Fill in the Blank - Clintasha

9

**December 1st 2009**

Clint lay awake, hunger gnawing at his stomach in a dull, unending ache. 

There was nothing he could do about it and wow didn't that just fucking suck. That morning he and Nat had made an unexpectedly quick exit from Brasilia and as a result Clint's stomach was almost as empty as his wallet. What a joy.

Y'see, the whole thing had been a freak accident. Well, accident was a strong word. He'd blown up a building, and yeah, it hadn't been part of the plan, hell the target hadn't even been in the building. He hadn't done it on purpose exactly.

But the place was a small thing, no more than three floors, and Clint had been pretty sure the place was deserted. He should've checked first, he knew he should've. But he'd been a little carried away at the time, no time to think, no time to breathe.

The excuses hardly mattered. 

The point was: He'd fucked up, and people had died because of it.

Nat had bought them plane tickets to Argentina after the whole thing. She wouldn't so much as look at Clint for the entire 4 hour trip. It was kind of funny, actually. Clint got the impression she was more mad about him fucking up their cover than the civilians he'd killed. He didn't agree. Hell, maybe he deserved the hunger, a weak punishment though it was.

After all, it was his fault they'd ended up stranded in Buenos Aires with no food, no money and no back up plan. It was his fault flowers now lined the street in Brasilia -- a memorial to five people killed in his fuck up.

He didn't know what to do or how to fix it.

And really, there was nothing he could do, no way to save those people, no way to stop the guilt that constricted his heart every time he thought about it.

Truth was, he'd never killed an innocent person before. No civilian had ever walked into his line of fire. But now five people were dead - crushed under five thousand tons of concrete and it was all his fucking fault, all his fault and- and oh God. He was going to throw up.

Blowing out a heavy breath Clint tugged off his jacket, the air in the stuffy motel doing little to cool his clammy, almost feverish skin. His harsh breaths echoed eerily loud in the strange stillness of the room. 

Beside him Nat slept on. Or at the very least, she pretended to, her back pressed against a wall and her eyes closed. She'd insisted on the floor beside the bed as usual, batting away all Clint's hygiene protests like they were nothing. Really though, the hygiene in this place was the worst Clint had ever seen - the circus had more sanitary animal cages. But hey, you get what you paid for, he supposed. And this place was dirt cheap.

From here Clint could see bandages peeking out from under Nat's blouse, wrapped around the fragile ribs he had broken weeks ago - CPR, so it seemed, wasn't as easy as it looked.

Natasha had been less than impressed with his efforts. Now basic first aid had been added to his combat training and to his surprise, things were going well. Clint could neatly clean, sew up and properly bandage his own open wounds before the end of the first lesson. That had been a good night, all things considered.

High on his own triumph, Clint hadn't been thinking quite right when he'd asked, "How the hell do you know all this stuff?"

Nat had not dodged the question as he'd expected. Instead she'd looked past him, her eyes distant as though lost in a memory. "They taught me not to put my life into other people's hands. Injuries are weakness, Clint. And knowing how to heal them yourself is essential for survival." She'd seemed to snap back into focus, shaking her head a little before meeting Clint's eyes with a quiet determination. "It is important you learn."