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Clint holds Natasha in his arms, firmly but not crushingly tight. He didn’t want her to feel as though she were bound again, tied to that chair in that warehouse he and the rest of the group had found her in. She has her hands in tight fists under her chin, arms pulled close to her chest, trying to fit as much as she can of herself in his safe embrace. Clint gently brushes damp strands of hair away from her sweat-dappled face.
She awakened from a nightmare, gasping and throwing the sheets and comforter off of herself which woke up Clint. Natasha greedily sucked in air, chest heaving as her eyes struggled to adjust to their dark bedroom. She tried to practice what Clint calls “box breathing” to slow her inhales and exhales and calm her galloping heart.
In, 2, 3, 4, hold, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3, 4.
Occupying herself with the counting and holding of her breath did serve to slow her down a bit and keep her from hyperventilating, but not nearly as much as when Clint gathered her up in a hug.
Clint gently skims his fingers along her bare arm, softly stroking her skin. He’s careful because though it’s been a couple of weeks, she still has bruises. The sight of those splotches in varying shades of sickly purples, greens, and yellows along her body sends rage running through him every. Single. Time.
The warehouse happened to explode once he and Natasha were a safe distance away, she limp and cradled in his arms. The warehouse contained tons of ammonium nitrate fertilizer as a front for a legitimate business. It’s not clear how it happened, but Steve, Bruce, and Tony suspect Clint left a remote-controlled explosive arrow and triggered it once he and Natasha were sufficiently clear of the building. Clint isn’t saying a word.
Steve shoots Clint quick, self-righteous glares every time he sees him because Steve thinks they should’ve taken the bastards in and let the courts decide their due process. But Clint bets if it were Peggy who was taken and brutalized and Steve were made to watch, Steve wouldn’t hesitate to deliver his own brand of vigilante justice. Clint ignores them; let Steve think he’s this barbaric animal with no conscience. Clint had said there’d be no negotiations, and when it comes to his Tasha, he is a rabid dog baring teeth ready to rip into anyone who dares harm a hair on her head.
“It’s alright now, Tasha; you’re alright. You’re ok; I’m here,” he quietly says in her ear.
Natasha grounds herself in the reality that she’s now safe with Clint’s soft breath rustling little hairs near her temple, his firm arms around her, his steadfast heartbeat in her ear as her head lays against his chest, and his scent that fills her nose.
“I can listen if you want to talk about it.”
Natasha thinks how in the nightmare she knew she was in that chair, unable to move; shadows moving about around her. She couldn’t see any discernible features on any of them. What really bothered her was that incessant red light. The light she knew belonged to the camera that recorded everything. And she felt so sorry. She thought about Clint watching, and she wanted to apologize to him for it - like it was somehow her fault. Which, Natasha knew in her head was ridiculous; she just couldn’t manage to feel it in her heart yet.
Natasha knows she’s can speak to him about anything, but right now, she shakes her head where it lies against him. She just wants to focus on breathing and the warmth of Clint’s body against hers. Clint doesn’t say anything; he’s not going to push her. He’d never push her. Natasha will come to him when she’s ready.
“Just hold me,” she murmurs.
“I want to hold you in my arms until all the bad things go away.”
“Well, then I don’t know if you’ll ever let go.”
“I’m perfectly fine with that.”