(Crap! Updated some things and accidentally uploaded the wrong story! Sorry, y'all!)
Comfort
by MillyVeil
"Barton."
Loki's voice slither through Clint's mind, and the fear is so bright it burns. He sees himself raise his bow.
No. Not this. Please, not this.
"Barton."
He aims.
"Clint, wake up."
The pitch and cadence shifts from Loki's into Natasha's, and with a jarring mental thud he's dropped back in the room they had commandeered in the SHIELD barracks. His heart is pounding in his chest. Blinking at the darkness above him he tries to breathe past the crushing tightness inside. He doesn't dare speak, doesn't dare move, too afraid he'll find he can't.
"Hey." From the corner of his eye he sees Natasha kneeling next to his bed, an inky shadow against the darkness of the small room. "You with me?"
He swallows drily. Is he? He doesn't know.
Minute muscle tremors are starting up, fallout from the massive surge of adrenaline that is still banging against every cell of his body. He realizes Natasha is patiently waiting for an answer, so he convinces his body to try to nod and feels sick with relief when he can. She seems satisfied with his soundless answer, because she nods in return and gets to her feet. But she doesn't head back to her own bed, just motions for at him to move over so she can slip in next to him.
She settles on her side, close but not touching, and Clint lasts about five seconds, five suffocating seconds before he closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around her. Her hand slides around to his back, and he presses himself against her. If he wasn't so scared, so utterly fucking terrified he would cringe at the noises that escape him.
In his dream he'd been back on the helicarrier with Loki again, doing the bastard's bidding, and Clint cries into Natasha's soft t-shirt. He cries for the people he knew, the people who trusted him, whose deaths had filled him with terrible satisfaction and pride, because he knew Loki would be pleased with him.
It's an exhausting thing, wading through the guilt and pain that have slipped the containment he has so carefully constructed. Natasha has seen him fall apart before and he knows she doesn't think less of him for it, but even as he holds on to her, a part of him still cowers at being this exposed and wants nothing more than to disappear into small, dark spaces and never come out again.
It's not quick, and it's not pretty, but eventually it burns itself out.
It takes a while for the tears to taper out completely, longer for his breath to stop hitching so badly.
The room eventually goes silent.
Natasha doesn't ask what the nightmare was about. She knows. She's well aware how his actions haunt his sleep, how Coulson's death - that Clint never actually witnessed - plays out in ultra HD detail before him. But there are other dreams that he doesn't tell her about. In one he kills her on that catwalk, buries his knife to the hilt below her ribs and she looks at him with surprise on her face before he twists the blade and she drops at his feet. In another he goes to her, but she turns a flat, cold look on him and leaves. Leaves him behind. She doesn't tell him why. She doesn't have to. His throat closes up and fuck it if he doesn't break into jagged little pieces all over again. She tightens her grip around him and holds him through this too, steadfast and grounding and there. Still there.
It's no less rough this time around, but he's just plain exhausted and it passes faster.
Christ, he feels wrecked. He lies there, eyes closed and listens to the hum of the base around him. Air hisses through the vents, the muffled sound of boots and hushed nighttime voices bleed through the door. He eventually manages to loosen his grip on Natasha a little, but he doesn't move. He recognizes the bubble of disconnect that is settling over him. Everything is starting to feel distant and unimportant. It's the one good thing about falling apart like this, this temporary respite before his brain reboots.
Natasha's chest rises and falls steadily as the minutes tick by. If he didn't know her so well, he would think she's fallen asleep. Eventually the chill of the room is getting uncomfortable, and his sweaty t-shirt isn't helping. Natasha shifts under him. She always seems to know when he's coming back to himself. He wipes at his face before rolling over stiffly and sitting up. His body feels heavy, like gravity's been turned up. His shirt clings to his clammy skin as he tugs it off and scrubs it over his face before balling it up and tossing it on the floor. With a groan he climbs over Natasha and pads across the cold floor for a dry one.
She scoots in towards the wall when he sits down on the edge of the bed again. He rests his elbows on his knees and lowers his head. "Fuck my life," he sighs.
"Come here." She tugs him back down and he goes without resistance. She pushes his hair back from his forehead and he closes his eyes and leans into her touch. "It's okay," she murmurs. "You're okay."
It's a lie, and they both know it.
~ The End ~