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They had given him a private room in the medical wing, wanting to closely monitor him at all times, and while normally Clint would have put up a fuss over this, now knowing what he did he had no fight in him. He went to the physiotherapy sessions daily, slowly working on regaining his strength, and he even cooperated with whatever other therapy they wanted to throw at him, or as much as ‘attending the sessions and saying very little’ counted as cooperating.
Really, what was there to say?
He did very little in the time since he’d woken up, mostly just sat in bed and stared out the window. If they gave him drugs he took them, when they told him to sleep he did; he was nothing if not obedient, but it was a hollow obedience, more like a robot just going through the motions.
Most days he spent a lot of time alone, and in this time there was little to do but think, and his thoughts always turned to her. Fury had been in to see him the morning after he had awoken, and when asked the Director told him everything. He knew his involvement in almost destroying the helicarrier and everyone on it, and while Fury had had few details of his recent relapse, he had informed Clint that it was his own bullet that had injured Natasha, and a shot from the Quinjet that had taken him down. It had been hard to hear, hard to accept, but as the day wore on and she didn’t visit at promised the knowledge slowly sank in.
He had always been the one to protect her and stand up for her since bringing her in, and now he had betrayed the reluctant trust she had put in him. Each day his thoughts turned darker. She didn’t just mistrust him now, she probably hated him, maybe even feared him. It only made sense because he felt all of these things toward himself.
Sitting at the window, his bare feet on the edge of the chair, knees drawn up to his chest, Clint tried to remember a time when his life hadn’t been this complete pit of despair, but it was becoming harder to remember anything beyond the misery he currently found himself in.
Really, what was there to say?
He did very little in the time since he’d woken up, mostly just sat in bed and stared out the window. If they gave him drugs he took them, when they told him to sleep he did; he was nothing if not obedient, but it was a hollow obedience, more like a robot just going through the motions.
Most days he spent a lot of time alone, and in this time there was little to do but think, and his thoughts always turned to her. Fury had been in to see him the morning after he had awoken, and when asked the Director told him everything. He knew his involvement in almost destroying the helicarrier and everyone on it, and while Fury had had few details of his recent relapse, he had informed Clint that it was his own bullet that had injured Natasha, and a shot from the Quinjet that had taken him down. It had been hard to hear, hard to accept, but as the day wore on and she didn’t visit at promised the knowledge slowly sank in.
He had always been the one to protect her and stand up for her since bringing her in, and now he had betrayed the reluctant trust she had put in him. Each day his thoughts turned darker. She didn’t just mistrust him now, she probably hated him, maybe even feared him. It only made sense because he felt all of these things toward himself.
Sitting at the window, his bare feet on the edge of the chair, knees drawn up to his chest, Clint tried to remember a time when his life hadn’t been this complete pit of despair, but it was becoming harder to remember anything beyond the misery he currently found himself in.
