**November 19th 2009**
Clint had never been in a fight quite like this before.
He shot a woman in the head when she charged him. He ducked a man's brass-knuckled fist and took him out with a shot to the stomach. Someone was behind him, their shadow blocking out the sun. Clint drew a knife from his boot and jammed it under their ribs, wet blood spurting from the wound in an arching spray. It drenched his hand and face in red, the knife's handle slippery in his grip. Clint had no time to think, he was already moving again. Whirling around to wrestle a carving knife from a man before he was stabbed in the back.
Someone punched him in the face but the pain hardly registered, Clint was too busy blowing the offender's kneecap out to notice.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He threw his knife into the chest of a man with a pistol and saw him crumple to the ground. Mouths opened in ear-splitting screams, Clint couldn't hear them. He rugby tackled someone to the concrete, smashing their skull against the ground until they stopped fighting back. He needed to get out. There were too many. Bullets ricocheted off the ground around him as Clint scrambled away from the thick of the brawl, taking cover in a nearby alleyway.
Clint's chest was heaving but he wasn't out of breath. Adrenaline flooded his veins but he wasn't panicking. He was bright and alert and ready, his Glock in one hand and Nat's knife in the other.
Budapest was turning out to be at tad more intense than Clint had expected.
'Nothing but another gang assault,' their client had said. 'You'll get in and out without a scratch.'
They had been very, very fucking wrong.
Clint and Nat had found themselves in the centre of a full on gang war. Over what? Clint had no idea. The fighting had started moments after he had taken out his target, so that probably had something to do with it.
Tensions in the area were at an all-time high, both gangs suffering severe losses when shit began to escalate. Clint was pretty sure no one even knew what they were supposed to be fighting over anymore, but no one pointed that out. Clint's plan had been to use the hit to spark a fight between the rival gangs while they were negotiating a deal. They would attack each other in a fit of rage while Clint and Nat slipped into the shadows.
That is not what happened.
Well, the gangs had fought each other, sure. That was all fine and dandy.
But Clint, of course, hadn't been fast enough. Some asshole had spotted him when he'd ducked down for cover and after that, well. Clint had found himself fighting a small army and Natasha had followed with a roll of her eyes, her dual pistols twirling in her hands.
The fight seemed endless. Clint had lost sight of Nat almost immediately and then he'd been distracted. His entire world had narrowed down to fucking surviving this bloody, unrelenting hell he'd been thrown into. The attacks were ruthless and they came at him from all sides and at the beginning he'd struggled not to die. There'd been so much to focus on, so much to remember, too much to take in at once.
Nat's training had helped a whole fucking lot. Clint had found his body blocking attacks before his brain had even registered the movement. His reflexes taking over in a way they never had before. Soon he'd fallen into a sort of rhythm and after that, things became easier. He'd gone numb to the violence, his only thought to make it out of this alive. And huh, here he was. Alive. It had worked, kind of.
Now all he had to do was find Nat and get the fuck out of this shithole. Clint licked his dry lips, the coppery taste of blood bursting on his tongue from where the skin had split. They couldn't wait around, someone could get a lucky shot in at any moment.
Clint spotted a fire escape further down the alleyway and he ran to it, slipping his knife into his pocket before swinging himself up onto the metal steps. Confident any noise from his footsteps would be hidden under the shrieks and gunshots from the gangs below, Clint didn't bother with subtlety as he climbed.
When he reached the roof where he'd sat not fifteen minutes ago taking the killing shot, Clint poked his head over the side. He surveyed the fight, looking for Nat's distinctive flash of red hair in the crowd, he couldn't see her. The wind whipped furiously at his clothes and Clint felt the first droplets of rain begin to drip onto his head. Goddamnit, as if this day couldn't get any worse.
He searched harder, worry tightening his chest as he once again couldn't catch sight of her. Then rain was pouring down now, but Clint didn't bother pulling up his hood. Where the hell was she? Was she injured? Taking cover? Dead?
Clint could feel his worry turn to panic at the thought, the heavy sheets of rain battering his back and obscuring his vision. The fight below him was losing momentum, those still standing bloody and ducking in and out of alleyways as best they could. Clint didn't know who was winning, nor did he care. Something more important near the back of the scuffle caught his eye.
It was Nat. Thank fuck.
The fleeting sense of relief Clint felt at the sight of her disappeared almost instantly.
A group of gangbangers surrounded Nat, forcing her into the centre of a tight circle. There was eight of them, maybe more. Clint wasn't sure where Nat's guns had gone but they weren't in her hands and that did nothing to prevent his oncoming heart attack.
She didn't look particularly phased by her position, her body coiled and ready to attack. She stood tall and confident; intimidating even though she was half the size of the smallest man there. Clint felt a small bubble of pride swell in his chest at the sight. Why had he been worried? Nat could take care of herself.
He watched, mesmerised, as the first thug lunged at her and she sprung.
Her movements were graceful, fluid as she snapped the man's wrist and stabbed him in the jugular with his own knife. Four of the gangbangers rushed her at once and for a second Nat disappeared under their tightly packed bodies. Clint's heart jumped to his throat, his gun raised; ready to intervene. But there was no clean shot, the chance of hitting Nat was too high. He knew he could do it if he was forced to, but it would be a risk.
Nat reappeared, just in time for Clint to see her take a vicious punch to the gut. She was stunned for all of three seconds before she whirled around, sliced her attacker's throat with a practiced precision.
Nat swept a thug's feet out from under him before shoving a pistol out of her face, the bullet flying over her shoulder into the guy coming up behind her. The circle of men around her stared at their fallen friends in horror, clearly unsure whether to flee or die fighting. Clint grinned to himself as he saw one of the thugs backing up, looking around himself like he was contemplating running away. Fucking coward.
But that thug wasn't running away. Oh no.
He was getting a running start.
To his credit, the timing was perfect. When Nat was preoccupied by a dude who had one beefy hand clenched around her neck the thug attacked her open back, a glint of something metal in his hand. Clint swore under his breath and in a second his gun was warm under his numb fingers, the thug dropping to the ground. A bullet in his brain.
All heads whipped towards him including Nat's. Clint had the gal to give her a playful salute and a cheery wave. She frowned up at him, confused, squinting as fat droplets of rain landed on her face. Maybe she couldn't see him? Clint's grin dropped a little when he saw her swaying where she stood, her hand coming up to pull something small from her neck.
Clint couldn't see it right from this distance but he could guess what it was. Nat's legs finally gave way and she collapsed onto the concrete.
Was it poison? Sedative? Goddamn these motherfuckers.
As a unit the gangbangers converged around Nat, dragging her body between them, away from the fight. Clint jammed his finger on the trigger, not caring about wasting ammo as the gun came to life under his hands. The wind was picking up, a physical push against Clint's tense body, droplets of rain hitting him in the face and forcing him to squint.
They were running around a corner but not all of them were quick enough, laden down with the deadweight of Nat's body as they were. Clint watched as one of them was caught in the hail of bullets, their body jerking with every hit before they dropped. Clint didn't feel good, he didn't feel anything other than blinding rage. And sure, maybe there was a thin line between fury and overwhelming panic, but no one need know that but him.
Clint broke into a run, building up momentum before jumping from his current perch to the next roof over. The gap was larger than he'd expected and he didn't quite stick the landing. Still, he didn't brain himself against the side of the building either, so it wasn't so bad.
Clint flew down the rickety fire escape, the rain making the metal slippery under his feet but he didn't pay it any attention. He was sprinting now, careening around the corner in the direction the gangbangers had gone. His clothing was plastered to his skin, heavy and uncomfortable. He kept running.
He saw the assholes at the end of the street, sprinting around another corner. Clint sped up, his chest heaving with the exertion. It looked like these idiots were heading towards the docks. The weather would deter the majority of people but Clint still despised the public setting. Too many people. Too many eyes. Too many innocents to get in harms way.
The streets weren't as empty as he would like. Clint passed more than one shocked expression as he chased the gangbanger's coattails. The police would show up soon, for public disturbance if nothing else. He saw the gangbangers reach the riverside, the water swollen and churning with the wind and rain that blustered over the surface. They'd seen him, Clint knew, a few casting worried glances over their shoulders as they disappeared from his view. Clint was tiring, losing precious ground.
He pulled his gun from its holster, though he knew it was a stupid idea in such a public area. He didn't care anymore. He was getting desperate.
It wasn't until he finally rocketed onto the docks that he saw the gangbangers on a boat harboured about ten meters away from where Clint stood. The boat was a small thing, probably used for fishing, and it sat low in the water as the group bundled aboard. They might've looked inconspicuous if you didn't look too hard. One of them argued with a man dressed in dark green waterproofs, possibly the captain. The other two looked nervous, their eyes scanning the sparse crowd for any sign of Clint's approach.
Clint liked to make an entrance.
His hood was up, covering his face from security cameras, but his gun was in full view of the men on the boat, the weapon in plain sight. He tried not to feel too good about himself when a look of fear crossed the boy's face like he'd wet himself. One of them fumbled with something in their pocket, a gun no doubt, the one arguing with the fisherman now gesturing furiously with his hands.
Clint raised his gun, ready to defend himself, but didn't fire.
Yet, it was clear someone did.
The crowd around him erupted into pandemonium, some dropping to the dirty ground in front of him, their faces ashen and terrified. Three people slammed into him as they ran for cover, their hands over their heads like that would protect them from a bullet. Clint, for his part, took out two of the gangbangers with little effort. They went crashing into the water without a sound. Only one was still standing.
A man, red faced and shaking who hoisted Nat's unconscious body in one arm, a gun in the other and pressed it to her temple.
Clint stopped dead, his gun still pointed directly at the bastard's head. The guy was short, skinny and incredibly angry. Were the hair plastered across his forehead not black Clint might've mistaken him for a more pathetic Steve Rogers. The guy was shouting something at him, but Clint couldn't read his lips from here. It was probably something like 'don't move or I'll shoot' so Clint stayed where he was.
He saw the guy make a wild gesture towards the owner of the boat who had taken refuge in his cabin. Nat's chin rested on her chest and she swayed with the movement. Clint couldn't help but notice how precariously close to the edge she was, her feet dangling over the ocean. Fuck, this was such bullshit.
The engines were probably starting up, the boat sliding a little away from the dock. The guy was actually starting to grin when Clint finally had enough of standing in the rain like a moron.
In a sudden burst of speed, Clint switched the gun from his right hand to his left, aimed and fired. The guy didn't even have time to look surprised before he fell back onto the deck, a hole in his head. Instead of falling backwards safely onto the deck, Nat tumbled forward into the frothing grey water. Sinking fast like she had a stone tied to her ankle.
"Fuck!" Clint shouted, a woman crouched in front of him flinching at the outburst, trembling with her fear. But Clint was already gone, tugging off his hoodie and jumping off the side of the docks, his only thought to get to Nat before she fucking drowned.
He hadn't thought this through. The water was so cold like an electric shock, instantly ripping the breath from his lungs. His muscles clenched painfully as he struggled not to inhale the water on impulse.
He couldn't see, the water so dark and murky he couldn't discern where the water stopped and the seabed began. When he managed to break the surface with a desperate gasp Clint didn't know where the fuck he was. The boat from which Nat had fallen was leagues away. Clint realised with a slight surge of hysteria that he didn't know where the fuck she went down.
He swam forwards anyway, the water unsettled and battering him about as he struggled to make progress. He'd never been a strong swimmer but he'd never swam like this. The water fighting against him with every stroke. Breathless, he accidentally swallowed a gulp of water and almost choked on the metallic taste of it.
When he thought he was roughly in the area Nat had fallen Clint took a deep breath and dove down into the depths.
To his astonishment the estimate wasn't far off.
Nat was only a few meters away, a pale beacon in the midst of the obscure gloom. Alarmed at her lack of movement, Clint swam over to her, hooking his arm around her small frame and desperately kicking towards the surface. Instead of pushing towards the surface, Clint found himself being dragged down. Nat was a dead weight against him, drawing him towards the seabed no matter how hard he fought it. Fuck he was running out of breath real fucking quick too.
Lungs burning, Clint adjusted his hold on the woman, using both his legs to slowly pull them towards the surface. His muscles were freezing up, stiff and numb as the water seeped into his very core. What couldn't have been more than a few seconds felt like hours, the treacherous undercurrent tugging at his body and forcing them both down.
When Clint finally broke the surface he welcomed the sharp, burning sting of the wind against his face. Desperately gulping in huge lungfuls of air, clearing his head and soothing the ache his chest. In his relief he almost lost his grip on Nat's waist and had a minor heart attack, holding her with a vicelike grip as he fought to keep them both afloat. This shit was way fucking harder than he'd thought it'd be. Nat didn't appear to be breathing and oh fuck.
Clint could see citizens standing on the docks, some of them looked to be cheering but Clint wasn't sure why. They were waiting for him to get there, maybe to arrest him for the whole gun thing. Who fucking cared at this point - Nat was dying.
Muscles burning he swam as fast as he could to the edge of the docks, the rain still pelting him in the face with no sign of stopping. When he reached it, Clint realised he couldn't lift Nat onto the wooden platform without drowning himself in the process. But just as the thought crossed his mind a blonde woman peered over the edge. Her arms outstretched towards him and her mouth moving too fast for him to understand.
He had no time to hesitate. Clint could feel Nat shivering against him and he was starting to lose all feeling in his legs. They needed to get the fuck out of here and fast.
Accepting the help, he lifted Nat up as far as he could for the civilian to pull her onto solid ground. He immediately followed, gracelessly heaving himself up onto the damp wood; his arms shaking with the exertion.
Clint wasn't sure if it was better inside the water or out of it. His limbs trembled and refused to do what he wanted them to as he scrambled towards Nat's prone body; only joined by the blonde woman who had helped him pull her up. The rest of the crowd held back, wary, some clearly on their phones to someone but Clint had no idea who.
Nat's skin was an unhealthy shade of grey, her thin lips unnaturally pale, tinged blue. He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake which was fucking stupid. She was drugged for god's sake.
Or dead, his mind supplied helpfully and for a second Clint's heart stopped. Grabbing Nat's limp wrist in one hand he pressed his fingers to it, desperate for a pulse. Jesus, her skin was like ice. The civilian woman beside him was tapping him on the shoulder but for a moment all Clint could focus on was the weak, fluttering pulse under his frozen fingertips. He could have melted in relief.
The blonde appeared to be talking, swaying and moving around like Clint could possibly understand what the fuck she was saying. To save valuable time, Clint grabbed her by the shoulder, clearly startling her for a second but having no time to apologise. "Do you know CPR?" he asked as best he could, his teeth chattering violently against the words. Did she speak English? He sure hoped so.
"No," was clear on the woman's lips. Shit, okay.
Clint looked to the crowd that had curiously mover closer and asked the question again, this time louder. His eyes flickered from face to face for a second before Clint dismissed the idea. He could do this. He'd seen Barney do this before. It'd be fine.
Trying his hardest to remember Clint tilted her head back, checking for any sign of breathing and finding nothing. Okay, okay, okay. Shit. Taking a deep breath, Clint didn't allow himself a moment of hesitation before he covered her mouth with his own, pinching her nose hard and blowing air into her lungs.
When Barney did this it'd been years ago. They'd still been in the circus. Barney's best friend, Marcus - the circus' only magician - had attempted to imitate Houdini's Water Torture Cell trick and had fucked up in every way possible. Poor Marcus had always been a shit magician.
Remembering his brother's movements, Clint without pause placed both his hands in the centre of Nat's chest and pressed down hard. His muscles felt weak under the strain but Clint kept going regardless. Fuck, how many of these was he supposed to do? He hadn't exactly been fucking counting back then. He'd been more worried about the water ruining the only shoes he owned, the smashed tank spilling water all over the floor, creeping toward his feet.
God, he'd been a stupid child.
After several more seconds, Clint alternated back to her mouth, blowing hard enough to see her chest rise before going back to compressions. God he hoped he wasn't hurting her. He had no idea if what he was doing was wrong, but no one seemed to be stopping him. What if CPR wouldn't work when she was sedated? What if it hadn't been a sedative but a quick acting poison? What if all of this had been for fucking nothing.
Marcus had died limp and dripping in Barney's arms that day. Barney had never been the same afterwards.
Clint doubled his efforts.
The woman beside him suddenly began pushing at him, shoving him away from Nat. Confused, Clint shrugged her off until she gave him a particularly hard push, elbowing him out of the way so she could roll Nat over onto her side. At first Clint was angry, pushing against the woman's warning hand on his chest. He thought for an addled moment that if he paused for a mere second Nat would die right there and then. And for all he knew, it was true.
But then he saw the independent rise and fall of Nat's chest, her eyes flying open and her body convulsing violently as she coughed up water and vomit. It was kind of gross, but admittedly inevitable. He was so lightheaded he might've cried in relief, muscles going slack as he tried to remember how to breathe right. Guilt made his chest tight and his stomach churn. She could've been choking to death right in front of him and he wouldn't have heard.
He should've thought of it. He should've known.
Clint shot the blonde woman an apologetic smile, hoping he looked as grateful as he felt before he crawled over to Nat's side again. She'd finished vomiting, her body visibly trembling and she was clearly struggling to move anything from the neck down. He gently rolled her onto her back again, brushing her hair out of her face. Terrified wide eyes fixed onto him and staying there; clearly relieved to see a familiar face.
The blonde woman gave Clint a gentle nudge, handing him a blanket that someone from the crowd must've fetched. With a grateful nod he draped it over Nat's shivering body, not sure how the fuck it was going to help but not seeing how it could make things worse. Nat was looking at him with true terror in her eyes and Clint wasn't sure what he could do to make it better. He grabbed her freezing cold hand in his and held it tight, offering her that small comfort. He'd never held her hand before, it felt oddly small and fragile in his palm.
As the drugs slowly began to leave her system Nat's shaking only became worse. Clint huddled closer, wrapped the blanket tighter around her and doing his best to shield her from the rain. It was a futile effort, but he did it anyway.
The small gathering of people around them had dispersed a little but they still hung around in his peripheral vision. Though he couldn't hear the sirens Clint was sure emergency services would arrive in a few minutes. Probably with some asshole police officers and some awkward questions. But Clint stayed where he was, holding Nat's hand. He would wait until the ambulance arrived before taking off. Maybe send the blonde stranger who had been so kind a fruit basket or something as a thank you.
Clint tried not to jump when Nat's hand squeezed his. She opened her mouth like she was trying to speak but he shook his head, stopping her. Clint's jacket hadn't been returned to him, the bare skin of his arms stinging and flaring up red like he'd been burned by the bitter cold. He was oddly detached from the pain, but then Clint was not in the best state of mind. He was almost certain he was going to pass out and sleep for a fucking week as soon as he got out of here.
Then Nat's head snapped to the side, hand squeezing Clint's hand hard enough to cut off the blood flow. He followed her gaze to see a distinctive white and orange van parked at the end of the docks, paramedics streaming from it. The blonde woman was talking to them, directing them to where Nat and Clint sat. He thought for a dim moment that he probably should've carried Nat away from the edge of the pier. Then again, he didn't think he'd have the strength to stand up, never mind drag anyone anywhere.
When the paramedics reached them Clint didn't let go of Nat's hand. The green uniformed EMTs bustled around them, all professional touches and practiced movements. Someone held Nat's head still, double checking she hadn't broken it - something Clint hadn't even considered.
They shone lights into her eyes, draped another blanket over her. In less than three minutes they were running over with a stretcher. Ready to whisk her off to hospital and undo whatever damage Clint had done in the past five minutes. He had to let go of her hand then, but Clint didn't have any time to mourn the loss.
A moment later there was a group of policemen running toward him, guns out and shouting. Clint was already on his knees and he was almost glad for it. He was pretty sure if they asked him to move any more he would've collapsed. But hey, it wasn't like he spoke Hungarian so their requests were lost on him anyway.
He could see the blonde civilian woman waving at him to get his attention, putting her hands behind her head and motioning for him to do the same. Clint copied her even though it made his muscles burn. The men with guns, the civilians, they all seemed to relax for it. A tension he wasn't aware of bleeding out of the atmosphere to everyone's relief. The blonde must've caught on to his slight communication problem, then. He wondered if she would tell anyone.
When the cops slapped a pair of cuffs on him and practically had to lift him into the cop car they probably thought he was being defiant. Clint knew that they were wrong, though it hurt his pride, his knees would no doubt go out from under him if he tried to walk by himself. For his part, Clint tried his best not to lose consciousness completely until they got to the police station.
Clint slept through the time he was supposed to be waiting for the officers to arrive, and then maybe 40% of his actual interrogation.
The fight to keep his eyes open was lost before it had even begun. They'd selected a man and woman who spoke English at varying degrees of fluency. It hardly mattered, they both looked at him like he was a fucking madman anyway. Which was fine. It probably would've bothered him more if he didn't know what he looked like in that moment. But the two-way mirror opposite him made that impossible.
His cheekbone was swelling purple with an impressive shiner, the skin tender and throbbing in time with his pulse. He'd shaved his head for a job a few weeks back, Nat's idea, and it'd turned out pretty good. Now it was growing back he had an army buzz cut thing going on, his face harsh and angular in the unflattering lighting. With his pissed off expression and clear physical strength, Clint might've passed as intimidating were he not half asleep the entire time.
The dude was way friendlier than the woman, Clint found. His dark hair was long, pulled back into a neat ponytail at the back of his head, an amiable, unassuming grin on his face. He was undeterred by Clint's subdued silence, even going so far as to push a steaming cup of coffee towards him before the interview began.
The woman was quite the opposite; stern faced, demanding and pissed off. Honestly Clint didn't like how the whole 'good cop, bad cop' thing was playing out. The whole thing seemed way too scripted to be real. After all, hadn't that technique died out in the '80s? Clearly not, but it was so dumb it really should've.
The dude asked if he needed a doctor.
Clint played with the idea of the doctor; buy himself some time and find out if he'd broken anything important today. Eventually he decided against speaking at all.
The police had evidence, probably overwhelming evidence that shit had gone down. The question was could they link it to Clint within the span of 24 hours?
His Glock was swimming at the bottom of the ocean but the CCTV footage could be incriminating if he hadn't hidden his shots well enough. If a shooter couldn't be found would they put it down to local gang activity? Clint had no way of knowing for sure, but he'd like to think he'd been careful. Enough that the police would have little to support their claims and he'd get out of here scot free.
In the meantime though, he had to keep these guys occupied. Joy.
"[-] [woman?] you [res-] [from?] the water, [-] you [no?] her?" the dude asked, slightly slumped in his chair, posture relaxed and unassuming. It was such a drastic contrast to the policewoman beside him who sat with her back ram-rod straight and her chin tilted up high. Clint wondered if even that was planned. Was this what they taught at police academy these days? If it was then they were wasting their time. After all, it wasn't intimidating just super fucking weird.
Clint stayed silent for a few long minutes. The guy seemed persistent; probably prepared to wait for hours. Clint took a sip of his coffee, wondering if that was protocol too. You'd never know with the cops. Could never trust them.
If they wanted to be stubborn, that was fine. He could wait. It wasn't like he was going anywhere.
The officers stared at him. Clint glared back like the moody brat they were expecting.
They sat like that for way too long - a silent battle of wills that seemed endless.
Clint wondered how Nat was. If she was as cold as he felt right now. Even after being out of the water for over an hour he could still feel the cold in his bones, stiffening his joints and tightening his chest. He coughed more than once, a harsh guttural sound that had the policeman frowning at him in concern. The woman was frowning too, but Clint suspected that may be her default expression. It was a shame too, she might've been beautiful if she didn't have such a scowl on her face.
He was just in the middle of an admittedly kind of worrying coughing fit, his chest aching, throat burning, when the man finally cracked.
Letting out a frustrated sigh the dude leaned across the interview table, gesturing to Clint to come closer. When Clint didn't move he sighed again but relented, talking in a muffled whisper that Clint couldn't actually hear. Clint forced his expression to stay the same as he watched the guy's lips with no real idea what he was saying.
The gist of it seemed to be that Nat had sold him out, which was hilarious on its own. Clint bit back a laugh as the cop said he only wanted to hear Clint's side of the story, to help him out, get him out of here unscathed. His expression was open, kind, expectant.
The cop clearly thought Clint had so little faith in Nat that he would break at the first wind of betrayal.
This time last year he probably would've been right.
But so much had changed since then and it surprised Clint how much trust he had in her. The thought to believe it didn't even register. That probably should have scared him more than it did.
As it was, Clint laughed.
He laughed until the amicable expression turned sour and those kind eyes filled with barely disguised anger. To Clint's amusement the cop even went so far as to storm out, slamming the door behind him with such force it shuddered.
The policewoman opposite him rolled her eyes, muttering something about dramatics.
Clint laughed harder.
Clint was released only because the police legally couldn't hold him any longer.
He discovered his client had double crossed him - planning to kidnap an assassin and forcing them to work for him because he couldn't afford the fee. Apparently he hadn't expected for an professional assassin to bring backup. Clint was very glad to prove the cowardly little prick wrong.
Clint didn't kill him as soon as he found him. Instead, when she was allowed to leave the hospital, Clint let Natasha do the honours herself in a place where no one could hear the guy scream.
Clint would take what happened in that room to the grave, but he couldn't find it in himself to regret it.
In the end there was hardly any body left to bury. Nat couldn't look at the final grotesque results of her handiwork and left before Clint could say anything.
They moved on.
