Clint squints through the snow, blinking a flake of ice off his eyelashes and refocusing on the Target. The Target moves through the snow, approaching the Ground Team. He won’t be able to see them. He’ll never see any of it coming. For the Target, this will be over before it even begins.
“Agent Barton, do you have the shot?” Coulson asks, voice just barely loud enough to be heard over the howling of the wind.
“Affirmative.”
“Take it.”
Clint’s fingers flex. The string of his bow snaps through the frigid air, ghosting past his wrist guard. Down below, the arrow strikes true, skewering the Target through the heart. He falls, a splash of red and purple against the white. The snow keeps falling, covering him already. He’d be gone within the hour were it not for the Ground Team waiting to pick him up. “Hit.”
“Confirmed,” someone on the Ground Team barks.
Clint breathes out. His arms hit rock as they fall. He sets his bow down and surrenders to the raging storm around him. He’s so, so cold. He’s so cold that he’s not anymore. He’s a little hot, actually, underneath the numbness. That’s not good, a little voice in his head says. Go to sleep, another one replies.
Clint’s very confused.
Dimly, he hears Coulson say, “Get my Asset out of there now. ” Ooh, angry Coulson. He’s going to scare the younger agents. It’s cold out here. “I know, Barton. We’re coming for you.”
Someone’s laughing at him. It doesn’t matter. Coulson says he’s coming to get him. Clint trusts him.
Clint’s always had trouble keeping track of time. It’s something about his frontal lobe, the S.H.I.E.L.D. psychiatrists think. Right now, in the cold, wet, loud winter, it’s even worse. Loud. Huh. He can fix that. He reaches up to turn off his aids.
“Agent, do not touch your hearing aids.”
Oh.
Well, it’s loud and windy and Clint’s not really sure how long he’s been up here. He’s not sure how long it’s been since Coulson promised to come get him that a cable with a complicated little buckle at the end of it drops down next to him.
“Agent, hook up to the cable. Tell us when you’re ready and we’ll start pulling you up.”
Clint fumbles with the little pieces, trying his best to snap them all into place. It should be simple. It’s designed to interface with the harness-vest thing he wears in the field, but with his fingers so numb, it takes him longer than usual. “Ready for extraction,” he says. Funny, how his mouth remembers all those phrases and when to say them, even when his brain’s being freeze-dried in his skull. There’s a tug around Clint’s middle, and the lifting begins.
Clint hasn’t worked with this particular medic before, but so far, she’s entirely too willing to poke him with needles and ask him complicated questions. Thankfully, though, she’s quick and gentle, taking his temperature and shining a light in his eyes and making him squeeze her hand before nodding to Coulson.
Clint watches, shivering, as Phil tugs his boots off. Clint wiggles his toes. It’s strange to see them move without actually feeling them. Phil rolls his eyes and moves to help Clint with his vest. He unfastens the buckles and Clint shrugs out of it, letting Phil throw it in the corner with his boots. Next comes the jacket and the long-sleeved shirt, and then the tac pants, and then Clint is left cold and exposed and damp on the gurney in his long underwear and tee shirt while Coulson gets his go bag. He thinks he’s warming up now. Hot pins and needles are creeping over him like thousands of ants, if ants had lava on their feet and hurt. A lot. Clint’s tired. He wants Coulson back. The jet’s not that big; surely it can’t take him too long to find Clint’s bag.
The medic’s set up a saline drip. She presses the back of her hand against it and nods to herself, satisfied with something. Clint’s satisfied with something, too. He did his job today. He took out the bad guy. He’s good at that. He’s also cold.
The medic advances on him with a needle at the same time Coulson comes back into sight. Looking at him, she says, “Get a zip-up on him and I’ll hook up the I.V.. After that, he should be good to go until we land.”
Vaguely, Clint realizes that he should be embarrassed about being talked over and manhandled like a little kid, but really, he’s too cold. He just goes limp, letting Coulson zip him into a hoodie and watching idly as the medic slips the needle into his arm.
Wait.
He’s not dehydrated.
“Why… was’sat? Don’t need an I.V..”
The medic laughs. “It’s warm saline, Agent. You’ll live.” Then, to Coulson, “Come and get me if you need anything else.” He nods and the medic slips out the door, presumably on her way to the front of the plane.
Now that it’s been in for a moment, Clint can feel the gentle warmth of the saline in his veins. It’s nice. It takes some of the pain away from the pins and needles. Then, it occurs to him that there’s a much more efficient way of warming up. Hopping off the gurney, he joins Coulson on the couch. Before Phil can ask too many questions, he plasters himself against his side, wrapping an arm around him and sighing. Phil just sighs back, too used to long nights and missions gone horrifically wrong to protest. He takes the hand not preoccupied with paperwork and starts picking ice out of the ends of Clint’s hair.
“Try and get some sleep before we land,” Phil says. “I’m sure Fury’s got something lined up for us already.”
“With Nat, hopefully,” Clint mutters. He hasn’t seen her in a week.
Phil hums his assent, settling his arm around Clint’s shoulders and putting his chin on Clint’s head. Clint’s feeling like he might fall asleep at any moment. Just before he does, though, he fishes his hearing aides out, handing them to Coulson, who sets them on the table. Then, it’s only a matter of finding a comfortable way to sit with the I.V. and cuddling closer to Phil. He lets his eyes unfocus as he watches his fingers race across his tablet. He’s not so painfully cold anymore.
“Hey, Phil?”
“Hmm.” The response vibrates through Phil’s chest and into Clint’s.
“D’ya think m’gonna explode?” Clint picks at the tape around the needle.
“What?” Phil shifts so his mouth is closer to Clint’s ear. “What are you talking about?”
“My cells… from the I.V.. Um, hypo- hypo- hypo…. When your cells burst.” Clint can’t remember the word.
“Hypotonic?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think so, Clint. That’s why it’s saline and not water.” Coulson goes back to whatever he was typing.
“Oh. Okay.” Clint’s eyes drift closed.