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Fury’s lungs feel like they’re on fire, but he focuses all his remaining energy on taking slow, calm breaths, not coughing, as Natasha leads him through the city. His good eye’s so full of mud that all he sees is a kaleidoscopic blur (when there’s enough light to even see that much). Not that it would have mattered if he could see: He’s shaking so hard that he couldn’t even aim a gun.
When she yanks him back against a building, he winces, his bruised side issuing a number of complaints that he files under Ask someone who has time for that shit. The bullets got him in the vest, not the flesh, so he’ll heal—assuming they survive the next few hours. Which means evading their pursuers and finding a place to hunker down long enough to let him warm up and get his feet back under him.
But his little dip in the East River has pulled one of their best agents out of the fight, just to babysit his blind ass, and he’s kicking himself for being such a liability when they’re already on the ropes against this new threat.
Natasha’s ghostly silent as they move in fits and starts across what sounds like a sleepy residential district. He can’t make out much beyond occasional engines, wind chimes, muffled barks and raised voices.
“Stay,” Natasha murmurs in his ear, pushing him up against what feels like a fence. With what little strength he has left, he stays upright, holding onto the wooden slats, until she’s taking him by the upper arm and leading him through a gate and onto grass—a backyard?
“Hope there’s not a dog,” Natasha murmurs as she pushes open the sliding glass door. “I’m not great at stopping dogs without killing them.”
“I can handle a dog,” Fury offers through chattering teeth.
“Huh. Would’ve pegged you for a cat person. Not exactly the type to play by the rules.”
Letting her lead him inside, Fury resists mentioning why he doesn’t exactly care for cats.
She uses one foot to maneuver a chair and then gets him sat down, leaning against the side of a counter, before taking off again.
There’ve got one piece of luck: no sound of people or pets. He’s got I.D. in case they need to pretend that SHIELD can commandeer a house, but he’s glad that he doesn’t have to pull that bluff, not after the night he’s had. Besides, even in a (muddy) suit, a Black guy breaking into houses doesn’t go over too well, and he’s not exactly feeling his best.
The air in here is pretty cold, like the owner doesn’t care to pay much of an electric bill. But at least the lights work; he can make out that much through his tired eyelids while he tries not to let himself relax too much. He’s so very close to collapsing, and he doubts she has the strength to carry him if he’s dead weight.
Soon enough, though, she’s back, leading him across carpet, trying to carry part of his weight across her slim shoulders. There’s the sound of water running above them, and then she’s coaxing him up a set of stairs that he almost thinks he won’t be able to make. He leans heavily against the wall as he concentrates on bringing himself up one step at a time, until his knees give out and he’s crawling, which is actually a little bit easier (if hard on the wrists).
She doesn’t try to get him upright again, just leads him with steady encouragement until he’s on a tile floor and she’s turning off the water and then getting him out of his clothes because his fingers won’t function well enough to do that on his own. With only his boxers left, he gathers himself one last time and pushes himself up and over the edge of the tub, falling into the water that sloshes over the sides like a tidal wave at the sudden movement.
The water is surely no more than lukewarm (Natasha’s taken plenty of first aid classes, and she wouldn’t forget a detail like that), but to his icy skin it’s scalding, liquid fire that his body immediately wants out of; he ignores the scream of his nerves and just puts up with the pain. They need to get him operational again, and soon, because the threats could catch up to them at any moment and he can’t be this muzzy-headed when they do.
Natasha’s hands are on his head, keeping it out of the water and carefully washing the mud off his face and scalp. It’s not the first time he’s been naked in her sight, and he’s grateful for her quiet pragmatism, not letting propriety or embarrassment get in the way of effective treatment.
“I’m getting a bit too old for this,” he grouses under his breath.
“Good thing you never let that stop you,” she returns easily. “Where would we be without you?”
He expresses his feelings with a huff, which triggers a coughing fit that splashes water everywhere and leaves him feeling drained beyond the telling. As he’s trying to hang onto consciousness with the last strength left in his fingertips, he makes out words, as if from a great distance:
“You can fall, Nick. I’ll catch you.”
The water’s tepid by the time he comes to himself again. Natasha’s hand is still under his head, the other hand idly stirring the water by his side.
“You back with me?” she murmurs. “We ran out of hot water. Should probably get you out of there.”
When he nods, she reaches beneath his head to pull the plug, and as the water drains away he feels the weight of his body slowly coming back again, pressing him to the bottom of the tub. Getting up right now seems like a task far beyond his power; he barely manages to turn to the side, his knees squeezed up against the side, before he runs out of steam.
She shoves a couple bottles under the side of his head, a makeshift pillow, and squeezes his shoulder. “You all right here for a few minutes? Gotta find some towels.”
The cool air is uncomfortable on his damp skin, and he’s shivering, but not nearly so bad as earlier. And he still can’t see. But he’s not likely to croak in the few minutes it takes her to scrounge up supplies. “Sure,” he rasps, before another coughing fit takes him.
When she’s back, he hears her set a few things on the counter before she helps him lever himself up to a seated position, leaning back against the wall of the tub. A moment later, she hands him a soft plastic tube of some kind, gets the end into his mouth: yogurt, sickly sweet and just the kind of energy he needs right now.
It’s followed by a mug of orange juice, warmed but not enough to burn. Doesn’t do much for him being tired, but the heat’s relaxing and his shivers slowly abate. While he drinks, she dries him off with raggy t-shirts (“I can’t find a single clean towel”), then, having put away the mug, tips a shot glass of cool water into his eye until the residual mud has been washed away and he can, finally, make out his surroundings again.
His eye still feels a bit gritty, but that’s something for medical to handle. If they ever get to safety.
A bright colorful blanket comes next, wrapped around his shoulders, and then Natasha sits at his side and rubs his back while she waits for him to gather the energy to get up.
“Feel like taking a nap right here,” he mutters.
“Well, you could,” she allows, “but I expect the bed’s a bit more comfy.”
“That your professional opinion?”
“Decades of experience.”
“Sleeping in bathtubs?”
“Sleeping wherever I can sleep; you get used to it. Sometimes to keep you from falling asleep, sometimes to be in a place they won’t expect you. But if someone else is guarding the door? Go for something comfortable so your back doesn’t kill you in the morning.”
He huffs. “That better not be another crack about my age.”
“Never.” (She’s kind enough not to remind him that he’s the one who brought it up.)
While he’s steadier on his feet, it’s still a bit of a struggle to get him up out of the tub and down the hall and into a too-large bed with an overabundance of pillows. Natasha crawls in behind him, wrapping her body heat close to his, but staying alert even as he slowly lets himself go under.
And that’s the last he’s aware of until the light is streaming in through the blinds and stealing him back from sleep.
Feels like he’s been out of it a few hours, max, and he’s still pretty sore, but he’s rested enough, warm enough, and no longer feeling like his body’s run out of fuel. And he’s never been the type to roll over and hit the snooze button: When he’s up, he’s up.
His suit’s hanging over the back of a chair, clean and dry; he’s thankful that he sticks to the kind of clothes you can wash any damn way you please. His boxers are still damp, but at least they’re relatively clean; he debates whether it’s best to leave them on or stuff them in a pocket, and eventually decides to go commando, hoping it’ll cut down on the chafing if they have to walk very far.
First things first: He heads for the bathroom. On the counter is a stack of towels, neatly folded; Natasha’s apparently been doing laundry for more than just him. A little kindness, perhaps, to make up for having camped out in the stranger’s house, getting mud all over and stealing her supplies. If they make it through to a debriefing, he expects she’ll be requisitioning some sort of recompense for the owner; wouldn’t be the first time she’s taken pains to make up for the collateral damage their missions cause.
(Privately, he thinks it’s a bit like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz: Convinced that she lacks a heart, she goes out of her way to make up for it by doing the sort of caring things that those with the normal range of emotions wouldn’t even think to do.)
He uses one of the smaller towels to dry off the parts of himself that aren’t yet dry, and carries it with him as he goes to find his agent.
She’s got a bowl of macaroni ready for him, with tuna fish, which isn’t his favorite thing but hey, it’s protein. As he digs in, she brings him up to speed on the little that’s changed: The comm system’s down, she can’t call for intel or a pickup because this place doesn’t have a landline, there’s no telling what’s up at HQ or how far the battle’s spread by now, and, by this point, walking out the door again could mean anything.
“Business as usual, then?” he summarizes, pulling a short-lived affectionate grin to her face.
When he’s finished eating, she chucks the bowls in the sink, makes sure the stove is off, and stretches each part of her body in sequence before meeting his eyes again. “Shall we?”
He allows himself one good coughing fit, and then inclines his head, and they head out into the fight.