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be_compromised2013-01-13 02:52 pm
telaryn.livejournal.com) wrote in be_compromised2013-01-13 02:52 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Sometimes It's The Normal Things
Title: Sometimes It's the Normal Things
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: This author has chosen not to use warnings.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Word Count: 2700
Disclaimer: If I owned either of them, I wouldn't be here.
Summary: Natasha Romanoff has survived one of the most intense Soviet human experiment programs known to man, defection, assassination attempts, bad mission intelligence and Tony Stark. One thing she's never had to face is a case of the flu.
Author's Notes: I'm not really sure what this is. It started out inspired by a discussion on where Natasha would keep her tissues if she had a runny nose while on a mission.
Then I lost a co-worker to the flu a week ago, and the story took a turn that makes me suspect I'm working out some of my feelings.
How such a simple premise ended up pushing three thousand words is anyone's guess.
Clint had taken the shot, the mark was down. It was as clean a job as they’d ever done together, but Natasha couldn’t process why she was suddenly on the ground staring up into the overcast sky.
“Nat? Natasha?” Clint skidded into view, falling to his knees beside her, his expression stricken. “Shit Nat – are you hurt?” His hand cupped her cheek and he froze, realization flooding into his eyes. “Damn.”
Natasha watched as he shifted, laying the back of his hand across her forehead. She wanted to answer him, tell him she hadn’t been injured, but she couldn’t make her body obey her. After a moment, Clint took his hand away and sat back on his heels. “Hundred and two by my guess,” he said, meeting her gaze with his own. “Can you stand?”
Fever. He’d accused her of being more temperamental than usual when they were getting ready for the evening’s activities, but she’d never suspected it was because she was getting sick. Nat managed to open her mouth, but couldn’t form any words and finally closed it again.
Her partner grinned wryly. “All right. I’ve got you.” Slinging his bow across his back, he pushed to his feet and lifted her in his arms as though she were a small child. Nat made a small pain sound as he settled her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and he sighed quietly. “Sorry. This is probably going to suck, but we’ve got to get you under cover and start pushing the fluids.”
“Aches,” Nat managed to whimper, trying not to squirm even though the feel of his body next to hers was suddenly one of the more uncomfortable sensations she’d ever experienced.
Clint’s lips were cool against her forehead as he kissed her. “I know. We’ll get you sorted as soon as we can.”
*****************
Mercifully the apartment they were using as a safe house was only a few blocks away. Clint went as quickly as he could, trying not to curse as the rain that had been threatening their operation all evening finally decided to fall. They were both soaked to the skin and shivering by the time they reached their building, and Clint thought he could hear Natasha crying softly as he carried her to the elevator and angrily jabbed at the button.
Fears that this might be something worse than what it looked like rose in his mind and he resolutely pushed them back down. Everybody dealt with being sick differently, and just because Natasha hadn’t even had so much as a sniffle in all the time they’d been together didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
Still, he’d never imagined how unnerving it would be to hear her sound so tiny and fragile. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing her rain soaked hair as they rode up to the top level. “It’s going to be all right.”
Once they were safely inside, he deposited her as gently as he could on the only couch in the sparsely furnished apartment and went to find towels and a blanket. By the time he returned minus everything but his pants, his hair sticking out in every conceivable direction from the hasty toweling he’d given it, Natasha had curled herself into a tight little ball – shivering uncontrollably.
“I hate this,” she moaned. “Nothing works right.” Even in the dim light Clint could see that her green eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused – hinting that the fever might be even higher than he feared. “Can’t decide whether I’m too hot or too cold.”
“I know,” he soothed, taking the first towel and starting to dry her off. “The rain definitely didn’t help matters.” Working as efficiently as he could manage, Clint dried every inch of her that wasn’t covered by her dress.
Slowly she began to relax under his touch, but Clint knew the dress and underthings were going to have to come off; the heavy silk was already cold against his skin, so he could only imagine how it felt to her. “I don’t get sick,” she managed as their eyes met briefly. The spark of stubborn defiance in her gaze touched something deep inside him that didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Well apparently you do,” he countered, flashing a quick, reassuring grin at her. “Now come on – I’ve got to get you out of these clothes in the not-fun way, and unless you want me to use my knife you’re going to have to help.”
It took longer for her to respond than it should have, but finally she managed to stir herself and toe off her shoes. Clint was pretty sure he heard her muttering something about ‘$5000 just for the dress’ as he helped her to the edge of the couch so he could reach her zipper.
“Looks like that’s a write-off,” he said as he helped her to her feet and the water-logged fabric fell to the floor with a loud wet ‘slap’. Already toweling off her freshly exposed skin, he turned his attention to her bra and paused as he saw something strange and white buried deep in her cleavage. “What the..?”
“Don’t hit me,” he warned, reaching carefully between the mounds of her breasts to scoop out whatever it was – wincing as his fingers sank into a wet slop. “Seriously?” Forcing himself to keep going, Clint pulled out hunks of rain-soaked tissues and flung them to the floor – unable to entirely keep the disgust off his face. “You stuffed Kleenex in your bra?”
A hint of his partner’s normal sarcasm came blazing through as Nat raised an eyebrow at him. “You saw what I was wearing – where else was I going to keep them?”
****************
Nobody had ever told her that she couldn’t get sick, but it had been long enough that Natasha believed her early treatment at the hands of the Soviet government had given her a fairly reliable immunity to the more basic illnesses. She had started sniffling shortly after they touched down in Prague, which was why she’d been carrying the tissues in the first place, but she’d dismissed it to herself and to Clint as some sort of low level allergic reaction.
She’d felt ‘off’ as the evening progressed, but her training had mandated that she suppress any physical discomfort in favor of completing the mission. Her control had wavered for a split second when she saw Clint’s shot was good, but she’d never had a clue her fever was high enough at that point to take her down.
Oblivion had come quickly once Clint had stripped her down and dried her off. He bundled her into the apartment’s only bed with two pills he’d gotten from the first aid kit and the three swallows of water it took for her to get them down, and Natasha didn’t know anything else until she woke to the feel of something cool and soothing against her fevered skin. Clint was sitting on the edge of the bed next to her, pressing a damp washcloth to her cheeks and forehead. She dimly realized that however long she’d been unconscious, he’d taken time to change and clean himself up.
“Can you manage a couple more pills?” he asked, realizing she was watching him. She nodded, and then winced as pain exploded bright and sharp in her head. Once her vision cleared, she realized Clint didn’t look happy – but he didn’t say anything as he went about the business of getting medicine and fluids into her, and Nat was already dozing again by the time he laid her back against the pillows.
With few variations on the theme they repeated the process so many times Natasha lost count. One time she woke up and Clint wasn’t in the room with her, but that time was bracketed by fractured, psychedelic hued dreams involving Coulson riding an orange and pink sloth and lecturing her about paperwork, so it was just easier for her to write it off as a fever-induced hallucination. Especially when the next time she woke Clint was once again the first thing she saw.
“Don’t leave,” she managed, her words only slightly slurred as she dutifully swallowed her pills. “The world goes sideways when you leave.”
*****************
He’d only left her for a short while, but guilt gnawed at Clint’s insides all the same. “Hundred and two is a fairly lightweight fever for somebody like Natasha,” Coulson had said. “If you can lay your hands on a thermometer you probably should.”
Getting hold of one had been easy enough, but when he saw the readout was 40 degrees centigrade – the equivalent of a hundred and five in the States, he’d nearly dropped the device in his haste to call their handler back. “The procedure’s the same whether it’s a hundred and two or a hundred and five,” was Coulson’s response. “Monitor her for twenty-four hours and see if you can get her fever to break with liquids and ibuprofen every four hours. If it tips over a hundred and five, put her in a tepid bath and raise the red flag. I’ll have a medical team in country in less than an hour.”
Something of his reluctance must have communicated itself, because when he didn’t immediately acknowledge Coulson’s direction, his handler sighed. “It’s the flu, Barton, and your partner is a rotten patient under the best of circumstances. It would be easier on all of us – her included – if you could nurse her through the worst of it.”
Nat had made a sound then, drawing his attention. She was sleeping fitfully and he suspected she was dreaming – although given what he knew of her past and the way her mind worked, Clint realized he was grateful it wasn’t a nightmare. “I’ve got it,” he said finally.
“Update me in twenty-four hours.” Clint didn’t know if his internal panic was making him imagine things that weren’t there, but he liked to believe the sympathy he heard in Coulson’s voice was genuine.
In the end it was those stretches of time where there was nothing useful for him to do that were the hardest for him to navigate. Instinct, worry, and memory of her asking him not to leave kept him at her bedside even though the apartment was small enough that there was literally no place he could go and not hear her.
Clint dutifully checked her temperature every time he woke her for more ibuprofen; each time it was the same or a little bit lower so he kept on with his routine of water and cold compresses at regular intervals. It turned out to be easier than he’d feared to keep Nat hydrated – as soon as he figured out the right angle to support her and the proper rate to tip the cup, her body didn’t seem to need her brain’s conscious involvement in the swallowing process at all.
Just shy of the twenty hour mark he learned that when people talked about fevers ‘breaking’, they were referring to an actual process, not just being descriptive. Nat had been alternating between sleeping too heavily or tossing and turning fitfully, muttering nonsense as whatever dream had her in its grip tried to break through to the waking world. He looked up sharply from his tablet as she gave a loud sigh – worried that something had gone wrong – and saw sweat had broken out on her forehead, cheeks, and the length of the one arm that had managed to escape from the blanket he’d covered her with.
Heart pounding he leaned in to rest the back of his hand on her forehead. Cooler. Exhaling sharply, he fumbled to his feet and reached for the thermometer. Ninety-nine. Relief washed over him; his knees buckled, and he almost collapsed back into his chair.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he told his still unconscious partner as he set everything aside and prepared to call in.
*********************
The only thing Natasha knew for certain when she finally regained consciousness was that she was in their Prague safe house, and a rough looking Clint was sprawled in the chair by the bed fast asleep. Sitting the rest of the way up, Nat let her covers pool in her lap as she tried to reconstruct what might have happened since her last clear memory of leaving the party.
Sick. She’d been sick with a fever – the first she could ever remember having. Clint had carried her back to the apartment and gotten her into bed. He’d taken care of her too; Nat could dimly remember him supporting her and urging her to swallow pills.
Reaching across the space that separated them, she gripped his thigh just above the knee. “Hey – Barton. Wake up.”
He came awake with a start, and the momentary confusion in his eyes told Natasha just how tired he was. Still, his expression warmed immediately as their eyes met. “Hey. How’re you feeling?” He straightened up and took her hand in both of his.
“Better,” she said, nodding. “More like me.” She paused, raising an eyebrow as her stomach rumbled. “Hungry.”
Clint snorted softly. “It’s only been three days – I can’t imagine why you’d be hungry.”
Three days…the revelation bothered her more than she suspected it should have. Clint realized immediately what was bothering her. “Your fever was pretty bad there for a while,” he said, shifting over to sit next to her on the bed. “Gotta admit Nat – I was worried.”
“You took care of me.” She covered their still-joined hands with her free one. “Thank you.” She paused. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shrugged, looking self-conscious all of a sudden. “Not really. Cat naps here and there, but when I took your temperature it was just below the point where Coulson said I needed to be worried. I didn’t want to be sleeping if you got worse.”
Nat smiled, touched by the uncertainty in his voice. “Come on.” Urging him across the bed, she helped him lie down next to her. “Time to get some rest; I’m going to be okay.” Clint closed his eyes briefly as his body finally relaxed, but opened them a moment later holding up his arm in question.
“I’m going to dig up something to eat,” she said, even though she was still tired enough to give his offer serious consideration. Clint frowned, closing his hand over her forearm before she could inch away. “What’s wrong?”
“Bland food,” he said, meeting her gaze. “There’s bread – make yourself some toast, no butter or jam.”
She nearly made a sarcastic quip, teasing him for being a ‘mother hen’, but sobered when she saw the earnest look in his eyes. “All right,” she said, nodding. “Coulson tell you that one?”
He sighed and shook his head. “Fortune teller in the circus.” He sighed, and she could see he was hovering on the edge of falling asleep mid-sentence. “When I was a kid.” He fell silent for a long moment, and Nat thought she’d lost him, but then he said, “Most of the time my brother and I we toughed out getting sick, but when I was nine I came down with the flu really bad. Barney tried to take care of me, but word started spreading and they started talking about leaving me behind.” He swallowed, shifting more onto his side – his body turning towards her as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Old Anya liked me,” he went on, still looking up at her. “She had Barney bring me into her trailer, and she took care of me until I was healthy again. I don’t remember everything she did, but I do remember about the food.” His eyes drifted closed again, and he chuckled softly. “Sorry. Guess ‘m more tired than I thought.”
Natasha leaned down and kissed him on his temple. “It’s only been three days,” she quipped. “I can’t imagine why you’re tired.”
One eye opened, glaring balefully at her. “Sleep Barton,” she told him, passing a hand across his face and urging his eye closed again. “You did your job – now it’s my turn to keep watch for a while.”
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: This author has chosen not to use warnings.
Pairing: Clint/Natasha
Word Count: 2700
Disclaimer: If I owned either of them, I wouldn't be here.
Summary: Natasha Romanoff has survived one of the most intense Soviet human experiment programs known to man, defection, assassination attempts, bad mission intelligence and Tony Stark. One thing she's never had to face is a case of the flu.
Author's Notes: I'm not really sure what this is. It started out inspired by a discussion on where Natasha would keep her tissues if she had a runny nose while on a mission.
Then I lost a co-worker to the flu a week ago, and the story took a turn that makes me suspect I'm working out some of my feelings.
How such a simple premise ended up pushing three thousand words is anyone's guess.
Clint had taken the shot, the mark was down. It was as clean a job as they’d ever done together, but Natasha couldn’t process why she was suddenly on the ground staring up into the overcast sky.
“Nat? Natasha?” Clint skidded into view, falling to his knees beside her, his expression stricken. “Shit Nat – are you hurt?” His hand cupped her cheek and he froze, realization flooding into his eyes. “Damn.”
Natasha watched as he shifted, laying the back of his hand across her forehead. She wanted to answer him, tell him she hadn’t been injured, but she couldn’t make her body obey her. After a moment, Clint took his hand away and sat back on his heels. “Hundred and two by my guess,” he said, meeting her gaze with his own. “Can you stand?”
Fever. He’d accused her of being more temperamental than usual when they were getting ready for the evening’s activities, but she’d never suspected it was because she was getting sick. Nat managed to open her mouth, but couldn’t form any words and finally closed it again.
Her partner grinned wryly. “All right. I’ve got you.” Slinging his bow across his back, he pushed to his feet and lifted her in his arms as though she were a small child. Nat made a small pain sound as he settled her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and he sighed quietly. “Sorry. This is probably going to suck, but we’ve got to get you under cover and start pushing the fluids.”
“Aches,” Nat managed to whimper, trying not to squirm even though the feel of his body next to hers was suddenly one of the more uncomfortable sensations she’d ever experienced.
Clint’s lips were cool against her forehead as he kissed her. “I know. We’ll get you sorted as soon as we can.”
*****************
Mercifully the apartment they were using as a safe house was only a few blocks away. Clint went as quickly as he could, trying not to curse as the rain that had been threatening their operation all evening finally decided to fall. They were both soaked to the skin and shivering by the time they reached their building, and Clint thought he could hear Natasha crying softly as he carried her to the elevator and angrily jabbed at the button.
Fears that this might be something worse than what it looked like rose in his mind and he resolutely pushed them back down. Everybody dealt with being sick differently, and just because Natasha hadn’t even had so much as a sniffle in all the time they’d been together didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
Still, he’d never imagined how unnerving it would be to hear her sound so tiny and fragile. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing her rain soaked hair as they rode up to the top level. “It’s going to be all right.”
Once they were safely inside, he deposited her as gently as he could on the only couch in the sparsely furnished apartment and went to find towels and a blanket. By the time he returned minus everything but his pants, his hair sticking out in every conceivable direction from the hasty toweling he’d given it, Natasha had curled herself into a tight little ball – shivering uncontrollably.
“I hate this,” she moaned. “Nothing works right.” Even in the dim light Clint could see that her green eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused – hinting that the fever might be even higher than he feared. “Can’t decide whether I’m too hot or too cold.”
“I know,” he soothed, taking the first towel and starting to dry her off. “The rain definitely didn’t help matters.” Working as efficiently as he could manage, Clint dried every inch of her that wasn’t covered by her dress.
Slowly she began to relax under his touch, but Clint knew the dress and underthings were going to have to come off; the heavy silk was already cold against his skin, so he could only imagine how it felt to her. “I don’t get sick,” she managed as their eyes met briefly. The spark of stubborn defiance in her gaze touched something deep inside him that didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Well apparently you do,” he countered, flashing a quick, reassuring grin at her. “Now come on – I’ve got to get you out of these clothes in the not-fun way, and unless you want me to use my knife you’re going to have to help.”
It took longer for her to respond than it should have, but finally she managed to stir herself and toe off her shoes. Clint was pretty sure he heard her muttering something about ‘$5000 just for the dress’ as he helped her to the edge of the couch so he could reach her zipper.
“Looks like that’s a write-off,” he said as he helped her to her feet and the water-logged fabric fell to the floor with a loud wet ‘slap’. Already toweling off her freshly exposed skin, he turned his attention to her bra and paused as he saw something strange and white buried deep in her cleavage. “What the..?”
“Don’t hit me,” he warned, reaching carefully between the mounds of her breasts to scoop out whatever it was – wincing as his fingers sank into a wet slop. “Seriously?” Forcing himself to keep going, Clint pulled out hunks of rain-soaked tissues and flung them to the floor – unable to entirely keep the disgust off his face. “You stuffed Kleenex in your bra?”
A hint of his partner’s normal sarcasm came blazing through as Nat raised an eyebrow at him. “You saw what I was wearing – where else was I going to keep them?”
****************
Nobody had ever told her that she couldn’t get sick, but it had been long enough that Natasha believed her early treatment at the hands of the Soviet government had given her a fairly reliable immunity to the more basic illnesses. She had started sniffling shortly after they touched down in Prague, which was why she’d been carrying the tissues in the first place, but she’d dismissed it to herself and to Clint as some sort of low level allergic reaction.
She’d felt ‘off’ as the evening progressed, but her training had mandated that she suppress any physical discomfort in favor of completing the mission. Her control had wavered for a split second when she saw Clint’s shot was good, but she’d never had a clue her fever was high enough at that point to take her down.
Oblivion had come quickly once Clint had stripped her down and dried her off. He bundled her into the apartment’s only bed with two pills he’d gotten from the first aid kit and the three swallows of water it took for her to get them down, and Natasha didn’t know anything else until she woke to the feel of something cool and soothing against her fevered skin. Clint was sitting on the edge of the bed next to her, pressing a damp washcloth to her cheeks and forehead. She dimly realized that however long she’d been unconscious, he’d taken time to change and clean himself up.
“Can you manage a couple more pills?” he asked, realizing she was watching him. She nodded, and then winced as pain exploded bright and sharp in her head. Once her vision cleared, she realized Clint didn’t look happy – but he didn’t say anything as he went about the business of getting medicine and fluids into her, and Nat was already dozing again by the time he laid her back against the pillows.
With few variations on the theme they repeated the process so many times Natasha lost count. One time she woke up and Clint wasn’t in the room with her, but that time was bracketed by fractured, psychedelic hued dreams involving Coulson riding an orange and pink sloth and lecturing her about paperwork, so it was just easier for her to write it off as a fever-induced hallucination. Especially when the next time she woke Clint was once again the first thing she saw.
“Don’t leave,” she managed, her words only slightly slurred as she dutifully swallowed her pills. “The world goes sideways when you leave.”
*****************
He’d only left her for a short while, but guilt gnawed at Clint’s insides all the same. “Hundred and two is a fairly lightweight fever for somebody like Natasha,” Coulson had said. “If you can lay your hands on a thermometer you probably should.”
Getting hold of one had been easy enough, but when he saw the readout was 40 degrees centigrade – the equivalent of a hundred and five in the States, he’d nearly dropped the device in his haste to call their handler back. “The procedure’s the same whether it’s a hundred and two or a hundred and five,” was Coulson’s response. “Monitor her for twenty-four hours and see if you can get her fever to break with liquids and ibuprofen every four hours. If it tips over a hundred and five, put her in a tepid bath and raise the red flag. I’ll have a medical team in country in less than an hour.”
Something of his reluctance must have communicated itself, because when he didn’t immediately acknowledge Coulson’s direction, his handler sighed. “It’s the flu, Barton, and your partner is a rotten patient under the best of circumstances. It would be easier on all of us – her included – if you could nurse her through the worst of it.”
Nat had made a sound then, drawing his attention. She was sleeping fitfully and he suspected she was dreaming – although given what he knew of her past and the way her mind worked, Clint realized he was grateful it wasn’t a nightmare. “I’ve got it,” he said finally.
“Update me in twenty-four hours.” Clint didn’t know if his internal panic was making him imagine things that weren’t there, but he liked to believe the sympathy he heard in Coulson’s voice was genuine.
In the end it was those stretches of time where there was nothing useful for him to do that were the hardest for him to navigate. Instinct, worry, and memory of her asking him not to leave kept him at her bedside even though the apartment was small enough that there was literally no place he could go and not hear her.
Clint dutifully checked her temperature every time he woke her for more ibuprofen; each time it was the same or a little bit lower so he kept on with his routine of water and cold compresses at regular intervals. It turned out to be easier than he’d feared to keep Nat hydrated – as soon as he figured out the right angle to support her and the proper rate to tip the cup, her body didn’t seem to need her brain’s conscious involvement in the swallowing process at all.
Just shy of the twenty hour mark he learned that when people talked about fevers ‘breaking’, they were referring to an actual process, not just being descriptive. Nat had been alternating between sleeping too heavily or tossing and turning fitfully, muttering nonsense as whatever dream had her in its grip tried to break through to the waking world. He looked up sharply from his tablet as she gave a loud sigh – worried that something had gone wrong – and saw sweat had broken out on her forehead, cheeks, and the length of the one arm that had managed to escape from the blanket he’d covered her with.
Heart pounding he leaned in to rest the back of his hand on her forehead. Cooler. Exhaling sharply, he fumbled to his feet and reached for the thermometer. Ninety-nine. Relief washed over him; his knees buckled, and he almost collapsed back into his chair.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he told his still unconscious partner as he set everything aside and prepared to call in.
*********************
The only thing Natasha knew for certain when she finally regained consciousness was that she was in their Prague safe house, and a rough looking Clint was sprawled in the chair by the bed fast asleep. Sitting the rest of the way up, Nat let her covers pool in her lap as she tried to reconstruct what might have happened since her last clear memory of leaving the party.
Sick. She’d been sick with a fever – the first she could ever remember having. Clint had carried her back to the apartment and gotten her into bed. He’d taken care of her too; Nat could dimly remember him supporting her and urging her to swallow pills.
Reaching across the space that separated them, she gripped his thigh just above the knee. “Hey – Barton. Wake up.”
He came awake with a start, and the momentary confusion in his eyes told Natasha just how tired he was. Still, his expression warmed immediately as their eyes met. “Hey. How’re you feeling?” He straightened up and took her hand in both of his.
“Better,” she said, nodding. “More like me.” She paused, raising an eyebrow as her stomach rumbled. “Hungry.”
Clint snorted softly. “It’s only been three days – I can’t imagine why you’d be hungry.”
Three days…the revelation bothered her more than she suspected it should have. Clint realized immediately what was bothering her. “Your fever was pretty bad there for a while,” he said, shifting over to sit next to her on the bed. “Gotta admit Nat – I was worried.”
“You took care of me.” She covered their still-joined hands with her free one. “Thank you.” She paused. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shrugged, looking self-conscious all of a sudden. “Not really. Cat naps here and there, but when I took your temperature it was just below the point where Coulson said I needed to be worried. I didn’t want to be sleeping if you got worse.”
Nat smiled, touched by the uncertainty in his voice. “Come on.” Urging him across the bed, she helped him lie down next to her. “Time to get some rest; I’m going to be okay.” Clint closed his eyes briefly as his body finally relaxed, but opened them a moment later holding up his arm in question.
“I’m going to dig up something to eat,” she said, even though she was still tired enough to give his offer serious consideration. Clint frowned, closing his hand over her forearm before she could inch away. “What’s wrong?”
“Bland food,” he said, meeting her gaze. “There’s bread – make yourself some toast, no butter or jam.”
She nearly made a sarcastic quip, teasing him for being a ‘mother hen’, but sobered when she saw the earnest look in his eyes. “All right,” she said, nodding. “Coulson tell you that one?”
He sighed and shook his head. “Fortune teller in the circus.” He sighed, and she could see he was hovering on the edge of falling asleep mid-sentence. “When I was a kid.” He fell silent for a long moment, and Nat thought she’d lost him, but then he said, “Most of the time my brother and I we toughed out getting sick, but when I was nine I came down with the flu really bad. Barney tried to take care of me, but word started spreading and they started talking about leaving me behind.” He swallowed, shifting more onto his side – his body turning towards her as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Old Anya liked me,” he went on, still looking up at her. “She had Barney bring me into her trailer, and she took care of me until I was healthy again. I don’t remember everything she did, but I do remember about the food.” His eyes drifted closed again, and he chuckled softly. “Sorry. Guess ‘m more tired than I thought.”
Natasha leaned down and kissed him on his temple. “It’s only been three days,” she quipped. “I can’t imagine why you’re tired.”
One eye opened, glaring balefully at her. “Sleep Barton,” she told him, passing a hand across his face and urging his eye closed again. “You did your job – now it’s my turn to keep watch for a while.”
no subject
Sorry to hear about your co-worker. It's always a surprise to hear when someone dies of an illness like that. Most folks don't realize the flu can be deadly for some people.
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Awesome fic. Felt very true to being sick.
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Heart. Breaking.
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The story was wonderful!
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*hugs you*
(and yes, the “Don’t leave,” she managed, her words only slightly slurred as she dutifully swallowed her pills. “The world goes sideways when you leave.” line? just wonderful!)
no subject
And yes -- the sideways world. Lovely turn of phrase, and a reflection of the honesty that comes out when the defences go down.
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Two lines really hit me:
“Don’t leave,” she managed, her words only slightly slurred as she dutifully swallowed her pills. “The world goes sideways when you leave.” and
He swallowed, shifting more onto his side – his body turning towards her as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
*hugs* sorry about your co-worker
no subject