II.

Clint

She'll know where to find him, when or if she wants to. It's not like he's hiding.

The trees are too close to the house so she'd know they're not an option; she also knows he wanted the ocean for a reason. Last point, he's brought the duffle that holds his bow and quiver, which will tell her that he'll be within shooting range just in case. (After all, he left her while she was asleep.)

What she won't know is when he left, or why, and that's just fine with him. He's downloaded enough shit on her already; she doesn't need any more. Besides … yeah.

He has rearranged (okay, kicked aside) the cushy chairs that were put on the dock to allow hotel patrons a nice close-up view of the sea while they sip their martinis. The new layout makes for a quick exit route, but also frees up space for the t'ai chi.

There are better, dirtier, and more effective martial arts of course, but he's found that this one goes well with the time he needs to spend in his own head to keep his focus, plus he gets to work every muscle in his body without alarming potential witnesses. He's taught it to her, and at headquarters they often practice together before sparring. It's apparently quite a sight: her liquid beauty, his military precision, perfectly in synch, twin shadows moving in silence, and they frequently draw an audience ("assassin junkies," Coulson calls … called them).

So anyway, here he is on the dock now, carving sharply defined movements into the cool morning air. The deadly dance will ground him, as will the open space. He hopes.

Of course he's aware of her presence as soon as she comes across the lawn; after all he's the Hawk, eyes in the back of his head, and that ochre leather jacket of hers sure picks up the sun. He finishes his moves, including the required period of drawn-in stillness at the end, before turning around - almost in time to miss her frown.

"You left," she says and it's almost an accusation, even dressed up as an explanation for why she's here. Of course she's pissed off; she should have woken when he opened the door to leave. Someone could have come in instead …

"You were asleep. I wasn't." It's not exactly an answer, is it, but it'll do.

She ignores him and ploughs on.

"I noticed you took the bow, so I thought you might need help."

Ah. She's thinking of the time they'd found those half-starved girls chained to a pipe, in the basement of a cult leader they'd taken out in Montana. After that, he'd shot arrow after arrow into a dead tree, because the one he'd put into the wannabe prophet's eye just hadn't been enough. Natasha had watched, then gone and printed out some photos off the internet and pinned them to the tree. Later, she'd pulled out all the arrows and stuck them back in his quiver. Reduce, reuse, recycle. No point wasting well-fletched ammo on scum.

"Nah, I'm good," he replies, giving her a small smile that makes her stare at his glasses as if she's trying to see whether it's for real.

"Just normal paranoia. Occupational hazard. You know."

She picks up his hoody from one of the chairs and tosses it to him. He accepts it with a nod of appreciation; it is a bit chilly when you're not actually moving, and besides it'll hide the fact that he's still wearing the red t-shirt he wore yesterday.

"Sleep okay?" he asks now, all business and ready to throw a diversion.

"You know I did," she answers. "At least, I did … after I didn't."

She remembers, then; she usually does. It's not the first time he's quieted a silent scream or filled the void that sometimes finds her after action - things the Red Room didn't take away or things that it put there, not that it matters which. She never talks about it, never thanks him; that would just complicate things for her, he knows. Chalk up another debt to those ledgers she keeps in her head. The way she thinks can be pretty black and white. (And red.)

So he simply nods his acknowledgement, glad that she doesn't know what it cost him this time to help her sleep. She won't find out, either, if he can help it. This one's red in his ledger.

"You … left," she says again, and this time the accusation isn't so veiled. There's something else, something he can't identify. "When? And did you sleep? At all?"

She stares at his sunglasses again while he shrugs and says nothing, wanting neither the lecture nor the lie.

"So, I guess you didn't. That's not good, Clint. You need to sleep. You didn't the night before, either. You can't keep this up …"

It looks like he's going to get the lecture anyway, so he decides to go on the attack. He knows how she works.

"Yeah?" he asks, taunting her now. "How d'you know I didn't sleep the night before?"

"You were in the S.H.I.E.L.D. medlab, having your head examined under neon lights. No one sleeps through an MRI."

He could take this line in a particular direction, of course – comparing her and Loki's respective approaches to cognitive recalibration and the impact on his cranium, inside and that is the last place he wants to go, so he takes the cheap out.

"You keeping tabs on me now? Should I be flattered or concerned?"

"Whatever you do, Barton, do not flatter yourself."

He flashes a grin at her; he's Barton again - they're back in the groove.

"I could use a coffee."

"You can always use a coffee. Not the point."

"Then let's go get one anyway. Might as well, it's seven thirty."

Natasha sighs, but she'll know that she won't get anything else from him for now, and one of the rules they have is no prodding, except in extremis.

B&B – breakfast and bickering. He puts away four cups of black coffee ("you planning on internalizing your very own Starbucks franchise?") and three helpings of bacon ("enough to cause a blip in pork belly futures"), but he balks at the frittata.

"They're potatoes, Clint!"

"Yeah? Whatever happened to just hash browns? I don't do precious for breakfast."

Natasha nibbles on yoghurt and fruit through all this, plucks at a croissant, sips orange juice and tea, and watches him through veiled eyes. He knows that look, almost like he's the subject of one of her Special Interrogations. Hell, he probably is. He did for her last night; she'll be wanting to help level him out today. Keeping that ledger of hers clean.

Once the food is gone and he's out of conversational arrows, Clint begins to feel twitchy. He knows it's probably a combination of sleep deprivation and an epic adrenaline hangover and that he should really go to bed, but instead he suggests they go for a run. Natasha, in turn, informs Agent Barton that given the amount of food he just inhaled he might as well just throw it all up now and get it over with; besides he's probably had a concussion, not to mention he almost broke his back landing on his quiver. Conclusion: maybe a run isn't the best thing right now.

He rolls his eyes and grumbles something about spiders making lousy mother hens and why the hell doesn't she go diagnose herself for a change, he's seen the contusions when he stuck her in bed. Natasha doesn't even dignify that with an answer.

All in all they're as close to arguing as they've come on this trip, and because he doesn't have the stomach for it he heads to the hotel's bright and charming sunroom, carrying his duffle and the front section of yesterday's New York Times. It's a thing they sometimes do, track media interpretations of their exploits on the internet or in the papers; she follows to see if she can coax a real smile out of him.

Today the game doesn't seem particularly funny though, especially as there are dozens of photographs. All those people with iPhones and blackberries – Clint wonders out loud whatever happened to civilians running for cover when the shit hits the fan, instead of trying to find immortality on youtube? Luckily the photos of the Avengers are mostly limited to Stark, Banner – in full Hulk mode - and the Captain, although there's a grainy zoom shot of the 'man called Hawkeye' (you can't really see his face, so that's okay) on that ledge, taking aim at something scaly.

What there is, too, is a picture of Loki, not inaccurately described as 'one of the apparent commanders of the invasion force'. It's a fairly high-resolution photo and the Asgardian is looking almost straight at the camera, his eyes shooting daggers of blue ice right off the page.

Clint crumples up the paper as if it contains a live cockroach and tosses it aside.

"Fuck it, Nat, I have to get out."

Natasha suggests a sauna and a massage, but the last thing Clint needs right now is to lie down while someone takes control of his body. He's still in his sweats from the t'ai chi and so he just heads out the door without waiting to see whether she'll follow.

She does, but only with her eyes.

…..

Despite his love of open spaces Clint is actually not overly fond of running; he much prefers the gym, the sparring room, or the range. But his body is a tool, like his bow and quiver, one that needs to be kept sharp and strong. And since that includes CV training he may as well kill two birds with one stone - get away and get a tune-up at the same time.

Going to their room is not an option; he might fall asleep, and who knows what that will bring. He sets out along the beach, his back to Manhattan.

For a while, his world narrows to the sound of his breath and the pounding of his feet in the hardened sand by the water's edge. It's almost enough to silence the voice echoing in his head. Almost.

Half an hour into his run, he realizes that he's left his bow in the sunroom. He spits out a curse, but he keeps going. An hour in, his head is pounding and maybe Natasha was right. Fuck. Maybe he should take a break? Sitting down doesn't seem the right thing to do for reasons already established, and so he decides to do another round of t'ai chi – the Forty-Two Competition set this time. In slo-mo, so as not to provoke his head.

That's how she finds him, spots him from a mile away slicing patterns into the air, a solitary figure between the sea and the sand.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?" she asks when she gets there, hands on hips, a little winded herself. She'd been running far above her usual pace to catch up with him.

"Because at this rate, you'll succeed by tomorrow."

But she doesn't really seem to expect an answer and so he doesn't give one, just keeps going. Focus.

"I found your bow and took it to the room," she tries again. "In case you care."

He cares. Of course he cares. His bow is … his bow. Although right now all he wants to do is to complete his patterns. She gets that, and sits down on the slope of one of the dunes in a patch of grass.

Eventually he runs out of excuses – forty-two moves only last that long, even if you go at the pace of the pensioners in Temple of Heaven Park – and he goes to join her. Reluctantly, because he both knows and fears what's coming. She can keep it up all day; eventually she'll crack him open like a thin-shelled egg, his extensive S.H.I.E.L.D. counter-interrogation training notwithstanding. (She teaches the course.)

But they're leveling out, this is part of the drill, and he may as well get it over with. He sits down beside her as is their normal habit, arms almost touching.

"You hate running," is her opening gambit.

Not always.

"No I don't. I just don't love it."

"That's bullshit and you know it, Clint."

Sometimes running is all there is. He goes on the attack.

"Look, are you trying to pick a fight? Because I'm not in the mood."

"I'm not trying to fight with you. I want to know why you ran away."

Ran away when – last night? This morning? If he asks, she has her answer about last night. He doesn't.

"I didn't run away. I went running. Difference."

"Clint."

And there it is, the first crack. The way she says his name pounds at his defences; he's lasted less than a minute. Less than she did last night.

"Hell, Tasha. I guess I thought … maybe if I run fast enough, I could outrun … it … everything. Him."

"You think he's still in your head? But Thor said …"

"Fuck Thor," he snarls. "What the hell does he know what's in my head or not, and how to get it out?"

"Tell me, then," she says, and her voice is soft. She's very good.

"Phil," he says, his voice even as he stares at the sea. Maybe that will be enough; maybe if he says this, this one thing, she will leave him be and he can work the rest of the shit out for himself over the next couple of days.

"Phil?" She frowns. "Clint, we all know that Loki was the one who killed Phil, and how. You weren't even there."

"Yeah? Well, newsflash. If it hadn't been for me, Loki wouldn't have been on that goddamn barge to begin with. I might as well have punched that spear through Coulson's chest myself."

She grips his arm now, a slight look of alarm crossing her face when he recoils visibly from her touch. She holds on though, her nails digging into his skin a little to make him hear, make him feel.

"I told you, Clint, don't do that to yourself. You said it, you know it: Loki emptied you out, poured himself inside your head. You did not kill Phil, that was …"

He yanks his arm away from her, not caring about the red marks her nails leave, and faces her fully. He's angry now, his jaw clenches and his eyes spray cold green fire.

"Maybe that's how it works for you, Tasha. Sticking stuff into convenient little boxes in your head, wiping slates clean. If that kind of system is what they gave you when they fucked you over in that Red Room of yours, then good on ya. My head doesn't work that way though, and Phil deserves better than me saying yeah, I only killed him by proxy and then I helped save Manhattan, so it's okay."

Her face has gone still at his mention of the place of her own unmaking, and he knows he's being unfair. But she's a professional and recognizes a distracting flare when one is thrown in her face – he can see it in her eyes. He also knows that if she thinks his hurling shit at her is going to make him better, she'll make it happen, somehow. She's allowed people to do a lot worse to her, in order to get what she wants from her marks.

Sure enough, she will not let him off the hook. His hand makes a fist in the sand as she speaks, because he just knows she'll break him. He's just not that good, and she is.

"This isn't about Coulson, and it isn't about the Red Room, either. It's about you, Clint, and what's inside your head. And you and I both know that you didn't want any of the things Loki made you do. Focus on that, and …"

"No."

There. He's said it.

"What do you mean, no?"

His voice is tired now, all the anger drained away as quickly as it had flared up. Maybe he really should have tried to sleep last night, taken the couch instead of spending a cold, damp night in a chair on the dock …

"I mean no, Tasha. Truth is, Loki didn't just make me do what he wanted. He made me want to do it. He made me want …"

How do you say to your … partner, I wanted to kill you?

That each arrow he'd pointed at her during their fight on that catwalk, each thrust with the knife, each kick, had been foreplay – not only of death, but worse things?

That he still hears that voice echo inside his head, dripping its need, howling its desire, shrieking its pleasure each time his fist or foot or elbow connected with her body – how it cackled its contempt each time her fist or foot or elbow smashed into his?

That the voice may have simply fuelled a fire that must have been there to begin with, for it to blaze so brightly?

That last night, when he held her down from her own nightmare, her breath coming in gulps, her heart racing against his chest, it was all he could do to stay there for her for as long as it took - before bolting from the room in the face of remembered horrors and desires?

Clint doesn't (can't, won't) say any of these things, though. He just shakes his head, again and again, raises his hands to ward off the voice and squeezes his eyes shut, lest they be rimed again with Loki's hatred.

But then he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, a thumb stroking his neck. That's his thing, not talking, holding her until she calms – she's never done it for him. Never had to, truth be told, he's always been in pretty much in control. Feeling her hand there, now, hearing the low hum of her voice as she whispers his name, throws the cracks wide open.

On a sunny day you can often see birds of prey wheeling in the sky, riding the thermals. If you watch long enough, one may drop like a stone. It is a beautiful sight – that fierceness, that control, the deadly grace of the hunt.

The Hawk never sees the ground coming until it strikes. Elbows on his knees and hands pressed against his face, his body suddenly convulses with one, two, three wracking sobs.

There is a long silence on the beach, the only sound the slight murmur of the sea until he finds his voice, his face still buried in his hands, thumbs digging into those treacherous eyes.

"He made me listen while you talked to him. Like a wire, into his head. I heard and saw everything, or at least what he wanted me to. He told you what he would make me do to you, and I wanted it. All of it, everything he said, I needed it. And when he said that on waking I'd be screaming until he split my skull - I wanted that, too. Well, guess what, Tasha. He got his wish."

Clint turns to his partner, his eyes dry but empty – so empty. His voice is a whisper.

"I'm still screaming."

And then there really isn't anything more to do, or say, but at least now she knows the worst. He can feel her hand on his shoulder again, and this time he lets it be.

Maybe she knows now why he ran from the room; he's said his bit, he's not going to spell it out for her. If she still wants to sit beside him after that, well, he's not going to argue. She'll know how to handle herself when the time comes, now that she knows he's a ticking bomb.

He finds his concentration wavering – it has been a long time, and two wars, since he last slept – and gets up off the beach in a fluid motion. Maybe she could put him in restraints again so he can get some sleep.

"Coming?" he asks without looking at her.