...and so it finally continues! We're back in business. I'm sorry this has taken so long. I've been working on other chapters but this one had to be finished first.

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Clint didn't feel guilty for what he had done, nor was he afraid of judgement for it. It was understood what had happened. What he had done had been done against his will. It had been done to him. What did hang over him was doubt. Since the dust settled in New York and he'd swallowed that last bite of shawarma, Clint couldn't be certain that he could really trust himself, and that scared him. It wasn't debilitating and it came and went, but it came often enough. Sometimes it was when he looked at Natasha, or when he realized these people considered him an ally. It was a feeling that he might snap at any moment and it made him so uneasy. It made him distance himself. He couldn't avoid the belief that maybe all the things he'd done and tried to do were really just who he was. Regardless of whether or not he wanted it, maybe Loki had only unleashed his true self. He tried to remember that it was a lie, but sometimes he simply couldn't. There were nights he would wake up terrified of what he might do again. He would push himself toward the edge of the bed, as far from Natasha as he could. Only a couple of times he chose the floor. How could he know he wouldn't suddenly attack her? Clint understood it was crazy, but in those moments fear was to powerful.

After their talk on the roof, both of them had gone to sleep feeling ok, and that was good enough. Ok meant wrapping his arms around Natasha and falling asleep with the fear on the outer reaches of his periphery. Natasha, for all her steel and deadliness, was quite the cuddler, and Clint always loved that. Before sleep pulled him safely under, he felt Natasha lean closer and kiss him softly. Unconsciousness settled over him with a little smile printed on his face.

Ok, however, was short lived. Natasha, in her sleep, had shifted into her customary curled up position. Clint, laying on his back in his usual way, awoke from an iciness spreading through his body. For half a second his mind raced in terror as his fingers immediately ran to the spot on his sternum. It wasn't frozen and he let his body relax. He allowed himself to exhale and just lay there for a moment, ribs still aching, heart pounding. There was nothing at the center of his chest but his wedding ring and his own warm, red blood flowing beneath the skin. That was a comfort, but the longer he lay there the more another terrifying sensation began to grow. It overwhelmed him so much that he had shifted so far from where Natasha lay beside him that he nearly hung off the edge of the bed. The floor beckoned like a safe place, but he wanted to stay next to Natasha. So he closed his eyes and breathed. In and out. In and out. He directed all of his attention to the air filling his lungs, his diaphragm expanding, and the sharp pain it caused in his ribs. His focused breathing kept the thoughts at bay and his body began to relax. Sleep was moving in smoothly until he opened his eyes and saw Natasha's peaceful sleeping face. All the terror came crashing back down on him, ripping his calm from his grasp. He'd lost and, with an enormous feeling of shame, slipped off the bed and settled onto the floor. Clint curled up tightly, hating himself for giving in.

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"Clint."

His eyes opened.

"Don't sleep down there." Her voice was even, as it always was.

Reluctantly he pushed himself into sitting position and forced himself to meet her eyes. She moved off of the bed and sat down in front of him.

"It's not you." Clint said, breaking eye contact with her.

"I know."

He hesitated. "I needed some space."

"You did or I did?"

He closed his eyes.

"I can't trust myself, Nat. Just understand that."

"Get up." Nastasha stood up and waited for him.

He looked up at her.

"Get up." She repeated.

Slowly, still looking at her, he rose to his feet.

She took his hand and led him out of the room and down the hall to their gym. He saw where they were going and made no protest.

Stepping barefooted out onto the mat, he rubbed his hands together once. "You sure you want to do this right now?"

"We're doing this."

She wore a tank and sweats. He watched her bare feet set themselves into position. Clint sighed and readied himself as well. He wore sweats as well, but was shirtless. Natasha looked for a moment at the wedding ring that hung from the chain on his neck. That's why they were doing this. That, and the debt.

"Ready?" Clint asked.

"You first."

"Tasha-"

"Go." was all she said.

Hesitating for only a second, he came at her, but it was such a heartless effort. Natasha got irritated and shoved him back.

"Again."

He came forward. She hit him in the ribs.

Clint bent down, in pain. He inhaled sharply and spat an angry curse.

Natasha just watched. "Come on. Aren't you going to snap?" She prodded.

He leveled a stare at her and shook his head with mild annoyance.

"You're eyes aren't blue yet. I'm not afraid."

"Wow. Two low blows in under a minute. I'm impressed." Clint said, straightening up again and stepping toward her. He shook out his hands and pumped his fists a couple of times. "Why are you such a persistent pain in the-"

With one seamless movement, Natasha brought him to the ground. She stood back, awaiting his next move, with a small smirk on her lips. "Why do you have to talk about everything?"

But he didn't smile as he got to his feet. He was irritated, but his return attack was not immediate. She could tell he hesitated, questioning his intentions. If he was angry at her, did it mean he wanted to hurt her? His doubts were scrawled across his face.

Natasha bridged the gap without a second thought. She struck for his rib cage, unafraid of hurting him. He blocked her jab, his forearm absorbing the force of her blow. She twisted away smoothly, striking a second time. Clint caught her fist and moved to bring her to the ground, but she wrenched gracefully from his grasp and put a few steps between them.

"Wasn't so bad was it?"

Clint just looked at her, irritation, fear, and amusement all playing across his features.

"Why did you wake up?" His question caught her be surprise. Her playful expression faded fast.

"Same reason you did."

"Ice?"

"Chains."

"Nobody owns you anymore, Natasha."

"They raised me in fear. That was their control. The Hulk has that same power over me, Clint."

"So you're afraid? It doesn't change what you've chosen."

She was looking down at the mat now.

"Tasha."

"What?"

"You don't have masters anymore."

She looked back up at him. "And neither do you."

The small gleam of a smile appeared in his eyes. "…So can you stop punching me in the ribs? Because you're gonna break 'em and then I really will hold it against you."

The little smirk returned to her lips and she shook her head. Clint rolled his eyes as she came forward, renewing her attack.

This is what they did. It's how they unpacked the pain inside them. Whatever weighed on their minds was on the mat. It had always been that way. It started when they were first partnered up. Her distrust and confusion, her willingness to prove herself trustworthy, and her need to be tested. Clint had felt it from the earliest days of knowing her. In turn she knew what he brought. The need for her to trust him, his continuous desire to demonstrate the control he had over his incredible aptitude to kill. When they sparred, nothing was left unsaid.

His and Nat's getaway a little over a month ago had helped a lot. The time they spent away had had been Natasha's idea. Clint's ice cold fingers, 30 minutes recovering under a hot shower and his overt shame in her presence had made the decision very simple for her. He needed to be reclaimed, not just recalibrated. So they left. It was an old safe house of Natasha's on the Atlantic coast up in Canada. Unknown to both SHIELD and The Red Room, it was more of a retreat now. It was just a little cabin tucked into the trees and rocks on a secluded beach. Clint spent his evenings there watching the sun go down from up on the mossy roof. Nastasha let him have that time for himself. When the sun would finally set, he would come down and they would take to the shore and spar. That's how she made him share his guilt, his anger. He was so angry. She could feel its intensity in his every movement. The sun would eventually peek over the horizon and Nastasha would then put an end to it. Breathing heavily, sweat pouring over him, he would just look at her.

"You need to sleep." She was all she would say. Each night that followed was much the same. She showed him her trust. He showed her his ugly terror. By the time they stepped out of the elevator and into their new home in Stark Tower, Clint's guilt had been beat of out him. But that doubt still clung around the hidden places of his heart. Thankfully, that wasn't a place Natasha was afraid of.

So, on this occasion, sometime after four in the morning they went back to bed. Natasha curled up on her side and Clint lay on his back. His head nestled against her chest while she draped her arm across his. They were asleep in seconds and nobody saw them for the rest of that day.

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More to follow...