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The first thing he’d asked when he came back to himself is how many, because even though he won't admit it to anyone else, he has some miniscule fraction of a fragmented memory and he needs to know. Natasha had told him then that it didn't matter – and she's partly right; they've both got so much blood on their hands that they will never be clean – but it does matter. It's another secret on top of all those that he carries, another piece of baggage on his shoulders.
Las Vegas. Moscow. Budapest. Croatia.
He's at the range, alone with only his memories for company, when Fury finds him.
“Agent Hill tells me you missed.” The director is a commanding presence behind him, but Clint doesn't turn around. “Several times, in fact.”
The possibility of Hawkeye missing a target is something that is never talked about because it is never a possibility.
Clint lets loose another arrow, the razor sharp tip piercing his target. He knows what Fury is implying; he might not have Stark's genius-level intelligence, but Clint isn't stupid. He hadn't even gone for the head when he'd pulled the gun on Fury back at the facility, a tiny portion of him struggling against everything the Tesseract had willed him to do.
Fury leaves him alone after the longest five minutes of his life.
The target takes six more arrows before a more slender pair of arms curl around his chest, a warm weight pressing against his back. It isn’t usually like them to indulge in sentiment, but he is falling apart and he needs this, just this one stolen-away moment.
Clint swallows. I know what I did, he wants to tell her. Of course he does, he’d picked his way into the files after the dust had settled, read the mission reports so many times he’s practically memorized it.
“I didn't want to,” he says instead.
The bow is shaking in his grasp when Natasha reaches up and squeezes his arm. “I know.”
They will heal, all of them. Clint knows this. Eventually all the red will be buried deep under the ink black of their ledgers where it belongs, but for now it’s just the two of them like how it’s always been: Natasha’s warmth a steadying presence at his back and the bow a grounding weight in his hand.
Clint nocks another arrow and lets it fly.