![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Title: A Hung-Over Kind Of Life
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
purely_distel
A Gift For:tempered_rose
Rating: T/PG-13 for slight swearing and slightly disturbing mental images
Warnings: Thoughts of death/suicide, maybe sort-of attempted suicide, depression
Pairings: Clint/Natasha, Tony/Pepper (if you squint)
Summary/Prompt Used:
Clint thinks that Natasha (or anyone else) couldn't love him for all the terrible things he's done and that Loki reminds him of. Lots of angst until he realizes he does have a family (all the other Avengers) and that they do love him, but Tasha loves him most.
Authors Notes:
First - YAY I GOT TO BE PART OF THIS! DRINKS FOR EVERYONE! THIS BAR, I LIKE IT, ANOTHER! (Yep, still making that joke)
Secondly - thank you, thank you, thank you, to my amazing beta, who jumped on this at a moment's notice and didn't even kill me for it. Then again, I think that is what makes our house awesome, right fellow Badger? You're brilliant, thank you so much!
Thirdly - OK so this turned out maybe a little more dark than light. I just write angst better (I think?) than fluff, and so I tend to stop once the mushiness starts. Though I lovelovelove reading fluff … Yeah, that's me. All weird. I hope this is what you wished for and I also hope you like inner monologue and dialogue, because this has it - in buckets. And then some. This is totally my first time writing Avengers, so I hope I did them justice. And mostly, I hope this is the kind of Christmas gift that gives you feels, because that is why we're all here, right?
MERRY CHRISTMAS, SARAH - I hope you get to share it with the people you love.
Banner byfrea_o
A Hung-Over Kind Of Life
There is something to be said about the quiet of the wilderness. How it simply never is quiet at all. It is rough and blunt, predictable in its uncertainty. To many it would be scary, being all by yourself, far away from Wallmarts and Internet Hot Spots, no one to master you but yourself and the howling winds. But to Clint Barton it was nothing but welcoming. The none-quietness of Greenland's wideness feels like a scolding and harsh embrace, a great blanket of stones and ice that he can wrap around himself, that he deserves, that finally treats him like he should be treated. He can't cheat the wilderness, can't betray it. Here he can simply be. Even staying alive is an ambivalent and unimportant notion that does not need to be achieved.
It's been two months now. Or maybe it's been three, he is no longer sure. Days start bleeding together, a blur of drink and sleep and somehow still being alive, even though he really isn't trying. He isn't trying to not be alive either, though. That would require action on his part and he is done with that. He has always been a fighter and so far it has gotten him nowhere. So he has quit. Quit life in the romanticized version. The “living and experiencing and evolving” kind of living. He just is now. Or maybe he isn't even that anymore, he is not quite sure. Most times, he just feels like a shell, going through the motions of breathing and opening his eyes and taking a piss in the snow.
The irony has not escaped him. Only makes it that much more obvious that the only thing he deserves is this kind of … life. Because apparently he only seems alive and filled with a warped sense of purpose when he is someone's dog, is guided through the motions, is told when to eat and when to sleep and when to kill. He used to believe freedom would be his ultimate goal. At some point in the future, freedom would finally make room for the man he always thought he was, underneath all the shit of an abused childhood and an assassin adult life. But now he knows, knows that there is nothing else. Nothing underneath, no deeper layer. The god of lies might be out of his head, but he really doesn't feel much of a difference.
So yes. He quit it all. S.H.I.E.L.D. and the fucking Avengers and New York and little Mocha Latte's when no one is watching. Quit it all. And he quit her. She was the reason he first knew he had to go, had to leave it all behind. There was no balance anymore. To the world, she was the broken one, the unfixable one and he … he had never been whole but he had been something apparently. And he had held her up, from that moment seven years ago when he reached for her hand instead of his arrow, he had held her in all the ways she didn't know how, had never learned. Because she had inspired him to. To him, she had never been too broken, for him it had always seemed the other way around. She believed she was too far gone, though she would never say it out loud. But actions speak louder than words and the way she denied herself even the possibility of total freedom said it all. But he knew different. She was fire and rage and passion and life and it was all he could do not to stumble next to her blinding light. She had inspired him, made him want to do better, to be better.
It was because of her that he had first had this wild idea of freedom, away from the orders and the killing, that a blank ledger was possible. Something he hadn't believed in since his years at the circus. And she had believed that he was her savior … in a way. Natasha Romanoff would never openly let anyone safe her, did not need anyone to. But still, she had come to him in the middle of the night, just for the warmth of company, of understanding and, with time, of trust. It had been an uncommon balance, a balance only they had been able to understand. And even after he had realized that to him she would always be more than “just a partner” (was there even such a thing?), it had worked. They had worked. Because if anything, it made him try harder. To wipe both their ledgers clean, to build towards something. Something that neither of them had ever had or even entertained as a possibility.
It had made them work. He had had no idea if it would ever happen. Tasha and him and the dog and the white picket fence … or any version of that particular metaphor for “civilian life”. But it had been a possibility and it had made him maybe a little more positive, a little more stable. Or at least he had believed it did.
And then came New Mexico. And after New Mexico came New York. And that had been that.
************
“So you're leaving.” Clint wiped around, like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dr. Banner's face looked calmly back at him, arms crossed, his expression neutral.
“What's it to you?” Clint had no idea how the Doc had ended up on the Helicarrier again and why he was wandering the halls at 3:45 in the morning, but he didn't care; couldn't care. He'd already made his goodbyes earlier today, in silence.
Instead of answering Clint, Banner just watched him. Clint could feel his gaze burning into the back of his head while he continued to toss his few belongings into the bag that sat open on his bed.
“Will you come back?”
Clint closed the zipper, stood and slung the small bag over his shoulder, his eyes boring into Banner's for several long moments. He had never been one for long goodbyes, and this time was no different. Especially this time. They would figure it out, of course they would. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't just lose agents somewhere like a spare set of keys. They would look for him and when they wouldn't find him would announce him a deserter. Or maybe they would be merciful and just pronounce him dead. If she was smart, Tasha would eventually stop looking for him. With the Avengers at the horizon and more people surrounding her that trusted her (to an extent), she had a bright future ahead of her, like he always knew she would. This future just wouldn't include him.
Finally breaking eye contact, Clint moved to get passed Dr. Banner. It was nearly 4 am and he needed to move if he wanted to make it onto the one flight he could take away from here without supervision.
“It won't get better, you know. Running won't make it better.”
Clint froze for a moment, felt an exhausted snort escape his mouth.
“Who ever said I want better?”
********
“It's been six months!” Bruce jumped when Natasha's fist punched the table, hard. So did Steve and Tony, who got coffee all over his shirt.
“Hey, that was a new shirt!” Tony whined, fingers rubbing furiously over the expensive material as if to magically make it better.
“Six months and no word. No sign of him. Nothing. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been around the globe twice now, but he's gone.”
Though this entire arrangement was still new for everyone involved, Bruce had started to know Natasha Romanoff during the past months and though everything from her face to her body posture emanated anger, he thought he detected more behind the exterior than she liked the world to see. Confusion mainly, and pain. Bruce could not claim to know Clint Barton. He had only ever gotten to see a tiny bit of Hawkeye, let alone the man behind the persona. And still, after six months of more-or-less living with Natasha Romanoff, he felt like he knew him. Or knew what the man used to be. You could see it every day, in the little things. How in the beginning, she had always made two cups of coffee in the morning and left one out. A certainty at first, later an invitation for him to come back and to claim what was his. A last desperate hope in the end until one morning she stopped pouring the second cup at all. How Natasha sometimes turned to her left, a ready smirk meant to be shared already on her lips only to have it wiped off when her playfulness was only greeted with emptiness. How she kept his bow and arrows always in pristine condition, ready for action.
There were more things, small, sometimes nearly unnoticeable. But all of them outlined the shape of a man that was missing. Like she was missing a limb and was still struggling with the phantom pains, dragging herself along on the prosthesis of this new life of superhero stardom. They had all noticed it, in their own way. Tried to make up for it somehow without really knowing what they were making up for. A partner, a lover, a friend, a family member? All of the above or something else altogether? The five of them were an unorthodox partnership to begin with but describing what Natasha seemed to have shared with Clint Barton was impossible they had found.
“So your boyfriend ran away. Boohoo.” Tony sneered. Bruce saw this escalating quickly and decided to intervene.
“Tony, don't ...” he tried, but there was no stopping the billionaire.
“You've been dumped, it happens. Deal. I might get dumped tonight if I turn up for dinner with Pepper and I don't wear this shirt.”
Thankfully, before Natasha could fix her glowering gaze on Tony and make him regret having gotten up this morning, Steve spoke up.
“What would you have us do, Natasha? We have the same number of leads that S.H.I.E.L.D. has, which are none.” Steve's tone, thankfully, did not sound annoyed or accusing. It was simply tired, a little too sorry maybe. Sorry wasn't something Natasha Romanoff dealt with readily.
“Well fuck you very much, Captain fucking America. Great to know you care.” She spat, venom practically dripping from her lips and disgust from her words.
“You know what, fuck all of you. So much for this little experiment of inter-human caring. You go on pretending to give a shit for as long as the media buys it. But if this is how you treat your so-called friends, then I'm out of here and you can have this circus show all for yourself.”
Even Tony looked up from the coffee stains on his shirt during her outburst. Maybe it didn't come as a surprise as such, but that it would be directed at them did sting more than they all would have liked. They had all been surprised by how well she had kept herself together, how little she had let it affect her on the surface. It was either time that had finally cracked her, or something had happened.
Tony was still busy trying to save his shirt, now in the process of unbuttoning it while he spoke again. “Thing is, though, he isn't really our friend now is he, Tasha.”
In a mere second Natasha had her fingers wrapped around Tony's throat, whose eyes bulged in sudden panic.
“Don't. Call me. That.”
The room was deadly quiet; no one dared to move except for Tony, who tried unsuccessfully to struggle against the Widow's iron clutch.
“Natasha …” Steve's attempt at intervening sounded feeble at best. Moments stretched into minutes and Tony's red face was on the verge of turning blue when Natasha suddenly let go of him and stumbled a few steps back. For a split second, it seemed as if she was crumbling, folding in on herself.
“What happened, Natasha?” When Bruce spoke over Tony's coughing and gasping, it seemed to break the small spell of helplessness that had settled around her and though it nearly seemed as if her eyes were a little wetter than normal, her gaze was steady and strong when it met his.
“This morning director Fury informed me that, if Clint doesn't turn up until the end of the month, he will be declared a traitor to be shot on sight.”
“WHAT?” Tony again, voice a little higher than normal. Tony certainly was good for the dramatic outbursts, Bruce mused, though Steve's face pretty much said the same thing.
“It's not Fury's fault, orders from up top. First the Loki thing and then he disappears without ever going to any psych evals…” Natasha's mouth was set in a fine line, pressed together for a moment as if to keep something in.
“Look,” She continued. “I know Stark's right. He isn't … he isn't your friend, not even a colleague. I know you don't know him but he is my … my partner and I know this is a lot to ask but …”
She was interrupted by movement coming from the doorway, a large blond head entering the room followed by an even bigger body.
“But we told you that you could trust us, that we would be a team, comrades, and stand together. We still mean that. And you trust him, Hawkeye, we know you do and therefore we do, too. And if you think he is still alive and needs to be saved then that is what we will try to do.” Bruce didn't know how long Thor had been in the room, how much he had heard. But he was suddenly very grateful for the god's presence, the calmness and surety he seemed to radiate. “This may not be said on Midgard, but we are all in this together, are we not, my friends? We said we were and I believed each and every one of you when you spoke all those months ago. We might not be blood, but we have united over so much more. A family of like-minded brothers and sisters, fighting for the same cause. And here is one of our own, in need of support and saving and I may have a way to help.”
“Good talk, Ken, and kinda actually true,” said Tony, a nearly excited grin on his lips. “It was still a new shirt, though.”
***************
At first, he can pretend it's the snow storm outside, howling along the corners of his little hut and disturbing his restless, drink-induced sleep. But he knows better, has been trained for this and there are just parts of your routine you cannot break out of, no matter how many bottles of Jack you empty next to a dying fire. There is a different kind of wailing as well, mixed with the sounds of the winds and making a broken kind of symphony. Maybe it's instinct, maybe it's something else, but suddenly he finds himself jumping into his snow boots and coat, kicking his way out the door and the piled snow, scarf in front of his mouth and eyes trying to see in the grey of the whipping snow. He hooks the ten mile long cable into the hook next to his door, attaches the coiled end to his belt and sets off, searching. He isn't really sure what he is looking for, or why he is searching in the first place. But he hasn't left his hut for any other reason than to get wood or to empty his bladder in weeks. Seems like something to do.
In a matter of minutes, he feels wiped. Was this how normal people felt? He can't remember the last time he was this out of shape and for a fleeting second, he wishes he had continued his work-out routine. But that thought is overwhelmed with a wave of numbness, of a dumb kind of near-anger. Not the kind of thoughts he is allowed to have. They lead nowhere. They say everyone decides their own fate, but he knows that's a lie. The few conscious decisions he has carried out in his life have shown him that. They got him to nearly kill his own brother, to actually kill his mentor. They got him to being blackmailed into becoming a professional killer. They made him fall in love with the one woman who would never be able to love him back, the only person he couldn't bear to disappoint and he has done just that, so many times over. He isn't a good person, he is barely even a man at all. And if Loki has shown him one thing, it was that he does a lot less damage as a mindless drone than he does as a free-thinking being.
His head is pounding, if from the cold and exhaustion or from the lack of inebriation, he can't tell. He also isn't wearing any gloves. Why isn't he wearing gloves? Why did he care if he wears gloves? Why is he outside? It is all a bit fuzzy upstairs. Emptiness and the hazy remnants of whiskey make it difficult to remember thoughts. Or to feel. It sometimes still nearly bothers him, this numbness. Like a little splinter stuck in his thumb that is always there, itching at the back of his mind. A near-memory of how he is supposed to react to things. Surprise, anger, pain, love, it all seems kind of the same now. Why is he outside?
A feeble yelping of sorts reminds him of why he has left the harsh comfort of his hut and after a few more yards he thinks he makes out a small tree, nearly entirely covered in snow. Funny, his sight used to be a lot more accurate, even in this weather. He knows he used to care about that. Funny how things change.
When he makes it to the little pine tree, he is exhausted. His vision is swimming and the pounding in his head has become an entire Paris dub-step party. He can feel his knees shaking and so he just sinks to the ground, or what should be the ground. He doesn't get very far. The snow is too deep, even here, but still. It's better this way. It's dark now and the wind is harsher than before, burning its way into his skin with tiny icicles and he cannot remember the last time he felt his hands or nose. Maybe he will just stay here. The way back to the hut seems impossibly far and what would it matter anyway? He has to commend the small tree. It is small and sickly looking but it refuses to give into the overwhelming strength of the snow and wind. It reminds him of someone and he nearly barks out a laugh when he realizes it reminds him of a pre-serum Steve Rogers of all things. But he doesn't laugh. Laughing would indicate emotional involvement and the dark emptiness inside quenches that ridiculous idea quickly. He is no longer allowed to laugh.
Still, he scrambles to his feet again and in a last, mad attempt to defy the powers that be, starts to clear snow off the branches. The tree only reaches up to his chest, so it's not a lot of work and for a moment the work gives him blessed silence in his own head. Not even the darkness can get him now. Maybe he had started to go a little mad. Loneliness and shame do that to a person, or so he has heard. Or maybe he hasn't.
He only stops when his hands have stopped shaking, are beyond frozen and his legs just won't hold him up any longer. He dimly realizes that he can't move his fingers and for a few moments, he marvels at the peculiarity of the feeling. Not being in command of his own limbs, interesting. Sinking to the ground, he half-leans against the little tree, for support or for comfort, he isn't quite sure and suddenly, out of nowhere, unexpected … he feels.
And it overwhelms him.
As if all the feelings of the past months have finally punched their way through, he feels it all, a wildness of waves that crash over him again and again, each one bringing with it new lost emotions, new regrets, new promises. Arms hanging uselessly by his side, he lifts his head and just screams. It's the first sound he has made in weeks, months maybe and it's raw and broken and it hurts inside and out. Everything hurts. But he can't stop. The tree is by now holding most of his weight and suddenly he hates the tree. Hates how it isn't the comfort, the support he wants. Hates himself for wanting, hates everything. Hates nothing. He is confused. And it hurts, again and again. He misses his brother, he misses his mother, he even misses Trick Shot and somehow the wind seems to carry his mother's nighttime lullaby with it and by now he is sure he is crying, imagines he can feel the tears freeze on his face and most of all, he misses her. Tasha. His Natashenka. And he hates himself again, for feeling anything at all because now his body is numb but his mind is in pain and he can't take it, doesn't want to take it, hasn't wanted to for weeks.
But he knew it was coming. Why else did he stop preparing wood for a fire? Why did he stop hunting for food or preparing water? For the first time he openly admits to himself that what he wanted, what he tried to do was die. To die before this could happen, before the feelings and the pain would overwhelm him. But he wasn't brave enough to admit it to himself, to end it like a man should. He is a coward, isn't man enough to put a bullet in his own skull, only into other people and he is so ashamed.
Somewhere along the line he has stopped shouting his anguish to the sky, no energy left to give voice to his shame. His is just sitting, half buried between the tree and snow, so much snow. Can't move his body and for a moment he panics but then he is calm again. So this is it then? he thinks. This is what his life has come to be. The concluding lines of the last chapter. A revelation of sorts, a sobering end to a hung-over kind of life. He doesn't want to be scared, he would rather meet whatever is at the other side of the tunnel with a bit of dignity and so he goes back to the one person that has always been the most dignified of them all. The one that always made him want to be more than he ended up being.
Natashenka with the red hair and the deadly dance. He suddenly wishes he could move his lips to smile. Natasha deserves a smile. He wishes he could have kissed her at least once. Really kissed her, not for show. Not as Mr. and Mrs. Smith-of-the-week. Kissed her like she deserved to be kissed, like she was the only thing that mattered. He reckons he could have done it. Women always told him he was a brilliant kisser. He wishes he could have touched her. To know all the lines of her body, every hollow and hill that made her who she was. He can nearly feel his fingers tingle with the wish to run them along the smooth skin of her neck, over the swell of her breasts. Of their own accord his hands move along to the rhythm he is keeping in his head and it takes him a moment to realize - he can move his hands.
Or, well, one of them. He is ripped from his sweet dream and finds himself back in the cruelness of the living, momentarily unfocused. It is dark around him and he can't see, can't really move. Only his right hand is tingling with the feeling of thousand needles prickling into it, but it is nearly warm. Why?
And then he feels it. It is quick and soft and wet, but also warm. Something is licking his fingers, again and again and now he can feel its small snout and bits of fur here and there and suddenly he is cradling what feels like a tiny, malnourished pup in his hand. Though it hurts, he moves his other arm, all of his focus on this little creature now in his arms and for a moment, he wonders how the pup was able to provide him with so much warmth when it itself is so thin and cold. He can practically feel it dying in his hands, its little heart beating less steady with every passing moment and that is what gets him on his feet.
He doesn't think about it, doesn't question it. It takes a lot of shouting and swearing, but he manages to fight himself out of his snowy death cave, finds the string of cable that's miraculously still attached to his coat and suddenly he is a fighter again. He can't properly see and the wind is blowing right in his face, his left leg is still without feeling but he manages to make it work. And so he fights on, the little creature tucked into his coat. Not for himself, he isn't worth the effort. But this little creature doesn't deserve to end like he will. It never even had a chance, no one to fight in its corner.
So Clint will.
***************
“Let me get this straight. You've got a guy with golden eyes that can find everyone with his mind? Like Professor X?” Tony sounded skeptical at best and the raven now perched on his desk, looking at him with creepily knowing eyes, really wasn't helping matters.
“I know not of this Professor you speak of but yes, Heimdall has a peculiar gift. And that my father has agreed to help is a great honor he does not bestow lightly. It is a repayment of sorts for the horrors brought to Midgard by Loki's treachery.”
Thor looked the most excited he had ever seen him and Tony had to admit, he did get points for style. He had been gone for weeks now, business to attend to back home on planet God and had come back right in the nick of time with a super-bird and, it seems, the salvation for their eternal problems. Or at least redhead's eternal problems. Bruce did mention something the other day of a possibility of him being overly dramatic. Who would have guessed?
“But how does it work?” Bruce's excitement might even outdo Thor, though for different reasons. Reasons Tony could relate to.
“Good question, big guy!” he jumped in with a grin to Bruce (the bird, he still felt ambivalent about). “So Hug-a-Bird here understand every word I'm saying and he … what. He'll teleport himself back to Asgard?” Even Steve and Natasha, abnormally quiet until this point, leaned in now, interests piqued.
“Yes, he can fly between here and Asgard and he can understand you, so you must watch your tongue.” Thor's eyes flew from Tony to the hand he had resting on the table and Iron Man quickly snatched it out of reach for the birds beak. Eying the thing darkly, he muttered: “An unkindness …” and rubbed his hand, as if in phantom pain.
“I still don't understand how it works, though,” Bruce argued. “I mean, inter-dimensional travel the way you do it is one thing, but from what I was able to gather, Asgard and Earth aren't exactly on the same timeline and the bird just “hops” from one place to the other? No portal, no thunder?”
Bruce really was in his element and Tony nodded and pointed at him to underline that, yes, his sentiment exactly. How the hell was it even possible?
“It doesn't matter how it works, as long as it does.” Natasha cut in now, her stance tight. She looked ready to snap from pent up frustration and worry. If someone were to ask him, Tony would suggest she needed to get laid, pronto. Then again, that was probably one of the main reasons they were bending pretty much heaven and earth to find the shitty little deserter. OK, so that was mean. Tony maybe didn't have fuzzy feelings towards the guy, but he did agree with what Thor had said earlier. Not to mention Barton evidently had enough balls to handle the Black Widow and he had pretty much helped save the day back when, and that only minutes after being a gods punching bag. Plus he'd said he really liked Shawarma; the guy couldn't be half-bad.
Tony realized everyone was looking at him expectantly, though Bruce looked more like someone had stolen his cookie.
“You lot out of ideas already?” He asked, grin firmly in place.
Steve rolled his eyes. “No, we've decided to leave the “how” until later and considering we'll probably have a location on Barton in the next 10 minutes, we were wondering how quick you can get your jet ready.” Oh, so that was it.
“Remember who you're talking to, Capsicle. You get the feather ball on its way and come to the garage in your gear.” Tony pushed away from the table and made for the door, winking at Natasha on his way out. “No worries Red, we'll have your squeeze toy back here in time for Christmas.”
***************
He has no idea how he did it, but somehow they are both still alive; have been living for weeks now. His left knee has never really recovered from the night he found the wolf at the little tree. But it's a stiffness he has learned to live with. It was a rough two weeks after he made it back to the hut, can't really remember the walk back, only fully became aware when he was back in the hut, the last of his wood burning in the little oven. He fell in front of it, the pup still in his arms and just fell asleep, maybe he even blacked out for a while. When he woke up, he was warm, nearly hot. Maybe he had a fever, he still isn't too sure. And the wolf pup was still alive, still fighting.
And it became his one focus. For the little one, Clint got up and dug out more wood, melted snow, heated it and crumbled bits of left over beef jerky into it. Feeding it to the little thing and, when he realizes he needs to go out and get more food, he even allows himself to eat a few bits. The pub was still more dead than alive, so Clint build a little nest for it, stocked the fire and made out into the semi-light of a Greenland-winter.
He was lucky that day, fucking lucky. Not too far from the hut, he found a female reindeer and its young that seemed to have been abandoned by the herd. He shot the mother deer's legs before killing the young and tying the still alive mother up. Wrenching the dead animal home, he hoped the wolves wouldn't find the mother or follow the trail of blood to his hut, but his luck apparently hadn't run out for the day. Though he was exhausted already, he grabbed a few of the empty, unbroken whiskey bottles and set out again, this time to relief the female of as much of her milk as possible before he killed it too and cut out as much meat as he could carry, leaving the rest to the wolves.
Somehow, he does it. With a mix of milk and tiny pieces of meat, he saves the small pup and finds a new sense of purpose in the thankful gaze of the little thing. The first time the pup jumps him playfully when he enters the hut, Clint knows they did it and he names it, names him, officially. Or as official as it can get in the middle of nowhere. He calls him Amun, the hidden one that rose to become a powerful ruler. Who knew Coulson's lectures on Egyptian culture would ever come in useful? And now Amun is good. Better even. He is far from being fully grown, but he is a far cry from the nearly dead baby that saved both their lives with its kindness. Clint never imagined himself being a dog person, let alone to raising a wolf, but somehow he has decided it fits him. He has a heart for strays, for lost causes and during the last few weeks he has even, tentatively, started wondering if maybe he himself is worth saving. It scares the shit out of him and he has no idea why. Maybe because it means a lot more effort than just giving himself up, maybe is the remainders of his depression (for he can recognize it now for what it was) or maybe it's something else altogether, but somehow the thought that maybe he is worth saving still doesn't sit well with him.
But he has realized that, while he was pretty good at taking orders, he seems quite handy at giving them as well. It is a struggle sometimes, but Amun has never once challenged his authority, has always accepted him as alpha and has even started on his way to becoming a decent hunting partner. The not-eating half the pray before returning the carcass is something that he still has trouble with, but Clint cannot help but smile, a real and wide smile, when he sees the pride in his little companion as he wobbles back to him, an animal twice his size dragging behind him, wiping his still-big paw prints away in the snow. So eager to prove himself, so easy in his trust and gratitude … he reminds Clint too much of himself sometimes, years ago. Another thing that doesn't sit all that well with him, because he really doesn't want to see Amun hurt.
And so he has decided to do whatever he can to prevent that from happening. One thing he has figured is a given to achieve that objective, is to stay alive. To be alive. He can't really explain how a little wolf has managed to change his perspective like this, but he has and Clint is grateful for it. Of course he still remembers his thoughts and believes from not all that long ago, and sometimes, there are nights when he feels them closing in again, feels the darkness still lurking just around the corner. But then a wet snouted trouble maker snuggles up next to him and Clint knows there is more, knows there is a different path for him. It might not lead him to eternal redemption, but it might bring him forgiveness at some point. If not from himself, maybe from the few other people he holds dear and maybe he just might believe them.
For the first time he thinks he can really understand why Natasha never felt like she could repay him for giving her a new life. It really does feel like something that can never be repaid in full. But damn him, if he isn't going to try and at the very least that involves actually living.
He is unsure how much time has actually passed since he left New York, but he knows it's been 12 weeks and 6 days since the day he found Amun and tomorrow, on day 92 since he found himself again, he and Amun will leave. He has prepared as much for the journey as he can, he is pretty sure that Amun is strong enough to make it and though he himself is far from being as fit as he used to be, throwing out the remaining Whiskey bottles and working to keep himself and Amun alive has given him back a lot of his former strength. It would have to do. His sabbatical on life has been going on long enough and though he doesn't know if there is atonement waiting for him, he knows he has to at least try.
****************
It was a quiet night in the tower and it was more than Natasha could have asked for normally. But for once, having Thor, Stark, the Captain and Banner in one room did not equate with noise and movement. Everyone was quiet. Though lost in their own thoughts, it felt as if everyone focused on each other. Even Tony and Pepper, sitting close together on the couch, didn't seem lost in their own world. They were all waiting, waiting for her.
She knew what they wanted. Or what they expected. They expected her to break, to shout, to freak, to do something. But she wouldn't. Regimes rose and fell, she wouldn't weep over them. Why then would she weep over fallen comrades? She was Russian. She hadn't been for a long time, but right now she was. Couldn't be anything but.
They tried, they really did and she knows they all did the best they could. They found the small wooden hut and she knew the moment she stepped into it that it was Clint's. It practically reeked of him, thought it evidently had been weeks since he'd last been there. She had tried to kill the erratic beating of her heart. Blamed the steep climb or the thin air but of course she knew why … he had been here. He was alive. Or at least he had been. Why wasn't he here now?
They had searched everywhere. For three days, they had turned every fucking snowflake in a 50 mile radius and then they had searched some more. But they found nothing and when they suggested going back to New York, Natasha had screamed at them, at the snow, at a tiny pathetic little tree they found some 8 miles from the hut. She had screamed her head off until Tony Stark of all people just walked over to her and hugged her. That had shut her up. But she couldn't just leave. He had been here. For months he had been here, probably kicked the same tree she just had and now he was gone and again she had no idea where to look. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't help them. They had cut their ties with Clint Barton and his official status as deserter was a simple formality waiting to be stamped in some shitty office. They were running out of time. So no, she couldn't give up, but she couldn't go on either.
She had already given more into this than she ever had and she was scared. Scared that it had changed her, made her too much into someone she couldn't afford to be. Someone that wasn't Russian and someone that wept over fallen regimes.
She had nearly begged Thor to plead with his father to send the raven again, but she knew it wasn't possible. It had been a one-time deal, a debt that needed repayment. She knew enough about debts to realize it would be futile to admit to weakness. It had been a welcome repayment, one that had seemed to bring home a sure victory but it had brought them … to a memory of Clint, nothing more.
At some point the group had decided they would retreat and that she would be coming with them and so she did. She might not admit to weakness, but she felt defeat coming over her. She had followed them back to the plane, she had eaten the food Steve had given her, she had taken the sleeping pill Bruce had offered, she had gotten off the plane, she had come back to Stark tower and she had let Thor hug her. And now she was sitting on a couch, her knees drawn up and silent. Everything was silent. As silent as one of the biggest cities on earth ever was, especially on the last day of the year.
As much as she needed to not be alone right now, she kind of hated all of them. Hated them for doing this, for sticking by her for a man they didn't know. It just gave her more debts she'd never be able to repay. But she found she couldn't do it. Couldn't leave or tell them to leave or … do anything. It was a small weakness, silently needing them, but one she couldn't do without right now. Not tonight of all nights.
“Nearly 12.” Even saying it, it sounded as if Tony had no idea where he was going with it and so no one bothered to answer or even acknowledge he had spoken. Steve sat at the table, the chipped coffee mug he seemed to love in front of him, beverage long since cold, staring into a corner. Bruce had taken his place close to the windows, silently watching the city beneath him and for a moment he nearly reminded her of Clint and she ached deep inside. Then she shoved it away. Because she wasn't sentimental, she was Russian. She was Natalia Romanova. She didn't weep.
She still didn't know if they were quiet for her sake or if, over the course of the past months, had actually started to care for Clint as well. Began to care for the idea of a man she had presented them with, for neither of them actually knew him. And no one on this earth knew him like she did. And that was, what she was struggling with. She wanted to forget, craved to just shove him away, put every memory and feeling about Clint Barton into the dark part of her heart where she never looked again, so she could forget about it, forget about him and move on with her life. But she couldn't, because then he would be gone, truly gone. She was the only one left to remember the real Clint, the man he was and could have been. She owed him at least that much, to not make him into the ghost of a memory. He deserved more than that.
Or maybe he didn't. He was the one that had left, he had made his decision, he had not even given them, given her a chance to take part in this. So maybe she should honor his wish.
“Sir, someone used the hidden first-floor entrance and used the Initiative password to override the security protocols.” JARVIS' sudden announcement felt like a bucket of ice water had been emptied over her head and suddenly, she knew. Though Tony was jumping up in a panic and Thor had summoned Mjölnir to his hand, she knew. And she couldn't move.
Before Tony was even done shouting and typing commands at his screens, the door to the communal area glided open and all movement seized. It was just them, a group of freak-heroes ready to battle for their home against one lone man, a bag on his back and what seemed like a large dog by his side. The seconds tricked by until suddenly Thor broke the silence.
“Hawkeye?” He asked in wonder, his hammer already forgotten on the floor and in a matter of moments he had bounded up the few steps to the entrance and threw his arms around the newcomer. Paying the growling dog no mind, he laughed loudly and clapped Clint on the back, hard. “We thought you dead!”
“You and me both.” Came the raspy answer and hearing his voice, the surprise and uncertainty in it, seemed to break the spell entirely and suddenly everyone was rushing forward at once. Pepper tried to simultaneously hold Tony back while also initiating an awkward group hug that no one was sure how to handle, Steve and Bruce had kind of taken post at both of Clint's sides, not really up for a group hug but obviously trying to somehow express their disbelieve and happiness.
They all seemed so happy. And all Natasha could do was sit. Her knees still drawn up, her eyes staring unblinkingly and utterly, utterly numb.
“Tasha?”
For a moment, she closed her eyes, felt them tremble as the sound of his voice, her name on his lips washed over her. Tasha … no one else dared call her that, no one else was allowed. And suddenly she was angry again, felt full on rage wash over her like his words had before and she jumped to her feet.
Everyone else parted for her and during any other time she might have smirked at the image. But not right now, now her focus was on the man still halfway out the door and though she saw with one look that he looked frail, had lost weight, was only a shadow of his former self, she didn't hesitate as she came up to him and raised her fist, connecting it - hard - with his jaw.
Somewhere behind her, Pepper gasped, but Natasha hardly heard her. Instead she pushed Clint, opened her mouth to wide, a furious wave of anger about to be unleashed … but no sound came out. She was breathing hard, just looking at him, actually looking at him. Saw his eyes on her, scared and maybe seeing Clint Barton scared was what changed her mind because suddenly, without her having consciously approved it, she'd grabbed whatever of his jacked she could reach and kissed him.
There might have been another gasp behind her, or maybe it was her all along, but she didn't care. Too many emotions where tumbling blindly around inside her and so she focused on the one thing that kept her from breaking apart and that were the lips she felt underneath her own. Warm and giving and oh-so alive. They felt a little rough and for a moment, there was no response, only surprised acceptance before she felt the move underneath her, felt the open to her and with a sigh she nearly stumbled forward, into him, arms around him and her lips always moving, mapping his like she never allowed herself before.
She might still kill him for what he put her through, after she was done kissing him, but before that happens she would make damn sure she knew every possible way her lips fit to his.
finis
Author:
purely_distelA Gift For:
tempered_rose Rating: T/PG-13 for slight swearing and slightly disturbing mental images
Warnings: Thoughts of death/suicide, maybe sort-of attempted suicide, depression
Pairings: Clint/Natasha, Tony/Pepper (if you squint)
Summary/Prompt Used:
Clint thinks that Natasha (or anyone else) couldn't love him for all the terrible things he's done and that Loki reminds him of. Lots of angst until he realizes he does have a family (all the other Avengers) and that they do love him, but Tasha loves him most.
Authors Notes:
First - YAY I GOT TO BE PART OF THIS! DRINKS FOR EVERYONE! THIS BAR, I LIKE IT, ANOTHER! (Yep, still making that joke)
Secondly - thank you, thank you, thank you, to my amazing beta, who jumped on this at a moment's notice and didn't even kill me for it. Then again, I think that is what makes our house awesome, right fellow Badger? You're brilliant, thank you so much!
Thirdly - OK so this turned out maybe a little more dark than light. I just write angst better (I think?) than fluff, and so I tend to stop once the mushiness starts. Though I lovelovelove reading fluff … Yeah, that's me. All weird. I hope this is what you wished for and I also hope you like inner monologue and dialogue, because this has it - in buckets. And then some. This is totally my first time writing Avengers, so I hope I did them justice. And mostly, I hope this is the kind of Christmas gift that gives you feels, because that is why we're all here, right?
MERRY CHRISTMAS, SARAH - I hope you get to share it with the people you love.
Banner by
frea_oThere is something to be said about the quiet of the wilderness. How it simply never is quiet at all. It is rough and blunt, predictable in its uncertainty. To many it would be scary, being all by yourself, far away from Wallmarts and Internet Hot Spots, no one to master you but yourself and the howling winds. But to Clint Barton it was nothing but welcoming. The none-quietness of Greenland's wideness feels like a scolding and harsh embrace, a great blanket of stones and ice that he can wrap around himself, that he deserves, that finally treats him like he should be treated. He can't cheat the wilderness, can't betray it. Here he can simply be. Even staying alive is an ambivalent and unimportant notion that does not need to be achieved.
It's been two months now. Or maybe it's been three, he is no longer sure. Days start bleeding together, a blur of drink and sleep and somehow still being alive, even though he really isn't trying. He isn't trying to not be alive either, though. That would require action on his part and he is done with that. He has always been a fighter and so far it has gotten him nowhere. So he has quit. Quit life in the romanticized version. The “living and experiencing and evolving” kind of living. He just is now. Or maybe he isn't even that anymore, he is not quite sure. Most times, he just feels like a shell, going through the motions of breathing and opening his eyes and taking a piss in the snow.
The irony has not escaped him. Only makes it that much more obvious that the only thing he deserves is this kind of … life. Because apparently he only seems alive and filled with a warped sense of purpose when he is someone's dog, is guided through the motions, is told when to eat and when to sleep and when to kill. He used to believe freedom would be his ultimate goal. At some point in the future, freedom would finally make room for the man he always thought he was, underneath all the shit of an abused childhood and an assassin adult life. But now he knows, knows that there is nothing else. Nothing underneath, no deeper layer. The god of lies might be out of his head, but he really doesn't feel much of a difference.
So yes. He quit it all. S.H.I.E.L.D. and the fucking Avengers and New York and little Mocha Latte's when no one is watching. Quit it all. And he quit her. She was the reason he first knew he had to go, had to leave it all behind. There was no balance anymore. To the world, she was the broken one, the unfixable one and he … he had never been whole but he had been something apparently. And he had held her up, from that moment seven years ago when he reached for her hand instead of his arrow, he had held her in all the ways she didn't know how, had never learned. Because she had inspired him to. To him, she had never been too broken, for him it had always seemed the other way around. She believed she was too far gone, though she would never say it out loud. But actions speak louder than words and the way she denied herself even the possibility of total freedom said it all. But he knew different. She was fire and rage and passion and life and it was all he could do not to stumble next to her blinding light. She had inspired him, made him want to do better, to be better.
It was because of her that he had first had this wild idea of freedom, away from the orders and the killing, that a blank ledger was possible. Something he hadn't believed in since his years at the circus. And she had believed that he was her savior … in a way. Natasha Romanoff would never openly let anyone safe her, did not need anyone to. But still, she had come to him in the middle of the night, just for the warmth of company, of understanding and, with time, of trust. It had been an uncommon balance, a balance only they had been able to understand. And even after he had realized that to him she would always be more than “just a partner” (was there even such a thing?), it had worked. They had worked. Because if anything, it made him try harder. To wipe both their ledgers clean, to build towards something. Something that neither of them had ever had or even entertained as a possibility.
It had made them work. He had had no idea if it would ever happen. Tasha and him and the dog and the white picket fence … or any version of that particular metaphor for “civilian life”. But it had been a possibility and it had made him maybe a little more positive, a little more stable. Or at least he had believed it did.
And then came New Mexico. And after New Mexico came New York. And that had been that.
************
“So you're leaving.” Clint wiped around, like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dr. Banner's face looked calmly back at him, arms crossed, his expression neutral.
“What's it to you?” Clint had no idea how the Doc had ended up on the Helicarrier again and why he was wandering the halls at 3:45 in the morning, but he didn't care; couldn't care. He'd already made his goodbyes earlier today, in silence.
Instead of answering Clint, Banner just watched him. Clint could feel his gaze burning into the back of his head while he continued to toss his few belongings into the bag that sat open on his bed.
“Will you come back?”
Clint closed the zipper, stood and slung the small bag over his shoulder, his eyes boring into Banner's for several long moments. He had never been one for long goodbyes, and this time was no different. Especially this time. They would figure it out, of course they would. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't just lose agents somewhere like a spare set of keys. They would look for him and when they wouldn't find him would announce him a deserter. Or maybe they would be merciful and just pronounce him dead. If she was smart, Tasha would eventually stop looking for him. With the Avengers at the horizon and more people surrounding her that trusted her (to an extent), she had a bright future ahead of her, like he always knew she would. This future just wouldn't include him.
Finally breaking eye contact, Clint moved to get passed Dr. Banner. It was nearly 4 am and he needed to move if he wanted to make it onto the one flight he could take away from here without supervision.
“It won't get better, you know. Running won't make it better.”
Clint froze for a moment, felt an exhausted snort escape his mouth.
“Who ever said I want better?”
********
“It's been six months!” Bruce jumped when Natasha's fist punched the table, hard. So did Steve and Tony, who got coffee all over his shirt.
“Hey, that was a new shirt!” Tony whined, fingers rubbing furiously over the expensive material as if to magically make it better.
“Six months and no word. No sign of him. Nothing. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been around the globe twice now, but he's gone.”
Though this entire arrangement was still new for everyone involved, Bruce had started to know Natasha Romanoff during the past months and though everything from her face to her body posture emanated anger, he thought he detected more behind the exterior than she liked the world to see. Confusion mainly, and pain. Bruce could not claim to know Clint Barton. He had only ever gotten to see a tiny bit of Hawkeye, let alone the man behind the persona. And still, after six months of more-or-less living with Natasha Romanoff, he felt like he knew him. Or knew what the man used to be. You could see it every day, in the little things. How in the beginning, she had always made two cups of coffee in the morning and left one out. A certainty at first, later an invitation for him to come back and to claim what was his. A last desperate hope in the end until one morning she stopped pouring the second cup at all. How Natasha sometimes turned to her left, a ready smirk meant to be shared already on her lips only to have it wiped off when her playfulness was only greeted with emptiness. How she kept his bow and arrows always in pristine condition, ready for action.
There were more things, small, sometimes nearly unnoticeable. But all of them outlined the shape of a man that was missing. Like she was missing a limb and was still struggling with the phantom pains, dragging herself along on the prosthesis of this new life of superhero stardom. They had all noticed it, in their own way. Tried to make up for it somehow without really knowing what they were making up for. A partner, a lover, a friend, a family member? All of the above or something else altogether? The five of them were an unorthodox partnership to begin with but describing what Natasha seemed to have shared with Clint Barton was impossible they had found.
“So your boyfriend ran away. Boohoo.” Tony sneered. Bruce saw this escalating quickly and decided to intervene.
“Tony, don't ...” he tried, but there was no stopping the billionaire.
“You've been dumped, it happens. Deal. I might get dumped tonight if I turn up for dinner with Pepper and I don't wear this shirt.”
Thankfully, before Natasha could fix her glowering gaze on Tony and make him regret having gotten up this morning, Steve spoke up.
“What would you have us do, Natasha? We have the same number of leads that S.H.I.E.L.D. has, which are none.” Steve's tone, thankfully, did not sound annoyed or accusing. It was simply tired, a little too sorry maybe. Sorry wasn't something Natasha Romanoff dealt with readily.
“Well fuck you very much, Captain fucking America. Great to know you care.” She spat, venom practically dripping from her lips and disgust from her words.
“You know what, fuck all of you. So much for this little experiment of inter-human caring. You go on pretending to give a shit for as long as the media buys it. But if this is how you treat your so-called friends, then I'm out of here and you can have this circus show all for yourself.”
Even Tony looked up from the coffee stains on his shirt during her outburst. Maybe it didn't come as a surprise as such, but that it would be directed at them did sting more than they all would have liked. They had all been surprised by how well she had kept herself together, how little she had let it affect her on the surface. It was either time that had finally cracked her, or something had happened.
Tony was still busy trying to save his shirt, now in the process of unbuttoning it while he spoke again. “Thing is, though, he isn't really our friend now is he, Tasha.”
In a mere second Natasha had her fingers wrapped around Tony's throat, whose eyes bulged in sudden panic.
“Don't. Call me. That.”
The room was deadly quiet; no one dared to move except for Tony, who tried unsuccessfully to struggle against the Widow's iron clutch.
“Natasha …” Steve's attempt at intervening sounded feeble at best. Moments stretched into minutes and Tony's red face was on the verge of turning blue when Natasha suddenly let go of him and stumbled a few steps back. For a split second, it seemed as if she was crumbling, folding in on herself.
“What happened, Natasha?” When Bruce spoke over Tony's coughing and gasping, it seemed to break the small spell of helplessness that had settled around her and though it nearly seemed as if her eyes were a little wetter than normal, her gaze was steady and strong when it met his.
“This morning director Fury informed me that, if Clint doesn't turn up until the end of the month, he will be declared a traitor to be shot on sight.”
“WHAT?” Tony again, voice a little higher than normal. Tony certainly was good for the dramatic outbursts, Bruce mused, though Steve's face pretty much said the same thing.
“It's not Fury's fault, orders from up top. First the Loki thing and then he disappears without ever going to any psych evals…” Natasha's mouth was set in a fine line, pressed together for a moment as if to keep something in.
“Look,” She continued. “I know Stark's right. He isn't … he isn't your friend, not even a colleague. I know you don't know him but he is my … my partner and I know this is a lot to ask but …”
She was interrupted by movement coming from the doorway, a large blond head entering the room followed by an even bigger body.
“But we told you that you could trust us, that we would be a team, comrades, and stand together. We still mean that. And you trust him, Hawkeye, we know you do and therefore we do, too. And if you think he is still alive and needs to be saved then that is what we will try to do.” Bruce didn't know how long Thor had been in the room, how much he had heard. But he was suddenly very grateful for the god's presence, the calmness and surety he seemed to radiate. “This may not be said on Midgard, but we are all in this together, are we not, my friends? We said we were and I believed each and every one of you when you spoke all those months ago. We might not be blood, but we have united over so much more. A family of like-minded brothers and sisters, fighting for the same cause. And here is one of our own, in need of support and saving and I may have a way to help.”
“Good talk, Ken, and kinda actually true,” said Tony, a nearly excited grin on his lips. “It was still a new shirt, though.”
***************
At first, he can pretend it's the snow storm outside, howling along the corners of his little hut and disturbing his restless, drink-induced sleep. But he knows better, has been trained for this and there are just parts of your routine you cannot break out of, no matter how many bottles of Jack you empty next to a dying fire. There is a different kind of wailing as well, mixed with the sounds of the winds and making a broken kind of symphony. Maybe it's instinct, maybe it's something else, but suddenly he finds himself jumping into his snow boots and coat, kicking his way out the door and the piled snow, scarf in front of his mouth and eyes trying to see in the grey of the whipping snow. He hooks the ten mile long cable into the hook next to his door, attaches the coiled end to his belt and sets off, searching. He isn't really sure what he is looking for, or why he is searching in the first place. But he hasn't left his hut for any other reason than to get wood or to empty his bladder in weeks. Seems like something to do.
In a matter of minutes, he feels wiped. Was this how normal people felt? He can't remember the last time he was this out of shape and for a fleeting second, he wishes he had continued his work-out routine. But that thought is overwhelmed with a wave of numbness, of a dumb kind of near-anger. Not the kind of thoughts he is allowed to have. They lead nowhere. They say everyone decides their own fate, but he knows that's a lie. The few conscious decisions he has carried out in his life have shown him that. They got him to nearly kill his own brother, to actually kill his mentor. They got him to being blackmailed into becoming a professional killer. They made him fall in love with the one woman who would never be able to love him back, the only person he couldn't bear to disappoint and he has done just that, so many times over. He isn't a good person, he is barely even a man at all. And if Loki has shown him one thing, it was that he does a lot less damage as a mindless drone than he does as a free-thinking being.
His head is pounding, if from the cold and exhaustion or from the lack of inebriation, he can't tell. He also isn't wearing any gloves. Why isn't he wearing gloves? Why did he care if he wears gloves? Why is he outside? It is all a bit fuzzy upstairs. Emptiness and the hazy remnants of whiskey make it difficult to remember thoughts. Or to feel. It sometimes still nearly bothers him, this numbness. Like a little splinter stuck in his thumb that is always there, itching at the back of his mind. A near-memory of how he is supposed to react to things. Surprise, anger, pain, love, it all seems kind of the same now. Why is he outside?
A feeble yelping of sorts reminds him of why he has left the harsh comfort of his hut and after a few more yards he thinks he makes out a small tree, nearly entirely covered in snow. Funny, his sight used to be a lot more accurate, even in this weather. He knows he used to care about that. Funny how things change.
When he makes it to the little pine tree, he is exhausted. His vision is swimming and the pounding in his head has become an entire Paris dub-step party. He can feel his knees shaking and so he just sinks to the ground, or what should be the ground. He doesn't get very far. The snow is too deep, even here, but still. It's better this way. It's dark now and the wind is harsher than before, burning its way into his skin with tiny icicles and he cannot remember the last time he felt his hands or nose. Maybe he will just stay here. The way back to the hut seems impossibly far and what would it matter anyway? He has to commend the small tree. It is small and sickly looking but it refuses to give into the overwhelming strength of the snow and wind. It reminds him of someone and he nearly barks out a laugh when he realizes it reminds him of a pre-serum Steve Rogers of all things. But he doesn't laugh. Laughing would indicate emotional involvement and the dark emptiness inside quenches that ridiculous idea quickly. He is no longer allowed to laugh.
Still, he scrambles to his feet again and in a last, mad attempt to defy the powers that be, starts to clear snow off the branches. The tree only reaches up to his chest, so it's not a lot of work and for a moment the work gives him blessed silence in his own head. Not even the darkness can get him now. Maybe he had started to go a little mad. Loneliness and shame do that to a person, or so he has heard. Or maybe he hasn't.
He only stops when his hands have stopped shaking, are beyond frozen and his legs just won't hold him up any longer. He dimly realizes that he can't move his fingers and for a few moments, he marvels at the peculiarity of the feeling. Not being in command of his own limbs, interesting. Sinking to the ground, he half-leans against the little tree, for support or for comfort, he isn't quite sure and suddenly, out of nowhere, unexpected … he feels.
And it overwhelms him.
As if all the feelings of the past months have finally punched their way through, he feels it all, a wildness of waves that crash over him again and again, each one bringing with it new lost emotions, new regrets, new promises. Arms hanging uselessly by his side, he lifts his head and just screams. It's the first sound he has made in weeks, months maybe and it's raw and broken and it hurts inside and out. Everything hurts. But he can't stop. The tree is by now holding most of his weight and suddenly he hates the tree. Hates how it isn't the comfort, the support he wants. Hates himself for wanting, hates everything. Hates nothing. He is confused. And it hurts, again and again. He misses his brother, he misses his mother, he even misses Trick Shot and somehow the wind seems to carry his mother's nighttime lullaby with it and by now he is sure he is crying, imagines he can feel the tears freeze on his face and most of all, he misses her. Tasha. His Natashenka. And he hates himself again, for feeling anything at all because now his body is numb but his mind is in pain and he can't take it, doesn't want to take it, hasn't wanted to for weeks.
But he knew it was coming. Why else did he stop preparing wood for a fire? Why did he stop hunting for food or preparing water? For the first time he openly admits to himself that what he wanted, what he tried to do was die. To die before this could happen, before the feelings and the pain would overwhelm him. But he wasn't brave enough to admit it to himself, to end it like a man should. He is a coward, isn't man enough to put a bullet in his own skull, only into other people and he is so ashamed.
Somewhere along the line he has stopped shouting his anguish to the sky, no energy left to give voice to his shame. His is just sitting, half buried between the tree and snow, so much snow. Can't move his body and for a moment he panics but then he is calm again. So this is it then? he thinks. This is what his life has come to be. The concluding lines of the last chapter. A revelation of sorts, a sobering end to a hung-over kind of life. He doesn't want to be scared, he would rather meet whatever is at the other side of the tunnel with a bit of dignity and so he goes back to the one person that has always been the most dignified of them all. The one that always made him want to be more than he ended up being.
Natashenka with the red hair and the deadly dance. He suddenly wishes he could move his lips to smile. Natasha deserves a smile. He wishes he could have kissed her at least once. Really kissed her, not for show. Not as Mr. and Mrs. Smith-of-the-week. Kissed her like she deserved to be kissed, like she was the only thing that mattered. He reckons he could have done it. Women always told him he was a brilliant kisser. He wishes he could have touched her. To know all the lines of her body, every hollow and hill that made her who she was. He can nearly feel his fingers tingle with the wish to run them along the smooth skin of her neck, over the swell of her breasts. Of their own accord his hands move along to the rhythm he is keeping in his head and it takes him a moment to realize - he can move his hands.
Or, well, one of them. He is ripped from his sweet dream and finds himself back in the cruelness of the living, momentarily unfocused. It is dark around him and he can't see, can't really move. Only his right hand is tingling with the feeling of thousand needles prickling into it, but it is nearly warm. Why?
And then he feels it. It is quick and soft and wet, but also warm. Something is licking his fingers, again and again and now he can feel its small snout and bits of fur here and there and suddenly he is cradling what feels like a tiny, malnourished pup in his hand. Though it hurts, he moves his other arm, all of his focus on this little creature now in his arms and for a moment, he wonders how the pup was able to provide him with so much warmth when it itself is so thin and cold. He can practically feel it dying in his hands, its little heart beating less steady with every passing moment and that is what gets him on his feet.
He doesn't think about it, doesn't question it. It takes a lot of shouting and swearing, but he manages to fight himself out of his snowy death cave, finds the string of cable that's miraculously still attached to his coat and suddenly he is a fighter again. He can't properly see and the wind is blowing right in his face, his left leg is still without feeling but he manages to make it work. And so he fights on, the little creature tucked into his coat. Not for himself, he isn't worth the effort. But this little creature doesn't deserve to end like he will. It never even had a chance, no one to fight in its corner.
So Clint will.
***************
“Let me get this straight. You've got a guy with golden eyes that can find everyone with his mind? Like Professor X?” Tony sounded skeptical at best and the raven now perched on his desk, looking at him with creepily knowing eyes, really wasn't helping matters.
“I know not of this Professor you speak of but yes, Heimdall has a peculiar gift. And that my father has agreed to help is a great honor he does not bestow lightly. It is a repayment of sorts for the horrors brought to Midgard by Loki's treachery.”
Thor looked the most excited he had ever seen him and Tony had to admit, he did get points for style. He had been gone for weeks now, business to attend to back home on planet God and had come back right in the nick of time with a super-bird and, it seems, the salvation for their eternal problems. Or at least redhead's eternal problems. Bruce did mention something the other day of a possibility of him being overly dramatic. Who would have guessed?
“But how does it work?” Bruce's excitement might even outdo Thor, though for different reasons. Reasons Tony could relate to.
“Good question, big guy!” he jumped in with a grin to Bruce (the bird, he still felt ambivalent about). “So Hug-a-Bird here understand every word I'm saying and he … what. He'll teleport himself back to Asgard?” Even Steve and Natasha, abnormally quiet until this point, leaned in now, interests piqued.
“Yes, he can fly between here and Asgard and he can understand you, so you must watch your tongue.” Thor's eyes flew from Tony to the hand he had resting on the table and Iron Man quickly snatched it out of reach for the birds beak. Eying the thing darkly, he muttered: “An unkindness …” and rubbed his hand, as if in phantom pain.
“I still don't understand how it works, though,” Bruce argued. “I mean, inter-dimensional travel the way you do it is one thing, but from what I was able to gather, Asgard and Earth aren't exactly on the same timeline and the bird just “hops” from one place to the other? No portal, no thunder?”
Bruce really was in his element and Tony nodded and pointed at him to underline that, yes, his sentiment exactly. How the hell was it even possible?
“It doesn't matter how it works, as long as it does.” Natasha cut in now, her stance tight. She looked ready to snap from pent up frustration and worry. If someone were to ask him, Tony would suggest she needed to get laid, pronto. Then again, that was probably one of the main reasons they were bending pretty much heaven and earth to find the shitty little deserter. OK, so that was mean. Tony maybe didn't have fuzzy feelings towards the guy, but he did agree with what Thor had said earlier. Not to mention Barton evidently had enough balls to handle the Black Widow and he had pretty much helped save the day back when, and that only minutes after being a gods punching bag. Plus he'd said he really liked Shawarma; the guy couldn't be half-bad.
Tony realized everyone was looking at him expectantly, though Bruce looked more like someone had stolen his cookie.
“You lot out of ideas already?” He asked, grin firmly in place.
Steve rolled his eyes. “No, we've decided to leave the “how” until later and considering we'll probably have a location on Barton in the next 10 minutes, we were wondering how quick you can get your jet ready.” Oh, so that was it.
“Remember who you're talking to, Capsicle. You get the feather ball on its way and come to the garage in your gear.” Tony pushed away from the table and made for the door, winking at Natasha on his way out. “No worries Red, we'll have your squeeze toy back here in time for Christmas.”
***************
He has no idea how he did it, but somehow they are both still alive; have been living for weeks now. His left knee has never really recovered from the night he found the wolf at the little tree. But it's a stiffness he has learned to live with. It was a rough two weeks after he made it back to the hut, can't really remember the walk back, only fully became aware when he was back in the hut, the last of his wood burning in the little oven. He fell in front of it, the pup still in his arms and just fell asleep, maybe he even blacked out for a while. When he woke up, he was warm, nearly hot. Maybe he had a fever, he still isn't too sure. And the wolf pup was still alive, still fighting.
And it became his one focus. For the little one, Clint got up and dug out more wood, melted snow, heated it and crumbled bits of left over beef jerky into it. Feeding it to the little thing and, when he realizes he needs to go out and get more food, he even allows himself to eat a few bits. The pub was still more dead than alive, so Clint build a little nest for it, stocked the fire and made out into the semi-light of a Greenland-winter.
He was lucky that day, fucking lucky. Not too far from the hut, he found a female reindeer and its young that seemed to have been abandoned by the herd. He shot the mother deer's legs before killing the young and tying the still alive mother up. Wrenching the dead animal home, he hoped the wolves wouldn't find the mother or follow the trail of blood to his hut, but his luck apparently hadn't run out for the day. Though he was exhausted already, he grabbed a few of the empty, unbroken whiskey bottles and set out again, this time to relief the female of as much of her milk as possible before he killed it too and cut out as much meat as he could carry, leaving the rest to the wolves.
Somehow, he does it. With a mix of milk and tiny pieces of meat, he saves the small pup and finds a new sense of purpose in the thankful gaze of the little thing. The first time the pup jumps him playfully when he enters the hut, Clint knows they did it and he names it, names him, officially. Or as official as it can get in the middle of nowhere. He calls him Amun, the hidden one that rose to become a powerful ruler. Who knew Coulson's lectures on Egyptian culture would ever come in useful? And now Amun is good. Better even. He is far from being fully grown, but he is a far cry from the nearly dead baby that saved both their lives with its kindness. Clint never imagined himself being a dog person, let alone to raising a wolf, but somehow he has decided it fits him. He has a heart for strays, for lost causes and during the last few weeks he has even, tentatively, started wondering if maybe he himself is worth saving. It scares the shit out of him and he has no idea why. Maybe because it means a lot more effort than just giving himself up, maybe is the remainders of his depression (for he can recognize it now for what it was) or maybe it's something else altogether, but somehow the thought that maybe he is worth saving still doesn't sit well with him.
But he has realized that, while he was pretty good at taking orders, he seems quite handy at giving them as well. It is a struggle sometimes, but Amun has never once challenged his authority, has always accepted him as alpha and has even started on his way to becoming a decent hunting partner. The not-eating half the pray before returning the carcass is something that he still has trouble with, but Clint cannot help but smile, a real and wide smile, when he sees the pride in his little companion as he wobbles back to him, an animal twice his size dragging behind him, wiping his still-big paw prints away in the snow. So eager to prove himself, so easy in his trust and gratitude … he reminds Clint too much of himself sometimes, years ago. Another thing that doesn't sit all that well with him, because he really doesn't want to see Amun hurt.
And so he has decided to do whatever he can to prevent that from happening. One thing he has figured is a given to achieve that objective, is to stay alive. To be alive. He can't really explain how a little wolf has managed to change his perspective like this, but he has and Clint is grateful for it. Of course he still remembers his thoughts and believes from not all that long ago, and sometimes, there are nights when he feels them closing in again, feels the darkness still lurking just around the corner. But then a wet snouted trouble maker snuggles up next to him and Clint knows there is more, knows there is a different path for him. It might not lead him to eternal redemption, but it might bring him forgiveness at some point. If not from himself, maybe from the few other people he holds dear and maybe he just might believe them.
For the first time he thinks he can really understand why Natasha never felt like she could repay him for giving her a new life. It really does feel like something that can never be repaid in full. But damn him, if he isn't going to try and at the very least that involves actually living.
He is unsure how much time has actually passed since he left New York, but he knows it's been 12 weeks and 6 days since the day he found Amun and tomorrow, on day 92 since he found himself again, he and Amun will leave. He has prepared as much for the journey as he can, he is pretty sure that Amun is strong enough to make it and though he himself is far from being as fit as he used to be, throwing out the remaining Whiskey bottles and working to keep himself and Amun alive has given him back a lot of his former strength. It would have to do. His sabbatical on life has been going on long enough and though he doesn't know if there is atonement waiting for him, he knows he has to at least try.
****************
It was a quiet night in the tower and it was more than Natasha could have asked for normally. But for once, having Thor, Stark, the Captain and Banner in one room did not equate with noise and movement. Everyone was quiet. Though lost in their own thoughts, it felt as if everyone focused on each other. Even Tony and Pepper, sitting close together on the couch, didn't seem lost in their own world. They were all waiting, waiting for her.
She knew what they wanted. Or what they expected. They expected her to break, to shout, to freak, to do something. But she wouldn't. Regimes rose and fell, she wouldn't weep over them. Why then would she weep over fallen comrades? She was Russian. She hadn't been for a long time, but right now she was. Couldn't be anything but.
They tried, they really did and she knows they all did the best they could. They found the small wooden hut and she knew the moment she stepped into it that it was Clint's. It practically reeked of him, thought it evidently had been weeks since he'd last been there. She had tried to kill the erratic beating of her heart. Blamed the steep climb or the thin air but of course she knew why … he had been here. He was alive. Or at least he had been. Why wasn't he here now?
They had searched everywhere. For three days, they had turned every fucking snowflake in a 50 mile radius and then they had searched some more. But they found nothing and when they suggested going back to New York, Natasha had screamed at them, at the snow, at a tiny pathetic little tree they found some 8 miles from the hut. She had screamed her head off until Tony Stark of all people just walked over to her and hugged her. That had shut her up. But she couldn't just leave. He had been here. For months he had been here, probably kicked the same tree she just had and now he was gone and again she had no idea where to look. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't help them. They had cut their ties with Clint Barton and his official status as deserter was a simple formality waiting to be stamped in some shitty office. They were running out of time. So no, she couldn't give up, but she couldn't go on either.
She had already given more into this than she ever had and she was scared. Scared that it had changed her, made her too much into someone she couldn't afford to be. Someone that wasn't Russian and someone that wept over fallen regimes.
She had nearly begged Thor to plead with his father to send the raven again, but she knew it wasn't possible. It had been a one-time deal, a debt that needed repayment. She knew enough about debts to realize it would be futile to admit to weakness. It had been a welcome repayment, one that had seemed to bring home a sure victory but it had brought them … to a memory of Clint, nothing more.
At some point the group had decided they would retreat and that she would be coming with them and so she did. She might not admit to weakness, but she felt defeat coming over her. She had followed them back to the plane, she had eaten the food Steve had given her, she had taken the sleeping pill Bruce had offered, she had gotten off the plane, she had come back to Stark tower and she had let Thor hug her. And now she was sitting on a couch, her knees drawn up and silent. Everything was silent. As silent as one of the biggest cities on earth ever was, especially on the last day of the year.
As much as she needed to not be alone right now, she kind of hated all of them. Hated them for doing this, for sticking by her for a man they didn't know. It just gave her more debts she'd never be able to repay. But she found she couldn't do it. Couldn't leave or tell them to leave or … do anything. It was a small weakness, silently needing them, but one she couldn't do without right now. Not tonight of all nights.
“Nearly 12.” Even saying it, it sounded as if Tony had no idea where he was going with it and so no one bothered to answer or even acknowledge he had spoken. Steve sat at the table, the chipped coffee mug he seemed to love in front of him, beverage long since cold, staring into a corner. Bruce had taken his place close to the windows, silently watching the city beneath him and for a moment he nearly reminded her of Clint and she ached deep inside. Then she shoved it away. Because she wasn't sentimental, she was Russian. She was Natalia Romanova. She didn't weep.
She still didn't know if they were quiet for her sake or if, over the course of the past months, had actually started to care for Clint as well. Began to care for the idea of a man she had presented them with, for neither of them actually knew him. And no one on this earth knew him like she did. And that was, what she was struggling with. She wanted to forget, craved to just shove him away, put every memory and feeling about Clint Barton into the dark part of her heart where she never looked again, so she could forget about it, forget about him and move on with her life. But she couldn't, because then he would be gone, truly gone. She was the only one left to remember the real Clint, the man he was and could have been. She owed him at least that much, to not make him into the ghost of a memory. He deserved more than that.
Or maybe he didn't. He was the one that had left, he had made his decision, he had not even given them, given her a chance to take part in this. So maybe she should honor his wish.
“Sir, someone used the hidden first-floor entrance and used the Initiative password to override the security protocols.” JARVIS' sudden announcement felt like a bucket of ice water had been emptied over her head and suddenly, she knew. Though Tony was jumping up in a panic and Thor had summoned Mjölnir to his hand, she knew. And she couldn't move.
Before Tony was even done shouting and typing commands at his screens, the door to the communal area glided open and all movement seized. It was just them, a group of freak-heroes ready to battle for their home against one lone man, a bag on his back and what seemed like a large dog by his side. The seconds tricked by until suddenly Thor broke the silence.
“Hawkeye?” He asked in wonder, his hammer already forgotten on the floor and in a matter of moments he had bounded up the few steps to the entrance and threw his arms around the newcomer. Paying the growling dog no mind, he laughed loudly and clapped Clint on the back, hard. “We thought you dead!”
“You and me both.” Came the raspy answer and hearing his voice, the surprise and uncertainty in it, seemed to break the spell entirely and suddenly everyone was rushing forward at once. Pepper tried to simultaneously hold Tony back while also initiating an awkward group hug that no one was sure how to handle, Steve and Bruce had kind of taken post at both of Clint's sides, not really up for a group hug but obviously trying to somehow express their disbelieve and happiness.
They all seemed so happy. And all Natasha could do was sit. Her knees still drawn up, her eyes staring unblinkingly and utterly, utterly numb.
“Tasha?”
For a moment, she closed her eyes, felt them tremble as the sound of his voice, her name on his lips washed over her. Tasha … no one else dared call her that, no one else was allowed. And suddenly she was angry again, felt full on rage wash over her like his words had before and she jumped to her feet.
Everyone else parted for her and during any other time she might have smirked at the image. But not right now, now her focus was on the man still halfway out the door and though she saw with one look that he looked frail, had lost weight, was only a shadow of his former self, she didn't hesitate as she came up to him and raised her fist, connecting it - hard - with his jaw.
Somewhere behind her, Pepper gasped, but Natasha hardly heard her. Instead she pushed Clint, opened her mouth to wide, a furious wave of anger about to be unleashed … but no sound came out. She was breathing hard, just looking at him, actually looking at him. Saw his eyes on her, scared and maybe seeing Clint Barton scared was what changed her mind because suddenly, without her having consciously approved it, she'd grabbed whatever of his jacked she could reach and kissed him.
There might have been another gasp behind her, or maybe it was her all along, but she didn't care. Too many emotions where tumbling blindly around inside her and so she focused on the one thing that kept her from breaking apart and that were the lips she felt underneath her own. Warm and giving and oh-so alive. They felt a little rough and for a moment, there was no response, only surprised acceptance before she felt the move underneath her, felt the open to her and with a sigh she nearly stumbled forward, into him, arms around him and her lips always moving, mapping his like she never allowed herself before.
She might still kill him for what he put her through, after she was done kissing him, but before that happens she would make damn sure she knew every possible way her lips fit to his.
finis
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