Fill in the Blank - Clintasha

3

**August 14th 2008**

Clint hadn't been to a hospital in a long time, not since Bucky had hired him.

The man was a textbook ex-military nutcase from the dog tags around his neck to the trust issues that surpassed even Clint's own. By the books, Bucky had avoided hospitals like the plague. They were too risky, asked too many questions, charged hundereds of dollars for a bandaid and a shot of morphine. Clint tended to agree with him and had followed his lead.

From what he could tell, he hadn't missed out on much.

They'd wrapped his head in bandages, given him some pills and then left him alone to sleep for 6 hours straight. All things Clint was sure he could've done himself for free. Then, they decided to send him into surgery while he was nice and docile and unable to protest.

The ringing in his ears still hadn't stopped. It was painful, even through his dozy state, the spikes of agony and the drugs leaving him dizzy and disorientated. He was having a bit of trouble understanding what the doctors were saying. Give it an hour or two, it would pass.

It didn't.

By the time he woke up from his drug induced sleep for what felt like the hundredth time, Clint was getting worried. A doctor was standing at the foot of his bed, two unfamiliar objects in her hands.

Clint felt mildly nauseous when the doctor came over and unwrapped the bandages from his head. "Don't [wor---], [---] down. [---] let me [---] off," she'd soothed and Clint frowned at her in confusion.

"What?"

She gestured for him to wait a moment, still unravelling the bandaging from around Clint's head until it was all gone. She set it to the side and turned to face the marksman with a serious look on her face. She spoke slowly and clearly and Clint tried to focus on her mouth to figure out what the hell she was saying. "Mr [---] we wa-[nt?] you [---] [these?] [---] while." She held up the two objects in her hands. "Is [---] okay?"

Unsure of what else to do, Clint nodded.

Ten minutes later the two behind the ear hearing aids were awkwardly fitted behind Clint's ears.

To his relief, they did make it easier to hear what the doctor was saying. But they were an uncomfortable weight behind his ears and he subconsciously nudged them with his fingers while the doctor explained his situation. Thankfully he'd already figured out most of it by himself.

His name was Clint Barton. He was currently in Stockholm. He'd been involved in an explosion which left him with two ruptured ear drums, a few second degree burns across the left side of his body and a length of shrapnel buried in his leg. She said the damage to his hearing was permanent as far as they could tell. She said the surgery to remove the shrapnel had gone well; he would be back his feet in no time. She said the police would like to speak to him now. He numbly agreed.

"No, I don't know why someone would try to kill me," he found himself saying even though he knew it was a lie.

"Have you recently been involved in any gang activity in the area?"

"No." A lie.

"Why were you-"

"Was anyone found with me?" Clint asked, cutting the officer off without even thinking about it.

There were a beat of confused silence before the officer cautiously answered, "No, just you. Why, was there anyone else with you?"

"No, no one else," Clint said, shaking his head before looking up at the man with a confused frown on his face. "I can't... really remember anything," he said softly. And that was a lie too.