They always manage to find comfort in each other; whether they have been working solo or as a pair, they know that the other will always be able to understand.

.


.

Clint walks into his quarters and drops his bag by the door, breathing out a sigh and running a hand through his hair, before leaning down to unlace and remove his boots. Morocco had been a doozy; what was supposed to have been a three day operation had turned into a three week job requiring them to call in Coulson for support instead of relying on the temporary handler he usually received for short-term assignments. Coulson was usually reserved for Strike Team: Delta or Natasha's complicated solo work, the difficult stuff.

He crosses to his bedroom, pushing open the door to find Natasha curled up in the middle of his bed, lying on her left side. He frowns, slightly surprised. Not that finding Natasha in his quarters after a trying mission was strange – she always seemed to know everything – but the fact that she was lying on her left, facing away from the door, when she slept better on her right and enjoyed having a clear view of her exit, was.

"Nat?" he calls softly. She doesn't respond, just takes one long shuddering breath, and Clint peels off his tac vest before sliding onto the bed next to her. Once he's up closer, he can make out the outline of a sling across her back in the darkness and his frown deepens. "Tasha?" He sets a gentle hand on her shoulder and she flinches away from him. Clint sits up, maneuvering around so that he's on her other side, facing her, and he can see the fading bruises on her jaw and neck, knows that there are probably more on her arms and legs underneath her long-sleeved cotton sleep shirt and pants, but he doesn't comment on it. He just meets her eyes and reaches down, pulling the duvet up to cover her shoulders, blanketing both of them in the comfort of the other's presence; because sometimes, that's all they need.