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It had been two years; the longest two years of his life.
Two years since he’d essentially stopped living; two years since Phil Coulson had called him into his office to tell him that Natasha had been killed in action on her last mission.
He thought it was a joke, a cruel hoax that Coulson and Fury had concocted in their offices. He didn’t think it was very funny.
When Phil held out a hand, a necklace adorned with a tiny silver arrow dangled from his fingertips, Clint’s heart dropped to his stomach. The silver was tarnished; stained with blood.
There was no body; at least, not enough of one to give to him. They could schedule the funeral as soon as possible, when he was ready.
Clint didn’t cry at the news, just numbly stared at the tiny arrow in his hands while Phil expressed his remorse and sympathies for the situation. It seemed like routine; Phil didn’t even seem very remorseful, but he was always good at hiding.
He couldn’t remember getting home; he doesn’t know who brought him there or how he’d gotten inside. He didn’t remember making the hole in the wall or breaking the lamp.
He remembered finding a picture of the two of them on the nightstand; the two of them smiling at one another at Stark’s last Christmas party. Their sweaters were ugly, his santa hat was fraying, but they were so happy.
Holding that picture to his chest, Clint allowed himself to cry.
That was two years ago.
Two years of pretending to be a person, pretending to have a life and make up for the one that Natasha had lost. Two years of waking up to an old picture and wearing a small silver arrow around his neck.
On the anniversary of her death, Phil called him in again, again expressing endless apologies, but not really giving a clear answer of what exactly he was apologizing for.
When there was a knock on the door, Phil called them in and as his eyes turned to the person in the doorway, Clint thought he’d finally lost his mind.
Red hair, green eyes; her gaze was calculating, her mouth set into a frown. She was thinner, rough around the edges; when she saw Clint, her frown deepened. He wondered what she saw.
He wondered if he’d finally had a break with reality.
“Barton?” Phil asked after a moment.
“You see her too…right?” Clint asked quietly and Natasha’s demeanor crumpled for a moment.
“Clint, I–” She began.
“Tell me you see her too.”
He didn’t see Phil nod. “I see her.”
Clint was out of his chair in a heartbeat, striding across the room towards her and she didn’t move away from him. She didn’t flinch when he lifted his hand and didn’t turn away when his hand cupped her cheek. She leaned into it.
Soft skin met his hand; she didn’t disappear when he touched her.
“You’re real.” Clint whispered in awe.
“I’m real.” Natasha responded. “Clint, I’m sorry–”
“Where have you been? I thought you…He told me you were…I mourned you, I…”
“I had to be dead for my mission. I never would have closed the operation if they knew I was alive.” Natasha explained.
“I mourned you! For two years, I was dead because you were dead!” Clint snapped.
“They wanted me to.” Natasha said quietly. “You can be mad at me if you want, but it was for the job.”
Clint wanted to be mad; he wanted to scream and shout and break something. Instead, he reached out and wound his arms around her, pulling her in close until their lips met.
The kiss was brief, but filled with every word he couldn’t bring himself to say say and hers were filled with soft promises and apologies.
Please be real.
I’m real. I’m home.