The Budapest Objective

Fifteen

Natasha struggled to free herself from the grip of the robots. They were dragging her God knew where, and she needed to destroy the dang transmitter. She wondered if Clint was still alive and fighting down on the street.

"Let go!" she shouted, knowing they wouldn't.

The robots whirred in response.

They threw Natasha in a small room ten stories below the top level. Ten stories below where she needed to be. She landed hard on her back and rolled two or three feet. Pain shot through her back from the cuts that had yet to heal.

The door slammed shut, effectively locking Natasha in the cell. She groaned. How could she have been so stupid? If only she had taken her eyes off of Cross for those few seconds in which everything had gone wrong.

"I'm sorry, Clint," Natasha whispered. 

She put her head in her hands, hurting and disgusted with herself. She ran her fingers down her face, counting the number of cuts and bruises she had. Her fingers ran down her neck... until she felt something cold and mettle. Her fingertips found the clasp, and she gently removed the necklace from around her neck.

She held the small charm in her hand, turning it over and over, rubbing the black marks from the explosion off as best she could. She found herself smiling. Her thoughts turned to the way Clint's fingertips had lingered on her shoulders, and the way she caught him looking at her. She'd never admit it to anyone, but she liked it. And she was infuriated with herself for liking it.

Her eyes traveled from the necklace to the lock, and back again. She stood up and walked over to the door. She clasped the necklace around her neck again, and examined the lock. She couldn't believe it, the lock wasn't that complicated. She slipped a hairpin out of her hair, and put it into the lock. She jimmied it for several seconds, and heard the lock click.

Natasha smirked. She had actually never tried the hairpin trick before, and was a little surprised that it actually worked. She pushed the door open, dispatched the robots guarding her, and dashed up the stairs.

If she never saw that staircase again it would be too soon.

Clint punched Cross, catching him in the jaw. Cross staggered back from the impact of the blow. Clint tried to roundhouse kick him, but Cross dodged.

"You're in bad shape, Clint," Cross said, spitting out blood. "You can't possibly think that you can beat me, can you?" 

"I want to know what you've done to Natasha," Clint demanded, throwing another well-aimed punch at Cross' face. 

"The Death T.H.R.O.W.S. took her. They almost definitely killed her. Face it, Clint: she's dead."

"No, she's not," Natasha said from the open doorway.

She was bloody and bruised, and wore an expression that clearly said that Cross was as good as dead.

"What took you so long?" Clint joked.

"I would have been here sooner if your pal hadn't left me to rot in a cell."

"Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Romanoff," Cross said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "If I'd had my way, you'd still be there. Now if you don't mind, dear, I'm a little busy beating up your boyfriend at the moment."

Cross threw a punch at Clint, but Natasha, with her lighting fast reflexes, caught Crossfire's wrist and kicked him in the stomach.

"You look awful, Clint," Natasha said, dodging Cross' foot. "Why don't you let the professional handle this one?"