Steve Rogers opened the front door of his cottage with some difficulty. He had each arm locked around a paper bag of groceries, fumbling about with his front door key as he tried to force it in the slot. Eventually he gained entry, and whistling filled the air as he pushed the door closed with the heel of his foot. He was slow in his movement to the kitchen, the summer day having made him sweaty and tired.

When he reached the room, he dropped the bags in shock. Motionless on the hardwood floor, Clint Barton lay in a small pool of blood that was forming around his waistline. Natasha Romanoff was bent over a work surface, vomit in the sink beside her. Her face twitched as pain rippled through her body; the side effects of teleporting like this, evidently more severe. Her legs fought for grounding but failed.

"Hey grandad," she said, clinging onto the counter. Steve looked on.

The arm that held her over the surface was losing grip, and she tried again to push her foot down in support. Of course, it slipped back on the polished wood, and with it, the sharp pain flashed over Nat's left side again. Although she had lifted her head up to make eye contact with Steve, it was now firmly planted on the counter, and she dug it down further as the pain returned.

"What the..." he started.

Natasha groaned as the shoulder she had landed on clicked out of position. Then she started to laugh, a sort of hysteria settling over her. Steve was paralysed, frozen as he tried to decipher how the pair had got there, all dirtied and injured. The spy chuckled on, lifted her head to the supersoldier and asked "Do you require any assistance, sir?", before she blacked out.

Rogers watched in confusion as she slumped to the floor.

Clint and his hearing were two things that were messily intertwined. Wherever he went, he would have to prepare for 2 situations: sound or no sound. Most of the time, his hearing aid would be sufficient cover, the model from the late S.H.I.E.L.D being waterproof amongst many things. But, of course, there were times where he'd forgotten to adjust it, or simply got too tired to allow it to function, or even just turned it off himself. Now, staring up at a white tiled ceiling with hospital machinery whirring in the background, he was thankful for sound.

"Nat?" he asked to the air, although he was certain she would be there beside him. It was an unspoken pact between them, to stay by each other's sides. With no reply, Clint lifted his head up to survey the room, and soon found Natasha curled up on the chair to his left. She appeared to be sleeping, her head resting on her chest.

Barton sighed. He was connected to several tubes that ran outwards from his fingers, arms and nostrils, and he felt the pain from his gunshot wound was subdued by what he presumed was morphine. It was, of course, not the first time he woke up like this, but it occurred to him that perhaps he was doing so a little too frequently. The archer pulled back the covers and lifted the bandage on his abdomen upward. The wound showed some evidence of healing, which he took as an indicator that he had been here a few days. He groaned as he brought himself to a sitting position.

"You awake Nat?" he said through a yawn. It was clear that it was night time, or so Clint guessed by the darkness outside of his window. Not that that would infer his friend had been sleeping. Line of sight across his arm, he reached out and tapped her on the shoulder. She appeared to be so deeply in slumber, eyelids sunken into her cheeks. Clint swung his legs over the side of the hospital bed, groaning again for the pain, although numbed, had pierced his side again. He gently tugged away the wires and tubes until he was clear of them.

"Natasha?" he called as he dragged himself to his feet and made the few steps between them. His hospital clothing stuck to his skin as the summer air lay heavy with heat. He moved a strand of hair to behind Natasha's ear, and only then realised how pale she was. Carefully, he unfolded her body, moving an arm down and rolling it towards him; his face locked in shock as his hands came away with blood.

"No..." he whispered, examining the stab wounds that decorated her chest. They were deep but still throbbing weakly with blood.

"Shit!" he said, a little too loudly. He wondered how long she had been lying there, and then pained himself with the realisation that he had cost her minutes by dawdling beforehand.

A silhouette appeared at the door. Clint ducked as it was joined by another, and all of a sudden he heard the expulsion of a bullet in the corridor. The archer stayed silent behind the bed. When he thought the people had departed, he gritted his teeth and brought himself to a standing point. His hands found their way to Natasha's figure, lifting her so that she flopped back now in his arms.

"Come on Nat." he said, and he had the strange feeling that he was repeating himself. The former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent struggled to keep upright as he brought the other former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent closer to his chest. Arrows of dulled pain stabbed his body but he was still close to silent in his movement to the door.

"Come on... Come on." he whispered under his breath. Nat was cold to the touch and deathly unresponsive. Clint's chest heaved with anxiety as he pushed through the door. He stuck to the walls when he found that running would not be an option. Weakness pulsed through his veins and ran into hers; I've lost her sprinted circuits in his head, and he was suddenly pained by the impact of loss, and he realised how lonely he would be without her. It did not surprise him that he was going at less than a walking pace but he willed himself on. Barton felt the cold of the night as he suddenly tripped, and his friend tumbled out of his arms. They were both on the floor, her eyes closed and his wide open. He reached out to touch her.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Clint forced himself to focus. If he could only get a little closer...

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Blackness dug into his vision. He shouted to keep himself awake.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

"Hey Barton!"

Huh?

His eyes intended to fly open, but were heavy, as if they had settled in their being there. He pried his eyelids apart to view the world as a blurry slit, and almost choked on the tube in his mouth when he saw Natasha. Arm in a sling and half of her face littered with scratches, she towered over him.

"Hey!" her smile was alien on her broken face but it did not scare Clint. It was then that he tipped his head back in relief; dreams would, evidently, always be dreams, but would never be real. Besides, she wouldn't die on him. That would be extremely out of character.

"So, Captain America drove us to hospital?" Clint, thankful for the heat, watched the night deepen from the edge of the roof. Natasha stood just behind him. "You sure he didn't just throw us there or some't?"

She didn't laugh but he knew she was smiling in response.

"We get our pay then?"

Natasha folded her arms, even though the weather was far from cold. "Sure. Don't think the thanks we were given covered quite the cost."

Barton winced from the bitter memory. His fingers traced his gunshot wound, gradually healing as living things do, and enjoyed the feeling of but slight pain. They stood for a moment, a slight but gentle breeze lapping at their faces. Clint tilted his head to observe the stars.

"That teleport required exact co-ordinates." he started. "So how did you get us to Rogers' place?"

"I got a message not so long ago. Just used a tracker on my phone."

"But how d'ya know we'd end up at Steve's, and not any old rodeo?"

Natasha sighed, widening her stance to grant her security. "I didn't."

The moment returned, silence scattered through the city. Nat unfolded her arms and, turning away from Clint, let them swing at her sides. The faint light from nearby stars cast a light veil over her cheeks.

"You shouldn't have brought him."

He took as long as he could before he was obligated to respond.

"Nat..."

Natasha swung round and pushed him back with both hands.

"He was your responsibility!"

Clint shoved her back.

"I didn't kill him!" he shouted in defence.

"You let him die!"

A second's glare was exchanged between them. Natasha pursed her lips and looked away, but found herself looking back at him as he pulled her chin towards himself.

Then, as quickly as the mood change, she planted her lips on his, and he sucked them gently inwards. His hand settled in the small of her back and hers cupped around his neck. Together, their heat bled into the darkness.

Nat used her free hand to dig into a trouser pocket and find the small spider charm, pressing it now into Clint's palm. He felt the grooves and curves of it, his fingers accustomed to its shape, and carefully placed it in his pocket. She broke away and came up to his ear.

"I went back for it." she whispered. Clint slipped the charm back into his pockets and rolled Natasha's hair behind her ears. Her face, though poorly illuminated, was covered with scratches, and he supposed his must have been too. Ruptured spleen, damage intestines, 3 cracked ribs - and that was only half of it. Would it ever not be like this? For either of them?

The spies looked into each other's eyes. An unsure atmosphere flickered before them, but was whisked away by the August sky. Natasha started to undo his belt.

That's it guys,
Thanks so much for reading!
:)