The thing with emergencies is that everybody shows up. Fire, police, paramedic. People. Strangers.

And everybody thinks that have the know-how and the authority.

It's a complete and utter cluster-fuck is what it is.

And Clint just wants to grab Steve and get the hell out of there.

Instead he's questioned by three different rookie police officers before detective Wilson finally reaches him and shoos them away on coffee runs or whatever it is that unnecessary law enforcement do when they're pretending to be useful. Clint's just been cleared by the paramedics, Natasha's disappeared on some gurney in the back of an ambulance, sirens wailing, and Steve's being carted away, forced against his will into the back of another ambulance.

"I'm fine," he insists, struggling.

"You're a minor," the woman protests, all but dragging him by his collar. "You don't get to decide that." She's small, with white blonde hair spiked on the top of her head and piercing blue eyes. But the way she looks at Steve, holding a blood pressure cuff like a threat, makes all six-foot-three of him collapse onto the gurney.

She's got the cuff around his arm and is inspecting his hands critically before he can do so much as wince.

Clint takes stock of the blood first, most likely from when Steve shattered the mirror, but also maybe from knocking Ivan's teeth in a bit. A firm hand on his shoulder brings Clint's focus back to the detective. To the sirens and chaos and shrill radio beeps.

"Let's do this enroute," Detective Wilson says suddenly, steering Clint towards Steve.

Clint looks up, confused.

"I need statements from both of you and I presume you want to be with your brother?"

Clint nods and climbs into the ambulance behind a glowering Steve. He's pretty sure people on the street are taking photos. They're going to be news tomorrow. Clint can just see it now, the words football star and drug bust ending up on the same page. He collapses into the seat beside Steve, head dropping back against the metal railing. Phil is going to murder them.

The paramedic, Carol according to her nametag, smacks her hand against the inner wall of the ambulance. "Good to go," she yells as the doors are slammed shut behind them and they lurch onto the road.

They drive without sirens, but Carol makes enough of her own noise, rummaging through drawers and containers for supplies. Satisfied, she presses mountains of gauze to the back of Steve's hands, tutting as he moves about to explain the scene with Ivan and the mirror to detective Wilson.

The man simply nods his head, scribbling into a black book. "And is that when you hit him?"

"I didn't mean to that hard? He's not . . . he's not dead is he?" Steve sounds odd as he says it.

"No. Bastard's still ticking. But even if he was dead, son, it sounds like a cut and dry case of self defense. You just saved that girl's life. Both of you." The detective clears his throat. "Injury report. How's it looking over there?"

"There will be heavy bruising. Minor lacerations." Carol looks up at Steve. "We'll be picking glass out of you for days," she comments.

He shrugs. "Doesn't even hurt that much."

"That's the adrenaline talking. Give it an hour."

Clint's story is much the same, expect for the parts that come before. The parts that start when he met Natasha, a girl shrouded in darkness. A girl who never smiled. He tells the detective about the bruises. About Ivan and the drugs and the abuse. He talks until his voice is raw and he realizes he's maybe said too much. Maybe more than he had been asked, but the detective simply nods his head, closes his black book and slips it back into his pocket, eyes flashing something dangerous.

They part ways at the hospital and Steve is ushered away by the same no-nonsense paramedic.

Neither of them have the energy to argue with her so Clint wanders his way into the waiting room. His mind is a wreck right now and he just wants someone to tell him what to do next.

That someone arrives twenty minutes later.

It's Phil.

. . .

The hospital smells like the diner water pitchers when they come out of the dishwasher. Stale. Chemical-like. It sours his cheeks. Even the muted green walls with their painted animals and gardens of flowers make him feel sick—this is a children's hospital. And like it or not, Natasha is still just a child.

This isn't supposed to happen to children. He's surrounded by kids with fevers and runny noses but somewhere down one of these maze-like halls his girlfriend is bleeding out on a gurney.

He takes a deep, steadying breath to keep from kicking over the Lego house some poor, sick kid has left in middle of the waiting room floor.

Clint's never liked hospitals. Every visit he's ever had in one of these places has ended with some doctor prodding and poking at bruises formed by hands bigger than his and awkward conversations with social workers.

The memories ratchet up his nerves to an unbearable level as he paces. There's a process to go through now, which Clint is very much aware of because it's the system and anyone who's ever been in the system knows about processes.

With Ivan in cuffs in the back of some cruiser, Natasha's next of kin boils down to a big fat nobody which automatically defaults her into the school's custody. So when Clint sees Fury bustle through the doors, good eye scanning the joint like he might come under attack, he's not at all surprised. In fact, he's almost relieved because it means there will be news.

And if someone doesn't tell him what's going on soon he might just strangle the security guard that keeps glancing up at him over his computer screen.

Fury meets Phil, speaking in low, hushed whispers like the spies Clint knows they really are (Phil's still in one of his suits), off to the side of the waiting room. Then Fury disappears behind some doors with a nurse and Phil drops down in the chair next to where Clint is standing.

"Sit," he instructs, noting the chair next to him.

Clint does but it's a struggle because his whole body just wants to climb out of it again like some gangly creature. He's fighting with some subconscious part of himself and it's making him a little nuts.

"How's Steve?" Clint asks instead.

"He'll be fine," Phil says. "The nurses are patching him up now. A few cuts. Bruised some knuckles. That's all. Tony's coming to pick him up."

"Good," Clint says. "That's good." His mind is moving a mile a minute, but not so fast that he misses the nuances of conversation and he knows by the way Phil shifts that the tone is shifting.

"I never want to get a phone call like this again," he says, wringing his hands over his knees. "When that officer called and told me you and Steve were involved and on your way to the hospital, you know what I thought?"

"That we were going to be arrested?"

"That you were hurt, or dead, or I don't even know." He takes a breath and Clint can't remember seeing Phil like this. Ever. "I never want another phone call like that. Do you understand? You boys mean everything to me. I can't lose you."

He hugs Clint before he's ready for it, dragging him half over the chair. It's awkward and the arm of the chair presses into his hip, but Clint melts at the touch because he's been driving on autopilot for over an hour now and the emotions are just too much.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into Phil's jacket. "I'm sorry. Sorry . . . sorry."

"It's okay," Phil tells him, soothing and calm. "She's going to be okay."

Clint nods because any other reality is not one he can bear.

When Fury comes out fifteen minutes later it's with news. Natasha's in surgery. She lost a lot of blood. There's extensive damage. All things Clint knew subconsciously.

Fury falls into the chair beside Phil, massaging his temples with one hand, and the three of them sit like that in silence until the surgeon appears an hour later.

Natasha is moved to recovery and when the nurses are satisfied that her stats are stable they take pity and Clint is allowed to visit.

She's unconscious, of course, still heavily sedated after the trauma, but the monitor above her head blinks a steady green line.

Clint parks himself beside her bed in one of those terrible, flat backed chairs, until the nurses kick him out for the night. At that time Phil drags him from the hospital, managing to get a plate of dinner into him before he crashes. He never makes it up to his room, but when he wakes, Steve's sitting on the end of the couch by his feet.

His hands are bandaged in an intricate figure eight, tufts of white gauze peeking out between his fingers.

"Anything broken?" Clint asks as he sits up, voice still garbled from sleep and probably not enough water.

"Nah."

"Hurt?"

"Like a sonofabitch, but they gave me good pain meds. Swelling should go down in a few days. It was a pain to do up my pants though. I almost had to ask Tony for help." Steve offers up a small smile. "So, Fury called while you were asleep. Natasha woke up this morning. She asked for you. Phil said he'll—"

The first thing Clint does is get his bearings and process. The second thing he does is scramble from under the blankets and crush Steve in a hug.

"I don't know where the hell you learned to fight like that, man," Clint says.

Steve laughs a little. "Me neither. I wasn't really thinking. I just . . ." he gestures with his hands as Clint pulls away. ". . . smashed. Next thing I knew he was unconscious and you were covered in blood. I didn't know if it was yours or Natasha's and it freaked me out."

"Yeah, well, it's been a heck of a few days."

Steve nods. "Are you hungry? Sam literally hasn't stopped cooking since yesterday."

At the mention of food Clint's stomach awakens. He looks to the door though.

"Visiting hours don't start until eleven."

Clint sighs. "Yeah, I could probably eat then."

. . .

The diner is closed for the day due to extenuating circumstances. Phil puts a sign on the door. The town is small; people will figure it out soon enough if they haven't already.

Clint manages to eat, enduring a never ending round of questions that require detailed explanations of what happened with Ivan. Sam's cooked a feast in his worry and everyone's there to show their support. Thor and Bruce help ferry food onto the counter as Peggy instructs them with the precision of a military sergeant.

Never one for being the center of attention, Clint diverts most of it to Steve and his insane heroics, who despite his modesty, handles it better. Still, Clint can't say that seeing all the familiar faces isn't comforting. Even Maria Hill shows up before school, sneaking in the kitchen door (because of course Sam showered her that). She squeezes his shoulder gently, telling him everything will work out, and if Clint isn't mistaken, presses a kiss to Sam's cheek before she leaves.

At exactly eleven-oh-one Clint is standing inside Natasha's room. As if sensing his presence, she shifts, coming out of another foggy bout of sleep. He steps closer. Close enough she can reach for him.

"Hey," she gurgles, eyes barely lifting, though she definitely sees him because she smiles.

"Hi, pretty girl," he says, brushing his fingers along her cheek.

She chuckles, though it sounds like a frog in the back of her throat. "Doubt that."

Clint shakes his head. "You're always beautiful, Tash," he whispers, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead. It seems to be the only part of her he can reach with setting off some sort of alarm.

"Sure, sure," she mutters around a yawn.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired."

"Are you in pain?"

"No." She shakes her other hand, showing him a press-pump. "I get to drug myself up."

He huffs a laugh through his nose. "As long as you're not hurting." His hand trails over hers, resting next to her hip. He can see the bulge of bandage beneath her gown, the one covering the wound. "Did the doctor explain what happened?" he wonders.

"Yeah," she says, and even through the croak Clint can hear the emotion. "He said the scarring was substantial. Inside." She pats her hip, eyes batting.

Clint swallows.

"They don't think I'll be able to have children." She stares at the ceiling instead of at him. "I wouldn't have been a good mother anyway. Look at the way my family turned out."

"Tasha," he whispers, but there's nothing else he can say. So he holds her hand and shifts close enough that she can lean her head against his stomach as her shoulders shake.

. . .

She's been in the hospital for eight days and Clint shows up every day religiously. Except for when Tony or Steve show up to drag him to class, he's there, by her side. Phil shows up, too. And sometimes they talk while Natasha rests. Sometimes they don't.

There have been more people in and out of Natasha's room in the past few days than Clint can keep track of. Fury had to sign off on some things for the last time since she's become a state problem now, which means these mysterious strangers are most likely social workers and therapists and lawyers.

It makes Clint uneasy. Natasha just takes it all in stride, brave-faced, nodding silently.

On the ninth day Phil shows up and Clint's sitting by her bedside again. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is deep.

Phil pulls another chair next to the bed.

"They're going to take her away now."

Phil lays a hand on his knee. "She'll be safe, though. You did that, Clint. You saved her."

He furrows his brow as he watches the monitor. Her heart. Spike and fall. Spike and fall. Then why did it feel like he was the one dying?

"I can't lose her, Phil." He feels the first bead drop off the edge of his chin. It takes him by surprise— the tears. He wasn't going to cry, not here. But the realization is just so overwhelming. That the last memory he has of her is a drug-induced stupor. Pale. Paler than usual against the hospital white.

He's not ready to say goodbye. Not yet.

His hand curls around the edge of the chair when a woman with cropped black hair enters the room. She's all business with her pant suit and pumps. Clint knows the look. Child Protective Services. A file is tucked under her arm. Thin.

"Are you family?" she asks politely, her smile short, sweet. It makes rage bubble inside Clint.

"No," he says, feeling the weight of the words thump against his gut.

"Then I'll have to ask you to leave now. There are some things I have to discuss with Miss Romanoff."

. . .

Clint leaves long enough to go home and change, to wash the slime of hospital out of his hair. Phil drives and when Clint comes back after dinner, dressed in the purple shirt and sweats he met Natasha in all those months ago, he takes the van.

Her room is blissfully empty of all medical personal when he arrives and she opens her eyes as soon as she hears his footsteps.

"Peggy sent you some things," he says, holding up a duffle bag. "Girly stuff. For when you shower."

Natasha manages a smile. "Good. I never want another bed bath as long as I live."

He chuckles, snatching a chair and dragging it over by the head of the bed, but Natasha makes a grumbling noise in the pit of her throat, prompting him to stop and look up.

"Come up here," she asks him. "With me."

"Tash, I don't want to hurt you."

"Please."

He sighs, but concedes to her pout, unable to stand looking at her like that, asking so little of him. Together they extricate as many of the wires and tubes as they can, to avoid having Clint lie on her IV line. He crawls in beside her, moving gingerly, half expecting the monitors to go berserk and the nursing staff to rush in and tackle him like a bunch of SWAT. He knows they could totally do that too. There are still so many cords and tubes, but somehow Natasha gets herself wrapped around him and Clint imagines she looks sort of like an octopus; he doesn't complain.

"Do you know where they're sending you?" he asks, tracing the length of her arm with his fingertip.

"Not yet," she mumbles.

"Okay," he says. He's panicking and he knows she can feel the race of his heart, her head is pressed that tight to his chest. "Tasha, I don't know what to do."

"There's nothing," she says. "There are no girl group homes with room in the city. Wherever I end up," she swallows a loaded breath, "it won't be near here."

He hugs her closer and his eyes well again. "It's not fair," he murmurs into her hair. Inhaling. Exhaling. Memorizing everything about the moment. The way she smells. The weight of her in his arms. He knows the real thing is slipping away. That soon it'll be gone and all he'll have is the memories. "There has to be something," he tries, struggling for the words.

"You've done everything for me, Clint. Even when I pushed you away." Her lips tremble as she speaks and he has to bite his lip to keep from completely breaking down. "You saved me, and even if I only got to keep you for a short time, then it was enough."

"Don't say that. This isn't goodbye."

"You don't have to keep saving me, Clint. You've already done that."

"Tash," he says with half a laugh, because it sounds absurd, these words that she's saying, and he just needs to confirm that it's nonsense. "You're not breaking up with me, are you?" I'm no good for you. Lies. She was everything that was good for him. This isn't goodbye. It's not. It's—

"No, silly," she whispers, hand over his heart, the sound of the truth a lump in her throat. "I'm setting you free."