And Then I Wrote Marvel

Angel without Wings (Clint Barton x Reader)

You grabbed Clint and flew away from what you both considered a successful mission. Because of your ability of flight, you were able to leave the quinjet a little farther away, but still get in and out just as quickly. You had been noticed by only one or two guards, but it would be far too late for them to say anything by the time that they could, if they ever would be able to. You and Clint hadn't really bothered to check.

No one could have anticipated the sniper in the trees below.

The bullet hit your abdomen without a sound, and you went down. You twisted yourself so that you would receive most of the damage as you both fell through the dense foliage. Clint was falling above you, on top of you even, so that you would cushion his fall and he might be able to fly you out of there. No one was waiting back at the quinjet, and Banner had fallen asleep a while ago; you could hear gentle snoring through the comm.

The pilot was more important than the passenger, in this case, so you made your best attempt to secure his life.

All breath was forced from your lungs when the first tree branch smacked your upper back, and you were crushed further from above by Clint. You both continued descending through the trees. Whether fortunately or the opposite, you couldn't decide, you didn't sustain any direct hits to your head, but landing on the hard ground still hurt like heck. The bullet in your stomach didn't do anything to help with that.

He got off of you as quickly as he could, kneeling next to your broken form. "(Y/N)! No, no, no, a million times no..."

"Clint--"

"Thank goodness, you're alive."

"Get to the plane. Fly away." Breathing took a lot of effort, and talking took an infinite amount more. You were going to be using as little speech as you could.

"There is no way I'm leaving without you." Was he really implying that that was what you wanted him to do? He was lucky that he was pretty.

"No crap."

"Right. Sorry. 'Kay, I'm going to try and lift you," he said, giving you fair warning. You gasped as his arms slid under your body and lifted you, disturbing whatever it had tried to settle into. "You alright? Stupid question, never mind. Of course you're not."

"I'm fine," you squeaked in response, an octave or two above what was normal. "Go slow."

His skill in stealth helped in this situation that you were stuck in; he was light on his feet and fairly even in step. It hurt, nonetheless, but he made walking through the forest bearable. At every sound that escaped your lips, he would cast worried glance down at your pain-ridden face. With every tear that slipped, without permission, out of your eyes, a little bit of him died inside.

Your consciousness began to fade in and out, and your eyes closed slowly, your head coming to rest against his chest. The rising and falling of your chest was too shallow, almost unmoving. You were losing a lot of blood quickly through the gunshot wound. Clint's rising panic levels were justifiable; your life appeared to be coming to an end all too soon.

"Not on my watch," he growled, quickening his pace. The quinjet was in sight. All that was left was to get Bruce awake, somehow, and have a medical team ready when you got back. Flying was the easy part. Waking up Bruce? Not so much. "There's too much that I needed to tell you."

The quinjet was finally in sight. He boarded quickly and set you down on the floor gently. The cold metal felt good, in some way. Clint sat down in the pilot's seat and prepared quickly for takeoff.

"Banner!" he shouted. "Bruce, wake up!"

"Gah!" A series of crashes could be heard through the other end of the line. "Must have dozed off for a while there, sorry," he apologized.