August 13, 2013

In her half drugged state, she can make out words like 'dangerously underweight' and 'major blood loss' and 'lucky to believe alive' as she struggles to open her eyes.

It's only when she hears what sounds like his voice, whispering things she can't really make out, that the muddled haze finally fades and she can think clearly again. White lights burn her eyes and she has to blink several times before the room comes into focus. White room, white bed, the smell of sterility and sanitation and latex gloves.

She regains the feeling in the rest of her body slowly. Her muscles are stiff and she can feel each broken bone, all in various states of healing. Lying on her back is uncomfortable and she bites her lip as she moves to prop herself up on the less injured arm.

A hand goes to her shoulder. She thinks for a second it's going to push her back down and she has a protest ready, but it simply steadies her as she sits up. With slight difficulty and a wince, she slides her legs from under the scratchy blankets and swings them over the side of the bed.

"Tasha."

Her whole body tenses. She thought she had imagined it, but no, it really is his voice. And as she lifts her head, she sees his face- brown hair, blue eyes, worried crease between the eyebrows.

She was sure she'd never see it again.

"Hi," she whispers after a moment, her eyes never leaving his.

A sad smile crosses his face. "Hey."

"You shouldn't be sitting up, you know."

She rolls her eyes. "I was waiting for you to say that. How's my back look?"

"Like rotting zombie flesh." He shakes the image out of his mind. He'd counted at least 50 lashes from a whip in the few seconds he'd dared to look. It had been all swollen red and torn skin and blood.

"Not even normal zombie flesh, it has to be rotting. Figures." She smiles briefly.

In the silence that follows, he grabs her hand on instinct and his thumb runs across her knuckles. He can't hide the relief he feels that she's awake. No matter how many times the doctors assured him she would be fine, of course after all the blood transfusions and surgeries and stitches, he never believed a word until he could see her eyes, hear her voice, listen to her tell him herself.

But of course he would never ask that, and he's sure he knows her answer. How could she possibly be fine, of all things? Even physically she was barely okay. He'd been the one to carry her out of the caves, after all. That much blood should never cover a person's shirt, if the torn and ripped rag she was wearing could even be called such.

His free hand moves to her hair, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Why…why didn't you think I'd come for you?"

She takes a deep breath and stares at her hand wrapped in his. "I thought you were dead. I was so sure I'd lost you again, Clint; that you were never coming back." Her voice is quiet and scratchy.

"I wasn't allowed to call," he explains quietly. "I wasn't allowed to do anything that would even imply I could be compromised in the slightest, or the council would have my ass. Nothing but grit my teeth and follow the orders and get the job done." Anger swirls in his eyes and he clenches his jaw, his hand curling into a fist. He glances away until it fades. "I missed you a lot, Nat."

"You better have."

"Do you hate me?" he asks, the only question he that truly matters to him.

"No." She looks right at him so he doesn't think she's lying. "I could never hate you Clint, not really."

He shakes his head. "You should."

"But I don't."

Against his better judgment, he stands and pulls her off the bed, wrapping his arms around her. She collapses into him, knotting her hands in his t-shirt. With each shaky breath, he can hear the unshed tears.

"I thought I was going to lose you," he says into her hair. "You are never allowed to do that to me again. I know you were trying this whole righteous martyr act, but you can't Tasha. You just can't."

"Say my name again."

"Please Tasha," he whispers. "Promise me you'll never do something like that again."

Green eyes meet blue. "I promise."

Tears run down her cheeks and she does nothing to stop them. He kisses her forehead and tightens his arms, content to just know she's still there. She buries her face in his shoulder.

"You can be a real jackass sometimes," he says, smiling.

"Prick."

"Idiot."

"Bastard."

"Shithead."

"Damn, you took mine."

He laughs and she sighs at the relaxing sound.

"I'm pissed you got to say it first, Nat."

"Don't be such a baby."

"I love you too."

"I know."

When the rest of the team arrives some time later, they are still standing locked in the embrace. Tony raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth, and Steve, sure the remark is going to be rude and unpleasant, shushes him immediately. The billionaire sends a satisfied look at Bruce, and, with an exasperated groan, a twenty dollar bill is passed between the two men.

The group walks slowly away from the room, leaving the assassins undisturbed.

The world is far from fine at the moment, Tony says, bringing up the fact that they almost lost two teammates in an Austrian mountain cave and that all he really wanted was to tell her that he is glad she isn't dead. Steve looks startled by the almost heart-felt words. Bruce simply laughs.

Their world is far from fine, but it will be.

A/N: The End (unfortunately...)!

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read this. And to those who reviewed, followed, favorited...it really means a lot. I am eternally grateful.