Tony had been successful in his warnings preceding the explosion. Clint, Bruce and Steve had made it out of the plant, just before the first shockwave rocked and destroyed the building. They hadn't made it far enough to escape injury, however. Clint received a gash in his forehead from a flying piece of shattered window, while Steve found himself with heavy bruising on his left arm and shoulder. Bruce had been lucky, a little battered and breathing heavily, but uninjured and still Bruce, rather than the other guy. The three watched in horror as heavy black smoke billowed up from the decimated plant, stinging their eyes and causing them to cough heavily, the acrid fumes of burning chemicals searing their throats.

Clint is the first to act. Pressing the heel of his palm to the wide gash through his left eyebrow, he squints at the wreckage, trying to see through the flames growing steadily higher and the blood stubbornly streaming from beneath his hand. He stumbles forward, before regaining his balance and quickening his pace. Steve tries to grab his arm, yelling some warning about the flames and smoke, but Clint tears his arm out of the grasp, and keeps moving. He is nearly to the broken doorway when Steve grabs him bodily from behind, and pulls him away.

"You can't go in there! The fire is too big!" Shouted the soldier, still struggling to drag him away from the doorway. Clint turned to face him, and using his bloodied hand, he tries to punch Steve, shouting himself hoarse as the other man dodged and yelled back. The words barely registered, something about calling Fury and too dangerous to go back in, you'll be no help if you're dead but Clint doesn't listen, he can't listen because damn it, Natasha is inside the burning wreckage and if he doesn't go back for her, she will die and that is something Clint can not allow. He spent too much time keeping her alive to stand back and watch her burn. The men are still struggling against each other when Bruce drops to his knees, and stands again, huge and green. Without so much as a glance at the two men, Hulk lumbers into the fire, tearing obstacles out of his way with righteous anger and bellows. Blood flows from his wound freely now as Clint jerks himself out of Steve's hold, and the two watch as the Hulk disappears into the fire and smoke. It feels like an agonizingly long time before he returns again, with a blackened metal body slung over his shoulder.

Tony is carefully put on the ground, and the Hulk backs away cautiously, lowering himself to his knees, before shrinking back into Bruce. Bruce seems to collapse into the dirt, the fire casting shadows over his smoke streaked face. Clint watches from the corner of his eye as Steve runs to him, tries to pull the mask from his face and hissing when hot metal burns his palms. Clint looks back into the fire. He should, perhaps, be concerned for Tony, in the hot metal suit. But he isn't. Maybe he will feel guilty about this later on, but right now he is taking advantage of Steve's attempts to get the scorching metal off of Tony, right now he is throwing himself forward, pulling his sweat soaked shirt up over his nose and diving through the doorway, blinking through blood and sweat and thundering through flames. He can't see a damned thing, his shirt is doing nothing to protect him from the smoke and it feels as if his throat and lungs are cooking in the heat. His head has now stopped bleeding, and blood crusts over his eye, sealing it shut. Fire licks at him from all directions, hot and heavy. Clint's skin is blistering and every cell in his body is screaming at him in pain, his mind is a raging conflict of wants and needs. He wants to get away from this fire, this pain. He wants to breathe clean air and not taste smoke and harsh fumes. He needs, needs to find Natasha. The sounds of wrenching metal grabs his attention, and he is forced to stumble backwards to avoid being hit by the falling support beam. The walls are literally collapsing around him, and every ounce of self preservation in his body is protesting, and he knows he should go back, get out and leave because if he stays much longer, it won't matter if he finds Natasha or not, soon they would both die in here. Clint pushes away the thought that she might already be dead. It's replaced with the realization that he wouldn't be bothered much by his own death. Of course he isn't running into the flames to welcome death, but if it happens, well, it isn't like he has much to live for anymore. Even less, if Natasha dies. His thoughts are interrupted as a hand grabs his arm, the steely grip threatening to break his bones as it yanks him back, and Steve shouts at him as he pulls him from the plant, "What the HELL are you thinking? Do you want to die? Are you asking to be killed?"

They both collapse outside, the hot dry air feels like a caress on Clint's blistered and burned skin. He vaguely hears Steve telling him not to go back in, and registers a feeble groan that sounds a lot like Tony. He doesn't care. For a moment Clint struggles to push himself off the ground, before giving up, and falling flat again. Every breath he takes sears his throat and lungs, and his head is spinning. He closes his eyes, and turns his head, pressing his nose into the dirt. There's no way Natasha survived. How could she? If the fire didn't burn her alive, the collapsing metal and stone would crush her to death. Even if she managed to dodge the rubble and flames, the smoke would smother her. Clint's fists went slack, and he presses his face harder into the ground. A small rock is painfully pressing against his cut eyebrow, reopening the wound. Soon his face is caked in blood and dirt, and he doesn't care. The last time he had spoken to Natasha, she had been trying to help him, and he had been cold. He had been distant and ignored her attempts to help him, the only person she gave two shits about. The throbbing in his head worsens. He had seen the hurt in her eyes at Stark Tower when he turned his back on her. Now she is dead. Her flesh burning and melting, her body crushed by metal and stone. Dead.


When Clint comes to, his ears are greeted with a quiet whirring noise, something akin to a fan, and beeping on his left. He tries to open his eyes, but it hurts, oh it hurts, so he keeps them closed and instead moves his arm, attempting to touch the gash above his left eye when a sharp pain in the crook of his elbow stops that movement, too.

"Yeah, I would just not move if I were you." Tony. So he was alive. He sounded like shit, but at least he could speak. Tony cleared his throat, but his voice was still faint and hoarse when he spoke again.

"You've got an IV and an oxygen mask, just so you know."

Clint nodded, disliking the pressure on his mouth. He didn't have to open his eyes to know he was back with S.H.I.E.L.D., in the medical bay. Tony wouldn't be this calm if they were captured, and the only hospital they ever went to was with S.H.I.E.L.D., no matter how much they tried to avoid Fury. It wasn't a bad facility, it was clean, organized, and generally equipped to deal with the injuries they usually show up with. Once, he had been stuck in here for a week, only surviving boredom because Natasha -

Natasha.

Clint opened his eyes. The light was piercing, immediately forming a headache, but he didn't blink. He accepted the sharp pain, feeling it ebb away into a dull throbbing behind his eyes. As they adjusted, he shifted his sight to the bed on the opposite end of the room. Tony looked worse than he sounded. Thick white gauze covered half his face, and his entire neck and shoulder. He was shirtless, and Clint could see the half of his chest that wasn't bandaged was stretched tight and shiny like a balloon, less severe burns scalded into his flesh. Tony quirked a smile, and said, "Turns out metal conducts heat. Who knew?"

Clint used his IV free arm to pull off the oxygen mask, then the IV from his other arm. His lungs still hurt, but not nearly as bad as he remembers. Clearly they had done some good while he was out cold. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and shook his head roughly, trying to compose himself enough to walk.

"Hey uh, you actually might want to stay in bed-" Clint stood, and began walking to the door. "Ok cool I'll just sit right here, I'd try and stop you but you know, one hell of a sunburn-"

His hand had just reached for the handle, when someone outside the door opened it. Steve, back in his civilian T-shirt and jeans, looked Clint up and down before ordering, "Back in bed."

Clint could have laughed. Steve stood in front of him, barring his way like Clint was some disobedient child who didn't want to take a nap. Steve stared back at him, impassive and unmoving. Clint made a move to reach for his arrows before he realized he didn't have them, he was in a patient issued shirt and pants, arrows not included. His jaw clenched, and his fingers curled up into a fist. Muscles tensing, Clint prepared to ram his fist into Rogers' nose-

"She wasn't there, you know."

He falters, arm lowering to his side.

"We searched the entire place, turned on the GPS in her communication equipment. No body in the plant, and we traced the GPS all the way to the Black Sea before we lost that."

His fingers unfurl, his hand is loose against his thigh.

"If you at least sit in the bed, I'll tell you what else we have."


He didn't really have much else, it turned out. They didn't know if she was alive or not, they didn't know where she was, all they knew is that she had somehow gotten from Bangladesh to somewhere over the Black Sea. Which then brought up the question, how the hell did she get there so fast? Clint was making a mental list of ways he could get to the Black Sea without Steve trying to stop him, when a booming voice drew his attention to the doorway.

"Friends!" Thor bellowed, striding into the room. His very presence seemed to bring energy, and Clint felt what was left of the hair on his arms stand on end. Thor looked at Clint, and then around to Tony. "My friends! Who has caused such pain and trouble for you?" Tony shrugged, then caught his breath, his face twisting into a pained grimace.

"Ah- yeah, we're working on that one." he groaned. "I can't use any of my tech here because Fury will try and hack it, and probably end up ruining my iTunes." Tony's heavily bandaged hand pressed the button for morphine, and the eye that wasn't covered in swaths of gauze fluttered closed. "And," he continued, his voice still hoarse and pained, "I refuse to let Fury send any of his goons to MY labs, because their grubby little hands will probably ruin everything."

Thor's eyebrows drew together, and he turned to Clint. "Can you not perform this task?"

Clint shook his head, disliking the static electricity he felt run over his scalp. Tony scoffed. Well, he tried. Instead of sounding condescending, it was quite pathetic. "I don't think anyone short of NASA could use my equipment. Well, no, scratch that. Bruce could do it, but even he wouldn't be able to -"

"Are you saying you require assistance?"

"Well, not require exactly, I would do it but I'm giving a little TLC to my sunburn at the moment."

Clint rubbed his hands over his face, the sharp pain over his eye a welcome distraction from Tony. He was so proud, couldn't ask for help when he needed it. Even for a friend, even for Natasha. Clint's jaw clenched, and the dull throbbing morphed into a pounding headache as Thor's voice steadily rose, assaulting his eardrums. How could they be so calm? How are they able to sit here, arguing over who got to touch Tony's stupid computers? Clint's blood quickened, the pounding in his head now harmonizing with the pulsing of blood in his ears and he was about to snap, ready to scream at them, show them just how pathetic they were when-

Steve spoke; Clint had forgotten he was even in the room.

"Tony." his voice was sharper than usual. "Ask Bruce, ask Pepper, call NASA if you have to. I don't care about your problem with Fury, because the longer we wait, the less chance we have of finding Agent Romanoff."

Tony had the decency to look abashed. "Er, right. Well. Can you get Pep on the phone for me, then?"


It's cold, so bitterly cold. Black Widow is shaking, violently shaking as her body tries to raise its temperature. Every shudder is accompanied by the searing pain in her left leg, she tries to sit, tries so hard to lift her head from the wet floor, but her arms collapse beneath her and she cries out, the noise harsh and ragged against the quiet darkness. Her hands curl into fists and she tries again. Pushing against the cold, wet floor with her knuckles, she strains against her own weight. Her eyes are open, but she can't see a thing. Everything is so black, so dark. There is no faint difference in the shades of black. It is all one, an absence of color, enveloping her and tricking her senses. She sits, her legs on the floor and her chest in the air, barely held up by her quivering arms as she listens, smells, tries to find anything, anything to tell her where she is, what has happened. A soft, quiet dripping can be heard, somewhere from her left. It is not steady, sometimes it is quick and insync, and then it will stop, silence will fall and she resists the urge to scrape at her ears, because the silence is so great she thinks she may be deaf, and then it starts up again, a soft plink of water hitting the ground. Her lips are cracked and bloodied, it pains her to open her mouth, sucking in the stale, damp air. She tastes mildew, dust and blood. Again, she tries to move, tries to carefully flip herself onto her back. It is agony. The bones in her leg scream at her, cursing her for such stupidity. The pain doesn't ebb, it is hot and violent, felt with every intake of breath. Black Widow slowly lowers herself to the ground again. The cold, wet stones beneath her chill her skin, even through her clothing. A dry sob escapes her lips and echoes around her. She knows. Somehow, she knows, that she will not leave this place. There is no jailer to trick and escape from. No iron bars to slip between. Stealth and strength are useless here, here in this dank, miserable place long forgotten. She has no team to help her, to watch her back as she fights her way free.

There is no fight here, she thinks. The dripping water falters, quiets, and begins again. Her eyes are heavy, they slip shut. There is no fight where there is no life. She tries to be disgusted with herself. Tries to berate her lack of conviction, how easily she gave up. But she can't. The air around her is thick, heavy and pressing on her face. Her lungs fill with the stuff, expel it, but it in in her. This is hopelessness. Foul and reaching, destroying all vestiges of bravery and beliefs. Here, she is not Black Widow, the assassin. There is no Natasha Romanoff, S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Here, there is a body. Broken and abused, waiting to die. That is what lives here. Death swirls around her, speaks to her through the falling water. Death caresses her face, numbs her lips and flows in and out of her lungs. Death is patient, death is simple. The girl lies silent now, shuddering breaths all that prove her living. Death can wait, calm and watching. Natasha's body shudders now with more than cold. Tears streak her face, cutting clean pathways through the filth and grime that coats her skin. She brings one hand to her chest, presses it to her left breast. Her heart beats steadily beneath her fingers. She wonders how long that will last.


A/N;
Just fyi, I totally have a plan for this, and I am loving writing it! Megan, don't kill me, I know you wanted a happy ending to this chapter. But hey, she's alive, right?

Review me guys, critique me!