Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers. The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
Okay so FF was giving me a hard time yesterday and not wanting to let me edit docs. On top of that, I forgot my charger for my laptop back in Texas and my replacement won't be here until tomorrow. SO. I apologize for not thanking everyone that reviewed and for not answering questions quite yet. But I only have 10% battery left and getting this posted was the priority! That being said, tomorrow's update might come later than normal because I have to wait for my charger cord to arrive so I can use my laptop *rolls eyes at self*
I'll do shoutouts for the song title guesses tomorrow too! I promise I haven't forgotten those of you that have guessed!
You can guess the song up until I tell you what it is in the final chapter!
A million thanks to my betas Kylen and JRBarton for everything they do for me :) And finally the idea to have the council be the reason for their delay yesterday was Kylen's idea, she suggested it and I ran with it. :)
Onward!
Last time in The Untold Stories:
"I shall return him to SHIELD and see him contained."
Then, without giving any of them a chance to argue, Thor frog marched his brother towards the broken windows, twirling his hammer as he prepared to take flight.
Stark turned and yelled after him a moment before he leapt from the window.
"Meet us at shawarma!"
Then Thor was gone and Stark turned back to face the rest of them, clapping his hands together.
"Shall we?"
No one won the last war, and no one will win the next war.
Eleanor Roosevelt
April 13, 2012
12:30 p.m.
Shawarma
Natasha chewed mechanically, listening to the silence around the table. Everyone was eating their shawarma quietly, too exhausted to make conversation.
Well, everyone was eating except Steve and Clint.
Steve, she was fairly certain, just wasn't all that fond of the food. His All-American tastebuds just weren't up to experimentation at the moment.
And Clint…for someone who hadn't eaten in days, food didn't seem to interest him much at all. He just sat, left foot propped behind her on her chair and his basket of food in his lap. But he was really just picking it apart, eyes distant and focused on nothing in particular.
Every now and then he would tense inexplicably and his gaze would focus. He'd shift a sharp look at her and then relax again. Whatever comfort her presence was providing, she was glad to provide it.
Clearing his throat and lifting his head from where it rested on his fist, Rogers spoke up.
"We should all take some time. Take care of your injuries, take a breath." His gaze settled on Clint then and then shifted to Stark.
"I would like to return Loki to Asgard as soon as possible," Thor spoke up, his rumbling voice drawing even Clint's attention. Though, Natasha thought that may have had more to do with Loki's name being spoken.
Steve nodded.
"Probably best."
"Anybody else get a vote?" Stark spoke up. "How can we be certain Goldilocks here will hand out proper justice? The son of a bitch is his brother."
Thor leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
"I can assure you, Loki's crimes will not go unpunished. He will meet justice on Asgard." Thor's gaze shifted to rest on Clint, who just stared back tiredly. "For all that he has done."
Natasha chewed the inside of her lip, hoping that was enough for Clint. She didn't think it would be, not once he knew the truth.
"Does SHIELD have him properly contained?" Rogers asked and Thor nodded.
"I ensured it before I left him in their care."
Rogers nodded curtly.
"Then take a few hours, everybody. We'll meet back at say," he glanced around for a clock, but found none. "What time is it anyway?"
Stark, never without a piece of technology, produced a phone from somewhere on his person.
"12:33."
Steve nodded.
"We meet back at 3." He glanced around the table. "Central Park sound like as good a place as any?"
Banner was the only one who agreed verbally, but she nodded, glancing at Clint. He was looking down at his food again, tuning out.
When she looked back at Rogers, he was watching Clint too. His gaze shifted to hers and she could only describe his expression as sympathetic. He sighed suddenly and looked around.
"I'm done, anybody else?" he questioned tiredly.
He got a chorus of affirmations and suddenly they were all in motion.
Natasha turned to face Clint. He hadn't moved. She reached and pulled his basket of food off his lap, tossing it on the table. He flinched very subtly, but the small reaction spoke to his distraction. He raised his gaze to hers in question.
"Ready to get out of here?" she asked quietly.
He only nodded and wearily pulled his foot from where it rested on her chair.
She didn't offer to help him when he stood and wavered, not with the rest of the team there. She let him catch himself on the edge of the table, and just stood silently at his side.
"You good, Barton?" Rogers asked carefully as he rounded the table towards them.
"'M fine."
The usual lie was even less believable than normal, but Natasha supposed she couldn't expect anything else. Rogers was looking more concerned by the second.
"I got him," she assured, shifting a step closer to Clint, placing herself between the Captain and her partner. It was irrational, sure, but the urge to protect him was overwhelming right now. Even if it was just protecting his pride.
Rogers nodded slowly and continued around the table, joining Stark, Banner, and Thor in heading for the door. Natasha returned her attention to Clint.
"Can you walk out of here?"
He nodded sharply and drew in a deep breath. Then he pushed off the table and straightened. She moved his chair out of the way and fell into step next to him as he limped towards the door.
The farewells in the street were brief, everyone having their own wounds to lick.
As soon as they were alone, Natasha started looking for a car to steal. Walking to Brooklyn was out of the question on a normal day, and today she wasn't sure Clint could manage walking ten more yards.
It didn't take long to find a suitable abandoned car to hotwire. She didn't even have to break in. The door was just hanging open. It was a hard-topped Jeep 4x4 and would handle the chaotic terrain better than all the sedans they'd passed. She nudged Clint around to the passenger side and pulled the door open.
He let her help him climb in with a lethargic kind of compliance, but stopped her from shutting the door for him.
"I got it," he assured quietly, wrapping his hand around the handle.
Natasha nodded and moved around to the driver's side. She heard the door shut with a slam and climbed into the driver's seat.
"Keys are in it," Clint informed her when she pulled her own door closed.
Small mercies. She hated hotwiring cars. She always cut her fingers. Though cut finger tips would have been the least of her worries on a day like today.
She cranked the engine and put her foot on the gas.
She navigated her way through the worst of the damage easily and quickly. Clint may be better on a motorcycle than her, but she was easily his equal in a car. It made getting through the city to the bridge easy enough.
It was strange. The Brooklyn Bridge was completely abandoned. She'd never seen it like that. Untouched by the chaos that had enveloped Manhattan, it stood empty like a lonely mountain.
She floored the accelerator, eating up the distance across the bridge in seconds.
They abandoned the Jeep a couple blocks from their safe house – it was off even SHIELD's books and they wanted to keep it that way – and made the rest of the way slowly on foot. They stuck to back alleys and side streets, not wanting the attention their attire and haggard appearance would attract.
Natasha supported him now, since there was no one but the shadows to see them. He had an arm wrapped around her shoulders and another braced against his ribs. He kept his head down, his usual vigilance fading in the way of exhaustion. She was honestly just relieved that beyond an initial flinch, he showed no consistent sign of whatever dark thoughts haunted him. But even so, she'd felt him tense and nearly pull away more than once. All she could do was tighten her hold and hope it was enough to keep him grounded.
Their safe house was comprised of the top floor of a narrow building above a 24-hour pizza place. Six flights of stairs to conquer and no elevator.
They paused at the base of the stairwell, both looking up at it tiredly.
"Whose idea was it to get a sixth-floor walkup?" Clint asked even as he started forward, prompting Natasha to move with him.
"Yours," she answered bluntly with a mockingly accusing note to her voice.
Clint huffed.
"Seemed like a good idea at the time." He clenched his jaw against some hidden pain and then went on. "Not so much now."
"I wanted the one with the elevator…but no," she teased gently as they rounded the landing on the second floor and started up the second flight, "you wanted the one with roof access and 24-hour pizza."
"Quick exits are important and pizza is practically its own food group," he defended, his right hand reaching out to grip the rickety railing, using it as extra leverage to propel himself forward. Natasha did her best to do the same from his left.
"I think you called the stairs good cardio too," Natasha added.
"Like either of us need extra cardio." He leaned more heavily on her as they rounded the next landing until the next rail was in reach. Then it was back to pulling himself up a step and sliding his hand up. Repeat.
"I think I mentioned all the other ways we can get cardio without having to walk up six flights of stairs," Natasha went on, mostly just to distract him.
Clint grinned.
"You mentioned sex on that list…repeatedly."
Natasha smirked and hauled him around the next landing.
"Did not." But she had. She'd been pulling out all the stops to convince him to get the other apartment they'd been looking at. Somehow she'd still lost.
"I counted six."
Natasha laughed outright.
"You counted?"
"Sex is very important to me."
Natasha chuckled and had to pull him a little more to get him off the last step and onto the fifth floor landing. His steps lost a little coordination as they rounded the last landing and when he wrapped his hand around the next railing, he made no effort to pull himself forward.
"I'm so goddamned tired, Tasha…"
"I know you are, мой ястреб, we're almost there," she promised.
She shifted her grip on him, trying to jostle some energy back into him.
His arm tightened momentarily around her shoulder and then lifted his head, finally starting forward.
She had to give him credit. He made it all the way up the stairs and to their door. He even managed to stay upright when she propped him against the wall so she could dig her key out of her boot – she always kept it on her when she was in the city, just in case. She had the same habit in every other city they kept safe houses in.
Four locks and a keypad entry later, she was pushing the door open.
She pulled his arm back over her shoulder and helped him into the entry way. He pushed himself away from her once they were inside, reaching to the wall for support. The action freed her to turn and re-engage all the locks and key in the security code.
Paranoia was an engrained attribute neither of them were likely to shake anytime soon.
The locks done, she turned to face him. He was leaning pathetically against the wall, braced on his shoulder. His head had dipped sideways, allowing his forehead to rest against the drywall. His arm closest to the wall was hanging limply, but he had his other bent, fingers pressed into the smooth surface of the paint as if the touch alone was keeping him from toppling over.
"You need to sleep," she stated bluntly.
"We have to be at the park in less than two hours," he offered by way of response. "I go down now, I'm not getting up for a while. Better just to keep moving forward."
It would have been a more compelling argument if he'd bothered to lift his head from the wall.
"Can you?" she asked seriously.
He rolled backwards until both his shoulder blades were pressed against the wall and then a moment later put what seemed like monumental effort into pulling his head forward to meet her eyes.
"I have to."
She nodded and sighed. She got it, God help her. He needed to be there to watch Loki leave for good. She understood. But damn it, it didn't make it any easier to watch him stand there and suffer in silence. He was hurt and exhausted, having been through God knows what over the last two and a half days. And he didn't even know the worst of it yet.
"You know what I want?" he said suddenly, his head having dropped back against the wall again.
"A stiff drink?" she wondered idly, though she knew that wasn't the answer. She could use one though. She glanced towards the kitchen, wondering if she had a bottle of Vodka somewhere. His lips quirked in vague amusement.
"A shower," he corrected. He pulled his head forward again and met her gaze. "A very hot shower."
She smiled.
"That we can make happen. Come on."
She moved to his side, relieved when he wrapped his arm around her shoulder willingly. The effect of Loki's manipulation concerning her seemed to be losing its hold. Or maybe he was just forgetting it, like he'd forgotten the rest of his time with Loki and the attack on the carrier. And that was a mercy, in her opinion.
Their apartment was fairly large and open, the only real walls being the ones that encased the bathroom. Their bed sat on the same end of the room as the bathroom, and the opposite end of the apartment housed the kitchen and living area. Between the two was an open space with a sparring mat on the floor and double doors that led to a balcony. That balcony had a ladder to the roof – Clint's main reason for wanting the place.
When they made it to the bathroom, she propped him against the counter and moved to the walk-in shower, flipping on the water and turning it to his favorite temperature – just a shade below scalding hot. She left the water to heat and turned back to him in time to see he'd unzipped the front of his uniform top and was slowly trying to ease his way out of it.
He had his hip propped against the counter to stay upright. Judging by the fresh sweat she could see on his face, the tense set of his jaw, and the tightness around his eyes, trying to get the top off was proving more taxing than it should have been.
She moved closer without asking – making sure he saw her – and reached for the edge of the uniform, carefully helping him guide his right arm through and to freedom. One arm now free, he hunched forward, bracing his right hand on the counter and biting back a groan as Natasha shifted the uniform off his back and moved to his other side to slide it off his left arm.
She didn't see the glass until after she'd tossed the uniform top out the bathroom door and turned back to him.
"Jesus, Clint!" She flipped on the bathroom light – previously left off in deference to his concussion – and leaned to inspect the various shards imbedded in his lower back. "Why didn't you say something?" Even as he responded, her eyes drifted up to the numerous bruises spread across his shoulders and the rest of his back, some fresh, some older.
"And do what? Strip down in the streets so you could play doctor? Nothing you could have done before now."
"I could have known," she shot back sharply as she dropped to a crouch and dug into the cabinet under the sink for their large, well-stocked first aid kit. She found a pair of tweezers easily enough and stood. Clint was still hunched awkwardly over the counter, his left hand braced in an effort to stay upright and his right pressing against the skin over his ribs – which she could see now was already painted in blotchy blues and purples. She'd pushed it to the side of her mind to deal with later.
"I've gotta get this glass out."
He grunted something that sounded vaguely like acknowledgement but didn't lift his head from where his chin was resting against his chest. He seemed to be preoccupied taking slow, even breaths and trying to contain whatever pain he was in.
Natasha clenched her jaw, drew in a deep breath and went after the glass. She didn't pause when he drew in a sharp breath as she pulled out the first shard. She resolutely kept working when the hand on his ribs shifted to the counter and wrapped around the edge so tightly his entire hand was turning white.
By the time she was done, her jaw hurt from clenching it so hard. She slid the tweezers onto the counter and drew her hand away from them as if they were a venomous snake preparing to strike. She hated this part, hated seeing firsthand the abuse his body often took, hated even more causing additional pain in an attempt to help.
She raised her eyes to take in what little bit of his face she could see. His head was still bowed and she could barely see his right eye and eyebrow over his shoulder. His eyes were closed. She could see his shoulders rising and falling with forcibly even breaths.
Suffering in silence. That was one of Clint's go-to moves. Like pain was a weakness. Like showing it to anybody made him worth less somehow. She didn't know where he'd learned that lesson. But she knew where she had – the Red Room had made sure she knew it well.
But she'd also learned – had been taught by Clint himself – that some people didn't count as just 'anybody.' That he would never see her pain as a weakness. That he would never use it against her. That she had at least one person she never had to hide anything from.
She never seemed to remember that on her own though. He always had to remind her.
And she would always remind him that door swung both ways.
She carefully rested her hands on the bare skin of his back. He flinched, but didn't draw away. Gently, she ran her hands down along his side, feeling for breaks in his ribs even as she moved around to stand in front of him.
Definite breaks, several of them.
His eyes were still closed, his jaw tightly clenched. His nose flared as he breathed, controlling the pain, channeling it into something else – stubbornness, no doubt. He was angled slightly towards the counter, both hands currently being employed to keep his torso upright.
He was pale, paler than he'd been even an hour ago. It made the bruises stand out even darker against his skin. As she watched him, she saw a subtle tremble had settled in. It was nothing extreme or overtly obvious, but it was there.
Maybe it was the strain of trying to keep up the front. Maybe everything that had happened in the last few days was just piling on too heavily. Whatever its cause, that tremble made her chest clench.
"Clint…" she called quietly, shifting her left hand up to his shoulder. "It's just me here."
When he turned his face slightly away from her, stubborn as usual, she moved her other hand to frame his jaw, gently pulling his face back towards her.
"You don't have to hide it," she told him softly. She felt the muscle in his jaw flex, but he didn't fight her when she continued to turn him. Using her hand on his face and the other on his shoulder, she eased his body around to face her instead of the counter.
He was forced to release his iron grip on the counter with his right hand, but she just directed his hand to her shoulder, telling him without words that he could use her as support, that she wouldn't let him fall. His hand slid across her shoulder until his elbow was braced there instead and his forearm was bent across the back of her neck.
She drew his head forward until their foreheads touched and then went still, her hand still framing his jaw. For several moments they stood in silence, steam slowly filling the air around them. Natasha stayed still – but for her thumb slowly brushing back and forth on the skin in front of his ear – and watched his face as best she could from her close proximity.
He was working to embrace the pain now, instead of conceal it. She could see more tense lines appearing around his eyes and mouth in response. His arm across the back of her neck tensed and tightened, jerking her half a step closer.
Acknowledging pain was counterproductive in many circumstances. They lived their lives in the heat of battle. You couldn't focus on the bullet in your ribs or your busted knee when you were fighting for survival. But in the quiet moments after, ignoring the pain became dangerous. Hiding it from those that could help became a liability. But it was a habit, as ingrained as brushing your teeth before bed or which shoe you put on first. Habits didn't switch themselves off, you had to force yourself to break from those patterns.
He was doing that now. And at the same time, she knew he'd be cataloguing his injuries and determining their severity the best he could. The trembling had increased and a low groan was rising from somewhere in his chest. His breathing had sped up to a pant and she could feel his brow furrowing against hers.
Finally, several minutes later, he started to relax again.
"Anything I can't handle?" she asked after his breathing started to even out once more.
He started to speak, only to have to pause and clear his throat before he tried again. But when he did, his voice sounded rough and worn.
"Busted ribs, but breathing's fine. Nothing to be done about the concussion. Did something to my leg, but doesn't feel serious. Other than that…" he shrugged slightly. "The glass…cuts, bruises…my back feels like somebody took a baseball bat to it."
"Yeah, well, it looked like it, too. The shower will loosen it up."
"Hmmmm," he hummed. "Shower sounds nice."
"Then let's make it happen. Ready to work on the rest of the uniform?"
He nodded against her forehead and she pulled back, reaching to flip down the lid of the toilet. He shuffled himself along the edge of the counter and sank down onto the lid with a groan.
Natasha crouched, going after his boot laces. The right one came off easily enough. With his hands braced on her shoulders, he even helped pull his foot free. The left, however, had him tightening his hands and staying her movements after the first tug.
"What is it?" she asked, snapping her eyes up to his.
Sweat had broken out on his forehead, but she wondered if that was more from the steam than anything else.
"Gotta go looser," he was panting again, "I can't…there's no give."
She dutifully worked on the laces again, loosening them as far as possible and spreading the edges of the boot as much as she could. She glanced up at him in question before trying to remove the boot again. He nodded, jaw clenched.
She pulled. The sound he emitted was halfway between a snarl of anger and groan of pain, but after a joint effort, she got the boot off the swollen ankle and foot.
"You sure this isn't broken? Nothing torn?" she asked as she peeled his sock away and examined the joint. It was nothing but a puffy bruise. It looked painful. How he'd been walking on it as beyond her.
"Nah…just been aggravating it."
She nodded, taking him at his word for now. He tended to understate injuries, though, so she made a mental note to keep an eye on it.
She unstrapped his arm guard next and pulled off his shooting glove, tossing them both on the counter.
"All right," she stood, "up."
Obediently, he braced one hand on the counter and let her pull with the other. He was standing a moment later. She reached back to the two sheaths he always kept tucked into the back of his pants. A moment later she had two knives in her hands.
Without meaning to, she was back on the carrier, watching him pull one on her – the one she'd given him.
She blinked away the memory, hoping he hadn't caught on. A glance up at his face showed him to be staring at something over her right shoulder, gaze distant. Not entirely comforted by him being lost in his own mind, she purposefully nudged him as she leaned to put the knives on the counter. When she looked back at him, his attention was on her again.
The smirk that quirked up the corner of his mouth when she started working on his belt, felt like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. It was so genuine and so Clint.
She knew what he was thinking even if he didn't have the energy to say it.
"You know, when I imagined getting you out of these pants, this isn't quite what I had in mind," she said for him.
Her comment drew an honest to God smile.
"You imagined getting me out of these pants?"
She smirked and slid them down over his hips, leaning in momentarily so her mouth was next to his ear.
"Often."
Then she crouched to slide them down the rest of the way. She'd made sure to hook a finger on his boxers too and pulled them down at the same time. That was when she caught sight of his left knee – also swollen and bruised, if not as severely as his ankle. Then, even that got shoved from her mind when he nearly lost his balance shifting from one foot to the other to get his feet clear. Clint and balance were practically synonymous terms, lack of it was cause for immediate alarm.
Natasha shot her hand up to catch his elbow and looked to his face to check his level of consciousness.
His eyes were closed, but the furrow in his brow told her he was very conscious and working through some fresh pain.
"Okay?" she asked as she tossed the pants towards the door and straightened.
He hummed a positive response and opened his eyes, looking immediately to the shower. Natasha followed his gaze and sighed.
Sometimes blunt was best.
"Are you going to pass out if I let you do this alone?"
He looked to be seriously contemplating his answer, and that was almost answer enough. He opened his mouth to respond, but then abruptly snapped it shut, eyes focusing on her with alarming intensity.
"What?" she asked in confusion.
"You're hurt." His hand went to carefully inspect the cut in her hairline that had sent blood leaking down her temple.
She was actually surprised that hadn't come up before now, usually he zeroed in on her injuries before he even acknowledged his own.
"Nothing serious," she promised. She was pretty sure it wasn't even a lie.
His gaze narrowed.
"Look, get in the shower, I'll peel my way out of this damn suit and join you. You can see for yourself then, okay?"
For a moment, he looked like he'd reject some part of the offer, but then he just sighed and nodded wearily. She nodded back and let him use her shoulder to limp his way over to the shower. She got him to where he was standing under the spray, hands braced under the shower head, and his head bowed forward so the water was hitting the base of his neck and running down his back.
She left the curtain open enough that she would see if he started to go down, and then begun working on her own uniform. She started with her boots, grimacing when her own ribs flared in protest as she leaned over. It was impossible to ignore now that she didn't have Clint to focus on. When she was finally free of those, she unzipped her uniform. Her own various aches and pains made themselves known as she peeled the tight fitting cat-suit off her body.
Easing her way out of her sports bra nearly made her groan. As soon as she was free of it, she kicked her way out of her underwear and headed straight for the shower.
Clint hadn't moved.
She stepped in behind him, rustling the curtain to let him know she was there.
He turned immediately, eyes scanning her body. He zeroed in on her ribs right away, calloused hands going to feel for breaks without waiting for permission. After a moment, his hands stilled and she watched his jaw clench.
"Did I…"
"No," she assured immediately. "You didn't do this. It happened in the battle."
He didn't look entirely convinced, so she went on.
"You didn't hurt me, Clint. You got me locked in with that knife because I wasn't committed."
He arched an eyebrow.
"You were holding back?"
She tilted her head, surprised he hadn't worked that out for himself already.
"Of course I was." She hardened her gaze. "I wasn't going to try and kill you, Clint." Even if it had meant he killed her. It wasn't a distance she was willing to go. He, of all people, should understand. He'd done the same damn thing when she attacked him in Germany.
The revelation seemed to first stun him, then something in his gaze shifted…like he remembered something…and whatever that was seemed to gut him.
"Natasha…"
"Stop it," she scolded. "Don't even go there. What's done is done. We both made it out, focus on that."
He scowled slightly, gaze going back to where his hand still rested over her broken ribs. She sighed and pulled his hand away.
"I'll be okay. Right now I'm more worried about you."
He stared at her, blinking slowly.
"I think…" he hesitated briefly, as if checking the validity of his next words before he said them, "maybe, I'll be okay too."
Natasha smiled warmly. He didn't have to spell it out for her to know he wasn't talking about anything physical. He didn't sound certain, but he sounded hopeful. Hopeful that he would recover from whatever Loki had done to him.
She forced her smile to remain genuine, even as her mind taunted her with her lie, with the truth he didn't know.
"I know you will." She pushed onto her tiptoes and kissed him lightly. "Now, let's get to work with the soap because, honestly, Clint…you stink."
"Hey."
He sounded so righteously offended, that she couldn't help but laugh.
She wasn't laughing later when he nearly passed out when she rubbed the washcloth over a particularly tender spot on his back. Catching him from slamming his head on the tile wall had nearly sent them both crashing to the floor of the shower.
And she wasn't laughing when she forced his head up so she could investigate the dark bruising that circled the underside of his jaw.
"Loki?" she asked.
He didn't answer. She took that as a 'yes' even if he couldn't actually remember it happening anymore. Even as her gaze lingered on the bruising, another mark – this one a scar – stole her attention. Without thinking about it, she brushed the tip of her finger over the thin, raised line back at the place where his jaw curved down to his neck. It was still pink, still new, barely four months old. It was a more permanent reminder of another time she'd almost lost him. It had been the sins of her own past that had nearly stolen him from her then. It had been Alexi.
She drew back when he flinched away from the light touch, but didn't apologize. He didn't comment either so she let the moment pass.
When they were finally both rid of the blood and grime, she turned off the shower and retrieved them both towels. She wrapped hers around her torso and then grabbed another to wrap up her hair and keep it from dripping fresh water on her drying skin.
She eyed Clint as he slowly and carefully patted himself dry. She needed to go get them some clean clothes from the closet.
"I'm good," he stated suddenly, as if reading her mind. "Not gonna pass out."
The shower seemed to have breathed a second – Third? Fourth? – wind into him because he seemed steadier. Even so, Natasha made quick work of grabbing them both fresh clothes. She tossed the pants and shirts onto the bed and brought the underwear into the bathroom.
In the 60 seconds she'd been gone, he'd sunk back onto the toilet lid, towel around his waist and head supported in his hands. She almost asked if he was okay. But before she could, he lifted his head, steady gaze meeting hers.
Still with it, that was good.
"Here." She held out a pair of boxers. "Get those on and let me look at those cuts on your back."
While he busied himself with the task of getting his boxers on – and if the sharp intakes of breath were anything to go by, it was an arduous process – she lifted the first aid kit from where she'd left it on the floor to the counter. A moment later she had antibiotic ointment, gauze, and tape in hand. He was back on the toilet lid, but spun slowly to make his back available to her.
She'd made sure to clean the cuts in the shower, so now it was a simple task of smearing the antibiotic over them and covering them with the gauze. Most of them had already clotted and stopped bleeding. But there was one, the deepest, that she deemed would need more than just gauze.
"You've got a pretty deep one here...gonna need a couple stitches."
He didn't do anything but vaguely hum acknowledgement. He'd dropped his head back into his hands, his elbows now braced on his knees. The position had to be hell on his ribs, the only thing she could figure was he was too tired to keep himself upright.
The stitches were an easy task, one she'd done too many times before, and a few minutes later that cut was bandaged too. There was nothing to be done for the ribs except keep him out of trouble until they healed and the bruises would fade in time.
But as she stared at his hunched back and cradled head, she wondered if she'd missed something – if there was some hidden injury he hadn't told her about.
"Head hurt?" she asked quietly as she busied herself drying off and slipping into her bra and underwear. Reaching back to snap the bra closed hurt, but she didn't allow herself anything more than a wince.
She glanced at him when he didn't respond. He hadn't even moved. His eyes were closed and his jaw clenched.
"Clint?"
"Where's Phil?"
She froze for a half a breath. She'd prepared for this, had planned her lies. She'd been able to pull it off back when he first woke up, when he was still reeling from Loki's control and struggling to think straight. It would be harder now. She'd have to sell it.
She started towel drying her hair and glanced his way, keeping her gaze open and honest as she answered.
"At this point? Probably doing damage control. There's a lot of messes to clean up right now, not the least of which is the disaster area we left in downtown Manhattan."
"Does he blame me?"
"What?" she asked sharply. Where had that come from?
Clint finally raised his head, or at least turned it so he could look at her but still hold it up with one hand.
"He hasn't checked in, not once. It's not like him…unless he's pissed at me, like with Uzbekistan."
Natasha abandoned her hair towel on the counter and went to kneel in front of him.
"He's not pissed at you. And he did check on you, Clint. He was there before you woke up. He didn't leave until he knew you were going to be okay."
The lie felt bitter on her tongue, but she didn't break her gaze from his. She didn't give him any reason to doubt her words.
He stared at her, eyes searching, and the genuine confusion in his gaze told her he was buying it.
"He hasn't even called, Nat…the battle's been over for a while now and he hasn't even called."
Natasha didn't have to fake the sympathy in her expression.
"Maybe he tried?" she offered with a slight shrug. "The cell towers are probably so overloaded right now maybe he just can't get through."
He frowned a little, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that he saw the logic in that. Natasha reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze…then she pushed the lie home.
"If he could be here, Clint, he would be. You know that."
He sighed.
"Yeah." He reached to rub at his eyes. "You're right."
She thought it was over then, that she'd made it past this hurdle. But then Clint spoke again, stalling her push back up to standing.
"He's okay though, right? He stayed clear in the carrier attack?"
She met his gaze and saw the worry there. She shifted her lips into a comforting smile.
"He's okay, Clint."
Some of the worry left his gaze as he accepted her words without question – trusted her to be straight with him. She forced herself to ignore the knot in her stomach and pushed herself to standing. She told herself it was almost over, that Loki was almost gone.
"Not that I'd blame him for skipping out on me, though," Clint muttered under his breath. "After the shit storm I brought down, I wouldn't want to talk to me either."
Natasha sighed. Clint and his damn self-worth issues. She needed to cut that train of thought off at its knees. And she wouldn't even have to lie to do it.
"What happened with Loki wasn't your fault. I'm going to keep telling you that until you believe it. Phil doesn't blame you, I don't blame you, nobody blames you." Anybody that did would have her to contend with.
He met her gaze then, eyes steady and deadly serious.
"Well, I blame me."
She quirked her lips sadly.
"Yeah, well, you always do."
Clint's mouth turned down in a slight frown, but he didn't dispute the accusation. How could he? It was true.
"Now come on," she squeezed his unbruised knee, "let's get dressed. That company car you stole is still in the garage a block over, we'll take that back to the city."
Clint chuckled slightly.
"Stan over in transportation still thinks he lost it. Slipping a copy of the key back into the lockbox really sold it."
Natasha grinned. This was one of Clint's more elaborate and ongoing pranks amongst the SHIELD staff. Stan from transportation had given Clint shit about bringing a car back with bullet holes once. Clint, a bullet hole in himself at the time, had deemed Stan a viable target from that point on.
Hence the ruse of Stan misplacing an entire vehicle when, in fact, it had never been turned back in. He'd even gone so far as to falsify the vehicle log book and make a fake key. Not even Phil knew the truth.
With her help, he levered himself up again and together they left the bathroom.
Getting dressed entailed more muffled groans and winces than it usually did, but eventually they were both clothed with jackets on the bed next to them. They sat, side by side, staring at the closet door and trying to pretend it wasn't taking every shred of energy they had just to stay conscious.
Clint was starting to wonder if a percussion band had literally moved into his brain when he wasn't looking when Natasha's shoulder nudged against his.
"We have a few minutes, want to try and eat something? You barely touched the shawarma."
He shook his head immediately and then regretted the action intensely because his head felt like it was about to explode. The drumline in his brain picked up tempo and he reached to rub his temple.
How was it that Loki was no longer setting up camp in his head but he still felt like his brain was going round after round with a baseball bat?
"Clint, you haven't eaten in days, you said so yourself. You'll feel better if you do."
He just shook his head again, prompting her to sigh in frustration.
He owed her at least some form of explanation.
"Nat, in less than an hour, I've got to look the bastard in the face again and this time without the adrenaline and the arrow pointed at his eye. I got no idea what's going to come to the surface when I do, but it won't be anything good. I'd rather not have a stomach full of crap to puke everywhere if it's bad."
He actually knew pretty much exactly what memories would surface when he looked at Loki. Memories of the god ripping apart his mind and making it his own personal playground. If the physical pain there hadn't been enough, the extra hit that came with forcing him to acknowledge his worst fears was just the goddamned icing on the cake.
His head pounded again.
Then, of course, there was what Loki had made him want to do to Natasha…his stomach rolled. He had to swallow and draw in a slow breath to keep down what little shawarma he had eaten.
"So you don't remember?" she asked quietly. "What he did to you?"
He kept his gaze on the closet door and made sure his voice was as even as possible.
"No, not a damn thing. Whatever was left faded during the battle." He looked at her then and did his best to sell the lie. "I get the feeling that's a good thing, though."
He wished to God he didn't remember, that it was all as blank as he claimed it to be.
Her lips quirked sympathetically.
"Yeah, maybe."
The compulsion to tell her the truth hit him hard then. She, of anyone, would understand. She'd even be able to relate. But admitting the truth meant opening himself up to questions. It meant purposefully thinking back over the last few days and putting all the pain and horrors to words.
He just wanted to forget it, all of it.
He didn't want to think about what it meant that he'd been so aware, that he'd been himself, in at least some way. He didn't want to talk about how much he'd needed to hurt her, even when he felt nothing else, he'd felt that.
Then there were all the people he'd killed. Countless murdered by his hand, even more by his order.
In the end, he didn't think Loki had actually changed anything about him. He'd just unbridled the darkness Clint usually kept in careful check.
He'd set free Clint's worst, darkest self.
He'd, without even realizing it at the time, made Clint's worst fear a reality. Or maybe he had realized it…maybe that had been the whole point.
A hand tightened suddenly around his and he looked down.
His fingers were curled around the black blanket that served as their bedspread, his knuckles were white. Natasha's hand over his actually looked tan in comparison.
"You keep doing that."
He blinked, for some reason unable to look away from their hands even as he forced his fingers to unclench.
"Doing what?" he asked.
"Zoning out. I called your name twice."
He swallowed and lifted his gaze. Time for a re-direct.
"I'm just tired. And as for the food? When Loki's gone, I'm sure I'll feel up to eating everything in the pizza joint downstairs. Just need that weight lifted, you know?"
She nodded.
"Well, then let's get the show on the road."
He nodded in return and they both reached for their jackets.
End of Chapter 11
awww so much clintasha! and you guys didn't think you'd get any this story ;) but the moment of truth, literally, is coming for Natasha. Tomorrow that hammer is gonna fall and Clint...well...you'll just have to wait and see
tune in tomorrow for the next installment. Until then, drop a line and have a preview!
"It's not true. It can't be." He growled out the denial. "Phil's not dead."
He just wasn't – plain and simple.
"Fury was there," she explained quietly. "He was with him in the end."
"Then Fury's full of shit," Clint spat. "He's not dead, Natasha. I would know if he was."