Up a Floe

Clint huffed as best he could, around the shivers that were starting to subside. He was up a creek without a paddle—well, up a floe without a snowshoe-and he knew it. Not only that, but it was entirely on him, and he knew that, too. He tried to scratch the back of his head as he surveyed his situation… and he scratched too hard and broke skin, feeling a faint flash of pain and the telltale warm tickle of blood, neither of which was likely to bother him for long.

He'd emerged from his latest assignment (literally—he'd spent the past three weeks underground) to a winter storm that he'd had no idea would happen. He'd checked in with the Avengers (okay, he'd checked in with Loki, the first to actually answer a phone) and said that he was headed for the tower… and within 20 minutes, he'd gotten calls from everyone but Thor, telling him to stay put and wait out the storm. They could all guess that he wasn't kitted for this kind of weather, and in any case, they all said that the storm was going to get worse. It had looked to Clint like the storm was breaking, actually, and he was eager to be home, so he'd fondly brushed off their concerns and set out across what had looked like a solid white field toward a lightening sky.

Of course, his friends had been right. The lightening in the clouds had probably been just a pocket, or the break between two storms; whatever the science, the effect was Clint, out on what did not turn out to be reliable snowpack, in inadequate gear, effectively sticking out his tongue at Snowmaggedon. Well, Sleetmaggedon. Whatever you might call it, Clint thought that 'screwed' fit well enough. Trying to make his way through miles of this stuff, when his legs would randomly plunge through, sometimes more than two feet through, he'd recognized too late one of the many flaws in his brilliant plan—he'd twisted his left knee fairly hard and dislocated the kneecap, and though he'd gotten it back into place (he thought, anyway,) the knee was now weak and shaky, not wanting to carry his weight. And then, after too long caked with water and ice and slush, Rightie had just shut down entirely. Not one to give up easily, Clint had pulled himself along by hand for a bit, but he couldn't feel his fingers anymore, only able to see that they were purple-blue and covered in cuts and abrasions. Sighing, he finally stopped, using precious waning energy to work himself around to reach his pocket. Sadly, it was empty, his phone having slipped out somewhere, which left him with two actionable options: 1) use his emergency beacon and hunker down until help arrived to dig him out; or 2) curl up and die, which would undoubtedly be safer for certain parts of him, but significantly less appealing to others.

Well, one thing he could say for the weather—it'd probably cut the swelling in his knee. Not that that was gonna do him a ton of good right now, but one had to choose to be positive about these little messes.

Clint lost all track of time, doing his best with his fading strength to make himself a little igloo that almost immediately collapsed around him; after that, it was all he could do to keep his airways clear and in a pocket of air. He stopped shivering entirely as his body scrambled to conserve energy, and he could feel false warmth and the pull of sleep. He was fighting, and losing, when his mind told him that something had just grabbed the back of his jacket and was tugging him upward. He blinked, confused but not particularly concerned, as the white of the icepack receded and the breeze cut through him for a moment before he was enveloped by warmer air that smelled like sweat and metal. Then he was turned face-up.

He should have been particularly concerned. He found himself blinking blearily up at Steve and Bruce, and neither looked exactly jolly.

The flight back to New York was fairly low-key; Bruce did a quick exam and some first-aid, his hands gentle and his voice markedly concerned, as Steve sat behind Clint and tried to lend as much body heat as he could, and Nat piloted them as smoothly as she could through (and above) the storm. If Clint had been more alert, he'd have noticed that Steve was deeply worried about him, even getting permission from Bruce to help dry him off after they'd stripped him. Clint vaguely heard Bruce murmur to Steve to handle him like fine china and to not massage, but to just try to keep contact with Clint's head and neck and chest (so the closest Steve could get to hugging his brother was to put both hands on the younger man's chest underneath the thermal space blanket Bruce had spread over the archer.) After a little time and a couple of hot (watered-down) mugs of Tony's ridiculously expensive 'travel' coffee, Clint, wincing at the aches and throbs making themselves known in every extremity and trying to breathe as little as possible in deference to his burning windpipe and lungs, slurred out an answer to Steve's worried question about what had happened… and the interior of the quinjet got so quiet. Clint really should've been particularly concerned.

When they landed, Steve insisted on carrying him like a little kid, totally ignoring Clint's protests and embarrassment. Nat took a second to Gibbs-smack Clint on the uninjured side of the back of his head, ignoring his yelp as she strode away. Bruce had Steve take Clint to the infirmary for treatment and observation, ignoring Clint's sputtering that he was fine and didn't need to be kept like a lab rat. Tony met them, obviously short on patience, and wordlessly demanded his toy, snapping his fingers until Clint disengaged it with the familiar pops and sighs, and the inventor walked off with it, muttering to himself without so much as a 'thank you.' Clint was tired and hurting, but he didn't need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that no one was speaking to him.

Except for some basic medical stuff from Bruce, they went right on not speaking to him as he was taken out of the blankets and put in a hospital gown, then settled into a bed in the infirmary/lab, shot up and IV'd and tucked in with all the interactivity granted to a coma patient.

Being stuck in the infirmary was nearly torture for the archer; he was surrounded by glass walls and sharp objects, and was totally at the mercy of people who were clearly displeased with him. They wouldn't let him get up, they wouldn't bring him actual clothes, and they wouldn't speak directly to him. The only blessings—heavily mixed though they were—were the warmed blankets and the fact that Bruce kept drugging him to sleep, so at least Clint wasn't conscious half the time. He did come around once to find Coulson there, checking up on him… and also not speaking to him. Well, at least it wasn't Fury; Coulson was great and all, but he wasn't exactly intimidating or even really worrying.

Finally, after what his digital clock claimed was just over a day, Clint found himself in a wheelchair, headed back to his room, propelled by a silent Loki who, thin as he still was, managed to get the slightly bulkier assassin from chair to bed easily enough. The young alien didn't speak (not that Clint ever expected him to, anyway,) but he was careful as he settled his friend on the turned-down bed, and he gave Clint a sympathetic look and a gentle shoulder-squeeze as Steve slipped into the room without knocking. Loki avoided Cap's eyes (as usual) as he left with the chair, and Steve quietly shut the door.

"You look better," the super-soldier said mildly. He walked over and sat down on Clint's left side.

"Oh. Wow. Someone speaks. You'll understand if I don't get up and do a happy dance," Clint said sarcastically. At Steve's arched eyebrow, the young man sighed and said more humbly, "Actual clothes would help. Seriously, you have no idea how much." He hated how much he felt like a little brother right now. He'd been a little brother before; it hadn't ended well, and he kept expecting to destroy it all over again, so he generally tried not to let his musings about his relationships with the Avengers get that far.

"We'll get to that," Steve promised. "Right now, I need to know why you ignored five separate people, including the director of SHIELD, telling you not to try to leave until the storm had blown over and it was safe to travel. What was worth risking your safety, your *life*? I'm sure it must be a really great story, because I'll tell you right now that I can't think of a single thing."

Steve was giving him a chance to save himself. Steve *wanted* him to save himself. The cry of a lost child… a ticking bomb… a HYDRA base… heck, even a sufficiently interesting set of footprints might not entirely spare him, but at the very least, it might distract everyone and take the edge off of the aggravation. But Clint couldn't; he didn't have an excuse, and he respected Steve and the others too much to lie… well, about something like this, at least. He sighed and closed his eyes, dropping his head and shaking it. "I got nothin'. I just… I wanted to get here, get a shower, have a conversation with someone who doesn't plan on nuking Niagara to make a statement. I-I wanted to be home," he said in a small, fading voice. He didn't see Steve's expression at the comment about Niagara, not that Clint was technically at liberty to even mention that. The archer was tired and ready to have this resolved.

Steve sighed. "All right, let's get this done." Clint didn't resist as Steve positioned him, didn't even make any of his customary snarky remarks, and Steve took that as a sign that his little brother really got it this time. Well, at least, he got what he'd done wrong, and why it had been dangerous and stupid. This was progress, and now Steve needed to make sure that the young man understood why it mattered to *them.* So, though he didn't usually require this particular little brother to speak during a punishment, this time was different. Steve brushed aside the flimsy gown and set up a rhythm, being very careful; after a good ten swats or so, he gently told Clint that he was proud that Clint wasn't arguing or making excuses and obviously knew what had gotten them to this point, but that he'd like the young man to tell him why it mattered. It took a couple of painful minutes and several false starts (and one irritated comment about Steve having to stop posing and put gas in the jet to come get him) but Clint did actually manage to sputter out that the team would prefer that he not die. Steve rolled his eyes and worked the point, spacing his swats to allow time to breathe and speak (not that Clint was doing a lot of either at that point,) until he got the boy to admit that the Avengers cared about him, regardless of his thoughts about his own value.

Clint didn't notice when the spanking ended, and barely registered being moved when Steve turned him face-up and nestled him into his lap. The archer was a teary mess, even more so than usual, and it took some time before he really began to calm. He finally realized that, instead of waiting as he typically did for Clint to be ready to face him, Steve had made that decision himself; that probably should have irritated Clint, but the assassin didn't have any energy for pointless indignation. He rested, drained, against the super-soldier, too tired to do more than stare off into space and wonder why Steve (any of them, really) still bothered with him.

Some time (minutes, hours, who knew) later, the door opened, and Bruce came in with a steaming mug. He padded over to the bed and gingerly sat down, gently putting the mug into Clint's hands and wrapping the archer's fingers around the warm ceramic. The physicist gave his younger teammate an appraising look and then a small, soft smile. "Gonna live?" Clint, not ready for jokes, just slowly blinked at him, not sure how to answer. Bruce shrugged a little, letting his friend off the hook, and reached up, tenderly running his fingers through Clint's hair, his movements slow. "Can you at least do me a favor? Try not to scare me like that, okay? We're fresh out of spare Clints." The words might have been tinged with humor, but Bruce's eyes were deeply serious. "Drink your tea," he ordered softly, very gently nudging the base of the mug and giving Clint a pleased look when the young man obeyed, sipping at the blend of Nantou dark and Earl Grey and using the action as an excuse to hide his face.

Bruce laid a gentle hand on Clint's thigh and looked up, meeting Steve's sad eyes. They communicated silently for a moment, and then Bruce stood to go. "And don't worry," Steve rumbled softly, rubbing Clint's back, "I did leave him one good position. I remembered." Bruce nodded to him, and quietly left. Clint had no idea what all of that meant until a little while later, when Steve said that it was time to rest, and he laid a suddenly tense Clint on the bed on his right side… which didn't hurt nearly as much as it probably should have. It took a minute, but Clint's fuzzy brain finally worked out that Steve must have largely avoided the side of that cheek when he was busting Clint's butt, so that the younger man would have 'one good position.' He couldn't say he wasn't grateful. And he was even more grateful when Steve, whom he thought had left him, came back to the bed bearing actual clothing, and very carefully helped him dress (well, okay, Steve dressed him and Clint pretended that he had something to do with it, for the sake of his own dignity, though he was exhausted and strangely uncoordinated.) Steve didn't say anything about it, just helping his little brother get settled under the covers, then kissing Clint's forehead. And then he pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed so that his movements wouldn't disturb the archer, who was thinking muzzily to himself that he really had to stop drinking stuff Bruce gave him, as the sedative from the tea kicked in and dragged him down toward sleep.

He might've dreamed seeing a couple of different team members, at separate times, camped out in that chair. When he woke in earnest, Clint realized that he needed to move or he'd end up having an embarrassing problem; he was alone in the room, so he got himself to the edge of the bed, and then stood to take himself to his en-suite.

And he promptly fell on his face—his left leg simply refused to hold any weight. It was a painful fall, and he might've cried out (manfully, of course.) He wasn't sure whether someone was close enough to hear that, or JARVIS was monitoring and informed them, but a minute later, the door flew open, and Steve and Nat rushed in, fear on their faces. They gently got him off of the floor… and then Nat rolled her eyes and exited, muttering under her breath, as Steve carried Clint into the bathroom and helped him get situated. Clint was beyond embarrassed, but also practical enough to recognize that there was precious little he could do about it at the moment, and that Steve wasn't trying to make him feel any way other than like someone had his back. So Steve stepped out and Clint took care of all that he could, and when Steve came back in at Clint's call, the archer asked the super soldier to start the shower and help him onto his cushioned ledge in the specially-redesigned shower stall. He wasn't thrilled to have to sit, even on a cushion, but there was no help for it, so he grit his teeth and got through it, relieved when he was clean and dry and dressed and back in bed on his 'good' hip.

Clint's next few days were filled with napping (sleeping through the night was a challenge any time that he wasn't totally exhausted, but so much enforced time in bed made snoozing practically compulsory, not to mention that Bruce might have drugged any or all of his food and beverages,) some gentle therapy on his left leg, and visits from the other Avengers and company. Even Loki came to hang out from time to time, sometimes just reading quietly or watching a movie or playing cards, but occasionally swapping stories. This surprised Clint on several levels, especially when the exiled prince chose to speak despite the pain it caused him.

Some of the archer's dreams took him back to the ice and the fierceness of the storm, and every one of those reinforced for him the stupidity of his choices and how close he'd come to dying. One of his dreams, the details of which he couldn't recall afterward, had to do with his death and how the others might react. He couldn't remember the dream, much as he wanted to, but he woke with damp lashes and a hollow ache in his chest.

At one point, Tony brought in a freshly redesigned toy, and the two men were discussing the improvements (including better weather protection) and the fit, when they heard a soft knock and looked up. Coulson stepped into the room, speaking to Tony, and then to Steve and Bruce and Nat and Thor as they trickled in at JARVIS' call. Coulson got updates about everything, including Clint, from everyone *but* Clint. In fact, it soon became clear that the director still wasn't speaking to the assassin. And Clint told himself that he wasn't overly bothered by this… until he caught Coulson looking at him, with intense, unreadable eyes, and the assassin swallowed hard.