The first thing Clint noticed was that he was hot. Like, swelteringly so. So hot in fact that he felt like he was practically drowning in a puddle of his own sweat. That was the second thing he noticed: he was wet. Absolutely sopping and too much so for it to be just sweat. To be fair, waking up soaking wasn’t entirely uncommon considering his job involved lots of getting thrown into the Hudson, but still concerning nonetheless. The Hudson wasn’t usually so warm anyways. He groaned. His head was pounding…or…maybe that was the low drumming he could more so feel than hear through the floor of…wherever he was. With a grimace Clint opened his eyes to reveal a whole lot of nothing. If you count darkness as nothing that is, which he did. Sure there was always usually something IN that darkness, but if you couldn’t see it then was it really there? Wrinkling his nose he shifted, the floor under him squelching and shifting and…oh. Maybe he did know where he was after all. It was the smell that gave it away really: the acidic tang of bile and day old sandwich clinging to him in a thick film as he struggled to prop himself up against what he now knew to be the muscular walls of a stomach. The fact that he was so familiar with such a bizarre and quite frankly disgusting location had disgusted him once, but unfortunately he’d grown quite used to it over his time with the Avengers. Just came with the superhero territory he supposed.
Now the real question remained: exactly whose guts had he ended up in? Feeling to make sure his hearing aid and glasses were still where he’d left them, he sighed, find only one of those still intact. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d lost his glasses, and it probably wouldn’t be the last either. Fiddling with his aid, he adjusted the settings to compensate for the loud, ambient noises of his environment and listened. For the moment, whoever he’d wound up with didn’t seem to be moving, and they certainly weren’t talking, so he took advantage of the relative calm and wracked his brain for any memory of how he’d ended up in this…situation. He’d been fighting some wannabe villain of the week with Ironman and a few others when something had hit him from behind and…hmm…after that his memory was blank. Fantastic.
He tried once more to sit up properly, slipping again as the muscle under him rolled and shifted, when suddenly everything stiffened and he found himself sandwiched in place. “Woah hang on, ease up there will ya’?” he spluttered, more muttering than actually talking. His ‘captor’ heard him regardless.
“Hawkeye, are you alright?”
His hearing aid had long since been adjusted to pick up and distinguish the distorted voice of anyone he’d ended up inside (courtesy of Tony), so he had no trouble understanding the question directed at him. Definitely Steve’s voice. He’d ended up inside the Captain, which, all things considered, was probably of the better outcomes. More preffered than Scott anyways that’s for sure.
“I’m fine I’m fine,” Clint insisted, pushing back at the surrounding walls. “Though I might not be if you keep smothering me like this big guy. Mind filling me in on what’s going on out there? And how I ended up serving as a mid afternoon snack?”
The pressure relented, but only slightly. Steve was still tense, and it made the his surroundings far less comfortable.
“You were hit pretty bad; Antman helped me get you off the field.” Came the tight response, and Clint frowned as the steady heartbeat around him picked up a pace or two. “I’m sorry, I wish I hadn’t had to do this while you were unconscious but-“
“Hey hey relax old man, it’s alright.” Clint interrupted, settling himself into a fold. “Better you than the Hulk at least.” He could feel more than hear Cap sigh around him, and as the muscle began to relax Clint smiled to himself. Truth be told, he really could have done without being eaten while unconscious. It unnerved him a little, being that out of control, but at the same time he really did understand why Steve had done it. They were in battle, it was the right call to keep him safe, and he didn’t hold it against the Captain. More than that, he didn’t want Steve to hold it against himself, so he didn’t need to know how Clint’s heart had raced when he’d woken up or how he still flinched at some of the louder ambient gurgles.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Clint cracked a smile. “Though you do still owe me. How about a box of thin mints and I call it even.”
Steve laughed, soft and warm, and Clint congratulated himself on defusing what could have been a much more guilt ridden conversation.
“Alright, I can do that. Take it easy in there for now though, you got hit pretty hard.”
Clint rolled his eyes, but figured Steve was probably right. It was hard to tell in the dark when literally everything was warm and sticky and gross, but he was pretty sure he had a bit of blood matted in his hair. He could smell it. Well, either he was bleeding or Cap had split his lip, which was also a possibility. Either way, taking it easy didn’t sound too awful, so he didn’t argue.
“Yeah yeah, whatever you say winghead.” He laughed, kicking lightly at one of the walls pressing in on him (Steve’s hand no doubt). Steve didn’t respond, and Clint didn’t particularly want him to. The pounding of Steve’s heart was really starting to make his own pounding headache worse, so he turned down his hearing aid, rolled over, and closed his eyes. All things considered, this really wasn’t so bad.