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 13: Anonymouse, nowgiveusakiss-a, Well done you, GremlinX, Sandy-wmd, LostHawk, darkdestiney2000, Qweb, Supernatural24, Batghost, weathergirl17248, R1dDL3M37h15, CyanB, burningupastar, BatmanOtaku, Viviannafox, Kylen, Wolfsdrache, ILuvClintasha, whitecat53, thababes, yevguine, jaguarspot, Alice of Scots, discordchick, m klindt, GinervaMarieChaseEverdeen, weemcg33, Junipa Ivanova, donttouchlola447, BooksAreMedicine, Kirstiej104, RAGAnne, ladybug114, Carolinagirl117, ponyperson, GreenLoki, truefairytales, Lollypops101, Arlothia, animexluva13, JRBarton, and Guest
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 Anonymouse: you'll find out Phil's fate in the VPU in due time :) Until then, I'm not gonna say what my plan is.
to nowgiveusakiss-a: same as above, you'll find out my plan for Phil's fate in the VPU soon enough :) well maybe NOT soon enough for some of you lol
to Viviannafox: seriously, i'm not gonna tell you my plan for Phil lol it's a tightly guarded secret. The VPU IS an AU after The Avengers though, so just because he's back in AoS doesn't mean anything to the VPU ;D
to jaguarspot: I VERY much love to torture my readers :D
to Guest: oh my friend, you have my deepest condolences. I'm so sorry for your loss and I wish I could do more for you than this, but at least accept my tightest hug from across cyber space *HUG* My prayers are with you and your family.
To those of you that asked about Dan, we WILL be seeing him again, promise ;)
Now, on we go!
Last time in The Untold Stories:
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.
Battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.
Walt Whitman
April 14, 2012
5:03 p.m.
Undisclosed safe house in Brooklyn
Natasha pushed the door open, pizza box in hand, and called out.
"You know the free garlic knots Enzo always gives us? He held out on us this time…I think it's because it was me instead of you…I'm telling you, throw the guy a bone and we'll be eating free for life."
She nudged the door closed and keyed in the lock sequence. Worry spiked through her when there was no immediate response. Clint had been fully conscious when she left, but exhaustion and emotional trauma did funny things to people and she was suddenly concerned he'd passed out again. Even as her heart rate spiked, she knew there were numerous reasons he hadn't answered.
He could be in the bathroom. He could be outside. Hell, he could just be asleep. God knew he needed the rest.
Even so, she took quick steps out of the entry way, eyes scanning the apartment.
It took all of a few seconds to put it together.
Phone abandoned on the floor. Missing Clint. Missing bow. Open balcony door.
The adrenaline-fueled worry faded, only to be replaced by a different kind of worry.
Clint and his bow when emotional trauma was in play – never a good thing.
She abandoned the pizza box on the bed and headed out on to the balcony. But halfway through the door she paused and back tracked to the bathroom on a whim.
Sure enough, still laying right where she'd tossed them the day before – his archery guards.
It wasn't surprising. If he was up there doing what she thought he was doing, it was to make himself hurt. He was doing it so that everything else would fade away and all that would be left was the physical. He wanted pain. He wanted bleeding fingers and bruised skin.
Because if he lost himself in that, in that physical pain and the strain of firing his bow until he couldn't, he would become numb to everything else.
And right now, that's what he needed.
She drew in a fortifying breath and grabbed the guards off the counter, making her way back to the balcony doors. Through the sounds of the streets and the swirling of the wind she could hear the familiar sound of an arrow slamming home into a target.
With a sigh, she started climbing the ladder.
He was exactly as she expected him to be – standing across the roof from a target, bow drawn, expression set like stone.
Clint Barton's version of coping.
Some people got drunk to escape their problems. Clint fired his bow until his arms were made of lead and his fingers were bleeding.
She didn't try to say anything to stop him. It would be useless at this point and he would just ignore her.
Instead, she just moved closer, timing her steps so that she stepped right in front of him just as he drew back his bow string.
He froze, bow drawn, eyes hard.
"Move." The order was issued quietly, in a darkly terrifying tone.
They both had their dark places they went to when things were at their worst. He'd ventured into hers after Germany, to keep her from being swallowed by it. She would do the same.
So she just stared at him, unmoved.
His arms trembled slightly, just once. It didn't matter how strong you were; you could only hold a bow weighted that heavily drawn for so long.
"Natasha, move."
"Put it down," she countered firmly.
Anger lit his gaze and she went on before he could direct it at her.
"I get why you have to do this. I'm not trying to stop you."
His eyes narrowed.
"But if you're going to put yourself through this, you're going to wear these."
She held up the guards so he could see them.
His eyes flicked down to them and then back up to meet her gaze.
"I don't want them."
"I don't care."
Their glares met in a battle of wills and finally, when his arms shook again, he shifted, firing the bow off at an angle. She listened to it ricochet off something metal and then hit the target a moment later. She didn't have to look to know it'd be dead center.
"Put them on," she demanded.
He just backed a step away from her, expression firmly resolved.
"I swear to God, Clint, if you don't put these damn things on, I will drop you, right here, right now."
And she would. She was drawing a goddamned line in the sand. He wanted to punish himself. He wanted to go numb. Fine. She'd let him cope. She didn't have it in her to force him to face the loss of Phil head on, not so soon. But she would not stand by and let him add injuries to a list that was already too damn long.
He didn't question her ability or resolve to fulfill her threat, but he did shake his head and turn away from her.
It stung.
"Don't do that. Don't shut me out, Clint."
She watched his head shake again, but he didn't turn around.
"I'm here, with you. Be here with me," she requested quietly.
When he finally spoke, he didn't turn, kept his head down and his face hidden.
"What do you want from me, Natasha?" he asked, his voice harder than she'd heard it in a long time. "Cuz if I'm being honest…" he turned then she almost couldn't take the heartbreak she saw in his eyes. "I don't have anything left to give you right now. It's taking everything I have just to keep it together." His voice shook, giving life to the very struggle he was referring to.
"I don't want anything from you," she insisted carefully. She held up the guards. "Nothing but this."
He shook his head again.
"Don't you get it? I want the pain. I need it."
"Oh, I get it." She moved slowly closer. "And you can fire that bow until you can't lift your arms anymore, I won't stop you. But I need this from you. Do it because I'm asking, Clint."
She saw the war start to rage in his eyes. Refusing her wasn't easy for him. It was a power she held that she rarely seriously used. To her surprise, he finally just shook his head and backed further away, turning to face the cityscape behind him.
"Clint…"
He interrupted her, his voice no longer hard, not angry, not even really strong.
Instead…he sounded broken.
"I don't know what to do."
She moved quietly closer until she stood by his side, looking out over Brooklyn with him.
"I can't," his voice broke and he lowered his head, shaking it slightly as he cleared his throat. "I can't deal with it. I can't face it right now, any of it. Just the thought…" he broke off, voice catching and prompting him to clench his jaw and eyes shut for a moment before he forced himself to go on. "I can't open that door. If I do, I won't be able to close it and I just can't…"
"I get it," she assured softly, shifting so their arms were touching. So he'd feel that she was there.
"What I want," he went on, "is to go to Asgard and put an arrow through Loki's heart. And if that doesn't kill him, I'll find something that does. That's what I want more than anything. But that particular door was slammed in my goddamned face before I even knew I'd want to go through it."
She fought the urge to look away. She was partly to blame for that. She'd participated in the deception that kept Phil's fate a secret. She opened her mouth, not exactly sure what she intended to say, but he kept talking before she had a chance.
"But even if I could get to Asgard…even if I could get my hands on Loki, it wouldn't matter. Cuz I wouldn't do a damn thing to him, you know why?" He scoffed a half laugh that was as heartbreaking as it was sarcastic. "Because the son of a bitch made me promise."
He finally turned to face her, eyes shining with tears she knew he'd never allow to fall.
"He made me promise after what happened at the base two years ago that if the worst happened, I wouldn't go backwards, that I wouldn't take you backwards with me."
She held his gaze, not sure yet what to say.
"So what do I do?" he tossed his hands up helplessly. "I can't move forward. I can't go backwards…so what do I do?"
Dan's advice floated through her consciousness as she stared at him and searched for words.
Be there.
Then she knew – that advice could go both ways.
"You stay," she stated softly.
He searched her gaze, brow furrowing slightly.
"You stay, Clint. Stay with me, here." She stepped forward and put her palm against his chest, over his heart. "This is what matters, Clint. You do what you have to do to keep it together here. Whether it means we stay in New York or go build a new life somewhere else, we'll do it. But, Clint," she leaned a little to hold his gaze when he tried to look away, "no matter what we do, you have to stay with me. Because one day – I don't know when, but one day – you'll be ready to take that first step forward. And when you are, I will be there ready to take it with you. And when that happens, everything between now and then, all those things that you don't think mean anything now, will mean everything to you then."
It was hard to read him for several moments. He just stared at her, deliberating.
She held out the arm guards.
"I'm not asking you to be okay, Clint. I'm not asking you to stop being angry. I'm not asking you to face anything. You do whatever you have to do to keep it together, and I'll be right here with you. Just be here with me, okay?"
Then, slowly, he reached to take the guards. In her relief, she almost missed his quiet words as he strapped them into place.
"You're already everything to me, Natasha. You want me to stay? I'll stay." He raised his gaze and met hers. "I'm here, with you."
She didn't trust herself to speak so she just nodded, stepped up to him and gave him a quick, but passionate kiss, using the brief moments to try and convey everything she felt for him. Then she backed away. After a moment he turned, facing his target across the rooftop.
He drew an arrow.
And fired.
April 16, 2012
5:45 a.m.
New York SHIELD base
Nick Fury stepped silently into the memorial room, gaze going immediately to the solitary man already inside. He watched Barton slowly walk down the length of freshly carved wall, eyes scanning over the numerous freshly lasered names, etched in granite over the last 48 hours, that were unveiled yesterday.
Barton hadn't been there, at the memorial. At least, Nick hadn't seen him. He supposed that was why the archer was here now, to pay his respects in his own way. That didn't mean his absence was excusable, or that it had gone unnoticed. When the likes of Natasha Romanoff showed up anywhere, people noticed. The distinct lack of her usual counterpart had been impossible to miss.
"There was a memorial for the agents those names belong to, yesterday, " Nick said in order to announce his presences. Barton didn't seem the least bit surprised, but then, Nick hadn't really expected to surprise him.
Barton didn't offer anything by way of response, instead just seemed to ignore him all together as he stepped up to a particular spot on the wall.
Nick watched him lift his hand, hesitate, then complete the action, fingers carefully tracing over one of the names.
Nick stepped closer so he could see which one.
Todd Bryan.
"I expected all of my agents to be in attendance to honor those that lost their lives."
Barton slowly withdrew his hand from Agent Bryan's name, but didn't turn to face him as he finally responded.
"I didn't think it was a good idea."
"No? You don't think they deserved your attendance?"
"I don't think my attendance would have been all that welcome."
Nick sighed. He'd heard about the altercation on the flight deck. He'd heard the whispered rumors – and some not so whispered – surrounding Barton's involvement in the events of Loki's invasion. There was some bad blood running pretty thick these days. Nick had been able to thwart the Council's instinct to attack and hold Barton responsible in some way, but only barely. The rest of SHIELD was proving even harder to convince.
"What happened with Loki, it wasn't on you, Barton. They'll see that in time."
The corner of Barton's mouth turned down slightly.
"Maybe. And maybe I wouldn't blame them so much if they didn't." He stepped back from the wall and went on in a stronger tone before Nick could comment on that. "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."
Nick inclined his head in agreement. Todd Bryan was one of the few that would have been more likely to forgive Barton anything than hold it against him. And he was one of the few that could have actually claimed to know the archer well enough to have expected something like his absence at the memorial.
Without warning, Barton turned, thrusting his hand out and offering a small object to Nick.
"I want you to bury this with him."
Somehow Nick knew the 'him' Barton was referring to wasn't Todd Bryan. He blinked, a bit taken aback by the non sequitur, and looked down at the object – a medal. A medal he knew belonged to Phil Coulson, inherited through the generations of the Coulson men. If Barton had it…
"He gave that to you for a reason, Barton."
Something in Barton's eyes turned, hardening. It was as if walls were being erected to guard the walls Barton already had in place. He was shoring his defenses, making sure Nick wouldn't get a glimpse beyond the surface. But as it turned out, Barton's next words, gave way to the depth of the emotion he was so resolutely hiding.
"He was wrong."
Nick prided himself on his stoicism. His ability to take shit in stride and keep a steady expression and a steadier hand was what inspired confidence in those that worked for him. But, for all his stoicism, he suddenly felt as if someone had reached into his chest, taken a grip on his heart, and squeezed. He knew Barton's insecurities ran deep – deeper than his normal cocky bravado would ever let on – but he hadn't known him to question his place with Phil in years.
This thing with Loki, losing Phil, it had shaken him – even more deeply than Nick had realized.
"Barton…"
"Just take it." Barton snatched one of Fury's hands and pressed the medal into it. "It belongs with him."
Nick weighed the medal in his hand and fixed Barton with a heavy look.
"He gave this to you, because he looked at you and saw family, he saw a son, not an agent. What happened doesn't change that."
Barton's entire expression hardened to stone, and his eyes lit with something like anger. Anger at who? Nick could only guess.
"It does for me," Barton stated in a low, dark tone.
Nick didn't need a mirror to know his own cool, composed expression failed him in that moment, if only minutely. But Barton didn't seem to notice or care, and the usual comment alluding to a fluffy teddy bear was nowhere to be found.
"Barton…" Nick tried, but the archer shook his head sharply, stalling whatever words Nick was planning to say.
"Don't. Empathy's not a good look on you. All I need from you is to put that with him. Got it?"
Nick lifted his chin a little and squared his shoulders. Barton didn't want to be coddled. That was fine. Nick was shitty at coddling. But as he met Barton's stony gaze, Nick couldn't help but feel like he was letting Phil down. That Phil would want him – no, expect him – to step up and derail whatever self-destructive path Barton had set himself on.
He opened his mouth, maybe to do just that. But he found that the words stuck in his throat. He didn't know what the hell to say. The one thing that would actually help, the one thing that Barton needed…Nick couldn't give it to him.
So instead, he closed his mouth and hoped Phil could forgive him.
Barton's gaze was steady on his. He could tell the archer had seen the aborted attempt at comfort and he didn't look at all surprised that Nick had failed.
Fury cleared his throat, closing his fingers around the medal.
"I take this to mean you won't be there today, either."
The laugh that burst from Barton's lips a moment later held no trace of humor, or even a hint of the archer's usual sarcasm. Instead, the sound was nothing short of broken. It was the first real glimpse Nick had gotten of the emotion Barton kept so fiercely guarded.
"You think I could actually stand there and say goodbye to him? That I could just take this on the chin and accept it? You think – after all the shit of the last few days – that I've got that left in me?" Barton shook his head and backed away, starting to turn for the doorway. "There's no way I'm getting within a thousand yards of that funeral."
Nick reached out and caught Barton's elbow, halting his retreat and drawing a sharp glare from the archer. But Nick had been the director of SHIELD since before Barton had even been a whisper on their radar. It would take more than a glare to make Nick back down. So he held firm to Barton's elbow and met the assassin's hard gaze with his own.
"So is this your answer? You going to run and hide from reality? Bury your head in the sand?"
Barton's gaze lit with fresh anger and he ripped his arm out of Nick's grip.
"Where the hell could I hide even if I wanted to? Huh? There's no hiding from this, from any of it. But that doesn't mean I've got it in me to face it right now either."
Nick lifted his chin a little and looked down at Barton with a steady expression.
"Is that why you're lying about Loki? So that you don't have to face it?"
To Barton's credit, his expression didn't change. He gave no visual indication to the validity of the call on his supposed bluff. He just continued to stand there and glare at Nick.
"I didn't get to be the director of an organization like SHIELD without being able to spot a lie when it's laid out in front of me. And I know better than I know anything else right now, that you, kid, are lying. Why Romanoff hasn't picked up on it, is anyone's guess. I suppose that's she's just got a lot on her mind already."
He held Barton's gaze and waited for Barton to flinch, or look away, something to indicate the gig was up. But Barton was unmoved, refusing to admit his deceit…or maybe clinging to it.
"I think maybe I get it, Barton," Nick realized. "We both know what they'd do if they knew you remembered."
'They' being the Council. If they knew, if they even suspected that Barton had knowledge of the inner workings of Loki's schemes or the secrets to the scepter that was left behind...if they thought anything could be gained from forcing that knowledge from Barton…
Nick clenched his jaw. He was proud to work for SHIELD, proud to call himself the organization's leader. But he was no fool. SHIELD wasn't the white to the black of the world. It had its own shades of gray and more than a few shades of black. Hell, he was talking to the organization's premiere distance assassin. The hope was that they did enough good that at the end of the day that the ends would justify the means.
Needless to say, if the Council saw fit, SHIELD had their own wicked ways for forcefully extracting information.
Barton wasn't stupid. He operated in SHIELD's shades of gray. He would know that too.
"You won't be able to keep a lid on it forever, not from everyone. Once she's seeing straight again, you and I both know Romanoff will sniff you out." Nick watched a slightly wry look cross Barton's face and it made the corner of Nick's own mouth tug upwards. "But as far as anyone else needs to be concerned, you don't remember a lick of it and you never will."
Barton's chin dipped slightly in acknowledgement and he turned to leave again. Fury drew in a breath and let it out as a sigh. He could almost hear a familiar voice whispering in his mind, telling him to take one more step, to do what Phil would do if he were standing here instead.
"And Barton," the archer stopped at the doorway and turned back with an arched eyebrow, "whatever you remember, whatever you don't…it doesn't change anything. What happened was not your fault. No one that matters holds you responsible."
Something shifted in Barton's posture, but Nick was too far away to read what it was.
Barton hesitated at the door, looked away and then looked back, meeting Nick's gaze across the memorial room.
He didn't say a word. But Nick heard him loud and clear.
I do.
Then Barton was gone.
April 16, 2012
10:17 a.m.
Funeral of Agent Phillip Coulson, New York
Natasha sat in a hard plastic chair, hands folded loosely in her lap. On her left was Celine Lambert, head of the Paris SHIELD base and Phil's former flame. On her right was Pepper Potts and next to her, Stark. Bruce filled out their row of chairs and Steve stood at the end, spine straight and shoulder's back.
Celine had asked if they should leave a seat open for Clint.
Natasha had quietly told her 'no.'
The looks of shock mixed with annoyed anger that had filtered across the faces of the other Avengers hadn't been surprising. Celine, on the other hand, had just nodded, eyes soft. She understood. The others, they didn't – couldn't. How would they? They didn't really know Phil. They didn't really know Clint. They had no idea what the two had been to each other. To them, Clint's absence was a sign of disrespect, it was cowardly even.
But Natasha knew it had just been necessary for survival.
Clint hadn't even said Phil's name, not since Fury's office and their argument after. He'd told her himself that he wasn't ready. That he couldn't deal with it right now, he couldn't move forward.
She hadn't pushed. She'd been afraid to, afraid of what he would do. Afraid he would run…without her.
She smoothed an imaginary crease in the skirt of her black, cocktail-length dress as Fury spoke about sacrifice and honor. As he told all those in attendance – and there had to be over a hundred people standing at her back – about the kind of man Phil Coulson had been, she found she couldn't listen.
Many could claim to have known Phil Coulson, but few could actually call him a friend. She had been so lucky.
He had been the best kind of friend and an even better handler. He hadn't always trusted her – and who could blame him? When they'd met, she'd been traveling under Clint's protection with a hit still ordered by SHIELD's own Council. But time had changed things between them…Clint had changed things. Clint had made a decision to trust her – trust her dedication to changing her ways at least. In time, he'd trusted her more fully. And in the wake of that trust had come Phil's.
But despite the years of being Clint's partner, of having Phil as her handler, his trust in her hadn't been made complete until just before Budapest. She still remembered that day as clearly as if it had happened only a moment ago.
"I trust you…I trust you with him."
Trust.
She lived her life by that word, by that choice. There were three kinds of people in her life: the ones she trusted, the ones she didn't – and Clint. The people she trusted were few, the list short enough to be numbered on one hand.
And now – after the battle was finally over and the finally tally of the lost was in – that list was even shorter.
She clenched her jaw against the tightening of her throat and listened to Hill step up to the podium, calling all the SHIELD agents to attention.
She stood, heard those behind her stiffen their postures.
"We're not military," Hill stated somberly, "not officially. Agent Coulson wasn't a soldier, not by normal standards. But at SHIELD, we hold the same values of this nation's, of any nation's, military. We honor those that served our cause, and especially those that died for it. And if ever a man deserved that honor, it was Phil Coulson." She looked over at the picture standing next to the closed casket. "Keep watch on our six for us, Overwatch."
She stepped back and saluted.
Agents behind Natasha followed suit, Rogers included.
Natasha didn't move. She wasn't a soldier, not in anyone's army. She would honor Phil in other ways, by being everything he believed she could and would be. By protecting the only other person in the world that meant something to her – the same person that had meant everything to Phil.
She stared at the casket, at the American flag draped over it.
And she felt his gaze on her.
Natasha closed her eyes and let out a breath.
Clint was here. He wasn't close, the familiar electric connection they shared wasn't humming as it usually did when they were near each other. But he was watching.
He had picked the same middle of the road he'd chosen on the rooftop a few nights ago.
He wouldn't go backwards, but he couldn't move forward.
He wouldn't stay away, but he couldn't show up.
He was doing what he had to do to survive this. To survive losing Phil.
If that meant all he could offer right now was simply that he would 'stay,' that was okay.
She would stay with him.
Clint kept his handheld scope pressed to his eye. He sat on the seat of his Ducati – one leg braced down on the ground, the other hooked over the front of the seat, knee bent and boot dangling in open air.
He hadn't looked at the casket yet, or the flag that covered it. He hadn't looked at the picture next to it or the tombstone set behind the hole beneath it. He'd watched Fury, deciphered what he'd said as he gave his speech. Then he'd watched Hill and done the same.
Then, when there were no more speeches, and people had started moving forward to pay their respects, he'd looked for Natasha.
As usual, for just a moment, when he first caught sight of her, her absolute, transcendent beauty took his breath away. As if sensing his gaze, her head turned slightly, eyes searching. Then her attention was stolen away by Celine Lambert, who leaned in closely to speak to her.
Almost like a supernatural line was tied to his hand, he felt the scope pull to the left. He saw a flash of red and white stripes.
The scope hit the grass with a dull thud.
Clint blinked into the morning sun and drew in a sharp breath. His gaze dropped to his hands, and he wasn't the least bit surprised to find them shaking. He clenched them both tightly, feeling the bite of his nails digging into his palms.
He closed his eyes and breathed in sharply through his nose.
He clenched his hands tighter, feeling the pull of the muscles through his arms and shoulders – fatigued already from countless hours firing his bow over the last few days.
He forced his mind to focus on the ache in his arms, on the pain in his palms and the burn in his shoulders. He focused on the bruises on his body, the ache in his knee and ankle, and the headache he couldn't shake.
He turned every bit of focus inward, drawing up every fleeting bit of physical pain until it was the only thing that filled his mind.
As long as the pain was his focus, nothing else could be. He could stay numb. He could stay stuck in this limbo that he'd taken shelter in. Neither insisting that Phil was still alive nor accepting that he was gone.
His heart couldn't take the irrationality of the former, or the heartbreak of the latter. So limbo was his salvation.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there – focusing, forcing his mind to dwell on his physical pain, before an approaching presence had his eyes opening abruptly. He didn't look over his shoulder to see who it was. He already knew.
Natasha stepped silently up to his side to lean back against the bike next to him and looked out over the cemetery. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the wind gently ruffle her hair, blowing a few strands across her face. She absently reached to tuck the wayward hairs behind her ear and then finally spoke.
"Fury greenlighted us to go. Whenever you're ready, we can put this city in our rearview for a while."
Clint felt a sudden urge to leave right now. To hell with packing a bag. He just wanted to climb on his bike with Natasha and drive. What startled him more, was he couldn't seem to grasp a matching desire to return.
He'd argued with Fury only days ago about the length of this forced leave. He'd said he needed to work. He did. He needed the distraction. But to get to that he had to make it through the next ten days. And he wasn't so sure he could.
"I don't know if we should leave," he admitted suddenly. The comment drew her gaze to settle on his profile and she remained silent, waiting. He looked down at his boots, chewing his lower lip and went on, "If we go…I'm not so sure I'm gonna want to come back."
Understanding softened her expression and she nodded slightly.
"That's okay," she allowed quietly. "We get away from here and you decide you don't want to come back, we won't come back."
Clint shook his head.
"I can't ask you to give up your life here, Natasha. I won't."
"We come back together or not at all, Clint. There's no me here, without you."
He turned to look at her now, meeting her gaze and easily reading the sincerity in her eyes.
She quirked her lips a little.
"In case it's escaped your attention, Barton, you're kind of it for me."
He watched her push off the bike and turn to face him. He allowed her to step into his space and didn't pull away when she reached to wrap her arms around his neck.
"I'm with you, whatever you need, got it?"
He nodded slightly. He didn't deserve her. He hoped to hell the day never came where she realized that for herself.
She gave him a little tug and he finally let himself melt into her arms. He wrapped his own around her waist and dropping his forehead down to her shoulder.
She'd asked him to stay, in his heart, to stay with her. To not shut her out. He'd told her he would.
But even as he held her now, the dark cloud of his lie hovered over him.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the guilt of that choice as it churned in his gut.
He could lose her over this. He wouldn't blame her for walking away if she ever uncovered his deception. But even knowing that, he couldn't bring himself to confess. He couldn't bring himself to share the crushing burden Loki had cursed him to bear.
Those days of hell, his memory of them, they were the proof of his guilt. They were the evidence that he bore blame for everything that had happened. He'd been aware. He'd known what he was doing and he hadn't cared. He'd brought destruction and had left death in his wake.
He couldn't tell her. He couldn't face the look in her eyes when she realized what he was. When she realized he didn't deserve her. When she realized he wasn't the man she thought he was.
He couldn't tell her because he couldn't take losing her too.
Unaware of his guilt-ridden thoughts, she pulled back, giving him a warm smile.
"Ready?" she asked gently.
He couldn't find his voice to reply, so he just nodded.
"Let's go," she stepped back to give him room to shift his legs back into place on his Ducati. Then she climbed on behind him. Clint waited for her to get settled, waited for her arms to wrap tightly around his waist, then he put the dispersing funeral in his rearview and didn't look back.
End of Chapter 14
So...that was sad...*offers you tissues* Clint just can't right now. He literally CAN'T. He's never been good with handling emotions and Phil was his anchor in that, he's the one that helped Clint cope in a healthier way. But Phil's not there and poor Clint is doing the only thing he can to keep his head above water. He's shutting it off.
So...only 3 chapters left. We've got a bit more traumatic angst to get through as we work our way towards where we found Clint and Nat in Vantage Point. Hopefully you all are continuing to enjoy the ride!
Until tomorrow, drop me that line that you know I want ;) and enjoy your preview
She frowned, pieces starting to fall into place as she thought back over the last several days since he'd woken up. Small contradictions, indicators, easily missed in the moment in light of the war they'd been fighting. The zoning out. The PTSD-like symptoms.
It hit her like a freight train, then, and she knew.
He remembered.