"Tasha!" Clint yelled, crashing through the window in a shower of sparkling, deadly shards. It startled her captor for just a moment – but that was enough. She effectively disarmed him with a well-placed roundhouse kick, then caught him in the jaw with a vicious left hook. He dropped like a stone, and she dashed to her partner.
He rolled over on his back with effort, face twisted in a grimace. "I saved the day, huh?"
"Idiot," she said.
A rather large, sticky pool of blood was forming under his back, coating the glass splayed out around him in scarlet. In a heartbeat her expression went from impassive to afraid.
His eyes faded slightly, and without further thought she slapped him. "If you go to sleep I'll kill you," she muttered in Russian.
"But it hurts," he said, sounding remarkably like a five-year-old. But he was her five-year-old, and damned if she was going to let him die saving her life.
"Romanoff, we're on our way to you. ETA five minutes." She had never been so glad to hear the smooth, confident voice of their leader.
"I hope you're bringing medical, Captain," she answered into her comm, never taking her eyes off him. "Barton's done something stupid again."
Tony butted in, his voice drowning out Steve's in her ear. "Tell Feather-Butt not to die before I get there."
She read the concern underneath the sarcasm and decided not to kill him for that statement. "Shut up, Stark, and get up here."
Natasha had only seconds before they arrived, and knowing Clint wouldn't remember later, she leaned down and pressed a kiss on his lips. "Love you, Tasha," he muttered, eyes already slipping closed, and she pretended not to hear.