Spoilers: Set before the first movie, so no real spoilers.
Disclaimer: Clint and Natasha aren't mine, but I really wish they were. I don't suppose anyone at Marvel is feeling generous? *looks hopeful*
A/N: This is a quick get-well fic for my friend Lastavica, who mentioned that she's been sick for the last few days. I hope you feel better, Lastavica! (If you have a chance, I highly recommend Lastavica's Avengers fics. She's a fabulous writer. :) )
As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace.
I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!
Louder than Words
Natasha Romanoff did not get sick often. Her body had always seemed to be naturally resistant to such things.
Once, when she was very young, a terrible flu had swept through the barracks of the Red Room. Perhaps someone had returned from an assignment as an unwitting carrier, or perhaps it had been introduced deliberately, as yet another test of strength. Either way, by the time it ended, four beds were vacant.
Natasha, however, had been one of the first trainees to recover.
As she'd grown older, her experiences with illness had been much the same. She got sick occasionally, but rarely was it serious.
That was why it came as such a surprise when she'd begun to feel poorly after her last mission. She had assumed that the symptoms would fade as they usually did, but over the next few days, they had only progressed, until at last, she found herself winded when she trained because of the congestion in her lungs. It had become impossible to breathe through her nose as well, and her throat, too, felt swollen and inflamed.
This morning, when she had arrived for their scheduled sparring session, Barton had taken one look at her and told her to visit the infirmary. She'd refused, insisting that she was fine - she had, after all, endured far worse in the past.
But Barton had been adamant…in fact, he had made it an order. He rarely went that far, despite his seniority over her as an Agent, and his insistence had seemed all the more serious because of it.
"This isn't the Red Room, Romanoff," he'd told her quietly.
She knew that, but old habits were not so easily dismissed; she had long ago learned to hate any weakness within herself. It was the reason for her survival.
Still, when she had joined S.H.I.E.L.D., she had agreed to follow their orders, and Clint was technically her superior. More than that, disobeying him meant breaking his trust, and she did not want to do so, especially for something this petty.
Grudgingly, she'd done as she had been told, and visited medical.
The doctor had diagnosed her with a severe case of walking pneumonia, given her a course of antibiotics, and placed her on mandatory sick leave for the next ten days.
In the privacy of her thoughts, she was willing to admit that it was a relief to be in her quarters now, where she could sit or lay down when she felt the need, but that did not stop the restlessness that seized her. Inactivity seemed like such a waste. And, perhaps, there was a small part of her that still feared the consequences of perceived idleness.
She dealt with the sensation by rereading the training and protocol manuals S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided her with when she'd joined the organization eight months earlier. That, at least, seemed productive. When she finished with them, she cleaned every weapon in her quarters twice, telling herself that it stemmed from a desire to be thorough.
She was trying to decide what to do next when the console next to her door beeped, signaling a visitor. She frowned faintly and walked over to it, pushing the release.
She blinked as the door slid open. "Barton?"
"Hey, Romanoff."
"Do you need something?"
"No, but I thought you might. Here."
He handed her a lidded bowl with a spoon resting on top.
She stared down at the offering for a moment. "What is this?"
"Chicken noodle soup. It's supposed to help when you're sick, and the kind they have in the mess isn't bad. I thought you might like it."
Her fingers curled a little tighter around the bowl. "Thank you."
He shrugged. "No problem. I'd stay, but Coulson asked me to run a few practice drills for the techs who still need to qualify on the shooting range, so I have to head over there. Feel better, Romanoff."
He turned to leave, and Natasha watched until he reached the end of the corridor, then she looked down at the container once more, the warmth of the soup it held soaking into the palms of her hands.
Feel better, Romanoff.
Maybe, she thought, moving to close the door at last, she already did.
Fin
A/N: I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know what you think!
Take care and God bless!
Ani-maniac494 :)