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Once was enough. Twice more than. This is just fucking ridiculous. But it doesn’t seem to stop her. Hell, it doesn’t even slow her down. Laura wants to shake her. Wants to tell her to just refuse. To ask Fury to send someone else. Anyone. Someone Laura doesn’t love.
“How’s she doing?” Clint asks from the doorway.
Instinct begs to snipe back something about how in hell does he think she’s doing? He brought her home twenty pounds lighter than she has any business being and detoxing from whatever she was using this time around. Six months deep cover. Six fucking months and he wants to know how she’s doing. But Laura’s a mom, and mothers don’t snipe. At least not at bumbling men trying (and failing just a little) to show appropriate concern. He hauled the kids to her mom’s place at least. That will keep Lila from asking awkward questions about Auntie Nat for a little while.
There is blood on the underthings in the corner of the shower, bruises and scrapes and fuck only knows what else beneath a layer of grime she’s going to be scrubbing from the shower floor for hours once this woman child is sleeping soundly. It doesn’t matter. She’ll do it a thousand times more.
Nat hiccups and Laura slips a hand under her chin, tugging her mouth open and holding her steady so that the latest round of bile hits the basin and not the sheets. Getting Nat up and the bed changed is more trouble than she’s interested in right now.
Russian murmurs, words she doesn’t speak but knows mean I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’ll do it again anyway, I love you, I hate me, I’m lost, I’m home, I’m sick, I’m scared, I’m tired. Laura shushes her, wipes her lips with a tissue, presses a damp cloth to fever reddened skin, and glances back at Clint, still hovering in the doorway.
“She’s breathing,” she finally says. It’s the only answer she can muster that’s true.
“She refused medical,” he offers in apology. It’s not news. She always refuses medical when it’s bad like this. Says she doesn’t like people poking and prodding at her. Laura suspects it’s more that it feels too much like violation to be cared for. Too many links between care and obligations. Too many quid pro quo arrangements to allow it to be anything but. Even when it isn’t. Old habits and all that. SHIELD isn’t the KGB, but Laura knows that the differences aren’t deep enough to matter.
“You need to call Banner.”
He’s not that kind of doctor. The line is tired and worn but it’s going to be said when he comes through the door. He won’t refuse. Never does. Not when it’s Nat who needs fluids and stitches and benzos to ease her through the worst of the detox.
A nod, and Clint’s in the hallway, voice low and urgent, telling Bruce that he needs to come home again. That he needs to come to her again. He’ll stay just long enough to get things moving. Be gone before she’s come around enough to be sure he’s there. Laura doesn’t ask what’s between them. It’s sacred, whatever it is, and she’s not touching it.
A strangled moan from the bed has her reaching for Nat’s shoulders, rolling her to the side and patting her between too angular shoulder blades. There’s nothing left but pain and air, but it doesn’t stop her body trying. She could try to convince her to drink something. But the wall would be more compliant. So she waits until it passes, and sits cross legged next to the reason she knows more about detox than most physicians.
Another Zofran, ground to powder and rubbed on Nat’s gums in an attempt to keep her settled down. Lavender oil rubbed stroked her earlobes to keep her grounded in a scent they both know means home. Lidocaine dabbed around swollen joints in a farce of treating pain that goes too deep to be touched.
Bleary eyes staring at her, bony fingers clutching her wrist. Curls that should be red and are bleached to a dried-out blonde. She pets those curls, murmurs comfort and damnation. Tells Nat that this has to fucking stop. Reminds her that she needs a keeper. Whispers that she loves her anyway.