A Gift From: mitchpell
Title: Some of It
A Gift For: investigatory_suspect
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Warnings/Choose Not To Warn: Vague reference to suicidal thoughts
Summary/Prompt Used: For some reason, people go to Natasha and Clint for life advice.
Author's Note: I really enjoyed writing for this prompt. I'd been wanting to write something based on the lyrics for Eric Church's song Some of It for a while and was thrilled to do so as a Secret Santa. I hope it fits what you were looking for. Thanks to kiss_me_cassie for the last minute beta read.


Some of It

Some of It by Eric Church

 

Beer don't keep / Love’s not cheap and trucks don't wreck themselves / Mama ain't a shrink / Daddy ain't a bank and God ain't a wishin' well / Money ain't rich / Everybody sins and nobody wins in a fight / And sometimes wrong is right.

 

Chorus:

Some of it you learn the hard way / Some of it you read on a page / Some of it comes from heartbreak / Most of it comes with age / And none of it ever comes easy / A bunch of it you maybe can't use / I know I don't probably know what I think I do / But there's somethin' to some of it.

 

Girls like to laugh / Tears don't last and scared's what praying's for / If it's close, swing the bat / Everybody's gotta past and love's worth living for / When you dance, hold her close / 'Til it breaks go for broke / Be the first to reach for her hand / No you don't get to do some things again.

 

When you can take it slow / 'Cause time sure won't / What really makes you a man / Is being true to her until your glass runs out of sand.

 

*~*

 
No, You Don’t Get to Do Some Things Again

 
Natasha wrapped her arms tighter around Yelena, stifling her tears as they huddled in the cold dark of the storage container. “Sshh,” she murmured, running her fingers soothingly through her sister’s hair as she felt the younger girl shiver against her chest. “You have to stop now, Lena,” she admonished softly. “You have to stop crying. You have to be brave.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Yelena sobbed, clutching at Natasha’s shirt, pulling at the fabric until the collar bit into Natasha’s neck. “I want Mommy. And Daddy. I want to go home.”

 

“I know,” Natasha choked out. “I do too.” The admission broke her resolve, allowing unbidden tears to stream treacherously down her cheeks as she buried her face in Yelena’s hair.

 

It was dangerous, she knew, to be afraid, to admit to wanting to go back, to so openly show weakness. She knew, but she didn’t care. She was going to allow herself this, allow herself a chance to mourn. Here in the dark of the storage container, with her sister, where no one could see, where her sobs would blend with those of Yelena and the other nameless girls, she was going to grieve the loss of her family.

 

“Where are Mommy and Daddy?” Yelena demanded, growing hysterical as violent sobs wracked her body. “I want to go home! When can we go home?”

 

“We can’t,” Natasha whispered, trying to rein herself back in, trying to reestablish control, knowing she had to be strong for Yelena.

 

“Why?” Yelena asked, broken and confused.

 

Because it wasn’t real, Natasha thought bitterly, because it was all a lie. “Because,” she said instead, unwilling to tell the truth. "Sometimes—there are some things you don’t get to do again.” 

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“I know.”

 

Silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the sounds of the other girls’ cries.

 

“Where are we going?” Yelena asked quietly. There was a quiver in her voice, but Natasha could hear the steal beneath it, the resolve. “Where are they taking us?”

 

“To the Red Room.”

 

“It is not a nice place.” It was a statement, not a question.

 

“No,” Natasha confirmed, steady and calm, clinical, as she steeled herself for the tortuous road ahead. “It is not a nice place.”

 

‘Til It Breaks Go for Broke

 

“Hey,” Laura called softly, sitting up in her chair when Clint’s eyes fluttered open for the second time since he came out of recovery.

 

“Hey,” he slurred back, his left hand blindly seeking hers next to the bedside as his eyes slipped back closed. “What happened?”

 

“You took a bullet to the abdomen,” she told him, unable to stop the tears that streaked freely down her face as she laced her fingers through his. “You needed surgery to repair your liver and remove the bullet. But, uh, they said you should make a full recovery.”

 

“Hhmm,” he murmured, drawing a deep breath that left him wincing and reaching for the drainage tubes protruding from his right side.

 

“Careful,” she admonished, gently easing his hand away. “Those are supposed to be in there.”

 

“What happened?” he asked again, turning to look at her, his eyes glazed over with a mixture of pain, narcotics, and the remnants of anesthesia.

 

Laura pinched her lips together in a tight smile, trying to keep the fear and worry, the anger and guilt, from showing on her face. “You were shot,” she repeated, level and even, hoping it was the grogginess that had prevented him from registering what she’d said and not the sonic arrow he’d bit down on. “You’re in the hospital.”

 

“Still can’t hear,” he mumbled, though his voice was gaining strength.

 

Laura nodded, her heart sinking as she let go of his hand to reach for the notepad and pen she’d set on the tray table. ‘Ruptured both eardrums,’ she scribbled on the paper. ‘GSW to liver. Needed surgery.’ When she was finished, she held the tablet up for him to see.

 

“Your handwriting’s terrible,” he told her, a goofy smile stretching across his face before his lips turned down in a frown. “Why’re you crying?”

 

Laura shook her head, her face crumbling as the tears flowed anew. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

 

“S’not your fault—”

 

“I could have killed you.”

 

“—You wouldn’t hurt me.”

 

“I shot you!” she snapped, pulling away to wipe furiously at her face.

 

“Wasn’t you,” he insisted, reaching out to place his hand on her arm, squeezing it weakly. “Was Crossfire.”

 

‘You shouldn’t have done that?’ she wrote, underlining the word in deep, angry strokes, pouring her frustration into those four letters. Frustration at him for biting down on that sonic arrow. Frustration at herself for failing to break the mind control that had forced her to shoot him.

 

“‘Til it breaks,” he told her, his eyes growing heavy once more as he repeated the same stupid line she’d heard him say time and time again.

 

Laura choked out a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief, equal parts exasperated and grateful for this stupid man. “It’s broke now,” she told him, though she knew he couldn’t hear it, that he might not hear it again. “Promise me it's broke now.”

 

“’S ok,” he told her instead, before slipping back into unconsciousness.

 

When You can Take It Slow, ‘Cause Time Sure Won’t

 

“Hey,” Clint called out to Natasha as he dropped unceremoniously into his office chair, letting it roll into the wall of their shared cubicle, before leaning back and kicking his feet up onto the cluttered surface of his desk.

 

“Barton,” she answered absently, not bothering to look up from her laptop, her accent thick and heavy and undeniably Russian.

 

Clint frowned in concern as he leaned forward and picked up his mini, magnetic darts. She was off, had been since they’d gotten back, quiet and withdrawn or, at least, more so than usual. He didn’t understand it.

 

They’d accomplished their mission, executed it flawlessly, save for that clusterfuck of an egress. She’d completed her probationary period at SHIELD, elevating her status to Level 6. They should be out celebrating, but instead she was sitting here doing who-the-hell-knew what paperwork, considering they’d filed all their’s yesterday. “I just spoke with Coulson,” he told her. “They’re giving us leave. Two full weeks of R&R.”

 

“I know,” she informed him, still refusing to look up. “He called me about five minutes ago. I declined the offer.”

 

“Tasha—”

 

“It’s not necessary,” she interjected, “and I’m not about to start my new career by taking a vacation.”

 

Frustrated and a little irritated with the cold shoulder, Clint threw one of the small darts at her. He watched as it sailed effortlessly across the small space before beaning her right in the side of the head. He smiled smugly as she turned and glared at him, a look that would send lesser people running for their lives.

 

“First off,” he started, now that he had her full attention. “You’ve been a probationary SHIELD agent for almost two years now. You didn’t start a career; you got a promotion. A promotion that comes, by the way, with paid time off. Secondly, everyone needs R&R. We just went through ten days of hell. You might not think that you need it, but trust me you do.”

 

“I have gone much longer without.”

 

“Yeah,” he scoffed, “because the Red Room is a model work environment. Come on,” he admonished. “I mean, isn’t this the reason you joined SHIELD in the first place?”

 

“I defected to SHIELD because I have red in my ledger that I need to try and scrub clean,” she snapped, “not to sit on my ass, relaxing at some beach resort.”

 

“Ok,” he agreed, raising his hands in surrender, “point taken. That doesn’t change the fact that you still need time to recuperate. Time to—to slow down, to get your head on straight, to remember what the hell it is we’re even fighting for. Besides,” he teased, “who said anything about relaxing on a beach? I was hoping you’d come to Iowa with me.”

 

Natasha’s eyes narrowed fractionally, before she turned back to her computer. “No.”

 

“Nat—”

 

“I’m not—” she shook her head, doubt and disbelief clearly written across her face. “You would entrust your family, your children, to me? A born killer?”

 

“Yes,” he replied, without any hesitation.

 

“Why?” she asked, her brow knit together in confusion.

 

“Because you weren’t born a killer,” Clint asserted, “you were made one.”

 

“What difference does that make? You’re arguing semantics.”

“It’s not semantics,” he snapped, harsher than he’d intended, earning himself another look. He shook his head, taking a deep calming breath before correcting himself. “I have to believe it's not semantics. I have to believe that these small differences matter. Otherwise—you know, we’re not that different, you and me—”

 

“Please,” she scoffed.

 

“My family? They’re the ones that keep me grounded, that remind me that I’m more than what this job requires me to be. That I’m more than just a weapon.” A sad smile pulled stretched across his face as the longing she desperately tried to hide shone in her eyes. “Let me share that with you.”

 

“I—,” Natasha started, trailing off as she shook her head again. “I’ve already accepted another assignment.”

 

“They can get someone else,” Clint assured her, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Trust me.” 

 

Tears Don’t Last

 

Natasha knocked gently at the door to Stark’s suite before swiping the keycard and easing it open. “Ms. Potts?” she called out, eyes sweeping the room as she made her way inside. “Mr. Stark wanted me to—Oh.” A small, sympathetic smile pulled unbidden at her lips as she spotted Potts sitting on the edge of the bed, twisting a wad of tissue in her hands. Even from a distance, Natasha could make out the tear stains running down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, I didn’t mean to—”

 

“It’s alright, Natalie,” Potts assured her, sniffing quietly and wiping at her eyes. When she looked up there was a forced smile on her face. “Did Tony need something?”

 

“No,” Natasha replied, “but, um, he wanted you to know that he’s on his way back from the police station. He should be here in about ten minutes.”

 

Potts nodded, her gaze dropping once again. “Thank you. I’ll gather my things and be downstairs shortly.”

 

“I’ll let Happy know.” Natasha told her, though she didn’t take her leave. There was something about the situation, about Potts, that made her hesitate. 

 

“Was there something else?” Potts asked, her tone sharper.

 

“No, I—” Natasha shook her head, unsure of where she was going with this or why she was even pressing. This wasn’t necessary for the mission. Potts wasn’t a priority, and yet, she was having a difficult time walking away. “I, uh, I was going to ask if you were alright.”

 

Potts barked out a laugh.

 

“Sorry,” Natasha conceded. “I guess that was a fairly stupid question.”

 

“No,” Potts assured her, looking up at Natasha with a small self-deprecating smile, “it’s not a stupid question. I just—you know, when Tony offered me this job, all I could think about was what a great opportunity it was.”

 

“And now?” Natasha pressed.

 

“And now I’m not so sure. For the first time, I find myself doubting whether or not I can do this.”

 

“Do what?” Natasha asked. “Run Stark Industries or be in a—or be associated with Iron Man?”

 

Potts smiled knowingly, but it quickly faded. “Both. Neither—I don’t know. Right now, I don’t know what to think. I guess it's just a lot more than I bargained for.”

 

“Look,” Natasha started as she stepped further into the room. “I, um, I know we don’t know each other very well and this is probably out of line, but—you’re selling yourself short.”

 

“That’s very kind of—

 

“No,” Natasha insisted. “We all know that you’ve essentially been running this company for the past two years. The only thing that's changed is that now there’s less red tape. As for the other—well,” she hesitated, unsure of how far she could push, but unwilling to stop. “I won’t pretend to know where your feelings lie. It's not my place, but there is one thing I can assure you.”

 

“What’s that?” Potts asked, the warning clear in her tone.

 

“Tears don’t last,” Natasha asserted. “I know that today has given you reason to doubt a lot of things, but—it’s also proven how strong you are, how capable. Regardless of what happens next, with Stark or anything else, you can be confident in your ability to handle it.” She shrugged, as she pursed her lips. “I know I am.”

 

“I,” Pepper stuttered, before a small, genuine smile graced her lips. “Thank you, Natalie, but—I think your faith might be a little misplaced.”

 

“It’s not,” Natasha insisted, a finality in her tone that left little room for argument. “Believe me, this is something I know a lot about.”

 

Pepper frowned. “I—ok. Well—thank you,” she stuttered yet again, a strange mix of confusion and gratitude written on her face.

 

“You’re welcome,” Natasha replied, offering a sincere smile, before turning and slipping back out of the room.

 

Nobody Wins in a Fight

 

The smile fell from Natasha’s face as Cooper tossed his bags into the bed of Clint’s old Ford Ranger and climbed into the cab.

 

“What happened to your face?” she demanded, forgoing all pleasantries as she reached out and took a hold of his chin, gently turning his face towards her, exposing his red, swollen cheek and split lip.

 

“Nothing,” Cooper muttered, as he pulled away. “When did you get home?”

 

“This morning. Who hit you and why?” she asked, refusing to let him change the subject.

 

“How do you know someone hit me?” he countered; his tone defensive. “What if I just got nailed with a ball at practice or something?”

 

“Because that you wouldn’t be trying to hide.”

 

“I’m not trying to hide anything,” he insisted as he snapped his seatbelt into place before throwing himself back into his seat. “Can we go?” he snapped, gesturing vaguely toward the road. “Please.”

 

Natasha frowned as she put the truck in drive and pulled out of the parking space. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t push. Instead, she gave him time, waiting until they were out on the main road, heading back toward the farm, before trying to get him to open up. “Have you thought about what you’re going to tell your parents?” she asked, softening her stance.

 

“The truth,” he scoffed, keeping his gaze trained out the window, refusing to look at her. “They’ll know if I’m lying the same as you—which is bullshit by the way.”

 

Natasha snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve got no argument there.”

 

A heavy silence settled between them, awkward and tense, with only the staticky truck radio to act as a buffer. She considered broaching it, if only to ease the tension, but didn’t. She valued her place in their lives, enjoyed her status as Aunt Nat, but she was not their parents. Nor did she want to be. If Cooper wanted to talk, he knew she’d listen. She was not going to force anything.

 

“Is it true?” he asked after a good ten minutes, finally turning to look at her with accusatory eyes. “Is everything they’re saying true?”

 

Natasha pursed her lips as she considered her answer. “I guess that depends on what they’re saying.”

 

“That you’re a Russian spy,” he practically snarled. “That Dad helped Loki destroy New York. That everyone who works for SHIELD is dirty and can’t be trusted.”

 

“No,” she told him, truthful and honest. When she glanced over to look at him, she noticed that the red on his cheek was starting to darken. “Not everything they’re saying is true.”

 

“But some of it is.”

 

She nodded. “Yes. Some of it is.”

 

He turned away at that, anger and frustration rolling off him in waves, as the silence stretched between them once more. “Why did you do that?” he demanded, his voice quivering. “Why did you put all that shit on the internet for everyone to see?”

 

“Because,” she told him, guilt twisting in her gut at the pain written across his face, “it was necessary.”

 

“To do what?” The tears were streaming freely down his face now. “To win?”

 

“Nobody wins in a fight,” she told him, knowing that to be true if nothing else. “There are always consequences, always losses on both sides. Exposing SHIELD’s secrets, exposing its corruption, was a loss we had to suffer to ensure that the reputable members of the organization would survive.”

 

Cooper looked at her in confusion and disbelief. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I know,” Natasha replied, “but believe me when I tell you that, no matter what is said, your parents are not dirty. They are good people. They can be trusted.”

 

He nodded, hissing as he wiped the tears from his bruised cheek. “What about you? We can trust you too, right?”

 

“Yes,” she assured him, choosing her words carefully. “You can trust me.”

 

Everybody’s Got a Past

 

“Hey,” Clint greeted, as he stepped out onto the front porch. He shoved his free hand into his jeans pocket, pulling his coffee close to his chest as his shoulders drew in against the brisk morning air. “You’re up early.”

 

“I like the quiet,” Wanda replied, a smile ghosting her lips as she leaned against the porch railing. “No offense.”

 

“None taken,” Clint assured her, returning the smile. They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, each enjoying the view of the farm as the sun peaked out over the treetops, making the dew on the grass sparkle. “Did you get everything packed last night?”

 

“Yes, but then there wasn’t much to pack.”

 

Clint took a sip of his coffee. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” he acknowledged, his lips smacking slightly. “At least, not when you do this type of work.”

 

“I have been thinking about that,” Wanda told him, her brow furrowed with uncertainty. “Maybe this isn’t the best decision.”

 

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

She gave him a knowing look, one that said that she wasn’t buying it, that he knew full well what the issue was. “I was Hydra,” she told him, answering, nonetheless. “I willingly fought against you, against the Avengers. I poisoned your minds with your worst memories and deepest fears. How can I expect them to trust me after that?”

 

Clint inclined his head, as he took another sip of coffee. “You’re right,” he conceded. “You’ve made what are arguably some fairly poor choices, but that’s your past.” 

 

“It was barely a month ago,” she argued.

 

“And that matters why?” he pressed. “I became an Avenger literally hours after helping Loki try to destroy the entire team and SHIELD along with them. Hours,” he reiterated. “Cap welcomed me in with little more than a nod from Natasha.”

 

“From what I’ve been told, that was not your choice. You were under the control of the specter, a puppet for Loki to command.” She looked away, shaking her head in what looked to be disgust. “I cannot make that claim. My actions were of my own free will.”

 

“I know,” Clint acknowledged. “I’m not trying to make light of that, but—trust me, we’ve all been where you are now, trying to convince ourselves that we’re still—redeemable. We all carry the burden of our past.”

 

“For some, it is heavier than others.”

 

“It is,” he relented, “but, in case you’ve forgotten, we already put our trust in you once before. In Sokovia. You proved yourself then. There’s no reason for us to believe you’ll do any differently this time.”

 

Loves Not Cheap

 

“What’d you think the odds are that we actually get Rogers to turn himself in?” Tony mused, as they stood and waited for the elevator to take them down to the garage. “I mean—he has to realize that he’s throwing everything away. Right? Destroying his reputation, breaking up the team—”

 

Natasha shook her head, her lips pressed together in a tight smile. “I don’t think he sees it that way—”

 

“Obviously—”

 

“—and this isn’t about the Accords, not anymore.”

 

“What?” Tony scoffed; disbelief written clearly on his face. “Barnes?”

 

Natasha stared at him, unsure of how he could fail to see something that was so evident. “Steve’s not going to turn him over to Ross. Not after they tried to kill him in Bucharest and then triggered the Winter Soldier here.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Tony huffed as the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. “What is Rogers’ obsession with this guy?” he asked as they ducked into the car. “I had best friends growing up too, but I’m not about to become an international criminal to try and save one of their asses.”

 

Natasha found herself staring again at that. She knew he was being serious; she was just struggling to believe it. “Steve didn’t have friends,” she told him. “He had Barnes—”

 

“Please,” Tony snarked, jabbing the button for the sub-basement with more force than was necessary. “Don’t give me that ‘he only had one friend growing up’ bullshit. None of that excuses what Barnes has done, and it doesn’t excuse what Cap is doing now.”

 

“Tony—”

 

“The man was a ruthless killer for seventy years. People are dead. As recently as today! Hell, even Ross can do the math.”

 

“He didn’t have a choice,” Natasha argued. “You can’t hold him responsible for things he had no control over.”

 

“No,” Tony agreed, “you can’t. But if he’s not in control then he needs to be contained. And if he can’t be contained—”

 

“You know Steve won’t let that happen.”

 

“Yeah well, he’s not going to have a choice,” he muttered as the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open. “You know,” he continued, turning back on her as he stepped out of the car, “you’re being awfully defensive for someone who’s supposedly standing against them.”

 

Natasha stilled, her guard rising at the accusation. “I understand where Steve’s coming from,” she acknowledged.

 

“Yeah? Where’s that exactly?”

 

Natasha hesitated. “Love’s not cheap,” she explained. “Sometimes it requires sacrifices that others can’t understand.”

 

“I thought ‘love was for children,’” he countered.

 

“It is,” she conceded, “because children are the only ones incapable of weaponizing it against you.”

 

Tony scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, before walking away. “Talk to T’Challa,” he called over his shoulder. “Let me know if he’s on board. I’ll call you on my way back from New York.”

 

Sometimes Wrong is Right

 

Clint knocked lightly on Lila’s bedroom door, pulling her attention away from the book she was pretending to read. “Hey,” he greeted as he leaned against the jamb. “Mind if I come in?”

 

“Whatever,” she muttered, drawing her knees up to her chest.

 

Clint hesitated, before stepping inside, the ankle bracelet heavy against his leg as he sat down at the foot of the bed. “You were pretty quiet at dinner.”

 

Lila shrugged. “I didn’t have anything to say.”

 

Clint nodded, letting the silence stretch for a minute before trying again. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Are you?” she snapped; her eyes glassy as she finally looked up at him. “Because you keep saying that, you keep apologizing, but nothing ever changes.”

 

“I know—”

 

“You just keep working or doing whatever, no matter the consequences, no matter what it does to us. Now, you’ve been arrested and they’re calling you and Aunt Nat criminals, and I just—” She wiped angrily at the tears that streaked down her cheeks. “I just don’t understand.”

 

“Come here, baby,” Clint encouraged, pulling her into a hug as she cried.

 

“What did you do wrong?” she asked, sniffing loudly.

 

Clint frowned as he ran his hand soothingly up and down her back. “We broke the Sokovia Accords,” he told her, simply.

 

“I don’t—” she started, before sitting up and looking at him, confusion in her eyes. “What are the Sokovia Accords?”

 

“It’s a new law,” he explained. “It basically says that the Avengers are no longer allowed to act without government approval.”

 

“But you did anyway?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because,” he started, wanting to be honest, but unsure of how much detail he should share, “because sometimes the wrong thing to do is the right thing to do.”

 

“What does that even mean?”

 

“It means that even though what Aunt Nat and I did was illegal, it was still the best course of action for Captain America, for Sergeant Barnes, and—based on what we thought was true at the time, the world.”

 

Lila frowned, before leaning back in and letting him wrap his arms around her once more. “Does this mean that you’re not Avengers anymore?”

 

“Yeah,” Clint told her. “It means we’re not Avengers anymore.”

 

“Are we ever going to get to see Aunt Nat again?”

 

“I don’t know, baby. If she comes home, they’ll try to arrest her and she won’t want you to see that.”

 

“I’m going to miss her.”

 

Clint smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I know. I am too.”

 

Love’s Worth Living For

 

“Hey,” Natasha called out quietly, as she stood awkwardly in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself.

 

“Don’t try and stop me, Nat,” Clint told her as he continued to shove his clothes into his duffle.

 

“Clint, we can’t give—”

 

“Stop!” he barked. “Alright. Just—stop. Look, I—I did what you asked, ok. I sat here for weeks with you and Rogers, trying to find a way to fix this. And you know what? For a second, I thought we could do it. I thought we were going to get them back.” He huffed out a broken laugh as he shook his head. “It’s over now,” he told her as he resumed his packing. “Those stones were our only shot of reversing this and they’re gone. So—I don’t see a reason to stay.”

 

Natasha nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor as she realized there was no changing his mind. “Where are you going to go?” she asked when she looked back up at him.

 

“I don’t know,” he told her, his tone softening as his shoulders sagged in defeat. “I just know I can’t stay here.”

 

She nodded again, unsure of what else to say. She thought about offering to go with him, but she knew what the answer would be. He needed time. She could give him that if nothing else. “Promise me that you’re not going to do something rash.” She swallowed, her voice growing thick with emotion. “Promise me you’ll be here when we figure this out.”

 

Clint paused, before yanking the zipper closed on his bag. “I don’t know if I can promise that.”

 

Natasha strode determinedly into the room, her heart pounding as fear and anger welled in her chest. “Listen to me,” she ordered, grasping him firmly by the arms and turning him roughly towards her. “You cannot do that. Do you hear me? You can’t.”

 

“I know—but I can’t do this either,” he choked out.

 

“Yes, you can,” she asserted. “You have to, because if you do that, if you give up, then they are truly gone.”

 

He looked at her in confusion, his cheeks damp as he cried. 

 

“Right now,” she told him, pressing his hand against his chest. “They’re still here and as long as they’re here, then there’s a chance. As long as they’re here, there’s still hope.”

 

“I thought love was for children,” he countered, throwing her old line back in her face. But there was no heat behind the accusation, only pain and grief.

 

Natasha shook her head, a sad smile pulling at her lips. “Love’s worth living for.”

 

He broke at that, clinging to her in desperation as he cried into her neck. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed.

 

“It's ok,” she assured him, as she held him tight. “I’ve got you.”

 

She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, with their arms around each other, lost in their shared grief. Eventually, when there were no more tears left to shed, he pulled back. Resting his forehead against hers, he pressed a kiss there, before snatching up his duffle and walking out of the room.

 

Everybody Sins

 

“A—ight,” Kate announced, seemingly apropos to nothing, “What’- —e -e-t -ie-e — —-i-e you’-e e-e- —-en?”

 

Clint frowned as he reached out to turn off the radio.

 

“No!” she squealed. “-on’t tu-n -t—bog.”

 

“What was that?” he asked, stealing quick glances at her as he continued to drive down the highway.

 

“The song,” she told him, gesturing towards the now blacked out display on the dashboard. “I wanted you to listen,” she trailed off with a defeated sigh.

 

“Kate, we went over this when we got in the car,” Clint reminded her. “We can either talk or listen to music, but not both at the same time.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” she conceded. “It's just that the song—you know what doesn’t matter. The question still stands. What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever given?”

 

“Advice?” He huffed, as he shifted in his seat. “What prompted that question?”

 

“The song,” she exclaimed, gesturing towards the radio, “that was playing.”

 

“Yeah, sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—”

 

Kate leveled him with a look. “Why are you torturing me with country music if you’re not even listening to it?” she demanded. “No, don’t answer. It’s like I said, it doesn’t matter. Best advice. Go.”

 

Clint laughed despite himself. “Best advice, huh? Personally, I’d like to think there’s a little something to all of it,” he teased.

 

“Yeah, but there has to be something that stands out. Come on,” Kate nettled. “Please.”

 

Clint sighed, as he merged into the passing lane. “Something that stands out,” he repeated quietly to himself as he thought back over the years, recalling the many conversations he’d had with Natasha and Laura, his kids, colleagues, and fellow Avengers. Remembering all the times they guided each other, argued and debated, comforted and offered support. As he thought about it, there was one thing that seemed to stand out, a commonality shared though each event.

 

“No one is perfect,” he told her, glancing over briefly to gauge her reaction.

 

“Ok—that seems pretty obvious, I mean—”

 

Clint held his hand up, effectively silencing her. “You wanted my advice, this is it.”

 

“Right. Sorry. Please continue.”

 

Clint gave her a look at that, but otherwise continued. “Like I said, we all make mistakes. One of the hardest things you’ll have to do, if you continue down this path, is learn how to navigate, how to live with, those mistakes. It's not easy, at times it may seem damn near impossible, but—that’s why it's important to have someone you can talk to, to be there for you. Someone who will pick you up and help clean your wounds when you fall, and kick your ass when you’re being an idiot—”

 

“Like a partner?”

 

A smile stretched across Clint’s face as his mind drifted once again to Laura and Natasha. “Yeah,” he told Kate. “Like a partner.”