Increasingly Painful and Incredibly Close

18.0

Clint had left to the archery range, leaving Pietro to hang out with Kate.

Pietro was having a pretty bad day, constantly in horrific pain. He laid in the bed, the young archer sitting close against his side. He was fucking around on the computer, quite proficient with it for only having it a week. The sokovian gave a low whimper as Kate scooted slightly, the bed moving.

"Oh, did I hurt you? I'm sorry dude." She placed a hand on his arm lightly, eyes wide with concern.

She watched as he opened the speech program, typing. "Not your fault. Everything hurts."

Kate sighed. "Want one of your emergency doses? I know they make you woozy, but you look like you need it."

"Fine. Just want it to stop." He was pale, sweat beading on his brow from the pain.

Kate retrieved a small bottle of morphine, measuring it out before administering it. She texted Clint the update, finding it rather odd that he didn't respond immediately as he usually would. Shrugging it off, she settled back against him and comfortingly ran a hand up and down his arm. The relief was almost instant. "Thank you, Kate. I appreciate you."

"Don't sweat it, dude. It's nothing." She tried to mask the sadness in her eyes, knowing that would just upset him.

"Turn on dumbass baking show. Want to watch idiots burn water." Pietro flickered the corner of his mouth just barely.

They laid together a while, making snide remarks about the contestants on the show knowing fully well neither of them could cook. Kate shot her mentor another brief text, leaning her head against the sick man's shoulder. Two episodes in, he typed something while Katie absently stretched his fingers.

He was white with pain again as she looked over. "Position hurts. Can you scoot me up on pillows more, please?"

"Of course, Piet." She didn't give a second thought.

Kate threaded one arm under his thighs, the other behind his back and she pulled him up. She winced as his head fell forward at the movement from being propped up, a stream of saliva leaking from his lips as he gave a pained groan. The young archer settled him against pillows, turning to grab a tissue.

"Kate..." It was barely a word in his mouth anymore, merely a slurred sound she'd grown to recognize as her name. He hardly vocalized anymore, anything he tried was just faint murmurs.

She whipped around. "What is it?"

He tried to speak as she realized his head was tipped away from the computer, a wet sound in his throat. Kate quickly tipped his head forward, alleviating the offending saliva. She didn't care that it went down his shirt so long as he was not longer at risk of aspirating. As soon as that was taken care of, the younger laid him back, taking proper care to make sure he was positioned where he could use his eye-gaze.

"Wish you didn't have to see me like this. Any of you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

●●●

Natasha had found Clint in the range, a half empty bottle of whiskey beside him as he fired repeated shots into the targets. She purposefully clacked her shoes against the wooden floor as she approached, sending vibrations through the floor. His body language changed, showing that he knew she was there but simply didn't care. He lowered his bow, taking another swig from the bottle.

The assassin put a hand on his shoulder, recoiling as he shrugged it off. She was signing as she spoke, knowing he probably didn't have his aids in. "Clint. Talk to me."

"I don't want to fucking talk." His voice was slightly off, she was right. "What the hell is there to talk about?"

She let out a sigh. "Yell, scream, cry. Something, man. You gotta let it out."

"Who says, huh? Who fucking says I have to let it out? I can't-" a sob escaped his lips. "I can't, Nat. I had to fucking leave this morning. I had to leave while he was fucking crying, moaning in pain and shit. What kind of fucked up husband does that make me? I'm a fucking monster."

Natasha took his shoulders. "You're human, Clint. No one expects you to sit there forever by his bedside watching him suffer. Pietro doesn't expect you to. He knows how horrific it is to see. No one thinks you're a monster. You need to give yourself room to fall apart."

Clint gave a frustrated growl, throwing his bow. The weapon clattered against the floor, the sound echoing. "There isn't time! I need to hold my shit together until... until after. There'll be time for me to deal with my shit then, but not now. He fucking needs me."

"You can't be there for him if you won't let anyone be there for you. He's dying, Clint. He's not an idiot. He sees your pain." She held his hands now. "He wants you-"

"How the fuck do you know what he wants?" Venom coated his throat as he spat. "You don't. You don't see the whole picture, you can't understand."

Natasha didn't flinch at his words. "Help me to then. Help me understand."

The archer laid it all out, yelling and throwing shit. The trauma of watching his lover go through hell, losing every shred of dignity. The soul tearing heartache of losing the love of his life slowly and painfully, of listening to him wheeze and cough and choke his way into complete respiratory failure. Waking up four times a night to turn his spouse, let alone the other times he woke up just to check that his heart was still beating. The crushing weight of holding his love while he sobbed and whined in complete agony.

When he was done the range was a mess and he sank to his knees, Nat holding him tightly to her. He screamed, feeling like his chest was ripping apart as he broke. She just stroked his hair, coaching him to breathe through it as he felt himself come unglued.

"Come on. Let it out, Barton. I've got you."