5. Chapter 5

Normally, Clint did not see much point in moping and feeling sorry for himself. When shit hit the fan, and it always did, he pulled up stakes and kept moving. He was a pragmatist, first and foremost. Idealism never suited him. He let other Avengers carry that shield; he was just there to do his job.

It wasn’t that he was always ready to run, just that he was always expecting that he would have to at some point. But despite what most people thought, it wasn’t Natasha who reined him in. She kept him sane and sober, and she was his lover and his sister and his partner in a million strange, creepy, important ways but if he bolted she would follow. Or, more likely, lead him away. People looked at them and saw a strong man with his arm thrown protectively over a smaller, feminine woman but the truth was that it was Natasha who looked out for him. She saved him, over and over, riding in like his knight in shining armor.

But she wasn’t the one who grounded the Hawk.

The person who clipped Clint’s wings was Coulson. The agent was Clint’s ground and sky, but Clint had nothing to offer Coulson except his skill as a specialist for SHEILD. He had intended to give that to Coulson until the day he died, which given his job was going to be sooner rather than later, but suddenly that was being ripped from him. Clint knew that Coulson liked him, and he would go so far as to say they were friends. They went out for beers sometimes, watched the few games they shared an interest in (Coulson was a basketball man while Clint loved baseball, but they both agreed that hockey rocked), and spent way too much time at the shooting range together. On missions they worked like a finely honed machine, fitting together smoothly no matter how fucked up an op got. Coulson kept his cool while Clint kept his aim and together they were an unstoppable force.

Without his aim, Clint was the weak link, and the machine would break.

He had plenty of time to think about his situation as he writhed in pain throughout the night. When he was awake, which was mercifully not often, his eyes felt like they were full of sharp grit, stabbing and grinding at the slightest movement. He wanted to rub his eyes with a desperation that bordered on pathological, because it was all he could think about when he wasn’t mired in depressing thoughts of being blind for life. His usual method of dealing with problems by simply holding his head up high and walking (or running) away was impossible to do while he was blind and in agony.

The doctor had said, repeatedly to everyone who asked, that most cases of arc eye cleared up within thirty-six hours, and that the pain would reduce fairly quickly after the first twelve. Clint wasn’t going to hold his breath on that, because he still remembered the shocking white light of the five arc welders pointed directly at his face. He was grateful he had been far enough back not to have his face melted off, but he knew that the combined effect of the welders was pretty potent.

During one short spell when Clint actually felt lucid, Coulson was out and Stark was in, so Clint had Tony read him everything they could find online about his condition. It seemed to run between “quick, full recovery” and “terrible, permanent injury” with little in between. Tony had finally just stopped reading and said that Clint was going to have to suck it up and be patient, because there was no way to know how it would go.

Clint really, really hated it when Tony was right.

The rest of the time, when he wasn’t sinking into unconsciousness under the pain meds the staff was too generous with (and Clint appreciated it), he listened to Coulson as much as he could. Coulson was not the kind to chatter or talk to himself. He was on the phone sometimes and occasionally talked to Clint about random work-related topics, but mostly made small humming noises as he did his paperwork. It was all familiar and soothing, and if Clint had to spend the time in pain and locked inside his head he at least had the soft, crisp sound of Coulson to ground him.

Coulson’s voice was not low pitched; Clint’s was a lower register, and sometimes so was Natasha’s, but Coulson had a steady, even tone of voice that spoke precisely and calmly in nearly every situation. To Clint it was as familiar as the circus cars rolling down the railroad tracks, or the feel of his brother’s arm around his shoulder. It was home. Trapped in the dark and in constant pain, Clint clung to every gentle noise Coulson made, and refused to allow shame or guilt to intrude into that small sense of peace because he was scared he would not have it for very long.