Overworked (Natasha Romanoff)
Summary: You end up working a little too much.
Natasha Romanoff x fem!engineer!reader
Warnings: Overworking, tension, stress, anxiety, sickness, fever.
Requested by the following bao bun: @splat-tasha
Translations:
1. Detka: baby
2. Malyshka: baby girl
3. Dorogoy: darling
4. Moya lyubov: my love
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Honestly, working with S.H.I.E.L.D was very well paying, well-rewarding, and worth all the effort you put into it. You loved building things for the agents, coming up with new designs for weapons and bringing them up from graphite on paper into metal on gunpowder.
Natasha had to admit, though...you overdid it sometimes. You'd sometimes lose days of sleep over some new variation of a weapon, or while repairing a broken jet. Now, the bags under your eyes had pretty much become your personal accessory.
"Detka, please, don't overwork yourself..." she'd mutter against your hair as she cuddled your tired body after you'd finally let yourself rest.
"I won't, darling, I swear..." you'd mumble, but it would end up being a lie within the next two days, maximum.
This time, it went a little too far.
The entire day, you'd shown small signs that you were slowly falling sick from the amount you were working. Starting with your sudden loss of appetite, to blinking for a few seconds longer than any normal person would deem healthy.
"L/n, I need this ray gun fixed, asap," one of the agents said, handing you the said weapon. You shook your head to clear your foggy senses and nodded, taking it.
Later that day, Fury called you to his office and described a new kind of weapon they'd need for a stealth mission, and of course, you agreed to have the prototype ready within three days.
"Hey, Y/n, can you fix my pistols?" Maria asked you after that interaction, handing you a box. "For some reason, the safety isn't coming on on either of them since my niece messed with them, and I cannot have guns without a safety lock in the house..."
"N-no issue, Keya..." you mumbled, addressing her by the wrong name in your tiredness.
"Keya?" she raised a brow.
"Shit, sorry, I meant Maria..." you apologised, embarrassed. "I'm a bit tired, sorry. I'll have the guns fixed by tomorrow, no issue."
She smiled and thanked you, walking away.
You continued to walk around and work like a corpse, and felt the need for several cups of very strong coffee throughout the course of the day.
Natasha felt her gut telling her something was wrong, and decided to go and check on you.
And thank every merciful god that she did.
You were a mess, your workshop was like a hurricane hit it and it then got ransacked by an army of wild cats.
Nuts and bolts littered the floor, pages were scattered across two worktables joined together, grease stained the floor, and a concerning number of coffee cups were strewn around.
She heard the buzzing of a soldering iron and saw you at a worktable which had some of the surface visible. Your hands, which were normally so steady, were trembling, and you looked like you wanted to pass out as you fixed the safety lock of Maria's guns.
You got a phone call, and didn't notice Nat as you answered it, putting it on speaker.
"Hey, Y/n, it's Phil. Coulson," came the voice from the other line. "So, um, I know you fixed my car earlier this week, but I got into a bit of a scuffle...the engine's not starting up and I think I screwed up the oil tank while I was at it cause this bugger won't fill up at all."
You exhaled heavily, putting a grease-stained, and shockingly blistered hand to your forehead, making another black mark appear on your skin. "I'll come over tomorrow to look at it, Dave."
"...Dave? What the hell?" His voice sounded confused and irritated, making you click your tongue in annoyance and sigh.
"I'm sorry, that's the thirdtimetoday..." you muddled your words together as well, making him as you to repeat. "I said it's the third time I've messed up someone's name."
"No problem, just can you fix it?" He asked.
"Yeah," you bade him goodbye and cut the call, going over to your whiteboard, where an array of tasks and their deadlines were listed out.
Natasha was horrified to see how many of them were marked for each day.
"Y/n, what the fuck?" Natasha gasped, seeing your hand shake and seeing you screw up Phil's name spelling on the board thrice.
You turned around and gripped the edge of a chair for support. You had a headache, and now were too dizzy to stand.
"O-oh...h-hi, Tasha..." you smiled at her.
"Don't you 'hi Tasha' me, idiot!" She stormed over to you, but nevertheless took your greasy hand in hers tenderly. "Detka, you are so overworked..." she felt how cold your hands were and immediately checked your temperature.
Fever.
"And you have a fever!" She gasped, "Why didn't you tell me you were sick!?"
"I'm not sick...am I?" Your eyes widened as you looked at the board, panicking. "No, no, no, I can't fall sick! I have so many things to give by tomorrow!"
"Y/n," Natasha's voice was scarily firm as she held you in place, forcing you to look into her eyes. "I am taking you home, and you will rest, or else."
"But Tasha..." you whined, but she was having non of it.
"Moya lyubov, moya dorogoya," she sighed, petting your hair and speaking as if you were a five year old, "You need rest, otherwise you'll fall sicker. Now, go and wait in the car."
"...yes, Tasha..." you mumbled like a five year old, and walked off.
Natasha was like an angry mama bear as she stormed into Nick Fury's office.
"Nicholas Fury, how dare you run Y/n to such levels of exhaustion that she's fallen sick!" She exclaimed, seething. "She has a fever, she is literally stumbling around and surviving on unhealthy amounts of caffeine, and is mixing up people's names! How dare you treat her like a machine! she fixes machines, doesn't mean she is one!"
Fury sighed and remained calm in the face of the livid assassin. "Please, tell Y/n to keep her projects on hold, and that she has nothing to worry about because we will pay for this sick leave. Happy?"
"Very. Now if I ever see this happen again, I will commit murder, and it will be yours." She turned on her heel and stalked off, back to the car where you were.
She got into the driver's seat and kept you nicely warm in her jacket, till you both got home.
"Now, malyshka, please rest," she kissed your forehead and smiled after she'd tucked you into bed.
"Thank you, Tasha..." you mumbled. she lay beside you and gently stroked your hair, stopping after you fell asleep, and cuddled you to recovery.
Maybe overworking had it's own perks...
THE END.
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