#/'i hate wearing these pyjama pants. they have GOT to be polyester.' (we checked and they were)

[pockets-and-paint]

me watching my partner get more and more anti-plastic

[quietlyimplode]

for those angsty/concerned prompts: clintasha and # 20.  “Do you have someone who can look after you?” pls? psst I really like your writing dnbdbsnfnd

Hey Anon! Thanks so much :). I really like this prompt and just bleeds angst. So here we go! It’s gonna sit with other one shots here.

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“Ma’am, can you follow my finger?” The nurse holds her hand up and Natasha tries, she does, but her head hurts and the doctor is pulling stitches from her forehead to her ear.

“Ma’am, follow my finger.” Natasha huffs in annoyance.

They did this already. There’s a faint ringing in her ears that hasn’t gone since she got hit in the head with the butt of the Ak47, the long handle stronger than her head, breaking the skin open.

She would have forgone medical, but it was one of the conditions of her release on this assignment, Fury making her visit medical after every mission after what happened after Argentina.

This was her ticking this off, even though her head is pounding, despite the copious amounts of lidocaine and anaesthetic pumped into the wound. It’s not the worst injury she’s had but it is one of the most annoying she’s had recently.

The doctor ties off the last of the stitches and gives her a pat and a smile.

“Only 7 stitches.” She says proudly. “Any nauseousness or vomiting, come straight back.’ She says, looking at Natasha in the eyes. “Do you have any questions?”

Natasha shakes her head and regrets it instantly. He vision is now doubling, a whitish tinge covers her peripheral vision and it makes her head pound more.

“Okay. You’re good to go.” She hears her say. “Nadia here, will go through your medications.” The doctor leaves, and Natasha is thankful. One less person to fool.

She hops off the bed and leans, making a show that she doesn’t need to steady herself, her vision is off, almost double vision. It’s like she’s been dosed with the old KGB drugs back in the day.

She stops herself laughing at her own joke, the nurse, Nadia looks at her and says.. something.. Natasha can’t quite attend to what it is.. was.

“You need to take this in 2 hours, that’s when the pain killers will wear off. I suggest you take it then, if you wait, it will hurt more.”

Natasha nods as she’s supposed to. Takes the drugs from the nurse, as she’s supposed to. Walks towards the door, and remembers to thank the nurse, as she’s supposed to.

She want’s to get to her room. Wallow. Pass out. Stop her ears ringing and close her eyes to the double vision.

The nurse stops her at the door, and she tilts her head, confused.

“Ma’am, do you have someone who can look after you?”

Natasha smiles. “Of course,” comes the words from her mouth, the lie is the easiest one she’s told today.

The nurse steps aside and Natasha almost stumbles out the door, suddenly her feet feel too big and her body is at odds with her movement. Fatigue pushing in.

She makes it to her room. She strips off her clothes, the clingy polyester feeling like daggers in her skin.

She forgoes the shower, wanting the water to wash the mission off her skin but knowing that she would most likely pass out if she were to do so.

Naked, she finds a towel and wets it, rubbing it first over her face, cringing at the blood that comes away from her neck. She continues down her body, wiping away sweat and marking the bruises for cover up later. Finally she looks in the mirror, she sees a small child with a cut on their head, and almost cries out at the visions her mind places instead of her reflection.

She’s had this injury before, last time it was a makarov pistol but the cut and subsequent concussion is similar.

‘Push through.’ She tells herself now, as she did last time, moving from the bathroom to the bedroom, laying down naked on the bed.

She loses time.

She’s sure of it.

The towel that she wiped her body down with, is on the floor.

Maybe she slept?

She’s naked.

She hates waking up naked.

She sits up and regrets it. Her dizziness is back with a vengeance and she pushes down nauseousness, bile moving up her throat into her mouth. She waits to move until it subsides and then takes a deep breath. Makes herself get underwear and pants to pull them on. She opens her drawer and sees the glint of her hand cuffs, sitting pretty on her pyjama top. She fingers them and wonders if it would help. Help ground her, push this unsettling feeling and tension away, push her into a deep sleep that she can just…. float away.

She closes the drawer again.

Stands.

Can’t stop the nauseousness this time as it’s caustic taste fills her mouth. She’s forced to spit it into the bin, the quick movement makes her vomit again and the smell permeates the room.

Her head is pounding. She pulls the pyjama top over her head, and pain lances through her head.

“Ow.” She moans quietly, allowing herself the acknowledgement of pain. Natasha looks over to the bottle of painkillers.

She has no idea how long it’s been since she was at medical. She hates medication - the one they’ve given her making her tongue loose and loopy.

Deciding against them, she throws them on the floor, the bottle popping open and spilling the contents everywhere. She doesn’t know why she did that.. the throbbing in her head manageable is she just..doesn’t…move.

She lays down tentatively, almost sitting up so that she doesn’t have to move her head.

Maybe the hand cuffs aren’t a bad idea. The more she thinks on it, the better it seems. She pulls them out, encloses it on the bed post and then around her wrist. As the metal touches her, she breathes down panic.

This is good, she tells herself strongly.

This is needed.

Duty and the discipline of the old days.

Madam says it’s tithing to Red Room.

Madam says it will give her a blank mind.

Madam says…

.

Clint shuts down his computer, sighing softly at the monotony of paperwork. His brain hurts more now than it did when he started, this kind of work way harder than fieldwork in his mind.

If it was just field work he would be done in less time than typing out a damn field report.

Clint stretches as his phone goes off, he looks at the number, confused to see Shield Medical pop up.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Barton?”

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Barton, you’re Agent Romanoff’s emergency contact. We’ve tried to call her after she came in this afternoon with a severe concussion, she said that she had someone who could take care of her, but no one is picking up on her cell.”

Clint swallows down worry. She didn’t call. Natasha has no one except him. She doesn’t trust anyone. Not with pain, not with injury. It’s a miracle she’s been going to medical after missions, but he suspects that’s only because of the threat from Fury.

“Yes?” He asks.

“Are you with her Mr. Barton?”

“Thanks, I’l check in on her. Do you need anything else?” He doesn’t answer the question.

“Yes, if you could call us to let us know if she needs anything? More painkillers, or a higher dose?”

Clint shakes his head at the phone. He’s doubtful thats she took the first lot. He moves as fast as he can to the dormitory levels.

“Ok. Thank you, I’ll call back on this number.”

“Thanks Mr. Barton.” The lady says and hangs up.

Clint is almost running. Panic infusing his movement. He falters with his phone, dialling Natasha’s number, and cursing when it rings out. 

He picks the lock to her room, and opens the door. He smells the acrid vomit smell and curses under his breath.

“Natasha?” He announces his presence, as he moves to her bedroom. Louder now, he looks around for her. He hopes she’s in the room. Hopes she hasn’t run away.

“Oh no no no no no.. Nat…” the words just fall out of his mouth when he sees her. She’s on her side a trail of bile coming from her mouth and her hand handcuffed to the bed. The cut above her eye stands out, large and red against her pale skin.

He squats next to her, unsure what to do. He thinks he should wake her, but what if that’s not right?

He finds a towel on the floor, covered with bright pink blood, he folds it over and wipes the bile from her face.

“Tasha.. Tasha?” he moves next to her, their faces level.

“Nat?” Firm hands hold hers, he unlocks the handcuff from the bed and off her wrist, places it on the floor.

“Tash,” he touches her face and she flinches, closer to awake than asleep now.

He sits back on his heels and waits, speaking softy as she rouses.

“Hey Tash, why you always gotta do this alone? Huh? Why not call me? I’d’ve come. I would’ve sat with you. Annoyed you, and made sure you’re not in this alone.”

She orients to his voice but he keeps talking.

“You’re not alone. You have me. I’m sorry you think this is the only way. Sorry you had to go back to the old ways and the old patterns of coping. But you don’t gotta any more.”

She’s watching him now. He smiles at her.

“You hear me?” He asks her, a genuine question.

She dips her head, pain crossing her features.

He looks around for the pain killers and finds them spilt on the floor. Eyes watch as he he picks them up.

“No.” She tells him. The first thing she’s said.

“Ok.” He holds up the handcuffs.

“Do you need these?” Her pale face flushes red with embarrassment and her eyes look up away from his.

“No.” She whispers.

There’s silence in the room, and Clint moves slowly to the other side of the bed, lays next to her and takes her hand.

“You’ve got me.” He whispers. “You’re not alone.” Her head drops to look at him.

“You have someone to look after you, if you need it.” He tells her firmly.

“Ok?” Natasha looks over him from head to toe, breathing slowly.

“Ok.” She concedes.

.