#bthb

“Negative. The Quinjet stays airborne. This is a solo recon mission. Do not engage.”

Fury’s voice crackled through Natasha’s comm, firm and cold as always.

She stared at the monitor, where your vitals had just vanished.

One second, steady heart rate and biometric data, and the next second, gone. Black screen. Silence.

Her heart stopped.

“I’m going in,” she snapped, hands already working the controls.

“Romanoff, stand down! We have assets en route. Extraction team-”

“I’m not waiting,” she growled, already plunging the Quinjet down through the clouds. “You can lecture me later.”

And with that, she cut the line.

The Hydra base loomed beneath her. Half-collapsed and flanked by jagged cliffs, quiet in the way that danger always is before it explodes.

She landed the jet hard and left it idling as her boots slammed against the ground one after the other. She sprinted through the rotting corridors, your last coordinates burned into her brain. The metallic scent of blood hit her before she found you.

You were crumpled against a rusted support beam, unconscious, your gear shredded, wounds soaked through with blood. The floor beneath you was dark and sticky. Your skin was so pale and dread seeped into her veins like ice.

“Y/N!” Her voice broke as she dropped to her knees, pressing fingers to your throat. “No, no, no… come on.”

Your faint, thready pulse fluttered against the pads of her fingers, barely there.

She touched your face, her gloves now slick with your blood. “Baby, can you hear me?”

You groaned faintly, your eyes trying to open.

“I got ambushed,” you rasped, barely audible. “There were more...trap…”

“Shh,” she breathed, tearing open your vest to check the wound on your side. It was deep, too deep. “Save your energy. I’ve got you now.”

She opened her field kit with trembling hands, applying a coagulant to slow the bleeding, tying another wound on your upper thigh with pressure bandages, whispering reassurances through gritted teeth.

And then, your breathing faltered. Your chest stilled.

“No.” Her voice cracked. “No, no, no, please…”

Your eyes slowly shut and then...nothing.

She stared in frozen horror for one heartbeat, then launched into action. The heel of her right hand pressed repeatedly against your chest, counting compressions, desperate breaths between each cycle. “Don’t you do this to me. Don’t you dare leave me.”

“Come back to me,” she whispered again and again. “I can’t...I can't do this without you.”

You didn’t respond.

But she didn’t stop.

Until finally...finally, you gasped, choking on air, eyes flying open in panic before collapsing back.

“Oh god,” she sobbed, her forehead pressed against yours, her tears mixing with your blood. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

A familiar voice sounded in her comm as her earpiece crackled back to life.

“Romanoff, it's Rogers. Fury said you went off-script. We’re two minutes out. Bucky’s with me. Where are you?”

Natasha exhaled a shaky breath, cradling your head in her lap. “Sublevel three. She's hurt...badly. I need evac.”

“Sit tight. We’ve got your back,” Steve replied.

A moment later, she heard the distant echo of boots. Gunfire. Metal groaning. Hydra was still crawling in the dark like rats.

She tightened her grip around your body.

“You stay awake, okay?” she whispered. “Help’s coming.”

Steve and Bucky crashed into the hallway moments later, Steve’s shield reflecting light like a beacon of hope. Bucky panted as his eyes darted around to stay vigilant.

“Nat-” Steve’s eyes locked on the two of you. “Oh my god.”

“She’s lost too much blood,” Natasha said quickly, her voice steel even though her hands were shaking. “I lost her briefly...I got her back...barely.”

“I'll take her,” Bucky said, moving to scoop you into his arms.

“No,” Natasha snapped. “You cover us. I’m not letting go.”

Bucky nodded silently, stepping forward to clear the corridor ahead with his rifle. Steve took the rear, shield raised as Hydra agents began pouring in behind them.

Natasha carried you in her arms, blood soaking through her suit, her face set in grim determination.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered again and again. “I’m right here.”

They made it to the Quinjet under fire. Steve held the ramp, deflecting bullets. Bucky mowed down the last squad as Natasha brought you in and laid you down gently on the floor.

You were unconscious again. Breathing shallow. But alive.

“Get us out of here!” Steve shouted, jumping aboard as the hatch slammed shut.

The Quinjet roared into the sky.

Natasha sank to her knees beside you, gripping your hand like it was the only thing anchoring her to this earth.

“She stopped breathing,” she whispered to Steve, barely able to get the words out. “I had to bring her back. I-”

“You did,” Steve said gently, crouching beside her. “You saved her.”

Hours later, you lay in the med bay, patched and stabilized, heart monitor beeping softly in the background.

Natasha hadn’t left your side once.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, her head was resting against your chest, her hand gripping yours.

“…Nat?”

She jerked up. “Hey...hey, I’m here. You’re okay.”

You gave her a faint smile. “You cried.”

She laughed through the tears, pressing her forehead to yours. “Yeah. I did.”

“Guess I’m special.”

“The most special,” she whispered, cupping your face. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

She leaned in, kissing you softly, like she was afraid you’d break. Her lips trembled against yours.

“I love you,” you murmured.

“I love you more,” she said, voice thick. “You have no idea how close I came to losing you.”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered. “You came for me.”

“Always.”

Sionis’ lip curls, he pulls the trigger. 

Click.

Jason tries to smile around the gag at Sionis. He wonders distantly if he even can die. If the universe would even let him go back to sleep. 

“You’re fuckin’ nuts, kid.” 

Roman withdraws, half-smiling, and stalks around Jason slowly. The room behind him is dark, dirty, a garage.  A couple fluorescents dimly flicker above them, making the tools on workbenches, covered in rust, or blood, gleam. 

Roman’s dress shoes halt behind him, as if he’s done thinking. 

Fingers wind into his hair slowly, deliberately. Sionis likes to gloat, especially over the Red Hood, especially since Jason’s pretty sure the last time they met he made Roman piss himself. Or was it the time before? The memory makes him chuckle, or what passes for a chuckle around the gag. 

Roman yanks his head back sharply, bending his neck at an uncomfortable angle, and before Jason can get his bearings the pistol is jammed under his chin. 

“Somethin’ funny, asshole?” 

Jason can’t control the way he grunts in surprise, or the ragged inhales through his nose caused by the awkward angle of his neck. Roman talks close to his ear, 

“Remember, kid, I don’t need anything from you.” He yanks Jason’s head back harder, presses the gun further into the soft flesh beneath his chin, “You’re here because I wanna see you squirm before I drop you in the fuckin’ river.” 

Jason swallows hard, trying to will his composure back. He’s not someone who squirms. 

“You feelin’ brave?” Roman pulls the hammer back on the pistol, “Feelin’ lucky?” 

Jason holds his breath. 

Click.

“Ha!” Roman releases his hair, patting him firmly on the shoulder, “Look at that—look at that.” 

He takes slow steps back into Jason’s view,  and sits heavily on the stool facing Jason. Roman takes a long swig from a beer bottle, draining it, and then lets it clatter to the floor. 

“Let’s try again, huh?” 

Roman lunges forward, shoving the gun into Jason’s ribs. 

“This is your last dance, Hood.” 

Click. The gun moves to his kneecap. Ice slides down Jason’s spine—how many duds have they gone through? Three? He’d almost rather take a bullet to the head than his––

Click. 

Sionis sucks on his teeth, “I’m almost sad to see you go, honest.” The gun comes down on the back of his hand, the one they broke earlier, pinning it to the arm of the chair with the barrel. Jason can’t stifle his pained yelp behind the gag, 

“Almost.” 

Not his hand, not his fucking—

Click. He lets out a breath, twinging his broken ribs. Four? That was four, he thinks? How the fuck did he lose count? Did Roman say six or eigh—?

CRACK. Jason sees stars, his head thrown into his shoulder when gunmetal hits his cheekbone. Rough fingers latch onto his chin, forcing him to look right at Roman as he holds the gun against Jason’s shoulder. 

“Fifty–fifty shot.” Jason hears the hammer pull back, “It’s this, or the next one goes in your head-–” 

BANG.

Jason screams behind the gag, head lolling forward, body trying to curl inward as Sionis howls with laughter. Blood pours down his chest, his ears ring, his eyes water at the burning, clawing agony of a point blank gunshot. 

While Jason struggles to draw down a breath, Roman reloads the pistol, saying something Jason doesn’t quite catch. Not that he thinks he misses much, when the gun barrel presses into his other shoulder. 

Fuck. He protests behind his gag, he can’t help it, but at the same time he forces his eyes up. Forces malice into his expression as Roman leans in again, digging the still hot gunmetal into his collarbone,

“You gonna sing for me again?” 

Jason swallows around the cotton in his mouth. He won’t. Not if he can help it. Roman grins. 

Click. 

This time, Jason’s breathing stays even, his mind focused on his bleeding shoulder. He thinks the gun clicks again, but things start to go fuzzy around the edges.

 Shutting down would really piss Sionis off, but it would be a resignation. Giving up on not dying this way. 

But Jason can’t always help it. Sionis’ words start to melt together, his mind no longer tracking how many times the gun clicks against his wrist, his temple, his sternum. 

Fuck, Jason, focus. 

Maybe it’s the blood loss, his shoulder steadily draining his awareness away. He slips, and slips, and–

Reality snaps back into sharp, agonizing focus. Jason can’t make sense of it though, there’s shouting, and his shoulder hurts, it hurts so fucking bad and…

Someone has their fingers in his shoulder. 

He yells through clenched teeth, jerking against his restraints in a vain attempt to get Roman off of him. 

“--It’s me, Red Hood, breathe.” 

Who?

Jason can’t seem to get his eyes to focus properly, but he finds the fingers driven into his shoulder. Blue and back fingers smeared with red. 

Dick?

“Don’t look at it.” A hand—a much gentler hand than Roman’s—turns his jaw away from the sight, “Backup is coming.”

Jason finds Dick’s face. Nightwing’s mask. He looks serious, and Jason finds he has to focus hard to follow what he’s saying, 

“--Hey, Can you hear me? You’re losing a lot of blood, I need you to stay awake.” 

Jason hears himself agree. When did he lose the gag? Dick’s free hand snaps in front of his eyes, 

“Focus.” It sounds like Bruce. Before Jason knows it his head is lolling forward again, 

“Red Hood.”

  Jason blinks hard, trying to clear the black dots spotting his vision. 

How did Dick find him? What happened to Black Mask? 

He thinks he hears other voices, and Dick shouting. He tries to stay awake, he really and truly does. 

“Red Hood.” 

A car engine, the smell of blood and leather, 

“Jason!”

Someone digs into his shoulder. He tries to stay awake…he tries…it’s fucking cold.