Clint slept in the same position in his bed everynight. On his back, hands underneath his pillow and facing the door, smack bang in the centre of his double bed. Natasha had never known how he'd been able to perfect it, but she knew now why he had. She slipped into his room that morning with a cup of coffee and some toast to be greeted by his body jerking upright and his hands flying from under the pillow in two overhead throws. One small arrow head shaped throwing implanted itself in the door next to her shoulder and the other cruised cleanly into the coffee cup. In a real attempt on his life this would've disarmed his attacker and pinned there clothes to the wall. Natasha was wearing a white night shirt with two small straps. Clint immediately realized his mistake when his eyes focused in on the cut she now possessed on her shoulder.
"Fuck, shit. Tasha I'm sorry I thought-" He stopped his sentence, unable to utter Loki's name after the nightname he'd just had. He had bolted up from his bed, a first aid kit being pulled off the table as he walked toward her. She oddly frozen, oddly, emotional. It took him a second but he knew why. He could've killed her, anyone else and the blades would've been expected, blocked or dodged but she let her guard down around him like this when they were alone constantly. The cofffee and tea were her best attempt he'd ever seen at her trying to open up and help him, even if he didn't want it.
Natasha's brain had shut down for a minute, put the pieces together and turned itself back on. She wouldn't hold it against Clint, he was broken at the minute and she would help him, besides, he'd beat himself silly about this at the minute anyway.
"Stop it. I should've knocked." She turned her head to see him studying the wound, his fingers were callous, yet light upon her shoulder. He cleaned the wound out, letting the steel blade drop to the floor with a clang. He finished up and then moved away, busying himself in the small attached kitchen of his room in the tower. The sensors kicked in at this point, the glass of his window changing from dark, woody brown into a crystal clear view of the city. His storm cloud eyes glanced over it, taking in every detail in a flash. He quickly cleaned up the coffee mug, ignored the toast and removed the second dagger from his door. All the while feeling her eyes scouring him.
"Clint this isn't healthy." She held no emotion in her voice, hiding her startle perfectly as he turned quite suddenly to stare at her, as though the force of the lightning and wind within his eyes and mind at that moment were headed straight for her. Many thought Natasha was cold, calculating and emotionless. They were right, to an extent, she just hid the emotions perfectly due to her...training. Clint knew this, besides Phil he was the only one who did.
"Don't. Don't use work tactics on me. You know what happens if you do, we can't go back from that." He picked up an apple from the counter. Another small blade appearing from nowhere, slicing the apple and placing it into his mouth. As he did so his eyes left her, he stripped his uniform from the night before, stepping into his bathroom without warning and exiting it moments later in his jogging pants. Identical to hers, looks like his thought from last night was wrong after all. His topless form made its way to a drawer, removing a plain black tee as she spoke.
"Fury said he had to ground you. Told me you nearly lost a wing last night." She had taken his advice, allowing the smallest sound of emotion, care, to drip into her words like an IV. She saw his bow fingers twitch, his tell whenever she in particular struck a nerve. "Said there was a kid involved. Little girl, red hair." This time his entire body turned to face her, his tee forgotten.
"Checking up on my missions now Romanoff?" He was hiding his offended stature with his usual charm and humour, but she glared at him to remind him off his own words. No work tactics. He took a breath, sitting on the bed and just watching her as he spoke more.
"I can't stop. I stop missions, I get nightmares...he comes creeping back in, I get forceful memories coming up and smashing against me when I'm not working or distracting myself. It's PTSD, I know it is, but it's too...different for me to deal with it."
He took another breath, steadying his bow fingers that were flexing as though they were playing a bass. "As for last night, a young girl, probably about 15. She strolled right into my ambush set up. I was overtired and sloppy, she looked like you. Only not as pretty. I got distracted, nearly got her killed. One of the targets took a machete to my arm, I got lucky." He motioned to the bandage (one of three) that was covering his left arm.
She felt a small tug in her stomach, she couldn't place whether or not that it was because he thought she was pretty, or that she'd nearly got him killed without even being there. She scolded her self, letting the Widow strenghten her walls again. He'd already laid down the rules. No work tactics. Natasha knew what she felt for him, and knew what he felt for her.
She was ridiculously worried about him and it was affecting them both. Staying apart was the logical solution as assassins, but it also made them vulnerable, without the contact they so craved, they were constantly distracted. Logically, if they the knew the other was happy, mentally sound and satisfied, they would be more focused. Distractions in the battlefield by 'worrying' about each other happened anyway, what irritated her most was that Clint couldn't see it that way.
She decided to change the topic, get back onto something they both knew well. Travelled road so to speak. "Fury gave me direct orders to make sure you stay out of any solo work. SHIELD database missions are off limits but Avengers-related missions weren't mentioned." He took the hint, he could keep working, keep himself together, but only with help.
"I'm going to sleep for a little bit more Tasha. I...I can't deal with any of this right now." He rubbed his forehead. Clint was not a big sleeper, but three months of work had caught up with him. He'd done longer before sure, but not suffering from a mental disability and not while suffering a emotional dilemma regarding the most dangeorus woman on the planet. Clint lay back down on his bed as she nodded and quite suddenly joined him. He raised his eyebrows somewhat lazily, his body relaxing against his will on the soft ridiculously expensive Stark-funded beds.
"You always slept better in Kandaharr when you had someone nearby.". It was true that having her close by would soothe his nightmares and allow him to sleep properly, Kandaharr had required a married couple cover; two weeks of half-acting and half-dreaming of a newly wedded life while assessing the military compound opposite. It had been very soon after Clint had failed to save three children from an explosion in Brazil and he was struggling to sleep with it, they had come to an arrangement where they would share the bed, for two weeks they were completely at ease with eachother and Clint never slept so well in his life.
"Thanks Tasha." Again, he couldn't be sure, but as he started to drift off, he felt that familiar soft skin of her thumb stroke across the rough stubble of his cheek, followed by a sweet, almost smoky smell as her impossibly soft lips gently touched his cheek. It was like a switch, the second it happened he passed straight out.
Natasha Romanoff was breaking all her rules, but right now she was okay with it. Clint Barton had saved her life, multiple times. She would repay that, it didn't hurt that she was very much in love with him. Although she berated herself for those feelings, she knew rationally that she could not stop those feelings. So right now, she wasn't too fussed about how bad slipping her back against his chest and pulling his arms around her might be in the future, they'd gotten through worse before, she smiled as she drifted off thinking of Budapest.