"Don't worry, guys. He's gonna be fine." Bruce gave a reassuring smile to his comrades. Standing, he picked up a rag and cleaned Clint's blood off his hands.

The other four all visibly relaxed. Tony clapped Bruce on the shoulder. "Nicely done, Doctor. I knew you were the right man for the job."

Natasha gave a relieved sigh and finally came to a stop. The usually cool and collected Black Widow had been pacing anxiously for the past hour as Bruce tended to her partner.

The injured archer lay unconscious on the bed, his wounds freshly bandaged, his breathing labored but steady.

"How long before he wakes up?" Steve asked.

"It's hard to say," Bruce answered, glancing at the bed. "Should be pretty soon." He turned back to address Tony, Thor, and Steve. "But I think we should go. He might not like waking up to find everyone standing over him. Natasha can look after him."

With some reluctance, Thor and Steve nodded their agreement and followed Bruce out of the room. Tony stayed behind "just to talk to Romanoff for a second," which Natasha knew was his way of stalling in the hopes of being there when Clint came to. She couldn't really blame him, so she humored his ploy and let him stick around. They sat down in the chairs beside the bed, talking in low tones, and Tony asked her for details about what happened. Before now all he had gotten were the basics.

The mission had been a success at first. That morning, Strike Team Delta had been sent to South America to rescue a captured asset. The extraction went off without a hitch, but just after they had gotten the freed asset to safety, Clint and Natasha had been ambushed. It was ten against two. A few more attackers and it might have actually been a fair fight. The long-time partners had taken down their enemies with relative ease and quickness, but things went wrong when one of the dead guys had the audacity to not actually be dead. He used it to his advantage, catching them by surprise—which was no easy feat—and getting in a few well-placed stab wounds in Clint's torso before Natasha rectified the not-dead problem with a close-range bullet to the attacker's head.

Their enemies neutralized, they had made their way back to the Quinjet they had managed to camouflage in the thick jungle earlier that day. Once airborne, Natasha had radioed Avengers Tower to let the others know Clint had been injured. There wasn't really anything they could do, she just thought they would want to know.

"Are you taking him back to the helicarrier?" Tony's voice had crackled over the radio.

"Yeah,"

"Bring him here instead."

"Stark—"

"The helicarrier is halfway around the world right now," Tony had cut her off. "Banner can take care of him just as well as any of the S.H.I.E.L.D. medics. Probably better."

One glance at the half-conscious Clint groaning in pain in the copilot's seat was enough to convince Natasha that Tony was right. She pushed the Quinjet to its limit, making it to the Tower in record time.

Bruce had done an excellent job tending to him; now they just had to wait for Clint to wake up.

As Natasha finished filling Tony in on the details, a slight movement and a low groan from the bed drew their attention. Clint blinked his eyes open and glanced around in confusion at the familiar sight of his sleeping quarters. "Wha—?"

"Hey, hey!" Tony grinned. "Robin Hood's awake. Welcome back to the land of the living, pal."

Clint turned his head to look at them. "Tash? Stark?" he groaned again. "Where, uh...why'm I here?"

"It was closer than base," Natasha said, resting a hand gently on his arm.

"Yep," Tony nodded. "Brucie patched ya up—he says you'll be fine, by the way—and we figured your own bed would be more comfortable than those concrete slabs someone decided to call mattresses in the helicarrier's infirmary."

"No argument here," Clint mumbled. "I hate that infirmary."

"I think we all hate that infirmary," Tony said as he took a step toward the door. "Well, I've got things to do. Y'know, stuff to build, rules to break, the usual. I'm gonna let you get some rest. Get better soon, all right? We need ya out there, William Tell."

Clint smiled and watched him exit the room with that Stark-esque flourish that only Tony could pull off. Then they were alone. Natasha knelt beside the bed and their eyes met.

I'm glad you're all right.

Thanks for saving me.

You had me worried.

They never said any of these things anymore. They didn't need to. After so many years working together and getting injured and saving each others' lives on a regular basis, expressions of gratitude and relief became unnecessary. Now it was simply understood. One look between them was all that was needed to say everything it used to take words to convey.

"He's right," Natasha said softly. "You do need to rest."

"Sleep?" Clint shook his head, looking a little alarmed. "No, I don't want to sleep, Tasha."

"Clint—"

"You know what happens," he said. "Happens every time I'm hurt."

She nodded. "The nightmares come back,"

"Come back worse," Clint grimaced. "I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the adrenaline goin' through me. Maybe it's the pain meds. All I know is I don't wanna sleep. May not have much choice, though. Banner give me pain killers?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. I can feel 'em startin' to kick in," Clint could barely keep his eyes open.

"Don't fight it." Natasha murmured. "You need to sleep,"

"I know," he took her hand in his. "The nightmares are never as bad when you're near me. Will you stay with me?"

"Of course," she clasped his hand between both of hers, giving him the warm, reassuring smile that he knew well, the one that no one else would believe she was capable of giving. It was the last thing he saw before he finally drifted off to sleep.

As promised, Natasha stayed by his side, watching for the telltale signs of bad dreams. She knew them well—the way his face would twitch, the indistinct words he would mumble as he tossed and turned.

Afternoon wore into evening, and Clint slept quietly and peacefully, unbothered for once by the terrible things that often plagued his dreams.

Natasha leaned forward and laid her head on the pillow beside him, listening to his breathing close to her ear. In one graceful motion, she quietly slipped her lean frame from the chair onto the mattress, keeping the fingers of one hand interlocked with his and lightly draping her other arm across his shoulders. He stirred but did not wake, and shifted to his right side, instinctively turning towards her in his sleep.

She lay still for a while, content to stay beside her friend to help him keep his nightmares at bay. Then her eyes began to drift closed, and she tensed, wondering if she ought to get up before she fell asleep herself. If someone happened to walk into the room...she grimaced.

It wasn't like it was a new thing. They had slept together before. Not as in sex. As in, they had slept beside each other for various reasons. Sometimes they found themselves in close quarters and really had no choice. Other times they found it easier to stay hidden when they kept near each other. And sometimes sleeping together was a necessary means of warmth when they were faced with cold nights and threadbare blankets. Altogether, Natasha had lost count of how many times she and Clint had fallen asleep in each others' arms. She kept telling herself it meant nothing. It was simply the practical thing to do in certain situations.

And yet...

And yet she couldn't help but feel a little flutter every time she realized they would need to sleep together. Her heart always skipped a beat when she lay down beside him and they settled in for the night, her head against his chest, his well-muscled arms holding her close, the rhythm of his breathing more soothing than the lullabies she remembered hearing as a very small child, before she was swept up into this crazy world of spies and assassins at such a young age.

She tried to ignore the flutters. She tried to tell herself they were just a product of nervousness, anticipation of the dawn and the dangers that would await them when the sun rose and their mission continued. But the harder she tried to deny it, the stronger her feelings seemed to become.

Is this love, Agent Romanoff? Loki had asked her mockingly.

Love is for children. She had coldly replied.

Was it possible she was wrong? Or was it something else? Maybe love really was for children, because maybe it took a child's innocence to fully embrace the idea of giving yourself wholly over to another person, to trust them with everything you have and everything you are. Maybe it was just possible that Clint was the one person in all the world who could look inside her and find that innocent child that she never got the chance to be.

She lay there, pondering these things, when she suddenly felt Clint's muscles tense up. His pulse quickened and he emitted a low grunt. Natasha looked up and saw him flinch in his sleep. He was dreaming, and it was clearly something unpleasant.

Natasha tightened her grip on his hand and rubbed her other palm over his shoulder soothingly. The result was immediate. He reflexively pressed himself closer to her and took a deep, shaking breath. Then his heartbeat slowed, his breathing evened out, and his whole body relaxed. Natasha smiled, pleased to see that the nightmares that had tried to invade his slumber were gone for now.

When Bruce came in to check on Clint later that evening, he couldn't help but smile when he found Natasha lying beside the archer, the two spies asleep in each other's arms.