The next week passed in a blur.
The painkillers and new anti-depressant left Natasha floating and dazed most of the time.
Where she could at least watch TV before, she could barely hold onto one train of thought without the brain fog taking over. It was like her thoughts slipped away from her, often before she had even had the opportunity to speak them.
It was beyond frustrating and not just for her. Clint would talk and most times, she would have something to say, anything to say so he wasn't just speaking to thin air but then her mind would go fuzzy and static-y and her lips would fumble and nothing remotely intelligible would leave her mouth.
That would result in more frustration on her end, her hands sliding into her hair as she tried to recall what she had been thinking off just a moment before.
Tears would likely come, and she couldn't even explain why she was crying, why she was upset.
She couldn't explain that her brain was addled and she hated how she couldn't hold a conversation like a normal human being.
That she wanted to tell Clint how much she appreciated him being there, that without him she would spiral even more.
That she wanted to tell him that she loved him, that she wanted to simply ask for a drink or to turn the TV channel over, or that she just wanted a fucking cuddle.
Clint was amazing but he wasn't a mind reader.
He'd learned to read her body language remarkably well however, and if it was something simple she wanted, he could nine times out of ten understand by hand gestures and garbled words alone.
For instance, she would point at whatever she was trying to say. So she would point at the door to the en-suite and he would ask a couple of questions. Did she need help to the toilet? Did she need a cold cloth? Did she want some water? Then she would nod or shake her head.
If she was in more pain than usual in one spot she would point at the area of her body and Clint would fetch ice/heat packs, more painkillers, and would if he could, rub at the spot that hurt until her muscles loosened.
Cuddles were easy, she would shuffle in her seat and lean in and Clint would wrap his arms around her, helping her nestle into his side.
Other things were more difficult to understand.
For example, if she felt sick but couldn't get the words out, it could quite possibly end in disaster.
She would try to crawl to the side of the bed but that was the only warning he had, so Clint had taken to leaving empty trashcans by the bed in case she couldn't warn him in time.
It embarrassed Natasha immensely.
She wasn't a sixteen year old getting drunk for the first time, she should be able to not just throw up unexpectedly. Should be able to at least run to the bathroom and not need to rely on Clint understanding what she meant with her movements.
The nausea had been awful those first few days after starting the meds, and she would lay close to the edge of the bed so she could easily shuffle her head over to throw up.
It had calmed down a little after three or so days but the trash cans were still there, just in case.
She slept a lot, but it was never restful sleep.
She went to bed at a relatively normal time, but was lucky to sleep through a couple of hours into the night.
She would wake constantly, sweating and caught in the sheets, dazed and sometimes unsure of where she even was.
For a good few hours then, she would curl up and watch Clint sleep or close her eyes and try to will sleep to come.
She tried her hardest to not wake Clint, but sometimes with her moving and rolling over it was inevitable.
He would tiredly roll closer, arm over her waist or his hand running through her red hair.
He would whisper soft words to her, most of the time just repeating that he loved her over and over until one of them fell asleep.
He was never annoyed, and hardly ever grouchy when she woke him. And if he was grouchy, he would apologise in the morning.
He never meant to sound annoyed or mad at her, but sometimes couldn't help it. Natasha understood and would have been more upset if he acted like he was fine with it all the time.
But it didn't seem to matter how much or little she slept, didn't matter if she had ten hours of sleep or three, she woke up bone tired and exhausted.
Some mornings it was impossible to open her eyes or move to go to the bathroom or just to sit up.
Those mornings were crushing and panic filled, because not being able to open your eyes for a time was downright terrifying.
She was constantly worrying what would happen if she could never open her eyes again, if she could never move again and was to spend the rest of her life in that bed.
But eventually she would be able to open her eyes and sit up against the headboard.
Those mornings she would cry even more.
The terror of not being able to move would have passed but new terrors remained.
Thoughts of being useless and Clint leaving her would fill her mind until all she could do was try to breathe.
She had relied on Clint for a little over seven months now, for many aspects of her life.
She worried that soon would come the day where Clint would have had enough and would leave.
That he was sick of being in such a one sided relationship where her boyfriend had to help her do the most embarrassing of things like help her change or empty the trash can when she was sick.
That he would realise he didn't want to live like that anymore, that he was tired of being dragged down by her.
That he would find someone else, someone healthy, someone able to give him the love he deserved.
Someone who didn't rely so heavily on him.
Someone who could work a job and bring money in.
Someone who could take him on dates, sit across from him at the dinner table and hold his hand and chat easily about life, without being in pain, without messing up every sentence.
Someone who could make love to him, could make him feel like the most special guy in the world.
Someone who didn't use him as a carer.
Someone who could share the work load, help clean the house and make the bed and take the pets for a walk.
Someone who wasn't in pain and depressed and thought too often of self-harming or suicide.
Someone who deserved him.
But Clint, amazing and brilliant Clint would hold her and soothe her worries away with whispered proclamations of love and soft kisses.
He was her only rock, grounding her to the real world.
He was the sweetest with her, still funny and charming, but now just even more gentle.
He cooked her food, made her tea, held her in his arms, spoke to her when she couldn't summon the energy to speak herself.
Was never frustrated when she couldn't hold a conversation, but still never spoke at her, still with her, and it made all the difference sometimes.
He held her hair as she threw up, rubbing up and down her back and helping her drink a glass of water after. He would tidy the trash can away with no fuss, clean it, and put it back in its spot.
He soothed her brow when she got too warm or her headaches struck, his touches were especially light and soft during these times. A gentle brush of her hair, or reassuring hand against her back.
He would dutifully go and wet the cloth again when it got warm, would turn all the lights off and close the curtains when it set off her migraines. He was fine in the dark, holding her or letting her rest as he did other things.
He helped her eat when her hands failed, ordering in her favourite food or making a meal from scratch. He would hold the bowl or plate if it was too heavy and very occasionally, he would help her lift the form or spoon to her mouth. He was patient, even though it could take an hour or so for her to eat one meal.
He made sure she was drinking water or juice, anything so she didn't end up in hospital dehydrated again. Even when he was pottering around the house, he would come in with constant cups of tea and re-filled bottles of water with lemon or fresh fruit. Even when he was out of the house, he would leave her with bottles and cups, more than enough until he came home.
His hands rubbed her back, her neck, her shoulders, sliding over her skin to try and help the aching and stabbing of her muscles. He'd learned basic massage techniques and would buy bottles of scented oils and warm it in his hands before gently easing the tension out of her body.
Sometimes, if Natasha felt okay and wanted to, the massage could turn into something more. But he never pushed, never expected, was content to wash off the oil and climb in beside her, cuddling her close.
When she had a little more energy, they would watch shows and movies either in the lounge or on Clint's tablet. If she was very fuzzy-headed, they would watch things they'd already seen a bunch of times so there was no pressure to follow a new story line.
Distraction could be a very useful thing so if Natasha was caught in her head, they would get her crafting stuff out and spread it over the bed. If her hands were feeling okay, if she could grip smaller items, she would colour or knit or carry on with something new she'd picked up, like scrapbooking.
To some people, the things she did would seem childish or boring or even lame, but Clint never made fun of her, and if it made Natasha happy, it made Clint happy.
If her hands didn't work, he would maybe get out his guitar. He wrote songs, sometimes just the guitar, sometimes with words. He would sing softly, a concentrated smile on his face, his gaze lifting from his hands on the guitar to sing directly at Natasha.
They were some of her favourite moments.
No pain, no bad thoughts, just her boyfriend singing for her.
It was made even more special by the fact that was how they met.
One night, Natasha sitting at the bar, Clint on the small stage with his guitar, a lot of tequila shots and Natasha losing her shoes lead to something Natasha never dared dream would happen.
…
The week had not been easy, for either her or Clint but the eighth morning dawned and Natasha woke a little brighter.
She could open her eyes as soon as she woke and it took only a couple of minutes for her to sit up and push the covers off herself.
Thank fuck for that.
Natasha could tell as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, that she had a couple more spoons than the previous day.
She pulled the note from the pillow beside her.
'Went to the store, I'll be back soon. Love you. Ps, Wanda left a message!' with an insane amount of winky faces around the page.
Natasha chuckled and smiled, warmth filling her chest.
It may have been a simple note but it was more than that to her.
It was Clint listening and knowing her anxieties and worries. It wasn't just him letting her know where he'd gone, but him letting her know he was coming back.
Natasha stood, and knowing this energy wouldn't last, she went around and did the things everyone else took for granted.
She first padded to the bathroom, turning the shower on hot and settling the shower bench across the bath.
As the room got all steamy, just the way Natasha liked it, she pulled off her clothes, nose wrinkling.
She hadn't changed in almost a week and felt more than disgusting.
God, I'm fucking gross. Why the hell does Clint even stay with me? I can't even shower or get dressed like a normal person.
Fucking pathetic, Natasha, you're literally the most pathetic person ever.
Sighing, Natasha placed her clothes in the hamper and climbed into the shower, settling on the bench under the spray of water.
She exhaled shakily, reaching for the bottles lining the tub.
After carefully scrubbing at her face and body with soap, she took a breath and sat under the water for a couple of minutes before she was ready to move on.
She washed her hair next; lathering the shampoo into her hair and waiting for another few minutes before washing it out.
She turned the water off and slowly lifted her legs out of the bath and stepped onto the mat.
Wrapping the towel around herself, she took the opportunity to brush her teeth so she didn't have to come back in.
She could feel the odd sensation in her gums and just knew that later her teeth were going to hurt like a bitch.
The random fucking pains were the worst.
Natasha moved to the bedroom, hanging the towel up to dry before climbing into some yoga shorts and one of Clint's oversized band shirts. She grabbed a book off the nightstand, and her hairbrush.
She walked around the kitchen next, brushing out her hair after flicking the kettle on to boil.
Taking a protein bar from the cupboard, she ate quickly, not wanting it but knowing she needed to eat so she could take her meds.
Throwing the wrapper away, she shook the morning meds from the container and held them in her palm as she turned to the kettle.
Pouring the hot water over the green tea bag, she carefully picked it up and carried it over to the glass doors leading to the balcony.
Natasha stepped outside, taking a deep breath of fresh air, her first in over a week.
They had a couple of chairs out there, but Natasha preferred to spread the cushions and blankets from the basket just inside the doors over the floor instead.
One cushion behind her back against the wall, Natasha leaned back against it and sighed softly.
She pulled a blanket over her knees, taking a swig off too hot drink, tilting her head back as she swallowed the meds.
She cradled the warm drink in her hands, gaze on the horizon, and the stunning sight of the sun creeping up.
Natasha adored watching the sun rise; the colours, the quiet, the absolute feeling of peace that would wash over her.
Unfortunately, she rarely got to watch it anymore.
After watching the sun for another five minutes, Natasha smiled to herself and settled in for the morning.
…
Clint usually got up early a couple of mornings a week, so he could go to the store when Natasha would usually still be asleep.
But when Clint returned, Natasha was sitting on the balcony, spread across the floor, under a blanket as she read.
Clint stood watching her for a moment after he placed the shopping bags down.
The sun had come up and through the rays of yellow, Natasha's hair shined brilliantly, like fire burning on the horizon.
She took his breath away every single day of his life.
Clint moved a little closer to the glass, and Natasha still hadn't seen him.
She looked fully engrossed in her book, eyes fliting quickly down the pages before she would flick them over.
He hadn't seen her enjoy a book in…months? A year?
Her brows were pinched and her mouth opened with a soft pop as something happened in the story and Clint's heart hammered in his chest.
God she's beautiful.
And she's with me. How is that even possible?
He hated to interrupt but he was just a little desperate to greet her.
She seemed happy but Clint also knew the floor, no matter how cushioned, would hurt her back if she stayed there for much longer.
He slid off his shoes and moved to the door, tapping it a couple of times so when he opened it, she wouldn't get scared.
"Hey, babe." Clint murmured, crouching down by her side and leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to her temple.
"Hey." Natasha smiled softly.
Her hair was still a little damp and Clint twirled a strand around his fingers.
"I know, I washed it." Natasha hummed. "I smell better now, huh?"
"You always smell incredible." Clint murmured, eyes sincere.
The redhead rolled her eyes fondly. "You're a liar, but I appreciate the sentiment."
Clint tutted and cupped her jaw in one hand, ducking his head to press a soft kiss to her lips. "I am not lying. I would never lie to you."
Natasha looked up, closing her book and leaning up from her seated position for another kiss, her hand sliding to the back of his head to bring his face closer.
A few moments passed before Natasha pulled back, her fingers lightly scratching his scalp.
"I feel good today." She said quietly, lightly biting her lip.
"I can see that, love, I didn't think you'd be up yet." Clint hummed, fingers brushing through her hair.
"No, Clint, I feel good today." She said pointedly, one eyebrow raising.
Oh damn.
Clint swallowed and moved till their faces were a few centimetres apart. He nipped at her bottom lip himself, arm winding around her, fingers spreading across the small of her back.
"Are you sure?" He asked, free hand reverently cupping her jaw, thumb brushing over her cheek.
"Take me to bed, Clint." Natasha whispered, her eyes dark as she pushed up onto her knees, fingers gripping both his hair and the collar of his t-shirt.
Clint was more than happy to oblige.