Hey guys! This is just a random oneshot I wrote - first fic ever, so please review! :)

Agent Natasha Romanoff was walking briskly down the corridor towards the medical unit of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s airship, the Helicarrier. The medical unit was a flurry of activity; white-robed doctors and nurses rushed from room to room, fetching different instruments and chemicals, but invariably returning to the same room: 26A, which was a surgery room. Natasha knew why.

Agents Clint Barton and George Mayer had returned from an unsuccessful break-in of the Hydra headquarters in desperate need of medical attention. They had gone, just the two of them, to steal battle plans from Hydra. But they had been attacked before even reaching the headquarters. Of course, Clint had his bow and George had a pistol, but the problem was that they had been so outnumbered. Because of the nature of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s quest, and the tight security at Hydra, it had been vital that no more than two agents could go to steal the battle plans. After only a few minutes of fighting, Barton and Mayer had been forced to retreat.

Natasha had been standing with some other agents around a map on a screen in the main room, staring at the dot that was Clint. She had waited tensely, listening to the static from Clint's radio, until at last his voice crackled over the speakers. Agent Mayer was unconscious, he had said, and he had to get him back to the Helicarrier as soon as possible.

They had been flown back to the Helicarrier, but Natasha hadn't seen them yet. She'd stayed in the main room, talking with Steve, until a few minutes ago, when she'd decided to head down to the medical unit. She had guessed that she would be unable to see George, but she'd at least hoped to see Clint.

A young nurse hurried past Natasha on her way to 26A. Natasha called after her, "Nancy, where's Agent Barton?"

"12B," Nancy called over her shoulder before disappearing into 26A. Natasha turned her steps towards 12B.

As she walked down the hallway, Natasha realized that she had no knowledge of the extent of Clint's injuries. Everyone had been talking about Mayer, who, it would seem, was the worse off of the two. She decided that this was a good sign as she reached the door and entered 12B.

Clint was sitting on the exam table with his profile turned towards her. He didn't look up as she came in, just continued to stare at the wall, but she knew he was aware of her presence.

Natasha pulled herself up onto the exam table next to him and swung her legs reflectively. Neither of them spoke for a few moments; just sat with their arms pressed against each other's.

"They haven't treated you yet," she said. It was a statement rather than a question. There were various medical items scattered across the counter – tweezers on a tray, antiseptic, cotton balls – but Clint's face and neck were cut with the same scratches that covered his arms; and a particularly large cut oozed blood over his right eye.

Clint shook his head. "Someone was here a while ago, but she got called away to help with Mayer before she could get started," he said. "They're all working on him now. He's in a lot worse shape than I am."

"They can't spare anyone?" Natasha asked, feeling a flash of irritation.

Clint shrugged. "Maybe, but I don't mind waiting. He needs all the help he can get."

Natasha crossed her ankles. "What exactly happened to him?" she asked. "I know he's unconscious, but that's about all I've heard."

Clint sighed and lifted a hand as though to run it through his hair, but stopped halfway and quickly lowered it as though the effort caused too much pain. Natasha frowned.

"He was shot, repeatedly, in the back and head," he said slowly. "He lost a lot of blood before he blacked out."

"Shot in the head? And he's still alive?" Natasha asked in surprise.

"Mmm." He nodded. Then he turned his head to look at her for the first time. "It was strange, almost like they were under orders not to hurt us," he said.

"What do you mean?" Natasha asked.

"Well, they didn't fire at us at first. Even after we started shooting at them. They shot around us, like they were trying to scare us into surrendering," Clint said. "They didn't start actually trying to put bullets in us until we retreated."

"And did you get hit?"

"Once or twice. Not as much as Mayer."

"Hm." Her eyes flicked towards his back, where she saw a hint of scarlet. "You know, it wasn't coincidence that Hydra found you in the woods. They were armed and prepared. They knew our plans."

He nodded slowly.

"I'd say we have a rat on this side of Hydra."

"Sure looks that way," he responded.

They were silent for a few moments. Natasha bit her lip and looked restlessly towards the door, straining her ears for the footsteps of an approaching doctor or nurse. Silence greeted her ears. She glanced nervously at Clint. He wasn't complaining, but she was convinced by both his stiff posture and his forced manner of speaking that he was in a lot of pain. She was sure his agony was increasing with every passing minute. She was wondering if she should force one of the doctors to come help him when she had a different thought. She slid off the table and turned to face him.

"So do you want me to get you started as long as we're waiting?" she asked.

He looked up quickly, then hesitated. "Well, you're probably busy…" he began.

"Actually I'm free right now," Natasha interrupted him, crossing her arms.

He looked at her for a minute, then nodded. "Okay."

First, she walked slowly around him, assessing his injuries. The scratches that disfigured his skin undoubtedly came from trees. The plane had dropped Clint and George outside of a forest, for subtlety. They had had to pass through the woods to get to Hydra, and then run back through them to the plane, resulting in these cuts – not dangerous, but they should be cleaned to protect them from infection, Natasha thought.

Next she moved to his back. And stopped. The entire back of his shirt was drenched in blood.

"Once or twice, huh?" she said angrily. He didn't reply.

Well, the scratches were simpler, and, frankly, less intimidating. She'd start there.

She used cotton balls soaked in antiseptic to clean the sweat, dirt, and dried blood from the wounds. Natasha had used it on herself, and knew it stung fresh cuts, but Clint remained still and made no noise.

She finished his arms and moved to his face. Once she had cleaned the majority of the scratches, she carefully wiped the blood from his eyelid and dabbed at the wound on his brow. She pursed her lips.

"Not exactly a clean cut, but not deep," she said. He opened his eyes and watched her as she put surgical tape over the cut. Then she leaned back against the counter and took a deep breath. Now the hard part.

"Shirt off," she commanded, crossing her arms.

Clint took the collar of his shirt in his hand and tried to pull it off over his head. He stopped about halfway and dropped it again, breathing hard.

Natasha felt a twinge of worry. Clint was no stranger to pain; if he was reacting this much, it must really be bad.

"I'll do it," she said, stepping forward quickly. He didn't argue, which only added to Natasha's worry.

She grabbed a pair of scissors from the counter and climbed onto the table behind him. Carefully, she pulled the collar of his shirt away from his sweaty skin and began to cut the blood-soaked material.

She got down to the bottom hem of the shirt and set down the scissors. Blood had glued the fabric to his back, so she carefully peeled it off, hoping she wasn't hurting him too much. Then she froze.

Three gunshot wounds were scattered across his back, oozing blood. She had known they would be there, of course, but actually seeing the cause of Clint's intense pain made her feel a hideous anger she could only remember having felt once before. And that had been when Thor's brother, Loki of Asgard, had removed Clint's soul and replaced it with another.

When Clint got badly hurt like this, she found herself gripped with a desire to kill whoever had hurt him, preferably slowly and painfully. Or even just to run around and randomly smash things, like Doctor Banner did when he was the Hulk. This feeling confused her a little, because she never got quite this upset when any of the other guys got hurt. But she pushed this thought to the back of her mind, not investigating it too closely for fear of what she might find there.

"Nat, I'm sorry," Clint was saying. He sounded concerned. He could probably tell that the sight of his back had upset her, though she hadn't made a sound. "You should just stop now. Let's just wait for the doctor, I'm fine."

He thinks I'm losing my nerve, though Natasha. "No, it's good. I'm… good," she said, trying to keep her voice steady in her rage. She cut his shirt the rest the way off and dropped it and the scissors in the floor. Then she turned to his back again.

Very fortunately, all three shots had missed his spine. The wounds were very small, and the bullets were imbedded in his flesh, which Natasha thought was odd. Two of them appeared to be near the surface, but the third was buried very deep. Natasha guessed it had been fired at closer range. She bent down to examine it more closely.

She scrutinized the wound carefully, trying to catch sight of the bullet. She reached up with the intention of wiping some of the blood, but as soon as her fingers came into contact with his skin, he jerked away from her touch.

"Sorry," she said, straightening. She would need painkillers to get anywhere. She slipped off the table and stood next to Clint, scanning the many cabinets, some of which were open.

"What's up?" Clint asked.

"Painkillers," Natasha said distractedly. She stepped forward to open the cabinets, but was halted by the pressure of Clint's hand closing over her wrist. She turned, and he was looking at her with deep intensity.

"It's all right," he said. "That takes too long. Just do it."

"Are you – "

"I'm fine. I've waited long enough." His grip on her wrist tightened. "Please. Just get them out of me."

Natasha nodded, and he released her hand. She grabbed the tray with the tweezers on it and hopped back onto the table.

The wounds were still bleeding profusely, so it would be useless to clean them until the bullets were out of him. Then Natasha was filled with a kind of repulsion at the knowledge of how much she was going to have to hurt him. It was the same feeling she'd had when his soul had been replaced by the one Loki had put in him. And ultimately, knock him unconscious. It had been for his own good, and it was the same now. And that knowledge did help a little. But not much.

At the first touch of the tweezers, Clint sucked in his breath sharply, and his muscles tensed up. Natasha drew the tweezers back.

"Try to relax, Barton," she said evenly.

He blew out his breath and his shoulders relaxed. Natasha tried again.

This time, he managed to stay mostly relaxed, but his back muscles twitched as she slipped the tweezers deeper into his flesh.

At last, she caught hold of the bullet. She pulled it out and studied it.

It was very small; she guessed it had a caliber of 4.3 to 4.5 mm. So it wasn't a bullet at all, it was a pellet. That could only mean…

"A BB gun," she said aloud. She looked up. "They shot you with a BB gun?"

"What?" Clint twisted around, trying to see it. Natasha dropped the pellet into her palm and leaned forward, lowering it over his shoulder.

He stared at it for a moment, then took it out of her hand.

"Guess that explains why Mayer's still alive," she commented, still leaning over him.

He handed it back to her. "Well, like I said, it's like they were trying not to-" He broke off suddenly and winced. Apparently she had leaned too close.

"Sorry," she said again, leaning back off of him. She glanced down at her now-bloody shirt.

Natasha had set the pellet in the tray and was just picking up the tweezers again when she heard footsteps coming up the passage. She looked towards the door, just as it opened and a doctor entered. Natasha recognized her as Christina Amberton. She smiled at Natasha.

"Oh, good, you've gotten started, Agent Romanoff," she said as Natasha set down the tweezers and slid off the exam table. "I was just about to get started myself when I was called away to help with Agent Mayer."

"Is he out of surgery?" Natasha asked.

Christina shook her head soberly. "No. But I'm not needed there just now, so I thought I'd come back here." She turned to Clint. "Feeling any better, Agent Barton?"

"A bit, yeah," he replied.

"Good, good." Christina went behind him and began inspecting his back.

Natasha moved to the counter and wiped her bloody hands on a towel. She hesitated, wondering if she should leave. She knew Clint could handle the pain, she just hated the thought of him handling it alone. One look at his face made up her mind. As Christina moved her hands over his back, inspecting it, his eyes were screwed up tightly and his face was white with pain. She went to him and knelt on the floor in front of him, taking his clenched hands. He opened his eyes and smiled weakly at her.

"Well done, Agent Romanoff," Christina said at last. "Just two more left, Agent Barton. Are you ready?"

Clint nodded mutely.

Natasha knew the exact moment that the tweezers touched the wound, because Clint inhaled sharply and stiffened. He gripped her hands tightly. As the tweezers went further in, his grip tightened. Natasha squeezed his hands reassuringly.

Before much time had passed, he exhaled and relaxed. The second pellet clinked down onto the tray. Then there was a pause.

"That was pretty quick, but this last one's much deeper," Christina said apprehensively. "I can't even see the bullet. Might have to dig around a bit."

Natasha groaned inwardly.

"Ready, Agent Barton?"

He nodded again.

This time started much the same as the others. The sharp intake of breath, the whitened face, and the pressure on her hands. But this time, it lasted much longer. And every second, the tightness of his grip increased. Natasha winced as her hands started to grow uncomfortable. She felt that she'd never fully appreciated how strong your hands and arms got from using a bow. Every time she thought he couldn't squeeze any tighter, he redoubled the strength of his grip. She reminded herself that Clint's pain was ten times worse than her own, and resisted the urge to pull away from his unrelenting grasp, though she doubted she could've even if she'd tried. Her hands were soon completely numb.

To distract herself from her discomfort, Natasha looked at Clint's face. It was still white with pain, though now slightly blue for lack of oxygen. His eyes were squeezed shut, and sweat dripped down his face. Suddenly he flinched and let out a single moan of pain.

Natasha felt anger surging through her again, stronger than before. She wanted to scream at Christina to stop, wanted to hurt her, but she knew she was only trying to help Clint. She leaned forward against his legs and took deep breaths to calm herself. Then she started counting silently.

Three minutes passed before Christina grunted with satisfaction and Clint sighed and relaxed. The extreme pressure on Natasha's hands was lifted and she felt intense relief. Clint was panting as if he had just run a great distance.

Christina set down the bloody tweezers and picked up the tray of pellets.

"I'm taking these to the lab to be tested," she said. "I'll be back soon to clean you up, Agent Barton." She left the room.

"You okay?" Natasha asked.

Clint opened his eyes. "Yeah. You?"

She nodded.

"Thanks for staying," Clint said.

"No problem," said Natasha. Her fingers started tingling like crazy as the blood tried to reenter them. She realized then that they were still holding hands, and wondered if she should let go.

Clint seemed to realize it at the same time. He lifted her hands, examining them, and froze. Natasha looked at them. They were white and bloodless. The only color in them was the light purple of faint bruising. The feeling was just starting to return to them. She knew Clint was looking questioningly at her, but she didn't meet his gaze, fearing he would read the answer in her expression. She didn't want him to know how much he had hurt her; it would upset him. She kept her eyes trained carefully on her hands.

It only took a moment for him to put the pieces together.

"Nat, I'm so sorry," he said quietly.

"It's fine. It doesn't hurt," she lied, still unable to meet his eyes.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Really? Not at all?" She could hear the anger in his voice; anger that was directed at himself. He began massaging her hands, trying to bring life back into them.

After a moment, she looked up at him, smirking. "Was I the only one having Budapest flashbacks during that?"

Clint's faced cracked into a smile. "I was, too."

At that moment, the door burst open. Natasha looked over quickly. It was Tony Stark.

"Agent Romanoff! Should've guessed I'd find you here," he said. "Hanging in there, Barton?" he added quickly before Natasha could register the meaning of his words.

"Lots better, thanks," Clint said.

Tony's eyes flicked downwards, and Natasha realized Clint was still rubbing her hands. She jerked them away, scowling at Tony as though daring him to comment.

His eyes danced mischievously, but he wisely chose to keep any smart remarks to himself for the moment. "Pepper sent me for you, Natasha," he said. "She said she had a question about some file you gave her earlier."

"Where is she?" Natasha asked, getting to her feet.

"In her office. I suggest you go there now, if you're not otherwise engaged," he said, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. Before Natasha could retaliate, he stepped out of the doorway. "Keep hanging in there, Clint!" he called cheerily as he headed back down the hallway.

Natasha felt she should say something to Clint, but words failed her so she went to the door. When she reached it, she glanced over her shoulder at him. He smiled tentatively at her, worried that Tony's teasing had worsened her mood. But she smiled back before going into the hallway and closing the door behind her.