I have nothing to do with Marvel or Disney. This story idea is based on a song by ZZ Ward called "Til the Casket Drops." I have no claim to anything related to the song or artist. There are no direct lyrics in this story. I highly recommend you take a listen to the song, though. Much like my Pepper Potts story "Spy For a Day" I didn't do this idea true justice, but enjoyed writing it anyway. Thank you for taking the time to give it a try.
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Oh, this was bad.
Rarely did the Black Widow wake to the sound of hospital equipment. And it was even more rare for the beeps and buzzes to be related to her bodily functions. Or lack thereof, perhaps, as she realized there was not enough air in her was not shaping up to be her day. Given her current circumstances, yesterday must've been even worse.
She tried to take a deep breath and felt a stabbing pain in her chest that shot throughout her body. Alarms screeched in her ears and she felt the pull of tubes in her upper body and restraints around her wrists. She went into a fit of coughing and gasping. What was happening?
Suddenly she became aware of two strong hands on her shoulders and a familiar, if frantic, voice making itself heard over the equipment. "Nat! Nat, listen to me. Calm down. Let the machine do the work. You've got punctured lungs. Nat, I'm right here. Please stop thrashing! I'm here and you're going to be ok." The voice just repeated it over and over.
As she struggled against her instincts to breathe, she found herself focusing on his voice. His voice. Her partner's voice. Clint Barton's voice. Alright Barton, knock it off, she thought to herself. I'm going to let the damned machine take over just to shut you up. It's annoying when you plead.
After a few seconds of mental effort to calm herself, she finally got used to the rise and fall of the respirator. She knew enough about these situations to know that she wasn't fully awake or in her right mind. What little consciousness she did have was fading fast, too. She used her last bit of strength to open her eyes. She was met with a worried smile, wet eyes, matted sandy blond hair, and a weary voice cooing various iterations of "Thank God you're ok, Nat."
She tried to keep her eyes open longer, but she was fighting a losing battle. She couldn't remember what put them in this particular situation and she knew that whatever the circumstances were, Barton would blame himself. With her last few seconds, she stared - no, make that glared - into his eyes. She made sure he understood that he was not to sit there and wallow in guilt. Clearly he got the message, because as she closed her eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness she heard him say, "Ok, ok, Nat. I'll get some rest and try to ease up on the guilt trip. No promises, but I'll try." Good enough for now, she thought.
Chapter 2
It was a beautiful scene, really. The street lamps were covered with a thin coating of ice that added a shimmering effect to the muted light they cast. The large snowflakes drifted down on top of them in a never-ending barrage and continued to fill in the footsteps the two black-clad bodies left behind on the deserted street as they casually walked to the rendezvous point. It was cold, but the adrenaline still pumped in their veins and took away the bitter bite of the breeze. Were it under any other circumstance, Clint Barton might allow himself to relax and enjoy the moment with his partner.
As it was, they had just taken down a mid-level faction of some techno-terror organization operating out of a former Soviet block nation. Not exactly the easiest grab-and-go operation they'd ever had, but a success nonetheless. They both agreed that that's all that matters on the bottom line of the ledger. Natasha had the nanotechnology information secured in her belt, there were no witnesses left alive, the dance club that fronted the operation was set to explode just about… "boom"… now. No loose ends. Maybe they could enjoy this after all, in their own we-kill-bad-guys-for-a-living-and-don't-have-lives -outside-of-S.H.I.E.L.D. kind of way.
"You have been too quiet for too long. It's unnerving. Penny for your thoughts, Hawkeye," said the Black Widow.
"Given the exchange rate, if you're paying in American currency, you'll have to fork over two cents," chuckled Hawkeye.
"Never mind. Too rich for my blood. Don't really care anyway," she stated through a very small smile.
"Well, since you asked…" he began.
"And I have nobody to blame but myself," she quickly muttered while rolling her eyes.
"How long do you think we can continue to do this?" he asked, surprising himself at how quickly the question popped out.
"Do what?" she responded slowly with an air of caution draping her question from her slightly tilted head.
Hawkeye raised his arms and dramatically spun around. "This. Drop into some God-forsaken location, grab some paperweight that's important to somebody for some reason, hope our ride shows up, get a few stitches, and do it all again the next day. This."
She continued walking as if his question hadn't struck a nerve, when in fact, it struck her right in the heart. She had been wrestling with this very concern since that bastard Loki and his glow stick of death showed up a few months ago. The loss of Agent Coulson hit her harder than she was willing to admit to anyone. The near loss of her partner gave her nightmares every night, or at least on every second or third night when she was too exhausted to fight sleep. How long, indeed.
Hawkeye made up the few steps she'd gotten ahead of him and fell easily back into step with her. They walked in silence for a block before she finally answered with, "Until my casket drops."
She could tell he was debating whether or not to continue this conversation. It was personal territory and that made it dangerous. They both knew he was the only one who could even entertain the thought of this line of questioning with her. Chalk it up to the snow, the adrenaline, their being ahead of schedule, or just plain stupidity, but Clint grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into a dingy bar at the end of the block. Chalk it up to all of the above that she let him do it.
They positioned themselves in a corner booth with a clear view of both the front and rear entrances. Without a word, Clint walked up to the bar to place his order. Within seconds he was back with two tumblers and a chilled bottle of Belvedere vodka.
Once she eyed the vodka, Natasha knew the night was not going to end well. "This is going to get heavy, isn't it?"
"Maybe. Probably. I don't know. What I do know is that your answer to my question is unacceptable," said Hawkeye.
"How so?" she snapped indignantly.
He allowed himself a second of indecision. If he answered her question honestly, there was no turning back from a decade of hidden feelings for his partner. He would have to come clean to her and to himself. It would lift an invisible emotional weight, but the cost could be losing her from his life completely. If he answered with a trumped up, half-assed reason it might save their professional relationship but derail any possibility of a personal relationship with the only person on this world or any other who could make him feel like he deserved to be at least a little bit happy. What was it going to be, Barton, he mentally asked himself. Keep her at arm's length with you or risk pushing her away with feelings she can't return?
"Because…" was all that the archer got a chance to say before all hell broke loose in the bar.
Chapter 3
How long had it been since she'd last been conscious? It could have been 12 minutes or 12 months for all she knew. Based on the fact that she didn't feel the presence of the respirator anymore, she'd have to guess the time frame was measured at least in terms of days.
As she slowly regained consciousness, she realized a number of things at the same time. She was breathing on her own, she was in an intense amount of pain, she smelled lilacs, and she heard a very low mumble coming from her right. As she turned her head and tried to ignore throbbing pain and spinning room, she opened her eyes. What she saw there made her smile through the pain. Clint Barton was folded into an ancient swivel chair with his knees to his chest and his head resting on his right shoulder while his right hand rested awkwardly next to her elbow.
She used what little strength she had to cover his hand with hers. His hand was cool and rough, just like it always was. And even as he slept, touching him brought her comfort. He kept his promise to stay with her and she hoped he was able to let go of the guilt she knew shrouded him like a custom-fitted suit. As her eyes moved from his hand to his sleeping form, she caught sight just beyond his chair of a large vase with long, thin branches full of lilac blooms. How did they get here? Come to think of it, where was here?
With her head filled with a million questions, she began to focus. Where was she? How did she get here? What was the last thing she remembered? As she relaxed and let her mind start to fill in the blanks, she unconsciously gripped Clint's hand tighter. He reflexively tightened his hold on her, too.
She gradually remembered the dance club basement, destroying the computer system, setting the explosives, and fighting off the well-trained guards stationed there. It was quite the hand-to-hand combat - those guys were better than either she or Clint had anticipated. Somehow S.H.I.E.L.D underestimated their skills. But, beyond a few bruises and scratches, she wasn't hurt during the mission. Certainly nothing that resulted in a hospital stay and life-saving equipment. What happened next?
Ok, there was lots of snow… And the bar… Oh, that's right, the grenade.
Chapter 4
"Because…" As soon as Clint began to speak, Natasha held her hand up to his lips. His first thought was that she didn't want to hear his answer. Perhaps she had the same fears that he did. That thought was quickly washed away when he recognized the sound of motorcycle engines. Lots of them. As he met Nat's eyes she gave him a wink and darted her eyes toward the back door. She casually got up from the table and walked toward the back door.
As she took her fourth step, the front door swung open bringing a rush of cold air and a cloud of snow into the bar. She turned around in time to see two small black objects roll out of the snow and onto the floor. Without hesitation she pulled Clint out of the booth and forced his body toward the back of the bar. She used the weight of his body to propel herself forward toward the grenades.
As her body hit the floor she heard his panicked cry, "Natasha, no!" She was able to pick up the first one and toss it back out the door into the pack of bikers. The second grenade continued to ricochet off of bar stools. She remembered yelling for him to get the hell out of there and then a flash. And then… nothing.
No, wait. That's not true. There was something. Something tickled the back of mind, just out of reach. What was it? Focus Natasha, focus.
She was getting frustrated with herself. With her body for being weak, with her mind for having more questions than answers. "Unfurrow those brows, Agent Romanoff. You won't be happy with the wrinkles in your old age," came a tired voice.
"At this rate, I won't live long enough to have to worry about it," came her reply, though her voice was more of a gritty whisper than her usually sultry timbre. She opened her eyes to see her partner sitting on her bed, holding her hand in his lap, and staring at her face.
"And that line of thinking is exactly what put you in this hospital bed in Prague. Pleased with your work?"
"Actually, I am. If I hadn't taken out the grenades, you wouldn't be here to harass me."
He lifted his right hand and lightly traced her face and picked up an errant red curl and twisted it around his finger. "That is what we have to talk about."
"There's nothing to talk about. I trust you to have my back and you trust me to have yours. It's what we do," she said softly while concentrating on the feel of his hand in her hair.
"That's true, but there's so much more to it than that. For me," he added in a whisper.
His whisper - that was the missing piece. She heard his voice in a hushed whisper right after the grenade flash. He whispered in her ear from the moment he found her body in the wreckage, while he field dressed her life-threatening wounds, while the S.H.I.E.L.D. team dropped in directly at their location, while she was transported to the hospital, in the recovery area, and in her room any time he was awake. He whispered to her all his deepest thoughts, secrets, feelings. Ummm, yep, all of them, she thought as they rushed back to her in snippets. Nat, you can't leave me. I don't have anyone else. / You're the most beautiful woman in the world. / You're the better part of me. / Pepper had these lilacs flown in for you because you told her once they're your favorite flower. / You have to believe in something more. / Tasha, open your eyes, see through the pain. / Let me help you. / I will not let you die, I won't let your casket drop. / There's so much to tell you. There's so much we can share. / Natalia Alianovna Romanova, I…
She snapped her attention back to him. Surely she imagined all that. She was not deserving of affection, of tenderness, of… love. Her eyes were open wide, her eye brows were half way up her forehead.
"Nat, what's wrong?" Clint asked with concern. "Can you breathe? What's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Aren't you tired of talking to me yet?" she quipped. "You've been talking to me for how long now?"
"If you count just hospital days, it's been 4 days and roughly 22 hours. If you include extraction and travel time, it bumps up to 5 days and 3 hours. Give or take," he nonchalantly replied. "I could go on for another 45 or 50 years, so no, I'm not tired of talking to you."
"I guess I owe you more than two cents for all those thoughts, huh?"
"How much did you hear?" he asked with some trepidation.
"How much do you want me to have heard?" she reasoned.
She was giving him an out, an option, an exit strategy. Only Natasha could get away with that. Based on the shocked look on her face, she'd remembered a lot of what he'd said. Maybe even the biggest confession of all. And she was willing to go on like she didn't know. Who were they kidding, really. They were the best in the business. They knew how each felt about the other. But how far were they willing to go with that intel?
He stopped playing with her hair, removed his left hand from hers and placed his hands on either side of her face. "I'll give you the abridged version of 5 days worth of rambling: Natalia Alianovna Romanova, I love you."
She wasn't imagining this. She could feel his hands, feel his breath on her face, see the weight of this moment in his eyes. She couldn't help herself as she felt her face contort into a bright smile. She watched as his face mirrored a smile back to her. Then slowly he brought his face down to hers and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, then her right temple, then her cheek.
He pulled back and let his eyes roam over her features. He'd been staring at her for days and had memorized every pore on her face, every hair on her head. But with her eyes open and looking back at him, into his very soul, he saw her for the first time, the real Natalia.
With a deep, painful breath, she replied, "I love you, too. And will love you until my casket drops."
His smile got unbelievably bigger as he leaned down towards her again. Just before his lips touched hers, he replied, "Then it's in my best interest to make sure that never happens."