There's Worse Ways To Go

Eleven

I felt her absence before I heard her. I must've drifted off to sleep, and in my unconscious state Natasha went off to join the team. I know whatever they were talking about had to have been important, important enough for her to leave me.

And then I heard her.

Voice raised and flat. Some growl to it, even. She was talking with Tony. His voice sounded small, weak, and I worried for him that her temper might get out of hand. And then I heard him say it.

Taliban.

And I knew they were talking about my past.

I hadn't shared everything with Natasha, and I know she hadn't shared everything with me, but that was the one thing about myself I wanted to keep hidden. No one knew about it. Not my mother, my brothers. I had the military redact the methods they used, but that type of security was no match for a Stark.

I catch the end of their conversation, hear her curse him out, smile slightly at her bite, then call for her. I keep my eyes closed, still too exhausted to maintain opening them.

She returns to me, running a hand up my arm and wrapping her fingers around my bicep. "What is it, Vic?" she asks, and I almost smile at how quickly she can switch from rottweiler to poodle.

"It's not his fault," I say softly, voice hoarse from screaming.

She sighs, and I can picture the exact expression on her face. "I know."

"I agreed."

"I know."

"Do not blame him."

Her hand comes up to my face and I feel her trace her fingertips over my cuts. My busted lip, torn eyebrow, sliced cheek.

"I won't."

When I fully wake, the soft hum of machines is by my sides. Sticky pads are stuck to my chest and arms, my veins filled with needles.

But I feel refreshed.

Aching and sore, but alive.

I look around the room and see almost a hospital, it looks more like a hotel. Nice couches, a fridge and coffee bar, a small coffee table.

A weight on my arm draws my attention to the bed, and a messy bun of red hair lays on my forearm. Her face is turned toward me, and I smile as I look over her resting features. She's finally relaxed, no tight crease between her brows or sealed lips. My dreamcatcher.

I comb through her hair with a hand full of tubes, smoothing my palm over her forehead. She turns into me, nuzzling her face into my arm and my hand until she registers it's me touching her, stroking her, that I'm awake. She opens her eyes, looks up at me and smiles.

"Good dream?" I ask.

"Not as good as the one sitting in front of me."

"Oh, you're so smooth," I smile. "You look good."

She chuckles, bringing her lips down to my arm and looking up at me. "Shut up. I know I don't. I've been sitting in this hospital for two straight days."

Two days. I've been out for two days.

"You're right. You don't. But I didn't want to give that cliche stereotypical 'You look like shit' line so that you can feed something cheesy back like 'You're not so bad yourself.' So. You look good."

She smiles. "So do you."

That makes me laugh, and then wince, and I can see the flicker of worry wash over Nat's face as she sees it but it's gone before I can call her out on it.