Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers.

Summary: He opens his eyes, and for the first time in what seems like years, Natasha can breathe again. ClintNatasha, oneshot

Um, yeah. ClintNatasha? Awesomeness. I really wanted to write something for these two and this just kind of came out. I hope that everyone likes this little fic of mine, and I would love it if y'all reviewed! It would mean a lot. Thanks so much for reading and I hope y'all enjoy!

Exhale

She knew she hit him really hard on the head, but he has been out for so long that she's not entirely sure she hasn't put him in a coma.

Natasha isn't worried though. She has been for the longest time, worried over whether he would be brought back to them in a body bag or worse, but now she isn't worried. The doctor checked him over, and his eyes were free of that cancerous blue that marked him as one of Loki's. So she isn't worried.

Really, she's not.

She just wants him to hurry the hell up and open his eyes already.

The small room in which they have him strapped down has the feel of a prison. A tiny room, with a tiny bathroom, with a monstrous chair complete with arm and leg restraints. She tries not to focus on the details, though. Focusing on the details makes everything seems worse, so she tries to think on a broader scale.

Clint is alive. Clint is better. Clint is alive.

This is the mantra she repeats. Sometimes in Russian, sometimes in English. She repeats it nonetheless, to remind herself. She has to remind herself. She cannot forget.

Natasha sits in a rather stuffy feeling chair beside her partner. She finds herself pacing more often than not, but at this moment in time, she decides to take advantage of the chair that has been provided for her. She finds herself sitting with her back so straight it would be comical under any other circumstances. She places her hands on her knees and stares in front of her, focusing on a spot on the wall above Clint's head, trying not to be so obvious with her anxiety.

Natasha manages to occupy herself with doing little things. Things that she only acts on when no one else is watching - such as wiping the seemingly permanent sheen of sweat from his forehead. Things that would make her be perceived as weak. Though she finds herself minding that less and less.

Sometimes she paces, like an impatient bull. Sometimes she wrings her hands. Sometimes she just stares at the wall. Sometimes she checks his eyes, just to be absolutely sure that the shocking neon color is gone from them. Sometimes a rage comes over her, so intense that it blinds her. She imagines punching Loki square in his jaw, imagines putting a bullet in his brain, though knowing that Clint would want to do that for himself, after all that he put him through.

She thinks she knows him too well.

Everything feels like it's going in slow motion. It is almost as if time slowed down as soon as they put him in this chair, as soon as they strapped his limbs down, as soon as they told her to wait it out.

So, here she is, teeth gritted and patience waning, just waiting for him to wake up.

If she didn't know better, she'd say he was doing this on purpose. Not waking up. Just to taunt her, just to move her into a desperate frenzy that would most likely end with him getting his ass handed to him again.

She smirks at that.

Natasha taps her foot on the tiled floor. The tap-tap-tap is rhythmic, slightly hypnotic. She should just listen to that and stop thinking about this. But as soon as she thinks that, she thinks about it, and the whole façade of normality falls apart. Of course it would, she figures, everything she's tried to do to distract herself has failed, leaving her in a room with her partner. Her unconscious partner. The one that had been taken over by an arrogant Asgardian with no regard for anyone else -

Clint's fingers twitch.

As quick as one of the arrows released from his bow, Natasha jolts from her chair. Then, realizing her quickness for what it really is - desperation - she clears her throat quietly and smoothes the nonexistent wrinkles from her suit before directing her attention to the man who has held it for so long.

There's a groan that rumbles from deep in his chest, and she tenses, almost as if expecting him to miraculously take her out even when restrained like that.

But then, his eyelids flutter, and she feels the pressing weight on her chest start to lighten. It's the same weight - crushing and compressing and halting her normal breathing patterns - that has been there ever since she got the call from Coulson, the one that turned her entire world upside down.

She watches, folding her hands behind her back, forcibly holding herself from an embarrassing display of concern.

Clint opens his eyes; they are the same crystalline that she remembers. Normal, with no taint of magic.

He opens his eyes and seeks her out, knowing that if anyone would be here, it would be her.

A wry smile quirks his lips, and that causes one of her own to form.

And finally - finally - Natasha breathes without effort.

End.