Pain brings her back to her senses, the steady drip of her blood onto the tile floor driving her insane.
The room is dark, the floor beneath her cheek cold. Natasha cracks open her eyes to semi-darkness, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She listens, barely breathing until she is sure that she is alone, and only then does she shift position. The protest of her body is instantaneous, pain flaring in her head and chest. Vision swimming, she takes in the room in which she lies: white tiles, shower cubicle in the corner, pedestal sink. Bathroom. She pushes herself up on one elbow and realises that she is back at the safe house.
The memories come back in a rush as she pushes herself upright, accompanied by a wave of nausea that makes the room spin around her. Thirty-six hours in captivity has left her dehydrated and the drugs have yet to fully leave her system but she is alive and she is free. She feels the telltale dizziness that indicates hypoglycemia and low blood pressure and her thoughts slosh about inside her skull as she eases herself back against the wall. She waits for the nausea to ebb, for the room to stop spinning so violently around her. It could be a moment; it feels like forever.
The relief of freedom is short-lived when she realises what the silence really indicates - she is alone in this building, no other living soul to help or comfort her. Clint is not there. Breath rushes from her lungs only to solidify when she allows the possibilities to sink in, the possibilities too numerous to contemplate. He could be out there somewhere looking for her, searching the warren of streets because she missed check in. The thought is not comforting, none of them are safe in the open.
Her fingers, slick with blood, struggle to find purchase on the sink as she pulls herself upright and her side aches fiercely by the time she gets her feet beneath her. Through sheer determination she stays on her feet long enough to regard the reflection that looks back at her in the mirror above the sink. Even in the muted light that spills into the room from the sleeping area, she can see the cut above her right eyebrow, the bruises that are already flowering across her cheek and jaw. Her lip is split and when she probes it with her tongue it stings, flooding her mouth with the metallic taste of blood. She resets her dislodged nose with an audible click and a colourful Russian curse, wiping away the blood with the back of her hand. The overall effect is nightmarish and more familiar than she would like, cuts and scrapes, blood and bruises - the currency of her profession.
She inhales deeply and winces, ribs screaming at the movement. With shaking fingers she explores the wound to her side, using the reflected image to guide her, unwilling to look down in case the shift in gravity sends her back to the tile. Her fingers come away slick, glittering in the half-light like spilled garnets.
Logic overrides the instinct to panic and she reaches for the calm that is usually so close to the surface. She knows that she needs to stop the bleeding, that the wound to the side of her chest has to be dealt with before she can think of anything else. She breathes, focussing on the act of inhaling and exhaling until the world narrows down around her to this one moment in a safe house bathroom, and she finds the strength to do what she has to. Keeping a clear head is her first priority; stopping the bleeding is a close second.
She goes through the motions with detached familiarity, falling back on past experience and stripping the fabric of her suit down to her waist so that she can get a better view of what she's dealing with. The knife wound is small, barely an inch across but it goes deep and it's still bleeding freely. She tears open a dressing from the medicine cabinet and holds it to her side with one hand, tossing supplies left and right with the other as she searches for what she needs.
The required package is on the left of the cabinet, a sure sign that Clint stocked it himself. She slows, moving carefully and taking what she needs with her until she can turn and lean back against the edge of the sink. Angling her body, she tears the top from the package and pours the clotting agent into the wound, writhing around the searing pain that follows the movement.
"Dammit," she grinds out, bracing herself with one hand against her side as shadows dance on the edges of her vision. This isn't her first rodeo but she always seems to forget just how much this stuff hurts. She forces herself to breathe through it, reminding herself that though it stings like a bitch it gets the job done. Allowing it a moment or two to work, she remembers how to breathe watching the crystals slow the blood flow so that she can properly bind the wound.
Preoccupied, she doesn't hear the sound in the outer room until footsteps approach the bathroom door. She moves as fast as she dares, reaching for the handgun that is concealed in the medicine cabinet and aiming it toward the door as it swings open. Light flares from the outer room and she winces, explosions going off behind her eyelids at the sudden stimulus. Though the pain is blinding and her arms burn with the exertion of holding the weapon, her finger is steady on the trigger.
He steps into the room with his weapon raised and immediately lifts both hands in a sign of surrender. She knows that silhouette, would know him anywhere. He moves toward her, eyes meeting hers, soft words of reassurance falling from his lips as he closes in on her. The reality is too much, the chemical surge making her head spin and her knees tremble. She lowers the gun but doesn't drop it.
"Tasha?" God the sound of that voice, the raw emotion she can hear in the carefully spoken syllables. She knows what he's asking, knows that he needs confirmation she is okay. Numb, she tries to make sense of all the emotions that she sees flickering through his eyes, the anger, the pain and the concern swiftly concealed. She takes a step back, maintaining distance and sees the fear and exhaustion that he is carrying. She should feel nothing but relief at the sight of him but it's too much for her to process, forty-eight hours of hell suddenly front and centre when all she knows of safety appears in front of her, his presence tipping the balance from detached neutrality to a hellstorm of pain and fear that threatens to shatter her.
"Don't!" she cries desperately, voice harsh as she stumbles back out of range when he reaches for her. She isn't sure what it is that she doesn't want him to do. Don't move. Don't speak. Don't touch me. Don't love me. Don't leave me. Don't stop. Too many thoughts to process. "I can't..." Her lip quivers and the first tear spills over her cheek, stinging the cuts and grazes it passes over on the way, and something snaps within her, every emotion she has ever felt amplifying and stealing away her reason.
He freezes, confusion boiling in his eyes, waits. He gives her the space to think, to catch her breath.
Clint catches her as her knees give out, stopping her from hitting the ground, murmured prayers of thanks falling from his mouth on every breath. As his arms close around her, so familiar, the scent of his skin burning into her nose, Natasha falls apart. The gun slips from her hand and amid the tears, the walls come down, every heartbeat hammering home the fact that she might never have seen his face again, never again have felt the strength of the arms that are currently wrapped around her. She lets it all go, all the rage and fear and pain that fills her, she lets him take it all and bear the burden for her.
Sense of self gone, they cling to one another, mindless of the blood that stains them both, of the words that fall from their mouths. She buries her face in his shoulder and lets the tears fall. He holds her close, pressing his lips to her head while one hand tangles in the length of her hair and he talks to her in low whispers. She has no idea how long they stay there before she can breathe again, no idea how many minutes pass before he turns his attention to her injuries.
With gentle hands and sure motions he tends to her, cleaning away the blood and sand from her skin. He talks the whole time, filling her in on the events of the two days since she fell into enemy hands, telling her that there is a truck outside waiting to take her to the nearest base camp.
"Almost done," he tells her as he stitches up the wound in her side. Natasha can count on one hand the number of people she's been able to depend on in her life and still have fingers left over and Clint, well, he never seems to stop coming through for her. He doesn't ask her anything, doesn't expect her to cough up the details of what led her to this situation. All he wants are the basic facts, is she okay and is she ready to leave?
She's been ready to leave since before they even arrived in Afghanistan, not wanting to revisit the memories of his body on the ground after that blast in Kabul. It has taken months for her to stop seeing it in her sleep, too many nights spent watching the rise and fall of his chest when those images come back to haunt her. This country holds nothing good for them and this trip proves that.
Silently, she reaches out and lays a hand over the location of his scars. She doesn't have to see them to know exactly where they are, she just knows, just as he will always know exactly where her scars are. The hand closes around her forearm tells her that he knows what is on her mind, his thumb ghosting back and forward in comforting strokes. "Drink some of this," he tells her, holding up bottled water. She does, flinching involuntarily as he puts the final sutures in place, there wasn't time for painkillers to take effect and now that the adrenaline has faded the process just hurts.
She rests on one of the cots while he cleans up the bathroom, a little nauseous at the sight of so much of her own blood staining the floor. They will be leaving as soon as she feels ready to make the two hour journey West to the base camp, from there they will decide their next move. She needs medical attention, that much is obvious to them both, she needs blood and fluids and a qualified doctor to make sure that none of the damage is permanent, but right now she just needs a moment to catch her breath and process what she has been through. She needs them both to be out of this god-forsaken country before nightfall so that she can breathe again.
"I'm ready," she tells him when he emerges a short time later, still drying his hands on one of the standard issue towels that the place is always equipped with. He meets her eyes only briefly and then nods, not bothering to argue with her. He helps her climb to her feet and carries their bags but makes no effort to carry her, knowing that she prefers to leave on her own two feet whenever possible. He's right there though in case she needs him, a steady warmth at her side.
Every footstep is a struggle but also a victory. She leans into him more and more as they cross the room and ends up with an arm slung around his shoulder as she lets him lead her across the room and out into the still dark morning. It takes them three times as long as it should to reach the truck but he doesn't rush her, he is nothing but supportive, even when she all but falls into the passenger seat of the vehicle, one hand clutched to her side and the other maintaining a bruising grip on his own. He leaves her only to secure the safe house door and make his way around to the drivers side.
"You okay?" he asks as he climbs in behind the wheel. She doesn't miss the placement of his bow on the floor where he can reach it easily, or it's significance. All might be quiet but they aren't home and clear yet. Natasha eases back against the door so that she can see him, trying to angle her body in a way that eases the pressure a little. Momentarily she is caught in the thunderstorm of his eyes, the way that they seem forever caught between green and grey, and she realises that no matter what else she believes in she believes in him. She has seen his face under every sky, over every border and every battle line for years and without him she is entirely and completely compromised. "Nat?"
She offers him a tight smile, exhaustion and blood loss catching up with her. "Just get me to the doc so that we can go home," she tells him quietly, "I'll be fine as long as you keep me out of trouble until then."
She closes her eyes against the sound of his dry chuckle beside her and tries to ignore the potholes in the road that make her insides scream. "Might take more than one man to do that," he tells her, "but I'll give it my best shot."
His hand finds hers briefly and then she hears his voice as he radios ahead to tell whoever is listening that he has her and he's bringing her back.
"Promise me that we'll never come back here again," she begs, aware that it is the wish of a child at prayer. They go where their orders take them, always have, probably always will. "Our luck isn't made to stretch this far."
"Shh," he soothes, "won't be long now. Try to get some sleep Tasha. I'll get us out. I'll get us home..." His words, his voice, are the last thing she hears before exhaustion overtakes her completely and she loses consciousness.