I would have had an update up sooner, however I have had a rather rough week. I have been in the hospital for half this week, and a spinal tap showed I have viral meningitis. I am slowly recovering from that, but seeing as fevers and other symptoms are keeping me out of school, I haven't had much to do so I wrote this.

A little disclaimer, this chapter is where the main plot / conflict of the story I'm writing is revealed. If it takes a turn you do not like I completely understand. However as a writer, I tend to write more darker and sadder themes, just because it's what I enjoy. I am no expert in the topics that will be explored a little in this fic, however it is an idea I have had for awhile. I can promise that while taking a darker and more sad turn, there will still be happier moments in this fic along the way as well. But it will be bittersweet throughout. With all that said, I do hope you enjoy this chapter.

I am very appreciative for all the great feedback I have gotten from both the Prologue and Chapter 1. I will be responding directly to all those who gave feedback tomorrow. Ideas, feedback, and suggestions are always welcome. Let me know what you do and don't like. Always grateful for my readers, love to hear from you guys, so thank you.

It was during a mission in Siberia, several months after the events of Loki and New York, that Clint and Natasha found themselves pinned down by enemy assailants. Both ended up being found by Director Fury after Clint released a distress signal. Fury found them both struggling to stay alive in the harsh tundra their enemies had ambushed them in, with Clint propped up in a small cave, leg shot in several places with his flesh torn down to the bone. In his arms he held an unconscious Natasha, who bled severely from the chest despite a makeshift bandage on Clint's behalf, and who was nearly frozen despite Clint having draped his own heavy coat around her. However both made it to SHIELD's main hospital alive.

Five Days Later.

Walking down the halls, Natasha found herself suddenly stop as a figure came into her periphery. Backing up slowly to peer into a hospital room, Natasha was surprised to find Clint sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. With several bandages around his arm indicating IV fluid treatment, yet he clearly was no longer being treated, seeing as he wore no hospital gown, but just a plaid shirt and jeans.

Natasha stood there looking in at Clint for what seemed forever, and yet he didn't notice her. Sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, with hands clasped so tightly together that his knuckles looked white, he hung his head low with only his slightly spiked light brown hair visible from her view.

Natasha slowly willed herself to approach him, as she leaned against the doorframe and with a low voice broke the silence,

"Clint."

His head shot up instantly at his name, but while grey blue eyes indicated slight shock, his drooped shoulders and clasped nervous hands didn't change. Natasha simply raised a brow, enough for Clint to know what she was going to ask.

Clint, almost forcing a smile, finally sat up as he shook his head and said sarcastically,

"I think stalking me in the hospital and asking what is going on may be a violation of patient privacy rules...or something."

"Mhm, and I'm such an abider of rules," she said quickly, brushing off his comment with a smile as she walked in and closed the door behind her.

Clint, still feeling Natasha's questioning gaze, finally obliged to talk.

"Took awhile to set my leg right during the surgery and all. I can walk, not particularly well, but give it a week or two and I'll be back in the field," he said, pulling up his pant leg to show a large metal brace.

Natasha didn't seemed satisfied with that answer. That image of Clint with his head hung low like in defeat still played over in her mind. Clint was the generally optimistic one after all, but his voice now was too heavy to be upset over just a busted up leg.

"I'd say it took awhile, about as much time as it did for me to recover from a gunshot wound to the chest," Natasha replied quickly.

Clint looked at her slowly, knowing that was Natasha's way of telling him she knew there was more. Clint smiled, almost sadly, before diverting his gaze from the woman who stood in front of him.

He had answers for her, but they were neither answers he wanted to tell at this point, or that she would want to hear. But in the end he would tell her in that moment. Not because she would force him to, he knew he could talk around her if he really needed to. But because out of everyone in his life, for some reason he felt she deserved to know, and know first.

Natasha knew the man in front of her well enough to know when something was wrong. She had seen him deal with many hardships in his life, losing a father figure and his mind being one of the hardest parts of both their lives. If it was anyone else Natasha would push to get the information she wanted, but with Clint it was different. Stepping back and nodding she said softly, her eyes carefully finding his,

"Okay, if you don't want to talk I get-"

"No, no." Clint said, not wanting her to leave.

Grey blue eyes looked up to her, flashing with both conflict and sadness, before he shrugged and said through a small laugh as he shook his head,

"I just have the shittest luck, that's all."

Natasha's gaze softened as she slowly moved to sit down next to him on the bedside. It had been awhile since Clint had last had an episode of PTSD symptoms, but she figured winding up in the hospital and seeing his best friend shot in the chest could have done that. With her thin hand upon his back, she said calmly,

"You don't have to tell me what happened."

"It's not exactly something that happened," he said shaking his head.

"Well whatever it is, you'll get through it. We're going to get you through it, back into the field, back home, whatever you want. It'll be okay."

He just shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and tried to laugh. All while avoiding her gaze of course. This wasn't unexpected however, Natasha knew this as very characteristic of Clint when he was nervous, uncomfortable, or upset.

"Your luck will turn up soon," she said softly.

"Or run out," he said rather quickly, and defiantly.

The tone caught Natasha off guard, but not as much as what he said next.

"Docs did a lot of radiology, to make sure nothing else was broken. Well I was sound as a bell, besides the busted up leg - Oh, and the mass they found."

Clint felt Natasha's gaze fall upon him, her green eyes pained as if physically wounded. He continued to speak, his tone casual, but his gaze constantly avoiding Natasha's.

"Well not a mass, I should say. More like too many for them to count."

There was a silence between the two then. Both held gazes from each other. Neither had anything to say as Clint's words hung in the air.

Eventually it was Clint who looked over at Natasha, as guilt flooded him as she sat there frozen and speechless. He had hurt her, far more than the bullet had when she was shot in the chest several days ago. Knowing this, Clint let his arm reach around her shoulder, as he gently rubbed it and then pulled her close. Most anyone else Natasha would have been hesitant, stiff, uncomfortable. But with Clint in this moment, she fell into his embrace, melted in his arms, and let him hold her and comfort her.

Eventually Natasha collected herself and managed to ask,

"Where?"

Clint, who still was utilizing the tactic of denial through humor, tried to laugh it off as he said shaking his head and reaching for a folder beside him,

"I was hoping you wouldn't ask that."

He carefully slid out several films from radiology, and placed the images in her hands.

Natasha's eyes filled with only more pain as she saw images of what she knew were Clint's lungs and brain, only with tumors scattered throughout both organs.

Clint saw the pained look in her eyes, and after rubbing her back with his hand after she had a long enough look to answer her question, Clint slipped his hand under hers and pulled the pictures away. Tucking them away quickly, he knew she could torture herself looking at them. And he wasn't about to let that happen.

"Stage 2, but its aggressive, fast growing. Images should have made it pretty clear, both are inoperable."

"But there's treatment?" She asked, her questioning harsh and urgent.

"Nat…" he started, his voice losing that cocky gruffness she was used to, and instead becoming vulnerably soft, hushed, and careful. As if he knew his next words would wound her.

"It's terminal."

Natasha quickly turned her head down and away from him, as her eyes tried to close quick enough to hide the misting of her eyes. But as Clint touched her shoulder softly, to try and comfort her, she turned her head towards him, almost burying her head in his chest. He held her closer, until she said,

"How long?"

"I didn't ask. I don't really want to know either. Don't really wanna live out my life with a deadline," he tried to say with a lightness to his voice.

Natasha finally lifted up her head to look at him, as she shook her head in shock and asked,

"What about Laura, does she-"

"No, I haven't told her yet. I felt it was something I should tell her in person."

"But the kids?"

He shook his head, and for once that defeated look returned to his eyes,

"I don't know. They won't understand at their age, part of me thinks best not to scare them till they'll understand more."

Or till he had less time.

Clint reached to grab his jacket, quiver, and folder with his films and discharge papers. Looking down at the papers as if they weighed down in his hand, he looked up at her with a more serious gaze as he said with a slow shake of his head,

"Don't tell the others."

Natasha didn't say anything as he stood up and continued,

"They'll just see me as weaker than I already am."

"Oh come on Clint, they don't think you're weak."

Clint shook his head and laughed weakly as he stood up.

"Yeah well, you and I both know if you tell Cap, or Tony, they will both make sure I never see combat again."

"You can't work like this," Natasha said her voice lowering and gaze growing firm.

Clint, with rather a dumbfound look of surprise, said,

"You actually think I'm gonna waste away in bed or god forbid a hospital for the rest of my life?"

"You're sick," she said bluntly.

"I'm dying," he corrected.

Silence returned between the two, till he broke it, with an ease in his voice as he said almost casually,

"But I'm gonna live out my life doing what I love, kickin' ass and saving people. Not moping around on a bed pumped up with chemicals that make me look like the living dead."

"You'll get yourself killed," she said finally.

"Better than waiting around to die," he replied through a small smile.