“So it’s ice cold, right? I’m talking frigid. Two feet of snow. And this idiot-“ Clint jerks a hand towards a dark haired agent -“loses his boots on base. Has to go out in the field in sneakers.” Another agent to his left snorts out a laugh.
“Hey, hey, in my defense-“
“Branson, there is no defending-“
“I’ll tell you a secret though, they weren’t lost. I hid them cuz you ate the last pack of those peanut butter cookies I like.” The men burst out laughing.
“Dude, my feet were numb!”
The voice is sharp and serious, and it instantly wipes the smile from his face as he turns to face her. His stomach drops.
“She’s alive.” Numbly, he feels someone take his coffee cup before he drops it. “Clint, she’s alive.”
He’s running before he can process it, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. A second set of boots follow behind him. He skids to a stop in the waiting area, not sure which hallway or door she may be behind, and spins to grab her arm.
“Surgery. Breathe.” He sucks in a breath, tightening his grip on her sleeve. “Clint, she’s okay.”
“It was just supposed to be surveillance.”
“They were ambushed as soon as they hit the ground.”
“KGB group. We didn’t know-“
“It’s your job to know!” he yells, pushing away from her. She nods, minutely raising her eyebrows, and he paces the floor. “How bad?”
“They beat her, shot her through the stomach, left her for dead.”
“Fuck.” He collapses into a chair and she sits next to him, a hand between his shoulders.
“She’s gunna pull through, Clint. She’s strong.” Hot tears sting his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. Instead, he picks a point at the wall to stare at, the rushing in his ears drowning everything else out.
“She’s alive,” the nurse opens with. Maria puts a hand on his arm to steady him. The ground beneath his feet suddenly feels unsteady. “Follow me.”
“Go ahead. I’ll check in later.” Clint nods, following the nurse alone down the hallway. His hand is sweaty as he turns the knob. The room is quiet except for a soft beeping, the rise and fall of her chest the only other indication of life.
“Natasha.” Barely a whisper, he clears his throat and repeats it, but she doesn’t stir. He pulls a chair close to the bed and sits. “It’s okay. You can sleep. You should sleep, probably. You need it. Jesus, Nat, look what they did to you.”
His fingers tremble as they brush away a strand of hair. Her body is covered in bruises and something on her arm that looks like a burn.
“M’okay.” His eyes snap back up. She’s watching him, barely keeping her eyes open.
“Hey. Sleep,” he soothes. “I’m here now.”
A soft knock on the door jolts him awake. Natasha is still sleeping, and he lifts his head from the bed.
“How are you holding up?”
“The nurses said she’s doing great.”
“I spoke to them. But now I’m asking about you.” Maria sits in a chair, watching him, and he turns his gaze to the blankets, smoothing out a wrinkle.
“I didn’t mean to say it was your fault.”
“I know, Clint. It’s okay,” she repeats. A soft rustle breaks the silence as she sets a wrapped sandwich on the side table for him. “Try to eat something and get some sleep. I’ll have them bring an extra bed.”
“I could use a coffee, too,” he jokes half heartedly, offering a smile. She fondly rolls her eyes and makes her way to the door.
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