Warnings – Mild Russian cursing.
.0.o.0.o.0.
Clint winced as Natasha's needle dug under his skin, pulling the two pieces of his flesh together.
"I was stupid."
"Not gonna argue with that."
"Gee, thanks for your support, Tash."
"Welcome."
"GAH!"
"Sorry."
"Not your fault. I shoulda sensed him or something, turned around. And I didn't."
"Clint, your hearing aid was on the fritz. That is not on you."
"Still, I shouldn't've missed a shot that easy. I had that asshole in my crosshairs-"
"Clint." Natasha grabbed him by his uninjured shoulder and spun him around, facing her. "That. Was. Not. Your. Fault. You've learned. You won't do it again." Thankfully, she didn't say that he'd screwed up his first real mission back in the field. He was already beating himself up enough over that. She bit off the last bit of thread connecting the needle to his stitches, then stood with a slight grimace. "At least it wasn't like Prague where you shot the wrong guy. Now, are you gonna help me wrap my ribs or not?"
"Why must you bring up that complete flop of a mission?" He stood rather carefully himself as Nat peeled off her sweat-soaked top. Clint kept his eyes firmly away from her sports bra and on the greening bruise on her side. He whistled. "Damn. What hit you, a truck?"
"A piece of one at least. Cracked at least one rib, probably two." The bruise spread from her armpit to the bottom of her ribs, and from her spine to the edge of her chest. He stood behind her, wrapping the pressure bandage around her torso.
Natasha's eyes fluttered shut. His hands barely ghosted over her injured ribs, light as the feathers of his namesake. His touch was driving her insane. She had to distract herself or it would lull her into dropping her walls around him. And she couldn't afford to do that.
"I would have been fine, you know. I interrogate people by letting them think they're interrogating me. You can't come barreling in like that."
Clint fastened the wrap before he answered. "Still getting used to letting my partner get beat up and not being able to do anything about it." He tapped his nearly invisible hearing aid. "New rules, remember? I get jumpy sometimes."
"Yeah, well, you need to not do that." Her eyes narrowed as she watched him move away stiffly. "Get your ass back over here, Barton. You landed on your quiver again, didn't you." Clint sighed, hanging his head before nodding. "Take your shirt off and sit down. If you cut your back open again, Coulson will flay me alive if I don't clean it out. We barely caught the infection in time after the last one."
"Nag, nag, nag."
"Sit your ass down, birdbrain."
"Yes ma'am."
Clint pulled his shirt off as Nat slid hers back on. She took one look at his back and hissed in sympathy.
"How bad?"
"Not as bad as Zagreb, but certainly worse than Hong Kong."
"Ouch."
"I'll say." Natasha reached into the (SHIELD stocked) first aid kit and grabbed two ice packs. She popped the inner bags, then used medical tape to secure them in place. "There's no laceration, but you probably bruised a couple ribs, and there's more blood on your uniform than there should be for that slash on your arm. Turn around and let me see the wound you're trying to hide."
Natasha thought her eyes were playing tricks on her when she saw Clint's back stiffen. Then he turned and she thought they were outright lying to her.
"When the hell did that happen?"
Clint looked down at the shallow stab wound on his chest. "Probably about the same time they were going after you with that brick."
"идиот." She hissed. He looked up at her, confusion on his face. "Don't you see where it is? It's right over that too soft heart of yours." Clint looked down at the stab wound in a whole new light.
"Huh."
"That's all you can say?! You almost got yourself killed attempting to rescue me from a situation I had total control over, and all you can say is huh?! You are such a Засранек."
Her tirade dissolved into a string of Russian curses he could barely follow, but which included insults to his manhood, his parentage, and his aim. But he didn't fail to notice that while her words were vicious, her hands were gentle as she stitched him up.
"If I didn't know any better, Tasha, I'd say you have feelings for me."
That succeeded in stunning her into silence. Even her hands froze. Their eyes met, and suddenly she was leaning in, aiming for his lips. His breath caught and his eyes closed and then-
With a firm tug, she pulled the final stitch closed and bit the thread to sever it.
"Maybe I just don't want to break in a new partner. Training you was hard enough; I can't imagine how bull-headed or piss-their-pants-scared the next one would be."
Clint's breath left him in a rush. He laughed as best he could. "Yeah, wouldn't want to make more work for you, Widow."
He let her finish patching him up and lean him back on his cot in a way that jarred his injuries the least.
Were all his relationships doomed to be one-sided?
.0.o.0.o.0.
As the injured Clint fell into a light sleep, Natasha let out a long, quiet sigh. That had been close, too close, in more ways than one.
She didn't know quite when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, she'd fallen, and fallen hard, for her partner. Maybe it had started when he'd given her a choice, a choice she could make on her own, without Red Room dictating the answer. Maybe it had been when he'd turned down her form of payment for saving her life that first time. Maybe it had been in the countless times he'd saved it since.
But now, coming so close to losing him, it made her face the thing she'd been hiding from herself.
Natasha Romanoff was in love with her partner. And for once, she was at a loss with what to do.
As soon as they got back to base, she was requesting separate assignments. Maybe take that undercover op in Stark Industries Coulson kept hinting about. Perhaps some time apart would help her get her head on straight.
.0.o.0.o.0.
A/N: идиот – Russian - idiot
Засранек – Russian - asshole