Chapter 4

Natasha glanced up from where she sat on the bed of the safehouse as her partner staggered into the room. He was completely lacking in his usual grace. In fact he looked haggard and rundown; more so than their current mission justified. It put Natasha on edge; she knew something was wrong.

"Clint?"

"I'm fine," he muttered as he dumped his gear unceremoniously on the floor and then disappeared into the bathroom.

She was willing to give him a minute, to take an opportunity to compose himself. But when she heard the sounds of retching, she took it upon herself to intrude. She didn't warn him; she simply walked in and planted herself in the doorway. "Clint?"

"I don't know," he muttered into the toilet bowl. "It started coming on about an hour after Oppenheimer showed up."

Natasha frowned. That had only been three hours ago; a short amount of time for him to have declined so significantly.

"I'm fine," he muttered again, before pushing away from the bowl and flushing.

Natasha watched as Clint struggled to his feet and staggered over to the sink. But instead of turning on the water, perhaps to rinse his mouth out or splash water on his face, he simply stared at the sink, hand hovering halfway towards the faucet.

"Clint?" Natasha asked again, this time letting her concern creep into her voice. "And don't tell me you're fine."

"I'm fine," he muttered like a broken record. "I just need to sleep."

As he went to push past her, she grabbed ahold of his arm. The heat that emanated from his bicep was staggering. "Jesus, you're burning up."

"I'm fine. I just need to sleep."

She held him fast, which was surprisingly easy considering, and pressed a hand to his forehead. "You need to get this fever down."

"Get off me," he practically shouted as he made to forcefully shove her to the side.

Natasha stepped back willingly, rather than provoke him further, and let him pass back into the main room. He walked over to the bed, stared at it in confusion for a moment, and then laid down on the floor. He was still wearing his tack gear and boots.

Once he was down, Natasha sprang into action. She went back into the bathroom and retrieved the extensive first aid kit from under the sink. She then dampened a washcloth with cold water and brought it and the first aid kit back into the main room. She grabbed the phone off the nightstand before returning to her partner's side. He was lying face down, so she shook his shoulder to try and rouse him. "Clint?"

When he didn't stir, she forcefully rolled him onto his back. She pulled a thermometer out of the kit and ran it across his forehead. The digital display read 105.2. When she placed the cold cloth across his forehead, Clint jerked and moaned at the offensive object but otherwise didn't stir. Leaving the cloth pressed to her partner's forehead, she retrieved a vial of ibuprofen from the kit. She read the bottle to determine the correct dosage, filled a syringe, and injected it into Clint's arm. Lastly, she cracked open two cold compresses and placed them on either side of Clint's neck.

Then she picked up the phone and called Coulson.

He answered on the third ring.

"Pickles taste good with peanut butter."

"Only if they're sweet," Natasha replied, confirming the passcode.

"Report, Widow."

"Hawkeye's down, non-mission related illness."

"Symptoms?"

"Fever of 105.2, vomiting, fatigue, confusion, and loss of consciousness." Clint could sleep through a tornado, except when he couldn't. "I've given him I.V. ibuprofen and am using cold compresses to reduce the fever."

"Request?"

"Mission abort and emergency evacuation. Something's not right, Phil."

"I'll see what I can do. Hold tight and await my call."

Natasha remained by Clint's side as she waited to hear from Coulson. In the meantime, she checked his temperature again, but it had dropped only 0.3 degrees. The phone rang about fifteen minutes later, because Coulson was nothing if not efficient.

"I'm sending you a set of coordinates outside the city. A quinjet will meet you there in two hours."

"Confirmed."

Natasha terminated the call. She made quick work of packing both her and Clint's gear. The original mission was meant to require substantial travel, so they had been provided with a vehicle. She took the gear down to it first and then considered the monumental task of getting Clint to car.

Clint wasn't an overly big man, but his weight was still considerable. And she would be hard pressed to avoid attracting attention by dragging him out in a fireman's carry.

"Clint!" she called loudly as she forcefully shook his shoulders. "Time to move."

To her relief, he did stir, but when they locked eyes all she saw was pure confusion. "Clint, we need to move, so you need to get up." His eyes darted around the room, and then suddenly he lunged at her. The attack was slow and weak due to the fever wreaking havoc on his body and his prone position on the floor. But he'd caught her completely off guard, and consequently managed to knock her onto her back.

Natasha made it to her feet much quicker than him and held her hands up in a passive manner. "Clint, it's me. Nat."

He looked around the room and then at her before shaking his head as if to clear his mind. He then repeated the process. Natasha waited, all the while maintaining a non-combative posture. When he came at her again, she was ready to fend him off, blocking his weak attacks, remaining on the defensive.

"Clint! Hawkeye! Stop!"

The use of his code name made him hesitate, but only for a moment. Growing desperate, Natasha was forced to take the offensive. She activated her widow bracelet and bit him. Clint staggered back and then collapsed as the electricity surged through him, causing him to convulse and then pass out.

"Sorry," Natasha told him as she pushed her hair back out of her face, "but you didn't really give me much of a choice."

She knelt beside him once again and began the difficult process of getting his 160 pound body into a fireman's carry. She staggered under the weight, but somehow managed to haul him down to the car and maneuver him into the backseat. She returned to the house once more to sweep it and secure it before climbing into the driver's seat and entering the coordinates into the GPS.

She drove quickly, just above the speed limit, but not much so. They needed to make good time, but they also couldn't afford to draw the attention of civilians or cops. Once out of the city, she opened up and flew over the dirt roads.

The quinjet was waiting when she got there. Coulson had sent May, Ward, and Dr. Woo.

"Fury isn't allowing for a mission abort," May informed her once they'd gotten Clint onboard and into Woo's capable hands. "Coulson sent Ward to be Barton's replacement."

Natasha nodded. She wasn't pleased. There were few Agents she could tolerate working with, mostly because there were few who could keep up. She'd never worked with Ward personally, but Clint had and he hadn't been thrilled about it.

"He's an overly cocky shit," he'd said. "I don't trust him."

Fury was right, though; they may not get another chance at this and she needed a sniper. Ward would have to do.

They made quick work of swapping gear, Clint's for Ward's, and before long they were headed back into the city. It would be another three weeks before the mission would be complete. Clint was still recovering from the bacterial meningitis that almost claimed his life. Woo expected almost a full recovery. A week after he'd regained consciousness, Clint had complained that things sounded muffled. Another three days later, he couldn't hear anything. The inflammation caused by the bacteria had damaged his auditory nerve. Now that the inflammation was down, some of his hearing had returned, but it was unclear how much he would regain.