arches | ➵ for usavatar ● there's no justice in the world and there never was

➵ for usavatar ● there's no justice in the world and there never was

_{( 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. )}

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[Steve pauses before opening the door, giving Clint a look that isn't admonishing so much as understanding, but he goes into the place without a word. It's sprawling, the building's entire top floor, and looks all the more barren for its size. Steve's never had this much space to himself in his life. He has no idea how to fill it.

The rooms bleed into each other through double-wide open doorways, and his bed is positioned in a far corner that gives him a view of every window and the front door. One of the rooms has nothing but weights and a punching bag. Another, a couch and half-filled book shelves. A closed door leads to the bathroom. The kitchen is probably the second most used space, after what would be an office if Steve did any kind of business. Instead, the room is a studio, and the handiwork from it provides one of the few things that give the apartment any kind of character beyond abandoned.

Paintings, portraits and landscapes done in pastels and ink. The city, its parks and people. There are some half-finished sketches of repeated faces - one of them being Howard Stark's, similar enough to Tony to stand out - and then Peggy. Over and over again, depictions done with the sharpness of a photograph or a blade. Peggy in a red dress, Peggy in her uniform. One doodle of Peggy throwing a glass of wine in Howard Stark's face, though the latter is grinning. Memories made into photos Steve himself doesn't have.

He walks past them without pausing, into the kitchen to turn on the sink and stick his head under the faucet. He scrubs a hand through his hair, enjoying the cold and sputtering water before he calls back to Hawkeye.] Make yourself at home. There's drinks in the fridge - no beer, but it doesn't do much for me.

Edited 2012-05-06 22:45 (UTC)

_{( He follows slowly, noticing everything. Certainly the woman. SHIELD had been built on the remains of the SSR, and Clint has been with the former long enough to have heard its entire history. How searching for Cap had always been a priority--Howard Stark had ensured as much. Before the council started interfering, at least. Clint had only been marginally aware when Cap had been found, already on the base with Dr. Selvig. And from there...

He shakes his head, takes another few steps. It's amazing how lived-in this place already feels, how personal. Clint's own apartments, one tucked away on each coast, are bare enough to be asylums. He doesn't have many personal affects, keeps very few records. The parents and brother he had so long ago no longer exist, not even in photographs. And secret agents are the last people who need paper trails.

Eventually he wanders into the kitchen behind Steve. )}

That's fine. The last thing I need right now is a buzz.

_{( Or to be out of his senses, in any way. He ducks his head into the fridge--do you have orange juice, Steve?--before pulling away to regard Steve thoughtfully. )}

You're pretty in-practice for having been out of the game for what, a century?

Edited 2012-05-06 23:38 (UTC)

[There's orange juice - several jugs, in fact, along with milk, other juices, protein shakes of various kinds. The first month or so he could hardly bring himself to buy anything, feeling almost traitorous for ignoring rationing. The next several he could hardly keep himself from emptying entire shelves out of curiosity. It's evened out since - he keeps what he needs and half the local grocers must think he hosts a small army on the weekends.]

Six months. [He twists the faucet handle with almost too much force, bending it slightly but catching himself before it breaks. The water trickles to a halt, but Steve leaves himself folded over into the sink.] Six months, three weeks, two days since I woke up. It hasn't been a century for me. It hasn't been a year. Haven't had time to get out of practice.

_{( He grabs a jug, setting it down on the table. But he doesn't move to drink it, just crosses his arms over his chest and leans against a wall. He's still dirty as anything, soot and grim all over him, but he doesn't take much notice of that. He's more interested in Steve at the moment. )}

Lucky for us, I guess.

_{( And then, quieter: )} Never thought I'd be missing time, like that.

[He glances at Clint, moving to the fridge to retrieve a pair of the protein shakes before he realizes he's dripping water all over the floor and fishes a towel from the rack next to the sink.]

Is that what it was like?

[Steve finishes off one of the shakes in the time it takes to chug a can of soda, his stomach reminding him almost painfully of the duty he's been neglecting, shawarma or no. He sets it aside, opens the second, and starts in on that a little more slowly.] I read the report. About the facility Loki hit.

_{( Clint turns away, as much as he can. Talking about it to Natasha was one thing, laying himself bear in front of this man he barely knows is entirely another. But it's out, now, and he's asked the question, so Clint has no choice but to respond. When he does, it's slow, and in a detached voice, as though he isn't connected to what he's saying. )}

He emptied me out. Put something else in. When Natasha saved me, it was like waking up.

[It sounds like torture. It's doubtless worse for Clint, knowing he wasn't physically trapped, that his body was being used like some kind of puppet to hurt his colleagues - Steve suppresses a shudder, the chill that settles over him making it hard to finish his drink. He does it anyway, knowing he'll regret it later if he doesn't take care of himself now.

There's no particular comfort he can offer, no advice or experience to share that couldn't be turned aside with the simple declaration that Steve doesn't understand. Because he doesn't. Losing time - that he understands. But that's not what happened to Barton.]

She's a good agent. [Steve frowns. The compliment doesn't come out feeling like enough.] She's remarkable, actually.

_{( He doesn't want Steve's sympathy, so he's grateful when he doesn't get it. It is going to take Clint a long time to get over what's been done to him. He knows his job--and, let's face it, when you work for SHIELD your job is your life--is broken beyond repair. He can never be one of Fury's most trusted agents, again. Hell, he can't even trust himself.

Only one person hadn't given up on him. )}

She's the best there is. There's a reason Nick chose her, out of everyone, to pull you all together.

[The best there is. Steve looks past Clint, into the living room, at the recreation of the newspaper photo he kept in his compass, a sepia-toned watercolor, the only image in the apartment that's actually framed. Nothing he sketches will ever be as pretty as the real thing, but at least he knows he won't forget her face. It's his own private terror, the idea that one day he'll wake up and won't remember what the people he loved most looked like. It's the drive behind every sketch of Bucky, the Commandos, Howard, Phillips.

Not quite so with Peggy, but the fear is still there. Steve ducks his head to rub his eyes.]

Nick. You know him pretty well, then.

_{( Nick Fury. The man who had pulled Clint out of a life of crime, and given him the opportunity to put his skills to use. The man who'd given him a license to kill and sent him after more targets than Clint cared to count. And the man who sometimes called him "son," and asked him for a second opinion.

Clint ground his teeth. )}

Yeah. He's my boss. And, between you and me, he's an asshole.

_{( But an asshole who did what he had to do. The last time he'd seen him, they were shooting at each other.

Why did he have to remember that? )}

[Steve's eyebrows go up a fraction. Not that he disagrees, exactly, but hearing it so abruptly from one of Fury's subordinates is a surprise. He retrieves another protein shake, happy to have something easy to consume. Minimum amounts of thought required.]

He knows the tools he needs for a job. He's a commander. [Steve's hand automatically goes to the spot where he tucked one of those cards Fury threw across the table, the blood-stained reminder that someone still believed Captain America meant something important.] He knows his work. Niceness isn't part of the package.

Edited 2012-05-07 04:22 (UTC)

Well, that's the thing. We're the tools.

_{( That had never been more apparent than it was today. Clint would have followed Nick's orders on just about anything--not without question, but he'd follow them--but then again, Clint was never supposed to be an Avenger. He wasn't a hero, or a remarkable person. He was just a guy with a good shot. )}

You don't have to tell me that. We're probably going to put "SHIELD: We Don't Do Nice," on our mugs, next year.

Edited 2012-05-07 04:45 (UTC)

Yes. We are. [There's a hardness to the statement that wouldn't have been there six months ago. A coldness that Steve isn't sure he likes, but knows he can't shed.] Captain America was a propaganda machine before the name ever meant anything real. Every soldier is a tool, a cog. The most we can do is decide who's pulling our levers, and whether or not we trust them to use us well.

[He softens, a little, remembering the faces of the people on the street.] Or we do what we did today. We decide for ourselves.

People like you were made for days like today. _{( He doesn't mean manufactured; it was clear to anyone with eyes that Steve's element was helping people, and leading. But it was equally clear to Clint that that wasn't where he belonged. )}

Some of us like being a little further removed.

Sometimes where you like to be isn't where you belong.

[He flinches as soon as the words are out of his mouth, hating that he said them, hating how close to home the statement hits. Steve abandons the kitchen for his room, peeling off the upper layers of the uniform as he goes. They stick in places, not with sweat, and he winces as he rips tattered cloth free from where blood glued it into wounds. He's bleeding in at least three places when he pulls off the undershirt, and the medical kit from the bathroom isn't going to do much. In the end, Steve drags on a fresh t-shirt and puts the wounds out of sight and out of mind. As soon as he's changed, he wanders back out again, dumping a set of sweats and a t-shirt on the couch for Barton to use or not as he sees fit.

Steve doesn't even know what he's arguing for, what he's trying to convince Clint of, except that without Hawkeye they - the Avengers, Steve thinks, the name like a knell even in his head - would have been blind today. If this team is going to exist, if it's going to be something sustained, he wants Clint and Natasha both.]

_{( When Steve walks away, Clint waits until he's fully out of the kitchen before pulling up a chair, leaning his arms on the table, and putting his head in his hands. Where he belongs? What a damn joke.

When he hears Steve coming back, he gets up and joins him in the main room. Now, he's been goaded into anger, so he smirks, darkly, when he rounds on Steve. )}

If today's taught me anything, it's that I belong apart.

[Steve regards Clint silently, arms crossed, weighing the man's reaction against anything Steve himself might say. Quietly:] Which part of today taught you that? Was it when you and Romanoff emptied that bus? Or when you talked Stark through how to shake his tail, or told me about the civilians in that bank? They were about to get blown to pieces for the record.

[He doesn't sit down on the couch as much as collapse onto it, closing his eyes.] That man, Randall, probably appreciated you being right where you were. If you're trying to punish yourself, Barton, keep it to yourself. Don't make innocents pay when you can do some good.

You want to know who was innocent?

_{( He's angry, now, more than he'd let himself be all day. But his words don't come out heated; instead, they're accompanied by a hollow laugh. The same laugh he gave Natasha when they sat together in the sickbay and he processed what had been done to him. )}

The scientist guarding the iridium was innocent. The guards on security detail at the lab were innocent. Phil Coulson was innocent, or as close to it as a SHIELD agent ever got.

I have blood on my hands, and I did last week, too, but now it's different. And no amount of good Samaritan deeds is ever going to make up for that.

Did I say they would?

[Steve looks up long enough to meet Barton's gaze, keeping his expression entirely neutral. No judgement, no impatience.]

You're the only one here who thinks good deeds wash away bad ones. That's the painful thing about redemption. You don't earn it. There's no way you can. If anything, it's given to you.

[That, Steve learned the hard way. He learned it when Bucky died and the Commandos went after HYDRA to make them pay for it. He learned it when HYDRA fell and he fell with them, waking up in the purgatory of a world so far removed from his own that he felt like as much of an alien as Thor. He's still being punished for his failure, in a way, and there's nothing he can do but live with it.]

What I said - what I meant - is that you have a skill set and the drive to use it that can help people when things go as wrong as they did today. And you can say you don't deserve the chance to use those skills for good purpose, that you're tainted. You can say whatever you want. But it wasn't just anyone who held things together for us out there. It was you. This isn't about your personal issues, Barton. You have to sort those out yourself.

[Steve rubs one eye, fighting a yawn. He rests his face in his hand.] I don't think anyone on that team today doesn't have blood on their hands. This is bigger than any of us. Or did you miss the hole in the universe those things came through?

Edited 2012-05-07 15:19 (UTC)

_{( At first, Clint isn't sure how to respond. He has enough pride, enough arrogance, that he doesn't want to deny what he did out there today. He knows he did good--he's a tactician, an eye in the sky. It's what he does and what he's good at, and he certainly doesn't need validation from this outdated military hero to tell him that.

But when Steve mentions the hole in the universe, something inside Clint breaks--some last vestige of control, the way he's been holding this all together for the past few hours. )}

But that was my fault, too.

_{( He starts laughing. For a man who usually disguises just about everything with a warm, well-meaning humor, it's a dark and bitter contrast. It's a laughter that is a hair away from being sobs, a laughter that lets him sink into a dark place.

And sink he does, because the next thing he knows he's slumped against the couch and he's holding his head in his hand and shaking with the gravity of everything.

You have heart, Loki had said. Right now he wants nothing more than to tear it out. )}

No.

[Steve slides off the couch and onto the floor to sit next to Clint, not trying to offer any comfort beyond his presence.] And yes.

It's Fury's fault for researching that thing, for drawing Loki's attention. SHIELD's fault for trying to hide it. Howard's for pulling it out of the water. Mine, for not burying it with me.

[He inhales around the knot in his chest.] Heck, it's Thor's, his peoples', for leaving it here.

Yeah. Those are technicalities. It doesn't change what happened. But technically I... [He stops, and the next words are a quiet struggle.] Technically, I didn't push my best friend off of a HYDRA train on a run through the mountains. What happened is still in some portion my fault. But the question I've got for you, Agent Barton, is what if it had been someone else? Agent Romanoff, or Hill, or Agent Coulson? Would you rather bear the responsibility for what was done through you, or be left helpless to watch someone you care about blame themselves?

...This is what I know. [He drapes his arms over his knees and rests his head against them.] This is the only thing I'm really sure of, in all this. If you let it destroy you, then Loki. Well. We never beat him at all. If you let him put something broken where you're supposed to be, you never really escaped in the first place.

Edited 2012-05-07 18:54 (UTC)

_{( Clint doesn't look at the captain as he speaks. His hysteric laughter, at least, has subsided, but now he is just silent, head in his hands. He's listening, of course, and he can't disagree with what Steve's saying. But there is a stark difference between knowing, nominally, where the true fault lies and feeling absolved of what he's done.

When he finally speaks, he still sounds a bit incensed, but his voice echoes, hollowly. )}

But it's not about what might have happened, is it? It wasn't Nat or Hill or Coulson. We've all got to deal with the crap that happens to us and the things we do. You think I don't know that?

_{( Of course he knows it. He is one of SHIELD's best agents, one of the most competent men in the world. He may not be a scientific genius or an enhanced super-soldier, but he is a man hardened by years spent in the shadows, working to protect a world that doesn't know he exists. Clint Barton knows a lot about sacrifice, and pushing down his own feelings, and doing what needs to be done.

So maybe what's really bothering him is how much this effected him. How much his conviction's been shaken. How he feels like he's falling off a cliff, scrambling to find purchase in the rocks. But he'll be damned if he'll let himself hit that ground. )}

It's not a matter of being destroyed, or broken--those things have already happened to me.

Today, we saved the world. Tomorrow, I have to get up and deal with those things.

Yep. [Steve doesn't lift his head, feeling spent. He's not sure what else he can say. There's nothing, really. Clint knows what's necessary. Where his life stands. He's not giving up, which is the only thing Steve could really have tried to stop.] And the day after that, and the one after that.

[He pulls Coulson's card out of his pocket and sits up enough to turn it over and over again between his fingers.] You won't be alone.

_{( This time, when Clint laughs, it's warm and has a sense of something clean--camaraderie, being able to poke fun at himself. )}

God, you really are a Boy Scout, aren't you?

[He relaxes, relieved that Barton's laughter sounds healthy instead of ragged. Steve raises an eyebrow and shrugs, wry.]

I wouldn't know. Never joined them.

➵ for usavatar ● there's no justice in the world and there never was

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