CHAPTER SIX

Clint could only sit there on the edge of the cot while Tony monitored his brain and heart and tested the chips. There was no more conversation between them, but Clint did not mind - he barely noticed at all; what was there ti say? He knew nothing but that Natasha had been there, and that did not really mean anything but that she knew more than she had said, did it? He ought at least to give her a chance to explain it herself. He trusted her, and she trusted him...well, perhaps less than he had thought. Surely there was some explanation. She had sounded as if she were trying to protect someone - possibly him - and that must mean something.

Some time passed - he was not keeping track - before Tony finally said he could go. Clint stood and was about to leave, but suddenly felt the urge to ask, "Did you find anything?"

"I've saved samples of your brain activity to compare to the data on the chips, I should know something real tomorrow," Tony replied, spinning his chair around to face Clint, "You should be able to remember everything now, any useful information?"

Clint paused, then said, "I haven't remembered anything...unusual despite the entire situation. But it's like I've gotten used to having the information so none of it really stands out."

His elbows propped on the arms of his chair, Tony clasped his fingers and rested his chin on them. His look was - not obviously - piercing, but Clint had become very adept at reading faces. Tony seemed to be trying to figure something out, but Clint could not guess what.

Finally, Tony said, "That would be one effect of the chip." Then he spun back to his work and Clint took that as a dismissal.

He had reached his car before he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts to Natasha Romanoff. Clint stared at the screen with her name, number, and picture for a few minutes. What was he supposed to say when she answered, because "Hey, why were you there when they were cutting me up?" sure as heck was not going to cut it. Maybe he just was not ready to talk to her yet, but he wanted to know what had happened and why she had been there. His thumb was frozen over the 'call' button, but he could not bring himself to press it.

He sighed and turned the phone off, shoving it into the pocket of his pants and cranking the car. As he drove back to his apartment, he mentally berated himself for being afraid to talk to Natasha, of all people, but he was not feeling at all himself now...or what had been 'himself' since he had been back. Come to think of it, his emotions did not seem so strong as they had over the past two and a half weeks; maybe that had been an effect of the chips, he mused.

Once he had locked his apartment door behind him, Clint had made up his mind. He pulled his phone back out and once again scrolled to Natasha's number. He paused to look at her picture for a moment, and reconsidered one of his deductions. Even without the chips, he still felt so much more overwhelmed by her than he had before all of this. If he had thought that a bad thing before, it was even worse now. One slip in his words and he could push her away forever.

Where the heck did that come from? He mentally chided himself, She is about as far away as she could possibly be now, you're basically friend-zoned.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed the call button and waited for her to pick up.

He heard her phone ring twice, and immediately worried: Natasha always answered after the first ring. But she finally picked up after the fourth ring and Clint let out the breath he had not realized he was holding.

"Natasha Romanoff."

"Tasha, I need to talk to you," he managed to sound normal.

"What, now?" he could read mild confusion and worry in her voice. One part of him vaguely hoped he had not called at an inconvenient time.

"Yeah, can you come over?" he winced at how...close that sounded.

"Sure," then she hung up and he knew he had ten minutes or less before she would knock on his door. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to start a conversation normally and bring it to the subject he needed it on?

He began to pace, and all too soon, he heard three knocks. Bracing himself, Clint walked to the door and unlocked it after sliding the chain back. When he opened it, there stood a soaked Natasha Romanoff in a rather formal black dress, he red hair dripping and clinging around her face. He took a moment to register that before asking, "What happened?"

"It's raining outside, didn't you notice?" she did not even wait for him to invite her in, and he closed the door behind her, "You sounded pretty urgent on the phone."

"Did I?" he asked, then noticed her rubbing her arms, "Cold?"

"Yeah," she said, "What's wrong?"

He picked up his jacket that was draped over a chair and put it on her shoulders, leaving his hands there for a moment more than necessary, briefly losing what he had actually wanted to talk to her about. They sat on the couch and he still did not know what to say to her last question. She just pulled his jacket closer around her and watched him expectantly.

"Natasha, I..." that sentence trailed off, and Clint turned to her, "Tony took several chips out of me today."

Her face instantly filled with concern, "Are you alright?"

He met her eyes and bit his lip, "I...remember now...all of it."

Natasha's face drained of all color and her voice quivered as she pressed, "Why...are you telling me?"

"You were there," he replied, his voice low, "Why?"

She refused to meet his eyes now, and he decided to give her as long as she needed. Trying to hide how tense he was, Clint clasped his hands in front of him and looked at them to avoid staring at Natasha. He could see in his peripheral vision that she stole glances at him every few seconds, but she did not yet seem ready to talk.

A few minutes passed this way, and finally, Natasha broke the silence, "You haven't told anyone else yet, why?"

"I trust you, Natasha," he admitted, meeting her questioning gaze, "But I need to know. You know that."

She nodded, looking away momentarily, and when her eyes locked with his again, he could see something like panic in them, "I've done a lot that I regret...you know that. Sometimes it's harder to get away from than other times, and sometimes...I can't get away from it at all."

Clint nodded, and asked, sounding more threatening than he had intended, "What did they do to you?"

This time, she refused to look at him, her eyes fixed on her feet. There was another long pause, and then she murmured, "They did nothing to me, they knew that wouldn't work...and, I could have gotten out with no trouble at all. They knew that, too," she bit her lip for a long moment, then glanced at him briefly to gage his response before re-focusing on the floor and whispered, "They couldn't get anything out of me no matter what they did, and they couldn't keep me trapped...so they took you."