After Clint has announced his intention to put an arrow through Loki's eye socket, after Natasha announced her plan to wipe out the red in her ledger, there's a moment. He's not asking, she doesn't want to be the one telling but someone needs to break and he's been broken so much already.
"Clint." She breathes.
He looks over at her and he knows it's bad. He's always known how to read her, it's why he brought her in that first time.
There'd been something about her then, Clint was good but he wasn't that good. There was no way he'd have got the drop on her unless she'd wanted him to. There were no signs this was a trap, just a simple look in her eye. She was tired, tired of running, tired of being this person. She wanted it over, he was just convenient. He'd made a snap decision. After all, a live Widow on their side was better than a dead one on the streets of Moscow.
It's all about what she isn't saying now as well. There's a weight on her shoulders, her head is bowed, eyes are dark. She's already refused to tell him how many his actions killed, but there's more to it. It's not how many.
"Who?" Clint asks.
She can't lie, not when he knows, not about him. She can't let anyone else tell him. They were a team, the closest thing to family any of them had.
Clint can almost feel his heart stop, can feel the name hitting him like a punch to the gut. He gets to his feet, runs a hand through his hair, huffs out a humourless laugh.
"Coulson." He echoes.
Clint rubs his hand over his face, "He always said I'd be the death of him."
"Loki was the death of him." Natasha corrects him.
"I brought him here."
"He made you bring him here. This isn't on you, Clint." Natasha insists.
"Isn't it? I was trained to fight against this. Coulson trained me to fight this, to withstand torture, to overcome whatever they put in me." Clint snaps.
He takes a deep shuddering breath, drops back on the cot next to her, "I was in there, I knew what I was doing, what I was saying and I wasn't strong enough to fight it. I should have been able to take one for the team."
Natasha doesn't know what to say to him. She's been around death most of her life, caused most of it. She's feeling raw from Coulson's death herself, he was a friend, and Natasha doesn't have many of those. She can only imagine how Clint’s feeling.
"Clint." She says, the silence growing too heavy in the room.
Clint gets to his feet again, restless now. He paces back and forth, makes Natasha dizzy. She's not seen him like this, thought she'd seen him at his worst when he was beaten, bloody, torn half open in a literal sense. This is so much worse. This is Clint laid bare, there's no quip about being half a man, there's no wry smile, no telling her it's her duty to destroy his porn. It hurts to see him like this. She can't punch him in the arm, tell him to suck it up, misquote Monty Python. She's at a loss.
The silence, the pacing, the tension seems to go on for an eternity.
Eventually he takes another deep, shaky breath, "Loki is mine."
He turns to look at her, "I'll help you, Tasha, hell, I'd follow you to the death a thousand times over, but Loki is mine."
This is better. This is Clint finding a channel for his pain, this is safer, this she can deal with.
"At least let me hit him a few times." She offers.
"What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?"
She sends him a weak smile, which he returns in kind. He gestures to the small bathroom in the medbay, "I'm just going to... Need to get the stink of alien magic off me."
She nods, "Just don't sing Journey."
"Kiss is it then."
She rolls her eyes, waves him off.
She says nothing of the soft shaky sobs she hears coming from the room, lets her own tears fall without shame. Coulson is worthy of them.
When the time comes, Thor won't let him shoot Loki through the eyes. Clint wants to hate him for it, but the guy is his brother. He supposes realistically he'd be unlikely to let anyone shoot Barney as well. Instead, he settles for throwing his fist into Loki's jaw.
"That, was for the mindfuck."
"And that was for Phil."