Chapter 3
Clint is still asleep when she wakes, the clock reading 6.17am. Laying still, she tries to remember the fog of the night before. All she does remember is Irina’s shaking form and going to bed early.
Doing the math, Natasha realises she’s been asleep for almost 13 hours.
It’s something that’s never happened before.
In truth, it scares her, because she still feels tired and everything still hurts.
This is not going away.
She washes her face in the sink, looking at the shower. She wants one so bad.
A hot shower on aching muscles sounds like heaven.
But she knows she doesn’t have the energy.
Clint somehow knows. He’s at the doorway, and watching her.
He must have woken up as soon as she moved, his sniper senses tingling.
“Come on,” he says softly.
He strips his clothes off, putting the bathroom heater on, turning on the water and then pushes her to the toilet seat.
Gently he removes her hoodie, then her shorts and underwear.
Helping her up, he checks the water and gently nudges her inside.
Natasha lets out her hair, reveling in the way it seems to alleviate her headache that’s been with her for what seems like a lifetime.
“We’re going to see Tony,” Clint tells her gently, “he’s expecting us and has some ideas about how to help.”
He’s careful not to say medical, doctors, or anything that will make her balk at the suggestion, but she’s too smart for him and knows exactly what that means.
“Medical,” she says bluntly.
He hands her the shampoo and watches her fumble with the opening.
“Yeah,” he nods, taking it back off her to squeeze it into her hands.
“Do you have any idea what it is?”
Clint watches her closely, her eyes glazing, maybe tears as she rinses her hair.
“I don’t know,” she lies.
And he knows it.
“You’d tell me, right?” he asks of her, “if you knew anything?”
She motions for the conditioner and opens it, more confident this time.
“I don’t know, I want it to be a cold, the flu, something easy but maybe it’s something to do with the Red Room,” she admits.
He’s silent on her words, wanting her to say more.
She doesn’t.
But maybe that gives them a starting place.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
Natasha’s eyes don’t move, her grip tightens on the bottle, and her body goes rigid.
He’s seen her in dissociation before, this isn’t that.
“Nat?”
He touches her shoulder gently, trying to get her attention, but she’s not there. She’s gone.
He waits it out, keeping the water temperature constant and a hand on her in case she drops.
Clint takes her in.
She hasn’t lost weight, there’s no rashes on her body, just something messing with her brain. Something that’s increasing electrical signals, making the seizures come and temperatures spike.
The conditioner bottle drops and he hears her audibly take a breath.
“You with me?” he asks, guiding her to the shower bench seat.
She shakes her hand out and grasps the side but he can see the intermittent tremors that go through her arms.
“Hey, hey,” he sits on the floor, the water still beating down on them both, as she breathes heavy.
“Eyes on me,” he guides.
It takes a second but she does, pupils blown and panic setting in.
“I’m going to..”
The words come out in a wheeze, and she repeats them again. The world is running out of air.
“I’m going to die,” she covers her head in her hands and tries to take a deep breath. It fails, and catches and she tries again.
“Look at me,” he says again, gently pulling her hands down, and guiding her eyes towards him. He’d prefer to do this clothed as the water goes cool.
“We’re going to figure this out.”
He takes her other hand and turns the water cold purposely, changing the temperature, the shock clear when she feels it.
“Breathe, Nat,” he prompts, and he can see her trying.
“Good, that’s good,” Clint pauses, “again.”
“I can’t, I..”
Wide eyes stare as she can’t get words out, words that he doesn’t want to hear.
“Irina died, I’m going to die,” she gulps, words seemingly easier but the panic still staying.
He changes the water warm, and hands holding onto her still.
“Breathe.”
He opens the conditioner and body wash, and she seems to understand what he’s doing.
Turning off the water, he reaches to get the towels and wraps them around her back and on her lap.
“You can smell them?” he asks, gesturing to the bottles as he still has a hand on her in case she faints.
“Yeah,” she whispers.
“Breathe, yeah?”
It’s forced but it’s there. Again and again.
He dries her as she works to force air into her lungs. Tshirt first, then hoodie, and finally she’s pushing him away.
“I’m okay,” she bites out, teeth biting into her lip, clumsy hands pulling her underwear and shorts up.
He steps back, a shiver running through him as he stands with her and walks her to the bedroom.
“Sit,” he commands, “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He leaves her to dry off quickly, put his clothes back on and then, returns to her.
“We need to go to medical don’t we?” she asks, as he enters.
He sits next to her, her head automatically resting on his shoulder.
“Yeah, Nat, I think we do.”
.
The drive to the Tower is quiet. Neither Clint nor Natasha want to speak, both lost in thought.
They’ve both managed to have something to eat but the nauseousness that’s been plaguing Natasha still sits with her.
She only did it because he looked at her with such sadness that she felt guilt.
The memory of Irina seizing in ballet, and the repercussions of testing on all of them holds such memory in her that she’s sure the nausea is not from whatever is wrong: It’s fear.
She thinks that her body is failing her.
Shaking hands clasp together as she stares out the window, the car heading into basement of the tower.
Parking, Clint sighs, not moving even though the car is switched off.
“This is going to suck, isn’t it?” he says quietly.
Natasha can’t answer.
It’s obvious. Once they go in, they’re not coming out for a while. Something is wrong with her and it shouldn’t be.
He undoes his seatbelt and grabs the bag they packed.
They’ve stayed in the tower before, whole levels set up for them to live on, so they didn’t need much.
He knows the medical floor is not like a hospital, but the dread they both feel is like stepping into one.
Natasha follows a step behind him. The elevator opens for them without even pressing a button.
Clint takes her hand, and they walk in together.
.
Natasha is silent.
Even as they slide the IV in.
Even when they take blood.
Even when Tony comes in.
She doesn’t talk.
Clint thinks it’s protective, she’s not seizing, she’s not dissociated, she just seems… done. Over it. Shut down.
He wants to bundle her up and take her home. He knows how hard this is for her.
They put the heart rate monitor on her and it immediately betrays her. Clint knows it usually sits around 50, it’s nearing on 80.
She glances at the machine that tells all her secrets and she visibly takes a deep breath, relaxing her body into the chair.
It drops but not by much.
Tony leaves when they set her up for the EEG, the monitoring of her brain waves.
They take more blood, and Clint likens the nurse to vampires.
There’s not even a crack of a smile.
He does as much of the talking as he can for her, but he can’t answer some of the questions they have.
They look expectantly to Natasha when the doctor asks how long it’s been happening, if she’s experienced this before.
But there’s no answer.
Frustration curls at Clint.
“Nat,” he admonished, “tell them about Irina.”
He knows nothing except the name, and he can feel the anger boiling off her that he knows even that.
“Tell them,” he pushes.
To their credit, the doctor is patient.
Clint knows that Tony has likely got a doctor that is well informed on trauma.
It’s why they’re not in a hospital bed.
It’s why this room is sterile but has comfortable chairs and a table.
It’s why the nurses say exactly what they’re going to do before doing it, and wait for Natasha to say no, even though she just looks away in acceptance.
She licks her lips.
“It’s happened before,” she starts, “not to me, but to another girl.”
Natasha purses her lips.
Clint sees where she is stuck.
“How much of Natasha’s past do you know?”
The doctor holds up a blank piece of paper.
“As much as you’re willing to share,” she responds.
It’s clearly the right answer.
Natasha looks away, and speaks softly anyway.
“Tony has my medical file, it’ll clear up some questions, but you’ll have others. Come back when you’ve read it.”
Clint feels strangely protective of that file, like it’s got Natasha’s dark secrets in it and it shouldn’t be read by anyone.
He thinks it’s a good thing that she’s freely giving permission for the doctor to read it, she must trust her on some level.
The doctor nods.
“We’ll run more tests whilst I go through it. First the EEG, and then the CT scan and hopefully we will have more information,” she pauses at the door. “Okay?”
Natasha nods; a slight dip of her head.
There’s some small telltale signs that she’s stressed, the clench of her fist, the biting of her lip, the way she’s curled in on herself; and there’s nothing Clint can do.