Work Text:
“ебать!” (fuck!)
Natasha cursed in her native tongue as her hand met her shoulder. She felt the urge to hit the floor, but she didn’t allow herself. Making herself stay standing, to keep running, was painful as she felt her hand grow wet with blood. She could hear Clint’s voice through the comm in her ear, frantically asking her if she was hit. She sprinted as fast as she could until she found a corner to slip behind.
She groaned and caught a glimpse of the gore her shoulder had become. A bullet lodged somewhere in there.
“Natasha! Have you been hit?” Clint enunciated every word through the comms, concern coating each syllable. Natasha grumbled, her vision growing dizzy and her head swaying slightly. She managed to aim her gun, taking out a few more guards as she stumbled for space to breathe.
“Yeah...” She mumbled. Her voice didn't come out as casual as she would’ve liked it to. The blood rushing in her ears quieted Clint's requests for a med evac.
She had been shot before, sure. It wasn't like you grew an immunity to these kinds of things, though. But this felt different. She could feel herself shaking, her breathing increasing, and she swore under her breath.
No, not this. Anything but this...
The last thing she needed was to panic. She needed to keep herself calm to prevent further blood loss so she could help Clint and get the hell out of here. But no matter how much she commanded her brain to relax, it seemed to get worse.
The gunfire was slowly simmering out. Her shoulder hurt, but it wasn't the pain that was making her feel so panicky. It was the fact that it was her shoulder. Her left shoulder. Whenever anyone went to touch her there, even to be friendly, she flinched. Natasha never flinched.
Not knowing how much time had passed, her tunnel vision landed on Clint, who was standing above her. She hadn’t realized she was lying on the floor, hadn't known when that had happened, nor how she ended up there.
“Natasha!” His face contorted as he reached down to apply pressure to the wound. Natasha stared at him, barely seeing him, and screamed when she felt even just his hand hovering above her shoulder. Clint’s eyes widened. He knew she wasn't one to say a single word when she was in pain. So this scared him, really scared him.
He looked over, around the corner and landed two more shots with his bow and arrow. They hit their marks and the men fell, guns clinking to the floor alongside their bodies.
“I need to hold pressure on the wound, you’ll bleed out! Nat, you know how this works...” Clint was kneeling beside her. Impatient with the redhead's stubbornness, but he knew this was something more than that. He wanted to be gentle, but he never wanted to live without her. Natasha was pale and losing blood quickly. Her own hand that held the wound wasn't strong enough to stop the steady flow in this state.
Natasha was panting. Clint recognized that look in her eyes, the panic she was obviously in. He had seen her hurt many times, but the hurt in her eyes was something so different. As if he could see it playing in her irises like a film.
He didn’t touch her. He knew better than to do anything without her consent. Even with a gunshot wound, she could easily take him out, he wasn't planning on dying today. Nor was he planning on watching his best friend die.
“Natasha...” He breathed. She was sweating, her eyes were glossy, and her red hair was coated with blood. Her blood, he realized.
“I’m not gonna let you die,” Clint spoke calmly. Natasha knew this. She knew her best friend would do what he had to do, but she wasn’t thinking clearly. She wasn’t thinking at all. The only thing that occupied her mind was that horrid day. When she was burned and claimed by Dreykov.
“Med evac will be here in five minutes... we have to go meet them on the roof.” Clint's voice was a lethal calm that almost made Natasha more anxious. If only she had looked closer to see the pure terror in his eyes, but her tunnel vision wouldn't allow it. She huffed a breath. She didn’t want medical attention. She didn’t want the added anxiety of people she didn't know seeing the part of her that she tried so desperately to hide.
Clint looked her up and down, trying to see if there were any other obvious injuries besides the bullet in her shoulder. He found nothing, a small win in a massive battle, he concluded.
“I’m going to pick you up, alright?” Natasha didn't say anything, just moved her head in the smallest nod. She could probably stand if she tried hard enough, but she didn’t want to. Her legs were too shaky, she bet they would give out on her.
Clint scooped her up gently, but she still yelped in pain. He cringed as he charged towards the staircase. He was sure he had gotten all of the guards, all of the people trying to kill them. But there were other SHIELD agents in the building, somewhere; they could handle the rest. Natasha had already downloaded the information and sent it to the headquarters. The mission was complete.
Natasha buried her head into Clint’s shoulder. Gritting her teeth in pain at every movement Clint made. The universe rarely held mercy for the black widow, but before they reached the roof, she had lost consciousness. Much to Clint's terror. Although deep down, he knew the panicked state she was in would not allow the doctors to work. So maybe it was a blessing that she passed out.
“She’ll have to stay here for about an hour or so at a minimum.” She could hear muffled voices speaking above her, all around the room. She was so tired, she felt her aching shoulder, and it all came back slowly in fuzzy images.
“She won’t go for that.” Clint. He was here. She relaxed slightly.
“She lost a lot of blood, Agent Barton. The transfusion takes time. Besides, she needs to rest.” It took her a while, but she recognized the voice as belonging to Dr. Helen Cho. She trusted her enough. As much as she would ever trust a doctor.
“Can’t we do this in her room? She’ll be more comfortable there.” He argued.
"It's best that I monitor her. So there's help in case she needs any."
A door shut quietly, and Clint sat down in a chair beside Natasha, who lay in a hospital bed. Clint was looking over the IV pole and what it was connected to. Ready to move it all somehow to her room or anywhere else where she’d feel more comfortable.
By the time Natasha mustered the strength to blink her heavy eyes open, Clint was standing in front of her with the IV bag in his hand. He had silenced all of the machines that were beeping and driving her mad, even when she was unconscious. She could have laughed, had she had the energy or sense of humor in such a place. Instead, she just stared at him.
“We should stay.” He noted calmly, his voice unwavering. “But I figured you’d rather recoup in your own bed.”
Right. That's what was wrong... She just wanted to be in her own bed. Not because of what the Red Room had done to her in similar places. Not because every breath of this sterile air made her feel sick.
“Think you can walk?” Clint's voice was distant. Natasha licked her dry lips, dipping her chin in a slight nod.
Natasha slowly sat up, her legs hanging off the side of the bed. Her body was achy and ill feeling. Her arm was wrapped, a tight bandage holding her arm to her chest. She felt like she was being restrained; she swallowed the lump that appeared in her throat. She would deal with this later; all she had to do was get to her bed.
Clint watched her with careful eyes. Holding the IV bag as high as he could, taking great care not to pull on where it connected under Natasha's skin.
“I don’t need that,” Natasha grumbled, focused on planting her feet flat on the ground. Clint looked at the bag of dark red and shook his head.
“You lost a good bit of blood, Nat. Something about scar tissue-” The scar tissue from the brand... from the nights she’d stay awake trying to carve it out of her skin. Somehow, she had only ever made it worse.
“-Don’t!” Natasha snapped. She was standing now; her right hand balled in a fist. Clint didn’t understand where he went wrong, knowing something was tormenting the widow’s mind, but unable to pinpoint what.
“I’m sorry, I just...” Natasha looked at Clint, eyes wide and... Was that a tear?
Hot tears began to stream down Natasha's face. What in the hell was she doing? Had she no control at all?
“Nat...” Clint’s face softened in an instant. He hung the IV bag back up on the nearest IV pole and pulled the red head into a gentle hug. Natasha's breathing was all over the place as she buried her head into Clint’s shoulder.
“Are you in pain?” He asked, even though he knew he was wrong. Natasha wouldn’t cry because she was in pain; she was more likely to curse until her throat was raw.
She wanted to cut her shoulder off. She couldn’t stop thinking about when she and a few other girls in the Red Room took turns trying to dig the brand out of each other’s shoulders. They thought they had succeeded, reveling in the blood they shed. Of course, it didn’t work, the red skin just highlighted the area.
She hid it from Clint all this time. With her clothes, wraps, her damn uniform. She couldn’t bear the look he was bound to give her. The gentleness and care in his eyes. How was she supposed to sit there and explain to her best friend that a man left a permanent mark on her? That it reminded her of her pain and how she wasn’t in control of her own body. It was depressing and pathetic, and she hated it more than she could put into words.
“Do you want me to carry you upstairs? We can talk there?” Natasha wanted to refuse, but she knew Clint wouldn’t let this go now that she had burst into tears in front of him. She knew, based on the way her head still spun, it would take her a considerably longer time to scale the stairs.
Her sigh was the best answer he was going to get. Clint rubbed her back gently before pulling back. He grabbed the IV bag and somehow picked her up in a way that no pressure was added to her shoulder. She kept her eyes closed, unable to force herself to live this moment.
Clint laid her gently down on her bed. Natasha's room in Stark's tower was small but cozy. She liked it well enough. A convenient place to rest after missions. Clint hung the IV bag on the bedpost. Sitting by Natasha's feet, he passed her a blanket that she instantly cuddled into. The tears had stopped, but she was trembling so slightly. Clint nearly missed it.
“We don’t have to talk about it.” Clint's voice was gentle and soothing, and Natasha just wanted to listen to him talk until she fell asleep, but that wasn’t an option. She knew she owed the archer an explanation. Had it been anyone else, she wouldn’t feel so inclined. But this was Clint. Her best friend.
“We do.” Natasha shifted, glancing at the IV taped down on her arm. Instinct told her to rip it out, but she trusted Clint to monitor what Dr. Cho had given her. Trusted him enough that she knew the infusion was safe. She looked away, attempted to look at Clint, but couldn’t. It was too much.
Clint nodded slowly, his patience allowing Natasha a few deep breaths. A few more moments of oblivion before she forced the words from her lips.
“I think... I was having a panic attack.” The shame in Natasha's voice is more than enough to make Clint want to stand up and wrap her arms around her. Instead, Clint nods, he knows, but he pretends as if he doesn’t. He knows this is only the beginning, bracing himself for the cruel synopsis of a book he holds as close as his family. This was just another chapter, slowly, anxiously, revealing itself.
“I um... fuck! Why is this so hard?” Natasha was talking to herself now. The hand not in the sling, rubbing the soft blanket she's wrapped in. Clint cleared his throat, forcing Natasha to look at him.
“It’s okay, Nat, take all the time you need.” Natasha darted her eyes away as fast as she could. She took a deep breath. She was so tired and cold and ashamed.
“When I was brought back to the Red Room, they branded me.” The words flew out before she could overthink them. Saying them out loud felt like glass sliding down her throat. Clint was remarkably still, the slight twitch of his jaw the only clue that he had heard what she’d said. The silence was too much, Natasha's eyes were wet, but she kept talking, kept filling the silence.
“I’ve tried to get it out... make it disappear, but it won’t. I can’t escape it, I can’t escape him .” Natasha felt her voice crack. She didn’t have to explain what this meant to Clint; he knew. It felt like just yesterday when she was that little girl, utterly mortified by the smell of her own burning flesh.
Clint swallowed audibly. When Natasha dared a glance his way, tears were dripping down his cheeks. She hated that she had caused it. Caused him to cry.
“Please say something...” Natasha begged, staring at her bed sheets. Clint shook his head, taking a deep breath. He wiped at his face.
“What can I do?” Clint was looking at Natasha now. Perfectly keeping his gaze off her bandaged shoulder, now knowing what lies beneath. Natasha sniffled.
“Nothing... there's nothing you can do, Clint.” Natasha's words were breathy. Her words built a wall that Clint immediately brought down. Clint reached for Natasha's hand, intertwining it with his own. He squeezed it, and Natasha felt her heart sink. Silence filled the room for a while, the steady sounds of breathing.
“I didn’t see anything... If...If that helps. Just blood.” Natasha let out a sad laugh,
Clint looked up at her. “What? You were bleeding a lot! It’s like you dyed your hair a darker shade of red...” Natasha couldn’t help it; it was all so ridiculous. She laughed again, and Clint liked the sound so much he cracked a smile.
“Have you talked to anyone about this?” He asked. Natasha just shook her head.
“No doctors?” Natasha gave him a look that solidified the fact that yes, that was a stupid question. “Sorry.” Natasha just shook her head.
“You could talk to Dr. Cho...” Clint looked down, thinking for a moment.
“Clint, no. It’s done. It will always be hiding underneath...” Natasha sighed.
“Talk to Tony... I’m sure he could figure something out...”
“Clint, please. I don’t want to talk to anyone else about this... It’s over. It’s okay... I just need to-” Natasha took a deep breath. “I just need to get used to it.”
“You don’t, Nat. If there are options, don’t you want to try?”
“I’m not going under the knife if I don’t have to...” She argued as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and Clint just wasn’t seeing it.
“Maybe you won’t have too... Stark patched me up plenty of times without anything that resembled a hospital.”
“Clint,” Natasha sighed, feeling so heavy. “It’s not worth it.”
“You are worth it, Nat. If you had a chance to feel better in your skin, wouldn’t you take it?”
Natasha looked down, Clint knew exactly what she was thinking. How low a value she put on herself.
“I’m... gonna try and sleep...” Natasha mumbled, obviously uncomfortable. Clint went to stand. Natasha pulled his hand back down.
“Stay?” Clint looked at her and nodded slowly. Sitting back down.
“Do you need anything?” he asked. Natasha shook her head and closed her eyes. Feeling a weight lifted off her chest despite the ever-aching presence of her wounded shoulder, Natasha slept. For the first time in a long time, with Clint’s hand intertwined with hers, she slept through the night with no interruptions.