Hello all,

This story has been floating in my mind for years…this is a story that will be long in words and chapter, and heavy in sentiment. There are many windows that were opened with the infinity stones, and perhaps the most fascinating of them I have chosen to explore. This is set after the events of "Hawkeye" the show, with some chosen events added in, although it will follow the timeline as closely as I can manage.

There is a secret love in my heart for Clint Barton and I have a theory on his suffering, which I will hope to put to words within. Feedback is always welcome, I enjoy hearing from everyone. Please welcome the backstory of Soul Keeper – I hope you enjoy.

Happy writing,

Elaine

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"Soul has a special place among the Infinity Stones. You might say it has a certain…wisdom. In order to take the Stone, you must lose that which you love."

-The Red Skull

It was, as was branded in Hawkeye's mind, an everlasting exchange. Who was he among the countless centuries of Stone holders? He was, as it would seem, the soul to hold Soul… and it had held for him a special purpose. The choice was no longer his to make. He had forged a contract he had never intended upon, fought his own wars to justify the shredding of his soul – and in doing so, brought closer the counterweight of Infinity.

"You're really good at that," Kate observed from where she sat on the top of the wooden fence, watching her mentor in the closed pen, "I didn't know that you knew how to work with horses."

Almost in response to her comment the Andalusian in the ring gave a slight grunt, tossing his head but never breaking the steadying rhythm he used as he trotted in a sure-footed circle around the man in the center. Clint only offered a slight smirk as he slowly turned in his circle, the long stick he held in his right hand relaxed at his side. He gave a quick click of his teeth and a soft: "Whoa, walk on", watching with satisfaction as the stallion slowed his pace to a steady walk in the circle at the command.

"Atta boy," he murmured softly before glancing in Kate's direction, offering a soft: "I grew up around them."

"I would be worried about getting run over," she answered as she munched on a piece of the peach that she had held in her hand, "Maybe you can try out for the carnival or something."

She got no response to that. It had been a few months since Kate had sought refuge with Clint and his family, and about three weeks since he had surprised the family with some hard work and a new pen on the property, bringing a couple of horses he bought from a kill pen to their home. The kids, he had told his wife, could certainly learn to take care of animals – and it was doing a bit for his wary soul. What it had turned into was Clint spending most of his time out in the ring with this particular horse, the one he had walking around him. He hardly seemed to mind, and Laura had mentioned with a quiet satisfaction that he was finally getting what appeared to be restful sleep. He couldn't deny that she was partially right.

He had chosen to ignore the growing ache that plagued his head in the past few weeks -a headache that constantly ebbed and flowed no matter what he did. He had done well to hide it from Laura and the kids. Surely a side effect, he told himself, of the last thirty years of his life running full-tilt into hell's hands just to flip the devil the bird as he catapulted away. There were bound to be side effects.

"Just be respectful," he told her wisely, holding up his hand and giving the command to the stallion to stop. The horse did and Clint approached, reaching out to calmly stroke the black fur of his face.

"Yeah yo-" Kate swallowed the bit of the peach, her breath misting slightly in the frosty air, "You say that, and the last time I walked up to him he decided I needed to get stepped on. And that one time he tried to eat my ponytail – you know, I think he might only like you. Just saying."

Her response was a silent smile crossing the face of the elder archer. He had clipped the lead rope back to the horse's halter and led him out of the pen, abandoning the stick he had held as they exited. It was with the ease of experience he kept himself almost in stride with the large animal as they both crunched through the fallen leaves that coated the ground of the yard. The crisp morning air reminded him that it was the middle of September, and the colors painted a beautiful painting that danced in their minds.

It was calm. It was quiet. It was paradise. And yet, Clint still felt something whisper to him that it wasn't right.

He took a quick checklist as he glanced around the yard. Kate: on the fence still, munching on the remainder of her peach and choosing to not get near him while he had the horse in tow. Laura: on the porch seated on a whicker bench, sipping on a mug of what he guessed had to be tea. The kids: All three losing their collective minds pelting each other with armfuls of leaves. He shook his head – it had to be his mind overworking. He had sealed up the loose ends, he had earned this rest.

Leading the stallion back to the field he opened the gate, unclipped the rope from the halter, and with a permissive command the Andalusian took off charging down the open land. He needed to name that animal, he reminded himself dryly as he clicked the gate shut again, leaning forward to bear his weight on it with a soft sigh. This is he had been fighting for…. this is what he had lost so many pieces of his world for…and yet…

The breeze picked up then, grabbing several of the downed leaves and tossing them about in the air. Here was his heaven. His exhausted features relaxed as he let his eyes drift closed, taking a deep inhale through his nose –

"….Clint…"

The almost silent whisper caught him so off guard he choked on his own breath and spun on his heel in alarm, the lead rope taunt in his grip – a grip so tight that his knuckles went snow white under the pressure. That wasn't a voice he knew. It wasn't his wife, it wasn't his kids, it wasn't Kate. His eyes darted from one direction to the other and, when he saw nothing of alarm he released his tension slightly, dropping the rope he held and reaching a hesitant hand to his ear to pull out the hearing aid. It seemed normal, Clint noted to himself, running a finger over the plastic, and rotating it in his grip. Must have malfunctioned.

"Hey honey," he spoke loudly, frowning as his eyes tore the device in his hand apart, "I think I need to run into town, this thing –"

His words stopped almost as suddenly as he swore his heart did.

There was a flash.

A pulse.

A wave of orange invaded his vision, and for that one second the world froze. Clint couldn't breathe, his lungs burned, he felt numb –

"…Clint…"

There was a sharp burst of pain that shot across his skull so suddenly that he gave a strangled gasp and slammed his eyes shut, lifting his shaking hand to his temple as he reeled from the shock.

Another pulse.

Confusion clouded his eyes when he opened them again to find the world around him buzzing with life, no hint of what had just hit him being reality. He froze exactly as he was for a hard moment with one hand clamped firmly to his temple while the other held what he had thought was a defective hearing aid. He had heard that voice with it in…how did he hear it without? He frowned before he raised his eyes to the scene before him again. From the porch he could see Laura waving to him, her mouth moving in what was obviously a call for his attention – and after a moment he raised his shaky hand that held his hearing aid to show her that he couldn't, right then, hear what she was saying. He finally got it back into position and sighed with relief when he could hear running footsteps (undoubtedly Kate's) through the leaves to where he was.

"Clint! Clint," the young woman called to him, coming to a screeching halt in front of him while hesitantly reaching out to touch his arm, "Are you okay? You just went all pale and then you looked like you were hurt –"

"I'm fine," he finally rasped out, calmly reaching up to pat the worrying hand on his arm, "I'm just…"

Hearing voices.

"Thinking this stupid hearing aid is giving up the ghost."

He glanced around sharply for a second, another quick checklist, and then gave her a calming look.

"I'm gonna run up to the house and see if I have my spare still. If I can't find it, you up for a run into town?"

He enthusiastic response didn't land with him, but he smiled at her anyway. She dismissed herself to jog across the yard, hollering a fake war cry as she decided to join in the leaf fight that was being conducted across the way. On a normal day it would have brought at least a spark of amusement to Clint's bruised heart but today it brought a different feeling – and that feeling had him moving with a purpose across the distance to the house. Without a word he opened the porch door and slipped inside, almost soundlessly gliding up the stairs to the office that was adjacent to his and Laura's room.

This was a room that only he found use in; it was his room of thought, and thinking was the one thing he had to do right now. With a sharp inhale he gently closed the door and flicked the knob locked closed…. And as soon as he was certain that those he protected were out of harm's way of his fear he brought both hands to his face to rub it down. He tried hard to inhale as his feet moved, setting him on the marching path that he began to lay out.

What the hell was that?

Was that some side effect of his sleep change?

How the hell was he hearing voices that he didn't know?

Better yet, do one better: how in the hell was he hearing voices that he didn't know when he didn't have his hearing aid in?

His steps were light, but quick as his body did exactly what it was trained to do at that moment: burn off the excess adrenaline with its own mechanics so that his mind was free to work. Back and forth. Back and forth. Almost no sound as he moved. Back and forth.

What the hell was happening?

As if in response, his head was victim to another sharp pain, and as he took in a shuddering breath and began to move his hand up to investigate… it happened again.

A pulse.

A heartbeat.

A wave of orange that stole his breath.

"…Clint…"

This time, the voice sounded as though it were calling to him – and when it spoke a deep, icy agony shot through his veins. He wanted to respond, demand of whatever the hell this was to show itself so he could pummel it himself but the air was suddenly gone from the room.

Then suddenly it came rushing back.

A pulse, a heartbeat, and then a rush of sound…

Clint took in a demanding breath, barely able to catch himself as he stumbled forward in the shock of his body being ricocheted from one reality to another. A couple of deep gulping breaths later he wheeled himself around in a fighting stance, ready to destroy whoever (or whatever) had the audacity to even try to catch him off guard. There was, predictably, no one there. The ache was still present, deep in his mind, and for a hard moment he began to ponder what was happening.

A soft knock on the door drew his attention. He had forgotten where he was. Taking a moment to square his shoulders and fix his disheveled look, he wandered across small expanse of the room and opened the door, allowing his wife to enter. Laura quickly slipped into the room with him and closed the door behind her, both of her hands reaching out to lay on the worn, tired face of her husband. Their eyes locked and, to Clint's dismay, there was unmasked fear in the irises that pinned his down.

"Honey I…. what's happening?"

She wasn't asking him about his hearing aid. She wasn't asking him about his pretend headache. She wasn't asking why he had rapidly separated himself and flown to the safest nest he could find. Of course she would have picked up on it… of course she would have felt his soul tearing. It was as Tony had once whispered in the barn:

'Missus Barton, you little minx.'

Clint suddenly felt so tired, so lost, so small. He didn't have an answer for her, he couldn't calm her mildly panicked mind as she attempted to logically justify what was happening to him. To them. His eyes bore into hers with a heaviness that broke her heart – his means of offloading that burden was gone. What was left of his resolve had died with Nat… and getting Clint to allow her to bear half of the burden of his soul was one of Laura's single failures.

Her husband raised his hands to softly touch her cheeks, giving her a gentle sigh.

"…I don't know," he offered in a graveled whisper, "I don't know. We just have to hope it'll pass."

She shook her head gently. His eyes wandered from hers, his mind very far away.

"Honey," she started, and when he didn't move she tried again, softer, "Honey."

He hesitantly looked back to her. She searched his eyes for an answer. All she got was pain.

"Maybe you should call him."

"Laura –"

"Baby maybe he can help you," she practically begged of him, and his mind froze at that.

After a long moment he sighed, pulling his hands from her face and grabbed her own from his, giving them a squeeze.

"Okay," he whispered back to her, that exhaustion creeping back again, "I will."

"Promise me."

He said nothing, but what Laura saw in his eyes satisfied her enough to give him a smile – and with a squeeze of her hands she brought his knuckles to her lips, planting a soft kiss on the scarred skin there. Clint watched her, confused, as she then extracted her hands from his and headed back to the door. Before opening it, she turned one final time to sign to him:

'WE WILL BE FINE. CALL HIM.'

And with that she was gone, the door to the room gliding shut behind her to give her husband his space. Clint didn't know how long he stood there staring at the door nor how long it took him to finally pull the phone from his back pocket, but when he came back to reality he found himself hunched over in his computer chair in defeat.

The iphone in his hand suddenly seemed to weigh a thousand pounds instead of its start insignificant mass, and his heart thrummed with ache. The screen lit up at the click of the power button an he absently scrolled to the contacts it held, and upon clicking on a particular name, he froze. He didn't want to do this.

What was the point?

Could he not have his peace?

A sharp pain jolted through his skull again and reflexes made the decision for him, his thumb twitching enough to select the 'call' button. He floundered momentarily, debating on hanging up when a voice rang through from the other side.

"….lint?" was all he could pick up from the device before he shakily brought it to his ear.

"Clint? Buddy?"

Hawkeye couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face at the familiar tone.

"Hey Bruce."

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Thus begins the Soul Keeper, what I hope to be the best story I have ever written. I appreciate everyone's time and feedback – please stay warm and enjoy the peace of the season.

Happy Writing,

Elaine