Red. That's all he could see. The red of her hair splayed across the cold concrete, the red of her blood gushing through his hands, the red haze that still tinted the edges of his vision in fury and fear.
This was supposed to be an easy mission: Get in, get the data, get out. And it had been, really, even with the unwarranted goons crashing their job so suddenly. So why, then, was is that Natasha was now lying on the ground, unconscious, bleeding to death despite Clint's best efforts to slow the bloodflow?
Clint knew exactly where the tables had turned. The old building was supposed to be abandoned, sans the few guards the archer had expertly taken out as his partner quickly extracted the files from their enemy's databases. Something – he can't figure out what, exactly – must have tipped them off, because suddenly twelve heavily armed guards had Natasha cornered. Clint had made his way to her location from the neighboring rooftop with enough time in between for her to take out two of the mercenaries, but before the duo could pick off any more, the old building caved, sending the combatants tumbling down two stories and into the daylight.
Neither agent was thoroughly harmed; Clint's shoulder would likely be sore come morning, and anyone else wouldn't have noticed the slight favouring of Natasha's left ankle. The guards weren't quite as lucky, only seven of the ten left alive surviving the fall. Nonetheless, the battle continued, until the two SHIELD agents stood, surrounded by the corpses of those who dared oppose them.
That was where the tides turned. Clint should have known, should have sensed sooner, but the hint of a smile in his partner's eyes as she victoriously met his gaze erased everything else in the world. He took a small step closer, a cocky grin emerging on his face, and she mimicked him, sauntering over in that was she knew sent his mind to thinking one thing. And then the sequence of events happened in a matter of seconds. The all too familiar metallic ring of a sniper. The slight whimper that escaped Natasha's mouth as her hands reached down to clutch her abdomen. The dull thud of her body hitting the ground.
Clint's mind shifted to autopilot. He sensed, more than saw, the enemy sniper's location, and within second his arrow was nocked, aimed, fired, and imbedded into the man's chest. Turning to face his partner, he let his bow clatter to the ground and he dropped to his knees beside her.
"Tasha!" She wasn't moving, lying in a pool of her own scarlet blood, hands sitting limply where they had previously covered her wound. Clint's heart thudded as he tenderly grabbed her wrist, finding a pulse of her own beating back. His relief was short lived – The wound was bad, a through-and-through from what he could tell without moving her. One hand pressed itself against the injury, the other reaching up to activate his comm.
"Evac," his voice was a stranger to him, deadly calm despite the millions of panicked thoughts flooding through his head, "I've got an Agent down, requesting immediate pickup and medical assistance."
He didn't have to wait long for an answer. "Copy that, Agent. Evac is on the way. ETA three minutes."
Three minutes. He gazed down at Natasha, raw emotions welling in his chest as he weighed his options. He'd never been in this situation before – She always, ALWAYS got back up. Never this.
With a hand still pressed against her side, he reached up with the other and lightly brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.
"Come on, Nat," he whispered, willing her to hear him wherever she was," just hold on. You can make it. I won't let it end here." He wasn't sure who he was attempting to comfort, choking out encouragements while brushing a hand through her hair.
It felt like hours by the time the SHIELD helicopter was down beside them. He hardly even heard them barking orders, rushing over with a stretcher and an assistance team. His world had narrowed to her and only her. That was all that mattered. All that had ever mattered.
Only when they pushed him aside and lifted her body onto the stretcher did Clint snap out of it. He stood quickly, retrieving his forgotten bow before hurrying back to his partner's side, not caring whether the medical team wanted him there or not. As they loaded on to the chopper and took flight, he gingerly grasped on to one of her hands.
Maybe he was imagining it, but as he held her hand and stared at her closed eyes, willing them to open, he could've sworn he felt the slightest squeeze of his hand in return.