Containment (The Avengers, Clint/Nat) - Part 9/12 [Upd. 5/16/15]

[Anonymouse]

I was wondering when they'd get a chance to communicate (though I'd much rather them have a room together for Clint to fuss over Natasha and force her the snuggle ).

Don't worry, they're still on the helicarrier but when they get dropped off at an actual grounded facility I'll have them dumped together in the same room. SHIELD just wanted to isolate them initially in case on of them was still healthy.

Edited June 6, 2014 by AnonyMouse

[Anonymouse]

I really wanted to put cuddling in this one but it took a more angsty route and I didn’t fight it. To make up for it I threw some semi-sweetness into the flashback. Trivia and/or irrelevant chronology information: Barton’s birthday (at least in the MCU) is January 7, same as Renner’s.

HUGE thanks to Winged for reading this over and giving me some feedback.

VI.

Three months ago

“There you go,” she said, setting the cupcake down in front of Clint.

Lucky perked his ears up when food appeared but didn’t rise from his bed. He knew better than to beg for food when Natasha was over. She wasn’t afraid to use the spray bottle on him or his owner if either of them misbehaved.

“I couldn’t fit thirty-nine candles on there,” she explained, “so you’ll have to settle for three.”

Clint squinted at the candles before glancing up at her. She was sucking a bit of icing off her finger but stopped when she saw him looking. “I'm not thirty-nine,” he said in disbelief, as if she’d actually forgotten how old he was.

"I know," she said, giving him a reassuring kiss on the cheek, "and I’m not twenty-nine, but you don’t see me correcting people."

“Well, they’re not that far off.”

“Neither am I.” She straightened up and folded her arms, suddenly militant. “Now eat the damn thing.”

Clint sat forward on the couch and looked down at the cupcake. It was placed just-so on a dish on the coffee table like she was trying to imitate the chefs on those food shows she loved. There were three blue candles stuck in a glob of what Clint could only assume was cream cheese icing. Natasha knew carrot cake was his favorite, and nothing went better with carrot cake than cream cheese icing.

“Please tell me you’re not gonna sing to me,” he said when he heard her clear her throat.

Natasha stared at him for a moment, then grabbed the dish off the coffee table, prompting a rushed protest from Clint.

“Joking! Please don’t throw my cake in the trash.”

She would have done it if that gluten-free flour hadn’t been such a bitch to work with; the pan cooling on the stove was her third and only successful batch. Natasha dropped the plate back in front of her partner and plunked down on the couch next to him, cozying into his side. She found herself wanting to be closer to him around this time of the month. The only downside to the copper IUD was that she still ovulated, still menstruated, still experienced hormonal ups and downs throughout the month… she just didn’t get pregnant. Clint didn’t seem to mind the extra attention, but Natasha found it strange, the way millions of microscopic biochemicals could govern her thoughts and feelings. “Blow out the damn candles,” she urged, eager for a distraction from her own head.

Clint obliged. When the candles were extinguished he cut the cupcake into smaller pieces, spearing a chunk with the fork she brought wrapped up all fancy-like in a napkin. “Here,” he said, offering Natasha the first bite.

She shook her head before pulling away a bit, more aware of herself and the space (or lack thereof) between them now that he was looking at her. “It’s for you,” she insisted. “There’s still eleven more in the kitchen, one missing a bite. So don’t worry about me.”

He smiled at her. “Can’t help it.”

She knew he worried about her, but he was the one who was fragile. Natasha couldn’t ignore the way he tensed up whenever she got close to him, even now. It was like he was literally putting up a shell. She wondered what was really going on in that head of his as he passionately praised her baking abilities and leaned over to give her kisses on the edge of her mouth. His lips were sweet from the icing, and she found herself licking her own lips thoughtfully as she watched him finish off the cake, tossing the last piece to Lucky.

Rather than criticize him for feeding his dog junk(ish) food on his birthday, Natasha sat back and slid her legs into his lap. She propped her head against the arm of the couch and smiled at him as he put the empty plate back on the coffee table. When he was sure there wasn’t anymore food to be shared, Lucky rolled onto his side in his $80 chewed-to-pieces dog bed and let out a long, contented sigh. Natasha was amused when Clint did the same exact thing not ten seconds later.

“Don’t clean that up,” he said, glancing over at the plate. “I’ll take care of it. At some point.”

“If you insist.”

Clint looked at her and smiled. “Thanks for the cupcakes. You really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Still smiling, he took one of her feet into his hands and began massaging the tense muscles, his touch just the right balance between firm and gentle. He watched her face as her nose twitched, her eyes clouding over with contentment but also something else. “How’re you feeling?” he asked, and Natasha rubbed her nose roughly, subduing whatever irritation was lurking in there.

“Better,” she sighed, closing her eyes and relaxing into his touch. “The Benadryl definitely helped, but now I’m just sleepy.”

Her allergy to the dog had become so severe she broke her otherwise steadfast stance on not taking medication to get some antihistamines into her system. If she hadn’t she would probably still be sneezing. Natasha opened her eyes again to glance at the dog in playful accusation. “You’re lucky, all right.” Her tone was always lighter when she spoke to the dog, unless she was scolding him for pissing on the carpet or chewing up her bras. “Lucky your Daddy loves you so much. I wouldn’t put up with this for just any man.”

When she looked back at Clint he had his gaze fixed on the mutt and a thoughtful expression on his face. “What about you?” she asked, and he looked at her as if waking up from a dream. “How are you feeling?”

Ever since they started their S.H.I.E.L.D.-mandated therapy to help them “process their trauma” after New York, they both found themselves using that word more. Feeling. Natasha was (and always had been) better at dealing with feelings, and proved it by finishing her therapy six weeks early. Clint was still going twice a week for -- as of last Wednesday’s session -- an indefinite amount of time. As much as she nodded and ‘yes’ed him to death when he complained to her about it, Natasha believed it was the right call. There was something different about him, something not-Clint left over from Loki’s control. It manifested itself in strange moods and anxieties, in 3 AM phone calls to her work cell while she was off on a solo mission and he was under “house arrest” in his apartment with a S.H.I.E.L.D. babysitter parked in the street. He could never get through the night without some horrible dream waking him up. Natasha could tell he was losing weight, which is what compelled her to bake and cook even more than usual.

“I’m fine,” he said, not because he was, but because he didn’t know how to put what he was feeling into words.

They were quiet for a while. Natasha did not see any benefit to “talking it out” when he was like this, lost in a maze of intrusive thoughts and bad memories. What he needed was a distraction. She suggested a movie but Clint couldn’t decide on anything, so they cracked open a couple of beers and Clint put on a Velvet Underground record. Natasha was still undecided on the band - it was different from the stuff they usually listened to - but she thought tonight might help her make up her mind. The music and alcohol seemed to help Clint relax; he never drank more than two beers at once, but two was just enough to brighten his spirits. The happiness was only fleeting, but Natasha supposed it was all she could really hope for anymore. At least until he got better.

Tonight he went for a third beer, because it was his birthday (he always needed an excuse). Soon they were flirting like they had when they were just getting to know each other, when Natasha was training under Clint to become a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. The agency put her on the fast-track, of course -- she had more than enough experience for the position. What she needed was their trust, and it didn’t take long to earn Clint’s. They sparred a lot more back then, training sessions that ended in laughter and rough, playful kisses and, eventually, Clint folding and asking her out for coffee. That was a while back, before the real stuff started happening and they were called upon to take care of it.

But for now they were alone, and they were going to take advantage of it. The sweetness of Clint’s kisses now had a bitter bite from the beer and Natasha couldn’t get enough of his mouth. The record spun itself into a crackling silence as they made their way towards the bedroom. Natasha reluctantly pulled herself away from Clint to muffle a sneeze into her cupped hand. “tsch’u!”

“Bless you,” he said, ever the gentleman, even with his hand down her shirt. “You gonna be doing that while we… uh…”

“No,” she said, giving him a gentle push; he stumbled like a drunk into the bedroom. “But if you get fresh we won’t be doing anything.”

He did a lot less talking after that.

~~~

The exam was taking far too long, in Natasha's opinion. It didn’t help that she couldn’t stop sneezing, which did nothing but irritate her and prolong the process. “h’tcshh! ‘-tschhu! hh-’tSCHhew!" Her breath teased her and her nostrils flared with each desperate gasp, and then... "h-tschh! --h-tshhhu!”

She caught each sneeze against her knuckles - not the most hygienic method, but she was sure the doctor was safe in her sci-fi pandemic suit. Dr. Simmons waited with waning patience for the fit to conclude, holding a small-adult-sized blood pressure cuff and watching the agent fire off sneeze after sneeze against her hand. When Natasha finally resurfaced with a few slow, watery sniffles the doctor passed her a box of tissues. The spy snatched a handful and turned away to blow her nose. Her head felt much clearer after but the forceful blow also seemed to further irritate her swollen, burning nasal passages. Pinching her nose through the tissues, she drew in a quivering breath and stifled two hard sneezes, one after the other.

When she looked up again Dr. Simmons was wincing as if she felt the pain ringing in her patient’s temples. “You and Agent Barton,” she scolded. “You both do the same thing. And I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: knock it off.”

Natasha eyed the doctor over the shield of tissues, both annoyed and impressed by the girl’s gall. Not a lot of people had the audacity to speak to her that way. It was refreshing.

“Now get settled so I can take your blood pressure... please.”

The agent took a deep breath to steady herself - it was hardly noticeable, but she had a tendency to be subtle about almost everything she did. She dropped the tissues into the small garbage can on the doctor’s cart and offered her arm to the girl with the Ph.D.(s?) and the blood pressure cuff. As the cuff began that familiar gradual tightening around her arm for perhaps the twentieth time today Natasha watched the screen and tried to guess which numbers would come up. Her blood pressure had always been the textbook average: 120 over 80, pretty consistently. Now it was climbing with her temperature and her growing impatience for this entire fucking process.

“135 over 90…” the doctor observed neutrally. “That’s a bit high, isn’t it?”

Natasha watched Dr. Simmons unwrap the cuff with shaky hands before placing it back on its hook in the cabinet. She recorded the numbers into her tablet before looking up at Natasha with a nervous grin.

“Well then…” She was smiling with so much effort Natasha thought her face might crack. “Now that we’ve gotten your vitals taken care of, I can tell you the news…”

She paused, which made the whole thing so much worse - like peeling off a Band-Aid slowly. Natasha’s gaze was steady as she stared ahead, looking past the doctor and bracing herself for what she was about to hear.

“As you know, I’ve been running several blood tests, and I’ve come to learn quite a bit of interesting information that I thought perhaps maybe you would like to know as well. Nothing particularly useful regarding whatever is making you ill, unfortunately, but something I’d consider fairly significant... you’re pregnant.”

Natasha’s first reaction was to laugh, only because she was expecting to hear that her partner was dead. Her reaction seemed to baffle the doctor, who stood there looking unsure of how to proceed.

Inevitably Natasha began to feel the weight of the situation. She stared at the white button on the doctor’s coat for a while, trying to understand why it didn’t seem quite like the others. “Pregnant,” she deadpanned. The word left her lips, her whole face feeling numb.

“Yes, though I’m not sure how far along, of course… which is why I’d like to do an ultrasound.”

Pregnant. Ultrasound. Words Natasha never expected or wanted to hear in reference to her own body.

“Do you…” Natasha paused to swallow, then continued. “... are you sure, because… because I took a test-”

“A test?”

Natasha looked up at Dr. Simmons in exasperation.

“I have an implant.”

“And I have your medical record,” said Dr. Simmons. “I know that. But I am telling you we ran three blood tests. You’re pregnant. I’m not lying to you, Agent Romanoff.”

The agent stared down at her feet. They forced her to wear those stupid hospital socks because they were afraid she might fall. She could only imagine how annoyed Clint must have been, having to wear these clothes. Before she knew it her eyes were prickling with tears she couldn’t stop.

The fluttering distraction in her sinuses decided to interrupt at a convenient time for once. She lifted her arm weakly to catch the soft but persistent sneezes as they shuddered out of her, one after the other with barely a breath in between. “H’tschh!-‘tschh! hih’tSCHH-u! ‘hnxcht! … ‘ngch!”

The fit made her eyes water a bit, but at least she didn’t feel like she was going to burst into uncontrollable sobbing anymore. Dizziness wasn’t much better, though, and neither was the way Dr. Simmons was getting so close to her. Natasha realized she was starting to tip off the edge of the bed and the doctor was invading her personal space because she was trying to stop her from falling.

“You should lie back down,” said Dr. Simmons, helping Natasha back into bed. “We’ll be at the Plateau soon. They have a sample of whatever it was that Radkov set off down there waiting for us to analyze.”

The agent was indifferent to this news. She stared blankly up at Dr. Simmons as if she had a million things to say but no energy to speak. The doctor understood how overwhelming it could be to have so much happen in such a short span of time, so she left the agent with a glass of water and her thoughts.

---

When Clint woke up it took him a few minutes to realize he was in a different room than the one he fell asleep in.

Craning his neck with some degree of effort, his eyes followed the curtain that ran from one end of the room to the other. There were some voices on the other side; he recognized one of them as Hill’s and sat up abruptly, pushing through the nearly overwhelming wave of dizziness that assaulted his senses as he clambered off the bed. The curtain hung on a horizontal pole like the one he had on his shower and he pushed it open to reveal the small group of people on the other side.

Natasha was with them, the only one without a suit.

Before he could coordinate his movements to get to her the world tilted like he was looking out the window of an airplane taking off and a pair of arms was grabbing him around the chest. “Take it easy,” said the unfamiliar voice behind him, and he was hoisted up in a less-than-gentle fashion.

An elbow was digging into his ribcage, making the task of breathing more difficult than it already was. He could hear Natasha’s voice off to the left -- she sounded concerned, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Agent Hill cut in over Natasha’s static like a competing radio station and suddenly she was all Clint could hear. “Please escort Agent Barton back to his side and make sure he stays there,” she instructed, and whoever was helping him stay upright slash asphyxiating him began guiding him towards the curtain.

This was not the way he wanted to go, but he was too weak to fight the agent pushing him towards his bed. Clint nearly tumbled onto it when he finally broke free of the other agent’s hold. The sheets were painful against his sore muscles and skin and there was a disturbing sound almost like a wheeze that, after a moment of introspection, he realized was coming from his own body. Every breath sounded as difficult as it felt. The agent who remained standing by his bed looked mildly concerned behind his plastic mask.

“He appears to be having a hard time breathing,” he called over his shoulder, and Clint was almost relieved to see Dr. Simmons’ familiar face approaching him.

She adjusted the thing pinching his index finger before turning her attention to the machines on the wall, where his vitals were being tracked wirelessly. Several numbers and lines ran in continuous motion across the screens as if monitoring a miniature stock market crash inside of his body. All this beeping was putting him into panic mode. He tried to take a deep breath but he ended up making himself cough again. “Did you guys drug me?” Clint gasped as Dr. Simmons frowned at the squiggles and numbers. “Am I dying?”

“Oxygen levels are dropping,” she said, disregarding his question. “Agent Barton, I need you to sit up a bit, please.”

Clint tried to push himself up but his arms were too weak. Dr. Simmons readjusted his bed before pulling a plastic mask over his nose and mouth. Air rushed at his face and he had no choice but to breathe it in. It was just oxygen, but it still made him feel panicky, having air semi-forced into his lungs to keep him from choking to death.

“Nat,” he gasped softly into the rush of air, fixing his attention on the curtain as he heard the distinct sound of his partner sneezing on the other side.

The tall agent in the corner was muttering something into the comms that Clint couldn’t quite make out. He thought he heard Coulson’s name come up but he was also pretty certain these bastards fucked him up real good with some heavy medications before they moved him from the helicarrier to wherever they were now.

The tall agent ducked behind the curtain like he had urgent business on the other side. The doctor’s eyes remained fixed on Clint’s vitals, and she began to visibly relax as his oxygen levels rose and eventually stabilized.

Clint was anything but relaxed.

“What’s happening?” he demanded, when Dr. Simmons looked the slightest bit more receptive to conversation.

Apparently he misjudged, because she turned away abruptly and began studying something on her tablet. Clint swallowed, his mouth and throat unbearably dry from the air, and tried again.

“Are you just gonna keep ignoring me?”

She stopped poking at the screen and her shoulders slumped. For a moment he didn’t know what to think, but when she turned around he could see that her eyes were glassy with tears or exhaustion; probably both. It occurred to Clint that she was awake for the past twenty-four hours at least, working nonstop to figure out what it was that was killing him and his partner. He knew that sleep deprivation was a bitch and his heart ached with sympathy for her, even considering his own dire situation.

He was about to apologize for being pushy when she finally answered him.

“Whatever this is,” she said, “we think it might be alien. It’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen before, and we’ve…” Dr. Simmons paused to swallow, her eyes shimmering under the bright overhead lights. “We’ve seen quite a bit.”

It wasn’t something Clint was happy to hear, but it was better than being in the dark. Though essentially that’s what they were, if they couldn’t make heads or tails of his blood or the thing in the basement. The doctor looked at him like she had more to say but they were calling for her on the other side of the curtain. She gave him an apologetic look before pushing through to the other side. Clint tried to get a glimpse of what was happening, but the curtain fell back in place and all he could see was a flurry of legs and feet beneath it.

Edited July 11, 2014 by anonymouse

[Dusty15]

GOD THIS IS GOOD! I mean, the sneezing is awesome but the plot is so killer I'd read it even without the bonus bits Can't wait for more!

[Winged]

You already know that I love this, teehee Keep up the great work, love! I really, really love your Jemma -- you do such a great job balancing her professional side with the soft and quivery feelings that we know are buried underneath. I'm also looking forward to more Maria Hill, because she's a gorgeous badass, like Natasha

[ebay34]

KEEP GOING

[SneezyRae]

Just caught up on the latest installments. It's fantastic. Can't wait for more

[Anonymouse]

Thanks for reading/commenting guys! Dusty15, I'm glad you enjoy the story, I'm having so much fun writing it. Winged, girl, thanks again for beta reading the last chapter! There's more Maria coming up, but not in this chapter. There is, however, some cuddling. ebay34 and SneezyRach, thank you, I appreciate your enthusiasm <3

Finally got the motivation to finish this chapter, so here it is. Enjoy! (If anyone has any comments or suggestions, please let me know, especially if you catch a continuity error, because I'm paranoid about that sort of thing. )

VII.

December 18, 2012

Agent Clint Barton

Session #1

Dr. Stefano is talking but Clint isn’t quite listening to what she’s saying. He’s too busy studying the Looney Tunes mug on her desk. The archer isn’t actively trying to be rude; he can’t help but notice the familiar characters, their vague political incorrectness poorly hidden from him behind a cluster of picture frames. Her desk and the many photographs on it are strategically facing away from him. He knows nothing about Dr. Stefano beyond what she presents here in front of him, a nondescript individual with dark skin and average features, someone who probably doesn’t stick out in a crowd, much like himself. Her personal items do not spill past her desk; she leaves this space empty for his baggage, which is piling up much more slowly than she may have anticipated. The rest of the room -- the walls, the chairs, the lamps and the side tables, tucked unobtrusively into corners and pushed up against the walls -- are plain, professional pieces, not unlike the furniture in any other S.H.I.E.L.D. facility he’s ever been in. It’s all strikingly familiar. He supposes that’s the point, to keep him comfortable.

“Agent Barton.”

His attention snaps back to her like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point.

“I asked you why you’re here,” she prompts gently.

She already had him sign the consent forms (unwillingly), then proceeded to gather what she could have of his family history, learning a few conservative details about his parents, his brother, the kind of upbringing he had, and the path that led him to S.H.I.E.L.D. He doesn’t see why she would need that information if they’re just going to talk about what happened in New York. He looks at this stranger they expect him to talk to, picking at a hangnail with his thumb. “Director Fury said I had to do this.”

“He said you asked him for help.”

The room is uncomfortably silent for about six seconds. Clint deflates with a shaky sigh, his gaze wandering back over to the Looney Tunes mug. His therapist senses, correctly, that he is not yet ready for this level of confrontation, and backs off. She can’t be more than thirty, unless she’s one of the ever-growing army of super-serumed human beings that seem to be everywhere these days. Clint imagines she must be relatively new to this and wonders why Fury would stick him with a novice.

“I did,” he admits after another a moment, “but I didn’t mean therapy.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He scans the bookcase behind her head, trying to find something else to distract himself from the lump developing in his throat. “I don’t know what I meant. I just… I feel terrible. All the time.”

He says it matter-of-factly, without emotion, but he’s starting to wear down, and he knows she can see it.

“Tell me how it feels.”

It all spills out, sooner than he thought it would, in a sudden rush of anxiety. “I can’t relax. Ever. The tension, it’s making me sick. I feel like I’m always on high alert.”

“You said before you thought there was still some of him left in there,” she says. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s like I haven’t come back from it.” Clint sits back and stares out the window for a moment. “I still don’t feel like myself, not one-hundred percent. It’s like I took some bad acid and fucked up my mind.”

“Have you taken any drugs?”

“What?” He looks indignant. “No. Nothing like that.”

“You know I have to rule it out, Agent Barton.”

“Just call me Clint,” he sighs, sitting back in the chair. “This’ll go so much quicker.”

“Okay.” Dr. Stefano smiles at him but he won’t take the bait. “So is therapy something you think you want, or would you rather look into other options?”

“I don’t exactly feel comfortable sharing so much about myself with a stranger.” He sits back and looks at her. “I don’t even know you.”

“You shared some things with me, despite feeling uncomfortable about it,” she says. “I think that’s a good start.”

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

“But you do, Agent Barton,” she says. “You’re free to sit there and stare at me or the ceiling or a magazine for the full hour if you’d like. You don’t have to talk if you choose not to. S.H.I.E.L.D. just requires you to sit here with me for a few hours every week until I can confidently determine you are fit to return to duty.”

So it is up to her. If he just sits here without talking, chances are she won’t clear him to go back to work. He sighs but he stops himself from saying what he really wants to say. That’s progress, right? Not speaking your mind for the sake of sparing other people’s feelings?

“If you say so.”

An hour later and the only thing Clint got from the therapy session was that it was going to be a long twelve weeks.

~~~

In his dream he was much smaller, running between billowing sheets that hung from the clothesline above his head. False memories of a childhood he never had. The dull reality of his containment cell bled through the vibrant imagery like watercolors blurring into a murky gray. The curtain was moving, or was it the sheets… the dream felt so real, like a memory, like it was happening right now, and he tried desperately to break through it and stay conscious.

“Hey.”

She snapped at him like a dog, bringing him back. There she stood on unsteady feet, in the space between the curtain and the wall. Clint blinked, eyelids heavy, and tried to keep his waning attention on her face. His partner’s features slowly came into focus; she stood with her arms folded like she was about to scold him for leaving his wet towel on the bathroom floor. For a moment he wondered if he was back at his apartment despite all other evidence pointing to the contrary. “What…?” Clint rasped, looking at the needle in his arm. The oxygen mask was hanging on the wall, no longer forcing air into his lungs, and he could breathe a bit easier now without it, though his throat was unbearably sore and his body ached and he couldn’t stop shivering.

Disregarding his half-question, Natasha made her way over to his bed, moving slowly and unsteadily but with an air of determination that was uniquely hers. It was then he noticed something hanging from her arm, pulling taut as she walked. An IV pole wheeled along behind her and she stopped, annoyed, to look back at it. Before Clint could protest she yanked the needle out of her arm and brushed the scraps of tape and cotton off her skin.

He made a face. “I’m gonna throw up…” Natasha looked at him with concern, not quite picking up on the faint glimmer of sarcasm in his voice. “Not really, but…” He managed a weak half smile. “... that was pretty nasty.”

She frowned at him. Clint could be a bit of a wimp when it came to needles, so it wouldn’t have surprised her if he was serious. “You scared the shit out of me yesterday, ” she said softly, without much of a voice left.

“You’re scaring the shit out of me now.” He looked pointedly at her discarded IV pole. “That was probably important.”

“Just saline.”

He squinted at the bag, not believing her. The blocky text on the bag blurred together and rubbing his eyes did nothing to help bring the words into focus. The bag couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet away from him and Hawkeye, the man who could shoot a bomb-tipped arrow straight into Loki’s hand from several thousand of feet away, was having trouble reading the words on the label.

While her partner was distracted Natasha seized the opportunity to stifle a pair of sneezes between her fingers. As always there was minimal sound and movement involved, but the look on her face following the release (or lack thereof) was all too telling. Clint caught the tail end of it and watched her suspiciously as she lowered herself onto the edge of his bed, letting a few light, fluttery coughs loose against her shoulder. “Should be resting...” he said, already exhausted from the ninety seconds he spent just sitting up and trying to stay awake.

“I’m actually feeling a bit better,” she insisted, even as she fought off another sneeze. “We really need to talk.”

Clint watched her carefully, but she could see he was slowly losing focus. When she saw his attention shift suddenly to something behind her she turned and saw the light glowing red above one of the decontamination chambers.

“Barton,” she said firmly. “She told me the bomb in the basement had nothing to do with this. We need to figure out what did this to us.”

“Maybe it wasn’t Radkov,” he said, closing his eyes and swallowing. Despite reassuring Natasha that he wasn’t going to get sick, he felt a bit nauseous. “Maybe we just got sick.”

“Or maybe the bomb was a red herring. There must have been something else, Clint, think--”

A quiet voice interrupted her. “Agent Romanoff, what are you doi-- did you…?”

Dr. Simmons looked from Natasha to the IV pole on the other side of the room, no longer attached to her arm and holding a bag of medicine that was supposed to be keeping her as healthy as possible. “Must I get babysitters for you two?” she asked, retrieving the pole, though once she had it she didn’t seem to know what to do with it. “Agent Romanoff, if you wouldn’t mind returning to your side so I can fix this…”

“I would mind,” Natasha said simply, before picking up where she left off with her partner as if the doctor wasn’t there. “Clint…”

“Nat, I don’t…” The last two months blurred together. His memory was riddled with holes and inaccuracies. He couldn’t even remember when this fog first took over, or which of them began to show signs of deterioration first. They had seen a lot of sick people, of course, but those people were sick with thirst and starvation. Nobody was sick like this…

“AEHKShha!”

The sneeze tore out of him with little warning, and he managed to turn away from Natasha just in time. In the aftermath he sniffled and wiped his nose against the sleeve of his papery gown, reaching for a tissue. “x’cuse be…”

“Bless you. Agent Romanoff...” Dr. Simmons looked at the other agent but Natasha ignored her, watching her partner’s features tremble and crumple as he succumbed to another wrenching sneeze. “hh-AEHSHhhh!”

She murmured something sympathetic in Russian, stroking his arm gently as he gave his nose a thorough blow. Dr. Simmons felt like she was interrupting an intimate moment, but she had explicit orders to keep them in their beds.

“Agent Romanoff, I’m afraid I must insist you return to your side,” she said in a (mostly) firm voice.

Natasha glanced back at her defiantly. “How do you expect us to find out what did this if I can’t talk to him?”

“We don’t expect you to find out what did this,” she said. “We’ve got Ward in with Radkov now--”

Natasha stood up so quickly the doctor feared she might faint. Surprisingly enough she managed to stay on both feet, struggling to hide the fact that she was struggling. “Let me talk to him.”

Dr. Simmons looked nervous. “To Radkov?”

“Get me one of those spacesuits, or hell, throw me right in there with him like this,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind giving him a taste of his own medicine.”

“Hey doc…”

Dr. Simmons glanced at Clint, who seemed to be more alert now as he sat upright and looked at her. “Fitz says you had an alien virus before… what happened?”

Fitz! Blabbing her (classified!) business to everyone. She would crush the little bugger. “Your blood looks nothing like mine did,” she said. “My illness manifested… much differently. Symptoms I’ve never seen in a human before.”

“Do you know how you got it?”

“Some kind of… electric shock… it was very bizarre, nothing I’ve ever seen before on Earth.”

Natasha looked at Clint, who turned his attention to the nearly-empty box of tissues. She couldn’t decide if he was completely zoning out, trying to solve this unsolvable puzzle in his own head, or about to sneeze again, but then he spoke.

“There was a guy,” he said vaguely, and Dr. Simmons looked up. “I thought he got ahold of one of my high-voltage arrows and shot one at me… I can’t even remember how many I brought. But maybe it wasn’t one of mine. Maybe it was something they made, someone working with Radkov. A biological alien weapon.”

Raising her eyebrows, Natasha asked “When did this happen?”

“When you were in the basement. Couple of guys on the rooftop.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“It didn’t hit me. Just nicked my shoulder.” She frowned, disappointed in herself for not noticing the injury, however slight it was. “Didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Dr. Simmons interrupted. “Your symptoms are quite different from mine, but that doesn’t mean you’re wrong. Perhaps they haven’t set in yet. Perhaps they never will.”

The prospect of them ever setting in was terrifying, and Clint refused to consider the possibility that they had the same strain of alien virus their doctor had suffered from. Especially since they didn’t have those same symptoms now. It was possible their enemies figured out how to administer communicable viruses through electric shock, in a similar manner to the transmission of Asgardian viruses, but that didn’t necessarily mean they’d have the shock symptoms. Up until now their symptoms were typical of human suffering; nothing abnormal about their coughing, sneezing, aches, and pains, except the amount and severity of each.

“Check my blood again,” Clint said. “If this is an alien virus, it won’t play by our rules. Maybe something will change. We need to keep looking.”

“You want me to take more blood?” she said in disbelief.

Clint managed a weak smile. “Only if you promise to find out what’s in it.”

Dr. Simmons seemed reassured, determined, even. It made Clint feel a little better about their situation, but it still left a sickening pit in his stomach. Dr. Simmons was a genius; she solved similar dilemmas before, and she would do it again. “Deal.”

“Tell Ward to ask our prisoner about the arrow,” Natasha said, her fading voice strengthened by her determination. “Tell him he better get me some answers or I’ll get them myself.”

---

After Dr. Simmons collected more blood samples she left to go analyze them and touch base with the rest of the team. She was quite proud of herself for persuading Natasha to return to her bed, but little did she know the spy snuck back over to Clint’s side as soon as she vanished down the hallway.

“Fitz told me this girl can figure out anything,” Clint said as Natasha perched herself on the edge of his bed, begrudgingly tolerating her new IV. “It hasn’t really even been that long… and I’m actually feeling better.” He clearly wasn’t, but Natasha didn’t dispute it. “Maybe this isn’t the big thing we’re making it out to be.”

“You don’t look better,” she said, smiling sadly as she reached out to push her fingers through his greasy hair. “You look like shit.”

“And you look like the ass that shat me out.”

It was a stupid little joke they did, one of the many developed over the course of their relationship. Natasha gave him a weak smile but her bottom lip was trembling slightly, the way it did just before she cried. Before he could say or do anything to stop it she was in tears, leaning against him and sobbing into his chest. It wasn’t what he said -- but it was. It was everything she was willing to admit she loved about him, his sweet, easy, sarcastic nature. And she felt like she was about to lose it all.

Wrapping Natasha in his arms and minding their IVs, Clint kissed the top of her head and shushed her, the very picture of calm, though he was panicking inside. She rarely cried, and when she did it was usually over something fairly significant, like the deaths of other respected agents. Eventually her sobs became soft gasps, then quiet, trembling breaths, her grip on his gown gradually loosening.

“I don’t feel better...” Natasha looked up at him, all watery eyes and pale, blotchy cheeks. “I feel worse. I feel… wrong, inside. And it’s not just the-”

She stopped suddenly, suspiciously. Clint looked down at her. “The what?”

“The… whatever this is,” she said. “This strange alien disease we’ve picked up.”

Natasha didn’t disclose her other medical issue to her partner just yet, and though she was starting to feel like she’d swallowed a bowling ball, he didn’t seem to figure it out just by looking at her, either. She should have told him as soon as she could, but she didn’t. At all. The last thing Natasha wanted was to drop this bomb on Clint right now, even if he was equally responsible for creating it, but it was killing her to bear it alone, on top of everything else they were going through.

He didn’t even seem to hear her, anyway. That happened sometimes, with his hearing issues, so she began to repeat herself when he jerked away from her unexpectedly. “Hh-EKT’chhu!” The bed shook as he sneezed, immediately winding up for another, and another-- “hehh… h’AEISHHH! h’h’hh!… h’AEHSHHhh!” They were too powerful to stifle, and Clint was too exhausted to put any effort into silencing them.

Sniffling wetly, he kept his wrist against his nose and grabbed a few tissues. “Can’t wait to stop doi’g that...” He paused to blow his nose, relieved at the easy flow of congestion and the reduced sinus pressure. Even with his head a bit clearer the lining of his nose was still inflamed and perpetually irritated, making him feel like he was constantly on the edge of a sneeze. “At least it doesn’t hurt anybore.”

Perhaps it was the fault of something in the air this time, or maybe it was just a coincidence, but Natasha sneezed shortly after him, a soft but forceful “ihp’TCHu!”

There was never just one, so Clint held his blessing until her body granted her a reprieve after the fifth or sixth sneeze.

She looked miserable afterwards. As much as he missed the warmth and weight of her body against his Clint urged her to return to her own bed. Natasha barely had the energy to move, so she remained where she was, consciously trying to appreciate what might be some of her last few moments with Clint. She was starting to tear up again just thinking about it.

Sensing she was about to start crying again, Clint began playing with her hair. It was her one weakness, the one trick that lulled her into a pleasant stupor, like that three-headed dog in Harry Potter that fell asleep to music. (Natasha insisted he read the series years ago, but he stopped after the second book and just never picked it back up again. There were so many things he wished he’d done, now, so many books he wished he’d read and animals he wished he’d adopted and conversations he wished he could have had with her.) Eventually the crying and sniffling stopped and she was breathing noisily but contently against him, her cheek pressed against his chest as he combed his fingers through her hair.

Edited July 13, 2014 by anonymouse

[Dusty15]

Gosh I love these two! This has been such a great read so far….I feel utterly spoiled that it's 7 parts and there's more to come!

[Winged]

Eeee, Anony, you are perfection <3 Dusty said it well -- the fact that you're at seven parts and still rolling is marvelous, and you're spoiling us, hehe.

This part has probably been my favorite yet! I love the window we get into Clint's mind via his therapist, and I loooove the fierce attachment that we see between him and Natasha, no matter the circumstances. I also am consistently impressed by your writing - it's so full and physical, and you have a beautiful way with detail without going overboard. Gah. It's art.

A+, lovely lady, and write on!

[Anonymouse]

Still rolling... more like chugging along... I always start off with so much enthusiasm when I start these long stories but then I fizzle out. Not that I'm not enthusiastic, I'm just lazy and it's a shame but I promise I will see this one through to the end. Thank you both so much for your lovely comments! <3 So much sneezing in this next part, all Natasha, so I hope the lady sneeze lovers (and everyone who reads!) enjoys.

VIII.

After New York, it was easy to forget that Clint spent a large portion of the event under the control of a would-be alien overlord. He was so good at faking himself he even had Natasha fooled into thinking he was over the whole experience. It was typical Clint, letting the worst situations roll off him like water off a duck, so she didn’t question, at least not at first, when things seemed okay.

Fury let everyone involved in the defense of the city take some uninterrupted time to sort things out before he would suggest the Avengers become anything more than a one-hit wonder. The two agents took advantage of the downtime to decompress at the cabin before returning home to what Clint scathingly referred to as “civilian life.” Not even light duty to keep them occupied, at least not until they were cleared by the staff psychotherapist. Natasha had some reservations about Dr. Banner that she wanted to work through in addition to the fact that she almost had to kill her own partner, and Clint… well, he denied that he was even going to therapy for what happened in New York when she asked him about it point blank. His uncharacteristic dishonesty was the first red flag, a sign that he wasn’t quite himself just yet.

She knew Loki’s control would have an immediate and lasting influence even after its severance, but aside from the initial shock there was no indication that her partner had experienced any trauma. He seemed to recover within minutes of regaining control of the reins to his mind. It never occurred to her that he no choice but to skip through processing the event straight into survival mode and someone else’s battle. Maybe he was still in survival mode now.

He also seemed to be drinking more and trying (badly) to hide it. She confronted him about it and even threatened to out him to Fury, but she gave him another chance, just as he’d given her. He took it and agreed to cut down on the drinking and go to a support group in the city for adult children of alcoholics, in addition to his S.H.I.E.L.D.-mandated therapy. Just to make her happy, he said, which was a good enough reason for her.

Of course the support group didn’t necessarily address the whole Loki thing, but Clint and his issues with control had much deeper roots. He must have been getting something out of it, because continued to go every week. He didn’t really talk about it with her and she didn’t press him to, especially since she knew talking about those traumatic memories stirred up emotions like dead leaves in the pit of one’s soul. Between therapy and support groups he was doing a lot of talking. She would be his quiet, the presence that steadied him between the moments of pain and insight.

It did get worse before it got better, just as she knew it would. Clint cycled through periods of aloofness and clinginess that wore on his partner’s already frayed nerves, but she could sense it improving bit by bit as the weeks went by. After one of the meetings, while they were watching Married with Children on the couch, Clint mentioned something about how he never thought he’d make a good father. That he was too invested in what he did, and he had too many issues with his own father, and he was really starting to feel his age after New York. They had a similar conversation in the past, just once, years ago. Natasha believed there was nothing more to discuss. Neither of them thought their occupations were conducive to traditional family life, and though Clint didn’t go into detail about how he felt in regards to being a parent besides “I don’t care either way,” Natasha made it very clear she had absolutely no maternal instinct, even if she was willing to leave the agency. And she wasn’t. Neither of them were.

So when he brought it up again she looked at him with a mixture of surprise and compassion.

“You almost died several times in the past…” She paused to do the math. “Seven months? People are more likely to think about reproducing after they’ve stared mortality in the face. It’s a psychological response to help them feel more comfortable about the idea of death, with the assurance that they’ll live on through their children.” She gave him a playful smirk. “As if having children will make you any less dead in forty years.”

“Don’t invalidate my feelings with your psychology,” he said, though his response was genuinely lighthearted. He also seemed to be considering her point.

“If it makes you feel any better, let’s table this discussion for a later date. Say, six months from now?”

“You really think it’ll be six months before I’m back to normal?”

“Rebenok,” she said sweetly. “Normal is changing all the time.”

Natasha wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, and he smiled simply because he loved when she was needlessly cryptic. Grabbing his face in her hand, she squeezed the corners of his mouth to preserve his smile and he laughed, the sound like music to her ears after months of a more somber tune. There was no way she could know that in six months she would be at The Plateau in a containment cell as a patient, or that Clint would be in critical condition, leaving her to face the decision all on her own.

---

Some time during the night they intubated him. Natasha only heard them at first, hurried footsteps and harried voices, but when she realized what was happening she found just enough strength to open her eyes and sit up. She perched on the edge of her bed for what felt like hours, a ghost without the ability to interfere in the matters of the living and those close to dying, listening to him struggle and watching the shadows of the people trying to save him dance across the curtains.

It wasn’t until the sound of the ventilator kicked in that Natasha realized she’d stopped breathing too. She drew in an rough gasp, filling her lungs with the cold, filtered air of the containment cell, and fell back against the flimsy mattress. The lower half of her body still hung off the bed, the tips of her toes brushing the floor. Staring at the blurring tiles on the ceiling, she listened to the machine pump air into a pair of lungs to weak to breathe on their own.

Eventually she closed her eyes and tried to block out the world around her. Hot tears streaked sideways down her temples, leaving little damp spots on her blanket and in her hair. She could hear someone enter the space between the wall and the curtain and knew the doctor was watching her. Natasha cracked open an eye, then both, blinking to clear away the tears as she craned her neck and confirmed her suspicion.

“What do you want?” she croaked, her voice thick with congestion from crying and the virus that was destroying her more slowly than she would have liked at this point. She just wanted to give up, be left alone to die, no more fussing doctors or pointless tests that only led to dead ends.

Dr. Simmons looked and sounded like she hadn’t slept in weeks. “I just… wanted to let you know he’s stabil-”

“He’s on a fucking ventilator,” Natasha spat. “He isn’t stabilized.”

The silence that followed the outburst was deafening. Natasha let the pain leave her body as anger, because anger was easier to express than despair. “You’ve tested our blood and our snot and our skin, over and over again,” she continued. “You’ve scanned us, seen our bodies inside and out. Why the hell have you not figured this out yet?”

“Agent Romanoff, I understand you’re upset--”

“Oh, you understand.”

She was simmering. A rage more intense than anything she’d ever known was eating her up inside, but then it was gone in an instant, as fleeting as the moment between life and death. Replacing the feeling was that all too familiar sensation that would have probably kindled her anger if it wasn’t so utterly distracting.

She turned her head to the side with a ragged inhale, catching the sneezes that catapulted back out against the palm of her hand. “eyhh’TSCHew! eh’hih-…h’eh’tSCH!-’tsch!-u…” She sniffled, then shook her head slightly, the sneezy look overtaking her expression once again. “hek’tdSCHhh!”

Shoulders slumped in defeat, Natasha gave a wet sniffle, the sound muffled against her hand. Her nose still throbbed with discomfort, so she pressed the tip of her thumb into the slight dent just above her left nostril. The pressure caused the irritation to amplify, making her nostrils flutter and her breath hitch impatiently.

“h-eh!’-hih!-- heh’TSCHHiu! heh’TSCHHhhew! hih… heh’tCHHhhu!”

She kept one hand against her nose as she tried to keep it from running, the other resting against the curve of her belly. She wondered if all this sneezing hurt or at the very least startled the tiny thing growing inside of her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at Dr. Simmons right now let alone ask her such a stupid question. It occurred to Natasha that she didn’t know the first thing about this foreign physical state that so many women chose (and in some cases, had chosen for them by others) to make part of their lives. Dr. Simmons removed the defunct IUD and offered several options but the agent couldn’t bring herself to make a decision just yet. It wasn’t as simple as she imagined it would be, especially considering the aggravating factors of their situation. Natasha did not see the point in killing it if there was a good chance it would die with her anyway.

A shadow entered her field of vision as Dr. Simmons bravely stepped closer to offer a box of tissues. It took a lot of guts to approach a Black Widow, even in a weakened state like this. Her fizzling anger gave way to a deep, unbearable sadness, and all she could do was stare at the floor and choke it down. Another sneeze squeaked past her weakened defenses and she stifled it - “h’ih-nxjtk’ch!” - between her thumb and forefinger. This time Dr. Simmons didn’t scold her, but placed the tissue box on the table beside her bed as if leaving an offering for a deity.

As she stepped back Natasha grabbed a few tissues and pressed them against her nose. Sneezing left her exhausted, without any energy to devote to expressing her frustration or even blowing her nose, though she forced herself to do the latter while the congestion was loose enough for it to be effective. Closing her eyes and pretending Dr. Simmons wasn’t there, she stooped forward and gave three crackling blows into the tissues. It sounded like loud static blasting from speakers in short, powerful bursts.

When she was finished she took a moment to compose herself, then braced herself and stood up. Holding onto the IV pole for support, Natasha put one foot in front of the other until she was standing uneasily in front of the sink. She turned on the faucet and let the lukewarm water rinse the sweat and sickness off her hands.

Some aides tried to give her a sponge bath earlier and she nearly clawed their eyes out. She longed to be clean, but she wasn’t willing to sacrifice her dignity for some soap and water. There were two full bathrooms attached to their cell but Dr. Simmons was concerned she was too weak to shower on her own, and Natasha wasn’t willing to have someone stand next to her while she washed days of filth off her body. This feeling was unbearable, so unlike the grime of a mission, of blood and dirt and the sweat that comes from physical exertion. This sickness made her sweat just lying in bed, while the battle raged internally, beyond her ability to control it, pushing illness out from the inside.

Splashing water on her face helped her feel a bit cleaner and distracted her from her racing thoughts. She could hear the machine helping Clint breathe just on the other side of the curtain. Dabbing her nose with a cool, damp paper towel, she sniffled and met Dr. Simmons’s eyes in the mirror.

“You can go… sit with him, if you’d like,” said the doctor wanly. “That is, if you’re feeling up to it. Mind, he is heavily sedated. The ventilator will do the breathing while his body focuses on getting better.”

Natasha did not imagine how he could get better with so little hope and so little time left, but she forced herself to smile weakly at the doctor for her efforts regardless. She was grateful for the opportunity to rejoin her partner on the other side. No doubt there was some pulling of legs to have it arranged.

Some of the medical assistants found a chair and placed it next to Clint’s bed, but when everyone left Natasha simply climbed into the bed beside him. She curled up against his still body and buried her face in his side. Finding his arm, she pulled it over her shoulder and tried to squeeze some life into his hands. His fingers seemed to curl around hers weakly, but he was seriously medicated, so she knew any interaction would be minimal. Scooting up to rest her ear against his chest, she closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat, back by the whooshing in his lungs and the persistent, rhythmic pumping of the machine.

---

Her sleep was interrupted by disjointed dreams, interspersed with night terrors and hallucinations more gruesome than anything Natasha ever saw in her waking hours. Visions of a place she’d never been to before loomed above the bed like the atmosphere was ripping open to reveal another dimension, much like the portal in the sky during the battle of New York. People came and went -- Dr. Simmons, Ward, and she thought she remembered hearing Maria -- but they were nothing but voices and shadows at the corner of her vision.

Natasha squeezed her eyes shut after waking with a start from a fever dream that kept pulling her back in like quicksand. As soon as her eyes were closed it continued like an old fashioned film reel, images stuttering and shifting suddenly across the scope of her mind until sharp discomfort cut through like a knife. An irritated nerve in her nasal passages tugged sharply at her attention, thrusting her from the dream into a state of gasping half-consciousness. “-hih!... hih’h!... huh’CHshhiuu! hehHH-!! -ih’dCHhhh!”

When the sleepy, feverish fog of confusion cleared from her brain she reached out to touch her partner’s arm. Clint was still out, his body essentially on autopilot. Lying next to him was like curling up against a furnace. A barking cough tore out of her chest without warning, the forerunner in a fit of several dozen that left her feeling like her lungs were wearing thin. Natasha wondered how much longer she could go breathing on her own before they hooked her up to one of these machines. Even more unsettling was the thought of getting better while Clint got worse, though she didn’t expect she’d start improving without some serious intervention.

Dr. Simmons arrived with news, something about their medical team collaborating with a healer from Asgard. Natasha knew better than to get her hopes up, but it lifted her spirits just enough that she was able to distract herself from more morbid thoughts. If this virus was Asgardian, or at least of the “Nine Realms,” then maybe this healer would be able to point them in the right direction.

The doctor lingered as Natasha downed the glass of water she brought for her. “Is there anything else you need?”

Her patient coughed again, taking a moment to catch her breath as she placed the empty glass on the doctor’s cart. “A shower?”

“Of... course.” Dr. Simmons was uneasy, and rightfully so. “If you promise not to bite, we can have someone come and-”

“Not a sponge bath. A real shower.”

“I don’t think you’re…” Natasha raised an eyebrow as the doctor struggled to find the words. “I don’t think that’s the best idea...”

“I’m dying and I want a shower,” she said bitterly. “Unplug me for twenty minutes and I promise I’ll behave for the rest of the night. I just…” She got angry at herself as her voice did that trembly thing again, her throat spasming as she pushed on to the end of the sentence. “I need to take a shower… please.”

Dr. Simmons folded. The last thing anyone in the room wanted was for people to start crying again. She subjected Natasha to a brief but aggrevating examination to ensure her vitals were in decent enough shape, which they were, though barely. This was a strange little virus, with the severity of its symptoms waxing and waning from hour to hour, at least in her seemingly healthier female patient.

“You have twenty minutes,” said the doctor, scanning her card for access to the bathroom. “And you have to use the stool and let me keep an eye on you. I don’t want you falling.”

The comment made Natasha feel like a helpless old lady. So did trying to stand. Her knees were sore and stiff and a jolt of pain shot up her spine as she straightened up. The cell had two bathrooms, one on each side, and Natasha was escorted to the one on Clint’s side so Dr. Simmons could keep an eye on the both of them. She wasn’t halfway across the room before the shifting congestion blazed a trail of irritation down each nasal passage. Stopping in her tracks, her eyes slivered as she pressed the back of her hand against her nose. When her breath caught audibly the doctor stopped to look at her with concern, but Natasha shook her head with a few panting breaths, the sneezy sensation dissolving but without any feeling of relief.

The shower room was about a third of the size of their cell, with a single drain and shower head on one side and a stall with a toilet and sink on the other. There was a generic shampoo and conditioner blend in a dispenser bolted to the wall and a bench that she had no choice but to utilize. She stripped off her gown and her socks and underwear and placed them in the shelved alcove by the door.

Trying to ignore the fact that someone was outside the door checking on her periodically, she walked over to the shower, trailing her fingers against the tiled wall for balance as she went. The floor was cold against her bare feet and the initial burst of water from the showerhead was even colder, causing her to gasp and pull her body back from the stream. The water warmed up slowly, and she gauged the temperature with her toes in the water swirling around the drain.

There was a series of short knocks at the door, and Dr. Simmons was in the window pointing at the bench. Natasha located it and sat on the fresh towel that was draped across the surface, focusing on the shampoo/conditioner dispenser for a good minute while the warm water ran over her legs. When she glanced back she saw the back of the doctor’s head, or the back of her suit, rather, and decided to take advantage of the privacy to attend to the growing irritation in her right nostril. Cupping her nose with one hand, she braced herself against the bench with the other as she massaged the offending nostril into submission. The prickling sensation melted away but the moment she moved her hand it resurfaced with a vengeance. She rubbed her nose again, this time intending to coax sneeze into developing fully. After a fifteen seconds of rubbing her breath caught, nostrils pulsing weakly with need; she curved her hand lightly over her nose and let them loose, each soft, damp explosion adding to the spray from the showerhead. “eh-t’schieu! hih’tschhh!… hihh’hh-dt’SCHhue-- h’CHhhsh!”

Her airways were opening, the congestion loosening as the temperature and humidity rose. She ducked her head under the water to dampen her hair, then sat back to sneeze openly towards the floor. “hehhchishhh!” She could feel the extra dampness against her breasts and belly, and let her head tilt back as she built up to the next one. Damp tendrils of red hair brushed against her cheeks as she directed a final, fierce sneeze between her legs. “ehh’SSCCHHiu!”

There was a sudden thump against the door and Natasha, face burning, stuck her head under the water to wash away the mess. It felt good, borderline blissful, to let those sneezes out, and the steam definitely helped her breathing situation.

There was another thud, much heavier than Dr. Simmons’ usual polite rap-tap-tap of a knock. Natasha drew back from the stream to investigate, focusing her attention on the door. Another suited figure was hunched in front of it, just the top of their head visible through the glass. Natasha turned off the shower and moved quickly but carefully across the slick floor, her eyes never leaving the stranger in the window.

They never once looked up at her, and she was willing to bet they didn’t even know she was in there. She stood to the left of the door, back to the wall, just out of sight, and tried to listen to what was happening on the other side. The walls were thick, but not thick enough to muffle the sound of a man cursing. It sounded like he was having a terse conversation with someone, but his was the only voice she could hear, slightly garbled and distorted by the tiled walls and floor. If Dr. Simmons was still there, she was being awfully quiet.

Reaching into the alcove, Natasha pulled her towel and clothing out, drying off quickly as she got dressed. She listened for snippets of conversation - something about one of the little birdies having left the nest, how cliché - but it was hard enough for her to concentrate on balancing let alone interpreting the unfamiliar accent in the next room. She wished she had a gun or some grenades with her. Tired as it was, her body would have to do if it came down to a fight. Her skills and wits were all she had left, even if they felt dull and useless as an old blade.

The card reader outside the door beeped, then gave an angry buzz as it denied the outsider access. The sound was like a knife in her gut, and she sucked in an anticipatory breath, waiting for them to try again. This time she could hear two voices, the second more familiar but too distant to accurately identify. A man’s face darkened the window and Natasha slinked back against the wall, moving towards the far corner to avoid detection. This cube of a shower cell had nowhere to hide, and her attempts to go unseen failed as the voice outside gave a victorious shout.

“We’ve got her,” she heard him say to his partner. “She’s contained.”

The second voice said “Then go,” and suddenly she knew it was Agent Ward in the next room, along with some suited stranger with an accent that was frustratingly difficult to place. Natasha waited for them to open the door, preparing herself to take down two men or more if necessary, but then the lights in the room flickered. A few seconds later they went out completely, leaving her in darkness and silence as the whirring, thrumming atmosphere of the containment cell ceased to exist. She waited for the generator to take over but the eerie lull persisted, and she heard the voices disappear as quickly as they came without any explanation as to their purpose here. She tried to look out the window but it was too dark to see anything in the next room. Not Clint or their doctor. Not the men responsible for whatever just happened.

Natasha didn’t even know if her partner was still alive, or if he would be much longer if the power didn’t come back soon. He could be dying right now, on the other side of this wall, mere meters away but unreachable, and she wouldn’t even know it. Pressing her fingers in the indentations, she tried to push the door open, but it was sealed shut. Until the power came back on, or until someone forced her out, she was trapped in here, a cell within a cell.

Edited May 17, 2015 by AnonyMouse

[Garnet]

Oh jeez I missed a whole bunch of these, but I caught up now and UGH SCREW YOU MY POOR HEART CAN'T TAKE IT. I love how your write their relationship, so world-weary and damaged by dint of who they are and what they do, but still with time for little habits of normalcy.

Natasha insisted he read the series years ago, but he stopped after the second book and just never picked it back up again. There were so many things he wished he’d done, now, so many books he wished he’d read and animals he wished he’d adopted and conversations he wished he could have had with her.)

Ouch. You stop that.

(don't stop)

“Rebenok,” she said sweetly. “Normal is changing all the time.

I also love this line a lot. It's a good philosophy to have, especially for them, I'd think.

A shadow entered her field of vision as Dr. Simmons bravely stepped closer to offer a box of tissues. It took a lot of guts to approach a Black Widow, even in a weakened state like this. Her fizzling anger gave way to a deep, unbearable sadness, and all she could do was stare at the floor and choke it down. Another sneeze squeaked past her weakened defenses and she stifled it - “h’ih-nxjtk’ch!” - between her thumb and forefinger. This time Dr. Simmons didn’t scold her, but placed the tissue box on the table beside her bed as if leaving an offering for a deity.

So many good things happening in this passage, I had to quote the whole thing. I appreciate that Natasha still carries all of her fierceness, even crying and sick and pregnant.

And nnnghh that whole shower scene and ending. I kind of drifted out of the Avengers fandom, but I still love these two always, and your writing is so spot on that I'm really looking forward to seeing where this is going.

[Dusty15]

ANONY! Holy crap, this is SO GOOD. Aughhh. You capture these two so well and I'm just drowning in sympathy for the pair of them caught up in all this! Poor sick Clint And I agree with Garnet that I love how Natasha is still fierce even when she's utterly miserable. I can't wait to see what happens next!

[cara]

OMG I love this! It is amazing! I can really see it all happening!

[Anonymouse]

I'm truly embarrassed that it took me this long to write the next chapter. I've been so damn busy but also admittedly a bit lazy so I can't blame it all on my schedule. I still love the hell out of this story and will see it to completion. I don't see there being more than two chapters after this part, maybe three, so it won't be much longer. Thank you everyone who supported me up until this point and that new commenter (hello, cara!) that knocked the topic back onto the new content list, reminding me that people are still reading this and it's super rude to just leave everyone hanging. I need these two now more than ever after the events of Age of Ultron, and I'm going to ignore everything that came about from the film and keep on keepin' on with my OTP.

IX.

Natasha covered her mouth and leaned forward, tears springing to her eyes.

She couldn’t believe it. It was really them.

“Liho,” she whispered, resisting the urge to touch the screen.

Fitz had brought them a tablet so they could Skype with their pets and Kate back… well, Natasha supposed she would call that place home. The place that had Clint, Kate, Lucky, Liho, Steve, Pepper, Tony... people and creatures she cautiously thought of as family. It took some getting used to, but for all its terrible first impressions, New York City became her first real base of operations, both personal and professional. It was now that she didn’t have them that she realized the people in her life made New York the home she never had.

“In the flesh.” Kate held the cat up to the camera as Lucky, starved for attention and missing his owner, tried to nose his way into the frame. “And fur... Dude, Lucky, chill.”

Natasha watched Liho squirm and wondered if he even knew she was there, if he could hear her voice or knew what the image on the screen represented. “Liho,” she said again, her convincingly playful tone masking her sadness.

She could hear Clint huff out a laugh next to her. “It’s so weird,” he said, less successful at keeping his voice from getting tight. “I’m so used to people walking in and out of here in those fuckin’ suits... seeing your faces… it’s so strange.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Kate.

He laughed again, then coughed. “You know what I mean.”

Clint tried to choke out another sentence but had to turn to the side to finish out his coughing fit. Natasha watched with dull horror as his shoulders shook, wondering if Kate was ready to inherit a couple of orphaned animals. Even behind his suit and mask Fitz was wincing, torn between sympathy and an itching desire to flee the room. He averted his eyes politely as Clint spat into the trashcan. Natasha rubbed her partner’s back through his damp shirt. Kate leaned closer to the camera like she wished she could be there with them. Natasha didn’t doubt for a second that she would trade places with either of them… not that she or Clint would allow it if she had that opportunity.

His breath returned to him so slowly Natasha wasn’t sure he’d ever catch it. Wheezing softly, Clint leaned back until part of him made contact, his hot shoulder burning a hole through her chest. she asked softly.

Nodding, he touched her arm. Unlike the rest of him, his fingers were freezing; it was like being caressed by a ghost. “I think we need a break,” she said, looking past the tablet at Fitz.

Kate looked disappointed, but gave them a nod of understanding. Now that goodbyes were imminent she was too choked up to say much beyond “Love you guys,” her voice shaking like a leaf in the wind just barely holding on.

Natasha said, speaking for the both of them.

~~~

It was a couple of minutes before the power came back. Natasha stood by the door and waited, occasionally pushing her pride aside just long enough to bang her fists against the door and cry for help. If anyone heard her, they didn’t answer.

The darkness was suffocating. The distant wail of sirens pierced her heart with dread. She hated this feeling of vulnerability, like a wounded animal in a trap, waiting for death. It was a feeling she hadn’t felt in some time, and she was forced to sit with it for what felt like hours. It was too long before the power flickered back on, forcing her eyes shut as she adjusted to the sudden transition from darkness to light. The overheads were blinding and her aching head was made worse by the brightness and the pair of sputtering sneezes it provoked. “-tcsh! Hp’ftshh!”

Recovering with a shake, she found the door and pushed against it with all her weight until she heard the power lock release.

Humid air rushed out ahead of her to fill the bone-dry medical cell. Her first instinct was to check on Clint, but she literally tripped over Dr. Simmons as she exited the shower. The poor girl’s body was prone on the floor just outside the door. When Natasha searched her for damage she found a small puncture hole the width of a needle in her suit. She was still breathing, but too woozy to form much of a response beyond “... just... drugged….. go...”

The spy helped the doctor sit upright before going to check on Clint. He was alive, but just barely, from the looks of it. Natasha averted her eyes from his pale, unmoving form and watched his vitals flicker across the screens by his bed. Nobody had to kill him; he was already on his way out.

she rasped, blindly grabbing his hand before venturing a look in his direction. It hurt to talk; it hurt to breathe. “Don’t you die.”

Natasha felt heavy, like a swollen tick, gorged with the blood of her kills, saturated with the memories of all the lives she erased from existence. Of the people, evil and innocent, who died simply because they had the misfortune of crossing paths with her. And now Clint would join that impossibly long list. This felt like karmic retribution for all of her past misdeeds. Maybe Loki was right after all; there was too much red in her ledger, more than she could ever hope to wipe out in a single lifetime, or even two. Or three, she thought, passing her hand over her belly as the other tensed in a fist.

There was a sudden twisting pain inside of her, as if someone was wringing her out like a sponge. The agony made her double over the bed; it forced a layer of sweat to the surface of her skin, tears to her eyes, and a silent cry from her lips. Eyes streaming, she broke down completely, burying her face in Clint’s side and begging him to wake up, to do something to relieve some of this pain. She could feel her tears and runny nose seeping through the fabric of his gown but didn’t bother moving. It seemed like a silly thing to do, to sob like a child while Dr. Simmons just barely conscious on the other side of the room and sirens were going off all over the facility, but Natasha could not find the strength to do anything else. The soft breaths between her sobs quickly hitched out of control like a train careening off the tracks, growing in strength and speed until she pulled away to sneeze over the edge of the bed.

“Hptschhh! heh-IHSHHue! heihh-IHPSHHHHuu!”

The hand that wasn’t curled under her dripping nose found its way to Clint’s and squeezed. His skin was cold, his pulse weak, but she could have sworn she felt his fingers twitch slightly at the contact. She made no move to wipe away the tears that distorted her vision, instead staring at the blurred image of their hands clasped together.

It was then she noticed something poking out from under his pillow. Brow pinched with curiosity, Natasha wiped her eyes and nose in the bed sheets before leaning forward to inspect it.

“Son of a bitch,” she breathed, reaching out to slide his compact bow out from under the bulk of the pillow.

Clint had gotten ahold of it, somehow. Maybe he managed to sweet talk Fitz into fetching it for him. Clint seemed to have that effect on people; they just wanted to do things for him. And with the weapon in her hands, Natasha finally felt powerful enough to do something, too.

She heard noise in the hallway, someone shouting, echoes of boots tramping across metal grates. Perfect timing. Letting Clint’s hand slip from hers, she took a step back at looked at him for as long as she could, in case this was the last time. She carefully rifled around under the pillow for some ammunition and recovered three arrows. Despite achieving mastery in dozens of skills, archery wasn’t even on Natasha’s radar. Guns she understood. Bows and arrows? Not so much. But she would kill a hundred men with these three arrows if that’s what it would take.

She could hear the first set of doors beginning to open on the left. Tucking the bow against her side and clasping the arrows in her fist, she made her way across the room and ducked into the alcove by the exit. Arms trembling, she lifted the bow and notched an arrow as the interior doors crept open.

Her nose was already running from the shower and from crying, and it took all of her willpower not to sniffle as she felt the liquid oozing down towards her upper lip. Her vision blurred again, this time from tears of irritation, and she felt her control slip away as a single suited figure stepped into the room.

“Agent Romanoff?”

It was only Fitz. Natasha dropped the bow, only partially relieved, and clasped her hands over her mouth and nose. Bracing herself against the wall with her elbows, she tucked forward into her cupped hands. “hipfstchhu! h’iHTschhu!”

“Bless-”

“iHTCHHhh! hi’ISHHhh!”

Fitz winced behind his mask, then delivered a breathless update. “A team broke Radkov out of his cell. There’s sixteen men down, last I’ve checked. They sent me to…” He paused, surveying the room and blanching when he noticed Simmons propped against the wall. “Oh God.”

“She’s fide,” Natasha assured him, sniffling hard despite the lack of air flow. It did little to move the congestion, and only served to make her feel dizzier. “Okay, dot fide… but she’ll live.”

She never saw the little guy look so angry. His fists clenched in his gloves. “Who-?”

“I don’t dowe,” Natasha answered. “That’s what I’be going to find out.”

Fitz gave her a look that would have been comical in any other context. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m under strict orders to-”

“Guard Clint,” she said. “And Sibbids. In case they come back.”

“But I don’t-”

“Here.” Natasha handed him the bow and the arrows. “I know, stupid choice of weapon, but he made it work…” She glanced at her partner again, trying to see past the pale, dying man in the bed to the brave hero he once was. The one she would have to be, for him. For everyone. “And I know you can, too.”

Fitz stood there silently for a moment. “What are you going to do?”

It was a completely legitimate question. She was not sure what she was capable of in this state, if anything. But she had to try.

“Make sure whoever did this pays for it, dearly.”

Fitz nodded. He wasn’t about to argue with the Black Widow, who was far scarier than Coulson, even sick, weak, and pregnant. “I’ll keep him safe,” he assured her.

Natasha believed he would. She had no other choice.

---

Natasha had to wonder why they chose Mount Roraima as the location for the Plateau. Dying patients were confined to four windowless walls and artificial light, while a breathtaking view existed, unseen, all around them. It was almost a crime to rob them of such a beautiful sight in their final moments. Natasha wished she could take a picture with her mind and send it to Clint, to convince him that it was worth it to fight to stay in this world.

Already short of breath, she stopped breathing altogether when she saw the sky again for the first time in a week. The hot colors of the sun bled into the retreating night, daylight charging forward with renewed vigor after fading away hours earlier. Heat pressed down on her face, warm and comforting at first, but activating an array of less welcome sensations, chief among them the tingling, borderline painful twinge in her sinuses. Rather than fight it she squinted her eyes and let it develop.

“ihttcchhhue!”

Just one, but it was forceful enough to clear out the tickle completely. She would even go so far as to say it felt good. But she had little time to focus on sunsets and satisfying sneezes. Radkov was out here somewhere, and she was going to find him and finish the job. There would be no second chances in a cell for him. A man like this only deserved one ending.

She’d followed his trail of bodies to one of the anterior exits. Her fellow S.H.I.E.L.D. agents littered the hallway floors, some still breathing, some quite clearly dead. One of the living was just conscious enough to point her in the right direction. On her way out of the building she relieved one of the corpses of their guns and ammunition.

One of those guns was soon directed towards a sound to her left. Heavy footfalls crunched dry ground, and a familiar figure stepped into view. Natasha was so shocked to see an agent she thought long gone that she nearly lowered her weapon, until she noticed he was being steered in her direction by the very man she was hunting.

“Agent Romanoff,” said Radkov, pressing his knife more firmly against Phil Coulson’s throat. “It is truly a pleasure to see you again.”

--------------------------------

*”Are you tired?”

**”Love you, little sun/sunshine.”

***”You fucker/dickhead/dumbass/take your pick of harsh and insulting ‘pet names’.”

Edited May 17, 2015 by AnonyMouse

[a_nonny_mouse]

Hnnn. Oh, this is beautiful.