Her focus drifted to Clint.
Clint, who was slumped against the wall.
Clint, who was bleeding out onto the floor.
Natasha looked away, the detonation device feeling heavy now in her hands. But she was perfectly capable of what she was about to do.
They both were.
"Well," she whispered, cocking her head to the side.
"'Till kingdom come."
The glass exterior of the hotel facing the apartment block shattered with the explosion.
3 days earlier
Spain, Northern Hemisphere
40.3, -3.8
Leaning on the door frame presenting the entrance to a large apartment, the former Russian spy stifled a yawn.
"Clint!" she shouted with a hint of annoyance. She didn't change her posture when she heard the distant sound of running water stop and faint footsteps now heading towards her. When the door opened with a mechanical beep, she strode straight in.
"You said you'd be out for 3 more days, Barton."
Clint sighed as he shut the door behind her. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? The towel around his waist was secured by his right hand.
"I needed some time."
"No you didn't," retorted Natasha, "In fact, you'll wish you hadn't even thought about taking time off when I tell you the latest goss at the office."
The archer shot her a less than interested look. She was a little giddy, something that was equally as dangerous as her in an earnest manner.
"C'mon, nothing? Not even a 'oh go on then, you never talk about work'?"
Clint's countenance didn't flicker.
"Nat, look. I've had a rough day and -"
But before he could say anything further, he realised Natasha had retreated into the bathroom. He followed her, watching as she dismantled a first aid kit she had found.
"Look," she said, holding up surgical thread. "For stitches."
Clint chuckled, his mood lightening a little. "That cut on your cheek needs a band aid at worst."
Natasha glared at him, raising her eyebrows expectantly.
"That gash on your back's going to need more that a rinse."
Sighing again, he took a seat on the cold floor. For such an exquisite hotel in such a warm country, the bathroom was awfully cold. Natasha took off her coat and stopped to place it by the sink before sitting on the closed toilet seat. Slowly, and occasionally placing her hand on Clint's shoulder for comfort, the spy stitched up his wound.
"Tasha?" he asked after a minute or so in silence.
"Hmm?"
"Don't let Stark find out about this."
"Oh," she said, carefully pulling the thread through. "I don't think he'll get the chance to know."
The archer knew something was hidden in the comment, but shrugged it off. He let her finish fixing him up, then tenderly caught her wrists as she held her hands up to show she was done.
In the light of the bathroom, it was easy to see the raw and damaged flesh. He'd seen it so many times before; she was so committed to her play that she simply didn't pay attention to it any more.
"Come on, that's nothing." she argued as Clint dropped one of her hands to grab some bandage.
But she knew it could get infected if she wasn't careful. And as their actions spoke more than a thousand words, there was no further conversation between her and him as he carefully wound the bandages over her wrists. When they had finished patching each other up, Clint threw on some pyjamas then led Natasha to the sofa that dominated a large proportion of the living space allocated. The spy wondered why Clint had chosen such an audacious apartment in such a wealthy part of Spain for his part time accommodation. If the HYDRA inhibited S.H.I.E.L.D were to search for their best assassins now, it would take them very little time to find their beloved archer. But then again, where best to hide than in plain sight?
HYDRA.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
She'd forgotten it all, albeit for only a few minutes.
"Clint."
"Yeah?" he replied sleepily; even though the clock on the TV read just past 10pm, both him and Natasha were both worn out. Clint stuck to one side of the couch and Natasha to the other, both sunk back with their heads on the armrests.
"S.H.I.E.L.D's gone."
"Well yeah, I've seen the news."
"No, but really, gone." she muttered, but she still carried a bit of sarcasm in her voice. "HYDRA's too far in. That mission you 'finish' in 3 days' time? Weren't doing it for S.H.I.E.L.D."
Clint glanced over at her â her eyes appeared heavy with sleep.
"Aren't you jetlagged?"
"Little bit." she admitted, but with no such tone.
"So what do we do?"
Natasha answered without pause, genuine seriousness in her voice.
"Start from the top."
Clint felt like she had more to say, but he let the faint Spanish chatter from the TV wash over them for a bit. When he looked at her next, her hair was faintly aglow with the light from the TV and she appeared to be sleeping.
"Nat?" he whispered to confirm his observation. Although she didn't answer, he knew that she could well be faking sleep. Despite this, he cautiously rose from his seat and leant down to pick her up. From there, he carried her into the bedroom, the master Russian assassin drooped in his arms. Carefully, he lay her down onto the neatly made double bed, her breathing slow and steady. Clint walked into the other room, locked the door, drew the curtains and switched off the television.
For some reason, he was quite at ease about this place. He'd been settled here for coming up to 3 months, and was high up enough to feel comfortable without going up to the roof. But something about Nat turning up bugged him. She brought comfort, yes, but she ultimately brought trouble. And trouble, at this moment, was not something either of them could afford.
Navigating through the darkness back to the bedroom, he prepared himself for the night.
The nights in the Spanish city apartment were hot and stuffy, but the air conditioning functioned well enough in the bedroom for it to be almost cool.
Natasha sat bolt upright suddenly, her fingers digging into the mattress. She gasped at the air, her eyes locked onto the nothingness that hid in the dark.
"Nat?"
Clint gently reached out and touched her arm. She blinked back into existence. Then, exhaling accordingly, Natasha let herself fall back onto the bed.
"What time is it?" she asked. With regards to what she was wearing, the concept of comfort didn't occur to her - she could sleep wearing a potato sack if she needed to.
"Uhm, quarter to twelve."
"Great."
"Long night ahead, huh?"
He could just make out her head nodding amongst the shadows.
"So what was it about?"
The spy considered telling him what the nightmare had entailed. Moments earlier, she was drowning in a lake, gasping for breath, held down by weights. The water was burning her throat as it filled her lungs. She had been weak. Vulnerable.
"Nothing." she sighed again. "Just, nothing."
Clint inched closer to her and began brushing her hair behind her ear. She tensed up at his touch but he didn't stop, and eventually she relaxed, her body accepting his comfort. Natasha turned over onto her side and Clint nuzzled his head into her neck. She brought his arm around her waist. Lights off, and air conditioning quietly whirring, they settled down to sleep.
She ducked. Their weapons were on the floor now, their fight restricted to the capabilities of their own hands. He swung round again, missed - and the fighting was now close proximity. It carried them to the railing, and he forced her head back, pulling on her hair. Their bodies were close - intimate - but she felt crowded by his hostile presence. She leant forward to bite his arm, but he was gripping her around the waist now, smashing her head on the railing once, twice, three tâ
Natasha kicked Clint between his legs and struggled as he tightened the grip on her waist and hair. She pulled out a knife that was strapped to her ankle was about to slit his throat when she opened her eyes and realised what she was doing.
"Clint!" she gasped, tossing the knife off the bed and trying to relax so he'd loosen his grip. "Clint. Wake up."
She kicked him again and caught his wrists at her waist.
"Barton. Come on."
He awoke at this and promptly released his victim. Natasha let go of his arms, turning over now so she was faced down on the far pillow. Clint lay panting on his back, fingers knotted into his hair.
"Nat, I'm sorry," he began, to which she simply replied:
"Go to sleep."
The time was 1:24 am.
Clint woke up again angry and shaken. Launching himself out of the bed, he pressed his hands onto the window, only just restraining himself from throwing his fist onto it. He shot a glance towards Natasha, who was curled into a ball and quietly drumming her hands on the mattress. He heard slight gasps of desperation from her, but this somehow drove his sudden anger further and he knocked a lamp over. Cursing under his breath, he kicked the wall once and stormed to the kitchen.
Natasha clenched her fists in attempt to recover from the third nightmare of that night; she knew Clint could hurt himself when he was like this. When she could see straight again, she slid out of bed, the darkness not dampening her senses.
"Barton?"
She followed the sounds of breaking glass and angry mumbling to the kitchen. The archer was surrounded by pieces of cutlery and broken ceramics.
Clint hadn't responded to her, and she stumbled back a little as a bottle of wine shattered at her feet.
"Clint."
He hit the high cupboards multiple times, hardly attentive to Natasha lingering in the doorway - or much else for that matter.
"Look, if you're gonna go all Hulk on me and smash up the wine then I may as well just leave."
He wasn't listening.
"Clint."
The thuds on the stained wood of the cupboards were rhythmic now and she could sense the angst in Clint's nature.
"Clint. Stop."
Without the need for subtlety, Natasha knew she had several options as how to deal with the archer. It being 3am in the morning, the easiest option involved the frying pan at her feet.
"Not sorry." she whispered as she brought the pan down onto his head. When she was sure that she had only temporarily incapacitated her partner, she grabbed hold of his legs and arms and swung him onto her back. And so, remembering to switch the light off before she left, she made her way back to the bedroom.