Chapter 4
Clint Barton knows that many people hate him, and he can live with that.
His father, for starters. His brother, though that's mixed with a toxic sort of love that Clint still can't figure out and probably won't ever be able to, given that Barney is in prison for several more decades to come. Also hating him: carnies jealous of his success, families of people he'd killed on the job, the loved ones of people he'd killed under Loki's control.
And the night nurse here in the military hospital in England, where he'd been evacuated to after that clusterfuck in Ghent. She's curt and impatient and has unbelievably cold hands. She can also kill him if she wants. A simple syringe injected into his IV line or gas injected into his oxygen canula and then it's bye, bye Clint.
"She's not going to kill you," Natasha told him when he whispered this fear. "You're on a lot of drugs, ptichka, and they're affecting your emotions."
That's possibly true. It's also possibly true Nat's just a hallucination, and he's still in the dungeon where the men will soon return with electricity and fists. Ronald Slater's no help; he's a skeleton in chains in the corner, teeth bared in a rictus. Clint can see him sitting right next to Thor.
"I assure you this chamber contains no skeletons," Thor says, looking up from the game he's playing on a tablet.
"He's right there," Clint insists. "I couldn't save him."
Natasha taps on Clint's arm. It's a private code meant to be reassuring. "He's in the next room. Complaining about the food."
"I'm going to talk to your doctor," Bruce says. He knows a thing or two about not trusting one's own mind.
Clint wants Phil, but Phil is on the other side of the world. New Zealand. Which, Tony tells him, is only eleven thousand miles away, so not quite the exact other side of the world, and Natasha tells him he's not helping.
Clint closes his eyes.
That's frequently a mistake, because in the darkness the ground will begin to tremble, and shattering glass will pinwheel toward him at deadly velocities, and he'll feel himself fall helplessly to the heaving floor and not be able to move, to escape, to save himself. Dust chokes him and the terrific roar of collapsing stone drowns out his screams for help. The bedside monitor will start beeping an alarm at his spiked heartbeat, and he jerks his eyes open to the ceiling, the shaded windows, Natasha or Steve or whoever else happens to be in the room.
They tell him he's fine, but he wants Phil.
#
By the end of the week he's much less afraid of falling asleep and in fact manages three whole hours in a row without tripping over nightmares. The doctor in charge of his case is pleased with his progress and the physical therapists have him walking up and down the hall with IV pole in tow. He's frustrated at how the concussion has left his sense of balance all wonky, but everyone assures him that he's getting steadier and gaining stamina.
Steve, Thor, and Tony depart back to the U.S., where supervillains await vanquishing. Natasha and Bruce stay on. Clint tells them to go relax, get some sightseeing done, but Natasha gives him a look that tells him he's being foolish and Bruce is quite happy with the reading he's catching up on. The two of them are very much in love, which makes Clint happy for his best friend yet sorely heartsick at the same time.
"You're getting discharged in a few days," Phil says over the secure video link on Clint's phone. "I'll meet you back in New York."
"Soon?" Clint hates how needy that sounds. He's trying to be strong about everything. Trying not to worry too hard that his balance is permanently damaged, his ability to work in the field impaired, his career basically over. The Avengers won't need him. Phil will promise that everything will work out but be pulled into new missions that exclude Clint to the point where their relationship fails--
"As soon as I can," Phil promises. "I hate not being there. I should just call this op—"
"No. You've worked too hard. Your whole team has." Clint's not so selfish as to throw away all that intel and effort. He fidgets with the edge of his bedsheet. Rain sleeting from dark skies against the windows has him feeling particularly gloomy this evening. "I'm going to be really happy to see you."
Phil's face softens. "Likewise."
They talk about little things before Phil has to go and see to details of his mission. Clint tries not to look at the chair that Natasha has come to call her own. He and Bruce finally persuaded her to go back to the hotel for a nice hot dinner that wasn't served on plastic plates. He has her their cell phone numbers and told himself he was looking forward to a night by himself, if "by himself" included the hospital staff who came in every hour looking to draw blood, administer his meds, or take his vitals. But now he's lonely, and his ribs hurt, and it feels like forever since he's had a hot shower.
Counting backward he realizes it's not been forever, but more than week. Well, he can remedy that. He gets out of the bed cautiously and is relieved that the room is more or less steady. The IV came out this morning, so he no longer has to drag that around. In the shower stall he sits on the corner bench and uses the detachable nozzle to avoid the line of stitches in his scalp. The hot water is amazing on his skin and the steam loosens some of the dryness in his chest.
"Mr. Barton?" The curt night nurse doesn't come further than the doorway. "You're supposed to call for assistance."
"I'm fine," he says. "Thanks for checking."
The disapproval in her voice doesn't diminish, but she says, "I'll leave a fresh gown on the counter and see that you have fresh sheets."
Her shadow moves past the shower glass and then retreats. Clint washes himself down, annoyed at feeling stiff and sore, jealous that Steve Rogers and Thor would have already healed up after injuries like his. Watching the soapy water swirl down the drain, he tells himself that being a mere mortal without super serum or godly powers really can suck sometimes. But he survived, which is the important part. Survival means getting to see Phil again, and that's something worth fighting for.
A jaw-cracking yawn makes him realize he's falling asleep tucked up against the wall. Begrudgingly he shuts off the water and steps out. The shelf by the sink holds only a few small hand towels, which is annoying. He thought he remembered a bigger one there. The fresh gown is missing, too. Didn't the nurse bring one in? He has to put on the old one and blot himself with the small towels. He's still wet in places when he heads back to bed, where fresh sheets lay crisply on the mattress.
A knock on the door catches him while he's getting settled back in the bed, wet splotches and all.
"Barton?" Ronald Slater asks. "You decent?"
"Yeah," Clint replies. "Come in."
Despite their matching hospital gowns, Slater looks pretty healthy for a guy who nearly got guillotined while shielding Clint from glass and other debris. He says, "They're springing me free in the morning. You?"
"A few more days," Clint says. "Thanks to you. Otherwise I'd be dead."
Because that's what everyone has told him. Slater saved his life. Clint doesn't remember much about it, and so he goes with it. Steve Rogers himself had pulled away a slab of rubble, certain he would find only corpses below, and found that by some miracle of good fortune they'd been trapped in protected pocket, Slater still covering Clint from the worst of it.
Slater ducks his head, uncharacteristically bashful. "Well, you know. You'd do the same. You did do the same—you could have escaped when you helped the kids over that moat, but you came back for me."
Clint remembers that more clearly. He shifts on the sheets, unhappy with how they feel on his bare legs. Someone really went overboard with the detergent on them. "Never leave anyone behind. It's a good rule."
"Yeah." Slater reaches out his hand. "So we're even. I'll catch you later."
One handshake later and Slater is gone, which is a relief because Clint's legs are really itchy and the pillows don't feel right under his back. He rearranges himself and kicks off the sheets. He's suddenly fatigued, the effort of the shower overwhelming him, but not too tired to notice the redness springing up along his left leg. His right leg looks similarly irritated.
Clint tells himself to take a deep breath, but a cough interrupts him.
He tells himself not to panic, because the nurse is only a few steps away. He pushes the ringer and waits. He can handle this; his body's unhappy at something, but he's still clear-headed and not going to panic.
Ten seconds, twenty. He can hear it pinging down the hallway at the station, but no one answers.
He reaches for his cell phone, which should be under the pillows. It's gone. Clint gropes for it. His hand starts to burn. He twists around and there it is, on the floor. There's an alarm in the bathroom. He'll have to get to that. Clint lurches to his feet, ignores the dizzy way the walls swim in and out, and puts a hand on the wall to steady himself. He can do this. Five steps, ten. The bathroom is still steamy from his shower. He yanks the cord by the toilet and then sits on it, otherwise he'll crash to the floor.
Five seconds, ten. A blurry figure in white appears in front of him, her cold hands touching his knees. "Mr. Barton! What's wrong?"
Behind her is another blur, but this one has Ronald Slater's voice. "He looks like he's sick. Barton, what is it?"
"Allergy," he manages. "Something in the bed."
Slater says, "Goddamn it. All right, listen, you're going to be fine. You hear me, Barton? You can handle this." To the nurse, "He's allergic to latex. It's in his records."
The nurse calls out to someone. "It's anaphylaxis. Get the kit—"
He loses track of what she's saying. Loses track of up and down, fresh air and stale. Apologizes silently to Phil, because maybe they won't be seeing each other soon after all. Or ever again.
End of chapter