AN: "You can't patch a wounded soul with a band aid." - Michael Connelly
Not Alone
Perched on the edge of the rooftop, Clint Barton watched the movement on the city streets far below him. Air currents moved against his skin as he leaned forward, staring down past his bare feet to the asphalt beneath him. So far, but would it be far enough? Throwing back his head, he took another swallow of the bottle of bourbon that he had brought out with him, the liquor burned his throat and warmed his insides. It did nothing to alleviate the chill that had settled around his heart.
Lately he watched the world with half-hearted interest, standing among the people with whom he shared his life and yet also standing apart from them. He had no place here, not any more. He hadn't really felt like he belonged here since the events that had changed their lives six months ago. While the others moved forward, taking on new projects and throwing themselves into the restoration of New York City - which he gave every outward indication he was also doing - the insanity and desperation of those days still resonated painfully within him.
Sleep eluded him even now, the dark hours had long since become a battlefield for him. He still couldn't close his eyes without seeing the faces of those he harmed, so many lights snuffed out, so many innocents burned away in pursuit of a mission that wasn't even his own. Sometimes in the dark hours of the night, when silence and shadow crept through the building, he could still feel the old dread in his bones.
Sometimes he just couldn't shake the feeling that his fate was waiting for him, that his next breath could be his last. In his darker moments he feels it in the darkest reaches of his mind and the very foundations of his soul. There is no mystery any more; in those moments he knows the face of his executioner, knows that one day he will return and finish what he started.
As he considered the magnitude of the lies that make up his current existence, Barton wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth on the ledge. He lets the others believe that he's okay. He tells them all that those days under Loki's control are a blur. He lies.
He'd never told any of them the truth, not even Natasha.
The memories weren't there to begin with but now, now they are clear as crystal, refracting in the confines of his mind until they are all he sees, all he knows. Coulson's death haunts his every breath. They might have won the battle for New York, but in the fight for his mind and his sanity, he thinks Loki won the war.
He laughed, a sharp and desperate sound, as the tears he had held back finally escaped to roll down his cheeks. As those tiny droplets of self hate tumbled through the air below, he wished that he had the strength to follow them. He wans't strong enough to end his own life, wasn't strong enough to live it either. Caught in a hell that he can see no way out of, twisting and turning in memories that burn and leave him bleeding, he waited for someone to give him the push that he needed.
Was it selfish if the only way he could see to save the people he loved was to remove himself permanently from their lives? He didn't think so. Were Loki to return, Clint knew that he would be made to kill everyone who slept in the building below him. He knew that he would be made to carry the memories of those actions because he carried the memories of those that had come before. He couldn't go through it again. It would be far easier for all of them if he removed the possibility of that ever happening entirely.
The sound of the sliding door and stealthy footsteps behind him announced the arrival of another. He didn't need to turn to know about who was intruding on his solitude, she was the only person who could creep up on him. Natasha always knew exactly where to find him, he had no idea how she managed it, but she always knew.
She stopped and leaned against the railing a few feet away, deliberately giving him space but letting her presence calm the racing of his thoughts. They didn't crowd one another, that course of action led to angry words that couldn't always be taken back when the dust settled. She would wait him out, give him time.
Seconds stretched into minutes, both of them maintaining the silence. Finally she shifted her position and turned her face up towards the night sky as if she were studying the stars. "None of this was your fault," she exclaimed quietly.
It was obvious that she meant to offer him comfort but the words seared through him, threatening to shatter what he had been trying so hard all night to hold on to.
"Don't!" he interrupted sharply, slamming down the whiskey bottle and feeling the glass fracture under the weight of the impact. It was too close to a metaphor; his mind was fragile and damaged too, filled with words and thoughts that could spill out and stain everything if it took just one more hit. Lifting the now leaking bottle, he took another long pull from the neck and swallowed, needing the courage that it gave him, needing the warmth. He took a deep breath, drawing in the cold air to steady himself. "Please don't," calmer this time, softer, as he pleaded with her to understand why he couldn't hear the words she wanted to give him without breaking.
"Then talk to me," she replied, careful to keep her voice neutral. "You're up here almost every night ..."
"I can't sleep Tasha," he replied, forcing the words out, already wondering if she would think less of him for the admission that was about to escape his lips, " it's there every time I close my eyes."
He chanced a glance up at her, half expecting to see surprise on her face. There was nothing of the sort there, no obvious reaction for him to pull apart and torment himself with. The harsh scent of liquor filled the air as the contents of the bottle continued to bleed out over his fingers, over the edge of the roof, and down to the ground.
Natasha's eyes were understanding when she turned to look down at him, and he knew - much to his shame - that in his reaction she had seen way more than he had wanted her to. She moved closer and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, allowing him to lean his body into hers. Nothing was said out loud but Clint knew where they were at. They stayed like that for a moment, his head resting against her thigh, her hand on his shoulder, both of them giving and receiving comfort from the other.
Who could possibly understand his suffering better than the flame haired assassin at his side? Nobody. As long as he had known her she had been living with the memories of actions that she could not undo. He had asked her once, in one of his weaker moments when he was still uneasy in his control of his own thoughts, if she knew what it was to be unmade, to have someone play with her brain and manipulate her actions to their own will, and she had known. She had always known.
Natasha had known since the first moment that he awoke from Loki's control that he was not alone, but he hadn't realised it until right that second.
"I won't try and talk you out of it," she told him, showing a perception of him that few could claim, "not if you don't think you can face what lies ahead of us. I know you're stronger than you think you are, you're the strongest person I've ever met in fact, but the choice has to be your own," she exclaimed before turning back towards the tower.
He listened to her footsteps as she walked away, giving him the space to make up his own mind without judgement.
At the edge of the terrace she stopped, ensuring that her voice would reach him when she spoke. "He can't hurt you now Clint, not unless you let him. I will say one thing though, if you jump, Loki wins," she told him. "He claimed enough victims six months ago, don't let him claim you too."
Her words struck at him, causing something deep inside to reverberate like a tuning fork. She was right, were he to leap from the building Loki would have won and he would have allowed that victory, participated in the destruction of yet another life at the Asgardian's behest. He would not let him win, he still had that much power left to him.
Pushing himself to his feet, he moved unsteadily back toward the tower. His limbs were stiff from hours spent out in the open and the alcohol seemed to have taken effect as soon as he got his feet under him. Depositing the nearly empty whiskey bottle in one of Stark's planters, he followed Natasha's route to the sliding door intending to make himself some strong coffee and throw himself under a hot shower. He couldn't let the past break him, all he could do was keep moving, look to the future, see it through.
She was waiting for him in the kitchen, two mugs of coffee on the counter in front of her. Spoon still in hand, she met his gaze and nodded once, a silent pledge of support. It was Natasha's way to do things quietly, to make the biggest speeches through the simplest of gestures; a slight narrowing of the eyes to tell him that he was a jackass, a hand on his shoulder to remind him that they were family, a simple cup of coffee to show him that the world was not falling down around him.
"I figured you'd be ready for some coffee about now," she explained as she handed him one of the mugs. The smell of it was comforting, the fact that it came from her hand made it more so. He curled his fingers around the mug and let the warmth seep into him.
She came close enough that he could smell her shampoo and wrapped her arms around his waist, letting her head rest against his shoulder for the briefest of moments. She wasn't a hugger, not generally, so he appreciated the gesture for what it was. He breathed her in, feeling the bond that had always existed between them solidify within him and strengthen him. She was perhaps the one person in the world who could understand where he was at right now and she'd been there, patiently waiting for him to wake up and see it, since the nightmare had started.
He released her when she stepped away, savouring the warmth that her brief embrace had given him. Clint Barton had always known how broken he was, his entire life had been a lesson in being unwanted or 'not enough', but with Natasha, and to a lesser extent the others within the tower, he had found a home.
As she retrieved her own mug and exited the kitchen, she turned once again and met his gaze. There was more understanding there than he deserved. "You're not alone in this," she murmured, "you never were."