Barton ran through the cabin, glancing into every room for some sign of his partner. The house was dark, but he didn't bother to stop and turn on every light, opting instead to flash his penlight briefly into every room he passed. His heart was pounding, and anxiety was building; it felt like he was moving in slow-motion.

So, although the cabin was small, it felt like hours before he opened a door and the beam of his light fell on a mass of red hair.

Barton's breath caught in his throat. He flipped the lightswitch.

Yellowish light flooded the room, revealing Natasha Romanoff curled up on the floor.

Barton ran to her, dropping to his knees at her side. Her eyes were closed, and she was so still and pale. She was lying on her right side with her arms twisted behind her back and her ankles bound together. Cuts, scrapes, and bruises were scattered across her body; likely she had fought Tarif, or else he had handled her roughly. Probably both.

"Natasha," Barton gasped, fighting the panic that was rising in his throat. "Nat!" Her hair was lying across her face, and he brushed it aside, exposing her neck. He pressed two fingers to her jugular vein. Don't be dead, don't be dead…

Her pulse thrummed against his fingertips, steady and strong.

Barton sagged with relief. His head was still spinning, and he tried to calm himself, analyze the situation, decide what to do next.

"C'mon, Nat," he muttered. "Wake up." He slapped the side of her face, but she didn't react.

Barton moved down to her legs and whipped out his knife. He slit her bonds with a flick of his wrist, then moved to her hands.

The rope was loose around her wrists; it was clear that she'd been working at it. Barton slipped it off, his mind buzzing with questions. If she'd managed to loosen her bonds this much, why hadn't she finished freeing herself? Why was she unconscious?

He eased her carefully onto her back, taking account of the cuts and scrapes scattered sparsely across her face: There was a cut on her brow, another on her cheekbone, a third marring the corner of her lower lip, black with blood. He wondered vaguely what other injuries she had sustained—hopefully nothing internal, hopefully no head injuries. Hopefully nothing serious.

He bent over her face and cupped her cheek in one hand. Her skin was cold.

"Natasha," Barton said. "Natasha—wake up. C'mon."

His thumb rubbed the space under her eye. She felt so cold—the cabin was chilly, and she was lying on the hardwood floor, not to mention the tiny dress she was still wearing. Barton leaned down and pressed his cheek against hers, hoping that the warmth would rouse her.

She made a noise then, perhaps a word or a sigh, softer than a whisper; he only heard it because his ear was right next to her mouth.

Eagerly, he drew back, studying her face for signs of movement.

"What'd you say, Tasha?" he said hopefully.

Natasha's brows dipped into a frown. She muttered something that sounded like hullodny, and, after a moment, he recognized the Russian word.

"Cold?" he repeated. "Yeah, I bet you are. Sorry about that." He moved his hand quickly up and down the length of her arm, watching her face expectantly. "You're gonna be just fine," he added, settling his hand on the other side of her.

Natasha's eyelids fluttered. Her eyes slid open just a crack, and relief washed through him.

"Hey," he said gently, tilting his head as he searched her face. "How are you feeling?"

Natasha blinked slowly, but still only slits of her eyes were visible.

"You're safe now, you're gonna be okay," Barton repeated.

Natasha frowned again. "Clint?" she mumbled.

"Yeah," Barton said. He cracked a smile. "Yeah, I'm here."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Natasha's lips, and Barton laughed, a relieved and delighted sound. "Hey," he said again, still grinning idiotically. She was okay, she was smiling, and she'd called him by his first name—a rare occurrence.

Natasha grimaced a little. "Hurts," she murmured, and he bent anxiously over her.

"Where? Tell me where it hurts, Tasha."

Natasha closed her eyes again. "Wrists," she slurred. "Ankles… rot…"

Barton frowned. Mouth. She'd switched to Russian again, apparently without realizing it. Maybe she did have a head injury. Or… Another option clicked in Barton's mind. She'd probably been drugged. That would also explain why she'd passed out before escaping her restraints.

"Golava," Natasha finished. Head.

"Your head hurts?" Barton asked.

"Mmm."

Barton pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Can you move your arms and legs?"

She did so.

Pain in her head could point to any number of things. It could be a headache resulting from the drugs, or perhaps Tarif had hit her in the head.

"Tasha," he began. "Do you remember—?"

Suddenly Natasha gasped, and her eyes shot open. She lurched up off the floor and caught him by the arms, staring at him with panic in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Barton asked quickly, apprehension rising.

Natasha's brows furrowed; she seemed to be struggling to communicate.

At last she managed one word:

"Ghoul."

Barton blinked. "What?"

Natasha was trying to sit up, fear etched across her features, and Barton easily pushed her down again.

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy," he said. "Did you say 'ghoul'?"

Natasha's eyes were wide as she gazed up at him.

Then she nodded.

"Ghoul," she whispered.

Barton's scalp prickled, and he glanced nervously over his shoulder. The door was standing open, revealing the pitch-black hallway beyond.

"Where?" he asked, turning back to her.

She closed her eyes. "Zdes," she said. Here. "In this house—everywhere—"

A chill ran down Barton's spine. From the moment he'd walked in, he'd thought there was something eerie about this place. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if it was haunted…

Snap out of it, he chided himself. There's no such thing as ghosts.

Natasha was probably hallucinating. She'd been drugged, she was confused and agitated, she kept switching between English and Russian…

And that was when it hit him.

Natasha wasn't talking about ghosts at all.

She wasn't saying the English word ghoul.

She was saying the Russian word gul.

As in, 'boom'.

Barton's chest constricted. He picked up Natasha and ran out of the room.

His heart was pounding as he sped down the halls, and his mind was racing. Of course—why hadn't he seen it? Tarif had done this before. He had drawn them all in in order to kill as many of them as possible. That was why it had been so easy to get there, that was why it had been so easy to take him down.

Tarif wasn't using Natasha as leverage at all.

He was using her as bait.

Barton burst into the kitchen. The other agents looked up in surprise.

"Get out, get out, get clear!" Barton shouted, running for the door. "This place could blow any second!"

Instantly, all was chaos.

Barton could hear agents running around, trying to get to the door, shouting to each other, helping those who were wounded. They started flooding through the front door, and Barton followed as fast as he could. His priority was to get Natasha as far away from the structure as possible.

He charged through the door and began sprinting away from the cabin. Tarif must have assumed that he would be going down with them, so he wouldn't have skimped on power—the explosion was sure to be colossal. He wasn't sure they would be clear in time.

Water splashed under his boots—he had run directly into the sound. He kept running, not stopping until he was in up to his armpits. At this point, he paused, trying to see Natasha's face in the faint whitish moonlight.

"Take a deep breath," he ordered.

She obeyed, and he clamped a hand over her nose and mouth.

At that moment, the building exploded.

Heat seared the back or Barton's head, and the noise was deafening. He took in a big breath and sunk beneath the surface—

—and the heat and the noise vanished. He was floating through dark, cool waves, swimming further from the shore. He could feel the low rumble of the explosion, and orange light flickered through the water from the direction of the shore.

He kicked off his heavy boots, and his feet found the ocean floor. Based on the pressure in his ears, the surface was a few yards over his head. It was so peaceful down here.

Natasha was squirming frantically, trying to get free, but he kept his hand pressed firmly to her nose and mouth and his free arm around her waist, pinning her back to his chest.

Orange, glowing objects began hurtling past the surface like shooting stars, casting flickering lights onto the ocean floor. Fiery debris—it wasn't safe to resurface yet. Barton waited, watching the lights speed by, illuminating the water around them.

Debris finally stopped flying past, and Barton judged it was safe again. He kicked off the ocean floor, gliding up toward the air.

Their heads broke the surface within seconds, and they both gasped for breath. Barton's eyes locked onto the shore, and dread welled up in his chest. He'd been right about the explosion—it had been huge. Low flames were playing around what remained of the cabin, and much of the forest near the cabin had been wiped out as well.

How many agents had been lost?

With one arm still around Natasha's waist, Barton used his free arm to paddle towards the shore. It wasn't long before his feet touched the ocean floor, and he kept walking through the water, searching the dark shoreline for movement.

When the water had receded to his elbows, Natasha started to slide from his grasp, so he turned her to face him, using his hands to make a seat for her. Immediately her arms went around his shoulders, her legs locked around his waist, and she buried her face in the side of his neck. Barton smiled a little but didn't speak.

Cold breezes chilled him as he trudged up onto the shore. Natasha shivered against his chest, and he frowned, thinking of her bare back and legs. "Cold?"

Apparently too weary to speak, she merely sighed, hot against his neck. He could feel goosebumps where her breath had been—the only spot on his body which was no longer cold.

A figure was running toward them across the beach—Rapp. He came to a stop in front of them.

"She okay?"

"I think so."

SHIELD agents were starting to emerge from the water around them, and a few trickled out of the wood.

Rapp swivelled his head again, surveying the renewed activity on the beach.

"How many did we lost?" Barton asked.

Rapp shrugged. "No idea."

Barton gritted his teeth. He couldn't help feeling that he was partly to blame for any casualties—after all, he'd been tracing Tarif for months. He should recognize the man's methods by now.

"I'm gonna find out how much damage was done," Rapp said. "You stay with her. I just hope we didn't lose Tarif."

He pivoted and jogged toward a pair of operatives who were crawling out of the water.

Natasha stirred. "Clint," she mumbled.

"Mhm."

Natasha pushed herself up facing him, her legs tightening around his waist. Her eyes were closed, and her drenched hair was streaming around her shoulders. Barton tried not to think about the wet, clingy dress she was wearing. Or the way she looked in the moonlight. Or where his hands were positioned.

"Where's my gun," Natasha slurred.

Barton blinked. "Your—Oh, your gun?" He tried to think. "Oh—you didn't bring one."

Natasha frowned and opened her eyes, looking confused and disgusted.

Barton laughed softly at her expression—she never went anywhere without a gun, and he knew she found it hard to relax without one.

"Here," he offered, fumbling with his holster. "Take my spare." He passed her his backup pistol, and she wrapped her arms around his neck again, clutching the firearm in her hands.

Little waves were rolling around Barton's ankles, and he moved further away from the Sound. His gaze roved to the partially-demolished forest, and he wondered whether the vans were still intact.

It didn't really matter, though—they could always find some other way back to HQ.

The only thing that really mattered right now was safe in his arms.

Another of my very favorite chapters!

We're in the home stretch - hope you're enjoying! :)