A Gift From: shenshen77
Type Of Gift: Fic
Title: Once A Hero
A Gift For: geckoholic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: nightmares, panic attacks, mind control
Summary/Prompt Used: I used the following prompt: The road to recovery. I don't particularly care from what -- psychological trauma, difficult mission, a psychical injury, whatever -- but I'd love something that focuses on the actual process of ~dealing with stuff. The prompt made me want to explore the immediate fallout of the “Battle of New York” and dealing with the psychological trauma of mind control.
Author's Note: Gecko, thank you so much for this wonderful prompt, I hope you'll enjoy the fic at least a little bit. I'm sorry if it might be a bit too fluffy for your taste, but I tried to keep the angst level high :) Thank you to the wonderful people who cheered me on and helped with betaing. I would not have been able to overcome my writer's block without you. You are the heroes that shall remain nameless until I post this somewhere else. <3


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Night 1

Clint was exhausted, his body pushed well beyond its limits. He and Natasha limped up to their little bolthole at the Lower East Side, Natasha favoring her right ankle, Clint his left knee. It had taken them well over half an hour to get there from the shawarma restaurant, but he felt safe here. Dust and sweat covered them both in a crude film, testimony to the rigors of the day.

He helped Natasha to peel herself out of her catsuit and carefully checked her for injuries, finding none that would require his immediate attention. She helped him shed his own uniform, her fingers trembling slightly when she ran them along his skin to check him over.

“I'm okay,” he said with conviction, knowing that she needed to hear him confirm her own findings. “I'm okay.”

“I'm glad,” she said, kissing him chastely, then left for the bathroom.

He walked around dazedly while she showered, not really knowing what to do with himself. He thought about joining her in the shower, but she'd have told him if she wanted him there. No, she deserved some time to herself. He could see that she was more at ease when she came out, her posture more relaxed.

“Shower. You look like crap,” she said and smiled a little when she passed him on the way to the dresser.

He grinned and did as he was told. The bathroom was steamed up when he entered and he was glad not to be confronted by his image in the mirror. Memories of the day sluiced down the drain with the soapy water. He still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that he had fought against aliens. Aliens! Not to mention a mad demi-god who'd kept him under a spell and used him for his nefarious plans. Aiming that last arrow at Loki in Stark Tower had felt incredibly cathartic, an end to an ordeal he never wanted a part in.

He shut off the water, wincing when the towel irritated the numerous cuts he had picked up while crashing through a skyscraper window. But they or the pain didn't matter much now, he was so tired that he couldn't even see straight.

He pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and joined Natasha in bed. She had her back to him and he was sure that she was already asleep. But when he laid down, she scooted back to be closer. He put his arm around her and fell asleep with his nose buried in her freshly washed hair.

They slept like the dead until noon of the next day.


Night 2

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He was trapped. Trapped. Trapped. He opened his mouth to scream, but the couldn't draw a deep enough breath. This must be what drowning felt like, he thought. Not peaceful at all, it was all a lie. Lie. Lie.

"Clint, wake up!"

He jerked up, fist balled and aimed at the person calling his name before he could even think clearly.

A small but strong hand caught his wrist before he could hit anything.

"Clint, stop!" Natasha said, squeezing her fingers around his arm.

Over the pounding in his ears and his wheezing breath he could hear an edge in her voice. She sounded scared. Of him? For him? He shook his head and unclenched his fist, slowly trying to unknot his tense muscles.

She turned on the reading lamp above the bed and looked at him, still holding onto his arm.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her eyes fastened on his - concerned, inquiring, searching in that way she had.

Clint pulled back his arm and realized that he had tangled himself in the sheets. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Stupid. He was such an idiot. Getting worked up over nothing.

"I'm okay, sorry I scared you," he said as he struggled against the sheets and turned away from Natasha. He turned off the light without waiting for a reply. "Go back to sleep."


Night 3

Tell me all about her,' Loki demanded. 'The red-head, what does she want? What does she fear?" And Clint answered, detailed, meticulous, to the point. Like the good soldier he once was, following orders, doing what was asked of him. A mindless tool. A blunt instrument.

"Clint, wake up!"

Natasha's voice cut through the nothingness and he recoiled with shame. He flung himself back and away from her so forcefully that he fell right out of bed. He hit the hardwood with a dull thud, the ground cold and rough against his sleep-warmed skin. He shivered as he registered the dull pain of yet another new bruise.

"Oh shit," Nat cursed, lunging after him. "Are you okay?"

He could barely make out her face in the dim light, but he could hear the concern. How could she talk to him like that when he had betrayed her? How was that possible? He could feel his ears burn and he turned away.

"You were muttering in your sleep. I was worried," she said and laid her hand on his shoulder.

He didn't want to, didn't deserve her, but he leant into the touch nevertheless. He closed his eyes, the warmth of her hand seeping into his flesh. He took a deep breath and when he exhaled he felt slightly more at ease.

"Nightmare," he admitted as he got up and back into bed, scooting close to Natasha.

He hoped against hope that she wouldn't ask for further explanation.

She didn't ask and Clint was sure that she already knew all the answers anyway. Instead she pulled him close and held him until he fell back asleep, her fingers softly carding through his hair.


Night 4

"I'll sleep on the couch," he said lowly after he once again woke in a cold sweat, punching at shadows.

Natasha's voice was strong and calm as she said, "No you won't. You will stay and you will talk. Now."

She held out her hand to him again, her eyes fastened on his. In the dim light of the room he could just make out that her face was set determinedly.

"Clint?" Her voice was softer than before, a bit uncertain, contradicting her facial expression.

She pulled him to her and wrapped her leg around him, her hands on his cheeks. Her teeth marks still showed as subtle yellowish bruises on his forearm and the bump on his head was still painful to touch. She had fought tooth and nail to get him back and he knew that he had nothing to fear as long as she was here. But how could she stay once he told her everything?

She stroked his cheek, saying, "Don't shut me out. You don't have to do this alone."

"I know," he whispered. He wanted to tell her what was weighing on his mind. He opened his mouth, but no words would come out. He felt the now familiar panic stir again and Natasha responded as she had done these past days - by holding him tighter.

"It's okay, I'll be here whenever you're ready."


Night 5

'How many agents, Natasha? How many?' Faces swirled in front of him, some he recognized, some featureless blanks. Through it all he could hear Loki's laughter and he froze with fear.

"Clint, wake up," Natasha's soft voice cut through the remnants of his dream, her fingers warm against his clammy skin.

Clint woke with a strangled groan, his heart beating a mile a minute against his sternum. He felt his pulse reverberate through him, from the top of his skull to the tips of his toes. His hands hurt and he realized that he was strangling the duvet. Again.

His body felt like he'd run 10k in full tactical gear, the exhaustion of four close to sleepless nights catching up with him. Her hand traveled from his shoulder to his hand and unclenched his fingers, twining hers with his. Clint tried to steady his breathing as he rolled from his side to his back. He sucked in a breath when the bruises from his quiver made themselves known and he could hear his knee pop as he straightened his leg. Neither had taken too kindly to crashing through a window, not that he blamed them in the least. But these were things he knew how to deal with, he'd had enough injuries coming off of missions that he knew these were rather minor. What he didn't know how to deal with were the nightmares.

This whole Avengers business, gods and aliens, monsters and supersoldiers - it had been nothing they'd ever trained for, Natasha had been right about that. He was just human, he had no place there.

He squeezed Natasha's hand.

"It's been a long week," he sighed.

"Yes, it was," she agreed.

She moved closer, laying her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her, her warmth seeping into him. Slowly his trembling subsided.

"I saw the people I harmed under Loki's spell," he whispered. "There were so many."

"Tell me about it," Natasha said.


+1

Once he started talking Clint couldn't seem to stop. Natasha drew lazy circles on his chest and stomach as she listened. Her ankle still hurt and the past week had left her exhausted but at this moment she was content. Clint's voice rumbled softly in his chest, reverberating against her cheek as he spoke of the things that had weighed on his mind and heart.

Her heart ached for Clint, even as she banished her own demons back into the depth of her soul. The Hulk had scared her more than she would ever admit to anyone, but nothing had been scarier than fighting Clint. Not the Clint she knew, but one that knew her, knew her weaknesses and had no hesitation in using them against her. She was used to the nightmares, and none were as violent as his. So the memories of his ice-blue, soulless eyes had vanished the second she'd woken to his anguished tossing and turning. That was her Clint, the one who felt too much and who'd held her years ago when her own demons were threatening to tear her apart.

"What if I had this in me the whole time?" Clint asked. "This disregard for life?"

She propped herself up and looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot, tired and she gently traced a finger across the bags under them. He closed them, his whole posture softening and when he opened them not a flicker of the icy nothingness remained.

"You spared me against your orders. If you were what you fear, I wouldn't be here." Her chest was tight as a small smile crept onto her face. "And I wouldn't have stayed."

He swallowed hard and was about to say something when she put her finger across his lips.

"None of this was your fault. What chance did you have against a mad, egocentric demi-god?"

His face softened some more as he contemplated this.

"See?" Natasha said as the first rays of morning sun peeked through the curtains.

Clint nodded with a lopsided grin, looking years younger than mere moments ago.

“Yeah, I do.”

His hand tangled in Natasha's hair, the rough pads against her skin sending shivers down her spine. He pulled her close and kissed her, deeply, slowly. He'd given her the chance at a life of her choosing and she'd never wanted anyone more. No Tony Stark or Steve Rogers, she didn't need no star spangled uniform or flying suit. He'd always be her hero, battered and worn, doubting and scared. But always hers.