Draw Your Bow Across the Strings of My Heart
Title: Draw Your Bow Across the Strings of My Heart, Part Two
Fandom: Marvel, the Movie branch
Rating: adult
Warnings: mostly language, but there is a hint of self-destruction running through the story, as well as mentions of character death. also, there are spoilers for the movie in here, so if you haven't seen the film, proceed with caution.
Disclaimer: the recognizable characters and places contained herein are the property of Marvel and whoever the hell else owns them.. i'm merely borrowing for the sake of entertainment. no money is being made from this venture.
Part One
~*~
Tony watches Clint get up and stalk from the conference room, hands in fists at his side. He's noticed, and he isn't the only one, that Barton is slowly, gradually, slipping into the depths of what he can only label as depression. It takes so little to set the sniper off and he has a temper that could rival Banner's. Tony lets his gaze slide around the table to find that the rest of his teammates are watching Barton go with the same concern on their faces. Even Natasha, who is an epic ice queen, looks worried. Its been this way for months, ever since they faced off with Loki. So far, Tony hasn't found an acceptable answer to his question of why. And he's damn sure been trying to find it.
Ever since Barton moved into Stark Tower, the man has been on the edge of some kind of breakdown. Tony should know what that edge looks like because he's stood there himself a time or two. There's a look in his eyes, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he expects his teammates to turn a look of hatred and loathing on him. Tony knows, because he went digging through S.H.I.E.L.D.'s computer system, that Clint blames himself for what happened on the helicarrier all those months ago. Clint blames himself for Coulson's death, even though Loki had had Barton under mind control and Coulson had made his own decision.
The guilt eats at Barton in a way few might not notice. Tony sees it because he's felt himself burdened with that kind of guilt before. Memories of Yinsen's body, bloodied and broken, assault him for just a moment. He pushes it away and focuses on Barton again. Tony understands that kind of guilt. He knows how its eating Barton up from the inside. The man is becoming more and more self-destructive as the days go by and it seems as if no one has a way to help him. Then again, Tony is sure the only one who sees Barton's downward spiral as sharply as he does is Natasha. And she isn't exactly the emotional, touchy-feely type. No doubt her idea of helping Barton would be to tell him to shape up or she'd kick his ass.
Maybe that's what Barton needs.
But then Tony remembers why Barton is so off the charts today and he reconsiders. They're a group of superheroes living under one roof. They're famous all around the globe. And on some planets no one has ever heard of before. Their notoriety is legendary and everyone knows where to find the Avengers. So its only logical that some villains will try to hit them at home. That means launching assaults on Stark Tower. Trying to attack the Avengers at home means an aerial assault because the security is too hard to get around. As it happens, some villain with more testicular fortitude than mental faculties decided to try that very tactic.
The attack has resulted in the shattering of much glass and the destruction of Tony's very well stocked wet bar. Rooms have been reduced to rubble and there might be some question as to whether the structural integrity of the tower is still sound. Tony can't begin to imagine what his insurance premiums are going to look like after this. But he isn't the only one who has had personal property destroyed. Jarvis has reported that several of the floors have sustained damage. One of them is the floor that Barton has to himself. And it is that destruction that has seen Barton go off the rails.
Natasha stands to go after him, but Tony slowly gains his feet and shakes his head at her. She stares at him, eyes wide with disbelief that he plans on talking to the other man. "You might not be aware, but I can be a very sensitive guy when the occasion calls for it. Let me go have a chat with him. I'll see if I can't get him out of his self-destructive funk. If anyone knows about self-destruction, its me. And Bruce. Bruce knows all about being self-destructive. Don't you?"
Tony's mouth is going a mile a minute as he walks around the table. He reaches Banner's seat and pats the man on the shoulder, letting him know that his comments are in good fun because Tony knows just how screwed up he is. That lesson had been hard learned, but watching a friend die needlessly had brought it home to him just how fragile and precious life is. He's trying to live for the day, trying to seize the moment. And maybe its time that Barton starts doing it, too.
"Tony, are you sure this is a good idea?" Steve asks, clearly still in Cap mode. And maybe, based on the look the old soldier is giving him, Steve sees exactly what's going on with Clint. So maybe he's not the only one who happens to be worried about the world's greatest marksman because (and how did Tony miss it?) they're all friends. More than that, they're an odd, dysfunctional family and they need each other as much as Tony needs his suit and his robots and his alcohol. They need each other in ways that a normal family doesn't because they've seen some weird shit happen and they understand that if it gets past them, then the world is fucked. They are quite literally the world's best hope and last defense.
And they're incomplete without Clint's sharp wit and sharp aim at their sides.
"No, but someone has to talk to him and I've nominated myself." Tony makes sure he sounds sure of himself. They all look at him as if he's lost his head.
"He's been walking a fine line since the helicarrier incident, Tony. You're just enough of an ass to make it worse. Maybe you should let one of us do it," Steve offers and stands. Of course he'll offer to go. He's the de facto leader and he feels that its his duty to ensure the team's morale.
"No offense, Steve, but I don't know if you understand what's eating at him."
"We all know what's eating at him," Bruce interjects, as if Tony's an idiot for suggesting anything else. There's a hint of exhaustion in Banner's voice that says Hulking out has taken more out of him than he's willing to let on. "He feels guilty for what happened. He blames himself for what Loki did."
"Perhaps I should speak to him," Thor makes to rise. Tony shoots a scowl his way. "After all, I know Loki better than any of you. I know what my brother is capable of. You should have had more warning. I blame myself for not alerting you to his proclivities."
"No," Natasha says. All eyes turn to her. She hasn't risen from her chair, but there's a new light in her eyes. One that might be called hope if it was anyone other than Natasha Romanova having it. "Tony's right. He should be the one to speak to Clint. I think he understands better than you think he does."
The three remaining members of the group share glances with one another. But no one makes a move to go in Tony's place. He nods his thanks at Natasha, then strides from the conference room with purpose in his steps. "Jarvis? Where is Barton at?" he asks the AI as he crosses the floor toward the elevators.
"Agent Barton is on his floor, sir. I believe you'll find him in his private quarters. Or what's left of them," Jarvis informs him. Tony nods because, honestly, where else would Barton go, and punches the button for the marksman's floor. Tony considers, briefly, putting on the suit, but then decides that it would be pointless. He knows that Clint's problems are with himself, not with everyone else. Still, if the marksman is armed...
"Jarvis?"
"Yes, sir?" the AI drawls.
"Does Barton have any weapons in his private quarters?"
There's a pause, as if Jarvis is considering telling him a lie. Then, with amusement in his tone, he answers Tony's question. "No, sir. I cannot detect any weapons in Agent Barton's quarters." It sounds like his AI is laughing at him but Tony's sure this can't be because he never programmed Jarvis with humor or anything like that.
The elevator halts on Clint's floor and the doors slide open to show him a large, central living area that is little more than debris made up of glass, wood, and upholstery material. There are a few walls still standing, load bearing walls that help keep the floors above from crashing down. Tony picks his way along the floor carefully, his eyes sifting through the trash to find the remains of a leather sectional and the darkly stained end tables matched to it. The casing of the giant, flat screen television is hooked on the arm of a chair. No wonder Clint is pissed. That TV was amazing to play video games on.
Tony finds Clint in his bedroom. Or, rather, what's left of his bedroom. The bed is in splinters, as is much of the furniture in the room. The glass here is shattered and lays in small shards across the floor. Barton seems to not know its there as he kneels down amidst the ruins of... Tony frowns. He doesn't recognize what the cracked and shattered wood might be from. He has to stare at it for some time before the various large pieces of wood begin to make sense.
He can see a pegbox, still attached to a small length of neck. The pegs are there, but the strings are gone. A short distance away, part of a fingerboard is laying up against the wall. The general body shape is still there, though its hard to see. The f-holes are there, but much of the instrument has been destroyed. The bow lays amongst what appears to be purple velvet, the hairs pulled and broken. The entire thing is shattered beyond repair.
For a moment, Tony is about to open his mouth and make some smart-assed comment. But Barton's hand reaches out and gently strokes over the bow. Grazes the remaining bits of the instrument. Then his hand fists and the comment dies at the back of Tony's throat. For once in his life, he ignores the urge to poke and prod until he discovers every last thing. He slips from the room as quietly as he entered and tries desperately to push aside the image he's now got of Barton in his head. It is an image of a man who is broken and shattered. Tony has no idea what its supposed to mean.
There is a puzzle before him and he now has to figure it out. So he heads for his personal work space, thankfully spared in the attacks. The elevator ride is made in silence as his mind ticks over on what he's seen and what it could possibly mean. Theories and questions and more theories run through his head until he can finally step foot in his workshop. He closes the door behind him and draws a breath. "Jarvis," he begins.
"I've taken the liberty of securing the doors so that no one may disturb you, sir. And I'm already compiling all of the data and footage I have of Agent Barton since he arrived at the tower."
Tony starts, then realizes that Jarvis probably has a better idea as to what's been going on in his own tower than he does. So he moves to his chair and settles in, his hands already flying over the keyboard. "Tell me everything you know," he says.
Images spring to life before him, ones he's not sure are real. They are images of Barton sitting in a chair in his room, a gorgeous cello cradled between his knees. His left hand caresses the fingerboard while his right draws the bow back and forth over the strings. There is audio and the sounds that come from the instrument are haunting in their beauty. Barton's eyes are closed and his face relaxed, as if he has found some sense of peace in the music he plays. Perhaps he has. How many times has Tony gotten lost in the rock he plays while he works?
"Agent Barton has been playing the cello for nearly more than ten years, sir," Jarvis says, his voice soft and reverent. Tony has never seen Barton like this before and he is loathe to speak, to break the spell the man's abilities have cast over him. "The cello you see him playing here is a one of a kind, made especially for him."
The footage changes, switches to a moderate sized auditorium. There is an orchestra on the stage, men and women clad in tuxedos and long dresses. Its easy to spot Barton among them, his hands moving over the cello's fingerboard with such certainty that Tony has to remind himself that the man is a deadly sniper with perfect aim. There is something enchanting about seeing him play as if he's never taken a life. As if he's never fought a desperate battle against overwhelming numbers. As if he's never known a moment of death or grief in his life.
The camera swivels and pans the audience. And Tony is startled to see a pair of familiar faces among the crowd. Its hard to miss Natasha's flame red hair. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are soft. The music has obviously affected her. But its the face next to hers that really throws him for a loop. Phil Coulson sits there, a look of intense pride in his eyes. One hand taps the chair in time to the music. Tony studies it further and realizes that it taps in time to Clint's notes.
He isn't sure what he's seeing, but Tony knows that it is an important clue. And he's just a touch mad because he can't figure out what it all means. He's always assumed that Clint and Natasha are doing sleeping with one another because that seems like something they'd do. There's a closeness between them that they don't have with anyone else on the team. And Tony's always suspected that her ice princess routine is just that. But this image... It doesn't confirm or deny his suspicions. In fact, it only brings about more questions.
"When was this shot, Jarvis?"
"Only two months before Loki used the Tesseract to possess Agent Barton's mind, sir," the AI answers. "I believe--"
His words are cut off by a soft, husky voice just behind him. "That's the last time Clint performed on stage. After Phil's death, he almost stopped playing altogether. But the music lives in his soul and he couldn't stay away from the cello. It was the last piece of Phil he had."
Tony turns to find Natasha standing there, watching the footage of the concert with eyes that look moist. He opens his mouth to demand to know how she managed to get in when Jarvis has everyone locked out. Then her words sink in and he has to catch up with his brain as it goes off on its own. Finally, he looks back at the video footage and watches as Clint practically makes love to the cello. Ew. Mental image he didn't need. But everything starts to click into place and he wonders how he didn't see it before. "He and Coulson?" he asks.
Natasha nods. "They kept it quiet because it was just for them. And they didn't allow their personal feelings to get in the way of their work." She pauses and watches as Clint plays a solo, the echoing notes made by his cello bringing Tony's skin up in goose flesh.
"Until now," he says quietly, because now Tony really understands.
"Until now." Natasha sounds almost wistful, but Tony has to be hearing things because this is Natasha. The Black Widow. She has no emotions. "The cello was a gift from Phil on their anniversary. It was custom made and there isn't another one like it in all the world. It was the only thing that kept Clint sane these past few months. Now that its gone..." Her voice fades, but she doesn't need to speak the words for Tony to understand what she's hinting at.
"He blames himself for Phil's death, doesn't he?" Tony asks, his mind moving at the speed of light again. So are his hands, fingers typing in instructions faster than he can really think about them.
"He does. He believes that if he hadn't been taken over by Loki, Phil would still be alive." There is a hint of derision in her words, as if she thinks that Clint is being an ass about it all. Tony has to agree. He's seen the footage and Coulson had done what he'd felt was right. He'd done his job.
"He's an idiot," Tony remarks casually.
"He is," she agrees. "But I'm worried about him, Tony."
There are no further words from Natasha. Tony doesn't need to look over his shoulder to know that she's crept away as silently as she arrived. She's told him all she feels he needs to know. And he knows that she'll deny telling him such things if anyone else asks, even under pain of death. Her friendship with the marksman is odd and strange. Tony doesn't want to understand why. So he turns his attention to his new task.
"Jarvis, what do we know about that cello?"
"It was custom made by a gentleman in Poland. Agent Coulson ordered it over the phone and it took the artisan several months to complete. There is a waiting list of approximately tw--"
"Put the call through now, Jarvis," Tony says, his mind already made up. The AI is still rolling images of Clint playing the cello, the haunting melody filling the room. If this is what it takes to bring Clint back, to make him see that there are still people here who care for him, then so be it. The Avengers need Hawkeye. And Tony, Natasha, Steve, Bruce, and Thor need Clint. For better or worse, Fury has turned them into a family. Its dysfunctional at the best of times. But its still a family. And their family is hurting. Tony has realized over the past few months that family is everything. Especially the one you make for yourself.
"Sir, I don't think--" Jarvis begins, but Tony shoots a look at the ceiling that silences the AI.
"Put the call through. Clint needs this. He needs us," Tony instructs. There is a heavy, disapproving silence, then the AI makes a noise like a sigh and the digital sounds of a telephone being dialed takes the place of the beautiful cello music. Soon the sound of the line ringing through fills the air and still Tony watches the way Clint moves as he plays his cello.
Tony can see the love that Barton has for the cello in the way his left hand moves against the fingerboard, the serene look that resides upon his face. He holds the cello like he would hold a lover, with tender care and deep adoration. His thighs clasp the instrument as if it were his lover. it is something that Tony has never seen before. Oh, he's seen the way Clint caresses his bow and his arrows, but there is a different kind of emotion behind that. This is almost disturbingly like love.
It makes Tony wonder just how well he and his teammates really know one another.
Finally, the other end of the phone picks up and an accented voice answers in what Tony has to assume is Polish for hello. He draws a breath and, after a second to wonder just why in the hell he's doing this, he starts to speak.
~*~*~*~*~
"Agent Barton?" Jarvis' voice fills the elevator and startles Clint out of his dark thoughts. He holds back a curse and flicks his glance toward the panel beside the elevator doors. It is from this panel that the voice issues and Clint is sure there's a camera there, too. Just like there are two at either corner in the ceiling.
"What is it, Jarvis?" he asks, not really in the mood to chat with Tony's AI.
"Mr. Stark has requested your presence in the conference room."
Clint holds back the retort that rises to his lips. It seems to him that quite often lately, Stark has been doing his best to get Clint involved in just about everything that goes on within the tower. Come to think of it, the rest of the team has been, too. Any free time that Clint has has been spent at the tower. And there has been a lot of time because Fury has told him point blank that he doesn't want to see Clint near the newly rebuilt helicarrier or base. So Clint's nights and off days are spent at Stark Tower. Because there is a state of the art range located within the building and its every thing Clint could ever want in a practice range.
He has to wonder what's going on that his entire team has been trying to force him into participating in things like movie nights and game nights. He isn't up to it when they get him to join them for such inanities. He isn't up to dealing with Stark at the moment. "Tell him I'm busy," Clint replies as the elevator slows for his floor.
Before the door can open, the elevator is back in motion and its climbing its way up to the common areas. There is a hint of regret in Jarvis' voice when he speaks. "I'm sorry, Agent Barton. But I've been given express orders that you are to join Mr. Stark in the conference room. Immediately."
"Damn it, Jarvis. Don't make me pull your circuits out of the wall," Clint snaps, but the AI is silent. No doubt ignoring him. Clint leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. Its a good thing that he doesn't have any weapons on him or Stark would find out just what its like to not have his suit on. Months of Stark trying to be his best friend have gotten on his last nerves and he really doesn't want to have to put up with him now.
The elevator slows again, then stops. The doors slides open to reveal the conference room before him. The doors to it are shut, leaving Clint wondering if he can sneak away without Tony knowing he was there. "Mr. Stark has been informed that we've arrived. He's given me instructions to lock you out of the stairwell if you attempt to go to your floor by the stairs and thereby avoid him." Jarvis doesn't sound at all put out by this bit of news. Clint mutters a few choice words under his breath, then starts for the door.
His mind is putting together a string of good curses to throw at Tony when he gets the doors open. Its pretty shitty of him to force Clint to meet with him by getting his AI to use blackmail. The doors swing open wide at the touch of Clint's hands. "Stark, you'd better have a damned good..."
His voice dies off when his eyes take in the fact that everyone is awaiting him in the conference room. And they're all wearing such expectant looks upon their faces. Even Natasha, who isn't quite smiling. But its damn close. "Clint. Glad you could join us. We have something for you."
And then Tony steps to the side and Clint's eyes are drawn to the large wooden case propped up against the wall behind him. The burl of the wood and the stain that darkens it is familiar and Clint feels an odd twist in his gut. Silver clasps run down one side. A dark purple bow rests atop the case. Its suddenly very hard to breathe as Clint stares at it and he's taken by a dizzying sense of déjà vu. His gaze slides sideways to Stark, who's smiling at him like the cat that caught the canary, ate it, and then went back for its friends.
"Well? Don't just stand there with that idiotic look on your face. Come open it and see," Stark orders, his voice touched with a hint of acid. Not much, but enough to see Clint moving to do as he's instructed.
The wood is as smooth under his hand as he remembers and his fingers tremble when they flip the clasps open. The lid swings open on silent, hidden hinges, revealing an interior of deep royal purple velvet. He stares and his throat catches, the words stuck behind a lump so big that he can't even swallow it down.
The cello is exactly the same as the one Phil had given him, exactly the same as the one that had been destroyed. He can see the ebony that the turning pegs and fingerboard are made out of. The mellow stain of the body is rich and warm, and Clint swears that the burl of the wood used to craft the body of the cello is exactly the same as the one that had been destroyed. The bow is made of pernambuco and it gleams darkly next to the cello.
His gaze swings around to look at Tony, who wears an unbearably knowing smirk on his face. He lets it slide to each of the four remaining people in the room. Each of them is wearing a hopeful expression. And Natasha is nearly crying. Nearly smiling. He turns back to Tony and shakes his head. "I don't understand."
"Its an exact replica of the cello that got destroyed. Its made by the same craftsman that Phil commissioned. We wanted you to have it," Tony tells him, as if that's supposed to explain it all.
"We're your family, Clint," Steve is saying, pulling his attention from Stark and the cello. There's a soft look on his face. "I know we can't replace what you had with Agent Coulson, but we're still here for you." And its plain to see by the way Steve is watching him that he knows just what Clint had with Phil. They all do. Again his gaze slides back to Stark.
"Hey, don't look at me, buddy. I didn't tell them," he protests.
"Of course he did," Bruce replies, a touch of laughter in his voice. "But only because he wanted to let us know why you were taking Agent Coulson's death so badly."
"Tony is correct," Thor adds, as if he doesn't want to be left out of the conversation. "We see you as a brother. And we only wish for you to be happy. If this is what it takes to make you happy, then this is what we will do for you."
"Play it for us, Clint. We want to hear it," Natasha says softly. There is some emotion caught in her voice, but Clint lets it go. He doesn't want to examine it too intently because he doesn't want to know just what it is she's feeling. There's already far too much for him to take in as it is.
"Aye, my friend. Make it sing," Thor encourages.
For the first time in a very long time, a sense of something that isn't quite embarrassment washes over him. But with it comes a deep, strong longing that he cannot ignore. The cello is a thing of beauty and he can't not play it. He gives a nod, not sure he can trust his voice, and moves to the case to gently remove the cello. The bow comes next, as well as a cake of rosin that is tucked in there. He takes all three items to the nearest chair and settles into it. After rosining up his bow, he lets his fingertips glide across the strings to test their pitch. He lays the bow on the table, along with the rosin, and reaches up to turn the pegs until the strings sing to him.
A moment of panic hits him after he picks the bow back up, his mind searching for a piece that he can play. In the end, only one piece comes to mind and he smiles as he positions the cello between his thighs, rests it against his shoulder.
She fits perfectly between his legs, a lover made for his touch only. After positioning his left hand on the fingerboard, he draws the bow across the strings and lets her sing for everyone else. She has perfect tone and her notes are crystal clear, hauntingly beautiful and mournful all at the same time. Bach comes to him easily, the notes of the cello suite rising up to fill the room with a cascading waterfall of her song.
Clint falls into the suite, the music calling to him in a way that only music has ever been able to do. There here and now slip away on a tide of long, drawn out notes that roll over him like drops of water. They bring him new life and refresh him. The cello is a thing of beauty and he coaxes each and every note from her with ease and grace. She sings under his touch, crying out the passion that he brings to life with the glide of his bow across her strings. The song is comforting in a way that nothing else can be for him at the moment, almost like the ghostly touch of Phil's hand on his shoulder. The caress of his mouth on Clint's. The feel of their bodies pressed next to one another.
Its such a beautiful lie and he lets himself believe it, if only for a minute or two. But all too soon, the suite ends and the music fades into nothing. Clint's fantasy shatters when the last of the notes falls silent, leaving behind the haunting presence of Phil's ghost. Clint leaves his eyes closed, incapable of looking at his teammates. He doesn't want to see their pity. Or their surprise. Or their disgust. Or whatever it is they feel. He only wants to bask in the remembered love that the cello has brought him.
But the lie breaks apart and slips away from him as one set of hands starts clapping. Then another. And another. The steady applause pulls Clint's eyes open and he finds that each of his teammates are clapping for him. And each of them wears a different expression. On Steve's face, he sees the same look of awe and wonder that the man gets when he has time to trace images into his sketch book. Thor wears a look of surprise, the good kind that makes his eyes light up and his smile stretch broad and genuine across his face. Bruce is silent and contemplative, a kind of serenity showing in his gaze that Clint thinks he hasn't seen in a long time. Tony's eyes shine with fierce pride as he claps his hands, his mouth twisted into the hint of a true smile. Not the patented Tony Stark smile that he uses when dealing with the press or people he finds to be idiots. Which is pretty much everyone. Its a real, honest smile.
And then there's Tasha. Again, there's a tear in one eye. Just one tear. And it hasn't fallen. Nor does it make her look sad and soft. It gives one the impression that she's all woman, yet fierce and strong and capable of doing anything she sets her mind to. It is a good look, a strong look. A look that comes as close to happiness as he's ever seen her.
It is those looks that break him, that shatter the thin and brittle shell he's managed to build around himself. Because he realizes that Tony is right. They are his family. They'll always be there for him. He'll never stop missing Phil, never stop loving him. But he can't cut himself off from everyone and everything that makes his life worth while. Phil wouldn't want him to do that. Phil wouldn't let him do it. The cello cradled between his thighs is proof of that.
Clint rises slowly and returns the cello to its case with gentle hands. The wood is warm under his hands. Its as beautiful as the one Phil had given him. And just as treasured. When everything is in its place, he finally turns to look at them. The applause has died down and now they are simply watching him with welcoming eyes. "Why didn't you ever tell us that you could play so beautifully?" Steve asks, breaking the spell that had fallen over them.
"I was afraid what people would think. I'm too damned good at destruction. I wanted to be good at creating, too." They all stare at him as if its a stupid explanation. Perhaps it is. He ducks his head and shrugs slightly. "What can I say? I'm good with a bow. Any bow."
Tony grins, broad and wide, letting them know he's thinking something. Something Clint suspects he isn't going to like very much.
~*~
He can't see beyond the lights that shine on the stage. Not even with his perfect vision. But he can feel the life that fills the seats hidden in the darkness. He knows that there is a full house tonight. Surprisingly, even knowing that, he isn't nervous. This feels like home for him and he relishes every minute of it. Its been far too long since he's sat in this chair and played for a crowd of people. Far too long since he's allowed himself to be this open and free. It feels even better than he remembered.
The cello nestles between his thighs, vibrating with the notes that he slowly pulls from it. The sound echoes in his ears, painting vivid images in his head. Fills the auditorium to the seats. There are other cellos playing beside him, along with a handful of basses. Violins and violas add in their higher pitched, sweeter sounds. Each note rises to the ceiling until he can hear nothing more than the sweet music that the group is producing.
The cello is a thing of beauty, her body curved and warm to his touch. She fits him perfectly, responds to him like a well-known lover. His hands caress her as they coax the long, low notes from her. Her melody is haunting. And she's all his. She sings for him. She cries and moans only for him. Every sound she makes is beautiful.
Finally, the last of the notes fade away and leave the echoes of themselves hanging in the air. The lights dim as the crowd beyond the stage breaks into loud, boisterous applause. When his eyes adjust, Clint can see his teammates, his friends, occupying one row. They're all there, sitting side by side and applauding just as enthusiastically today as they did the day Tony presented him with the cello. There is pride and joy in their eyes and on their faces. There is real happiness there.
And they're not the only ones. Fury is there, a surprise for Clint because he didn't think that Fury ever did anything so mundane as listen to an orchestra play. Sitwell and Woo. Delancey and Jackson. Maria Hill. They are all there and they are all applauding. Clint finds it amazing.
The orchestra takes a bow and Clint dips with them.
When he rises, he can feel the warmth coming from the cello. He can feel the wood still vibrating as if he'd only just finished playing it. And he can feel the warm touch of a hand at his shoulder. He knows Phil is there with him in spirit.
Clint will never get over Phil's death. He'll never love another living soul the way he loved Phil. But he knows now that his life isn't over. He'll be able to go on because he's got his friends, his family, there to help him get through. He's got Phil's memory to keep him going. And he'll always have Phil's love.
As he stands in the bright light of the spots and takes another bow, he swears he hears Phil's voice in his ear. "Draw your bow across the strings of my heart and teach me how to sing."
~*~
Fandom: Marvel, the Movie branch
Rating: adult
Warnings: mostly language, but there is a hint of self-destruction running through the story, as well as mentions of character death. also, there are spoilers for the movie in here, so if you haven't seen the film, proceed with caution.
Disclaimer: the recognizable characters and places contained herein are the property of Marvel and whoever the hell else owns them.. i'm merely borrowing for the sake of entertainment. no money is being made from this venture.
Part One
~*~
Tony watches Clint get up and stalk from the conference room, hands in fists at his side. He's noticed, and he isn't the only one, that Barton is slowly, gradually, slipping into the depths of what he can only label as depression. It takes so little to set the sniper off and he has a temper that could rival Banner's. Tony lets his gaze slide around the table to find that the rest of his teammates are watching Barton go with the same concern on their faces. Even Natasha, who is an epic ice queen, looks worried. Its been this way for months, ever since they faced off with Loki. So far, Tony hasn't found an acceptable answer to his question of why. And he's damn sure been trying to find it.
Ever since Barton moved into Stark Tower, the man has been on the edge of some kind of breakdown. Tony should know what that edge looks like because he's stood there himself a time or two. There's a look in his eyes, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he expects his teammates to turn a look of hatred and loathing on him. Tony knows, because he went digging through S.H.I.E.L.D.'s computer system, that Clint blames himself for what happened on the helicarrier all those months ago. Clint blames himself for Coulson's death, even though Loki had had Barton under mind control and Coulson had made his own decision.
The guilt eats at Barton in a way few might not notice. Tony sees it because he's felt himself burdened with that kind of guilt before. Memories of Yinsen's body, bloodied and broken, assault him for just a moment. He pushes it away and focuses on Barton again. Tony understands that kind of guilt. He knows how its eating Barton up from the inside. The man is becoming more and more self-destructive as the days go by and it seems as if no one has a way to help him. Then again, Tony is sure the only one who sees Barton's downward spiral as sharply as he does is Natasha. And she isn't exactly the emotional, touchy-feely type. No doubt her idea of helping Barton would be to tell him to shape up or she'd kick his ass.
Maybe that's what Barton needs.
But then Tony remembers why Barton is so off the charts today and he reconsiders. They're a group of superheroes living under one roof. They're famous all around the globe. And on some planets no one has ever heard of before. Their notoriety is legendary and everyone knows where to find the Avengers. So its only logical that some villains will try to hit them at home. That means launching assaults on Stark Tower. Trying to attack the Avengers at home means an aerial assault because the security is too hard to get around. As it happens, some villain with more testicular fortitude than mental faculties decided to try that very tactic.
The attack has resulted in the shattering of much glass and the destruction of Tony's very well stocked wet bar. Rooms have been reduced to rubble and there might be some question as to whether the structural integrity of the tower is still sound. Tony can't begin to imagine what his insurance premiums are going to look like after this. But he isn't the only one who has had personal property destroyed. Jarvis has reported that several of the floors have sustained damage. One of them is the floor that Barton has to himself. And it is that destruction that has seen Barton go off the rails.
Natasha stands to go after him, but Tony slowly gains his feet and shakes his head at her. She stares at him, eyes wide with disbelief that he plans on talking to the other man. "You might not be aware, but I can be a very sensitive guy when the occasion calls for it. Let me go have a chat with him. I'll see if I can't get him out of his self-destructive funk. If anyone knows about self-destruction, its me. And Bruce. Bruce knows all about being self-destructive. Don't you?"
Tony's mouth is going a mile a minute as he walks around the table. He reaches Banner's seat and pats the man on the shoulder, letting him know that his comments are in good fun because Tony knows just how screwed up he is. That lesson had been hard learned, but watching a friend die needlessly had brought it home to him just how fragile and precious life is. He's trying to live for the day, trying to seize the moment. And maybe its time that Barton starts doing it, too.
"Tony, are you sure this is a good idea?" Steve asks, clearly still in Cap mode. And maybe, based on the look the old soldier is giving him, Steve sees exactly what's going on with Clint. So maybe he's not the only one who happens to be worried about the world's greatest marksman because (and how did Tony miss it?) they're all friends. More than that, they're an odd, dysfunctional family and they need each other as much as Tony needs his suit and his robots and his alcohol. They need each other in ways that a normal family doesn't because they've seen some weird shit happen and they understand that if it gets past them, then the world is fucked. They are quite literally the world's best hope and last defense.
And they're incomplete without Clint's sharp wit and sharp aim at their sides.
"No, but someone has to talk to him and I've nominated myself." Tony makes sure he sounds sure of himself. They all look at him as if he's lost his head.
"He's been walking a fine line since the helicarrier incident, Tony. You're just enough of an ass to make it worse. Maybe you should let one of us do it," Steve offers and stands. Of course he'll offer to go. He's the de facto leader and he feels that its his duty to ensure the team's morale.
"No offense, Steve, but I don't know if you understand what's eating at him."
"We all know what's eating at him," Bruce interjects, as if Tony's an idiot for suggesting anything else. There's a hint of exhaustion in Banner's voice that says Hulking out has taken more out of him than he's willing to let on. "He feels guilty for what happened. He blames himself for what Loki did."
"Perhaps I should speak to him," Thor makes to rise. Tony shoots a scowl his way. "After all, I know Loki better than any of you. I know what my brother is capable of. You should have had more warning. I blame myself for not alerting you to his proclivities."
"No," Natasha says. All eyes turn to her. She hasn't risen from her chair, but there's a new light in her eyes. One that might be called hope if it was anyone other than Natasha Romanova having it. "Tony's right. He should be the one to speak to Clint. I think he understands better than you think he does."
The three remaining members of the group share glances with one another. But no one makes a move to go in Tony's place. He nods his thanks at Natasha, then strides from the conference room with purpose in his steps. "Jarvis? Where is Barton at?" he asks the AI as he crosses the floor toward the elevators.
"Agent Barton is on his floor, sir. I believe you'll find him in his private quarters. Or what's left of them," Jarvis informs him. Tony nods because, honestly, where else would Barton go, and punches the button for the marksman's floor. Tony considers, briefly, putting on the suit, but then decides that it would be pointless. He knows that Clint's problems are with himself, not with everyone else. Still, if the marksman is armed...
"Jarvis?"
"Yes, sir?" the AI drawls.
"Does Barton have any weapons in his private quarters?"
There's a pause, as if Jarvis is considering telling him a lie. Then, with amusement in his tone, he answers Tony's question. "No, sir. I cannot detect any weapons in Agent Barton's quarters." It sounds like his AI is laughing at him but Tony's sure this can't be because he never programmed Jarvis with humor or anything like that.
The elevator halts on Clint's floor and the doors slide open to show him a large, central living area that is little more than debris made up of glass, wood, and upholstery material. There are a few walls still standing, load bearing walls that help keep the floors above from crashing down. Tony picks his way along the floor carefully, his eyes sifting through the trash to find the remains of a leather sectional and the darkly stained end tables matched to it. The casing of the giant, flat screen television is hooked on the arm of a chair. No wonder Clint is pissed. That TV was amazing to play video games on.
Tony finds Clint in his bedroom. Or, rather, what's left of his bedroom. The bed is in splinters, as is much of the furniture in the room. The glass here is shattered and lays in small shards across the floor. Barton seems to not know its there as he kneels down amidst the ruins of... Tony frowns. He doesn't recognize what the cracked and shattered wood might be from. He has to stare at it for some time before the various large pieces of wood begin to make sense.
He can see a pegbox, still attached to a small length of neck. The pegs are there, but the strings are gone. A short distance away, part of a fingerboard is laying up against the wall. The general body shape is still there, though its hard to see. The f-holes are there, but much of the instrument has been destroyed. The bow lays amongst what appears to be purple velvet, the hairs pulled and broken. The entire thing is shattered beyond repair.
For a moment, Tony is about to open his mouth and make some smart-assed comment. But Barton's hand reaches out and gently strokes over the bow. Grazes the remaining bits of the instrument. Then his hand fists and the comment dies at the back of Tony's throat. For once in his life, he ignores the urge to poke and prod until he discovers every last thing. He slips from the room as quietly as he entered and tries desperately to push aside the image he's now got of Barton in his head. It is an image of a man who is broken and shattered. Tony has no idea what its supposed to mean.
There is a puzzle before him and he now has to figure it out. So he heads for his personal work space, thankfully spared in the attacks. The elevator ride is made in silence as his mind ticks over on what he's seen and what it could possibly mean. Theories and questions and more theories run through his head until he can finally step foot in his workshop. He closes the door behind him and draws a breath. "Jarvis," he begins.
"I've taken the liberty of securing the doors so that no one may disturb you, sir. And I'm already compiling all of the data and footage I have of Agent Barton since he arrived at the tower."
Tony starts, then realizes that Jarvis probably has a better idea as to what's been going on in his own tower than he does. So he moves to his chair and settles in, his hands already flying over the keyboard. "Tell me everything you know," he says.
Images spring to life before him, ones he's not sure are real. They are images of Barton sitting in a chair in his room, a gorgeous cello cradled between his knees. His left hand caresses the fingerboard while his right draws the bow back and forth over the strings. There is audio and the sounds that come from the instrument are haunting in their beauty. Barton's eyes are closed and his face relaxed, as if he has found some sense of peace in the music he plays. Perhaps he has. How many times has Tony gotten lost in the rock he plays while he works?
"Agent Barton has been playing the cello for nearly more than ten years, sir," Jarvis says, his voice soft and reverent. Tony has never seen Barton like this before and he is loathe to speak, to break the spell the man's abilities have cast over him. "The cello you see him playing here is a one of a kind, made especially for him."
The footage changes, switches to a moderate sized auditorium. There is an orchestra on the stage, men and women clad in tuxedos and long dresses. Its easy to spot Barton among them, his hands moving over the cello's fingerboard with such certainty that Tony has to remind himself that the man is a deadly sniper with perfect aim. There is something enchanting about seeing him play as if he's never taken a life. As if he's never fought a desperate battle against overwhelming numbers. As if he's never known a moment of death or grief in his life.
The camera swivels and pans the audience. And Tony is startled to see a pair of familiar faces among the crowd. Its hard to miss Natasha's flame red hair. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are soft. The music has obviously affected her. But its the face next to hers that really throws him for a loop. Phil Coulson sits there, a look of intense pride in his eyes. One hand taps the chair in time to the music. Tony studies it further and realizes that it taps in time to Clint's notes.
He isn't sure what he's seeing, but Tony knows that it is an important clue. And he's just a touch mad because he can't figure out what it all means. He's always assumed that Clint and Natasha are doing sleeping with one another because that seems like something they'd do. There's a closeness between them that they don't have with anyone else on the team. And Tony's always suspected that her ice princess routine is just that. But this image... It doesn't confirm or deny his suspicions. In fact, it only brings about more questions.
"When was this shot, Jarvis?"
"Only two months before Loki used the Tesseract to possess Agent Barton's mind, sir," the AI answers. "I believe--"
His words are cut off by a soft, husky voice just behind him. "That's the last time Clint performed on stage. After Phil's death, he almost stopped playing altogether. But the music lives in his soul and he couldn't stay away from the cello. It was the last piece of Phil he had."
Tony turns to find Natasha standing there, watching the footage of the concert with eyes that look moist. He opens his mouth to demand to know how she managed to get in when Jarvis has everyone locked out. Then her words sink in and he has to catch up with his brain as it goes off on its own. Finally, he looks back at the video footage and watches as Clint practically makes love to the cello. Ew. Mental image he didn't need. But everything starts to click into place and he wonders how he didn't see it before. "He and Coulson?" he asks.
Natasha nods. "They kept it quiet because it was just for them. And they didn't allow their personal feelings to get in the way of their work." She pauses and watches as Clint plays a solo, the echoing notes made by his cello bringing Tony's skin up in goose flesh.
"Until now," he says quietly, because now Tony really understands.
"Until now." Natasha sounds almost wistful, but Tony has to be hearing things because this is Natasha. The Black Widow. She has no emotions. "The cello was a gift from Phil on their anniversary. It was custom made and there isn't another one like it in all the world. It was the only thing that kept Clint sane these past few months. Now that its gone..." Her voice fades, but she doesn't need to speak the words for Tony to understand what she's hinting at.
"He blames himself for Phil's death, doesn't he?" Tony asks, his mind moving at the speed of light again. So are his hands, fingers typing in instructions faster than he can really think about them.
"He does. He believes that if he hadn't been taken over by Loki, Phil would still be alive." There is a hint of derision in her words, as if she thinks that Clint is being an ass about it all. Tony has to agree. He's seen the footage and Coulson had done what he'd felt was right. He'd done his job.
"He's an idiot," Tony remarks casually.
"He is," she agrees. "But I'm worried about him, Tony."
There are no further words from Natasha. Tony doesn't need to look over his shoulder to know that she's crept away as silently as she arrived. She's told him all she feels he needs to know. And he knows that she'll deny telling him such things if anyone else asks, even under pain of death. Her friendship with the marksman is odd and strange. Tony doesn't want to understand why. So he turns his attention to his new task.
"Jarvis, what do we know about that cello?"
"It was custom made by a gentleman in Poland. Agent Coulson ordered it over the phone and it took the artisan several months to complete. There is a waiting list of approximately tw--"
"Put the call through now, Jarvis," Tony says, his mind already made up. The AI is still rolling images of Clint playing the cello, the haunting melody filling the room. If this is what it takes to bring Clint back, to make him see that there are still people here who care for him, then so be it. The Avengers need Hawkeye. And Tony, Natasha, Steve, Bruce, and Thor need Clint. For better or worse, Fury has turned them into a family. Its dysfunctional at the best of times. But its still a family. And their family is hurting. Tony has realized over the past few months that family is everything. Especially the one you make for yourself.
"Sir, I don't think--" Jarvis begins, but Tony shoots a look at the ceiling that silences the AI.
"Put the call through. Clint needs this. He needs us," Tony instructs. There is a heavy, disapproving silence, then the AI makes a noise like a sigh and the digital sounds of a telephone being dialed takes the place of the beautiful cello music. Soon the sound of the line ringing through fills the air and still Tony watches the way Clint moves as he plays his cello.
Tony can see the love that Barton has for the cello in the way his left hand moves against the fingerboard, the serene look that resides upon his face. He holds the cello like he would hold a lover, with tender care and deep adoration. His thighs clasp the instrument as if it were his lover. it is something that Tony has never seen before. Oh, he's seen the way Clint caresses his bow and his arrows, but there is a different kind of emotion behind that. This is almost disturbingly like love.
It makes Tony wonder just how well he and his teammates really know one another.
Finally, the other end of the phone picks up and an accented voice answers in what Tony has to assume is Polish for hello. He draws a breath and, after a second to wonder just why in the hell he's doing this, he starts to speak.
~*~*~*~*~
"Agent Barton?" Jarvis' voice fills the elevator and startles Clint out of his dark thoughts. He holds back a curse and flicks his glance toward the panel beside the elevator doors. It is from this panel that the voice issues and Clint is sure there's a camera there, too. Just like there are two at either corner in the ceiling.
"What is it, Jarvis?" he asks, not really in the mood to chat with Tony's AI.
"Mr. Stark has requested your presence in the conference room."
Clint holds back the retort that rises to his lips. It seems to him that quite often lately, Stark has been doing his best to get Clint involved in just about everything that goes on within the tower. Come to think of it, the rest of the team has been, too. Any free time that Clint has has been spent at the tower. And there has been a lot of time because Fury has told him point blank that he doesn't want to see Clint near the newly rebuilt helicarrier or base. So Clint's nights and off days are spent at Stark Tower. Because there is a state of the art range located within the building and its every thing Clint could ever want in a practice range.
He has to wonder what's going on that his entire team has been trying to force him into participating in things like movie nights and game nights. He isn't up to it when they get him to join them for such inanities. He isn't up to dealing with Stark at the moment. "Tell him I'm busy," Clint replies as the elevator slows for his floor.
Before the door can open, the elevator is back in motion and its climbing its way up to the common areas. There is a hint of regret in Jarvis' voice when he speaks. "I'm sorry, Agent Barton. But I've been given express orders that you are to join Mr. Stark in the conference room. Immediately."
"Damn it, Jarvis. Don't make me pull your circuits out of the wall," Clint snaps, but the AI is silent. No doubt ignoring him. Clint leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. Its a good thing that he doesn't have any weapons on him or Stark would find out just what its like to not have his suit on. Months of Stark trying to be his best friend have gotten on his last nerves and he really doesn't want to have to put up with him now.
The elevator slows again, then stops. The doors slides open to reveal the conference room before him. The doors to it are shut, leaving Clint wondering if he can sneak away without Tony knowing he was there. "Mr. Stark has been informed that we've arrived. He's given me instructions to lock you out of the stairwell if you attempt to go to your floor by the stairs and thereby avoid him." Jarvis doesn't sound at all put out by this bit of news. Clint mutters a few choice words under his breath, then starts for the door.
His mind is putting together a string of good curses to throw at Tony when he gets the doors open. Its pretty shitty of him to force Clint to meet with him by getting his AI to use blackmail. The doors swing open wide at the touch of Clint's hands. "Stark, you'd better have a damned good..."
His voice dies off when his eyes take in the fact that everyone is awaiting him in the conference room. And they're all wearing such expectant looks upon their faces. Even Natasha, who isn't quite smiling. But its damn close. "Clint. Glad you could join us. We have something for you."
And then Tony steps to the side and Clint's eyes are drawn to the large wooden case propped up against the wall behind him. The burl of the wood and the stain that darkens it is familiar and Clint feels an odd twist in his gut. Silver clasps run down one side. A dark purple bow rests atop the case. Its suddenly very hard to breathe as Clint stares at it and he's taken by a dizzying sense of déjà vu. His gaze slides sideways to Stark, who's smiling at him like the cat that caught the canary, ate it, and then went back for its friends.
"Well? Don't just stand there with that idiotic look on your face. Come open it and see," Stark orders, his voice touched with a hint of acid. Not much, but enough to see Clint moving to do as he's instructed.
The wood is as smooth under his hand as he remembers and his fingers tremble when they flip the clasps open. The lid swings open on silent, hidden hinges, revealing an interior of deep royal purple velvet. He stares and his throat catches, the words stuck behind a lump so big that he can't even swallow it down.
The cello is exactly the same as the one Phil had given him, exactly the same as the one that had been destroyed. He can see the ebony that the turning pegs and fingerboard are made out of. The mellow stain of the body is rich and warm, and Clint swears that the burl of the wood used to craft the body of the cello is exactly the same as the one that had been destroyed. The bow is made of pernambuco and it gleams darkly next to the cello.
His gaze swings around to look at Tony, who wears an unbearably knowing smirk on his face. He lets it slide to each of the four remaining people in the room. Each of them is wearing a hopeful expression. And Natasha is nearly crying. Nearly smiling. He turns back to Tony and shakes his head. "I don't understand."
"Its an exact replica of the cello that got destroyed. Its made by the same craftsman that Phil commissioned. We wanted you to have it," Tony tells him, as if that's supposed to explain it all.
"We're your family, Clint," Steve is saying, pulling his attention from Stark and the cello. There's a soft look on his face. "I know we can't replace what you had with Agent Coulson, but we're still here for you." And its plain to see by the way Steve is watching him that he knows just what Clint had with Phil. They all do. Again his gaze slides back to Stark.
"Hey, don't look at me, buddy. I didn't tell them," he protests.
"Of course he did," Bruce replies, a touch of laughter in his voice. "But only because he wanted to let us know why you were taking Agent Coulson's death so badly."
"Tony is correct," Thor adds, as if he doesn't want to be left out of the conversation. "We see you as a brother. And we only wish for you to be happy. If this is what it takes to make you happy, then this is what we will do for you."
"Play it for us, Clint. We want to hear it," Natasha says softly. There is some emotion caught in her voice, but Clint lets it go. He doesn't want to examine it too intently because he doesn't want to know just what it is she's feeling. There's already far too much for him to take in as it is.
"Aye, my friend. Make it sing," Thor encourages.
For the first time in a very long time, a sense of something that isn't quite embarrassment washes over him. But with it comes a deep, strong longing that he cannot ignore. The cello is a thing of beauty and he can't not play it. He gives a nod, not sure he can trust his voice, and moves to the case to gently remove the cello. The bow comes next, as well as a cake of rosin that is tucked in there. He takes all three items to the nearest chair and settles into it. After rosining up his bow, he lets his fingertips glide across the strings to test their pitch. He lays the bow on the table, along with the rosin, and reaches up to turn the pegs until the strings sing to him.
A moment of panic hits him after he picks the bow back up, his mind searching for a piece that he can play. In the end, only one piece comes to mind and he smiles as he positions the cello between his thighs, rests it against his shoulder.
She fits perfectly between his legs, a lover made for his touch only. After positioning his left hand on the fingerboard, he draws the bow across the strings and lets her sing for everyone else. She has perfect tone and her notes are crystal clear, hauntingly beautiful and mournful all at the same time. Bach comes to him easily, the notes of the cello suite rising up to fill the room with a cascading waterfall of her song.
Clint falls into the suite, the music calling to him in a way that only music has ever been able to do. There here and now slip away on a tide of long, drawn out notes that roll over him like drops of water. They bring him new life and refresh him. The cello is a thing of beauty and he coaxes each and every note from her with ease and grace. She sings under his touch, crying out the passion that he brings to life with the glide of his bow across her strings. The song is comforting in a way that nothing else can be for him at the moment, almost like the ghostly touch of Phil's hand on his shoulder. The caress of his mouth on Clint's. The feel of their bodies pressed next to one another.
Its such a beautiful lie and he lets himself believe it, if only for a minute or two. But all too soon, the suite ends and the music fades into nothing. Clint's fantasy shatters when the last of the notes falls silent, leaving behind the haunting presence of Phil's ghost. Clint leaves his eyes closed, incapable of looking at his teammates. He doesn't want to see their pity. Or their surprise. Or their disgust. Or whatever it is they feel. He only wants to bask in the remembered love that the cello has brought him.
But the lie breaks apart and slips away from him as one set of hands starts clapping. Then another. And another. The steady applause pulls Clint's eyes open and he finds that each of his teammates are clapping for him. And each of them wears a different expression. On Steve's face, he sees the same look of awe and wonder that the man gets when he has time to trace images into his sketch book. Thor wears a look of surprise, the good kind that makes his eyes light up and his smile stretch broad and genuine across his face. Bruce is silent and contemplative, a kind of serenity showing in his gaze that Clint thinks he hasn't seen in a long time. Tony's eyes shine with fierce pride as he claps his hands, his mouth twisted into the hint of a true smile. Not the patented Tony Stark smile that he uses when dealing with the press or people he finds to be idiots. Which is pretty much everyone. Its a real, honest smile.
And then there's Tasha. Again, there's a tear in one eye. Just one tear. And it hasn't fallen. Nor does it make her look sad and soft. It gives one the impression that she's all woman, yet fierce and strong and capable of doing anything she sets her mind to. It is a good look, a strong look. A look that comes as close to happiness as he's ever seen her.
It is those looks that break him, that shatter the thin and brittle shell he's managed to build around himself. Because he realizes that Tony is right. They are his family. They'll always be there for him. He'll never stop missing Phil, never stop loving him. But he can't cut himself off from everyone and everything that makes his life worth while. Phil wouldn't want him to do that. Phil wouldn't let him do it. The cello cradled between his thighs is proof of that.
Clint rises slowly and returns the cello to its case with gentle hands. The wood is warm under his hands. Its as beautiful as the one Phil had given him. And just as treasured. When everything is in its place, he finally turns to look at them. The applause has died down and now they are simply watching him with welcoming eyes. "Why didn't you ever tell us that you could play so beautifully?" Steve asks, breaking the spell that had fallen over them.
"I was afraid what people would think. I'm too damned good at destruction. I wanted to be good at creating, too." They all stare at him as if its a stupid explanation. Perhaps it is. He ducks his head and shrugs slightly. "What can I say? I'm good with a bow. Any bow."
Tony grins, broad and wide, letting them know he's thinking something. Something Clint suspects he isn't going to like very much.
~*~
He can't see beyond the lights that shine on the stage. Not even with his perfect vision. But he can feel the life that fills the seats hidden in the darkness. He knows that there is a full house tonight. Surprisingly, even knowing that, he isn't nervous. This feels like home for him and he relishes every minute of it. Its been far too long since he's sat in this chair and played for a crowd of people. Far too long since he's allowed himself to be this open and free. It feels even better than he remembered.
The cello nestles between his thighs, vibrating with the notes that he slowly pulls from it. The sound echoes in his ears, painting vivid images in his head. Fills the auditorium to the seats. There are other cellos playing beside him, along with a handful of basses. Violins and violas add in their higher pitched, sweeter sounds. Each note rises to the ceiling until he can hear nothing more than the sweet music that the group is producing.
The cello is a thing of beauty, her body curved and warm to his touch. She fits him perfectly, responds to him like a well-known lover. His hands caress her as they coax the long, low notes from her. Her melody is haunting. And she's all his. She sings for him. She cries and moans only for him. Every sound she makes is beautiful.
Finally, the last of the notes fade away and leave the echoes of themselves hanging in the air. The lights dim as the crowd beyond the stage breaks into loud, boisterous applause. When his eyes adjust, Clint can see his teammates, his friends, occupying one row. They're all there, sitting side by side and applauding just as enthusiastically today as they did the day Tony presented him with the cello. There is pride and joy in their eyes and on their faces. There is real happiness there.
And they're not the only ones. Fury is there, a surprise for Clint because he didn't think that Fury ever did anything so mundane as listen to an orchestra play. Sitwell and Woo. Delancey and Jackson. Maria Hill. They are all there and they are all applauding. Clint finds it amazing.
The orchestra takes a bow and Clint dips with them.
When he rises, he can feel the warmth coming from the cello. He can feel the wood still vibrating as if he'd only just finished playing it. And he can feel the warm touch of a hand at his shoulder. He knows Phil is there with him in spirit.
Clint will never get over Phil's death. He'll never love another living soul the way he loved Phil. But he knows now that his life isn't over. He'll be able to go on because he's got his friends, his family, there to help him get through. He's got Phil's memory to keep him going. And he'll always have Phil's love.
As he stands in the bright light of the spots and takes another bow, he swears he hears Phil's voice in his ear. "Draw your bow across the strings of my heart and teach me how to sing."
~*~