Work Text:
Natasha is the first one to recover from the shock of his presence, and she punches him, hard, in the jaw. Clint stumbles back against the wall and makes no move to follow her as she stalks from the room. He's lost the right to do that.
One by one, the rest of the team follow her out. He deserves that as well.
He walks out of the place he had been proud to call home with an aching in his gut and an empty hole in his chest. The SHIELD bunkhouse is the same as it's always been, but for the first time it feels like failure.
--
It's Hill who debriefs him, and Clint supposes he should feel honoured that they deemed him so important. He doesn't, though. Instead, he answers her questions about the operation dutifully, dully, and tries to ignore the pity he sees in her eyes.
She stops him as he moves to the door and says quietly, 'We still expect you to be part of the Avengers Initiative, Barton.'
He nods, not trusting himself to speak, and leaves.
That night he jolts awake from nightmares, Natasha's name caught just inside his throat. He closes his eyes and waits for the shuddering to stop, then goes to the range and shoots targets until his arms are nearly useless with exertion. A barely healing cut on his shoulder pulls and begins to bleed. He really can't be bothered to care.
--
The first call to assemble since his return goes even more painfully than he might have expected.
He shows up to broken streets and sirens and a cascade of water from a burst pipe. Somewhere, someone is screaming and it echoes hollowly around his head. For a brief moment, he feels like he is back in Brno, listening to the screams of the ones he couldn't save. A shiver runs down his spine, but Clint steels himself and steps up to join the Avengers.
Most of them won't meet his eyes, though Cap gives him a brisk nod. The man is all business as he orders Hawkeye up to the roof of a nearby building.
'Just take out as many as you can up there,' he says, eyes hard. 'We got the ones on the street.'
The words Captain, it would be my genuine pleasure bubble to his lips, but he swallows them down. Those days are gone, and he killed them himself. All he allows himself is, 'Yes, sir.'
Tony makes no offer of a lift, so he swings himself up onto the fire escape, and tries to ignore the feeling of Natasha's eyes burning into his back.
--
It's Tony who cracks and talks to him first, almost two months after Clint comes home. If anyone is surprised that it isn't Natasha, they shouldn't be. Loki had not lied when he said that Clint knew all of her secrets, her deepest fears. Clint had been someone she had trusted, and he had used it to drive her away. He'd sent his jabs straight into the most vulnerable parts of her. It was unforgivable.
The mission had been to test his loyalty to SHIELD. They were satisfied, but somehow Clint still knows that he failed. His loyalty was, and always should have been, to the Avengers and to Natasha.
Still, Tony knows all about saying terrible things and driving away the people you love. He knows a fair deal about guilt, too.
'You know,' he tells Clint, plopping himself down into a chair before a briefing. 'I didn't build that floor to sit there empty. What am I supposed to do with a home archery range?'
A Clint's startled look, he gives a crooked smile. 'What? I miss having someone else snarking over the radio. The rest of them don't appreciate my best work.'
And just like that, he finds himself invited home.
--
He's in the kitchen, contemplating the toaster, when Thor speaks to him.
'It was a dishonourable thing,' the god says, 'to deceive your comrades like that.'
Clint swallows hard. 'Yeah,' he says, 'but sometimes you've got to lie to get the truth.'
This only increases Thor's frown. 'That logic is very much my brother's. Perhaps I understand why Loki chose you after all.'
He tries to suppress a flinch, and knows from the too-impassive look on Natasha's face that he's failed.
That night his nightmares are painted with blue light and rusty shadows the colour of old blood. The mutants and heroes rounded up in Brno are changing, shifting into his teammates with blood running down their faces. Somewhere, someone is screaming. And behind him comes the high, crazy gibbering of Loki's laughter.
Natasha tilts her face up, blood running from the hollows where her eyes should be.
'This is all your fault, traitor,' she spits, her words wet and coloured with rubies.
He wakes with a physical jerk, and tries to tell himself that he lied to them to save them, that it was the best course of action. His heart disagrees, and he spends the rest of the night vomiting.
He doesn't go back to the kitchen again.
--
He wonders sometimes what they've been told about his mission. After all, Fury's idea of full disclosure and Clint's are very different things. Mostly he is fairly sure that they know nothing about it at all.
In a way, he thinks it's better that way.
--
Fury had called him in to discuss the mission personally. That really ought to have been his first warning. Anything Fury felt the need to do himself was always 'shit-hitting-the-fan' territory.
'Agent Barton,' the Director had said, 'we have a situation. Your unique position with the Avengers makes you just the man we need.'
By unique he'd meant a variety of things. Human. Normal. Separate.
Compromised.
Then he had laid out the pictures one by one. Horrible pictures of machines and blood young bodies torn to pieces. Clint had felt a roiling in his gut, but hadn't turned away. He had seen worse.
'There is a group in Brno,' Fury had been saying, 'who are, shall we say... collecting... mutants and other people of particular ability.We're not sure what exactly they're doing with them, but you can see that it's not good.'
Clint had nodded, staring at the last picture on the table. It showed a large, uniformed man with blue eyes like chips of ice.
'This my target?'
'Yes,' Fury had said, 'but we need you to do slightly more than just neutralize him.'
SHIELD had needed him to infiltrate the organization, learn how large it was, how they operated. Mostly, they had needed him to learn what, precisely, their plan was. Saving the lives of their prisoners had been considered a bonus, not a priority.
'The way they work, they have to contact you,' Fury had said. 'You're going to have to have a suitably public split with the Avengers and SHIELD that makes you seemingly sympathetic to their cause.'
Clint had nodded again. 'I can work with the others to stage conflict for optimum impact.'
But Fury had already been shaking his head.
'No one can know this is a cover. We're sending you alone into the field - absolutely no contact.' He had stared intently at Clint. 'We're trusting you completely with this, Barton. No handler, no radio. Complete separation.'
Something cold had settled uncomfortably into Clint's gut. 'Sir - '
'No "buts" here, agent. We think there's a mole here at SHIELD. There can be absolutely no indication that you're still connected to us.' A pause. 'Beyond that, these people would love to get their hands on Black Widow or Captain America, or any of the others. I am not giving them my best assets on a plate. They cannot have any reason to follow you. Do I make myself clear?'
'Yes, sir.'
And if that hadn't told him exactly where he stood with the Director, nothing ever would.
So he had done it, and tried not to be affected by how unexpectedly painful it was to be ordered out of the sight of the people he had grown to respect. And even he knows that he had taken it entirely too far with Natasha. Then he had forced himself to walk away.
He'd gone to Europe and walked the fine line between seeming like he was trying to stay off the radar and quietly broadcasting his presence to the right people. It had taken them just over a month to find him. They hadn't exactly welcomed him with open arms.
His first impression of the bunker in Brno had been fragmented through a haze of blood and the muddied thoughts of a concussion.
Somewhere, someone had been screaming.
--
He takes to spending hours in the range - even longer than had always been his habit. He loses himself in the rhythm of nock, draw, loose, and it lets his mind go blissfully blank. It is only when his arms shake from the strain and black spots crowd his vision that he stops. Even then, he can't find rest.
Leaving his room is always put off until late at night, when the tower is dark and quiet and the others are asleep. Clint begins to feel like a ghost. Maybe he is one.
He knows that he ought to be reconnecting with his team, attempting to reforge that which he had broken, but he can't. The few times he has tried, the sudden heavy silence has been too much for him to handle.
He doesn't deserve their forgiveness anyway.
--
There had been a girl among the prisoners, a very strong telepath. After two weeks of Clint's silent presence in the cells, she had struck out in fear and frustration, and ripped the knowledge of his mission from his mind. The feeling of an outsider in hid head had been entirely too familiar, and Clint had been forced to swallow back a sudden rush of bile.
His mind had been filled with blue light, and the girl had stared at him with reproachful and betrayed eyes. When she spoke, her teeth had been stained with blood.
'You could get us out of here at any time, but you won't.'
And she had been right. Clint had not been able to afford to jeopardise the success of the mission, could not have let their captors catch onto his sympathies. However much he had wanted to help the girl, he simply hadn't been able to.
She'd been dead two days later.
--
'So, was it worth it?' Tony asks him one night. They're sitting on the roof, and the wind is bitterly cold. Clint isn't entirely sure how long he's been sitting there, nor how long it's been since Tony came and quietly sat beside him.
He thinks about all those dead kids, and lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Even he's not sure which it was meant to be.
'No,' he says. 'It really wasn't.'
There is nothing more to say after that.
--
Getting sleep is becoming harder and harder. Between the nightmares and the memories and the guilt, Clint finds himself jerking awake almost as soon as his eyes slide closed. He feels stretched thin, taught and ready to break. When he catches his reflection in the bathroom, the shadows beneath his eyes look dark enough to be bruises.
He leans forward, letting his head rest against the smooth coldness of the glass, and closes his eyes. Maybe if he can just focus on the sensation, he won't have to think anymore. He's not sure how long he stands like that before Jarvis' quiet voice breaks into the almost-reverie he has managed.
It's time to go.
--
Bruce does a double-take when he sees Clint, brow creasing in worry he doesn't have time to express before the Hulk is needed. Even Tony seems oddly gentle with him when he drops him onto his chosen vantage point. It makes Clint's chest feel tight. Their concern is unnecessary and undeserved.
Even if part of him wants it desperately.
His limbs feel leaden and heavy, and his thoughts are slow. Despite that, he is still the world's greatest marksman, and he doesn't miss. He never misses. It's all he has left. The extra hours in the range are all that keeps him going as he once more finds the rhythm and his world narrows down to the draw of the bow.
The exhaustion was bound to catch up with him at some point, however, and he ends up being too slow to avoid a blast of green energy coming in his direction. It hits him square in the ribs, and even his years in the circus aren't enough to stop the free-fall. He tumbles several stories and lands hard on his back on a balcony.
He can't breathe, and there's a terrible ringing in his ears. It gradually fades into Tony's voice frantically calling his name.
'Clint! Clint, are you alright?'
He does his best to take a breath, and lets it out in a hysterical giggle. 'Gonna be feeling that one for a while.'
He's not sure if he imagines Tony's sigh of relief. He thinks he might have. Still, Tony chuckles and says, 'You are one crazy bastard, Barton.'
How he gets back down is a mystery. He is pretty sure that he climbed down the fire escape. Although, if he is honest with himself, slid down is probably a more accurate description. Each inhale is agony, but he somehow doesn't seem to have injured anything but his ribs. At least the pain is something to focus on.
Back on the street, Bruce is there to catch him, worry etched sharp across his face
Clint doesn't remember the trip back to the tower.
--
He comes slightly more back to himself when they're inside, and he's herded into the medical bay. Clint sits on the cot and pulls his shirt off, hissing air through his teeth at the pain of the motion. Behind him, everything goes suddenly quiet.
'Jesus, Clint,' Bruce breathes, hand ghosting over the scars and bruises. His thumb traces gently over one of Clint's vertebrae, and the archer feels the muscles in his back tense even further. It hurts, but when the hand pulls away, he feels oddly cold.
Bruce binds his ribs tightly, and they get through the rest of the exam with a minimum of fuss. Clint watches dully as the doctor notes down a catalogue of weight loss and and fatigue and muscle strain and a host of other things that he doesn't really want to think about just now.
'You know,' Bruce says, his tone conversational and deceptively mild, 'there are easier ways to kill yourself.'
Clint just shrugs. He isn't actively trying to die, but he isn't actively working to prevent it either.
'We spent over half a year thinking you'd betrayed us,' Bruce tells him quietly. 'And then learned that it was just that you hadn't trusted us. It's going to take a while for everyone to get past that enough to trust you again.'
His throat tightens and his eyes burn, but he nods.
'I know,' he says hoarsely. And: 'I'm sorry.'
'I know,' Bruce says, rubbing soft, soothing circles over the pulse point on Clint's wrist. His voice is gentle as he pulls away. 'Just get some rest, alright?'
And then Clint is alone again.
--
In Brno, it had taken just shy of two months for the organization to decide to recruit him. Two months of ignoring his cell mates, and trying to block out the sounds of their crying and pleading. Trying to block out the almost constant sound of screaming from somewhere in the bunker. They had interrogated him as well, but been frustrated and disappointed when he proved to have absolutely no mutations or powers. Clint was just a well-trained human.
They had taken their frustration out in the form of violence. He had suspected they found it good release from the more calculated cruelty of what they did to the others. The tacky-tight feel of drying blood and the bone-deep ache of bruises had become his constant companion.
In his darker moments, he had wondered if Fury had simply sent him there to die.
Then, one day, they had walked into the cell, dragged him to his feet and escorted him into an office he had never seen before. There, he had come face to face with his target for the first time. They'd had to be sure, the General had told him, had to see that no one from SHIELD was going to rescue him. That he had no intentions of rescuing the mutants.
When he had asked why he would have bothered, the General had smiled, slow and malicious.
'Why, indeed,' he had said, and just like that Clint had found himself on the other side of the bars.
--
The others start making more of an effort after his trip to the infirmary. Steve invites him to join them for pizza one night. He does, and lets their talk wash through and around him. It's comforting in its own strange way. Several days later, Thor loudly praises his marksmanship after a battle. Tony throws him a quick thumbs up, and a Nice one, Legolas. Clint knows that Bruce has spoken to them on his behalf, but can't bring himself to resent it.
Honestly, it's kind of nice.
Natasha continues to just watch him and say nothing.
He still doesn't sleep.
--
Slipping into the role of prison guard had been almost too easy once he'd learned to ignore how young and frightened the detainees were. He had closed his ears to the screaming and pleading, and simply done his best to learn everything he could. It had taken him several more months to get all the information he needed.
There are huge gaps in his memory of those months that he doesn't want to probe too deeply. Clint is pretty sure that way lies madness, and he is dangerous close to it already. But sometimes he can't suppress the flinch when Thor or Steve come too close to him, and the screaming gets louder in the back of his head.
It's really better not to think about it.
In the end, he had gathered everything into a single encrypted file, broken radio silence, and sent it to SHIELD.
All hell had promptly broken loose.
--
He surprises himself one day by laughing at something Tony says. It is just a stupid comment about Fury's eyepatch - nothing that new recruits have not said hundreds of times before - but Clint snorts a laugh at it before he can stop himself. The others jolt into silence for a moment, staring at him. Then Tony's face brightens, and he launches into a full-scale tirade complete with imitations.
Clint laughs until he cries. And then he starts to sob.
--
The General had apparently never really trusted him at all. Clint hadn't been surprised in the least. No one got to that sort of position by being stupid or naive. What had surprised him was how quickly they had gotten to him once he had sent the information.
They hadn't been so foolish as to give him his bow when they had freed him, and it had only been quick thinking that had saved Clint's neck when the first few soldiers came barreling into the office. He had sent silent thanks to Natasha for teaching him how to be lethal with the most basic of office supplies.
Less finesse had been used on the next few, and he will always remember the crunch of cartilage beneath his hand, the warmth of blood splattering in his face. It had been horrifying in a way that a kill had not been in years. He had been distracted for a small, crucial moment and a blade had blazed a searing line across his shoulder blades. The man wielding the knife had not made it far, but it cost Clint dearly.
There just hadn't been enough time.
The first explosion had caught him completely by surprise. The entire bunker had rocked on its foundation, and the scent of smoke was thick and burning in his lungs within moments. With SHIELD there to worry about the rest of the General's organization, Clint had raced to the cells. They had already been ablaze when he got there, and the children had been screaming.
Out of almost thirty prisoners, he had been able to save five.
They hadn't thanked him.
--
The weeks after SHIELD shut down the organization are a blur in Clint's mind. A fair portion of that time had been spent in the infirmary, drugged to the gills as they worked to repair what had proven to be a plethora of fractures and lacerations and tiny internal bleeds. He'd had it the easiest. Of his five rescues, two of them died in the hospital. The other three would never be the same again.
SHIELD had contacted Charles Xavier to come collect them. Clint had insisted on meeting the man himself, shaken his hand. There had been a million things he had wanted to say: I'm sorry and forgive me and thank you fighting for dominance. The bald man had simply shaken his head, his expression a terrifying mix of wrath and despair and compassion.
The rescued kids had taken to him immediately. Though, when they had seen Clint, one of them had started to scream. He's not sure exactly what happened, but he stills bears shiny burn scars across his ribs. He doesn't blame them for it. After that, SHIELD had sent him home. Well, to what he had left of a home.
Somewhere, he had still been able to hear screaming.
--
It is exactly a year from his return to Stark Tower when Natasha slips into his darkened room and into his bed. Clint hold completely still, barely daring to breathe for the fear that she is going to disappear. Then her hand gently caresses his cheek, and it's like the dam has broken.
'I'm sorry,' he says, voice breaking. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'
It's not just her he's apologizing to, but to everyone. To the whole team, to the agents he killed under Loki's control, to Coulson, to everyone who came before and after, and to all those broken kids he hadn't saved. And, yes, most of all to her.
'I'm sorry,' he says, and it becomes a litany repeated in every language he knows.
'I know,' she says when he's finally grown quiet. She places a gentle kiss on his forehead. 'I know.'
It feels like forgiveness. And, for the first time in months, he manages to fall asleep.