Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.

Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"

Shout out to those that guessed the song last chapter! JRBarton, pheonixriv, and hawkeyeforever

Thanks to all who reviewed Chapter 11: JRBarton, penguincrazy, Coryn, Batghost, awkward hawk, BatmanOtaku, Viviannafox, Jewls58, Qweb, TheNightFury, viressiel, isi7140, Reteka Hyuuga, bookworm1517, GremlinX, ladybug114, Sandy-wmd, Lollypops101, Kylen, Eringo94, Invisible Observer 813, Rose, thababes, R1dDL3M37h15, pheonixriv, Melissa, AddictedLauren, Rangersan, GreenLoki, truefairytales, InkedFeather, jaguarspot, weemcg33, LostHawk, tpt player 5701, CyanB, beverlie4055, Del18, Eva7673, Kiiimberly, TrooperCam, m klindt, Lil'Fuj13, Ms. Hawkeye, WDFM, My5tic-Lali, MO-5431, hawkeyeforever, Happy, Kirstiej104, hawkeye-mockingwidow, Amy

To Lil'Fuj13: it's Caleb! you guessed it!

To Ms. Hawkeye: you'll find out where they are soon enough :)

Normally I thank those that reviewed every chapter, but given the fact that I'm on a mini-vacation right now and I'm also up way later than I should be given that I'm going to be woken up by my wonderful son in just a few short hours, I just don't have the time to create the list that I usually do I'm sorry! Know that I appreciate each and every one of you and ESPECIALLY those of you that take the time to review every chapter!

Those of you that have been wondering and guessing…my son's name is Caleb

Special thanks to Kylen for her constant support as this story was written. Every time I sit down to write, she pushes me to do and be better as an author. Without her advice and support this story wouldn't have turned out how it did :)

Another special thanks to JRBarton she also has been super supportive and helpful as she served as very patient second beta :)

The song for this story is "Carry On My Wayward Son" by Kansas! Probably my favorite song ever.

So with nothing more to say, here is the conclusion of Cairo…

Most people carry that pain around inside them their whole lives, until they kill the pain by other means, or until it kills them. But you, my friends, you found another way: a way to use the pain. To burn it as fuel, for light and warmth. You have learned to break the world that has tried to break you.
Lev Grossman

Clint returned to awareness abruptly, senses sharpening immediately. He felt another person in the room, but in the same moment, identified that person and relaxed.

"You awake?" Phil's voice was close, right next to the bed.

Instead of replying, Clint opened his eyes and let that be answer enough.

The room was just as white as he'd expected – it was one of the things he hated about the infirmary, too much white. He swallowed, frowning at the dryness of his throat and tried to remember the last time he'd been awake.

It was all unpleasantly fuzzy. He tried to reach up with his free hand to rub his eyes, but met resistance. His gaze snapped down to his wrist, glaring at the fabric restraint holding him captive. His right arm was strapped to his chest again, so he supposed it had been labeled a non-threat.

"Just a precaution." Phil assured.

Clint frowned. A precaution against what? What the hell was going on?

"What happened?"

Jesus, he still sounded terrible and now instead of just feeling dry, his throat hurt. Then there was the annoying cotton-mouth sensation that told him he hadn't spoken or had something to drink in way too long.

A straw appeared in his line of sight and his bed started rising behind him, gently easing him to a reclined position instead of flat on his back.

"Slowly." Phil instructed as he let Clint take a long drink from the water cup.

Clint narrowed his eyes in annoyance, but obeyed. Then, before Clint was ready, Phil took the cup away and sat back in the seat he'd pulled up to the side of the bed.

"What do you remember?" Phil asked carefully, eyes watching Clint closely.

An image of Boomer, lying dead on the floor in front of him, flashed across his vision and it took everything Clint had not to flinch.

"About what?" he asked, clearing his throat with a wince.

Phil's eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he sat forward in his chair.

"Do you remember waking up in the infirmary? Being confused?"

Another fractured memory flashed through his mind – a blurred, shifting scene that included Ruiz, Cohen and a handful of mercenaries…and then didn't include any of that.

He blew out a breath and dropped his head back against his pillows.

"Shit."

Phil nodded, seemingly pleased he didn't have to explain everything.

"Shit would be right." Phil agreed.

Clint pulled his head forward again and shook his head, trying to make sense of the other mixed up, blurry memories that were filtering in.

"What…uh?" Clint stuttered. "What the hell had happened?

"Your fever spiked." Phil explained. "That combined with your concussion and whatever you were dreaming about added up to you taking a nurse hostage at knife point."

Clint closed his eyes, he'd been hoping that bit of the memory had been part of the delusion.

"It was…I thought it was Cohen…I swear it was Cohen."

But the more he thought about it, the more he remembered, the only thing that had been Cohen was the way the man looked, the way his voice sounded. None of the behaviors matched.

Shit.

"Is she okay?"

"A little shaken up, got nicked on the jaw by the blade, but she'll be fine."

Clint chewed the inside of his lip, trying to remember ever deciding to actually use the knife as anything more than a threat.

"You were convinced I was Ruiz and kept asking where Boomer was. Is that what you were dreaming about? Looking for Boomer?"

Another memory filtered through his head, but this time it wasn't from the dream or the confused situation that followed, it was the real memory…and the devastating result of that original search.

"I's over f'r me, H'wk. N't f'r you."

"No, it's not over. I'm not leaving you here." Clint argued.

Boomer's pale lips stretched into a weak smile.

"Knew it…Knew you w're diff'r'nt."

Clint looked away, fixing his gaze on the wall. He heard Phil sigh, but he didn't push. He changed the subject instead.

"Dr. Taylor is here."

Clint whipped his head around to glare at Phil then at the closed door behind him.

"Don't give me that look, you would have had to talk to her anyway, you know that. What happened last night just sped up the process."

Clint frowned, momentarily distracted.

"Last night?" If the clock on the wall was right, it was well past noon. He had nothing but vague, blurred memories of being woken up and asked the standard concussion questions, but other than that, nothing. There was nNo way he'd slept that long on his own.

"Had to sedate you, Clint, until we were sure of what was going on. It's protocol for a situation like this, just like a psych consult is."

Clint shook his head in frustration, this just kept getting better and better. No wonder his brain felt like it was moving through sludge – he hated goddamned sedatives.

A slight knock came at the door but it didn't open. It seemed to be signal of some sort though, because Phil sat up straighter and then stood.

"Look, kid, I know talking to psych is one of those things you consider on par with torture, but you held a nurse at knife point…there's nothing you or I can do to put this off right now."

Clint felt his shoulders sag. Then there was that. He tried to reach up to rub his eyes again only to be met with the same resistance as before. His sudden flare of annoyance must have shown on his face because Phil didn't move away from the bed.

"Do you want me to stay?"

No…and yes.

He didn't want Phil around to be able to too closely analyze Clint's reactions to whatever Taylor said. But at the same time, Phil's presence was comforting and calming.

Except…he didn't want to be comforted. He didn't want Phil trying to make him feel better.

And he didn't want Phil seeing more than Clint was ready for him to see.

So he shook his head negatively. Phil hesitated, but didn't try to change his mind.

"I'll be right outside." Phil assured.

He meant it as a comfort, but all it inspired was dread. Shrinks tended to draw conclusions, usually out loud and without asking permission. He wasn't sure he wanted Phil hearing whatever conclusions Taylor started drawing. It was better than him being right there, though, so he would take it.

Phil hesitated at his bedside a few moments longer, probably waiting for some sort of reaction from Clint. But Clint just fixed his gaze on the wall and didn't look at him.

Finally Phil moved away, to the door.

And some deep part of him that he refused to acknowledge suddenly wished he'd asked Phil to stay.

Dr. Bridgett Taylor waited outside the infirmary door until Agent Coulson stepped through.

"He's ready." Coulson stated, moving aside to allow her access to the door. But as she met his eyes, his gaze didn't look nearly as inviting.

Bridgett lightly rested her hand on his forearm and squeezed gently.

"I'll be careful with him." She promised quietly. She waited for his acknowledging nod before removing her hand and moving past him, pushing the door open.

She'd met with Clint Barton a handful of times since he'd come to SHIELD. And their first consultation had been one she would never forget. He'd just gotten back from a mission in North Korea, one that hadn't gone quite as planned, but had turned out the way it was supposed to.

He hadn't said a word the entire session – not one word – and for her, that had been a first. She'd seen her share of stubborn patients, but Clint Barton was in a class all of his own. She'd never met someone so good at being unreadable. Everyone, eventually, had a tell. But not Barton. He fit the description of 'stone cold' like no one she'd ever met. After their first meeting, she'd been stumped.

Then had come the Andes, and he had been just as silent and stoic even though he'd been in the midst of recovering from what she could only describe as a horrific ordeal.

And she'd continued to be stumped.

She'd generically suggested he take some time to himself to process what he'd been through. Perhaps visit the city and get away from SHIELD for a while during his recovery. She'd advised him to find something to care about, to focus on.

Then she'd happened to see him meet up with Phil Coulson in the hallway, who had come to pick him up from the session, and her entire perception changed. When he'd caught sight of Phil, something in his entire posture shifted as he walked to meet his handler. Gone was the predator's stalk and in its place was something bordering on relaxed and even friendly. They'd exchanged a few words and Barton had happened to glance back at her office. She'd practically dove out of sight, but not before catching the open, almost humorous, expression on his face.

That was when she'd learned that 'stone cold' wasn't who Clint Barton was, not at his core. It was an armor he wore as a defense mechanism and Phil Coulson was vital to bringing that armor down.

Her whole approach had changed after that. And in every session they'd had since – and it was required after every assignment – she'd made a little progress. Last time, he'd even given her two full sentences, at one time no less. But she was determined to be patient. She was convinced that if she was, if she could just continue to be open and careful with him, he'd eventually open up in return.

But as she moved farther into the infirmary room and took in Barton's expression and countenance, she realized that today was not going to be one that yielded progress.

Regression. That was what she was looking at.

Barton was as closed down and 'stone cold' as he'd been in that very first session, maybe even more so. If she hoped to make any progress, she was going to have to tread very, very carefully.

"Hey there." She greeted warmly, sliding into the chair next to his bed and flipping open her notebook to a clear page. She dropped the notebook onto her lap, though, and didn't poise her pen to write. "It's been a while since we've seen each other. How're you feeling?"

He didn't show any visible reaction to her question, just kept his gaze pinned on the wall across from him. Not to be deterred so easily, Bridgett pulled the file she'd been given last night out from under her notebook and flipped it open. In it was a compilation of the original mission file, Barton's reports throughout the mission, Coulson's preliminary report, and Dr. Wilson's medical report. She didn't need to read it – she'd read it all last night – but it gave her something else to focus on. Barton never seemed to like being watched too closely.

"I have your mission file as well as yours, Coulson's and Dr. Wilson's reports here and I've gotta say, your continued ability to work through painful injuries is impressive." She looked up from the file. "Let's talk about those injuries. Do you wanna tell me how they happened?"

Giving him the option instead of making it a command kept him from feeling cornered, and in the past it had worked to help lower his defenses, if only slightly. Today, though, he just continued to stare at the wall.

"That's okay, Barton, you don't have to talk yet." She assured calmly. "I think I can put some of it together on my own anyway." She glanced at the file then back at his face. "It looks like you've been fighting. Old and new abrasions on your hands, old and new bruises on your torso and back. It's those old injuries, the ones Dr. Wilson estimates might be as old as a ten days or more, that got me curious." She gave him a moment to react, but he didn't, so she went on. "You reported that the organization you were working undercover in held nightly fights in something called 'The Ring'– very 'Fight Club' if you ask me." The movie reference didn't even get a glance. "You reported that you fought every now and then, no doubt to help keep your cover. But there sure are a lot of old bruises for it to have been just 'every now and then', aren't there."

She didn't phrase it as a question on purpose and she kept her tone calm and non-judgmental. Even so, Barton didn't even twitch, didn't shift his gaze from the wall.

"I'm betting that this assignment probably hit pretty close to home. And if it were me, I'd probably have been looking for some way to cope with that. Am I on the right track?"

He swallowed, but she wasn't sure if it was in response to her assessment or just a physical need so she didn't over analyze it.

"Then we've got the more recent injuries. Heavy, intense, localized bruising; your missing molar; and then those electrical burns." She blew out a low breath and tore her eyes away from the pictures in the file. "Those are textbook interrogation techniques. After what you went through last year, this probably felt pretty familiar in a not-so-good way."

Still nothing – Barton never had cared much for empathy.

"But you've always been a 'tough as shit' kind of guy. I'm betting the questioning barely fazed you. Though not for their lack of trying. What did they use?" she asked carefully. "A cattle prod? Stun gun?"

"A taser." The correction was quiet and he still didn't look at her. She wasn't even completely convinced he'd actually said anything, until he spoke again. "With the cartridge removed."

She didn't know what difference having or not having a cartridge meant when it came to a taser, but if it had been used as an interrogation tool, it wouldn't have been pleasant.

"I see." She didn't have to fabricate the emotional empathy in her tone.

It was so much easier to remain distant with her other patients, but good God…Clint Barton was nineteen. He was practically a baby compared to some of the other agents she met with. It made it harder to remain objective sometimes.

She needed to keep moving before she thought too long about it.

"But then there are injuries I can't place. The knife wounds on your hand and your back…those aren't from an interrogation. The dog bite you said came from a guard dog, so I'm betting that happened during your escape…but that still doesn't explain the knife wounds…"

She trailed off and watched him for a moment, wondering if he'd speak again. He didn't.

She knew she was missing something, some piece to the puzzle of what had happened to him in Cairo, but as was usual with this particular patient, he wasn't talking.

"You know, I'll say it again. It's impressive. I don't know if you even realize the sheer amount of mental and physical strength it takes to go through something this brutal and still keeping moving forward with your mission."

Something in his expression twitched and she didn't have to guess to know what it meant. She'd learned early on that Clint Barton had no concept of his own inner strength or worth, but his lack of self-esteem was an entirely different beast. And it was one she wasn't inclined to tackle today.

"About that mission. You were sent undercover to locate and eliminate a man by the name of Damon Ruiz, but he wasn't there when you arrived." When he didn't object to any of the fact so far, she went on. "At which point, you had to 'settle in' until he got back. Were you ready for this to turn into a two-week assignment?"

Barton's expression tweaked very slightly, as if to say 'of course I was, it's my job.'

"Fair enough," she allowed. "But two weeks with a bunch of mercenaries had to have been…stressful for you." He didn't give her any indication on if that was true or not, but she hadn't expected him to. "And that brings us right back to finding a way to cope, right?"

He rolled his eyes slightly, giving her a mildly patronizing glare. It made her smile. It was a slight peek at the sarcastic personality he was so famous for and that she'd started to get glimpses of over the last year since the Andes. It gave her hope that he wasn't as far gone as he seemed, or as he seemed to believe.

"Anyway," she went on, "Ruiz came back and you were on the escort team – lucky break."

He was back to staring at the wall though, and didn't react.

"Or at least it would have been if Ruiz hadn't blamed you for that car bomb. I'm guessing that's where the interrogation comes in." She didn't want him dwelling on those particular memories, so she continued quickly. "But you escaped, were able to reconnect with Agent Coulson, and you went back to the compound and killed Ruiz."

She watched his face carefully now. In the past, talking about the completion of his mission usually brought out some sort of reaction. Whether it be a purposefully blank expression or a flicker of guilt. For someone who made his living as an assassin, he never seemed quite at ease with taking someone's life.

But now, with the mention of Ruiz, there was nothing. There was no purposeful blankness and no guilt. He was just…unaffected. He didn't care.

"Barton," she started carefully, hesitating to make sure her wording was right, "you've always, in the time that you've been here, struggled, in some way, with the job you do here. I can't help but notice you aren't…struggling…with having killed Ruiz."

He shifted then, turning his head and meeting her gaze for the first time since their one-sided conversation had started. Then he stated, very simply, and in a tone that she was smart enough to be slightly terrified by…

"He had it coming."

She held his gaze without flinching until he returned it to the wall, only then did she allow herself a thick swallow and a moment to take a deep breath. She didn't care that Clint Barton had in no way ever made any sort of threatening move towards her – a tone like that, coming out of a kid his age, with a look that dark in his eyes…it was enough to make her heart pound and her adrenaline spike.

"I would argue that everyone SHIELD sends you for 'had it coming.'"

Barton just shook his head, telling her without words that this was different.

"Is it because of what he did to you?"

But even as she said it, she knew that wasn't right. Barton was a lot of things, but vengeful wasn't one of them. His slight headshake and mildly annoyed sigh just confirmed her instinct.

So, Bridgett looked back at the file, scanning quickly over Coulson's preliminary report and then the report of the incident from last night. One name jumped out at her.

"Is it because of what he did to Boomer?" she asked quietly, carefully.

A muscle at the base of his jaw twitched. It wasn't exactly a 'tell' because the twitch came from clenching his jaw. Barton tended to clench his jaw for a lot of reasons – annoyance, anger, pain, frustration, and probably many more reasons she didn't know. All it really told her was that he was having some sort of reaction to what she'd said, not what that reaction was.

It was enough for her to know she was on the right track though.

"He helped you escape, saved your life." She watched his face closely, waiting to see how he would react. The muscle in his jaw twitched again, but otherwise nothing changed. "And you went back for him, didn't you? Not just for Ruiz, but for Boomer too – to do for him what he did for you."

It made such perfect sense. Even in the short time she'd known him, she'd seen that loyalty was something he took very seriously. His professional loyalty was to SHIELD, his personal loyalty was to Coulson. But beyond that, he was loyal to those who proved they were loyal to him.

Boomer had proven his loyalty by helping Barton escape – Barton would have instinctively wanted to return that loyalty. He'd gone back to try and save the man that had saved him.

And he'd failed.

Failure was not something he tended to handle well.

"And now you feel like you let him down."

There went that twitching jaw muscle again.

Bridgett took a breath and looked down at the files again. Pushing him on this wouldn't get her anywhere, but at least part of the issue had become a little clearer. She would have to leave this particular point to Coulson because even before this mess, Barton never would have let her help him work through it.

That thought brought her to a new issue.

Coulson.

"You know…normally, you'd be one of the last people I'd worry would have a situation like what happened last night. Because no matter what you go through, you practically have a built-in support system in the form of Agent Coulson. Ever since you and I met, he's been right there, waiting in the wings…but he wasn't there last night."

It was just meant as an observation, not an accusation, but Barton's shoulders tensed anyway.

"What happened wasn't his fault."

She held up a calming hand.

"I wasn't saying it was. I only meant that normally, he's there, keeping you calm and helping you cope with situations like this." She tapped the reports on her lap. "It says here that you admitted there were things you didn't tell him in your check-ins and judging by what happened last night, there are things you aren't telling him now."

Barton stared pensively at the wall and didn't respond.

"Is there a reason you're putting this new distance between you and him?"

He didn't respond to that either, but at this point she was mostly thinking out loud. There was something else going on here – something nobody knew about but Barton. And he wouldn't be sharing with her any time soon.

"Look, Barton, what you went through with Ruiz and with Boomer…you've got every right to be shaken up. But you can't just not cope. Not coping leads to situations like what happened last night – and last night, you got lucky. The only injury was a minor one, but you know better than anybody what you're capable of and it could been a lot worse."

He was chewing the inside of his bottom lip now and had the good grace to look like he felt bad about what had happened. That was something at least.

Knowing there was nothing else she could get out of this meeting, she stood and gave him one last long look.

"Whatever you're afraid of with Coulson, don't be. You don't have to be…not with him."

That was one thing she knew without a doubt. She didn't wait for a reaction that wasn't coming, instead turned and headed quietly for the door. She slid out as silently as she'd slid in and waited until the door was firmly closed behind her to turn and face the three men gathered in the hallway.

It wasn't often she had to give reports directly to Director Fury himself, but she supposed Barton had always been somewhat of a special case. The Director was standing in the middle of the hallway, hands folded behind his back and one eyebrow arched in curious anticipation.

Dan Wilson was leaning back against the wall, writing on a chart he had braced against his abdomen.

And Phil Coulson was leaning sideways against the wall right next to the viewing window, arms crossed over his chest and eyes pinned on Barton through the glass.

"I think I can safely say that another violent outburst is unlikely. Agent Barton is very good at remaining in control and now that he's been made aware of the need to be in control…I don't think there's a danger of a repeat performance." That, at least, she could say with confidence.

All three men turned their attention to her with varying degrees of relief evident in their expressions. Director Fury's relief was shown only by that arched eyebrow dropping back down to its natural position. Dan blew out a relieved breath and folded his arms around the chart he now had pressed to his chest. And Coulson just nodded, as if he'd already figured it out on his own. Which he may have, he did know Barton better than anyone else.

"And everything else?" Coulson asked quietly.

Now, Bridgett sighed.

"The root of the issue here, as I see it at least, is that he's not coping with Boomer's death and his inability to prevent it. And by not coping with what happened to Boomer, he's also not coping with coming out of his cover. It's left him in a kind of limbo – stuck in his cover, which, given his history, is more like regression than anything else. And the concussion is likely just making it worse."

"So what do we do?" Dan asked. "You say that there's not much chance of another incident, but my staff is pretty on edge. Getting them within spitting distance of his room since last night hasn't been easy."

"Well, for starters, I wouldn't leave him alone with any of them. Have someone he trusts in there whenever staff is in there – that will put him at ease…which will in turn, put them at ease." She cast a long look at Coulson as she spoke and he nodded slightly again, assuring her that he understood. Something told her Coulson wouldn't be anywhere else for the foreseeable future so none of this would really be an issue.

"And what do we do going forward?" the Director spoke up, looking first to her then to Dan. "To get him back on my roster."

"I'm not cutting him loose from here until that infection stops causing fever spikes and I can be sure everything is healing properly – a few days at least, probably closer to a week." Dan replied easily, as if that decision had already been made long ago.

"And I want to meet with him daily for the next week, maybe longer if we don't start seeing some progress." Bridgett added. Fury nodded and dismissed her with a look. She dipped her head in acknowledgment and turned away.

She blew out a sigh as she headed down the hallway. She still had a handful of sessions to get through today, but with Barton's out of the way, there was nowhere to go but up.

Nick waited until Dr. Taylor was out of sight before turning to face Phil and Dan.

"So whose bright idea was it not to check Barton for weapons?"

They both had the good grace to look both contrite and apologetic.

"I mean, gentlemen…" Fury gave them both hard looks, "It's Barton."

That alone should have warranted a full pat down.

Phil rubbed his eyes wearily.

"He's never tried to sneak a weapon in before."

"And just when has he had the opportunity before? If memory serves, his longest stay in here since he got recruited was for his annual physical."

It was true. By the time he'd gotten back from the God-forsaken Orion mission in the Andes, he'd been healed enough to be released to his quarters. Since then the kid had managed to keep his nose fairly clean.

"It was an oversight." Dan sighed. "It won't happen again."

Fury continued to give them both a long stern look before nodding and letting the issue go.

"Dr. Wilson, I would advise your staff to tread lightly for now. And looking in on that nurse wouldn't be out of order."

The doctor was perceptive enough to know when he was being dismissed and just nodded, giving Phil a shoulder squeeze of encouragement before heading down the hall and back into the heart of the infirmary.

Alone with his agent now, Fury stepped up to Phil's shoulder, looking with him through the window at Barton, whose gaze hadn't left the wall.

"Did we put him out there too early?"

It was an honest question. If they'd pushed Barton into a solo assignment before he was ready, then this was on them.

But Phil shook his head firmly.

"He was ready. This going wrong, it wasn't about his ability to do the job."

"Then what the hell happened?"

"Bad timing?" Phil shrugged, turning to lean back against the wall. He let his head fall back with a sigh. "Everything went to shit and he handled it better than most would. But at the end of it all, he's still only nineteen." He pulled his head forward and met Nick's gaze. "Could you have handled this any better at nineteen? I sure as hell couldn't have."

Nick tipped his head in acknowledgement. Phil had a point.

"I mean, he did his job – he did exactly what we asked him to do."

"And this guy Boomer?"

Phil shook his head sadly.

"Collateral damage."

"Comes with the job," Nick reminded.

Phil jerked his head towards the window – and Barton behind it.

"Tell that to the kid who's already so damn convinced he's got too much blood on his hands."

Fury sighed and glanced at Barton briefly before looking back at Phil – meeting his eyes squarely.

"Phil, we all have blood on our hands. It's something guys like us learn to live with, you know that as well as I do. My question to you now is this…can he learn to live with it?"

Because if he couldn't, it would be better for everyone if they just cut him loose now.

Phil looked through the window at Barton for a long, long moment.

Then he spoke without looking away.

"He's strong enough for this job. He's strong enough to live with it. He'll get there."

Fury nodded. He'd already figured that would be Phil's response.

"Then I leave him to you." He clapped Phil on the shoulder and turned away.

If ever there were capable hands to leave Barton in, it was Phil's. He had every confidence that the older agent would get Barton's head back on straight.

He knew from experience that sometimes all that was needed was time.

And time – for an agent of Barton's caliber – was something he could give.

Clint blew out a deep sigh when his door opened again and Phil walked in.

"So…how'd it go?"

Clint arched an incredulous eyebrow.

"You were right outside the door, you heard how it went."

Phil shook his head and sat in the chair Dr. Taylor had abandoned.

"These rooms are surprisingly well insulated and Dr. Taylor is an impressively soft talker."

Clint rolled his eyes and heard Phil sigh.

"And maybe I knew you wouldn't want me to listen."

That…that was so goddamned Phil. He turned his head slowly, bringing his gaze around to meet his handler's. Phil's gaze was so open and warm that he had to look away. He wasn't ready for open and warm, not yet.

Phil sighed again, but this time there was emotion bundled up in it. Emotion Clint didn't want to analyze.

"Kid, I don't know when I became the enemy here…"

Jesus. Now Clint felt like shit on one more level.

"Goddamn it, Phil…that's not…" He shook his head in frustration and all but threw his head back on the pillows.

"Then tell me what it is, Clint."

"I just…" Clint blew out a breath and rolled his head away from Phil. "I need space…time to deal with all this shit without feeling like I'm on a goddamned timetable."

Phil was quiet for a moment and when he spoke, his voice was still calm, still warm.

"When we met…I gave you a lot of space. And you know what you proved?" He didn't give Clint a chance to answer before he went on, "That you were your own worst enemy."

Clint refused to acknowledge the truth in those words and stayed silent.

"And do you remember what I told you after we started working all your shit out?"

Clint clenched his jaw and didn't look at him.

"That you weren't alone anymore. You don't have to do this – any of this – alone. Not ever again. We can work through this, just like we worked through everything else."

Clint wished it was that easy, he really did. But it wasn't.

"Boomer is dead, Phil." He stated in a flat tone. "He's dead because of me and you can't fix that." He finally turned, meeting Phil's eyes so he could see how damned serious he was. "You can't make that better." Phil's jaw clenched but he didn't argue. "And you can't tell me that who I was there – that who I am – that it doesn't matter…because it matters." He blamed the break in his voice on his damaged vocal chords and looked away again.

"You're right." Phil admitted quietly. "I can't fix it and all of that…I know it matters to you."

The restraint around his wrist suddenly loosened and then disappeared. He snapped his head around and looked first at his freed wrist then at Phil, who was settling back in his chair like he planned on being there a while.

"What are you doing?"

"You don't need that." Phil stretched his neck and blew out a deep breath.

"Phil…" Clint looked back at the restraint and clenched his jaw, trying to keep his voice level. "I don't want to hurt anyone else." He admitted in a low, whispering tone.

Phil didn't move, didn't reach to replace the restraint.

"You won't." He said it with such absolute confidence that Clint had to look at him again. "Because I'll be here with you." He leaned forward and held Clint's gaze firmly. "And that is what matters to me. That you're here. The rest of it…we'll work it out, okay?"

Clint just chewed the inside of his lip and tried to find it in himself to believe Phil was right.

But…he just wasn't so sure he was. He wasn't sure he could work it out this time.

He wasn't sure he even wanted to try.

Two weeks later…

Stephanie Maldonado, Steph to anybody that actually knew her, had grown up with four older brothers. She was no stranger to rough housing and usually had no problem putting men in their place when they needed it.

But what had happened with Barton two weeks ago was something she'd never been ready for. Her brothers had never put their hands on her neck and they'd definitely never threatened her with a knife – not one that wasn't a plastic toy at least.

She was coping, kind of. She wasn't a nervous twitching ball of nerves and in her opinion that was the best anybody could expect of her. So what if she'd made up – sometimes admittedly outrageous – excuses not to be in a room alone with any of the patients. So what if she'd avoided the entire wing of the infirmary Barton's room was housed in during the duration of his stay.

As far as she was concerned, that just made her cautious.

So maybe she'd volunteered to do more inventory counts in the past two weeks than she'd done in the last four years she'd been working for SHIELD. But the inventory room was quiet and most importantly, patients weren't allowed.

With a satisfied sigh, she marked down the catheter count on her clip board and reached for box of small gauze pads. She didn't turn when the door behind her opened, just called out over her shoulder.

"I hope you're not here for a catheter – I just counted them and I'd like to go at least an hour without feeling like my job here is useless."

There was a moment of silence.

"Catheters are their own kind of hell if you ask me…so, you can keep them." The quiet, intense voice had her dropping the box of small gauze pads, spilling them all over the floor. She spun, backing into the shelf she'd just been facing with less grace that she would have liked.

Clint Barton was standing across the room next to the door – which, she was positively relieved to see was still partway open.

His right arm, cast and all, was still strapped against his chest, keeping his broken collar bone immobilized. But the supposed handicap did little to reassure her.

"Uh…" he cleared his throat and shot her a look that she would almost describe as nervous. "I don't know your name…"

Well at least he didn't sound like he'd been gargling nails and chasing them with fire anymore. It made his voice a little less intimidating.

A little.

"St…" she had to clear her own throat now, but mostly because it suddenly felt bone dry, "Stephanie Maldonado." She chewed her lip a little. "It's a mouthful, I know..."

"I startled you."

Keen observational eye on this one. As if the scattered gauze pads hadn't given that away.

He shifted a little, absently cracking the knuckles of his left hand.

"Look, Maldonado…"

"Steph." She interrupted instinctively. His sharp, gray-blue gaze snapped over to meet hers from where he'd been focusing on something over her right shoulder. "Ev-everybody calls me Steph." She explained quietly.

"Yeah…" he didn't look like he was ever going to actually call her anything but her last name. "I came to apologize for…" his gaze shifted away from hers again, "what happened."

Apologize. Steph blinked, actual surprise flooding through her.

"Barton, you had a high fever and a concussion. It's not exactly your fault."

He met her eyes squarely again.

"Sneaking a knife in was my fault. And it put everyone here in danger because for people like me sometimes instinct is stronger than brain power. And in the state I was in, it was a stupid move."

She wondered what he meant by 'people like him.' If the self-recrimination in his tone was anything to go by, he wasn't exactly proud to be one of those people.

"Well, I won't argue with you." She muttered under her breath.

"Anyway," he sighed, "I'm sorry."

She nodded slightly, accepting his words and he nodded back once and turned towards the door. He slid halfway out of the room before pausing and glancing at her over his shoulder.

"It gets better." He offered quietly. "As long as you keep moving forward, eventually you won't remember why you were scared."

She swallowed, wondering if she was really that transparent.

"But…" he glanced purposefully around the supply room. "You have to keep moving forward."

Then he was gone, disappearing silently into the hall. Steph let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and forced her hands to unclench.

She crouched quickly, gathering the individually wrapped gauze pads spread across the floor and stuffing them back into the box. She paused, staring for a moment at her trembling hands.

You have to keep moving forward.

She glanced around the supply room and sighed. She packed the last of the gauze pads away and returned the box to the shelf. Slowly, she moved to the nail next to the door and rehung the clipboard on it.

She had patients to take care of and it was about time someone put up the Christmas decorations.

Phil eased the roof door open and shivered against the blast of cold air that hit him as he stepped out. He pulled his jacket closer around him and tightened his grip on the extra coat he'd brought with him. He walked around the corner and mentally paid himself five dollars.

"How did I know you'd be up here with nothing but a sweatshirt and athletic pants? You do realize it's December, right?"

Clint, who was already looking his way, rolled his eyes and didn't bother replying. He didn't shrug off the jacket when Phil draped it over him, though. Instead he slid the arm not strapped to his chest into one of the sleeves and buried his hand in the pocket.

"Thought you might like to know our team in Cairo finally uncovered the source of the bomb. It turns out Ruiz had been coming back from helping spark a coup d'etat of a third world 'government'. The ousted leader didn't take too kindly to that and sent his general to kill Ruiz. That's the tail he thought he'd picked up and the whole reason your team was sent to escort him. It was just bad timing…"

Clint nodded slowly but otherwise didn't reply. Phil watched his profile for a moment and then spoke again.

"I looked for Reyes on the intake list of the mercs the team arrested, but he wasn't there. It's probably safe to say he got away clean. Given his part in your escape, nobody is pursuing him. But if he turns up on the wrong side of anything, SHIELD won't give him the same consideration again."

Clint tilted his head slightly as if to say 'that's fair' and still didn't speak.

Phil sighed and tried one more time.

"So I heard someone snuck into the infirmary and gave a nurse a mild heart attack."

That got him another eye roll and a dry look.

"You went and apologized to her?"

Clint shrugged slightly as if it were no big deal and remained silent.

When Dan had called him early that evening and told him the nurse Clint had taken hostage had been visited in the supply room, Phil hadn't quite believed it. But Dan had been adamant that the nurse specifically said Clint had come to see her – and had apologized for what happened.

Considering Clint had barely said two words to anyone, including Phil, over the past two weeks, the news had been surprising. But it was also heartening. It was a change – a break in pattern.

Phil hoped that meant more change was coming – that maybe tonight was the night they didn't just sit in silence. Maybe tonight was the night Clint finally decided he'd had enough 'space' – that he'd had enough 'time.'

Phil had been waiting, with as much patience as he could muster, for the last two weeks for something to change like this. Clint had asked for space and for time. Phil had given him both. Maybe not in the most literal sense – Phil had spent every night on the roof right along with Clint – but in the best way he could. He hadn't pushed. He hadn't asked questions. He'd just been there, proving his promise true.

Clint wasn't alone anymore.

It hadn't been easy, watching day after day, night after night, as Clint silently sat and bore the weight of his own actions and Boomer's life on his shoulders. It was a heavy burden, made even heavier because Clint was so goddamned hard on himself.

But Phil hadn't pushed – hadn't tried to lighten that load – because Clint had asked him not to.

And here they were, less than a week until Christmas, and Phil found himself waiting. Waiting for Clint to make a move, to say something and open the door that he'd closed in Phil's face two weeks ago. He found himself sitting with his hands clenched in his pockets, shoulders tense, and gaze forced to stare out into the night instead of at Clint's profile.

Then…

"You would have liked him." Clint said it quietly, half his face buried in the collar of his hoodie. He glanced at Phil after a moment, gaze more open and less guarded than it had been in weeks. "Boomer." He clarified, as if Phil may have forgotten.

"Oh yeah?" Phil prompted carefully, restraining himself from the multiple questions bubbling up in his mind. He had to let Clint set the pace, it was the only way this would work.

Clint nodded slowly, gaze growing distant as he looked out over the night.

"He reminded me of you." Clint's gaze focused and he shifted his eyes to meet Phil's again, gauging Phil's reaction to that – to being compared to a mercenary.

"In good ways, I hope." Phil smiled warmly, showing Clint he didn't mind, that he wanted to hear more.

Even though Clint's mouth was hidden in his hoodie, something in his eyes lit up and Phil could imagine the smirk turning up the corners of his mouth. He was sure some sarcastic comment was going to be headed his way, but instead, the light faded and the moment passed. It was a harsh reminder that even though Clint was finally talking, finally moving forward, he still wasn't fully recovered – he wasn't the Clint Phil remembered from before Cairo.

He finally pulled his face free of the hoodie collar and sure enough, there was no smirk in sight.

"He wasn't afraid to call me out on my bullshit." Clint finally explained, giving Phil a meaningful look. "Something you two had in common."

Phil couldn't help but smile, thinking back to Clint's first few months at SHIELD. He'd called Clint on a lot of bullshit back then. It made Phil wonder what Boomer had called him on, and if it had been something similar.

Clint's gaze had turned back to settle on tree line and had grown distant.

Phil wanted to ask, but he didn't. Instead, he waited.

He could practically see the darkness building up in Clint like a storm cloud and had to force himself to stay patient.

"There was a lot of bullshit, Phil." The admittance came quietly and with a thread of emotion woven into it that Phil hadn't expected. "Sometimes it feels like it's all I'm made of these days."

"Clint…" he wasn't sure what he could say, but he knew he needed to say something. But Clint didn't give him a chance.

"I lied to you." The archer interrupted. "I told you that I only fought in The Ring every now and then…to maintain my cover."

Phil's mind connected the dots immediately. He pulled his gaze away from Clint's profile and looked at the tree line as well.

"It was a lot more than that, wasn't it?" Phil asked carefully. Deep down, though, he already knew the answer.

"Almost every night." The confession came in the same quiet tone and the emotion woven into it was easy to identify – shame.

"Jesus…" And as much as Phil had expected it, it was still hard to hear – it hurt to hear. He had to look away just to take a moment to deal with that. Two weeks, two goddamned weeks, Clint had been with Ares – had been drowning – and Phil hadn't done damn thing to help him. He hadn't even seen it until it was too late.

"I got so…lost." Clint explained in a low, rough tone. "It was the only way I could keep myself from just…letting go."

Phil could hear the echoes of darkness in those words and the remnants of the old Hawkeye in that tone. It was like stepping back in time. When Clint had first come to SHIELD, he'd picked fights – with Phil, with other agents, with anyone he could get to hit back. He'd done it to try and cope. To find some way to feel better…even if it was just temporary.

"And did it help?" Phil asked quietly. It hadn't helped back then, at least not really. It had been a temporary relief, a Band-Aid on a gushing wound. At the end of the day it had left Clint with new bruises and the same old issues hidden beneath them.

Clint blew out a sharp breath.

"At first…" He shrugged slightly. "Yeah, it helped…but every day I kept looking for someone bigger, someone stronger…" the archer shook his head and sighed. "Boomer saw it, called me on it and that's when I knew he'd gotten too close."

"What do you mean 'called you on it?'" Phil asked, trying not to be upset that Boomer had seen what he hadn't. But he hadn't been there and Boomer had. And that's what it had come down to – he hadn't been there.

"Exactly what it sounds like." Clint scoffed. "Pulled me aside after a big fight and called bullshit, very loudly." Clint shook his head. "He was convinced I wasn't what I was pretending to be and that mattered to him too damn much. I knew I had to cut him loose or he'd end up mixed up in the aftermath of taking down Ruiz."

"So what did you do?" Phil knew that with a perceived risk to Boomer, Clint would have gone to whatever lengths were needed to eliminate that risk.

"I did what I had to do to show him he was wrong."

Phil nodded slowly, but also frowned. If he'd succeeded in pushing Boomer away, it didn't make sense that the man had then risked – and eventually given – his life to save Clint's. He waited for Clint to continue the story, hoping it didn't just get darker.

"And that," Clint sighed, "made me feel like shit. And I was pissed that he'd seen something I didn't want him to see…so…I went back to The Ring and fought again."

Phil wasn't as surprised as he should have been by that.

"And I let some asshole beat the shit out of me until I couldn't feel anything."

Phil nodded just for something to do – to show he was following. The image of Clint beaten and bloody was suddenly impossible to get out of his head.

"And guess who showed up as I was hauling my ass out of The Ring?"

"Boomer." Phil answered quietly.

"Boomer." Clint agreed with a sigh. "And damn it, I was so tired of fighting that I just…didn't. I told him the truth."

Phil glanced at him sharply, shocked Clint would have broken cover.

"Not that truth." Clint assured quickly. "The truth about me – about who I am at my core."

Phil was sure their opinions on that were vastly different.

"He thought I was different…I made sure he knew he was wrong."

Phil blew out a slow breath, trying to fight the wave of sadness those words brought.

"What makes you so sure he was?" Phil challenged softly, daring Clint to try and convince him of the same thing he'd tried to convince Boomer.

"Because," Clint replied in a hard tone, "when Ruiz put me in The Ring after all the other shit went down and told me 'kill or be killed' I fucking wanted to kill him." As soon as he said it, Clint seemed to regret the words and blew out a sharp, frustrated breath.

Phil, for his part, drew back, overwhelmed by the sudden and new information.

"Wait, what?" He demanded firmly. "What the hell do you mean Ruiz told you 'kill or be killed?' Kill who?"

Clint looked down at his lap and chewed his lower lip.

"I had convinced myself I wasn't going to tell you about this."

"Too late for that." Phil shot back sharply. "So you better goddamn explain."

Clint shook his head, blowing out a second frustrated sigh.

"After the interrogation didn't go his way," he explained carefully, "Ruiz said he was giving me a chance to prove who I was. Hawkeye wouldn't have had a problem offing some stranger just because he was told to."

"And if you didn't kill this guy…he would kill you."

Clint nodded. Phil sighed out a slow breath to dispel some of the horror that whole situation caused.

"But you didn't kill him." If he had, he wouldn't have been in a situation where he needed rescuing.

Clint shook his head.

"No." He agreed simply. "But I wanted to…I had a knife to his throat and it would have been so damn easy. Maybe if I had…" Clint shook his head again, more sharply. He couldn't go there and Phil couldn't blame him.

"What stopped you?" he asked simply instead.

Clint looked at him them, really looked at him, his expression open and his eyes honest.

"What do you think, Phil?" He said it like it was obvious, like Phil was stupid for not already knowing. "You."

And Phil was floored. For several long moments he could only blink at Clint in shock.

"I didn't want to let you down any more than I already had."

Phil still didn't know what to say. Sometimes he really didn't understand how Clint's brain worked. He would kill a man to save himself. He would kill him even if it meant giving in to the darkness.

But he resisted for Phil, because what Phil thought about him mattered that damn much.

"I don't care what people think. But I couldn't sleep last night because for some reason, I care what you think and I knew that I had let you down."

Phil blinked through the memory of those words, spoken to him so many months ago now.

"And I swear to you right now, that it won't happen again."

When Clint had said that to him, sworn it to him, after his last, nearly botched training mission, Phil hadn't realized what it meant. He hadn't known yet how goddamned seriously Clint took his promises.

"You didn't let me down, Clint." He found himself whispering fiercely.

Clint just shook his head, not even bothering to argue, just silently disagreeing.

"No." Phil hardened his tone. "You didn't. Whatever happened leading up to that, when it mattered, when you had to make a choice – you made the right one. All on your own. You made that choice knowing it had every possibility of getting you killed. You chose to fight that darkness. Maybe you did it for me, but you were still the one doing the fighting. I'm proud of you for that choice – for coming down on the right side of this when it would have been easier to just give up."

"The right side?" Clint spat incredulously. "Boomer is dead because of that choice and for what?"

"For you." Phil shot back. "He saw something in you, Clint! Something better than what you were showing the world and that was enough to make your life worth something to him."

"He was wrong." Clint insisted firmly, obstinately.

"No, he wasn't." Phil declared just as firmly. "Because I saw the same damn thing 17 months ago in that alley in Vienna. You're the only one that doesn't see it, Clint."

"See what?" Clint argued, his voice dropping an octave and his tone hardening. Clint didn't yell, even when he was pissed beyond belief. His tone, instead, just got darker and more intimidating. "A murderer? A guy who would have dropped that other fighter in a second if it meant he got to live to see another day? A guy who couldn't find a good use for his talents so he decided to become a contract killer? Or is it the guy who is so fucking at home in darkness that he wanted to embrace Ares instead of bring it down? Which guy is it that you see, Phil? Huh?"

"I see the guy that chose to be better than all of that." Phil replied calmly and quietly.

He waited a beat, watching his words sink in and then he went on.

"I'm not going to tell you that the past doesn't matter – that the 'old' Hawkeye doesn't matter. I know that it does and that it's not something you can just leave behind. And…" Phil blew out a breath, not completely confident how his next words would be received, "even if you could, I'm not so sure that I'd want you to."

Clint went absolutely still, barely even seemed to breath.

"I know that who you were before I found you, the 'old' Hawkeye, I know that's someone that you hate. I know that you've done your very best to bury that part of yourself and keep it buried." Phil watched Clint closely, waiting for a reaction, but none came. "And then I asked you to unbury it and it overwhelmed you."

He saw the muscle at the base of Clint's jaw twitch, could see the lines of his face hardening as he clenched his jaw.

"Turns out we both made a mistake."

Clint didn't exactly look at him, but his gaze shifted, glancing at Phil out of the corner of his eye but then looking back out at the night.

"You shouldn't have run from him – from who you were – and I shouldn't have let you."

Phil wasn't sure if it was a trick of the moonlight, but he could almost see a sheen of moisture shining on Clint's eyes.

"The old Hawkeye, he…had a lot of faults. He had a lot of darkness and I know that darkness scares you. But he was more than that. He was strong and fierce and damn near unshakable. And no matter how far and how hard you run, he will always be there. He's always going to be part of you – a part of Clint Barton. But if you're so afraid that you just bury all that darkness and anger, you'll be losing all those good pieces of who you were too.

"So don't bury it – use it. Don't make the distinction between the 'old' Hawkeye and the new – just be Hawkeye." Phil could see the tension building in Clint's shoulders again, could see the rejection of Phil's words rising in him. "And be Clint Barton, because the two, they aren't mutually exclusive. Use all of it – all the parts of who you are – to be someone greater, someone stronger."

Clint swallowed thickly and still didn't look at him and Phil sighed. Tentatively, he reached out and slid his hand up under the back of Clint's hood, gently squeezing his neck through the thick fabric. When he wasn't immediately shrugged off, he gained confidence and spoke one more time to try and push his point home.

"You need to use it to become someone you can believe is worthy of what Boomer sacrificed. He saw it in you. I can see it. But unless you see it, none of that matters."

Clint bit the inside of his lip and shook his head, still refusing to meet Phil's eyes.

"I don't see it." He admitted quietly, in a rough, broken tone. "I don't even see the path. I don't know how to be both…I don't know how to use it without…" he trailed off and shook his head again, looking down at his knees.

Phil squeezed his neck carefully again and heard the words Clint didn't speak. He didn't know how to use it without letting it take over.

"I know." He assured. "But if there is one thing I know for damn sure about you…it's that you don't give up. You survive and you fight. So fight. Fight to be something better. If you'll fight, I'll fight with you. We'll figure all this shit out together and we'll beat back your demons together. Never alone again, remember?"

Clint looked away now, turning his face so Phil couldn't see it and shrugging one shoulder to dislodge Phil's hand. Phil pulled back again without protest and fell silent.

It wasn't exactly resounding agreement, but Clint had never had a problem arguing when he disagreed either, so Phil just let his words settle in and stopped pushing.

For as much as Clint had changed and grown since he came to SHIELD, some things hadn't changed at all. In so many ways Phil could still see that kid that had handed him his ledger a year ago.

"You think I ever could…make it right?"

Clint hadn't believed it then. He hadn't believed in his own strength or in what he could become – it was so painfully obvious now that he still didn't. But Phil did. And he would stay, right here, until he could convince Clint to believe it too.

He looked up when he noticed something white and flaky land on his pant leg.

Snow. It was snowing.

He glanced at Clint to see if he noticed, but he was still looking away. Knowing him, he not only didn't notice the snow, but would continue to ignore it until he was soaked and freezing.

"Hey," Phil reached to tap his knuckles against Clint's thigh. "Unless you plan on staying on the injured list even longer than that shoulder requires, we better get inside."

That did it.

Clint started, glancing around and then up. For a long moment he just sat, staring up at the sky and watching the snow drift down to land on his face. Then he closed his eyes and drew in a slow, calm breath.

And he nodded.

Phil pushed himself up, dusted off the snow that had already started sticking to his clothes and offered Clint a hand up. The archer looked at the hand, then up at Phil, then back at the hand.

And he reached across with his left hand and grabbed Phil's, letting him pull him to standing.

"Besides…I had a craving for a snack before I came up here so I sent someone for pizza."

The way Clint's expression lit up at those words made the extra twenty dollars Todd had demanded for his trouble completely worth it. That shadow of a smile - it was a step closer to a smile that pre-dated Cairo, pre-dated this whole mess.

As he followed Clint into the stair well, the archer surprised him by speaking over his shoulder,

"Rumor has it those two techs have been jumping at shadows for the past two weeks…what do you say we pay them a little visit?"

The smirk Clint threw over his shoulder looked a little forced and lacked its usual mischievousness, but it was the effort – the attempt to get back to normal – that warmed Phil to his core. It was another step. It was enough allow Phil to take his first deep breath in weeks.

Clint may barely be keeping his head above water at the moment…but he'd stopped letting himself drown.

Right now, Phil would take that as a win.

End of Cairo

Thanks for going on this ride with me yet again! I know this one didn't exactly end in sunshine and rainbows...but it ended with hope and that's the best Clint can manage at the moment.

Drop me a line to let me know how you liked the story and if you're excited for the next one...

speaking of which...NEXT TIME IN THE VANTAGE POINT UNIVERSE...

"The Untold Stories"

The world was under attack. It was something Natasha was familiar with after so much time with SHIELD...but this time it was different. This time Clint was gone. MIA. Under the control of a power hungry, narcissistic god. Phil was doing what he did best...lead. And Nat? Nat was stuck watching a super human, a god and another not-so-evil narcissist argue about things that didn't matter - at least not to her...what mattered to her was finding Clint. And kicking Loki's ass. "The Avengers" through the eyes of the Vantage Point Universe.