Less Than Catharsis

by Larissa James

I've never been the type to have nightmares. I've heard about other people like us having them -- lots of 'em, after something happens or somebody dies, or something. Even Cap, after years and years of watching people die, going to Hell and back, or even worse -- even *he* still wakes up in a cold sweat sometimes. The stuff he sees . . . it gets to him more than I used to think. Me, though . . . I sleep like a baby, no matter what. Wanda told me once that she'd give anything to sleep like I do, but she doesn't know what it's like, sleeping like I do -- how cruel it is. Sleep is so warm and safe, and I even like to think of it as being kind of fuzzy, like that familiar old teddy bear that we all had . . . but I know about stuff like that. That's dangerous. When you get to feeling all safe like that, and you drift off into dreamland like you haven't got a care in the world . . . that's when you forget. Some things are good to forget, to just push away for a while so that you can feel like a normal person again, relaxed and happy for just a little while. The kicker comes when you wake up. The light from the window starts to tickle at your eyelids, pulling you up out of that warm blackness, through the sleepy haze and the mental fog, and you open your eyes and look around, getting more and more confused by the weird pit of emptiness in your belly, like something's missing . . .

And then it hits you, like cold steel driving right through your gut. That's how it caught me just now -- a mortal wound at the edge of sleep, like having the roof suddenly ripped off your warm little cabin in the middle of a winter rainstorm, a sick lump dropping right down my throat and settling in my stomach.

Gone. She's gone.

The thought brings another kind of wrongness with it: even though I'm cold inside, I'm still warm outside -- warmth against me, softness and gentle puffs of breath on my neck -- and I know it's wrong because I know that it isn't Her.

Wanda. Did we really fall asleep here in each other's arms last night? I can barely remember the last time I cried myself to sleep, but I must have. Me and Wanda, both. It's been a long time since we really talked about anything, but I know we should have a long time ago. She was there behind me when . . . when It happened, the one who finally coaxed me away from Her body and shook me out of my babbling. It was her arm that I felt around my shoulders all through the funeral (Was it only yesterday? It feels so long ago . . .), even though the rest of me felt so cold and dead that I can't remember feeling anything else. And it's her that's here with me now, warm against my chest, the pillow beneath her cheek still damp with her tears and mine.

She said I didn't have to be alone.

I barely remember the trip back from the funeral, the walk to my bungalow, supported again by Wanda's arm as I stumbled up the steps and into the home that I'd shared with Her up until a few days ago. I haven't touched anything since the last time She was here . . . not the purse She had left on the counter the night before She died . . . not the towel She had used after her shower, still hanging on the shower rod waiting to be thrown in the hamper .. . not the clothes She had tossed across the chair in the corner of the bedroom, fully expecting to pick them up later, when She had more time. I can't stand to look at them, but I know I won't be moving them anytime soon. That's how I'll lose Her: a piece at a time. No more sound of Her gentle breathing, murmuring softly in Her sleep beside me, no more scent of Her in the sheets, or in her pillow, and, worst of all, no more touching Her, no more finding Her there when I reach out . . . gone, oh God, She's gone . . .

I thought I'd cried all the tears I had last night, but I can't hold them back, now. I feel my eyes burn, my throat, still raw from before, begin to ache, and I'm crying again, biting my bottom lip, trying to keep quiet, trying not to shake. I've lost people before, I tell myself -- this shouldn't hurt so damn much, it shouldn't have drained me like it has, but I feel like all of my strength, all of my will has been sucked right up out of me. Over Wanda's shoulder, I can see the clock on the nightstand -- it's almost nine o'clock. I don't know how long it's been since I slept this late, but I don't feel like getting up at all. I don't feel like doing anything ever again.

Beside me, Wanda stirs, shifting sleepily from her side onto her back, the hand that had been resting lightly on my shoulder sliding down to my forearm. She looks peaceful this morning, peaceful for the first time I can remember in months. Last night drove home exactly how much of a friend I had *not* been being . . . how much hurt she had been facing alone. I was there when she lost Viszh, right there with her, the first person she came to when she woke up and realized he was missing, and what did I do for her? Not a damn thing. Where was I when she lost her babies, when she was so alone and so broken up that she couldn't handle it anymore? Off nursing my own bruised ego, pouting over losing my team to USAgent and over all the trouble She and I were having. I wasn't doing anything that should've kept me from running back to be with Wanj when she needed me, but I was so wrapped up in myself that I didn't even see, didn't care enough until it was too late. It's just another thing to chafe me, now, to help rub what's left of my soul raw: I was never there for her like she was there for me.

I wonder if Wanda knew, before last night, how much of my troubles, my guilt, my *self*, are wrapped up in her. She was my first real love, more serious and more . . . painful . . . than 'Tasha, even; I know she knows that, because I never made any secret about it, even when we first met. She was always very nice about it, very polite, of course, but she made it clear that she wasn't interested in me like I was in her. I didn't understand, then, that a woman could like a man without wanting him . . . and I held out hope right up until she married Viszh. What a fit I pitched over *that* one -- a regular tantrum, when I knew that Pietro had done the exact same thing, and she needed me more than ever. Just another example of Clint Barton being a first-rate jackass when he should've been the best friend that he always claimed he was.

Best friend, yeah. That's what Wanda called me. Pure friendship, she said, different from what she had with Viszh, different from what she had with Pietro. The first time she ever called me that had been back when I got back from the old west, where I was hanging out with Two-Gun. She had kissed me on the cheek and hugged me real tight for, like, the third time in one day since I had got back, and Gyrich had made this smart little comment about her and her boyfriends.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," Wanda had said, turning and looking at him with that "drop-dead right now and have a nice day" look that she's so good at, her arm still around my waist. "I realize that friendship might be a difficult concept for you to understand, but Clint happens to be my best friend."

I'd've kicked his ass for ever suggesting anything nasty about Wanda like that, but I had been too busy cursing myself out in my head for *almost* letting my hands slide down where they ought not go when we had been hugging.

So I guess I wasn't that much of a friend back then, either. She knew when she had that effect on me, I think, but she never said anything. It's something we never talk about, even now. Not 'til last night, anyways . . . and I'm over it, now. I don't think about her like that, anymore. I guess I'm just glad that she still thinks of me as her friend, even though I've messed up so bad that she oughtta smack me and just walk away. Completely over it. Forever.

Yeah . . . I can't even convince myself. Couldn't even convince Bobb-- Her. We had fights over Wanda, lots of 'em. Most of the time, it was just something She brought up in the middle of a fight, just to hurt me, I guess .. . but it was there, and we both knew it. Back when we first broke up, when we were screaming at each other about the Phantom Rider and Avenging and morals and love . . . She even brought it up then.

"If it had been Wanda, you would understand!" She had said, wiping away those angry tears that I hated to see. "If it had been Wanda, you'd have killed him, yourself!"

It wasn't true. It wasn't! The morals we live and work by aren't negotiable for anybody, not even for Wanda -- not even for Her. Didn't She see how bad it hurt me to know what had happened to Her, and know that even though She was hurting, She had done the wrong thing?

"If he had killed me," She had continued, clenching her fists and pinning me with a glare that went right through my heart, "you'd probably have had *her* in your bed by the night of my funeral!"

And She's right. Oh God, She's right.

It doesn't matter that it wasn't like She thought it would be. Me and Wanda aren't lovers -- we're never gonna be -- but this is how it happened. This is who I turned to, even though I didn't have any right to call on her. I feel like I've betrayed Her, betrayed my wife, and She hasn't even been buried a day.

"Clint?"

I almost don't hear Wanda say my name, it's so soft, but I can feel her move next to me, and I look down at her just the same. "You 'wake?"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm always fine, Wanda. You oughtta know that."

She frowns a little and reaches one hand up to my face, wiping a tear away. I had forgot about that. "You don't have to pretend anything, Clint. You know I'll understand."

Yeah. She'd understand all too well, wouldn't she? Her Viszh is dead, just like my B-- like She -- is, but at least I won't have to watch Her walk and talk every day, knowing me but not feeling anything for me.

We lay there for a minute, not doing or saying anything, just holding each other and thinking our separate thoughts. I can tell that she's thinking about Viszh -- she always gets all tense and quiet when she thinks about him -- and I wonder if she's thinking about the walking dead, like I am. I wonder if she blames herself for what happened. I wonder if, wherever She is now, She blames Wanda . . . or worse, blames me and my love for Wanda. I tell myself that I'd've jumped back in after any Avenger, or anybody, for that matter, but is that really the point? I went back into Hell to save my best friend, and my wife went back into Hell to save me . . . and She was the one who died for it.

Wanda stirs again and pulls away from me a little -- I know it must make her uncomfortable to wake up next to me like this -- but I don't let go of her enough to let her go too far. It's just me being selfish again, I know, but all of a sudden, I can't stand the thought of being alone. When Wanda's gone, I won't have anybody, and loneliness is cold. Just . . . cold. And as long as Wanda's here, I don't have to be alone.

"Cap's here," she says after a minute, looking back up at me. "I can hear him in the kitchen."

I can't hear anything outside this room because my hearing aids aren't in, but I don't see how she could know it's Cap just by the sound of him.

"He was whistling a few minutes ago," she answers before I can even open my mouth to ask, and that explains everything -- nobody can whistle quite like Captain America.

Neither one of us says anything as we get up. We're both still dressed, still in costume and everything -- when did being out of uniform get so scary that I stopped wearing civvies? -- and they're probably sweaty and rumpled, but I don't think either one of us cares. Wanda's hair is all mussed, but all she does is run a hand through it, like she isn't really paying attention to what she's doing. She doesn't even bother to take a look in the mirror, even though it's right in front of her. Neither do I. Instead, she takes my hand and we walk into the kitchen together.

And there's Captain America, probably my second-best friend in the whole world, standing at my kitchen stove with his cowl off, scrambling some eggs.

He looks up, almost startled -- which is kind of worrying, because I've never managed to sneak up on Steve, not in all the years that I've known him now --and rests his eyes, blue and serious and full of sympathy and regret, on me.

"Clint," he says simply, in this sad, broken voice that doesn't sound like him at all.

"Hey, Steve."

"Clint . . ."

"S'okay, Steve." I try to smile at him, but I'm failing, and I know it. "'S'all okay."

He puts the pan down and steps towards me, like he's going to run up and hug me, or something. I don't know what I'd do if he did that.

"I thought you might need something," he says softly instead, and I know he's not just talking about breakfast.

I try to come up with some snappy reply that'll convince them both that I'm okay, but it doesn't come to me quick and I don't feel like thinking about it. He just keeps looking at me, all calm and sad, but he doesn't make another move, and I can't stand to see that look on his face anymore, so I sit in the closest chair and stare at the table, instead.

In a minute, the pans start rustling again. When I make myself look up, he's scraping some eggs onto plates, but he's looking at Wanda, and I wonder if he's wondering about what she's doing here. Someday, I'll explain it to him even though I know he'll never ask.

He puts down three plates and pulls out a chair for himself, but he doesn't say anything else.

Wanda pokes the eggs around with her fork a little, but she doesn't eat any, and I don't even think she realizes what she's doing. Cap does, though, 'cause he keeps glancing down at her hands, and then at mine . . . funny, I just now realized that I'm not eating, either. I think if I do, it might come back up.

He waits maybe fifteen minutes before he says anything, looking up at both of us. "What are you going to do?"

Wanda glances at me for a second, then kind of shrugs with one shoulder, going back to not eating. He frowns a little, but he doesn't push it. He never does.

And me, well . . . I never played the good soldier for him, exactly, but I've never gotten to where I can just ignore him when I want to, like Wanda does sometimes. At least not when he's really truly worried. "I don't know."

"You can go back east. You know we'd love to have you back."

Now I can shrug. I don't really want to go there. 'Tasha's there, for one. And I don't even think I want to be on a team at all. I used to love how noisy the mansion got sometimes, but now . . . I don't know. I could go back. Everything would be okay in a while. It always is. I don't have to be alone.

"Your team will understand. They can come up with a new chairman."

"I'm not chairman."

He raises his eyebrows, and I almost smile -- there's always something about not being filled in that annoys him, even though he probably understands why. We had a new election right before all this shit happened, but we never had time to put it in the computers or anything. All of a sudden, Wanda coughs and gets up to put her plate away. Cap looks at me again, jerking his head in her direction, and I nod.

I guess he feels responsible for two of us, now. I always thought Wanda oughtta be chair before -- that's why I nominated her, myself -- but to have somebody die on your watch on your first time in charge ain't the way to start out. I don't blame her. I must've told her that a thousand times last night. She never disagreed with me, and she never said anything about it, but she must feel bad about it. I think I worried about this already. God, I'm goin' in circles . . . Cap, why won't you stop me?

"You need to eat something," he says, right on cue. Even though I don't want to, he has a way of making anything sound like it's the right thing to do. Maybe I will eat something.

Wanda sits back down next to me, touching my arm when I make a move to pick up my fork again. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

About a year ago, I got shot. Not just once, but over and over again. Filled full of holes. I almost died. And all I can remember from all that time in the hospital is Her touching me just like Wanda is touching me now -- gentle, worried, and trembling just a little bit, like if I get poked too hard, I'm gonna break into a thousand pieces.

Before I can stop it, I'm tearing up all over again. "You guys are babyin' me. . ."

"Do you want us to leave you alone?" Cap asks softly, looking at me seriously even though he already knows what I'm gonna say, because he knows what I need. Cap always knows.

" . . . No. Don't go . . ."

Wanda twines her fingers with mine and squeezes, and I feel like I can hold the tears back for a little bit more, even though I know I don't have to. They're probably the best friends I have in the world, the best friends I'll ever have -- if I can't cry in front of them, I can't cry in front of anybody -- and I can't help but wonder what I'd be doing right now if it wasn't for them, if they weren't here for me. I don't know what I'd be, if I'd never met them at all.

"Then we won't go. You don't have to be alone." I know how hard it must've been for him to get here. I know how hard it'll be for him to stay here. I guess I should feel guilty because of all the trouble he probably went through just for me, but I don't think I do. I don't feel much of anything right now. Or maybe I feel too much? I don't know. I don't want to think about it anymore.

So I won't.

Wanda's still holding my hand, so I know it's not her arms around me, but my eyes are so blurry now that I didn't even see him cross the room. Once, not long after I met him, I told myself that I'd never let Captain America see me cry, not for any reason, but I can't stop myself from sobbing like a baby in his arms. I don't have anything to prove to him anymore, but it still hurts. I think of all the times he's put a hand on my shoulder like a father, or a big brother -- just enough touch to let me know he's there when things get tough, but nothing else -- or the times when I was leaving the team, and he shook my hand with that perfect grip of his just to remind me that to him, we were equals even when I was just plain old Clint Barton.

He's never just *held* me like this before.

He never had to.

I never needed it before.

I don't need it now!

It took me ten years just to be able to feel like a man standing next to him.

It took me ten minutes to turn back into a stupid little boy.

This feels wrong . . .

. . . Because it feels right?

I'm an idiot. I know it. But I can't stand this. I thought I could, but I can't. I shove him away, trying to rub the tears out of my eyes so I can see as I stagger towards the door. I haven't felt this ashamed in a long time --because I cried in front of him, or because I know I hurt him by pushing him away?

"Clint . . .!" Wanda calls from behind me.

"Let him go," says Cap in that same quiet, calm voice that can cut right through the sounds of the battlefield and go straight to your brain just when you need it most.

I feel sick again.

Don't let me go, Cap. Make me stay. Don't let me be stupid again. I can't think now. You know how I get when I forget to use my brain. I need you to think for me again now that She isn't here to do it, anymore. Please. Please!

But he doesn't. I knew he wouldn't, same as I know I'm being a jackass again. He won't think anything less of me for crying. He'd probably be worried if I didn't. But I just can't do it.

I have to get out of here.

I can't stay. If I stay, Cap'll hang around. I don't wanna see him.

Yes, I do.

But if I stay, 'Tasha'll drop by. I don't wanna see her. If I stay, Stark might come back. He never can stand back when he thinks things are going bad for "his" team. I really don't wanna see him.

But I don't have to be alone.

I can come back and get my gear later. Maybe I can't dodge Cap . . . but I can sure try.

She liked the beach.

I'll go someplace cold.

She always said I was a bullheaded son of a bitch. Cap never put it quite like that. You're stupid, Clint Barton. Your friends are here, and they can help, and if you just stay a while, everything'll be okay. You don't have to be alone!

If She was here, She'd be pissed at me. She wouldn't let me act like this.

But . . .

. . . She isn't here, is she?

God.

I *am* alone.

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