Here is an extremely angsty Clintasha story! PLEASE review. Let me know if it stinks or not.
He slammed into the apartment long after midnight, shutting the door in his teammates' faces. She heard the locks click home as he rested his forehead against the heavy wood. She couldn't hear them pleading with him anymore; only a muffled hum bled through the thick door.
She sighed. He had been doing so well. She had hoped that maybe, just maybe, he had started down the road to healing. Judging from the lines in his face, the exhaustion and pain pulling him down, she had been wrong.
Clint pried himself off the door and dragged himself to the tiny kitchen. The bottle of bourbon came out from under the cabinet, two glasses from the cupboard just above the stove. He ignored the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink and the layer of dust coating everything and slumped down at the table, just as he had every night for exactly three months, four weeks, and six days.
Prying the lid off the bourbon, he poured two shots. His hands shook so badly half of it sloshed out, but if he didn't notice. If he did, he didn't care. She leaned against the cabinet, watching, arms crossed and heart heavy. It hurt her so badly to see him like this. It hurt even worse to know that she couldn't do anything to help him out of the depression he'd fallen into.
"I miss you," he said into his drink. "I miss you, Tasha."
And when his shoulders began to shake with sobs, she could only stand behind him and wish she could cry too. He drew in a shuddering breath and poured himself another drink. "I miss you so damn much," he muttered, and downed it in one gulp.
Dawn found him slumped over on the table, head pillowed on his arms. One glass was empty, and so was most of the bottle. The other glass remained on her side of the table, untouched.
Someone, Tony she thought, finally succeeded in picking all the locks on the door. It swung open and five concerned people filed in. Steve was the first to break the silence. "Jesus, Clint."
Bruce picked up the nearly-empty bourbon bottle. They all saw the untouched second glass, and they all knew it was for her. They also knew she'd never drink it.
She sat in the chair across from him and watched as Pepper wiped away her tears. Tony and Steve helped him up from the chair, each of them taking a side. Slowly, they walked him out of the apartment, ignoring his hung-over, exhausted calls for Tasha.
She remained at the table long after silence descended, forcing herself not to go after them. It wasn't her job to look after him anymore. She would have to trust them to do it.
But late that night, when he didn't come back, she gave herself permission to leave. Down the silent corridor, whispering down the stairs, arriving at the place she knew he would be.
And he was. Sound asleep and freshly-clean, and for the first time in weeks she couldn't smell the whiskey clinging to him like a funeral shroud. He looked so small, there in the middle of Tony and Pepper's big bed. They took care of him for her now.
Sadness swept through her in a quiet wave. He didn't need her anymore. Her presence was only weighing him down, tying him to his grief. Holding him back.
She needed to accept that it was time for her to go.
Moonlight sparkled on the floor and landed on his face, enhancing the furrows time and sorrow had carved out on his skin. "Goodbye, Clint," she whispered, her voice settling on the room like a faint hint of dust. "It's okay to forget me. But I'll always love you. Always remember."
She reached down and touched his face, but her fingers faded through his cheek without being warmed by his skin. He shivered a little, shifting over on his other side. His breath hitched slightly, and she withdrew her hand slowly.
As long as she stayed, he couldn't heal.
She passed back through the apartment, drifting through like a cool breeze. Pepper and Tony were washing dishes, Bruce was picking up dirty clothes, and Steve was flushing all the whiskey and bourbon down the toilet. He looked up as she passed, and she could swear he'd seen her. She held his blue gaze, watched as he frowned, searching, then turned back to his task with a small shake of his head. She moved on, the drapes bearing witness to her passage with only the slightest of movements.
Natasha Romanoff disappeared into the winter night with the bittersweet knowledge that Clint would be just fine - his family would see to that.
