brb, my muse is busy losing his shit. stillnotlegolasMay 16 2012, 03:11:53 UTC
Clint has been agitated for days. It's not like he doesn't think Nat can take care of herself--of course she can, she's frighteningly competent and incredibly good at her job, and he's seen her single handedly take down an entire room of trained government agents with one hand tied behind her back. But every now and again one or the other one of them gets a mission that just--sits wrong. Leaves a sour taste in the mouth. Sets off instincts that have been honed through years of doing what they do. Her most recent mission is one of those
( ... )
Natasha doesn't hear the door slam against the wall, or Clint's feet slap against the tiles over the rush of water and her own ragged breaths. Hell, she barely remembers texting him. Her whole world has narrowed down to the pain and the water slicking her clothes to her bruised and broken skin. Then, suddenly, he's just there, hands warm against her chilled skin and she could cry for it. She doesn't. But, she could. Instead she whimpers. She never whimpers.
Blinking sluggishly to bring his face into focus -- 'cause she could really do with seeing him right now -- Natasha swallows tightly. "Floor collapsed under me," she says. Her fingers catch at his shirt, curling and twisting in the soft fabric. "I'm fine," she adds, because he looks worried. "Mission complete. Could use a clean-up on site."
That whimper nearly breaks his very thin bit of self-control. He's crawling into the shower with her then, knees braced on either side of her hips and not at all caring his hair is getting soaked and he's wearing just as much, if not more, than she is. His hands don't leave her skin though, checking over her for injuries.
"Dammit, Nat, you're pretty banged up," He replies instead of telling her exactly what he wants to say, namely: 'fuck the mission are you going to bleed out on me here' and instead just brushes her hair back from her forehead to check the wound there.
"How many stories did you fall down?" He demands, pressing a hand to her shoulder as he tries to prove she's alive and here and not dead, not yet, "And how long ago? Jesus."
The relentless stream of water suddenly stops, even though she can still hear the rush of it, and it takes Natasha far too long to figure out that it's just Clint's body blocking her from the worst of it. She's soaked through and through, and she trembles miserably. When she blinks, drops of water dislodged from her eye lashes and falls down her cheeks. Her hand curls tighter in Clint's shirt and it hurts, but she doesn't care. Just like she doesn't care whenever Clint's hands catch at one of the scrapes or bruises and send a sharp jab of pain through her. As much as she can, she moves into the steady warmth of his hands, and the comfort that his touch always brings
( ... )
"Two stories?" He repeats, because well, he knows that's what she said but it doesn't make him happy, does it? And--hell, this could have happened days ago with the state of some of the cuts on her body. She's shivering and he's stroking her skin as best he can, holds her close when she leans against his forehead, eyes still flicking over her body and checking her wounds but breath mingling with hers--
"Hush, Nat," He chides, gently, because she's the exact opposite to okay, and he's going to have fucking words with Fury since she was able to get all the way to her room in this state. Medical should have damn well met her at the door"We need to get you down to see a doctor," He knows it's not going to be a popular suggestion, but he's not really going to take no for an answer because this is completely outside their level of expertise no matter how much both of them hate anything to do with medical. "Alright?" He's worried, panicked really, but he's trying not to show it--and he doesn't think he's doing that good of a job and it's
( ... )
Everything is so cold right now. Everything except Clint's hands where they press against her skin. They leave little imprints of warmth that seep through Natasha, evaporating before they hit her bones and the steady chill that has set in there. She wants to hang on to each one of his light touches to build herself a bonfire out of the warmth flowing through his palms. But all his touches are fleeting and brief as his hands flutter over her body.
Maybe, she thinks, maybe she hit her head on the way down because something doesn't feel right. The world is set at an odd angle and its somewhat jarring.
"I'm good," she insists. Because she is. Or at least she will be. She catches one of his wandering hands with fumbling and clumsy fingers and presses it over her heart which skitters and skips a beat at his touch. Her shirt is low cut enough that his hand is almost entirely on her skin and the warmth flares through her. "Don't have to bother medical. Just. Help me out of these clothes, patch me up and I can sleep it off."
Clint sucks in a sharp breath at her touch, wrapping his hand tight around hers as he leaves it pressed right against her heart. She's freezing, he can feel that, and they really, really need to get a team either here or get her down there before her boy systems start shutting down. He's not letting her die in her bathroom at SHIELD headquarters.
"Don't lie to me, Nat," He admonishes, gently, as he shifts forward to try and find a better way to help her up. It only takes half a moment to realize he's going to have to carry her. Not that he minds--on the contrary at least then he knows he's gotten where she needs to be, and done it safely (and it has nothing to do with his want to have her as close to him as possible while he proves she's just banged up but very much still alive)-- but he's not entirely sure he'll survive her retribution when she's on her own two feet again.
But, his need to see her better wins out and he gives her a tight smile, "Arms around my neck, if you don't mind,"
"'m not lying," Natasha insist, a hint of disassociated indignation in her voice. Sure, everything hurts like hell right now, but the bright flare of pain every time she moves is slowly fading into a dull, glowing ache. Long as she gets the glass out, she's pretty sure she can just sleep it off. "I'd never lie to you." Unless she has to, if there are orders and-- Hell, maybe not even then.
In the tightness of Clint's smile (a pale imitation of the smiles he usually gives her), Natasha finally reads the deep concern that she's been missing in his shaded eyes and the way his hands keep hovering over her skin. Her heart does an odd little twist in her chest. Clint can be a bit of a mother hen when she's hurt (and she'll tease him accordingly), but it's been a while since she's seen him this worried.
The cogs in her mind whirr and click slowly, like the whole machinery has rusted, and her fingertips twitch uselessly against Clint's hand pressed against her chest. It's worse than I think. The thought comes quick, like a sudden dip into
( ... )
There's a real flash of warmth there, as she talks about lying, because, well, they are spies aren't they? But there's a truth to it, the fact that they won't lie to one another (unless there are orders, unless there's a mission, and even then it'll be harder than it should be and may not even happen), and it settles him, the fact that they have this between them. Keeps him sane a lot of times that he wants to lose it
( ... )
Being lifted up into Clint's arms is absolute agony, reminding Natasha of just how much every fucking inch of her hurts as her body is rearranged and shifted (and that sodding bit of glass digs deeper into her and drives a soft gasp from her lips). But, once she's there she can feel the heat of his body radiating through the layers of their sopping, wet clothes and despite the pain and the strain of being carried, she relaxes into him. Much like the tension flows out of her when he wraps his arms around her after a particularly bad nightmare
( ... )
"You are in big trouble," He says, throat closing a little around the words before he shakes his head and keeps walking. He'd jog, if he didn't think it'd make the shit worse, because he's pretty certain the only thing keeping her from a series of incredibly unfortunate internal injuries is that some how she's managed to keep that shard in mostly the same place. He's not going to lose his head and be the reason she ends up in some form of twenty hour surgery.
His steps are deliberate, measured, and he tries to keep her as still as possible, his expression tight and the people in the hallway scatter when he turns a corner
( ... )
The edges of Natasha's world might be blurry like an old photograph, but Clint is in perfect focus and she catches that odd thickness in his words even though the people clearing the hallway for them are entirely lost on her. He's so worried for her. She can tell by the way he's pretending not to be, and the way that his voice doesn't quite sound like his own. She shifts in his arms and presses her forehead against his skin even though the part of her that's pierced with glass screams in protest at the movement. "I'm sorry," she mumbles, barely loud enough to be audible over the sound of Clint's boots against the floor. Natasha never says she's sorry. At least not without an edge of sarcasm in her voice
( ... )
"Hey--" he whispers as he catches that apology, and it almost stops him in his tracks, except he needs to get her on that table so they can put her back together again and he keeps moving, even as he tries to keep his throat from closing up around what he wants to say. He didn't mean to make her feel like she should apologize for this--but he's never been that good at hiding his emotions from her, not even when he wants to, and even injured to hell she can read him like a god damn book. He doesn't say anything else, just tucks her that much closer and rubs his thumb down her uninjured ribs in his own form of apology. In a promise. "And I know you do," he adds as the medical team reaches him, half of his brain listening to their instructions as the rest of his attention remains completely fixated on Tasha
( ... )
The cold of the metal table seeps through Natasha's already soaked clothes and steals what little warmth she's gathered in the time she's been pressed against Clint. His warmth stolen away from her, she shudders hard with the cold, letting out another soft whimper as a thousand cuts, bruises and pieces of glass are aggravated by the movement. The pain coupled with the anti-septic smell of the med bay nearly throws Natasha into a vivid flashback and she has to fight to keep herself in the now. She fumbles for Clint's hand, needing him to ground herself (and for comfort she'll never admit to seeking), clumsy fingers curling awkwardly around his
( ... )
He's been in this situation before. Except, last time he was pinned down in the middle of a firefight, a bullet wound to a shoulder and a building of civilians trapped under hostile controls even while the mark for the job huddled behind his shoddy version of defense. It's a choice. It's always a choice. And it's never a choice someone makes in a rational moment when there is clarity and things that go your way. It's a choice that's made in the darkness and the deep reaches and in the firefight and in that last moment of breath between life and death. It's a choice he doesn't feel qualified to make, but then, he supposes, no one ever does. But it comes down to the fact that he hates, more than anything, to see Natasha in pain and he knows he has it in his power to end that suffering, at least for long enough to let her recover, but he also knows that with Tasha there is nothing so sacred or so fragile as her trust and he's told her time and again that he would never betray it, no matter how hard the choice. So he's been here before,
( ... )
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Blinking sluggishly to bring his face into focus -- 'cause she could really do with seeing him right now -- Natasha swallows tightly. "Floor collapsed under me," she says. Her fingers catch at his shirt, curling and twisting in the soft fabric. "I'm fine," she adds, because he looks worried. "Mission complete. Could use a clean-up on site."
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"Dammit, Nat, you're pretty banged up," He replies instead of telling her exactly what he wants to say, namely: 'fuck the mission are you going to bleed out on me here' and instead just brushes her hair back from her forehead to check the wound there.
"How many stories did you fall down?" He demands, pressing a hand to her shoulder as he tries to prove she's alive and here and not dead, not yet, "And how long ago? Jesus."
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"Hush, Nat," He chides, gently, because she's the exact opposite to okay, and he's going to have fucking words with Fury since she was able to get all the way to her room in this state. Medical should have damn well met her at the door"We need to get you down to see a doctor," He knows it's not going to be a popular suggestion, but he's not really going to take no for an answer because this is completely outside their level of expertise no matter how much both of them hate anything to do with medical. "Alright?" He's worried, panicked really, but he's trying not to show it--and he doesn't think he's doing that good of a job and it's ( ... )
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Maybe, she thinks, maybe she hit her head on the way down because something doesn't feel right. The world is set at an odd angle and its somewhat jarring.
"I'm good," she insists. Because she is. Or at least she will be. She catches one of his wandering hands with fumbling and clumsy fingers and presses it over her heart which skitters and skips a beat at his touch. Her shirt is low cut enough that his hand is almost entirely on her skin and the warmth flares through her. "Don't have to bother medical. Just. Help me out of these clothes, patch me up and I can sleep it off."
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"Don't lie to me, Nat," He admonishes, gently, as he shifts forward to try and find a better way to help her up. It only takes half a moment to realize he's going to have to carry her. Not that he minds--on the contrary at least then he knows he's gotten where she needs to be, and done it safely (and it has nothing to do with his want to have her as close to him as possible while he proves she's just banged up but very much still alive)-- but he's not entirely sure he'll survive her retribution when she's on her own two feet again.
But, his need to see her better wins out and he gives her a tight smile, "Arms around my neck, if you don't mind,"
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In the tightness of Clint's smile (a pale imitation of the smiles he usually gives her), Natasha finally reads the deep concern that she's been missing in his shaded eyes and the way his hands keep hovering over her skin. Her heart does an odd little twist in her chest. Clint can be a bit of a mother hen when she's hurt (and she'll tease him accordingly), but it's been a while since she's seen him this worried.
The cogs in her mind whirr and click slowly, like the whole machinery has rusted, and her fingertips twitch uselessly against Clint's hand pressed against her chest. It's worse than I think. The thought comes quick, like a sudden dip into ( ... )
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His steps are deliberate, measured, and he tries to keep her as still as possible, his expression tight and the people in the hallway scatter when he turns a corner ( ... )
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