Work Text:
Steve clutched the rosary beads between his fingers, too tightly, he knew. It had been a long time since he had prayed so fervently, but here in the chair beside the big hospital bed, the room dim but for the lights on the bewildering array of machines, he found himself clinging to the faith of his childhood.
Hail Mary, full of grace, Our Lord is with thee.
The familiar words fell from his lips in a hushed whisper, punctuated by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. Tony had found the beep infuriating, said he couldn’t think for the noise, but Steve found it reassuring. As long as the rhythm continued, then….
Blessed art thou among women.
He had been glad to take the watch through the night. The others were sleeping in the small room meant for family, separated by a door from the main hospital room. Tony had insisted on the best room in the best hospital, of course, and for once Steve hadn’t argued with his reckless spending.
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
He had expected more argument when he suggested the team get some rest, but they had gone willingly, perhaps needing to follow orders now, in a suddenly unpredictable world. Bruce had been exhausted anyway, bewildered and sleepy as he always was after a transformation, and Thor was quiet and withdrawn, the reality of mortal frailty suddenly brought home to him. Tony had been brittle and nervous, alternating snappy sarcasm with silent brooding, and Natasha….
Holy Mary, Mother of God
Natasha’s face was the first indication he’d had that something was terribly wrong. She was normally implacable during a battle, but the look in her eyes as she fixed on a point over his shoulder was one he’d never seen before; an expression of utter loss and devastation.
Clint had already hit the ground by the time he’d turned, falling nine storeys in a heartbeat, lying too still with his bow broken beneath him. He’d started to run, but then Tony had been there, scooping up him and Natasha both and flying them to his side. Clint had looked so small, so broken and still, and Steve had stood silently watching, helpless, listening to the swarming medics’ incomprehensible jargon and Natasha’s low murmuring in Russian as she knelt by Clint’s side.
She had been silent since they took him away, silent when the nurse let them into the room to see him lying pale and motionless on the bed with tubes in his throat and tape over his eyes, silent as the doctor spoke to them with words like ‘critical’ and ‘haemorrhage’ and Tony demanded percentages and Bruce closed his eyes and turned away.
Pray for us sinners
The next hours would tell them more, the doctor had said, but there’d been no change that Steve could see. The taped eyelids never flickered, the hands lay still on the white sheets, and through it all the steady beep beep beep of the machines.
Now and at the hour of our death.
It was the movement of the air that made him look up, more than any sound. Natasha had always moved quietly, and now she seemed barely of this world, standing barefoot beside the bed in an oversized sweater that he knew belonged to Clint. She was still, almost as pale as the figure in the bed, and her hand trembled just a little as she reached out to touch Clint’s face.
‘Tasha.’
Steve spoke softly, but she caught her breath as though he’d shouted her name. She turned, staring at him for a long moment, and then suddenly she took a shuddering breath and half-ran, half leapt into his arms. He pulled her into his lap, letting the rosary beads fall from his hands, wrapping his arms tightly around her as her body shook with silent sobs. He leaned down to brush his lips over her hair as she clutched his shirt in fistfuls, and she pressed herself closer against him, her tears hot against his chest, utterly soundless as she wept. He had never seen her composure waver before, but now she seemed lost, broken, clinging desperately to him as though she feared being swept away by her emotions. Clint was her anchor, he realised, and now she was adrift and terrified. He held her tightly for long minutes, rubbing little circles over her back until the shuddering stopped and she leaned exhausted against him, her lashes dark and spiky and her hair sticking to her wet cheeks. Gently, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and dried her tears, silently amazed as she simply closed her eyes and let him touch the soft cloth to her cheeks. He settled her into his arms, letting her rest her head on a dry patch of his shirt, and she sighed softly as she leaned against him.
‘Rest, Tasha. I’ll watch.’
Her hand tightened momentarily on his arm as he spoke, and then her breathing slowed as she fell into exhausted sleep at last. Steve watched her for a long moment, and then picked up his rosary beads and began to pray again, his words punctuated by the steady beep beep beep of the machines.
Hail Mary, full of grace….
***Epilogue***
Clint sat up in the bed, still pale but smiling as Natasha steadied his hand, bringing the cup of water to his lips. He took a sip, and then rested his cheek against the palm of her hand, smiling as her fingers stroked his hair lightly.
‘Sorry I worried you, Tasha.’
She snorted. ‘Worried? I don’t get worried. It made a change to get some peace and quiet. It’s the first time you’ve stopped chattering since I met you.’ Her voice was light, but her fingers twined a little tighter in his hair as she spoke, and he smiled and leaned into her touch.
Natasha looked up, meeting Steve’s eyes briefly, and then looked away, a little too casually. He smiled, and went back to his reading. Some things were best left unspoken.