*******
"Just another day at the office, kicking ass alongside America's premier shady governmental agency," Tony says, popping his middle finger at Nick Fury, who glowers back as he leads his people out.
"Nat, look," Clint says. "There's Team Echo. And I saw Weiss and Stapleton in there, too." His eyes search the faces of the exiting Shield agents, and it's obvious he would love nothing more than to be called over, to be invited out to join the celebration that will undoubtedly take place. Clint Barton was officially pardoned by Shield for his actions while under Loki's thrall, but could never earn his way back into the good graces of his former colleagues. Even now, years later, he misses them, wishes things were different.
"Give it up, Hawkeye," Natasha advises bluntly. The mission had been easy, another success, but she's been edgy ever since they marched the last of the prisoners out. "They aren't your people anymore." He gives her a dark look, half wounded and half irritated.
"Who needs them?" Tony says airily, putting an arm around their shoulders and trying to diffuse the tension, but it might be too late; Clint looks pissed. "We're our own thing, and we can have our own victory party. It will be bigger, louder, more opulent, and full of better looking people. We can even have a theme, like 'Great Gatsby' or 'Fraggle Rock'. It's gonna be awesome."
Clint laughs dutifully with Tony, his eyes still on the departing agents. Natasha scowls, but then her lips twist into a slight smile.
Tony pinches her cheek, grinning when she slaps his hand away. "Who needs SHIELD, when you have a friend like me?"
*******
Tony doesn't notice things, not about people anyway.
He can tell if the bearings are off on one of his bots simply by the way it rounds a corner. He can correctly guess all the components of a weapon or machine down to the screw size, can intuit the interior layout of a building pretty easily from the outside. If there's a problem that can be fixed with technology of any kind, Tony Stark is the man to call. But he hadn't noticed for months when Natasha's hair went from curly to straight, or ever realized that another teammate wore hearing aids until someone else had pointed it out. And noticing anything to do with relationships or emotions...yeah, no way was that going to happen.
"People things," he once told Pepper, "are just not in my purview."
"Try harder," she urged, knowing that he would not.
And he didn't, because he was bad at it, and that was fine with him, and usually fine and certainly expected by everyone else. So when Tony Stark, of all people, notices that something is wrong with a teammate, then something is seriously wrong.
He can tell that something is not right with Natasha. She is different, somehow.
It isn't anything huge at first, just a subtle way that she distances herself, and that is not even incredibly noteworthy in itself, when one's history is as a Black Widow. But there is a gradual change in her since the last mission; she is quieter than normal and looks oddly uncertain, pulling further and further away from the rest of them. By the fifth day she stops coming out of her apartment at all.
He asks Clint if he thinks that something is wrong with her, but Clint just tells him not to worry. Tony tries to shrug it off then, because if anyone would know if something is off with Natasha it would be Barton--but he can't quite manage it.
*******
Tony finally forces himself to go to her apartment and try to talk with her, feeling as uncomfortable as he's sure she'll be. She opens the door just wide enough to peer out suspiciously. "Natasha? Is everything alright? You seem..." (weird weird sofreakingweird) "...not quite yourself."
"I'm just fine," she says with a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes, which look wary and unhappy. "But thank you so much for asking."
"Okay," he sighs. "If you say so."
*******
She tried to stop it, tried to stay away from them.
When she first heard its voice it was almost indistinguishable from the dark undercurrent than runs beneath everything she has ever said or done--the words of the Red Room, the voice of the Black Widow. Even now, years later, those voices are still there, and probably always will be, but more easily ignored after years of practice. But as the thoughts grew louder she finally realized they weren't hers at all.
It happened during the mission, the assault on the lab, she is sure of it. One of the men had spit in her face as Clint had cuffed him, and she had reflexively smashed him in the face with her pistol. Knowing Steve wouldn't like that, she had left the whole incident out of her report, as had Clint, who may or may not have also kneed the guy in the kidney on her behalf.
Something had been wrong with that man, he had infected her somehow, and now she is compromised.
She tries to tell Bruce, but it isn't as if words get stuck in her throat; no, words come out just fine, but none are the ones she wants to say. Instead she talks about what a nice day they're having and walks away smiling while screaming on the inside. She turns her hopes to Clint, thinking that their years together will allow him to pick up on some subtle sign that Bruce cannot, tries to signal him with her eyes. But he's either still irked at her or he's just being obtuse--Clint often sees the big picture only to miss smaller details. Whatever the reason, he notices nothing.
Only Tony--the last person she would ever had expected--seems to guess something is not right, and Natasha just has to hope that he'll actually do more than that, that he will try to help her despite her heartfelt assurances that everything is fine.
But as it gets stronger and Natasha grows weaker, she can't keep away from them anymore. She'll have to leave soon, and she wants them to come with her.
Because Stark had been right; they are a team. They should be together.
That's the only thing Natasha is sure of anymore.
*******
A week after the mission the odd distancing appears to be over when Natasha shows up in the training rooms to watch as Tony and Clint team up against Steve in hand to hand combat. Steve could still best them easily, but even he at times is guilty of underestimating his teammates' tenacity, and is more than a little surprised when Clint leaps onto his back and uses his bodyweight to pull Steve off balance while Tony attacks relentlessly from the front. The exercise ends with Steve sprawled out on top of a somewhat squashed but laughing Clint, while Tony gleefully stands above, one foot planted on Steve's chest, and proclaims their victory.
Natasha applauds and gives the scene a broad smile. "You're bleeding," she points out, and all three men scrub automatically at their faces, but only Clint's hand comes away bloody. "Come on," she says, reaching out to him. "I'll clean you up."
*******
And then Clint is different, too.
*******
It doesn't take as long for him to understand, because unlike she had been in the beginning, he isn't alone.
She thought about leaving him until last, because Natasha had always loved him most, but in the end she took him first, for the very same reason. He looks unhappy, and she is sorry for that. But soon enough he will not feel that way, as the days pass the Clint Barton parts of him will fade into the background and his thoughts will cease to trouble the consciousness that remains.
Clint thinks the others will know, will be able to tell they are different despite their unwilling efforts to conceal it. But she knows he is wrong. People are self-absorbed and thoughtless. They won't see.
He hadn't.
"It hurts," he says, putting a hand to his shoulder, then wincing and clutching his arm as it moves. "Is it supposed to hurt?"
She doesn't know, doesn't know anything about how it is supposed to be. It doesn't hurt her. Perhaps she had gone about it the wrong way; she kissed his injured temple before she bandaged it, and he smiled happily at the gesture. It had worked, and that was the important thing, but it was also wrong, and hurt him unnecessarily. She thinks she probably should have kissed him on the mouth, instead.
He had always loved her; he would have kissed her back.
*******
Now Clint acts just like Natasha had at first; all unsettled and oddly quiet, but flashing a big false smile when approached. It's somehow even creepier with the both of them doing it, and Tony has a vision of the entire team being slowly replaced by grinning, superficial versions of themselves.
"You really don't think they're acting differently?" he asks Bruce and Steve. "Like super weird and secretive...well, more so than usual, at least."
"No, I'm sorry, I don't see it," Steve says honestly, and Tony feels a rush of frustration when he and Bruce exchange a pointed glance. “They seem the same to me.”
"Have you been drinking a lot lately?" Bruce asks, obviously trying to make his voice as non confrontational as possible.
"Fuck you," Tony snaps back, and Bruce rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in mock surrender.
*******
Clint disappears into Natasha's apartment and neither one of them comes out.
"JARVIS, tell me what they are doing in there."
"Agents Romanov and Barton requested upon moving in that their private quarters never be observed, and you yourself confirmed this order." Somehow the AI has perfectly captured and replicated Steve and Bruce's doubt and disbelief.
"Well, consider it rescinded. Show me what they are doing."
"The agents disabled all cameras in their living areas twenty three months ago."
"JARVIS, goddamnit!" Tony grits his teeth in frustration. "You are born of my suspicious, devilishly clever brain. I know you can come up with something, and will, because you care about the members of this team in your own way. Something is wrong. They might need our help. So help me out, buddy—give me something to work with."
"There are still the sensors used to determine occupancy of a room in order to adjust heating and cooling more efficiently," JARVIS offers, sounding slightly less disapproving.
"Uh huh," Tony encourages. "Keep going, J, and feel free to use your big boy words."
"I could display a thermal image of the room for you, Sir. There would be no audio component."
"I'll take what I can get. Show me." Tony peers into the nearest interface, not knowing quite what to expect. They could be plotting gleefully against team, could be weeping onto one another's shoulders, could be doing the goddamn Mexican Hat Dance in there as far as he knows.
But they aren't doing anything. They sit side by side on the couch of her apartment, staring forward and apparently not talking. They remain that way so long that Tony has JARVIS double check the display to make sure it hasn't ended up on a loop or something.
It hasn't.
*******
He's surprised when they show up for Movie Night on Thursday, just like always. She parks in the big recliner usually reserved for Thor, whenever he is around, and Clint curls up against the arm of the sofa. It all seems deceptively normal, except for the way their eyes keep taking surreptitious glances at the others, the way she smiles but sits as still and stiff as a statue, the way Clint keeps stretching his arms and legs out uncomfortably.
"Alright, I know last week we agreed to watch 'Showgirls' tonight, but—"
"Did we agree on that?" Bruce interjects mildly. "I seem to recall the majority of us wanted a musical comedy, and I'm not sure that 'Showgirls' quite meets that criteria."
Tony holds up a silencing hand. "First of all, Brucie, 'Showgirls' is the artistic pinnacle of the modern cinematic era, but we'll have to shelve it for now. I've decided that we need to watch 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers' instead, to see if there were any lessons in there that may be applicable to our lives today."
Steve frowns at the title. "Is this another horror movie?"
"For some of us," Tony says, eyeing Natasha and Clint meaningfully.
About thirty minutes into the movie Natasha disappears into the kitchen and returns with a large bowl of chips. It's an unusual Movie Night snack, a bunch of tortilla chips dumped unceremoniously in a bowl, but she holds it out as if it were a prize. "We should all eat this," she says brightly. "Mmmm, it would be so good to eat this."
And for the first time Bruce and Steve seem to notice something amiss, exchanging an odd look but then letting it go, each grabbing a handful of chips and turning their attention back to the movie.
"Don't eat that," Tony blurts out, ignoring the quick, irritated look she gives him. It's not one of her classic Natasha scowls, but something darker, more calculating. "She's done something to it, poisoned it or something." He snatches the bowl out of her hands and sails it across the room.
Bruce gives a dismayed "Hey!" at the same time Steve demands "Tony, what is wrong with you?"
Their reactions are exactly what Tony would expect, but Natasha and Clint's are what he is really watching. When her frown turns into a bright smile as she wags her finger good naturedly, and Clint ignores everything, staring determinedly at the television screen instead of defending her, that's when Tony knows for sure. They are different, not themselves anymore. He's right, no matter what the others think.
And he's also sure that she's done something to the food, and both Steve and Bruce have eaten it.
Movie Night effectively ended, they scatter.
Tony doesn't sleep at all that night.
*******
The newest one joins them before the sun even comes up.
"Tony knows," he says, and she shrugs. "What happens now?"
"We finish here, and then we go to the others like us." He sits down on the couch with them, her in the middle. She pats his leg. She thinks that's the right thing to do, a thing that people find comforting. She does it again.
"Where are they?" he asks. "Back at the lab?"
"No." She makes a vague gesture south. "There. Out there. I'll be able to find them. As you become...more like me...then you'll understand. You'll be able to feel them, too."
"We should go now," the other says, and she feels a tug of pain at his voice—Clint, the Natasha part of her screams, that's Clint, and he still sounds mostly like himself. He is still struggling. "The food didn't work on Bruce; he's too strong. And Tony won't eat it. He's too smart."
"So I'll try again," she says. "We can't leave them behind. They belong with us. We belong together."
They look so unhappy, and while most of her knows that soon it will be better for them—it's early days for them yet, they will understand more as they change, which they will do more every day that passes—a part of her feels guilt, feels despair at what she has done.
She swallows hard and every last piece of her that is still Natasha Romanov digs deep to push the words out. "I'm sorry. But it can't be helped. Soon I... Maybe you..." She can't go on, and her voice is raw from the effort. Natasha hopes they understand, because it is all she can do; there's almost nothing of her left. They still have a couple of days where they can act. Maybe they can warn the others. Maybe they can still stop it.
But she can't do anything to help. Not anymore.
*******
Tony finds Clint standing in the hallway next to the elevator, just staring at it, as if he had been planning to get in and then just short circuited before it could happen. "Well, hey there, NotQuiteBarton," he says cautiously in greeting. Then, startled, adds, "Shit, you're bleeding."
"I am not," Clint answers automatically, and Tony smirks a little in relief, because an annoyed, knee-jerk denial of injury...well, that right there is classic Hawkeye.
"Blood is literally dripping from your body." He points and Clint's eyes widen when they follow Tony's finger to see dark drops on the floor beneath him.
"Huh," he says in mild surprise. "Well, I guess I am." He looks back up to Tony with a grin that is oddly stretched on his face, too wide and toothy to be a real smile. "Oh well." He shrugs dismissively.
Tony takes a hesitant step toward him. "How did you get hurt?" He reaches out to touch his friend's side, where it looks like the blood originates. "Let me see."
"No!" Clint snaps, suddenly more animated, moving backwards as Tony draws nearer. "I'll take care of it."
"Why are you just standing around in the hallway bleeding? Good God, what is with you and Natasha lately? Talk to me, please tell me what is wrong."
"Wrong with us?" Clint laughs incredulously. "What's wrong with you, Tony?" His voice turns serious, but it's a mockery, a charade of caring worry. "You have been so paranoid lately; it's really concerning. Maybe you need more sleep. Maybe you should talk to a psych—a psych—a psych—“ He jerks like a skipping record, either not knowing the word or unable to spit it out. His eyes settle on Tony, confused and terrified.
Tony grabs his shoulders. "Clint, if the real you is somewhere there inside this batshit persona, I want you to hear me. I'm going to get you back. Okay?" Clint twists away, gasping at the movement and gripping his right side painfully as Tony continues. "And as for you—whoever is nesting inside my friend's head—I'm going to tear you out. And I'm going to have help, too, because you done fucked up, Body Snatcher. You've hurt our Birdie somehow, and that's a bridge too far; even Bruce and Steve can't overlook that shit."
"Leave me alone. I'm fine. I'm just fine." Clint deliberately does not look at Tony as he turns on his heel and walks back toward his apartment, blood dripping steadily on the floor behind him.
*******
JARVIS tells Tony that Steve is in the communal kitchen, and Tony finds him standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring at nothing and drinking milk from the straight from the plastic container.
"Cap, we have a big problem with--" Tony stops short. "Uh...Steve?"
Steve does not pause in his drinking, but just rolls his eyes over to gaze at Tony, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he drinks and swallows endlessly. He finishes the whole gallon, sets it down, and then takes a staggering step forward to vomit violently into the sink. Tony jumps back as the force Steve uses to expel all of the milk causes some of it to splash back out, then extends a cautious hand toward Steve's back as the man straightens up and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.
"...Steve?"
He turns toward Tony as if nothing has happened, as if he doesn't stand there with drips of regurgitated milk rolling down his cheeks, the empty gallon jug still in his hand. "Hi there, how are you?" he says casually.
"Oh, Steve, not you too. Please God, not you."
"What's wrong with you, Tony? You have been so paranoid lately; it's really concerning. Maybe you need more sleep. Maybe you should talk to a psychologist."
"Yeah, someone's already suggested that," Tony points out, and is backing away as Steve fills the empty gallon jug with water. "You just, uh, stay here and enjoy doing...whatever the hell it is that you are doing." He turns and makes a beeline for Bruce, hoping against hope that the scientist remains himself.
*******
"Clint's hurt? How so?"
"I have no idea. He's bleeding, Steve's puking, and God alone knows what she's doing. I'm honestly afraid to know."
"Tony, this just all sounds so..." Bruce gestures vaguely, and in that moment Tony wants to throttle him. "I'm kind of in the middle of something important, and you've been so weird about them lately."
"Am I ever this obtuse when I'm involved with one of my experiments? Because if I'm anywhere as clueless as you then I'm giving up inventing forever and taking up the study of...I dunno...mindfulness or some shit. Bruce Banner, listen to my words: I am telling you that our teammates' mental faculties are circling down the toilet bowl even as we speak. Are you going to help me to help them, or are you just going to keep looking like an idiot?"
Bruce frowns and Tony scowls back. Finally the scientist sighs loudly and pinches the bridge of his nose. "JARVIS, can you tell me where they are, what everyone is doing?"
"Captain Rogers is in the kitchen area, drinking a beverage--."
"And then probably barfing it," Tony points out.
"--Agent Romanov is sitting on the couch in her living quarters--"
"And staring into space like an unplugged RoboRomanov," Tony adds, and Bruce's frown deepens.
"--and Agent Barton is in his bathroom and appears to be injuring himself."
And finally, finally, someone reacts the way they are supposed to, can't help but believe at last, and it took someone physically hurting themselves and the validation of an artificial intelligence to make it happen. They sprint toward Clint's apartment, not willing to even wait for the elevator.
*******
Clint looks up in surprise as they skid into the room, his face wide eyed and guilty. He is wearing only boxers and sitting in the bathtub, a knife still stuck in his lower leg where they had interrupted him mid-cut. There are similar cuts all over; long neat ones on his legs and arms, one on his lower abdomen that must be the one Tony saw bleeding earlier, and some ragged ones along his back, clumsily hacked into the areas he could not reach easily. The bathtub is soaked in blood, long smears of it also up on the tiled walls.
"Why?" Tony demands, horrified. He looks at the wounds, the blood, and can't decide whether he feels more like yelling or weeping. "Why did you do this to yourself, Clint? Oh my God."
Clint's face is a carousel of expression as it runs through emotions--suspicion, fear, embarrassment, anger--and finally settles on a huge friendly smile. There is an almost audible click as it slides into place. "Hey guys!" He says it brightly, as if he had invited them here and is delighted that they have finally shown up.
"Hey..." Bruce says cautiously, reaching out and advancing slowly, his eyes moving constantly between the knife and Clint's face. "Give me that, okay?"
"I accidentally cut myself," Clint says casually, pulling out the blade, then reaching out with a dripping red arm to grab the bathtowel that hangs nearby. He drops it down over the wound on his leg, as if covering it up will make them forget it is there. Blood blossoms on the fabric immediately.
"Oopsie daisies," Tony chimes in sarcastically, matching Clint's tone. "Just another classic case of the ol' Barton butterfingers, right?"
"That's right." He nods eagerly, his smile wide but gruesome, looking like he is screaming between clenched teeth.
"Come on out of there," Bruce says, ignoring the exchange, his voice still guarded and heavy with concern. "Put that knife down and I'll get you all sorted out. I can help. There's nothing here that can't be undone, Clint. We'll fix all of it together. Okay? I'll help you."
Clint's smile remains, but fades a little around the edges. "You'll...help?" His voice is still overly cheerful and his face grows paler as blood steadily fills the bottom of the bathtub. "Can you--" his breath catches suddenly and Clint's eyes dart around the room, as if looking for some unknown enemy. "Bruce, can you?" He suddenly sounds like himself as grabs Bruce desperately around the neck with one arm.
Bruce's hands squelch and slip on the bloody edge of the tub as he is pulled off balance and he almost tumbles in on top of Clint. For one tense, horrible moment Tony is sure that Bruce will hulk out right then and there in that cramped bathroom, but nothing happens, probably because Barton's terror is so tangible. Clint has always gotten more leeway than anyone else when it came to the Hulk, who harbors an inexplicable softspot for his most reckless teammate.
"I will, I'll help you," Bruce assures him, struggling to maintain his composure, regaining his balance and carefully dislodging the bloody hand that grips him.
"It's just--I can't--it moves fast and I can't--" The knife clatters in the bathtub as Clint reaches back with both hands to dig at his shoulder blade, working his fingertips into one of the cuts there. And when he twists at just the right angle, and the overhead light catches the movement, Tony sees it.
It is as if a snake moves beneath the skin, something small in diameter and maybe five inches long, slithering fast along his ribcage as if seeking refuge. Tony reacts immediately, bringing his hand down upon it, hard, the thing writhing grotesquely under Tony's fingers, trapped in the space between Clint's skin and his ribs. "Get it, Bruce--Jesus, get this thing!" It thrashes around some more and Clint moans.
Of the three of them only the man that turns into a Hulk when stressed does not panic while he picks up the knife and adds another wound to Clint's collection; a small, neat Y shape that he opens immediately. Bruce pinches the creature between his thumb and forefingers and pulls it out as Clint cries out in pain and Tony cries out in horror. Bruce pins it to the floor and segments it rapidly, and Tony is more than a little afraid that each piece will somehow reanimate and attack.
But they don't; it stays dead.
*******
Bruce uses towels and applies pressure to the worst of Clint's injuries, his breathing as even and careful as he can manage, while Tony paces impatiently. Clint is conscious, but just barely, and keeps asking for Natasha as Bruce shushes him.
"Now, I can't say I saw that coming," Tony says, still a little jittery with adrenaline, "but maybe next time I tell you someone is in trouble you'll fucking believe me, huh?"
Bruce just looks at the creature on the floor and shakes his head in disbelief. "Do you think Natasha and Steve also have one of those...things...swimming around in them? Can we cut them out, get them back to normal, too?"
"Food," Clint slurs weakly. "Was...innis food."
Tony thinks of Steve chugging milk and throwing up in the sink. "Steve is trying to get it out, like Clint. But he couldn't cut his out; I think it's in his stomach. Is that right, Clint?"
But he's passed out and doesn't answer. Bruce lays a hand on his pale forehead. "Do you think they'll let us take them to SHIELD?"
"I doubt it. But we're gonna take them anyway."
*******
She knows she doesn't look right, that she's supposed to do something to look better, but can't remember what it is. She picks up the hairbrush and holds it uncertainly. Maybe it will help her to fool them. She's not sure how it would, can't think of what it does. It will be better, she thinks, when they find the others, when she can be told what to do.
The other one comes in. She can't recall his name. "They'll be coming now," he says. "Tony was going to get Bruce."
She doesn't remember those names either, but she understands well enough. "Let them come. That's just right, that's just perfect. I will make them like us." That will be a good thing.
"How will--?" He trails off vaguely. "You won't be able to trick them." He looks at her skeptically, taking in her appearance. "Not anymore."
"You are strong still," she tells him. "You can hold them and I'll..." She searches for words, then smiles when the idea strikes. "I'll give them a kiss. It worked for...the other one. And I'll do it right this time."
There are only two things she knows now; that she must go to the others, and that she must bring the ones here with her, because she had loved them. That's what she remembers, even if she can't remember their names. She had loved them, and still does, even if she can't remember why.
"Here," he says finally, and takes the brush. "Like this." He pulls it through her hair gently, makes it look better.
"Pretty," she whispers into the mirror. "Pretty, pretty, so pretty."
There's a knock at the door.
*******
"Natasha," Tony says.
She looks terrible, as if she hasn't showered in days or eaten for longer, but her face is set with the same resolve that has always moved her forward through a dangerous, treacherous world. But at the same time there is nothing in her expression left of Natasha, who followed her most scathing insults with a quick, wry grin, who out of a world of billions had chosen to only trust the Avengers.
Tony looks down at her abdomen, which is, now that he is looking for it, noticeably swollen. Something moves in there, making a ripple of skin against her shirt, and Tony imagines a creature like the one they had pulled from Barton swimming about lazily inside of her, turning and looping like an eel.
"Hi there, how are you?" She smiles.
"You need to come with us."
"Where?" She takes a step toward him. Tony sees movement from the corner of his eye and can just make out Steve in the shadows, also moving closer. Bruce hangs back in the doorway, but his eyes also go to Steve, reading the threat there.
"We're taking Clint to SHIELD Medical. He's lost a lot of blood. He needs you."
A quick look of confusion passes over her face, then her features smooth back into a bland, friendly mask and she ignores his words entirely. "Come here, I want to tell you something." She reaches out as if seeking a hug. "Come here."
"Natasha, come with us to SHIELD. We want to get you back. You're...not well."
"I'm fine. I'm just fine."
"Tony," Bruce starts to warn as he sees Steve moving from the shadows, then gasps, gritting his teeth painfully, ready to change and dreading it. "Tony, oh my god, please don't let me hurt them!"
He cries out the last words as the Hulk tries to tear from his body and Steve makes his move. Tony throws his arms up defensively, ready for an attack, but Steve barrels forward and wraps his arms around Natasha instead. His wide, horrified eyes meet Tony's.
"Do it," he gasps. "Take us both before I can't--."
Bruce clutches his head and breathes through clenched teeth, trying to rein the Hulk back, while Tony swiftly administers the sedative he'd palmed. She goes down in betrayed disbelief, and Steve holds her even when she is unconscious. He makes no move to stop Tony as he is given his own dose, looking relieved as he slides into oblivion.
*******
Epilogue
SHIELD refuses to release Clint from isolation until he starts acting consistently coherent, but the archer is still too giddy with relief and pain medication to pull it off. "They can let me out aaaaanytime," he drawls, high as a kite. "S'okay now. You killed my worm baby. Killed it and cut it alllll up!" He laughs and makes chopping motions with his hand to emphasize his point.
"Try to go back to sleep," Bruce admonishes gently, exchanging an amused glance with Steve, and puts his fingers against the glass that separates them. "One of us will be here when you wake up."
*******
Natasha is tired and pale after surgery, but she is herself. She doesn't apologize, which is a relief--it wasn't her fault any more than it was anyone else's.
Tony shifts uncomfortably in the chair next to her. He's not good at this stuff--hand holding and hospital vigils--but he's here all the same, he and Bruce and an already healed Steve splitting their time between her room and Clint's. He picks a little at her blanket, smooths out imaginary wrinkles.
"As soon as you guys are all better I guess we need to start thinking of how we go about finding...whoever it was that made those things, or found them," he says. "Any thoughts on where to start?"
Natasha shakes her head. "They could be anyone. They could be anywhere, or everywhere. I knew where to find them, before, but now it's all unfocused, like trying to remember a dream." She sighs. "All I can remember is that I needed you guys with me. That I couldn't leave without you."
"For what it's worth," Tony tells her with a grin, "I actually appreciate the sentiment. We're a family, and dysfunctional as hell, like all of the exciting ones. Now we just need sibling rivalry, group photos in coordinating outfits, and a drunken argument at Christmas."
Natasha gives him a ghost of a smile--the careful one that is all hers, all Natasha Romanov. "Thank you for seeing, Tony. I was so afraid...so afraid that no one would."
"Well," he says, awkwardly pleased, clearing his throat a little, "who needs a mind controlling parasite when you have a friend like me?"
*******