SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, GUYS, WENT TO MY BOYFRIEND'S LACROSSE GAME. WE STOOD IN THE FREEZING RAIN THROUGH THE WHOLE THING AND NOW I'M SICK SO I WAS SLEEPING IN AN ATTEMPT TO GET UN-SICK. SO SORRY Y'ALL.

ANYWAY, ENJOY!

MAY BE THE HEAVIEST CHAPTER I'VE EVER WRITTEN.

Fever had wreaked havoc on Clint's weakened body in the short time Bushov had been gone. A pattern resembling a paint pallet decorated his face in the shades purple, blue, and yellow. His exposed chest showed two angry red burn marks streaking downwards on either side of his clavicle. Every shade of the spectrum colored his chest, red highlighting the particularly brutal hits – one tell that he was suffering from internal bleeding. Hundreds of other bruises littered the length of the archer's body and to top it off his shoulder was sickeningly swollen.

"Phil's 'na come, Tash. He's com'n." Clint slurred, staring deliriously at the blood spattered floor. Natasha ignored his drunken assurances and focused on working her mutilated hands out of the cuffs. Without being able to see her hands she knew they were a bloody mangled mess but one look at her dying partner had her wriggling her hands with little regard for the pain.

"Clint." She snapped as his murmured voice drifted off. "How high is your fever?" she demanded. The beaten man took a few deep breaths as he contemplated.

"Uhh… one-oh-six?" he panted questioningly, his head lolling to the side.

"Barton! Tell me about Budapest." She ordered. "What don't I remember?" she asked desperately as she continued working at the black bindings around her wrists. The marksman cocked his head to the other side.

"Buhdahest?" he repeated, coughing weakly in resignation. Natasha tugged against the handcuffs in frustration, spitting out a curse as she watched his body attempt to shut down. He shuddered as he fought it, zeroing in on Natasha's slightly pained countenance to draw himself away from the temptation to just let go. It would've been so much easier to give in – let go – let the excruciating pain that burned everywhere end – to succumb to the tantalizing numbness he knew he could reach without trying.

Natasha.

One word. One girl. One assassin. One incentive. One reason. One hold keeping him grounded. Two heartbeats.

"Budapest." He repeated slowly. Natasha just nodded, pain contorting her features as she pulled roughly at the biting metal.

"S'ok, Tasha. Stop." He ordered, glaring pointedly through her at her hands that were hidden from his view. She shook her head, sending herself spiraling into concussed nausea.

"I've almost got my right…" she hissed against the agonizing stinging as she pulled her right hand free. She pulled her arm onto her lap against her bruised stomach, cradling the shredded limb and letting her eyes flutter shut for half a moment before turning her attention back to her partner. Clint switched his jaw as he analyzed her wrist. "Don't you dare." She warned darkly as he opened his mouth to ask if she were ok. His voice was cut off in any case when he moved slightly in the chair. His breathing, which he had eventually managed to steady relatively, started coming in sharp gasps. In one excruciating movement, his shoulder, his ribs and the rest of his aching torso shifted. The archer didn't even have it in him to make a sound. His body was officially checking out.

"Clint!" Natasha called pleadingly. He rolled his head forward in response to her shattered tone. His countenance bled apology; he was giving up. He couldn't fight anymore. He wasn't a machine that ran on batteries or that could be fixed within seconds. He bled. He hurt. He felt. He loved. Not even Natasha could pull him back from the edge this time. That didn't mean she wouldn't try. 'I can't.' he conveyed with the most heartbreakingly apologetic expression. "Then don't. Just listen." He blew out a deep breath, using up as much of his little remaining strength as he dared to steel himself enough to listen. "If you leave me with all the crap detail we're going to get for this, I will drag you back from hell just to send you back." She threatened even as for the first time since she was three, Natalya Romanova cried. Barton blinked sluggishly, 'I'm sorry.' "I will not be the one to explain to Coulson why his agent,best friend, son, brother isn't going home with him." She added. "Clint, I'm not going back." She decided quietly as he forced another breath into his lungs.

"Yes you are. You're going to finish this forsaken mission and you are going to go home, get your wrists fixed up, and steal all my records in the gym." He replied with the steadiness that only came with the approaching numbness.

"What records? I wiped yours off the table years ago." She bantered weakly. "Clint…" she tried seriously.

"Tasha, everything I ever said," he whispered. "I meant." He murmured seriously as he curled forward, groaning in anguish.

"So did I." she responded in gut wrenching acceptance as his body, which had been locked up tight in counteracting the pain, went limp. Her expression hardened to a degree that the world hadn't seen since she'd defected. All emotion, all feeling, anything Barton had drawn out of her dormant soul, vanished with him.

The door crashed open revealing a satisfied looking Bushov and his men. They approached her, smiling sadistically at her unfeeling, robotic expression. By the time they were close enough to realize she'd managed to get one hand free, they were also close enough for her to subdue. One at a time, with blinded, uncaring fury, she knocked ones gun into her lap with her elbow, twirling it in her hand before rapidly firing off enough shots so that each guard lay dead on the floor. Bushov's furious face filled her vision in the next minute.

"Now, now, Natalya. Just because your partner is dead…" he started. The shift in Natasha's features had him justifiably backing away. She promptly fired a round, glaring as it missed his heart by mere inches. A crash, identical to the one Bushov's men made when they invaded the holding cell, sounded from behind them. Natasha fired the last bullet in the gun, eyes focusing in on the SHIELD agents that poured in as Yuri Bushov dropped like a rock.

Natasha thrashed in the chair as the medical team rushed towards her comatose, if not dead, archer. She faintly heard Coulson's placating remarks as he knelt at her feet to break the chains then moved to her back to release her left hand. Once the rational part of her brain won over, something the Red Room had conditioned her in, she stilled enough for Phil to finish releasing her. One look over his shoulder though, at the men who were working around Clint to get his heart beating had her deranged responses resurfacing.

HATE ME? LOVE ME? THOUGHTS? REVIEW IF YOU LIKED IT.