kick_ass_curls | Past the Mission - locked to nolongeracarny

She couldn't help wondering how much more blood a living person could lose before they weren't so living anymore. She'd been though this before so many times she'd lost count. No, that was a lie she never forgot when someone died on her watch. She got on with her life and eventually they faded away. The job always came first. Always.

This was different. This was...him.

Natasha used every ounce of energy she had to get Barton out of the line of fire. Everything became such a clusterfuck so fast she hardly had time to think. No exit strategy. No back up. Clint may as well have been dead weight the way she had to carry him to the nearest shelter.

Natasha Romanoff stopped believing in God decades ago, but that didn't stop her from pulling Clint into the one place she knew wouldn't sell them out to get slaughtered. She looked up at the cross on the mission house door, pauses half a second before she kicked the door open and dragged them both inside.

It was a good thing she didn't care about God, because the next thought in her head would have pissed Him off.

Fuck you, Budapest. Fuck you forever.

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It's not that he didn't notice being hit, he had. No, it was more of the matter that it hurt like a bitch and he needed to help Natasha. They needed to get out of there... However, it wasn't going as planned and they were moving. Even as they were getting the hell out of there.

He was slowly losing sight of where they were going. "Tasha?" It's hoarse and almost too quiet but he needed something. Anything to make him realize that he wasn't dead already. Especially when the pain was starting to ebb away and that wasn't good.

She's seen that look in people's eyes before. It's never ever a good look. She reaches her hand up to his chin to draw his attention. Tasha has more of his blood on her hands than her own. "Clint. Focus. Stay awake."

Tasha looks around frantically, her eyes landing on an old woman she looks horrified by what she's witnessing. She spits out the words doctor and emergency in Hungarian only to be met with a terrified headshake. Tasha knows why. Most of the doctors in this part of town weren't exactly legit, and any of of them would just let Clint die and turn Natasha over to their target. Not the best plan.

"A nurse, a paramedic, a God damned veterinarian! Now!" All this panicking probably isn't helping Clint's near shock state, is it?

Her words slam through his clouded mind. Though it's almost not enough to keep him awake. What does is all of the panicking. Not just the panicking but the way Natasha is yelling. It seems through his clouded mind and he goes to pull away. However, he eventually thinks better of since standing on his own two feet isn't an option right now.

Vet? "They're not going to help and you know it."

"He doesn't own everyone." She spits back at Clint as she eases him down on one of the old cots. Again she looks at the old woman who's watching them. Natasha takes a few deep breaths, unable to bring herself to leave Clint's side. If she walks away and he dies...

No. No way in hell is he dying. Not here. Not now.

She switches to Hungarian again as she speaks to the woman. It's sloppy and broken. Natasha isn't great with details or thinking ahead when under real pressure. "Please. There has to be someone who we can trust."

"He owns half the damn population," he murmurs before crying out slightly as the pain courses through his body.He tries to sit himself up as the woman starts speaking back in rapid Hungarian. Though he's not sure what it is she's saying.

That is he doesn't until he sees her run off, disappearing into the back and then slipping back in. Back in with a man who didn't look... well, he's not sure what to make of it.

She wants to respond that they can find help in the other half of the population but she knows the kind of people they are. Too afraid, too unskilled to make any sort of real difference. They'll be killed if they helped a pair of assassins sent in to kill the 'ruler'.

Natasha, remarkable, doesn't notice the other woman speak or leave. She's too focused on Clint and that outburst of pain. "You're gonna be OK. I'll..." She'll what? Tasha's trained in field dressing, maybe stitches. She can't fix this. She's not a surgeon.

Her panicked train of thought is cut off then a battered old medical bag lands heavily on the table next to the cot Clint's on. The owner of the bag, whom the old woman just fetched, doesn't speak. He simply moves with professional speed and accuracy to inspect how and where Clint's been injured.

For one of the few times in her life, Tasha has no idea what the hell to do.

Everyone was afraid of what was going to happen. Of what might happen to them. The fear radiated off of everyone in the room. Off of everyone outside of it.

"You'll what, Tasha?"

It's asked in a hoarse tone before he jumps slightly. That medical bag havin' broke into his thought patterns. Of what in the hell he'd do if... Except Natasha seemed to be wanting to keep him alive. Wanted to make him live through the pain. "...What?"

He would've asked what in the hell the good doc was doing except that he felt his eyes growing heavy. Whatever had been in that needle had been strong. Something to take away the pain... to keep him under... He wasn't sure. Or maybe it was to kill him.

Natasha waited as the surgeon the old woman had brought to them worked. She didn't dare leave anyone alone with Clint she didn't trust with his life. Eventually the task was done and another dose of sedative kept Clint asleep. Tasha sat herself next to the cot, both of her guns at the ready in case anything happened.

But it was a long day, and eventually the exhaustion got the better of her. Tasha lost the battle to keep her eyes open.

And she hates herself for it.

Clint doesn't feel a thing as he's operated on. Then again he was starting to lose feeling to begin with. That hadn't been good but it hadn't mattered. So it's a good hour or two after he's been sedated that he wakes. And unfortunately wakes with a start.

It hurts like hell when he sits up like he's been shot or worse. The movement, unfortunately, drags a cry of pain out of him. Okay... moving... it hurt.

That's all it takes to wake her up, too. Natasha sits bolt upright, both guns drawn until she realizes they're alone. "Clint?" She gets to her feet, holstering both weapons before she puts a hand on his chest.

Tasha looks over the bandages, trying not to wince at the fact Clint may have torn over some stitching. "Lay down. You're not supposed to move." She keeps her tone steady and even, trying to mask how completely terrified she is.

Her hand feels cool against his bare chest and he lays back down, eyes half closed as he watches her. "How long?" He wants to know how long he was out. Hell, he doesn't even realize that he's pretty much naked under the sheet covering him. That's the furthest thing from his mind.

"Tasha?" His voice is laced with pain and just... almost panic. Almost.

She looks out a nearby window to see where the sun is. "Most of the night, part of today." Tasha looks around for the list of instructions the less than talkative doctor left with her. She can't find it.

"You need time to heal. There wasn't any major organ damage but you could still, um..." She tries to remember what she was told. Natasha's soon not looking at his face but her hand and where she's rested it on his chest. There was so much blood his clothes were ruined and she can't go back to get their things. That location isn't a secret anymore.

"You could aggravate the wounds if you move. Plus you're supposed to keep your heart rate down." The sound of his voice breaks her heart, and, as always, Natasha blames herself for this. She slides her hand up to the side of Clint's face, carefully avoiding anyplace that might be too tender to touch. "We're stuck here for a while, you and me."

That doesn't really sit all that well with him. "I'll heal once we get home." Though that look on her face, in her eyes... he knew otherwise. Eyes closing he leans his cheek into her hand a bit, body still protesting any real type of movement.

"Can't stay here forever." Then out of nowhere. "He's going to be so pissed."

Killing people is easy. Making them suffer is an art.

Past the Mission - locked to nolongeracarny

Past the Mission - locked to nolongeracarny

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