Title: Wayfaring Stranger

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own 'Tasha or Clint or any other familiar character that pops up.

Summary: It's been three years since Clint has seen Natasha. He's been dismissed from S.H.I.E.L.D & the Avengers team. Discovering a certain redhead has been compromised during a suicide mission, he is needed when he is the most unstable. Lies, secrets, and love.

Hi, everybody! I've been working on this Clint-centric story for a while. I have fallen in love with the Clint/Natasha pairing. They're a tragic pair so why not throw Clint into a bunch of tragedy? I'm mean, I know.

Please leave feedback after reading so I will know if enough of you ladies & gents are interested in knowing the rest of Clint's story. I'm just a poor college student and any comments are enough to feed me for another chapter. We all win in the end!

1

It was pouring buckets outside the little bar in New York. The bartender had to go in the back and search for a pail to capture a leak just near the tap. Clint had been in this little hole-in-the-wall for nearly three hours. His tab would probably be higher than he first estimated, but he told himself to fuck it and drink what he wanted. He was having a celebration of sorts. The bartender was his buddy anyway; maybe he'd give Clint a little discount for all of the rounds he bought. Clearly, this place didn't get much business and that was exactly why Barton liked it. Nobody whispering behind his back, nobody trying to spark a conversation with him; he didn't want to deal with that shit tonight. The bar held four people, the skinny, black haired bartender, the two old men in the back that didn't give a shit about the news or about heroes, and himself. It was a great place to be when a man had nothing to lose and nothing to gain.

He let his thumb trace the minor scoops in the glass of his drink. He thought about how much a shipment of them would cost, he wondered how cheap the bartender got them for. Clint started to laugh to himself.

"Something really funny, Barton?" The bartender grumbled, throwing a gritty towel over his shoulder.

Something was really funny. Only a few years ago, Clint and the rest of the Avengers were treated like royalty after saving Manhattan from a nuclear devastation. There were parties in the streets until four a.m., there were a couple of parades, and invites to the White House. Everybody wanted to get their little piece of history, of superheroes. Clint's face was on billboards and there were action figures too, he remembered Tony adding the Avengers' Iron Man edition to his collection in a little glass case. They were treated like gods, he didn't hate the celebrations he needed to participate in with his team mates at the time, he just felt out of place; an assassin given a hero's expectation. So he could do nothing but laugh at where he was now, the parties and celebrations seemed like another lifetime to him. Nothing to show for it all except a few battle scars and a sore knee whenever it would get too cold.

Clint nodded, "Yeah, Ernie. I was laughing at how cheap this glass must have been. I've drank out of the crystal of royalty, man. Some Queen Elizabeth kind of glasses."

Ernie the bartender gave Clint a warning grumble. He continued to laugh and when seeing Ernie's annoyance, it made the situation more entertaining.

"It's not you, Ernie. It's all just made up. Everything about everything is a lie. This glass right here," Clint raised the whiskey glass and pointed to it sloppily, "this glass is the same to me as the Queen's." he dropped his whiskey glass on the bar and it spilled everywhere as he stood up. Clint leaned closer to Ernie's red face and whispered, "You know what? They never tell you that you're no longer needed. Oh, no, they send you a goddamn fancy letter asking you to take your leave at the agency for a while. Your team mates are asked to not contact you and when they try, you know because… because she'd never just leave for another place and keep everything confidential from you. She owed you. You know? You can't just sleep with her, fall in love with her, and then lose her all at the same time!" Clint leaned away from Ernie slowly and spoke very darkly, "where is the justice in any of that?"

He felt pitiful and drunk. This man didn't give two shits about all of Clint's woes and worries, all he cared about was getting paid and then going home to his wife. What that feeling was like, Clint couldn't even imagine. He had nothing back at his apartment but a few empty bottles, two packs of playing cards heavily bent, and a bed he usually never slept in.

Clint growled and exhaled, rubbing his brow with a tired hand. He was giving this guy hell because he was standing right in front of him, but he was still having trouble swallowing down the bubbling fury he felt.

Ernie snapped the towel off of his shoulder, but not before giving Clint a good long glare. As he began wiping up the spilled liquor he countered Clint's argument, "Where's that big hero guy who never missed, huh? What happened to him, Barton?" his voice was raspy and strong.

Clint reached across the bar and before he knew what he was doing he had the bartender by his grubby shirt. "I was never a real hero! I'm just an ex-assassin with a worthless sob story."

Ernie squeezed Clint's fist strongly and pushed him off. "No. Damn it, Barton. You missed once and now you're gon' cry like a goddamn baby." Clint's anger rose, but Ernie continued, "Everybody misses every once in a while… even the fucking Hawkeye guy. He can miss; he's only human for god's sake."

Did Ernie still see Clint in a better light than he figured? Why would he even bother to say that to him? He knew he was human. What he used to think was his greatest pride, now was his taboo. Clint was a guy with an incredible skill set, gained through hard work and time. When he remembered he was human now, it only made him upset.

Maybe if he was superhuman, things could have been different.

Two thick hands grabbed him threateningly at the shoulders. Clint could take two punches and knock the two old men out for a day, but he decided against it. His heart quickened and he felt dizzy. He wanted to leave, to walk out into the rain and hope some of it could wash away the things he hated.

Looking into Clint's eyes knowingly, Ernie spoke. "You should go home now." It was not an order, it was a concerned request. It made Clint feel childish and stupid.

Shaking the old men off, he threw down a hundred dollar bill in the spilled whiskey and left the bar. An overhead bell jingled mockingly as he continued onto the cracked sidewalk filled with storm puddles. It was still raining and it was dark now.

Warm. The sky was peacefully content with the sheets streaming from it. His jacket was soaked in seconds. Warm, dirty, New York rain. Something that made sense to him. Clint could tell when it was going to rain, like a sixth sense. He didn't know the hour or the minute it would happen, he just knew that it would. Seemed like a talent. He sensed it with her. He knew he was in danger of losing her then, and when she slipped from his grasp so suddenly, he was lost.

As he continued to stand in the rain, watching apartment lights flicker on in the poorer side of the city, he only pitied and when he looked at things, they changed into something horrific. The lights from the windows looked down at him like the yellow eyes of a monster. Everything was watching him. Would they be his audience as he crept slowly into nothing? An image of laughing, teeth filled windows frightened him.

Eyelashes dripped dirty water, eyes burning, Clint wondered if he was going to cry. Popping the collar of his black jacket, he began to walk back to his apartment a few blocks away. When he got that way, he wondered what she was doing, maybe who she was doing. Clint didn't know, and Natasha made it clear that she didn't want him to know.

His eyes weren't trained on a target, they were simply open. They were open and Clint couldn't see a thing. It was like a static behind his eyeballs and it never left him alone. Feeling like his body was swirling in sticky warm rain, he began to walk faster, trying anything he could to escape it.

The rain. The rain reminded him of her blood. That's what it was. The uncanny, uncomfortable baptism of the city rain made him remember. Instinctively he reached out, catching the sticky rain as it fell. Clint wanted to scream.

It was red in his hands. Blood.

Natasha.

His eyes stung and his head felt full of parasites, taking bites out of his brain before he could even fight back. Was somebody in his mind? Was this his brain?

The sad thing was—Clint could hardly tell the difference anymore.

Clint began to dart down the sidewalk. Running and running as fast as he could to get away from it. The blood was on his face, in his eyes, and in his mouth. He wanted to plead to God to have it stop.

"Natasha!" he belted, passing confused civilians on the sidewalk.

The rain seeped through his clothes and into his pores. He still ran. It was his entire fault, her blood that was on his hands. An image of her wound, running red and slick, the feeling of wiping sweat off of the back of his hand and her blood staining his forehead, her green eyes that were calmer than his. The look in them when she yelled at him to get it together.

It echoed in his mind, "I missed and she…"

He saw blood pool from his victims and targets before, Clint even saw her blood before. But being the cause of its spill was different to Clint. He didn't do his job, he failed the mission, and got Natasha critically wounded.

"It happens to the best of agents," Fury told him when they arrived back at headquarters. "Everybody's gotta learn to miss."

Clint just wanted to get inside his dark apartment and be freed from the open world. Everything and everyone could see him running and yelling like a mental patient down the streets of New York. Nobody cared who he was anymore and that may have been an advantage. Maybe he was just another crazy on the streets. Heroes go crazy don't they? If they live long enough, he figured. Why would Clint Barton be an exception to this fate?

He stopped at the front of his apartment complex's entrance. His stomach tightened and he finally understood it all.

He wasn't a hero. Maybe he never was. A former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, an ex-assassin, and a washed up Avenger, Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, was simply a mortal man with blood on his hands.

Miserably, he walked up the flights of stairs to his apartment. He thought about the broken elevator, and then wondered if he closed the small window by his favorite armchair, hoping it wasn't soaked with that rain. Occupying his mind with stupid, useless things was always a coping mechanism of his because he was good at it. Years and years of killing could make the mind do that—come up with frivolous thought patterns to cover the sound of a falling body. One never gets used to the sound of a target's last cry.

Christ, he was drunk.

Clint stopped and gripped the railing of the stairwell with every last bit of anger in him. That job of his, to be the world's best marksman was supposed to make him a predator, not a victim. Now, and forever he would be both. Everything wasn't so oil and water as he first thought.

Finally in his apartment, Clint stumbled through the door, feeling exerted from running three blocks. He detected a difference in the place, his heightened senses kicking in. Intruder?

"It's been three years, guy."

Clint whipped around ready to take down the intruder. His arms quickly took hold of a neck. How— and who just found him? Was it the agency? They left him for dead, guts for them to just waltz into his place. Clint began to get angry; the intruder squirmed and huffed in his grasp. He heard something that sounded like, "okay, then," before receiving a painful shock through his body.

As Clint lied on the floor, he squinted to see through the black of his place. A silhouette drifted closer to him with a sort of an offset swagger. He blinked and shook his head a bit, his limbs tingled and useless.

"Tony?" Clint questioned, completely dumbfounded.

Tony coughed, "Thanks for the greeting, Barton. That wasn't how I pictured the family reunion."

Clint said nothing but continued to stare at his old team mate in disbelief. His brain felt even fuzzier than before and the Taser blow did something unpleasant to his stomach. Clint couldn't think. Who the fuck did Tony think he was, coming up in his place without warning? He was tossed from the team, why even bother to rub it in Clint's face? What did he want from him anyway, to mock his failure ever since his leave as a hero?

"You know I'm sorry about that first little shock," Tony walked over and flipped on the lights of the apartment then staring down at Clint with a sad and disgusted frown. "And… I'm going to feel even worse after the second one."

Clint felt a cold sweat break out from under his soggy, sticky clothes. He dreaded what was about to follow. He figured Tony was going to Taser him again, but he dreaded the sick that was crawling up his throat even more. He felt it burn his throat and finally spill onto the floor of his apartment. How his old friend could see him in all his glory, it made him want to laugh. Though still very angry, confused, and slightly humored, he noticed Tony never even cracked a mocking smile at him. Not even once.

"Okay, I'm really sorry for this, but you need to get cleaned up and calmed down before I can even begin to talk with you."

Tony reached for a device on his wrist, never letting his eyes off of Clint. He bit his lip, then rustled his feet, and finally groaned. His eyes seemed sad and it confused Clint, it also made him feel pitiful. He was lying in his own sick, drunk, soaking wet, and smelling of whiskey. Tony rolled his eyes. Clint's head began to pound furiously. He wished he could really dissolve away into nothing. He tried before. No such good luck could reach him.

Tony walked over and grabbed Clint by the coat, looking determined. Clint didn't even bother to object too much as Tony dragged him into the bathroom right into the bottom of the shower. Avoiding Clint's eyes, he flicked on the hot water and waited until it washed over Clint's face, cleaning him of vomit.

"I wish things were different, Barton." he spoke it strongly. Tony turned and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Clint groaned and covered his eyes. His arms bore goose bumps under his soggy clothes as the hot water streamed over him. For the first time seeing Tony in six months, this wasn't how he wanted any reunion to be. Feeling self-conscious, he tightened his jaw trying to look like he still had something going for him. The sound of the shower was enough to cover up the choking sobs he held in for three years. He knew Tony could hear them if he really wanted to, but it suddenly didn't matter to him.

Once he cleaned up and clothed himself he slowly walked out into his living area. He smelled pizza coming from his small kitchen and suddenly felt famished. Clint was confused sure, but he was also hungry. He stepped into the kitchen and Tony turned around.

Tony took a moment to allow his dark eyes to take in Clint from head to toe. He made a small frown, "You know you really need to write a strongly worded letter to your landlord about that broken elevator. Climbing up seven flights of stairs is very time consuming. Why you picked the highest floor to live on, I could never fathom."

Clint was grateful that Tony didn't pick him to bits after what just happened. It would have been the perfect opportunity for anyone. Hawkeye, letting himself go in an apartment with a soaking wet physique, choking his old team mate half to death, in an apartment filled with empty drinking bottles because there was nothing else he thought he could have. Clint was still partially stunned that Tony was in his apartment, actually there, casual and smooth as always. His mind still tingled and felt fuzzy and he was doing his best to think more quickly and clearly after showering up. He tried to remember what Tony just said about living on the top floor.

"I like high places," he stammered out.

Tony raised an eyebrow and gave him a light smirk. "Okay, this is what's going to happen. I really don't want to say anything to you, but I figure, hell, you're a trained assassin and you can handle my nitpicking and acting-like-mommy moment coming up so… why did you do this to yourself? Drink, sleep, sulk, then repeat—and what is that irritating squawking sound?" He made a humorous turn around, eyeing the apartment.

Clint shrugged, "A bird."

"Really, that's funny with the whole Hawkeye thing," Tony grabbed the stack of playing cards from the small table that sat next to the box of pizza and he began shuffling them.

"They were going to kill the thing so I said I would take it," Clint was becoming annoyed.

"A bird?" Tony thought about it for a second and then passed it off. "Okay, a bird. I can work with that. But like I was saying, Clint… I am here for an actual reason, but you need to clear your head and more importantly…drink this hangover solution I've concocted from the scraps and bits of things you own."

He stood there until he could process what Tony wanted him to do. "You want me drink that?" Clint frowned looking at a slimy green glass of things he couldn't even imagine.

"Yes, clearly," Tony retorted unsympathetically.

Biting the inside of his mouth, Clint pondered. Tony was here in his apartment when he shouldn't be. They both knew very well that Tony was forbidden to visit Clint, which led his slow moving brain to process the actual question he needed to ask.

"What are you doing here, Tony? We both know none of you are supposed to contact me." Clint got braver and moved closer to his old team mate. Why should he take orders from him?

Tony got extremely quiet and subdued. His eyes were suddenly sadder looking and it made Clint nervous. When Tony stopped playing games, things were serious. His throat tightened and his first fear clouded his brain like a flowing fog.

Natasha.

Tony continued to shuffle the cards around slowly, thoughtfully. He was buying his time, trying to figure out a light way of putting whatever he needed to say, carefully. It made Clint want to yell at his old friend, but he held it. He knew Tony was probably keeping some sort of eye on him, of course under the eyes of S.H.I.E.L.D and the council. He probably was even sneaking around the back of Clint's old friend, Nick Fury. A stab of betrayal hit him. Nobody could hand Clint a remedy to heal him of the betrayal he held in his heart. He wasn't sure anyone could make it up to him. He thought, perhaps he wasn't worth that to anyone anymore anyway. He wasn't even worth it to himself.

Clint asked again, "Why are you here? It isn't to check up on an old pal is it?" The look on Tony's face was enough evidence to show that wasn't it by any means.

"That's part of why I'm here… the checking up part," Tony set the cards down and began to walk over to the window of the apartment and continued, "I'm sure you figured it out, but I've been trying my best to keep tabs on you. Sounds a little creepy, but I mean well, I promise."

Clint wanted to cut to the chase, he wasn't going to let Tony play mind games with him just like Natasha used to do. "Natasha. Is it about her? Yes or no," he didn't sound angry, just plain. That scared him, for what he felt in his intestines wasn't the least bit plain.

Tony continued walking closer to the window, a bit out of Clint's line of vision so he followed him. It was like a game of cat and mouse. Predator and prey, both carefully followed one another's leading hand. There was so much tension in the small space of the apartment that it could be severed with a single breath. Clint's goose bumps on his arms rose even higher. Part of him didn't want to know, and the other half desperately needed to.

"Three months after you were dismissed from your S.H.I.E.L.D and Avenger's duties, Natasha took a leave from our little superhero team as well. The World Security Council, you know, Fury's bosses, our buddies who just love the idea of power, well, they sent her out to a small town in Ohio. It took me a while to actually hack into the mission file, and even the file didn't say too much…"

"Did Fury send her there?" Clint snarled.

Tony looked slightly taken aback, which confused Clint, because Fury was the one who sent him the letter of leave from S.H.I.E.L.D after their mission failure. It wouldn't surprise Clint if Nick Fury continued to use Natasha's skills until she was drained to bits…

"No, Fury was trying everything in his power to keep Natasha from being sent over to Italy. In the end, everything he did never mattered. She accepted and was shipped off before any of us even knew."

Clint felt his fists gather into tight balls. "Where is she in Italy?"

Tony dropped his head and shrugged. "I'm not sure, like I said, I had to dig for a month just to find out she was in Italy. They really didn't want anybody to know," Tony set the deck of cards on the windowsill and looked up at Clint again, "In fact if it wasn't for Fury, I wouldn't know as much as I do."

The idea of Natasha in Italy on a mission so secretive that even the great Tony Stark couldn't find much trail on it made his legs weak. There were two things he knew for certain. If an agent was handed a mission file so guarded and secret, it surely meant death. And if it was a mandatory mission of that scale, there was a lot of history as to why and who.

"You said she accepted it, why would she accept it if Fury tried everything to stop her shipment?" Clint's brain began to turn, he hadn't seen Natasha for three years, but that didn't mean he forgot who she was. In fact, that would be the last thing he could do. He thought about her every waking minute.

Her hair so red and lips so supple. Her eyes after they made love that night. The feel of her skin against his. She laughed at him when he woke up before her and all he could do was smile and gently traced the palm of her hand. Clint wasn't a romantic by far, but Natasha made him feel and do things that he could only explain as being alive. He was never a beating, useful heart until her. He remembered the look of fear in her eyes when he mumbled that he loved her. The tension in her neck. He waved it off, seeing her reaction. She bumped his shoulder and told him she was starving. She got off the bed and slipped her black shirt back on. Clint wished she hadn't. He remembered watching it gently fall over her strong abdomen and how the temperature of the room was as perfect as was the morning light. He remembered hanging his head shamelessly wishing Natasha had whispered her love back to him.

Clint's face fell. His muscles were useless as was his brain when his heart took over for the first time in three long years. He opened his mouth and he knew it was the right answer before he even muttered it.

"She's been compromised," it was a soft breath of wonder and angst.

If anyone wants some more chapters and angst, they know where to tell the poor college student!

And if anyone wants to yell at said college student, well... same thing.

Have a fantastic day, friends-

Cassie