Natasha stayed for minutes in the same position. Though her heartbeat became a little more settled now, and she was again in acknowledgement of her surrounding; she was taking her time to proceed. Eventually, Clint was released from his cage, but he was sat on the ground now, holding his hands to his ears. When Nat recovered, she made her way over to him. Silent as she did so, she expected a silence in return. But when she moved closer, it was clear that he was troubled by something.

His gaze found hers and settled on her outline.

"That didn't happen Clint. None of this is real." she assured him. But his face was was contorted with alarm, and she knew something was wrong.

I can't hear you, Clint signed. I can't hear you, I can't hear.

Natasha focussed all her attention on the american sign language. She took a moment or two to read and understand it, then signed in reply.

It's me. she motioned in confusion. It's okay, it's okay.

I can't hear! he furiously responded. I can't speak if I can't hear, I want to hear, help. Clint felt something build up inside him. It was a feeling from many years before, and although his response was mainly hatred, he was incapable of conveying that properly. Instead, he panicked, and agitation made his eyes sore and lips dry. How do I speak? I can't hear myself. I can't hear you.

Nat couldn't understand what he was signing. She tried to flick back through the lessons he had given her, but could not decipher it. Calm down. I can't read what you are doing.

Help me. I don't know how to talk.

The spy was confused by the translation she had come up with, but then realised what he was trying to say.

You are signing. she replied. ASL.

Help. he signed, I don't understand. Nat looked on with worry. She had tried her hardest not to involve herself with Clint's hearing, always letting him decide if he wanted her to help him or not. Now she regretted not taking more control, and she sat, lost for how to help him. He sank to the floor.

Natasha stared unblinking at her friend. He groaned and rubbed his forehead.

She turned away to cough. Clint looked on upwards, blurry eyed, head swirling. Suddenly, his hearing had returned to him, and the noise, of the breaths he was taking and the slight movements of clothing, was overwhelming. Natasha coughed more, the outbursts harsh on her throat and forcing her to bend over. Her companion pressed his eyes closed to refocus. It's over he thought to himself. Carefully he settled in his skin; the fear had gone, the past but a memory and he - his attention turned to Nat. She compelled her palm to lie closer to the floor as her coughs turned to choking, and then she found that breath no longer fed its way into her lungs, and her throat became enraged with panic. She choked further, on nothingness, the nothingness that forced her windpipe close shut. While Barton had recovered again, it was Romanoff's turn for her eyes to cloud over. The noises of her choking had regressed into squeaking as she fought for oxygen, and she rolled over onto her back now, knees raised and feet digging into the ground. Clint clambered over until he was hovering above her. His eyes watered and he pushed back tears for his friend. Her chest heaved up and down in futility - he had never seen her in this much struggle. The archer searched frantically for ideas. He ripped across every area of his brain, every single memory, ever single bit of storage he could access, trying desperately for a solution. The situation worsened and panic shot into his brain. I can't lose her he told himself. He tried hard to think of something that could help her, anything, and for a second there, he thought he had something, perhaps, perhaps -

But he had taken too long.

She tipped her head far back now, eyes glazed over in exhaustion. And, sinking slowly, her knees made their way to the floor. Her jaw was slightly ajar, her ghost still scavenging for air. But, and ultimately so, her chest lay still. And it was to Clint's discovery, balancing two fingers on her neck, so did her heart.

The first thing he found himself doing was shutting her eyelids. It was an innate reaction, or possibly not; perhaps he had learnt to do so, or perhaps it just seemed so because of habit. He realised, all of a sudden, that he had not even attempted to save her, not physically at least, and his mood shifted quickly in hope of a miracle. It was, Clint guessed, because his line of work taught him to move on from the dead, to think mission first and team mate after. Shaking his head free of philosophy, he corrected the position of Natasha's head as it had fallen slightly to the side. His fingers slotted roughly into the grooves by his other hand's knuckles, and he squeezed them tight before pressing the two hand compound onto the spy's chest.

1... 2... 3... 4...

He compressed rhythmically to the beat of Staying Alive by the BeeGees, panting along in time with each compression.

Not now.

He thought to himself.

Not here.

He kept going, feeding his heartbeat into hers, hoping, pleading that her pulse would find the rhythm in it.

"Come on Nat." he rasped. "Come on." Though his fingers ached from the force he was applying, he felt determined to continue, repeating in his head, I will not stop, I will not stop.

Then, suddenly and to Clint's shock, Natasha flung upwards with a sharp intake of breath. He caught her and she pressed herself closer to him, panting as oxygen once more flowed through her veins. Clint himself breathed heavily too, and he cupped one hand around her head while the other one hooked around her waist. Strands of hair wrapped around him but he held her closer, the thin coils not a pain to him. His warmth bled into the fingers that were digging into his muscled shoulders. Now his panic skittered away with the slight whimpering that emerged from the woman gripping him tight.
And it was okay.
They were okay.

They stayed there for a moment.

Even sat, and especially like this, Natasha seemed a fair bit smaller to him. She nestled her nose into his neck as the adrenaline faded away.

"You scared me there." Clint whispered, so as not to disturb the peace.

"I know." she said softly. She pushed herself back a little and lost her balance, so her friend caught her again to stop her falling. He eased her backwards until she was lying directly below him. Sparkling eyes drilled into Clint's head, an inviting gaze that drew him closer. She could feel his heartbeat now, and it was a little quicker than she expected. Their eyes widened. Their pupils enlarged.

Barton leant forward for a kiss.

Natasha pulled her arms up carefully and held his head as he inched closer. She lifted up and met him in the air, her soft lips tingling with the roughness of his, and then they were kissing. It was gentle but laced with passion, and the spy pulled Clint back onto her to try and grasp every moment. But Clint rose up slightly and rested his head on hers. She hooked her arms around his neck.

"Caw caw."

The dome shook slightly. Natasha, though fairly weak, was stood up. She had figured that, due to the lack of access panel, she might as well try and shut the reality machine down at the wall. The deactivation code consisted of a number and a series of dials to turn, so that's what she was trying now; she tapped in the numbers as if there existed a key pad, and turned the dials to their angles one by one.

Clint had weakened.

He lay on his back now, biting through his discomfort as the miniature reality vibrated beneath him. Every move Natasha made, she spun back to check if he was okay. The machine's instability worsened at each attempt to disable it; and worse, it was leading to its own downfall, with the dome shaking and slowly tearing itself apart. As Nat reached the last few dials, the walls flashed a fear inducing transparent. Clint stared down when it did so, feeling the blood ooze out of his wound once again. The fall, he realised, would be harsh on his body. Though that wouldn't matter if he died right there and then.

Nat had almost cursed herself when she realised that she had the emergency teleport still on her person. Then, after a moment's consideration, she knew that, had she tried it earlier, she would likely end up in a worse mess. Feeling the device in her hand, she saw her way out.

Clint eyelids were sinking, and he watched Natasha through a narrow slit. She fished a disposable phone from her pockets. Then, with considerable care, she 'turned' a last dial at the wall.

*i*

The dome fizzled out of existence. Much larger than initially anticipated, the damage caused by the explosion was the first thing that the spy noticed. She had grabbed her friend's belt to make sure that he was close to her, but as she fell, her grip loosened and her arm twisted with attempts to regain it. Nat fell like a rag doll into the rubble, her descent slowed by the steel bars and brick she encountered. Suddenly, her hold of Clint's belt diminished altogether and she slipped until she was just holding onto the little spider charm.

No.

She told herself as she kept tumbling to the ground.

No.

As she kept falling, she realised she would need to throw the teleport soon. Then Clint, unconscious, was caught by something or a chunk of the building.

Shit.

Natasha saw the spider charm fly across the air as she smashed painfully onto the ground. She was lucky that her shoulder had taken most of the impact from the fall, her clothing having protected her from a lot of potential breaks too. Spying Hawkeye falling towards her, she tossed the teleport disk. Crawling onto it, she tucked her legs in, blood smeared on her face and, rather worryingly, her legs.

Then Barton hit the teleport disk.

They both blinked out of existence.

Penultimate chapter!
Last one comes out Wednesday.