Okay so I couldn't leave it alone either... hope you enjoy.
As soon as they land in Bolivia, she feels that old ache that never really left after the gunshot wound she got here. In all the years since that mission she's never been back, until now. Fury leaves her when they reach the clinic, knowing that his presence at Barton's bedside will raise questions and draw unwanted attention to the unknown man in the critical care unit. Nobody questions her when she arrives, believing the cover that she is the girlfriend of Clint Barnett, contacted by his employer and newly arrived to be at his side.
Natasha finds him atop a sterile hospital bed, his body covered from the waist down by crisp white sheets and a lightweight blanket. He is either asleep or unconscious beneath the oxygen mask that covers half of his face when they show her in and it's like Kabul all over again. Clean gauze has been wrapped around his chest and she can see the outline of the padding beneath it that they have placed over his wounds. Bruises and lacerations cover the arms that lie at his sides atop the sheets.
Not knowing quite what to do, she crosses the room and perches on the very edge of the chair that has been placed at the side of the bed for her use. Unable to speak, she allows her fingertips to gently trace the exposed skin of his forearm and the back of his hand, carefully avoiding the needle that was feeding him morphine to kill the pain. Her eyes roam over the cluster of machinery that stands by the bed, recognising most of the monitors to which he is connected.
A few minutes is all it takes for the silence to become oppressive and she moves to lean against the edge of his bed, getting as close to him as she can without interfering with his medical equipment. She leans over him, bringing her face down close to his. "Don't you give up on me, you hear?" she says softly, wrapping her hand carefully around his own. "Fury says that you've been asking for me, well I'm here. You need to come back to me because I'm not going anywhere until you wake up and get out of that bed."
She stays at his side throughout the night, conversing with the nursing staff and his doctors as they came in and out of the room, glad that Spanish is one of the languages in which she is fluent. The doctors are talkative, she learns that Clint has been into surgery twice, once to treat a gunshot wound and the second time because of internal bleeding. His other injuries, she learns, are the result of falling from down a flight of concrete stairs at the time of the shooting. She also learns that her partner was shot by a police officer.
Someone wheels in a low cot for her when they realise that she isn't going anywhere but she has no wish to use it, instead she dozes with her head on the edge of his bed, staying as close to him as possible as if her own proximity will speed his healing. It's more than that though, she needs to be close enough to hear every breath that he takes, to feel the rise and fall of his chest when she reaches out her hand. The man in front of her, bandaged and bloody, pumped up on anaesthetics, is the part of her that has been missing for most of her life. She has no intention of losing him now, not when it suddenly seems so important that she has the chance to say "I love you" to the man who has shown her she is in fact capable of such depth of feeling.
During the day and night that follow Clint sleeps. They reduce the dosage of the anaesthesia when they decide that the signs are good and tell her to talk to him. Natasha waits without knowing exactly what it is that she waits for, going no further than the bathroom that adjoins his room. She keeps her weapons close in case she needs them and she remains at his side, one of his hands in hers. She reads to him, Vonnegut, but it's only so long before her voice becomes hoarse and she has to stop.
It's early morning when she wakes to an unexpected movement in the room. She comes up ready to fight, hand moving for the knife that is still stored in her boot before she opens her eyes. The eyes that look back at her are the most welcome sight she has ever seen, iron grey like storm clouds but flecked with hints of blue and green. His fingers move again against the tips of her hair and for a long moment neither of them moves.
Despite having been unconscious since her arrival, she knows from the look in his eyes that he's exhausted.
She tightens her hold on his hand and raises her head, offering him a smile. Her voice is barely a whisper in the quiet of the room, afraid that if she speaks too loudly the medical staff will rush in and destroy this moment that she has been waiting for. "Welcome back," she tells him, bringing her hand up to his face. Barton turns his face so that his cheek rests against her palm. "You had me worried for a minute there."
"Wasn't going anywhere," he tells her, voice rusty from lack of use and distorted by the mask over his face. She smiles, knowing that she would still recognise it anywhere. "Heard you calling to me, followed your voice all the way back."
A tear slips the leash of her control, rolling over her cheek and dripping onto his chest. Now that she knows that he is going to be okay, she can feel the weight that has settled over her lifting.
"Hey," he lifts his free hand, slowly and brushes away the second tear to roll over her cheek, "no tears, we're okay. We're not done you and me, not by a long shot." Unable to form words, she nods. Seemingly appeased he shuffles over on the mattress, making room for her. "Now get on up here where you can sleep more comfortably and I'll know that you haven't up and left my ass while I'm sleeping."
She follows his instructions, allowing him to boss her around on account of the fact that he has just been shot in the chest, careful of the tubes and monitors that remain hooked up to his body. As soon as she settles against him she can feel the weight of her bones once again, like the world has shifted slightly and now sits correctly on its axis once more. They both sigh as they find a comfortable position, eyes beginning to close almost as soon as they curl around one another. "You know that I love you, right?" she asks as she drifts off.
Clint's fingers tangle in her hair once again, pulling her closer and holding her there. "About damn time Nat," he tells her. "About damn time."