Inspired by a prompt on avengerkink, which was: "With Coulson gone, there's no one to temper SHIELD's demands on Natasha & Clint for their general badassery and skills, so post-movie they keep getting sent on mission after mission (maybe in the chaos after the attack all kinds of baddies come out of the woodwork to take advantage & start trouble, so Coulson's asshole replacement keeps throwing these two into the breach?)
Clint still feels guilty for being compromised, so he never says no. He gets kind of rundown and exhausted but keeps on going to make up for his previous "failing".
Until he gets sick. Really sick. Pneumonia, fever, weak & shaky & chilled, the whole works.
Whether he's on a solo mission & Natasha has to come find him, or they're together when he collapses & she has to get him through it is up to you. I'm not averse to some stranded-in-a-cabin-while-trying-to-keep-him-alive-from-killer-flu either.
Just, whump Clint with illness, please!"
So I kind of ran with it and this is the result.
Contains violence and some bad language.
"Now that's torment," Natasha whispered, cutting her eyes at the bound and gagged Loki. "His primary weapon rendered utterly impotent."
Clint smirked to show he heard her, appreciated the sentiment, but there was no humor in the eyes hidden behind his dark sunglasses. Just looking at the god was sending his guts into an icy slide to his boots.
He didn't let himself avert his eyes, though.
Thor concluded whatever quietly impassioned speech he was giving to Rogers—promises, maybe, or more apologies—and nudged his brother into motion. Loki turned, impassive, not sparing even a passing glance for the two drab humans standing slightly apart from the flashier members of their team, and Clint felt that dizzying drop in his stomach again.
No more notice than he'd give a blade of grass beneath his heel, he thought, and his fingers twitched, itching to close around bowstring and arrow.
"Easy." Natasha's murmur drew his focus back to the sunlit plaza.
Clint took a breath, consciously relaxing shoulders that had gone rigid. "I'm fine."
She didn't answer, only raised her chin as a crackle began to build in the air. Her hair lifted around her face in the downdraft of Thor throwing himself and his brother into the sky.
And just that quickly, the mood in their thin sliver of park lightened. Rogers' stern expression relaxed, Banner gave his neck a twisting roll and heaved a sigh, and Stark barked out a laugh with an aside to Banner that Clint didn't catch. Clint inhaled carefully, tasting ozone on the air, and released the breath.
It didn't ease the knot twisting tight behind his ribcage.
The others were taking their leave, Rogers offering solemn handshakes all around before striding off to the bike he'd left at the head of the path, Stark and Banner moving off together, Stark's mouth going a mile a minute. Natasha offered cool nods to each of them before subsiding into a patient stance at Clint's elbow.
She was merely being supportive, but her quiet watchfulness chafed at Clint's raw nerves nonetheless.
He moved across the plaza, careful not to wrench away, to keep his motion slow and deliberate. At the edge of the raised plaza he rested his hands on the stone balustrade and gazed out over the park.
There were no visible signs of the damage surrounding the little oasis in the midst of city-wide destruction. No debris had rained down on the paths and lawns; the trees were tall enough to screen buildings that had had their top floors sheared off and their outer skins crumbled away. Beyond this little pocket of green there were streets filled with rubble and entire neighborhoods shattered and crews still at work digging for bodies.
As if Loki had lowered that scepter into a giant kettle and given it a hard stir, standing above to watch what his chaos had wrought.
And Clint had handed him that kettle.
"Stop," Natasha said firmly.
Clint smiled humorlessly. "You reading my…" he started, then broke off, sick at the thought of someone, even Natasha, in his mind again.
"No," she replied calmly. "Reading your body language." And from the corner of his eye he saw her nod towards his hands, his fingers pressed white and bloodless into the gritty stone rail.
He forced himself to relax his deathgrip.
"Better." She moved up, propping her elbows on the balustrade. "His doing, not yours. And I'll keep reminding you of that fact until you believe it."
She started to settle in beside him, shifting her weight to her arms, her hands clasped loosely on the railing, when a flicker of motion behind them had her snapping upright and spinning around, Clint turning a fraction of a second after her with one hand falling to his hip and coming up empty. Silver flashed between Natasha's fingers.
Two men marched in unison up the steps to the plaza, crossed it in lockstep. Natasha muttered a curse and the blade in her hand vanished.
One man was tall and blond and square-jawed, the other older, slender and palely sallow. They wore identical black suits, and dipped their right hands into their jackets with identical clipped motions as they approached. Clint tensed and Natasha shifted sideways with her weight on her following foot, anticipating weapons. The men both froze; after a beat they completed their motion much more slowly, retrieving identical black wallets from their jacket pockets and flipping them open.
"Agent Barton?" The blond spoke, holding up his SHIELD ID for display. "I'm Agent Snyder; this is Agent Liu. Would you come with us, please."
"What for?" Natasha demanded. Her arms were loose at her sides, but her feet were braced apart as she half-turned, radiating poised alertness. "Director Fury granted downtime…"
"For you, perhaps," Snyder interrupted smoothly. "But it's on his orders that Agent Barton is to accompany us to Headquarters." He tucked his wallet back into his pocket and reached for Clint's arm. "If you would, Agent…"
"No." Sleek as water, Natasha slid between Snyder and Clint, bumping Clint back along the balustrade with her hip and raising her left hand to Liu when he started forward. "He's on leave."
"Not any longer. Director Fury has recalled Agent Barton and authorized us to escort him in… by any means necessary."
"Let's go, then," Natasha snarled. The blade was suddenly in her fingers again, her wrist cocked as Snyder reached for the small of his back.
"Tasha, no."
The resigned command stilled her knife hand. She flicked a glance at Clint from the corner of her eye and he tipped his head toward the entrance of the plaza.
A dozen or more troops, their riot helmets just visible below the edge of the balustrade, were ranged around the perimeter, assault weapons bristling through the decorative stonework and over the lip of the steps.
"Don't. I'll go." He edged out from behind Natasha's crouched form, his hands spread. "I've been expecting this."
"I guess I should have." Ice dripped from Natasha's voice. The knife disappeared once more and she straightened. "I'll be right behind you… after I speak with Fury." She put a chilling emphasis on the word 'speak'.
Clint didn't answer. Head bowed, he started across the plaza and Snyder and Liu fell in beside him. All around them came the measured clack of weapons being brought to bear, and Natasha watched Clint retreat between a double column of troops toward a black SUV at the curb.
The last of the concussive blasts rolled into the distance and the eye-searing bursts of white faded to black. Clint stayed alert, adrenaline pumping through his veins, until the SHIELD logo rose up before his eyes and hung there, rotating slowly, hypnotically. A click came over the 'comm' in his ear.
"Mission complete, Agent. Take five." Another click, and the white noise started, a barely audible hiss/hum that retreated maddeningly each time he strained to hear it.
Better not to even try.
He sagged as the adrenaline crash hit, tremors racing across his skin and leaving a slick of sweat in their wake. With the sim ended, he could almost feel the tug of straps around his wrists and chest, waist and ankles…
There was a tug then, at his forehead, and before he could summon curiosity, the SHIELD logo blinked out and the white noise cut off, leaving his ears ringing.
The virtual reality hood slid up and over his head, and fluorescent light stabbed at his eyeballs. Through a haze of tears he saw a flash of red before a hard palm dropped to cover his eyes.
"Sorry." Natasha's voice was low, pitched deeper than her normal tones and slurring the sibilants. "Light switches are in the control room."
He grunted in acknowledgement, and felt her free hand first at his chest, unclipping the strap that pinned his upper body to the chair, and then at his waist.
"I'm going to unlock your arms now; you know it's me, right?"
Clint grunted again; his throat was sandpaper-rough, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. The tightness on his arms fell away and he shifted them slowly, experimentally. Her hair brushed the side of his face; she was behind and to his left, mostly out of range if he'd taken a swing.
"I'm moving down now—you ready?"
"Mm."
Her hand pulled away from his eyes; the light filtering through his eyelids didn't seem quite as piercing, and he waited through the click and rasp of straps dropping from his legs, and then blinked.
Bright, but no longer painful.
He blinked again, and then Natasha was at his side—the creak of leather and the scuff of her hand sliding into a pocket crashed against eardrums hypersensitive from the VR. Sunglasses slid over his nose and Clint blinked his eyes open and crossed back into the world.
"All right?"
The only sign of the effort it had taken her to reach him was a bright lock of hair pulled loose from its elastic band and falling over her eyes.
"So far so good." His voice was still a harsh croak; IV fluids had kept him hydrated, but without much moisture to spare.
Natasha nodded, raised her hands. "Leads now, then the IV. We have two more minutes before the alarms bring Fury down here. You need to be mobile when that happens."
"Just yank," Clint said, and lifted a hand to fumble at the nodes pasted to his scalp. Natasha pushed his hand down.
"I've got them."
Her hands flicked across his head, quickly peeling off the sensor nodes adhered there. The room felt cold after the virtual jungle of his last 'mission', and shivers chased across his damp skin. "Back of my neck," he rasped, and a warm hand cupped his head, tipped it forward. The sensor pasted at the base of his skull tore free, and then while she had him leaned forward, Natasha worked her hand down and peeled off the larger vitals pad stuck between his shoulderblades.
"One more." She shifted position, swung his legs down off the chair and paused before reaching for his chest. "Look at me." She waited until his shaded eyes found hers. "Who am I?"
"Tasha."
"Okay." Reassured, she let herself touch him then, flicking up one corner of the monitoring pad over his heart with her nail and then stripping it away.
"One minute," Clint told her, the clock in his head ticking down.
"Plenty of time." Natasha was already ripping the tape from his arm, sliding the IV free. She cursed as blood welled down the back of his hand, and produced a square of gauze from somewhere. "Hold that."
Clint pressed down on the gauze with his other hand while Natasha shook out a pair of sweatpants, crouched, and threaded his feet into them. "This is all I brought along. It's warm, once we get outside."
"'S fine."
"Stand."
Clint scooted forward, felt for the floor with his feet. As he slid from sitting to standing, Natasha dragged the sweats up his legs and settled them around his hips. She wrapped one hand around his elbow. "We're walking now."
"Sure thing."
One step, wobbly enough to pitch him to the floor if not for Natasha's strength keeping him vertical, then another, steadier, and then he was moving, across the testing lab to the door. It was open, prevented from automatically closing by a serrated-edged knife blade buried in the outer touchpad. Natasha retrieved it as they exited.
They passed the door to the control room—this one was closed, with a second knife protruding from its shattered pad—and zigzagged between the bodies strewn along the corridor. Clint recognized Mika as one of them, and the guard's slack-jawed drooling told him Natasha had used knock-out spray rather than deadly force.
Three paces from the end of the corridor and the elevator door slid open. Fury stood framed in it, hands clasped behind his back. He raised his eyebrow at them.
Natasha didn't even flinch—one arm still clamped around Clint's waist, she marched them both into the car and turned to face outward, putting Fury at their backs.
"Hit Ground," she told Clint calmly, and with the hand not twisted onto her belt he pressed his thumb to the appropriate button.
"Redecorating my med lab, Agent Romanov?" Fury asked blandly as the elevator kicked smoothly into motion and began to rise.
She shrugged without turning around. "It was ugly."
"Precautionary measures aren't pretty, but they are necessary to ensure the safety of both SHIELD and the public at large."
"That always looks good in the press releases, sir."
"Funny you should mention that." Fury's voice sharpened. "Plenty of people in the media are wondering how Loki got the access he enjoyed during his little jaunt across Earth. 'Agents operating under alien mind control' isn't a very reassuring excuse, but at least we now have the evidence to refute any claims that Barton is still a danger." The elevator glided to a halt. "Keep that in mind as you justify this little retrieval exercise. Which, I know I don't need to point out, would never have succeeded if I hadn't allowed it."
Natasha tugged Clint into motion. "It's quaint that you believe that, sir." She paused just long enough to shoot a level stare over her shoulder. "We'll check in two weeks from now. Come after us before that and you won't like the fallout."
"Tasha…" Clint protested hoarsely.
"Hush." She wheeled them toward the exit.
"Enjoy your leave, Agents," Fury called after them, and his low chuckle was cut off by the closing of the elevator door.
Natasha forged across the bustling lobby, scattering employees effortlessly, and then out the nondescript door to the street. She glanced at Clint's bare feet. "It's not far."
"I'm fine."
He wasn't, really; she could feel the tremors rattling through him as they walked, but he was upright, and moving, and she wasn't having to drag his heavy-assed self to where she'd left the car.
A chubby boy with a crewcut poked his head out the door of a brownstone when Natasha popped the car locks. She raised her eyebrow and he nodded vigorously, pointing to the front left tire. Natasha went up the front stoop to hand the boy a folded bill while Clint lowered himself into the passenger seat, and then she circled around, knelt, and fished around the wheel well until she'd located the trackers, the decoy only elbow deep, the backup buried behind the axle.
She dropped into the driver's seat, twisting to fish a hoodie from the backseat. Clint was visibly shaking now, and it took him three tries to jam his feet into the unlaced boots placed on the floor below his seat. Natasha pulled out onto the side street while he was still fighting to get his arms into the jacket and zip it up.
At the first red light, she hopped out, darted to the car ahead of them, and pinched the trackers onto its bumper. Once they were through the intersection she turned left, then left again at the next block, heading back toward midtown.
She glanced over at Clint, slumped in the passenger seat. "Traffic's backed up to hell on the streets still open these days—it'll take a while to get there. You should sleep."
He croaked out a harsh laugh. "Yeah. Not happening."
"Rest then. How're your eyes?"
"Better."
"Knee?"
"Sore."
"There were needle marks—the medics must have been giving you cortisone shots."
He shifted, flexing the knee in question. "Feels like it." He paused, eyes on the passing traffic. "How long was I under?"
"Ten days." Natasha slowed at a crosswalk; the pedestrians were streaming around traffic barrels and a stretch of orange construction fencing that blocked a rubble-filled crater. "I read the reports. They had you cleared in six, but then they just kept poking. I think that one shrink, Davison, was getting off on digging through your brain." She heard her own words, winced, and shot him a quick glance. "Sorry."
Clint was staring out at the boarded windows, the shattered storefronts and festoons of 'Caution' tape. "I could tell when it was him in the control room. The scenarios always got way more personal." He wiped one hand down his face, fingers dipping beneath the sunglasses to press his eyes, then scraping over the scruff on his chin. "Which safehouse we going to?"
"We're not. The only one SHIELD doesn't know about was in a neighborhood that took a direct hit. We're going with Plan S."
Approaching Stark Tower, the streets became noticeably clearer. Crumbled debris and buckled asphalt had vanished in a six-block radius; cracked foundations and heaps of shattered windows had been replaced by smooth expanses of masonry and glass.
Three blocks from the Tower, Natasha turned down a ramp that led to an unmarked parking garage; at the barricade, she swiped a blank red card and then circled down to a level that was empty of all other vehicles. Now out of the sunlight, Clint pushed his sunglasses up onto his head. "Stark, huh?"
Natasha shrugged. "He offered."
There was a discreet elevator in one corner; Natasha swiped the card again and the doors slid open.
"Ms. Romanov. Welcome back." JARVIS' smooth tones filled the car as they stepped inside. "Mr. Stark is in the penthouse. I've informed him of your arrival." There was a pause. "And Mr. Barton—welcome. I would be happy to summon a physician, either one on Stark payroll or of your own choosing."
"What? Ah, no, thanks. I'm good."
There was a delicate, and disbelieving, pause. "As you wish, sir. I am at your disposal, Agents, so if you require anything at all, just ask."
"Thank you." The doors opened onto an expansive reception hall, and Natasha stepped out onto a dropcloth spread crookedly across a black marble floor gritty with dust. Pallets of construction materials lined the walls and there was a crate full of tools under the archway that opened to a staircase. "He's probably on the top floor; you want to come up, or wait here?"
Footsteps on the stairs precluded Clint's having to answer; a moment later Tony's feet, followed by Tony, came into view on the curving staircase. He had a tablet in one hand and a drink in the other and was poking at the screen with his pinky. He'd pushed a pair of safety goggles onto the top of his head so his hair stuck stiffly upright out of the band. He looked up in feigned surprise. "Ah. The ninjas. You here for drinks? Hope you're okay with drinking from the bottle, this seems to be the last glass. The rest are inexplicably broken, and the new barware is… somewhere." He gestured vaguely.
"No, thank you. We just…" Natasha started.
"You sure?" Tony took a slug from his own glass. "'Cuz you look like you could use one. You," and he pointed at Natasha, "look seriously pissed off, and you," his finger moved to Clint, "look like shit."
Natasha pressed her lips together. "We just need a place to crash for a couple of days."
"Fury-free, huh? I hear ya. I tweaked the recognition software to cascade into complete lockdown if anyone with even a whiff of SHIELD to 'em breaches the main lobby." Tony cocked his head, eyeing Clint. "So what's their tender loving recovery plan like? Drugs? Electro-shock? Sensory deprivation?"
"Stark…" Natasha said warningly, but Clint just barked out another of those harsh-sounding laughs.
"Nothing so interesting. VR sims. Just checking my brainwaves for 'abnormalities' while I watch my teammates go down around me."
"For ten straight days," Natasha put in, with a hint of a hiss to her words.
"Jesus." Tony threw back the last of his drink. "Sure you won't have one? Or a dozen?"
Clint shook his head, exhaustion suddenly weighting his shoulders. "Raincheck?"
"You betcha. Two floors down, should be distant enough that you don't hear the reconstruction, but if you do, JARVIS'll move you lower. The suite's a little barebones, but Romanov here assures me you're both used to MREs and groundcloths and outdoor plumbing. I just had it painted, so if you want to toss pointy things around, use the lobby, 'kay?"
"Sounds great." Slowly, as though he was wading through mud, Clint turned back the way they'd come.
Natasha nodded. "Thanks."
Tony waved his empty glass at them. "No problemo. Mi casa es tu casa." He waggled his eyebrows. "Besides, the pool's on the 80th floor and I'd just like to state for the record that it is, and always will be, clothing-optional… so if you just give me a holler when you're ready for a swim, we'll call it square…"
"In your dreams, Stark."
"Barebones, huh?" Clint stared around the spacious flat, at the cool green walls and oversized furniture arranged on gleaming hardwood floors. A floor-to-ceiling entertainment center took up one wall, with a sunken seating area below it, and a sleek chrome bookcase filled another. Drapes screened an entire bank of windows that overlooked the city; a dining area with seating for twelve flanked it, with a full bar and double doors leading to the kitchen beyond.
"I'm guessing he meant he hasn't yet swapped out the builder's grade doorknobs for the custom alloy ones," Natasha said dryly. "We'll have to make do."
"We can try." Clint moved off around the suite even though every step had become a painful effort, opening doors, scouting each room. The kitchen looked ready for a chef to step in and whip up a banquet; there was a breakfast nook and a pantry—fully stocked—each bigger than Clint's quarters in SHIELD barracks.
Natasha pulled open the door of the massive refrigerator, giving a once-over to what appeared to be a small warehouse of chilled food, and selected a bottle of juice, which she pressed into Clint's hand. He drank half of it in a long swallow as he circled back to the living area.
A hallway opposite the windows led to three bedrooms, each with its own sitting area and spa-like bathroom. Clint moved through each one—two with king-sized beds, one with a pair of queen-sized—checking the windows and closets and vents.
Natasha trailed him, watching narrowly as he completed his inspection and returned to the hall where all three bedrooms converged. He stood blankly, taking absent-minded swigs from the juice bottle and rubbing at the adhesive residue on the back of his neck with his fingertips.
"Pick one," Natasha said at last, quietly. When he turned questioning eyes to her, as if he'd momentarily forgotten she was there, she nodded towards the bedrooms. "You're about ninety seconds from system shut-down—pick a bed and get horizontal before you crash."
"Yeah… okay," Clint said vaguely, and looked, slowly, at each of the three doors again.
"Never mind—I have an idea." With a touch to his elbow, Natasha urged him back down the hallway to the living room. Three huge leather couches were grouped in front of the fireplace; Natasha seized one end of the smallest—which was still the size of a twin bed—and dragged it across the polished floor to a spot directly in front of the wide window.
"Sit." She pointed at the couch.
A small touchscreen at the edge of the window yielded controls to retract the drapes; Natasha set them in motion and went back to the bedrooms.
When she returned, Clint was perched on the very edge of the couch, hunched forward and picking at the label of the empty juice bottle. Natasha dropped her stack of pillows onto the couch and eased the bottle away from him. "Kick off your boots and lie down."
"Don't think so."
"How many hours since you slept?"
"Nnnnot sure… A lot."
"Yeah. Lie down."
"Nat, I can't! My eyes close, the pictures start rolling. I don't even need to be in a sim to relive it!"
"Let me try, okay? Look." She bent, caught the heel of first one boot, then the other, and pulled them off his feet. With a hand in the center of his chest, she pushed him down against the pile of pillows. "Just look." She gestured at the expanse of window spread before the couch, a panoramic vantage point over the city below them. The sun had begun to sink low and was pouring golden light over the west-facing sides of nearby buildings, glittering on windows and throwing out sharp shadows. "It's not a rooftop aerie, but it's close. I'm going to sit here," and she pivoted to pull a plush armchair to the head of the couch, "and keep watch inside, and you lie there and keep watch outside and at least try to relax."
Clint didn't answer. Natasha took his silence for assent; she bent and stripped off her own boots, then unzipped her suit and peeled the leather down her arms and legs. Dressed only in an undershirt and soft cotton leggings, she settled cross-legged in the chair.
He stayed awake for a long time. The glow on the building faces intensified as the sun set, and then faded as the sky darkened and artificial stars and fireflies began to flick on. Streetlights; squares of windows both near and far; neon and LED signboards; and the distant blink of stoplights.
Around the time full darkness fell, Natasha heard Clint's breathing change, become slower and heavier.
She didn't move. But she did let her spine relax against the ridiculous plushness of Stark's chair.
His breath caught; Natasha leaned forward so he could see her around the arm of the couch.
"It's not real."
"It was."
"But it's over. You got through it."
He went quiet. After a moment, Natasha sank back into the chair again.
There was, maybe, a hint of paleness to the east, barely discernable under the flood of man-made lighting, when Natasha unfolded silently and padded into the nearest bathroom. She detoured through the kitchen on the way back to snag a couple more bottles and, after being tempted by their rich redness, a bowl of strawberries.
Clint was awake, of course, when she returned. He'd half-rolled onto his back and pulled his right knee up, and the skin around his eyes had gone tight with pain. Natasha handed him a bottle of water and bent to stuff one of the squashy sofa bolsters under his leg.
"You supposed to be on meds for that?"
"Don't think so. Don't remember taking any."
"It was probably in the IV; there were half-a-dozen bags hanging off the stand."
"Maybe. Things get hazy after they brought me through the lab door." Wincing, he pushed upright against the pillows so he could take a swallow without spilling water down his chin.
"After?" Natasha pulled the chair around so it faced him and sank into it, the bowl of strawberries nestled in her lap. "So you remember before."
"Mostly, yeah." Clint's voice had gone tight, but he met her gaze squarely. "But from a… a distance. A remove. There was a wall, of ice, I think, between me and… well, me."
"Not you. What Loki made your body do."
Clint shook his head. "It was more than that. I remember knowing—where to strike, when the next wave of defenses would come. And telling him."
"Because he sliced open a hole in you to let the knowledge out."
The water bottle was empty; Clint squeezed it, hard, the plastic crushing and twisting beneath his hands. He shook his head again. "I remember, Nat. There are gaps, when the wall… frosted over, or blurred, like it was melting, and sound was pretty muffled except for his damned voice, but I remember what I did."
Natasha selected a berry nearly as large as her palm and bit into it daintily. "Then you remember making chest, back, or leg hits in sixty-eight percent of your shots," she said coolly.
"I… what?"
"If you remember what you—or not-you—did, then you remember making non-lethal strikes for between half and three-quarters of your shots against personnel. That's a pretty high percentage for someone who never misses." Natasha popped the rest of the fruit in her mouth and licked her thumb and forefinger.
"How…?"
"Video feeds from all SHIELD facilities download around the clock so even if the facilities are destroyed—like New Mexico, or the 'carrier—the cam footage still exists in a secure location." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "I counted, Clint. Except for two assholes who weren't wearing their vests against protocol, over half the people not-you fired on survived."
Clint was silent for a long moment while Natasha watched shadows flicker in his eyes. "He caught on," Clint said at last, low. He rubbed hard at his forehead with one hand, the IV bruise on the back of it a livid purple. "I tried really hard not to think about what I was doing, because if I thought it, he knew it, but after a couple of days he caught on anyway."
"I figured. That last hour, the kill ratio went up significantly." She paused, listening to the crackle of the water bottle in his fist. "He was angry?" she asked quietly.
Clint snorted. "He laughed. And then he drove an icicle through my eye—or made me think he did—and when I could get off the floor without gagging and drooling, he watched while I shot Drickler through the throat. And laughed again."
Natasha nodded as if that had answered a question for her. "Sixty-eight percent," she said firmly, and rose to her feet. "Against the will of a god, Barton." She plucked the mangled bottle from his hands. "I'm going to make some toast—there's a loaf of black bread in the breadbox. You want some?"
"Yeah, sure. Thanks."
He was asleep again when she returned. Natasha set the plate of bread and jam on the floor in front of the couch, spread a blanket across Clint's form, and settled back into the chair to watch the sun rise.
Stark Tower was as good a place as any to lie low for a few days—anything either Natasha or Clint could want was either already in the building, or a phone call and delivery away. The kitchen was freshly stocked each morning; the phone in the pantry was programmed with every take-out joint in the greater metropolitan area in case neither of them felt like putting their cooking skills to the test; there were four-star restaurants on the lowest three floors.
There were two entire floors dedicated to Stark employee gyms, and by noon of the first day, a third, private gym had been installed next to the pristine new shooting range. The pool Tony had mentioned was actually a pair, one narrow, for laps, the second the size of a small lagoon, with a waterfall at one end and surrounded by tropical plants, for general use.
Despite Tony's pronouncement that swimming was clothing-optional, bathing suits—in the correct sizes—had appeared in the walk-in closets of two of the bedrooms, along with a full array of clothing.
"Is this weird to you?" Clint asked, coming out of one bedroom and tugging at the waistband of a brand-new—and perfectly fitting—pair of jeans. "I think they're custom—they even fit over the kneebrace—but I sure as hell don't remember getting measured for them."
"I think there are scanners in the doorframes." Natasha looked up from the stack of glossy magazines in her lap. "And Stark probably had JARVIS tap into our SHIELD requisition records and send our preferences to Pepper." She frowned and ran one finger around the scooped neckline of her new shirt, dipping inside just enough to skim the smooth edge of one bra cup. "At least that's what I'm telling myself."
"Yeah, I'd wonder about those bathing suits if I were you."
"No bikinis, thongs, or disappears-when-wet fabric, so probably not Stark's doing," Natasha countered. She shifted, making room on the couch. "You want a magazine?"
Clint stood at the broad window overlooking the city streets, one hand on the cool glass, his forehead resting against it as he surveyed the view. He shook his head without turning around. "I think I'll wander down to the gym."
"You just came back."
"There was a crew knocking through to a utility shaft and lining it with some kind of heavy-duty composite slabs. There's a crate of grappling arrows just dying to be tested on it." He turned, stretched, flexing shoulder and arm muscles.
Natasha went back to her magazine. "Have fun."
As soon as the door closed behind him, she sighed and tossed the magazine onto the couch cushion.
They were both starting to go a little stir-crazy.
Tony was in the auxiliary lab, the one ostensibly set aside for Bruce's use, but, judging from the three different coffee machines crowding one counter, Tony was making it into a second home of his own.
"Is that it?" he asked, making grabby hands at the flask Bruce was tilting and rotating slowly. "Is that it? Huh? Is it?"
Bruce sighed and let Tony snatch the flask, watching as the other man flung the contents across the room. The liquid inside spread out in a pearly sheet, solidifying as it rippled through the air.
Then the leading edge met the far wall; there was a snapping sound and the entire sheet collapsed into a pile of glittering shards that washed up into the angle where wall met floor. Tony's shoulders slumped.
"Huh. Guess not."
"It's that twenty-third marker in the ninth column," Bruce said mildly. He pulled off his glasses and nodded toward the door.
Tony hrmphed and swung around, catching sight of Natasha watching them. "Natalie! Or Natasha. Widow? Romanov. Um. We aren't quite ready for the field test, as you can see."
Natasha didn't bother to ask what he was blathering about. "Do you have a car we can use?"
" 'We'? Is this a formal date you're asking me on? I could shave. Shower, too, probably. Or… oh, awkward, you meant Dr. Banner! Y'know, I could tell you two crazy kids were destined for each other from the moment he chased you through the ductwork…"
Natasha just eyed him coolly, arms folded, and waited for him to wind down.
"…because in some cultures, swatting the assassin like a bug is the equivalent of shooting spitballs in your hair to get your attention. Do little boys still shoot spitballs? Or do they just post virtual ones on your Facebook wall?"
"Stark."
"Though come to think of it, that's probably considered cyberstalking…"
"Stark."
"Flashy or discreet?"
"Discreet. Very."
"Second level private parking garage, then. Lexus, Mercedes, Jaguar… hell, I think there's even a Volkswagen bus down there, a vintage woody with a roof rack for your boards."
Natasha didn't ask how Stark knew their intended destination. She just inclined her head as she turned to go. "Thanks."
"There's a key box in the vestibule. JARVIS'll open it when you get down there."
Within the hour they were in a small bottle-green BMW, duffels tossed into the backseat; after another, they had left the city behind, and were on the Parkway southbound. Warehouses and refineries and big-box stores gave way to thick green trees and housing developments, and then to oaks and scrubby pines, and finally to marshland cut through with narrow creeks.
Natasha drove steadily, no more than ten miles above the speed limit even when they got far enough south that the traffic thinned out. Clint propped his chin on his hand and stared out at the passing scenery. He stirred only once, when a sign for the Atlantic City Expressway flashed past and then into their rear view.
"Not heading for the casinos?"
"Not this trip, no."
He subsided without further comment.
Natasha took Exit 4, and Clint straightened, rolling his shoulders carefully in the close quarters. "Thank god. I was starting to think we were heading all the way down to the Cape."
Natasha's lips quirked into a smile. "Victorian gingerbread and lacy bed-and-breakfasts not your speed?"
"Not so much."
"But you'd have gone along if that's what I had my heart set on."
"Grousing every minute," Clint responded lightly. But I would have, he left unspoken.
And I wouldn't have asked it of you, was her own unspoken reply.
Clint lowered the windows, and the smell of low tide on the bay rushed in; Natasha raised them without comment. They passed marinas and a bait shop and then kitschy seafood restaurants draped in fishnets and plastic crabs, before crossing the last bridge into Wildwood proper. Natasha turned away from the neon-drenched Doo-Wop motels on the main drag and toward a quieter section of the city, and this time when Clint lowered the windows, salt air filled the car.
The motel she'd chosen was on a mostly-residential side street, a block from the boardwalk and the famously wide beaches. It was small and unadorned with the retro signs and fake palm trees of the more picturesque places out on the avenue, two blocky stories of peeling concrete bricks and faded orange doors. The sign by the office boasted 'Free coffee – Cable – Off street parking'—modest amenities after the luxury of Stark Tower, but the 'Vacancy' sign was lit and the fact that there wasn't a single car in the parking lot hinted at welcome privacy.
"Is this place even open?"
Natasha pulled in to the space closest to the office. "It's pre-season, but yeah, it is. I called ahead for a room on the second level, plus the rooms on either side of it." She pushed open the car door and paused, looking pointedly at the knee Clint had wrenched while crashing through a plate-glass window. "There's no elevator—can you manage the stairs?"
"Yup. Barely twinges any more."
He was lying, she knew, when she came out with the keys. Clint had already retrieved both duffels from the backseat and hauled them up to the narrow second-floor walkway; he was leaning oh-so-nonchalantly on the flimsy metal railing, waiting for her to point out their room. But the skin around his eyes had gone tight and there was the faintest sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the chill in the early-spring breeze; when she brushed past him she could see his casual pose was merely an excuse to take his weight off one leg.
For Clint to reveal even that slight amount of discomfort meant he was seriously hurting. Natasha opened the center-most door, stuck her head in for quick once-over, and then shoved the door wide. "Go sit down."
"Gotta check both spare rooms…"
"Sit your ass down, I'll do it."
By the time she returned, he was sitting on the end of the room's single kingsize bed, bow placed in easy reach at his feet, a matte black pistol on the spread next to his hip. He had his jeans around his ankles and, tightlipped, was working open the heavy Velcro on the kneebrace. Natasha gave him a measuring look, scooped the ice bucket off the dresser, and went back outside.
Fifteen minutes later they were settled in, sprawled on the bed with pillows under Clint's knee, a makeshift icepack over it, weapons in arms-reach on the bedside tables, and the TV remote between them. Natasha popped open one of the cans she'd snagged from the soda machine at the bottom of the stairs and handed it to Clint along with a capsule. "Banner got these for you. Said they're a mild analgesic, they'll take the edge off if the knee bothers you."
"Thought we were going to walk on the boardwalk."
"Take this first, then we'll think about a stroll."
"It doesn't hurt that much."
"Of course it doesn't. This is mild, though. And if you don't take it, I'll put you in a headlock, pinch your nose shut, and stuff it down your throat. I spent six weeks posing as a vet tech once, I can pill a cat like nobody's business."
"Meow," Clint muttered, but he obediently tossed back the capsule with a gulp of soda. Natasha twisted to put the can on the nightstand and turned back with a handful of brochures. She gave a little squirm to settle comfortably against the headboard.
"Want to pick a place for dinner while it takes effect? There's an Irish pub a few blocks up in Anglesea, and the guy in the office said the wings at Shore Bites are the best on the island." She flipped through the menus. "I asked him for places where the locals eat; he said Bradley's has the best cheesesteaks and you go to Pat's out on the causeway if you want lobster or crab. We can walk the boards first, though, and then go eat." She glanced down at him.
Clint had his hand fisted in the bedspread and dazed look on his face. "Ohhhhh, shiiiiiiit," he said in a slurred voice.
Natasha patted his clenched fist. "Meds kicking in?" she asked sweetly, and got a garbled moan in return. She leaned over, caught his groggy gaze with hers. "I'll keep watch, I promise. Let go, Clint."
She thought he might be trying to glare at her but succeeded only in giving her a cross-eyed look. A second later his eyes had fallen shut; his hand relaxed its grip on the bedspread.
Natasha hitched the pillow higher behind her and clicked the remote at the TV. Even with basic cable, she could probably find something soothingly mindless until Clint woke up again, hopefully with a little less pain and a little more mobility.
"Mild?" Clint grouched eight hours later when he stumbled out of the bathroom, wiping cold water off his face. He ricocheted lightly off the door frame before flopping back onto the bed.
Natasha yawned and stretched with a languid arch of her back. "I guess 'mild' is relative when it's prescribed by an enormous green rage monster."
"What?"
"Nothing, just something Stark said. But either the doctor has a skewed sense of mild versus heavy-duty, or else you were hurting more than you let on." She cocked one eyebrow at him. "Guess which option I pick."
"Yeah, yeah." Clint sat up again, rubbing gingerly at his knee. "It does feel better, I guess."
"Okay, then." Natasha rolled lithely to her feet. "My stomach's been growling for the past half hour. I say we go find that Irish pub—it's probably still kind of lively at this hour."
"You think?" Clint swung his legs off the bed, took a few experimental steps across the floor. He nodded. "Okay, yeah, I guess I can handle 'lively'."
"Put your pants on first, Barton, it's not gonna be that kind of lively."
They settled into a routine by unspoken agreement. One or the other of them always jolted awake before sunrise; and then the other would be pulled out of sleep as well, and they'd go out into the pre-dawn darkness and hike down the ridiculously wide beach so that Natasha could stand at the ocean's edge flinging shells into the waves while Clint prowled behind her, drawing circles in the wet sand with the toes of his boots. Once the sun cleared the horizon they'd hike back, to the hole-in-the-wall deli where a tiny, round woman presided over an old-fashioned coffee percolator and passed out paper-wrapped egg-and-chorizo sandwiches so spicy their eyes watered at first bite.
And then they walked some more, along the inlet promenade at the north end of town, past the lighthouse, up and down the boardwalk where most of the shops lining it were still boarded up from the winter. Clint's limp became less pronounced; he scrambled up onto the jetties and jogged down the wide beach to retrieve arrows with more ease every day.
Even for the off-season, the town was quiet. Squeezed in at their usual back corner table in the pub, they listened to the local gossip for the reason why: out-of-work roofers, builders, anyone who'd ever held a shovel or hammer, were all flocking north, to the massive clean-up efforts in New York City. Once word got out that Tony Stark was financing the repairs, even contractors with active jobs packed up their utility trucks to head up the Parkway. The usual spring sounds of a shore town—nail guns, electric saws, air compressors—had gone silent, and half-constructed vacation houses stood abandoned.
"You think we should go back, pitch in?" Clint murmured, his eyes on the TV screen mounted above the bar. He was pushing his uneaten potatoes around his plate with his fork, unconsciously arranging them in classic Lawson Defense positions and then breaking them apart again, over and over. Natasha had to refrain from reaching across the small table and snatching his fork from him, not least because he might reflexively try to stab her with it.
She cut her eyes to the TV, where Pepper Potts was standing in front of a crumbling rowhouse with the mayor and a dozen other dignitaries, all impeccably dressed in expensive officewear and an array of hardhats balanced atop their heads. Pepper wore a frozen smile while someone in a suit gave a long-winded speech, and the camera kept cutting away to the ranks of volunteers, waiting with ill-concealed impatience to begin the actual work.
"No," Natasha said. "We'll do it later, between ops. When the hoopla has died down and the cameras are pointing somewhere else." She grimaced. "Bad enough every camera still functioning caught my face during the fight. Fury's already been making noises that my covert days are over."
"At least you weren't on the wrong side when the cameras caught you," Clint muttered. He shoved his plate aside, tilted his chair back against the wall.
He was refusing to meet Natasha's gaze, so she kicked him under the table. "Neither were you," she said firmly when he raised outraged eyes. "Everyone knows that. Rogers had no problem trusting you and neither did Stark. Thor nearly knocked you through the pavement pounding your back and calling you a brother in arms. And Banner, well… I think he understands about being consumed by something out of your control." She tapped at his dangling feet again. "Fury's methods may not be elegant, but they did clear you. It'll filter down to the ranks too, and they'll know the real story."
The TV was panning down a long, street-length mural picturing Iron Man and Cap being heroic amongst the destruction, Thor streaking in from the sky with his cape billowing, even Hulk smashing Chitauri; artists were adding the finishing touches, standing amidst flowers and candles and stuffed animals piled along the foot of the wall. Clint thumped his chair down and dug his wallet from his pocket.
"Yeah. Maybe," he said shortly, and tossed a few bills onto the table so they could leave.
If anything, Clint's mood had darkened even more by morning.
Natasha kept catching his gaze turning inward, a crease forming between his eyes. If she was slow to snap him out of it, his hand would rise, fingertips pressing into the center of his t-shirt while he stared into space.
She came out of the bathroom after a shower and the TV was turned to a news station. Clint was standing before it, expressionless, while the anchor railed about the death toll left by the attack.
And then the screen flashed to a makeshift memorial, draped in bunting and yellow ribbons, a nearby piece of plywood painted with the words "Remembering Our Fallen Soldiers".
Natasha snatched up the remote and clicked off the TV. She pulled the towel from around her head. "Get your jacket. We're going out again."
The boardwalk was finally starting to show signs of life. The rattle of security gates being rolled up and amusement rides being tested punctuated the more natural sounds of distant waves and screaming seagulls. The salt wind carried the scent of fryers heating up and Clint's steps slowed as they approached a funnel cake stand.
Natasha shook her head and pointed. Gulls were wheeling down out of the sky to pace with gimlet-eyed intensity in front of the stand. "You walk around with a fistful of fried dough out in the open, those things'll snatch it right out of your hand."
"I think I can handle a few birds, Nat."
"Not these. They'll have it before you even get it to your mouth, and take fingers with it. Let's see you draw then."
Clint scoffed half-heartedly at her, but she noticed that he gave the stand—and the gulls—a wide berth.
A skinny young kid was out in front of the arcade on the pier, slicing open huge clear plastic bags filled with colorful prizes. This time it was Natasha who slowed to a halt. "Oh, you're kidding me."
Dozens of miniature stuffed Iron Men stared up through gold lamé visors; a second, unopened bag was filled with toy Captain Americas, their little plastic shields gleaming red-white-and-blue in the weak spring sunshine. The kid paused in mid-reach from hanging two Iron Men on the clips lining the booth. "Take out the star on the target, win an Avenger for the lady." He gave Natasha a sideways look. "Or for the gentleman. Hunnert shots for two bucks."
Clint stepped up, already digging in his pocket. Natasha grabbed his arm. "Don't do that! I don't want one of those, Tony's ego is huge enough already!"
"That's why I'm getting you a Cap," Clint said, with a ghost of his old smirk. He slapped his money onto the counter and reached for one of the guns while the kid hurried around into the booth.
"Hunnert shots," the kid repeated. "You gotta take out the whole star, not a speck of red left, or it don't count."
Clint hefted the gun, sized up the target, and squeezed off a single shot. The BB thwacked through the paper halfway between the edge and the printed star. He shook his head. "Barrel's bent. Not going to aim true."
"Hey, it is not!" the kid protested. He pointed down at the row of guns. "Ain't nothing wrong with that one, but you can pick another if ya want."
"Nah, they're all like that." Casually, Clint raised the gun again and fired, snapping off a series of shots that circled the target star. He paused to cast a measuring look at the target, and then squeezed the trigger hard. When he lowered the gun again a moment later, the center of the target had been neatly obliterated. "I'll have one of the Captains if you don't mind."
The kid pulled the target off the wall, his expression a mix of disbelief and grudging admiration. "Shit, man, first customer of the season! I don't even officially open until noon." He poked a finger through the compact hole eaten through the target. "Shit."
Clint scooped up one of the stubby Captain Americas and presented it to Natasha with a flourish. "Fresh from the sweatshop to your hands."
"Thanks, I think." Natasha looked it over as they headed back down the boardwalk. A smile played around her mouth. "Stark's going to be so irked."
"Oh, he'll only get irked if all the Caps get picked while the Iron Mans are peg-sitters. We might have to make a few more trips down here to make sure that happens."
The shadows had lifted from Clint's eyes, and he even interjected a few snide comments as Natasha regaled him as they walked with stories of her time spent as 'Natalie Rushman' in Tony's employ.
Which made it all the more bitter when they finally meandered back to their room and found a message waiting from Fury, directing them to return to SHIELD headquarters without delay—or else.
To be continued.
Thank you for reading!