A/N: Another Clint/Natasha story for y'all. Felt generous after writing an unseen commentary today and having applied for the IB. I wrote it nearly two weeks ago on a prompt a friend of mine and I collaborated on, and wanted to read hers before I posted mine. Hers is really good, and she called it Hallelujah when she posted it on AO3. It's the same pairing, but the stories turned out very different. Mine is subtle, a little more emotional than Through, seeing as it's their downtime.

What's more to say? Beware of the angstiness. I'd really appreciate any reviews left, even if it's criticism. Let me know if I can do better.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, in the comics or their cinematic counterparts, nor can I claim to be entitled to anything, credit to the wonderful and respective creators of the movies and comics.

Being Nightmares (And Not Being Okay With It)

Her name had been Evelyn. Her name was still Evelyn, but Clint Barton sure wasn't his usual Clint Barton anymore. While Evelyn believed him dead, it was now Natasha's job to pick up the pieces of Clint.

Why he'd even been tasked with that kind of mission in the first place was beyond Natasha's comprehension and she made it clear in her departure that she disapproved strongly. With little actual choice and decision in the matter, she'd left to locate Clint and had found him in his quarters, fanatically polishing his weapon of choice. She'd watched over him from the threshold as his trained movements grew more rapid and angrier as if he was trying to shed the bow of its coat rather than maintain its well-kept appearance. She didn't need to be a psychologist to recognize the traits of self-loathing.

It was obvious that something had bothered him about the mission, but he was too obedient to decline and protest when mission objectives broke his code of conduct and honor. He disapproved of it when it concerned her, uselessly so in private, being outraged but calm, and she realized the irony that it was now her worrying for his mental state, roles reversed.

This type of missions required more than common deceit. She'd know, as her missions were primarily of such origin, that it would hurt more if you cared. It was harsh, and she loathed Fury for sending her fellow agent – and partner – on a mission that strayed such from his area of expertise. Beneath that hardened, experienced exterior, Clint cared. It was a flaw that had caused her salvation, but for missions that concerned methods of seduction, he was at a severe disadvantage. He lingered at the thought that he'd hurt Evelyn, but Natasha's assurances were useless, because she didn't see them like he did, and most of her targets were men targeted for a reason.

From what she'd gathered at the debriefing, Evelyn had been an innocent, an opportunity that S.H.I.E.L.D. had chosen to explore. The original estimation of mission length had been exceeded and Clint's ability to not care had diminished, as he'd found himself genuinely liking his target. Natasha had learnt that lesson early in life, and had hardened her heart in response, but Clint didn't have that on/off switch when it came to human compassion, despite having had his heart broken a sufficient amount of times and was apparently determined to keep up that habit and the emotional aftermath.

This was the difference that made it impossible for her to comfort him. Her words would scold and be cold rather than comfort and heal.

Part of her was frustrated with his continuous humanity in this line of work – she'd seen him perform vengeance that rivaled hers – but another, equally great part of her was honored at the fact that he endured it without shutting off. He'd have done terrible at Red Room, but it made him her anchor, and thus her the person to pick up the pieces afterwards.

Why do you do this to yourself, Clint, she wondered silently, leaning against the frame, seeing his tense body and almost feeling the anxiousness. She'd seen it happen before post-missions and knew the routine, but it was the first time where he'd been intimate with the person he'd been supposed to deceive, and it was more personal, but only because he made it so. If it had been possible to transfer her indifference, she'd have done it in a heartbeat, because she didn't like picking up the pieces, as she believed them to have broken off.

He'd noticed her when she came but neither spoke. Silence tended to show their intentions and they'd learnt long ago not to analyze it more than briefly appreciate each other's companionship. They worked well together; Fury knew that, Coulson had known that, it was obvious that they yielded great results, as they seemed to sharpen the other's abilities. She suspected Fury had known years ago when he'd reluctantly agreed to cancel her termination order and enroll her as a probationary agent, that she nullified Barton's emotions. She disagreed, because they didn't go away, they were simply overruled by the want to ensure her survival, and so Fury had realized that Natasha was his compromise. She didn't know what would have happened if Fury had refused to cancel that kill shot, what Clint would have done, but she rarely lingered on the past. Clint, however, did.

After a long while, watching him unravel psychologically, she spoke, trying to sound reassuring. "She'll be fine."

He ceased his polishing and took a deep, unsteady breath. He looked down on the handle of the bow, fingers trembling as they untightened, blood rushing back to the digits. Clint looked upwards at her, and the mere look made her feel like something that belonged under someone's shoes. She knew him better than to take it personal. "How'd you know that? I lied to her. They lied to her."

His words were accusatory as if she'd been the one to order him to get close. He had no right playing that card when this was what she did for a living, but it was her job – somewhere in the description it had to be written, or she'd taken it upon herself, a silence agreement between her and Fury – to be the one Clint lashed out on without repercussions, who'd tell him if he went too far. In another life she might have been using the same words, but she'd seen too many innocents dead because of the deals made by criminals, and it was acceptable in her book to use people like Evelyn Parker.

"She was just finishing her college degree, working as a bookkeeper. She didn't know," he said hollowly, "she didn't know."

"Lots of people don't know." She walked to his bed. "I thought we agreed long ago that was for the best."

She reached out to caress his temple but he shied away from her like an unruly child. She cringed mentally but didn't show her hurt. His biceps flexed. "We broke her because she had access," he spat, eyes stormy with anger. "I broke her."

"No, you didn't," she quickly corrected, matter-of-factly and softly. "She allowed herself to be broken."

"God, Nat, how can you be so fucking cynical!" he yelled, rising from his seat at the bed. The bow clattered to the ground and his intense glare wandered to it and the fire behind it died down. With clenched jaw, he whispered dangerously, unable to look at her: "Just leave. I wanna be alone."

Disappointed with her ability to comfort him, she gave him one last long look before leaving, noting down in her mind how this mission had seemed to affect him more than usual. It would mean that more time would pass before he'd return to his obedient self, but she made a note to watch out for aggressive behavioral changes. While acceptable with her, direct insubordination, violent behavior, and challenging authority would not be as easily accepted by others. She made a note to bring food to his quarters. Agents or not, men tended to act like moody teenagers they disagreed with something. Fury knew not to utilize Clint's skills for now unless it was required immediately. She'd only hope they reconciled before either of them had a mission.

By chance she convinced Clint to dress in civilian clothes and pack a duffel bag, which he puzzled obeyed and met her by the packing lot. She had donned casual clothes herself and flicked with a pair of Aviators by the time he got there, leaning against a Lamborghini sports car with an engine Barton would appreciate. The corner of his mouth twitched and a flash of dull excitement crossed his eyes, but she didn't get another reaction. It didn't disappoint her, seeing as she hadn't expected a reaction with a car, but she had to admit that it did send a thrill through her as she turned the key in the ignition and felt it purr.

They drove in silence, and it was only when she could not suppress her stifled yawns anymore that Clint offered to take over. He didn't ask where they were going, probably figured that it was the journey that mattered and not the destination, and seemed surprised when she told him to follow the interstate for the next three hours. When she woke, it was to a steady-handed partner whose arms leaned confidently and stretched on the steering wheel. It was progress, because he sent her something that resembled a smile instead of a frown that reminded her of his harsh words. He was regretting his actions but not forgiving them. And the recruits thought she was the complex one, she thought wryly and asked him to pull over at the next gas station, surprised when he told her he'd be fine.

When they finally arrived – having changed clothes at various gas station restrooms – Clint flipped off the Aviators, astounded, gawking before looking at her incredulously. "How?"

She shrugged, trying to make it seem casual as she smacked the door to the expensive car. "I…asked."

He sent her a look. "Asked? I know of your persuasion skills, but Stark hates you," he bluntly stated, back at slashing.

They made their way to the front door of the Malibu mansion and she returned the key to the Lamborghini in the locker. Really, Tony Stark was just as predictable as every other male when it came to his gadgets and fond toys. The Lamborghini hadn't been in his workshop and had been easily appropriated last time she'd been here. One would have thought Stark would have updated his security installments after having Phil Coulson override the Tower Defense, but few had the technology knowledge she possessed. The owner of the fancy Malibu mansion was currently in Shanghai with Miss Potts where he'd be until the end of this week.

Without its narcissistic occupant and the disabled artificial butler, the mansion seemed so empty that she could practically hear her duffel bag's thud echo throughout the rooms as it landed on the carpet. It was Clint's first time here, and while he rarely openly assessed rooms and surroundings, she suspected it was to avoid confrontation. She gave him the tour and showed him the guest rooms where they'd be staying. Sleeping anywhere near where Stark took his conquests to bed grossed her out, although she secretly knew that his womanizing tendencies had diminished since his emergence as Iron Man and the subsequent emotional infatuation with Pepper Potts (he was hardly to be blamed). She warned her partner to steer clear of Stark's workshop, uncertain of the security installments he'd made.

She had to admire the skyline of the Californian shore, especially as sundown passed into twilight. It was hard to list something that Stark didn't own or couldn't be found in J.A.R.V.I.S.' archives, so it was easy to avoid each other. She invited him to play a game of chess, but he declined, blaming poor patience although she knew he didn't mind waiting. She chose to leave him be, occasionally using the artificial intelligence's monitoring system to spy on his extracurricular activities. Like herself, he was unable to sleep for more than eight hours, even if the situation called for it or it was doable. Normally she slept for five hours, knowing he did the same with little variation. Insomnia was a frequent experience for agents such as themselves.

It was not until day three that he spoke to her rather than answer with simple replies. He stood in the threshold to her guest room, darkness encasing him, a blue glow from the bedpost lamp the only item of illumination in the room, having managed to stir her awake. She looked at him groggy-eyed and saw the conflict in his eyes.

"Clint? Are you okay?"

She attempted to sit, but was too entangled in the sheets of the far too clothed bed, instead padding the empty space next to her, maintaining eye contact because she was afraid that he'd retreat and go back to being angry with her if she didn't. The chill that had seemed to be there when she fell asleep was now replaced by the inexplicable warmth, even if she only wore a camisole and PJs. The mattress bumped as he sat down, looking down at his hands as if in shame.

"Clint?" she repeated, trying to anchor him. She had never been terrified of his physical responses – she knew how to defend herself and found the suggestion of him hurting her ridiculous – but she felt her heart expand as if worried he'd break. Was this how he felt? He looked so much more broken in the flickering light, yet she hesitated in flipping on the switch. She decided not to as his voice trembled.

"She told me she loved me," he said darkly and absentmindedly all the same. After momentary confusion, it occurred to her that he was talking about Evelyn. She listened, moving closer but not quite touching him until her forehead hesitantly leaned against his shoulder as if to say, 'I'm here.' His voice was rough as if he'd been drinking. "I knew it wasn't real, but, I wanted it to be. I lied to her, yet I wanted her to love me. How does that make me different from all the others?"

She knew what he meant by 'the others'. The bad guys, the enemy, the ones who hurt people and make things go bumpy in the night. Breathing on his skin, she closed her eyes. "That's all everyone want. Some people…" She paused. "Some people just want to deceive themselves and allow themselves to be deceived to have that illusion. It's powerful," she said sleepily, making sure he absorbed the words.

"Love can be addictive," he stated, sounding hopeless.

"That's why we learn to live without. We sacrifice it so others can have that illusion, or maybe even the real deal. She'll move on, eventually. She'll meet a man who makes her happy and makes her illusion come true until you'll be a nightmare. That's what we are," she replied hoarsely. "Nightmares. Nightmares that infect and cause hurt, but eventually help people."

He raised his eyes and looked into her for the first time in a week, and she watched that hopeless, hurt flash in his eyes slowly heal into acceptance. Tiredly, she padded the empty space next to her, mumbling words of comfort and sleep, allowing herself – only in his presence – to be put to sleep with a sort, grateful peck on her forehead.

The kiss had dried and she awoke when the window blinds in J.A.R.V.I.S.' absence was left inactive, thus sending a beam of sunlight straight into her face. She stirred slowly, wetting her lips as she tried to pinpoint what had woken her. Her limps felt tight like she'd fallen asleep on a rocky surface, but as she overcame these thoughts she began to listen to the soft tune filling the air.

She'd been a ballerina once, dancing to the music of an orchestra, so she easily recognized the tunes as that of a piano, but was unable to recall a room where she'd seen one, let alone someone who knew how to play it. She donned a new top and ran her hand through her unruly hair as she began to track down the origin of the music. There were too many rooms in the mansion, and while she thought she'd memorized the majority of them, she was mistaken. Her stomach growled by the time she froze in the threshold of an unfamiliar room.

It was furnished in a very un-Stark way. Calm, smooth, almost old-fashioned as something that would belong in a New York apartment living room. As with nearly all the rooms, it bordered man-sized windows that showed off the beautiful dawning sun on the surface of the ocean. Its carpet was unworn against her naked feet and columns of bookcases covered the walls. In the middle of it all stood a grand piano made from some solid wood, a mismatched stool by its side on which Clint sat, eyes closed, his scarred fingers creating a symphony that sounded like a mix between jazz, classical ballroom music and a lullaby. It had been awhile since she'd heard live music.

Still wary of his perception of her and her indifference, she trailed her index and middle fingers against the smooth wood, wondering why Stark would have such an old piece of furniture and instrument in an isolated corner of the mansion. Clint looked better, but there were still lines in his face that told her something was bothering him. She'd never live to understand him, but being able to find understanding in his features were perhaps the second-best thing she'd ever experience. It kept her grounded.

The music reminded her of something she'd thought lost, and she lost track of time and only noticed as it ceased and Clint shook her gently. She responded with a confused frown, not seeing explanation. "I'm sorry if I interrupted. Keep playing."

"Not if you're crying," he pointed out softly and raised his hand to wipe away a tear. She looked at it, surprise showing.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you played. Keep playing. It's beautiful," she insisted, unable to control her voice as it trembled. She composed herself, but he still looked at her.

"Tash, what does it remind you of?" he asked softly, friendly caring showing on his face.

She tried to search her mind for any mission significance but was unable to recall anything but the ceremonial evening of her wedding. The marriage itself was cause for analysis, a mixture of ups and downs and the bumpy road of deceit, but hearing it again brought back things she'd forgotten – things she'd been forced to forget.

How had it turned into her unraveling? "My wedding," she replied ghostly, swallowing with a slight tremor. "My first one."

"I'm sorry-."

"Don't be," she told him. "Could you play it again? You play it nicely."

He hesitated by followed through on her request, his archer's fingers finding the keys. She wondered where he'd learnt it. It seemed wrong to ask, which in itself seemed foolish because there weren't things to come between them, but she listened as he replayed the piece of music that sent a shiver through her. Times had changed; so had she. In another lifetime, she'd heard something similarly being played with Russian lyrics, and now it gave her comfort to be able to sit next to a person playing a slightly different version.

"What's it called?" she asked curiously.

He smiled in a way that seemed to be patented for his face and could be interpreted as a shy smirk. Slyly, he said: "'Nightmares'."

Reviews are greatly embraced and appreciated!

-Lea