She's shaking. From cold, blood loss, or something else entirely, she can't tell. The room is dark, and the only thing she registers about it is that it's hers. It's safe. She's huddled in the far corner, her good arm wrapped around her knees as they're tucked against her chest. Her other arm hangs limply at her side. It's probably broken, but the pain doesn't register. Not in the face of everything. Her own state doesn't matter. Her clothes are dirty and torn, no longer damp. Dried blood cakes them, it stiffens her shirt and pants in places. Some of it might be hers. Most of it is his. She can't stand herself. She can't stand that she's still breathing and he is dead. She let him die. She could have saved him, maybe. But she didn't. She had not. Alone. That is what she needs. She doesn't think she'll ever recover from this. No one needs to deal with her ever again. She's worthless. She turns her head, faces the door. She's barricaded it with whatever furniture she could move. It wasn't much. She ripped out the door panel with her bare hands, severed the wires for the lights with her boot knife. She probably cut herself, but it doesn't matter. Her hands are covered in blood. Hers. And his. He's dead. She let him die. She didn't even know his name. He was tall. Thin. Blond. Almost like a younger Clint. Maybe that's why her world is so off-kilter. He looked so much like Clint. Except … the damn kid didn't even look like he was fifteen. She could have saved him. She didn't. Some damn kid's life ended, and it was her own fault. His life snuffed out before he could truly live. A sob rips through her. She has no tears left, nothing left to cry but dry sobs that wrack her body periodically. She stares at the room again. It must be in Avengers Tower. In the pitch darkness she can make out the still sparking paneling she must have shot out. She wonders if the team even knows she's there. Probably. JARVIS doesn't miss much. She turns her face back, burying it in her knees. Dead. He's dead. She killed him. Her fault. All of it. She doesn't know how long she's been in that room, she's far too distracted to feel hunger, pain, or thirst. Days probably. Her chest heaves with another sob.
She sits there, using the wall to hold her upright for a while. The exact time, she has no clue. Her body shudders with dry sobs, and they quickly turn into dry heaves. There's nothing to bring up, nothing left in her body to expel. The wall is no longer sufficient to hold her up and she lets her body list to the ground. She curls up in the fetal position. She's still sobbing and coughing, she can't seem to stop. A bright spark illuminates the room for a brief second. It's a wreck. She must have torn it up. She thinks she can see blood in places, but it doesn't matter. She closes her eyes and she can see him; see the kid. Lying in front of her. Dying. Begging for her help. She stands there, immobile. Logically, she knows that's not what happened. She did her best; to save him she knows that. But in her mind, she stands there. She watches him die. Another series of sobs and her eyes fly open. Sleep will not be a welcome embrace. It hasn't for the days, hours, minutes she's trapped herself in the room. The team had been away when she returned, they weren't due back for several days. That was fine, she couldn't face anyone anyway. She doesn't remember the trip to the Tower, or the trip to her room. She stares into the darkness, hoping to find comfort. Instead, she sees that damn kid. Covered in blood. Standing in the middle of the room.
"I'm sorry." She croaks. Her voice is gone. She doesn't know from what. Crying, probably. Screaming, maybe. It doesn't matter. She repeats herself. "I'm sorry." She says it over and over again, she doesn't know how many times she says it. She says it until her voice completely leaves her. And then she mouths it. She's breaking, fracturing into a million pieces. There will be no putting her back together again. The vision before her fades, but still she apologizes. It's all she has left. And then she's sobbing again. She doesn't understand why she feels like she does. She's seen hundreds, probably thousands of people die. She's killed hundreds. But this one death, it's affecting her like none of the others. He looked so much like Clint. Maybe he was too young. She couldn't tell. She's breaking. Falling apart. She starts coughing, spots dance before her eyes. She's not sure if it's going to end like this. Maybe it should. Before she gets someone else killed. There's a sound at the door, maybe she imagined it. She doesn't look at the door. Another sound. Creaking, groaning as someone forces it open. The furniture is pushed out of the way, she still does not move. She doesn't look up. A light is shined, it burns her eyes. She closes them.
"'Tasha? Jesus! 'Tasha!" She hears the voices, she understands them. But her only acknowledgment is a twitch of her good hand, she can feel the blood flaking off. Someone is kneeling in front of her, she doesn't look at them. She looks dully ahead. A light is shined in her face, she scrunches it up and closes her eyes. She feels blood flaking off from her face. Idly, she wonders how she got blood on her face. It doesn't matter. A gentle hand grips her chin, moving her face upward.
"Come on, Natasha. Look at me." It's Tony, she can tell. But she can't bring herself to acknowledge her lover. She keeps her face scrunched up, why can't he stop shining the light. And then it's turned off, and the room is only lit by the open door.
"The light is out, 'Tasha. Come on, look at me." Tony is trying to coax her, she can tell. She's not sure she spoke about the light, she might have. She can no longer tell.
"Tony, careful. Her arm's broken. I can't tell if she's hurt anywhere else." There's a second voice, Clint. She flexes her good hand and tries to turn away from them. Her chin is still held in Tony's hand, and he tightens the grip as she tries to turn.
"Go away." She tries to say, it probably comes out garbled. She can't tell. Her voice is gone, and her body is shaking.
"Clint, get Bruce. Tell him I'll meet him in medical." She hears Tony say. She whimpers. Why can't they leave her? She's not worth the trouble. She got some goddamn kid killed.
"Easy 'Tasha, I've got you." He's speaking again, and when she cracks her eyes open, Clint is gone. She didn't see him leave. She might have lost some time. She feels herself being moved, being picked up. She whimpers again. Not from pain. She doesn't feel pain, not right now. No, she just wants to be left alone. To waste away. Suddenly, it finally dawns on her. That's what she wants. To waste away into nothing. To cease to exist. She's not worth the air she breathes. She feels as Tony adjusts his grip on her, and instinctively, she curls into him. This is her home, her lover. As much as she wishes an end, her body knows it's safe. She moans, this isn't what she wants. This isn't what she needs.
"Leave me alone." She's trying to speak again, but she only succeeds in sending herself into a coughing fit. She feels Tony adjust his grip again.
"Easy 'Tasha." He's repeating himself, and even in her addled state she can hear the fear and worry in his voice. She wishes she could soothe him, but she just wants it all to end. "Stop talking, it's going to be okay." It's never going to be okay again, she knows this. But she stops trying to talk, it doesn't seem to be doing any good anyway. They'll leave her alone at some point, she can flee then. She loses some more time, then, because the world snaps back into focus as Tony lays her on a bed.
"Natasha, look at me." It's Bruce who she hears next, and she turns away from him, trying to bury her face into the pillow. This isn't what she wants. Why can't they understand. Why can't they just let her waste away. Voices are wrapping around her, but she's only able to make out certain words. They're speaking about her, but she can't be bothered to pay attention.
"I'm going to sedate her." She hears Bruce say, the first sentence she's able to understand. She whimpers, the noise slipping past her lips without her consent. She hates being sedated, she hates the feeling of waking up. But maybe she'll get lucky. Maybe she won't wake up. She feels Tony touch her cheek and whisper an apology to her. She doesn't understand why he's sorry. She's the one who should be sorry. There's a prick in her good arm and she waits, knowing the oblivion that will come. She welcomes it.
All too soon she's waking up, she feels it hasn't been nearly long enough. She feels clean, and warm. She doesn't realize she's missed those things. She cracks her eyes open, she's still in medical. She tries to flex both hands, her broken arm is safely encased in a cast, and it impedes her hand. Her good arm is strapped to some kind of board, and she can't understand why. She tries to pull it closer to her chest, to inspect it, but she's stopped short by an IV line. The board suddenly makes sense, and she shifts to get better access to it. She's alone in the room, which suits her just fine. No one to see her escape. She's not thinking clearly, because JARVIS doesn't even register in her mind. She starts picking at the tape around the IV, peeling it off. Her chest and torso are bound in bandages, she doesn't remember breaking ribs, but she doesn't remember a lot. She needs to get out of there, she needs to find a place where she can either waste away or get her head on straight. Now that she's feeling better, she's less sure that she wants to end it all. She has ties, people that will miss her. She needs to get a hold of herself, and the drugs pumping through her system will impede that. She needs the IV gone, and she needs to get out of that room. Medical makes her nervous, it's too clean, too sterile. It brings back hazy, half-forgotten memories. Things she'd rather not touch. She finally gets to the point where she can pull out the IV, and she does just that. The board needs to go next, and whatever it itching at her face. She manages to get the board off without much trouble, and with her good hand reaches up to her face. She heaves a sigh, there's oxygen tubing taped to her face. She manages to get that off as well. She's clad in nothing but a hospital gown, but that doesn't matter to her.
She out of the room in short order, making a bee-line for the elevators. She's a bit amazed she hasn't been caught yet, it's only by sheer luck she's gotten as far as she has. She stands at the elevator, unsure where to go. Without thinking, she keys in a code. JARVIS is speaking to her, but she ignores the AI, shifting from one foot to the other in impatience. She now understands the reason for the oxygen, she's finding it a little hard to breathe. But she refuses to take time to take stock of herself, she needs out of medical. She needs time to think. She needs a place to think. The elevators arrives, and she gets in. Another code punched in and the elevator is moving. She now understands where she is going.
"Mr. Stark is not there, Agent Romanoff." She hears JARVIS saying. She shakes her head, she's not looking for Tony. She needs to be alone. She doesn't trust her voice, she's afraid if she hears herself speak, that she'll lose her resolve. That she'll go back to the dark place she was before, and she needs to get her head on straight. The elevator pings and she's practically running down the short hallway. Another code at the door, and the workshop lights up at her entrance. She walks with a purpose, heading to the worn couch in the corner. There's a blanket draped over the back, and she picks it up and wraps it around herself. She didn't even realize she was cold. She lays down on the couch and faces the empty workshop. She's half tempted to ask JARVIS where Tony is, she but knows, her lover will eventually find her. So she lays there, trying to coordinate her thoughts. She's having a hard time doing so. The drugs are still in her system, muddling her thoughts further. Tears start to fall down her face, leaking into the couch where her head is laying. She's trying to wrap her mind around everything, but it's so hard. So hard to focus. She's not sure how long she lays there before the workshop door slides open with a hiss. She turns to see Tony rushing in, panicked. It hurts her, knowing she caused that panic. Knowing she's the one who put him in that state. But he quickly relaxes when he finds her curled up on the couch.
"'Tasha." He breathes and slowly approaches her. It puzzles her, why he is moving slowly, like she's some scared animal he needs to catch. Though, she supposes, she is. She stares at him, the tears still trailing down her face. He finally reaches her and kneels on the floor in front of the couch. "You scared us." He says, reaching out to her. But he stops, hesitant. She flinches, knowing she also caused his uncertainty. She tries to offer him a hesitant smile, but she feels like it comes out as more of a grimace.
"It's all right." She croaks, finding herself lying. Trying to set her lover at ease. She's afraid to tell him, afraid he'll judge her. Or hate her. For what she's at fault for. Tony shakes his head.
"No, it's not." He says knowingly, and Natasha is suddenly afraid. Does he know? What does he know? Does he hate her now? But he's standing and sitting on the couch beside her. He pulls her into his arms, holding her. And she can't keep it in anymore. She starts sobbing, gross, ugly, heaving sobs. Sobbing so hard she can't catch her breath. Sobbing so hard her body is shuddering and shaking. She feels herself being lifted, blanket and all. It doesn't matter where she is going, Tony is here. Tony is home. Tony is safe. She can't stop sobbing, she can't breathe.
"It's going to be okay, 'Tasha." She hears Tony say. He says it over and over as he carries her. She's struggling to breathe, it's starting to scare her that she can't catch her breath. All too quickly she finds herself back in the bed she escaped, but she can't be bothered to be upset. An oxygen mask is being pressed to her face, and she finds she can finally breathe. She takes great, heaving breaths, gulping down air. The spots that were dancing in her vision clear and she finds Tony beside her, running his hand through her hair. He smiles at her, and she finds herself smiling back. How she could even think of leaving him behind, she doesn't know. And she knows she'll tell him what happened. And he'll support her, she understands that now. This is the man she chose to spend the rest of her life with, and she knows he'll understand.