Entry tags:
FIC: Chasing the Light (3/4) | Clint/Natasha | PG-13 | The Avengers
Title: Chasing the Light (AO3)
Author:![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sarea_okelani
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A mission that goes awry tests two assassins and their partnership.
If you missed them: Part 1 | Part 2
//\\
“Let’s see, I’ve got dry toast and two eggs poached medium for the young lady, and for you I’ve got three fried eggs, a ham steak, two sausage links, hash browns, a stack of Jimmy’s finest cakes, and maple syrup, all warmed up.”
“Thanks, Sue,” Clint said, ignoring Natasha’s look and tucking into his meal right away. He ate as though he hadn’t seen food in a week.
“That’s not really maple syrup, you know,” Natasha said, watching Clint pour essentially the entire contents of the jug over his enormous mound of pancakes.
“Mmm, artificial flavoring, just like Mom used to make,” he replied.
The ooze of the thick, sugary stuff as it found all the crevices in the pancakes was mesmerizing. “Are you sure?” Natasha was changing the subject, but she knew Clint would know she was no longer talking about pancake syrup.
“I’m sure.”
“You really want to go to Tombstone.”
“It’s going to be awesome, Tasha. You’ll see.” Clint cut off a large wedge of pancake with his fork, then speared a chunk of breakfast sausage and ate them together with relish.
“Vegas is the same distance away.”
“We’ve been to Vegas.”
“But think of the glorious tawdriness! The half-naked showgirls! The magicians! The buffets.” Natasha was hoping she’d hit on something Clint wouldn’t be able to say no to. She really, really had no desire to spend an entire day visiting some old boomtown of the Wild West. She had in mind the Bellagio. Champagne. Decent pillows. Bathtubs with jets.
Nothing was working. There was a set to Clint’s jaw that said, “Tombstone or bust.” Natasha resigned herself to dust in her hair and buffalo-themed antiques. It was her own fault, really. She’d told him he could pick where they would go for their next excursion. She’d been feeling generous after they’d finished their last job in the town of Wickenburg unexpectedly early. They’d gotten an official commendation from Fury. That was worth something.
Certainly something more than Tombstone, Arizona.
“Consider all the unsuspecting assholes with money to burn, waiting for you at the poker tables,” she tried again. “And all the loose women at the craps tables just dying to blow your dice.”
“Ooh, you play dirty,” Clint rejoined, looking completely untantalized, to Natasha’s disappointment. “But my mind’s made up. It’ll be fun, Tash. Just give it a chance!”
“Give me the car keys.”
“What?” Clint’s hand drifted involuntarily to the keys in his pocket, clutching them a little more tightly.
“You want to go to Tombstone, I’m driving,” she said flatly.
“But...” He looked torn.
Natasha knew Clint loved driving the new Porsche Cayman in their possession; it had been part of their cover story and they still had it for another two days. But even more than that, he was the one with the gift of operating vehicles. He loved it almost as much as he loved archery.
Apparently he was dead set on Tombstone, however, because while he handed over the keys reluctantly, he did hand them over. Natasha took them from him and smiled at his scowl.
Clint gulped coffee and waved at Sue for a fresh refill. “Now this is coffee. Be right back.” He got up, heading for the restrooms.
When he’d disappeared behind one of the doors, Natasha reached over and took his cup, taking a sip. She put it down so Sue could refill it. That was how he enjoyed his coffee? Disgusting. Her partner had no taste, in coffee or relaxation spots.
Of course, she didn’t have to go to Tombstone with him. She could contact Coulson and get back to HQ early. Or she could go to Vegas on her own if she really wanted to. Or hell, anywhere else.
Natasha picked up her fork and sank it into the soft, drenched stack of pancakes, helping herself to a bite. She wanted to hate it, but the truth was that the buttery sweet mouthful tasted heavenly.
“I saw that, Romanoff,” Clint said, sliding back into his side of the booth.
“Glad that sniper sight isn’t going to waste,” she replied, unconcerned with being caught.
The next time Sue passed by, Natasha ordered two pancakes for herself. She’d need the energy for the drive to southern Arizona.
//\\
When Natasha arrives at the clean room on the morning of the last day of their incarceration with some breakfast, Clint’s moving the furniture around. She’s not sure why he’s expending the energy. He’s sweating and breathing hard from the effort.
“Redecorating?” she asks, opening the slot on the door so she can slide the tray through. She closes the slot immediately afterward.
“Something like that,” Clint says, going over to open the slot on his side.
Natasha notices he’s breathing harder than such little exercise would require for a man in his shape. She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth, hard. “Maybe you shouldn’t be exerting yourself,” she points out. “You should be resting. Quarantine will break any time now.” It can’t come fast enough. She’d heard him vomiting in the bathroom last night.
“Yeah, well, I’m going stir crazy in here. I had to do something.” Clint pulls out the tray and makes a face at what’s on it. “You made coffee? What, I’m not dying fast enough for you?”
Natasha doesn’t particularly feel like joking about death; his in particular. She knows it’s his way of dealing with what’s happening to him, but she just can’t bring herself to reciprocate. Using humor to mask deeper fears isn’t her thing, but over time she’s gotten used to Clint’s methods and been able to insert a rejoinder or two of her own, occasionally. This isn’t one of those times.
“Did you do a transfusion this morning?” she asks instead. She’d given him a few more units of blood, saying that she’d found them in an unused lab. She’d held her breath, waiting for him to see through the lie, waiting for him to bring up Jordan, but he hadn’t.
Clint inclines his head. “Yeah. Did it earlier when I couldn’t sleep. How’s Jordan?”
“He’s tougher than he looks,” Natasha says. She has no intention of upsetting Clint at this stage.
“He’s in good company, then,” Clint says, grinning at her, but it lacks its usual wattage. His eyes are rimmed red and his lips are pale.
“Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” She hates nagging, has never seen herself in any role in which she’d have the right or desire to nag, has always believed that everyone should make their own choices and it isn’t up to anyone else to determine whether those choices are right or wrong... but Clint has a knack for making her behave out of character.
“Maybe later,” he says, pacing over to the other side of his temporary cage and dropping down to sit on the floor with his legs outstretched, his back to the glass wall.
Natasha reflects that she should have gone with vanilla pudding and the chocolate chip cookie, rather than the apple and string cheese. The unhealthier selections might’ve done a better job of tempting his depleted appetite.
She follows him on her side of the glass, sinking down to the ground also. They’re back to back, and she tells herself that she can feel his body heat, but she knows it’s just residual memory from the times they’ve been in this position before. Still, it’s familiar and comforting in its own way.
“When was the last time you had an injection of the antidote?” she asks.
“Christ, Nat, would you give it a rest?” Clint sounds more tired than irritated, though there’s certainly a bit of that as well.
Natasha bites back the retort. She doesn’t want to fight with him. There will be plenty of time for that later, when he’s well again.
They sit in silence for a while. Clint breaks it with:
“What do you think they’ll do with my stuff?”
Natasha stiffens, now glad they aren’t actually back-to-back, or Clint would have noticed. She turns her head slightly to see if she can catch his expression, but he’s staring straight ahead, and she can’t see his face. “What do you mean?”
“When I’m gone,” Clint says, sounding matter-of-fact. “What happens to my stuff?”
“Not something anyone has to worry about for a long time,” Natasha replies firmly, voice steady. She’s proud of how even it sounds, considering her heart feels like a hummingbird’s.
Clint lets out a chuckle, but it’s the least mirthful sound she’s ever heard. “I kept putting off filling out my ‘In the event of,’ you know? I told myself I just didn’t have time, it’s always one assignment after another. And who was I going to leave my shit to, Barney?” He scoffs, then continues quietly, “But really – it’s that I thought I was invincible.”
Natasha’s throat feels dry. She knows what he’s talking about, that feeling of invincibility. She knows it’s not true, that despite their unusual skills, at the end of the day all they are is breakable bone and fragile flesh. It’s just that sometimes, when she and Clint are in the midst of a firefight, it feels like there’s nothing in the world that can stop them, not even mortality. But as for a will... She’s never considered one because she has no children or known relatives, so what would be the point?
“Ironic, right, given what we do? Coulson would hound me about it from time to time. What’s it to him, I’d like to know. He’s not getting his hands on my 1969 Willie Mays, no matter what he thinks. He’s always telling me how well he takes care of those Captain America trading cards of his, trying to win me over–”
“Stop it.”
“Hell, maybe I will give Coulson that card after all,” Clint muses, ignoring her. “At least it’ll be with someone who appreciates it.”
“Just shut the fuck up. No one gives a shit about a baseball card,” Natasha says, and she hears the harshness in her tone, in her words, but she can’t take it back. Her back feels stiffer than the glass she’s leaning against.
“Don’t be mad,” Clint murmurs. “I’ll leave you my baby. My pride and joy. I’ve seen you look at it longingly.”
Natasha laughs, but it comes out sounding strange, as if her throat’s been rubbed raw. “I don’t want your goddamned bow, Clint.”
“You’re the only one I’d trust to use it correctly.” His voice has gotten so quiet Natasha has to strain to hear him.
She knows it’s the best compliment Clint could ever give another person, but she still doesn’t want to hear it. “Clint, I’m telling you, shut up.” She waits for his next retort, but it doesn’t come. “Clint?” Natasha turns at his lack of response. Dread claws its way up her throat at what she sees: Her partner is still leaning against the glass, but is unnaturally inert. His body has slumped and is no longer supporting itself; his right hand is on the floor, palm up.
“Clint!” Natasha shouts, slamming her palm against the glass. He’s only passed out, she tells herself. He’s fine. Just wake him up.
But he makes no movement whatsoever. Her shouts and pounding seem to have zero effect.
Passing out so quickly is a likely sign he’s succumbing to the virus, her mind recites clinically. “No,” Natasha says numbly. She doesn’t understand how this can be happening. The antidote was supposed to help keep him stable. He’s been doing well. He never answered you about whether he took an injection recently, her brain reminds her. Maybe he forgot. But Natasha knows, with complete certainty, that Clint didn’t forget. If he hadn’t taken the injection, it’d been a conscious choice. He’d known the survival rate of people infected with AS-81 was low, and even amongst those who had been cured, many were not the same, mentally or physically, afterward. But those people hadn’t had SHIELD or its resources and biochem division. All they’d had were some low-rate butchers masquerading as men of science.
She runs to the door, her brain pointing out with cold precision that going into the clean room will only endanger herself without any significant improvement in Clint’s chances for survival. She would be risking her own life, and the lives of everyone she could help as an agent of SHIELD, by exposing herself to the AS-81 virus. Natasha’s brain quickly conducts the cost/benefit analysis of exposing herself, taking into account everything from Clint’s own skills to the fact that they’re nearing the end of the required 72-hour quarantine, to the fact that there’s little she can actually do for him.
Natasha knows that when they look at her, what SHIELD sees, what her former handlers saw, is a world-class assassin, trained from adolescence to mete out death and destruction quickly and efficiently. But Natasha knows that what she is foremost is a survivor. She has done what she’s had to do, withstood odds that would have been insurmountable for most people, in order to be here today, living tissue and breath and blood. If she’s good at being an assassin, it’s because her will is stronger than any opponent she’s ever faced.
Rationally, she knows that there’s nothing she can do for Clint. She’s not a doctor; she’s not a scientist. She lives. That’s what she’s good at doing. And that skill will not help Clint. Running into the clean room will only put her life in jeopardy with no gain that logic can take into account.
She knows these facts. When weighing all the available variables, the conclusion is obvious – quickly and easily drawn, with no room for equivocation: She should not risk exposing herself.
“Clint!” Natasha throws her weight against the door, but it won’t budge. She notices for the first time that in moving the furniture, he’s positioned one of the chairs in such a way that it’s blocking the door, making it impossible to turn the knob. Why didn’t I notice that earlier? she thinks wildly. Why didn’t I notice that earlier? The answer is patently obvious. She’d been too concerned about his welfare to make the usual observations she would have normally made. Her affection for him had overridden common sense, had compromised her caution. “Goddammit, Clint, get up! Move this chair!”
He’d planned for this. He’d known it would come to this, and he’d prepared in advance. He’d been more prepared than she had been. Natasha doesn’t know what’s more alarming, the fact that she’s been taken by surprise, or the fact that some part of her hadn’t prepared for the worst, hadn’t really prepared for this eventuality. But Clint had. He’d known from the start.
“Clint!“ Natasha knows it’s futile, that she’s not strong enough to break through the barrier he’s created, that she’s going to dislocate her shoulder if she continues. She knows this, but she crashes against the door again and again, ignoring logic, ignoring pain, ignoring everything but the fact that her partner is just beyond this door, dying. Without her. Natasha can taste salt in her mouth, knows it’s from sweat, and tears, and though Clint is hardly moving, she says his name over and over again, as if somehow this will enable him to find the strength to get up and move the chair so she can get in.
It’s moving. Only a tiny increment at a time, but it’s moving. Eventually the chair gives, scraping against the floor and falling over, and Natasha runs into the room. She immediately goes to Clint, feeling for a pulse in his throat. She finds it. It’s thready, but enough to help subside some of her panic. Her heart beating hard against her ribcage, Natasha quickly locates the antidote. She efficiently prepares the needle, suppressing the emotion that threatens to release, willing her mind to be clear and her hands to be steady. They are; she’s proud of that, and she has the injection ready in a matter of seconds. It’s too late,her brain says. There’s nothing that can be done. This is a bandage on a gushing wound. You’ve risked everything for nothing. Natasha crouches down next to Clint and stabs the needle into his arm.
This seems to rouse him; Clint opens his eyes and sees her hovering over him. A dawn of recognition. “Nat, no...” he whispers. “Get out of here...” He moves to get away from her, but he’s too weak and she holds him down easily.
“Zatknis,” Natasha snaps. “Shut up, you selfish bastard. How dare you do this.”
He mutters something in response, something about going out on his own terms, but he stops trying to push her away. She takes his hand and clasps it with her own. His is hot and dry, callused from years of handling his bow.
“You’re going to be fine, Clint,” Natasha says fiercely. “You’re not going to do this. You’ll live to annoy me on countless missions to come. I’m not done with you yet.” To her horror, her voice cracks on the last two words. She tries to get herself under control, tries to rein it in and bury it deep as she always does. But then she feels him squeeze her hand – just the slightest pressure, but she feels it – and she gives in. Natasha lets the tears flow freely from her eyes, releasing the crushing emotion that’s been building in her chest. And oddly, it doesn’t feel like weakness. It just feels like relief.
She doesn’t know how long she stays in that position, holding Clint’s hand. She can’t feel her knees or her feet anymore. Her eyes feel swollen and tight. She can see the slight rise and fall of Clint’s chest so she knows he’s still there. She almost wants to lie down next to him – she’s not going to be able to carry him back to the bed – but then her honed sense of hearing picks up the sound of footsteps. Natasha’s sidearm is in her hand in less than a second.
A figure in a hazmat suit stands in the doorway, taking in the shambles. Coulson’s eyes immediately settle on Clint.
“He’s alive,” Natasha says, almost rebelliously.
Coulson nods, and she hears him convey their location to the emergency medical team. They arrive quickly, checking Clint’s vitals before loading him onto a hyperbaric stretcher. Natasha starts after them, but Coulson stops her with a hand on her arm. “Come with me, Agent Romanoff,” he says, with the same lack of inflection she’s used to from him, but his eyes are kind behind the mask.
Natasha knows she’s going to be put through a battery of tests, may even be quarantined again. But at least it will be with SHIELD’s supervision. She’ll get regular reports on Clint’s condition, Coulson will see to it. Assuming her partner makes it.
“He’ll be okay,” Coulson says, unnervingly reading her mind. “Fury won’t let him off the hook that easily.”
Author:
sarea_okelaniRating: PG-13
Summary: A mission that goes awry tests two assassins and their partnership.
If you missed them: Part 1 | Part 2
//\\
“Let’s see, I’ve got dry toast and two eggs poached medium for the young lady, and for you I’ve got three fried eggs, a ham steak, two sausage links, hash browns, a stack of Jimmy’s finest cakes, and maple syrup, all warmed up.”
“Thanks, Sue,” Clint said, ignoring Natasha’s look and tucking into his meal right away. He ate as though he hadn’t seen food in a week.
“That’s not really maple syrup, you know,” Natasha said, watching Clint pour essentially the entire contents of the jug over his enormous mound of pancakes.
“Mmm, artificial flavoring, just like Mom used to make,” he replied.
The ooze of the thick, sugary stuff as it found all the crevices in the pancakes was mesmerizing. “Are you sure?” Natasha was changing the subject, but she knew Clint would know she was no longer talking about pancake syrup.
“I’m sure.”
“You really want to go to Tombstone.”
“It’s going to be awesome, Tasha. You’ll see.” Clint cut off a large wedge of pancake with his fork, then speared a chunk of breakfast sausage and ate them together with relish.
“Vegas is the same distance away.”
“We’ve been to Vegas.”
“But think of the glorious tawdriness! The half-naked showgirls! The magicians! The buffets.” Natasha was hoping she’d hit on something Clint wouldn’t be able to say no to. She really, really had no desire to spend an entire day visiting some old boomtown of the Wild West. She had in mind the Bellagio. Champagne. Decent pillows. Bathtubs with jets.
Nothing was working. There was a set to Clint’s jaw that said, “Tombstone or bust.” Natasha resigned herself to dust in her hair and buffalo-themed antiques. It was her own fault, really. She’d told him he could pick where they would go for their next excursion. She’d been feeling generous after they’d finished their last job in the town of Wickenburg unexpectedly early. They’d gotten an official commendation from Fury. That was worth something.
Certainly something more than Tombstone, Arizona.
“Consider all the unsuspecting assholes with money to burn, waiting for you at the poker tables,” she tried again. “And all the loose women at the craps tables just dying to blow your dice.”
“Ooh, you play dirty,” Clint rejoined, looking completely untantalized, to Natasha’s disappointment. “But my mind’s made up. It’ll be fun, Tash. Just give it a chance!”
“Give me the car keys.”
“What?” Clint’s hand drifted involuntarily to the keys in his pocket, clutching them a little more tightly.
“You want to go to Tombstone, I’m driving,” she said flatly.
“But...” He looked torn.
Natasha knew Clint loved driving the new Porsche Cayman in their possession; it had been part of their cover story and they still had it for another two days. But even more than that, he was the one with the gift of operating vehicles. He loved it almost as much as he loved archery.
Apparently he was dead set on Tombstone, however, because while he handed over the keys reluctantly, he did hand them over. Natasha took them from him and smiled at his scowl.
Clint gulped coffee and waved at Sue for a fresh refill. “Now this is coffee. Be right back.” He got up, heading for the restrooms.
When he’d disappeared behind one of the doors, Natasha reached over and took his cup, taking a sip. She put it down so Sue could refill it. That was how he enjoyed his coffee? Disgusting. Her partner had no taste, in coffee or relaxation spots.
Of course, she didn’t have to go to Tombstone with him. She could contact Coulson and get back to HQ early. Or she could go to Vegas on her own if she really wanted to. Or hell, anywhere else.
Natasha picked up her fork and sank it into the soft, drenched stack of pancakes, helping herself to a bite. She wanted to hate it, but the truth was that the buttery sweet mouthful tasted heavenly.
“I saw that, Romanoff,” Clint said, sliding back into his side of the booth.
“Glad that sniper sight isn’t going to waste,” she replied, unconcerned with being caught.
The next time Sue passed by, Natasha ordered two pancakes for herself. She’d need the energy for the drive to southern Arizona.
//\\
When Natasha arrives at the clean room on the morning of the last day of their incarceration with some breakfast, Clint’s moving the furniture around. She’s not sure why he’s expending the energy. He’s sweating and breathing hard from the effort.
“Redecorating?” she asks, opening the slot on the door so she can slide the tray through. She closes the slot immediately afterward.
“Something like that,” Clint says, going over to open the slot on his side.
Natasha notices he’s breathing harder than such little exercise would require for a man in his shape. She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth, hard. “Maybe you shouldn’t be exerting yourself,” she points out. “You should be resting. Quarantine will break any time now.” It can’t come fast enough. She’d heard him vomiting in the bathroom last night.
“Yeah, well, I’m going stir crazy in here. I had to do something.” Clint pulls out the tray and makes a face at what’s on it. “You made coffee? What, I’m not dying fast enough for you?”
Natasha doesn’t particularly feel like joking about death; his in particular. She knows it’s his way of dealing with what’s happening to him, but she just can’t bring herself to reciprocate. Using humor to mask deeper fears isn’t her thing, but over time she’s gotten used to Clint’s methods and been able to insert a rejoinder or two of her own, occasionally. This isn’t one of those times.
“Did you do a transfusion this morning?” she asks instead. She’d given him a few more units of blood, saying that she’d found them in an unused lab. She’d held her breath, waiting for him to see through the lie, waiting for him to bring up Jordan, but he hadn’t.
Clint inclines his head. “Yeah. Did it earlier when I couldn’t sleep. How’s Jordan?”
“He’s tougher than he looks,” Natasha says. She has no intention of upsetting Clint at this stage.
“He’s in good company, then,” Clint says, grinning at her, but it lacks its usual wattage. His eyes are rimmed red and his lips are pale.
“Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” She hates nagging, has never seen herself in any role in which she’d have the right or desire to nag, has always believed that everyone should make their own choices and it isn’t up to anyone else to determine whether those choices are right or wrong... but Clint has a knack for making her behave out of character.
“Maybe later,” he says, pacing over to the other side of his temporary cage and dropping down to sit on the floor with his legs outstretched, his back to the glass wall.
Natasha reflects that she should have gone with vanilla pudding and the chocolate chip cookie, rather than the apple and string cheese. The unhealthier selections might’ve done a better job of tempting his depleted appetite.
She follows him on her side of the glass, sinking down to the ground also. They’re back to back, and she tells herself that she can feel his body heat, but she knows it’s just residual memory from the times they’ve been in this position before. Still, it’s familiar and comforting in its own way.
“When was the last time you had an injection of the antidote?” she asks.
“Christ, Nat, would you give it a rest?” Clint sounds more tired than irritated, though there’s certainly a bit of that as well.
Natasha bites back the retort. She doesn’t want to fight with him. There will be plenty of time for that later, when he’s well again.
They sit in silence for a while. Clint breaks it with:
“What do you think they’ll do with my stuff?”
Natasha stiffens, now glad they aren’t actually back-to-back, or Clint would have noticed. She turns her head slightly to see if she can catch his expression, but he’s staring straight ahead, and she can’t see his face. “What do you mean?”
“When I’m gone,” Clint says, sounding matter-of-fact. “What happens to my stuff?”
“Not something anyone has to worry about for a long time,” Natasha replies firmly, voice steady. She’s proud of how even it sounds, considering her heart feels like a hummingbird’s.
Clint lets out a chuckle, but it’s the least mirthful sound she’s ever heard. “I kept putting off filling out my ‘In the event of,’ you know? I told myself I just didn’t have time, it’s always one assignment after another. And who was I going to leave my shit to, Barney?” He scoffs, then continues quietly, “But really – it’s that I thought I was invincible.”
Natasha’s throat feels dry. She knows what he’s talking about, that feeling of invincibility. She knows it’s not true, that despite their unusual skills, at the end of the day all they are is breakable bone and fragile flesh. It’s just that sometimes, when she and Clint are in the midst of a firefight, it feels like there’s nothing in the world that can stop them, not even mortality. But as for a will... She’s never considered one because she has no children or known relatives, so what would be the point?
“Ironic, right, given what we do? Coulson would hound me about it from time to time. What’s it to him, I’d like to know. He’s not getting his hands on my 1969 Willie Mays, no matter what he thinks. He’s always telling me how well he takes care of those Captain America trading cards of his, trying to win me over–”
“Stop it.”
“Hell, maybe I will give Coulson that card after all,” Clint muses, ignoring her. “At least it’ll be with someone who appreciates it.”
“Just shut the fuck up. No one gives a shit about a baseball card,” Natasha says, and she hears the harshness in her tone, in her words, but she can’t take it back. Her back feels stiffer than the glass she’s leaning against.
“Don’t be mad,” Clint murmurs. “I’ll leave you my baby. My pride and joy. I’ve seen you look at it longingly.”
Natasha laughs, but it comes out sounding strange, as if her throat’s been rubbed raw. “I don’t want your goddamned bow, Clint.”
“You’re the only one I’d trust to use it correctly.” His voice has gotten so quiet Natasha has to strain to hear him.
She knows it’s the best compliment Clint could ever give another person, but she still doesn’t want to hear it. “Clint, I’m telling you, shut up.” She waits for his next retort, but it doesn’t come. “Clint?” Natasha turns at his lack of response. Dread claws its way up her throat at what she sees: Her partner is still leaning against the glass, but is unnaturally inert. His body has slumped and is no longer supporting itself; his right hand is on the floor, palm up.
“Clint!” Natasha shouts, slamming her palm against the glass. He’s only passed out, she tells herself. He’s fine. Just wake him up.
But he makes no movement whatsoever. Her shouts and pounding seem to have zero effect.
Passing out so quickly is a likely sign he’s succumbing to the virus, her mind recites clinically. “No,” Natasha says numbly. She doesn’t understand how this can be happening. The antidote was supposed to help keep him stable. He’s been doing well. He never answered you about whether he took an injection recently, her brain reminds her. Maybe he forgot. But Natasha knows, with complete certainty, that Clint didn’t forget. If he hadn’t taken the injection, it’d been a conscious choice. He’d known the survival rate of people infected with AS-81 was low, and even amongst those who had been cured, many were not the same, mentally or physically, afterward. But those people hadn’t had SHIELD or its resources and biochem division. All they’d had were some low-rate butchers masquerading as men of science.
She runs to the door, her brain pointing out with cold precision that going into the clean room will only endanger herself without any significant improvement in Clint’s chances for survival. She would be risking her own life, and the lives of everyone she could help as an agent of SHIELD, by exposing herself to the AS-81 virus. Natasha’s brain quickly conducts the cost/benefit analysis of exposing herself, taking into account everything from Clint’s own skills to the fact that they’re nearing the end of the required 72-hour quarantine, to the fact that there’s little she can actually do for him.
Natasha knows that when they look at her, what SHIELD sees, what her former handlers saw, is a world-class assassin, trained from adolescence to mete out death and destruction quickly and efficiently. But Natasha knows that what she is foremost is a survivor. She has done what she’s had to do, withstood odds that would have been insurmountable for most people, in order to be here today, living tissue and breath and blood. If she’s good at being an assassin, it’s because her will is stronger than any opponent she’s ever faced.
Rationally, she knows that there’s nothing she can do for Clint. She’s not a doctor; she’s not a scientist. She lives. That’s what she’s good at doing. And that skill will not help Clint. Running into the clean room will only put her life in jeopardy with no gain that logic can take into account.
She knows these facts. When weighing all the available variables, the conclusion is obvious – quickly and easily drawn, with no room for equivocation: She should not risk exposing herself.
“Clint!” Natasha throws her weight against the door, but it won’t budge. She notices for the first time that in moving the furniture, he’s positioned one of the chairs in such a way that it’s blocking the door, making it impossible to turn the knob. Why didn’t I notice that earlier? she thinks wildly. Why didn’t I notice that earlier? The answer is patently obvious. She’d been too concerned about his welfare to make the usual observations she would have normally made. Her affection for him had overridden common sense, had compromised her caution. “Goddammit, Clint, get up! Move this chair!”
He’d planned for this. He’d known it would come to this, and he’d prepared in advance. He’d been more prepared than she had been. Natasha doesn’t know what’s more alarming, the fact that she’s been taken by surprise, or the fact that some part of her hadn’t prepared for the worst, hadn’t really prepared for this eventuality. But Clint had. He’d known from the start.
“Clint!“ Natasha knows it’s futile, that she’s not strong enough to break through the barrier he’s created, that she’s going to dislocate her shoulder if she continues. She knows this, but she crashes against the door again and again, ignoring logic, ignoring pain, ignoring everything but the fact that her partner is just beyond this door, dying. Without her. Natasha can taste salt in her mouth, knows it’s from sweat, and tears, and though Clint is hardly moving, she says his name over and over again, as if somehow this will enable him to find the strength to get up and move the chair so she can get in.
It’s moving. Only a tiny increment at a time, but it’s moving. Eventually the chair gives, scraping against the floor and falling over, and Natasha runs into the room. She immediately goes to Clint, feeling for a pulse in his throat. She finds it. It’s thready, but enough to help subside some of her panic. Her heart beating hard against her ribcage, Natasha quickly locates the antidote. She efficiently prepares the needle, suppressing the emotion that threatens to release, willing her mind to be clear and her hands to be steady. They are; she’s proud of that, and she has the injection ready in a matter of seconds. It’s too late,her brain says. There’s nothing that can be done. This is a bandage on a gushing wound. You’ve risked everything for nothing. Natasha crouches down next to Clint and stabs the needle into his arm.
This seems to rouse him; Clint opens his eyes and sees her hovering over him. A dawn of recognition. “Nat, no...” he whispers. “Get out of here...” He moves to get away from her, but he’s too weak and she holds him down easily.
“Zatknis,” Natasha snaps. “Shut up, you selfish bastard. How dare you do this.”
He mutters something in response, something about going out on his own terms, but he stops trying to push her away. She takes his hand and clasps it with her own. His is hot and dry, callused from years of handling his bow.
“You’re going to be fine, Clint,” Natasha says fiercely. “You’re not going to do this. You’ll live to annoy me on countless missions to come. I’m not done with you yet.” To her horror, her voice cracks on the last two words. She tries to get herself under control, tries to rein it in and bury it deep as she always does. But then she feels him squeeze her hand – just the slightest pressure, but she feels it – and she gives in. Natasha lets the tears flow freely from her eyes, releasing the crushing emotion that’s been building in her chest. And oddly, it doesn’t feel like weakness. It just feels like relief.
She doesn’t know how long she stays in that position, holding Clint’s hand. She can’t feel her knees or her feet anymore. Her eyes feel swollen and tight. She can see the slight rise and fall of Clint’s chest so she knows he’s still there. She almost wants to lie down next to him – she’s not going to be able to carry him back to the bed – but then her honed sense of hearing picks up the sound of footsteps. Natasha’s sidearm is in her hand in less than a second.
A figure in a hazmat suit stands in the doorway, taking in the shambles. Coulson’s eyes immediately settle on Clint.
“He’s alive,” Natasha says, almost rebelliously.
Coulson nods, and she hears him convey their location to the emergency medical team. They arrive quickly, checking Clint’s vitals before loading him onto a hyperbaric stretcher. Natasha starts after them, but Coulson stops her with a hand on her arm. “Come with me, Agent Romanoff,” he says, with the same lack of inflection she’s used to from him, but his eyes are kind behind the mask.
Natasha knows she’s going to be put through a battery of tests, may even be quarantined again. But at least it will be with SHIELD’s supervision. She’ll get regular reports on Clint’s condition, Coulson will see to it. Assuming her partner makes it.
“He’ll be okay,” Coulson says, unnervingly reading her mind. “Fury won’t let him off the hook that easily.”