Chapter Text
I blink open my eyes. Clint is pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed. Every few seconds, he runs his fingers through his hair.
“Shit, shit, shit,” He mumbles to himself, pausing. I try to speak up, to say something to him, but my thoughts are sluggish. I feel myself drift off.
When I open my eyes once more, he is sitting next to me. Dark circles rim his eyes and coffee stains his white t-shirt. We are in a hospital room at the compound. The familiar too-clean air is pungent, and there is a gentle whirring of machines, accompanied by the irritating steadiness of a heart monitor. Better than it being erratic, I suppose.
“Hey,” he signs with a tired smile, “Welcome back,” I try to sit up, gasping in pain, “Don’t move, okay? You’re going to be okay,” He presses his lips together. Fear is something I have rarely seen Clint exhibit, and it causes a knot to form in my stomach. I open my mouth to speak but he shakes his head quickly. For the first time, I notice the dull throbbing on my throat. I reach up to touch it, but he grabs my hands, pulling them down. He holds steady against my glare.
There is a knock at the door, and it swings open a moment later. Cap and Dr. Fine walk in, both looking just as worn out as Clint. Before I can try to speak, Steve jumps in.
“Don’t try and talk, okay?” He rubs the back of his head.
“Miss Romanoff, do you remember your last mission?” Dr. Fine asks. I look to Clint.
“Can I at least sign?” Clint doesn’t laugh, but agrees to dictate, “I was with Wanda in South Korea, we were trying to stop the North Koreans from launching missiles,” Clint’s voice is a hair too quiet as he speaks, hesitant and missing his usual inflections. I can’t imagine it is easy for him to be here, to be back. It occurs to me now that I must have been closer to death than usual for him to come to the compound.
“Yes,” Dr. Fine nods, seeming encouraged by my answer, “Do you remember what happened on the mission?” My thoughts whir, trying to produce something. It comes in violent flashes.
“Wanda was surrounded by five guys, I killed one of them,” Then there was a sharp pain that dragged across my throat. I look over to Cap, he won’t meet my eyes. Something went wrong. Dr. Fine clears his throat.
“You were steps away from Doctor Cho’s office, she was able to rebuild your trachea,” I can hear the ‘but’ lingering in his voice, “You didn’t react well to the procedure, your body began to reject it after the initial repair,” He explains. I think of Clint’s wounded abdomen, how they were able to fix it no problem just a year ago.
“Natasha?” I blink, they look concerned. I must’ve zoned out, drifted. I am on a lot of drugs; I can feel them coursing through me.
“We were able to repair your trachea, however,” I look over to Steve, this doctor is taking too long.
“Your vocal cords were completely severed. It is a miracle you’re alive, Nat.” There is some kind of desperate pleading in his voice. They are all staring at me, as if expecting me to throw something. Or perhaps have a breakdown. But I feel nothing, numb. I look to Clint.
“Deaf and mute, irony, right?” Again, he doesn’t laugh. In fact, there is not a single trace of the humor that normally sparkles in Clint’s eye. None of the teasing lightness that I have come to know. It is rare for him to be so sullen. I must have been at death’s doorstep.
“You’re healing at your normal accelerated pace,” the doctor adds, “I would expect a majority of your wounds to be healed within a few days.”
“Tony is looking for Bruce, if anyone can fix it, they can,” Cap assures. They all fall into an awkward silence. This would normally be the time for me to add to the conversation. To offer up another solution.
“Can I get the room?” Clint asks, his voice a little too loud. There are promises to check in on me later, and to rest up, before it is just me and my best friend. His sigh gives away how large of a burden he has been bearing.
“You should be home with Laura and the kids,” I scold.
“Tash, you almost died,”
“But I didn’t.” This hangs in the air for a moment. My eyelids feel heavy. Even breathing seems to be too much work right now.
“Your façade is slipping,” He replies, “It’s just me. You don’t have to hide behind a mask.” I feel my heartbeat quicken, and the machine gives me away. Madame B would be furious. I force it to slow down. “You’re allowed to not be okay,” he signs. I close my eyes, resting back into the pillows.
He doesn’t nudge me to open my eyes or tell me to stop being a coward. Instead, I hear him settle down into the armchair next to my bed, waiting me out. A battle of wills.
My eyes fly open, and I open my mouth, struggling to breathe. No air comes in nor out. I claw at my neck, trying to find the source of the blockage.
“Natasha?” Clint’s face swims in front of me.
“Oxygen levels and BP is dropping,” a nurse presses a button and soon the room is filled with white lab coats. My panic increases. “We need to intubate,” there is a sharp pain as a tube slides down my throat, “Left lung has collapsed, prep OR one for surgery.” I feel a knife slice my side and a something is jammed into the wound. Instantly, my lungs fill with air. This lasts only for a second. Something isn’t right. Once again, oxygen evades me. Black dots fill my vision, until they are all I see.
When I awake once more, I am alone. My only company is machines, and all they do is deny me silence. I search for any sign of Clint and spot his sweatshirt on the chair. He hasn’t left the compound.
“Nat, you’re awake,” I look over to the door, Steve is in the threshold, his large frame taking up most of it. He holds a teddy bear with a foil balloon that reads Get Well Soon. It is equal parts cheesy and endearing. Steve begins to answer my questions before I can formulate them in my mind, “You’ve been out for two days. Clint went to take a shower; it is the first time we’ve gotten him to leave the room.” He steps inside, placing the bear on the nightstand, “We’re at the compound, your surgery went well. They can move you down to your suite tomorrow.” I take in the flood of information, surprised that in my impaired state, I was able to keep up. I have more questions, though no others so pressing. It would not be much use if they were important, Cap doesn’t know sign language, and I don’t have a pen.
“She is awake and you didn’t call me? I had to find out from Friday?” Clint storms into the room, signing and yelling at the same time.
“She just woke up,” Cap replies coolly, making sure he is looking at Clint when he speaks. There is some obvious tension between the two right now. Normally, Wanda would be rolling her eyes at the bickering. Wanda. Oh my God. I forgot to check. Did she make it out? Where is she? I struggle to get up, and my movements distract the pair.
“Nat, hey what’s wrong?”
“Wanda,” I sign quickly, using the sign Clint developed for her. “Where is she? Is she okay?” The girl is young, just sixteen. She was fighting so many, and I left her there.
“She is fine, mild concussion,” Clint assures me, reclaiming his seat.
“Wanda’s sorry, she’s blaming herself. I don’t think she has left her room since medical released her,”
“Why were they alone?” Clint hisses, glaring at Steve, “Where was backup?”
“We were on our way,” he replies stiffly, barely suppressing his anger. Though I don’t know if it is truly directed towards Clint.
“You were too late.” Clint’s tone carries a finality, no room for debate.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Steve’s jaw twitches, desperation bleeding through. “I have to go finish the mission report. I’m glad your awake, Nat.” The door slams behind him, and a crack runs through the manufactured wood.
I look over to Clint, who is barely holding it together. He has finally changed into fresh clothes, though they are wrinkled, and I am fairly certain the t-shirt is on backwards.
“How bad was I, really?” I find the courage to ask. What does it take for Wanda to hide in her room, Steve to be exploding in anger, and for Clint to look so heartbroken?
“They called me to come and say my goodbyes.” I bite my lip. “When I got here, they had just finished your surgery, they weren’t sure you were going to last the night.”
“How long was I out for the first time?”
“Six days. But none of that matters, you’re going to be fine.” He places his hands on mine and I can feel them shaking.