This was written for clintasha-week's Clintasha Advent project on Tumblr. The prompt was "missions/mishaps". I plan to fill some more of the advent prompts, and I want to write over Christmas break too, so expect quite a bit of activity here this month! :)
"Tasha."
His voice is weak and raspy, little more than a whisper in the cold air. He coughs hoarsely, and Natasha looks swiftly at him from her position behind a teetering stack of crates.
He's drenched in blood, practically bathing in it. It soaks his uniform, stains his face, pools on the pavement all around him. In the pale moonlight, his face is drawn and tired and blood-spattered, his eyes half-closed.
"I'm gonna die," he slurs. "I'm gonna die here in this goddamned alley."
"Shut up." Natasha peers down the scope of her rifle, scanning the street for hints of movement, ears alert for even the faintest of noises that could suggest they've been discovered.
"Our backup will be here any minute," she repeats for what feels like the thousandth time in the past half-hour.
"Not soon enough," he grunts. His voice is brimming with unconcealed pain, and Natasha closes her eyes for a second, her insides churning with worry.
"Clint," she murmurs. "How many times…"
"...was I shot?" he finishes for her. "One too many." His short, humorless laugh gives way to another coughing fit.
Natasha swallows. "Don't worry about it," she says, struggling to keep her voice light and unconcerned. "You've survived gunshot wounds before."
"Yeah," he pants. "But I'm afraid this time they might've hit something important."
Natasha bites her lip.
"Just hang in there," she says, her eyes still trained on the silent street ahead. "Try not to talk too much. But stay—"
"Stay alert, I know," he says. "Just keep my feet elevated, don't move around too much, take deep breaths, and try not to think about the pain. Oh, and don't worry – our backup will be here any minute."
Natasha scowls into her scope.
A minute passes, filled with cold wind and the harsh, metallic smell of blood.
"No sign of the targets?" Clint asks finally.
"None," Natasha says. "We must've lost them back at that factory."
"You mean you delayed them," Clint says "I was busy being turned into a colander, if you remember."
Natasha sighs. "Again: it wasn't your fault."
"If I hadn't slipped up and given away our position, we could've crossed them off easily," Clint mumbles. "We wouldn't have gotten separated, I wouldn't have lost my bow, I wouldn't have gotten shot, we wouldn't have had to call for backup, and we wouldn't be stuck in this stupid situation." He coughs again, and Natasha hears an ominous gurgling sound in his throat. Hemothorax. He's hemorrhaging, and all that blood is going directly into his chest cavity. Natasha glares at the empty street.
"It was as much my fault as yours, Barton," she says firmly. "You may have given away our position, but I was the one who engaged the targets. I should've tried to maintain our cover; it was a lapse of judgement."
"Don't blame yourself, Nat," Clint says quietly.
"Let's just call it even," Natasha says. "I'm just glad we made it to the rendezvous point."
Clint exhales raggedly. "If those goons find us here—"
"They won't," Natasha says fiercely. "And anyway, our backup will be here any minute."
"Still believe that?" Clint says faintly.
Natasha grits her teeth. "I have to."
Frigid breezes sweep past Natasha's face, and she shivers. Her legs are starting to cramp up, and she shifts her position, stretching out her legs. Clint's breathing is becoming more shallow, and his silences are steadily growing longer. Natasha glowers at the darkness, willing their backup to appear out of the icy air with transportation and a med kit ready. She's not allowing herself to think about it too deeply, but she knows he won't last much longer.
"Nat," he murmurs finally. His voice is so pained and exhausted that a wave of panic sweeps over her. He needs help, and he needs it now.
"This is it, partner," he says faintly. "This is the end of the line."
"Just hold on for a few more minutes," Natasha growls, her eyes fastened to the street ahead.
"Natasha." She hears him stir painfully behind her. "Natasha, come here."
"I said wait a minute!" she snaps.
"Nat, please…"
"You'll be fine, they'll be here any minute," Natasha says again. But something heavy is rising in her throat, choking her, and her hope is beginning to falter. She knows what he wants, and she's not sure she can face it.
He wants to say goodbye.
"Natasha," he mumbles. "Please come here… I don't know how much longer I can…"
In a burst of resolve she jumps to her feet, and crosses to where he lies helplessly in the pool of blood.
She crouches by his head and cups his face in one hand, staring fiercely into his eyes.
"You are not dying here, Clinton Barton," she says sharply. "We're gonna pull through, like we always do. I swear to you we'll get out of this, and we'll get out of it alive."
She glares determinedly at him for a moment, then starts to stand.
"Wait, Nat." He grasps at her hand, but she pulls it away.
"Barton. You're gonna be fine, and that's all we're gonna say about it."
"Nat," he says weakly as she turns away. "I can't die like this. Please don't let me die like this."
"You won't," she says forcefully, whirling to face him. "Bleeding out in an alley in Hong Kong is not how you're going to go.—"
He's shaking his head. "No, that's not what I meant."
Natasha pauses, frowning in confusion. "What, then?" she asks, nearing him doubtfully.
Clint swallows. "I meant… don't let me die without telling you how much you mean to me…"
"Barton." She stoops beside him, glaring darkly at him. But her eyes are starting to sting, and it's not because of the wind.
"And how much I respect you," he murmurs, his eyes slipping shut. "And how much I care about you. And…" His voice fades into silence.
Natasha bends down and covers his mouth with hers.
Clint makes a strangled noise in his throat, and Natasha straightens, her heart thumping nervously in her chest. He looks much more alert now; his eyes are wide open, and he's gawking at her in disbelief. But he's also glowing.
"What was that for?" he gasps.
"Incentive," Natasha says breathlessly. She whisks a strand of hair out of her face. "Stay alive, and there's more of that coming your way."
Clint stares wide-eyed at her, searching every inch of her face.
"I think I'm gonna need a little more incentive," he says.
Natasha half-smiles at him. "Just stay with me, and I'll give you so much incentive, you won't know what to do with it all."
His face softens. "Nat, I…" Another fit of coughing racks his frame, and blood trickles from his mouth.
"Just lie still," she says firmly, gripping him by the shoulder. "Just hang on, and don't die."
And then she stands and returns to her post.
Clint is quiet for a while; the only sounds are of his labored breathing and the whisper of the wind. And, for a while, Natasha is satisfied that it has worked. She allows herself to believe that everything will work out, that her kiss will be enough to motivate him to stay awake.
But when he finally speaks again, his voice is ragged and heavy, and she knows his consciousness is slipping.
"Tasha…"
This time, she's at his side in an instant, kneeling beside him and gripping his hand, which is cold and tacky with his blood.
"I'm not gonna make it." His face is dripping with sweat, and his eyes are closed in exhaustion. "I'm so sorry, Tasha… I'm not gonna make it…"
"Shut up," Natasha hisses. Her vision blurs with tears, and the cold, empty weight of dread settles in her stomach.
"Don't go too hard on 'em, okay?" Clint mumbles. "Our backup. It's not their fault…"
"Don't talk like that, Clint," Natasha says hoarsely, brushing her knuckles past his cheek. "You're gonna be fine… just stay with me, okay? Just stay with me…"
. . .
Ten minutes later, their backup arrives.
Then the tac unit enters the alley, the agents are shocked by the amount of blood on the ground, pooling in the street, running between the cracks in the pavement.
And sitting in the midst of it all is the Black Widow, holding Hawkeye in her arms, her face stained with blood and tears.
Help has arrived at last. But it's arrived too late.