Author's note: I've had writer's block for the better part of four years. Yesterday was the first day I'd actually wanted/needed to write so I ran with it. I'm not sure how many chapters are planned. I know where I want it to go, but I usually underestimate how many words/chapters so I'll just leave it be.
Otherwise, I ship BlackHawk. This is mostly Clint's story though.
Any reviews and/or constructive criticisis are welcome! Next chapter should be up soon.
How do you convince a person who trusts no one that you're not going to hurt them? Especially when you've hurt killed so many with your own hands? Is it even possible—to earn that much trust from someone? Where do you even start?
Mind's Eye: Chapter One
"Do you want me to call 911? Or your parents? No? But you really need medical attention," Clint Barton said, stepping towards the emaciated girl, head tilted to the side as he tried to inspect the bloodstain spreading across her shirt. The girl scrambled backwards, shaking her head back and forth violently. She backed herself right into a wall, fear shining from her eyes. Clint stopped; she clearly was still scared from her encounter. "I'm not going to hurt you. Come on, please, you're bleeding, let me take a look."
Arms crossed in front of her bloody abdomen, she leaned against the wall, shaking like a sapling in a windstorm. "I'm fine. Really. Just a little cut. It's fine. I'm fine." Her voice was breathless, a whisper: as insubstantial as she was.
"Sweetheart, I've been in my share of firefights. That's not a little cut." Hands raised, palms out, Clint inched forward. "If you won't let me look at it, then I'm going to take you a hospital. You're, at the least, going to need multiple stitches."
:If not emergency surgery.
Sheer panic: the girl's head snapped up and her breathing quickened, "No! I'm not going to a hospital!" She bolted down the alley, but only made it about five feet before she stumbled and collapsed, the wall of the building catching her partially. Slowly, her body slid down the wall, until she was curled in the fetal position at its base, whimpering softly, with her arms still wrapped around her, protecting her belly.
Clint ran to her, kneeled down in the grime of the alleyway and reached to sweep a muddy brown lock out of her face, but stopped inches away from contact when she cringed away from his outstretched hand. He sighed, glanced around to make sure the three thugs weren't regrouping for a second attempt, and then rocked his weight back until he was balancing on the balls of his feet. He quickly checked the safety on his gun, making sure it was easily accessible. :You never can be too ready. But Clint and the girl were alone in this dank, dark alley.
:She's going to bleed out right here in front of me, if she won't let me near her. He ran his left hand through his hair, ideas flashing by as he discarded them one after the other. After approximately thirty seconds, he settled on one. "So. Do you have a name?"
Murky green eyes peered up at him from behind the girl's brown bangs. Her eyes flickered with suspicion, but she answered, "Hailey."
"Hi, Hailey. My name is Clint Barton. Am I understanding you correctly? That I'm not allowed to touch you?" Hailey shifted, straining herself until she was propped up, with her back braced against the wall. She swept her bangs to the side with a toss of her head, reminding Clint of an impatient horse tossing its head to rid itself of an annoying fly. She studied him for a few moments, then nodded her head "yes".
"Is it me specifically that can't touch you?" Hailey's head shook no this time, no hesitation. :Nice to know it's not personal, I guess.
"So you don't want any men touching you?" Clint asked, already reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone. :Please Nat, don't have boarded that plane. "If I get a woman, a friend of mine, to come here, will you let her look at you, since a hospital is apparently out of the question?" His finger was posed, waiting for confirmation, to hit the speed dial to Natasha's cell phone. But again, Hailey's head shook no vehemently.
:Well, it's not like Natasha has a medical background anyways. Or an overabundance of maternal instinct. Alright, time to change tactics. He slid his phone back into his pocket and remained crouching, running through his Plan B. Clint didn't want to bully her when she was so clearly terrified, but she wasn't leaving him many options. :Last resort, he promised himself.
"Hailey, what would you do if I wasn't here? If I walked away right now?" Clint queried. Hailey continued to watch him with a guarded expression, but made no effort to speak or move. "Would you call someone to help you? Or would you just let yourself die here?"
The girl blanched when he said "die", but didn't refute it. Her gaze turned to the ground. Hailey's skin was computer paper white in heavy contrast to the crimson blood stain that had now soaked down through to her baggy pants and also up to chest level. The wound needed pressure, a lot of it: certainly a hell of a lot more than was being provided by Hailey, skinny arms crossing over her midsection.
"Do you want to die?" Clint asked tentatively. Hailey continued to avoid eye contact with him, instead focusing on a lone red cobblestone amongst the gray. :Guess that's a yes. What a…
"Waste."
Her eyebrows scrunched together as she glanced back up at him, "What?"
"You. Letting yourself die. What a f*cking waste."
"Be easier," she murmured, but studied him with a new light, surprise flitting across her thin face.
Clint snorted, "Yeah, it would be easier. Doesn't make it right though. Or easier on those you leave behind."
The frown came back, marring the smoothness of her pretty, yet pinched face, and her eyes shifted back to the red cobblestone. "Don't have anyone."
:That'd explain why she was eating out of dumpsters and living in a back alley of New York City, Clint thought, the idea sickening him, that this girl, who couldn't be more than fifteen years old, had consigned herself to death, because she had absolutely nothing and no one to look forward to. :Her parents better be dead, or scouring the world for her, otherwise they'll wish they were dead. Clint wasn't proud of that thought, but, he shrugged his shoulders, can't help what flashes through your mind. His attention returned to Hailey; her head was cocked to the side, scrutinizing him.
:That's it, she can hate or thank me later. Clint moved fast—he stripped off his light jacket, folded it over and over, making it into long, thin pad of fabric, then reached for Hailey's abdomen, holding it out in front of him. She saw what he was doing and started to try to crawl away, but she was in no condition to outrun or outmaneuver him. His skin brushed her's as he pressed his jacket into the center of her torso, his right hand gently reaching to move her bloody arms out of the way of his makeshift bandage, but Hailey's arms jerked away, suddenly reaching up to cradle her head.
Concerned, Clint started, "Hailey, did you hit your head on…" Promptly, the girl's eyes rolled back in her head, and she slumped over, unconscious. :That certainly makes it easier.
He didn't waste any time. Still applying pressure to her oozing knife wound, Clint rolled Hailey on her side, wrapped his jacket around her, tying it in the back over her blue t-shirt to maintain a pressure bandage. Underneath that baggy shirt she was little more than a skeleton; her hip bones and rib cage stuck out at angles, and Clint was certain he could find sores where her skins had been rubbed raw between bone and clothing. Jaw clenched in anger, he swooped her off the ground, arranging her so her face was nestled in the crook of his elbow. :You have someone now, whether you like it or not.
Clint half-ran out of the alley, reached the street where his SHIELD car was parked. The car's lights flashed once as he approached, the locks pushed up by the keyless remote sitting in his pocket. He could feel eyes on him: bewildered pizzeria patrons watching from their outdoor tables—the pizzeria he'd been eating at a short time ago. Ignoring them, Clint shifted Hailey's weight over to his left arm and shoulder, so he could grab the door handle for the driver's side back door. He sensed multiple people pulling out their cell phones, no doubt to call the police, thinking he'd abducted her. :Never mind of course, that I'm in uniform, complete with a gun belt and everything. Ugh. Civilians. So unaware.
Door opened, Clint leaned in, bracing his knee on the floor as he carefully transferred Hailey to the backseat, placing her on her back. He debated about getting a seatbelt on her somehow, but disregarded it. :Have to drive fast but careful. Real careful. One last glance—still breathing, still bleeding—and he slammed the door shut and opened the driver's door, hopping in. It was a push button start and he'd already shifted into drive just as it was cycling down from starting up, as he simultaneously activated the blue and red flashing lights on the dash.
Clint had his phone out two seconds later and was flipping through contacts, searching for one of the last people he'd ever want to call on for help. He hit dial as he reached the corner, glancing in his rearview to check on his ward. The phone call rang through.
"Robin Hood! What's up?" Tony Stark answered on the second ring, smirking. "Still in New York I see."