New Orleans, March 2008.
Clint watched Natasha through the SHIELD-issued binoculars Phil gave him for the mission. She was about a mile away from his perch on top of a building, chatting amicably outside a fancy restaurant with the director of Crossfire Industries. Natasha adjusted the folds of her red dress and flashed the Cajun middle-aged director a dazzling smile, moving closer to him. She was pretending to be a wealthy representative for a Russian gang who were interested in buying illegal weapons from him.
Clint rolled his eyes, thumbing his bow. He was bored. Fury decided to them this simple mission after an unexpectedly harrowing one last month in Mexico City, where he and Natasha spent two days in a prison cell after being caught off guard and hopelessly outgunned. Phil Coulson himself led the resulting rescue mission for SHIELD's two best field agents.
Sighing, Clint wiped some sweat off his brow. Even in March, New Orleans was scorching. Hopefully Natasha would finish up soon, get the information she needed, and they could knock out the director and return to the pleasantly air conditioned helicarrier stationed over the Gulf of Mexico before midnight.
"Gotcha, birdboy," came a snarl from behind him.
Clint whirled around in alarm, drawing his bow and coming face-to-face with forty Crossfire guards, each one of them pointing their gun at him.
He cursed to himself.
"No you didn't," he replied, and fired the sonic arrow. He leaped off the ledge of the building as it exploded, leaving all of the guards writhing on the ground, blood trickling from their mouths, ears, and noses. Clint was a good hundred feet away on the roof of the adjacent building as it detonated, but even he felt his eardrums burst. No doubt that Natasha heard the blast too, he thought, but at least she was a safe distance away.
Clint's head was splitting with pain as he rolled onto his back, letting out a string of colorful curses. He yanked out the blood-soaked comm link from his ear, moaned slightly, and passed out.
His ears were ringing.
Except it was more like a ring that throbbed against the inside of his skull.
"Clint? Clint! Barton!"
The voice sounded miles away. It was slightly comforting nonetheless.
Clint moaned and opened his eyes.
Natasha was standing over him. He was in the medical bay of the helicarrier, and she was wearing a red dress instead of her customary uniform. Oh yeah – he remembered.
New Orleans. The mission.
"Nat?" he groaned.
His voice was a dull muffle. What was happening? Natasha's lips were moving, but he could barely hear a thing coming out her mouth.
Shit.
He looked up at her worried expression. Usually when she looked this worried, he was concerned for her.
"Nat… I can't hear you."
She began talking again. Clint wasn't the best at reading lips, and his mind was slightly discombobulated at the moment, but he made out the words "Coulson," "mission," and "fucked yourself over."
"I can't hear, Nat," he repeated.
Her eyes widened. She sat down on the edge of his bed.
Clint groaned and clutched his head in his hands. It was still throbbing, and his ears were covered in a layer of sterile gauze.
"Did you get the target?" he asked, looking up.
Natasha nodded. After a minute, she grabbed the nurse's log from the table next to him and scribbled something on it.
Thought I had lost you, he read.
Despite everything, Clint smiled.
"Nah, just my goddamn hearing," he muttered. His voice still sounded a million miles away. "Can't get rid of me that easy, Nat."
Natasha looked relieved.
Now you sound like you, she wrote, smiling at her partner.
They sat in silence for a while as Clint gingerly touched his ears.
"Is it going to get better?" he asked her, afraid of what he'll hear next.
Natasha looked apologetic. She picked up the tablet and began writing again.
Doctors say it's probably permanent. You lost 80% of your hearing in both ears – I didn't want to believe them. Coulson and Fury have all the people in R&D working on hearing aids for you now.
Clint groaned and closed his eyes. He felt Natasha take his hand after a minute and say his name, although it barely sounded like a whisper.
Natasha nudged the nurse's tablet at him. He opened his eyes.
On the upside, I know sign language.
He looked at her.
"You do?"
She nodded and smiled, scribbling more onto the clipboard, which was supposed to be a record of his baseline vitals each hour.
Only in Russian though, so tough luck, circus boy.
A.N.:Looooove how Clint is deaf in the comic books. Haaaaate how he's with Mockingbird.