Fallout Patterns (5/?)
This is an ongoing fic. Typically I don't share anything until it's done. But this one is long and I'm actually not exactly sure where it is going or how long it's going to be. Since it's already seven chapters on AO3, I figured I'd start posting it here too. I'll put it on be_compromised when it's complete just because I'm not sure of all the warnings.
THIS FIC IS TRIGGER HEAVY
Title: Fallout Patterns
Rating: Mature
Warnings:Suicide, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempts, Self Harm, Dubious Consent Sex, POSSIBLE eating disorder allusions, other warnings may apply
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.
--Pablo Neruda
Chapter Five: Goes My Fare Thee Well
Coulson called Clint the morning after they returned. Clint rolled over and groaned, answering the call and stuffing his face back into his pillow. He mumbled into the phone, ‘Barton’.
“Get up,” Coulson said in his dry clipped voice.
Clint sat up on his elbows. He rubbed his face, exhausted down to his bones. He had been awake for more than forty eight hours when they landed ten hours before. Coulson had debriefed them on the car ride from the airport back to the base since they had taken a commercial flight, and Natasha had been taken, in handcuffs, like a criminal, to the medical ward. He had watched her leave with a growing sense that he had let her down in some way. Coulson had tried to talk to him but Clint had waved him off, stumbled back to his room, taken two Advil PMs and passed out in all of his mission clothes still.
He asked, “Is she okay?”
“This has nothing to do with her,” Coulson told him. Clint said nothing and Coulson sighed. “She’s fine. Get up. Come by my office.”
Clint muttered, “Eight hours of sleep in the last thirty six. If I go clinically insane, I’m blaming you.”
“Accepted. Shower. You smelled rank yesterday.” Coulson hung up.
Clint dragged himself into the shower, the first one since waking up and discovering Natasha was gone. He scrubbed his skin with the soap until his skin was raw and as red as her hair. He scrubbed off every inch of her, every inch of his guilt, every inch of the doubt in his mind. He scrubbed until he was sure there was no layer of her left on him. He scrubbed until lines of blood appeared on his chest and arms, and he sank to the floor of the shower, holding his head in his hands. If he was still a child, he may have cried, but he couldn’t find the release for his tight throat and his chest that strangled his heart in silence. He threw his head backwards against the wall and reveled in the pain that shot through his tired skull.
He traced and retraced every interaction he had with Natasha and, in retrospect, he saw the signs. He could think back to moments after missions or during missions when he had been somewhat aware that something was off with her, that she wasn’t quite as connected as she always was, but he had shaken it off, chalked it up to Natasha being a bit of an aloof cold person in general. In retrospect…well, hindsight was 20/20 for some people, but Clint’s vision was sharper and better than most people’s and maybe it worked on hindsight the same way.
He sat on the floor of his shower stall for a long time, just letting the water run over him. He finally got up when his hands and feet were pruny and shut off the water. He toweled himself dry and found clean clothes in his drawer, probably courtesy of Coulson who realized that Clint’s ability to handle life outside of the field was remarkably limited. He pulled on a jacket to cover the raw and bloody patches on his arms, slipped his hearing aids back on, and headed to Coulson’s office. He avoided eye contact with people in the hallways, and he did not listen to what people were saying. He knew how it looked the night before when they touched down. He knew what the scuttlebutt would be saying.
He didn’t bother knocking on Coulson’s door. He walked in and shut it behind him, tossing himself on the couch with a groan and staring at the ceiling. Coulson walked around the desk, locked the door and sat on the end of the couch, surveying him with an openly worried expression.
“I was going to take you out of the field,” Coulson said quietly, his hazel eyes narrow and sharp.
Clint frowned. “I wasn’t the one who pointed a gun at their own head.”
Coulson didn’t flinch at the anger in Clint’s voice. He replied smoothly, “No, that was your partner, the only partner you’ve kept for more than a single mission. And you brought her in. So I think I would consider you a compromised agent right now.”
Clint scowled at the crack in Coulson’s ceiling. He paused and said, slowly, “You said you were going to take me out of the field. What changed?”
“I have a rogue agent,” Coulson said simply. “We’re taking out one of our own. And I wouldn’t ask someone I considered to be fragile right now but I need this to stay quiet and I need it done right, so you’re the only option I have.”
Clint sat up, meeting Coulson’s sharp hazel eyes with his own sharp gray ones. “Who?”
“Kief Adams. He was working on a project aimed at preventing the Chechen separatists from obtaining the raw fissile material necessary to create dirty bombs. He turned. He shot two of our own and a Russian military officer overseeing the transfer of nuclear waste from former Soviet labs into US hands. A few weeks, his fingerprints were found at the scene when police in Arlington, Virginia responded to a home invasion and murder of a Soviet nuclear physicist who moved to the US under the Nunn Lugar pact in the early 90’s. We tried to make contact with him then and had no response. We made contact with the six other members of his team. Two of them are dead and were shot with SIG P226.”
Clint nodded. It was a favorite gun amongst SHIELD operatives who liked a pistol that accepted a wide variety of ammunition. It was light and comfortable to carry too. “And the other four?”
“One is missing. One said he saw Adams shoot the other two. And the other is still at his post and in deep cover. We have eyes on him and he hasn’t appeared to have gone rogue, so we’re not contacting him at this time.” Coulson reached over and took a manila folder off his desk.
“We need you to take out Adams. It can’t look like it was us. And he must be a confirmed kill. Record it. This is top secret.”
Clint’s mind switched into mission mode. He nodded. “Got it.”
“The map and drop site are here. You’re on your own until ex fil.” Coulson handed him the folder. “You leave at 1800hrs.”
“Yes, sir,” Clint said, opening the folder and beginning to flip through the sparse briefing material required.
What he was most interested in was-yes, here, Coulson had brought him the weather and wind patterns for the last month and the previous years’ data over the same time period, as well as topographical maps and excellent photos of the target. Coulson went back to work with his desk and people came in and out over the next few hours, but Clint remained a fixture, cross legged and intent, on the couch where he studied the maps and patterns until everything sank into his mind. He rose silently, closed the folder that Coulson took from him and slide into a locked safe under his desk, and he headed to the door.
“Phil,” Clint said, his hand on the doorknob and his back to Coulson. “Can I see her? Before I leave?”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Coulson replied after a momentary pause.
Clint did not know if his friend and handler was talking about wisdom for him or Natasha. He looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “I’d like her to know that I didn’t just walk away from her.”
Coulson’s face was unreadable. “Go ahead.”
Clint made his way down to the medical ward. He stopped by the desk, plastered a smile he knew worked on his face and said, “Hey, Clairy.”
The nurse at the front desk glanced up at Clint, her eyes widening and she bit her lower lip, smiling back. “Agent Barton. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here to see Agent Romanov.” He kept the smile on his face, leaning forward slightly while shifting onto his elbow.
Claire frowned, her eyes shadowing over slightly. “Agent Romanov isn’t approved to have any visitors.”
“Check the computer. I think I’m allowed,” Clint murmured, his voice low, his eyes intent on Claire’s. Come on, Coulson.
Claire typed something into the computer. She paused, tilted her head, looked up at him, then at the screen again before sighing, shrugging, and handing him a red visitor’s pass. Clint fingered the pass and thought, of course it’s red. Red is danger. Red is stop. Red stands out. Red is her.
“Room 235B. The door’s locked but your hand should open it. It locks from the inside. You’ll have to knock to get let out. Don’t--,” Claire warned him sharply, “let your guard down. She is a little…”
“I know,” Clint interrupted, straightening abruptly.
There was a window into the room and he peered through it first. He wouldn’t put it past Natasha to be waiting to the side to pounce on the first person to come through the door. He would do the same if he was locked in a room (a cell, he thought). She was sitting on her bed, cross legged and dressed in shorts and a tshirt, reading a book. Her hands idly turned her hair around a finger. She looked…well. He pressed his palm to the pad next to the room and the door clicked open. She jerked upright, the book falling out of her lap, and stared at him when he entered and shut the door behind him. He leaned on the door and crossed his arms.
“Enjoying what you’ve done?” Her voice snarled around him, and he breathed in her anger and her embarrassment.
“No, not particularly,” he said quietly. He did not argue that he had done this. There were a few options after she did what she had done, and this was the one he chose. He looked at his feet. “Coulson needs me in the field so I’m flying out tonight. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
When he next looked up, she had drawn her knees up to her chin. She looked frighteningly young and childish. She studied him, her blue eyes dark and shadowy, and her arms tight around her own body. She looked like she was trying to occupy as little space in the world as possible.
She said, “You are leaving me.”
He said nothing, because she was not wrong.
She unfolded herself and walked across the room towards him. He kept his eyes trained on her face but he couldn’t help but know that her legs went on endlessly, that the bruises on her wrists were from him, and the bruise on her collarbone was also from him but a different time. She stepped closer to him, wary and moving like an unsure cat.
“Be safe?” she said, and it was more like a question.
He gave her a small smile. “I will. Be good.”
She smiled back at him, small, and sad, and fragmented along the edges of her mouth like the way her own boundaries were shattered. “I can’t promise that.”
He hesitated and reached out, slowly, cautiously and touched the bruises on her left wrist. She didn’t flinch away so he picked up her limp hand, turned it over in his hand, studying the patterns of his fingers where he had held her down to a roof, guns scattered around them. He ran his thumb lightly over the purpled skin. “Tasha, please try.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes watching him touch the bruises. “Okay.”
He dropped her wrist and gestured with his hand. “Go back to your bed so I can leave.”
She gave him a wry smile. “So much for trust.”
“So much for trust,” he echoed and didn’t move until she had sighed, returned to the bed and he knocked, never letting his eyes leave her. They opened the door and he shut it quickly behind him.
He strode past Claire without saying a single word.
THIS FIC IS TRIGGER HEAVY
Title: Fallout Patterns
Rating: Mature
Warnings:Suicide, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempts, Self Harm, Dubious Consent Sex, POSSIBLE eating disorder allusions, other warnings may apply
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.
--Pablo Neruda
Chapter Five: Goes My Fare Thee Well
Coulson called Clint the morning after they returned. Clint rolled over and groaned, answering the call and stuffing his face back into his pillow. He mumbled into the phone, ‘Barton’.
“Get up,” Coulson said in his dry clipped voice.
Clint sat up on his elbows. He rubbed his face, exhausted down to his bones. He had been awake for more than forty eight hours when they landed ten hours before. Coulson had debriefed them on the car ride from the airport back to the base since they had taken a commercial flight, and Natasha had been taken, in handcuffs, like a criminal, to the medical ward. He had watched her leave with a growing sense that he had let her down in some way. Coulson had tried to talk to him but Clint had waved him off, stumbled back to his room, taken two Advil PMs and passed out in all of his mission clothes still.
He asked, “Is she okay?”
“This has nothing to do with her,” Coulson told him. Clint said nothing and Coulson sighed. “She’s fine. Get up. Come by my office.”
Clint muttered, “Eight hours of sleep in the last thirty six. If I go clinically insane, I’m blaming you.”
“Accepted. Shower. You smelled rank yesterday.” Coulson hung up.
Clint dragged himself into the shower, the first one since waking up and discovering Natasha was gone. He scrubbed his skin with the soap until his skin was raw and as red as her hair. He scrubbed off every inch of her, every inch of his guilt, every inch of the doubt in his mind. He scrubbed until he was sure there was no layer of her left on him. He scrubbed until lines of blood appeared on his chest and arms, and he sank to the floor of the shower, holding his head in his hands. If he was still a child, he may have cried, but he couldn’t find the release for his tight throat and his chest that strangled his heart in silence. He threw his head backwards against the wall and reveled in the pain that shot through his tired skull.
He traced and retraced every interaction he had with Natasha and, in retrospect, he saw the signs. He could think back to moments after missions or during missions when he had been somewhat aware that something was off with her, that she wasn’t quite as connected as she always was, but he had shaken it off, chalked it up to Natasha being a bit of an aloof cold person in general. In retrospect…well, hindsight was 20/20 for some people, but Clint’s vision was sharper and better than most people’s and maybe it worked on hindsight the same way.
He sat on the floor of his shower stall for a long time, just letting the water run over him. He finally got up when his hands and feet were pruny and shut off the water. He toweled himself dry and found clean clothes in his drawer, probably courtesy of Coulson who realized that Clint’s ability to handle life outside of the field was remarkably limited. He pulled on a jacket to cover the raw and bloody patches on his arms, slipped his hearing aids back on, and headed to Coulson’s office. He avoided eye contact with people in the hallways, and he did not listen to what people were saying. He knew how it looked the night before when they touched down. He knew what the scuttlebutt would be saying.
He didn’t bother knocking on Coulson’s door. He walked in and shut it behind him, tossing himself on the couch with a groan and staring at the ceiling. Coulson walked around the desk, locked the door and sat on the end of the couch, surveying him with an openly worried expression.
“I was going to take you out of the field,” Coulson said quietly, his hazel eyes narrow and sharp.
Clint frowned. “I wasn’t the one who pointed a gun at their own head.”
Coulson didn’t flinch at the anger in Clint’s voice. He replied smoothly, “No, that was your partner, the only partner you’ve kept for more than a single mission. And you brought her in. So I think I would consider you a compromised agent right now.”
Clint scowled at the crack in Coulson’s ceiling. He paused and said, slowly, “You said you were going to take me out of the field. What changed?”
“I have a rogue agent,” Coulson said simply. “We’re taking out one of our own. And I wouldn’t ask someone I considered to be fragile right now but I need this to stay quiet and I need it done right, so you’re the only option I have.”
Clint sat up, meeting Coulson’s sharp hazel eyes with his own sharp gray ones. “Who?”
“Kief Adams. He was working on a project aimed at preventing the Chechen separatists from obtaining the raw fissile material necessary to create dirty bombs. He turned. He shot two of our own and a Russian military officer overseeing the transfer of nuclear waste from former Soviet labs into US hands. A few weeks, his fingerprints were found at the scene when police in Arlington, Virginia responded to a home invasion and murder of a Soviet nuclear physicist who moved to the US under the Nunn Lugar pact in the early 90’s. We tried to make contact with him then and had no response. We made contact with the six other members of his team. Two of them are dead and were shot with SIG P226.”
Clint nodded. It was a favorite gun amongst SHIELD operatives who liked a pistol that accepted a wide variety of ammunition. It was light and comfortable to carry too. “And the other four?”
“One is missing. One said he saw Adams shoot the other two. And the other is still at his post and in deep cover. We have eyes on him and he hasn’t appeared to have gone rogue, so we’re not contacting him at this time.” Coulson reached over and took a manila folder off his desk.
“We need you to take out Adams. It can’t look like it was us. And he must be a confirmed kill. Record it. This is top secret.”
Clint’s mind switched into mission mode. He nodded. “Got it.”
“The map and drop site are here. You’re on your own until ex fil.” Coulson handed him the folder. “You leave at 1800hrs.”
“Yes, sir,” Clint said, opening the folder and beginning to flip through the sparse briefing material required.
What he was most interested in was-yes, here, Coulson had brought him the weather and wind patterns for the last month and the previous years’ data over the same time period, as well as topographical maps and excellent photos of the target. Coulson went back to work with his desk and people came in and out over the next few hours, but Clint remained a fixture, cross legged and intent, on the couch where he studied the maps and patterns until everything sank into his mind. He rose silently, closed the folder that Coulson took from him and slide into a locked safe under his desk, and he headed to the door.
“Phil,” Clint said, his hand on the doorknob and his back to Coulson. “Can I see her? Before I leave?”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Coulson replied after a momentary pause.
Clint did not know if his friend and handler was talking about wisdom for him or Natasha. He looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “I’d like her to know that I didn’t just walk away from her.”
Coulson’s face was unreadable. “Go ahead.”
Clint made his way down to the medical ward. He stopped by the desk, plastered a smile he knew worked on his face and said, “Hey, Clairy.”
The nurse at the front desk glanced up at Clint, her eyes widening and she bit her lower lip, smiling back. “Agent Barton. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here to see Agent Romanov.” He kept the smile on his face, leaning forward slightly while shifting onto his elbow.
Claire frowned, her eyes shadowing over slightly. “Agent Romanov isn’t approved to have any visitors.”
“Check the computer. I think I’m allowed,” Clint murmured, his voice low, his eyes intent on Claire’s. Come on, Coulson.
Claire typed something into the computer. She paused, tilted her head, looked up at him, then at the screen again before sighing, shrugging, and handing him a red visitor’s pass. Clint fingered the pass and thought, of course it’s red. Red is danger. Red is stop. Red stands out. Red is her.
“Room 235B. The door’s locked but your hand should open it. It locks from the inside. You’ll have to knock to get let out. Don’t--,” Claire warned him sharply, “let your guard down. She is a little…”
“I know,” Clint interrupted, straightening abruptly.
There was a window into the room and he peered through it first. He wouldn’t put it past Natasha to be waiting to the side to pounce on the first person to come through the door. He would do the same if he was locked in a room (a cell, he thought). She was sitting on her bed, cross legged and dressed in shorts and a tshirt, reading a book. Her hands idly turned her hair around a finger. She looked…well. He pressed his palm to the pad next to the room and the door clicked open. She jerked upright, the book falling out of her lap, and stared at him when he entered and shut the door behind him. He leaned on the door and crossed his arms.
“Enjoying what you’ve done?” Her voice snarled around him, and he breathed in her anger and her embarrassment.
“No, not particularly,” he said quietly. He did not argue that he had done this. There were a few options after she did what she had done, and this was the one he chose. He looked at his feet. “Coulson needs me in the field so I’m flying out tonight. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
When he next looked up, she had drawn her knees up to her chin. She looked frighteningly young and childish. She studied him, her blue eyes dark and shadowy, and her arms tight around her own body. She looked like she was trying to occupy as little space in the world as possible.
She said, “You are leaving me.”
He said nothing, because she was not wrong.
She unfolded herself and walked across the room towards him. He kept his eyes trained on her face but he couldn’t help but know that her legs went on endlessly, that the bruises on her wrists were from him, and the bruise on her collarbone was also from him but a different time. She stepped closer to him, wary and moving like an unsure cat.
“Be safe?” she said, and it was more like a question.
He gave her a small smile. “I will. Be good.”
She smiled back at him, small, and sad, and fragmented along the edges of her mouth like the way her own boundaries were shattered. “I can’t promise that.”
He hesitated and reached out, slowly, cautiously and touched the bruises on her left wrist. She didn’t flinch away so he picked up her limp hand, turned it over in his hand, studying the patterns of his fingers where he had held her down to a roof, guns scattered around them. He ran his thumb lightly over the purpled skin. “Tasha, please try.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes watching him touch the bruises. “Okay.”
He dropped her wrist and gestured with his hand. “Go back to your bed so I can leave.”
She gave him a wry smile. “So much for trust.”
“So much for trust,” he echoed and didn’t move until she had sighed, returned to the bed and he knocked, never letting his eyes leave her. They opened the door and he shut it quickly behind him.
He strode past Claire without saying a single word.