A/N: Hi! OMG I'm alive! Work has royally handed my my rear end these past few weeks (I don't even know how long anymore) and then my Widow and Hawkeye cosplays for myself and OtherHalf took up the rest of my time. My eternal thanks to everyone who has faved, reviewed, and followed this story in my long absence. I will have to throw kudos out on the next chapter! I'm putting this one up now because 1 this is my only finished one out of the three I've been working and 2 my OtherHalf/beta reader is currently playing Halo 4 and there are some battles I won't fight LOL.

Nights after a rough mission, when the aches of her body and tired thoughts finally caught up, the most secret side of Black Widow came out. Over the years of their partnership, Clint learned to keep a subtle eye on her to catch her when she started to fall.

The Director called their mission a success, but Natasha had taken a significant amount of damage in the process. She lay on the sofa in Barton's apartment with a Gatorade, a German chocolate treat and a bottle of naproxen sodium all within her easy reach as she flipped through the cable channels for something to watch. The archer sat nearby, staying close without smothering the redhead, knowing how much pain she was in without her ever having to say a word.

Selecting a Discovery Channel show, the spy popped two pills and ripped open the chocolate. She munched quietly as Clint nursed a beer and checked his email. After a little while, she grew quiet and before the show even ended, Natasha had slid further down the sofa so she could lie flat. Pocketing his phone, the archer stood and stretched, his own sore muscles protesting, before he moved to the sofa.

"C'mon, Nat, let's get you tucked into bed here," he murmured softly, gently resting a hand on her shoulder.

"I can make it back to my apartment," she protested weakly, her eyes never opening.

He chuckled softly, "You could, but my bed's closer."

The Russian gave in rather easily, a testament to her exhaustion and pain. Ignoring his offered hand, she moved slowly to ease tormented muscles in the direction of the darkened hall. Clint followed closely, wanting to carry her but he knew the hard way that she never hurt too much to walk on her own. Not for the first time, he cursed her stubborn pride.

Once in the darkened room, the sniper started pulling the sheet and comforter down so she could get in. Despite popular belief, he at least made a half-assed attempt at making the bed most mornings. It was the Widow who turned beds into tangled nests, not the Hawk.

Turning, the sniper found his partner stripped down to just her underwear, the soft sports bra and panties the ideal night apparel. Without a word, she slipped past him and carefully slid between the sheets. Clint pulled the blankets up to her shoulders a placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. He started to move away when he heard her start to whisper.

"I'm afraid to fall asleep at night. In the Red Room, girls often fell asleep and never woke up," the redhead looked away, staring into the darkness of the past that haunted her.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed beside her, the archer brushed her hair out of her eyes. "You think you won't wake up?"

Natasha barely moved her head as she nodded. "They probably died from untreated concussions or internal bleeding, but I didn't think that then. I just knew I would be the next one to never wake up."

Reaching out, Clint gently brushed his fingers over her eyes, encouraging her to close them, his heart clenching at the tears he felt. "Sleep, Natasha. I promise I'll be here when you wake up."