There is something behind her.
Pit, pat, pit, pat…
She stops walking.
Pit.
That...is not her footstep.
Natasha holds her hands together in front of her, wringing them nervously. She inhales slowly, the uncertain trembling of her body shaking the oxygen entering her lungs. The breath she releases sounds just as anxious as the one she took in.
It is behind her.
It is going to get her.
She takes three steps.
(But she hears four.)
She won't turn around.
She can't turn around.
It is there and it will get her if she does.
"Who...who is there?" Natasha calls out quietly, her voice betraying her emotion. She sounds sad, so very sad, and scared. The same shakiness that had seized her breathing moments before now grasps her words, revealing to the air around her that she is very scared.
A chill travels down her spine, yet Natasha's hands feel uncomfortably warm. She wrings them harder, trying to subdue them.
(Get off, get off, get off, she cries silently to the bloodstains.)
For a few moments, there is no response to her call; surely, though, if there is someone behind her, wouldn't they reply? What if no one is there?
Natasha isn't sure which scenario is worse: the presence of someone behind her or the lack thereof. The former implies she isn't safe, she is in danger, she needs to defend herself; the latter disrupts her credibility, proves her senses to be inaccurate, indicates that she is troubled.
"Who are you?" Natasha says, her voice higher in volume and desperation. She closes her eyes tightly, blocking out the sight of the dark hallway's walls surrounding her. The floor (snow?) suddenly feels chillier under her bare toes, prompting her to wiggle them to ensure they still work. If her body is so cold...why are her hands so maliciously warm? Why is her sin her only comfort and protection from freezing? She releases another trembling breath. "What do you want?"
The ensuing silence fills the air around her, passing her skin like a winter breeze. She shivers, cracking her eyes open.
Then she hears it.
A sharp intake of breath.
The presence behind her breathes in, as if readying their lungs to form words on their lips and respond to Natasha. They're there, someone is there.
Someone is there and they have come to take her back.
"JARVIS," she suddenly murmurs, finding the strength to call for help, "please...scan for organisms, any living things, in this hall."
A strand of hair falls into her eyes, the red curling teasingly against her skin. She wonders if it is mocking her or trying to protect her from what she doesn't want to see.
"Yes, Agent Romanoff."
Natasha nods stiffly, biting her lip as JARVIS begins his scan. There is someone there, behind her, there just has to be. Someone is there, someone is there, someone is there, someone is there…
"My scan is complete."
Someone is there.
"I have found no other living creatures besides yourself in this hallway."
Someone is…someone...isn't…? No, that's not right…That can't be!
"Agent Romanoff, I have detected your heart rate is elevated."
"Scan again," Natasha whispers.
"Your presence is the only one in this hallway."
Natasha shakes her head, closing her eyes once more. "Scan again."
"Agent Romanoff, you appear agitated. Shall I contact Agent Barton?"
"Scan again, scan again," Natasha repeats the mantra, struggling to catch her breath. It is there, she can feel it. Someone is there. She isn't alone. Something is behind her. Someone is there.
"No matter how many times I scan the area, Agent Romanoff, the result will remain the same."
Natasha hears distant laughter. Who is it? Who is benefiting from her misery? (Many people can, she bitterly thinks to herself.) Someone is there, and someone is enjoying watching her suffer.
"I am contacting Agent Barton; he should be here shortly."
Clint can't fix this, her fear blindly insists. Clint doesn't understand. Nobody understands.
She debates turning around once more, trying to identify he or she who is following her: the person whose steps do not match up perfectly with hers.
Testing it once more, she takes two steps.
Behind her, three steps are taken simultaneously to hers, the final step echoing in solitude through the hall.
She is Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and Avenger. Fearlessness is a necessity in her line of work, and she's faced many situations before that have left her shuddering with terror. Walking through the hallway from her bedroom to the kitchen in the middle of the night for a glass of water cannot be one of those situations.
So she reaches into the waistband of her pajama pants - colored red and patterned with black cats, as a birthday present from Tony the year before - and pulls out her baton, activating its electroshock function.
She turns.
(Nothing is there.)
She cries out, swinging the baton left, right, up, down, forward, down, left, right, up…
(But nothing is there.)
Someone is there. Natasha knows it. They'd inhaled when she'd spoken, revealing just a hint of their voice.
Young and female, Natasha identifies it. Familiar.
At the very least, Natasha knows she must have injured the enemy with her high velocity assault. She slowly stops swinging her baton around, letting its blue light calmly illuminate the vacant (but filled) space before her. Though her eyesight, limited by human nature, fails to detect the presence before her, she knows it's there.
Someone is there.
(But nobody is.)
Finally, she collapses.
Her knees hit the ground first, her baton clacking against the ground beside her feet soon after. Tears stab her eyes and the air grows thin, her breath coming and going in inconsistent bursts. Her hands find her head, her fingers burrowing through her fiery curls to press into her scalp. She is surrounded. They are all here.
She allows a sob to escape her mouth, feeling a single tear vacate her left eye and escape down her cheek, leaving a wet trail to remind her of her weakness. The tear stops at her upper lip and dangles over the edge, then falls to the ground, just like her knees and baton moments prior.
Then there are other footsteps. She flinches at the sound, her body withdrawing closer in itself.
"Natasha," a voice accompanying the sound says. It is a voice she recognizes clearly, unlike the person behind her earlier.
(Who has followed her since she was nine and committed her first sin, and will, no doubt, continue to follow her for the rest of her life.)
"It's me, Clint."
The voice draws closer, but still maintains a sense of distance. Unlike before, Natasha does not need to turn around nor ask JARVIS to scan the area for her to identify him. Something deep within her manages to crawl to the surface, painting a small, relieved smile on her face at the sound of her most trusted companion.
(And, on nights like these, he is something akin to her savior and protector.)
Clint finally stops at least a foot away from her, as if waiting for her permission to come closer. She feels herself nodding, attributing the action to the same part of her who smiled when Clint came. He moves closer, now standing above her. She wipes at her wet eyes, looking straight ahead, out into the dark hallway.
He must have followed her gaze, as he then directs his voice upward. "JARVIS, please turn the lights on."
JARVIS complies, and the whole hallway is swallowed, cleansed, in a blindingly white light. Natasha looks up at the light hanging from the ceiling, then at the still-crackling baton on the floor beside her.
Clint moves quickly, grabbing the baton and turning it off. He sighs, stepping around her and crouching down in front of her. Natasha blinks, simply staring at him.
"Hey," he greets calmly, setting the black baton down on the floor between them. Natasha identifies it as a sign of trust, both for her sake and his; he trusts her not to attack him with it, yet also calls for her trust in him as an ally in his willingness to return her weapon to her. She smiles a little again.
"JARVIS called me," he says next, his eyes stormier than usual. Natasha wonders if she's the reason why. (Of course you are, the logical part of her, who'd responded positively to Clint's presence, cries out, he cares about you, almost as much as you care about him.) "He said you were upset."
Natasha looks down at her hands, which lay limp in her lap. She registers her legs folded beneath her in her seated position and wiggles her toes once more, just for good measure. Still not frozen. "There was…"
Her words are soft and slurred, her anxiety spilling over into them. Clint seems to understand, as he nods, and raises a hand toward her face. She looks at his hand, but makes no protest; he finishes the gesture, resting his hand against her cheek and softly brushing away a stray tear on her cheek with his thumb.
His hands aren't even that soft. Because he frequents a bow and arrow and has a history of farming and outdoors work in general, his skin is rough from the experience. This gives Clint's hands a character and personality of their own, which comforts Natasha further. Clint retracts his hand.
"Who was it this time?" Clint asks, because he knows. Of course he knows. Despite the many years Natasha grew up and lived apart from Clint before meeting him, her memory often falters in recalling that time; she has difficulty recalling a time before Clint Barton and S.H.I.E.L.D. (She likes it that way.)
So, naturally, he knows.
"The first one," Natasha answers numbly, exhaustion suddenly weighing down her body. She distantly remembers that it is somewhere around two in the morning. "The first girl, when I was nine."
She doesn't remember her name, but Clint knows this as well. After all, of the many shadows following Natasha, this is the one who has haunted her the longest; the extra footstep has accompanied her every single day since she was nine years old.
Strangely, with Clint by her side and the hallway lit up completely, the fog preventing Natasha from seeing and thinking clearly before has been lifted. Though she still feels weary, she can identify her attacker of the night.
Clint stretches his neck then, looking over and around Natasha's head with a very serious expression. His eyes are narrowed and calculating, scanning the area directly behind Natasha.
(Whenever Natasha mentions Clint having her back to other agents or friends, they simply think of it in terms of in the field, during missions; while that is true, Natasha is really thinking of these silent moments with Clint when she praises his dependability.)
"She's not here anymore," Clint decides. It isn't an observation or question, just a straight fact that Clint decides is true. While Natasha may scoff at Clint for such arrogance in a normal setting, she has found herself grasping it for hope during these more pressing moments. So she nods, leaning a little closer to Clint.
"Can you…?" her voice trails off, but he nods quickly. This is their routine.
She stands up and turns away from him. He watches, saying nothing.
Natasha utilizes the moment to reorient herself and her senses, taking a few deep breaths. The icy hand that had choked her breathing before has vanished, and she is left steady and strong. Her hands remain proudly at her sides as she glances around her. She nods. "I'm good."
So Clint stands up behind her, holding her baton. He clears his throat. "Where do you want to go?"
"Bed," she answers, taking three steps forward.
Pit, pat, pit.
She only hears three this time.
"These are my steps," Clint announces after a moment, taking three clumsily loud steps behind her to alert all her senses of his presence.
Her bedroom is in the opposite direction as she is faced, so she turns quickly and crosses beside Clint. She walks back down the hallway toward her room, Clint practically stumbling behind her.
(It's a miracle he doesn't trip in his over-compensation.)
The floor and air are warm once more, her hands returning to a normal, steady temperature. She thinks of her funny (and somewhat cute) pajama pants from Tony and smirks to herself. Her hands brush against the fleece when she walks. The length is ridiculous (or maybe it's her short height), as her toes just poke out from the bottom of each leg.
Clint also notices this. "You know, you might just trip over your own two feet if you don't get those pants hemmed," he calls out teasingly from behind her.
"No, I won't," Natasha decides, channeling the same confidence she'd seen Clint display minutes earlier.
By then, they have reached her dark bedroom. Clint follows her in, closes the door behind him, and places her baton back in its place beside her bed. Natasha turns on the lamp sitting on top of her nightstand, knowing the light would loyally keep her company through the rest of the night.
And Clint assigns himself that job, too. He sits down on the side of the bed as she slides under the covers. His eyes meet hers and he sends her a reassuring grin.
"Thank you," Natasha says softly, trying to convey honesty and gratitude in her gaze. She grasps his left hand in both of her hands, gently covering it. "Really. Otherwise…"
"Otherwise," Clint repeats with a shrug, because he knows what that means. Otherwise, Natasha could have spent the rest of the night standing alone in that hallway, her mind slowly crumbling under the pressure of death walking behind her. Clint's expression reflects the same patience he's offered her throughout this whole (yet brief) encounter. "Can I get in?"
Natasha nods, pulling back the covers so he can enter the warm, safe space with her. He carefully maneuvers one-handed, allowing Natasha to retain custody of his left appendage as he pulls the blankets back over him.
"You sleep first," he tells her. "I'll keep an eye out."
(He always takes the first watch.)
She smiles softly, cradling his hand between them.
There are no more footsteps or unknown breaths taken behind her for the rest of the night.
A/N: I know that Romanogers is usually my thing, but I do really love Clintasha as well. I figured that Natasha would have a lot of mental demons following her from her life before S.H.I.E.L.D. (maybe some even after that as well), so I tried to explore that here, as well as the fact that her close relationship with Clint (romantic of platonic, it's up to you) is one of the things that really grounds her during dark moments.