AN: This was a response to a Tumblr prompt that ended up being way longer than I realised - way too long for Little Moments anyway. Maybe a slight warning for depression should be included here? I'm not too sure, to be honest... there is, at the very least, a lot of negative thinking on Clint's behalf, so make of that what you will :-)
None So Blind
The worst part was that he only had himself to blame. He could have taken a partner - he should have taken a partner, someone to watch his back and alert him to things he couldn't se- Clint grimaced. Even every-day sayings now had a mocking edge to them, scorning him for his mistake and shutting him up before he could finish his thoughts; constant reminders that his one defining feature, the thing that gave him an edge amongst gods and monsters and robots, was gone.
And, of course, that meant he'd no longer be among said gods, monsters and robots.
They didn't know how to talk to him. Propped up in his hospital bed, he listened as they tried, skirting around topics now branded 'sensitive' (their missions) and minding their own language much more keenly than him. There were times when the chatter would crumble, leaving an itchy silence in its wake where Clint was sure his visitors were mouthing things across him to one another. It fucked up his sense of time - days where no-one visited dragged, days where they made an effort to come were gone in the blink of - too fast. He would keep track if it wasn't so hard.
That, at least, was one good thing about wearing bandages over his face: feigning sleep was easy. All he had to do was take out his aids, lower his pillows, and pretend he wasn't there, that he was actually sleeping. After a while it was preferable to listening to the others force well-meaning conversation out into the air. If they didn't want to be there, why not give them a reason not to be?
However, there was one exception.
No matter how often he pretended to be asleep (or perhaps, by this point, he was trying to fool himself into thinking he was), Clint would always feel the cool, smooth touch of metal curling over his knuckles, lifting his hand to warmer, softer lips, and then not letting go for a long time. At first, Clint had suddenly developed a new-found appreciation of Bucky's arm - he knew immediately who was touching him, who was sat by his bedside, and it was such a goddamn relief that Bucky hadn't up and left him that he nearly cried (so he could still do that, at least).
Eventually, though, Clint realised what he was indirectly doing to Bucky: he was making him choose between his useless, broken boyfriend, and the team that needed him to help protect the city. Nobody, he knew, sat in his room as often as Bucky did, and it tore Clint apart knowing that he was taking him away from duty. He was compromising Bucky's position.
He should never have taken that fucking mission.
"You've got to stop wasting your time here," he finally said one day, when he could bear to listen to the world move without him seeing it do so.
The metal thumb stilled over his knuckles where it had been moving back and forth rhythmically. "What?"
Clint swallowed. "You're here too much. The team, they - they need you. Especially now that I can't -"
"The Avengers are fine without me," Bucky said calmly, "and they understand."
"For how long, though?" he retorted, and when Bucky didn't answer, continued: "They aren't gonna let you stay glued to my side forever. Might as well start getting used to that now."
"No, I know that," Bucky said. He squeezed Clint's hand. "And anyway, your bandages haven't come off yet. We don't know for sure how badly damaged your -"
"I think the word 'permanent' sounds pretty fucking damaged."
"Hey, come on. I'm only being optimistic."
"Why?" Clint snapped. "It doesn't matter if I've lost my completely or partially, or in one eye or both - it's gone, Bucky. It'll never be what it was. What use do I have as an Avenger now without that skill?"
Bucky's tone was firm; "Clint, you were never an Avenger just for your vision. There's so much more to you than that."
"Like what?"
Without hesitation, he said, "Your heart. You have a determination to help people that can't be dampened or taken away. I know - we all know - that you'll do anything to make sure innocent people aren't hurt or done injustice. You don't need sight to do that."
Clint knew the words are meant to be comforting, but there was more to hear than what was spoken. "So I can get a desk job."
"No, I wasn't -"
"My ears are screwed up too, remember?"
"Please stop saying that about yourself."
"Everyone's thinking it."
"Like hell they are!" Bucky sighed shortly, and Clint imagined him running his flesh hand down his face, or through his hair in frustration. "Clint, we want to help you. Okay? There are positions in S.H.I.E.L.D. May and Bobbi can help you settle into. Sam's offered get you signed on as a trauma counsellor, or something like that. And Natasha's been in touch with -"
"If they're really that concerned," Clint asked, "why are you the only one here?"
Bucky's hesitation was long enough to give him an answer before he spoke. "They… tried to be here. But, they're busy -"
"Maybe you should be helping them then."
Another sigh. "Clint -"
"Bucky."
The grip on his hand tightened. "You know it's not like that," Bucky murmurs.
No, he didn't - not anymore. Reaching up for his hearing aids, Clint said, "A clean break would be better for everyone," before shutting out the world.
Bucky's hand stayed on his for minutes, maybe hours, before a kiss was dropped on Clint's forehead and the warm metal was replaced by cold air.
After that, he was never really sure when someone other than a nurse or a doctor visited, if anyone did at all, and he decided he didn't care. He couldn't - caring meant hoping, and hoping meant being let down. But suddenly it was two days before he was due to leave the hospital, to have the bandages taken off for good, and Bucky hadn't been by recently. Clint had thought he could handle it, and for a short time he panicked silently, paralysed by both his blindness and his deafness, until he realised that going home would just be substituting a hospital bed for his own. At least there, he wouldn't have to work out whether someone was in his room or not.
That didn't stop him from being surprised to feel metal fingertips on the inside of his arm again. They stroked his skin gently, and the effort with which he refrained from reacting physically hurt - but Clint couldn't listen to himself argue with Bucky again, or hear how he was going to drag Bucky down by being taken care of by him. He knew he was broken, and he also knew what happened to broken things that couldn't be fixed.
Bucky's fingers stopped, moving down towards his hand. They opened his palm, and Clint felt something being pressed against it, felt his fingers being made to curl around - his hearing aids? Then the metal was back on his arm, tracing out letters: P, L, E, A, S, E.
He relented.
"I love you," was the first thing Bucky said once Clint was able to hear again. "You know that, right?"
Under his bandages, Clint frowned. "Yeah," he said. "I love you too."
He was quiet for a moment, and Clint wished he could see his expression. "Then why are you pushing me away?" Bucky whispered. "What have I - what have we done that you don't want us around anymore? That you won't accept our help, or our concern?"
"… I -" Clint was stunned. Was that really what he had been doing? Pushing people (pushing Bucky) away? Throwing a tantrum inside his head and not letting anyone close enough to calm him down? He thought back briefly to those nights where Bucky had been the one to distance himself, and how Clint had insisted on staying nearby, helping Bucky climb back from whatever dark place his mind had fallen into. In that moment, he felt himself shrink where he lay.
"I know how hard this is," Bucky was saying, "and I also know I have no way of knowing what you're going through, but then of this I am sure: you, Clint Barton, are at your strongest when you're with friends. With people you care about. You're determined to do everything and anything you're physically capable of. You never let your loss of hearing stop you, just as you never let my self-loathing stop me, and I will be damned if I sit by and watch you give up on yourself now. Your sight didn't make you an Avenger, Clint. The team misses you - God, I miss you, and I see you every day almost - and we will do whatever we can to bring you back to us." He sniffed. "We're not the Avengers without you."
Clint sat himself up slowly. He replayed Bucky's words over in his head, began thinking about his behaviour since waking up to a world of pitch-blackness, and swallowed. "I don't want a desk job, Bucky."
"I know."
"I can't - I can't be stuck doing - doing nothing."
"You won't, Clint."
"But - my bow - I don't - Bucky - I'll - just -"
"Hey, hey, easy," Bucky soothed, moving from his chair to the bed as he got Clint's breathing under control. By the time he'd stopped hyperventilating, Clint was practically in tears, and put up no resistance when Bucky guided his head onto his shoulder.
"I just want to see," he whispered brokenly, holding Bucky like a lifeline. "Sunlight, colours, hell even this crappy room." He gulped, hugging Bucky tighter to him. "You."
He felt Bucky kiss the side of his head, his fingers warm where they threaded through his hair, hard but reassuring. "I'm right here," he breathed against Clint's skull. "And I will be as long as you need me to be."
How long they stayed like that, Clint neither knew nor cared to know. He was doing his best to forgo thinking entirely, just letting the feel of Bucky around him fill his mind. And it was good, to not focus on anything yet to not be alone, and it was only as he started to relax that he realised how much he needed this - needed Bucky. Maybe his words had been true.
"You know," Bucky said later, when they'd parted slightly (hands still on one another), "there might be a way for you not to have to have a desk job at S.H.I.E.L.D." It sounded like he was smiling.
"How?"
"Natasha and I have been talking, and we think it could be helpful if you talked to Matt Murdock. I mean, he's blind, but he's still -"
"Daredevil, I know." Clint's mouth twisted. Bucky, I don't know; it's a good idea, but Matt's been blind all his life pretty much. Not to mention the fact that he has radioactive senses, or whatever, and his ears still work."
"Right, but according to Natasha, the guy who trained him had no such luxury." Clint felt his flesh hand move to the bottom edge of his bandages, and leant in towards the feather-light touch, encouraging Bucky to cradle his jaw. "I'm not saying it'll work," he continued, "but Matt's happy to help, and it's your best option right now, Clint. There are others, and we can discuss them, but I wanted you to hear this one first."
In the silence that followed, Clint thought about his senses. There was a lot he could feel, and smell, and hear, and he knew his reflexes hadn't been terrible in the past. He was, as the doctors had told him, fit and healthy, despite his tendency towards falling from high places. And they were trying to help him - Bucky, Nat, and even Matt, whom he'd rarely spoken to. With their help, maybe, just maybe…
"Okay."
AN: Prompt: "So, uh, WinterHawk where Clint goes on a solo mission, but ends up getting injured so badly that he goes permanently blind, and pushes everyone away, including Bucky, but Bucky still tires t get through to him?"
There was absolutely no way I was not including Matt Murdock in this in some way, shape, or form! (Daredevil is definitely worth a month's trial for Netflix, believe me!)