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The Screams All Sound the Same
By: Syntyche
Fourteen: We'll Meet Again Soon
Her delicate fingers, often covered with blood throughout the course of her long life, are now irrevocably stained with guilt. Every touch every graze, every unwanted trace across tanned skin she'd once wanted so desperately to welcome her caress mars the thick skin of her fingertips, fills her palms and clenched fists alike with stains she will never be able to wash off. His tormented face fills hers dreams, the harsh rasps of his grinding breaths dying away as fading echoes in her ears.
Natasha's back is starting to ache from sitting so straight for so long, but she will not ease her rigid posture, will not allow herself any form of comfort or mercy that she doesn't deserve. How long had Steve been forced into uncomfortable immobility while recovering from her bullets? How many times had she denied her hawk the mercy his eyes begged her for as she'd destroyed him so patiently and carefully?
Her slim body is stretched tautly upright on the only uncomfortable chair in the lounge, the hard backed one with the barely-there padding that Tony had bought for Steve after he'd wryly observed Rogers' fruitless efforts to sit at attention on the lavishly overstuffed furniture Tony favored. It had been funny, though, to watch Cap try to look unflappably professional as he sunk into layers of plush stuffing, his helpless blue eyes heroically striving for some semblance of frantic dignity. From here, she can look down at the street far below, watching without being aware of it for a black towncar to turn toward Stark's garage.
Stark Tower just isn't the same without the annoying yet reluctantly amusing presence of Tony Stark; it's too quiet, too still, too lifeless. But Clint is coming home today, and that is cause for relief even as Natasha wonders tensely what the reunion will be like. Initially, as her own wounds had healed, she had fought to stay beside him as his massive injuries - inflicted by her hands, her weapons, her body - bore him away and down a raging current of darkness, away from her and this life, and the lasting wounds she would leave him with if he ever broke the surface again.
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She'd barely been conscious when the SHIELD medics had arrived in Zola's abandoned lab; she'd thought Clint already dead - how could he not be when there was so much blood? - and she was ready to follow - had already indeed taken steps to assure it, the stained arrow still clenched in her fist.
And then the medics had decided there was a chance to save her partner and had started cutting the shafts from the arrows buried in her hawk's flesh to prepare him to be moved. He couldn't scream, his hoarse voice nonexistent by this point, and Natasha was desperately and horribly pleased by this: she may have been dying, but she couldn't listen to one more pleading word fall from his lips to her shattered heart.
Her hawk couldn't scream, but his eyes were opened wide, tears leaking from the corners and sliding into his matted hair, his mouth twisted into a silent howl that she still seemed to hear above all the other noise. The arrow shafts were deftly cut and the wounds packed and wrapped; the arrowheads would be removed later - if Hawkeye survived the transport to base - but he'd already lost too much blood to spare any more until he was stabilized. And Natasha had let herself slide away amidst the din and controlled chaos, the Hulk's fading snarls the last thing she heard.
She'd awoken disoriented and confused, with black gaps in her memory and a sense of horror that she'd done something very terrible. Flashes of faces passed across her vision, people she knew and had known, memories from lives she'd lived long before. One time she'd awoken, feeling stronger and a little more clear-headed, and Fury was there, his face lined and grave and morose, and there had been some words about Clint that were sad and words about Tony that she hadn't wanted to hear and she would have turned away but the brace around her neck stopped her. So she pretended to sleep, ignoring Fury until he went away but his words raced around in her head.
Clint was alive.
He shouldn't have lived. He shouldn't be so lucky. But Clint being Clint, he had rebelliously defied death and survived, just as he'd been doing his entire life. The antidote Bruce had manufactured from tests found in Zola's lab combined with Steve's supersoldier DNA had made it to Clint at least in time, and seemed to be what Zola had been looking for. Steve quietly opined that there might be other, darker figures from his past in league with Zola, but at least at present none had made themselves known.
Eventually as Clint plodded painfully closer to awareness - again beating the odds, again refusing to let the shit in his life take him down - Natasha had removed herself to Stark's tower once she herself was discharged, numbly allowing herself to be subject to Bruce's care and Steve's supervision. She had returned to the infirmary only once, swallowing her guilt and hovering anxiously as Clint had started to come around for the first time since being packed off from Zola's. Her fingers were as white as the bedsheet being nervously shredded in her grasp, clawing into the mattress as Clint finally stirred, clearly unhappy with the gentle coaching of his doctors as he blinked groggily and muttered obscenities in a string of languages that made Natasha smile despite her anxiety: it was so Clint. She gave up absently translating after he growled something about where the doctor could shove his clipboard.
She'd watched, waiting for minutes that seemed like hours for the blurry gaze to focus, for the curious combination of blue and grey and green of his eyes to settle on her. To judge her. To forgive her if he would.
The first twitch of his fingers had caught her breath in her throat.
The first growled whimper from behind his clenched teeth had tightened her chest in a vise.
And the first tear that rolled down his cheek as he started to remember what had happened nearly undid her.
"Agent Barton, calm down," his doctor said soothingly. "It is all right. You're safe."
Clint had answered despondently in French, sounding wary and exhausted and the doctor responded gently in English. Backing away, Natasha left the room before he could see her, too overwhelmed to stay and face the partner - the friend - she had almost tortured to death.
In the weeks that had passed, Natasha kept her distance unless she was sure Clint was heavily sedated and would be unaware of her presence. While he slept restlessly she waited, watching as bruises marring his anxious features faded from black and purple to green and yellow, as shallow cuts that peppered his pale skin scabbed over and deeper wounds required more steady and delicate care. He'd muttered her name, Phil's, Tony's, searching and calling desperately as he wandered dark vales in his mind. She wanted to answer, but there was nothing she could say.
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Natasha had wanted to die then. She thinks she might want to die now, to fade away every time she remembers, to wither into a non-feeling nonexistence. For her now there is surveillance, medical and otherwise, and a numbing routine of psych visits that make her wonder - ironically - how Clint had kept his sanity when he'd been subjected to same routine after the Chitauri invasion. She'd been through the ringer before after Clint had brought her to SHIELD, but she'd had Clint and Coulson at the end of the day to talk her down, even her out and remind her they were all just a little messed up. Now they were both out of her reach.
A black car speeds past the window below on the street and Natasha's breath catches; the car continues on though and she bites her lips, touches her scar, and waits for the next one.
"Hey, Natasha."
The voice sounds as tired as she feels and she turns, feeling the new skin across her throat stretching taut as she does so. Bruce is standing so close to her chair she cannot believe she didn't hear him approaching. This should bother her more than it does but she just rolls her head back to stare out the window dully, listless green eyes tracking the relentless parade of traffic down in the street but none of the cars destined for Stark Tower.
"Here."
Bruce holds a glass toward her - doesn't matter what's in it, it won't possibly be strong enough - but she ignores it. She doesn't want comfort she doesn't deserve: who had comforted Tony when the virus was tearing him apart from the inside? Clint, as her teeth sank into his flesh? Steve, when her bullets drilled into his chest?
And that was just among her friends.
Bruce tries futilely in that awkward way he has to place the glass in her hand but when it becomes clear she's set on doing nothing to help him he finally puts it gently on the table - no coaster, Tony would have had a fit because he's weirdly anal about things like that - and hovers by her shoulder uncertainly.
"Natasha," he says again, and Natasha finally swivels angrily to meet him.
"What?" she demands. "I'm not supposed to feel guilty? I'm not supposed to hate every part of myself for what I did?" The assassin wishes she had the energy to vault herself out of this stupid chair, to pace and shout and vent her angry frustration; she wishes Clint were here to spar with, Tony were here to joke with, and Steve were here to offer old-fashioned advice that made her roll her eyes but sounded so genuine coming from him that she couldn't help but smile. Her voice drops to a faded snarl. "I'm not supposed to want to die every single day just to stop hearing their screams? To gouge my eyes out to stop seeing their blood on my hands?"
Bruce is just staring at her calmly, letting her talk even though he clearly wishes he were somewhere else; he feels a certain responsibility to watch out for her and she hates that too. She wants to tell him so badly about the man Zola used against her, the man who looked just enough like Clint that he got under her defenses because she was tired and lonely and aching to tell her hawk the truth … she wants to tell Bruce because she wants to confess, to lift even a little of the burden of guilt consuming her heart. Her blood feels like it's boiling in her veins and she wants to shred herself out of her vile, stained skin -
"Natasha…" Quiet, patient, but edged with a warning.
"What?" the furious inquiry bursts from her lips as she finally shoves herself from the chair; her knees are already trembling and she leans forward to brace her hands against the windowsill in a display meant to show frustration that hopefully also hides her absence of strength. Her red hair falls into her face as she jerks her head to glare at the doctor and in a moment of fury she wants to cut all of the short tresses off, to be rid of the constant reminder of the color of blood she's seen too much of in her long, violent life.
"There's nothing you can say, Bruce, that will make this better somehow," she says coldly, "so don't bother."
She sees the façade Bruce is wearing ripple momentarily and suddenly realizes that her anger is setting off the Hulk's own instability; she fights to bring herself under control and appear less threatening. "I'm sorry," she mutters.
"It's time for your meds," Bruce says quietly, and Natasha drops her head silently in acquiescence.
She doesn't know if she's ever felt so beaten.
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When Bruce informs her that Steve has arrived back at the tower with Clint, Natasha is already standing nervously in the middle of the lounge, having at last seen the car she'd been watching for drive into the underground garage. She tries to stand tall, to look confident and relaxed and she begs her tired body not to betray her. Her hair is tangled and lackluster and she's wearing jeans and an old t-shirt of Clint's he probably doesn't even know she'd stolen years ago over a turtleneck chosen specifically to hide her newest scar.
"Be calm," Bruce had told her, and she's trying even though her nerves feel like they're racing under her skin. It's foreign to the Black Widow to be so on edge and that only makes it worse.
Bruce stands near her, silently supportive, and together they wait.
The elevator door finally hisses open and she hears their voices before she can see them clearly; Clint's raspy, annoyed drawl overlapping with Steve's patient murmur.
"I've got it, thanks," Clint says in exasperation, pushing the hovering Captain America off to the side. Despite her tension Natasha has to smile at his tone: it's so familiar, wrapped around so many memories she loves like she's curled into his black t-shirt, and a spike of warmth knifes through the frissons of ice that have been chilling her body for more weeks than she cares to remember. Her taut posture relaxes a fraction as she watches for them maneuver their way down the low steps into the lounge area. Clint is scrutinizing his feet carefully, and despite the archer's aggravated protest Steve is still hunched low enough to slide an arm around the shorter man's shoulders. Natasha takes advantage of Clint's distraction to sweep a concerned eye over his rumpled appearance: tired, pale, bandaged and stitched, but alive.
Alive, despite the best efforts of the monster who had controlled her mind and body.
"Hey, welcome back," Bruce greets Clint warmly, and Clint gives Bruce a nod; he'd already spent a decent amount of time with Banner at the hospital - not only did the physicist like keeping Barton company, he also explained that it helped the Hulk feel more at ease if he knew that the archer was doing better.
"Hi," Natasha offers with a small smile that belies the knots her stomach is twisted into. Clint slowly looks at Natasha … and flinches.
It's barely noticeable; the assassin wonders if she only saw it because she was looking for it, but it's there nonetheless and accompanied by a ripple of tension that tightens his shoulderblades and thins his lips anxiously.
But Clint smiles at her anyway, even if Steve's expression grows concerned because suddenly he's hoisting a little more of Hawkeye's weight than he had been.
"Thanks," Clint says to Bruce, but he's still staring at Natasha like he can't take his eyes off her, and to her sorrow she sees that his stormy gaze is guarded despite the smile on his face. "Tasha," he greets quietly, and she wants to reach for him, to hold him and be assured that he's okay, that they're okay.
She doesn't.
"I'm glad you're back," she says softly, and the four of them stand in a loose and awkward circle, feeling Stark's absence keenly, wondering how they're going to come close to repairing the damage left behind.
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