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"I’m sorry."
It’s the first thing Clint hears. Well, no, because his hearing-aid was ripped out of him two months ago. Or was it three? Hard to keep track of days when you’ve been locked up in a small dark box like a fucking dog. Definitely less than a month though; no Christmas decorations up yet.
He reads the words on Natasha’s lips and see the guilt in the twist they settle into after—it’s this that convinces Clint he’s safe. Natasha only ever shows emotions when there’s no one else around and when they’re in friendly territory. Clint learned long ago to orientate himself by Natasha, it’s never failed him yet.
"Heeeeeey," Clint slurs, his tongue heavy in his mouth, just like every other part of his body. He feels like a waterlogged sponge.
His well-trained situational awareness and well-developed PTSD lets him catalogue the drips in both arms, the handcuff around his right wrist, the cast on his left leg and the bandage wrapped around his throat in a matter of seconds. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon but, hey, why would he want to when his best girl—he spent too much time watching 40s movies to prepare for meeting Captain America—is right here and holding his hand.
"I burned your cover. I had to. No time to be discriminate," Natasha says, short and precise like a mission report. She signs and talks at the same time, which would have made Clint love her more if it were possible.
Clint’s brain, not used to having to process anything more complicated than ‘where did they hurt me today,’ struggles to comprehend her words for a few minutes. The moment it does, Clint lunges for Nat’s arm, only for his body to protest loudly. “Ow, fuck, ow ow fucking ow,” Clint says, collapsing against the bed again.
Bright side, he’s feeling more awake now. Awesome pain.
"Goddamit, Clint," Nat says, then follows it up with Russian. Clint’s lipreading skills doesn’t extend to foreign languages but he assumes she’s swearing at him. She pushes him into the pillow with a firm hand against his shoulder, the only patch of him that doesn’t feel bruised or broken, and does something to one of the machines. A few seconds later, the pain starts fading away. Morphine!
"Good stuff," Clint says, voice slurring again. "Thanks, Nat. Foun’ me?"
Nat swallows hard and smiles. “Of course.” Then she ducks her head and Clint feels her hands on his wrist. A moment later, the cuff is gone and Clint breathes just a little easier. It was probably for his own good but it reminded him a little too much of the county jail.
"Cooooool." Clint yawns. His mind is going foggy again—Jesus, how much did she give him? Can’t sleep yet though, there was something important he had to tell Nat. Something…Clint struggles to open his eyes again. He smiles at the blob of red and white hovering above him. "No’ your faul’. S’happens. Saved th’ world, sacrifices had t’be made."
Clint’s eyes drift shut and he feels a hand on his forehead, then a whisper so close to his ears the vibration comes through nice and clear, “Not you.”
"Ya foun’ me, s’all good. Love ya, Nat." It’s not something they say to each other often, or at all if they’re being honest, but there’s a part of him terrified that when he wakes up again, this will all have been a hallucination. He wants to have said it at least once.
The hand on his forehead taps an answer in morse code, and Clint falls asleep smiling.