I have realized that my story is (accidentally!) very similar to Burn by White Lioness Spirit. You should read and review hers, she definitely deserves it.

She awoke with a shudder, a cry dead on her full lips, a film of sweat leaving her chilled. The blankets had fingers, twining around her legs and clawing at her clothes. She brought a shaking hand to her face, as if she could pull the images into her cupped palm and keep them from flashing behind her eyes. Glimpses of a half-remembered nightmare, the ghost of fear clenching her lungs like a vice, tremors making their way down her spine. She remembered his grin, manic, twisting his familiar face into a monster, a monster that knew all of her secrets. Ice blue eyes stared into her, and he knew, he knew everything that she feared.

So much red in her ledger. She shook her head, but the motion could do nothing to dislodge the memories, and the cold feeling of dread that had slithered into her chest. A knife flashed, and cold steel brought sharp, hot pain. Intimately, Loki had said. Tears, familiar, pooled in her eyes, and she choked them back, swallowed her fear, and let it clench in her stomach rather than fall to her cheeks.

She had allowed him to get that close, welcomed the words, because she knew it would get her the information that they needed, knew that he would slip up. She hadn't expected that his words would cut so deep. Her blood on his hands. She had seen his eyes, had seen the blue leech out of them, and had seen his horror. That's what had woken her, what had caused her to cry out. She had seen his realization that he was a monster, his realization of what he had become, what he had done.

She kicked off the tangled sheets, and let the cold air of her room wash over her, sending goose bumps trailing over her moist skin. She walked to the small sink in her room, standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue, and looked at herself in the reflection. All ashen skin and wide eyes, the shimmer of sweat on her pale brow. She touched her lip lightly; she had bitten it in her nightmare, and it was swollen slightly. She let cool water flow over her still-trembling fingers, and then splashed it over her face, cleansing and cold. She dried her face and examined her reflection again, dark circles beneath her eyes outlining the fear she felt every time she lay down to sleep. She took all of the threads of her emotions and wound them tightly, making them into steel, and she wrapped it around her spine, forcing her head up. Her muscles might still be quavering, and her heart beating fast, but she was not brittle. She would not be broken.

She stepped away from the mirror, her bare feet making nearly no noise on the cool metal tile of the floor, the path so familiar she needed no guidance in the darkness. She padded to her door and slid it open. She knew, somewhere deep in her chest, that he would be there. Clint stood in the darkness of the hallway, head bent as if in penitence. He glanced up when he saw the light of the door. His eyes searched hers, and she could see the struggle. He wanted to fight, to protect, to soothe. Finally, the inner turmoil seemed to settle, and though he wasn't calm, he was steady. He pushed himself from where he had been leaning, and closed the distance between them with two even steps. His rough hands skimmed the pale skin of her arms, before resting on her shoulders. Without a word he pulled her against his chest, and she nestled under his chin. His hands tangled in her scarlet hair, and they simply stood, embracing, in her doorway. She could heart his heart beating a steady rhythm against her ear, and the warmth of his skin soaked into her, loosening the tension wound around every inch of her frame.

He could destroy her. He could rebuild her.