Fic: Close, But Not Quite
Title: Close, But Not Quite
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Suicide, self-harm, violence
Characters: Clint Barton, implied Avengers, implied Phil Coulson
Word Count: 668
Relationships: Implied Clint/Coulson (but really far away)
Summary: Once, Clint Barton lay down on the dusty ground beneath a circus tent and died. An examination of the many deaths of Clint Barton.
Once, Clint Barton lay down on the dusty ground beneath a red and white circus tent and died.
He stopped breathing and his lithe, teenaged body was still; the ones loosely pledged to look after him departed, thieves in the night. Before he died with a knife stuck in his stomach he wondered what it might have been like to go to high school like most kids did, what it would have been like to have friends who invited him to parties or over to their houses, and he wondered what a real big brother was supposed to act like.
And just before he died, he made a wish.
The next time he died he was glad about it. Fuck trying to make it alone. Before he died from blood seeping out of two well placed bullet holes, one in his shoulder and one in his thigh, he felt relieved. He'd given life a shot, after all. He used his talents, he tried to keep his head down and do what he was paid to do, and he never hurt anyone outside of his job. He gave life a shot and he hadn't quit; he just hadn't been quick enough. Now he lay in a littered alleyway, the stench of stale beer and rotten food combining with lying in a pool of his own blood to make him sick before the end.
As he lay dying he remembered his wish and thought, ‘what the hell,’ and he wished it again.
For his next death he fell from a hand-picked perch, the confidence of the last few years fading as he plummeted, and as he hit the ground and felt the life seeping from his body he remembered his wish right away. He spent his whole death thinking about that wish, marveling at how close he thought he'd come to getting it. As he closed his eyes and sank into oblivion, he heard a quiet, pleading voice in his ear, and he knew his wish had been close to coming true.
Close, but not quite.
The next time he died his eyes were ice-blue and lifeless. His eyes changed as his heart changed and life departed in pieces, chunks of people he knew and places he cherished falling to the ground around him with every arrow he loosed and with every command he issued and obeyed. By the time he died there weren’t enough pieces of him left to salvage, and his wish was nowhere to be found, no matter how hard he looked.
He looked everywhere.
His next death was real, and true, and he knew this about it because it came at his own hand, and the only things that had ever been real and true about him came from his own hand. He watched the blood leave his wrists and thought about his wish again and he was angry at how life had fooled him. His heart beat in a hidden chest, his blood flowed through deceptive veins, and his breath moved in and out of masquerading chambers. Life tricked him into thinking he had gotten his wish, so he died. The wish had never really come true, and he was going to make sure life never tricked him again.
Until it did.
After death by his own hand he never died again. He got his wish. He knew it was a beautiful lie, a stunning falsehood, and the key to immortality for Clint Barton.
Immortality is a lie and a falsehood, and his was no different. But his wish - his wish - was there in front of him after his last death. Then he flew and he learned and he lived in a tower that reached to the sky. And he had friends who invited him to parties and several big brothers who seemed to act like real ones should, and, most of all, he had his wish.
Until he didn’t have it, but that took a very, very long time.
And then it was real, and Clint Barton was dead on the dusty ground beneath a red and white circus tent.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Suicide, self-harm, violence
Characters: Clint Barton, implied Avengers, implied Phil Coulson
Word Count: 668
Relationships: Implied Clint/Coulson (but really far away)
Summary: Once, Clint Barton lay down on the dusty ground beneath a circus tent and died. An examination of the many deaths of Clint Barton.
Once, Clint Barton lay down on the dusty ground beneath a red and white circus tent and died.
He stopped breathing and his lithe, teenaged body was still; the ones loosely pledged to look after him departed, thieves in the night. Before he died with a knife stuck in his stomach he wondered what it might have been like to go to high school like most kids did, what it would have been like to have friends who invited him to parties or over to their houses, and he wondered what a real big brother was supposed to act like.
And just before he died, he made a wish.
The next time he died he was glad about it. Fuck trying to make it alone. Before he died from blood seeping out of two well placed bullet holes, one in his shoulder and one in his thigh, he felt relieved. He'd given life a shot, after all. He used his talents, he tried to keep his head down and do what he was paid to do, and he never hurt anyone outside of his job. He gave life a shot and he hadn't quit; he just hadn't been quick enough. Now he lay in a littered alleyway, the stench of stale beer and rotten food combining with lying in a pool of his own blood to make him sick before the end.
As he lay dying he remembered his wish and thought, ‘what the hell,’ and he wished it again.
For his next death he fell from a hand-picked perch, the confidence of the last few years fading as he plummeted, and as he hit the ground and felt the life seeping from his body he remembered his wish right away. He spent his whole death thinking about that wish, marveling at how close he thought he'd come to getting it. As he closed his eyes and sank into oblivion, he heard a quiet, pleading voice in his ear, and he knew his wish had been close to coming true.
Close, but not quite.
The next time he died his eyes were ice-blue and lifeless. His eyes changed as his heart changed and life departed in pieces, chunks of people he knew and places he cherished falling to the ground around him with every arrow he loosed and with every command he issued and obeyed. By the time he died there weren’t enough pieces of him left to salvage, and his wish was nowhere to be found, no matter how hard he looked.
He looked everywhere.
His next death was real, and true, and he knew this about it because it came at his own hand, and the only things that had ever been real and true about him came from his own hand. He watched the blood leave his wrists and thought about his wish again and he was angry at how life had fooled him. His heart beat in a hidden chest, his blood flowed through deceptive veins, and his breath moved in and out of masquerading chambers. Life tricked him into thinking he had gotten his wish, so he died. The wish had never really come true, and he was going to make sure life never tricked him again.
Until it did.
After death by his own hand he never died again. He got his wish. He knew it was a beautiful lie, a stunning falsehood, and the key to immortality for Clint Barton.
Immortality is a lie and a falsehood, and his was no different. But his wish - his wish - was there in front of him after his last death. Then he flew and he learned and he lived in a tower that reached to the sky. And he had friends who invited him to parties and several big brothers who seemed to act like real ones should, and, most of all, he had his wish.
Until he didn’t have it, but that took a very, very long time.
And then it was real, and Clint Barton was dead on the dusty ground beneath a red and white circus tent.