5:41 am.
It was the chirp of a bird that woke Clint Barton up, the sound of the first bird's lonely song. Even when joined by a flurry of melodies, each harmonizing in an unearthly way, it was that one tiny chirp that unnerved him.
Perhaps it was due to the fact that it was more high-pitched, or louder than the others. Perhaps it was because it was the first birdsong he had heard since he arrived from New York. After all that had happened, the birds sounded familiar and the same, and he was irreversibly and undeniably changed.
His insomnia had become harder to deal with; the lack of sleep was taking a toll on him, and whenever his eyes were shut, they were plagued by nightmares.
There were nightmares.
Nightmares where he wasn't in control of his body,
When he was hurting her,
And when he was too late.
He was always too late to save her.
Then again, he was the one who had hurt her in the first place.
He was up, sitting on the bed, looking around the dimly lit room, sweating and breathing heavily. On impulse, his head turned, looking at the bed next to his own, feeling his own heartbeat slow down. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least she was still there. She was asleep; body sprawled across the bed with her fiery locks fanning out behind her, oblivious to his searching gaze.
Swinging his legs off the bed, feeling the sore muscles protest against his movement. It was nothing unusual, he often went on missions for S.H.I.E.L.D. and he had often returned with many more injuries than this.
Returning after saving the world from a man that knew his every vulnerability as well as someone who had controlled his mind was a first, he chuckled humorlessly.
He sat on the ledge of the balcony railing, musing to himself. A week ago, he didn't even know if he was to survive. A week ago, they had been fighting alongside the Avengers. Even after the battle, they had just eaten, however awkward the affair was, and bid each other farewell.
He groaned, escaping from memory lane. Just a few days ago, he would've killed her. He was close to it too, fighting his partner on the airship, about to kill the one person that mattered to him. Luckily, she always had a trick under her sleeve. He smiled at the thought.
"Can't sleep?" a voice shook him out of his thoughts. He turned around to see the young woman standing there. She pulled out a chair, dragging it from the coffee table and sat down next to him, looking at him attentively.
"Um..." he mumbled before clearing his throat. He stepped down from the railing to sit on the ground instead. "Nightmares," he replied sheepishly.
"About?" she questioned, her vibrant eyes never leaving his.
"New York," he murmured, staring at the ground. It was like their little code. All their memories of missions were named by the city they were in. "Natasha, eventually you'll have to tell me what happened there. I'm not an idiot."
"Loki took over your mind, so it's not your fault," she said fiercely.
He visibly flinched, searching her gaze before touching the newly formed bruise on her cheek. "I did that, didn't I?" he sighed, looking away. "I hurt you," He shrunk back from her, turning towards the scenery instead.
Natasha forced herself not to wince. Seeing him this way was worse than the battle himself. She wasn't trained to deal with emotions.
"No more than you're hurting me now, Clint, to see you like this," she replied softly before getting up and heading into the hotel room. He sighed, not knowing whether to follow her or stay out of it.
Perhaps their relationship had changed as well. It was no longer a simple partnership, or even friendship, and it was taking a toll on both of them.
"We're leaving tomorrow," Natasha confirmed immediately as he arrived back into the room. Dinner had been an awkward affair, even more so than Shwarma with the rest of the team. In fact, the whole day was spent avoiding each other. "They've sent us a plane to take us to either Stark Tower or our own apartments at S.H.I.E.L.D. They want us to stay together just in case."
"Alright," he answered her pointed look before heading to his own bed. Perhaps he could get a little sleep.
Natasha watched him as he crawled under his covers. His soon steady breathing meant he was finally sleeping, and she took out a book to read. It wasn't late, and she wanted to be there if he did have a nightmare. Perhaps it would be best if she were there to help. She grabbed a book and crawled into her bed to enjoy a story.
His body was twisted around; his labored breathing and retching hands grasping the bed sheets. It was always the same nightmare. He would see himself, bow and arrow strung, ready to-
"Clint, wake up!" someone was shaking his arm, the soft voice breaking the twisted nightmare apart.
Breathing heavily and sweating profusely, his eyes scanned the room wildly before settling on her. His breathing had slowed down considerably before she spoke.
"What was it about this time? If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to," she asked gently.
"It was about," he rasped in a voice he didn't recognize. He cleared his throat before continuing. "I thought I lost you," he mumbled. "I was hurting you!" his voice escalating in volume. He turned away. "In the end, I was too late to save you. I'm so sorry," he groaned, a lone tear sliding down his cheek.
"It's only a dream, don't worry about it," she sighed, never losing her calm facade. In reality though, his words had shaken her more than it should.
"Not until I make him kill you! Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear! And when he wakes, he'll have just enough time to see the work he's done, and when he screams, I'll break his skull!" they were the words she truly feared. She quickly wrapped him in an embrace, much closer than she had ever been to any man.
Laying him down once more, she murmured reassurances in his ear and kept her vigil next to him.
"Don't leave me," he mumbled sleepily.
"Don't worry, I won't," she gave him a small smile. As he fell asleep, she pressed her lips to his cheek before returning to her bed, switching between her vigil and the story she had been absorbing.
"Why did you stay with me?" he asked. Three months prior, they had been fighting for their lives, and finally, the nightmares were starting to fade away. There were, of course, days where it was worse, but with Agent Romanov with him, things seemed less frightening.
"I owed you a debt," she replied simply, giving him a rare smile, "and I don't leave debts unpaid."
[he didn't know it was her way of telling him that she truly and irreversibly cared about him.]
