'You're hurt. You should be going to the medics to get them to patch you up.'

Natasha ignored him, marching swiftly towards the smaller hospital room in which agents used to treat minor wounds without the help of medical staff. Clint had been on her tail the moment she got off the helicarrier after her most recent mission.

Clint was concerned. It took him one glance to notice how Natasha was a shade too pale, how she was limping a bit too much. She must have been wounded pretty badly. 'Natasha, please, just go to the medical room. At least let them examine you.'

She shot a glare at him, 'No.'

She walked into the hospital room, entered a cubicle and pulled the curtain close. Clint did not miss how she winced after she completed the action as he slipped into the room after her.

Throwing a furious scowl at him, she turned her back to him and unzipped her catsuit. That was nothing new. They had stripped in front of each other multiple times- missions rarely allowed them that much time to change. Natasha heard Clint suck in a breath between his teeth as he saw the wound on her back. She tried to turn around, yet an intense ripple of pain (now that her adrenaline rush was wearing off) stopped her from doing so. But there was no way in hell that she would ask Clint Barton for help. Gritting her teeth, she tried to twist her head back to examine her wound once again. Clint moved forward at that, 'Lie down. You're opening up your wound even more, Natasha. Lie down.'

She studied him for a moment., and came to the conclusion that continuing to oppose him would lead to nothing good.

'I don't want any of the medical staff in here,' she murmured in defeat as she obediently allowed him to help her onto the medical table.

'I'll be the one to stitch you up, okay?' he said. Noting the tension in her shoulders, he added softly, 'Trust me, Natasha. I won't hurt you in any way. Please.'

She nodded reluctantly.

Clint took what he needed from the medical cupboard and headed back. As he dipped a swab of cotton in the alcohol, he noted how Natasha had tensed up once again. Of course. She was nervous because she couldn't see what he was doing to her. And so he added soothingly, 'I'm going to put some alcohol in your wound to make sure that it won't get infected. You okay with that?'

'Yeah,' she responded.

He narrated every single one of his actions as he continued treating her, until finally he had completed his job of patching her up.

'Let me get you some new clothes. Your catsuit is bloody.'

He came back swiftly with her t-shirt and shorts and threw them at her. She tried to put the shirt on yet as she stretched upward she felt her wound reopening. She looked hesitantly at Clint. He took a step forward and helped her with it.

He pulled it over her head, moving his hands slightly to the side to avoid touching her breasts. Clint Barton was a tease at times, but he had always been the perfect gentleman. She liked that. She did not let go of his hand after he helped her down from the medical table. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at that, yet he did not say anything and chose to squeeze her hand gently instead.

'You should go get some rest before debriefing in the morning,' he told her.

'Okay.' And so they headed back to her room.

They made their way down the hallway to her room just like that, their hands tightly intertwined. He stopped as he reached her door. 'Can you stay?' she asked tentatively. He nodded wordlessly, and she pulled him into her room.

As they sat down onto her bed, Natasha began to speak, 'I didn't just refuse to go get the medical staff because I had an ego to protect or whatnot.'

'That's new,' he said teasingly.

'Dammit, Clint. You just ruined that little moment we had,' she pouted as she pulled her hand away from his.

He began to chuckle softly and she joined in soon afterwards. They then fell silent. Natasha's eyes were downcast, and the way she was repeatedly rubbing her palm against her knee was enough to tell him that she was taking one hell of a trip down memory lane. All of a sudden, she flinched. 'Nat?' he asked tentatively. She slowly slipped her hand back into his and began with her story.