𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐑 | 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒍 𝒐𝒏𝒆-𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒔

alone ⋆ winterhawk

[ ps: even though it's kind of obvious later in the chapter, i use comic!Clint instead of mcu!Clint, simply because i prefer comic!Clint. there might be some traits from mcu!Clint that blend in simply due to me not being great at keeping story lines straight though. also just a heads-up, i'm not an expert on some of the topics in this one-shot so if i get anything wrong please let me know! ]

[ last note: anything in italicized parenthesis are thought processes! ]

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"Clint, duck!"

Those were the last words Clint heard erupt from Natasha's mouth before he was struck across the head by yet another masked man, the hit hard enough to make Clint trip upon himself and fall to the feet of his attacker. He saw glimpses of Natasha running toward him, panicked words falling from her lips in an unintelligible way as he tried his hardest to get back onto his feet. But his left leg had already been sliced by a knife, his left arm grazed by a bullet, and his right wrist snapped by a pair of unforgiving hands which belonged to a man who now lies dead across the alleyway. He knew he was barely able to get up with an allies help, let alone while still fighting today's enemy. He still tried his hardest, getting up to one knee before his final ambush began.

The first kick landed on Clint's stomach, his instincts kicking in and making him curl into himself. He felt the need to vomit, but couldn't bring himself to. Not only did Clint have difficulty remembering the last meal he had that didn't consist completely of coffee, but he was too petty to throw up; he couldn't let his attacker know that he had been hurt by him, as dumb as it sounded as he lied on the ground, unable to move.

The second kick landed on Clint's left knee, causing a strangled cry to escape his mouth. The knife wound on his lower thigh made his leg painful to the touch, the kick igniting the pain like a match ignites a puddle of gasoline. The kick threw Clint's body out of the curled position he was in, his back arching and his head whipping back at the pain. That was his downfall, he realized later.

Once Clint threw his head backward, it gave his attacker a clear shot. The third kick landed right on Clint's right temple and extended down to his jaw, instantly knocking him unconscious. It's a good thing, because the pain he went through would've been much worse if he were awake.

And if Natasha wasn't there to kill each and every one of the baddies for laying a finger on her partner.

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Clint gingerly opened his eyes to the piercing white lights surrounding him, his eyes only opening a sliver due to the brightness. He groaned at the light and the headache that already had begun to form, and he saw a few people rush around out of the small opening of his eye. The doctors swarming him weren't what concerned him, however.

It was the fact that he couldn't hear the groan he knew he made.

He tried to make another sound, and he could feel the vibration move through his vocal cords, but he couldn't hear the result.

"What's going on?" Clint asked (or at least he thought he asked, still unsure if he's actually talking), his eyes shooting open despite the painfully bright lights. He counts one, two, four, six doctors surrounding him, each obviously talking but none of their voices coming through. He tried to sit up, but even if the doctors around him didn't hold him back, he would've given up just as quickly as he began. The pain in what felt like his entire body was enough for him to want to call up Tony and demand workers compensation, but for once he kept this thought to himself.

Finally, he saw a flash of red hair race through the door, and though three of the six doctors attempted to hold her back, Natasha quickly made her way to Clint. Her lips moved quickly, but Clint still couldn't hear the words she spoke. Clint felt his eyes water despite his best efforts, and he took a shaky breath.