Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
Thanks to those who reviewed Chapter Eight: phoenixqueen, tpt player 5701, JRBarton, Jewls58, Shazrolane, VioletBrock, BatmanOtaku, truefairytales, Viviannafox, GremlinX, FourHorses, kimbee, Reteka Hyuuga, Cadet Eyes, GreenLoki, Saffygirl, Sam Mayer, Kylen, awkward hawk, Kiiimberly, Maire Caitroina, TLDT, Reading4Ever, Anon, ladybug114, jaguarspot, CyanB, RubyJohnson1123, Eringo94, Lollypops101, Kait-WIN3, books101, bookworm1517, Sandy-wmd, JennyBunny65, hawkeyeforever, penguincrazy, Melissa, lackam, R1dDL3M37h15, thababes, rose, patty cake rocks, weemcg33, ch33tahp4w, Arquenniel, THE-HOLY-TRINITY, YukinaKid, DBhawkguy30, isi7140, Dsgdiva, Squirrel the Man, Rollin'Jane, horselover28, Waterlilies, silvershadowrebel, oO-MidsummerDance-oO, discordchick, and coastalcajun
Shout out to those who figured out the song this time around: Cadet Eyes, Reading4Ever, RubyJohnson1123
To tpt player 5701: I won't post which story is coming next until the end of this one :) Thems the rules! Well...my rules at least... :D
To kimbee: you are awesome...you just threw out a Star Wars quote in a review. Simply AWESOME! And the story where Coulson and Bryan saved Clint was the tale end of What No One Else Sees.
To Cadet Eyes: the cockroach line wasn't intended to be a shout out to Supernatural, but now that you mention it, I totally can see how I could have played it off as one. If you're a fan of that show, then I'm sure you are just as excited for the next season that starts in just a little over a week!
To GreenLoki: I'm glad you figured out why you weren't getting the alerts! A few others mentioned having the same problem for the same reason! So glad its sorted now! PS - always love your reviews :D
To Maire Caitroina: the story you're waiting for is "Germany" its one where Natasha is the one getting the majority of the whump and Clint has to deal with that :D
To jaguarspot: so you're review got me thinking...and I realized that I had neglected to put those reactions you spoke of INTO the story...*shakes head*...however, you inspired me, so this story will now be THIRTEEN chapters instead of twelve! I just hope I can get the necessary additions done in time! lol
To R1dDL3M37h15: the quote was from Chapter 5 when Clint says "I say we kill some sons of bitches and we raise a little hell." to quote Dean from Supernatural Season 2 finale I believe :D
To Arquenniel: I realize you're right, I haven't adequately described Williams' appearance. Picture graying hair, dark eyes, mid-fifties, not necessarily fit, but not heavy either...he looks very normal really
To isi7140: yes, when you pointed out the similarities between Phil's reaction in Croatia and Clint's reaction here, you were totally right :) It was intentional because while Clint DID react more violently than Phil tends to, they both care about the other so deeply that that sudden fear of loss sends them into a form of shock. So sorry I didn't shout out to you earlier about that!
Very special shout-out to JRBarton because she saw the Fourie/Williams connection way back in Chapter 6 and I completely forgot to shout out to her yesterday when I gave a virtual high five to those who pointed out the connection after Chapter 7 :( For that error, I now give her a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie the size of Texas!
Thank you to Kylen for her beta-ing :) She did some preliminary role playing with me about Williams to help me make sure I had a handle on where I wanted this to go. I'm not sure how much of that original stuff I actually used, lol, but I figured she deserved the shout out for that anyway
Wow that was A LOT of notes to people :D I don't mind though! I love answering questions - and sometimes teasing you by NOT answering lol. But I'll put up and shut up now so you can get to reading!
This story is dedicated to Kylen
On to Chapter Nine...
The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them.
Lois McMaster Bujold
Clint held the top of his phone against his mouth for a long moment, his eyes on the bathroom doorway – the conversation with Wilson replaying in his head.
Phil would be okay. Wilson had all but promised him as much.
It had been almost thirty minutes since Natasha had sent the recording in to Hill. And knowing Hill, she was going to run every test known to man to make sure it was legit before she brought it to Fury. That was fine by him. That meant they couldn't try and ignore it. It also hopefully meant Clint would be getting the call soon.
And then he'd end this finally. Two to the heart, one to the head. Old-school assassination. Then he could maybe, maybe put Brianna Williams and her father in his rearview.
Clint felt a frown turn down the corners of his mouth. But maybe there was something he needed to do before that could happen. Abruptly he stood from the chair Natasha had pushed him into only a few minutes ago and headed for the bathroom.
"Clint?" She sounded wary – for good reason. He had nearly killed the man how many times in the last hour?
Clint met her eyes over his shoulder, letting her see that he didn't have violence on his mind at this particular moment.
"I'm just gonna talk to him."
She narrowed her eyes but nodded slowly, allowing him to proceed without interference.
Clint moved to lean against the bathroom doorframe, folding his arms over his chest almost casually. He looked down at Williams, who – warily this time – raised his eyes to him. One of them was halfway to swelling shut, and blood was still dripping in grotesque patterns from the cuts Clint's fists had opened on his face. His breaths were a little closer to gasping than they had been before and there was a distinct wheeze with every inhalation.
"I have something to say to you."
Williams arched an eyebrow in vague curiosity, but the look in his eyes wondered what Clint could ever say to him that he would be interested in hearing.
"I'm sorry." Clint made sure to hold Williams' gaze. "About Brianna."
"Don't you say her name." Williams hissed suddenly. "Don't say her name like you knew her."
Clint inclined his head slightly in deference. He hadn't known her. And he knew too well the importance of names. There was power in a first name and he guarded his fiercely.
They stared at each other for a long, tense moment.
"We found him, you know." Clint informed him quietly. "The man who hired me to kill her."
Williams' eyes narrowed.
"He's in Athens. We were going to leave to get him…" Clint huffed in vague surprise, "today actually. I was gonna deliver the asshole to you with everything short of a bow."
The council member sneered.
"He's not the one who killed her."
"No…" Clint allowed, "that was me. But as you've taken great pleasure in reminding me…I'm just the bullet in the gun. I hit what I get aimed at. Gerard Maskov – he aimed me at your daughter and pulled the trigger."
Something flashed through Williams eyes at the mention of the man who'd hired Clint all those years ago, but now wasn't the time to start digging out that particular skeleton.
Williams shook his head, hate practically dripping from his eyes as he stared at Clint.
"You could have said no. But you didn't. You murdered her. That was your choice."
Clint fought back a flinch. He knew it was true – he hadn't spent the last seven years hating himself because he hadn't had a choice. He hated himself because he had and he hadn't found another way. He'd chosen to be a killer.
He'd been weak. He knew it then and he knew it now.
"You could have given me that man and it wouldn't have changed anything. I'd still want you dead. I'd still want you to die bloody and screaming."
"And collateral damage be damned?" Clint challenged darkly.
Williams smiled and it was an ugly thing to see.
"All for the greater good. And believe me – you dead is the greatest good there is."
Clint shook his head sadly. This man hated him so much he'd been willing to sacrifice anything and anybody that got in his way. So many innocent people had died in the name of his blind vengeance.
Williams scowled.
"How can you look at me like that? Like I'm the worst person you've ever faced? When you killed an innocent girl…when you saved Romanoff?"
Clint's eyebrow twitched at the dig at Natasha and he sighed.
"Because I look at people and I see what no one else does. I see what they really are."
Williams glowered at him.
"And you can look at me and say I deserve to die when she," he jerked his head towards the door, towards Natasha, "didn't? You could slit my daughter's throat but you couldn't kill her?"
Clint shook his head. William didn't get it.
"Who I was when I was sent for Natasha – that's not who I was when I was sent for your daughter. I wasn't seeing through the same eyes."
Williams scoffed.
"And what did you see? When you looked at…" he suddenly seemed to struggle to breathe, "when you looked at Brianna…what did you see? Why…" The man's pain was palpable. "Why didn't she deserve to be saved?"
Clint clenched his jaw, his own pain rising to echo Williams'. No matter what this man had done, Brianna Williams had been his daughter. Clint owed her the truth at least.
"I saw a pay check." The admittance caused a sharp pain his chest and he let Williams see a reflection of that in his eyes. "But I was lost back then. I was nothing but darkness. I'll always have her blood and the blood of hundreds of others on my hands. I know that. I would do anything to take it back, but I can't."
Williams sneered, his disbelief evident in his expression.
"Don't pretend you feel anything. You expect me to believe that you even know what regret is? That you have any idea what pain I feel because of what you did?"
"You think I don't hate myself for what I did?" Clint shot back sharply. "You think I'm some sociopath that doesn't feel anything? You're wrong."
"Am I?" Williams scoffed.
"Why the hell do you think I took the job when Phil offered it? Why do you think I couldn't kill Natasha when the time came? Because I didn't want to be that man anymore. I didn't want to be the man that killed your daughter. I wanted to be better."
Williams shook his head with a derisive snort.
"What makes you think I care?"
Clint drew back as if the man had hit him.
"You killed my daughter, Barton. You think I give a damn about your useless quest for redemption?"
The words slid out of Williams in a low, spiteful tone.
Clint almost took a step back. Williams didn't care. He didn't care that Clint hated himself for killing Brianna. He didn't care that Clint had been trying to make it right for the last seven years. He just didn't care. All the man could feel was his hate. It had become the only thing that mattered to him.
Clint could only stare at him as Williams went on, each word more full of hate than the last.
"She had the world in front of her. She wanted to be a nurse, go to third-world countries and help people. All she cared about was helping others – never about herself. I had to beg her to take that trip, to enjoy her life before she gave it away for others. And you murdered her." Williams looked suddenly defeated and heartbroken. "Why? Just tell me why?"
Williams was being purposefully dense. He couldn't just accept that it had been business to Clint – not personal. Clint was tired of being talked to like a psychotic serial killer that preyed on young women.
"Because I got offered a contract and I took it." He growled, his tone low and hard. "She was just a name to me. I didn't know who she was and I didn't care. It was my job."
Clint blew out a breath, unfolding himself from the doorframe.
"And I get it. You hate me. I get it. And if you had just come after me, I would have understood! But you couldn't even do that. You couldn't step up and kill me like a man. All this cloak and dagger shit, trying to make it look like a mission gone sideways…." Clint shook his head, his glare darkening. "You're a fucking coward, Williams. And then you made your last mistake. You hurt my family."
Williams actually laughed.
"What family? Coulson? Romanoff? That doctor and trainer that you are so fond of? You think they actually care about you? That you're anything to them but a tool?"
Clint firmly ordered himself not to let his own insecurities rear their ugly head.
"They treated you like any other abused animal – show it some human kindness and it'll do whatever you want."
Clint fought not to flinch. Williams hit closer to the mark there than Clint figured he realized. Phillip Jacobs face flashed through his mind and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to clench his fists at his sides and give away the effect of Williams' words.
"Coulson staked his career on bringing you in. You don't think he would have done anything to keep from you proving to be the absolute failure we all expected? You think that's family? She was my daughter! My blood! All you are to them – all you'll ever be – is a tool!"
Williams shook his head in mocking sympathy.
"Poor little Clint with his dead mommy and daddy, with his brother that tried to kill him. Are you that pathetic – that you've convinced yourself you've found a family amongst liars and killers? You don't have a family, Barton. You never have and you never will."
Clint stepped back, retreating from the scathing words. How Williams knew about Barney was beyond him. Nobody knew about that – nobody but Phil, Natasha, and the people at Carson's. Though with seven years of obsession, he supposed the man had probably uncovered more than Clint would ever want him to know.
Clint didn't have a real family. He was an orphan with a brother that hated him.
But blood wasn't what made family. If Phil had taught him anything over the years, it was that. He squared his shoulders and faced Williams once more.
"You don't know me, Williams. You may know the facts – the sordid details of my," Clint threw up some sarcastic air quotes, "'troubled childhood'…but you don't know me. You don't know Phil. You don't know what he is to me, or me to him. You don't know Natasha, or Wilson, or Bryan…you definitely don't remember what family is – what it means. But…" Clint looked down as his phone started ringing in his hand. He smirked as 'Fury' lit the caller ID.
He brought the phone to his ear. Fury didn't even wait for him to answer before he spoke.
"They've issued the order. Kill the son of a bitch."
"Yes, sir." No sarcasm this time – no barely-hidden derision in the term that usually meant respect. Not this time. This time he'd never been happier to call Fury his boss – and the man deserved the respect that term demanded.
This time, at least.
Clint held Williams gaze as he lowered the phone, handing it off to Natasha who was suddenly at his shoulder.
"But…" he continued his previous train of thought, "you were right about one thing, Williams." Clint pulled one of his Desert Eagles from the holsters strapped to his thighs and chambered a round in one deft movement. "I am a killer." He calmly aimed the gun at Williams' chest.
For a long moment they just stared at each other.
"I'd give anything to be able to take it back." Clint stated quietly. "She didn't deserve to die."
Hate still poured from Williams in waves just as it had from the beginning. Nothing had changed – nothing Clint had said had mattered.
"No, she didn't. I hope you burn in hell for what you did."
Clint had no doubt that he would.
Without another word, he squeezed the trigger three times and it was over.
For a long moment, Clint stared at the body – hate-filled eyes finally closed. But Clint knew he deserved the hate. This had all started because he'd made a choice – a choice to be a killer. Brianna Williams had paid the price for that choice, and now so had her father.
Natasha's hand slid gently down his arm, her fingers wrapping around his where they clenched the gun grip too tightly. She squeezed his hand gently – a soft pressure that was both reassuring and grounding. Before he realized what she was doing, she slid the gun out of his hand.
"It's over now." Her words were a soft whisper against his ear, her voice a balm on his ragged emotions.
"It's over for him." Clint nodded slightly in Williams' direction. "It's over for Brianna." His fingers started to curl into a fist, but her hand in his stopped the action, she forced his fingers straight and entwined hers with his.
He didn't need to go on – she understood better than anyone ever would, even better than Phil.
It would never be over for Clint.
Because he was still here. He had to live every day with the knowledge of what he'd done. It would never be over for him any more than it would for Natasha. Her forehead pressed lightly against his jaw and for a moment they just stood there.
A couple of master assassins with patchwork souls.
Finally Natasha sighed, pressed her lips lightly against his jawline, and pulled away.
"I'll call it in."
Clint tightened his hand around hers when she started to pull away, finally pulling his eyes away from Williams.
"I'll do it."
Natasha nodded without argument and pressed his phone back into his hand. She waited until he turned to leave the bathroom and then followed, pulling the door shut behind them.
"I'll get our gear together."
He nodded and dialed Fury's private number – memorized years ago now.
"Barton?"
"It's done."
Fury sighed over the line, sounding weary and relieved all at once.
"Well done, Barton."
Fury wasn't talking about killing Williams – Clint could hear it in his tone. There was pride there. He was proud of Clint. Not for killing Williams now, but for not killing him before. Clint allowed himself a moment to bask in that knowledge before allowing a smirk to curl his lips.
"Now, now, sir," he threw as much sarcasm into that one word as he could manage, "don't go getting all mushy on me now. You caring is supposed to be kept between you, me, and the teddygram."
Fury's tone was as level as ever, but Clint could almost hear a smile in it.
"I torched that bear, Barton – with prejudice."
Clint let himself smile now as well.
"Sure you did – we both know you keep it locked up somewhere super secret. Probably in that safe, right along with your smile and that 'World's Best Super Spy' mug I got you for Christmas."
The pause on the other end of the line was… unexpected. Clint felt his eyes narrow curiously even as Fury came back with an abrupt subject change, voice painfully devoid of emotion.
"The Council wants to debrief you when you get back."
Damn, the man was good. Subject change – accepted.
"Do I have to?" If he sounded a touch whiny and petulant there, he blamed it on the exhaustion. Clint frowned as he suddenly tried to remember the last time he'd slept.
"It wasn't presented as a request."
Clint sighed.
"It never is."
"It won't be like before, Barton."
Fury actually sounded…sympathetic. The man had been at his shoulder every time he'd had to talk to the Council – and he'd protected him from them more times than Clint probably realized.
"Fine."
He could nearly hear Fury roll his eye. It hadn't been a request, so Clint knew his agreement hadn't really been needed.
"So glad you approve. Now get your ass back here."
Clint hesitated. He wanted to go back – wanted to see Phil alive and breathing more than he wanted anything right now.
But he couldn't go back – not yet.
"There's something I have to do first."
Natasha turned to face him, no confusion in her eyes, just acceptance. She'd probably known what he was going to do before he even decided himself.
"Is it something I need to know about?"
"Just need to right an old wrong."
Fury was silent for a moment.
"Do what you need to and then get back to the carrier."
Clint nodded.
"Should be back in a little over 24 hours."
"I'll send a team to clean up your current location. Tell Romanoff not to let you do anything stupid."
Clint rolled his eyes and hung up.
Natasha handed him his quiver – broken strap hanging loosely – and his bow.
"Ready?"
Clint nodded, accepting his Desert Eagle when she held it out to him. He brushed his finger across the safety, ensuring it was on, even as he slid the gun back into the holster on his thigh.
Together they headed for the nearest door. Clint held it open for Natasha to pass through first.
"I bet with the new jet we can make it to Greece in 12 hours flat."
Natasha rolled her eyes and muttered something in Russian about boys and their toys.
Natasha woke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the still unfamiliar interior structure of the new quinjets. She shook her head, rubbing her eyes tiredly before looking at her watch. She'd slept about four hours. She felt like she could sleep another fourteen. "Exhausted" didn't even begin to cover how she felt right now.
The sudden sharp rumble in her stomach caught her by surprise. The moment she acknowledged the rumble, the ache of hunger that she'd been keeping buried at the back of her mind surged forward, morphing into an annoying stab of pain. Her body suddenly seemed keenly focused on reminding her that she hadn't eaten since…she frowned…since the night of the attack.
Her eyes shifted automatically to the cockpit where she could see Clint in the pilot's chair, right where she'd left him. She knew for a fact he hadn't eaten in just as long. They had barely left each other's side in the chaos of the last 20-odd hours.
Suddenly determined, she dug into her pack, fishing out a bag of her special 'Tasha Mix' Clint made for her and a handful of protein bars.
She climbed to her feet and headed for the cockpit.
Her initial assessment indicated Clint hadn't moved a muscle while she'd been sleeping. He was sitting almost stiffly in the pilot's seat, harness unbuckled and hanging from either side of the chair. He had one foot braced on the flight console, his left elbow braced on the arm rest and his chin resting in his hand as he gazed out into the dark night around them. His right hand, the middle finger and knuckle swollen and bruised, rested lightly on his thigh.
He had no iPod out, no headphones snaking up to his ears. He wasn't even tapping his fingers to a beat only he could hear. He was sitting in absolute silence and stillness.
After getting a look at his face as she slid into the co-pilot seat, she realized he probably didn't have the energy to do anything but sit and exist. His eyes were red-rimmed and slightly sunken with dark smudges painting the pale skin beneath them. When he blinked, his eye lids looked bruised and his eyes were so bloodshot it hurt hers to look at them.
He needed to sleep.
When her eyes had started drooping four hours ago – five hours into their flight – he'd very gently told her to go get some rest. She'd tried to get him to join her for a full ten minutes before giving up. Now that her own exhaustion wasn't weighing her down quite so heavily, she was prepared to do battle over that point again.
But first things first.
She tossed a protein bar in his direction, frowning when he didn't make a move to catch it, instead just tracked its progress with his gaze and watched it land on his lap.
"Eat that."
She wasn't really expecting a fight on this particular subject. Eating was practically one of Clint's favorite pastimes. Even so, she held her breath while she waited for a response. Clint wasn't in his most predictable state at the moment. For all she knew, he'd throw the offering right back at her.
She released the breath silently when after a long moment of staring down at the protein bar, his right hand finally moved to grab it. He kept his damaged – if she had to guess, broken – middle finger as straight as possible while he brought the bar to his mouth, tearing into the plastic wrapper with his teeth.
Because apparently raising his head out of his hand was too much to ask.
He shamelessly tore off a large chunk of the wrapper and spit it out, letting the plastic flutter to the floor of the jet to be forgotten. Natasha didn't waste breath scolding him – she was too relieved that he was obeying without protest. He used his teeth to shift the bar out of the opening he'd created and took a bite.
Satisfied for the moment, Natasha set the rest of the protein bars she'd brought on the console – well within his reach – and pulled open her Tasha Mix.
For several minutes they both ate quietly. Natasha got up again, retrieving two bottles of water from one of the storage areas. The water was practically lukewarm, but it was wet and it would get the job done.
She unscrewed the cap of one and held it out to Clint. He wrapped the working fingers of his right hand around it and took a sip. He frowned immediately, giving the bottle a scathing glare. She was sure he was about to let loose with some sarcastic quip about the tepid water. His lips even parted as he drew in a breath in preparation to do just that. But then he blew out the breath and sighed, reaching to set the bottle precariously on the console without comment.
Phil would have reamed him for that if he were here. She felt herself smile slightly – more likely, their handler would just recap the bottle or move it to a safer location without a word. He seemed to be constantly counteracting the tornado that was Clint.
The smile faded as quickly as it had come – the reason Phil wasn't here coming back to her all too quickly. She sighed and watched Clint's profile. He'd torn into another protein bar – spit another wrapper piece on the ground.
He still hadn't said anything – still looked like death warmed over.
"When was the last time you slept?"
Clint blinked almost lazily and tilted his head in his hand to look at her. His brow furrowed in thought for a moment.
"I slept the night of the attack."
Natasha's eyebrow arched.
"For all of two hours – that hardly counts."
Clint frowned almost petulantly.
"I think it counts."
"It doesn't – especially when that was…" she glanced at her watch, "twenty one hours ago. And you barely slept the night before that either."
Clint shrugged one shoulder and shifted his gaze back out the front window.
"Clint."
It was rare that she used a tone that could be termed "gentle" when it came to Clint. She wasn't a nurturer. She'd sooner snap at him to get some sleep so he didn't get sloppy when they went after Maskov than try to coax him into it. Gentle just wasn't one of her personality traits.
But he'd been through a lot in the last 24 hours. If there was ever a time for her to handle him carefully, it was now.
For a couple minutes he just continued to sit in silence, staring out into the night. Natasha waited. She wouldn't push him – only Phil pushed Clint. She'd come a long way in her relationship with her archer; but, if anyone other than his beloved handler pushed him, Clint tended to push back – hard.
Finally, almost abruptly, he cleared his throat and lifted his head out of his hand.
"I can't sleep." He tossed her a sideways glance. "I tried while you were out but…" he shrugged and waved vaguely at his head.
Because that explained it all apparently.
Natasha blinked patiently at him, her gaze remaining expectant. She might not push him like Phil did, but she wasn't going to let him off that easy.
Clint shifted under her gaze and then glanced at her again. She barely held back a smirk when he rolled his eyes and sighed.
"I can't stop thinking about her."
Her. Brianna Williams.
Natasha's forehead creased sympathetically. She knew guilt. She felt it herself every time she thought of what she once was – of all the lives she took before Clint Barton crashed into her life.
But Clint had always taken his own guilt to heart – held it closer than she did. And he didn't let anyone share the burden. He talked through it with Phil as a coping mechanism, but he never really let himself off the hook.
He'd finally burned his ledger a few weeks ago trying to put those names to rest. He had just started trying to forgive himself for the choices he'd made back then. He'd just started trying to stop those names from haunting him.
Then Matthew Williams had attacked everything Clint cared about in the name of his dead daughter. And that ledger might as well be sitting in his hands right now for the weight she could see settled on his shoulders.
"What about her?" She asked softly, wondering what he'd tell her – if he'd tell her anything at all.
Clint rubbed his fingers across his jaw and kept his eyes trained on the black night around them.
"Her eyes."
The way he said it – the tone of his voice – she knew he was seeing those eyes right now. Brianna was haunting him, even while he was awake.
"She was so scared."
He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes wearily.
"I hated myself back then. Every breath I took, part of me wished it was my last. That night was one of the worst. She was so young, so innocent…and I slit her throat and didn't even flinch."
Natasha knew the feeling – knew how terrifying it was to take a life and realize you hadn't even hesitated.
"It was days like that I wished Barney's aim had been better, that I'd died in the mud and rain that day with his knife in my chest."
Natasha felt her breath catch in her throat as she listened. She watched him shake his head again, this time in a painfully familiar form of self-loathing. He tossed his half-eaten protein bar onto the console and let his head fall back against the headrest of his chair, his eyes falling closed.
"So weak."
She barely heard the whispered self-recrimination, wondered if she'd even been meant to.
She wasn't sure what he was classifying as weak – his decision to be a killer or that in his lowest moments he'd wished he had never lived to make that decision. Maybe it was both.
He pulled his head away from the headrest and that action alone seemed to take monumental effort. His bloodshot gaze returned to the black night.
"I never even thought of walking away, of letting her live. It never even crossed my mind."
Natasha frowned slightly at the subtle subject shift, but let it go.
"What does that say about me?"
That was a landmine of a question if she'd ever heard one. What did it say? That he was a murderer. That a paycheck had meant more to him than that girl's life. That he hadn't cared.
But Clint had cared. Natasha knew that better than anyone. He had cared more than he even let himself know. That caring – kept buried so deep that Clint rarely acknowledged it – was the reason she was still alive.
"It says you were protecting yourself."
His eyebrow arched in an expression so dubious and familiar that she almost laughed. Or cried…it would have been a toss-up at this point. Instead, she kept her gaze serious.
"You were trapped on a path you didn't want to be on." His mouth opened to protest, but she stopped him with a sharp quirk in her eyebrow. "Through your own doing," she allowed, "but trapped all the same."
His brow furrowed as he tried to figure out where she was going with this.
"You couldn't walk away. You knew that. You'd made too many enemies and honestly, what else would you have done?"
Clint titled his head slightly, acknowledging the truth of her words.
"So you made yourself not care. You told yourself that over and over until you believed it was true because if you hadn't…" Natasha felt her own breath catch, just thinking about the lost, broken teenager she'd never even known. She could see an echo of that teenager in Clint's eyes now. "If you hadn't, there wouldn't have been anything left of you for Phil to save."
He would have driven himself to an emotional breakdown long before Phil Coulson had found him in that alley. Either he'd have let himself get killed, done the deed himself, or he'd have been so far gone nothing would have ever brought him back.
She should know. She'd done the exact same thing – convinced herself she didn't care until a blonde assassin with blue-gray eyes had looked at her and called 'bullshit.' Then he hadn't given her a choice but to care again.
He'd told her that feeling is what made them human – what made them the good guys.
She almost smiled at the memory. No one, no one, had ever been brave enough to stand toe-to-toe with her like Clint Barton tended to. He challenged her every day without flinching. He looked her in the eye when everyone else looked away. He called her on all her bullshit and had never, not once, looked at her with fear.
Feeling might be what kept him human, but he was what did it for her.
She looked down at her Tasha Mix and had to fight back a sudden swell of emotion. How had she survived before him? She couldn't even imagine trying to without him now.
She actually jumped when a hand suddenly covered hers, squeezing gently to get her to loosen her suddenly-deadly grip on the plastic bag.
"You're gonna kill your Tasha Mix with a grip like that."
She blinked and shook her head – unwilling to let the conversation turn, to let him make a joke and go back to hiding behind his wall.
"What would I have done if you had let that happen? If you hadn't kept yourself whole enough for Phil to save?"
His hand tightened suddenly, even his broken finger contracting. She knew he was imagining that possibility – a possibility that ended with either her dead or still lost in the world of contract assassins.
She knew that thought terrified him. Just like the idea of Phil failing to save him terrified her. They meant too much to each other now for thoughts like that to pass peacefully.
"Maybe it's selfish," she continued in a soft tone, "but by not caring when you were seventeen…you were there to care the day you met me." She met his eyes. "You were there to care about everyone else you've saved since."
She could practically see names flashing through his mind – not of people he'd killed this time, but of people he'd saved.
"It doesn't make it okay. It doesn't mean you forget the people like Brianna." He visibly flinched at the name. "But you can't take it back, Clint." His jaw clenched tightly at that painful truth and she had to force herself to go on. "All you can do is put your head down, fight the good fight and do whatever you can to make it right and just…" she sighed, "hope it's enough."
"But it's not enough." He countered quietly. "It could never be enough."
"That," she squeezed his hand carefully, "that right there…that's what makes you the good guy."
His expression broke momentarily, as if the thought of him being good was too much to accept right now. Her heart pulled painfully. He didn't even know – had no idea – what he was to people like her, to people like Phil and Moreau and everyone else he'd saved over the years. In Clint's mind he would always be the villain of his own story. He would always be working towards redemption he didn't really believe he could achieve.
"It's supposed to hurt, Clint. You're supposed to feel guilty. Welcome to the human race, remember?"
He blinked, eyes flying to her at the familiar phrase. Natasha felt the corner of her mouth tug upwards.
"No returns, no exchanges. Comes complete with feelings and emotions – the good," she squeezed his hand again, "and the bad."
Clint's own mouth quirked in a shadow of his usual smirk.
"Sounds familiar."
Natasha's fledgling smile grew into a real one.
"You should listen. The guy that said it's pretty smart."
Clint scoffed and his smirk was suddenly out in full force.
"He's a genius."
Natasha huffed a slight laugh. The cocky bravado was familiar, comforting. She kept her smile as warm as she could manage.
"He's also one of the best men I know – and needs to remember that."
Clint's eyebrow twitched and he sighed, his hand tightening around hers.
"Careful, you keep feeding my ego like that and there won't be any room left for you on the jet."
Natasha rolled her eyes.
"Remind me to knock you down a peg in our next sparring match then."
Clint snorted.
"I think you're forgetting who won our last sparring match."
Natasha laughed as sarcastically as she could manage.
"You're gonna let that one little victory go to your head? Make that two pegs I need to take you down next time."
Clint rolled his eyes and reached for his abandoned protein bar, shoving all that remained of it into his mouth. He was forced to open his mouth very wide as he chewed and Natasha made a sound of protest.
"You're disgusting!"
"Y' s'y tha' like i's d' firs' time you re'lized it."
"God, Clint – chew first, talk later."
Clint chuckled, taking a little too much pleasure at her disgust. She was so relieved to hear the sound, she didn't immediately smack him for being an idiot.
Gerard Maskov shuffled into his kitchen with a yawn. He rubbed at his eyes, grimacing as the late-morning light filtered through the kitchen window. He pulled open the refrigerator and leaned over, staring at the contents.
The back of his neck prickled, and all at once, he realized he wasn't alone. A low voice tisked from somewhere behind him.
"You've slept half your day away, Maskov."
Gerard slowly stood, pulled his bathrobe closer around his body and turned.
"Is that any way for a responsible businessman to behave?"
A man and a woman.
The woman was beautiful – the kind of woman Gerard would normally pursue. This was the kind of woman that drew every eye when she walked into a room. Even the red, angry scrape on her cheek, the cut on her brow, and the bruises painting her skin did nothing to detract from her beauty. But the icy disgust in her gaze told him any attempts at flirtation would be flatly rebuffed – maybe even met with violence.
She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the door jam with her arms folded across her chest. It took Gerard a moment to draw his eyes away from that chest and to the room's other occupant.
The man was less remarkable than his counterpart. He was shorter than average height, maybe 5' 8" or 5' 9". While good looking – Gerard supposed – he wouldn't turn heads like his companion did. And the bruises and cuts on his face did nothing but make him look more intimidating – even though the man appeared casual and relaxed where he leaned back against the counter.
It was the black bow in the man's hand, though, that drew his attention and kept it.
The man smirked, shifting the bow so he held it in front of him – all but showcasing it.
"Something niggling in your brain there, Maskov?"
"Who are you?"
The man looked over his shoulder at the woman.
"Nobody ever remembers me. I'd be offended if…you know...it wasn't how I kept from being dead."
"At least every time people meet you it's like it's the first time." The woman shrugged.
The man tilted his head like she had a point.
"Endless first impressions…could be worse."
Gerard looked back and forth between them in confusion.
"Who are you?" He demanded for a second time.
The man looked back at him with a sarcastically shocked expression.
"Really? The bow didn't do it for you?" All traces of humor faded from the archer's expression. "How about the name Brianna Williams? That jog anything in that steel trap of yours?"
Gerard frowned. Brianna Williams. That had been so long ago – more than seven years. He eyed the bow again – and suddenly he remembered.
"Hawkeye."
"Give the man a prize." The words were humorous, but the voice lacked the tone to match.
"Why are you here? I paid you and we were done."
"Not quite." The man's tone was conversational, but everything from his stance to his expression screamed 'predator'. "You paid a seventeen year old to do your dirty work and you actually thought you could just walk away?"
Gerard arched an eyebrow, eyes shifting to the drawer next to his sink, where he knew a handgun was hidden.
"I believe that's exactly what I did."
He shifted his eyes away from the drawer, frowning when he saw the woman holding a gun – his gun – up for him to see.
"Looking for this?" She was practically purring and if Gerard weren't growing more concerned for his life by the moment, he might have let it turn him on.
"You've been a naughty boy, Maskov. Ordering hits on twenty-year-old girls who haven't done anything is a big no-no." Hawkeye set his bow on the counter, shaking his head mockingly.
The woman handed the gun to the archer, who took it, chambered a round and aimed it calmly at Gerard's head.
Gerard scoffed, hardly believing this was happening.
"You're a contract man – you got your money. I got my problem taken care of. End of story."
"What problem could she have been to you?" Maskov nearly took a step back from the sudden rage in Hawkeye's eyes.
"Not her – her father."
The archer frowned.
"Her father?"
"He and I were…business partners. Then the son of a bitch got greedy and needed to be taught a lesson."
The Hawkeye's frown deepened and the woman behind him mirrored the expression.
"What does it matter to you, anyway?"
The archer tilted his head suddenly to the side, his eyes growing dark and hard.
"You know, you're right." There was sarcasm in his expression, but there was a deadly darkness hidden just below the surface that made Gerard swallow in abrupt fear. "It doesn't matter."
Gerard saw the moment the assassin decided the conversation was over. He watched the muscles in his hand contract and had a single moment to imagine his finger squeezing against the trigger.
Clint watched Maskov's head snap back and his eyes followed the body as it crumbled to the floor.
Then it was over – just like that. He wanted so, so badly to put an arrow through the man's heart – a warning to the rest of the people like him that Hawkeye was still out there and that he was watching. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't let this be tied to him, to SHIELD. He hadn't even brought his quiver with him, removing the temptation all together.
"This all came back to Williams." Natasha shook her head as she stepped up to his shoulder, looking down at the body.
"Yeah, well…" Clint sighed, "we knew the contract had to have been issued for a reason."
"But Williams was in bed with this guy. He was betraying SHIELD long before any of this."
Clint shook his head. He couldn't quite believe it either. He wondered if this was information he should pass on to Fury. Though…that would mean admitting he was here.
He shook his head again.
"It doesn't matter now."
It was surreal. After everything, after seven years of checking his back for a knife courtesy of the Council, it was done. Williams and everything tying him and Brianna to Clint was gone – everything but the memories.
Natasha's hand slid around his, gently pulling the gun from his grasp. She grabbed a dishcloth from the edge of the sink and rubbed both of their fingerprints off the gun. Carefully, she set it on the counter.
"You okay?" She came to stand directly in front of him, staring up into his eyes.
He'd just killed an unarmed man in cold blood, without orders.
But killing had never really been the issue for him – which was scary enough to be disturbing if he let himself think about it too long. It was the reasoning. The reason he had to kill them. That's where he'd always gotten tripped up.
Clint had made it a habit – back in his contract days – to know whatever there was to know about the men and women that hired him. It had been insurance, a way to make sure he got paid. It also meant he knew about most of Gerard Maskov's dirty deeds from before he'd signed the dotted line with Clint.
"I'm not gonna lose any sleep over this one, Tasha. The way I see it, this one had been livin' on borrowed time for all the shit he'd done."
Natasha nodded, accepting his reply and sighed wearily.
Clint watched her for a moment – watching her glance around the kitchen, no doubt cataloging everything they needed to wipe down before they left. He felt the corner of his lips turn up in a small affectionate grin.
This woman – what had he done before her?
Without warning, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. Her arms came around his waist immediately in response and she turned her head, resting her cheek against his collarbone and turning her face into his neck. She sighed again, and he felt some of the tension leave her body.
"Thank you – for being here."
Her arms tightened around his waist briefly.
"You don't have to thank me – not for being where I belong."
Clint felt warmth spread through his chest and he smiled again. He drew in a deep breath and let it out.
"All right," he turned his head, pressing a quick kiss into Natasha's forehead, "let's get this shit done and go home."
End of Chapter Nine
Brianna Williams is one of those names that will always haunt Clint - but that's what makes him the archer we know and love. If it DIDN'T haunt him, that would mean he WAS the sociopath Williams accused him of being.
And yeah, Clint didn't have orders to kill Mascov...but nobody has to know about that ;D He did it for Brianna, that's all that really matters to him.
Now...I said yesterday that this was 12 chapters...due to the realization that some things needed to be added...it is now going to be 13...so yay! But I want to prepare you now JUST IN CASE...there may be a day or so delay when we get to where I'm revamping and adding...just because I need to get some writing done. I'm fairly certain I can get done before I get caught up to posting, but just wanted to issue fair warning :)
If I get down on my knees and beg, will you review? Cuz I'll do it - really I will...do you want to force me that low? huh? DO YOU? :D
And your preview
Startled voices of protest suddenly rose from somewhere outside of his door and Phil found himself smiling slightly in anticipation, his eyes going to the window that showed him the hallway.
Sure enough, seconds later, his favorite archer came stalking into view.
Clint's eyes found his through the window only to break contact a moment later as he practically ripped open the door.
"Clint…"