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Jan. 18th, 2022 09:07 pm
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( The hiss of the doors sliding open in the hellicarrier are about the only sound Clint's aware of as he scuffles into the locker room, weighed down by untold amounts of gear. The duffle bag gets tossed unceremoniously onto the floor, and the bow and quiver are given only slightly more reverence, set down on a steel bench. He's covered in a week's worth of grime, dust, and blood; it cakes in his hair and makes his arms stiff as he reaches up to pull off his shirt.
It's only when it's half off, and scrunched around his arms, does he turn to Natasha and sigh. )
You know we don't even have forms for sick-leave or vacation?
It's only when it's half off, and scrunched around his arms, does he turn to Natasha and sigh. )
You know we don't even have forms for sick-leave or vacation?
( The battle is not yet lost, but it will be, soon. Loki has managed to scatter the Avengers, unleashing the beast and hurtling his brother off the helicarrier. Whith the Chitauri descending upon New York, only Iron Man and the captain are left to stand against them. And what of the Widow? She weighs her priorities, and chooses her partner over the rest of the world. She goes after Hawkeye.
Not that he is aware of any of this. After escaping the helicarrier with his master, the enslaved agent has been standing guard, waiting for orders. He is underground, in the subways. Arrows and bow at the ready, he is the perfect soldier. His eyes, his most famed feature, glow an eerie, lifeless blue. He stands straight, moves with hollow and robotic motions. He is an empty shell.
And the real Clint Barton? He is locked away, somewhere. Surrounded by darkness and shadows, he is minimally aware of what is transpiring around him. Only hollowly conscious, he must have still felt it when the helicarrier crashed to earth. Must have felt Phil Coulson's dying breaths. Must have known the name of every agent he took out. But locked away as he is, he can do nothing, not even scream. )
Not that he is aware of any of this. After escaping the helicarrier with his master, the enslaved agent has been standing guard, waiting for orders. He is underground, in the subways. Arrows and bow at the ready, he is the perfect soldier. His eyes, his most famed feature, glow an eerie, lifeless blue. He stands straight, moves with hollow and robotic motions. He is an empty shell.
And the real Clint Barton? He is locked away, somewhere. Surrounded by darkness and shadows, he is minimally aware of what is transpiring around him. Only hollowly conscious, he must have still felt it when the helicarrier crashed to earth. Must have felt Phil Coulson's dying breaths. Must have known the name of every agent he took out. But locked away as he is, he can do nothing, not even scream. )
( For all that they had come together, for all that they are a team, with the battle won there is not much left to hold them together. Stark is going to go back to his own life, picking up the pieces of his broken tower. Rogers’ pieces are more complex, involving a whole life splintered by seventy years of slumber. It won’t be so easy for him to recover. Banner, trying to knit together his separate selves, probably won’t be seen for a while. And who knows when the circumstances will be severe enough for Thor to reappear on earth? For all intents and purposes, the Avengers are scattered to the wind like so many fall leaves.
But two of them stay together.
As much as Clint says he doesn’t need a babysitter, he’s grateful for Natasha’s presence. It’s a SHIELD safe-house, off the grid and off the record, so that even Director Fury can’t pinpoint them. There, they can shed the titles of “agent” and “hero,” can forgo the codenames and just be. And for a man so recently unmade, that’s a fine luxury. And also a fine burden.
It’s early the next morning. He’s seated at the kitchen table, his hand curled around a mug of coffee that he’s not really drinking. His eyes aren’t focused, looking past the blank walls and seeing something else entirely. He doesn’t like having this time to think. He knows their names, now. He shouldn’t have looked it up, shouldn’t have gone near a computer with access to SHIELD’s database. But he did, and now he sits there quietly and contemplates.
Thinking has never been a good idea for Clint Barton. )
But two of them stay together.
As much as Clint says he doesn’t need a babysitter, he’s grateful for Natasha’s presence. It’s a SHIELD safe-house, off the grid and off the record, so that even Director Fury can’t pinpoint them. There, they can shed the titles of “agent” and “hero,” can forgo the codenames and just be. And for a man so recently unmade, that’s a fine luxury. And also a fine burden.
It’s early the next morning. He’s seated at the kitchen table, his hand curled around a mug of coffee that he’s not really drinking. His eyes aren’t focused, looking past the blank walls and seeing something else entirely. He doesn’t like having this time to think. He knows their names, now. He shouldn’t have looked it up, shouldn’t have gone near a computer with access to SHIELD’s database. But he did, and now he sits there quietly and contemplates.
Thinking has never been a good idea for Clint Barton. )
( In battle, he can forget. Eyes on a target, a mission to fulfill, and no room for error, there is no time to think about who he is or what’s been done to him. In battle, there is purpose, and the adrenaline of living each moment between life and death, and the thrilling feeling of victory.
And then, it is over, and he is left with the things he has done.
Eating shawarma does not give him purpose. It does not help him forget. It’s delicious, to be sure, but Natasha’s presence beside him is really the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing stopping him from bolting. He doesn’t belong at this table—the men around him are heroes, and Natasha as much as any of them. And he? He spent his week sniping innocent security guards and his own associates.
He puts his leg up on her chair, and she touches his knee, briefly. If one woman was capable of absolving him of everything, it would be her. But even she can’t do that for him, so he munches into his sandwich and smacks his lips and tells Banner that green is really his color. And Stark is going on about how he deserves a statue, and Thor is clapping him on the back, and the captain? The captain Clint can’t get a read on. He’s an American hero, a living legend. And Clint Barton is nothing but a man with blood on his hands.
They wrap up their food and get up, and Natasha is touching his shoulder and whispering something about keeping a promise (he finds out later that she’s conferring with Banner, finding him a way to vanish and a place to vanish to), and Thor and Stark are still wrapped up in their conversation, so despite Clint’s best efforts, he finds himself face-to-face with Steve Rogers, genuine American hero. )
And then, it is over, and he is left with the things he has done.
Eating shawarma does not give him purpose. It does not help him forget. It’s delicious, to be sure, but Natasha’s presence beside him is really the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing stopping him from bolting. He doesn’t belong at this table—the men around him are heroes, and Natasha as much as any of them. And he? He spent his week sniping innocent security guards and his own associates.
He puts his leg up on her chair, and she touches his knee, briefly. If one woman was capable of absolving him of everything, it would be her. But even she can’t do that for him, so he munches into his sandwich and smacks his lips and tells Banner that green is really his color. And Stark is going on about how he deserves a statue, and Thor is clapping him on the back, and the captain? The captain Clint can’t get a read on. He’s an American hero, a living legend. And Clint Barton is nothing but a man with blood on his hands.
They wrap up their food and get up, and Natasha is touching his shoulder and whispering something about keeping a promise (he finds out later that she’s conferring with Banner, finding him a way to vanish and a place to vanish to), and Thor and Stark are still wrapped up in their conversation, so despite Clint’s best efforts, he finds himself face-to-face with Steve Rogers, genuine American hero. )