Chapter 15
Dark eyes watch him, but she says nothing.
She hasn’t said anything in the six hours she’s been with them.
Since she woke up.
Clint won’t leave her.
She’s still in her widow uniform because they won’t do anything without her explicit permission.
She won’t give it, because she won’t answer.
So he waits with her, watches as she does and tries to ignore the tremors in her body as she stares.
.
“Theoretically she’s stable, according to Jarvis,” Tony announces. “From what he can tell, her blood pressure seems to be holding, her heart rate is fast but not dangerous and the tremors don’t seem to have a cause.”
He rubs his face, looking from Bruce to Clint then to Steve.
“I don’t know why she’s not responding, without more tests.”
Bruce points to the lab.
“I can try the antidotes I’ve made but I have no idea if it’ll work, or what else they’ve done.”
He pauses .
“You’ve got to get her to agree to something Clint,” he implores, “or even just testing, or start small, changing clothes, a shower, something; anything.”
Clint knows they’re right.
He looks to the room that Natasha is in, and sighs.
“I know.”
He just doesn’t know how.
.
“You need to drink something,” Clint tells her, being mindful of his words.
Eight hours in, and concern claws at his gut. He wonders if she’s in there and he keeps running over their conversation in medical.
“I know you,” she’d said.
“Are you going to kill me?”
Natasha has to be in there, otherwise she’s a shell, and all the evilness of the red room has bled in and carved her out.
He holds up a bottle of water, takes a sip first and then offers it to her.
She doesn’t move.
“Drink,” he tries.
She does. Shock pulls at him as he watches her take a sip.
The order seems to pull something inside and she does what he says.
“Nat, can you only do what you’re ordered to?”
Eyes stare at him.
“Speak,” he trials.
“Yes.”
Horror engulfs his body.
“Tell me what did they do to you?”
He asks it as an existential question but she answers anyway.
“Electrocuted me, injected me with things I’m not sure of, took my blood, burnt me, broke my arm, and made me fight,” she lists, takes a deep breath to continue.
He waits, wanting to ask so much more but he’s truly afraid at the repercussions of what they’ve done.
“Are you in any pain?”
He cuts her off from continuing.
It’s a sorrowful ask that she doesn’t respond.
It’s not phrased as an order or a question that he’s ordering her to answer.
“We need to X-ray your arm,” he starts, deliberate in his words. “We need to draw some blood, look at the burns and any other wounds.”
Clint holds his own hands as he summons his courage for his next words.
“Choose what to do first,” he orders.
There’s a pause as she seems to fight against the words.
“Blood,” she decides on, biting out the words as a snarl crosses her face.
Clint calls in the doctor and watches as she takes six different vials from Natasha’s unbroken arm.
He doesn’t say anything as he notices the tracks on her arms, and to her credit the doctor doesn’t either.
She did say she was injected, she neglected to say just how much.
“Choose what’s next,” he says as the doctor leaves.
“X-ray,” comes the answer, with a clench of her jaw and a piercing look.
Jarvis knows, he always knows; and always listening.
There’s a portable machine they’ve used before. This time it’s Bruce that enters with it.
“Hi,” he says gently.
The room is so quiet.
Clint stands at the door, waiting.
“Can you put your arm here?” he asks.
Eyes look to Clint as nothing happens.
He feels so emotional and knows he can’t stay here much longer. He doesn’t want to give her orders of things she doesn’t want to do.
Natasha wouldn’t want this. It feels as though she’s disconnected from herself that she can’t break through, and nothing he is doing is helping.
He gives the order.
“Put your arm in the machine.”
She does.
Bruce doesn’t seem to get it, looking from both Clint to Natasha, then takes the images as nothing more is said.
“Thank you,” he tells her, “all done.”
He removes her hand and wheels the X-ray machine out, looking to Clint as he exits.
“Get back in bed,” he orders, clenching his jaw, “and get some rest, I’ll be back.”
She dutifully does as he says, a slight furrow of her brow.
Clint leaves not daring to look back.
.
Pouring himself a drink, Steve looks at him in shock.
“You don’t drink,” he observes.
“No,” Clint answers, taking a swig.
“But you’re drinking now.”
Clint pours another.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Get Tony and Bruce,” he says, wiping his mouth, “I don’t care what they’re doing.”
He’s angry they’re not here already.
“The doctor too?” Steve asks.
Clint shrugs, “if she’s available.”
He skulls another, and pours one more, holding onto it, lost in thought til the other men arrive.
“What is it?” he demands.
Bruce and Tony share a look.
“She’s only responding to orders. Specific words. The way things are phrased. What is it?”
Bruce steps forward.
“There’s a compound they used, mixes with her nanites. It’s similar to what they had schematics for, but in her blood work, it’s different, it’s… worse.”
Tony steps forward.
“They’ve fixed her nanites though, she’s back to normal in that sense,” he tries, but it not enough.
“Fix it,” Clint growls, “fix what they’ve done because I can’t be giving her orders for the rest of our lives.”
His voice breaks and he drinks again.
“I can help,” Steve offers. To Clint that feels even worse.
“No.”
“How long?”
There’s another look and silence.
Anger reaches boiling point and Clint throws the glass at the wall.
“How long? How long do I have to keep giving her orders on things that she has no consent over? How long til you fix this?”
The shattering of the glass makes the silence in the room grow.
“Clint…”
“Fucking do it faster,” he finishes, storming out, unable to stop the flush of anger and hot tears on his face.
.
Clint sits outside her room.
He knows what needs to happen.
First he needs to get the widows uniform off her.
Needs to look at the burns.
She likely needs a shower.
He doubts they would have let her do that in the days since he saw her last.
They need to cast her arm.
Probably need to do more in-depth tests to make sure she has no trackers on her.
But all of that can’t be done, because she has no voluntary control. All of it he’s going to have to order her to do.
He’s so glad that he’s slightly drunk because there’s no way he’s doing this sober.
.
Clint sticks to the ordered choice. Offering two suggestions that she then has to pick one. It doesn’t make it better but the illusion of choice is something he needs.
“Shower or we look at the burns, pick one,” he tells her.
“Shower,” she says.
He nods. He would have picked it too, it means they can do both at once.
The bathroom is large, as they all are in the Tower but the one in medical is better; with seats and wet and dry areas.
Nothing is set up though. In his state, he hasn’t been prepared and doesn’t have clothes or anything ready.
Letting her into the bathroom, he waits til she turns,
“Maybe get undressed,” he says and she cocks her head. It’s not an order.
Fuck, it’s not something he ever wanted to order her to do.
“Um. Get undressed and wait.”
The immediacy in which she does it makes him feel like vomiting.
He wants to ask what happened in the Red Room. He hopes to god that no one made her do this.
Leaving the room before she is naked, he pauses to get his breathing under control then goes to get some of his clothes.
His hoodie that seems to big on her, his shorts that she likes and then picks up a clean tshirt of Tony’s and underwear.
He returns to find her naked.
Bruises in various stages of healing litter her body. She said made to fight.
His mouth hangs open.
There’s a wound on her thigh, her arm is clearly broken, and the burns are blistering.
Clint finds it hard to breathe. He knows he’s staring.
“Okay,” he says more to himself, swallowing every emotion down.
“Okay.”
“Sit.”
Pointing to the seat in the shower, she follows his direction. He takes the shower head off the wall and turns on the water.
Modifying the temperature, he starts with her legs.
“If it hurts, you must tell me to stop,” he orders.
For an instant it seems like she’s afraid, but when he looks again, the emotion is gone.
He washes away the blood, inspecting the wound. It seems to be healing, but still is deep.
“It’s going to need some glue maybe,” he tells himself.
He makes his way up her body, lingering near where she’s seated, tries to avoid the burns, and then keeps it away from her face as she stares straight ahead.
Unsure what to do with her hair, he decides that he’d just braid it back.
When she’s back, he’ll wash it for her. He tells her this out loud; tells her anything for this not to be so fucking hard and weird.
Shutting off the water, he covers her with towels.
“Dry yourself and get changed.”
He hopes he says it well enough that she can do it, follow it.
Stepping back as she stands, Clint leaves her, getting the medical supplies he left on the side table; when he re-enters she’s dressed.
“Okay, let’s do this slowly, just like we always do.”
He sighs.
“Jarvis, play someone you loved; on the medical playlist.”
The music starts, and Clint can feel his breathing level out.
Routines make this feel less weird and even though she won’t make eye contact he sits next to her.
.
There’s a part of her that’s fighting against herself.
There’s another part that’s too tired. She’s too far buried to push her way to the surface. The black widow knows best.
Help me, she wants to tell him.
She gives in to the orders because she can’t do anything else, there’s nothing that can happen without direct instruction, so why try?
Shame pulls at her as she gives in. Too weak to push past it.
Maybe she won’t even remember this. Maybe she won’t have to.
She loses time, again and again.
Help me, she thinks.
.