Breathe - Chapter 4
Title: “Breathe” (4/4)
Fandom: The Avengers
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
Rating: Mature (cautiously)
Warnings: language, blood, injuries
Prompt: by crazy4orcas - Clint and Natasha. Valentine's Day. Rockie Mountains. Blizzard conditions. Plane crash. SHIELD is forced to call off the search and rescue.
Summary: Natasha and Clint have been partners for less than a year, yet something is building between them neither wants to acknowledge. Then a plane crash forces them to face their fears. Will help arrive in time?
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story, though I would appreciate a Clint of my own, thank you :)
Author's notes: All the cookies in the world to my wonderful betas alphaflyer and anuna_81! Ladies, you are wonderful and your insightful comments helped me tremendously in stretching my writing muscles, I can’t thank you enough! And a shout-out goes to hufflepuffsneak, who's an awesome cheerleader and supplier of thinky thoughts :D
Alright you guys, this is it! Final chapter :) Thank you all who reviewed and left kudos. It has been a pleasure and I treasured every word you all decided to drop me. Writing fanfic is all about interaction, so to get a note from a reader telling you that he/she loved what you did is wonderful. Even better are those that tell you what detail they loved especially :) But just know that I love them all and hope you'll leave me a little comment again now that this story is done.Feedback is love, and this bar is all about spreading the love, so please share your thoughts with me <3
Also on AO3 and FFN
Read Chapter 1 here
Read Chapter 2 here
Read Chapter 3 here
Breathe - Chapter 4
Natasha was shaking with the sudden adrenaline surge, her heart hammering, driving away the fog that had started to settle over her vision. Her Glock seemed to weigh a ton, yet she did her best to keep it leveled at the hole in the ship’s hull.
“Romanoff, Barton, are you okay? We’re coming in now,” the cautious voice of Phil Coulson called out.
A figure appeared against the faint light coming in from outside; Natasha didn’t lower her gun until she could identify Coulson herself. Seeing his concerned features coming closer, his eyes switching between her face and Clint’s, she felt a sudden relief. Her hand sank down beside her, the gun falling from her suddenly lax grip.
“Help him, please.”
Coulson lengthened his stride and was by her side in a heartbeat, his hand warm on her bare shoulder, his other hand going for Clint’s carotid, checking the pulse.
He turned towards the agents entering the craft behind him. “Get the medics in here now. Hurry!”
The adrenaline leaving her in a rush, Natasha felt like a deflating two-thousand-pound balloon, weightless and immensely heavy at the same time. Coulson was here, he would make sure Clint would be alright. Her eyes blinked closed, the lids suddenly too heavy for her to lift. Someone carefully removed Clint from her embrace and she moaned at the sense of loss, but too spent to do anything about it. She had done what she could for him, now it was literally out of her hands.
“Natasha, are you okay? Natasha,” she heard Coulson call out to her as she slipped into unconsciousness.
<><><><><><>
She was lying on something warm and soft, the ground beneath her gently shaking. She could hear voices in the distance. They seemed agitated and her stomach knotted with sudden desperation to know what was happening. She fought against the lead weights that seemed to be attached to her eyelids.
Prying them open, her eyes fell on the dull gunmetal grey ceiling of the Quinjet. Oh no, not the Quinjet. She couldn’t still be here. Clint.
“Clint,” she breathed out, finding that she couldn’t turn; she was held in place by something. Suddenly a head appeared in front of her. It wasn’t Clint, but a welcome sight nevertheless. Coulson.
“Natasha, calm down. We’re transporting you and Clint to the Helicarrier for medical treatment. You’re on a stretcher, secured for the flight. You’re safe, no need to fight,” he explained calmly. Natasha nodded, relaxing minutely despite the tiny black dots that danced in front of her eyes at the motion.
“How’s Clint?”
She saw a shadow race across his face, almost too fast to notice before his blank civil servant mask was firmly back in place.
“The medics are not happy; he’s mildly hypothermic, just like you. His blood pressure is too low, same as his oxygen levels. They said something about diminished breathing sounds on the left side, which coupled with the broken ribs and the bruise seems to indicate internal bleeding. They’re giving him a blood transfusion and oxygen.”
Natasha’s heart skipped a beat, having her fears for Clint confirmed. Her own ribs ached when she pulled in a deeper breath at hearing this. He had to be okay, he had to.
“Coulson, they should know that I gave him some morphine on his request about a half hour before you arrived.”
“He asked for it?” Coulson looked at her concernedly. Natasha nodded, her face screwing up in a grimace as her headache flared. She felt suddenly nauseous, the tiny movements of the aircraft, her headache and the information she’s just received about Clint converging on her, making her sick.
She blanched and swallowed audibly. Coulson, reading the signs, reacted immediately, alerting one of the medics who’d been monitoring Natasha that his charge was about to throw up. The head of her gurney was lifted and a dish was shoved under her chin just in time to catch the contents of her stomach.
“Did you hit your head, Agent Romanoff?” the medic asked her.
She nodded in the affirmative. ”I’ve had worse,” she replied as the pilot announced that they were a minute out and that a medical team was standing by.
And then the alarms on the monitors attached to Clint began blaring. The medics began calling out readings to each other, medications they were administering while Coulson’s fingers dug into Natasha’s shoulder almost painfully. The second the Quinjet touched down, the hatch was lowered and the medics were rushing Clint off to the waiting medical team, alarms still blaring.
Natasha began fighting against the straps that had secured her for the duration of the flight, her ribs and knee protesting painfully at her movement. She groaned, turning determined eyes to Coulson.
“Get me out of here, I have to go with him.” When he didn’t immediately release the straps holding her, she added, “Please.”
She didn’t care that she only wore her underwear; she would have run after Clint naked at that point. She had to know how he was.
Sparing Coulson the decision, the medics who’d treated her wheeled Natasha off to Medical. She had to close her eyes as they rushed her down the corridors; the movement was making her dizzy. Their journey ended in a cubicle in the med bay, where a horde of doctors and nurses descended on her. The straps were removed and before the medical personnel could transfer her to the exam table, she had leapt off the gurney, determined to find Clint. But she hadn’t taken her leg or her concussion into account. The second she was upright her leg gave way and her vision went black as she passed out.
<><><><><><>
Natasha fought her way through the fog shrouding her mind. She felt weightless and nothing hurt. Which, coupled with the steady beeping, antiseptic smell and the slightly scratchy sheets below her gave her an idea of where she was - hospital or med bay. Slowly opening her eyes, she saw greyish walls, no daylight; med bay it was, then.
“You’re awake,” she heard Coulson’s voice a second before her eyes fell on him. He’d lost his immaculate look, his tie was gone, his suit jacket as well, his shirt was rumpled. His short hair looked like he had run his hand through it repeatedly. A nagging feeling of foreboding managed to make its way through the cloud left by the painkillers she was obviously on.
“Clint,” she coughed, her throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper, but she had to know. ”How is Clint?”
Coulson handed her a cup with water and she took a tentative sip, not letting him out of her sight. He swallowed visibly before answering her.
“He’s still in surgery. He’s bleeding internally; they’re trying to fix it. I don’t know anything else, only that he is still alive and fighting.”
“How long?” her voice was steadier now, even though she felt anything but.
“Three hours and twenty-seven minutes since they took him in.”
Natasha felt the blood drain from her face and her fingers went numb. That was long. Too long. The bank of monitors behind her betrayed her anxiety to Coulson who, rather uncharacteristically, began to talk up a storm.
“I think we need to find a new call-sign for him. He’s more like a cat, with his reflexes and I’m sure he has nine lives. I mean you couldn’t take him out when he was supposed to apprehend you. Now he had you on his side. It’ll take more than a fucking blizzard to clip the Hawk’s wings. Do you remember that time in…” he kept on talking and his steady, even tone made Natasha relax minutely despite herself. Her stomach remained a tight knot of worry, but she regained the feeling in her fingers.
The monitors returned to a more regular beeping as she realized what it was that made her calm down. She trusted Coulson, with her life and Clint’s. He had come to search for them himself, and he hadn’t left her alone now. And for that she was extremely grateful. Warmth spread through her and she smiled a small smile.
“Thank you, Phil,” she said and watched him look at her with big eyes.
“You’ve never called me that, no matter how many times I’ve offered.”
“You’ve never rescued me from a downed Quinjet before. Thank you for being here. For staying with me.”
“Where else would I be? Someone had to make sure you don’t hurt the first nurse that dares to poke her nose in here.” He smiled that sardonic little smile she had grown to like. Just like Clint’s boisterous laughs when he was in the mood, Phil’s smiles had come to mean something more to her. They made her feel like she belonged and that was something that she had never thought possible.
A knock on the door preceded a short, blonde, middle-aged woman wearing scrubs entering the room. Phil jumped up from his seat by her bedside and went to take the woman’s outstretched hand.
“Agent Coulson, I’m Dr. Carla Whisman. I’ve been Agent Barton’s surgeon. Agent Romanoff,” she said as she first shook Phil’s hand and then inclined her head to Natasha.
Natasha felt adrenaline surging through her as she focused all her remaining strength on the woman in front of her, trying to read her as she spoke.
“Agent Barton is being transferred to the ICU as we speak; the surgery went as well as we could have hoped for. As you know, he suffered from a blunt force injury to the thorax. It caused fractures to his ribs, fragments of which have damaged his spleen and his chest wall, causing massive internal bleeding and a collapsed lung. We’ve put in a chest tube to drain the accumulated blood from his chest. We were able to remove the bone fragments, repair the damage and reinflate his lung. However, the spleen was damaged beyond our help and had to be removed.”
“But he can live without that, right?” Natasha asked, remembering her training. (Red Room had made sure that all its operatives knew exactly how they could cause the most damage)
“Yes, the liver will take over most of the functions. He will be more susceptible to infections in the future, though.”
“So you’re saying he’s gonna be fine?” Phil chimed in.
“Barring any complications, yes. Unfortunately there’s always a greater risk of infections with chest injuries. We have him on heavy antibiotics and pain medication at the moment in hopes to prevent any from setting in.”
Barring any complications, yes. That was the last thing that really registered in Natasha’s mind. The rush of relief was leaving her drained as her injuries caught up with her. He would be okay, there was no other possibility. Her eyes fell closed. Her Hawk was going to be okay.
Her Hawk. She opened her eyes again, finding that the doctor had left. Phil was still there, his hand on the rail of her bed.
“Get some rest, Natasha, I’ll keep watch.”
She heard a click from the IV pump on her other side. Seconds later, a wave of nothingness swept through her and her eyes closed of their own accord. She was out like a light within seconds.
<><><><><><>
Clint came to slowly. He felt like he’d been packed in cotton wool, his senses numbed. He tried moving his hands and feet but it was hard, his muscles unwilling to respond. His throat felt like he had swallowed sandpaper and he coughed. His eyes flew open as he thought he was being split open at the seams. His eyes darted around the room, recognizing greyish walls, bright fluorescent light - SHIELD medical. He groaned, eliciting another coughing fit. Jesus, what was this? His left side was throbbing with a dull, yet insistent pain.
Two nurses appeared in the entrance to his cubicle, eyes darting between the monitors surrounding him and Clint himself. One, a tall brunette, addressed him.
“Agent Barton, are you in any pain?”
He wanted to answer, but another cough prevented him from doing so. His eyes screwed shut, he tried to put pressure on the ache in his side, but his arms felt like they were made of lead. His muscles trembled but his limbs wouldn’t move. He squirmed in discomfort. Natasha, he needed Natasha. She’d been able to take the pain away before.
“Tasha,” he breathed out. “Need Tasha.”
While the other nurse, shorter and dark-skinned, was taking readings of the monitors, the first nurse kept talking to him, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. He kept on repeating his request for Natasha, he needed to know that she was okay. He dimly remembered that she’d been hurt as well; he had to know.
Then, over the voices of the nurses and the beeps and whooshes of the machinery surrounding him, he heard something new.
“Clint,” her voice was low and strained, “oh Clint.”
He opened his eyes and saw her limping towards him, clad in a pair of clean scrubs, Phil right behind her. And then she touched his hand and it was like a small current ran through his arm. He exhaled, causing another coughing fit and he tensed. Suddenly, her hand was over the injured area, putting gentle pressure on it and he didn’t feel like every cough was ripping him apart anymore.
She held a cup in front of his face and placed a straw between his lips. “Drink, it’ll help with your throat.”
The relief was immediate, the need to cough diminished. Natasha was here. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
“God, you’re -“ he coughed a little again. “You’re pretty.”
Her eyebrow shot up at his words. Had he really just said that out loud? He could hear Phil chuckle as he sent the nurses out now that their patient was calm and settling down. Then Phil was standing next to his bed, looking at him.
“You look like crap, Coulson,” Clint said with a loopy grin. “What happened?”
“You happened. Don’t do that again, okay?” Phil waited for Clint to nod before he turned and left, saying, “I need a nap.”
Clint looked at Natasha and she was so pretty and he remembered how good it had felt to be held by her and he was cold and he hurt and he just wanted her close to him.
He shivered, saying, “I’m cold. Can you warm me up?”
Her eyebrow shot up even higher, but she smiled and lowered the guard rail on his right side. “Scoot over, birdbrain.”
He did as she asked as best as he could, which was not much. She climbed onto the bed with him, snuggled into his right side and rested her hand on the site of his injury, keeping the gentle pressure that had felt so good when he’d had to cough.
Her hair was brushing his nose, and he remembered his dream from the wreck. “I wanna take you to Iowa… show you the fields.”
He could hear amusement in her voice. “Where did that come from?”
He breathed in deeply, imagining the usual smell of her shampoo, strawberries and citrus.
“You always smell of fruit… your tiny pieces of fruit for breakfast… I love how you cut them. Neat freak.”
She began to chuckle, twitching against his side.
He looked down along their bodies, his underneath the blanket, hers clad in scrubs and thick woolen socks so unlike her own covering her feet.
“You always… steal my socks… because yours have holes.”
Her head lifted from where it had rested on his shoulder and he saw her grinning. He managed to give her a tired grin in return.
Her breath ghosted over his cheek and chills ran up his spine. She found his eyes with hers, looking at him intently.
“Clint, I think it’s best if you just shut up and kiss me.”
She kissed him and it was sweet. He tried to kiss back, but she did most of the work, kissing his lips, his jaw, anywhere she could reach. He yawned and drifted off into his favorite dream.
<><><><><><>
Natasha couldn’t stop kissing him, reassuring herself that he was still with her. He’d been so cold the last time she held him and now he was warm beside her, her hand gently splayed over his injury. Last night faded into the past as she held him. He was here, he was alive, and they would get the chance to see where… this… would lead. For once in her life she didn’t need a plan. She just needed the stubborn, bullheaded, lovable idiot next to her.
She breathed in his scent, still him despite all the antiseptic in the air. Wrapped around her Hawk, grounded by his steady breathing, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
<><><><><><>
Snow was gently falling outside the window; they were snuggled together underneath the down comforter on the bed in his apartment. Clint liked to think of it as their bed, even though it was technically his. She had however spent every single night with him, in this bed, after he had left the hospital. His arms were wrapped around Natasha’s waist, pulling her close to him. She was soft against the planes of his body, her skin warm against his.
Three weeks ago they had barely survived a plane crash; then he had developed pneumonia as a result of his injuries. Because his fever had gotten so high that he had been delirious, he didn’t remember most of that. But although he remembered only scraps of the crash and the recovery, he’d still prefer to forget even those.
But in everything he remembered, Natasha was constantly there, with a damp cloth on his forehead, cool hand on his cheek. He remembered bits of Russian, her voice singing something like a lullaby. He remembered tiny bits of oranges, passages of Tolstoi, a quiet backdrop against his dulled mind.
Being with her like this felt almost like a dream. His side still hurt. The stitches had been pulled last week, before he left the hospital, but his broken ribs were still healing, as were the incision sites and he tired easily. He slept more than he’d ever thought he could. And Nat was always there when he woke up.
She gently nudged his shoulder, pushing him onto his back before straddling his hips. She deepened their kiss, her hands cupping his face, sending chills down his spine. He would have loved to sink into her now, but cuddling was all he had strength for at the moment. His hands roamed the silky skin of her back before fisting in her hair, pulling her away gently to catch his breath. He got winded so fast and he felt like an old man without his stamina, but he’d win it back with time. He rested his brow against hers and she smiled brightly back at him.
“I love you,” she said before she kissed him again with such enthusiasm that their teeth clicked together. They laughed; and he thought that it was probably his favorite sound in the world. He could never get enough of her laugh. Or her kisses. He tickled her as he kissed her lips, her chin, her neck, eliciting more laughter from her.
Together, they had found what they had both been looking for for the longest time.
Home.
Fandom: The Avengers
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff
Rating: Mature (cautiously)
Warnings: language, blood, injuries
Prompt: by crazy4orcas - Clint and Natasha. Valentine's Day. Rockie Mountains. Blizzard conditions. Plane crash. SHIELD is forced to call off the search and rescue.
Summary: Natasha and Clint have been partners for less than a year, yet something is building between them neither wants to acknowledge. Then a plane crash forces them to face their fears. Will help arrive in time?
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story, though I would appreciate a Clint of my own, thank you :)
Author's notes: All the cookies in the world to my wonderful betas alphaflyer and anuna_81! Ladies, you are wonderful and your insightful comments helped me tremendously in stretching my writing muscles, I can’t thank you enough! And a shout-out goes to hufflepuffsneak, who's an awesome cheerleader and supplier of thinky thoughts :D
Alright you guys, this is it! Final chapter :) Thank you all who reviewed and left kudos. It has been a pleasure and I treasured every word you all decided to drop me. Writing fanfic is all about interaction, so to get a note from a reader telling you that he/she loved what you did is wonderful. Even better are those that tell you what detail they loved especially :) But just know that I love them all and hope you'll leave me a little comment again now that this story is done.Feedback is love, and this bar is all about spreading the love, so please share your thoughts with me <3
Also on AO3 and FFN
Read Chapter 1 here
Read Chapter 2 here
Read Chapter 3 here
Breathe - Chapter 4
Natasha was shaking with the sudden adrenaline surge, her heart hammering, driving away the fog that had started to settle over her vision. Her Glock seemed to weigh a ton, yet she did her best to keep it leveled at the hole in the ship’s hull.
“Romanoff, Barton, are you okay? We’re coming in now,” the cautious voice of Phil Coulson called out.
A figure appeared against the faint light coming in from outside; Natasha didn’t lower her gun until she could identify Coulson herself. Seeing his concerned features coming closer, his eyes switching between her face and Clint’s, she felt a sudden relief. Her hand sank down beside her, the gun falling from her suddenly lax grip.
“Help him, please.”
Coulson lengthened his stride and was by her side in a heartbeat, his hand warm on her bare shoulder, his other hand going for Clint’s carotid, checking the pulse.
He turned towards the agents entering the craft behind him. “Get the medics in here now. Hurry!”
The adrenaline leaving her in a rush, Natasha felt like a deflating two-thousand-pound balloon, weightless and immensely heavy at the same time. Coulson was here, he would make sure Clint would be alright. Her eyes blinked closed, the lids suddenly too heavy for her to lift. Someone carefully removed Clint from her embrace and she moaned at the sense of loss, but too spent to do anything about it. She had done what she could for him, now it was literally out of her hands.
“Natasha, are you okay? Natasha,” she heard Coulson call out to her as she slipped into unconsciousness.
<><><><><><>
She was lying on something warm and soft, the ground beneath her gently shaking. She could hear voices in the distance. They seemed agitated and her stomach knotted with sudden desperation to know what was happening. She fought against the lead weights that seemed to be attached to her eyelids.
Prying them open, her eyes fell on the dull gunmetal grey ceiling of the Quinjet. Oh no, not the Quinjet. She couldn’t still be here. Clint.
“Clint,” she breathed out, finding that she couldn’t turn; she was held in place by something. Suddenly a head appeared in front of her. It wasn’t Clint, but a welcome sight nevertheless. Coulson.
“Natasha, calm down. We’re transporting you and Clint to the Helicarrier for medical treatment. You’re on a stretcher, secured for the flight. You’re safe, no need to fight,” he explained calmly. Natasha nodded, relaxing minutely despite the tiny black dots that danced in front of her eyes at the motion.
“How’s Clint?”
She saw a shadow race across his face, almost too fast to notice before his blank civil servant mask was firmly back in place.
“The medics are not happy; he’s mildly hypothermic, just like you. His blood pressure is too low, same as his oxygen levels. They said something about diminished breathing sounds on the left side, which coupled with the broken ribs and the bruise seems to indicate internal bleeding. They’re giving him a blood transfusion and oxygen.”
Natasha’s heart skipped a beat, having her fears for Clint confirmed. Her own ribs ached when she pulled in a deeper breath at hearing this. He had to be okay, he had to.
“Coulson, they should know that I gave him some morphine on his request about a half hour before you arrived.”
“He asked for it?” Coulson looked at her concernedly. Natasha nodded, her face screwing up in a grimace as her headache flared. She felt suddenly nauseous, the tiny movements of the aircraft, her headache and the information she’s just received about Clint converging on her, making her sick.
She blanched and swallowed audibly. Coulson, reading the signs, reacted immediately, alerting one of the medics who’d been monitoring Natasha that his charge was about to throw up. The head of her gurney was lifted and a dish was shoved under her chin just in time to catch the contents of her stomach.
“Did you hit your head, Agent Romanoff?” the medic asked her.
She nodded in the affirmative. ”I’ve had worse,” she replied as the pilot announced that they were a minute out and that a medical team was standing by.
And then the alarms on the monitors attached to Clint began blaring. The medics began calling out readings to each other, medications they were administering while Coulson’s fingers dug into Natasha’s shoulder almost painfully. The second the Quinjet touched down, the hatch was lowered and the medics were rushing Clint off to the waiting medical team, alarms still blaring.
Natasha began fighting against the straps that had secured her for the duration of the flight, her ribs and knee protesting painfully at her movement. She groaned, turning determined eyes to Coulson.
“Get me out of here, I have to go with him.” When he didn’t immediately release the straps holding her, she added, “Please.”
She didn’t care that she only wore her underwear; she would have run after Clint naked at that point. She had to know how he was.
Sparing Coulson the decision, the medics who’d treated her wheeled Natasha off to Medical. She had to close her eyes as they rushed her down the corridors; the movement was making her dizzy. Their journey ended in a cubicle in the med bay, where a horde of doctors and nurses descended on her. The straps were removed and before the medical personnel could transfer her to the exam table, she had leapt off the gurney, determined to find Clint. But she hadn’t taken her leg or her concussion into account. The second she was upright her leg gave way and her vision went black as she passed out.
<><><><><><>
Natasha fought her way through the fog shrouding her mind. She felt weightless and nothing hurt. Which, coupled with the steady beeping, antiseptic smell and the slightly scratchy sheets below her gave her an idea of where she was - hospital or med bay. Slowly opening her eyes, she saw greyish walls, no daylight; med bay it was, then.
“You’re awake,” she heard Coulson’s voice a second before her eyes fell on him. He’d lost his immaculate look, his tie was gone, his suit jacket as well, his shirt was rumpled. His short hair looked like he had run his hand through it repeatedly. A nagging feeling of foreboding managed to make its way through the cloud left by the painkillers she was obviously on.
“Clint,” she coughed, her throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper, but she had to know. ”How is Clint?”
Coulson handed her a cup with water and she took a tentative sip, not letting him out of her sight. He swallowed visibly before answering her.
“He’s still in surgery. He’s bleeding internally; they’re trying to fix it. I don’t know anything else, only that he is still alive and fighting.”
“How long?” her voice was steadier now, even though she felt anything but.
“Three hours and twenty-seven minutes since they took him in.”
Natasha felt the blood drain from her face and her fingers went numb. That was long. Too long. The bank of monitors behind her betrayed her anxiety to Coulson who, rather uncharacteristically, began to talk up a storm.
“I think we need to find a new call-sign for him. He’s more like a cat, with his reflexes and I’m sure he has nine lives. I mean you couldn’t take him out when he was supposed to apprehend you. Now he had you on his side. It’ll take more than a fucking blizzard to clip the Hawk’s wings. Do you remember that time in…” he kept on talking and his steady, even tone made Natasha relax minutely despite herself. Her stomach remained a tight knot of worry, but she regained the feeling in her fingers.
The monitors returned to a more regular beeping as she realized what it was that made her calm down. She trusted Coulson, with her life and Clint’s. He had come to search for them himself, and he hadn’t left her alone now. And for that she was extremely grateful. Warmth spread through her and she smiled a small smile.
“Thank you, Phil,” she said and watched him look at her with big eyes.
“You’ve never called me that, no matter how many times I’ve offered.”
“You’ve never rescued me from a downed Quinjet before. Thank you for being here. For staying with me.”
“Where else would I be? Someone had to make sure you don’t hurt the first nurse that dares to poke her nose in here.” He smiled that sardonic little smile she had grown to like. Just like Clint’s boisterous laughs when he was in the mood, Phil’s smiles had come to mean something more to her. They made her feel like she belonged and that was something that she had never thought possible.
A knock on the door preceded a short, blonde, middle-aged woman wearing scrubs entering the room. Phil jumped up from his seat by her bedside and went to take the woman’s outstretched hand.
“Agent Coulson, I’m Dr. Carla Whisman. I’ve been Agent Barton’s surgeon. Agent Romanoff,” she said as she first shook Phil’s hand and then inclined her head to Natasha.
Natasha felt adrenaline surging through her as she focused all her remaining strength on the woman in front of her, trying to read her as she spoke.
“Agent Barton is being transferred to the ICU as we speak; the surgery went as well as we could have hoped for. As you know, he suffered from a blunt force injury to the thorax. It caused fractures to his ribs, fragments of which have damaged his spleen and his chest wall, causing massive internal bleeding and a collapsed lung. We’ve put in a chest tube to drain the accumulated blood from his chest. We were able to remove the bone fragments, repair the damage and reinflate his lung. However, the spleen was damaged beyond our help and had to be removed.”
“But he can live without that, right?” Natasha asked, remembering her training. (Red Room had made sure that all its operatives knew exactly how they could cause the most damage)
“Yes, the liver will take over most of the functions. He will be more susceptible to infections in the future, though.”
“So you’re saying he’s gonna be fine?” Phil chimed in.
“Barring any complications, yes. Unfortunately there’s always a greater risk of infections with chest injuries. We have him on heavy antibiotics and pain medication at the moment in hopes to prevent any from setting in.”
Barring any complications, yes. That was the last thing that really registered in Natasha’s mind. The rush of relief was leaving her drained as her injuries caught up with her. He would be okay, there was no other possibility. Her eyes fell closed. Her Hawk was going to be okay.
Her Hawk. She opened her eyes again, finding that the doctor had left. Phil was still there, his hand on the rail of her bed.
“Get some rest, Natasha, I’ll keep watch.”
She heard a click from the IV pump on her other side. Seconds later, a wave of nothingness swept through her and her eyes closed of their own accord. She was out like a light within seconds.
<><><><><><>
Clint came to slowly. He felt like he’d been packed in cotton wool, his senses numbed. He tried moving his hands and feet but it was hard, his muscles unwilling to respond. His throat felt like he had swallowed sandpaper and he coughed. His eyes flew open as he thought he was being split open at the seams. His eyes darted around the room, recognizing greyish walls, bright fluorescent light - SHIELD medical. He groaned, eliciting another coughing fit. Jesus, what was this? His left side was throbbing with a dull, yet insistent pain.
Two nurses appeared in the entrance to his cubicle, eyes darting between the monitors surrounding him and Clint himself. One, a tall brunette, addressed him.
“Agent Barton, are you in any pain?”
He wanted to answer, but another cough prevented him from doing so. His eyes screwed shut, he tried to put pressure on the ache in his side, but his arms felt like they were made of lead. His muscles trembled but his limbs wouldn’t move. He squirmed in discomfort. Natasha, he needed Natasha. She’d been able to take the pain away before.
“Tasha,” he breathed out. “Need Tasha.”
While the other nurse, shorter and dark-skinned, was taking readings of the monitors, the first nurse kept talking to him, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. He kept on repeating his request for Natasha, he needed to know that she was okay. He dimly remembered that she’d been hurt as well; he had to know.
Then, over the voices of the nurses and the beeps and whooshes of the machinery surrounding him, he heard something new.
“Clint,” her voice was low and strained, “oh Clint.”
He opened his eyes and saw her limping towards him, clad in a pair of clean scrubs, Phil right behind her. And then she touched his hand and it was like a small current ran through his arm. He exhaled, causing another coughing fit and he tensed. Suddenly, her hand was over the injured area, putting gentle pressure on it and he didn’t feel like every cough was ripping him apart anymore.
She held a cup in front of his face and placed a straw between his lips. “Drink, it’ll help with your throat.”
The relief was immediate, the need to cough diminished. Natasha was here. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
“God, you’re -“ he coughed a little again. “You’re pretty.”
Her eyebrow shot up at his words. Had he really just said that out loud? He could hear Phil chuckle as he sent the nurses out now that their patient was calm and settling down. Then Phil was standing next to his bed, looking at him.
“You look like crap, Coulson,” Clint said with a loopy grin. “What happened?”
“You happened. Don’t do that again, okay?” Phil waited for Clint to nod before he turned and left, saying, “I need a nap.”
Clint looked at Natasha and she was so pretty and he remembered how good it had felt to be held by her and he was cold and he hurt and he just wanted her close to him.
He shivered, saying, “I’m cold. Can you warm me up?”
Her eyebrow shot up even higher, but she smiled and lowered the guard rail on his right side. “Scoot over, birdbrain.”
He did as she asked as best as he could, which was not much. She climbed onto the bed with him, snuggled into his right side and rested her hand on the site of his injury, keeping the gentle pressure that had felt so good when he’d had to cough.
Her hair was brushing his nose, and he remembered his dream from the wreck. “I wanna take you to Iowa… show you the fields.”
He could hear amusement in her voice. “Where did that come from?”
He breathed in deeply, imagining the usual smell of her shampoo, strawberries and citrus.
“You always smell of fruit… your tiny pieces of fruit for breakfast… I love how you cut them. Neat freak.”
She began to chuckle, twitching against his side.
He looked down along their bodies, his underneath the blanket, hers clad in scrubs and thick woolen socks so unlike her own covering her feet.
“You always… steal my socks… because yours have holes.”
Her head lifted from where it had rested on his shoulder and he saw her grinning. He managed to give her a tired grin in return.
Her breath ghosted over his cheek and chills ran up his spine. She found his eyes with hers, looking at him intently.
“Clint, I think it’s best if you just shut up and kiss me.”
She kissed him and it was sweet. He tried to kiss back, but she did most of the work, kissing his lips, his jaw, anywhere she could reach. He yawned and drifted off into his favorite dream.
<><><><><><>
Natasha couldn’t stop kissing him, reassuring herself that he was still with her. He’d been so cold the last time she held him and now he was warm beside her, her hand gently splayed over his injury. Last night faded into the past as she held him. He was here, he was alive, and they would get the chance to see where… this… would lead. For once in her life she didn’t need a plan. She just needed the stubborn, bullheaded, lovable idiot next to her.
She breathed in his scent, still him despite all the antiseptic in the air. Wrapped around her Hawk, grounded by his steady breathing, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
<><><><><><>
Snow was gently falling outside the window; they were snuggled together underneath the down comforter on the bed in his apartment. Clint liked to think of it as their bed, even though it was technically his. She had however spent every single night with him, in this bed, after he had left the hospital. His arms were wrapped around Natasha’s waist, pulling her close to him. She was soft against the planes of his body, her skin warm against his.
Three weeks ago they had barely survived a plane crash; then he had developed pneumonia as a result of his injuries. Because his fever had gotten so high that he had been delirious, he didn’t remember most of that. But although he remembered only scraps of the crash and the recovery, he’d still prefer to forget even those.
But in everything he remembered, Natasha was constantly there, with a damp cloth on his forehead, cool hand on his cheek. He remembered bits of Russian, her voice singing something like a lullaby. He remembered tiny bits of oranges, passages of Tolstoi, a quiet backdrop against his dulled mind.
Being with her like this felt almost like a dream. His side still hurt. The stitches had been pulled last week, before he left the hospital, but his broken ribs were still healing, as were the incision sites and he tired easily. He slept more than he’d ever thought he could. And Nat was always there when he woke up.
She gently nudged his shoulder, pushing him onto his back before straddling his hips. She deepened their kiss, her hands cupping his face, sending chills down his spine. He would have loved to sink into her now, but cuddling was all he had strength for at the moment. His hands roamed the silky skin of her back before fisting in her hair, pulling her away gently to catch his breath. He got winded so fast and he felt like an old man without his stamina, but he’d win it back with time. He rested his brow against hers and she smiled brightly back at him.
“I love you,” she said before she kissed him again with such enthusiasm that their teeth clicked together. They laughed; and he thought that it was probably his favorite sound in the world. He could never get enough of her laugh. Or her kisses. He tickled her as he kissed her lips, her chin, her neck, eliciting more laughter from her.
Together, they had found what they had both been looking for for the longest time.
Home.