It's been eight days since Dmitri died. Five days ago, I received some devastating news and finally had to come clean to my husband. It's been tough, but life is slowly getting back to "normal." Well, more of a new normal. Now that the—my—our—baby is officially gone and I've received a series of antidotes for the chemicals Dmitri sent coursing through my system, my physical wellbeing is increasing. My mental health, however, is still suffering. I refuse to go into work, opting to stay in bed and binge-watch Netflix to take my mind off things. Clint's been trying to engage me in conversations, get me to do something, anything, but I just can't. My thoughts continue to return to the mistakes I've made in the past month, the things I could have done to avoid the pain I've experienced, and the heartbreaking look on our friend's faces when we told them we—I—lost the baby.
"Natasha?" Clint knocks gently on the doorframe between our bedroom and the hallway. "Nick called again. He's getting more and more persistent."
"Tell him I'll call him back later," I respond absently.
"Sweetie, I've been telling him that for four days now. You'll have to talk to him eventually."
"I'll do it later. I just..." I sigh heavily, "I just can't talk to anyone right now. I don't want their sympathy."
"You don't have to tell him exactly what's wrong, but he refuses to accept excuses for your absence from me. He's worried about you."
"I'm fine," I snap. "Tell him to stop worrying, and I'll let him know when I'm ready to come back to work."
Clint quietly retreats from the room, not wanting to antagonize me further. I know he's just trying to get me up and out of the house again, but he doesn't understand what I'm going through. There's no way he even could understand it. My eyes well with tears again, so I start the next episode of whatever show I'm watching, desperate for an escape from reality. It doesn't really matter what it is, I just need the noise, the distraction. A few episodes later, Clint's back.
"Nat? I was thinking maybe we could go out for dinner? I love cooking, but you haven't left the house in quite a while."
"What did you have in mind?" I pause Netflix and actually turn to look at him this time.
"We could always try that new oriental place that opened up downtown. I know how much you love stir-fry."
"Okay." I stand up, my joints stiff, and head for the door.
"Uh, Nat? You might want to get dressed first."
I glance down at my baggy pajamas and realize he's right. How long has it been since I last put actual clothes on? This concerns me, and I gently shake my head to dispel the thought. "Give me a minute."
The food is pretty good, but things are tense at our table. Still not wanting to really talk much, I deflect Clint's questions.
"So, what have you been watching today?" he attempts to ask casually, but his voice is strained.
"Don't know."
"You don't know? You must've watched half a season by now."
"Oh, you're going to judge me for how much TV I've watched?" I raise my voice slightly, rage filling me much faster than it used to.
"I didn't mean it like that, I swear." His voice is hushed; no doubt he wants to avoid making a scene.
"Really? 'Cause that's what it sounded like! I'm sorry that I'm going through a lot right now. You can't even begin to imagine how I feel."
"I know this is tough for you—I'm not insinuating anything different. Can we please not fight about this?"
"You started this," I huff, arms crossed.
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Clint sighs. "I'll get the check and then we can go."
"Do what you want. I'll find my own way home." I pick up my purse and storm out of the restaurant. After angrily pacing the sidewalk for a minute or so, I decide to walk home, suddenly very grateful I put on tennis shoes. This turns out to be a great idea, as exercise generally helps me clear my mind. By the time I get home, I've figured out a temporary solution.
"There you are! Did you walk home?" Clint exclaims when I finally come in the front door.
"I did," I reply tersely. I walk right past him and up the stairs to our room, where I grab a small suitcase out of my closet.
"Nat? What's going on?" Clint follows close behind me.
"This isn't working."
"What isn't working?"
"This! I... I need some space. I'm going to stay with Jenna and Steve for a few days." I carelessly throw clothes into the suitcase.
"Natasha, we can work this out, just give it time!" Clint pleads.
"I can't stay in this house anymore! I need a break from all of this. Every time I see you, grief is etched all over your face. That's why I can hardly look at you; each reminder of what we lost reopens the gaping wound I feel in my chest. I know you want me to just bounce back and act like it never happened, but I can't. So please, give me a little space to figure out how I can live with this."
"Okay. But you have to know I never expected you to just 'bounce back.' This past month has been incredibly traumatic for you, and all I want is for you to feel better. If a little distance is what will help, then so be it. Please, let me know as soon as you're ready to talk again."
"Thank you for understanding." Suitcase in hand, I head back downstairs.
"I love you," Clint says as I open the door.
"I know." I close the door behind me, waiting until I've driven a few blocks away to whisper, "forever and always."
YOU ARE READING
Return to Russia
Fanfiction[Sequel to The Mission] Natasha's years of training never prepared her for the things she's experienced lately. Despite her initial resolve to stay home, she finds herself being called back to Russia, only this time, she won't be going alone. With a...
