Chapter Text
The battle is the same as always, like target practice for Clint, taking out soldier after soldier as they attempt to swarm his fellow avengers.
The Hydra base they're currently raiding is situated similarly to all of the other bases they've taken in the past couple of months; cold, snowy, remote.
This one is wedged in-between two mountains that he didn't bother listening to the names of, far from any civilisation and only approachable by air or the tiny overgrown tarmac road.
Now, here's the thing about HYDRA. They prepare for one thing, putting all of their eggs in one basket and betting that their victims will grasp that basket and fall right into their trap.
This time the trap had been the cleverly hidden long range weaponry, discovered by Tony, directly covering the base's entire air space, capable of taking out a whole airplane without being discovered.
So, they took the road.
And boy, was HYDRA betting on them taking that air route.
Clint fires another arrow at a soldier creeping up behind Cap, the projectile landing true and staining the snow crimson, but he's already busy, turning to the next opponent, losing another at the enemy taking refuge behind a tree before they can reach Natasha and Tony, who are attempting to hack into the base's systems to use the anti-aircraft weapons on the base itself.
A clever plan, Clint has to admit, even if he isn't happy about it.
But the keyword is 'attempting'.
"Had any luck on that hacking yet?" He asks through the comms, shifting his position on the tree branch he's using as his nest to take aim at his next target.
"Working on it." Comes Tony's reply, voice curt and irritated, a blatant indicator that he's not, in fact, managing to have as much success as he wants.
It's the same kind of tone he gets when something he tries to fix keeps going wrong, despite his attempts to stop it.
"Well, work faster Stark. Some of us do want to actually keep our fingers." Clint responds, notching another shaft, and releasing it to fly into the wheel of the gun wielding motorcyclist heading towards Thor, watching in satisfaction as he goes flying over the handles and into the snow.
"God, don't aggregate him!" Natasha speaks this time, tone filled with indignation, probably a mock to make Tony mad.
"Aww, but it's so fun to see him get pissy!" Clint teases back, smirk on his features as draws another arrow.
There's a huff of frustration from Tony's end of the line, barely disguising the anger in it, before he's cut off by a fourth voice.
"I, for one, thinks it brings great amusement to see the Iron boy get angry." Thor chips in, all boisterous tone and a teasing nature to his taunt. Clint's smirk grows into a grin at the comment, practically hearing the anger in Tony's movements as he peeps a glance over at his crouched position in the snow, wires spilled on the ground like guts.
Ha, serves him right for all the times he's purposely made them all mad. Karma's a bitch.
"Quit chattering, we're here to take down this base and leave. Barton, stop antagonising him."
Of course it's Steve that ruins the fun, his own want for order denying them the right to seek amusement.
Clint lets out a huff of his own, but doesn't argue, instead releasing another arrow, aiming at the soldier trying to ambush Natasha and Tony.
It's that that distracts him from noticing the person creeping up on him, himself.
A snap of a twig, one he barely manages to pick up, even with his hearing aids, alerts him to the soldier approaching him.
In an instant he swivels around, drawing an arrow at the intruder, his perfect aim preventing him from missing, but his enemy, instead of fighting back or trying to dodge, simply throws a small black disk towards him, one that latches on to the wood of the pine somewhere.
His arrow lodges itself in the soldier's head, piercing straight through the flimsy metal of his helmet, the man toppling backwards and landing with a thud on the ground far below.
It's then that registers a beeping noise, getting louder and more rapid in succession, an unmistakable detonation timer - the circular disk the soldier had thrown.
God damnit.
A stream of panic interrupts his calm, leaking through his carefully constructed dam, there's no time to do anything about the disk now, the only viable option is to jump to the nearest branch, which is, admittedly, quite far away.
But, unless he wants the bomb timer to be the timer ticking down his remainder of seconds to live, he's going to have to try.
Quickly folding his bow in two and positioning it on his back, he takes a quick shaky and not-so-deep deep breath, moving his feet into the correct stance, trying to ignore the shrill beeping and leaps towards the branch.
And not a second too late.
He's airborne and, almost immediately he feels the scorch of heat on his back, the boom as the disk detonates, taking down the branch he had just vacated.
His ribs slams into the new branch, when he hears the snap of the tree he had just left, the upper half tilting towards the tree he now occupies.
"You have to be shitting me." He mutters, attempting to hoist himself up onto the branch fast enough to escape the leaning tower of pisa 2.0 made out of wood, ignoring the burn in his chest and ribs.
But he knows he won't make it in time.
He can hear voices in his ear talking to him, with concerned tones, but he's not listening, adrenaline and fear pumping through his arteries and veins, making him feel as though he's kind of disconnected from his body.
Wow. How ironic. Clint Barton, Hawkeye, killed by a fucking tree.
How stupid.
It's barely a second later that he feels the shuddering impact of the trees colliding, the force causing his back-up branch to snap, sending him falling down towards the ground, a cry ripping out of his lungs.
It cuts off when the back of his head slams into another branch, this one thicker and refusing to break, but not stopping his descent as he crashes into another branch, evoking a sharp intake of breath as he lands on his already bruised ribs.
He continues for another 3 branches, being flung around like a ping pong ball before he finally hits the ground, a whimper leaving his mouth as he lands on his back.
His chest feels tight, as though someone is squeezing his lungs and airway, making his breath something more like a wheeze.
The throbbing pain from his ribs has grown into a roar, and the back of his head feels warm against the cold snow; raising his fingers to feel around, they land on a raised bump and withdrawing them reveals blood that's leaking onto the pristine white snow.
The familiar weight of his hearing aids in his ears are gone now, probably knocked out while he was falling, meaning that he has no way to contact his team and no way to tell them that he needs help.
His bow is also gone. Huh. He swears he... no, wait, he put it on his back, didn't he?
He can't remember now, the memories are fuzzy and indistinct, escaping his grasp.
He has to get up.
He can't just lay in the middle of a battle field, it doesn't even matter if he's injured.
He has to get to cover.
But there's a dull buzz in his limbs, an ache that won't go away, pulses of pain echoing from his head and his ribs.
Preparing himself, he rolls over onto his stomach, the cold of the surface doing nothing to help his growing collection of bruises, breath hitching at the movement.
His hands squeeze the snow, the freezing temperature making his hands burn as his pitiful excuses for breaths create clouds of smoke in front of him.
Savouring the moment and allowing his body to rest, for even a second, he pushes himself off of the ground, feet holding his weight, before he immediately tips to the side and stumbling into a tree, body screaming in protest at the speed of the motion.
He leans against the tree, breathing picking up and burning in his chest at the exertion. Bile rises in his throat, the nausea kicking in as his vision sways from side to side, legs shaking and weak.
Through his haze he can make out the vague sounds of gunshots nearby, the noise faint and muddled without his hearing aids.
His breaths are coming out in short pants now, chest heaving and ribs agonizing his every move, forcing him to abandon the idea of shelter, to instead slide down the rough wood of the pine, until his butt reaches the snowy ground.
Pain sears through him, lancing through his nerves and trapping his brain, stomach lurching with every sharp inhale.
Deep down, he knows it's not good, that this shouldn't be happening, but he can't find it within himself to care anymore.
He doesn't know how much time passes, it could have been minutes or hours when his eyes begin to slide shut but a movement catches his eyes, a blur of black and red, approaching him.
At first he thinks it's a bird, but it's too big for that, right?
He blinks and then a warm hand is touching his neck, and, oh, did he forget how cold he really is, his body involuntarily leaning into the contact.
His eyes focus after a few seconds, the red sharpening into hair, and the features of Natasha's face become clearer.
Through his unclear vision he can make out her attempts to talk to him, lips moving and hands signing words he can't remember the meanings of, ones he can't decipher.
His brain feels as though it's in slow motion, everything else moving in two times speed. Nat has a hand raised to her ear now, face turned away from Clint's, lips moving, words that he cannot hear leaving he mouth.
Her other hand moves away, the stinging cold replacing her warmth; yet a sound of discontent must have left his mouth as the hand is back and Nat's face is turned towards him.
Clint is painfully aware of his panting breaths but the anguish that it brings him to take slower inhales has him opting for more shallow breathing, even if a part of him knows that that's a recipe for disaster - he's probably not getting enough oxygen around his body.
His brain is filled with fog, his eyes are heavy and his ribs are past the point of causing him discomfort.
He can feel his eyes, once more, starting to shutter and droop, but Natasha, stubborn, stubborn Natasha is still with him, and there's no chance in hell that she'll let Clint slip away without a fight.
Movements quick, she reaches her fingers in front of his face, snapping them together and, despite his inability to hear the click, the motion is enough to startle him out of his stupor, if only a little.
He doesn't have time to reflect on it before Nat's hand is gone once more, her whole body moving so that she's stood up, her gun out of its holster in barely a second.
For a few intense moments Clint can only watch in his struggle as Nat points the weapon into the forest around them, her eyes focused and hair a mess.
Part of him wonders whether Tony had actually managed to hack into the guns shielding the base from aircraft, had succeeded in taking the base down.
All while Clint was almost killed by a tree. Truly pathetic.
He's evidently not paying enough attention because a new figure is now in front of him, a hue of green patching on his skin, a look of half tampered anger on his features as he looks off in the direction that even he can make out the sounds of gunshots from. Bruce.
The man turns to him, crouching down, mouth moving, yet the words don't make it to his ears, his world muffled to the point of almost being quiet.
He feels him picking up his arm, warm hands touching his freezing skin, fingers squeezing his wrist in pursuit of a pulse.
Clint lets them, tilting his head to the left, towards the gunfire he can vaguely make out, wanting to know what's going on. Wanting to know if he's the only one who's drastically fucked up.
He doesn't realise that he had given Bruce the perfect distraction to check for other injuries until he feels the man sharply prod his ribs, no doubt to guage something.
At that, he lashes outwards with his legs, head whipping around to find the threat, finding only Bruce, with his hands up in mock surrender, all traces of green gone from his concerned features.
The movement gives him vertigo, nausea and bile rising in his throat, no doubt now looking green himself.
He quickly directs himself to the side, ignoring the way his ribs seem to scream at him to sit up, and coughs into the snow, a red specks flying out as he hacks and heaves, vomit finally leaving his body despite his attempts to keep it down.
Blood.
Huh.
That can't be good.
He can feel hands gently pulling him back to his previous seated position and he allows them to, with no protest or resistance, ribs burning and aggravated, throat wet and mouth tasting of vomit residue.
He coughs, the feeling wet and sticky, breaths shallow and fast, unaware of the tears in his eyes until they've already spilt over the edge, the warmth they bring a welcome against his cold skin.
A pair of hands come to rest on his face, wiping the tears away as they fall, with all the care in the world.
He can make out Natasha's head of red hair, can see how her smile seems strained and her eyes hold a wet quality, for a reason he cannot discern.
He wants to ask her, but he's interrupted by a hacking cough, blood mixed gunk flying out of his mouth at the force as he angles his face away, the crimson staining the snow.
Her hands pull his face back, gently brushing a sweat drenched lock of hair out of his face, and, even in his daze, he makes out one final phrase leaving her lips. 'Hang on.'
What does that mean?
He is hanging on, isn't he?
He wants so question her words, to see her laugh at his stupidity like his brother once had, but she's gone before he can, instead replaced by a new person, wearing a blue suit.
Cap.
Things happen in a speed that he can't comprehend.
One moment he's on the ground, and then Steve is lifting him into the air, bridal style, the motion evoking a cry out of his chest that fades into a harsh cough, the sound leaving his mouth afterwards most likely a whimper.
After a couple of seconds of waiting, where he suspects the rest of his team were conversing, they start moving, every bump and jolt adding a hitch to his wet breaths.
He can feel his eyes slide shut, despite the pain, unconscious a sweet bliss, a reprise from the torment that had become the waking world.
He slips in and out of consciousness, the order of the events alluding him, the memories fuzzy and frail with pain, searing, unforgiving pain.
The first time he wakes, is when they reach the Quinjet, Steve carefully lowering him down onto the metal benches lining the walls, his ribs burning at the motion.
He must've let out some kind of noise, as the next second, Nat is back beside him, her fingers gently grasping his left hand, the one closest to the wall.
Every decision she keeps making, causes Clint to question, to get distracted, evidently what she wanted because by the time he realised her ploy, Bruce had already inserted the IV into unoccupied arm, some kind of drug seeping into his bloodstream, the soothing effect almost instantaneous.
As his eyes slip closed, the pain fading away into the background, he spies Nat giving him a singular apologetic look, the same one as in the forest.
Before he can question it, however, he's already been embraced by the painless dark of unconsciousness.