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The apartment was quiet.
It always became oddly quiet when Clint had a migraine, as if their apartment itself was trying to make things easier. Which was a ridiculous bit of anthropomorphism on her part, maybe, but then she'd always been a big believer of homes reflecting their owners, of the vibes one was able to pick up.
Regardless of whether the apartment's air was her imagination or not, Natasha knew how to handle Clint when he was having a migraine. She kept the music off and the blinds half-drawn so the light didn't shine underneath the closed bedroom door; she set out some food from the freezer to thaw so she wouldn't have to cook (and make noise), and grabbed a book to read on the sofa until he was able to stand the world again.
By the time Clint emerged, Natasha was halfway through her book. She glanced up with a quiet, “hey you,” and got a grunt in reply.
Given the man was wearing sunglasses, Natasha was going to hazard a guess that he was still feeling the effects of the migraine. Clint sat down on the floor next to the sofa, and leaned back with his head against her leg without saying anything. Smiling a little ruefully, Natasha reached out and gently ran her fingers through his hair. That got a slight shake of his head, and so she pulled back, resettled her hands around her book.
“Just gonna...exist at you,” Clint muttered, shifting his head slightly against her thigh.
Foolish man, she thought; he should still be in bed, but that was never his way when he was in pain. So, she just said, “Sure,” with a faint smile, and let him be.