I was going to let this be complete where it stood...but I couldn't let it rest. This is Clint's side of the story. REVEIW, PLEASE! :)
Of all the ways losing her had hurt him, there was only one that kept him awake every night. One that jerked him awake screaming away the nightmares that never quite left him alone.
There had been no goodbye.
He had always known one of their missions would eventually end badly. That one day their luck would just run out, and one of them would come home without the other. He had imagined a thousand times just what he would say to her, if it was her face staring down into his as he faded. He had even known what he would say if – God forbid, it hurt to even entertain the thought! – if it were her dying in his arms.
But he had never, not once, imagined this. No goodbye, no closure, no last words. In the end, there had only been the silent emptiness of her leaving him forever.
A cold suit had knocked at the door of his apartment, delivering with practiced coolness the message that Natasha would not be coming home. There had been a massive explosion. No body to recover. No personal effects had survived. Yes, they had definite confirmation that Agent Natasha Romanoff had been caught in the blast. No survivors. No glimmer of hope. We're very sorry, sir.
Clint had slammed the door in his face so hard the walls rattled. Then he buried his face in his hands and slid down to the floor, sobs shaking him so hard he thought he would die from lack of air. He wished he would.
Tony, Steve, Pepper, Bruce…they had all come. They sat with him silently, just being there, and he hated he was falling apart in front of them, but Natasha was gone and it hurt so bad and he just couldn't help it…
But life went on. And he hated it. Days passed. A small memorial service, which he didn't attend because it wasn't really her in that casket, and it hurt too much anyway. He looked forward to getting home every night, because that meant he could drink himself stupid and maybe forget for a little while.
Three months, four weeks, and six days. That's how long it had been since she'd left. That's how long it had been since he'd been coming home to an empty apartment and a bottle of bourbon.
"You're killing yourself, Clint," Tony said.
"You're one to talk about that, aren't you?" Clint snapped, wondering for the hundredth time why he and Nat had had to take Tony up on his offer to let them move into the newly-renamed Avengers Tower. He stayed now because so much of her was still here, but he was getting tired of his teammates' constant nagging.
"Natasha wouldn't have wanted this!" Steve cut in. Good ol' All-American Steve.
"Shut up," Clint snarled. "You don't know anything about what she wanted."
He slammed the door in their faces, ignoring their voices all going off at once, and slid all the locks home.
He rested his forehead against the wood for a long minute before dragging himself into the kitchen. Dirty dishes, clothes everywhere, empty bottles cluttering every available surface…it didn't bother him anymore. The only thing he cared about lay in the cabinet under the sink…ah, there it was.
He carried the bottle of bourbon and two shot glasses over to the tiny table – old habits die hard, he reflected bitterly.
Filling hers up, he set it in front of her empty chair before sloshing some into his own. His hands shook and he hated that. They had been shaking since…since they told him she wasn't coming home. It had only gotten worse, and Bruce had noticed today. Clint couldn't bring himself to care.
"I miss you," he muttered into his drink. "I miss you, Tasha."
He began to cry, shoulders shaking like his hands, pain ripping through him until he didn't know if he could hold himself together anymore. He forced the sobs back long enough to pour himself another drink. "I miss you so damn much," he whispered.
For a moment, he could swear he smelled her perfume, the kind she only wore on special occasions. But it must have been the alcohol. The apartment hadn't smelled like her in weeks, despite his efforts to keep it lingering.
Sometime before dawn, he pillowed his head on his arms and went to sleep, empty bottle of bourbon next to her still-full glass.
The sound of Tony's voice prompted him into semi-wakefulness. "Jesus, Clint," it said. "What are you trying to do, kill yourself?"
He muttered something even he couldn't make out, and then someone was picking him up off the table and steering him out of the apartment, but he didn't want to go because Tasha was there and he missed her and his head was spinning…
A shower, coffee, and clean clothes later, Pepper and Tony tucked him into their own bed. Still too out of it to protest, Clint curled over on his side and gave in to sleep.
A chill rippled over his body. He couldn't quite tell if he was dreaming or not, but it felt pleasant. Safe. Not like the nightmares he had of her being ripped apart, screaming his name, but he never got there until it was too late. No. This was different.
She was standing there.
It was his Tasha, but she looked…different. Still just as achingly beautiful, but translucent somehow. And her face was sad, achingly sad, as she stared down at him. He wanted to grab her, wrap her in his arms and inhale her warm skin, but he was reduced to being a helpless spectator, unable to interfere as the moments played out.
"Goodbye, Clint," she whispered. Her voice smoothed over his senses, and though it was only a ghost of her former rich, vibrant tones, it still moved him. "It's okay to forget me. But I'll always love you." She looked down. "I'll always remember."
She reached out, and he waited to feel her fingers on his face, as he had so many nights before. But there was only a faint tickle, and then a heavy chill ghosted across his skin. He shivered.
Her hand pulled back and intense grief fell over her face like a curtain."Goodbye," she whispered again, and slowly peace replaced the pain.
He fell back into sleep again, or maybe he'd never really awakened, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it had been real.
A hint of hope smoothed out the edges of the ripping, tearing agony and the painful uncertainty. He would never forget. But maybe one day he could find peace again, because Natasha had given Clint his goodbye.