I know, I said I was going to take a break from fanfiction to prep for finals.

And I have been studying like a madman! But well, it's plot bunny mating season, and I convinced myself that I could take a break from studying long enough to type this oneshot up.

(For anyone waiting on my 21 Ways fic: exams are due on the 26th of May so expect the next chapter on the 27th or 28th. :)

The arrow had been braced tight against the strong bowstring, his agile fingers holding it in place. The string had been biting into his fingers, grazing the callouses that had built up from years of archery.

It would have been so easy. Too easy. He could have done it by accident.

All it would have taken was the slightest loosening of his fingers, the faintest readjustment. The slackening of one or two muscles in his fingers, and his life would have been changed forever, in more ways than he could ever know.

He wouldn't have had to make that call to his handler, informing him of the "change of plans. We're going to need extraction for two."

He wouldn't have gotten those frazzled, 'Barton-what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-with-you' glances from Coulson when he reached the quinjet.

He wouldn't have seen the critical looks the other agents gave him, wouldn't have heard their hushed whispers as he strode into HQ.

He wouldn't have gotten completely pounded by Fury for his 'insubordination' for the better part of an hour.

He wouldn't have had to take mandatory leave of absence from all field missions and file paperwork for a month.

He wouldn't have spent so many long hours in the containment unit, pouring his heart out to stubborn ears, trying to gain the trust of one who had been betrayed too many times.

And he wouldn't have seen that look of complete amazement and wonder shining in her mysterious eyes when he first proved that she could trust him.

He wouldn't have had to sit in that conference room for two and a half hours, helping Coulson argue for the instatement of a new STRIKE team.

He wouldn't have seen that hint of a smirk fight its way onto her lips when he told her that they were officially a team.

He wouldn't have fought so many thrilling battles alongside her, terrifying and exciting and exhausting fights, filled with blood and sweat and the sharp scent of gunsmoke and red hair and the twang of his bowstring and playful, lighthearted banter over the comms. He wouldn't have spent so many dark nights with the spy and the first-aid kit, stitching up gashes and setting bones and wrapping cuts and wiping away blood and grime. And seeing her face so close to his, puckered with concentration as her nimble fingers danced across his skin, patching up his own injuries. And exchanging quiet, serious conversations, sprinkled with phrases like "oh, I'll live", and "don't scare me like that again", and "I've always got your back".

He wouldn't have been there the first time she laughed, to hear how beautiful it was and to see how beautiful she was.

He wouldn't have taken on so many disguises, dressing in a stiff tux for this undercover op or that. Spent those evenings in hotel rooms, fastening up the back of her dress while she knotted his bowtie, all the while trying not to think about the smell of her perfume or how she looked in that dress. Knives in their clothing, secrets in their eyes. The spare magazine she kept tucked into her bodice. His collapsible bow. He wouldn't have let his hand linger on the small of her back as they walked through crowds, pretending to be lovesick dates or ecstatic newlyweds. He wouldn't have stolen those kisses from her bright lips, pretending that it was only for the cover and that he didn't feel his heart twist in his chest every time her eyes met his.

And when she kissed him on that rooftop in Paris, he wouldn't have seen it in her eyes, felt it on her fingertips: the promise that this time, she meant it.

He wouldn't have spent all those blissful days with her: mornings, waking up to find her tangled in his arms, her brilliant hair fanned across the pillowcase. Breakfasts, sitting across from her and sipping coffee, laughing and looking into her green eyes. Midmornings, standing in the ring with her, exchanging good-humored repartee, and sparring, till they ended up with one of them pinned to the floor, both sweating and panting and laughing. Languid afternoons, sprawled across couches, his head resting in her lap, absentmindedly watching TV as they talked about life between lazy kisses. Evenings, washing dishes and chatting lightly and laughing as they reflected on past missions. And nights, lying in their soft bed and kissing her till his mouth ached and twisting his hands through her silky hair as their passion reached dizzying heights.

He wouldn't have endured all those torturous days: loud arguments where her eyes blazed and her cheeks caught fire and Russian profanity spilled off her tongue. Long nights where it was too much and they had to give it a rest and he lay in his cold bed alone, thinking about her.

And the inevitable moment where they resolved their differences, and holding her in his arms again felt so familiar and right.

But, of course, there was the undeniable fact that if he hadn't hesitated with the arrow in his hand, if he had released it instead, he would never have gotten the call.

He would never have felt the weight of apprehension in his stomach when she left for that solo mission, would never have jumped with anticipation when the phone rang, would never have heard that solemn agent's voice say "Mr. Barton, I'm so, so sorry."

He would never have spent that time on the phone, yelling at the agent, demanding that he say he was joking, that it was a lie.

He would never have had to experience those torturous hours of denial, punching and kicking and cursing at everything in sight, screaming that he didn't believe it, that it wasn't true, that she was fine and she was coming back tomorrow when evac went in, anger coursing through his veins and burning in his throat until his voice was hoarse.

He would never have spent those days locked in their room, eyes swollen and smarting, clutching one of her old blouses to his chest.

He would never have had to sit through that service, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, grief chewing at his heart, eating him from the inside out until he was hollow and empty and alone.

And he certainly wouldn't be standing here now, gazing at this hideous headstone.

He had made his decision, all those years ago. He could have released that arrow like his senses had been screaming at his to do, like his fingers had been itching to do, but he hadn't. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't be hurting right now.

But the pain meant that his life had been filled with delight and love and laughter and red hair and sarcasm and dances in the rain and smirks and whispers and broken promises. If he didn't have this pain, then he wouldn't have had any of the joy, either.

So yes, if he had released that arrow like he had been ordered to, he wouldn't be hurting right now. He wouldn't be crying right now or whispering "Please, Tasha. Please come back." His insides wouldn't feel like they had disintegrated and been replaced by heavy stones.

But even though the pain was worse than anything he had ever felt, and even though she had been a part of him and now that part of him had been ripped away, Clint Barton knew that holding onto that arrow had been, and always would be, the best decision of his life.