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Clint runs and runs through the endless maze of hallways. The pounding footsteps close behind him makes his heart pound in his chest. He sprints as fast as he can, but his chasers never tire, never slow down. His lungs gasp for air and his feet scream in protest. They’re getting closer; he can hear them.
He glances over his shoulder.
There they are, each wearing a feral expression. His father, Trick Shot, Jacques, Barney, and a more recent addition, Loki.
His ghosts. His monsters.
They never go away.
***
His eyes flash open. Sweat drips down his forehead. The sheets are tangled around his waist, drenched. He shudders with the realization that it was only a dream. And yet, he can still see the faces, hungry with anticipation of catching their prey.
Clint slips out of bed with shaky feet. After slipping on new shirts and pants, he leaves his room in Stark Tower and heads for the roof. The sky is still dark, but the city below never sleeps. He watches, only because he is desperate to forget his nightmare. A gust of wind make him shiver, reminding him of nearing autumn, but he welcomes the cold numbness gladly. Physical pain is easier to bear.
How long he stays, Clint doesn’t know. It must be hours, though, because he can see the sun on the horizon. By now, the cold has seeped into his bones. And still he stays, watching over the city like a silent guardian.
He doesn’t hear her approach through the chattering of his teeth. Her hand, still warm from being inside, makes him jump.
“How long?” Natasha asks.
“Dunno,” Clint replies.
“You’re freezing, Clint. Didn’t you bring a blanket?” She sits down and wraps an arm around him.
“Nah.”
“That was stupid.”
They sit in silence for a while, until Natasha breaks it again.
“It’s okay to hurt. See that?” She points down at the city. “There’s still damage from the invasion. But it’s getting better. It’s healing, Clint. So will you.”
Clint finally allows himself to lean into her touch. “Yeah,” he whispers. His voice is rusty from lack of use. “I hope.”