"Hm. Smells like Budapest in here," Clint murmurs as he quietly enters her room. It is pitch black except for the candles in the windowsill next to her bed, which emit a soft yellow glow that softens Natasha's features as she stares back with less of a twinkle in her eye.
"It should. That's where I got the incense," she replies so softly that Clint has trouble hearing her.
He slowly approaches her huddled form that is in the corner of her well made bed and gently sits down next to her, a look of concern adorning his features. She seems out of sorts to him, too quiet, too reserved. He knows something is off. He also knows she won't tell him what without prompting.
He reaches out in the darkness to gently embrace her rigid form. He takes in the smell of her flaming locks as he holds her tightly, possessively, willing her to relax into him. She is to far gone into her own mind to notice his warm body engulfing her own, so he tries again, whispering "Nat?" into her ear.
She doesn't respond, so he begins, slightly louder this time "Natasha?" Still no reaction.
"Agent Romanoff?" He tries again, with a slight twinge of desperation in his voice. She swallows and blinks, but still no acknowledgment.
He was really getting worried now. He wasn't even sure why. She had ignored him plenty of times before, but still, there was something off about the situation, something he couldn't quite place a finger on.
"Buttercup?" He says finally, escaping his lips as though her were a lost sea, looking for his shore.
Buttercup was his nickname for her. He was the only one that could ever even attempt to call her that without getting their head bashed in with a swift boot to the face, and he relished in the fact that she trusted him like that.
She stirs at his pet name for her and slowly turns her head to look at him, still making no sound.
"Are you alright?" he continues, squeezing her around her shoulders urging her to talk to him, as well as a sign of comfort.
"'m fine" she slurs, returning her attention to the window.
He soon realizes that this will take some time. She's not just going to open up, he's going to have to crack her open himself. It won't be violent however. He needs her to be vulnerable. Right now she has shut down emotionally. He needs her to feel whatever is bothering her if he ever hopes to help her work through it.
He adjusts them so that they are both laying down with him half draped over her, holding her to his chest.
She redirects her attention towards the pillow in front of her face and speaks into it "What are you doing?"
"Holding you," he replies matter-of-factly.
"Why?" she responds after a moment.
"To protect you."
"I think I can protect myself."
"To comfort you."
"I already told you that I'm fine."
Clint thinks for a long moment. This last answer could either make her crack or make her crack his skull open. He was willing to take the chance if it meant making her feel better.
"To remind myself that you're real, that this is real, that you're still here, and you're still mine."
He'd never verbalized his claim of her before, though she knew it anyway. And he was hers in return.
He hears her inhale sharply as her shoulders go rigid in his arms.