Avengers - Isn't This Nice? [1/2]
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.
Also at AO3.
A flicker on the radar was the only sign that things were about to go pear-shaped. Clint may have had his issues with Stark from time to time, but he trusted his tech and if the tech said something was there, even for the briefest of moments, it was probably there.
"Incoming," he called, and took evasive maneuvers against something that the systems now claimed never existed. There was a shudder and a whir of air displacement near the wing, and he swore he caught the glint of silver out of the corner of his eye.
Natasha, of course, was at his side in a moment, crowding him in the tiny cockpit of the latest Stark luxury jet Tony had insisted on taking and demanding, "What did you see?"
She eyed the readings, perfectly blank and normal, and then pushed forward to look out the small window herself. It warmed him a little to know she trusted him more than the massive machine that carried them thousands of feet in the air. A massive machine that was unarmed against whatever it was he had seen because Tony had wanted to show off his new toy to the two senators and congressman they were escorting instead of using the standard, and neatly weaponized, Quinjet.
"Vanished from the sensors," he told her. He twisted more on instinct than on any quantitative evidence, and was rewarded with another glint of silver. "If I was to guess, I'd say it was one of those," he finished. He only wished he was surprised when the glint whipped back around to bear down on them once more.
He twisted again and felt Natasha steady herself against his chair, her own innate balance doing for her what a five-point harness was attempting to do for him. He spared a glance at the screen that showed past the short and narrow passageway behind him to check on the others. Steve had buckled himself in and looked to be demonstrating to their guests how to assume the crash position which was really an awesome statement on his confidence in Clint's flying abilities. Thor was standing and trying to look though the little port holes as though he could both see and destroy the nuisance through sheer force of will alone. Tony was, of course, striding towards the cockpit, looking arrogant as ever in a suit that probably cost more than Clint's monthly salary and that was saying a lot, and bitching that Clint was trying to break his latest toy. At least he had activated a comm unit on either his tablet or the wall so Clint could hear him through the headphones he currently wore, so score one for consideration. As for Bruce, Clint was just glad that the big guy was already on the carrier and not crammed into a little sardine can being pelted by something likely explosive.
"Was that a missile?" Tony asked as the plane shook and shuddered another time. He pulled up a display on the tablet and muttered, "But why isn't it showing on the sensors?"
Clint cycled through several disparaging comments as he avoided what was definitely now two little silver glinting things, and finally settled on the practical reply of, "Visual confirmation only."
"But I designed these things myself," Tony protested, pulling up screen after screen, searching for something that simply was not there. Stark tech was good, damned good, but someone had clearly found a way around it. Of course, Tony being Tony, it only took him a minute or two before he said, "Ha! Found you, you bastards!" A few more clicks and he announced, "Barton, uploading the upgrade now. You should be able to see the little fuckers in a moment."
Clint was tempted to tell him that he already was seeing them, had been seeing them all along, and, hey, isn't that how he'd been avoiding them thus far? He refrained though, knowing there was a time and a place to get into the instinct versus technology debate, and in the midst of an attack against a jet high above the earth was possibly not the best of options.
His displays dinged, and then started flashing all sorts of warning and alarms that served to do nothing more than distract him. Natasha neatly flipped each one to silent, glowering in Tony's general direction, but did not say a word as Tony began to rattle off the specs on what he was seeing and calculate the best way to counterattack or evade without any actual weapons on the jet. She looked ready to take the copilot's seat for herself, hand hesitating above her own headset, but wisely reached towards their gear instead. If this thing wanted them down, and it was pretty obvious it did, she would be far more useful armed and ready than strapped to a chair.
One of the things nipped a rear stabilizer and Clint fought to compensate while bitching that maybe "missile" was not the correct word considering the damn thing swung back around again.
"Missile is a perfectly acceptable word," Tony insisted, still pounding away at his tablet. "Missile simply means projectile and not all missiles go boom."
"Most of the ones aimed at us do," Clint pointed out. He swerved again, and nodded in thanks when he saw Nat finally pull on a headset and send out the formal distress call to SHIELD.
"True," Tony conceded. "And no, I'm not getting into a linguistics debate with you right now because you will lose and we both know it and it will be very sad as you were doing so well with your 'Big Words for Little Men' self-help guide you hide under your pillow at night."
"Tony..." Steve warned, voice carrying through the comm. Clint could not tell if his head was still down, or if he had raised it to glare at them, but could picture the disapproving look on his face. He was using his chiding command voice though, which always seemed weird when it was not accompanied with the red, white, and blue of his uniform.
Stark ignored him and pressed on as though not interrupted, "But most missiles need a guidance system and a system is something I can hack into, which is something I am doing right now even though it is damned hard to do two of these suckers at once and, since I am currently doing it and said hacking lends credence to my definition of the word, I win and it's a damn missile." He paused as one swooped far too near to the cockpit window for anyone's liking and circled back around again. "It's just a very persistent and annoying missile and we should be glad that there are only two of them."
That was, of course, when a third silver glinty thing appeared and managed to slice right through the tail of the plane.
Tony cursed, Thor said something noble and probably held up his hammer, and Natasha gripped Clint's chair that much harder while Clint dealt with the obvious loss of the rudder and tried to keep them from careening into the planet. Yaw was a bitch to control without an actual stabilizer, and the gaping hole was not exactly helping matters either, but he was doing what he could for as long as he could, or at least until he passed out from lack of oxygen.
Tony's tablet was the first casualty, falling from his hands and getting sucked out of the rapidly decompressing plane while Tony tried to find something a bit more stable to hang on to. Clint attempted to bring them down in altitude, knowing it would probably make them that much easier to pick off, but also knowing he rather liked that whole pesky breathing/bloodflow/living thing and would like to keep tabs on that.
He spared a glance at the monitor when he heard Tony cursing even more colorfully than usual, and watched in horror as the other man started to lose his grip on the tiny little bit of solidness he had sought shelter with, fingers slipping and sliding and trying to find a hold even while his feet scraped against the carpet and his back slid along the little half-wall he had sought shelter behind.
"Stark!" Natasha yelled. She risked letting go of the chair to pry open the little closet behind them. A familiar red and gold suitcase appeared in her hands for a split second before she tossed it towards him. "Suit up if you can. You're of more use to us out there than you are smashed into Brooklyn or whatever else is below us."
Clint did not hear his response, but glanced away from the spiraling readouts in time to see Tony fully let go, hands shoved into a dissolving box of metal and suit forming around him even as he flew back into a blue and white abyss. Thor made a grab for him and, failing that, readily let go and sailed out behind him with a shout about how the suit might not being enough and it being better to have two warriors to protect the plane than none at all. Clint had no idea if the god-like alien would be able to save Tony, let alone the rest of the team, but figured he had a far better chance than anyone else, and wished him well.
For himself, he just wished the plane would stay in mostly one piece, or at least enough of one piece for him to set down the remaining portion in a less than death-inducing manner. "Chutes on!" he ordered. He knew there was no way for him to get to his own parachute, not and keep the plane steady enough for Natasha and Steve and their guests to disembark without risk of serious injury. There was a chance, a very slim one, that he could aid their departure, set the controls for a hopefully less than catastrophic crash, grab his own chute, and escape, but he was really not counting on that sort of miracle, not with their luck.
"Clint..." Nat started, but she also reached for where he knew the emergency chutes were stored, so at least there was that. She had likely read the situation the same way he had, and had come to the exact same conclusion.
He was going to say something witty and wry, maybe something about her needing to talk the Cap through modern chuck and bail techniques, but never got the chance. Another silver dart, and yes he was calling them darts solely because Tony called them missiles and he was trying really hard not to think of what was happening to Tony right now, collided with the left wing, ripping both the aileron and flap to shreds and sending them into a tailspin that he really hoped he could pull out of.
"Fuck," he swore, though it was mostly lost in the cacophony of alarms and sheering metal and the panicked shouts of everyone else. "Go!" he shouted, not being able to spare the attention away from the controls long enough to check to see if the others were going to be able to make it out.
There was a crash and a thud behind him, and he hoped it was only whatever the hell else was in the storage closet breaking free. The decompression and decent were getting to him though, and he found black encroaching on the edge of his vision, red spots dancing in front of his eyes and causing the instrument readings to blur and merge into something he could only translate as "not good." He thought he saw something green and open and edged with blue and brown and hoped it was not just a hallucination as he aimed for it, pulling up with everything he had and hoping to limit the inevitable damage. He never felt the impact, another glint of silver his last sight before everything spiraled down into nothingness.
His next coherent thought was that he was surrounded by darkness and in a hell of a lot of pain. The darkness he remedied when he forced his eyes open and noticed the red flashing lights of the few redundant control systems that were valiantly trying not to crap out on them. The pain had no direct remedy, save for pushing it to the back of his mind to deal with at later time, hopefully in the presence of opiate-based meds and a soft bed in a secure room.
First things first though. He needed a sit rep, or at least as much of one as was possible, and he really needed to know which of his friends and teammates were still around to bitch to.
He reached for his headset but discovered two very important things. The first was that the thing was knocked half off with one side spurting sparks and the other, which was thankfully the side still attached, not even managing a bit of static as it was well and truly fried. The second was that he couldn't really reach it at all as one arm and both legs were pinned beneath a mound of metal and wires from what he assumed were the remains of the cockpit.
"Shit," he groaned, both from the ache racing up the left side of his body and from not having access to the number one way of telling if the others made it out alive and well.
There was one possible alternative, and it depended on Stark being logical so he was not certain if he wanted to take any bets on it actually working. He focused as much of his concentration as he could manage on the blinking lights in front of him and, with something that was definitely not a moan, reached out as far as he could with his free hand and flipped what he hoped was the switch for the radio and not for the self-destruct.
The crumbled cockpit was immediately filled with a burst of white noise. The noise ebbed and waned and peaked right back up again but, within the jumble, he swore he heard a familiar pissed off voice demand, "Stark? Barton? Reply, damn it!"
"I would love to, Director Fury, but I highly doubt you could hear me right now," Clint choked out. His lungs still hurt from the decompression, and he doubted the bits of dust and metal raining down on him were doing them much good either.
Either the lights were fading or he was beginning to pass out again, so he closed his eyes and concentrated on the noise as much as he could, hoping to glean something important out of the little bits and pieces he was able to make out. In between the bursts of static and Fury's cursing, he thought he heard something new, something softer, something closer.
"Clint? Barton? Where are you?" Romanov's voice finally sunk in through everything else. By her tone, it was not the first time she had asked.
"Natasha, darling, please tell me that you actually listened, escaped, made a textbook perfect landing, and are now outside the accident radius, waiting to claw your way in to my rescue?" he tried, already suspecting the answer.
There was a definite snort and the clear screeching of metal against metal. "Not exactly," she replied, and did not even have the decency to sound ashamed.
"Cap? Things One, Two, and Three?" he prompted.
"No idea," she admitted. "I haven't been able to get back there to check yet."
"Tony? Thor?"
"I thought I heard Stark on the comms right before we hit, but it might be wishful thinking." There was a grunt and then a chunk of metal and wires landed close enough to brush his thigh. He tried not to take it personally, especially when she added, "My comm is dead, smashed in the crash." He winced at that, knowing she had been wearing it at the time and just how much it hurt when those things cracked against your skull.
"Just how bad, Nat?" he asked, needing to know. There was no answer even though he was fairly positive she had heard him. "Sit rep, Agent Romanov," he ordered with as much authority as he could muster.
Another piece of metal flew at him, which he took to mean she was pissed, but contemplating honesty. "Minor injuries, pinned under debris, attempting to free myself but this damned shoulder is in the way," she listed off sullenly.
"Dislocated?" he guessed, knowing her standard definition of the word minor.
"Likely," she agreed, which meant that it was. "But I can't get it back into place with this wall on top of me." There was another crash, followed by some colorful swearing in more than a single language, followed by, "And you, Agent Barton? Do you care to give your situational report at this time?"
He contemplated lying, but calculated in the fact that she was doing to him exactly what he already did to her mixed with the fact that she was already digging herself out which meant she would be close enough to smack him sooner than later. With images of a seriously ticked assassin dancing through his fading vision, he dutifully reported, "Left side is fully immobile with likely damage to the anterior ribs and possible sprain or break to my left wrist, though it's hard to tell because I can't feel it. My legs are too numb to assess, but there's a fair chance I am bleeding out from my right side." He could feel the growing puddle of rapidly cooling warmth spreading beneath him and noticed how the lights just did not look like the right shade anymore, and increased the likelihood to "pretty damned good" instead.
"Fuck!" Natasha swore, at least using a language that did not take his higher brain functions to try to translate. There was a flurry of banging and movement at the edge of his senses, and he could almost picture her thrashing this way and that to get her pesky arm back into place to get the hell out of wherever she was.
"Tasha..." he sighed, but knew he would be ignored.
"Oh no, you don't get to 'Tasha' me after that little revelation," she growled, somehow transcending to a place beyond pissed. He'd be impressed, had he not been fighting to stay conscious.
He started to fade again, the noises becoming an almost gentle hum of background noise. He was not certain how much time had passed when he startled back to full consciousness, Natasha's noise overlaid with a newer, more hollow vibration that he felt more than heard. "Tash?" he asked, voice harsh to his own ears even though he kept it to no more than a whisper.
She stilled immediately, which told him more than her answering, "Felt it," that she knew exactly what he meant.
He cleared his throat to try to sound like something more than gravel, and quipped, "Is now a good time to remind ourselves about the little silver dart things that were after us and how there was some sort of intelligence behind them that probably didn't just wander off after they managed to knock Tony's toy from the sky and are probably outside right now making sure they actually caught us?"
"Yes, yes it is," Natasha said in reply. He was willing to place actual cash on the chance she was currently scrounging for anything to use as a weapon, pinned down or no. He figured the little shards of metal should do nicely what with there being so many of them and them being within easy reach of the one hand that was still mobile. He also figured Natasha would have figured the same thing out, and felt no need to advise her of the obvious, especially with a possible enemy within listening range. Given that she had been gearing up before the crash, there was also the chance she had far more than a few bits of glass and metal at her disposal but, again, he wasn't dumb enough to ask right now.
He reached for one of the numerous pieces of debris beside him, jagged metal pressed tight against his palm, and prepared for the worse. Of course, all the wound up tension had absolutely no release as Fury's voice sounded over a burst of static, "Barton, Romanov, Rogers, if you can hear this transmission, we have a lock on the crash site. Rescue team is being dispatched, but ETA is to fuck and gone as we are currently under attack." The transmission died shortly thereafter but, unfortunately, the random sparks and quiet static remained.
"Well, that was extremely non-helpful," Clint grumbled, shifting his grip on the metal. The low thrum of banging had not only not subsided, but seemed to come even closer during Fury's little tirade. Help was coming, likely not soon, and likely not before their mysterious guest or guests fully announced themselves. Awesome.
The thrum stopped just as suddenly as it had started and, for the briefest of moments, Barton contemplated breathing a sigh of relief. That was, of course, when the thrum was replaced by the high pitch whine of shearing metal, and a tiny little rectangle of what appeared to be sunlight cut through the cabin, highlighting the mess of wires and metals and utter fuckedness in all its glory.
Clint did what he thought was the sensible thing, and chucked his piece of shrapnel at the hint of shadow that dared to cross the beam of light. There was a clank, a gasp, and then the only mildly irritated voice of his erstwhile team leader huffed, "Good, you're conscious. Tell me if there is anything I should avoid, or should I just start tearing up the rest of the side to get in."
And he couldn't help it, he let out a near hysterical little chuckle followed by, "Christ, Cap, warn a guy so he doesn't try to kill you, will you?" The pain in his side ratcheted up a notch, and he assumed that meant he had either dislodged whatever had ripped through his skin, or forced it deeper with his actions.
Steve, of course, was completely unperturbed by the whole thing, and simply calmly chided, "That was an attempt at an attack? Then you're worse off than I thought - your aim was at least six inches to the left."
"Give a guy a break," Clint huffed, and tried to ignore the way the pain bled through in his voice, much like he was trying to ignore the way warmth bled through his side. "Movement's a bit limited here, if you get my drift." He had no idea what Steve's status was, if he was compromised, being watched, or free and clear, but he knew enough not to give everything away just at the first hint of a familiar voice.
"Copy that," Steve replied, likely understanding, at least if it really was him. "I've got our guests with me, everyone safe and accounted for, if a bit roughed up. We're going to try to get you out of there. Do try not to kill any of us in the attempt?"
"No promises," Clint told him, readying another shard of metal just in case it was needed. Cap had not asked after Natasha, which meant he either assumed she was safe as no one on their team ever assumed she was dead, silent or no, or he feared they were still at risk and did not want to reveal a potential surprise ally to any observers.
Steve started pulling apart the side of the plane and Clint started concentrating on breathing through the pain. He needed to stay alert and ready should the whole thing be one enormous trap. Not that he was certain he could do much at this point, pinned down and with limited lines of sight, but he was kind of hoping that whatever super villain was after them this time was smart enough to let Steve dig them out. It made sense, really - don't waste your resources when you can weaken the enemy and all that. Of course, the "enemy" being the Avengers, this meant that, even with a gun held to his head, Steve Rogers would find a way to provide the aid that Clint just could not get on his own.
The rectangle of light became a square, which in turn became a giant gaping hole soon enough. The hole was big enough to fit Steve's large frame, and just happened to provide a hint of a view behind him, where Clint could see the blurry outlines of what appeared to be at least two bedraggled government officials.
"I'm coming in," Steve announced and then, over his shoulder he added, "You three stay here, there is not enough room for everyone inside and you would put yourself at risk for injury."
"More risk than being shot out of the sky?" a sarcastic and relatively bitter voice replied.
"You can see anything coming towards us out here; I can't say the same about in there," Steve explained with far more patience than Clint ever would.
"The sky is clear right now," a distinctly female voice sounded. "If we need cover, we'll head for the wing or climb in with you," she suggested. There was more mumbling, but it was short-lived and stopped altogether when Steve said something short and clipped and possibly in that tone of his that few could refuse.
That apparently sorted, Clint watched as the bar of light dimmed to near darkness and then the familiar form of an un-uniformed Captain America loomed just inside, no doubt assessing just where the hell he could walk without damaging himself or his teammate.
Before he got far, there was the all too familiar sound of a safety being flipped off and the cocking of small caliber weapon. Clint had about half a second to wonder about it being a set up, about Steve being compromised after all, before he heard, "Oh, thank god, Widow's in here too."
"Hello, sweetheart," Nat's voice sounded from across the crumpled cockpit. "You really you, or are we about to risk ricochet?" If she had given herself away in such an obvious manner, she must have suspected they were in the clear, but Clint couldn't fault her need to verify.
"It's me," Rogers verified. "Sit code alpha-six-two-eight-niner," he recited as he edged closer to what must have been the sound of her voice.
"Niner?" Clint asked, trying to remember the specifics of that one. It was something along the lines of believed safety but likely screwed. He was honestly surprised more of their missions did not end up with the designation.
"Yeah," Steve agreed, far closer than he had been a moment before. "Saw one of the silver things come towards us but head off in another direction. It was the same time Senator Castlethwaite was playing with a phone in his pocket. Don't know if it was a coincidence and don't care. I'm putting him on watch for now." There was a pause, followed by, "You pinned in?"
Clint nodded, trusting Cap's super senses to catch the movement. "Well and truly, though I suggest you get Nat out first so she can watch your back." He hurt, and he didn't know how much longer he could remain conscious, but someone needed to take care of what was left of the team and protect them from their guests, and Nat was in far better shape than he was to do so.
"Fair enough," Steve said, apparently agreeing with the suggestion. He would have no idea who was worse off at this point, and would readily rely on input from his team. If that input happened to aid Natasha's chances of making it over Clint's own, so be it. The phrasing it for Cap's own safety should keep her from beating him too badly for the omission of his true status.
"Oh, and Cap?" he called, craning his neck as much as he dared in his friend's direction. This, above all things, needed to be said before he risked passing out and never being able to be heard. "I don't care how shiny Stark's new toys are, next time we take the fucking Quinjet."
"Copy that," Steve replied with only the barest hint of a chuckle.
He tried to listen as Cap shuffled away from him, clearing a path through the rubble in his wake. There was a hushed discussion that he couldn't quite make out through the continuing static from the radio, but sounded like Steve trying to convince Nat to put the gun to the side for long enough to help push something off of her. There was a crash and clank and then a huff of, "Of course he is. Now let me fix that shoulder and we can go get him."
He would have been hurt about the whole tattling thing, but was more concerned when he heard a new voice gasp, "Gross!" and start to make hopefully fake retching sounds.
"Nice," Natasha sighed, but the edge of pain and tension was gone from her tone, which Clint took to mean as her shoulder was back in place and one of the Stooges had the pleasure of watching the procedure. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard her ask, "Aren't you supposed to be outside?"
"Yes, he is, but he listens about as well as my three year old," the female voice from before replied. There was a faint grumbling, but the woman spoke over whatever her colleague was saying to advise, "We saw another silver thing, but it turned away again."
"Probably doing recon at this point," Clint guessed. The comment was mostly him thinking aloud, but he knew better than to assume his teammates did not hear him. The things had a definite intelligence behind them; he would not be surprised if they were equipped with sensors or relays to advise their master as to the status of their target. He also wouldn't be surprised if someone or something was on its way to collect them right now.
Which is why he really didn't protest when Cap said, "Let's get you out of here before we deal with our little uninvited guest."
"Do you need help, sir?" the woman, who Clint really needed to remember her name, asked from her place in the makeshift doorway.
"There's no room in here," Natasha told her, almost too quickly. There was probably enough for another person, maybe even three if they cramped together, but stating there wasn't meant holding off dealing with the three unknowns, at least for a short duration. There was a shifting of metal that Clint took to mean as his teammates approaching his position, and then Nat spoke again. "Try to keep the others away from the opening - we could use the light," she directed.
It was apparently enough as Clint heard no more from the woman and even swore the light grew a bit brighter, though that may have just been her stepping away from the opening.
He knew when Natasha had reached him not by the scraping of metal or sudden release of pressure at his side, but rather from the light tap upside his likely concussed head. "Dumbass," she said affectionately, which meant she probably wasn't completely pissed at him. She even took the still sparking headset the rest of the way off of him, which just furthered his suspicions.
"How's the arm?" he asked when he noticed she still held her right arm awkwardly at her side, slightly pinned up against what must have been her good shoulder.
"How's the legs and the bleeding out?" she countered, eyebrow raised.
"Barton..." Steve sighed, and Clint swore he could feel the disappointment rolling off of him in waves. Steve being Steve though, he kept to the situation at hand and his voice was only a little bit terse when he ordered, "Give me a full assessment of your injuries, for real this time, so I don't accidentally paralyze you getting you free."
Clint obliged, but mentioned only the things he knew for fact and nothing of what he suspected. He knew for a fact that his left side was fully pinned. He knew for a fact that there was a puncture injury to his right side. He knew for a fact that there was a great deal of weight pressing down on his legs. He suspected a cracked or broken rib or three. He suspected a sprained if not broken wrist. He suspected his ankle was going to hurt like a motherfucker when they finally freed it from the odd angle it was currently trapped into. Besides, he had hinted at these with Nat, and she had already told on him once. If she deemed them important enough to mention to their teammate he couldn't stop her, but that didn't mean he had to be quite so forthcoming himself.
Steve nodded in understanding, the action somehow highlighting a small but healing gash along his hairline, and seemed to contemplate how best to get him out. Natasha gave him a look like she knew he what he was hiding but would leave him his pride for now, and started to dig.
"Aren't you supposed to be watching his back?" Clint asked. He resolutely did not gasp when the weight on his chest shifted. He just happened to breathe deeply and forcefully, that's all.
"I'm multitasking," she replied, but stepped back when Steve reached for the largest part of the control panel currently blocking their way.
Clint would have thought that the removal of the heaviest of weights pressing upon him would have brought relief. He was wrong. The pressure had disguised the overwhelming agony that lay just beneath the surface, and his vision started to gray out yet again as that agony surged forward once freed.
The good thing was that, with the worst of the debris gone, Cap and Natasha were able to clear the rest that much more quickly. Of course, that meant manipulation of possible broken bones lay on the horizon, but it also meant he could get the hell out of where he was, so he took it as a positive over all.
He swore he had only blinked during this self-reasoning, but Nat was now kneeling at his side, a first aid kit salvaged from somewhere in her hands. "This is going to hurt," she said, likely the only warning she was going to give him. She yanked a shard of metal the size of her hand away from his side and he gave in to the urge to shout in pain even as she finished with a semi-apologetic, "A lot."
She tugged his t-shirt back from the now open wound, and he shivered from the removal of the wet stickiness that had served as his only bandage up to this point. He kind of lost track of time after the muted torture of gauze pressed against the wound and, hey, look, there was another right beside it that might explain the amount of bloodloss. Both chunks of debris tapered into something sharp and dark, likely with his own blood. The up side was that at least the entire hulk of metal had not been shoved into his side, but just the edges in each case.
Cap continued to mess around on his other side, gently lifting an already black and blue arm to rest over his still heaving chest, his own elbow pressing against his sensitive ribs, and then to dig some more until all that remained were two large pieces that seemed damned near wrapped around his lower legs. He was impressed; he hadn't know that metal was that malleable.
"It is with enough force," Steve said, voice sounding as though he spoke from experience. The worrisome part was that Clint did not remember speaking his thought out loud, something made even more worrisome when Steve commented, "You did and you still are and just what did you give him, Widow?"
"Nothing yet," Natasha insisted. She finished taping something in place against his aching side and quickly ran her fingers across and through Clint's hair, the strands feeling like little knives in her grasp. He caught her share a look with Steve and then, almost as one, they sighed, "Concussion."
"Must be a doozy if he's this out of it," Cap said with a shake of his head.
"Hey, 'he' is right here and doesn't need you speaking over him," Clint protested, and even managed to sound indignant. "Besides, it's more like the concussion mixed with the bloodloss than anything else and, yes, I am aware I am saying that this time," he muttered.
"Yeah, about that whole loss of blood thing, when were you going to bring that up?" Steve asked while he searched for either a hold or a way to break up the remaining pieces to lift away.
"Figured you would figure it out on your own eventually," Clint said with what passed for a shrug, though he immediately regretted the movement.
"What, when we slipped in it?" Steve scoffed.
"Remember the part where I called him a dumbass?" Nat smiled without cheer. It looked like she had stored the majority of the medical kit away, which meant she was ready to help tackle the final pieces so Clint would finally be free. He told himself that this is why he would not take offense at her words but, one look from her with that eyebrow raised and mouth crooked just so, and even he wasn't buying it.
His two teammates made short work out of the remaining pieces, and then it was just the matter of cutting him out of his mangled harness. Natasha secreted the blade back away somewhere on her person and then glared down at him in the low light. "You want to mention any other injuries, or should it just be a surprise when we lift you and break you?" she challenged him.
"I may care to mention my ribs at this time if you're going to haul me up," Clint granted. He had mentioned them before, but only to her, and knew this was her less than subtle hint to offer a full disclosure on at least this to Steve as well.
"See, was that so hard?" Steve asked.
"Yes, yes it was," Clint replied. He resisted sticking out his tongue though as that would have just been childish.
"If he's mentioning them, they're probably cracked," Natasha pointed out since he had not been specific in his revelation. He called her a traitor in her mother tongue, but the effect was limited since she said it at the same time, mocking tone and all. "Mix that with his wrist, bloodloss, and concussion, and this should be interesting getting him out of here."
"You're always a ray of sunshine, you know that?" Clint told her, adding a glare for slipping in the wrist part of his injuries.
She nodded readily enough and deadpanned, "It's a gift."
"Can we get a return receipt on that?" he asked, but the end of the sentence was lost in a groan as apparently the good Captain America had gotten tired of their bickering and decided to take matters into his own hands. He was careful, but any amount of maneuvering was going to hurt and, really, getting from laying down on a broken chair to standing was going to take more than a bit of finagling.
Natasha swung the med kit over her good shoulder and took point, weapon at the ready, while Steve busied himself keeping Clint upright and moving through the wreckage. The first time he tried to put any weight on his bad ankle was excruciating, and the second time even worse. Clint gritted his teeth and kept moving though, having survived much worse in his tenure as an agent. Besides, his boots provided nearly as much support as a formal brace; he would just have to make some minor adjustments to how they were tied and he should be good to go, go being the operative word as he rather wanted to get out of the crumbling heap of metal sooner rather than later.
When they tried to get past the ripped open storage cabinet though, Clint saw something he simply could not live without. He pulled away from Steve's support and grabbed both his bow case and quiver with his good hand. He felt the wound in his side and his damaged ribs protest the movement, but he also felt an odd sort of contentment in knowing he was no longer the most vulnerable member of the group.
"How are you even going to fire those?" Steve asked, but notably did not make him put them back.
Clint snorted. "I've shot far more messed up than this before, and still made the target. Besides, there's no way I'm leaving these behind to be found by whoever or whatever is after us," he reasoned, thinking of the specialty arrows Tony had made specifically for him and pointedly not Tony himself. He pushed even that aside though, and focused on continuing the journey to the outside and its near blinding sun.
Live Journal: Part 1 | Part 2
Dreamwidth: Part 1 | Part 2
This entry was originally posted at http://cat-77.dreamwidth.org/417100.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.
Also at AO3.
A flicker on the radar was the only sign that things were about to go pear-shaped. Clint may have had his issues with Stark from time to time, but he trusted his tech and if the tech said something was there, even for the briefest of moments, it was probably there.
"Incoming," he called, and took evasive maneuvers against something that the systems now claimed never existed. There was a shudder and a whir of air displacement near the wing, and he swore he caught the glint of silver out of the corner of his eye.
Natasha, of course, was at his side in a moment, crowding him in the tiny cockpit of the latest Stark luxury jet Tony had insisted on taking and demanding, "What did you see?"
She eyed the readings, perfectly blank and normal, and then pushed forward to look out the small window herself. It warmed him a little to know she trusted him more than the massive machine that carried them thousands of feet in the air. A massive machine that was unarmed against whatever it was he had seen because Tony had wanted to show off his new toy to the two senators and congressman they were escorting instead of using the standard, and neatly weaponized, Quinjet.
"Vanished from the sensors," he told her. He twisted more on instinct than on any quantitative evidence, and was rewarded with another glint of silver. "If I was to guess, I'd say it was one of those," he finished. He only wished he was surprised when the glint whipped back around to bear down on them once more.
He twisted again and felt Natasha steady herself against his chair, her own innate balance doing for her what a five-point harness was attempting to do for him. He spared a glance at the screen that showed past the short and narrow passageway behind him to check on the others. Steve had buckled himself in and looked to be demonstrating to their guests how to assume the crash position which was really an awesome statement on his confidence in Clint's flying abilities. Thor was standing and trying to look though the little port holes as though he could both see and destroy the nuisance through sheer force of will alone. Tony was, of course, striding towards the cockpit, looking arrogant as ever in a suit that probably cost more than Clint's monthly salary and that was saying a lot, and bitching that Clint was trying to break his latest toy. At least he had activated a comm unit on either his tablet or the wall so Clint could hear him through the headphones he currently wore, so score one for consideration. As for Bruce, Clint was just glad that the big guy was already on the carrier and not crammed into a little sardine can being pelted by something likely explosive.
"Was that a missile?" Tony asked as the plane shook and shuddered another time. He pulled up a display on the tablet and muttered, "But why isn't it showing on the sensors?"
Clint cycled through several disparaging comments as he avoided what was definitely now two little silver glinting things, and finally settled on the practical reply of, "Visual confirmation only."
"But I designed these things myself," Tony protested, pulling up screen after screen, searching for something that simply was not there. Stark tech was good, damned good, but someone had clearly found a way around it. Of course, Tony being Tony, it only took him a minute or two before he said, "Ha! Found you, you bastards!" A few more clicks and he announced, "Barton, uploading the upgrade now. You should be able to see the little fuckers in a moment."
Clint was tempted to tell him that he already was seeing them, had been seeing them all along, and, hey, isn't that how he'd been avoiding them thus far? He refrained though, knowing there was a time and a place to get into the instinct versus technology debate, and in the midst of an attack against a jet high above the earth was possibly not the best of options.
His displays dinged, and then started flashing all sorts of warning and alarms that served to do nothing more than distract him. Natasha neatly flipped each one to silent, glowering in Tony's general direction, but did not say a word as Tony began to rattle off the specs on what he was seeing and calculate the best way to counterattack or evade without any actual weapons on the jet. She looked ready to take the copilot's seat for herself, hand hesitating above her own headset, but wisely reached towards their gear instead. If this thing wanted them down, and it was pretty obvious it did, she would be far more useful armed and ready than strapped to a chair.
One of the things nipped a rear stabilizer and Clint fought to compensate while bitching that maybe "missile" was not the correct word considering the damn thing swung back around again.
"Missile is a perfectly acceptable word," Tony insisted, still pounding away at his tablet. "Missile simply means projectile and not all missiles go boom."
"Most of the ones aimed at us do," Clint pointed out. He swerved again, and nodded in thanks when he saw Nat finally pull on a headset and send out the formal distress call to SHIELD.
"True," Tony conceded. "And no, I'm not getting into a linguistics debate with you right now because you will lose and we both know it and it will be very sad as you were doing so well with your 'Big Words for Little Men' self-help guide you hide under your pillow at night."
"Tony..." Steve warned, voice carrying through the comm. Clint could not tell if his head was still down, or if he had raised it to glare at them, but could picture the disapproving look on his face. He was using his chiding command voice though, which always seemed weird when it was not accompanied with the red, white, and blue of his uniform.
Stark ignored him and pressed on as though not interrupted, "But most missiles need a guidance system and a system is something I can hack into, which is something I am doing right now even though it is damned hard to do two of these suckers at once and, since I am currently doing it and said hacking lends credence to my definition of the word, I win and it's a damn missile." He paused as one swooped far too near to the cockpit window for anyone's liking and circled back around again. "It's just a very persistent and annoying missile and we should be glad that there are only two of them."
That was, of course, when a third silver glinty thing appeared and managed to slice right through the tail of the plane.
Tony cursed, Thor said something noble and probably held up his hammer, and Natasha gripped Clint's chair that much harder while Clint dealt with the obvious loss of the rudder and tried to keep them from careening into the planet. Yaw was a bitch to control without an actual stabilizer, and the gaping hole was not exactly helping matters either, but he was doing what he could for as long as he could, or at least until he passed out from lack of oxygen.
Tony's tablet was the first casualty, falling from his hands and getting sucked out of the rapidly decompressing plane while Tony tried to find something a bit more stable to hang on to. Clint attempted to bring them down in altitude, knowing it would probably make them that much easier to pick off, but also knowing he rather liked that whole pesky breathing/bloodflow/living thing and would like to keep tabs on that.
He spared a glance at the monitor when he heard Tony cursing even more colorfully than usual, and watched in horror as the other man started to lose his grip on the tiny little bit of solidness he had sought shelter with, fingers slipping and sliding and trying to find a hold even while his feet scraped against the carpet and his back slid along the little half-wall he had sought shelter behind.
"Stark!" Natasha yelled. She risked letting go of the chair to pry open the little closet behind them. A familiar red and gold suitcase appeared in her hands for a split second before she tossed it towards him. "Suit up if you can. You're of more use to us out there than you are smashed into Brooklyn or whatever else is below us."
Clint did not hear his response, but glanced away from the spiraling readouts in time to see Tony fully let go, hands shoved into a dissolving box of metal and suit forming around him even as he flew back into a blue and white abyss. Thor made a grab for him and, failing that, readily let go and sailed out behind him with a shout about how the suit might not being enough and it being better to have two warriors to protect the plane than none at all. Clint had no idea if the god-like alien would be able to save Tony, let alone the rest of the team, but figured he had a far better chance than anyone else, and wished him well.
For himself, he just wished the plane would stay in mostly one piece, or at least enough of one piece for him to set down the remaining portion in a less than death-inducing manner. "Chutes on!" he ordered. He knew there was no way for him to get to his own parachute, not and keep the plane steady enough for Natasha and Steve and their guests to disembark without risk of serious injury. There was a chance, a very slim one, that he could aid their departure, set the controls for a hopefully less than catastrophic crash, grab his own chute, and escape, but he was really not counting on that sort of miracle, not with their luck.
"Clint..." Nat started, but she also reached for where he knew the emergency chutes were stored, so at least there was that. She had likely read the situation the same way he had, and had come to the exact same conclusion.
He was going to say something witty and wry, maybe something about her needing to talk the Cap through modern chuck and bail techniques, but never got the chance. Another silver dart, and yes he was calling them darts solely because Tony called them missiles and he was trying really hard not to think of what was happening to Tony right now, collided with the left wing, ripping both the aileron and flap to shreds and sending them into a tailspin that he really hoped he could pull out of.
"Fuck," he swore, though it was mostly lost in the cacophony of alarms and sheering metal and the panicked shouts of everyone else. "Go!" he shouted, not being able to spare the attention away from the controls long enough to check to see if the others were going to be able to make it out.
There was a crash and a thud behind him, and he hoped it was only whatever the hell else was in the storage closet breaking free. The decompression and decent were getting to him though, and he found black encroaching on the edge of his vision, red spots dancing in front of his eyes and causing the instrument readings to blur and merge into something he could only translate as "not good." He thought he saw something green and open and edged with blue and brown and hoped it was not just a hallucination as he aimed for it, pulling up with everything he had and hoping to limit the inevitable damage. He never felt the impact, another glint of silver his last sight before everything spiraled down into nothingness.
His next coherent thought was that he was surrounded by darkness and in a hell of a lot of pain. The darkness he remedied when he forced his eyes open and noticed the red flashing lights of the few redundant control systems that were valiantly trying not to crap out on them. The pain had no direct remedy, save for pushing it to the back of his mind to deal with at later time, hopefully in the presence of opiate-based meds and a soft bed in a secure room.
First things first though. He needed a sit rep, or at least as much of one as was possible, and he really needed to know which of his friends and teammates were still around to bitch to.
He reached for his headset but discovered two very important things. The first was that the thing was knocked half off with one side spurting sparks and the other, which was thankfully the side still attached, not even managing a bit of static as it was well and truly fried. The second was that he couldn't really reach it at all as one arm and both legs were pinned beneath a mound of metal and wires from what he assumed were the remains of the cockpit.
"Shit," he groaned, both from the ache racing up the left side of his body and from not having access to the number one way of telling if the others made it out alive and well.
There was one possible alternative, and it depended on Stark being logical so he was not certain if he wanted to take any bets on it actually working. He focused as much of his concentration as he could manage on the blinking lights in front of him and, with something that was definitely not a moan, reached out as far as he could with his free hand and flipped what he hoped was the switch for the radio and not for the self-destruct.
The crumbled cockpit was immediately filled with a burst of white noise. The noise ebbed and waned and peaked right back up again but, within the jumble, he swore he heard a familiar pissed off voice demand, "Stark? Barton? Reply, damn it!"
"I would love to, Director Fury, but I highly doubt you could hear me right now," Clint choked out. His lungs still hurt from the decompression, and he doubted the bits of dust and metal raining down on him were doing them much good either.
Either the lights were fading or he was beginning to pass out again, so he closed his eyes and concentrated on the noise as much as he could, hoping to glean something important out of the little bits and pieces he was able to make out. In between the bursts of static and Fury's cursing, he thought he heard something new, something softer, something closer.
"Clint? Barton? Where are you?" Romanov's voice finally sunk in through everything else. By her tone, it was not the first time she had asked.
"Natasha, darling, please tell me that you actually listened, escaped, made a textbook perfect landing, and are now outside the accident radius, waiting to claw your way in to my rescue?" he tried, already suspecting the answer.
There was a definite snort and the clear screeching of metal against metal. "Not exactly," she replied, and did not even have the decency to sound ashamed.
"Cap? Things One, Two, and Three?" he prompted.
"No idea," she admitted. "I haven't been able to get back there to check yet."
"Tony? Thor?"
"I thought I heard Stark on the comms right before we hit, but it might be wishful thinking." There was a grunt and then a chunk of metal and wires landed close enough to brush his thigh. He tried not to take it personally, especially when she added, "My comm is dead, smashed in the crash." He winced at that, knowing she had been wearing it at the time and just how much it hurt when those things cracked against your skull.
"Just how bad, Nat?" he asked, needing to know. There was no answer even though he was fairly positive she had heard him. "Sit rep, Agent Romanov," he ordered with as much authority as he could muster.
Another piece of metal flew at him, which he took to mean she was pissed, but contemplating honesty. "Minor injuries, pinned under debris, attempting to free myself but this damned shoulder is in the way," she listed off sullenly.
"Dislocated?" he guessed, knowing her standard definition of the word minor.
"Likely," she agreed, which meant that it was. "But I can't get it back into place with this wall on top of me." There was another crash, followed by some colorful swearing in more than a single language, followed by, "And you, Agent Barton? Do you care to give your situational report at this time?"
He contemplated lying, but calculated in the fact that she was doing to him exactly what he already did to her mixed with the fact that she was already digging herself out which meant she would be close enough to smack him sooner than later. With images of a seriously ticked assassin dancing through his fading vision, he dutifully reported, "Left side is fully immobile with likely damage to the anterior ribs and possible sprain or break to my left wrist, though it's hard to tell because I can't feel it. My legs are too numb to assess, but there's a fair chance I am bleeding out from my right side." He could feel the growing puddle of rapidly cooling warmth spreading beneath him and noticed how the lights just did not look like the right shade anymore, and increased the likelihood to "pretty damned good" instead.
"Fuck!" Natasha swore, at least using a language that did not take his higher brain functions to try to translate. There was a flurry of banging and movement at the edge of his senses, and he could almost picture her thrashing this way and that to get her pesky arm back into place to get the hell out of wherever she was.
"Tasha..." he sighed, but knew he would be ignored.
"Oh no, you don't get to 'Tasha' me after that little revelation," she growled, somehow transcending to a place beyond pissed. He'd be impressed, had he not been fighting to stay conscious.
He started to fade again, the noises becoming an almost gentle hum of background noise. He was not certain how much time had passed when he startled back to full consciousness, Natasha's noise overlaid with a newer, more hollow vibration that he felt more than heard. "Tash?" he asked, voice harsh to his own ears even though he kept it to no more than a whisper.
She stilled immediately, which told him more than her answering, "Felt it," that she knew exactly what he meant.
He cleared his throat to try to sound like something more than gravel, and quipped, "Is now a good time to remind ourselves about the little silver dart things that were after us and how there was some sort of intelligence behind them that probably didn't just wander off after they managed to knock Tony's toy from the sky and are probably outside right now making sure they actually caught us?"
"Yes, yes it is," Natasha said in reply. He was willing to place actual cash on the chance she was currently scrounging for anything to use as a weapon, pinned down or no. He figured the little shards of metal should do nicely what with there being so many of them and them being within easy reach of the one hand that was still mobile. He also figured Natasha would have figured the same thing out, and felt no need to advise her of the obvious, especially with a possible enemy within listening range. Given that she had been gearing up before the crash, there was also the chance she had far more than a few bits of glass and metal at her disposal but, again, he wasn't dumb enough to ask right now.
He reached for one of the numerous pieces of debris beside him, jagged metal pressed tight against his palm, and prepared for the worse. Of course, all the wound up tension had absolutely no release as Fury's voice sounded over a burst of static, "Barton, Romanov, Rogers, if you can hear this transmission, we have a lock on the crash site. Rescue team is being dispatched, but ETA is to fuck and gone as we are currently under attack." The transmission died shortly thereafter but, unfortunately, the random sparks and quiet static remained.
"Well, that was extremely non-helpful," Clint grumbled, shifting his grip on the metal. The low thrum of banging had not only not subsided, but seemed to come even closer during Fury's little tirade. Help was coming, likely not soon, and likely not before their mysterious guest or guests fully announced themselves. Awesome.
The thrum stopped just as suddenly as it had started and, for the briefest of moments, Barton contemplated breathing a sigh of relief. That was, of course, when the thrum was replaced by the high pitch whine of shearing metal, and a tiny little rectangle of what appeared to be sunlight cut through the cabin, highlighting the mess of wires and metals and utter fuckedness in all its glory.
Clint did what he thought was the sensible thing, and chucked his piece of shrapnel at the hint of shadow that dared to cross the beam of light. There was a clank, a gasp, and then the only mildly irritated voice of his erstwhile team leader huffed, "Good, you're conscious. Tell me if there is anything I should avoid, or should I just start tearing up the rest of the side to get in."
And he couldn't help it, he let out a near hysterical little chuckle followed by, "Christ, Cap, warn a guy so he doesn't try to kill you, will you?" The pain in his side ratcheted up a notch, and he assumed that meant he had either dislodged whatever had ripped through his skin, or forced it deeper with his actions.
Steve, of course, was completely unperturbed by the whole thing, and simply calmly chided, "That was an attempt at an attack? Then you're worse off than I thought - your aim was at least six inches to the left."
"Give a guy a break," Clint huffed, and tried to ignore the way the pain bled through in his voice, much like he was trying to ignore the way warmth bled through his side. "Movement's a bit limited here, if you get my drift." He had no idea what Steve's status was, if he was compromised, being watched, or free and clear, but he knew enough not to give everything away just at the first hint of a familiar voice.
"Copy that," Steve replied, likely understanding, at least if it really was him. "I've got our guests with me, everyone safe and accounted for, if a bit roughed up. We're going to try to get you out of there. Do try not to kill any of us in the attempt?"
"No promises," Clint told him, readying another shard of metal just in case it was needed. Cap had not asked after Natasha, which meant he either assumed she was safe as no one on their team ever assumed she was dead, silent or no, or he feared they were still at risk and did not want to reveal a potential surprise ally to any observers.
Steve started pulling apart the side of the plane and Clint started concentrating on breathing through the pain. He needed to stay alert and ready should the whole thing be one enormous trap. Not that he was certain he could do much at this point, pinned down and with limited lines of sight, but he was kind of hoping that whatever super villain was after them this time was smart enough to let Steve dig them out. It made sense, really - don't waste your resources when you can weaken the enemy and all that. Of course, the "enemy" being the Avengers, this meant that, even with a gun held to his head, Steve Rogers would find a way to provide the aid that Clint just could not get on his own.
The rectangle of light became a square, which in turn became a giant gaping hole soon enough. The hole was big enough to fit Steve's large frame, and just happened to provide a hint of a view behind him, where Clint could see the blurry outlines of what appeared to be at least two bedraggled government officials.
"I'm coming in," Steve announced and then, over his shoulder he added, "You three stay here, there is not enough room for everyone inside and you would put yourself at risk for injury."
"More risk than being shot out of the sky?" a sarcastic and relatively bitter voice replied.
"You can see anything coming towards us out here; I can't say the same about in there," Steve explained with far more patience than Clint ever would.
"The sky is clear right now," a distinctly female voice sounded. "If we need cover, we'll head for the wing or climb in with you," she suggested. There was more mumbling, but it was short-lived and stopped altogether when Steve said something short and clipped and possibly in that tone of his that few could refuse.
That apparently sorted, Clint watched as the bar of light dimmed to near darkness and then the familiar form of an un-uniformed Captain America loomed just inside, no doubt assessing just where the hell he could walk without damaging himself or his teammate.
Before he got far, there was the all too familiar sound of a safety being flipped off and the cocking of small caliber weapon. Clint had about half a second to wonder about it being a set up, about Steve being compromised after all, before he heard, "Oh, thank god, Widow's in here too."
"Hello, sweetheart," Nat's voice sounded from across the crumpled cockpit. "You really you, or are we about to risk ricochet?" If she had given herself away in such an obvious manner, she must have suspected they were in the clear, but Clint couldn't fault her need to verify.
"It's me," Rogers verified. "Sit code alpha-six-two-eight-niner," he recited as he edged closer to what must have been the sound of her voice.
"Niner?" Clint asked, trying to remember the specifics of that one. It was something along the lines of believed safety but likely screwed. He was honestly surprised more of their missions did not end up with the designation.
"Yeah," Steve agreed, far closer than he had been a moment before. "Saw one of the silver things come towards us but head off in another direction. It was the same time Senator Castlethwaite was playing with a phone in his pocket. Don't know if it was a coincidence and don't care. I'm putting him on watch for now." There was a pause, followed by, "You pinned in?"
Clint nodded, trusting Cap's super senses to catch the movement. "Well and truly, though I suggest you get Nat out first so she can watch your back." He hurt, and he didn't know how much longer he could remain conscious, but someone needed to take care of what was left of the team and protect them from their guests, and Nat was in far better shape than he was to do so.
"Fair enough," Steve said, apparently agreeing with the suggestion. He would have no idea who was worse off at this point, and would readily rely on input from his team. If that input happened to aid Natasha's chances of making it over Clint's own, so be it. The phrasing it for Cap's own safety should keep her from beating him too badly for the omission of his true status.
"Oh, and Cap?" he called, craning his neck as much as he dared in his friend's direction. This, above all things, needed to be said before he risked passing out and never being able to be heard. "I don't care how shiny Stark's new toys are, next time we take the fucking Quinjet."
"Copy that," Steve replied with only the barest hint of a chuckle.
He tried to listen as Cap shuffled away from him, clearing a path through the rubble in his wake. There was a hushed discussion that he couldn't quite make out through the continuing static from the radio, but sounded like Steve trying to convince Nat to put the gun to the side for long enough to help push something off of her. There was a crash and clank and then a huff of, "Of course he is. Now let me fix that shoulder and we can go get him."
He would have been hurt about the whole tattling thing, but was more concerned when he heard a new voice gasp, "Gross!" and start to make hopefully fake retching sounds.
"Nice," Natasha sighed, but the edge of pain and tension was gone from her tone, which Clint took to mean as her shoulder was back in place and one of the Stooges had the pleasure of watching the procedure. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard her ask, "Aren't you supposed to be outside?"
"Yes, he is, but he listens about as well as my three year old," the female voice from before replied. There was a faint grumbling, but the woman spoke over whatever her colleague was saying to advise, "We saw another silver thing, but it turned away again."
"Probably doing recon at this point," Clint guessed. The comment was mostly him thinking aloud, but he knew better than to assume his teammates did not hear him. The things had a definite intelligence behind them; he would not be surprised if they were equipped with sensors or relays to advise their master as to the status of their target. He also wouldn't be surprised if someone or something was on its way to collect them right now.
Which is why he really didn't protest when Cap said, "Let's get you out of here before we deal with our little uninvited guest."
"Do you need help, sir?" the woman, who Clint really needed to remember her name, asked from her place in the makeshift doorway.
"There's no room in here," Natasha told her, almost too quickly. There was probably enough for another person, maybe even three if they cramped together, but stating there wasn't meant holding off dealing with the three unknowns, at least for a short duration. There was a shifting of metal that Clint took to mean as his teammates approaching his position, and then Nat spoke again. "Try to keep the others away from the opening - we could use the light," she directed.
It was apparently enough as Clint heard no more from the woman and even swore the light grew a bit brighter, though that may have just been her stepping away from the opening.
He knew when Natasha had reached him not by the scraping of metal or sudden release of pressure at his side, but rather from the light tap upside his likely concussed head. "Dumbass," she said affectionately, which meant she probably wasn't completely pissed at him. She even took the still sparking headset the rest of the way off of him, which just furthered his suspicions.
"How's the arm?" he asked when he noticed she still held her right arm awkwardly at her side, slightly pinned up against what must have been her good shoulder.
"How's the legs and the bleeding out?" she countered, eyebrow raised.
"Barton..." Steve sighed, and Clint swore he could feel the disappointment rolling off of him in waves. Steve being Steve though, he kept to the situation at hand and his voice was only a little bit terse when he ordered, "Give me a full assessment of your injuries, for real this time, so I don't accidentally paralyze you getting you free."
Clint obliged, but mentioned only the things he knew for fact and nothing of what he suspected. He knew for a fact that his left side was fully pinned. He knew for a fact that there was a puncture injury to his right side. He knew for a fact that there was a great deal of weight pressing down on his legs. He suspected a cracked or broken rib or three. He suspected a sprained if not broken wrist. He suspected his ankle was going to hurt like a motherfucker when they finally freed it from the odd angle it was currently trapped into. Besides, he had hinted at these with Nat, and she had already told on him once. If she deemed them important enough to mention to their teammate he couldn't stop her, but that didn't mean he had to be quite so forthcoming himself.
Steve nodded in understanding, the action somehow highlighting a small but healing gash along his hairline, and seemed to contemplate how best to get him out. Natasha gave him a look like she knew he what he was hiding but would leave him his pride for now, and started to dig.
"Aren't you supposed to be watching his back?" Clint asked. He resolutely did not gasp when the weight on his chest shifted. He just happened to breathe deeply and forcefully, that's all.
"I'm multitasking," she replied, but stepped back when Steve reached for the largest part of the control panel currently blocking their way.
Clint would have thought that the removal of the heaviest of weights pressing upon him would have brought relief. He was wrong. The pressure had disguised the overwhelming agony that lay just beneath the surface, and his vision started to gray out yet again as that agony surged forward once freed.
The good thing was that, with the worst of the debris gone, Cap and Natasha were able to clear the rest that much more quickly. Of course, that meant manipulation of possible broken bones lay on the horizon, but it also meant he could get the hell out of where he was, so he took it as a positive over all.
He swore he had only blinked during this self-reasoning, but Nat was now kneeling at his side, a first aid kit salvaged from somewhere in her hands. "This is going to hurt," she said, likely the only warning she was going to give him. She yanked a shard of metal the size of her hand away from his side and he gave in to the urge to shout in pain even as she finished with a semi-apologetic, "A lot."
She tugged his t-shirt back from the now open wound, and he shivered from the removal of the wet stickiness that had served as his only bandage up to this point. He kind of lost track of time after the muted torture of gauze pressed against the wound and, hey, look, there was another right beside it that might explain the amount of bloodloss. Both chunks of debris tapered into something sharp and dark, likely with his own blood. The up side was that at least the entire hulk of metal had not been shoved into his side, but just the edges in each case.
Cap continued to mess around on his other side, gently lifting an already black and blue arm to rest over his still heaving chest, his own elbow pressing against his sensitive ribs, and then to dig some more until all that remained were two large pieces that seemed damned near wrapped around his lower legs. He was impressed; he hadn't know that metal was that malleable.
"It is with enough force," Steve said, voice sounding as though he spoke from experience. The worrisome part was that Clint did not remember speaking his thought out loud, something made even more worrisome when Steve commented, "You did and you still are and just what did you give him, Widow?"
"Nothing yet," Natasha insisted. She finished taping something in place against his aching side and quickly ran her fingers across and through Clint's hair, the strands feeling like little knives in her grasp. He caught her share a look with Steve and then, almost as one, they sighed, "Concussion."
"Must be a doozy if he's this out of it," Cap said with a shake of his head.
"Hey, 'he' is right here and doesn't need you speaking over him," Clint protested, and even managed to sound indignant. "Besides, it's more like the concussion mixed with the bloodloss than anything else and, yes, I am aware I am saying that this time," he muttered.
"Yeah, about that whole loss of blood thing, when were you going to bring that up?" Steve asked while he searched for either a hold or a way to break up the remaining pieces to lift away.
"Figured you would figure it out on your own eventually," Clint said with what passed for a shrug, though he immediately regretted the movement.
"What, when we slipped in it?" Steve scoffed.
"Remember the part where I called him a dumbass?" Nat smiled without cheer. It looked like she had stored the majority of the medical kit away, which meant she was ready to help tackle the final pieces so Clint would finally be free. He told himself that this is why he would not take offense at her words but, one look from her with that eyebrow raised and mouth crooked just so, and even he wasn't buying it.
His two teammates made short work out of the remaining pieces, and then it was just the matter of cutting him out of his mangled harness. Natasha secreted the blade back away somewhere on her person and then glared down at him in the low light. "You want to mention any other injuries, or should it just be a surprise when we lift you and break you?" she challenged him.
"I may care to mention my ribs at this time if you're going to haul me up," Clint granted. He had mentioned them before, but only to her, and knew this was her less than subtle hint to offer a full disclosure on at least this to Steve as well.
"See, was that so hard?" Steve asked.
"Yes, yes it was," Clint replied. He resisted sticking out his tongue though as that would have just been childish.
"If he's mentioning them, they're probably cracked," Natasha pointed out since he had not been specific in his revelation. He called her a traitor in her mother tongue, but the effect was limited since she said it at the same time, mocking tone and all. "Mix that with his wrist, bloodloss, and concussion, and this should be interesting getting him out of here."
"You're always a ray of sunshine, you know that?" Clint told her, adding a glare for slipping in the wrist part of his injuries.
She nodded readily enough and deadpanned, "It's a gift."
"Can we get a return receipt on that?" he asked, but the end of the sentence was lost in a groan as apparently the good Captain America had gotten tired of their bickering and decided to take matters into his own hands. He was careful, but any amount of maneuvering was going to hurt and, really, getting from laying down on a broken chair to standing was going to take more than a bit of finagling.
Natasha swung the med kit over her good shoulder and took point, weapon at the ready, while Steve busied himself keeping Clint upright and moving through the wreckage. The first time he tried to put any weight on his bad ankle was excruciating, and the second time even worse. Clint gritted his teeth and kept moving though, having survived much worse in his tenure as an agent. Besides, his boots provided nearly as much support as a formal brace; he would just have to make some minor adjustments to how they were tied and he should be good to go, go being the operative word as he rather wanted to get out of the crumbling heap of metal sooner rather than later.
When they tried to get past the ripped open storage cabinet though, Clint saw something he simply could not live without. He pulled away from Steve's support and grabbed both his bow case and quiver with his good hand. He felt the wound in his side and his damaged ribs protest the movement, but he also felt an odd sort of contentment in knowing he was no longer the most vulnerable member of the group.
"How are you even going to fire those?" Steve asked, but notably did not make him put them back.
Clint snorted. "I've shot far more messed up than this before, and still made the target. Besides, there's no way I'm leaving these behind to be found by whoever or whatever is after us," he reasoned, thinking of the specialty arrows Tony had made specifically for him and pointedly not Tony himself. He pushed even that aside though, and focused on continuing the journey to the outside and its near blinding sun.
Live Journal: Part 1 | Part 2
Dreamwidth: Part 1 | Part 2
This entry was originally posted at http://cat-77.dreamwidth.org/417100.html. Current comments