Starting To Feel A Little Bit Mortal

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Natasha feels the blast of hot air as she’s blown with it out the window. Tony had attached the grappling hooks to the widow bites, especially after the incident of the winter solider.

She’d shown him how she wanted it to grasp and then lock in, and to his credit he’d listened; even bettered her original plans, allowing for friction and a slow descend.

It works well the majority of the time, but she’s too slow in the deploy and she’s slammed against the building.

Her arm is broken and she knows it, she’s not brave enough to look to see if there’s a bone coming out. She drops down ignoring the throbbing pain radiating from her arm, and moves gingerly.

Maybe a rib or two is bruised. The graze down her body is less concerning, but the pain is only secondary to the concern for Clint.

He’s managed to abseil down, his circus skills making it look like a walk in the park and so much more graceful than her whack into the building.

She’s sure there’s not too much wrong with him, except maybe his hearing as he reverts to signing over talking.

Natasha does not feel okay.

But she signs that she is and let’s him lead the way.

There’s more sirens than there should be, quickly heading to the scene. It worries Natasha more than it should as something about this mission doesn’t feel right.

Clint walks faster than her back to the car, and she watches their six.

There’s no telling what they’ll find in the building, likely a dead body and evidence, but if the explosion, that was larger than they both expected, took out the evidence next to the body, then there’s going to be a witch-hunt.

The car is white and in view as Natasha feels her feet stumble. She rights herself, schooling her face before Clint turns around.

His smile is more of a grimace and she wonders if he’s hurting too.

“Blood,” he signs and her stomach drops.

He wipes her hairline and she can’t help but wince at the sudden pain and headache.

12 hours and counting until they get picked up.

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The bathroom of the safe house is clean, and it’s all Natasha needs as she peels off her clothes and the underlying body suit.

It’s hard with one arm.

She turns on the shower and stares at herself in the mirror. There’s a single drip of blood at her hairline, she peels the hair back, and finds the gash that was covered by the matted hair.

It’s weeping, but not bleeding profusely, so will likely be okay.

Her arm, is worse.

There’s no bone protruding, but the wrist is misshapen and it’s obvious that it’s broken.

If she straps it, Clint will see. She doesn’t want him to worry, he doesn’t look great either.

He looks so tired.

Once he’s asleep, she’ll attend to it. Deal with it later, it’ll be closer to exfil anyway.

Ten hours.

It’s the only option, they’ll get back to medical, and either Tony will know what to do or Shield will.

There’s gashes and scratches everywhere.

The shower hurts. The blood drips and flows down.

She ends up sitting on the floor because it just seems easier.

The volcanic temperature helps.

The steam seems to seep into her skin and she closes her eyes, thankful for the warmth that overrides the throbbing pain.

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Clint lets Natasha go first to the bathroom. He think he hears the shower start and he closes his eyes.

His body melts into the couch, and he takes a breath.

His body hurts.

They need to eat.

They need to sleep.

They need to make sure that they haven’t been made.

Out of all of the needs he thinks of, sleep is number one. He sets the house up, places the traps at the doors and the windows and changes his sweat soaked clothes.

He should have a shower but he doesn’t have the energy, he stays awake until he hears the shower turn off and the door open.

Acknowledging Natasha, he sighs heavily and she points to the bed, indicating she’ll take first watch.

He wants to hug her fiercely and half heartedly disagrees.

A tiny smirk on her face, and a shake of her head is all it takes for him to acquiesce and drop onto the soft mattress.

“Wake me in three hours,” Clint calls, not knowing if she can hear him or not.

He hopes she’ll get herself something to eat.

Eyes closing, brain shutting down, he thinks he should tell her that the house is armed, but it’s a fleeting thought as sleep rises to meet him.

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In a way, she’s glad that he’s asleep.

If he was awake he’d want to help.

In her haze she notices that he’s set up a snack and the guards around the house, he was so tired he didn’t even say anything.

Pulling out the generic first aide kit, that all the safe houses have, Natasha sits and sighs.

She’s always been one to lick her wounds in private, only seeking help when it’s too much or too obvious.

A broken wrist, it’s nothing. She’s had one before, and knows what the next 6 weeks will look like.

She looks at it carefully and grabs the ice pack, cracking it so the cold runs through. Concentrating, she starts bandaging it slowly; aligning what she can with a wince.

When it’s done, she tapes the end with thick strapping tape, then wraps a layer around the bandage to further immobilize it.

Grabbing a sock, she sticks her hand inside and the ice pack as well so it holds it in place.

Natasha sits at the table.

Her whole being hurts and the heat from the show feels like it’s wearing off. Fatigue sets in and she glances at the time.

9 hours.

A drop of blood lands on the table in front of her and she wipes it away, temporarily confused about where it’s come from. She looks in the mirror, grimacing as the blood drops again from her nose.

She didn’t even feel it.

Begrudgingly, she heads back to the bathroom and lowers her face. She’s unsure what’s made the blood nose start, but the accompanying throbbing headache is worse.

Concussion, she thinks, idly wiping the blood from her nose again.

It’s a slow drip.

Maybe it’s not a bad thing that Clint is asleep.

Sticking a tissue up her nose, she leaves and sits on the couch.

She pulls out the secure laptop, and logs on.

The mission report, needs to get done, even though it’s the last thing she feels like doing. She’s got another hour and half before they swap, seven and a half before exfil, and then four before she’s home.

Natasha imagines her own bed, the softness of it, and her pillows that cocoon her.

Sleep beckons.

She turns the television on low, switching to the news, the explosion the first thing she sees.

Watching with interest, she looks at the footage, frowning at how big the fallout was from one stick of C4.

It shouldn’t have been that big.

She screen records the explosion and plays it back.

Frowning, she plays it again.

In her head she calculates the explosion and comes to the conclusion that there were more explosives. It doesn’t make sense.

Laying back, she allows herself a wince as her wrist throbs and her back aches.

It doesn’t make sense but the reason why is like an intangible thread.

Down the rabbit hole, she hacks carefully into the security cameras on the left side of the building.

She’d already taken out half the blocks electricity on the right, knowing that’s the way they’d exit, but the left side was still active.

Natasha knew that if all the cameras were out, it would be somewhat suspicious; this gave plausible deniability, plus it covered their exit.

The cameras play back, and she copies the footage.

The process is slow.

Eating one handed, she eats the cereal without milk, and waits. The crunch feels extra loud in her head.

Something doesn’t feel right, but she can’t put her finger on why.

Checking her nose, the bleeding now stopped, Natasha plays the recording.

Blonde woman leaves through the front door.

Blonde woman that walks like a widow.

It can’t be.

Zooming in doesn’t help, it corrupts the image too much.

She zooms back out and watches the recording over and over again, tries to follow where the woman goes.

But she heads right into Natasha’s dead spot.

No cameras there.

Her stomach sinks.

Her heart hurts.

Her body aches.

It can’t be her.

If it was, she should have known.

They were in the same building at the same time.

Laying the same charges.

What if?

Her head hurts.

Her vision blurs.

What if?

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Clint awakens to his alarm that he has no recollection of setting.

He wipes the drool from his face and begrudgingly gets up, wondering why it’s his alarm and not Natasha waking him.

Some coffee would be nice.

He groans at the creak in his bones and stretch of his muscles.

“Nat?” he calls, exiting the room.

With no response, he frowns and heads for the kitchen.

“Fuck, Nat,” he swears, seeing her slumped form at the kitchen table, blood pooling from her nose.

“Nat?” he says a third time, in panic, as he tries to wake her.

She doesn’t rouse.

Clint panics.

He checks his watch. 2 hours til exfil.

How long had she been unconscious for?

Concussion? Brain bleed?

He’d fallen asleep, but she hadn’t seem bad.

Lowering her to the floor, he checks her breathing and airways, finding them clear. He examines her body; finding only cuts and bruises and a bandaged arm.

“Nat,” he tries again, pulling out a clean phone.

He dials Tony.

Shield wouldn’t come for two more hours, no matter how dire things were.

They’d say go to the nearest hospital, and they’d pick them up from there; he’s too worried to follow protocol.

The third ring turns the call into a video and Tony picks up with a grin.

“Birdboy,” he greets, happily.

“Tony? I need you to come get us,” Clint says urgently.

He turns the video to show Natasha unconscious with blood on her face.

“Shit,” Tony’s smile is wiped and he’s already moving.

“I have a jet, but you need to get her to the airfield to meet me.”

Clint knows.

He already has a plan, packing the laptop and change of clothes, and disarming the safe house, giving exact coordinates to how to get to them.

“Forty minutes,” Tony promises.

Clint hangs up, watching Natasha carefully.

He rubs her chest with force and with pain on her face, she rouses, swinging at his face as she comes round.

It’s lucky for her, that his reflexes make him duck, because her injured arm just hits air.

“Hey.”

He places himself in front of her.

“How you feeling?”

There’s a roll of her eyes and squint at the light as she wakes further.

“Hey,” he repeats.

Clint helps her into a sitting position, and she’s standing before he’s ready, supporting her shaky legs.

“We..” her voice cracks as she looks around.

“We’ve been made?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

“Tony’s coming to pick us up early.”

Natasha frowns, but follows his lead, exiting to the car.

“We’ve been made?”

It’s not the repeat of the question that alarms him, but it’s the same tone and confusion that accompany it.

“No, it’s okay, we just need to get you some help.”

She’s already shaking her head as she climbs in the car.

“Mmmfine,” she mumbles, closing her eyes and pushing her head against the headrest.

“Yeah, sure you are,” he mumbles back.

The drive is uneventful, except for Natasha asking a third time, if they’d been made.

“It’s okay, Natasha, you’re okay,” he tells her, laying a hand on her knee as he drives.

If only he hadn’t fallen asleep for so long.

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She dreams of Yelena.

Blonde hair, strut.

Black widow.

Of course she would have made it through.

Dreykov had taunted it, but she’d chosen to believe she was dead.

It was the kinder option.

Even the made up video hadn’t seemed real… fake videos were a way of life in the Red Room, used for blackmail and conversion.

She didn’t believe the videos of Yelena.

Not until today at least.

The transfer to the plane is a blur.

She knows Clint is with her, knows he’ll keep her safe, but she can’t seem to hold onto consciousness. It makes her panic and hold onto his arm tighter.

He placates her and tells her they’re almost there.

Where they’re going she doesn’t know.

“What about Yelena?” she whispers to herself, “we can’t leave her.”

But she doesn’t hear the answer.

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