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voiceoffenrisulfr · 3 months

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Multitudes Chapter Fifteen

... And Into the Fire.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> Nat is reprimanded, and the process begins again.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 5941

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) CW: Brief mentions of injury and suicide attempt, a lot of talk of weight and BMI, treatment plans, food.

𝐀/𝐍 -> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Please read the warnings, and proceed with caution. You know the drill. A surprisingly feel-good chapter in the end, though. Corresponds to Magic and Madness - Chapters Two through Four. Start here. Masterlist can be found here. Check it out below, or on AO3 here! The snazzy Black Widow divider comes from @/firefly-graphics and I love it <3 The Multitudes Universe one is our own! The awesome goulash concept came from @captainofalltheships and can be found here - it gave me so much inspiration and I'm endlessly grateful. <3

<- Previous Chapter (14/72) Next Chapter -> (16/72)

My muscles groaned in protest as I was stirred by soft fingertips travelling the length of my arm. “Nat? C’mon, Little Spider. It’s lunchtime, believe it or not.” I grumbled in protest, burying my face in the comforting linen, wreathing myself in the scent of sex and Clint, and eliciting a laugh from the man himself. “You think you have it bad? I’m going to be the talk of the table.”

I looked up sharply, finding my lover in only jeans, his bare torso coated in bruises and crescent wounds, violent red lines and fingerprint impressions.

Dear God, that’s hot.

Honestly? Agreed.

Despite the thrill humming through my body, I flinched guiltily. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

His hand found the bite mark in his shoulder, then the unmistakable, dime-sized clusters at his throat, layered atop the bruises I’d already inflicted in the woods – and he grinned. “Don’t apologise, honey. I am… great.” He extended a hand to me, pulling me into his arms deftly. “Better than great. I- Last night- You… are perfection.” I winced at the slight rasp in his voice, pressing my lips tenderly to his skin, and he shook his head. “Sore from the sounds I made, not your actions.”

“Still,” I muttered, running my palms gently down his chest. “You look… Tender.”

“Delightfully, and proudly, so,” he replied with a grin, his body puffing under my touch. “If I had the choice, I’d go about my day like this.” I quirked an eyebrow in disbelief, and he caught my hands with his.

“This – these marks… Nat, I don’t think you quite understand. I can’t put into words how much I fucking love this. Every single one of these bruises, bites, scrapes and claw marks are a sign of your passion, and your ownership. And damn, do I want to be owned by you.”

I smiled, touched, then turned his wrist to show his tattoo. “This isn’t ownership enough?”

“There’s never enough,” he replied with soft growl, pulling me closer. “You could tattoo your name on my forehead, and it wouldn’t do justice to how very yours I am.”

I blushed then, ducking my head shyly. “Well. You wouldn’t be the first to forego a shirt at the table.”

Clint was practically skipping as he led me down the hall, his fingers laced through mine, jeans riding low on his hips to display as much of his marred flesh as he could. I shook my head fondly, following him through the glass doors with only the slightest hesitation.

Aren’t you worried what people will think? Widow offered uncertainly, and I smiled in appreciation at the bit-back harshness she hadn’t used.

A little, I admitted, glancing at the team as we drew closer, waiting for someone to notice us. But I care far more about making him happy, and this makes him happy. I’m a grown woman, and he’s a grown man – our sex life is nothing to be ashamed of, even if the Red Room taught us differently.

She simply hummed thoughtfully in response, lapsing into considerate silence once more. On cue, Wanda glanced up from her conversation with Vision, and let out a shocked laugh.

“Light exercise - бред сивой кобылы!” (Bullshit!)

I snorted at the expletive, while Vision simply raised a surprised eyebrow at his partner. “...She didn’t learn that from me.”

The rest of the team turned their gaze to us one by one, each having a visible reaction. Bruce flinched minutely before smirking, immediately returning to the food on his plate. Cap folded his arms, deeply unimpressed, while Tony grinned, hands behind his head. “Well, if any of us had doubt that you two were screwing... That’s some great handiwork, Nat. Gotta say, I’m a little jealous.”

Stephen was sat beside the scientist, and we both smiled sheepishly as our eyes met.

I wonder what Stephen’s doing here so early...

I wonder if Stephen ever left.

Clint bounded to a free seat, piling sandwiches onto his plate as his stomach growled, making me chuckle as I sat beside him. “Hungry?”

He met my gaze, steady and heavy. “Starving. I didn’t eat much last night.” I felt myself go crimson at the double entendre, heart spiking in my throat, but Clint just tucked in happily, oblivious.

Steve, on my partner’s other side, rubbed his neck uncertainly. “Uh, guys...?”

“Oh, God, calm down, old man. It’s just sex – it isn’t contagious,” Tony scoffed, draining his whiskey glass in one swallow.

Steve glared at him briefly before shaking his head, hesitant. “It’s not that. It’s just... Clint, I’m the only other person on your floor, and my hearing is excellent. I’d appreciate not being party to your... Crescendo.”

I’d just bitten into a sandwich as the War Hero spoke, so found myself quickly choking once I snorted at his words, Clint’s hand patting my back firmly. He waited until I’d finished coughing to turn back to Steven, only the barest hint of a blush colouring his ears. “Sorry, Cap. It won’t happen again. I guess we got a little, uh... Overexcited.”

I flushed at the memory of the primal sound I dragged from my lover, ducking my head, fingertips brushing his thigh wordlessly. I can think of plenty of things we could put in his mouth to prevent that problem.

Tony stood to refill his glass, and Stephen leant across his empty seat quickly. “... It seems we both fulfilled our part of the deal, Natasha.”

“It seems we did, Doctor Strange.” I glanced at the billionaire by the counter, than back to the man quickly becoming my friend. “Did you... Were you at the Sanctum this morning?”

“I was.” He grinned as my face fell, stretching closer conspiratorially. “But just to change my clothes,” he added, glancing about himself before surreptitiously tugging down his own collar. There, significantly lighter than Clint’s but no less real, was a circular bruise, nestled into the flesh between throat and collarbone.

I bit my knuckles to suppress a squeal, giving myself a heartbeat to calm before shimmering forward. “No way. Seriously?”

The unshakable doctor blushed, making me smirk. “Nothing further, you’ll be sad to know. But... That was enough, I think. ...I’m not even certain he remembers it. Or if he does, it’s behaviour he harbours intense regret for.” His gaze cut to the scientist once more, watching pensively as he dropped ice cubes into amber liquid.

I flinched sympathetically, patting Stephen’s hand gently. “You’ve said it yourself; Tony is... Complicated. He might just need time. Not many things are new to him, but I imagine this is.”

I wanted to ask- to learn the possibly-sweet, likely-sordid details for no purpose other than my own curiousity, but I held my tongue. If he wants to tell me, he will. Speaking of which...

I turned to the second of my magical friends, who was still chucking lightly with a good-natured shake of the head, smirking to Vision as her eyes flickered intermittently in my direction, but her gaze focused fully on me when she saw me watching.

“Хорошая ночь?” she pressed, grinning. (Good night?)

“Лучшая ночь в моей жизни,” I sighed contentedly, eyes shifting to my partner, currently stuffing his fourth sandwich ravenously down his throat, and he snorted around the mouthful of bread. (The best night of my life.)

“Лучшая ночь в твоей жизни пока что,” he amended, muffled and full of carbohydrates. (The best night of your life so far.) “Give me chance, Little Spider. Cap will need noise-cancelling headphones before I’m through with you.”

I choked on my water, glancing at the All-American soldier with wide eyes, but he simply grimaced and smirked. “I think I’d prefer it to yours, Hawkeye. I’ve seen and heard a lot in my life, but I think being dragged from sleep to that godawful sound was up there with one of the worst experiences I've ever endured. I thought the bombs were back.”

I blinked in disbelief as Steve’s lips twitched playfully, my gaze finding Wanda’s, and we burst into riotous laughter, my stomach aching from the contractions.

“О, он пожалеет об этом...” Clint murmured, his hand finding my thigh and squeezing lightly. (Oh, he's going to regret that...)

Cap chortled, biting light-heartedly into his own sandwich. “I was a super-solider in World War II, Barton. I don’t know why you assume I don’t speak Russian. Вы ошибаетесь,” he added pointedly, his accent almost flawless, leaving my lover to raise a surprised eyebrow. (You are wrong.)

Are you… Should we finish that?

I looked down, startled from my light-hearted enjoyment, to the single, half-eaten sandwich on my plate, unable to prevent myself from glancing surreptitiously around me. Clint, Steve and Wanda continued laughing amongst themselves while Vision looked on, eyes on his partner fondly. Stephen and Tony were talking quietly, heads a little closer together than necessary, eliciting a brief smile.

Bruce.

My gaze darted to the end of the table, finding the doctor’s stare firmly upon mine, and winced as he inclined his head toward my plate.

He probably thinks our fun was just a diversion tactic.

… Wasn’t it? Widow clarified, noting my unshakable delight at the low ache in my abdomen.

No. Well… Not entirely.

He's not going to stop watching you.

I sighed, picking up my sandwich and smiling scathingly at the doctor, who simply nodded in response. “Once you finish up here, we’ll do your vitals. Clint wouldn’t let me wake you this morning – he said you needed your sleep,” he added, one brow arched. My jaw tightened, carbs and fat turning solid in my throat.

I wonder how long he’s been watching?

Only one way to find out, I guess.

I theatrically swallowed the rest of my sandwich, pushing my chair back. He only watched me steadily, knowingly, before his eyes flicked to my partner, who was currently proudly showing off his tattoo – and the rope burns on his wrists. Flinching, Bruce stood, inclining his head.

He knows.

He does. But he also wants to leave, so… Take the win, Nat.

“I still think putting extra toll on your body at this time was inordinately stupid,” Bruce muttered as he patted down my gown-covered form, perfunctory and polite. I cocked my head in confusion, and he glanced up. “The tattoo. I haven’t seen your own yet, but if it’s comparable to Barton’s, its stress that your body didn’t need.” I turned obligingly, smoothing stray hairs from my neck, and I felt one tentative finger touch my still-warm skin. “… They match.”

“They do,” I agreed hesitantly. “Though it wasn’t entirely deliberate. He had several options – he just happened to pick the one I’d already used, quite by chance. Not that I’m complaining.”

He hummed under his breath, jerking his head toward the scales when I faced him once more. Following him obligingly, my footsteps faltered as the flat, unobtrusive platform loomed threateningly before me. “… I shouldn’t really be weighed after eating, right?”

He snorted humourlessly, gesturing me onto the device. “Three things, Natasha. First, and most importantly; I’d hardly call your lunch ‘eating’. Second; I will factor your meagre consumption into my charts.”

I swallowed dryly as he jotted down the number behind me, a miniscule frown tugging at his lips.

You’ve lost weight.

Yeah.

“And thirdly?” I prompted, nervous fingers tangling in the coarse fabric by my thighs.

“Thirdly… Outside of significant changes – level progression, and the like - I’ll no longer be disclosing your changes to anyone outside of this room. So whether or not you gain a third of a pound because you ate a sandwich beforehand, nobody will know except me.”

“… Why?” I whispered, distrustful of this change of circumstances. Bruce sighed, hand running through his hair.

“Because I am your doctor – nobody else’s. At least, not in this. You are - arguably, given the change from your start weight, though I'm inclined to disagree - out of immediate danger, so how you conduct yourself should be up to you. You know the rules – as does Clint – and it’s up to the two of you to follow that as you see fit. Evidently, my orders mean little,” he added, a swift green flicker in his gaze. “I’ll keep an eye on you when I’m present, but I will no longer be pushing others to do the same.”

My mouth worked wordlessly, stunned to silence. “I… Don’t understand,” I admitted, frowning.

“You and Clint are going to do whatever you want, and I’m tired of arguing with you – either of you – about it,” he replied tersely, jaw clenched.

I laughed shortly, dry and derisive. “Is this because we had sex? I thought we moved past this, Bruce.”

Tongue poked into his cheek, he stepped back, gesturing me toward the curtain. “For the most part. But I can’t pretend it doesn’t still hurt, Nat. Both because of my feelings for you, and because of the effort I put into carefully establishing a treatment plan that seems to have been wasted."

I hesitated, stunned into silence, one foot still in the air. “… Then why do you bother with all this at all, if that’s how you feel? If everything is just… Pointless?”

Teeth ground into a reluctant smile, he met my gaze. “Because, as I said, Natasha… I still have feelings for you. I’m coming to accept that you’re not going to be mine, and starting to let them go, but it’s a process. But, either way, I will always care about you, and want you to be okay. I just can’t keep whipping myself by watching you take recovery as casually as you have been.” I opened my mouth to protest, to enthuse that I’d been working hard, but his quirked eyebrow closed my jaw silently. “You want the numbers, Nat? I’ll give them to you. I can tell you exactly how hard you’ve been working – and how much you’ve been getting away with, despite me constantly enforcing the rules to every single member of our team. The only significant weight gain you’ve had was while you were in your coma.”

“How would you know?” I laughed, panicked. “It’s not like you could weigh me.”

He smiled wryly, clearing his throat. “Friday?”

“Yes, Dr. Banner?”

“How much do I weigh?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Banner. I am forbidden to discuss weight or perform calculations in the presence of Ms. Romanoff.”

He waved a hand, irked. “Override code - 2 1 14 14 5 18.”

Override code-

-2 1 14 14 5 18. ‘Banner’. Not very imaginative, is it?

There was the most inifinitesimal of pauses, and then-

“Current weight is 128.94lbs, with an estimated discrepancy of 0.001lbs.”

“Height? BMI?”

“Current height is 5 feet and 9.21 inches. Your BMI is 18.9, with classifies you as a healthy weight, according to most diagnostic criteria.”

His gaze cut to mine, sharp and terrifying. “I don’t need scales to weigh you, Natasha. I never did. We do it this way because it’s more polite.” I swallowed dryly, and his voice raised once more. “Friday – recount Natasha’s weight measurements on day one of treatment, day one of coma, day eleven of coma, day eight post-coma, and today.”

“101.5, 96.2, 105.4, 102.2, and 99lbs, Dr. Banner.”

16.4. My BMI is 16.4. That’s half a point lower than it was when this hell started.

I couldn’t help myself – a smile twitched at my lips, and Bruce simply tipped his head, profoundly, encompassingly sad. “That should horrify you, Natasha. You’ve been ‘trying’ to recover, as you so passionately argue, and yet since this begun you have lost two and a half pounds. My oversight was in defining the parameters of your levels – I stipulated that gain would be in accordance to your lowest weight. On day twelve post-coma, you were exactly five pounds heavier than your lowest weight – 101.2. You were lower than the weight this started at, and I saw my failings. But I hoped that this would motivate you, encourage you to take a more active role in your recovery. It has been twenty-four hours, and even with half a sandwich inside you, you’ve somehow managed to lose another 2.2lbs, Natasha. Unfortunately, I also didn’t stipulate what would happen if you no longer fulfilled the terms of your level.” He paused to take a breath, fists balled by his sides.

“I-”

“So that leaves me with two options, moving forward,” he continued, beginning to pace as his skin tinged green, heart rate monitor beeping gently. “I either acknowledge my mistake and redefine the terms of your recovery contract – which will certainly lead to more disappointment when Cl- the team fails to follow the guidelines – or I let you continue as you are. At this point, though, it’s less about recovery, and more about preventing death for the longest time possible. Which… If you carry on this way, Natasha? That ‘longest time possible’ won’t be very long at all. We’ll soon be talking weeks, not months.”

Weeks. Are you… Are we… Really that sick?

Weeks. Weeks with Clint. I promised him a lifetime, but this wasn’t what I meant. I wanted to see him grow old. I wanted to see him get his farm.

A ragged, hitched sob resounded in my throat, bringing the doctor to a sudden halt, the flush of his flesh draining quickly as he looked at me. “What do I do?” I whimpered, fingernails falling instinctively into the permenant ruts on the back of my arms. “Bruce… Tell me what to do.”

He paled, his own eyes filling, and he moved to put a gentle hand on mine, interrupting the injury. “You talk. Through one thing and another, you haven’t yet had a therapy session. I can set that up for you. You talk to your therapist, you talk to me, you talk to the team… And, yes, you talk to Clint. Because as much as I am loathe to admit it, I imagine he is your biggest motivation.” I nodded desperately, and the doctor offered me a weak smile. “The other option is, of course, inpatient treatment. And I think that needs to be discussed as a very real possibility, and one that you would accept, with the right circumstances. A ‘level 0’, if you would.”

I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can do this.

“We renegotiate the terms of your treatment plan, correcting my earlier oversights. We – together – tell the team how important it is to not let you slip. You need their support, and sometimes that will feel like monitoring; sometimes, that will be exactly what it is. You will stumble, over and over again. You’ll gain weight, but you’ll also lose weight. You’ll relapse in every way possible. But, if you accept it… We can stop you from falling entirely. And, God, Natasha… I really don’t want to see you fall. Not again,” he added, wincing softly at the memory of my broken and bleeding body.

… Agree.

What?

You need to agree, Natasha. Agree to his terms, whatever they are.

But what about being thin? Being strong? Being perfect?

I have always tried to protect you, Nat. Maybe wrongly, but that’s what I did. And the best way I can protect you right now is by letting someone else do it.

My breathing hitched, panicked and touched. …Will you still be here?

Always, Little Spider. Like you said… We’re a part of one another. And besides, you’re not the only one who needs this recovery. I felt them flinch and recoil, burdened by memories they’d protected me from for so long. Maybe if they teach you how to love yourself, you can teach me.

I whimpered aloud, burying my face in my hands. “Thank you. Thank you. For everything.”

It took three hours for Bruce and I to renegotiate my treatment plan. After twenty minutes, Clint was pacing outside the door, his intermittent knocks and muffled conversations with Friday punctuating the solemnity of our proceedings. The doctor had looked at me inquisitively, but I’d only shook my head.

“That’s the first of those conversations I should have, right?”

“No, Natasha. This is.”

It took three hours, and a hell of a lot of tears, for Bruce and I to renegotiate my treatment plan. But eventually I stood, feeling lighter than I had in a long time, and crossed to the door, fingers toying with the vibrant red band around my wrist.

Level one. Here we go again.

I’d argued most vehemently against my right to physical activity – or, more accurately, physical intimacy. Bruce and I had got through our negotiation with as little awkwardness as possible, with me briefly recounting my recent reclamation of my sexuality, and the fears that it would fade if I was forced once more to avoid sleeping with Clint. Bruce had been ever sympathetic, outlining the way that could progress through the levels, and what that could look like; he took the time to listen to my values and desires, and suggested ways that we could implement these things into my treatment plan, eventually coming to a tentative agreement.

The second my trembling hands turned the lock, the door flew open, a ball of frantic archer gathering me against his body instantly. “Goddamn it, Nat, what the fuck? Friday wouldn’t tell me anything and I couldn’t open the door. What the hell were you doing in here?” He took in my puffy, tearstained face and rounded on Bruce, growling threateningly, his eyes narrowed. “What did you do to her? I’ll fucking kill you if you-”

“Clint,” I interrupted softly, tapping his chest. “Rein it in, my love. Bruce has done nothing but help me.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes as his fingers found mine. “You’re doing really well, Nat. Whatever help he’s told you that you need-”

“I’m not, though. I… I’m not doing well.” I sighed heavily, my free hand pushing stray hairs from my forehead. “I weigh less than I did when all this started. I’ve been getting away with more than I should, and I’ve been tricking everyone into thinking I’m doing better. I’m not doing better, Clint,” I added, my voice cracking minutely.

He glanced back down at me in panic, finally looking away from the impassive doctor. “I… What? But you’re… You’re level two now. That was only yesterday.”

“I was five pounds above my lowest weight,” I conceded, nodding. “But my lowest weight came after all of this started. And I… I’ve dropped another two since then. I’ve consistently lost weight this entire time, Clint, but gained enough while I was comatose that it wasn’t flagged until now. And Bruce… Bruce made me realise that this can’t keep going. I promised you a lifetime, Clint. But now I’m promising you a lifetime that won’t be cut short by my own hand. Because that’s where this was going. Weeks, rather than months – isn’t that what you said, Doc?”

The other man simply nodded, while Clint stammered out nonsensical words, his grip on my hand almost painful. “We’ve been in here so long because we’ve overhauled my treatment plan. And actually…” I raised my free wrist, the red hospital tag prevalent and inescapable. “I’m level one again now. A restart. A reaffirmation.” I flinched at the agony on my partner’s face, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Last time, I was dragged kicking and screaming into treatment. But now I… Well, it would be easy to say I want this, but that wouldn’t be true. Honestly, all I want is to sprint as far and as fast as I can in the opposite direction, even now. But I can at least acknowledge that I need this, and I’ll do it willingly. I’ll fuck up, but I’m going to try.”

He glanced at the doctor for clarification, wincing when he nodded, turning to brush his lips against mine. “I love you, Nat. I’ll do whatever I can to support you. I promise.”

“Good. Because… We need to talk.”

I could feel his erratic pulse in his palm as I sat opposite him on our bed, thumbs smoothing the work-worn skin tenderly. “… I’m level one again. I… I currently weigh 99lbs. This is my new baseline. If I… If I get below 90, at any point, I’ll be going into a facility. Level zero.” He opened his mouth, eyes flashing with alarm, but I shook my head lightly. “Please, Clint. Just let me get through this, and then you can say whatever you need to, I promise.” He nodded once, jaw clicking shut, and I sighed.

“Level one means a lot of what it did before. Weekly therapy sessions – that’ll start tomorrow. Daily weigh-ins, weekly bloods. I managed to stipulate that you be the one who does my… Who checks for any harm I’ve done, both for my own comfort, and in the name of being thorough. I managed to hide it from Bruce twice, after all.”

“Searches after meals. Minimum servings. Restricted bathroom access for two hours after eating. I’m not allowed to be alone, and Friday’s biofeedback will be reinstated, though you’ve been given override access for thirty minute intervals on request.” A brief flash of midnight pushups performed by someone else, followed by desperately clinging at porcelain, sweat dripping, body screaming, made me wince.

Sorry. I just… I’m sorry.

“I’ve been exercising at night, ever since you turned Friday off. I’ve purged a few times – again, usually at night. That evening I spent alone in my rooms, I… Well, it likely contributed quite a lot to the weight loss.” I balled my trembling fingers, attempting to ease the racing of my heart. “But the idea is that this will stop that. I won’t be able to spend the night alone until level four, at 119lbs. The hope is that by then, even if I want a night alone on occasion, I’ll be far enough along to be okay. But even so, Friday will still be active in my rooms – just in case.”

“I can’t exercise again. The only change there is our… Well, the exercise we do together. While on level one, I’m restricted to a… ‘Pillow princess’ role, to put it bluntly. Minimum strain and effort. I have to have a snack after, with at least 300 calories, and a bottle of juice before. That’s why Friday can be turned off – but she’ll still be tracking my heart rate. If it goes above my maximum healthy pulse rate, she’ll let us know, and we have to stop. Apparently that’s not negotiable – it would be, quite literally, a risk to my life.”

“Oh – I’m allowed one weekly veto,” I added, flinching as I recalled my whispered confession into my palms, explaining to the ever-patient doctor that I’d had a panic attack over mac and cheese. “Something equivalent can be made instead. But there are some things I just can’t eat – not yet – and forcing myself to try and do it is going to cause more harm than good. Either we’ll fight and I’ll refuse, or I’ll end up making myself sick.”

“And I… I guess that’s it. Bruce is going to have another word with the team, but I offered to talk to you myself. I… You can’t let me break the rules anymore, Clint. Even if I confess, even if I beg and plead and cry and tell you I hate you. You have to be strict with me.” My voice broke and I dropped my head, sobs shaking my shoulders violently. I hate this I hate this I hate this I hate this.

I know. But it’s for your own good.

His fingers reached out, shaking as they touched my chin, meeting my watery gaze with his own. “I’m so proud of you, Little Spider.”

For the third time, I found myself in the presence of more Avengers than I had seen in a long while – even T’Challa, Shuri, and Nick having made time for this.

Bruce was holding court as I entered on shaky legs, concluding his recount of our discussion and the new parameters, emphasizing the importance of every single individual holding me accountable. “If you see something, say something,” he finished, to a chorus of nods and shamed murmurs. Almost every one of them had seen me smear, shred, or otherwise skip a meal, and their faces flamed as they acknowledged their misguided attempts to allow me small comforts.

“Hey, guys,” I murmured, waving shyly, the eyes of every team member locking immediately on the red band around my wrist.

There was a pause, a throat clear, and a heavy awkward silence.

“Eat a goddamn cheeseburger, Nat,” Tony snorted, taking a sip from his ever-present glass. Half of the gathered heroes winced in horror, Clint included, but I only laughed.

“Actually, I’d love one, if that’s a genuine offer.”

There was a flurry of movement, serving dishes uncovered, a veritable feast spread across the table, and Tony picked up an individually-wrapped burger with a relish. “This lot have been cooking a bunch of what they like to call ‘real food’, but I went to In-N-Out. I cooked yesterday; that’s me done for the next month, at least.”

Take-out burgers.

How long has it been?

I glanced at my partner, remembering nights perched on rooftops and tossing fries at one another as we laughed, subtly dropping my half-finished hamburger over the edge when he wasn’t looking. Since I started one? About six months. I don’t remember the last time I finished one.

… Today seems like a good day to break that streak. Maybe even twice.

I grinned despite myself, rounding the table to drop into a seat beside Tony. Maybe.

Nick sat opposite me, watching me steadily as I unwrapped the semi-translucent wrapping, trying not to think about the grease seeping into my fingertips. “Natasha, it goes without saying that you’re on extended medical leave for the foreseeable future.”

Awkward silence fell, but I didn’t look up until I bit into my meal, revelling in the complimenting texture of lettuce, tomato, and meat. “Yeah, that makes sense. Do I need to leave?”

Clint bristled beside me, but Nick simply waved him away, my partner cowering under his authority. “No, Nat. You’ll always be a member of the team, even if you’re not on active duty. Bruce and I have agreed that you can recommence missions as long as you are at level three or above, and comply with any and all psychological debriefing deemed necessary. We can’t have a mission-gone-wrong offsetting your progress.”

I smiled weakly, touched by the consideration of this gruff man. “I appreciate your concern, and your candor, Director Fury.”

He simply nodded, then turned to the young girl beside him, asking questions about her latest round of outreach programmes, his piece having been said.

“Nat?”

I turned to the next person vying for my attention, and Steve winced guiltily as my eyes found his. “I screwed up. I… I realised today. It shouldn’t have taken that long.” I cocked my head curiously, and his gaze flicked to the still-healing scars across my exposed wrists. “I should never have left you alone. If I hadn’t, maybe…”

I shook my head firmly, raising a hand to stop him. I’d almost forgotten where I got that knife. “Steve… If it wasn’t from you, it would have been from someone else. I took advantage of the situation, and that is not your fault, okay?” He nodded morosely, and I smirked. “Besides – if it’s punishment you were after, I think that’s already been issued by the things you were subjected to last night.”

He laughed softly, rolling his eyes. “I’d far rather be traumatised like that on a daily basis than ever be hit with the horrified realisation I got this afternoon.” He gestured at the wide bowl in the centre of the table, aromatic meatballs nestled amongst the thin spaghetti strands. “It wasn’t until I was cooking that I…”

I met his gaze as I finished my burger, reaching out to serve myself a decent portion of his dish. “Well, let’s hope your horror was in pursuit of something worthwhile, huh?”

“Oh, it is,” Nick mumbled around his fork. “I’ve had the Cap’s spaghetti and meatballs only a couple of times before, but it was still motivation enough for me to get my ass to New York as soon as I heard it was on the agenda.”

I laughed, spearing an errant meatball and waving it at the director. “Nothing to do with me then, huh?”

He met me gaze steadily, unruffled. “Nope. Just the pasta.”

I snorted as he smiled infinitesimally. “You’re really selling it, Nick.” I bit into the ball, turning to the War Hero with a grin. It was delectably seasoned, pepper and thyme perfectly balanced, eliciting a groan. “Okay, I get it. I’d make a trip for this – and, as we all know, I don’t eat.”

Tony spluttered into his drink, Stephen’s hand instinctively finding the space between his shoulder blades without looking up.

Clint carried me back to the apartment that night, and I began to cry on the way. Panicked, he held me closer, and I buried my face into his collarbone.

“Everything hurts.”

“I bet, little one. Your body isn’t used to eating… Well, anything, really.”

Alongside the burger and Cap’s pasta, there was a small amount of Thor’s venison stew (accompanied by tales of Asgardian hunting and celebratory feasts), and goulash. Clint’s goulash, unmistakably – an echo of a mission in Hungary when extraction was taking days, and the archer’s double shoulder dislocation had left him curled up in an abandoned factory, too stoic to complain despite his evident pain. I’d left him with a kiss to the forehead and a promise of a prompt return, and came back with a small, hot pot of the Hungarian stew, gently tipping it down his throat for him until we were finally collected, ignoring the waves of nausea at my own hunger. Ever since then, it had been his comfort food, and though he preferred mine to his own, I held the opposite stance. God only knows when he had time to cook. I’d consumed a full bowl of it, already full before I started but determined not to miss out, meeting his eyes over the steaming portion with a fond smile.

My stomach now protruded between my hipbones, strained and uncomfortable, but the memory still made me smile weakly. “Worth it, though,” I sniffed, wiping my eyes stubbornly. For your goulash. For you.

Do it for him.

He nudged the door open and closed with only his hip, reluctant to release his grip on me for even a moment. I found myself placed on the bed, my overworked body shivering, and he slid in behind me, fingertips tracing my tender abdomen lightly. I flinched instinctively before taking a deep breath, leaning into the contact, letting the physical comfort win out over the psychological recoil, his touch easing my pain slowly.

“I love you, Clint.”

“I love you too, my Little Spider. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

I purred, tipping my head back until his forehead touched my hair, one arm reaching back to hold his neck gently. “Here’s hoping it’s a long one.”

You and him against the world, huh?

I smiled to myself, eyes closing of their own volition. No. Us and him… And our family, I added, a catalogue of the concerned expressions of my teammates. The one we never sought out and have frequently pushed away, but they’re our family anyway.

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