Okay, so, this chapter's kind of sad. And yes, I do realize that in Skillet's song "Say Goodbye", it's talking about two people breaking up, not dying, but oh well. My fiction, my interpretation.

But I must say, it was fun writing from Natasha's perspective. I've never done that before. I usually use Tony's, because . . . well . . . he's Tony.

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel, Skillet, the Bourne series, or anything else you even remotely recognize in this.

-SAY GOODBYE-

by Skillet

We both know what we've gotta say, not today

'Cause I don't wanna leave this way

Don't say goodbye

'Cause I don't wanna hear those words tonight

'Cause maybe it's not the end for you and I

And although we knew

This time would come for me and you

Don't say anything tonight

If you're gonna say goodbye

Natasha crouched behind a large car as the enemy fired another round of bullets. She pressed her back against the vehicle, cradling her left arm as blood gushed out of it. She was running out of energy. She couldn't keep this up much longer.

She reached up and touched the mic in her ear, pretending she didn't notice the wet, sticky liquid coating it. "Barton. You there?"

There were a few seconds of silence before an out-of-breath Clint said, "Yeah, I read you. How you holding up?"

Natasha silently took stock of her injuries. A small gash on her forehead was steadily dripping blood that she had to continuously wipe away from her eyes. Her jaw ached from when an enemy soldier had gotten lucky and landed a punch. Of course, she smirked, she'd paid him back ten-fold for that. A bullet had embedded itself in her bicep but, as far as she knew, hadn't hit any major arteries. Her knees were scraped up from diving behind make-shift forts and her ankle throbbed from when she'd twisted it earlier. "I'm fine. You?"

The sound of gunfire reverberated in her ear before Clint chuckled. "Same."

But Natasha could hear the exhaustion in the archer's voice. She was starting to think that they should've brought back-up. When she'd mentioned it to Clint before they'd set out, he'd scoffed and stuck out his chest. "Natasha," he'd said. "We're the two best assassins in the world. Well . . ." he'd paused. "Except for maybe Jason Bourne. But the point is that we don't need back-up."

If the situation wasn't so serious, Natasha might've said "I told you so".

Eh. Who was she kidding? "I told you we should've brought back-up, Barton."

"Hey," Clint said, sounding indignant. "I'm not done yet."

Natasha ducked as more bullets ripped through the air. A truck near her exploded in a ball of fiery heat, and smoldering pieces of mangled metal were scattered within a twenty-yard radius.

Suddenly a cry of pain sounded in her ear. "Clint," she said, her heart racing.

No response.

"Clint!" she said again, fear building up in her chest.

"Na-Natasha," the archer murmured. "I don't – I don't think I'm gonna make it outta this one."

The female assassin's reply was instant. "Shut up. Don't say that. It's not funny."

"Nat," he said, and she almost burst into tears right then and there because he never called her that, "I'm serious. It's – it's looking pretty bad."

"Just tell me where you are," Natasha said frantically. "I've been trained in the medical field. I can -"

Clint let out a small, resigned sigh. "So have I. It's too late."

Natasha tried to convince herself that her cheeks were wet only because of the blood that was oozing out of the cut on her forehead. "Clint," she choked out, "please don't do this to me."

"Careful, Nat," Clint mumbled, a hint of laughter in his voice. "You're starting to sound like you care."

Natasha bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She tried to make her next words sound composed and calm. "You should talk. You're the one who kept insisting that I be paired with you, so that you could 'watch my back'." Despite her best efforts, though, there was a slight tremor in her voice.

Clint grunted. "Touche." Then he began coughing, a wet, ugly sound. His next words were faint and nearly incoherent. "Natasha . . . I have to tell you . . . ."

Natasha stuck a fist in her mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that threatened to take over her body. "Don't say it," she ordered him sharply, ignoring the tears that streamed, unchecked, down her cheeks. "If you say what I think you're going to say . . . ."

"Bye, Nat," the archer finally said. "Guess I'll see you on the other side."

"No," Natasha said, shaking her head vehemently. "Clint, don't do this. Clint. Clint!" She might've been sobbing, but she couldn't tell, because all she was aware of was the roaring silence in her mic. "Clint, answer me!"

Nothing.

Natasha managed to wrench herself away from her despair in time to hear the enemy soldiers marching toward her position.

She rested the back of her head on the car, feeling the exhaustion she'd been attempting to hold off consume her.

"Bye, Clint," she whispered to the silent mic in her ear. "See ya soon."