She hears the crack a split second before the ground beneath her boots disappears. The cold hits her like a physical blow, the water swallowing her without hesitation. She has known cold before; she grew up in the Russian winters where fingers and toes could be lost, but she has never known cold like this. It pierces her skin like needles, robs her of her strength almost instantly.
For a second or two the strange tranquillity absorbs her, endless dark with muted shapes and shifting shadow, it clears her mind for the first time in days, steals away all but the immediate quiet of her surroundings. Then, as quickly as the calm descends the bubble bursts and her mind resets with the facts that matter. Natasha knows that she has a minute, if that, to fight her way back out into the open and that even getting out of the water is no guarantee of survival.
In spite of the hundred pound weights that seem to be attached to her limbs she kicks with all her might back toward the surface. It's murky beneath the ice and her eyes are all but useless; only instinct tells her which way is up and which is down. Propelling herself upward she raises her hands, searching for the cold night air that her body so desperately needs. Instead she hits a ceiling of solid ice and the impact reverberates through her arms.
Logic comes first, quickly followed by the stab of confusion. Whatever current exists beneath the surface is working against her; she has drifted away from the point of entry. Panic flares as she gropes desperately for the break in the ice.
The thin dusting of fresh snow on the surface ensures that the darkness is almost complete. Forcing her eyes open she turns in a circle, desperately searching for any contrast, a hint of moonlight on the jagged edges where she came through the ice. There, a few metres away. The edges of the hole glow with faint silvery luminescence.
She isn't sure that she can make it, not when the gap in the ice seems to be getting smaller by the second. How long has she been under? Thirty seconds, maybe more?
Natasha has always known that the cold will claim her in the end, she was born in the cold, forged in the cold and now she will be consumed by it. Wherever Clint is, whichever direction he took as they ran through the forest, she is glad that he isn't with her now. She has never feared anything as much as she fears having to watch him die. If the water and the cold are going to claim her, she would rather he not be there to see it.
She's not ready to give in yet though. Not yet. Not yet.
She kicks and she fights and she claws at the ice above her, struggling to move her limbs against the growing numbness. Lungs burning, she edges closer to where she wants to be.
The building pressure in her ears makes it impossible to escape the pounding of her pulse, every beat of her heart a repetition of his name. She fights for him, for Clint, pushes herself toward the man whose name is her heartbeat, who she will always run toward irrespective of the dangers.
Natasha hears the sound of an impact on the surface, somewhat muted by the water. She glances around in spite of herself, promptly wishing that she hadn't when she momentarily loses her bearings again. Above her, the thin layer of powdered snow that rests on the surface is swiped away and a dark shape appears through the ice. She can't make out his features, and she has no way of knowing whether he can see her at all, but she knows that it is Clint.
Lungs screaming, she swims for the hole in the ice. Suddenly an arm plunges into the water above her, groping around until it finds her, fingers closing around her wrist in a grip that she can't even feel. She tries to curl her fingers around his forearm, to use his momentum to propel herself toward the surface but finds that her body doesn't respond to the commands she gives. He pulls her upward, drags her back into the open where oxygen awaits her, once again pulling her away from certain death and into his sphere of influence.
Breaching the surface, she gasps in a heaving breath. Her breath fogs on the air around her, white clouds, like dragon breath, as he pulls her clear. It's like breathing fire, every inhalation burning in the cavern of her lungs, pain seeping into limbs that were previously numb. The cold night air bites at her, ice crystals forming on her exposed skin and in the strands of her hair in the time that it takes him to pull her from the water, grip her beneath the arms and haul her clear of the splintered ice which betrayed her to the lake.
He stumbles, slipping on the unsure surface and winds up half beneath her on the ice, his body separating her from the snow. Fresh snowflakes drift lazily down from the sky, dancing on the air currents. In spite of the bone splintering cold, she finds that the whole scene is really quite beautiful.
" C… Cl ...C ... " violent shivers steal her words, teeth chattering together.
Leather covered fingers come to rest at the side of her face, gently moving her hair away from her skin with an audible crackle of freshly formed ice. Her eyelashes are starting to freeze together and every shallow breath makes her lungs ache.
"Shh Tasha," he soothes. "Don't try to talk. I need to get you out of the open."
As his face comes into focus, she feels a calm that seems at odds with the situation. For a split second, a heartbeat between inhale and exhale, she doesn't hurt but then reflex forces her to breathe in and the pain returns. Her eyes focus on the stars above them in the sky, tiny pinpoints of light that shimmer like diamonds. Just once, she wishes for the chance to slow down and appreciate the little things.
His voice comes to her as if from a great distance, a quiet urging for her to stay awake as he climbs to his feet, lifts her and throws her over his shoulder. The leather of her outfit affords her little protection from the cold and she feels every jolting step of the journey though her awareness is dimmed.
"Stay with me Natasha," he tells her. "Stay awake; not much further now."
She is aware of the change in his pace, of the uneven terrain and crunch of snow beneath his boots as he carries her. The scenery flashes by in a blur of trees and moonlight, snow and harsh breathing. Pain steals her awareness more than once as he moves and by the time his pace slows her eyes are on the way to being sealed shut by a thin veil of ice.
The wooden hunters cabin is small but for the most part clean, a well stocked woodpile and freshly swept hearth being the two features that she deems most significant. She has no idea how he might have come across it but she's thankful to be out of the wind.
"Almost there," he tells her, setting her down gently on the wooden bench that passes for a bed. He leaves her there momentarily before returning with a blanket from somewhere and covering her over.
Shivering violently, Natasha watches him building up the fire and wonders why in spite of the flickering flames she feels nothing. He returns as soon as the kindling has taken hold, rubbing her hands between his own in an attempt to put some warmth back into her fingers. At first there is nothing but then, once his gloves have been removed, the warmth of his skin begins to break the numbness of hers. Heat translates as pain and she fights the urge to flinch away from him.
"We need to get you out of these wet clothes," he tells her, easing the blanket aside and beginning to unzip the leather of her suit, to peel the fabric away from her skin. She tries to help, she really does, but her fingers don't comply.
Her mouth twitches into what might be a smile but the violent spasming of her limbs makes it impossible to maintain the expression. She's trying really hard to look like she isn't freezing to death. "Always trying to get me naked," she exclaims, half joking, half relieved to be out of the restrictive outfit.
Barton's chuckle is a balm that makes her feel warmer on the inside if not on the outside. He pats her skin dry to remove any lingering water with the edges of the blanket. "Can't change who I am Natasha," he jokes, " and this time there is a legitimate reason."
He tucks the blanket back around her , crosses the cabin, and prods the fire to stir up the flames. As her gaze follows him around the cabin, she spots his bow and quiver set carefully against the wall, a standard issue black backpack beside it. From its depths he pulls a second blanket, a foil survival sheet, and a small flask which he uncaps and takes a brief swig from.
"Drink this," he instructs her, bringing the bottle with him when he crosses the small space to her side. Holding the flask for her, and supporting her head, he coaxes her into taking a couple of sips. The brandy burns on its way down her throat and she waits for it to hit her stomach, for the warmth to spread through her.
"Not great company tonight," she manages to say between the shivers, teeth still chattering. Beneath the blanket, her limbs are contorted with cold, fingers frozen in position in spite of both of their best efforts to straighten them. Though her skin is pale, she can already feel the burn of potential frostbite in her extremities. The feeling, while unpleasant, is far from unfamiliar, a childhood in Russia taught her a great deal about the dangers of weather exposure. Only time will tell whether she will keep all of her fingers and toes.
Clint moves her suit away from her and quickly sheds his own clothing, letting it form a pile on the floor. The lapse in his usual tidiness warms her on an emotional level. Despite the fire and the walls that surround him, his breath still lingers a moment after he exhales each lungful of air. Wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers, he hurries the few steps that will bring him to the bench.
"Well we all have our off days," he tells her, "almost freezing to death earns you the right to be a little off." Offering up the slightest of smiles, he lifts the edge of the blanket and slips beneath it with her. Carefully, he moves her around until he is half sitting behind her, his body cradling her own, her back against his chest, his legs and arms cocooning her from both sides. He tucks the second blanket around his back and shoulders to seal in the warmth. The foil sheet, he arranges between her body and the top layer of insulation.
The tightening of his muscles and the sudden influx of heat tells Natasha exactly how much their body temperatures differ, but he says nothing about it. Clint has never been the type to complain. There may be more than a few sarcastic remarks made but she won't take it personally. Hugging his partially frozen partner to his bare skin, earns him the right to be a little out of sorts too.
He tucks her head in against his chest, tangles his legs with hers and tucks the blankets more securely around them both. "Skin to skin contact is the most efficient way to warm you up," he tells her softly. His arms wrap around her, fingers gently massaging her hands as he tries to reestablish blood flow to her fingertips. Concentration brings his head down beside hers, his cheek pressing against her own.
Sighing, Natasha leans into him, allows the warmth of his body to seep into hers. The steady beat of his heart against her ear lulls her into believing, if only for a moment, that everything will be okay. "What happens now?" she asks drowsily, already feeling the pull of sleep as his warmth eases the worst of her shivers.
"Extraction's scheduled for 0900," he replies, "not much we can do until then except try to rest up and stay warm."
She knows that there's something off about the plan, something about there being an extraction plan in place, but Clint's words make too much sense for her to argue with them. An extraction from this mission means Stark rather than Fury, means endless teasing rather than a trip to medical and being benched for a few days.
Clint's fingertips, brush her still damp hair away from her face gently. "When I saw you go through the ice, I honestly thought that was it," he admits. "One minute you were there and the next you were just gone …"
Natasha opens her eyes and stares up at him. She wasn't aware that he had been near enough to see what happened. He doesn't seem to be aware of her watching him; his gaze seems to look through her and into another place entirely, a time during which she briefly occupied another world.
"I didn't think about whether it was the sensible thing to do or not, whether it was safe, I just ran for where I had last seen you. I kept waiting for you to come back up, to break the surface but you didn't and I just couldn't move fast enough."
She shifts slightly in his arms, slowly, painfully, lifts an arm until she can lay a palm against the side of his face. He starts and looks down at her. "You found me," she tells him, "you saved me."
"I speak five languages Natasha but what I felt when you went under, I have no words to describe that."
The admission knocks the words that she is about to say out of her mouth. That Clint will lay himself bare with her in such a way still has the ability to take her breath away. She doesn't know what to say in response because the words are so out of character in comparison with the wisecracking agent she spends the majority of her time with.
"Clint I …" He places a finger to her lips, cutting off the words.
"I'm not looking for an admission here," he tells her with a gentle smile, "just wanted to give you something to focus on other than the fact that you're about to spend the night half frozen in a Siberian hunting cabin."
"Can't fault the company at least," she replies easily, thankful for the sudden injection of humour. Clint always seems to know when to back away from the heavy emotional stuff and retreat behind the normal sarcasm.
His arms tighten around her reassuringly and Natasha turns her head to that her ear rests over his heart, its steady beating more soothing than words. "Stark is going to have a field day when he finds us like this in the morning," she sighs, "he already has his suspicions about us."
Clint's hum of amusement, a vibration in his chest that ripples through her body, draws a smile from her. "Don't worry about Stark," he tells her, "I can handle him. Sleep Natasha, I'll wake you in time to get dressed and make sure he doesn't see more than he should."
She wants to argue but her eyelids are already heavy, the warmth of his body and the reassuring thud of his heart lulling her toward slumber. Safe in his arms, she surrenders and closes her eyes. The warmth of the kiss that he presses to her skin lingers long after he pulls away, the touch of his skin keeps the nightmares at bay. With the scent of his skin in her nose, she sleeps.