Disclaimer: Marvel's Avengers do not belong to me. This is my first fanfic, I appreciate all constructive criticism. Enjoy! Update: Revised a ton of this. Hopefully it's less cliche than I thought it was when I reread it.
Natasha loves watching him sleep. Because sleep is when his walls are easily brushed aside, when his face softens, that's what she loves to see. But there are the nightmares that come more often than that, it's also why she hates to watch him sleep. It's what he would've laughed at and told her that she was being weird and wonderful and silly. She would've laughed along, because he can always make her laugh and also, she really doesn't want to worry him. She wishes she could stop the nightmares, wishes that they were real so she could kill and stick them in a hole six feet under. But she can't.
She can only stand by her partner and watch. She hates feeling so helpless, unable to to help him. She hates this useless, helpless feeling. All her life, she's been taking matters into her own hands, destabilizing countries, playing the Great Game. But now...
Her own nightmares always come as soon as her eyes close. She dreams about the Red Room. Sometimes Clint. Needles. Betrayal. Burning alive.
She really sleeps only the hour or so before the screaming starts. The dark bruises that mar the skin beneath her eyes are identical to Clint's. It's a little bit easier to stay awake, but it hurts, still. Every morning, after a long night of doing whatever it is spies do, she slips into his apartment and leads him into the bathroom to dab some stage paint under their eyes. When others look at them oddly, they laugh, because it holds them together, but in some small part of their brain, they know this mad laughter won't hold them together forever. They know that they'll unravel soon. And they do. They start making mistakes on their missions. Very small ones. She snaps her ankle in Bucharest. The Yakuza has a clear picture of him now. And the Irish Mafia have a pretty decent description of bot of them. But she's just so tired. And so is he.
Fury calls them to his office. His words flow together in one endless stream of sound, until the resort to kicking each other under the table and flicking paper airplanes. "I'm serious," Fury says, looking very serious indeed and sets two bottles of pills on the table. "To help you cope." They look at each other with raised eyebrows. Bet I can take more at once than you. Yeah, but how'd he know about...? He's Fury, get over it. Wait. Know about what? Never mind...
That night, they sit on his couch and stare at the pills they've placed between them.
"Ladies first."
"Age before beauty."
"Pearl before swine."
"Swine? Swine?" Natasha grins easily now that she's alone with him. "Well, then. Shit before shovel."
Clint wrinkles his nose at her meaningfully and pops a candy-coloured pill into his mouth, grimacing slightly.
"Well?" She cocks an eyebrow.
"Tastes like licorice." he mutters tossing back a swig of water.
She nods and swallows a pill herself. It does taste odd. Then they retreat to the various corners of his apartment to sleep off the pill. It doesn't really help. The only difference is the difficulty in waking up and by default, the prolonged nightmare. Also, it makes her feel like she has a hangover the next morning. She retches onto the stove after a glass of orange juice. He helps her to the bathroom and holds her hair back as she completely empties her stomach in the toilet.
"Sorry." She mumbles when she notices the specks of sour smelling vomit on his shirt. He squeezes her arm gently to forgive her? To reassure her? Whatever. They clean up the mess together, silently.
One night, she can't take it anymore, so she leaps from rooftop to rooftop, catlike, until she reaches Clint's apartment. It's snugly nestled above a Chinese takeout, and between two nosy old ladies, one with too many cats and the other with too many snow globes. She enters through a window, sliding in carefully so as not to disturb him. She pads silently through the hallway, fingertips brushing against the walls and guiding herself around the general clutter of his home. Natasha gets closer to the heavy breathing coming from the tangled heap of sheets on his bed and as she approaches, the shape rolls over, blankets sliding off.
"Nat?"
She shushes him and clambers in by his side as he wraps his arms around her.
I'm never leaving you as long as you never leave me.
Slowly, they slip into an astonishingly peaceful sleep, as they lie side by side, limbs tangled together, fingers curled into hair and wrapped around bodies, they breathe together, as one, as they sleep through the night. They don't need words, just this temporary silence, no, peace. This togetherness. And they'll damn well fight to make it last.