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“Whoever’s idea it was to go hiking in the middle of winter, I’m gonna sue,” Clint wheezed, leaning on his walking stick. His breath fogged in the air in front of him, and his ears stung underneath the stocking hat.
Steve gave him a patronizing grin. “Can’t keep up with the old men, huh?”
“Old nothing.” Clint grunted. “That…that serum you took is turning you into a…a cheater.”
His companion raised an eyebrow. “A cheater, huh? Wanna test that theory?”
“Nah.” Clint turned and began walking up the trail again. “I’d lose. Because no one can win against a cheater.”
“Cheater or not, I’m still beating you,” Steve taunted as he passed Clint and disappeared around a bend in the trail. “Hurry up, young man, or I’ll confiscate all the coffee before you get back to the cabin.”
“I’ll confiscate all the coffee before you get back,” Clint mocked his friend under his breath with a high voice. “Well, Mr. Captain America, we’ll see who beats who.” He veered off to the right and began tramping through the thick foliage. Mr. Goody Two-Shoes probably wouldn’t even consider walking off the beaten path. Might offend the…racoons or something.
He’d only gone about ten paces—nearly straight up—when his foot hit a patch of ice and slipped out from under him, sending him tumbling down the hill. He flailed his arms, reaching for a handhold or at least a way to slow his rapid descent, but all he got in return was a sore elbow and bruised bicep. Well, I don’t think I’ll be using my bow again anytime soon. And then he was airborne, the weightless feeling combining with the panic crawling up his throat and escaping in a cry of…surprise. Definitely not something akin to terror. Uh-oh.
He bounced off the ground a couple of times, each landing more painful than the last, until he slammed to a stop against a fallen tree. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead.
“Clint!”
He cracked one eye open. The muscular man in the red, white, and blue coat scrambled down the hill, and Clint let out a sigh—or, as much of one as he could manage while still trying to catch his breath. You know, that’s kind of how I imagine death to look, coming down to claim its prey.
Steve stopped several yards from Clint, who realized that the man’s face had suddenly gone pale. “Um…okay, buddy, we’ve got a slight problem.” Steve planted his hands on his hips, surveying the situation. “That tree you’re laying against looks about half rotted, and that half-rotted tree,” he grimaced, “is about two inches away from rolling down a cliff.”
Clint grunted. “Lovely.” He started to sit up, but fell back with a groan when a stab of pain exploded in his ribs. The tree shifted, and he froze.
Steve froze too. “Um, okay, maybe I’ll just…” he edged closer, tensed, as if ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. He extended his arm and braced his feet. “Here, grab my hand.”
Clint reached out, and his fingers brushed Steve’s, when the tree behind him shifted with a dull crack and began to slide. Eyes wide, Steve dove forward and locked his hand around Clint’s just as the man slid over the embankment. He could hear the log splinter against the rocks below, shuddering at the thought of what might happen if he were to follow.
He tried to ignore the knife tearing into his side and the screaming pain in his elbow, but it became so intense that his stomach roiled. “I…can’t…” he fumbled for a handhold in the snow with his free hand, but his fingers continually slipped on the wet foliage. His joints stiffened in the cold, and his grip weakened.
Steve grunted, jaw clenched and face red with strain. “I’ve got you, pal,” he said through clenched teeth. But Clint knew that the man could feel exactly what he did: their hands were slipping, even with Clint’s hand clutched in both of Steve’s.
A small patch of snow fell on Clint’s face, and he glanced up sharply at his friend. “Steve. You're slipping.”
“I…know…”
Clint’s feet kicked against the side of the ledge, scrambling for a foothold where there was none. He couldn’t give up. He couldn’t let go, he had to keep trying…
More snow fell in his face. He couldn’t do this to Steve.
Clint closed his eyes and pulled in as deep a breath as he could muster. This wasn’t how this trip was supposed to go..
He’d just opened his mouth to tell Steve to let go when something landed in the snow next to him, kicking up a flurry of flakes that whirled away on the cold breeze. A rope?
He didn’t bother to pause and think about where it had come from; he lunged for it, cold, stiff fingers clamping around the coarse fibers for dear life. It bit into his skin, and as soon as Steve had picked up the rope and began pulling, his hands slipped, slicing his palms. He squeezed tighter.
With the leverage that the rope provided, it didn’t take long for Steve to haul Clint back up onto solid ground, and he laid there for several moments, panting, before gingerly rolling to a sitting position.
“Enjoyed your little dramatic act there, Barton,” a familiar voice teased. “Remind me to make some popcorn next time.”
Clint rolled his eyes at Tony. “Remind me not to take you up on your offer next time you say you want to fly the whole team to Montana.”
“You can blame me for a lot of things, but this,” Tony motioned in his general direction, “is not one of them.”
Clint grunted. “Well, I definitely don’t feel like blaming myself, so let’s go with Steve.”
The man held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Oh, sure, make me the bad guy.” He turned to Tony. “Thanks for the rope.”
“Don’t mention it. Please.” Tony turned to walk back to his suit, rubbing his arms for warmth. “Playing nursemaid to a couple of grown men was not the way I originally intended to spend this vacation, and it still isn’t. So if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a date with a Jacuzzi.”