I am so tired I just want to go to bed; but of course, this little plot bunny took hold of me and wouldn't let go.

Enjoy this at the price of my sleep.

"You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they're not." -Jodi Picoult

Her eyes flicker open sometime around midnight, this knowledge curtsy of the blinking lights that come from the small alarm clock she keep to the side of her bed. Though, she wasn't thinking much about the time at that moment; no, her focus was more on the echoing gasps that seemed to pierce her soul, the pure desperation of the noises coming from the other room forcing her to swallow thickly.

Without a second thought she's jerking the sheets off, throwing her body to the side and nearly bolting towards the main area of the apartment, a small little room that held little more than a couch, a chair, and a small television that was currently held the image of a scratchy screen on it's face. But her focus isn't on any of that; she braces herself against the doorway, pressing her hand against her injured ribs — a small twinge of pain emerging from moving too quickly — and taking in the scene before her.

Her eyes slam shut for a moment, her hand falling limply by her side. He'd fallen asleep on the couch again, she thinks, biting her lip. She moves towards him, her footsteps soft against the wooden floor. He's twitching, his mouth parted in alarm, noises of pain entering the room. But he was asleep; nightmare, she realizes, swearing.

She's hesitant, at first. They'd established a long time ago that waking up the other during nightmares was a dangerous thing; each was susceptible to attack, because waking up from sleep was deeply clouded with confusion. But the look on his face left her next to no time to decide before she's leaning over the couch, brushing her fingers carefully over his cheek.

His hands flies up just as his eyes flash open, encasing her wrist in a iron like grip. She doesn't struggle though, only waits as he gathers his bearings. She does lean down though, putting her knees against the floor and settling on the backs of her heels.

"Clint," she says, keeping her voice low as he stares at her with panic in his eyes. "Clint, you're having a nightmare."

He swears, but his voice is oddly twisted somehow, his lips forming around the word awkwardly. Now it's her turn to swear when she realizes that he's not wearing his hearing aids; he must have fallen asleep without them again.

You alright? she signs, her hands clumsy. It's been a while since she'd signed, though at first she had tried practice nearly every night or so; but SHIELD's demise had left little time for practicing anymore, it seems, and as she signs he looks at her with unbridled despair.

Tasha, he spells her name out. But there's nothing more before he's reaching a hand out, curling on hand around the back of her neck, fingers slipping into her curls. "Nat," he chokes, voice soft and low.

She knows that he hates this; she'd known it ever since that fateful day when he'd woken up in a hospital bed, bloody and bruised, with the doctor holding a piece of paper up that read, you're deaf.

He had panicked, and frankly so had she; though, with tears stains on her cheeks and pain in her heart, she had tried to comfort him. It was only when she had walked in on him screaming at the mirror, throwing his aids against the wall, that she had wondered whether he was ever going to be the same again. She had lain awake many nights, tossing and turning, thoughts swirling, wishing for the Clint that pulled her from hell and made her right again — that is, as right as a person like her could be.

That had been four years ago; now, he was better. But it didn't do much for his mentality when he would wake up, panicked, like he had tonight, unable to hear her voice. She could see it in his eyes as he looked at her, not hiding his emotions. He just plain didn't care anymore.

The fingers resting on his cheek sift slightly, her thumb moving to brush itself over his skin. He watches her carefully as she gives him a soft smile, trying to keep her face void of any emotion other than comfort.

It doesn't work though, because he knows her all too well. She moves closer to him, wrapping her free hand around his middle, laying her head on his chest. But then there's a hand slinking around her waist, and she moves her knees slightly in order to slip onto the narrow couch beside him, half on him and half on the worn fabric.

They lay there for a moment, her listening to the sound of his slightly labored breathing. She moves her head up then, murmuring, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

He reads her lips slowly, taking more time than he needs to answer her question. But he shakes his head, as she had predicted he would. Her partner wasn't one to spill his emotions; then again, neither was she.

He brushes a finger underneath her chin, drawing her closer to him. His other hand lightly strokes her lower back, just underneath the loose tee she likes to wear to bed — his, she realizes as her lips capture his lazily. It isn't a rushed kiss, not like the so many they'd shared before; it was one that meant to release the warmness spiraling in her middle, the sparks of heat that his touch sent spiraling off of her. They kisses for a while, his tongue occasionally slipping between her lips, only to have her return the favor.

It's a kiss that's for comfort, and she realizes the feeling of his body underneath hers. It molds into hers, fitting in a way that, years ago, wouldn't bothered her — but it didn't now. Because she had found a partner that was like no other, a man that she trusted completely and honestly with her life. He knew everything about her; she knew everything about him.

She draws back, cheeks lightly flushed and eyes wide. His fingers continue to stroke the small of her back as she curls her fingers around the small hairs that lie on the back of his neck; his other hand has moved to her cheek, brushing his thumb against her eye, while her free hand does the same, moving slightly against the rough scar that makes an appearance just below his lip.

He quirks a small smile at her; she can feel his breathing is far more even now than it was before as he sighs, his eyes flickering. He's tired, she can tell, so she draws herself back, sitting up, straddling his hips.

Let's go to bed, she signs, returning the smile. You fell asleep on the couch, silly boy.

He laughs then; it's a hearty laugh, and although she knows that he can't hear it, it releases the ball of worry that had been making it's way in her chest.

I haven't been a boy for a long time, he signs back, quirking an eyebrow. You would know more about that than anyone, wouldn't you, my spider?

She hits him lightly on the shoulder, rolling off on him and keeping her own two feet steady on the ground. She doesn't have to look to know that he's following her; from the grunt that he makes when he stands on his weak knee to the light breathing that she will only ever associate with him tells her that he's going to be alright, nightmare or not.

She makes her way to the bed first, curling underneath the sheets with her hands underneath her head. He's there not moments later, curling his hand her waist and tucking her close to his chest.

Sleep begins to draw her, but she fights it; moments like these, just the two of them and the quiet, are rare in these recent days. Although she can't see him, she feels him kiss the top of her head, pulling her even closer to him.

She closes her eyes, the ever present tiredness pulling her into the darkness, but not before she hears, quiet and heavy with sleep, "I love you, мой огненный паук."

She rolls over in his arms, leaning up to press a light kiss to his lips. I love you too, she mouths, eyes meeting his.

He kisses her again, slowly and desperate, fingers intertwining with hers, as if it was the last kiss they would ever have.

Knowing their line of work though, it very well could be.

Well...I'm going to sleep now.