Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of its characters.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed. Not too sure about this chapter, but it had to be written! Hope you like this! Please read and leave a review:) Thanks!
Chapter 4 – Clint's silence
Clint lay on the bed of the confinement room and stared up at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on the wall. The doctor that had come to see him was talking, but the archer wasn't listening to him. He was thinking of Natasha. He missed her badly. It had only been four days since his relapse, and she had come by to see him every day. He hadn't let her in though; he couldn't risk losing himself again. He couldn't risk losing her.
He rolled over on the bed to face the wall and shut out the monotone voice that was droning on beside him. He clenched his fists and screwed his eyes shut tight. He wasn't a monster. He didn't need to be locked up like this. He was fine, goddamn it! He sucked in a deep breath and attempted to calm himself down. The doctor pulled at his shoulder, trying to get his attention.
Sighing, Clint rolled over to face him and glanced at the clock, grimacing when he saw it was only one in the afternoon. "Sorry, what was that, Doc?" his tone was bored, uninterested. The doctor knitted his brow and huffed in annoyance.
"I said that this is easily treatable. All you need is an anchor."
"An anchor?"
Clint looked sceptically at the doctor. What was he even a doctor of anyway? This all sounded incredibly cliché, like something out of a shitty romance novel or something. The doctor noticed his tone, but didn't show it. He had met many patients that had a stubborn streak like Clint Barton, and he wasn't going to give up just because the agent had a huge ego. Christ, if he'd done that before he wouldn't have been able to successfully treat half of the patients he'd been forced to deal with in the past. Shaking his head slightly, he carried on talking.
"Yes, an anchor, something that will tie you to reality. It could be..." the doctor stopped speaking briefly and hummed in thought. "It could be a photograph, a memory, a song... perhaps a person?"
The archer visibly flinched at that last suggestion.
"No," he deadpanned.
"I take it you've thought of someone then? Someone that could be your anchor? This is very important agent Barton. Nothing is more important that your health." The doctor narrowed his eyes, scrutinising his expression.
"Her safety is," he mumbled into the pillow.
"Ah," the doctor nodded, knowingly. "The person you're thinking of is Agent Romanoff, is it not?"
Clint huffed and turned to face the wall once more. This whole situation was ludicrous. He was a world class assassin; he did not need a nanny.
"Look, Barton." The doctor continued after realising the assassin wasn't going to reply. "She won't be in any danger, all she has to do is calm you down if you have another attack and keep an eye on you. That's all."
Clint narrowed his eyes.
"Even if you bring her in here I won't talk to talk to her," he warned.
"We'll see about that."
The doctor stood up and walked out of the room, leaving the assassin to his thoughts. Clint groaned and threw his arm across his face. Natasha was going to hate this idea.
Natasha Romanoff sighed and checked her watch. It was now 6:30pm. She had spent most of the afternoon talking to Clint's doctor, who had laid out a plan of action for the two to follow. The two of them had agreed that she would look after her partner, and they would attend fortnightly check-ups to see how he was progressing. The archer wasn't going to like this, he didn't respond well to doctors. Besides, everybody knew that Natasha was the only one he would talk to, even if he was denying it. She grimaced, recalling the last time they had been in a situation similar to this, stuck in SHIELDs medical facility.
A few months ago it had been Natasha stuck in that dreary room. She had broken several ribs and had faint burns up her left arm. They were pretty sore, but they weren't going to scar – at least that's what the doctors had assured her. She hadn't wanted to see Clint as a very small part of her hair had been singed off of the base of her neck, leaving her with a tiny, and wholly unnoticeable bald patch. Of course, Natasha being Natasha had been afraid that Clint would be disgusted by her appearance and had threatened the doctors to keep him away until her hair began to look better.
They had been in Rio on a stake-out when Clint had heard a quiet 'hiss' of a gas canister coming from behind him. He whirled around and searched for it among the rocks and rubble eventually spotting a small container about 2 meters behind Natasha puffing out hideous amounts of gas.
He had been about to warn Natasha to cover her airways when she fired her gun, igniting the swift-spreading cloud of gas. Clint stood watching, frozen in shock as the flames engulfed the left side of her, throwing her to the ground. The gas had been flammable - not toxic. He had been sloppy, careless for not considering this and cursed himself for not warning his partner sooner. Now she had been hurt, and it was all entirely his fault.
The archer had felt worried sick as he sat outside the door to Natasha's room. The only thing he could see when he closed his eyes was that horrible moment, stuck on repeat. When the doctor had come out and told him that she didn't want to see him, his stomach had knotted painfully. He had thought he didn't want to see him because she blamed him for what had happened. Nevertheless, even though Natasha refused to let him in, he hadn't left that doorway until Natasha had given in and agreed to see him.
She remembered how he had sat on the edge of her bed, tenderly running a hand through her hair and cupping her cheek. He had done his own inventory of her injuries – he didn't trust the doctors to do it well enough. Natasha had protested at every given opportunity, but secretly she had enjoyed being cared for. It had been a while since anyone had truly cared about what happened to her.
He had sat there all night, stroking her hair until she had fallen asleep.
Smiling fondly at the memory, she looked through the viewing window before she entered the room. Seeing Clint lying there on his cot, facing ceiling was hard for her to watch. Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. She was annoyed at herself for not seeing this coming, but mostly she was annoyed at the doctors for making Clint stay here. It wasn't like it was an ongoing condition. Ninety percent of the time the archer was completely normal. He'd slipped up, not had a psychotic break. What were they doing keeping him here like this?
That was the first thing Natasha had said to the doctors and agents involved with her partners care. She had demanded that she be allowed to take him out of here. They had complied fairly easily once she had threatened them by grabbing one of them by the throat and threatening to kill him if they didn't agree with her. She smiled to herself wryly. Clint liked rooftops, he liked being out in the open, up high. He would never get better if he was forced to stay in a place like this. But, at the same time, she didn't want to make the situation worse, and so decided that the best thing to do right now was to wait it out.
She cracked the door open and slipped in, careful not to make too much noise. The doctor had told her to knock and take things slowly so as not to 'startle' him, but she knew Barton better than anyone. She knew that he hated to be treated like a child – even if he did act like one pretty much all the time.
"Hey, Clint." she whispered. She raised an eyebrow at him as he watched her cross the room and over to the cot he was lying on. Keeping his expression blank, he rolled away from her to face the wall – much like he had with the doctor. Natasha stayed silent. Hoisting herself up onto the side of the cot she propped herself up into a sitting position so that she was sat next to her partner.
Hesitantly, she raised her hand and ran it through his hair. He sighed and closed his eyes. Natasha tried repeating the action, relaxing slightly when he didn't flinch away. She knew that this was enough for him. She had realised early on in their partnership that he didn't like talking about his problems. No matter how rare they were, it always shocked her when she saw the archer like this. He was always so chipper. He never let things get him down.
Clint lay on his side, facing away from Natasha. There was a part of him that was glad she was here, but the stronger, more prominent part of him was shouting at him to make her leave. He couldn't stand the idea of being a danger to her, but he just couldn't bring himself to make her leave again. Of course, this was unrealistic as the woman sat next to him was as deadly as they come, and could probably kill him within three seconds flat if it came down to it.
The simple action of her stroking his hair was surprisingly soothing for the archer. He appreciated the silence and didn't want to break it. He knew what the doctor's plan was. Clint was to stay with Natasha at all times. He was to warn her if he felt a headache coming on and she was to refrain from hitting him over the head if he had another episode. If he were in a better mood, he would have chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all.
Clint felt her other hand rest on his shoulder. He tensed up slightly as the touch, but didn't shrug it off. He knew how much effort Natasha was making to comfort him like this. She had almost all of her walls down and he didn't want to be the one that caused her to build them back up again. It had taken her the larger part of 15 years to be comfortable with him and he'd be damned if he let Loki ruin all his hard work.
Wordlessly, and making a conscious effort to keep his face void of emotion, Clint Barton reached up to hold her hand.