Blinded

Prologue — In The Dark

Stark's got his armor. Steve's got his super serum-ness. Thor's a god. Hulk's Hulk.

If I don't got this, then what have I got?

- The Avengers: Operation Hydra #1

When Clint finally manages to pry open his eyes, he can't see. Not a damn thing. The world is pitch black, like a starless night out in the Iowa countryside, and he's reduced to groping for his bow on his hands and knees. When he can't find it, he growls to himself and pulls his gun from the holster on his hip. He can't help but bark a laugh then; if he can't see what he's shooting at, what's the point?

He can't remember what happened, and he's not exactly sure where he is. He's about to call for help when he realizes his earpiece is gone. Of course it is, because this day couldn't get any worse. He rolls his sightless eyes and hauls himself unsteadily to his feet. Then, he holds his gun out in front of him with one hand and puts the other on the wall to guide him. He can't afford to be a sitting duck so he starts on his oh-so merry way.

Part of him is stunned he hasn't been attacked yet (if he knows one thing about super villains it's they like to kick when the good guy is down) but he figures he should take advantage of their incompetence, inattentiveness or dead-ness, whatever the hell it is, to get the out of here. Now, if only he knew where here is.

Memories are just starting to come back to him in shattered, cloudy fragments—him screaming for backup and not getting any, someone (or something), swatting him to the side like he was nothing more than an irritating fly, Rogers barking orders through the comm as the world fell away into the blackness he's now lost in.

But none of that explains his most pressing question. Why the hell can't he see anything?

Clint stops dead when he hears footsteps down the hallway (well, that's what he's hoping it is; he can't do the underground lair thing right now). Taking a deep, but silent, breath to center himself, he listens, edging into the shadows of what he thinks is a doorway to give himself a shot. He's only going to have one shot so he better not miss, even if he can't see. It's not like he hasn't hit targets blindfolded before, but that was a long, long time ago, back when he thought purple, blue and tight spandex went well together. And so much has changed beyond his fashion sense.

Since joining the Avengers, Clint's had no illusions. He's not one of them. He's put in endless hours at the range to compensate, shooting arrow after arrow and arrow, all to make sure, if a mission comes down to him getting a shot off, he will, and he will every single time. But he still knows he'll never be like them. He's even accepted, by trying to run with the gods and the giant green rage monsters and the super soldiers of his world, he could very well get himself killed.

And that could very well happen here and now.

NOW. Clint fires, and there's the familiar thump of a body hitting the floor. Maybe he won't have to use up one of his nine lives Laura's convinced he has today after all. He's not sure how many he has left, and he remembers he really didn't want to waste one on this mission, whatever it was. When he's certain no backup is on the way, he slips out of the doorway, puts his hand back to the wall and continues on the path he started.

Clint doesn't get far before he has to turn back, half-running, half-stumbling, all-terrified. This isn't good. This is not good. He should have been more careful, but it's too late for that now; they spotted him, and he can hear their heavy footsteps pounding after him and knows they're catching up because, damn it, how can he run when he can't see where he's going? Vaguely confused they haven't put a bullet in him yet, he decides to rely on the element of surprise and turns on a dime. He tells himself he has nothing to lose when, in fact, he could lose everything.

"Barton, stop!"

Clint obeys (the voice is familiar, but muffled and off somehow so he doesn't trust it) but he doesn't holster his gun, instead keeping it trained on all the threats lurking in the darkness that surrounds him. He takes a step back and hits a wall. Cornered. Yeah, this day keeps getting better. "Wha's goin' 'n?" he demands, and his voice is strangely slurred and thick, like it is every time he comes out from under anesthesia. And that's when it hits him. "Wha' 'ey put 'n 'e?"

"We don't know," the voice admits, and he can tell someone else is inching towards him. Then, a small hand clasps his shoulder, and he surprises himself by not jerking away. The touch is far more familiar than the voice, and he knows he can trust it—completely, and he does even after a needle finds his arm and his knees give out from under him.

As Clint falls back into the blackness, the voice says fiercely, "Hang on, Barton. We're working on figuring it out. I promise. Just please hang on."

Preview of Chapter 1 — In The Vents:

Natasha jabs a finger up at the ceiling. "He's in the vents."

"Excuse me?" Stark doesn't even look up from his research.

"You heard me," Natasha snaps, growing impatient because they really don't have the luxury of time. She learned that the hard way in Bangkok. "Now let's get him out before he hurts himself or, worse, escapes."

A/N: Thanks for reading! I came up with this concept after reading Hawkeye Blindspot, though this has absolutely nothing to do with that plot at all if you're familiar with it. One clear parallel between that Clint and the Marvel Cinematic Universe Clint is, under all the bravado, there's insecurity. And I wanted to explore that by robbing Clint of his most valuable asset: his sight. So everyone knows, this will have all the Avengers in it and is set shortly after the first movie. Call it team-building by saving Clint.

Anyway, if you liked it, drop a review. I LOVE hearing what people think, and it definitely motivates me to keep writing. Until next time. ~Moore12