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. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers. The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi.
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"
Alrighty, thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 12: Carolinagirl117, Lollypops101, GremlinX, LostHawk, Littlethormaid11, weathergirl17249, Batghost, CyanB, R1dDL3M37h15, Sandy-wmd, BatmanOtaku, discordchick, ELOSHAZZY, RAGAnne, Nire93, Alice of Scots, BooksAreMedicine, weemcg33, ladybug114, Viviannafox, thababes, JRBarton, Footprints In The Snow, Wolfsdrache, tyler broseph, jaguarspot, piper, truefairytales, yevguine, Kirstiej104, donttouchlola447, ILuvClintasha, GreenLoki, Sara, Kels, Qweb, GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen, Arlothia, and animexluva13
You can guess the song up until I tell you what it is in the final chapter!
As usual, thank you to my wonderful betas Kylen and JRBarton. Who knows where i'd be without them :)
to tyler broseph: I haven't read the secret avengers comic series! So there is actually a comic with epic Phil/Clint bromance?! I need to find this!
to jaguarspot: well...your theory was very thorough and i'm quite impressed by it! However, as I'm sure you guessed, I'm not gonna indicate one way or another my stance on Phil's fate ;)
to GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen: I do watch Arrow, have since it started. She wasn't my favorite either, and I thought that if someone had to die, I'd prefer it to be her instead of say...Thea or Diggle. However, when I actually watched it, I found myself devastated. I'm curious why the writers chose to kill of anyone, honestly. We all hated Dharke enough already...and I'm getting kind of tired of the same old 'we're gonna confront dharke!' then 'oh crap the magic has beaten us again' I mean...come on guys, you have GOT to try a new angle. Uh...sorry...went on a mini rant there.
Now, on we go!
Last time in The Untold Stories:
Then she did the only thing she could. She curled her body around Clint's and closed her eyes.
To her surprise, sleep came quickly.
It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather, we should thank God that such men lived.
George S. Patton Jr.
April 14, 2012
12:02 p.m.
Undisclosed safe house in Brooklyn
Clint woke abruptly, the vestiges of some dream he couldn't remember receding like the tide.
A sound off to his right had him instinctively reaching for the weapon he usually kept hidden under his pillow. His hand met nothing but empty sheet.
Adrenaline flooded his system, banishing the last remnants of sleep and sending energy surging through his body. He twisted up in the bed, looking towards the sound he'd heard.
A partially closed bathroom door.
He knew that door.
He glanced around sharply.
He knew this room.
It came back then, every horrible detail of the last few days.
He was in Brooklyn, his and Natasha's safe house. They'd come here after watching Loki leave. He'd been exhausted, operating on nothing but stubbornness and force of will. He'd been ready to sleep for a week, then she'd told him…
Phil.
He sat up slowly, putting his feet on the floor and bracing his elbows on his knees. He dug his fingers into his hair and let his hands hold his head up.
He heard the bathroom door shift and sensed her hesitate at seeing him conscious, but then she was moving towards him.
"How are you feeling?"
He scrubbed his hands down over his face and sighed.
How was he feeling? Surprised that other than some vague memories of terror, he didn't really remember having any nightmares – or at least didn't remember waking from one.
Beyond that…he didn't want to think about it, definitely didn't want to talk about it.
"What day is it?" he asked instead.
"Saturday."
He frowned. Last he remembered it was midafternoon on Friday.
"What time is it?"
"Just after noon."
He huffed in something like shock. He'd slept over 19 hours…or had been unconscious for that amount of time. Either way you looked at it, his body had obviously called a time out without consulting him.
The bed dipped as she sat next to him.
"Feel up to eating?"
He needed to, he knew he did. His stomach felt hollow and achy. His body was telling him clearly that he need to provide it with fuel. But he couldn't find it in himself to muster any enthusiasm for the process.
So he shrugged noncommittally.
She, apparently, took that as a 'yes' because she stood and headed to the kitchen. He spent the minutes she was gone plotting his trek to the bathroom. His left leg from knee to ankle just kind of radiated pain, so he resigned himself to limping it.
He looked down at the offending joints and was vaguely surprised to see them both wrapped in Ace bandages. Natasha had been busy.
Levering himself off the bed was embarrassingly difficult. Every bruise battled to make itself known, every cut and scrape warred for attention. His ribs screamed in protest and his head swam as soon as he was vertical.
But stubborn refusal to pass out again kept him conscious and a hand on the bedside table kept him from going to the ground. Once he was reasonably certain consciousness was firmly in his grasp, he pushed off the bedside table and began his pathetic limping hobble towards the bathroom. Forcing himself to walk smoothly yesterday hadn't done him any favors. There was a reason you were supposed to favor injured joints.
Once he was in the bathroom and had the counter to lean on, movement became easier. Once he'd relieved himself, washed his hands and face and brushed too many hours' worth of grime from his teeth, he felt passably human again.
Natasha was putting a plate of food on his bedside table when he re-emerged.
"I went to the corner store this morning to get something other than the emergency rations and canned goods we keep here. So lucky you, you get real food." She also brandished a blue Gatorade with flourish and set it next to the plate.
The sandwich was compiled of everything he loved about sandwiches, loads of meat and several different types of cheese. She'd added her own touch by trying to sneak some lettuce and, if his eyesight served, a tomato in there too.
He hobbled back to the bed and sat, reaching for the food.
"Wait."
He paused, hand outstretched.
"Sit back, let me get some more ice on that ankle and knee."
Clint was still puzzling over the 'more' part while she headed back to the kitchen and had only just started to shift to sit against the headboard when she returned.
She carefully arranged the reusable ice packs on his injured joints and then sat at his hip, watching him take a bite of his sandwich.
That was when he remembered he was down a molar – again.
"You look like shit." Insulting from anyone else, the way Natasha said it was endearing. Just the right amount of caring and worry mixed in with the no-nonsense hard-ass he adored.
"Well, I feel worse," he admitted around a bite of sandwich. Nineteen-plus hours of sleep hadn't done much of anything but allow him to be more cognizant of just how much abuse his body and mind had taken. Everything ached and his head felt like it'd gotten slammed in a car door.
Natasha just gave him a sympathetic grimace and looked down at her phone when it buzzed in her hand.
She scowled slightly at the screen and then clicked it off, looking back up to meet his gaze again. He arched an eyebrow in question.
"What?" she asked blankly.
"Debrief?" he asked knowingly. He was amazed he'd gotten away with being out of contact this long.
She nodded.
"Fury wanted us to come in as soon as you were conscious," she explained, but then went on, "I'm seriously considering telling him you're still out of it and buying us a few more hours."
Clint shook his head.
"I want to put this nightmare to bed and be done with it."
He also wanted to keep busy. He'd do whatever he could to make clinging to the numbness easier.
"Fine." She sighed and unlocked her phone screen again. "But last I checked you'd wanted to avoid talking about what happened with Loki."
She had a point, but that had been before. Before he knew about… He sighed. Just before.
Now he welcomed the distraction of thinking about those two days of hell. But thinking about it, did not mean talking about it. He was going to do his level best to convince Fury and everyone else that he didn't remember a damn thing that happened. Maybe he could even avoid the shrinks that way.
"It's not like I remember anything anyway," he perpetuated the lie.
"That must be driving you crazy," she commented as she typed on her phone. She looked up as she hit 'send.' "Not being able to remember any of it."
He nodded because it was what she'd expect.
"But like you said," she went on, "maybe it's for the best."
He nodded again, firmly shoving away the tendril of guilt worming its way up in his gut. The lie was better than the truth. It was better than her worrying even more.
"Finish up," she nodded at his sandwich, "Fury's sending a jet. We need to drive out to the RV."
He dutifully raised his food to his mouth and took a bite, chewing mechanically. He tried to pretend it wasn't tasteless in his mouth and that he wasn't fighting the urge to throw it all back up.
April 14, 2012
1:45 p.m.
Fury's office, SHIELD helicarrier
"Nothing?" Fury asked incredulously.
He watched Barton blink slowly at him across the desk and then offer a variation of the same reply he'd offered the other two times he'd asked over the last hour.
"Not a damn thing."
Nick was leaning back in his desk chair, hands steepled in front of his chest. He'd been surprised when Barton claimed no memory of his time with Loki. And as he listened to Barton calmly and repeatedly deny it, Nick had become certain of one thing.
They'd taught the kid to lie too damn well.
Romanoff seemed to have already come to terms with it, for now at least. But Nick, he remained skeptical. There was no reason for his skepticism. Barton showed no physical tell, no psychological tick to indicate he was lying.
And maybe that was the concern. Barton wasn't showing much of anything. He was just a shade above disassociated, was barely remaining engaged in the conversation but to repeatedly deny any knowledge of his two days as a prisoner of war.
The Clint Barton he knew was almost hyper-aware. He was observant to the point of it being listed as a 'tactical skill' in his file. Disassociated was not a term he could ever recall applying to the archer.
But then, he knew about Phil now, and that was most likely the root of the issue.
He wasn't sure what he expected, maybe for all the emotion Barton tended to keep locked down to finally break free. Maybe he expected grief to show or anger. He hadn't expected this, for Barton to have just withdrawn into himself.
Though it fit, he supposed. It was what he'd been like when Phil recruited him. Only now, Phil wasn't here to break through that steel-reinforced shell.
Nick had an idea of what to do about that, though. There was no one man that could replace Phil Coulson, but a team of men? Maybe they could.
With a sigh, he stood and moved to look out the large windows that showed him the deck of the carrier and the ocean beyond.
"I'm enacting protocol Delta-66," he announced without turning. He saw Romanoff's head perk up in the reflection of the glass, but Barton just blinked slowly.
"You want us to go to ground?" Romanoff asked in vague confusion.
Nick turned then and met her questioning gaze.
"I think it's for the best."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Why? Is the Council forcing the issue?"
"In terms of culpability in recent events, Barton won't be pursued for prosecution at this time. This isn't about the Council." Not entirely, at least. He'd managed to persuade them to hold off on their inquisition, to give Barton time to orient himself after the mind control.
He watched understanding dawn in Romanoff's gaze and she slid a look at Barton, who was still staring out the window. Fury took a breath and returned to his seat, sitting down with a sigh.
"Barton," he called firmly. When he received no response, he sharpened his tone and raised his voice slightly. "Agent Barton, you'll put your eyes on me when I'm addressing you."
Slowly, Barton's gaze shifted, coming to rest on Fury's without actually lifting his chin from his fist.
Nick couldn't even find it in himself to be pissed, not after everything that had happened.
"I know what he meant to you – maybe you think I don't, but I do. I'd have to be blind in both eyes not to, and even then it'd be damn hard to miss. So I know."
Barton just blinked, his expression unchanged.
"So you're going to take some time to deal with this," he glanced at Romanoff, "both of you. I want you to go as far as you can, as fast as you can and get some distance from everything that's happened."
"When?" Romanoff asked quietly.
Fury sighed and fixed his gaze on Barton's again.
"There's a memorial for those fallen tomorrow and Agent Coulson's funeral will follow on Monday. Consider yourselves on leave immediately following."
Barton held his gaze steadily, but Nick would have to be completely blind not to see the flash of emotion even Barton couldn't hide at the mention of Phil. Almost immediately, Barton's gaze cut away.
"And until then?" Romanoff asked.
"Keep low, rest up, recover…" he continued to watch Barton stare out the window, "as best you can at least."
She nodded.
"How long do you want us to stay under?"
"As long as you need."
What he meant was 'as long as she could reasonably expect Barton to remain sidelined' and she could tell by her slight nod that she heard what he wasn't saying. Barton didn't do inaction well. He knew he could only reasonably expect Romanoff to keep him off grid for a couple weeks at most. As soon as he was healed physically, he'd be itching to get into the field, to be doing. He had an operator's mindset, always had. More than that, though, Nick expected he'd need the distraction.
He wasn't ready – given Barton's lack of participation in the conversation thus far – for the archer to suddenly speak up in a hard tone.
"No."
Nick blinked.
"No?" he questioned with a slightly disbelieving scoff. "'No' to which part?"
"All of it," Barton lifted his chin from his hand and sat back in his chair, meeting Nick's gaze unflinchingly. "We're not going to ground, we're not going to go skulk away and hide in the shadows. There's a job out there that needs doing." He tilted his head towards the window and the world that lay beyond it. "It's our job to do it."
"Barton…" Nick looked to Romanoff for some help, but she stayed silent, staring at Clint's profile until he slid his gaze over to meet hers. Then the two seemed to have some sort of telepathic conversation because she ended up nodding slightly. Then she faced Nick with the same resolve in her expression that Barton had.
"I don't need time," Barton explained firmly. "Time won't change a damn thing. What I need is to work."
Nick sighed and looked back and forth between them. Stubborn, the both of them.
"You aren't physically up to snuff, Barton, even if I had a mission for you. You've got some recovering to do before you can be considered mission ready."
"I'm good to go," Barton insisted immediately.
"I'm sure you'd like to think that. But I know the opposite to be so," Nick challenged.
Barton's eyes narrowed in defiance and Nick arched an eyebrow. To drive his point home, he started listing every little thing his keen gaze had noticed since Barton had walked into his office.
"The way you're breathing, you've got busted ribs. You keep squinting and averting your eyes from the light – tells me you've got a concussion. Then there's that limp you think you're hiding. How about the exhaustion? Or did Loki let you take a siesta during his bid for world domination? While we're on that subject, how about food? Am I wrong to assume you probably didn't get anywhere close to your three squares while under his influence? Am I missing anything?"
Barton's gaze lit with stubborn pride and he straightened in his seat, as if to try and start disproving Nick's claims right then and there.
"You need to take a breather, Barton. So you're damn well going to take it. I promised your handler a long time ago that I'd never send you into the field injured if I could help it and I can damn well help it now. You're sidelined and that's the end of it."
Barton's glare was heavy and dark and spoke very effectively to his emphatic disagreement without him ever having to say a word. Nick sighed. The last thing he needed was Barton to go looking for trouble in lieu of Nick serving it up to him on a mission platter.
"Two weeks, Barton. Take two weeks."
"Five days," came the archer's instant counter offer.
"Ten days," Fury negotiated.
"Seven."
"Ten – and I'll have a mission waiting for you when you report back."
Barton's intense gaze stayed locked on his for a long moment before he nodded.
Nick nodded in return and sat back in his chair.
"When you return, though, you'll both have a new overarching assignment."
Barton's eyebrow arched and he shared a look with Romanoff.
"You're both officially being assigned to the Avengers Initiative. You'll still carry out SHIELD-sanctioned missions when your skills are needed, but you'll spend the rest of your time serving as Avengers. Stark has offered his tower in Manhattan as a base of operations and residence for those involved. I strongly urge you both to take advantage of that."
Barton's eyebrow arched again.
"And by 'take advantage' you mean…" Barton trailed off skeptically.
"Consider it a strongly delivered suggestion."
Barton just continued to stare at him.
"For God's sake, Barton, do I need to make it an order?"
"To live with Stark?" Barton exchanged a doubtful glance with Romanoff. "Yes."
"Then consider yourselves so ordered."
Barton rolled his eyes and looked off towards the window again. Romanoff looked no more pleased with the newest development, but, ever the professional, she schooled her features to hide her annoyance and spoke with a level voice.
"You said you don't want us going to ground until after the funeral. Where do you want us until then?"
"Off the carrier for one. Pack your shit and lay low in that safe house you think I don't know about. Tension are high on board at the moment and I'd rather avoid any…incidents."
Incidents like an agent thinking Barton got off too easy, or maybe didn't quite buy the mind control story. The last thing he needed was Barton or Romanoff being forced on the defensive. They'd lost enough agents already.
"Anything else?" Romanoff asked, reaching to rub a spot between her eyes. For the first time Nick noticed how truly exhausted she looked. Barton wasn't the only one running on fumes.
"At the moment, no. Coulson didn't have any family, so you two ar-"
"Celine." Barton's voice interrupted, quiet but firm. "Somebody needs to tell Celine."
Nick squeezed the bridge of his nose. He'd forgotten about Phil's relationship with the Paris base operator. They hadn't exactly broadcasted a casualty list, so chances are she hadn't been informed.
"I'll do it," Barton went on, gaze traveling to meet Nick's. "It should be me."
"Clint are you sure you-" Romanoff spoke up quickly, but Barton silenced her with a glance.
"It should be me," he said again.
"Fine," Nick allowed. "Handle it." He waved a dismissing hand. "You can both go."
Romanoff stood, but Barton didn't move.
"Something else on your mind, Barton?"
"I want to see the security feed of Loki killing Phil," Barton stated bluntly and without preamble.
Fury was actually stunned, and he was rarely ever stunned.
Romanoff looked equally surprised.
"Clint…"
He stood now, ignoring Romanoff and bracing his hands on Fury's desk so he could meet Nick's eye squarely.
"I want to see it. I need to see it."
Nick stared back at him. It was a bad idea, the kind of idea that would only make everything worse.
"No," he denied firmly.
"It won't help, Clint," Romanoff added quietly.
"I don't care!" Barton practically growled. "Show me the damn footage."
"Barton," Fury stood, holding out a placating hand, "you need to take a step back…" He needed distance, not a front-row seat.
"I have a right to see it." Barton's voice was razor sharp now, and had dropped a level as his anger rose. "Phil's fucking last moments, Fury. How can you deny me that?"
How? Pretty damn easily.
"Because all it's going to do is hurt you," he snapped, leaning across the desk to glare right back at Barton. Then he took a breath and forced himself to calm down. Emotions were high across the board right now, somebody needed to stay in control. "And that's the last thing Phil would want."
He knew that to be fact. Phil would never want Barton to see what Loki had done.
"Clint, please," Romanoff's tone drew Barton's gaze immediately. Seeing she had his attention, she reached to rest a hand on his arm, either as a restraint or a comfort, it was impossible to tell. "You don't need to see it, Clint."
Nick could actually see Barton's shoulder's bow under the weight of her pleading. But then, like a snapped bow string, his posture straightened and he jerked his arm out of her grip, fixing his penetrating gaze back on Nick's.
"If you don't show me, I'll find someone that will."
Nick sighed. As if agents weren't jumping at the sight of Barton already, him going around threatening people into doing his bidding would only make it worse. Nick didn't need the headache and he didn't need the extra fires to put out.
I'm sorry, Phil. You raised him stubborn.
He sent a glance of apology to Romanoff.
"Fine, Barton."
He sat and a few moments later had the footage cued. He met Barton's gaze again.
"You can't unsee this, Barton. Are you sure this is what you want?"
The archer's response was to round the desk and send him a fierce glare.
"Get out."
Nick felt his eyebrow arch. Had he just been ordered out of his own damn office? He opened his mouth to tell Barton just where to put that command, but a hand on his arm stayed his tongue. Romanoff's look calmly asked him to just 'allow it'.
Nick sighed. He wasn't an idiot. He could see the razor's edge Barton was balancing on right now. He didn't want to be the one to shove him in the wrong direction. So he followed Romanoff to the door without comment and they left Barton alone.
"…I don't even know what it does. Do you wanna find out?...Ahh!"
Clint closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He heard the sound of Loki dropping Thor off the carrier and forced his eyes open again.
"You're going to lose."
He watched Phil draw Loki back, keep him from leaving.
"Am I?"
Loki moved back to Phil, towering over him.
"It's in your nature."
Loki practically scoffed, the arrogant bastard. Clint's hands clenched, the urge to do something with them – like kill Loki slowly and painfully – was overwhelming.
"Your heroes are scattered. Your floating fortress falls from the sky. Where is my disadvantage?"
Phil's reply was quick.
"You lack conviction."
Clint saw it. He saw Phil's hand shifting on the gun. Loki had fallen for the trap like a fly to honey.
"I don't think I…."
He took very little satisfaction to seeing Loki get blasted through the wall. It was hard to get too excited about it when Clint knew all too well that the bastard had lived to keep wreaking destruction.
"So that's what it does…"
Then he watched Phil start to die, slowly and alone. His chest suddenly felt like a vice was closing around it. He couldn't breathe. Phil sat there, with no one and nothing but the gun in his lap.
The comforting numbness Clint had been holding firm to since the rooftop in Brooklyn started to fade and everything he'd been trying to bury and ignore started to boil to the surface.
He should have been there.
If anyone should have been there with Phil, it should have been him. But instead he'd been trying to kill the woman who had come to mean the world to him, who completed the fractured pieces of his soul with the fractured pieces of hers.
He'd thought trying to kill her, trying to do worse than kill her, was going to be the lowest, most destructive part of Loki's mind-fuck. But it wasn't.
It was this.
It was watching Phil die as a direct result of Clint's plan, Clint's actions. He'd done this. He'd let Loki do this. He'd shown Loki what Phil was to him. He'd been too weak to keep him from that truth.
He'd been too weak to stop this.
He closed his eyes and clenched his hands.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry for the first time since he was 7 years old. He wanted to let the pain take root and let the anger take over.
But he didn't. He bit his lip until it bled and shoved the emotion away. He still didn't want to face it. Still couldn't. If he let himself fall apart, he was fairly damn certain he wouldn't be able to put himself back together again. So he buried it again. He shoved it deep and locked it down once again.
Phil would have been so angry. He'd always hated it when Clint shut down.
But Phil wasn't here. And right now Clint was going to do whatever he had to in order to keep it together.
So he opened his eyes, unclenched his hands, and looked back at the screen.
He continued watching with a level of dispassion that even he found slightly terrifying.
When he was sure Phil was going to just fade away with no one to see him go, Fury arrived. Clint could barely focus on the words they exchanged. Something about making something work, about giving 'them' something…
The Avengers. Right. Phil's death, apparently, united them.
Why they'd needed a motivator, Clint didn't understand. They were supposed to be heroes. Fighting evil was supposed to be their default setting. How was it that they hadn't been able to get their shit together until it was too damn late?
Clint fought down a wave of irrational anger and told himself to pull his shit together.
It hadn't been the fighting part the team couldn't get right; it was the doing it together. Phil had given them common ground they'd previously been lacking.
Except Clint.
He was the odd man out. He hadn't known about Phil during the fight in the city. He'd been motivated by two things – good, old-fashioned revenge and the even more old-fashioned need to protect people. It was his nature, or so Phil had told him. He was a protector in his heart, a defender.
And now he was supposed to be one of the Avengers.
Phil had told him, not so long ago, about his place on this team. He'd told him that Clint's name had been the first one ever added to the list, before they'd even known Rogers still lived or that Stark would become Iron Man, before Banner's lab accident or Natasha had proven herself loyal.
Clint's name had been first.
He'd never understood why, still didn't. He wasn't a hero. He was a grunt worker – a down and dirty hit man. He was the guy that did the dirty work so nobody else had to. He dropped the bodies that needed dropping and he eliminated the problems that needed eliminating.
He wasn't a hero. He didn't deserve to share the same title as men like Rogers or even Stark.
But apparently, he didn't get a choice in the matter.
He was one of them now, whether he wanted to be or not.
Phil finally got what he'd always wanted for him – his true purpose at SHIELD realized.
The footage cut out, just as one of the medics looked up at Fury and shook his head.
Clint immediately rewound it, watching it again. He paid closer attention this time, watching for details he missed the first time.
Then he watched it again.
And again.
He kept watching until he knew every frame by heart.
Only then did he sit back.
He stared at the screen, at the frozen frame of Phil's lax face.
It didn't feel real. It still didn't feel true.
He should feel it, the loss. There should be an emptiness. He'd known loss before. He remembered the day he truly realized his parents were gone forever. A hell of a way for a 6-year-old to spend Christmas, but one thing rang true…he'd finally known why his little 6-year-old heart had felt hollow. His heart had known what his head didn't yet. His parents were dead.
He should feel that same hollowness now, but he didn't.
Or maybe…maybe he'd just never filled the hollowness to being with. Maybe he wasn't as whole as he thought he was. Maybe the hollowness had just grown deeper with the loss of Phil.
Maybe that's why he didn't feel different, because he wasn't. He was still broken, just a little more now than he had been before.
Clint stood from the desk, doing his best to work the limp out of his step by the time he got to the door.
Fury was nowhere to be seen, but Natasha was waiting for him.
And so was Dan Wilson.
Clint nodded in return to the doctor's word of greeting and moved to stand with Natasha. She was studying him with startling intensity so he gave her a nod as well, trying to calm her fears.
No, he wasn't breaking down and coming apart.
Yes, he'd handled seeing Phil die with a relative sort of disassociated calm.
No, he didn't want to talk about it.
"You holding up, kid?" Dan asked him carefully.
Clint met his gaze and just stared.
It was a stupid question. Stupid questions didn't get answers.
There was no world where losing Phil would ever equate to him 'holding up.'
Dan nodded as if it was the exact response he'd expected.
"Sounds about right. Look, I wanted to talk to you two…" Dan shifted, shoving his hands into his pockets, his shoulders unnaturally hunched. "With everything that's happened," he lifted his gaze to Clint's, "which I hold you in no way responsible for – no way – I've decided to make some changes in my life. You two, I'm told, are moving up in the world, and this place just won't be the same without," Dan's voice caught and he cleared his throat. Clint noticed for the first time that the doctor's eyes were bloodshot and red, his skin pale. "It won't be the same without them…"
Clint frowned.
"Wait, what?"
Both Natasha and Dan stared at him. Clint looked back and forth between them.
"Them? Who else…" Clint trailed off as he put it together as he realized who else was glaringly absent. He met Dan's gaze, feeling his chest clench. "Todd?" he asked tightly.
Dan stared at him, eyes wide and looking every bit like a deer caught suddenly in the headlights of an oncoming Mack truck.
Clint felt the weight on his shoulders grow heavier and his stomach knotted. He looked from Dan to Natasha, his gaze hard and questioning.
"Is he dead?" he asked bluntly.
Natasha held his gaze unflinchingly, eyes apologetic.
"Yes," she answered quietly.
"Jesus Christ." Clint dug his palms into his eyes. The hits just kept on coming.
"I meant to tell you sooner," she explained carefully. "But with everything that you've been through…with what happened to Phil, I just didn't know how."
Clint dropped his hands and pulled away when she reached for his arm.
"It was fucking easy enough for you to tell me about Phil," he accused.
She flinched and dropped the hand she'd reached towards him.
"Clint, back the he-," Dan hissed lowly in warning, but Clint cut him off with a sharp look, warning him to stay out of it.
"That's not fair," Natasha replied sharply. "It killed me to tell you that."
"Just like it killed you to lie to my goddamned face when it suited you?" his voice dripped with acid and he watched hurt and shame swirl through her eyes.
Clint wanted to take it back as soon as it was out of his mouth. He didn't know where this sudden anger was coming from or why he was directing it at Natasha. Maybe he knew, when the dust settled, that she'd forgive him and right now he just needed a goddamned outlet. This news about Todd felt like the last fucking straw and something had to give.
"Barton, shut up." Dan snapped, his voice sharp.
"You," Clint glared at him, "stay the fuck out of it."
Dan bristled, gaze lighting with fire.
"Like hell," he shot back. Then he gestured at Natasha. "You don't get to talk to her like that."
"Dan, it's okay," Natasha put in firmly. Clint looked at her then, meeting her gaze and seeing nothing but understanding and forgiveness.
"No, it really isn't," Dan hissed at her. He turned his glare back on Clint. "Like it or not, we're all you've got left. You're all she's got left. You're in pain, kid, and I get it. Believe me, I fucking GET IT. They both meant something to me too. But you don't get to take that out on us."
Clint didn't look at him, hadn't broken his gaze from Natasha's. Still, her eyes held warmth for him. Still, they bled with the weight of everything she felt for him.
Just like that, the fire drained out of him.
He poured his apology into his gaze and didn't break his from Natasha's until she gave him a nod of acceptance. His voice was calmer when he spoke again.
"But I don't, do I?" he turned to face Dan, "have both of you?"
Dan's shoulders dropped and the doctor sighed.
"You're leaving," Clint deduced before Dan could reply. "That's what you came to tell us. You're leaving SHIELD."
Natasha looked to Dan in question and for a long moment the doctor held Clint's gaze bravely.
Then he nodded.
"I am," he confirmed quietly.
Clint clenched his jaw and nodded slightly even as Dan started to explain.
"Clint…I can't do this anymore. I can't do this job without them, and I really don't want to. With you two moving to the city," he shrugged, "there's nothing keeping me here."
"You have Rachel," Natasha put in quietly.
Clint watched Dan's expression soften at the mention of his girlfriend, Clint's former physical therapist, Rachel Braxton.
"She's leaving with me. We were already talking about taking a step back, before any of this, before…" his expression fractured slightly, but then he steeled himself. "What happened … it just made the decision easier."
"Taking a step back?" Natasha asked. "Why?"
Now Dan smiled softly, something loosening in his features.
"She's pregnant."
Clint blinked, shocked.
"I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath.
Natasha smiled warmly.
"That's wonderful news, congratulations," she offered, squeezing Dan's arm.
Clint felt something like relief sweep through him. Dan was leaving SHIELD. He should be trying to make him stay, but instead…he was so relieved it was dizzying.
"It's good that you're leaving," Clint stated lowly. "You need to run as far and as fast from this goddamned place as you can and never look back."
He needed to leave before this place killed him too – before Clint got him killed.
"Nobody's running, kid," Dan corrected quietly. "Especially not from you. You need me, you just call and I'll be there."
"Don't you get it?" Clint practically hissed. "This place is a sinking ship and I'm the goddamned hole in the hull. You need to get the hell out before I fucking drag you down and get you killed too."
"Clint," Natasha snapped. "You need to hear me, right now, you didn't get anyone killed."
Clint just shook his head. The evidence spoke for itself.
He met Dan's eyes again without bothering to even argue with her.
"Don't ever look back," he ordered quietly before turning and walking away.
His chest was tight, his head felt light, something in his lungs was battling to keep him from drawing in air. He walked faster, hands clenching at his sides. He just needed to get outside, needed fresh air.
SHIELD had been home to him for almost nine years now. But right now, today…
He goddamned hated it.
Natasha forced a steady breath as Clint walked away and then turned to meet Dan's understanding gaze.
"Take care of him," Dan admonished quietly. "Sooner or later, he's going to break, and when he does, he's going to need you."
She nodded, but even as she did she felt helplessness well up in her heart. Before she could stop herself, she spoke.
"I don't know if I'm going to be enough," she admitted quietly.
Dan sighed, but squared his chin and looked at her steadily.
"Actually, I think you will be. Phil was home to him," he pointed out. "You know that as well as I do. He doesn't think he can go on without him. And we both know that's why he's refusing to face it right now." He nodded in the direction Clint had stormed off. "It's not fair, but it's on you to convince him that he can survive this. You need to be home for him now."
She nodded, feeling her throat tighten. She didn't know if she was enough. She was terrified she wouldn't be.
"I can't lose him to this," she whispered fiercely. "But I don't know what to do."
"Be there," Dan told her gently. "He's going to tell you to leave, and knowing Barton, he's going to do everything in his power to try and drive you away. He's going to be hurting, and he's going to take the pain out on you. You know that ahead of time, you can deal with it."
Natasha nodded.
"If you stay in his line of sight, and he knows you're not going anywhere, sooner or later, he'll remember that he's not alone in this. And he won't ever be alone. Then," Dan sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, "maybe normal will start to creep back in."
She nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak.
"And don't think for a minute I don't know you need time to grieve, too. It sucks, and I don't even want to try to tell you it'll be easy." The edge of Dan's mouth started to quirk upward, just a little. "He's a pain in the ass, but he's our pain in the ass. Not exactly fair, but …" Just as quickly as it came, the hint of a smile was gone, and Dan's voice grew rough. "It was never fair to Phil either, but I guarantee you that Phil never regretted a minute of it. And I don't think you will either."
She lifted her chin slightly, her voice full of conviction when she replied.
"Clint is worth whatever it takes."
Dan smiled sadly.
"That kid doesn't know how lucky he is to have you."
Natasha found herself smiling too as her mind drew up memories of him finding her in Germany and of everything that followed. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that Clint valued her above anything else in his life.
"I'm the one who's lucky," she countered softly.
She looked back in the direction Clint had disappeared, something in her gut tightening. He needed her. She needed to go.
She turned back to Dan and found him smiling slightly.
"I recognize that look. Your spidey-sense is tingling. Go, catch up to him."
She nodded, but didn't turn away yet.
"Take care of yourself, okay?" she instructed warmly.
He nodded.
"Rachel wouldn't let me do anything less. You two take care of each other and if you, either of you, ever need anything. Call. I'll be there. And if you're ever in Italy, look me up."
"Italy?" she asked with an arched eyebrow.
"Rachel has friends there with a guest house we can borrow for the time being. I'll probably find something eventually. I've got friends there, too. And the distance right now…I think it'd be good."
Natasha nodded. Distance was sounding pretty good to her right now too.
He reached out and pulled her into a short hug.
"Goodbye, Natasha."
Natasha returned the hug.
"Goodbye, Dan," she whispered back.
Then they separated and she turned away, following Clint's path.
Everything was changing. Too many changes, too fast.
She just hoped they could recover from the fallout.
Clint burst out into the fresh air of the carrier deck, inhaling sharply. He walked quickly away from the workers milling around on the deck and headed for a hidden spot of dead space at the back corner of the carrier. Hidden from view now, he wrapped his hands around the railing, dropped his head to hang between his arms and forced himself to breathe.
Fury was right. He needed distance. He needed room to breathe and come to terms with everything that had changed.
For the second time in his life, his family had been ripped apart.
And it hurt so goddamned bad. He felt like he was drowning.
He knew he needed to lock it down. He needed to take everything he was feeling about Todd's death, everything he was feeling about Dan's departure, and he needed to shove it in the same box he was keeping Phil's death.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't cope with all this shit. He just didn't have anything left to fight with. Loki had made sure of that.
His spine tingled, combat-honed instincts giving him a breath of warning.
He ducked, barely dodged the mechanic's wrench that went gliding through the space his head had been. He spun, staying low, to face the threat.
Three guys, all in agent uniforms, all holding some sort of blunt instrument, all blocking his exit.
He slowly straightened, staring them down.
"You want to try it?" he growled lowly. "Be my goddamned guest."
They didn't wait for a second invitation.
The fight was brutal and bloody. By the time they caught the attention of the others on the flight deck, Clint had already knocked out one of them. A lucky shot to his wounded leg, had him going to one knee. Even as he took down a second attacker, the third got in a solid blow to his back.
He hit the deck on his hands and knees and barely threw himself to the side in time to avoid a follow up shot at his head. He rolled unsteadily back to his feet, his bad leg not wanting to support him.
By now, a crowd had gathered.
Nobody joined in on the attack…but nobody stepped in to stop it either.
Clint met the gaze of the final attacker, spitting blood from his mouth before speaking.
"You want to finish this, we'll finish it," he stated firmly. "But you take a second and look at your buddies on the tarmac. You don't have to join them. But you come at me again and I will put you the fuck down."
Because whether he thought he deserved this or not, he had never and would never go quietly when faced with a fight. And he didn't want to hurt anyone else.
The attacker hesitated, glanced down at his unconscious buddies, and then stepped back, lowering his wrench.
Just like that, the tension dissipated. In the nick of time too, because Natasha came shoving through the crowd a breath later. The third attacker paled, realizing that had he made a different choice, he'd have ended up dealing with her, too. And she was notoriously less forgiving than Clint.
Natasha pushed to Clint's side and glared around at the crowd.
"This is done. Go," she hissed quietly.
Immediately the group dissipated. A few leaned in to pick up the unconscious bodies and soon enough they were alone.
Natasha turned to meet his gaze.
"You okay?" she asked, eyeing the blood dripping down his chin.
He just nodded. She looked skeptical, but nodded back.
"Let's get out of here," she suggested, reaching for his hand.
He let her take it and didn't resist as she pulled him into step with her.
As they walked to the jet that would take them back to the mainland, Clint knew he wasn't imagining the hate-filled glares that followed in his wake.
April 14, 2012
4:57 p.m.
Undisclosed safe house in Brooklyn
Clint stared down at his cell phone, then shifted his gaze over to the sheet of paper in his other hand. He'd gotten Celine Lambert's phone number from Hill easily enough. But now that he had it, he was finding it hard to force himself to dial.
He almost talked himself out of it. It was late in Paris, nearly eleven at night. She might be sleeping.
He shook his head at his own cowardly excuse. The world had been attacked by aliens. There was no way she was sleeping.
He heard a car horn honk outside and mentally rallied. Natasha wouldn't be gone long. She'd only gone downstairs to get a pizza.
He had to do this. It had to be him. He was the reason Celine and Phil called it quits, she deserved to hear this from him.
He dialed, tossed the paper onto the bed next to him, and then brought the phone to his ear.
It rang several times before connecting.
Celine Lambert's voice greeted him.
"Lambert."
"It's Barton," he replied simply, knowing that her sharp mind would be able to deduce everything from just those two words.
"Agent Barton…" she stated slowly, her tone confused. In the moment of silence that followed, he could practically hear her dread building as if it were a tangible thing. When she spoke again, she sounded gutted. "Oh God…no..." He was certain of it in that moment, she knew.
"I'm sorry," was all he could manage in response.
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw when her breath hitched.
"No…I just spoke to him, just days ago. He called me to tell me what had happened to you. I just spoke to him. It can't…he can'tbe…"
"I'm sorry," he said again. "He's gone." Saying the words felt like driving a knife into his own gut and he doubled slightly, bracing his elbows on his knees and digging his free hand into his hair.
The numbness started to recede.
Her breath hitched again and a muffled sob broke free. Clint scrubbed his hand down over his face, leaving it to rest over his clenched eyes. He listened for several agonizing moments as she struggled to pull herself together, to retain her control. It seemed to be a hard fought battle, won through pure force of will. Eventually, she took a deep breath.
"How?" she finally asked, the tremble in her voice gave way to the true depth of her devastation.
"Loki," he answered quietly. "Loki killed him." He didn't add what he was thinking. He didn't add that he was to blame too. He may not have given the killing blow, but he might as well have.
He listened to her draw in a slow breath, trying to retain her composure.
Clint swallowed and cleared his suddenly dry throat.
"There's a funeral. Monday at 10 a.m.," he hesitated a moment and then went on, "He'd want you to be there."
"Yes." Her breath hitched. "Yes, I'll be there."
Clint nodded, rubbing his hand up through his hair and down to squeeze the base of his neck, trying to alleviate some of the ache that his head couldn't seem to shake.
He listened to her take a sharp breath and muffle a sob behind her hand.
"I'm sorry," he offered quietly one last time and then lowered the phone, disconnecting the call. Even as he did, he heard her break, listened to her start to sob in earnest.
As selfish as it was, he was relieved when the sound was silenced.
For a moment he just sat there, phone in hand, eyes pinned on the floor.
His head pounded. His body ached. Her grief pulled at him, nudged away the numbness he was hiding in and threatened to unleash the pain he refused to acknowledge.
The breeze blew gently through the open balcony door, ruffling his hair. It carried with it whispered words, haunting him even though Loki was realms away.
"You have heart."
Clint closed his eyes, forcing a deep breath through his nose.
"I will break you and leave you shattered on the ground!"
He'd thought he'd won. He'd looked Loki in the eyes and claimed as much. But Loki had played him perfectly. He'd wrapped him up in Natasha so completely that Phil hadn't even crossed his mind. Even when he'd woken up, he'd been so horrified by what he'd tried to do to her, what he'd almost done, that he hadn't even considered Phil was the one that had actually been in danger.
"You have shown me your heart…"
Loki had drawn out each and every one of Clint's worst fears and he'd used every one he could. He'd turned him against Natasha. Made Clint a weapon against her, meant to hurt, and meant to destroy. He'd turned Clint into the worst, darkest version of himself. And then he'd taken the one man that Clint had ever truly let himself depend on, count on.
"Now I will show you how I will destroy it."
Loki had done it. He'd won. He'd done what only one other person in the world had been able to do. And Barney's betrayal, his hatred, was something Clint would never understand – it still left a piece of him broken, a piece he kept buried deep.
And now…Loki had broken him too.
Clint stood abruptly, phone slipping from his fingers as his gaze zeroed in on his target.
In four strides he was at his quiver, was swinging it onto his back and reaching for his bow where it leaned against the wall. He pulled the string over his head even as he moved to the balcony doors with determined, unwavering steps.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't face it.
He wasn't strong enough.
He climbed the ladder to the roof and moved to uncover the old archery target he kept stored there. Without pausing he paced to the opposite end of the roof and pulled his bow free of his body.
He didn't want to feel anything.
He drew an arrow, nocked it and pulled the string back to his cheek.
He wanted to be numb.
He let the arrow fly and drew another.
End of Chapter 13
Reverting to old habits...that's Clint's go-to move, has been since the beginning. It's almost like he's coming full circle...emotionally at least, he's reverting back to how he was when Phil found him and it's so sad.
Now, we're nearing the end of this one...only a few chapters left now. Meet me back here tomorrow for the next installment, until then, drop me a line and enjoy your preview
"Yesterday they were honoring friends, some of them family. My being there would have just stirred things up and taken the focus away from where it belonged."
"Last I checked, you had a friend being honored yesterday too." Nick watched Barton's profile as the agent's gaze settled on Todd Bryan's name once again.
When Barton spoke it was almost too quiet for Nick to hear.
"More like family." He watched the muscle at the base of Barton's jaw twitch as he clenched it. "And he would have understood."