AN: (25.9.14) My fourth Winterhawk Week entry! Uploading it a little late because I've been working on midterm assignments all day :-( so this is like the 'yay I finished!' celebratory fic before SLEEP!
Hurt Locker
It was always a shock when one of them ended up in medical in a fairly serious condition. They were of a habit of downplaying the severity of their injuries, frustrating the medical staff to no end and earning them a Steve Rogers Seal of Disapproval (which was just a very disappointed looking Steve standing before them once they'd escaped medical). But that was their promise: if one is holed up unnecessarily, the other springs him free. Looking at Bucky now though, Clint knows he's going to have to break that oath.
The bandages around his chest, only fractionally whiter than his skin, hide the worst of the damage the aliens wrought. Clint hasn't seen it for himself, but from Natasha's description, it isn't pretty. "A hole in his chest, essentially," she'd said. "One of them caught him off-guard, and then..." She exhaled softly. "One tried taking his arm off, too. I made sure it didn't succeed, but -"
Clint stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and a tired smile. "Thank you."
"I'm sorry."
"You did more than I could."
Clint didn't escape the fight unscathed either, but a broken arm and a sprained ankle are nothing in comparison to what's happened to Bucky. They're the kind of injuries he'd skip going to medical on, letting Bucky and their combined 'expertise' patch him up instead, but now he doesn't want to leave the bay at all. At first, the doctors and nurses look at him warily, until one of them clicks on and updates him on Bucky's status without him asking. Now, here they are, two days later, and Bucky's just starting to show signs of full consciousness.
"Hey you," Clint says as he blinks awake, looking dazed. "How are you feeling?"
Bucky takes a moment to answer, the oxygen mask on his face confusing him briefly. "Shit," he groans.
"Yeah, you're not far off." He gestures to Bucky's chest with his good hand. "Shattered sternum, a few broken ribs, severely torn lung, a broken collarbone, and surrounding tissue damage. External damage to the muscles around your left shoulder plate, though nothing broken there. Split lip, black eye, twisted knee and a minor fracture in your right foot to top things off."
"... Huh." He manages to look mildly impressed - as much as he can, anyway, having just come out of a two-day slumber still faintly doped on a frightening amount of morphine. "Don't remember foot..."
"You can find it at the bottom of your leg."
"Funny." Bucky's arm raises a millimetre before his face tightens with pain and he drops it back onto the bed. The tiny movement seems to leave him short of breath, and Clint knows that even under all the morphine exaggerated breathing probably hurts like hell.
"Take it easy," he says, brushing his fingers over Bucky's forehead. "Super healing or not, it's kind of a miracle you're still alive."
"Being dead... doesn't stick... with me."
Clint smiles fondly. "Nah. You're too stubborn."
Bucky's smile goes much quicker than it comes. "You're hurt."
"What, this?" Glancing at the cast on his arm, he shrugged. "Nothing serious."
"Then why... still here?"
"'Cause you are, idiot."
The little sound he makes is muffled by the mask. Clint watches as he tries to adjust his position by another millimetre, but his face screws up again and he gives up with a harsh breath. That's all Bucky does for a few minutes - breathe, slowly, and Clint lets him, debating whether or not to call a nurse for more painkillers. He keeps the backs of his fingers resting against Bucky's cheek, and after a short while Bucky tilts his head to press against them. "Get me out of here?" he pleads quietly.
And it's with honest regret that Clint shakes his head, murmuring, "Sorry, Buck. Think you might actually need to stay for a bit."
"Clint..."
"You can hardly move, Bucky," he says, indicating the truckload of bandages wrapped around him. "And even if you could, it probably wouldn't be wise - you gotta rest, let your body knit itself back together. Hey," he adds, quirking the corner of his mouth up. "Least you'll be out of here sooner than most."
He mumbles something that might have been "Not soon enough." Beneath the mask, Bucky looks incredibly forlorn.
"Why don't I call in some more painkillers for you?" Clint suggests, reaching for the button. "Might help you feel a little more comfortable."
"Morphine?"
"Probably."
His brow creases unhappily. "Hate morphine."
"No you don't."
"... Hate morphine haze."
"If you say so," Clint chuckles, throwing in an eye roll for good measure. He leans in, kisses Bucky's forehead - possibly the only undamaged part of him accessible - and runs his fingers through dark brown hair. "Just some R and R, Bucky. Think of it as... all the lazy mornings we never get rolled into one."
"Lazy mornings mean you and no pain," he grumbles sluggishly, and Clint laughs quietly as the nurse enters behind him.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promises. "Except maybe the toilet. And a shower if Natasha complains."
"Can't ignore 'Tasha..."
"Nope." The nurse steps away, painkiller cocktail already administered, and Clint smiles as Bucky's eyes begin to droop, hand still gently carding through his hair. "Sleep well, Bucky. I love you."
Bucky's response comes out as "Iluhyuht..." but the meaning couldn't be clearer. His breathing settles, and Clint relaxes his arm a moment later. Fishing out his Stark Phone, he pulls up an old Dog Cops episode and continues to wait.
AN: Only three days left! D: