Seven grams of an explosive compound that doesn't officially exist, and the lock is no more. In the greenish light of her night-vision goggles, Natasha watches the point man kick the door wide open and get out of the way. Another agent goes to one knee on the ground to the right of the door frame. He sticks his head in and scans the corridor, weapon at his shoulder, ready to take out anything that moves inside.
"Clear," he calls and motions the Strike team forward.
They file by her, not bothering to keep their movements silent any longer. Breaching a door with a shaped charge makes stealth a moot point. Natasha stays at the back of the pack. Her presence here is a courtesy.
The corridor is lined with doors, some open, some closed, some locked. The team splits up, one group staying in the corridor, the other continuing forward. Singer shrugs his pack off by the first locked door. She pulls her goggles off as he turns his flashlight on and puts it on the floor by his boots. The low angle of light throws long, black shadows after the team that's moving away.
She glances back the way they came. Two agents are already crouching by the door they blasted through, covering the blind corner beyond it. She knows she doesn't really have to check, the teams are well trained, but it's instinct to watch her back.
Singer and the guy whose name she can never remember set the small charges, working quickly and silently in the near darkness. Gunshots and shouting are heard from deeper into the compound, but it's not close, not an immediate threat.
"Ready?" Singer asks.
Natasha nods.
"Fire in the hole!" he shouts and the call is daisy-chained down the hallway. Natasha turns and puts her hands over her ears.
Boom. Room one is empty.
Boom. Room two is empty.
Boom. Room three isn't.
"Asset located," Singer says into his comm.
Natasha waits until Singer has secured the room, made sure there are no hostiles in there, but the moment he gives the all clear signal, she's inside. The room is dark, the light on the barrel of Singer's assault rifle is all there is in there. He is already kneeling next to Clint who is curled up on the floor by the far wall. He isn't moving, and Natasha's breath catches for a moment. Singer pulls one glove off with his teeth and puts his fingers against Clint's neck. Clint flinches into life with a fractured, ragged sound, and Natasha is on the floor next to Singer so fast she skins her knees.
Clint's arms are raised in front of his face defensively. His breath hitches and wheezes. Natasha exchanges a look with Singer. He gets to his feet without a word, and takes up a position by the door, a silent, unmovable sentinel.
She counts slowly to five.
"Barton?"
At first there's no recognition in his eyes as he stares up at her from behind his arms. Then he blinks, and he's there, Clint is there.
"Natasha?" he rasps. He lowers his arms stiffly.
Her smile feels forced. "That's my name. Don't wear it out." It's an old thing between them, a poke at the purposely awful jokes Clint tells her all the time. This time he doesn't smile.
Someone apparently found a light switch outside, because suddenly the room is bathing in light. Clint winces. Natasha bites down on the curse that rises to her lips, because there's blood in the whites of his eyes, and the skin under them is a dull ruddy color. Bruising around his throat. Scratches on his face and neck.
She knows what this is.
Clint draws a wobbly breath and lets his head fall back to the floor like he's too weak to hold it up. An angrily red ligature mark snakes around his neck, and the tightness in Natasha coils into something cold and dangerous. Anyone in this goddamn bunker who isn't wearing SHIELD black is going to die if she gets her hands on them, and Fury can go fuck himself if he has a problem with it.
But that's going to have to wait. She reluctantly pushes the anger down, it's of no use in here. Of no use to Clint. She starts cataloguing the rest of his visible injuries. What she can see is minor, but she knows appearances can be deceiving. Scrapes, bruises, a fat lip, and there are signs of a recent nose bleed. It must have been bleeding while he was lying down, because a drying trail runs from his nose to his ear and disappears into his hair. Clint starts to say something, but his voice breaks and he starts coughing drily. It apparently hurts, because he makes a thin sound of pain.
Then there's noise in the corridor outside, running and voices. Singer doesn't move, which means it's friendlies. The medics. But Clint makes a horrible, strangled noise and starts struggling to get his hands and knees under himself.
"Clint—" She puts his hand on his arm, but he recoils from it, backs right into the wall.
"No, I don't want— I don't—"
"It's just the medics, Barton," she reassures him. "They'll take care of you."
He goes small and scared in front of her. "No," he moans.
Natasha's stomach clenches at the sound. "Clint—"
"No. I'll move, I'll— Please, I'll do it." His teeth start chattering.
"Singer," she says over her shoulder, and it's all she has to say. A second later loud protests are heard from the approaching medics, which means he has placed his six-foot six self in their path.
"I think we need to give Agent Barton a little space here, ladies and gentlemen."
Natasha sits back on her heels, places her hands flat on her thighs. Non-threatening.
"Clint. They're not going to hurt you. I won't let them."
He holds himself still, head low, frozen on his hands and knees. She can see the muscles in his arms trembling.
"It's just you and me here. You're safe."
Nothing.
"Come on, Barton," she coaxes gently. "Olly olly oxen free."
It takes about ten seconds, then she sees the first signs that he's coming back to himself. It's a minute change in the lines of his shoulders, in the way he holds his head. His breathing slows a little. The trembling doesn't stop, but it diminishes. When he pushes back to sit on his heels, hunched over, hands still flat on the floor, she knows he's back. Partially, at least. He starts coughing.
"Hey there," she says quietly when it tapers out.
"I don't want to crawl anymore," he mumbles thickly. He doesn't lift his head. "Natasha. I don't want to."
The anger inside her is so cold it burns. "No one here will make you crawl, Clint. I swear. Anyone who tries will regret it until they die. Which will be about three seconds later."
She helps him sit back up and steadies him when he starts listing. He leans heavily against her side.
They sit in silence on the cold floor. The shooting further inside the compound has stopped. Clint's scratchy breath shudders every now and again, but some of the tension is bleeding out of him.
"Feel better?" she asks when her knees start to hurt from the hard floor.
He turns his face into her jacket. "Not really." When Natasha glances down she gets a close-up look at the rope burn on his neck. "Tired," he mumbles.
She rests her chin against the top of his head. "I know."
She does. She's been where he is.
There's a rustle behind her, and Natasha looks over her shoulder. Singer has taken up his position in the doorway again. He's looking as grim as she feels. Clint must have felt her shift, because he lifts his head. He blinks like the light is bothering him, and then his eyes settle on Singer. Natasha is not surprised at seeing agent Barton slide in. It's not the smooth, seamless transition she's used to, and it's a pretty pathetic agent that shows up, but for now the Clint only she gets to see is gone.
"Hey there, Big Ugly," Agent-Clint rasps out. He sits up a fraction, doesn't lean quite as much on her.
"Please, I'm prettier than you will ever be."
Natasha shakes her head sadly. "Delusional," she stage-whispers to Clint.
"Your vote doesn't count, Romanoff. You're desensitized from prolonged exposure." Singer rests his forearms casually against the rifle slung across his front. It's a deceptively relaxed pose, but Natasha sees the tension underneath. He's worried, too.
Then something apparently happens on the comms, because his eyes flit to the side and he goes distant the way people do when listening to something. He gives an acknowledgment, then turns back to Natasha.
"Don't know about you kids, but I'm pretty damn done with this dump. You ready to hit the road?"
Clint snorts at 'kids', but it apparently hurts, because he winces. Then winces when the wince hurts. His hand comes up to his throat.
Natasha helps him scoot back to lean against the wall. "Will you let them look you over? You know how twitchy they get if they don't get their daily dose of poking and prodding."
Clint closes his eyes. He clears his throat. "Yeah, sure."
Singer says something over his shoulder and a second later three medics are on the doorstep. Natasha watches Singer catch one of them by the arm and pull him over a little. It's a young man, and he looks suitably intimidated by being shanghaied by 220 pounds of heavily armed muscle, all kitted out in black Strike gear. Singer leans in, and Natasha suspects he's imparting a short but important list of dos and don'ts when treating an injured field agent who has been subjected to god knows what, and who knows how to kill a person seventeen ways with his bare hands.
Not that she thinks it's likely that Clint will lash out here and now, he doesn't seem to be in that head space. And they've never counted, but she's pretty sure Clint knows more than seventeen ways.
Natasha takes a spot at the wall and lets them work. The team leader swings her pack off her shoulder and kneels in front of Clint. She introduces herself as Carson, and Natasha watches her eyes flit over the bleeding in his eyes and the mark on his neck. They're hard to miss. In the next breath Carson orders the kid closer and instructs him to immobilize Clint's head. Natasha feels cold. She hadn't thought of neck injuries. There hadn't been anyone to tend to her who knew a damn about things like that.
"I'm fine," Clint mumbles. "No broken neck. Promise."
"Humor me, okay," Carson says. "Breathing feels okay?"
"Yeah."
She turns and takes the neck brace her colleague hands her. She shows it to Clint. "You gonna be okay if I put this on?"
Clint tries to nod, but the kid's hold prevents much movement. The newbie looks so nervous that in another situation it would have been amusing. "Yeah. I'm good."
He isn't.
The moment Carson starts securing the brace around his neck, Natasha sees his stress levels go through the roof. She's pushing away from the wall before she even realizes it. Singer is moving closer as well. Probably to haul Carson out of the way should it become necessary. Natasha will get the kid, because even if Clint doesn't resort to violence, a panicked escape attempt might result in collateral damage.
Carson apparently picks up on Clint's distress, too, because she stops in mid-motion. "You okay?"
"No," he says hoarsely. His breath has has gone harsh and wheezing again. His nails make a dry sound against the floor as he clenches his hands into fists. His eyes flit over to Natasha.
"Okay. Okay. Agent Barton, it's okay," Carson says as she efficiently undoes the Velcro strap she fastened, then lifts her hands where he can see them.
Smart woman.
"Deep breath. Take a deep breath. I'm not going to do anything."
It takes a few minutes, but Clint finally relaxes a little and Natasha returns to her wall.
Carson sits back on her heels. "I understand that this isn't something you want to do right now, but it's important. You could have a neck injury, and you might not even realize it at this point."
"I don't."
"Like I said, you might not even realize it."
"There's nothing wrong with my neck," he insists hoarsely. His voice is still tight, but his breathing has left hyperventilation territory.
"How about head straps? Nothing around the neck." She points at the gurney by the door. "I'm thinking those orange things. They go on the sides of your head, and—"
"Doc, I know what they are and where they go."
"Okay." She waits a beat. "So? Go or no go?"
Clint reluctantly agrees to being strapped down on the spine board, and Natasha breathes a sigh of relief. At least she doesn't have to worry about a paraplegic Clint. There are plenty of other things to worry about right now, but that's a big one, and she's happy to put it to rest. He gets an IV catheter in his hand. Fluids, Carson tells him as she tapes it down and connects the IV bag. She beckons Natasha over and tells her to hold it.
More questions are fired at Clint as they work around him. Breathing still okay? Yeah. Any difficulty swallowing? A little. Hurts. Carson shines a light down his throat. Any coughing? Yes. Did you lose consciousness at any time? Yes. More than once? Yes. How many times? Don't know. For how long? Don't know.
Eventually, they wrap things up and lift Clint onto the gurney. They haven't gotten more than a few steps down the corridor when he makes a choked noise.
"Sick," he groans. "Gonna be sick."
The medics move immediately. Natasha feels desperately useless as she stands back and watches them log roll her partner to his side as he vomits. Clint moans pitifully when they roll him back. Carson lets him catch his breath.
"Let me know when you're okay to continue. Take your time."
Clint squeezes his eyes shut. "Can you check back in June, Doc?"
Carson checks the straps of the head brace. "July okay? I'm getting married in June and I'd rather not have to take a day out of the preps or my Hawaiian honey moon to return to this god-forsaken place."
"No can do. Washing my hair in July," he mumbles. He's starting to sound distant and Natasha suspects there's some kind of light sedative in the drip. She hopes there is.
"Bummer. Okay, my final offer is…" Carson checks her watch. "Three minutes. How does that sound?"
"Not as good as June."
Carson just pats his arm and three minutes later, on the dot, they get moving again.
It's a long, silent flight. Clint sleeps most of it, but Natasha stays by his side. She'd be lying if she said it was all for him.