[Yesterday was a horrible day, so I am taking it out on my writing. There will be lots of death. But also a lot of fluff and lovey dovey stuff.]

Natasha wonders what things (Y/n) had done for the last time. It's cold and the wind is blowing, and (Y/n)'s shivering form is huddled close to the fire, her head on Natasha's shoulder.

(Y/n) will never see the team again, never celebrate her birthday again, will never wake up again.

It's always the missions. They're usually the main cause of an agents death. But Natasha had been there, didn't think (Y/n) would be one of those agents because Natasha had promised her that she'd keep her safe.

Now they're here, a mile away from the camp and (Y/n)'s dying. Maybe if Natasha would've focused, she would've seen the glint of a sniper and pushed (Y/n) out of the way. But she hadn't and now she has a bullet in her stomach.

If bleeding out doesn't kill (Y/n), time and the freezing cold will. All Natasha can do is hold her close, keep her alive and hope that the team finds them soon.