study_in_scarlet | Dancing in the Dark (for farmboyhawk)

They didn’t get a lot of time off together, at least not enough to make a trip away worthwhile, so for this one weekend they decided to stay in the city and play tourist for the day.

They had started with a walk through Central Park before grabbing an early lunch at one of the city’s many street vendors and then wandering through the American Museum of Natural history. Natasha found the Hall of Minerals fascinating while Clint had gotten a kick out of all the dinosaur bones. They both enjoyed laying under the big blue whale with all the normal people.

Afterwards they went to a nice restaurant for supper, blending into the crowd of normal couples as best they could and Natasha actually forgot if she was playing a role or being herself as they finished their wine and shared their desserts.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely as they left the restaurant, stepping back into the cool night air. Nearby a busker played guitar and sang with surprising melody and soul, barely seeming to notice as people threw change into his open case, so caught up was he in his music. 

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"Bit creepy", Clint warned her, leaning back with a most comfortable sigh. Yep, perfect to relax for a few hours. "Something about two old people not sleeping and seeing little bald doctors who cut people's life string or something. Oh, and they see everyone's aura and read their feelings in them. Awkward stuff, but if you haven't slept for five minutes in a row for a week or so, you actually believe that you can see anything."

He covered his eyes with arm and tried to recall how that whole encounter back then had ended. He remembered having to leave pretty quickly, give Turi the keys for the boat, telling him that he had no use for it anymore, then a chopper had picked him up right outside the city... And during one of these endless medical sessions lately, one whitecoat had remarked something about a scar on his back, located right in a blind angle so he hardly ever saw himself. Probably was a souvenir from these days.

But the details were pretty blurry. Had another agent taken over for him? Or had he taken care of all of these skunks? Guys that even the Mafia had wanted to see dead after they had found out they had been infiltrated? Maybe one of his victims had sent a brother, mother, fiancée on a revenge trip, wouldn't have been the first time...

His head started to throb from too digging too deep into this. He should just look up the file once they were back home, if he still wanted to then. Actually he kept record of his past missions pretty well, often looking up faces, details, strategies for training or research matters, but that one apparently had always slipped his mind, just like it did now, winding away like an eel before he could really touch it.

Maybe some things were better not remembered.

Natasha didn’t really like the sound of the story Clint was describing. She had faced enough real life horrors that reading about them or watching them were never her idea of a good time. A zombie or slasher film here and there she could handle, but any of these creepy psychological ones weren’t for her.

Setting the book aside, she slouched down in the seat slightly so she could rest her head on the back of the sofa, her hands idly rubbing Clint’s feet. Maybe she could find a few worn paperbacks at the market tomorrow. They they could lay around on the beach or in bed and wile away the minutes by reading aloud to each other. It was a childish idea, but she liked the simplicity of the image. A fantasy book, a good old-fashioned detective story, or maybe something in the romance genre for some fun.

Glancing over at Clint, his face half covered by his arm, Natasha studied the rise and fall of his chest for a moment before the frown on his lips drew her gaze. Slipping out from under his feet she crawled up beside him, squeezing in between him and the back of the couch, though winding up laying more on him than anything.

Clint heard Natasha put the book down without much surprise and wondered if he should tell her about his trail of thoughts, about how he seemed to remember so little about his actual mission in this country save for not sleeping much, but preferred to drop it then. Not a day for much talking about such stuff.

What she did there with her hands felt nice, and he felt himself relax a little. She was careful enough not to tickle, too, which was even more nice because he was pretty sure, he'd never hear the end of it if she found out just how ticklish he could be.

Then she was there, around him, over him, as if she had sensed his mind already starting to these damn dark places again, and he wrapped his arms around her thankfully, burying his face in her hair. She smelled faintly of salt and spice, sensations that soon enough revived the memories of the last hours that were so much better than long gone and forgotten stuff. He made sure, she was resting comfortably against him before he closed his eyes again and nestled back against the pillows, suddenly feeling tired.

"I keep on talking about myself today", he murmured. "You got a happy story for me, red? Something nice you've seen on one of your travels?"

When Clint wrapped his arms around her Natasha settled against him, resting her head on his chest and closing her eyes with a content sigh. Her body fit along his so perfectly, and his steady heartbeat under her ear gave a comforting rhythm that seemed to compliment the soft music still playing in the background.

She thought about his question and ran possibilities over in her mind. She tried to recall some pleasant missions, but what she discovered was that all of her best memories involved Clint. Her favourite missions, what little downtime she had between them... in all the best ones he was always there. Well, almost.

“One time I was in Paris, before you caught up with me,” she began. “I had just met with a client and was supposed to be on my way to Greece, but I decided to catch a late flight. I found somewhere to sit near Notre Dame and there was an American couple taking pictures. One would take a picture of the other in front of the cathedral, then they would switch until the man approached me and asked in horrible French with a lot of gesturing with his camera if I would take a picture of the two of them. So I did, and no sooner had I handed them back their camera when three Chinese girls asked the same.” Turning her face in to bury against Clint’s chest, she took a deep breath and snuggled closer. “It was something so simple, but it made them all so happy. I ended up spending the rest of the afternoon there watching the people and taking photographs. I even offered to take them myself a time or two.”

"I'm sure, you take perfect pictures."

Clint pulled Natasha's hand to his lips without opening his eyes and left a kiss on every of her knuckles. He was always very thankful for her sharing her past with him, even if it was such a random seeming occasion. For her, for them, it wasn't. He knew how hard it was for her to feel and accept happiness, still, and back then, before her life had taking a turn for the better, it doubtlessly had been even harder. Such little glimpses into a life full of harmless smiles had probably made things a little easier from time to time, and that made the story special.

"You have the calmest hands of all the people I know. Well, except for me, of course."

He grinned, fully expecting a well-deserved jab in the ribs for the little teasing, but soon got serious again.

"And you definitely know a perfect moment when it comes up. Maybe we should take a few photos while we're here. You know. Just for us. To remember."

“I’m not sure. For all I know I was cropping off heads or missing the cathedral in the background, but I enjoyed it nonetheless,” she said. It had been a glimpse into the lives of normal, happy people, something she had had little understanding of at the time. Her time with Alexei had been the closest she had come, but they hadn’t been the smiling picture type. That day she had seen couples, friends and families, all just enjoying each other and trying to see as many tourist traps as possible, all completely ignorant of the horrible things in the world around them. She was one of those horrible things, and she had captured their souls for them on film before catching a plane and assassinating a rather prominent political figure in Greece. She had slipped him some slow acting poison and was safely in Poland before his body was discovered in his bed the next morning.

She didn’t say any of this, though, and she didn’t need to. Clint knew who she was, he knew the things she had done, and they didn’t matter to him. He knew why this particular memory was important to her, and she knew it meant something to him that she told him the story.

Smiling against his chest when he started kissing her fingers, she chuckled at his words but couldn’t get the expected jab to the ribs in in her current position, so instead she poked him in the leg with her big toe. When he mentioned taking photographs of them she lifted her head so she could look at him. “I don’t need a photograph to remember,” she said before smiling warmly. “But I would like that.”

Maybe they could find someone else willing to take her role and snap a few pictures of them together.

Clint yelped at that little attack of her sharp, strong toe and caught her foot quickly between his legs, holding her there just as playfully.

"Remind me to take that SIM card out of my phone later, then we can use the camera. Don't think I can stand up right now."

He yawned a little more and louder than necessary, but there was actually an important core to that remark... He wasn't in any mood at all right now to be available. Natasha would have to report to headquarters a few times and if someone really needed them, they would find them. Hell, Stark could be here in half an hour if some alien bullshit happened again. But unless that happened, he really saw no reason to answer to anyone right now.

"You know what time it is?"

He nuzzled her hair aside softly with his nose until his lips found her forehead and then laid back into the cushion with closed eyes again, but much more relaxed than before. His hand rested gently on her waist, light enough for her to get up anytime she needed more space.

"Time for a siesta. Just wake me up if I'm snoring too loud or something."

Natasha giggled when Clint pinned her foot between his legs, before she settled back against his chest and closed her eyes once more.

“You definitely can’t stand up right now,” she clarified, because she was comfortable and there was no way she was letting him up. She caught the importance behind his statement but didn’t comment on it. Natasha had her own ways of contacting headquarters at the designated times, and otherwise as far as S.H.I.E.L.D. was concerned the two of them were off the grid. Deep cover, no contact.

Clint’s yawn was far from inconspicuous, he might as well have just said ‘hint hint!’ along with it, but when he asked what time it was Natasha actually thought he wanted an answer. She wasn’t wearing a watch, and couldn’t see a clock without moving. Before she could try to answer, though, Clint answered himself and she grinned against him.

“All countries should adopt a mandatory siesta,” she said. She could definitely get used to this, and even with the sun laying brightly in the room she dropped off rather quickly into a peaceful nap.

...you help us, signore? ...sick, she needs..
...sending you there alone. ...no mission for Strike Team Delta. ...risk of emotional compromise...
...off the grid. Targets unclear. Minor involvement strongly assumed.
...help us, right? ...come to save us...
...very quiet now. ...make sure your little sister won't be crying, sweetheart.
She's not my sister, signore. I'm her mother.
...targets acquired. Report and confirm. ...wrap this up tonight...
Are you taking us home now?

For several long minutes, Clint was sure that what he heard was still the crying of a baby in his dream... Nothing that he could remember save for a few confusing scraps of conversation... But that high-pitched whining just wouldn't stop, even when he came around enough to feel the comforting presence of his partner still close around him, the soft smell of her hair in his nose, her arm around him.

Actually it didn't exactly sound like a human noise. More like one of these night concerts of his not-so-favorite furry neighbors. But it was just getting dark outside... And why was this single meowing so loud?

It also sounded faintly familiar.
Oh, great.

"You owe me for this, red", he murmured, still half asleep, when he finally couldn't stand the noise anymore and got up, carefully not to disturb Natasha in her rest.

He really had no idea what made him bring a bowl and the milk bottle instead of a gun when he slouched to the front door - except maybe Natasha's little smile earlier in the day - but it had been a good instinct. Indeed, it was that persistent little devil with the pitch black fur sitting on his door step again. screaming heartbreakingly this time. Apparently no squirrels or rats to catch lately. Little one looked even thinner and more pathetic than yesterday.

"One time, furball."

Still grumbling and blinking from sleep crusty eyes, Clint filled the bowl, shielding the half open door with his body before the unwanted visitor would try to get inside next. He dropped it in a corner of the porch between two flower trays so the other stray cats wouldn't spot it immediately. Probably only a matter of time anyway until word got around in the neighborhood and they would have the whole garden full of visitors.

Well, a good motivation for finally building that fence.

"Just this once", Clint reminded the kitten again, but little one was already very busy with his diner and didn't even look up.

Rolling his eyes, he made his way back inside, fully prepared to be teased and poked about going soft for the whole evening.

Edited Date: 2014-03-24 08:24 am (UTC)

When Natasha was alone she slept with her back to the wall, or flat on her back, with her face toward the door, and usually with a weapon handy. It was habit, something ingrained in her so many years ago, and one that wasn’t easy to get over. With Clint it was different, she was able to relax and rest easily knowing she had his senses as well as hers on alert. She loved sleeping practically on top of him, curled against his side, or with one of them spooning the other, no matter how much it went against her usual mindset, and over the years she hadn’t gotten lax, per se, but slightly more comfortable with her life. Still, it was with Clint that she slept her best. Sometimes there were still nightmares, but they weren’t nearly as bad nor as frequent with him.

She had no idea how long she had slept, but by the time she awoke when Clint shifted out from under her the light through the window was quickly fading. His mumbled words had reached her ears but they hadn’t settled in yet, and by the time she realised he wasn’t just going to the restroom he was already at the front door.

Rolling onto her stomach, she peered over the arm of the sofa, her sleep confusion quickly vanishing as she watched him. The pitiful sounding mewling was indeed the same kitten from earlier, and instead of shooing it away as expected, Clint actually set a bowl of milk out for the hungry creature.

Natasha thought she loved him even more in that moment, if that was possible.

Even as kept the cat outside and claimed it was only once she could see his resolve weakening, and by the time he made his way back to her she simply looked at him silently, her amused expression doing all the talking.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... Come on, say it."

Clint could feel her smile in his back without looking, when he carried the bottle back to the fridge. There were a few fruit leftovers from the morning that he brought back with him and put down on the sofa table, in case Natasha would still be hungry. He squeezed his body back on the sofa, gently maneuvering her head on his thighs when he sat down, and touched that grin on her lips softly with a fingertip. For that look on her face he'd do much more than spend a few bucks on a little milk and maybe a little meat extra here and there.

"Did I wake you in my sleep?"

His mind was still half caught up in these creepy children voices from the short rest. He wasn't keen on remembering where that shit came from at all and he really hoped, he hadn't been talking in his sleep. Whatever it was, it wasn't something he wanted to burden Natasha with.

“Say what?” Natasha replied, innocently. “That I am surprised you met him at the door with food instead of a broom? That is if he was lucky.” She knew Clint could use worse than a broom to get rid of any unwanted pests, but she didn’t think he wasn’t truly capable of it.

She rolled back on her side so he could lay down with her again, but he had different ideas this time, and it only took her a moment to settle back down again, effectively using his lap as a pillow. Adjusting her skirt, which was horribly wrinkled at this point, she folder her hands on her stomach, her smile softening when touched her lips.

“No, not until you got up to feed our little friend.” She wasn’t quite yet ready to let that go. “Bad dreams?” Just because he hadn’t been vocal in his sleep didn’t mean the dreams hadn’t been bad.

"Oh, so it's a he now, huh?"

Clint pretended to pout for a moment but couldn't keep it up long. That game he had already lost anyway.

"Dreams like that are something like a given these days." He shrugged a little, trying to play it down.

And really, it shouldn't matter. You signed up for nightmares when you started working for S.H.I.E.L.D.. It had been a really nice day so far and he didn't want to burden Natasha with being a constant melancholic deadweight.

"Guess that talk we had about kids brought a few things up. My mind's pretty primitive like that. Poke in with a stick a few times and all kind of associated stuff comes up."

“Well, I’m not certain. I didn’t exactly take the time to check,” Natasha replied, giving Clint a light poke in the stomach for his pouty face. “Would you prefer I continue to use ‘it’? Or perhaps we could name it...”

She had no intentions of adopting the kitten and giving it a name, no matter how adorable and soft and hungry the little thing was, really, especially since Clint clearly didn’t like having it around and only put up with it for her, but it was still fun to tease him.

Taking his hand when he spoke of his dreams, she kissed his fingers gently to let him know she understood. Family, children, the future; these were all things every couple had to eventually discuss if they wanted to continue their relationship, but that didn’t make it any easier. She always thought they were on the same page, and their talk earlier seemed to confirm it, but there were always those lingering doubts. Clint did so much for her just to make her happy, just to be with her, and she could never be truly sure that this wasn’t another of those cases. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Clint decided not to comment on that cat thing any longer. Or he would have that thing inside the house sooner than he could say fleas and dirt.

"Just fragments."

He ran his fingertip over her lips again, softly, thankfully that she didn't insist on digging deeper into this than he was ready to reveal. Not that he even could have. That blurry cloud over this specific memory was still there and he still was in no mood to shoo it away.

"As I said, that mission in this country back then wasn't always easy. I can't really remember much, but you know the drill. Always gets dirty when civilians are involved. Must have been some kids among them. Really couldn't tell you what was going on, but I don't like how it made me feel."

There were only emotions he could really recall from that dream, and none of them were good. Mostly it was the unrestrained, hot burning aggression he remembered that still made him shiver.

"Just confirms my reservation, to be honest. I don't think I could be a good father, even if I wanted to try. You know... Some things are heritable."

This time the shiver was too strong to hide when realer, clearer memories about 35 years older threatened to leave their graves.

"Just thinking that I could end up like my old man makes me want to cut all wires down there immediately."

Natasha knew what it was to be haunted by memories that she couldn’t fully grasp. Some were fragments, some were complete implants and not her memories at all, and none of it was easy to deal with. She never really thought about anyone from S.H.I.E.L.D. suffering from the same thing, and she felt her heart go out to Clint.

“Sometimes you don’t need to remember to know it was bad,” she said.

It was always the worst when children were involved. She had been still a child herself when she had first killed, but the blood of children on her hands hadn’t stopped as she’d gotten older. They were always the best incentives, the best statements. Kill a man, it may get noticed; kill a child and the world listened.

Some days the things she had done turned her stomach, but she couldn’t dwell on it or she would be lost. She had to keep moving forward. She could never take back what she had done, but she could try to make sure there were fewer people out there doing the same sort of thing.

“Well, at least with me you don’t have to go that far,” she said, turning her head toward him to place a kiss on his stomach through his shirt. In many ways it was a relief knowing that Clint didn’t want children, as she would hate to think he wanted them but gave it up because she couldn’t have them. In other ways it was sad. She hated his father, hated what the man had done to him and all the trauma that had been left. She knew in her heart that it wasn’t true, that Clint could never be like that, she just knew it, and it saddened her to think that he believed so strongly that he could.

Rolling onto her side, she slipped one arm around between his back and the sofa and buried her face in his stomach. “You are a good man, Clint Barton. One of the best I’ve ever known. Don’t you ever forget that.”

The hand that came to rest on Natasha's neck, playing with her curls, was trembling and just on this side of too cold, despite the warm temperatures in the house. It meant much to Clint that she believed in him like that. And for her, with her, in their partnership, he had always tried to be just that. Good. Fighting for the good thing.

But here he was, Clint Barton, King of bad decisions, failure and delusion, and if there was one thing he definitely was not, it was a hero type. No matter how much he had wanted that as a kid.

"Not exactly what other people use to call me."

It was frightening, how much sadness, resignation and bitterness there really was in his voice. You could only tell yourself so long, it didn't matter what people thought of you. When you got beaten up by fellow agents in a fucking Helicarrier elevator for being responsible for some friend's death, that kind of shifted perspectives.

But this was S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't here. Here, right now, only what Natasha thought of him should count. She had come here with him, not all these smart people with the white coats who tried to treat his brain back into full battle mode.

"Most things I've done right, I've done with you, you know. You always make me want to be better than my genes."

She could feel his hand shaking, hear the bitterness and sadness in his voice, and she wished there was a way she could take it all away. She wished she could turn back time or pluck out the bad memories; something, anything to make him believe in himself again.

“Other people are wrong,” she said, resolutely. She could have said that she didn’t care what other people thought, but saying that made it seem like there was some truth to what they said, and she would never believe that. She didn’t care what they thought, but she also thought they were wrong.

Pushing herself up, she maneuvered herself around and slung one knee over his to straddle his lap. Bringing her hands up to either side of his face, she held him firmly there and met his eyes in an intense gaze.

“Maybe genes have some impact, but mostly people use them as excuses when they fail,” she said. “You are better than that, Clint. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve worked for and become. You are so much better than he ever even had potential to be, and you will never be him. You are too good, right here,” she moved one hand down to cover his heart once she was sure he wouldn’t look away. “Right where it matters. That is who you are. You are good, kind, compassionate. You take a chance on people, you help people, and I know you would do anything for me.” There was emotions creeping into her voice now that she didn’t even try to conceal. He needed to hear them, and maybe she needed to let them out. “You know I don’t love easily, you know I could not fall for just anyone, but I love you and you are everything to me.”

Clint listened quietly, let her speak out all these words he had heard from her before, in one way or another. Tried to let them get through to all the doubts and fears that had settled in especially in the last months. He wished, he could believe it. He had used to. He had never been a righteous soldier like Steve or a God-like flawless being like Thor. He bit his way through his career, tried to keep his body and mind as intact as possible with miserable success and to choose his missions wisely enough to still be able to sleep at night. Another thing he wasn't overly successful with.

All he could really say for himself was that he tried and had never even come close to give up. Even when it would have been better.

It was a reflex like breathing, he was simply unable to stop himself from startling when Natasha's fingertips came to rest right on that same spot where his old life had been sucked out of him more than a year ago. No way she would have missed that. He didn't flinch away further, tried to let himself fall into that touch, sooth it away these other, so much worse memories.

The last time someone had deemed him worthy for great things, hadn't worked out so well.

Only when she told him, she loved him, the painful tension that had already settled in his back again, let go a little. He knew it, that was something he could believe, hear it in her voice, see it in her eyes.

"I want to be everything for you. My love for you is what keeps me going. I want to be that good kind of person for you. That's the guy I can live with being", he answered quietly, leaning into the touch of her hand.

Warm, soft, familiar. Not the coldness that already tried to seep into his veins again. Somehow he had to try to hold on to this sensation instead of going through the same nightmare again and again.

"I just don't know about the rest anymore. I'm not half the soldier I should be. A good soldier would have taken himself out before being compromised like I was. A lot of people wouldn't have died if I had just taken my cyanide in the right moment."

She felt him flinch under her hand, and a stab or hurt and anger ran through her. If she could, if it was within her ability, she would kill Loki for what he had done to Clint. Screw Thor and justice and anyone else that might argue against it, she would have his head on a platter. Wherever he was right now she hoped it was a cold, dark prison with daily tortures for every life he took or altered those few days he was on earth.

Natasha wasn’t sure how to feel about being Clint’s only reason to keep going. For now she could do it, for now she could do anything he needed, but eventually he would have to learn to enjoy other things in life again. He would have to see the beauty in the world amongst all the ugliness. He was everything to her, but they couldn’t become completely codependent upon each other, it wasn’t healthy.

Her touch softened when he leaned into her hand, and she placed a soft kiss to his forehead before resting hers against it. They would get through this, she had faith in him, in them.

Then he had to go and keep talking.

Natasha instantly pulled back and her hand tightened painfully on his jaw.

“Don’t you say that. Don’t you ever say that,” she warned, her voice dipping to the dangerous tone he should know all too well. “You know that is not what Fury expected. That is not how S.H.I.E.L.D. works. I grew up in that, where my life meant nothing and was only worth what information I could steal and what lives I could take. I was expected to die before ever getting caught. I should have killed myself before ever letting you take me.”

Roughly she pushed his head back and got hastily off his lap, striding away a few paces. “A good soldier fights, a good soldier doesn’t roll over and die, not in America. Steve would have your head for that.” Her accent had slipped in her anger, a bit of the old Russian shining through. “If I ever thought you were even considering it I would kill you myself.”

With that she stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

For several long seconds Clint just stared at the closed bathroom door and tried to comprehend what the fuck had just happened. He had fucked up - again - that much he could put together in his head. Probably finally reached the limit of how much whining and self-pity in a week Natasha could stand before she exploded, just like he had feared... He had known it, he should never have started talking about that fucking dream...

But that wasn't what she had said and if he blended out that one most important sentence in her enraged little speech, he just kept on bullshitting himself, and her.

I should have killed myself before ever letting you take me.

That had been expected of her, no doubt, and in telling her, Clint thought of his life not worth all that much damage he had caused... He had basically made it sound like he thought the same of her and her right of absolution.

Suddenly he couldn't stand sitting in this now empty room with too much dry air and cutting silence anymore. He stormed outside without knowing where he was going. The humid warmth hit him like a wall when he opened the door, thankfully, and awoke him from that sudden state of frozen shock and self-disgust before he could do the next stupid thing and just disappear for a few hours. Maybe he would have done that weeks - days - ago, before Natasha and him had renewed certain promises and made a few new. No matter how much he felt like shit right now, no need to do the same to her, even more than he already had.

After another few seconds of standing around like an idiot with a stupid, lost frown on his face, he decided, he could do his thinking of how to deal with this situation as well here, in this bad excuse for a garden, without Natasha having to worry about him on top of all.

He left the door open half an inch to let her know, he was still around and pulled himself a folding chair close that leaned against the wall, more than a few years old probably and fairly weathered, but at least it didn't crash under his weight.

Well, then, how to make up for this new masterpiece of bad rhetoric of his? If it had been just that, it would have been easy. He could have tried explaining to Natasha, tell her, he hadn't been serious, he hadn't meant it. Unfortunately she knew him much too well to buy that.

Something unexpectedly touching his leg had him startle so much that he nearly reached for a weapon that he didn't even have with him. Only then he recognized a small dark shadow that he became familiar with more and more, strolling around his chair.

"Don't look at me like that, bud. This is your fault", he grumbled, reaching out for the kitty's head without even realizing, mimicking the way Natasha had caressed it earlier.

Somehow that appreciative purr answering him helped to turn away from that worst panic and self-hate and focus on the problem on hand. Manipulative little beast. Clint rolled his eyes at the animal and quickly crossed his arms, trying to ignore that ongoing restless caress of fur against his legs.

After what she had taken from his words, it really was no miracle, Natasha was angry with him. He could try make that right, of course, repeat all the things he had told her countless times. That she was worth his decision back then, that he had never regretted it for even a second and how much she had made up for her past mistakes in all these last years.

He could tell her all that again, but what good would it be, how did he expect her to believe it when he couldn't, once she told him the same? He had promised her to be honest with her, always, that was what had brought this whole mess up, and he wouldn't make it even worse by lying to her now.

"You've chosen the wrong household to creep into, buddy", he murmured, without even realizing he was already patting that damn cat again. "Can't even fucking take care of what's most important to me."

When the door slammed shut she gripped the edge of the bathroom counter with white knuckle ferocity and tried to catch her breath. She hadn’t meant to lose it, the whole point of this trip was to get Clint to open up and try to help him heal, but here he was trying to be honest with her and she had bit his head off.

She just didn’t know how to deal with it. It hurt; hearing him say those words hurt. She knew he hadn’t been referring to her, hadn’t been thinking of her at all at the time, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. He had changed her life, saved her life, and ever since she had been on a road of retribution. She put her blood, sweat and tears into atoning for her past, for all the awful things she had done, and he made that journey sound foolish, that maybe she would have been better off dead than trying to make up for what she had done. If he thought his life worth so little, what did that say about her? If not for him she wouldn’t even be here; she would have grown tired, she would have slipped up, and someone would have finished her.

Looking up at the mirror, only a blurry image stared back at her, and it was then that she realised she was crying. Pushing away from counter she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower, mixing the water so it was near scalding, her skin turning red almost instantly.

She felt ill, the heavy meal from earlier sitting like a hard lump in her stomach; she felt exhausted despite the nap earlier; she felt emotionally drained, yet the tears kept coming. He would have killed himself; given the opportunity to do it all over again he would have taken his life stupidly thinking that that would have somehow done something to save a lot of people. If it hadn’t been him it would have been someone else and people still would have died, maybe more people because Clint wouldn’t have been there to help them in the end. He would have killed himself, and she never would have had the chance to get him back, to fight for him. Just like that he would have been gone. “You selfish bastard,” she sobbed into the hot, heavy spray of the shower.

She wanted to help him come to terms with everything, to try to atone for it all, but he would rather just turn back the clock and have someone else take his place. How could she help that? Why should she bother? Yes, he had done some awful things under Loki’s control, but in the end that was the real truth of it, wasn’t it? He hadn’t made the choices, he had been powerless to stop his actions, he had been completely under the control of someone else. In Natasha’s case it hadn’t been like that. She’d had her brain tampered with, she had been manipulated, but in the end every life she had taken she had done so of her own accord. She could have ran; hell, she could have told them she would rather die, but she hadn’t, she had done as she was told, and after she had stopped taking orders, when she had been running her own show it had been worse. She killed for money, killed without question, and all entirely by her own choice.

She knew it wasn’t the same thing, and that she should be more understanding of Clint. He wasn’t like her, he didn’t know what it was like to cause the deaths of so many innocent people before that, and the wounds were still fresh, but it still hurt more than she could possibly say.

If he thought so poorly of himself, what would he really think of her if he wasn’t so blinded by love? Did he think others should hate her, mistrust her, and condemn her for her actions like he seemed to believe was only right for him?

Closing her eyes against the stinging tears and the scalding water, Natasha doubled over, one hand grabbing blindly for the shower wall and the other clutching her stomach as its contents finally refused to stay down.

Clint still had no fucking idea what to do, how to even approach Natasha after this unexpected crisis when he heard the shower going. After first figuring, she just needed a moment on her own herself, he was on his feet so fast that the chair knocked over when he heard some much more alarming noise from the room. He didn't even bother closing the door when he rushed back in.

Literally in the last moment before he could just open the door to check on her, he held himself back with all but force... This wasn't like one of the breakdowns he had been through with her before.

This time he was the fucking reason. And if she didn't want to see him now, he was the only one to blame.

"Nat?" His voice sounded just as lost and helpless as he felt. "Can I... Do you need anything? Can I come in?"

It was a plead, with just as much desperation as the hate he felt for himself even more now shining through, for making her feel like that, for upsetting her so much. He had no idea how to make up for that, if he could make up at all, but there was no way, he wouldn't try. Just a few minutes he had given himself that as one of his few positive traits, after all. He never gave up something before it was over. And certainly not on the woman he loved.

"Please, Nat, I... I'm sorry. I'm not fucking going anywhere, I told you that, remember? Give me a chance to talk this through, please."

By the time she was done and there was nothing left to bring up Clint was already outside trying to talk. Sinking to the floor of the shower she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, letting the water continue to rain down over her. She wanted to tell him to go away, that she just wanted to be alone, but she couldn’t make herself for the words. He hadn't run away, and that in itself had to count for something. The worry and desperation in his voice hit straight for her heart, and there was another part of her that wanted to hold him, wanted to be held.

Natasha was never someone to play silly games, not when it was important. The silent treatment was ridiculous, and pushing him away wouldn’t solve anything. As hurt as she was she knew they had to talk, and putting it off would only make her shut down, make her store away all the hurtful feelings. They had to deal with this head on, and they had to deal with it now.

“Come in,” she said, her voice choked. Her hair was already wet so she reached for the shampoo more to give her hands something to do than anything else. She didn’t try to stand, though; her legs still felt too shaky for that, and the last thing she needed right now was to appear even weaker than she probably already did.

Seeing her like this, in a mess, with her eyes red from crying, cowering on the floor, always broke Clint's heart, but in a way it had never been as bad as today. For a moment he felt like turning around and running after all, simply because he didn't even know how to stand himself right now, leave alone be there for her. But he didn't show it and he didn't run. He had never run when Natasha needed him. As long as she was not telling him to go, he wouldn't.

But his hands were shaking badly when he went down on his knees next to tub and just stayed there, helplessly, with his arms crossed on the edge and his eyes not only burning from the too hot steam filling the room. Her skin was reddened, too red, and he took a second to regulate the temperature a notch down, before he just stared at her, with one hand tightly clutched into his hair.

That she was really crying, still was, was so much worse than when she had yelled at him.

The throwing up part was over, but she was pale, much too pale, and all he wanted right now was pull her in his arms, wrap her in a blanket and hold her until things would be alright again. Only this time it wouldn't be that easy.

"I hate this." Starting by how much his voice trembled. This was all too fucking fucked up. "I hate what this made of me and that I hurt you. I wish I could just go back to normal and wipe it all out. I wish I could deal with this like you do. I thought I could. You know, the first few weeks... after were actually pretty good."

And suddenly he was telling her the one occasion he had never told anyone, the one thing he had kept to himself, something he hadn't wanted to burden her with. Maybe he should have. Maybe things hadn't gone downhill so fast. At least... maybe she would have understood. Now all he could do was try to explain why he felt the way he did about himself.

"The whitecoats had all these nice words and explanations and the Council didn't order to execute me and all. Thought I was doing pretty well. We were nearly finished dismantling the Helicarrier, just a few people left, and in Washington there was a nice little timeout waiting for me, for training, recovering and all. Soon it would be the two of us in the field again, against the rest of the world. I was doing good. Then I came from a late construction shift and just wanted to crash. I didn't even look up when these two guys joined me in the elevator. Knew them, we were on four tours together shortly before New Mexico. That was before I killed one of these guy's brother during New York. Stood right by the turbine when it blew up."

His voice had gone flat, completely emotionless, so not at all what he had expected if he was ever to tell this to anyone. Maybe he had spent enough months thinking, screaming, punching and crying about all this to be drained of all emotional energy.

"I went out of that elevator with two broken ribs, a new fracture in my nose, three cuts that I could hardly stitch myself and I've been pissing blood for two weeks. But that didn't hurt that much, you know. It was the pain in this one man's eyes that broke me. S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me a home when I had nothing, and I let all these people down. And whenever I think I'm over it, when you tell me how you feel about me, when they write down another evaluation telling me how good I'm doing... Then I see this guy's face on my mind and I'm right back to the start. I feel like I'm not making any progress at all. I'm... not like you. I'm not strong, Nat."

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Natasha Romanoff | The Black Widow

September 2020

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