Natasha hated doctor offices.

She hated how much time she spent in them.

She hated how every time she came in, she would leave with more questions, more confusion and more prescriptions.

But never answers.

Because there were no answers.

No cure, nothing to fix what was happening to her. Trying to manage symptoms and taking an abundance of pills were pretty much the only options. This was something that, no matter how well she was doing, would most likely always be there.

So yeah, she hated doctor offices; because every time she sat down, every time she stared at the same old fliers on the walls, every time she jarred her back in the plastic chairs, she would be reminded that this was her life now.

She also hated the way people looked at her whilst there.

Especially on her bad days, when she needed her walking stick and Lucky, the gorgeously gross golden retriever dog Clint had found her.

On very bad days, she would limp or shuffle with every painful step to her seat, her joints on fire and her legs burning from the short walk from the car.

On these days, she got mainly pity eyes and sympathetic smiles from people in the waiting room.

She hated those looks the most.

She didn't want anyone to feel sorry for her, didn't want people to tread carefully around her like she would break.

It was hard when she was the same fierce, headstrong Natasha that had lived through and survived so much, on the inside.

It was hard when her outside felt so different.

When her body felt new and foreign and altogether alien.

Her insides didn't match the outside anymore.

But realistically, her body didn't look all that different, not to strangers, not to people she passed once or twice on the street.

Her 'illness' in fact, was something that a lot of people, including some doctors, didn't even really believe was real.

There were really no outward signs to prove it.

There were no specific tests to diagnose it; just tests to rule out other things.

People called it a mental disorder; severe depression or Munchausen's or psychosis.

But Natasha knew depression and psychosis and this was not it.

She'd been feeling mentally the best she had in years when the physical symptoms started to floor her.

She'd been self-harm free for almost two years, had finished therapy, was working steadily at a job she adored and was months away from moving in with the love of her life.

The suicidal thoughts hadn't come for almost a year and she planned happily for the future, for her life with Clint.

She looked forward to living every day.

Then the physical symptoms had really kicked in and she'd had to give up her job, stay at home whilst Clint packed all her stuff a month before schedule and planned for the move, still working nights every single day.

The first doctor she'd seen had said her depression was back and that they should up or change her anti-depressant.

Natasha had tried to explain how she'd been in a good place, how the depression this time around had been caused by the physical problems, not vice versa.

The doctor had insisted her depression had manifested itself into psychosomatic pain and that maybe she believed the pain was real, maybe she believed something physical was wrong so she didn't have to explain that her depression was getting bad again.

It was beyond humiliating.

Natasha had tried again, in tears, to explain that depression made you feel like you didn't want to get out of bed.

Whatever was happening to her made it physically impossible to open her eyes, to move her limbs or get up.

She'd seen the disbelief in his eyes and had stormed out of there, desperately trying to not break down, her mind right back there in that bad place.

When she'd gotten home, she'd rushed straight into Clint's arms and sobbed softly for almost half an hour.

After that, she'd called the doctors' office, told them to delete her file from the system, and had found a new place to go.

So actually, maybe it wasn't the pity she hated the most.

Maybe it was the pure disbelief.

The 'how could this young woman who looks just fine need a service dog or a walking aid?'.

The 'she must be using them to get benefits, to get out of work'.

The 'she must be an attention seeker to use those in public'.

Yup, those were the worst looks.

Natasha turned in the tacky bright white chair, her knees sliding to just touch Clint's from where he sat beside her.

His soft blue eyes met her gaze and he shuffled closer, hand settling on her knee and squeezing once.

She offered a watery smile, face drawn and pale, brows furrowed in either pain or unease.

Clint realised a second later it was a little bit of both.

He looked over her shoulder, finding a man sitting in the corner, reading a newspaper but looking over the top of it to watch Natasha's movements.

The man had a cast around his foot and ankle and Clint could almost read his thoughts.

Natasha was wearing jeans and combat boots on her feet; she had no bandages or casts or anything like that she why was using a walking stick?

Clint narrowed his gaze at the man, one eyebrow raised.

The man looked down immediately and Clint moved his attention back to his girlfriend

He slid the arm closest to her around her shoulders, fingers brushing her arm.

Natasha exhaled and leaned just a little into the touch.

The blonde muttered a soft command and Lucky, curled up on the floor in between their feet, stood and shook himself out.

He butted his head up against Natasha's hand and when she failed to respond, licked her fingers until she scratched the top of his head.

A little more of the tension in her shoulders escaped as she carefully adjusted the bandana around his neck. It was worn only when they left the house and proclaimed that he was a service dog and that strangers should ask before petting him.

It didn't actually stop people from calling to him and stroking him as they passed but it seemed to deter the more courteous members of the public.

"Not long now, Nat." Clint murmured, fingers rubbing up and down her spine.

He knew the shitty ass plastic chairs always hurt her back even more.

"Then we can go home?" Natasha asked, voice soft.

He brushed a strand of red hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.

"Yes, love, then we can go home." He assured, hand sliding from her face to rest at the bottom of her back.

It was likely to be of no help but Natasha insisted that Clint ran hotter than most people, so if nothing else, his warm hand could soothe some of the ache, even if just a little.

A few minutes later, Natasha's name flashed on the board and she shakily got to her feet.

Clint stayed at her side, there if she needed him, but always giving her the choice to ask for help if she needed/wanted it.

Natasha clicked her tongue against her teeth and as she started walking, Lucky pushed his nose up into her free hand, dutifully following her to the doctors' room.

She sat down nearest the table, Clint beside her.

She quietly said hello, reaching for Clint's hand.

He gently squeezed her fingers, intertwining them.

"So, Natasha, tell me what I can do for you." Doctor Watson looked up from his notes.

"Well…I know you said this…illness would have its bad patches but it's getting beyond that now."

She shifted in her seat, silent for a moment as she tried to quickly form the words she wanted to say without spewing absolute nonsense.

She sighed softly, her gaze very firmly on her and Clint's interlocked hands.

"Well…" Natasha said quietly, "I wake up in pain, still exhausted. It takes me an hour to get out of bed and I go through my day in pain and exhausted, and I fall asleep in pain. But I'm lucky if I sleep through the night, no matter how tired I am."

Her eyebrows knitted together and she took a shaky breath.

"This is the first time I've left the house in over a week. It seems impossible to do anything but sleep or maybe watch TV if I can get out of bed at all. I tried the rebounding, the exercise but I couldn't move at all after, and the pain was worse."

Clint rubbed a thumb over the back of her hand, a soft reassurance that she wasn't alone, and also that he was proud of her for telling the doctor how she really felt.

"Look, there has to be something, anything. I literally can't live like this-" Her breathing hitched and she swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. She dragged her gaze from their hands and looked up.

Doctor Watson nodded. "There are always more medications we can try, pain wise, if your others aren't effective." He did look genuinely sorry to be saying what he was.

"But you know, Natasha, that chronic fatigue syndrome doesn't have a cure. We can change your meds, look into more alternative therapies, try to at least get your pain under control. I'm sorry, I wish I had answers for you, I really do. At the minute, there just aren't any I can offer."

Natasha found herself inexplicably teary-eyed and she hastily wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater.

"I can't live like this. I don't have a life, or a job or anything I used to have. Clint doesn't have a life now because of it and it's not fair to him. It's not fair to me." She shook her head, cheeks flushing a little with embarrassment.

"Natasha," Doctor Watson said carefully, putting the notes down and clasping his hands together, "are you experiencing suicidal thoughts?"

Natasha swallowed and dropped her gaze once more, shame creeping up her neck, replacing the embarrassment.

Clint pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hand, catching her gaze as he ducked his head into her line of view.

"You can tell him, Nat, he can help." He murmured softly.

Natasha set her jaw and looked up at the doctor, fire in her eyes.

"Wouldn't you? Holed up in your house, a slave to your own body? Using the person you love the most as what? Some sort of carer? Always in pain, unable to do the things I want to. I had an amazing job, I had a life and it was a pretty fucking good one. I fought for that life with everything I had. And now? It's gone."

Natasha was about 95% certain she would never actively try to kill herself, but the thoughts remained.

And days like today, they were hard to ignore.

Doctor Watson sat forward a little. "I'm not going to belittle you by saying I understand. But I am going to write a referral letter to mental health services. I think it could be beneficial if you went to an appointment with them."

"Therapy? Again?" Natasha raised an eyebrow, eyes darkening. "You think therapy will fix my body being broken? Like I haven't had my fill of doctors telling me it's all in my head."

"I'm not saying that at all." Doctor Watson's voice remained gentle as he explained. "I in no way believe this illness is in your head, for a start, Natasha. I'm saying that maybe a targeted therapy could help with the mood and depression problems you've been experiencing. Maybe you can learn to understand the drops in mood, and how it correlates with a bad patch. Then you can be mentally better prepared and equipped to deal with the drops."

Beside her, Clint squeezed her hand once more, but stayed quiet. He'd seen first-hand how therapy had helped her before but also knew how loath she was to repeat the experience.

There was simply no pushing Natasha, but she knew Clint would be there no matter her decision. She was strong willed and could do as she pleased.

Almost a minute passed in silence.

Natasha had her head low, her free hand rubbing at her forehead. She wasn't crying anymore but was shaking softly.

Clint calmly moved his hand, light fingers stroking the nape of her neck.

"Lucky." He clicked his tongue and the dog sat up, uncaring about personal space as he shoved his head through the gap of her hair, leaning his face against her lap.

"Okay." Natasha said quietly, her hand on Lucky's head as she looked up. "Okay, fine."

They left the office with three things.

One, a prescription for a new painkiller, and another with a new anti-depressant.

Two, a card with her next appointment on, and a slip to hand in at the desk so she could book blood tests.

Three, a scrawled note with a number on; crisis services, should Natasha think she would harm herself.

They headed to the desk and once her blood tests were booked in, they started to head to the doors.

But Natasha stumbled a little, temporarily caught off balance.

Clint quickly reached for her, arm winding around her waist. He gently guided her to the nearest wall.

"You okay?" He asked, thumb stroking over the apple of her cheek.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay." The redhead nodded, sighing and tipping her head back against the wall for a moment as she got a better grip on her walking stick.

They'd been at the wall for barely twenty seconds but that had been all it had taken for Lucky to sneak off out the exit.

Barking came from outside and Clint cursed. "Blood animal." He muttered, not actually mad at the furball.

He called for the dog and when he didn't come immediately, Natasha groaned.

She pushed herself from the wall and followed Clint as quickly as she could out the door.

They found Lucky immediately.

He was rolling on the floor, playing with a gorgeous dark brown Labrador, with an even more gorgeous man standing behind him.

Clint called for Lucky and the dog flipped over onto his stomach, happily bounding over to his owners.

The stranger tried to call for his dog, but he was having no one of it as the man tapped his thigh, trying to urge the dog over.

Both Natasha and Clint caught sight of the mans' hand at the same time.

It had seemed real at first glance and was obviously a very good prosthetic, an almost perfect colour match to the tanned skin tone of the man. But it was a prosthetic nonetheless and they had no idea how far it carried on because the stranger was wearing a long sleeved red shirt.

And damn did it fit him well.

Natasha pulled her gaze from the man, fiddling with the strap attached to her walking stick.

He was tall, taller than Clint, which was feat in of itself.

He had long dark brown hair, much like his canine counterpart, and it may have even been longer than Natasha's. It was tied up into a loose bun but some strands had slipped out and curled in front of his face.

And what a gorgeous face; all cheekbones and a jawline that threatened to cut anyone who touched it, hidden just slightly by the five o'clock shadow shading it.

His eyes were a stunning shade of blue, kind of like Clint's, but even lighter, and they sparkled as a flush rose over his cheeks. He pulled a treat from his pocket, kneeling to try and coax the dog over.

"Bear, c'mon." He sighed.

Bear barked playfully, but bounded over after a moment to devour this treat.

The man stood, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry about him. I've only had him for a couple of weeks." The man still looked embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck like a child getting scolded.

Clint chuckled, nodding. "Don't worry, man. Trust us, we know. We got Lucky when he was two and he'd never been trained at all. He was, and still is, a menace."

Lucky yipped and licked Clint's fingers, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Bear was a gift from a friend, supposed to become my service dog but I've never had a dog in my life. He needs to be well trained but…I'm apparently not very good at it." He shrugged.

Natasha smiled at him. "Hey, if you want, I have the number of a really good dog trainer. She helped train Lucky and he was quite the handful. She's local too."

The man smiled, dimples and teeth showing. "Yeah? That would be great."

Natasha pulled a pen and paper from her purse, quickly writing down the number and the womans' name before handing it over.

He smiled again, sliding the note into his pocket.

"Thank you…?"

"Natasha." She hummed, holding out her left hand so Bucky could shake with his right.

"And?" The mans' gaze shifted as he dropped her hand and took the other mans.

"Clint. And you are?" The blonde shook his hand, smiling wryly.

"Bucky. Well, James, but no one calls me James. My middle…uh, my middle name is Buchanan and I'm now realising that doesn't exactly shorten to Bucky but yeah…Bucky."

Natasha grinned and Clint stifled a chuckle.

"Well, Bucky, it was nice to meet you." He said kindly, meaning it.

"You too, thanks for the number." Bucky's gaze lingered on Clint just a little longer before the man ducked his head shyly and nodded, calling Bear as he headed inside.

Clint turned to Natasha, a twinkle in his eyes.

Natasha grinned and both their gazes flitted back to the handsome stranger, finding a seat in the waiting room.

"He was…" Natasha trailed off, shaking her head.

"Gorgeous?" Clint supplied, grinning. "Yup."

"He fancied the shit outta you." The redhead chuckled.

"Not just me." Clint hummed, sliding an arm around her waist. "He couldn't even speak after you shook his hand. Not that I blame him, you are exceptionally beautiful."

Natasha rolled her eyes but leaned in for a quick kiss.

"I guess it's lucky that the dog trainer happens to be one of our closest friends, should we want to see him again." Natasha beamed, looking positively angelic.

Clint laughed. "Why, Natasha, were you using our dear friend as an excuse to get to know mystery man?"

Natasha only hummed, smiling back in response.

"I guess I better tell Wanda to expect a phone call." Clint murmured, smile wide.

"I guess you should." Natasha leaned her head in, resting against Clint's shoulder for a moment. "Home?"

"Anything for you, love."