𝖛𝖔𝖑𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔;
A hot core in the centre of his chest, molten blood pumping through buzzing veins, pain threatening to boil over and consume his entire body. Clint clung to the edge of the cliff face, his fingers gripping rock 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 enough to turn his dusty knuckles white. He couldn't look away. Even after clambering up the rope that she'd affixed to him to save his life, he couldn't tear his eyes from the broken body of Natasha Romanoff.
A mess of orange hair surrounded by a quickening pool of crimson, his heart lay crippled and gone against the gargantuan stone circle. An eternal resting place surrounded by foggy violet skies and the morbid whispers of a thousand sacrificial loved ones, she deserved better than this.
She deserved 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙨.
Long, winding decades filled with friendship and happiness, a ragtag family that she'd chosen. Board-games around a glass table. Silent footsteps sneaking midnight snacks. Russian secrets, a burden shared, between ex-assassin friends. Soft blankets, duvet days and movie nights. Companionship, family, safety. Everything her cruel childhood masters had stolen from her. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.
His body 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 with it. As tears began to spill over his mud-splattered cheeks, the devastated hero screamed into the empty abyss. Pure, unadulterated horror spilled from his mouth, echoing into the deadly canyon below as every snapshot of their past began to filter through his mind.
Moscow. Kraków. Budapest.
Coffee in New York. Breakfast at Tony's. Midnight in Paris.
Emerald green eyes, a phoenix tail of wild hair, that fucking know-it-all smirk. Her hand in the small of his back. The silver arrow pendant he gave her for Christmas. Stolen kisses behind the burnt-out wreckage of an ongoing battle.
Not anymore. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚.
Bullets and arrows straight through the beating heart in his chest, the love of his life lay dashed across an uninhabitable forever.
Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2020: https://tinyurl.com/5d783p9h