epilogue
“Why a bow?”
They’re just a month into this new Strike Team Delta gig when Natasha decides to ask the questions she’d no doubt filed away for the past few months she’s been at SHIELD.
Clint realizes he should’ve seen this coming; aside from the fact that it’s in their nature as operatives to always look for more information, Natasha is, well, sheltered. She’s still so new to this non-Russian, non-Red Room or KGB life that she really doesn’t know much about how things are run at an American agency like SHIELD.
Still, the question takes him by surprise.
“Why not?” He shrugs.
“It’s so… antique.”
Interesting.
“What’s wrong with antique?”
“I just didn’t expect an American agency to hire someone who doesn’t operate in their style,” She frowns, as if she’s lost in thought. “I’ve only heard of one other person who uses a bow. Hawkeye was his name.”
He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he chokes out a laugh, which earns him an annoyed glance from Natasha.
“Sorry, it’s just, I know that name, too,” He blows out a breath, willing himself to stay calm.
Natasha’s eyes narrow. The disbelief in her expression is enough to make him almost — almost — laugh again.
“How could you possibly know a name from the underground network—”
“I was like you.”
It’s rare that Clint manages to stun Natasha into speechlessness. So he supposes today is a day for the record books; confusion passes through her usually indifferent facial features, as if the dots that’d been connected in her head all just fell apart.
“I know you’ve been wondering, Romanoff. Why don’t I train with the other agents? Why do I use a bow? You’re not the first one to wonder, I mean, look at Phil, that old man,” Clint chuckles. Natasha remains speechless, but her eyes speak of intrigue. Poor, sheltered, Russian killer woman, his partner. “I wasn’t formally hired like Phil or anyone, I was recruited, like you. Dumpster alleyway in Copenhagen, about to turn eighteen, running with a case of money waiting for me and a case of money placed out for my head.”
“You were a…” Natasha finally speaks, but falters, as if saying either of words mercenary, contract killer, or assassin will disintegrate her from existence.
“I was a contract killer, yes,” He chuckles again, bitterly, this time. “You probably know my M.O., too. The arrow sticking out of the body, that was some child’s play that ended up sticking.” He doesn’t mention that it was also a desperate attempt, begging for someone, anyone to find him and kill him. And yet, the only person who’d found him was Phil Coulson, and instead of killing him, he offered Clint a way out.
“You’re Hawkeye? But I thought Hawkeye was—”
“—The man who never misses? One of the youngest killers in the market? Came from the circus?”
It feels weird, listing all of his “accolades” himself. But Natasha still looks like she can’t wrap her head around the fact that her partner is Hawkeye, ex-carny and ex-merc. Yep, today is definitely a day for the record books.
Clint leans back against the railing of the balcony, letting the silence stretch out. He’s never really cared if people knew, but this — telling her — feels different. Not because he’s ashamed, but because she’s the only person who might actually understand the gravity of it. Understand what it meant to be turned loose in a world that only taught you to kill or be killed.
“You never suspected?” He asks, not mocking. Just genuinely curious.
“I suspected a lot of things,” Natasha replies finally, voice low. “But not that.”
Clint huffs. “Guess I’m better at hiding than I thought.”
“No. You’re just harder to read than most people I’ve met.”
There’s something almost complimentary in her tone, and that surprises him more than anything else. Natasha Romanoff isn’t one to hand out praise, even when she’s trying to be polite. He’s seen her rip into other recruits with surgical precision, slicing through egos like butter with nothing but her words. But here, now, she’s looking at him not like a puzzle to be solved, but like someone she’s finally beginning to understand.
“Why’d you keep the name?” She asks, after a beat. “Hawkeye.”
He looks out over the compound grounds. Training fields. Runways. The perimeter fencing that might as well be invisible to the normal eye, given how far away it is. He doesn’t answer right away, not because he doesn’t know, but because he’s not sure how to say it without sounding like a walking contradiction.
“Because it was mine,” He says finally. “It started out as something I picked for survival. People whispered it like it was both a curse and a prayer. But Phil — he gave me a second chance. And he told me something that stuck: It’s a second chance, Barton, something I think you’d like. So I kept the name. Figured if I couldn’t change what it used to mean, I could at least change what it means now.”
Natasha doesn’t speak, but she nods. A small, careful motion. Like she’s filing that away.
“I’m not trying to make excuses,” Clint says. “I’ve done a lot of shit. I know that. Some of it I didn’t have a choice in. Some of it I did. And I’ve had to live with both. But helping you? Giving you a way out — that’s not me trying to pay back some cosmic debt.”
“Then what is it?”
He meets her eyes. They’re green today, a mix of jade and forest green. And maybe it’s because of the training gear she’s wearing, or maybe because she hasn’t let her walls climb all the way back up yet, but it’s a rare thing, seeing her open like this.
“I guess I just saw someone worth saving,” He smirks.
That does it. Something flickers across her face — pain, maybe. Or recognition. Or even the ghost of something like hope. But it’s gone before he can put a name to it, tucked back into that steel vault she calls a face.
“Don’t make a habit out of it,” She mutters.
Clint chuckles, more at the fact that this is her way of saying thank you than anything else. “No promises.”
They fall into silence again, but this time it’s easier. Comfortable, even. The kind that comes after truth’s been laid bare and neither of them has run from it.
“I used to think I had to keep my past buried to move forward,” Natasha says quietly, her voice barely louder than the wind. “But I don’t think that’s true anymore.”
“It’s not,” Clint agrees. “You carry it. You learn how to live with it.”
“And the guilt?”
He gives her a long look, then shrugs. “It never really goes away. You just find something worth fighting for. Something that makes it feel like you’re doing more good than harm.”
Natasha exhales. Not quite a sigh, but close. “I’m not sure I’m there yet.”
“You will be,” Clint says. “That’s why we’re partners.”
She glances sideways at him, her expression unreadable again, but he swears he sees something shift — like maybe she’s starting to believe him.
They stay like that for a while, watching the sun sink lower on the horizon, painting the sky with fire and lavender. Clint doesn’t remember the last time he sat still for this long without a weapon in his hand or a target in his sights. And maybe that’s what makes it special. Because for once, they’re not on a mission. They’re not killers. They’re just two people trying to learn how to be more.
Eventually, Natasha stands, brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “So. If I’m going to be working with Hawkeye, I should probably learn how to shoot like one.”
Clint raises a brow. “You want me to teach you?”
“I’m not saying I need help. I’m just saying you might as well be useful.”
He grins. “See, now you’re starting to sound like Phil.”
She pauses at the doorway, turning back for just a second. “Clint?”
He blinks. She almost never uses his first name.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For offering the choice.”
He watches her go, the name “Clint” echoing in his head like something fragile and strange. Then he looks down at his callused hands, hands that used to hold a bow only for blood money and now… now they might just be holding onto something real.
The thing about second chances is, they never come clean. They’re messy. Complicated. Tied to every version of yourself you’re trying to outrun. But as Clint picks up his bow from where it rests against the wall and slings it across his back, he feels something close to peace.
He’s still Hawkeye. Still the man who never misses. Still the kid from the circus who pulled a trigger for food. But now he’s also something else.
A partner.
And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.