Chapter Text
2004
Manhattan
“We’ve found her, sir,” Mason reports, voice clipped. Excited.
Clint is pretty sure he isn’t authorized to hear this conversation, but Mason seemingly can barely contain himself, and hadn’t even bothered to confirm that the door had closed behind him before barrelling into his report.
“She’s in Budapest. We’ve got her this time, Coulson.”
It doesn’t take superior deduction skills to know who they’re referring to. There has only been one female operative on every single agent’s watch list.
Coulson makes a sharp, decisive clap. “Good work, Mason. We've got our shot, and we are absolutely not going to let it slip through our fingers."
-
Budapest
Present Day
“How did you manage to bring Natasha Romanoff back from the Soul World, Clint Barton?”
The question echoes in Clint’s head, and he cannot help but feel as if Fate is taunting him. Taking the miracle that is Natasha’s life and toying with it like a cat toys with a mouse.
The others exchange harsh whispers and confused glances.
“Clint?”
“What is he talking about?”
But Clint doesn’t know. He has no idea what Richards is talking about.
“I…”
“Clint? You’re saying Clint somehow brought Natasha back to life?” Rhodes' voice positively drips with disbelief.
Yelena cautiously moves closer to her sister. “Natasha? What is going on?”
“How could Clint have brought Nat back?” Bruce asks, and it’s not malicious or mocking, but it sets Clint off nonetheless.
“I didn’t—I… damn it! Why on earth would you think I had anything to do with bringing Natasha back? How could I even begin to pull off something like that?”
Richards’s eyes narrow. “Come now. We are far beyond these games now, don’t you think?”
Clint lets out a hollow laugh. Runs a hand through his hair. From the corner of his eye he can see Yelena slowly move even closer to her sister, but Natasha’s attention is fully on Richards, her face emotionless and focused.
“Who are you?”
The question is cold and demanding, uttered in a tone Natasha always uses for the most ruthless of interrogations, and something in Clint’s chest twinges appreciatively as she steps between Richards and himself. It’s the same protective stance she has always taken when he was incapacitated in some way—on the ground, bleeding, temporarily blinded, or in some other way helpless before an opponent.
“Who are you, really?”
Richards nods, as if the question is a fair one. A smooth gesture with his fingers produces a new image before them. A montage of himself, dressed identically to the deceased Kang variant still on the ground, commanding vast, futuristic armies, their energy weapons blazing, igniting insurrections that sweep across planets, and demonstrating astounding technological prowess with machines that could conjure matter and manipulate time.
“I have gone by many names. I have been Pharaoh. King. Emperor. And yes, Kang the Conqueror. I have conquered planets, galaxies, and entire eras of Time, outlasting every other variant of myself, until there was eventually nothing left to conquer. It was then I took up a new name. Now, I am called Immortus.”
Rhodes scoffs. “Immortus? Seriously? Sounds like something out of a comic book.”
Immortus shrugs. “Your opinion on my title matters very little. I have unlimited power over the entire timeline, and consequently, all who are within it.”
“Is that how you freed me?” Wanda asks.
Immortus nods. “I used the same technology to free you as my variant used to immobilize you.”
“Why would you free Wanda, when you are essentially condemning another version of yourself to certain death?” Sam asks.
“I hold no particular affection for my variants, Mr. Wilson. I also wished to show you that I mean you no harm. I want to work with you, not against you.“
“You certainly aren’t giving off the vibes of an ally,” Rhodes comments.
Immortus raises his arms. “How have I harmed you, Colonel Rhodes? Have I attacked you? Threatened you? On the contrary, I have aided and assisted you!”
Clint shivers for no discernible reason as Rhodes, Sam, Bruce, and Steve all try to communicate telepathically and miraculously discern whether or not to believe the man before them.
Immortus sighs. “I admit I did once harbor an intense…annoyance…for the Avengers, but that is long in the past. I assure you, I have nothing personally against you. I no longer have any desire for power. All I want from you is information.”
His gaze narrows in on Clint once more, and he doesn’t repeat the question, but Clint can hear it nonetheless.
How did you bring her back to life.
Clint is seconds away from exploding with frustration. “Why would you think I had anything to do with Natasha being alive again? As you, your variant, and everyone else have rightly recognized, I am the most unnoteworthy, unreliable, forgettable Avenger. A useless loser!”
“Clint…” Natasha. Exhausted.
“Why me?”
Immortus nods thoughtfully. “Why, you indeed, Mr. Barton.” He reaches down to touch his wrist, producing a holographic image of a large, brightly lit ring, almost like a halo, in their midst.
“This,” Immortus says, pointing to the ring, “….is Time. Or what Time should look like, I should say. What shape would you call this?”
“A loop?” Sam hazards.
“Indeed. From this distance, Time looks like a closed loop. However, if we look more closely…” The image zooms in closer, displaying countless circular strands curling around and around, one into another. “You can see that it is, in fact, not a closed loop, but a tightly contained coil, flowing one into another, looping around and around for all eternity. Nearly identical, but separate. Never crossing, never intersecting.”
Immortus touches his wrist again, and Clint recognizes the chaotic criss-cross branching of their own timeline.
“Chaos, isn't it?” Immortus says. “Sylvie here did in fact free this timeline, allowing it to branch in whatever direction it chooses. This creates a whole new set of problems for you, and yet, the branches are not the most urgent problem your reality faces.”
The image zooms out, farther and farther, until they can view the entire timeline as a whole. But its shape is not a tight coil like what they were just shown. This timeline is… warped. Twisted.
“This is what your reality looks like. Notice anything different?”
“That’s… a Möbius strip,” Bruce declares.
“It is indeed. This is the only reality that looks like this. Do you know why, Clint?”
Cold. Why is it so cold.
“Because of you, Clint Barton. You twisted your reality into a closed loop. A Möbius strip, forever destined to twist and repeat. Over, and over, and over.”
“But… I…”
“Clint? What’s he talking about?”
Tony mentioned something about a twist. A Möbius strip. Impossible choices. How his decisions determine the fate of the universe…
“You call yourself insignificant, Clint Barton. And if I am being honest and it were any other reality, I would agree with you. But the truth is, you have had an incredibly significant impact on your reality. It is only in this reality—the reality that you twisted—that someone ever returned from the Soul World. You are the common denominator in the most incredible occurrence in all of the multiverse.”
Clint’s shivering has intensified to the point that his teeth are chattering too hard for speech. He can feel Natasha draw closer to him, confusion and curiosity warring with concern all over her features.
“I don’t understand,” Bruce says. “You’re saying that Clint…”
“Twisted your reality and caused it to loop into an alternate but contradictory reality. Into a loop with only one side, where there should be two.”
“Alternate reality?” Steve says.
“That…horror show we just witnessed,” Sam breathes in astonishment. “Natasha was alive, and Clint was gone. Lila took up the Hawkeye mantle…we got a tip on an alien weapons stash…”
“And…Bucky…”
“And you,” Barnes replies harshly.
Neither of them speak, but Clint’s and Natasha’s gazes meet in mutual agony.
And Lila.
“Correct. Two contradictory, alternate realities, flowing in and out of one another, preventing the natural flow of time. A paradox. This is why your reality is literally falling apart. Two paradoxical realities cannot exist in the same space. But the loop is closed. Eternal. Each event directly causing the next, regardless of the fact that they are entirely contradictory.”
“The grandfather paradox…” Bruce whispers in horror.
“Apt observation, Dr. Banner! It is indeed. How can a man have gone back in time to kill his own grandfather and still have been born to kill that same grandfather?”
The ground beneath them chooses that very moment to show its extreme dissatisfaction with this situation. Short, vigorous shakes toss them side to side, ominously hinting at worse to come.
“Dear God…” Bruce exclaims, looking at the readings with new dread.
Rhodes presses two hands to his temples. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that Barton somehow brought Natasha back to life, and that is what is causing these earthquakes?”
“Well–”
Clint rounds on Immortus, steaming. “Well, Richards—Immortus—whatever the hell you call yourself! News flash. Maybe I was the catalyst, but the real power behind Natasha being alive isn’t me. That was all Wanda.”
“Wanda?!” Sam says, voice growing higher.
“Clint, what did you do?” Bruce actually whines.
Clint’s uncontrollable shivers dissipate under the scalding simmer that is the image of his daughter, cold and lifeless in Natasha’s arms. Fear, anger, and regret reach a boiling point, and he withholds none of it.
“I asked her to fix things, damn it! Put things back to the way they were supposed to be!” He stabs a hand at all of them. “You all wanted Natasha back, didn’t you? You all knew, deep down, that it should have been me that died for that godforsaken orange rock! That’s how it always happened! It was always supposed to be me! It was always me, in every other reality!”
“It was always…”
“Clint, what are you–”
“So sue me for caring! You blame me for her death, and now you blame me for going through hell to undo it! I’m trying to do the right thing! But it’s the story of my life—everything I do, everything I touch turns to shit.”
“Damn it, Clint, that’s not true!”
A vein in Clint’s forehead twitches. He gets right in Natasha’s face and snarls, “It damn well is and you know it! No matter what I do, I screw it up! Hell, I managed to screw up the screwup! Chronic failure Clint Barton twisted up all of reality because he wanted to save his best friend! Bad Clint!”
“So your solution is to eliminate all versions of yourself from the multiverse?!“
“If that’s what it takes! ‘Whatever it takes’, remember?”
“That’s not what that means!” Natasha screams, then bends over, gasping for breath.
“Hold on, back up! Are you saying that in every other reality, you died for the stone? Not Nat?” Sam asks.
“How? What went differently?”
“What did you do, Clint?”
Every eye locks onto Clint, and he nearly cracks under the pressure. All fury abruptly drains out of him, and he drops his head in shame.
“I… I shot her in the leg.”
It’s excruciatingly simple. Obvious in hindsight. He knows they are all picturing it. The finality and simple efficiency of the action.
“Her phantom pain…” Bruce breathes, leading into nearly a full minute of deafening, heavy silence.
The clear, obvious follow-up question echoes even before it is spoken.
“And what did you do in our reality?” Rhodes asks softly.
“I…” His voice hitches. Tears blur his vision, and he desperately wishes the earth would choose this exact moment to fracture beneath his feet and swallow him whole. “I…”
“Natasha?” Yelena says in a small voice. ”What happened?”
“Yeah! What really happened on Vormir, Nat?”
Natasha’s rage is feral. “Exactly what he said happened! If you are trying to insinuate that Clint threw me over that ledge, then all of you can go to hell!”
Yelena greets fire with blue flame. “We deserve to know how you died! I deserve to know why this man, who claimed to love you, refused to carry out the same simple counterattack that would have resulted in your survival!” She turns on Clint. “You told me that she didn’t give you a choice! You said that she was better than you! That you loved her!“
Clint grasps for his voice. “I–”
“You’re a liar! You could have won! You could have beaten her! Why didn’t you?!”
“Yelena!”
“I…I don’t know!”
He wishes to God he did.
“Maybe you didn’t force her over that ledge, but you didn’t try to stop her! You let her win!”
No!
“Yelena!”
“You just wanted your family back, and would have done anything to get it! Including letting your so-called best friend die!”
It’s too much. It’s too damn much.
Clint falls to his knees and tests the strength of the roots of his hair.
Oh, God. Is that what happened? Did he really let her win?
He would never…He could never…
Could he..?
Did some subconscious part of him let her win?
Hands are on his shoulders. Rough shaking. Shouting that sounds muffled even with his aid functioning. Then the hands disappear from his shoulders and reappear on each side of his face.
He opens his eyes to green gems ensconced by copper-red flame.
Clint! Listen to me!
Leave me alone, Tasha.
Another rough shake forces him to meet her gaze. His sight is blurred. His hearing is muffled…
Gentle fingers wipe away tears. Reiterations of the same words slowly fade back into the audible decibel range.
“It’s not your fault, Clint. It’s not your fault!”
“I…let you die.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“What if I did? Subconsciously? Oh God, Tasha, I would have done anything to get my family back.”
“You did not let me die.”
“How do you know that?!”
“Because I know you!”
The words are spoken with unbreakable conviction, and his fragile control over himself fractures to mirror the cracked street beneath them. Because she doesn’t see. Not yet. What will it do to her when she finally discovers that the value she sees in him doesn’t exist? That he’s not the man she thinks he is?
That realization would take her from him with even more finality than Death.
“Clint…” Natasha murmurs, shaking her head miserably and wrapping her arms around him, and he allows his anguish to run down the side of her neck.
Why didn’t he just shoot her in the damn leg. Why. Why.
“I don’t know why… I just don’t know…”
A beat.
“I believe I know why.”
Clint nearly chokes on his own snot. He shoots an incredulous look at Immortus over Natasha’s shoulder. “You do?”
“Of course. Frankly, I am surprised you don’t.”
Clint can only stare blankly at him, racking his brain and rising shakily to his feet.
Natasha stands with him, just as shakily, no doubt reaching her own physical limits in trying to deal with Clint’s shit.
“You seem to be under the false impression that the twist in your reality was caused by your enlistment of Ms. Maximoff’s assistance in altering the events on Vormir, but that is not the case. If anything, that particular action is the curve of the Möbius strip—a direct result of the twist as it curves over into repeated sequences of the same events, but not the twist itself.”
Clint’s brain goes into overdrive. “You’re saying… I didn’t twist up reality by changing what happened on Vormir?”
“I am saying that your alteration of the outcome on Vormir is the natural result of what you did to twist reality.”
Immortus taps his wrist to once again display the Möbius strip, pointing to the opposite side of the twist and running his finger along it.
“See? Right here, the result of the twist, curving around and flipping over to start the whole thing over again. That is you, persuading Ms. Maximoff to alter the outcome on Vormir.”
“So, changing who died on Vormir is not the reason Natasha is alive again?” Steve asks.
Immortus shakes his head. “No. If Ms. Maximoff’s power had that much influence, she could simply pull Ms. Romanoff from the Soul World herself. But no one, not even a nexus being, can force the Soul World to give up a soul.”
But…then…
What did he do?
“Then…what is the twist?” Steve asks.
“What indeed, Captain.” Immortus waggles his eyebrows, executing an exaggerated gesture toward Clint.
Clint’s knees abruptly feel unstable. He fall-sits onto the cobblestone pavement, pulling himself out of Natasha’s tenuous grip. His eyes trail automatically behind him. Down the streets. Past familiar cafes and restaurants and parks. His entire body starts to tremble with realization, and he closes his eyes.
“What? What the hell did Barton do?” Rhodes demands.
It’s obvious, in hindsight. That spur-of-the-moment decision. That gut feeling. The moment everything had changed.
Natasha wanders a few paces away on unsteady feet. She says nothing, and yet, somehow, Clint just knows that she has connected the dots as well.
“What? Tell us!” Sam exclaims.
“Think about it, Mr. Wilson. The twist that Barton created is the indirect cause of your reality trying to tear itself apart at the seams—these earthquakes. The epicenter of said quakes led you here.”
“I don’t follow,“ Sam replies.
“Wait,” Steve says. “You’re saying that the reason this place is the epicenter…”
“Is because Mr. Barton twisted your reality right here, in this very city, twenty-one years ago.”
“Holy shit…” Rhodes exclaims. “You mean…”
Goosebumps feather down Clint’s entire body. He shivers despite the late summer heat.
“In the year 2004, in Budapest, Hungary, Clint Barton spared the life of the Black Widow.”
-
<169>
2004
Manhattan
“Heya, Coulson. How about keeping me company on a commissary run?”
“Not now, Barton. We’ve lost contact with Mason.”
Clint’s demeanor abruptly sobers. “In Budapest?”
Coulson gives a curt nod. “He was supposed to check in over two hours ago.”
Two hours unaccounted for. In Budapest. When he was sent after–
Coulson straightens. Put a finger to his ear. “What do you have, Surell?”
Clint cannot hear the exchange, but as Coulson’s coloring pales and his throat bobs, he gets the gist anyway.
Mason is dead.
-
2006
Fury’s name takes on a more literal meaning under certain conditions. Clint is pretty sure that insistent buzzing at his door at three a.m. is one of these conditions.
The intercom button is pressed hard enough to crack it, and Clint and Coulson share a look.
“You better have a damn good reason for getting me up at this hour, Coulson.”
“I’m sorry, Director, but… Sir, you won’t believe who just showed up at the front door.”
“Well? You planning on telling me or are you expecting me to play twenty questions?”
Clint and Coulson share another look, but it’s Clint who finds his voice first. “Sir. It’s the Black Widow.”
-
The legs of the chair screech against the tile as Clint throws himself into it. “Hey. I’m Clint.”
A green eye narrows in on him in wary suspicion, as if he were a wasp that squeezed his way through a screen door. “Get lost, Clint.”
Cute.
“Nah. I think I’ll stick around and annoy the infamous Black Widow. Sounds like way more fun.”
“I’m still on probation. Aren’t you worried I might stab you when your back is turned?”
It’s clear from something in her voice that this is, in fact, what everyone else here thinks of her.
“Not really. You gonna prove me wrong?”
She glares at him. “Are you always this irritating?”
“Pretty much. Hey, wanna come get a donut from the commissary with me?”
-
2007
“What? That’s not a dirty word, Tasha. We are friends, aren’t we?”
“The last ‘friend’ I had put a bullet in my stomach.”
“Yikes. Is that like the Russian version of friendship bracelets? Can I opt out?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Where should I put my bullet then? You prefer the shoulder or the kneecap?”
“Shut up, Barton.”
“This is no laughing matter, Natasha. Now, tense up so I don’t accidentally miss and nick an artery.”
“As if you are even capable of missing.”
-
2023
“What is Vormir?”
“A dominion of death. At the very center of celestial existence.”
“...not it.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Clint, you don’t have to–”
“No, I want to. Center of existence, right? Who better to go and hit the bullseye of all of reality?”
“I’m going with you.”
“Then I know I won’t miss.”
-
2014
“Natasha, you know what I’ve done. You know what I’ve become.”
“It doesn’t matter, Clint! Everyone makes mistakes. My ledger is dripping red–”
“Under duress and psychological conditioning. That’s not the case for me.”
“Damn it, Clint, you’re a good man!”
“Maybe after this, I’ll believe you.”
-
“Clint! No! Please! CLINT!”
Natasha’s cries follow him down the seemingly endless fall, and despite the despair that saturates them, he finds himself thankful that hers is the last voice he ever hears.
-
<287>
2004
“That—that bitch! I can’t believe I let her get the drop on me!”
“Rumlow, shut up and hold still,” Coulson mutters, fumbling with more gauze in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have been so cocky,” Clint can’t help but comment.
“Listen here, Barton–”
“Shut up, Rumlow. You too, Barton. Clearly, we’ve underestimated her, and now that she knows that we know where she is, we will need to deal with her some other way.”
Clint throws himself into an empty med-bay chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “If she doesn’t deal with us first,” he mumbles.
-
2006
“Director Fury. You won’t believe who just showed up at the door.”
-
“Hey, I’m Clint.”
“Get lost, Clint.”
-
2014
“Clint! No! CLINT!”
-
<616>
Present Day
Budapest
Aside from the distant sound of emergency services and panicking civilians, silence envelopes the narrow street as they witness the events of past timelines. How time after time, loop after loop, it was Mason, or Goldberg, or even that asshole Rumlow sent to eliminate the Black Widow.
Instead of Clint.
“As you can see, for many iterations, it was not even Barton who was sent to take out the Black Widow. None of them succeeded in their missions, but all of them succeeded in putting SHIELD at the top of Ms. Romanoff’s radar. She started to investigate them back, and eventually, made the decision to defect.”
The revelation is surprisingly painful. Clint’s one pride in life had always been that he brought Natasha to SHIELD. Had saved her life.
But she didn’t need him.
“Barton and Romanoff still invariably develop a close relationship,” Immortus continues. “Sometimes platonic, sometimes romantic.”
Uh…what now?
The screen shifts into visual displays of his words. Images of the two of them as Clint knows them, deeply devoted but purely platonic, as well as images of them as they have never been. A relationship of romance and passion and whoa… let’s hope Laura never sees this.
Clint feels himself go red with embarrassment. He was already married when he and Natasha met, at least in this reality. He has never even thought of Natasha in such a way, and to have everyone and Mother Nature witnessing alternate versions of himself and his best friend like this…
Natasha turns to him and makes an exaggerated expression of revulsion, her intentions succeeding in producing the tiniest of smiles out of Clint. “Let’s not get insulting,” he says, nudging her.
He allows himself the briefest of glances at Steve and Barnes, and Barnes is not the most expressive of individuals, but Clint would not be surprised if the glare he has aimed at the scene before them could shatter even a holographic image.
“It was these realities that you read about in the files at the TVA, Mr. Barton. In each and every loop, it was you who died for the Soul Stone.”
All humor abruptly fades out of Natasha at these words. She fists a hand in Clint’s vest, weak but determined.
“So then reality got twisted when Clint was sent to take her out instead?”
“Not quite, Dr. Banner. You see, there were also many iterations in which Clint Barton was sent to take out the Black Widow, but reality was not twisted.”
“What do you mean? What happened?”
Clint goes abruptly cold once more. Trembles under Natasha’s concerned touch.
Immortus touches his wrist, and the scene before them shifts.
-
<599>
2004
“Damn it, Rumlow, if you’re not going to take the threat seriously then I am not sending you out! We have lost too many agents already!”
“I can do it.”
“Stay out of this, Barton. I got this, Coulson. No need to send in Mr. Screw-up.”
“Rumlow.”
Clint points an angry finger in Rumlow's face. “Damn it, Rumlow, how many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t hear the order!”
“Well your convenient temporary deafness almost cost me my life, Barton!”
“That’s enough! Rumlow, you’re out. Barton, you’re taking this one.”
Rumlow’s face turns two shades darker. “What?!”
“He’s a better shot than you.”
“But a worse everything else! He’s done nothing but fuck up every single mission he’s been on since he got here! He follows orders worse than a spoiled pussy cat.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. We originally assigned this to you because we didn’t think Barton would be back from Cambodia yet.”
“But–”
“Any questions, Barton?”
“No, sir. I’ll bring her down.”
“Extreme caution, Barton. I don’t want any mishaps.”
There won’t be.
-
<603>
“Got her in my sights, sir. She doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Good. Wait till it’s a for-sure shot.”
Clint raises an eyebrow. “All my shots are for-sure, Coulson.”
“Whatever. Just don’t miss.”
-
<609>
She is young. Surprisingly young. But there are decades worth of hard experience in her features.
He notches the arrow. Pulls back.
He almost…feels sorry for her.
-
<615>
Something in her eyes makes him pause. A familiar desolate resignation, mixed with…
A desire for escape. For a second chance.
For hope.
She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Barton? Give me good news.”
Shit.
“Give me good news, Clint. How much dough did you get?”
“You good for nothing piece of shit, kid!”
“You want us to sleep on the street tonight? Get that guy’s wallet!”
“You get us thrown out of the circus, Clint, and I promise I will pound you and keep pounding you until you don’t have any teeth left!”
Don’t screw this up, Barton.
Breathe in. Exhale…and…
Release.
-
“...Clint Barton succeeded in his mission. Hawkeye assassinated the Black Widow.”
