Written in a mad rush to try and kill my Writer's block. Please excuse medical inaccuracies and general incoherence. Let me know what you think with a review, please and thank you?
Natasha slips down the hallway, crossing the rotting wooden planks of the balls of her feet, light. She can't afford to fall today. Her com is down-nothing but painful static in her ear, but she welcomes the noise. She can't work well in total silence. Her leg aches, and a quick glance down confirms her suspicions. She'd been hit-a graze, but she still needs to do something about the wound so she doesn't bleed out. Her leg's going numb-not a good sign.
There's little light in this building-it had been abandoned long ago. A faint, flickering florescent bulb swings somewhere in the next room, long shadows dancing down the hall towards her. She can hear muffled voices...screaming?
This mission was supposed to be easy. Her and Steve, trying to exterminate the remaining Hydra agents in the general Cleveland area. May had contacted her a few weeks ago, saying that they had pulled their team's two spies and were dealing with a personal loss. Her old student hadn't asked, but Natasha had immediately suggested that she continue the mission. With Clint laid up for a few weeks after a fight, Stark's incessant babbling had been tearing at her nerves. Banner was no where to be found, and Thor was off being Lord of Asgard. That left her and Steve.
It was going to be quick-download the files off the flashdrive and get out. But then they'd been outted, she'd been shot, and Steve had been taken. They'd led her on a wild chase across the city, and she'd finally tracked them to this remote building.
Now, she eases her way forward, brushing the half open door way with the flat of her palm and slowly looking around the corner.
Steve is slumped in a corner, hands locked behind his back, face bloodied, eyes closed. She can't tell if he is breathing in the dim light-to many shadows. Three figures are leaning over him, voices hushed. She catches a glimpse of a needle, long and wickedly sharp. The man on far right bends over Steve, slipping the shot into the man's arm.
Natasha ducks back around the corner. Slowly, she inhales, readjusting her grip on her gun, the weapon cool and familiar in her hand. Three agents. She can handle three. Even with an injured leg, three will be easy.
Taking another steadying breath, Natasha kicks the door open as loudly as she can, shouting. They react as she expected. The man injecting Steve with whatever the hell was in the syringe jerks, spinning away from the soldier. The other two pull out weapons and form up, blocking Steve and the less experienced doctor from her view.
"Halt!"
Natasha smiles.
As they raise their weapons she runs straight at them, the faint blond of Steve's head her focus, letting her instincts take care of the other men in the room. They fire, but in their shock they are clumsy. The bullets scream past her head, her shoulder. Reaching the closest man, she strikes him in the chest, not quite hard enough to kill, but with enough force to send him falling. She needs someone alive for questioning, after all. The second man she shoots in the head, raising the gun to the side in an almost careless motion, sensing his exact location by the sharp stutter of breathing to her left.
The scientist has left Steve and is trying to run. She shoots him in the foot as he struggles to pull out his own gun. He screams, the sound raw and echoing in the otherwise silent room. Crumbling, he falls to his knees, half crawling his way to the door.
She jumps, landing on his back. Her leg screams in protest as she lands in a crouch in his back, right knee digging in between his shoulder blades, arm tight around his neck. She can feel his pulse thrumming frantically against her skin. He smells of sweat and cologne, sharp and tangy. "What did you give him?" She hisses. "Tell me and I will let you live." She is alive with fury, the strength of it pounding through her with wild ferocity. She has no intention of letting this man live, but this information is vital. She doesn't think this scientist truly understands what HYDRA is doing, he'd reacted far to slowly to be a trained agent like the other two, but they must have told him their plans for Steve.
The man chokes and stutters, clawing at her arm. She digs her bloodied fingers into his hair, pulling, but loosening her grip around his throat. "Tell. Me."
"It's adrenaline. We needed to revive him so he'd keep talking, he-"
She didn't need to hear anymore. "Thank you," She snarls, and snaps his neck. It is a sickening sound, and some part of her, the little girl alone in the Red Room, screams in horror at what she's done. But she's the Black Widow. She's done far worse.
Standing, she steps over the scientist's corpse and half-runs to Steve. The other man, the one she hadn't killed, stirs in the corner, but she kicks him, hard in the head as she passes and he slumps down again. Just because she hadn't killed him doesn't mean she wants him talking right now.
Steve is breathing. Stumbling to her knees beside him, she can see the faint rise and fall of his bloodied chest. Squinting in the dim light, she see's that his face is bruising-one eye is so swollen she doesn't think it would be open if he was awake.
Her leg is burning now, the area around the wound numb, the wound itself feels as if its on fire. Her pants are soaked through with blood. Gritting her teeth, she pulls out a short knife and sets to work on Steve's handcuffs. She can't get them off. There's some kind of energy keeping them locked together, searing and burning the flesh along Steve's wrists.
Damn.
Sighing, Natasha reaches up and lightly shakes the Super Soldier's shoulder. "Steve," She says. "Hey, Steve. Wake up. Come on. Steve!"
He does not respond.
We needed to revive him so he would keep talking.
Suddenly cold, Natasha pushes herself into a standing position, shifting most of her weight to her good leg. How much had Steve told them? Had they brainwashed him? May had explained the process of HYDRA teaching its members to "Comply"
"Sorry, Steve," She whispers, and then slaps him, hard across the face.
His head rocks back, and he lets out a kind of raw shout, his eyes snapping open. With a surprisingly strong kick, he sends her to the ground.
Pain. He'd hit her bad leg. Fiery pain explodes up her body in a sudden shock. "Steve," She croaks, and then screams, "Steve! It's me!"
He's been thrashing in the chair. At her voice he stops, his breaths harsh and choking. Slowly, Natasha rises to her knees. She's pulled out her gun on reflex, and holds up her hand, the safety on. "Steve," She says softly. "It's Natasha."
He looks at her, his eyes clear, now. "You know better than to wake me up like that, Natasha."
She grimaces, lowering her hands, shoving the gun back in its holster and slumping against his chair. It's metal, and is cold against the back of her neck. "Sorry, I didn't have a choice."
His breaths are still ragged. He swallows audibly. "HYDRA got you too?"
"No. I tracked you here, Cap. Couldn't let them have you after we worked so hard in DC."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." Natasha closes her eyes. God, her leg hurts. The adrenaline of the fight is wearing off now, and she is exhausted. Three days with little sleep probably was not the best idea, in hindsight. Clint is going to have her head.
Clint.
Shoving a hand to her ear, Natasha says, "May, do you copy? Do you copy? Natasha to SHIELD, do you copy?"
Static.
"Coms down?"
"Yeah."
They sit in pained silence for several heart beats, Steve's harsh breaths the only sound. Eventually, he asks, "Were you hit?"
She considers lying, but what good would it do either of them? "Yes," she whispers, the word tight as a new spasm of pain clenches her leg. She's feeling dizzy now. Blood loss.
The chair creaks as he leans down over her. The manacles on his wrist prevent him from getting far, and she hears him hiss in pain at the movement, but he must see the wound because he says, "Natasha, you need to put pressure on that."
Shocked back to herself, she quickly pulls off her shirt, balling it up and pressing it against the leg wound. It won't do much-she's lost far to much blood already. "So," she says, "are you okay?"
A strained laugh. "I'm fine."
"Steve."
"I'll be alright, Natasha."
She doesn't believe him. His words are slurring, and it might be to dark to see much, but she knows blood when she sees it. She knows that if the HYDRA team had to restart Steve's heart with adrenaline that something was very wrong. She doesn't push him, though.
"They'll find us," Steve says.
"Of course they will," she says, but the words sound hollow, even to her own ears. She knows they'll find them, that isn't the question.
The question is whether or Steve and Natasha will still be alive when they do.
It steadily grows darker outside, and as the florescent light becomes their only source of light, Natasha finds it harder and harder to stay awake. As much as she needs to rest her leg, she knows that if she sits here any longer, she'll fall asleep. Sleeping means dying. Muffling a scream with her hand, she pushes herself to her feet, gripping the back of Steve's chair for support.
The soldier is awake, but barely. He watches her through half lidded eyes, his breath a low rattle in his chest. "Natasha-"
"I know," She snaps, the words coming out much harsher than she intends because of the pain, "I know, but I have to do something."
The man she'd kicked earlier is still down. Maybe she had killed him with that last blow to the head. Slowly, she circles Steve's chair, trying to see if she can drag it, get his hands free somehow, pull him from the room.
Her connection to SHIELD is gone-the coms still down. To be honest, the device had probably shattered the first time she'd been shot. She vaguely remembers hitting her head.
"Did you tell them anything, Steve?" she asks finally, not looking at him.
"No," he whispers. "I made things up."
She almost laughs at that. Brilliant Steve.
"It's bad, isn't it?" he whispers after a pause, and she realizes that he's talking about his condition, her leg...
Her leg hurts.
Limping over to him, she gingerly runs her hands across his chest, feeling the gashes, made with jagged, unclean knives. The wounds go deeper than that, though. Had they tried water torture of some kind? his hair is wet. "It's not that bad," she forces herself to say.
Steve snorts. "You're a terrible liar, Black Widow," he says softly.
She smiles at him. "I know."
After a time, she can't walk anymore, it hurts to much. Collapsing by Steve's side, she leans her elbows against the arm of his chair, head pillowed against her bloodstained clothes and the cool metal.
"They'll come," Steve says. "You need to stay awake, Natasha."
She groans. She's so cold, and even in the darkness she can see her hands shaking. Shock? "I'm sorry I can't get us out," she whispers, letting her eyes drift close. "I'm sorry."
Steve coughs, the sound wet and raw, shaking the chair. She opens her eyes.
"I can't carry you," she whispers. "I can't."
Is she delirious? Words are simply spilling from her lips without her consent. She can barely hear them, and her mouth feels numb and strange. She tastes sour bile in her throat.
"It's okay," Steve says faintly, somewhere to her right. "It's okay."
Natasha falls into blackness.
Her last sensation is numb pain and the tingle of metal on her tongue.
Natasha is warm when she wakes. She's in a hospital, a SHIELD hospital, judging by the more comfortable sheets. She keeps her eyes closed, breathing in the scents: Antiseptic, metal, soap. A hand slips into hers.
"I know you're awake, beauty."
Clint's voice, rough, gentle, teasing.
Slowly, she opens her eyes, blinking to adjust to the sudden burst of light. Her leg has been bandaged, and is pleasantly numb. Not blood-loss numb, a gentler, more tingling numb. A healing numb.
"Natasha?"
Turning her head slightly, she meets Clint's eyes. He's sitting in a folding chair beside her bed, a few days stubble on his chin.
"Hi," she whispers.
"Hey," he says. His thumb rubs lightly across her knuckles, sending light thrills of warmth up her arm. "How do you feel?"
She hesitates, "Good, I think. Is Steve okay?"
Clint nods. "He'll be fine. His face is going to be an interesting shade of blue and purple for a few days, but he'll live."
She sighs, leaning her head back against the pillows. "Good."
"What happened in their, Nat?" he asks, gently. "By the time I got there you were lying in a pool of your own blood, Steve was out cold, and three HYDRA agents were dead on the floor. I thought May said the mission was supposed to be easy."
Natasha grimaces. "Well, there were unexpected complications. And why the HELL were you there, Barton? I didn't bring you on that mission with me because Hill told me that you were supposed to stay in bed!"
Clint grins at her tone. "Easy, there, Natasha. I wasn't about to just stay put when both you and Steve were unresponsive for more than a day, was I?"
She pulls her hand out of his, and he barks a laugh.
"Speaking of staying in bed," a cool, familiar voice says from the doorway, "you won't be leaving yours for at least two days, Natasha Romonoff."
Natasha looks up. Melinda May leans against the door frame, a faint smile on her face. There is a hardness to her eyes now, but Natasha still sees the girl she trained in that small smile.
"Two days?" Natasha quips, "I thought SHIELD protocol gives me at least a week off."
"I said two days," May says, stepping into the room, and pulling up a chair next to Natasha's bed, "because I know you won't sit still any longer." She nods curtly to Clint, "Agent Barton."
"May."
"So," Natasha says, turning to look at her former student and friend, "sorry for screwing up the mission."
May shrugs. "You two got out okay. That's all that really matters right now."
Natasha quirks an eyebrow, that was oddly sentimental for May, "You missed me, huh?"
May smiles, reaching out to cover Natasha's hand with her own, "we need you around here, Black Widow."
Natasha smiles back. "Well, I'm stuck here for two days. We can do nails and talk boys."
May smirks. "Deal." Standing, she turns towards the door, "I have to check on a few things. You'll be okay for now?"
Natasha nods.
After May is gone, Clint nudges her lightly with an elbow, "Scoot."
Rolling her eyes, Natasha shifts her weight to make room for him, hissing in pain as the bed shakes, jostling her leg. Clint settles down on the bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. She can feel his heartbeat through his t-shirt.
"Are you okay?" He asks, softly, seriously, lips close to her ear.
Natasha leans against him, sinking into his warmth. Honestly, she's not sure. She feels physically alright, if sore, but she has not allowed herself to confront her emotions just yet. "I hate feeling helpless."
He presses a kiss to her shoulder. "I know you do. But there was nothing you could have done. You couldn't walk. You couldn't have carried him out. You couldn't have gotten those manacles off his wrists without tech."
"I know," she says, "I just haven't felt quite that helpless in awhile. It does things to my mind."
Clint hums, tightening his arms around her. "Well, you can always tell me about it when you're ready. Or not."
She smiles. "I know."
Steve comes to her room three days later.
He's leaning against Clint's arm, his steps shuffling, his face bruised, but he is upright. "Hey," He says.
Pushing herself up onto her elbows, Natasha tosses back her hair, offering him a smile. "Hi."
Steve lowers himself down into a chair, and Clint backs off, giving them room to talk. He stays in the room, though, leaning against the back wall, arms folded.
"You doing okay?" Natasha asks Steve.
He shrugs. "I've been better."
He looks better-the gashes on his chest have healed by now, but there is a darkness in his voice that she recognizes. "Did they...did they try to drown you?" she forces herself to ask. It's a deeply personal question, and she's sure that Maria Hill has already interrogated Steve about his experience and HYDRA wanted with him, but she has to know for herself.
Steve swallows hard and nods.
God. She'd sat with Steve through several panic attacks on planes. She knows his fear of cold water, knows how even the hint of an icy wind can sometimes send him into a flashback.
"I'm sorry," she says, and she means the words with everything she has. She hopes it shows in her voice. "I'm sorry I didn't get to you sooner."
Steve shakes his head. "It's not your fault. I'm glad you found me when you did."
"Me too."
He shrugs. "All part of the job right?" there is something in his voice, a hitch, an ache. The statement is tinged with a bitterness she knows all to well.
Natasha meets his eyes. They are dark and lost, weary in his pale face. This man, this man is really still a boy. Barely thirty years old. She forgets that sometimes. He's seen so much. Too much. She wants to protect him. She wants to protect Steve the artist, Steve the idealist, Steve the optimist. The world thinks Captain America invincible. Natasha knows better.
All part of the job, right?
The job. The job is blood and bullets. The job is killing and grief and pain, pain, pain. Sometimes she hates it.
But dammit, she's good at it. And so is Steve.
All part of the job, right?
"Yeah," She says softly, "Right."