Chapter Text
Shortly after the incident in New York, where the goalkeeper had been involved through mind control and some murders, everything had changed. Loki had been defeated and returned to his world, while the rest of the city was trying to recover and move on... as well as all the heroes involved. They had put body and soul to overcome. The Avengers called themselves: Iron Man, Hulk, Thor, Captain America, Black Widow and Hawkeye. Each one of them had taken some traumatic memory from the God of Deception and his Chitauri army: the first suffered from nightmares and panic attacks, product of having sacrificed himself by getting into a wormhole; the second hated conflict and wanted nothing to do with his green and furious alter-ego, whom he seemed to fear more than anyone else; the third bore the blame for having provoked, in part, his brother's attack; the room still carried its ghosts from the past and the reality of not being able to adapt to the present; the fifth had rediscovered her dark past, which she had tried so hard to hide and remedy and, finally, the sixth.... the sixth seemed to have lost everything he believed in. Could it, like New York, bounce back after that and move on? After all, it wasn't and wouldn't be the last time Clint Barton lost himself.
He was scared, disappointed and completely furious…with himself. There was no one else to blame but him. If he had fought harder, if he had been more agile... maybe he wouldn't find himself crying, defeated, inside his SHIELD room. Nick Fury didn't even allow him to leave the base, seeking to keep him under surveillance and control, the archer thought. The head of the organization no longer trusted him, and he didn't blame him, he had tried to assassinate him just a few days ago. He didn't know what hurt more: the disaster he had caused or the fact that his boss had mistrusted him even before he realized that he was being controlled by Loki Laufeyson. So many years working together and Fury really believed him capable of such a betrayal on his own? Did he really think so poorly of him? From Barton, who had worked so hard to fit in and befriend what he now considered true family: Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Natasha Romanoff, and Phill Coulson... remembering the latter hurt, hurt too much. To think that if they hadn't let Loki into the base, Coulson would still be alive...
A sob escaped his lips and he hated himself for it. He hated being weak, since every time he was weak, tragic things happened. He hated losing the biggest pillar in his life and feeling adrift again, alone. Feeling the weight of the past falling squarely on their shoulders and not believing themselves capable of bearing it for long. The pain in his chest was choking him, squeezing him, driving him crazy.
A dry thud was heard throughout the room, followed by a frustrated scream from the archer, which was quickly replaced by an unrestrained cry, only camouflaged by the sound of more strong and constant blows.
New knocks were heard, which had nothing to do with the previous ones: Natasha Romanoff was knocking on Clint Barton's door. Three blows, with the same time interval between each one, for the aforementioned to recognize her. That brought the blonde back to reality who, prisoner of shame, stopped his actions and prepared to pretend that he wasn't there.
—Come on Barton, open the fucking door, I know you're there. All of SHIELD knows that you are here, it is part of the security protocols. —The spy assured, in an attempt for the opponent to understand that he was not being held there because they believed him to be a possible threat, but rather because they followed the preestablished rules.
The aforementioned did not answer and three new knocks on his door sounded. Stronger and more determined than the previous ones, showing that the woman on the other side had little patience left. That stole a smile from the SHIELD agent. Natasha of patience only had the P... to kick the door at any cost if the goalkeeper continued to refuse to open it. This, taking advantage of the occasion, was ready to negotiate after clarifying his voice so that it sounded as normal as possible.
—Do it the way I teach you, Romanoff, and maybe that's how I'll open the door for you. —he exclaimed with clear intentions of having some fun with her.
Absolute silence was all he got in response for a long time. Confused, the goalkeeper decided to get up and go to the entrance, in an attempt to figure out if the opponent was still there or not. That simple idea discouraged him. However, and as if there was a strange synchronization between the two agents, the first knock was sounded, followed by the annoyed and noticeably frustrated voice of her best friend.
—Clint, Clint, Clint...
The mentioned laughed loudly and, he could swear, Natasha was rolling her eyes, bored, on the other side of the door. And it is that that was a clear reference to The Big Bang Theory, a series that Barton liked so much at the level of having proposed to the redhead to use that way of knocking on the door when they wanted to visit the other. Natasha had clearly refused, arguing that it was stupid and unbearable, but Clint had managed to come to an agreement where three hits were enough, no need to recite their names. Hence the first three blows from a while ago. Now, finally, Clint had gotten his point across completely. I was happy about it. Romanoff was happy to have had the privilege of hearing her best friend's laugh so closely. He deduced that he had gotten up and soon he would be able to see his face. It happened like that.
Clint Barton finally opened the door to his room, ignoring the fact that he had been crying just minutes ago. Natasha gave him the best of her smiles, one of those that almost no one had the privilege of admiring. Then his expression registered concern before the archer's eyes, who instinctively looked away, vulnerable.
Natasha didn't say anything about it, she closed the door behind her and went to the goalkeeper's bathroom, while the latter was about to take a seat again on his bed, the one he hadn't been out of since the incident several days ago. Romanoff reached her side and silently began to heal her wounds. First the physical ones and then the emotional ones, she had promised herself.
—Forgive me Natasha...
He wasn't apologizing for bruising his knuckles compulsively pounding a wall and now his best friend had to heal him. Barton wasn't apologizing for being away from her since the incident. Barton was apologizing for trying to kill her during the incident. And Natasha was so tired of hearing those words, of seeing him so devastated by taking blame that didn't belong to him.
—What happened, Clint? —She looked distraught, worried about her best friend's condition and frustrated that she couldn't do anything to help him. —What's wrong with you?
However he, again, did not respond. He was too busy biting his lower lip, in an attempt to contain his pain and not end up breaking down in front of the redhead. He could lose himself but never his dignity, he wanted to believe.
—Clint… —The opposite noticed that the latter was using more force than necessary, she was afraid that he would hurt himself… again. She pressed harder on the other's wounds, forcing him to open his mouth to let out a groan of pain. Natasha smirked at this, ignoring the opponent's grimace of disgust, and continued to disinfect and bandage her hands. Once he finished, he set out to see it better. For miles you could tell that Clint Barton had been crying. For how many more minutes would she have to watch him, like a true psychopath, until he decided to speak? He had lost the notion of time, and of space, inside the blue eyes of his companion, who made an effort to pretend that nothing strange was happening and keep his gaze fixed straight ahead, indifferent.
—Natasha. —He finally broke the silence, sounding quite uncomfortable with the situation and focusing his attention on the woman sitting next to him.
—I'm worried about you, Clint, that's all. Your psychologist ratted you out to Fury about not progressing, you've closed yourself off from everything and everyone.
—And Nick ratted me out on you...
—We're worried about you, Clint. We seek to help you. Fury fears that you are still under the men...
The archer shuddered at the mere mention of it. At that simple idea. He stopped her abruptly, annoyed that his loved ones still mistrusted him. It was enough for him that he did it himself.
—What color are my eyes, Romanoff?
The aforementioned did not even flinch at the tone of voice used with her. Barton sounded angry and even disappointed, and she knew it wasn't with her but with himself.
—Blues.— She allowed herself to get lost in these for another while, trying to decipher it as only she knew how to do it and finding that she couldn't recognize it anymore.— And I see a lot of sadness in them, anger, guilt.
The archer, as expected, did not respond. He felt exposed and, now, even more guilty for having treated her that way when she only wanted to help. A lump began to form in his throat, as if her best friend's words had been all he needed to realize that, in fact, he wasn't as well as he had thought... or had wanted to believe.
—I'm just tired, Tasha, that's all. I haven't been able to rest at all since the incident. When I try to sleep the nightmares attack me and when I'm awake the memories do it... they don't leave me alone. I'm tired.
His voice finally cracked on the last sentence. Natasha knew her best friend well enough to understand the double meaning hidden within his words. Clint Barton was not only physically tired, due to lack of sleep, Clint Barton was also mentally exhausted. And when these two types of tiredness came together, the results could be catastrophic.
Clint Barton was getting tired of life and that subtle confession broke something inside the spy. What hurt him hurt her too. Together they were one.
—Get some rest, Barton, you need it, —she assured, trying to make her voice sound as sweet but authoritative as possible. —I will take care of your dreams.
Barton was exhausted. He still hadn't fully recovered from the battle wounds, and his mind seemed to conspire night and day against him. To top it off was his previous "breakdown" of anger and crying that had left him much more defeated than before. He was screwed, but sleep was not an option for him. No more. Never more. For her part, Natasha Romanoff was sitting next to him, in complete silence as if she expected to bore him until he fell asleep. Or as if she was planning to put him to sleep herself by some good blow. Barton seemed to doubt it. The idea that the Russian would find him screaming and crying in the middle of the night terrified him. Yet that last sentence had given him such peace. The one he needed in the midst of so much chaos that his life had become.
Natasha didn't need an answer. His silence meant that he had finally given in and that made her smile, inside clear. Without saying a word, she positioned herself better on that bed, ending up sitting cross-legged and with her back against the back of it. Barton required no indication. He lay down beside her, looking for a comfortable position and ending up completely collapsed on her, using her left thigh as a pillow, hugging her waist as a support to feel safe, accompanied. As if that was where he belonged. Yet he still refused to waver, to sleep despite Romanoff's constant caressing of his hair.
And then he heard her. A flash, barely a murmur in perfect English, that forced him to look up and smile like an idiot. Natasha seemed to have anticipated it as her hand slammed squarely into his face, forcing him to lay back down and close his eyes as she continued to sing.
—Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur. Happy kitty, sleepy kitty....
The archer laughed out loud when he heard that. A sign that he wasn't as broken as he'd thought. Upon receiving a zape in response, he smiled, caught and left a kiss on the other's hand before closing his eyes and assuring.
—I'll fall asleep if you purr like a kitten.
And Natasha reluctantly did. Because before his dignity was Clint Barton.
There were no more deaths hogging his thoughts and preventing him from resting. No more Loki tormenting him, no more pain, no more fear. All of that had been replaced by the image of Natasha Romanoff, his safe place.