🔪 (clint. just fuck me up)
🔪 for the eulogy jessica would give for clint:
@hawkguybartcn
She lingers long after the service, and she’s not the only one. It takes forever for Natasha to leave. Jessica is perched on top of a mausoleum, watching the whole thing from afar. She isn’t exactly on the guest list, but there was no way in hell they were keeping her away. Not from this.
She wonders idly where Hope was buried.
Finally, Natasha walks off. Jessica feels the urge to go to her, but even in her imagination, she can’t think of what to say. So she waits until the redhead is out of sight, then she slowly climbs down the stone building and makes her way over to the freshly dug grave.
The headstone is black and simple, shining starkly amidst the older graves. Clint Barton. Hawkeye. Avenger & Friend. Some dates, and towards the bottom, a quote.
A good archer is known not by his arrows but by his aim.
Jessica nods at the words. She opens her mouth to speak, but her mouth is so dry. Her fingers fumble for the flask in her bag, and with some effort, she manages to pull the top off. She takes a swig, pauses for a moment, then pours some on top of the dark mound of dirt.
“I checked the obits. They spelled your name right,” she says after a long moment. “Asshole. You were supposed to call.” She sighs, shaking her head. Cursing at the dead, that must be a new low. “I’m headed to Garaffolos after this. Like I said I would,” she mutters, tilting the flask back again. The burn reminds her that she’s alive, that she can still feel even though her whole body has been numb since she heard the news.
It also reminds her that Clint is dead. That he can’t feel anything anymore.
“I don’t even know how it happened,” she says, hating the way her voice cracks. At least he can’t hear it. “My guess is you weren’t goddamn fast enough. Jesus.” She shakes her head, fights so hard, but her eyes are burning with unshed tears.
She clenches her jaw, stares down at the stupid grave and the stupid goddamn headstone, it’s all too neat, too goddamn tidy, and she just wants to destroy it. Tear the headstone up, dig until her knuckles are bleeding and she’s dragging him out of the goddamn grave, slapping him until his eyes open.
But apparently, only assholes came back from the dead.
She swallows hard, swipes at her face even though she’s alone. “You’re my favorite goddamn Avenger, all right? Fuck you,” she says. Then she’s striding away, draining the last of the whiskey from her flask. She imagines Garaffolos, pictures the two of them sitting together in the booth, talking about shitty pizza parlors and sucky superhero names. Bad stickers.
She holds it together until she’s sitting down in the booth, that same table. Her pizza is growing cold in front of her, but she picks it up anyway, determined to keep her word. The other side of the booth is screaming its emptiness, and when the tears finally come, they’re quieter than she expected.