Chapter 6
Clint shifted and fiddled with the bandages on his fingers. Outside the large windows, the sun cast long shadows between tall skyscrapers. The smell of fresh vomit burned the inside of his nose.
Lines of pain around the teen's mouth deepened the longer Clint watched. The kid quietly reported his pain level and Clint's eyebrows raised at the bald faced lie. His blue eyes held the glassy sheen of someone in desperate need of stronger meds.
He should be barely coherent with the cocktail of drugs pumping through his system.
Instead, the patient clung to his glass of water like a lifeline, newly hollowed cheeks pale and limbs purposefully still. Above scratchy hospital pajamas his collarbone stood out in sharp relief.
The posture screamed 'don't look at me'.
Clint had been looking though. Over the past few days he'd somehow managed to burn the image of the bedridden teen into his memory.
'Bruce' the kid had mumbled in his sleep, more than once late at night. Clint could hear the name, even now, quiet, scratchy, and desperate. No 'Bruce' had filed a missing person report in the last two weeks. Jarvis had verified.
Whoever this 'Bruce' was, he either didn't know or didn't care about the missing teen.
Good. Clint had read the kid's file.
Natasha tilted her head to the side. "I also had to listen to Tony's ninja theory again. Magical ninjas with flame throwers."
He grimaced and pushed the dark thoughts out of his mind. "Sorry. I'll make it up yo you."
"Charts and flame throwers." Her flat words carried unspoken recrimination. Her gaze stayed firmly away from the kid.
"What do you want, Nat?" Clint would do a lot to stay on the former assassin's good side. He picked again at the dirty bandages and eyed her still frame. "What's going to put a smile on that face?"
An unhappy Natasha made for a miserable Clint. Her frown deepened. "I think you know what would make me happy."
Yeah, Clint didn't have to ask. They were two sides of the same coin. She'd dropped by more than once during his visits and pulled up a chair. Natasha wanted, just like him, a few uninterrupted minutes in a dark alley with 'Bruce'.
'One step at a time,' he signed with a knowing glance towards the teen, 'We don't even have the kid's name yet.'
'Obviously,' she signed back, 'but I want first dibs.'
'Naturally,' he agreed. Anything he wanted to do to 'Bruce', Natasha could do twice as hard without breaking a sweat.
She grinned at him with a mouthful of teeth and a glimmer of something dark and dangerous. He grinned back.
"We did see in one of our initial scans that your spleen has been removed. Are there any other injuries, conditions, or allergies we need to know to treat you effectively?" Dr. Andrés' voice continued in an even pace and Clint refocused his attention.
The patient hesitated before shaking his head 'no'.
Liar. Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Natasha's mouth tightened as if she'd sucked on a lemon.
"Do you have a parent we can call?"
The kid froze like a deer in headlights.
From the corner of his eye something outside the window caught the sun. It flashed again, metallic and momentarily blinding, and his muscles coiled at the sight. Clint darted across the room before his mind caught up with his body's actions.
He reached across the width of the bed and cushioned the teen with his other arm as he tipped the frame onto its side with a loud clang. Glass shattered as bullets broke the windows and struck the metal frame. Clint pulled the teen in tight and shielded the smaller body with his own.
Clint closed his eyes, held his breath, and waited to see of his luck would hold out. An alarm sounded and moments later the room grew dark and quiet.
He counted to ten, cracked a lid, and did a quick check to make sure all his limbs remained intact.
The kid in his arms groaned and clenched at Clint's shirt like a lifeline. Any color left in his face retreated and his chalky gray skin appeared lifeless.
"Deep breaths, kid," Clint intoned. He slowed his own breathing and the teen matched it, wheezing and groaning as if he'd run a marathon.
Near them, Dr. Andrés body sprawled out on the tile. She'd been shot in the head and at least twice in the torso.
"Natasha?"
"Here." Emergency lights came on. She stood just beyond the doorway with the unharmed nurse tucked behind her and a gun in her hand.
Glass littered the floor and metal shutters blocked out the sun.
"Jarvis?" Natasha asked. She stepped back into the room and examined the damage with a critical eye.
"Mr. Stark and Mr. Rogers are on their way. All windows and exits have been closed. No other injuries reported thus far."
"What the actual fuck." Clint moved to stand, he'd managed to slam his knee and it ached against the cool tile. The grip on his shirt tightened. He halted and waited for the teen to regain his composure.
"Across the street?" Natasha questioned. She pulled out her phone and took a few pictures.
Clint thought of the flash he'd seen and nodded. "Yeah. Northwest, rooftop, no more than a mile. One shooter." He eyed the glass and the bullet hole ridden far wall. "But, definitely more than one type of gun."
The teen's face tilted forward and down until Clint could only see the dark hair on the top of his head. His body shook and he spoke between clenched teeth.
"I think I'm going to be sick again."
He threw up all over the front of Clint's shirt.