The Barton farmhouse is too quiet these days.

Clint sits on the porch, crossbow idle by his feet, a beer untouched beside him, long since gone warm in the summer heat. The cornfields sway like ghosts under the pale sky, golden light filtering through rows that used to echo with laughter—The kids’. His.

But not anymore. Not really.

Because ever since Vormir, ever since the final mission, everything has felt… off. Like the world returned but he never really did.

He stares out at the horizon, but all he sees is red. The jagged cliffs. The black water. Her face.

Nat.

He’d give anything to forget the way her hand slipped from his.

He’d give anything to take her place.

He told her as much. Screamed it, even. Fought her for it. But Natasha—stubborn, ruthless, impossibly brave—had never let him win. Not when it counted.

She made the jump. She chose it.

And Clint is the one left behind to rot in the aftermath.

Some hero.

Some best friend.

The world calls them Avengers, saviors. But Clint feels more like a coward in borrowed armor. Because the truth—the ugly, unbearable truth—is that when it came down to it, he couldn’t save her. Not from the Red Room. Not from herself. Not from that cliff.

He thinks about her every damn day. The laugh she never let anyone else hear. The way she teased him about his terrible coffee. The quiet understanding that lived between them, deeper than words.

He misses her more than he knows how to carry.

Some nights, when the sky’s too clear, Clint lies in the field and watches the stars. Imagines she’s up there. That maybe her soul is somewhere peaceful, far from bIood and war.

But most nights, he just drinks until the memories blur. Until Vormir fades into a fog he can survive.

His friends worries. They doesn’t say it, but he can see it in their eyes. They wants him to open up, to move on.

But how do you move on from someone who gave up everything for you?

You find him on the porch again.

The sun’s just beginning to sink, casting a burnished glow over the cornfields, but Clint doesn’t seem to notice. He sits motionless, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loose around a sweating bottle of beer he hasn’t touched. His head hangs low, shoulders curled like he’s bracing for impact. Like he’s been stuck in that posture for hours.

You approach quietly. He doesn’t turn. You sit beside him anyway.

For a while, there’s only the rustle of wind through the crops, the occasional call of birds overhead. You watch the light slide across the worn wood beneath your feet and wonder how long it’s been since he’s really slept. Since he’s truly let go of that cliff.

“I had the dream again,” he says, voice rough like gravel.

You glance at him, but he still won’t look your way.

“The cliff?” you ask gently.

He nods.

“I see her face. Over and over. The way she smiled at me like it was okay. Like it was right that she was the one to go.”

He finally looks at you then—eyes bloodshot, hollow, rimmed with the kind of guilt that no amount of time seems to dull.

“She should’ve Iived,” he whispers. “It should’ve been me.”