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Red spills over his fingers, in soft curls and warm blood, the weight of her head heavy in his lap. Her breathing is quiet, raspy. The stone beneath his legs is cold, his hands are uncovered, and his bow is a solid presence on his back.
Her eyelids are bruised, her lashes long and dark against the pale of her skin. A gun lies inches from her outstretched hand.
“You killed me,” she says, looking up at him with wide, bright eyes. “You did this,” again, accusingly. The fletching of the arrow buried in her chest flutters.
Clint smiles and twists a lock of Not-Natasha’s hair around his finger. “No, I didn’t.”
It’s silly, really. Just because a guy prefers a bow doesn’t mean he can’t use anything else. He’s gone undercover plenty; doesn’t it occur to anyone that he can’t carry one of those down the street? The scenario is a slight bit better than the last one though. Not-Coulson was even less believable.
She scowls abruptly, sits up, and tears the metal shaft from her flesh and tosses it away. Not-Natasha speaks in a different voice as she asks, “How?”
“You’d keep me close, I’d never get far away enough to shoot an arrow,” he snorts. “Get the fuck out of my head, Loki. Aren’t you bored of this yet?”
“Not quite,” the god laughs, Not-Natasha’s lips curving around his words. “I wonder if they will be as good at this as you.”
He opens his mouth to ask what Loki means, because he can’t have them, he can’t –
The gun rises with no help, turns, and launches a bullet towards him while he is frozen in place.
——
Clint jolts awake.
He was dreaming, he thinks, but all he remembers is crimson and cold stone-
“We must be moving, Agent Barton,” Loki commands. The marksman jumps to his feet, nods solemnly, gathers his weapons. Loki is more important than a maybe-dream, more important than anything. The scepter glows, making the god’s eyes shine with unearthly light. “You know what we need. Find me afterwards. Bring the others.”
“I will.”
Loki’s eyes sweep over him once more, studying him carefully. Clint stands as straight as he can, unsure of what his master wants.
“Tell me, Agent Barton. Are you lonely? Would you like a friend?”
Clint wrinkles his brow in confusion. Why would he need anyone else? But - “My purpose is to serve you,” he answers hesitantly. “If you think another person would help me serve you better, I would accept them.”
Red flashes in his eyes for a moment, but then there is nothing but his god and the overwhelming blue light.
“Oh, I think it would be…interesting,” Loki smiles sharply. “I’ll see if they show up. I’m sure they will. You humans do get attached, don’t you?”
The archer has no reply for that, but inexplicably he thinks of neatly pressed ties and Russian food, voices in his ear and soft hands on his shoulder.
The god turns away from him to order someone else, so Clint shakes his head and focuses on his assigned task. The faint taste of copper lingers in the back of his throat, and he has no idea why.