#stevenatfic

He rolls off her quickly, holding out a hand to help her up. Tony blasts through the air overhead, knocking the sniper bodily out of the tree.

“Trees around you two are clear,” he calls over the comms. Steve signals his thanks, and looks down to see why Natasha hasn’t grasped his hand to pull herself up yet.

His stomach drops into his boots. Natasha’s eyes are closed, and there is blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. He can’t see where she’s hit on the black fabric of her uniform, but it can’t be good.

“Nat’s hit,” he says, his breath catching. “She’s- Nat’s hit. Someone- I need help.”

“Copy.” Steve’s not sure who replies in his ear. He’s already dropping to his knees beside Natasha and bundling her into his arms. Her eyelids are twitching, and he chooses to see that as a good thing. At least she’s not dead yet.

“Quinjet is a hundred metres dead ahead of you, Cap,” Tony says. Steve starts to run, and the jostling seems to rouse Natasha, who makes a quiet pained noise.

“Hang on, Nat,” he mutters. “Almost there.”

Clint is on board when he runs up the ramp. He has the stretcher half unfolded, and grapples with the other half so Steve can lower Natasha onto it.

“Where are you, Stark?” Steve demands.

“Here,” Tony says, landing on the ramp. “I’ll pilot. Look after her.”

Steve does as he’s told. As they take off, he unhooks the first aid kit from the wall. Clint is holding Natasha’s hand, murmuring to her. Steve approaches, and realises that her eyes are open.

“Hey,” he says, dropping down beside her. “Hold still.”

“Morphine,” she croaks. “Pretty please.”

Steve manages a smile, but it’s undercut by his own fear as he realises the pool of blood under her is spreading still, and she looks too pale. He prepares a syringe, and unceremoniously sticks her with it. She relaxes a fraction. Steve hands Clint the scissors and he cuts away his partner’s suit until they discover the source of the blood: a gunshot wound in her stomach. Steve blanches, and Tony looks over his shoulder.

“Gutshot,” Clint tells Tony, as Steve presses a wad of gauze down over the wound. The tautness of his voice betrays just how bad a situation they’re in. They are at least five hours from the facility, even at top speed, and it’s going to be an effort to keep her alive that long.

“Clint?” Natasha asks. Her voice is shaky, weak from pain and morphine. She looks at her partner and Clint drops down to be closer to her.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s all gonna be okay. Just lie still.”

Steve pulls back slightly, his hand still on the gauze, putting pressure on the gunshot wound in her stomach. He tries not to think about the blood that’s already soaked through the gauze and onto his hand. He tries not to think about the fact that they’re hours away from help, and a first aid kit might not be enough to save her.

“Steve. Steve.”

It’s Clint, snapping him back to reality. Steve increases the pressure on the gauze pad under his fingers, and Natasha yelps in pain, gripping Clint’s arm.

“We’ve got one more dose of morphine,” he tells Natasha.

“So we wait until it gets bad,” she groans. She coughs, and more blood flecks her lips. Steve grimaces.

“Lie still,” Clint repeats. “Steve, there should be a battery powered cauteriser in there somewhere.”

Steve rummages for a moment, then pulls out a blue plastic wand. “Got it.”

Natasha grips Clint’s hands, and Steve realises it’s up to him to stop her from bleeding out. He grits his teeth, and clicks the little wand on. It takes a few moments to heat up, then it beeps. He lifts the gauze off Natasha’s wound, and looks at her. She nods, and he sees her loosen her jaw ever so slightly.

Focusing solely on the task at hand, Steve goes to work. He touches the tip of the instrument to the edges of the bullet wound. Natasha lasts until the third touch, and then she cries out with the pain of it. The smell is unbearable, and Steve is sure he’s going to be sick by the time he’s done. Natasha is shaking with pain, and turns her head so she doesn’t have to watch. Clint holds her head with one hand, and grips her fingers with the other.

After what feels like hours, it’s done, and Steve begins to clean the wound carefully. When it’s as clean as it can get, he bandages her, and slumps back against the wall. Clint shifts so she can hold his hand comfortably, and Steve finds his hand resting on her leg. He just wants all of this to be over. Natasha is supposed to be snarky, bickering with Tony and bantering with Clint. Seeing her like this, pale, covered with blood, gripping Clint’s hand weakly and trying to rest, is unnerving.

Steve heaves himself up, and packs up the kit. He leaves it by Clint, and then goes to flop into the copilot’s seat. Tony glances over at him, and Steve realises he has Natasha’s blood all over his uniform.

“You did good,” Tony says. His voice is gruff, and it gives Steve the tiniest skerrick of pleasure when he realises that Tony is scared shitless just like the rest of them. For once, he has no jokes, no quips. He’s just frightened. Steve claps him wordlessly on the shoulder as they jet towards home.

-

“Is she out of surgery?”

Steve has finally cleaned himself up, and even slept a little. Clint has done the same while Natasha has been under the knife, and he’s making himself a coffee.

“Helen’s with her in medical,” the archer tells him. “She’s still out, but she’s going to be okay.”

Steve relaxes. Dr Cho is the best in the business, and though he’s never needed surgery with his special brand of regenerative abilities, he’s glad Tony could get her to the facility on such short notice.

When they are finally allowed in, Natasha is just waking up from the anaesthetic. She looks so vulnerable that Steve almost wants to leave. He doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to see her so pale, so tired, her hair messy and her eyes glazed from painkillers. But Clint pushes him into the room, and he goes to her bedside, because he can’t help but be worried about her.

“Hey, Romanoff,” he says. Clint stoops to kiss her forehead, and she makes a soft noise of appreciation.

“Thanks for saving my ass,” she murmurs. Steve squeezes her hand.

“Anytime,” he says. His voice is thick. They came so close to losing her.

“Hey,” she says. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I know,” he says. “Sorry.”

He drags up a seat, and Clint does the same on her other side.

“How are you feeling?” Clint asks her. Natasha snorts softly.

“Like I got shot in the stomach,” she says. “Honestly, what kind of question is that?”

The sarcasm seems to strengthen her, and Steve chuckles softly while Clint makes an indignant protest. They chat for a while, until Natasha drifts back off to sleep. Steve leaves Clint watching over his partner, but that clenched feeling in his gut hasn’t left him even by the time he showers and goes to bed.

-

Steve half expects to see Natasha up and about within a few days. He’s had to scold her before for pushing through her recovery as fast as she can. He’s seen her ignore shoulder wounds, shots to the leg, broken bones and various illnesses in favour of training or missions. When he doesn’t see her after the third day, he goes to her quarters and knocks on her door. There’s no answer, so he lets himself in.

Clint has gone to meet with Coulson and Fury, so Steve finds Natasha propped up in bed, reading a novel. Her hair is plaited messily to one side, and she looks exhausted but comfortable. When Steve enters, she looks up. Even the small movement of her head makes her wince. Steve goes over to her bed and hovers, unsure of what to do.

“It’s okay,” she says, and pats the bed. “Come here.”

He obeys, and sits on the edge of the mattress.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

It’s an odd thing to say, when she’s the one bandaged and bedridden and he’s fine.

“I’m fine,” he says. Even as he says it, he knows it’s not true. Natasha looks at him, looks right into his soul. That’s what it feels like, at least. He sighs. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’ll heal,” she says. “I promise.”

“I’ve never seen you this bad before.”

She shrugs, which makes her wince again. Steve wishes he could do something to take the pain away.

“I just need some time,” she says. “Now tell me what’s really bothering you.”

Steve hangs his head. How can he apologise for falling behind her? He was supposed to have her six, to protect her. He was the one with the goddamn shield, and now she’s here, she almost died because of him.

“Steve.”

He has to wonder if Clint is subjected to this kind of mind reading. Probably. It’s like she knows exactly what’s going on in his head before he can even process it himself. She’s looking at him, and he can tell she knows he blames himself. Her eyes are soft, and he knows if she wasn’t in so much pain she’d be laughing at him.

“I’m alive,” she says. “I know you’re gonna blame yourself anyway, but you kept me alive. That’s what counts.”

Steve wants to argue, but she motions for him to come closer. He’s not actually sure what she’s going to do until she puts her arms around him and hugs him. It’s gentle, so as to avoid hurting her, but it’s enormously comforting, and Steve lets his head rest on her shoulder for a moment. If it was anyone else, he would be embarrassed by this display. Natasha knows how to coax emotions out of him. He’s heard people call her cold, intimidating, and a whole host of other adjectives, and now he knows it’s because only a select few ever get to see the side of her that is warm and kind. Natasha is the Black Widow, but this person, the one holding him and telling him it’s alright, this is someone else entirely.

“I can’t stop you worrying about me,” she says. “But if it’ll make you feel better, feel free to wait on me hand and foot until I can get out of bed on my own.”

He laughs, and the tension melts out of him. Being teased is his home ground. He knows the terrain well enough to be comfortable again.

“Send me a list and I’ll raid the kitchen for you,” he promises. She’s looking weary again, so he stands, and she watches him.

“Could you come back later?” she asks. Her voice is soft, not quite needy, but there is a definite tone of not wanting to be alone. “Clint won’t be back until tonight,” she explains.

“Sure,” he says. “Get some sleep, I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

He leaves, and closes her door behind him. Sometimes he forgets that not everyone is as invulnerable as he is, but times like this serve as a reminder. The people around him are never a given, and though Steve doesn’t think he takes any of them for granted, almost losing Natasha has brought up a fear in him he didn’t know existed. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he pushes it down, covers it with other thoughts, nice things he can do for Natasha while she’s stuck in bed, movies they could watch, stories he can tell her. Any of that is better than dwelling on the fact that he could have lost her, and wondering what he would do if that happened, and worse, wondering if next time he’ll be too late.