Chapter Text

November 22nd, 2004

Budapest

Stupid. 

This is so so stupid. 

Clint tightens his fingers around his bow as his question reverberates throughout the room, hanging heavy in the air. His heart pounds against his sternum with nearly enough force to escape his chest. 

What the hell is he doing. 

Romanova’s vibrant green eyes and copper-red hair create a vivid contrast against the blood-stained wall. She’s remarkably composed for someone in her position. Her breathing appears only mildly elevated, and her expression betrays no fear whatsoever.

But Clint can see the prickle of goosebumps on her bare arms, and despite the late-autumn chill that seeps through the shattered window, Clint suspects that the temperature has nothing to do with it.

“Well? What do you say?”

Clint can’t help but sense a change in her at the question. Suspicion. Disbelief. 

Hope. 

“Yes.”

A surge of… something courses through him. Whether shock, excitement, or fear, he doesn’t know. 

What the hell is he doing. Who is he to make a call like this? He’s a loser trick-shot carnie. Someone SHIELD took in solely because he was a good shot. If he had any sense, he’d put an arrow through her eye right this instant. 

But…

Romanova said yes. 

She is still unnervingly composed considering the life-altering decision she has just made, not to mention all the blood she has lost. Is still losing.

Get with it, Barton. 

His right hand tightens around his bow. His left is relaxed at his hip, the arrow still in his grip. Not threatening, but ready. He brings a finger to his ear.

How the hell is he going to explain himself? None of this is based on any logic whatsoever. It’s just…

A gut feeling. 

He taps the comm, and there's the click of connection.

Shit Shit Shit.

Please don’t make me regret this. 

"Talk to me."

"Slight change of plan, Coulson."

"What happened? Do you need assistance?"

Clint keeps his eyes glued to Romanova, bleeding and still pinned against the wall.

"Yes. But not in the way you're probably imagining. I need a clean-up crew."

"How is that a change of plan, Barton? Is she dead or not?"

"We need to make it look that way.” Here goes nothing. “The target has... agreed to come in."

The stunned silence that follows is so uncharacteristic for Coulson that Clint takes his eyes off Romanova for one second just to confirm the signal hasn't dropped.

"Barton. What the hell have you done?"

Hell if I know, man. 

"We're waiting, Coulson. And she's losing a lot of blood, so I'd step on it."

Coulson’s voice takes on a low, serious tone. “Clint. This is suicide.”

Clint swallows his doubt and hardens his voice.  “Guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” He cuts the connection, blue gaze still locked onto green. 

A slab of granite could boast more variety of expression than Romanova, yet even so, Clint can see the slightest of changes in her now that he has set things in motion. The underlying fear—that he isn't sure anyone else would have seen—begins to fade. Her countenance is lighter, like an enormous weight has been lifted from deep within her soul.

This, he realizes, is a pivotal choice in his life. One that could very easily lead to his death.

He just spared the life of the Black Widow. 

Whether for better or worse, there is no turning back now.

Chapter Text

Part I

October 2023

Iowa

He reaches for her–straining with all his might. She is not going to do this. He can’t let her fall… 

He can’t reach her. Can’t pull her back up to safety. He doesn’t have super strength. He can’t fly. He can’t do anything.

She glances down at the abyss below. When she meets his eyes once more, they are filled with sorrow, but no fear. 

“Let me go.”

No!

“Let me go, Clint.”

No!

“It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. Nothing will ever be okay again if you do this to me.

She lifts her feet to brace them against the side of the cliff. Shifts her weight…

No! Please!

She wrenches herself out of his grip and plummets down, down, down…

“NAT!”

He bolts upright, gasping like he’s just run a marathon. It’s no longer twilight, but that dim, gloomy hour before dawn, the tiniest glimmers of light just visible behind the curtains of the bedroom. His t-shirt is soaked, and the sheets tangled around his ankles are damp. 

He can still feel the bite of the cold air on his face. The strain of every muscle in his body. The pull of her wrist–the wrist he had held so many times–as it slipped through his grip… 

“Clint?” Laura mumbles beside him, struggling to get herself upright.

Natasha is gone. Dead. He couldn’t save her. She’s dead, and it’s all his fault…

“Oh, honey…” 

Laura’s arms come around him, easing him against her and encouraging him to let it out. 

“Clint. Shhh. It’s okay.”

Clint clings to his wife and murmurs an apology. “I told you I should have slept on the couch.”

“So you could wake up from these hellish nightmares alone? Not likely. You grieve, I grieve with you.”

The poor woman hasn’t slept one full night since she returned from the dust. This is the fifth night this week, and she has guests to prepare for. 

He clutches her close. He doesn’t deserve her. 

But Natasha gave her back to him anyway. 

“I suppose it was wishful thinking to hope that you would get any decent rest tonight, given what today is.”

Yes. What better day for his subconscious to haunt him with the fact that he is the cause of his best friend’s death than the day of her funeral. 

“Do you want to get up? Or try to get a bit more sleep?”

Neither option will give him true rest. 

“I know how truly awful this must be for you, Clint. I’m barely holding it together myself, but we as humans need to say goodbye to move on. To heal. It just takes time.”

He shakes his head with despair. “I can’t see this getting any easier, Laura. It didn’t work for you and the kids, no matter how many years passed. No matter how much human scum I removed from the earth…”

“Oh, Clint…”

His breath comes harder. “That moment when she…fell–when she stopped falling–it’s burned in my brain, Laura. I relive it every damn night.”

“Clint…”

“When it happened with you and the kids–that was terrifying, but you just vanished. I didn’t see it…”

“Come here, honey. I’m here now.”

He lets Laura hold him and attempt to quell the crippling anguish that sweeps through him in waves. 

Laura is here, because of Natasha.

Because he failed her. 

-

It’s a small service. At the farm, like she would have wanted.

There are fewer guests than at Tony's funeral. Only the most trusted of friends, which efficiently shortened the list. Bruce, Thor, Rhodes, and Wanda. Sam, Pepper, and Happy. Rogers and Barnes. Fury and Hill, of course. But despite his best efforts, he hasn't been able to track down Yelena. 

Stray leaves left behind from Cooper's last-minute rake-job crunch underneath Clint's dress shoes as he wanders aimlessly through the cluster of tables, idly straightening napkins, plastic cutlery, and tablecloths. The sunlight is warm on his back, and Clint makes an effort not to begrudge the pleasant weather. Laura at least would not want his gloomy attitude to be manifested in the sky, or on their guests, even on this of all days.

People are starting to break off from their mingling clusters and move to their seats. No one has dared to approach him yet, but he can see Rogers considering it. Somebody must have had enough sense to talk him out of it. Every shred of Clint's mental energy has been set aside for this service. He has no reserves for condolences and small talk. Least of all from Rogers. 

The hand on his arm makes him jump.

“Sorry,” Laura says, palms up and facing toward him. “I called your name."

‘Several times,’ he can hear her not say. 

“Sorry.”

She rubs his shoulder. “I know you're a bit out of it today, but your hearing has obviously deteriorated in these last five years. I really think you should get it checked."

She’s making that pity face that most people have taken to wearing when they’re around him. He nods and works hard at what must be a very mediocre smile. “Anything I can do to help?”

Her expression is the same calculating stare she used to wear when they worked together in the field and she would ask how bad his injuries were. Thankfully, all she says is “You could find our daughter. She disappeared soon after we finished setting the tables.”

He nods and looks toward the house when Laura’s hand on his arm stops him.

“I know you know this, but this has been exceptionally hard for her. And since we all know you are suffering more than any of us, don’t feel like you need to hide it from her. She understands.”

Clint nods, squeezes her hand on his shoulder, and treads toward a specific tree in the side yard.

She isn't easy to spot in her black dress, high up amidst the red and orange leaves of the solid oak. Her arms clutch the trunk close, her head buried between it and her knees against her chest. A favorite spot of hers ever since she was little, long before she knew what kind of work her father did.

Nat called her Hawkling.

Clint stands by the trunk of the tree and presses a hand against it. “Lila? You okay, honey? We're about to start, and your mom’s not going to be happy if you tear your dress.”

Lila’s head comes out of her knees so she can wipe at her nose. She turns her head to the side and rests it on her knees.

Clint bites his lip, takes a quick glance around, then sheds his suit jacket and hoists himself up into the tree, almost as familiar with its branches as his daughter. “Your mom won’t be happy with me if I tear these trousers either,” he mumbles as he perches on a branch adjacent to his daughter. “Talk to me, kiddo.”

Lila sniffs again and wipes at her eyes. “I just can’t believe we’re doing this. It feels like I just saw her a few weeks ago. How… how are we having her funeral, Dad?” With those words she starts to cry, and Clint reaches around to take her hand.

“I know, baby,” he says softly, willing himself to not succumb to the black fog in his mind. “It isn’t fair. Not to you, your brothers, or your mom, and not fair to Nat, either.”

"I still don't even understand what happened! Why did she have to die?!”

"For the last five years I've been trying to do one thing–get to right here."

"Why Dad? Aunt Nat wouldn't have just given up! There had to have been another way!"

It takes some slightly acrobatic maneuvering, but he gets himself close enough that he can tug his daughter against his chest and hold her while she cries. 

"I know, honey. Your Aunt Nat was stubborn. All she wanted was to bring all of you back."

"I'm trying to save your life, you idiot."

"There had to have been another way," Lila sobs into his black tie.

Clint's eyes burn as he pulls his daughter closer. His chest constricts where it holds the dark truth that threatens to suffocate him whenever he closes his eyes.

There was another way.

-

Rogers speaks first. His eulogy is heartfelt and eloquent and speaks of friendship, loyalty and the indomitable spirit and makes Clint feel sick to his stomach. 

"For years, it was just Nat and I still in New York. I went back to Brooklyn, but she stayed in the Compound, started to run a base of operations for Avengers-level threats around the globe. I visited her as often as I could."

Rogers was there for Nat. Of course he was. That's good. That's a good thing.

Rogers’s eyes drop to the podium. "I lost my focus after the Snap. It was over. We lost. I spent five years telling everyone to move on—telling myself that that was what I was doing—but really, I was moving in circles. Directionless." 

He looks up and speaks directly into the souls of everyone in attendance. "But not Nat. She threw herself into the work harder than ever, not even entertaining the idea of quitting." 

Rogers’s eyes roll over each of them, before fixing onto something somewhere in the far side of the crowd, near his seat, that causes his jaw to set. 

"Nat never gave up believing that we could bring everybody back. Fix everybody's pain. Set things right."

She never forgot them. Cooper, Lila, Nate, and Laura. She thought of them everyday. 

Rogers ends with an impassioned "Each and every one of us should strive to be more like Natasha Romanoff."

There is a thunderous applause, and not a dry eye remains when he steps down.

Rhodes speaks next. Gives a similar account of how much effort Natasha put into keeping the world together after it fell apart. 

"Natasha breathed solely to help and protect others. She never stopped hoping that we would one day find a way to fix this."

Clint thinks back to ignored voicemails and text messages, bloody ambushes and raids. The undeserved hope that Natasha worked so hard to give him.

“Natasha was one of the strongest people I had the honor of knowing. She was strong before the Snap too, but after, that’s when she really stepped up.

“We were in shambles—our numbers and focus decimated. Natasha kept us from shattering any further. And it’s not like Natasha lost less than the rest of us. We were all she had left."

Maybe he is only imagining that Rhodes looks straight at him as he says this.

“The real tragedy is that although Nat probably put more effort into bringing everyone back than anyone else, she never got to see that day come to pass, though it could have never come to pass without her. She deserves to be here, sitting with us and rejoicing in the return of spouses and children. Parents and friends. But we know she can rest easy knowing that she accomplished what she set out to do.”

This time he isn’t imagining Rhodes’s hard, direct stare. 

Yes, I get it, man.

Sam speaks next with some blessedly welcome comic relief, mostly stories from the first time he met Natasha.

 "So we're all in pieces–thanks to that unstoppable force next to ol' Steve there–and Natasha sits there with a literal hole in her shoulder and tells off Captain ‘Everything-Is-My-Fault’ America while she's bleeding out about a gallon of life force..."

Clint’s attention fades in and out after that. His heart hammers a constant reminder that soon he will need to speak. Use words when he feels like crawling in a hole and never coming out.

His final words to honor his friend and partner.

Wanda is composed as she describes how Natasha trained her during her first days as an Avenger. How she taught her to be strong. Not only physically but mentally. Accent training. Coping with past trauma. She ends in tears.

What words could he ever say that would do justice to Natasha? To what she meant to him.

Bruce speaks a short but heartfelt tribute about accepting yourself and your past and yet not allowing it to define you.

Thor talks of camaraderie and loyalty and what Asgardians believe about honor and the afterlife of a hero.

Happy talks of his first meeting with Natasha. That gets a lot of laughs.

Clint remembers how Nat told it. Happy left out some of the best parts. 

Fury talks of how Natasha proved herself repeatedly. How she had done more for the United States than most Americans.

Hill recounts the overly hard time she gave Natasha after her defection, how she was determined to prove that Natasha would turn on them. How she proved her so very wrong.

Wow. Hill hates admitting when she's wrong.

The crowd grows quiet.

Laura nudges him. 

Oh.

Clint's legs are cement and his heart is dust by the time he makes it to the front. Having the undivided attention of everyone in this specific gathering—Rogers, Wanda, Pepper, Rhodes—it's almost too much.

An indeterminate but objectively uncomfortable silence later, Clint can see Rogers shift, as if to stand—presumably to heroically rescue him from his own incompetence—but a dark arm on his knee holds him in place.

Laura. Where’s—

She catches his eyes from her seat. Nods encouragingly. ‘You can do this,’ she mouths. 

He swallows thickly, and glances blurrily at his notes. 

“I’ve uh, told this story so many times over the years. Won’t be new to most of you, but… Many years ago, I was sent to take out a Russian assassin and spy who had become a priority threat to the security and efficiency of SHIELD. I did my homework. I planned for weeks."

He remembers being nervous while doing recon. Nothing made him nervous.

"She knew she was on SHIELD’s radar, but she didn’t expect the arrows. I had her in my sights, the arrow aimed directly at her temple. All I had to do was let go…”

He swallows. He has told this story so many times. The words shouldn't cause his throat to close up.

“I couldn’t do it. To this day I can’t really explain why. I ducked into her apartment and pinned her to the wall with an arrow in each shoulder and offered her a way out. I asked her what she would do if she had a second chance. What she would do if she could choose for herself. I told her that I could give her that chance. Asked her if she wanted to take it. 

“I expected to see fury in her eyes. Disbelief. Maybe even despair as she faced death, but there was none of that. There was acceptance, relief, but there was also…astonishment. I don’t think anyone had ever let her have a say in anything in her life.”

“What would you do, if you could choose for yourself?”

“It was my turn to be astonished when she accepted my offer. It was then I thought, shit, Coulson is going to have my head for this. And Fury will have Coulson’s head.”

This produces a smattering of fond laughter. He thinks he even sees the hint of a smile on Fury's face.

“I had never disobeyed a direct order before, and doing so could have very well put me back on the streets that Coulson found me on, but I just couldn’t do it. What I couldn't explain to Coulson back then is that what I saw in Nat's eyes I had also seen in my own. Someone who had never had anyone actually give a shit. Who had never been given any control over their own life. Someone tired of running. Tired of hurting others. Tired of being told what to do even if you know it is wrong. The relief I initially saw in her eyes was because I represented death, and death offered her freedom."

Clint remembers that some of his nervousness had faded after this realization. He was dealing with a person, not a weapon.

“But she chose to live. She chose to trust me, when she had no reason to. That moment changed the life of the Black Widow, but it also changed the fate of this world. She said yes not to freedom through death, but freedom through choice."

Yet she ended up dead anyway.

"And she chose to save the world."

His notes stop there.

That's not enough. That doesn't even come close to being enough.

"She didn't deserve this."

Faces fade away and he sees Natasha instead.

"I'm trying to save your life, you idiot."

"She didn't deserve to die."

"It's okay."

"She held it together for those five nightmare years to give everything I love back to me."

"Let me go.”

"But that’s not why I did it. I didn't spare her life just for her to throw it away for me!"

"Clint."

Where the hell did Laura come from.

"It was supposed to be me! Me. It's my fault. I deserved to die. Not her!"

"Clint, it's okay."

Rogers is here now too. Great.

Clint jerks his arm away from where Rogers tries to grasp it. "At least she had Captain America the Beautiful glued to her side during those five years, huh? Bet you had all kinds of tear-jerking heart-to-hearts."

"Clint, the kids are here."

Laura's voice cuts through the fog. Someone, bless them, has cut the mic, and Clint looks out at the murmuring crowd, all with varying levels of concern and shock on their faces. He sees the kids, Cooper with his arm around Nate and Lila staring at him with a sorrowful, tear-streaked face. Rhodes and Bruce are perched on the edge of their seats. Pepper is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Next to her, Happy pretends not to also need one.

Shit.

“Clint,” Rogers says, his tone infuriatingly compassionate, and Clint contemplates violence. But the concern on Rogers’s face is genuine. Kind. 

The ice-blue eyes behind the curtain of hair lurking behind him are distinctly not.

Get it together. The kids are here. Natasha would kick him in the shin for losing it in front of the kids.

“Clint?” Laura’s eyes are filled with tears and worry.

"Sorry. I'm fine now. Let me finish. Please."

Rogers looks doubtful. "No one is pressuring you to do this, Clint."

"Please. I owe it to her."

Rogers nods after a moment, and he and his shadow sit back down.

Laura stays beside him and wraps an arm around his waist, he suspects, both for moral and physical support.

Clint clears his throat.

"On the grand scale, when Natasha agreed to defect to SHIELD, the world gained a new protector. But that's not all Nat changed. She changed the lives of all of the Avengers. She was our teammate and friend. She changed the lives of my children. She became their aunt. She became like a sister to my wife. And to me… She was the best partner, the best friend I ever had.

“Natasha… she was the best there was.”

-

Afterward, when Clint has calmed down enough to be embarrassed and ashamed, Wanda comes up to him and hugs him. He pulls himself out of his own damn head long enough to ask how she is. He isn't the only one who is grieving a recent loss.

"I don’t really know. I think I am still in disbelief. Five years in an instant–it's a lot to wrap your mind around. But I talked to Rhodey, and he said he thinks he knows where they're holding...Vis."

"I'm sorry I didn't think to ask about a joint service."

"No, it's better this way. Natasha died a hero; she deserved a hero's memorial."

"Vision died a hero too, Wanda."

Wanda smiles sadly. "If a futile one. He will get a proper funeral when I bury him."

Her eyes take on a vacant, far away look, and every instinct Clint has tells him to wrap her up in soft things. “I’m sorry, Wanda.”

She looks surprised. “For what?”

“For Vision. For Thanos. For not being there for you. I’ve been so caught up in my own pain, it seems I need to relearn how to care for others.”

“I think you are being too hard on yourself."

“I wish I could fix it. Fix everything.”

Her smile comes nowhere near her eyes. “So do I.”

He hugs her once more. “If you ever need help, you let me know, okay? You are always welcome here, Wanda.”

“Thank you. I’ll try to remember that.”

-

“Clint.”

Clint adjusts his grip on the four folding chairs he’s dragging toward the barn. Almost everyone has left, and Clint isn’t sure he can handle even one more condolence.

Especially from Rogers. 

“I’ll be returning the stones later today. To the exact time they were taken.”

Clint braces the chairs against the ground and half-turns. “Everything I know is in the report.” Tony had scowled for an inordinate amount of time at the phrase ‘red floaty dude.’

Rogers bites his lip and scratches a hand through his hair. “It’s just. Since I’ll be there when, you know.”

When everything went to shit? When he screwed everything up? When he let his best friend plummet to her death? Come on, Cap, spit out what we all know is true.

Rogers releases a heavy breath. “I want to bring her home. I figured that’s something I should discuss with you.”

Oh.

Some of the tension bleeds out of his limbs as he turns around fully. “Yeah. I would. Really appreciate that.”

“Do you have, you know…”

“She can stay here. This is her home.”

Rogers’s fingers twitch at his side and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down with what is likely a precariously gated flood of heartfelt assurances and encouragement.

Clint turns on his heel and drags the folding chairs away.

Too bad. Clint has had enough of those today.

He deserves no assurance, no encouragement. 

No hope.

-

Pepper, Happy, and Rhodes are the last to leave, sipping coffee at the kitchen island when Clint comes in. Pepper immediately stands to embrace him.

How does she hold it together? Pepper never had an emotional breakdown at Tony’s funeral. The casual observer might not even notice that she is also grieving, and her husband, no less. What is his excuse?

“How are you holding up?” she asks.

He isn’t, clearly.

“Still standing. I thought everyone had left.”

Pepper presses her lips together and gives Happy a pointed look. “We have something for you.”

“Oh. Right.” Happy says, digging through a small duffle. 

“Cleanup efforts are proceeding full swing at the compound,” Pepper says. “We’ve gone through the lab areas to contain and isolate any potentially dangerous items, and are now going through the locations of the residential areas to retrieve any personal belongings that may have survived.”

Clint swallows in an effort to contain a distinct spike in adrenaline. He didn’t have much at the Compound. But what he did have…

“No remnants of your post-Snap pastimes, in case you’re wondering,” Rhodes chimes in flatly while staring into his coffee. Pepper shoots him a glare.

What was, until this moment, Clint’s last shred of tacit acknowledgement of responsibility for what Rhodes must believe to be everything wrong with the world, snaps. 

“I suppose I should thank you for not airing that out in front of everyone during the service too, right?” 

He knows he’s an asshole. He knows he screwed up. But his children are in this house, damn it, and they do not need to know the full extent of what a waste of space their father is.

Rhodes’s stool screeches against the tile floor as he stands. “Don’t test me, Barton.”

“Rhodey.”

Pepper is using her Major Global Conglomerate CEO voice. Or maybe her Mother Voice. The point is you do not talk back to Pepper.

“Maybe you should wait in the car.”

Rhodes rolls his eyes but picks up his bag. He stops in the doorway. “Sorry for your loss,” he says in a tone just this side of civil before walking out the door.

“Sorry, Clint. It’s just his way of coping. Tony, Vision, Nat. Two funerals in two days. It gets to you.”

She speaks as if this does not also apply to her.

“Not to you, though. You’ve been through just as much.” 

Pepper probably actually talks to her therapist. 

“I’m a mess too, Clint. I just hide it behind immaculate hair and over ten years of experience of testing patience to its limit on a daily basis.”

This pulls out Clint’s first genuine smile for the day. “You must be indestructible.”

“I’m not, but…” She turns to Happy.

“Speaking of indestructible,” Happy says as he pulls out a small, metal safe. “We did find something in the wreckage.” 

“And we think this is the appropriate place for it.” 

The safe is black, with faded, tattered Cyrillic lettering on the front. The lock takes four digits.

“Not that I can read it, but I think it’s safe to assume–”

“It’s hers,” he manages through a throat full of razors.

Happy’s head bobs and he holds it out toward Clint. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to open it, but… ”

“Thank you.” Clint can’t bring himself to say more, but the words are genuine. He accepts the box and holds it like it may break despite what it has already survived.

Pepper hugs him when they are about to leave. Happy claps him on the shoulder and strings together several positive words in what is probably meant as a pep talk.

Holding the safe makes his hands shake and throat close. He brings it up to Natasha’s room and puts it safely in the trunk at the end of her bed. It’ll be there when he’s ready.

Because surely, that day will come.

Chapter Text

Present Day

August 2025

Manhattan

Clint hates this carpet.

It swirls and loops in an odd design, the colors dull but just complementary enough to draw the eye. All patients have to stare at this carpet. Knowing Raynor, this is probably some psychological bullshit to get him to look her in the eye.

“Clint?”

Tough shit.

He’ll stare at the horrible carpet if he wants. With its loops and edges and abrupt plummeting drop into nothingness.

"Clint."

If his eyes unfocus just slightly, he can see it fall into the barren wasteland of a forgotten world.

“You didn’t turn your aid off again, did you?”

He shakes his head. He realized the futility of that months ago.

"Do you know where you are?"

Nod. He’s not having a flashback, but she can see the warning signs.

"Where?"

He closes his eyes. Practices the usual techniques. Raynor's office. Manhattan. Earth. The year is 2025. It’s eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit outside. The breeze of the fan to his left is cool on his skin. The arms of this chair are mahogany. 

The carpet is ugly.

“Grounded?”

Swallow. Nod.

"Okay. I was asking how you have been sleeping."

Laura’s nest of bed-hair at four a.m. this morning had been truly impressive. She made him tea. He took pity on her and spent the rest of the night on the couch. 

 "Fine."

Raynor nods in the way that means he is full of shit. "Have the nightmares changed at all?"

Clint sighs dramatically and sits in what is probably the most disrespectful way one can sit in a chair in one’s therapist's office. 

“That’s a ‘no’ then, I take it.” She checks something off in her notebook. “Are you sure you don’t want to try a different kind of sleeping pill?”

He really doesn’t. The last ones she prescribed him only succeeded in trapping him in a neverending rerun of the most traumatic day of his life.

“Sleep is critical, Clint. But in order to stop these nightmares, you have to deal with the subconscious issues that are causing them.”

It's a not-so-subtle hint.

"Today is the perfect opportunity since we have an in-person session today."

Shit.

“Walk me through what happened that day, Clint.”

Clint can feel his heart rate increase. His tongue pushes hard against the back of his bottom teeth. He slides even lower in the chair until eye level settles at the top of the bookcase behind her.

“Clint. You have to try to talk about it.”

No. He can’t. He isn’t ready.

“Why do you think you are still having such a hard time moving on, even two years later?”

Aren't you supposed to tell me.

"Have you ever considered that it might be because you have locked that trauma up inside you? It has to find some kind of outlet. Your subconscious is going to keep bringing you back there until you face it.”

His tongue pushes up over his teeth and against the inside of his lip, smoothing over his upper incisors.

She sighs, scribbling more notes in that damn notebook. Then the pen goes down, and her gaze again narrows in on him. “Have you had any other episodes?”

He sighs. “No.” 

That was almost two years ago, for crying out loud. Steve is fine. He is fine. Everyone is freaking fine. 

“Don’t give me that look. Do you expect me to trust you to proactively tell me if a similar incident were to occur?”

Touché. 

“How are things with your family? Are you still feeling disconnected?”

Cooper, talking heatedly about a critical play in a baseball game. Lila's joy at praises received from her instructor at ballet practice. Nate's excited account of a teacher suffering from a sudden attack of food poisoning. Laura filling the kitchen with aromas that nearly bring him to his knees with the memories they resurface. 

The awful blend of disappointment and sympathy in his children's eyes when he asks them to repeat what they just said. When he forgets another important event. When he looks at something beautiful and only sees the tragedy that made it possible.

Shrug.

"Getting your family back is all you wanted for those five long years. They’re here now, so why do you think you are feeling so distracted all the time?”

She knows damn well why. The indescribable joy that bubbles up within him every time he lays eyes on his wife's or his children’s faces is immediately strangled by the terrible cost required to bring them back. 

Another shrug. His eyes go back to roaming the office. Everything is a bit blurrier than it was earlier.

“You’re never going to be able to move on if you don’t make the effort to work through things, Clint.”

Her military background creeps into her words. It’s not impatience, but a statement of fact. Telling him to ‘man up.’

"Clint."

Look at that. The ceiling has swirls too.

“Clint. This isn’t sustainable.”

It’s going to have to be. This is his reality now. 

"Eventually you are going to have to open up–"

"I can't!"

The words come out without his permission. They are loud enough to echo briefly throughout the office and continue to reverberate within him. Shock, maybe, that he managed that much. Dismay, perhaps, at how true the words are.

Raynor isn't fazed. Her eyes narrow, and great now she is flipping backward through that damn notebook.

"Do you remember the exercises we did after New York? The writing assignment?"

He does. Write out a traumatic event in as much detail as possible, then write it out again, but this time with a different, more pleasant ending. Raynor had been thrilled with how abnormally compliant he had been to complete that particular assignment. That is, until she read his alternate, ‘more pleasant’ ending that entailed a rather graphic description of a colorful assortment of arrows and knives inserted into various orifices of Loki's body.

Nat had loved it and asked for a copy.

"You got something out of that exercise, right? Should we try that again?"

Clint, and his subconscious, already know how he would rewrite the ending to this trauma. He can't see Raynor appreciating that one either.

“I already dream about the alternate version of events.”

Raynor tilts her head in mild exasperation. “I think we can both agree that that is not a ‘good’ ending.”

"I can't see any way to make that day turn out good for everyone."

Raynor leans forward. "Then think of a scenario in which you come out of it with peace and acceptance, instead of this unwarranted survivor’s guilt. I agree, you were put in a truly terrible situation. But some good things did come from it, correct?"

Cooper's dirty baseball uniform in the upstairs bathroom. Lila's ballet shoes hung next to her bow on her bedroom door knob. Tripping over Nate's baseball glove in the foyer.

And Natasha here to see none of it.

“Why do you think it is so hard for you to talk about Natasha?”

No skirting around it anymore, huh. 

He sits up. Cracks his neck. “She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

“Objectively true, but you’re the only one in this office, unable to talk about her. Why is her loss specifically difficult for you ? Right here, right now, almost two years later?”

“Because. It…”

Try, Clint. Try. 

“...it was my fault.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I should have stopped her.”

“You tried to stop her. You did everything you could.”

“I could have done more. Should have done more.”

It was supposed to be him.

Raynor leans back. Thinks for a moment. "Is there a part of you that truly believes you could have done more? That maybe some subconscious part of you let her do it?"

He doesn’t shout, lash out, or produce a weapon in response to this. Who says he hasn't made progress. 

"No."

"There was no inner part of you that had reason to live? Hope that you would see your family again, maybe?"

Clint's eyes flick to hers, but there is no trace of accusation in her words, unlike what Rhodes had let slip when he'd had a few too many after Tony's funeral. 

He lets out a heavy breath. "No. I fully intended to go over that cliff."

"What about your family? You don't feel guilty at the thought that they would come back just to hear you were gone?"

Clint swallows thickly. Does he? He intended to die that day, but at the same time, he can’t bear the thought of putting his family through the same trauma that he endured. Coming back to find him vanished. There one moment and gone the next. Forever.

"I think there was a part of me that didn't believe they would actually come back. And even if they did..." 

He braces elbows on knees and leans his head into his hands. His throat closes up and mouth goes dry.

Don’t make me talk about this. Don’t make me face what I did. Who I really am.

Raynor’s voice goes softer than he has ever heard it. "This is false guilt, Clint. False. You had no control over the situation. You did everything you could, and now you are getting stalled in regret. You are obsessing over the 'shoulds', the 'what ifs'. But these thoughts need to be challenged. You need to stop condemning yourself, and replace those thoughts with those that are reality-based. In reality, you did everything you could to save Natasha. So stop telling yourself that you should have done something else, and tell yourself that you did the best that you could."

Something hot and awful festers inside Clint's chest. He did try. He had every intention of going over that ledge. But none of that matters.

Because he failed.

"There are no do-overs. It’s a fantasy to think you can change things, and a destructive one. You are blaming yourself for something you are not responsible for."

Heat prickles up through his body. His eyes and nose burn.

"Don’t live in a what-if world. Come back to this one, and be with the family that your friend died to give back to you."

But she should not have died. He didn’t spare her life all those years ago just so she could throw it away for him later!

It was supposed. To. Be. Him.

“What do you think is holding you back, Clint?”

She knows the answer. He knows the answer. She wants to help him, he reminds himself. He has to try.

If not for himself, for his family.

"I can't let go."

She collapses back into her chair, releasing a long breath. “Exactly. But as hard as it may be, you need to let go, Clint. Let go of that guilt. Let go of that self-blame. You just may be surprised at what you gain as a result.”

 -

He turns his phone back on in the elevator, and is immediately assaulted with a barrage of text messages.

Yo. How's the super secret Avenger's meeting that I am not invited to?

Also, while we are on the subject, when do I finally get to meet everyone???

I demand to meet everyone

let me come to your stupid club Clint

I'm ready to go. Lucky's ready to go. You almost done?

I saw your name graffittied on a bathroom wall. It was spelled Hawkguy

It is your brancding issue

So stoked for the jet

the avengers jet

Cuz I totally am an Avenger now  

can we shoot some stuff on our way??

Clintttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt

You can't pretend you can't hear me over texting Mr. Hawkear

Clint heaves a weary sigh and pockets the phone. He glances over the back cover of the book Raynor has assigned to him.

Living With Complicated Grief.

Complicated. To put it lightly.

His phone buzzes again. Did no one ever teach this girl patience.

He slides the book into his bag and flips open the phone, wondering whose brilliant idea it was to have Kate over for the remainder of the summer...

Oh, that's right.

-

November 2023

Iowa

Nate loudly alerts the entire house when the Quinjet lands in the clearing in the trees near the house. He scrambles down the stairs and nearly takes out the banister when he swings himself around it to change trajectory down the hallway.  

“No running!” Laura yells futilely, shuffling toward the front door in an exhausted mother’s half-jog.

Clint’s own legs have turned to stone. He stays rooted to his position at the bedroom window above the driveway and briefly considers just crashing through it and letting gravity take over. Surely a hospital visit is a reasonable excuse to get out of this. 

“Clint! They’re here!” comes Laura’s voice from downstairs.

No such luck.

Clint drags himself downstairs on sheer willpower, keeping himself in the hall, just out of sight of the kitchen where their guests have been corralled by a very excited little boy.  

“You’re so old! Are you like, a hundred?”  

Nate is at the age where even the obvious must be dutifully reported. Rogers however does not appear to have grown cranky in old age, and his familiar but shakier voice replies, “ Older, actually.”

Nate’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head.  

“How about you help your sister with the silverware, huh?” Laura says with a ruffle of Nate’s hair. Then to their visitors, “How is the tour going? You sick of each other yet?”

“Are you kidding?” Sam says with a chuckle. “I'm finally the one in better shape!"

"You wish, Sam."

"But really, it’s going great. All the vets are excited to hear stories of the glory days from someone even more frail and senile than they are."

"And I am not going senile!"

Laughing, Sam takes several steps backward, giving him a clear sightline into the hall. 

Their eyes meet.

Clint swallows and gives a quick nod of greeting. Sam, bless him, nods politely back and says nothing. He quickly re-engages Rogers in banter that pokes fun at his insufficient stamina, mental faculties, and overall state of feebleness.

Clint normally would have joined in with unabashed glee that Laura would have smacked him over the head for later. Instead, he does his best to curl his face into some semblance of 'chipper' and announces his presence.

It’s the first time he has actually laid eyes on Rogers since his return, and he can’t help but stare. It’s not every day you witness someone age four decades in two weeks.

“Hey, Clint.”

“Steve.”  

Rogers, in return, stares at Clint as if he has also gone through a drastic change since they last met. Technically, that is probably true.

The room stews in an awkward silence for nearly ten seconds before a cell phone buzzes and rescues them.

Rogers’s eyes fly to Sam. Sam shoots them all an apologetic grimace as he digs into his jacket pocket. He glances at the display, then at Rogers, giving a tiny shake of his head as he answers and wanders into the living room.

Rogers’s face falls. He may be older, but his mannerisms have not changed, and his emotions are as easy to read as ever. 

"Everything okay, Cap?"

Rogers’s expression quickly morphs into his typical smile. "Wonderful. I get to see my good pal Barton and his family again, and have a home-cooked meal. Which, I just realized I am being very rude as I have not asked if there is anything I can help you with, Mrs. Barton."

“Laura, please. And I assure you with these three children I have everything under control. But we still have some time before everything will be ready...” She glances pointedly at Clint, but he can do nothing but stare dumbly at Rogers’s wrinkled face and listen to the sound of steaming vegetables and the screaming inside of his own head.

“Clint, why don’t you show Steve what you’re working on in the barn.”

He shoots his wife a perturbed stare, and she returns a look that is the equivalent of a stuck-out tongue. He is pretty sure she learned that look from Natasha.  

Rogers nods like this is a fantastic suggestion. “Lead the way.”

 The barn is old, in disrepair, and filled with approximately eighty unfinished projects that Clint could utilize to stall for time, but what’s the point. He pulls out two firewood stumps and sits, waiting for Rogers to follow suit. 

He can’t bring himself to speak. He already knows that the Quinjet holds no precious cargo. His last iota of hope that his best friend’s final resting place be here, at home, had been dashed to pieces the instant Bruce had told him the details of Rogers’s return. 

…After he had come to his senses again.

The thought of that horrible day causes him to shiver with retroactive shame, embarrassment, and something even more unpleasant that he would prefer to not dwell on. He still can’t look Rogers in the eye. 

It’s two words, Barton.

“I’m sorry,” Rogers says before he can, as if mocking him while also establishing himself as the infinitely better man.

Clint blinks. “What?”

“For not being able to bring her home.”

“Wasn’t your fault.” 

Rogers doesn’t reply, but Clint can hear the words anyway. 

Not what you thought a few weeks ago.

Say the words, Barton. Just rip off the band-aid. 

Before Clint can force himself to speak, Rogers digs in his jacket pocket, pulling out a clearly old piece of paper in a clear file folder. 

"I wrote everything down, just in case something went wrong or age wasn’t kind to me, but..." he taps a finger to his temple, "It’s all seared in there as if it happened yesterday."

Three weeks and two days.

Rogers passes the file to Clint, who scans it as Rogers talks. 

"All the other stones were taken care of. I couldn't put that one off any longer." His eyes drop to the straw on the floor, and they sit there for nearly a full minute. A moment of silence.  

"It was... just like you said. There was a flash of some kind of energy. It knocked me clear off my feet, but I managed to stay conscious. I ran to the bottom as quickly as I could–it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds later–but she was gone by the time I got there.”

Clint doesn't know what he wanted to hear. His own memories of those hellish first moments after seeing his best friend’s broken body consist of struggling through ankle-high waters and hopelessly blurry vision. Clutching at the stone like his life depended on it. Splashing and tripping and sobbing for an infinite distance until falling to his knees at the bottom of the ledge, no sign of anything amiss save for a crimson-stained rock and ‘ let me go’ and his GPS demanding that he do exactly that. 

"Blood?"

Steve lets out a breath. "Yes."

But no body. 

"When I couldn't find anything, I let the stone go from the top of the ledge. Bruce said he tried to bring her back, and I thought that just maybe, the return of the stone might trigger something with that, but–”

“Thank you.” He’s heard enough. "For trying to bring her home."

And then there's more sad-pity eyes and Clint does not want it. Does not deserve something as well-meaning as pity.

"I know what you're going through, Clint."

By this point, the anger is a reflex. "Oh do you? Do you now?"

Steve holds his eyes, righteous fury and all. Meets the rage with compassion and understanding and…

Oh. Right.

Why don’t you just shove both your feet down your throat and be done with it, Barton.

"Sorry. I didn't think."

"No, I’m sorry. I forgot that you're…”

Clint frowns. “I’m what.”

Steve shakes his head. “Nothing. Like I said. I get it." He takes a deep breath. "I…I blamed myself too. Told myself it was my fault, even though I did everything I could."

"Well Steve, that's where our experiences differ."

"Clint..."

"You were there. You saw the fight. I could have done more. I should have been the one to go over that ledge. ”

“You can't think like that.”

“It’s the truth. Where were you the last five years while I was on a revenge-murder spree?”

Doing what Clint should have been doing. With Nat, fighting to help those who needed it.

“Want to tell me how that's not my fault either?”

“Clint–”

“Or what happened to you just after you got back? I suppose that wasn’t my fault either?”

“No.”

“No?! I’m pretty sure heart attacks are not recommended for those over a century old!”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Then who’s fault was it?!”

Rogers waves it off vehemently. “Mine, if anyone. I should’ve taken better care of my heart, like you said.”

What? “When did I say that?”

Rogers blinks, then laughs lightly, waving his hand. “Or. Somebody said. I forget. There is no point in assigning blame. I’m fine, and everything worked out.”

Clint doesn’t know if he would call being accused of having a psychotic episode, not to mention what they almost did to Barnes, as ‘working out,’ but Rogers seems determined to be cavalier about all this. Clint should probably be grateful. 

And should probably get the damn words out already. 

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t understand why it is so hard to say it. He is sorry.

“Clint…”

“I…don’t know what came over me. With the Blip and Thanos and…what happened on Vormir… I think I went a little crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, Clint.”

It’s said with such conviction that Clint actually brings himself to meet Rogers’s eyes.

Rogers clears his throat and waves a hand. "I mean, considering what you’ve been through, it’s no wonder. But you have to stop blaming yourself for everything. The Snap was traumatic for everyone. You dealt with it in your own way, and it may not have been the best way, but judging yourself overly harshly about it isn’t helpful.”

"I deserve it."

"Nat didn't think so."

Clint almost laughs. "Well, she should have. We were the only family either of us had left, and I just left. Abandoned her. To focus on my pain, my revenge, when she needed me. Who does that?"

Rogers winces, abruptly dropping his gaze. “We all make mistakes, Clint,” he says softly. “We all hurt those we love.”

“No. Not everyone. Not like this.”

“Yes, everyone.”

Something about his tone tells Clint to shut up.  

“I have a lot of years behind me now, Clint. And I’ve made a lot of mistakes in those years. Had a lot of regrets. But torturing yourself over them is not going to change anything. You just have to trust that it all happened the way it did for a reason.”

Clint scoffs. “And what ultimate good came out of me leaving Nat for the last five years of her life only for her to die in my place?”

Rogers lifts an eyebrow. “Weren’t you literally the one who talked about the irrelevance of past mistakes at Nat’s funeral? The importance of second chances? Didn’t you also tell the story of how you went against all orders and logic itself to give her that second chance? How about extending some of that to yourself?”

It’s not the same. There is a difference between a mistake born out of ignorance or coercion and one born out of just being a naturally shitty screw-up.

“Did you believe in Natasha?”

What?

“Did you respect her?”

“Of course I–”

“Then stop blaming yourself. Allow her the dignity of her choice. Choice that if I remember correctly, you were the first to ever grant her.”

Budapest. Holes in walls and a young, deadly, terrified woman in his sights. 

“And I can tell you for a fact, she damn well thought you were worth it.”

Rogers’s face goes unfocused. Clint struggles to swallow through an abruptly dry throat. “Always good with the speeches, weren’t you, Cap.”

Rogers shakes his head. Glances down. “Can’t take credit for this one. Same words were said to me when I…went through something similar.”

"And who passed these words of wisdom on to you?"

Rogers grins and holds out his left hand, wriggling his fingers.  

"Sounds like a smart woman."

"Very true. And stubborn, let me tell you."

Clint chuckles half-heartedly as they both stand. "Sounds like Laura."

“There are similarities. I’d love to introduce you. We have a nice little place in west Brooklyn.”

Clint blinks at him, waiting for the sudden burst of memory. For the correction and self-conscious laugh. 

Rogers places a hand on his shoulder and looks him straight in the eye. “Promise me you’ll stop by if you ever need a safe haven, Clint. Anytime. I mean that. Our door is always open.”

He isn’t joking. 

“Steve…”

What does he do? Gently remind Rogers that his dear wife has not only passed on, but in an entirely separate timeline? At best, Rogers would be embarrassed, and at worst…

“Promise me, Clint.” His gaze is strangely insistent.

Clint swallows and nods. “Sure, Cap.”

This seems to satisfy Rogers. But as they meander back to the house, the brief slip in lucidity seems to vanish as quickly as it came. Rogers talks of the veterans’ tour, of how nice it is to be back, and how much he is looking forward to Laura’s home-cooked dinner.  

But the intensity of his gaze and words haunts Clint throughout dinner, and he resolves to have a private word with Sam before they leave. 

Chapter Text

November 21st, 2024

Iowa

Clint feels pretty accomplished as he heaves a fifty-pound bag of chicken feed into the passenger’s seat of the car, taking stock of his loot. Chicken feed, check. New paint for Nate’s room, check. The few odd groceries that Laura requested, check. And an array of new metals, acids, and shaft materials for some new arrows, check. Everything that Laura asked him to get as well as materials for his own personal projects.

Maybe he is finally beginning to improve. He didn’t have one flashback. Didn’t forget where he was. Didn’t forget any…

Wait a minute.

His eyes fly to the digital clock under the dashboard.

It reads three forty-four. 

Shit.

He dives into the driver's seat and screeches out into the road as if he were being chased by Chitauri, racing toward the local elementary and middle school. 

Shit shit shit. 

Well, he’s only forty-five minutes late. Nate will forget by dinner. 

Lila on the other hand…

He thrusts the car into gear, tearing down the road like he would pilot a plane in the middle of some Avenger’s level threat and not an absent-minded father racing to pick up his children. He curses openly when the car loudly protests the fact that the chicken feed has had the audacity to not fasten a seat belt. 

His right arm reaches over to fasten it and there’s the light turning yellow…

“You let our mark get away because of a red light and I’m going to make sure the entirety of SHIELD hears about it.”

“As if, Romanoff.”

The memory flares up as a warm tingle in his chest and he can’t help but grin, flooring the gas and ripping through the intersection just as the light switches to red. 

Hah!

He turns, grinning, to catch Natasha’s matching grin from the passenger's seat, only to find a giant bag of chicken feed.

The warm tingle in his chest twists into a pinching ache of loss as the schools come into view. 

Pull it together, Barton.

He pulls into the empty pickup lane that joins the two campuses. 

Only two children waiting. 

He shoves down the persistent twist of despair and wrenches a smile onto his face, rolling down the window with an enthusiastic “Heyyyyy!!”

Nate bounds toward the car with a grin that matches Clint’s forced enthusiasm and then some. Lila’s face is flat and unimpressed. 

“Hey! So sorry I’m late, guys. How was school?”

“Awesome!” Nate says, tossing his backpack in the backseat before tumbling in after it. “Robert Colder threw up in science class! All over Miss Harold’s dress. It was awesome!”

Lila rolls her eyes as she fiddles with Nate’s booster seat and seatbelt, but Clint’s laughter is genuine.

“Sounds like an eventful day, bud. How about you, Lila?”

“I got grape juice spilled on my favorite sweater, got a surprise quiz in English, and have been listening to a story about puke for the last forty-five minutes, so, you know. Great.”

Well, the ride home sure is going to be fun.

Lila shuts the rear car door with more force than was probably necessary, opening the passenger's side and staring blankly at the massive bag of chicken feed, tools, and scrap metal in her seat. 

Whoops. “Sh–sorry, hon,” he stutters, unbuckling. “I’ll move it–”

“Don’t bother. I’ll sit in the back.” 

She doesn’t even sound angry. Just resigned. As if she expected this to happen. 

She slides in beside Nate and clicks her seatbelt shut, leaning back and staring blankly out the window. 

“Sorry, Lila. I wasn’t thinking.” As is the new normal.

Lila shrugs it off, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I suppose I’ll forgive you as long as I get first crack and whatever new arrow you’re making.”

He shoots her a small smile. “Deal.”

He turns down the narrow, single-lane road that leads them out of town and toward their farm as Nate continues to chat away enthusiastically about his day. It’s a straight road, but a long one, and after they have been driving for about ten minutes Clint catches Lila’s eyes fluttering closed in apparent discomfort in the rearview mirror. 

“You okay, Lila?”

She nods without opening her eyes. 

“Car sick?”

“I’ll probably be fine.” Her eyes slide to her brother. “As long as he stops talking about what happened in class today.”

“It was all over her dress!”

Lila moans. 

“Nate, let’s take a breather from that story for a bit. Just a few more minutes until we get home.”

They continue to drive through flat, open farmland before reaching the cluster of trees that surround the number of tiny lakes that border their property. The trees lost the last of their leaves over a week ago, leaving only bare branches and a chill in the air that steadily drops with each day.

It was cold like this that day, too. No trees, but a brisk, late fall breeze that had no consideration for the many hours he spent huddled on that rooftop. Watching. Waiting…

“What are you waiting for, American?”

Tomorrow will be twenty years. Exactly twenty years since they met. Two decades since he made that fateful decision and changed both of their lives forever. Eighteen years since she admitted he was her friend. Twelve years since she saved him from Loki. Eight years since the Accords set them against each other. Six years since the Snap, and…

Just over one year since–

“Dad! Look out! ”

The sharp, urgent note in Lila’s voice snaps him back to a red Chevrolet Silverado hurtling toward them on a direct collision course. He leans on the horn and swerves frantically to the right shoulder of the road, but the truck’s driver’s side bumper collides forcefully with the left-side rear door. The car spins in the opposite direction of Clint’s steering with enough momentum to send them backwards over a sharp drop off the road and into a cornfield, causing the car to come to a stop at an extreme, almost sideways angle. A dead tree branch crashes through the passenger’s side window and buries itself in the bag of chicken feed, splattering Clint with shards of stray glass and airborne seed.

The front seat airbags deploy, and Clint slaps it frantically out of the way, both his seat belt and a deep, constricting fear tightening around him like an angry anaconda.

The car rammed right into Nate’s side of the car.

“Nate? Lila? You kids okay?” he calls, straining against gravity to catch sight of them.

Both kids are breathing fast, but appear uninjured. Nate seems almost too shocked to answer, staring at the impressive dent in the car door beside him.

“I think we’re okay,” Lila says breathlessly, leaning over to check on Nate.

And Clint can breathe again. His eyes flutter shut, and before he even realizes what is happening he releases his seat belt and leans out the driver's side door to heave his guts out.

The other driver calls out to them from the road, frantically asking if they are all right and apologizing profusely.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying–I mean, I got this sudden text message and—I mean normally I don’t look at my phone on the road but–I’m so sorry–it said my wife was cheating on me and—I swear I didn’t realize I was drifting and–oh shit! You have kids in the car?!”

Clint calls the police while Lila calls Laura. He almost obsessively checks and rechecks Nate’s condition, to the extent that Nate begins to get annoyed.

Laura is clipped and terse when she picks them up. She speaks with the police and the paramedics. Both children–thank God–are uninjured, and by some miracle all fault for the accident is found to be with the other driver, who stares at his phone bleakly as if a traffic ticket is the least of his worries. 

“Laura…”

“Later.”

Her tone permits no argument. 

Clint’s car gets towed away, and Laura drives them all home. Clint does not speak again until the kids are settled and it is just he and his wife in their bedroom.

“Babe…”

“Don’t. Just don’t, Clint.”

“The guy was on his cell phone!”

“And according to Lila, he started drifting long before you realized. She said she tried to tell you. Repeatedly. That you were off somewhere in your head. Again.”

He can’t argue. It’s not a new problem. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can say, even though it doesn’t come anywhere near properly expressing his regret and remorse. 

“I know.”

“I am sorry. I don’t blame you at all for being mad at me. I’m furious with myself.”

“I’m not…I’m not…” She lets out a long breath, then sits down on the bed, motioning him next to her. “I’m not mad at you, Clint. I know you’re still grieving. I know how hard the past few years have been on you. You’re suffering from severe post-traumatic stress. But this…this can’t continue.”

“I know.”

“If Lila had been in the front seat…”

“I know!”

“If that car had been going any faster and rammed the car any harder–”

“I know!”

Clint buries his head in his hands and presses against his burning eyeballs. Is this it? Is this the moment when she finally realizes what a shitbag she married? When it becomes too obvious that he just isn’t worth it?

“You didn’t…see anything, did you? Hear voices?”

The question hurts, even if he cannot blame her in the least for asking. 

“No.” It comes out as a whisper. 

She sighs heavily, and a moment later a gentle hand smoothes over his back.

“You know I had to ask. You should be getting better, but I think you’re getting worse, Clint. You’re zoned out more often than not. You wake up screaming every night. You’re too disassociated to even hear what the kids say to you, much less interact with them.”

And Clint feels like moldy, maggot-filled, week-old trash. The kids could have died. Everything Natasha gave up everything for—gone in an instant because he can’t keep it together. “I'm sorry,” he says through his palms.

“You’re increasing your therapy sessions. Immediately.”

Yes. Anything. 

He nods vehemently. “Okay.”

Laura’s soft hands rub his shoulders. “Recovery isn’t a straight line, and I want you to know I don’t blame you for that, nor expect that from you. But…”

But what. Oh God, but what.

“I’m worried about you, and I’m worried about this family. This is not sustainable, Clint. You have to find a way to move forward or…”

She doesn’t finish, but Clint can hear the words anyway.

Or you may lose more than Natasha.

-

Present Day

August 2025

Iowa

Lucky throws his jubilant barking self at the kids the instant the ramp is lowered. Cooper soon has the dog spinning in circles and jumping up on his already filthy uniform, more likely getting the dog dirtier than the uniform.

"Kate!" Lila yells as she comes jogging toward them. "Welcome back! I've been waiting for you.” She gestures toward the porch, where two sets of bows and quivers are propped up against the railing.

Kate grins with delight. “Already? Would've thought you'd still be recovering from just how badly I kicked your butt last time."

"Famous last words," Lila says, sticking her tongue out around a grin.

Clint listens to the trash talk with a fond smile. Kate has the unnerving ability to spontaneously bond with absolutely anyone, and she and Lila had become fast friends at Christmas. It was one of those unique generational Blip bonds formed when you were born almost at the same time but now had an additional five years between you.

“You don’t have plans tomorrow, do you? My ballet recital is tomorrow, and that is definitely something I can do better than you.”

Kate crosses her arms over her chest and smirks. "Wanna bet?"

"We're going to need to borrow Lucky,“ Kate says as Clint crouches down to give Lucky proper attention and remind him what a good boy he is. “He's going to be busy fetching all the arrows that Lila misses."

"You are so dead, Bishop."

They both skip toward the porch, before Kate doubles back and plants herself in front of him, tilting her head and letting her eyes grow big.

"Speaking of arrows..."

Clint heaves a heavy sigh. "What are you out of now."

"Some of my boomerangs are faulty."

"Faulty? How so?"

Kate stares at him like he is stupid. "They didn't come back."

Clint regrets asking. 

"Fine. Whatever. You can have your boomerangs."

"Some of the nets would be nice too?" She asks, smiling with far too many teeth.

"Yeah yeah. Whatever you want. But just so you're aware, Lila has all the arrows right now. So if you want them, you'd better be nice to her."

Kate's mouth drops open. "Well crap. Now I'm going to have to let her win!"

During dinner, Clint finds himself grateful for Kate's ability to carry on a conversation–into eternity, if need be. When he’d first brought her home the previous Christmas, she had been shy for approximately twelve minutes before deciding she adored everyone and achieved a level of closeness that would take the average person six months to attain. She relieves Clint entirely of the pressure to speak at all. 

"...so from the specific angle and area that he was standing, I estimated that if I could be accurate enough to activate the electromagnetic arrowhead—which, come on, of course I can—then it could trigger a chain reaction..."

This story again. Nate at least hasn’t tired of it yet. He sits with both forearms flat on the table and wide eyes as Kate talks.

He never tired of Natasha’s stories either. He listened to her just like this. Here. At dinner.

Budapest. Kiev. Kyoto. 

Kate is in Natasha’s chair.

"...short of the end of the world. Right, Dad?"

Shit. Clint fiddles with his aid. "What was that, honey?"

Lila purses her lips, shakes her head, and stares down at her dinner.  

"I did ballet for a few years," Kate says. 

Thought we were talking about Kingpin?

"Coach said I had the strength but needed work on 'gracefulness.' Like I’ll ever need that in the real world.”

Gracefulness was never a problem for Natasha, who had been a phenomenal ballet dancer. She was strong, graceful, and elegant—the whole package. Once, in order to take down a particularly slippery French socialite with an avid interest in Asgardian relics and the ballet, Natasha went undercover in an impromptu performance of Swan Lake with nary a toe out of position.

"...that Aunt Nat coached me on, especially my pirouette. I just… really wish she could have seen it.” Lila’s voice is filled with palpable sadness. 

Clint contemplates drowning himself in his potato soup.

Kate steers the conversation to former fencing instructors. 

 -

It’s Lucky who hears the thump and clatter. His ears perk up and he lifts his head off of its perch on Clint’s knee. He looks at the ceiling and whines.

Clint sets his coffee aside and listens from the bottom of the stairs until he hears it himself. Something clattering on a wooden floor. Muffled curses. He starts up the stairs, and can tell by the shadows on the walls which room the light is coming from. He takes the remaining stairs three at a time.

No one goes in that room. Not because they’re not allowed, but because it’s still just too much.

The last person Clint expects to find in there is Kate, crouching on the floor and fussing with something out of sight by the foot of the bed.

Nat's trunk is open.

“What are you doing in here?”

His dismay colors his voice, and startles Kate enough that she loses balance and flops onto her butt.

“Sorry! I was. Looking for arrowheads. You said Lila had them and so I went to look for them because you know me. I could never let her win.” Her laugh is forced. 

Clint surveys the cascade of tiny objects scattered on the floor. An array of earrings that are actually signal boosters for comm devices. Hair pins with a wider set of uses than a Swiss army knife. Some actual knives. A whetstone. A necklace with a sage green pendant.

Kate's repentant eyebrows and full-toothed apology grin form an impressive ‘A’ shape.

"You know which room is Lila’s." His voice is barely more than a rasp. He doesn't have it in him to yell, he realizes. He bends down to gather the objects, each of which inspire a sharp mosaic of nostalgia, affection, and agony.

Kate's voice goes quiet. "Okay. Sorry. Lila told me about some of the devices she used. When she was your partner. I just. Was curious."

Curiosity killed the Kate.

“I know I’ll never be as good a partner as she was. But I figured that if there’s anything that could make me a better one—not that I was gonna steal anything! I was just going to see what she had and then see if I could–”

“Kate.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.” He makes sure his mouth curls upward just enough to soften the words.

Kate makes an abashed grin. “Yes, boss.”

"Dad?"

Lila stops with her hands braced in the doorway and concern on her face. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, honey."

Lila looks briefly at Kate like she expects a contradiction, but then bends down to help, her own set of conflicting emotions flickering over her face. "What happened?"

"My fault. I wanted to know what was in here. I should have asked. I'm sorry." Kate clears her throat. "This was Natasha’s room?"

The comeback comes naturally. No, all the rooms in the house have this curtain of despair draped over them. He doesn’t have the energy to voice it.

"I only ask because of the amazing Hawkeye poster."

The balls on this girl.

Said poster depicts him nocking an arrow into his bow and casts very flattering lighting on his bare arms.

Lila laughs. "Yeah. It's there solely to annoy Dad."

Nat was a little shit.

"I may or may not have the same one in my room," Kate says, and both girls giggle.

Kate is a little shit too.

Once they have gathered everything from the floor, Clint slots the box neatly back into the trunk. His eyes fall on the small black safe recovered from the compound, untouched to this day.

Lila must follow his gaze because she plasters herself against him and wraps her arms around his waist.

"I'm gonna uh, head downstairs. I promised Nate we'd play a game,” Kate says, then pauses in the doorway. “Again. Sorry, boss.”

Without really knowing why, Clint takes out the safe, setting it on his lap as he sits on the bed. The mattress beside him dips with Lila’s gentle weight, and she leans her head against his shoulder. 

"You stare at that box a lot. What's in it?"

Clint runs his fingers over the smooth top, then down over the Cyrillic lettering on the side, and finally over the lock. “Your Aunt Nat kept valuables in here when she went on missions." 

He runs a hand over the top again, then hovers over the lock. He rolls his thumb over each wheel; one-one-two-two. The lid pops open. 

Lila leans curiously over his shoulder as Clint gently lifts out the one item inside. A small, delicate silver chain, with a distinctive pendant at the apex. Lila’s breath hitches.

Clint holds the necklace in his palm, and runs his thumb gently over the pendant, lost in thought. He takes Lila’s hand and drops the delicate chain into her palm. 

“I want you to have this.”

Lila studies the chain, the pendant. “But, this is Auntie Nat’s necklace… I can’t take this, Dad.” She tries to give it back to him, tears in her eyes.

“This is for me? What is it?”

“The best shot I never took.”

Clint folds her fingers down over the chain. “I gave it to her. Now I’m giving it to you. Trust me, Lila, she would want you to have it.”

After a moment with a tissue, Lila closes her fingers around the thin chain before holding it to her chest, a soft sob escaping her. 

Clint pulls her close. "It's okay, honey.”

"No, it's not," Lila says, sobbing steadily now, clutching the necklace in her fist and throwing her arms tightly around Clint's middle. “I miss her so much I can barely stand it on some days. But... you know what’s even worse? Seeing what it's done to you."

Clint closes his eyes and curses at himself. He has to try harder. "I'm fine, baby. Don't worry about me."

"You're not fine. I know you pretend to be, acting all happy and enthusiastic about everything, but... It doesn't reach your eyes, Dad."

"I am happy and enthusiastic about those things, Lila." He pulls her back to look her in the eye and wipes tear tracks from her face. "You know how overjoyed I am to have you back, right? I can't... I can't even put into words..."

Lila's hand covers his. "I know you are. But you're also different. Sad in a way I can't really describe. Like it goes down to your bones. Your soul. Your smiles fade into despair if you don’t make a constant effort. You're...somewhere else, most of the time. And it's not a nice place."

Natasha was always the better actor of the two of them. That's why she worked the target and he worked the sniper rifle.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dad.”

Clint’s eyes close involuntarily.

“It wasn’t. You did everything you could.”

Clint stands and paces. The rug under his feet that Natasha picked out herself. The stupid Hawkeye poster she cheerfully plastered on the wall while he dramatically whined and moaned on the bed. The pictures on the nightstand of Natasha and the kids. Natasha and Laura. Natasha and him… 

Lila doesn’t realize that it is his fault Natasha is no longer here. She sees in him a hero that does not exist. She doesn’t know many specifics about how her father spent his time during the Blip. Nor his days before SHIELD. Stories of his childhood are heavily censored. The credit for any actual heroics he ever accomplished could be given entirely to either Laura or Natasha.

“I know that look. Downgrading yourself to an inessential, unimportant guy who just got swept up into the Avengers by happenstance and who doesn’t deserve to be one of them. I think Aunt Nat would highly disagree.”

A small laugh escapes him then, because he can almost hear Natasha in Lila’s voice. Clint remembers the first time Natasha held Lila, the day she was born. They had stared at each other for several minutes, before Lila had fallen asleep, and Natasha had looked him in the eye and said 'You've got a perceptive one here.'

He crouches in front of her and takes her hands in his. "I'll do better, Lila. I'm sorry it's taking me so long, but I will do better. And be grateful to your Aunt Nat that I have the chance to do so." He takes the necklace from her and stretches out the chain. "All the more reason for you to inherit this necklace. You can take over for her when I need some sense knocked into me."

Lila's red and tear-streaked face crinkles in a soft smile, and she regards the necklace thoughtfully. After a moment, she twists around and lifts up her hair so he can clasp it around her neck. "Deal."

-

As it does every night, the mattress beneath him fades away into cold, ragged stone. His bedroom morphs into open space and an eternal drop. The quiet sounds of the house turn to distant screams.

Every night Clint returns to the lowest moment of his life.

“You must lose that which you love.”

He has no one else left in the world that he loves, but the red creature displays no visible sympathy. And now he’s supposed to give up that last person for the chance that maybe he’ll get everyone else he lost back?

Hell no.

But Natasha does not acquiesce to his infallible logic of who actually deserves to be removed from this reality. They are at an impasse.

She knows him. She will outmaneuver him. Let him think he’s in the clear and pull the rug out from under him. Use what she knows and manipulate it to her advantage.

But Clint knows her too.

Mirrored tides of contradictory emotions crash over him in a tsunami of fire and ice.

I’m sorry.

The sorrow emanates from somewhere deep, but he cannot say for certain if it originates from himself or Natasha.

It's too much–despair, loneliness, regret anger fury–

Softer sentiment never said aloud but expressed infinitely with actions.

He's pummeled from every side.

Determination fear devotion loyalty sorrow-regret-betrayal-

It’s okay.

No. It’s not. It never will be if you do this to me.

He won’t let her.

A thread of golden flame…

A searing burn from deep within…

"Let me go."

Never.

∞ ∞ ∞

In Iowa, 2025, Clint Barton jerks upright and gasps for air.

∞ ∞ ∞

On Vormir, 2014, Natasha Romanoff jerks upright and gasps for air.

Chapter Text

2014

Vormir

Gold.

A warm, glistening gold that extends into eternity. Peaceful and serene.

And yet…

The peace is singed with a crimson tint of regret. The warm, gold billows echo with sorrow.

“Do you trust me?”

Why is peace so…heavy?

A bittersweet pool of agony and joy. They swirl together and create something new. Something contradictory. Paradoxical. 

Hope.

“What are you waiting for, American?”

Why is hope so… piercing?

“Let me go.”

There’s the faint trickle of water. Echoes of voices. One voice reverberates over the others. 

“Don’t. Don’t give me hope.”

Time… doesn’t seem to be working right.

“What if you could choose what happens to you?”

Everything moves in slow motion, yet faster than it should. Years go by in seconds. Memories warp and discolor. 

The warmth begins to fade away, replaced with a seeping bite of frost and hard, jagged rock. The sky swirls in amethyst and gold. A glow settles over a sharp upturn of stone. A cliff. 

There is a man at the top. 

He is large. Muscular. Filled with grim determination, but also bears a heavy burden of resignation and despair on his shoulders. 

She knows him. She tries to call his name, but no sound emerges. 

He doesn’t see her. 

He stands directly over her, holding something precious in his hand. He stretches his fist out over nothingness and opens his palm, letting its contents fall. 

And then, in the distance, far away yet so very very close. The tortured scream of another man. 

“NO!”

His cry brings with it sorrow despair love loyalty–

—Horror shock rage betrayal how could you do this to me–

“Clint!”

Her eyes snap open and she jerks upward in a violent gasp that dissolves into parched heaving for oxygen. The cold air feels like knives in her throat that only cut more with each desperate gasp. She flounders in shallow water, her gasps deteriorating into vicious coughing when it splashes into her nose and mouth.

What. Happened?

The dark violet sky and sinister echo of disbelief and horror have her adrenaline levels soaring. She frantically scans for the source of such a reaction, but there is nothing but water and the horizon.

And a lone, ominous ledge in the distance. 

That ledge. That’s where–

Searing pain hooks into her brain and lights every nerve in her body on fire until even her bones cry out in agony. Her body convulses in response, her heart pounding in her chest like a lead rock, cracked and blistered like it had required a thousand volts to force it to beat. She collapses back with a splash, her entire body screaming and trembling…

But it is not just her that trembles.

The ground beneath her begins to quake with alarming force, each harsh jerk of ground igniting new fresh waves of agony throughout her body. 

After a minute, the quaking recedes to the extent that she can now differentiate between it and the thrum of adrenaline that vibrates throughout her. Pumped up to the max, she's sure. She can hear her pulse.

Breathe. Focus.

Why is she conscious?

Why is she alive.

The effort she spends in an attempt to recollect anything nearly causes her to lose consciousness. A blade piercing her cranium would be a relief compared to the meter-long bayonet that slices through her brain.

She is seriously, dangerously injured.

“All right, time to take inventory. Wanna take a bet on who's got the most fractures?”

Where to even start. Her body is broken. Her neck is fractured. The number of intact ribs could be numbered on one hand. The inside of her head pounds with the mother of all headaches. Her hair is nothing more than a blood-matted knot. Her left calf muscle feels like it has been stabbed with a spear.

Her right wrist is snapped. She cannot even lift it.

She should be dead.

What the hell happened.

Her memory is in tatters. Wisps of images that may or may not have actually happened.

What does she remember that doesn’t hurt?

She is Natasha Romanoff. She has red hair and green eyes. She is Russian by birth; American by choice. She is an accomplished assassin. A Red Room graduate. Agent of SHIELD. Avenger.

Hazy images of a man with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. Arrows and laughter and safety and fierce affection.

Clint.

She clutches her head to keep it from splitting open, which in turn causes her to cry out from the movement of her decimated wrist. But she clings to each fuzzy image, pain be damned, because if she can’t remember what happened, at least she can remember him. But the tenuous grip she has over a few hazy remnants bring with them a torrent of emotion from both ends of the spectrum.

— the flash of his smile—

—the anguish in his tear-streaked face—

—Clint. What have you done—?

Her good hand claps to her skull once more and she tries not to scream. 

What is wrong with her head—her brain? The effort to recall is promptly rewarded with a spike nailed into her skull.

Memory inventory will have to wait. Stick with the physical problems. And there are many.

Her wrist…

–a man's hand clutching it with the strength of a vice–

Broken, but not from impact.

“You can tell me. I promise I won’t blab it around.”

“I can’t… I can’t sleep without them.”

“The cuffs?”

Her body tenses as a thousand tiny blades begin to twist around inside her head, digging up memories and agony. 

“You think I’m a freak.”

“No, I don’t. I was just thinking. I might have a better solution.”

His grip on that cliff had been tighter than the handcuffs had ever been.

She stiffens with sudden excruciating pain in her left leg. She struggles to angle her head to catch a glimpse of the damage, but is unable to see what she knows must be a devastating wound. 

The other leg is broken and twisted at a grotesque angle, and all her training screams that she can’t allow it to heal in such a state, but she hurts too much to move.

The ground begins to quake once more, creating ripples in the water and tiny hairline fractures in the rock beneath her. 

The golden sky fades to gray and her ears begin to ring. The image of Clint’s anguished face flashes in her mind, and it hurts worse than her wrist, leg, or ribs.

She can feel her body start to shut down. 

She’s dying. 

A sudden, intense need to see Clint makes it hard for air to fill her lungs. She wants him so badly, so fiercely that it makes all of her—her eyes–lungs–soul —blaze and burn.

The water sloshes around her, the earth rumbling with a vengeance that echoes through her entire body. Her bones tremble precariously as if they are about to crumble under her skin from the abuse.

There isn’t enough air. She gasps for oxygen, but her lungs don’t respond. 

The world dissolves into swirls of gray. A high-pitched shrill devours all sound.

I'm so sorry... 

The last of her strength seeps away, and all light flickers out.

…Clint…

-

November 2023

Brooklyn, New York

While he is still three blocks away, Bucky spots Barton’s approach from the roof of his apartment building. His destination is clearly Bucky’s apartment.

Is Barton an actual moron.

It’s been two weeks since…that day. Barton is the last person he would expect to openly seek him out. Does he have a death wish? Or…

Did Sam put Barton up to this. 

Irritation, sleep deprivation, and adrenaline all cause the nanomechanics in Bucky’s arm to whir to life. 

Damn it, Sam. Why can’t you just let things be.

Barton is less than a block away.

Deep breath. In. Out. This is now. Not then. Steve is fine. 

Two weeks. 

May as well be an eternity. 

Barton stops in front of the building but does not enter. He looks up, scanning the roof. Very few people would be able to spot Bucky’s position in the shadows, but Barton’s code name is well-earned, because his eyes pass over Bucky and then hover in place. He refrains from entering the building at all and instead opts to grapple to the roof, coming to a stop mere feet in front of Bucky. 

Barton shows wariness but no fear when they come face to face. Impressive for a standard human.

Bucky, on the other hand, is wound with more tension than Barton's bow.

What could Barton possibly want. What person in their right mind would come anywhere near him after…

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

Not a total moron, then. 

“I’m wondering if you are really brave or really stupid.”

Barton seems to consider the statement. He glances down at the arm. 

The arm always inspires a multitude of reactions. Horror followed by anger and totally undeserved self-loathing in Steve. Wariness from Sam. Unnerving fascination from Stark. Seventy-four-minute war stories from Thor.

Barton simply stares at it with tacit resignation, as if very aware that it is quite capable of dismembering him, yet showing no fear at the prospect. 

Their eyes meet. 

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Guess so. 

Bucky gestures for Barton to sit beside him. As he does so, Barton waves a hand in the vicinity of his chin. 

“Nice haircut.”

“Thanks.”

They sit together and stare out at the Manhattan skyline across the river. The November air is cold enough that a few flakes of snow begin to gently flutter in the wind, but they are both wound far too tightly to be susceptible to the chill. For several minutes, neither says a word, but the other’s presence is neither intrusive nor unwelcome.

One could almost forget that day ever happened. 

“I came to apologize,” Barton says finally. “I already apologized to Steve, but I felt that–”

“You’ve seen Steve?”

The words come out harsher than intended, and Barton throws his hands up in a plaintive gesture. “He’s fine, I swear. He and Sam came by the farm the other day. Nothing happened. He left healthy and uninjured.”

It doesn’t matter. Someone should have been there. To watch. To take action if needed. Someone stronger than Sam. 

Someone like…

No.

This is for the best.

“I’m really sorry, Barnes. I don’t…I don’t know what came over me. I…I have these dreams–”

“Dreams?” Bucky blurts, quickly biting his tongue.

Barton’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Yeah. Nightmares, really. Most of them are horrific. Make me relive that horrible day all over again. But sometimes, I dunno, my subconscious almost seems to… will something different to happen. For some different reality to be true. It seems so real.”

Crimson-stained navy…

Horror and rage and a guttural howl…

All purpose flickering out with the light in deep blue eyes…

Protect. Defend. 

Destroy.

“When I woke up, I must have still been half asleep or something. I was utterly convinced that it was real. That she was…” He shakes his head.

So real…

How long can he get away with not telling the landlord about the new holes in the drywall. 

Barton shakes his head. “Anyway. I’m sorry. I can only imagine what that must have been like for you. And now with Steve…”

“It’s fine.” 

It was fine, in the end. Everything worked out. Everything is fine.

“It’s not, though. You’ve been through more than enough already without having to…see that. Not to mention the threat of being locked away again. Trust me, I know.”

“It’s okay.” 

Let's please not relive it. 

Barton huffs, as if in disbelief. “You sure? Everyone else seemed convinced that you might try to disembowel me.”

Well. Since we’re opening up. 

“If you had been there in person that day, I probably would have.”

Barton swallows, but nods like that's reasonable. “Well. Thank you for not hunting me down, then.”

The thought had crossed his mind.

“Sam told me some stuff later that gave me more perspective.”

“Which was?”

Bucky tries to think of the best way to summarize Sam’s nearly thirty-minute, Captain America-worthy address on friendship, history, and loyalty. He finally settles on,

“Romanoff was your Rogers.”

Barton’s expression softens. “I guess that’s a good way to put it.”

Bucky feels the last of his protective rage fizzle out. He, of all people, is the last person to hold a man responsible for actions taken while not in possession of full mental faculties. And if Romanoff was Barton’s Rogers, then, well…

“Speaking of Rogers, have you talked to him lately?”

Bucky’s adrenaline spikes once more.

“What did Sam tell you?” he nearly growls.

Barton blinks at him with obvious confusion. “Nothing? I told Sam.”

They are…probably not talking about the same thing. 

Barton demonstrates compassion and continues as if Bucky’s reaction were totally normal. “When he came by the farm the other day, he seemed perfectly normal most of the time, but then he said some things that… I don’t know. Didn’t seem…lucid.”

Lucidity. The state of mental competence. “Oh?”

“He was speaking about the past…in the present tense. As if he wasn’t aware what year it was, or even where he was. Bruce says he’s physically around one hundred twelve now. I just thought you should know.”

Bucky nods. 

It shouldn’t be a shock. It was always inevitable. And now it has begun and will continue to progress. Get worse and worse and worse and there’s nothing he can do about—

“So what’s the verdict? Am I brave or stupid?”

“Somewhere in the middle, I think.”

“So, you're only going to dismember half of me?”

Bucky remembers Rogers telling him once that Barton was a smart ass. Also, that his own past self was a smart ass. Yet no smart-ass, witty retort comes to mind. 

He’s not the same man. 

“Not today, anyway.”

“Huzzah. Then it looks like I won’t be getting out of therapy today after all.”

“You see a therapist?” He doesn’t know why that surprises him.

Barton laughs, but devoid of any humor. “Oh yeah.”

“Does it help?”

Barton shrugs. “Too early to tell, I think.”

Bucky nods, watching the busy late-morning traffic. “I have court-mandated therapy.” Bucky’s range of vocal expression is robotic at best, but he’s pretty sure he has successfully conveyed just how helpful he considers said therapy to be. 

“Sometimes it takes a while to find the right shrink.”

But how common are shrinks trained in his particular form of trauma. “How did you find one?”

Barton sighs. “Not my first time. I started seeing her over ten years ago now. She’s ex-military. Has seen her share of shit." He pauses, then adds quietly, "They needed the big guns for my shredded psyche.”

Ah, yes. The demigod, ten years ago. 

Bucky had been in cryo, but he has seen the news footage. Remembers what Steve has told him. Barton was…

Wait. 

“You were brainwashed."

Shit. Did that come across as excitement?

For a moment, Barton’s face goes hard, glaring at the concrete beneath their feet, no doubt re-experiencing many horrific memories from a decade past, but a moment later the hardness eases. He glances up at Bucky, and his eyes carry no accusation or offense, but rather…

Empathy?

Bucky’s own excitement—no, that’s not the word. Happiness? No… It is not a positive thing that Barton has experienced something similar to Bucky’s own past horrors, but some dormant part of himself is...gratified–yes, that’s the word– to have even one unhappy experience in common.

Barton understands.

“Yeah.”

He has more questions. They make the rounds through his body looking for release. His fingers. His knee. His foot. “Do you.”

Clint turns to him. His expression is open.

“Do you... remember?”

Please understand what I mean.

Barton does. His chin points to the sky, then to his toes. “Not everything. But enough. Too much.”

Yes. Exactly.

“Took a back seat in my own head and watched my body commit atrocious acts like it was the lamest snuff film ever. So many good agents. Civilians. Our… handler. Our friend. Because of me.”

So many innocent people. Fighting for good. Or just in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

"How did you get free?"

Barton's eyes glaze over with the memory, a small, bittersweet smile flickering over his face. “I fought Natasha. That was… I don’t even know how to describe the horror of that. Your body moving with purpose, with every intention to kill, and the tiny bit of the real you stuffed in the back, confused, because this is your enemy, you are going to kill them, so why…”

Why is there screaming in your head when you look at their stupid face.

Barton huffs and leans back on his arms. “She brought me back. Don’t know that anyone else could have.”

"You know me."

The conditioning was so deep. Who would have thought there was something else even deeper.

“Can I ask you something? If you feel comfortable, or if you even remember. When you…fell, what went through your head?”

Is this a request for reassurance? If so, Bucky is hesitant to answer. The memories of that moment are still tangled and incomplete, but it is one of the few instances in his life where he clearly knows how he felt. He remembers terror. Panic. And a deep, heavy sorrow. “I don’t think what I have to say would be comforting.”

Barton shakes his head. “I meant. About Steve.”

Steve?

“Did you feel…let down? Like he should have found a way to save you?”

Steve would have saved him if he could. Bucky can hardly blame him for that. “Steve is human. He did what he could."

“But you survived.”

Unfortunately. 

“Yes.”

“You didn't resent him for not coming for you?”

Bucky considers the question. Tries to remember. He hadn’t been lucid for probably close to a week after that fall–it had been one procedure or surgery or experiment after another–but once he could think clearly, yes, he did wait. Every moment of every day he waited for Steve to save him. Because Steve would know he was out there. Would not rest until he found him.

But Steve never came.

And then Steve was dead.

“Steve would have come if he could.”

It’s a fact. Steve clearly would have done anything to stop him from becoming…this.

Nothing could ever stop Steve when he set his mind to something.

“But then they showed me the paper.” Bucky closes his eyes. That is a place in which he prefers not to dwell.

“Hopelessness, then,” Barton says softly. He speaks like a man who is intimately acquainted with the emotion. Bucky can see it, etched into the lines of his face. Lines born from trauma rather than age. “I tried so hard to hold on. Would’ve let my shoulder dislocate and tear off before I let go.” 

He's no longer really talking to Bucky. Perhaps he is talking to Romanoff.

Bucky’s mind gives him snippets of hanging on for dear life over a looming drop. Reaching for the hand extended to him.

His arm did dislocate and tear off.

“She…she made me. She pushed off with her feet and jerked her hand right out of mine. And she just kept falling and falling. It felt like she fell for years . And I couldn’t look away, couldn’t break eye contact. Not until she…oh God.”

Weightlessness. Time long enough to be aware of and anticipate imminent impact with the unforgiving rocks below.

I'm so sorry, Steve.

Barton barks out a laugh. “Raynor’s been trying to get this out of me every single session. Don’t know how I’m able to tell you.”

“Shared trauma.”

Barton closes his eyes against the late morning sun. “Yeah. That really can tie you to a person, can’t it.”

Bucky remembers how tightly Steve had curled his fists into Bucky’s shirt when they had fallen asleep during that first night after Azzano. How Bucky had woken up screaming and thrashing and struggling against bonds that faded into Steve’s familiar-but-larger arms. Steve’s voice repeating ‘It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re safe, Buck. It’s okay.’ Himself fisting hands in Steve’s shirt so tightly that several seams popped in his grip.

Barton's voice pulls him back to the present.

“I don’t want us to be enemies, Barnes. I know I screwed up, but… I also know this can’t be easy for you. I’d like to help you out, if I can.”

“Why?”

Barton looks away, as if uncomfortable. He takes almost a full minute to respond. 

“I was kind of AWOL. During the Blip. Steve was…there. With Nat.” 

He can picture it. Steve and Romanoff. Both Barton and himself gone, and the two of them the only people they had left. The image causes confusing reactions inside of him. One side is relieved that they each had someone during such a terrible time, while the rest of himself ferments in an unpleasant churning at the thought of them together. 

Why. It’s a very Rogers thing to do. Hardly surprising. 

Barton’s eyes have meandered back to Bucky, and what he sees in them makes Bucky’s heart pinch in a way that is not comfortable but also not unpleasant. 

Romanoff is gone. 

And so is Steve. 

Returning the favor, Barton?

The thought is…kind. If unnecessary. 

“Thank you. But I am doing all right.”

“You sure?”

Why does no one believe him.

“You just got back from five years of being literal dust. On top of seventy years of brainwashing. And then your best friend goes back to the past.”

Bucky shrugs. “Steve deserves to be happy.”

“You don’t think he could have been happy here?”

With the Avengers and their dysfunction? Future technologies and discarded values? With Bucky and his broken psyche?

The past has soda fountains and weekly radio programs. Peggy Carter and the Howlies. The man with his face that can make Steve beam with the full glow of dawn. 

“Not after going back.”

“And what about you?”

Bucky looks him in the eye. “I am not getting what I deserve. And I am damn grateful for that.”

“You and me both,” Barton says with a wry smile and leans back into the sun, seemingly content to drop the subject, to Bucky’s intense relief. 

There’s a buzz in his back pocket. He doesn’t need to look at it to know who it is.

Damn it, Sam.

He can’t deal with this. Don’t make him deal with this…

“You okay?”

Deep breath. In. Out.

In.

Out.

“Your therapist.” The words come out only slightly choked. “You see her once a month?”

“Twice a week online. Once a month in person, here in New York. I could refer you, if you want. Raynor is tough as nails and sometimes a bit of an asshole, but she got me through the aftermath that was Loki.”

This is a substantial recommendation. Bucky has his doubts about its ultimate effectiveness, but since he has no choice, and if there is even a chance that she could help him, well. 

He nods. 

Barton digs in his pocket. “I think I have her card here somewhere…”

Bucky takes the card and thanks Barton. It's worth a shot. 

Because he will learn to cope. Learn to move forward.

And learn to let go.

-

Present Day

Iowa

“Do you trust me?”

Don’t. Please don’t make me do this. 

"What. Did. You. Do."

Tasha… please…

“Do you love me?”

How…how can you even ask that?

“How could you do this to me?!”

You don’t understand–

Pain. Agony. Crushed ribs and spikes through the skull and–

“Clint…”

Air air air there is no air–!

"Tasha!"

He jerks upright and gasps greedily for oxygen. 

Cold air and snow and the unforgiving drop below are replaced with the familiar curtains and walls of his bedroom. 

"Clint? You all right?"

Laura, groggy and concerned beside him.

He is home. But Natasha…

She can’t breathe. She’s in agony. 

But she's alive.

He is up and moving before thought catches up. He gets tangled in the bed sheets and curses when he falls face-first into the rug. His heart pounds so hard even he can hear it. 

"Clint, what's wrong? What are you doing?"

Freeing himself, he tears into the closet for his old SHIELD duffel. Punches things in like a madman–guns, bullets, arrowheads, battery packs–

"Clint!"

– “Clint!” –

The simultaneous pleas of his name from the two women he loves most thrust a searing spike into his skull and sends him sprawling. The pain fades almost as quickly as it came, but his legs struggle with his weight when he attempts to stand. There’s no time.

“Clint, honey, what’s–”

“It’s Nat,” he grits out.

Where is that damn first aid kit they had in here? She's in pain. Dangerously injured.

Dying. She’s dying.

"Nat? Clint, calm down. You've had another nightmare. Take a second–"

"She’s alive," he says as he snatches up an array of arrowheads and ammunition and projects them into the duffel. "Stranded and injured on Vormir. She’s dying, Laura!”

"Clint." Laura grips his shoulders firmly, insisting that he look at her. "Honey. We've been through this before, remember?"

He moves past her and digs under the bed for the first aid kit, before his brain kicks in and he remembers that all the quinjets are fully equipped with any medical equipment he may need. But a jet won’t get him to Vormir. He only has fuel for a few planet-wide trips at most. Shit. He’ll have to talk to–

“Clint! Please! ”

Laura sounds so genuinely disturbed that despite his aggressive sense of urgency he forces himself to focus on his wife. 

To her, he must sound like a madman. He knows how much he scared her with his 'incident' almost two years prior. Hell, he had scared himself. ‘Grief-induced hallucinations’ was Raynor’s official diagnosis. He had come to agree with it himself.

But they were all wrong.

It was real then. And it is real now. 

Laura stares at him with wide eyes and trembling lips and he longs to explain and comfort but there is no time.

He guides her to sit on the edge of the bed. Crouches down in front of her.

“Babe, I know this sounds crazy. I know this sounds like last time, and you're worried about me. Scared even. But I promise you, I am not crazy. I don't know how I know, but I do. Natasha is alive. Stranded. In pain. I know it like I know an arrow will hit its mark. Like I know I love you."

Laura’s eyes grow wet.

"Aw, babe, please don't. Please."

She shakes her head and clutches his shoulders, staring him straight in the eye. "Clint. Do you remember what happened last time?"

"This is different—"

“Steve had a heart attack, Clint. He could have died. Rhodey could have died, and they nearly put Barnes away for good. It's a miracle that they didn't lock you away for delusional psychosis."

Clint has nothing to say to that. It’s true, and from any perspective other than his, he belongs in a psych ward. 

He looks at the desperation in her eyes and feels his heart shrivel in his chest. He is a failure as a husband. Even after they had Blipped back into the world, he had not been the same man, the same husband and father that they knew. He was changed—scarred beyond recognition. 

But they took him back anyway, and then he had lost it. Had ranted and raved and screamed…

This is not fair to her. He doesn’t deserve her, and he knows it. He will make every effort to make things up to her, and the kids, and it kills him to not be able to do so now but there is no time no time no time.

He meets her steady gaze with an iron one of his own. "Laura, listen to me. I promise you, I am not insane. You and I both know that stranger things have happened out there. Anything is possible."

Her eyes narrow, and he can almost see her thinking. Searching desperately for any sign of his sanity. 

"Even if that is true,” she says finally “and you're right about this, why are you suddenly so sure now? Why were you so sure then?"

He shakes his head. "I wish I knew." 

Last time, he had almost gotten to the car, intent on finding his way to Vormir one way or another, before the absolute certainty that Natasha was alive abruptly vanished as suddenly as it came. 

"I don't know what this is. But the fact that it is happening again means something is going on, and I have to investigate it. But I promise you, I am sane.”

Please believe me. If you don’t, no one will.

She cups his face, sympathy in her eyes. "It's not that I don't believe you, Clint. You know how much I value and respect your judgment. But I also know what losing Nat has done to you. You’re not here, not fully. It’s like a piece of you died with her, and I am worried that what is left of you may crack and fall in on itself."

Self-loathing threatens to drown him. They all deserve so much better. 

Laura and the kids were all he ever thought about during the Blip. He left Natasha. Ignored her calls. Brushed her off when she tried to visit. He will forever regret that. 

Is he making the same mistake now? With the family she died to give back to him?

But she’s alive. He has to find her. 

“I have to try,” he manages through a choked voice. “She needs me. Please, Laura.”

Laura wipes at her eyes. Takes a deep breath and brings their foreheads together. “Okay. I trust you.”

Clint squeezes her tightly, then releases her to finish stuffing gear in his bag. Sweeps the top shelf for Natasha’s handgun.

Laura takes a sharp breath. “You’re leaving now?”

“Yeah.” He would leave yesterday if he could. His palm settles over the familiar shape of Natasha’s gun and he zips it into the duffel.

“Today is Lila’s ballet recital.”

Clint freezes in the door frame. 

Shit. 

“Clint, she’ll be devastated if you do this again.”

Clint clenches his eyes shut. "I'll explain. Tell her that Nat is alive, and–"

"Clint. You can't. What if..."

She trails off, but Clint doesn't need her to finish. "You don't think I'll find her."

Laura takes a deep breath, and Clint can tell she is choosing her words very carefully.

"I believe that you are certain that she is alive–"

"Laura–"

"And that is good enough for me, Clint. But I also have to be realistic about what this could do to the kids. You were just as sure last time, remember? When you were screaming at Steve? The kids saw it all. Remember?"

Every detail. Etched into his brain. The abject fear on Nate’s face had been familiar in a way that he does not want to examine. And never, ever relive.

"For whatever reason, if you tell Lila that Nat is alive, and then you can't find her? How do you think she will take that? She has only just lost that haunted look in her eyes when she talks about Nat."

She’s right. And yet, what is he supposed to do? Be there for his daughter, and let his partner die? Find his partner and abandon his daughter?

What is he supposed to do?

"Clint..."

Laura’s voice sounds farther away than a moment ago. 

"Clint, take a deep breath."

Nat didn't die for him to abandon his family! The last thing he wants is to take them for granted! 

“Clint, honey…”

He doesn’t deserve to have them back. He can’t choose. Don’t make him choose between his family and his best friend.

“Clint, sit down. Breathe.”

A high-pitched ring begins to overtake Laura’s voice, and the world is suddenly blurred out by gray splotches. 

Don’t make him choose. He shouldn’t have to choose. 

Damn you, Romanoff. Damn you.

"You're having a panic attack, Clint. Take a deep breath. Try to ground yourself.”

Clint sits. Takes his aid out in an attempt to dampen the ringing in his ears but it does nothing. He breathes as Laura directs. 

The quilt is plaid. The fireplace is white. The walls are gray.

A glass of water materializes in front of him. A few swallows lessen the ringing and bring color back to his surroundings.

The mattress dips beside him. "I will think of something to tell Lila. Tell her there was a world-threatening emergency. I’m sure she will understand, with time. And I will let you go do this, but on one condition, Clint. You go out there and you do what you need to do, but for the sake of your own sanity, and for the sake of this family, you either come back with Nat, or you come back with closure. You hear me?”

He nods fervently.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“And if you do find Nat?" Her breath trembles as she cups Clint's face in her hands. "Bring her home.”

He swallows thickly. Turns to kiss her palm. "Yes, ma'am."

Five minutes later he is in the car and pulling out of the driveway, headed for the quinjet still parked in the small forest at the edge of his property.

As he floors the gas, movement in the rearview mirror catches his eye. 

Lila. Dashing out of the house and into the middle of the road. She stops, and stares at him as he drives away, and Clint feels a little more of himself die as she grows smaller and smaller in the distance. 

Chapter Text

November 2023

Manhattan

"Mr. Barton? I need you to update some information on your insurance forms."

Clint accepts the stack of paper with a smile that is not at all forced, absentmindedly filling in the information.

Despite the comparative ease with which he had been able to open up to Barnes earlier, it did not carry over to Clint’s session with Raynor. She still pushed him to talk about the worst, lowest moment of his life, and if anything, he only retreated further into himself.

When he’s done, the receptionist glances back and forth from the forms to her computer screen, her fingers click expertly over her keyboard. From this angle, the glint of the television set mounted in the corner of the waiting room reflects in her glasses. A newscast, it looks like. He turns to it out of habit more than anything; the volume is much too low for him to understand a word. The headline reads ‘Small Town Horror Story in New Jersey.’

His eyes widen when he sees the name 'Wanda Maximoff' scroll by under the image of an unnerved-looking reporter. He stretches toward the television and restrains himself from shouting at the waiting room to shut up.

He strains to catch disjointed words.

"... interviewing the residents… been reported…well-known Avenger Wanda Maximoff …for the anomaly…”

The receptionist must take pity on him because closed-captioning abruptly appears on the screen, and what Clint reads makes his blood run cold.

“Residents report being forced to act out sitcom-like scenarios and suffering tremendous emotional distress said to involve Avenger Wanda Maxmimoff. Ms. Maximoff is one of billions recently returned from the five missing years now known as ‘The Blip.’ Ms. Maximoff is wanted by the police for questioning, but her whereabouts are currently unknown. This station urges any viewers who know of Ms. Maximoff's location to inform local police immediately."

Wanda. What happened?

"Mr. Barton?" 

Clint's head jerks back to where the receptionist holds forms out to him. "Yeah, thanks." He quickly signs and dates the forms as his other hand digs his phone out of his pocket.

Pick up, Wanda. Pick up. 

He curses after it goes to voicemail and ends the connection, trying another number.

"Bruce. Have you seen the news?"

"I know. I can't get a hold of her. No one can."

"Do you think she would come back to New York?"

“Who knows. No one has heard from her as far as I know.”

Whereabouts unknown–this worries him. The poor girl has no one.  

Damn it–he should have checked on her. Should have pulled himself out of his own self-pity for one damn minute and called her. Yes, he is grieving too, but Wanda...

The call-waiting beeps.

“Hang on, Bruce.” But it’s not Wanda’s name on the caller ID. "Laura?"

"Hi. Everything is fine. But you need to come home as soon as possible. We have a visitor."

-

Clint has hours to give to the news reports on the jet. Westview is the top story on every site and broadcast.

The interviews with the local residents are...not good.

Laura meets him on the porch. 

"Everything all right?"

"Fine. But there is someone here who needs to see you."

Wanda is on the sofa, listening intently to Nate as he explains the surprisingly complex plot of his latest favorite cartoon show. She stands when she sees him. Her smile is soft but strained. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have just shown up like this. I should have called."

Clint pulls her into a hug. "Don't be ridiculous. Our door is always open." 

The strained lip curl doesn't make it past her nose. “I don't know why I’m here. I just came… I just needed to…”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you did.”

"It is always great to see you Wanda," Laura echoes. "And you picked a good day to visit, because it's my turn to make dinner tonight, and I am a much better cook than Clint."

Wanda makes another valiant attempt at a smile. “I can’t stay.”

“Nonsense!” Laura declares, taking Wanda’s arm and guiding her into the kitchen. “Dinner became non-optional the moment you stepped foot in this house. Now, I want your opinion on the amount of salt in the potatoes, because I swear to you, something is wrong with Clint’s taste buds…”

He’s so relieved that Wanda is here. Safe, with people that care. 

He and Laura double-team to keep her distracted. Nearly every TV channel has interrupted the scheduled programming with reports on Westview, so Clint puts on the first kid’s movie he can find while Laura allows nothing to find its way to the dinner table without first getting Wanda’s opinion. The kids seem to instinctively assist, diverting her attention with drawing and toys much in the same way they did the first time they met Natasha. 

After dinner, Laura busies herself in the kitchen, and the kids busy themselves with bickering over the TV. Clint and Wanda sit at the kitchen table, Wanda staring into a cup of Earl Grey that Laura puts in front of her. 

"I was worried about you."

Wanda studies her tea. "I'm sorry. But I’m fine.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Wanda.”

She glances up, startled by his bluntness, but he doesn’t care. All he wants is to help her. Be there for her. Be a safe outlet for some of the black awfulness that must be festering inside her.

“You don’t need to put up some kind of front with me. I’m not going to lock you up or turn you in. This is me. You can talk to me.”

Her eyes go slightly shiny and sorrow seems to radiate off of her. 

“What happened, Wanda? The news is saying you… rewrote reality?”

She dabs at her eyes with her sleeve. “I don’t really know myself. I don’t know how I did it, really. I just took what was there and…rewrote it. Like a script.

“I was so low, like I was breaking apart from the inside. I remember thinking I’d do anything to make that pain go away. Anything to make things different. And then, Vision was there. And…” She looks him in the eye. "I had a family, Clint. In Westview. Not only Vision but...children. We were a family. And now they're gone. Worse—they were never real."

She tells him of a marriage to Vision. Of the birth of her twin sons. Of watching them grow. Of laughing and crying as a family. Of a witch trying to take it all from her…and then giving it up on her own.

Her grief thickens the air, and by the time she’s finished, Clint finds it hard to breathe through the fog it has created.

“Wanda…”

It’s all he can manage, and it feels pathetically insufficient. He reaches out his hand, palm upward, to take her hand in his. 

Her hand is different from Natasha’s. Her fingers are longer, more delicate. Softer than Nat’s calloused palms. 

"I feel like I'm going crazy," Wanda whispers. "I actually deluded myself into believing it was real. That they were real."

Clint’s heart aches with echoes of terror and panic and forgotten, discarded hot dogs.

But he got his family back. He is the last man in the world to deserve it, but here he sits, in his nice house with his beautiful family, while Wanda, beautiful and heartbroken, is fated to go on alone.

Wanda shakes out of her sad reverie and squeezes his hand.

"I heard you... weren't doing so well, either.”

His eyes narrow, requesting elaboration.

“I heard what happened with Steve.”

A burst of anger spikes through him. "Who told you?"

"Rhodey."

Of course.

"Are you all right?"

How long before I totally go off the deep end, you mean?

"I'm fine. Steve is fine. Rhodey is fine. It was a tough week and I hadn't been sleeping enough.” He stabs his forefinger into the table. “But we're not talking about me."

The tea is interesting again. "I can't blame what I did on a lack of sleep," she almost whispers. "I hurt people."

"And I hurt Steve. We all make mistakes, Wanda."

"Not like this. These powers…” she says, staring at her hands. “They cause nothing but pain and suffering. Everything I touch turns to ruin."

"Look what you did, Clint! You little shit! You ruin everything!"

Clint lets his eyes run over the designs in the wood table. Presses his fingers into the hard surface. "What were the odds of my entire family being lost in the Snap?” 

This statement, at least, draws her eyes to him and away from her past atrocities.

“What were the odds that the only stone retrieval that resulted in a casualty was the one I was a part of? Remember what I told you, back in Sokovia? ‘You walk out that door, you are an Avenger.’ What I didn’t tell you that day is what choosing that life would cost. It comes with a lot of sacrifices. Some so devastating that it feels like you’ll never move on–”

The words trigger something in Wanda. “Your sacrifice meant something!" she snaps, her eyes glowing red. The back of her chair snaps against the kitchen island as she stands. "Look what you got!” 

Her arm sweeps toward the children, now frozen in place, staring at them with wide eyes. The fury in Wanda’s eyes fizzles instantly at the sight, and she sits down with a skid against the wood floor and buries her face in her hands. 

She’s right. He got his world back while having done absolutely nothing to deserve it, while she blew a hole in the head of the man she loved to save the universe, and got nothing but pain in return. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she murmurs repeatedly. "I don't know what came over me."

Clint reaches over and squeezes her forearm. "It's okay. Luckily I'm a little more sturdy than Steve these days."

Her hand covers her mouth. "Oh, I shouldn't laugh at that."

"I'm well-known for inappropriate laughter. Just ask—" 

Shit.

Wanda bites her lip and covers his hand with hers.

What a pair they are.

They sit there quietly for several minutes, Wanda watching the kids as they play a board game and Clint watching Wanda. Under his hand he can feel the tension gradually bleed out of her, and the precautious, nervous energy she had earlier is replaced with something heavier. Something...final. 

"Can I ask you a question?" Slavic hints in her accent.

"Of course."

"After the Snap, how did you manage to keep going?"

Is that what she calls that bleak excuse for existence? 

"If you had asked me at the time, I don't think I would have had an answer for you."

"And now?"

Clint reflects on the years that he has deliberately tried to put behind him. Remembers the days of hunting and plotting and attacking and killing. The nights of sweating and screaming and begging and weeping. 

It's not something he relishes talking about, especially with his children in the adjacent room. 

But if it will help Wanda…

He lets his mind wander back to those black, blurred days. To one day where it just wasn’t worth it anymore. 

"I almost gave up, about a year or so into it. Everything was just so pointless. So painful. Existence itself felt suffocating.” 

The lights of Manhattan were so few and scattered that the view from the top of the Empire State Building looked like the starry night sky. 

One step would have made it all go away. 

Then his eye had caught a woman being assaulted on the roof several blocks over, and his feet had moved on their own, not into empty air, but toward the screams for help. He had grabbed the assailant and showed no mercy. 

Why hadn't the Snap removed this scum from existence? Instead, it took his wife. His sons and daughter. Millions of innocent people when evil filth such as this was left to torment those who had survived. 

His fists had rained down until the scum breathed no more, and the woman had thanked him profusely through tears of relief, and something had shifted in Clint in that moment, that maybe he still had a purpose after all. 

The woman’s hair had been red.

“What stopped you from going through with it?”

“The only pain I would have ended was my own. The pain of others suffering from the effects of the Snap would remain unchanged.”

“I see.”

There’s something dark and hopeless in her tone, and damn it, Barton, she needs hope, not more reasons to end herself. 

“But, also...”

She meets his eyes once more. Listening. 

Clint swallows thickly. “I couldn’t bear to cause pain to the few people who were left who truly cared about me." 

A very, very short list that consisted mainly of missed calls and unanswered voicemails. 

“So I found the will to keep going. To use the skills I had to try to do some good. And maybe I did that in a warped way, but... I did what I was trained to do."

Wanda nods, considering his words as she stares into her tea. "Me too, it seems. All I cause is pain and suffering. Just like Hydra wanted.”

"That’s not true."

"Don't try to argue with me, Clint. All of it is my fault. The Avengers breakup began in Lagos. If we had all stayed together, we probably could have figured out a way to stop Thanos. To save Vision. To save me from having to blow a hole in his head. For nothing." 

"Wanda."

"And Sokovia—that would not have happened if I hadn't suggested to Pietro that we escape. Actually, it was my idea for us to volunteer for Hydra in the first place. If it weren't for me Pietro would–"

"Wanda, you can't think like that."

She is not the one to blame for what happened to Pietro. 

Wanda shakes her head, leans her face in her hands, and cries softly. “I just miss him… I miss them all so much.”

It feels as if his heart were literally turning to ash in his chest. 

Why had it been so impossible to pull himself out of his own self-pity for one moment to check up on Wanda? To go with her to S.W.O.R.D. headquarters? He could have prevented this whole Westview incident. He could’ve…

Nate yells out a glorious cry of victory, causing Lila and Cooper to huff in dismay and Laura to warn them to quiet down 'or else.' Clint’s eyes flick to his youngest son, full of verbal excitement.

Nathaniel Pietro. 

Two heroes, dead because of Clint. 

“It all seemed so real…” Wanda whispers. “I must have gone crazy.”

"You want to stamp the word crazy to one of us, that’s me,” he mumbles, thinking of sirens and screaming—Laura’s field training appearing for the first time in years as she snatched the phone away and engaged in a precise, clipped conversation with Bruce. 

“You’re not crazy, Clint.”

“You heard what happened. It was…it was bad." And that's not even all of it.  "I think I did go a little crazy.”

Even now, sometimes it’s like he can feel her with him. Hear her voice; turn to reply to a smart-ass remark of hers and come face to face with empty air. He dreams about her every night. 

Fighting for the right to die. 

“I worry I may be losing it.”

Wanda's hand comes down on top of his. She opens her mouth to speak, then frowns, staring somewhere below his chin. 

“What?”

Soft waves fall over her shoulder as she shakes her head. "I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“Just delusional.”

“I think it is a testament to the strength of the bond you shared.”

Clint pokes her in the shoulder. "Then I would say what happened in Westview means the same. That even if that Vision or your children weren’t entirely real, your love for them was.” 

She gives him the smallest of smiles. She tries to draw her hand away, but he catches it in his.  

“Tell me you’ll stay, at least for a while? You know you are welcome for as long as you need."

She seems to consider it for a moment. Her eyes drift from Clint to the children, then back to her hand in his. She shakes her head, pushing her chair back to stand. "Thank you, but I can’t. I need to get away for a while.” She glances down at her hands. “I still have much to learn about my own abilities, and that cannot be done around people. I need…time.” 

He wants to argue, but can see the determination in her eyes. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” he says as he pulls her into a hug. 

"I promise," she says, then goes abruptly tense in his arms. She pulls back, her face pinched in confusion. 

"What's wrong?" 

She stares at his sternum, places her hand over his heart, and frowns. She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m just tired.” She meets his eyes. "You are special, Clint. I don't know what it is, but I have always sensed it in you, ever since we met. Maybe that’s what gave me the courage to come out and stand with the rest of you in Sokovia."

If there is one thing Clint is not, it is special, but the sentiment is sweet, regardless. 

"You are special, Wanda. You have more good in you than you realize. Promise me that you will never stop looking for it."

"I won't," she says, but her smile does not reach her eyes.

-

Present Day

Brooklyn

It doesn’t take enhanced hearing to deduce the source of the obnoxious and incessant knocking on his door. 

“Open up, Buck.”

Bucky pulls the blanket over his head. "Go away, Sam."

“What do you expect? I’m gone for thirty minutes and you just up and left! And you’re not answering your phone!”

For a reason. 

“Can you please just let me in? I just want to talk.”

Bucky groans and heads for the door. He would ignore him if he didn’t know for a fact that Sam’s stubbornness rivals that of Rogers. 

“Dude, I was worried. I’m standing in the middle of the hardware aisle when Sarah calls me hollering that you just took off without a word. What happened?”

Bucky pushes up against the wall, wrapping the blanket tight around his shoulders. He watches as Sam scrunches up his face and waves a hand in front of his nose. 

"What died in here, man? You’ve been back here for all of three days. How did you even manage a stink like this? When was the last time you did your laundry?”

Don’t know how that blasted thing works.

“Are these all pizza boxes? Is that all you’re eating?”

Pizza is an incredible product of the future. They bring it right to your door. 

“You trying to learn to draw? What are all these sketchbooks–”

"I'm fine, Sam. You didn't need to come here."

Sam crouches down to eye level. "Don’t sound fine to me. What happened?"

“Sarah told you.”

“I’d like to hear your side of it.”

That won’t make it any less horrible, Sam.

“You had another nightmare, didn’t you?”

“—clear out! Natasha, do you copy?! Clear out! Now !”

No. Stop.

“Like a dog, Barnes!”

He shakes his head roughly. 

“You want to talk about it?”

Hell no. The images are disturbing enough in subconscious form. He has no intention of replaying them in his mind, much less giving them the extensive thought necessary to put them into words. 

Sam plants his hands on his hips and raises his eyes heavenward. 

“Listen, Buck. The boys are fine. Sarah is fine. The wall…will be fine. You didn’t need to leave.”

“Brooklyn is home.”

He turns away from Sam’s unimpressed face and sits down in front of the television. “Crash here if you need to, but I'm fine.”

“You don’t even sleep in the bed you have.”

It’s not his bed.

“I talked to Steve earlier.”

Every cell within him stills. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Hell no.”

Thank the motherland for that.

“You think I want him even more worked up than he already is? Especially at his age.”

Bucky’s insides begin to twist.

“But he asked about you. Again.”

The guilt tactic is a low blow, Wilson.

“Said he misses you.”

Is there any modern social protocol that prohibits him from just walking out of his own apartment and leaving Sam here. 

“You can tell him I'm fine.”

“Why don’t you answer his calls and tell him yourself, man? Do you have any idea how difficult it is for him to call in the first place? He doesn’t want to waste that space data on me.”

Please, Sam. Just leave. Drop it. 

“Are you mad at him?”

“Of course not.”

“Well I don’t know, man! You’re the one dodging the old boy’s calls.”

Sam will never drop it. But Bucky can’t explain something he doesn’t fully understand himself. “Don’t know what to say to him.”

“Well, the guy’s your best friend, isn't he? And said best friend is in space. I wouldn’t worry about dead air.”

Bucky doesn't appreciate the word choice.

“Is this about Steve being older?”

Older. 

A voice that is familiar but also not. One that shakes and cracks. Words interrupted by coughing and other subtle signs of physical ailments that have strange and unpredictable effects on Bucky’s concentration, balance, and lung capacity.

“He’s still Steve, Buck. Even under all the wrinkles. And damn does he miss you. Talks about you all the time. Every time we talk I get another story about how you essentially single-handedly won us World War Two. Or about the food that would magically appear in the ice box during the worst of the Depression. How he would have been dead so many times without your eye in the sky looking out for him. Not one conversation goes by without him bringing up his old pal Bucky Barnes.”

The twisting in his gut elevates to a painful, pinching cramp, and his body prickles with shivers of uncomfortable heat.

“Steve is my friend too. It hurts me to hear what your radio silence is doing to him.”

Doing…what to him. 

“What do you mean.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow. “That concerns you?”

“What do you mean.” 

Sam crosses his arms over his chest. “Call him yourself and find out.”

The thought causes another churning twist through his gut. 

Calling Steve would mean hearing memories he does not share. Detailed accounts of the man he used to be. The man he could have been. 

A distinctive buzzing sounds from inside Sam’s jacket. He pulls out his phone, glances at it, then wriggles the screen at Bucky. “Speak of the devil.”

Bucky’s stomach lurches into painful spasms as the screen insistently flashes the caller ID at him.

“Why don’t you answer, Buck? I guarantee you would make his day.”

The phone continues to buzz, and Bucky’s guts achieve corroded pretzel status.

Sam pushes the phone closer to his face. “Come on, man. When was the last time you even talked to him? Not through me. Directly. Months? Over a year?”

Warm saliva pools into his mouth. A sharp pain clenches in his gut and something acidic burns his throat.

The phone is still vibrating.

“Come on, man! Just how much longer do you think Steve has to wait for you?”

Bucky lurches for the bathroom. For a terrible moment, he’s sure he’s about to splatter the bathroom floor with his guts, but he makes it in time, Sam appearing right behind him to witness his shame.

“Buck," Sam says as Bucky expels more unidentifiable emotions into the toilet. "Tell me what’s going on here.”

The insistent vibration finally quiets, and Bucky’s dry heaves begin to calm. He rests his head on the edge of the toilet bowl and focuses on breathing. Breathing and thinking nothing.

Nothing nothing nothing.

“Bucky. Come on, I just want to–”

Sam’s cell phone springs back to life, the vibration echoing throughout the bathroom and his enhanced hearing. Bucky’s adrenaline levels rocket into the stratosphere with such force that he nearly heaves again, but when Sam answers, the voice on the other line is Dr. Banner.

Who is speaking approximately three times faster than his normal speed.

“Wait, wait hold on, Bruce. Slow down. What about Barton?” 

Banner’s answer causes Bucky to meet Sam’s eyes.

“Yeah, um, shit. Okay. I’ll be right there.” He turns to Bucky. “Did you hear that?”

His head makes a ‘thunk’ on the rim of the toilet bowl when he nods. 

“You and Barton get along, right? You up for a trip to Manhattan?”

Thunk. 

“I’ll go get us a cab. Brush your teeth and meet me out front. Don't think you got out of this talk, either.” Then, from the hallway, "You hurl on me in the car and you walk to Manhattan, Barnes!" The door slams shut.

Bucky groans and waves a metal finger at the empty bathroom. Files away 'emesis' as a fallback plan for escaping a Sam Talk. Not that he could explain himself if he tried. 

Bucky flushes, wipes his mouth on his arm, ducks his head under the faucet in the sink, and lets the water run. 

All that needs to be put aside for now (forever).

If what Banner said was true, they have bigger issues right now than Bucky’s emotional constipation.

-

Present Day

Manhattan, New York

Clint pushes the Quinjet to its limits on its route to Bruce’s Manhattan lab which is also currently functioning as a makeshift Avengers base. A very awkward and uncomfortable conversation is inevitable, so Clint decides to start with Pepper instead of Bruce. 

“I’ll be there in just over an hour. Get whoever is there ready to talk. It’s urgent.”

“Clint, why? What’s wrong?”

Nat is alive, he wants to scream. 

Giving her any specifics would essentially be an open invitation to greet him with the nice, smiling people in white, so he keeps his answers vague. She’s suspicious, but eventually agrees, most likely out of pity. Even Clint can hear the raw desperation in his voice.

Pepper may not have been present the last time this happened, but he dreads to know what she must have heard. Convincing Laura is one thing. Convincing the Avengers, with the shadow of that horrible day hanging over him, is another. 

“How could you just leave her there?!”

“Clint, trust me. She wasn’t–”

“The hell she wasn’t! I can feel it in my bones! My soul! You were supposed to bring her back!”

But this is different from last time. 

Although he now knows it wasn’t a psychotic episode as it was later declared, he had been erratic, hypersensitive, and frankly bearing more trauma than he knew how to deal with. Now he is calm. Focused. And inexplicably but absolutely certain about one thing. 

Natasha is alive. 

He prepares himself for the very real possibility that he may need to cut himself out of a straight jacket before the day is out. 

His leg bounces impatiently as the miles tick down toward New York. The pain has stopped, the sense of urgency not quite as intense, but still there all the same. Even so, a quinjet has never felt so slow.

When Manhattan finally appears over the horizon, Clint’s adrenaline exceeds the jet’s altitude. He takes a deep breath and then calmly requests permission to land. 

He can do this. He has to. 

I’m coming, Nat.

Thankfully it is only Pepper and Happy that are waiting for him instead of the nice people in white. 

The walk from the hangar to the main laboratory feels interminable. Pepper wants to know how he’s doing, and there is really no way to honestly answer that without risking an abrupt detour to a padded room. 

He smiles and says “Fine” and his knuckles crack from clenching them too tightly. 

“Clint!”

Bruce is happy to see him, opening his big arms wide in a gesture that reminds Clint of Thor. Unlike Thor, Bruce knows the limits of puny non-enhanced humans and refrains from hugging him.

“How have you been, man! Look at me! Arm's all better and I’m big and green again!”

Happy is edgy, like he wants to get right down to the point of Clint’s visit, but Bruce is in the middle of an invigorating account of how he got back into this form and something about a cousin and… a kid?

He doesn’t have time for this damn it.

“Natasha is alive.”

Well that got everyone to shut up nicely.

“Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. She’s alive, and I need to get to her. Right now. ”

For a moment, their faces all take on an identical expression of shock, then morph to confusion, then concern, and then, finally, pity.

Shit.

“Clint…” Pepper murmurs, voice full of sympathy.

“I know what this sounds like, but I am calm and rational. Please. I need your help to get back to Vormir.”

Happy glances at Pepper. Reaches into his jacket pocket for his phone. Bruce’s giant Hulk grin has morphed into a giant Hulk frown, and shit this is really not going well.

“Clint…”

“No. Please. I know what this sounds like–”

“What does it sound like, Clint?” Pepper asks softly.

“I know. It sounds like…last time. I know I sound insane but listen to me. I am rational.”

Please, please believe me.

“How do you know this, then?”

“I just. I can feel it.” Here goes nothing. “I had a dream…”

They all look at each other, and their expressions say it all.

He’s lost them.

Happy puts his phone to his ear. Pepper smiles kindly and approaches him in a deliberately non-threatening manner. Bruce slips giant green fingers under his glasses to rub at his eyes.

Pepper puts a hand on his shoulder. “Clint, I know it’s been a rough couple of years–”

Clint gives a frustrated grunt and shrugs her off. “That’s not what this is.”

“Listen to yourself. It’s been years. You saw it happen. How could she even theoretically be alive?”

Clint shakes his head. “I don’t know. The stones? I told you, I don’t know how, I just know.”

“You still seeing a therapist, buddy?”

Oh for the love of–

“No shame in it. Most of us are, after what we’ve been through.”

“I’m not crazy! Just listen to me!”

Bruce sighs and moves toward him, planting a hand on each of Clint’s shoulders and ducking down to initiate eye contact. “I know what she meant to you. I know it was a bigger loss for you than any of us, and I cared deeply for Natasha. And I can’t imagine how doubly traumatic it must have been to witness what happened. But denial isn’t going to help you move on, pal.”

Clint pulls away. “This isn’t denial.”

“Insisting that something is or is not the case in contradiction to reality is denial, Clint.”

“Who are you to say what is and isn’t reality!? After alien invasions and evil robots and the literal genocide of billions? I know it sounds impossible, but I just know. I can feel it down to my soul!”

Bruce sighs and sits on a stool. “I’d be lying if I said I haven’t had the same dream, man. And some of them are so vivid because you want them to be real, so badly. But I have used the Infinity Stones, pal, and there is just this… awareness of what you just did with each and every one of them. And as much as it pains me to say it, Natasha was still gone after I snapped everyone back.”

He probably means it compassionately, but to Clint the words sound infuriatingly condescending. He stares Bruce straight in the eye, keeping his voice deliberating calm. “I don’t give a shit whatever ‘magical awareness’ or whatever the hell you get after using that accursed rock. I know what I know. Natasha. Is. Alive.”

Silence is his answer. He looks to each of them in turn.

Screw this.

Clint stabs his index finger at all of them. “I’m going back to Vormir.”

“What?”

“You heard me. All I want from you is help getting there.”

Bruce laughs without humor and runs a hand through his hair.

Pepper steps closer. “We can't just let you–”

“Do you think I want to go back there?! To that horrific hellscape?! Because up until now, that is the absolute last place in the universe that I want to be! Maybe I am wrong, but don’t you want to know for sure? If there is even the slightest, tiniest chance that I could be right, isn’t that worth it?”

Bruce bows his head. "And how do you plan to get there?"

"The particle suits? Spaceship? It doesn't matter!"

He just needs to get Nat home.

"You'd never get authorization for a Pym particle. It'd have to be a ship, and you need authorization for that too. I'd have to call a meeting."

"We don't have time for that! " They'll put him in a padded cell for sure.

"You want to do this, you play by the rules, pal." 

They don’t have time for this. Clint fists his hands in his hair and pulls. “Damn it. Nat…”

Pepper must take pity on him, because she squeezes his shoulder and says, "There are enough of us in the city to make this happen quickly."

“Let me make a few calls. Get people here. If you're lucky, maybe Thor still keeps in touch with those Ravager pals of his.”

Clint barely refrains from hurling a frustrated fist into the wall.

Stay calm. Breathe. Don’t give them an excuse to say no. 

One way or another, even if he has to hijack a freaking spaceship, he is going to Vormir.

Hang on, Nat. I’m coming.

Chapter Text

October 2023
Ruins of Avengers Compound

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

It’s a subtle, stubborn assertion, almost daring Bucky to disagree. Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes in addition to his bittersweet smile. No matter. Bucky will be proven right in a matter of seconds.

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” 

Bucky’s voice is soft but remains steady. He meets Steve’s piercing gaze, which is stubbornly still trying to argue without words.

It’s okay, Steve. You need this. You deserve this. Don’t fight it just because you want to prove a point.

Steve’s eyes take on a hooded, serious stare as he steps forward and hooks his free arm around Bucky, who mirrors the action, holding tight.

This is it. This is goodbye.

Steve’s persistent stare is almost burning in its intensity, compelling Bucky to meet his eyes when they part.

Words. Use words.

“I’m gonna miss you, buddy.” 

His voice has lost even more volume, but he keeps it steady. The slightest hint of a crack and Steve will start quadruple-guessing every decision he’s ever made since picking up the shield. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Buck,” Steve says with determination.

Yeah. Sure.

He forces one side of his face to curl upward.

Steve stands ready on the platform, and their gazes lock together through the suit’s visor.

“Going quantum in three. Two.”

See you on the other side, Steve.

“One.”

And that’s it.

Steve vanishes as if he were never there, and an array of emotions courses through Bucky. He can’t name them all, but he knows one of them to be contentment. 

Steve is finally home.

“And returning in five. Four. Three.”

His eyes lock onto the empty platform. Because he’s right about this.

Steve is not coming back.

“Two. One.”

An empty clicking sound.

The platform stays empty. Bucky smiles and swallows thickly.  Steve is happy now. Finally getting the ending he deserves.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know, he blew right by his time stamp. He should be here.”

Bucky’s smile is bittersweet.

Told you so, buddy.

Bucky feels peace. Steve is safe, now. In the care of those who he cares about, and who care for him. Carter will make sure nothing happens to him. 

…He…will never let anything happen to him. 

Bucky can rest, now. He no longer—

Wait.

There. On that bench. He knows the back of that head. The length of those shoulders. And yet.

“Well get him back!”

“I’m trying.”

“Get him the hell back!”

“I said I’m trying!”

That little punk. 

“Sam.”

“Steve, you know I love you, but they’re never going to take you. You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known on the inside, but on the outside, you’re just not up to it, pal.”

“They’ll take me. I’m not giving up until they do.”

“You can’t will yourself into the army!”

“Watch me.”

Leave it to Steven G. Rogers to go to any extent to prove Bucky wrong.

He urges Sam to talk to Steve first. He and Steve talked about this, and this spares Bucky from having to initiate a very awkward conversation.

Steve is…so much older. Familiar movements are so much slower. His vocal characteristics so much shakier. 

Steve passes down a decades-old legacy. Confusion, shock, and disbelief flicker over Sam’s face.  

“How’s it feel?” Steve asks Sam.

“How’s it feel?”

Bucky smirks, giving Steve’s pec another poke. “Like the you that’s always been in there finally clawed his way out from sheer determination. You little punk.”

Sam and Steve are done talking. Sam claps him lightly on the shoulder as he passes, shield on his other arm.

“Buck.”

Bucky's heart starts kicking in his chest. He is not prepared for this. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. They said goodbye. Steve finally did something to make himself happy.

But now he’s...back. And the brief surge of what could only be described as unmitigated joy at that fact is tinged with something he can’t identify other than the fact that it fills him with overwhelming nausea and makes his heart want to drop kick against his sternum until it breaks. 

He shuffles up to the bench.

Steve stands, smiling at him with wide, earnest eyes. “Hey, Buck.”

Words. “Hi, Steve.”

Bucky waits for the end of the staring. He spoke last. It’s Steve’s turn.

Steve’s smile falters, seemingly almost overcome with some undefined, intense emotion. “Buck, you have no idea…” he says before his voice cracks. “How long I’ve waited to have this conversation. How much I’ve missed you, pal.”

Bucky is not sure how to respond. His own process of missing Steve had begun just seconds earlier.

Steve looks like he deeply wants to pull Bucky into a hug, but his arms remain at his sides. "I owe you an explanation."

"No, you don't."

“I do. I told you I would come back, and even though I’ve kept that promise, this isn’t what I meant. And not what you imagined either.”

"Told you to stay there," Bucky says, and wonders why his voice is so thick.

Steve shakes his head. “No, Buck. I–”

“It’s fine, Steve.” 

It is fine. Why does his voice sound like it’s not.

"It's not though," Steve says, growing heated in his vehemence, and dives into an impassioned explanation of what he did and why, interrupting himself with self-directed accusations as if he knows what Bucky must be thinking. 

Can Steve’s knees hold his weight plus the extra emotion.

Bucky doesn’t want to hear the explanation. Sure, technically Steve did come back, but Bucky was still right. 

“…just like I said I would, but—oh, Buck. There’s so much I wish I could tell you…”

Is Steve even physically capable of talking for so long. His lungs are not, judging by the two separate times Steve is interrupted by wheezing. His eyes are watering, whether from emotion or age, Bucky does not know.

“…healthy and happy and not brainwashed. You wouldn't believe it, Buck. It’s almost as if you were a completely different person!”

A different person.

Yes. Experiences forge a person. Mold them into shapes that they would not have been otherwise. He himself was not so much molded as he was carved. Cut and chiseled and ground by HYDRA.

Without that, he would have been different. Someone else.

“…so sorry that it..."

Healthy. Sane. Happy.

“…okay?”

Steve was always happiest when Bucky was happy.

“…don’t know if that’s what you want to…”

What Bucky wants is for Steve to sit down.

“Buck?”

There was a question. “Okay.”

Steve looks unsure, so Bucky pulls his lips in, which he hopes resembles a smile. It’s met with a genuine smile from Steve, and then he’s reaching out, almost hesitantly.

The touch makes Bucky hyper-aware of their surroundings. The lapping of the water. The singing birds. Banner’s cell phone ringing and Sam pretending not to watch them.

Steve is so frail. Bucky is afraid to exert any pressure at all in case he may accidentally crush him. 

The peace from earlier has evaporated. Steve is not healthy and happy but here and frail. Frail and delicate and can be taken out by an embrace. A strong wind. Too much excitement.

Steve sighs into his shoulder and grips him for all he is worth. Bucky feels like he is being embraced by a bundle of twigs.

The sounds around them become louder. Sharper. An airplane engine overhead.

Whoever has called Banner is yelling. Vehemently.

Sam’s breath quickens. Sharp questions.

Steve’s heartbeat. Steady but too quick and not as strong as Bucky knows and how does one make a heartbeat stronger. What is a super soldier’s expected lifespan. What diseases are they most prone to—has this research ever even been done.

“Hey, Steve? Can you come here for a sec?”

Steve releases him. Moves toward Banner.

Bucky faces the water. Tries to calm his overactive heart.

“It’s Clint. …some kind of vision? …don’t really understand…”

He can hear the speaker on the other line clearly.

“…how could you leave her there?!”

“Leave her? I didn’t—”

Steve is upset. One so fragile should not be upset. 

“Then where is she?!”

The source of the upset is the phone. 

Barton.

“Clint, trust me. She wasn’t–”

“The hell she wasn’t! She’s there, and she’s alive! I can feel it in my bones! My soul! You were supposed to bring her back!”

What does he do. How can you punch a phone.

“You don’t understa–”

“The hell I don’t! You want to play the hero—her fucking shoulder to cry on and then you leave her in that hell hole?!”

“But I…I didn’t…”

Steve. Deep breaths, pal.

“No, you know what—fuck you, Rogers! You left her there to die!”

Steve’s legs, abruptly too unstable to support his weight, begin to buckle beneath him. Sam catches him by the shoulders and Bucky snatches the phone out of his hand with the other, crushing it in a vibranium fist. 

This does not solve the problem. Steve’s heart sounds wrong. 

“Steve.”

What does he do. What does he do.

"Steve? We're going to lie down, okay?” Sam says, trying to ease Steve down.

“I’m…I’m fine.”

He is not fine.

What does he do.

He tries to move. Who cemented his feet to the ground.

“Take some deep breaths. Is your chest hurting? Bruce, get Rhodes out here! I need some help! Barnes, give me a hand! Let's get him on the bench!”

Sam’s order releases him from his paralysis. He takes over and lifts Steve bridal style. He objectively weighs nothing. Bucky is almost afraid gravity will snap him in half and cause him to fall through Bucky’s arms. His eyelids flutter and his chest heaves with atypical rapidity. Bucky hurries to the bench.

Sam asks Steve questions. Location of pain and whether or not it is in the left arm or side of his chest. Is he having trouble breathing. Are any senses fading away.

Steve does not answer. Does not even appear to be aware of his surroundings.

How does one put a bullet in chest pain. Bury a fist in breathing problems. Apply a knife to lightheadedness and loss of function.

Why can't he hear Steve's heartbeat anymore.

Sam puts two fingers to Steve’s neck. His ear to his chest. He props one palm over the back of his other hand and stiff-arms Steve in the chest in firm, rhythmic pumps.

Is Steve going to die.

Bucky's hearing fades out and the edges of his vision cloud into a vermilion haze. Every hair on his body stands on end, and his vision registers Steve and Steve only. He stands there uselessly, simmering with the overwhelming need to shoot and destroy and maim and protect.

He clenches his fists tightly enough for the right to draw blood and for the left to give a creak of warped metal.

What does he do.

An unfamiliar hand reaches out toward Steve, and Bucky’s senses come screaming back. 

Don’t touch him. 

The knife slashes the offending hand within fifty milliseconds of it coming into contact with Steve’s vulnerable figure.

“Fuck!”

The attacker's hand jerks back nicely. Bucky readies himself for follow-up attacks. 

“Barnes! You—fucking psychopath! Bruce!”

A giant hand grips him from behind.

Protect. Defend. Fight. 

The assailant is incredibly strong, but has only one functional arm. Bucky twists out of the massive grip and flips himself up and onto his assailant’s back. He has a knife to the assailant’s throat a second later, but the hand reaches back and clutches a giant fistful of his jacket, hauling him away before he can strike.

He is held at arm’s length–at least triple that of a standard human–flailing helplessly in a vice-like grip that hopelessly outclasses his own.

No. Escape. Fight. 

Protect. 

“Barnes!” The assailant shouts. “Snap out of it! Damn it–are you okay, Rhodey?”

Damn it, let me go, you giant green ogre!

“Am I—you think this gushing fountain looks bloody okay?! He almost sliced my hand clear off!”

The same strategy proves to be ineffective against the green hand that holds him in the air. 

“Damn it. Bruce, I can’t tend to both of them!”

“I’m calling emergency services now.”

What is this guy's skin made of, kevlar? 

“I’ve got pressure on it, Sam. Just help Steve. But dammit! That psycho belongs in a high-security prison! A freaking institution!”

The giant may be stronger than he is, but let’s see him hang on to Bucky with a broken finger.

“Ah!”

Bucky hooks his legs through the gigantic green fingers and twists until he is dropped, and he is back at Steve’s side in an instant. 

 There are hands on Steve, pushing rhythmically against his chest. 

His vision is too tight and narrow to determine who the hands belong to. 

“Don’t touch him!" Bucky snarls, sounding positively feral, even to his own ears.

The hands jerk away, rising upward by the man’s ears, and Bucky looks between them to the man's eyes and sees...

Fear.

“Barnes? Steve is in cardiac arrest. He needs my help.”

Help. Steve needs help. He…

Shit. That’s…Sam.

The edges of his red-tinted vision begin to clear.

“I am not going to hurt him. No one here is going to hurt Steve, I promise. It is vital that I keep up compressions. If I don’t, he could die. Understand?” Sam’s voice is calm but his heartbeat is racing like crazy.

He’s afraid. Even terrified. 

Bucky nods, glancing away briefly once Sam resumes treatment.

What has he done.

The first assailant was evidently Rhodes, who is screaming and cursing and bleeding everywhere.

“Rhodey! I really don’t need this right now!” Sam shouts.

“And I do?!”

"An ambulance is on the way. Let me see your arm, Rhodey."

Every sense narrows in on Steve.

Shallow breath. Pain on his aged yet familiar features.

He can’t do this. He can’t watch Steve… die. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. 

Damn it, Steve. You were supposed to go back. Stay there. Be safe. Be happy.

Sirens in the distance.

He can't do this.

He can't do this.

Sam informs him of everything they are going to do before they do it. Take Steve’s vitals. Lift him onto the gurney and into the ambulance.

Take him away.

“Don't worry. We can follow right behind them.”

Bucky’s chest is a vice, and there is not enough air. His vision is glued to Steve's fragile form as he's lifted into the ambulance, and something must be wrong with his eyesight, because Steve keeps getting blurry between blinks.

“Steve’s heart started again. I’m pretty sure he’s going to be fine, Barnes. ...Bucky.”

No. Whether it be today, tomorrow, or next week, the day will soon come when Steve will very much not be okay.

And there's nothing he can do about it.

He can’t be here.

“Come on, let’s follow behind them.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Rhodes spits from his seat in the back of an emergency vehicle where a paramedic is stitching up his hand. “You can't let this psychopath anywhere near Steve! I mean it, Sam. Either he’s locked in a prison or psych ward within the next hour or–”

“No, you listen to me, Rhodes. This is what is going to happen. You’re going to get your ass to the hospital, stitch that arm and let me handle this. And you,” Sam says, pointing a finger at Bucky. “You are getting a PTSD psych evaluation and an appointment with a qualified therapist set up tonight.”

Bucky must be a sight, because Sam’s eyes soften just a touch.

“But I don’t see why we can’t do that from Steve’s hospital room.”

Hospital. Steve in a bed, hooked up to monitors and machines that monitor his delicate heartbeat.

Bucky takes a step backward.

“PTSD my ass! The Wakandans said he was free. This is the same man that murdered Tony's parents, Sam! He is a threat. He belongs on the Raft!"

Sam hollers something back about Stark and PTSD, but Bucky can't hear the rest because a shaky “Bucky” quavers out from the ambulance, and Bucky’s feet falter in their backward tread.

Steve.

Who is frail, and nearly just died. And what did Bucky do to stop it. He made it worse. Deprived Steve of several seconds of critical medical aid.

He can’t object to Rhodes' accusations because they’re true. He is a threat. A threat to the public. A threat to Steve's friends.

A threat to Steve. 

And so Bucky runs. 

-

Present Day

Manhattan

Manhattan traffic is terrible, even at two in the afternoon on a weekday. The sharp turns as the cab weaves through traffic and loud city noises outside do nothing for his nausea either.

But the shape of the knife in his hand is familiar. The weight of it as it spins through his fingers grounding. “What did Banner say.”

Sam is still in a mood, leaning his elbow against the cab window and staring out at traffic. “What, couldn’t hear everything with your head in the toilet bowl, puking up all those repressed emotions?”

“Sam.” The blade twirls faster.

A heavy, long-suffering sigh. “Barton’s at the lab. He's insisting that Natasha is alive. Stranded.”

Again, he doesn't say.

“Bruce says he’s pretty riled up.”

Lungs too old to take in air fast enough. A heart too old to handle the words being hurtled at it. Bucky, useless to do anything to stop it.

“I guess I just assumed that he was getting better. He only had that one episode, and that was almost two years ago.”

“How could you leave her there?!”

“Clint, no. I looked, I swear I looked for her!”

Blade and handle blur together in rapid rotation.

“Steve is fine, Buck," Sam says with deliberate calm. "He’s off planet.”

The flesh hand twirling the knife is trembling. Bucky fists the handle and grips it tightly.

Sam’s features soften. “Let’s just go and see what we can do. Barton’s had a rough couple years. I guess you're not the only one not so great at dealing with emotions, huh?"

Guess not.

Emotions were definitely not permitted during his time with Hydra. They were extracted from him like oil from an oil press. Wrung out of him like dirty water from a mop…

The world begins to sway. Gently, back and forth, and Bucky’s nausea returns threefold. 

Not a flashback. Please don’t be a flashback.

“What’s that?” Sam says, frowning.

“Small earthquake, I think,” the driver says, glancing at them in the rear view mirror.

Well, that’s a relief. Now if only he could get his right hand to stop trembling.

They’re dropped off less than a block from the lab, but Bucky can hear them the instant they’re out of the car.

"—textbook delusional psychosis! I know you have PTSD and I feel for you man, I do, but you can't seriously expect us to let you out into space in your condition?"

This is bad.

Potts lets them in, and Bucky hardly recognizes her. The skin under her eyes sags like deflated balloons, and the rest of her face looks like it's been wrung out like a dishcloth. 

What the hell has been going on here.

"Thank God," Potts says when she sees Sam, who gives her a quick hug before diving headfirst into the fray.

"How are you doing, Barnes?" Potts asks.

Narrowly suppressing nausea, thanks. 

"It’s Clint. Oh, Barnes, I’m so worried about him. It’s just like last time, but he isn’t snapping out of it!”

He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do to help.”

She nods in gratitude, but touches his arm before he can go inside. “Rhodey has pretty strong opinions about this. Don't let him upset you."

Great.

Heated voices grow louder as he approaches the lab. 

“Stop talking to me like I’m a spooked horse! I’m not crazy!”

The door swooshes open to reveal Banner, once again enormous and green, extending his arms in a pleading gesture. “Nobody’s calling you crazy,” he says, in the precise tone one would use with a crazy person.

Barton twists away from Banner’s massive hand with a snarl. “Then you’re all thinking it much too loudly if I can hear you.”

Colonel Rhodes's steely features smooth into relief when he sees Sam. "So good to see you, man," he says. They clasp together in a strong handshake and clap on the shoulder.

The short nod and “Barnes” Bucky gets is considerably cooler in comparison.

No change in status there, then. Good to know.

“Natasha is gone, man. You said so yourself! It’s normal to feel denial, to want to bargain to make it all go away, but that doesn’t change reality.”

"I know what I know. Please, we're wasting time!"

Banner gets close. Speaks in a low voice. “We’re waiting for Thor, Quill, and his gang to arrive before we make a final decision, but… I’m worried about him, Sam. If this is another episode, it has now officially lasted much longer than the first one. And he is not backing down.” He glances back at where Rhodes and Barton are having a heated argument. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Sam sighs heavily. “I don’t know that I could say anything that would help, but...” he glances at Bucky. “Think you could talk him down?”

Me?

Banner pulls Sam aside. Speaks in a hushed voice. “Is that the best idea? Considering what went down last time?”

“That was a long time ago. They're good now.”

“...If you’re sure.” He glances at Bucky. “Then how about it, Barnes? Think you could get through to him? You have more experience than anyone when it comes to…”

Bucky turns his stare to Banner. “Losing your mind?”

Banner breaks eye contact and has the decency to look sheepish.

Sam takes pity on him. “Flashbacks. Hallucinations. Perfectly normal effects of PTSD, Buck.”

Sure.

Barton, while he doesn’t look good, also doesn’t look on the brink of homicide either. His hands dig into his hair. His face is pinched and desperate. But he is not violent, nor does he appear to be in the grips of a PTSD-induced hallucination.

Why can’t they just let him go.

"You get a hold of Steve?"

Bucky's breath stops. It takes all his willpower not to look at Sam.

"Nah, haven't been able to get through." Sam is speaking to Bruce, but his eyes burn as they skim over Bucky.

Bucky is spared from the burning stare when a computer announces the arrival of the Bowie, and he retreats into the shadows amidst the ensuing chaos. 

Thor descends the ramp of the ship and booms, “WHERE IS MY DISTRESSED COMRADE?”

He is quickly followed by Quill’s band of outcasts and Quill himself, who wastes no time with pleasantries.

“What do you know?” he demands, crowding Barton against the wall. “What’s this about possible survival on Vormir?”

Bucky huddles further in the shadows in the corner of the lab, closing his eyes and trying to block out the raised voices that cut each other off and compete for superior volume. 

"...been having them ever since the Heist. Therapist diagnosed them as trauma-induced night terrors, but I don't believe that’s what they are anymore.”

Barton speaks as if dreams and reality are not entirely separate.

“Buck! Stop! Is this what Steve would want?!”

Stop. It's not real. Dreams and reality are separate.

Bucky slows his breathing and opens his eyes. Sam pretends he wasn’t staring and turns back to Barton.

“But this one was different. Natasha, she jerked awake. She's alive and in pain. On Vormir. I could–I can feel her. Alive. Please. Just let me bring her home.”

Does Banner think his meticulously slow pace will prevent anyone from noticing him circling the room. Slowly inching closer to Barton.

“Think about what you are saying, Clint," says Potts. "Even if you had left to get her the moment we defeated Thanos, technically, didn't she die in 2014?"

“I know. I can't explain it, but I feel her alive, right now. Touch me with that syringe and a knife is going right through your big green eyeball.”

Banner promptly backs away, hands in plain view in front of him.

“It’s just a mild sedative. And I was going to ask for your consent before I administered it.”

Yeah right.

“I do. Not. Consent,” Barton growls through clenched teeth.

Banner ducks his head apologetically and backs away.

"Perhaps I could help?" the alien with the horrifically large eyes volunteers.

Banner looks thoughtful. "That might not be a bad idea. Clint? Would you consent to letting Mantis help calm you down?"

What.

"What?" Barton says.

Bucky's blood pressure elevates at the very idea.

"She could help you."

“Or she could render me unconscious and I wake up in a straight jacket.”

Banner has the courtesy to look horrified. “That’s not what this is!”

“Says the Hulk who was just about to sedate me!”

Banner bows his head. "Okay. You're right. I'm sorry. Just, look at this from our perspective, Clint. Last time was not pretty. She could help us objectively ascertain what kind of emotional state you're in. Whether you're lucid or... you know. Just let us make sure this isn't a repeat of last time."

"No," Barton says. "No drugs, and I am sure as hell not letting another alien in my head." Then, softly. "No offense."

Mantis smiles brightly. “Oh it’s okay! To you, I am an alien! But that isn't how my powers work. I can sense what you feel, but I have no access to whatever thoughts may be causing or influencing them. I cannot read your mind, or manipulate thoughts. My abilities are entirely limited to emotions."

Banner gestures enthusiastically at Mantis. "See? How about it?"

Barton displays clear aversion.

"You got to meet us halfway, man. Just let her prove that you are in your right mind. That's all."

"You've got nothing to hide. Right?" Rhodes says, arms pulled tight across his chest. “Isn’t this all for Nat?”

“Yeah! Do it for Nat.”

Barton's eyes close, and he breathes deeply for ten seconds. "Fine. Just. Hurry up."

The lab goes quiet.

Mantis makes a point to stay in Clint's sight line at all times. Bucky makes a deliberate effort not to crush the edge of the metal table he is propped on when her hand brushes Barton’s arm.

Mantis gasps at the contact. Her eyes flutter closed, and she seems to almost shudder from the intensity of some unseen energy.

After seven seconds, Barton pulls away. Overcome, Bucky judges, from the way he hides his face from everyone.

“Mantis?”

Mantis wipes at her eyes, her voice strained as she says, “He is...in anguish." It takes several moments before she can continue. "It felt like...a whirlpool surging with sorrow and guilt. The sense of responsibility he bears is considerable. Regret so bitter. I’m not sure I have ever felt a grief so crushing in its intensity."

Barton still hasn't turned around.

“This tells us nothing we didn’t already know,” Rhodes says after a pause. “It doesn't prove that Barton isn't hallucinating all of this, and certainly doesn’t justify letting him loose in space.”

“Did you sense that Barton might be…mentally compromised?” asks Banner.

Subtle.

Mantis hesitates and looks rapidly from Banner to Rhodes to Quill. “I… I can tell you that he is very upset. And that his sense of urgency is genuine.”

The lab is silent for all of twelve seconds before it erupts into a cacophony of suggestions, objections, and accusations that make the nerves in Bucky’s head pulse.

He doesn’t see the problem. They live in a world where half the population was eradicated with a snap. Where giant heads appear in the sky. Where people fly into the ocean and survive. 

What is Barton suggesting that is so much more unbelievable?

“He could be right.”

The raspy voice cuts through the discord, and every eye turns to the only individual even less verbal than Bucky.

“It has been said that souls communicate through dreams,” Nebula continues. “You and Romanoff retrieved the Soul Stone together. You held it in your hand. Perhaps Romanoff’s soul is trying to communicate with yours from wherever it went after the exchange.”

“You believe this could be legit, Nebula?” Quill asks.

“I can say nothing for certain.”

"Could that be a plausible theory?" Banner asks.

"Oh, come on man. You can't be serious."

"Do we not owe it to our fallen comrade to try?"

"We need to rely on science here–"

"Boys, come on now–"

Again, the lab dissolves into chaos.

Bucky watches as Barton hovers on the verge of crumbling. Every inch of him is a man defeated, a man out of options, a man on the brink of despair.

But then, in the next instant, something seems to overtake Barton. Despair vanishes in the midst of an iron determination that is eerily reminiscent of Steve. He slips away from the others with a stealth that even Bucky finds impressive, getting halfway up the ramp before–

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going, arrow boy?”

All argument abruptly ceases at Rocket’s words, turning to outrage as Barton is manhandled, kicking and cursing, off the ship by Banner.

“You see what I mean?” Rhodes yells.

“Do we not owe it to our dear comrade to investigate this extraordinary claim?”

“Clint, calm down! Can’t you see you’re only making things worse for yourself?”

Barton’s infuriated dismay at being caught finds a second home in Bucky, magnifying twelve-fold when Barton’s curses quickly descend into desperate pleas.

“No! No, please! Let me go! She’s dying! Please, let me bring her home!”

They don’t believe him. They are not going to give him the chance to know. To be sure.

“How did you find me?”

“I heard your unit was captured. They...they told me you were dead.”

“Then how—?”

“I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. I had to make sure. I had to get you out of there, Buck.”

Bucky pushes off the wall.

"Let him go," he says. He doesn't yell, but the room goes silent.

Everyone stares at him. He stares back.

Sam takes his arm and moves in close. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying, let him go."

“He's hallucinating, Buck. Don't you realize how dangerous–"

“I don’t think he’s hallucinating.”

Sam frowns. “You believe him?”

Yes. No. That's not. Damn it.

He sighs in frustration. Plants his vibranium arm on the wall and digs for words. “In 1943, most of my regiment was captured. Declared dead. That wasn’t technically true, but we were as good as dead."

Sam nods. “I am familiar with the story."

“Steve had no reason to believe I was alive. But he had to be sure. He had to know.”

“We do know, Buck. Clint knows better than anyone.”

“Steve knew too. After I fell.” Then harbored a trademark Rogers guilt trip that spanned most of a century because he didn’t go looking to be sure.

“It’s not the same thing.”

“What if it were Steve? Wouldn’t you want to give him that closure, no matter how illogical it seemed?”

Sam shifts from one foot to the other. Looks for wisdom on the ceiling.

Bucky remembers a photo on Sam’s desk. Takes a breath. “What if it were Riley?”

Sam’s eyes are on him instantly. Hard. Piercing.

Good thing Bucky can handle a good staring contest.

Sam lets out a breath. “That’s a lot of words for you.” He glances over to Barton, now finally released, expertly flipping a coin between his fingers and making an obvious effort not to explode from urgency.

Sam releases the heavy sigh that Bucky recognizes from every time Steve asks something of him, usually regarding Bucky.  “I am so gonna regret this.”

Sam speaks to Banner in hushed tones. Banner reacts with variations of “Are you crazy” and “You can’t be serious,” but despite Sam’s dubious acceptance of Bucky’s opinion, he doesn’t back down. Not even when Rhodes joins in with even more colorful ways to disagree with Sam and cast doubt on Barton’s sanity.

Bucky’s eyes meet Barton’s in the middle of ‘will not be held hostage by the whims of someone who frankly should be on antipsychotic meds.’  There is no possible way that Barton could have heard his conversation with Sam, nor the current one between Banner and Rhodes, but his head nods a 'thank you' at Bucky anyway.

"We're taking a vote," Sam declares. "Barton, you win a majority of the votes, we'll get you to Vormir. You don't, and you go home, peaceably. Understood?"

Barton's face is hard as marble, but he nods.

Bucky imagines this is how Steve nodded when Colonel Phillips told him to stand down.

"Rhodey?"

Rhodes opens his mouth to protest. Bucky catches his eyes and holds them.

Rhodes closes his mouth. Glares at the floor.

Thought so.

Sam addresses everyone. "We all know how this went down once before. I would ask you to put that out of your minds, and make your decision based on what you heard from Barton today. At best, he could be right. He could find Natasha, and bring her back to us. Alternatively, he could go and not find her, but finally know for certain, and get the closure that he so desperately needs. And after what Barton suffered for so many of us to be here today, myself included, I believe he deserves it."

Getting better at the Captain America speeches, Sam.

"All in favor?"

The first hands to go up are from Quill and his companions. Thor. Potts. Then, reluctantly, Banner.

Bucky raises his hand.

“This is ridiculous. You all seriously can’t be considering allowing Barton out in space? In his condition? At best it’s a wild goose chase and at worst we risk losing someone else.”

“I think we can handle a rogue arrow boy,” Rocket says, folding his arms over his chest.

“The last words of more than one man who underestimated Barton,” Rhodes mumbles.

Sam raises his hand. "Those in favor have an overwhelming majority. You're cleared, Clint."

"Thank you," Barton says, his voice a cracked whisper.

“Please, Buck. Let me go get you. Let me save you.”

"He’s all yours, Quill," Banner says, then pats Barton on the shoulder with a soft 'be careful.'

"Thor, make sure he comes back in one piece.”

“Of course. Come, friend Barton. Let us immediately set off to pay our fallen comrade her due respects.”

-

They do not immediately set off.

Quill announces extensive damage and a need of repairs—giving the raccoon the side eye as he does so—and Clint is going to have an aneurysm if they don’t hurry this shit up. 

Clint clutches the edges of the table and concentrates on breathing normally. A few feet away, Sam speaks to Mantis in hushed tones, putting him on high alert for surprise sleep treatments, but the only person they keep glancing at is Barnes.

Clint feels like he might puke. No one seems to grasp the urgency of this situation. Natasha could be dying. They could already be too late—

No. He would know. She is alive; he knows it. But she could be in terrible pain, at the mercy of the elements, in danger from some outside force.

She needs him.

His gut feels like it is eating itself.

What the hell is taking so long?

Maybe they are gathering straight-jackets after all– shit!

Clint jumps nearly a foot into the air at the soft touch on his shoulder. 

“I am sorry to startle you. Is your aural assistance device not functioning?” Mantis asks, eyes wide.

Calm down, Barton. No one’s going to let you out of here if you jump at every little thing. 

“Sorry. It’s functioning fine. I’m just on edge.”

“You care for Natasha very much,” Mantis says, sitting beside him.

Clint swallows. Nods. Swallows again.

“I have experienced many sorrows through my abilities. Ego’s despair over his failed progeny. Drax’s loss of his family. Peter's pain after losing Gamora. They are all so horrible, but your pain is… different. It’s so intense, but there is something else there too. You bear a great burden of self-blame. It is suffocating. I had never felt pain quite like that before, until I touched you. Why do you blame yourself so?”

Clint doesn't answer. Can't bring himself to.

Mantis does not push. She gestures behind them, where Barnes is almost certainly lurking in the shadows. “Sam has asked me to remain here while you are away to help your friend, who is also in pain. I was wondering if you might consider allowing me to help you as well, before you leave.”

Clint takes a breath. Lets it out. “I don't deserve to feel better."

Mantis considers this for a moment. "I am not a human, nor have I ever had any family or friends that I have lost. But as an empath, I have felt the emotions of many beings. What I do know, is that it is the actions of those who feel no burden of blame that deserve to the most. Ego murdered countless numbers of his own children, and felt nothing more than disappointment, and even anger. He felt no guilt. Peter's burden was heavy, but it was more sorrow than self-blame. He tried to save Gamora. Even tried to kill her like she wanted, but it was out of his control from the beginning.

"But you. Your desire to have acted in some other way, sorrow that you cannot change the outcome..." She seems too overcome to continue. "I cannot bear it even secondhand."

Clint swallows, then returns to staring at the wall. "My therapist calls it survivor’s guilt.”

"What is a therapist?"

In Clint's case, someone he pays to argue with on a bi-weekly basis. "Someone who talks with you about your emotions. Difficult things you are dealing with. They try to help you come to terms with things."

Mantis's eyes widen. "Such a station exists?"

Clint nods. "Something you'd be perfect for, now that I think of it."

"That is something I do with my friends already," Mantis says with confidence. "I want to help people feel better." She looks at him.

Clint takes in her wide, puppy-dog eyes and genuine smile, and finds himself tempted to accept her offer. It's not that he doesn't want to feel better, he does, but what gives him the right to ease his own guilt while Natasha lies at the bottom of a cliff?

Mantis's face crumples. "I can feel the agony radiating from within you. Please, let me ease it for you. Just for a moment. Would you not like even temporary relief?"

Clint's throat grows thick and his eyes go hot. His world has been nothing but jumping from one island of despair to another for years. Would it be so wrong, to feel better, just for a moment? "Okay," he whispers.

Mantis grins widely and gently covers his hand with hers.

The effect is immediate.

A cool rush of relief washes over Clint, followed by a warmth of contentment. His chest loosens, and the heaviness throughout his body evaporates. It's far from how he once felt, back when both his family and Natasha were all alive and together, but the stark difference from the despair of the past seven years is so staggering that he cries out aloud with relief.

Mantis's smile is almost too big for her face. "This is peace."

A forgotten emotion. Not felt once in nearly eight years. "Wow," he gasps. "I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"You are welcome." She stands. "You also feel great urgency. I will urge them to hurry."

Clint allows himself to sag against the wall. To close his eyes and bask in the relief, just for a minute.

Soon, Nat. I'll be there soon.

The sound of soft footfalls jerks him upright out of instinct.

“Sorry,” a low voice says from the shadows. Barnes.

Clint sheaths the knife that found its way into his grip. “You lurk in the shadows on purpose or is it just where you feel most at home?”

Barnes shrugs. “Bit of both, maybe.” His head jerks toward the door. “Needed some space.”

Clint knows the feeling. He regards Barnes. The exhaustion behind his eyes and tension in his body. It’s like looking at himself in a mirror, but the mirror is a few years ahead of him in misery. Revitalized, he gets an idea. “Follow me,” he says.

Barnes gives him a cautious look but follows when Clint moves into the back hallway, then around into a storage room.

The screw on the vent is still loose, and Clint quickly tosses it inside the vent and braces a hand on each side. “Step up from shadows in hallways,” he says and hoists himself up and into the vent. Barnes hesitates a moment, then pulls himself up after him, looking warily on either side.

Enclosed spaces, Clint thinks. At the same time, there is security in having limited access points to oneself, and the material of the vent prevents anyone from a stealthy approach. But Barnes follows him as he moves in further, and settles a few feet from him when Clint sits.

They are over the common room, and Clint can’t make out words but he can identify the voices and tone. “Let me know when they’re ready to leave?”

Barnes nods.

“Tony's buildings always have vents this big. I end up here a lot when I need a moment.” He watches a spider pull itself up on a silk web in the corner. “Nat would find me up here all the time. Depending on what put me there, she’d either sit here with me or drag me out. Somehow she always knew what I needed.”

Barnes says nothing, but his face takes a softer countenance that speaks his understanding. They spend several minutes in peaceful silence, the voices of their friends and colleagues below them. Occasionally Clint can pick up the questioning tone of someone asking one or both of their whereabouts. He looks at Barnes each time, but Barnes always shakes his head.

Hurry up. Hurry up.

“Thanks, by the way. For backing me up.” Hijacking a spaceship would have been a major pain in the ass.

Barnes stares at the wall opposite, but Clint gets the impression he sees something else. It takes nearly a full minute for him to respond. 

“It’s important to be sure,” he says finally.

Maybe Barnes would prefer to have quiet, away from the loud chaos of everyone else. 

Clint leans back against the vent wall, closing his eyes and still basking in the afterglow of peace Mantis instilled in him, until Barnes’s voice startles him to alertness. 

"You said you had a dream. That Romanoff was alive.”

Clint blinks. "That's right."

“How did you… What made you so sure that your dream was…real?”

Not an unreasonable question, Clint supposes. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just…know.”

Clint nearly winces at his own words. No wonder everyone thinks he’s lost it. 

Barnes frowns at this, seemingly struggling for words of his own. “Even though the content does not align with reality as you know it?”

Clint nods slowly.

Just what is he getting at?

“Are you having dreams too?”

Barnes turns his overachieving stare onto Clint, who immediately regrets the question. 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Barnes sighs and leans his head against the back of the vent. “What did it feel like? Letting Mantis touch you.”

Like oxygen in the lungs after drowning. The touch of warmth after years in a blizzard. Like being able to speak after a lifetime of aphasia. “It felt like... like when I saw my wife's name on caller ID after five years of her being dust.”

Barnes meets his gaze, his stare piercing blue in the gray light.

"It felt like...hope."

Barnes nods slowly, takes the words and ponders them. "What is hope?"

"What?"

"I mean, I know what the word means, but... Hope, how does it feel?"

It's not an easy question to answer, and it takes him several minutes to formulate one. "Hope is…weightless, and yet so, so heavy. It is joy and devastation. It's a blessing and a curse. Hope is...a paradox."

"What you are feeling right now, about Romanoff. Is that hope?"

"Yes." 

Barnes is right. Clint has no idea what he will find on Vormir. But he knows he will not stop until he has Natasha back.

Clint also hopes that Barnes gets whatever he is hoping for, too.

They sit in silence for what feels like an eternity until Barnes lifts his head and says, "They're ready."

Clint scrambles loudly out of the vent in seconds.

I'm coming, Nat.

Whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

Present Day

Manhattan

“Let’s move it, assholes. We’re losing starlight.” 

Quill has been pushing for their departure nearly as urgently as Clint. 'Quill needs closure too,' they all say. But contrary to what his teammates believe to be the purpose of this mission, for Clint, this is not about closure.

This is a rescue mission.

“Clint,” Bruce says as Clint steps on the ramp to board the Bowie.

If eyes could scream, Clint’s would be sirens. 

Clint turns and bites hard on the inside of his lip. 

“Be careful. And no matter what you find, don’t let it make you lose sight of who you are.”

Probably his way of telling Clint not to lose his shit and turn into Ronin 2.0 when they inevitably find nothing. But Clint holds his tongue and nods.

Before Clint can take two more steps, a slow, insistent swaying of the ramp beneath him brings him to a stop. But it’s not just the ramp. Lab equipment, the ceiling lights, and even the hangar doors rattle back and forth, as if on gentle waves. Bruce places giant hands on giant hips and frowns, but it’s over in seconds. 

He makes a saluting gesture. “Be careful, Clint. You never know what you may run into out there.”

Clint nods curtly, rushing up the ramp before someone else can detain him further with more well wishes.

Thankfully, Quill does not waste time. Within minutes they are propelled into the upper atmosphere and stars, and Clint closes his eyes and takes a moment to be grateful that he hasn't eaten in nearly a full day.

“Do you have a weak stomach?” the large, shockingly blunt man, Drax, asks.

“Not generally. But it’s only my second time in space.”

Drax finds something about his answer to be absolutely hysterical. Wonderful. 

Clint finds a seat on the floor. Nebula stares at him from her own seat in the corner. It’s not overtly hostile, but it succeeds in making him uncomfortable. She could give Barnes a run for his money.

“Chill out, Arrow Boy,” pipes up from the left pilot seat. “We should arrive at your stupid soul planet in about half a Terran day. Try to keep your mushy human feel-feels in your gut until we get there, will ya?”

“Friend Barton is constructed of Uru, Rabbit. The same ore of my beloved Mjolnir. He shall not crumble easily.”

Wanna bet.

Rocket mumbles something that is no doubt unflattering.

“Groot! Put something on to make these chumps chill out, will ya? I don’t know who’s worse, Quill or the space-sick Terran out of water!”

What follows next is the voice of Frankie Goes to Hollywood fading in with ‘Maha hiya, give it to me one time now,’ and a heavy synth beat pounding through the ship hard enough to make the top tuft of Clint’s hair bounce. 

With an impressive flex of branch-muscles, Groot thuds to a stop in front of him and lip syncs–or at least the best approximation that his species can achieve– ‘RELAX’ about half an inch from Clint’s face.

Well. Frankie’s going to Vormir this time.

Thor moves to sit beside him, and Clint pulls his head out of his own self-interests for a second to ask him how he has been handling his own copious amounts of trauma.

“Much has transpired since our last reunion!” he responds, and relates a fantastic and rather ridiculous story about gods and swords and somehow enabling tiny Asgardians to become instantly competent and lethal warriors. He also apparently has a daughter now, which seems to have done wonders for his mental health.

“I have new perspective, friend Barton! We all handle grief differently. After Thanos, I hid myself away and buried my feelings in empty spikes of dopamine. Others, like my daughter's biological father, allowed grief to control them rather than cripple them. It festered inside his soul and found release in the form of spiteful justice. This is what the agonies inflicted by Thanos caused you to suffer also, my dear compatriot.”

A few bones in Clint’s spine crack as a massive hand claps him on the back. 

“But I admire you, Barton! If grief had chosen to take this form within myself, I am not certain that I would have mastered the restraint necessary to limit my rage to Midgard's criminal underworld."

Thor’s words are invariably and perfectly genuine. There is not even a trace of judgment from him, even though Clint deserves it. 

It’s… humbling. 

Clint clears his throat. "I'm glad you're doing better. Family makes a world of difference."

"Indeed. I am truly jubilant to know your own family has been returned to your side." His expression turns melancholy. Thinking about his own family, maybe.

"I wish there was something we could do for yours."

Thor’s optimism fades into deep sorrow. "As do I. I think that I shall never be able to banish the image of Thanos snapping my brother's neck for as long as I live."

There’s the nausea again. 

"You'll forgive me if I don't share the sentiment."

Thor heaves a mighty sigh. "I understand your reservations regarding my brother. But truly, in my eyes, Loki redeemed himself when he defied Thanos. I shall be forever aggrieved that I was unable to save him. And how I still deeply wish I could speak to him one last time to convey to him how truly proud I was to have him as my brother.”

Clint has heard what happened, but he is not so gullible as to believe some sudden sense of honor and integrity came over Loki. Loki was doing what Loki did best: betrayal. This time, he simply betrayed the wrong person.

But Clint isn't enough of an asshole to point this out, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

“His final actions, while tragic, grant me the closure that he is now with my father and mother in Valhalla.” He turns to Clint. “Whatever we find on this planet, at the very least, I do hope you also find that closure, friend Barton.”

“Thank you.”

Thor rises to his feet, his eyes growing dimmer. Distant. “What I wouldn't do to be able to speak to him one last time,” he murmurs as he leaves Clint to rest. The nausea, however, does not leave with him.

But despite the nausea, pounding music, exceptionally verbose raccoon, and dancing, muscle-bound tree, Clint’s eyelids soon begin to take on weight, his overstressed body longing for rest. He leans back and closes his eyes, drifting into what he can tell will be a fitful, uneasy sleep. 

‘Relax’ has faded into Journey’s ‘Separate Ways,’ infiltrating its way into Clint’s mind just as it enters the limbo state between sleep and wakefulness. 

~Here we stand~

~Worlds apart, hearts broken in two, two, two~

~Sleepless nights~

~Losing ground, I’m reachin’ for you, you, you~

It’s been decades since he’s heard this song, and he could do without it dredging up the painful relevance to his own life. 

Or the memories he’d rather leave forgotten. 

-

1983

Iowa

“How was school, kiddo?” his mother says cheerfully as Clint hops into the car, radio blaring. 

He shrugs. “Okay I guess.”

She puts the car in gear and pulls onto the road. “Just okay?”

~Troubled times~

~Caught between confusion and pain, pain, pain~

His eyes glue themselves to the dashboard. He can’t tell her. It’ll make her upset. Which will make her get out that white powder that makes her happy for a while and then angry at everything, or worse, the lighter and needles that keep her on the sofa staring at the ceiling for days.

“Clint.”

Maybe if he pretends it’s not as big of a deal as it was…

He shrugs again. Keeps his voice light. “Ms. Keeling asked about the marks on my arms.” Again.

His mother’s cheerful smile vanishes abruptly, now a cold stare as they come to a stop at a red light. 

Crap. 

“And what did you tell her?”

“That I play a lot of football,” he answers immediately, with as much speed as he did to his teacher’s startled face. 

~If he ever hurts you~

~True love won’t desert you~

She nods slowly, easing onto the gas pedal as the light turns green. “And what did she say to that?”

“Clint, if you need help… If there’s something going on at home, you can tell me.”

Shrug. “Don’t remember.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Clint.”

Clint gulps. “She just asked if I was sure! I said yes!”

His mother doesn’t speak until they pull onto their street. “It’s okay, Clint,” she says finally. “One day soon, the day will come when you won’t have to lie anymore.”

This eases the tightness in his chest a bit. Until their house comes into view. 

“Shit! Your father’s already home?!”

His chest clenches into a vice. He trembles so hard it feels like he may vibrate out of his skin. 

“He’s not getting at you tonight,” she says with finality. “I have an idea.”

~Some day love will find you~

~True love won’t desert you~

~You know I still love you~

~Though we touched and went our separate ways~

Clint listens to the plan and nods, heart racing in a space the size of a walnut. He wonders why, despite his mother beside him as his ally, he can manage to feel so very, very alone. 

He deserves this. He knows he does.

He just doesn’t know why. 

-

Present Day

Manhattan

Bucky cannot help but roll his eyes as he observes Sam whispering with Mantis in a corner of the lab. This is not the first time Sam has seemingly forgotten that Bucky has enhanced sensory abilities, including hearing. 

This begs the question of just how much Rogers ever actually utilized this specific ability. It is frighteningly easy to picture him standing under a metaphorical fountain of information but being so wrapped up in thoughts of justice and duty that he hears precisely none of it.

You can whisper all you want, Wilson, for all the good it will do you.

“You see, I have this friend…”

Who on earth could that be.

“...and he’s kind of going through a hard time…”

He is doing just fine, thanks.

“But what you did for Barton… I mean, you could actually see the weight lift from his shoulders.”

Not inaccurate.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to…”

Not a sunflower's chance in the frozen tundra. 

Sam’s genuine expression of care and concern is gratifying, however. Initially, Bucky had interpreted Sam's reluctant yet determined presence in his life as some sort of perceived obligation to Rogers to ‘look out’ for him. Now, however, Bucky would almost consider Sam a friend.

Both Sam and Mantis turn to look at him. Bucky stiffens, and Sam strides toward him with purpose.

Too bad he is going to have to tell his friend to go to hell with his well-meaning suggestion.

Sam opens his mouth.

"No."

He closes his mouth and frowns. "Come on, Buck. You haven't even heard me out. "

"I've heard enough."

"She could help you."

"No." 

"Why not?”

“Because…” 

Stupid. Words.

Even human hands on him bring about white noise in his brain and twitching in his hands. Alien hands are highly likely to result in casualties. 

"No."

Sam lets out all the air in his lungs and seems to lose control of all the neck muscles responsible for holding his head up.

"You are anxious."

Bucky's eyes widen and the mechanics in his arm come to life. He steps back. Flicks a gaze over his arms and torso in case he has missed any sneaky alien hands.

"I do not need to touch you to know this," Mantis says. "There are so many emotions that torrent within you, I can feel their echoes even from this distance."

Bucky’s eyes pierce into hers. He takes another step back.

"I understand your concern. My powers are formidable, but instead of seeing me as a threat, think of me as a threat to the pain inside you. I can ease it. Help you understand it."

Bucky pictures it. Letting her touch him. A jolt of something pleasant in the brain. Blissful relief, like when–

"Good boy. See what happens when you do as you are told?"

Bucky wrenches away. Marches toward the exit.

"Bucky!"

No.

"Good boy, Soldat. Would you like to see what happens to good boys?"

Shit. Stop.

His instinct is to head for the shadows, but… maybe there is a better alternative.

He pulls himself into the vent with ease and crawls forward several paces before allowing himself to stop. To collapse. His hands dig into his hair and he waits for his blood pressure to return to normal.

He wants a new brain. Wants to take a toilet brush and shove it in his ear and dig out all the filth and gunk and sewage inside. Wants that awful, nasally voice of Zola's to fade into a familiar warm tenor. Wants to overwrite the roaming hands of Soviet handlers with shoulder squeezes and back pats.

"Buck?"

Just breathe. In. Out.

Sam's voice echoes through the vent. "I know you’re up there. You don't have to come out. Just listen, okay?"

Whatever.

"I'm worried about you, Buck. To me, it looks like things are getting harder for you when they should be getting easier. And I think a lot of it has to do with you being unable to express yourself or understand your own emotions. Those nightmares you're having? They're those stuffed-down emotions looking for release. It's okay to feel things, Buck, even when those things are painful. You can't avoid the pain, you have to move through it. And it's okay to need help to do that."

Mantis did help Barton. Peace floated onto Barton’s face when her hand touched his arm. For a brief moment, Bucky had felt envy.

But, no. No one is touching him. No one will ever manipulate what he thinks, what he feels, ever again.

"I am not going to make you do anything you don't want to. This is your choice. Mantis is going to stay behind. She'll be here until the others get back in a few days. That's your window, okay?"

Footsteps, growing softer, stopping.

"Only suggesting this because I care, Buck. And I know you know, but Steve cares too."

Well, Steve isn't here, is he?

Sam's footsteps fade away until all Bucky can hear is the steady thump of his own pulse in his ear.

It doesn't make sense. This isn't the chair. He isn't in pain. He isn't frozen.

Why does everything hurt so much?

-

When Rocket announces an established orbit around Vormir, Clint vomits twice in the bathroom. He emerges to a direct eyeful of gray, heavily muscled clavicle.

"You ejected the contents of your stomach into the head."

"Drax!" Quill yells, "We don't need a report, man."

"But it's true. It stinks." He turns back to Clint. "Is it because you cannot handle returning to the place of your comrade's death?"

"Dude!"

"What? He is not the only one who has lost someone to this planet, but is the only one who has made such a stink."

Yes, Clint has long been aware that he is a selfish asshole. He is not the only one who has lost someone dear. Quill lost his girl. Nebula lost her sister. All of them lost their friend.

Natasha, at least, wasn’t murdered. While horribly tragic, Natasha's death meant others could live; Gamora's meant the erasure of half of all life.

Whale. Shit. That’s what he is.

Clint forces himself to look at the planet again. Remembers the first time he laid eyes on it. 

“You know, under different circumstances, this would be totally awesome.”

It had represented hope, then. A mission that could bring back his family. Experiencing the vast glory of space for the first time and seeing that spectacular sphere of amber and violet–Natasha at his side–he had felt hope for the first time in years.

He closes his eyes and focuses on that space inside of him that pulses with the certainty that Natasha lives. It is almost as if she were there with him. This planet can represent hope for him again.

“Rabbit! Scan the planet for life! We must hasten to Natasha’s aid!”

"No detection of any life forms," Rocket says. "But I am detecting a series of alarming geological disturbances."

"What kind of disturbances? What’s their source?" Quill asks.

"Dunno. But I don’t see how it could be a natural phenomenon. And they're growing in frequency and intensity by the looks of it. We can't stay long." The furry face turns to Clint. "You'd better be quick, Arrow Boy."

Right. 

He massages a finger to his temple at the initial throb of a bitch of a headache.

The rumble of the ship’s engine fades as they settle on the planet’s surface. The ramp opens to reveal the vast expanse of an endless desert, one lone cliff in the distance.

"This planet is suffused with enigma. Let us all take extreme care as long as our feet tread upon it.”

Clint's gaze is immediately pulled to the cliff. The altar.

Beneath their feet, the ground groans and sways for several very ominous seconds before going still once more.

"All right, people. We sweep the planet and we do it fast. You all have your assigned quadrants. Thor is on wide, planetary scan. Barton has the cliff and the immediate surrounding basin. The rest of you start at the basin perimeter and fan out from there. Rocket, stay with Groot, monitor the quakes, and search the rocky areas. Drax, suck it up and put on an aero rig, bro, we don’t have time to do this on foot. We don't know what's causing these tremors but it's not likely to be anything good.”

“How long do we have?” Thor asks.

Rocket shrugs. “An hour? Forty-five minutes? Hard to tell with how quickly these quakes are progressing.”

“We need to get out of here before they get too intense, so no dawdling."

Not a problem. Clint is moving before Quill even finishes speaking.

He makes a beeline for the base of the cliff. Her final resting place. 

It’s not as if he expects to find her in that exact spot, but he cannot help a groan of frustration when he finds no trace of anything. No blood, no sign of disturbance, no signal from her at all. 

He continues in an outward sweep of the basin, meticulously searching for any trace of human disturbance. Without warning, another tremor shakes the planet like the angry parent of a screaming baby, nearly causing him to lose his footing. The pain in his head has progressed from a background throb to prominent pounding. He ignores it and picks up the pace.

“Report, people.”

“Nothing.”

“Nada.”

“Negative.”

Clint can see the three figures ascending in the distance–the determined, angry march of Nebula, the lanky, slower stride of Groot, and the small, furry trot of Rocket.

"I bet the raccoon never had to climb a mountain."

The ground shakes again, forcing him to stop and flail for balance. He cups a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes when it stops. 

Damn it, he doesn't have time for this.

He circles the cliff, knowing there must be some indication that she was here.

He’s not crazy. He is not crazy.

Another quake hits and this time he falls over sideways, fumbling to recapture his aid before it sinks into the sand.

The others consistently check in over their comms. No one ever has good news.

The minutes tick by.

“Quadrant twelve, negative,” Nebula says over the comm.

“Twenty-two. Also negative.”

A harsh crack of thunder rips through the sky.

"Thor?"

"That was not me."

They're running out of time.

Come on, Nat. Where are you?

"If we don't get that stone, billions of people stay dead."

What is he missing?

He does another lap.

"Anything?"

"Negative."

"Then I guess we both know who it's gotta be."

"I guess we do."

He winces as something stabs at him within his skull.

Tasha. Please. Give me a clue. Help me find you.

He’s on his seventeenth lap around the basin when the reality of the situation sinks in and drags him to his knees. 

He can’t understand it. He was so sure. He still is. Feels it, feels her –that vibrant, determined spark that is undeniably Natasha –down to his bones. Surely they would find something.

“Natasha!” he shouts, circling the cliff once more. “Nat! ”

“All quadrants confirmed. No sign of life.”

Clint yells Natasha's name and breathes hard into the ground as the name echoes throughout the basin. A deep groan emerges from the ground.

Damn you, Romanoff. What did I tell you? Don’t give me hope.

"I'm trying to save your life, you idiot."

The ground shakes forcefully once more, and he cries out and drops his head into his hands when hundreds of vengeful daggers hook into his brain and pull .

He clenches his teeth so hard that his jaw cracks. 

Something is horribly wrong with him. Maybe the others were right. Maybe he really has gone insane.

"Well I don't want you to, how's that?"

He kneels in the sand and clutches his head until the pain subsides enough to press his hand over his chest. He is not sure which hurts more at the moment. 

The wind whirls around him, causing his nose and eyes to run. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t think.

She isn’t here.

"An everlasting exchange."

It can’t be undone. No one should know that better than him.

His legs go numb beneath him.

“Barton.”

The deep baritone on his right makes him jump.

Thor holds up a hand in apology. “I am sorry, my friend. We have not been able to locate any sign that anyone is here.”

Clint blinks slowly. Sits up gingerly and gazes out into the amber sunset in the violet sky.

Thor crouches beside him, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. "I have no adequate words, my friend. I am well aware that nothing that can be said can ease the torment that afflicts you. Human life is... like the cherry blossoms on your planet. Beautiful, precious, and yet so fleeting. Fragile enough to be hurled to the ground from nothing more than a strong breeze."

Only Natasha’s fall was decidedly less beautiful than a petal fluttering to the ground. Her death was not bittersweet like pink petals floating in the wind.

"But the last of the cherry blossoms signals the beginning of spring. And the flowers that come after it live through the entire season."

Clint is peripherally aware that he is breathing too fast. Natasha didn't have to die. She should not have died.

This is how it always goes, doesn't it. He gets an opportunity and inevitably screws it up.

"You little shit. Look what you did!"

Always the same.

"We can't live off of six dollars and a set of baseball cards, Clint. You need to do better."

His lungs can’t get enough air on this godforsaken rock.

"Barton?"

"But, Dad. That's the day of my class play. You're not going to miss that too, right?"

The ground hums and builds into the strongest quake yet, throwing him off balance and into Thor, who grips his shoulders to steady him.

“Barton, are you unwell? Do you require medical attention?”

Clint shakes his head. “‘M fine.”

"We must return to the ship. I am afraid there is nothing else we can do."

No. Not yet. He still has a duty here.

He struggles to stand as pins and needles prickle through his blood-starved legs. "Go on ahead. I will catch up in a minute."

"Barton..."

Clint lifts his chin toward the cliff summit that soars over their heads. "Please. I just need a minute."

Thor nods in understanding. "At least allow me to spare you the climb."

An offer Clint is happy to accept.

Once at the top, Thor closes a fist to his chest and leaves to give him his moment. Clint moves toward the edge, stopping just short of the twin columns that mark the altar.

Snow flutters and dances in the wind, landing in his hair, on his eyelashes. The world is silent save for the whistle of the wind and the low hum of the ground between quakes.

"You know what I've done. You know what I've become."

This is the last place in the universe he wants to be. 

During the Blip, the most horrific spot in the universe had been the farm. It had transformed from a warm, loving home to the site of his worst nightmare.

Now, this, this very spot on this godforsaken planet. This is the most horrific, gruesome, traumatic place in the universe.

"Well I don't judge people by their worst mistakes."

"Maybe you should."

They stood here, on this spot, when they offered their wordless goodbyes.

"You didn't."

He shakes his head roughly and pushes through. He made a promise to Laura.

He has to say goodbye. Once and for all.

He forces his legs to bring him through the altar, and he kneels a few feet from the edge, running a hand over the spot where they had struggled together. 

If only he had maneuvered differently. Anticipated her actions, like a good partner should.

He moves a few feet closer and looks at the spot where his arrow had felled her. 

If only she had stayed down.

He drags himself to the edge, crouches down, and looks out at the horizon instead of the impressive drop before him.

If only...

He swallows. Breathes deeply.

"Hey, Nat," he starts with a rough voice. "Bet you never thought I'd be here again, huh? I really thought that–well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. Clearly, I was wrong. Nothing new there. I was so sure, but... maybe I just wanted it enough to delude myself.

"You know better than anyone what a screwup I am. I have more regrets than I can count. But there's one thing I don't regret. One choice I made that was fundamentally, infinitely right. And that was giving you choice, Tasha. Disobeying orders, ignoring the smart thing to do, and going with my gut. Letting you live. The world was so much better with you in it. I made that decision so you could live, not so you could..." 

His throat closes and he kicks at the rock in frustration, watching with bleak satisfaction as gravel tumbles down into the void below.

"It kills me inside to believe that this was the ultimate purpose for that decision. What I wouldn't do to change things, Tasha."

"Whatever it takes."

Clint swallows thickly. This is it. 

It is time to say goodbye.

The rock beneath him rumbles with a deep roar unlike anything he has heard before. The cliff begins to rock with such vigor that he has to grip the ground for dear life. His head screams in agony, and the once solid rock beneath him now tosses about so violently that Clint fears his skull is about to split open.

"What have you done?"

Images flash behind his eyes and he can hear himself screaming. He sees Natasha–

crying

smiling

screaming

laughing

cursing–

Sees the same expressions on his own face, his wife, his sons, his daughter...

The cliff bounces as if it were made of jello. So forceful that he can't run. Can't stand. He can't even crawl. The cliff dips abruptly downward, as if its very foundation had fallen out from under it. One of the altar’s pillars groans and begins to crumble.

Real panic starts to set in when Clint notices sharp, angry fractures in the rock, widening and spreading like forked lightning. They charge at him, splitting further, about to welcome him into their empty embrace.

“Barton!”

It’s Thor, flying through the air with Mjornir held above his head like a blond Statue of Liberty. The ground isn’t stable enough for Clint to stand, but he extends his arm and reaches out as Thor gets within arms reach–

A stray fragment of the altar hurtles through the air and collides into Thor with such force that he vanishes into the thick hailstorm of debris, and then the rock beneath Clint’s knees crumbles entirely, and he is falling.

His instinct is to load a grappling arrow, but there is nothing around for him to grapple from. He tries to grasp onto something, anything, but all that surrounds him is fractured rock and thickening snow. There is no longer even any ground to catch him in its hard, unforgiving embrace. 

The very planet itself is disintegrating.

As he falls, he thinks of Laura’s desperate plea that he find closure. Of Lila watching him drive away. Of Cooper, Nate, and Kate.

Of Natasha, in pain and alone and dying.

I'm sorry, he thinks as he descends at an accelerated rate.

I have failed you all.

Chapter Text

Part II

Time Variance Authority

Loki lands hard on his back with a grunt. He scrambles to stand—racing for the time door—but it closes just milliseconds before he can reach it.

Sylvie!

“Why aren’t we seeing this the same way?”

“Because you can’t trust. And I can’t be trusted.”

His heart tightens into a ball of lead in his chest, and his skin goes cold. He lowers himself down slowly. Props his elbows on his knees and folds his hands.

“All I want is for you to be okay.”

“But I’m not you.”

The words echo through Loki’s mind and heart, as if in a loop.

She betrayed him. She took everything they had built between them and disposed of it like rubbish. Was it not real to her? Was everything she said all a lie?

He does not remember ever experiencing pain like this. It’s as if that accursed hammer of Thor’s came crashing down onto Loki's chest, over and over and over. 

…Is this how Thor always felt?

“Oh. You want the throne.”

“No!”

Sylvie will kill He Who Remains. She probably already has. What will that mean for Loki? For Mobius and the TVA? For the entirety of the timeline?

“What was I thinking, trusting you?”

Loki jerks to his feet with a growl and barrels down the halls. They must be warned.

Every alert system and monitor blares with warnings and flashing images of a rapidly branching timeline. Hunters, footmen, and analysts all hasten through the corridors with varying expressions of panic. 

If only he could find—there!

“Does he want us to just let them all branch?”

“Well at this point how are we even going to stop it?”

“We can’t!” Loki shouts, updating Mobius and B-15 as best he can while keeping himself together. 

“We freed the timeline! We found him! Beyond the storm! A citadel at the End of Time! He’s terrifying! He planned everything! He’s seen everything! He knows everything! It’s complicated, but someone is coming–countless different versions of a very dangerous person and they’re all set on war! We have to prepare!”

Mobius holds up his hand placatingly. “Calm down. You’re an analyst, right? What division are you from?”

What division is he… “What?”

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

But, Mobius…

Loki turns, noticing a large gold figure that once was molded into the likeness of one of the Time Keepers. Now, it is in the likeness of… him.

What has she done?

Loki is only half-aware of the furious pursuit of Mobius and a gaggle of minutemen. His mind is much more preoccupied with the horror of his situation. Oh, if only this were nothing more than an unpleasant dream, and Loki could wake and find his mother there to soothe away all of this horror. The TVA, the Avengers, the Sacred Timeline.

Sylvie.

He could drown this unfamiliar pressure in his chest with a glass of wine and a hot bath.

The loud blare of an alert startles Loki so badly that he nearly falls over the railing into the atrium. That particular alert… that is a priority one alert, demanding that all hunters report for orders immediately. 

Mobius and B-15 skid to a stop at the sound of the alert, seeming to instantly forget Loki completely. Loki hears Mobius curse, then shout at every analyst, hunter, and minuteman to rendezvous in around the center of the archives. Loki disappears into the shadows of the archives, easily blending in with the crowd of harried office workers and scrambling minutemen.

The alerts are still blaring and every monitor displays a message of ‘PRIORITY ONE. THREAT: PARAMOUNT.’ A live feed of the rapidly branching multiverse blinks urgently above it, which at this point more accurately resembles the web of an easily distracted spider.

“All right, listen up, people. New information and new orders from above, and I only plan on explaining this once,” Mobius shouts into the chaos. “As you all know, the timeline has gone haywire, with new branches sprouting at an alarming rate. Even so, do not panic. I have been told that there are backup measures in place, and that despite the chaos going on out there, we have to trust in the safety net.”

This inspires a loud rumbling of confusion, fear, and dissent. 

“Calm down, people!” Mobius yells. “We have an additional threat to worry about now, according to the big man upstairs. An extremely potent nexus event, to be precise.”

Loki shivers as he imagines who must have given Mobius this information.

"The cause of this nexus event is a variant of a specific individual, who I will introduce in a moment."

Oh, joy. What horrific incarnation of himself will he encounter now?

“But before I do, let me emphasize how important this is, people. The branches are out of control and increasing exponentially every second. As in there is such an overwhelming amount of new information to record that we’ve lost fifty typewriters in half as many minutes. And despite that, priority has been placed on locating one branch. One specific timeline–one specific variant–that has caused a nexus event of such magnitude that it is imperative we pinpoint it as soon as possible. This isn’t going to be easy. The timeline is branching with such speed and unpredictability that it is incredibly difficult to determine what this specific event–or which specific variant–it is.”

Sylvie, surely. Or some other version of himself that succeeded in overthrowing the Avengers in New York. But if so, why does no one recognize him?

“D-21, put the variant on the screen for me. Your target is this man.”

Loki braces himself for an unflattering and likely ridiculous facsimile of his own face to appear on the screen, but what appears instead causes Loki's jaw to drop.

“Clinton Francis Barton. Also known as Hawkeye.”

Barton?!

“Earth, late 20th to early 21st century. The way we find this guy is in the paperwork, people. And there’s no shortage of it right now. Analysts, we're looking for inconsistencies in variant behavior here. Look for any suspicious events or inconsistencies in every lifetime of every version of this guy. Study your files thoroughly and find and report anything suspicious. Hunters, wait for instructions and then redirect or prune the variants as needed. Don’t give me that look, C-23, I am not in the mood!”

Of all people, Barton? Surely he must be mistaken.

The man proved a valuable asset in New York, certainly, but Loki can name dozens of key figures on the timeline more influential, more powerful than Barton off the top of his head! Surely they are mistaken and it is a variant of Loki himself they are seeking. What could Barton possibly have done to alarm the TVA to this extent?

But one thing is certain. If the TVA—this strange, changed TVA—has the goal of eliminating a variant of Clint Barton, then that means that this goal is shared by whatever hellish version of He Who Remains has control here. And judging by the numerous images of himself proudly displayed in every open space available, this new version is not likely to be the most tolerant of fellows. He cannot be allowed to succeed.

Loki needs to locate this variant, and soon, before the TVA does.

But seriously. Barton?

Mobius moves through the clusters of analysts, clapping his hands rhythmically. "Pinpoint the variant and timeline and prune it. That's my new mantra, people. Pinpoint and prune."

Mobius drifts into a corner to speak quietly with B-15, and Loki maneuvers himself closer. He wishes he could just speak to him directly, but if Mobius doesn’t remember him, he can’t risk drawing attention to himself.

He ducks behind a railing, inching closer until he can hear Mobius and B-15 whispering on the other side.

"I don’t think I’ve ever seen something given such priority. What did this variant do?" B-15 asks.

"I don’t know any details, but from what I've heard, whatever it is has him in a full-blown panic."

Him. The word sends chills down Loki’s spine.

Mobius leans in closer and his voice grows even softer. “Between you and me, this has me freaked out. He was yelling so loud, I could hear it from the elevator while still several floors down. He kept screaming something about a ‘twist’ and ‘running out of time.’ When have you ever known him to be worried about time? He literally controls all of it! We need both this variant and the aberrant timeline to be taken care of soon, or you, and I, and all the rest of us might be out of a job before the day is out.”

Loki is close to panicking himself. A trip past the armory shows hunters running out in droves, so great a number of time doors opening in a confined space that several overlap and cause the hunters to return and hurl curses at each other. A brisk stroll around the cubicles reveals the analysts spewing wild theories and minutemen deploying into rabid chaos to determine their validity. 

Many return with arrows lodged in various orifices. Others are suffering the side effects of acute electric shocks.

Loki avoids eye contact, but no one spares him as much as a second glance. Mobius did not know him. Not only personally, but he did not recognize Loki at all. Him! Loki, the god of mischief! Of whom they had supposedly pruned more variants than anyone else.

While preposterous, he has to admit that his sudden anonymity does afford him more freedom to move through even the more restricted areas. He follows a clot of analysts into the archives, and what he finds gives him the All-Mother of headaches. Stacks and stacks of new files plummet at an alarming rate from paper-shaped tubes now hanging from the ceiling. Information on new branches. Exponentially increasing by the millisecond.

He accepts an extensive stack from the hundreds of files being hastily handed out among panicked workers and searches for a secluded area to read. The archive aisles are nearly deserted, with no one having the time to focus on normal variants. Everyone is either making mad dashes in and out of time doors, watching the chaos unfold on the monitors, or undergoing medical care.

Seriously, do these people not know who Barton is? Or with whom he associates?

“Status report, people! I want good news!”

Mobius is in his no-nonsense, ‘don’t bullshit me’ mode, and sighs with evident exhaustion at the hunters. “Come on, guys. The dude has a freaking bow and arrow!”

Loki finds an empty desk, stares at the voluminous stack of files in front of him, and lets his head fall against it with a thump. From the many exhausted groans around him, he can see he is not alone. It could take them years, centuries, eternities to go through all of this.

It is then that Loki grasps the scale of what the TVA wishes to accomplish.

In an infinitely expanding universe, they are looking for one specific variant, one specific moment in time, one specific nexus event that is hindering their plans.

No, not their plans. His plans.

The colloquial needle in a haystack would be child’s play.

He glances down at the first file in the stack. Along the front cover, it reads, ‘Barton, Clinton Francis. Universe 33390.’

Odin’s greasy beard– this is going to take eons.

He tears open the file and flips through its pages. Scans them with desperation. He must find this variant.

Inconsistencies in behavior, Mobius had said. What inconsistencies? Barton is pretty straightforward. Each variant is roughly the same as the others. 

Extraordinary marksmanship skills. Preference for medieval weapons. Smart mouth. Invariably close relationship with one Natasha Romanoff. Sometimes platonic, sometimes romantic.

“Is this love, Agent Romanoff?”

Loki is not certain which category those two fell into in his own universe, but judging from what he reads and what he observed for himself when Barton was under his control, their relationship, regardless of the form it takes, is a staple in each other’s lives. The nature of it does not designate an inconsistency.

What then?

Next file.

Abusive father. Manipulative mother. Asshole brother.

Life as an outcast. Naturally talented with weapons, languages, and reading people.

Next file.

Recruited by SHIELD.

One of the original Avengers.

Uncanny ability to survive despite having no enhanced abilities.

Stacks of folders continue to fall from the sky. Splat. Splat. Splat. Desperate attempts at documenting what is happening in every moment of every timeline in an eternally expanding multiverse, and Loki spares a brief moment to mourn whatever forest supplies the TVA with paper.

Next file.

Foster homes. Circus. Extensive weapons training.

SHIELD.

Avenger.

Romanoff.

The man has an astounding knack for survival. He is not enhanced, yet has survived countless confrontations with the mob, mafia, yakuza, AI sentries, Chitauri, Thanos, and of course, himself. Nearly every conflict that the Avengers face is successful if Barton is among their number.

Next file.

Barton… has a family.

My my.

Spouse. Two sons. One daughter.

A fervent desire to be a good husband. A good father. A better father.

Next file.

Abuse.

Avenger.

Loser.

This is absurd! An impossible task! He can't possibly accomplish it alone!

But…he is alone. On the precipice of despair and surrender to an inevitable fate.

Loki leans back in his chair and stares blankly into the endless aisles of the archives.

What is the point? This is a war he has no hope of winning. He has no army, no power source, no scheme.

No allies. No friends. No family.

The one person he ever brought himself to trust, another version of himself, betrayed him in the most ironic twist of fate.

He was a fool. 

What insanity overcame him that he came to care about Sylvie? About Mobius? About his brother?

No one can be trusted. 

And he is utterly, entirely, alone. A villain. Destined to lose.

“Do you think what makes a Loki a Loki, is that we are destined to lose?”

Except… that is no longer true, is it? He Who Remains is dead. The fate of the universe is no longer written. He is free to make his own choices.

Loki takes several deep breaths and surveys the chaos of files on his desk. He has to try. He chooses to try.

He sits upright and stretches both arms over the desk. 

Okay. Think. He is a trained TVA analyst. He possesses knowledge that the other analysts do not. He knows who is behind the curtain; he knows that they are all variants. But what can be done? The task is simply impossible! Even if he had endless time and the fate of the multiverse wasn’t at stake…

What would Mobius do? What strategy would he use when–by the gods! That’s it!

To hunt down a specific version of himself, Mobius recruited the help of none other than Loki himself! And if Loki needs assistance in finding a specific variant of Agent Clint Barton, then he will consult none other than Agent Clint Barton! A strategy surely no one else will consider.

There certainly is no shortage of Barton variants out there. However, it is with one of them specifically that Loki is… intimately acquainted with.

“You have heart.”

While he is hesitant to poke at that particular hornet's nest, he cannot ignore the advantages of working with a Barton that he knows, and one he happens to know rather extensively. It would be foolish not to utilize that knowledge.

Besides, Barton is an Avenger. A 'good guy.' Despite their turbulent history, surely he will be willing to assist when he realizes the severity of the threat they are facing. He hopes. 

It is imperative that he convinces Barton to cooperate.

Loki scans through the archives until he finds the number he wants. Six-one-six. He digs out the file he needs, then hides behind a shelf and incapacitates the next unfortunate minuteman who crosses his path. Newly procured temppad in one hand and files in the other, he searches for a remote area to depart from, when he notices a logo, written in large lettering across the top of each floor. 

The logo of the TVA, except, not.

Conquering All of Time, Every Time, 

for Kang the Conqueror

Loki swallows hard. It is time for him to get to work.

The fate of the multiverse could be on the line.

-

Falling is nothing new to Clint.

The first time Clint remembers falling, he was five years old, and his father had hit him so hard that the momentum had hurled him down the stairs. In his SHIELD days, he fell from skyscrapers and helicopters, jets, and grappling wires.

The prospect of imminent death is also nothing new.

As an Avenger, whether it be at the mercy of explosions or alien blasters, or a Hail Mary escape with a hastily recovered arrow and grapple, death was always there. A familiar companion, just out of reach. Death could happen at any time. At any place.

It is appropriate that he should die from a fall. From this particular cliff. Karmic justice.

He falls.

The rock crumbles around him as if it were sand. Lightning cracks in the distance. Boulders and debris pummel him from all sides, and down, down, down he plummets.

I'm sorry.

He closes his eyes–

Gravity abruptly shifts–taking his body and jerking him…sideways? 

Clint’s stomach somersaults as he drifts off course as if caught up in the pull of a magnet. The debris no longer pelts into his body and the dull roar of a dying planet goes abruptly mute. His reactionary shout is cut off as he collides with a blurry figure and skids onto a hard surface, the skin of his face catching on unnaturally smooth ground. Except, it is not ground.

Clint opens his eyes against vinyl flooring. He groans and hauls himself shakily to his feet, echoes of impact reverberating throughout his body. His stomach quivers like it thinks it should still be in freefall. While he is peripherally aware that he is in pain, he feels none of it, and knows his body must be running on pure adrenaline.

Is he dead? He must be, but...

Who would have thought the afterlife would be this... orange?

A groan from behind him spurs him into action. He peers back to spot long, dark hair framed around a face that he knows. One whose sadistic grin haunted his dreams for years.

“My apologies. I probably should have taken the angle of the door into account.”

The voice causes every hair on his body to stand on end. Clint’s legs threaten to give out.

Loki.

So this is hell, then.

The man in question turns to him with that same arrogant grin and says “It’s been a while, Agent Ba–”

Clint springs forward instinctively, catching Loki in a headlock before consciously deciding to do so. “Don’t say a word, you piece of shit.” He tightens and locks his arms in such a way that Loki will not be able to move without strangling himself. He quickly assesses his surroundings, scanning for exits.

A building. Large. Unbelievably large. Seemingly endless levels and rows of bookshelves sprawling in every direction with no end in sight.

What the hell?

Is hell an office?

“Mark my words, Nat. Hell will have paperwork like this. Endless, mind-numbing, useless paperwork.”

“That’s the particular experience you expect to find in the afterlife?”

“Yes.”

“Fire, brimstone, brainwashing, starvation—none of those make your list?”

“I’m willing to wager on it.”

“Only because one of us will be unable to pay up.”

I win, Nat, he thinks morosely.

“Agent Barton,” Loki grits out despite the pressure on his throat. “I know you must have questions. Please allow me to answer them!”

He does have questions. Loki gasps when Clint’s arms loosen ever so slightly. 

“What is this place. Why are you here.”

“I… don’t think you’d believe me even if I—egh!”

No shit. 

“Am I dead.”

Loki gasps again. “No, obviously. Because I so graciously spared your life just now. And my thanks for that is strangulation?”

Clint’s head starts to spin. “Keep talking.”

“What more is there to say? You were about to die. I saved your life. You are so very welcome.”

“Why.”

“Because your death was the instigating factor to an unparalleled world of trouble for me, that’s why. And if you want me to explain any more, you are going to have to release me!”

Fat chance of that. His arms tighten.

“Agent… Barton.”

Think. He was just on Vormir. How did he come to be here from Vormir? Where is here? Is he actually dead?

Wait.

Loki, while not biologically Asgardian, has physical strength vastly superior to a typical human. In addition, several magical abilities that Clint has experienced firsthand. The fact that he is using none of these abilities to free himself tells Clint one thing. Loki is right where he wants to be.

Clint throws Loki back and snaps his bow to full extension, his fingers itching to reach back for his quiver. Loki holds his hands up in a supposed non-threatening gesture.

“What are you playing at? What’s your scheme? Why did you bring me here?” 

To brainwash him again? To use him? Or…

If Loki brought him here, from Vormir, what would have prevented him from doing the same to Natasha?

“Agent Barton,” Loki says, very calmly, “I understand you have questions. And I shall do my best to answer them soon. But right now we need to move.”

“Where is Romanoff,” Clint snaps. “What have you done with her?”

Loki’s expression shows confusion, but Clint knows his face can lie as well as his tongue. 

“You’d better answer me if you don’t want to add to the number of holes in your face.”

Loki’s eyes flicker to something behind him, and Clint registers voices in the distance. “We need to move," he says.

“Not until I get answers.” He draws an arrow, nocking the shaft in his bow. “You know I don’t miss.”

Loki’s stare doesn’t waver. “You do not want to be found here. Trust me.”

“I would sooner trust a chair made out of toothpicks.”

“Is someone over there?”

Loki twitches in reaction to the voice, but Clint’s gaze remains focused. He lifts his bow, drawing the arrow back. “Give me an excuse.”

“All right all right,” Loki hisses in a hurried whisper. “You are in a location known as the Time Variance Authority, or the TVA. A place that exists outside of time as we know it. It has access to the entirety of the multiverse—which is in chaos—as is the TVA. It’s a long story, but right now they have one goal, and that is to find you. They want you dead, and if we don’t get out of here now, they might just succeed.”

“Romanoff. Where is she.”

“What? I don’t know!”

Clint blinks. “You’re right. I don’t believe you.” His arm draws back further.

“Who is that? Didn’t you hear? All hands on deck! Anyone got eyes on those voices?”

Loki growls. “Believe me or don’t, but your choices right now are to kill me, wait to be killed, or follow me. Your choice, Barton.”

How thoughtful. He is allowed the luxury of choice now. The tension in his bow creaks.

Loki’s eyes go wide. “They will kill you!”

“I’m sure that would tear you up inside.”

Loki's lips purse together in a way that Clint recognizes as frustration. “I can help you find Romanoff!”

His fingers abruptly tighten their grip on the shaft. Clint’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“I do not know where she is, but I can assist you in locating her! Please, we must make haste!”

It’s a trick, of course. A transparent manipulation. But in this maze of chaos, it is the only lead he has. He lowers the bow, but keeps the arrow nocked. “You’re going to keep your word this time.”

Loki nods vehemently, and gestures frantically to follow him through the corridor.

Clint growls as he follows Loki through an apparently infinite maze of aisles.

-

Bucky remains in the vents for four hours after the Bowie has departed. He spends the first two listening to disgruntled argumentative voices echo through the vent. For the last two, the lab has gone blessedly silent. It gives Bucky time alone to calm down. To think.

But the time alone does nothing to absolve the pain that churns inside him. The intensity throbs the way the face does after taking a blow to the jaw. A wax and wane that over time has become his new baseline.

But it is still there. Pulsing. Unrelenting. Unforgiving. 

Sam’s offer loops through his head. A chance to confront the pain. To understand the emotions and reasons behind it. To soothe it.

Every second that ticks by one second closer to its expiration.

Whatever. Things aren’t that bad. He is fine. After all, he is free. He doesn’t have to kill anyone anymore. His body finally knows warmth again. He sleeps, eats, and pisses when he wants. No one will ever be able to hurt him anymore. And yet…

This, right here, right now, hurts.

Why.

His thoughts are his own. His choices are his own.

“Your choice.”

His instinct is violent, adamant refusal. And yet...

Barton was also resistant. Barton also knows what it is to be used. But he let Mantis touch him. And the look on his face…

He knows what Sam wants. What…Steve... would want.

But what does he want?

He wants... to be left alone. 

He wants to be with others.

He wants to stop hurting.

He wants to prevent any opportunity from ever being controlled again.

Do these wants contradict one another.

He doesn't know what he wants. What he wants has never been relevant. Decisions were made for him. How does one make decisions? 

What is he, what purpose does his life serve, if he can't even make decisions for himself? His life has always been one mission after another. And currently, he is mission-less. There is no threat to eliminate. No asshole to kill.

No one to protect.

“You’re free,” Raynor loves to remind him.

To do what.

“What do you want, James? What is your perfect world?”

It’s a stupid question. Why devote thought and energy to what is impossible. To what he doesn't have. To who isn't here.

Stupid.

What does he want that is possible.

He wants… the inside hurting to go away. To stop feeling like his organs are twisting themselves into literal knots. To have a psyche that isn't so damn fragile that he can't get through a conversation with Sam without puking up his guts.

He wants… purpose.

What should he prioritize? Protecting himself from potential harm, or the chance to find purpose in life again?

His choice.

Damn it.

He crawls out of the vent and moves soundlessly through the corridors, toward the lounge. He finds Sam with Mantis on the sofa, where Sam sits with his body stretched so far out that his neck bends against the cushion where his butt should be. It looks horribly uncomfortable.

He's flicking through TV channels like it’s a sport. Mantis must be thoroughly entertained from the way she giggles from her spot beside him. The shield leans against the sofa.

He waits for them to see him but they are very focused on their inane activity. After a full minute passes, he speaks.

"I would have control.”

“Buck! Geez, warn a guy.”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and waits for Sam to put down the shield and climb down from the back of the sofa, and Mantis from the—wow—ceiling.

“We stop or start when I say. Not some doctor or…scientist.”

Sam's face grows serious. "Complete control, Buck. We’re done the second it gets bad, okay?"

Bucky's heart still pounds with anxiety. It's an impossible dilemma—evade any and all opportunities to be hurt, manipulated, controlled, and deal with this undefined frenzy of temperament and shaky mentality that runs rampant inside him, or...

Risk it, and maybe experience relief.

Hope.

“It is like I told your friend, my abilities are limited to emotions, and I assure you I will not do anything without your consent. I would bring out the emotions you are suppressing, help you identify them, and soothe the more painful ones."

He was allowed no emotions in captivity. Rage. Fear. Loneliness. They were all rewarded with the cattle prod, the hose, or the chair. Emotion warranted punishment.

Except... once.

They allowed him full emotion once. Left him alone with it. Let it sink into his bones and simmer in his soul.

The day they broke him. 

"Mantis would help you be able to put words to what's going through you, Buck. You can't move forward without going through. I get that it's scary, but this is an opportunity for you to regain the control they took from you, not for someone to control you again. But this is up to you, and what you want."

He wants... the pain to ease. To express desires and reactions in ways other than a spectrum of stare to glare.

Bucky thinks of Barton. How the lines on Barton’s face smoothed out, the anguish faded away. How he took in air like one severely starved of oxygen. He felt peace, he said. For a brief moment, Bucky had envied him.

"I know what it is to be used, too. For my entire life, my purpose was only to please my master. I watched as he murdered thousands." She holds his eyes. "I promise you, I will not take advantage of you."

Her eyes are very large.

Is Sam even breathing.

"Okay."

Sam makes a smile that rivals Steve’s.

Mantis had better make this twisting go away.

Bucky takes Sam's former spot on the sofa. Mantis settles beside him.

"We can stop anytime, Buck. Okay?"

Nod.

She doesn't reach toward him. She holds out her hand, palm up, and waits for him to take it.

He takes several deep breaths before he does so. Something in the back of his brain screeches in objection, but, as Sam said, he cannot move forward without pushing through.

He lets his palm lower onto hers. The moment their skin touches, he feels warmth envelope him. Safety. His eyes flutter shut. He nearly groans.

The deep sob beside him startles his hand out of hers.

"Sorry." She shakes her head. "You…you are very strong, especially on the inside, to endure so much for so long…even with no hope.” She offers her hand again and waits.

Bucky has been in close-quarter knife fights that were less terror-inducing than that hand.

"It's okay, Buck," Sam says quietly.

Deep breaths. He stretches out his hand. Puts it in Mantis’s.

"Is it okay if we talk about what happened at the house?” Sam asks.

Bucky feels an immediate wave of a distinctly unpleasant, squirming sensation.

"He feels...ashamed. Embarrassed."

…Oh.

"You don't need to be embarrassed, Buck. You had a bad dream, right?"

Bad. Bad does not even approach—

"He feels.... fear. Horror.”

"How come, Buck? What happened in that dream?"

Bucky shakes his head. Doesn't want the flashes of dark blue stained with crimson. The clang of vibranium as it collides with concrete. The screams. His own voice hoarse and his body ready to maim—rend— destroy.

Wetness streams down Mantis's face. "He feels terrible grief. Agony. Unfathomable loss.”

Sam nods. "I think I get the gist, Buck. No need to relive it. But you woke up still reacting to the dream, right? And scared the boys."

And Sarah.

"It’s okay, Bucky. Everyone is fine, and I had the wall fixed by the end of the day."

You can't fix that look on their faces.

“He feels heavy shame.”

"It’s really okay, Buck. They were startled, but they understood when I explained."

Except they really don't. They can't. No one understands, not truly. Not Sam. Not Sarah or the boys. Not even…

He is so...empty.

"Such…such loneliness."

Loneliness. That’s what it is.

“He is surprised by this.”

Sam shifts closer. "Surprised? You didn’t know you were lonely, Buck?"

Not in so many words. But the gray, empty feeling he gets sometimes when he looks at the vacant bedroom, the shield, the silence—it makes sense.

"It's understandable that you'd be lonely. You're in an unfamiliar time, with a truckload of traumatic experiences that no one can relate to. It’s normal."

Normal. Something about him is normal.

Sam chews his lip. He obviously wants to ask something.

“He is apprehensive.”

Sam makes a sheepish face. "Sorry. It’s just, we’re pushing through, right? I have to ask… Does any of this have to do with Steve?"

Steve.

"I need to do this, Buck..."

"You used to smile all the time..."

"Peggy told me once..."

"I can't stand what they did to you, Buck..."

“I really miss...

"Bucky...“

He feels the immediate urge to curl into a ball and shield himself. His chest goes tight and his mouth goes dry. Nausea builds in his gut. The twisting sensation bubbles up and inflates beyond bearable limits.

Mantis gasps and jerks away as if electrocuted.

"Mantis?"

“Yes, I—”

Bucky is done. “That’s enough.”

"Buck, wait!"

“At least let me ease your pain!”

Bucky ducks into the adjacent hallway and quickly finds Barton's favorite point of entry into the air vents. He focuses on the hard surface at his back, where no one can sneak up on him, and concentrates on not throwing up.

There are distorted voices below. Sam and Mantis, discussing him and his innermost, private turmoil. He doesn't want to listen. Would give anything to turn off his enhanced hearing.

"...utter loneliness..."

He doesn't want to know. He's fine. He's fine.

"...almost...terrible, dreadful fear."

The metal arm unsheathes a knife. His fingers flip it around themselves rhythmically.

He’s fine he’s fine he’s fine.

"....Abandonment… jealousy..."

He is safe. He is alone. Why is his face leaking.

It’s the pain of the chair, and the cattle prod, and the hose, all at once.

On the inside.

-

Present Day

Definitely not on the moon

Steve leans heavily against the door to his quarters the instant it slips shut, and admits to himself that a sixteen-hour day may not have been the best idea. A wry smile tugs at his lips. He can almost hear Peg telling him off for pushing himself past his limits, God rest her soul.

But it is so good to feel useful again, to play an active part in assisting those who need help, fixing problems, defeating evil, that his body slips back into old patterns. Perhaps he does not have quite the physical stamina he once did, but he is still plenty spry for a man in his second set of teen years.

Walk it off, Rogers.

The time is well past lights out. Idly, Steve wonders what time it currently is on Earth. Maybe Sam is out jogging or practicing with the shield. Maybe he went out on the boat.

Maybe Bucky went with him.

He reaches for his cell on the bedside table, deliberately set to Eastern Standard Time. If it’s a reasonable hour, he will give Sam a call.

The display lights up, and Steve’s legs turn to jello. He fall-sits on the bed.

Five missed calls, all from Sam.

Oh God. That can't be good. In no world is that good.

He fumbles with the phone and curses all technology when the call fails twice. He bangs on the stupid signal booster. 

Go through. Go through.

At last there is the blessed sound of connection, and the line begins to ring.

Nothing’s wrong. Please say that nothing is wrong. And if something is wrong… please don’t let it be Bucky. 

Pick up, Sam. Pick up.

It rings for an eternity, then there’s finally a much-anticipated click. 

“What's wrong? Is it Bucky?” comes out in a rushed exhale.

An objectively slight pause subjectively takes about a month. "I'm doing well, Steve. Thanks for asking," Sam says flatly.

"Sorry. Sorry, Sam. It’s just. I saw your missed calls and I—"

"I'm just yanking your chain, old man. Sorry to worry you. Bucky’s fine. Don't hyperventilate.”

Steve is thankful he is sitting, because his legs could definitely not hold his weight right now. He makes a conscious effort to slow his breathing and tightens his unusually shaky grip on the phone. He swallows and forces out a hoarse “Good. That’s good. And, sorry. How are you, Sam?”

Sam chuckles. “I’m fine, man. It’s okay. Think I don’t know the real reason you call so often?”

“Sam.” He wants to argue. He calls for a variety of reasons. Luckily for Sam he doesn’t have the energy to point this out. “Five missed calls. What am I supposed to think?”

“I know. I’ll stop teasing you. Your old man constitution can’t handle it.”

Steve glares at the wall. He’s old. He’s not an invalid. “Is everything okay?”

Sam clears his throat. “Yeah. Well. Things got a little dicey for a minute there and I’d hoped you’d be able to calm things down.”

That doesn’t sound good. “What happened?”

A heavy sigh. “Barton.”

“Clint?” Steve can hear the exhausted tension in his voice and remembers the last time he sounded like that. “You mean…?”

“Like last time, but no one ended up in the hospital this time, at least.”

“Is everyone all right?”

“Yes. But it was iffy for a while." A beat. "Barton's gone back to Vormir."

Back to–wait. “You mean, he’s–”

“Yep. Positive that Natasha is alive and stranded there."

Steve's heart rate elevates probably beyond what a doctor would consider an acceptable level.

Maybe…just maybe, this is it. Maybe this is how it all started. And now maybe he can finally know how it ends. Even if…

…Even if it cannot possibly end well.

“He's so convinced, man. It's heartbreaking to watch."

Steve forces his breathing to calm. “I wouldn’t write Clint off just yet.”

"Nothing is taking her away from me again."

"I haven't. Dude deserves closure for sure. But Steve, it got ugly for a minute there. That’s why I called. Rhodes, Thor, Barton—there’s still a lot of unresolved tension under the surface. It erupted out of nowhere, and I couldn’t diffuse it." His voice goes softer. "If anything, I probably added to it.”

Steve grimaces. Thanos’s wounds are still fresh for all of them, he reminds himself. “Tell me what happened.”

Sam recounts a borderline hostile exchange that Clint’s arrival brought out of his friends and teammates. Insinuations of mental incompetence and a thwarted hijacking of Quill’s ship. Of arguments and snide remarks and finally, a vote. 

"So he's hitched a ride with Thor and Quill’s crew, and we expect them back in a day or so."

A day. Steve tries not to get his hopes up, but like a buoyant toy in the bath, hope is determined to reach the surface. “How is everyone now? Have things calmed down?”

“Things are quiet, but I wouldn’t call it calm."

Steve bites his lip, then asks, casually, “Who’s there now?”

“Bruce, of course. Pepper, Rhodes. Happy was here but was called back on something urgent." A pause. “And yes, Bucky.”

Steve’s eyes flutter closed. He remembers how Bucky reacted the last time Clint experienced an episode, but, thankfully, Sam has not reported any fatalities. “How did he handle seeing Clint?”

Sam huffs. “He’s the one who advocated on his behalf.”

Uh. What?

“Said that sometimes you just have to be sure, even if everyone tells you otherwise."

“The name does sound familiar. I’m sorry.”

Oh, Bucky.

“He and Barton seem to have found some common ground. I saw them talking earlier. One might even mistake them for friends.”

Something twinges in Steve's chest. Bucky refuses to talk to him, but he’ll talk to Clint?

“Steve?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” And then because he can’t help himself, “Is he really okay, Sam?”

Sam takes five seconds and forever to answer. “He’s doing the best he can.”

"Sam."

"I'm not sure it's for me to tell you."

"Who else am I going to hear it from? Sam, please."

Sam heaves a sigh. “Still dealing with the aftereffects of trauma, Steve. He wakes up screaming more nights than not. Is so uncomfortable around other people that he stares at them until they too become uncomfortable and leave. Tries to hit on women and then runs from them like they have the plague, which I’m ashamed to say has also worked in my favor because this kept him away from my sister."

Steve sighs and rubs at his eyes. “Ah, Buck.”

"And he's moved back to Brooklyn."

"What? Why? I thought–"

"Yeah, he was staying with us, but. Well, again, not my place to say."

Dear God, what happened? 

"Sam."

"I'm sorry, Steve. I can tell you where he is, and how he is, but as for his reasons... I don't want to overrule his right to privacy."

Steve groans in frustration, lying back on the bed and rubbing his hand over his eyes.

It hurts. He and Bucky never used to keep anything from each other, and now he is deliberately being kept in the dark. He whines in a voice more becoming of a five-year-old than a man over one hundred, "Why won't he talk to me, Sam?"

You know perfectly well why, Rogers.

“I don't know, man. It's obvious as day he misses you.”

Steve swallows. "Does he?" he says in a small voice.

Sam laughs. "Of course he does. Don't take it personally. The boy doesn't answer my calls either if it makes you feel better.”

Steve sits up and leans against the wall behind him. “Shouldn’t he want to talk to me, though?” he says to the ceiling.

“Ouch.”

"Sam.”

“All right. I don’t know, man. I don’t know why he does a lot of things. But if I had to guess, it would be that he doesn’t want you to see through his stubborn ‘I’m fine’ spiel.”

Steve tests the strength of the wall with the back of his head.

“Thing is, I don’t think he even realizes it himself. I think he knows he misses you, but is so convinced that he is happy that you’re happy that he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t feel happy that you’re not here.”

Steve blinks in rapid succession as he tries to make sense of that.

“I've counseled a lot of vets, but never met anyone who's gone through anything even close to what your boy did, Steve. You have to remember that he regularly had his will and emotions stripped away from him, and doesn’t really understand what he is feeling himself. He’s free now, but overwhelmed with the unfamiliar emotions that freedom brings with it.”

The wall is strong. He tests it again.

“...He’s lonely, Steve.”

The backs of Steve's eyes go hot. It's too easy to imagine. Bucky, sitting all alone in that apartment, the place that was theirs, however briefly. Probably still sleeping on the floor and eating nothing but takeout.

Alone, and refusing to let Steve be there for him.

"He hates me," Steve says, his voice hiding nothing about how he feels about this.

"He does not hate you," Sam says like he's being ridiculous. “He’s just… confused.”

Steve fumbles with tissues.

"I know it's probably not my place to ask..."

Steve blows his nose. "Go ahead."

"Don't take this the wrong way, okay? I am genuinely happy for you, that you were able to live a happy life back in your own time. But...we were on the run for two years because of what went down with Bucky. You fought Tony for him. Became a national fugitive for him. Hell, you almost got yourself killed for him, Steve. I mean–"

"You want to know why I left."

Sam swallows. "Yeah."

Steve wipes at his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. "It's complicated, Sam. But I had my reasons." 

I wanted to come back. You have no idea just how much I wanted to come back. How many times I almost did…

"I know. It's just... Then you come back, only to turn around and leave the planet?"

"...they needed me." More accurately, Bucky told him to go.

Didn't want him there.

Steve blows his nose again.

Sam is silent for several moments before he says, “I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but. A few weeks after you left, as you know, there was a bit of an ordeal about the shield. Bucky didn’t take well to me giving it up. He said that....that the shield was the closest thing he had left to a family.”

Oh, Bucky.

“Which is an example of him doing well at expressing how he feels.”

Damn it, Buck. "Oh, Sam. I should come home.”

“You kidding me, man? It’s not like they have a train every hour where you are.”

“I don’t care. If he’s as bad as you say–”

“Then you need to wait until he asks you to come himself. If he won’t even answer your calls, I’m worried he might bolt if he knows you’re coming back.”

“But–”

"Just stay where you are for now. Focus on the mission."

The mission?

The mission, his real mission, has always been Bucky.

“And remember our talk about giving Bucky the power of choice. He'll come around.”

That was so long ago. When they finally liberated this Bucky.

This Bucky?

“Steve?”

They're the same person. And yet... they're different. One happy, confident, and an obnoxious smart-ass, and the other…. Broken. Confused.

Alone.

“Steve? You there?”

“Yeah I… I hear you." He knew how to help the one. But even now, with all the information in his brain that shouldn't even be there, he doesn't have the first clue on how to help the other. 

“I don’t know what he’ll do, or what he’ll say. All you can do is trust him, Steve.”

"I’ll... stay put.” For now.

“I shouldn’t be able to hear the puppy-dog eyes. Especially at your age.”

“Sorry.”

"It'll be okay, Steve. Just—hang on. Bruce, what?"

Steve can hear several excited voices in the background, talking over each other too much for him to discern what they are saying. “Sam?”

“Hang on, Steve. Bruce, slow down! Who said what now?”

Steve strains to listen.

“It’s Happy…said they found...you’re not gonna believe…”

Steve finds himself standing. His palm applies firm pressure to the wall, enough that the security system beeps angrily at him. “Sam?”

More voices. He can’t make out specific words, just an overall atmosphere of shock and disbelief. “Sam!”

His mind dredges up images of undercover Hydra agents and obscure code words and no one being there to keep the best man he’s ever known from losing himself all over again and whose fault is that.

More shouting and muffled sounds and then Sam’s voice is back. Clear, and deadly calm.

“Steve? Maybe you’d better come back after all.”

No. No no– “Is–is he–?”

“It’s not Bucky. But, my God, Steve. If what Happy is saying is true–”

“What?”

A beat. 

“He says they’ve found Natasha. Alive.”

Chapter Text

No. 

“Tasha…”

This cannot be. Natasha refuses to accept it.

“I’m so sorry. I wish to God it never came to this. But this is the only way.”

No. 

He wouldn't do this.

He wouldn’t.

“...don’t understand… did you say they found her?”

Natasha’s awareness overflows with violet twilight and soul-crushing sorrow. Of tearful blue eyes and lifelong devotion. 

It all turns abruptly sour.

“...just lying there on the landing pad…about as far as I can throw them…”

It must be a dream. A misunderstanding. Any moment she will wake and all of this black awfulness will fade away into nothing more than a fabrication of her vindictive unconscious mind…

“I’m sorry.”

No. Clint… Please… 

"What. Did you. Do."

Violet skies and cold horror seeps away into gray nothingness and the sensation of something soft beneath her. The howl of the icy wind fades into a high-pitched ring and the faint sound of muffled voices. There’s a low, steady beeping in the background. 

…Where is she?

“…check the security footage…?” one of the voices says, as if far in the distance. 

“...don’t even know...same Natasha that we know…"

She remembers the sweet fragrance of water. The metallic taste of blood. Warmth of a perpetually setting sun. An all-encompassing peace—it’s all over, they're all safe—

All of that is gone now, replaced with the sterile bite of antiseptic. 

“…sure looks like someone who’s fallen from a cliff…”

Cliff? 

The word brings an image. A tall, sharp, entitled cliff with a narrow ledge and non-negotiable demands. An altar. 

“Head trauma…organs…should be critical… somehow remaining stable. I can’t understand it.”

“…corroborate with a fall like that? Then surely…” 

“…her, then who could it be?”

The ringing begins to fade away, and the voices, while faint, grow clearer. 

“I don't know. Loki? Some other shapeshifter?" 

Loki. The name is familiar but she cannot place it either. It brings no warmth. 

"All I know is that she was still dead after I used the stones. There’s just…a feeling. A knowledge of exactly what you’ve done.”

“Could she be from the past? Like Thanos was?”

“Look at her! She’s obviously been through something an awful lot like a drop from Very High Up. She was wearing the same suit!”

“Is there any way we can know for sure? Definitively know if this is or is not Natasha?”

The voices go quiet for a moment, bringing silence save for the slow, steady beeping of a machine.

“...Clint would know.”

Clint.

“I’m starting to think we mean different people here, Natasha.”

“Tell my family I love them.”

“Tasha, please…”

A sharp pain shoots through her skull. The beeping picks up speed.

"Whoa, Bruce?"

"I’m on it." 

Light pierces in under a raised eyelid, and she blinks instinctively, her vision clearing gradually to reveal faces. Faces she feels she should know. 

She groans, waves of pain washing from her head to her entire body, increasing in intensity. 

Where is she?

The beeping goes crazy, and her head feels like it is about to split in two. She tries to move into a defensive position, but finds herself unable to even shift her bodyweight.

"Natasha? Can you hear us?"

The voice is familiar. She knows him.

There are five faces crowded around her. Four men and two women. One of the men, the one that spoke, is huge. And green.

“She is frightened. Anxious. In pain,” one of the women–one with very large eyes–says to the big green one, who leans closer.

"Don't strain yourself. You've been unconscious for who knows how long."

"...where?" she gets out.

The faces look at each other. Back at her. "Home," one finally says.

The word inspires a fleeting flash of a farmhouse, a tower, a large, expansive compound… and the faces of these people inside them. She knows them, even if she cannot put names to faces. She doesn’t know how, or why, but each of them inspires warmth, safety, and belonging within her. 

The machine's frantic beeping begins to slow.

"That's it. You're with friends. Can you tell us your name?"

A veritable list of names comes to mind. But the correct one, she's pretty sure, is the one they have been discussing. "Natasha."

The big green one nods encouragingly. The rest of them look at each other again. Could that be the wrong answer? 

"Do you know who we are?"

She is hesitant to give an answer. She grapples for a name. Any name…

 "...Clint?"

Their gazes all elevate in intensity. 

"You remember Clint?"

She nods, relieved that she seems to remember something.

"What about Clint?" the shorter man asks.

Her confidence takes a hit. Why is that such a hard question? "Hawkeye."

This is answered with enthusiastic nods. The big green one grins warmly. “What else?”

A hazy image comes to mind. "He was there. On... on the cliff."

They look at each other again. “Can you remember what happened on the cliff?”

Arguing. Pleading. Fighting. Tears and warmth against her forehead.

The pain in her head comes crashing back with a vengeance. It’s as if she can feel each individual blood vessel throb inside her skull. 

“What happened on the cliff, Nat?”

Leaping off the ledge down down down her wrist his grip screaming no no no how could you do this to me—

“Calm down, Nat. Don’t overdo it. Pepper, help me with these pain meds.”

Pepper. The other woman is Pepper. 

She clutches her head and groans. 

“Why is she in so much pain?”

Falling down down down— 

“Clint,” she gasps.  

Machines are screaming at the room. The green one—Bruce —is barking orders. 

“Nat? Hey, it’s Sam.”

Sam?

Backup. Metallic wings. …Dust?

She winces as hundreds of tiny knives pierce into her brain. She forces her eyes open to look at the man–Sam–crouched at eye level with her. “Clint?” 

“He’s not here.”

“Dead?” Her voice sounds like a little girl’s.

Sam shakes his head. “No. Just not here right now.”

Another stab shoots through her body, starting with her head, her chest, and her leg. She gasps from the pain and tries to reach down to clutch at her calf. 

“What hurts, Nat?”

“My head. My leg. Wrist. Everything.” The room spins and the tiny knives come together to form a giant sledgehammer pounding with a fury that leaves her breathless. 

“I want to do another head scan,” Bruce barks at someone. 

Clint. Where is Clint?

“Why do you need to talk to Barton, Natasha?”

Barton. The name seems to make the sledgehammer angry.  

“Rhodey, I don’t want her getting riled up.”

“I know. Just, something’s off here. Let her answer.”

One of the men crouches before her, his gaze piercing. “Why do you need to see Barton?”

“Because. He’s…” 

What is he?

Her…partner. 

Мой лучший друг. Her best friend. 

The interval between the machine's beeps is almost non-existent.

There’s an ominous, creaking sound from inside her skull, like something inside is on the verge of snapping. A sharpness not unlike the blade of a knife pokes into the cortex of her brain. 

No. Please no. 

Clint. 

The machines go haywire.

“Nat?”

“What’s wrong with her?!”

He’s in so much pain—he needs his family back—НетНетНет—

“She is in agony! You must do something!”

“Damn it, Rhodey. Move!”

The man who saved her life—мудак мудак Как ты мог так поступить со мной?!

A knife pierces her brain and digs down in a furious twist.

She screams, and the world goes dark. 

-

Romanoff has been unconscious for twenty-two minutes. 

Banner has utilized this time to take more scans of Romanoff’s brain, and the remaining Avengers to engage in a heated debate on whether or not this is, in fact, Romanoff. 

Bucky is content to simply observe.

“But how could she just appear out of nowhere? And at the old Tower of all places?” Rhodes murmurs.

“Happy said that the staff insisted they have no idea,” Banner replies. “Said they found her on the landing pad with no clue as to how she came to be there.”

“Something about this is fishy as hell. I don’t like it. What if this isn’t really her? What if this is just some Trojan horse to get to us?”

“You’re being paranoid, Rhodey.”

“There were many intense emotions wafting from her, but none of them had connection to deceit,” Mantis contributes meekly.

Banner scratches his neck with his giant hand. “That’s going to have to be good enough. At least until Clint gets back.”

Bucky stares at Romanoff, who seems to be agitated and uncomfortable even in unconsciousness. It must be her. He finds it hard to believe that Barton would have this sudden conviction of her survival immediately prior to her reappearance if she were not in fact who she claims to be. 

Of course, he is the last person to have any say regarding her identity. He has a vague awareness that they knew each other before, back in those black, muddy remnants of consciousness between deep freezes. But now that his brain has had time to heal, he cannot deny that she does look familiar. When he was rented out to the KGB for several stints in the eighties, nineties, and two-thousands, helping to train little girls to be deadly assassins. He’s pretty sure he worked with Romanoff on knife work. 

It is a stark contrast to her helplessness now. Small and vulnerable in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants of Stark’s that Potts provided. Her face is bruised, and all of her limbs are covered in some kind of brace or bandage. A particularly large, heavy bandage covers most of her head. 

He notices goosebumps on her bare arms, and after a quick glance behind him, he pulls the blanket up higher.

“Well Clint better get back here soon, because I want to know what the hell is going on and what made her so upset. Does anyone know what she was saying?”

She had been upset. Had screamed and cursed in a mix of English and Russian. It was this commotion that had finally coerced Bucky out of the vents—the screams reminding him a little too much of the last ebbs of his own when waking from a nightmare. 

Is that what the boys saw. 

“She was speaking Russian, right? Do any of us speak Russian?”

Shit. 

“Bucky does,” Sam says. 

“Of course he does,” comes a flat reply. 

Never should have left the vent. 

“Buck?”

Shut up, Sam.

“Can you tell us what she said, Barnes?” Potts asks. 

They are all staring at him. Refusing to let him stay out of this.

He shrugs. “Russian curses. Probably shouldn’t be repeated in mixed company.”

Rhodes scoffs and murmurs at Banner, “Mixed company? Guy spends seventy years dismembering people for them but draws the line at saying one of their swear words in front of Pepper?”

Big talk from someone who doesn't know Russian.

“Just calm down, Rhodey.”

“How can I? Someone I deeply care about seemingly comes back from the dead only to pass out screaming within minutes of waking. There’s obviously something wrong, and I intend to get to the bottom of it!” 

Rhodes glares at him. Cute. 

“What did she say, Barnes.”

Is this a glaring contest. Because he will win.

Sam’s hand appears on his arm. “Buck.”

It might be a request for compliance. It could be an inquiry as to mental state. 

Fine. Whatever. 

He addresses Sam. “She was shocked. Upset. Angry.”

“We figured that much,” Rhodes says with an eye roll. “What were her exact words?”

Bucky sighs. “Something like, ‘How could you do this to me?’”

Rhodes scowls harder. Crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the floor as if in deep thought.

“What could she have meant by that?” Potts says. 

Banner shakes his head and brushes back a lock of red hair from Romanoff’s unconscious face. “She’s confused. I can’t even imagine what she’s been through.”

Rhodes shakes his head. “I don’t like this. Something is really off here.”

“Let’s just hope Barton gets back soon.”

“Any word on Rogers, Sam?” 

Sam takes a moment to respond. His gaze weighs approximately half a ton.

“On his way.”

Bucky pushes off the wall and paces to the other end of the room. Every part of his body abruptly on high alert. 

Rogers is coming home.

“Well, who knows how long that will take.”

“I’ll send a message out to Quill’s ship. Tell them we found her,” Banner says. “No doubt Clint will want to hear the news as quickly as possible.”

Rogers will be in this room. 

“Buck? You’re not gonna bolt are you?”

He adjusts his facial features into an innocent expression of ‘who, me?’ and hopes it is convincing enough to fool Sam. Because he very much wants to bolt.

He isn’t ready for this.

Stop staring, Sam.

Romanoff chooses this exact moment to groan and graciously spare Bucky from having to respond. 

Everyone crowds around her again. She still winces with movement, but the drugs Banner put in her seem to be helping. 

“Gave us a scare, Nat. Are you still in pain?”

She presses a hand to her temple. “My…my head. Felt like my skull was about to split in two. It’s a little better now.”

There is a marked difference in her level of awareness this time. Like she is no longer reacting on mere sensation and impulse, but actual comprehension of her situation and surroundings.

“We took another head scan while you were out, but I can’t figure out what caused you to pass out like that. That was not normal.”

“I’m okay now, I think.” Her eyes dart around the room. “Clint?”

“Not here, I’m sorry. He went… He should be here soon.”

Romanoff nods. Stares at Banner. 

“Do you…remember who I am?” Banner asks. 

Her lips hint at a smile. “Bruce.”

Banner grins widely, and Romanoff smiles back, continuing her scan of the room.

Then her eyes fall on Bucky and freeze. 

“Nat?”

“That’s...” She turns her head to Sam. “And…Sam?” Her eyes dart back and forth between them, before settling on Banner. “Is this real? Are… are they…?”

Banner takes her hand. “They are. We brought them back. Thanks to you, Nat.”

The expression on everyone's face softens considerably.

“We…won?”

“We won, Nat.”

Romanoff struggles to sit up, Banner scrambling to prop up pillows behind her. Everyone, save himself, takes their turn pulling Romanoff into a very cautious embrace. There are copious amounts of tears and expressions of joy at her return. 

Romanoff wipes at her eyes. “Where is everyone else? Steve? Tony?”

The happy expressions drop off everyone’s faces. 

“What? What’s wrong?”

Banner looks at Sam. Back at Romanoff. “Nat, about Tony…”

Romanoff takes the news well. She doesn’t shout. Does not imply negligence or spit accusations. She doesn’t even cry, just sits there and fists the sheets as Banner, Sam, and Rhodes take turns giving an account of the Battle of Earth and Stark’s heroic fate.

“You okay?” Banner asks after, when no one has spoken for three minutes. 

Romanoff looks tired. “I just…need to process everything.”

Not everything. Stark's tragic sacrifice, much like Stark in life, completely monopolized the conversation and she has forgotten to further inquire about Rogers. 

“Pepper…” Romanoff holds out her hand, and Potts takes it, sitting beside her on the bed. “Rhodey…” She holds out her other hand, and Rhodes clasps it gently, squeezing it in a communion of shared grief.

“It was a heavy cost. Tony. And…you. But now, somehow, you’re back. I just can't believe it, Nat!”

Romanoff smiles through hazy eyes, but it quickly fades into a serious expression. 

“…Clint’s family?”

“They’re all back, Nat. Everyone."

Bucky watches Romanoff’s face seemingly fall in on itself before she hides it behind her hands. She fights it, but her breath hitches several times. A minute later she directs a watery smile at Sam. 

“Sam. I’m so glad you’re back.”

It's Sam's turn to carefully embrace Romanoff, and her eyes once again fall on Bucky over Sam's shoulder. 

“You too, Barnes. Steve must have been ecstatic. Where is he? I would’ve thought you two would be attached at the hip.”

Bucky hopes that his face does not betray inner panic. Surely Sam isn’t going to make him explain this. 

Because he can't.

Sam’s gaze slides over him, but he addresses Romanoff. “Yeah. About Steve…”

Then Romanoff gasps, eyes wide, and she sits up with a jolt. 

Banner is at her side at once. “What is it?”

“Everyone is back.”

“Yeah, Nat. Everyone’s back.”

She stares up at him. “I…I need to call my sister.”

"Your sister?!"

Without prompting, Bucky’s brain grapples for the image of another trainee. Tiny, blond. Vicious, relentless. Liked to scream and bite.

Belova. 

-

Natasha exhausts the remainder of her energy by begging for a cell phone. By the time Sam procures a new one for her, she has collapsed against the pillows, using her remaining energy to persuade her thumbs to handle the phone. 

“All right, everyone, let’s give Nat some space. I want to go over her stats again and she needs to rest,” Bruce says, waving everyone else out of the room. While he fusses over her mangled body, Natasha lies back and dials a number that even her damaged brain remembers. 

It takes four tries to get through.

“Kate Bishop, I swear if this is you I am going to hunt you down and string you up by your own bow. I never should have given you this number!”

Natasha blinks, amused. In Russian, she says, “I hope this isn’t how you greet everyone who calls you.”

She gets silence as a response, followed by a hissed “Who the hell is this?!”

“It’s me, Yelena.”

She gets only silence in response, but the connection does not cut off.

“I know this must be hard to believe. Ask me something only I would know.” She expects a whistle to come through, but it doesn’t. “Yelena?”

“Turn on your camera.” 

Natasha obliges, and Yelena’s face fills her own screen, her face an unsettling combination of suspicion and hope. 

“What’s my favorite food,” she snaps. 

Natasha can’t keep the grin off her face. She hasn’t changed at all. “Good ol’ Mac n cheese. Like the American you are deep down but refuse to recognize.”

A hitch in breath. “What is my favorite song?”

In a voice that is frail and threadbare, “Bye, bye, Miss American Pie.”

Yelena’s mouth drops open and her eyes go red. “Natasha?”

“Yeah, сестренка. It’s me.”

Yelena shakes her head. “How ?”

Isn’t that the question. “I’m not really sure.”

Yelena is on the verge of hyperventilating. “How can you not be sure?”

“It’s a long story. But it's me, Yelena. I promise.”

Yelena’s face goes red and her eyes shine with unshed tears, and the sight is so upsetting that Natasha almost wants her to turn her camera off.

“They said you were dead!”

“I think I was, for a while.” The tears are openly falling now, and Yelena’s eyes squeeze shut as if she is desperately trying to hold in a violent wave of emotion. “Please, sister. Don’t cry.”

Yelena wipes at her eyes. “Where are you? Can I see you?”

“I’ll send you the address. They won’t let me leave. They say I still need to recover.”

Yelena shakes her head. “I’ll come there. Right away.” She sniffs, then smiles through tears. “I can’t believe you’re alive!”

Natasha gives her her warmest smile. “I can't wait to see you."

Yelena laughs, her face red but full of joy. “Okay. I’m coming. I’m hanging up now. You better still be alive when I get there!”

“I’ll do my best.”

Natasha wipes at her own eyes when the screen goes dark. From what Sam has told her, it was no easier on the ones who were snapped than the ones who weren't. The Blip, they call it. She can’t imagine what Yelena must have gone through these past few years. Five years gone in an instant. Her sister alive one moment and gone the next. 

She never gave Clint any way of finding Yelena, she realizes. Had he managed anyway? Does Yelena even know what happened to her?

“I never knew you had a sister.”

Natasha almost jumps, having all but forgotten that Bruce was there. He sounds hurt, and Natasha has to fight not to laugh because really, if he thinks that’s the only secret she has… 

"Well, I do."

Bruce shakes his head, then leans down to place a massive green hand on her leg. "You and Clint are a real pair, huh? With the secret family members and all that."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Sam told me you have a son." 

"That was a secret from me too, to be fair.” He rotates her leg in his grip.

 “Ouch!” She jerks her leg away reflexively. It hurts like a bitch. 

“Sorry!”

“Don’t take your hurt feelings out on my broken body.”

Bruce gives her a flat look. “Very funny. And I'm sorry, but look,” he carefully pulls the sheet away, exposing her throbbing leg. “This is the only part of you that is causing you pain that looks completely normal.”

Natasha glares at the exposed limb. Unlike the rest of her, where the sources of pain are obvious, her left leg is bruised, but smooth and intact, with no outward reason to account for the intense pain that continues to expand and wane at seemingly random intervals.

“Scans show nothing wrong internally, either.”

“Well, it hurts.”

“Well, I’ll try to be careful.”

"Well maybe you should be more careful when you're prodding me with your Hulky hands!"

“Hey, I’m trying to help you here!” Bruce exclaims with exasperation, green arms extended to his sides and exceeding the length of the bed she rests on.

She feels abruptly contrite. Bruce is trying to help. “I know. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

Bruce sighs, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Well, with all you’ve been through, you’re probably allowed to be a little on edge.”

Natasha sighs. Everything annoys her. Like her default emotion is irritation. 

Bruce sighs back and glances back down at his work. “Perhaps the leg is suffering from some phantom pain from an injury that’s healed already. What I can’t understand is why your other injuries aren’t following suit.” He pulls a monitor down to eye level, her stats displayed in red numbers. Flicks the numbers with a big green finger. “I’ll be straight with you, Nat. Your heart and lungs are both on the brink of failure. Your spleen looks like it is on the verge of bursting. From what your scans say, you should be well on your way to dying right now, but you’re not. Your condition is neither growing worse nor getting better. I can’t understand it.”

That certainly explains why she feels like she’s been run over by a fleet of angry tanks. Why her lungs never seem to get enough air. Why every inch of her body aches. Why the simple task of sitting up tugs on her lungs and heart like the last kilometer of a triathlon.

She glances at the heavy bandage on her right wrist. “I’ve always been resilient.”

“You’ve always healed.”

“I’m not flatlining. That must count for something.”

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything about what happened? It could give us a clue as to what’s going on with you.”

“No.” For the fiftieth time. 

“I’m not the enemy here, Nat.”

She clenches her fists where they rest on her thighs and raises her chin to the ceiling. She breathes deeply. “I know.” She needs to calm the hell down. "When is Clint due back?”

"Nat, I told you. I don't know. But he'll be back as soon as he can be.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s…gone back to Vormir.”

Went back to– “What?” And she is just hearing this now?

Bruce nods. “He was convinced that you were alive. I don’t know how.”

Natasha frowns. "Clint…knew?”

No one mentioned this either. How could Clint know?

"Do you have any idea how he would know that?"

"No." And the mere effort to hypothesize causes her head to throb again. "I told you. I don't remember much of anything about what happened. And every time I try it gives me a bitch of a headache.”

“Hey. It’s okay. Don’t push yourself.”

“Why can’t I remember, Bruce? It’s there, I can feel it, but I can’t—agh!”

“Hey! What did I say? Deep breaths, Nat. You’ve been through something incredibly traumatic. Your entire body, not just your brain, has been put through the wringer. I’m happy that you remember anything at all. And hey, it took you a minute, but you remembered all of us, right?”

Natasha is too upset with herself to respond. She scowls at the numbers on the screen until Bruce turns it off with a heavy sigh. 

“Maybe it will come back to you when you see Clint.”

Maybe. If he would just get here. 

"These last few years have been really hard on him. He never got over it. Losing you. It...did something to him. He hasn't been the same. But he is going to be so happy to see you."

A sympathetic emptiness aches within her. 

She wants–needs–Clint here, but…

Right now, with her mutilated body and jumbled brain, she isn’t sure if she wants to hug him or punch him. 

And she doesn’t know why.

Chapter Text

2012

Manhattan

Romanoff.

You conniving, duplicitous hag.

The residual burn of Romanoff's infuriating little smile simmers beneath Loki's skin even now. Even after every part of his plan succeeded. The Avengers are in shreds, scattered and defeated. He has won; he will continue to win.

“Thank you. For your cooperation.”

Blood sizzles in his veins, expanding into an aggressive boil. She thought she could manipulate him? The god of mischief and manipulation himself? What a pompous and amusing delusion!

"Orders, sir?"

Loki's eyes snake over to Barton. At attention, awaiting orders. Good little soldier.

Who Romanoff asked about.

Loki grins.

"Tell me something, Agent Barton. What is your relationship with Agent Romanoff?"

"Partner, sir."

That is hardly the full story. "Is that all?"

There is a pause. Surely he isn’t…

"We are friends. Sir."

Why, he is. He is resisting. That itself tells him much. How delightfully diverting.

"Friends, are you? Well, would you like me to tell you what I will soon be requiring you to do to your friend?"

Silence.

"Answer me!"

"Yes, sir."

Loki's grin expands to the point of bursting. He sits down and folds his hands over his knee. "Excellent. You will now recount to me every fear, insecurity, and weakness that Romanoff possesses, and I will instruct you on how to specifically use each and every one of them against her, very shortly."

A vein bulges out of Barton's forehead, but he sits when Loki orders him to, and after another brief touch of the scepter, he tells Loki everything he wishes to know.

-

Present Day

Manhattan

"...you must lose that which you love."

Natasha hisses. Rubs her temple.

"Don't push it if it hurts, Nat."

Remember. Why can’t she remember.

Bruce coaxes her to lie back against the pillows in the makeshift ‘bedroom’ they’ve arranged for her. In actuality, it is just another small, offshoot laboratory, filled with metal tables and Starktech science equipment. They’ve provided her with a bed, a few bags of clothes, and a set of toiletries, along with a few of her actual possessions—mostly weapons—that were recovered from the Compound.

There had been a sharp pang of loss when Bruce had only shaken his head when she had asked about a small black safe. 

She is peripherally aware that everyone is staring at her as she attempts to catch her breath. Bruce is mumbling to himself and compulsively checking her health diagnostics while Rhodey asks questions about her prognosis. Mantis stares at her with open concern. Barnes stares at her with all the expressiveness of chronic catatonia. 

She remembers all of them now. Time and rest had restored her teammates’ names, faces, and shared experiences. She remembers the Snap and its subsequent horror. She remembers planning for the Time Heist, flying through space to Vormir, climbing that mountain, but after that… 

“Nat, stop it! This isn’t working, and at this rate you are just going to injure yourself further!”

Natasha crosses her arms and glares at the wall. She can’t help it! How is she alive? What happened on that godforsaken planet?

Why can’t she remember?

Mantis’s eyes are so large. And suddenly very, very close.

"Your memories are not gone, just buried behind the horrible things you have experienced. But I can help you bring them to the surface."

Like the eyes on the characters of Clint’s weird Japanese animation things. Natasha can barely stand to look at her without her eyes making sympathy tears.

“Nat? Are you even listening?”

Natasha drags her eyes away from Mantis to Bruce. She knows what Mantis is suggesting, and does not know how to feel about it.

“I know you have concerns. Clint did too, at first. But afterward, he said it felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders."

Clint agreed to an alien touching him? Agreed to exposing his emotions to someone else?

"And Barnes, too! Tell her, Barnes."

Natasha's eyes narrow, and she glances at Barnes. “Really?”

Barnes shifts his weight from right to left. “It definitely…brings out what’s under the surface.”

…Does it? 

She continues to stare at him, but he shows no sign of recognition. 

Not all memories then. 

She leans back against the pillows and sighs. This sounds like a double-edged sword at best. But, she wants –needs– to remember. There is something buried deep in her memories, something important, that she can't access. Like that specific section of her mind has been sealed behind a roadblock.

"You really think it would work?"

Mantis nods emphatically. "Your emotions are linked to your memories. I can help you remember."

"No mind-reading, Nat. No manipulation, I promise. Just help to bring out your emotions and memories."

That is almost scarier. She can manipulate and control her thoughts. Emotions, however… She was trained to conceal them. Use them. Allowing someone to see past all of that… That is something she has only ever really, truly, granted to one person.

Bruce crouches by the bed. "I'm afraid I don't have any other ideas, Nat. With the head trauma you had, I can't guarantee that you will remember anything on your own or not. Plus, if we can figure out how you were brought back, we might be able to bring others back too. Nebula’s sister. Maybe… maybe even Tony."

That thought almost makes her agree on the spot. The knowledge of Tony’s loss had hit her with all the gentleness of a traffic collision. And while she does not know Gamora personally, to think that she had been murdered by her own father…

And yet, she still doesn't like it. Hates the idea, frankly. But what she hates more is this feeling of uncertainty; knowing that there is something important she is forgetting, just out of reach, and being unable to access it.

“…a soul, for a soul.”

Natasha clenches her eyes shut and tries to channel the pain into memories. What happened before she fell? After she fell? How is she alive? Damn it. Why can’t she remember?

“Nat…” Bruce says with warning and exasperation.

Гавно she is going to regret this.

“Fine,” she grinds out. She locks with Mantis’s giant anime eyes. “But there will be zero, I repeat, zero manipulation of what I am feeling. You pull out and magnify what is already there, but that is all, are we clear?”

Mantis nods furiously, takes a step back and her eyes grow impossibly larger.

Bruce claps his hands in relief. "I'll be here the whole time, Nat. Everything will be fine."

The words do nothing to ease Natasha's anxiety, but this is important.

"So this is what we're going to do, Nat. I'm going to ask you about memories you have that inspire different emotions. Happiness, sadness, excitement, what have you. Once you're more comfortable, we will try to dig deeper, okay?"

"Sure." 

This is for Clint. For everyone who has lost someone.

She leans back against the pillows and tries to relax. She closes her eyes before Mantis can touch her, not wanting to know how she will react if she sees the antenna glowing. Like a scepter once did.

Like Clint's eyes once did.

Mantis’s hand on her arm is gentle.

"Let's start with a pleasant memory."

Because she has so many of those. She lets out a breath. A good memory. Okay.

She thinks of Lila's first ballet recital. She was seven. She was so cute Natasha had actually cried and Clint teased her for months afterward.

"She feels...tenderness. Pride. Love."

Well, yeah. Lila was the first in her class to get her pirouette.

"Doing great, Nat. Let's try a different memory. How about when you felt a sense of achievement about something."

Budapest pushes itself into her mind. Keeping Clint alive was no easy task.

“Relief. Amusement. And affection.”

Well. An injured Clint also happens to be pretty entertaining when he complains.

"What else?"

Banter with Coulson. Playing keep away with his Captain America shield replica.

“Belonging. Happiness.”

"Okay. Now think of a time when you were scared."

Too many to choose from, but because her brain apparently loves drama, an all-too-real memory of groaning metal and burst pipes and a rageful roar from right behind her run–

"Terror."

They continue like this for several minutes. Hours? Happy memories. Sad memories. Times filled with laughter, sickness, tears, and warmth. 

Eventually, she is nearly asleep on the table. The memories play behind her eyes as if they were happening in real time.

"Okay. Now, what comes to mind when you think of Vormir."

Her eyes clench tighter. 

Cold. Breathtaking landscape. Skies cascading into gold and lavender.

Clint.

Climbing a mountain. A cloaked figure. An altar. His hand in hers.

The piercing in her brain comes back full force.

“You all right, Nat?”

She clenches her teeth and nods. Shoves the pain aside. She needs to remember.

They argued. Fought. Someone had to die, and she had to make sure he didn’t. It couldn’t be him.

The daggers pierce deeper.

"Desperation. Pain."

“Don’t push yourself.”

The touch of foreheads. Saying goodbye without words.

“Incredible sorrow.”

The cliff. Running. And then–

Natasha gasps.

Lila's ballet recital. Tic-tac-toe in air vents. Banter with Coulson—every warm memory made fresh in her mind turns abruptly to rot.

The smiles wither.

Laughter shrivels into ash.

Warmth decays into aged excrement.

She cries out, and Bruce is immediately at her side. The machines beside the bed are going crazy.

The world corrodes around her.

"Mantis?!"

“She feels shock. Horror–”

“You must lose that which you love.”

“She feels...betrayal.”

“This is the only way!"

Screaming a sharp burn in her leg a snap in her wrist falling reaching Clint—

“Mantis what’s happening?!”

“What the hell is going on in here?"

"Stand back!"

Her mind feels like Swiss cheese. Every time she pushes toward the memory, comes so close she could touch it, she slips through a hole and ends up back where she started.

“Damn it, Bruce, do something!”

Natasha‘s head is about to explode. The emotions within her grow so strong that she fears they will physically gush out of her, building higher and higher in a frothing rush she cannot contain.

“Mantis! Can’t you make her sleep?”

“I promised not to!”

“Then at least help her calm down!”

She clutches her head in both hands and screams. Her skull creaks ominously, like it is about to fracture in two.

“Tasha… I’m so sorry…”

A moment later the frothing sensation recedes, like an angry tide pulling away from the shore. She fights it—doesn’t care how much it hurts—grasps at the tiniest remnant.

"Nat...?"

Everything ebbs away like the tendrils of a dream after waking.

Damn it. It was right there.

She opens her eyes and gasps for air.

What the hell happened.

Everyone is here now. Mantis, with a hand on her arm and pupils wider than dinner plates. Bruce, patting the air around her but not actually touching her. Rhodey and Happy at the other side of the bed with fierce, worried expressions. Pepper with her hands pressed together in front of her face and Sam with his phone to his ear. Barnes has moved from his perch on the wall, hovering just behind the others with a stare almost burning in its intensity.

“Are you all right?”

“I…don’t know.”

“What did you remember?” Rhodey asks.

Natasha shakes her head. “I couldn’t get there. Felt every emotion on the spectrum but…” She pounds her fist into the mattress. “I still can’t remember a damn thing!”

To her embarrassment, something warm and wet streams down her face and she hurriedly wipes it away.

"Mantis?”

“Her memories… they were sealed away so tightly! I couldn’t get through… all I could access were remnant emotions of memories locked away…”

“What kind of emotions?” 

“I felt…she felt…shock, and horror, and…”

“And?”

Mantis’s voice goes soft. “Betrayal.”

What?

"That doesn't make sense."

Rhodey glares at the floor, curses, then stalks out of the room without a word.

Bruce and Sam exchange a meaningful glance before Sam takes off after Rhodey and Bruce crouches down to speak to Natasha. 

"Nat? You really can't remember anything specific?"

She shakes her head. "No." She wipes her eyes again and stares at the wall, unable to look at the sympathy and pity on his face any longer. “Damn it. It was right there.”

"Shh, it’s okay.”

"I want to see Clint." Right now.

Bruce moves to speak again but stops when angry voices erupt in the hall. It sounds urgent enough that Barnes, Pepper, and Happy immediately leave the room, the angry voices growing momentarily loud as the door opens and closes behind them.

“I told you something was—!”

Rhodey. He sounds... furious.

"Just rest for a minute, Nat. Mantis, we might need you outside."

And then she’s left alone, with her jumbled brain and battered body.

And a desperate desire to see Clint.

-

Time Variance Authority

Eleven years, Loki reminds himself as he and Barton run through the aisles of the archives. No matter how recently New York happened for himself, for Barton, it was over a decade ago. Eleven years surely will cause memories to fade.

Besides, Loki just spared him from sacrificing himself for something used as a paperweight here. With the right approach, surely he can convince Barton to assist him.

Surely.

For insurance, Loki subtly pockets a time collar off a distracted hunter. Better safe than sorry, as the Midgardians say.

They run until they exit the archives and emerge into the theater corridors, where Loki guides them into an empty time theater. If he has any hope of gaining even the tiniest granule of cooperation from Barton, he will need to see things with his own eyes. He needs to be aware of what exactly the TVA is capable of, why Loki saved him, and what they are up against.

And above all, he cannot allow the TVA to discover Barton here.

"All right, what the hell is this place," Barton demands the instant the heavy doors of the time theater close behind them. "You better start giving me answers, you son of a bitch."

A witch, actually, but no matter.

Loki, slowly, pulls open his jacket to pull out Barton's file, tucked in the inner pocket, and holds it up.

"This file contains a film strip which you need to see." Loki takes his eyes off Barton for an instant to slot it into the projector, then turns to find the blade of a knife scratching at his eyeball.

Barton’s words come out in a growl. “I'm not watching anything until I get answers."

From experience, Loki is aware that this blade is merely one of several that Barton has on his person—something they have always had in common. Instinct has Loki itching to draw a blade of his own, but life experience informs him that he will be unsuccessful in gaining an ally in this manner.

Loki raises his hands and attempts to look as non-threatening as possible. "All right. Ask your questions.”

"How did I go from an accursed planet in the middle of nowhere to here, wherever the hell this is, with you, the devil himself.”

Loki stares at the tip of the blade. Gestures around them. “I told you. This place, the TVA, wants you dead. A specific version of you, anyway, which they want to erase from existence. I have strong reasons to wish to thwart their efforts, so I pulled you from the timeline in the hope that you can assist me in locating that particular variant before they do."

A multitude of questions fight to free themselves from Barton's person. "Pulled me from... the what?"

"The timeline. One of an infinite number, to be precise.”

"I… How?"

Loki holds up the TemPad. “The individual in charge of this organization is very dangerous. He has access to and influence over all of time and reality. I cannot stress enough that he cannot be allowed to succeed in whatever he is planning. And, for whatever reason, you are a threat to that plan.”

Barton chuckles mirthlessly. "Me? All of time and reality and I am a threat?"

Something they agree on, then. “Apparently.”

"Sure. What threat am I other than to..."

Barton's face grows hard as marble. The knife moves from his eye to tight against his jugular.

"Where is she."

Loki doesn’t follow. “I beg your pardon?”

Barton tugs him forward only to force him face-first into the wall behind him. His right hand fists in the hair at the back of his skull, his left keeping the knife tight against his throat.

“Romanoff,” Barton growls into his ear. “She was there. I know she was. The only plausible way off that planet is the same way I found myself off of it.”

Way off?

Barton's questions inspire only confusion. “I have no idea what you’re–”

Barton’s fist in his hair tightens painfully. “You think I don't remember? All your little threatening speeches back in New York? You'd better start talking or I swear I will cut out your eyeball just like you did that poor sap in Germany.”

His head is yanked back and then collides painfully with the wall, the blade making the first tickling sensation of penetrating the skin.

“Where. Is. She.”

“Agent Romanoff isn’t here!” 

Did Barton suffer brain damage in the fall? Why else would he be asking this?

“This the plan, huh? Use her as bait to lure me back here? Get your revenge? You planning to erase my mind again? Where. Is. Romanoff.”

Something is horribly wrong here. Barton is serious. He has no idea where Romanoff is.

A ball of foreboding coils in Loki's gut.

"Agent Barton, may I assure you that I do not know the specific whereabouts of Agent Romanoff, however, I find it highly probable that she is still on Vormir. I assure you I only removed you from the timeline."

"She's not. We combed that planet in search of her. Where is she! "

The gnawing feeling in Loki's gut grows exponentially. The file mentioned no others with Barton and Romanoff on Vormir. "We?"

He doesn’t understand. He double-checked the date and timeline on the TemPad several times. 

"Agent Barton. Just answer me this one question. Were you, or were you not, on Vormir with Romanoff with the intent of retrieving the Soul Stone as part of the Avenger's Time Heist to defeat Thanos?"

Barton goes stiff, his grip around Loki's throat easing ever so slightly. "What are you talking about?"

Loki dares to glance at the nearest multiverse monitor. Watches how it weaves in and out and around itself. Just how equipped is the TVA to navigate through something like that?

Loki turns just enough to where he can glimpse Barton in his peripheral vision. “What year was it? When I pulled you from the timeline?”

Barton scowls, but finally mutters, “2025.”

Oh no.

Loki jerks away from Barton's now distracted grip and rips out Barton’s file. Flips to the end.

Place of death: Vormir.

Year: 2014

Cause of death: sacrifice for retrieval of Soul Stone during Avenger’s Time Heist*

*see Avengers Time Heist, 2023

Survived by: Romanova, Natalia Alianovna (known aliases: Natasha Romanoff; Black Widow)

Hæstkuk. How can this be possible?

He double-checks the number on the file—six-one-six–as he thought. The TemPad must have malfunctioned, because, somehow...

He has pulled the wrong Barton—a Barton he did not even know existed—from the timeline. 

"Are you telling me that you survived the retrieval of the Soul Stone? That Romanoff was the one to die? Not yourself?"

Barton stares at him for a moment before he says, quietly, "Are you telling me that there is a reality out there where Natasha did not die? Where I was the one to go over?"

Barton's face reveals genuine shock, sending Loki's brain reeling with the implications. This Barton, right in front of him, did not die on Vormir.

“There is a reality somewhere out there where Natasha is alive?”

Loki pulls out his TemPad and searches through files of other Barton variants.

Barton is not an incredibly dynamic individual, to be certain. In every timeline, he is an archer. A loser. Oscillating between hero and villain. One other detail is also consistent.

Clinton Francis Barton dies on Vormir.

"Answer me! Is there a reality where Natasha lived? Where Natasha is alive?"

Except, apparently, for this one.

By the Allfather, this is him. This is the variant that they are searching for. In this timeline, perhaps the only one in the multiverse, it was Romanoff who died for the Soul Stone, not Barton.

If that does not constitute a significant inconsistency, then nothing will.

"Answer me!"

"That is correct, Agent Barton. And that fact may prove to be more significant than I originally thought."

He moves back to the desk and slides in the film strip, fiddling with the levers on the monitor until it begins to play. He skips it forward to Barton’s death, his intended one. Vormir, 2014.

The film sputters and glitches, refusing to play, and Loki curses the obsolete technology. Is there nothing in the TVA that is functioning properly?

"What is this?"

Loki gives the monitor a few good whacks, and the film finally clears. Grainy, but watchable. "This is the reality I believed I was pulling you from."

Barton’s eyes glue themselves to the screen as the scene unfolds—himself and Romanoff locked in a literal but extraordinarily counterintuitive fight to the death.

"Okay. You win."

The film flickers and then clears to show Barton knocking Romanoff to the ground, Romanoff wrestling herself on top of him and discharging an electric shock directly into his face. She sprints for the ledge.

The film screeches and dissolves into static before skipping forward several frames. The Barton on the screen stands slowly, almost casually, as if the time required is perfectly calculated, and draws an arrow. He pulls the arrow back–

The film skips again. Flickers with static.

"What? What did I do differently?!"

The film picks up with a horrendous scream from Romanoff, and Barton plummeting over the edge.

End of file.

"No! Wait, what happened?"

Barton fiddles with the knobs and levers, and Romanoff's agonized scream echoes through the theater in reverse.

"What's wrong with it? Let me see what happened!"

"The file must be damaged."

After several more futile attempts, Barton howls and kicks a chair clear across the room, where it collides into the wall with a crisp snap of the chair leg. Barton's chest heaves as he stands in front of the screen, his head hanging in the 'o' in the flickering 'End of File.'

“I don't understand.”

Barton is truly disturbed. He is telling the truth about his experience on Vormir. Could it truly be that Barton dies on Vormir in every reality, except this one?

Did Loki just so happen to accidentally extract that specific variant?

Every hair on his body stands on end, and he scans their surroundings once more, checking corners of the theater for surveillance equipment. This incredible happenstance goes against exponential odds. Was this all orchestrated by him?

"I don’t understand. How? What did I do wrong?” Barton murmurs to himself.

But that does not make sense. Why would he–Kang–orchestrate this? The entire TVA is turning itself inside out to locate this variant. If Kang knew all along where the variant was, there would be no need to stage such a ruse. What possible motive would he have to deliver such a critical variant straight into Loki’s grasp?

Loki is hesitant to believe in such fanciful things as fate or destiny, but as he glances at the monitor in the corner that still displays the ever-expanding timeline in blinking red light, he can’t help but reconsider.

The analog monitor is simple enough to understand. Lines creep and twist beneath, around, and through other lines, a constant blinking red light letting the viewer know this is clearly not ideal.

Perhaps it was truly incidental. There is no way these rapid changes of the multiverse could have been accounted for when he used the TemPad. How is anyone supposed to navigate through that nest? Perhaps another timeline branched out and intercepted his destination? Redirected the time door to the closest timeline it could find based on the parameters he designated?

Whatever happened, it is nothing short of a miracle.

In his peripheral vision, Barton plants a hand on the wall and bows his head. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Loki reigns in his excitement. If another analyst figures this out or discovers Barton here, they will unleash the entire power of the TVA to eliminate him. If the Kang in charge of this TVA has put this much priority on this variant, then it is he who wants him eliminated. Which means one thing.

This Barton variant must survive.

"I knew it. Deep down, I knew."

But why should this particular Barton be so important to Kang? Why would his survival on Vormir pose such a threat? The answer is not likely to be easily discovered, but he has a resource that no other analyst has. Barton himself. Someone who can competently compare realities. A thorough comparison should reveal–

“This is how it should have happened. It was supposed to be me.”

–that they may have a problem.

Barton leans an arm against the wall, the other clamping into his hair. “I don’t understand. What did I do differently?”

For whatever reason, Kang wants this Barton dead. Desires for the dominant timeline to consist of Barton perishing on Vormir. For Romanoff to survive.

“I should be dead, not her!”

He did not expect Barton and Kang to be in… agreement.

This… complicates matters.

"Why did I not do the same thing?"

And requires...delicate wording. He doesn’t relish in the idea of falsehood, but if Barton is in earnest about how he believes this incident should have played out, it is necessary.

At the very least, deception is something he is proficient in.

"That is the precise question that the entire TVA is attempting to answer right now, Agent Barton. Believe me when I say it is imperative that we discover the answer first.” He points a finger at the flickering screen. “Whatever it was that you did differently in this particular reality, it resulted in a nexus event that has the entire TVA in chaos, and it is the most horrifyingly orderly place I have ever been in. I require your assistance in locating this nexus event.”

Barton swivels to face him. “A nexus–my assistance?” 

Loki points at the monitor. "They are searching for you, Barton. Well, a version of you,” he amends smoothly. “They will prune that variant, banish it to the end of time, and eliminate that timeline from the multiverse."

Barton huffs, shaking his head.

"Do you understand what I am saying? Whatever this version of you did differently on Vormir—that set off a chain of events that somehow threatens the madman in charge of this very powerful organization. A nexus event that he wants to prevent at all costs. This man is dangerous, Barton. If he has his entire workforce solely focused on eliminating this reality, we need to know why! What happened that has him so terrified of this one specific timeline? There may not be any other way to defeat him!"

"I'd sooner snap my own bow than help you."

 “Barton, listen to me. Our goals are aligned. This madman, Kang, dictates how time runs its course according to his own preferences."

"I don't care. All I care about is finding Romanoff and getting the hell–"

"Those preferences consist of eliminating the one reality in which you die and Romanoff lives. Does this not indicate that he wants to guarantee that Romanoff is the one to perish on Vormir?”

Loki can see the moment his meaning resonates on Barton’s face. 

He’s got him.

As long as Barton believes that it is Romanoff's survival that is in jeopardy, Barton will assist him. He will identify the discrepancies and inconsistencies when they compare his timeline and one of the many where Barton died instead, and with any luck, they can determine what Kang is so afraid of.

As long as Loki can keep the fact that Barton himself is the outlier, and that Kang seems to desire the same outcome as Barton regarding who perishes on Vormir, then this can work.

It is a necessary falsehood. Barton is obviously not thinking clearly.

"We need to compare your timeline with that of this other variant of yourself. Doing so should reveal to us what Kang finds so critical to his plan. If we are lucky, we may be able to defeat him with this knowledge. And guarantee Romanoff’s survival,” he adds quickly.

Barton’s internal battle protrudes through every vein in his forehead. “Fine,” he eventually growls. “But let me make myself clear, Loki. I don’t trust you farther than I can spit. You try anything, and I’ll have a knife in your eye so deep that you’ll get a metallic tang in the back of your throat.”

“What a lovely image,” Loki says drily. “I don’t expect you to trust me. I don’t ask you to trust me. That in itself probably makes me more trustworthy than anyone you know.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“It is those who assert that you can trust them, that prove to be the most untrustworthy,” Loki says. “Trust is for fools.”

Chapter Text

February, 2024

Iowa

“…to be the new Captain America? …ad? Dad.”

"Hm?" 

Hazy images of rock and snow fade into familiar wallpaper. The unforgiving screech of wind into the soft lilt of his daughter's voice. 

“Sorry, honey, what did you say?” 

He fiddles with his aid and tells himself that Lila wouldn’t need to repeat herself if his hearing would deign to emerge from the inside of a dirty fishbowl.

Lila pokes her lower lip with her tongue, then speaks slowly. Clearly. “I thought you said that Sam Wilson was going to be the new Captain America.”

Clint frowns. “He is.”

Lila looks at him like he has two heads. “Then who is he?" she asks, pointing at the television.

A reporter on a football field is sitting with a man in an unmistakable navy suit.

“What’s it like being Captain America? Do eagles fly overhead wherever you go?” 

What the… “Who is that?”

“The new Captain America,” Lila says, with a familiar deliberate patience Clint recognizes from the month or two before he got his aid. “You’ve been staring at the TV this whole time, Dad.”

But seeing something very different.

Lila doesn’t press. Doesn’t need to.

Come to think of it, Laura mentioned something not long ago about the shield. That Sam put it in a museum or art exhibit or something. Clint had wondered what Barnes had thought about that.

He wonders what Barnes thinks about this guy on television.

The sound of tires on the gravel driveway spares Clint from further scrutiny. Laura is back from picking Nate up from his after-school program.

From the minute the door opens, Clint can tell something is off. Nate tries to run past him and get upstairs, but Clint hooks him under the armpit when he spots a dark ring around his eye. 

“Hey, what happened here?”

Nate bites his lip and looks at his mother.

Laura plants a hand on her hip. “Donna McCoy.”

Not again.

Nate is at an age where the girls are bigger and the meaner ones enjoy picking on the boys. Donna McCoy in particular enjoys tormenting Nate, usually insulting Hawkeye and his seemingly endless inferiorities in comparison to the other ‘real Avengers.’ 

“She hit him?”

“It got particularly heated this time.”

Clint kneels down in front of his son and brushes his bangs away to meet his eyes. “Hey, buddy. Remember what I told you. No matter what she says, it doesn't make it true.”

Nate nods but quickly goes back to staring at his shoes.

Laura speaks softly. “This time she said some things about…Nat.”

Clint feels his body tense. “Oh?” 

Nate’s eyes tear up, and his little hands curl into fists. “She said that you’re the reason Auntie Nat’s dead! That she was her favorite Avenger and you killed her!”

Clint jerks at the sound of Lila’s hand slapping flat on the counter. “Which one is this? Is she the gremlin with the biting issue or the one who likes to punch you? I’d like to see her try to say that to my face! I’m paying a visit to your school tomorrow!”

“Lila, you will do no such thing,” Laura responds calmly. 

“But—!”

“I think you should go do your homework, honey. Let us handle this.”

Lila breathes heavily with outrage, but finally takes off in a huff, grabbing her bow and slamming the back door behind her as she stomps outside. 

Laura kneels down next to Clint, catching their son’s eyes. “Nate. Whatever Donna may have said, does that make it true?” Laura prompts, likely in continuation of a conversation in the car.

“No. I know it’s not true. But, how can she say that?! We all loved Aunt Nat! Way more than she ever could.”

Nate breaks down into tears, and Clint pulls him into a hug. “I suppose that explains the shiner, huh?”

“She looks worse.”

“He hit a girl?”

Laura shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Under the circumstances, I’ve decided I'm willing to let it go.”

Clint can't bring himself to disagree.

With news about ‘the Blip’ mostly having run its course, the 'suspicious circumstances' of Natasha Romanoff’s death have been the popular topic on most news channels and tabloids as of late. Additionally, Scott Lang had branched out into the world of podcasts and almost exclusively discussed The Heist. While he had by no means stated anything overtly accusatory toward Clint or what occurred regarding the retrieval of a certain stone, he had unfortunately employed words like ‘sacrificial exchange,’ ‘someone had to die so that everyone else could live,’ ‘it was horrible,’ and ‘Barton doesn’t like to talk about it.’

People drew their own conclusions.

Clint swallows down a massive surge of self-loathing and squeezes his son’s shoulders. “Listen, buddy. The world often thinks that something is true when it isn’t, or isn’t true when it is. We can’t change everyone’s minds or tell them what to think, all we can do is tell the truth and stick to it, and one day it will come out. You know I didn’t… do anything to hurt your Aunt Nat, don’t you?”

Nate nods emphatically. “Of course!”

“Then that’s enough. In this house, we will remember what really happened. The rest of the world will catch up.”

It’s partially his own fault if he is honest. Clint has turned down countless opportunities to tell his side of what happened. The fact is he simply is not able to talk about it. Not to his therapist, not to his wife, not even to himself. Speaking to the public in his current state he would likely just incriminate himself further.

Because the universe is horrible, the news chooses that precise moment to pivot from the topic of the ‘new Captain America’ to ‘other Avengers news.’

"...A recent article from the New York Times has the entire Avengers fan base in uproar with its implications that the tragic passing of the Black Widow may not have been accidental. The journalist cites Scott Lang’s podcast as well as several other unnamed sources in speculation that Clint Barton, also known as Hawkeye and the last person known to have seen Natasha Romanoff alive, to be the person responsible for her death. Responses to this accusation have–”

“Something tells me it’s not just going to be Donna McCoy that gives us trouble this week.”

Clint collapses into an armchair and drops his head into his hands.

“Should I call Pepper? She could get her lawyers on this.”

Clint shakes his head. That would require a statement from him at some point, and he physically can’t. “Just leave it.” 

“This is slander, Clint.”

He shrugs. It's nothing he doesn't deserve, regardless.

Laura takes Nate into the kitchen to distract him with a snack. "Turn it off, at least."

"...the article also sheds new light on the fact that Hawkeye and the Black Widow were on opposing sides in the 2016 Avengers altercation in Germany, as proven by airport security footage. Could it be that there were underlying differences between the former SHIELD partners as far back as 2016, and how did this influence what happened during the Avengers Time Heist?”

“Oh, God,” Clint groans.

Laura marches back into the living room with purpose and clicks the TV off with an aggressive wave of the remote. He hears her sigh heavily, evidently frustrated, but her hands are gentle when they come up to rub over his shoulders.

The voice of the newscaster echoes in his head. The words are simultaneously accurate and absurd.

There is no version of him that could even be capable of—willingly—hurting Natasha. Loki had even needed to double-dose him with that damn scepter before they hit the helicarrier. Wanda had been irritated with his half-assed excuse for combat at the airport. He couldn’t even bring himself to bring her in that one time when SHIELD had reason to suspect her of being a double agent.

"Don't start over-analyzing what happened in Germany now too, Clint."

He tries not to. But... he can see why the public would find it suspicious. And if he is honest with himself, things between him and Natasha had shifted long before that day in Germany. 

A wedge had formed between them, just ever so slightly, sometime after the whole SHIELD-is-Hydra debacle. Whenever she would visit, he'd catch her staring at nothing, deep in thought, but brush it off as nothing when he asked. Their phone conversations had gotten shorter. Then fewer. 

She had pulled away from him.

She had blamed it on the pressure that came down on her after the release of the SHIELD files, but Clint had never bought that. Natasha didn’t give a shit what people thought about her. 

Something had happened, and she just wasn’t telling him. But what? Something with Fury? With Sam?

Who is he kidding. It no doubt had something to do with Steve. 

Whatever it was, it had impacted their relationship enough that she hadn’t called him when the Accords were drawn up. She had known that Clint would never agree to sign; that he would see right through her to the guilt that compelled her to do the opposite.

Besides, she had been too focused on Steve. How to get Steve to come around. And when he didn't, she changed her priorities. For Steve.

Then came that incredible escape from the Raft. He thought things might go back to normal after that, but Clint needed to be home, and he could see in Natasha's eyes that she never quite forgave herself for being part of the reason the Barton farm was now on Ross’s radar. So he was home and she was on the run, and she rarely called and never visited.

And then a madman had snapped his fingers, and Clint Barton had died.

"Stop it, Clint."

"Not doing anything."

"I know you. You're... ruminating."

"Can't help it."

Laura sighs. “I wish you would tell yourself what you tell the kids. This was not your fault.”

“Just because I didn’t physically shove her off the ledge doesn’t absolve me from being responsible for her death.”

“Then how is Donna McCoy wrong?” Laura challenges.

Clint shrugs. 

Maybe she isn’t.

“Clint. This was not your fault. Why can’t you accept that?”

Because it was his fault.

Clint Barton had died the day of the Snap. He struggled, raged, thrashed—went through every stage of denial and anger and bargaining possible, but then he died, and the Ronin was born in his wake. His mission was to do what Clint Barton could not. Destroy the evil that remained in the world.

He had let his pain overtake him, pushing away the only person left whom he loved and refusing to let her witness what he was becoming. Refusing to lose her too.

Natasha had tried so hard to save him, but he had refused to be saved. Didn’t want to be saved. Didn’t deserve to be saved.

And then she managed it anyway.

Natasha killed the Ronin and brought Clint Barton back from the dead. Brought his family back from the dead. He owed her everything.

Maybe Donna McCoy isn’t wrong. He may as well have pushed her over that ledge, for all the difference it would have made.

-

Present Day

Manhattan

“I told you something was off!”

Rhodes's words echo through the corridor. The door has not fully closed behind them, and Banner emphatically gestures for Rhodes to lower his voice.

Too late, Bucky expects. Romanoff’s ears are sharp.

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Rhodey.”

“The hell I am! Did you not see what just happened? Refresh our memories, Mantis. What emotions were you able to sense in Natasha when talking about Vormir?”

Mantis drops her eyes to her steepled fingertips and shuffles from side to side. “It was a flood of emotions. Despair, sorrow, anger and…"

"And?"

More shuffling. "Betrayal.”

Rhodes gestures at Mantis but stares at Banner. “Now why would Natasha feel anger and betrayal when digging up memories of Vormir?”

More crinkles form on Banner’s forehead. 

“Spit it out, man. What are you implying?” Sam asks flatly.

“I think it’s pretty clear. Natasha did not go over that cliff of her own volition. Barton put her there.”

“Rhodey!” Pepper gasps with a hand over her chest, and Bucky suddenly wishes that Hogan hadn’t left her there alone to go re-interrogate the staff that found Romanoff. Rhodes should be taking care of her, not upsetting her more.

Bucky decides that he does not like Rhodes.

“Are you shitting me right now?!” Sam says in an octave twice his usual range just as an alert resonates throughout the main laboratory.

It is not loud. Nor does it indicate danger. A knife appears in Bucky’s hand anyway.

“It’s the front gate,” Sam says quietly, clearly for Bucky’s benefit.

“Please be Steve,” Rhodes pleads to the ceiling.

Bucky’s body stiffens into a board.

How could Steve get here so fast. 

But on the monitor, it is not Steve, but a young, blonde, agitated woman demanding entry over the live feed.

Belova.

Bucky wills his heartbeat to slow.

Belova points an aggressive finger toward the camera. "Let me in! I am here to see Natasha!"

"Nat's sister," Banner says as if he still can’t quite believe it, buzzing the gate open before disappearing down the hall to greet her.

There is an uncomfortable thirty-eight seconds of silence during Banner’s absence. Potts continues to stare at Rhodes in horror. Sam glares at the floor. Bucky takes note of all the exits and weighs his desire to avoid conflict with his desire to obtain all available information. 

Finally, Banner's heavy footsteps return, followed by a small blond with an expression made of steel.

She's familiar, in the same way that Romanoff is familiar. What horrific skill did he teach this one.

She sizes them up, one by one. Her eyes linger on Bucky several seconds longer than the rest.

“It’s good to meet you, Yelena.” Sam welcomes her with a warm smile, offering his hand.

Her eyes narrow. “Likewise,” she says flatly. “Well?” she says to Banner.

“This way.”

“Friendly girl," Sam quips after the door closes behind them, slipping his hand in his pocket.

‘Friendly’ is not what Red Room graduates are known for, Sam.

Another eternal twenty-six seconds elapses before Banner returns, and they all watch as the door subjectively takes about a century to fall shut. The instant it does, Belova is forgotten.

"Rhodey, you wanna take this opportunity to rephrase what you just said?" Sam asks, his glare somehow even deeper.

"You heard me."

“Dude, just what is it with you and Clint?” Sam says with a scowl and his arms crossed.

Rhodes's stance broadens and he raises his chin. His words are sharp. “Look. You weren't here, Sam. I know to you everything happened in an instant, but there were five years of pain and anguish for all of us in between.”

“You mind filling in the blanks for us clueless dusted folks, then?”

Rhodes lets out a deep breath. His voice grows quiet, almost compassionate. “Barton took a hit, okay? It changed him. He became a man obsessed, and would have done anything to get his family back. Anything.”

“He wouldn’t murder Natasha,” Banner says like it’s ridiculous.

“Anything, Bruce. He left her, didn’t he? You remember those first few months? Nat couldn’t even come out of her room for weeks. The Barton we knew wouldn't have done that to her, but he was gone.”

Banner shakes his head. “Even so…”

“Y’all can’t be serious. Barton isn’t a murderer.”

“Barton is a murderer. An accomplished one."

Rhodes is growing more heated, and it has Bucky instinctively palming the knife in his pocket.

"That’s all he did for those five long years. Were they horrible people? Yes, I can’t say I was particularly sorry to see some of them go, but they had the right to trial all the same.”

“Come on, man,” Banner says.

“Look, you weren’t here either!” He points two fingers at Bucky and Sam. “These two were dust, Pepper was off with Tony learning sustainability or whatever, and you were either holed up in your lab or getting plastered with Tony in Mexico. But I saw it. Saw Nat’s time in the gym and gun range triple after every report on Barton's escapades. Watched the ever-increasing body count that followed him. You all think you know Barton, but the Barton you all knew died in the Snap.”

“You can't use someone's grief against them, man!” Sam says. “Just because Barton went through something traumatic, it doesn't mean he would murder his best friend! Someone he is still actively grieving even two years later!"

“Is it grief, Sam? Or is it guilt? Like you said, it's been two years. What if it’s not ‘complicated grief’ or whatever it is they’re calling it nowadays. What if it is just plain old guilt for a terrible, terrible sin? What if Barton is just decent enough to feel enough remorse for it to eat at him after what he did to get his family back?”

“Natasha was his best friend!" Banner exclaims, his voice higher than what should be possible for someone of his size.

“And Tony was mine! You don’t see me having hallucinogenic episodes!”

“Geez, man, have some compassion.”

“I have compassion for Natasha. Sitting in there with holes in her memory and suppressed feelings of anger and betrayal that even she can’t comprehend, because of course she can’t! None of us want to. But my eyes aren’t shut to who Barton became.”

Bucky bristles at Rhodes's accusatory tone. People make mistakes, but that doesn't mean they are bad people.

…Right?

Yes. That’s right.

Rogers was emphatic about that.

"Bruce? Please tell me you're not buying this."

“I...don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t want to believe that Clint would do something like that. But…”

“But?”

“But. Well. Grief does things to you. It has been known to drive good people to do…pretty awful things. Look what happened to Wanda.”

Silence falls over the room. Perhaps out of some sense of respect. Or guilt.

Bucky has read the report from the sorcerer. Knows that Maximoff's grief drove her to do terrible things. That it broke her.

“Pepper?”

“I just…I can’t accept that Clint would do something like that.”

“None of us want to, myself included. I know Barton loved Nat, I do. But the man was obsessed with getting his family back, and unfortunately, the only way for that to happen was for Natasha to die.”

Bucky mulls over the accusation. It doesn't make sense. After all, Romanoff is Barton's Rogers. He wouldn't hurt...

But…

Grief broke Barton. Turned him into the Ronin.

Grief broke Maximoff. Turned her into the Scarlet Witch.

...grief broke him. Turned him into...

And he almost did kill...

"Buck? You all right?"

No. Stop. Barton wouldn't hurt Romanoff.

…would he?

There’s a slam of the door, and heavy breathing, and a Russian-accented voice of steel behind them that comes out in a venomous hiss.

“I knew it. I’ll kill that bastard!”

-

Present Day

Natasha is so tired. 

Tired of staring at this damn ceiling. Tired of her entire body throbbing with pain. Tired of listening to her teammates and friends shout at each other two doors away. Tired of pretending that they’re not hiding something from her.

Tired of not knowing where Clint is, or when he will get back.

Rhodey’s voice, colored with anger, echoes through the walls and into her makeshift room. Sam answers with equal fervor and an outraged “Are you shitting me right now?!” cuts through the walls as if it were paper. 

What is the matter with them?

She makes a heroic effort to sit up, but her leg shoots daggers that zipper up to the top of her spine and force her to collapse back onto the mattress in agony. 

They’re full-on screaming at each other now. What the hell is their problem?

And where the hell is Clint?

Since she physically can’t get up to confront them, she closes her eyes in an effort to tune out their relentless bickering and lets herself sink back into the lingering memories that Mantis had managed to pull to the front of her mind.

But they’re…different now. As if each warm and treasured memory now carries a lingering aftertaste of something sour and tepid. 

The sound of the front gate breaks her concentration, and the strident voices across the hall abruptly go quiet.

Someone’s here. 

Please be Clint, she hopes desperately, but the heavy footsteps that plod down the hall definitely do not belong to Clint, and she is unsurprised when Bruce pokes his giant head through the door. 

“Natasha? Someone here to see you.”

When he moves his massive form to the side, Natasha’s heart leaps in her chest. 

“Yelena!” Natasha ignores her body’s protests and hauls herself into a sitting position. She feels a wide smile spread over her face.

Yelena does not smile back. She stares, eyes wide and unmoving. “Long, long time ago, I can still remember,” she says with a quiver in her voice.

Natasha frowns in a moment of confusion, before grinning and replying in an off-key, “How that music used to make me smile.”

Yelena’s breath hitches, and then she dives toward the bed and into Natasha’s arms. Natasha’s body screams but her tears are not from the pain.

“Natasha!” Yelena croaks through her own tears and squeezes her tightly.

"Ow! Gently, Yelena."

"Sorry!" Yelena immediately pulls back.

Natasha grabs her hand. "It’s okay. You can hug me. Just not so hard."

Yelena wedges in slowly and carefully wraps her arms around her, burying her face against her shoulder. It isn't long before Natasha feels wetness against her skin.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is real. That you’re real!” Yelena says before her voice cracks into broken sobs.

Natasha tries to imagine how Yelena must have suffered, to suddenly be missing five years in the span of an instant. Her sister alive one moment and gone the next...

To that, at least, she can relate. Losing so many of those you love with a snap of the fingers.

Yelena finally pulls back far enough to gently clasp Natasha’s face in her hands. She smiles through tears and mucus. “I can’t believe it,” she says finally, then laughs joyously.

Natasha grins and brushes mussed-up hair from Yelena’s face. “That makes two of us.”

Yelena shyly wipes away tears, shaking her head. “I don’t understand. How? When?”

"They found me unconscious on the helipad at Qeng Enterprises, the former Avenger’s Tower, but I have no idea how I got there.”

“But, what happened? Have you been alive this whole time? Or were you actually…dead?"

That at least she is pretty certain of. “Body sure feels like it would rather be dead.”

“Then how are you alive? What happened?”

Natasha shakes her head. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“You can’t remember?”

“I vaguely remember waking on Vormir. Being in—ahh—terrible pain.”

“Sorry! I'm squeezing too tight again.”

“A little,” Natasha says, but with fondness.

“I will restrain myself, I promise. But Natasha, you must remember more than that? It's been years! Not just since Thanos was defeated, but they said you died in 2014!”

“I'm sorry, I really don't remember.” And saying so aloud only reignites her frustration. “We’ve tried to coax out my memories, but so far they’ve eluded us. I have no idea how I was brought back."

Yelena frowns. “What about before you died? Can you remember what happened then?”

Flying through space. Laughing. Climbing a mountain…

“I…I remember the Heist. Going to Vormir. Learning the conditions of retrieving the stone…”

“And then?”

Natasha clenches her eyes as her brain grapples for the images that should follow, and gets a knife in the brain for her efforts.

“Whoa! Are you okay? Should I get someone?”

“I’m fine,” Natasha grits out. “Happens when I try to remember.”

Yelena takes her hand. “Don’t strain yourself. You need to take it easy. I’m sure your memory will come back. What's important is you’re here. You’re alive."

Yes, Natasha thinks. She smiles and squeezes Yelena's hand. “Same to you. I lost you too, you know. For five long years.”

Yelena’s face crumples. “I’m so sorry.” She ducks her head gently into Natasha's shoulder.

“Like you said. You’re alive and you’re here now.”

Their moment is interrupted by shouting two doors away, and Natasha groans.

“What is their problem?” Yelena murmurs into her shoulder.

“Who knows. They can’t seem to stop arguing, and they tell me nothing.”

"I can be your spy?" Yelena offers with a sly grin.

"I'd rather they just tell me what is going on."

"I will yell at them later. I have no problem putting the Avengers back in line,” Yelena says with a grin, still staring at Natasha like she can’t quite believe she’s there. After a minute she ducks her head almost bashfully, taking an exaggerated look around the room. “I must admit I expected more. Fancy Stark tech. Big building. I am a bit disappointed.”

“The whole place is covered in Stark Tech, but it's just a lab."

"Well, at the very least I expected to be interrogated by Captain America to make sure I am not commie spy."

The image causes Natasha to laugh. "Steve isn't even here, so you can rest easy.”

Yelena raises an eyebrow. "He isn't Captain America anymore."

What?

Yelena jerks her thumb over her shoulder. "He is. Wilson."

"Sam?" 

Steve gave up the shield? Just how out of the loop is she? 

“What happened to Steve?”

Yelena shrugs. “There are so many rumors. That he's retired. Got sent off on super secret mission. I thought maybe you would know where he disappeared to.”

Natasha frowns. "Apparently I have a lot to catch up on."

“The most interesting rumor is that he really looks his age now, you know? That he went back in time and just never came back. Lived his life out in the past, and now is really old."

Natasha scoffs. “Well, I can tell you right here and now that that’s not true.” 

The mere idea is laughable. Like herself, Steve notoriously never moved on after the Snap. The two of them spent countless hours in commiseration over what and who they lost and countless midnights trading highly unrealistic ideas of how to fix things. Nothing would have been able to persuade Steve to throw it away once they finally succeeded in everything they had spent five long years working toward.

But Yelena’s face takes on a darker quality, going hard and flat. “You put these people on too high of a pedestal, Natasha.”

Something about her tone makes Natasha uneasy, but before she can ask what she means, the muscles in her leg choose that moment to start spasming.

Yelena is instantly on alert. “What’s wrong? What hurts?"

What doesn’t? But it’s the pain in her leg that outshines everything else. She instinctively reaches for it when another fierce spasm lights the muscles on fire, causing her wrist to throb when she instinctively reaches for the afflicted area.

“My leg,” she says through gritted teeth.

Yelena is instantly on her feet. “Let me go get someone.”

“They've tried,” Natasha says through exhaustion. Painkillers strong enough to knock out an elephant have proven ineffective against whatever phantom pain lives in her left calf.

Yelena shakes her head, ponytail jerking wildly back and forth. “No no no. They are Avengers with big fancy tech and unlimited access to every health remedy in existence they need to do better. I will be right back."

Natasha is too tired and in too much pain to protest. Heated voices boil over through the open door when Yelena steps out.

“…unfortunately the only way for that to happen was for Natasha to…”

To what? She is damn sick of being talked about when she is not there.

Several seconds of silence follow, but then, in contrast to the heated voices a moment ago, she can hear the ice-cold, steely, infuriated voice of her sister even through two sets of doors.

“I knew it. I'll kill him!"

Natasha’s blood turns to ice. She recognizes Yelena’s tone, the one reserved for discussions about a particularly reviled target. Or Dreykov. 

An explosion of voices follows Yelena’s outburst. Too many to be intelligible, but she hears her own name, and Clint’s.

Damn the pain. 

She hauls herself upright, her body protesting strongly. She eases herself out of bed, hobbling toward the door like a pirate with a rotting wooden leg that’s also about three inches too short.

A deluge of Russian curses mixes with Pepper’s shrill pleas and Sam’s Air Force voice.

Damn it, Romanoff. Move.

“...don’t know anything for–”

"—nothing but a bunch of lies!”

Just get to the door. One step at a time.

"...Barton..."

“—did you do nothing if you knew all this time?!”

One door down. One to go. Easy does it.

The door slides open.

"—hunt him down and finish what I started!"

"What the hell is going on in here?!" Natasha demands, clinging to the wall for support.

The room goes silent. 

Yelena stands directly in front of Sam, fists at her sides and a fierce glare about three inches away from his nose, with Rhodey trying to push himself between them. Sweat is beaded up on Bruce's forehead and the underarms of his T-shirt dark with perspiration. Pepper is pressed against the wall with hands cupped to her face. Barnes isn’t doing much better, crouched in the corner against the opposite wall with his eyes squeezed shut, one hand fisted on his thigh and the other in his pocket, palming what Natasha instantly recognizes as a knife.

“Nat! You shouldn’t be out of bed!" Bruce says, rushing to her side.

“I deserve to be a part of this discussion. What is going on?”

Everyone, save Barnes, simultaneously begins shouting and pleading and ordering.

"Shut up! One at a time!"

"Is it really true that you don’t remember how you died, Natasha?" Yelena demands. "Or are you just trying to cover for that…that spineless, cowardly bastard?!”

Wait…what? 

“What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Barton murdered you for the Soul Stone!”

The words echo throughout the lab, and Natasha's mind reels, pieces beginning to line up. The general aura of tension ever since she awoke. The silent looks passed between them after the session with Mantis. Rhodey's increasingly bad attitude.

And now Yelena thinks that Clint…

She hurls a scalding glare at Rhodey. “Is that what you told her?”

Rhodey has the decency to look ashamed. “I—we didn’t hear her come in. I didn’t mean to–”

Natasha cannot believe she even has to say– “Clint did not kill me! Are you insane?!”

“And how do you know? I thought you said you didn’t remember?” Rhodey says with furrowed brows and a hint of accusation.

“I don’t need to!” How are they even having this discussion?!

She can't remember ever being this angry. How dare Rhodey accuse Clint of something like that? And what’s more, put ideas like that in her sister's head?!

“Then what made you both decide that you should be the one to go over that cliff?”

“We—I—” Natasha sputters. 

Remember. Remember, damn it! But all she gets is blurry images of climbing a mountain. Touching foreheads. Tears.

Electric shocks and piercing metal—

“I don’t know!” she growls in frustration, resisting the urge to cry out from the agony that screams in her head. “Whatever is in Clint’s report—that’s what happened!”

"Hah!" Yelena scoffs, pacing in angry circles. "He's a manipulative bastard, I'll give you that. Had me fooled, too. But I will never make that mistake again."

“He is not–”

Wait…

…Again?

She stares at Yelena. “You met Clint?” 

What else haven't they told her? Clint must have found her after all. Of course Clint would come through for Yelena, for her, despite the difficulties. But then, how can Yelena believe that Clint would do something as heinous as what they are accusing him of?

There is nothing warm in Yelena's face. “Oh, yes. We got very well acquainted. Especially his face with my escrima stick.”

Goosebumps prickle over Natasha's entire body. “What?”

“I beat the shit out of him. The bastard barely put up a fight. Either his skills are highly over exaggerated or he knew he deserved what was coming to him.”

Natasha cannot believe the words coming out of her sister’s mouth. “But—why?” She sputters. “Why would you…” She hurls a furious glare at Rhodey. “Did you put her up to this?” she snarls.

Rhodey’s jaw drops and he throws out open palms. “Of course not! How could you even think that?”

“You’re accusing Clint of murdering me! How can I not?!”

“I didn’t even know you had a sister until today!”

“It doesn’t matter who tipped me off to what he did! You of all people should know I am done carrying out the will of anyone other than myself. No one can make me do anything I don’t want to.” Yelena jabs a finger at Natasha. “I knew something was off when they told me how you died. I should have put a bullet through his head when I had the chance.” 

Yelena’s voice is singed with vitriol. She glares at the floor but seems like she is seeing something else, and every noise dulls into the background as Yelena's words echo through Natasha’s head.

Yelena. Clint. A bullet. 

This wasn’t just a beating.

“Nat, I really don’t think you should be on your feet.”

Yelena has confronted Clint before. Attacked him. Beat him. Yelena thinks that…

"Nat." 

A wheelchair appears behind her knees, and it’s then she realizes that the room is spinning and that her vision is showing her everything in blurry triplicate. She collapses into the chair and stares at the three blurry Yelenas.

Bruce tries to wheel her out of the room, but she plants her good foot in the wheel. The pain helps her to come back to herself.

“You…you tried to kill Clint?” Natasha says, voice sharp and strong despite her body being on the verge of collapse.

Say no. Please say no.

Yelena scoffs. “I didn’t try. I could have easily succeeded. Don’t give me that look! For what he did—it would have been a merciful ending!”

Natasha tries not to, but Each of Yelena’s words paint a frighteningly clear picture of Clint’s suffering. Yelena, wailing away on Clint, screaming accusations. Clint, absorbing every one directly into his soul. 

"He came back and you didn't, Natasha. I can connect the dots. He’s a murderer.”

“No, he’s not!”

“I know that he is the Ronin, Natasha! I’m not stupid!”

"Was," Natasha grinds out.

Yelena huffs. "What is it with you always defending him, hah? After what he did to you?" She shakes her head and resumes pacing. “I came back and you were gone. All the Avengers alive and well, except you. You have no idea what I went through, Natasha. I should have ended him when I had the chance.”

Something snaps inside Natasha. Shock wearing off and morphing into a familiar, protective fury.

“And your way of honoring my memory was to murder my best friend? The only family I had left after the Snap?”

Yelena’s mouth gapes open, her face going a darker shade of red. “You were my family, and he murdered you! A bullet in his brain would be better than he deserved!”

The harsh words echo through the lab. Different words echo through Natasha's mind.

"...all of them, Nat. Oh, God, all of them!"

"It's me. I deserve this. Karma chose them to punish me."

"Don't. Don't give me hope."

And Natasha's vision goes blood red.

Her body forgets its injuries. Her brain forgets its trauma. Her entire being fortifies itself to do what it’s meant for: to watch her partner's back.

There’s no pain in her leg when she stands, but a dull throb pulses through her wrist. She walks slowly but resolutely toward Yelena.

Yelena's eyes widen in surprise, and she backs away as Natasha advances until her back collides against the wall.

“You have absolutely no idea what Clint really deserves," Natasha says, voice as calm and cold as a frozen lake.

Yelena's face drops all expression, in the way they were taught to do in times of stress. To outside observers, she probably looks bored, apathetic, but Natasha can see the nervousness. Can see it purposefully being put aside and Yelena’s jaw locking as she doubles down. 

“You may be willing to look past what he has done, Natasha, but I can’t. Why do you think you can't remember what happened?! Because you blocked it out! You don't want to acknowledge what he did to you! Who he really is! A liar and a murderer!”

Natasha feels her jaw crack, her body trembling.

Yelena wasn’t put up to this. Wasn’t tricked into this. This was something she wanted—regrets not going through with. And Clint—hunted and blamed for something that she literally died to give him…

It's too much to bear.

Natasha may not remember exactly what happened on Vormir, but she does remember Clint's strong arms keeping her past at bay when it threatened to overwhelm her. His banter in her ear during a mission. His fingers around her wrist when the nightmares came.

She remembers the first time she caught a glimpse of Clint’s haggard, devastated face after the Snap. His inconsolable wails and tears against her throat in the night. The five years of black anguish after he disappeared—all as clear as the complete lack of remorse on Yelena’s face.

Yelena stands tall, lifts her chin high, and declares, “Frankly, I think Thanos gave him exactly what he deserved."

And there are some things Natasha simply cannot forgive.

"Get out."

“Ha?” Yelena says with a frown, having the audacity to look genuinely confused.

“You heard me. Get out of my sight before I say something I’ll regret.”

A bewildered and disbelieving smile slides onto Yelena’s face, and it only succeeds in feeding Natasha's rage.

“Oh come on. Natasha–"

“Get. Out.”

Yelena still hangs on to that expression of disbelief. Rolls her eyes. "Natasha. I… I didn't actually kill him."

Natasha actually laughs. "That's what you think this is about?!" She scoffs so hard that pain shoots throughout her torso, and getting enough air suddenly requires a lot more effort. "Never mind the fact that you… would even consider… doing something like that… to the best friend I’ve ever… just. Get…out."

Open-mouthed horror creeps onto Yelena’s face. “I’m your sister!”

“Bruce? Escort my sister out before I…do something I can’t undo.” Her knees start to tremble with fatigue. She’s fading, and fast. But she refuses to crumble now. Not yet.

Yelena swallows visibly, her face almost turning purple, while Bruce proceeds to stand there looking extremely uncomfortable and being not in the least bit helpful.

Natasha throws a pointed look at Sam.

Sam clears his throat. Takes one step forward. “Uh, Yelena. Natasha has been through a lot, so…”

“I’m your sister! He is—he is nothing! He is a murderer!”

New strength born out of pure willpower allows Natasha to approach her until they are mere centimeters apart. Her voice is calm and steady as she says, "I’d be careful throwing that word around if I were you. And frankly, anyone who can talk that way about Clint—the man to whom I owe everything—is no sister of mine. Now get out."

Heavy silence hovers over the room, the only sound that of Natasha's labored breathing.

The apathetic act has fallen completely, and tears now brim openly in Yelena’s eyes, but none of them inspire any pity in Natasha.

Yelena finally bolts toward the door, then skids to a halt in front of it. She glances over her shoulder. "Madame B. was right about friends, you know. Friendship makes you blind, and will one day get you killed. Again."

The instant the door slams shut, Natasha's body crumples into the wheelchair that again has found its way behind her, and can’t help but be terribly aware that her heart is in worse shape than her broken body.

Chapter Text

Present Day
Manhattan

“Madame B. was right about friends. Friendship makes you blind, and will one day get you killed. Again."

The room fills with a thick, uncomfortable silence after the door slams shut behind Yelena. Natasha’s heart feels like it’s been ripped out of her chest and stomped on. All her previous rage has fled and turned the blood in her veins to frozen sludge that can no longer pump blood or oxygen to her organs. The air is like ice in her lungs. 

She has lost her sister, again.

“Nat…” Rhodey murmurs, crouching down beside where she is collapsed in her wheelchair. “I’m so sorry about your sister. I swear, I had no idea this incident with Barton even happened.”

His words stir a confused mix of emotions within her, a part of her wanting to lash out and blame him for her sister’s behavior while at the same time being all too aware that Yelena had full control over her own actions.

“But…as much as it pains me to say it, Yelena isn’t the first to come to this conclusion about Barton. There have been extensive speculations on both the news and all over social media.”

The icy sludge in Natasha's veins abruptly thaws and once again begins to simmer. She glares at Rhodey.

He makes a pleading face. “Come on, Nat. Objectively, can’t you see what many people would find suspicious about your death?”

“Just lay off, man,” Sam interjects.

"No.” She wheels her chair to face Rhodey and crosses her arms. "I want to hear what he has to say. Go ahead. Let’s assume I don’t know Clint from Adam.”

Rhodey rubs his neck as he straightens, taking a deep breath and several moments to consider his words. 

“Would you say that Barton loved you?” he asks finally. 

“What kind of asinine question is that?” she snaps. 

He holds his hands up placatingly. “I’m not implying he didn’t. Anyone with eyes knows the answer to that. Now let me ask you something else. Did Barton love his family?”

Natasha rubs her temple. “Rhodey, what the hell are you getting at?”

“We all know the answer to that, too” Rhodey continues with a sweep of his hand, addressing everyone rather than just Natasha. “We saw what happened to him when his family was taken. And we know that he would have done anything to get them back, wouldn’t you agree?”

“He wouldn’t push me off a cliff.”

“Do you think he loved you more than he loved his family?”

The question inspires rage. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Nat. It’s a fair question.”

It’s an asinine question, and venom tints her voice. “Loving me and loving his family are not mutually exclusive.”

“Not under normal circumstances, no. But it became that way when he was forced into that bullshit ultimatum for the stone. And it was bullshit, Nat. He was forced to choose between you.” 

His voice isn’t without compassion, and with mild horror, she feels the backs of her eyes begin to burn. 

Rhodey crouches back down to her level, rests his hands on the arm of the wheelchair, and speaks very softly. “As horrible as it was, you became the final obstacle in the way of being able to reunite with his family.”

No. 

“This is Clint you’re talking about, Rhodey. He would never–”

“Clint Barton is dead, Bruce. Thanos may as well have dusted him too, because Clint Barton died the instant he snapped his fingers, and you know it.”

A stabbing pain shoots through her heart as she remembers the cold, apathetic eyes of the stranger that had walked around in her best friend’s body for those five long years. The horror of that first morning to find him gone when she woke. Every new shred of grief inflicted with each unanswered phone call. The graphic, vengeful cruelty evident in the description of each of the Ronin’s victims. 

That had not been Clint.

Rhodey shuffles closer. Places a hand on hers. She jerks away, but he is undeterred. He waits patiently until she meets his eyes, filled with compassion. 

“I’m not saying these things to hurt you, Nat. Barton was my friend too. But he’s gone.”

“No.” 

Clint would never hurt her. 

“Then what happened, Nat? I’ll accept any other reasonable explanation. But it’s clear that it was a shitty, shitty situation, and in the end, all he wanted was to get them back.”

“All I wanted was to get them back! I know I went over that ledge voluntarily!”

“Then who betrayed you on Vormir, Nat?”

“I don’t know!” Her eyes burn and her heart aches.

Clint wouldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t. 

“Rhodey, come on.”

“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here, Bruce. She admits she doesn’t remember!”

“She’s injured! She doesn’t need this. Look at her!”

Clint. Where are you? Come back. Tell them they’re wrong. Tell them you would never do that to me. 

Please. Come back and tell me that’s not what happened. 

“Nat… Hey, it’s okay.”

Natasha loathes to think what she must look like. She’s so exhausted, and everything hurts, both on the outside and the inside. The bitter echoes of what Mantis managed to pull from deep within her still lingers like a bad aftertaste, and none of it makes sense. 

Clint would never hurt her. He’d die first. 

"Clint wouldn’t hurt me,” she insists, hating how small she sounds. 

Rhodey is getting frustrated now. "He did hurt you! I saw it with my own eyes, Nat. You can’t deny that he changed after the Snap.”

"He was grieving, that doesn't mean–”

"And he never recovered. Guilt has been eating away at him for almost two years now. Driven to the point of psychotic episodes.”

Psychotic—oh God, Clint... What have you put yourself through?

“No.”

“Then how do you explain it?”

Natasha clenches her teeth, because she can’t. All her repressed emotions seem to be in direct conflict with what she knows in her soul to be true.

"I don't know why. But I do know that Clint did not murder me."

"The evidence indicates otherwise."

Damn the evidence! This is Clint they’re talking about! And every scrap of faith she has in him bubbles up and boils over. 

"What if it were Tony? Huh?" she snaps heatedly. "What if Pepper, pregnant with Morgan, got snapped into dust, and everyone Tony ever loved was gone, except you? What if it were you and Tony that went to Vormir, huh? And Tony came back, and you didn't. If someone accused Tony of murdering you to get his family back, would you believe it?"

Rhodey scoffs. "That’s… different. Tony–"

"Was positively famous for his unwavering selflessness, right?"

"Nat," Bruce whispers.

It's a low, low blow. Especially in the same room as Pepper, red-eyed and stony-faced in the corner. But at this moment, she can't bring herself to care. Clint isn’t even here to defend himself. She’ll be damned if she doesn’t do so for him until he can.

The mention of Tony must have hit a nerve, because Rhodey's infuriating calm evaporates in an instant. "Tony literally died to save the universe! Without him, none of us would even be here! How dare you compare what Tony did to Barton.”

He snarls Clint’s name like it’s a curse word, and Natasha seethes with such fury that words get clogged in her throat. She pulls herself upright with full intention to throw blows before her leg spasms in agony and causes her to collapse into a pathetic heap on the floor.

“Nat!”

“That’s enough!” Sam says, rushing to help her up. “Rhodey, just stand down! Bruce, take Nat back to her room. I am not having another civil war happen on my watch!”

The room is spinning. Her left calf muscle spasms. Lab equipment flicks into flashing images of rock and blood and snow…

Clint… Where are you? Come back. Tell them that’s not what happened… Tell them you would never…hurt me…

"...Steve will be here soon…” someone says from far away. “...should be able to shed some light on..."

Clint… please… Please come back…

She is peripherally aware that her surroundings have changed. Shouting is replaced with silence. The chair is replaced with a soft bed. But the pain, the desperate longing to see Clint—that remains.

“...should help with the pain, Nat…”

Some indeterminate amount of time later, she comes back to herself. There’s the all-too-familiar beep of the heart monitor. The pleasant lull that tells her she is hooked up to the good drugs. And there’s Bruce, sitting beside the bed, staring at her with a mix of worry and compassion.

“Bruce?”

“Hey. How are you feeling?”

“You don’t believe what Rhodey is saying, do you?”

Bruce is quiet for a moment, and when he finally speaks, he sounds utterly exhausted. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Nat. I don’t want to. But I am all too aware that any of us are capable of doing questionable, sometimes terrible things if circumstances drive us to it. If we lose our heads and madness takes over.”

Natasha squeezes her eyes shut and considers the statement. She knows what she herself has done in the past. What many of them have done. What Bruce is no doubt picturing in his head right now. 

The sins of the Hulk. The Black Widow. The Winter Soldier. 

The Ronin. 

She would be a hypocrite to deny that any of them, including Clint, are capable of terrible things. 

But not when it comes to their allies. Not when it comes to them.

She stares Bruce dead in the eye. “You do realize what the retrieval of that stone meant, don’t you?”

He wouldn’t, Bruce. He wouldn’t. Not to me.

Bruce can’t hold her gaze. He sighs deeply and stares at the wall in silent deliberation for several minutes. “There are a few more things that have happened while you were away that you should know, Nat,” he says finally. “We wanted to wait until you were a bit stronger, but... I think you need to know.”

Her skin prickles with apprehension. “About Clint?”

“Clint. And Steve. And…Wanda.”

And Bruce was right to worry that this would overwhelm her, because it does. 

He talks of alternate timelines and mental breakdowns. Heart attacks and psychotic episodes, knife wounds and psych wards, magical mountains and missing persons. 

This isn't what she died for. She died to end suffering, but it seems that all she succeeded in was creating more.

Clint. Please, please come back soon. 

-

Time Variance Authority

This is how it should have happened. It was supposed to be me.

Clint stares at the file on the desk, his own name staring back up at him. Despite repeated, increasingly desperate attempts, the film strip continues to dissolve into static during that fateful moment on the ledge, omitting the one bit of information he wants.

What did he do that was so different? How did his alternate self ensure that he, not Natasha, went over that ledge?

Loki peers outside the theater, then motions Clint over. “The corridor is clear for the moment. We need to make our way to the archives and find your file. If we compare your timeline with that of your variant, we may get the information we need to defeat Kang.”

“Natasha’s file too,” Clint demands, staring at the bolded words on the page before him.

“What?”

“If you want my help, then I want to see Natasha’s side of events in this alternate timeline.” 

See how things should have happened.

Loki nods. “Very well. That may also help us isolate the significant difference between your realities. But as I said, the entire TVA is currently set on finding you. It is essential that they do not, do you understand?”

Whatever.

Clint nods, and moves toward the door of the theater.

Before he can touch the handle, Loki moves with frightening speed and flings something around his throat that locks with a click. If his speed were anything less than superhuman, he would have caught Clint’s blade directly in his left eyeball a split second later.

“What the hell is this!” Clint shouts, pulling frantically at the collar to no avail.

Loki holds his hands out as if he can physically push away Clint’s fury. “My sincerest apologies, Agent Barton. This device is a time collar, and is only a precaution. If necessary, I can use it to instantly transport you back to this room, so that no one finds you.”

“Take it off. Now,” Clint grits out.

“I would have asked you, but I assumed you would refuse.”

“You assumed correctly.” Clint grinds his teeth together so hard his jaw cracks.

“It is absolutely vital that you are not discovered! I promise you, the instant we are safe, I will remove it.”

How outrageously stupid does Loki think he is?

“As reassuring as that is, take it off. Now.”

“I am truly sorry, but…no.”

Clint lunges for him, then there’s a strange tingle in his gut before he finds himself in the exact position he was in five seconds earlier.

What the actual…

“You do not have a choice, I am afraid.” Loki motions to a small device in his hand. 

Clint’s clenched fists tremble with rage, horror and fury overtaking every cell in his body.

“Are you telling me,” Clint grinds out, the taste of metal and stomach acid in his mouth. “That you have taken free will away from me again?”

Loki’s face goes pale at this, but he recovers quickly.  “I swear, I will release you once we are safe.” He motions toward the door. “But if you want to find Romanoff’s file, then we must be quick.”

Clint growls, knuckles going white from how tightly he fists them. He has complete confidence that should he be able to get his hands around Loki's neck, he could wring the life out of him without an ounce of regret, but...

Loki is his only thread to Natasha.

"Fine," Clint grits out, his left hand slipping into his pocket. "After you."

Loki regards him with narrowed eyes for a moment, but pulls open the heavy door of the time theater and motions for Clint to follow.

Clint fiddles with the lockpick in his pocket. Just because Loki is his only tie to Natasha does not mean he has to play by Loki's rules.

They move swiftly and silently, ducking into corners and elevators, soon finding themselves in a vast library, sprawling with endless aisles in every direction, each one stacked with so many files that many have spilled over onto the floor.

As Clint gawks at the sheer vastness surrounding them, Loki, in another lightning-fast gesture, plucks a hair from Clint's head, and as Clint reacts with an instinctive fist directed at Loki’s face, it connects with nothing but the air from where he stood just fifteen seconds prior.

“This way,” Loki says with a tiny, infuriating grin.

All of Clint’s favorite knives are going to be dull and useless by the time he is done with Loki. But it will be worth it.

They continue through aisle after aisle. Browse row after row of files, taking care to keep out of sight.

“How the hell are we supposed to find one file in all of this?”

“I know how this place works. Trust me.”

Yeah, right.

More aisles. More files. Loki descends to lower levels, twisting and turning through a maze of paperwork. Eventually he comes to a stop in the middle of an aisle, browsing files.

Clint is getting impatient.

“Well, where is it?"

“There are infinite branches expanding as we speak, Agent Barton. Excuse me if it is taking some time to locate one specific needle in this acre of a haystack.”

Not unreasonable on the surface, yet Clint can’t help wondering if Loki is stalling, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to get what he really wants out of Clint.

Clint studies him. Loki looks almost too familiar. Young. His hair is the same length and style as in Clint's flashbacks and nightmares. Surely he isn’t…

“You said these people pulled you abruptly from the timeline. Where, or when, exactly did they pull you from?”

Loki pulls a file from the shelf and flips through it, choosing not to acknowledge him.

“If you want my help, you’d better answer my questions.”

Loki sighs. Replaces the file and pulls out another.  “Just after New York.”

Four words, but they’re enough. Clint's fists clench involuntarily. "I see."

“I’m not…proud of it. What I did to you.”

Clint stares blankly at Loki. “Is that so.”

“You don’t believe me, and I don’t blame you. But I have grown immensely in my time here, outside of the timeline. Free from the influence of this madman we are investigating. He knows–controls–everything. None of us ever really had free will. He assigned us roles to bring about what he desired to happen. He had me designated as the villain, and it was a part I was happy to play. But now…” His eyes meet Clint’s, then he shakes his head. “Never mind. It is of no matter. And I am sure an apology would mean absolutely nothing to you.”

In that, at least, he is right. Loki is scum because it is in his nature. Not because someone cast him in a role. 

Just like no one cast Clint to be a useless screw up. He managed that all on his own. 

“Just find Natasha’s file.”

Loki side-eyes him. "Might I remind you that we need this file to learn how to stop Kang. What exactly is your plan when we find it? Torture yourself with what you should have done instead? Pull her from that timeline into yours?"

“That’s the only way your mind works, isn't it? What to get for yourself." 

Clint doesn't mention that the thought–the temptation–had occurred to him. But taking Natasha from one reality would only doom another to live on without her. Besides, although he cannot pinpoint why, he has the distinct, inarguable impression that whatever this resolute conviction of Natasha’s survival may be, it is his Natasha that fuels it, not some alternate version of her.

She is alive. Out there, somewhere. He knows it. And he intends to keep his promise to his wife and family.

Loki motions for them to move. "It's not here. We will have to try–"

Loki jerks to a stop as he rounds the corner, and then there’s a jarring, unnatural sensation that ripples down Clint’s whole body, and an instant later he finds himself in the exact position he was just a minute earlier, far down the aisle. Loki has not moved from his position at the end of the aisle, peering around the corner at something out of Clint’s sightline.

That bastard just used that damn contraption on him.

"Howdy there!" says a new, feminine voice with a distinctly southern drawl, just out of Clint’s line of sight. "I'm making the rounds around the archives to assist you poor overworked analysts. Anything I can help you with, hon?"

Loki grins with far too many teeth. "Miss Minutes! Why, yes! How thoughtful of you to offer to assist. It is overwhelming, all this paperwork from the new branches. But I am finding everything adequately enough. Thank you."

Clint keeps his back to one side of the aisle and peers cautiously between binders. 

A clock. Loki is speaking to a floating, talking, cartoon clock.

"Sure thing!" The clock says, then tilts its…head? body? to one side. “Hmm, can't say as I remember seeing you before, hon."

Loki’s voice…changes. Goes deeper. Even more pretentious, if that were possible. “I’m an analyst. New in this department. With all the chaos the paperwork probably hasn’t cleared yet.”

The clock heaves a dramatic sigh. “Don’t I know it. Well, if you're sure there's nothing I can help you with–"

“Wait!” Loki holds out alternate-Clint’s file. “Uh, could you be a lamb and pull the corresponding file to this one for a, uh, Natalia Romanova?"

The file becomes animated as the clock accepts it. What in the everloving– 

"Sure thing, cutie! Just one sec!”

The clock spins in a cartoon whirlwind and vanishes.

“What?” Clint hiss-whispers at Loki.

Loki gestures for him to be silent, then straightens up and grins with too many teeth again as the clock reappears. 

“Here ya go, hon!” the clock says, handing Loki an animated file that somehow becomes real as it passes from her hands to Loki's.

What the hell is this place.

Clint shakes himself and forces the question from his mind. As Loki scans the file, Clint retreats a few paces and digs out his lock pick, going to work on the infernal contraption around his neck. He and Natasha have found themselves held captive by every kind of lock in existence, and not one has been able to hold them yet. This one will be no different.

Loki shakes the file enthusiastically. “Ah! Yes, this is it! You’re an incredible time saver.”

“I aim to please! Just give me a holler if you need anything else!”

Loki frowns, says “Wait!" and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the hair he plucked from Clint’s head. "I am having a bit of difficulty locating the file for the specific variant matching the temporal aura of this DNA sample. Have to make sure it’s properly filed once we prune it. We don’t need more confusion, am I right?”

“And how. Sure thing, hon! Just give me one second!” She disappears.

Shit. 

Clint conceals the pick behind his back, returning to Loki’s side. "What are you doing?! What even was that?!"

"I want your own file on hand. It will assist us with comparisons of the timelines.”

“No, I mean—that was a freaking cartoon.”

“Who is also the eyes and ears of the madman who runs this place. You would do well to keep silent and let me do the talking."

“Yeah well, you also said trust is for fools, so guess what, buddy.”

“There is a difference between trust and… assurance based on mutually beneficial goals.”

Before Clint can respond, the clock reappears with a regretful expression.

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t find—wait! Here it is!” She points to the file in Loki’s hand.

Damn is this lock tricky. He longs to take the contraption apart and study its architecture. Each gear he fiddles with proves ineffective, until the pick lightly brushes against a tiny, almost imperceptible lever, just within reach.

Loki blinks at the file, his face growing impossibly more pinched. “This is his file? The one matching the DNA sample I gave you?” he asks, pointing to the folder.

Come on... Come on... There!

There's the faintest click, and the collar's gears shift to release, and–

What the–

The collar's lock clicks closed once more without warning, and Clint barely holds in a curse.

“Sure is! You had it the whole time! Were ya just yankin’ my chain?” She adopts a playful scolding expression and puts her hands on her…hips.

Loki stares, then grins with all teeth showing. “You got me. Trying to keep a light atmosphere amidst the chaos!”

Clint digs inside the collar once more, finding the lever and forcing it back. Again the collar makes a sound of release. Clint keeps the pick in place, intending to block the lever’s path should it try to snap back.

The collar locks once more, but the pick touches nothing.

“Oh, you!” She slaps Loki on the shoulder. “Give me a holler if ya need anythin’ else!” she says before disappearing once more.

Son of a bitch.

The lever is back in its original position, without having moved at all.

The damn collar is time-locked, looping back to its previous configuration every few seconds unless released by the controller.

Son of an Asgardian, Norse god, nine-realm kingly bitch.

Clint chucks away the lockpick in disgust. What the hell is this place?! Time technology, manipulative demigods, and actual animated clocks.

“This doesn’t make any sense," Loki murmurs to himself.

“Nothing in this damn place makes sense. How did you just have a conversation with a freaking cartoon?”

“No–not that, you idiot! Did you not hear what she just said?” Loki shakes his head and begins to pace. “It must be an error. It has to be.”

Maybe he should have listened better.

“What? What did she say?”

Loki holds up the file for Clint's variant. “This is your alternate self's file from the same timeline as my own; six-one-six in their numbering system. It was my original intention to pull this version of yourself from the timeline, just before you died on Vormir during the retrieval of the Soul Stone.” He holds up the other file. “Miss Minutes just gave me Romanoff's file, corresponding to this same universe. Six-one-six." He opens the file and flips to a specific page. "This is her side of what we just viewed in the time theater. She survived on Vormir, and brought the Soul Stone back to the Avengers to defeat Thanos in 2023."

Clint nods, willing himself not to focus on the bitter regret that his own reality did not play out in the same way. “And?”

"I then asked Miss Minutes to locate your file. Not one for any variant of yourself, you specifically." He again holds up the six-one-six file and gives him a pointed look. "She says this is it."

Wait. But… 

"How can that be the file for both myself and an alternate version of me?" He takes the file from Loki and flips to the end, where it states clearly:

Place of death: Vormir. 

Year: 2014

Cause of death: Sacrifice for retrieval of Soul Stone during Avenger’s Time Heist of 2023

"This doesn’t make sense. How could I have both died and not died for the stone?" Clint's pulse races. He eyes Loki critically. Searching for the manipulation, the hidden scheme, but... Loki’s confusion appears genuine. He almost looks alarmed.

"Let us return to the time theater. The quicker we investigate the content of these files, the better.”

All thoughts of violence or escape flee from Clint’s mind as they rush down the corridor, replaced by a thick fog of foreboding.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, October 18th, 2023

Brooklyn

Steve has changed.

Not surprising, Bucky supposes. Five years have gone by since Bucky last saw him, and from what he understands, they were long, terrible years.

But still. Something is…off.

Perhaps he has just changed over the five years that Bucky was dust, but still. He frowns more than he should. Always absorbed in his thoughts. And when he does feel like talking, he talks about one thing, and one thing only.

"Did you know there were seven Hydra cells active in Brooklyn alone in '44? Seven! Right under our noses!"

Hydra. 

Hydra Hydra Hydra.

It makes Bucky twitchy for reasons he does not fully understand.

When he isn’t talking about Hydra, he’s off somewhere in his head. Absorbed in his pure, righteous thoughts. No doubt planning something heroic and selfless.

Perhaps he is thinking about Stark. About the funeral that has been set for next week Sunday. Bucky is not even sure if he is invited, and does not have the heart to ask. From what Steve has told him about Potts, he is sure he wouldn’t be denied entry, and yet…

He knows Stark would not want him there.

Friday, October 20th

Bucky is awoken by the echo of his own screaming throughout Steve’s Brooklyn apartment. It is only the fifth night he’s spent here, but it’s also the fifth night he’s woken up screaming from his place on the couch (floor), disturbing both their sleep. 

Steve has yet to complain. As he does every night, he emerges from the bedroom with spectacular bed hair and sleep-glazed eyes and displays the epitome of understanding and concern. He pulls out leftover pizza, puts it in front of Bucky, and asks if he wants to talk about it. 

Bucky never does. Steve just saved the world and is getting ready to save the world again from countless unpleasant alternative realities in just over a week. He has more pressing, more important problems to deal with than Bucky's damn trauma.

But for whatever reason, this is the second topic that Steve seems to be obsessed with.

"Do you remember when exactly they moved you to Siberia?" Steve asks around a mouthful of cold pizza.

Gross.

"Uh."

"How many people guarded you on average?”

“Uh.”

“When did they first put you in cryo?"

Bucky answers when he can, but the questions produce an uncomfortable tightening in his gut that he can't identify.

He tells himself it's the pizza.

Saturday, October 21st

“Do you remember Peggy?”

Red dress. Red lipstick. Fiery personality.

“A little.”

“She was one of the founders of SHIELD. Her life…it was incredible.” His voice grows softer. “She passed away a few years ago.”

Steve has a faraway look in his eyes. Both extreme fondness and regret. 

“You loved her.”

Steve goes slightly pink. “That obvious, huh?” He pulls out a locket and opens the cover. Inside is a picture of a woman that makes deeply buried parts of Bucky's brain stir. “Sometimes I can’t help but wonder how things would have turned out for us if I’d never gone into the ice.”

She would have made him happy, that much is obvious. 

Something that Steve won’t be able to achieve here. 

Tuesday, October 24th

Bucky draws the knife from under his pillow before he can even identify the noise that woke him. 

“Sorry. Just me," Steve says from the kitchen, holding a glass under the faucet. "You used to sleep like the dead. Before. I’d wake up in a coughing fit and you’d be face-first in your pillow and drooling.” 

His voice contains clear affection.

Bucky dislikes these observations, which also produce an uncomfortable tightening sensation.

Bucky sleeps on his stomach with his mouth open that night, but if Steve notices, he doesn't comment.

Wednesday, October 25th

Bucky goes still on the stairwell to their apartment, grocery bag in one hand and two pizzas in the other. 

“...even sure I know who he is anymore, Sam. He takes sugar in his coffee now. His sense of humor is almost entirely gone. He’s forgotten more than he remembers…”

The odd look Steve had given him over breakfast when Bucky expressed distaste at the bitter swill in his mug suddenly makes sense. And it wouldn’t hurt Bucky to try harder with things like laughing and smiling.

And he does want to remember. Tries to remember…

“...of course I do. It’s just, I don’t know. Ever since the Heist… I just wish…”

Bucky takes the stairs down four at a time with the stealth of a leopard. He’ll walk around the block. Make a lot of noise on his way up.

Maybe he can pass off the fist imprints in the pizza boxes for extreme enthusiasm for pizza.

Thursday, October 26th

“You have to come!”

“He wouldn’t want me there.”

“Yes, he would!”

Why could the serum not have bulked up your brain cells instead of your muscles, Steve. 

“Well, he wouldn’t object to you coming, at least. We worked through our problems, Buck.”

You mean you swept them under the rug.

“Please. I can’t go if you’re not there with me.”

“I don’t want to… disrespect his memory.”

“Bucky. He literally died to save the universe. Nothing is going to disrespect his memory.”

Bucky eventually agrees, but only because Steve’s face starts to get red and his eyes take on a suspicious shine the longer he objects.

Friday, October 27th

It’s fine. A great idea, really. And to be expected, considering the new technology the Avengers now possess. Bucky should have thought of it himself. 

“So? What do you think?”

Yes, Bucky thinks. 

Steve deserves nothing less than a second chance at happiness. And certainly deserves better than what is left for him here.

It’s fine.

Saturday, October 28th

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

“Okay.”

“I’m coming back, Bucky. Passing the mantle on to Sam is just in case something unforeseen happens, but it won’t!”

Nod. 

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“This is how I look at everyone.”

“Damn it, Bucky! Don’t you understand? I just want to fix things!”

“I know.”

“Fine. Don’t believe me. You’ll see soon enough.”

Sunday, October 29th

Steve doesn’t speak much after the funeral. Bucky does his best to give him space while also being available in case he is needed. 

Barton has been staring out at the lake for almost an hour. A few minutes earlier, Maximoff had joined him, and now their arms are around each other. 

Is that what he should be doing for Steve?

But it feels wrong to attempt comfort in anything regarding Stark. Bucky is the reason their relationship fell apart in the first place. To try to ease Steve’s pain would feel shallow and disingenuous at best. 

Potts exhibits magnanimous kindness and introduces her daughter to him. Bucky blinks stupidly for several seconds after the girl gives a shy wave and ‘hi’ to him, but when Potts’s smile does not waver, he crouches down and lets her ask as many questions as she wants about his arm. And she has many.

After a few minutes, he almost forgets the fact that he single-handedly murdered this girl’s grandparents. 

Reality hits hard when they leave, and Bucky twirls a knife in his hand nervously the entire way back to Brooklyn. 

“How does a pizza night sound, Buck?”

Nod. 

One last night. 

Monday, October 31st

Bucky glances down as his cell phone lights up with yet another call from Sam, adding to the thirteen other missed call notifications. 

He listens to the voicemails. He's not that much of a monster.

"Rhodey is stitched up and finally calmed down. Barton is back to normal. Steve is still fine, still recovering, and still asking for you every two minutes. They're not going to lock you away, I promise. Just, call me back."

He didn’t predict this. He isn't ready for this. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. 

Bucky stares at his own image in the bathroom mirror for six minutes. Fingers the long strands below his chin. 

He likes it this length. It is the one part of him Hydra never touched. He remembers them debating whether or not to shave it off at one point, jerking his chin this way and that as if he were an animal. But it never affected his performance, and more hair meant less of his face left visible, so they left it alone.

It has never been cut. Not once since the fall.

“Still can’t get used to this length on you. So different from how you used to look.”

Bucky jerks open the drawer and fumbles with a pair of scissors. Spares a millisecond to take in his visage in the mirror before vibranium fingers grip a lock of hair and the scissors snip it off an instant later.

For twelve seconds, he stares stupidly at the lock of hair, then drops it and grabs another, then another, and the pile of hair at his feet grows as more and more flutters down to join it. 

Sam finds him there that evening, sitting on a hair-littered bathroom floor and staring blankly at the wall. Bucky mumbles something about 'wanting a change' that Sam thankfully takes at face value—though with narrowed eyes and a frown—before he puts Bucky in a cab and takes him to a barber who makes it look like less of a disaster.

Bucky stares at himself in the mirror as the barber works, and wonders idly if Steve would still have left if Bucky had cut his hair just a few days earlier.

-

Present Day

Manhattan

Banner announces the descent of Steve's pod into the atmosphere with as much joy and anticipation as if it were the Second Coming of Christ. This announcement is met with a similarly appropriate and simultaneous ‘Thank God,’ from Sam, and ‘hallelujah’ from Rhodes. There has been nothing but snide comments and terse silences between them for nearly two hours now, so it is an understandable reaction.

It is also approximately three hours earlier than Bucky had been prepared for.

"Now maybe we will finally get some answers," Rhodes murmurs.

"And what makes you think he's got anything more to add to his original report?" Sam says with arms over his chest and a sour expression. "Much less the kind of things you're asserting?"

“I just want the truth, Sam.”

"How about we start with a ‘welcome back’ for our national icon and cherished friend and work up to the accusations of homicide, huh?" Banner says dryly. 

The pod makes a heavy locking sound as it docks, echoing throughout the halls.

Rogers is back.

Bucky is still not ready for this.

"Bucky?"

He’s out of sight before Sam can think to corner him. He considers hiding in the vents once again, but doesn’t think he can handle hearing the sound of Steve’s feeble tremor of a voice echoing through the thin metal walls. An unfortunate side effect of his serum-enhanced hearing.

He goes outside. He’s not leaving. He’s just…getting some air. 

He sweeps the perimeter and tries to think of anything other than frail bones and uneven breathing. 

There is no avoiding Steve this time. He is going to have to face him. Look at his aged, wrinkled face and...

His ears pick up movement around the corner of the building. Someone is here. 

He draws a knife. Peering around the corner, he spots Belova, hissing into a cell phone and in obvious distress.

“I didn’t tell you this to get you to fix it! You would only make it worse! Just leave it,” she says, and hangs up with a huff.

She is unaware of him. Should he make his presence known.

He sheaths the knife and rustles leaves with his boot, and success—a knife and electric bite are readily aimed at his face.

"Don't come any closer." Her face is red, and her eyes are wet.

He raises his arms.

“What are you doing out here? Here to tell me to get the hell off your property? Hah?"

“You are upset.”

“No shit.”

Bucky is out of things to say now. But Belova lowers her weapons. Wipes at her eyes and nose and glares.

Bucky contemplates leaving her to herself. If she doesn't want to talk, he is the last person to disrespect that.

"Do you even remember me?" she asks abruptly.

He remembers blonde hair and a tiny frame that could wiggle out of almost any hold. And...biting? 

“I think so.”

"I remember you. The Soldier. The one who made all of us little girls quiver in our beds the night before we were to train with you." She scoffs, and droplets of mucus and eye leakage go flying into the grass. "And now come to find out you are the long-lost bff of Captain America? Who got a heartfelt pardon despite rampant war crimes. The one that caused all the ruckus in Germany.”

He feels uncomfortable answering affirmatively to any of those statements. Even if they are all true. 

"I'm willing to listen if you want to talk."

“Trying to make amends for the atrocities of the past?”

Partly. But. “I don't like to see others in pain.”

This causes her to pause for a moment, staring at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t want your pity. You would not understand anyway.”

He pushes himself to speak. Desire to help sometimes demands vulnerability. “I had sisters.”

This seems to catch her off guard. She dabs at her eyes. “Yeah, well. I bet none of them chose some asshole over their own family. Insisting on defending that same asshole even when he deserts and betrays them.”

There is a sharp, sudden urge to come to Barton’s defense.

"Barton and Romanoff are friends."

Belova rolls her eyes so hard it is a wonder they don’t fall out. 

“Why are you so certain Barton killed her?”

Belova laughs. “Seriously? After all the atrocities he committed during the Blip? No one forced him to be so brutal. No one brainwashed him. He is a monster.”

“People can change,” Bucky says, because they can. 

They can.

Belova scoffs. “When it suits them, maybe. But sooner or later that monster inside makes itself known. Maybe Clint Barton did love my sister once, but that man died in the Snap. And I am not trying to trivialize Barton's pain, or the magnitude of his loss. I take exception only when his pain, and his loss seem to precede and invalidate my own. He lost everything in an instant? Well, so did I. Because of him."

Extreme loss would be…a powerful motivator. But even so, Bucky can't—doesn't want to believe that Barton would... 

“How can you be so sure?”

Her breath hitches briefly, but she stuffs it down with well-practiced breathing techniques. “My sister stood between him and his family. Her life posed a threat to their existence. Tell me, what would you do if you were in that situation? To protect the one you loved most?"

Bucky chooses not to examine that thought too hard. 

Belova sniffs. “I know what it’s like to be that desperate. To be willing to go to any length necessary to get someone back." Her voice goes higher in pitch. "And now I also know what it’s like to be cast aside in favor of someone else.”

Her legs seem to fail her, causing her to sit abruptly in the grass with her head in her hands. Bucky hesitates momentarily before sitting beside her. Waits for her to speak.

"I don’t know what to believe anymore," she says, ire and anger seeping away. The assassin is gone, and in her place is just someone who is very, very tired. 

"Everything good in my life has turned out to be a lie. My mother, father, and sister—all just a lie for the good of the MotherLand. And my sister…” She pulls her head out of her hands to look at him. “Even if Barton didn't murder her, it hardly matters. Whether Natasha is lying or telling the truth, either way, she is choosing Barton over me. If Barton killed her and she is lying to cover for him, then she is knowingly choosing her own murderer over me. If she is telling the truth and went over that ledge voluntarily, then… Then she abandoned me—not even for the first time. So that—that monster could live. If she can throw me away for that useless excuse for a human being, then how little she must actually value me. So you tell me, Soldier. Which one of these possibilities is supposed to make me feel better?”

Bucky has no answer for her.

She starts to sniff again, her eyes growing shiny. "Do you know what that feels like? My own sister refuses to see what he has become! To acknowledge that he chose his family over her, just like–" her voice hitches, losing volume, "Just like she chose him over me.”

Her face drops into her palm. Her shoulders shake.

Bucky searches for words. He has never been good at comfort with anyone that wasn't Steve. Besides, if he dared to touch her right now he would risk losing his other arm.

Her words produce unpleasant sensations inside him. The emotions she’s expressing make too much sense. Feel too familiar. 

Belova breathes deeply after a moment. Her face turns thoughtful as she regards him. “Now that I think about it, you do know what that feels like. Don’t you?”

What?

"Rejection. Abandonment. Perhaps I spoke too soon earlier when I said you would not understand."

Projection, Bucky thinks. A Red Room tactic to change the topic. Knock him off balance. Allow her to regain control of herself.

“Tell me, Soldier. How do you find peace, having been abandoned by someone you care about?"

Bucky allows confusion to show on his face.

“Your precious Captain America. I know what happened. I have my sources. He left you for some woman in the past. Got the perfect white picket fence life. Typical American.”

The instinct to defend Steve is instant. 

“Rogers did not abandon me.”

Belova blinks her eyes with unnecessary exaggeration.

Whatever. He doesn’t owe her an explanation. 

“You don’t understand.”

Belova looks him in the eye. “The same technology used to create you helped to develop the serum that kept me without control of my own body for years. I know what it’s like to be imprisoned in your own body. I know what it is like to be set free. And I now know what it is like to be reunited with someone you thought lost to you, only for that someone to leave you behind. To choose someone else over you.”

This is factually inaccurate. Carter was not the primary reason Steve went back, despite Bucky's many nudges for him to do so. Steve went back for…

"There! I can see it in your eyes. Abandonment. Jealousy."

"I am not jealous of Peggy Carter." The suggestion is ludicrous. All he has ever wanted is for Steve to be happy. He told him to go.

Belova rolls her eyes and stands. Hitches her bag over her shoulder. “Whatever. I don’t care how long you lie to yourself, but I do care about Natasha. There is only one reason she would feel betrayal from her memories of Vormir, and for her own good, she needs to face it. Better a painful life of truth than a fairytale of lies.”

Bucky stares after her as she leaves. He doesn't know how long he sits there, stewing in a number of unidentified emotions. 

Steve did not abandon him. What does she know.

The open air is too exposed. The knowledge that Steve is just walls away too overpowering.

He retreats back into the building and the familiar security of the air vents. But the space provides no haven to organize his thoughts and emotions.

Heated voices echo through the metal tunnels–loud, angry. His thoughts turn to white noise.

He catches his name. Steve's name. Steve’s tremulous, agitated voice echoing through the metal tunnels…

He closes his eyes and allows the static ever present in the background to take over.

“I’m gonna miss you, buddy.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Buck.”

Stop. Make it stop.

"This proves nothing!"

The voices are too loud–

"Keep living in whatever fantasy world you like, Sam!"

He needs to get out–

The world is ending–

Steve deserves better than this mess.

Static and a high-pitched ring. His head shivers and his hands tremble and Steve is gone 

but not gone 

but gone 

and so is he.

The world is crumbling around him—shaking suddenly and violently and the walls will crush him and he welcomes it.

Sam and Rhodes’ voices switch from anger to alarm.

"Holy shit!"

"Get away from the equipment!"

The static fades, and Bucky touches a hand to the vent wall.

The earth is quite literally shaking.

Chapter Text

1970
New Jersey

Peggy.

Steve stares at her through the window. She's right there. Young, alive, and just as much of a spitfire as he remembers. Separated from him by a mere sheet of glass. All he would have to do is reach out. Tap his finger…

He needs to move.

Tony surely has the cube by now, and security is already hot on Steve’s tail. Yet he can’t bring his fingers to loose the blinds that give him a view of the office beyond.

God, has he missed her. What he wouldn’t do just to speak to her. Let her know that he is alive. Having to only tell her once.

His hand slips into his pocket, the vials clinking together as his hand closes around them. Such simple things, yet they can make anything and everything possible. The pull of temptation is strong—to use one of these particles right now. He has four. Two to get him and Tony back. Two in case they mess this up too, but...

He could be back in ‘45 and collecting that rain check he owes Peggy in the next minute. Get that dance…

…Search the bottom of that ravine.

Steve shakes the echoes out of his head and turns toward the door. Tony is almost assuredly waiting for him by now, and Steve can imagine how the excuse of reminiscing of days long gone and mistakes long past would go over.

Wary of security, he cracks the door open and listens. Finding the hall clear of threats, he pushes the door open—

“Oh!”

—and collides it into a tiny blonde office worker approximately the height of his belt line. 

She goes down like Steve himself did when on the receiving end of this from school bullies and classroom doors.

“I’m so sorry!” Steve sputters, promptly sprouting an additional left foot as he trips over himself to help her up and haplessly assists in collecting her scattered folders.

“No! I’m sorry," she says, brushing back short blonde waves and straightening her skirt. "I wasn’t looking where I was going."

"No, it's my fault. Let me help." 

Seeing Peggy must have thrown him off more than he thought. He needs to get it together. There is too much at stake.

Voices down the corridor gain volume.

“…Zola? Mr. Stark was looking for you.”

Steve freezes.

Zola?

"Look around you–I have never been more alive."

"They thought I could help their cause.”

“Sir?”

“I also helped my own.”

Operation Paperclip. How could he forget.

That son of a bitch. Is here.

“Sir, are you all right?” the woman asks, a warm hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

Bucky.

Rage, regret, and ruthlessness hit him with such force that his vision swims.

He sees the Winter Soldier, with dead eyes and hyper-focused determination. Intent on one thing: to kill him.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

A sparsely furnished bolthole in Bucharest. Familiar eyes brimming with confusion and fear.

“You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.”

Bucky, on his back on an examination table in Wakanda. Willingly putting himself through cryofreeze because he couldn't trust himself not to hurt others.

“Zola? Yeah, him I remember. The first white coat who got his hooks in me. Grinned like a maniac the entire time they were sawing my arm off.”

It’s 1970. And Bucky is alive. Alive, possibly in cryo-freeze, and imprisoned somewhere thanks to that son of a bitch Zola, who is walking around freely. After all the hell he put Bucky through. Ripping away his personality, his memories, his sense of self-worth.

Steve's jaw cracks.

“Sir?”

Steve swallows thickly. Plasters a gentlemanly smile on his face. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry again, miss."

“We are both of us, out of time.”

He gathers the rest of her files and shoots her his most charming smile. "You take care now."

"Thank you so much. And again, so sorry," she says with a soft smile and squeeze of his hand.

The instant she is out of sight, Steve plasters his back against the wall of an adjacent corridor. Focuses on holding back an almost overwhelming thirst for vengeance as he listens to the nasal, horribly familiar Swiss German-accented words coming from two halls down.

“Mr. Shtark can shpeak wit me when I am not so busy. Or come and see me in my office instead of yelling for me like a dog!”

Steve’s pulse goes into overdrive. His hand clenches tightly over the vials in his pocket.

'I don’t want to kill anyone,' he’d once told Erskine, and at the time he had meant it. But now? He wants to kill Zola. Aches to kill him. Tear him limb from limb for what he did to…

God, Bucky.

“Steve…?”

Calling his name… Collapsing into dust.

A new wave of black grief bubbles up in his chest, stronger than any he's experienced since the Snap. Bucky is gone. Again.

And it’s all his fault.

Again.

He lets out a shaky breath and twists to peer around the corner of the hall. Watches Zola’s retreating, mumbling figure.

Tony is waiting for him. Every delayed moment risks the success of the mission. The most important mission they’ve ever had. Billions of lives are at stake. And yet…

He follows Zola.

Zola’s office is several floors down. Steve nearly crushes his foot holding a restricted access elevator open. The office itself is outfitted with more locks and ‘classified’ stamps than he’s ever seen, even during his time as a captain in the U.S. Army. How many of these files contain info on what they did—what they’re doing—to Bucky?

Zola enters his office and rummages through a file cabinet.

He could kill him now, Steve muses. Break his neck with a well-aimed blow. Cover his mouth and nose and just wait. Rip off his left arm and watch.

Steve closes his eyes and focuses on breathing deeply. Recounts Bruce’s repeated warnings to not change anything, no matter how hard it may be to hold back. He had been referring to the odd civilian in peril during the Battle of New York, but this…

This is Bucky. The best man Steve has ever known in the clutches of Hydra, and Steve did not know it before but he knows it now, and what kind of friend would he be if he just stood by and did nothing, knowing that they have him… knowing what they’re doing to him…

Steve is so wrapped up in his own miserable thoughts that Zola nearly hits him with the door as he exits. Steve ducks around a corner and demonstrates saintly self-restraint as he listens to Zola’s footsteps as they fade into the distance. 

Steve’s heart makes the next decision faster than his head. He breaks the lock on the office door and slips inside.

The office is lined with file cabinets. Information on what they've done with Bucky must be in one of them. He starts digging.

Basic German and enhanced reading speed come in handy, and within six minutes he finds a file that describes a ‘minor’ project dating back to 1944. Beneath it lies a small red book with a black star that turns Steve’s blood cold. He tears open the file, his hands shaking and clutching the paper tightly enough to leave fingerprints as he reads of the progress, testing, reprogramming, and success of the project involving 'the Soldier.'

Current status of project: Active.

Bucky had described it as being burned alive from the inside out. Stripping away everything you are and then cleaning house with the brain equivalent of bleach. Forcibly inserting orders and information and codes and pain. So much pain.

Oh, Bucky. What are they doing to you?

Steve forces himself to take a breath and straighten out the files. Focus, Rogers.

There. Siberia. As of 1970, he’s there.

Steve remembers that godforsaken place all too well.

“He’s my friend.”

“So was I.”

So much strife, suffering, and pain. All his fault. He never would have been forced to divide loyalty between two of his closest friends if it weren’t for the worst mistake of his life.

What he wouldn’t do to change things…

His hand twitches, and his suit expands over his body and 12281944 locks into his GPS seemingly of its own accord. A simple press of his thumb, and he can fix the worst mistake of his life.

His thumb trembles over the button.

Then his mind gives him flashes of African forest and Natasha's sobbing face and… a pile of dust where once stood…

Steve lets out a shaky breath as his suit retracts. His hand trembles as he wipes at his face. One problem at a time. There are too many lives at stake.

Including Bucky’s.

This has to be put aside.

For now.

He replaces Zola's files, making them look as untouched as possible, despite the temptation to misplace them in front of someone with rank.

Time to meet Tony, get the hell out of here, and save Bucky in the future, so he can save Bucky in the past.

—

Present Day

"She's alive, Steve. Natasha is alive."

A complex twist of joy and dread had burst inside of Steve at Sam's words. He had waited with baited breath, expecting Sam to continue into things that Steve has been holding onto for decades, but all Sam says is,

“Get back as soon as you can.”

Perhaps Sam didn’t want to give away too much over the connection. That is probably smart. Who knows what kind of surveillance or advanced technology he may be using.

This is it. It must be. And yet…

So many things still don’t add up. Sam had said that Clint had gone back to Vormir to find her, but had yet to return. And yet, Natasha had reappeared anyway? And on the landing pad of the old tower of all places?

Steve shakes his head. He’s sure things will become clear once Clint returns. And until then…

Natasha is still alive.

The joy is no less potent now, even though so many decades have passed. He longs to see her again. To tell her everything, to hear everything…

"Tin Can to approaching pod. Come in, Steve."

Steve smiles and presses the comm. "Steve Rogers to Tin Can. It's good to hear your voice, Bruce."

"You too, Steve. We calculate an ETA of eleven minutes. Welcome back."

Eleven minutes. Eleven minutes and he will see Natasha again. Alive. 

Relief makes him wipe his eyes. He thinks of the day he got back. Of Clint’s unwavering certainty that Natasha was alive. How he had been right all along.

"She's alive! How could you just leave her there?!"

It’s still unclear why Clint’s absolute certainty of Natasha’s survival had only lasted for a few hours that day, but Steve can still hear the acidic fury in his voice. 

As much as he is loath to admit, his body had been too fragile to handle Clint’s accusations at the time. The shock of multiversal travel, the anticipation of seeing everyone again, of seeing… well. All of that added to the possibility that maybe Steve had screwed something up, missed something vital… it had just been too much.

 His body had recovered, but the words had never ceased to haunt him, preying on the fear that he had failed yet another friend because he had been so focused on…

Steve’s head thumps against the headrest. 

Poor Bucky. How horrific that day must have been for him. He had practically vibrated out of his skin in his desire to help as Steve had struggled to breathe with pains shooting through his arm and chest. 

Steve has vague memories of being lifted ever so gently, as if he weighed nothing. Ambulance doors cutting them off from one another. Fear-brimmed eyes staring helplessly after him as the ambulance drove away. 

And Steve had been given a heads up about none of it. Bucky won’t even speak to him now. 

It’s not as if Steve expected things to be a cake walk after returning to this timeline, but how can he even begin to make things up to Bucky if he can’t even talk to him? If he would only let Steve explain…

But he can’t explain. Not now. Not yet. But soon. It has to be soon. 

He misses Bucky so damn much.

"Okay, Cap, you're beginning your final descent. Just trust the controls and Tony's tech to catch you, okay?"

He's not a damn space virgin.

Five minutes later the pod opens to Bruce, large and green, with arms open wide and a giant grin on his face.

"Steve!"

Steve refuses to ask him to be gentle, because he is not as weak as he looks, but damn, Bruce.

"You have no idea how glad I am that you're here."

Sam scrambles around him and jerks Steve into an embrace. "Is it good to see you, old man."

Steve grunts. Sam has gotten stronger. “Good to see you, Sam."

They lead him down what seems like endless flights of unnecessarily steep, spiral staircases, stopping on landings to wait for him as if he’s a cripple, to what appears to be a lounge with two small sofas, a television, and what looks to be discarded computer equipment. Rhodey stands when they enter and grins broadly, giving him a hearty handshake and then a full-on hug. 

When did all of them get so strong?

"Welcome back, Cap. You just missed Pepper. She went back to the city to help Happy investigate the exact circumstances of Nat's reappearance."

Steve swallows. "Then it's true? She's alive? She’s here?"

“Yeah, Steve. She’s here.”

Steve feels tears well in his eyes. “Can I see her?" 

"She's sleeping right now," Bruce says. "Mantis is back with her, helping her get some rest. Trust me when I say she desperately needs it."

"Sam said she was injured. How…how bad is it?"

“She’s pretty banged up. Injuries you would expect from a fall like what she had, but as if it happened days ago, not years. It’s bad, but…”

“But what?”

“She’s stable is what’s important,” Rhodey says. “But–"

If Natasha is stable, then what about–

“What about Clint? Have you been able to contact him?”

Sam shakes his head. “They’re still out of range. We sent a message but haven’t heard back yet. I’m sure he’ll contact us as soon as he hears. He was so sure she was alive.”

Yeah. He was. 

"Nothing is taking her away from me again, Steve."

“Have a seat, Steve,” Rhodey says, his tone hard. Serious. "There’s something we need to talk to you about before you see her.”

Steve is sure his confusion is evident, but Sam and Bruce’s faces have gone equally serious, and anxiety creeps into his gut. 

They sit. 

"What's wrong?"

"We have a couple questions about what happened when you returned the stones. The Soul Stone in particular," Rhodey says after a tense moment.

Anxiety morphs into dread. Did he miss something after all? 

"Okay."

"What exactly did you see?" Sam asks.

Steve frowns. "It's all in my report." And despite the decades that have passed since, he would still really rather not relive it.

"We wouldn't ask if it weren't important," Bruce says gently.

Steve sighs, reluctantly allowing his mind to draft back to that day. "Soul was the last one to be returned. I got there moments… before the exchange took place. The planet was nothing but barren landscape, save for one tall cliff and a few rocky areas surrounding it. I took cover behind some of the larger rocks at the bottom, making sure to stay hidden from view of anyone on the ledge. I wanted to… retrieve the body, if I could. I couldn’t see everything, but I was just in view of everything that happened on the ledge.”

“Which was?”

“They…were fighting."

Rhodey makes a circular motion with his wrist, urging Steve to continue. 

“I don’t know! They were wrestling, I think. Pretty sure some arrows and widow’s bites were used too. I wasn’t exactly sitting there with popcorn, you know.”

“Did you actually see it happen? See Nat clip Barton to the cliff?” Rhodey asks sharply.

Steve doesn’t know why that matters, but from the look on Rhodey’s face, the question is important. 

“I… I saw them struggling. And…”

“And?”

And... what?

He remembers a scream. A cry of both physical and emotional agony, but he cannot say for certain who it originated from. He digs for the specific, horrifying memory of that moment of no return, but gets nothing but hazy images and a slight headache. "And...there was a blast of energy. Knocked me almost a mile away from the cliff."

"That's it? What about the moment Natasha fell?”

“I…”

“According to Barton, he spent almost a full minute hanging from that cliff clutching onto her. You didn't see any of that?"

There’s a hard pinch behind Steve's eyes. "If I did, I probably repressed the memory. It was an awful thing to witness, Rhodey."

Rhodes lifts his hands and turns away, letting them fall heavily to his sides. Bruce groans and removes his glasses to more thoroughly rub his face.

“Are you sure, Steve?” Sam asks. “Are you sure you didn't actually see Barton hang on to Nat? Or Nat pull away from him?"

Steve has a bad feeling about these questions. "What is this really about?" He's getting uncomfortable flashbacks of conference rooms and fountain pens and underlying tension disguised as friendly concern.

Bruce sighs. “Rhodey has some...concerns about what happened.”

“Concerns?”

They all seem hesitant to answer.

"What concerns?"

“That maybe… Nat’s death wasn’t entirely voluntary."

Not entirely… then what… wait. 

Steve's brow makes an attempt to return to space. "Are you... Are you suggesting what I think you are? Did Natasha tell you this?”

Sam scoffs. “Hell no. She adamantly denies it.”

“Nat has no memory of what happened on Vormir, by her own admission. And other evidence points to this very real possibility. And if you can’t admit that Barton should at least be questioned–”

“What evidence?” Has everyone gone crazy since he's been gone?

Sam holds his arms up in a gesture suggesting total exasperation.

"Don't try to make this out like I'm pulling this out of my ass, Sam! Nat can't remember anything about what happened! Not about her death nor how she is somehow alive again. Mantis tried to help her bring out her repressed memories, but all she got were intense feelings of anger and betrayal. Toward Barton. Now you tell me what conclusion I am supposed to draw from that, huh?"

The conclusion Steve draws is that in the few months he has been away, the Earth has turned itself inside out and upside down. Because seriously, this is Clint they are talking about. He would never hurt... Well, would never physically hurt...

The chime of the front gate diverts everyone's attention to the security monitor, which displays a young woman with long dark hair and bright blue eyes that stare with steady, intense focus at the camera, in contrast with the rest of her, which shuffles back and forth with nervous energy. 

“Now what?” Bruce mutters with clear exhaustion.

"Hey! My name is Kate! Kate Bishop? Clint's partner. You've probably heard of me. Is he here? I have urgent information that I, uh, need to discuss!"

"Is that a bow?"

“Must be a dedicated fangirl.”

"Since when does Clint have fangirls?"

"More importantly, how did a Hawkeye fangirl find this facility?"

"I'll deal with this," Bruce says with a long-suffering sigh and a heavy, exhausted tread toward the front door.

The instant he is out of sight, Steve rounds on Rhodey. "Do you seriously believe that Clint could do something like that to Nat?"

"I can and I do. And so does her sister."

"Her sister?" He shoots Sam a desperate look. They know about Yelena?

Sam sighs. "A lot has happened today."

“Clint would have done anything to get his family back, Steve!” Rhodes says. “I’ve seen that dark, desperate side of him.”

Steve scowls. “I was there too, you know. When you gave Nat the reports.” And when Clint ignored her calls.

"Then you saw how badly he hurt her, every moment of every day for five long years. I bet you know better than anyone just what that did to her.”

Steve can't argue with that.

"You were the only one who witnessed what happened on that planet, Steve. But the fact that you can't definitively say that Barton is innocent? Tells me all I need to know."

“You have Barton guilty before he can even defend himself!” Sam says.

“Barton is more than welcome to give his side of things when he gets back. Keep living in whatever fantasy world you like, Sam. I'll be waiting to serve Clint with a formal inquiry the instant he steps foot on this planet.” Without another word, Rhodes heads for the lab, the doors sliding shut behind him.

"I can't believe this," Steve says to no one in particular. He fumbles behind him for the edge of the sofa, easing himself down onto it.

Sam heaves a heavy sigh. "It's been rough since you've been gone, Steve. I don't have the innate ability to unite us like you do."

Steve shakes his head. "We fell apart when I was here too, Sam. This isn't your fault.” Steve lets his head fall into his hands. “This is insane. Here I come all the way across the solar system to see my friend and I walk into another civil war about another friend?"

"I am going to do everything I can to make sure that doesn't happen. And I feel a hell of a lot better about this upcoming confrontation now that you're here. Cuz I don’t think it’s going to be pretty."

Steve nods miserably. This isn’t how things were supposed to go. 

After a minute, he glances up and waits for Sam to meet his eyes. He hopes his silent question comes across as merely desperate and not pathetic.

Sam sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “He’s here somewhere. But don’t get excited. I doubt he’ll be showing himself any time soon."

Right. It’s okay. It’s what he expected.

He’ll be fine.

Steve swallows thickly. “Can I see her?”

-

Time Variance Authority

The instant the heavy doors of the time theater close behind them, the time collar snaps open around Clint’s neck. He catches it instinctively before it falls, staring at it a moment before letting his glare drift to Loki. 

“You are free to go. It was only ever a precaution, as I said.”

Clint examines the collar. Infuriating as it was to have it rip control from him, he itches to take it apart and discover how it functions. “Your word doesn’t mean shit to me.”

Loki heaves a frustrated sigh, then pulls two files from his jacket. He tosses one to Clint. “This is, supposedly, your file. Have a look through it again and see if you can find any discrepancies with your own experiences, other than the obvious difference on Vormir. I shall examine the file of the alternate version of Agent Romanoff.”

Clint stares dumbly at the file, his own name staring back at him. He flips it open, and it falls easily to the very last page. No amount of staring changes the words that stare back at him.

Death: Vormir, 2014

The words repeat themselves in Clint’s head like a mantra, and he feels like he’s developing a migraine. He scans the rest of the file, but it brings no answers. From his birth to childhood to the circus to SHIELD and the Avengers—every bit of it aligns perfectly with what he has experienced in his own life.

Except that last page.

Because he is alive, and as much as he fervently wishes it were not true, as much as it should have gone any other way, it was Natasha that died on Vormir, not him.

"I don't understand," he says, more to himself than Loki. "I can't have both died and not died for the stone."

"Perhaps it is a clerical error," Loki says, examining the film strip from Natasha’s file. "There is certainly enough chaos happening here to explain that."

"You don't sound very convinced."

Loki slots the film in the projector, pressing buttons and adjusting levers. The film makes a high-pitched squeak before steadying into the image of the Avengers Compound shooting range and a sweaty and distraught Natasha, on her knees in a confetti of shredded targets and bullet shells. White-knuckled hands press a cell phone tight to her ear.

“Please, Clint. Just let me know you’re still alive. Please.”

Clint remembers a voicemail in a filthy alley in San Francisco. Trying to cry and being physically unable to. 

“That's years before the Heist,” he manages thickly.

Loki gives him a look, but his hands nudge the levers forward.

It comes to rest on an image of Natasha sitting at the Compound’s breakfast bar with her chin in her hand and subtle amusement on her lips. A harried Steve Rogers frantically scrapes at a pan on the stove that presumably was not originally charcoal.

"I swear I used to know how to make this," he says in a pitch that is higher than usual. “When did they start making stoves so different?!”

"Well. One can't be perfect at everything," Natasha responds flatly.

"Maybe not, but. Finally got you to smile."

Clint’s fingers curl into a fist. "Still too early. Skip forward."

The next image is one he remembers himself. The members of the Heist in a circle on the quantum tunnel platform, ready to depart on their most critical mission yet.

Natasha looks at Rogers. “See you in a minute,” she says with a wry smile that makes Clint’s eye twitch both in the past and in real-time.  

"Just keep going until I tell you to stop."

The film skips forward through bits and pieces of their journey through space together, grinning and reminiscing over missions past. His mind conjures up flashes of banter as they hiked up the mountain, effortless adjustment into complementary fighting stances when the cloaked figure appeared at the peak.

“In order to take the stone, you must lose that which you love.”

The emotions he felt at the words echo within both versions of himself.  

Loki stops the film just as Natasha's forehead comes to rest against Clint's in a silent farewell, and his heart shrivels into a raisin.

"Forward. Just a bit more,” he croaks through thick molasses.

Loki’s gaze is uncomfortably perceptive, but he refrains from commenting.

On the large screen of the theater wall, Natasha and himself struggle on the ledge, fighting for the right of who gets to die for the other. Re-living this from his best friend's point of view is awful to the extent of being physically painful, but he needs to see this. Needs to know what he did differently in this reality. What he should have done in his own.

Clint throws Natasha down. She wrestles her way over him. Shoots him with a widow's bite.

Clint is surprised his counterpart is able to even see straight after taking that to the face. Seriously, what the hell, Nat.

His counterpart scratches at the electric-bite wires and struggles to his feet. Raises his bow, extends the bowstring and—

The film skips and squeals and dissolves into static.

"As I thought," Loki murmurs.

Clint resists the nearly overwhelming urge to hurl the projector into the wall. “What the hell is wrong with this place?! Is every reel damaged? How is the technology of a place like this reliant on something as obsolete as strip film and projectors?!”

Loki removes the film and holds it out for Clint to see. He indicates a small sliver of the glossy film. "They’re not damaged. See here? Look at the difference in texture and color. At this exact point in time which depicts the moment one of you died for the stone, there is nothing there. It's empty."

"What do you mean? Like it’s been erased?"

Loki frowns at the film, then moves to slot it back into the projector. He skips forward to show white static. "Or has yet to be developed.”

Has yet to be… 

Clint massages his temples. "I don't understand any of this."

The sharp snap of his teammates reappearing on the quantum tunnel platform drags his miserable gaze back up to the screen. He focuses immediately on Natasha, drenched like Clint himself was, gold light glimmering between the gaps in her fisted fingers. 

She collapses to her knees, releasing a heart-wrenching wail of inconsolable grief. 

“Nat!”

Rogers. Gallantly rushing to her side. Pulling her into his perfect arms.

“We don’t need to see this.”

“We do. This is the first difference between a reality where you lived and one where you perished. Anything she said here could have altered the course of the timeline drastically.”

Though the point is valid, Clint can’t bring himself to care in that moment. Physically unable to stand in her sorrow, Natasha wails with an anguish that Clint knows in his soul, and the sound cuts into the scar left there by the same loss. 

He aches to go to her. Longs to force himself through the projected image against the wall and rush to her side. Soothe her anguish. Yet the tears that threaten to spill from Clint’s eyes are tinged with something akin to relief. That despite everything he put her through, Natasha would still consider him worth grieving so deeply.

She murmurs something none of them quite catch.

“What was that, Nat?” Rogers asks with a hand on her shoulder.

But Clint understands.

Tasha, don't. Please. I’m not worth this.

Natasha struggles to make herself understandable.

“He was sent to kill me! H-he was sent to… and h-he…he should have!”

"I'm telling you, we don't need to see this!"

"Silence!"

Rogers tugs Natasha close and glances at the others, who bow their heads in grief. They are saddened, Clint knows they are. But the only tears are Natasha's.

He is the lesser loss.

Glimpses of post-mission briefings, tests on the stones, and countless attempts by Rogers to comfort Natasha flick by on the screen. The film pauses briefly on an image of Natasha, face down on her bed like a stone, a t-shirt of Clint’s clenched in her fist. Not unlike what he was like at this stage, Clint remembers. With one noticeable difference.

“Nat, please. You need to eat something,” Rogers pleads from his perch on the edge of her mattress. 

“None of this is relevant!” Clint says. “If anything is going to differ significantly from my reality, it will have to do with the stones! Or Thanos! Skip. Forward.”

Loki studies him long enough to make Clint uncomfortable, but the film skips forward.

Clint waits for Natasha to be her usual incredible self and immediately fix everything that he failed to do himself. For her to see through Nebula’s betrayal, for her to stop Thanos from ever getting into their timeline. 

Save Tony’s life. 

But that fateful day unfolds just as he remembers. Bruce volunteers to put on the gauntlet. The Compound goes into lockdown. The souls that were lost five years prior come back into existence.

And Thanos attacks from the past.

Clint's bones and joints throb with a phantom ache as the Avengers fight for the lives of all they know. 

If this Kang guy wants to eliminate this reality, surely it is because of something Natasha did during this battle, right?

But the battle ends in the same tragic way that he remembers.

“I am. Iron Man.”

Re-watching the life drain out of Tony hits Clint harder than he is ready for. Maybe Raynor was right when she told him he has been so focused on Natasha's loss that he hasn't given himself the opportunity to grieve the others they have lost.

At least he isn't also indirectly responsible for Tony's death. Just what he needs is another reason for Rhodes to resent him.

“Any variations from what you remember?”

"No," he says softly.

Even Loki can’t take his eyes off the scene before them.

“So it was Stark who…?” Loki asks with a nod at the screen.

"Yeah." Clint’s gaze goes sharp as he waits for the inevitably deprecating remark about Tony.

Loki’s expression is surprisingly solemn. “My condolences.”

That… almost sounded genuine.

Once Thanos and his army are nothing but ash, Loki adjusts the settings of the projector to display the highlights of the reel, and Clint is overcome with an inexplicable—yet distinct—sensation of deja vu.

Natasha huddles into a ball within the rubble, a cell phone pressed to her ear.

“Pick up. Please, pick up,” Natasha pleads with her eyes closed.  “Please. Please.”

The line connects with a click, and Natasha’s eyes go wide.

“Laura?”

Clint’s heart sinks as he watches a Quinjet land in a clearing on the farm, his kids rushing out to greet the occupants.

“We don’t need to see this.”

Loki glances at the file. “By its very nature this comprises a variance.”

Natasha and—for the love of all that is sacred—Rogers—emerge from the jet.

“Mom! It’s Captain America!” Nate shouts in excitement.

“Where’s dad, Aunt Nat?” Lila asks.

"This Kang guy isn't going to care about how my family reacted to my death. Skip forward."

Loki obliges just as comprehension of the situation makes itself known on Lila’s face.

Clint recognizes it from every time he had looked in the mirror for five long years. And now the image of that look on his daughter's face is forever sealed in his brain.

Natasha is reunited with her sister within thirty hours of the battle of Earth. Yelena arrives at the ruins of the Compound with red-rimmed eyes and a small arsenal of weapons and dives into Natasha’s arms the instant she sees her.

Natasha’s tears are silent, in contrast to Yelena’s loud, nearly hysterical sobbing.

The disquiet in Clint’s heart churns at the sight. This is what should have happened. After all she suffered as a child, after being taken away from her family, Natasha deserved to get her sister back.

Clint’s gaze goes even softer as he looks at Yelena, now grinning from ear to ear. Poor kid. She also did nothing to deserve yet another loss in life.

“This is undoubtedly a variance between realities,” Loki says. “Who is she?”

Clint says nothing. Yelena was a secret, kept safe and hidden in the few happier parts of Natasha’s past. She’s not something for him to reveal. Least of all to Loki.

“I can simply read the file, you know.”

Well shit. “Natasha’s sister,” Clint says with a sigh. “From the Red Room.”

“Did you ever have any encounters with her post Blip?”

To put it lightly. “She… didn’t take the news of Natasha’s death well. Blamed me for it.” For which he still can’t blame her.

Loki makes a note in the file.

Clint watches Natasha bring Yelena to the farm. Breathes easier as he sees smiles on his children’s faces. Natasha is there for ballet recitals, baseball games, and school plays. Assists Laura with homecare and farm maintenance. Laura and all three kids have smiles on their faces.

They’re happy. Cared for. 

The film skips forward again, until a blur of dark blue catches Clint’s eye. “Wait! Stop there!”

The film flickers to a stop and shows an office, in which stands Wanda, Natasha, a man Clint can't identify and...

Steve Rogers.

What.

“With all due respect, Captain, you voluntarily relinquished the body to us five years ago,” the man says. 

“I realize that," Rogers responds in a tone that reeks of deep disappointment, "But the situation, in case you haven’t noticed, has changed."

“She deserves to say goodbye,” Natasha says, tone flat and unwielding.

"When is this? What’s the date?” Clint asks sharply.

Loki pauses the film and cross-references the file. “November 3rd, 2023."

But that… that can’t be… 

"Go back to October 30th!”

Loki’s fingers rewind the footage to an image of the quantum tunnel platform beside the wreckage of the Compound, where Natasha stands with Captain Perfect, Bruce, Sam, and Barnes. 

Rogers hugs her, and she whispers something into his ear, to which he responds with a sly grin that sets Clint’s teeth on edge. He hugs Barnes next, then bends down to grasp the case that holds the stones and Mjölnir’s handle.

If Clint weren’t currently spiraling in the seventh circle of emotional hell right now, he would find Loki’s reaction to this particularly hilarious.

“Oh, you must be joking! Was Odin’s sole requirement for that hammer merely an overdeveloped sense of morality?!”

Instead, Clint finds himself equally annoyed.

“Going quantum in five. Four, three…”

Rogers disappears.

Barnes turns away, but Natasha stands still as a statue, glaring at the platform. The dull glaze that clouds over Barnes’s eyes makes Clint relieved that he had not been present for this in his own timeline. 

It’s in direct contrast with Sam, who also stares at the platform with focused anticipation.

"And returning in five, four, three, two…”

Clint stares at the projected images and curses.

“What? What is it?” Loki asks, turning a critical gaze toward the scene before them.

Clint’s jaw cracks with such force that his aid shifts in his ear canal as Rogers descends from the platform with a hopelessly smug grin.

“I like to think I'm not the type to say I told you so, but…”

Natasha’s eyes positively light up, staying glued to Rogers even as Barnes abruptly obscures most of him from view. She wipes at her eyes and laughs wetly when Rogers eventually turns toward her, complete with a supernova of a smile, and scoops her into his arms.

“Son of a bitch,” Clint mutters under his breath.

"What? What's the matter?"

He came back. Cap came back.

He finds himself laughing. Why, he doesn't know, because there is nothing even remotely humorous about this.

He had assumed that Rogers had decided to live his life in the past to marry the love of his life and live out his days in his own time. Clint could respect that. Except, apparently, he was willing to throw that all out the window.

For Natasha.

“What? What is it?” Loki asks with urgency.

Clint turns away from the screen, sets his hands on his hips, and takes several deep breaths. “Just… give me a minute.”

Natasha looked so happy. And why wouldn’t she. Rogers came back. Yelena came back. His family came back. They were all happy. 

And better off.

“Barton, what is it?”

A loud clanging noise from outside the theater nearly makes them jump out of their skins. It is followed by several shouting voices and the clear sound of a violent altercation. Clint and Loki stare at the door, then at each other, then the door once more. The shouting grows louder and more urgent.

Loki moves cautiously, quietly cracking the heavy theater door open to peek outside.

"Oh, by Odin’s sweat-soaked beard, please tell me this is a joke."

“What?" Clint whispers harshly.

Loki lets out a scoff, moves away from the door and gestures grandly. "Observe for yourself."

Maneuvering around Loki, Clint peers into the corridor. “Son of a bitch!”

You have got to be kidding.

Several doors down, surrounded by no less than seven TVA hunters, stands a struggling, panting, angry Captain Steve Rogers. 

Chapter Text

October 30th, 2023

Steve bounces on the balls of his feet, eyes glued to Bruce as he makes the final adjustments on the quantum tunnel. He tightens his grip around the handle of the case. It takes a concentrated effort not to crush it entirely.

He just wants to go and start fixing things already.

“We’re ready for you, Cap.”

And he is ready for them.

"And remember, you have to return the stones to the exact moment you got them or you're gonna open up a bunch of nasty alternative realities."

There are plenty of nasty things that happened in this one too. 

"Don't worry, Bruce,” he says, latching the case shut. “Clip all the branches." 

Every single one. Every single mistake. 

Bruce’s voice turns somber. “You know I tried. When I had the gauntlet—the stones—I really tried to bring her back.”

Natasha. Another sharp pang of loss shoots through Steve’s chest.

He can’t help but think ‘what if?’ What if he had been the one to go to Vormir with Natasha instead of Clint? 

But then again, if he had, what would become of…

“I miss her, man,” Bruce says, from a place of deep sadness.

"Me too."

What if. What if?

“Good luck, Cap.”

Steve clears his throat. “I promised Clint that I’d… bring her home if I can.”

Bruce nods, eyes glazing over with the all-too-fresh grief left over from the events of that morning. If things do all go according to plan, Steve takes comfort in the thought that she might be buried at the farm the same day as her funeral. 

Steve pats a giant green arm and moves toward the platform.

"You know, if you want, I could come with you,” Sam offers.

"You're a good man, Sam. But this one's on me." 

And him alone.

Finally, he turns to Bucky. Steve can think of several methods of torture preferable to saying yet another goodbye to Bucky, but his heart feels lighter as he thinks back to another goodbye, so long ago.

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” he says, and Bucky actually smiles, and Steve feels his own face mirror the expression.

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

The words are a whisper by the end, and Steve feels himself go solemn in response. 

Despite Steve’s many, many assurances, Bucky believes this is really goodbye. He’s not going to argue anymore, but won’t force a light attitude if Bucky can’t answer it.

Steve tugs him close, willing to hold on to him as long as he needs, but Bucky pulls back after a few seconds. Because he’s fine, as he has been saying so often ever since he came back.

"I'm gonna miss you, buddy."

The admission tugs at Steve’s heart, the words the closest thing to objection he’s voiced since Steve brought the whole thing up. 

For crying out loud, Bucky, don’t look at me like that. This is not goodbye.

Steve would be hurt by Bucky’s determination to not believe him if not for the fact that Bucky has been put through nothing but physical and emotional torment since 1945. Besides, for Bucky, Steve will be proven right in a matter of seconds.

"It's gonna be okay, Buck." 

You'll see, pal. I'm going to fix everything.

“How long is this gonna take?”

“For him, as long as he needs. For us, five seconds.”

Steve climbs the platform steps, turns and lifts Mjölnir. 

What would the world have been like had Hydra been crushed before it could respawn? How many lives would have been saved? How much pain and suffering could have been prevented?

Will be prevented. He will crush them. Cut off every head and burn the body until all that remains is dust.

"Ready, Cap? All right, we'll meet you back here, okay?”

“You bet.”

“Going quantum in three. Two…”

Steve locks eyes with Bucky. Files away the image in his mind.

This is what he is fighting for.

-

2012

The trip through time and space and quantum-whatever is still disorienting, but his body is adapting. Steve can't help but laugh at how he once couldn't handle the kiddy rides at Coney Island, and now he shakes off time-travel.

“We just ate, Bucky. Are you nuts?!”

“Come on, scaredy-cat. I’ll make you a deal. You hurl and I’ll buy you those new shoes you‘ve been savin’ for.”

Steve’s first stop is New York; the Mind Stone. He appears on the fourteenth floor, down the hall from where he and his alternate self had their confrontation. He takes care to keep himself perfectly hidden, observing silently as his counterpart dashes away the scepter.

As quickly as he can, Steve pops open the case, reassembling the scepter the way that Thor showed him, and uses the protective gear and equipment from Bruce to set the stone. He regards it briefly when he’s done. It almost feels wrong to be assembling something that has caused them all—especially Barton—so much pain. But his mission is clear, and a moment later, the Mind Stone and scepter are once again safely in his unconscious counterpart’s possession.

He takes a moment to take in his counterpart’s motionless form, remembering their altercation. The only words that Steve had been certain would disarm him.

“Bucky is alive.”

What will this version of himself do when he wakes?

Steve huffs to himself. It is not a difficult question. He’ll do the same thing Steve himself will do. Burn down the world until he finds him.

By uttering those three words, Steve has already committed this reality to an alternate course of events, he realizes. 

Steve cannot bring himself to regret it.

If Bucky is liberated from Hydra’s grasp even one day earlier, it is worth it. And yet… it is not enough.

This reality will still see the Winter Soldier come into existence and will judge Bucky for his actions. The Accords will still be written. And Tony’s parents will still be dead.

Two years early is still far too late.

-

2014

Vormir

When all the other stones are safely returned to the exact points in time from which they were taken, Steve reluctantly turns his attention to the only one remaining.

Soul.

Bruce’s coordinates put him at the foot of a mountain, and he scales the edge, careful to remain out of sight when he spots the protruding ledge at the summit described in Barton’s report. 

He can just catch glimpses of a struggle on that ledge, and squeezes his eyes shut at the sight. The horror they must have experienced—having to fight for the right to die, and with your best friend of all people…

The anguished howl of “No!!!” turns Steve’s blood to ice, and a tear trickles down his cheek as the cry of a broken soul echoes to the horizon and back. Steve loses his footing at the sound, the rock beneath his feet blurry. 

He glances up. He sees a desperate struggle. 

He sees pain.

He sees…

…

…

…

There’s an ominous roll of thunder. A crack of lightning. 

A sudden, violent blast of energy. 

It knocks Steve back an astonishing distance, and he collides painfully with the hard, sandy ground, momentum causing him to bounce several feet further. He groans when he finally skids to a stop, coughing up sand and struggling for breath. Rolling over, he pushes to his hands and knees, and stares back at the lone mountain in the distance. From the summit, there are still residual wafts of energy, pulsing out in a steady rhythm, fading more with each wave.

The exchange.

Barton had reported that it had knocked him unconscious for an indefinite amount of time, only for him to awaken in a shallow pool of water, the stone curled in his fist. Steve sees no water, nor any sign of Barton.

But Natasha…

Focus, Rogers. You have a duty to fulfill.

He pushes to his feet, plodding through patches of hard and soft sand until he finally reaches the base of the cliff. He rounds the edge until he finds the hard rock directly below the summit’s ledge. He spins around twice in search of a body, finding stains of crimson in the rock, but nothing more.

There is no sign of Natasha.

This upsets Steve more than he would have imagined, and he pushes his body to its limit as he rushes to the summit, hoping for a better view. He peers down desperately into the abyss, hoping to spot a hidden crevice where she might have landed.

He stares and squints and uses every last bit of his enhanced eyesight, and for a fleeting, deceptive moment, he thinks he catches a glimpse of long, copper-red hair. But then the hair appears shorter, not red but a dark blond, the prone form more masculine than feminine… 

A quick shake of his head clears his vision to nothing but vacant, blood-stained rock.

She’s gone. Soul took her soul, and her body.

Heart heavy with grief, Steve forces his attention to his other mission. He stands at the ledge and holds the stone out over the abyss. He rotates his palm, allowing gravity to pull it home. It falls, but rather than hit the ground, it seems to vanish in mid-air. There is no burst of energy or light. No rumble in the clouds or earth. It is as if nothing happened. 

It is only then that he allows himself to crumble. His legs fold underneath him and he slumps down on the cold, icy cliff. Directs a blurry gaze out into the lavender horizon and allows his grief release.

Oh, Nat…

After the Snap, he and Natasha had each found themselves massive holes in their lives, once filled with the person closest to them. They had essentially done their best to fill that lack in each other. Without her, Steve isn’t sure he would have survived those five terrible years. He'd had hope that maybe, just maybe, with the return of the stone and Bruce's snap, that they could beat the odds one last time. But he realizes now that was foolish. A sacrifice is exactly that. There is no coming back. Not for Nat. Not for Tony.

The grief within him hardens, and his tears dry up.

But… for Bucky–something can be done.

When his breathing and pulse have slowed to their normal rate, he stands and loads one of the spare vials he planted in his gear. Bucky, his brain says, and his body goes stiff with determined resolve. He will lose no more friends.

It is time to right his mistakes.

He sets his GPS for January, 1945.

-

Siberia

1945

Steve had originally planned to search the ravine–like he should have done in the first place–until conversations with Bucky had indicated to him just how difficult that task may have proven to be.

“Do you remember anything at all about where you landed?”

“I fell on my head and ripped off most of my left arm, Steve. You’re lucky I remember how to wipe my own ass.”

Even if Steve timed his arrival to coincide perfectly with Bucky’s fall, there is no guarantee that he would be able to find Bucky before Hydra, and if something did go wrong and Hydra managed to get their hooks in Steve too…

But he does know for a fact that Bucky will not die from the fall or the elements. Hydra will find him and carry out emergency medical treatment. They will bring him to Siberia. And as much as it pains him to allow Bucky to be in their hands for any amount of time, he cannot afford to miss, and so Steve begrudgingly decides to allow Hydra enough time to get Bucky stable and bring him to where Steve can find him.

Two weeks. That’s all you bastards get him for.

The site of the Siberian compound makes his lungs remember asthma attacks, but he presses forward.

He has to be careful about this. His 1945 counterpart is currently enveloped in a mad, vengeful rampage against Hydra, and acting in a time where another version of himself is carrying out historically critical events limits him somewhat. But he also has the extremely helpful and discouraging knowledge that no one is ever going to come for Bucky. No one will ever look for him. 

As long as he is careful, no one will ever discover them. And more importantly, Bucky will never be frozen. Never be broken.

A large, unsuspecting Hydra goon has the misfortune to lose his footing on the ledge he is patrolling and collides rather forcefully with Steve’s fist. Twice. Steve divests him of his ID and uniform and disposes of him under a rather large snowdrift. If the goon finds himself with a few additional bruises… oh well.

He has no difficulty infiltrating the facility. His memory of its layout is only too clear, and his barely contained rage portrays the confidence of someone who definitely belongs there and you definitely do not want to question.

The air below is stale and tinged with the pungent aroma of chemicals. Every muscle in Steve’s body contracts as he marches into the atrium, different from what he remembers. 

There, still under construction, is a tank.

Past the atrium, down a long hallway, there is the sound of raised voices. Of bare skin being struck. Of cruel, angry Russian. 

And something else. Indignant, arrogant, and familiar. Stifled as if deliberately obstructed.

Steve marches down the corridor with an expression so fierce that the scientists buzzing about the area go out of their way to avoid him. Steve follows the voices until he reaches a large laboratory that reeks of desolation, but with an additional quality of something… sadistic. The closer he gets, Steve can almost taste something sharp, almost metallic, in the air. 

Blood.

The walls are nothing but exposed concrete and water pipes. There are enough of them for Steve to conceal himself while also leaving him free to move about in the darkness of the near entirety of the lab. 

It is then that he sees him.

Bucky—missing an arm but full of hellfire and pure Brooklyn stubbornness—thrashes violently against the bonds of the table he is strapped to. He’s just as Steve remembers, before the hellfire was extinguished and his spirit broken.

One of his handlers shouts something that Steve doesn't understand right in Bucky’s face, and Bucky hurls what must be a pretty filthy insult under an even filthier gag in response. He gets a cattle prod jabbed into his side as a reward.

Steve's feet instinctively lurch forward at Bucky’s muffled cry of pain before rational thought forces him to stop. He could take out all of these assholes easily, but this would raise an alarm and bring countless more goons down here. With Bucky this vulnerable, that could be devastating.

Wait, just wait, Steve tells himself, even as his vision turns decidedly toward the red end of the spectrum when Bucky gets a backhand to the face.

"You will learn your place, Soldier."

Steve’s jaw cracks.

Bucky kicks out against his restraints, and Steve can’t help a small grin when one of the handlers scrambles to add an additional restraint as one begins to fray. 

He’s so strong. Even now, in every way…

The room goes abruptly silent as a new, larger handler strolls into the laboratory, with cropped hair, a cigar between his lips, and a newspaper tucked under his arm, and even Bucky in his indignant rage goes still at his appearance.

Steve can smell him. Sweat and musk and odorous breath as he smiles through yellow, uneven teeth. He smells like cruelty.

He speaks in heavily Russian-accented English. “Good evening, Soldat. I hope we are feeling more cooperative today.”

Bucky’s muffled reply is likely incomprehensible to his captors, but Steve nearly gives himself away stifling a snicker after recognizing one of Bucky’s dirtiest Brooklyn insults. He hasn’t heard Bucky talk like this in…

“My my, so feisty today. Let’s see if my little bit of news can calm you down, yes?” 

The handler saunters up to the table and pulls the newspaper out from under his arm. “You will like to hear news today, Soldat. Front page about your beloved Captain America.”

Bucky goes still.

The handler unfolds the paper so that the front page is on full display and holds it out for Bucky to see. “Your Captain America is dead. What a shame.”

Wait. What? That can’t be right.

Steve’s eyebrows dig down into his nose. A glance at his GPS confirms this can’t be right. He set it for January 11th, 1945. Two weeks after Bucky fell. Steve didn’t go into the ice until February. But his enhanced vision can read the headline even from this distance. It is, in fact, the paper that announced his supposed demise. He remembers the headline and date from the Smithsonian exhibit.

Steve’s eyes jerk from Bucky to the handler, still dangling the newspaper in front of Bucky’s face. Bucky scans the words, and his abrupt stillness leaves little doubt as to its content.

“It is real shame. We were planning to let you do honor of eliminating Captain America. So sorry to rid you of such honorable duty, Soldat,” the handler says, chuckling heartily.

Bucky has turned to stone. His gaze is locked on the article, which they allow him to read in its entirety. Steve knows the article to be very flattering of Captain America’s bravery and courage and self-sacrificing love for his country, and Steve can see it in the sag of his shoulders. The fading spark in his eyes.

Bucky believes it. 

Steve’s eyes flutter closed with cold horror. Two months. They’ve had Bucky for two months. Most men would have long broken by then, but until this moment, Bucky had been fighting.

Had been waiting for Steve to come for him.

Now, he is still. He doesn’t react to their taunts, curses, or the pain they inflict on him. Bucky seems to feel none of it.

“One day, there was nothing left to fight for anymore.”

Dear God. This is the day he broke. 

There is celebration amongst the handlers as they pass around the newspaper, laughing and poking at a non-responsive Bucky with details. They cut out Steve’s picture and slap it down onto Bucky’s chest, laughing and taunting and spewing insults that Steve cannot understand. Finally, there is a call for a celebratory feast, and Bucky is left strapped to the table, alone with his grief and promises of more conditioning to come after dinner. 

By the time the last one walks through the door, Steve has turned several of the pipes that serve as his hiding place into hourglass-shaped scrap metal. He takes several deep breaths in a desperate attempt to calm himself when an unnatural sound of struggling breath stems from the table, and Steve scrambles out from his hiding spot with no regard for stealth.

He stops dead in his tracks at another sound. Soft, so soft, but unmistakable—a high, keening wail that morphs into a name.

His name.

Steve is at Bucky’s side an instant later. “Bucky?”

Bucky starts violently at his touch, jerking against his bonds.

“Bucky. It’s me. It’s Steve.”

Bucky’s struggling eventually recedes, and he stares at him through red, watery eyes, and Steve removes the filthy gag. 

“Steve?”

Steve risks touching him again, and is not rebuffed. “Yeah, Buck. I’m here.” 

But this does not produce the positive reaction he had expected. Bucky’s face crumples and his eyes clench shut. A high-pitched whine emerges from deep within his throat.

“Bucky?”

Bucky roughly shakes his head.

“Bucky!”

“I’m hallucinating.”

Steve clasps a hand to Bucky’s shoulder and squeezes. “You’re not hallucinating. It’s me. I promise.”

More head shaking. Eyes and jaw clenched together, almost as if in anger. “You’re dead. They’re messing with my head again.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were smaller.”

Steve swallows thickly and threads fingers firmly in greasy brown hair until Bucky finally meets his gaze. “Not dead, pal. Think I’d leave you here?”

Bucky stares at him for several moments. Searching. Doubting. But when thorough observation fails to dissipate the illusion, Steve sees hope take root in Bucky’s gaze.

“Til the end of the line, pal,” Steve says with a soft smile. “We’re not there yet.”

Bucky’s eyes close again, and Steve almost despairs on ever getting Bucky to believe him, but then wetness seeps out from under clenched eyelids. 

“Easy, buddy,” he says, loosening the straps binding Bucky down. Before he can release the last one, Bucky reaches down and pats at Steve’s arm until he gets the hint. Steve does not speak, just lets Bucky squeeze his hand for all it’s worth and let him process two months’ worth of torment and despair.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Bucky says eventually, and when his grip loosens and his eyes open, Steve sees hellfire in them again.

Whatever had broken inside of Bucky has managed to tenuously weld itself back together.

Steve helps him up. “Or better yet, let’s give them hell.”

Bucky makes a grin so full of teeth and determination and so distinctly Bucky that it makes a cramp in Steve’s heart. This is why. Alternate timeline risks be damned. This was worth it.

Bucky is worth it.

They make their escape through underground corridors. Bucky, clearly severely malnourished, is still unsteady on his feet, so Steve pulls his remaining arm over his shoulders to support him. The route is littered with guards, and Steve takes high satisfaction in every single one he needs to put into an unconscious state.

They haven’t been in the corridors for more than five minutes when they hear it. A sharp crack, like the serrated edge of an iceberg slicing through the very fabric of space, followed by the sound of metal colliding heavily with concrete.

Bucky stiffens against his side.

"What was that?" Steve whispers, trying to imagine what other concealed horrors Hydra may have had during this time.

Bucky shakes his head. The look on his face holds something beyond dread. 

The expression morphs Steve’s resolve into steel. Nothing is ever going to make Bucky feel like this ever again.

He maneuvers them to a small hollow in the concrete, sufficient to keep Bucky hidden in the shadows for a brief period of time, and lowers him into it. "Stay here. I'm going to check it out."

Bucky clutches on to him with a strength that Steve could swear rivals that of the metal arm he does not even have. "No! Not by yourself,” he whispers furiously.

"I’m just going to see what that sound was. I'll be right back."

“Then take me with you. Let me help.”

“Buck, you’re in no condition. And I can take care of myself.”

He kneels down and squeezes Bucky's shoulders in an attempt to calm his obvious distress. This Bucky, in contrast to the one he will now never become, is so easy to read.

"Steve."

"Five minutes, Buck. I’m not a tiny little punk anymore. I’ll be fine. Just five minutes."

The fervent concern in Bucky's gaze causes Steve's throat to swell. He lets his head fall forward until his brow rests against Bucky’s. "I’ll be right back, I promise. Never leaving you again, pal. I swear it."

Bucky swallows thickly, then lets out a raspy "Five minutes."

“Five minutes.”

“And you’re still a punk.”

Steve grins and pats his shoulder. 

He settles Bucky into the hollow of the concrete, and with one last reassuring smile, Steve moves swiftly but stealthily toward the source of the sound.

He narrows in on it quickly, pinpointing the source to be around the next bend of the tunnel. The sound of mechanized metal puzzles him, almost familiar in its rhythm and whirr, but since Hydra had the technology to manufacture the masterful creation that was Bucky's metal arm, he shudders to think what else they may have created. Whatever it is, it is just around the corner.

Five minutes, he’d promised Bucky. It's been at least three.

Here we go, Rogers. He breathes out quickly, one, two, three, and swoops around the bend—

—and finds himself face to face with Iron Man’s energy blaster.

“Tony?!”

Iron Man freezes, blaster ready but unmoving. 

“Tony, is that you?”

“Cap? As in post-Capisicle Cap?”

“What are you—how are you—?” Steve has roughly thirty distinct questions that all want to spill out of his mouth at once, leaving him sputtering the beginnings of them all. "I... How… Where–When–?"

“You’re not the Steve from this time,” Iron Man says, lowering his blaster and visor opening. “Shit. Are you telling me Big Green actually had a breakthrough? No, there’s no way he figured out the—“

Tony then unleashes an overly verbose exposé of scientific jargon that may as well be ancient Greek. 

“Tony.”

Steve has to hold himself back from the urge to pull Tony into a hug. With no reasonable explanation for such uncharacteristic behavior, however, he contents himself with simply staring at him. Healthy and alive.

But Tony’s brain works fast, and has likely already formed many critical conclusions. "You're from... after?”

Steve bites his lip, hesitant to confirm or deny anything. "Tony, why are you here? Where...when did you come from?"

Tony shrugs. "Figured it out. Whole time travel spiel. Figured I’d give it a test run. Pepper thinks I’m getting a glass of milk for Morgan.”

Steve’s mind reels to catch up. "You’re…testing your theory?"

“Well yeah. It’s time travel. Groundbreaking. If it doesn’t work you can bet I’m not going to showcase a failure in front of all you losers.”

Steve swallows. “It works.”

“I can see that. Can I also assume that–”

"I can't tell you what happens, Tony."

Tony rolls his eyes in the way Steve knows is him trying to cover desperation. "I know. Just. Good or bad? At least give me that.” His eyes go wide. “Or is that why you’re here? To fix something that—"

"Tony..."

"Okay. Okay." Tony spins around and paces, his mind obviously reeling.

“It’s so good to see you, Tony,” Steve says, and he means it. He takes care not to show just how much he means it. But he has questions of his own. "Tony. Out of all of time and space, why would you come here to test it?"

Tony scratches the back of his neck, which in the suit looks really awkward. Is he…embarrassed? 

Steve doesn't know what to do with that.

Then Steve takes another look around them. At where they are, at what has happened here. What this place signifies.

Tony shrugs. "I wanted... to understand things better."

Understand…things. Regarding Siberia. In 1945. 

Tony looks everywhere but at Steve. "Natasha sent me his file, after everything went to shit. Didn't touch it for years until Pepper discovered it during the move to the ranch and… made me.” He shrugs. “It... put some things into perspective."

Steve finds himself overcome. "Tony."

"Let's not get emotional about this, okay?"

It is so too late for that.

Tony is here, alive, with no idea what he is about to face, what he is about to sacrifice for everyone, and before everything, he came here. Where the rift in their relationship was both literally and figuratively torn.

Tony came here for Steve. And Steve never knew.

Steve feels his face go soft and his eyes prickle, and the words that seemed impossible to utter before suddenly come so easily. "Tony, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

For everything.

Tony's eyes widen, then soften, and then he’s not looking at Steve again, but Steve can see the small drops of moisture in the corner of his eyes.

“Me too.”

An instant later, they both jerk back at the intrusion of a blinding light and the appearance of two armored figures out of a transparent, orange doorway. One of them points a device at Steve, then nods at the other.

“Captain Steven G. Rogers,” the other says, “I hereby arrest you for crimes against the Sacred Timeline.”

The what?

Time seems to bizarrely skip forward. Before he can even come into a full fighting stance, they seem to have teleported to each side of him and have him in some kind of collar and cuffs.

Tony, now Iron Man once more, shouts off a warning and fires an energy blast at his attackers.

Steve’s eyes go wide as one of the men points a device toward the blast and presses a button. The energy comes to a complete halt in mid-air.

What the actual–

“Steve!” Tony shouts, then disappears from view as Steve is pushed through a doorway which vanishes behind them.

He should probably be scared. Confused. Angry.

But Steve only has one thought. 

Bucky. 

Chapter Text

Present Day

What Kate had thought was going to be a restful last few weeks of summer at the Barton farm abruptly spirals into the most bizarre chain of events since she stumbled upon a black market auction in the basement of a New York City charity fundraiser.

“Clint left? Where did he go?!”

The most she gets out of Laura is that Clint was forced to leave the farm in a flurry of some emergency that Laura stubbornly refuses to divulge. Kate groans and begs and whines and then remembers her brain and tracks Clint’s phone.

He’s headed for New York.

Kate does not waste a moment booking a flight back to the city. She lands in JFK by early afternoon and wastes no time heading for Manhattan. 

Clearly, there is some Avengers-level threat going on, and there is no way in hell she is going to let Clint keep her out of…

Wait just a minute. The signal from Clint’s phone. It’s gone. How can it be gone??

Damn it, Clint! You can’t keep me out of your superhero club forever!

Kate descends to the subway platform with the full intention of hacking into Bishop Security’s most classified satellites if necessary, when a tremor shudders through the city and suddenly she is back in her childhood bedroom, the building shaking and plaster cracking and the lights flickering… 

“Daddy? Where’s Daddy?”

Her dad is gone. The aliens killed him. Then her mom fell in with the mob. Lied to her. Killed someone, then hired Yelena to kill Clint.

She’s alone. She’s all alone…

Kate clings to a platform pillar until an insistent rumbling in her pocket demands her attention. She fumbles frantically for it because it had better be Clint, but the name she sees on the caller ID causes her to briefly doubt her own eyes because calls like this invariably happen the other way around.

“Yelena?”

Yelena bursts into a borderline hysterical rant that Kate can only partially decipher.

“Yelena—what—slow down. I can’t under… Wait. Natasha is what?”

Natasha is…alive?

Kate’s mind spins out of control. Her brain nearly short-circuits with shock and confusion. Yelena is clearly upset, but this should be joyous news. 

And… Clint. He’ll be overjoyed—

“She kicked me out! She chose that American bastard over her own sister!”

…Oh, shit. 

Okay. Well. Understandable that Natasha would not exactly be jumping for joy to hear what happened last Christmas, but this is all just a misunderstanding, and if Kate could just talk to her and explain–

“I didn’t call you to get you to fix things! You would only make things worse!” Yelena screams, then hangs up on her.

Damn it.

Well, Kate is definitely not going to stay out of this. What kind of friend would she be if she did? Especially with how clearly upset Yelena was, so intensely vulnerable despite how competent and deadly Kate knows her to be.

She tries Clint’s phone again, but it goes straight to voicemail. Another attempt at tracking him also fails. But…

Bishop Security satellites pull up Yelena’s location in less than a minute. 

“Thanks, Mom,” Kate murmurs dryly. 

It’s in this way that Kate finds herself in front of what must be the Avengers’ new super-secret headquarters (which Clint insists she doesn’t have clearance to know the location of yet but whoops).

Kate rings the buzzer. Identifies herself with confidence to the voice on the intercom. 

Keep it cool, Kate. You’re Clint’s partner. You have every right to be here. Be cool. Be–omg omg is that the Hulk?!

“Yes?”

Holy freaking Hulk smash. It is.

“Hello? Who are you?”

A…surprisingly articulate Hulk, but still, the actual Hulk is…

Wait.

“What do you mean, who am I?”

“I mean, you said your name was Kate, but what do you want?”

Maybe he just doesn’t know what she looks like. Yeah, that must be it. Can’t be too careful. 

Kate straightens her shoulders and declares confidently, “I’m Kate Bishop.”

Articulate Hulk nods as if he expects her to continue. 

“Clint’s partner.”

More nodding. “You’re a fan of Clint’s, huh?”

A fan? Excuse me?

“I… I’m Kate Bishop. Hawkeye the second? Clint’s partner/best friend forever? Seriously? Nothing?”

The Hulk squints and makes a sucking sound with his teeth. “Sorry, kid… Look, you really shouldn’t be here, so…”

“No, wait! I’m Clint’s partner! For real! He’s just not answering his phone and—is he here? He can explain everything!”

“Nice try, kid. I don’t know how you found this place but you’d be wise to forget it was ever here. Maybe you can slip your address in the mail slot and we will send you some autographs or something, okay?”

“You’re not listening! I’m Clint’s partner!”

“Bye bye, now.”

“No no no—wait don’t—!”

The door closes decidedly in her face, and if it weren’t for the fact that she was literally just face to face with THE HULK, she would be stomping her foot with frustration.

Why does no one believe her? Has Clint still not told them about her?! Is he embarrassed? What the hell would he have to be embarrassed about?!

Kate glares at the security camera and lets out a sound of frustration that, to her dismay, sounds like what one would expect of a spoiled prom queen who got her second choice of corsage. 

She tries Clint’s phone (again) and gets sent to voicemail (again.)

Trying to keep me out of stuff again, huh, Clint? Well, how well did that work out for you last time?

Another attempt to track Clint’s phone proves useless. No doubt that fancy Avengers tech can keep any satellite blind.

She paces the perimeter, grumbling and describing in detail how she will annoy the shit out of Clint the next time she sees him.

“She threw me out! For that—that lying bastard!”

Poor Yelena. If Kate could just speak to Clint, or better yet, Natasha (who is alive?!) she is confident she could smooth things out. If they would just let her in.

She is jerked out of her reverie by another rumble in the ground beneath her, and her breath catches in instinctive fear. A sharp glance around shows trees and power lines swaying, but it does not subside. The trembling steadily grows into a vicious shake, growing stronger and stronger until she has trouble staying on her feet.

Kate’s eyes jerk to the sky, expecting aliens to start descending any moment, but the late afternoon sky remains clear and blue.

Finally, the quake subsides. Kate stands there, heart racing, feeling like she should be doing something, but she doesn’t know what. 

That didn’t feel natural—this could be something serious! If they would just let her in…

She looks back at the laboratory. Who knows what damage it did to any of that fancy Avengers equipment.

Kate glances down at her quiver, newly stocked with the best of Clint’s collection, and grins.

-

Present Day

Manhattan

Natasha sits cross-legged on her bed, head in her hands, Clint’s post-Time Heist report spread out on her lap. 

Mantis had made a valiant but ultimately futile effort to get her to sleep, and finally Natasha had just asked to be left alone. She had pretended to rest for all of twenty seconds after Mantis had left before grabbing Clint’s report and going over it for the fiftieth time. She has read and re-read the words so many times they have started to blur together. She groans from frustration and leans her head back, closing her eyes to rest them. 

Clint. Where are you? What is taking you so long?

Whenever she asks, she gets only the infuriating response of ‘soon.’ 

“The trip to Vormir should take no more than a day or so,” Bruce had assured her. “And I sent them a message that you’re alive and with us at the base. I’m sure they will be racing back as fast as they possibly can.” 

But there had been no messages from the Bowie. No indication that they had received Bruce’s message or that they cared one iota about its contents.

Don’t you care, Clint?

She shakes her head at herself. Of course Clint cares. He went back to that hellhole of a planet just to find her. There is absolutely no reason to be annoyed with Clint.

Besides, as anxious as she is to see him, it is not going to be an entirely pleasant experience when he returns, because for crying out loud, her own teammates think her best friend killed her.

Murdered her.

She grits her teeth against the throbbing in her head that returns with a vengeance whenever she thinks back to that fateful day on Vormir. Enduring the pain, she returns her attention to Clint’s report. Stares at the words, squeezing her eyes shut in equal concentration and pain, willing the corresponding images to appear in her mind. 

…onto the cliff with a grappling hook and clipped the carabiner to my harness… 

…held onto her as tightly as I could…

…tore her wrist from my grip…

“…so, so sorry, but this is the only way.”

The pain is sudden and sharp, like a hornet on a stinging rampage in her brain. She hisses and presses her fingers hard against her temples.

Why does she have the distinct impression, this horrible feeling in the back of her mind, that this is not how it happened?

Again she attempts to dissect the feelings that were dredged up during her session with Mantis. The thought of Vormir still brings no concrete memories, but the emotions Mantis was able to uncover—shock, horror, and…

Betrayal.

Where the hell did that come from? There is no feasible explanation for why the thought of Vormir—of Clint—would make her feel… She trusts Clint more than anyone in the universe. What could possibly inspire her to associate him with… betrayal?

Rhodey is sure to throw that in Clint’s face when they return. And how is she supposed to explain herself when he does? Clint is assuredly already torturing himself over this, and now he is going to come back to the accusation of his own best friend’s murder, with said friend’s repressed memories as evidence?

No. She won’t allow it. If she could just remember.

Maybe when she finally sees him, she’ll remember. His dorky smile and his corny jokes and all-too-rare laughter…

Once he gets back, everything will be okay.

There's a knock on the door and Clint’s name nearly bursts out of her. It’s still early, and she didn’t hear a ship return, but maybe…

Sam’s head pokes inside. “Nat? Someone here to see you.”

She sits up. “Clint?”

“Not quite.” Sam moves out of the way to reveal a broadly grinning, old Steve Rogers.

She’d been told he looks different, that he’s decades older than she remembers, and yet seeing him is… a shock.

He stands in the doorframe, grinning at her as if waiting for something. Anticipating something. Nervous about her reaction to his appearance, perhaps?

“Long time no see, old man,” she says with a wry smile.

For a brief moment it seems like it was the wrong thing to say. Steve’s expectant face falls in something like disappointment, but a second later he’s smiling again, his wrinkled face crinkling further as he approaches the bed, sitting carefully on the edge.

“It’s… it's so good to see you, Natasha,” he says through a thick, tremulous voice, taking her hand in his shaky, wrinkled one.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” Sam says with a soft smile, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a long moment, they say nothing. Steve squeezes her hand and takes her in, and she tries to acclimate herself to this much older version of her friend.

He’s still Steve. The same mannerisms, the same soft smile, the same squeeze of her hand, like all those lonely nights before Lang showed up at the front gate.

“How are you feeling?” Steve says finally. “Bruce said you were in pretty bad shape.”

Natasha nods her head toward her rather extensive medical file beside the bed. “Just my organs, head, a long list of broken bones, and a phantom pain in my leg. But somehow I’m still breathing.” 

“Bruce says he doesn’t know how you’re even still doing that. Is it true you don’t remember anything about when you woke up? Or how you’re alive?”

Natasha prepares to recount the same story once more. “I woke up on the landing pad of the old tower. I remember it confused me for a minute, and I wondered if I had gone back in time or something to when it was still ours, but then the current staff came out and all hell broke loose. I must have passed out after that.” She frowns, rubbing her temple to stave off a headache. “There are…fuzzy images of Vormir too, but, maybe I lost consciousness...”

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t strain yourself.”

“But I want to remember. I need to. I can’t remember anything about retrieving the Soul Stone with Clint either. And Steve,” she clasps at his hand and gives him a look of desperation. “They think he killed me.”

Steve sighs and covers her hand with his. “I know. I was…put through the proverbial wringer when I got here.”

That’s right, Natasha realizes with sudden, fierce hope. Steve returned the stones. He was there. “Steve! You were there! Did you–”

“I’m sorry, Nat. I can’t seem to remember either. At least, not the moment when… you know.”

The admission makes her unreasonably angry. “Why not?! Do you not realize how important this is?!”

“I know, Nat. But… I must have blocked it out. Maybe I even looked away. Because, damn it, Nat, that was devastating for me.”

“Yes but–”

“Nat.” He takes both her hands in his and holds her eyes. “You were all I had for those five years.”

Natasha’s eyes close in borderline despair. Why can’t anything just go right about this? “Fine. Just. Please tell me you don’t believe them.”

“Clint would never hurt you,” Steve says without hesitation, then frowns, voice growing softer. “At least, not the Clint I know.”

What the hell does that mean. 

But it’s the most confidence anyone has shown in Clint’s character all day. “You’re damn right he wouldn’t. We shouldn’t even be having this discussion, but my brain is all messed up, and now Rhodey has convinced himself that Clint is guilty.”

Steve is frowning again. “He says Mantis sensed feelings of betrayal in you. Toward Clint.”

Natasha glares at the wall as if it is to blame for this.

“Nat? Why do you think you felt that way?” Steve says, leaning forward and expression turning piercing.

“I don’t know. That doesn’t make any sense to me either. Clint would never do something like that.”

“Not even to get his family back?” Steve asks her seriously.

Natasha glares at him. “I thought you agreed with me about this.”

“I do. But, there is so much we don’t know about the universe. Other universes…”

"...other universes?" 

‘Steve gets confused sometimes,’ Sam had mentioned earlier, and Steve doesn't seem confused, but...

"Yeah, just. What if–"

“No version of Clint Barton, in any universe, would ever murder someone he loved. Under any circumstances. Period. End of story.”

“Okay. Okay,” Steve says, straightening up.

Natasha leans back into her pillow, releasing a wistful sigh. “I think I understand what everyone who was Snapped away must have gone through. One instant the world is normal, the next it’s turned itself upside down. Tony’s gone. Rhodey and Sam seem on the verge of another civil war. Bruce is in dire need of some super-strength Xanax. And you…” She makes a circular gesture with her good wrist in Steve’s direction. “That I really don’t understand. What happened, Steve?”

Steve sighs. Stands and reaches over to Natasha’s bedside table to pour a glass of water. “It’s a long story,” he says softly.

“Sam told me you went back less than two weeks after the Heist, Steve. What changed? Hardly a day went by after the Snap when you didn’t mention–”

“I had my reasons.” He hands her the water. Pours another for himself. Avoids her eyes.

“Well, explain them to me, because I can’t believe you would just–”

“There’s a lot you don’t understand, Natasha,” Steve says, voice suddenly hard. “A lot you just can’t understand right now.”

Like what? What could have changed so drastically within just a few days?

Before she can dig further, the water in her glass begins to ripple. Slosh. Bruce’s medical tools rattle on the tray. The bed beneath her begins to rock.

What in the…

“No…” Steve whispers, then exclaims, “Hang on!” as the entire room begins to shake violently.

There is a shout from down the hall, then the alarmed voices of Sam and Rhodey for everyone to take cover. A high-pitched squeal from Mantis. An ominous creak of metal and concrete. Shelves sway back and forth and crash to the floor. Desk drawers rattle open and scatter their contents. The electricity flickers.

Steve plants himself close beside her and wraps her in his arms, and if she weren’t so startled by this critical situation, she would laugh at how cute an aged Steve is to try to protect her.

After what feels like minutes but is probably only a matter of seconds, the shaking subsides.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks.

“Didn’t help my headache any.”

Natasha isn't sure she has ever felt an earthquake like that. Not much unnerves her, but her entire body has begun to tremble.

Sam bursts into the room. “You guys okay?”

“I want that quake analyzed,” Steve demands, all business as he extracts himself from Natasha and stands. The army captain inside fighting to get out of the aged body. “And the epicenter located immediately.”

“We’re looking into it,” Sam replies. “Bruce has already used about twelve science words I don’t understand.”

“I can help.” Steve turns and gives Natasha an uncertain look. “Are you sure that you’re–”

“I’m fine, old man. Go help Bruce.”

Steve nods, his slower, unsteady stride around fallen items a bizarre contrast to his commanding manner.

“Something else, isn’t he? All it takes is a small crisis and he falls right back into form.” Sam kicks a path of toppled equipment and scattered tools with his boot. “I don’t like that quake, though. I have a bad feeling about it.”

Natasha feels the same. There was something eerily familiar in the forceful shaking that she almost fears to examine. 

Sam double-checks her vitals and replaces the glass of water that is now a shattered mess on the floor before righting a toppled stool and settling himself on it. He crosses his arms. Clears his throat. 

Great. Now what. 

"So, I have a question about Clint, if that's okay."

This had better be a question to which she can answer with a glowing report of Clint's character. 

"What."

“Did Clint ever mention anything about taking a kid on as a protege?”

Irritation pokes at every nerve in Natasha's body. What, do they want to accuse him of child endangerment or something next?

She squints at Sam. “Does that sound like Clint to you?” she asks flatly.

Sam laughs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. But there’s this kid outside insisting she works with Clint. Won’t give up.”

“Well, tell her we’re at full stock with Girl Scout cookies and shut the door,” she snaps.

Sam’s eyebrows jump skyward, and yeah, maybe the vitriol in her tone is unwarranted in response to what is likely just an ardently devoted Hawkeye fangirl, but she is reaching the limits of her patience.

“Sorry. I guess I’m just tired.”

And in pain. Confused. Exasperated with her friends and still reeling with the sting of her sister’s betrayal, Rhodey’s voracious animosity, and Steve’s highly uncharacteristic and as of yet unexplained behavior. 

She can hardly recognize Steve right now. And it has nothing to do with his physical appearance.

“What the hell happened to Steve, Sam? Why did he...?”

Sam sighs and shrugs, like the question doesn’t surprise him. “I’ve asked, but he just says that he had reasons. But, well, his girl was in the past, wasn’t she? He saw the happiness Tony found, and the sacrifice he made for it. He had to go back to the past anyway, so he saw his chance at happiness and took it. Can’t blame a guy for that.”

“No, but…”

Yes, Steve loved Peggy and loved her deeply. Natasha is well aware that he never got over her, not really. And if certain things were different about the situation, Natasha would have no trouble understanding Steve’s decision.

But…

“But what?”

But it wasn’t Peggy Carter who Steve spent the majority of the Blip crying about.

-

This is bad. This is really bad, Steve thinks as he pushes his way through the wreckage of the lab. Equipment on its side. Tools scattered everywhere. File cabinets are at every angle other than vertical.

Clint needs to get back. And soon.

“Is everyone all right?” Steve asks, taking extreme care not to trip as he moves closer.

Rhodey emerges from behind a toppled filing cabinet, dusting himself off. “We’re fine, I think. Thankfully Bruce was closest to the big file cabinet, and nothing was getting past him.” Rhodey takes a critical look at Steve. “You okay? How’s Nat?”

“We’re both fine. Where is Bruce? I want every detail you can give me about that quake.”

Immediately.

“Looking into it now,” Bruce says from the main monitor. “Whatever that was, it wasn’t caused by our nearest fault line.”

That’s what he is afraid of.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Rhodey says. “First, Barton has another psychotic episode. Then Natasha suddenly appears, alive, with no explanation. Now this?”

Steve has to bite his lip. They have no idea just how dire the situation actually is.

A new voice sounds from behind him. “Is everyone all right? That was really—STEEEEVE!” Mantis exclaims, rushing up with a giant grin that quickly morphs into an ‘O’ shape. “Oh, what happened to you? You have become very old!”

As Steve begins to respond, the monitor announces an approaching vessel.

“They’re back,” Bruce announces with a relieved sigh. “The Bowie is back.”

This statement fills Steve with more dread than relief. As much as he wants to see Clint again—and how much Clint needs to be here—Steve cannot help the flood of sorrow and resentment at the circumstances. 

It’s just not fair.

“Hurray! I am so excited! I cannot wait to experience the joyous emotions that will come from two such dear friends being reunited!”

Mantis’s words cause Steve’s heart to ache.

Rhodey jogs over to the monitor. “About time. Now maybe Clint can finally give us some answers.”

“Stay close,” Steve murmurs to Mantis. “We might need you to help diffuse some…tension in a minute.”

The Bowie docks without incident, and they wait with bated breath for the ramp to lower. Steve fully expects Clint to squeeze his way out the moment there is space to do so, but even as the ramp lowers completely, the only figure visible is the small outline of Rocket. His expression is grim.

“Welcome…back…?” Mantis’s greeting is exuberant at first, but her expression quickly comes to mirror Rocket's.

“Is it true?” comes Thor’s deep rumble from within the ship, the man himself appearing a second later. “Has Natasha truly been found alive?”

“It’s true, man,” Bruce says. “Clint! She’s here!”

But Thor’s expression holds no joy, and Bruce frowns in response.

“Clint! Get your ass out here and explain yourself!”

“Rhodey,” Steve says in as firm a voice as his old throat can muster. Something’s wrong, very wrong, and Steve can feel his skin prickling with goosebumps from a premonition of dread. 

Thor descends the ramp and places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, his demeanor uncharacteristically solemn. 

“What happened?” Steve asks, voice trembling.

“Steven. My dear friend. I am also overjoyed to lay eyes upon you, but unfortunately, I must report it to be under the most tragic of circumstances.”

“What do you mean?” Rhodey says with a frown.

“What happened? Where’s Barton?” Sam adds. 

Thor drops his head, his long hair swishing softly as he shakes his head. “I have the most regrettable news, my friends. I deeply regret to inform all of you that our dear comrade Barton…”

No. Oh, no.

“… has perished.”

Chapter Text

Time Variance Authority

Ever since crashing the Valkyrie to certain death and waking up seven decades later, Steve has often told himself that he’s seen everything. And truthfully, he has seen a lot. The Depression. His mother’s slow death. World War II. Aliens invading New York. Arnim Zola as a living computer.

But this. 

This is the feeling he had soon after waking from the ice and finding himself in modern Times Square. When he passed Fury a ten-dollar bill after seeing the helicarrier take flight for the first time. After he saw just whose face was under the black mask in DC.

He has no idea where he is, but he is most definitely no longer in the Siberian Hydra base. He is whisked through various checkpoints, all his demands for an explanation entirely ignored, and he is more or less compliant with his processing out of sheer dumbstruck disbelief.

Steve blinks in bewilderment as office workers chat around him, saying things like “Whoa, Captain America! We don’t get a lot of those!” and “Have we ever brought in a Captain America variant?” and “No, don’t! That uniform is a classic! Leave him in it!”

But the time collar makes him mad. The slightest moves have him reliving the previous ten seconds all over again, and the futility of resistance drags him back to his days as a tiny, helpless fireball of a man with the will of an army forced into submission by the common cold. The anger helps to awaken him out of his dumbstruck stupor, because as unbelievable as this all is…

Bucky.

He’s still back there, hiding in the corridor, expecting Steve back any second.

And then there is this revelation with Tony, who apparently went to Siberia before the Time Heist. Before he showed up at the Compound with pleas for peace and the shield in his trunk.

An excessive shove jerks him out of his thoughts. They’ve led him into what appears to be a courtroom. An elderly man, the judge, presumably, sits behind the podium spouting off unintelligible nonsense and meaningless series of numbers, looking thoroughly in need of a vacation.

“How do you plead?” he directs at Steve, staring at him with raised eyebrows.

How does he…what?

This is ridiculous.

“I…with all due respect, Your Honor, I’ve done nothing wrong. What is this place and who granted it its authority?”

This response agitates the judge. “Were you even listening? You have committed a crime against the Sacred Timeline. How do you plead?”

Steve holds down bubbling anger like a saint. “What was my crime? Saving my friend from seventy years of torture? Because no one can tell me that was the wrong thing to do.”

“If you had bothered to listen, you would know that that was not in fact your nexus event. Now. How. Do. You. Plead. Captain Rogers.”

Nexus event. What the clock said in that ridiculous propaganda video. 

“Then what was my nexus event? What did I do that was so terrible that I had to be removed from the timeline?”

The judge’s frustration is glaringly apparent. “As I mentioned earlier, ‘premature and unsanctioned reconciliation due to unauthorized personal revelations’.”

Premature…what?

“You mean…apologizing to Tony?”

“How. Do. You. Plead. Captain.”

A nerve in Steve’s temple twitches, and without conscious effort he can feel an emphatic and indignant lecture about injustice and freedom bubble up from deep within himself, but before he can unleash his scathing remarks upon the unsuspecting court, the unmistakable sound of an emergency alert sounds throughout the courtroom, and every monitor in the complex lights up in blinking red.

“All analysts, hunters, minutemen, and judges, report to your section head immediately. Nexus level threat. Repeat. Nexus level threat.”

The guard beside him goes tense, his gaze swerving off to his right side, listening intently to the loudspeaker announcement.

Not the time for speeches, Rogers. This is the time for action.

Steve’s superior reflexes divest the distracted guard of the time collar control. A second later he’s free, replacing the collar around the guard’s neck and sending him to five minutes in the past.

He stares down the other occupants of the courtroom, daring any of them to approach him. Free of the collar, no one can match him. They seem to be keenly aware of this, and as the speaker continues to declare an emergency gathering, the remaining guards make a hasty retreat for the door. A glance at the podium shows that the judge has done the same.

Steve shakes his head, wishing he had his shield.

As he makes his way through seemingly endless corridors, he catches a glimpse of the world outside. Vast beyond anything he’s ever seen, level after level of offices and hover ports and stone statues that seem to extend into infinity.

What the hell is this place?

Once he reaches a long, windowless corridor, he encounters several large hunters with dubious intelligence who apparently do not recognize the futility of engaging him in combat. There are at least seven of them, armed with weapons that sting like the tasers Rumlow once jabbed him with.

But Steve is a dangerous combination of indignant, determined, furious, and worried, and he doubts even an elephant gun could bring him down right now.

Within minutes, no guard is left conscious.

“Oh, you have got to be shitting me.”

Steve spins around at the voice. As if he hasn’t already been sufficiently bombarded with shocking revelations ever since he set out to return the stones, he finds himself face to face with none other than…

“Clint?!”

-

This development is less than ideal, Loki decides, as Captain Rogers fells the last of his adversaries, twisting into some kind of combination of a throw and an aerial, and the hunters and minutemen go flying like the twirl of a skirt.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Barton grits out from beside him. 

And Barton seems to be in agreement. Interesting.

Rogers, chest heaving and emotional state clearly highly agitated, turns in their direction. His expression immediately morphs into one of disbelief.

“Clint?!”

He kicks aside the unconscious form of an unfortunate minuteman and moves toward them, freezing when his eyes fall on Loki. He points at him but looks at Barton. “That’s–”

“I know. He’s…with me,” Barton grinds out.

Rogers's eyes go wide.

"Sounds insane, because it is.”

Rogers’s frown stays in place but he relaxes his stance. He opens his mouth to speak, but Loki has no time for inspirational declarations or a riveting speech about truth. 

“Get in here,” he orders, urging the two men inside and closing the heavy door of the time theater behind Rogers after a quick glance up and down the corridor. He turns and immediately demands, “What year are you from?”

Rogers’s mouth snaps shut. He glares. Looks to Barton.

“It’s fine. Just answer him.”

There’s a pause before Rogers finally says, “2023.”

Post Time Heist, then. But from what timeline?

“Who perished in your reality during the retrieval of the Soul Stone?”

Rogers’s frown deepens and again he looks at Barton.

Do none of these insipid Midgardians have any concept of urgency?

“Well? Was it Barton or Romanoff?”

Rogers’s glare deepens, but then his head bows. Finally, softly. “Natasha.”

The answer seems to light Barton aflame. He begins to pace furiously, hands fisted at his side. “You’re returning the stones,” he growls. “You’re from 2023 but you’re jumping into the past to return the stones to their timelines. That’s where they got you.”

“I…yes, but. Clint, what’s going on? I have to get back, and as soon as possible, but… What is this place? And what are you doing here?”

Barton’s chest heaves with whatever emotion he is experiencing at the moment. He turns, then strides purposefully toward Rogers.

“I’m looking for Natasha,” he hisses at Rogers, who blinks in confusion.

“Natasha… but she's… What year are you from?”

Barton nearly growls his answer. “2025.”

Rogers opens and closes his mouth three times before he speaks. “But, if that’s true, then you know that Natasha is–”

“Don’t tell me that she’s dead. She’s alive. Out there, somewhere. And I’m going to find her.”

Rogers’s features soften. “But, Clint…”

“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy! I’ve had more than my share of that!”

This exchange is fascinating. Evidently Barton has clearly faced ridicule for his conviction. By his supposed allies, no doubt.

Fool. No one is ever, truly, an ally. 

What was it that Mobius said? Why is it always the ones you can't trust who say 'trust me'?"

“Clint, I know how hard it was for you to lose Natasha. I know how much she meant to you. To me, too, but you can’t deny–”

“Don’t! Don’t talk to me about what I can and cannot do. Especially when it comes to Natasha! You may think you know better—know her better, because you’re Captain America. You’re better at everything, aren’t you? Better leader, better friend.”

“Clint, I don't–”

“All those years together. Such good pals. You would never just up and abandon her, right?”

“Clint.”

“Because what kind of person would abandon their best friend, right? Not Captain America.” Barton’s expression grows impossibly harder as he steps close enough to have to look upward to meet Rogers’s eyes. “Or would he?” 

Rogers blinks rapidly, mouth gaping open. “Clint, I don't understand what you are talking about.”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about. I’m from 2025, Rogers. I know you have no intention of going back to 2023 after returning the stones.”

“I–What?”

“And I also know that you would have gone back if I had been the one to die on Vormir instead of Nat. Because, apparently, Barnes you can leave behind, but not Natasha.”

Loki leans back against the corridor wall. 

How thoroughly diverting this exchange is. It provides much insight into Barton’s reactions thus far, and clearly, he holds some sort of resentment toward Rogers for whatever reason. If Loki could discover exactly what that is, then perhaps he could use that to…

No. Stop.

That isn't who he is anymore.

Or is it?

What point is there in sparing others' feelings? What benefit lies in refraining from manipulating others? He tried being the 'good guy.’ He tried opening himself to someone else for the first time in his life, and look where that got him. He was a fool.

They are all fools.

Rogers’s face has turned to granite. “Clint.”

“Admit it. Everyone’s lives would have been better if I had died that day. You, Barnes, Natasha, everyone! It was supposed to be me. But, turns out that Captain America is no better than the rest of us screw-ups, is he? Even he abandons those he loves.”

“I haven’t abandoned anyone!”

“Don’t bullshit me, Rogers! I’m from your future! This isn’t up for debate!”

Loki starts as Barton snatches Romanoff's file out of his hand, flipping through the pages and slapping it in front of Rogers. He points an aggressive finger at the projected image of Rogers and Natasha against the wall. 

“Right there. There's you, reappearing five seconds after you left to return the stones in 2023, in a reality where Natasha lived and I did not. But that's not what happened in the reality I know, Cap. Oh, you came back, but as an old man who had lived all but his final years in an alternate timeline, because you just couldn't handle returning to a world without Natasha, is that right? Because that's the only difference here. She was the reason. If I had died instead, you would have come back."

“No! I’m going back! I mean, I have things in the past that I need to put right, but after that–”

“I was there, Rogers. I’ve seen you decades older than you are now. You lived your life out in the past. End of story.” He pauses, then spits out, "Bet that version of Barnes was happy. Too bad he’s not the one you came back for.”

Something flickers in Rogers’s eyes and he charges at Barton, clasping him firmly by his collar. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he growls.

To his credit, or perhaps stupidity, Barton appears completely unafraid. "You accusing me of lying, Cap? Think I'm that petty? I was there. You left him."

Rogers’s face and neck turn red, veins in his neck sticking out from strain. "No. It must have been some other version of me. I would never do that. I promised him I'd come back."

"Natasha died in your reality, correct? That means your reality and mine are the same, Cap. And I know what happens in your future. You lived out all but your final years in a different timeline."

Rogers appears deeply distressed by this news. His massive chest heaves in quick succession and his eyes dart every which way in panicked thought. He releases Barton and begins to pace.

“But. I didn’t. Why would I…”

“You know why. Why don’t you admit how you really feel about what happened on Vormir, huh? How it should have been me. How you just can’t bear to return to a world where she’s gone.”

Rogers’s face turns to steel. “I don’t care what happened in your reality, or what you think my motivations are. That's not what I am going to do. I promised Bucky that I am coming back and I intend to keep that promise."

Loki rolls his eyes. When will these imbeciles realize that’s not how time works? 

“You do realize," he interjects, "that you would simply be creating yet another alternate timeline, don’t you? Barton’s reality will not change in accordance with whatever actions you choose to make going forward.”

Rogers looks horrified. “But..."

"He’s right. It's like what Bruce said. Your past can't be changed by your new future. What I remember, what the Barnes I know remembers, what your future older self remembers, will not be changed by what you decide right now."

“But, no! I wouldn’t leave him!”

“You already did.”

Rogers presses his mouth tightly shut, and his eyes go moist. He turns away, and a hand moves up to his face. "Then…what do I do? I promised…oh God, Clint. I promised.”

The ridiculous display inspires nausea. "There is nothing you can do to prevent that timeline from occurring,” Loki says. “For whatever reason, it happened. What you decide going forward will determine if you will end up on that timeline, or in an alternate one that you decide to create. If you choose to return to 2023 as planned, you will never see the version of your friend that Barton knows again."

Rogers becomes even more distraught by this, and Loki barely restrains himself from a heavy eye roll. To be moved to tears by some deluded sense of loyalty—what a fool. Just like his airhead of a brother. Just like himself when Sylvie…

“But I’m not you.”

Unexpected pain in his chest shudders through him. 

With Barton and Rogers’s attention fully and pointlessly engrossed in arguing with one another about things that cannot be changed, Loki slips Romanoff’s file from under them and turns his attention to more productive solutions to their collective plight.

“Clint, please. When you get back, you have to tell him I’m sorry. That I can explain!”

“You’re already back. Tell him yourself.”

“Did I?!”

“How should I know?!”

Loki flips through the pages, scanning through the various events in Romanoff’s life and marveling at just how often Barton’s name makes an appearance. Clearly, Barton is crucial to Kang’s plan in some way, but Loki cannot possibly fathom as to why. The man seems to undergo setback after setback. Failure after failure. Even as an Avenger, he is forgettable. What could possibly be so—

Hold on a moment.

Loki blinks at the words on the page. Flips back to the previous page. Back again.

He is, in fact, reading Romanoff’s file from the reality where she survived, is he not? But if that is the case… what he is reading makes no sense. The page itself is entirely out of place, the content conflicting with the information printed before and after it.

Loki reads it three times over.

"What if I do something to screw it up? What if I am not the same Steve that ends up in your timeline?"

"Well. Tell me something now, a codeword or something. When I get back, I'll say it to you, and then I guess we will see."

Loki carefully pulls the page from the file, making sure no traces of its existence are left behind and folds it away into his jacket pocket. Under no circumstances can Barton be allowed to see its contents.

"Right. Okay… Baked apple pudding."

"That's your codeword? What the hell does that mean?"

"Just tell it to me when you get back, and I'll tell you."

The end of the page cuts off at a critical point, but Loki can discern the gist of its content.

On a timeline that can be none other than Barton's timeline, this Barton's timeline, Natasha Romanoff was informed that Clint Barton perished on Vormir while searching for her in the year 2025—the exact moment from which Loki rescued him from what would have been certain death—which means…

Barton was right.

Natasha Romanoff is alive.

Loki spins at the sound of a time door opening behind them, and Barton and Rogers fall into automatic defensive stances. But it isn't hunters that emerge from the doorway, but two women. The first Loki does not recognize, with red hair and a long, dark dress. The second, he recognizes very well. Too well. The female version of himself.

“Sylvie.”

-

Present day

Manhattan

The entire lab, maybe the entire world, goes dead silent after Thor's announcement. It stays that way for almost a solid minute and a half.

“Wait,” Sam says, eyes closed and head shaking back and forth. “Are you telling us that Clint is…”

He can’t seem to bring himself to say it.

Steve can’t bring himself to think it.

How can Clint be…

"Clint is...dead?" Bruce finally manages to voice out loud.

Rocket hops on a table to make himself eye level with everyone else and fiddles with a device that displays a holographic visualization of Vormir. “The planet was experiencing extreme geological disturbances. Earthquakes, and big ones, originating from the planet’s core, which gradually grew worse in intensity until it eventually destabilized the foundation of the planet itself.” He stops. Looks up at Thor.

“Barton was on the ledge when the planet quite literally crumbled beneath our feet. I rushed to his aid but was knocked off course by debris. On my honor, I searched and searched for him long after the planet was nothing but floating rubble in the void of space, but alas, I could find no trace of him.”

Thor’s hair falls into his face as he bows his head for their fallen friend. 

Sam plants one hand on his hip and the other across his forehead. Keeps his head down and begins to pace. 

Mantis covers her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide. 

Rhodey hasn’t changed position, still with arms crossed right over his chest, but his eyes fall to the floor and do not move. 

As for himself… Steve can’t understand this. 

Clint can’t be dead. His encounter with Clint and Loki in the TVA had definitely not happened yet for Clint when they last spoke at Clint’s farm. 

Could it have happened while en route to Vormir? No, surely they would have noticed if Clint had disappeared. But that means… 

Horror shoots through him. If Clint had gone to search for Natasha, but never even made it to the TVA…

What if this is the wrong timeline after all?

“Are you sure?” he asks in all that remains of his captain’s voice.

“It is with deep sorrow that I must confirm it to be so.”

A nearly overwhelming surge of grief bubbles up inside him. Clint is…gone. Not only that, but if Clint died before they met in the TVA, then that means that there is a Bucky out there who will never see Steve come back. That it was a different Clint that…

Unless… 

What if…

Oh, Natasha. I’m so sorry.

“So Vormir is…gone?” Sam asks, incredulous.

“Yep. That planet is no more. Kapoof. History. Dust.”

“We get it, Rocket.”

“Right. So, yeah. Sorry about your friend.”

The lab goes silent until Bruce lets out another incredulous, “Clint’s…dead?”

Sam approaches Rocket and says in a lowered voice, "We had an earthquake here too, before y'all got back. You don’t think…"

Steve’s own thoughts drown out the rest. Earthquakes on Vormir, and then on Earth. Of course. It all makes so much sense now.

So much terrible, terrible sense.

"Where are Drax and Peter?" Mantis whispers to Rocket.

"Yeah, about that..." Rocket responds, glancing back up at the top of the ramp.

"Is it appropriate to come down yet?" Drax yells.

"Yeah! Just, be respectful and all that jazz!"

Drax appears at the top of the ramp and descends, dragging a cloaked form down behind him. “We found this horrifying red man trying to stow away in our ship when we made our escape from the planet.”

Steve’s blood turns to ice in his veins. The figure before him is a ghost.

“Schmidt?!”

Rhodey frowns at him and jerks a thumb at the cloaked figure. “You know this turkey?”

Steve’s body forgets its age as he advances on the cloaked form in Drax’s grip. Glares at him with the wrath of all that is righteous in the universe. “Johann Schmidt. Leader of Hydra.”

Who also happens to be the other man responsible for Bucky’s horrible fate.

“Where are my pills?” Bruce moans.

“Is this the guy from Barton’s report?”

Steve’s eyes go wide and he stares at Rhodey, who shrugs.

“He’s red, in a cloak, and they found him on Vormir, right?”

Steve blinks back at Schmidt. “Is that true? Were you the guide to the Soul Stone?”

“I am, Captain. What you know of me is that as I was in a previous existence. For millennia I have served as the guide to what I can never possess. I have existed outside of time and reality as we know it, with the sole purpose of knowing, and making known, the power of Soul.”

Steve’s mind spins. Details from Clint’s post-mission report suddenly make much more sense. The guide had said he had sought the stones, held one in his hand, and it transported him…

The Valkyrie. Moments before Steve realized it was the end of the line for him. When he was devastated to say goodbye to Peggy at the same time his soul ached at the promise of relief from existing in a world without Bucky Barnes at his side.

Schmidt had grabbed the Space Stone.

And it brought him to Vormir.

Rhodey is abruptly struck with inspiration. “You were there! When Barton and Nat retrieved the stone!”

“I was.”

“Tell us what happened. How did Natasha go over that ledge?”

“You’re still on that, man?” Sam yells. “What does it even matter anymore? You heard Thor. Barton’s gone!”

“It does matter!” Rhodey insists.

“Why? So you can be right? So if you are right, you can make this even worse than it already will be for Nat?”

“Oh God,” Bruce laments into large green palms. “Nat. What are we going to tell her?! What are we gonna tell Clint’s family?”

“It’s not your fault, Bruce," Steve says softly.

“It is my fault! I called you all here to give him a chance to go to that awful place even though I knew it was a bad idea. I should have gone with my gut and sent him home. He was just so sure, and if I'm honest, I so wanted him to be right…”

“And he was right,” Sam says, rounding on Schmidt. “Barton was absolutely convinced that Natasha was alive, then she reappeared here just after he left to search for her. How did he know? How is she alive again? I thought it was supposed to be a permanent deal?”

Steve bites his lip, eyes glued to Schmidt. 

”I shall give you all the answers you seek, in exchange for something I desire.”

“I’m sorry, are you under the impression that this is a negotiation?” Rhodey says, looking decidedly unimpressed.

“You will adhere to my terms if you wish to get your answers. You will find them nowhere else.”

Wanna bet, Steve longs to spit out, but holds his tongue. Because as much as Steve does know, there is still so much he does not.

“What is it that you want?” Steve says through gritted teeth.

“Very simply, Captain, for my own soul to be set free. I have spent the equivalent of millennia in the service of Soul. In exchange, it gave me immortality and comprehensive knowledge of the power of the stone, as well as all who come into contact with it. But the stone is gone, and with it my duty.”

“You can’t seriously expect us to let you of all people loose in this world.”

“I am a very different being from what you remember, Captain. But freeing my soul would also unchain me from this world. I shall agree to remain in your custody and answer all your questions, as long as I have your word that once you do, my soul will be freed. Once done, you shall never see me again.”

Steve looks at Rhodey, who shrugs.

“And how exactly do we set your soul free?”

“You shall know when the time comes. Until then, I am content to wait.”

Steve has a brief internal war with himself, but ultimately decides that decades-old hatred must be, at least temporarily, shut away if they have any hope of getting answers. 

“Very well. You have my word that I will consider it. Now, tell us what we need to know. Starting with how Barton knew Romanoff was alive.”

“Soul is the only stone that possesses what we would almost describe as a will. Unlike humans, it possesses no bias. No preconceptions. No influence of emotion. It is fact. It is not intelligent, but it does possess a wisdom regarding the ability it contains. It demands as much as it gives. I once sought it, in a previous existence. It demanded of me what I could not give.”

“I’m not hearing an answer to the question here,” Rhodey says irritably.

Schmidt’s expression is flat. “The acceptance of Soul’s terms creates an indelible connection between the two involved parties. The exchange is fundamentally born of a selfish desire, and therefore, transforms what was once a powerful, positive connection, also known as ‘love,’ into a negative one. Love becomes hatred. Trust becomes betrayal.”

Rhodey makes a sharp clap. “What did I tell you!”

“Dude,” Sam responds with an extremely unimpressed expression.

“But Barton’s sacrifice was not selfish!” Steve protests. “He loved Natasha! She sacrificed herself against his wishes!”

Schmidt holds his blank look. “Every seeker of the stone loves their sacrifice, Captain. But Soul has never known a truly selfless sacrifice.”

Rhodey says nothing, but he makes an exaggerated shrug and his eyebrows go up to his hairline.

Sam steps forward as if to block Rhodey from his eyeline. “So you’re saying that Barton and Natasha have some kind of connection? That’s how Clint sensed her alive again?”

“A very probable explanation.”

“But how is she alive again in the first place?”

Schmidt is quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowing in his prominent eye sockets. “This is not knowledge that Soul has permitted me access to.”

A loud bang turns everyone's attention back to the ship. Quill staggers out on shaky legs at the top of the ramp, blinking rapidly as he scans each of them, then makes a jagged beeline for Schmidt, his expression hyper-focused. He nearly falls twice during this endeavor.

“Oh no, Peter,” Mantis murmurs behind him.

“So 'tis in fact posshible fer someone ta come back from dying fer that rock? Is it? Yer gunna tell me how!” Quill says less than an inch from Schmidt’s face.

“Peter.”

“Quill.”

“Lemme go! Geez! You heard ’em! Romanoff…’z alive! If she’s alive then so can…Gamora be! Stop it!”

Nebula inserts herself in front of Quill. Directs her angry expression into Schmidt’s expressionless ones. “If one soul can be brought back, then so can others. Tell us how.”

“An exchange for Soul is everlasting,” Schmidt says.

“THEN WHY IS NATASHA ALIVE?!” The entire room participates in this question, causing a brief flash of shock on Schmidt’s face, the first hint of any emotion he has shown.

“I do not know,” he says after a considerable pause.

-

This turns out to be the extent of Schmidt’s knowledge, and no matter how full to bursting Steve is with his own questions, he keeps them locked inside. Which, if Clint truly is dead, is probably pointless. But not only can he not take that chance, would what he has to say bring any true closure to anyone?

"How about the truth? What a revolutionary idea! That's all I want, Sam, the truth!"

Steve jumps at Rhodey’s hostile tone. He blinks at the room, suddenly unsure how much time has passed since they locked Schmidt up. He doesn’t know how he came to be sitting on this chair. Nor how the blanket got around his shoulders.

Mantis sits beside him with a very despondent and drunk Quill.

“You can’t think things like that, Peter,” she says.

“Why not? S’true! My mom, then Yondu, and then…Gamora…now Barton. Everyone around me dies!”

Bruce has collapsed into one of the few chairs that can hold him and has his head in his giant hands. Thor is pacing with an expression on his face that Steve hasn’t seen since Thanos. Bucky is still nowhere to be found.

And Sam looks about a hair’s breadth from bursting a blood vessel.

"You want to be right. You want Barton to be proven to be a heartless bastard. Because, what—some axe you've still got to grind because of something that happened during the Blip?"

"Because he is a heartless bastard, Sam! I was there. You didn't see what–"

"You know what, I AM TIRED OF YOUR SHIT," Thor's voice booms throughout the building, and the entire lab goes silent. "You joke, and you poke and prod, and pretend that you are above all of the rubbish that plagues the rest of us—we are supposed to be your allies, your brothers—and you tear us down as if we are enemies to be vanquished. Our comrade, our friend Barton, has perished while searching with all his might for another dear friend of all of us. Maybe he deserves the benefit of the doubt for what is clearly a very complicated and overall unbelievable situation. At the very least, maybe allow for a few days of respectful mourning before dragging his name through the mud!”

Stunned silence permeates the room, eventually broken by a faint “damn” from Sam.

Rhodey is unable to hold Thor's eyes. He crosses his arms and stares at the floor. Clears his throat. "Yeah. Okay. Maybe I do come off a little harsh, but what you all need to realize is the Blip changed all of us, at least those of us who lived through it. Myself included. But I’ll…try to lay off.” He marches toward the door. “I hope you all realize that Barton wasn’t the only one who lost their best friend fighting Thanos,” he says, and disappears down the corridor. 

The entire room stews in terrible silence. Finally, Nebula lets out a low growl and helps Mantis pull Quill to his feet.

"We're leaving," she says matter of factly. "Quill needs to dry out, and you all need to sort out your issues. We have plenty of our own. We can't deal with yours too."

Nebula and Drax assist a very unhelpful Quill up the ramp of the Bowie while Rocket has a brief exchange with Bruce regarding the seismic readings they collected on Vormir.

Mantis stops in front of Steve with wide, sad eyes. “I am very sorry for the loss of your friend.”

Steve stifles a sudden urge to cry. “Me too.”

“You are…more conflicted than the others.”

Steve almost laughs. “I’ve been through a bit more than they have.”

Her eyes glisten with sympathy. “I hope you have a friend with whom you can share such a burden.”

It takes a few tries to get words out of his abruptly thick throat. “Thank you.”

He hopes he still has such a friend too.

Steve watches the Bowie depart with a heavy heart that grows even heavier when Bruce comes over with an agonized expression.

"What are we going to tell Natasha, man? I can't tell her this. I just can't."

Steve swallows. It's one question he can answer, but it makes it no easier to say out loud.

"I'll tell her."

Chapter Text

Present Day

Kate really needs a new bow.

It technically fits in the vents, but only just, (corners are a bitch) and it hinders her movement significantly.

But she's in. One of Clint's handy little arrows took care of her access to the lab (it took three tries but still), and another her access to the ceiling vents (one try, thank you very much). 

Holy shit, she thinks, her crawl coming to a momentary halt. She just successfully infiltrated a secret Avengers laboratory protected by Stark tech. She can totally handle this Avengers thing. 

Sure there was that crazy earthquake, and then whatever that pod-thingy was (aliens??) but even without the distractions, psssh. No problem.

Clint is so going to hear about this. In detail. Let's see him try to say she isn't ready to meet everyone after this.

To keep her movement silent (and also because of this damn bow), she moves through the vents at a snail's pace. It's ridiculously frustrating. And also super hard to navigate. And these…damn…corners! 

Crap. She is totally lost.

“Why? …so you can be right? ….if you are right you can make this even harder…”

Voices, and angry ones. Down that way, just around this corner–

She stops cold. Her pulse doubles and every hair on her body stands on end.

Blocking her path, maybe two meters before her, sits a man, a terrifying dark-haired man in a black leather jacket and black jeans with one arm propped on a bent knee. He’s as still as ice, the only sign of life being the piercing blue eyes that stare back at her.

Kate's equally blue gaze seems to freeze onto his. She doesn't dare so much as breathe. Seconds are as long as eons.

Does this guy ever blink??

When she reaches the point where she needs to either take a breath or pass out, she takes a gasping breath and immediately freezes again, but the man does not move.

He still hasn’t blinked. Is he even alive?

Slowly, so slowly, one elbow and one knee take a step backward, and freeze.

He does not move. 

It’s then she notices that his left hand, propped on his knee, is definitely not that of a human. Is he some kind of cyborg? Do the Avengers know there is a cyborg in their air vents?

She dares another backward shuffle, then another when he still does not react to her presence other than to stare.

Her backside rounds the corner from where she came. She, somewhat awkwardly, extricates her bow from where it catches against the walls and pushes it forward. When this still prompts no reaction, she scoots after it. Faster. Hopes the heated voices below her drown out the sound of her frantic speed-crawling.

She crawls forward several paces in a near panic before she stops, glancing behind her, but sees no sign of pursuit from the possibly-not-even-alive cyborg.

What the actual hell.

A part of her wonders if she should raise an alarm and tell the Avengers there’s a weirdo in their vents. But. Well. That probably won’t have the same weight coming from what they see as a crazy fangirl. Also in their vents.

Again she moves in the general direction of the voices, when a sudden, thunderous boom of a voice echoes through the vents and petrifies her into stone.

“I AM TIRED OF YOUR SHIT.”

The words vibrate down to her bones. She covers her ears and focuses on her breathing.

“….all of the rubbish that plagues the rest of us—we are supposed to be your allies—your brothers…”

Holy Hulk smashes and star-bangled shields—that’s Thor, she realizes with a mix of fascination and terror. They’re fighting. The Avengers are fighting.

She doesn’t move for several minutes, even long after the sound of Thor’s thunderous voice has faded away. When she hears the engine of something massive (alien spaceship??) roar to life, she shakes herself back into gear and creeps over the main lab until she can make out the giant form of the Hulk directly beneath her through the narrow vent openings. 

He’s speaking softly with an older man. She can’t make out what he is saying, but it’s obvious that it’s a serious conversation.

The older man stands and puts a hand on Hulk’s shoulder. “I’ll tell her.”

Tell who what?

‘Her’ surely means Natasha. There are no other women here from what she can see, and Yelena would never lie about something like…

Natasha Romanoff being alive again!

Kate clamps down on a squeal. She’s a fan, she can’t deny that, but more so, she is ecstatic for Clint. She’s known him for less than a year, but it is clear that the poor guy has been in agony over losing someone he obviously loved very dearly. And now that someone is back.

That’s where Clint must be! With her! They probably haven’t even bothered to tell him Kate was here. Clint would totally let her in if he knew she was here. Totally.

The old man dodders out of sight, and she follows as best as she can from above through what appears to be a back hallway. She settles on her stomach just over a vent when she hears voices below, and only barely contains a whoop of elation when she peeks through.

Natasha! Natasha-freaking-Black Widow-herself-Romanoff! Clearly in rough shape, but sitting up and talking. And alive!

Okay. Calm down, Kate. What are they saying?

She lowers her ear to the slits in the grate.

“Just spit it out, Steve.”

Steve?

“He’s gone, Nat.”

Gone? Who’s gone?

Kate lies prostrate above them as she listens first with confusion, then horror, at what is being said beneath her.

Vormir.

Clint.

Gone.

Dead.

No. No this can’t be happening. Clint wouldn’t…couldn’t be… She just saw him! He can’t be…

The voices below her fade as if far away. She concentrates on holding herself together, and through sheer force of will manages to hold back any vocal reactions. 

But she is unable to withhold a hot, forceful deluge of tears.

Clint. No…

Kate does not think she has ever felt more alone. First her dad, then her mom. If this is true, and Clint is really gone, who does she have left?

Kate lets her forehead come to rest on the floor of the vent, her despair leaking silently onto the metal. 

-

“I wish to God it never came to this, Tasha. I’m so, so sorry, but this is the only way.”

Clint… don’t. Please…

Natasha awakens with a violent start. 

She sits up, heart racing and instinctively reaching  for someone who is not there, his voice fading from her subconscious. She fumbles for the handgun under her pillow, flips the safety off and blinks rapidly, her brain racing to identify whatever woke her, but her room is empty. And then she hears it. The roar of a ship’s engine.

They’re back.

She collapses back into her pillows with an audible sigh of relief that quickly springboards into a burst of joy, replacing the awful twisting in her gut that lingers from whatever murky horror her subconscious had concocted. 

There is no reason to feel anything in response to Clint’s return other than joy. 

She switches the safety back on, placing the gun on the bedside table, and contemplates getting up, rushing into the hangar to be the first to see the look on Clint’s face when the ramp lowers, but her calf muscle spasms the instant she makes even the tiniest motion, and the rest of her still aches with pain and exhaustion. So she waits.

Her anticipation is practically tangible. Her good leg vibrates with impatience, and her eyes glue themselves to the door as she waits for the man she hasn’t seen since they fought for the other’s life on Vormir. 

Any second now, Clint will burst through that door, see her, and smile like the dawn after a storm.  

None of this has been fair, especially not to Clint. She still has not even the slightest idea how she is among the living once more, but at the moment it is unimportant. What matters now is that for whatever reason, they have been shown mercy. They have a second chance.

She lets out a long breath. Stares at the door and listens. Waits.

And waits.

No one comes.

She waits longer and still no one comes.

It is then that she picks up on raised voices down the hall. Angry. Arguing.

Shit. 

Rhodey.

No. They are not doing this to Clint. Not now, before he can even see her again.

Pain becomes trivial as a familiar protective rage swells up within her. She sits up and twists her legs off the bed. Slowly puts weight on them. Successfully completes an upright position.

So far so good. 

She judges the distance from the bed to the door to be no more than ten steps. She gets five steps in before a sharp, searing agony in her left leg drags her to the floor. She breathes through the pain, barely managing to keep from crying out.

She concentrates on the compartmentalizing techniques the Red Room taught her, shutting off the pain into a dark, ignored corner in the back of her mind. This done, she manages to stand once more, but even with the pain successfully under control, the futility of the action becomes quickly apparent. It’s not pain, but a physical inability for the muscle to function that sends her crashing back down to the floor in a frustrated heap.

She glares back at the offending appendage, but only smooth, undamaged skin stares back up at her.

What the hell is wrong with her?

Her attention jerks back to the door at the sound of footsteps down the hall. It is not Bruce’s heavy tread, nor Sam’s confident swagger. The pace is slower. Almost unsteady. It doesn’t sound like the familiar clip of Clint’s boots, but maybe…

The doorknob turns.

“Clint?”

But it’s Steve that enters, coming to a sudden stop with wide eyes when he takes in what must be a very pathetic sight of her on the floor.

“Nat! Are you all right?” He hobbles over to her and takes her arm. 

“Fine. It’s…my leg. Ah!” 

The pain escapes its prison and is apparently very angry about it, and she cries out as she tries to put weight on her leg again. Steve does his best to compensate for her left side, but he feels about as stable as a cane made out of taped-together toothpicks. But Steve is nothing if not determined, and a minute later she is back on the bed, both of them sweating and heaving for breath. 

As Steve adjusts the blankets back over her, she glances back down at the floor, expecting to see a horror film-worthy smear of blood to match the pain, but the floor is clean and the skin is smooth. Even the bruising has faded.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Nat! What if you’ve re-injured something?”

Hardly important right now.

“What did you expect me to do if you won’t let him come back here?! Where is he?”

Steve bites his lip. Turns to glance at the door. “Listen, Nat…”

“No. You don’t get to try and convict him before I even see him! Please, Steve. If Rhodey is trying to keep him away from me or something, please, just let it wait. Come in and supervise if you have to, just please let me see him!”

Steve stares at the wall with a miserable expression, and Natasha’s stomach drops. 

What have they done to him? How is it already too late?  

“No. You’re not taking him away. He’s done nothing wrong! Please just let me see him!”

She’s aware she sounds desperate and doesn’t care. They’re not taking her best friend away for something he didn’t do without a hell of a fight.

“Nat.” Steve settles on one of Bruce’s wheeled stools, pushing up close to the bed. “I have something to tell you, and it’s not going to be easy to hear, but I need you to listen, okay?”

She nods, a sick, sour feeling churning in her gut.

“As you know, Clint went back to Vormir to look for you. He was totally and irreversibly convinced that you were alive and stranded there.”

Something she’s very eager to ask him about.

“They couldn’t find you, obviously. But, while they were there, Vormir was experiencing a series of very strong earthquakes. They escalated quickly. They were…very intense, Natasha.”

Natasha fists the sheet over her thighs. Her jaw tightens. 

What are you trying to tell me, Steve.

“Clint was…on the ledge when another quake hit and…” 

His Adam’s apple bobs. He stares at her with sad eyes as if he hopes the rest of his sentence will arrive telepathically.

“Just spit it out, Steve."

It takes almost a full minute for him to get the words out. “He's gone, Nat."

Natasha blinks.

Gone.

“What do you mean, he’s…”

“I mean…he didn’t make it, Nat.”

She blinks some more. Replays Steve’s words again and again in her mind.

He’s gone. Didn’t make it. He’s gone.

“Nat?”

Steve’s voice sounds like a distant echo. The edges of her vision go fuzzy. A ringing in her ears grows steadily in volume.

He’s gone.

He’s…

A tight, twisting fear that she hasn’t known since childhood takes hold of her heart and threatens to make it stop for good. 

Gone. Clint’s gone.

Steve’s mouth is moving but produces no sound. There’s a rapid movement back and forth before her eyes. 

Clint. With his snarky banter and bright smile and heart the size of the ocean. 

Gone. 

“Nat!”

She blinks rapidly. Stares at the plain, white wall before her. There’s a bed. Metal tables and equipment. 

Bruce’s lab.  

Steve’s wrinkled, worried face, very close to her own. He’s bending over her, gripping her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” she says, her voice raspier than she remembers.

Steve breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank God. Don’t scare me like that, Nat. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Okay. 

“All right. Poor choice of words, but…” He eases back down onto the stool.  “I’m so, so sorry, Nat. I know…I know this is a terrible shock for you. And I hate to tell you this when you’re in such rough shape. But…I know what it’s like to lose your best friend. That it’s something you need to know. No matter how much it hurts.”

She nods absently. Stares at the floor. 

“Is there a body?”

Steve’s face grows impossibly more grave.

That means no, and Natasha clings onto that word like a lifeline.

Steve must see it on her face, because he rushes to add, “The planet itself broke apart. Clint…fell. Thor tried to catch him. He searched until the last possible second, but–”

“Broke apart?”

Steve nods. “The earthquakes. Vormir’s gone, Nat.”

The fear gives way to bewilderment. Confusion. Anger. 

“But, how?”

Steve hedges. Shrugs. “We are still looking for answers. But, Thor and Quill’s gang found the ‘guide’ that you met when you retrieved the stone. His name is Johann Schmidt. He’s one of the founders of Hydra. We could question him about what happened to the planet.”

“What? The red ghost guy?”

“Yeah. He’s…told us some things. You can talk to him too, if you want.”

She glares at the sheets in her fists. Closes her eyes as she tries to process all of this new information. The guide was the founder of Hydra. Vormir is gone.

And Clint is…

No. He can’t be. He wouldn’t just…leave her.

Not again.

“I’m so sorry, Nat.”

“I want to see a body.”

Steve closes his eyes like the words cause him physical pain. “Natasha…”

“I know, I heard you. Vormir is gone, and Clint with it. I don’t care.”

“Nat, Thor looked through the debris. He couldn’t find him.”

“I don’t care.”

“Damn it, Nat, don’t you understand what that means? If Thor couldn’t find a body that means he was…torn to bits in the rubble!”

Natasha’s eyes squeeze shut at the image. She wants to yell, scream, tear the entire laboratory apart until they listen to her, go back and find him, but…

There’s a rap on the door. “Natasha?”

A rush of conflicting emotions tumble through her as Thor ducks under the doorframe, his expression both solemn and filled with wonder.

“Natasha,” he exclaims again, marching to the bed and taking her hand. “What joy courses through me to behold you once again.” His face falls. “And how I regret the bitter news I bear.”

“I told her,” Steve says quietly.

Thor nods, kneeling beside the bed, his hand still holding onto hers. “I am so sorry. The quakes were unpredictable and progressing at an irregular, exponential rate. I flew to Barton’s rescue the instant I knew of the danger, but the planet was disintegrating around me, hurling debris in every direction. I…”

He trails off as Natasha breaks eye contact. She imagines the planet breaking apart under Clint’s feet. Falling down, down, down for eternity until the atmosphere evaporated around him…

“I searched extensively for him, Natasha. If only to… have something to bring you closure. That is why we were so delayed in our return. But alas, our search proved futile. Allow me to express my deepest, most sincere regret for your loss.”

She pulls her hand from Thor’s grasp. Clenches her fists on her thighs and forces down a hot, bubbling stew of emotions. 

Vormir is gone. And so is Clint.

She doesn’t know how long they sit there in silence. Minutes. Maybe hours. Time doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Nothing does.

She’s going to have to tell Laura. Look her and the kids in the eye and tell them that Clint is gone. That she did nothing to stop it. That none of them will ever see him again…

“I want to be alone.”

Thor nods in solemn understanding and rises to his feet. Steve stays put.

“I shall grant you the solitude you seek. The Bowie is to depart soon, but I shall remain behind, in case you should have any questions for me later.” Thor pauses in the doorway. “Despite the sadness of this day, I truly am overjoyed that you are with us once more, Natasha.”

Steve frowns at the floor after Thor leaves, clearly searching for words. After a minute, he places old, wrinkled hands on the mattress and stares up at her pleadingly. 

“Nat. I don’t know if you should be alone with this.”

“I want to be alone.”

He sighs. “Just, listen to me, okay? I know this won’t make you feel any better right now, but… sometimes… I think things happen for a reason. That there are things going on behind the scenes that we can’t always understand. That as awful as this is, we have to believe that some good will come out of it."

Good? What good can exist in a world without the man who gave her everything.

Steve swallows thickly. "Nat, I… I want you to know that… Clint would have done anything to save you.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow. Steve radiates sympathy and sorrow, but there is something else there too. Something behind his elderly eyes that sets off every instinct within her.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He purses his lips. Stares at the wall.

“Steve.”

Steve sighs wearily, opening his mouth to speak. Stops. Looks up at the ceiling and frowns.

She follows his gaze. 

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Sam pokes his head in. “Everything okay?”

No. 

Steve merely sighs. 

“I can switch out with you,” Sam says, giving Steve a look Natasha can’t decipher.

“No, that’s okay. I’m–”

“He’s here. In the lounge.”

Steve stares at Sam for half a second before he scrambles to his feet so quickly that his stool jerks out from under him and he nearly trips over himself in his haste to reach the door.

Well. Doesn’t take a genius to decipher that code. For a moment she feels herself go hot with…what. Resentment? Jealousy? She nearly rolls her eyes at herself.

It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.

“Whoa, you okay, old man?” Sam says with a steadying hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Fine. Nat, sorry. Are you sure you’re–”

“I’m fine, Steve. Go.”

Steve goes.

“You okay?” Sam asks gently. 

“I need a minute, Sam.”

“I’m not sure that’s–”

“Please.”

He nods like he understands, and it pains her to think that he probably does. “Okay. We’re right out here if you need anything.”

She takes five deep breaths when the door clicks shut. 

She can’t fall apart. Not yet. There is yet another issue that needs to be taken care of first. 

She takes a long drink of water from the glass by her bedside. Stretches her left leg, which is blissfully pain-free for the moment. She carefully rises to her feet. Sways back and forth as a test before she tries to walk. Carefully, she hobbles to the small dresser and the trunk with her belongings nestled in the far corner of the room. 

All right, where is that silencer… 

She digs until she finds it, flips the familiar weight in her hand, and shuffles slowly back to bed. It’s embarrassing how much the simple action takes out of her. 

Once she’s comfortable, she reaches over for her handgun and quickly connects the silencer, clicks off the safety, and points the gun upward. 

She shoots a quick one, two, three, four, into the screws of the ceiling vent, and waits.

“Whoa!!”

The upper half of a young woman tumbles through the new hole in the ceiling, gravity quickly taking over to pull her lower half through after her. She’s young, with long, pulled-back dark hair, and judging from the way she protects her head, is clearly familiar with falling.

A bow clatters to the floor after her.

"Who are you?" Natasha asks, voice like ice. Hard, cold, and one wrong move away from cracking.

The girl gets up quickly, eyes wide and defensive and…red.

“K-Kate Bishop," she says in a shaky voice.

"You’re lucky you didn't get a bullet in your head, Kate Bishop. It doesn’t take the ears of a super soldier to hear you sniffling up there.” She decides to leave out the fact that this time, it did.

"I…" She wipes at her face and stands tall, making an obvious effort to look in control of herself. "I'm Clint's… Clint's friend. I worked with him." By the end of this sentence the control has all but completely faded away, and she looks at Natasha with pleading eyes and a quivering mouth. “Is it true? Is Clint really dead?”

Whoever this girl is, she isn’t a threat. And by this reaction, she's obviously fond of… 

This must be the fangirl that Sam mentioned. 

“Why are you here.” And how the hell did she manage to get in?

Kate sniffs. “I…I got a call from Yelena.”

"Yelena?" Natasha can't keep the surprise from her voice. She knows Clint and Yelena?

“She’s really upset. I thought, maybe I could talk to Clint, who could talk to you, and you could talk to her because…” she shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to prevent tears. “Is he really dead?”

Natasha narrows her eyes. “It appears so. You can pass the information on to my sister. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

“Whatever she said to you, I'm sure she didn't mean it. Yelena was just upset–”

“I think you should leave now, Miss Bishop, before the others detect you here and either throw you out or lock you up.” 

She leans back into the pillows, making her expression indifferent even as her insides threaten to implode at any moment. 

Natasha has never been good at grief. Where others would shed tears, she would instead shed blood. Where another's heart would break, she would instead break bones.

Kate wipes at her face again and glances up at the vent. Casts another desperate glance to Natasha.

"Please, Natasha. Tell me you don't really believe that Clint is dead? I… I overheard that there isn’t a body. You know Clint. He would have found a way to survive!"

"Please leave, Kate."

Kate's eyes well with tears again, but she bends down to pick up her bow. Natasha glances at her quiver, recognizing many of its contents. Well, that solves the mystery of how she got in, at least.

Kate rolls Steve’s stool under the vent, planting one boot on top.

“Were you there?” Natasha asks, suddenly needing to know. “When my sister tried to kill Clint?”

Kate freezes. Meets her gaze after several moments. “I didn’t actually see it happen, but, yeah. I was around.”

“Was Clint… in rough shape?”

Kate nods. “I mean…a bit, yeah.”

A bit. Sure. You didn’t even try to defend yourself, did you?

“But... I could tell he had been crying. He said Yelena changed her mind."

"Why?"

Kate shrugs. "I don't know. And I didn't feel right about prying further."

Natasha nods. It's only too easy to picture. Clint allowing Yelena to beat the shit out of him. Likely absorbing each and every one of Yelena's accusations down to his soul. But Clint, being Clint, likely won Yelena over by being his stupid, genuinely kind and forgiving self. Giving Yelena a completely unfounded benefit of the doubt and letting her do what she liked with it. 

Oh, Clint, you stupid, tenderhearted moron.

"Don’t give up on Yelena. And please, please don't give up on Clint. He can't be gone. I've already lost my dad and my mom—I can't lose him too!"

Natasha points a finger at the ceiling. "Time to go, kid."

"And I know you can't lose him either! Please. You have to go after him! You know Clint; he’s a survivor! What if they’re wrong?”

"I'm giving you ten seconds."

"He wouldn't give up on you!"

And Natasha can feel her eyes flare with venom. Sees it reflected in Kate's abruptly fearful expression.

Calm down, Natasha. She's just a kid.

“Please,” Kate pleads. “Clint saved my life. He put his life on the line a dozen times over to save me from getting hurt, when I was still nothing more than a stranger to him. He welcomed me into his home like I was family when I had nothing left. Please. You can’t give up on him!”

That sounds like you, doesn’t it, Clint. Taking in stray after stray…

“Kate. I’m sorry you’re grieving. I really am. And I am happy to hear that you cared for Clint. That he had someone to help look out for him when I couldn't. But I really, really, need you to leave now.”

Tears stream down Kate's face but she doesn’t argue any further. She tosses her bow back into the vents and fumbles her way in after it, crawling away.

Natasha waits until the sound of the girl’s retreat fades into the distance, then collapses heavily against the pillows, suddenly out of breath. 

Oh, God, Clint.

She wants to cry, tries to cry, wants to simmer in her grief and hold it close and let herself die inside because a part of her has died.

Her face goes hot. The back of her eyes burn. But despite the reactions of her body, her heart feels…

Nothing.

She pounds a fist into the mattress. Clint had sensed her alive, had traveled across the galaxy to find her.

But she feels nothing.

Her chest hurts worse than it did when she first awoke.

Kate’s right. Clint would never give up on her. He sensed her. Knew she was out there. Gave his life in his search for her. 

Is it possible that while she breathed her first…Clint breathed his last?

She searches herself again, desperate for even the slightest minuscule sensation of Clint, but feels nothing but emptiness.

Natasha pounds both fists this time and the right one screams in agony, but she doesn’t care. The pain finally unlocks a torrent of tears. 

Clint is gone.

What is she supposed to live for now? 

Chapter Text

2024

Mount Wundagore

“It’s the witch! It’s the witch!”

Tears stream down her face as Wanda strains to the limits of her power, creeping into every reality and fixing a hold on the dark magic of the Darkhold.

“We’ve said goodbye before. So chances are…”

The mountain’s weight drains her energy. She just has to hold on for just a few more moments…

There is nothing left for her in this reality. She has hurt so many, and lost everyone she loves. The hex. The dream-walking. The…killing. It was all so easy. But saying goodbye…that requires a strength that she simply cannot match. 

So let it end. 

“…We’ll say hello again.”

Goodbye, my loves.

She closes her eyes and releases the mountain, letting gravity become the dominant force. She expects her last emotions to be those of despair and anguish. But instead she feels…

Relief.

One less monster in the world.

She welcomes the weight of the mountain that will crush her, as well as her pain and loneliness. 

Before the weight of the mountain can envelope her in its permanent embrace, the ground abruptly vanishes beneath her feet. 

She cries out and falls. 

There is darkness and then sudden light, and she lets out a cry of pain as her knees collide forcefully into a hard surface.

This is most definitely not Wundagore.

The gloom and cold of the mountain is gone, and in its place is a large, grand room, covered in speckled marble from floor to ceiling. Furniture is sparse, but what there is reminds Wanda of furnishings from the Middle Ages. The walls are lined with shelves, which display statues and relics and… is that an Iron Man helmet?

At the sound of footsteps, Wanda glances upward to see a woman with wavy blond hair, dressed in dark clothing and a horned headpiece.

And Wanda feels…robbed.

“No. Take me back.”

“Wanda–”

But Wanda is way, way past the capability of care or reason. All she can see are the faces of her frightened boys and the echoes of ‘Witch! Witch!’ 

“No! Please. Just let me die!”

Wanda curls herself into a ball and wails, covering her head and yearning for the release of death. Each breath she takes is agony. Each one signifies her ability to cause pain, and her inability to express love.

A hand drops to her shoulder.

She’s far beyond thoughts of self-preservation, so she barely registers the touch, until it produces a tingle that moves from her shoulder, to her neck, the base of her skull, and then–

Billy. Tommy. Playing. Laughing. The yard of their house in Westview.

“Mom! Watch this!”

Arms around her waist from behind. Gentle. Familiar.

She turns, and–

“Wanda. Hello, my love.”

The tingle fades, taking the beautiful images with it, and Wanda glares up at the woman before her.

“Who are you? What did you just show me?”

“The life you should have had, Wanda Maximoff.”

Wanda sits up and wipes her face. “Do not mock me with what can never be mine.”

The woman shakes her head. “What if I told you that it not only should have been yours, but was yours in another reality? And that it can be yours again.”

“I’d say I’m done hurting others to get what I want. I’m done being a monster.”

“You’re not a monster.”

“My children saw it!” Wanda's angry shout cracks. “They saw the evil in me and were terrified! I refuse to be that person! I will no longer cause pain and suffering! Please. Just let me die. I have nothing to live for."

"You're wrong, Wanda. Everything you have to live for has been taken from you. I want to help you take it back."

Wanda shakes her head. Whoever this woman is, she doesn't understand. Cannot possibly understand what Wanda has suffered. The suffering she has caused. “I am done living in this perpetual anguish. Put me back and let me die like the love of my life did!”

The woman's face goes hard with frustration. Her gaze drops down to a device on her wrist. "I'll show you."

A translucent doorway appears beside Wanda, and before she can utter a sound, the woman has hustled her through.

Replacing the grand room is now a bland office with harsh lighting and analogue monitors. The monitors all blink rapidly, demanding attention, which the many harried looking office workers surrounding them give generously. Tiny computer monitors on the desks show images familiar to her. New York, Avengers Tower, the Compound, and the Avengers themselves.

"What is this place?"

"The office where your agony was orchestrated."

In that instant, a flash of Vision flicks over the monitor, fighting beside her in a battle Wanda has never experienced.

"What is this?" Wanda hisses, and the woman takes a step back, her eyes wide.

Wanda knows her eyes and hands are glowing red with static energy. The woman is wise to be cautious.

The woman gapes at her with clear astonishment. “But, how? Magic isn't supposed to…”

Wanda’s eyes narrow. “Answer me. What is this place? Why do they have footage of Vision?"

But the woman does not appear to be listening. Her eyes are sparkling with wonder. “You really are…”

“What?” she snaps. “I am what?”

The woman shakes her head. “A truly incredible person, Wanda. One that Kang has deliberately kept down.”

Wanda glares at her. "Who is Kang? What is this place?"

The woman takes a deep breath. “What if I were to tell you that everything in your life, every loss of every person you have loved, has not been fate or bad luck, but someone behind the scenes arranging for those things to happen?”

Wanda wants to laugh. What on earth is this madwoman talking about?

"You only think that you can never have the life you deserve because the circumstances of your life have always been out of your control. You have been controlled—manipulated to do certain things."

“No one manipulated me to do any of the horrible things I did. I did it because I was desperate to stop the pain, and didn't care about the pain I caused others to do so. I was meant to destroy everything.”

“You weren't ‘meant’ to do anything! Except to bring about the one thing that you’ve never been allowed to display. Because you, like me, embody the one thing strong enough to tear down the carefully constructed plans of the individual responsible for our pain."

Wanda laughs without mirth. "And what is that?"

The woman smiles cynically. “Chaos.”

The woman introduces herself as Sylvie, a wielder of enchantment magic from Asgard. 

She shows Wanda an entire organization built to control everyone and everything on the timeline. A timeline branching without control. People who are happy. Free to do as they want.

Including herself.

Sylvie shows her countless realities that never existed before the timeline was freed. In each of them, she sees Vision, Billy, and Tommy. In some, Pietro.

And… a man known as Kang. The name of the man who took everything from her.

"Freeing the timeline was the battle, not the war,” Sylvie explains as they watch a holographic image of a madman who craves nothing but power and the subjection of all of Time. “It was a two-edged sword, in retrospect. Every branched timeline creates the possibility of a new Kang variant. One who is undoubtedly working to restore what we tore down. We must eliminate him, Wanda. All versions of him. Erase him from existence."

Sylvie turns to her, and Wanda’s eyes fight to meet her eyes, to tear herself away from the horror of the images before her.

“You have been wronged to a greater extent than anyone, Wanda. But that is because he fears you and your power. You can defeat him. So, I ask you, will you help me do so? Will you fight back against the horrors this madman has done to you and to everyone you love?”

The questions solidify something within Wanda. Her power suddenly seems to be an asset, not a curse. Another chance. 

Hope.

She agrees.

It is not an easy endeavor. Every waking moment after meeting Sylvie is centered on one thing and one thing only. Eliminating Kang.

There are seemingly infinite versions of him, each one more difficult than the last. It begins to become impossible to catch him off guard. He seems to always be at least one step ahead of them.

Until the day Sylvie gets hold of the talking clock.

“I know what you are, Miss Minutes. I know that you know what drives him. How he stays ahead of us. What his true plan is. And you are going to cooperate.”

The animation frowns comically and crosses her arms. “I ain’t telling you nothing’, Toots.”

Sylvie glares, then abruptly looks behind her toward the rows of desks, then Wanda. “We will see about that.”

She yanks open a drawer and pulls out something small and green, and Wanda lets out a gasp when she recognizes it.

“Here, Wanda,” she says, holding the object out in her palm. “Have fun with this and we will see how up to talking Miss Minutes feels then.”

“That’s…that’s the Time Stone.”

That horrid, vile green stone. 

“It is. One of many lying around here. Useless to anyone else, but not to you, I’ll wager.”

The clock puts on a smug expression. "Did you forget that magic doesn't work here, hon?"

Sylvie sends back her own smug grin, then looks at Wanda. "You can make her talk."

Wanda stares at the emerald glow in Sylvie's palm. “I can’t… I’ve never wielded an Infinity Stone before.”

Just destroyed one.

“You’re the most powerful witch in all of reality to exist. I have complete faith in you.”

Wanda cannot bring herself to take it. She holds too much power as is. If she were to wield an Infinity Stone as well…

Especially this stone. 

"Wanda. She can tell us what Kang did. How he arranged Vision's death. Prevented the birth of your boys."

Wanda meets Sylvie's eyes. She thinks of Vision. Of Billy and Tommy. Of Pietro. Her mother and father. 

Of Hydra. SWORD. Thanos.

“You took everything from me.”

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“You will.”

She takes the stone, and the clock's expression turns…

Fearful.

-

Time Variance Authority

Clint rolls his eyes as Rogers finally begins to grasp the reality of his situation, red-faced and eyes wet. 

Cry me a patriotic river. You're the one who made the decision to live your life out in the past, buddy. 

“I didn’t know this would happen! If I had known, I never would have… Now Bucky is waiting for me in two totally separate timelines!”

Clint’s anger is for Barnes's sake, he tells himself. He and Barnes had bonded over shared trauma, and even though much about the man still remains hidden, even Clint can tell that the guy’s perpetual foremost thought has only ever been Steve. But apparently the man Rogers claimed to be most important to him hadn’t been important enough to come back for. 

Yet Natasha had apparently been more than enough.

For crying out loud, Clint thinks with a shudder of indignation, it had half been for Rogers’s sake that Clint had reached out to Barnes in the first place. Because no matter how much he does not want to acknowledge it, how much he wishes he could erase the fact from reality, the truth remains that during the five long years of hell that they now call the Blip, Rogers had been there for Natasha, and Clint had not.

Didn’t waste any time filling the void, did we, Rogers. 

“What am I going to do? I promised him—both of him—that I’d come back!”

Whatever. He’s done with the pathetic sight of Rogers slumped against the wall with his head in his hands. 

Clint resolutely turns his attention back to the file on the desk, ignoring the image of Natasha held tightly in Rogers’s arms still flickering against the contrast of the wall.

An alternate reality. An alternate ending. One where he died instead of Natasha.

His anger abruptly cools, growing tepid and stale. All of their lives would have been so different. Rogers, still around to save the world, lead the Avengers, and be a perfect, unyielding rock of support for Natasha. Barnes, a different man who could feel welcome outside the shadows, speak in full sentences, and even smile and laugh. Yelena would have had a life free of the Red Room, finally able to reunite with a beloved sister and regain the time that had been stolen from them as children.

And Laura… She would have finally had someone to focus on her needs instead of wallowing in their own. Cooper and Nate would grin as bright as the sun at seeing their cool Aunt Nat in the stands during baseball games. Lila, eyes no longer full of disappointment and resignation, but excitement and hope.

Smiles and reunions and happiness. Everyone, better off and happier in a world where he had died for the stone.

Clint dead, Natasha alive. 

Clint’s stomach twists in a tornado of bittersweet empathy and regret. The truth is undeniable. The proper course of reality all too clear.

It was, without a doubt, supposed to be him.

At the smooth, unmistakable sound of a time door opening behind them, Clint instinctively drops into a defensive stance, a blade appearing in his hand. Loki reacts in a similar fashion, eyes wide and panicked.  Rogers finally stops crying from sea to shining sea.

Clint readies himself to hurl the blade into the face of whoever steps through, but as two figures emerge, the blade goes limp in his grip. 

"Sylvie!" Loki exclaims, but Clint’s attention is fixed upon the other woman with her.

“Wanda?”

“Clint?”

Her hair is longer, wavier, and a more fiery shade of red since the last time he saw her, nearly two years ago now on the farm. She is dressed in a long, dark burgundy dress, her head adorned by a black, elegant headpiece. But there's something more that's different. Something in her demeanor. Her face seems somehow older. Her eyes more tired.

But she is unmistakably Wanda Maximoff, and joy and relief surge through Clint at the sight of her. “Wa–”

“Wanda!” Rogers's voice bellows over his own, and Clint's teeth clench painfully together.

“Steve! Clint! What are you doing here?" she asks, wide eyes darting back and forth between them. 

“I could ask you the same.” Clint reaches out, and Wanda glides up to him to place her hand in Clint's. "Wanda, where have you been? I've been trying to contact you for months!"

Wanda winces at his statement. "I'm sorry. I…time works so differently in this place. I don’t know what time you’re from—or what timeline…”

“I can’t keep any of this straight either,” Rogers grumbles. “What year did you come from, Wanda?”

Wanda takes a hesitant breath. “2024.”

Clint points to himself. “2025, and I haven’t seen you since 2023. Just after Westview. I was worried something happened to you.“

Wanda seems surprised by this. “2025? But that is after I… didn't they tell you?”

Clint frowns. "Tell me what?”

Wanda winces. “About…some mistakes I’m not proud of.”

“What mistakes? Westview?”

Again, Wanda winces. “No. Not Westview.”

Clint thinks back to Bruce's vague responses every time he questioned Wanda's whereabouts. The suspicious frequency with which he had suddenly needed to preemptively cut the call. The number of unanswered text messages and voicemails.

"What happened, Wanda?" Rogers asks.

After some more gentle reassurances, Wanda relates a harrowing tale of grief morphing to utter devastation, and hope to all-consuming obsession. Of alternate realities and determination to do anything to get back those you love. No matter what.

And Clint listens, and…understands.

“I just. I had lost everything. Vision. My boys. And there was a chance and I…I couldn’t help but try. And…it drove me to do…horrible things.”

Clint is well aware of what such loss can drive a person to.

Rogers slides a hand onto her shoulder. "You can't be too hard on yourself for this, Wanda. I doubt that anyone with your abilities, and in your situation, would have done any differently.” 

Except you, right, buddy?

Wanda shakes her head and refuses to meet his eyes. "In any case, I didn’t want to be that person anymore. That… monster. I was lower than I had ever been. I… I was looking at a half-dark Manhattan skyline from the Empire State Building, Clint."

The raw agony in her voice sends a chill down Clint’s spine because he understands. Damn it all to the pits of hell does he understand. 

He makes an effort to soften his expression. "How did you get here, Wanda?"

"And who is she?" Steve adds, indicating the woman currently involved in a heated discussion with Loki.

"Her name is Sylvie. She pulled me from the timeline moments before the mountain could crush me.”

For all the others know, it did crush her, Clint realizes. And no one bothered to tell him.

“Sylvie gave me purpose when I had nothing left to live for."

“She looks familiar,” Steve says, staring at Sylvie with a frown.

No one cares, man. 

“Purpose to do what?” Clint asks. “Start a new life as an interdimensional nomad?”

"There's a man. A terrible, power-hungry man, on the loose in every reality, who has taken it upon himself to decide what should and shouldn't happen. Who should be happy and who should despair. Who lives and who dies. But Sylvie wants to give people free will. And I…I’m done taking control away from others. Taking what doesn’t belong to me.”

“Wanda…” Rogers says.

“I will be a monster no longer!”

“You’re not a monster, Wanda,” Rogers exclaims.

Clint thinks of bared teeth and fingers clawing silent accusations at him. 

‘You’re a monster!’

“He cannot be allowed to continue. If it weren't for him, I would have Vision. I would… I would have my boys, Clint."

Her voice shakes as she speaks, and Clint feels a new rage fuel his desire to bring this Kang asshole down. To turn him into a pincushion for all the pain he has caused those he loves.

“I know about Kang," he says. "Loki and I are trying to find a way to bring him down. He wants to…”

“He wants to what?” Wanda asks.

Clint swallows. “There’s a reality—one reality—where Natasha survived Vormir instead of me. He’s trying to eliminate that reality.”

Steve’s eyebrows jump to his hairline. “He’s what?”

“Kang wants to guarantee that Natasha dies on Vormir in every reality. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”

Wanda takes his hand. "I’m so sorry, Clint. I will do everything I can to help you. Sylvie and I have been eliminating Kang variants, one by one, but there are so many. Multiplying faster than we can defeat them.”

“Eliminating them, how?” Rogers asks.

Wanda’s face goes hard. “I am exercising new creativity each time.”

It's a tiny glimpse of a side of Wanda Clint does not know, and a chill runs down his spine at the frost in her voice.

“Sylvie has come across new information, and brought us here."

"What information?"

"Something she read in an encrypted file. I haven’t seen it yet, but we believe it contains the key to Kang’s plan. Something that could bring him down at the source.”

She looks at Sylvie as she speaks, and Clint turns his attention to the other side of the theater where Loki and Sylvie are hissing at one another. 

“Me?! It's you who is trying to ruin everything!” Sylvie screams. “Is this some petty attempt at vengeance because of what happened at the citadel?”

“Hardly! I am merely attempting to fix the problem you created! Because you couldn’t just take a second to consider the consequences of taking your own revenge! Because you refused to trust me!”

“Trust you? The most reliable traitor in the multiverse? Hah! You only wanted the throne!”

“I wanted you to be okay!”

This statement echoes throughout the theater.

It sounds… genuine. If Clint didn't have extensive trauma therapy due to this particular backstabbing demigod, he might actually believe that Loki…means it.

“Sylvie. Please. Put aside your inability to trust and listen to me. What’s done is done. Infinite versions of Kang are loose. I shudder to think what he is planning or what will happen if he succeeds. We want the same thing. Please, work with us.”

Sylvie scoffs. “And what have you done to stop him? Wanda and I have already killed dozens of his variants.”

“Wanda?” Loki jerks his head in their direction.

Sylvie smirks. “Wanda Maximoff. The Scarlet Witch.”

Loki's eyes widen. “The Scarlet… Are you quite serious?”

Sylvie nods with a smirk.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?” Clint shouts.

“Seconded,” Rogers murmurs from behind him.

Sylvie looks him up and down. “Well, Clint Barton, the Scarlet Witch happens to be one of the most powerful beings in all of reality. A nexus being. Meaning that time and reality flow through her, not her through it. Her existence cannot be prevented, which makes her a significant threat to Kang. He cannot overpower her, so he crushes her instead.”

Clint can hear Wanda sniffle behind him, but Rogers's superior reflexes have an arm around her before he can make a move to comfort her.

"Wanda is a powerful force that he needs to keep under control, and he did so by taking away her will to live. He arranged loss after loss. Slow death by suffocation from grief. He arranged for her to lose the love of her life. For her sons to never exist in her reality. The death of her parents. Her brother. All of it."

Something hot and biting flickers inside him. Just who the hell does this Kang asshole think he is? As if it wasn’t bad enough to erase Natasha's survival on Vormir, but he wants to destroy any and all chances of happiness for Wanda as well?

"But it is not only Wanda whose suffering he has orchestrated."

Sylvie fiddles with the device on her wrist and pulls up a holographic display that sifts through files, displaying snapshots of dozens of individuals on the timeline. Some historical figures that Clint knows, some from decades in their future that he has never heard of. The TemPad scrolls through file after file, highlighting dates, events, people's names...

...and of those they love.

"Kang’s control is rooted in pleasure and pain. He manipulates by harnessing an individual's greatest fears and desires. Their values, dreams, and those they love. He uses this knowledge to keep people broken, scattered, disconnected. Tempting them with what they desire, controlling them with who they love, in order to pull them to where he wants them to go, like pieces on a chessboard."

Her words throw Clint back to New York. Coming back to consciousness on the helicarrier, body aching and exhausted from actions not his own.

A puppet on a string.

That same ache now echoes through him as he considers his own actions over the past few years. His sudden, intense certainty that Natasha was alive. Pleading with the Avengers to let him search for her on Vormir. The earthquakes. Falling to his assured demise.

'Kang wants you dead,' Loki had said, and if Loki hadn't saved him, he would be dead.

How much of that was… arranged?

"How do we stop him?" Rogers says, his voice as hard as stone.

“I rescued Wanda from the demise that Kang had planned for her. Gave her back the freedom to choose what to do with her life. She agreed to work with me to eliminate Kang from the multiverse, which is what we have been doing. Moving from timeline to timeline and vanquishing countless variants of Kang. But with each one we defeat, the next becomes more clever. More ready for us to show ourselves. As if he were learning from the failures of his variants. And with the timeline branching into infinite new realities every minute, the task became impossible.”

Loki throws his hands into the air. “Which is why I wanted us to take a moment to think about the consequences!”

“Until we came across some very enlightening information regarding Kang’s plans.”

"Which is what?" Loki asks, obviously exasperated.

Sylvie smirks, then touches the device on her wrist. "Come out, Miss Minutes!"

For shit’s sake, the freaking cartoon clock appears again. This time with twiddling thumbs and a sheepish expression.

Loki scoffs. "Are you serious? You can't possibly trust her! She works for Kang!"

"I realize that. But do you not know what Miss Minutes is? She is the ultimate multiversal computer. She literally takes the minutes of all of reality. She records everything. Every reality. And every detail that Kang has altered. All it took was the right…motivation, for her to reveal the information we needed."

The clock makes a huge scowl. "It's called cheatin', hon. And I still don't forgive ya."

"What did you do?" Loki asks with some trepidation.

Sylvie smirks. "Turns out no secret is safe from a nexus being.”

Goosebumps prickle over Clint’s arms as he glances at Wanda. 

“She didn’t enjoy having her clock rewound,” Wanda says, with a small shrug and hints of Slavic in her speech.

"Hmm!" the clock huffs with furrowed brow and hands on...hips.

Loki frowns. “But magic doesn’t work here.”

Sylvie grins. “Wanda’s does.”

Loki's jaw drops. “That’s impossible."

Sylvie ignores him. “With some very careful persuasion, behind encryptions and false trails and secret files, we have found it. The key to the plans of each and every Kang variant.”

"Well, what is it? Why not lead with that?"

Sylvie glares at him. "Because you're actively working against what I have been trying to do."

Before Loki can sputter out an indignant response, Sylvie touches a device on her wrist, creating a holographic display in the midst of them. It portrays a large, powerful man enshrouded in technology that Clint has never seen before. He commands armies with the twitch of a finger. Cities with the touch of a button. Kings with a word from his mouth.

“Kang’s variants all believe they are unique, but they all want the same thing. Power. To rule, conquer, and control all of time and reality. Their plans are clear, orderly, and succinct. Their methods to achieve that power may vary, but their motivation, their goal, does not.

“But at some point in each of their lives, they discover something that changes everything. I don’t know the specifics, only that the file refers to it as ‘the key’. Something invariably important enough to abandon all their other plans and methods, and focus solely on attaining it. To defeat Kang, it is imperative that we eliminate that key before he gets his hands on it.”

"What is this key, Sylvie?!”

Sylvie lifts a finger. Points it directly at…

You have got to be shitting me.

“Barton?” Loki says with obvious incredulity.

“Sylvie,” Wanda gasps in horror. “What are you saying?"

“The evidence is undeniable,” Sylvie says. “At some point or another, every Kang variant discovers a significance to six-one-six Clint Barton, and promptly prioritizes attaining that variant above everything else. He is the key.”

Six-one what?

"Barton is inexplicably significant, yes, I can agree with that, but Kang wants him dead because of it. He is actively trying to kill him right here in the TVA. If you do so yourself, you will be aiding Kang in his goal!"

Sylvie scoffs. "You're such a fool. Fallen for yet another one of Kang's manipulations. He is merely using you to keep Barton alive."

Loki throws his arms up in the air. “Kang wants Barton dead! Ask any hunter or analyst in this entire confounded place! Their orders are to prune on sight!"

"Their orders are to find the outlier and bring him in. But this one wouldn't be pruned, I assure you."

Outlier?

"But why? What possible use could Barton be to someone so powerful?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. All I care about is stopping Kang, and making sure he never gets his hands on that key.”

"You never said anything about hurting Clint." Wanda’s voice is low. Calm.

“Think about this, Sylvie!" Loki yells. "This is information you extracted from Miss Minutes! How do you know this isn't Kang manipulating you into killing Barton for him?”

“I know what I saw in that file, Loki. Behind the greed and ruthlessness and pride, I saw Kang's desperation. His raw, unyielding need to attain something that only Barton can provide him. I’m not wrong. Kang wants Barton, and I have no intention of letting that happen under any circumstances.”

Before she finishes speaking, Sylvie produces a short, glinting blade.

“No!” Wanda shouts, and a staticky red glow encompasses Sylvie’s hand that wields the blade. “No more death! I won’t allow you to hurt him!”

“Then you are allowing Kang the ability to manipulate us all!”

Clint's thoughts begin to spiral. It… makes sense. If Kang wants what Sylvie says he wants, for everyone to be miserable, divided, broken, ripe for conquering, then he would want to ensure a reality where that occurs.

A reality of grief.

“You murdered my sister. And now I am going to make sure you get what you deserve."

Loneliness.

“I'm glad he went back. Steve deserves to be happy.”

Disappointment.

“Dad? You…didn’t forget about my ballet recital, did you?”

A reality where Clint lives.

And Natasha dies.

“Wanda,” Sylvie says in a soft voice. “Believe me when I say that you would be happier in a reality where Barton is dead.”

Wanda nearly laughs. “Clint is the last person in my life who truly cares for me!"

"Wanda, wait,” he says, placing a hand on her arm. “She might be right."

Wanda looks horrified. "How can you say that?"

"The TVA is pruning variants of yourself left and right, Barton! Kang clearly wants you dead!" Loki exclaims. "You cannot allow Sylvie to manipulate you into carrying out his work!"

“What if you're wrong? What if she's right and he manipulated you into saving me? Kang wants everyone miserable, right? Well guess what, in a reality where I survive, everyone is miserable!" He jabs a finger at Rogers. "This guy, who would probably walk through a burning building to save a sick goldfish, abandoned his best friend."

"I did not!"

"My best friend's sister tried to avenge her by taking out her grief on me, because, deliberate or not, it is my fault she’s dead! My children live with daily disappointment because their stupid father can't pull himself out of his own drowning guilt and depression long enough to remember a baseball game or a dance recital. My wife carries the burden of the entire household. Misery follows wherever I go! Why would Kang want me dead? Keep me alive, and he can achieve limitless control! You showed me yourself—Kang’s intent is to destroy the only reality in which I die and Natasha survives Vormir! Clearly my death is the true threat to his plan. He wants me alive!”

Sylvie turns to him with raised eyebrows. “Is that what Loki told you?”

Her tone carries a foreboding promise that makes Clint’s insides churn.

“He told you that there is only one reality where Romanoff survived? That such a reality was the outlier in all the multiversal chaos?”

“Don’t listen to her, Barton,” Loki hisses.

Sylvie touches a button on her wrist. “Kang does want you alive, Clint Barton. You are from six-one-six. A reality fortunate enough not to diverge from He Who Remains’s—another Kang variant's—'Sacred Timeline'. Your survival was no doubt a critical aspect of his plan. But I killed that variant, and what was once a rigidly constructed timeline is now free. There are now countless new realities, free from his stifling, tyrannical control."

The holographic images Sylvie displays now show himself and Natasha, fighting for the right to die on that cursed rock.

“There are countless timelines of yourself and Romanoff sent to retrieve the Soul Stone. And what do you think each and every one of those missions looks like in a reality free from Kang’s influence? Those that dared to stray from the Sacred Timeline?”

Clint gazes at the images in a mix of confusion and horror.

"She's lying, Barton!"

Sylvie's gaze does not leave Clint's. "Let's see the Time Heist files, Miss Minutes!”

The clock sighs heavily and does a spin, and a large stack of files flows from animation to reality, piling up in a sliding stack before them. Sylvie pulls one, seemingly at random. "There we are. Avengers Time Heist. ‘Romanoff and Barton sent to retrieve the Infinity Stone known as Soul.’ And who perishes in order to retrieve that stone?”

She turns the file toward him, and he reads the name beneath her finger.

Clinton Francis Barton.

She pulls another. Flips to a page and flops it in front of him.

Then another.

Another.

His own name stares back up at him under large, bolded text.

DECEASED.

Clint digs through the files himself. Countless realities. One outcome.

Clint Barton.

Clint Barton.

Clint Barton.

The holographic display cuts between seemingly endless clips of Clint diving from the altar of Vormir. The angle varies. His injuries vary. How close Natasha gets to him before he goes over varies. But the outcome does not.

“You always die for that stone, Barton. Every time, without fail, in a reality where free will is possible. Possible only because I freed the timeline.” 

Clint’s mind reels and his stomach twists with nausea.

He doesn't understand.

“You would have died instead of her if you could have, would you not?” Sylvie says, her voice gentle.

Yes. God, yes.

"Do you not find it strange that that’s not how it happened?”

The room begins to spin. His vision starts to blur.

“You would have succeeded—done something differently to assure her survival—had He Who Remains not interfered to make reality adhere to his own personal goals. In his Sacred Timeline, Romanoff dies. In a free reality, Romanoff lives.”

And Clint dies.

“Barton, do not listen to her! She is canonically untrustworthy! She’ll betray anyone to get what she wants. She betrayed me as well! You cannot allow her to get into your head!”

But Loki's declarations fall on deaf ears. The fog begins to clear.

Loki told him there was only one reality where he died and Natasha lived. Sylvie has shown him proof of the exact opposite. That in countless realities—all other realities— Natasha lives, and he dies.

Except this one.

"I don’t know what Loki told you, but there is not simply one reality where Romanoff survives. She is supposed to survive, in a freed timeline. But you, and only you, six-one-six Clint Barton, survived Vormir. You are the outlier, the exception, that Kang—that all variants of Kang—are seeking. I don’t know why and I don’t care. But I am going to do what is necessary to make sure that he does not get his hands on you."

"Barton, don't!"

"You, Clint Barton, must die.”

“No!” Wanda shrieks.

“He’s the hindrance to you getting the life you deserve, Wanda.”

“No! I will not allow you to hurt Clint!”

Clint spirals into an eddy of black horror, drowning in a horrible cacophony of villainous greed, Loki’s lies, and his own failures.

Natasha was supposed to live.

Natasha was supposed to live.

And Kang, this madman, has the audacity to use Clint to guarantee the misery of everyone he cares about…

Holy shit, Clint thinks. It's me. I am the problem.

“Barton! Listen to me!”

“Clint, I think you should sit down…”

“Clint, get behind me. I won’t let her hurt you.”

How stupid could he be. Loki has always been fully aware of how to manipulate him. Has been inside his brain and thoroughly rummaged around in there in New York, exposing all his most sensitive vulnerabilities.

Inside, he found Natasha, and saw… opportunity.

Clint’s body stiffens into granite. His eyes go harder than their marble glaze under the influence of the Mind Stone.

He turns, slowly, to face Loki, who holds his hands out placatingly in front of him. 

“Barton…”

"You said… You said Kang wanted me dead,” Clint growls through gritted teeth.

“He does!”

“That there was only one reality where Natasha lived."

"Well, technically I said–"

"That whatever I did differently to ensure that I died instead of Natasha set off a chain reaction that threatened Kang's plans. That Kang would stop at nothing to eliminate the reality where Natasha survived."

"Which is true! I–"

"You failed to mention the part where I am the critical key in guaranteeing that happens! That I am who Kang is searching for! I am who he wants! Not to kill me, but to make sure that I live! To use me in some twisted way to make certain that everyone I love suffers! To guarantee that Natasha dies!"

"Barton… Listen to me."

Clint’s head spins. A sudden high-pitched ring distorts his hearing. "You manipulated me! Made an ass out of me and used Natasha as bait—as the carrot to keep me following blindly, and…”

And…

No. Dear God, no…

How could he have been so blind.

“Barton, please.”

The dream of Natasha waking on Vormir. Begging the others to help him. Searching every grain of sand on Vormir…

All for nothing. Because…

“She’s… she’s really dead, isn't she?” Clint utters with a horrible concession of reality. “You got in my head again, didn’t you? Convinced me that she was alive to what? Lure me to a dying planet and kidnap me?”

Loki blinks at him, eyes growing impossibly wide. “Of course not! I–”

“Oh, God, how could I be so stupid.”

She’s gone. She’s really gone and Clint is the most gullible, useless waste of human breath…

“Barton, I swear to you–”

"No wonder Kang wants me! He wants everyone miserable and broken! Ruin and despair! All of which resulted from my survival. He wants me alive, because I'm supposed to be dead!"

“ROMANOFF IS ALIVE!”

All sound ceases. The ringing fades away. The spinning comes to a decided halt.

What.

“She is alive. On your timeline. You were right. I saw it in her file! She believes you to have perished on Vormir during your search for her. She is searching for a way to bring you back! I should have told you. I realize that now, but I…”

The high-pitched ring returns with a vengeance, drowning out all other sound.

Clint blinks at Loki’s soundless, rapidly moving mouth. 

And Clint. Sees. Red.

He lunges at Loki, hurling a fist of steel into his unsuspecting expression of stupor. Clint’s teeth are so tightly gritted that speech takes a battle to produce.

“You lying, backstabbing bastard!” He hurls another fist into Loki’s face.

“Barton! Stop!” Loki exclaims, extending arms to protect his face but otherwise not fighting back.

“Shut up! Don’t you dare use her to manipulate me again! I am done with your lies, and I am done hearing you say her name—you lying son of a bitch!”

“Clint, calm down–”

Who would even dare–

Clint bucks Rogers’s hand off like a bronco. “Get off of me, you hypocritical, commandeering, two-faced fraud!”

Rogers jerks back as if burned, but the distraction proves just enough for Loki to slither out of his grasp like the lying serpent he is.

“What Loki’s deception makes even more abundantly clear is that Barton is the key that Kang is searching for,” Sylvie states calmly. “Under no circumstances can we allow him to succeed.”

“No.”

“Wanda…”

“No. I won’t allow it!”

It is only then that Clint realizes that Sylvie has been slowly but steadily shifting closer to him during his scuffle with Loki, and an instant after this realization she strikes like a cobra, blade sharp and deadly and aimed at his heart.

It is instinct rather than a particular desire for self-preservation that spurs Clint to counter the attack.

“No! Clint!” Wanda screams.

“Clint!” Steve shouts.

“Sylvie, stop!” Loki bellows.

The blade makes another aggressive strike, but Clint is thrown back, hard, by a burst of red, chaotic energy. Clint struggles to his feet only to be plowed into from the other direction by Loki.

“Let me go!” Clint snarls, struggling in the Asgardian’s hold as Loki fiddles with the TemPad.

There’s the swooshing sound of a time door. 

Loki’s frantic grip on his vest. 

Wanda’s yelp of surprise. 

Sylvie’s hiss of rage—

It is all abruptly cut off as Loki shoves him through the orange doorway that instantly closes behind them.

Clint comes to a painful landing on cold, inundated concrete. Thunder booms in the distance, and heavy rain and wind pelts him from every angle. He groans and rolls to his hands and knees, and peers up through the heavy downpour. 

Before them stands a large structure, blurry from the heavy rain and wind, but Clint wipes away the excess water and squints to make out one word and a logo, flickering in an LED-fueled blue in the storm.

Roxxcart. 

Chapter Text

Horror cuts through Bucky with a force worse than the burn of a cattle prod. The sharp bite of the hose. The agony of the chair…

Too late. Milliseconds too late…

A deep, cellular rage explodes from him in a baleful howl. The urge to destroy. Rend. Tear limbs from torso until the only screams left are his own… 

In his decades of captivity, hardly a waking moment went by when he did not actively wish to be dead. Now, it is as if he is dead. He died with the last fading light of blue eyes, and yet is still cruelly forced to keep breathing. To continue to walk around in his empty, purposeless body...

"Like a dog, Barnes!”

Then end it.

There’s a noise, and Bucky startles awake, choking on a stifled, anguished scream lodged in his throat. 

Steve.

He stares, unblinking, in a learned, reactionary panic, expecting imminent violence or punishment. But he is surrounded by the square, metal tunnel of Banner’s laboratory vents, not scientists, or handlers, or…

Gray. A dull, empty, endless abyss of gray.

No. It’s just a nightmare. A horrible fabrication of his damaged subconscious. It’s not real. Not real…

In the distance, there is the faintest echo of a muted, metal clang. Then another.

Someone else is in the vents.

Bucky palms the knife in his pocket, pushing the panic into the recesses of his mind and focusing every sense on the steadily approaching sounds of knees on galvanized steel.

The intruder's breathing is heavy. Excited. Their heart is racing at over a hundred and ten beats per minute.

Bucky catches a soft curse uttered under frustrated breath, and deduces the intruder to be female.

Bucky waits.

She rounds the corner in a manner that is less than graceful, then her eyes go as wide as chakrams. Her long, dark hair is tied up into a high ponytail, and in her left hand she grips something long and slender, almost like…a bow?

By the rate of her heartbeat, she is both extremely startled and probably slightly terrified at the sight of him.

Bucky decides she is not a threat.

She backs up, then crawls away at a pace that ensures zero stealth.

Bucky rests his head against the vent wall and lets his eyes fall closed. Let them find her if they can stop yelling at each other long enough to detect her.

The fading tendrils of the nightmare linger. He spins his blade in his right hand, trying to will the images out of his brain.

It’s faint, but he can hear the distinctive, threadbare wobble that is Steve’s current voice.

“I’ll tell her.”

Bucky is not delusional enough to think he can avoid Steve forever, and the persistent, unsettling twist in his gut tells him that he has most likely reached his own limits of separation.

He sighs. Resheathes the blade.

Time to face the music. 

-

“He’s here. In the lounge.”

While loath to leave Natasha in what is probably one of the lowest moments of her life, Steve knows that if he lets this chance get away, he will quite literally hate himself for the rest of his life. 

He quite literally crashes into the lab's lounge area, out of breath and eyes wide, throwing his gaze in every direction until it falls on the dark, hunched figure leaning against the wall.

Bucky pushes off the wall on unsteady legs, as if surprised by Steve's entrance, and Steve's legs follow suit and turn into jelly. He stares at Bucky like a parched man in a desert stares at an oasis, waiting for the mirage to vanish. Bucky, in turn, stares at him like a deer into headlights, looking ready to bolt but too frightened to do so. 

Steve is peripherally aware that everyone is staring at both of them. 

"Come on, Rhodey. Let's go see if we can be of some help to Bruce," Sam says.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Rhodey’s tone clearly indicates that he does not think it to be a good idea.

Steve prickles at the insinuation, but reminds himself that Sam was once also wary of Bucky, if only out of concern for Steve’s own well-being. And considering the last time Rhodey and Bucky were together, Rhodey almost lost a hand…

Rhodey inhales. 

"Come, friend Rhodes. For you are our compassionate comrade, are you not?" 

Thor's words are tinted with all the subtlety an Asgardian can muster—which is to say none—and he physically pushes an obviously reluctant Rhodey out the door of the lounge. Sam throws them both a nervous glance and an awkward thumbs up, and then they are alone.

They proceed to stare at each other.

Steve doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Afraid that the slightest movement will send Bucky bolting.

‘Let him come to you,’ Sam's voice says in his head.

He sees Bucky take a breath. There’s a step in Steve's direction.

And then something inside Steve unravels and he can't help it. His body prickles with a seemingly cellular desire to tug Bucky against him and never let go. 

But the instant his feet move foward, Bucky takes a reactive, almost fearful step backward, something akin to panic on his face, which effectively dumps a splash of cold reality over Steve that seeps down to his bones.

He reigns himself in and takes a step back as well. Clears his throat. "Hey, Buck.” His voice is barely more than a rasp.

A beat. 

"Hey, Steve."

Bucky seems almost unwilling to look at him; his eyes staying mainly in the vicinity of Steve's knees.

Now what.

Steve can't remember a time when he didn't know what to say to the man whom he trusts more than anyone in the world. But this silence is killing him.

Say something. Anything.

"You cut your hair."

Steve immediately wants to kick himself because that is probably one of the single stupidest things he could have said, but the statement miraculously pulls Bucky’s eyes up from Steve's knees to his face. He stares openly, gaze almost piercing, as if he is waiting for him to say more.

Uh. Okay. You can do this. 

"It, uh, looks good on you.”

Bucky's shoulders visibly lose some of their tension. There is the tiniest quirk of the left side of his mouth.

Yes! Good job. Say more good things.

"It looked good long too, though. Suited you."

Okay now why is he all tense again? What did I say? How the hell have I managed to screw this up already? This is Bucky, for crying out loud.

Just rip off the band-aid.

"I'm... I'm so happy to see you, Buck. It's been... I've... Well. How have you been doing?"

Bucky considers his response for long enough that Steve almost apologizes for asking. 

"I flirted with Sam's sister."

...What? 

"You what?"

"And went on a date with a girl in Brooklyn."

"Okay…”

His confusion must show, because Steve's shoes have become interesting again, and damn it, what is he doing wrong?

"Sorry, Bucky. I mean, I'm glad you've been getting out there, but I was more referring to how you're… you know. Feeling on the inside?"

"I'm fine,” Bucky says to Steve’s shoes.

Then why haven't we seen each other in over a year?

"Sam said you’ve had some tough times.”

This is also apparently the wrong thing to say.

"I don't care what Sam said. I'm fine."

He can't make eye contact. Won't let Steve touch him. Says things that even Steve can't follow.

Fine. Sure you are, buddy.

This is all Steve’s fault. He has so much to explain. So much to answer for.

"How are you."

Steve's soul sings at the question. 

"I'm doing good, Buck. Other than not seeing you for–”

"What do your most recent health scans report?"

Steve blinks. "Good. Still as spry as I've ever been."

This answer also seems to be insufficient.

Damn it, what is wrong with them? Steve feels like they are on different sides of entirely separate conversations, and they've barely spoken more than ten words to one another. Sam had always insisted that Bucky had needed space, that he was recovering, but now Steve worries that distance may have permanently broken them.

Steve resists the sudden urge to cry. He used to know Bucky so well. Used to read him like a book. Now, he has no idea what is going through Bucky's head. What Bucky really feels toward him.

Explain. He needs to know why. 

"Listen, Bucky. I–”

A sudden, forceful shaking cuts him off.

The building groans and the walls creak. The television rocks in a deep back and forth motion before crashing to the floor. Recently replaced glassware on the bar that managed to survive the first quake tumbles off and shatters on the floor.

But…it can’t be. 

Steve grabs hold of the bar counter when the shaking grows strong enough to make him unsteady on his feet. When he staggers briefly during a particularly vicious tremor, Bucky takes a hasty step toward him before pulling himself back with nearly as much force as the quake itself.

Steve both wants to punch a hole in the wall and cry in frustration.

It's another full minute of forceful rocking before the quake subsides. Bruce and Sam are shouting urgently in the lab, and his instinct is to run to assist them, but his feet are glued to the floor, as if physically unable to voluntarily leave the side of the man who has encompassed the vast majority of his conscious thoughts for years.

Bucky motions toward the door. 

"Go." 

When Steve doesn't move, he rolls his eyes. 

"I'm right behind you."

Steve reluctantly obeys, hurrying out into the corridor and down toward the main laboratory, where Bruce requests an injury report.

The lab is in chaos. While the first quake toppled things over, this one seems to have shaken things completely apart. The bookcase in the corner is in pieces, the tools are hopelessly scattered throughout the entire room, and several of the light panels on the ceiling have fallen and shattered on the floor, covering it in sharp splinters. 

The main monitor displays breaking news, showing footage of the damage around the entire city, and the mayor declaring a state of emergency. 

“As much as I am loath to declare, I must draw your attention to the fact that this seismic phenomenon bears unfortunate similarities to what we experienced on the now disintegrated planet of Vormir,” Thor points out in a grave tone. 

“I was afraid of that,” Bruce mutters. 

So was Steve. 

Sam has the heel of his palm to one eye. “You both okay?” he asks. 

Steve nods. “You?”

Sam attempts to open his injured eye. "Tremor knocked me clear into the corner of the desk. Probably gonna have one hell of a shiner.”

Bucky has, true to his word, followed him inside, and Steve feels a ridiculous gratitude for his presence at his left shoulder. Where he belongs.

Steve turns a serious stare to Bruce. “Any more information on that quake?” 

"Data coming in now, but… It's bad, guys," Bruce announces. "This one would have been felt throughout the entire East Coast.”

Steve moves closer. Lowers his voice. “Bruce. Is there any way that these quakes could be… aftershocks? Or a result of the plates settling or something?”

Bruce frowns and shakes his head. “It has to be of lesser intensity to qualify as an aftershock. This one was of noticeably greater magnitude.”

But…

Bruce points to the monitor. “The data I'm seeing here is progressing at a similar rate to what Rocket reported on Vormir. We're nowhere near disruption of the planetary core just yet, but if the quakes continue at this rate of exponential magnitude…"

No. It can’t be. Not after… Don’t let this all be for nothing.

“Where is the epicenter?" Steve demands.

"Workin' on it," Bruce says as he taps at a holographic keypad. "The computer is having to recalibrate its sensors after that quake, so it may take a minute. And this is a weird quake, man. I’ve never seen readings like this one. But we’ll find it, and then, hopefully, the source of all this."

Rhodey crosses his arms over his chest. “We should get ready to move out. Whatever is causing it, we have to stop it before it can cause even more casualties.”

Sam nods. “I’ll start pre-flight checks on the quinjet.”

Steve is unable to hold still. He paces as he watches the computer run the data. Wrings his hands as he watches it gradually zoom in from a view of the entire Earth, narrowing to the northern hemisphere, searching for the specific continent…

Bucky is a continuous but semi-distant presence in his peripheral vision, and it's almost pathetic how grateful he is for that.

Rhodey squints at the monitor. "Is that Europe? Asia?"

Bruce shakes his head. "Still triangulating. Narrowed down to that part of the world, at any rate."

"Yeah. Super narrowed down," Rhodey mutters.

"It'll continue to calibrate while we are en route. We'll find it, Rhodey.”

Good. They don't have a moment to lose. 

“How soon can we leave?”

"Hang on, aren't y'all forgetting something?" Sam says. "We can't just go and leave Nat on her own. And she certainly isn't up to traveling."

Bruce puts a hand to his temple. "Damn it, you're right."

"We can't just leave her. But we can't stay behind either."

“One of us could stay?” Bruce suggests, then glances at Steve.

Oh, hell no.

"I am absolutely going with you," he says in his best Captain America voice.

Bucky suddenly disappears from his peripheral vision. Steve spins around to catch sight of him, only to be met by Sam and his own Captain America voice.

"Come on, Steve, be reasonable. This has all the signs of being extremely dangerous. You're in no condition to be coming with us."

Steve suddenly feels like he's sixteen again, having to argue with his mother about being allowed to go to school. He fights the urge to stamp his foot in frustration. "I'm going. Don't waste time arguing with me."

Sam looks heavenward, but does not argue further.

“Then what are we going to do?!” Rhodey groans at the ceiling.

“I shall assist with the rescue of civilians until we are ready to depart,” Thor declares. 

“I’ll think of something. Just, first let me go check on Nat," Bruce says wearily. "You guys just get ready to head out."

Right. Maybe he still has a spare uniform here somewhere. It might not fit as well as it used to, but–

“Steve.”