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It was dark.
There were flashes. There were always flashes. Of light, of sound, of nausea rising up his throat.
There were flashes of red hair, white hair, braids, bleached bob, scruffy, ends tinged with blue, straightened bangs.
There were always flashes of those.
He wondered if they would ever go away. Or if they would stay, never forming a complete picture, but haunting him in ever corner he turned, every plaque he saw, every owl he heard. Every nightmare he dreamt.
It was getting more noticeable now. The nausea. The vomit, he could almost taste it, touching the back of his teeth, as he danced on the border of awake and asleep. His heartbeat felt like a drum, beating in the back of his skull, pushing him closer and closer to consciousness.
He couldn’t open his eyes. Because if he opened his eyes, then he would have to reckon with reality, like he had done for the past three hundred and sixty five nights.
Oh. Fuck.
He didn’t mean to keep count. He just… did. It came naturally, ticking away in a corner of his brain like a bomb, a countdown to the end of the world. But it never came. This felt somewhat similar though.
Well, he was really awake now. Fuck.
He really didn’t want to wake up Laura. He had made it a couple months without doing so. But she still knew, she had to know. There were only so many excuses for such dark bags under his eyes. At least this way he could suffer in silence, and not drag her into it again. She had been through enough. Dealing with him for months and months after it happened, after everyone came back. There was nothing that he wanted more right now than to curl up in her arms and cry. But he couldn’t do that.
How was he supposed to do anything? He barely left the house. Every night, he went to bed at the same time, woke up in a cold sweat at the same time, almost threw up into the bathroom sink at the same time, and settled back into bed, laying awake for the next three hours, at the same time. Every morning he woke up at the same time, and did nothing. Or maybe he did some things, but it didn’t feel like anything. Every feeling, fleeting moments of happiness and hope, felt dull. Every breath felt shallow. Every touch felt sharp, as if knives were stabbing through his skin.
He had cancelled so many things, feeling so intensely guilty every time that eventually he didn’t feel it anymore. Or rather, he felt it all the time. A never-ending stream of guilt, and waking up, and throwing up, and going back to bed, of flashes, of her body at the bottom of the cliff-
He was on the floor. How did he get on the floor?
He knew it would be hard, going back to normal. When he got that phone call, Laura’s face lighting up the screen, everything felt okay, For a split-second, everything would be okay.
That slipped away very quickly.
After all, for almost five years he had spent his life completely alone, slaughtering anyone and everyone he could get his hands on that had spent their lives hurting people. And now he had a wife again. A family, again. He didn’t know what to do.
But he did try his best. Laura said that he had had some really bad trauma, and it was okay to do nothing for months on end. He tried. He made dinner some nights, like he used to do. He got really good at making pasta again. But most days he just couldn’t. Most days he spent the hour before dinner rocking back and forth on the floor, trying not to hyperventilate, or staring at the ceiling, as if he could burn a hole through it by sheer will.
He felt so guilty about the kids. Poor Nate was still too young to understand, and spent a lot of time trying to ask why daddy was so upset. He was grateful for Lila and Cooper. They got it - kind of. But the guilt was still too much to bear. He gave himself three months. Three months to get back on track, get his life back together. That had quickly turned into three and a half, then four, then spiralled into eight.
And now here he was, one year later, still seeing flashes every night, and still sitting on the floor.
One year later, never seeing the full picture, never daring to try and remember.
One year later, still feeling so guilty, so intensely, arduously, violently guilty, that it tore him to shreds every night.
One year later, still thinking about Natasha. About the helpless girl, bangs pinned back, gun pointed at his head, fingers trembling as they inched towards the trigger. About the woman in the hood, watching as he killed his final victim. About the girl with the red hair, with the arms that he found himself wrapped in a hundred times over, with the words that could bring him back down to earth. About his best friend, who got him through the worst of it, and who he abandoned so recklessly, all but letting her fall to her death.
It should’ve been me.
One year later, still thinking about her body on the floor. Limp. Lifeless. Pale. Broken.
Still peering down the cliff and watching her face, smiling up at him as she fell.
Still clenching his fist, over and over, as if she would still reach up and grab it again.
Choking as he heard the thud of bones on the floor. Breathing in as he felt a piece of rock in his hand, squeezing it so tightly he drew blood. Drowning as he looked up into Steve’s eyes.
Clint, where’s Nat?
One year later. Choking. Watching. Waiting.
One year later, and he was still throwing up in the sink, feeling momentary relief, feeling the bile rise again in his throat, feeling Laura’s soft hand on his shoulder, and feeling the guilt wash over him again like thick, red, blood.