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Leo wakes up and has no idea where he is. He tries to look around, but everything is sore; even his eyes protest when he moves them back and forth to take in his surroundings. He’s hedged in by medical equipment, and once he realizes that, it’s like his hearing finally comes back online and he registers the beeping of a heart monitor.
He spends the next minute frantically trying to recall what happened to land him in a hospital bed, but before he can extract a concrete memory, he realizes that he’s alone in whatever medical facility he’s in, that Jemma isn’t sitting by his bedside waiting for him to wake up.
The heart monitor blares wildly as Leo fights to sit up, adrenalin giving him energy although his body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it as he flails on the bed without getting anywhere.
A hand clamps down around Leo’s shoulder, and he struggles to jerk away because no one was in the room with him when he came to, and since he’s facing the door, he knows no one has entered. He tries to scream, but there’s something covering his mouth and everything comes out muffled.
Another hand appears to push him back into the bed, and the torso attached comes into view from behind him. And then Clint of all people is standing in front of him, his face pinched up as he whispers, “Hey, no! You gotta calm down, buddy. It’s okay, you’re safe.”
Leo sags back with relief, but then works himself right back up when he remembers Jemma—and how can he just keep forgetting her. He tries to ask Clint where she is, but the words are unintelligible and trying to get them out leaves his throat feeling scratchy and raw.
Clint leans over him, moving a hand down to rub in soothing circles over his sternum. “Jemma-bean’s fine, you hear me? The docs made her leave a few hours ago to get some sleep. She got you two outta that deathtrap just fine. You’re a little worse for wear though, so you’re gonna have to chill here for a while.”
Leo scrunches up his brow rather than attempt to voice the question of where “here” is, and since Clint’s Clint, he reads the expression easily enough. “Another one of Fury’s secret bases. I don’t know all the details, but I’m sure one of the docs’ll fill you in when they come to check on you.”
Leo’s heart rate sounds steady again, the monitor beeping languidly, and he feels like he’s relaxing into an awake state rather than a hyper-aware one. His mind feels foggy like when he’s slept too long or not enough, but he’s not too out of it that he can’t notice how bedraggled Clint looks now that he’s focusing on him. Clint’s face is worn, his clothes rumpled and limp, his hair a matted mess that could either be clumped together with sweat or blood, but it's difficult to tell with the dim lights.
Leo reaches up to his face, his muscles aching fiercely in protest, to feel around for whatever’s over his mouth, and his fingers encounter the thin plastic of a breathing mask. Clint gently pulls his hand away when he makes to move it aside and says, “Nope, you gotta leave that right where it is. Trust me, they get all ticked off at you when you start pulling out tubes and shit yourself.”
Leo groans in frustration and Clint laughs quietly, but nothing in his expression looks lighter from the small outburst of levity, not even when his mouth stretches wide in a grin. “Hey, I got a surprise for ya.” Clint whistles, a high-pitched and warbling kind of bird call, and there's a rattling noise overhead before something lands lightly on the pillow right next to Leo’s head. A furry little hand flits along his peripheral vision and then careful fingers are petting through his hair.
Tears prick up in the corners of Leo's eyes, and he’s not sure if it’s the mask or the choked-off sob blocking his throat that hinders him more, but he can only manage to mouth out, “Reggie!”
“Yeah, little bugger’s been missing you like crazy,” Clint admits with a fond smile. He scoops Reginald up and moves him around so that he’s in Leo’s line of sight, and after months flying around on the Bus without a single pet in sight, Leo’s never been happier to see his capuchin friend.
Reginald scoots closer and loops his tail over Leo’s neck, going back to grooming his hair after a curious tap to the breathing mask. Leo makes an inquiring noise and looks at Reginald questioningly.
“We snuck in through the vents.” Clint shrugs. “But hey, we were never here, okay?”
Leo raises an eyebrow, an indication for him to elaborate, and lifts his hand—painstakingly slowly—to scratch Reginald’s soft belly.
“I’m serious here, Leo.” Clint waits until Leo shifts his gaze so their eyes meet before he continues. “You can’t tell anyone you saw us. Not even Jemma.”
“What, why?” Leo asks worriedly, conspiracy theories jumping to mind all too easily what with recent events being what they are, but he only manages to send himself into a coughing fit for all his trouble. When his chest stops spasming, Clint is patting his sternum again and Reginald is trying to hug his whole head, eeking out his concern.
“I’m not Hydra, you know,” Clint mutters, everything from his crumpled expression to his slumped shoulders reading of dejection and resignation.
Leo wants to say, “I know that, you great idiot,” and, “That wasn’t what I was asking,” but mostly, “Ward is. He pretended to be my friend then dropped us in the ocean to die.” Except that he can’t right now, so he moves his hand from where it's pinned between Reginald's belly and his own cheek to the side of Clint’s head, making a poor pass at pulling him down. Clint gives in easily enough, though, and follows Leo’s prompting until their foreheads are pressed together. Leo looks him straight in the eye and tries to communicate all that he wants to say via the pseudo-telepathy he and Jemma fall back on so readily. After a moment, Clint relaxes marginally, so Leo figures at least the important bits got through to him.
Clint pulls back and whistles for Reginald, who clambers up Clint’s arm and drapes across his shoulders obediently. “They’ve been checking in on the hour, so it’s time we disappeared.”
Leo scrambles for Clint’s hand in an endeavor to make him stay, and Clint squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Relax, dude. We’re not leaving. Our favorite Little Lion Man’s laid-up in medical. All you gotta do is whistle if you need us.”
Leo huffs and levels Clint with his most unimpressed stare. Clint snickers, and it’s genuine and loosens the tense muscles around his eyes and makes Leo feels loads better than whatever pain medications they’re pumping him full of. Two shakes later, Clint and Reginald are back out of sight behind him and there’s the faint ting of metal as Clint settles the vent cover back in place. Then Leo's on his own again, though never alone.