What Have I Become? (closed to Natasha Romanoff)
There was blood on his knuckles and fingers, he could feel it trickling down his palms and onto the floor. There wasn't much blood, just what could come from hitting the same punching bag for hours with out end and not wearing gloves or tape. If he focused on the pain and nothing else he could pretend that he didn't see glowing blue light every time he closed his eyes. He could act like he didn't imagine the screaming of people dying at his hand. His hand, but not his mind.
He could feel his hands cramping, the muscles straining and begging him to stop hitting the bag, but he couldn't. Every moment he was in motion, in violent motion, was a moment he was drowning in memories he wished Loki had taken with him. He'd killed so many people before this, destroyed lives and done it all without regret, because it had been for the great good, or at least he had always been able to convince himself of that.
This was something so much worse. His skills, the skills he had spent his entire life perfecting, were used to kill people without his consent, people he knew, people he cared about. His teeth dug into his lower lip, he could taste blood, it only made him hit harder.
Clint hadn't slept in three days. Had decided to stop trying tonight, just came straight to the gym after hardly eating anything. Maybe if he hit something for long enough he would pass out and be granted a dreamless sleep. He doubted it, he hadn't earned that, not by a mile. He wanted to scream, wanted to hurl things into walls until all that was left was anger. But he couldn't, Fury was already watching his every move. One wrong step and he was likely to find himself put on psychiatric leave. Not able to touch his bow or anything like that, no missions, nothing. Just sitting in front of a shrink for hours a day.
So he hit a bag and pretended like he wasn't itching to toss himself off the edge of Stark tower.
