Author's Note: Special shoutouts to white collar black wolf, ItsJustABook,m klindt, ZafiraMente and Hawaiichick for reviewing the first chapter! I really appreciate it!
CHAPTER TWO
SLEEP DEPRIVATION
"Hawkeye, I'm not going to tell you again. I'm calling it, so pack up and get back to the safehouse. We need to regroup."
"All right, Guardian, copy that." From the security of the roof of a building slated for demolition in two weeks' time, Clint took another look through the scope of his rifle. The flag three blocks away that he was using as a wind gauge picked up ever so slightly, and Clint adjusted his aim to compensate. "Packing up now."
There was a pause.
"No, you're not," Phil accused.
"Nothin' gets by you, Guardian," Clint deadpanned.
An exasperated sigh floated over his comm.
"Hawk, it's been over seventy-two hours," Phil reminded him yet again.
"You should get a side job as a clock," Clint quipped, though there was a little more snap in his tone than he had meant.
"That's three nights now that you've gotten no sleep," Phil went on as if he hadn't spoken. "And I know for a fact that you didn't sleep well the night before this mission." He paused, but Clint made no attempt to answer. They already had this discussion several times over the last couple hours. "Kid, you need to take a break. You need sleep. Then we can come back and finish this."
"We might not get this shot again," Clint reminded him evenly.
"You have to be feeling the effects of sleep deprivation," Phil insisted. "How's your vision?"
"Fine," Clint said, blinking away the blurriness that was trying to make its way in from his peripheral. "Guardian, you know I wouldn't take this shot if I wasn't one hundred percent sure."
"I know that, but—"
"Target," Clint snapped, tensing and cutting Phil off.
The man whose mugshot he had so painstakingly committed to memory had finally stepped out of his residence, where he had been holed up for more than seventy-two hours.
"Confirm identity," Phil said, easily slipping back into the role Supervising Officer.
"Identity confirmed," Clint assured him evenly, no doubt in his mind as he followed the man with the crosshairs of his scope. "Now's our window. He's heading for a car."
"Take the shot, Hawk," Phil said.
The CRACK of his sniper rifle echoed off the buildings around him, masking his position.
"Target down," Clint reported.
The target's bodyguards were scrambling, but it was already too late It was over. Clint let out an unsteady breath and flicked the safety on the rifle. He finally allowed his muscles to unclench for what felt like the first time in days, his forehead falling to brace in the crook of his arm.
"Hawk…. Hawkeye…" Phil's voice filtered to him from what seemed like a great distance, rather than from the comm. that was in his ear.
"Jus' give me a minute, Guardian," Clint mumbled into his arm. He knew that at this distance, he wasn't in any danger of being discovered, so he figured he could afford to take a minute as the adrenalin drained out of him.
The world tilted beneath him and he braced his free hand in the gravel beneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the rollercoaster would stop with a couple steadying breaths. The roof beneath him gradually settled and he squinted his eyes back open. He needed to get going. As he gathered the will to get his aching muscles to cooperate, he blinked heavily once…twice…
"Clint!"
Clint snapped his head up as Phil's voice was crystal clear and loud. He was about to reprimand his handler for using his real name over the comms. – after all, Phil was the one always harping on about protocol – when he was acutely aware of a presence right next to him. Coming to that conclusion much slower than he normally would, he jerked and rolled away and onto his side, yanking a knife from where it was stored in a sheath at his back.
"Easy, Clint! It's just me!" Phil was taking a step back, holding his hands up to show that they were empty.
Clint heaved a shaky breath and let his arm drop.
"Jesus, Phil," he sighed, a slight tremor in his voice. "You scared the shit out of me." And then he paused, something slowly dawning on him. Carefully, he pushed himself up, wincing as his muscles groaned and leaning heavily on the small ledge behind him. "How'd you get here so fast?" Last he knew, Phil had been camped out in the safehouse across town.
"It wasn't that fast, Clint," Phil said, looking at him strangely as he slowly lowered himself into a crouch. "It took me almost thirty minutes to get here after you stopped responding."
Clint just blinked dumbly at that. Thirty minutes? That didn't make sense. Phil had been talking to him over the comm. a minute ago, and he had responded to him, told him just to give him a minute... Hadn't he?
"Do you remember me saying your name?" Phil asked. "I said it at least five or six times and you didn't answer." Clint could only shake his head, his brain feeling confused and muddled. Then Phil gave him a small, sympathetic smile. "I think you fell asleep, kid."
"Well… shit," was all Clint could come up with as he rubbed at his eyes.
Phil laughed lightly. "Yeah, that's what happens when the adrenaline wears off. C'mon. Let's get you packed up and back to the safehouse so you can get some real sleep, okay?"
"Mmm," Clint hummed, his eyes stinging and his eyelids feeling heavy again, the adrenaline that had jumped him into action leaving him once again.
"Hey, stay awake," Phil said. He moved toward Clint, reaching out and giving his shoulder a firm shake before focusing on the sniper rifle still situated beside him. "Just give me a minute here."
If anyone else on the planet had tried to mess with his sniper rifle, Clint would have gone murderous. Phil was the one person he trusted to be able to disassemble his sniper rifle if the situation called for it. And this situation definitely called for it while Clint struggled to simply keep his eyes open.
A few minutes later, Phil had the case for Clint's rifle securely strapped to his back, and then slung the duffle that contained the power bars and bottles of water that Clint had been living off of over his shoulder. Finally, he turned back to Clint, reaching out a hand.
"C'mon, let's go," he urged when Clint didn't immediately react to the gesture.
Clint's brain felt like it was stumbling through a thick and heavy fog. He wasn't really sure if he reached for Phil, or if his handler got tired of waiting and reached for him. The next thing he knew, he was being hauled to his feet, the muscles in his legs pulling painfully at the movement.
"Jesus, kid," Phil muttered as Clint swayed, his legs dangerously close to giving out from under him.
Phil hooked Clint's arm over his shoulders to help support him, and if Clint hadn't felt the exhaustion down into his bones he probably would have protested. As it stood, he was grateful to not have to support his own weight.
The trek back to the safehouse was a complete blur for Clint. He contemplated several times asking Phil to stop and let him sit down for a minute, but he had to keep reminding himself that if he sat down now there was a good chance he wasn't going to get back up. So, he quietly stumbled along, wondering if the safehouse had gotten farther away than it had been when he had originally made this trip.
Finally, he heard Phil scanning his handprint to gain access to their safehouse.
As they entered, Clint had enough presence of mind to pull away from Phil, shuffling over to the side of the room where their cots were located. After all, he wasn't helpless, just tired. More tired he had been in his entire life, but still, not helpless.
He hit the cot and somehow the usually stiff, lumpy mattress had transformed into the most comfortable bed he had ever lain on. He was pretty sure he drifted off immediately but was pulled back toward consciousness what could only have been a few short minutes later by Phil rolling him to be more squarely on the bed. Then he was pulling at the laces on Clint's boots.
"I know you want to save the whole world, kid," Phil said quietly as he pulled off the boots. Clint honestly wasn't sure if Phil realized that he wasn't quite asleep and could hear him. "But sometimes you gotta take care of yourself."
"No' ina job 'scription, Phil," Clint yawned.
He didn't hear a response, but felt a blanket being pulled over him as he finally sank fully into blissful unconsciousness.
NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:
TUCKED IN
