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"
So...FF is freaking out. Though I was getting email alerts about reviews all day yesterday, Chapter 16 shows 0 reviews on the actual site. Same for yesterday's update of Snapshots. It's frustrating and disappointing for me. Because beyond the story not showing the reviews you guys have taken the tie to give it, any of you that wrote a review of any particular LENGTH, I only got to see the first part of it because the email cuts it off after a certain point. I've emailed FF support but have little actual hope of this getting fixed unless it's a site wide problem.
That being said, I can't do my normal list, or even answer questions because I delete the email alerts after reading them. So accept my apology for not thanking you each individually. And further, accept my sincerest and deepest thanks for reviewing, ESPECIALLY to those of you that have reviewed every chapter. There were several of you and you guys are amazing for always taking the time to do that.
The song that inspired the chapter titles for this story is "Not Afraid" by Eminem.
Deepest thanks to Kylen who acted as beta for me in this and also voiced Dan Wilson in this chapter. Further thanks to JRBarton for acting as my second beta and a wonderful adviser when it came to sorting out the mess that was Avengers timeline lol.
Trigger warning! There is a scene depicting child abuse in this chapter.
So, without further ado...I give you the conclusion of The Untold Stories...
Last time in The Untold Stories:
"You think Fury has a mission for us?" she asked as they rode down to the garage level.
"That was the deal," Clint replied.
He'd better. Clint had endured ten days of 'recovery' – though those days had been anything but restorative – and now that he was back in New York he was itching to be back in the field. He needed the distraction.
Hopefully Fury held up his end and provided just that.
War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.
J.R.R. Tolkien
April 26, 2012
2:23pm
SHEILD Quinjet
Clint stared across the jet's passenger area, eyes pinned on a cargo strap that hadn't been secured properly. It had been swaying away from the side of the jet and then back, metal buckle clinking against the jet wall, since they had taken off. It was almost hypnotizing, watching that strap. And as he stared, as he listened to the metal clink against metal, his mind drifted from the moment.
Clink-clink-clink
Clint ignored the rhythmic clanging of the metal weather vane outside on the barn roof as he inched his way along the wall, his bare toes digging into the narrow gap between the two wooden slats of the barn wall. He was almost there.
Clink-clink-clink
A storm was coming. The evening light was fading faster than it normally did and soon the barn would be pitch black. Clint would really like to be settled for the night before that happened because maneuvering through the rafters in the dark wasn't exactly easy.
The wind howled outside, a cold draft permeating the air around him as he moved.
Just a little bit further.
He reached for the nearest rafter just as the barn door slammed open.
He pushed off the wall hastily and levered himself up onto the wooden beam, looking down into the dim barn as Mr. Jacobs came stomping in.
Unerringly, the large man looked straight up at him.
"Storm comin', Clinton."
Clint stayed silent. He remained perched on the rafter and glared down at him.
"Gonna get cold out here tonight," Mr. Jacobs went on casually, in a tone that outwardly seemed caring and concerned.
But Clint knew better. He knew what kind of man Phillip Jacobs was.
"Get down here." Gone was the false warmth. In its place was a sharp hard tone, one Clint knew well.
He didn't move, barely breathed.
Mr. Jacobs had never been able to get him up here, not once in the two years since he'd started sleeping up here. He wouldn't be able to get him now.
"Either come down here and take what you earned with that shit you pulled today, or else."
"Or else what?" Clint challenged boldly. "You'll come up here? Go on, try it."
He'd love to see the bulky man give it a shot. Maybe if he was lucky, Jacobs would fall and break his fat neck. Then Clint would be free of him forever.
"Or else I'll go in and give it to your brother instead."
Clint's jaw clenched. He hadn't done anything, nothing but help a new kid with his chores. He didn't deserve to be punished for that.
He watched Jacobs smirk and back towards the door.
"Have it your way."
"Wait," Clint called sharply. "I'll come in."
With any luck, he'd take his beating and be able to escape back out to the barn before the storm hit. There was a chance he wouldn't, though, that Jacobs would have him trapped.
But he couldn't let Barney take the punishment for something he did. He wouldn't. Barney was his brother. He had to protect him. Like Barney tried to do. He was certain, if faced with the same choice, Barney would do the same thing.
He slowly made his way back down to earth and as soon as his feet touched down, Jacob's had a strong hand wrapped around his elbow. He pulled Clint out of the barn roughly, moving so fast, Clint's shorter legs stumbled as they tried to keep up.
Outside, the sound of the old weather vane was louder as it moved with the wind.
CLINK-CLINK-CLINK
Clint focused on the sound, doing his best to fill his mind with it. For a few moments, it was all he knew. The bruising grip on his arm disappeared and the knowledge of what was coming faded away.
Then they hit the front porch. He tripped on the first stair – the price for his distraction – and Jacobs didn't give him a chance to find his feet before roughly yanking him up the rest of the way. He all but threw Clint against the screen door.
"Get in the house."
Clint did.
The other boys were gathered in the living room, waiting. Barney was there, brown eyes downcast.
Jacobs shoved Clint to the center of the room.
"What's rule number 3?" Jacobs asked lowly.
Clint stood defiant in the middle of the room, and refused to answer.
Jacob's eyes narrowed.
"Rule 3, Clinton."
Anger flared in him. He hated it when Jacobs said his name. He hated the sound of it on the bastard's lips.
Stubbornly, he pressed his mouth tighter closed.
The backhand across the mouth was expected, but knowing it was coming didn't keep it from knocking Clint to the floor.
"Frank, get the belt."
Clint kicked out when Jacobs reached for him again, catching the man in the shin.
Jacobs growled in anger, kicked right back and caught Clint in the thigh.
He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, but didn't make a sound. He didn't cry. He didn't yell.
When Jacobs grabbed his arm again, Clint came up swinging.
He caught Jacobs across the lip, drawing blood. But even so, the blow barely even phased the man. He started to laugh, only to turn it into a snarl of anger when Clint clawed at his face.
Jacobs jerked him around so hard, he nearly felt like his arm ripped out. Then he was on the floor again, thrown down so roughly his knees and hands stung where he'd caught himself.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Frank hand over the belt.
Suddenly desperate, Clint looked to his brother, but Barney wasn't looking at him. So Clint looked to the door instead, wondering if he could make it back to the barn fast enough.
"You can run. I won't even stop you. Just remember what I said in the barn." Jacobs warned casually.
Clint froze.
"Or else I'll give it to your brother instead."
Clint looked at Barney again. This time his brother was returning his gaze. His brown eyes were silently ordering Clint to just do as he was told.
"What'll it be, Clinton?"
Clint broke his gaze away from his brother's and pinned it on the floorboards. He stayed where he was. Even though he couldn't see him, he knew Jacobs was smirking in victory.
"Get ready," Jacobs commanded.
Obediently, Clint stripped his thin t-shirt off and dropped it to the floor next to him. Clint heard one of the other boys, he couldn't see who, draw in a sharp breath. The old bruises and the handful of scars on Clint's back tended to get that kind of reaction.
"Rule 3," Jacobs prompted, voice smug and vicious.
Clint drew in a breath, closed his eyes to prepare himself, and answered.
"Do your chores and no one else's."
"That's right," Jacobs stepped closer. "Because if you do someone else's chores, you're robbing them of the chance to reap the benefits of those chores. They're there to build your character, to teach you discipline. Who are you to take that opportunity away from one of the other boys?"
Clint clenched his jaw and held his tongue, not trusting himself to keep it in check if he started speaking.
Luckily, it seemed Jacobs was being rhetorical.
The first blow had him dropping to one elbow from the force of it. But Clint stubbornly pushed himself back up onto both hands, resting his butt back on his heels and giving Jacobs a clean angle at his back.
He could take it.
A second blow landed and Clint bit his lip until he tasted blood again. He distantly heard Jacobs explaining to the others how Clint had brought this on himself. That this was the understood consequence of breaking the rules.
But Clint tuned him out. He focused instead on the sounds of the storm outside. If he strained his ears, he could just barely hear the distant clanging of the metal weather vane.
clink-clink-clink
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
Natasha's voice drew Clint back to the present, out of the memory he thought he'd forgotten. He blinked, realized he'd barely been breathing, and drew in a steadying breath. He had a pretty good idea what she meant, but he tossed her a questioning glance anyway.
Her gaze narrowed slightly, eyes studying his as if she sensed something was off. Clint did his best to shove away the memories and give her some semblance of a smirk to show her that he was as okay as he could be at the moment.
Her eyes remained wary. Fury was right. He wouldn't be able to fool her forever. But rather than push him, she let it go for now. Instead, she clarified her question.
"Going back to the carrier – are you sure you want to do this?" she asked. "Fury would have agreed to do this at the base upstate."
"I have to go back sometime. Now is as good as later," he replied easily, hoping the calm words masked the trepidation he felt. Going back to the carrier was probably a terrible idea. It wouldn't end well. There was no way it could. If the memories didn't do him in, he was sure more than a few of the agents on board would be happy to help that process on its way. Hell, he was willing to bet the three assholes that jumped him last time would be leading the charge.
The only reason – he was sure – that there hadn't been an armed escort waiting for them at the pick-up point, was that nobody had been given any notice that he was coming. The pilot himself had probably been given his orders and sped on his way before he could set off the carrier grapevine.
He held little hope that his arrival on the carrier would be met with the same lack of fanfare. Hell, part of him expected to get put down by a bullet he never saw coming. Another part was prepared for a behind-closed-doors beat down of some sort. He wouldn't rule out an angry mob…maybe some pitch forks and torches.
And maybe that's why he wasn't fighting Fury's request that they come to the carrier for his debrief. Maybe that was why he'd changed his tune from a few days ago when coming back to the carrier was the absolute last thing he ever wanted to do.
He deserved the hatred that would be waiting for him. He deserved for a few guys to corner him in an empty room and beat the shit out of him for killing somebody's brother or friend or lover. Hell, he even deserved that bullet he'd never see coming. As far as a pretty big part of him was concerned, he deserved to be labeled a goddamned traitor and executed.
He couldn't admit any of that to Natasha, though. She was convinced he'd done no wrong, that he shouldn't blame himself, that it wasn't his fault. Nothing he could say would change her mind. Just like nothing she said would change his. She'd believe what she wanted to believe and he'd believe what he knew to be the truth.
He didn't deserve absolution.
He didn't want it.
He wanted to stop being told it wasn't his fault. That it was out of his control. He wanted to stop being told that he deserved no punishment or condemnation.
What he wanted? He wanted someone to just take their goddamned pound of flesh in retribution. Maybe then he'd feel something again. Maybe he'd start to feel like he had a chance at making it right. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe he wanted to take the punishment so that, for those few minutes, he wouldn't have to feel anything. He could become numb to everything but the pain.
Because that was it, really. That was his life now. Either he didn't feel anything because he couldn't let himself, couldn't open the door to what losing Phil meant, or he felt too damn much because he couldn't forget what he'd done in Loki's name. He couldn't forget the lives he'd ended or the damage he'd done.
No matter which way he cut it, he came out the loser. Which was fitting, he supposed.
Natasha hadn't bothered replying. She'd settled instead for leveling a doubtful look on him before turning her attention towards the pilot as they heard the landing procedures begin. It wasn't long after that until the jet lightly touched down on the carrier deck.
Clint forced himself to stand and move casually towards the large bay door. He felt more than heard Natasha follow him. He hadn't brought his bow, an intentional attempt to show himself as a non-threat that he hoped would unruffle some feathers. But now, as the bay door lowered and he saw the dozen armed agents waiting on the deck – one brandishing a set of handcuffs clearly – he wished for the familiar weight of his quiver across his back and the feel of his bow in his hand.
The hostility bled into the air, settling around them like a thick, choking cloud. He'd never, in his time at SHIELD, been truly treated as an enemy. Even after he defied the Council and brought Natasha in as an asset, very few had really seen him as an enemy.
As bat-shit crazy? Yes. As manipulated and possibly seduced? Also yes. As reckless and stupid? Definitely yes.
But as an enemy? As a true threat that needed to be handled? No.
But it was how they were looking at him now.
Natasha stepped up to his side, shoulder brushing his. The silent show of solidarity and support, spurred him into movement. He started down the ramp calmly, doing his best to keep his body relaxed, despite the imminent threat he could sense from nearly every one of the men sent to meet him. He wouldn't portray himself as the dangerous traitor they wanted to see, not even by defensively prepping for attack.
He stopped at the bottom of the ramp, nearly toe-to-toe with the agent with the restraints. Clint knew him, they'd had neighboring lanes at the range more than once. Ben Holmes. They'd never exactly been friends, but they'd peacefully co-existed. Holmes had never seemed to harbor any ill-will towards him and had even complimented him on his range scores more than once.
But there was hate in the man's eyes now – pure, unadulterated hate.
"Clint Barton," Holmes said sharply, "I have orders from the Council to take you into custody as a hostile force pending your evaluation and the Council's judgement."
It wasn't the first time Clint had been labeled a 'hostile force' by the Council. They seemed to look for every opportunity to throw him in handcuffs and toss him in an isolation cell. Though, he had to admit, they'd gotten better since Matthew Williams' seat had been vacated. They didn't violently hate him anymore.
They just mildly hated him now.
"He's here on Fury's orders," Natasha spoke up sharply, her voice cracking like a whip and making no less than three of the men facing them flinch as if she'd been wielding the real thing.
"Then Fury can come see him in the detention level," Holmes fired back.
Without even looking at her, Clint could feel the aggression building in Natasha. Getting into it with these guys in the middle of the Helicarrier flight deck wouldn't do anybody any favors, so he waved her off with a slight shake of his head.
She remained tense and ready, but didn't go on the offensive.
"Let's get to it then." Clint stepped forward, extending his wrists in a show of submission.
Honestly, he wondered why the hell he didn't see it coming. But then again maybe he did. Maybe some pathetic part of him had just ignored it. Because, after all, the intent was written all over the man's goddamned face.
Holmes grabbed his wrist, twisted sharply and kicked out at Clint's legs. On a good day, the move would have been laughably easy to counter, even caught off guard as he was. But when the steel toe of Holmes' boot caught a bad angle on his damaged left ankle, Clint's balance abandoned him.
His body twisted as it fell, thanks to Holmes' grip on his wrist, and he hit the deck hard. He barely managed to get his free wrist under his chest to try and cushion his broken ribs. It wasn't quite enough and his chest ignited in fire. Then his chin snapped against the tarmac and he tasted blood.
"Sonovabitch…" he groaned, trying to get his free hand up to inspect the damage to his mouth. A quick inspection with his tongue assured him all of his teeth were still in place, but there was blood coming from somewhere. It felt like that somewhere was his tongue. His fingers brushed across a freshly busted lip and a missing layer of skin on his chin before his wrist was snatched back and twisted behind his back, securing it and his other wrist too tightly in handcuffs. Less than a beat later, a knee dug unto his spine, pressing him down and grinding his broken ribs together.
He heard a curse in Russian and then the weight on his back vanished. A familiar lithe shadow flew over him and then there were sounds of a scuffle. Clint moved immediately, thoughts of compliance fleeing now that Natasha was in the mix. He'd back her up, even if it would only get him into more trouble.
He rolled to his back, threaded his feet and legs through his handcuffed arms and started to stand. He made it to his knees just as he sensed a presence over his left shoulder. He ducked the blow with so little room to spare that he felt the air shift over his head. While the attacker was recovering from the missed hit, Clint made it to his feet. A simple roundhouse kick put his assailant on the ground.
Clint found Natasha, putting his back to hers as the rest of the agents circled them. He saw Holmes unconscious at Natasha's feet and couldn't help but feel a little smug. Nobody pissed of his fiery spider without paying a price.
There were ten of them left. Easy pickings for Strike Team Delta even on a bad day. Except they had guns. Clint had his knives and Natasha could always be counted on to have at least four different types of weapons stored on her person at any given time.
They could take them. It might not be pretty and somebody might get shot, but they could take them.
The circle of agents tightened their ranks, pressing closer, but still just out of arms reach. Clint took as deep a breath as he could around the burning pain in his chest and readied himself. He felt Natasha take a similar preparatory breath behind him.
The agents converged.
"STAND DOWN!"
Nick Fury's voice rang out like a shot from a cannon, freezing everyone on the flight deck in their spot.
Clint risked a look away from the immobile agents in front of him to watch the Director march across the flight deck, Maria Hill at his shoulder.
The look in the Director's eye could light a wet log on fire. Judging by the way every single one of the attacking agents shrunk back and fell in line, they all felt the burn. Clint let himself relax slightly and turned to meet Fury face to face.
"Boy, you and trouble are joined at the hip," was the Director's greeting before he blew past Clint and stepped between him and the group of agents. A few of them were helping the freshly conscious Holmes to his feet while a few more were trying to rouse the one Clint had put down.
"On your goddamned feet!" Fury barked.
Holmes snapped to attention so fast, he nearly threw his own balance.
"What in the hell is going on here?" Fury demanded, his one eye glaring so hard at Holmes, the man had to swallow before answering.
"Sir, I have orders from the Council…"
"Well now, that's interesting. Because last I checked, you take your orders from me. Though it sure seems to me like you're looking to change that."
"No, sir," Holmes shook his head sharply.
"No, sir, you don't take orders from me?" Fury snapped.
Holmes paled.
"No, sir. I meant I wasn't looking to change who I take orders from."
"Then why in the hell are you acting on an order from someone that is most decidedly not me?"
"Because the Council…"
"The Council is my concern, not yours. And I am well aware of their current stance on Agent Barton. You can take your team and get the hell out of my sight."
"But Barton…" Holmes glared over Fury's shoulder right at Clint.
"Agent Barton," Fury walked back to Clint and produced a handcuff key from his pocket, "is here on my orders. Until such time as it is ruled otherwise, he is no enemy of SHIELD and will not be treated as such." Clint's wrists were free a moment later and while he rubbed at them, Fury turned back to Holmes. "Have I made myself clear?"
Holmes tossed one last hate-filled glare at Clint and then nodded.
"Then as I said, you're dismissed," Fury spoke in a tone made of ice.
Holmes and his men dispersed immediately but not before the team leader sent one last glare at Clint. Clint met the look squarely and didn't look away. It wasn't over between them, not by a long shot.
"You two, with me," Fury ordered Clint and Natasha even as he started back the way he'd come.
Nat exchanged a glance with Clint before they moved together to follow him.
Once they were inside the bowls of the carrier, Fury spoke without pausing his stride.
"Hill, let Dr. Taylor know that Agent Barton will be along momentarily."
Hill nodded and peeled away.
"You're making me talk to psych?" Clint asked sourly.
Fury stopped abruptly and turned, forcing Clint and Natasha to stop walking or run into him.
"Barton, it has taken every sweet-talking, threat-giving, manipulative trick I have to keep you off the Council's radar while you took a beat to catch your breath. If they had their way, you'd have been in isolation the second the dust settled and the blood dried. I know that what happened with Loki wasn't your fault. I know he had you under his control. But if I'm gonna keep you out from in front of the firing squad, we have to cross every damn 't' and dot every damn 'i'. That means talking to psych. It means a full debrief. It means you keep your damn mouth shut and do as you're told. Understood?"
Clint blinked, searched Fury's gaze and tried to identify the reason for the tension he could hear in the Director's tone. His gaze narrowed when he saw an unfamiliar vein of worry in Fury's eye. Then it hit him.
"They're still out for blood, aren't they?"
Fury's jaw clenched and Clint had his answer. A group of agents made their way past, every one taking a special moment to give Clint the full weight of their glare. He felt Natasha shift protectively closer.
"You should have just let them take me into custody," Clint pointed out once the group of agents disappeared around a corner. "Might have eased the tension."
"You and I both know what would have happened if those boys had gotten you alone," Fury replied immediately. Clint did. But if it would have helped ease the bloodlust… If taking a beating meant tensions on board went down a notch, maybe he should have just taken it.
Fury seemed to read his mind, because the director's gaze narrowed.
"Was never an option, Barton."
Natasha shifted next to him, telling him without words that she agreed with their boss. Clint let it go.
"So what now?"
"Go meet with Dr. Taylor. Get her to sign off on your return and then come see me."
Clint took a breath and nodded.
Clint stared across the short distance between his and Dr. Bridgett Taylor's chairs.
She was watching him carefully, pen poised over her ever-present notepad.
They'd been sitting like this, in silence, for several minutes. Ever since Natasha had been told in no uncertain terms to wait outside, in fact.
Finally, Dr. Taylor shifted, tilting her head.
"I'm told you don't remember anything of your time in captivity."
Clint blinked slowly.
The less he said, the better chance he had of keeping the ruse alive.
"Is it true?" she asked bluntly.
Clint arched a challenging eyebrow.
"Why would I lie?" he countered.
She sat back in her chair and regarded him seriously.
"I'm not sure," she admitted. "Maybe what you went through was so traumatizing that you're hoping if you ignore it, it'll just go away."
Clint kept his expression carefully neutral, giving nothing away. She'd hit that nail pretty much on the head.
"Or maybe you know what the Council would do if they thought they could gain intel from you."
Then there was that.
Clint shrugged slightly, giving her a slightly sarcastic look.
"Or maybe I just don't remember," he countered.
She narrowed her gaze, studying him, looking for the truth. But Clint prided himself on his ability to lie when it mattered.
"You can stare all you want. Whatever power that spear holds, whatever Loki did to me…it erased everything. I don't remember a damn thing."
A moment longer, and the intensity of her gaze faded. She believed him.
"The mind has a way of protecting itself, Agent Barton. Maybe it was the spear that erased your memories, or maybe it's your mind's way of protecting you from what happened. If that's the case, maybe you're better off not knowing."
Clint had wished, more than once over the last 13 days, that his mind had protected itself. He wished he didn't remember. Instead, he was stuck in a living nightmare.
Maybe she was right. Maybe he was foolishly pretending in the hopes that the lie would become reality.
Either way, he wasn't gonna cop to the lie now, not with her. Maybe not ever.
"Let's talk about Phil," she quietly suggested.
Clint's eyes hardened, shields slamming into place.
"No," he denied firmly.
"Agent Barton," she tried, but Clint was done.
He stood, angling for the door. She let him get his hand on the handle before she spoke.
"You walk out that door and you can say goodbye to a return to active duty today."
Clint froze, jaw clenching.
"I get it," she added. "Message received. You don't want to talk about it. It's still too fresh." Then gentler. "It's okay. It's okay to not want to talk about him. It's okay to be sad. It's even okay to be angry. It's called grief, Agent Barton. And it's part of being human."
Clint didn't move, not to leave, but also not to go back to his seat.
"You can get away with not dealing with the loss for a little while. But sooner or later," she went on, "that load will get too heavy to carry. And when it does, just remember that you have people you can talk to."
He shot her a skeptical look and she huffed a laugh.
"Don't worry. I don't mean me. I don't know what I'd do if you walked in of your own free will and asked to talk. I'm talking about your partner."
He looked back towards the door, imagining Natasha pacing on the other side.
He heard Dr. Taylor sigh.
"I really wish there was something I could say to you that would help."
And she sounded like she genuinely did. But they both knew there was nothing anybody could say.
"I'm signing off on your return. Whatever concerns the Council has about your mental stability, they're unfounded. You seem coherent and in control. We both know you're no traitor. And you seem to be the same pain in the ass that you've always been. Everything else … well, let's just say I know you, Barton. And I know you won't let it stop you from doing your job."
She moved around behind her desk and leaned over to sign a form. Then she slit it into his file and returned that to her filing cabinet.
She approached him then, where he still stood by the door watching her.
"Just because I'm releasing you back to active duty, doesn't mean you're ready for it. Please consider that and take a minute to think about whether or not this is what you really want."
Clint regarded her for a moment and then answered quietly.
"I need to work."
Her expression softened.
"I get that. But you need to realize that distracting yourself with work will only take you so far, for so long."
Clint met her gaze seriously.
"I just need it to take me far enough, for long enough." Until he could face it, if that day ever came.
She nodded, smiling sadly and reached around him to open the door.
"As always, Barton, my door is always open, okay?"
He gave her a slight nod and left.
They met Fury at the door of the Council chamber.
"This is as far as you go, Romanoff," the director informed them even as he nodded Clint forward.
"But…" Natasha started to protest, only to be silence by Fury's glare.
"This is a closed debrief," he explained sharply. "As mandated by the Council."
Natasha's fists clenched and her posture stiffened.
"Relax," Clint nudged her, "I've been fending off these particular dogs for years. Besides, I've got Fury to back me up."
She didn't look convinced, but backed off anyway.
Fury opened the door and motioned Clint in ahead of him. After taking a moment to draw in a fortifying breath, Clint entered. To his relief, the screens were still dark. He moved to the middle of the room and felt Fury move to stand at his shoulder.
"You are here to back me up, right?" Clint joked wearily, trying to quell the nervous pit in his stomach. He hated meeting with the Council. It never seemed to go well for him. To his surprise, Fury's response was immediate and genuine.
"Every goddamned step of the way, Barton."
The words brought him unexpected comfort and helped ease some of his tension as the screens started to flicker to life.
When all the Council members were there, Fury spoke.
"Council Members, as per your orders, Agent Barton is here to be debriefed concerning the Loki incident."
"This is a little more complicated than just a simple debrief," a woman on the far left screen stated crisply. "There's the matter of Agent Barton's participation in the alien terrorist attack."
"Participation?" Fury questioned doubtfully. "In my report, I clearly outlined the nature of Agent Barton's forced induction into Loki's ranks. Whatever participation there was, it wasn't voluntary and therefore requires no further discussion," Fury fired back immediately.
"Yes, we have your report concerning the invader, Loki's, arrival and recruitment of Agent Barton," an Asian man spoke up.
Clint arched an incredulous eyebrow at their terminology.
"Recruitment?" he questioned with a huff that was short on neither sarcasm nor disbelief.
Attention swung to him and the room fell into an uncomfortable silence for a few breaths.
Clint didn't shy away from their hard stares and instead glared right back.
"I'm just saying," he explained slowly, not trying to hide his annoyance, "You guys keep throwing these words around…like 'participation' and 'recruitment'…like I had some sort of choice here. If the headache I've had for the past two weeks is anything to go by, that's not exactly how it went down."
"And exactly how did it happen, Agent Barton? Do enlighten us," the woman spoke again.
Clint worked his jaw in both legitimate and contrived frustration. He was so sick of explaining himself to these people. For nine years he'd been justifying his every move to them. And beyond that, he needed them to believe that what he said next was the absolute truth.
"I wish to hell I knew. But seems something in my brain is misfiring on that particular subject."
In the brief moments of silence that followed, the Council members managed to portray the exact same expressions – collective disappointment and disbelief – without having to even look at each other.
"I find that hard to believe." The Asian council man – Clint didn't know his name – stated finally.
"Well, I don't know what to tell you," Clint shot back sharply. "I've got nothing. I lost two days, during which, I apparently did some nasty shit. I'll own that, even if I don't remember it. But I was in no way a willing participant in Loki's bullshit play for world domination."
"How can you be so certain," the sole Council woman challenged. "If you don't remember, how can even you be certain you did not willingly conspire with the Asgardian known as Loki?"
Clint couldn't decide if he was more offended, insulted, or pissed off by that.
"If you don't know the answer to that," Clint replied in a low, dark tone, "then I'm not gonna bother telling you."
Fury stepped forward then.
"Agent Barton's record, save for the Romanoff incident, is exemplary. And even that, I think we can collectively agree, worked out for the best given that Natasha Romanoff has proven to be an invaluable and loyal asset. He's given this Council absolutely no reason to question his loyalty. Hell, the man was able to resist magic to keep from killing me, so I think he's earned a measure of respect." He shifted then, shoulder brushing Clint's. "And since debrief seems to be far from your minds, that leads me to ask, just why exactly are we here?"
The Council members looked varying degrees of annoyed, but it was the woman, again, that spoke up.
"We are here to debrief Agent Barton and ascertain his viability as an agent going forward."
Clint scowled. Why did she have to say it like he was some sort of experiment?
"I'm just gonna go ahead and call bullshit on that," Fury shot back easily. "You're here looking for a sacrificial lamb. With Loki meeting justice back on Asgard, Agent Barton is your easiest target."
"Director Fury, we aren't –"one of the men protested, but Fury cut him off.
"You aren't what?" he challenged. "Aren't trying to lay the blame on him?" He gestured at Clint. "Because to me, that's exactly what it looks like and I'm not going to just stand by and let you crucify one of my top agents just so you can say justice was dealt out for the sake of politics."
"He conspired with the enemy!" the woman argued sharply. "You reported yourself that Loki had intelligence that he couldn't have discovered from anyone but a high clearance SHIELD agent. He attacked the carrier. He killed countless agents and led men to kill countless more. How can you dare claim he bears no responsibility?"
Clint felt gutted, faces flashing through his mind's eye even as he stood ramrod straight and silent. He had no defense. He'd done exactly what they claimed, willingly or not, he'd done it.
Fury's voice had lost its fire when he spoke again.
"Because I know this man." Fury turned then, met Clint's gaze with more compassion, warmth, and understanding than Clint had ever seen. It took everything he had to keep his jaw from going lax. "I know what he's made of." Fury continued to hold his gaze. "And there's no world where he'd willingly turn on his own or bring harm to any of his fellow agents."
Clint clenched his jaw. He knew what Fury was trying to say. He was trying again, to absolve him concerning Phil and Todd. But Clint didn't want absolution. But rather than accept the mounting protest in Clint's gaze, Fury turned back to the Council.
"Loki took control of Agent Barton, and others, including Doctor Selvig, who I don't see standing under judgement."
"Doctor Selvig's expertise is invaluable to our organization," the Asian replied calmly.
"And I'm what?" Clint spoke up again, earning a silencing glare from Fury, which he promptly ignored. "Expendable?"
Saying the word felt like it sucked the air right out of his lungs. Not so many years ago, he had believed that with everything he had. Phil had begged him to believe otherwise, to recognize what he meant to those who cared about him, and what he meant to Phil. He still struggled with it and because of that he couldn't help but acknowledge that maybe, in that, they weren't so far off the mark. What was he compared to someone like Selvig?
The lack of protest from the screens, told him that he'd pretty much nailed it.
"If that's the true state of this situation, then we're done here," Fury stated sharply, eye hard. "You will not pursue Agent Barton in this just because it's convenient. Instead, you'll let it be known that you've found him to be nothing but a victim in this situation. Or so help me God, you will have to come through me to get to him."
There was a stunned silence throughout the room in the face of Fury's abrupt and heated defense. Clint found himself staring with the same shock as the Council members.
"Now ask yourselves, is that really a war you wanna start?" Fury finished, voice hard as steel.
With clenched jaws, each of the Council members slowly nodded and then ended their transmission. When the last screen went dark, Clint watched Fury's spine minutely relax and his chin drop briefly to his chest. Clint stared at him, still somehow amazed, after all this time, that Fury would go to bat for him.
"You didn't have to do that," he finally stated quietly.
Fury's sarcastic huff was more than a little surprising. And Clint had only just processed it when the Director turned to face him.
"Yes, I did." His reply was firm and confident. "Because I know for a fact that the only thing he would want from me is to protect you. So I will, in every way I can."
For a moment, a flash of time so brief it almost didn't exist, the door that Clint had kept so firmly closed…opened. And in that moment, devastation so severe and crippling swept over him that he felt his breath leave him in a rush and he had to break his gaze from Fury's just so he could keep it together. Then the moment passed. He drew in a slow, fortifying breath, and slammed that door closed again.
"It's okay to grieve, Barton," Fury tried.
Clint shook his head sharply against the words.
"Don't," he snapped, raising his gaze again to meet the Director's. "Do you have an assignment for me?"
For a several long moments, Fury just stared at him, gaze searching his. Then, before Clint could be certain just what Fury was looking for or if he found it, the director nodded once.
"I do." He reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a flash drive. He tossed it in Clint's direction and he snatched it out of the air with ease.
"What's the mission?" Clint asked as he tightened his fingers around the flash drive.
"Straight-up assassination. I've got a target, needs retiring. I figure you're just the man for the job."
Clint nodded, looking down at the drive.
"There's a jet gassed up and waiting for you in the hangar bay. So I suggest you say your goodbyes and find your way to it."
Clint looked up sharply.
"Goodbyes? She's not coming with me?"
Fury's eyebrow arched above his eye patch.
"Do you need a babysitter?"
Clint glowered.
"No."
"Then I suggest you get moving."
He didn't need to be told again. He headed for the door.
Clint stared at the door in front of him, questioning his decision to come here even as he told himself he had to. He might not get another chance.
He had to say goodbye.
He raised his hand, hesitated once more, then rapped his knuckles sharply on the door. In answer, there was a loud thump and then a round of laughter – both masculine and feminine – from somewhere in the room.
"Jesus…" he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes upward and hardly believing his timing. He had to physically stop himself from just walking away and forgetting this whole horrifying moment. But then a quiet voice in his mind whispered that this might be the last time he ever saw this man and it was worth whatever embarrassment waited on the other side of the door.
He reached to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to force his lingering headache away. Then he took a breath and reached to knock again. But just as his knuckles brushed the door, it opened beneath his hand.
It wasn't Dan on the other side of the door, though. It was, unsurprisingly, Rachel Braxton. The surprising part, to Clint at least, was that she was completely clothed and didn't look…flushed or anything. He arched an eyebrow in vague confusion even as hers widened in shock.
"Barton," she stated in a flat, surprised tone.
A moment later she seemed to give herself a mental shake and her expression softened from surprise into something more like warm sympathy. She quirked her lips in a sad smile of greeting and stepped back, jerking her head to invite him inside.
"Come on in," she offered. "We're just packing and Dan decided to drop things." She waved a hand towards the man in question and Clint caught a glint of something shining on her hand, her left hand.
She caught the look and her smile warmed, filling with joy, though she didn't offer a comment.
Dan was hunched behind a very large box, a bit red faced, but smiling.
"Christ, Rachel, what did you put in this thing? Free weights?" he huffed in a light tone even as his gaze met Clint's. There was a serious weight in his eyes that didn't match the levity of his words. But when he spoke again, his voice was still light. "I give up. Rachel, if I can get this on the damned handcart, can you roll it down to the hangar?" He gave her a stern look then, "No lifting though, get one of the crew there to load it up."
Rachel rolled her eyes at the warning, giving Clint a look that clearly said 'what a mother hen' and then she looked back at Dan.
"Yes dear," she drolled. "I read those pregnancy books you bought…all six of them." She glanced at Clint and stage whispered, "He's a worrier and a control freak."
Despite himself, Clint felt the corner of his mouth quirk up.
"Shocker," he whispered back sarcastically.
"I'm right here," Dan groused, giving them both a dry glare. Clint watched him start struggling with the box again. Without giving the doctor a chance to give him shit about aggravating broken ribs, Clint strode forward and crouched, helping Dan lift the box onto the pushcart. The doctor did give him a scolding glare, which Clint had absolutely no trouble ignoring.
He shifted out of the way and watched Rachel push the cart from the room, letting the door fall closed behind her. He felt Dan's gaze on him, but couldn't quite make himself return it.
Instead, he busied himself glancing down at his own boots, then up and around the room, taking in the changes…the lack of personal belongings, the stacks of boxes, the stripped mattress and emptied closet.
It felt so final now. Dan was really leaving.
The relief was still there. Away from SHIELD, away from him, was the safest place for the doctor.
He heard Dan sigh.
"Thanks for helping with that." Dan smiled slightly. "Rachel hates asking for help, even when she knows it's not something she can do herself." Dan snorted then, drawing a quick glance from Clint. "Come to think of it," the doctor went on, "I'm the exact same way. So are a lot of people around here."
The meaningful look Dan gave him was not lost on Clint.
He returned the look with a sarcastic glare.
"I didn't come for help," he stated. "I'm heading out on a mission. Don't know how long I'll be gone. I wanted to catch you before, uh…" Clint gestured around the room and cleared his oddly dry throat, "before you left."
Dan nodded.
"I was going to track you down myself if you didn't show before I headed out. Too many years to not say goodbye." Dan sat down on the edge of the bare bed. "What's on your mind?"
Clint couldn't seem to make himself meet Dan's familiar gaze, so he wandered the room instead. He eyed the pile of things still left to be packed and ran his hand along the top of a box.
Dan's question was a loaded one. What was on his mind? A whole hell of a lot of not good stuff. But he didn't want to talk about that. It wasn't why he was here.
"Just wanted to say goodbye," he finally admitted, his back to the doctor. He turned and managed a smile. "Like you said, too many years, you know?"
Dan gave him a long, hard look.
"Grab a seat, kid." He jerked his chin to indicate the box next to Clint's legs. "There's something you need to hear."
Clint grimaced and didn't move.
"Look, I don't really wanna do the whole kumbaya thing, Dan…"
In a gesture Clint was completely familiar with – he'd caused it enough times over the years – Dan rolled his eyes.
"Oh, sit the fuck down, Barton, and quit giving me shit. Since day damned one with you, it's never the easy way."
Clint quirked his eyebrow ruefully at that. The man did have a point there. With the most put-upon sigh he could manage, Clint slid down onto the box Dan had indicated. He gave his friend a look of sarcastic question, asking without words if he was happy now.
Dan's lips quirked into a sarcastic grin.
"Better. You're too kind," he deadpanned.
Then Dan's gaze grew heavier, communicating multiple emotions. Dan had never been particularly hard to read, but now he was practically projecting. Clint could almost feel the doctor's emotions in the room with them. Grief. Pain. Sympathy. They all warred for dominance on the doctor's face. Finally, Dan tilted his head a little and sighed.
"Look, I need you to hear something from me, kid. Something you probably don't want to hear. Can you shelve your typical Barton attitude and be so gracious as to let me say what I need to say?"
Clint's expression tightened and then blanked. He could almost feel the color drain from his face. He didn't want to talk about emotional shit. He didn't want to talk about Phil. He could see, as clearly as if Dan had waved a neon sign, that that was where this was headed.
He could barely even think about Phil, much less talk about him.
He eyed the door, gauging the distance and how many steps it would take him to make it there.
Dan caught the glance and sighed.
"It's not about Phil. Please, Clint…I promised."
That got his attention. His gaze snapped back to Dan's and after a moment of hesitation, he gave him a slight nod to continue.
"Thanks, kid," Dan sighed gratefully. "I appreciate it. Look…I, uh, I was the last person Todd spoke to…"
Clint drew in a sharp breath, gaze cutting away and jaw clenching.
"I don't want to-"
But Dan spoke over his protest, ignored it.
"He asked me to tell you something," he stated firmly. His gaze had dropped though, studying something on his hands. "I think you need to hear it, even though I don't expect you to listen to it."
Clint's gaze narrowed. He didn't like where this was going. He eyed the door again, but one thought stopped him.
Todd's last words…Todd's last moments…had been about him. He couldn't walk away from that any more than he could stop himself from watching the video of what Loki had done to Phil.
"Dammitall, Clint," Dan's voice was rough as he forced the words out. "He told me to tell you that this – all of this – it wasn't your fault, it isn't your fault." Dan held up a hand before Clint could say anything to contradict the claim. "And I know. You don't want to hear that, not from me, not from him, not from anyone, because you're too damn busy blaming yourself. Believe it or not, I get it. You survived. They didn't. It's nothing I haven't seen before."
Clint stood abruptly, turning away and putting his back to Dan. He braced his hands on the stack of boxes in front of him and dropped his head briefly, drawing in a deep breath.
"That's not…" he shook his head and cleared his throat. "That's not what this is about. It's not survivor's guilt, Dan. Todd didn't know – you don't know – what happened."
Dan's gaze snapped up to him, eyes narrowing.
"You think I don't know that, kid?" In spite of the emotion in the doctor's eyes, his voice was soft, almost reflective. "Todd said it. He asked me to tell you. Because he knew you. He knew you'd be blaming yourself whether it was your fault or not. You always do, whenever anything goes wrong." Dan's lips quirked a little. "'The pain in the ass will blame himself.' Those were some of his last words, Clint. His last words were for you to know it was not your fault."
Dan's confession had a swell of emotion rising dangerously in Clint's chest. He was in no way equipped to deal with it right now, so he fought it back, forced it down. He clenched his jaw, hands tightening into fists where they rested on the box. He clenched his eyes closed, kept his head lowered, back to Dan, and he drew in a deep, centering breath.
Behind him, Dan went on, voice full of understanding.
"I know it's not that easy. I know, okay?" he assured. "I can only begin to imagine what's going through your head right now, and I can guess that blame is the understatement of the fucking year. But Clint…you have to find a way to the other side of this. You owe Phil that much. You can't give up on yourself. Not over this. Not ever."
Clint's head came up at the mention of his handler, temper sparking to life. But he still didn't turn around, still stayed silent as Dan went on.
"Not when every single one of your friends believes what you don't – that this was never your fault and that you mean something to all of us."
Clint had enough. He turned, fire rising in his gaze.
"Don't, Dan. Don't tell me what I owe him. Don't put that on me right now."
"Clint…" Dan raised a calming hand, but Clint just talked over him.
"I'm here, Dan. I'm doing what he goddamned wanted. That's all I've got in me right now, to be here, to do my job. That's all I've got in me for any of you."
A matching fire lit up Dan's expression.
"Good," he stated firmly, vehemently. "You make damned sure it stays that way. Because there will be a tomorrow, Clint. If you let it come. Do you get me?"
Clint reached to rub at the bridge of his nose, head pounding in time with his raging pulse. He knew what Dan's worry was, where this was coming from.
Suicide. He was worried Clint would give up in the worst way.
Maybe a few years ago, before Natasha, it wouldn't have been much of a stretch. But now, it hadn't even crossed his mind.
"You're a fucking survivor and I want to make sure you stay that way," Dan added, worry coating every word.
Clint sighed and dropped his hand back down to his side.
"I'm not checking out any time soon, Dan. I wouldn't go there. I sure as hell wouldn't do that to Natasha…or to you."
Dan's gaze fixed on his, eyes piercing. Clint didn't look away. He let Dan search for the truth of his words.
"What do you want me to do? Pinky promise?" he groused. "I swear to you, Dan," he promised as sincerely as he could. "I wouldn't go there. I won't go there."
And he wouldn't. Because Dan was right, he was a survivor. He had always, and would always, survive. But more than that, he would never willingly go somewhere Natasha couldn't follow.
Finally, Dan seemed satisfied and his shoulders dropped in relief.
He rubbed a hand across his face and when he looked back at Clint, the doctor looked years older.
"I'm sorry, Clint," he offered quietly, voice hoarse. "I'm so damned sorry." Dan's eyes closed against the wetness Clint saw pooling in them. "I wasn't there. I don't know that I could have saved him. Probably couldn't have. But I wish to hell I could have given you another miracle, kid."
Clint shook his head, jaw clenching. He couldn't do this. He couldn't talk about what ifs or could haves and would haves. It was too hard. It was too painful.
"Don't, Dan," he all but pleaded. "Please…just don't."
Dan blew out a frustrated sigh.
"Don't what, Clint? Tell you that I care? That I know you're hurting? That you aren't fucking alone? That if you ever do want to talk, you have people to talk to?" Clint could only watch as tears started to slide unrestrained down Dan's face. "I feel like we failed you, kid. Not the other way around. Not ever the other way around. Hell, that's rule damned one in medicine – never blame the victim."
Clint looked away, down at some spot on the floor. Dan's grief was a tangible thing in the room with them. Where Clint had buried his, locked it away, Dan was letting himself feel it. He was doing what Clint wasn't strong enough to do.
As Dan's words sank in, Clint latched onto one thing he couldn't let pass.
"You didn't fail me," he stated firmly, with absolute conviction. He saw it then, a path to make it through this conversation. "I saw the footage, Dan. You being there, it wouldn't have changed anything. Miracles don't exist. Sometimes we just get lucky. Luck was running pretty damned thin that day."
Dan met his gaze.
"Then can you do me a favor, Clint?"
Clint hesitated. He wasn't going to commit to anything without knowing what he was getting into, so he stayed silent. Dan didn't seem to notice.
"Allow yourself to believe that this wasn't your fault. Not now, not right away. I know you, kid. Too damn well. I don't expect you to just collapse in the fetal position, cry it out, and then stand up and suddenly believe me on that point. Just…don't shut the door on it. And let yourself believe that maybe, some day, this won't all be as awful as it is right now."
Clint stiffened, rejecting the plea with both his posture and his suddenly harder expression.
"Phil is dead, Dan. Todd is dead. There's no day down the road that this isn't as 'awful' as it is right now." He stated the names without feeling, without emotion. They were facts, not family. "Don't ask me for something I can't give you."
Dan looked stricken at his blunt words. And just as quickly as it had risen, some of the fire drained out of Clint.
"I'm sorry," he offered quietly. "I just…" he sighed. "I can't do this right now. Can't you get that? I just can't." The apology was a weak one, but it was all he had.
Dan's gaze softened.
"I get it, Clint," he admitted. "Just…I just want you to keep your mind open to the possibilities. That's all I'm asking for. That, and to remember that you have friends. Ones who don't give a shit how low your opinion of yourself is."
Desperate for this conversation to be over, Clint gave him a tight nod and changed the subject, clawing for more stable ground.
"So Italy, huh? And a rug rat on the way? Saw the ring…there a shotgun involved?"
The joke had the effect he wanted. Dan rolled his eyes. His mouth opened, probably to offer some snarky comeback, but then he just sighed, a dreamy expression settling on his face.
"Nah," he smiled, "I've had the ring for three months. I just…wasn't ready to take the leap."
Clint nodded in understanding.
"I'm assuming I'm invited." He smirked. "I'll have to check my schedule of course, but I'm sure I can squeeze it in." The humor felt forced, like it wasn't quite rolling off his tongue as easily as it used to. But he kept it up, upheld the front that was expected of him.
Dan chuckled.
"Give us a month or so to get settled and then we'd be honored to have you and Natasha as our witnesses. It's just going to be a small, courthouse-type thing. Then you'll have to recommend someplace incredible for a celebratory dinner."
Clint nodded.
"That I can do." He glanced to the door again, then down at his watch. He needed to go. The jet was waiting and he still had to say goodbye to Natasha. "I gotta get going, man, but…you know…don't be a stranger, huh? And I better be the first one to get a picture of that rug rat when it's born."
Dan nodded.
"Before you go," he reached over to the bedside table, "a parting gift. Make sure you keep it close." Dan handed him a small package wrapped in, of all things, paper towels.
Clint took it with an arched eyebrow.
"Used paper towels…you shouldn't have," he quipped, feeling almost normal for a moment. He latched onto that moment fiercely and shot Dan a teasing smirk.
"Hey, they're new paper towels. So shut up and just open it, you smartass."
Clint pulled the paper towels away and arched his eyebrow again, this time in confusion. He stared at the cell phone, disposable, the kind he usually used as a burner on missions. He looked quizzically at Dan.
On a better day, he'd have continued with the sarcasm, making a joke about a crime spree and Dan being worried about 'the man' tapping his calls. But the moment of levity he'd grasped so tightly a moment ago was already fading. Instead he just waited for the doctor to explain the odd gift.
"There's exactly one number preprogrammed on that, mine. A new, super-secret one. You ever need anything – and I mean anything – you use that. Keep it someplace safe, because there are about three people in the world that have that number, okay?"
Clint nodded, sliding the phone into his back pocket. He shifted towards the door, meeting Dan's gaze again.
"Take care of yourself, okay, Dan? And take care of Rachel and do right by that kid." He hesitated and then added more quietly. "Don't ever come back to this life. Kids need their parents alive…I would know."
Dan's expression tightened and he nodded seriously.
Clint nodded back and reached for the door.
"Wait."
He turned back in time for Dan to latch onto his shoulder and pull him in for a hard hug. Clint tensed in the embrace and then forced himself to return it, for Dan's sake. He owed the man something after all these years.
After a moment, Dan let him go.
"Take care of yourself, Clint. You're gonna make a damned good godparent to my kid. So you better be around for him or her to call you Uncle Clint, got it?"
Momentarily struck silent by the honor Dan had just promised him, Clint could only nod.
Dan squeezed his shoulder one more time and then let him go.
"Be safe, kid."
Clint closed the door to the supply closet behind him and leaned back on it. He watched Natasha, who had entered ahead of him, turn to face him.
"I don't like this," she stated firmly.
"I'll be fine," he assured calmly.
"I should be with you," she insisted. "I want to be with you."
Clint pushed off the door and moved towards her, pulling her to him. Her arms went around his waist and he tightened his around her shoulders, tucking his chin down so his face was buried in her hair.
He wasn't going to make her any empty promises that fate might prevent him from keeping. Instead he just held her tighter.
"Just…just don't do anything stupid, okay?" she whispered against his chest.
He quirked his lips wryly, wondering if he should be insulted.
"At least no more stupid than usual," she added.
Clint rolled his eyes.
She pulled back slightly, turning her face up so they were nose to nose. He watched her bite the inside of her lip, saw the worry in her gaze. He knew what she was feeling. If he'd been asked to let her go off on her own this soon after Germany, he'd have probably revolted.
She was already keeping it together better than he would have.
"I get it," he assured quietly. "I'll stay in contact," he promised.
She nodded.
"I need to do this, Natasha," he pointed out softly.
She nodded.
He leaned down and she rose to meet him. The kiss wasn't long, but it was deep. He was the one that broke it off, but he didn't pull away. He let his forehead rest on hers for a moment.
"See you when I get back?"
"I'll be waiting," she promised.
Then, together, they headed for the door, leaving the privacy of the supply closet behind them.
Natasha watched with crossed arms and a clenched jaw as Clint's jet rose off the deck and into the sky. She felt more than heard Fury come up next to her.
"You sent him alone," she accused.
"Was it a mistake?" Fury asked, his own voice almost bearing a note of accusation as well.
Natasha hesitated.
"I don't know," she finally replied. And that was the problem. She couldn't get a clear read on Clint. She didn't know if he was ready for this. "But you shouldn't have taken the chance. You should have sent me with him."
No matter what she'd said to Clint, she wasn't okay with this.
Fury was quiet for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was controlled and confident.
"I couldn't do that. For his sake, Romanoff."
She turned sharply, zeroing in on him.
"You think I would have put him at risk?"
"No. What I think is that he needed to do this on his own. You see it just as clearly as I do, Romanoff. He's drowning. He's needs to know that he can still do his job. He needs to know that he still has what it takes to be what he was before Loki. This mission, it has one purpose. To test him. Either he'll sink or he'll swim."
Natasha stared at him, eyes on fire.
"And if he sinks?"
Fury stared at her, face resigned.
"I have to believe that he won't. I have to believe that he is every bit the man Phil Coulson believed him to be."
Natasha turned away, crossing her arms across her chest as if to ward off the cold.
"Do you think he is, Romanoff? Do you think he still has what it takes to be what Phil believed he could be?"
She didn't answer. How could she? She didn't know. She didn't know if Clint still had it in him to be what Phil had envisioned as an Avenger. She didn't know if Clint could be the man Phil believed him to be…without Phil here to believe it.
It wasn't that Clint wasn't a good man all on his own. He was. It was the simple fact that Clint could never find it in himself to believe what Phil did, what she did. He couldn't buy into the vision Phil saw of his future. His future as a hero.
Clint didn't see it. He didn't know how to look past his own faults and failures to see the man that lay beneath them. Phil had been good at forcing him to look past the bad and acknowledge the hope for good.
But Phil was gone. And Natasha didn't know if she could be enough to fill that void. Clint believed he was nothing but buried darkness. How could she shine the same light into his life that Phil had? When she was nothing but darkness, too?
Clint leaned back as the jet's auto pilot kicked in.
He plugged the flash drive into the jet computer and pulled up the mission file.
A Serbian militant enslaving a series of towns. Just the kind of man that needed putting down. It was the kind of mission he had taken a certain measure of pride in back in the beginning. Not that he'd ever enjoyed taking a life…no, it was that he was protecting other lives. He used to believe, Phil used to tell him, that the men and women he killed for SHIELD had it coming. He had a file, every time, detailing exactly why they had earned a kill order. It had mostly been enough. But Clint had never been able to quite shake the reality that this was all he was.
He was a killer. Plain and simple.
It felt familiar in a way, to be headed towards an old-school assassination. He thought, maybe, he could do this. He could be this again. He could kill in the name of SHIELD and serve the greater good.
Only, this was not all that was being asked of him.
He'd always believed he was nothing but a killer.
And now, here he was, being told he was something more. He was supposed to be a hero. And it felt foreign, like trying on a suit that was too big with shoes he'd never fill.
He had a lifetime of thinking he was less, that he was worth less. He hadn't started that notion, but he'd sure as hell fed it with the choices he'd made.
He didn't know how to be more than what he was.
But he was willing to fight to figure it out. And he would keep fighting, always.
For her. For Natasha who loved him more than 'love' could express. Who completed him heart and soul. He would fight to be a man worthy of a woman like her.
And he'd fight for him.
For Phil.
For the man who had always believed he was better than he was. Who had always seen more in him than Clint had ever seen in himself. For the man who had put Clint's name at the top of a list for a team called "The Avengers" long before the world knew Iron Man and the Hulk. Before Captain America was no longer a thing of the past and before The Black Widow was a name the bad guys feared. Before gods came to Earth and brought their magic with them.
He'd fight for Phil because Phil had always fought for him.
And maybe...one day…Clint would find the strength and the will to fight for himself again.
End of The Untold Stories
wow. I can't believe it's over. That chapter was a LONG one, as my final chapters always are lol. We ended on a note that was a mixture of positive and depressing. On the one hand, Clint's there. He's fighting again. But on the other, he's still not dealing with what happened. He's still not coping.
Please, if you would, drop me a line down there in the review box, this is your last chance for this story to let me know what you thought of it. I would love, LOVE, to hear all of your thoughts and feelings now that we've reached the end of this journey together. Please do so despite the technical difficulties FF is giving me on this, so that the reviews will be there when/if they fix the problem :)
Now...what you've all been waiting for, the announcement of the next multi-chapter story. WELL, first I'll tell you that I'll be working on TWO projects simultaneously. The first, is a rewrite of Vantage Point which was my very first story and is like the seedling that spawned the VPU. If you go read it now, compared to what you just read, the quality of writing is vastly different as I've grown as a writer over the past several years. So, Vantage Point is being overhauled and will be RE-published under the name Vantage Point: Revisited. The original version will remain right where it is, so those of you faithful few who have been with me forever can still go read where it all began, and so any curious newbies can do the same.
Now...for the next NEW installment to the VPU...the right to chose my next story was WON by pumpkinpixel (i don't know your username here luv) who submitted the winning logo for my tumblr logo contest I held a few months ago. So the story is...
Not So Ancient History
When Trickshot returns to Clint's life, asking for help to track down Barney and Swordsman, Clint can't bring himself to refuse. But dealing with his past means telling the team about his former life and it means facing those old wounds that never really stopped bleeding.