A/N: First of all, thank you again for the feedback. It's so nice to hear your thoughts about the story. And also, so very sorry for the delay on this one. It is extra longer to make up for the fact that this mission has been stretched over four chapters. Damn! Hope you enjoy. :)

Warning: mentions of torture on children and teens, and some language.

Natasha collapsed to the floor, the unexpected, sharp pain shooting through her leg making a cry she couldn't bite back escape her lips. Clutching at her thigh where the bullet had pierced her skin, both hands applying pressure to keep the blood from flooding, she pressed her lips tightly together as she lifted her head to look Sasha in the eye, refusing to show any weakness in front of the other woman.

Pain was irrelevant.

Pain only existed in your head if you allowed it to.

His fist connected hard with her jaw, making fifteen year-old Natalia swing off of her balance, stumbling on her feet, but she didn't fall. Lifting her head up, she met her instructor's grey eyes, her green ones fierce and determined not to let him see any weakness.

She wasn't weak.

Pain was irrelevant. He could do anything to her – hit her, choke her, he'd done it a thousand times before, would do it again – but she would never reveal anything about the mission or the Room. Ever. She was stronger than that.

"Who are you?" Anatoli Dmitriov barked, grabbing her red ponytail and yanking it back, hard. Towering over her, he watched her face for a moment, looking for any hint of fear or weakness, a slip in her perfectly rehearsed mask – there wasn't any. She was good, probably the best he'd ever trained, even. "I won't ask again," he insisted, his other hand coming up to wrap around her throat.

"Me llamo Isabella Reyes," Natalia answered in Spanish, her accent flawless without the slightest hint of her Russian heritage. She was Isabella Reyes. Born in Merida, Spain, but raised in Mexico by her father after her parents split up. She had learned the differences between Spanish dialects and varieties, how to pronounce words, the maintenance or loss of distinction between the phonemes, and with each mistake she'd made had come another blow until she got it right. She didn't make any mistake anymore. She was Isabella Reyes, knew everything there was to be known about the girl she was impersonating, and she wouldn't fail.

Dmitriov's fingers tightened around her throat, his thumb slowly stroking over her pulse point. "Make me believe," he said, his breath fanning over her face as he leaned in.

Natalia stood perfectly still. "Me llamo Isabella Reyes," she repeated calmly, her voice a little hoarse because of the man's fingers around her throat, but still firm.

His gaze narrowed, and Natalia knew before she even felt his fingers dig into her throat that she'd failed. "I said, make me believe!" he yelled, choking her harder until she started coughing.

Dmitriov let her go then, and Natalia fell to the floor, her knees wobbling against her will. Bringing her hand to her sore throat, she soothed the ache and forced herself to take a deep breath in spite of how much it hurt. Pain was irrelevant, she repeated in her head. Irrelevant.

"Isabella Reyes is a sweet, nice girl," Dmitriov started speaking as he circled around her. "A sweet, pretty little thing. Do you really think she'd act like this?" he asked, suddenly bending to grab her by the collar of her suit. He pulled her up and dragged her to the nearby chair, forcefully sitting her on it. "Make me believe," he yelled again.

Natalia looked up at him, tears instantly gleaming in her green eyes. "Me llamo Isa - Isabella Reyes," she said again, but this time her voice cracked as she spoke the name, the vulnerability in her tone foreign to her own ears. She was Isabella Reyes, not Natalia Romanova. Isabella would be terrified if someone assaulted her or pointed a gun at her face; she would beg for mercy, panic or cry. She needed to let go of Natalia to fully embrace Isabella.

"Better," Dmitriov granted, before he punched her again. This time, Natalia gasped and squeaked at the pain, her tears rolling down her cheeks. It didn't hurt – not that much – but this wasn't about testing her own limits; it was about pushing Isabella's. "Make me believe, Isabella," he ordered.

"Soy Isabella Reyes," she said again, sobs catching in her throat, her arms wrapped around her body to shield herself from the next blow.

The older man grabbed her by the chin, and for the first time since the very first day of training, Natalia allowed herself to let fear show. She wasn't afraid – there was nothing he could do to scare her, not anymore – but she knew how to fake anything. She knew how to bring a man to his knees with just the batting of her lashes, knew the words she needed to whisper, low and seductive, to make them believe anything or do what she wanted. She knew how to cry on command, how to make herself look so tiny and fragile when she was anything but.

One day, she'd kill him for daring thinking she truly was.

Sasha reached for something on the nearby table and threw handcuffs at Natasha, and then she raised her gun, this time pointing it at Clint's head. "Put them on. You try anything, I kill him. I don't care about what the General said. We're already at war with S.H.I.E.L.D., and they won't let you go quietly just because we spared their precious Hawkeye."

"You don't have to do this," Natasha said, her lips tightly pressed in a thin line. She hated herself for taking on the bait, for letting Sasha get to her, for reacting so strongly to a direct threat to Clint – it was everything she'd been trained not to do – but she couldn't help it. Biting on the inside of her cheek to force herself to focus, she let go of the bleeding wound at her thigh to grab the handcuffs and lock them around her wrists.

Sasha shook her head. "Behind your back," she said with a short nod. "Don't think I'm stupid. I know all your tricks, Tali. We're the same."

"No, we're not," Natasha replied, her tone sharp but calm despite the hatred she felt, as she lifted her chin defiantly, and yet she still obediently cuffed her wrists behind her back. Because they'd been trained together, because they'd been made and unmade by the same people, forged in lies and blood and death while music from the Russian ballet played out in the background, it didn't mean they were the same. Alexandra was a pawn in a game Natasha had long decided to stop playing; Natasha had always wanted to be the best to beat the system, to prove to herself she didn't need anybody, to get out, when Alexandra relished in being the teacher's pet, loyal to the General to a fault and looking up to him, almost naïvely hoping he would someday look at her the same way.

They were nothing alike.

Sasha laughed condescendingly, her gun pointed at Natasha as she motioned for her to stand up before moving behind her. Natasha grunted as she tried to get on her feet; the pain wasn't even the worst part, it was definitely how much Sasha enjoyed her struggle. She was a sadist, that much had always been clear to Natasha; she was good at what she did, knew how to put distance between her and her actions, had learned not to feel anything before or after a kill – but Sasha, on the other hand, enjoyed it, got a thrill from watching the life slowly fade from somebody's eyes, from the power it gave her to get to decide who lived and who died. Natasha's kills were always clean; she would get in, eliminate her target, and get out, and it'd earned her the reputation of being cold and calculated. Sasha was a diva, a drama queen; as much as she thrived in the darkness, she positively glowed in the spotlight that her taste for acting and staging drew to her – something that amused the General, as long as she got the job done.

And she did.

"Nat…don't, you, you can't…" Clint mumbled, his voice nothing but a low, broken whisper, and Natasha had to bit her cheek harder not to turn her head and look at him. Finally standing on shaky legs, she balanced her weight unevenly on her uninjured side. She felt the cold metal of the gun press at her back, and she was ready to leave, ready to push her limits and take every painful step away from him, when she heard his tone change, from panic to anger as he yelled, "Don't, Barney, don't!"

Despite her best judgment, Natasha turned, and she wished she hadn't because the sheer terror she saw on his face shattered the last piece of her heart. "He's not here, Clint. I promise. Barney's not here," she managed to say before Sasha grew impatient and pushed her forward, urging her to walk. "He's not real. He can't hurt you," she kept screaming as they made their way back to the other room, wishing that even in his torpor Clint could hear her and focus on her words instead of the hallucinations – she knew it took much more than reassurance to fight against your own mind, but it was all she could do.

"Will you just shut up already," Sasha groaned as they walked out of the warehouse, Natasha limping, Sasha's gun still at her back. "You've grown soft because of that American boyfriend of yours," she noted, disapproval in her tone. "You think that a few months with S.H.I.E.L.D. have made you so much better than me, Talia?" she taunted.

"That's not my name," Natasha hissed through gritted teeth, as she came to a stop at Sasha's car. She didn't even comment on the rest; it would make Sasha oh so happy.

"Whatever," Sasha murmured, annoyed and impatient. She unlocked the car with her keys, and opened the trunk, revealing a tied-up, unconscious Matthäus Köhler. "Get in, Natasha," she ordered.

As Sasha shut the trunk door and Natasha found herself trapped in the dark with blood pouring out of a bullet hole and her hands cuffed behind her back, she realized that maybe, just maybe, this was a stupid idea.

But then again, anything was better than being responsible for Clint's death.

"So you're just gonna sit there while that crazy psycho bitch kills your girl?" Barney asked, looking at Clint with incredulous eyes. "What happened to I'm not gonna die, I'll find a way out?"

"You're not real," Clint just said as he stared blankly at the door Natasha had just walked out, focusing on her words and how real she was. "I'm done talking to you."

Barney leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he sighed loudly. "Goddammit, Clint," he swore, and for the briefest second Clint almost thought he heard concern in his brother's annoyed tone. "Maybe if you spent half of that energy on trying to find a way out, you would. I'm not the real problem here."

"Oh, so now you wanna help?" Clint asked, staring back at his older brother with just as much incredulity.

Barney rolled his eyes. "Maybe it's time you stop rewriting history, baby bro," he scoffed as he pushed off of the wall and went to sit on the chair. "I'm not the bad guy. And right now, I'm the only one here for you."

"You're not even really here," Clint spat, anger swelling inside him again. Barney was wasting his time and energy – not that he had any plan, but still.

Barney glared at him. "When am I not here?" he asked, sounding more tired than angry. "Every time something goes wrong in your life, you go and blame me. I'm always here because you can't let go. Even right now, you couldn't even manage to form a sentence for your redhead, but you have no problem talking to me. Wonder why?" Barney paused, running a hand over his face, his brow knitted in a frown. "I'm not a ghost haunting you. Your brain created me. You want me here because you want someone to blame for your failures. But it's not my fault if that bitch took your girl. And it's not my fault if you're not strong enough to protect her."

The urge to yell Yes, I am, surged inside him again, but Clint managed to hold it back as he bit on his bottom lip. Natasha didn't need anybody to protect her, and making this about his failure at having her back was stupid – of course Barney would go there. But something else that his brother had just said kept replaying in Clint's mind: no matter how angry or devastated he'd felt as his brother left and his entire world crumbled around him, he couldn't let go of him. Not at night when his defenses were so low, his walls down, and nightmares hit him; not after one beer too many, when he went from giddily buzzed to sad drunk on an accidental trip down memory lane. Not when he looked up at Phil and realized he'd found someone who truly cared about him, someone who was alternatively a brother, a father-figure, and his best friend, and that he no longer needed to hold onto the one who hadn't cared enough to stay.

And maybe it was just easier to blame Barney for everything than to admit he missed him.

But it needed to stop.

Looking up at the handcuffs around his wrists, Clint realized that his vision was blurry again and that his pounding migraine was back, and that the only moments when he felt clear and normal where when he talked to the hallucinations. The pain was vivid again, his symptoms getting worse as time passed by, but he yanked hard at the handcuffs, the metal digging into his skin. He groaned at the pain, but kept going as it helped him focus.

"You'd rather bleed yourself dry than talk to me?" Barney asked, a hint of humor in his tone. "Now that hurts my feelings. What are you doing?" he pressed as Clint ignored him and kept tugging at his cuffs.

Clint sighed. "Well, since I never learned the dislocating your thumb trick, I'm trying to break that damn pipe."

"Breaking your wrists in the process?" Barney laughed. It wasn't his typical disdainful laugh, but something more genuine, close to the funny albeit sarcastic kid he used to be – the kid Clint looked up to, thinking he was so cool. "And then what? You're gonna run after them?"

"That's the plan, yeah," Clint grumbled, closing his eyes at the pain flashing through him as the cuffs cut to the flesh and drew blood. Moving slightly from his hunched position, back against the wall, Clint bent his knees to him and turned on his side, trying to lift himself until he could kneel enough to raise his arms above the pipe and put his weight on it.

Behind him, he heard Barney chuckle. "You don't have a clue how long they've been gone, uh?" he said.

Clint froze, panting from the effort, before he tilted his head to look over his shoulder. "What do you mean? They just left."

"That was, like, fifteen minutes ago," Barney shrugged. "You've been staring at that door like a creep, or a sad puppy, I don't know, for quite some time now. I would have told you, but you said you didn't want to talk to me anymore, so…"

Clint felt his blood race in his veins. "You fucking son of –"

Barney raised his hands defensively. "My mom's your mom, too, remember?" he smirked, shaking his head lightly at Clint's fury. "Did you really believe you could just break that pipe and run faster than a damn car and save Natasha?"

"She doesn't –"

"Need saving, yeah, I know," Barney interrupted him with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "She can handle herself. She's been through worse."

Clint stared at his brother, completely at a loss. One moment Barney was taunting him about being weak and letting the woman hurt Natasha, and the next he was showing him that there was just nothing he could do about it, so why even try? It didn't make any sense. And since Barney was all but a fragment of his imagination, then it meant he wasn't making any sense; the poison, whatever it was Alexandra had given him, was acting fast, and there might have not been much time left for him…

"It's you you should be worried about," Barney spoke again, reading his mind; was it really mind-reading when this was all in his head? "How long do you think you're gonna hold up with that shit in your system?" he asked. "How long before it burns you alive and your body fails you? You look like shit, little bro. You're the one who needs her to ride in on a white horse."

"You think I don't know that?" Clint replied instinctively, anger at Barney for being right and disappointment in himself taking over. "You think I don't know this is my fault for screwing this up like a goddamn rookie? That it's my fault if Nat had to come looking for me and now that psycho has her and she fucking shot her and she might die and it's all on me?" he burst out, unable to keep the guilt locked in any longer. It was about Natasha and Ariana and even Barney; it was about putting Natasha at risk, leaving Ariana behind, and not sticking to his brother, not running fast enough after the bus, never reaching out or trying to find him. It was about two screwed-up assignments in the span of a few months that had required extraction when Clint prided himself in never needing – or asking for – help. It was about Phil wasting resources on him like he was some Level One new recruit who'd never gone out on the field. It was guilt, and anger, and frustration, and everything in between that he'd bottled up inside because it was so much easier to ignore his feelings than to face them.

But with Barney there was no hiding – there never had been.

"Does she have any idea?" Barney started, "How fucked up you are? I mean, okay, she's pretty fucked up too, with that whole not being a real person thing, but, Jesus, you –"

Another voice covered Barney's, and Clint's head snapped as he recognized Coulson. "Clint!" the other agent shouted, once, twice, until he came into focus at the door and ran to Clint, sinking to his knees at his side. Clint felt a hand brush his face, Coulson's fingers pressing on the pulse point at his throat, and it felt real; but then again, so had Natasha when he'd imagined her cupping his face and pleading him to hang on. But then she'd been really here, or had she? Or had it been his mind playing with him all along? He couldn't even tell the difference anymore.

"Don't ask him if he's real or he'll think you've gone crazy," Barney taunted as he stood behind Coulson. "So this is the great Phil Coulson, uh?"

"Shut up."

"Clint?" Coulson spoke his name, concern in his tone as he turned around, trying to see who Clint was talking to. Clint felt his hand on his face again as he pressed the back of his palm to his fevered forehead. "Dammit, Clint," he murmured. "Who are you seeing? Who's there?"

"He's gonna think you're pathetic."

No. Phil would never think that. Phil wasn't like Barney. Clint closed his eyes, pressing them firmly shut as he tried to focus. Phil was blurry, which meant he had to be real; he could feel his hand against his skin, the concern in his tone that was just so him. He could tell him anything, it wouldn't make Coulson stop caring, he knew it – had to know it, believe it, no matter what. "Barney," he croaked, his mouth dry again.

Coulson's brow furrowed. But then his voice was calm as he spoke, soothing, even. "He's not really here, you know that? It's just you and me. Focus on me." Clint slowly opened his eyes, and found that it'd become more and more difficult to keep them that way for more than a few seconds at a time. He gave Coulson a nod, unsure if he could even speak. "Don't listen to him, okay?" Coulson pressed. "I need you to focus. Was Natasha here?" he asked as he focused on Clint's cuffs, easily picking them with a bobby pin he always kept on him.

Barney said something, but Clint didn't hear him. He was still there, standing behind Coulson, and Clint could see his mouth moving, but no sound came out. Instead, he forced himself to focus on his mentor, the worry lines on his forehead, the care in his brown eyes as Coulson took in the red smudges slicking the damaged skin of his wrists. Clint tried to flex his arms, get some sensation back in them, but all he could see was the blood.

Not his. Hers. On the floor.

So that part had been real, too.

"She was shot," he muttered, barely hearing his own voice, and Coulson had to strain his ear to hear him, too. "Knee, leg, I don't know. She just left. Wait, no…" Shaking his head, Clint tried to clear his mind of everything Barney had said. He had to be lying. It was one thing to be hallucinating, but could he really just lose any sense of time like that, mistaking mere moments with full minutes, or hours, even? How long had it been since he'd left the safe house? How could Natasha and Phil be there so fast? Unless… Unless Barney was right. He was going crazy. "Maybe that was fifteen minutes ago, I don't know…"

"It's okay, Clint," Coulson reassured him, moving quickly to untie the rope around his legs. "I've got a team here, okay? Ted Daniels, remember him?" he asked, but didn't really wait for Clint to answer. "He's got a dozen agents looking for her. I need to let him know."

Reaching for his phone in his pocket, Coulson called the other agent to let him know he'd found Clint, asking for the medics to get there as quickly as they could, and about Natasha's status. Clint focused his gaze on his friend, trying to keep his eyes open, but he was just so goddamn tired – surely it couldn't hurt to close his eyes and sleep for a little while?

"Goddammit, Clint, no!" Coulson shouted, a hint of panic in his voice as he saw his eyelids flutter close. Sinking to his knees again, he patted Clint's cheek firmly, but all he got in return was a soft groan. He slapped him then, hoping the pain would keep him awake, and he breathed a sigh of relief when Clint blinked. "Stay with me, Clint," he pleaded.

"Nat…" Clint breathed, because if there was one thing except for Coulson that could still keep him going, it was her. "You have to…Nat. Get her. Her."

"I'm not choosing one of you," Coulson replied, his tone firm, unwavering. "I'll get the both of you home, you understand me? I'm not leaving you alone."

"My – my fault. I –"

"Yeah, it's probably your fault if Natasha cares about you so much she was ready to go in alone and get shot for you," Coulson scoffed, the ghost of a smile flashing on his lips. "I'll have a talk with her and your charming personality once we're home. For now though, you've got to hang on, Clint," he repeated firmly. "I have a bottle of water in the car. Can you stay awake until I come back?" he asked, tilting his head to meet his agent's dazed eyes.

"We got to…go, we, go," Clint panted, every word a struggle. It was crazy, how he'd felt so clear-minded while talking to Barney, his brain and mouth functioning like he ordered them to, but couldn't form a complete, coherent sentence with Coulson.

"You're not going anywhere in this state," Coulson insisted resolutely, catching Clint by the shoulders as he tried to rise on his knees, only to fall forward. "The medics are on their way. Right now, my priority is getting you back to the plane and to our nearest facility. Daniels and his team will take care of Natasha."

"He thinks you're weak," Barney spoke, and Clint's head snapped up in disbelief. "Oh, come on. You didn't think you could get rid of me that easily, just because your precious Phil told you I'm not really here," he laughed, making quotations marks in the air with his fingers.

Clint pressed his palms over his ears, trying to tune his brother out, and Coulson felt a pang at his heart; he'd never seen him like this, so vulnerable and devastated. There had been midnight confessions over a beer or three in the early days, when Clint had started trusting him. The younger man had told him things he already knew from the file Fury had given him, but also things no one else could know; how he used to share a bed with Barney at the orphanage because he was afraid of the dark, his mother's favorite song, the stray dog he'd adopted as a kid. These had been bittersweet memories, drawing a fleeting, sad smile on his lips, but nothing like what Coulson was witnessing now as Clint sat there, shoulders slumped, defeated, trying to brace himself against his own mind but failing.

"Okay, we're going," Coulson finally said as he got on his feet, before he slipped his hands under Clint's arms to hoist him up against the wall, and slid one of his agent's arms over his shoulders for balance. "But I swear to God, kid, if you die on me I'll be pissed."

They drove for five minutes maybe, less than ten, before turning left, then right a few minutes later. At some point, the road turned to gravel, the tires scrunching just a little, just enough for Natasha to feel it. She was certain she could have made her way back to the warehouse without any problem; she was good at picking on small details, the change in someone's voice, people's little quirks and foibles, but what good could that sharp attention be when she was locked up in the trunk of a car?

Finally, the car came to a stop, and a moment later, Sasha hovered over her as she opened the trunk. "I figured you'd feel stiff, might want to stretch your legs a little bit," she said, her voice sugar and honey, a sweet smile on her lips that was such a stark, scary contrast to the roughness of her hold as she grabbed Natasha by the arm to pull her into a sitting position and allow her to climb out of the trunk.

She'd been right about the gravel, Natasha noticed as she took in her surroundings; they were on a gravelly path surrounded by centennial trees, and she could hear the lapping sound of water not far from there. The ground was muddy, and surely it wasn't the smartest idea to stop there where they would leave so much evidence of their presence. Still, Sasha pressed her gun against her back and motioned for her to move.

"Gonna bury my body in the woods, Sash?" Natasha taunted. Antagonizing her helped her focus on something else than the pain in her leg – which had kind of dulled, something that Natasha knew didn't necessarily mean she was out of the woods. Maybe she was going into shock; maybe months off of the serum had rendered her human again, and a little less invincible than she liked to believe. There were just so many maybes in her life now.

Sasha laughed, that stupid, high-pitched chuckle. "Does that make you Red Riding Hood and I the Big Bad Wolf?" she asked, amused.

Natasha gave her a shrug, tilting her head to look over her shoulder. "Who cares? Wolves and girls, both have sharp teeth."

"I don't remember that part," Sasha said. "I remember the part about the stupid little girl in red, all alone in the woods, about to get eaten up."

"Yeah, but then the hunter saves her."

Sasha stopped in her tracks, and slowly, Natasha turned to look at her. She was smiling broadly, wolfish grin and bright, sparking eyes. "You really believe you're worth that much to them?" she asked with a little shake of her head. "You don't mean anything to them. Why would they come rescue you when you're the enemy?"

It stung, just to hear the word; maybe it wasn't how Clint, and even Coulson now, saw her, but she would never fully be one of them. She would always be the Widow, ex-KGB who'd defected with no one else's but her own interests in consideration; no matter how hard she tried, no matter what she did to prove herself, some things would never change. They called her Natasha, but she would always be Natalia, no matter how much Clint tried to Americanize her with his pancakes and beer and stupid TV show about dog cops. They could never look past everything that she'd done – one day, they'd finally realize it, and…

But he took you to the ballet, a little voice whispered in her ear. That means he cares.

Natasha felt her lips twitch up in a small smile. Clint cared. Clint wouldn't let anything happen to her. She wasn't the enemy in his eyes; and she definitely wasn't like Sasha. "It's just what they do," she said with a noncommittal shrug. And it was the truth, in spite of who she was or what she did.

"I'm not sure your boyfriend will do any more saving, though," Sasha taunted as she lazily crossed her arms over her chest, lightly tapping her gun against her forearm. "It's a shame. Under other circumstances, I'd have loved to spend a little more time with him. Maybe even let him come before slitting his throat."

"Because you're nice like that," Natasha scoffed.

"You know I am," Sasha replied easily, her voice just as warm as her gaze was icy. "And there used to be a time when you would have done the same."

Natasha's eyes narrowed as she tried to stand taller despite the pain in her limbs. She took a small, tentative step towards the other woman, and then another, biting back the soft cry of pain that almost escaped her mouth. "I'm nothing like you," she almost growled, feral and enraged.

"Yes, you are!" Sasha shouted, her easy, amused mask finally slipping as she pistol-whipped her in the face with a lot more strength than Natasha remembered or was ready for.

Stumbling off balance and with no way to prevent her fall since her hands were tied behind her back, Natasha fell hard on her side on the muddy, gravelly ground. She coughed, choking a little on the blood that invaded her mouth, and she couldn't help the groan that formed in her throat as she landed heavily on her injured leg. Natasha barely had time to comprehend what had happened when Sasha roughly grabbed her hair and arm and yanked her along, dragging her to the stream down the path. Sasha had always been physically stronger – she was taller than Natasha, and their years in the Bolshoi had made her body both graceful and lethal – but it was more than sheer strength guiding her. It was unadulterated hatred.

With a knee to her back, Sasha forced her to lie on her stomach, and without warning, she pressed Natasha's face underwater.

It burned. It was almost paradoxical, water setting you on fire, but that's how it felt. It hurt. More than any punch she'd been on the receiving end of. More than feeling her own stomach shrink after days without being allowed to eat. The training was demanding and everything hurt, each new torture defining a new level of unbearable, but Natalia thought this might be it. Maybe this was the worst.

The first time, she'd ended up coughing and gagging, bile and tears mixed together as she'd sunk to the floor and thrown up. Her throat was so sore, she wasn't sure she could ever speak again. She couldn't breathe through her nose anymore. All she could do was tremble and wait for her punishment.

She'd failed.

And failure wasn't an option at the Room.

Drowning, it turned out, was quite pleasant towards the end – Natasha had learned it years ago. There was this split second when it stopped burning and everything was just peaceful and quiet, as if her body wasn't her own anymore, floating like a little cloud, the racing of her thoughts completely dulled to just a low murmur. Sasha yanked her head back before she could reach that peace, though.

Gasping for air, Natasha struggled not to pass out. Between the taste of bile and blood in her mouth – she was pretty sure Sasha had knocked out one of her teeth – and the burning she felt in her throat and lungs, her head was spinning and all Natasha wanted was a second, just a second, to rest. But then Sasha forced her head underwater again. And again. Once the initial shock was gone, Natasha managed to hold her breath, swallowing no more than a few drops of water, but she could feel herself slowly fade, her energy leaving her.

This was really bad. Even she had to admit it.

She couldn't help the very obvious shiver that ran through her as Sasha pulled her hair back and leaned in, her breath fanning over Natasha's ear as she spoke. "Do you remember the last time we played like that?" she asked, her voice nothing but a chilly whisper. "Do you remember what you told me, in the end, when I begged you to stop?"

She paused, letting a breathy sigh out – for show. Sasha was a drama queen, even in moments like this. How was Natasha supposed to remember? They'd spent a decade in hell together; they'd cried at night in the early days, even helped patch each other's wounds before their instructor forbid them to. And then the competition had started, and with it the punishments and deprivations, the humiliations, too. Natasha didn't remember because it had happened a hundred times.

Sasha dug her knee in her back harder. "I knew you'd finally come to your senses," she spoke softly. "That's what you said. You kept my head underwater for hours, never letting me catch my breath. And when I couldn't take it anymore…"

"I won't beg," Natasha spat, as she coughed on water. Sasha yanked on her ties, the cuffs digging into the fragile skin of her wrists, but Natasha just shook her head. "Hit me. Burn me. Choke me. I don't care."

Suddenly, Sasha let her go. Rolling on her back, Natasha looked up at the other woman who was standing above her, hands clenched into fists at her side, finger tightly wrapped around the trigger. "Don't act like you don't care!" she shouted. "Don't act like you're not afraid!"

Natasha was afraid. It had happened before, when she was younger and unprepared, untrained; but then she'd learned to bottle it up, turn her fear into strength, kill that weakness inside of her. But now there was Clint, and he'd been shot before, and now he'd been poisoned, and she wasn't afraid for herself but for him. "You're not gonna kill me," she said in a calm voice.

Sasha aimed her gun at Natasha's forehead, the angry white vein on her own tensing. "Wanna bet on that?" she asked as she unlocked the safety of her gun. "'Cause I've been wanting to do this for years, and right now, I don't see any reason why not."

"Because the General wants me alive," Natasha suggested. She forced herself into a sitting position, refusing to lie there, vulnerable, anymore. She wasn't sure she could get on her feet, though, so she didn't try. "And you and I both know what he will do to you if you don't obey."

It didn't seem to deter the raven-haired woman. "You haven't been with S.H.I.E.L.D. long enough for you to know anything we don't already," Sasha countered. "What are you? A consultant? Level One, maybe, if your boyfriend vouched for you? You're nothing."

"Maybe," Natasha replied with a shrug. "But I'm a nothing that's still more valuable to the General than your little need for revenge. What do you think he'll do to you if you disobey?" she asked.

"I'm his best agent," Sasha said.

Natasha laughed. It hurt a little, making more blood flood in her mouth. "Only because I'm not there anymore," she taunted, and smiled as she saw the brief flicker of doubt spark in Sasha's green eyes. "You know it. Nobody's irreplaceable, but then again, nobody's as good as I am."

In just a second the doubt was gone, and the hatred was back. Sasha had always been arrogant, and wounds to her ego hurt and lasted more than the ones on her body. "I'm done talking."

Natasha watched as her finger curled around the trigger, and she refused to close her eyes and let Sasha win. If she closed her eyes then it meant she was scared of her, and she wasn't; if she closed her eyes, it meant she really believed Sasha would kill her.

But Natasha knew she wouldn't.

Sasha was a puppet, and the General held her strings. If the General wanted her alive, then Sasha would bring her back to Moscow alive. Natasha knew it, because she once had strings, too; but now she was free. She wouldn't let them put her in that prison again. She could see it in Sasha's eyes, in the way her finger clenched around the trigger but didn't pull it, in her entire demeanor; she was struggling not to indulge herself for once, do something that was entirely for her – kill the one person she wanted to be so much she couldn't let her live and spend her life in her shadow anymore. But she wouldn't do it; couldn't. The General scared her too much.

Sasha opened her mouth to say something, breaking her vow to be done talking, when a bullet pierced her back and chest, and instead of words, it was blood that poured out of her lips. Natasha watched her as she uselessly lifted a hand to the open wound before collapsing to the ground, gagging on her own blood.

Natasha hadn't seen it coming. Looking up from Sasha to the man who had shot her, who was now running to her, and to the woman with him, both wearing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s emblem on their tactical gear, Natasha allowed herself to let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The man took hold of Sasha's gun before kneeling in front of Natasha. "Agent Romanoff, my name's Ted Daniels, and this is Agent Avery," he said, motioning to the woman with his hand. "Agent Coulson sent us for you."

"How's Barton?" Natasha asked, immediately followed by, "Where is he? Do you have a doctor on your team? He's been poisoned, and he's probably dehydrated, and –"

"He's with Coulson," the man reassured her immediately, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, and Natasha let out a heavy, shaky breath. "Now, we need to take care of you."

Natasha shook her head. "I'm fine," she murmured. "Barton. He needs it more."

"They'll be here in five," the woman said, pocketing her phone before kneeling on the ground too. "Coulson and Tom. Our medic," she added for Natasha. "I'm gonna have to bandage that, at least until Tom gets here and checks it himself," she said, lightly touching Natasha's leg.

The man kept talking, and deep down, Natasha knew it was for her sake, to distract her from the pain and worrying about Clint, but it didn't work. She couldn't even hear anything he said. She felt light-headed, and she couldn't help but stare at Sasha's limp body and the pool of blood around her. Natasha had always known it would end in blood between them; there was just too much hatred and history to go otherwise. But Natasha had always thought she'd be the one crossing Sasha off, and seeing her dead at someone else's hand felt bitter.

Suddenly remembering, she told them about Köhler in the trunk of Sasha's car. The man went to take care of him, and Natasha groaned in pain as the female agent finished bandaging her thigh, and after first turning down her help, she finally agreed to let her help her up. Agent Avery half helped, half carried her back to their car where she sat her in the backseat and forced her to empty an entire bottle of water while they waited for their medic and Coulson and Clint to get there. Natasha felt her eyes flutter close from the exhaustion and the pain, but she forced herself to stay conscious, at least until she could see Clint, alive and well, or at least being taken care of, with her own eyes.

Both the field medic and Coulson arrived a few minutes later. He quickly ordered them around, and Natasha watched the two agents and the medic move in sync, lifting Clint and carrying him to the back of the medic's van. Clint was completely still, unconscious, and so much paler than before, and when Coulson ran to her and gently cupped her face, careful of not pressing too much on the blossoming bruise on her jaw, Natasha lost it. She felt hot tears roll down her cheeks and she couldn't control them; sobs caught in her throat, her heart threatened to explode, and Clint was alive but she could still lose him and she couldn't bear it – she just couldn't.

"Natasha," Coulson said softly, as he touched his fingers to her throat. Her pulse was weaker than normal, her skin as pale as Clint's, and she was probably going into shock if the tears were any indication. "He's gonna be okay. You both will, okay?"

He looked her in the eye, his so warm and comforting that Natasha had to agree with him. She gave him a small nod, and Coulson patted her cheek, a little bit awkward and affectionate, before he wrapped an arm around her and helped her progress to the van. He turned to the other agents, exchanging a few words she didn't really follow, and she let him almost carry her there before he took his seat behind the wheel and drove off. She felt her eyes well again as she saw Clint up close, his skin cool and clammy as she laid her palm over his forehead, softly running her fingers through his dark blonde hair.

"How's he doing?" she asked the field medic, looking up at him with bright, pleading eyes. "Can you save him?"

She watched as he fitted an oxygen mask over Clint's face. "His pulse and heartbeat are really low," Tom said. "There's not much I can do until I've drawn a sample of his blood and got it analyzed, know what's in his system. I can just try to stabilize him until we're in London."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has a base there," Coulson explained from the front seat. "They'll be waiting for us, with an entire team ready to –"

"Give him my blood," Natasha interrupted him.

"You don't need any more blood out of you, Natasha," Coulson said, his eyes widening in surprise in the rearview mirror.

Natasha shook her head. "No, no, you don't understand," she started, "I've been poisoned before. My body knows how to fight it," she explained. Looking up at Tom, she asked, "Could it work, Doc? We're the same blood type. It can't make him worse, can it?"

Tom seemed to consider it. "It won't do anything if it's not the same drug, or something very similar in nature," he explained. "But it can't hurt."

"It is," Natasha asserted. "I'm sure of it. Boss, I know it," she added for Coulson. Sasha had basically told her so, when she'd taunted her about Clint being weak, and not being able to handle what they could. "Something Sasha said… I know it. I've been – we've been poisoned before. It's part of the training. Please, trust me," she added in a low murmur.

Coulson nodded.

This time, when Natasha felt the tears roll down her cheeks, it wasn't fear that overwhelmed her.

It was relief.

It all happened very fast, before peace settled in. As soon as they got back to the plane, the field medic attended to Natasha's injury as best as he could, managing to extract the bullet and patch her up. Natasha gritted her teeth through it, sending Coulson at Clint's side, and refused any painkiller. The medic then got her hooked on two IVs; one connected her arm to Clint's, while the other supplied her with more blood to compensate the loss she'd suffered. Coulson sat beside her, holding her hand, his free one resting atop Clint's leg.

It felt nice.

"Thank you," she said in a soft voice, tiredly tilting her head to Coulson. "For trusting me."

"Thank you for proving me that you're trust-worthy every day," Coulson replied easily, giving her hand a little squeeze. "And thank you for saving him," he added, nodding at the IV.

Natasha just gave him a small smile. They were both silent for a moment, until, surprisingly, Natasha couldn't stand it. "You already knew, didn't you?" she asked, knowing he would know what she was referring to.

"No," Coulson replied softly, shaking his head. "I didn't read your medical files. I had a vague idea, though."

Natasha nodded. There was compassion in Coulson's tone, but also a strong disapproval and anger over what had been done to her that made her feel strangely warm. She was used to it from Clint, even if she didn't fully understand it, but it felt nice to see that Coulson was really just like Clint had described him: kind and compassionate and always there for his agents. It genuinely moved her, this proof of his caring, so much that Natasha started talking before she could fully realize what she was saying. "There were over forty of us in the beginning," she said. "Fifty, maybe, I don't remember."

"You don't have to explain anything if you're not ready to," Coulson told her, letting go of her hand to pat her knee.

"I want to," Natasha told him with a small smile. She let her eyes roam over Clint, finding strength in remembering all these moments when he'd coaxed her into talking, making her feel safe enough to share. "You've ever heard of Mithridate?" At Coulson's frown, she continued, "He was a Greek king. The legend says that he feared for his life after his father's murder. So, since poison was really a thing back then, he took very small doses of poison to slowly immunize himself." She paused, and let out a small chuckle. "The General has a certain fondness for mythology."

"Is that what he did to you?" Coulson asked, that fatherly tone back in his mouth.

She nodded. "He gave us small doses at first, not enough to be lethal, but plenty enough to get sick and wish you were dead," she said. "Some lucky girls died very quickly, others took days…It was the first step. Then he increased the doses. He only wanted the strongest ones to undergo the Program."

"How many?"

"Twenty-eight," Natasha replied, and rejoiced a little in how clearly she remembered this. Most of her memories were blurry, foggy, and she couldn't always tell if it had really happened. But this she remembered perfectly. She was one in twenty-eight ballerinas. One in twenty-eight Widows. "Well, twenty-seven, now," she added.

"Twenty-six," Coulson said. "You're not one of them anymore. And I'm not gonna let them try to get at you again, okay?"

She wanted to tell him he couldn't promise that; that he shouldn't, because she'd rather go back to Moscow and be tortured or killed than let Clint get hurt because of her again. But it was nice to have someone who wanted to protect her, someone who had the power and clearance to at least guarantee he would try.

Then again, Clint had done this for her since the beginning. How could she ever thank him enough?

She stifled a yawn, and Coulson got on his feet. "You should try to rest," he said, lightly squeezing her shoulder. "You've been through a lot." Natasha looked hesitant, and unsure. Maybe even a little afraid. "He'll still be here when you wake up," he reassured her. "It's okay, you can close your eyes. I'll be here."

Just a minute, Natasha thought. It was okay to close her eyes just a minute; but she wanted to be there when Clint woke up. "Promise?" she asked in a small voice.

It was in moments like this that she reminded him of a child, and that Coulson remembered that she was still one, really. She looked so small, bundled up in that chair, and so fragile, that he knew that this had to be what Clint had seen in her all these months ago.

Rearranging the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, he whispered, "Promise."

When she woke up, Natasha immediately realized she wasn't on the plane anymore.

She was lying in a bed, dressed in a hospital gown. Her arm was still hooked on an IV, but instead of blood supply it was painkillers this time, she just knew it from the fogginess of her brain. Her body felt stiff, her jaw swollen, and the bandage around her thigh was new.

And Clint wasn't linked to her anymore.

"Hey there," she heard a voice say on her left. Natasha tilted her head, spotting Coulson sitting on a chair by her bed. She tried to sit up, but he quickly moved to stop her, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "You've been out for three days, Natasha," he spoke softly. "Clint's okay," he added immediately as her eyes grew wide. "That's all you need to know. You need to rest. I swear you'll get to see him once you're better. Okay?"

She tried to nod, but it hurt her head.

The first thing he said when he woke up was her name.

Clint didn't remember everything – just fragments jumbled together incoherently. He remembered being worried for Natasha, but not her getting shot. He remembered being afraid, but not the hallucinations. Coulson wasn't sure it was such a bad thing after all.

"It'll come back to him," the doctor told Coulson. "He's just confused now. His body and mind went through a lot, but with some rest, he should be okay. He does seem to sleep better when his partner is in the room, though," she added.

Of course.

"You're holding my hand."

Natasha looked up from her magazine and laughed, a bubbly, watery laugh. "I'm holding your hand," she said softly, taking him in. He'd been sleeping every time she'd sneaked in his room, and she'd been sent back to her own bed by Coulson or the nurses before he could wake. Clint was still a little bit too pale for her liking, but he did look a whole lot better than he had ten days ago. Coulson had told her that he was still very tired and could barely hold a conversation, but at least he was coherent again and Natasha was just so grateful he didn't show any lasting damage. "How are you feeling?" she asked, giving his hand a small squeeze.

He chuckled. "Like I've been poisoned and you've been shot," he said with a shrug. "How are you feeling?" he asked, worried eyes roaming over her. "And don't say you're fine," he added when she opened her mouth.

Natasha pressed her lips together and looked down at her lap. She was fine; her wound was healing up well, and she was finally off painkillers – she was getting a bit annoyed with mashed food because of her swollen jaw, but really, she was okay. Pain was irrelevant. Seeing him hurt, because of her, cut her deeper.

"Tasha…" Clint said, with that tone, that stupid, caring tone that made her walls crumble. He smoothed his thumb over the inside of her wrist, and she looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Jesus, Tash," he murmured. "Come on, come here," he said, opening his arms.

Figuring out a position that wouldn't hurt her leg was a pain, but once she was settled, cuddled to his side, Natasha felt like she could breathe properly for the first time in days. Hearing Coulson say Clint was okay hadn't been enough; checking in on him herself, watching him sleep, feeling his pulse against her fingers, had put her a little bit more at ease. But it wasn't until now, when he was awake and talking to her, his arms wrapped around her, his heart beating strong and steady beneath her palm, that Natasha really felt like this nightmare was over.

She felt his lips press against her hair and then her forehead, and she tightened her hold on him. She felt safe in his arms, but at the same time Natasha wanted to swallow him whole and protect him, shield him from the rest of the world – something she'd never felt before him. It was the second time he'd gotten injured, and she could already see a pattern forming about never getting used to it. They were supposed to be stronger together; not spend their time at each other's bedside. She wasn't supposed to be the crying, helpless girl.

"What are you thinking about?" Clint whispered in her hair as he lifted one of his hands to her face to wipe her tears away.

"That I should be stronger than this," Natasha replied, closing her eyes. "I'm a mess," she half-laughed, half-cried. "I can't help being scared, and crying like a little girl, and –"

"And you've spent a decade bottling everything up," Clint interrupted her. "You're just a kid, Nat," he went on as he threaded his fingers in her hair, gently stroking. "You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to cry. Hell, if it'd been you, I'd be the one crying like a little girl. And I wouldn't feel ashamed."

She couldn't help it – she laughed. "Yes, you would!" Natasha laughed, almost giggled. Looking up at him, tears still gleaming at the corners of her eyes but a small smile on, she grew serious again. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "this is my entire fault."

Clint's lips twitched in a smile. "Bullshit," he said softly. "Phil told me I could have died if you hadn't given me your blood. You saved my life."

Natasha shook her head – of course it would be like Clint to completely overlook the complete ordeal and focus on the positive things for her sake. "But I was the one putting it in danger in the first place," she insisted. "If it wasn't for me, Sasha would have never –"

"Tried to kill a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent?" Clint suggested with a raise of his eyebrow. "I'm willing to bet she would have." Natasha was ready to retort something, but he just beat her to it. "Stop. Stop apologizing, stop over thinking it. You saved me, end of story. I'm totally getting you a thank you card for this, by the way," he joked.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but didn't argue. There was no arguing with Clint, anyway; he was bent on accepting all of her, good and bad, as if the good made up for all the bad. It was exhausting, arguing with somebody who wanted to see the good in people so much, so why keep doing it?

"Can we not talk about this?" Natasha asked in a soft voice. "Not never, but…just not right now?"

"I was gonna say something very cheesy and slightly creepy about us being family now that there was a little bit of you in me, though," Clint said, laughing at his own joke. Natasha hated to admit it, but she laughed, too. And blushed. Family. Was it really how he thought of her, of them? "Okay. I'm gonna say one last thing before we stop, though," Clint added, more serious this time. She indulged him, giving him a nod of her head. "I'm mad I didn't get to punch that bitch."

Natasha laughed. "Me, too," she admitted.

They fell in a comfortable silent then. Natasha didn't feel like talking anymore; right now, all she wanted was to stay right here, and pretend that the past few days were just a nightmare, and so did Clint.

One day, he would tell her about Ariana and Barney. One day, she would tell him about being afraid she would never really be one of them.

Just not today.

She was about to fall asleep when Clint spoke again. "Isn't your birthday coming in a couple weeks?" he asked, perfectly knowing the answer considering he'd been the one filling her S.H.I.E.L.D. personal record. "How old are you again?"

"I'll be twenty-one according to S.H.I.E.L.D., but who knows?" she said with a smile. "Maybe I'm thirty. Maybe I'm seventeen."

Clint chuckled. "I'd rather not think that I've been drinking – and that you've drunk me under the table more than once – with an underage girl, please."

Natasha gave him a smirk. "I'm Russian. I have vodka for breakfast, remember?" she teased him.

He rolled his eyes before dropping another kiss to her hair.

to be continued