He breaks every known traffic law once he hits the interstate, weaving among traffic with all the skill that his exact eyesight allows. Though his shoulder aches fiercely he keeps moving, putting a safe distance between them and the incident in Baton Rouge. His frequent glances in the rear-view mirror don't offer the reassurance that he hopes for. The accelerator dips beneath his booted foot, determination pushing him onward to where they need to be.
Unease spreads through his chest, heavy and leaden the further he goes. Natasha's been out cold since they've been moving, quietly bleeding in the back seat, and by the time he passes the signs for Hammond he knows that the original plan isn't going to fly. Unless he can stop the bleeding she won't make it to the SHIELD facility that he's heading for; it's time for him to make a choice. Checking to make sure that he still has the fake ID in his pocket, he exits the highway and heads into town.
He throws the car into park at the doors of the first civilian hospital he arrives at and drags her from the back of the car. His shoulder screams as he hooks one of her limp arms around his shoulder and hoists her up in his arms, pain slithering along his nerves and making it harder to carry her the short distance into the emergency room. Sucking in a deep breath, he pushes away the pain and sets one foot determinedly in front of the other. He'll carry her as long as is necessary without regard for his own condition.
The waiting area is busy, too busy for any of the staff to immediately notice when he carries her inside. He pauses, about to speak and then Natasha's body seizes in his grip and he almost drops her.
"We need some help here!" he yells as he lowers her to the floor. Her body convulses in his arms, eyes flickering open as they roll back into her head and her muscles spasm repeatedly. Cradling her, he tries to neutralise the violence of her movements, terrified of what they represent and what it might mean for her chances of recovery. He knows the odds, knows how much blood the human body can lose before the damage becomes irreversible; what if it's already too late for her?
A dozen pairs of eyes turn in their direction, a dozen different variations of "Oh Shit" playing across the features of the doctors, nurses and orderlies who take in his blood flecked appearance and that of the convulsing, blood drenched woman he's holding. Things move in slow motion, medics running towards them, a pillow appearing from somewhere to cushion her head, calls for a gurney to move her to a more private area for assessment.
A gurney appears as the seizure comes to a stop, her body going limp in his arms. Hands lift her away from him and place her on the sheet covered surface where an oxygen mask is placed over her nose. Staff swarm around them and Clint fights the terror that crashes in on him as he relinquishes her care into the hands of others, needing the weight of her in his arms to keep him together. Words rush into one another, requests for information, barked protocol and above it all the rushing of his own blood in his ears that turns it all into background noise.
She's approaching stage four hypovolemic shock and immediate treatment is needed in order to stabilise her condition. Her blood pressure is too low, her circulatory system is in danger of failing entirely. He knows what most of the medical terminology means, understands why they need to start transfusing blood and plasma into her as soon as possible.
He goes as far as they will let him, finding himself shut out of the trauma admissions suite by heavy doors. The sight of her on top of that gurney, skin pale and clammy, lips already tinted blue around the edges, is one that he will never forget. Even as the door swings closed in his face, he is lost as to what to do next. Silence crashes in on him, oppressive and disorienting. He weaves on his feet as the endorphins fade and everything begins to hurt.
Admin staff guide him to a chair when they take her details; he gives them automatically, the false name and social security number rolling off his tongue. They offer him medical attention, which he declines, and then some ibuprofen, which he accepts, while they complete the intake forms.
He calls Fury to relay the facts, aware that the use of one of her aliases will quickly pop up on their system. "Romanoff's down," he says, "she almost bled out while I got us clear." Retreating to the relative privacy of the doorway, he keeps the door to the trauma suite in sight. "We're at a civilian hospital in Hammond, Louisiana using the same cover we used for the job. You need to keep the heat off us while they work on her …"
Promising to keep the director updated, he settles in to wait. Prior to signing up to work for Fury, Clint's life experiences include a stint manning a sniper rifle for the US military, which when placed alongside an adolescence in the circus makes him one of the more colourful characters within SHIELD's ranks, but nothing in his skill set prepares him for hospital waiting rooms.
He is trained for patience, for stillness, and yet the finds that he can't stop himself from fidgeting. He taps his feet, his gaze bounces around the room, the movements keeping time with the circling of his thoughts. His fingers are drawn again and again to the unfamiliar weight of the gold band on his finger, twisting the metal around and around. It's part of their cover, something they were both wearing when she went down, something that makes the hospital admissions process easier. The band offers him a strange comfort, providing a connection with her that keeps him focussed on what matters.
Hours fall off the clock and there is no news. Clint's skin itches beneath the dried blood that coats it. The nurses take pity on him and bring him towels so that he can clean himself up, hot coffee and a sandwich that might once have been edible, he accepts them with all the grace that he can muster given the circumstances. Every so often his phone vibrates with a request for an update from HQ and he replies with the same three words - Nothing to Report.
Eventually, he becomes aware of one of the nurses pointing a doctor in his direction, his scrubs flecked with blood and his face carrying the exhaustion of hours spent on shift. The grim light in his eye makes Clint's stomach turn to ice.
"Mr Brandon?" the doctor asks, seeking to confirm his identity. He blinks at the use of the alias and wonders whether he's about to find himself entirely alone again, like he was before he brought Natasha into SHIELD all those years ago. At Clint's nod of confirmation, he continues. "My name is Dr Reuben Jenkins, I've been working on your wife since she was admitted."
His wife; the marriage is all part of the cover. Whenever one of them is admitted to a non SHIELD facility, they assume the identity of a married couple so that they are in a position to receive updates on one another's condition. Doctors might argue with a colleague but rarely with a husband. Clint tries to speak but finds his mouth too dry to form the sounds. Some words find weight in the speaking and he can't quite bring himself to ask what he wants to know most.
"We've managed to stabilise her for now but she's lost a lot of blood," the man continues, seeming to understand that it isn't that Clint doesn't want to express his gratitude but more than he can't. No doubt he's used to meeting people on what feels like the worst days of their lives. "We're moving her to the intensive care unit where we can monitor her further."
Clint turns the information over in his head but finds that the words are too vague for him, that too many possibilities left unvoiced for him to take comfort in the words. She's alive yes but what are her chances of making a full recovery? He decides to start with the most important detail and work from there. "Is she going to live?"
"We're doing everything that we can."
Not the most reassuring prognosis but better than the suggestion that he prepare himself for the worst. "Can I see her?"
They are reluctant to let him into her room, probably half convinced that he is responsible for her condition, but they relent eventually. The moment he steps into her too quiet room, he knows why they have. She doesn't look like herself, too frail and fragile for someone who burns as brightly as she does. The monitors and alarms around the bed chirp softly, offsetting the silence.
He means to go to her, to take her hand or to kiss her forehead, but stalls out half way between the door and the bed, too caught up in his own emotional response to complete the movement. They've won so many battles together and yet he can still taste every defeat on his tongue, still feel the weight of every injury carried pressing down on his shoulders. He carries the weight of old scars and wounds, nightmares and trips to medical that he can neither remember clearly nor fully forget as he moves slowly to the chair against the wall and pulls it closer to her bed.
Doctors come and go while Clint keeps watch. When the silence bothers him, he moves around the room. He naps intermittently, too wary of the unfamiliar surroundings to close his eyes and sleep properly. The lack of police interest, almost unheard of when a woman presents at the ER with four gunshot wounds, makes him thankful for Fury's impressive reach. The blanket of anonymity that SHIELD provides is no doubt accompanied by an interesting and creative story but he's simply grateful that nobody is bothering them.
Though his torso is no doubt beginning to resemble a Rorschach test, all of his bruises joining up in a pattern of purples, blues and blacks beneath his shirt, he doesn't move from the chair. An hour passes, then two, then five and he remains, unmoving, waiting.
Shifts change and the nurses change with it, new faces replacing those that have been in to check on her and update the charts at the foot of her bed.
"You should get that shoulder checked out," Dr Jenkins advises, back on shift and checking in on his patient for the third time. There is a note of concern in his voice that makes Clint think that deep down he probably cares. He also knows that Natasha will flip if she wakes up and finds herself in an unfamiliar hospital so he stays put. Eventually they send someone to check him over where he is; they conclude that nothing is broken, provide him with a fresh shirt and deliver the latest in a succession of cups of what passes for coffee.
After almost nineteen hours and five pints of blood, Natasha starts to show signs of waking up. It's a gradual process beginning with the slight flicker of her eyelids and progressing a while later to the twitch of her fingers atop the sheet. Clint traces his fingertips over hers, coaxing her back to him, finally lacing his fingers between her own so that their palms rest against one another. At the touch of their hands he feels grounded by their connection, the familiar contours of her hand against his own stilling his turbulent thoughts.
Her eyes flutter open a little while later, narrow slits of green showing beneath tangled lashes. Natasha blinks, once, twice. He shifts in his chair and her eyes slide his way, locking with his own. He sits up straighter, strokes his thumb across the back of her hand tenderly. The barest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her lips as her eyes move over him and take in his battered and somewhat rumpled appearance. Her fingers tighten around his, a slight frown making an appearance. "You look like shit," she croaks, voice weak and soft in the quiet room.
The slight quirk of her right eyebrow is the only indication that she's joking, probably all she can manage given her weakened condition, but the warmth in her eyes lets him know that no matter what he looks like the sight of him is welcome.
For the first time in what feels like years, Clint feels a smile split his features. His hand finds a home around hers and he lifts the back of her hand to his lips. "Love you too Nat," he chuckles softly, speaking the words against her skin, "love you too."