Title: Chasing the Light (1/2)
Author: sarea_okelani
A Gift For: ittykat
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None, really.
Pairings: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff
Summary/Prompt Used: A mission that goes awry tests two assassins and their partnership.

Prompt: Someone is hurt badly/quite sick and medical assistance is not readily available. The other person has to make tough decisions. I also used elements of my giftee's two other prompt proposals.

Authors Notes: Written for the be_compromised Secret Santa exchange. Thanks go out to four lovely ladies: Anuna and Koren M for running the fabulous exchange, and my two betas, Jade and Adelagia. Without Jade, I don’t know if this story would have gotten written. Parts of this story gave me fits while writing, and being a procrastinator extraordinaire, whenever I encounter a roadblock I tend to avoid writing altogether. But she gave me daily writing assignments and encouragement, and little by little, it got done. Adelagia helped me remove one of those early roadblocks. I could not, for the life of me, figure out a way to do what I wanted to do, and on one of our foodie trips up to Vancouver we talked it through and she helped me find a solution. Hurrah! Of course, that’s on top of the beta duties they both took on after the story was done. I am truly blessed to have two such good friends who allow me to abuse them in this manner! :D


Banner by daxcat79



“Chasing the Light”

//\\

Every bridge that keeps on burning
Every leaf that you keep on turning
Every road that you find uncertain
Pray for you now, baby that you'll figure it out
As you keep chasing the light

Natasha follows close behind, watching the set line of his shoulders. She’s used to watching his back, both literally and figuratively, but she’s never before had to wonder whether his fortitude is real or manufactured. Can he possibly be as calm as he seems? Clint is generally unflappable, prone to making cocky comments even while hell rains down around them (it was one of the first things she learned about working with him), but this is different.

She shadows him to the thick glass door, but stops at the entryway while he continues through it. He doesn’t turn to look at her or say a word until he’s on the other side; then he pivots and resolutely shuts the door in her face. He grins at Natasha, and it resembles the same grin he’s given her a thousand times. Natasha studies him for signs of uncertainty, of being shaken or frightened. She can see through bravado, has seen through it in other people on countless other occasions, when it meant her life or theirs, and she’s the one who’s still here.

But Clint is just being Clint as he always is, and she can’t understand it.

He’s acting like this is a circumstance like any other, but it’s not. Natasha isn’t prone to hysterics, to needless worrying, to optimism, but his equanimity right now is a puzzling thing.

Clint mouths something at her and gestures at his own forehead.

“What? I can’t hear you,” Natasha says.

Clint locates an intercom next to the door, fiddling with some buttons there.

“I said” – he’s activated a microphone of some kind, and his voice buzzes a bit from static, “you have a line right here.” He points at his forehead again, moving his finger up and down.

Natasha knows it’s his way of telling her that she’s frowning, which she didn’t know she was doing, and makes an effort to smooth out her features.

“Better,” he says, then turns away and starts stripping off his Kevlar.

His name is on the tip of her tongue, but she has no idea what she wants to follow that with, so she bites it instead.

//\\

Natasha signed the credit card receipt, ignoring the interested look of the motel clerk manning the front desk. He looked and smelled like an individual whose personal hygiene wasn’t high on his priority list. He had a least a hundred and fifty pounds on Natasha, and as he gave her yet another lascivious grin, she almost hoped he’d start something so she could use that weight against him and add a few more gaps in his already-challenged gum line.

He looked at the receipt. “Thank you for yer business... Natalie.” A brown-tinged grin. Apparently he was a regular smoker, and had had eggs for breakfast. Natasha hid her revulsion with practiced ease.

Fleabag motels, sketchy rental cars, and greasy diner food. This was what she’d signed up for, apparently, when she’d agreed to work for the American government. Not to mention the sometimes strange, ofttimes jocund, and frequently incomprehensible partner she’d been assigned. There’d obviously been something about him that had won her over when he’d made her the same offer she’d gotten half a dozen times before from other agents, but she wasn’t sure what that had been, now. Perhaps she’d just been too impressed with the fact that he’d gotten one over her, which had occurred so rarely over the course of her career before she’d met him that she could count on one hand the number of times it had happened. But better Barton as her partner than some other agent, she supposed. She could handle Barton.

There was complimentary coffee, but the pot was empty. Rather than talk to the clerk again, Natasha grabbed a package of coffee grounds and started it herself. She eyed the peeling paint on the walls with disdain. Certainly she had stayed in worse places while on a job, but when she’d been freelancing, when it was possible, she’d always chosen the best. She’d been able afford it, after all – her services had commanded a lavish price, and her days of living as a street rat, as someone else’s marionette, were over.

The coffee started percolating, its rich scent dispensing some welcome relief from the motel clerk’s personal odor. When enough coffee had dripped to fill two Styrofoam cups, she paused the machine and fixed one for Barton and one for herself. She knew he took cream and sugar in his coffee, and guessed at the amounts. Well, it wasn’t cream, it was whitener, but at least the beverage was hot and pleasantly steamy.

Outside, Natasha donned her sunglasses and made her way over to the rented silver sedan. Barton had spread a map over the trunk and was studying it. She handed him one of the coffees, which he took without comment, then brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. Coffee spewed. “What the hell is this?” he spluttered. “This is supposed to be coffee?”

Natasha shrugged. “Tastes okay to me.”

Barton held up his cup. “This,” he informed her, “is not coffee.”

“The package said coffee, I’m pretty sure,” she replied calmly.

“Are you sure it didn’t say ‘vile sludge’? Because that’s what it tastes like.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Sorry, did you want a nonfat one-pump vanilla hemp milk latte? I left my frothing wand in my other pants.”

Barton looked insulted. “It’s not frou frou to want a decent cup of coffee.”

“You said frou frou, not me. I just want that stated for the record.”

“Mildred’s on a break. She isn’t around to take that statement,” Barton said, referring to the imaginary transcriptionist who followed them around everywhere, recording their every word and deed. Natasha couldn’t remember whose idea it was to name her Mildred. Barton, probably.

“Oh, how convenient,” Natasha said, “that she happens to be taking a break at this moment.”

“She’s off getting a decent cup of coffee,” Barton explained. “She’s not the type to put up with this.” He gingerly took another sip, making a show of swallowing it, contorting his face.

“You don’t have to drink it, you know,” Natasha pointed out. “Or you could get your own damn coffee, that’s an option too.”

“Now that I know this is the kind of joe you make, I will.”

Ignoring him, Natasha sipped her drink and got in the car.

//\\

“Agent Romanoff, do you copy? Requesting a sit rep.”

Natasha shifts gingerly, waiting for shooting pain to tell her where she’s been injured. She doesn’t feel anything other than a few sore joints and muscles, so she’s either okay or in shock from blood loss. She moves her legs, which respond as they should, and sits up. The movement causes the debris around her to shift; some of the dust gets into her lungs when she takes her next breath. She coughs.

“Agent Romanoff?”

She must be all right. They’re monitoring their vitals and Coulson doesn’t sound alarmed; he expects her to respond, so everything must look okay from their end.

“An explosion,” she says, pressing the comms link in her ear. “In the lab. Agent Barton, is he–” She can’t complete the question. There’s too much dust in the air.

“Unconscious,” comes Coulson’s voice in her ear. “Otherwise looks fine. Probably knocked himself on the head.”

Natasha closes her eyes, taking short, shallow breaths. “Well, as long as it wasn’t a vital part of his body.”

“I heard that,” Clint’s slightly hoarse voice comes over comms. He coughs. “No making fun of the unconscious guy.”

Natasha allows herself the luxury of a smile. “Stop sleeping on the job, then. Where are you?” She picks herself up, testing each limb in turn. Everything appears normal. She locates one of her Glocks in the rubble. “Jordan? Foster?”

“Foster’s dead,” says Coulson. “I have no data on Jordan. His electrodes must have detached.”

Natasha steps carefully through the debris, waving a hand in front of her to try and dissipate some of the dust in the air. She makes her way forward to the lab where the explosion originated. She doesn’t have a good feeling about this, but a part of her has known this was coming since she opened her eyes. Clint’s standing in the doorway – or what used to be the doorway. He has a fine layer of soot all over him, making his face look nearly black. He seems to be moving under his own steam, which is good, but he’s limping a little. He bows his head and coughs into his arm.

She peers into the lab and her heart sinks. Three charred bodies, somewhat intact, plus a bunch of unsalvageable lab equipment and research. But the worst part is seeing the open fridge where she knows they’d been keeping the AS-81. Natasha inclines her head at Clint, who nods, and they quickly move down the hallway and through the double doors on the other side.

“Report, agents. What’s the situation?”

“They’re dead,” Natasha rasps flatly. “All the scientists. They blew up the lab, it’s all gone. And—”

“Agent Romanoff?” Coulson sounds slightly less composed than usual. “The AS-81?”

“Destroyed,” she says hoarsely. “They had a failsafe protocol when they knew we were coming. Nothing’s left. And...” She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “...Agent Barton was in the room when the AS-81 was destroyed. It could have gone airborne. We’re... I am recommending quarantine procedures,” she finishes, injecting a calm she doesn’t quite feel into her voice. Clint is frowning, looking at the double doors they just came through. Natasha isn’t sure what he’s thinking, but she knows him well enough to know that it’s not because of her conclusion.

“Granted,” Coulson says immediately. “No one has been in or out of the building since you entered. Seal off the primary exits and get the hell out of that area.” They’re all familiar with the layout of the makeshift lab built on the outskirts of the Sevier Desert in Utah. There are only two primary exits, and the lab is isolated from the rest of the place, so that part is simple.

Natasha already knows the answer, but she has to ask it anyway. She needs to hear it said out loud, by an objective party. She needs to know she’s remembered correctly. “The AS-81,” she says. “Symptoms of infection...”

“Appear within thirty minutes,” Coulson says, sounding gentle. “It will take a maximum of seventy-two hours for the exposed virus to die when exposed to air, so quarantine will not break until then. But you’ll know soon if either of you have been infected. The first sign is always a dark, upraised mark on the inside of one or both elbows, typically in the shape of a horseshoe. If you are infected, stay calm.”

“Right,” Natasha says, conveying a wealth of sentiment in the tone she uses on that one word.

“The virus typically runs its course through the human body in ninety-six hours. By the end of that time, if an infected person is still alive, full recovery is entirely possible.” What Coulson doesn’t say, but which Natasha knows perfectly well, is that very few people make it to the four-day mark.

“Do you hear that?” Clint asks.

Natasha shakes her head, preoccupied.

“They knew what they were dealing with,” Coulson continues. “There’s a medical area, and it will presumably contain advanced supplies.” He talks Natasha through things she’s already been briefed on, knowing it will help steady her. “They were working on an antidote. It wasn’t one hundred percent effective, but injections at regular intervals were shown to decelerate the spread of the virus. Regular blood transfusions will help; two units every twenty-four hours. They might keep blood there. After forty-eight hours without worsening symptoms, chances of survival are markedly increased.”

“Seriously, what is that?” Clint says. “You don’t hear it?”

Natasha tunes Coulson out so she can try and see if she can hear what Clint’s hearing. “It kind of sounds like—”

“Someone’s moaning. I think it’s Jordan.” Clint makes for the double doors.

Natasha stops him, grabbing his arm. “Don’t go back in there.”

“I can’t just leave him,” Clint argues, but she doesn’t let go of his arm. “Tasha, I’ve already been exposed,” he says gently.

After another moment, Natasha releases him. “Fine,” she says, and makes for the doors, but this time he’s the one who stops her.

“No,” Clint says. “You stay here.” He counters her stubborn look with one of his own. “I was at ground zero, practically – you weren’t. It’s riskier for you.”

“We’re not entirely clear on how it’s transmitted. If one of us is infected, we might have already passed it to the other person,” she argues.

“It doesn’t make any sense for you to go back in there!”

“Agent Romanoff? Do you copy? Has something happened?”

Natasha glares at Clint for a few more seconds, then gives in by pressing her comms link. Clint takes that as a sign of her acquiescence and goes through the doors.

“Agent Barton believes he can hear Agent Jordan and has gone to retrieve him.” She can’t keep the frustration out of her voice.

A few minutes pass while Natasha paces. “He’s still not back. I’m going after him,” she tells Coulson.

“Negative,” he replies without inflection. “Authorization is not granted.”

In a fit of insubordination that is more up Clint’s alley than hers, Natasha is about to ignore the order and go in after her partner anyway, when she sees him through the thick glass doors. He’s heavily supporting Jordan, who has his arm draped loosely over Clint’s shoulders. Clint is practically dragging Jordan through the debris field, because the other man doesn’t seem to be able to walk or even stand up straight on his own.

“I’m taking him to the infirmary,” Clint says shortly after they come through the door. The front of Jordan’s uniform is soaked with blood, his face ashen with pain.

“I’ll meet you there.” Natasha confers with Coulson one more time, then punches in a code in a side panel. Presently a metal barrier rolls down, sealing off the lab area. She uses the same code at each of the building’s two primary entrances, barricading them from the outside world. Or more accurately, barricading the outside world from the potential contamination this building holds. She tries not to think about what that means for herself, Clint, and Jordan.

Natasha heads for the small infirmary, which she knows is up one floor. The building itself is not large, so it doesn’t take long for her to find them. Clint has already settled Jordan onto a bed and cut the other man’s uniform away. Her partner’s face is closed off and distant, which means the prognosis for their teammate isn’t good. But Natasha doesn’t need the look on Clint’s face to tell her that; she has seen wounds like the ones Jordan has before. It’s exceptional, in her opinion, that he hasn’t already succumbed. What Jordan needs is proper medical attention. Clint and Natasha are fairly good at patching one another up when the need arises, but those are minor wounds in comparison to this; the help Jordan needs is far beyond their medical expertise.

She goes into the hallway to report this to Coulson, but her comms link isn’t working. Sealing off the building has apparently disrupted their feed. She pulls the small receiver out of her ear, then goes back into the room.

“Comms is offline,” Natasha says.

“He hemorrhaged pretty badly,” Clint replies, rifling through the room’s medical supplies with his back to her. “Disinfected the injury sites as best I could. Applied some antibiotic ointment and just gave him some morphine.” She nods, even though he can’t see it. “He passed out.”

“His organs are failing,” Natasha says. “He probably won’t last the night.”

“He might. They’ve got to have blood supply here. We can do a transfusion.”

Natasha makes a noncommittal sound. Jordan’s blood type makes him an ideal donor, but finding blood for him will be more difficult. She also chooses not to point out that Jordan has suffered massive blood loss, and that even if he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, the chances of his wounds becoming infected are quite high. And that’s assuming he hasn’t been infected with AS-81. If he has, his chances of survival are essentially nul. She knows that Clint knows these things; he just has a strange affinity to optimism for someone in his line of work. Natasha does not.

He turns, and Natasha sucks in her breath. “Clint.” She seems to be experiencing tachycardia, a distant part of her brain notes. A rapid heartbeat can be caused by an abnormal heart condition, disease, hyperthyroidism, strenuous exercise, desire, stress, or anxiety.

“What?” Clint looks at himself. Then he sees what she sees: a mottled mark on the inside of his right elbow, just below his bicep. It has the rough shape of a horseshoe. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment and neither does she. When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is steady. “You shouldn’t be around me. They have a containment room. Lock me in there.”

Natasha knows she should say something comforting, but the words are trapped in her throat. Her lips feel oddly numb. She’s rooted to the spot.

“Tasha,” Clint says, “quit looking at me like that.”

What she’s feeling must be written all over her face. Natasha struggles to regain her normal equilibrium.

He brushes past her on his way out the door. “Come on,” he urges.

Compelling her legs to move, she spares one last glance at the pale Jordan, then turns to catch up with Clint.

Natasha follows close behind, watching the set line of his shoulders.

//\\

“I’m going to be sick.”

Natasha adjusted the straw of her refreshing frozen lemonade and took a sip. “No one forced you to eat the world’s largest churro.”

Barton turned a green-tinged scowl on her. “Not helpful, Nat.” She had expressed her distaste for diminutives of her name several times, in several ways, but her partner of just over a year so far hadn’t taken the hints.

Barton stopped walking, which forced Natasha to stop as well. His eyes were closed, and he looked positively nauseated.

Not particularly keen on having puke on her shoes – this was supposed to be the two of them enjoying some time off, and she put up with that sort of thing quite enough on the job, thank you very much (though not usually from Barton) – Natasha took pity on him and pointed out the nearby men’s room. Barton handed her his wraparounds and took off for it at a healthy pace.

Truthfully, she did feel a bit sorry for him. The Steel Hawg wasn’t for everyone. She loved the thrill of a good roller coaster, and Barton... did not. Obviously it wasn’t the heights that had a negative effect on him; it was probably the corkscrew turns and extreme freefall (the Steel Hawg boasted a 111° drop – steepest in the States) that made you feel that your stomach was suspended above your head.

Natasha had to give him credit, though. They’d just finished up a job near Monticello, Indiana, and though she could see the hesitation on his face when she’d brought up the possibility of visiting Indiana Beach, he’d agreed readily. Up until this point, the occasional after-hours outings they’d gone on since becoming partners had all been instigated by him, and she knew he was happy she’d suggested something, even if it wasn’t an activity he particularly enjoyed.

As a girl Natasha had never been to an amusement park, and when she’d gotten a bit older there had only been two occasions she’d had cause to visit one, once to follow a mark, then again to do reconnaissance; never just for fun. The first time she’d ever been on a roller coaster had been when she’d started freelancing. Her time had finally been her own, as much as it had ever been at that point, and she’d indulged her childhood desires. She’d expected it to be a letdown, like so many things that are anticipated but that never quite meet one’s expectations, but to her surprise, it was every bit as enjoyable as she’d always imagined. She’d stayed at the amusement park all day, riding all the roller coasters by herself, basking in the wind that whipped her hair around her face, the screams of joy around her, the terrifying sensation of falling coupled with the certainty of being caught.

She wasn’t sure why she’d suggested going to an amusement park with Barton. She could have easily just gone on her own. They’d finished the job early and had some downtime before they were expected back on the Helicarrier. Barton had probably been looking forward to unwinding at a bar near the Promenade that O’Keefe had recommended at length, picking up some woman and doing whatever he did with them – not that it took a lot of imagination, but Natasha had never asked and never checked up on him, and he had never brought them back to their hotel, which she appreciated for professional reasons. That was one of the first things she’d noticed about him, and appreciated – Barton might be a bit unorthodox, a bit irreverent, and a lot sarcastic, but when it came to the job he was a consummate professional.

Her normally nonchalant partner was looking slightly worse for wear when he reappeared from the restrooms. Barton had lost the verdigris sheen, however, so that was a good thing. What wasn’t a good thing was that it had been replaced by a shade of ash. She hoped he’d recover quickly. Natasha didn’t particularly relish having to explain to Coulson why SHIELD’s star sniper was suddenly ill after a mission that went completely by the book.

Natasha handed Barton his sunglasses. He put them on, masking most of the sickly look.

“I think the exit’s this way,” Natasha said, gesturing.

“Excuse me,” Barton said, taking the amusement park map out of his back pocket. “I believe I am the navigator of this ill-conceived expedition.” He studied it for a moment. “Aha! I see something more my speed.” He pointed.

Natasha leaned over to look. “Kiddy Land?” Her lips quirked in amusement. “We can just go, Barton.”

“No, no,” he insisted. “I’m fine. I’ll just sit out the next couple of rides. My stomach needs a little time to adjust, that’s all. It’s gotten complacent after all these years, just staying in one place.”

She looked at him askance. “I don’t mind being by myself. You don’t have to stick around.” Natasha thought of the bar at the Promenade, the unknown woman. “Really.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” He deliberately inserted a note of hurt into his voice, so obvious it made her roll her eyes. “I have one moment of weakness and you’re going to cut me loose? Is that how it’s gonna be?”

It was a mystery to Natasha why he’d want to stay, but clearly he was going to, so she gave in. “Just don’t hold me back, Barton.”

He grinned. A wan effort, but still effective. “Tasha, if I ever hold you back, you have my blessing to leave me behind.” He slung a friendly arm around her shoulders.

Natasha raised her eyebrows. “I think I’m going to need that in writing.” She snatched the map out of his hands. “Also, it’s my turn to navigate.”

//\\

The break room is like every other break room in every office building in the world. There are square tables and cheap chairs, a vending machine, a sparse kitchenette, a lumpy old sofa, and a white refrigerator. Natasha first checks the cupboards, finding paper plates, plastic utensils, coffee, a can of chili, half-eaten bags of tortilla chips and pretzels, and a couple of boxes of mac and cheese that are long past their expiration dates. Can powdered cheese actually expire? She’s fairly certain it will outlast them all.

She saves the fridge for last. A couple of lunch bags contain sandwiches, an apple, celery sticks, a chocolate chip cookie, and a cup of vanilla pudding. There’s also three cans of soda, string cheese, an orange, a nearly empty bottle of salsa, and a white rectangular carton stained with orange grease. Opening it reveals someone’s leftover lasagna. Natasha sniffs it, and it smells okay, so she puts everything else back and divides the lasagna onto two plates. As she nukes the pasta, she pours Coke into two Dixie cups.

Carrying the tray, Natasha makes her way back upstairs and checks in on Jordan. He woke a bit earlier and she gave him some more antibiotics and set up an IV, but he’s unconscious now, sweat beading his brow. She’ll have to change his bandages again later, and will try to get him to drink some water. She continues on to the clean room where they’ve installed Clint. It’s fairly self-contained, with its own bathroom, sink, medical supply cabinet, and even a small refrigerator. He’d figured out the intercom system and made it so that it’s always on, and they can hear and speak to one another almost like normal. The walls of the enclosed room are made entirely of glass, so she can see that right now he’s lying on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, part of the lurid mark on his arm made visible when he shifts slightly at her approach.

“What is it today, Warden?” Clint says. “Not gruel again. Anything but gruel.”

“Leftover lasagna,” Natasha says. “If you don’t like it, you can book a room at the Four Seasons.” She opens the slot in the door and places the tray of lasagna, Coke, wedges of half an orange, and a paperback book inside, on the small platform that divides the slot on her side of the door from the slot on his side. In this way, as the engineers intended, Natasha can transfer materials to Clint with minimal exposure to herself or vice versa. She takes her own food and moves a few feet down, sitting in front of the glass.

Clint swings off the bed to retrieve the food (he tosses the book onto the stand next to the bed) and sits down on the floor facing her, despite the fact that there’s a bed and a chair in the room.

They eat in silence for a little while, Natasha surreptitiously studying him in between bites for signs of physical deterioration. She doesn’t find any. She’s distracted when Clint points his plastic fork at her plate. “Yours looks bigger than mine.”

“You eat twice as fast as I do,” Natasha says.

“Is there enough food?” Clint asks, accepting this explanation, and resumes eating.

“It’ll be fine. It won’t be gourmet dining.” Natasha bites into a wedge of orange. It’s juicy but not sweet; she eats it anyway. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not at death’s door, if that’s what you’re asking. Maybe his driveway. If he had one of those really long, sloping ones with big gates at the end.”

Natasha grimaces. She should have known better than to ask the question and expect a serious answer.

“It could be my last night on earth, though. Wanna grant a dying wish?” Clint waggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly. She pointedly ignores this.

“I found blood for you,” Natasha offers finally, emphasizing the last word just a tad. “Three units. And 50 ccs of the AS-81 ‘antidote’ they were working on.”

“Well, that’s not enough blood,” Clint comments, sounding casual, as if he were talking about change for the soda machine. “Not enough for both me and Jordan.”

“I know,” Natasha says. Ideally, Clint would undergo two blood transfusions a day. For the duration of the quarantine he’ll need six units; right now they have three. The facility has more blood, but none Clint can use – including Natasha’s. His blood type precludes it.

“They’re O neg? Give them to Jordan.”

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek. She wants to reason with Clint, to explain that giving Jordan this blood is a waste, considering the other man’s injuries. It’ll do more good in Clint’s veins than the other man’s. But she knows he won’t listen, that he’ll insist on giving the other man the precious few units of blood she’s found, regardless of the detriment to his own chances. He might even refuse to give himself a transfusion.

“Don’t worry about Jordan, I’ve already set him up,” Natasha says. She doesn’t like lying to Clint, but she wants to get off the topic of Jordan as quickly as possible. Clint should be focusing on his own recovery. Talking about Jordan also makes her uncomfortable because something’s been percolating in her mind that she isn’t quite ready to acknowledge yet. “I’ll keep looking.”

Clint finishes the last of his orange wedges, staring at the peels as if lost in thought. Then he stands abruptly. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, tossing the remnants of his meal into the trash. He turns his back on her and enters the adjoining bathroom. Natasha hears the water come on.

She knows it’s his way of telling her he wants to be alone, but she stays awhile anyway, her fingers turning sticky from the orange, listening to the rhythm of the water as Clint moves under it.

She leaves before it turns off.

//\\

Natasha stepped out of the shower, cursing Barton’s name as the pounding continued at her door. She briefly considered answering it naked, knowing it’d put him completely off his stride. However, despite his various annoying tendencies, she actually valued their partnership, and she didn’t think it was ready for nudity quite yet. At least not when neither of them were bleeding. She wrapped a towel around herself and went to the door.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he announced, walking right in without even looking at her. He didn’t seem to notice that she was nearly naked, or that water droplets were still clinging to her skin, evidence that she’d obviously had to leave the shower in a hurry. She wasn’t sure who she was more annoyed with – Barton for not acknowledging that he could be an inconsiderate ass, or herself for being ever so slightly put out that her notorious feminine wiles apparently didn’t do a thing for him.

“I was taking a shower,” Natasha said coolly.

Barton set down two laden plastic bags on top of the cheap wooden dresser and started unpacking them. “It’s okay, I’ll wait,” he said cheerfully.

Scowling at the back of his spiky brown head, Natasha brought a change of clothes with her into the bathroom, closing the door with an irritated snap. Not that he’d notice. She dressed quickly in a pair of loose cotton pants and a soft t-shirt, standard sleepwear for her. She considered wearing a bra, given Barton’s presence, but opted for a pullover instead. It would hide evidence of chilliness or other things. She brushed out her wet hair, and when her stomach made a low gurgling sound, she realized she was hungry. Natasha left the bathroom, a bit of leftover steam following her out.

Barton was watching television. He’d propped up the pillows on the bed so he could lean against the headboard more comfortably. Natasha bit back the sarcastic remark that was on the tip of her tongue. He’d always been overly familiar, ever since they’d met. He didn’t seem to have the same boundaries that other people had. She was well aware of the fact that she wasn’t as demonstrative as “normal” people, but she’d been around enough of them to know that Barton was an anomaly himself. Being so different, it was a wonder they hadn’t killed each other yet.

No... it was a wonder she hadn’t killed him yet.

“What’d you get?” Natasha asked, making her way over to the food. It smelled pretty good.

Barton looked up and grinned. “Finally! I’m starving.” He rolled off the bed and joined her.

“What is all this?” Natasha peeked under one of the aluminum-clad plates.

“What do you take me for? We’re in southern California, so obviously I got Mexican.” Barton unceremoniously began to take the aluminum tops of all the plates, revealing a massive amount of food.

“We’re not going to be able to finish all this,” Natasha said in astonishment.

“I couldn’t decide what to get, so I got some of everything,” Barton said unrepentantly. “Just eat, would you?” He handed her an empty plate and a bottle of Jarritos grapefruit soda, selecting mandarin orange for himself.

Natasha’s stomach contracted again, so she didn’t question further. She piled her plate with the delicious-smelling offerings and took it over to the small table in the corner of the room. She thought Barton might attempt to eat on her bed while watching television, but apparently he knew her peeves well enough by this point that he joined her at the table instead.

She began with a verde chicken tamale that was moist and fragrant. It was the best tamale she’d ever had. Barton wolfed down a huge burrito that looked packed to the gills with filling, and for a while the only sounds in the room consisted of noise from the TV and munching from the two assassins. Barton went for a tortilla chip at the same time Natasha did, and when their hands collided he quickly pulled back, as if she’d burned his fingers. Natasha would have been irritated by the reaction if she hadn’t seen his eyes dart unconsciously toward the bed. She suppressed a smile and pretended not to notice, nabbing a chip and scooping up a generous amount of guacamole with it.

She couldn’t decide what to eat next, but finally settled on a small corn tortilla that was topped with diced meat, cilantro, and onion. She opened a small container of pico de gallo and drizzled some of the red sauce on top, followed by a squeeze of a wedge of lime that Barton produced from a paper sack.

“Uh.”

Natasha looked up just as she was about to take a bite. “What?” she asked irritably.

“That’s – you should probably know, that’s lengua.” Barton looked at her expectantly.

Without breaking eye contact, Natasha slowly bit into the taco. It was pure heaven. The meat was tender and juicy – she was Russian, and an orphan, and had known what it was to go hungry. She’d eaten far worse things than tongue, which as far as she was concerned was just another muscle (a delicious one), seasoned just right, with toppings that were the perfect complement. She gave a little food-happy moan.

“Wow, so it’s really good then,” Barton said with comically large eyes.

Natasha picked up another warm tortilla chip, and when her knee accidentally pressed against his under the table, the feel of him solid and comforting, she didn’t move it away. “Shut up and eat, would you?”

//\\

Natasha sleeps badly on the couch in the break room, waking too many times, reaching for the gun under the cushions. There’s not a living soul in the small building except herself and Clint – maybe Jordan, if he survived the night – she canvassed it thoroughly yesterday. Still, there’s an apprehension she can’t shake, and usually when she feels this way it’s nothing she can’t solve with a bullet. This time it’s different. She wishes she had something to shoot, rather than this specter of dread, hovering unseen.

In one of the bathrooms she splashes water on her face, trying to shake the feeling. Her eyes look larger than normal in her drawn face. She’s found some disposable toiletries, but what she could really use is some lip balm. She’ll probably have to settle for petroleum jelly.

Six units of blood. That’s what Clint needs. She’d found three; he’s already used two. Not for the first time, Natasha laments the fact that she can’t give him hers; that would be the best and most expedient solution. She’s searched high and low, but there are only so many places blood can be stored to remain viable for transfusion. She’ll look again today.

Natasha goes to check on Clint. Last night he’d only eaten half of his dinner. Granted, slightly mushy ham sandwiches with pretzels isn’t the most appetizing thing in the world, but she’s seen Clint eat worse. His lack of appetite is a little worrisome, but maybe it’s psychological rather than physiological. No one would blame him for feeling a little depressed.

He’s still sleeping, his eyelashes looking very dark against his increasingly pale skin. The bedcovers are partially thrown off, his arms are bare, and the U-shaped mark is as vivid as ever, an ugly reminder of why he’s in there and she’s out here. She watches him breathe in his sleep – is it her imagination or is it more labored than usual?

Though part of her wants to just stay with Clint until he wakes, she goes to Jordan’s room. Neither she nor the other agent exhibited symptoms of being infected with the AS-81 virus within an hour of exposure, so as far as that goes, they’re in the clear. Unfortunately, in Jordan’s case, that’s not going to matter much. Natasha’s only potential for being infected now comes from Clint, but they’ve done everything they can to prevent that from coming to pass.

She stands in the doorway and determines that Jordan is still alive – miraculously. Clint had been right to be optimistic. But eventually, she’ll be right, too. Jordan’s wounds are not survivable; not in this situation. With the amount of blood he’s lost and the lack of viable blood they can spare, it’s only a matter of time.

Natasha doesn’t believe in fate, but she can’t help but feel that the fact he’s made it this long is a sign. She finally gives weight to the thought that’s been hovering just under the surface of her consciousness, ever since she first saw the mark the AS-81 virus had imprinted on Clint’s arm.

Jordan could have died in the night, but he hadn’t. His being uninfected, and having O negative blood, and somehow living through the injuries he’s sustained would be useful. If he’d died, his blood would have only been good for a short amount of time. Now... Jordan could actually save Clint.

If there’s a heaven, Natasha’s not going there; that’s she’s sure of. Too many people have their last moments at her hands, too many fathers, daughters, siblings, friends, lovers. Karmically she owes the universe, and she’s never going to be able to fully pay it back, but she owes a debt and she won’t shy away from it. She’s done a lot of bad in the world, but in the last five years she’s done her share of good, too, and this would be an act of good. The world needs its Clints. Keeping Clint alive will do a lot of people a lot of good. He deserves to live.

And in a ledger like hers, what’s one more line of crimson?

Natasha slowly makes her way over to the bed where Jordan is breathing shallowly. They are the breaths of a dying man; she’s been around enough of them to know.

She pauses when Jordan opens his eyes and looks at her, face wan. He seems unsurprised to see her. “Was wondering when you’d come around,” he says, barely speaking above a rasp. His eyes tell her that he knows why she’s there.

It isn’t like Natasha to hesitate once she’s set on a course of action. Nothing will change her mind, barring something extraordinary, but Jordan isn’t in any condition to put up a fight, and in fact, he seems strangely sanguine about what she’s going to do, has put it together quickly. He’s exhibiting surprising perception and clarity for someone who’s lost so much blood.

“What does he need?” Jordan asks.

“Three units,” Natasha answers.

Jordan doesn’t react visibly, even though he must know what that means. “Well, go ahead. What are you waiting for?” His breathing is shallow. “I guess I’m flattered it took you this long to get to it.”

Natasha has nothing to say to this, so she remains silent.

“Will this save Hawkeye?”

Something sticks in her throat, and it takes her a moment to respond. “I don’t know.”

“But you’re going to do it anyway.”

“It’ll give him more of a chance.”

“Will it? Didn’t figure you for an optimist, Romanoff.” Jordan says this without scorn, and given his condition she would probably deserve it, so the words make an impact they otherwise wouldn’t. Natasha feels something snake in her stomach, the words trying to penetrate, but she can’t let them, not yet.

“Ah well, we all gotta go sometime,” Jordan rasps. “If it’s my time, might as well go out helping a fellow agent, right?”

“You’re a good teammate,” Natasha says, and from her it’s high praise.

“Are you going to file this in the report?”

“Of course,” she responds automatically. “They’ll support my decision.”

A ghost of a smile indicates Jordan’s acknowledgement. “No doubt they will, even if Barton doesn’t make it.”

It takes more effort than it should not to respond that Clint is going to make it, that there is no alternative. Instead, she turns away and starts preparing what she’ll need for the simple procedure that may save one man while it pushes another into an inevitable fate.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, and Jordan closes his eyes one last time.