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    Summary

    “Where’s Barton?” Natasha asks. Surprisingly, a quick scan of the room shows no signs of Clint having been there. She doesn’t see his bow, or his boots, and the pad of hospital stationary hasn’t been folded into paper footballs for flicking into the trash. She frowns. “Coulson, where’s Clint?”

    Red. The color of his blood-stained hands.

    Written for Summer 2016 Clintasha Week, “Colors.”

    Language:
    English
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