The Black Widow is immune to pain. No torture method known to men can elicit information from her that she does not want to reveal, and she would know, she has been taught to endure all of them.
No, pain does not phase the Black Widow.
Sometimes though, Natasha is human. The only woman in a boy-band of superheroes and she can hold her own against most of them.
Natasha can be one of the boys, but she is not, and once a month, she is abruptly reminded of that.
On days, when her abdomen feels as though razor blades are trying to cut her open from the inside, she stays away from the other Avengers, especially Tony. Their time together on the Avengers has led her to grow fond of him, and she likes that feeling. She loves them all to some extent, not that she would ever allow herself to tell them. It doesn’t feel permanent though, or maybe she doesn’t allow herself to hope, she’s not sure. She stays away from Tony, because if a cramp hits her in his presence, and a single girl-joke at her expense slips through his non-existent brain-to-mouth-filter, she can’t ever feel this content in his presence again.
Right now, Natasha is their equal and she’ll be damned if she will let a little pain warp their view of her. No, she’s a woman and she is just as bad-ass as the rest of them.
In the field, when Avengers business drags her out of bed on the worst days, she fights the harder for it. The exercise helps loosen the muscles and the pain fuels her attacks.
It’s the quiet evenings with the group that are a danger zone. She feels so comfortable around them now that her control over her facial muscles is an effort, when the knowing, but blank look usually settles over her face like a perfectly fitted mask.
So she stays away when the cramps hit.
Natasha can hear the group of men in the living room, which is located right underneath her bedroom in Stark …Avengers Tower. She had requested this particular floor and Tony hadn’t even blinked before granting it to her. This way, she always knew what was happening in the most-used common area. It pleased her.
Thor’s laughter booms through the floor and she rolls over in her bed to curl into a more comfortable position, suddenly wishing she hadn’t declined Tony’s offer of building her a helper-bot to spar with and help her with ‘I don’t know, Natasha, things. Like DUM-E does, well he’s usually not a lot of help, but he tries and it’s usually endearing… oh for heaven’s sake, DUM-E, no! Grease doesn’t go on toast, humans can’t eat that…’.
Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the worst offer to turn down, but she could really use someone to fetch her painkillers. The bathroom door is just so far away and even the thought of straightening her limbs makes the pain worse.
The guys are definitely watching a comedy, Thor is too delighted for any other explanation. She sort of wishes she could curl up on the couch with them, take her mind of the pain. Clint would definitely bring her painkillers if she asked him to.
Natasha dismisses the notion immediately.
“Agent Romanoff.” JARVIS addresses her and she looks up towards the ceiling, a habit she picked up from Clint. “My sensors indicate you are experiencing physical distress, should I alert one of the other occupants of the Tower?”
“Don’t you dare.” She grumbles. “If you so much as mention it to the other Avengers I will replace you with Windows’98.”
“As you wish, Agent Romanoff.” JARVIS answers, unfailingly polite, but she knows she pissed him off and maybe even feels a little bad. JARVIS had only wanted to help.
Natasha stops caring about the AIs feelings when the next cramp hits and makes her grown out loud, forcing her to roll into a twisted position away from her comfortable pillows. She curses under her breath. This was ridiculous.
Another hour passes in misery. This month is bad.
A knock on her door startles her into a more natural position on the bed.
“Who’s at the door, JARVIS?” She asks, pulling the covers up over her pyjama-clad shoulders to act as a burrito.
“Agent Phil Coulson.” JARVIS answers and …does he sound guilty?
“What did you do?” She growls.
“My protocols prioritize the physical well-being of the humans under Mister Starks protection above all else, Agent Romanoff. As you have expressly forbidden me from alerting the Avengers to your distress I had to rely on resources outside of the Tower. Agent Coulson is the secondary emergency contact on your personnel file. Alerting him was the next logical step.”
Natasha groans and lets herself sink back into a horizontal position.
“Agent Romanoff?” Coulson’s voice calls from the now open door.
“Go away, Phil.” Natasha answers, but there is no bite in her tone.
Phil finds his way into her bedroom and locks the gun he was carrying back into the holster on his hip before sitting down on the edge of her bed. Natasha can’t help but smile a little at the concern on his face. She fights down the urge to touch his arm, to confirm he is real. They only got him back from official death a few weeks ago. With S.H.I.E.L.D. gone his team had been stranded in enemy territory with no one to call for back-up but the Avengers. Having their former handler back was still a strange source of joy whenever she remembered at random intervals.
“It’s alright, just tell me what’s wrong, Agent?”
She laughs to cover up a gasp that another cramp yanks out of her. “Not much of an Agent anymore.” She explains when he lifts a questioning eyebrow.
“With all due respect, Agent Romanoff, I don’t think I will start referring to you as Black Widow. Now stop deflecting.”
“What’s wrong with Natasha?” She asks, pushing herself up on her elbows as if the new position would grant her more dignity. Coulson isn’t impressed.
“What’s wrong?” He repeats.
And he’s looking at her with that look. THE look. The mild-mannered, good-natured look of concern that can make Clint Barton squirm like a school-boy who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner.
“Oh, don’t even.” She groans, flopping bad onto her pillows.
Coulson looks at her evenly as if he genuinely has no idea what he is doing.
“Fine, fine, it’s period cramps. Now leave. I can’t believe that stupid AI called you over here.” She doesn’t bother swearing Phil to secrecy; it would be an insult to his competence.
Phil nods in understanding and gets off the bed. She rolls over with a groan, JARVIS had officially made it on her shit list. The door closes behind Phil and Natasha belatedly wishes she had asked him to get the painkillers from the bathroom.
Her abdomen cramps up again and she wishes she had gotten up to exercise when the pain had first started; it was too late now though. She pulls her legs towards her chest and waits.
A few minutes later the door opens again and Natasha wants to strangle whoever dares invade her privacy now.
It’s Phil. And he came prepared.
Without a word, he fluffs her pillows and gently manoeuvres her head back onto them, a swift lifting and lowering of the blanket later has her in a comfortable position on her side, with a hot-water bag on her abdomen, facing Phil, who is tucking the blanket back around her. And oh, Phil brought pain-killers. She takes two pills from his hand and washes them down with the glass of water he offers her.
“Somebody trained you well, huh?” She asks when she’s done drinking. The flush on his neck tells her that said somebody is definitely not a past-somebody and he looks down at the sheets, smiling. “Is it her? Did you find her again?” Natasha only knows her as Coulson’s cellist.
They never talk about their private lives, as long as they don’t interfere with the work. It might change, now that S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone and Natasha wouldn’t mind knowing more, but they’re not there yet. Phil’s smile tells her all she needs to know for now.
“Get going then, I’m sure she’s dying to kill you for letting her think you’re dead.”
Phil snorts. “She was actually a lot more forgiving than Barton.” The skin around his eyes crinkles in a fond smile at the memory and Natasha can’t help but laugh.
She relaxes back into her pillows, the painkillers are starting to kick in and she can tell Phil got her the really good stuff. Her stomach feels toasty warm from the hot-water bottle and the cramps are starting to ease under the heat.
“Thank you, Phil.” She says, wriggling into the perfect position and falling asleep before Phil leaves.
