In which Peggy grieves, and Clint and Natasha both have to deal with the fallout of Loki's possession. Warning for violence (albeit in a nightmare).

May 2012, Brooklyn

Three days on from the invasion, and Steve was finally sleeping soundly, but Peggy was wide awake, staring at her bedroom ceiling.

Their bedroom ceiling, she supposed now.

She thought she had been fine, and swore she had been fine, and, to be fair, she had been fine, right up until she had gone into headquarters that day to deliver the debrief.

Phil's empty chair was like a knife to her heart.

She had cried on the carrier when it initially happened, of course, but now the second wave of grief was beginning to catch up with her.

It sat like a lead weight in her chest, making it a little hard to breathe.

Before the thought had even crossed her mind to get up and go downstairs, Steve was stirring beside her.

"Peg?" He asked sleepily. "You okay?"

Peggy opened her mouth to reassure him, but a sob escaped her instead.

Steve was wide awake in a second, reaching over to turn the lights on. "What's wrong?"

Peggy shook her head, giving up on trying to stem her tears in favour of rolling over into his arms, burying her face in his neck.

In the 1940s, showing her grief in this way would be cause for people to think she couldn't do her job. After the Valkyrie had crashed, Peggy had hidden her grief behind closed doors and in supply closets.

Sometimes, she would emerge to find that one or all of the Commandos had taken up position outside the door, silent guards to enforce her privacy.

But, like them, Steve had never seen emotion as a weakness, the world had changed, and her best friend was dead, dammit, she was going to cry if she wanted to.

Steve - bless him - did not attempt to talk her through it, hugging her tightly and stroking her hair, patiently waiting her out.

Finally her tears began to taper off, and she readjusted herself so he could hear her. "Sorry."

"Don't be silly," Steve said gently. "It's been a rough few days."

"He was my best friend," Peggy whispered.

Steve kissed her cheek. "And you think I won't understand that?"

It wasn't the same.

But then Steve and Bucky had probably known each other not that much longer than she and Phil had.

So maybe it wasn't as far away as she thought.

"Fair," she murmured.

"Tell me about him," Steve said.

So she did.

She told him about the early days; about conversations filled with questions about Steve and the Commandos; about how she had answered because he was genuinely interested and he asked about Steve, not Captain America.

She told him how that had gradually grown into a genuine friendship; about hours spent in her office with tea and coffee, supposedly debriefing when they were actually gossiping about their coworkers; about a strike team that wasn't as official as Delta, but almost as effective.

And then, because she knew Steve was wondering, but would never, never ask, she told him the one thing that she and Phil had sworn they would never talk about again.

"We kissed once," she said into the darkness.

"Any particular reason?" Steve asked.

"Why we kissed, or why it was only once?" Peggy asked.

"Yes."

Peggy chuckled weakly. "Well, there were a few other times, but we were undercover for those, so I don't count them."

"Fair enough," Steve said.

Peggy sighed. "It was New Year's Eve at midnight, so I suppose you could say that didn't count either." She was quiet for a few moments, and he didn't interrupt her thought process, because he knew her. "Maria Stark used to tell me that you wouldn't want me to spend the rest of my life alone and miserable."

"I wouldn't," Steve agreed. "But I also know that 'alone' doesn't necessarily mean 'miserable."

"Thank you," Peggy said, with a hint of exasperation. "That's what I always told her. I mean, of course there were times I thought it might be nice if there was someone to come home to, but I wasn't that bothered by it to be honest. Plus, things got more complicated as time went on. It's hard to start a relationship when the very first thing you say to someone is a lie."

"I hadn't thought about that," Steve said. "Coulson always knew the truth though, right?"

"Yeah, I met him when he was Level 8," Peggy said. "He'd been recruited from the military so he rose pretty quickly." She was quiet for a few minutes. "It was New Years Eve 199 … 8, I think. The Maria Stark Foundation does this New Year's Eve Gala every year. I have a standing invitation, but I didn't often go by that point if Tony was going to be there. He tended to get a little … lively at those events."

"You thought he might use your real name?" Steve asked.

"No, I knew he wouldn't," Peggy said. "Look at Manhattan; he'd practically died and he still called me Sharon. No, I knew I'd end up mothering him, and I cannot tell you how much I did not need to see 'Tony Stark's New Squeeze' in the papers."

Steve sniggered. "No, I suppose you didn't."

Peggy sighed. "Anyway, that year he was going to be in Hawaii, and I figured I may as well go. SHIELD normally has a presence as well - that year was Phil's turn. He actually had a date, but she backed out."

The story was a lot more complicated than that - Phil and Melinda had been together for over a year when an op had gone horribly wrong.

The debrief had been fairly standard, but in the aftermath, she had taken a desk role and never returned to the field, despite being one of their top agents. She had also abruptly ended her relationship with Phil, something that had broken his heart.

But Steve didn't need to know all that.

"So Phil and I figured we'd go together," she continued. "We ended up on one of the balconies, talking about the nature of love of all things. When midnight hit, we kissed, agreed that it was weird as hell, and we moved on."

"Had you not noticed that undercover?" Steve asked.

Peggy smiled. "No, darling; that's different. When you're undercover, you're pretending to be someone you're not, and you're doing it for a very different reason; you look like you're completely caught up in each other, but you're actually constantly watching and listening to your surroundings." She patted his chest. "You've never been undercover; it's hard to explain." She was quiet for a few moments. "I wasn't in love with him."

"I know," Steve said.

"It would have been so easy," Peggy said. "Sometimes I wished I was. He already knew the truth, and he was smart, and good-looking, and got the job, and made me laugh, and …"

"You can't force yourself to feel something you don't," Steve finished.

"Exactly," Peggy said softly. "I wasn't in love with him."

"That doesn't mean you didn't love him," Steve said gently.

"I did," Peggy said, her voice catching.

"I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to know him properly," Steve murmured.

Peggy nodded, turning her face back into his chest. "I'm sorry; I don't know why this is getting to me now."

"You didn't give yourself space or time to grieve after the initial shock wore off," Steve said. "Weren't you the one who told me to allow myself to do that?"

Peggy wanted to tell him not to use her own words against her, but the tears were coming again.

Well, Steve was never going to judge her anyway.

May 2012, Florida

They had been in the Everglades for three days now, and Natasha was getting frustrated.

He safe-house was right in the middle of what amounted to a swamp, and the road to get to it was well-hidden unless you knew it was there, so she would see anyone coming from miles away.

That, and Bobbi's regular reassuring update texts, let her focus on Clint, but he was making things difficult.

Very difficult.

Natasha was the first to admit that she was a difficult patient when she was injured; she balked at pain meds and got bitchy when she was in pain, so maybe this was payback from when Clint had to look after her after she was shot in Odessa.

Really, even if he hadn't slipped up while she was 'unconscious', she would have known he loved her after that - he would have to in order to put up with her during those six weeks.

And she knew that she had Clint had similar feelings about mental trauma, so she tried to be patient with him.

But even she had her limits.

At first, it had been fine.

Clint and Natasha had never actually taken a vacation together. That wasn't to say they hadn't taken trips, but they had been Rachel and Thomas, or Natalie and Martin, or Marissa and Ryan, or whatever other covers SHIELD had come up with.

They kept those covers consistently, even when they were apparently alone, but they had a game; amidst the fake discussions, they would each slip in one true fact about themselves, and see if the other could guess at the end of the mission what the true fact was.

It was a little odd, she supposed, considering that she knew the exact hitch in his breathing that meant his arrow had hit its target (which it always did), and the precise rhythm of his gait that meant he was having a bad day, that she didn't know what his favourite colour was.

(It was purple. It had to be purple. But that was still only a guess.)

So the first day after their arrival was filled with logistics - who was going to cook, did they have enough supplies, just generally learning to be around each other in a domestic situation with no ulterior motives.

Well, not SHIELD motives, anyway.

She was fairly sure the trouble had started at sundown. He hadn't slept in the car (and she hadn't expected to him), but she was sure he had lain awake all night while she eventually fell asleep beside him.

When she woke, he was already up, standing out on the veranda with a cup of coffee.

On that second day, he had barely spoken, except to acknowledge her.

Today, he hadn't spoken at all, and had spent most of the day perched on the fence outside, his gaze fixed on something in the distance.

And he still hadn't slept since that night in Stark Tower.

She had been pretending to read for the last three hours, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

He hadn't moved.

Finally, she put her book down and went out to join him, leaning on the railing to follow his gaze, sweeping her own eyes across the horizon.

She couldn't see anything, but just in case …

"Do you see something?"

Clint shook his head slightly, but didn't answer.

Natasha sighed, hooking a finger under his chin and gently tugging it until he was looking at her, partly to get his attention, partly to reassure herself that his eyes were still the stormy greyish blue she knew. "You can't keep doing this, Clint. You need to sleep at some point."

"Can't," Clint said flatly.

"Can't or won't?" Natasha asked. "You slept at the Tower."

"The Tower was equipped with a highly sophisticated AI that could have taken me out if Loki's still in my head," Clint said.

"What, and you think I won't smack you in the head again?" Natasha asked.

Clint let out a bitter laugh that really wasn't like him, and jumped down from the fence, walking back inside.

Natasha followed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I can't sleep, Nat; I can't trust you."

That made Natasha pulled up short. "Excuse me?"

Clint whirled around. "I nearly killed you! I was going to kill you, Natasha, and you weren't even trying to stop me!"

"Of course I was trying to stop you," Natasha said. "You didn't kill me, did you?"

"You should have been able to take me out," Clint said. "A hell of a lot faster than you did. You weren't trying to kill me."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Of course I wasn't trying to kill you. You were fighting it."

"No, I wasn't!" He shouted. "Why don't you get that?! I wasn't trying to fight it; I was trying to kill you! I wanted to kill you, Nat, and you should have killed me!"

The words seemed to hang between them for a second before she absorbed them, and she took an involuntary step back as though they had punched her.

Natasha was a master at disguising her emotions, but something must have shown in her eyes, because he faltered.

"Nat …"

"Don't," she said in a low voice. "Do not ever say that again." She turned on her heel and stalked outside again.

It was getting dark, the heat of the Florida day muted by a gentle breeze, and she leaned against the railing again, closing her eyes.

He knew her well enough to give her space, but eventually she heard his footsteps and he settled in beside her.

Once again, he was silent, but this time it was because he was waiting for her to speak.

"I used you to try and figure out what Loki was up to," she said softly. "Asked him to spare your life."

"What did he say?" Clint asked.

"I won't kill Barton. Not until I make him kill you. Slowly. Intimately. In every way he knows you fear. Then he'll wake long enough to see his good work, and when he screams I'll split his skull."

Clint shivered beside her, a full body shudder that she felt rather than saw. "At least he wouldn't have made me live with it, I guess."

"It was that part that scared me," Natasha said.

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I've looked death in the face a hundred times," Natasha said, more to the railing than to him. "I knew that what you were dealing with was worse. You're right; I wasn't fighting to kill. But you were fighting it, Clint. If you weren't, you'd have shot Fury in the head in New Mexico; Hill wouldn't have survived the fight in the garage; you wouldn't have used stun arrows on the guards in Stuttgart; and you wouldn't have hired Rent-A-Cops to infiltrate the carrier. Honestly, all of the enemies SHIELD has, you wound up with a group of people who clearly had never worked together before?"

"That's not …" Clint began weakly.

"We ended up in an arm wrestle," Natasha said, lifting her head to glare at him. "You were trying to get a knife to my throat and I was able to push you away. You are biceps with legs; I should not have been able to do that."

"That doesn't mean I couldn't have killed you," Clint said.

"And it doesn't mean that I didn't have about three ways to kill you," Natasha said, softening her tone a little. "If I thought for one second that you weren't fighting it - if I really thought you were about to kill me … I would have done it, Clint. It would have been the hardest thing I'd ever done, but I would have done it, because I know you well enough to know that killing me would be your worst nightmare. I wouldn't let you go through that."

Something like hope seemed to glimmer in his eyes. "If … If he comes back …"

"I'll know," Natasha told him, resting a hand on his forearm. "I'll know. He … It did something to your eyes. They changed colour. I will know, and I will smack you in the head as many times as I need to, and if that doesn't work, I will kill you before I let you kill me."

It should have been a threat, but the tension seemed to bleed out of him all at once, and he more or less collapsed to the floor. "God, I love you."

Once again, the words seemed to hang in the air between them, and she could see the exact moment that he realised what he'd said, curling in on himself and burying his face in his hands. "Shit … Nat, I …"

The words still scared her, but she found that she was unwilling to hear him tell her he hadn't meant it.

She knew he did, and he never lied to her; it felt wrong for him to lie to her.

At least, that's what she told herself.

"It's okay," she said softly, sitting down opposite him with far more dignity than he'd managed. "I know, Clint."

"I'm sorry," Clint said miserably. "I know you wanted … whatever we are to be just sex, no strings attached, but …"

"It's not," Natasha said bluntly. 'It never has been really, has it? I said it should be just sex because … Well, I'm not capable of anything else. I know you love me, Clint. I don't understand it, but I do know that. I just … I can't love you. Not in the same way. The Red Room took that away from me."

Clint lifted his head, his eyes boring into hers with the same intensity he got when he was focusing on a target. "Do I make you happy?"

The question took her by surprise. "What?"

"Do I make you happy?" Clint repeated. "I don't need you to love me, Nat. As long as you're happy with me."

For a second, she hesitated.

Not because she didn't know the answer, but because the question still confused her.

"Yes," she said. "I'm always happy when I'm with you. I do care, Clint."

"I know you do," Clint said immediately, to her relief. "Never doubted that, Tasha."

"If you're okay loving me," Natasha said, "knowing that I'm not capable of loving you back, then I'm okay with you loving me. I just don't want to hurt you."

Clint smiled. "Nat, you trust me. You fall asleep beside me. You put your weapons away. Apparently there's nothing about you that I don't know. That means far more to me than you loving me."

"You are the most important person in my life," Natasha said softly. "I don't ever want to think about killing you. But I would rather face my worst nightmare than let you face yours."

For a second, Clint just looked at her, an unidentifiable glint in his eyes, but then he took her hand and tugged, and she went willingly, settling into his lap as he leaned against the railing. "I'm sorry. I should have realised that what happened impacted you as well."

"Not nearly as much as it did you," Natasha said firmly. "You can talk to me, Clint. But please don't tell me I should have killed you. I trust you. Trust me with this."

Clint sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I will." His lips hovered over her skin for a second. "Can I do this now?"

Natasha smiled. "I'm not stopping you." She tilted her head to give him a clear path to trail kisses down her cheek to her throat. "But you haven't slept in three days."

His breath huffed against her neck. "I know." There was a long silence, then … "I'm scared, Nat."

Something tugged painfully inside her, but she ignored it. She threaded her fingers into his hair, her nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way she knew he loved. "I'll stay awake."

"You don't have to," Clint sad, melting a little under her touch.

"I know," Natasha said, easing herself out of his lap. "Come on."

To her relief, he allowed her to pull him to his feet and guide him back inside to the bedroom, where she gently coaxed him into lying down with her, his head resting over her heart, so the steady beat of her pulse could vibrate through him.

"Nat …"

"I've got the watch," Natasha murmured, still running her fingers through his hair. "Go to sleep."

June 2012, Florida

Sleeping in shifts seemed to be working.

It probably wasn't the healthiest way of processing everything, but if having her sitting watch helped Clint get a few hours' sleep, then Natasha was going to do it.

It didn't stop the nightmares - obviously - but at least he was sleeping.

It took a week for her own brain to relax enough for her nightmares to start, and when they came, she really wasn't ready.

She was back on that catwalk, her back pressed up against the railing, the metal digging painfully into her spine. Clint loomed over her; she was gripping his forearm, trying to keep his knife away from her, but it was impossible.

However skilled she was, his arm strength far outweighed hers. The blade of the knife reached her throat, his mouth twisting in a cruel imitation of his usual smile.

Her skin stung, she could feel blood beginning to trickle down to her collarbone. His eyes watched it hungrily, his body pressing her back further against the railing so she was bent back at an awkward angle.

She had almost no leverage left; she gasped out his name, a final desperate plea, but his eyes remained clouded with that awful electric blue colour, and she knew she had no choice.

Quick as a flash, she shifted her grip, digging her thumb into the pressure point in his wrist. His grip faltered, she grabbed the knife, and struck.

He staggered back, blood spattering over her from the open wound in his jugular.

In the split-second before he died, his eyes cleared, and it was her Clint looking back at her. His mouth moved, blood bubbling from his lips in a soundless attempt at something that might have been her name, and then he dropped, his eyes still fixed on her.

Natasha woke with a gasp, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the mattress.

"Nat?"

Clint was standing in the doorway, obviously not wanting to get too close to her while she was dreaming.

Smart man.

Her eyes locked with his. An image of his dying breath and the betrayal in his eyes flashed in her mind, and she promptly vomited over the side of the bed.

"Nat?!"

He was alarmed now, reaching for her, but she wasn't ready for that, not yet. She pushed past him and ran, emerging out onto the deck, taking in deep breaths of fresh air.

Despite the heat of the day, the nights were cool, especially here over the water, and she shivered a little, but the cold air was like a balm, grounding her in the here and now.

Her heart was racing, pounding in her chest as though it were about to burst out.

How long she stood there, she didn't know, gulping in deep breaths of air, her hand pressed against her chest to try and calm her heart rate, but eventually she heard him, intentionally loud footsteps so he didn't startle her, and then there was a blanket settling over her shoulders.

When he tried to withdraw immediately, she caught his hand. "Stay."

Her voice cracked a little and she winced, but he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her so she could lean back against him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It wasn't you," Natasha said.

"Nat, you were calling my name," Clint said flatly, and she suppressed a wince. "I know you were dreaming about me. And I'm guessing from the puke that it wasn't a good one."

"I had to kill you," Natasha whispered.

He froze behind her. "Sorry?"

"I had to kill you," Natasha repeated. "You weren't fighting it, and I had to kill you." She turned in his arms just a little, so she could rest her head under his chin, so she was just able to feel his pulse against her skin, steady and reassuring.

"I thought …"

"I told you," Natasha said. "I've faced death too many times. That doesn't scare me. Killing you - that scares me. Always has."

"You've had that nightmare before?" Clint asked, his voice sounding a little odd.

Natasha glanced up at his face, but he wasn't looking at her, and his expression - for once - was unreadable, even to her. "Not that exact one, no."

A soft breeze swept past them and she shivered, even wrapped in a blanket and the warmth of his arms, and he squeezed her a little.

"Come on," he murmured. "Let's get inside."

Natasha let him guide her back to the bedroom. He had cleaned up after her explosive reaction to her nightmare and had lit a scented candle to cover up the smell.

"Thanks," she whispered.

"Don't mention it," Clint said. "Least I could do."

They settled back into bed, and she immediately rolled over to rest her head over his heart again.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Clint asked, gently combing his fingers through her hair.

"Not really," Natasha said.

Clint chuckled, the sound rumbling through her and settling her even more. "Fair enough."

"It's usually the Red Room," Natasha said anyway. "If they had to recondition you, they had a final test to make sure you were fit for purpose. They'd put you in a room with a hooded man and a gun, and you had to kill him. You didn't know who or why, you just had an order that you followed. And you never saw his face. When I realised that you and I were actually friends, I started dreaming about that. Except the hood would come off and it was you."

Clint pressed a kiss to her forehead. "We're both here, Nat. We're both alive."

She smiled. "I know. Maybe we can both remember that, and somehow we'll get through it."

Clint sighed. "Yeah, maybe." He was quiet for a few moments. "Have you heard anything about the funerals?"

"Most of them have started," Natasha said. "They were trying to hold off, so the Council couldn't use them for politics but it's dragging. They're holding off on Phil's until everything's sorted so we can go."

"Do you think I should have gone to the others?" Clint asked. "Don't I owe them that?"

Natasha thought about it. "No," she said finally. "Funerals aren't really for the dead, Clint; they're for the living. If you had died, and it was partly because someone else had been possessed by Loki … Well, even if I didn't blame them, I'm not sure I'd want to see them. Also, you'd be going as some kind of penance, and that's not a good reason to go to a funeral."

Clint nodded with a sigh. "Yeah, fair point. We're going to Phil's."

"Absolutely," Natasha agreed.

"Can I ask you something?" Clint asked softly. "You can say no."

"Well, you've got my attention," Natasha said lightly. "What's up?"

"Can we … go together?" Clint asked.

"I assumed that we would," Natasha said.

"No, I mean …" Clint fidgeted a little, which was unlike him. "Never mind."

Natasha sighed, propping herself up beside him. "No, go on."

"I know you don't want people know that we're … whatever," Clint said. "I get that, I do. I just don't think I can do it without you. So is it okay if I hold your hand and … stuff?"

Natasha smiled, something tugging a little in her chest. "I assumed that you would. That's okay, Clint. Half of SHIELD already think we're sleeping together anyway."

Clint choked out a laugh. "Well, we are."

"Yeah, but they think that based on no evidence," Natasha said, leaning down to kiss him. "I doubt anyone will even notice."

"Famous last words," Clint said with a weak smirk.

Natasha laughed, settling down again, feeling his arms wrap tighter around her. "I hope you know how much you mean to me."

"I do, Nat," Clint murmured, as she drifted off to sleep again. "And believe me; I do not take that for granted."