Avengers - Isn't This Nice? [2/2]
Title: Isn't This Nice?
Genre: Gen, Team, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: R
Length: ~14,000 words
Warnings: gore/injuries, language (Clint's got a mouth on him)
Synopsis: Escorting three politicians to a SHIELD-sponsored meeting goes horribly wrong, as these things are wont to do.
Author's Notes: For the "plane crash" square at
hc_bingo. Actually one of the first stories I started for this whole thing, which makes sense that it's the last to be posted. Title is a nod to the Alanis Morissette song "Ironic."
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Live Journal: Part 1 | Part 2
Dreamwidth: Part 1 | Part 2
The light did nothing to ease the pain in his head, but did a hell of a lot to illuminate the situation for him. The plane was toast, that much he knew before he even hobbled out of it. Stark's fire suppression systems had done their job and the hulk of metal was just a smoking, smoldering mess instead of actively in flames. Clint had somehow managed to land it at the very edge of what was once a relatively wide open field that now held the deep furrows of a plowing crash, just before a sharp drop off shrouded with trees and rocks. It was a decent vantage point, save for the fact anyone approaching would see them at least as quickly as they would pick out their attackers, which meant no real benefit gained save for the solid wall of the plane to use as a barricade. Given that would likely be expected, they needed to find someplace else to set up camp until the reinforcements arrived.
The most obvious place was down the hillside. Again, obvious so it had the downfall of being the first place searched after the plane itself, but at least it did not involve a trek across a wide open field with absolutely nothing for cover.
He was going to suggest the journey, despite his own want to just curl up and rest for a bit, maybe a week or two, but figured both that his teammates would have sorted the same thing out for themselves and that he should wait until Nat was done doing whatever she was doing with their new entourage.
Natasha had the trio of political leaders on their knees, hands raised and behind their heads. She was methodically going through every pocket and parcel, and tossing the possessions into a neat pile behind her, gun casually cocked at her side. Clint noticed the gun was was in her right hand, the one attached to her injured shoulder, but that she gave away nearly no tells as to the damage. One of the men had already seen her and would know of the weakness, but her reputation may have been holding off any action on that part for now.
"Should we stop her?" Steve asked out of the corner of his mouth, and Clint could see the argument to be made about harassing the politicos.
Being that he could also see the use in getting their hands on possibly working communication devices as well as possibly finding evidence as to whether or not there really was a traitor in their midst, instead he just asked, "Why?"
Cap was surprisingly fine with that response. He helped to guide Clint over to the edge of the pile, which was helpfully placed near the fallen wing, propped Clint up against a piece of said wing, and started digging through the treasure to see if there was anything usable to be found. Steve was not exactly the most tech-savvy person on the planet but, for someone misplaced from the 1940's, he did know more than his fair share. Tony was to blame for this, of course, always making sure his teammates not only had the latest and greatest that Stark Industries had to offer, but holding embarrassing "seminars" on the use of each item every time. To her credit, Natasha had only tried to shoot him once, and it happened to be when he was showing off some new shielding technology, so she still had plausible deniability on that one.
"I could sue you," one of the men griped, though Clint noticed he kept his hands on his head. "I should sue you. Harassment, that's what this is. It's an embarrassment. You have hard working Americans on their knees while a known Russian spy goes digging for secrets and the true enemy could attack at any time."
"Natasha, no," Clint said mildly without looking up. She had not made any obvious moves, but he knew her well enough to know she was tempted to do something dire to the ass.
"Shut up, Bret," the woman of the trio said instead. "They have no way of knowing who's involved at this point. Wouldn't you rather have them figure out Paul here is secretly sending messages to someone and shoot him instead of us?"
"Hey!" the aforementioned Paul protested.
"You know what I mean," the woman amended. At this point, Clint would not be surprised if she was the spy and just really good at pushing attention off on the others.
"There will be no shooting of anyone," Steve promised, and Clint tried not to laugh when Nat turned to him and mouthed the word, "Yet."
She tossed a final phone at Steve, took one of the others over to Clint, and kept the last one for herself. The miscellaneous laptops and tablets they would go through later; they were not as portable should they need to run, and Steve had already mentioned his suspicions regarding a phone being used against them.
Clint was far too tired to run through the hacking algorithms and so, after a moment of flipping the phone around to see if there were any tells, simply called out, "Password for the one with the screensaver of two highly inappropriate rabbits?"
There was an answering snort, and then a chuckle, and then a very reluctant, "I swear they are just snuggling and it's BUN4ULUV." It was followed by a near immediate, "And before you say anything, I bought my granddaughter two rabbits for her birthday last fall. She now has about ten."
"Bunnies are evil," Clint said as he typed in the code.
"But tasty," Natasha added with a hint of a grin as she cracked her own with no assistance.
Clint ignored her and dug in to his newfound data. Amongst other things, he discovered the cranky old man was Senator Castlethwaite, the non-lock screen wallpaper was of a girl who was roughly ten surrounded by little fur balls that may or may not have been rabbits, and that he had some definitely non-child and non-bunny appropriate apps on his phone.
He shut down all apps he could find, but knew there could be others running in the background if someone was smart enough to code them that way. He was reluctant to destroy the phone itself, especially since it appeared to actually be getting a signal. However, when he saw Nat dial out on hers and Steve attempt to do so on his, he had no problem powering the thing down and removing the obvious battery.
He would have sent an arrow through it to make sure, but figured that would probably be overkill, even if it would help him figure out his aim in his current condition. Instead, he set to work taking his bow from its case and making sure it was in working condition.
Steve seemed to be working his way through what Clint liked to think of as the SHIELD Emergency Phone Tree. There were about fifteen levels of identification just to get to talk to someone who may or may not get your message to the right superior, and they might just send a team out to take you down if they didn't like your answers.
Natasha appeared to bypass all of that and had apparently dialed Pepper's personal line and was trying to get her to both get a read on Tony and send a message to Fury.
Satisfied with the state of his weaponry, he took the opportunity to keep watch, assuming each and every sudden puff of white and gray against the blue were explosions either at or within SHIELD's hands. He rather did not like he number. He had reached the double digits when he heard Natasha finish her call, and he took the opportunity to look away from the sky and the tree line and focus on the immediate needs instead, knowing she would take over for him.
"What'd you see?" she asked as she leaned against the piece of wing beside him.
"Booms. Lotsa booms," he replied. He shifted to reach for his boot to tighten the laces, not at all surprised when she slapped his hands away and did it herself. "Fury wasn't lying about being under attack. It's doubtful they can get a jet out to us through that mess, at least not anytime soon." He grunted as she tugged, but felt the boot grow snug around his injury and figured he was getting off easy. He was lucky, based on the swelling it was probably only a sprain and not a true break. The boot may eventually need to be cut off, but it would work for now.
"Any sign of Stark or Thor?" she asked, quiet enough to not give anything away to the trio of guests. The trio that still knelt with their hands above their heads as they had not figured out she no longer had a weapon trained on them.
He shook his head reluctantly. "Not from this distance," he sighed.
She rummaged through the gear he had gathered and tossed him his guard and fletching glove. When his hands, numb and clumsy, had trouble getting the straps just right, she neatly adjusted them and gave him a look. "How bad?" she demanded, for it was obvious she was not simply asking.
"I can still shoot, and that's all that matters," he told her, and she nodded in acceptance. "Walking is going to be a bitch, at least down that hill, but we can't stay here so I'll deal."
She nodded again and checked the bandage at his side. "Bleeding's slowing, for now. You want something for the pain?"
He would love something for the pain, enough morphine to take him out so he could sleep off the worst of it, but he didn't want to risk it. "Probably shouldn't," he replied. He saw her prep a syringe from the kit anyway and gave her a look.
"Antibiotic," she told him. "It should hold off the worst of the infection until we can get you something better."
He hated needles, but hated dying of some terrible blood disease more, so he held out his arm for the shot. When it was immediately followed by another one, he frowned at her. "Nat..." he said warningly.
"I lied," she shrugged, completely unsympathetic. She discarded both needles and cleaned up what she had removed from the pack. "Half dose only, but it should be enough to take the edge off and reduce the swelling."
Cap seemed to finally finish his call, tossing the phone back onto the pile of discarded tech. "SHIELD is a bit-"
"Indisposed at the moment?" Clint guessed. He motioned to the sky above them to show how he knew and asked, "Anything useful out of them? ETA? Knowledge that our dear teammates are safe and sound?"
"Iron Man was on the radio as of about a half hour ago, but they lost contact after Fury switched off the comms due to 'interference,'" Steve said, which likely meant Stark's choice in music. "Banner also suggested finding the emergency radio to prevent the hassle of dialing in, and discarding everything else on the assumption it's bugged."
"They let you talk to Bruce?" Clint asked, surprised at the breach in protocol.
Steve grinned, quick and grim. "Yeah, apparently they hoped he would find my word that the three of us were safe and sound more soothing than that of a junior agent. I doubt he was going to let the Other Guy out, but he scared a few agents something awful until he got me."
Despite feeling as though he had gone a few rounds with the Other Guy himself, Clint cracked a smile at that. During their time together as teammates, everyone had discovered just what they could and could not get away with. Threatening to let loose something that had put the carrier in dry dock for months seemed effective enough for him to remember to abuse it in the future.
Natasha tossed Steve a spare pistol to hold against their charges, and left to dig through the rubble for the requested radio. Clint continued to keep watch, and Steve was enough of a softie to let the politicians rest their knees and arms and simply sit before them. He counted another three maybe-explosions by the time she returned, a battered case under her arm.
"No promises it will work, bit they should at least be able to get the required signal," she said, handing the device to Steve. Together, they started the process of setting it up while Clint continued to watch the skies.
Of course this meant Clint was the first one to have to disobey the whole no shooting directive from earlier, but he figured it was at a thing and not a person so it didn't technically count. One of the silver not-missiles glided down towards their position. He warned the others with a single shout of, "Incoming!" trusting that they would both understand and act appropriately.
His bow was in hand and an arrow let loose before he even finished saying the word. His wrist screamed in pain at the recoil, and his aim was at least five degrees off of what he originally thought, even taking Cap's words from earlier into consideration, but the second shot took out the silver glinty not-a-missile with a satisfying explosion.
Unfortunately, it had not been alone.
Both Nat and Steve fired, and they must have hit the guidance system because the thing was still mostly whole when it veered off to the side, a trail of smoke in its wake, and crashed into an innocent oak.
"We can't stay here," Cap said, stating the obvious.
"Trees have more cover and those things will have to at least work to get to us," Clint pointed out. He attempted to shoulder his quiver, and Natasha casually slid it into place as she offered him an arm to lean on. He waved her off though. They had three possibly hostiles or possibly charges to look after and some impressive tech raining down on them. She needed the freedom to move and the freedom to shoot, two things she wouldn't get if she was busy shoring up his sorry ass.
She nodded in understanding and picked up the med kit and another bag that he was willing to bet held pretty much every weapon she could find during her search of the plane, and then helped Steve herd the politicians towards the hillside, both ignoring the plaintive cries for the tech they were leaving behind.
"If they are picking up a signal from one of those things, and aiming based on that signal, wouldn't you rather have that aim someplace other than your pocket?" he explained when Castlethwaite continued to bitch.
"When he puts it like that, I say I can always take more pictures of my kid and download a new game on a new phone," the one identified as Paul said.
"Hopefully they don't access my email from mine because, really, I was only joking with my husband," the woman, who Clint really needed to learn her name, chimed in agreement. She pushed a strand of dark hair out of her eyes but, other than that and a few scuffs of dirt across her once neat suit, looked relatively unperturbed.
"When we stop, we can send a message to Fury to lock your accounts, if he hasn't already," Natasha told them. There was more grumbling, some of it suspicious as to the true reach of SHIELD. She put a stop to that with the added comment of, "It's either that, or we blow them ourselves - your choice."
The grumbles turned to agreement, and they continued to mutter amongst themselves as they began the hike down the hill. In the process, they called each other by their names enough to key off Clint's concussion-foggy memory. Senator Brett Castlethwaite was the asshole with the love for furry animals and porn. Congressman Paul Lavine was the young one they kept teasing. Senator Lidia Peterson was the woman who may or may not have been working against them, but at least kept the others in line.
It was Peterson that kept glancing back at him, eyes darting from weapon to bloodstained shirt to his obvious limp. She didn't say a word, not out loud, but definitely looked like she wanted to. He had the feeling she was sizing up his weaknesses versus having motherly instincts, and was rather glad he had not splinted his wrist yet as that would have been another tell.
Natasha gave him similar looks, but he knew her well enough to know she was pissed off that he was hurt and that he was lying about the severity. He caught her more than once glare daggers at the back of Castlethwaite's gray and balding head, and almost wished Cap had not stated his suspicions early on as now all three of them were more likely to look at him in a less than favorable light. This could prove disastrous if he was really the innocent or being set up. Then again, Clint had not gotten this far in life blindly trusting others, so he figured he'd even the odds and just assume all three were suspects, right up until he had direct evidence otherwise.
They were barely inside the tree line when he dared to look back. He knew Nat was keeping watch, but he wanted to check on her as much as check on their six. He happened to time it to match up with her warning of, "Get down!"
He couldn't crouch without needing help back up again, so he braced himself against a tree and watched one of the silver things sweep down low, but not penetrate the row of trunks. It circled roughly above the plane and roughly above the pile of gear, and then swooped back out again.
He let out a pained breath, remembering the comments from earlier about surveillance, and was about to remark on the same, but never got the words out. The dart returned, but brought a friend as apparently that was their trademark or something, and the two things headed straight for the wreckage. It took him an extra second to realize the threat they posed, helped in part by Steve's shouts, and then the world exploded into a ball of fire. Chunks of metal and glass and wires rained down from the top of the hill, most caught in the upper branches of the trees, but some filtering down to scorch the ground around them.
Sadly, the threat to the ground litter was not even the worst thing they had to fear as a rather large section of the fuselage teetered at the top of the hill, right before it began its descent, throwing up waves of soil and sparks along its path.
Steve bodily grabbed him and tossed him over his shoulder in possibly the most embarrassing of ways, life saving or no. More than a single arrow hit the ground before he remembered the quiver controls and hopefully saved enough to save them all when the time inevitably came. Natasha pushed and prodded at their stunned charges, trying to get them to move before they were all crushed to death by the weight now bearing down upon them.
He couldn't move the way he was held, could not even really lift himself to watch the wreckage's descent due to the injury at his side screaming in protest at the slightest of shifts. He had always thought he would face death head on, with maybe the slightest possibility of a headshot from behind given his chosen profession. He never really thought his final sight in this life might be Captain America's khaki-clad ass.
It turned out, as usual, that he was to be mistaken. Steve chucked him to the ground and he was able to make out surroundings of dirt and rock for the briefest of moments before he was bodily covered, his dear teammate apparently assuming his super soldier physique could withstand the impact of the better part of a fricken plane.
When he came to - and, yeah, he was man enough to admit he passed out - he found that he was once again trapped in relative darkness. A heavy weight pressed down upon him, and he may have had a brief moment of panic when he wasn't sure if he could even move his toes. "If I'm paralyzed, I'm going to be pissed," he said to the world in general.
There was a chuckle, and then a moan, and then Steve, glorious Steve, raised himself up and off of him, and his limbs filled with the sensation of pins and needles instead of the sensation of being smothered by dead weight. There was a faint bit of light, most of it tinged red with what was likely fire if the background roar was anything to go by, but it was enough to see his supposed team leader roll to the side and huff, "See if I save your sorry backside again."
"Ass, Cap, it's called an ass. I should know because I just got close and personal with yours," Clint replied. He still didn't really move, didn't want to, didn't know if he could.
"You're welcome," Steve said instead because, there may be a day that Clint got Captain America to swear, but today was not that day. It was, however, a private dream of his that he usually took great glee in attempting to accomplish.
There was a pained undercurrent to his friend's voice though, so he asked, "How bad?"
"Enough," Steve replied, which wasn't really an answer.
"Regular enough, or super soldier enough?" Clint pressed. He needed as much of a sit rep as he could and, for now, Steve was the only one could give it to him. Besides, it was only fair considering what he had to admit to earlier.
"Super soldier enough," he finally relented, duty always coming before pride with him. There was a grunt, and then the sound of cloth shifting, followed by the sound of metal hitting metal.
"Cap?" he prompted when no explanation was forthcoming.
"Shrapnel, or what I'm going to call shrapnel," Steve explained. He was hovering over Clint again, which meant he had made it to at least his hands and knees. "It was in my leg, now it's not," he finished with only a slight pant.
"Tasha had the bandages," Clint told him, both a request for the true status of his injuries and an inquiry as to the status of the final member of their current team.
"I... might actually need one this time," he admitted. He shifted again, now sitting instead of crouching next to him. "Widow? What's your status?" he called to the air in general. A large mass of fuselage arched above them, driven deep into the stone and trees and dirt, and it made Steve's voice echo eerily, especially with the backdrop of continuing explosions.
"Contained," came the response from way too far away.
"Injuries?" he prompted when she did not elaborate.
"Minor to all parties," she replied. There was something that sounded like muted bickering, followed by a snapped, "Nothing is broken and there are no lacerations that will require stitches. We are all breathing and alive and therefore this constitutes as minor." Clint did not envy her luck, but would have been lying if he said he wasn't amused by her lack of patience.
Senator Peterson's voice sounded next, as if to convince them of the other woman's words. "I turned my ankle because heels and fiery hillsides do not play well together. Brett has a bump on the head that should swell up nicely. Paul has a few scrapes and his suit will never be the same again but, besides that, we're fine," she elaborated.
Natasha grunted, as much of an allowance as she was likely to grant. "Captain, if you would be kind enough to help me with this wall, I should be able to get you some supplies," she said, voice barely audible above an odd clanking sound.
Rogers pushed himself upright, or as far upright as he could get given their current circumstances, and half-limped and half-crawled to the other side of the opening he shared with Clint. It gave Clint the opportunity to see the damage for himself, up close and personal. He had a scratch high across his left cheek to match the one in his hairline from earlier, and the gouge in his leg probably would have felled any other non-scientifically augmented person.
"You better grab the pack, because I will not go down in history as the person who scarred Captain America's perfect face," he muttered.
Steve turned just enough to frown at him, though there was a hint of amusement to his eyes. "The tree scarred this less than perfect face, Barton, not you." He punched at something solid just to Clint's right, and tried to lighten the mood with his version of humor. "Stop thinking the world revolves around you for a moment, and think of the earth."
And Clint was thinking of the earth, really and truly. He was thinking of the rocks that crumbled around them, the trees lit with fire just outside their little refuge, and the hard dirt beneath his ass. He decided he should shift said ass and see if he could maybe make himself more useful, or at least get out of Steve's way. He tried to push himself into a slightly more reclining position instead of laying slightly on his side, quiver digging into his back, and sharp and seizing pain quickly reminded him of the damage done to both his ribs and wrist, hot warmth oozing down his side telling him he had reopened the wound Natasha had so carefully bandaged.
The shift did at least provide him with a little better view of the situation. They were in a small sort of alcove, with random less-than-solid walls both protecting them from the worst of what was outside and allowing soot and smoke to slowly leak in.
He also saw that Natasha was not quite as far away as originally believed. A pseudo-wall of broken tree trunks and chunks of metal separated them, but he could already see her filthy face through the rough opening they had managed so far. She widened the hole just a little bit more, and then shoved a pack through. He was fairly certain she didn't aim for him, but he still grunted and glared when it thumped against his side.
"Patch him and yourself up while I try to get this radio working," she directed, ignoring his antics.
Steve didn't even balk at her giving orders, but did about her splitting her attention while left with three possible hostiles and no readily available backup. "Open this so we can see you first, all of you," he told her instead.
She nodded, likely hearing his argument without words, and tugged a few more pieces free. Clint noticed that she did not quite make an opening big enough to slip through, but chose places that gave him a clear line of sight from his current position. He exchanged his bow for Cap's pistol, and kept watch the best he could while being poked and prodded with less than gentle care.
Steve made less than encouraging noises as he removed the bandages and repacked the wound on his side, and Clint made a mental note to pretend his teammate would need a full amputation when it came time to treat the gash on his leg. Of course Rogers had to ruin even that dream by jamming a needle of the good stuff into him before he set off to treat himself.
"How am I supposed to keep watch if I'm higher than a kite?" Clint protested. The truth was that it felt damned good to have that much hacked off the edge of his pain, but he knew his sight and judgement would be even more affected now, and that rather pissed him off. He was used to pushing pain to the side, but drugs made any push unpredictable. He'd rather have the reminder of what was at stake and the focus of the undying ache than the dullness and lack of precision gifted to him with the painkillers.
"Widow's got the radio up and I've got the gun," Steve said, pulling the weapon free with far too much ease. "You shouldn't be standing with that much damage, not to mention bloodloss."
"Not standing, sitting," he pointed out, sounding petulant to his own ears. He wondered if he had passed out again while Steve had worked as he really did not remember hearing any actual contact with SHIELD. He also didn't remember his quiver being removed, but it was laying at his side instead of pressing into his back, so it was likely he had been good and out for a decent amount of time.
"Regardless," Steve cut him off. "I simply did what she should have earlier. When this is all done and over with, we're going to have a long discussion about injuries and lying."
"I didn't lie," Clint protested. This was the truth.
Natasha defended him, in her own way. "Omission only, no direct lies. We needed to get out of there, and we did. Now we need to get out of here, and have to deal with a drugged and disabled archer instead of just a disabled one."
He frowned, certain there was something positive to her words, but not fully having the attention span to parse it out. He did, however, have the attention span to know they were likely fucked when explosions started going off close enough to their makeshift shelter/prison to shake new waves of metal and dirt free to rain down upon them. He swore profusely, Nat grumbled, and Cap tried to bodily shore up the largest of the protective walls, even while the smaller barriers shifted to let in a whole lot of smoke and heat.
"That getting out of here would be good," he offered less than helpfully. He raised his arms to prevent something large and crumbly from falling on his face. The dirt clung to him like his sweat-soaked shirt anyway, so he wasn't sure how much good it did him other that jarring his injuries again. "Any time now, really."
Steve changed from trying to shore up the wall to trying to tear it down in a way that didn't involve crushing them both. Natasha started feeding the politicians through a new opening in the side and urged them to help. She armed herself, and pressed a pistol into Clint's hands with explicitly whispered and only partially joking directions to aim towards the side with the politicians first, and then joined the scramble to free them all before they were either roasted or suffocated.
Clint watched as his friends pushed and pulled and he sat on his ass not doing much save for hold a gun and know he'd probably manage more damage than good at this point. There was the sound of another explosion, and then the largest chunk of the fuselage began to crumble around them. Steve pushed one of the guys in a suit down to the ground and he couldn't see which one because his face was full of red hair when Nat tried to cover him as well despite her own bad arm and then there was a roar which he assumed meant something big and flammable going up which would probably all come crashing down around them soon enough.
Only it didn't.
There was suddenly a lot more light and a lot more air and he feebly pushed at Natasha until she rolled off of him just as Castlethwaite swore in a truly impressive manner and Lavine and Peterson looked to be fighting the urge to either vomit or piss their pants and then the smoke finally cleared enough for his gritty eyes to make out something huge and green and imposing where a heap of metal had been only moments before.
"Hey, big guy," Clint greeted him mildly. The Hulk grunted in response, caught another silver thing mid-air, and snapped it in two.
The world was on fire all around them, but not for long as a boom of thunder heralded the sky breaking open with rain, the water seeming to sizzle against his overheated skin and turn his grime to mud. Thor neatly landed beside the Hulk, pushed his dripping hair from his eyes, and declared, "We have been victorious."
"Not quite yet," a new voice sounded from just above and behind him. Through the smoke and ash, Clint could just make out something red and formerly shiny. The Iron Man suit was dented and scuffed and currently firing on something out of sight but probably deadly. There was another explosion, muffled by the protective barrier of the Hulk, and then Tony declared, "Now we have been victorious."
SHIELD agents swarmed in from all sides and Clint could care less because his team was there and they had all made it and the drugs were really good and there was a very good chance he was going to pass out again. Before he did though, as the smoke and haze and rain and shiny weaponry and shadows of dark suits began to swim and surge around him, he had the presence of mind to say, "Hey, Stark, check for signals 'cause we're probably tagged."
Tony nodded, or possibly Clint's head drooped, and then he really didn't remember much more of the day's events save to say, "Quinjet," and get something that sounded like a muttered promise about next time in return.
He awoke some time later to find himself in the infirmary with all sorts of lines and tubing attached to him. There was an oxygen mask strapped to his face, which was probably a good thing given the amount of smoke he inhaled, and an IV of fluids and possibly more drugs dripping into his right arm. His left wrist was splinted, as was his ankle, and a quick check showed a neat row of stitches along his side.
He had expected Natasha to be on the bed beside him, but found Steve there instead, a bulge of bandages showing beneath the scrub bottoms he wore. He had no lines attached though, and would probably be free to leave whereas Clint was likely to be a resident for a few days at the minimum, and longer if he pissed off the docs.
"She asked me to stay and babysit you for a few minutes so that you wouldn't do, yeah, that," Steve explained, ending with a sigh when Clint tugged the mask free so he could talk.
"How bad?" he asked. His voice sounded horrible to his own ears, which was not going to help his chances of getting out sooner rather than later. He tried to remember the tricks to getting around that, but pushed it off a a concern for later as his concentration levels were damn near negative until the effects of the drugs died down.
"You or me?" Steve asked with a depreciating chuckle. It reminded Clint that he wasn't used to being laid up, at least not since the serum so many decades ago. Maybe he wasn't the only one working out ways of escape after all.
"Both," he shrugged and, yeah, even that hurt.
Steve pretended not to notice his wince and leaned back against his pillows to recite off, "Both your ankle and wrist are severely sprained - and the docs are a mixed of surprised and ticked at you for shooting like that by the way. You are two and two on your ribs: two broken and two cracked though some of that might have been from me so, sorry about that. The shrapnel missed anything vital, but not by much, and you have one doozy of a concussion." He paused to tug and frown at his own cannula of oxygen neatly tucked off to the side before he added, "All three of us have smoke inhalation to varying degrees as well."
Clint gestured to the obvious bandages and prompted, "And your leg?"
The frown turned into a full grimace. "Shrapnel cut deep enough to damage the muscle, but my body's healing it already. I'll probably be off it for a couple of days though." He held up a hand to stop Clint from talking, possibly because he was as painful to listen to as it was for him to speak, and said, "Before you ask, Natasha just has the inhalation, the dislocated shoulder, and possibly a chipped nail."
Now it was Clint's turn to chuckle, even though it felt like his insides were ripped apart by sandpapered gloves to do so. He stopped when Nat walked in, shoved his oxygen mask back on with her good hand and glared. "It was fully broken, as was my finger," she corrected. A quick glance confirmed the splint on the ring finger of her right hand visible through the sling she was forced to wear.
He rolled his eyes at her and she smirked back good-naturedly and Steve looked like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar for daring to make a joke at her expense. He tried to make amends by moving to get up and provide her a place to rest, but she waved in his direction in possibly a semi-threatening manner, and sat down on the edge of Clint's mattress instead.
He knew better than to ask how she was, especially after Steve's truncated report, so instead he pulled his mask down again to ask, "How are the others?"
She pushed the mask back up and gave him a look that promised dire consequences if he didn't keep it there. "Bruce and Thor are fine and Stark won't let anyone get near enough to him to check, which means any injuries are minor. They're with Director Fury right now giving him a status report on the attack."
"Which would be?" he prompted through the mask. It muffled his voice, but also possibly muffled his tone, which would give away his intentions to break out and rejoin the fight if need be.
She didn't fall for it in the least and rested her good hand on his leg with a gentle-for-her squeeze that both told him things were under control and that he was to stay there or she would find restraints to keep him there. She did, however, update him, so there was that.
The attack was, for all intents and purposes, over. Huey, Dewey, and Louie of the politicos were under house arrest, though they didn't know it yet. The arrest was more for their protection though, as every single one of them was clean, at least on the surface. Lavine's phone had been hacked and had been broadcasting a signal, but it honestly looked as though he knew nothing about it and all evidence pointed to a disgruntled aide with ties to some anti-SHIELD organizations.
Stark was to work with the SHIELD techs to determine when the software had been added to the phone and to possibly clear and possibly condemn Lavine. The others were digging through any and all intel on Castlethwaite and Peterson to verify neither of them had set up Lavine and/or to see if they or their aides were involved in the subterfuge as well.
"On the up side, we totally have the vote and support of whichever one of the politicians that isn't evil," Tony said as he joined them. His voice had a definite rough edge to it, and the shadows under his eyes were impressive, but other than that, he looked fine. Likely the suit's internal breathing system helped play a role in that, providing him nice filtered air versus the ash and smoke the others had to deal with, though the decompression issues prior to it kicking in had to be a bitch.
"Aren't all politicians evil?" Clint asked, mainly because it was expected. "I mean, isn't that kinda part of the job requirement?"
Tony huffed a chuckle and amended his statement to, "Less evil, or at least evil in a way that's not actively against us." He paused and took in Clint's condition as if he had not already hacked the medical records, and added, "You know the whole 'going down' thing is supposed to be captains and ships and not pilots and planes, right? No offense, Cap."
"None taken," Steve assured him, possibly because he had gone down with the non-ship as well.
They talked and joked and mused on the idiocy of attacking a plane with at least two flight-capable people aboard it and Stark promised only Quinjets in the future, save for if he was able to arm his next creation both in a way that skirted federal requirements and still looked sleek. Clint was not certain which was more important in Stark's mind, and wasn't sure if he truly cared because, really, he'd still fight for something he personally knew to be reliable and defensive, at least until proven that something better existed.
Bruce stumbled in and crawled up onto the bed that Natasha refused. He attempted to place his glasses on the little table and plopped back against the pillow with a yawn, a vague thanks mumbled when Tony picked the glasses off the floor and put them somewhere a bit safer. The action showed that Tony favored his left side though, something noticed by all assembled save for Banner, who appeared to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. A transformation mixed with the stress of an attack was likely to blame for that, so everyone simply lowered their voices slightly in deference to his exhaustion.
The voices were blurring to a low hum by the time Thor arrived and settled himself at the foot of Banner's purloined cot. Clint blamed the soothing tones and the comfort of knowing his team was safe and sound and in relatively one piece for not stopping Nat when she reached over and upped his pain meds with the ease of a few simple buttons.
He drifted on the opiates mixed with an adrenaline crash mixed with an exhaustion of his own, vision graying out at the edges, and let the voices of his teammates lull him into a state of sort of pseudo-sleep. He worried for a brief moment that those capable of it might just up and leave those who weren't behind to deal with the hospitality of SHIELD medical, but then heard the scrape of a chair and the bitch of Rogers when Stark apparently settled in with his feet propped up on the good Captain's bedside. He then wondered if he'd miss something important as he well and truly could no long follow their wandering conversation, but figured if they were willing to stay, they'd probably be willing to fill him in later. Plus there was the fact that they all saw Natasha drug him, so he totally wasn't to blame if he zonked out on them this time.
With that in mind, he let his eyes slide closed and his mind fill with all the ways the battle would have changed, let alone the day as a whole, if they had just taken the fucking Quinjet.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
This entry was originally posted at http://cat-77.dreamwidth.org/417470.html. Current comments
Genre: Gen, Team, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: R
Length: ~14,000 words
Warnings: gore/injuries, language (Clint's got a mouth on him)
Synopsis: Escorting three politicians to a SHIELD-sponsored meeting goes horribly wrong, as these things are wont to do.
Author's Notes: For the "plane crash" square at
hc_bingo. Actually one of the first stories I started for this whole thing, which makes sense that it's the last to be posted. Title is a nod to the Alanis Morissette song "Ironic."
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Live Journal: Part 1 | Part 2
Dreamwidth: Part 1 | Part 2
The light did nothing to ease the pain in his head, but did a hell of a lot to illuminate the situation for him. The plane was toast, that much he knew before he even hobbled out of it. Stark's fire suppression systems had done their job and the hulk of metal was just a smoking, smoldering mess instead of actively in flames. Clint had somehow managed to land it at the very edge of what was once a relatively wide open field that now held the deep furrows of a plowing crash, just before a sharp drop off shrouded with trees and rocks. It was a decent vantage point, save for the fact anyone approaching would see them at least as quickly as they would pick out their attackers, which meant no real benefit gained save for the solid wall of the plane to use as a barricade. Given that would likely be expected, they needed to find someplace else to set up camp until the reinforcements arrived.
The most obvious place was down the hillside. Again, obvious so it had the downfall of being the first place searched after the plane itself, but at least it did not involve a trek across a wide open field with absolutely nothing for cover.
He was going to suggest the journey, despite his own want to just curl up and rest for a bit, maybe a week or two, but figured both that his teammates would have sorted the same thing out for themselves and that he should wait until Nat was done doing whatever she was doing with their new entourage.
Natasha had the trio of political leaders on their knees, hands raised and behind their heads. She was methodically going through every pocket and parcel, and tossing the possessions into a neat pile behind her, gun casually cocked at her side. Clint noticed the gun was was in her right hand, the one attached to her injured shoulder, but that she gave away nearly no tells as to the damage. One of the men had already seen her and would know of the weakness, but her reputation may have been holding off any action on that part for now.
"Should we stop her?" Steve asked out of the corner of his mouth, and Clint could see the argument to be made about harassing the politicos.
Being that he could also see the use in getting their hands on possibly working communication devices as well as possibly finding evidence as to whether or not there really was a traitor in their midst, instead he just asked, "Why?"
Cap was surprisingly fine with that response. He helped to guide Clint over to the edge of the pile, which was helpfully placed near the fallen wing, propped Clint up against a piece of said wing, and started digging through the treasure to see if there was anything usable to be found. Steve was not exactly the most tech-savvy person on the planet but, for someone misplaced from the 1940's, he did know more than his fair share. Tony was to blame for this, of course, always making sure his teammates not only had the latest and greatest that Stark Industries had to offer, but holding embarrassing "seminars" on the use of each item every time. To her credit, Natasha had only tried to shoot him once, and it happened to be when he was showing off some new shielding technology, so she still had plausible deniability on that one.
"I could sue you," one of the men griped, though Clint noticed he kept his hands on his head. "I should sue you. Harassment, that's what this is. It's an embarrassment. You have hard working Americans on their knees while a known Russian spy goes digging for secrets and the true enemy could attack at any time."
"Natasha, no," Clint said mildly without looking up. She had not made any obvious moves, but he knew her well enough to know she was tempted to do something dire to the ass.
"Shut up, Bret," the woman of the trio said instead. "They have no way of knowing who's involved at this point. Wouldn't you rather have them figure out Paul here is secretly sending messages to someone and shoot him instead of us?"
"Hey!" the aforementioned Paul protested.
"You know what I mean," the woman amended. At this point, Clint would not be surprised if she was the spy and just really good at pushing attention off on the others.
"There will be no shooting of anyone," Steve promised, and Clint tried not to laugh when Nat turned to him and mouthed the word, "Yet."
She tossed a final phone at Steve, took one of the others over to Clint, and kept the last one for herself. The miscellaneous laptops and tablets they would go through later; they were not as portable should they need to run, and Steve had already mentioned his suspicions regarding a phone being used against them.
Clint was far too tired to run through the hacking algorithms and so, after a moment of flipping the phone around to see if there were any tells, simply called out, "Password for the one with the screensaver of two highly inappropriate rabbits?"
There was an answering snort, and then a chuckle, and then a very reluctant, "I swear they are just snuggling and it's BUN4ULUV." It was followed by a near immediate, "And before you say anything, I bought my granddaughter two rabbits for her birthday last fall. She now has about ten."
"Bunnies are evil," Clint said as he typed in the code.
"But tasty," Natasha added with a hint of a grin as she cracked her own with no assistance.
Clint ignored her and dug in to his newfound data. Amongst other things, he discovered the cranky old man was Senator Castlethwaite, the non-lock screen wallpaper was of a girl who was roughly ten surrounded by little fur balls that may or may not have been rabbits, and that he had some definitely non-child and non-bunny appropriate apps on his phone.
He shut down all apps he could find, but knew there could be others running in the background if someone was smart enough to code them that way. He was reluctant to destroy the phone itself, especially since it appeared to actually be getting a signal. However, when he saw Nat dial out on hers and Steve attempt to do so on his, he had no problem powering the thing down and removing the obvious battery.
He would have sent an arrow through it to make sure, but figured that would probably be overkill, even if it would help him figure out his aim in his current condition. Instead, he set to work taking his bow from its case and making sure it was in working condition.
Steve seemed to be working his way through what Clint liked to think of as the SHIELD Emergency Phone Tree. There were about fifteen levels of identification just to get to talk to someone who may or may not get your message to the right superior, and they might just send a team out to take you down if they didn't like your answers.
Natasha appeared to bypass all of that and had apparently dialed Pepper's personal line and was trying to get her to both get a read on Tony and send a message to Fury.
Satisfied with the state of his weaponry, he took the opportunity to keep watch, assuming each and every sudden puff of white and gray against the blue were explosions either at or within SHIELD's hands. He rather did not like he number. He had reached the double digits when he heard Natasha finish her call, and he took the opportunity to look away from the sky and the tree line and focus on the immediate needs instead, knowing she would take over for him.
"What'd you see?" she asked as she leaned against the piece of wing beside him.
"Booms. Lotsa booms," he replied. He shifted to reach for his boot to tighten the laces, not at all surprised when she slapped his hands away and did it herself. "Fury wasn't lying about being under attack. It's doubtful they can get a jet out to us through that mess, at least not anytime soon." He grunted as she tugged, but felt the boot grow snug around his injury and figured he was getting off easy. He was lucky, based on the swelling it was probably only a sprain and not a true break. The boot may eventually need to be cut off, but it would work for now.
"Any sign of Stark or Thor?" she asked, quiet enough to not give anything away to the trio of guests. The trio that still knelt with their hands above their heads as they had not figured out she no longer had a weapon trained on them.
He shook his head reluctantly. "Not from this distance," he sighed.
She rummaged through the gear he had gathered and tossed him his guard and fletching glove. When his hands, numb and clumsy, had trouble getting the straps just right, she neatly adjusted them and gave him a look. "How bad?" she demanded, for it was obvious she was not simply asking.
"I can still shoot, and that's all that matters," he told her, and she nodded in acceptance. "Walking is going to be a bitch, at least down that hill, but we can't stay here so I'll deal."
She nodded again and checked the bandage at his side. "Bleeding's slowing, for now. You want something for the pain?"
He would love something for the pain, enough morphine to take him out so he could sleep off the worst of it, but he didn't want to risk it. "Probably shouldn't," he replied. He saw her prep a syringe from the kit anyway and gave her a look.
"Antibiotic," she told him. "It should hold off the worst of the infection until we can get you something better."
He hated needles, but hated dying of some terrible blood disease more, so he held out his arm for the shot. When it was immediately followed by another one, he frowned at her. "Nat..." he said warningly.
"I lied," she shrugged, completely unsympathetic. She discarded both needles and cleaned up what she had removed from the pack. "Half dose only, but it should be enough to take the edge off and reduce the swelling."
Cap seemed to finally finish his call, tossing the phone back onto the pile of discarded tech. "SHIELD is a bit-"
"Indisposed at the moment?" Clint guessed. He motioned to the sky above them to show how he knew and asked, "Anything useful out of them? ETA? Knowledge that our dear teammates are safe and sound?"
"Iron Man was on the radio as of about a half hour ago, but they lost contact after Fury switched off the comms due to 'interference,'" Steve said, which likely meant Stark's choice in music. "Banner also suggested finding the emergency radio to prevent the hassle of dialing in, and discarding everything else on the assumption it's bugged."
"They let you talk to Bruce?" Clint asked, surprised at the breach in protocol.
Steve grinned, quick and grim. "Yeah, apparently they hoped he would find my word that the three of us were safe and sound more soothing than that of a junior agent. I doubt he was going to let the Other Guy out, but he scared a few agents something awful until he got me."
Despite feeling as though he had gone a few rounds with the Other Guy himself, Clint cracked a smile at that. During their time together as teammates, everyone had discovered just what they could and could not get away with. Threatening to let loose something that had put the carrier in dry dock for months seemed effective enough for him to remember to abuse it in the future.
Natasha tossed Steve a spare pistol to hold against their charges, and left to dig through the rubble for the requested radio. Clint continued to keep watch, and Steve was enough of a softie to let the politicians rest their knees and arms and simply sit before them. He counted another three maybe-explosions by the time she returned, a battered case under her arm.
"No promises it will work, bit they should at least be able to get the required signal," she said, handing the device to Steve. Together, they started the process of setting it up while Clint continued to watch the skies.
Of course this meant Clint was the first one to have to disobey the whole no shooting directive from earlier, but he figured it was at a thing and not a person so it didn't technically count. One of the silver not-missiles glided down towards their position. He warned the others with a single shout of, "Incoming!" trusting that they would both understand and act appropriately.
His bow was in hand and an arrow let loose before he even finished saying the word. His wrist screamed in pain at the recoil, and his aim was at least five degrees off of what he originally thought, even taking Cap's words from earlier into consideration, but the second shot took out the silver glinty not-a-missile with a satisfying explosion.
Unfortunately, it had not been alone.
Both Nat and Steve fired, and they must have hit the guidance system because the thing was still mostly whole when it veered off to the side, a trail of smoke in its wake, and crashed into an innocent oak.
"We can't stay here," Cap said, stating the obvious.
"Trees have more cover and those things will have to at least work to get to us," Clint pointed out. He attempted to shoulder his quiver, and Natasha casually slid it into place as she offered him an arm to lean on. He waved her off though. They had three possibly hostiles or possibly charges to look after and some impressive tech raining down on them. She needed the freedom to move and the freedom to shoot, two things she wouldn't get if she was busy shoring up his sorry ass.
She nodded in understanding and picked up the med kit and another bag that he was willing to bet held pretty much every weapon she could find during her search of the plane, and then helped Steve herd the politicians towards the hillside, both ignoring the plaintive cries for the tech they were leaving behind.
"If they are picking up a signal from one of those things, and aiming based on that signal, wouldn't you rather have that aim someplace other than your pocket?" he explained when Castlethwaite continued to bitch.
"When he puts it like that, I say I can always take more pictures of my kid and download a new game on a new phone," the one identified as Paul said.
"Hopefully they don't access my email from mine because, really, I was only joking with my husband," the woman, who Clint really needed to learn her name, chimed in agreement. She pushed a strand of dark hair out of her eyes but, other than that and a few scuffs of dirt across her once neat suit, looked relatively unperturbed.
"When we stop, we can send a message to Fury to lock your accounts, if he hasn't already," Natasha told them. There was more grumbling, some of it suspicious as to the true reach of SHIELD. She put a stop to that with the added comment of, "It's either that, or we blow them ourselves - your choice."
The grumbles turned to agreement, and they continued to mutter amongst themselves as they began the hike down the hill. In the process, they called each other by their names enough to key off Clint's concussion-foggy memory. Senator Brett Castlethwaite was the asshole with the love for furry animals and porn. Congressman Paul Lavine was the young one they kept teasing. Senator Lidia Peterson was the woman who may or may not have been working against them, but at least kept the others in line.
It was Peterson that kept glancing back at him, eyes darting from weapon to bloodstained shirt to his obvious limp. She didn't say a word, not out loud, but definitely looked like she wanted to. He had the feeling she was sizing up his weaknesses versus having motherly instincts, and was rather glad he had not splinted his wrist yet as that would have been another tell.
Natasha gave him similar looks, but he knew her well enough to know she was pissed off that he was hurt and that he was lying about the severity. He caught her more than once glare daggers at the back of Castlethwaite's gray and balding head, and almost wished Cap had not stated his suspicions early on as now all three of them were more likely to look at him in a less than favorable light. This could prove disastrous if he was really the innocent or being set up. Then again, Clint had not gotten this far in life blindly trusting others, so he figured he'd even the odds and just assume all three were suspects, right up until he had direct evidence otherwise.
They were barely inside the tree line when he dared to look back. He knew Nat was keeping watch, but he wanted to check on her as much as check on their six. He happened to time it to match up with her warning of, "Get down!"
He couldn't crouch without needing help back up again, so he braced himself against a tree and watched one of the silver things sweep down low, but not penetrate the row of trunks. It circled roughly above the plane and roughly above the pile of gear, and then swooped back out again.
He let out a pained breath, remembering the comments from earlier about surveillance, and was about to remark on the same, but never got the words out. The dart returned, but brought a friend as apparently that was their trademark or something, and the two things headed straight for the wreckage. It took him an extra second to realize the threat they posed, helped in part by Steve's shouts, and then the world exploded into a ball of fire. Chunks of metal and glass and wires rained down from the top of the hill, most caught in the upper branches of the trees, but some filtering down to scorch the ground around them.
Sadly, the threat to the ground litter was not even the worst thing they had to fear as a rather large section of the fuselage teetered at the top of the hill, right before it began its descent, throwing up waves of soil and sparks along its path.
Steve bodily grabbed him and tossed him over his shoulder in possibly the most embarrassing of ways, life saving or no. More than a single arrow hit the ground before he remembered the quiver controls and hopefully saved enough to save them all when the time inevitably came. Natasha pushed and prodded at their stunned charges, trying to get them to move before they were all crushed to death by the weight now bearing down upon them.
He couldn't move the way he was held, could not even really lift himself to watch the wreckage's descent due to the injury at his side screaming in protest at the slightest of shifts. He had always thought he would face death head on, with maybe the slightest possibility of a headshot from behind given his chosen profession. He never really thought his final sight in this life might be Captain America's khaki-clad ass.
It turned out, as usual, that he was to be mistaken. Steve chucked him to the ground and he was able to make out surroundings of dirt and rock for the briefest of moments before he was bodily covered, his dear teammate apparently assuming his super soldier physique could withstand the impact of the better part of a fricken plane.
When he came to - and, yeah, he was man enough to admit he passed out - he found that he was once again trapped in relative darkness. A heavy weight pressed down upon him, and he may have had a brief moment of panic when he wasn't sure if he could even move his toes. "If I'm paralyzed, I'm going to be pissed," he said to the world in general.
There was a chuckle, and then a moan, and then Steve, glorious Steve, raised himself up and off of him, and his limbs filled with the sensation of pins and needles instead of the sensation of being smothered by dead weight. There was a faint bit of light, most of it tinged red with what was likely fire if the background roar was anything to go by, but it was enough to see his supposed team leader roll to the side and huff, "See if I save your sorry backside again."
"Ass, Cap, it's called an ass. I should know because I just got close and personal with yours," Clint replied. He still didn't really move, didn't want to, didn't know if he could.
"You're welcome," Steve said instead because, there may be a day that Clint got Captain America to swear, but today was not that day. It was, however, a private dream of his that he usually took great glee in attempting to accomplish.
There was a pained undercurrent to his friend's voice though, so he asked, "How bad?"
"Enough," Steve replied, which wasn't really an answer.
"Regular enough, or super soldier enough?" Clint pressed. He needed as much of a sit rep as he could and, for now, Steve was the only one could give it to him. Besides, it was only fair considering what he had to admit to earlier.
"Super soldier enough," he finally relented, duty always coming before pride with him. There was a grunt, and then the sound of cloth shifting, followed by the sound of metal hitting metal.
"Cap?" he prompted when no explanation was forthcoming.
"Shrapnel, or what I'm going to call shrapnel," Steve explained. He was hovering over Clint again, which meant he had made it to at least his hands and knees. "It was in my leg, now it's not," he finished with only a slight pant.
"Tasha had the bandages," Clint told him, both a request for the true status of his injuries and an inquiry as to the status of the final member of their current team.
"I... might actually need one this time," he admitted. He shifted again, now sitting instead of crouching next to him. "Widow? What's your status?" he called to the air in general. A large mass of fuselage arched above them, driven deep into the stone and trees and dirt, and it made Steve's voice echo eerily, especially with the backdrop of continuing explosions.
"Contained," came the response from way too far away.
"Injuries?" he prompted when she did not elaborate.
"Minor to all parties," she replied. There was something that sounded like muted bickering, followed by a snapped, "Nothing is broken and there are no lacerations that will require stitches. We are all breathing and alive and therefore this constitutes as minor." Clint did not envy her luck, but would have been lying if he said he wasn't amused by her lack of patience.
Senator Peterson's voice sounded next, as if to convince them of the other woman's words. "I turned my ankle because heels and fiery hillsides do not play well together. Brett has a bump on the head that should swell up nicely. Paul has a few scrapes and his suit will never be the same again but, besides that, we're fine," she elaborated.
Natasha grunted, as much of an allowance as she was likely to grant. "Captain, if you would be kind enough to help me with this wall, I should be able to get you some supplies," she said, voice barely audible above an odd clanking sound.
Rogers pushed himself upright, or as far upright as he could get given their current circumstances, and half-limped and half-crawled to the other side of the opening he shared with Clint. It gave Clint the opportunity to see the damage for himself, up close and personal. He had a scratch high across his left cheek to match the one in his hairline from earlier, and the gouge in his leg probably would have felled any other non-scientifically augmented person.
"You better grab the pack, because I will not go down in history as the person who scarred Captain America's perfect face," he muttered.
Steve turned just enough to frown at him, though there was a hint of amusement to his eyes. "The tree scarred this less than perfect face, Barton, not you." He punched at something solid just to Clint's right, and tried to lighten the mood with his version of humor. "Stop thinking the world revolves around you for a moment, and think of the earth."
And Clint was thinking of the earth, really and truly. He was thinking of the rocks that crumbled around them, the trees lit with fire just outside their little refuge, and the hard dirt beneath his ass. He decided he should shift said ass and see if he could maybe make himself more useful, or at least get out of Steve's way. He tried to push himself into a slightly more reclining position instead of laying slightly on his side, quiver digging into his back, and sharp and seizing pain quickly reminded him of the damage done to both his ribs and wrist, hot warmth oozing down his side telling him he had reopened the wound Natasha had so carefully bandaged.
The shift did at least provide him with a little better view of the situation. They were in a small sort of alcove, with random less-than-solid walls both protecting them from the worst of what was outside and allowing soot and smoke to slowly leak in.
He also saw that Natasha was not quite as far away as originally believed. A pseudo-wall of broken tree trunks and chunks of metal separated them, but he could already see her filthy face through the rough opening they had managed so far. She widened the hole just a little bit more, and then shoved a pack through. He was fairly certain she didn't aim for him, but he still grunted and glared when it thumped against his side.
"Patch him and yourself up while I try to get this radio working," she directed, ignoring his antics.
Steve didn't even balk at her giving orders, but did about her splitting her attention while left with three possible hostiles and no readily available backup. "Open this so we can see you first, all of you," he told her instead.
She nodded, likely hearing his argument without words, and tugged a few more pieces free. Clint noticed that she did not quite make an opening big enough to slip through, but chose places that gave him a clear line of sight from his current position. He exchanged his bow for Cap's pistol, and kept watch the best he could while being poked and prodded with less than gentle care.
Steve made less than encouraging noises as he removed the bandages and repacked the wound on his side, and Clint made a mental note to pretend his teammate would need a full amputation when it came time to treat the gash on his leg. Of course Rogers had to ruin even that dream by jamming a needle of the good stuff into him before he set off to treat himself.
"How am I supposed to keep watch if I'm higher than a kite?" Clint protested. The truth was that it felt damned good to have that much hacked off the edge of his pain, but he knew his sight and judgement would be even more affected now, and that rather pissed him off. He was used to pushing pain to the side, but drugs made any push unpredictable. He'd rather have the reminder of what was at stake and the focus of the undying ache than the dullness and lack of precision gifted to him with the painkillers.
"Widow's got the radio up and I've got the gun," Steve said, pulling the weapon free with far too much ease. "You shouldn't be standing with that much damage, not to mention bloodloss."
"Not standing, sitting," he pointed out, sounding petulant to his own ears. He wondered if he had passed out again while Steve had worked as he really did not remember hearing any actual contact with SHIELD. He also didn't remember his quiver being removed, but it was laying at his side instead of pressing into his back, so it was likely he had been good and out for a decent amount of time.
"Regardless," Steve cut him off. "I simply did what she should have earlier. When this is all done and over with, we're going to have a long discussion about injuries and lying."
"I didn't lie," Clint protested. This was the truth.
Natasha defended him, in her own way. "Omission only, no direct lies. We needed to get out of there, and we did. Now we need to get out of here, and have to deal with a drugged and disabled archer instead of just a disabled one."
He frowned, certain there was something positive to her words, but not fully having the attention span to parse it out. He did, however, have the attention span to know they were likely fucked when explosions started going off close enough to their makeshift shelter/prison to shake new waves of metal and dirt free to rain down upon them. He swore profusely, Nat grumbled, and Cap tried to bodily shore up the largest of the protective walls, even while the smaller barriers shifted to let in a whole lot of smoke and heat.
"That getting out of here would be good," he offered less than helpfully. He raised his arms to prevent something large and crumbly from falling on his face. The dirt clung to him like his sweat-soaked shirt anyway, so he wasn't sure how much good it did him other that jarring his injuries again. "Any time now, really."
Steve changed from trying to shore up the wall to trying to tear it down in a way that didn't involve crushing them both. Natasha started feeding the politicians through a new opening in the side and urged them to help. She armed herself, and pressed a pistol into Clint's hands with explicitly whispered and only partially joking directions to aim towards the side with the politicians first, and then joined the scramble to free them all before they were either roasted or suffocated.
Clint watched as his friends pushed and pulled and he sat on his ass not doing much save for hold a gun and know he'd probably manage more damage than good at this point. There was the sound of another explosion, and then the largest chunk of the fuselage began to crumble around them. Steve pushed one of the guys in a suit down to the ground and he couldn't see which one because his face was full of red hair when Nat tried to cover him as well despite her own bad arm and then there was a roar which he assumed meant something big and flammable going up which would probably all come crashing down around them soon enough.
Only it didn't.
There was suddenly a lot more light and a lot more air and he feebly pushed at Natasha until she rolled off of him just as Castlethwaite swore in a truly impressive manner and Lavine and Peterson looked to be fighting the urge to either vomit or piss their pants and then the smoke finally cleared enough for his gritty eyes to make out something huge and green and imposing where a heap of metal had been only moments before.
"Hey, big guy," Clint greeted him mildly. The Hulk grunted in response, caught another silver thing mid-air, and snapped it in two.
The world was on fire all around them, but not for long as a boom of thunder heralded the sky breaking open with rain, the water seeming to sizzle against his overheated skin and turn his grime to mud. Thor neatly landed beside the Hulk, pushed his dripping hair from his eyes, and declared, "We have been victorious."
"Not quite yet," a new voice sounded from just above and behind him. Through the smoke and ash, Clint could just make out something red and formerly shiny. The Iron Man suit was dented and scuffed and currently firing on something out of sight but probably deadly. There was another explosion, muffled by the protective barrier of the Hulk, and then Tony declared, "Now we have been victorious."
SHIELD agents swarmed in from all sides and Clint could care less because his team was there and they had all made it and the drugs were really good and there was a very good chance he was going to pass out again. Before he did though, as the smoke and haze and rain and shiny weaponry and shadows of dark suits began to swim and surge around him, he had the presence of mind to say, "Hey, Stark, check for signals 'cause we're probably tagged."
Tony nodded, or possibly Clint's head drooped, and then he really didn't remember much more of the day's events save to say, "Quinjet," and get something that sounded like a muttered promise about next time in return.
He awoke some time later to find himself in the infirmary with all sorts of lines and tubing attached to him. There was an oxygen mask strapped to his face, which was probably a good thing given the amount of smoke he inhaled, and an IV of fluids and possibly more drugs dripping into his right arm. His left wrist was splinted, as was his ankle, and a quick check showed a neat row of stitches along his side.
He had expected Natasha to be on the bed beside him, but found Steve there instead, a bulge of bandages showing beneath the scrub bottoms he wore. He had no lines attached though, and would probably be free to leave whereas Clint was likely to be a resident for a few days at the minimum, and longer if he pissed off the docs.
"She asked me to stay and babysit you for a few minutes so that you wouldn't do, yeah, that," Steve explained, ending with a sigh when Clint tugged the mask free so he could talk.
"How bad?" he asked. His voice sounded horrible to his own ears, which was not going to help his chances of getting out sooner rather than later. He tried to remember the tricks to getting around that, but pushed it off a a concern for later as his concentration levels were damn near negative until the effects of the drugs died down.
"You or me?" Steve asked with a depreciating chuckle. It reminded Clint that he wasn't used to being laid up, at least not since the serum so many decades ago. Maybe he wasn't the only one working out ways of escape after all.
"Both," he shrugged and, yeah, even that hurt.
Steve pretended not to notice his wince and leaned back against his pillows to recite off, "Both your ankle and wrist are severely sprained - and the docs are a mixed of surprised and ticked at you for shooting like that by the way. You are two and two on your ribs: two broken and two cracked though some of that might have been from me so, sorry about that. The shrapnel missed anything vital, but not by much, and you have one doozy of a concussion." He paused to tug and frown at his own cannula of oxygen neatly tucked off to the side before he added, "All three of us have smoke inhalation to varying degrees as well."
Clint gestured to the obvious bandages and prompted, "And your leg?"
The frown turned into a full grimace. "Shrapnel cut deep enough to damage the muscle, but my body's healing it already. I'll probably be off it for a couple of days though." He held up a hand to stop Clint from talking, possibly because he was as painful to listen to as it was for him to speak, and said, "Before you ask, Natasha just has the inhalation, the dislocated shoulder, and possibly a chipped nail."
Now it was Clint's turn to chuckle, even though it felt like his insides were ripped apart by sandpapered gloves to do so. He stopped when Nat walked in, shoved his oxygen mask back on with her good hand and glared. "It was fully broken, as was my finger," she corrected. A quick glance confirmed the splint on the ring finger of her right hand visible through the sling she was forced to wear.
He rolled his eyes at her and she smirked back good-naturedly and Steve looked like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar for daring to make a joke at her expense. He tried to make amends by moving to get up and provide her a place to rest, but she waved in his direction in possibly a semi-threatening manner, and sat down on the edge of Clint's mattress instead.
He knew better than to ask how she was, especially after Steve's truncated report, so instead he pulled his mask down again to ask, "How are the others?"
She pushed the mask back up and gave him a look that promised dire consequences if he didn't keep it there. "Bruce and Thor are fine and Stark won't let anyone get near enough to him to check, which means any injuries are minor. They're with Director Fury right now giving him a status report on the attack."
"Which would be?" he prompted through the mask. It muffled his voice, but also possibly muffled his tone, which would give away his intentions to break out and rejoin the fight if need be.
She didn't fall for it in the least and rested her good hand on his leg with a gentle-for-her squeeze that both told him things were under control and that he was to stay there or she would find restraints to keep him there. She did, however, update him, so there was that.
The attack was, for all intents and purposes, over. Huey, Dewey, and Louie of the politicos were under house arrest, though they didn't know it yet. The arrest was more for their protection though, as every single one of them was clean, at least on the surface. Lavine's phone had been hacked and had been broadcasting a signal, but it honestly looked as though he knew nothing about it and all evidence pointed to a disgruntled aide with ties to some anti-SHIELD organizations.
Stark was to work with the SHIELD techs to determine when the software had been added to the phone and to possibly clear and possibly condemn Lavine. The others were digging through any and all intel on Castlethwaite and Peterson to verify neither of them had set up Lavine and/or to see if they or their aides were involved in the subterfuge as well.
"On the up side, we totally have the vote and support of whichever one of the politicians that isn't evil," Tony said as he joined them. His voice had a definite rough edge to it, and the shadows under his eyes were impressive, but other than that, he looked fine. Likely the suit's internal breathing system helped play a role in that, providing him nice filtered air versus the ash and smoke the others had to deal with, though the decompression issues prior to it kicking in had to be a bitch.
"Aren't all politicians evil?" Clint asked, mainly because it was expected. "I mean, isn't that kinda part of the job requirement?"
Tony huffed a chuckle and amended his statement to, "Less evil, or at least evil in a way that's not actively against us." He paused and took in Clint's condition as if he had not already hacked the medical records, and added, "You know the whole 'going down' thing is supposed to be captains and ships and not pilots and planes, right? No offense, Cap."
"None taken," Steve assured him, possibly because he had gone down with the non-ship as well.
They talked and joked and mused on the idiocy of attacking a plane with at least two flight-capable people aboard it and Stark promised only Quinjets in the future, save for if he was able to arm his next creation both in a way that skirted federal requirements and still looked sleek. Clint was not certain which was more important in Stark's mind, and wasn't sure if he truly cared because, really, he'd still fight for something he personally knew to be reliable and defensive, at least until proven that something better existed.
Bruce stumbled in and crawled up onto the bed that Natasha refused. He attempted to place his glasses on the little table and plopped back against the pillow with a yawn, a vague thanks mumbled when Tony picked the glasses off the floor and put them somewhere a bit safer. The action showed that Tony favored his left side though, something noticed by all assembled save for Banner, who appeared to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. A transformation mixed with the stress of an attack was likely to blame for that, so everyone simply lowered their voices slightly in deference to his exhaustion.
The voices were blurring to a low hum by the time Thor arrived and settled himself at the foot of Banner's purloined cot. Clint blamed the soothing tones and the comfort of knowing his team was safe and sound and in relatively one piece for not stopping Nat when she reached over and upped his pain meds with the ease of a few simple buttons.
He drifted on the opiates mixed with an adrenaline crash mixed with an exhaustion of his own, vision graying out at the edges, and let the voices of his teammates lull him into a state of sort of pseudo-sleep. He worried for a brief moment that those capable of it might just up and leave those who weren't behind to deal with the hospitality of SHIELD medical, but then heard the scrape of a chair and the bitch of Rogers when Stark apparently settled in with his feet propped up on the good Captain's bedside. He then wondered if he'd miss something important as he well and truly could no long follow their wandering conversation, but figured if they were willing to stay, they'd probably be willing to fill him in later. Plus there was the fact that they all saw Natasha drug him, so he totally wasn't to blame if he zonked out on them this time.
With that in mind, he let his eyes slide closed and his mind fill with all the ways the battle would have changed, let alone the day as a whole, if they had just taken the fucking Quinjet.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
This entry was originally posted at http://cat-77.dreamwidth.org/417470.html. Current comments