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Did you think to leave me so simply, little hawk?

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It takes months before the survivors stop side-eying him. He knows he'll never stop looking in the mirror and wishing his eyes were a different color. A nice dull brown, maybe.

His eyes are too blue.

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I was raised a warrior, Agent Barton, in a warrior culture. Does your spider not know that?

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Doctor Doom, the Fantastic Four's nemesis, threatens the world for whatever inane reason this week. More aliens pop in, different ones, and first contact goes swell. Iron Man and Captain America come to blows again.

Hawkeye kills fifteen people who needed to die. They’re all sanctioned kills.

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I’ve but to ask you, dear one, haven’t I?

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He dreams about Loki. They’re not nightmares. He wakes up shaking, but it’s want instead of rage, desire instead of fear.

… lust instead of regret.

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Come to me, Clint. You know where I am.

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Hawkeye goes off-grid a year to the day Loki touched down.

Black Widow tears apart New York looking for him. She doesn’t find him.

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Good boy, little hawk.

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Clint’s eyes are too blue. His god’s plans are less chaotic and more focused this time, and he doesn’t have the loyalty-stealing stick, and he settles in for a long-term stay instead of hurrying through things that are better left unhurried.

Every day, Clint wakes up beside him and thinks, today I’ll contact them.

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You are mine, dearest. Your heart belongs to me, unto the very end.

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Every day, Clint looks into the mirror and his eyes are blue.