Right. So by reading this, you can tell that I'm implying that the Avengers did some more Avenging between the time of the end of The Avengers and the beginning of Ironman 3, despite me not planning it that way. Enjoy Clint Barton and next is Thor:) Well isn't this going to be interesting… Tell me what you think, all creative criticism welcomed.
Clint Barton squeezed the cold, hard metal forming the trigger of the silver gun with one long tanned finger. His limbs barely moved as the weapon cradled in his skilled hands recoiled ever so slightly. The loud, evident bang reverberated throughout the closed-off firing range and managed to snake into soundwaves filtering through his thick earmuffs. He let out an almost inaudible sound that should have passed for a sigh, and lowered the slick, smooth weapon down on the miniature steel shelf beside him. He didn't do much else though, and took a single moment to stop- just for a few precious seconds- and allow his mind some rest.
He could feel the gears in his head turning fervently, almost hearing the grinding of the mechanical work spinning and turning and orbiting within his skull. It was as if the rapid beating of his heart wasn't enough, as if the continuous quick pounding of the strong muscle bouncing back and forth between his bones hadn't caused him enough reason to take a breath before he keeled over. He felt as if, despite shooting at a target for the past half an hour or so, that he hadn't the energy left to move a limb.
He wasn't tired. There was no undeniable exhaustion seeping slowly into the marrow of his bones. He wasn't injured or hungry, hell- he wasn't even sure he was awake. Everything had sort of blended together into a scale of greys, whites and blacks, ever since he had heard. He didn't see the sun reflecting off the sky-clear bullet proof windows, and he didn't hear the birds chirping happily outside, dancing among the warmth and the clouds. He doubted that even if he had squinted his eyes and centred his gaze, that even if he had perked his ears and remained silent, that he wouldn't sense anything much beyond the estranged void that seemed to his planted itself permanently within his chest.
It was all dark, and dreadful and gloomy. His chapped lips felt like they weighed a ton, refusing to open and let him breathe more than necessary to keep his heart thumping. His tongue tasted bitter in his mouth and his teeth stale and sharp as they grazed over the muscle. There was an unusually disturbing flavour- too similar to that of sickness- at the back of his throat. His orbs were there and his eyelids were open, but despite being able to see with clarity- everything continued to disorient together.
He felt nothing and he heard nothing. He sensed not a thing beyond the growing dark abyss in his torso, feeling its frosty cold bite as it ate away at him, leaving him with nothing and everything.
But he knew, standing here- doing nothing- wasn't going to help anyone. It wasn't going to clear the sudden blurriness across his vision and it certainly wasn't going to find Tony.
Forcing one of his hands to move, he managed to enforce enough control on the limb to clench his fingers lightly around the lever and place his palm steadily over it as he pulled, causing his paper target to slide towards him with the soft hissing noise of metal clashing against metal.
As the faceless figure with dark curved lines and an uneven number of holes was dragged further towards him, he couldn't help the small defeated sigh that escaped him.
He winced and gazed over the would-be dead man in a sense of tragedy and a slight tweak of anger as he noticed that the closest bullet that would have killed the man was off, stationed narrowly at the side of the head. Deep enough to keep one alive for half a minute perhaps- a few centimetres over and it would have simply been a graze.
He knew he had to get it together. He knew that something like this shouldn't have any effect on his abilities- but it did, damn it- it did.
How could it not? How could anyone expect that this would mean nothing to him? That Tony would mean nothing to him? Sure, the man could be careless and infuriating but he was a good man nonetheless. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to fly out into a bloody wormhole and destroy an entire organisation of evil world-dominating aliens only to die at the hands of terrorists.
He isn't dead, Clint told himself. He had repeated the mantra time and time again but he just couldn't help the way his heart felt as if it had a hole down the centre of it, the way his mind could concentrate on nothing but the darkened shadows surrounding him, the way he wanted to crawl into the ground and sleep forever.
Clint had lost many people in his life. He just didn't know why this particular loss had affected him so much-
Maybe it was because Tony had offered him a place to stay, in between missions or when he just needed to crash. Maybe it was because he practically revolutionised his arrows without having been asked to. Maybe because he was willing to listen when Clint needed to talk.
Maybe because he wasn't dead.
Clint realised something. Maybe he hadn't thought of it as soon as Coulson had asked to speak with him. Maybe he hadn't seen it when Phil had told him that Tony was probably dead. He didn't know how he missed it when the unusually grim and ever more so quiet agent told him that they were going to search for the body.
But now, alone in the company of Shield's Shooting range with his brand new- he had only noticed now, it was made by Stark Industries, Tony himself- gun to one side and a dozen purple feather arrows to the other, that he refused.
He refused to believe that Tony was dead. He refused to believe that the other man wasn't immune to explosives and wasn't an expert at coming back from the dead. Tony wasn't dead.
No, he couldn't be. But what if he was? What if Tony Stark had died in what Coulson had dubbed a 'cowardly attack'? What if… what if he was somewhere down in that endless pit of solid concrete debris- and his mangled body just hadn't been found yet? What if his corpse would be found tomorrow morning in the depths of the ocean where he had fallen, his skin so pale it was practically transparent?
No, no. He couldn't- wouldn't- think like that. Tony was his friend, and regardless of the situation, he wouldn't give up on the other man… just like he knew Tony wouldn't give up on him if something like that had happened. Hell, Tony had even said once that should anybody do anything to hurt Clint, directly or indirectly, for the whole scandal with Loki and him being compromised, that he would give them hell. And nobody wanted hell. More so, nobody wanted hell Tony Stark.
The plane would be ready in a few minutes, he knew. That meant he should start making his way up to the port. And he would. He would get on that plane and he would find out what happened to his friend. He would than actually find him, thank him for the arrows, hug him, and then he would probably punch him for almost giving him a heart attack.
Somehow, he figured, the other Avengers would have similar reactions.
He was just curious who would go for the embrace first- then figured, he'd be damned if it wasn't him.