It will be fun, they said….
"Grab the damn throttle!" I scream at Hawkeye, before slamming into the starboard bulkhead and feeling something pop in my shoulder. Today just had to suck.
The quinjet was currently doing some dizzying somersaults as it plummeted towards a large grouping of trees, which I could see every time I tumbled towards the windows.
I mean, it's not my fault that the creepy Peruvian businessman decided to get handsy with me and my subconscious brain just reacted; not like a fork to the hand is really going to cause much damage anyhow. Geez, people are so uptight about retribution for their own actions. I mean, I let him keep his hand, doesn't that count for something?
Apparently not, as said shithead-creepy-hands seemingly owned lovely RPGs and decided I was worth shooting out of the sky. I mean, really? Perhaps it could have also been because of the tiny…very tiny explosion that destroyed his oh so undercover business property (really just a couple of acres of plants). People these days.
"You think too highly of yourself Princess, it was definitely the giant bonfire we reduced his farm to," Hawkeye chimes in. I guess I was talking out loud.
"I blame you Bird Brain. 'It's gonna be a milk run!'" I imitated his deeper voice while giving Hawkeye my best stink eye. "What kind of moron says that as we're leaving for a mission?" I huff. We were sent to evaluate the threat level of the newest business representative attached to a local Peruvian copper mine whom was also rumored to be moonlighting as a coca leaf "farmer". Reports had been coming in for months of locals dying from tainted cocaine and the local government wasn't strong enough to get anywhere near their main suspect to prove culpability.
Shield had taken note of the situation, but it wasn't until the drug ended up in New York last month and a Senator's daughter was hospitalized with possible brain damage, that this little "Milk Run" was green lit. Enter Hawkeye and me. We were only suppose to do reconnaissance; talk to some villagers, scout a couple location, blah, blah, blah. Instead Barton gets the brilliant idea to dress me up (he really does have impeccable taste as I looked stunning in a silky blue mid-thigh strappy dress, my dark brown curls cascading down my back) and set me loose inside the fundraiser the copper company was throwing to raise money for some orphan's fund. Their newest businessman was set to appear, and when he did, he definitely noticed me.
It was like I was emitting pheromones to attract the biggest sleaze balls out there as 3 older men (I mean 60–year-olds, ewww) had tried to coerce me to see their "yacht…mansion…private island" with talks of more riches then I could imagine, and I would be their "princess"? It took a lot not laugh in their faces at their impertinence. I reveled in their looks of disbelief when I sauntered away from their promises of "a life of luxury", leaving them confounded, the subtle smell of my perfume the only thing they'd take from me. They must have believed all women drape themselves over any man oozing money. Morons.
Needless to say, Mr. Prime Suspect attached himself to my side for most of the evening, attempting to dazzle me with stories of his great adventures and newest acquisitions – buying a swanky hotel on an island in the Caribbean, sailing some lake, owning a priceless piece of art, etc. His unnaturally white teeth gleamed in the low lightening of the Gala, grating on my nerves every time he opened his mouth. His hot, whiskey saturated breath assaulted my nose periodically. The man oozed arrogance and radiated authority. Waiters snapped to attention when he looked in their direction, coming to offer their services without delay. People subconsciously moved from his personal space whenever we walked pass. It was like he thought he was untouchable. I just wanted to punch him in his perfect teeth, and it didn't help that I had to listen to Hawkeye's chuckles in my ear as I pretended to be enamored with the businessman's bullshit.
I'd refrained from personally harming the egotistical chauvinist (for sake of the mission) when he had the audacity to slide his hand from my butt (which I'd willingly allowed for this stupid assignment), up and under the front of my dress. Things quickly went sideways from there. In a second the businessman was screaming, a fork protruding from his wandering appendage, and there were a few arrows sticking out of his bodyguard's eyes. The music gave way to ladies screams and hurried feet. Opps.
Somehow I ended up punching a few burly men, stealing a couple guns, and riding in the passenger seat of a stolen Austin Martin with Hawkeye whistling at the wheel. Barton didn't disagree with me when I asked for a slight detour on the way to our quinjet. This mission was essentially FUBARed, but I wasn't going to go home empty handed. After a quick stop at our safe house, so I could change into my combat outfit and gather my supplies, we headed into the forest. A few precisely placed explosives, a couple of dead bad guys, and a small explosion later brings us back to our current predicament.
Hawkeye continues to grip the throttle with both hands, pulling it back and upwards; his neck muscles bulging with the strain. I'm pretty sure I hear a slight chuckle emanate from him, but then it could have just have easily been a stressed groan.
"You better find something to hold on to Sweetheart, I don't think I'm going to be making a pretty landing," He tosses before the first tree swipes past the windshield and our sideways descent is suddenly halted and jerked to the right. I'm launched clear across the cabin with just enough time to think, 'thanks for the warning assho-"
It's a sluggish climb towards consciousness with a deafening silence cocooning me in a bubble of empty calm. Sometime later, maybe seconds or minutes, I register my heart beating a staccato inside my chest. "What-" a wet cough erupts from my chest, reverberating through my numbed skull, and propelling my torso upright in an attempt to hack up spittle, or maybe a lung. A rib shifts in my lower chest, a sharp jab on the left side. Ugh.
Something whacks my mouth, wiping away the slobber. It takes me a second, but I realize it's my hand. I hold it in front of me and allow my bleary eyes to adjust to the dimness of the blinking emergency lights. I see a red smear across the knuckles. So not good.
I lower my hand back to the ground and survey my surroundings, what's left of them anyhow. The quinjet has definitely seen better days, but hey, most of it looks intact. At least the back part, as I'm semi sitting up on what was the left side and facing the loading door. A bunch of wires are hanging down from the ceiling, a few sparking, and random gearboxes are strewn about.
I shift my head to the right to look behind me and my jaw drops; so much green. Like a foot in front of my face, it's all green. A tree is impaled in the windshield on the co-pilot sides, its branches stretched across the whole front of the ship. Oh Shit, Hawkeye!
Before my brain catches up to my body, I bring my legs under me and push off the ground. I'm almost fully standing when my breath hitches and I'm pretty sure a small fire is burning a hole in my stomach region while a black fog begins to spread across my vision. "Oh my F-ing God!" I scream, stumbling into the wall/ceiling, using its solidness to keep me upright.
With my eyes closed, I try to take calming breathes, and dispel the nausea hitting me like a pissed off linebacker. Yep, nope… I have just enough time to place my hands on my knees before I'm leaned over, doing a fantastic rendition of the Exorcist. The convulsions stop shortly afterwards when all I have left are dry heaves.
"Ok, slow and easy," I encourage myself, gently straightening out. I try not to look at the mess I've made, but red definitely catches my eye as I step over the puddle and hobble towards the front. A dagger is repeatedly stabbing me in my spleen, but I'm pretty sure I can keep most of my insides, well, inside as I stumble forward. Please be ok Hawkeye.
The stupid tree's branches jet out every which way, their jagged ends swipe at me as I snap a couple of the bigger limbs tossing them to the ground. The windshield is only 5 feet in front of me now, but the pilot's chair is completely covered by the tree – the massive, heavy, deadly tree.
"Hawkeye!" I yell. "Hawkeye can you hear me? Are you there?" I'm frantically breaking tree limbs in an attempt to get closer to the chair. He has to be there. The branches loud 'snaps' fuel me forward. The pain in my side is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I cannot lose anyone else! I lift a particularly large branch above my head and push it to the right, the edges of the leaves scrap my face adding to the stream of red trickling from my forehead. The edge of the pilot's chair, just a foot in front of me, gleams through the green like a beacon of hope. I push through the thick foliage and latch onto the seatback, pulling myself forward to stand directly behind the chair. It takes me a second, but I realize that the tree not only impaled the window, but the pilot's chair as well. Green seeps through white, Mother Nature exacting revenge on the object that crashed into her.
"Hawkeye?" I whisper. I can really only see the back of the seat merged with the tree and the front completely covered by the branches. There's no way a person could have survived if they were in the chair at the time of impact. Natasha's going to kill me!
"Shit! God damn stupid milk run. Had to have been a milk run? Couldn't have been an extraction, or something simple… like an assassination. Milk run my ass." I mumble while hitting the chair with a downward fist.
"Tryin…to….sleep," I hear in a soft whisper.
"Clint?" only creaks of the plane's subtle shifting is heard for a few beats before, "You called…me…Clint…" The weak, shaky voice comes from under the tree, towards the floor between the pilot seat and the wall.
I waste no time dropping to the ground and ripping through the tree limbs like I'm Edward Scissorhands; throwing the broken pieces every which way in an attempt to reveal the downed archer. My insides threaten to work themselves up my esophagus, but I breathe through my mouth hoping to calm my queasiness. I really do not want to be sliding through my 'uck', but if it helps me find Hawkeye, then I guess I'm ok with it.
I grab a partially thick branch and attempt to snap it in half when I hear a pained grasp. My eyes travel to my hands and I realize there's a pale wrist in their grip. Oh shit. I slide my index finger over the inner wrist and relax into the steady thumping beneath the skin. "Hawkeye, can you hear me?" I strain my ears, but I don't hear a response. All I have is a wrist, but since there's a heartbeat, I'm fairly certain a living portion of Hawkeye is still buried under the massive tree.
"I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm sorry," I say to the air, hoping Hawkeye can hear me, before I scoot backwards on my stomach and yank the wrist in my grip towards me. "Ahhhhhhh!" I instantly still, knowing I did something that hurt Barton. "Barton?" Silence. "Barton, if you don't tell me what's wrong, I'm going to try again with the pulling." I didn't notice before, but an angry wind is whipping past the broken glass. It carries a single word, "Leg."
I look down at the wrist in my hands and realize I've pulled the arm out enough to see Barton's upper left arm, but the rest of his body is still concealed by the tree. "Ok, your leg is busted somehow. But there's a giant tree on top of you, so can I try pulling again or will your leg like, fall off?" I query. The wind howls and the tree sways. "Fi-ine."
I blow out the breath I've been holding and maneuver my body so I'm in a crouch with my hands still wrapped around Hawkeye's arm. "OK, on 3." I take as big a breath as I can, "1, 2, 3," and I pull backward, using my thighs as leverage. "Argggggg!" is yelled in unison as Barton's head pops through the branches after a bit of friction, his chest following suit before I fall onto my butt with the release of the pressure. My chest might actually be caved in at this point, but by the way Barton is making short gasping sounds, I don't have time to worry about my ribs.
I take another stunted deep breath and continue to scoot backwards on my butt, digging my heels into the ground for purchase and pulling Barton's arm towards me like a paddle in a rowboat. With every push, more of Hawkeye's body clears the tree until finally, he's free. I collapse on to the floor, just focusing on breathing. In and out. In and out. Oh no! I have a split second to turn onto my right side before I'm puking up blood and spittle.
"That's," wheezy intake of air, "dis-gus-ting." A weak voice breaks through my dry heaving. I manage to lift my head and look in the direction of the man-child I just dragged out of a leafy grave. His upper body is half sprawled across the lower half of my legs and his head is on the floor. I'm pretty sure some of my puke splashed in his hair. Disgusting…valid point.
No point in apologizing, so I scoot out from under Hawkeye, laying his body flat on the ground. I crawl over to him and get my first look at the damage. His eyes are closed and he seems to be taking swallow breaths. There's a bunch of blood in his hair and down the right side of his face, but it looks like it's a swallow cut on his forehead, so I'm not too worried. My eyes travel down to his chest, not noticing anything sticking out where it shouldn't be. There are small rivulets of blood streaked across his arms, but it's hard to tell if he's bleeding badly or not as his blood mixes in well with his dark purple and black outfit. Most of the rivulets look like tree branch gashes, so they're not immediate threats to his health.
I put my hands on his chest and softly press down and across. Hawkeye only hisses when I hit a tender spot on his right abdomen. I pull his shirt out of his cargo pants and lift it up to reveal a dark bruise. "Broken rib. Don't think it hit your lung." I lower the shirt back down. I look at his face, his eyes remain closed.
Turning back to his lower extremities, I almost feel my bile return. His lower right leg is at an unnatural angle, the tibia glistening in the open air under shiny red blood. No wonder he screamed. "Ah, your leg is a little broken, but um, don't worry, I'm going to fix it." I ramble, casting Barton a look of pity. His eyes are closed, scrunched in pain. Crap, why didn't I listen during emergency field training talk? Compound fracture. Think.
I push myself up and stagger over to the supply boxes towards the back of the plane. I need something to stabilize the limb. I start pulling things out of the nearest box – chucking the random cups and plates behind me. "Stupid MRE box. Not helpful." Not even whiskey in the kit. I move on to the next box, lifting the lid and digging inside. "Yes!" I latch onto the pile of blankets and a large white box with a red cross. I'm up and shakily walking back to Barton with my finds. I fall to my knees beside him, barely registering the short flair of pain as they make contact with the metal floor.
I shake out a scratchy army blanket and lay it on top of Barton's chest. He doesn't even twitch. I turn to the med kit and snap the latches, lifting the lid. "Fuck!" Some asshole forgot to stock it. A few sad looking Band-Aids, one alcohol wipe package, and a bottle of Benadryl stare back at me. I close my eyes, just trying to center myself. 3 breaths later, I open my eyes and look around. I still have another army blanket, the alcohol wipe, and lots of tree branches.
I take one corner of the blanket in my hands and start to rip it into strips. Once I have 4 strips, I wad up one of them and turning to Hawkeye's head, I open his mouth and stuff it inside. "I'm so sorry." I whisper to the unmoving man. I grab the alcohol wipe and tear the packet open. Here goes nothing. I pull out the alcohol wipe and start to clean the skin around the area where the bone is sticking out. Hawkeye groans, but doesn't move. I remove all the tree thistles I see while I clean.
Once the wipe is saturated in blood, it's essentially useless, so I throw it to the side and then stare at the leg. The bone is cracked halfway through the part sticking out of Barton's leg, allowing it to bend at a 40-degree angle. This is going to suck for both of us. Swallowing deeply, I maneuverer my hands over the middle of the break and swiftly push it down and over, so the bone slides back inside the leg.
"AHHHHHH," Hawkeye jolts upwards, his eyes wild and unfocused, before falling back to the floor, his breathing heavy. The cloth in his mouth muffling his protests. One of my hands is holding the bone inside his leg, while the other jumps to his chest, gently keeping him from trying to get up again. "It's going to be alright. You're alright." I reassure him, although it looks like he isn't really with me. His eyes roam the ship, lazily shutting and then slowly opening back up to focus on nothing.
"I'm gonna finish up. Just hold on." I pull my hand from his chest, grab one of the blanket strips, and wrap it around his leg, covering the open part. Taking both ends, I pull one under the other and pull tight. Hawkeye's body jumps once before going slack. I quickly finish tying a knot then grab the other 2 strips and 2 semi straight tree branches, which I place on either side of the wound, before wrapping the strips securely around the leg and tie them off as well. Hawkeye doesn't stir as I removed the cloth from his mouth.
Once his leg is settled, I lay down on the floor and just revel in the fact that we're both alive. "We survived a plane crash. Damn!" I shoot my fist into the air before realizing how stupid a move it is. Down stomach, down. I focus on my breathing, really thinking I should start up yoga again. My eyes are just starting to drift close when they snap open. Oh shit, the bad guys are probably coming.
Against my better judgment, I roll over and up. I walk over to the hanger door and hit the button that opens it. It creaks and groans as it opens outwards. Unfortunately, the plane is still on its left side and the ramp of the door jets out into openness to my left. I cautiously step to the edge of the ramp and look down. The plane is at least on the ground, but from where I'm standing, to the floor of the forest is about an 8-foot drop. Seriously?
I hobble back to Barton and stare down at him. He's got a good 70 pounds on me, probably more with his muscular deadweight. Damn him and his big arms. I walk to his head, grab under his shoulders, and pull backwards. My side feels like it's splitting in 2 and my right shoulder is protesting something fierce, but when faced with pain vs death – pain will win every time. By the time I manage to pull Barton to the open hatch, I can feel the sweat dripping down my back and my side has become a steady grade three wildfire.
Leaving Hawkeye at the opening (hopefully he doesn't wake up and roll himself out of the door), I start digging through all the crap thrown about. The sparking wires look a little threatening in the blinking red light, which is frankly starting to give me a headache, but I'm on a mission and I can't be deterred. I push some floor debris away with my foot and am rewarded with the prize I seek. Slowly bending down, my hand dusts off the dirt and grabs the scratched wood, pulling it up and out of the wreckage. I hold up the beautiful dark purple recurve bow, pushing it outward snapping it into place. Now, if I could just find the arrows.
A little more kicking junk to the corners reveals Hawkeye's quiver. I grasp our only hope and start pulling out arrows until I find the one I need. It's an oldie, but a goodie. Gimping back over to the door, I steady the bow, load my arrow and aim it at the side of the loading door closest to me. I may not be the 'World's Greatest Marksman", but I can hit something 5 feet in front of me. The grappling arrow punctures the door's metal, pushing its talons through to the other side and halts. A rope extends from the end and is sliding through the bow to blow away in the wind before my sluggish brain commands my hand to grab the tail end. Whoa, almost messed that up.
I loosely tie the rope's free end to my belt loop and toss the bow over the door's edge. It lands with a small bounce on the forest floor, no worse for wear. Crouching down beside Hawkeye I nudge him, "Hey, you awake?" Barton just lies there.
"I guess I'm doing this the hard way. And for the record, if this hurts, I still blame you," I tell the unconscious man before reaching under his back, pulling him into a seated position in front of me. I maneuver his hands so they are in front of him then untie the end of the grappling rope from my belt and retie it around Barton's wrists.
I sit on the floor with my back to Barton, my feet facing the edge of the open loading dock, and pull Barton's arms up over my head, having them rest on my collarbone. Then pull his legs around my hips and place them in my lap. He's an unconscious participant in this shitty piggy back ride. I scoot towards the emptiness, feeling small puffs of air across the back of my neck, so I'm thankful Barton's still breathing, but I'm pretty sure neither of us are going to like what I'm about to do next.
I manage a few semi deep breaths before reeling in the slack of the grappling rope and pulling it taunt. I have about 5 or 6 feet of loose rope hanging between Barton's hands and mine. There's probably 5 feet of rope extending from my hands to the grappling hook secured in the side of the loading dock. 5 feet…this is going to suck. I wrap the rope once around each of my wrists, one on top of the other, and then 2 feet down, once around the top of my right foot, securing it with my left foot on top. Now the shitty part. Without another thought, I scoot into oblivion. Gravity hits hard, yanking me down for 1.2 seconds before a jarring jolt followed by a heavy pull. "Ahhh!" The rope digs into my wrists as Barton's weight slams across my back and propels my face into the side of the hanger door. I feel my nose crunch on impact. His bound wrists shift from my shoulders to pull across my neck.
Oh God, I'm gonna choke to death. Blood drips across my lips as my windpipe feels like it's being crushed and black spots encroach on my vision. I start a quasi-shake, rattle, and roll dance, hanging 5 feet above the ground, to shake Barton's arms to one of my shoulders, and relieve the pressure from my throat. He shifts to the right, effectively allowing me to breathe.
"You are going on a diet when we get back Mister!" I croak to my unmoving partner. The wind is a harsh reminder that hanging about is not a good idea. I carefully unwind my right wrist and re-grab the rope in the palm of my hand. I repeat the move with my left hand, so that I can use my hands to shimmy down the rope. Once I have a firm grasp on the rope, I unhook my feet, allowing them to dangle for a few seconds. Using far too much energy, I release my right hand, bringing it to rest a foot below the left. I repeat the process with my left arm.
Slowly the ground gets closer. My arm muscles burn, my side is screaming with pain, and Barton is blissful snoozing my greatest rescue attempt away. It figures, I save his butt and he sleeps through it. A foot from the ground, gravity has it's way with me and I somehow find myself crumpled on my right side, Hawkeye sprawled behind me, his arms dangerously close to my already abused neck. My vision is weaving, green and browns melding into each other. Something is dripping down my left cheek and across my lips. My tongue reaches out and tastes copper.
"Argh…" a soft groan emanates from behind my right ear. "Hawkeye?" I sluggishly shimmy in a half circle so that my front is now facing Barton's. There's a new smear of blood coating his hairline, but other than that, I think I took the brunt of the fall. "Ughh…." I notice his eyelids fluttering. "Come on, let me see your pretty eyes." I encourage. I'm rewarded with slight slits revealing misty grey.
"What…" Barton fully opens his left eye, but the right is semi swollen and only opens halfway. I give him time to adjust to the dimness in what appears to be a predawn light. He blinks a few times before his eyes settle on my face.
"Hey." I say.
Barton's brow crinkles, "Were we," a wheezing breath, "making…out?" He inquires, a small raise of his left brow.
"What!" I hiss into his face. Of all the nerve! "You selfish bastard, even half dead you have to be an ass. I am so telling Tasha. She is going to kick your ass…" I hear a horrible throaty bubbling coming from Barton. My heart hammers in my chest before I realize he's laughing, well, at least trying to.
"Well, we are… in an… intimate…position," he quips.
It's then my realizes my face is about 4 inches from his, his arms wrapped around my neck in a cozy embrace. "Fuck." I reach my hands up to Barton's arms and pull them over my head, scooting back to get out from under him. I rise to a half sit and stare down at him. He's hasn't really moved, but his eyes are definitely alert and there's a slight upshift on his lips. Cocky bastard.
"I don't know how Laura puts up with all your crap. You are seriously a little boy trapped in a man's body. She has to be some sort of saint." Barton chuckles again before his chest heaves and he's hacking, body rocking forward with each powerful cough. I lay my hand on his back, pushing him slightly forward, just as he vomits. It hits the ground and splatters onto my knees and Barton's own face. I rub slow circles on his back until the dry heaving stops. I gently push him onto his back.
"That's just gross," I say, looking down at the newly acquired splotches on my cargos. He looks up at me and pants, "Paybacks…a..bitch." Touché. The wind is really starting to howl now, leaves wave up and down, and small twigs float past. An angry grey solidifies above us and without preamble, the first drop of Zeus' anger hits me square on the nose. I look to the sky just in time for it to careen warm droplets at me. Great.
Looking back down, I notice the water splashing on Hawkeye's face, attempting to drown him in its sallow waters. Oh shit. My hands shoot out to grip his shoulders and pull him forward. I maneuver myself behind his back in a half-seated position with my legs tucked under my knees and pull him against my chest. His breath rattles and his eyes are closed again, but I'm pretty sure he's conscious. The rain helps wash the blood from our wounds and the sick from the ground, but our situation seems far from acceptable.
"Well this is fun," I sulk, looking around and noting that if I wasn't impersonating a drowned rat and holding on to consciousness by a thread with my idiot friend, this might actually be a lovely place to go camping. Hawkeye shifts, "I aim to….please." Really, a pun? Even with his obnoxious witticism, I'm content to sit on the rapidly soaking ground with the concussed, and possibly dying, moron until help finds us. But then I smell gas and oil and remember that we were just in a plane…a plane that was shot out of the sky by a pissed off lunatic.
I slide out from behind Hawkeye and lay him on his left side. "I'll be right back," I tell him, eliciting a short grunt in return. I stumble towards the nearest set of trees and look for anything that could be considered a "crutch". I notice a rather long, but medium thick branch that could work. I pick it up and realize it's about 5 feet long. Perfect. I head back to the archer. I swing his bow onto my back and ask, "Barton, can you sit up for me?"
He opens his eyes, looks at me, and then stiffly puts his hands on the ground and pushes himself into a seated hunch, his head hanging low. His breathing is getting raspy, but nothing I can do about it now. Barton raises his hands to me, like a Royal's willing to be kissed. I tuck the stick under my armpit, grab his hands and pull Hawkeye to a standing position. I think he forgot about his busted leg 'cause the minute he's upright, he makes an unnatural guttural sound deep in his throat and lists to the side. I ground my feet to steady both of us.
"Oh…God." Sweat dips down Barton's face, mingling with the semi-dried blood, giving him the illusion of color in his cheeks, but underneath it all, he's worryingly pale. When I feel him even out, I quickly position the stick under his right armpit and throw his leg arm around my shoulder.
"Ok, we're gonna just go nice and easy." I lead us off and Barton reluctantly pushes his crutch forward and does a small hop. "Fuck!" he whispers. I push on, 80% of his weigh leaning against my 5'6" frame. It's slow going, but we're making a bit of progress. We just need to get away from the plane. I'd been hearing distant barks since we started our slow progression into the cover of the trees and I really didn't want to find out what the barks came from.
"You're doing great," I turn and stare at Hawkeye. His eyes are tight slits, his brow furrowed in concentration. His arm wraps tighter around my shoulder with each step. "Just a little farther." We've gone maybe a quarter of a mile. I know our tracks can be easily followed, so I scan the area in front of me for anything to hide the downed archer in so I can go try and cover our meager progress.
To our right, a large tree with its roots exposed and a small hole between the roots. Better than nothing. I steer us in the direction of the tree and 5 minutes later, I'm attempting to gently lower Hawkeye to the ground in front of the roots, but he's spent, so he kind of sinks to the floor in an undignified heap while keeping his right leg extended outward. His eyes are fully closed and he's seems to be attempting meditative breathing – in, out, in, out.
I make sure he's not going to kneel over before I dash around the area picking up fallen branches and leaves. Returning to Hawkeye, I see that he's managed to cram his larger frame into the hole in the tree, which is about 3 feet x 4 feet. He sit sideways with his back curved against the inside wall, his chest mere inches from touching his knees, and his legs straight out in front of him. It looks super uncomfortable and can't be very good for his ribs, but all of his body is inside the hole. He doesn't look to be very lucid, but at least he's breathing. I slip his bow between his chest and his knees before laying the leaves and branches I've gathered across the entrance to the small enclosure, covering the entrance as best I can.
"I promise I'll be back for you." With nothing more to be done for Hawkeye, I head back the way we've come, sweeping our tracks away with a large leaf and checking for any broken branches we've caused. The barking is definitely louder now. I'm pretty sure that if a miracle doesn't happen in the next 10 minutes, I'm going to have to fight whomever is making their way towards us. I guess it's time to get my inner MacGyver on.
9 minutes is all I get when the barking is accompanied by audible voices. I'm just tying off some vines when the dog comes into view. It's a German Sheppard leashed to an angry looking man in cameos. I'd smeared mud across my clothes and body, hoping it would at least mute my scent. The dog is whining while it sticks its nose to the ground and then turns its head side to side. Made mud works? The rain is light now, air humid. Not the best combination for a person trying to hide. I'm positioned behind a rather girthy tree trunk 70 yards away from the man and his dog. So far they are my only pursuers, but I doubt they are all that came on this merry quest to find little ole me.
"¡Tranquilo! perro estúpido!" The man growls while kicking the Sheppard in the stomach. The dog gives a small yelp and attempts to pull away from the man, but his leash prevents him (her?) from going more than a foot. Now you're dead asshat. No matter who you are, you do not kick a dog. My pursuer causally walks forward, scanning the area in a precise left to right manner. He is about 6'1" with sturdy thighs and broad shoulders. Not as muscly as Barton, but he looks like he'd be a formable opponent in a fistfight. Good thing I don't fight fair.
I just need the jerk to step 5 more feet in front of him, but he stops again and just looks about. I guess I have to do this the sucky way. I step out from my nice hidey-hole and stand next to the tree trunk. "Looking for me?" The reaction is instantaneous; the man's head swivels to look directly at me, a snarl on his lips as he launches into a full sprint towards me. The dog follows suit with a few barks for emphasis.
One step, 2 step, 3, 4, and 5 steps. The man's foot lands directly on my hidden vine rope I'd made, the weight of his body pressing down into the circle I'd created in the rope and triggering the pull of the ends to close around the jerks ankle before yanking him off his feet and up into the air, so he hangs 3 feet from the ground upside down by his entrapped leg. Unfortunately the bad guy's capture is surprisingly quick that the man doesn't have time to slip the wrist strap of the dog's leash off his hand and as he's yanked upwards, the leash pulls taunt, halting the dog's lunge at me, yanking the collar backwards and taking the dog's body with it. Almost in slow motion the German Sheppard is flipping upside down and backward, his legs flaying in midair while a surprised yelp is heard. In a blink the dog lands on his back, a thud on the forest floor, and remains there with a short whine.
I really hope the dog is ok, but I need to silence the stupid man hanging in the tree. He's started to curse me in rapid Spanish and his voice is increasing in volume the more he spins with the rope. I hobble as quickly as I can to the assailant and lift the large tree branch I had held at my side. "This is going to hurt," I inform the jerk before performing my best impression of Tiger Woods. The reverb makes my shoulder's shake and my side twitch, but the man is no longer moving, blood trickles from his scalp.
I peer quickly at the dog, note that it's still on the ground (although they've flipped to lying on their stomach), before searching the man's pockets for anything useful. There's a 9 mil I grab from his shoulder holster, a buck knife I find attached to his ankle, and a half empty water canteen dangling from his belt. I twist the lid off the water bottle and greedily drink a 3rd of the contents. It takes far too much self-restraint to pull my lips from the bottle, but I know Hawkeye is going to need this more than me. Reluctantly, I hook the bottle to my belt and step towards the dog.
"Hi there Dog," I slowly put out my hand while making measured steps towards the animal. The German Sheppard raises its head and pulls back its lips to show me it's impressive K9s. He (I can't tell, but the dog is big and looks like a boy dog) produces a low growl, but makes no move to attack. The leash is still attached to the dog's master's wrist and the collar looks like it pulled tight, imbedding itself in the dog's fur. It's one of those metal chain collars that are meant to get tighter the more a dog pulls away from it's owner.
"I'm here to help puppy." I lower into a crouch and stick my hand within 2 inches of the dog's nose. I'm either going to lose a hand or save this animals life, but I really don't want to have to kill it. It's not its fault it was brought up to be a tracking dog for a vicious asshole. The dog whines, looking at my face before starring down at my hand. I don't move, giving the dog time to decide what it wants to do and showing that I'm not a threat. The rain has become heavier again; large splashes knock me on the head. The pitter-patter sounds quite soothing, lulling me to half shut eyes.
Something wet and slimy sweeps across my knuckles and I pop my eyes fully open. The dog is starring straight at me, his tongue jets out and brushes my hand again. I guess we're friends. "Ok, puppy, I'm just going to take this off your neck," I say as I gradually move my hands past the dog's line of vision and down to his fur. He stiffens with my touch, emitting another whine, but doesn't make a move to bite my arms off, so I call it a win. "Almost done doggy." I feel for the snap of the collar and reach to unhook it. The metal has dug into the dog's neck, but the fur around the collar looks to have been flattened over the course of some time, not just this one incident. "You poor puppy," I breathe. The latch releases and I quickly pull the metal off the dog's neck before tossing the collar away.
The dog shakes its head, gets its feet from under it before standing up. I'm now face to face with this animal and it's a little daunting. But the dog seems to like me, it's tongue swipes across my nose. "Good boy." I start to straighten out, forgetting that something is definitely wrong with a few of my ribs and the instantaneous coughing propels me back to my knees, my arms spreading out on the ground to stop me from face planting. I spit/drool out blood and gross stuff while fiery pains shoots up and down my left side. Noise blinks in and out, my brain feels like it's turning into mush as I start to list to the right. I slowly register a fuzzy warmth along my right side. It pushes against me, helping to stabilize my tilt.
After a few calming breaths, the raging inferno turns into a dim blaze. I open my eyes, noting that I don't remember closing them, and turn to see the dog leaning against my side. Huh. I'm sure the dog's previous owner is not the only person after me, so I take one more calming pant and ever so slowly push off the ground and attempt to stand again. I might as well be an 80-year-old woman with all the grace I have. It sounds like joints pop and I'm pretty sure I groan as my spine straightens out. Rehab's gonna suck.
"Let's go boy," I say and head back towards Barton with the dog at my side. I come to the place where the berm is and stop. The leaves I'd use to cover the entrance are strewn about and I can clearly see that the little hole is empty. You had better not have come looking for me Bird Brain! Abruptly the dog growls and turns its head to the left. I turn to see the creepy businessman step out from behind a tree. He's still wearing the pinstriped suit I last saw him in, but he at least had the common sense to put on military boots.
"I see the bitch has found a new master," he causally says while holding a Berretta loosely in his right hand. Bitch? The dog growls again, it's fur bristles. Ahh…sorry, girl. I look the jerk in the face, "I don't know why you insist on chasing me, but you gotta take a hint man. I'm not interested."
"Little Girl, you are in over your head," he counters. Little Girl?! I'm 26! "Please drop your weapons. And get on the ground," he adds. The gun is tucked in the back of my cargos, while I had slipped the knife in my right boot, the hilt laying flat against my ankle with my pant leg covering it.
"I don't have any weapons." I say, raising my hands outward from my hips to show that they're empty. We're in a standoff of sorts, only 20 feet apart, him with a visible weapon and me with 2 hidden ones.
The businessman smirks, "tráele," he says and a behemoth of a man also steps out from behind the same tree as the boss man. He's got to be 7 feet tall with thighs for arms and tree trunks for legs. Held firmly against his chest with a massive arm trapping him in place is Barton. His head is down and his arms disappear behind his back, most likely held in place by a restraint. Barton's legs just barely skim the ground. The bandages I wrapped around his leg earlier look to be soaked in blood.
I involuntarily suck in a breath. "I see you know this man?" Business Suit states. Shit! The Mountain walks forward, Barton a rag doll against him. "You hurt him and I'm going to skin you alive!" I seethe.
"Hahaha," The Boss laughs while doing a slow clap. "You have no bargaining chips Little Girl." To emphasize his point, his henchman drops Hawkeye to the ground and steps slowly on his chest, pushing down. "Ahhhhh," Barton cries, weakly trying to throw off the boot squishing him. It's no use and Hawkeye attempt's wane. "Alto." The Mountain stops, but he keeps his foot on top of Barton's chest.
I can't really see Barton's grey eyes, but I can feel them on me. "Alright. Geez, take it easy," I slowly reach behind me with my right hand and grasp the gun handle. Boss Man raises his gun to point at me. "I'm just grabbing my gun. You did tell me to toss it on the ground." He tilts his gun up and down, which I interrupt as "continue". I pull the gun free of my back and extend my arm all the way out, showing the weapon dangling loosely between thumb and forefinger.
"Toss it into the trees," Business Suit demands. And I didn't even get to use you. I fling the gun into a cropping of trees to my left. It makes a dull thud. "Get on you knees." Today really, really sucks. I lower myself to the ground, my left arm coming to push against my middle, holding my insides in, and my right hangs down and a little behind my knees. I stretch my fingers across my calf and subtly start scrunching up my pant leg to reveal my bare skin.
"Atarla." The giant pulls his foot off of Barton and walks towards me. Hawkeye kind of wiggles, but doesn't really move. At least he's alive. When the henchman is 3 feet in front of me, I realize he's gigantic. He probably didn't win any beauty contests growing up, but he most definitely won all the schoolyard fights, probably with one punch. He pulls out a zip tie from his back pocket, places a massive palm on my right shoulder blade and attempts to push my chest to the ground. I make my move the minute his hand touches me. I've pulled my pant leg up enough to grasp the hilt of the knife and as his mighty palm puts pressure to send me to the ground, I rip the weapon from my boot and drive it into the jerk's stomach, pulling sideways. Hard muscle yields to cold metal like a hot butter knife through margarine.
"Arhhhhhh," the giant screams mingling with a steady stream of incessant barking. His hand leaves my shoulder and snaps to the knife stuck in his flesh while his knee unconsciously rises to protect his middle, slamming into my head on its way. I'm rocketed backward, landing on my left side with my knees halfway under me. A bright pain engulfs my left side and I squeeze my eyes close in agony. Snippets of barking, a shout, and a bang find their way to my ears, but everything is hazy and floaty. I can only wiggle in anguish on the wet forest floor while trying to suck in enough air so as not to pass out.
I register something forcefully pushing me over and onto my stomach. "Chica…Estúpida…tonta…" but I can do nothing to stop it. A new pain blossoms in my back as a heavy weight is pressed on it. I can feel my arms being pulled behind my back, but it's like everything is disjointed. My stomach wants to rebel, but as my face is currently one with the ground, I'm lucid enough to know that would not be a good thing. The pain cocoons me in it's hurtful embrace, stilting my thoughts, my sense of time.
It could be seconds or minutes, hours later when I realize I can coherently hear again.
(Thwack)
The rain is still beating down on everything in its path, a little river of mud is pooling under my chin, so I gingerly turn my head to the side.
("Ugh.")
I'm greeted with the site of red fur. My 4-legged friend is a few feet in front and to the side of me. She's laying on her left side with her head facing away. I can't really tell if her chest is moving, but there's a steady trickle of blood flowing from what appears to be a gunshot wound in her side. Ah puppy.
I pull my eyes from the dog and scan the area, the henchman is laying off to the side of the dog. All I can really see are his massive boots and an arm. He doesn't look like he's moving, so I call it a win.
("Ahhhhhh")
My sluggish brain finally connects the dots. I struggle to lift my chest from the ground and locate the source of the screams I hadn't been comprehending until now. Mr. Boss Man is lazily wiping blood off of a hunting knife with a white handkerchief while staring down at the Hawk, who's propped against the base of a tree, his legs out in front of him. Barton's head is resting against his chest and it's hard to see if he's moving.
I must have made a sound, because the Businessman turns to look at me, and smiles. My skin crawls with his false pleasantry. "Ah, you're back with us Girl," he approaches, "perfect." He's upon me before I blink 2 times. In another blink, he's grabbed my wrist restrains and is dragging me towards the tree Barton is at. I must have faded out for a second, because the next thing I'm aware of is the smug bastard's face in my eye line and his fingers snapping in front of my eyes. "What?" I mumble. "Now the fun can begin," he coos.
My eyes roam my surroundings and I notice I'm practically leaning against Barton's left side. I would have thought him dead if I didn't notice the slight hitch in his diaphragm or hear the short wheeze from his lips. Sorry Buddy, this just isn't our day. I turn back to our capturer, "Seriously man, this is not how you get a date."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," the knife is back in his hands and he nonchalantly picks dirt from his nails. That's gross, so unhygienic. "You know, I kind of like you. You've got Moxie."
"Moxie? What are you a 1950's gangster?" I huff, forcing myself to look away from the large knife and into the psychopath's eyes. "It would be in your best interest to tell me what I want to know, Girly." His cold stare remains unwavering, locked in a battle of wits with me. Oh, I'm bad at this game.
"Sorry man, I've got a boyfriend," I counter. The pain against my cheek as he backhands my face into Barton's shoulder is totally expected, but it's the grunt from beside me I don't anticipate. "Well it looks like your boyfriend is waking up. What's say I ask him some more questions, hum?" and he twirls the knife in his hand. "Hey, no need to disturb his beauty rest. What do you want to know?" I ask, hoping to gain Barton a few more minutes to get with the program. His muscles are tightening so I know he's starting to take in his surrounds and hopefully think of a way to get us out of this mess.
"Who sent you?" He asks. I take a second to mull over the question before responding, "You know, I really just wanted to see the Amazon, so I hopped on a plane with this man," I nodded towards Hawkeye, "and well, here I am." I look innocently at him and give a small smile. "I do not have the time for your insolence, Chica." The knife pokes my chest, "Tell me who you work for!" the last word emphasized by the knife being impaled in my left shoulder. "Ahhhhhhhhh! Fuck!" Oh God. New fire, evil boiling lava enveloping my shoulder. I'm pretty sure I'm hyper ventilating, but it's hard to tell over the jack hammering of my heart.
"Tell me or it will only get worse," he nonchalantly says as he twists the knife before he yanks it out. "Ughhhhh," my words are spent, the black fog is descending across my vision again.
"Leave…her…alon-" I feel the tremble more than hear the words Barton says as he attempts to direct the stabby jerk's attention onto himself. As the lava in my shoulder cools the cloudiness in my head gradually dissipates. I can feel the stiltedness of Barton's chest rising and falling. Every few seconds there's a hitch in the pattern. The world is coming back and with it, a brilliant streak of lightening strikes across the gloomy sky, followed by a loud rumble.
My chest hiccups and I hear a funny sound. "What are you laughing at Chica?" Mr. Maniac asks. Oh…I'm chuckling. "You're screwed now Asshat." I find Barton's left hand with my right, he gives me a gentle squeeze. Another beautiful streak of lightening spans across the sky as the wind picks up. A very loud boom is heard only a few yards in front of us. The Boss Man hollers in frustration and drives the knife up to its hilt into my stomach before standing up and attempting to make a run for it. "AHHHHHHHHH!" Pain. So much pain! My eyes are dipping low, even though I want to see the bastard's face when Thor smashes him, but my energy is very limited and I use the last of it to hear a furious growl, "You should never hit a woman," emphasized by a loud explosion of thunder.
Blackness covers me in it's blissful embrace.
"You with us?" A gentle hand on my forehand with a swaying motion under me. "You gotta stay tou-" A stab of pain slams into my chest when something is pressed into my side.
The darkness grabs hold and I willingly surrender.
"Her BP's crashing and her heart's…." Beep, Beeeep, beeeeeeeep….
Something is electrocuting me. Icy hot needles jab into my chest – 1 one thousand, 2 one thousand. My back arches in strained agony before thumping back onto a hard metal surface, my right arm flops over the edge. "She's bac-"
Beep, beep, beep….
"Come on Squirt, we need you…"
A hushed whisper, "If only I'd been quicker…."
My nose itches. Like little ant legs walking up and down the bridge. (Beep) I don't realize it at first, but my right hand is gently rubbing the starchy sheets under it. (Beep) Hospital? I do a quick sniff – lemon (disinfectant?), a musky odor, coffee? My brain might not be working on all cylinders, but it definitely knows when there's a good cup of caffeine nearby. I absently roll my head in the direction of the heavenly scent and will my eyes to open. It's like pulling a piece of duct tape that's stuck to other piece of duct tape apart.
With effort, I feel my eyelids blinks up and down. I notice a blurry blob in front of me. With another sluggish blink the blob turns into several blobs. One more blink and I can tell there's a face and maybe a (cup?) before me. My eyes unintentionally roll a bit, but with another blink the smiling face of an annoying billionaire is wavering 2 feet from my face.
"Ugh," I sputter, sinking a little deeper into my pillow. Tony pulls back and exclaims, "You're awake! You're just like Tweetie, one sniff of the good stuff and bam, awake." I want to tell him to f-off, but it seems like a desert has taken up residency in my mouth. I must have been making a gagging sound 'cause a straw is thrust between my lips and blissfully cool liquid is going down my throat. All too soon the straw is removed and the water cup held out of my reach. "If you drink to quickly you're going to get sick." I follow the hand holding the cup up to Rogers' face and give him my best pout.
"With your face looking like seven shades of gray and that giant bandage where your nose used to be, that pout isn't gonna get you far," Tony says. "What!" I squawk, pulling my right hand up and attempting to touch my nose, but instead slapping it across my face and driving a needle of pain into my brain. In, out, in out.
"…you….still with…you there?" The world snaps back. Tony's looking at me like I'm a moron while the Captain's face radiates pity and his hand is running gently across my forehead in a smoothing motion. "Your nose is still there Sparky," Tony chuckles. "'ate you..give, 'offee or i…'ove ..IV pole somewh…don't want it," I retaliate, somewhat.
Tony takes a small step backwards, pulling his coffee cup up and away from my reach, not that my hand would be strong enough to grab it, even in my semi-raised position. His other hand goes to his chest in mock fright. I glare at him and then smile. "Why are you smiling?" Tony warily asks just as his coffee is plucked from his hand, causing him to jump, and Natasha steps forward to place the cup in my open palm. I pull the drink towards me, closing my eyes to inhale the rich aroma before taking a slow sip. "Ummm." Heavenly.
"Do you and that coffee need your own room," Tony quips. I open my eyes as Natasha sits in the chair on my right side. Tony makes a unwise attempt to reach for the coffee, but I pull it in close to my chest and hiss, "Mine." He raises his hands in defeat. "Geez, let me know when the wedding is." With that he turns and walks out the door, my eyes follow him the whole way. Just when I think he's gone, he pops his head back through the archway and says, "I'm really glad you're alright." Then he's gone and I'm left with Natasha, who is reading a magazine that magically appeared in her hands and Steve, who looks like someone kicked a puppy.
Oh shit! "The dog? Is she…?" I search Steve's face, then Natasha's for an answer. "She needed surgery to remove the bullet that pierced her left side, nicking a rib and they had to cut the fur around her neck to apply salve to the wounds a collar did, but she's suppose to make a full recovery," Natasha rattles off while she flips another page of the magazine. Her neck? I did that. Tears well up behind my eyes. A calloused hand squeezes my left forearm. I turn to find Steve trying to console me. "She's going to be fine." I just give him a slight nod.
"Clint?" I whisper. I don't think I can take the news if it's bad, but I'm going on the assumption that Natasha stole Tony's coffee for me instead of slitting my throat, so he must still be alive.
"The идиот used another of his nine lives," More like 30 lives. "…but he's expected to make a full recovery." Natasha states and flips another page of the magazine. I turn to Steve with pleading eyes. He clears his throat, "His leg needed surgery to correct the break, but luckily it didn't require any pins. You did a great job putting the bone back in place and securing it. The doctor's said if you hadn't have set it, he might have died from shock." I inhale a deep breath. "Two of his ribs on his right side are broken and one is bruised. He has a slight concussion, a stab wound to his right thigh and a colorful amount of bruising across his right side."
I didn't realize I was crying until a soft tissue is swiped under both of my eyes. Tasha holds the box in her other hand, offering me the contents. I set the coffee on the table by my head and pull a Kleenex from the box before attempting to blow my nose. "Ugh, ahhh." Pointed pain. Broken nose moron. I manage to gingerly dab at the base of my nose, mopping up the snot that's dripped out. God, I'm a mess. Natasha makes no outward notice of disgust, just puts the tissues back on the table and picks up my coffee. She expertly switches the used tissue in my hand for the hot coffee and resumes reading her magazine.
I hold the cup in both of my hands, letting the warmth calm me. "You're ok too, you know," Steve's looking at me again in pity. Ugh. "I know," I tell him, turning to look blankly at the door. "Docs say you can be release in about a week, if you don't put too much strain on your body. You got 3 broken ribs, one of which nicked your spleen, so they had to remove it. A broken nose. The knife wound in your shoulder managed to miss everything major, but you're going to have to go to rehab to correct the muscle damage. The wound in your abdomen sliced through your liver, but it only caused a small tear and they were able to sew it back up. I look at him for the first time since his need to list my injuries, "I'm fine Steve. I'll heal." Steve exudes sympathy, something I can't handle right now. Luckily Tasha seems to read my mind, "Steve, I think she's tired. Why don't you go grab some food."
"Uh, yea," he stands up and pushes his chair slightly back, "I'm glad you and Clint are going to be ok. I'll see you in a bit." He pulls his hand from my arm, the warmth dissipates as he exits the room.
"Sleep маленький," She whispers. I note a fuzzy feeling encompassing me in a warm embrace as the coffee leave my numb hands. Damn dru-…
"…get no…can't get….Can't get no satisfactiooooon!" A horrible baritone is belting an off key rendition of The Rolling Stones when the world returns to me.
"And I try, and I try…" I open my eyes to find a battered Hawkeye throwing little paper balls into the wastebasket by the front door as he sits/hunches on a crappy doctor's swivel chair by my left bedrail. I can really only see his side profile, as he's half turned away from me, mostly facing his target. "…and I t-t-t-tryyyy." He's in a hospital gown, his bare back peeking through the slit in the tied sides. I really hope he's wearing pants.
"I can't get no satisfaction! I can't-" Barton's voice tappers off as I pipe in with, "I can't get any satisfactiooooon," I hit the high note with a slight croaky tune, "from hearing a classic butchered," I tease. Hawkeye competes his toss, making it dead center in the basket before stiffly turning to face me. I inadvertently suck in a breath. The whole right side of his face is a molten purple, his eye swollen shut. There's a butterfly bandage across his hairline with a bit of crusty blood under it. I scan down his body, noting the split on his right pinky and the bright pink cast (oh, that's hideous) encasing his right leg from mid thigh down to his toes. His leg is resting straight out on a crutch that is held under his butt.
I look back at Hawkeye, tears pooling in the corner of my eyes. "Relax Princess, I'm fine," he states, but it does nothing to dispel the knowledge that I did this to him. If only I had followed through with his plan, we both wouldn't have ended here. Me and my stupid temper. "I would have done the same thing in your position," he continues, "And stop moping, I come bearing gift," he announces before swiveling his chair to the right, giving it a beat, and turning back to me.
In his hands are two paper cups, steam wafts from the tops. "How?" I look pointedly at what appears to be fresh, hot coffee. He smirks as he hands over one of the cups, which I take gleefully and inhale the rich scent. "I was bored so I turned off your morphine drip and when I noticed your EKG waves returning to normal wakefulness, I grabbed coffee and came back to greet you with a lovely song," he looks at me with a hurt puppy dog expression, "Which you clearly did not appreciate. Humph." He ends his explanation with a long swallow of the scalding hot liquid and sighs.
I roll what Hawkeye alleged around in my muddied brain, realizing he probably did exactly what he said. But my body still feels like it's stuffed with cotton, so I take a tentative sip of my coffee and nearly burn my lips off. I frown and send an accusatory look at Barton. He just shrugs and takes another sip of his coffee. I guess I'll just sniff my coffee until it's at a normal person's temperature to drink.
"Pink?" I ask, briefly looking down at the monstrosity wrapped around his leg. Barton's rolls his eyes, "You can help me exact revenge on Tony when you're up and about," he raises an eyebrow, "Cool?" Oh Tony, you do not know what you're in for. "Sure." The first sip of the delicious Colombian brew skirts across my tongue, helping to clear away some of the cobwebs. "Shouldn't you be in bed too?" I inquire. Barton takes a slow sip before shrugging, "They gave me a day pass." I stare at him, just noticing the sweat that lingers on his forehead, the way he's arching his body to protect his ribs, the tension in his shoulders, and the dark circles under the bruises around his eyes. He really does look like shit, but I figure he already knows this. "I'm sure they allowed you to be lost, just so they'd have a moment of peace and quiet." "What?!" Barton squawks, his hand going to his chest in mock hurt and his head shaking in disbelief. "I'll have you know," he sits up taller, his nose angling to the sky, "I'm the epitome of a model patient."
"Hahah…agrrhh," My short laugh turns into ribs grating against each other. I don't realize I've tuned out the world while I inhale and exhale, attempting to settle my insides where they belong and lower my heart rate back to an acceptable level, until I feel a calloused thumb rubbing circles across the top of my hand. "You're ok. That's it, just breath." I open my eyes (When did I close them?) and see Hawkeye looking at me. Thankfully there's no pity in his eyes, a little remorse and…a sparkle of humor. The jerk. He pulls away when it's clear I won't choke to death or puncture my lung again.
We sit in compatible silence. Hawkeye occasionally gulping his coffee while I sniff mine and take measured sips. The shadows on the wall stretch and alter with the setting sun. We're both here sipping coffee. Both alive. Drowsiness sets back in and I make a loud, cracking yawn that closes my eyes. The coffee cup is rescued from spilling (Hawkeye, quick reflexes) and I've just about drifted off when I hear a whispered, "Good job, Kid." The last thing I feel is a tiny smirk on my lips before I'm out.
-Muévase estúpido chucho! - Move you stupid mutt.
-Tráele – Bring him.
-Alto – halt.
-Atarla – Tie her up
-Chica…Estüpida…tonta – Woman…Stupid…dumb.
-идиот – Idiot (Russian)
-маленький – Little one (Russian)
I apologize for the extremely long chapter, but I couldn't figure out where to make a cut. I hope you guys enjoyed it. I'll try an update date soon, but I need to find some free time to just sit and write.