Hello all,

Please enjoy installment four of Soul Keeper. I am enjoying this very much, it is a good escape for me. Thank you to those who have reviewed, reading how much you enjoy this truly brings me joy. Things are picking up starting in this chapter, and its going to be quite the ride!

Happy Writing,

Elaine

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Their relationship had always been odd to everyone outside of their world – to anyone that happened across the two sparring in the gym (as Steve and Tony had a few times) it would almost seem like there was no restraint in how they swung. It was a dirty little secret that the other Avengers kept tabs on the sparring matches of the two assassins and had sizable bets on the ultimate victor – best of 50, Natasha was the unknowing winner by one and scored Tony quite a handsome sum – and more than a handful of times the matches would go until one simply couldn't continue. Bruce hardly approved of this excessive damage to their bodies and extensive use of their energy but chose it to not be his place to intervene.

Inside their world, reality was a very complex thing. They taught each other through their matches. Clint taught Natasha how to study, how to allow yourself to collect a handful of blows to ascertain the enemy's weakness before striking, how to outwit your opponent by using their own hubris against them, how to block your vital points with your own body without a tell. If he hadn't chosen the Hawk as his moniker, she would have named him the Fox. Natasha taught Clint that physical strength was far from the only way to gain victory; and she tried many times to teach him something that he struggled with: patience. Clint was more than able to calmly navigate his way through any briefing, any fight, any hazard, but in a hand to hand fight he enjoyed toying with his prey. He was dangerous. He was vicious. Natasha sought to soothe the hidden reason he forced himself to win: fear was a hell of a thing. After all, they were only human.

Patience. Breathe. Always thinking. Be cunning – full of tricks, and you will never be destroyed.

Those foxes on Barton's farm reminded her of him. They always watched from the tree line in the rising sun as the archer ambled through the wild grass fields around his home, one hand outstretched to enjoy the feel of the grass seeds tickling his hand. His partner would watch over him with those little foxes, all of them picking their posts as the rising sun warmed Hawkeye's body and illuminated him a soft orange light.

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Just three weeks ago, Clint Barton had celebrated the end of the summer with his family on his farm. The fight, he had dared to hope, was finally over and he spent his time tending the land, fathering his children, and mentoring Kate. Oh Kate, she was a spitfire that he begrudgingly admitted that he had grown very attached to; she had such life about her and was always so very willing to be the light that someone truly needed. She reminded him, he told his wife one night as they sat out on the balcony sipping tea, of Natasha.

It wasn't in any of the physical ways that she held that familiarity. It was that, despite his very best efforts to the contrary, she had felt indebted to him – and yet, instead of repaying a debt that she didn't even hold, she had become a warm blanket to the frigid soul that lay hidden deeply within himself.

He had never truly grieved for Natasha. It was wrong. Grieving meant that she was actually gone, and he didn't see her as that. She had given herself to get the Soul Stone, and to him that meant that her soul was transient. If the Stone had started life and gave its descendants souls, she could move where she chose. He told himself that she was everywhere. The birds that watched him from the bushes near the porch, the leaves that happily sang together in the wind, even the granite plaque he had made her and set beneath the massive old oak tree on the farm – so if she was everywhere, she wasn't actually gone. He wasn't sure why he forced himself through these mental gymnastics….but it did help him feel better at times. At others, he would dismiss himself from the house and sit on the sandy ground under the oak tree with her plaque next to him and just talk for hours; it was a Barton family rule that the conversations he had with Natasha were private.

Clint wasn't a true believer one way or another on the concept of the afterlife anymore. If you had asked him a couple decades prior he would have given a toothy grin and a shrug, not really bothering to refute that he was fine to play the role of the Devil's undertaker. These people he claimed deserved their fate and he was happy to be the righteous hand of the gatekeeper, his duty had him happily keeping Hell packed with fresh souls - if it meant the safety of the living. The day he met Natasha changed that duty, and the day he refused the order was the day that he decided that matters of the soul simply were too far out of touch for him. His sins, he reckoned, far outweighed his righteousness. If that were true, he would resign to his torture for the remainder of eternity if it meant his family and his sister, his now protector, Natasha were safe.

That bargain was long expired. Recent years had torn his perception of what he understood… it was as Natasha had told him the day her eyes dug right into his and pulled him free from the shaky hold Loki still had on his mind.

This was monsters and magic and things they were never trained for.

And so was this thing.

His brain couldn't comprehend exactly what this thing was, and the vibe that he got from his allies that shared his space near the railing said that they didn't either. They had fought Chitauri. They had fought these… things that Thanos had brought with him. Some of them had fought mind control. Yet none of them knew what this was, other than a deep danger that they were all immediately weary of.

It reminded Barton of a mix of things that he actually did know: a werewolf, a bear, the Shredder, the Grim Reaper, and the Predator. None of those things held any relation to each other yet their spawn was fifteen feet below him and twenty feet away, broiling red eyes staring him down. It stood seven feet tall on strong haunches that reminded him distinctly of the werewolf, its bulky body able to stand on all four or on its back legs like an angry black bear with a spiked tail swaying behind it. Its body looked like a skeleton covering either rotted flesh or hardening magma, just as he imagined the Grim Reaper to be. On its extremities stretched what looked to be incredibly sharp claws made of bone, its jaws curled back to reveal a mandible lined with broiling white teeth that only partly guarded the inferno-heated air that escaped its mouth – so much like the armor of the Shredder that the Ninja Turtles faced. It was this thing's eyes that almost made time freeze for Clint.

There was no soul there. Those were deep, burning, broiling pits of straight fury that locked onto him, and it seemed to have desire for him. Only him.

Without his hearing aids he couldn't hear the words that his allies spoke, but he could feel the vibration of their voices through the air. Clint chose to pay them no mind, his senses locked on the creature below them that seemed to have finally caught its breath. The ground under its feet seemed to melt and without power, and the fire alarms chose to ignore this problem. None of this is what really bothered Hawkeye… it was the feeling in his body. Instead of stress and fear, two reactions that would have been perfectly acceptable in this situation, he felt an unjustified anger and a need to fight. He wanted to hurt this thing – and other than it being some alien creation that suddenly appeared and destroyed their compound, he wasn't sure why. He had very rarely in life wanted to fight. That didn't mean that he wouldn't finish one should it come his way.

His left hand tightened around the hilt of his retractable sword. His eyes bore into those burning irises below him – and that's when he couldn't deny that things were beginning to worry him. The sounds of the world fell on deaf ears. The growling breaths of this thing didn't. They rang loud and clear suddenly in his head, and he could count every breath it took by the rumbling that shook his body; that didn't make any sense. He could hear its breaths, the deep rumbling from its chest, the clacking of its boned body and jaws as it moved. The sound was crystal clear. Its presence made him give a half shake of his head, a desperate attempt to cut off the noise.

The beast seemed to sense its prey's hesitation and took its cue, slamming its right claw powerfully into the ground and allowing it to sink into the tiles below – before it slowly drew up a massive, half melted slab of the floor to swing it behind its head. A tremored roar rang from its lung and it shifted its stance, slinging the molten slab straight toward the Avengers that stood on the upper level.

"Go!" the word left Hawkeye's mouth before he could think and all five moved in tandem to leap from their perch.

In any other circumstance it would have been movie worthy – Clint and Sam who stood on opposite ends of the group both leapt onto the rail and shot off in opposite directions, Rhodey tucked and rolled yards away to break for a Springfield 9mm that he had stashed under a desk, Bucky jumped onto the steel railing and launched himself in the air, and Bruce smashed straight through it and went careening with his full weight toward their attacker. With them gone the crunching of stone hit nothing but air. They all converged at nearly the same time, Bruce trying his best to engage the creature in hand to hand.

It only took three seconds for him to realize he was outmatched. What should have been a solid punch was swiped harmlessly away without hesitation, and time seemed to slow as their attacker took advantage of his shock. It turned on its heel, swinging the heavy tail straight into the Smart Hulk's temple and sending him careening straight through the brick, mortar, and steel reinforced walls to their left. He didn't get back up. His friends were undeterred, more enraged now than they had been before, and with a practiced tandem attack Sam and Bucky moved to engage it next. Clint took his opportunity to close in as well, sword drawn and meeting the claws of its right hand with his blade. Quicker than he could track all three of them were knocked away, Sam and Bucky being sent skidding across the polished floor like tossed bowling balls. They impacted a cornered wall, sending them into opposite empty rooms.

Clint slid back, years of training keeping him on his feet as he braced his body down. His right hand was used as a brake to aid his boot clad feet, his sword still drawn in his left – he refused to let his eyes leave this thing.

Never take your eyes off your enemy.

When he came to a halt there was a moment in time that he and the thing stared each other down. Ever so slightly its lips curled and it took a half step forward – and then turned abruptly with a dangerous hissing snarl as bullets ricocheted from its armored body. Rhodey had brought himself down to their fighting level, stance determined as he placed himself between it and the fallen Avengers that were trying to get to their feet behind him.

Four.

Five.

Six.

All of the fired rounds ricocheted harmlessly off of its skin, and the seventh planted itself in the ceiling as he was sent flying backward. Sam caught his flying body straight to the chest as he had just found his feet (he didn't stand for very long as they both impacted the tile floor again). Rhodey's handgun went clattering to the littered floor where he had been just before impact – not a concern to the creature that turned its attention back to Clint.

This thing was absolutely ravaging them with almost no effort… In all of his years as an assassin, Hawkeye followed a strict code. Coulson thought it odd but accepted the sniper's rule that every one of his marks was to be named; it wasn't uncommon for him to purposely do the minimum required until his target's name finally graced his tongue. It was, in his mind, a way of speaking their sins into existence and justifying the kill – names were powerful. Names were binding. And so, he named this monster the Ravager.

That heartbeat sounded in his ears again.

This time it made him suck in a sharp breath with the energy it brought…and for some reason, he could swear that the Ravager heard it too. It curled its lips to bear its teeth before letting out a trembling roar, marked by its tail flailing angrily behind it – and bringing with it a sudden shockwave of energy. Clint's body could feel it climb through him like a stinging electrical current. All of the electronics around him suddenly sprung to life, damaged wires spitting angry sparks and flashing fire alarms making him blink hard in surprise. A split glance told him it shocked the other Avengers as much as him.

Bruce still didn't move from where Hawkeye was pretty sure he was out cold, but Sam, Rhodey, and Bucky all flinched at the sudden flood of noise and light; it was too late that they all realized a bigger problem. Markers on the sides of the doorways leading into every room hummed to life, a forcefield leaping between them to enclose the spaces. It separated Rhodey and Sam from Bucky, all three scrambling to their feet to rush at the force fields that now stopped them from reaching Hawkeye.

Barton knew it wouldn't matter how many times Bucky attacked that shield like he was right now…. This was all designed by Tony. It was rebuilt on his plans to keep the genius with them and if Stark was anything, he was thorough. There was nothing that would penetrate those shields unless they were bought down, just like nothing Clint could do would scratch the reinforced walls that slammed down over every accessible window and door around him. He was trapped with the Ravager.

It seemed to realize the same. The pounding of fists on forcefields and hollering voices behind it were of no consequence… its prey was right in front of it. Its jaws clicked as it shuddered, slowly stepping to begin moving in a circle toward its mark. Clint felt distinctly like a frightened hare under the gaze of a starving hawk, and he was far from pleased that he was the prey here. His posture changed and he began to move, ready, in a semicircle counter to his enemy's. His mind blocked out everything around him besides the Ravager that watched him, its own soulless eyes locked on his. He wanted to hurt this thing. He wanted to kill this thing, and he was only half sure of the justification as to why. Suddenly it stopped, as did he, and his world became even more confusing.

It bared its teeth and momentarily shifted its hunting eyes to his allies – there was an uncontrollable urge through his body to absolutely destroy this thing. He understood exactly what it was telling him.

A heartbeat.

A pulse of orange.

His sword gained a titian glow as he twirled it fluidly in his left hand.

"You will not lay a hand on my friends," the words left his lips as barely a whisper, more as a snarl, and the Ravager fixed him with a wide tooth grin. It never spoke, but he could feel its intent.

It almost laughed at him.

'Your friends?'

It stood tall, striking both arms to its sides. With a great shudder they suddenly jerked, spiked bone sprouting from its forearms. It was ready to kill. Barton felt himself focus into his mark like a fox finding a mouse in the snow – oh, he was going to slaughter this thing.

'You think you can PROTECT THEM?'

It was suddenly on him. In normal times he would have moved positions, would have moved to a better stance, would have at least sought better footing. Instead, like a creature possessed he stood his ground, blocking blow for blow before his eyes caught a glowing red pulse point where the bones of its arms parted – and in a flash the orange tinged steel of his blade caught it. The Ravager gave a startled yelp, similar to the snarl of a bitten wolf, and leapt away.

It retreated to a few feet away where it hunched, glancing to its wounded arm that now bled freely (a sick, vile, black blood that splashed to the floor) and turning its now enraged gaze to Barton. It curled its lips back to give a demonic hiss, spitting steam from its white hot throat at him in anger. He returned the sentiment.

And so, they returned to slowly moving around each other. Hawkeye's brain was surprisingly calm…. Searching. He needed space. It was quicker than he was, it had the ability to attack from multiple angles (an ability he was sorely lacking at the moment thanks to the cramped quarters he found himself in), and if it figured any of those things out this would suddenly be so much more difficult. A quick glance told him that the locked door behind his enemy led to the hanger, plenty of space… but guarded by a flashing keypad.

Any thought he had about getting there was a sudden loss.

A heartbeat loud in his ears.

A quick flash of white-hot pain.

The Ravager took advantage and suddenly Clint found the tables 180-ed; now suddenly he was a cockroach in the middle of a tap-dancing convention - leaping and dodging and flipping in ways that he hadn't demanded his body to do in many years. It must have been adrenaline that dulled his pain and gave him the sudden ability to spy Rhodey's handgun on the ground feet from him. He dodged another death sentence of a blow from his opponent and flipped himself over to grab it, whipping himself around to watch his opponent as he himself backpedaled, firing the last bullet from the handgun's chamber to the target behind him. It found its mark on the keypad door, the sudden short of electricity commanding the door to open and give him access to the hangar that lay beyond. The now useless handgun was chucked right at his opponent's face and the momentary surprise it bought him allowed him to run backward into the hangar and slam his sword hilt into the keypad on the other side of the doorway.

It was in desperation that he activated the forcefield between him and the Ravager, his body screaming at him that it couldn't keep this pace for much longer. The predator came to a screeching halting front of him on the other side of the forcefield, its eyes boring into his through the hazy blue before curiously eying the sensors that spanned the divide between them. One clawed hand came up to feel the barrier and, upon its inspection determining that it couldn't smash its way through, it gave a huff and turned its attention back to Clint.

Barton breathed heavily through his nose as he retreated four steps away from it, very quickly glancing to the three Avengers that could still see him. They were safe – two were yelling something either to him or his attacker (which fell on deaf ears either way), and the other was fiddling with something hurriedly inside his room – Bruce could take a hit, and was so far away from this fight that Clint marked him as safe. He and the Ravager held each other's gaze as the Avenger ever so slowly sank to his knees, folding the sword neatly over his lap. Just as he thought it would, he watched the demon begin to heat its skin, super heating the steel and machinery that powered the doorway. A smarter creature would have just shut the power back off he told himself, but it seemed like it had no desire to deal with four of them. Just him. He didn't have long.

So, Barton brought in a deep, steadying breath through his nose and closed his eyes – his mind retreated deep into himself. He could hear the angry panting of the Ravager clearly through his skull, the popping of the steel as it began to gave way, the heartbeat that wasn't his ricocheting through his consciousness…. And then, as Natasha had taught him so many years ago, he began to let it all fall away.

She was only one of two that had ever caught him in the midst of an attack, and now she was the only one that was able to bring him through it. His mind was a subject of fascination to her, a matter of honor, and she desired nothing more than to begin to understand it as best as she could. After a year of their partnership she learned that there was only ever going to be so much that she was able to find out. Clint Barton, she told herself, had found a method of protection that she would have killed hundreds to have. He couldn't escape the horrors of his minds…so he simply made it so he wouldn't have to. He had found a way to compartmentalize things so well that the layers were too complex, too controlled to really be seen by even him. Natasha knew only what he wanted her to.

This attack had been particularly rough, and they found themselves in a trashed room with Clint panting roughly on the ground – exhausted from exertion and the emotion that choked his breathing – and Natasha crouched not far away. In hand to hand they were a close match… but in his blinded emotional state, Clint couldn't quite catch her. She was faster. He was coming around finally, but Natasha had learned that the sound of his mind was louder than any he could ever experience in real life, so she sought to coach him out of the raging sea into a safe harbor.

"Those sounds remind you of the carnival," she told his exhausted form evenly, "You are strong enough to banish that from your mind."

She watched him tune into her voice, tilting his head to hear her more clearly. He would never follow anyone for him… but he would do anything for her. It was far from any desire of hers that she made this about herself, but she never could argue that it worked well.

"I want you to let all of that fall away."

Her soft voice cut through the cacophony of sound in his mind.

"That's right."

He sank to his knees.

"I want your world to be silent. To hear nothing but your own heart beating."

Her words echoed in his soul.

His heart was beating strongly, a testament to the life he fought to keep now. He could almost feel Natasha's approval of him… feel her whispering to him as her fingers brushed the back of his hand in encouragement as he came back to himself. Patience. Calm.

He tuned into the sound bony plates clicking on the creature hunting him as it shifted its weight… a ghost of a smile graced his lips. There it was.

Full of tricks.

A heartbeat.

The world flooded back when the hum of electricity sprang from the melted sensors, the forcefield dropping like a weighted stone. Sapphire eyes snapped open as he leapt to his feet, his sword catching the claw that flung at him as he drew his mark into the hangar and out of sight of his allies.

Bucky worked hurriedly on the wiring he had ripped from the wall, recalling every statement that had ever been told to him in the briefings within the compound to try and figure out how to deactivate the barrier between him and Clint. He had long tuned out Sam's yells to their friend who was in the fight of his life, turned a deaf ear to Rhodey who was two rooms to his right and was trying to get him to indulge him on how to override the forcefield, blinded himself to the Smart Hulk who was beginning to stir forty feet away from him. His mind was on the task at hand, his ears were only for the fight going on not far from him…

It had been a long time since his blood ran cold. It didn't bother to run this time; it froze solid when Clint's scream tore through the air from the hangar accompanied by a bloodcurdling roar from their attacker…and then it went completely silent.

Oh no.

No. Oh no.

With a victorious grunt he finally got a spark from the wires in his hands and the forcefield locking him in shut down with a saddened whirl, letting him scramble to his feet and dash like a madman across the demolished room in front of him.

"Yo bro – give me the combination!" Rhodey hollered to him as he sprinted passed, his flesh arm slamming the release command pad and setting him and the Captain free.

He didn't slow as he flew through the melted doorway, following the trail of devastation straight to Clint. What he found almost made him stop.

The Ravager lay dead in a heap in the midst of the hangar, black blood pooling around its now smoking body. It leaked from a through and through, long stab wound from Hawkeye's sword – it had taken Barton a little time to figure it out. Its armor was weak around its jaw and under its arm…he had taken advantage. The drops of black blood led Bucky to where Clint had scrambled to, back to the hangar wall, seated on destroyed wing of a plane. He was panting heavily, his skin shining with sweat, his own blood, and the blood of his prey – his sword, once glowing, was now back to its standard color but splashed in inky blood. By all accounts, Bucky couldn't believe he was actually alive.

He came to a skidded halt in front of Clint, growing increasingly worried as the hazed eyes remained focused on the dead creature that lay in front of them instead of his newly arrived friend. After trying to rouse Hawkeye's attention he chose instead to search him for injuries, seeking out the source for the bright read blood that mixed with the oily black on his friend's light skin. To his relief he could only find a decent gash on the back of the archer's left shoulder, and after shrugging off his jacket and pressing it behind his wounded friend to stem the bleeding he felt the tap on his elbow.

His eyes met the exhausted blue ones of his friend. He was back. Bucky felt Clint nudge him away from the archer's left hand and he complied, moving away from the sword his friend held (but not releasing his hold on his friend's wounded shoulder) and Clint shifted the bloody weapon to rest on the ground to his right. It clattered hollowly as it hit the tile, neither one of them bothering to care.

Bruce was there suddenly, stumbling with one massive hand pressed to his bleeding right temple as he checked over the slowly calming archer in front of him, scanning his body for wounds. Sam and Rhodey both held the corpse of the Ravager at gunpoint, courtesy of the arsenal that Rhodey had stashed around the compound – Clint didn't bother to tell them that if bullets didn't work before, they wouldn't work now. If it made them feel better, he was good with it.

The gash on the back of his shoulder was a small price to pay for the strike that finally killed the beast – honestly, it was inevitable. The Ravager was faster, stronger, more protected… he had to take a hit to sink his sword into its armpit, the blades on its forearm had just barely scraped over his skin as he ducked under the blow. If the beast had a heart, he could imagine that his blade had torn right through it. All at once he and it roared at each other, and when his sword was freed from its then-lifeless body, that phantom heartbeat had thrummed loudly in his ears. It had been so loud that he had collapsed back to his rump and backpedaled as hard as he could before pulling him up to where he sat now, Bucky pressing his shoulder back onto his jacket where his shoulder throbbed.

Bruce's fingers waved in his field of vision and he turned his eyes back to him, answering his signed question with a shake of his head. He wasn't hurt any worse than his shoulder and his absolutely searing head; and for once he wasn't lying. The Smart Hulk seemed satisfied that he could leave Clint in the care of Bucky for a few moments, so he rose to his feet and made his way over to the other Avengers to ensure the Ravager was dead. Its once-smoldering eyes were a hollow black, and both Clint and Bucky found themselves locked onto the pits for a long moment. Not knowing why he would bother to ask, Clint drew the other ex-assassin's attention and signed to him with a shaking hand:

"WHAT-IS-THAT?"

Bucky held his gaze for a second. With a gentle squeeze of the hand pressing him back into the jacket and the other hesitating, his response was:

"I-DON'T-KNOW."

They both retuned their eyes to the slayed monster just as the other three Avengers backpedaled, dodging the flames and smoke that suddenly erupted from the corpse. With an eerie screech the body turned to a black smoke that disappeared right in front of their eyes like a ghost… and then it was gone.

The ache in his head gave him another potent swing.

"….Clint. …..Clint, they hunt. Be ready."

Barton didn't register the nosebleed.

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