Chapter 2
“It’s me,” he tries.
Glazed eyes stare, and he realizes she’s not with him.
Seeing but unseeing.
“Natasha,” he starts.
“You’re in your car, somethings happened.”
He’s as gentle as he can be, taking the gun off her, away from his head.
“‘Lint?”
She’s not all gone, he thinks, terror clawing at his throat as he smiles at her, trying to exude calm.
“‘Athappnd?”
Her eyes close, and she pushes her head into the car seat.
“Your head hurts?” he assumes.
“Yeah,” she breathes.
Clint wants to question her more, but he also wants to get her home.
“It’s time to go home?”
He doesn’t give her a choice. Unlocking the car, he leaves her to open the driver side door.
As soon as he opens it, the gun is at his head again.
“Natasha,” he admonishes.
“It’s me.”
It looks like it takes all the energy she has, to fully see him, lower the gun and stare at him.
“Clint?”
“Come on,” he prompts, helping her out.
The car with the broken window will have to stay here, she’ll be pissed when she realises but right now he doesn’t care, he’s an inch away from driving her to the emergency department.
She leans heavily on him, as he bundles her into the car, seatbelts her in and closes the door.
Natasha doesn’t talk, her eyes still closed even as he pulls into her apartment driveway to park the car.
“You’re home,” he prompts, unsure what to say.
He’s met with glazed eyes again, this time, when he touches her, he knows that her temperature is up.
He’s never known Natasha to be sick.
Not like this.
“Okay, almost there,” he holds her tight.
She grips his arm, but as soon as they enter the apartment she pushes off him and heads for the toilet, leaving Clint with Liho staring at him.
He shrugs to the cat and puts the kettle on, maybe some tea. Now is not the time for confrontation, he tries to convince himself.
But as he hears her vomit in the toilet, he knows there’s another one coming.
.
She passes out quickly.
Unable to handle Clint’s concerned look, Natasha knows he wants to ask.
But she has no answers for him.
She just… doesn’t feel well. She’s hot, her head hurts, muscles ache, nauseous and shaky. It’s not like she knows why, and she doesn’t have the brain space for the conversation.
So she avoids him and puts herself into bed.
.
“She’s gone to bed, hasn’t she?” he asks the cat.
He peeks into her bedroom and finds her curled onto the bed, face flushed, a tremor intermittently running through her. It’s not a seizure, Clint tries to convince himself.
He’s helpless.
He should call an ambulance, but he knows how that will go. She’s already pulled a gun on him twice. He doesn’t want a repeat of Zimbabwe.
Instead, he calls Tony. It’s not even five pm.
“Clint,” he hears the billionaires voice, “where’s Natasha? She was supposed to be here an hour ago.”
Stress makes him pace.
“She’s sick,” he tells Tony, unsure of what to say next.
“I’m worried.”
There’s a pause as he hears Tony stop.
“What do you mean?”
“She had a seizure when we were sparring, I don’t know if it’s her first one. She’s currently sleeping.. I.. Ugh.. I don’t know about last night. I think she’s got a temperature.”
There’s silence.
“Shit,” Tony breathes.
They both ruminate in silence; Clint unsure what to say next and he feels Tony is thinking a thousand things.
He sighs.
“Come here,” Tony tells him.
“We have a medical suite, we can get Bruce here, we can run tests.”
There’s a pause.
“It’s better than being alone.”
“She won’t want to,” Clint reasons.
“Yeah well, there’s a lot of things she won’t want to do I think.”
He knows Tony is right.
This isn’t normal. Not for Natasha.
“She’s going to be okay. Get her her here.”
The words feel hollow, as Clint goes to check on her again. She’s still asleep, still flushed, and as he reaches to touch her arm, warm.
He leaves the room, nodding.
“Okay, yeah. We’ll come, I’ll tell her when she wakes up. Can you do me a favour, her car has a smashed window,” he proceeds to tell Tony about the events of the afternoon and asks him to tow the car. It’s probably an unfair ask, but he figures Tony is rich and can work it out.
He agrees, of course, and offers to send a car to pick them up. Clint declines, hoping that Natasha feels better in the morning.
Maybe it’s just a bug.
Maybe it’s nothing.
He feels in his gut though, it’s something bigger.
He always trusts his gut.
Thanking Tony, they organize the day tomorrow, hoping nothing is needed over night.
Next, he calls Fury, and lets him know they’re both taking a personal day tomorrow. He doesn’t have to elaborate, and truthfully Fury likely thinks it’s a mental health day, but he doesn’t say much, not sure what to say.
.
Clint feeds Liho, patting her gently, turning on the television, and looking around. The box on the table has Russian candy and he unwraps it eating it as he goes to sit down.
It does not taste great. It’s like coffee mixed with chocolate, he’s not sure how he feels about it but curiously wants another.
The evening passes slow, and still Natasha doesn’t arise. He checks on her intermittently but nothing changes.
Once he tries to wake her, but she just rolls over and mumbles to leave her alone.
It’s nine pm, when his phone starts to die from playing games and looking up possible causes for Natasha’s fatigue.
He thinks maybe poisoning, that maybe antibiotics might help, that he just needs to get her to medical and they can be the ones to answer the questions.
He hears a groan from the other room and he gently moves Liho off his lap, as he checks again.
It’s clear she’s in a nightmare and he’s caught between waking her or letting her work it through herself like usual.
“Nat? Natasha?”
He calls her name in hope; but it doesn’t work.
Clint moves closer but is beaten by Liho jumping on the bed. It’s like she knows what to do, as she invades Natasha’s space and pushes her body near her face.
It seems to work, enough anyway for Clint to squat next to her and brush sweaty hair from her face.
“Hey,” he whispers, her eyes tracking him.
“You’re okay, you’re here with me, in New York, okay?”
There’s a slight nod in her head as she seems to understand what he’s saying.
He repeats it anyway.
“We’re going to go see Tony okay?”
She sits up, Liho moving to the end of the bed, and Clint climbing in with her.
“Now?” she slurs.
Clint hugs her close.
“Tomorrow morning,” he assures.
“How are you feeling?”
Likely it’s an unfair question, but he asks it anyway.
He can feel her mumble against him, a nonsensical answer.
Wishing he’d gone to the toilet and put his phone on charge before climbing in with her, he closes his eyes and pulls her close.
.
Irina sighs, her head pounding as she repeats the ballet steps.
First position, second position then third. Repeat.
She’s already sweating.
Natasha watches her friend carefully, the shake in her arms as she holds them in front of her.
Madam turns her back and walks to the door, they all see Dreykov hovering.
“Hold!” She calls out.
They all hold the position, legs crossed and arm in the air.
“Are you okay?” Natasha whispers to Irina.
“Yes,” comes the harsh whisper.
They were all in medical, getting injections yesterday. Natasha had felt hot but it seemed better when she woke up. Irina, however, had stayed tossing and turning all night.
She leaves it. If Irina says she is okay, Natasha won’t ask again.
The lesson continues as Madam hits them with her switch, correcting positions and making them do repeat it, again and again until they’re all sweating with exertion.
They’re made to line up, Irina trips and starts to shake, her eyes rolling back as her whole body convulses.
Natasha knows she’s not the only one who’s terrified. They gather round her, trying to protect her from Madam who calls the guard, commanding them back into position.
No one moves except the guard who picks up Irina’s body, restraining her movement.
There’s water on the floor that Natasha is sure wasn’t there before and Madam gives the call again, anger that she’s had to repeat herself.
“Hold position four,” she commands; and she leaves behind the guard.
The girls don’t dare move.
The hour rolls on and just as they start to adjust position, Madam returns.
“Line up.”
Natasha thinks she can detect a hint of concern on the normally taciturn voice.
“Take them to medical,” she directs their line handler. Natasha feels the dread plague them all.
.