Work Text:
Natasha finds him in the middle of the night more often than not. Clint never asks why. He doesn't need to know; he has a pretty good idea, usually, when she turns up with haunted eyes and pale cheeks, looking like she got run through the wringer. He never says anything, just moves over in bed to make room for her.
She makes herself so small when she curls up tight against him, warm and soft against his ribs. He can barely believe someone like her could be so small like this. It does make it easy to curl around her though, wrap his body around hers like he can protect her even though they both know he can't. Not when the enemy is the old ghosts trapped in her own head, at least. He wishes it was something physical, some battle he could fight for her - and oh, she would really fucking hate it if he said that out loud, Natasha Romanov can fight her own battles and they both know it, but sometimes he wants to fight them for her, if only because she shouldn't have to fight all her own battles by herself. They're a team, that's what he's there for, to have her back and to fight next to her.
"I've got you," he whispers, and he feels her say something, but he doesn't hear the words. He lets her take his hand in hers, watches as she traces old scars and the lines and callouses of years of work with bow and gun. He can feel it when her breathing starts to slow and even out, her breath fanning out against his shoulder, and he nuzzles into her hair, the scent of something fancy and vaguely sweet clinging to the strands. No one else but him knows the Black Widow's main indulgences are really nice bed sheets and really fancy bath stuff, and even if anyone believed him, he wouldn't tell them anyway. It's a fun little secret in their world of really shitty ones, and besides, she'd probably taze him for it.
He kisses her sweet-smelling hair and holds her a little closer, settling in to keep watch while Natasha sleeps. He'll be tired in the morning, but it's a small price to pay to watch her back when he can.