He stops opening his eyes.

The longest four minutes of Natasha's life are the four minutes it takes from that moment to when they touch down on the helipad of New York Mercy. She holds his hand as Bruce does what he can with a half-stocked first aid kit, and she tries not to see the desperation on his face, because he's a doctor and the fact that he's scared is a fact she just can't deal with - she can't let herself think about what that means, because she is trying to hope, even as Clint's hand doesn't move in hers and he doesn't answer her strange new voice when she calls his name. His wound is like a flat red flower opening on his chest, and impossibly it keeps growing bigger, a poisonous terrible weed. There is blood in the corner of his mouth and she gets rid of it gently with her sleeve, barely able to steady her hand.

'How's he doing?' yells Steve from the cockpit.

Bruce glances up at her before he answers and shouts; 'Hanging in there!'

But the expression on his face when he turns back to Clint is grim and Natasha is winded with dread.

She tries to do that thing Clint does that she always envied – that way he has of just wanting something so badly and believing in it so much that it actually happens, but she doesn't know how to translate her will into reality, even though she is full of it; the will for him to live replaces her blood, her bones, like she's a person made up entirely of want, and this is fine, this is fine. She will never want for anything else if she just gets this.

His face is so white. He looks so peaceful but she knows he doesn't want to die. He is not at peace, he is fighting. He has to be fighting behind the fog that is keeping him from her. She has to believe that there is a part of him that can fight, even as his blood drains away and his strength melts down into nothing.

Even as she stares at his face, it seems impossible that this is real. Even as her blood stings with useless adrenalin, there is a tiny corner of her mind that stubbornly refuses to believe this is actually happening. Like a stupid child.

When they touch down, doctors swarm them and she hears Bruce tell them things she doesn't understand, hears Steve having a hushed conversation with Tony on the phone – she tries to block it out but hears the words 'doesn't look good' and wants to scream. And then she is ripped away from Clint; she chokes on a plea to stay with him, because she can't get in their way; these are the people who are going to save him. But then she remembers; 'Don't leave.' And she promised him.

'Wait!'

They have lifted him onto a gurney; there is an oxygen mask over his face, and they don't even seem to hear her as they start wheeling him away.

'I'm coming with you –' she cries, striding after them. She hears Bruce say; 'Oh, God,' and wants to hit him. He heard her promise.

One of the doctors turns to her as they walk and says; 'Ma'am, we're doing everything we can for your friend but you have to let us work.'

'You don't understand –'

'The best thing you can do for him right now is trust us, ma'am –'

'I'm not going to get in your way, I just have to come with you!'

'That's really not a good idea –'

'I promised him –'

'Ma'am, you have to relax –'

She won't hurt him because he's supposed to be fucking useful, but there are three other people working on Clint and so she grabs this man's collar with both hands and slams him up against the wall, toes dangling several inches off the ground. He looks stunned and frightened and this is good – someone else is scared now.

'Romanoff!'

Steve's horrified voice comes from behind her but she ignores him. She looks at the doctor, who looks like he'll do anything she says just to get out of this situation. So she lets him down and he gives her a cowed nod, and they run off after the people who are taking Clint, who do not protest because she is completely capable of killing them all with her bare hands and they know that now.

She tries to see him, but there are people blocking her view and she pushes back the instinct to remove them because they have work to do. She follows them blindly, numbly, until they are in a whitewashed room and the gurney finally stops and they really begin.

'He's tachycardic –'

'Bullet punctured his lung but there's a lot of unexplained bleeding –'

'Burns, scalpel and clamp please –'

She drowns out the medical jargon – she doesn't know what it means. Clint's heartbeat is zipping a line across a black screen framed with numbers, and with every spike and valley there is a loud beep – she focuses on that because a doctor is forcing a plastic tube down his throat and the fact that they can even do that, that Clint still isn't moving or protesting or even opening his eyes and that they are trying to help him breathe, it all makes her feel sick to her stomach and so she just tries to breathe, even though her lungs don't seem to be working and they tear out of her throat like someone is dragging a rope through it; she counts his heartbeats and wills there to be more and lets the hum of the doctors' voices soak into her, even as they grow faster and more panicked and she sees that they do not look hopeful, not a single one of them, and they keep glancing at her like they need to say something to her and don't know how and the child in her head that was refusing to believe this could happen starts to howl with an awful premonition. And the terrible flower on his chest is mutating, staining the mattress underneath him and it no longer seems possible that it will ever stop.

He doesn't look like himself anymore. He looks like an imitation, a lifeless puppet version of himself. To look at him you would never know his heart and his humour and his bravery and his determination; the stupid laugh he does when he finds himself hilarious and the loud, infectious one he does when somebody else makes him laugh. How he tells people he works so hard at archery because he can't be less than the best, but it's really because he won't let anything happen to the people he cares about. You would never know to look at him now, pale and prone on a gurney with blood sliding over his chest in every direction that he is the strongest person she has ever known and this seems wrong.

The beeping from the heart monitor is getting faster, and Natasha's heart is drumming a crazed, sanity-stripped flurry against her ribcage like the last ditch efforts of an animal dying in a cage. Please don't die, please don't die… I will do anything for you. I will do anything. Please, please don't die…

'He's bleeding out –'

'Liz, I need some suction.'

Suddenly the beeping turns into a single note, a drawn out mechanical scream, and Natasha gasps involuntarily, a hand flying to her mouth. She knows what that means –

A doctor grabs a pair of paddles and presses them against two green squares on Clint's chest. He looks at Natasha as he says; 'Charge to one eighty,' and his face is filled with pity and she snarls at him, stepping forward – he can't pity her, Clint is not dead yet –

'Clear.'

Clint's back arches from the electrical charge of the paddles and she thinks it must have worked, but that sound is not stopping, not breaking into beautiful heartbeat notes. One of the doctors starts doing chest compressions.

'Charge to two sixty.'

It happens again, and she feels like her own heart is being shocked, because she still dares to hope and yet that fucking sound will not stop, it will not stop.

'Again.'

'Again.'

'Alright, charge to three sixty, guys.'

She's suddenly aware that a nurse is standing next to her, saying words she doesn't even recognize; ' – exhausting all measures, but unless we can get his heart started again…'

And she knows.

He was dead from the moment she left him in the back of the jet. She shouldn't have done that. How could she do that to him? From the second she left him alone with the medic who mysteriously disappeared, from the second she let herself be angry at him, she damned him. She damned him when she met him. She was supposed to protect him and instead he protected her, and she let this happen, and he's dead.

She can't even feel her own body anymore but she sees the decision in the doctor's face when he realizes what she has, that there is nothing more he can do. When he steps back from Clint with the paddles in his hands, and tells the guy doing compressions that they are done. When the sound of Clint's still heart falls into silence at the press of a button. She sees him walk towards her but even though his mouth is moving, it's like his voice is sucked into a void. Her head is ringing. And yet she knows, separate from hearing him, what he is saying.

'Ma'am, I am very sorry. We tried to stop the bleeding and attempted to restart his heart, but the damage was too severe. He died.'

She knows.

'We'll give you a moment.'

The doctors move slowly away from the bed. Carefully, like they're afraid of it. They slink away with expressions of well-practiced grief and she doesn't have a molecule of room in her head to snarl at them for their insincerity. She lurches unsteadily towards Clint, only fuzzily aware of her own feet. She. Can't. Breathe.

She can see the whites of his glazed, unmoving, unseeing eyes beneath the half closed lids and she swallows her tears, reaching out with a hand that no longer feels like part of her body; she tries to be gentle as she passes her fingers over his eyes, as gentle as if he were sleeping and she was trying not to wake him; but his eyelashes tickle her palm and she feels the smooth, still-warm skin of his eyelids under her hand and she wants to throw up with the guilt of being so rough with him; of Clint's eyes not fluttering open, Clint not sitting up with a start and yelling 'What the hell, Natasha?' She simultaneously cannot bear to see his eyes and cannot bear not seeing them; it all feels like a swollen rock in her heart, a pain that builds in her throat and here she is, standing like a fool over the man she loves more than anything in the world with a hand still hovering over his face, an awful reminder of all the times she failed to make the right gesture or be what he needed her to be or even just fucking admit to him that she cared.

The tube is still down his throat, distorting his lips and shakily she reaches over and pulls it out, letting his mouth fall closed with a click of his teeth. It's so wrong. Clint would be awake by now. He wakes at anything; the sound of breathing even. How can he not wake at a tube scraping the inside of his body; at Natasha moving next to him? He's too full of life for this. Why isn't he moving? Ohgodohgodohgod….

She gulps back her tears and stares at him helplessly; she wants, she wants. Wants so badly for him to be alive but that can never be again, she has wasted her time with him and this is her punishment, to look down at his body and know that if it weren't for her, he might be somewhere else, heart still beating, smiling maybe or even with another woman, someone who could let him know he was loved. This is her fault.

She takes his limp hand in hers, already cooling in death, and tries to rub some warmth back into it; his fingers slip uselessly in hers and she stops, feeling like a torturer. He must be so cold; his lips are tinged blue, his chest bare. Suddenly she knows what she wants to do, what must be done, and as with no time to spare she climbs onto the gurney beside him and lies at his side, still clutching his big rough hand and using her other to hug his chest, her body and legs pressed against his side; her head fits perfectly into the hollow of his neck and shoulder and his head lolls towards her in a heartbreaking shadow of the way she had imagined he might move if they were together like this; his cheek hits her forehead and stops dead and she squeezes her eyes shut against the tears. She pretends she can feel his heartbeat under her hand where it rests on the lingering warmth. She pretends there is no blood.

She has seen death, she knows death. She doesn't fear death and she never has. But this is not death. This is something more and she doesn't understand how everyone else seems to be mistaking it for the same thing. This has no word, because it's him.

Her breathing slows; she wishes she could get it to match his. She doesn't think. Eyes closed, she traces the scars on his chest; the tick shaped indent under his left ribs from schrapnel. The long, thin gash winding from a spot near his navel down towards his hip, from a knife fight. Bullet scars, one just under his right arm and the other on his shoulder. She knows them even though she's never dared to touch them before; she's ashamed it took her so long. She presses her fingers down on each old wound, wishing she could magic them away. The terrible spot on his chest which will never become a scar, she doesn't touch, because it seems impossible that it won't hurt him.

It's not like she's never touched him, never performed crazy surgery on him in a shit-fight before. But she never told him how much she hated that he got hurt all the time. She called him an idiot and she told him not to be a baby and she did what she had to, to keep him alive. But it's only now she realizes that wasn't enough, not by a long shot. She should have held him like this. He wanted her to; she's so, so sure of it. Not during a battle, but after – he deserved to know that she saved him out of more than a sense of duty but because him being alive made her alive too, because that is why she fights.

Why. Why did she never do this.

There's a creaking sound and Natasha buries her face closer into Clint's neck, inhales the scent of his skin, like sweat and gunpowder and something distinctively his. She recognizes the footprints she hears and she doesn't want them. But they come.

She knows the moment they understand because the footprints stop and there are three intakes of breath; horrified. She won't open her eyes. She wishes they'd leave.

'No, no, no…' Tony's voice breaks and she's overwhelmed with a mad sense of… agreement. No, no, no… she repeats the words over and over in her head like a chant, trying to block the intruders out. No, no, no, no, no, no, no… it pounds in her head like her heartbeat does, filling her.

'Jesus Christ…'

Bruce. That goddamned quiet voice of his. No, no, no…

Someone takes a couple of steps towards them. Towards her and Clint. She knows the steps because that is her job, even though right now she wants to know nothing. She knows it's Steve and because she knows him, she knows what he means to do and without meaning to words rip themselves from her throat. 'Stay back!'

He stops. Hesitates. 'Natasha…'

'Don't,' she whispers, this time intentionally. She tightens her grip on Clint's hand, trying to make him real for her. 'Don't try and make me leave him.'

'You can't stay here, Natasha.'

'I can do whatever the hell I want.'

There's an ebb of silence and she tries to let herself sink back into the bubble of being with him, but they won't let her, and for some reason their voices make him even less real in her arms and she hates them.

'They have to – they have to move the body. You have to get checked out.'

'Leave. Us. Alone,' she chokes out, no longer able to hold back the tears, and all three of the stupid hero men walk closer. If she didn't have to stay right where she is, she'd kill them all. He wouldn't want them there. But she's not letting go.

'I know you love him.'

Bruce. The stupid great brute. He knows, does he? Why didn't he tell her? Why didn't he tell him? Who the hell is he to keep that kind of information to himself? How dare he?

'He wouldn't want you torturing yourself like this. You don't want that for the people you love. And you… he loved you more than anything. You know that.'

'This isn't torture,' she whispers fervently. She's not just talking to them but to him. This isn't torture, okay? Please don't think that. Please don't think that.

'Natasha.' That's Tony, and his voice is shaking. 'It's no use. This isn't… this isn't helping. Clint is gone.'

It's like a drop of blood in a bowl of milk. The word. Gone.

She realizes that she's cold. That she is not warming him up like she meant to, but that he is making her cold. She's shivering.

He's so still.

Hesitantly, slowly, she opens her eyes. She sees him, lying still. But she also sees the blinding brightness of the hospital room; the bits of useless equipment, tubing and clothes lying around like dead animals. She has no energy but she makes herself turn her head to look at the three standing in the room. Gathered around the bed. Tony is white faced, eyes wide like he's in shock; pulled out of whatever he was doing tonight and into a nightmare. Bruce's cheeks are wet, his hand running manically through his hair. Steve stares at her. Heartbroken for Clint, but bizarrely, it seems, more concerned about her.

'Natasha,' Steve says quietly, taking another step. 'Please.'

She hates them, because they have made him a body.

Slowly, she starts to move. Slides her arm off his chest, untangles her leg from his, and then, wobbly, she raises herself up onto one arm, staring down at her friend. His head, no longer supported by hers, drops to the side and with pain slicing her chest, she reaches up and runs her fingers through his short, brownish blonde hair. She does it a few times, and then, breathing harshly, she bends over him and presses her lips against his forehead; once on each cheek; and then she holds his beautiful face in both hands and kisses him on the lips. It is the first time.

She tries to pour everything she has never said and never can say into that kiss but his lips are icy and she chokes on a sob and she can't bear to ruin it, so she tears herself away and practically falls off the bed, her arm caught by Tony, who gently tugs her up and anchors her to his side; she lets him for just a second, until she feels she can stand and then she moves away. She doesn't want to be touched.

She stumbles away from the bed, past her teammates and towards the door. She fights the urge to turn around and curl herself around him again. She throws the door open and without looking back, takes a deep breath and steps outside like she's going underwater; leaving behind the person who kept her alive.

~(*A*)~

Dr Browning is standing outside room 713 when the girl goes streaking out of it and runs off like she's possessed, almost bowling him over – he doubts she even realized he was there, and he feels a squeeze of sympathy in his chest because she's the one who lost her friend, the government agent: he'd let her friends go in there when they arrived, because when he'd left she looked absolutely beyond-words devastated and no matter what people think it's never good to be alone. Also, one of the men was Tony Stark and when Browning tried to keep them at bay he threatened to set the Hulk on him.

The other men follow her soon after, looking distraught, and he's barely taken a step towards the room – someone needs to clean up the body before it's taken to the morgue – when a stern looking guy with grizzled grey hair and a suit blocks his way.

'Hello,' the man booms, holding out a hand to introduce himself, and Browning shakes it, taken aback.

'Hello, is there anything I can do for you?'

'My name is George Rowdell, I'm an agent with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, otherwise known as SHIELD. I'm here to collect the body of Agent Barton.'

He holds up an impressive looking badge. Great. Browning hates dealing with law enforcement – the only thing they care about is cleaning up their messes and ensuring they aren't held accountable for anything; they have absolutely no respect for people's feelings (or hospital protocol). And this guy looks particularly up himself.

'I'm afraid that won't be possible. It's state law that all homicide victims undergo an autopsy.'

'I'm aware of that. I've made arrangements for the autopsy to be performed at a SHIELD facility.'

'Has that been approved by his family?' he asks politely, and the man's eyebrows furrow; clearly not a fan of being questioned.

'He has no family,' Rowdell says dismissively. 'His contract states that in the event of his death, his medical proxy has the authority to claim his body and that is what she has done.'

'Oh – you mean the woman who just left?'

He finds that hard to believe. That woman didn't look like she was in any state to be making arrangements like that. But maybe it's a SHIELD mentality… maybe this is how she deals with grief. Maybe…

'Natasha Romanoff, yes.' The man nods, and there's something about his face… there's an air of affirmation about him, like something has just slid into place – he's almost smug, and Browning is even more sure that there's something weird going on here.

'I just saw Ms Romanoff… she didn't exactly look like she was focussing on things like autopsies and transportation, Agent Rowdell.'

At this, the man steps forward, all traces of professionalism and geniality gone, and Browning realizes that this is not his usual braying sixth street cop. This man will hurt him if he doesn't get his way.

'What are you trying to say?' he asks, and there's nothing menacing about his tone; just a glint of steel in his eyes that says more clearly than words could that if he continues down this path, he is going to regret it.

'I was this man's doctor. I'm just trying to make sure everything is above board here,' he stammers.

'Doctor, I think you may have been watching too many spy movies. I have no ulterior motive here – I'm an employee of SHIELD and a friend of both the deceased and Agent Romanoff. She made a call and it's my responsibility to make sure her wishes are carried out – that's all I'm trying to do.'

The thing is, you don't call a dead friend 'the deceased'. This guy is lying. But his hand slides slowly to his hip, and Browning sees a gun, and makes up his mind.

At the end of the day, this is just his job. He has a wife he can still tolerate most days; he has two daughters he actually kind of likes. He has a new set of golf clubs in the boot of his car and his fiftieth birthday coming up. He doesn't really believe this man has anything to do with Barton or Romanoff or possibly even anything to do with SHIELD. But Barton is dead, through no fault of Browning's – in fact, he did everything he could to save the man's life. And he has a lot to lose.

So he doesn't like it. But even as his gut twists with remorse, he lets this man go into room 713, ushering two other agents in with him. He pretends to forget that they're not meant to let anyone – not even cops – enter emergency rooms with big black trunks like the one that gets carried in there; and he pretends not to notice that when they leave, wheeling out Barton's body in a bag, the hill in the leather where his feet are… moves.

A/N: Okay, so I am really nervous about this chapter… I tried really hard to get it right. I hope you like it! I'd really love to know if you think I pulled this off, because so far this is the chapter I've worked the hardest on and it's very important to the plot. It's going to raise some questions, too, so I'd love to hear what you're wondering about and what you might have picked up on… :)

As usual, a big thank you to all the wonderful people who followed and favourited, and an extra special thank you to the ones who took the time to write me a review – you are lovely and I appreciate it more than you can know :)

The next chapter should be up in about a week, so check back!