Chapter Text
Clint is in the middle of the mountain of paperwork that’s consumed his desk for the past month when he gets called to the Director’s office. In retrospect, he probably ought to have realized that meant something big, especially considering Hill’s threat of stapling his ass to his chair until all his reports were up to date. As it is, he’s mostly curious, and happy to have any sort of distraction. He’s always been made for the field, for the thick of the action, not for filling out forms and spotting typos.
Fury doesn’t look up from his desk as Clint walks into his office, but he gets the sense, as always, that the Director can see every move he’s making. Dramatic tension’s always been one of Fury’s strong suits.
“You wanted to see me, Sir?” asks Clint, because he has the ability to stay still and silent in any circumstances except when he’s faced with authority.
“Have a seat,” says Fury, gesturing to the chair across from his desk as he signs off on the report he’s apparently just finished reading.
Clint does as he’s told, lacing his fingers in his lap, first one way, and then the other.
“There’s a problem with Romanoff,” says Fury, and suddenly Clint thinks he ought to have known it would be about that.
It’s been nearly two weeks since Clint gained the infamy of being the one to bring the Black Widow in, and he hasn’t yet decided whether that’s a triumph or a regret. He hasn’t been allowed to see her again in that time, anyway, things disappointingly normal again while S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps her sequestered in Medical, at least until they can identify and neutralize the triggers she’s been left with. Clint knows there’s no guarantee that she’ll make it out of there at all, if she’s deemed too much of a threat, or if there isn’t enough of a person left underneath the Red Room’s programming.
“She hurt someone?” Clint asks carefully, because that seems perversely the better of the two options, is still somehow preferable to the news that the psych team’s determined the woman he’s barely met to be a total loss.
Fury shakes his head. “No. She’s been very cooperative so far. Started the psych protocol a couple of days ago.”
Clint swallows, thinking he doesn’t like where this is going. “So what’s the problem?”
“The protocol is--” Fury pauses, though whether he’s legitimately searching for the right word or simply for effect, Clint will never be sure. “It’s not pleasant. Romanoff has decided she would rather take us up on the other option than continue with the treatment.”
Clint sucks in a breath, the reality of that statement sinking in. “She wants us to kill her. Now? After she agreed to come in?”
“That was her request.” Fury rests his forearms on the surface of his desk. “It would be unfortunate, given the circumstances.”
“So why are you telling me?” Clint snaps, wondering whether this is going to turn into a lecture, a reprisal for failing to take her out in the first place.
“I asked her to reconsider,” says Fury. “But she’s young. She’s alone, in a foreign country, with a bunch of would-be hostiles asking her to give up the little autonomy she has and confront the fact that she has never been her own person. And it has to be her decision.”
“And you think she’ll listen to me?” asks Clint, because he knows that look in the Director’s eyes, knows this is the part where Fury convinces him he’s the man for the job.
“So far,” says Fury, “you’re the only one she has listened to.”
For all the times Clint’s landed in Medical, he’s managed to avoid this wing so far. Unit 4L is the ward where you get sent for longterm psychiatric care, the one where you land when the job finally breaks you too badly to take care of yourself. It’s enough to set him on guard from the moment he steps off the elevator, too close to the precipice he’s found himself staring down in the past.
For all that he’s heard about this place, he’s expecting something out of an asylum horror story--yellowed tiles, acrid smells of disinfectant, unknown substances smudged on the walls, maybe.
Instead what he gets is a perfectly ordinary reception area, with faded watercolors on the walls, a tiny serenity fountain that does nothing to make him forget where he is, and a rack of brochures that don’t look like they’ve been touched in at least a month.
“Agent Barton,” says the woman behind the desk, when he shows his badge. “The Director mentioned you’d be coming by. I’ll take you back.”
The room where they’ve got Natasha--Romanoff won’t stick in his mind, though he knows he’d do better to keep his emotional distance--looks like every other hospital room Clint’s ever seen. Television in the corner, too-small side table, bed with rails and adjustable height. He doesn’t miss the fact that they’ve put her in restraints, though, strapped to the bed by both wrists, which appears to be the only thing currently preventing her from curling into the smallest ball physically possible. Her eyes are closed, but the lines of her face belie the fact that she isn’t asleep, twisted in pain. Looking at her hurts even from the observation window in the door, and Clint wonders suddenly whether this is why Hill grimaces every time she visits him after a mission gone wrong.
Clint opens the door quietly, but she startles anyway, sitting up in a rush that makes the restraints pull, jerking her back toward the bed. Her eyes are red and glassy, he sees now, ringed by shadows, and there’s sweat drenching her hairline. He can’t make out the lines of her body beneath the shapeless hospital gown she’s wearing, but he has the sense that she looks somehow gaunt, more brittle than the woman he met just weeks ago.
“Hey,” says Clint, holding up a hand in what he hopes is a calming gesture. “Just me.” She looks far away, he thinks, the sort of distance he’s seen in people who are living something other than the world around them.
Natasha looks him up and down, slowly, which at least seems to make her focus for a moment. “So. You’re the one they send every time they need someone to kill me? That your job? S.H.I.E.L.D.’s executioner?”
“Not here to kill you,” says Clint, though he wonders whether that will be a disappointment.
She rolls her eyes at him, but the sound of her breathing in the stillness of the room is a dead giveaway--too quick, too shallow, and clearly panicked. “Then you’re wasting your time.”
Clint takes a few steps closer, slowly, telegraphing every movement. “Fury told me you wanted to change your mind.” He steels himself, bites his tongue before plunging forward. “He told me you want us to kill you.”
“I agreed to a job,” says Natasha, through gritted teeth. “This isn’t a job, it’s--If this therapy is the price for my life, then I don’t want it.”
“Not sure I know anyone who’d be thrilled about therapy,” says Clint, though he’s pretty sure that’s such an absurd understatement that it might even be insulting.
Natasha sneers at him, and suddenly she’s deadly powerful again underneath it all. “Do what I’m asking or get out.”
For a moment Clint thinks it might all be a ploy, might be a game to get herself a better deal or manipulate her way into a more strategic position. She might have played Fury, might be playing him right now too. She’s clearly good enough for that and more.
Clint shrugs, turning his back on her to head for the door, calling her bluff. “Okay, have a nice day.”
“Wait,” she calls out, before he’s even put his hand on the doorknob. He’s actually surprised. “Please, wait.”
He takes a breath and crosses his arms, not turning around yet. “I’m listening.”
He isn’t sure exactly what he’s expecting--more demands, more taunts, or possibly even some sort of plea. What he gets instead is silence, and an uneasy feeling that slithers down the back of his neck. He knows well enough not to ignore his instincts; something is very wrong.
When Clint turns back, Natasha has her eyes shut, sweat beading on her hairline, the leather straps of the restraints biting into the raw skin of her wrists as she tries to curl up again. The panicked agony in her face is absolutely genuine, and something in his gut twists painfully.
“Romanoff,” Clint says tentatively, unsurprised when she doesn’t move. He knows what it’s like to wake up screaming, knows what it’s like reliving nightmarish memories while conscious, too.
He takes the few steps back to the side of her bed, hoping somehow the sound of his movements might get a response. It doesn’t.
“Romanoff,” Clint repeats, louder. That only makes her flinch, makes her knuckles go white as she balls her hands into fists.
Clint reaches out instinctively, resting a hand on her arm. Natasha blinks at him in response, like he’s sent some sort of shock through her, brought her back into the present. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, and she’s shaking visibly, the brash facade utterly crumbled.
“I can’t,” she whispers, “I can’t keep doing this. Just--please, end it.”
It could still be a trick to buy his sympathy, but he isn’t willing to believe that.
“I’m not going to do that,” he says, more gently. “I’m going to help you.” He moves quickly, not affording himself any more time to change his mind, and unbuckles the restraints, wincing when he sees how bruised her wrists are from fighting the things.
“What are you doing?” asks Natasha, looking up at him wide-eyed, but not making any sort of move.
Clint pauses for a moment, feeling awkward. He’s guessing here, playing a hunch. This could go very, very badly if he’s wrong. Not that that’s ever stopped him before. “Helping. Sit up.”
She does as instructed, silently, exhaling a shaky breath before shivering again.
There’s a pitcher of water and a stack of plastic cups on the bedside table--standard issue for Medical, apparently. Clint pours a drink quickly and then sits on the mattress beside her before handing it over. She’s shaking so much that for a moment he’s legitimately worried she might not be able to balance it, but she manages, sipping carefully before turning to look at him again, her gaze weighty with unspoken questions.
“Look around,” says Clint, resting a hand against the flat of her back. “Tell me where you are.”
She stays quiet for a moment longer, glancing around the room like he’s asked, though he can’t be sure of how well she’s actually connecting. “Medical. S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical.” He can feel her shoulders relax, ever so slightly.
He nods. “And S.H.I.E.L.D. is safe, right?”
Natasha considers, her expression shifting subtly toward disdain. “For a given definition of ‘safe.’”
Clint snorts, because he can’t exactly blame her there, especially when it comes to being in Medical. Hardly his favorite place either. “Fair enough. But--A minute ago you were somewhere else, right?”
“The Red Room also has a medical ward,” she says carefully, her tone so purely neutral now that he can practically sense the fear behind it.
“They shackled you to the bed,” he says slowly, the pieces falling together. He remembers the intel from the files, reports of deadly girls with bruised wrists going all the way back to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s inception. “And we did too. That’s--what reminded you?”
She shakes her head. “No. Your therapists made me remember. The rest just--made it impossible to stop.”
“Shit,” Clint breathes, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders as he realizes how far this must seem from the safety he’d promised when she’d agreed to his offer on the night they met.
Natasha laughs, bitterly. “That’s one way of putting it. But I am not going to continue like this. I left the Red Room because I refused to let them continue using fear to control me. I will die before I let S.H.I.E.L.D. do the same.”
“No,” he agrees. “No, we can’t do that.”
She raises an eyebrow. “So what’ll it be?”
Clint shakes his head, a plan beginning to form in his mind. “I need to talk to Fury.”
“To tell him that I’m insane?”
He sighs. “No. To tell him that you need to stay somewhere else.”