The Eternal Avenger

Chapter Forty-Three: Fallout

(Claray's POV):
Weeks turned into months, and before I knew it I had been the leader of Bravo pack for nearly a year. It was ready to hand off the torch – I had other business to attend to, and although Natasha and I had stolen time together whenever we could, I could tell that the strain was getting to her. She was bearing the brunt of the leadership role for the Avengers now, and the longer she stayed at the compound largely alone, the more worn and tired she seemed to become. I passed the mantle of Alpha on to a young werewolf named Trixie – she had proven herself invaluable in our hunts and in finding a permanent base. She was devoted to the rules and guidelines that I had set forward for the pack, and she did not tolerate any dissent. She would make an excellent Alpha. As I packed my belongings and said goodbye to the rest of the pack, each of them declared their loyalty to the rules and to me. I knew that I could count on them, somehow.

I boarded a plane out of Romania heading towards New York. At least they had somehow straightened out travel again. It was difficult, the schedules staggered to accommodate for fewer passengers and fewer flight crew members, but at least people were able to move around again. The first six months after the snap had been incredibly difficult – it felt like the rest of the world was stuck in quarantine while dealing with the affairs of the vanished. Walking through a nearly empty airport was still chilling, and it wasn't a feeling that was easily adjusted to. The flight, although long, was nearly empty. Natasha met me at the airport and threw herself into my arms. "Good to see you," she whispered. We made our way upstate to the compound largely in silence. She looked tired, but something was most definitely on her mind. She pulled into her normal parking spot but made no move to get out of the car. I glanced over at her.

"What's going on, Tasha?" I asked gently. She looked at me sharply before closely examining the steering wheel in front of her.

"I'm worried about Clint," she finally admitted. I nodded. Her answer made sense. For almost two years now, we had been trying to track down the missing Avenger with little success. A former assassin close to Natasha's caliper was not easily tracible.

"We'll find him, Tashsa, I promise." I wasn't one to make a promise I couldn't keep, and the hope that shone in the Russian's eyes made me double down on my commitment. I grabbed my bags, heading upstairs to my room, noting the quietness of the compound. This place was usually always crawling with activity, even after the snap but things appeared to have died down. I sat on the edge of the bed, texting Clint's phone for the 100th time, knowing that I wouldn't get an answer. While I suspected that he had survived the snap, there was no guarantee. I was startled to attention when Natasha entered the room so quickly that the door slammed back into the wall and bounced off.

"Fuck this, lets go," she ordered. I rose to my feet, following her back out of the compound to the waiting quinjet.

"Where are we going?" I inquired, curious.

"Back to the farm," she answered while doing her flight pre-check on the equipment. I sighed.

"We didn't find anything the last few times we checked, Tasha." My tone was gentle – she was already riled up, and I didn't want to rock the boat any more than circumstances required. She glared at me.

"We're going to look again. I didn't go last time, and I know him better than..." her voice trailed off. She didn't want to talk about the rest of the team – or the rest of the former team, wherever they were now. The Avengers, for all intents and purposes, had scattered like the dust from those Thanos snapped away. I nodded, climbing into the quinjet after her silently and buckling in for the ride.

(Natasha's POV):

I set the Quinjet down in the field beside the farmhouse, not waiting for the hybrid to follow before walking down the ramp towards the house purposefully. I felt Claray jog towards me catching up and smiled. "Slowpoke," I muttered, knowing that nothing could be further from the truth, but desperate to break the tension. I was thrilled that she was back from Europe, but the excitement of being near to her again was overshadowed by the growing worry I felt for my best friend. He knew my past in a way that no one else did, but the knife cut both ways and there were things about him that I would never tell a soul. His family was the one thing that was keeping him grounded, and if something had happened to one or more of them, there were few limits on what he would do. We headed into the house first. It was musty and covered in dust. No one had been here in quite some time. Toys were scattered all over the floor, and the beds were left unmade, which struck me as odd. Laura Barton was not one to tolerate a messy house for very long, especially with her husband's predilection for tearing parts of it down to remodel. I heard a voice from outside where Claray was poking around and ran back out the front door.

Claray stood there, holding a couple arrows and a bow. Her eyes were fixated on the field and an empty picnic table. Wait. It wasn't empty at all. I approached to see scattered remnants of food, as well as overturned bottles of condiments. No. Claray's eyes found mine as we both simultaneously imagined the worst, when a though occurred to me and I ran back inside. The hybrid followed silently as I made my way up to the master bedroom, ignoring the mess and heading straight to the closet. I sighed when I didn't find what I was looking for. This was not good news. The trunk behind the hidden panel in the closet was empty. "What is it?" Claray asked, looking over my shoulder.

"His normal bow is here. But his sword isn't." I sighed, leaning against the doorjamb, in sudden need of support.

"His sword?" Claray's eyebrows lifted with the question. I nodded.

"Before Clint joined Shield..." I cut off my sentence mid-thought. I didn't want to think about it, but it seemed as though the hybrid got the gist.

"Those Mafia and organized crime massacres were done by someone with..." She didn't want to finish her sentence either.

"By someone with a sword. If Clint survived the snap, but his family didn't – he may have gone full Ronin." Claray sighed in understanding.

"We need to get back to the compound and start narrowing down those reports," she said softly. I agreed. As we left the farmhouse that used to feel like a second home, full with the screams and excited voices of my niece and nephews, I willingly bit back my own tears. I had to get him back. I had to get THEM back. Whatever it took.