**7th September 2008**
They entered the base together, just as they had planned. Clint in front with his brand new rifle and Natasha behind him, covering his vulnerable back with two deadly pistols.
Clint had never fought well in a team, so it was strange to him how natural it all felt; her fluid movements behind him, the familiar weight of a gun in his hands, the sour smell of blood and sweat in the air. He'd missed this, the danger. The sheer exhilaration of it that set every nerve in his body on fire.
Clint had decided to leave his hearing aids in his room due to the gunfire, so Natasha was essentially acting as his ears as they fought. She was fucking great at it too. Clint caught himself more than once forgetting all about the danger and actually having fun for the first time in forever.
It was insane.
They were a scarily effective team, blasting their way through the ground floor until they came to a flight of stairs. There were only two floors in the entire building, they knew, and Clint didn't even think to hesitate. "I'll go up, you keep looking down here," he said, not bothering to keep quiet as the time for surprise had come and gone. "Meet at the other side?"
She looked surprised but didn't question his decision, giving him a curt nod and running into the fray once more.
Clint appreciated that, because as soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to take them back. He'd wanted this to go faster but he hadn't expected her to actually agree. As he watched Natasha go Clint felt the easy adrenaline fuelled calm that had settled over him disappear along with her. He felt the loss like a physical pain in his chest.
Nerves tied Clint's stomach into knots as he limped his way up the stairs, feeling oddly naked under the harsh overhanging lights. When he reached the top he found two men stood in the hallway, blocking his path. Raising his gun he took them out with little effort. Only one bullet needed for the two of them when they lined up so perfectly like that.
On autopilot, Clint slammed the nearest door open, searching for Bucky. When he found it empty, he moved on.
While he couldn't stop glancing over his shoulder every now and again, Clint quickly realised that this wasn't as impossible as he had feared. He could still do his job. He could aim and fire just as he always could, just... quieter, like wearing sound-cancelling headphones at a gun range.
Not being able to hear the tell-tale steps of an incoming attacker did make things more difficult. It meant he had to look around himself more, he needed to be more alert and to pull the trigger quicker. But, he could work with it.
That is until a guard came at him from behind, swinging a crowbar like a fucking baseball bat.
Had he not seen the guy coming Clint was 90% sure that blow could've knocked his head clean from his shoulders. Like a grizzly , though admittedly more interesting, game of golf. As it was, Clint only just managed to duck out of the way in time, the displaced air ruffling his hair a little as the hunk of metal breezed past.
Backing up a bit, Clint aimed his gun and fired, looking confused for a second when nothing happened. Fuck, no ammo.
His attacker took the distraction as the opportunity it was and lunged at Clint, swiping low with his crowbar. Clint went down hard with a shout, his older injury hurting far more than it had any right to. He rolled to the right and aimed a kick at the big fucker's kneecap, catching him right on the bone. Of course, it didn't do anything more than piss the prick off.
Though Clint was fighting the best he could, he knew there was no chance he could win this fight. All he could do was block and dance around the guy until he tired him out, and it wasn't going well. Beads of sweat trailed down Clint's face as he blocked yet another powerful strike with his gun, his arms aching with the strain of it.
It had only crossed his mind that this guy was far too well trained to be Hydra when the guard's weapon finally met its mark; an unforgiving blow to the stomach that sent Clint reeling back, choking with pain. His gun clattered to the floor, useless.
The guard's mouth moved, like he was saying something dramatic, and Clint was glad he didn't have to hear it. With a few deep breaths he collected himself, trying to focus, determined to stay on his feet and go down fighting at the very least. Clint kept his fists raised in a loose boxing stance as he waited for the fucker to come at him.
And come at him he did.
With a war cry the guy charged, Clint only just ducking the first swing that came at him. On a whim Clint grabbed the guard's wrist as it flew past and twisted it behind his back as hard as he could. There was a sudden loss of tension in the limb and Clint saw the guy's mouth open in a shout, the weapon flying to the corner of the room.
The guard was furious. He swiftly elbowed Clint in the face, grabbing him by the shirt and, with a shout so loud even Clint heard it, threw him backwards through a closed door.
Clint lay on his back, surrounded by a plethora of wooden splinters and debris. Groaning as the steel mesh of a staircase landing no doubt left a wonderful bruise on the rise of his shoulder blades. Fuck.
The guard was above him once more, a sickeningly smug look on his face. The bastard hadn't even bothered to bring his crowbar with him this time.
As retribution for what Clint assumed was a broken wrist, the guy pulled Clint up by the shirt and growled something angry in his face. Clint was pretty sure he laughed, which was probably a tad inappropriate. But hey, he was going to die, why the fuck should he care?
The guard did not seem to appreciate the attitude. His lips parted in a silent roar as he smashed Clint's skull into the metal hand rail, sending stars rocketing across Clint's vision.
The pain was unimaginable. Like someone was crushing his head with a hydraulic press, his brain sloshing around sickeningly as he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. His vision was smattered with dots and it took him a few moments of heavy, agonised breathing before he noticed he was eyelevel with the guard's belt. It was a strong belt, army issue even, and several pockets were empty including a holster for a standard pistol. What it did contain was a tiny flashlight, a radio and a pocket sized canister of pepper spray.
The fucker pulled Clint's head back by the hair, his fist coming down for a few cheap shots to the face. Blood dripped down from his forehead into his eyes, from his nose into his mouth, and Clint's hand blindly shot out towards the guy's waist. He took another hit to the face, warm liquid pouring from a cut above his eye, but Clint's focus was on his fingers as they suddenly hit against a cool metal surface.
Clint's eyes lit up and he knew the guard saw it too.
In the time it took for the guard's expression to go from triumph to confusion, Clint already had the spray in his hand. He pointed it directly into the guy's eyes and pressed down on the plunger. The guard's lips parted in an unholy scream, his hands coming up to claw at his eyes in agony. Clint didn't feel bad enough about the jolt of satisfaction the sight sent through him.
It only took Clint a second to take advantage of the distraction; grabbing the guy by the shirt and bodily hefting him over the side of the railing, down into the stairwell below. Clint didn't hear the sound the guy made when he hit the ground, but he didn't look down to check either.
Clint's head was pounding like a fucking drum as he staggered down the flight of stairs that he was sure would take him to Natasha. She had to be at the exit by no- whoa, he was going to throw up.
Reaching out for the railing Clint sagged against it, fighting to keep his breakfast down. His body ached with the acute pain of a thorough beating. The only thing he could smell was the blood that dripped from his – more than likely broken – nose. What was this, his fifth break now?
Wonderful.
At the bottom of the stairs he could just make out a large pair of double doors, smothered in darkness. Beyond them was a small panic room and an exit, Clint knew. Natasha would be there. He couldn't keep her waiting, she could leave without him. He had to move, now. Sucking in a deep breath and gritting his teeth, Clint limped down the last few steps towards the doors, leaning on the railing as he went. God, when did walking get so hard?
After several excruciating steps, Clint made it to the doors. And with another deep breath swung them wide open with a little more gusto than he thought he was capable of-
- just in time to watch a knife stab deep into Natasha's side, seconds before she could shoot her final attacker dead.
Clint was sure his mouth opened in a shout, but he had no idea what he said. All he knew was that he had attempted to run to her aid, the whole world swerving nauseatingly to the right as he stumbled forward on heavy feet.
Natasha was still standing; blood gushing out between the gaps in her fingers. But Clint could see she was beginning to slip sideways. He tried to move his sluggish body faster, to catch her before she hit her head on the hard stone floor but, he didn't quite make it. She fell, and so did he; the dizzying fog in his brain thickening at the burst of effort and sending him to his knees with a groan.
Clint lay on the ground for a moment, his cheek pressed to the floor, feeling the disjointed rise and fall of his own ragged breathing.
Then he noticed the bodies, strewn around the room like toys in a nursery. It was like a scene out of a horror flick.
One corpse was pinned to the wall by the length of piping he'd been skewered with; another had had his face beaten to bloody pulp, beyond recognition. Several more bodies lay decapitated and at least one had been viciously strangled with what looked to be garrotting wire.
The murders had been brutal, without the finesse or clinical efficiency that Clint associated with Natasha. This was pure, unfiltered rage and gore streaked the walls like paint.
On the wall opposite Clint, hung a sign, but it was not written in French or German as expected. Clint frowned at it for a moment, confused. Was that…Russian?
Clint had no idea how long he lay there on the cold stone floor, until he noticed Natasha's pale face amongst the crowd. She was covered with drying blood and dust, her mouth hanging open as she desperately gasped for breath, her eyes wide with shock and pain.
Clint realised that if he didn't get her out of here soon, she would die.
He couldn't have that.
Gritting his teeth Clint hauled himself upright, the sheer effort it took leaving him breathless. He muttered several expletives as he crawled over to where Natasha laid, a thick red puddle slowly pooling around her body. Her hands had gone slack on the wound, her eyes distant as she allowed it to bleed freely onto the stone.
Without even thinking Clint clumsily tugged his hoodie over his head, almost overbalancing in the process, before pressing it as tight as he could to the puncture wound; a tiny crater in her otherwise flawless skin. He tied a knot in the sleeves and could only hope it would be enough for now.
What felt like hours later he got himself back on his feet, weak and shaky though they were. He stubbornly blinked away the dots that danced across his vision, reaching down to grab Natasha by the wrists and dragging her towards the exit. It could only have been a handful of meters to the door, but it felt like miles. He tripped over his own feet more times than he'd like to admit, but when he finally managed to shove the huge door open, it was all worth it.
Clint couldn't quite remember where they were but the air was warm on his clammy skin and the sun shone brightly overhead. The door appeared to open out into an alleyway which was dirty and reeked of cigarette smoke. Clint had a dim recollection that he probably shouldn't drag Natasha across the ground with her wound the way it was.
Fuck, why did everything hurt so much?
Clint slotted his arms under her small body and lifted her up with a pained groan and a whole fucking lot of muttered complaints and began to walk. One foot in front of the other, his only goal to get as far away from that fucking place as he could get. People probably saw him, he didn't care.
He kept walking until his knees went out from under him and he collapsed in the mouth of yet another alleyway, this one no cleaner than the last. He was drenched in sweat like he'd just ran a marathon, his chest heaving as he lay on his back, staring up at the startlingly blue sky . Jesus he was tired; so, so goddamned tired.
Sleeping wasn't an option though, not yet. Clint could feel the last of his energy draining from his body as he pulled himself up one last time and looked at where Natasha lay prone in the dust. His hoodie was soaked through with red, no use anymore. So with his vision blurring and his fingers trembling Clint ripped off the hem of his shirt. For some reason he couldn't allow this girl to die on him. Not here. Not now.
She'd saved his life once. That had to count for something.
He didn't know how dirty the cloth was but she was bleeding so fucking much and he couldn't think of anything else to do. So he shoved the cloth into the wound and pressed down with all his strength.
Natasha was so young and could already kill a man a thousand different ways with her pinkie finger. She'd be useful, sought after, absolutely incredible wherever she went. It was a guarantee. Clint was a replaceable hit-man whose only selling point was that he was a decent shot. Out of the two of them, she had to survive this. She had to.
Clint frowned in confusion when he noticed that she was shivering. It was so hot, how the hell could she be cold out here?
He threw his dampened hoodie over her anyway, just in case.
Clint wasn't sure how much longer he clung to consciousness, until he just couldn't anymore. He fell back with a hard thud and closed his eyes against the unforgiving sun, unable to do anything other than fall asleep in the hopes that it was all just some horrible dream.
Too bad for him he never got that fucking lucky.