The Pasts

Chapter 9

Your legs rustle under the soft, crisp sheets, the gentle friction a stark contrast to the dull ache gnawing at your abdomen. You wince and let out a faint whimper as the pain forces you awake, a sharp reminder of the ordeal you endured yesterday. The warmth of the bed envelopes you, providing a small measure of comfort amidst the persistent throbbing in your body.

Your eyes flutter open, the morning light filtering through the curtains casting a soft glow around the room. You inhale deeply, and a sweet, warm scent tickles your nose, causing you to furrow your brow in mild confusion. It's the unmistakable aroma of your favorite coffee blend, rich and inviting. You turn your head slowly to the left, and your gaze falls upon a freshly brewed cup of coffee sitting on your nightstand, the steam curling lazily upwards. Beside it lies a small packet of painkillers, their presence both comforting and disconcerting.

For a moment, you just lie there, letting your eyes adjust to the light. There's no note or any indication of who might have placed the coffee there. A sense of gratitude mingles with curiosity as you contemplate the small act of kindness. Gathering your strength, you attempt to sit up, but your body protests vehemently. A louder whimper escapes your lips, the pain radiating from your abdomen nearly overwhelming.

As you adjust your position, a sudden warmth spreads across your stomach. Alarmed, you lift your shirt to inspect the source, and your heart sinks. The bandage wrapped around your midsection is beginning to soak through with blood, the stark red standing out against the white gauze.

"Shit," you mumble under your breath, panic creeping into your voice. You throw the covers off and swing your legs over the side of the bed, moving with a sense of urgency despite the pain. You need to find Bruce. He'll know what to do. Morning light still seeps through the house, casting long shadows in the hallway. It's quiet, but that changes quickly.

"Y/n?" Natasha's voice rings out from down the hall. Her footsteps quicken as she sees you in pain, clutching your stomach. She rushes to you, her hands immediately on you, scanning for the source of your injury. Her touch is gentle but urgent, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and concern.

"I need Bruce. I popped a stitch," you murmur quietly. Her breath catches as she sees the blood soaking through your shirt.

"He's not here; he's out with the others. We're the only ones," she says softly, her gaze avoiding yours. Her hands are everywhere, assessing the damage, and she quickly supports you against the wall, her touch both comforting and firm.

"Come on, let's get you back to your room," she says, her voice filled with determination. She wraps an arm around your waist, her other hand guiding you gently but firmly. Each step is careful, her attention solely on keeping you steady.

When you reach your room, she helps you to the bed, her movements deliberate and controlled. "Lie down," she instructs, her tone leaving no room for argument. You comply, wincing as you lower yourself onto the bed. The softness of the sheets cradles you as you lie back down, the familiar scent of the bedding offering a small comfort amidst the pain.

Natasha moves with practiced efficiency, gathering medical supplies from the kit she found in your bathroom. She kneels beside you, her fingers deftly unwrapping the soaked bandage. The room is silent, the tension visible. You can see the love in her eyes mixed with pain and worry, but she masks it quickly when her gaze meets yours.

"I'm sorry," you say, breaking the silence. "I didn't mean to make things harder for you."

Natasha doesn't respond immediately, her focus on cleaning the wound. The sting of antiseptic makes you wince, but you bite your lip to keep from crying out. Finally, she speaks, her voice controlled but carrying an edge of frustration. "You need to be more careful."