Natasha awoke at the sudden drop in temperature. Her fingers clawed for another blanket. Then, recalling the events of the previous evening, she sat up. The sheets held residual heat, but Clint wasn't behind her, and her pulse increased.. She slowed her breathing, closed her eyes, and listened. She heard running water in the tiny bathroom and fell back onto her pillow. She watched through half-closed eyelids as her partner staggered back into the bedroom and lowered himself gingerly onto the mattress. He winced and flexed the fingers of his left hand involuntarily as his torso made contact with the bed . Natasha propped herself up on an elbow, and he rolled his head so they were looking at one another. They stared for a moment before he gave her a wan smile. "Mornin', Tash," he said with forced cheeriness.

"You're injured," she observed. "You should have told me last night." She steeled herself for the inevitable argument, but Clint surprised her.

"You're right," he surrendered, his voice flat and his eyes lowered. "I should have."

Natasha raised a well-manicured eyebrow but said nothing else. She systematically examined him, feet to head. There were a few healing cuts and bruises on his lower extremities, but his upper body was a mess. Even though she kept her prodding as gentle as she could, Clint's sharp intakes of breath as she ran her hands over his purpling abdomen confirmed that he had at least one broken rib. He had cleaned and stitched up the knife wounds he could reach, but there were long, angry slashes puffy and pink with potential infection on his back. She retrieved her med kit from the bathroom and laid it next to him on the bed. Natasha cleaned the deep cuts while Clint lay there, silent and stoic, the only clue to his pain the way he clenched his fists each time she poured alcohol onto another wound. "You don't usually let someone get close enough to use a knife," she murmured.

"You should have seen the other guy," he grunted dryly. He squeezed his eyes closed and lapsed back into silence.

Natasha's throat was tight as she applied antibiotic ointment to the wounds. Clint's body was rigid in his determination not to flinch at the pain. She finally capped the tube with, "That's it." Her partner said nothing. "I was going to make some breakfast," she offered.

"'m not hungry," he mumbled, curling up into a ball.

Natasha prayed that the smell of brewing coffee would rouse Clint from his stupor. As she scrambled together the eggs, bacon, and potato, the Russian listened for footsteps descending the stairs. She couldn't remember the last time she had fried bacon without having to shoo Clint away and threaten him with cooking utensils. She had stabbed him once with a fork, not hard enough to break the skin, to show she meant business. She never would have dreamed that someday she would miss his impertinent smirk as he dodged her and shoved another slice of stolen bacon in his mouth.

Clint remained in the fetal position, eyes open and staring into space, when she returned to the bedroom with breakfast. He took the plate when she commanded him to do so. Bringing the fork mechanically to his mouth, he consumed five or six bites before whispering, "Thanks, Nat," and depositing the plate on the night stand. He stared morosely into space while she ate her breakfast.

Natasha cleaned up after breakfast with a lump in her throat. She had to psych herself up before returning to the bedroom. Pasting a smile on her face, she went to her partner's side of the bed and suggested, "It's time for my morning run. I'll slow it down to a jog or even a walk for the broken old man..." Her teasing of him about his age fell flat.

Clint's eyes met hers for a split second, and the emotional pain in his face staggered her. He shook his head. "No...but you should go."

"Clint, I -" her voice faltered. What was the point in arguing with him? She had never seen him look this rough - not when he'd gotten hypothermia, not the time he'd ended up in a coma for 2 weeks, not even the time he'd almost bled out on her lap. Those injuries had been physical and he'd pushed through the pain, but the blow he'd been dealt with the fall of SHIELD was emotional and psychological. She had no idea what to do or say. She was shit with emotions.

His rough voice interrupted her thoughts. "Go for your run. I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded, unsure she could speak to answer. She changed into her workout clothes in silence and laced up her sneakers.

Ten minutes later, her feet pounding on the asphalt, Natasha retreated into the isolation of her sweatshirt hood. No, she corrected herself, Clint's sweatshirt hood. No matter how she tried to distract herself, she kept thinking about the haunted look in her partner's eyes as he slid further into his depression. She had no idea what the hell she could do to help him. As she crested another small hill and looked at the rising sun, she blinked at the sudden blurriness in her vision. It took her a split-second to realize that she was crying. Using the cuff of the sweatshirt, she wiped away the silent tears that were dampening her cheeks. She had a half-mile left inside the anonymity of the hunter green sweatshirt hood to indulge in her emotions before focusing back on her current mission. Having a mission, a goal, got her up every morning. She ignored that taking care of Clint was a self-assigned mission.