I believe this is the part where I apologize profusely for not updating! There was a terrible combination of getting sick, losing my inspiration for the story, and being too busy to track it down and force it into submission. This chapter is incredibly short, but I didn't want to leave you guys hanging any longer. I am now back on track and excited to write the next part of this story- thanks for all your reviews. They helped kick my butt back into writing mode!

Ch. 8

The ride back into the city was a silent one. Natasha's thoughts centered around Clint; he reacted to her confession that she was compromised almost as though he completely understood. She wasn't an idiot, she knew their behavior toward each other had changed. Over the past few years their friendship had reached a level of closeness that she had never experienced before. It went beyond trusting him, which she did completely. But there was something else. Sitting beside him, her hand enclosed in his, felt as natural as breathing. For the first time she considered what it would be like to erase the boundary they were so keen to maintain. As a spy, nothing could be worse than being involved with another spy. Someone always wound up dead.

For once, Clint's mind was not on Natasha. As he drove closer and closer to base, the path of destruction from yesterday became more pronounced. Buildings, cars, and bodies all piled together. Everywhere he looked he could see the effect of Loki's army. No amount of reassurance from those around him could convince Clint that this wasn't his fault in some small way. So much of Loki's plan was accomplished through him. As a spy, the end has to justify the means. Yes, they won and saved the world. But with each corpse he passed it became harder to remember. Last night he wanted to escape his nightmares, he wanted comfort and security. But now he looked forward to them. In a way, he deserved them. So many dead at his hands- a few bad dreams weren't punishment enough.

So when they arrived back at their housing assignment, Clint made sure to lock his door while Natasha was in her room changing. He thought she, of all people, would understand that he needed to suffer alone. Shutting off the lights, Clint forced himself to sleep on the bed where he had less of an advantage tactically. He wanted to be off balance, vulnerable, weak. For tonight, he'd let himself feel the guilt and blame that were too powerful to fight off.

Natasha heard the click of the lock as she walked down the hall to her room. It worried her that Clint wanted to be alone- nothing good ever came of it. He would isolate himself sometimes after a particularly difficult mission as if he deserved to be punished. For her, becoming too emotionally invested wasn't an issue, but for Clint it was a constant battle. He took things personally, especially if there was a loss of innocent life. Usually she allowed him to wallow in solitude for a while because it helped him cope. This time was different; she couldn't let him go down this road alone. His personal involvement was too twisted and complex for him to sort through. Instead, Natasha changed into something to sleep in, grabbed a hairpin, and silently stationed herself outside Clint's door.

It only took about an hour for the nightmares to start. Natasha heard his breathing change from deep and even to shallow and ragged. He didn't call out or say anything, but she could hear him thrashing and groaning as the dream gripped him harder. It took a moment for her to manipulate the lock on the door into opening, slip into the room, and close it behind her. She tried not to look too closely at Clint's face, the anguish written there was so heartbreaking. Instead, Natasha climbed into the bed beside him and pulled him close, calling his name and stroking his hair.

Clint's body returned to reality before his mind did. He felt someone close, too close, and immediately went into the defensive. When he realized that it was Nat he was grappling with, trying to disarm and incapacitate, he reeled back. Breathing hard, he leaned back on the headboard of the bed. Nat wasn't hurt or even surprised- she would have done the same thing in his situation. Attack first, question later.

"You know, Nat, I locked the door for a reason." Clint muttered, rubbing his hands down his face in an attempt to erase the images of his dream from replaying again.

Nat smiled, returning to his side. "I know. You locked the door so you could wallow in angst and all that. I gave you a few hours for the pity party. But you aren't going to get over this by isolating yourself and you know it. Besides, I can't get any sleep knowing you're in here dreaming about killing me."

Clint groaned, flopping down onto the pillows and burying his face. Natasha didn't seem to care how serious this was. The one person he truly cared for, dying at his hands, and she was treating it like a joke. It was one of the rare moments he wished they were on opposite sides of the world.

"Hey," Natasha tried to sound a little more sympathetic, resting her hand on his bare shoulder. "I know it's torture for you to have those dreams. What I'm saying is, don't make it any worse than it has to be. You don't deserve to relive that every night for the rest of your life. I won't let you."

He allowed her to turn him over, somehow feeling like an oversensitive teenage and yet a little better at the same time. She was right; allowing himself to sink into this cycle of self blame wasn't going to bring anyone back from the dead. He needed to accept the past and use it as a lesson for the future. Tomorrow he'd get the chance to help put the city back together. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Taking Natasha's hand, he pulled her against him and held her close. She rested her head against his chest, listening for the steady heartbeat she could fall asleep to. The last thing she heard before slipping into slumber was Clint's voice, whispering into her hair.

"Thank you."