AN ASDFJKL; I JUST HAVE A LOT OF CLINTASHA FEELS AND THEY MUST BE UNLEASHED.

Originally, this was going to be a oneshot, but then I realized it would have been a behemoth and no one likes reading ridiculously long chapters, so I've broken it up. Hopefully I'll be able to update super quickish so it doesn't interfere with my other stories (hopefully). Otherwise, just enjoy!

Everything in parentheses are song titles by Regina Spektor.

denial (jessica)

Clint's mouth was dry as he waited outside. His leg was jittery, going up down up down faster than the club beat to the song playing over the speaker system in the waiting room. He glanced behind him for about the dozenth time in the last couple of minutes, then turned back around before he could identify the look on Natasha's face.

It wasn't real yet. He couldn't really believe it, because it just...didn't happen. Not to them. He and Natasha weren't superheroes but dammit, they weren't normal people. She had once been an important part of the KGB, then turned to work for the good of the United States of America, he had grown up in a freakin' circus and turned out to be the best damn sharpshooter SHIELD had seen in a long time. They weren't normal.

So why the hell is Natasha in there, like she's some average person made of glass? he thought to himself, chewing his cheek and turning his gaze to his hands. They were scarred and worn, but in the most comforting way. They said that he had made mistakes, but that he had learned from them and could do a whole hell of a lot. They just couldn't fix Natasha.

A ripple of anger at himself moved through Clint, because he was being ridiculous. He had had three whole days to adjust, seventy-two hours and a whole lot of down time to get it all through his head, but it wasn't coming. At one point a nurse had come by, all gentle smiles and easy understanding.

"Is she...are you her boyfriend?" She had raised her eyebrows in a way that was both understanding, unsure and questioning, the kind of look you only got when you were speaking to teachers, grandmothers and people in the medical field that didn't have hearts of ice. She had perched on one of the thin armrests beside him, like she wanted something more familiar than standing but didn't have time to sit all the way. Her name tag said 'Joyce', a name that suited her soft features and blonde wavy hair.

"Uh, yeah, I am," he said, because that was so much easier than saying no and trying to explain what their relationship really was. He knew he'd just mess it up. Natasha had always been the one good with the words.

The woman nodded, looking past him through the glass at Natasha. He kept himself facing forwards, eyes on his knees.

"How are you handling it?"

"I'm not, really. I've had a few days for it to sink in, but it's just...bouncing off." Clint was a little impressed that his voice didn't sound like it was being squashed flat, considering how little room he felt between his vocal cords and the lump in his throat.

"That's pretty common. It falls under the steps of grieving . Most people think that only happens after a person dies, but it can occur at any moment, for anything. Denial is first, then you have anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance."

Clint nodded again. He'd heard it all before, each SHIELD agent heard it at least once while in training, because shit happened in the field and people didn't always come back. It was nice to hear from Joyce's mouth, though. She actually meant it to help, and not as a cold warning to not get too attached.

"You can never really say how long it's going to take a person to go through each stage, or even what makes them go through it. It could be over their own death, or that of a friend's, or some other loss, and it lasts for a few minutes or even years. I knew a woman who refused to accept the fact that her husband was cheating on her for months, and then when it came to a head, she went through the last four steps in less than a day and left him."

"Now that's a woman I think I could get along with," Clint laughed. His voice sounded like sandpaper and sadness.

Joyce smiled, shrugging.

"She was kind of a kick in the pants." She glanced at her watch, then stood up. "I've got to go, but if you need anything, a bit of conversation, some reassurance, a muffin or even a hug, I'm at the help desk."

He nodded, smiling at her.

"Thanks. I'll remember that."

She smiled back, gave a little nod and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, letting it slide off as she walked away.

Clint sat there a moment, then put his head in his hands.

A few minutes later the door clicked open, and he looked around, tense and hopeful.

"Mister Barton?" a tall man with a dark moustache asked. Clint stood up, running a hand through his hair.

"Can I...can I talk to her now?"

"...Yes. Just...be considerate."

He nodded and walked past the man, eyes on Natasha, even though it hurt.

She looked so, so tired. Dark bags were under her eyes, and she looked sickeningly pale, not a hint of pink in her skin. Even her bright red hair looked dull. Natasha wasn't looking at him as he walked in, which didn't worry him at first. Her eyes were on something on the other side of her window, watching it with little interest. After a moment she turned them to him, and he wanted to turn around and walk right back out at the sight of how dead she looked inside.

This isn't Natasha. This is someone else, it's a mistake, she's somewhere else with a busted arm or rib or something and that's why she's here, not because of—

"Hi Clint," she said after a moment, voice raspy. His mouth twitched in a smile, more out of habit than anything.

"Hey, Tasha. You look great in that gown."

"Thanks. Cancer and tacky blue daisies do wonders for a girl."

Clint swallowed, trying not to feel sick.

"How're you feeling?" he asked, because you had to ask it at some point and now was that point and he thought he might turn around and run if he didn't say something to keep himself in place. He didn't even like hospitals in the first place, they made his skin crawl. Now, when it was for Natasha's—now it was just worse.

"Tired," she said, "tired and like I want to puke."

He nodded, looked around. A fruit basket was sitting beside her bed, tacky and looking like it had been picked up from Wal-Mart the day before. It had been opened, but otherwise untouched.

"If you'll excuse me," the doctor said, making Clint start and look back at him. He had forgotten the man was even there, "I'll just step out. Other patients to attend to, and...you should be allowed to talk by yourselves."

He said this while looking mostly at Natasha, but he gave a firm nod to Clint, which he returned. The door sounded like bones breaking when it closed.

Clint stood there in the middle of the room for a second, awkward, unsure what to do. It felt like he was in a cage, one of the frustrated lions that he had grown up with, waiting to have the whip cracked so he could jump through a hoop.

"You gonna stand there?" she asked, and Clint just looked at her, because he didn't have an answer. It felt like he had been punched in the stomach when he saw that her eyes were suddenly red, and tears were about to flow over.

"Clint, please, say something to me."

"I can't," he whispered, wanting to go over there and touch her face, make himself believe that all of this is real, all of it is happening, and he can't just wake up and brush it off.

"Clint," she said, voice breaking, "I don't wanna die."

He hadn't ever heard her break like this. He'd seen her cry a handful of times, but that was because she was either having a bone being set or relocated, or she was faking it. She had been great at it, knew how to make her jaw tremble as though she were scared to say the words, her eyebrows furrow just right, her voice even shake. Natasha had been so good at pretending to cry, now it was real and it looked fake.

That's how he knew that she wasn't acting, though. Natasha Romanoff didn't half ass anything.

He walked over to her, half ran, really, and threw his arms around her neck. She gave a gaspy sob and held on to him like she was tipping, like the whole world had been set on its hinges and could flip either way but he was safe, he was the only thing firm, the only thing that would keep her anchored. The thought was so hilarious to Clint it hurt, because he was doing good to just keep breathing.

He closed his eyes, told himself not to think about it.

Focus on her hair, he told himself, over and over. Think about how it feels as you hold her head, about how gorgeous it is in the sunlight, what it smells like after she's just taken a shower.

After a while, she pulled away, wiping her face with a hand. He looked away at this, because she seemed far too human and he didn't like the look of the IV in her wrist.

"Who...who knows?" she asked, sounding normal again. Clint looked back, relieved that the only signs of crying left were slightly red eyes and nose.

"Not many. Fury, Agent Hill...everyone else thinks that you were poisoned."

She smiled, shrugging.

"That's good. Less fruit baskets for me to receive then feed you."

Clint grinned back at her, trying to shove the image of her collapsing from his head. He didn't know how he hadn't seen it earlier. Hawk's eyes? What a load of shit. He hadn't seen her hands shaking, or the way she'd winced as she'd gotten off the plane, or how her legs trembled. Clint hadn't even seen her fall, just sensed something was off in his periphery and turned, expecting some projectile, only to see Natasha half way to the ground.

They were silent for a while, alternately staring at each other and looking at everything but the other person in the room.

"How much longer they gonna keep you in here?" he asked, eyes on the curtain that was supposed to wrap around her bed.

"Not much longer. I think I get out tomorrow. Did...anyone else come to visit me?"

"No. I was sort of their ambassador."

"Thank you, Clint."

"For what?" he asked, finally turning to look at her. What was she thanking him for? He had had one job, and that was to keep her, his partner, safe. One damn thing to do, and he hadn't done it. She should be trying to kick in his knee caps, not thanking him.

Some people, people who didn't know her at all might have said that this could be her revenge. Her and that stupid psychological warfare, make him feel like crap for having failed her. But Clint knew better. Natasha wouldn't have done that, not to him, not to anyone. She had a heart.

Natasha shrugged, mouth open as though about to say something. Nothing came out.

He nodded, put his hands in his pockets.

"Alright. Alright. I'll...I guess I'll see you later, then." Clint leaned over and picked an apple from the basket, a bright gala that promised that somewhere else in the world, good things were happening. He took a bite from it, forced himself to smile, and waved at her.

Natasha waved back, looking even more tired and sad than when he had walked in.