"Don't get up," Carter announced as she emerged from the bedroom, " he's still sleeping."
Since they had finished up in the bedroom some time earlier, the two women had retired to the living room and given Clint some space to rest without disturbance. The time that had passed had also given Natasha time to come to terms with just how ill her lover had been. "Is he any better?" she asked, looking up from the book that was cradled in her palms. She had read the same page three times and still had no idea what it was about. Setting the book down on the side table at her elbow, she looked up to their medic, their friend, in search of answers.
"He's stable," Emma replied, "all we can do is keep an eye on him for the time being. The sedation will keep him calm so that he doesn't tear the wound tract by moving around too much."
Natasha tried not to think back to the way that he had looked as the doctor worked on him, how he had barely even moved though his entire body trembled with pain. The grip of his hand on hers had been strong enough that she'd had to swallow down her own pain but she had done so without hesitation, restricting his movement and reminding him that she was there. She tried not to remember the strain in his voice as he informed her that he hadn't had nearly enough pain relief for what Carter was doing to him.
Nodding, she uncurled her limbs, rose from the chair and climbed to her feet. Emma had announced shortly after arriving that she would not be boarding her scheduled flight back to New York that evening and Natasha was glad of the company, particularly since the woman's unflappable calm was the perfect counterpoint to the waves of anxiety that kept rising in her. It had been a long afternoon and she was sure that it would be an even longer night.
She fixed dinner for them, the familiar actions soothing her and slowing the racing of her thoughts. It was fortunate that she had paid attention when Clint cooked, since their arrival at the cabin she had learned several new recipes, including the stew that she had chosen to make for them that night.
"You know I never thought that I'd see you so at home in a kitchen," Emma remarked from the doorway, "especially since you once told me that you couldn't cook to save your life."
"Not true," Natasha countered automatically, a smile on her face. "I told you that I could cook spaghetti."
"Spaghetti huh?" Carter looked pointedly at the pot that simmered on the stove and the various chopping boards and vegetable peelings that were spread across the counter.
Natasha chuckled, "I've had time on my hands, it's fair to say that I've expanded my repertoire."
They ate together at the pine table in the kitchen and they talked as equals. Natasha learned that Emma had been a trauma surgeon at a major New York hospital before she joined SHIELD and that she had two brothers who were extremely overprotective. They talked about what Clint and Natasha had been doing since their departure from base, about how they had come to be partners in the first place, and in an enormous leap of faith she opened up about what had happened in New Mexico. Neither of them mentioned the obvious elephant in the room and brought up the relationship between herself and Clint.
While the doctor cleared up after dinner, at her own insistence, Natasha visited her partner briefly. There was a chair pulled up close to the side of the bed where Carter had sat while she had painstakingly cleaned the wound in his side and she sank into it gratefully. The infection had been so much worse than Natasha had imagined and it had taken them over an hour to reopen and clean it thoroughly. If not for her decision to call in the doctor it was likely that sepsis would have set in. The phone call that she had made had probably saved his life.
"He's still sleeping?" Emma appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel. No matter what she had thought about all the doctors she had crossed paths with in the past, she couldn't imagine feeling anything but reassured under the weight of that brown eyed gaze. Emma was focussed on saving Clint and she would do everything in her power to do it.
Nodding, Natasha turned her attention back to the figure on the bed, "I'm not used to seeing him like this." A hand landed on her shoulder, offering reassurance without words and she accepted that touch and its sentiment without resistance. "He was the strong one when I was suffering, I never appreciated how difficult must have been for him."
"We do what we do without regret for those we love," Emma acknowledged. She moved around Natasha's chair to the bedside and paused at Clint's side her eyes roaming over the chest of the man in front of them, the gaze all about medical assessment. There was an ownership in the other woman's gaze, a possessive gleam that Natasha had seen when she had been under her care in the infirmary. With steady, professional hands, she peeled the dressing away from his abdomen, carefully removing the adhesive tape that held it in place.
The wound was still open, packed with gauze that could be easily changed without disturbing him too much, the surrounding area still red and angry looking. Removing the infected tissue hadn't been easy but the antibiotics were helping to support his immune system and the sedation was keeping him calm. A bag of fluids hung from a picture hook above the bed and delivered medicine directly into his vein via a needle at his elbow. He was calm though and his colour was good.
"Wound looks better," the doctor announced, replacing the dressing with efficient motions. "We might be able to stitch him back up tomorrow if we make that trip to the pharmacy so that I can collect supplies."
Though she didn't like the idea of leaving him for even a second without someone close by, Emma had explained that there were certain specific supplies that she would need to help him recover, but that they were only available to medical personnel. In order to get hold of what she needed, she would have to accompany Natasha into town and show her credentials to the pharmacist.
It wasn't until Emma left the room and retreated to the living room, pulling the door half-shut behind her, that Natasha really allowed herself to look at him. Though he was still sleeping, his skin flushed and damp with perspiration, his expression didn't communicate discomfort. Body stretched out atop the mattress and covered by only a pair of boxers and a thin sheet, he was still apart from the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. She reached out a hand and laid her palm over his heart, finding the steady beating reassuring in the silence of the room. She had always loved the rhythm of his heartbeat, whether it was against her ear or beneath her fingertips it was her favourite lullaby, more soothing than any symphony ever recorded.
His eyes didn't open but he turned his face toward her own as if he registered her presence on some level. Her boy was still in there, still aware of what was happening around him. Though his strength was now directed toward the battle that was raging within him, he was still within reach.
"Yeah it's me," she told him quietly, "I'm still here." She had no idea how long she lingered at his side, her hand resting over his heart, eyes on his face, but when she left his side dusk was already falling.