Chapter 8
Ronald Slater's irrational hatred of Clint Barton will end with Barton's death tonight.
Dying at a fabulous hotel on a beautiful Caribbean island is a better end than most agents of SHIELD will see, so in a way this is a favor. It's also a blessing to die surrounded by friends, isn't it? Though they won't be there at the moment of his death, they'll carry his broken body up from the rocks at the base of this cliff and see to it that he has a proper wake and funeral. Slater will attend both in his finest suit and a suitably grieving demeanor. After a heartfelt if erroneous eulogy (Hawkeye is no better than anyone else and has many, many flaws. Why can't they see that?) the Avengers will surely invite Slater to fill the space on the team.
No, not just invite. Beg him to join. He can almost hear the pleading in Tony Stark's voice, see the heartfelt need in Thor's eyes. Bruce Banner will shyly offer him tea. Captain America will appeal to Slater's patriotism and invoke the good of the nation. Even Romanov will have to ask nicely, and he's going to enjoy making her grovel.
Standing on his balcony under the warm pink and yellow skies of sunset, the breeze gentle on his face and fine glass of wine in his hand, Slater imagines his bright and shining future.
The private, opulent hotel is built into the side of a cliff because Tony Stark enjoys heights and panoramic views. Like an enormous blue green carpet, the Caribbean ocean and all of its secrets spreads before Slater as far as his eyes can see. Ships and boats sail toward St. Thomas as steel band music floats up from the large terrace where Barton's birthday celebration will be. Fine food, finer liquor; Slater knows to expect the best, but the best thing tonight will not be anything on the menu.
Barton himself is on the balcony a few floors beneath Slater, and his balcony juts out further over the cliffside. Dressed in loose jeans and a white shirt, Barton is leaning on the railing looking down at the water. His profile is of a man wrangling with physical infirmity and internal doubts. During the weekend so far, Slater has seen him struggling to get out of a chair by himself, almost lose his balance at breakfast, and shake his head when Coulson tried to persuade him into the glass elevator descending to the beach. Barton doesn't talk much to his friends, which is pretty inconsiderate given they've all come here to celebrate his special day.
Barton leans further out over the ocean. Slater wonders if he means to jump. That would be expedient, but rob Slater of his chance at revenge.
He pauses, then, because there's no good reason for him to want revenge. His hand tightens on the wine glass. He tries to remind himself why Barton is so despicable. The proof is right on the tip of his memories, but the harder he tries to grab them, the quicker the details slip away.
For not the first time he feels like a puppet under someone else's control, but the sensation passes quickly.
Down below, Barton turns as Coulson joins him on the terrace. Their voices drift upward but not loud enough for Slater to make out what they're saying. Coulson stands very close, his hands on Barton's hips, his head tipped forward against Barton's with an intimacy that Slater finds uncomfortable. No one has ever gazed that way into Slater's eyes. Both men lean against the steel and glass railing, which seems sturdy enough and is certainly built to withstand any number of guests and tourists.
But steel can corrode, and accidents sometimes happen.
In fact, an accident will happen tonight. Gravity and the treacherous rocks below will put an end to Slater's irrational hatred by removing Clint Barton from humanity forever and clearing the way for Slater to achieve his rightful place in the Avengers.
Slater will make sure of it.
#
The party is full of music, food, and laughter. Clint appreciates all the effort and time Tony has put into this. Though it was probably Pepper who arranged the details--the ice sculpture of an archer with bow and arrow, the purple-tinged lanterns swinging in the breeze, the tiered chocolate cream cake decorated like a circus tent. When it comes to anything outside of his robots, computers and weapons, Tony lets loose with big ideas and leaves Pepper to handle the execution.
Regardless of who ordered the cake, Clint's reaching for a second delicious piece when Natasha's voice in his ear says, "Careful. You're supposed to be wasting away."
"I am wasting away," Clint murmurs. "That's what you've been telling me for weeks and weeks."
Ever since the exploding castle in Ghent he's had a problem with vertigo, which in turn affects his appetite. It's hard to keep food down when the world is spinning. The problem is getting better, though, and the doctors are optimistic that it will resolve itself, but in the meantime Clint's dropped a size or two. He figures he'll gain it back once he's released from physical therapy and back into full training, because there's nothing like a day on the range or at the gym to make him ravenously hungry.
Regretfully he puts aside the cake knife and the plate in his hands. He turns around to the terrace where his friends are dancing and mingling. That they all came together for this night and for him is an unexpected development. Thanks to a few overzealous nuns and their hard wooden rulers he's never been fond of words like blessing and gratitude but it's time to admit to himself, if not anyone within earshot, how touched he is.
Phil is standing several feet away, cheering on Thor and Lucy Freckles in a game that seems suspiciously like Asgardian cornhole. Phil looks amazing in dark slacks and a white shirt open at the throat, the ordinary bureaucrat gone for the night in place of a relaxed, handsome man who just happens to own Clint's heart. Phil looks over, sensing Clint's gaze, and although his smile doesn't fade one eyebrow arches up in a silent question: Everything okay?
Clint nods slightly. Everything is as okay as it can be, on this night full of music under the stars. More than okay, if it ends with Phil in his arms at bedtime. But that moment hasn't come yet, and he's not sure it will. He glances toward where Nat and Bruce are sitting on a low wall, the breeze ruffling the pink hem of her skirt, Bruce's glasses reflecting torchlight but not the love in his eyes. He's happy for them, and hopes that happiness continues forever.
But it probably won't, because they all lead lives that statistically end badly with broken bodies or damaged minds or both. Or sudden death. Or long and torturous deaths. No matter how amazed he is that Phil rounded up so many friends of theirs to share these fleeting moments of celebration, in a few decades they'll all be in graves marked or unmarked. Well, maybe not Thor, but mere mortals counted their days on paper calendars while gods marked their centuries in stone.
The uneasy feeling in his gut that he's been carrying all day ratchets upward, and Clint turns away. In the circus days of his youth he'd relished being the center of attention, but since Ghent and all the weeks of recovery afterward, he's felt vulnerable and unsure of himself. The Avengers have treated him well all around, but he knows he's a hindrance to them. He's sure that when they look at him they see only his weaknesses. That when he's not around, they're plotting for his replacement.
He's maudlin now, and inwardly tries to shake it off. He needs focus now, not melancholy. Tony is starting to recruit Sitwell, May, Lucy Freckles and some others for a line dance, and that's Clint's cue to retreat.
As he leaves the terrace Nat's voice says, "Don't take unnecessary chances." The tiny Stark earbud carries every nuance of her worry. In response he scratches his right ear. He doesn't look her way to see if the message has been received. He might be still struggling back to full strength, but he's not a rookie.
His and Phil's suite is not far, and is blessedly dark but for silver moonlight spilling through the windows. The balcony doors are open, the sheer curtains stirring in the breeze. Clint toes off his shoes, grabs a beer from the fridge, and takes it out to find some solace in the sea and stars. He enjoys the feeling of the cool tiles under his bare feet and the cold glass bottle against his palms. If he leans forward far enough over the railing, he can see where the waves rush back and forth over sharp rocks seventy feet below. As a little kid he'd liked stories of pirates. He imagines Phil in black leather boots and an eyepatch and a long purple coat, hiding his treasure chest in some cave along the coast--
A slight noise pulls him from his imagination and he turns to see Ronald Slater framed in the doorway, a champagne flute in his right hand.
"Careful," Slater says, silky smooth. "That's a long drop."
Clint keeps his expression bland. "I'm not worried."
"Accidents happen," Slater says. "Happy birthday, by the way. Not everyone gets to have an expensive party on a tropical island paid for by a rich superhero. You're a lucky guy."
"Stark's very generous," Clint agrees. "What do you want, Ronald?"
Slater steps forward. "To say happy birthday. To see how you're doing. When you save a life you're responsible for it, and so you're my responsibility."
Clint smiles humorlessly. "Is that what you did? Save my life?"
"Twice. Don't tell me your memory's that bad."
"My memories are just fine," Clint lies. It's true that there are some holes. Some moments he can't bring out of the murk of pain and drugs, panic and exhaustion. But other fuzzy details have gotten clearer during his recovery, and weeks of painstaking work by Phil and Tony have made clear a few situations that weren't at all clear before.
Slater steps forward. He's Clint's own size, deceptively mild-mannered. To look at him you wouldn't know he's well-trained in martial arts and self-defense. Under normal circumstances Clint can take him in a fight without any effort at all. Nothing about this is normal, however, and Clint edges back fractionally against the railing.
"You remember Ghent," Slater says, and the undercurrent in his voice is hard to decipher. "I nearly got sliced in half by glass shielding you with my own body."
Clint drinks from his beer. The liquid is sour on his tongue. "That's what the report says."
"You doubt it?"
"I remember you leaving," Clint says. Behind Slater, the curtains billow and Clint remembers windows crashing inward, the ground heaving upward. He puts his free hand to the railing to steady himself. "I fell and you left."
Slater's chin lifts. "I came back. They found us in the rubble, and you'd be dead without me to shield you."
"Lucky that we both survived, huh?" Clint asks.
Slater raises his champagne and takes a sip. "They gave me a medal. And a raise. Save a superhero, you get a bump in pay. A fine reward."
The undercurrent sounds like bitterness. Rage at not being rewarded enough. Clint has his own SHIELD medals, and his paycheck's exactly where it should be. He's suspicious of anyone who puts too much value on external motivators. Neither pretty objects nor direct deposit get him out of bed each day to throw himself at danger and save innocent people.
Clint says, "Funny thing about the hospital, though. That allergic reaction that almost killed me? Latex powder all over my bedsheets. No accident there."
Slater takes another step forward. "Any suspects?"
"The camera covering the hallway to my room was broken," Clint said. "Deliberately disabled."
"I found you gasping on that bathroom floor," Slater says. "If I'd wanted you dead, I could have waited a moment or two more. Not called for the nurse at all."
"Maybe dead isn't what you want," Clint suggests.
Slater smiles. Phil has said, more than once, that Clint's never met a snake he didn't want to poke. It wasn't a compliment. Clint knows that sometimes he can get under other people's skin, but he also knows how to provoke on purpose.
He wonders how nearby Phil and Nat are. He wonders if they'll come in time. Snakes are dangerous creatures, and often unpredictable. He really wants to hold Phil in bed tonight, and to see Nat continue to smile at Bruce.
"Tell me, Ronald," Clint says, and though he tries for smooth his voice maybe has the same faint tremble as his hand on the railing. "What do you want?"
#
This is Slater's moment. He recognizes and savors it the way a football star does in a stadium full of cheering fans, ready to kick the ball on a certain victory arc through the field posts.
"I only want what's due to me," he says, moving forward again. He enjoys the way Barton pulls back. The coward probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. "I want people to recognize my talents and stop patting you on the back for nothing at all. I want them to congratulate me on all my hard work and recognize that you're nothing special, Barton. You slide by with a smile and wink and a fucking bow and arrow, and people treat you like a god."
"Actually, they treat Thor like a god," Barton says, because he never shuts up when he should. He slides back toward the corner of the railing. "Ever been to Asgard, Ronald? I have. Great food, and you can beat the views."
"I'll get there one day," Slater promises. "Once you're gone."
Barton cocks his head. "Where am I going?"
From the hotel's main terrace, a burst of noise. Beautiful purple and gold fireworks blossom in the sky behind Barton's head. Of course Tony Stark would arrange for fireworks. Slater wouldn't be surprised if a sparkly blimp with Barton's name on it sails on by as well, or maybe a rocketship with the word "Hawkeye" will launch to the moon. The Avengers are all about overkill.
"For years I've watched you get all the attention and rewards," Slater says, "but that ends now. You're right that at first I just wanted to inconvenience you. To teach you that you're no better than the rest of us lowly field agents. To put you in your place. But now it's been made clear to me that your place is at the bottom of this cliff."
More fireworks explode in the sky, throwing white and silver light in cascades. The light sparkles on the sea, and everything is all the more gorgeous because Barton can't see them.
"Who made it clear to you?" Barton asks. "Who told you to kill me, Ronald?"
At that Slater hesitates, because it's a legitimately interesting question. He probes at it like he would a missing tooth in his mouth or hole in his pocket. He remembers a voice, a white light; a directive that became a compunction. But thinking too hard on that leads to a warning of pain to come, of being punished for daring to ask why.
"It doesn't matter," Slater decides. "Goodbye, Hawkeye."
He takes his pistol from his pocket and aims it squarely at Barton's chest. Barton retreats another inch, and the railing that Slater loosened finally gives way.
Barton has no chance against gravity and momentum. He falls backward, face stunned, arms grasping for a hold that's not there. He gives out a short cry for help. Help from friends who are not here. Then he's gone forever, vanished into the dark air as easily as if he'd never existed at all.
Slater waits to feel a surge of victory.
Instead, something snaps hard in his head and sends him to his knees.
He hears his kneecaps clunk into the tiles. Feels his gun fall from his fingers. His vision turns red and gray, and something hot gushes against his lips. Slater touches blood streaming from his nose, so much that surely he'll pass out soon.
The terrace is suddenly crowded with people: Phil Coulson, Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner. Someone has kicked the gun away. Someone has a knife to Slater's throat. He can barely see, can't think straight, can't feel anything but disorientation and panic and guilt. He thinks he just killed someone. He thinks he's dying.
"Finally," Natasha Romanov says vengefully. "We should have done this weeks ago."
Coulson sounds calmer but very somber. "Agent Slater, you are hereby charged with assault, attempted murder, attempted murder again--"
Bruce Banner interrupts Coulson. "He needs an ambulance. That's no ordinary nosebleed--"
Slater can't keep his balance anymore. He falls forward into hands that maneuver him roughly to the ground. Fireworks. Faces. Everything spins, becomes indistinguishable from the crisis raging inside his own body. He thinks he hears the whoosh of Iron Man's propulsion, and then improbably Clint Barton's voice saying, "What did you do to him?"
The world is going black. He doesn't think he'll live more than another moment or two. He feels like he should apologize, but he doesn't know for what. He wishes he had more time, a second chance, an explanation of where things went wrong. He tries to talk but there's only a humiliating garble of words; he tries to reach up for the sky, but his hands won't work anymore.
An ocean of darkness and pain drowns him.
end of chapter