Disclaimer: Don't own rights, entertainment purposes only, etc.

A/n: This started as a singular image, then spawned into a drabble, which morphed into a oneshot and snowballed into this. It made me so depressed to write (cried a couple times in fact) but I had to get it out. Prepare yourself, this ain't gonna be a happy ride (though I promise there is some happy in it). This is my entry, my Little Bang, in Het Little/Big Bang 2013. :D (Originally posted to AO3.)

Thank you to my gorgeous betas, morgieporgie and stars_inthe_sky, who combed over this thing. Also a big thanks to finaljoy, who caught some mistakes in the 11th hour, and to a big number of people around the online 'verse who have been all manner of encouraging (and chomping at the bit to read this, even though several of you promised to never speak to me again if I killed your favorite Avenger.) Any remaining mistakes are all me.

Warning: character death, moderate language, over-the-top villain-of-the-week, tragedy, angst, feels, etc.

So Let Me Go Under

If ever there was a villain who completely misunderstood the concept of subtlety, it was Isaac Vosler.

For the past four months, his attacks on the public had increased in severity and frequency, and he consistently avoided capture. SHIELD left the man to the local police until Vosler began boasting openly about having procured a piece of sensitive alien tech. The facts they uncovered seemed to support his claim, so Fury sent in a team of agents to handle the situation. It turned out to be one huge, elaborate trap, however, simply to get SHIELD's attention. The incident ended with three agents dead and Vosler himself pulling yet another disappearing act.

That little stunt earned him a rising position on Fury's Most Wanted: Dead List. Several task forces at SHIELD were assigned exclusively to locating Vosler, though the man proved to be infuriatingly elusive, slipping between SHIELD's fingers more than once, and managing to set up multiple ostentatious attacks without getting caught.

This only increased Fury's determination to catch the bastard.

"A charity event? Well, aren't you lucky," Clint quips. He strides into the kitchen, scooping up a shiny apple from the fruit bowl on the counter.

"You're sure you can't come too?" Steve implores.

"Schmoozing with rich folks actually isn't my idea of a good time." The archer takes a noisy bite of the apple in his hand.

Steve sighs. "Well, it's not mine either, but it's important."

Clint rolls his eyes and settles onto one of the kitchen stools. "Or so Stark and Fury say. Keeping up good public opinion and all that. I think the public opinion should be pretty damn good after stopping the giant robot from frying Albany last week, but that's just me."

His friend chuckles and smooths down the front of his formal suit jacket, like he needs something to keep his hands occupied. There is a slight crease in his brow; he has reservations about having to suffer through another event like this one.

Natasha lets out a low whistle as she enters the room, dressed in a simple black shirt and leggings. "Cap, you clean up nice."

Steve laughs and the worry melts away momentarily. "I try."

"I don't," Tony grins as he follows Natasha in. He holds out his hands, palms up. "I always look this good."

"Aw, and he's so humble," Clint mocks, lifting his bare feet up onto the other stool at the kitchen island.

"Shut it, Bird Boy, or I'll give an executive order here, and you'll all have to drink champagne, wear fancy clothes and get fawned over – wait, remind me again why you two aren't going?" The billionaire glances between Clint and Natasha.

"We're holding down the fort," the archer munches another bite of his apple, then adds, "In case something wacky happens."

"You'll call us if something does happen?" asks Steve, almost pleading.

"Of course," Natasha crosses the room to stand beside Clint.

"Please, dear God, call," the captain says seriously.

"Come on Rogers, it'll be better than you think." Tony claps his friend on the back then gestures to the doorway and starts heading towards it. Steve follows, though visibly reluctant, pulling at his suit again.

"I went to the last one," he grumbles.

"And it was better than you thought!"

Steve glares at Tony. "Because Pepper was there and she was able to keep some of those women away from me after you bailed and left me there."

Tony opens his mouth to protest as the pair reaches the elevator.

"Again." Steve gives the "down" button a poke.

"Well." Tony shrugs.

"They were at least seventy-five years old! They wouldn't leave me alone!"

The elevator chimes softly and the doors part before them.

"They were close to your age – that's good."

"Har har," says Steve humourlessly.

Tony's laugh trails after him as he and Steve step into the elevator, while Natasha and Clint exchange amused glances, thankful they have been spared a night of schmoozing. They've endured their fair share of events like this one, but given their jobs as spies, it's generally wiser to let Tony and Steve be the public faces of the team. Bruce's and Thor's required appearances are more selective as well: Bruce fares much better in a science crowd, while Thor is great at entertaining senators' wives, who find him manly and quaint.

Natasha twists the silver tap handle to get herself a glass of water as Clint works on the last of his apple.

"Bruce still down in the lab?" he asks without glancing her way.

"Last I saw him."

She hears his apple core thunk in the garbage can nearby but doesn't face him until she's finished drinking half of the water in her cup. When she does turn to him, the look he is giving her causes her pulse to quicken and she feels her cheeks grow warm. She holds his gaze for a moment longer, then drinks the last of her water. His eyes trace over every inch of her and a shiver trickles down her spine.

"I need to go for a run," she finally says, determined to ignore the focused heat in his stare.

"Then go for your run," he replies and stands. He shoots her a sexy smirk, then pads down the hall to his room. Just before he disappears through his door, he glances back at her and grins.

Damn it, Clint, she thinks, smiling too. He made her feel weak in the best way sometimes. She looks over at the clock on the wall.

She could go for a run tomorrow.

A couple hours later, Natasha emerges from Clint's room wearing an old blue t-shirt of his and a pair of black shorts. Bruce is in the kitchen and nods in greeting when he sees her approach. The kettle on the counter begins to whistle urgently and he unplugs it.

"Tea?" he offers.

She nods and while he retrieves a mug for her, she scoops a tea bag out of the box by the kettle. Bruce pours her some water, long tendrils of steam curling up and out.

"Thank you," she says and takes the patterned mug from him, dropping the tea bag in. "So, how goes it down in the lab, Doctor?"

"Oh, you know, I'm just tinkering."

Natasha raises her eyebrow a tiny bit as she stirs her tea, then says, "I thought it was something very important."

Bruce buries his head in the fridge but she still hears him reply, "Important tinkering."

"That project you said you had to finish..."

He comes out of the fridge with a jar each of mayonnaise and pickles in hand, and gives her a smile. It's one part sheepish, and one part unapologetic triumph.

"Ah." She sets down her mug, the corner of her lips turning up just barely. "I see Clint and I weren't the only ones who made excuses to get out of yet another unbearable charity event."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce says and fishes out a pickle from the jar with a fork. As he bites into it, however, that smile on his face gives him away. "I told you, it's very important tinkering." He adds with a chuckle, "Or it could be."

Natasha nods approvingly. "Well played."

When Clint joins them in the kitchen a few minutes later, with mussed up hair and a red mark peeking out from the collar of his worn gray t-shirt, Bruce tactfully does not comment. This is something Natasha appreciates about Bruce. She knows if it were Tony in the kitchen at that moment instead, he would be smirking insufferably and either outright asking how the sex was or skirting the question with innuendo.

Bruce doesn't look fussed or uncomfortable either, where as poor Steve usually seems like he doesn't know how he's supposed to react, especially when Tony gets going on the subject. It's not that Steve is a prude or even inexperienced, it's simply that it's not a subject he is at all comfortable acknowledging in public (even if the "public" happens to be merely the other team members).

In turn, aside from a mildly surprised raise of his eyebrow, Clint doesn't remark about the fact that Bruce is now dipping pickles into a bowl of mayo. At this point, they're too used to Bruce's occasionally bizarre eating habits to be really shocked by much of anything he consumes. Natasha is reminded of the time Bruce ordered sardines and limes on his pepperoni pizza.

"Tea?" she asks Clint and, at his nod, pours her partner a mugful.

"I wonder how Steve and Tony are faring?" Bruce wonders aloud and crunches down on a pickle covered with mayonnaise.

They were, in fact, faring horribly.

The night started out regular enough: women dripping in baubles doting on Steve, men with big bellies and even bigger bank accounts persuaded to donate money to the cause, and Tony floating from social circle to social circle being his usual blindingly charming self. Steve is holding his own, though, smiling and modest despite all the attention while Tony downs his fourth or fifth glass of champagne.

The program is only about halfway complete when all hell breaks loose.

The entire back wall of the banquet hall is ripped off, and the chandeliers previously washing the room in a pleasant warm glow, sputter out in a shower of sparks. Brilliant strobe lights bathe the area with glaring white light as people panic, screaming and shouting, bolting for the exits, scrambling away from the spotlights and the smoking heap that once was the far wall by the stage.

Steve stumbles through the crowd searching for Tony. He doesn't get very far when something collides with him with such force that he is slammed to the ground and knocked out cold.

On the other side of the room, Tony is frantically jabbing at his watch, trying to raise Jarvis or Pepper or the team – somebody – but something is jamming his signal. He curses repeatedly. His suitcase armor is in his car, and should come to him on its own, but if the signal tracking himself has been cut off, it'll take a few minutes before it switches to emergency mode. If he can just get to it –

There is an incredible roaring noise behind him. Tony turns, shielding his eyes from the light and his body from the frenzied guests. Before he can react further, he is in the same position as Cap: unconscious on the floor.

It only takes moments following Fury's call for Clint, Natasha, and Bruce to change clothes and climb aboard Stark's equivalent of a quinjet. Fury doesn't have much intel for them, only that the charity event the other two were attending has been attacked. There are reports of a number of injuries and no deaths yet, but Stark and Rogers are missing.

"We think it's Vosler," the director informs them as the jet levels out in the air. "And we think we know where he went. Sending you the coordinates now."

The trio approach the compound with extreme caution. The building is two levels with no windows, and only a few visible doors. It's unremarkable and deceptively innocent in appearance, appearing to hold no threats, but Natasha doesn't buy that for a second. She would be lying if she said she wasn't feeling particularly edgy with this mission.

Though she hasn't had to deal with Vosler and his madness personally, she's read the reports and heard the stories. The guy is off-the-rails crazy with an overblown ego, and he adores showy, elaborate set-ups. About three weeks ago, Clint and a small team of SHIELD agents had had to deal with a bomb that was set to go off at a certain time unless a puzzle was solved (involving marbles, chutes, pulleys, and axes). Following that incident, the archer had nick-named Vosler "Rattigan", after the villain in The Great Mouse Detective. Natasha thinks it's quite fitting.

Bruce, Natasha, and Clint edge closer, the scientist first, so he can change form and protect his team should the need arise. Hill is standing by a few blocks over with a team of agents at the ready, and she orders an electronic sweep of the building.

"Anything?" asks Clint, bow raised and arrow nocked, eyes darting over every line of the gray building and the expanse of dusty yellow dirt before them.

"Not that we can see," Hill reports. "There's a lot of interference – odd heat signatures – but as far as I can tell, there's only three warm bodies inside."

"Vosler, Steve, and Tony?" says Natasha.

"Hopefully," Clint mumbles. Sunlight glints off the arrow tip at the ready in his bow.

Natasha raises her gun and turns to cover their backs. Before long, they reach the doors to the place without incident. She stiffens a little, unsure. Should it have been that easy? Or is this all part of the trap? She knows they need to be prepared for almost anything – they're carrying even more gear than usual to protect themselves against the possible threats Vosler may have set up for them.

Bruce and Natasha hang back, every sense on alert, as Clint inspects the lock. It's not electronic, which surprises all three of them. The archer picks the lock swiftly, but still wary of possible booby traps, he proceeds with extreme caution. He backs away from the door and gives it a little kick to open it, bow again at the ready. When nothing immediately happens, he takes a slow step forward, poking his bow over the threshold and briefly pulling back.

Natasha finds herself holding her breath.

"Doorway's clear," Clint reports. He takes another step in, farther this time but no less gingerly.

This is torture, she thinks, watching her partner proceed, keeping an eye on every direction as he moves. Bruce follows, then Natasha. Something needs to go off somewhere. It can't be this easy.

Before she is entirely in the room with her team, Natasha bends a bobby pin into the catch in the doorjamb to prevent it from locking behind them, just in case, or should Hill need to follow for extraction. Planning to do it on the next door they encounter, it makes her think of Hansel and Gretel leaving breadcrumbs for their father in the woods, and she almost smiles.

The room the team have entered is unremarkable and rather like a garage: gray and cement, echoing and large without being expansive. There's nothing in it besides them, however – no decorations, no furniture, machines of any kind – and she notes this with worry as she tries to understand what Vosler's plans are.

In the next room, it becomes slightly clearer.

The second room is similar to the first in size and shape, though this room has lines carved into the stone floor, similar to a giant checkerboard. At each corner where four squares touch, however, there is a smaller square, some colored blue, some red, some green. Bruce and Clint exchange uneasy looks, stopping before the grid.

He wanted to lull us into a false sense of security, Natasha thinks. Here's the trap. Or maybe he just wants to screw with us as much possible. She decides it's probably the latter, when speak of the devil, the man's voice comes booming over speakers in the ceiling.

"Welcome," Vosler greets them, his voice harsh and entirely too glee-filled. "Let's not waste time because you and your friends don't have much of it, now do you? You know who I am, and I, of course, know who you are."

"Yeah, cut to the chase," Clint snaps with the roll of his eyes. "What are we supposed to do?"

"Let's see if your friends are as good at puzzles as you are, Agent Barton," Vosler says and Clint frowns, remembering his last encounter with Vosler's antics. "Red, blue, green. You cannot be on the same color. You cannot switch colors. You cannot be in the same row, the same column. You cannot touch the plain, uncolored squares."

"What happens if we do?" Bruce asks sharply, enjoying this about as much as the two assassins are.

"Why don't you find out?" Vosler laughs, and there's a loud click. Apparently he's done talking.

Natasha looks to Clint, who immediately looses an arrow. It flies to the tile in the corner farthest away from them and lands square in the middle. The moment the arrow touches down, the panel explodes, a small fireball erupting with a bone-jarring boom. The archer swallows uncomfortably.

"Okay. So there's that," he says.

"And we need to hurry," Natasha puts in. "We don't know how much time he's going to give us to do this before he blows us apart anyways."

"I could just use the Other Guy – run across, blow them all up," suggests Bruce. "I'd survive and could then come back and get you."

The intercom clicks back on. "I wouldn't risk that, doctor," says Vosler. "Particularly since the area you are currently standing on will fall away when the weight on it changes."

Bruce clenches his jaw and looks down, as if he can deduce if Vosler is telling the truth or not by staring at the cement beneath his feet.

"No exchanging spots, no going one at a time."

"How do you expect us to get on your little board then?" Natasha questions flatly.

"That is part of the puzzle, now isn't it, Agent Romanoff?" Click.

Clint runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up. "We have to step on together."

"We don't have to do anything," Bruce shakes his head, agitated. "We can figure a way out of this that doesn't involve playing with this guy."

"Are you willing to take the chance he won't kill us right now if we don't?" Natasha says.

"How do you know he won't kill us the moment we start his little game?" Bruce counters.

"Because this guy wants the challenge – he wants the game," she explains. She spent the whole flight here studying Vosler's case file. "He wants the opponent to be subjected to his psychopathic mind games. Killing us straight out is too easy and that's not the goal. Winning isn't even the goal, so much as playing."

Clint sighs, grimly agreeing with her. "If we don't play, we definitely die – and so do Steve and Tony. But we go along with this stuff and we have a chance."

"So what you're saying is, we don't have a choice," says Bruce, tone hard. "We die, or we maybe die."

Natasha almost shrugs. "There's always a choice, doctor." With a little smile she adds, "And is that really different from other missions we've been on?"

The physicist holds her gaze for another moment before pursing his lips slightly. "Well, then let's pick a color."

True to Vosler's word, the moment the trio step onto the colored parts of the checkerboard, the floor they previously were standing on rumbles and opens like a giant trap door. It is impossible to tell how deep the area beneath is, but by the way the doors echo when they fully extend into the hole, it is certainly a long fall.

They pick their way across Vosler's board, slow and smart. Twice they almost misstep, causing two of them to be in the same row or column, and once, when Bruce hops from one blue tile to the next, he nearly loses his balance. Natasha sucks in her breath sharply while Clint reaches out fruitlessly from across the board and calls his friend's name.

Bruce catches himself and exhales, glancing at the other two with relief, and they continue, eventually making it to the far side of the checkerboard.

When they reach the edge, Natasha is wary about taking a step forward, so Clint tries to test the floor a bit by firing some arrows down hard to see if it's a weight sensitive panel like the entrance. When it doesn't move, Bruce gingerly puts his foot forward, then the other. When he deems the floor stable and safe, the assassins leave the checkerboard and join Bruce at the door.

Clint rolls his shoulders and readies his bow. "I don't know how much of this I'm going to be able to take."

"Let's hope the guys are on the other side of this door," says Bruce, unconvinced.

"Let's hope Vosler is there so I can kick his ass," Natasha murmurs under her breath.

The third room is long and narrow like a hallway and seemingly empty, though Natasha doesn't trust that for one second. Bruce ventures ahead, and Natasha can't help thinking of Raiders of the Lost Ark when the guy rushes ahead of Indy and gets speared. She forces the image from her mind and reminds herself that should something like that occur, the Hulk will keep Bruce from harm, while she and Clint will be forewarned about the next obstacle.

There's a distinct click and for a second Natasha thinks it's Vosler on his intercom, about to taunt them again. Somewhere in the middle of the hall right by Bruce, however, there's a small explosion and suddenly smoke and gas cloud the room.

"Bruce!" Natasha cries in the same second Clint shouts, "Get down!"

The world spins and she hits the ground hard, her partner atop her. The wind rushes out of her and her head cracks against the floor, stunning her briefly. Clint has covered her body with his, and in the moment it takes for her to recover her senses, she realizes the strange pressure on her face is a gas mask. Around her, she can see the gas floating mostly above them, while Clint is pressing the mask to her face with one hand, and sputtering and hacking into the crook of his other arm.

Natasha's heart skips a beat. She reaches down to her belt to retrieve her own mask, and frowning, she shifts so she can press it onto Clint's face. They switch their hands so that they're each holding their own mask on and after several seconds, the gas is visibly clearing.

Another couple seconds pass, and then she feels Clint ease a few inches off her, then a few more, until he is fully off and sitting up. He taps her shoulder.

"Tasha, we're good. It's already dissipating," he notes. The air is indeed much clearer as the gas moves up to the ceiling and out a vent.

She raises herself up beside him and can see Bruce laying flat on his back in the middle of the hall. The fact that he didn't change form is extremely concerning.

"Not so sure about Bruce, though." The archer grimaces, removing his mask. "That hit him hard – he was close."

Natasha pulls her mask away from her face slowly, and her partner seems oblivious to the fire in her eyes.

"Why did you do that?" she asks sharply.

"It's fine, Natasha." Clint climbs to his feet, dusting himself off.

"Clint, why the hell did you do that?"

He ignores her, re-clipping his mask to his belt.

"I had my own mask," she presses hotly.

"We better make sure Bruce is all right. I don't know why he didn't Hulk…" Clint adds in a mumble, still refusing to acknowledge her anger.

She clenches her jaw tight. "I had my own mask."

"I know." He relents sharply, but doesn't spare her a glance as he starts down the hall towards Bruce.

She grabs his forearm and stops him, forces him to look her in the eye. "You used yours on me."

"There was a gas bomb. It could've killed us."

"You used your mask on me."

Clint twists out of her grip. "I just reacted faster."

Natasha curls her fingers into a hard fist at her side. She doesn't have the words to express how much this bothers her. It is one thing for her to risk getting gassed herself; it is another for Clint to expose himself in order to save her. She glares at his back as he strides over to Bruce, unconscious on the floor.

She struggles with her emotions and follows. Hearing Natasha approach, he says over his shoulder,

"You're welcome, by the way."

"Clint," Natasha grits her teeth. "You don't get to – "

"Yes, I do," he replies before she can finish. "And let's not squabble about saving each other's lives. You've saved me plenty of times. I'm the hero this time; you can get me next time." He flashes her a grin.

That's not the point, she wants to say. What if the gas had been fatal? What if you were laying there choking, giving up your life for me?

"You could've grabbed your own mask," he says, leaning down to inspect Bruce. "I guess my reflexes are better."

He's trying to make light of it like they normally do, but she doesn't want to let him. She's still glaring daggers at him, but Clint is ignoring her. Natasha bites her tongue before she snaps again, though she can tell by the way he's dodging her looks that he knows exactly how furious she is with him.

Suppose I had to do this all by myself, she thinks. Suppose I had to rescue all your asses. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time.

She decides to save the argument for another time and instead focuses worried eyes on Bruce's face, which is pale and slack. "Is he…?"

"No," Clint assures her. "There's a pulse."

"Let's get him out of the way."

Together, the pair maneuvers Bruce near the door they came in and prop him up in the corner. His airway is clear and he's breathing alright, so they surmise that the gas must've only been some sort of knock-out gas. She hopes he won't Hulk out when he wakes up disoriented, but she knows they can't stick around until he comes to in order to calm him. They have to press on and find Tony and Steve as fast as possible – and they don't know what other horrors Vosler still has in store for them.

She taps the comm in her ear. "Hill? Banner's down. You have our coordinates?"

"Copy," comes Hill's voice. "You want a hand?"

"If you can swing it."

"Dispatching an extraction team now."

"Watch yourself – this guy has booby traps in every room," Natasha warns. "Second one is full of explosives. Third had some sort of gas."

"Copy. ETA three minutes," Hill returns.

Natasha glances at Bruce's unmoving form, reluctant to leave him there out in the open, especially with Vosler still at large.

Clint catches her gaze and his look says I know. "We can't help Rogers and Stark if we stay here. We don't know how many more rooms there are until we find them."

We can't help Bruce if we go, she thinks.

"We can't do anything for him right now either, Nat," Clint says as if reading her thoughts. "Hill is coming. He'll be alright."

"Agents are crossing the grounds in two," Hill's voice crackles in her ear. "We've got you covered."

Natasha thanks Hill and double taps her comm. She nods to Clint, steeling herself, and guns and bow up, they approach the next door.

Clint and Natasha make it through two more rooms, and by that point, Natasha is seriously edgy and pissed off – an extraordinarily dangerous combination. She silently vows that Vosler is going to pay for putting them through all this.

Twice Vosler comes back on the intercom to taunt them, and when Clint and Nat are doused with some sort of thick, colorless slime, the villain is practically crying with laughter. The goo turns out to be slightly corrosive as it eats holes in their clothes and starts to leave a mild rash on their skin.

Clint curses loud and attempts to wipe the stuff off as best he can, but everything is drenched with it. They exit the slime room and head into a room that's dry and well-lit, with Vosler standing on the far side, chortling to himself. He's stocky but tall, with dark hair (though visibly balding) and a thin mustache.

"You are nearly there – well done," he sneers joyfully, as if this has all been a fun little video game. For him, Natasha supposes, it has been.

"Yeah, good for us, Rattigan," Clint retorts. He tries to ready his bow, but the slime is clinging to every surface and his fingers slip. Vosler is virtually beaming and Natasha starts forward purposefully, emotionless, gun in hand.

She is so freaking done.

"I would stay back, if I were you, Agent Romanoff," Vosler warns, ignoring the archer's jibe.

Behind her, Clint calls, "Nat, watch it, we don't know – "

She doesn't slow down and Vosler makes a motion with his arm as if he is about to reach behind him. "Do not take another step fo – "

Without breaking her stride, Natasha cuts him off mid-sentence with two shots to the chest.

"Tasha," Clint says with a touch of exasperation. "You can't just shoot him."

She reaches the downed villain's body. "Already did."

"We might need him – "

Vosler is struggling for breath, but managing to laugh. "You – you think I was not prepared for – "

Natasha aims her gun at his head and he stops, the smile slipping off his features. "I can still shoot you in the head where you're not covered in Kevlar."

Vosler swallows and she can see his mind working rapidly – this is one scenario he genuinely hadn't considered: that she would be so brazen. She doesn't give him the chance to come up with a solution and instead slams her fist into his head, knocking him out.

Clint has caught up by this point, bow and arrow aimed at Vosler's unmoving form. "Look, I want to kill him too, but if we need him, Nat…"

"We'll deal," she replies flatly. "I'm tired of playing games." She taps the comm in her ear. "Hill? Proceed. He's down."

"Copy, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha bends down and starts stripping Vosler. First his jacket, which she tosses to Clint, followed by Vosler's shirt for herself to use. They use the clothes as rags to wipe down themselves and their weapons. Next she removes the bullet-proof vest with two sizeable dents in it and throws it far out of reach of the unconscious villain. She deftly slips a set of zip ties out of her belt and proceeds to secure Vosler's limbs. Tightly.

"You didn't know if he had anything set up in this room," Clint shakes his head, cleaning off his quiver. "You just plowed straight ahead – he could've killed you."

"He didn't." She frowns at the smattering of holes in her suit across her arms and legs caused by the slime. The skin beneath is itchy and she wonders what chemicals the pair were drenched with.

"After the exploding tiles, gas, trap doors, laser beams and the other shit he put us through, that was unnecessarily risky, and you know it."

Natasha stops wiping herself down and faces her partner. "What I know is what he wanted: a final showdown. He wanted to put on a performance. He taunted us and forced us to puzzle our way through this damn maze of his. It was all for this."

"Nat."

This is what she does: she reads people, she gathers information and profiles based on how a person acts, and what they say. She hears what others don't, can get a lock on motives and personality after a short amount of time. She's read about other missions involving Vosler; she studied his profile on the quinjet over here. She's unclear why Clint is questioning her on this when he knows she's right.

She continues, not taking her eyes away from Clint's, trying to make him properly listen to her. "He wanted to savor it, draw it out to the grand finale. He expected us to be manipulated into dropping our weapons and go into the final part unarmed. He wanted to beat us and trap us. He wasn't going to kill us right away."

Clint presses his lips together briefly. "I get it, Nat, but…"

She crosses her arms over her chest. "He underestimated us – I wasn't going to let him have what he wanted."

"But, you couldn't have known – "

"You couldn't have known that gas wouldn't kill you," she interrupts him, sharp and cold.

He falls quiet at this.

We both could've died, and we didn't, she thinks stubbornly. We're even. This is practically the story of their lives.

Natasha doesn't meet his eyes again or continue the conversation until they've cleaned themselves off as best they can. When she finally does look at him, his mouth is set in a grim line.

He's angry that I gambled with my life? she thinks. Well, now he understands why I was pissed at him earlier.

They wordlessly face the door and as Natasha reaches out to open it, she prays they find their friends on the other side so they can finally end this nightmare.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Clint can't help openly staring at the sight before him, his mouth slack. Natasha isn't doing much better.

"Did we suddenly get stuck in a Bond movie? Like one of the really cheesy over-the-top ones that everybody likes to make fun of? Because this is actually possibly one of the most insane things we've ever had to deal with." Clint shakes his head. "And I'm including everything that came before in this funhouse. And the giant sea turtle fish things coming out a wormhole to space, and that slimy three-headed thing from another dimension last month."

Natasha can't disagree, swallowing hard.

The pair have walked into a massive room, into what appears to have been some sort of factory once upon a time, though it has since been modified. They spot their team members, though the situation is possibly about as bad as it could be.

Tony is without his suit, strapped down flat to a metal gurney, with an enormous whirring saw suspended above him. Currently it's roughly twenty or so feet away from connecting with him, but it's crawling steadily closer. Steve, meanwhile, is to the left, bound and gagged, slamming his shoulder against the glass walls of the small one-man tank he's contained in. Water is trickling in, already ankle deep. There's a huge clock situated between the two, ticking too loud to be a regular clock.

To make matters worse, as the two assassins frantically survey the set-up, it's clear that Vosler has thought of perhaps every angle to ensure that rescue could not be more difficult. The tank and the saw are connected by pulleys, panels and cables. Open the tank, and the saw drops. Stop the saw, and gigantic metal tumblers slam into place to render the tank completely unable to be opened.

Clint is cursing under his breath and Natasha agrees.

Tick, tick, tick…

"Okay, I'll take the saw, you take the tank," Natasha instructs, eyes darting from mechanism to mechanism trying to spot a trap or a way out. "I'll try to get Tony out of the way – then we don't have to worry about the saw and we can just focus on Steve."

Clint nods and the pair separate.

Natasha crosses the expanse before her at a hard run, hopping over an unmoving conveyor belt and ducking under large rusting machine arms. She clambers on top of a set of metal crates and shimmies up a thick set of chains, before alighting onto a beam situated beside Tony's gurney.

"What the hell took you so long?" he snaps the moment he sees her, but his voice is brimming with relief despite the heated tone. One side of his face is bloody and bruised, his once-pristine suit is torn and dirty, and he's nearly drenched with sweat.

"Had to stop for drive-thru," she quips and glances up at the saw, noting its gradual descent. She swears she's seen this in a movie somewhere.

"How wonderful for you – I hope it was worth it," the billionaire complains. "Tell me you have a plan?"

"I am…" she begins, studying the multiple thick leather straps binding Tony to the gurney. "Working on it."

"Work faster, because there is literally a giant saw coming at me and it's going to chop off my lower half!" he says, his tone turning into a shout. "I like my lower half! Some of my most favorite body parts are located on my lower half!"

"Some?" Natasha smirks, brandishing her knife and getting to work on the absurd amount of straps.

"Okay, only one part in particular. It's so big and – "

"Stop talking. God, Stark, I think you are the only person alive who could manage innuendo when they are literally minutes away from being cut in two."

"It's why you love me," he replies, sounding shaky despite his best efforts.

"It's why I hate you. Now, shut up."

She's through the first set of straps by his ankles in seconds, but immediately fears she's not moving fast enough. The whine of the saw is harsh and loud, and she's certain it might even be descending faster. While approximately twenty or so feet above her teammate when she'd arrived, it's now closer to eight or nine.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God…" Tony is mumbling.

To distract him, Natasha asks, "So why didn't you just call Jarvis to send you some help, huh? Thought that's what he was for."

"There was some sort of jammer – I couldn't get a call out and then I was unconscious," he explains as she dispatches the second and third straps around his calves and thighs. "Thought you all would be here sooner. Where's Bruce?"

"Out cold. There was gas. And slime and lasers – it was very exciting. Too bad you missed it."

"That explains the moth eaten garb you're wearing," he teases. His eyes are back on the saw, however, and she hates the fear there. She's going to get him out of this.

Another strap gone, this one across his stomach, and now the saw is roughly five feet and closing. She's ducking low but can still feel the air kicking up above her. She briefly wonders how Clint is faring with Steve, but she hasn't heard any noise of triumph and assumes their situation hasn't improved.

"If I die by brutal slicing, make sure you tell Pepper – " Tony starts.

"Save it," Natasha snaps, vigorously slicing through the straps at his chest and arms as fast as she can. The saw is right above them.

With another snap, the last strap is gone and she unceremoniously grabs Tony by the collar and hauls him off the platform. He scrambles frantically, she holds him tight, and then the saw drops the last couple feet, sparking on the gurney.

There's a brief moment for Natasha to feel a little sick about how close that was, Tony to laugh nervously, tangled atop her, and then she hears Clint shout from below.

Tony and Natasha hurry to their feet and he follows her (though much less gracefully) as she hops from one beam to the next, vaults off onto another tower of crates, then swings down chains to the floor. Natasha pounds over to where Clint is standing outside the tank containing Steve. The water has risen to the captain's shoulders by this point, and like the saw, she suspects that it's moving faster the longer they are here.

"I tried opening it," Clint gestures to the huge handles situated on top of the tank's lid. "But I couldn't do it by myself. I tried to figure out how to stop the water flow, but there's no controls for it. That damn slime did a number on my explosives – they don't work worth a shit. I couldn't blow open the lid or the glass."

Natasha blows air out her lips and tries not to look directly at Steve, who is still bound, gagged, and so utterly helpless.

Tick, tick, tick…

"Wow," Tony shakes his head at the clock. "That is annoying. I couldn't hear it with the saw, but that is… amazingly annoying." He faces the tank again and she can see his eyes jumping around the area as he tries to find a solution as well.

"Well there's two of us now, let's get the lid off," she suggests. "We can pull him out after that."

Clint nods and the pair of them climb adjoining machinery to get themselves atop the tank. The handles are massive and Natasha wraps both hands around hers, gripping it tight. At the same time, the pair push and Natasha lets out a groan of strain as the metal moves laboriously slow, scraping and grinding. Suddenly the handle gives way smoothly, clanking into place with a booming thud. This is followed by a series of other even noisier clanks and Natasha steps back hastily, worried.

Clint curses loudly. "I think we just locked it."

Natasha swears under her breath as well – Vosler had been expecting them to try that. "Now what?"

The archer glances at the mechanisms surrounding them and she does too, but she can't see a solution. Her worry level is rising, though she keeps it contained. They can get out of this – they've gotten out of worse.

Well, she thinks. Worse might be relative.

"Tony, anything?" Clint calls down to the billionaire.

Natasha turns hopefully but Tony has collapsed on the cement floor. She shouts for him and the assassins scramble down off the tank. She makes it to him first, quickly checking for a pulse.

"What the hell – what's wrong with him?" Clint questions anxiously.

Natasha shakes her head. "I don't know – maybe he has a concussion. Maybe Vosler put some sort of sedative in him before he left him to get chopped up. He's alive, just unconscious."

Clint rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration. "What do we do? Nat, what do we do?"

Tick, tick, tick…

She licks her lips and can feel her heart hammering in her chest. Nothing is coming to her mind. She wonders if this was Vosler's plan all along and she was wrong about him; that he wanted her to take him out of the equation so he couldn't be used to help them. That he always intended for only one teammate to be saved from this, but not both. She wonders if she has just chosen Tony over Steve without realizing it by rescuing him first.

The tank is almost full, and Steve is kicking desperately, struggling to keep his face above the water. Natasha gets to her feet and hurries to the tank, running her hands over every inch, trying to figure out a plan, an angle, a flaw, anything. This cannot end; she will not let it end. Not like this.

Clint starts pacing, yanking arrows from his quiver, trying to see if there's anything he can do to fix the situation with them. She can tell he's pissed off and freaking out, but he's holding back, stubbornly focusing on discovering a solution. When he has tossed almost all of his arrows to the ground, furious and frustrated, he starts pulling items from the utility belt around his waist instead, desperate to find something useful.

The water level is at the very top and there is no more room for oxygen. Steve floats downwards in the tank, holding his breath. Natasha knows he can hold it for a lot longer than most people, but she doesn't want to test how long. She feels panic rising in her chest – this cannot be it, this cannot be over, please, Steve, hold on…

"Wait, wait!" Clint rushes over and grabs Natasha.

"What?"

"The lipstick!" the archer shouts.

Her heart leaps into her throat.

She has a tube of lipstick that is actually a nifty little piece of tech that SHIELD created for their female operatives. It has all the appearances of being a normal tube of lipstick but take the whole tube of red out and mash it onto a surface, and it activates, becoming a powerful explosive that will go off in seconds.

"You're gonna have to Ethan Hunt it," Clint says frantically. Natasha doesn't keep explosive gum on her person but the lipstick is the same concept, and this mission is pretty impossible without it.

"It's all I can think of. Unless you have a better plan."

Natasha swallows hard. Unfortunately, she does not.

She digs feverishly into her pockets and pouches to retrieve the lipstick, hands shaking slightly. The explosion will most definitely rupture the tank, but there is a very good chance the explosion may also kill the man inside it. As Steve's body squirms and struggles, completely submerged, however, she knows they are entirely out of options.

"God, Steve, please don't die." She squishes the brilliant red stick into a pasty lump in her hand and slaps it against the tank.

The pair stumble backwards, ducking behind a platform and hauling Tony's unconscious body with them.

Tick, tick…boom.

There's a deafening crashas glass and metal splinter, and the heat of the blast gusts past them. They hold their position for a split second longer, then jump to their feet and sprint to Steve, careful not to slip as water splashes across the floor amongst shards of glass and debris.

The captain is face down and there's blood. Natasha stops breathing, tries to prepare her mind for the worst.

I killed him, she thinks as Clint bends down to inspect their fallen friend. I couldn't save him, and then I killed him.

The archer turns Steve over and removes the gag, checks for breath. Natasha kneels down beside them, sees that the blood is coming from a dozen or so gashes scattered across Steve's chest, limbs and face.

Then Steve is choking and sputtering, and Natasha feels dizzy with relief. She helps lever the captain to a sitting position while Clint slaps Steve's back.

"We got you – you okay?" Clint asks, eyeing the other man with concern.

Steve takes a few ragged breaths but nods. He wipes at his face where water and blood are mixing and making tracks down his face.

"That was close," he says weakly and almost smiles at Natasha.

She swallows and doesn't reply. Too close.