Chapter Text
It ended like this.
Rain poured from a grey sky split by lightning, the sound of battle a distant echo beneath the throb of his heart pounding in his ears. Each breath rattled in his throat; any movement displacing the rod that was impaled through his shoulder, pinning him to the concrete and sending shards of pain tearing through his chest. His weapons lay scattered, out of reach, and he could do nothing more than lay there: propped against the wall as he looked up at the man who was going to kill him.
"Bullseye," Clint rasped.
Bullseye grinned and dropped down, straddling his hips and jarring the bone broken in his leg. It tore a cry from his throat and he tried to shove the branded asshole away with his good hand, but the other marksman easily caught it, patting his knuckles in a fond gesture before twisting sharply to break his wrist.
He screamed.
When the white haze faded from beneath his eyelids, he gazed blearily through the water obscuring his vision to find Bullseye toying with one of his stainless-steel arrows. He turned his head to the side as the tip caressed his cheek, the sharp metal scoring a line across his skin. Bullseye licked the trail of blood from the blade with a quiet hum.
"We had a good time, didn't we?" he mused, tapping the flat of the arrowhead against Clint's jaw. "Chasing and running, running and chasing. You're a good shot, little hawk, but I'm better."
Clint choked on a laugh, blood flecking his lips as he grinned red.
"You hit my shoulder, you stupid dick."
Bullseye snarled and grabbed hold of the rod, twisting it until Clint let out an agonized howl. His body spasmed helplessly as he gasped for air through the searing pain.
"I was aiming for it," Bullseye gritted.
Clint choked on a wheezing laugh, looking up at his opponent with a sneering grin.
"No, you weren't."
Bullseye let go of him, standing up and taking a step backward with the arrow still clenched in his fist. He spun it between his fingers as he glared down at Clint, a muscle working in his jaw. But after a moment he forcibly relaxed, shrugging his shoulders with a smug expression—because they both knew that he had still won.
"You know, I would call you a worthy opponent," he drawled, "But apparently, you weren't worthy enough."
He twirled the arrow for a final time before pulling back his arm with a smile.
Clint tilted his head up, raised his chin, and faced his death.