AN Ugh, I've had this chapter hanging around for forever, and I just haven't gotten around to editing it :P But, ohmygoodness thank you for the reviews! They truly touched my heart, until I was flailing around like an idiot.

I like this chapter, because of the scenes it contains and some of the thought processes, but it was a little bit difficult to imbue the chapter with Clint in a bargaining mentality, though I can picture him in one no problem. Oh well, that's how it goes.

bargaining (the prayer of françois villon)

It took about a day to pass before Clint's anger was dead and there was only shame to take its place. He knew that he would have to see Natasha again, would have to speak to her, but he was afraid of what might happen. What was the likelihood of her forgiving him? She wasn't exactly the advocate of forgive and forget, more pretend to forget, then come back years later and cash in with either pain or a favor.

He had spent the last few days lounging around his apartment, unable to get the images out of his head, the way the blood falling from her nose had been brighter and yet somehow more sickly than the color of her hair, the hard line her mouth made when he spoke, the way the white shirt she had been wearing had managed to bring out the small amounts of pink in her cheeks. The flat sound of her voice when she said she only had six more months to live.

No matter what he did, he kept thinking about how little time there was left, how much ground he would have to make up to use every second remaining. Clint found himself begging in his head for a number of things, for time, for strength, for something to make him feel okay as Natasha slowly withered away inside. With whom, he wasn't sure. God, Natasha, himself, it varied from day to day, from request to request. Clint just knew that he was asking for something that he didn't really have.

You need to make up with her, he kept thinking to himself, and he would manage to chastise himself so far as to put on his coat, grab his keys or pick up the phone, but then he'd stop. He couldn't face her, not after shouting at her over something she couldn't control and then nearly breaking her nose. But he had to.

Just pick up the phone, the worst she can do is hang up, just pick it up, put in her number. It can't be too awful, you can apologize and possibly make it up to her. Think of it this way—if you call her, you might be able to make her change her mind and then she'll forgive you. Or she'll still be pissed and say she never wants to talk to you again, but it'll still be a weight off your shoulders.

It was just about the shittiest bargain he had ever made (though not with himself), but Clint took it anyways.

Fueled by nerves and self reproach, he grabbed up his phone and punched in her number. He was sitting on his couch, leg bouncing up and down and up and down and up and down—

"Hello?"

Her voice was tired, dull and not exactly happy. Clint swallowed, glancing out the dark window to look at the streetlights.

"Hi, uhm, Natasha, I just wanted to—wait, why're you up this late?" he suddenly demanded, glancing over at his clock and realizing it was about two in the morning. Embarrassment prickled over his skin, because he hadn't even noticed the time passing, but she didn't exactly sound like she had been in the midst of sleep when she picked up.

"Cleaning," she said, voice devoid of emotion. He furrowed his brow.

"Natasha, I don't really think there's much left to clean in there."

"There's always something," she sighed, and he could just imagine her leaning back, relaxing a little when she was sure he didn't want to fight.

"So…how did the pepper work out," he asked awkwardly, shifting in his seat.

"You were right. It hurt like a bitch. But it also made the blood stop, so that's something."

"I'm sorry Natasha," he whispered, all of the tension draining out of him. "I never should have just left, I shouldn't have shouted, I just—it's tough. And I know that's not exactly an excuse, but I've never dealt with something like this before, and Tasha…I don't know what to do."

The last words were a surrender, an apology and a confession, all in one. Clint hated admitting that he didn't know what his next step was, what his next act was supposed to be, but he had to say it.

Natasha was quiet for a while, thinking.

"I don't know what to do, either," she told him, words just as soft as his had been. "Other than live each day one at a time, try to figure out how to fill each moment. It's kind of weird, you know? I mean, I can't make any plans for the long term, can't do my job because I'm sick, or anything. I can't even say my goodbyes like normal people do, go around to all of my family and friends, because I don't have any."

"There's that word again," he said, a sad laugh in his voice. "'Normal'. Who even decides what's normal, anyways? What dictates it?"

"I don't think any one person chooses," she said. "I think it's just something you just sort of realize after watching people long enough."

"Then I wouldn't say you're abnormal."

"How's that?"

"You have friends. Maybe even family, if we stretch it. I mean, you can't exactly save the world from a very hostile alien invasion without making a few bonds with the people who helped you."

Natasha gave a little chuckle, probably shaking her head.

"Yeah, okay. I don't think I'm about to have movie nights with Stark, or go on shopping trips with Doctor Banner."

"I would actually love to see that," Clint laughed, then they both fell silent. The timer in his head that was counting down, down, down was still going, but it was quieter, less insistent now that he was speaking to Natasha.

"So…it's getting kind of late," he began, not wanting to hang up, but he had called her in the middle of the night. "I just wanted to check in and say…I'm sorry."

The words didn't seem adequate now that he'd said them, because they didn't really encompass all that he was feeling, all that he was thinking.

Natasha, I am so, so sorry, I don't even know where to begin. It's just I don't know what I'm going to do without you, I don't even want to think about it. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I've just checked out these last few days, and I should really just be helping you because you're dying and this must be so much harder for you because you can't do anything and I just want to hold you and tell you lies like it's going to be alright—

"I've been so out of line lately, and I just…I'm sorry."

There was a pause, like Natasha was absorbing all that he'd said, or rather, hadn't been able to say, processing it to respond properly.

"It's alright, Clint," she said, voice so, so soft, like it was her job to reassure him, make him feel like everything was okay. "I guess…I'll see you later, then."

"Yeah. Uhm, how about tomorrow? Over lunch, I mean."

"Lunch?" she asked, sounding surprised. Clint switched the phone to his other hand, shrugging self consciously. They had eaten together dozens of times, from quick throw together meals that came from a can to expensive courses from high end restaurants, but never before had either asked the other. It just sort of happened, they would be walking somewhere and she would tell him she was going to a food stand, or he saying he wanted a certain type of food and they would adjust their course without any further conversation on the matter. Sometimes when they were undercover they would even go out to eat, pretending to be cousins or business associates or even husband and wife. Now, though, when they were just Clint and Natasha, it felt formal and stuffy, like he was suddenly drowning in customs they had never adhered to.

"What would we be eating?" Natasha asked, a legitimate question. Whereas other people would be flirting by now, playing hard to get, Natasha was being literal. If they weren't on a mission and she was allowed to be picky, she wouldn't go eat somewhere if she didn't like the food, with little exception on who was asking.

"Anything you want," he answered, hope bubbling in his chest. He would trade all of his preferences of food for a lunch with her, where nothing was expected, where he could just laugh and talk and be with her. He would trade everything in the world for a bit of time.

"Diner food," she said immediately, and he laughed.

"No, really, I mean it. I want some good old fashioned American food. Handmade burgers and fresh cut fries. I have been eating soulless takeout from Chinese or Mexican places when I'm by myself, and then eating at French or Italian places when I'm with others for over two weeks. I want something real."

"I can do that," Clint said, relieved to have grabbed this little afternoon with her. He heard her smile through the phone, happy and not hiding anything for once.

"Alright, then. I guess I'll be seeing you," she said, sounding a little shy.

"Yeah, definitely. I'll meet you outside of Tiger Lily's at eleven forty-five, right?" he asked, naming the small flower shop that was their standard meeting place, as it was the midway point between their apartments on the subway route.

"Yes, I'll be there." Clint nodded even though she couldn't see him, smiling. He loved the way she said it, like she realized it was more than a promise, but a gift from both herself and time.

"Okay. Now go get some sleep. I don't want you falling into your burger."

"Same to you," she laughed, then gave a goodbye. He gave a wry smile, thinking that he would hand away all the sleep in the world in trade for more time with her.

"Goodbye, Nat," he whispered, like he thought the quieter he said it, less likely it was to be the last thing he said to her.

He put down the phone, then spread out over the couch. Exhaustion was suddenly flooding through him, and Clint knew he would never make it to his bed. His eyes were already shut, and all he could hear was her voice, happy and relieved that things were okay between them again.

When he woke up, Clint's eyes felt gritty and his neck hurt, but his soul felt fine, which was the only thing that really mattered, he supposed. He glanced at the clock, saw that it was almost ten. He pushed himself up, stumbled to the bathroom.

Clint sleep walked through getting ready, mind on his lunch with Natasha. By the time he left his apartment, he was ever so slightly panicking over the fact that he had such a finite amount of time left with her. Clint could hardly believe how little a few months seemed, now that he knew there really wasn't anything left on the other side of it. Even though he knew it was idiotic, he found himself desperately trying to find some way to buy more time, to bargain away anything that would get the two of them something a bit better.

The train ride to the stop near Tiger Lily's was short and devoid of practically anything, probably because Clint was still in a stupor from a poor night's sleep. He stood outside the little shop anxiously, continually glancing at his watch. He knew Natasha would come at least five minutes early, which was why he made sure to be there with at least eight to spare.

Sure enough, five minutes before the arranged time he saw her confidently striding into view, beautiful red hair an inferno with the sun and breeze whipping it into a frenzy. She smiled at him, earning a wave in return.

"Get any sleep?" he asked in way of greeting, and she shrugged. The turquoise jacket she was wearing was deep and sultry and somehow brought back a bit of the energy she had had before the cancer. He immediately decided that the jacket was just about his favorite among all of the clothes she owned.

"A bit," she said, squinting at him in the sunlight. Instinctively he reached up to brush away some of the hair from her face, but half way through he noticed how she ever so slightly leaned back, as though not wanting to be touched by him. Clint bit his cheek and finished the action.

Even if he did somehow manage to buy all the time left in the world, he had the distinct feeling that it would mean nothing if he couldn't return things to the way they had been, completely and truly.

"Shall we go?" he asked, not acknowledging what had just happened. Natasha nodded, taking his lead and staying silent on the matter. Together they walked down the sidewalk, headed towards a small diner placed a few blocks away.

As they walked, people swirled around them, totally oblivious to who they were. It was the strangest thing, how two people could be so absolutely extraordinary, and yet be regarded as nothing more than brick wall by others. Of course he had felt this while on missions, when he and Natasha were dropped in the middle of radically different countries, where getting the language and culture down pat was imperative to the success of whatever they were trying to achieve, but it was different here in New York, somehow.

For days their faces had been plastered to the tv screens and the lips of radio newscasters after the attack on New York, until Clint had become sick of his own face. Everywhere he went, people were talking about the Avengers, properly identified by Tony not long after the whole thing. As he was the only identifiable member of their group (aside from Banner, who had immediately gone to ground for fear that the Hulkbusters would resurface), it had been his duty to issue the official statements forced into his hand by SHIELD, which made a point of avoiding mentioning both Clint and Natasha's names. Tony actually stuck to the cards, for one, probably out of the fear that they might personally go hunt him down for blowing their cover. Still, Clint kept expecting someone to point at him and gasp out something like 'There he is, Hawkguy, he helped save us!' and then he would either have to bluff his way out of it, or run like hell. But that never happened, people shuffled past him as usual, not making eye contact, not apologizing for bumping into him as they walked by. When no one really cared about you, especially what you looked like on the surface, Clint supposed that it was rather easy to be reminded of just how different you were at the core.

He glanced at Natasha, half wanting to share his thoughts, but at just one look at her face, he could tell she was enjoying being just another person. There were no duties placed on her shoulders, no dire need to follow orders and get the job done. For just about the first time in her life, she was utterly free of being told what to do, and she was reveling in it, quietly wrapping herself in it. Who was he to take that away?

The diner was small and vaguely reminiscent of the fifties, but thankfully not enough so as to be layered in tacky paraphernalia and stereotypical music. They ordered their burgers and began talking about something utterly mundane, utterly safe. Lullabies, of all things. Apparently Natasha had one stuck in her head, and was unable to get it out. As she commented on how interesting it was that songs detailing the same exact things could vary so much around the world, Clint searched her face, trying to find a hint as to how she was feeling. Her face looked drawn and tired, but it was an internal exhaustion, not something derived from a night's bad sleep.

She stopped talking suddenly, hands raised midway through a gesture.

"What," she asked. Clint blinked, frantically trying to remember what exactly she had just said.

"'What' what?" he asked, stalling for time.

"What're you looking at me like that for?" she explained, the look on her face saying that she was just about a hundred percent positive that he hadn't been listening to her.

"No reason, just…I dunno. I was just looking at you. It's kind of the polite thing to do when someone's speaking to you."

"Yeah, okay," she said, flicking half a fry at him. Clint grinned, raising his hands in a half hearted attempt to block the fry as it sailed across the table, aimed at his neck. It bounced off the inside of his forearm, landing on the table in front of him.

"I was just thinking...it's good to see you looking so at ease," he said after a moment. Natasha watched him over her root beer, brows crinkled ever so slightly as she listened. She picked up her burger (small and cooked all the way through, because she couldn't eat partially uncooked meats and lost most of her appetite anyways), and took a bite from it, waiting, waiting.

"I don't know why, maybe it's because you're sick and you, well, you know, don't have very much riding on your shoulders." The words were tough to get out, because even though he knew that was the truth, every fiber of his being was begging for more time, praying that Natasha had even a few more minutes left with him than expected. At this point, Clint was willing to trade his very soul just to keep her heart beating.

"So I'm in my lame duck period?" she asked, a damned laugh in her voice. In her eyes though, Clint saw the aching sadness, the sadness that climbed into his heart and made his whole body hurt.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying," he said, rolling his eyes and taking another bite of his burger. Clint chewed, knowing that she wasn't fooled. He also knew that every other thought, and absolutely every breathe of his was dedicated to a fervent prayer, a constant stream that begged anything to give Natasha to him, to just let him have her, even if it meant losing his sight or his fingers or even his entire arm. Before he had been desperately throwing out options when he had thought that he would give everything, just to save her life. Now it was a cold, ugly fact. Glancing around that diner, there wasn't anything or anyone in it that Clint would have regretted, had he been given the choice of saving Natasha or saving all of New York again.

They left the diner not long after, still talking. A layer of tension had come between them, caused by too many thoughts on the fact that Natasha had cancer and everything was changing because of it. After a few blocks and about fifteen seconds of hellish silence, Natasha began to speak.

"You know, you were right," she said softly, hands in her pockets and staring at the side walk while she spoke. He looked at her, feeling uncomfortable with the way she kept her eyes down. In any other circumstance, she would have looked up to face the world, scanning the buildings and people for potential attackers, possible danger cites. Now, though…it didn't matter.

"Okay, about what?" he asked, knowing that he would hate the answer.

"Me being in my 'lame duck period'."

"Okay, I never said that—"

"You might as well have. I'm not gone yet, but there isn't anything that I can do. I know I'd be out in Estonia somewhere, helping people by actually doing my job, but I'm stuck here, in New York, eating burgers and slowly stripping my apartment of everything possible to save other people from having to do it when I'm dead."

"Don't say that, Tasha," he said, and it felt like he was choking because here he was, trying to find any way possible to save her when she had already given up.

"But it's the truth, Clint. Everyone else is probably just waiting for me to drop so they fill my position properly and then put you back out. I heard that Mockingbird was the top candidate."

Clint couldn't even speak at that. He stared at her, absolutely incredulous at the attitude she was taking. Did she really think that they were just standing around, biding their time until she died and the legal problems of replacing her would be gone? Did she think that he was doing that? Only spending time with her because there wasn't much more he could do when his partner was permanently out for the count?

"Do you really think that, Natasha?" he asked, practically gritting his teeth. "Is that really the bullshit you've come up with in your head?"

She looked at him suddenly, afraid and vulnerable and with nothing left to gain or lose. Her eyebrows tilted up with pain and sadness, and he could see her collarbones as every muscle in her strained to keep from ripping apart.

"I don't know, Clint. It seems pretty likely."

He looked away, trying not to be angry, trying not to waste any time with her in being angry.

"No one wants that. No matter how incredible Bobbi is, she's not gonna come anywhere near you. No one can."

She was silent as they walked, and Clint had to concentrate to keep his hands from curling into fists.

"You mean that?"

Clint looked at her, unable to speak because that seemed like the stupidest damn thing she could have asked.

"Yes, Natasha. I mean it."

"And that's not just because of the fact that I'm always at risk of reverting to…how I was before you picked me up?"

He blinked, shocked that she had been worried over something like that. Guilt seeped through him as he finally understood what had caused her to think such awful things. She still thought that people only viewed her as the spy that had been trained by the lunatics of the Red Room, liable to tear off her mask and sabotage SHIELD before riding off into the blood soaked sunset. Granted, a few people did, but they were the ones that had never seen her in action, and never been present to witness her honest, heartfelt desire to help. And judging from what she'd just said, she thought that they only kept her around because she was a little bit more ruthless and far more likely to yield results from rather frowned upon measures.

"Never," he said, a lump in his throat. She nodded, the sun sparking off her hair but providing no warmth.

They continued walking for a few minutes, before she set a hand to his shoulder.

"Can we…can we stop?" she asked. Clint glanced down at her, surprised at the request. She sounded tired, like she hadn't been fit enough to take on a highly trained security just two weeks before.

"Uhm, yeah, sure," he said, stopping abruptly and glancing around to see if there was a subway station anywhere nearby. Thankfully there was one about two blocks down, and he guided her to it, setting his arm around her shoulders after a moment's hesitation. Natasha didn't seem to mind, leaning into his side heavily the farther they walked.

Clint found himself repeatedly glancing at her as they shuffled down the subway steps, pressed on all sides by other lunch goers on their way from eating out. Maybe it was just the soulless white lighting in the station, but to Clint, it looked like Natasha's skin was devoid of all healthy color, and the bags that had been apparently covered by makeup were starting to show as ugly grey smudges.

Once they were on the subway, Clint managed to wrangle Natasha a seat while he stood protectively over her, hanging onto the metal bar above their heads. Occasionally she would pass him a slight smile, but otherwise she examined the people in the car with them, eyes half lidded like it was too much effort to keep her eyes open all the way.

When had this begun to happen? Had Clint been so preoccupied in spending time with her that he neglected to notice when she started to lag? He knew her well enough to know that she would only ask to stop when she absolutely could not keep up anymore. How long had she been keeping up with his infamously quick pace, the entire time wishing that he would just slow down?

After about ten minutes she put a hand on his leg, making him look down, worried. Natasha just gave him one of those exhausted smiles and shook her head ever so slightly as if to tell him to stop fretting. Clint frowned at her for a moment, then reluctantly nodded and forced himself to think about something else.

By the time they got off the train, Clint felt a cloud of calm envelop him. It wasn't the good, steady kind, where he was confident in what would happen and accepted whatever happened, but the cold, detached kind that said that he couldn't do anything to prevent what was going to happen. No matter what he begged and promised and desired, Natasha would die and he would be left.

Clint walked Natasha to her door, waiting as she opened it. A part of him whispered that he better make the most of both their time and walk in with her, close the door behind him, but at the same time he knew that he would never be able to stand sitting with her, looking at her as she faded before his very eyes.

Before she walked in, Natasha looked at him. Again he felt his stomach stabbed with pain as she opened up before him in ways that she never had before. It was just another reminder that there was no point in playing the cold, hardened spy anymore. She could just be Natasha, without the barbs and the icebergs in her heart.

The question she asked with her eyes hung between them, and a part of him desperately wanted to say yes.

Please Clint, will you stay? I don't want to be alone, I don't want to have to lay awake in my empty apartment with all of my regrets. Please, will you promise not to leave me?

But it would have been a pie crust promise, because no matter what Clint did, he could never stay by her side. Everyone died alone.

Clint gave her a sad smile and gave her a hug, lightly kissing her forehead.

"Stay safe," he said, like she was hiding from the attacks of some extremist group with a vendetta and not some disease that would never go away.

"You too," she whispered, and from her, it was a reminder not to do anything stupid when his emotions got away from him.

Clint tossed a wave at her, forcing himself to look back as she watched him, still standing on her door mat and looking like a little girl lost in the city, unsure as to what she was supposed to do next.