“No, please. Wait. Please. Can’t we just talk? Please? Let me talk.” and Clint Barton?
Nothing to Say
Clint packs his one bag with the last of his clothes and zips it, ignoring your approaching footsteps. He’s itching to get out of the compound, his initial reprieve from the farmhouse. It wasn’t enough of a distraction - he had to find something else, keep his hands busy, skirt the line. Anything to feel alive after all he’s lost.
Your footfalls falter. “Are you… are you actually leaving?”
He brushes past you through the doorway, bag over his shoulder. All he gives is a casual “Yep.”
“No, please. Wait. Please. Can’t we just talk? Please? Let me talk!” your efforts to cut him off, to tug him to face you, are futile. He sticks to his path straight for the garage.
“Talking wouldn’t do much. I don’t have anything more to say.” That was a lie and he knew it.
Your voice borders on shrill as he approaches the vehicle. “You can’t just leave-”
“I’ve got nothing left.” The trunk is opened, filled, and closed before he looks you in the eye. Eyes that are swimming with anger.
“… Nothing? That’s what this,” you motion between him and you, “has been? Nothing?”
His resolve was breaking, he had to get away from you. “I- that’s not what I meant.”
“But it is what you said.”
He knew what he said. It was easier to hurt you - to repel you -Â than it would be to make you watch his descent further into darkness.Â
So he pretends not to see you pleading with him through the car window. Pretends there aren’t tears on your face. Pretends that driving away is the best choice for everyone.
When had he turned into such a great actor?
Probably the moment he had to pretend like he wanted to keep living in a world that had taken everything he loved.
Almost everything.
