Together (Clint/Coulson/Natasha)
She comes to in Medical, a blanket wrapped around her just tight enough to be comforting and a glass of water within reach; Clint is passed out on the floor next to the bed, still wearing his torn and bloodied kit though the quiver is long gone and she doesn't need to turn her head to know that Phil is passed out in the recliner on her other side.
(They'd had her in captivity for seventy-three days—not the longest she's ever been held, nor the shortest—and it'd been Tony and Cap who'd pulled her out of the holding cell because Fury'd forced Clint and Phil to remain behind. She'd find out later it wasn't due to their relationship, but to previously incurred injuries that were healing still and she'll also find out later that both her boys are fucking morons when she's not around because both their injuries had been incredibly preventable.
Anyway...)
Blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, Natasha scrubs at her eyes and takes stock: there's a bandage around her left shin and an aircast on the ankle, butterfly bandages over her left eye as well as her right knee and elbow. Mostly, though, she feels sore and tired and she's almost glad for the men who'd had no idea whom she was; their ignorance had meant they'd mostly left her alone, didn't torture her or torment her as they had more valuable victims at hand, and instead, kept her locked in a steel cell with barred windows.
She's already made the vaudeville jokes.
A nurse comes by and smiles when she sees that Natasha's awake. She has to step over Clint to check the IV pump, then asks if Natasha needs anything; she's completely unsurprised when Natasha requests her discharge papers, as there is no member of SHIELD's Medical department that isn't well-versed in the Avengers aversion to being hospitalized.
"I can see if Doctor Nguyen is available..."
Phil, voice low and rough from sleep, interrupts, "He told myself and Agent Barton he'd be back to look Agent Romanoff over at ten. No need to bother him just yet." He gives Natasha a pointed look and she sighs, but nods in agreement and the nurse leaves.
Clint, having woken when the woman had entered the room, rolls over then, stretching out and listening as his joints pop and snap and he yawns as he sits up. "Morning, beautiful," he greets, a lopsided smile on his lips and he climbs to his knees then crawls into the bed. "Our killjoy over there wouldn't let me get in with you until you were up."
"Considering where your knees have a tendency to end up when crammed into a small bed with other people, I would think you'd appreciate the fact that he stopped you from harm." Natasha curls into his arms even as she speaks, and smirks. "You know how I feel about your knees and my kidneys."
He chuckles. "Glad you're home. Phil's been bitchy without you here."
"And you've been a barrel of delight yourself."
"I'm a fucking ray of sunshine on a goddamn cloudy day. Now get in here and cuddle with your partners, asshole."
Released from Medical with a bottle of vicodin and a set of crutches, no time is wasted in getting Natasha home to the Tower; Phil drives, careful but quick as always, and Clint sits in the backseat with her, massaging the skin above the aircast and telling her all the gossip she's missed.
It feels good and the motion of the car is soothing enough that she dozes off, coming to when Phil eases the car into a spot in the parking garage and she groans, "I can sleep here."
"You can, but you aren't going to." Phil smiles at her in the rearview, Clint having exited the car to gather her things. He gets out himself, Phil, and he comes around to the open door, reaching in for her hands, helping her to scoot forward until she's leaning against the car with her weight on the good leg. He slings an arm over her shoulders, squeezing one and kissing her temple and Natasha knows she's in for at least a week of motherhenning.
(She really wishes that reality chaffed, but it doesn't. And she's actually kind of looking forward to baths with Clint and breakfast in bed with Phil and maybe the chance to commandeer the television without having to fight either of her boys for the remote.)
With the crutches pressed under her arms, she takes off for the elevator and Clint is muttering behind her, something about too quick for her own good; she's tempted to turn around and point out that Clint doesn't slow down when on crutches either but Phil thumps the back of his head so she doesn't. Instead, Natasha slips inside the waiting car when the doors open, and elbows the number for their floor.
It's not a particularly long ride, even to the upper floors, but it's long enough for Natasha to demand—and get—kisses from both Phil and Clint. "I'm okay," she whispers to them, "I wouldn't have even needed to spend the night in Medical if it wasn't for that board."
Which is true: her bumps and bruises had been incurred during the evac, but the injury that'd landed her on observation had come because the raised walkway between the facility and the running helicopter had apparently not been maintained, causing boards to snap under the feet of the retreating agents. One had simply given way when Natasha had stepped on it and even with her reflexes, she'd been unable to do anything but crash through, get to her feet, and keep running.
Neither one says anything though, and Natasha threads a hand through Clint's hair. Yes, definitely in for some motherhenning.
The rest of the ride, all ninety seconds of it, passes in silence and then only the rubber squeak of the crutches permeates the air as they head to their room, the suites the Avengers occupy empty but for the three of them; Natasha knows the rest of the team has dispersed, the weekend theirs as per Fury's orders, and she's glad for it. She really doesn't know if she could have put up with Stark right now, even with Pepper wrangling.
She flops down on their bed, happy to feel the down comforter under her, and begins to drift off again.
Clint manhandling her into pajamas snaps her back to reality and she slaps at his hands, taking the shirt and grousing that she's capable of changing, thank you very much. He almost looks contrite, but Phil kisses her temple again and she sighs and Clint smiles as he exchanges the scrub top for the soft cotton cami. Then she lays back, lifting her hips, for him to deal with the pants and lets herself be shifted until all three are under the blanket together.
Phil hums as the tension slides away. "I set the alarm for two hours."
"And I already turned it off." Clint shoves an arm under a pillow, the other thrown over her side to touch Phil's hip.
"Next dose of meds..."
Natasha hushes them both. "Sleep or I smother you."
They sleep.