Chapter Text
S.H.I.E.L.D’s latest mission was just quickly put down, upon the take out of one of their greatest agents. The punishment brought down upon him was all together horrible in their own foreign ways. Harsh. It was done so quickly that he was momentarily stunned. His throat was unskillfully slashed, his voice box ripped and damaged from the jagged teeth of the hunting knife used upon him. Blood gushing down from his throat, coating his chest and soaking through his thick S.H.I.E.L.D uniform.
His voice was a hash ragged cry as he let down his emotion grid, filled with horror and distress. He collapsed upon the gravely, dusty, sandy gritted ground; thankful the other agents with him are able to cover him while till an EMT is called to whisked into the line of fire to help him. Having smothered the wound already in the grime of the salty dirt from the ground in the small impoverished village in the desert.
He was dragged from the battle field no more than that of limp rag doll. The loss of blood from his body was in such great amounts, it would take some time and a few bags in order for him to get all the blood back into his body. Leaving him weak and delirious in such a state.
He lays upon a bed in a large hospital ward that must be in the neighboring country they were working in. Nurses bustling about to treat others with injuries differing from his own. He rest his head back down on his pillow to call on rest, for his body craves the healing. Everything aches, from his head, down to his toes. Most of all the pain settles in his throat and lays heavy on his heart; almost feeling crushed under the mental pressure.
When he next opens his hazel blue eyes he meets a figure of a tall fashionable man whom he feels he knows. This man is thin, his face pale and gaunt. His hair as dark as midnight sky, slicked back flat against his skull. A thick green and gold scarf loosely wrapped around his neck. His eyes are sullen and only hinting the dull green.
He tries to open his mouth, wanting to ask the man where he remembers him from, when nothing comes out. There is a gasp and then a sharp pain that hits hard to the back of his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly as he squirms under the bed sheets. Cursing to god that that was a stupid idea. His eyes flick back open upon feeling a hand settling on his left shoulder.
“Don’t struggle, little hawk,” the man whispers to him and there is only sorrow on his face. “Don’t move. You will only hurt yourself more and I wish not to see anymore of that.”
He stares at the tall dark mysterious man as he is speaking such soft words that he can only take are words of endearment. Surely, he is not of S.H.I.E.L.D. He opens his mouth, his lips beginning to form the letters he wishes to string together in what he wants to ask the man. Wanting to ask him where he knows him from. Wanting to ask him why ‘little hawk’ makes his heart hurt like calling on a happy childhood memory of time gone past. Still no sound passes his lips and he wants to scream. Not being able to communicate with anyone makes him feel like a failure inside.
“Rest, little hawk. I will return for you. Know that I will,” the man whispers, leaning his face down close to his and Clint tries to pull back. “I will be back for my hawk, to mend him,” the man now smiles ever so softly now. “So be quiet,” he lays a finger to Clint’s lips, “Rest for awhile till I return.” In a mere blink of his eyes, he is gone from his small curtain closed hospital room. He lifts his hands, careful of his IVs, rubbing at his tired eyes. Tired, he must have dreamed of the tall mysterious man.
He keeps his head down as merely lifting it makes his brain swim. A young nurse pulls back the curtains around his bed and from the window, causing him to wince at the light. She speaks to him quickly in her native tongue that he just can’t place. Then again, he can’t understand what she is telling him and he can’t reply to her. It’s like standing on opposite banks of a large river; you can’t hear each other and communication his useless.
So he waves a hand at her and sighs silently. She leaves a few minutes after just staring at him like he just turned her down from a date. He turns his head to the side and looks all the others in the hospital ward with him. His mind quickly turning over pages, trying to think to back when he first saw the tall mysterious man who came to visit him. After some time, pulling on a headache, he gives up. Closing his eyes and resting the best he can.
The next morning, he comes around the sounds of voices around his bed. At first he can’t quite place them, after a minute of his brain adjusting into the right gear, he picks up on the English. Most of all recognizing the sound of the woman he fancies most in the world, Natasha Romanoff.
“Clint! You’re awake!” she leans down and throws her arms around him, kissing over his cheeks, the tip of his nose and forehead. She clearly happy that he is still around in this world. He smiles upon accepting the love she is clearly giving to him. He wishes he could tell her about the mysterious man, but the pain is still set deep in his throat and he just croaks. She looks at him confused, concerned etched across her face. She gently lays her left hand over his neck, to the bandages that at wrapped tightly around there. Then there is hurt in her eyes and he captures her hand in his, slowly kissing at her knuckles. In his mind he is whispering in her ear such sweet nonsense.
“You don’t have to try to speak, Clint. Just rest up and maybe the doctors can do something to help fix your voice,” she whispers softly. Agent Coulson stands tall behind her, concern on his face too and Clint feels horrible inside. “No, Clint, don’t beat yourself. It wasn’t you fault. You didn’t know. We didn’t know. It happened all quickly. Now you just rest, we have the situation covered. S.H.I.E.L.D can handle this,” she smiles at him, patting him on the chest gently. Both of them turn away from the bed and leave him.
The rest of his day, he watches everyone passing by his bed. Taking note of their injuries, from a simple broken leg to head traumas. From the young to the old and frail. From babies crying to the silence of death.
When night rolls around and he feels tired enough to go to sleep, the man returns. Startling Clint awake out of his warm and fuzzy dream. The man is dressed differently this time. This time he is in heavy black and green leather. Clint frowns, feeling something is off here.
“I told I would return for you, my little hawk,” the man whispers with a smile, holding out a hand towards him. Clint feels at unease, squirming slightly in his bed. “No, little hawk, don’t do that. Cooperate with me. I’m going to help you, agent Barton.” That snaps his attention back into reality at the mere mention of his name. “Barton. At ease.” He doesn’t know if he can be at ease with this man knowing his name but his unable to recall him. “This won’t hurt, I promise you.” He sets a hand down on his chest and blanket of hot rushes through his body, it gone as quickly as it was brought on. Coming to to find himself up on his feet. His knees buckling under him, but he is quickly caught by the mysterious man, who drags him down a long hall that is lit by torches.
The man flicks his wrist and a large heavy door opens on its own and he helps him into a large room. Settling him down on the king sized bed.
“That’s it, little hawk,” the man helps him with his legs, helping him under the thick heavy bed coverings with fur pelts. “Here you will rest and I will bring the healers around later to check on you.” Clint still stares up at him, feeling his fingers clenching and unfurling, there’s still no voice coming from him. “You have something you wish to say, little hawk?” the man asks, so Clint nods his head. The mysterious man turns away, coming back with a blank book and a quill pen. Confusing Clint further, but he grasps the pen and scrawls his one question upon the blank parchment.
‘Who are you?’