WARNING: This fic contains spoilers of a very significant part from the Marvel's The Avengers movie… read at your own risk.
Funeral
It was the very least they could do for a fallen comrade. They stood gathered around the final gravesite, where a small memorial had been set up with pictures and flowers to honor the one who believed in them the most.
She looked around at her teammates—the look of pure agony on Tony's face, Bruce with his hand over his mouth, Thor's head bowed in quiet mourning, Steve's tear-stained cheeks, Clint staring silently through dark tinted sunglasses.
Nick Fury nodded once to Captain Rogers and he moved forward as if in slow motion. She shrank back a little when he placed several small cards—trading cards that he'd signed for his friend a moment too late—inside the casket.
Clint reached over and took her hand in his. Tony and Bruce reached out to pat Steve on the back when he returned to them.
She squeezed his hand tightly when Fury rose to make a eulogy. He spoke of true heroism, faith, and courage and offered some fond memories to share with the group.
She started to tremble midway through the speech, and Clint wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her protectively to him.
After the speech, the team murmured hushed condolences to each other.
Bruce reached down to briefly embrace her and she kissed his cheek. When he turned his back, Clint ducked down to whisper in her ear. "Do you want to get out of here?"
She nodded wordlessly and let him lead her away.
XXXXX
She barely had the sense to register that they were back in her room before the tears started to fall. Clint waited silently in the doorway, pulling the door quietly shut. "I figured you wanted to get away and all.." He removed his sunglasses and set them on a small end table.
She nodded and wiped the tears out of her eyes. "Thanks," she whispered.
"Do you want me to go?"
She shook her head furiously. "Please don't."
"Alright."
"Ph-Phil was…." She started.
"I know," he whispered.
That's when the sobbing started and in one smooth motion he jumped across the room and knelt down on the floor beside her. He'd been prepared for this. He knew she'd never let the others see her cry, he himself only seeing real tears once before.
She grabbed him tightly and he picked her up from the floor, pulling her close into his arms. She clutched at the shirt on his back, burying her face in his chest, her body wracked with sobs.
He stroked her hair soothingly. "I know, I know," he said softly.
He closed his eyes against his own anguish, bowed his head as he held her tight, all the while she was shaking. "Just let it out, sweetheart. Let it all out."
They stood there in the center of the room, mourning silently together.
It wasn't until she stopped shaking and wiped her face with the back of her hand that he lifted his head up.
"Clint?"
"Yes, Tasha?"
"Do something for me?"
"Anything," he promised, not caring that he'd learned the hard way more than once not to promise her anything until she'd said what it is first.
"Stay here tonight?" Her eyes were wide and vulnerable as she looked back up at him.
It had been so long since the two had shared a bed and last time….
He swallowed the lump that he didn't realize had formed in his throat. "Of course," he said softly. "So long as you don't leave me in the morning."
She gave him a weak smile. "I won't leave you," she promised.
He lowered his arms to make a move for the bed, but she held on tight. "Don't let go," she whispered.
He shook his head. "Alright. I won't let go."
They held each other quietly for a few minutes more.