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romanovisgay · 3 months

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Hi there! I have a prompt or more a rough idea: Nat being kind and caring to everyone else but not herself, e.g. making sure someone's favourite snack is available but choosing one for herself she doesn't actually like. Feel free to go anywhere with it or not if you don't want to. You're amazing, have a great day!

Oh Anon, this is a lovely prompt and fit with a quote I’ve been wanting to do for such a long time - thank you for the prompt, the opportunity to write this one, and for your kind words <3.

If you know the Doctor Who quote “All that pain, and misery and loneliness and it just made it kind” I love this quote for Natasha, and have been wanting to write it. I wish I had time to make this longer but alas time got the better of me. (5+1 fic, 1.5k, gif not mine, bwf2022)

How to be Kind

1/ Tony

“Thanks,” Tony grins, as she hands him the ratchet. Swinging her legs, she stifles a yawn and points out that the components don’t align.

He nods, fixing it and then pulling the metal tight.

The clock reads 3am, and she promised she’d help.

She’s learning, how to be kind.

Natasha knows that following through on what you say you will is one of those steps. So when he’d asked, she’d of course said yes.

Even if she’d only had two hours sleep last night.

It’s nice, spending time with him, even if concentrating is hard, and means she digs her nails into her palm to refocus herself when she finds herself drifting.

“Nat?” He asks, popping his head out of the work space.

She smiles and nods, and tries to think about what he just asked but she comes up blank.

“Sorry?”

“You’re tired?”

She shrugs, “I’ll be fine,” she smiles, counting the hours in her head til she needs to leave for Bali.

Sleeping on the plane with Rumlow and Clint will have to do, even if it’s something she hates.

“Do you want to try it out?”

Natasha sips the water on her right then stretches, she wants to go to bed, but this feels more important.

“Of course,” she smiles.

His sheer delight back is worth it.

She’s learning to be kind.

2/ Steve

The first roundhouse she hits him with knocks him back, following up she feints and punches at his face.

Steve avoids it, the first time he does so, and picks her up and throws her to the ground. She lands heavily, winded.

“Oh shit!” He exclaims, “Sorry Nat, I just reacted.”

She manages a laugh. It comes out more as a huff but she pulls it off.

“It was good, Steve, but you shouldn’t have been hit with the first.”

She takes a breath with her back away from him, touching her rib gently, knowing there’s some bruising there.

“Again,” she commands.

He can’t keep falling for stupid mistakes, someone will find out; he’s at risk.

Worry makes her stand straight as she readies her stance and faces off against him.

He dodges the first kick, the next punch but not the back hand that smacks him across the face.

“Shit!”

Natasha cringes, expecting a hit back.

“Sorry,” she apologises quickly.

To her surprise he nods and apologise back.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have been so lax about training.”

He rubs his face ruefully.

“Will you help me train?”

Natasha thinks of the blooming bruises on her ribs and arms as she adjusts her sleeves down.

If he knew the cost to her body, he’d never ask.

And she’s never going to tell him.

She needs to keep him safe, so that he can keep the others safe.

“Of course, Steve,” she promises.

3/ Bruce

She hears the Hulk roar over the cacophony of chaos reigning in the city.

She’s the only on that can calm him down, to reassure Bruce and hope against hope that he doesn’t destroy the neighboring town.

She can feel her breath catch as she knows it has to be her, that of it was Tony then anyone on the ground would be at risk to not have his cover.

She’s expendable.

Running, she cuts off the Hulk off at the lake.

It would be comical if she wasn’t so scared. He’s throwing a bike and then startles as it lands and the bell on it rings.

“Hey Green,” she shouts, hoping he turns to her.

It works and it takes all of Natasha’s courage to stand her ground.

For Bruce, she thinks, this is for Bruce.

He stamps at her, once; twice and she waves tentatively.

“It’s time to go home,” she squints at him, her voice shaking a little.

She can’t breathe.

All the weapons on her body are useless, even her body is useless.

All she has is her words.

“We’ve won,” she smiles, “you did it.”

Natasha has no idea if the Hulk understands, or even will respond to flattery.

She’s working at a disadvantage and knows ultimately she needs more intel to help Bruce with this.

“Can you come with me?”

There’s a noticeable shift and she knows what’s coming next.

Using the reflection of the lake, she turns her body as he de-transitions to Bruce.

Her body feels hot, panicked, but she maintains her composure.

Her childhood has taught her to remain calm. She bites the inside of her mouth til the metallic taste of blood gives her something else to think about.

“Nat?”

Bruce is down on one knee and she’s never been so thankful to hear his voice.

“Hey.”

She schools her face to one of neutrality and ignores her body screaming at her to run and hide.

The compact suitcase containing clothes is kicked over to him and he thanks her from afar.

“How bad?” he cringes as she turns to face him.

She chooses kindness these days, even if all she wants to do scream and run away in fear.

“Better,” she placates.

Later, when she’s alone, she evaluates herself.

Better, she thinks, she did better too.

Even if she’s still awake at 2am and can’t stop shaking.

Next time, she’ll do better.

4/ Thor

“My brother,” Thor starts, “was a menace as a child, he’d throw snakes at me. You know the ones with three heads that have the piecing tail?”

She’d found him sitting alone, drinking Asguardian alcohol that made the room smell like rose water.

He wasn’t okay, as sad eyes looked at her hopefully for someone to talk to.

No one else wanted to hear about Loki, and he knew it.

His brother was a source of pain for so many of the others, for obvious reasons, but this was something she could share.

Natasha nudges him, “we don’t have three headed snakes,” she reminds him.

“What else did you do together?”

The tiny smile on his face is worth the question, as she remembers running with Yelena, practicing gymnastics.

“We liked to fight,” Thor reminisces, launching into a story of taking on some aliens.

Natasha leans back, letting his words wash over her. Talking about family is always painful.

Always hurts.

It reminds her of all her losses.

But as Thor talks, she’s reminded that not all familial memories are bad, that they can be met with an affection too.

“You can go, if you want to,” Thor tells her, taking a swig, and leaning back with her. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend your evening.”

He’s right of course, this isn’t how she wants to spend her evening, but she can’t leave him in this stupor either.

“Tell me more,” she decides, at the expense of herself, “tell me about your brother.”

5/ Clint

“You fucking idiot,” Natasha swears, pulling his unconscious body around the corner.

“Fuck,” she swears again, as she sets up the comms and sends a distress signal out.

She heaves his body into the office building, and secures them in, breathing heavily.

It’s only then does she feel blood running down her arm and sweat running down her back.

She ignores the pain as she checks his vitals.

She hopes just knocked out.

“Clint?”

Trying to rouse him, the blood reaches her fingers. She doesn’t even remember how she got hurt, only the distress at seeing him get hit and drop.

The explosion that followed had been enough to make the world light up and the heat permeate into the cold streets.

The renegades had dispersed, some dead, some injured, and she’d completed the mission of recovering the anthrax vials, now securely with her.

‘ETA 1 hour’ the text reads from the exfil team.

She sighs in relief, adrenaline fading.

“Clint?” She tries again, rubbing his chest as finally he starts to come to.

Letting out a small sigh, she bumps her head into his, wondering at the pain that radiates as she does so.

“You’re okay,” she assures as he holds his hand to his head and groans.

“We got it?” He asks after a minute.

“Yeah, we got it, don’t worry,” she sighs.

He pats her thigh.

“Why would I worry? You have my back.”

It’s said flippantly and post concussion, but his faith in her never ceases to amaze her.

“Always, Clint,” she tells him seriously.

He looks up at her and frowns.

“Nat, your head…”

She’s confused at his concern.

The world tips.

“Oh,” she says out loud.

At least he’s safe, she thinks before she blacks out.

6/ The Team +1

Their kindness is not lost on her.

Tony reconfigures her widow bites so they no longer burn her.

Steve draws her pictures of flowers and birds.

Bruce teaches her about medicine, about patching herself up and when and how to seek help so that she feels safe.

Thor let’s her talk about Yelena and the girls in the Red Room without judgement or comment.

Clint loves her unconditionally.

One day.

One day she’ll learn to be unconditionally kind like they are.

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romanovisgay · 5 months

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Carol Danvers is so pathetic I want her to blow up a building

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romanovisgay · 6 months

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valcarol (canon)

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romanovisgay · 6 months

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the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 23 - Shadows

Warnings: action based violence

Word Count: 1k (gif not mine)

Summary: the taking of the avengers tower

A/N: I’m not so good at writing action so another short one before we open up into slightly longer ones (🤞)

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

2014

NEW YORK

The glow of the streets means that there’s enough light pollution for the infiltration team to surround the building.

The drone is sent up and a small electro magnetic pulse is sent halfway up.

Immediately the lights go out.

It’s a go signal.

The second EMP goes off and half the team enters, the other half patrolling.

Having no idea where the Avengers team are hiding the scepter, the team looks to scout all levels and all floors. The most obvious being the laboratories, the sub-basement or the workshops.

Night vision googles on, gas masks situated; the team scout the entrance, letting off two smoke bombs and then gas through the air ducts.

They become shadows, moving in the darkness, through the smoke, expecting resistance and finding none.

They scout the first hall, the call coming through that there’s nothing on the first floor.

Moving down, the sub-basement holds more promise.

Lined with inert Iron Man suits, the men move forward, torches making the suits feel like they’re watching.

They move quickly, pumping more gas through the vents.

They know Captain America is likely to either be immune or work through the sedative quickly.

The others, they rely on their human constitutions to make sure they don’t wake up.

Sub level one gets cleared, no scepter.

Sub level two is blocked. Behind a vaulted door, one man steps forward and attaches a portable electronic device.

The scrambler for the door lights the room, numbers start running and they all stand and wait.

“Fifteen minutes,” the man identifies, rolling up his sleeve to reveal his Hydra tattoo.

Three continue to guard him, whilst the other four move away, heading up the tower through the fire escape.

Floor three and four produce no results and the gym and kitchen seem redundant to even explore.

Finally they reach the laboratories and find them shut down.

The EMP whilst effective, also seemed to have set off fail safes.

They move up, the personal floors. Finding them just as impenetrable, the men continue to the workshop, finding it just as locked.

Having accounted for this, they place small charges on each of the doors of the laboratory, it takes a moment before the charges blow; allowing entrance.

Ten minutes before the sub-basement is unlocked.

The laboratory is large, and it takes them time before they clear it.

Half finished projects litter the benches.

The sceptre is nowhere to be found.

The likelihood that it’s anywhere but the sub-basement but still, they continue.

The charges are placed and blow through the wall this time, the doors to the workshop too heavy and large to work through.

The wall collapses easily, pushing debris out, moving the contents of the workshop not held down into the opposite wall.

Focusing, they look through the debris finding nothing; spare parts for electronics, some half built iron man suits, other parts that they have no context for.

No scepter.

It seems the only place left are the private levels and the sub-basement; now unlocked and ready to be searched.

The team heads back down, to meet the others now waiting.

“Sir.”

The defection to the tallest member is obvious who the leader is.

He enters confidently.

He hears the plate click, swears at the likelihood that he’s just stood on a improvised explosive device, he signals for the team to spread and move out and away, but there’s no time.

He says a prayer and feels the end come.

Jarvis detects movement around the tower, organised in its nature.

Immediately, he locks down the personnel floors, sub-basement, laboratories and workshops. He arms them where he can and places safeguards around the floors with people in them.

The movement halts, drones fly near, and then, he feels himself being shut down.

No electricity, he has nothing to draw from.

In dying moments, before the electricity is removed, he sends an urgent message to the Iron Man hud display, with the footage of the team and warnings he could muster.

Sam snores, oblivious to the goings on outside, his door locking shut, and the bed still made as he sleeps beside it.

It had felt like a night that anything could happen and he’d opted for the floor, wanting a harder surface underneath himself.

He wakes to the building shuddering, breath laboured as he covers his mouth.

The air is wrong and he doesn’t know why.

The dizziness that accompanies it feels strange and he moves slowly to the corner, before realizing everything is so dark.

“Something is wrong,” he mutters to himself, before pushing into a standing position and finding the space enclosed.

Tony wakes breathing in heavily the toxicity in his tower. Glancing at Pepper, he finds her still asleep. He tucks her in and sits up.

Something is wrong, he thinks, before succumbing to the sedative pumping through the vents.

Unaware of the boom underneath, the drugs encompassing his floor before the remnants drift up to the others.

Steve sees all the lights of the tower turn off, his own room becoming dark as he looks out the window and sees shadows moving in the world, highlighted by the light pollution of the city.

Just like the rolling blackouts of his youth, he finds it strange that it’s only the Tower that’s gone dark.

“Jarvis?” he calls out, to no response.

Anxiety curls; he pushes at his door to find it locked.

Steve hears another beat and the whole tower shuts down.

The silence is deafening.

No way to tell the time, no way of contacting others. Steve feels panic for his friends and the tower as he contemplates what to do.

Maria sleeps, and dreams of dark things.

When the tower shakes, she feels like she’s crawling through mud to get to the surface.

She feels it’s a dream, so real in her thoughts that the worry permeates through.

Bruce dreams.

He dreams of the Hulk trying to wake him a growl and beating of his chest, but it’s all still a dream.

He’s not in any danger, he’s with the others, he says subconsciously.

Don’t worry.

They’ll protect us.

The Hulk growls again, awakening at the sound of explosions, ripping Bruce from his sleep as his subconscious becomes him.

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romanovisgay · 6 months

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carol danvers in tank tops is very important to me

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romanovisgay · 7 months

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the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 17 - Leave me alone

Warnings: aftermath of torture (graduation ceremony), red room.

Word Count: 1.7k (gif not mine)

Summary: After the graduation ceremony, Natasha tired to find reasons for moving forward. Sometimes it’s a friend, sometimes it’s something bigger.

A/N: this story is a little bit different- it leads into the head-cannons and story built into the travel through the shadows with me (a fic of how Clint recruited Natasha) timeline. If some of it feels familiar it’s because it has some of the story in it. This is the prequel of that story - no prior knowledge is needed and can be read as a stand alone.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

2007

RUSSIA

There’s a certain despondency that comes over Natasha as she’s discharged from the medical team. The doctors, if they could be called that, tell her she’ll be fine in no time.

This coming from the team that runs experiments on them, that pumps them full of drugs to make them awake longer, hit harder, run faster.

This is different.

Feels different.

It’s not just drugs in the system.

Natasha always has thought of herself as her own person.

Even when the Red Room tells her otherwise.

They always said she was theirs, but she held the belief that she never was. The ribbon and the photo proved it far more than their words could ever take away.

Now.

She really was theirs.

Take parts of her away, parts that mattered to her anyway, makes everything feel redundant.

She is the Ship of Theseus, change her, rebuild her and is she the same person?

The other girls, they know.

Isla, tried to tell her, snuck inside the medical rooms and held her hand, told her everything was going to be okay as she writhed in pain.

Antonia, laughed when she returned.

“Oh Natasha, congratulations. You’re truly a widow now.”

Of the girls who were left in Natasha’s graduating class, only the three of them remained on base.

Isla, due to reeducation. Natasha, due to the surgery, and Antonia for some reason that neither Isla or Natasha were sure about.

Isla was convinced it was to spy on them, keep them under control, Natasha didn’t have the presence of mind to even ponder.

Antonia’s behaviour had seemed erratic, manic and mean.

If Natasha cared, she would ask her, help her maybe, but everything felt too hard.

The expectations were still the same, get up; report to Dreykov, orders, training.

Natasha did it, pain continuously rolling through her body.

Voice gone, words seemingly caught in her throat as she has nothing to say.

Days she doesn’t talk.

Isla notices.

Finds her a heat pack, and an ice pack, puts on her head and the other for around her surgical wounds.

The small kindness that can be afforded.

Isla tries to offer assuring words but they get lost in her throat.

There’s not much anyone can do or say.

They took away a part of her, and she became theirs.

Isla comes for her in the morning.

Natasha can’t find it in herself to get up.

There’s no point.

She just wants to be left alone.

“Tell them I’m sick,” she whispers as Isla looks on in fear.

“They’ll take you,” she whispers back, the doors of all the dorms now unlocked. They have five minutes to get to Dreykov.

“Please?”

Five minutes, before alarms are raised.

If Isla does this, then she knows…

Gently, she kisses Natasha’s clammy forehead.

“Ok,” she agrees.

Standing she takes one last look at her friend, and gathers her courage to go and report by herself.

Dreykov is angry.

Makes the medics go and get Natasha and drag her out of bed.

Isla protests but it’s met with a backhand to the face that sends her to her knees.

She watches them frogmarch Natasha to the medical hospital.

Feet dragging as the doors closing behind her.

Isla knows nothing good happens behind those doors.

She doesn’t see Natasha for two days.

When she returns, her hands shake and she responds robotically, not missing a beat when asked questions.

In the dark of night, Isla leaves her room, picks the lock of Natasha’s and enters to find her friend still shaking.

“Oh Nat,” she whispers.

“What did they do?”

Compulsively Natasha answers.

“Shock, sodium pentathol. Thought. I was. Lying,” she bites out.

Isla shivers. Two days in the chair.

The electricity pulsing through it, and you, as questions are fired at you.

It’s torture.

She crawls into Natasha’s bed, and hugs her.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, her warm body against Natasha’s cold one.

“No one’s coming now, I’ve got you,” she tells her, whispering the only words that come to her mind.

“Does it still hurt?” she asks, as shaking become less.

Natasha nods.

“Yes,” she says, voice breaking, a sob coming out.

“Why does it hurt so much?”

Tears come out of Natasha’s eyes, as she brings a hand to her mouth to bite down on to stop.

As best as Isla can, she rocks her, Natasha eventually falling asleep as Isla looks over her.

It becomes a routine.

Natasha crawls into Isla’s bed, or if she doesn’t come, Isla seeks her out.

On bad nights Natasha sits and watches the door.

On good nights they make shadow puppets with their standard issue torches

They both seem to sleep better, in the same room, like they did when they were younger. Whatever sleep they can gather is between the nightmares that neither are willing to admit to.

The routine is kind, friendly and a light in the sea of darkness that is their lives.

Natasha thinks that if she was normal, and had a normal sister or upbringing, maybe it would be similar to this.

Someone to share your thoughts and feelings with, someone to confide in.

Isla’s reeducation and torture is brutal and Natasha endures some with her in rebuilding her strength and endurance.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, “you’re still you.”

Water trials, seduction, mini missions off base; the ones both of them hate the most are the ones involving the younger girls.

Those nights give the worst of nightmares, the fact that she’s helping produce the next generation.

Sometimes it feels like the only person that understands is Natasha.

Survival of the fittest.

It means that it requires you to be self serving.

Natasha presses hard to the pit of her elbow as the needle is withdrawn.

“One more, and then you’ll be discharged,” the nurse tells her, looking into unseeing eyes.

The nurse, an older lady, usually one with the smaller widows, watches her closely, torn between wanting to say something and letting it be.

“They know,” she says under her breath.

“They’re watching you and Isla.”

Sharp eyes look at her.

Snapped out of dissociation, Natasha knows not to say anything, but the nurse can tell she wants to.

“Stop it, and they’ll likely let it go,” she whispers, “if not, they’ll probably try and turn you against each other.”

Natasha’s heart stops.

The nurse draws up another needle, diluting it slightly.

“One more,” she says cheerfully, to the cameras.

Isla comes as she always does, looking forward to telling Natasha about the latest stunt with the handlers and her mini mission but Natasha ready and waiting.

“Leave me alone,” she tells her, a different kind of pain than the one that courses through her body.

Guilt in the wrongness of the words and the ache it causes makes Natasha look away.

Isla looks confused, stepping back.

“Nat?”

She looks at her friend, and frowns.

“Leave me alone,” Natasha repeats.

Reopening her door, she ushers Isla out.

“Leave me alone,” she says a third time, before whispering away from the cameras and spying eyes.

“They know.”

The mission in France is surveillance.

A solo mission handed directly from Dreykov.

Natasha’s first since the operation since graduation. Whilst not a hard one, she feels the despondency creeping back.

Once allayed by a friend, the consistency of companionship and support, making her feel more human, more of herself; the further away from it she is the more she feels like a former shell.

Consciously, she pushes the feelings and thoughts down.

They own her.

Her body, her mind.

There’s no way out of this.

Just when she thought she hit rock bottom, Natasha feels herself falling further.

FRANCE

She’s lost time. Again. Her limbs are heavy and the feeling of not being able to move sinks her further into the bed. She should get up. She needs to get up. Her limbs are leaden and the effort is monumental.

She pushes, and starts her day, remembers as she looks in the mirror of her black eye and bruised ribs.

Failure. It won't be taken lightly when she is returned to Russia.

Groaning she drops to the floor and begins to exercise, pain shooting through her shoulder, ribs protesting hard. It helps to clear her mind of the invasive thoughts all but the one she needs to get rid of.

Failure.

Moving through her daily routine, the feeling of being unwell is pervasive, it's not a cold sickness, but the sickness of being on the precipice of falling.

She ends the day vomiting in the toilet, gives up and goes to bed.

Opening her eyes is hard. So so hard. If yesterday her limbs were lead, then today they are concrete. Moving is an impossible task.

Cognitive dissonance, her brain supplies. That what she wants, is that, what she will never have.

If she just lays here, perhaps all the questions that've been plaguing her for weeks will go away.

What's the point of her? To be a good little soldier? Except. She’s not. She failed. And now they think it’s on purpose.

They’re watching her.

Waiting.

She thinks back to her lessons on pain, on the wind-up effect and how she feels this is exactly what's happened to her.

That if pain is received frequently enough, the brain rewires itself to just constantly feel pain where there shouldn't be any.

Her whole life has been painful, but today it's unbearable.

She closes her eyes and gives into the darkness, grateful for the black hole that envelops her.

The alarm that blares pulls at her. If she had any survival instinct left, she would move.

Tells herself to move.

Move.

But all she can do is open her eyes, light streaming, and daylight calling.

She's lost time.

If she doesn't check in, they'll come for her. She can't make herself care.

The alarm stops, and it's only when she's being pulled by the blackness that she realizes it was her phone.

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romanovisgay · 7 months

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the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 14 - Just hold on

Warnings: canonical violence

Word Count: 1.5k (gif not mine)

Summary: a mission goes wrong for Clint and Natasha.

A/N: this almost didn’t get here - so it’s not been read though. it’s been a really rough start to the weekend, so if anyone has a little extra, a hug or a high five would be great.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

Everything is still new, but the partnership of work is familiar.

It suits them both, the consistency of work in navigating new relationships.

Natasha runs away more frequently than he can keep up with, but he always manages to bring her back, or sometimes, more recently, she returns on her own.

Fury, Phil and Maria know, but no one else does. One met it gleefully, one with expectancy and the other with a slight distain, even though he seemed to predict it would happen.

Fury tells them that things better not change, the tentative trust amongst them all, anything but stable.

It’s one of the things that sets Natasha on edge, the fear of not being useful in the world.

It doesn’t matter how much Clint tells her it doesn’t matter; that it would never matter to him, if she couldn’t work.

Okinawa is beautiful and the beaches make Natasha just want to sit and stare at the waves going in and out.

The tiny island off the coast of Japan is quaint and peaceful.

“We could just stay here,” she sighs, picking up the camera and checking the memory card.

“It feels so quaint, like the Yakuza shouldn’t be here, and we definitely shouldn’t be making deals with them.”

Clint picks up the small drone, and checks that the battery is charged.

“A deal today, then they help tomorrow, the enemy of our enemy and all that,”

He says it nonchalantly but she knows he feels it too.

Clint watches as she readies herself for the mission, almost like she’s readying for war.

Makeup akin to war paint, outfit like armor, Natasha almost looks like a different person, and he supposes that’s the point.

“The drone will follow you,” he clarifies, “high enough so it shouldn’t be heard and I’ll be taking the photos from this building.”

She nods, “Roxxon has their hands in every pie, it doesn’t surprise me that Fury wants blackmail on them.”

Checking the time, she looks out on the ocean.

“It really is beautiful here,” she says again; and he feels his heart tug at her wistful tone.

“Maybe we’ll come back,” he says, standing next to here, taking her hand walks squeezing it.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that,” she smiles.

Natasha looks at Akita Yodabashi and stares him down.

“The paper work, is what was agreed on, if, you feel it is not, you can take it up with your superiors.”

She stares at him with distain and almost rolls her eyes at his pout.

“It is not what we agreed on,” he says again, slowly as if punctuating each word.

Natasha switches to Japanese.

“Then, tell me what was agreed on,” she replies.

His jaw clenches.

“Money,” he tells her, raising his gun.

“It wasn’t the deal,” she repeats.

“It is now,” he starts.

“You think we didn’t know? We didn’t do our research, just as you have done?”

He throws a phone at her.

“Check the video,” he smiles.

“Then, take me to my money, as agreed.”

Natasha freezes, heart in throat as she opens the phone.

Clint stands surrounded.

Two men on either side, their large guns sling over their shoulders.

Akita smiles, gold tooth glistening.

“Two man team, Shield is very predictable

“Take me, to my money; or he dies,” he starts, “or maybe, he doesn’t die; maybe we start with his fingers, then his hands, his arms, until you give me what is mine.”

Natasha swallows, nodding slowly. Four on one is not a fair fight, no matter how much faith she has in Clint’s skills.

She glances at the video again, he has two hands crossed over his body, their universal sign for “don’t come.”

It makes her all the more anxious and angry.

He’s still in the safe house, the door frame around him, distinctive enough.

They must have been watching them from the moment they got off the plane.

If she didn’t have misgivings about how being in a relationship made them slower before, she did now.

Fury was right.

Cocking the gun and motioning for her to get into the car, Akita pushes it into her back.

“Take me to my money,” he repeats.

Natasha frowns.

“Fine,” she concedes.

She climbs in the drivers seat and waits for him to climb in behind her, pondering her next move.

She has a plan, but it’s stupid, and Clint wouldn’t approve of it; but given the situation that they’re both in, likely it’s the only play they’ve got.

Clint laughs.

“Four of you, in my house? For some babysitting?” he jibes, “how lucky am I?”

“Shut up,” says the man with the four and half fingers.

“Are you all missing fingers? All been bad at your jobs? Is that why you’re here?”

Clint gets pistol whipped and he smiles again, his head pulsating with pain.

He glances at the time, and the inert drone and camera.

Natasha was truly on her own.

He wonders how the meeting is going.

Did they really not notice the team of five following them? Or does the Yakuza have that many eyes on the island?

He sighs, looking around for his weapon; or something that might give him the upper hand in a four vs one battle.

It seems that he may just need to wait it out, find out Natasha’s play and go from there.

Turns out, he doesn’t need to wait long.

A car barrels into the house, hitting two of the men square on.

He takes it as his cue, rolling and grabbing a gun.

Two head shots and the other two are dead as well.

Debris is everywhere, he coughs in the dust and moves towards the car, wondering if the Yakuza honcho is inside.

It’s the mess of red on the white airbag that sends him into a panic.

“Nat??! No no no no no,” he moves, amongst the broken house towards her.

She’s not moving, and he feels his heart beating out of his chest. The car is a mangled mess, and the house around them fairing no better, as it starts to crumble.

“Nononono, shit, Nat,” he reaches her and finds her unconscious at the wheel. At least she was wearing her seatbelt.

“Fucccck, Natasha, what were you thinking?” He admonishes, attempting to pull her back.

There’s no response, no groan, no grimace even as he releases the seatbelt, and drags her out.

Akita Yodabashi lays through the windshield, and Clint stares momentarily at his broken body to see if there are any signs of life.

When there are none, he carries her to the front garden, amongst the tyre marks and broken fence.

Setting her down he taps her face lightly.

Still no response.

He feels a faint pulse and sees blood around her mouth.

“Natasha, wake up, now? Ahh, hold on, please, hold on,” he says desperately. The likelyhood of internal bleeding increasing tenfold, maybe collapsed lungs; broken bones. He just doesn’t know.

Satellite phone in hand, he calls it in frantically.

“Widow down, immediate medivac required!”

He listens for the response, and once his location is set, he pushes down again and waits.

It feels like a lifetime.

Gently, he keeps talking to her, telling her she’s an idiot and that he had it handled.

He could have taken on the four, he would have worked it out, she didn’t need to drive the car into the building to give him a chance.

The Japanese authorities arrive quickly, Police, ambulance, fire, they seem to take one look at the scene and know what’s happened, the analysis too quick of the bodies in the house and the two Americans outside of it.

“Help her, please?” Clint asks in rudimentary Japanese, hands gently holding her.

They’re quick to load her into the ambulance, Clint following close by.

The policeman stares at him and Clint is sure he’s going to detain him, instead, he motions for the ambulance to go, and follows too, providing a police escort to the hospital.

Clint paces, calling Coulson first, then Maria.

“No news,” he whispers.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Phil says, not understanding.

“I don’t…I don’t know,” he says softly, “will you come? They’re asking more questions than I know what to do with and I just want to be close to her.”

“Clint…” he starts.

“No Phil, just come and help me sort this out, okay?”

Clint runs his hands through his hair and looks into the hospital room, three hours in surgery to repair two broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a broken arm and perforated liver.

His concern pulls and he walks back inside changing up on Coulson.

She looks so pale, so fragile, hooked to machines; intubation running out of her mouth to support her frail lungs.

“You’re an idiot,” he whispers, taking her unbroken hand.

“An absolute idiot. What am I going to do with you?”

His kisses her hand, then becomes self conscious as a nurse walks in.

Clint steps back as she checks on Natasha.

His phone buzzes.

“I’ll be there in twenty four hours,” it reads.

57 notes · View notes

romanovisgay · 7 months

Text

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 13 - I don’t feel so good

Warnings: nightmares, illness, vomiting

Word Count: 1.6k (gif not mine)

Summary: Clint gets sick after a mission and Natasha learns the importance of having your own space. (First dates)

A/N: Happy Friday dear ones. Well done on making it through the week.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

2009

NEW YORK

Their changing relationship is new and Clint knows they both feel the shift.

Neither willing to say anything.

Fury’s emphasis on partnership had set a punishing pace of nonstop missions and constant surveillance in the first year.

It was effective.

Natasha was used to it.

Clint was not.

The Red Room had never believed in rest, and Clint seemed to revel in it.

She’d often find him asleep on the couch with the window open, and she kept telling him that it wasn’t safe.

He’d laugh, tell her to join him.

She’d become very familiar with the way he worked; and with his apartment; and he’d become more familiar with her trauma and skills sets.

It all had a way of bonding them.

The second year, Fury had sent them on more long term missions, deep cover, and Natasha found when they were apart she missed him.

They come back together like magnets to debrief and talk.

The hours moved quickly, and she wondered if he missed her like she missed him.

It was silly really, she told herself, that there was no way; with all her baggage that he would ever feel the same.

She was glad he was finally home.

Two weeks he’d been in Antigua.

She carefully juggles the donuts and apples in one hand and knocks on the door with the other.

He doesn’t answer and she picks the lock anyway.

“Clint?” she calls, “it’s me.”

She wanders in and finds clothes strewn across the apartment, telltale signs he’s home.

She sets the donuts and apples on the bench and continues to the bedroom.

“You’d better not be naked, again,” she calls out, half covering her eyes as she pushes open the door.

She finds him on the bed, in his boxers asleep.

Natasha walks over to him and touches his shoulder; heat radiating off him.

“Clint?”

She shakes him.

She’s never worried over someone before, not consciously at least, and the new feeling makes waking him feel urgent.

“Clint wake up,” she repeats, urgently.

Eyes peak open and he groans.

“Hey.”

Attempting to get up, he moves slower than usual, and doesn’t seem pleased to see her.

“Your face is warm,” she tells him, “do you have a temperature?”

“Idunno,” he says, groaning again and laying back down.

“Im’k,” he tells her, rolling over.

“Your sick?” she asks redundantly, knowing the answer before he refutes it.

She leaves and gets him some painkillers and water, returning to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

“Clint?”

He looks up, his face sorrowful.

“I don’t feel so good,” he confesses, then promptly vomits on the floor.

He groans.

“Sorry,” he says, looking up with glazed eyes, “sorry.”

Natasha steps around it, pushing him gently back into the bed, and passing him water and the two little pills.

“Take this,” she urges.

He stares at her for a minute before following her instructions, then leaning back he apologises again.

Natasha goes to bathroom to find cleaning supplies, and returns to clean the vomit.

“Mmmsorry,” he mumbles, “please.”

He raises her head to find him staring again, and she assures him gently.

“Go to sleep, Clint,” she whispers.

“Be here?” he asks, tiredly.

“Yeah,” she assures him, “I’ll be here.”

Clint talks in his sleep, things she’s sure he wouldn’t want her knowing.

He calls out for his mother, and she sits by him, drawing circles on his hand and telling him stories that she knows to calm him down.

The fever spikes and drops and she sits with him through it.

Fury calls through with a mission for her and for the first time, she asks if she can stay grounded.

She tells him that Clint isn’t well and she needs to stay.

Fury hadn’t said much but his distain was clear.

He told her, she had a week, and sent through the mission packet regardless.

She hears Clint get up, move to the bathroom.

Dutifully, she follows and knocks on the door asking if he’s okay.

“Nat? You’re still here?”

His voice sounds pathetic and she tells him she’ll warm up some food. He calls out thanks and she leaves him be.

She sucks at this.

Natasha knows Clint just seems to know how to make her feel better, but she has no context, only what she’s looked up. She knows to track the painkillers, make sure he eats and drinks, and sleeps.

She thinks maybe, he might be feeling better, the last two days passing quickly.

Smiling as he enters, he greets her with a tiny wave.

Natasha offers him food, but he beelines for the coffee.

Holding up the cup, he grins.

“Make sure you eat something with that,” she smiles back, glad to see him acting more like himself.

Clint steps forward.

“Thanks,” he says, offering her the coffee.

“You know, for taking care of me.”

Natasha ignores the acknowledgment.

“Are you feeling better?” she asks.

Clint shrugs.

“Better enough I think,” he nods taking another sip.

The silence is comfortable, as they both move around the kitchen. The morning passes slow, with Natasha pushing Clint to the couch to rest.

She watches as he dozes then allows herself to do the same.

The forth night of staying with him is the longest she’s ever lived with someone in a setting that’s not contrived.

It’s the most comfortable she thinks she’s ever been. This apartment, this small place of a friend’s home, is perfect in all the ways she would think a home would be.

It makes her want to live somewhere other than the base. To have a place of her own.

She thinks Clint knows she’s not ready to leave, because he doesn’t say anything, and tells her to stay with him; that’s he’s still not 100% and needs some help.

The night has been kind and they’ve made it through another movie in his DVD collection that he swears everyone should watch. Movies like The Princess Diary and Miss Congeniality are at the top of the list and though she makes fun of it, she knows they for her.

She smiles, a spontaneous moment that Clint notices, and offers a smile on return.

If only her 15 year old self could see her now.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks after a moment.

“Do you think they’d let me get an apartment?” she asks, “away from the base?”

Clint looks slightly off, and she thinks she did something wrong.

It’s a moment before he nods and smiles back.

“Yeah! Of course, yeah!” his enthusiasm is infective.

“Would you want to live somewhere near here? There’s an apartment nearby? I could ask? It’s not big but it’s like in the apartment block over!? Nat, you could learn to cook like you wanted! Not that you couldn’t before, but it’s easier when it’s your own place,” he rambles.

“You could get stuff? Do you know how good stuff is? A cool rock, your favourite hair conditioner, oh! A favourite mug! Not that you couldn’t before, but like it’s different in your own space.”

She smiles, slightly overwhelmed.

Natasha sits with her hands around her glass, and nods.

“I’ll help you, okay? We can work it out, together,” he assures.

“Yeah,” she says, sipping her drink, “I’d like that.”

He knocks on her door, flowers and food in hand.

Moving from foot to foot, Clint knocks again impatiently, and waits.

It’s slow but finally she opens the door.

She looks worse for wear than he’s ever seen her.

Dark circles under her eyes, pale face and a slight sheen of sweat on her face.

“Oh Nat,” he says, sympathetically.

He still thinks back to the time, months ago, when she took care of him.

“How long have you been feeling like shit for?”

She shrugs.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He pushes his way inside.

“It’s okay, I am feeling better, tell Fury I’ll be back on Monday,” she sighs.

He laughs.

“I’ll do no such thing.”

He looks her over again.

“Go to bed,” he says softly, “I’ll make us something to eat.”

Natasha must really not be feeling well, as she pads slowly back to bed, and climbs in without argument.

Later, he finds her in the midst of a nightmare, sweat drenched and hand in mouth to stop the screams and tears.

Clint’s heart breaks.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, like soothing a small child, “everything will be okay.”

She looks up, eyes unseeing.

“I don’t feel so good,” she whispers, “they’ll kill me if they know.”

His heat drops.

“Who’s going to kill you? Hmm? Here in your own apartment?”

It seems to orient her, so he continues.

“No one can touch you here, not with the bullet proof glass, or the soft blankets that surround you. No one would find you here, with your name changed to Natalie. You’re safe and I’ll help protect you, even though you don’t need it.”

She closes her eyes and tucks herself in next to him.

“Mmmsorry,” she whispers.

Their first date is a non event, and although both of them acknowledge that it was their first date, it’s more because it’s the first time they kiss.

Popcorn and a movie on Clint’s couch, with Natasha dressed in his clothes and Clint in his oldest hoodie.

Anything else, they agreed, would be contrived.

All day they play someone else, dressed up and faking happiness.

In their apartments the masks drop.

It seems right that the first time and the first date is perfectly in a place they feel the most safe.

He promises though, that he’ll take her to all his favourite places, and kiss her there as well.

35 notes · View notes

romanovisgay · 7 months

Text

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 11 - Captivity

Warnings: canon type violence.

Word Count: 1.6k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha offers choices and chances.

A/N: reunion <3

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

SINGAPORE

2014

Clint stares at her as she gets ready, smiling at her putting on make up.

“What?” she asks, “you’ve seen me do this a thousand times.”

“Nat, watching you put make up on in a bra, will always make me stop and stare at you,” he pauses.

“In a non creepy way.”

She smiles and continues to make up her face; the wig cap covering her hair.

“Are you sure, blue is the way to go?”

The wig both brown and blue is styled like Natasha’s hair when she was young.

She bites her lip.

“No. But maybe, if anything gets to her, maybe the past will.”

She stands and bends over, placing the wig on and adjusting it.

When she stands she looks like a different person.

“I never know how you do that,” he says in awe.

She sighs.

He kisses the top of her head, and hugs round her shoulders.

“We can do this another time, it doesn’t have to be now… this feels too dangerous.”

Natasha shakes her head.

“No, it has to be now,” she says, determined.

“Because who knows when we will get a chance again?”

She looks up at him and attempts a smile.

“Plus, I know you’ll be there, right?”

Clint nods, prepares his basic disguise of a hat and sunglasses and leaves her to finish getting ready.

Natasha feels eyes on her as soon as she enters the hotel.

They can’t know, not yet. She scans and looks for Yelena.

Seeing nothing, she continues into the bowels of the hotel, checking in and wheeling her suitcase to the elevator.

Natasha is hypervigilant.

Continuously scanning the environment, she focuses on getting to her room and closing the door.

She’d checked in as Melina Vostokoff, hoping to get Yelena’s attention, or at the very least, someone from the Red Room.

Taking a deep breath, she tries to calm her nerves. Waiting for it, for someone to come, felt almost torturous.

Isla was right.

Her words, as scathing as they were, were correct. She’d left.

Not just Yelena but the other widows. She hadn’t known what killing Dreykov would do, and selfishly; she didn’t care.

She just needed him dead.

Sitting on the edge of the bed she flops back.

Clint, perhaps, was also right, that she’d done the best she could in keeping herself safe, but it didn’t negate the fact that she didn’t look for Yelena.

There’s a small part of her that still thinks it’s not her problem, Yelena is not her sister, either were the widows.

They instilled every man (or woman) for themselves in training. Some girls took it seriously but most of them knew they’d only survive together.

Usually it was the widows with friends and guiding hands around them that survived.

Those that didn’t… well. They’re the ones they held funerals for.

She groans. The wig itching.

Natasha knows she needs to get up, set the trap within the trap.

She just knows it’s going to be a long, hard day.

But, she supposes, what’s another one.

It takes them to dinner to come for her.

The things they do are so predictable, that Natasha has to suppress a role of her eyes.

It’s amazing how things never change and the playbook they run hasn’t changed in years.

She told Clint they’d wait, scout and take her at night, and he’d scoffed.

Natasha feels them follow.

If the timing is right, and her guesses are correct, it will be Yelena and two others.

If Yelena is on point.. it’s all Natasha us counting on.

Clint can take out the other two.

With Yelena alone, she’s sure she can convince her to come.

Focussing, she moves quickly up the fire exit stairs, ascending them as quickly as she can, she hears the door close behind her, quick footsteps following after her.

She doubles her speed, listening for the door again.

When it doesn’t come, she knows Clint has likely taken out the other two.

Natasha feels the thrill of being chased, adrenaline pumping through her, as she continues up the stairs.

It better be Yelena.

Legs burning, she continues to the roof.

One flight to go, she calls out.

“Think you can get me?”

The footsteps behind her stop.

“Oh big sister,” the words come viciously, “you’re as good as got.”

Humidity hits Natasha as soon as she opens the door to the rooftop.

Singapore has a rainy season that brings a thick muggy quality to the world.

She catches her breath, and moves to the corner.

The trap set.

If Clint has the other two drugged, then maybe, this plan has a chance at working.

Yelena rushes the door.

Guns drawn they hold them high and face each other.

Postures identical, they circle each other, waiting for the other to speak.

Taking a step forward, Yelena takes a step back.

“Stop moving,” she growls.

Natasha takes another step.

Neither sure who has the upper hand, Yelena throws her gun.

The randomness of the action confuses Natasha and she’s not ready when Yelena rushes her, yelling and elbowing her in the face.

She rolls with it, circling and elbowing behind her.

It catches Yelena and pushes her back.

Natasha tries to sweep at her feet, then punches out, hitting Yelena as she moves back.

Yelena’s guard is strong, as she takes it, breaking it only for a moment to push then punch Natasha.

The fight gives Natasha enough time to wait to see if there’s any back up coming.

No one comes.

She turns and breaks the handle on the door, and then turns to Yelena.

“Just you and me, little one,” she smiles.

Yelena’s look is feral.

“How dare you,” she starts, and Natasha prepares for the onslaught.

The timing needs to be perfect.

She raises her knife and stabs it forward, hitting Yelena’s thigh.

It embeds in and Natasha thinks she’s done it.

Yelena sees red, wrenching the knife out and throwing it at Natasha.

She dodges it and pushes forward.

One punch blocked, two then.. she lets herself be hit.

Lets Yelena punch her, pummel her and hit her hard.

She feels the hate and anger behind each of the hits she takes.

Natasha growls, and throws her off as she gets messy in her anger.

“I failed you,” she says simply.

Yelena comes at her again, hitting her in the face as Natasha puts up no defence.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Yelena places her in a hold and Natasha allows herself to be handcuffed to the nearby pole, pushed into a sitting position.

Fists clenched she sighs.

Easy to get out of, if she’s willing to rip skin and dislocate joints.

She doesn’t though.

Steadily she tries to breath through her mouth, her nose broken.

Yelena rounds on her.

“They’re going to come for you, and make you… make you like me,” she growls, “make you suffer every agony, every violation.”

The heat beats down as Yelena paces the rooftop.

“You’re a traitor.”

“You’re a traitor,” she breathes heavily.

Natasha gathers her breath.

“I’m not sorry for the choice I made,” she clarifies.

“I am sorry for not getting you sooner.”

Yelena spits.

“Choices? You had choices, what did we all have?”

Yelena continues to pace, looking to the door.

“When you made your choice, you condemned us all.”

Natasha compartmentalises her words, puts them aside, taking a deep breath.

“The decisions between bad choices is not better—“

“But you had them!” Yelena explodes.

“You had a choice.”

Natasha adjusts her position and sits on the ground.

“Not a good one,” she says, resigned. “A choice between dying and surviving.”

The next words are said with venom.

“What would you have done?”

She doesn’t mean for it to come out that way, but frustration and the need for this to go right, puts her on edge.

Yelena squats in front of her.

“I wouldn’t have left you there to die,” she says, as equally as venomously.

Natasha shrugs and looks away, “you would have.”

“Just like you’re going to do now.”

Yelena looks at her quizzically.

“You have a choice,” Natasha tells her, “to stay or go.”

“What do you—“

“The tracker in your thigh, the one they place so they always know,” she gestures to the stab wound.

“The knife, it’s disabled it. The current you felt, they can’t track you now.”

There’s horror in Yelena’s face as she feels her thigh, her hand coming away bloody.

Disbelief crosses her face.

“They’d have come by now, right? The other two to check?”

Natasha sees how much room she has in the cuffs. This was the plan, but she’s willing to try different ways that don’t involve her being vulnerable and being held captive.

“But they haven’t.”

She wriggles one hand.

“Now,” she pauses. “You have a choice.”

Clint finds Natasha handcuffed to a pole on the roof.

Alive.

“What happened?!” he asks, rushing towards her.

She doesn’t look too worse for wear, bruises on her face, broken nose and wig slightly askew; but alive nonetheless.

“She, uhhh, I stabbed her, she handcuffed me to a pole, we argued, and I gave her a choice.”

Natasha words come out in a huff as he releases the handcuffs.

“Where’s she go?” he asks, and they look out on the city.

“Did she go back?”

Natasha doesn’t answer.

“I don’t know,” she replies.

47 notes · View notes

romanovisgay · 7 months

Text

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 9 - Polaroid

Warnings: alluded to child abuse and child neglect but nothing explicit.

Word Count: 1.2k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha holds hope for Christmas.

A/N: I wish I had the time to actually think this fic through but it just is what is it coming through. No beta, and a minimal read through. Mistakes are my own; I know.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

1994

OHIO

Christmas season seems to put them all on edge.

Alexei leaves and Melina growls at them at clean. It’s nothing new and Natasha doesn’t mind the monotony of cleaning the house.

From where she’s come from, cleaning is almost a luxury to the hits and bruises of hard labour to get her small muscles strong.

Melina even allows music as they do so.

Yelena fiddles with the radio and she gets up and does a dance whilst Natasha cleans around her.

Christmas music plays and Natasha doesn’t quite understand the sentiments behind it.

Melina is tolerant until she isn’t and it’s the variability that sets Natasha on edge.

The week before Christmas, Natasha hears Yelena asks about Santa.

Natasha knows there’s no such thing.

How could there be a magical man in the sky that delivers presents, or answer wishes.

She hears Melinda talk about it, and anger curls low at Yelena’s hope and optimism.

“We get presents?” Yelena asks.

Natasha rolls over.

She doesn’t hear the response.

There’s no way that Melina would get them gifts. Alexei wouldn’t allow it either.

Natasha dreams of a man coming into her room, but this time he leaves gifts of flowers and food.

Candy mostly, but fruit too, it drags her deeper into sleep and for the first time in a long time she sleeps soundly.

Boxes sit under a Christmas tree. Natasha eyes them suspiciously at first.

There’s lights set up around it. Not Christmas lights but large stage lights.

Yelena shakes boxes, and Melina tells her not to touch them.

It fills Natasha with hope.

Maybe in the boxes there is toys, maybe there’s some pencils to draw with, candy? maybe a book?

She eyes the boxes carefully, not really believing that’s the case but wanting to believe it with all her heart.

As Christmas crawls closer, her hope grows.

Melina leaves for a couple of days to meet with Alexei and leaves Natasha in charge of Yelena.

It’s peaceful and fun.

They dance and sing and watch the television.

Natasha teaches Yelena some Russian and they have ice cream for dinner.

They sleep in the same bed and Natasha reads to her the books that they have.

Yelena begs her to open the boxes.

It’s the only rule Natasha has.

She desperately wants to, but she wants to preserve the magic of Christmas Day.

Two days pass before Melina returns.

Yelena runs to hug her and Natasha holds back, jealous of her easy trust.

The night before Christmas, Melina makes them dress up.

It sets Natasha on edge.

The last time she had to dress up and stand in front of people, bad things happened.

They’re made to stand in front of the tree and pose, whilst Melina takes pictures.

Natasha flinches every time the flash goes off.

Melina berates her to stay still.

She tries to smile as ordered, but it feels like dread.

“Can we open the presents tomorrow?” Natasha asks, on a whim.

Melina shrugs.

“You can open them now, there’s nothing in them.”

In that moment, Natasha feels her heart break.

She had hope.

She thought….

She doesn’t know what she thought, maybe that someone cared enough about her that they would get her a gift.

Maybe that she was good enough to get one like all the tales of Santa.

She feels tears on her face as the disappointment floods her body.

Santa would never come here.

She is not good.

Backing away, she flees to the bedroom, hides under the bed and sobs quietly to herself.

Yelena finds her still under her bed on Christmas Day; a box in her hands.

She holds out her tiny hand and helps Natasha out, her body stuff and sore from being curled up all night.

“It wasn’t real,” Natasha whispers to her, gesturing to the box.

“There’s nothing inside.”

Yelena shakes her head.

“I know, this is from me,” she presents the box to Natasha.

Natasha’s heart skips and she takes the box from her sister.

“Aren’t you disappointed?” she asks, “aren’t you sad?”

Yelena looks up at her legs crossed and shakes her head.

“Santa didn’t come for us,” she sighs, looking to the sky “maybe it’s because we were bad like Alexei tells us we are; or maybe it because he didn’t know we were here. Maybe he thinks we are still in Russia and there’s presents waiting for us there.”

Natasha’s heart sinks further.

There is nothing good in Russia, despite what Melina and Alexei tell Yelena.

“This is for you,” Yelena taps the box.

“I wanted you to have it.”

Natasha opens it.

The picture of them together, side by side faces smiling. The row of four taken when Melina had taken the others to send back to Russia.

“Please don’t show her,” Yelena looks nervous. “I saw that you liked them and I took them for you.”

On a whim, Natasha hugs Yelena, a deep crushing hug that she tries to convey how much the pictures mean.

She hides her tears in her hair and then brings her forehead to Yelena’s. She doesn’t know why, just that it feels right.

“I… I got something for you too,” Natasha whispers, hastily wiping her eyes.

If they see her crying, she knows they’ll make her run laps.

She feels Yelena won’t tell on her.

Taking the little present wrapped in newspaper, from underneath her pillow, she presents it to Yelena.

She swallows hard, wondering if Yelena will understand or if she’s too young.

Yelena opens it carefully, the tiny blue ribbon peaks out and she touches it carefully.

“My mother left it for me,” Natasha whispers.

“It’s the only thing I have of her, and I want you to have it.”

Yelena must understand, because immediately she passes it back.

“I can’t have this,” she says.

Natasha take a breath.

“There was a wet nurse; in the Red Room, she was mean and kind and told me that my mother wanted me and couldn’t keep me. I don’t know if it was the truth. She showed me the things my mother sent with me, it was this and a picture.”

Natasha lifts her bed and pulls out a book, inside the book is the picture.

She shows Yelena.

“This is my mother.”

Yelena takes the picture carefully.

“She’s so pretty.”

Natasha nods.

“The nurse. She said I couldn’t have the the things my mother left me, but showed me where she kept it. Before… before I came here, I took them. I wanted them to be with me, wherever I was. I thought… maybe it was all she had to give. I want them with me.”

Natasha takes back the picture and tucks it carefully into the book, then takes the one that Yelena gave her and places them together.

“I want you to have it, because it’s a part of me.”

Yelena nods but doesn’t really understand.

What she does understand is the sentiment that Natasha is trying to convey, and she feels the pull towards her sister.

“Put it in my hair?”

Natasha smiles and nods.

“Okay.”

Gently she braids her hair, tying the ribbon in so it sits firmly in Yelena’s hair, they hear Melina calling and Natasha touches her arm.

“She can’t know,” Natasha says urgently, “just like the pictures.”

Yelena sees the seriousness and nods.

“I promise,” she nods, and holds out a pinky finger.

Natasha takes it in her own and nods too.

Bringing her in for another hug, she feels Yelena’s little hands pull her close.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and kisses the top of her head.

63 notes · View notes

romanovisgay · 7 months

Text

Hurry, She Needs You - part 4

Summary: Natasha becomes ill from what they think is food poisoning. Tony and Bruce try to care for her until Clint arrives home from a deep cover mission. Part 4 of 6

Whumptober Day 4: Shock

Natasha whump, light whump, emotional whump

Precisely five hours and 47 minutes after Clint’s phone call, he burst into Natasha’s medical suite. Still in full uniform, he ripped off his arm guards and rushed to her side.

Bruce and Tony politely stood off in the corner.

Barton whispered something in Russian, caressing Natasha's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"Hawk?" She stirred.

"Tell me who did this."

She reached for him and wrapped her arms around his neck, forcing him to lift her into his arms.

“I’m here, I’m here. I got you.” Clint repeated over and over.

She curled into a tight ball against him.

“Get us out of here.” She whimpered.

“We’re safe. We’re at the Tower.”

“No, I saw James. They injected me...Tony.”

“Followed my orders, Widow. They gave you the antidote.”

“Don’t leave.” Natasha buried her face in his neck.

Barton swallowed hard.

“Not with a gun to my head. I will never leave you.”

He looked over at Tony.

“What time was the first shot?”

“Over three hours ago, she’s due for her second one soon.”

Barton exhaled, his troubled scowl lessening a fraction. Head Nurse Joyce Miller walked into the room.

“You're late.”

“Plane only goes Mach 2, I’ll have to make some modifications.”

“Well, hopefully now that you’re here, we can get her heart rate down. It’s been too high for my liking.”

Joyce adjusted the bed to a reclining position, moving about the room and talking to Barton as if one of Strike Team Delta on death's door was common.

He went to set Natasha down but she whimpered, clinging to him. Joyce clicked her tongue and Hawkeye turned sideways, keeping a tight hold of Nat. Nurse Miller removed his quiver, two pistols from his thigh holsters, and a large Bowie knife, allowing Clint to settle on the bed, adjusting Natasha across his chest and between his legs.

Joyce called attention to the monitor. Tony and Bruce watched Natasha's heart rate go down as she relaxed against Clint.

Without asking, Nurse Miller placed two fingers on Barton’s wrist and checked the clock on the wall.

“That always amazes me.” She shook her head. “I’ll be back shortly for the second round. See if you can get her to drink some water, please.”

She left the room. Tony and Bruce pulled their chairs closer. Bruce handed him a cup with a straw.

Before giving it to her, Clint made sure Natasha watched him take a drink.

No.” She whimpered, trying to knock the cup out of his hand.

“It’s safe, Nat.” He took another drink.

Trusting him like always, she sipped at the water, making a face.

“One more.”

“When can we go home?”

“Soon. I want you to get some sleep first.”

“No, they’ll take you.”

“Tony and Bruce won’t let them. They’ll protect me like they did you.” She glanced over at the two of them.

Tony hid a smirk. Barton and Romanov could give a shit about their own lives, but threaten the other...

“Nothing will happen, Nat.” Bruce promised.

She nodded. Clint hugged her close, nestling her into his side. She fought sleep for the longest time but eventually drifted off.

“I’ve never seen her cry like that before, Clint.” Tony kept his voice low.

“I know it was hard. We didn’t have your medical equipment last time. Thank you.”

“What happened in Thailand? How was she poisoned?” Bruce asked.

“Therillium is an assassin’s dream. It can be solid, liquid or gas. She was exposed when the Yazaki detonated a warehouse of hostages. I was too high in my perch to be affected.”

“Thankfully, or you both would be dead.”

Clint gave him a thoughtful look.

“How did you know what it was?” Tony wanted to know.

“It took two arrows to find out. Four more to get what she needed. She went into shock before the first shot.” He shuddered, wrapping his arms tighter around Natasha. “I didn’t think she was going to make it.”

“She did and she’s gonna get through this again.”

“Because of the two of you and Bucky.”

“Clint, it was Killian. We think the poison was meant for me. I’m sorry.”

Barton narrowed his eyes.

“Then I’ll rip both the bastard’s arms off, not just one.”

tbc...entire story will be posted below after part 6

Hurry, She Needs You

37 notes · View notes

romanovisgay · 7 months

Text

The language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: day 4 - shock

Warnings: action based blood/explosion

Word Count: 1.7k (gif not mine)

Summary: Clint and Natasha’s first mission after the events of New York.

A/N: Sometimes things are exactly as they appear to be. (Also be kind to fic writers pls, know we read each and very comment on reblogs <3)

2012

NEW YORK

“He’s better,” Natasha defends, protectively.

“I’m just saying that hiding in vents to spy on your friends is not a good thing,” Bruce tells her.

“He’s not spying, this is a weird situation. We’re here because it’s mandated. We just didn’t know for how long.”

Natasha moves out of the kitchen, wanting to find Clint.

“Just think about it?” Bruce calls after her.

Six months they’ve been here and she knows they’re both stir crazy. Probably all of them are.

Bruce is preparing to go back to Calcutta, and who knows where Thor left to.

She knows Bruce just wants the best for Clint, and she does too; but weekly therapy is enough.

They don’t need more.

He’s no longer catatonic, he’s eating, joking and talking about his feelings.

Isn’t that all she can ask of him?

He’s never had to deal with mind control or someone being in his brain.

The tower is more empty now, though Tony maintains they’re welcome for as long as they want.

She wonders what Steve is going to do.

Her phone rings and she glances at the caller, seeing Maria, she picks it up.

“Yeah?”

Reprieve comes in the strangest of ways.

“We have a mission for you,” she opens.

“Australia.”

Natasha’s heart leaps a little and she smiles to herself.

“Send the packet,” she says, “we can leave whenever.”

Maria pauses.

“How’s he doing?”

Natasha finds her way into the elevator, choosing Clint’s floor as an email comes through.

“Got it,” she tells her, “he’s better, he’s ready for this I think.”

Maria is quiet.

“I’m glad; we’ve missed you both.”

Natasha nods.

“Nothing like a mission to Australia to recalibrate.”

“I’ll get Fury to spring for business class, the 18 hour trip is shit,” Maria laughs.

Natasha is thankful, she hates traveling economy class on long haul trips.

“Hey, maybe whilst you’re there you can do some wedding prep,” Maria goads.

Natasha laughs and hangs up on her friend.

It’s been a running joke since the mission in Kashmir, one that since the events in New York, she’d not heard.

Finding Clint reading, she throws her phone at him with the open packet showing.

“Australia?!”

His glee is contagious as she smiles.

Today is a good day.

Natasha feels a bit of lightness in her world, and it feels strange given the last six months.

She can’t remember the last day like it. Maybe before the aliens came.

“Business class?!”

He laughs again.

“What a lowball mission, they must be feeling sorry for us.”

She takes her phone back, and lays down next to him.

“Maria said we should do some wedding prep,” she laughs with him.

His face turns serious, and she wonders if she’s ruined the mood.

“What if we do?”

She breaks into a smile.

“Yeah okay.”

He nods, looks at the packet again.

“We’re going to Queensland anyway. Nothing happens there.”

Natasha nods, lays down next to him and closes her eyes.

“Bruce is leaving tomorrow too,” she murmurs.

“Tony is going to be lonely,” Clint considers.

“Yeah.”

She does feel sorry for the billionaire, who seems to have grown accustomed to having people in his world, to suddenly have none.

“Maybe we should get everyone together and eat tonight,” he proposes, “I think maybe after Australia we could go back to the apartment.”

It’s a big step, not being around people, not feeling the need to have safety measures in place. She doesn’t think she would have even considered it a month ago, but the more she thinks about it, the more it feels right.

“Yeah I think that sounds like a good idea.”

Tony spares no expense in providing for his friends.

It’s kind. Natasha isn’t used to the abundance, even after all this time.

“There’s no way we will eat all this,” she tells him, passing him the food.

Pepper, Steve and Bruce sit on one side and it’s the three of them on the other.

Sitting between Clint and Tony, it’s like sitting between her brother and her lover. Or what she imagines that might be like.

She’s going to have to ask Clint what it was like growing up with a brother. She imagines dangerous in a fun way.

Steve tells a story that makes her laugh; and she goads him with a fossil joke, Clint chimes in with another story and the night passes quickly.

Too quickly, it feels and she wants to stay in this happy moment, this good day.

It surely can’t last.

Australia is hot.

It’s a different heat to the United States, and she can almost feel the infrared heat engulf her as she steps off the plane.

“Shit,” Clint exclaims.

She stares at him and he shuts up.

He’s to play her bodyguard, and his outburst is out of character. It’s not like him.

It’s like he’s forgotten what he needs to do to be a spy.

She frowns, worried.

This is a low ball mission, but it doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t take it seriously.

Let your guard down and you become an easy target, even if the mission is just surveillance.

He takes her bags in apology and she fakes the persona she’s been given.

Rich people rarely give eye contact to anyone.

She leaves her glasses on and continues on her way through customs. It takes longer than she expects and she internally groans at the lines.

Externally, she complains out-loud. Everyone avoids eye contact.

Australians are a strange bunch, unlike Americans they seem to both simultaneously helpful and not, no one going out of their way to explain things or to point the clueless in the right direction.

The car that picks them up and drives them to the house is black and the driver nondescript.

It’s only when they’re alone in the two story house overlooking the beach that she breaks character and flops on the bed.

“I forget how well you do a rich bitch,” he says offensively.

She smiles.

“Get me a drink, won’t you?”

He laughs and busies himself with making a late lunch.

They have three hours before night, before they start the stakeout and all he’s eaten is plane food.

Two hours in the car and he’s so bored he starts throwing popcorn into his mouth.

Then.

The generator blows.

“Nat?”

“Yeah I saw it.”

They move out of the car, trying to get a better look.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” he mutters.

She rolls her eyes.

“I don’t think so.”

Natasha moves quickly, scouting the house to see what’s happening inside, their line of sight now gone in the darkness.

“Nat, wait,” he urges, “what if it’s a trap?”

The money launder is clearly on alert.

Two sets of armed guards leave the door and Natasha watches as they fan out. She sneaks past them and Clint swears as she looks back.

Natasha moves into the house.

Two shots ring out, and Clint ducks, swearing softly under his breath.

There’s someone else there and he can’t see them.

Scrambling up and onto the tall fence, he moves across the tallest tree and climbs up it.

There’s a team of two, dressed in black with large night vision goggles that make them look like frogs.

He taps on his ear piece.

“There’s two, on your left, try and take the mark alive if you can,” he orders.

“The two are coming through the kitchen, he’s moving out the up the stairs.”

Ideally alive, with his ties to hydra and the ten rings, he has valuable information they can use.

Natasha gives the signal she’s seen and chases him up the stairs.

Clint holds the two unknowns lined up in his sight.

He sees one set a charge and the other place two more.

“Fuck, Nat, they’re setting it to blow,” he growls, too far away, too high up to get to her before they detonate.

He drops down anyway, yelling.

“Nat, it’s a trap, they’re rigging it to blow, get out,” he says urgently.

He chases after the retreating spooks, and catches one, gun trained on them.

The frog like character shakes it’s head and holds up the detonator.

“No,” he exclaims, and holds his gun up.

They shake their head, and then press the button.

Hot flames engulf the building, throwing both of them back.

He tackles the body to the ground, ripping off the mask, and punching down hard.

Blonde hair and a frown greet him under the balaclava.

Wild eyes turn to him, “better go save Natasha,” a Russian accent growls.

Shock hits him.

How do they know Natasha?

Russian.

Black widow?

His heart sinks as the realization that Natasha is in a burning building.

“Just like Dreykov’s daughter,” she says scathingly, “left alone to die in a burning building with a bad man.”

Clint lets her go and runs.

She’s going to be okay, she has to be.

The explosion wasn’t big enough to total the building, parts still standing as he coughs in the heat, shielding his face.

He hears sirens wailing, and he knows he needs to find her.

“Natasha!” he calls, going in.

“Nat?!”

He calls her name over and over until he reaches the crumbling stairs. Covering his mouth, hoping that nothing else explodes, he climbs them.

Finding a bathroom, he opens the door only to find Natasha behind it.

“Bathtub,” she coughs.

“Stayed in.”

He hands her the cloth he was using to cover her mouth and helps her down the stairs.

“Mr. Nought?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“Couldn’t get to him. Dead, I think.”

They exit the house, Natasha limping and Clint guiding her out.

He wants to check her over, to see if she’s actually okay, but the sirens draw closer and they need to leave.

“I think the safe house is compromised,” he says driving away, heading straight for the airfield.

“We probably need to swap cars too.”

Natasha groans and holds her head, and Clint glances at her.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, just go, find a car,” she tells him.

There’s blood but he can’t tell in her black cat suit.

“Who was that?” she asks, looking back.

He doesn’t want to say the words but as he speaks them, the more he’s convinced he’s correct.

“Nat, I think it was Yelena.”

62 notes · View notes

romanovisgay · 7 months

Text

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 3 - Make it stop

Warnings: child abuse, domestic violence, brief touch on car accident that killed Clint’s parents and CPS

Word Count: 1.8k (Image not mine)

Summary: Clint Barton didn’t have an easy childhood, but one safe person made all the difference.

A/N: please read warnings attached to the chapter. There’s a reason there’s not too much before the cut starts, as it starts heavy and stays that way. Please take care of yourself.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

1984

IOWA

“Make it stop,” he whispers to Barney.

Drunken footsteps are loud as his father shouts for more.

Clint can hear his mother opening and closing the fridge and the tirade of abuse continues.

“We can’t, okay?” Barney’s fists clench, his black eye from the week before still not healed and Clint knows it’s an unfair request.

“Not tonight, Mum will have to deal with him,” Barney looks scared and Clint doesn’t understand.

“Why?”

Barney looks down at his little brother and sighs.

“He’s not going to work tomorrow. He got fired.”

Fear and adrenaline dumps it’s poison into Clint’s veins.

“But…”

“Yeah; he’ll be here all day now.”

Barney finishes Clint’s thought.

A slap reverberates through the house and both boys cringe.

Clint can’t take it, he hates the thought of anyone touching his mother.

He’s at the door before Barney can stop him.

Opening it, he finds his father standing over his mother and they both turn to look at the movement and noise. His mothers face is red, hands touching the swelling of her cheek.

“Stop it,” he growls, smelling the alcohol and poison on his father.

The laugh of derision and dangerous smile that follows, makes Clint take two steps back, almost regretting his bravery.

“Stop it?” his father laughs as he repeats Clint’s words, picking him up and throwing him to the side.

“Fine,” he smirks dangerously, “I’ll ‘stop it’ but you need to go get me more beer, okay boy? She says we’ve run out.”

Clint feels like he’s been thrown a lifeline, a chance to get out of the house and away from danger; even if it’s at the expense of his mother.

He scrambles, Barney close behind him.

“We don’t have any money?” Clint asks.

His father raises a hand and Barney pulls him away.

“It’s fine,” he yells, as he pushes Clint out the door.

They run, only stopping when Clint pus his hands on his knees, out of breath.

“If he doesn’t go to work, he’s going to be at home with Mom,” Clint mutters, dragging his feet.

Barney grabs his hand.

“It’ll be okay, he’ll get bored and go out to the pub.”

Clint can’t see how that’s better, using their money to buy a drink that only leads to raised voices and sharp hits.

The shopkeeper stares at the two boys as they enter.

“Go distract him,” Barney urges, “and I’ll go get the beer.”

Nervously, Clint walks to the front of the shop.

“Can I help you?”

Clint nods and tries to smile.

“I.. uhhh.. Need something,” he starts, unsure what to say.

“You need something,” the man asks, suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Clint looks around, “I need those,” he points.

The man chuckles.

Clint shrugs.

“Do you know what I should buy?”

He knows nothing of the product he’s pointed too, knows that he’s seen it in his bathroom before, and there’s many types on the shelf; so the stab he’s taken doesn’t seem like a bad one.

“You need.. Pads?” The man questions, still smiling at Clint’s ignorance.

“Yeah?”

Clint thinks he can keep it going, make the man distracted enough; until…

There’s a clink and a crash and Barney swears as the man moves to back, Clint hot on his heels.

Spilled beer cascades and Barney looks up, guiltily.

Standing frozen, Clint doesn’t know what to do. The man takes a step forward.

Clint weaves in and stands between his brother and the shopkeeper protectively.

“You’re the Barton brothers aren’t you?”

They both look at the floor, and Barney speaks for the both of them.

“Yes sir,” he says softly, “please don’t call the police.”

The man shakes his head.

“Your father is not a good man, is he? Hmm? He send you out here?”

“He hit our mum because we ran out of beer,” Clint tells him, only to get shoved by Barney.

“Is that so?”

The man motions for them to move out of the glass.

“It shouldn’t be like that,” he tells them, handing a beer to Barney.

“You didn’t get that from me, okay?”

Clint’s relief is palpable, and Barney can’t stop staring at the gift they’ve been given.

“Thank.. Thank you,” he stutters, stuck on the spot.

Clint smiles, “yeah, thank you,” he repeats.

The shopkeeper it seems isn’t done in his generosity.

He hands them each a chocolate bar, and then on a whim throws Clint a box of pads.

“Give them to your mother,” he smiles, “she’ll be thankful you got something for her too.”

Gus the shopkeeper is wirey, thinning hair with dark eyebrows.

Clint finds him funny and kind and when walking home from school, he always gives him a piece of fruit to munch on.

Barney doesn’t like it.

“People don’t do things out of the goodness of their hearts, baby brother.”

Clint ignores the warning, trusting his own instinct of people. He doesn’t agree.

He does things out of the goodness within him, why wouldn’t others?

He tries not to impose on the man’s friendship, wanting to always be around Gus but knowing he probably shouldn’t be.

Sometimes his piece of fruit is all he gets for dinner.

The summer comes too quickly, and Barney gets a job delivering papers. It leaves Clint with too much free time, which he inevitably spends at the shop.

His mother encourages it.

She kisses his forehead and tells him to remember their code.

If his father is on a bender then she’ll put flowers in the window, if he’s not the window will be clear.

It’s a system that’s saved both boys a black eye or concussion a few times. Sometimes though, no amount of code words and secrets saves them from the wrath.

Gus seems to understand.

In the heat of the summer, he finds Clint sitting on the side walk, and invites him in.

Cold drink in hand, Clint grins at the pictures on the wall.

“You used to be in the circus?”

Gus nods, a wistful look on his face.

“Acrobat,” he comments, pointing to picture.

Clint looks in awe

“Those days are long gone now.”

“Can you show me something?”

Gus laughs.

“Something acrobatic?”

He shakes his head, “no, but I can show you something useful.”

Suddenly, there’s a coin in his hand and then it’s gone.

“Magic?” Clint scoffs.

“It’s a skill,” he defends.

Clint’s wallet is suddenly in his hand and Clint’s brain almost short circuits in how useful learning pick pocketing might be.

“You have to teach me,” he exclaims.

“Please!?”

Gus laughs.

“Okay, fine, come back tomorrow.”

They start easily.

The summer nights pass quickly with Gus.

Barney notices it, and he seems glad that Clint has somewhere to go.

He rubs his little brothers head and encourages it.

“Hey Barney,” Clint asks, one night, “teach me how to fight like you?”

Barney shakes his head, “nah, little bro, you’ll fight like someone different. But I can teach you the basics.”

Clint’s heart leaps.

He hugs him spontaneously and Barney pushes him back.

“I’ll catch you later okay?”

Clint nods, his smile big.

“Try again,” Gus tells him.

The watch sits on his wrist and he holds it out.

“It’s harder if you know it’s coming,” Clint complains.

Gus laughs.

“Fine take it, you need the practice anyway.”

Clint nods, taking it off his friend’s wrist.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Gus nods.

“You better practice,” he waves, and Clint nods.

Clint walks off, heading home, playing with the watch on his wrist, the clasp coming away easier.

He walks to the door and hears it, his mother shouting, his fathers fists hitting wood.

He cringes as he opens the door and tries to sneak in.

He forgets the second stair squeaks in his haste and the sound of footsteps makes him freeze.

“Boy,” his father bellows, “where have you been?”

Before he can even answer, he’s back handed into the stairs.

“Where’s your brother?”

Clint grabs at his face.

He’s better now at not letting the tears fall, even when he wants them too.

“I don’t..I don’t..” he stutters.

“You don’t know?”

Harold seems to grow twice as large as he points to the garage.

“Get in the car, we’re going to go find him.”

Clint can smell the toxicity of his breath, but is powerless to say no, as his mother gathers him up, kisses his cheek and tells him it will be okay.

It’s not though.

The red light.

The other car.

Screams.

Blood.

His head hurts.

He thinks there’s a bright light coming for him.

“They’re dead,” he opens, the shop doors opening for him as he stares through Gus.

The older man runs to him, and gathers him in a hug.

“Where’s Barney?”

Clint holds the watch in his hand.

“They’re taking us, but I stopped them because I needed to give you this.”

He holds it out.

“Oh Clint,” he holds him at arms lengths, sees the kindly lady step out of the car, and Barney deliberately not looking towards them.

“Keep it, borrow it, and when we see each other again, you can give it back to me.”

Clint’s eyes well up with tears and hugs Gus again.

“Can you take us?” he asks.

Gus shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he whispers.

“But this is not the end of our friendship, okay?”

Clint steps back, unable to look at him, disappointment radiating off him.

“Keep practicing and come back when you can.”

The woman calls for Clint to come and he backs up slowly.

“Goodbye,” he whispers.

“Good luck,” Gus whispers back.

Gus growls.

“I tell you, he’s got potential, get him out of foster care and you’ll see.”

Swordsman hums, contemplating his words.

“And you’d vouch for him?”

Gus swallows, knowing the heaviness of his words.

“And his brother, yes.”

He pauses.

“Clint has aim like I’ve never seen it, has a reason to fight and his brother just needs a mentor to channel all his rage.”

“Aim huh?”

Gus nods into the phone.

“Trickshot would do wonders with him.”

He wonders as the words come out of his mouth if he’s further dooming the Barton brothers.

Swordsman thinks on his words.

“Fine, but he’s in foster care now, how do you propose we find him?”

He shrugs.

“He’ll find me again.”

“Okay, then keep him with you and we’ll come to you, it can’t be now, we still have the operation to finish here, give us a year, and then, if he’s willing and able and maybe can add to the crew, then we will take him.”

“Thanks,” Gus sighs in relief.

Clint has his watch. He’ll come back.

“Oh and Gus,” Swordsman counters, “don’t forget to send the money through.”

He swallows, “uh. Yeah. Of course.”

Swordsman laughs, “you have to pay to stay out, otherwise we’ll welcome you back when we welcome the two boys you so desperately want us to save.”

“I’ll have your money, when you come get them.”

Gus hangs up, deal done, and gets the deposit ready in savings.

A year.

Clint just has to survive the year.

40 notes · View notes

romanovisgay · 7 months

Text

Whumptober Masterlist 2023

Masterlist of fic

(Warnings at the start of every chapter, please be kind to yourself. Gif not mine; I do not possess that kind of power. This will be updated with links as we go and when placed on ao3 will be updated with the link. A lot of these can be read as one shots (I’ll try and mark the ones that can be read as such with a *) but together make a whole story; the story of how Clint and Natasha got married.)

the language of flowers and silent things.

2011 - Kashmir (how many fingers am I holding up) *

1984 - Russia (I’ll call out your name but you won’t call back) *

1984 - Iowa (make it stop) *

2012 - New York (shock)

2012 - New York (it’s broken)

89 notes · View notes

romanovisgay · 7 months

Text

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.

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