Chapter 2
3/
The night is rough.
They stay in the hospital wing.
There’s drugs in Natasha’s system that sends off flags. Residual adrenaline, and some other run of the mill drugs, but nothing that Bruce can find that would give her such fear of being asleep.
It’s psychological.
It’s clear from her demeanour, though her shaking hands and hyper vigilance, make Clint think that other things have happened that they can’t test for.
He wants to ask.
Is desperate to ask.
But he doesn’t.
Instead he sits with her throughout it the night, holding her tight, changing positions, talking about stories from the past.
The hours are slow.
He wonders if it’s the same for her.
He thinks it is as she apologizes, and tries to push him towards bed.
She tells him she’ll be fine, as shaking hands drink water.
As she comes back from the bathroom with a wet face, clear that she’s tried to use water to refresh herself.
“Sorry,” she apologizes again as he licks his lips and changes his position.
The silence that follows is loud, her apology hanging.
He regrets the look at the time.
3.15am.
He sighs.
Even a couple of hours.
“You can go to sleep,” she whispers, “I’ll be okay.”
He throws her a look, knowing he needs sleep.
Especially if tomorrow is like today.
Images of her being rolled out of the van play in his mind.
He wonders that even if he did sleep, would he dream?
Would he wake up gasping?
Would he have dreams?
He doesn’t know.
He offers her water, and she takes it, sipping it gratefully.
“Come on, lie down with me,” he offers.
He’s tired. He wants sleep but he wants to keep her safe more.
It’s four am.
The night almost done.
He yawns heavily, and finally she talks, voice hoarse; he thinks she’s reached a point where she’s going to fall asleep, so all that’s left is for her to talk.
It’s self preservation.
To keep herself awake.
Clint yawns.
He prompts a yawn from Natasha and he pulls the cover a little higher around them.
“She’d threaten you. She said if I fell asleep, she’d kill you. They’d monitor my heart rate, when it dropped below a level, they’d electrocute me. They said.. They left you alive. Clint, she didn’t want anything. But she kept me awake, just to torture me.”
She swallows hard.
Clint puts his hand over hers, her fingers picking at her cuticles. Looking up to him, she reaches for his face.
He closes the gap and allows her to touch his face.
“She said that I killed you. Every time I fell asleep. That I wanted you to die. She’d count down, tell me that I only had five chances left. Time was a loop. I couldn’t hold it anymore. I think she wanted me to sleep because then she’d wake me up with drugs, adrenaline, I think. Then leave me. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I was handcuffed. I couldn’t move.”
She huffs and he knows she’s crying.
He doesn’t comment.
Holding tight onto her hand, he squeezes it gently.
“I don’t want you to die, Clint.”
He nods.
“I’m not going to die, Nat,” he assures her.
She shakes her head.
“This isn’t real,” she moans.
“We’ve been here before, don’t you see? I can’t tell if I’m awake or asleep, and if I’m asleep, then when I wake, you won’t be here. She’s going to kill you.”
She turns and the tears continue down her face.
“I’m asleep. You’re not real. This is just my mind conjuring images. I was asleep? I am asleep? Am I awake? You… They woke me? And now we’re here.”
She settles back in against him. He words jumbled and not making sense.
“You’re not real,” she repeats.
“But I wish you were.”
.
Tony watches through the camera as Clint settles with Natasha holding onto her. Trying to reassure her.
It’s voyeuristic.
He knows and he doesn’t care.
They accuse him of being unfeeling.
They accuse him of being materialistic and for having the emotional range of a robot.
But he knows.
His friends mean everything to him.
He hears Natasha’s lament of it not being real.
Of the way she tells Clint that tries to reassure her but it only serves in distressing her.
That she tries to argue back.
8 hours they’ve been awake throughout the night; it feels like a lifetime longer. He glances at the time.
Just past 5am.
Tony hasn’t slept either, so used to working through the night. He feels it in his body now though, the way the thoughts come slower and his body feels heavier.
Rolling his neck, Tony focuses on the screen.
Runs the program again to try and get a reading on the van that dropped her off.
He hopes Bruce has something. Furthermore, he hopes Bruce has slept.
He tries to call Steve again, but the number predictably doesn’t even call through. Fury needs to know, to get Steve back from the diplomatic mission in France.
Tony would, but he feels it shouldn’t come through him. Perhaps if it wasn’t based on diplomacy he would; but even he understands the furthering of relationships.
He watches Clint lift Natasha, urging her to go to the bathroom, watches as he tries to reason that it’s real because If she was captured, if this wasn’t real, they wouldn’t let her do so.
Jarvis speaks, his low tone breaking Tony’s concentration on the screens.
“Sir, we’ve found the van.”
.
Natasha’s vision blurs.
She feels so nauseous and confused. She tries to hold onto her thoughts but they seem fleeting and the ones that circle are just images.
Even as she talks to Clint, she expects him to disappear. It’s the way it happened before. She thought that maybe it was real, but she doesn’t want to trust it.
She doesn’t know; and it’s what keeps throwing her.
He feels real.
She doesn’t.
It could be, that the woman is going to come through the door.
Laugh at her.
Shoot the apparition of Clint.
Shoot her.
The threats had felt so real.
After the car accident…
She knew they’d sedated her.
Then they’d woken her.
Then they’d…
It sounds like such a simple thing, they kept her awake.
She’d said to Clint that they’d threatened him.
It was true.
But it wasn’t the whole truth.
Because it was about her.
It was always about her.
She was the one that deserved it, the unending torture of being awake.
Being shown images of death and destruction that she had wreaked on the earth.
Constant images of kills she’d made.
It was horrifying.
It was torture.
She wasn’t that person anymore.
She wasn’t controlled by anyone.
Not even shield.
Even as she tried to tell them that, the words fell flat; because she was that person. It was part of her, no matter how much she tried to atone.
The images, the things she’d done, it was her fault.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she believed the woman.
She deserved all of it.
Even if she could have fought back; she wonders if she would. The images, pictures and videos that she’d long forgotten were fascinating.
She knew them, but seeing them was different.
The real red in her ledger.
Part of her wanted to see it.
She knew this wasn’t atoning, it was not what they were aiming for, but maybe something else.
An eye for an eye.
Blood for blood.
The revenge that the woman wanted.
The drugs, the electricity, the pain, somewhere in the back of her mind, Natasha knows she deserves it.
Images play again, blurred.
The thoughts she was thinking gone as Clint moves.
What was she thinking?
She feels nauseous.
She wonders if standing, moving might help.
It’s wrong.
She can’t stop the vomit that comes up as she crouches on the floor.
Natasha freezes.
The smell and splash of bile makes her scramble back as Clint moves quickly towards her.
“Shit, shit,” he mumbles.
She moans.
He’s going to disappear now.
They’re going to come.
She vomits again.
Less this time.
It goes down her front, and leaves her paralyzed unsure of what will happen next.
Her vision blurs.
.
Clint swears.
He had felt her body grow hotter, then she’d moved, vomited and he’d sworn.
Not the best reaction but one that had come out without him even thinking.
Her moans had torn at his heart as they’d both moved away. He knows she thinks this isn’t real.
He keeps trying to think of ways to make it real for her.
She won’t make eye contact with him, scrambling back and vomiting again.
He freezes.
“Natasha.”
He tries her name, wondering if she’s dissociating, whether she’s with him.
God he’s so tired.
It’s only been the night, but the hyper vigilance to make sure she’s not going to abscond or hurt herself has made sure that Clint hadn’t even contemplated sleep.
“Nat,” he tries.
Unfocused eyes look up at him and he offers her a hand to stand.
She does on shaking legs, clasping his hand and forearm like it’s a lifeline.
“It’s okay, you’re okay, no one’s coming,” he assures.
She stares at the door like someone will come bursting in.
“No one’s coming,” he repeats.
The tiniest of nods comes and he wishes he knew what was happening inside her head.
“Maybe some fresh clothes and a shower might help?” he offers, unsure if it’s a good idea, but also knowing that wipes won’t get the acidic smell out.
There’s a small nod again, and he leads her on unsteady feet to the large adjacent bathroom.
.
Natasha wants to vomit again. The smell of it on her clothes and the movement to the bathroom has made her feel dizzy and uncomfortable. The room is spinning but she holds onto Clint like her life depends on it.
He’s warm.
The apparitions were never this warm.
Her mind, conjuring his face on anyone.
He’s not real.
If it isn’t him, she’s willing grasping a stranger and going into a shower with them.
The bathroom is a good place for a show down, she thinks.
If it’s Clint, he’ll understand.
If it’s not, at least this apparition will end, they’ll show their true colours. The woman will return, but the uncertainty will end.
With resolve, she takes a step forward, using the hand that’s holding onto the Clint shaped man and pulling him forward, using his own body weight to bring him up and into her knee.
There’s shock on his face as she punches out, hitting his lip, narrowly missing his nose.
The second punch, he seems ready for, a quick block as he scurries around her, holding up his hands.
“Stop!”
She doesn’t want to.
Two steps forward and she kicks out, hitting his leg he moves back, hitting the wall. It’s the first bit of control she’s had over her body in weeks.
“Natasha.”
The name comes as a warning.
He catches a punch and pushes her back.
“Stop,” he repeats.
The punch lacks force behind it and Clint dodges the first but the second, catches him off guard, coming out of nowhere; the force sending him back into sink.
He exhales, winded.
Natasha heaves a breath, staring.
“Why?” he asks, hurt.
He knows it’s not her fault, but in the moment, the attack hurts more than the punch.
“You’re not real,” she huffs, but even as she looks around, she can tell that the argument is losing steam.
She’s tired.
Clint is still Clint.
The woman hasn’t come.
Her head hurts and she’s so confused, because if the woman isn’t coming, then he’s real.
And if he’s real…
If he’s real…
The realization comes crushing down
“Clint?”
She holds herself back and looks to the door.
There’s no one coming.
She holds her arms up.
Surrender.
She can’t look at Clint, and the hurt on his face, instead she finds herself in the mirror.
It’s fascinating.
The person in the mirror copies her actions, the way she moves as she closes the gap.
She touches her hair, or lack there of it, gently, tentatively and stares.
.