Blue was one of her favourite colours, a colour of calm, a colour of reflection. Blue used to remind Natasha of summer skies and the waters of the Barents sea but not any more. Once it was a colour that made her happy, a colour that she somehow associated with freedom and with new beginnings. She's wary of it now, always looking out for it and slightly uneasy when she sees pale blue eyes looking her way. It never used to be this way but a lot has changed since New York and this is just one thing that might never be the same.
Every time Clint wakes in the night, body jack-knifing from the mattress and breath loud and ragged in the dark, she feels the cold grip of fear take hold in her chest. As he fights for control, she reaches out to him with one hand while she curls the fingers of the other around the knife beneath her pillow. Her trust in him is implicit but still she doesn't take chances. She sleeps beside him so that in those moments he doesn't feel alone but she never forgets the way that he looked at her when the madman was in control of his mind and body, the emptiness that she saw in his eyes. It isn't until she sees grey eyes looking back at her that she can take a proper breath.
She isn't the only one who sees frozen oceans instead of storm clouds. Just days ago, when the demons were screaming particularly loudly, Clint looked into the bathroom mirror and saw blue eyes looking back at him. His fist was through the glass before she knew what was happening, shards littering the sink and the floor like diamonds as he struggled, caught between what was real and what was not. She found him on the floor, head in his hands and blood running from his knuckles. It took her a while to calm him down enough to look at her, even longer for him to let her bind his wounds. Neither of them slept well that night - just like they haven't on many other nights since New York.
She trains with him, walks with him, encourages him to keep his head up and keep moving. The distrust of their colleagues weighs heavily on him, just as his own broken memories do. She gives him an outlet for the impotent rage, pushes him to exhaustion in the gym so that he can sleep at night. She challenges everyone who thinks badly of him with her eyes, silently guarding him from further pain that will come in the form of angry looks and harsh words. Sometimes he's hanging by a thread and the only thing that seems to hold him together is her reassurance that he's not the monster that Loki made him. She stays close and she shows him in word and in action that she trusts him and that she knows him, because Clint no longer trusts himself.
She sees the damage and the scars, the scratches on his soul, and she wishes that one of them had known the satisfaction of killing Loki once and for all. At least if he was dead Clint would sleep better knowing that there was no way he could come back and take control of him again, and Natasha, well, Natasha would be able to stop sleeping with a knife within immediate reach. She misses their sparring sessions, the unrelenting manner in which he would pound her into the mats and the force of punches thrown. They are different now, he is different now, and throwing a punch at her brings back the image of his knife at her throat.
Natasha thinks of blue now and she sees soulless eyes in place of sunny skies, feels nothing but cold that seeps into her veins and freezes solid. Yes blue used to be one of her favourite colours but not any more. Loki ruined blue for them both.