AN You know what's super funny about this chapter? I had it ready the entire time. I HAD IT WRITTEN AND READY FOR READING WHEN I FIRST PUBLISHED THE STORY AND YET I STILL DIDN'T UPDATE AS SOON AS I PLANNED.
This chapter was so, so odd to write because there came a point when I really could not think of another way to write 'DAMMIT I'M MAD' to keep in the theme of the theme of the story. And I'm not especially good at/don't really like writing people being so blindly angry, so there's that.
Regardless, I hope you enjoy.
anger (chemo limo)
Natasha had been released from the hospital for two days now, and yet he still refused to see her. He knew that if he did, the disconnected calm he had felt during their last meeting would vanish and a whole lot of things would end up broken.
But he had to go see her. It was some sick longing in him, like the urge to keep twisting a loose tooth or pick away a scab, even though it hurt. He wanted to see her, wanted to drink in her every image and scent and sound and feel, but he didn't want to see the shade of her, vague and dull as compared to the fiery, wonderful creature she had been before.
Clint slammed his hand into the top of his counter, hand throbbing dully. This was ridiculous, why was he hesitating? Rage at the whole situation was bubbling inside of him, because this wasn't fair. Natasha had done more for the world than anyone else he'd known, even if you looked only at the fact that she had switched over from the Russian to the American side, and then displayed all of the secrets that had endangered countries and governments all over the world. But she had gone on, doing secret ops that saved so many people, organizations and lives that Clint had lost count. Why was she the one to have cancer, and for it to have spread on and on and freakin' on until it was far too late? Why not someone else, someone that people wouldn't have really missed?
He pushed himself up and grabbed his jacket, stomping out of his apartment. He had to see her, or else he wouldn't be able to think straight, because the guilt and anger and fear and confusion would swirl and around and around until he thought he'd burn himself out.
Her apartment was all the way across the city, but he was glad. Between the long walk to the subway station and the even longer ride to her neighborhood, he had a chance to burn some of that anger out. Not much, but some.
On the way there, he found he couldn't stand still. His hands fidgeted and he kept looking around and bouncing in place. Clint knew he was attracting looks, but it was either that or start breaking something, and that sure as hell wouldn't help, even though it might make him feel a bit better.
He found himself stomping up the steps to her apartment what felt like a few moments later, then caught himself. Clint took a breath, then calmly walked up, found her door. To his own surprise, it didn't even sound like pounding when he knocked on her door.
There was a pause, then the barest moment of feet walking closer to the door and then it opened. Natasha's face went from guarded and curious to surprised to guarded and impassive and slightly irritated in about a second. He gave her a smile, an awkward nod, waiting for her to let him in or turn him away.
She looked better than she had in the hospital, which was a relief. There was some more color in her cheeks, and she had tied her hair up in a scarf, rather reminiscent of the fifties. Natasha had always liked the thought of America then, when the economy was still good and all people wanted to do was have babies and paint pictures of happy people doing ordinary, amazingly mundane things in the high after winning yet another world war.
The hard sound of his name jerked him out of this reverie, and he blinked at her.
"Uhm, hi," he said, stalling to think of something to say. He had spent so long being pissed on the way over here that he had no idea what he had planned on actually doing once he reached her. "Feeling...feeling any better?"
"Like a champion. What do you want?"
"I wanted to say..."
That I miss you, that I'm so, so sorry that I didn't see this, that you don't deserve it, you don't deserve any of it, that I would rather take this for you, that I'm so angry at all that's happening I'm afraid of what I'll do, that I just need to see your smile, back when you were confident and didn't have cancer.
"Say, uh, sorry. I didn't mean to...bail out on you like that. I should've...should've come by sooner."
"You bet your ass," she said, but it was still flat, still unamused, still not angry, still nothing. And that was the worst thing she could give him, nothing, like she didn't care about or trust him enough to show him what she was feeling.
"Tasha, please, I—I'm having a tough time of it, too."
She looked at him a moment, eyes scanning his entire body as if looking for the barest trace of insincerity in the form of a nervous tick or pocketed hands of whatever.
Natasha stepped back, apparently finding him not guilty of anything.
Clint let out the barest sigh of relief as he walked in, glad to at least have managed the first hurdle. Who knew how many there were left.
He stood there awkwardly in the entry way, glancing around. It looked like she had begun some deep cleaning, because the place looked painfully bare of any familiar dust or stray magazine or something. Clint didn't really trust clean living quarters. It was like a giant statement by the owner that they weren't comfortable enough with where they were to let a little bit of dust collect, or that they had something to hide and were trying to make it appear perfect to deflect suspicion, or that they had insomnia and were far too anal about cleanliness to be any sort of likeable person.
"So, what've you been doing?" Natasha asked, walking past him.
"Trying not to break...everything," he said vaguely, still examining every part of the room. Natasha, though she didn't often stay in New York, made sure that her apartment always felt like some sort of home when she came back. There were photos that gave nothing of her personal life away, small figurines that were thin but sturdy and completely tasteful, black and white furniture that was elegant and simplistic. Completely Natasha. But at the same time, things were missing. It was like she was slowly skimming things away from her life, to make it a little bit easier when her things were divvied up after she died.
Clint choked at little when he realized what he had thought, because this was about the first time he put it into words.
"You?" he asked, voice thick.
"Just been...trying to stay busy. Cleaning, taking walks, actually talking to the neighbors..."
"How friendly of you. Did they nearly have a heart attack when the aloof woman from down the hall actually returned their hellos?" he asked, and she looked at him. Normally it would have held a sarcastic smile, but there was something hard and unsure in this look, like she couldn't really believe what he had said. He frowned mentally, because he hadn't thought he had said anything strange, but apparently she saw things differently.
There was another pause, of which there were just too damn many, and he searched frantically for another topic. She spoke first, though.
"Clint, what're you doing here?"
"I came to talk."
"About what, because it's certainly not happening and I don't have time to waste."
He swallowed when he heard her words. Didn't have time to waste. She was reminding him yet again that soon, she would be just a corpse and he would have failed her yet again, and—
"I'm supposed to be meeting someone for lunch, and I still have things to do," she continued, and he blinked, irritation bubbling up at the thought. Who was she meeting for lunch, who would take all that time away from her? Clearly not someone important, because she hadn't said a name and there was no chance in hell that SHIELD would put her back on duty. Wasn't there something else she could be doing, like...Clint didn't know what else, but something.
"Right. I'll, uhm, try to make it quick, then."
He bit his lip, thinking, thinking.
"Are we...okay?"
"Yeah," she said, moving towards the kitchen. He looked at her over the bar, not even bothering to let belief be an option.
"Because you sure don't look okay."
"Clint, I'm dying!" she snapped, then straightened, fear and anger all being sucked back in under the mask. He wanted to shake her and say that yes, she needed to yell, she needed to break down, she needed to show that she did care! He wouldn't be able to live with himself if she died with everyone thinking she was still the cold bitchy spy that used to be the KGB's finest.
"I'm sorry, Nat," he said softly, feeling like someone had punched him in the stomach.
"For what?" she asked, voice cold.
"For letting this happen."
"What do you mean, you let this happen?"
"I should have...I should have watched out for you more, should have known, should have done something. And now...it's too late."
"You couldn't have done anything, Clint. You can't just spot cancer and magic it away, there are procedures, messy ones, expensive ones..." She looked away, teeth clenched.
"So you're not gonna bother with chemo or surgery or anything?" he asked, and she shook her head.
"It's spread too far. At first it was totally benign, then it hit my blood stream and spread...everywhere. The doctors say I have about six months to live."
"What?!" he demanded, "You have only six freakin' months to live? Are you—"
He cut himself off, chewing his cheek to keep from shouting.
"Clint, this happens. You can't—"
"Can't what, Natasha? Can't do the decent thing and be upset that my partner is dying, or that this whole situation sucks like shit and that I'm bothered by it, or that I can't act like I have emotions when you clearly can't?"
The last words tasted awful, but the moment after he had spoken them Clint wished he could have swallowed them, rather than let them out.
She stared at him, then shook her head.
"So this is my fault?"
"Yes, no, I—dammit, I dunno. I just—if you actually showed something, maybe I—"
"Maybe this wouldn't be so awful? Because that's a lie, and you know it, Clint! I would still have cancer, I would still be dead in a few months, and you would still be alone, again! You can't blame me, you can't blame you, you can't blame anyone!"
He glared at her, so angry that he could break her everything, her body, her soul, her heart, but he couldn't. He just didn't have the power to do something so terrible. He hated himself because he was still trying.
"Well sue me for trying, Natasha. Blaming people is the human thing to do!"
"No, that's the coward's thing to do! You can't face up to the fact that there is no bad guy here, nothing to shoot and kill so you can go home afterwards and feel good about yourself. I think you've forgotten what it's like to be a normal person."
"I've forgotten? I think you're the one who's forgotten what we are, Natasha. We're not normal. We can do things no one else can, and we don't need machines or radiation or magic or whatever to get it done! We just do it, because we're humans that—"
"Yes, Clint, we're human! That's what I'm saying, we are just people. People die, that's what we do! Never have I let that fact escape me. I think you've chosen to lose a few details after becoming SHIELD's ace sharpshooter." He shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. She was just barely cracking, of course she was, just when he had completely fallen apart.
"Hell, you are so busy spending time thinking that we are perfect human beings that you've begun to think that just because we can do something special, it makes everyone else's fault when something bad happens! Admit it, when you found out, you thought 'this can't happen to us', because we don't get normal things like cancer!"
He looked away, because she was right and he hated it. He could feel her shake her head, just barely see it in his periphery, but it felt like a kick, a disgusted thing that slammed him to the ground. He hadn't fought with her like this in ages, had forgotten how her logic and low, hard voice could climb inside his skull and shoot him full of holes. It made him feel sick.
What was worse was his anger, boiling up and up and threatening to choke him.
"What, don't have anything else to say?" he asked, voice hard as possible without actually sounding upset.
"No, I'm just wondering if it's even worth it. Was it worth it, Clint? To come all the way over here and yell at me and let out a bit of your anger that you never let anyone else see? To ruin what little I have left?"
Her voice was tired, and she leaned against the counter, looking...less than she normally did, like there was suddenly less of her left to give.
"Did you come here because you actually wanted to see me or say something, or just to ease your own conscience?"
The question felt like a corpse hanging in the air between them, and he looked at her, suddenly unable to believe that she would dare go that far, like she thought he was just some mindless, heartless monster that was obligated by duty to do something.
"That make you feel any better?" he countered, walking around to bar to look at her, face to face, with nothing to hide behind. "That make you feel like you've got a bit of power left, like you haven't been stripped of everything? I've gotta admit, I'm a little impressed, Natasha. Your words used to have a little bit more sting."
He turned to walk away, upset that he had wasted so much time and energy on a woman that was determined to fight. Before he even went a step, he sensed something flying towards his right ear.
Clint instinctively ducked so that the blow just barely nicked him, then whirled, facing her. To his utter shock, she had thrown a coffee mug at him, which had shattered and sent splinters all over the kitchen. Natasha wasn't finished, as she had begun to pull back her elbow for another blow. He dodged and grabbed her arm, twisting it and shoving her away. A small part of him whispered that this was Natasha and that she would never lash out at him in normal circumstances, and that she was probably doing this out of frustration at her inability to do anything, and that he should really just stay on the defensive until she burned herself out, but another part said that he was angry. That he was so angry that he could hardly think straight and that what he really wanted was to try and beat the living day lights out of something, just so he could get it off of his chest, because clearly speaking wasn't doing the job.
In the end, Clint gave her a solid kick. Natasha deflected it, but he could tell instantly that it had still taken its toll. She grit her teeth and whirled, slinging out one of her own, again to his head, but he caught it and tried to slam his elbow down on it. Natasha slipped out of his grasp and lunged in to put him into some sort of hold, probably something to make him black out, but he ducked under her effortlessly moving past the blow. Clint grabbed her waist and slammed her into the counter, arm pressed heavily into her neck.
Natasha gasped and gagged, arm working to push him off, hand pressed against his face. He ignored it, until she managed to chop him in the throat, which made him choke and stagger back. She snapped out two blows which he managed to block, and then Clint punched her in the face. Before he had even pulled away, Natasha kneed him in the thigh, then kicked him in the jaw. Clint stumbled backwards drunkenly, blinking heavily and coughing out "Damn, Natasha..."
The blow had slammed his jaw shut, and though it thankfully didn't catch his tongue, it certainly made him see stars. Once he could see clearly, he realized that Natasha had her hands pressed to her face in an attempt to stop the blood dripping from her nose. When she saw him straighten, she dropped into another fighting stance, eyes hard and dark.
"You gonna hit me again?" he grunted, ears ringing faintly. Absolute shame was starting to mix with the anger, but not enough to quell it. He couldn't believe that he had responded so roughly to her attack, had held nothing back. But then the rough, still irate part of him pointed out that she hadn't really been holding back either.
Clint knew that this should have been very alarming by itself, but all he could manage was a dull ripple of recognition. Any more emotion packed into him and he very well might burst.
The fact was Clint could never match her in hand to hand combat, ever. They had drawn only twice and even then he suspected that she hadn't given it her all. Now her sides were heaving and from the way she had slipped into a stance that suggested she would focus more on her kicks rather than anything with her arms told him that she didn't feel at all confident in knocking him down in one blow. In fact, a kick like the one she had given him earlier should have sent him flying backwards, but as it was, his feet had barely even left the ground. Apparently her illness was taking more out of her than she wanted to admit.
Still, that didn't change the fact that he was still absolutely furious with her for striking out at him, when she knew so plainly that he wouldn't be able to hold back if she offered a fight, and furious with himself that he couldn't even hold himself together when hell started breaking loose.
Her jaw was clenched as she stood stiff, unsure. She watched him as he took a breath, trying to pull some facsimile of himself back together before hesitantly taking a step. They both waited a moment as the blood slid a little farther down her chin, dripped onto the floor, then Clint forced himself to raise a hand, relaxed and palm open. Natasha's eyes flicked from his hand to his face, trying to guess his intent. He slowly reached for her face, pausing to see if she would move, then taking hold of it and examining her nose.
"It's not broken," he said after a moment, which she scoffed at and reached behind her roughly, carelessly. A beat later she had a hand towel in her fist, and was pressing it against her face.
"You're probably not going to get that blood out," he said flatly, making her purse her lips from behind the towel, he could just tell. She wiped off the blood on her chin, pointedly shifting her eyes away.
"It doesn't matter, I can bleach it."
"That's gonna wreck the coloring."
"Then I'll have a white towel!" she snapped, eyes still down on the floor somewhere. He pressed his lips together, not trusting himself to speak again. After a moment, she let out a soft curse in Russian.
"I'm not supposed to let myself bleed," she said in explanation. "Apparently I don't have many platelets, so it's a little tougher for my blood to clot."
Clint nodded and backed away, glanced around the kitchen. He picked up a tiny bottle from her counter considering it briefly. He put it into her hand roughly, and walked past her, grunting "Put it on the spot that's bleeding. It'll be a bitch but the blood will stop."
"I'm sorry, Natasha," he said as he reached the door, pulled it open and then nearly slammed it shut.
Once outside, Clint kicked her door. It shook worryingly and he nearly broke a toe, but the door didn't give way, and his hurt didn't give way. Inside he imagined Natasha jumping at the sudden noise, pressing the towel to her nose and contemplating the bottle of black pepper he had given her. A part of him felt bad at the thought of her trying to get the pepper into her nose to keep the blood from flowing, and he knew that he really should have stuck around to help her. But he hadn't trusted himself with her, not when they were so vulnerable, so close, so absolutely volatile.
Clint sighed and pressed his forehead into her door, the inferno that had been his anger having burned into little more than ash.