Regret - Hawkeye x Reader (sort of)

Shot after shot he fired his arrows at the moving targets. Target practice always seemed to calm him down even though it wasn't really needed. Hawk knew he was good, but he needed the distraction. He just needed to forget what he had done.

The agent sneered, hitting the button to stop the practice before putting his bow back in it's box and leaving the room. No matter what he did, he couldn't help but think of the men and women that were killed by his hand. He had found the files of those innocent people that had fallen because of his possession.

Hawkeye ran a hand through his hair, passing by the conference room that held the rest of the Avengers. Fury was, as usual, trying to get everyone to cooperate for the newest task set before them. Most likely a menial test set up by the council so the team would be on radar.

He couldn't help but grin at the comment you would have made at that thought. How you would have waltzed into the room and turned the chair backwards and straddled it with a flirty comment from Stark. A threat would leave your lips and everyone would laugh.

Of course, during that time the Avengers weren't put together yet. It was just him, Natasha, and you  along with whoever Fury was trying to get at the time. Usually Stark was the one in the room since he could handle plenty of things in his Iron Man suit. Thor wasn't even part of the picture and Captain Rogers was still getting use to not being on ice. And Dr. Banner, well, Fury didn't want to break anything bigger than the problem.

But now, he had no urge to go in there with a group. It wouldn't been the same, not now or ever again. You were gone and it was his fault. It was his hand that held the knife that cut your throat. No matter how many times Romanoff told him it wasn't his fault, it made him feel worse. Hating the fact that he couldn't fight was that damn Loki had done to him.

"Speak of the devil," the archer muttered, feeling a presence behind him.

"Barton, come join us. We need you in there." Natasha was his closest 'friend' but even she wasn't going to get him to go in there.

"You guys are doing just fine without me," Clint wouldn't turn to look at her, but he at least stopped to listen to her.

The red head sighed, "What happened was not your fault. It was --"

Clint turned suddenly, "It was ME! I wasn't strong enough to fight him and she paid the price!" He yelled at her, knowing it wouldn't bring you back but at least made him feel better somewhat.

"The one person I didn't get the closest to in this shit hole of a team was the one person who never knew why. Never knew why I couldn't be around her or speak to her alone."

"She never thought less of you for that," there was sadness in her eyes.

"That isn't the point and you know it. You aren't stupid, you know what I'm upset about. I'm not going to stand here and spell it out for you." Without another word, Barton walked back to his room.

The man stood in the sower, letting the hot water run down his body. Your face had become permanently etched in his mind. He could never get more than your name because he couldn't speak with you around. He had only just gotten to where he could be near you in the team without fidgeting like a child.

Clint remembered you sitting with the staff on the helli-carrier like they were old friends of your's. His keen eyes would watch as you would treat them as equals, instead of thinking yourself better because you were a hero. Your hair would always shine from the sun and you would always tuck some behind your ear unconsciously. Barton loved that about you and how your smile lit up the whole room.

That was what Hawk regretted, never getting to say he was attracted to you, that you made him lose focus when you were both at the shooting range. Not even his attraction to the infamous Black Widow was around after he met you. Nothing existed anymore. And with you gone, he felt like that again: that nothing existed except darkness.

He figured he only deserved that now since he killed the light. He told everyone he didn't remember anything; he lied. He remembered Widow taking his bow, him being dragged away supposedly unconscious. It was an act as he used his boot knife on the soldiers.

You had ran across him, doing your best to fight him back until someone could come to your aid. You were no match for him as he flipped behind you, grabbed you by the hair and pulling the knife against your perfect flesh. He remembered it all. Now a day would never go by without his regret and your death weighing on his shoulders.