Chapter Text
It wasn’t supposed to end like this, not with her laying there with her eyes open. Blood staining their sheets and dripping onto the floor. Her face frozen in mid-scream. But here he is, standing in the doorway, barely moving an inch staring at his wife’s mangled body.
“Promise you won’t be too long, will you?”
His knees hit the wooden floor. Her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes. The same eyes that he joked about until she finally threw her hands up screaming that he has a minute to ask her out before she does.
“Ten bucks say you try to recruit another baddie.”
A wet chuckle escapes, she was never going to let him forget that. Hell, he kept bringing up the time she rescued a little ducking from being attacked by a roaming dog. Next thing he knows, the dog and the duck become best of friends after weeks of feeding and treats. Tons of treats. Another chuckle escapes, but ends up sounding like a wail in the end.
“Clint, I’m thinking we should get another dog.”
He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. But Natasha is there. Gripping his head tightly to look at her, but he can’t. His eyes won’t leave his wife’s. Something seems wrong with them. He can’t figure it out.
-
Clint wakes up with the sun in his face. With a couple of headaches; one behind his eyes, and another the side of his head. He runs through his hair, there’s a bump.
“I’m sorry about that,” Natasha says. She’s leaning across from him. Her hands covering her mouth and chin barely sitting on the chair in front of him. Natasha, the one who barely loses her composure, had tear stains.
He sits up slowly, quickly checking his hearing aids. Still in. She must have moved him to the couch after hitting his head. “It’s—”, he croaks, “It’s alright.” He tries to clear his throat; it feels like he’s screamed for hours. And cried for hours, since his face feels funky. Who knows, he probably did. Everything is still a blur. Except for Laura.
“Clint,” she pauses, breathing in a shaky breath. She’s fiddling with her fingers, actually fiddling. “Clint, what —”, she stops. Her face scrunches, shakes her head once before finally giving up speech all together. It’s not surprising after all, Laura was her first female friend that didn’t have an agenda to back stab her or expect her deadly assassin training. When Clint brought her to the farm, she didn’t expect to find Laura there with a cup of coffee out for Clint and a blanket wrapped ready too. Hell, if anything she thought they were taking her to middle of nowhere to kill her off. However, she got Laura instead. Now… Clint didn’t want to even finish that thought.
For a while, they stayed like this: Natasha controlling herself, Clint sitting across from her. He doesn’t even cry, everything feels numb. Even his couch, the most comfortable couch confirmed by Tony Stark, whose slept on more beds than Clint would in his lifetime, says it’s a god send. Suddenly doesn’t feel as soft or cushiony. It was one of the first things that Laura picked out.
He beelines towards the kitchen for a glass of water, his throat burns. And he needs to wash his face. If Nat’s has tear stains, his can’t be pretty either. After his third glass, he finally looks over to Natasha whose leaning against the doorframe. Clint knows what she’s about to ask, but he can’t. He shakes his head. She pleads silently. Being friends for years now, a tilt of her head means only a few things, and he knows exactly what she’s trying to say. “Sit down,” he orders, “I have to do this.” How long have his hands been shaking, he whispers, “For her.” He leaves a glass of water on the counter for her, before leaving to bury his wife.
-
Slowly, Clint climbs back to his bedroom. He’s not sure how he’ll do this, walking all the way down to the hall, finding his wife laying there. Her eyes pleading for help, for him. And the blood.
Natasha must have covered her body, and moped up the blood that was pooling under their bed. Laura’s body was wrapped in the bloody sheets and bed spread, he only paused once then clicked into autopilot. Gripping the bed spread tightly around her, he carried her to the back of the barn. There was a fire wood stacked next to it. Simply thinking of burying her would destroy him. Just knowing she’s six feet under being eaten worms, he shuddered. Forever trapped on this property, as if still waiting for him to come home. No, she deserves to be scattered hopefully fly through the continents, maybe make it to Hawaii. Laura made plans next year for their anniversary to visit Hawaii. Saying it was the destination to relax and enjoy a break from the farm and bad guys. “Bad guys don’t attack Hawaii, they’re not that bad, Clint. Don't eye roll me.”
Carefully, he placed her down and begun to make a fire pit a couple of yards away. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, a tell that someone—Natasha—was watching him. Even when facing his wife’s death, his spy instincts never take a break.
By the time the fire pit was finished, and Laura’s body laid in the center, two hours have already passed. Natasha crept out at one point, holding out a bottle of gasoline. Giving one final kiss on Laura’s forehead, Clint watched the flames engulf his wife while holding Natasha’s hand. If he heard Natasha sniff, he only gave a light squeeze.
-
It was a night again when he came back in. Natasha sitting back where her glass was. But at least appears to have more control of herself. The glass in her hands would say otherwise. He sat down next to her, reaching out to grip her hand. Then pulls it back. Any more human contact and a dam might break behind his eyes. So that leaves the next best thing: he grabs her glass, reaches for the vodka that’s stored back in the fridge and pours her a double. But not before he takes one for himself.
Nat slings it back. Without missing a beat, she asks, “I’m going back to SHIELD in a week. Are you staying or going?”
A week. Laura would be angry with him if he went. Never say it out loud, yet she wanted him to stay. Always afraid Agent Phil driving up in a sleek black car telling her the terrible news. She never said, but he read it through her features and actions, just like Nat. Although Nat was harder to crack. That’s why he told Laura that the last mission was the Last Mission. She smiled, patted his cheek with a quick peck and wished him luck. But Laura isn’t here to greet him back from a successful mission, to claim her prize of winning another bet, to give him coffee in the morning, to give him sweet pecks on the cheek before leaving again. She— died. Murdered by god knows who.
And those bastards— “Coming.” Then finishes another double shot, slamming the glass down, where it cracked and crumbled in his hand.