our scheme is still a go. If I want.

24 May 2018 - again

There are thirty-five potted plants on the ground floor of the complex, alone.

And three-hundred-and-twenty-nine steps throughout the building, including the step down onto the dock.

It takes thirty-three seconds to go from basement to top floor in the lift, without interruption. Two minutes and forty seconds if it stops at every floor.

There's a grand total of four scuff marks throughout the exceptionally clean building. Enough rooms for fifteen people.

But there are only six people, six broken souls shattered and scattered across the rooms.

Jagged people avoiding the shards of others.

I don't know if I was a shard. Or if I was something else. I seemed to float between everyone, or at least the places where everyone was at. I stood by and watched, not quite able to bring myself to interact.

Bruce was easy to watch. He's commandeered one of the glass-fronted offices. Piles of books leaning at a dangerous angle, loose pieces of paper scattered over the table, floor, chairs. Bigger bits were plastered to the walls. Unless absolutely necessary, he kept himself cramped in a corner, hunched over laptop and feeding in the data, crunching whatever numbers he had and trying to figure out whatever project he'd given himself.

Sometimes he'd pace the room, wringing his hands and mutter to himself. I liked to call it his frantic nerd mode.

Even now, seeing such a familiar sight almost brought a ghost of a smile back. But almost wasn't enough.

We catch each other's eye sometimes, he looks away and I let him. Whatever was there is gone. Timing wasn't our strong suit. Maybe in another lifetime things would have been different.

In a lifetime where he didn't do a damn good impression of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. In a lifetime where I wasn't a self-loathing master assassin living on borrowed time.

Or maybe there was no other lifetime. Maybe, no matter what, no matter where and no matter when, this is how things are meant to go.

It was best things worked out this way.

25 May 2018

Fuck you, Barton.

25 May 2018

It rained today.

It was nice. Finally we got a view that matched our moods.

The downpour was torrential.

Icy. Biting. Vicious.

It tore through layers of clothing, settling deep, deep within. Big, fat, droplets rolled down my face, through my hair, into my top and trousers and underwear. They blurred my eyes and pelted my cheeks. Hair was knotted and tangled in the wind, whipping my face.

I was on the roof when it started.

Still there when it ended.

Only, at some point Steve appeared by my side, looking into the distance, even though it was heavily covered by the gloom of the weather.

We stood shoulder to shoulder, like always.

I think he was crying. I don't know, really. It was hard to tell.

"There's a towel, blanket and some dry clothes waiting for you inside the door," he said, not looking at me. "Give it a minute and you should come back in."

I grunted, before whispering, "see you in a minute."

He heard. He always did.

I just hoped he didn't see.

26 May 2018

At some point something started ringing throughout the compound.

It was annoying at first, but it became comforting. A reminder of life in this empty world. It rang out in time with my heartbeat.

Rocket and Nebula were working on something, their hammering was what echoed dully. They barely spoke to each other as they carried on tinkering. At first it put me in mind of Tony.

Then a more uncomfortable memory unfurled in a deeper part of my mind. The type of thought that brought me comfort once, but now it was just another bruise to a psyche trapped in a body covered in them.

My best friend getting bored and always finding something to fix. Pulling apart his house over and over again because he was born without the ability to relax and he kept forgetting to top up on his prescription of chill pills.

The thought of him made me angry.

So angry.

27 May 2018 - AM

The rain is familiar now.

Its pitter-patter on the glass sounded like the footsteps of a friend come to visit.

The harshness of it against my skin was refreshing. I savoured the sting.

Again, Steve found me outside, soaked beyond comprehension. He dragged me inside this time.

"Talk to me, Nat."

Water dripped from his blonde hair, it was only as one droplet fell in front of his eyes that I saw the worry. It reminded me, forcefully, of a night long ago when a different blonde haired man stood before me, demanding the same thing.

Minus the nickname.

No one had been brave enough to give me one, until him. Even then, it took weeks of dancing around each other.

I blinked up at Steve, reminding myself where I was. When I was. I didn't reply.

"Please."

Before he'd finished I'd pulled my phone out of my pocket and shoved it at him with Clint's message showing. He wiped away the excess water and read.

"Bastard," he mumbled.

"He's blocked my number," my voice was a weak version of itself. Barely even mine.

"Surely you can get around that?"

I blinked again. I could, but that wasn't the point. Steve swore again.

"Who needs him," I shrugged.

We were sat down by this point. In one of the many wide corridors, looking out at the weather. Steve put an arm around my shoulder, ignoring my drenched clothing, and pulled me closer so my head was resting on his shoulder.

"You do."

27 May 2018 - PM

Have you ever seen a god cry?

And I don't mean a few trickling manly tears leaking from his eyes. But actual proper ugly crying where there's just no control over anything. Tears gushing from his bloodshot eye, mixing with the snot streaming from his nose while his whole body trembled under the weight of guilt and grief and quivered on the edge of insanity. Because he genuinely believed he was the one who allowed this to happen, even though he's the only one who stayed on mission.

Our instinct to separate and avoid each other had left Thor alone with his depression. We all told ourselves he needed the space to work through what he was feeling. I thought Bruce might drop in on him but he was so caught up in his project he'd barely had time to take care of himself, let alone a mourning Norse myth. Then he'd dashed off without a word to anybody, research papers stashed haphazardly in a briefcase.

Thor was the only one I hadn't seen since we returned. Something told me to check on him. I should have done it sooner, thinking other people were wasn't an excuse.

The depression had festered, grown like a mould. Entrenched so deep it was almost suffocating to walk into the room.

Before, at least, there was a bit of hope. No one spoke about it but the belief that the stones could undo what they did had settled silently over us, as long as they were around then we had our chance. But they weren't anymore, and neither was Thanos.

With one swish of the axe and a dull thud on the floor this chapter was brought to a close. This tale was ended with a hollow victory.

Thor is broken. So completely I don't know how he'll ever be able to put himself back together. If there's one thing I know, it has to be him that does the fixing. Anything from anyone else is temporary, eventually the cracks will show again and it'll feel worse than before.

Bruce told me vaguely what happened on their trip through space, though he kept a lot of the details to himself I knew enough to realise the god lost more than most people could ever imagine - and all in such a short time. While we were all fighting amongst ourselves, he was suffering the worst tragedies of his life.

Probably the only one here who could understand is Steve, but he's locked himself away. I only see him when it rains.

Thor hadn't even bothered with the lock.

When I crept into his quarters I expected him to have hidden under his covers or to have thrown himself into cleaning Stormbreaker or to be breaking whatever was breakable.

No, he was sat on the floor, back against the wall, huddled in on himself. Knees up, head resting on them, hands clasping the back of his head.

He shook.

Violently.

Silent sobs.

I shut the door loudly, letting him know I was there. The last thing he needed was a surprise. He didn't react, kept on crying, didn't look up, but he knew I was there.

His short nails were digging into the back of his head, trying anything to distract from the horrid, twisting, burning inside.

I'd learned the hard way that pain doesn't distract from pain. He needed something else.

My footsteps were soft, gentle. So were my hands when they pulled at his, freeing his head from their desperate clasp. I held both of them in mine as I lowered myself to sit in front him. Keeping his hands in mine, gently running my thumb over the back of them.

He didn't fight.

But he didn't stop either.

That was okay. He needed to get this out. It was toxic. It would destroy him.

I wished the fix was this simple. I wished there was a way this tiny, barely there, piece of comfort was enough to help him. But it wasn't. Still, the path of recovery had to start somewhere.

So I sat there with him, toe to toe, hand in hand, watching his body shake, and remembered what others had done for me when I found myself where he was now.

It had happened precisely twice in my life.

Once after I defected.

Once after I found out the Bartons were gone.

I wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, none of this was his fault. I wanted him to grieve freely without choking on the guilt. But words wouldn't help. They never did when you were this deep.

So I kept him company. Let him grasp tightly, let him cry however he wanted and didn't flinch when he could no longer keep the sobs silent. I tried to be his anchor, the least any of us could do after he'd been ours so often.

My heart was already broken, but he crushed all the pieces into a fine dust.

I didn't like the end of this book.

But then, I was never a fan of endings.

I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. As much as I love to read, I never finish my books. I stop reading a couple of chapters from the end. That way, anything could happen.

Anything was still possible because the story hadn't finished.

So, the way I see it, this story isn't over, either. Because I haven't checked out yet, I'm still invested. Anything could happen.

Anything is possible.

A breeze toyed with the grass, ruffling the blades slightly. Almost teasingly.

The late afternoon sun hung forlornly as clouds gathered around it. Glinting through the trees as much as it could, trying to throw some sunlight on the clearing, no matter how weak.

Clint hadn't meant to end up here, but he wasn't exactly thinking when he started walking. It was like his body wanted to torture his mind, payback for all those times his mind had told his body to shut up and take the physical pain.

Each breath he took tasted like guilt, which was strange because he always thought guilt would taste like rotten eggs.

He walked the circular perimeter of the clearing and when he got bored of that he paced across it. The journal still in his hands from when he rushed out to get some air, not long after Steve had.

This was her favourite place.

It never made sense to him, it was so bloody normal. Nothing stood out about it. But then, she always liked that. Things that blended in. So nondescript your eyes would just skate over it. Except for when it came to transport. Clint supposed that said a lot about her desire to belong somewhere but also to have her freedom, except he wasn't much in the mood for a psychological evaluation of his dead partner.

"Geez, Clint. Twist the knife why don't ya. Yeah, stick it right in there."

He hated the 'D' word. Never before had he balked at saying anything, but now he wanted to ban it and any form of it.

Not that it would bring her back. There's not a fucking thing he could do about that. Or Tony. Reading about their interactions, even if they were small, was something he never realised he didn't want to experience. The feeling in his gut was unique, as if someone had stuck their finger in there and decided to swirl. It hurt and was nauseating and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

On the odd occasion he'd looked up from the precious pages he saw the same thing happening in their eyes. Steve and Wanda had it the worst. Clint wondered if they regretted coming.

There were definitely times when he regretted opening the book. And this was just the first of several. Whether he liked it or not he was going to have to face up to what he'd done. He always knew that, but he wanted it to be in his own time. He wanted to know exactly what to say and how to support his family.

Wasn't going to happen, though, was it? Because of Nat and her big mouth. How is it that in life she was one of the most tight-lipped people to ever walk the earth but in death she was such a snitch.

Serves him right though. Going down that path. Pushing her away. So sure he was right. So certain he could do it without any repercussions.

He remembered sending her that text. And what came after it. Not that he remembered much in those early days apart from the bottom of many bottles. He was drowning in the hurt and he just wanted to get rid of some of it. He wanted someone else to feel what he was feeling and never once did he imagine that he wasn't the only one feeling it.

"Jerk. Selfish jerk," he yelled into the clearing. Almost throwing the book at the nearest tree. Glad he was able to restrain himself. A few birds fluttered from a few branches. He sank to his knees, all too aware that this was yet another circle he was in where he was driven to the ground by the weight of his memory. The weight of actions done and words said. Things that could never be taken back.

That's why he needed to get this right with Laura and the kids. That's why he needed to put it off and think about it. Really think about it.

Yet, Laura was right. There was no point in denying something happened, that much was obvious. Sooner or later they would find out and it would be better coming from him than anyone else.

Would they forgive him? Nat had. She'd forgiven him everything. They'd cleared the air after she picked him up from Japan. But she lived in that morally grey world with him, she understood things worked differently there. That sometimes ideals were nothing but fantasy. Laura knew the world wasn't perfect, knew the world he operated in, but was only ever a visitor. Never a long-term resident.

And the kids. They were kids! He was their dad. It was his duty to be a good role model. To set an example for them to follow. He definitely didn't want them doing what he had.

Clint sighed, breathing a deep, heavy lungful. There was so much he needed to sort out in his life. Was it a good idea to get so caught up in someone else's past?

How would Nat do it?

He always knew she looked to him for how to act. Having never experienced any semblance of a normal life before defecting, she found some situations awkward and considered him her guiding light.

A fact he found hilarious.

So often she'd follow his example without hesitation, taking barely a moment to adapt to what was in front of her.

But one thing he never needed to teach her was taking responsibility. She didn't shy away from it. She knew when she was taking a risk, she knew when she'd endangered people by her actions and decisions. She knew how to put her hands up and say 'my bad'.

It was something he admired about her. There were a lot of things on that list, but this was the first he ever added. He knew the punishments she received when she fucked up in the Red Room, so he was impressed she had the resilience, the fortitude, to stand up.

He'd never been good at it.

He wished he could look to her.

Clint looked down at his hand. He clung so tightly to the journal his knuckles were white and the tips of his fingers were aching. When he rested it in his hands it opened up to the page he'd last read. There was another entry, listed the same day. And as he read it he imagined her in her element. A glint in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. A furious mixture of passion and desperation fuelling her hand as she wrote.

27 May 2018

Trouble, Ms. Romanoff. No matter who wins or loses, trouble still comes around.

Tom, those words are haunting me. I've been trying to figure it out.

Of everything Nick has ever said to me, why is it these words that have stuck?

I think I've got it.

Thanos won.

We lost.

So, it's time to cause some trouble. Cause some trouble until the scales have no choice but to tip back in our favour.

Hope isn't finite. It doesn't just die. You choose to have or you choose not to.

I'm choosing trouble. I'm choosing hope.

Because choosing anything else is giving up.

A/N: Sorry for the slight delay on this one guys. Been a bit of a busy week and, in my infinite wisdom, I've decided to take on a couple of other (non-fanfic) projects.

As usual, I want to thank everyone who's stopped by and left a review or favourited or followed and just your support in general. I love reading your thoughts on this, whatever they may be. One person (I hope you don't mind me answering here) wondered if Nick and Maria are ever going to reveal that Coulson is alive - my knowledge of AoS is super limited so it's not something I was planning on tackling.