Sometime later, Clint wakes him up.
He has a tray with chicken soup and a piece of pie that smells like goodbye.
Clint sits beside Jamie quietly while he eats. Clint is covered in bandages. His face is bruised and his lip is bloody.
"You are injured." Jamie observes, mouth full of cinnamon, apples, and regret.
Clint runs a weary hand through his hair. "Yeah, kiddo. I am."
The Asset's eyes narrow, assessing damage. "Specify."
Clint stands up and points "Well. I got a broken wrist, three cracked ribs, a torn ligament near my rotator cuff- and according to my beautiful partner a "major concussion." I told her to shut her pretty face. That's how I got this bruise."
He rolls up his sleeve. There is a large black bruise on his right deltoid.
"She is going to have her boyfriend irradiate my brain later. If he can be bothered to show up."
Sergeant Barnes runs a practiced eye over his CO's injuries. Shame fills his nostrils with gun powder, and the smell of damp wool.
"I'm sorry, sir. The incident was entirely my fault. I am prepared to accept any discipline you think is appropriate for my insubordination."
He tries his charming smile, but his face can't seem to manage it.
Clint sits back down with a heavy sigh. "Don't worry about it, soldier. I take full responsibility. I was outta line. I never should have grabbed you. I remember when I brought Nat home with me, she woke up yelling because her hand fell asleep during the night, and she had stabbed what she thought was a stranger's hand. Blood everywhere. Luckily, Laura had taken the kids to her mother's place."
Clint's nostalgic smile fades. He sets aside the dinner tray and leans closer to Jamie.
"Look, kid. I need to know where your head's at. I think Nat is taking all this a little personal, and she isn't giving enough attention to the big picture here."
Jamie nods. He agrees. Nat seems very invested in her plan.
"Okay, let's start with the basics kid. What year do you think this is?"
Jamie thinks for a moment. "1934?" He asks, cautiously.
Clint shakes his head.
Sergeant Barnes squares his shoulder. "1943." He says, voice resolute.
Clint closes his eyes, shaking his head again.
The Asset glares at him. "1946." It growls.
Clint puts his head in his hands, letting out a muffled "no".
Дьявол studies the weak spot in the man's defenses. His spine is exposed. It could finish this easily.
"год вашей смерти"
Clint lifts his head. "Wait. What?"
The Winter Soldier stares through him. "According to the western calendar, the year is 2019." It says, voice flat.
"Th-that's right. Good." Clint has a small pad of paper out, jotting down notes.
The Winter Soldier closes its eyes and waits for orders.
