Okay. I had no intention of continuing this beyond the first chapter, but then I was attacked by an onslaught of Clintasha feels and the plot bunnies wouldn't leave me alone. So. Here's to hoping I'll finish this one, since I only have the full plot half-formed so far. Also please keep in mind that I know VERY LITTLE of the comic canon. Some characters and situations that I'm introducing are going to be more my own invention and based on the comics, rather than actually spending endless hours researching comic canon while I should be doing homework or NaNoWriMo. thanks in advance for your patience, and enjoy!

Natasha's sleep for the next two hours was fitful at best, punctuated by bad dreams she thought she was finished with years ago, before SHIELD, before Clint, even before the Winter Soldier. Her rest smelled like smoke and gunpowder and barely stifled screams, cold antiseptic, after, back in the Red Room, the copper of her blood as they sliced her open, the chemical tang of dry ice in cryo where Winter would sleep in a few short years. The Red Room took the term "cool-down period" very seriously.

She woke with her face shoved into the hollow of Clint's neck and chest. They were both sweaty and he held her tight. It had to be uncomfortable, but he didn't mention it and didn't move until she was ready. And she made herself so, quickly, because she'd been bleeding so much more than a normal period and already there were stains on the sheets. Clint took care of it while she was in the bathroom. They didn't talk on the way to the rendezvous point, just walked and occasionally brushed hands in the dark of morning.

Of course Coulson knew something was up the moment they got into the SUV. Nothing could ever get past him. "Who broke what, and how much do I owe the hotel?" he asked in lieu of greeting.

"A mattress, set of sheets, deep-cleansing the carpet, and possibly therapy for the cleaning staff," Natasha listed before Clint could try lying for them. It never worked and Coulson would have to know at some point anyway.

When several long moments yawned out and neither of them offered any further details, their keeper shook his head. "Okay, whatever, don't tell me. But you know that if something's up Fury's going to be breathing down your necks." She laid across the back seat and pillowed her head on Clint's thigh. Within seconds his hand was in her hair and Coulson was back to pretending they didn't exist with the air of an exasperated father looking after his unruly children.

"Do you want to talk to him together?" Clint whispered.

Natasha shook her head. "You do it."

She left them on the Helicarrier to wait outside the Infirmary. There was only one agent in all of SHIELD who knew her altered physiology to the point of being able to recite it in her sleep, and she wasn't on board. Natasha was more than willing to wait until Agent Carter could be reached at home, though, rather than going through the whole tedious process again. There wasn't any urgency, other than the frankly alarming amount of blood saturating her sanitary napkin. Clint brought her juice after an hour or so, to keep her from getting woozy. "You should eat something."

"I'm fine, Clint, I don't need to be b-"

The words died in her throat.

"Suit yourself," Clint said, his expression clouding over. His fingertips barely brushed her shoulder as he passed to go.

Coulson stepped by about half an hour later, looking troubled and thoughtful. When he saw her he offered up a small smile; she glowered. The last thing she needed was for her handler to start treating her like some delicate little princess just because of some stupid incident in the middle of the night. He ignored her sour and pleading looks, sitting in the chair beside hers. They both stared straight ahead. "I'm fine," she ground out through gritted teeth.

"Are you?" he instantly replied. His voice betrayed nothing but mild curiosity. "Because from what Barton said-"

"Barton's overreacting."

"In all the years we've known you, even after Geneva, Barton says he's never seen you cry. Not like that."

Taking a deep breath, Natasha thought over the years and realized that Clint was right. She hadn't lost control to hysteria like that in over fifty years. Looking down at her hands, so neatly folded in her lap like small white spiders, she didn't speak again even when Coulson got up to leave her.

Agent Carter finally got there an hour later, looking harried with her blonde hair askew. "This better be good, Agent Romanov, I was at my kid's birthday party. An apartment full of four-year-olds hopped up on sugar, joy of joys, right? You're just lucky my mom and grandma were around or I'd have had to bring the party with me, hah! Can you imagine Fury's face? Okay, okay, come in, I don't have all day, tell me what you've done to maim yourself this time," she said breathlessly.

Once she was changed into a scratchy paper gown, with her usual detached aplomb, Natasha explained. Carter, for her part, didn't offer any soft words or prying questions; she just set up the privacy curtain and walked briskly across the infirmary to get the necessary equipment. Natasha laid back, put her feet in the stirrups when instructed, and stared intently at the ceiling while Carter worked. She'd been poked, prodded, probed, and peeled open enough times not to outwardly react to yet another invasive procedure.

"Well, at least it was a complete miscarriage," Carter announced after the transvaginal exam and ultrasound. "There aren't any large pieces of tissue visible and your cervix is completely closed. You could be bleeding and uncomfortable for up to twenty days, though, so I want you off field work and taking it easy for six weeks, okay?"

Natasha sat up. "Unacceptable. You know I heal faster than that. Three weeks," she scowled.

Carter crossed her arms. "I would tell someone who healed slower eight. Six."

"Two."

"Five."

"Three."

"I won't settle for less than four, Agent Romanov."

"Why would I need to take it easy if I'm not even bleeding?"

"Because your body's still going to be healing itself, idiot," Carter snapped. "Four weeks."

"Three and a half."

They stared one another down for a long, tense moment, before finally shaking hands. "Pleasure doing business with you, Agent."

"Sharon."

While Carter got her ride back ashore - the Helicarrier wasn't actually in the air today - Natasha went to her on-board quarters to gather anything she might need that wasn't already in her apartment. There wasn't much, but she didn't want to ride back with Carter. It would open up the possibility for all sorts of awkward and uncomfortable questions that Natasha was not in the mood to answer. As it were, she left a note for Coulson telling him that she wouldn't be able to go to Vancouver, and that Clint would just have to make due or find another agent to go with him. He would be back in a week and would have hopefully forgotten about their agreement to talk.

Her apartment building was quiet and freezing cold when she arrived. The heating was broken again and the landlord was an 84-year-old Italian who didn't know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. He thought she was Italian too, since they never spoke English to one another and her name was still Natalia when she moved in years ago. Without bothering to go up to her apartment first she talked her way in and fixed the heating herself. Giuseppe promised her some of his daughter's "famous" cannoli when she visited next. Sometimes he forgot that his poor daughter died several years ago.

Once that was cleared up she waded through the junk mail stacked inside her apartment door, changed her pad and into pajamas, and slept until early afternoon.

She woke up screaming with the sensation of choking on velvety flower petals deep in her throat, her back arching up off the bed as she fought for breath. There was something wrong, something missing, something encroaching between her legs and she scrabbled in the empty sheets to try to find the ghost of whatever it was she had lost so long ago. There was no one knocking on her door to make sure she was alright; the neighbors didn't dare approach the fiercely asocial Italian woman who never seemed to be home and always brought trouble when she was.

Natasha didn't mind. She liked the solitude, and when her episode was over she took a long shower to calm down. It wasn't a dream, because she couldn't dream, but it was a memory.

The job in Vancouver lasted longer than intended; Coulson kept her informed of the proceedings when the Hydra contact went missing. Trapped in her apartment for over a week, Natasha itched to feel useful. It wasn't any more downtime than the typical post-mission break, but the time alone with her thoughts had made it feel like it stretched on forever.

"Try the theater," she suggested. It was raining outside and she had her forehead pressed against the window to watch people run for shelter in the streets. "You'll find him there."

"You think?" asked Coulson, seated on her sofa.

She nodded. "It's like the report said. He's an avid theatergoer, went backstage more than once, sometimes rented the place out just for personal get-togethers. You'll find him there, either squatting or hanging in the attic. Hydra was after him and people like to die in places they know. Like dogs." Thunder rolled off in the distance.

"I'll have Barton and Sterling look into it. Thanks for the input."

What did it feel like, to be in the womb of another? Could one feel the rain or hear thunder? Did she? Did any of them? Natasha's fingers tapped a staccato beat against the glass as she bit her lip and pondered. She didn't flinch when Coulson's hands closed carefully over her shoulders, she'd heard him coming a mile off, but allowed herself to be steered to sit on the couch. Her hands folded themselves neatly in her lap, even though inside she was shaking right out of her senses.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Coulson asked somewhere to her left.

Staring down at her hands, she shook her head. "What is there to talk about? I miscarried a baby that I didn't need or want. It wasn't even a baby. It was a theoretical baby. An embryo. A two-centimeters-long lump of nothing. Whatever. I'm fine. There's nothing to talk about." Her voice was dull and flat and very carefully neutral, because she could feel Coulson's watchful eye boring into her and the last thing she needed was a SHIELD-ordained psych evaluation.

There was a whisper of Coulson's suit brushing against the sofa cushion as he shifted. "Two centimeters?" His voice was mild, curious, and Natasha took comfort in the fact that he rarely ever spoke in more than a few clipped sentences at a time. It was easier to detach when he didn't go on and on.

"I Googled it. It was about nine weeks."

"You...Googled it."

On a library computer, because she knew that SHIELD monitored all agents' laptops. She nodded. "Wouldn't you want to know, if it had come out of you?" she retorted. "If you were going crazy locked up in your apartment and dying to feel like you were actually doing something productive with your time?" There was another loud clap of thunder; someone outside yelled for their friend. Natasha stretched along the length of the couch and pillowed her head against Phil's side. He scratched her scalp with his well-trimmed fingernails. "I need work."

His hand faltered and paused. "Natasha, you know that Agent Carter said-"

"I know. I don't mean a whole mission. Just recon, anything to keep my mind occupied. Please?"

"Have you considered that thinking it over and coming to peace with what happened might be better for you?" Coulson pointed out, but his hand resumed scratching as though she were a cat. She could feel him thinking and didn't reply. After a few minutes he sighed. "Okay, I have an idea. It should be right down your alley."

Four days later she was in Tony Stark's home, getting an impromptu boxing lesson from Happy Hogan. He was an idiot and a flirt, but not a threat. Definitely not a threat, but she knew what had to be done to catch Stark's attention, so she wrapped her legs around Hogan's neck and brought him down. Pain screamed through her center but she didn't let it show. Even when she got up and could feel blood slowly streaming down her legs. If she were anything, it was a professional. She got what she needed from Stark, planted the right ideas in his mind, and got the hell out as quickly as she could.

In the first bathroom she could find she stripped from the waist down and started scrubbing at the mucky mess drying on her legs, trying not to let herself panic or get hysterical over how quickly this job was spinning out of her control. Even if it really wasn't, even if everything was fine, Natasha couldn't dismiss the feeling of failure chewing away at her gut. A few times her face crumpled, but she didn't weep. There was no reason to. Things were going well, Stark was playing into her hands already, but if Natasha couldn't even control her own body then how could she possibly hope to control anything else?

The bathroom door opened with a creak and someone gasped. "Oh my god!" Potts yelped, and dove out into the hall again. Natasha froze, waiting for everything to go to hell. "Miss Rushman, are you alright?"

Swallowing, Natasha shook herself and went back to cleaning herself up in the sink. Something clicked into place in her chest and she took a deep breath. There was only one way to get close enough to Stark, and that was through Potts. And if Potts didn't like her or thought she was crazy, there was no way this could work. "I-I'm fine," Natalie called back, putting a tremor in her voice. "I'm just...um...could you...come in here, please?"

"Do you need help?"

Natasha allowed a little hiccup of a sob to slip through Natatlie's teeth. "Y-yes."

The door opened again and Potts stepped through, completely composed. "What can I do for you, Miss Rushman?" she asked calmly. Before Natalie could reply, Potts stepped to the dispenser in the wall and pulled out a pad. Natalie took it in shaking hands and practically hugged it to her chest. "I'm sorry about the men. They're idiots, but they mean well."

"O-oh, it's not them, Miss Potts, but thank you," Natalie stammered, her composure slowly crumbling. She sobbed again, quickly covering her mouth as if it were the most mortifying thing that could ever happen. "I'm so sorry, it's just...I-I had a miscarriage. About two weeks ago. I'm fine, really, I'm okay, just..."

Potts' face slackened and softened. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry Natalie. Do you want me to call legal? You should just head home for the rest of the day, it'll be fine, I'll take care of everyth-"

Natalie shook her head, eyes wide and red with innocent horror. "Oh, no, Miss Potts, please! I'd really like to stay. I'm fine, honestly. I...I live alone, and I don't want to...I just want to feel useful. That's why I-I was so happy when I was sent to see Mister Stark today, I feel so helpless and-and horrible, and being able to help you and Mister Stark just makes me feel so much better," she explained, trailing off a little weakly at the end.

Within moments she knew she had the job she needed. Potts had never had a miscarriage, but she knew what it felt like to be helpless and crave to be useful again after a disaster. Natasha had read her file.

"I'll see what I can do," nodded Potts, and left Natalie to clean herself up.

From that moment on, everything went to hell in a hand basket faster than even Natasha could keep up with. Stark was an idiot with a death wish, Hogan a flirt, Potts surprisingly competent, and Justin Hammer another idiot with a power complex. It hit her halfway through Hammer's facility that Coulson and Carter were going to be furious with her - this was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance and analysis, and there she was fighting - but she couldn't bring herself to care. The adrenaline in her veins had finally given her a clear head. She could fight. She could survive. She had survived so much worse and this was child's play.

Even if, once everything was said and done, her adrenaline wouldn't stop, her heart wouldn't slow, and everything went dark.