She coughed in a confused way and blinked tears from her eyes. It felt like every inch of her had been scraped raw, doused in fuel and set alight. Something hot and sticky was pooling around her shoulder and hip. It dripped into her eyes and clouded her vision, this hot sticky wet thing, and bozhe moi, why did it hurt so bad?

Natasha Romanoff was no stranger to pain, but as she struggled to breathe she knew there was something very, very wrong. She coughed again and tried to sit up, flinching at the sickening crunch that sounded. Something was broken, something was very badly broken. Distantly there was shouting, screaming, the familiar rattle of rapid gunfire. Struggling to breathe, she ran her fingers over her abdomen until she found the source of the blood. Her fingers dug into it, squelching through blood, fat and muscle. She hissed in pain and pulled them out, pushing her hand over the injury. A flesh wound, it was just a flesh wound.

A wordless cry passed her lips as she tried to move again. Something more than the flesh wound, more than the broken bones. Her heart pounded furiously against her chest, faster than it should have. Too much faster.

There was something very, very wrong. The pain began to hit a point she didn't think possible. She felt almost euphoric in its strength and wheezed as it started to feel like there was fire in her bones, twisting through her body, burning her into ash. She stopped trying to move and gave up at coughing. No point panicking now.

"Natasha!" Someone was screaming her name. That was nice, she thought hazily. Someone screaming for her. "NATASHA!"

She felt somebody touching her face gently, delicately, like they were afraid she would break. She opened her eyes to find herself staring into the wide blue eyes of Steve Rogers. That was good, then. The star spangled man with a plan would know what to do.

There was a distant, rational part of Clint's mind that was telling him that this wasn't actually Stark's fault. He was telling that part of his mind to get fucked.

Tony's breath caught in his throat as he was thrown up against the wall and pinned there, two very strong hands in a death grip on his shirt. His addled brain took a minute but managed to decipher the meaning behind the abusive stream of language running from Clint's mouth. Natasha's hurt. It's your fault.

His body went limp and he stopped struggling at the realisation that was undoubtedly true. If he'd been a bit more focused, a bit more careful, just a bit faster, he'd have made it to Tasha in time. But he hadn't been focused, or careful, he hadn't made it, and now Natasha was on the operating table.

And it was entirely his fault.

He dropped to the cold linoleum flood as Barton released him and turned away, covering his face with one hand and taking careful breaths. When he turned back to Tony, who was still on the floor staring sadly at some point in the distance, he sighed.

"I'm sorry. It's not your fault."

He noticed Tony had sort of curled up into himself, for once without argument. Bruce had kneeled beside him with one hand on his arm, trying to awaken him from whatever this state was. His brow furrowed as Tony pulled himself to his feet with Bruce's help. Bruce's nose wrinkled, trying to ignore the scent of sweat and alcohol that seemed to seep from every pore in Tony's body. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "I'm sorry I messed up."

"Tony, it's okay. Really." Bruce directed him to a chair and sat him down, shooting a look at Clint, who was clenching his fists and trying not to lose his temper again. The sight of the pathetically guilty man set him on edge and he turned away, glaring at the ground.

Tony mumbled something about needing a drink and Clint turned back seeing red. "You need a drink? No. Hell no. Tasha nearly got killed because you live off scotch and vodka and came onto a mission drunk. If she dies tonight, Stark, I'm going to remove your fucking head and stick it on the top of the Empire State."

"Clint," Bruce said warningly, putting one hand on the man's chest and pushing him back. "Now's not the time."

"Yeah, Clint, now's not the time." Tony mumbled into his shirt, keeping his eyes away from the others.

"Tony, shut up." Bruce caught Clint's fist before it hit Tony in the face and pushed him back further. "Clint, just leave it until he's sober."

"What's going on in here?" Steve walked in, mask in hand. He sighed and ran one hand over his hair, shaking his head slowly at the sight of Bruce holding Clint back and Tony making puppy-like eyes up at him. He stared at them until Bruce backed away from Clint, who let go of Tony's shirt, which he'd seized again on the verge of throttling some sense into him. The four men gave each other cautious looks before all sitting in a row together, Bruce and Steve separating Tony from Clint. With everyone sitting in silence time began to pass very slowly in the waiting room.

"Excuse me? Are you the family of Natasha Romanoff?" A young doctor walked into the room with a tight grip on a clipboard in his hands. He looked the four men over, frowning for a second, as they all stood with the exception of Tony.

"We're Natasha's family. Is she going to be alright?" Steve took the lead when it became obvious Clint couldn't bring himself to speak.

"There's been some minor contusion and laceration to the brain with subdural hematoma. Bilateral rib fractures with injury to the heart and lungs, dislocated shoulder, abdominal injury but thankfully nothing that can't be fixed. "

"English please, doc."

"Uh," The doctor looked up from his clipboard. "Essentially she's a very injured young woman, but she's likely to make a full recovery. None of the damage looks permanent but at this stage it's difficult to say. It will however take at least six to nine months to completely heal."

"But she's okay?" Clint was finally able to find his voice. The doctor nodded, explaining again she was okay for now. He sighed and fell back down into his chair, the tension leaving his shoulders. He was visibly shaking. Bruce wasn't sure who looked like more of a wreck, the guilt stricken alcoholic or the shaking and scared assassin.

"She's okay, Clint." Bruce sat down between the two again and put one hand on his shoulder while Steve continued to speak to the doctor quietly about recovery. He nodded but shifted away from the gentle hand, too nervous to accept any comfort. He just sat still and repeated the words to himself quietly. Natasha's okay.