Trigger Warning: Blood

Day Four
Dead on Your Feet
Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can't Pass Out

Something was definitely wrong.

Clint Barton was never groggy. That had been beaten out of him at a very young age. Clint almost woke up quickly, eyes snapping open and head coming up to look around for danger. It was a trait that had saved his life on many occasions over the years.

So, when consciousness came to him sluggishly, slipping in and out of his grasp, it set off all the alarm bells he possessed.

He did his best to take stock of himself as he fought his way back to reality. His entire body ached and his muscles weren't quite responding as they should. That last fact alone sent a shock of real fear through him.

He pried his eyes open, but keeping them open was proving to be a task. Everything was blurry and tilted this way and that. His stomach roiled uncomfortably and he had to forcibly swallow back bile as he struggled to take in his surroundings. It was difficult to really take in anything specific about what he was seeing, but it definitely didn't seem like anything that was familiar. And if he knew anything from all his experiences waking up in captivity, unfamiliar meant dangerous. And he knew how to handle these kinds of situations.

Step One: Free himself.

Step Two: Arm himself.

Step Three: Escape.

His restraints were laughably ineffective. Someone had certainly wildly underestimated him. He pulled something off his face – possibly a contraption that was drugging him into this groggy state – and the other restraints across his body were barely more than flimsy wires. But as soon as he rid himself of these restraints, suddenly high pitched, urgent beeping filled the room. An alarm. Damnit.

Actually moving proved easier said than done. As soon as he tried to push himself up, a sharp, agonizing pain shot through his side, drawing out a pained yelp. He didn't have time to dwell on it though and he gritted his teeth against the dizzying pain and pushed through it. Guards would very likely be here any second and in his weakened state he was going to need some kind of weapon in order to have any chance of fighting them off.

He pushed himself off the table he had been laying on, sending himself clambering to the cold, hard floor, the pain in his side biting even harder. The world still tipped and spun around him as he desperately searched for anything that could be a weapon, panic beginning to bubble under the surface as he heard a commotion getting closer to him. He was running out of time.

He desperately scrabbled around until his fingers found something cold and sharp. He grabbed it just in time to swing it at a figure who was lunging at him. He didn't hit the figure, but it was enough to get it to back off as he backed himself up against a solid wall. His heart was pounding and his hand was shaking as he blinked hard, desperately trying to clear his vision in order to see what was going on.

Everything was strangely still for what seemed like an eternity. Clint could only sit there, painfully heaving air into his lungs as he waited for the next attack.

But it didn't come.

Instead, a blurry figure slowly entered the edge of his vision. It moved slowly – perhaps sizing him up? Clint didn't dare drop the weapon in his hand, even as his hand began to shake even more violently.

"Clint? Clint, it's okay."

Clint gasped in a panicked breath. How did they know his real name?

And then there was a new voice from a little further away. "Careful, Cap, I'm not cleaning it up if he stabs you."

"Clint, I need you to focus." The first voice was back as the blurry figure inched closer. "You're not in any danger. You're on the med floor of Avengers Tower."

Clint stared blankly as his brain struggled to grasp the meaning of those words. Was this some kind of trick?

"C'mon, Clint. It's me, Steve. You're safe here. No one is going to hurt you."

Finally, Clint dropped his hand just a fraction. As the figure got closer, his vision finally began to clear. The face was familiar. Still, it took him several long moments to finally put a name to the face, even though that name had already been handed to him.

"Steve?" Clint breathed.

"That's right," Steve said looking relieved from where he was crouched a few feet in front of him, one hand out placatingly. "You got hurt out on a mission. Shot in the side. We brought you back here for medical care. Do you remember?"

Clint strained to remember, finally getting bits and pieces of what had happened.

"Where's Natasha?" Clint demanded, still suspicious despite what was right in front of him. Because Natasha was always there when he woke up in medical.

"She's in the next room over," Steve assured him calmly. "She was injured too and needed surgery. She's expected to make a full recovery though, just like you are."

"So, whaddaya say, Tweety?" the other voice came again. Clint shifted his gaze – his vision blurring momentarily before slowly clearing again – to see Tony standing in the doorway. "How about we don't stab anybody and climb back up into bed? It's already going to take a lot of convincing to get any of the nurses to come near you again after you almost clipped that first one that was in here."

Clint carefully looked around the room, carefully cataloging everything around him. Hospital room. Then he looked down at his own hand, finally seeing the piece of glass that was clutched in it, as well as the blood that was dripping from his hand to the floor. His gaze followed the path of the blood to see more glass on the floor. It looked like a drinking glass had been knocked over at some point during his panic.

"Here, can I have that?"

Clint looked up to find that Steve was now right in front of him. Clint mechanically reached forward and dropped the bloody piece of glass into Steve's outstretched hand. Then Clint turned his own hand over, staring at the fresh cut along his palm.

"It's okay, we'll get someone to stitch that up," Steve assured him calmly.

"I'm sorry," Clint mumbled, hoping the small sentiment would encompass the huge clusterfuck he had created.

"It's okay, Clint," Steve told him gently. "It happens. We shoulda had someone in here with you when you woke up." He paused. "Can I help you back up into bed?"

Clint swallowed and then slowly nodded. Steve crept closer and then ducked under one of Clint's arms, carefully levering him up as he gasped in pain. Clint squeezed his eyes shut as Steve maneuvered him back to the bed.

"Here, I got a bucket if you needa ralph."

Clint squinted over at Tony who had appeared on the other side of the bed holding a trash can. Clint must look like shit. And honestly… he wasn't so sure he wouldn't need that bucket as his stomach roiled once again.

"Thanks," Clint muttered as Steve helped settle him back into bed.

"Okay, let me see if I can convince one of these people to come patch you up," Tony said as he set the trash can down next to the bed and turned back toward the door.

"Sorry," Clint felt the need to say again, guilt weighing heavily down on him.

Tony turned back and gave him a surprisingly reassuring smile with no trace of his patented sarcasm. "Don't worry about it, Clint. That's why these people get paid the big bucks… because every damn one of us is a handful." He reached out and gave Clint's calf a reassuring pat before he turned and headed out of the room.

As Steve settled into a chair next to the bed, Clint finally felt his heartbeat starting to slow as he began to catch his breath. For so many years Clint had been on his own and had to watch his own back. Sometimes he would have Phil or Natasha to back him up, but they were always only able to do so much.

Now he was part of a larger team. A larger team which had his back. That was going to take some getting used to. But as he relaxed, allowing himself to fall back to unconsciousness under Steve's watchful eye, he suddenly felt a wave of gratitude.

Maybe he could get used to this.