There's a beeping sound. Repetitive. Almost irritating. He wants to tell someone to make it stop, but he can't. He can't do much. It's like being restrained - something he has quite a bit of experience with. Can't move, can't speak … He hears Russian.
As comforting as it is foreign to his ear. He's not alone.
He drifts.
Finally, light breaks through the dark and he sees. She's nodded off. He watches the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest for a few minutes before his eyes drag closed again. Natalia … he can't make his mouth match his mind and he drifts again.
There's a sharp pinch that nearly pulls him to. No, he tries to protest, but the tube is in his throat. He doesn't remember that. He can't swallow. The pinching doesn't stop, but he feels a pressure on his left hand.
"He doesn't like needles."
He can hear her clipped tone, and wants to laugh, feeling a moment of pity whatever nurse has been assigned to him. He tries to squeeze back, to let her know he's here. The muscles just won't work. Natalia.
He hears Russian again. He never knows what she says, but he would know it anywhere. He remembers the first time he heard her use it. Vladivostok.
The pinching stops and he drifts again.
He dreams. Each city is a flash of red hair and honeysuckle.
Minsk, Belarus, Cairo, Pusan.
Budapest.
Sometimes he's chasing, sometimes being chased. Side by side. A soft brush of lips.
Stalingrad.
He hears Russian again. He can't tell if it's the dream or the world he can't seem to touch. There is a pressure next to him, someone there. They shift and fingers touch his hair.
The beep beep of the monitor is constant. The machine pushes and pulls and he can feel his chest move.
Rhythmic like the up and down of the carousel.
How do you remember that?
Each mission is etched into him and woven into his memories. He recalls each moment with sometimes painful clarity. The wharf in San Francisco under stars pulls him into another dream.
There's singing.
It's nothing he can recognize, and he tries to pull a breath. He chokes. He coughs and struggles and tries to clear whatever is blocking his throat.
"Get that tube out." A woman is speaking, cold, clipped. There is movement and the mattress under him shifts as someone climbs off the bed. There is a beep beep beep-ing. It's irritating but not as much as whatever he's choking on.
A burning sensation and the blockage is gone. He pulls a breath that scrapes the rawness in his throat.
"Clint. Clint, can you hear me?" Someone is talking to him. The woman. She smells like … a flower. Honeysuckle.
The lights are too bright and he blinks against them. A head of red hair comes into focus. An almost smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Stop scaring me like that," she says to him. There's pressure on his left hand. He drags his head to one side to see her hand on his.
He blinks.
The words rasp out of unused vocal cords.
"Where … I …" He struggles. The thoughts are muzzy and uncertain. His eyes find hers. "Who … who are you?"