Chapter Title: I'm Unhinged and You're Undone

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership or copyright of anything depicted or over anything you might recognize.

Clint felt empowered as he stepped over the limp form of a guard, an arrow planted in his thigh as well as one in his throat.

Two shots to take him down – that had been hard to swallow but with the way his vision kept blurring in and out of focus and the constant tiredness threatening to pull him into the beckoning darkness, he accepted the minor miracle of only two tries.

His palms were sweaty as his fingers were wrapped tightly around his bow, a new arrow planted on the string. He didn't have the strength to keep it taut, his hands trembling if he held it for more than a few seconds. So, he settled for keeping it ready, allowing the calmness coming from the feel of the cool alloy to seep into his heart.

He focused on the simple act of pulling back the string and launching his arrows; one by one. Aim, pull back, relax. Release. He let the routine overwhelm and take over his senses, lolling him into a stupor that kept the dark at bay. He gritted his teeth against the pull of pain as he fired another arrow. The pointy end embedded itself firmly into the chest of one guard. He went down with a gurgle as Clint moved on to his buddies. Too close to fire again, the archer opted for catapulting himself onto the nearest one, burying a serrated knife into his chest as they both went down. Knowing there was a third guard with a fully functioning handgun somewhere behind him, Clint didn't hesitate. He threw his body backwards, feeling his back slide across the floor. As he came to a stop, he looked straight up at the third man. He had pulled the bowstring taut and let the arrow sail into his chest, inches away, before the other man had a chance to fire his weapon.

As the guard slumped to the floor, Clint used the wall to pull himself back to his feet. He felt the tremors running through his legs. He kept a firm hand on the cool wall and let it guide him around the next corner. Instinct prickled at his senses, the word danger screaming in his head. He had an arrow nocked in the next breath. He was ready to let it fly. Until his instinct told him something else. It wasn't an enemy standing in front of him but a certain redheaded assassin, her looted guns aimed squarely at his head.

Natasha.

She was breathing heavily as recognition dawned in her eyes at the same second and she lowered her weapons. Her posture lacked some of its normal confidence and it was slightly bent from exhaustion and overexertion. She looked stretched thin – more so than when they had split up outside the compound. A few more cuts and bruises littered her already abused face and blood had run down her right arm from a bullet graze. He suspected he didn't look much better, so he let his inspection go unsaid.

He let the string relax and lowered his bow. They met in the middle of the hall and without a word, Clint unclipped her utility belt and thigh holsters, her preferred Glocks securely fastened in each, from around his waist. Natasha's eyes twinkled with excitement as she tossed the stolen handgun away to accept her gear.

"I took the liberty of restocking the ammo," Clint commented as she began fastening the belts around her own waist carefully, her fingers moving nimbly along.

"You've extended it."

"You calling me fat?"

"Don't worry, Barton, I know it's just big bones." She sent him a teasing look, the smirk on her face obscured by the blood from her split lip, yet the challenge remained abundantly clear.

"Next time you can retrieve your own damn weapons…"

"So, I trust this means you found the armory?"

Clint opened the zipper of the backpack to reveal the blocks of C4 and detonators stocked in there. A few were already missing from the stolen explosives. As he had made his way from the weapon storage, he had managed to place a couple if he came across any walls, he deemed to be supportive of the compound structure. He had also stacked the heaps of ammunition he hadn't managed to carry around another explosive device within the storage itself, a bit more potent than what he carried with him to add a little more fuel to the potential fire.

"Apparently, they follow building regulations, so there was an emergency map with fire exits… Unfortunately, they didn't bother with the "set explosives here" instructions so we'll have to go with gut feeling."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Natasha muttered as she liberated the archer off some of his weapons equipment and double-checked her Glocks, relishing the familiar weight of them back in her hands.

In unison, the two weary SHIELD agents continued their hunt through the blaring facility.

"How many do you think's in there?"

Clint was crouched, his back resting against the wall. His partner was in a similar position, a closed door in between them and limp guards scattered on the ground by their feet. She clicked in another ammunition clip.

"No way to tell. Feels like they're all running headless by this point," Natasha supplied.

"Don't put too much into that; I wanna do the same when I see your face." Clint winked as a response to the burning glare thrown his way. He steeled himself while he tightened his hold on the smoke grenade on his hands.

"Ready?" he asked.

Romanoff nodded.

"Happy New Year," Clint declared as he smashed open the door and tossed the grenade inside.

It clanked while it rolled and collided with the floor. All was quiet for a fraction of a second. And then all hell broke loose. The grenade exploded in a haze of smoke, shouts and confused screams echoing out from the grey mist. Natasha didn't hesitate as she threw herself into the fog, her outline quickly disappearing from view, but the fire from her Glocks lighting up like fireworks in a cloudy sky.

Clint trailed in behind her, letting the fight envelop his senses. The smoke burned but most had cleared by the time he entered the room. Years of partnership and trust had finetuned his sensitivity to his partner, so he knew exactly how Natasha moved and where she was as she pounced from one unfortunate soul to the next. He went in the opposite direction and kicked at the knee of the nearest guard, who looked ready to fire at the swirling outline of the Black Widow.

As the man cried out when his knee dislocated and crumbled under his weight, Clint moved in for the kill. He snapped the guard's neck with a twist of his upper body. Before the limp body had even hit the floor, he flowed onto the next. He collided heavily the thick-chested guard as he barreled into him. They crashed into a heap on the floor. Clint, landing on top, smashed the butt of his gun into the man's head before he had a chance to gather his bearings. The archer had an arrow nocked on the string in the next breath.

He fired of two shots in rapid succession, aiming for the two nearest guards. He went for the biggest target; their chests.

Both arrows missed.

Ignoring the deep, aching feelings of despair, anger and endless frustration, he switched to good old fashioned violence. He utilized the same tactic as before. He dove into the closest living thing, this time with an arrow grasped firmly in his hand. He planted it squarely into the guard's chest while they tumbled to the ground. The partner had fired wild, uncoordinated shots at the SHIELD agent in an attempt to bring the threat down, but before he could get in another try, Clint swiped his legs out of from under him. Then he pulled out the arrow from the dead guard and buried it into the other's throat. The guard drew in a gurgled breath, blood running from his mouth down his cheek and coating Clint's fingers still wrapped around the arrow's thin, metal shaft.

He tore to his feet, nearly tumbling back down as the dark room tipped dangerously and his head spun. The small lapse of concentration and movement nearly proved fatal. The only reason the bullet bit into his arm and not his chest was the guard who had fired was still dazed from the smoke grenade. Clint immediately made sure he couldn't correct his mistake.

A fist slammed into his face, snapping his whole head to the side. Stars erupted before his eyes. He felt himself tilt and stagger with the blow. No respite came as the guard with the handy fists moved in. Clint managed to block the punch sailing at his cheek but not quite the other jab, which collided with his exposed ribs. He grunted as pain flared in his side, his nerve endings seemingly on fire with every hit, every jolt, every impact he suffered. Everything ached and reverberated through his failing, crumbling body. The constant sleepiness, the plain feeling of being so goddamn tired, made his movements sluggish and sloppy and it allowed the guard in front of him to get in more blows than Clint would normally tolerate. He did manage to get in a few hits of his own though and the man was tiring too.

Clint used his bow to block a kick and then a punch. He twisted, leaving the guard's torso open. He planted his foot in the exposed abdomen and the man wobbled backwards. It left a perfect opening. Clint nocked an arrow, pulled the string taut and let it fly. Only a couple of steps away, it was impossible to miss, even in his current state. The arrowhead sailed into the guard's chest, where his legs buckled, and he slithered to the ground with a thump. Clint didn't have a chance to relish the moment.

Something heavy slammed into his body and he felt himself hurled into the hard floor. The air was pushed out of his lungs and his bow clattered out of his grip. Knuckles connected with his cheek.

Once.

Twice.

His ears were ringing as blackness danced in his eyes. As everything slowly started to clear, he felt strong hands wrapping around his throat. His hands desperately flailed around as his air supply was violently cut off. He choked and sputtered in a failing attempt to draw in a breath. The darkness returned and started creeping in from the edges of his vision. He stared up hatefully at the guard straddled on top of him while his hands patted his side. He could feel himself slipping away when finally, his fingertips grazed the tip of a knife. Fumbling, he wrapped his shaking digits around the hilt. He thrust it into the sensitive flesh of the strangler's stomach. The man released his strong hold on Clint's windpipe with a cry and slid to the side. Clint tore the blade out from his stomach and jammed it into the guard's throat.

Clint left it in there. He coughed haggardly as precious air once again flowed freely into his lungs. He remained on the ground for several minutes, pain and misery running through his limbs. No one else came to attack him and it was only when his heart was no longer pounding loudly in his ears that he realized it was because there was no one left.

When he could find the strength to rise, he took stock of the situation. The floor was scattered with limp bodies, either dead or unconscious. A large dark television screen was nailed to one wall, taking up almost the entire space, no picture currently filling the pixels. Elongated metal tables took up the middle of the room, computer screens and keyboards littering the shiny surfaces. This was definitely some sort of control room, like they had suspected.

He caught sight of Natasha. She was standing leaned over one of the computers as she fished out an USB plug from her utility belt, inserted it in a port and began typing away. One of her Glocks was in its holster, while the other rested on the table next to the keyboard.

Clint slowly wobbled over, careful not to drag his feet too much. As he moved in closer, he could properly see his partner. Sweat had mattered her hair, the curls lifeless and clinging to her forehead. She was breathing heavily, her upper body bent awkwardly over the keyboard and it was only when he saw the blood coloring the left side of her shirt he understood why.

"Nat?" he gently prodded.

Her sharp green eyes snapped in his direction, scrutiny clear in her gaze as she examined him. He crossed his arms defiantly in front of his chest and raised his eyebrows questioningly, knowing he didn't come across as relaxed and composed like he wanted. But it did the job.

"I'm fine," his partner reassured. "It's just a graze."

"No," he quickly countered and pointed at her arm. "That is just a graze."

Natasha sighed heavily, staring at the computer screen in front of her without really seeing. "Fine… The bullet went through. Didn't hit anything vital; I wouldn't be walking otherwise. I can manage."

The corner of Clint's mouth twisted upwards briefly, in a sad amusement. "Now doesn't that sound familiar."

"You don't get to have all the fun," she turned back to him with a somber smirk. The archer didn't miss her attempt at hiding the wince whenever she moved.

Clint knew he wouldn't get anywhere. He didn't exactly have the moral high ground at the moment to flaunt it in her face. He settled for shoving an office chair in her general direction with a pointed look and went in search for a first aid kit. He smiled wryly when he returned and saw her solidly planted in the chair, while she worked. Nice to know she still had same manners.

He settled into his own chair, when his legs threatened to give up under his weight and pulled up the hem of Natasha's shirt to inspect the wound. The entire lower part of her abdomen was covered in red and the blood had run down to coat the pant leg a shade darker. He pressed a thick wad of gauze onto the gaping hole and held on tight, even as he felt Natasha instinctively squirm and her muscles tense at the sudden onslaught of pain. She worked her jaw and the lines around her eyes tightened, but other than that she remained silent and continued transferring documents to the USB she had inserted in the computer.

"He donates to charity," she commented casually as she rummaged through the files and accounts. "Children's hospitals and orphanages."

Clint huffed humorlessly, his trembling hands slowly getting coated in her blood. "Classic narcissistic behavior; you can get away with crime as long as your pockets are deep enough. I'm still keeping the arrow with his name on it."

"I would be disappointed if you didn't," Romanoff stated.

Clint gently eased the third blood-soaked gauze away from the bullet hole and to his relief saw that the ebb of blood has stilled somewhat. Natasha had been right – the wound itself was a clean through-and-through with minimal damage done. What concerned him was the immense blood loss following such a trauma – abdominal gunshots always bled profusely, and she hadn't exactly had a normal blood volume to begin with. He threw the soggy wad to the ground and replaced it with a new square that he taped to the damp skin and began wrapping a bandage tight around her stomach to keep it in place. He ignored the way his hands violently shook during the process and though Natasha's sharp, worried eyes observed the action, she at least had the decency not to mention it.

When Clint was done and leaned back heavily in his chair, disconcerted with how exhausted he was after that simple act, she couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer.

"How you're doing?"

"'Just a graze'," Clint commented with a shrug. At her unamused, pointed stare, he continued "Aren't you supposed to be hacking?"

"I'm multi-tasking," she quickly shot back. She leaned forward and placed the back of her hand on his boiling forehead. He couldn't help relishing the feel of her cool skin against his burning one. His partner eyed him warily, though she didn't speak.

Instead, she opted for returning her attention back to the computer screen in front of her as it beeped. "See, no need to fuss. All his funds have now been transferred to his precious charities and SHIELD have successfully retrieved all his assets."

"And his other facilities?"

"I sent our friends there a little message," she nonchalantly said, the playful spark in her eyes suggesting it was everything but 'little'.

"Then I do believe Omarov has an appointment we don't want him to be late for."

Natasha led the way out of the control room, determined, practically moving like a hound tracking a scent. Clint trailed behind her. He told himself it was to keep a watchful eye on her.

He denied the small voice whispering in his mind, telling him it was to keep her from spotting his unsteady, swaying wobble and the way he shook his head to clear the sleepy cobwebs engulfing his muddled thoughts.

He was tethering at the edge of the dark precipice that constantly threatened to drag him down and swallow him whole. He knew he didn't have long.

But he would see this through to the end. Even if it killed him.

TBC