Just for reference - my writer brain has just run away with these and I no longer know what words are being typed out.
Just words.
All the words.
Well 1,700 or so words, so not all the words, but most words. I'll stop now.
Hypothermia
In his many days on missions Clint had been in some horrible places. Stuck in the desert with no pick up after missing his extraction, sitting in a cabin in the woods ten miles from the next closest human being for three months, even sitting in a rat infested piss stain derelict building in the back ass of no where to keep an eye on an organisation that he isn't allowed disclose the name of to anyone else in the world.
Alaska in the middle of winter was now the top of his list.
It was beautiful, don't miss-understand. During the day it was fantastic, and the place they were staying in was relatively nice for a SHIELD sanctioned mission. When the night hit they were able to light a fire and relax and just forget about the outside world.
Tonight was not one of those nights.
Clint had to do recon. Natasha had done it this day last week, the day that the underground fight club meets, the night that their mark should eventually show his face in the place.
Tonight he learned that after nine weeks of going they were finally made. Or maybe they just really pissed off the wrong person and they wanted rid of him for a while.
The blow to the back of his head happened once the meet was over, 4:17 am if he recalled correctly. He had one foot out the door and the next thing he knew he was seeing stars and was on the ground cocooned by the snow that had been falling for days now.
Rather than being attacked again or taken out completely someone sat on Clint's back, knocking the air out of him. Shivers began racking his body violently, but he still tried to push the man off of him when his hands were grabbed.
"Come on guys!" He protested, though it sounded pathetic with his teeth chattering. All the layers in the world couldn't help him with being face down in the snow. "We can work this o-omf."
A kick to the side of his head shut him up, his neck snapping to the side. He groaned and tried blink the white spots away. Zip ties secured his hands behind his back, and his head was yanked up to stuff something in his mouth. This was bad.
A half a second later then he was dragged, roughly, he was sure there would be a hell of a bruise on his ankle tomorrow.
If there is a tomorrow now...
He tried his best. He kicked out with his free foot, tried turn on his side to escape his hold, screamed beneath his gag, tried make their life hell.
The snow made it impossible. The shaking had become worse, and he could feel it all draining his energy. The large jacket he was wearing was already soaked through so it hindered his attempts at being warm rather than helping them.
He never welcomed being thrown in a van so much in his life. He kicked out at the men one last time before they shut the door, leaving Clint on his back in a position that did some serious pain to his arms.
Ok...
He began shaking his leg to keep the feeling there, clasping and unclasping his hands, doing anything to keep circulation going as they drove along.
It's ok... Keep the blood moving, keep going, keep... I don't know.
He groaned, his eyes closing tightly to try calm his mind. What was happening? He didn't know, he couldn't think, plans weren't coming. All that was there was this damn cold.
Before he knew it the van slammed to a stop, throwing him backwards and sending a sharp pain through his shoulder. That was gonna suck...
When the doors opened again he didn't even have a chance to fight before he was dragged out, against by the ankle. He hit his head hard on the step up to the van and it had him unable to move lying in the snow.
"Take his clothes." He heard one man say, low, threatening. The others did as they were told, taking Clint's clothes right down to his boxers. The snow on his bare skin was burning, and as he lay there gagged and tied he could hear snickers all around him.
He was going to kill each and every one of them.
"We don't like your organisation anywhere near us." Man who made the orders said loudly, Clint couldn't tell where he was, he was too busy looking up at the sky, the snow falling and distracting him from everything.
The guy kept talking, Clint couldn't tell you what he was saying. He felt more blows on his body, they were beating him to get a reaction, but he was numb to it all. He was just numb.
At least the shaking stopped...
Something in the back of his mind screamed that shaking was good, he needed shaking, but why would he want shaking? That would mean he's cold.
He's not cold anymore.
"Clint?" How did they know his name? How did they sound female? "Clint, come on, focus."
He blinked and realised that in front of him wasn't snow anymore. He was still on the ground, he was still tied, but the gag was gone. In front of him was a pair of concerned green eyes scanning his, waiting for something from him.
What was she waiting on?
"Wha..?" He tried lamely, squinting in confusion. "Nat?"
"I have to get you warm, Clint. You need to help me get you to the car, ok?" She sounded worried, why was she worried? He was fine.
He was tired.
So tired.
But he wasn't cold. Why would she need to warm him up?
He fell asleep instead, because the snow was comfortable now.
Natasha put another log into the fireplace, the fire inside it springing a little more to life before setting down to a steady blaze. She watched the flames for a moment, a frown on her face. It's been on since the idiot she was stuck on mission with missed his check in.
Thank god for trackers, that's all she'll say.
Thank god for being allowed nearly kill / actually kill people. Because those little mobster wannabees deserved it for what they did.
They had to wait for extraction, that's what Fury told her. Even when she tried tell him Barton needed med evac there was no hope. If he has a pulse and he isn't nearly dead then Fury won't waste resources.
She wondered for a while if he was nearly dead.
He was so blue, and fell so still when she got to him. She didn't know how long they had him like that; undressed in the snow and literally burying him in it. Long enough to have him confused, have him in shock, have him still passed out nearly five hours later.
She turned from the fire place and looked to the sofa opposite it, Clint still lying still on his back under all the blankets she could find in this safe house. She had to drive him fifteen minutes in the car with nothing but the jackets she stole from the assholes and the heating on the vehicle. It didn't seem enough.
She took the couple of steps to the chair she had set up next to him and sat down on it, placing her fingers gently to his neck to get a pulse.
Slowly getting stronger, and he had been shaking for a few hours now so he had gotten through the shock. She had to dress some wounds on his wrists from the zip ties, and he'd be in some crazy amount of pain when he woke, but he was breathing and that's all that matters.
"You thinkin' 'oo much," She jumped slightly at the slurred words, too lost in her own thoughts. Definitely thinking too much.
She looked up from the spot she found interest in on the blanket to see a pair of glassed eyes smiling up at her. She smiled back - reassuring if nothing else for him, pure relief filled if nothing else for her - before moving her hand from his neck to cup his cheek. She took his aids out when she put him on the sofa, he wouldn't be able to hear her, she had to keep him focused on her lips.
"How are you feeling?" She asked slowly, every word pronounced clearly. He knew the reason and followed her lips.
"Cold." He whispered back, his smiled falling to a frown. He pulled a hand out from under the blankets to rub at his eyes. He always looked like a child when he did that.
"You're out of action for a few days, ok?" She said as she tucked his arm back under the blankets, pulling them right up to his shoulders. "Hypothermia is nothing to joke about."
"Worry wart." He laughed, his eyes opening a little more. There was a little spark there, so much better than the dull version she had found lying on the ground in that park hours previous. He winced suddenly, laughing must have jostled something. She'd give him some pain killers when he got some soup into him.
"If I don't worry about your ass, no one will." She retorted. She stood and ruffled his hair. Before she could move though his hand shot out and grasped hers.
She frowned down at him, his eyes pleading for something that his mind was trying to articulate. It hadn't rebooted yet, and his hold was no where nearly as firm as it usually was. He still had a long way to recovery.
And she knew what that meant.
A small smile crept onto her face and she nodded, so he lifted the blankets and moved back flush against the back of the sofa, giving her enough room to lay down and slot right against him.
The blankets draped over the pair of them and his arm snaked around her waist, keeping her close.
Clint was clingy normally, even more so when sick.
Hypothermia Clint was going to be a pain.
