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And then everything went still and wasn’t that just a huge crock of shit? Only five minutes before everything had moved so fast he could only aim one arrow at a time. Now….
His head felt heavy. Tingles sparked from his fingertips as he ran them over his face. He leaned against the rim of skyscraper and thought of Coulson. Was he moving through stillness too? Phil had such a funny face when he was frustrated, two wrinkles in the middle of his forehead and Clint toppled to the side as he tried to poke the forehead of a man who was not there.
Yea, something must’ve nicked him. He’d definitely been drugged.
Good hands, they started patting for a wound, up his leg and down his side. Hands were weird. Except Coulson's, his were sturdy. Hands. He shifted again. Heat, pain, fire, from the back of his upper thigh and that was certainly an entry wound.
“Been hit, Sir,” he told absolutely no one. Then remembered to press his comm unit. (Hands.)
“Sir.” The word stretched long.
“We have evac on the way.” Warm, certain. “Talk to me, Barton.”
“Hands.”
Did you know you could hear a smirk? Also forehead lines. “Specialist, you might want to refrain--”
“Words too. Good words, good hands.”
“Barton.”
“Coulson.”
A repressed snort through the comm.
Clint swelled, satisfaction wrapping around him like a blanket. Warm. Slow. Sliding down onto the rooftop. Stars.
“You should hear the helicopter.”
Chopper blades. “S’right, sir.”
Wind. Gravel, he covered his face with his hands. Evac team with a stretcher and he groaned as they moved him. Hands. Weird hands. “Sir?”
“They’re bringing you back in to me, Specialist.” And his words continued- warm, certain, sturdy, until the world sped back up.
Inspired by this gif:
