The antiseptic smell burns her nose before she even opens her eyes. It’s sharp, clean in a way that makes her skin crawl, too much like other places she’s woken up in — hospitals, safehouses, interrogation rooms. But this one is different. The beeping is steady. No restraints, no monitors screaming for a medic. Just the dull ache of bandages pulled too tight, the stiff press of hospital sheets tucked around her like she might fall apart if she shifts too much.
Natasha forces herself to wake up properly, blinking past the haze, running an internal assessment of everything that hurts — a lot — and what’s likely broken — probably nothing, but it’s a close call. She’s always hated the feeling of painkillers, especially more so after that one hospital hostage situation back in Tokyo.
The memories slowly return to her; she still can’t believe she got injured in Omaha, Nebraska, a place she’d thought she’d never even visit. Getting pushed off of a decently tall enough building to sustain injuries? Even more so. Heights have never been her forte, that’s always been Clint’s, and although she’s sure she’d set up the most optimal landing as she went airborne, down, down, down, it sure as hell hurt.
Whatever details she’s missing, she doesn’t care much for it anyway. Letting her eyes wander and adjust, she can’t help but put on a ghost of a smile when she sees him.
Clint is perched beside her, slumped in a plastic chair like he just collapsed there, exhausted beyond reason. The chair is too small, too stiff, not meant for someone to sleep in, nor support a physique like Clint’s for a prolonged period of time, but that clearly didn’t stop him. One foot is braced on the edge of her bed, his other leg stretched out awkwardly, and his arms are crossed in a way that would seem casual if his body weren’t twisted like a badly assembled action figure. His head has lolled to the side, mouth barely parted in sleep, and there’s a deep furrow between his brows even now, like his body hasn’t quite convinced itself to relax.
His tac gear is still on, stiff with grime, his bow leaning against the wall, quiver slung haphazardly beside him like an afterthought. There’s a streak of dried blood running from his jaw down to his collar, and she can’t tell if it’s his or someone else’s.
Idiot.
She exhales through her nose, ignoring the way her ribs protest. He hasn’t left. She’s not even sure how long she’s been out, but judging by the way he looks — by the stiffness of his gear, the remnants of blood and dried sweat and dirt clinging to his skin — he hasn’t moved since she was brought in.
Her chest tightens at the sight.
Clint looks worse, honestly — not physically, but in the way he’s carrying it. He always does this, always sits and waits like his sheer presence will change something. Like if he’s just there when she wakes up, maybe it means she’ll be okay.
She doesn’t plan on admitting any time soon that just maybe, he has a point.
She shifts slightly, the movement barely enough to rustle the sheets, but somehow, Clint’s eyes snap open immediately. No slow blink, no groggy disorientation — just instant awareness, his body catching up a second later as he straightens, rolling his shoulders like he only now realizes what he’s done to his spine. She knows it’s the military in him, combined with his concern for her.
“Hey,” He breathes out, voice rough with disuse.
She quirks an eyebrow. “Did you even shower?”
Clint scoffs, rubbing a hand over his face, smearing some of the grime across his cheek instead of wiping it away. “And risk you waking up alone? Please.”
Something warm flickers in her chest, unwelcome but persistent. He says it like it’s obvious, like it’s not the least bit ridiculous, sitting in the world’s worst chair for hours on end just because she might wake up before he gets back.
Her lips press together, and she flickers her gaze over his again, more deliberate this time. He’s not injured — not badly, anyway. The blood on his shirt doesn’t seem to be his, for the most part. The shadows under his eyes are darker than usual, and the line of tension in his shoulders is too rigid, like he’s still wired from the mission, from the last bits of adrenaline that never fully faded, no doubt after hauling her unconscious body to the RV point.
“You smell.” Instead, she says flatly, scrunching her nose, because anything else feels like too much.
“Love you too, Tash,” He grins faintly, but there’s still tension at the corners of his mouth, in the way he’s watching her too closely, cataloging every breath, every wince, every sign that she’s still here.
They don’t speak their fear for one another — only show it, through the subtle tightening of the shoulders or lowering the gates of those carefully guarded and impenetrable eyes, just enough to remind themselves that they, too, are human.
She sighs, shifting slightly to the side in invitation.
“Just — stop sitting like a gargoyle and lie down before your spine gives out.”
For a second, he hesitates, like he’s debating whether she actually means it or she’s just saying it to make him feel better, but then he kicks off his boots and stretches out beside her, careful not to jostle her too much. The infirmary bed isn’t exactly built for two, but neither of them are strangers to close quarters. His warmth is immediate, grounding, the steady rhythm of his breathing slotting into sync with hers like muscle memory. She closes her eyes.
It’s instinct at this point, the way they fit together. The bed is too small, the space too tight, but he moves carefully, making sure he doesn’t jostle any of her injuries. His body is warm beside hers, steady and grounding in a way that nothing else really is right now.
“Wake me up next time,” She murmurs.
Clint exhales, soft, tired. “Next time, try not to scare the hell out of me.”
She doesn’t promise anything. They both know she won’t.
Still, his arm brushes against hers, close but careful, and she lets herself relax, just a little.
Sleep comes easier than she expected.
The next time, it’s Clint who wakes up, his side throbbing with the kind of deep, burning pain that tells him he’s been stitched together again.
Right. Madrid.
He remembers the alley, the sharp crack of a sniper round, the way the pain punched through him before he even heard the shot. Natasha had been ahead of him, pivoting just in time to see him stagger, her gun already snapping toward the source.
He must’ve gone down after that, because the next thing he remembers is her voice — sharp, urgent Russian as she pressed down on his side, her hands steady even as his blood soaked through her gloves.
Clint breathes in slow, scanning his surroundings before he even opens his eyes.
Small space. No outside noise. The air is sterile, the sheets stiff. Medical-grade everything. He catches the steady beeping of a monitor, the faint tug of an IV taped to the back of his hand.
Not a hospital.
A SHIELD safehouse, then. One of the ones they keep for emergencies when an agent’s too unstable to move long distances.
Which means he went down bad.
Great.
He cracks his eyes open and immediately spots her.
Natasha is slouched in the world’s most uncomfortable chair — he would know, considering half of the times, it’s him in that chair — arms crossed, her head tilted just slightly to the side — like she’d meant to sit for a second but never actually moved. Her tactical gear is still on, though she’s ditched the holsters. Her sleeves are rolled up, revealing bruises on her forearms, a thin cut near her temple.
She looks wrecked.
And she’s been here a while.
Something tightens in his chest, but he ignores it, shifting slightly — and immediately regrets it when pain flares hot and sharp through his side. His sharp inhale is enough to snap her awake instantly.
Her eyes lock onto his, sharp even through exhaustion.
“You’re awake.”
Her voice is even, but there’s something behind it. Something clipped.
“Yeah,” Clint rasps. His throat is dry as hell. “Looks like I made it.”
Natasha doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even give him the usual obviously. Just holds his gaze, unreadable.
“You lost a lot of blood.”
Which is her way of saying you almost didn’t make it.
He exhales through his nose. “But I did.”
Her fingers tighten on the edge of the bed.
For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. Just looks at him like she’s still making sure he’s actually here, that this isn’t some residual hallucination from blood loss.
Then she shifts forward, elbows braced on her knees. “The bullet nicked an artery. They had to go in and fix it before we even got you out of the city.”
That tracks. The pain is deeper than usual, sharp in a way that means someone’s been poking around inside him. But it’s not as bad as it could be, which means they got to him fast enough.
“How long?” He asks.
“Two days.”
That’s longer than he was expecting.
Which means she hasn’t left.
He exhales slowly, then lifts a hand toward his face before the IV tugs against his movement. He scowls at it and lets his hand drop back to the bed.
“Guess I owe you one.”
“I should be the one saying that,” Natasha’s jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t have taken that hit.”
Clint gives her a flat look. “You say that like I had options.”
“You did.”
“So I should’ve just let you get shot?” He raises an eyebrow.
“You should’ve let me handle it.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t gonna happen.”
She exhales, slow and measured. Doesn’t argue.
Which means she’s pissed.
Clint shifts again, carefully, and glances at her properly. “You been here the whole time?”
Her fingers tighten around the bed rail.
“And you haven’t slept.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
He sighs. “Nat.”
“Don’t,” She whispers, quiet but firm.
“Tash—”
“Don’t.”
There’s something raw in her voice. Something that makes him pause.
They don’t do this. Don’t talk about the weight of it, the way it lingers after a mission goes sideways. It’s just understood.
But now—
Now, Natasha is sitting next to his bed in the same clothes she wore during the op, grime still smudged on her skin, his blood dried on her sleeves.
And Clint knows exactly how that feels.
Because the last time, it had been her in this bed.
He knows it too well — the quiet, suffocating what if that doesn’t go away, even when you know they’re okay. The way your hands still feel like they should be pressing down on a wound, even hours later.
This is what that looks like on her.
His throat feels tight, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he shifts slightly — just enough to tilt his head toward the empty space beside him. “Bed’s big enough.”
She hesitates. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because she’s calculating the risk — how much movement he can take without tearing something open.
But then she moves, toeing off her boots before easing onto the mattress beside him.
They settle in instinctively. They’ve done this a hundred times before — catching rest wherever they can, in bunkers, safehouses, transports.
Clint exhales, letting the weight of her beside him steady him.
After a long moment, she murmurs, “Don’t do that again.”
Clint closes his eyes. “Can’t promise that.”
She exhales softly, but she doesn’t push.
They’ve come too far to make promises they can’t keep.
The first thing Natasha notices when she regains consciousness is the absence of sound.
It’s not the absence of noise — there’s the hum of machinery, the faint rustle of fabric, the steady pulse of a heartbeat somewhere in the background. It’s the kind of silence that comes after an explosion, the ringing in your ears so loud you can barely hear anything else. It feels heavy. She’s still processing the disorientation, the faint dizziness, when she realizes she can’t move. Not yet.
A sharp pain pulses behind her eyes when she tries to shift. The force of the explosion had pushed her hard enough to rattle her bones.
Zürich.
She remembers the rooftop, the target, the sniper’s nest. The final move — a carefully executed diversion. The bomb going off too close to her. That’s the last thing she can pinpoint before the world went dark.
When she opens her eyes again, Clint is already there.
Not in a dramatic “rushing to her side” kind of way; that’s not them, it’s never been them. No frantic attempts to coddle. Just Clint — quiet, remaining like a sentry at the edge of the room, waiting for her to come back to him. It’s what he does when she’s hurt, even when she doesn’t ask for it.
She blinks slowly, the world still swimming around the edges of her vision, and then focuses on him.
He’s sitting on a chair next to the bed, his back straight but his body still, like he’s trying not to disturb her. The dim light of the room is casting long shadows on his face, and there’s an unreadable look in his eyes.
She can see his hands — fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the bed rail. The motion is automatic, a reflex. Clint’s always been a fidgeter when his mind is active, but she knows better than anyone that it means he’s waiting for her to be aware enough to speak, to acknowledge.
She doesn’t need to say anything. She knows he’s been here for a while. She can tell from the way his clothes are slightly rumpled, the stubble on his face that’s more than a few hours old. There’s a tiredness in his posture, but it’s that familiar kind — the one she’s seen a hundred times before. The kind that says: “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
She forces her voice out, the rasp of it a reminder that she’s not fully back yet. “You’re still here.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact. They don’t need to fill the air with unnecessary words. They’ve been partners, maybe something even more, long enough to know that sometimes, silently being there for each other is more important than saying anything at all.
Clint doesn’t reply immediately, his gaze softening just enough to let her know he’s not upset, not in the slightest. He lets the silence hang in the air for a moment longer.
Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says, “Told you not to stand too close.”
She closes her eyes, a tired smile flickering across her face despite herself.
“Didn’t have a choice,” She mutters, her voice a little stronger now.
He exhales through his nose, a sound that’s part laughter, part frustration. “I never should’ve let you take that damn shot.”
She tilts her head toward him, not fully turning, just enough to signal that she’s listening. “And miss the shot? I don’t think so.”
“You’re impossible,” Clint rolls his eyes, his fingers brushing the edge of her blankets with a practiced ease. It’s almost imperceptible, but she feels the gentle press of his touch. Comforting. “Should’ve let me go in first.”
“Then we both would’ve gotten blown up.”
Clint looks at her, his eyes darkened with something unreadable, but the corners of his lips twitch up. “Could’ve lived with that.”
Her lips twitch in return. That’s the Clint she knows. The one who’d trade himself in an instant, not for glory or honor, but just because that’s how they work. Because there’s no other choice in his mind but to protect those who are on his team.
And that’s how it’s always been.
After all this time — years together, countless missions, all the close calls and near-misses — they’ve never had to ask questions. Not really. They’ve been through enough for the silence between them to speak volumes.
The door clicks softly, and Natasha’s gaze shifts briefly, but Clint doesn’t look away. He’s already anticipating who’s coming through, even before she can register the sound.
“Barton, is she—”
The medic’s voice trails off when he sees Natasha awake. He stops in the doorway, as if uncertain how much to say in front of her.
Clint holds up a hand, signaling that he’s got it under control. He doesn’t even need to speak. Just a look.
The medic, recognizing the unspoken communication, nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.
Natasha’s eyes flick back to Clint. His attention is entirely on her, but she knows better than to assume that he’s not still scanning the room, mentally running through their options, running through everything that could go wrong. He’s always in that mode — always calculating, always planning.
But now, as his gaze flicks to the IV line and back to her face, his expression softens. He shifts slightly, just enough to adjust the angle of his chair, but it’s the kind of movement that says he’s done waiting for her to ask about the details.
“You’ll be fine,” Clint says, voice full of conviction. He doesn’t need to say anything else. They’ve both seen enough to know what’s next. The long hours of recovery, the quiet, the pain.
Natasha looks at him for a long moment, letting her eyes take in the familiar way he leans in, the way his body shifts, his movements all too easy for her to read. The man who’s fought beside her for years. She doesn’t need to ask him if he’s alright, doesn’t need him to say anything.
She knows. He’s always been the one to stay when everyone else walks away. And that, in itself, is enough.
“I’ll be fine,” She repeats his words, her voice stronger now, the weight of the words heavier than she lets on.
Clint simply nods, offering her that small, quiet look — the kind that’s a promise, not spoken, but understood. That’s all he’s ever needed to give her.
And for once, it’s all she needs to hear.
In Sisimiut, Greenland, it’s Clint who wakes up coughing.
His body seizes with the force of it, his throat raw, his chest burning like he’s still got water in his lungs. His instincts take over before conscious thought does — he’s still there, still restrained, still drowning, still—
A firm hand presses against his shoulder, grounding him.
“Clint,” A voice says, steady and sharp enough to slice through the disorientation.
Natasha.
His breath stutters, and suddenly, reality shifts. He’s not in that chair anymore, not being forced under again and again until his body betrayed him, lungs convulsing, desperate for air.
He’s in a bed. SHIELD med bay. Dim lighting. The antiseptic smell cuts through the phantom taste of saltwater in his throat. His fingers twitch against the sheets, curling in weak fists. Real. He’s here. He’s alive.
Natasha hasn’t moved. She’s sitting at his side, sharp eyes watching, but her grip on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him anchored.
His voice barely works. “—How long?”
Her lips press together, the way they do when she’s choosing which version of the truth to give him. “Four days since extraction. You were in and out before that.”
Four days. Four days since they pulled him out of that hellhole, since he last saw anything but dim concrete and the ugly sneers of men who wanted him to break.
“Phil?” He asks, forcing the word out through the wreckage of his throat.
“Fine. Pissed, but fine.”
He lets out a weak breath, relief cutting through the lingering haze in his mind. It’s only then he realizes just how much tension was still coiled inside him.
They’d wanted intel. SHIELD locations, access codes, active operations. They’d wanted Phil’s movements, Natasha’s.
And they got nothing.
Clint had given them nothing.
“You’re an idiot,” Natasha mutters, and that’s when he knows she’s really looking at him now, seeing all the damage. Her voice is calm, but her knuckles are white where they rest against her arm, like she’s holding something in.
His lips twitch. “Gonna have to be more specific, Nat.”
“You didn’t have to hold out that long. We would’ve found you.”
Clint closes his eyes briefly. He knows that. Of course he does. But knowing and acting like it — those are two different things.
He shrugs — or tries to. The movement sends a sharp ache that radiates through his entire body, and Natasha’s grip tightens to stop him from doing anything else stupid. “Couldn’t risk it. They were asking about you. About Phil.” His voice cracks, and he hates how weak it sounds. “Didn’t know how long you’d need.”
Natasha doesn’t answer at first, and when Clint forces his eyes back open, she’s watching him with that look — the one she always gets when she’s parsing a thousand thoughts at once.
Finally, she exhales. “Twenty-six hours.”
Clint frowns.
“From the time they grabbed you to the time we breached,” She clarifies. “You lasted twenty-six hours, Clint.”
Something in her tone makes his stomach twist. He’s not sure what answer he was expecting, but the way she says it — flat, like she’s stating a fact, but with an undercurrent of something sharp — it makes his chest feel tight in a different way.
“Didn’t feel that short,” He admits.
Natasha’s mouth pulls into something that’s not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. “I know.”
She hasn’t moved since he woke up. Hasn’t let go. And now that he’s really looking, he realizes she hasn’t left his side at all.
She’s still in the same torn tac gear she had on during the mission, dried blood on the sleeve, probably not all hers. Her hair is messy, her eyes lined with exhaustion.
“How long have you been here?” He asks, his voice quieter now.
Natasha tilts her head slightly. “Since we got you out.”
That shouldn’t surprise him. But the weight of it settles somewhere deep in his chest anyway.
He shifts, ignoring the way his body protests. “You should—”
“Don’t,” She cuts him off. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
He almost smirks. Almost. “Was gonna say you should probably change. You look terrible.”
She huffs a soft breath that’s almost a laugh. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Silence stretches between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. It never is.
Then, because he can’t help himself, he croaks out, “Bet I set a new personal record, though.”
“For what? Almost dying?” Natasha blinks.
He grins — or tries to. “Holding my breath.”
She stares at him.
Clint clears his throat. “I mean, ten minutes, give or take. Pretty impressive, right? Maybe I should get that in my SHIELD file, replace my old eight minutes and whatever seconds.”
Natasha makes a sound that might be a scoff, but it’s almost too soft for that. She shakes her head, rubbing a tired hand over her face. “You’re the dumbest person I know.”
“C’mon. You’re not even a little impressed?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stands up, leans over him slightly, and flicks him — light but deliberate — right in the forehead.
Clint winces. “Ow. That’s not very nice.”
“Neither is making jokes about getting tortured.”
“Hey, you cope your way, I’ll cope mine.”
She does smile at that. Barely. But it’s there.
When Clint closes his eyes again, the sensation of drowning lingers, but it’s duller now, drowned out by the steady presence beside him.
He’s still here. He’s still breathing. And Natasha — Natasha never left.
Although, he should probably ask one last thing.
“Hey, Nat?”
“Hmm?”
“Just how pissed is Phil?”
The smirk she sends him is chilling enough to make him clamp his eyes shut and will himself to go to sleep, hoping to forget the spike of fear he just felt.
And it turns out, as of most recently, it’s neither Clint nor Natasha who are tucked into an overly squishy and small infirmary bed.
It’s Phil, after getting injured in Montréal, out of all the places.
Which, in fairness, none of them were expecting, least of all Phil himself.
The Cavalry had mentioned something about Phil’s knife, but Clint can’t say he particularly gives a single flying fuck about one of Phil’s knives when he’s literally knocked out cold.
“He’s fine,” The medic had assured them, voice carrying the kind of patience only someone accustomed to SHIELD’s brand of stubbornness could muster. “But he needs rest.”
That was three hours ago.
Now, Clint is slouched low in a sad plastic chair, arms crossed, boots propped up on the edge of Phil’s bed. Natasha, ever the professional, has commandeered the counter in the corner of the room, one leg bent, foot resting against the cabinets. She’s sipping on the coffee she definitely didn’t acquire through legal or respectful means.
Phil is still out, breathing steady, a little too pale under the fluorescent lights. There’s a bandage at his temple, another wrapping his left forearm, bruises peeking out from under the hospital gown.
It’s wrong.
Not the part where Phil gets injured. That happens. Comes with the job. Comes with dealing with them, really. But Phil being the one stuck in a hospital bed, hooked up to beeping machines, while Clint and Natasha are the ones hovering like a mother hen that Phil usually is?
It throws Clint off in a way he doesn’t like.
He tilts his head toward Natasha. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Plan?” She raises an eyebrow over the rim of her coffee.
“For when he wakes up.”
“Making sure he doesn’t keel over again seems like a solid start.”
“Yeah, but after that,” Clint says. “Because you know he’s gonna go straight into the usual speech.” He clears his throat, readying his voice into his best Phil impression. “‘You two need to start thinking before you throw yourselves into these reckless situations.’”
Natasha smirks faintly, but doesn’t comment on the accuracy of the impression.
Clint leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “I’m just saying, we could head him off.”
Natasha tilts her head, amusement flickering in her expression. “By?”
“Flipping it on him,” Clint gestures vaguely.
That makes her pause, just slightly.
He grins. “Think about it. We always get chewed out for ending up in here. But now, it’s his turn. I say we go full force — lean into the whole disappointed lecture thing.”
Natasha hums like she’s actually considering it. “And you think we have the authority to lecture him?”
Clint shrugs. “You think that’s ever stopped him?”
“Point taken,” Natasha exhales a quiet laugh.
Clint grins. “We can even hit him with the ‘we’re not mad, just disappointed’ approach.”
“Think that’ll actually work?”
“Oh, definitely. It’ll drive him nuts.”
Natasha rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t say no.
Which is why that’s how Phil wakes up — groggy, disoriented, and immediately met with the unimpressed stares of two people who have spent years perfecting the art of his own disappointed glare. A taste of his own medicine, he supposes, but he doesn’t care, not right now, when he feels like he’s drugged up to his gills and beyond.
Phil blinks at them, squints like he’s not sure if this is a dream or a particularly cruel trick of fate. Then groans and lets his head fall back against the pillow.
“God,” He mutters, voice hoarse, “What are you two doing?”
Clint sighs loudly, shaking his head. “Phil, Phil, Phil. I just cannot believe this.”
Natasha folds her arms. “We trusted you.”
“You’re supposed to be responsible.”
“You’re supposed to be the adult.”
Phil lifts a hand and drags it over his face, exhaling slowly like he’s already regretting waking up. “I hate both of you.”
Natasha takes a slow sip of coffee. “No, you don’t.”
Clint gestures toward Phil’s bandaged arm. “Reckless choices, Coulson.”
Natasha gestures to his head injury. “Poor situational awareness.”
“Gonna have to write this up in your file, sir.” Clint shakes his head in mock disappointment. “I mean, what kind of example are you setting?”
Phil cracks an eye open just enough to glare at them. “I’m setting an example of patience. That’s what I’m doing.”
Clint lets out a dramatic sigh. “Nat, you hearing this? Not even an ounce of remorse.”
“Tragic,” Natasha shakes her head solemnly.
Phil groans again and closes his eyes like he’s hoping if he just pretends hard enough, they’ll disappear.
They don’t.
They stay, right where they always do.
After a beat, Natasha reaches over, grabs the spare blanket from the foot of the bed, and tosses it over Clint.
He squawks in protest, flailing against the sudden warmth. “What the—?”
“If we’re staying,” She says, completely ignoring his indignant look, “You’re not going to be the one whining about the chair at three in the morning.”
Clint huffs but doesn’t move to push it off. Instead, he tugs the edge up around his shoulders and grumbles, “I wasn’t going to whine.”
Phil snorts quietly, and Clint turns his glare on him this time. “Oh, sure, now you’re entertained.”
Phil exhales slowly, but there’s a ghost of something fond in his expression. “You two are unbearable.”
Natasha smirks. “And yet, here we are.”
Phil rolls his eyes but doesn’t tell them to leave. They all know he won’t.
Because the thing is — this? This is how it works.
Someone’s always going to end up in a hospital bed. Someone’s always going to be stuck in a flimsy plastic hospital chair, half-asleep, waiting for the other to wake up.
That’s just the way their world goes.
But at the end of the day, it’s not just about who’s hurt. It’s about who stays.
And none of them are going anywhere.