The next four days were interminable for Natasha. She followed the same routine while Clint lay morosely in bed, staring at nothing. Each morning, she woke, donned one of his sweatshirts, and took off on her run. She blamed the wind and morning mist for the dampness on her cheeks. After a shower, dressed in yoga pants and a long sleeve t-shirt, she would clean and check his wounds and prepare breakfast for the two of them. Clint chewed his 2-3 minuscule bites in silence before rolling over and curling up into a ball with a mumbled, "thanks, Nat." In the mornings, she busied herself with household chores, but how much was there really to do in a sparsely decorated safehouse? She tried to read or do research, but she always ended up staring at her partner's back until it was time to cook a dinner that he would only pick at before disappearing into himself again. By the time the dinner dishes were washed, the cat box cleaned, and her email checked, she was too emotionally exhausted to do anything but collapse onto the bed beside him. At night, he clung to her like a drowning man, his head on her chest and arms wrapped around her waist. She woke several times to him shuddering as silent sobs racked his body. She stroked his hair helplessly.
Finally, on the morning of the 6th day after Clint's arrival, Natasha returned from her run, showered, and then shook the mattress until he awoke.
"Mmmm?" Her partner slurred out, bleary-eyed.
"Get up."
"Don't wanna," he grumbled and tried to turn his back to her.
Natasha grabbed his shoulder and rolled him back to face her. "You haven't left the bedroom in a week, Barton. It smells like something died in here. You're going to get up, take a shower, and put on clean clothes." Clint turned away from her again, and she ripped the sheets and blankets from him. He tried to resist, but Natasha was too fast for him, and the momentum sent him rolling off the bed.
"Fuck, Tasha!" he swore as he tumbled onto the hardwood floor. She sighed with relief. Even annoyance at her was better than the flat affect he'd been hiding behind for days. She dumped the dirty sheets and blankets in white plastic laundry basket.
"I left a clean outfit for you in the bathroom. I won't start the laundry until you've showered." He didn't say anything in reply, but he nodded as he rubbed his sleepy eyes with a calloused hand.
Twenty minutes later, a clean but cranky Barton padded his way down the steps. Natasha glanced up at him from the breakfast dishes in the sink. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her torso, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Hey, Nat," he croaked. "You suck."
"Yeah, well, you suck, too, Clint," she whispered, fighting to keep her voice from breaking. She felt his body shudder and then realized she had managed to elicit a chuckle from him. Her next words spilled over her lips before she could consider them. "I'm not going to let you sink, Barton. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
Ignoring her soapy hands and wrists, he turned her in his arms so he could look into her eyes. They stared at one another before he finally rasped, "Promise?"
"Promise," she responded. Uncomfortable under his intense stare, she broke eye contact and pressed her lips to his cheek.
He wrapped her in another embrace. "What did I ever do to deserve a partner like you?" he whispered into her hair.
"You were one."