A hand clamped down on her shoulder. "NATASHA!" Clint screamed beside her. She looked up with wide, petrified eyes. As the trance began to fade, Natasha looked around. A rope hanging taut between the roof of the building and the pillar, anchored by an arrow on each end. Clint must have zip-lined down to her. The last guards closing in.
Clint could feel her trembling. "Natasha, snap out of it. I know this is a rough one, but we have to make it through this. You told me we both had to make it through this one."
Natasha kept her eyes straight ahead. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
Clint whipped around and shot at the approaching guards. He knelt down in front of her and gently took the little girl's body from her arms. "The S&R team will be here any minute, but I need your help to make it that long. Natasha please." He laid the girl down on the sidewalk and held Natasha by her blood-spattered hand. "Can you do that?"
Natasha nodded slowly, and let Clint help her up. Natasha pulled two short throwing knifes from her belt and gripped them tightly in her hands. She braced herself as best she could, and let the nearest guard approach her. Natasha jumped on top of him, jabbing the two knifes in to his chest and falling backward with him, so she landed on his rib cage.
Clint made his way to the center of the street, spiraling slowly to take in a panoramic view of the battlefield. He retrieved arrows from some of his earlier targets and fired back into the remaining few guards. In the seconds between loosing each arrow, Clint's eyes flicked back to Natasha. What the hell had just happened? He had never seen her react emotionally during a fight. That was her style, always calm and collected not matter the situation. Anyone who saw her fight and lived to tell about it would call her heartless, a machine, but Clint knew better. She put her feelings somewhere very deep and far away. She was able to bury her emotions in a way Clint couldn't begin to imagine, but he'd grown accustomed to it. No matter what mess they got themselves into, even one as ugly as this, he knew she'd be there, a rock never swaying from the mission at hand.
But now? He never imagined that she'd crack, never contemplated that it was possible she might freeze. Not over something like this. That girl's tragic fate had been horrible for sure, but Natasha has seen worse. Natasha had done worse. Usually though, she saved the screaming for her sleep.
Clint shuttered. He couldn't stop replaying Natasha's scream in his mind. Over and over he heard the pain and rage rattling out on her voice, and he couldn't wake her up and tell her it was just a nightmare. He watched her, her movements still controlled as ever but tinged with a wildness, a feral anger. A shiver ran up Clint's spine. The movement caused his arm to twitch ever so slightly, and his arrow grazed just shy of its target. Clint flicked his eyes back toward Natasha.
"Natasha, on your left!"
Natasha through a flurry of punches and kicks at the guard. She tripped him and slammed his head down twice against the pavement.
All he knew was that Varga would pay. Whatever he had done to her, whatever Clint wasn't seeing, Varga would pay. Clint could feel that slight tinge of uneasiness evaporate as his blood began to boil. "Where are you, you little weasel?"
A cold hand gripped the back of Clint's neck. "Put a leash on your cat," András Szabo spat in his ear. Clint tried to turn but Szabo held his head firmly in place. "Or should I say, put a web on your little pet spider before she gets squashed." Clint threw an elbow behind him and tried to wrench himself from András's grip. The butt of Szabo's gun came down on Clint's temple and his vision blurred severely. He could just make out the orange flashes of Natasha and the last two guards engaged in a fire fight. The sound of the guns melted away beneath the ringing in his ears.
András Szabo touched the barrel of his gun to the back of Clint's head. Clint gritted his teeth. "Eh, eh, eh," András reminded him. "That's not my style." He threw the gun aside and lifted Clint's mostly limp body up in the air. His combat boots grated on the tar as the rose up into the air. "What did I tell you? Point blank."
Szabo's hand flew forward and a blade emerged from his fist. The knife slipped in between the plastic ribs of Clint's uniform and plunged into his side. Clint's eyes went wide as the icy pain flashed through his abdomen. András went to remove the knife, and then paused. He adjusted his grip on the handle and wrenched the blade sideways. A breathy choke gurgled from Clint's throat.
András released Clint's neck and threw him to the ground.
"I said point blank. I never said it couldn't be slow." András's heavy boot caught Clint in the ribs and rolled him onto his side, facing the flashes of Natasha's fire fight. "I would hate for you to miss this, if you're even still conscious."
Clint's eyes blinked slowly as he fought to stay awake. "Natasha . . ," he breathed as his dark, warm blood began to trickle onto the pavement.
"Clint!" Natasha screamed, but her voice came out as a hoarse gravely shout. She couldn't feel. Her limbs, her heart, her fingertips, they all went numb. "No. I will not lose any more today!"
She sat with her back pressed against the still-smoking skeleton of the pick-up. Gunfire pulsed in her ears as the final two guards attempted to finish her off. Bullets flew around her, pinging off of the wrought iron fence and sailing around the playground. She ducked around the hood of the truck once more and returned fire. The trigger clicked and she reached down for another magazine. It wasn't there. She switched back to her other gun and found it empty too.
Her head fell back against the truck's sooty black tire well. She rolled her eyes over to look at Clint. His eyes were still open, but she could see the pool of blood spreading out around him. If she moved out of her shelter behind the truck, the two guards would strike her down instantly. On her ankle, she would barely make it three feet before the bullets clustered in her back. Can this really be it?
Another explosion interrupted her thoughts. She looked around but no new smoke rose in the sky. Peeking as far around the truck as she dared, Natasha saw the office building's thin basement windows clouding with smoke. Someone howled in the distance.
The gunfire paused as the two guards looked to see what had happened. She heard their footsteps march closer to her position. Across the truck's undercarriage, she could see two pairs of scuffed, dampened boots waiting by the opposite tire. Boosting herself on her good leg and crawling with the other, Natasha pulled herself up onto the roof of the truck. The brittle metal groaned and buckled under her weight, threatening to give in, but it didn't matter. By the time the two guards heard the sound and looked up, she was on top of them.
Natasha shot herself off the bowing roof, dragging the foul-smelling ash from the explosion with her. With one knee up to protect her ankle, she came down on the two guards. The first she clawed in the throat, the second she grabbed by the ammunition belt as her momentum sent them crashing to the ground. As they began to react, she struggled to knock their guns away. Two on one wasn't the most favorable scenario, but as long as she kept them on the ground, her odds were only partially hindered by her injury.
Not that she registered much of that. Rage and training took over as she struggled against the final guards, one thought hanging on her mind: Clint. Get to Clint. Everything else went blank. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she fought. She could feel the raw wild power racing through her, and she let it. It felt so freeing, so powerful. Why didn't she fight this way more often? Because, she thought, her rationality struggling to be heard over the chaos in her mind, emotion is how you make mistakes.
A fist came out of nowhere, smashing into her jaw with a hideous crack. Colorful blotches floated across her vision. Two more quick blows struck her sternum, and she gasped for breath. Can this really be it? she asked herself again. She tried to take a steadying breath, to look deep and find her calm strength again. She reached out within herself, looking for strength, looking for energy, trying to feel the powerful heat in her bones, but all she found was cold. A calm, sad though replied back, maybe it can.
András Szabo touched his shoe to Clint's chin and tilted his head up to face his own. Clint remained silent, teeth gritted against the pain, but glared back into Szabo's eyes. "Still hanging in there, are we?"
"This . . . isn't . . . over," Clint managed to spit back. A large crash clattered behind him, but Clint couldn't turn more than a few inches without sending a fresh stab of pain shooting through his ribs. He could, however, see András smile a devious, wicked smile.
"Yes, my dear boy," said Szabo, "I think it is."
Zoltán Varga stumbled out of the alleyway where Clint and Natasha had fled the night before. He coughed, still choking on smoke from the explosion. As he staggered into the edges on Clint's view, Clint let out a weak gasp. The entire right side of Varga's face glowed red with the patchwork of a burn. His skin boiled and blistered; some places seemed even charred. His hands and forearms bore the same pattern, where they had rushed up to try to guard Varga from the blast. Bits of melted fishing line clung to his vest.
"No . . ." Clint whispered. After all this . . .
Varga stumbled forward with his back hunched over and his legs spread wide. A ribbed black plastic case dangled between his long, gangly arms. He dropped the case in front of Szabo.
"Excellent work Zoltán."
"Believe me," he replied, not taking his eyes off of Clint, "The pleasure was all mine."
András knelt on the ground before the case. "You didn't tamper with any of my property, did you?" he asked Clint, who remained motionless beside him. András flipped the large plastic latches and threw open the lid. The bright yellow plastic shone inside. András lifted the smaller case out onto the ground before him. The larger black case he threw aside, letting the gray eagle design skid across the tar.
With one finger, András rotated the tiny metal wheels, clicking the four-digit combination into place. He gentle lifted the lid back and breathed a sigh of relief. Six cartridges sat inside, each one made of metal bands shaped into a sphere, with a dull greenish-yellow powder suspended inside. "Perfect," said András. He turned to Clint. "And to think, for all the trouble you two caused me, we're barely even behind schedule. You did cost me all my muscle, which I suppose could slow me down, but I'll have them all replaced soon enough."
The case clipped shut, and Szabo rose, lifting it easily between his hands. András nodded to Varga. "We shall proceed as planned. It's what István would want. And I will not fail him now."
They walked forward, leaving Clint on the ground. Varga made sure his foot caught on Clint's hip as he stepped over him.
Not more than three paces away from Clint, Szabo froze. Two long, slender hands descended from above and placed themselves, fingertips down, on each side of András's face. Ever so slowly, he tilted his head up to see Natasha suspended from Clint's zip-line, with her knees wrapped over the thin black cable. With all their chattering and taunting of Clint, Szabo and Varga had failed to see Natasha finish of the last two guards. They had failed to see her swinging along the fence, feet dangling, moving hand over hand, as her black uniform helped her blend into the dark iron bars. As they checked the case, neither one had looked up to see her shimmying toward them on the cable.
Szabo opened his mouth to speak or shout, and those long slender hands twisted sideways. The dull crunch of his neck snapped out before the words could reach his lips. Natasha pushed Szabo's body forward as she let go, directing it away from where Clint lay. The bulky mass hit the ground with a thud. As she hung there, Natasha met Varga's eyes.
"He never was very creative," Varga said. He picked up the case and gave a little salute. "Catch me if you can, Princess." Varga turned and sauntered down the street.
Natasha felt her tool belt. Empty. She swung her body until her hands could clasp onto the cable, then drew her feet up in an off-center handstand and lowered them until she hung toward the ground. Natasha let go, landing as gently as she could on the tar. Even so, shards of pain shot up her leg and she stumbled gracelessly onto her hands and knees. She crawled the few feet remaining between her and Clint and knelt beside him.
"Clint?" she said with a nervous tremor in her voice. "Clint?"
His face looked dangerously pale and beads of sweat collected in his short blond hair and ran along the furrows on his forehead. His skin felt clammy to the touch. Natasha pulled off his shades and exhaled as his eyes fluttered open. Clint rolled his head slowly to the side. His hand slid off his body and flopped on the pavement, landing with one finger pointed toward Varga's retreating figure.
"I know," Natasha whispered, "I've got nothing . . ." Her eyes caught on Clint's bow, and arrow already notched on the string. She couldn't draw it, maybe not even on her best day, but certainly not now. Still, she picked it up and wrapped her fingers around the grip. The string bit through her gloves as she pulled the bow back. It barely budged. She bit her lip and pulled harder. Her arms shook as she went.
Clint reached up and managed to lift a bloody hand up and grab onto her elbow. One look told her she'd tried hard enough. Natasha let go. The arrow went skidding across the ground and Natasha lowered the bow. She hung her head as Varga disappeared from view.
"Can you move? This scene with attract a lot of attention." She hauled Clint's arm over her shoulder and together, one step at a time, they made their way back to the alley. Placing one hand on the side of the building, she guided them around the corner. They slumped down together against the wall, with Natasha's back against the cement foundation.
Natasha wrapped her arms around Clint's thick torso, interlacing her fingers and pressing hard against his wound. Each erratic pump of his heart sent more dark, sticky blood flowing through her fingers.
"Natasha . . ." he managed to whisper, but no more words came. Bloody drool trickled from the corner of his mouth.
She clutched him tighter to try and stall the bleeding. At least that's what she told herself. So this is it. This is compromised. This is what it's like to hit the ground. No parachute, no help, just you and the dirt. Splat.
This was it, her worst nightmare coming true. She couldn't loose Clint, not now. He was her only link to the real world, the only person she truly trusted to have her back, the only person who knew anything about her. Without Clint, she would drown.
Icy terror coursed through her veins, making her heart beat rapidly against her bruised ribs. As she hugged Clint tightly to her, she wished so badly she could give some of those beats to him. "Please . . ." she whispered. "Please." God, I'm so stupid. We could have had this years ago. Me and my stubbornness, me and my rules. 'It'l just hurt more for whoever goes second?' She couldn't imagine anything hurting more than this. Please Clint, she willed him, tell me you love me, tell crappy jokes, take me dancing. Hell if we get through this I'll even let you buy me a teddy bear or something.
She could feel his pulse continue to slow in the dark gooey blood pulsing against her fingers, could feel him slipping away. The medical kit was likely destroyed in Varga's explosion, not that anything in there could help Clint now. He needed surgery, immediatly. If the S.H.I.E.L.D. team didn't arrive soon . . .
There had to be something she could do. Anything.
The notes formed in her throat before she could stop them. Slowly, quietly, she added the words to a sad Russian lullaby. She didn't want Clint to sleep of course, but she couldn't seem to make herself do anything else.Спи, младенец мой прекрасный . . .
. . . Sleep, good boy, my beautiful
. . . I will tell you fairy tales /And sing you little songs
. . . You will look like a hero . . . I will hurry to accompany you
. . . How many secret bitter tears/ Will I shed that night! /Sleep, my angel, calmly, sweetly,
. . . I will die from longing. . . I will pray the whole day long,
. . . When preparing yourself for the dangerous fight / Please remember me/ Sleep, good boy, my beautiful . . . Баюшки-баю.
The song seemed to roll on and on, each verse sliding easily off Natasha's tongue. The words felt good, familiar, although it had been years since she had sung this tune.
Clint's head rolled to the side; he'd finally lost his last shreds of consciousness. Natasha held him tighter, holding her breath between each of his heartbeats, desperately afraid that another would not follow. Somehow though, she hadn't quite lost the lullaby. She continued it, her voice now barely more than a whisper. Natasha didn't stop until the rotary whirling of the S.H.I.E.L.D. heliplanes broke the silence overhead.
Six hours later, Natasha stood at a reenforced glass window looking into Clint's room in the Helicarrier's medical bay. Her crutches leaned on the wall beside her and she balanced gingerly on her bulky black walking cast.
The S & R team had arrived just as Clint's pulse dropped dangerously low. Several emergency blood transfusions, including a final live one from an agent with the same blood type, had gotten Clint back to the helicarrier. For the first few hours of surgery, Natasha had refused treatment for her own injuries. Finally, as the exhaustion and pain began to overwhelm her, the medics had convinced her to let them help. Many stitches, bandages and a few x-rays later, they had assigned her a bed and ordered her to rest. She couldn't. When the doctors wheeled Clint out of surgery, she was waiting. She hadn't moved from the window, watching Clint's heart rate monitor through the glass as it counted out slow, steady beats.
"You can go in now, if you like," a kindly medic said as she passed behind Natasha.
Natasha dropped her gaze to the floor. "Thank you, but I have someone else I need to see."
"Go back to the medical bay, Agent Romanoff," Fury said without looking up as she burst into his office.
"Too afraid to deal with me?" she asked as she hobbled up to his desk, braced by one of the crutches.
"I was thinking more the other way around. This little chat can wait for a week or two. That debriefing I mentioned is the first priority on my schedule as soon as Agent Barton is cleared for it. Until then, I have to focus on containing the mess you two made." Fury paused. "I'm glad he pulled through." He turned back to the computer platform built into his desk and shuffled several digital files around. "Until then, you should be resting, and yes, that's an order. The medics are done with you."
"No, actually they're not."
Fury looked up from the screen and raised his eyebrow. Natasha marched the last few remaining steps to the desk and braced her hands on its edge.
"You want to know what happened, Director Fury? You dying to know what went wrong? I'll give you a hint."
She handed him a single sheet of paper, folded over in two places. The seemingly permanent smug and annoyed expression fell away from Fury's face. He swiped the files off the screen of his desk and met her eyes. "Natasha. . ."
She remained quite.
"And Barton?"
"He doesn't know, and he's not going to."
"It's been a long day, for all of us. You sure you don't want some more time to think this through?"
"Just sign the damn form Nick!"
"Look -"
"Please. Please sign it."
Fury placed a pen on the line, then pulled it away. He glanced up at her ever unreadable face and slowly wove the ink into his signature, then stamped his S.H.I.E.L.D. seal beside it. He waved the paper dry and folded it up, but flicked it away, out of Natasha's reach.
"Natasha. . ."
That's when he saw it, the slight tremble in her outstretched hand. Her mask seemed to crack every so slightly, and something buried in those haunted eyes told him it was sincere. Fury rested his head in his empty and sighed, handing the form over to her. "Dismissed."
Two days later, Natasha stood at the window, looking in at Clint as he slept. The color had returned to his face, and the nurses said he'd even woken up a few times.
"You really can go in and see him," said the same kindly nurse as she approached.
"No," Natasha replied, looking in the other direction, "I can't."
A/N: Just for the record this is NOT the end.
Also the song Natasha sings is called Cossack Lullaby. If any of you are familiar with the Russian language and have corrections or a better suggestion, message me!
Also, I feel like I don't say this enough, but THANK YOU for reading!