Natasha scrambled back, away from the widening hole. Freezing water sloshed onto the sagging ice and over her hands, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought she would join Clint in the freezing water. She twisted sharply on the ice and log rolled herself toward safety. As she moved, she tried to keep the hole in view, waiting for him to reappear, but seconds passed and he didn't. He didn't. The current, she thought, her mind echoing the panic she'd heard in his voice when he told her how it pulled at him. The current must have swept him under the ice.

She kept rolling. The further away she got, the more solid the ice felt, but she didn't dare get up until she was right at the shore. She had to go after him. She had to follow the river downstream and find him, but as she scanned the dark water she realized with a sinking sensation that she would have to climb back up to the bridge and down the other side, because the abutment extended into the river and the rapids flowed free around it. There was no way for her to skirt around it down here without going into the water.

Going back up the slope wasn't as precarious as going down, but the angle was steep and she was breathing hard when she finally pulled herself up the last few feet. She climbed back over the snow bank, pausing only to listen for any cars approaching, but she heard nothing. Hopefully the traffic would be exactly as sparse as the statistic intel had indicated. It had been one of the reasons they had chosen the location, but statistics were just that, statistics - nothing but aggregated likelihoods and probabilities. Someone might decide to take a late-night drive and discover Fuller anytime. But there was nothing she could do about that. All she could do was to find Clint as soon as possible and get out of the area. She crossed the road and started down the other side.

Urgency overrode any last trace of caution as she skidded down the slope, and by the time she reached the river her hands were scraped bloody from gripping after icy rocks and rough branches while trying to stay on her feet.

She started following the shoreline downstream, wading through the near knee-deep snow as fast as she could. Every few seconds she called his name, but the river was louder on this side, and all she heard was the rushing roar of the water. It was a powerful, primal sound that normally appealed to her, but now it just added to the fear that was building inside. The sound meant danger, meant sharp rocks and violent water. It meant eddies and currents that could pull a body under the surface and trap it there for hours, days, weeks. She pushed those thoughts away. Clint would make it. He would. He wouldn't drown or get his head smashed open on the thousands of rocks above and below the surface. She would find him and get him to safety, get him dry and warm. He might be hurt, but he'd be alive. Anything else just wasn't an option.

The vegetation nearest the frozen waterline was dense and it made her progress difficult and slow. A stopwatch was running in her head - t minus zero the moment Clint had gone into the water - and the minutes were ticking away far too quickly. She called his name again, pausing for a moment to listen, her hand braced against a tree. She coughed drily. Her lungs and airways ached, protesting the combination of heavy exertion and freezing air, but despite the effort of running through the deep snow, she was trembling from the cold. It had been bad before, but with her jacket disappearing into the river and her shirt wet, it had rapidly escalated to miserable. But no matter how bad it was, she knew it was nothing - nothing - compared to how Clint must feel.

She pushed away from the tree and continued moving again. Continued searching again.

The rapids wasn't long, and soon the river quieted down, its rage abating as it was allowed to go deeper and wider again. Its rumble still dominated the forest around her, but the notes softened the further from the bridge she got. She kept shouting his name. When her timer passed ten minutes desperation began to seep in. If he'd made it through the rapids alive and conscious, he should've made it to shore by now, right? She did a full three-sixty degree turn and scanned every direction. What if she'd missed him? What if he was lying unconscious somewhere and she'd passed just feet away from him, not spotting him in the darkness? She reminded herself that he could have made landfall on the other shore. That could be why she hadn't found him yet.

She was debating doubling back and making her way to the opposite side of the river when she suddenly spotted something in the darkness that made the thought evaporate.

A sharp, ragged gash bisected the snow ahead.

Someone or something had passed here. Let it be Clint, she prayed as she hurried forward. Please, let it be him and not a deer or some other animal. Relief crashed in as she closed in on the disturbed snow. It was footprints, fresh footprints, leading away from the river. She followed them, trying to collect as much information about his state as possible from what she could see. The snow was pockmarked all along, but it was too dark to see if it was just water dripping off him, or if he was bleeding too. The footprints were unevenly spaced, the path anything but straight. A short distance on, they told her he'd fallen, had crawled through the snow on his hands and knees before getting to his feet again.

Less than a minute later she found him. Her eyes first skated right over him, making him out to be just another dark shadow next to a massive fallen tree, but something about it made her attention stutter and snap back to it.

"Clint!" she shouted as she stumbled through the snow toward him. She dropped to her knees and cupped his face. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he was curled up tightly, arms and legs pulled to his body, his chin tucked close against his chest. Full-body shivers ran through him. "Hey," she panted. She patted his cheek. His skin was wet and horrifyingly cold. "Hey, wake up."

"Natasha?" His teeth were chattering so hard her name was barely recognizable.

"Yeah," she said, her voice catching on the massive relief. "Yeah, it's me."

"Cold," he groaned.

She looked him over as best she could in the darkness, checking for obvious injuries. She could see water still dripped freely from him, and she thought she could make out a darker trail that seemed to stem from somewhere above his ear. She turned his head a little to identify where the blood was coming from, but it was too dark. It didn't look like it was bleeding much at the moment, but the blood vessels were constricted by the cold and she knew it would likely start to bleed more once he warmed up. She ran her hands down what she could reach of his arms and legs. His wet clothes were stiff, encrusted with icy snow that had stuck to him when he'd fallen. She finished her quick examination, relieved when she didn't find any obviously broken bones.

"Can you get up?"

"Cold," he said again, and tried to curl up even more.

"I know. I'll get you somewhere warm," she promised.

She draped his arm over her shoulder and dragged him up from the snow. He staggered heavily and she wrapped her arm around his waist to keep him on his feet. He half-turned and pressed himself against her side, grasping for any scrap of body heat she could share. Ice water seeped through her clothes at every point of contact between them and she clenched her teeth against the hiss that wanted to escape.

Moving with Clint clinging to her like that was awkward, but she managed. With the river at their backs and the terrain firmly memorized from hours spent studying maps, she led them toward the logging road that ran parallel to the river, half a mile away. It would be faster to follow her own tracks back to the bridge and then follow the main road to the logging road, but the last thing she wanted was for someone to drive by and stop to ask if they needed help. Not with the dead bodies waiting to be discovered on the bridge and Clint soaking wet, looking like death.

It was slow going. Clint's staggering grew worse with every passing minute, what little coordination he had left was fading fast. It was becoming increasingly clear that remaining upright would soon be beyond him. She would follow him down the slippery slope of hypothermia soon enough, her own wet clothes would make sure of that. The only saving grace was that she had more time than he did, and she would use every minute of that to get him somewhere warm.

She shifted her grip around his waist, tried to find a better one. She couldn't feel the stinging scrapes on her hands any longer, the nerves had shut down their normal pain responses in favor of the deep, grueling ache caused by the cold. She was guiding Clint around a fallen tree when her boot slipped on something under the snow and she stumbled heavily, her own coordination starting to fall victim to the cold. She managed to stay on her feet, but the unexpected shift in balance was all it took for Clint to go down. His full weight proved too much for her and she went to her knees with him.

The trees towered dark and tall above them, and this far from the river, the whisper of the wind could be heard over their ragged breathing. Clint let his forehead drop against her shoulder. His hair, already stiff with forming ice, brushed against the side of her jaw.

"How far?" he panted. He was shaking uncontrollably against her.

She tightened her arm around him and pressed him close, tried to share some of her own waning body heat. It didn't feel like she had any left. "Not long now," she promised, her own teeth chattering now. She hoped desperately she was right.

They shouldn't be too far away from the car now. Provided she hadn't led them seriously off course in the darkness. Her sense of direction was impeccable, and the murmur of the river behind them was a trustworthy reference, but with Clint literally freezing to death in her arms, this was not the time to risk anything. She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away from his chest. Her fingers felt wooden and clumsy as she pushed the wet sleeve up and tapped his watch, bringing up the digital compass. She compared it with her internal one and verified that they were heading in the right direction. She let go of his wrist and he immediately tucked his hand back close to his body.

She got her feet under herself and grabbed his arms, but he resisted moving. "Up," she ordered. She couldn't afford to let him rest, not now. "Come on, get up."

He tried, but even with Natasha's assistance he only got halfway before he lost his balance and his legs folded under him again. Frustration and desperation colored the wordless sound he made when he slumped back into the snow. "Jesus fuck," he moaned.

It took another two failed attempts to get him up, but finally they were moving again.

She'd been right about the distance, and it wasn't long until they finally reached the small logging road. They came out a just hundred yards beyond the car, and Natasha steered Clint toward it. Soon they'd be inside it. They would be warm. Warm. She felt like crying from wanting it so much. As she guided him down the road, she realized it wasn't just the cold and the difficult terrain that made Clint stagger; he was limping heavily.

"Status, Barton. What's the damage?"

"Dunno," he mumbled. "Hurts. Everything hurts." His words were starting to acquire a weirdly rounded quality. Enunciation was slipping out of his grasp.

She debated whether or not she should strip him out of his wet clothes right there by the side of the road. Despite the cold it might be better to get him out of them. The problem was that there wasn't even a blanket in the car; they'd only brought what they needed for the job. The rest of their things, including their bags with spare sets of clothes, were waiting in a nice, toasty parking garage forty-five miles away.

She dragged Clint to the car and propped him up against the side of it. No matter what she did it would be miserable for him, so she made the decision to leave him in his wet clothes for now. They needed to put distance between themselves and the dead people on the bridge. It would be okay. She would crank up the heat in the car and Clint could start getting out of his clothes while she was driving. If she had to, she could pull over and help him once they'd put a few miles behind them.

Her hand went to get the car key from her pocket, but she froze in mid-motion. For a brief moment the bitter night had nothing on the chill that went through her, because the key had been in her jacket. The one that had gone into the river with Clint, and gone were the days when something as easy as short-circuiting the starter motor would get a car running. Most modern cars were equipped with immobilizer systems that exchanged and compared encrypted electronic signatures with the ones in the key. Without the correct key the car wouldn't start, no matter which wires you short-circuited.

A second later it hit her. She'd had the key when they left the car, but had handed it to Clint before they split up. Relief washed through her.

"Clint, where's the car key?" When he didn't answer she grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "The key!"

He slowly began fumbling with the zipper on his jacket, but she pushed his shaking hands away. He was getting nowhere; his fingers were stiff beyond use and she didn't have time to wait. She pulled his zipper down. His jacket made a rough, scratchy sound as she pushed it open. Her fingers found the key fob in an inside pocket and she pulled it out. The doors unlocked with a distinct click and she ushered him to the front passenger seat. Seconds later she was in the driver's seat and started the car. As the engine came to life, the headlights flooded the dark forestscape with cold light. She stabbed aggressively at the heater button until the display told her it was at max.

Clint had hunched over in his seat, stuffed his hands into his armpits. "Heat," he groaned. "Now."

She tried to suppress her own shivering, but it was getting very hard. "It's coming. It will just take a few minutes for the car to get warm." She located the fan control and turned it down to just about zero. Blowing freezing air at him right now would be a very bad idea. She put her hand over the vent in the center panel. When she was satisfied that no more than a trickle of air was coming through, she started working her long-sleeved shirt up and over her head. The wet fabric stuck and clung to her, and God, she really didn't want take it off, didn't want to leave her thin undershirt as the only barrier against the bitter cold. She clenched her teeth and finally managed to get it off. She turned it over to get access to the relatively dry back. "Here," she said and pushed it into his hands. "Start getting dry."

Clint clumsily started rubbing her shirt over his face and hair, and she put the car in gear. She took them out onto the larger road, turning away from the bridge. Without looking she reached into the center console. Her trembling fingers closed on the energy bar that had been left over from their trip there. Right now Clint needed all the energy he could get to warm up. Keeping one hand on the cold steering wheel, she pulled the wrapper open with her teeth. She spat out the piece that came off and pulled the wrapper down before nudging Clint with it.

"Eat."

His ice cold fingers fumbled over hers, so she kept a hold of the bar until she was sure he had a good grip.

They didn't meet any cars, and a few miles down the road she turned onto a smaller road. She drove a few miles, then turned back onto a slightly larger one. She knew exactly where she was going; they had done a number of recon runs over the past thirty-six hours in preparation for the job, and their escape routes had been mapped out in detail.

She tilted her head in Clint's direction. His eyes were closed. He was still hugging himself, clutching the energy bar to his chest. She could see he hadn't eaten anything. "You doing okay there?" She knew there was preciously little that was 'okay' about him right now, but she wanted to keep him talking.

"Pretty f-fucking far from it," he mumbled.

She put her fingers to the vent again. The air coming through was a little warmer, but the car was still cold enough that her breath clouded in the low light of the instrument panel. "What do you say about a trip somewhere warm when we get back? Maybe Marco Island? I'd suggest Thailand, but the flight is too long for just a few days."

She was still speaking when Clint suddenly dropped the energy bar and groped blindly for the door handle. "Stop," he groaned. "Nat, Stop."

She pulled over to the side of the road. Clint shoved the door open before they had even stopped rolling, tumbling out onto his hands and knees. Natasha scrambled out of the car to the sound of him throwing up. A lot of water, she noted as she came around the front of the car. In the best of worlds this would just be his body ridding itself of what he had swallowed in the river, but she knew better. Judging from how she'd found him he had hit the ice hard when he fell, and his head had probably taken part of that impact. Then there was the ride down the rapids and the blood that still tricked from his head. It would be a miracle if this was anything other than a concussion.

She grabbed the back of his wet jacket and held him up when his shaking arms threatened to give out. She crouched down next to him, trying to get a better look at his eyes to guage his state, but they were screwed shut. "Look at me," she said, but he hunched down further. "Come on, look at me. What's the damage?"

He pressed his palm against his temple with a moan. Natasha tightened her grip on his jacket when he started listing. "Head hurts."

She nudged his hand away and quickly ran her fingers through his hair, starting at the base of his skull. She dragged them up over the crown of his head, then down the sides, feeling for contusions and bumps hiding beneath the shaggy spikes. He had a sizable lump on the right side of his head, just behind his ear. She probed it lightly with her fingers and his breath hitched. He made a clumsy grab for her wrist, but she blocked him and continued.

She was almost done when he shoved her away and pitched forward to throw up again. It was still mostly water coming up. Natasha settled on her knees next to him and slid her hand to the back of his neck. She kept it there, offering a grounding point, a reminder that even as miserable as he was, as cold and wet and hurting, he wasn't alone.

As she waited, she scanned the dark winter road behind and in front of the idling car. No lights or houses in sight. No cars approaching from either direction. No sirens in the distance yet. She knew it was just a matter of time before the latter changed, and she would very much like to be further away when it did. She looked down when Clint coughed wetly, his back and posture relaxing a fraction as the heaving stopped.

Natasha had to make use of the car door to get to her feet, she felt stiff and clumsy from the cold. "Come on, we have to go." She kept her hand on the car as she leaned down and slipped her arm under his.

He said something Natasha couldn't make out.

"What?" she asked as she started to pull him up.

"Not sure I'm done."

"Puke in the car if you have to. We have to get you out of the cold."

"Gross," he mumbled as she got him situated in the passenger seat again.

She got back behind the wheel and did a quick U-turn. She needed to revise her strategy, needed to find somewhere close by where they could stay for a few hours, just long enough for Clint to get his temperature back up, because this wasn't working.

She doubled back half a mile and turned onto a road they had passed. Research had told them there was nothing but a few hunting cabins out this way, and she figured that was their best bet right now. She glanced over and saw that his eyes were closed again.

"Talk to me. How are you doing?"

"Everything hurts," he mumbled hoarsely.

"Specifics, Barton. What hurts?"

Instead of answering he groaned and shoved his head between his knees. The sound of wetness hitting the floor was heard.

"I'm finding us somewhere to hole up for a while," she told him as she navigated the increasingly narrow road. "We'll get you warm."

Clint stayed bent over and made an exhausted, shivery sound into the darkness between his boots.

Reaching out, she checked the heaters again. They were finally, finally producing warm air. She cranked the fans up a little, but turned the vents in the center of the dash safely away from Clint. Even with the air warming up, too much airflow on him when he was still in wet clothes would only cause faster evaporation, drawing more body heat from his already sorely reduced reserves.

She reached across Clint's still hunched over form, trying get to the vent on the far side of him, but it was too far. She poked his arm. "Turn the vent away from yourself. Toward the window."

He stayed bent over, but pawed blindly at the glove compartment by his head. He was nowhere near the vent.

"Further to the right."

"What?"

"The right. Further to the right."

His shaking hand stopped fumbling at the panel. He turned his head and squinted up at her. "What?"

Natasha flexed her fingers around the steering wheel. They definitely needed to find somewhere to stop. Clint's cognitive functions were starting to go off-line.

A snowed-over driveway appeared in the dark, and she slowed down to a crawl as she passed it. She could just about see the outlines of the cabin at the far end. She pulled over and killed the engine. "Stay here. I'm going to do some recon. I'll be right back."

He didn't uncurl from his hunched over position, but he nodded, so she got out and closed the door quickly behind her. She did a quick detour around the trunk of the car to retrieve the spare flashlight, then doubled back toward the driveway. She shined the light up the long, narrow driveway. The snow was untouched. No tire tracks. No footprints. Hopefully that meant the cabin was empty.

It was small and weather-beaten. A porch lined the front, its roof sagging slightly in the middle. It adding to the understated feeling of neglect that wrapped around the entire place. As she approached quietly she hoped it was another sign it wasn't occupied. No lights were seen. No car stood parked around the far side. Natasha skirted around to the back and found a door and a single small window facing the rear of the property. She peered through the window. A small room. A rustic bunk bed was propped against the far wall, and she tensed for a moment before her brain caught up to the fact that the dark shape on the lower bunk wasn't a person. It was a balled-up blanket, tossed haphazardly on the naked mattress.

A blanket. And a bed. In a few minutes she and Clint could be in there, curled up under that blanket, maybe under multiple blankets, and God, she wanted to break the window and crawl inside right now, she was so cold. But before that could happen she needed to secure the rest of the cabin, and she needed to get Clint, so she moved on to the door. She had to rise up on her toes to look through the dusty glass panel. Shadows moved inside as she shined the light in a slow arc across the room. The open space stretched all the way to the front of the cabin, opening up to two rooms on the left. The walls were covered with wood panels, and a number of deer antlers had been mounted over the couch by the wall to her right. A low coffee table was littered with empty beer bottles that glittered dully as the light passed over them. No one in there, either.

The closest adjoining door led to the small bedroom she'd just surveyed, the other to what she guessed was a kitchen, because she spotted the corner of a table and a chair through the doorway. She rounded the cabin and took a closer look through the side window. It was indeed a kitchen, and it, too, was empty.

She hurried back to the car. When she got there, she saw that Clint hadn't moved an inch, he was still hunched over. She got in, reversed the car and took them up the driveway to the cabin. She parked off to the side, as far away from the road as she could. The tire tracks would be a dead giveaway in case someone who knew this cabin was supposed to be empty came around, but it couldn't be helped. Leaving the car by the side of the road would be even more conspicuous.

She rounded the car and opened Clint's door. She grabbed his feet and pulled them out the car. He mumbled something that had a decidedly unflattering ring to it, but his voice was too slurred to make out the words.

"I've got something much better than this old car lined up," she promised as she reached inside and draped his arm over her shoulder. "A bed. And warm, dry blankets."

She got him up and dragged him toward the cabin. He was hanging heavily off her, hardly taking any of his own weight, and she could feel he wasn't shaking continuously any longer. The deep, violent tremors were coming in waves, separated by long seconds of nothing. She tightened her grip around him. It wasn't improvement. It was the opposite of improvement. He had reached the point where he was unable to sustain even this most primal attempt at generating heat. A few minutes in a moderately warm car hadn't made a dent; his body was shutting down.