ᴀ ʏᴇᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ - ᴘᴇʀᴄʏ ᴊᴀᴄᴋꜱᴏɴ x ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱᴏᴠᴇʀ

[III] T H R E E (2)

I hope this isn't too confusing to read. I left out quite a few things.

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"Catch Me If You Can"
By Set It Off

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N A T À S H A

Natasha half-opened her eyes to find sharp white light already flooding her bedroom. The poignant sunlight stabbed her eyes, and she snapped them shut, wincing.

God, was it morning already? She hardly felt like she had rested at all. She felt as if she had blinked, and yesterday evening had flown by. 

She was mildly aware that sleeping was not presently on her agenda, but the warmth of her duvet and covers had never seemed so appealing, and each of her limbs suddenly weighed tonnes.

Lifting her head from her pillow, the threat of a pulsing headache thundered through her skull. She mustered together strength, ploughed past the pain, and lifted herself into a sitting position. Her muscles ached, and her limbs throbbed with fatigue. Her eyes still closed, Natasha put her head in her hands and tried to organise her jittery thoughts, but her mind was numb and clouded.

Questions plagued her mind. What day was it? What time was it?

She felt as if her entire body had been folded into some origami centrepiece. What did she even do yesterday?

Rolling her shoulders, Natasha stretched. A series of pointed toes and extended arms - unravelling what she assumed was tension in her muscles.

But at the end of her advanced session of stretches, still sitting on her bed, eyes closed, she still felt like shit. And it was then that she cracked open her right eye to peer at the red fluorescent light from her alarm clock.

It was 2pm already.

What was wrong with her? As a SHIELD Agent, drowsiness wasn't usually in her vocabulary. But the real question was, why hadn't anyone tried waking her up?

No matter. She would simply have to get dressed and venture out to investigate. 

The longer she sat, the more memories came hurtling back to her. Her fight in the kitchens with Clint. Steve escorting her back to her bedroom. The torturous hours she had spent in isolation, contemplating whether it really had been Clint that she had stabbed. He had fought with the same vigour and unparalleled skill that he usually had.

Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps she had imagined that night. Perhaps it had been a trick of the dim lighting that had made his usually blue eyes appear flashing emerald green. Maybe the vicious tinge in his eyes was false. Maybe she hadn't seen him grin sinisterly as she had sipped the cup of steaming hot coffee.

But the image of him cocking his head and lacing his fingers with a hellish fashion was fresh in her mind, and she knew, deep down, that she hadn't imagined anything. But if it hadn't been Clint standing in the doorway of her bedroom yesterday night...

If she was recalling correctly, they were meant to be investigating what happened today. Finally, she would find some answers-

The realisation hit Natasha like a freight train. For a terrifying moment, she considered whether the incident and her lethargicness were linked. Her encounter with the fake-Clint had involved her drinking something he'd offered her. And if her newly fatigued body was anything of significance...