Hello everyone! This is my first ever Avengers fanfic (and second fanfic in general, though I wrote my first one more than 15 years ago). The title of this story references a book on trauma about how trauma affect us, but this fic does not go into the details of trauma, though it implies something has happened to Agent Romanov. Written as a oneshot for now, but I have some potential ideas and would definitely update if there's interest, and would of course update the rating/warnings/characters accordingly. Let me know what you think and if you'd like to see more!
Chapter One
"Call the helo." We've found Agent Romanov."
Natasha opened her eyes quickly, too quickly. A flash of white hit her eyes and blinding pain consumed her. Her head throbbed. She let out an involuntary gasp at the sudden burst of pain, and her vision went black.
The next time she awoke, she kept her eyes shut and managed to stay conscious for a few moments longer. The pain in her head remained and a sluggish, disembodied awareness of other unpleasant sensations washed over her in waves. There was fatigue, soreness, and a pervasive stiffness throughout her limbs. There was a beeping sound of some sort, but it felt far away and distorted by a high-pitched ringing in both ears.
Just beneath the ringing, she could make out the sound of a strained, strangled cry. Her eyes slowly opened to locate the source, and a creeping soreness in her throat followed, the realization that the cry was her own not far behind. And suddenly, so soon after waking, she felt utterly exhausted. She let her eyes fall again, barely making out the sound of footsteps rushing toward her and a faint, pleading voice as it whispered, "Natasha, Natasha are you with us?" She let it all fade to black.
The third time Natasha woke, she felt her training click into place. It helped that both the fog and the pain, while present, had lessened. She opened her eyes carefully. While the flash of light that hit them was intense, she slowly fluttered her eyelids open and closed to allow her pupils to adjust. The light appeared less fluorescent this time, less harsh. Natural light, early morning, eastern exposure, likely winter. She let her eyes close again and focused on inventorying her physical and mental state.
Who: I am Natasha Romanov.
What: I'm injured. I've been unconscious. My body is healing but ready to be awake.
When: Days, weeks?
Where: Hospital, or some sort of captivity.
She opens her eyes once again and scans the room. She's in a hospital bed next to a window. There are no restraints. There's snow outside, reflecting more sunlight than you'd expect on a winter day. A thin hospital gown and thin blanket cover her small frame. She looks small. Has she lost muscle?
How long have I been out?
She glimpses a small bedside table to her left. On the table is a carafe half-filled with water and two cups. There are also flowers, but they don't look fresh. Her head aches, but more intense than that pain is the sudden pang of thirst. It's distracting, but she focuses on continuing her inventory of the room. A small whiteboard on the wall has some barely-legible notes and a date that reads 1/21/2024. The room is modern and clean — nice, even — but that doesn't rule out captivity. You can find a nice hospital room or two in even the worst government blacksites out there, and the flowers could be a trick. Carefully staged hospital rooms make for a good distraction when a hostage first comes to, establishing a feeling of vulnerability and trust that buys the captor easy intel and easy control. But hostage or patient, she's definitely in a hospital room.
Why?
It's there that she comes up short. She can't cut through the fog in her brain enough to remember anything leading to her injury or capture. She's tired, and she's in pain, but the pain isn't acute enough in any particular area to help illuminate the cause of her hospitalization. Unconscious for an undetermined length of time: definitely. But for how long?
She carefully wiggles her fingers and wrists and is pleased to find full functionality and no pain at the movement. She's about to try raising her right arm to her head to gauge the length of her hair — if it's much longer, she'll know she's been out for months and not weeks — when the sound of soft footsteps approaching the room's entrance breaks her train of thought. She kicks herself for not realizing sooner that the door is wide open. Neither ready nor strong enough to spar verbally (or physically) with a potential captor, her best option is to "play dead."
She closes her eyes and allows her face to relax. If her visitor is a foe, this will give her time to quietly observe their movements and conversation without losing her very limited situational advantage. If it's a friend, then maybe she'll get some intel on why, and how long, she's been here.
The footsteps slow as they cross the threshold and enter the room. They become slower and quieter as they get closer to her bed, not quite as if someone's trying to attack, but as if someone's trying not to wake her. She lets them think they've succeeded and hears them settle into a seat near the bedside table. She hears the carafe being lifted and the sound of water pouring into a cup. Her thirst intensifies. The guest takes a long, slow sip.
She nearly jumps at the sudden sound of the cup slamming back onto the table. The noise is followed by a choked sob. A man's sob.
Clint?
She can tell by the direction of the muffled sobs that her guest has buried his face in his hands. She's tempted to open her eyes and face this visitor head-on, but she isn't ready to give her strategic advantage away just yet.
A few moments pass, and slow, steadying breaths follow her visitor's sobs. She feels the light breeze that accompanies movement, hearing him straighten in his chair and turn her way. The legs of the chair squeak a little as he scoots a bit closer to her. A gentle hand comes to rest on her own, and she again struggles not to flinch.
"We found him, Tash." Another steadying breath. "And I'm going to kill him for what he did to you."
Thank you for reading! What do you think happened? Do you want to see more?