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”Natasha, don't."
Steve knows what she is up to even before she unbuckles and gets up from the co-pilot seat. There are still dozens of Quinjets and interceptors around. He will be busy enough getting them out of here while there's still chaos and at least not all of the rockets and laser rays are aimed at their engines.
They should make a beeline for the nearest safe retreat, not linger in the air over the ruins of the Helicarrier, watching blood-red floods eat the fires of the explosions as it sank.
It's crazy and she knows. She is jumping into the middle of the crossfire.
She doesn't care.
"I have to."
She tosses her mobile on the instrument board when the latest of her calls is unanswered like all the others before. Not that she really expected anyone to pick up that phone.
She makes quick work of everything that would only slow her down or get destroyed underwater. Steve's restless pleas and attempts of reasoning she hardly even hears.
Reason and rationality has left the building days ago.
He tries for a last time, reaching for her hand but lets go at once when she only does as much as turn her gaze at him. He knows that look.
"They evacuated most of the people ..."
She just stares. Most isn't good enough.
They can't be sure of course- none of the Avengers has heard of their sixth team member since long before Steve and Natasha left for DC. And no one's seen him since shortly after New York.
They told her, he is fine. Regenerating.
She knows he isn't. Yet she has never tried, never asked.
If she doesn't do it now before it could be too late, she will never forgive herself.
"I can't protect you down there, Natasha."
And Steve won't go with her. He can't. They can't both get lost in this when there's so much at stake.
"I know. I can do it. Just drop me."
The tone in her voice convinces him to shut up.
He walks her to the hangar to open the gate for her and tells Sam to steer as close to the ship as possible. Which frankly is much too close. They get hit several times.
Wilson is good, better than both of them, he shoots both of the attacking jets out of the sky down before they can get in serious trouble.
But now they definitely have unwanted attention.
"Get out of here. Go get the others. Do what you can. I'll make it."
Natasha shortly squeezes Steve's hand on the lever and ignores the unhappy look on his face when he pulls it down.
By now they understand each other. He knows when she doesn't compromise.
The impact knocks the wind out of her but she makes it underwater without breaking anything. A good part of the ship is still intact but the heavy, solid walls are creaking and bending around her and she knows, she's out of time already.
She keeps on going. On swimming. Running, climbing, crawling in the end, and with every passing second, she wonders if she's searching through her own grave for nothing.
But in the end, she finds him, in the last place she expects him to be, in one of the laboratory holding cells. It's 12 decks below and the water hasn't claimed everything yet but it's already rising.
The pressure of her sinking surroundings clicks painfully in Natasha's ears and outside she can hear the shrill squeaking and gushing of her home being destroyed.
She makes it to shut the door in time, but the cell has been starting to fill up already and he's face down on the floor. A deep bloody cut runs from his forehead down to his temple, probably from where he fell when the ship went down.
He's coughing and wheezing when she yanks him around, her hands ice cold and trembling from more than the icy water, but he doesn't wake.
She could tell herself that he has just hit his thick skull a little too hard once more but she knows better. His elbows are scarred by needle penetration. The marks of sensors drilled into his brain, all along his hairline are fresh.
Rage pulsates through her veins, fueling her battle-worn, exhausted body with new adrenaline.
She should never have left.
She strips him of everything too heavy and too wet to carry, knowing the way out won't be any easier. After a split second of hesitation, she climbs onto the toppled cabinet to retrieve his bow, pinned high on the wall, right above where the bed has been before it's been washed away.
Why she does it, she doesn't even know. Clint owns more than one of these. There's more gear for them all to be retrieved from Stark Tower before they can even think of blowing a strike.
But this is the one that got him out of New York alive.
She needs something to make her believe it wasn't the last time.
She hangs the weapon over her shoulder by the string and lifts his body over her other before she takes a deep breath and opens the heavy steel door again. A new wave of cold wetness leaves her shivering and cursing, nearly pushing her over.
Going back up demands the last power she has left after single-handedly fighting her way out of dozens of soldiers who were supposed to be on her side. Two of the stairways that she takes are swamped. She has to swim and drag her companion along more often than she can run.
Then she has to dive, again and again, and at one point she's sure she won't find the nearest vent entry before she passes out.
But then they break through, finally, and she gasps for air, her sight dizzy with threatening blackness, her hands shaking so heavily she nearly loses her grip on Clint's lifeless body.
Half a dozen bullets hit the water around her nearly before she can even get orientated. The wheezing sound of another magazine fired and the roaring of two ships nearing leave her no choice but to dive under again. Hectically she starts searching for something, anything to wait until the aftermath of the battle is over.
But she knows better. They won't let her get away.
Growing hopelessness, threatening to turn into fear, chokes her when she watches the deadly silhouettes flying over her head, blurred by the salty water stinging in her eyes. Her throat tightens much more than it should with the sudden realization that she's dead already. They both are. Before they even got a chance to fight this whole mess, to make it right.
Before she got a chance to tell her partner how much she missed him.
Wrath mingles with panic, a dangerous heat throbbing through her chest that cuts her time even shorter until she'll have to go back up.
Not that it will make much of a difference. They're both not even wearing Kevlar. They're not used to having to protect themselves on their fucking home base. From their own fucking people.
Natasha reaches for one of her Glocks under her jacket and puts more force into the nervous paddling of her legs to move out and away from the shallow protection of a small door right above her.
If they want her down, she'll be down shooting, the way maybe she should have done it earlier. A few days ago, in fact.
Then at least she wouldn't have had to watch everything blow up that she once believed in.
Before she can make the move, there's suddenly another shape flying by, a human and winged one, and then there are explosions.
A gasp of relief on her lips, she breaks through the surface again, the burn hard and heavy in her chest, and she knows, Clint next to her isn't breathing
Nothing she can help now, not right away, she has to get them out of here first.
Steve comes down flying close enough for her to reach for the ladder hanging from the hatch, but taking Clint with her is taking more strength than she has left. She feels something in her arms give in as she wraps the ropes and steel rungs around herself and pulls her partner close, trying to protect his body with hers from the shooting still going on around them.
She sees Sam fly by from the corner of her eye, firing on everything that moves, and allows herself the tiniest bit of hope when the automatic winch begins to pull them up. By now she is half deaf from the too-loud cracks and blows around her and from going through too much pressure in too short a time. Blood is flowing in small trickles from her ears.
Something sharp, and hot cuts into her side but she hardly feels it. Her body whole is aching with strain. The improvised metal straps are pressing the air from her lungs and all but rearrange her organs painfully. All she can do is hold on to the lifeless body of her partner and pray she's not shielding a corpse.
Then they're in and she crashes on the wonderfully cool surface of the passenger room, the sudden relaxation in her too tense muscles drawing a quiet scream from her lips.
Sam is there within a blink and curses, something very filthy and colorful she remembers from Clint when he's dwelling in army memories. Her new friend throws her some bandages before he leans over her companion, knowing her well enough already to know where her priorities lie.
Natasha is breathing heavily, trying to find her composure and strength back but can't quite move, not yet. Instead, she presses something white and thick against her bleeding side while she watches Sam from heavy lids, and tries to read his face.
Tries to read anything from him, when he starts pressing the water from Clint's lungs. She counts breaths exchanged from one mouth to another and brutal impacts on an already bruised chest and waits.
Finally, after what feels like hours, there's the ragged raspy sound she's been waiting for and she falls back on the floor with a sigh of relief that turns into a scream when she tries out to reach for her partner.
"Don't. It's dislocated. Hold on, we're nearly out."
Sam makes sure his other patient is as alright as can be before he helps Natasha stick that bandage provisionally to her hip. He takes the chance to press her hand tightly, showing his appreciation and admiration for her move.
They think alike.
She remembers to thank him for saving their asses before he runs back to the cockpit to help Steve get them away from the immediate danger.
With some effort, her teeth bared, Natasha rolls to her side and puts a trembling hand onto Clint's lifeless form, whispering his name with shyness and uncertainty she doesn't know from herself. Not ... before New York.
She wants him to wake up. She's terrified of him waking up.
She's afraid he's in worse a state than she hopes.
She's even more afraid he'll know and remember everything much too well.
He's pale, gray nearly, he's lost weight and his arms look like he hasn't used his bow since New York. Probably he hasn't.
But he lives. He's back with her.
She doesn't apologize and won't ever, not even to herself. She was needed elsewhere and she couldn't have broken with their authorities before, not in a way that would have been necessary to get him out of there.
She needed the information they have now to strike against the ones she used to serve.
But she regrets. She can just hope she'll have enough time to make up for not coming to him earlier.
Something vibrates in a pocket of his pants and she frowns, surprised that they let him keep his phone. It's very obvious he wasn't locked up in this room for a fun trip.
Only when she sees hundreds of messages coming in on the display she understands. Understands why he never answered.
Of course, they blocked the signal, even on this personal device that Stark has given them all right after New York, and maybe he didn't even know.
The last incoming message is the one that Steve sent an hour ago.
AVENGERS ASSEMBLE
Natasha lowers her head to Clint's weakly heaving chest and lets the tears flow.