Natasha crept hesitantly into the darkened kitchen. Tablecloths hung over the large windows, blocking the sunlight and rendering the room was almost entirely pitch black. It took her eyes several moments to adjust to the intense darkness before she saw what she was looking for. Maybe if she was really, really, quiet, it would work this time...
Natasha tiptoed over to the corner, careful not to let her feet so much as squeak on the shiny linoleum. She was only steps away from making her move. She paused several feet before the counter in the corner of the room, which held a microwave, some hi-tech coffee machine, and a huddled figure wrapped in tattered fabric, its face buried in shadows.
Tasha paused, taking a silent, deep breath before calling out as softly as she could.
"Hey, Clint."
The figure did not stir. It was sitting in what looked like a nest of threadbare tablecloths and dish towels, wedged between the wall and the microwave and hunched under the cabinets.
"It's me, Tasha," she said, a little louder this time. The figure's head lifted infinitesimally before dropping back down to rest its chin on its chest. He still didn't reply.
"Just thought I should check up on you," Natasha said, moving closer to peer tentatively at Clint's immobile figure. There were several long moments before Clint finally spoke in a low voice, devoid of all emotion.
"I am a broken man, Natasha."
Natasha sighed softly, stepping forward until she was standing at the edge of the counter, resting one hand a few inches away from Clint's foot.
"You're not broken. You just need to get back out there and try to move on from this."
Clint raised his head just enough so he could look at her with wide, expressionless eyes.
"I cannot move on from this. How can I pretend that this never happened? I let my guard down for just a moment, and they got through, they changed me..."
"Clint, you do realize that this 'they' we are talking about is a flock of mallards, don't you?" Tasha interrupted.
"They know my weaknesses," he whispered furtively, eyes wide.
Natasha finally had it.
"Okay, that is it," she said sharply, reaching forward and grabbing Clint's arm, pulling him roughly off of the counter, which sent him nearly tumbling to the floor if it hadn't been for her vice-like grip on his bicep.
"Hey!" he protested as he stumbled, his numb legs struggling to keep him upright, the blood just beginning to flow back into them after several days curled up in a nook on a kitchen counter.
Natasha spun on her heel, backing Clint up against the island counter in the center of the kitchen and scowling fiercely.
"I have been worrying my ass off about you for days, while you just sat there and sulked in your nest - I bet you didn't even think of me - "
Natasha backed off, fuming, but Clint stood frozen to the spot in alarm. Tasha looked back up at him, eyes still blazing.
"You are going to go take a shower, and change out of those," she said firmly, but with far less terror in her voice, wrinkling her nose at the t shirt and sweatpants that Clint had probably been wearing for the past several days. "I am going to go talk to Tony about a cure, for...for whatever this is."
"A cure?" Clint squeaked, and Natasha paused on her way out of the kitchen. She turned in the doorway to glance back at him and smirked.
"I think a little Mario Kart should do it, don't you?"