(on AO3)

Natasha can't quite bring herself to tell him the terrible truths about her past and her self that haunt her.

She sits on the bed in a close, comfortable safehouse, shades drawn down to soften the glow of morning light, her back to Clint's hands as he carefully changes her bandages and checks her wounds for healing. He closes up the pain relieving cream; she can hear the scrape of plastic lid screwing shut, and she sighs.

His fingertips brush her shoulder. He tugs gently, and Natasha's heartbeat quickens, but she lets him turn her and look into her eyes to read her terrible secrets there. She has none left: they have been flung to the far corners of the world, baring soul and ancient bloody history to the hapless whim of the internet.

But it is not her own secrets that make her breath come a little faster. She looks into Clint's eyes and reads there new agonies she hoped to never see mirrored in his gaze. He had been one person who'd always made his own choices and to the best of his ability, the right ones. He took responsibility for his kills.

She runs her hands over his shoulders then tugs him down into her embrace. He is gentle with her, gentle with her injuries from fighting the Winter Soldier and HYDRA on her way to rendezvous, but he lets her hold him as his shoulders shake silently. She hushes him in the quiet of this tiny room, their haven from the outside world.

Neither speak, neither weep, and neither let go of the comfort within their arms.