Usefulandstrange

Here we go!

the language of flowers and silent things.

Whumptober 2023: Day 1 - How many fingers am I holding up

Warnings: perceived death (no death I promise), panic

Word Count: 2.3k (gif not mine)

Summary: The marriage of Clint and Natasha.

A/N: there are people that stand with you in darkness, brave the shadows and not shy away, if you have friends like that hold them tight. This is for you @broken--bow .

Friend, without you there would be no whumptober, there are no words for the consistency of friendship you have supported over the last month, and thank you doesn’t seem enough. I wish it were more, but thank you all the same.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

KASHMIR

2011

“It’s cold,” Natasha grumbles.

“Yep,” Clint replies, popping the p, and trudging on through the snow.

“How far?”

The snow is white and endless, and Natasha is sure they aren’t going the right way. Her rifle, slung across her shoulder, rubs and feels heavy, as it hits the back of her thighs; even though likely it’s her backpack that has the weight.

Clint glances at the gps, a small look of surprise on his face.

Natasha stops.

“What?”

“It’s less that two hundred metres,” he says, pointing to the left.

He adjusts his pack and trudges forward, giving Natasha places to put her feet as she grumbled again.

“You’re Russian!” he says, exasperated as the safe house comes into sight.

She throws him a look a rolls her eyes.

“I don’t like the cold,” she deadpans.

Approaching the house, they both split up, covering the front and back and simultaneously breach the door way.

Covering the rooms in a pattern, Natasha is first to call all clear, followed by Clint, as she beelines for the generator and sets up the heater.

.

The white noise of the generator infuriates Clint as he keeps the first watch; more snow falling. He

wonders if it will ever stop.

The cold that penetrates is icy, even though they’ve used spare blankets under the doorways and old newspapers on the window.

Natasha was finally asleep.

He knows by the soft breaths, slow and even.

She doesn’t like sleeping in the cold, and he knows why, it reminds her too much of the barracks of the Red Room.

She berates herself about becoming too soft, even as she makes their apartment and their rooms a constant temperature.

Less nightmares.

He tells her it’s not a bad thing to protect yourself from bad dreams, but it never seems to stick.

She sighs audibly and he wonders what she’s dreaming.

If the snow continues to fall at this rate, they’ll be snowed in. The trek here all uphill, and he hates Maria a little for directing them to this one.

“Hydra,” she’d said, “they’ve taken advantage of the political climate, and infiltrated the region.”

It’s a shame; he think idly, Kashmir is beautiful, but the evil that has infiltrated made it unsightly.

The man that they had killed was wanted by Interpol, crimes against humanity and all that.

Natasha’s kill shot hitting him between the eyes, as Clint had done the calculations quickly around wind speed and elevation.

One shot, one kill.

They made it look easy; isn’t that why Fury sent them?

Now, stuck in the snow, in a quaint house, Clint has too much time to reflect and worry about the repercussions of not being extracted until the snow stops.

His grip tightens on the gun, and he adjusts his position.

.

Natasha focuses on the landscape, the parts she can see anyway. Snow covers the door, just reaching the window and she feels vulnerable at not being able to see all the ways around them.

She knows if she looks at Clint, she won’t be able to hide her disappointment.

He won’t be able to hide his fear.

The satcom phone lays inert, as they await the next call.

Any way out.

Any opportunities for exfil.

Not likely for the next twenty four hours anyway.

The tension in the room is palpable. The generator has enough petrol for the next five hours, and the temperature is far below zero.

.

Clint focuses on the bowl of cereal, the snow still around them.

This was supposed to be easy.

He suppresses a shiver and pulls his coat around him trying to gain any heat he can.

The one room they’d kept heated, now growing colder.

He knows they both feel it.

Natasha pushes away her bowl, half eaten.

“You gotta eat, Nat,” he murmurs.

“We need to leave,” she argues, “the generator is done, the food almost gone, and the pipes are frozen. We have no water apart from what we have in that bucket.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s cold outside, no one is coming here in that weather; plus where are we gonna go? We have to wait for them to come.”

She’s knows he’s right. Standing and staring out the window, she shivers.

It’s not a good sign.

“Clint.”

The seriousness in her tone has him on edge as he joins her.

“It’s stopped snowing.”

They both know, when the temperature drops the snow stops, the sun, or what was left of it, hides behind the dark as the black starts to descend, night approaching; though the hour not late.

“What are we going to do?” she whispers.

.

They move to the smallest room, a tiny broom closet, big enough for the both of them. No windows, blankets piled in.

“I hate the cold,” she gristles, her teeth gnashing.

Clint pulls her closer, trying to stay warm, even though he’s sure it’s not helping.

“Talk,” he asks, “take my mind off this.”

The request isn’t lost on Natasha, the beginning of the third day had begun and they still had no way out, the sat phone silent, stood next to the door.

“Mmmm,” she says; trying to stop her teeth chattering.

“If you changed around this house, what would you do to make it better?”

It’s an old game, one they used to play when nightmares would keep either of them awake and neither wanted sleep.

Clint bites, he wants nothing more than the deep dread that fills his body to go away.

“Thicker windows,” he starts, “and for there to be a better security system.”

Natasha grunts in agreement.

“Insulation,” she continues, “the bedroom, I’d move to the back of the house, maybe another bathroom.”

Clint snorts.

“Like our house?”

She laughs, shivers hard and suppresses another.

“What’s that like again?”

He sits up a little straighter, and starts talking about the blueprints he’s sketched out when they’d first started dating.

“You know, you’ll have a library, and I’ll have a target room, the kitchen will be big, and the bathroom always warm.”

“The house is always warm,” she corrects.

“Heated floors?”

He nods, “definitely heated floors.”

She rests her head on his shoulder.

“”It sounds nice.”

.

The night passes slowly.

Both in and of consciousness, eating where they can and bodies shivering hard against the cold.

“My lungs hurt,” she grunts, forcing herself to take a breath.

Clint can’t answer, he agrees, but can’t do anything but nod his head.

She’s terrified; not because she’s going to die, but because he is.

“Talk to me,” she says, her teeth chattering.

She remembers Russia, the coldness of the room and the lack of heat in their dormitory rooms. The blankets thread bare.

She felt it then, but had no context about how warm the world could be.

“You think the world is warm?”

Natasha hadn’t realised she was talking out loud.

“It’s different, here, don’t you think?”

He swallows, trying to readjust his position but finds his limbs uncooperative.

She’s not making sense and he’s worried. He can’t think straight though and maybe she can’t either.

They won’t die here.

Someone will come.

.

“When we get married,” she starts.

They both laugh.

But it’s the silence that hangs.

“What are we going to do, Clint?”

She can see their breath, and movement is getting harder. Natasha knows this cold, Russian winters this biting, freezing kind of bitter. If they die….

If they die it’s not a bad way to go, here, safe with someone she loves and a life she curated for herself.

If she dies…

“What kind of wedding will it be?”

Clint stops her train of thought.

Desperate to change the subject to anything apart from their imminent death, he hugs her closer, trying to not be unnerved by how cold her skin is.

“Small,” she considers, indulging him.

“I’ll wear white, you’ll wear a tux, but it’ll only be our closest friends.”

He nods.

“Who are we inviting?”

“Maria.”

“Coulson.”

They take turns naming their friends.

“Pepper.”

Clint frowns, “really?”

“Yeah, why?”

The shiver stops him from answering, and she tries to pull the blankets more around him.

“If you invite Pepper, we’d have to invite Tony,” he says grumpily, disliking the fact that someone who heavily objectified Natasha would be invited.

Natasha’s head rolls over to him, a smile on her cracked lips.

“We’d make him sign a NDA,” she almost laughs.

“He wouldn’t be able to talk about it, and it would destroy him.”

Clint laughs, a cough bubbling as he sucks in too much cold air.

“He’d probably get a good present anyway.”

“Fury?” Natasha asks, and Clint nods.

“Yeah I think so.”

He sighs.

“Is it sad it’s such a short list?”

She shrugs.

“Who else would you invite?”

Clint knows.

Family. Isn’t that who you’re supposed to invite for your wedding? For you brother to be your best man? Or for your mother and father to sit in the front row and cry?

“Who’d walk you down the aisle?”

She ignores the question.

“I’d invite Yelena,” she decides, looking wistful.

Clint rubs her leg.

“Yeah. I’d invite Barney,” he agrees. Even though it’s likely his brother and her sister as long since dead, it’s a nice thought to have.

“Your mom,” she opens the thought.

Natasha stops but continues after a moment.

“I think I would have liked our mothers to come, even if mine abandoned me.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say.

“I would have liked that too,” he breathes.

“I think you’d walk me down the aisle,” she whispers, coughing into her gloves.

“Where?”

He knows where, he just wants her to say it.

“Okinawa,” she smiles, knowing he loves the shores of the tiny island as much as she does.

“Of course,” he smiles back.

They sit in silence

“We can find them, I think.”

Clint says it with conviction.

Natasha looks at him intensely, breath white, nose red.

They’re going to die here, he thinks idly. Why not give them another mission, even if it only gives them hope.

“Our parents?”

He shakes his head.

“Our siblings.”

Natasha sees Yelena standing at the door, sad eyes, hands waving goodbye.

Her eyes open and close languidly.

“Okay.”

She knows what he’s doing.

Offering hope when there isn’t any.

Gloved hand reaches out under the blankets and takes his.

“If we survive this, and if we find Barney and Yelena, we will get married. You just have to ask,” she proposes.

Clint nods, his movement slow, his voice quiet and somber.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Natasha? Will you marry me?”

Head against his, she kisses him slowly, purposefully; like it’s the last draw of breath she’ll ever take.

“Yeah, Clint, of course I’ll marry you.”

.

Maria panics at the empty house, wondering where her friends are.

If they thought she wasn’t coming, maybe they left to find safety; it would have been a death sentence.

Temperatures outside so cold it had taken far too long to trek anywhere for safety, the snow too deep.

As it was, it had taken too long for the helicopter to land anywhere safely.

Maria looks around.

Two people that already have so much trust issues, she’s not sure what they would have done.

She’s sure they would have thought no one was coming.

In the instant, Maria feels panic.

She clears the first room and the medic clears two more rooms; then — Maria finds them.

Huddled together, Natasha’s head on Clint’s shoulders their faces pale and they look half dead.

She calls the medic over, unwrapping them from the blankets.

“Thready,” the man tells her, assessing Clint, then Natasha.

They drag them out, laying them down on stretchers as they both call it in on the sat phone.

Maria places the warmers over their chests, as the medic works on placing an IV for both of them.

They work quickly and efficiently; slowly working to warm their friends, hoping against all hopes that the hypothermia has no permanent effects.

.

Natasha hears before she sees, the whir of the plane, the pain in all her muscles as life starts flowing back into her.

“Clint,” she tries.

Voice cracking, not loud enough, she can’t see him or hear him, her heart hurts and her thoughts race.

They’re going to get married.

They’re going to find Yelena and Barney.

They’re going to…

Breath comes fast, alarms blare and she panics; sitting up, eyes now open she finds herself connected to machines and monitors.

Clint lays next to her.

Laying back, doctors surround her.

“Clint,” she says again.

Maria appears in her field of vision, a stoic face.

“He’s okay too,” she clarifies.

Panicked eyes greet her.

“Natasha,” Maria says, “look at me.”

Wild eyes look her.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

She sticks two fingers in Natasha’s face, and predictably, her friend rolls her eyes.

“Two.”

Maria puts three more.

“Three.”

She nods.

“He’s okay,” she assures.

Closing her eyes, Natasha grunts and sinks back into a deep sleep.

.

“God you’re both so predictable,” Maria grunts, half holding him down.

“She’s fine, look, okay?”

Clint gives her a goofy smile, clearly still delirious.

He sees Natasha, oxygen mask on, eyes closed.

“She’sgonnamarryme,” he tells her, words mumbled.

“What?”

Maria thinks she misheard, because neither Clint or Natasha feel like the marrying type.

He nods, “jus’ gotta find Yelena and Barney.”

Clint’s eyes slip closed.

“She’sgonnamarryme,” he says again, falling back into a drugged sleep.

.

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 2 - “I’ll call your name, but you won’t call back”

Warnings: despondency, discussion of murder

Word Count: 1.9k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha’s mother tells her stories on borrowed time.

A/N: can be read as a stand alone, this one is a lot in a way I’m not so sure how to describe.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

1984

RUSSIA

“You are so loved,” her mother whispers to her, brushing the small wisps of hair away.

“I’m sorry I won’t be there for when you take your first steps, or for any other milestone,” she breathes.

The baby yawns, sleeping soundly, unaware of the tears on her mother’s face.

“Not for your first words, not for first friend, or first love.”

Again, she caresses the girls face, softly touching down the ridge of her nose; “not for your wedding, or for your children.”

She sniffs and sighs.

“Not for anything.”

Tired eyes open and close as she’s jostled in position.

“I’m sorry, my love, I am so sorry.”

Gentle kisses along her fingers, the small chubby hands of an infant, as they reflexively curls to hold onto her mother’s hand.

“I carried you into the world, I didn’t want you the whole way, and now you’re here, I can’t let you go.”

Slowly, she places the baby down in the makeshift bassinet, their meager belongings around them.

“We have tonight though,” she says, laying next to the box, their only blanket surrounding the baby as she suppressed a shiver.

“And I think, I want to tell you all the stories I know, about me, about the man who is your father, about where you’re going and your history. You’ll have to remember all of it, because I fear they’ll never tell you.”

She takes the baby back out, backing into the corner, wrapping the blanket around the both of them.

“Natasha, your father is dead, I killed him.”

She kisses her again, unable to look at her.

“I wish it was different, that half of you wasn’t tainted by him, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing, maybe you have the good parts of him, his tenacity, his fight; maybe his good singing voice.”

She draw the girl closer, glad that she doesn’t understand.

“It’s why they’re coming for you, you see, as punishment, I kill their son, his family takes his only heir. Even if half of you… is me.”

The woman closes her eyes.

“I wish I made better choices, my love, I wish, he was a better man; born to a better family; but they are not good, I don’t know what they are going to do with you; but I’ll come for you; that I swear.”

Natasha’s eyes open, the darkness surrounding them.

Eyes closed again to soft words and a lullaby.

“Sleep, my love, sleep.”

Eyes watch in the darkness, opening and closing as the voice lulls her back.

Continuing the song, gently she touches her girl’s face, memorising her cheeks.

“The house lights go out; the birds are quiet in the garden, fish fell asleep in the pond.”

Eyes close again, the pull of sleep too much for her little body.

“The moon shines in the sky, the moon is looking into the window,” she continues.

She looks up, no stars, no moon in reality.

“Close your eyes now; sleep, my love, sleep.”

Her eyes close as she says the words, knowing sleep won’t come for her on their last night together; she wants to be awake for every moment of it, tell Natasha everything she can think of, make up for a lifetime in a night.

“History is important, my Natasha. I wish I could give you something to remember me by, but all I have is words. I hope your memories hold me, maybe my voice or words.”

Waiting for the tears to dry in her eyes, she sniffs and continues. Maybe it’s because she wants her daughter to know that she’s not alone in the world; even if she’s not sure that’s true.

She wants her to know that she comes from a strong line of women.

“My mother, your grandmother, was a seamstress. She was a hard woman, but not bad, I think, or at least she didn’t mean to be. She could mend anything. We used to sing together, and I’m sure it’s what brought your father to the shop. She could tell a story, and would tell this one much better than I can.”

She wishes the world had been kinder; that her mother was here to tell her what to do next, to maybe tell her to fight and not give up, not be a quitter.

She just doesn’t have it in her. Not when she’s still suffering from birth, can’t walk more than a few meters without pain, let alone take on his family.

“My father, your grandfather, died when I was little. It seems fathers have not served either of us well. I met yours, or rather he came after me, seeing me working in my mother’s shop.”

She breathes.

“I was flattered at first.”

Stopping as the memories of him following her home, the unwanted attention, and the courting.

“Until I wasn’t.”

She sighs.

“By then, my Natasha, it was too late. I was his, and he treated me as such.”

She pauses.

“I had no family, no friends, to help me. So I went along with it. I didn’t know. I didn’t know his family trafficked children. I didn’t know they collected girls for the Red Room…I didn’t know.”

Natasha moves as her mother tightens her grip, almost unconsciously holding on tight to her baby.

“I think they’re going to put you in there.”

The fear of her child being placed in the company of monsters pains her in a way she’s never felt, and she doesn’t quite understand it.

“But if I run, they’ll find us. So our only option is to play along. I give you to them, and I’ll come for you, okay? I’ll figure it out, I’ll get you out, buy your freedoms, but if I’m dead, no one can do that. Do you understand?”

She wishes she did, she wishes this could be tattooed on her skin.

Her grief deepens.

Reality catching her in the likelihood of being able to take down the Red Room, of being able to find her daughter in the shadows of Russian hegemony.

“But if I don’t, I hope you make better decisions than I did and not give your love to those who don’t deserve it. Only those who deserve your greatness, my love.

Where you’re going…. They do not love Natasha, don’t fall for their lies as I did.”

She can’t help the tears that fall.

“Try to stay true to yourself, protect yourself.”

She takes the photos the nurse took of them out. The two small Polaroids the most precious of possessions.

“I’d write this in a letter if I knew it could stay with you, but it’s just a photo of me and you. It’s a reminder. I’ll come for you.”

She removes the blue ribbon from her hair, the thick velvet of it soft as she wraps the picture inside.

She tucks it into the swaddling, hoping in any way that she’s able to keep it. Anything to keep a part of her close.

“I’m so sorry I failed you, and you’re not even a week old.”

All the tears she’s been holding back, all the grief comes flooding through her, pain like no other at the hopelessness of the situation.

The sounds wake the baby and they cry together; grief enveloping them.

.

The baby girls of the Red Room are so small.

Katerina has a specific job, take care of the little ones. She hates it here but doesn’t trust anyone else to do it. Torn between care and wanting to help the girls who have no hope, and leaving; knowing all she does, she comes to work each day with dread and longing.

She sees the bigger girls in their lines and matching uniforms and she wonders if they ever have a chance to just be children.

She doubts it.

They tell her to leave the babies in the cots. They don’t want them to be attached to adults. They need to learn to stop crying at an early age.

It a part of an experiment; a barbaric one, Katerina feels.

The new girl comes in a swaddled blanket, it’s threadbare and worn but seems well taken care of, darned in patches. Carefully she unwraps her, finding a small blue ribbon and a photo.

She doesn’t know the woman, but she knows love when she sees it, the blanket, the ribbon, the photo. Carefully, she wraps them all together and places them into a cupboard, if she can hide them well enough, maybe she can keep them for the little girl, tell her one day that she was loved.

She knows the lies that the Red Room tells the girls, how they are unwanted, abandoned, given up, but for almost all of them, it’s not the case.

She knows for this little one, this is also not the case. Katerina knows love when she sees it.

She changes her nappy, and gently places her into the cot, then turns to tend to one of the other twenty children in her charge.

.

The wet nurse has always been kind to her.

Though only technically for the babies, five year old Natasha runs into the baby room to find her.

“Miss Katerina,” she sobs.

Katerina turns, the girls stops short in front of her, and her heart sinks, she knows that any other five year old would seek a hug.

“What’s happened, Natashka?”

Fat tears drop down her face, bottom lip wobbles and she cries silently.

Only children who have been taught not to cry out loud, cry silently, Katerina has learnt.

She kneels so she at the little girl’s level.

She brushes red curls out of her face, and offers a hanky.

“Take a deep breath.”

Natasha does exactly what she’s told.

“Does everyone have a mother and a father?” she sniffles, sad eyes looking up, like she knows the answer.

“Did I?”

Katerina doesn’t know what to say.

But she has the right things for it.

Looking into a cupboard for something she hid years ago, she turns her back on the girl and finds what she was looking for.

“You had a mother,” she whispers.

“She left these for you.”

She hands Natasha the picture and the ribbon.

“Natashka, look at me.”

Sad eyes look up, tears still falling as little fists hold onto the ribbon.

“They can’t know.”

She holds the girls shoulder tight.

“They can’t know.”

She takes the picture and the ribbon away, and Natasha reaches for them angrily.

“They’re mine!” she exclaims.

“And what do you think they’ll do with you, with these, if they find it?”

Angry fists clench again, and her face goes red.

“I want to see them again.”

Katerina feels likes she’s done something wrong here.

“I shouldn’t have shown you.”

She puts the picture and the ribbon away.

“You have a mother and she abandoned you,” she reframes. “Forget about her. She’s not coming for you.”

Natasha stares.

“No,” she growls.

“I won’t.”

“You need to,” she insists.

She sighs.

“You need to be combat class now, they’ll come looking for you.”

Natasha crossed her arms.

“Yeah, use that anger.”

She pushes her towards the door.

“Whoever told you about mothers and fathers, go punch them in the face.”

Shutting the door after her, Katerina takes a deep breath.

She’s fucked up.

Small girl comes to her crying and she does the one thing that might kill them both.

.

Please reblog for a larger sample size.

here again now

Warnings: violence/aftermath of torture/recovery

Word Count: 7.9k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha is captured, tortured and left with insomnia. (Part 3/4

(pls note that the fic starts below and finishes on ao3 - i know how annoying it is to start on one platform only to have it finish on another)

A/N: Buckle up for a long chapter <3 in which everyone worries, Natasha struggles and Clint tries to help. The outside forces that aim to break Natasha down are revealed and small things are set right.

Not re-read my mistakes are my own <3

.

He doesn’t want to say anything as he breathes heavily, the fight not even lasting a minute as she stops as quickly as she started.

Clint watches her as she stares at herself in the mirror.

The slow touch of her hair, the dead stare and then the panic.

It’s starts with her pulling at the whispers of hair that are left, hard enough for them to come out.

A clawing at her skull.

He pulls her back from the mirror and holds her, stopping the harm that’s coming in waves.

She’s crying as she feels him behind her, a stuttering in her words.

“I can’t sleep,” she starts, “I can’. I can’t. I can’t.”

The words come over and over.

Clint doesn’t know what to do.

She’s still covered in vomit, still needs a shower, still needs sleep.

In this state nothing can happen.

She’s not present, not enough to do anything.

So he waits, holds her and hopes it’s enough.

.

Natasha can’t catch her breath. Every time she tries, she seems to only breath in smaller amounts. Even as she feels Clint surround her, it becomes almost a chore to suck it in and remember to push it out.

“Sedate me,” she breathes.

And as she says the words, she feels it’s the only way out.

“Sedate me,” she repeats.

If they drug her, she’ll really know then, when she wakes; if she sees the woman’s face or, if she’s back here.

She can’t breathe anyway.

Even as she’s encouraged by Clint.

Was she not loud enough in her request?

“Sedate me!”

The words louder now, even as they fall on deaf ears.

She struggles against Clint, trying to get a breath, black spots in her vision.

“Se..da..” she moans, pushing against him, running out of air on the words.

Natasha knows he’s talking, saying something to her but she can’t hear him, there’s a piercing white noise that overrides it and she can’t even hear herself, even as she repeats the same words over and over again.

At least, she thinks she is.

In a last ditch effort, she reaches for Clint’s face.

“Help,” she whispers.

He nods, his eyes glassy.

Holding up a syringe, he appears to ask her consent one more time as she nods pitifully back at him.

She can’t hear his words but longs for the black nothingness of drugged sleep.

She doesn’t care what happens to her body.

She just needs to stop thinking, stop moving… stop being.

To be held in the abyss for as long as possible.

Natasha knows she can’t keep going, not like this, not being able to tell the difference between awake and hallucination.

Clint encircles her again, holds her in a body lock as there’s a pinch on her left arm.

She looks over to it, and already the needle has been removed.

Clint holds her tight, rocking her gently and counts, knowing the repetition soothes her.

Only Clint knows that.

She’s home.

There’s no doubt now.

She starts to count with him, the abyss surrounding her.

.

Tony stares at the screen.

The van is parked not far, he sends out two drones to get real-time footage, and then triangulates all cameras from the time it dropped Natasha to follow the Van.

He wants to tell Clint, maybe Bruce too.

Turning his attention, he sees Clint lead Natasha into the bathroom.

He can’t reconcile her shaved head, even as he watches their movement.

Shaking his head, he sets Jarvis to keep an ear if Clint needs help and leaves the room to find Bruce.

He doesn’t go far into the bowels of the tower before Jarvis stops the elevator.

“Sir, they’re fighting.”

He doesn’t need to ask who is, because it’s obvious.

Tony detours back, opens the door to the infirmary and smells vomit and cringes.

He must have missed it whilst he was concentrating on the van. Tony hovers outside the bathroom, hearing a Clint tell Natasha to stop.

He wants to go but his feet don’t move.

Voiced pleas that are inaudible but he can tell what they are by the cadence and fear behind them, the way that the response is nothing.

He hears Natasha’s calls to sedate her, and Clint trying to talk her down as he goes through the options of what’s going happen next.

Tony pushes the door ajar and looks inside.

Neither of the spies notice him, and Natasha’s distress is clear as she struggles against Clint, repeating the words to sedate her.

He closes the door and stares for a moment.

“Sir?”

Jarvis’s voice breaks through his thoughts.

He leaves the room quickly, finding Bruce with a syringe in his hand.

“Jarvis..” Bruce says, by way of explanation.

Tony nods.

“What happened? He said that Natasha needed propafol?”

Tony takes the syringe, offering no explanation and heading back into the room. He knocks on the bathroom this time and opens the door.

Clint looks up at him, he has Natasha in a hold and holds his hand out for the syringe.

Natasha’s eyes open and close.

Her breath stuttering.

“Help,” she whispers, reaching aimlessly for Clint.

Clint holds her head, uncaps the syringe and injects her. He rocks her slightly, counting with her.

Tony feels like a voyeur.

They both watch as her body fights it, then, she goes limp.

Clint looks exhausted, as he stares up at Tony.

None of them have slept, but Tony is used to it.

He also didn’t have to watch Natasha and be vigilant for her.

“What’s the time?” he asks, not moving.

Jarvis responds.

“It’s 6.16am.”

Clint nods.

“She threw up, I don’t know what happened next, but she started to fight me, then seemed to realise something was wrong when I didn’t fight back.”

Clint touches her arms, almost unwrapping himself from the hold position.

“She started pulling at her hair in the mirror,” he says the words monotonously, like telling a story.

“She said she couldn’t sleep, then asked me to sedate her.”

He seems to come to the realisation that he’s injected her with a drug that he doesn’t know.

“Propofol,” Bruce supplies, seeing Clint’s confusion.

Tony doesn’t even know when Bruce came up behind him.

If Clint is also surprised, he doesn’t show it.

He just nods slowly.

“How long do you think we have?” He asks, lifting Natasha.

Bruce shrugs.

“She shouldn’t have been given it in an injection like that. Jarvis just said it was an emergency and I didn’t think we wanted a reoccurring incident like last August; so it was this or nothing.. Someone will need to stay with her, just to monitor her breathing…”

Tony looks up and Jarvis responds in kind.

“I am monitoring her vitals,” the AI tells them, “she is stable.”

Bruce nods.

“How long do you want her drugged for?”

Clint carries her to the large arm chair, the one that reclines back and places her gently on it.

“As long as possible,” he says.

“We need to find out what’s happened, and then maybe we have a chance at helping her get over whatever this fear is.”

Bruce nods and leaves, Tony presumes to get more drugs, or maybe a way of sedating her further.

“She needs a shower, or to get her changed. I don’t know!”

His voice escalates.

Tony feels he’s never been in a situation where he’s had to be the one to make decisions for another. Perhaps another reason why he doesn’t want children, the responsibility weighs heavily of taking care of his friends.

“Okay,” he says, raising his hands.

“Let’s get her changed, we’ll do it together. Bruce will get her sleeping for a bit longer and you’re going to go to bed. I’m going to follow the leads of the van and we will work this out.”

Clint stares at him.

Tony feels he’s said too much.

“Go have a quick shower, and get the supplies for changing her, get her clothes and maybe some wipes.”

Clint still stares.

“Now.”

Tony says it as gently as he can, but the urgency in his voice makes his friend move.

Clint takes one last look at Natasha and leaves her with Tony.

.

Continued…

Shamelessly poaching someone elses idea, social media poll but the options arent solely geared 2wards 15 year olds

Reblog 4 a bigger sample size dadada you know how it is w polls

no third option you have to pick one, reblog after voting <3

ignite your bones

After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.

Whumptober 2024: Day 24 - I never knew daylight could be so violent. (No light, no light)

Warnings: whump/angst/therapy

Word Count: 2k (gif not mine)

Summary: Olivia needs help; but then again so does Natasha.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist.

.

Pain shoots through her abdomen and and she bows to it.

She doesn’t allow herself a cry of pain, only a huff of a breath and closes her eyes.

Her hand shakes as she empties the last of the tryptophan her heart sinking as she feels nauseousness rise and tremors shudder through her.

“Fuck,” she swears.

The night is going to be long.

She takes one of the last two tablets anyway knowing it’s only delaying the inevitable.

She sighs, laying down and trying to breathe through the pain.

Shield had the medications that she needed, but she didn’t quiet trust them.

Pain thrusts its way through her, making her clench her fists and forcing breath in and out consciously.

She decides in the moment to find Coulson or Fury. Shield is not safe but the two men would perhaps help.

She owed them, they owed her, and she’s sure she could call in a favour.

.

The seizure leaves her on the floor, her head pounding as she feels her consciousness return to her.

Wiping her mouth, she pushes herself up.

Hands still shaking, Olivia takes the last pill, hoping it makes her functional.

She knows she’s running out of time. She didn’t realise how close she was running out when she left.

Stupid, she berates herself.

Living in America had made her soft, dependant… Compliant.

If she was on her own, she’d have stocks, but instead, she’d just worked through the emergency medication knowing she’d have access to more.

Allowing herself a moment of self pity, she wonders just how to find the others, and slowly dresses herself.

The number she’d memorised for Fury may still work, and she contemplates if she’s able to make it to the closest pay phone.

The small apartment’s furniture helps her to move on shaking legs, and the walking stick she keeps in the closet feels like a good option.

Armed with a knife and sunglasses, she makes her way out to the harsh light of day.

Nauseous, she descends the stairs, tremors still wracking her body.

She can do this, she’s done much harder things.

One hundred steps, she tells herself.

When she reaches that, she counts 100 more.

At 345 she stops, breathing labored at the public pay phone.

“This better fucking work,” she mutters to herself, dialing the number.

Four rings in and she feels bile rise in her throat.

On the fifth, the phone picks up and she closes her eyes in relief.

“It’s bad,” she opens, “I need… what you owe me.”

Fury seems to understand.

“Safehouse six. I’ll organise for it to be sent there.”

He pauses.

“You owe me too. Don’t think I won’t collect.”

The phone hangs up and she groans, sinking to the floor, holding onto the walking stick and feeling another seizure coming on.

.

The knock at the door sets them all on edge.

Even though Fury calls to tell them that Olivia is coming, they all stand. Maria’s hand on her gun, Clint close to his bow and Natasha stands near the draw with the knives.

Coulson opens it, and finds Olivia standing there, just as Fury had said.

He opens the door wider, letting her in and showing the others that they have nothing to fear.

She enters, and Clint frowns.

“Are you… are you okay?”

The woman waves him off, and says something quietly to Coulson. He walks to the back room and returns alone.

“She needs some privacy and sleep,” he announces, much to all their confusion.

The shower starts running and Clint thinks of all the scenarios that could have had her looking so drawn and pale.

He turns back to the game of cards that he had been playing with Maria and swears as he loses again.

“I’m bored,” he complains.

Maria shares a look with him.

“How do we know Fury is okay?” she asks, much to Coulson’s annoyance.

“He’s okay,” he assures, “but if you want to go help, then fine, I can’t stop you.”

Maria grins at Clint.

“I’ll let you know how I go.”

“He’s gonna be angry,” Clint assumes, throwing the cards to the container.

“Nah; he’ll be appreciative. Who reads the lackies of Shield, better than me?”

Coulson sighs.

“I should go with you.”

He looks to the door that Olivia just moved through, and sits back down.

“Go. Call me in four hours and tell me what’s happening.” He looks at time.

“Four hours okay?”

Maria grabs the keys and a piece of pizza.

“Yeah yeah, I’ll call,” she smiles, pleased to have something to do.

The evening feels early, even though it’s 6pm, the sun moving to sleep. Maria reveals in the fresh air; and heads for shield.

.

Natasha lays on the couch. She’d opted to take first watch.

Olivia was still in the room, door closed having not come out since she went in.

Coulson in the other room, and Clint gently snoring on the other couch.

She doesn’t feel tired.

Probably, would be unable to sleep anyway.

If nightmares plagued her like they did in the cabin, she would have the whole house on edge.

At least the cell was soundproofed.

Here, she thinks she would wake up the whole apartment block.

Clint has eyed her when she’d offered to take first watch, and she had nodded assuringly.

Maria had called to say she was with Fury, he hadn’t sent her away much to Coulson’s surprise.

Coulson had decided he’d return in the morning, barring no incidents during the night.

Natasha was determined to just let them sleep.

She liked the darkness, and with others around, she was sure she wouldn’t be seeing anything… anyone.

Lost in her own thoughts, she catches movement on her left and stands to confront it.

“It’s me,” Olivia announces quietly.

Natasha sits up straighter.

The psychiatrist moves into the dimly lit room, and then to the kitchen finding water and taking a sip.

She downs two pills as Natasha watches on in interest.

“I’m defective,” she says, noticing Natasha watching her.

“They experimented with us, trialing… god knows what, to try and make us better soldiers. And they succeeded but at a cost.”

Olivia’s eyes rake over Natasha.

“Shield has drugs that help combat the symptoms. The Red Room would have just killed me.”

She feels scrutinized and wants to hear so much more of her experience of the Red Room.

It’s like piecing together bits of her own history, things she’s forgotten, things that have been wiped.

Part of the debrief had asked so many basic questions that she should know, but couldn’t retrieve it.

Experimented was right.

Natasha moves to seat at the bench to sit across from her.

Her face itches where the cut on her forehead is healing, and she suppresses the urge to touch it. Her whole body is itchy, uncomfortable and foreign.

Olivia looks to Clint, and deciding he’s asleep enough, starts to make coffee.

Natasha watches practices motions and refrains from talking.

She wants to ask her so much.

Waiting until Olivia sits, Natasha takes an offered coffee and they sip it together.

“Ask, if you need to,” she tells her, voice tired and resigned.

Natasha has so many, she thinks of the last couple of days. How impaired she had been to take care of herself, of Clint and how, if she was back in the red room, she would have been killed ten fold by now.

“How do you stop the nightmares? The flashbacks? How do I… I can’t sleep and then when I do… it bleeds into the day. I try.. But everything in me keeps remembering.”

Natasha holds back, the feelings and worries that have been plaguing her, she wishes she knew how to articulate them.

She feels like she’s going insane.

Wounds wide open and she can’t stop remembering.

Olivia looks at her, takes a slow sip of her drink.

“Your mind is an open wound, they’ve dug into in debrief and left it bleeding.”

Natasha nods.

It’s exactly what it is.

She feels like an exposed raw nerve.

Olivia sets down her coffee.

“We don’t have a lot of time together. Not what you need anyway.”

She sighs heavily, fatigue seeming to weigh her down, but the kindness and patience that she has always shown to Natasha remains.

“It’s not fair, that you have to deal with this. So the coping mechanisms I’m going to say to you I want you to use when and where possible. There are going to be a myriad of times, where they don’t work, but for a lot of the times it will.”

Natasha swallows, understanding what she’s saying.

“We haven’t the time so I need you to listen. To hear me. Okay?”

Olivia doesn’t even wait for her to respond.

“Being triggered, doesn’t apply to you because your nervous system is always going to be heightened, walking on eggshells, and when they crack, is likely going to be when you will feel it. With or without flashbacks, the emotions will come, and you won’t always understand it. When this happens I need you to note that it’s there, label it and stay with it, even for a moment.”

The urgency in her voice makes Natasha give undivided attention.

She doesn’t notice that Clint sits up, moves closer; but Olivia does.

“Emotions, they try and tell us something, things we aren’t subconsciously aware of, they sit in our body, in our chest, sometimes like a weight, sometimes like itch you can’t scratch. They can sit in our minds; numbing us to the world that’s happening around us. In small ways, in big ways too.”

Natasha feels her face grow hot.

Olivia’s words are true and she knows it.

“Work on finding where the emotion is in your body. Close your eyes, for a moment and extend your mind out. Learn Natasha, learn about emotions, their labels and how they feel. The Red Room didn’t care and the words you have for emotions mean nothing. You have to learn beyond happy and sad.”

Natasha swallows.

“Learn what happiness feels like, and remember it so you have something to compare it to. Learn anger, and how it’s different to hatred. Disappointment. Anxiety. Frustration. You know these in a sense, but your education on them is poor.”

Olivia stops, taking a breath and then a sip of her coffee, acknowledging Clint.

“Accept help from those that are willing but don’t trust blindly. You have your own thoughts and feelings and they matter too. Do you hear me?”

Olivia talks softer.

“They never taught you, because they never wanted you to know, how smart and powerful you are. The feelings and emotions and the rawness of it all won’t last forever. But when it comes do something with it. Do something with your hands like shooting a gun at the range, clean, shower, breathe. Anything that you can do that acknowledges the feelings but doesn’t erase them.”

She reaches across and grabs at Natasha’s hand, pulling her sleeve up to expose raw handcuffed chaffed wrists.

“Nights will be the hardest,” she acknowledges, “but they will get better.”

Natasha pulls away, embarrassed.

“Feel it,” encourages Olivia, “try not to hide from it.”

The silence in the room extends; but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

“What if I can’t?” Natasha whispers.

Olivia smiles.

“Then you can’t. And you try again next time. This is not pass or fail. This is not the stakes of the Red Room. You won’t die because you can’t do something; even though it might feel like it.”

Finishing her coffee, Olivia stands.

“I’m truly sorry, Natasha, for everything you’ve been through. I can see why you’ve made it this far. I believe our paths will cross again, but it might not be for a while.”

Natasha nods, biting down on her lip.

The one person that understood her and everything she had been through… disappointment and grief floods her.

She feels it.

Olivia touches her hand again.

“You’re not without support.”

She nods to Clint.

Coulson bustles in and looks at the two women and Clint.

Daylight streams through the windows and Natasha feels herself withdraw.

.

Blatant erasure of overhead projectors.