Natasha is sitting on a bed that's been shoved up against the wall. She's pulled her feet up, has her head resting on the tops of her knees. She's looking down, she's looking bored, and Clint marvels at her calm. "Tasha?"

Coulson points to a little box on the wall next to the glass. "You have to hit the switch to talk."

"Will she be able to talk back?" Clint asked.

Coulson nods. "She's got one in the room too."

"Thanks," Clint replied.

"I'll leave you two alone." And Coulson leaves.

Clint takes a deep breath. He walks over to the wall, stands with his hand on the floor to ceiling glass, and pushes the button. "Tasha?"

Her head pops up and she smiles. She shuffles across the room to the glass wall and fumbles with the switch. "Clint. I'm glad you came."

"Of course I came," he says. "How are you?"

"Tired," she says. He can see the dark circles beneath her eyes and her weak posture. She looks exhausted. "Can we sit?"

Clint moves to his knees and kneels next to the glass wall but Natasha crumples to the ground, gone is her usual grace. Another smile, this one weaker. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," he says. "Never apologize."

She's propping herself up in the corner. The wall of the room and the glass wall appear to be the only things keeping Natasha from collapsing all together. "I wanted to say thank you."

"For what?" Clint chokes on the words. He told himself he would be stronger than this, stronger for her.

"For giving me a second chance," she says. "For finding something worthwhile inside all of the darkness."

Clint's got a lump in his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I thought there was no light," she says. "I thought I was irredeemable. You showed me I was wrong. You gave me something in myself to believe in."

"Tasha…" he trails off.

"I wasn't living before. I was surviving. You gave me a second chance at life," she says.

Clint feels the first hot tear slide down his cheek. "I failed you."

She pounds a fist against the glass. It's weak but it's there. "You don't get to blame yourself for this, Clint. It was going to happen eventually. It could have been a firefight. It could have been alone in a dark room. It could have been at the hands of the people I grew up with. If I'm going to go down than I'm glad at least I'm here with you."

His chest hurts. "I can't do this without you."

"Of course you can," she says and chuckles. "You're strong. You're stronger than me."

"I don't want to do this without you," he replies quietly.

She picks her hand up, places it on the glass. "Make me proud."

Clint puts his hand against the glass, wishes desperately that it wasn't there. That he could hold her hand, hold her, touch her one last time. Something, some sound, breaks from his throat. "Please, Natasha…"

"I was wrong," she said. He can see how hard it is for her to speak. He can see how glassy her eyes have become. "Love isn't just for children."

"I love you," he says, because he can't let her go knowing he never said it.

"I love you, too," she whispers. The light disappears, she slumps down, and her hand slides down the glass to the floor.

Clint wretches, hacks and chokes. A fist slams against the glass and then it slams again and again. Then his hand slips to the floor, he closes his eyes, rests his head against the glass, and tries to breath.

"I'm gonna make you proud," he whispers to her. He thinks a part of her hears.