Chapter Text
“Stay with me, Barton, you hear me?” Natasha snarled as she dragged Clint away from the battle, the archer stumbling in her wake. His ears were ringing, and he was pretty sure he’d been shot. Possibly more than once.
“M’fine,” he mumbled, even as his weight leaned more heavily on the slender redhead. Luckily for him, Natasha was a lot stronger than she looked, because Clint was pretty sure that if he dropped to the ground now, he was probably not getting back up.
“Yeah, and I’m Steve Rogers,” Natasha sniped back, her hand unerringly finding one of the bullet wounds and pressing hard. Clint made a pained noise, his own free hand sliding down over hers, gripping tightly. Natasha didn’t make a sound at his tight grip, just urged them on faster.
“Dammit,” Clint muttered. “This was supposed to be a milk run.” Cover Natasha while she got the information on the terrorist cell and hightail it out of there, and the rest of Coulson’s team would sweep in and clear out the compound. Simple. Their intelligence was spot on, the agents and computers were exactly where their informant said they would be. Nothing could go wrong.
Except that something had. And Clint really hoped he was there when Coulson found out who had fucked up. Because it hadn’t been him. And it definitely hadn’t been Tasha.
“Tash?” he mumbled, blinking sweat - or was it blood? - out of his eyes. “I don’t feel so good.” The ground shook under them, and Clint’s legs went out from under him, darkness hovering at the edges of his consciousness. He couldn’t even feel pain anymore, and that should probably worry him more than it did.
“Clint? Clint!” Nat’s voice sounded so far away, and the last thing Clint saw before losing consciousness entirely was a pair of furious green eyes glaring down at him. Well, he supposed there were worse ways to go.
So it came as something of a surprise when he opened his eyes an interminable amount of time later, still hurting, but warm and no longer on the hard ground. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, his mind still fuzzy. “Wha’?” he finally managed to mumble, his own voice sounding odd in his ears. Maybe that last explosion had done more damage than he’d originally thought.
A moment later, Natasha’s face was leaning over him. Clint grinned loopily. “Nat,” he said.
Green eyes stared down at him discerningly, Nat’s mouth moving. Clint frowned up at her, then shook his head. Natasha’s brow furrowed, and she spoke again, talking slowly and carefully. All SHIELD agents had been trained to read lips, because battles were often noisy and comms could be lost or damaged. Clint’s exemplary eyesight helped him track conversations even at a distance, so this was easy. If only he could swallow the fear down, lock it up tight.
“You lost a lot of blood,” Natasha told him. “We are not safe here.” The two most important pieces of information, as concise as possible. Clint was injured, perhaps badly. And there was no time to get him proper treatment. Which also meant that they were out of contact with the rest of Team Delta.
Clint nodded, wincing as he tried to sit up, Natasha’s arm behind his back as she helped him upright. “How long?” he asked, trying to moderate his tone. Speaking too loudly would only attract unwanted attention.
“We must leave soon,” Natasha said grimly. “I’m sorry.” Her face flickered with regret, but Clint only nodded, resigned. No contact meant no extraction plan, which meant no medical treatment beyond what they could manage between hideouts.
“Ammo?” he asked. Natasha handed him a pistol, and Clint sighed. “No arrows?” he asked, a bit of a whine in his voice.
His partner shrugged. “Eight left,” she told him, “but we lost the bow.” Clint just sighed again, and Natasha patted him on the shoulder. “Twenty minutes,” she told him. “You will have to eat on the run.” And with that, she was gone, probably to scout out their escape route. It wouldn’t do them any good to leave a bolthole only to run straight into the enemy’s arms.
Once she was gone, Clint looked over the pistol, fingers seeking out any potential imperfections or malfunctions. He trusted Nat with his life, but that was no reason to be stupid. Making sure the gun safety was on, Clint pushed himself off the bed, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches and grateful that he’d been unconscious when he’d been sewn back together.
Balancing was slightly problematic, but Clint was pretty sure he could pull off staggering drunk being dragged home by his concerned girlfriend. It wouldn’t be too far from the truth given the way he felt. He was pretty sure Natasha had given him some sort of painkiller; he was feeling a bit loopy. And it couldn’t all be explained away by the ringing in his ears.
By the time he managed to stumble out of the room, noting with a sort of distracted interest that this wasn’t like their usual safehouses, Natasha had finished packing. Which meant she’d loaded up on weaponry and food and probably stolen a phone from somewhere. Clint grinned. “Ready to go?” he asked gamely.
Natasha handed him a sandwich, and Clint bit into it, pleasantly surprised. The bread wasn’t stale, and she’d even found some of the crunchy peanut butter.
Munching as he let Nat lead him out the back door, eyes roving the tiny yard, Clint did his best to remain upright. He was pretty sure his ankle was sprained, but there was no time to deal with it. If Natasha said they weren’t safe here, then they weren’t safe.
“They’re…canvassing the...,” Natasha said, peering around the corner of the house before urging Clint into a short dash across the yard and a leap over the next door neighbor’s fence. He stumbled as he landed on his bad leg before grimly continuing the sprint. His injuries must be pretty bad if Nat had holed them up in a civilian family’s home to treat him. And it had been a rushed job, too, probably with whatever the people kept in their medicine cabinets.
By the time they’d made it to the woods at the end of the road, Clint could feel the blood soaking through the bandages. Fantastic.
Later, he wouldn’t be able to say what gave him - them - away, but the first shot caught him completely by surprise. Natasha’s fingers dug hard into his bicep, and he watched as she stumbled briefly before straightening, her expression hardening as she rushed them forward, bullets striking the dirt and trees around them.
Clint swore. “Dammit, Nat, leave me behind, you idiot,” he insisted. Green eyes glared at him angrily, and then Natasha took them both to the ground. Years of working together as partners made it a simple matter for Clint to grab Nat around the waist and twist them both behind a large tree. It would only give them a few seconds reprieve, but when had they ever needed more than that?
Gun firmly in hand, Clint swung his arm to the side, eyes on Natasha as he fired off two shots in quick succession. The men didn’t make a sound when they dropped, but their buddies returned fire immediately, forcing Clint and Natasha to scramble from their position. Natasha took another one down mid-roll, and the shooting stopped for a moment. Clint met Nat’s eyes, a silent conversation happening. Clint nodded, then turned around, putting himself between Natasha and the approaching enemy. A quick count revealed four more men. No, five; there was one in a tree a few hundred yards away. And every last one if them had their guns trained on Clint. They'd regret that soon enough.
Clint held up his hands, showing the gun before letting it drop to the ground and kicking it away, his body language loose and easy. "I don't suppose we can chalk this all down to a misunderstanding?" he called out.
Movement off to the side, and Clint turned his head to look at the man dressed in full tactical gear. Tacky. It was like he wasn't even trying to blend in.
"I said get down on the ground!" The man barked. "Are you deaf or something?"
Clint grinned, then tossed his head towards one of the other men. "He said not to move or he'd shoot," he pointed out amicably. "So which is it? Don't move or get down?"
He probably should have expected the bullet. Coulson always did tell him that running his mouth off would get him in trouble. Clint would have to be sure to tell him that he'd been right. Coulson so did enjoy being right.
Clint dropped to the ground, curling into a fetal position. The bullet hadn't hit anything vital (learning what a gut shot felt like from personal experience had not been the highlight of his career. Failing to kill him had made Nat's), but Clint was good at pretending to be weaker than he was. He gave a rather convincing moan of pain and curled up tighter, nimble fingers pulling out a small knife.
He watched as two of the men approached him, his grip tightening. He wasn’t going to be much good if there was a struggle, but if he was quick enough, he could at least take one of them out before they’d realized their mistake.
Just a little closer , he thought at the nearest pair of feet, watching as they took a step closer. And then another.
As they stepped into range, a shout went up, and Clint took advantage of the distraction ( perfect timing, as always, Nat) to throw himself at the man’s legs, taking him down in a sprawl of limbs and rolling off of him, his knife buried in the dead man’s chest.
Rolling into a crouch, he threw himself backwards to avoid a kick from the next guy, his foot connecting with the man’s knee and sending him to the ground with a shout of pain. It was too much to hope his wild kick had broken it, but a dislocated knee should slow anyone down.
Black spots were flashing in his eyes, and Clint realized he was on the verge of passing out. Too much movement after too much blood loss. Blinking rapidly, he sought out Natasha, who had just taken the last man down with a garrote, her uniform stained with blood. Clint hoped it wasn’t all hers. God, she was beautiful like this, proud and strong and so very capable.
“Got th’ one in th’ tree?” he mumbled as Natasha hurried over to him, aware that he was slurring his words.
“Of course,” Natasha said, like it was obvious. Then again, it really was. Natasha would have taken out the sniper first, so there was no one to sound the alarm or shoot them while they took out the other men.
Natasha settled on the ground, her back against a tree, and helped Clint to maneuver so his head was resting in her lap. “Coulson is on his way,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I borrowed one of their radios.” Her smile was small and secretive, and Clint grinned, then turned his head to cough, unsurprised to taste blood.
He looked up at Natasha, his partner and best friend. “Tell Coulson he’s late for me, would you?” he asked.
Natasha’s lips quavered slightly, then firmed into a tight line as she nodded. “I will tell him,” she agreed, “if you will tell him that I saved the day.”
Clint chuckled, then winced. “Deal,” he murmured, letting his eyes close. “As soon as my nap’s done.”
He didn’t hear Natasha’s reply, if she made one. But he definitely felt the dry press of lips against his forehead. Clint let go.