Natasha doesn't look at him when he walks in to one of the under-construction sitting rooms. She doesn't have to. Assassins see without looking. He sits on the far edge of the sofa, leaning forward, hands together.
He fidgets when he doesn't know what to say. He never fidgets when he's nervous. That's a bad habit for an archer, an assassin, an agent.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Natasha asks. Clint glances at her without moving his head.
"What's there to talk about? Not like talking will make them go away." He sees in his peripheral vision as she slides over to sit right next to him, close enough to smell her (like the ocean and exotic spices) and feel the heat off her, but not touching. Invisible barriers.
Natasha doesn't speak, waiting for Clint to open up on his own. He knows her interrogation tricks. He stays silent. What is he supposed to say?
"If you didn't want to talk about it, you wouldn't have come," she says finally, turning to look at him. He stares at his knees and fiddles with the small hole he's worn into his jeans. He gently tugs on a loose thread, watching the hold widen.
"I don't know how to put myself back together after being so completely... lost" He looks up and meets her eyes. Her expression is blank. "How'd you do it, Tasha?"
Natasha frowns, almost a cringe. Clint knows how that feels: the self-disgust and loathing that comes from being controlled, being own, body and soul, and liking it. He regrets asking; he places his hands on his knees, preparing to stand so he can leave, so they don't have to have this conversation, but a cool hand reaches out and brushes the back of his knuckles. He waits.
"You can't. I didn't." Clint's brows knit together. What does she mean? Natasha slips her fingers under his hand, brushes her thumb across the knuckles, and lifts the hand to her lips. "You did." She presses her mouth to the back of his hand and Clint is speechless.
They hold hands for a long time. Clint eventually falls asleep against the back of the couch with Tasha's head in his lap, twirling her hair around his fingers while she reads her book. It's the first time he doesn't dream of Loki since she saved him.
