Dearest Anon; thank you for your kind gift of no ads. I can’t quiet articulate on what it means but know I’ll try and find a way to pass it forward.
Whilst you mentioned it wasn’t needed, I wanted some way to say thank you. So, what follows is some Clint/Nat hurt/comfort and them taking care of each other. I hope the rest of the week greets you kindly. And if it doesn’t know that I’m rooting for you. 💜💜
secret languages.
Word count: 1.8k
Warnings: blood/dissociation
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“Tash,” Clint whispers, “come on, we’re almost there, one foot in front of the other.”
Blood drops from her fingers and she focuses on his words.
“Yeah. That’s it,” his words dutifully guiding her forward.
“Come on, two more steps.”
She takes the final step to his loft and looks balefully at him.
He knows words won’t come easily and even following instructions need to be broken down into manageable components.
His body feels so heavy.
Clint feels like if it wasn’t for her, he would be just crashing on the couch with the fallout from the mission.
The bruise on his left cheek darkening and gravel rash on his thigh smarting.
He leads the way, unlocking the door and guiding her inside.
She stops once through the threshold, unsure of her movements.
Grabbing a towel from the pile of washing he’d never put away, he lays it strategically to cover the sofa.
“Sit,” he commands softly.
She doesn’t even watch as he moves around; her vision tunnelled as she drops blood onto the wooden floorboards.
Taking her hand, he guides her to sit on the couch.
He doesn’t think it’s a concussion, likely not anything permanent.
Clint hopes not anyway.
Squatting next to her, he unzips her top.
There’s a moment where he thinks she might resist, instead she closes her eyes, and blocks him out.
“Sorry, I should have said,” he tells her, and helps her take her suit off her shoulders down to her waist.
She shivers.
Clint stands and puts the heater on, grabbing a blanket to place over her legs, another towel and the suture kit.
“Nat, I need you to tell me when it hurts okay?”
Even as he says it, he knows she won’t.
She looks at him, but he thinks it’s only because he’s spoken.
Only in a bra, she shivers again, and he apologises, placing the blanket over her lap.
The cut runs from her shoulder to her elbow, weeps; the bruising on her face is accompanied by swelling, just like his.
Clint wants a shower, and wonders if she wants one too. He feels sticky and can smell his sweat when he moves.
“I smell,” he comments on a whim, hoping for something, anything other than unfocused eyes.
He hates it; but he understands it.
“Okay,” he says under his breath, “we’ve got this, just some stitches and maybe some painkillers, then a shower and bed, okay?”
He says it like a checklist himself, like it’s that easy, but he knows that it’s not.
The small kit for stitching is ready next to the sofa, and he reaches for it.
Poor fine motor skills and a tremor in his hands makes it crash to the floor and Natasha flinches.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, picking it up.
He focuses on her, trying to gauge what and how’s she’s feeling but apart from being nonverbal, her body language gives nothing away.
“Okay, Nat, I’m going to wipe the blood okay? The towel is scratchy.”
Clint wipes it down, the wound not too deep but almost instantly refilling with blood.
“Now, this will sting, it’s the alcohol wipe,” he says as he dabs a small bit then looks up.
No reaction.
Eyes watch the wall.
He tries to give as much information as he can, and likewise it almost helps to ground him.
The piercing of her skin with the hooked needle makes his face contort; and even though it’s met by no reaction, he still hates that it’s him that’s hurting her.
“Okay, it’s started,” he narrates.
“Hook… tie… snip,” he tells himself, doing the action and then looking up to check again.
She’s watching now.
It must hurt.
Or at the very least pierced her subconscious.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and then looks back down the the wound.
“Maybe four to go,” he tells her.
“Nat? Does it hurt?”
Clint glances at her back, his gravel rash from being dragged by a motor bike seems nothing to the staircase fall down a fire escape.
He’d watched in horror, but she’d just gotten up and ran, motioning for him to do the same.
Gas in the building, their escape had been quick.
Hers had been frantic.
He’s not even sure if it touched her, but the fear was real.
“Nat, does it hurt?” he asks again, three stitches to go.
On the last stitch, he ties it off, wipes it down again, then stands to get an ice pack.
As he stands, she vomits everywhere, just missing Clint.
“Fuck,” he swears.
He grabs her and pushes her to the bathroom, the smell overpowering, as he wonders just what was left in her from their meal the night before.
He sits her on the toilet, handing her a bin.
“Do you still feel sick?” he asks.
“Nauseous?”
She stares into the bottom of the bucket.
There’s an increase, only slightly, in her breathing.
Clint catches it, hoping it doesn’t escalate to a panic attack. He wonders if it means she’s going to vomit again.
Was it the gas? Or holding it together whilst he stitched her arm?
He turns the heater on.
“H..” the word doesn’t pass her lips, but the attempt does.
He nods at her her attempt.
“Yeah?”
Eyes searching, she finds his and breathes forcefully through her nose.
“Hurts,” she huffs, and looks down at the bucket, vomiting again.
“Okay.”
He leaves the room briefly, and finds the painkillers, the little packet holding big promises.
Taking it to her, he punches one out into her hand, and then gives a glass of water.
She shakes her head.
Clint knows.
He always knows.
“Watch me.”
He pushes out another tiny tablet into his own hand and downs it with the water.
He hands it back, and motions for her to do the same.
In a state like this, he gets it, and his effort is rewarded by her copying his actions.
He just hopes she doesn’t throw it up.
Two tasks down, it’s just the shower and bed.
They can do this.
He can do this.
Removing the puke bucket from her hands, he tells her to stand.
She does without thinking.
He wants to get ice on her face to decrease the bruises, he wants to be in pyjamas, he wants this day to have never have happened.
“Does anywhere else hurt?”
The question is redundant, as she doesn’t answer or even acknowledge it.
“Okay, shower,” he murmurs.
“Socks off, pants off.”
He almost doesn’t expect anything to happen, but she moves at his request.
Clint nods.
He turns the shower on, the hottest it can go, hoping it can help heat the room.
Undressing alongside her, he winces at his his own wounds, the drop of gravel onto the floor makes him think he should probably clean it, just like he did for Natasha.
He ignores it.
The shower will help.
Steam fills the bathroom.
He doesn’t think.
She grabs him, breath caught in his throat.
“No,” she squeaks, “not…”
Gas
Her words get lost again, as scared childlike eyes stare at him to help.
Clint can’t move quickly, his muscles sore and tired. He gets to the fan, and switches it on, sucking up the steam and making the room loud.
“It’s okay,” he assures, “it’s nothing, it’s the shower.”
She sits back down, breathing heavily.
“It’s okay,” he says again, “it’s the shower.”
He gives her the glass of water, thinking maybe it will help to ground her, but this time, she can’t take it, hands gripping her thighs.
“Come on,” he sighs, “quick shower.”
She shakes her head.
“I can’t.”
Torn between pushing her and honouring her request, Clint sighs and gets in the shower, watching her through the glass.
He sees her, holding herself together, and he hurries himself as much as he can.
Feeling like he can’t move quickly enough, he hurts himself in his roughness.
He swears.
It’s enough for Natasha to stand and come to the glass to check on him.
Attempting a smile, he tries to reassure her.
He opens the door, to say something and she follows him in.
She looks at him.
Really looks this time, and raises her hand to his bruised face.
Water hits her arm and pink water streams down the skink.
“Such dangerous lives we lead,” he says softly.
She avoids water on her head and he lowers the shower head so he can control it.
He washes her gently, then she takes it off him and does the same.
Clint is thankful she’s coming back.
He sighs heavily, feeling the pain pulse in his leg, as she gently cleans it.
“Think it’s time for bed,” he murmurs.
She nods, switching off the shower.
He moves to open the door.
Pulling him into a hug, Natasha hopes she conveys everything in it.
For taking care of her.
For getting her home.
She leaves first, passing him a towel, and then one for herself.
It’s slow, the descent to bed.
Natasha cleans her vomit.
Clint wraps his leg.
He passes her some juice and she takes it gratefully.
Finally, bed.
He crawls in after her and feels himself sink into the mattress.
“Mm’sorry,” Natasha says into the darkness.
He moves his body closer to hers, and touches his feet to hers.
“What happened, Nat?” he wonders out loud.
“What made you… go?”
There’s nothing for a while.
She sucks in a breath.
“It hasn’t been like that in a while… I thought… I was worried,” he finishes.
She’s silent, trying to find the words.
“There’s a room, in the Red Room, I think it’s what it’s named for. They use it and release red gas; it makes you hallucinate your greatest fears. Today...” she pauses.
“It smelt the same.”
His body stiffens.
The gas, whilst not red, had been visible, the smell permeating the world as they escaped.
He understands.
“I get lost,” she whispers. “But I know what’s happening, it’s like words are too hard and even telling myself what I need to do takes all the brain power and focus, but the alternative is worse, if I let go, if I just give in and don’t do anything, I lose time.”
Clint reaches for her hand.
“Trauma changes shape, but doesn’t really leave, huh?”
Natasha scoffs, a low release of air.
“Isn’t that just the story of my life.”
She rolls to the side.
“Thanks for stitching my arm, and getting me home,” she whispers,
“I got you,” he whispers back.
He shuffles closer to her.
“Wake me, okay? When the dreams… arrive?”
Neither of them are stupid enough to believe that that dreams won’t come.
Natasha rests her head on his chest.
“Yeah,” she yawns.
“I’ll try.”
.
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Two loud knocks thunk against the door, and Natasha sets her book aside with a groan.
“Clint, I told you I was cooking tonight. We can’t keep ordering pizza.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t.”
She rolls her eyes and gets up. He’s in the kitchen. It’s impossible to tell if he’s lying from here. She turns the knob.
“Kate?” The dark haired girl leans heavily against the frame, blood tricking between her fingers from a wound in her side. “Hey, hey, what happened?”
“I.. I think.. ”
“Clint, get the first aid kit.” Her voice is calm, but urgent, and she hears him drop something in his rush to the bathroom. “Come here, you’re okay.” Taking the younger girls weight, she maneuvers her to the couch and lays her back against the cushions. Kate looks at her with unfocused eyes.
“I think I.. oh God, there’s so much blood.”
“Don’t look at that, look at me.”
“Kate what the hell?” Clint drops down on the floor behind them, pulling out an array of supplies to set on the coffee tables. His eyes flick to the injury and he gently pries her hand away.
“Oh God,” she moans. Her hand is shaking as she tries to put it back, but Natasha grabs it.
“Look at me, Kate. You’re alright. Don’t look at Clint.”
“You’re okay, kiddo. Deep breaths. Gunna sting a little.” She clenches her eyes shut, squeezing Natasha’s hand tightly as he starts to clean the wound. “This is a knife wound. You got stabbed?”
“Old lady and.. her purse, I didn’t.. I didn’t see the third guy,” she manages, her voice trembling. “Oh fuck, what was that?”
“Language, missy,” he quips back, no heat in his voice. “Stitches. Stay still.”
“Do you even know how to do stitches?!”
“Of course I do.”
“Breathe, Kate,” Natasha reminds her. She forces a deep breath, trying not to pass out as he works the needle through her skin. “Keep looking at me.”
An eternity passes before he applies a bandage and packs up the medical supplies.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I-“
“You could have gotten yourself killed.”
“I didn’t think-“
“You’re right, you didn’t, and-“
“Clint.” Natasha’s sharp tone stops him, and his stomach drops when he realizes the young girl is crying.
“Kate, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeats, moving closer to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. “You scared me.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
“I know. It’s alright.”
“I’m going to make us something to eat,” Natasha decides, getting up to leave them alone. Kate wipes her eyes, staring at the ceiling for several moments while she tries to calm herself down. Finally, she looks back at Clint.
“Is she a good cook?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Maybe we should order pizza?” she offers with a shaky smile. He laughs and squeezes her shoulder, his other hand already reaching for the phone.
“That sounds like a great idea.”
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“Sit.” He shuts the door behind him and perches on the edge of the chair. Coulson regards him from behind his desk. “She’s not settling in,” he says bluntly. “She’s in holding. Mitchell is in medical with a busted lip and Stoker has a black eye. Something you care to share?”
“No, I haven’t seen her at all this morning. Are you sure-“
“She admitted to it. Attacked them unprovoked. I need you to figure this out. There are a lot of eyes on us right now. This can’t happen again.”
“What are you saying?”
“You need to convince the board that this was the right call.”
“Or what? They’ll kill her? Put her down like some kind of wild animal?”
“I didn’t say that.” Clint glares at him, and Coulson speaks again, his voice soft. “I think some time in the country might do her good. You could both use a break. Do you know a place?”
XXXXX
Gravel crunches under her sneakers as she steps out of the truck, taking in the old farmhouse. He grabs their bags from the back seat.
“Look. There are cows over there in that field.” She points, eyes a little brighter at the sight of the animals. He follows her gaze.
“Yep. That’s the nearest neighbor. Nice and quiet out here.” She moves to take her bag. He passes it over and leads them inside, giving her a brief tour of everything.
“Kind of unusual for a safe house, isn’t it?”
“It’s not a safe house.” She pauses, and he catches the tension in her stance. “It’s mine. Shield doesn’t know about it.”
“Why?” He shrugs, flicking through cover stories, then finally settles on the truth with a sigh.
“It was my house growing up. Back then it was a nightmare, but now it’s somewhere just for me to get away.”
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, feeling like she ruined it.
“I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t want to.”
XXXXX
He watches her from the kitchen as he stirs the pasta on the stove. They’ve been here three days and she’s finally started to relax. The porch is her favorite area, and it’s where she sits now, legs tucked under her and damp hair falling in curls around her shoulders. She reaches out to pick up a caterpillar.
The ring of his phone startles him.
“Barton.”
“Clint, we need to talk.” Coulson’s tone causes his stomach to drop. He sets the spoon aside and leans on the counter.
“What is it?”
“Stoker and Mitchell ambushed her. They pushed her into an empty office room and tried to-“
“Fuck-“
“They didn’t-“
“Fuck, Coulson, are you sure? Are you sure they didn’t?”
“I’m positive. She defended herself and left the room immediately. It’s all on video.” Outside Natasha lets the caterpillar crawl up her finger, laughing softly as it gets to the tip. “They’ve been fired, of course.”
“They deserve worse.”
“You still have two weeks. Call me with updates.” Clint huffs out a breath. She sets the caterpillar down in the grass.
XXXXX
“I promised you a safe space,” he says quietly. She tucks her fingers into the sleeves of her hoodie, watching the fireflies in the field.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I didn’t even ask.”
“I didn’t tell you.”
And they’re at a standstill. He swallows the lump in his throat. The silence drags on.
“I grew up here. After my parents died, my brother and I ran off to join the circus.”
“People don’t actually do that.”
“Seriously.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Got into a lot of bad shit back then. Coulson gave me a second chance and I was afraid to let myself have it. I fought him a lot. It was hard,” he admits. “And I wanted it to be different for you.”
She sips her tea, considering. They both watch as a deer emerges from the tree line. A fawn follows close behind.
“It is different though,” she says finally. “Because you didn’t have anyone you can trust. And I do.”
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