The change in her breathing woke him, snapping him out of a light sleep and he turned to face her, attention drawn to the rapid movement of her eyes beneath her closed eyelids. He reached for her, intending to shake her awake, and then thought better of it, remembering all to well what had happened the last time he tried to wake her. Any contact could be sucked into her nightmare and end up causing her more distress which was precisely the last thing he wanted.
Her body arched off the mattress, every muscle straining, clenching tightly as she fought an internal battle that he couldn't help her with. After a few minutes the tension ebbed out of her and she sank sweat soaked to the mattress again, a soft moan escaping her lips. Fighting his own battle, Barton tried to decide what to do. He felt like her should wake her, it was cruel to leave her suffering if he could avert it, but he already knew that she wouldn't talk to him about the nightmares. If he woke her up he knew that neither of them would get back to sleep, he didn't care. Remembering a dozen nights when he himself had woken sore and aching after one of his own nightmares, his mind trapped in images that he couldn't banish, he knew that he would have preferred to be awake all night than struggle with the lingering echoes the next morning. He could take her outside and sit with her under the night sky, walk her around the meadow for the rest of the night, he would do whatever she wanted to do, but he had to wake her.
He didn't get the chance.
Just as he was about to reach for her again, Natasha began to talk. She had talked in her sleep more than once since they had been sharing a bed but this time was different. This time the words poured from her, memories surfacing as her brain tried to purge the violent experiences that were poisoning her from within. Every word, every detail, was like a physical blow as the memories escaped her. Memories of what had happened before he found her merging with older memories of her time with the Red Room, all of them horrific, all of them locked away somewhere in her mind. How had she even survived it all?
He sat on the edge of the bed and flinched as she talked about the men who had hurt her, the ways they had abused her and he bowed his head as he absorbed the words. He was her only witness, he would bear the weight of her confessions because nobody else could possibly do so without seeing her differently. She talked and he listened, all the while feeling a growing weight in his chest, a pain that crystallised and shattered, searing every part of him and leaving him bleeding as surely as if a dagger had been plunged into his chest.
He watched her for several minutes after the talking stopped and then, once he was sure that she was once again sleeping deeply, he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, fighting the urge to vomit. No wonder she didn't want anyone near her. No wonder even the thought of anyone touching her was more than she could bear. What had been done to her was not just torture for information, though that would have been bad enough, it was a systematic attempt to destroy her: body, mind and soul. Rage and horror mingled within him, burning like acid in his throat, settling like something toxic in his lungs and forcing him to move before he lashed out at something.
Padding through to the living room, he grabbed the bourbon that sat on the desk and headed out onto the porch. Dressed in only his pyjama pants, he took a generous swig from the bottle and let the cool air dry the sweat on his skin. Alone with the song of the crickets he braced his arms against the rail and tried to rein in his volatile emotions. He had seen the marks, the bruises, the fresh scars and he had thought that he had known what she went through but he had barely known anything. Natasha's suffering had been far more extensive than any of them could have realised. He knew that she wouldn't remember anything of what had just happened when she woke and for that he was thankful, wishing that he too could force away the newly dawning awareness that assaulted him with images of finding her, limp and bleeding in that room.
He stayed out on the porch until the sky began to lighten, silently turning over the ways in which he could track and kill those responsible for her pain. He was a good tracker and an excellent shot, he could be in and out of there before most of them knew they were in danger. Revenge wouldn't undo what had been done to her, but damn it would make him feel better. Once she was fully healed, he would go and see Fury to see whether there was scope for him to be sent on a very personal solo mission, but right now she was his priority.
Finding her still sleeping when he returned to the bedroom, he carefully stretched out on the mattress at her side once more. Almost immediately she opened her eyes and he found himself pinned in place under the weight of her gaze. She wasn't fully awake, he could tell by the way she moved. Usually Natasha came awake at the slightest sound, fully aware of her surroundings and ready for action but not this morning. Tired from her restless night, she could barely keep her eyes open but he could sense her awareness gathering momentum. Her fingers curled around his seeking comfort, and since she had instigated the contact and seemed comfortable with it, he wrapped her smaller hand in his.
"It's still early," he informed her quietly. "Sleep a while longer if you need to." She nodded, snuggling down into the pillows and closing her eyes. She didn't let go of his hand though, and for that he was grateful. He stared at the woman in front of him, a woman whose sudden vulnerability awakened all kinds of protective instincts in him and he knew that she was as much his anchor as he was hers. She was the one good reason he had to hold his temper. She was also the one good reason he had to unleash it.