AN- hey guys! This is a short drabble brought on by a twitter conversation between my friend and I. This is set separately from Waking Ghosts, and addresses how the MCU completely neglected Clint's altered vision and his deafness which, honestly, has bothered me for years. So, this semi-lighthearted little drabble was born. I hope you enjoy it as a nice break from the suffering that is my other fics.

The glint of the arrow mid-flight was the only warning the Winter Soldier got before the torso of the ex-SHIELD agent pinning him exploded with a sickening pop, the knife that had been jammed into the plates of his prosthetic clamoring to the ground as the body slumped into him, lifeless. Bucky made a mental note to tell Richards that the experimental arrow tips he developed for Clint to test worked wonders. Shoving the body away, the assassin rose to his feet, waving a brief gesture of gratitude towards where he knew the Hawk was up in his nest on the roof of a nearby building.

"There's a few more agents coming up on your six, Barnes." The archer's voice hummed over the comlink in his ear, catching his attention, "I got 'em, but you really should get to some better cover." Bucky didn't respond but did as he was advised, ducking into a hall after swiftly kicking the door down. Being in the open courtyard was like painting a target on himself. The sound of arrows whizzing past and the gurgling chokes told him that Clint had made quick work of the agents that had been creeping up on him. The teamwork between him and the rest of the Avengers was clunky and awkward at best, but he was slowly learning that he could trust their guidance and that they weren't looking down on him as a weapon.

He'd been with the Avengers for a few months now after they found him hunting down and destroying every HYDRA hellhole he could find, but this was his first mission being deployed without Steve at his side; he and Natalia were off on some covert op halfway around the world, which left him with Stark and Hawkeye. It was more than a little disorienting not having the Captain with him, but with the archer on his team he felt a little less alone. Clint was the first of the Avengers whom he had no prior history with that he managed to befriend; he was open and understanding, and knew the hell he'd lived through first hand. Even then it'd taken a considerable amount of time for the Soldier to warm up to him, once he did they quickly formed a strong bond. It was just difficult to socialize and bond to someone new when he was somewhere between Bucky and the Winter Soldier and unsure of himself. He was not either or both, he was someone new, someone made of broken pieces of those two individuals that was only now taking form.

Clint had been the one to advocate his addition to the team; Fury had been more than reluctant to let him out onto the field in combat while he was still, in the former director's words, unstable. Bucky couldn't blame him, shooting a man tended to call trust into question, and the other Avengers had only ghost stories and hearsay to base their opinions of him on. He hadn't been dispatched on a mission in nearly a month now; on the last mission, flushing out HYDRA holdouts much like this one, he'd lapsed into his old mindset and injured Steve in his confusion. It seemed that the programming HYDRA had so painstakingly cultured was still lurking in his subconscious, and he understood just why several of the Avengers and Fury himself deemed him a dangerous liability.

Even with the confidence that Clint had in him, Buck felt incredibly nervous. He had been given second, third, fourth chances and more, and he wasn't sure if he deserved them. There'd been plenty of accidents since Steve had brought him in, and now that he was more or less aware of his actions, the guilt was starting to build up. Natasha had accidentally snuck up on him once and was swung at, he'd given Steve a bloody nose and a black eye in a panic attack, nearly snapped Tony's neck another time when he started poking at his arm and accidentally shocked him. He was honestly scared of how dangerous he was and how little in control he seemed to be at times.

Just two weeks ago he nearly broke Clint's collarbone when he stumbled across him in the middle of the night in a nightmare daze and pinned him to a wall; the archer had calmly talked him out of his panicked attack in Russian, ending up with only a bruise. He'd locked himself away for days after that, not even letting Steve or Natalia close. And yet the archer still trusted him, even when he had no prior relationship with him and had been shown first hand that he was a dangerous, broken weapon.

Despite that accident, and the half-dozen occurrences with the other Avengers, Clint had, alongside Steve and Natalia, spoken up strongly for him to be included in the team and given autonomy. It was odd having people trust in him, after all the awful things he'd done, and to be handed second chances so easily. He appreciated it more than he could ever articulate into words, and he just hoped he could live up to the expectations placed on him. He wanted to do good in the world again, and they were giving him the chance to heal and do so.

Advancing like clockwork, the plan was going perfectly even with it just being the three of them. Tony was doing a good job of being a bright red, obnoxious target, which was just what Bucky had been planning on. With the agents focused primarily on him, that left Clint and himself free to do what they did best; snipe and cause as much damage as possible. Normally he would have preferred being right up alongside Clint helping him with sniping (not that he needed the help) as opposed to being a one man demolition crew, but without the rest of the team he didn't have much a choice. He could only hope that HYDRA didn't try to capture him and pit him against his new… family. The word still seemed a bit odd to him, but not in a bad way.

A great, shuddering boom shook the very foundation of the building the ex-Soviet was standing in, jarring him clean out of his thoughts. His mind whirled, using the sound and direction to piece together where it had come from. East, about a hundred yards away. Neither Stark nor Clint were near that position, so it had to be HYDRA. But, why would they set off a bomb in their own base? Maybe they were hiding something.

"Are you setting off fireworks there, Red Scare?" Stark's voice suddenly lit up through the Soldier's ear bud, making him wince slightly. The nickname didn't faze him, but his voice was too loud. Starks always seemed to be too loud, too flashy and too cocky. He remembered that much of Howard at least.

"No." Bucky might have been healing, might have gotten to the point that he trusted the others enough to have them watch his back, but he still was not exactly vocal. It wasn't helped by the fact that his apprehension was building. The structure he had entered was deserted, with neither hide nor hair of any HYDRA agents. This wasn't right. It couldn't be a trap, they'd taken the base by surprise, but then again maybe his 'destroy every HYDRA base you come across' actions before being taken in by the Avengers had tipped them off—

"Shi—!" the Hawk's com-tinned voice yelped then suddenly fizzled out, another explosion rattling the ground, nearly sending the assassin to the ground. The floor hadn't even stopped shaking before Bucky had bolted out of the building, goggled eyes snapping over to the building where Clint had been sniping from. Empty, dust-filled sky and a pile of smoking rubble was all that greeted him and his stomach twisted into a knot. Some sort of tank, something that vaguely reminded him of the ones he and Steve faced in the war, was partially hidden behind the corner of a building, barrel leaking thin smoke.

"Hey Cold War, what the hell was—"

"Tank. It hit Clint. Take care of it." The assassin spoke coldly and calmly as he ran over to the debris, even though he could feel panic starting to coil in his gut like a serpent. The seriousness in his tone, however, silenced any smart comeback Tony had and within seconds he heard him zip overhead towards where the tank was positioned. He seriously wished that they hadn't been sent out on this mission until they had more backup because shit like this always happened. Especially to Clint. He was beginning to think the man was cursed or something.

The lower floors of the east corner were intact, the round from the tank having blown the debris away from the foundation, but knowing Clint had been on the roof that fact didn't offer him a whole lot of comfort. HYDRA agents were scurrying all around the courtyard but he ducked into the ruined building before he was spotted, their attention drawn by Stark who was currently attempting to blow the tank to pieces.

Air choked with dust and ash, Bucky was secretly glad he'd opted to wear his goggles as he pulled his collar up over his mouth and nose. A part of him, a part still steeped in fractured HYDRA coding, longed for the snug protection of the muzzle-mask to block the saturated air from entering his lungs. The feeling was fleeting and almost instantly replaced with a nauseous disgust.

The halls were filled with the remnants of the building's upper floors filled the corridor, and the assassin nearly jumped when he stepped on something that loudly crunched under his boot. A glance caught a glimmer of light, reflecting dimly through violet-tinted lenses. Clint's glasses. Shit. That serpent of fear in his gut tightened its coils around his insides, fangs of electric ice sinking into his heart. This was bad. This was so fucking bad.

"Hawkeye!" he knew it was stupid to make so much noise with HYDRA agents still filling the compound but he didn't care. Just let them come, he thought, I'll kill them all for this. Rubble piled up through a hole in the ceiling up into the upper floors, spatters of blood upsetting the thick blanket of dust that had settled across the chunks of masonry. The assassin felt his stomach knot at the sight, wasting no time climbing up the shattered concrete up into the unstable upper floors.

Rubble shifted and protested under his boots, threatening him with collapse at every movement. The former Soviet didn't give a damn honestly, too focused on finding the archer and getting him the hell out of here before the whole structure came down. With a loud hiss of breath, Bucky managed to squeeze his way up into the second story, and almost immediately the pungent metallic scent of blood seeped through the fabric covering his nose. Shit. He needed to find Barton and now, before blood loss or HYDRA got to him first.

Aw, hell.

This is bad.

When Clint regained consciousness it didn't take long for him to realize he wasn't in his sniper nest, or even on the building. In fact, he was pretty sure he wasn't anywhere near the fight as he couldn't hear anything. Wait, I can't hear, are my aids out? That was never a good sign. Neither was the fact that he was flat on his back when the last thing he clearly remembered was leaning over the edge of a building to snipe some HYDRA agent off of Barnes' ass. Everything after that was either blank or an indecipherable mess. That couldn't be good.

His eyes fluttered open but were immediately shut again, the air stinging and chocked full of dust, a wheezy cough escaping his lungs a moment later. The pain took a few seconds to register, but as soon as it did he briefly wished he was unconscious again. Something heavy was on top of his chest, pressing down on his ribs, while his leg radiated bright, crackling pain. Broken, I bet. That was going to complicate things. He couldn't hear a damned thing, and the empty feeling in his ear canal confirmed his fear that he'd somehow lost his hearing aid in whatever-the-hell had happened between saving his fellow sniper's hide and now.

The weight pressing down on him was becoming too much to bear, and with a great shove he managed to push whatever-it-was off of him. It thumped to the ground next to him, weighty by the way it made the floor reverberate, although all he heard was a dim, muffled thud, barely discernable from his own heartbeat. It was still leaning against his side forcefully, but he could breathe a bit easier so that was a small victory. Why did all the crazy stuff happen to him?

Clint groaned loudly and tried to roll onto his side in case the pain made him vomit but found he couldn't. His back felt fine, so that was ruled out; his neck didn't feel any worse for wear either. Chalk that up to his temperamental and flighty good luck finally showing itself for once. He opened his eyes a few seconds later, but everything was very dark and faintly tinted red, which was weird seeing his glasses had violet lenses. Oh, that's blood. That wasn't exactly comforting, nor was the fact that he couldn't feel his glasses anywhere on his face now that he was focusing on it. Closing his eyes again he instead tried to feel whatever was wrong, and he quickly realized he was boxed in by something rough that seemed to almost cocoon him in. There was a small break in whatever was surrounding him and he hesitantly stuck his hand through it, unsure if anything was out there, like his bow, which he really wanted to find.

He about jumped when someone suddenly grabbed his wrist, his mind flashing about a half-dozen probabilities, and none of them were good. The archer jerked his arm back like a snake had bitten him, eyes open but unable to really see anything through the tacky blood. What little he could see, however, was the pebbled texture of abused concrete about three inches above his face. This isn't good. Bits and pieces came together, something bright and loud under his feet while he'd had his eyes locked on a HYDRA agent. Oh, oh.

"Aw, tank…" he whined quietly, but fell silent again when he felt the rubble, he guessed it was, pulled away from his side where it had fallen. Dust and pebbles bounced off his torso, but before he could react further that hand from earlier had grabbed his arm again. This time, however, instead of flesh, it was cold and metallic against his skin. To confirm his thoughts, the touch moved down to his hand a moment later, a cold finger hesitantly tracing a 'B' into his palm. So it was definitely Barnes. Good. At least it wasn't HYDRA. Well… technically, but, whatever.

The former Soviet's human hand now gripped the archer's own, and he figured he was using his prosthetic one to shove the debris off of him as he noticed the claustrophobic feeling and the pressure on him was diminishing. He had his eyes open by the time the last bit of concrete was lifted away from him, black and white vision making good use of the dim light as he sat up and took stock of his wounds. His leg was definitely broken, badly, and he likely had broken ribs and a concussion but other than that he was in one piece. He could live with that.

Barnes helped him sit up against the remnants of a wall, looking him over as well and speaking to Stark through his communicator. He couldn't hear what he was saying, but he assumed he was calling for assistance. Clint wiped the blood out of his eyes, putting on the spare glasses he kept in his belt that, thankfully, hadn't been crushed in his fall. His bow had fallen next to him, and while the ex-Soviet tended to stabilizing his leg he checked his weapon over to make sure it hadn't been badly damaged. Thankfully, it wasn't. He slid his quiver carefully off of his back, gritting his teeth as the bone was set, distracting himself by counting his arrows over and over.

A tap to his shoulder drew his attention, the assassin having finished with his leg. Needless to say, he was pretty surprised when Barnes signed "help coming" to him, since honestly he hadn't even known he knew sign language in the first place, or that he'd noticed that his hearing aids were nowhere to be found. It took a few seconds for him to shake the bit of shock off and sign back an affirmative, although he couldn't help but also sign a question of where he'd learned sign from. He was genuinely curious, and also desperate for a conversation to keep his mind off the pain.

"Steve was partly deaf before," Barnes signed after a moment with a cautious, stiff movement, "Saw you and Natalia signing a few weeks ago". Ah, well, that explained it, but he was also surprised. The Soldier hadn't spoken to anyone about Steve, hell, he hardly even spoke to anyone at all. So seeing that almost hesitant sign about his past with the Captain was unexpected; he had to trust him a good deal to be talking, er, signing about it.

Clint didn't get to dwell on it long, as Barnes suddenly diverted his attention past them, as if he heard something. The archer watched as a large pile of debris collapsed, and a bright pinpoint of blue light rise up out of the dust. Stark, no doubt. Sure enough, the Iron Man armor soon sets down next to them and the two begin speaking, or Clint thinks, as Barnes is talking, but since he can't see Tony's face he just has to assume.

Before he knows what's going on, he feels the Winter Soldier scooping him up as easily as if he weighs nothing, although taking care not to jostle his broken leg too much. Soviet Coldfingers was certainly living up to his nickname, the metal of his left arm icy cold through his uniform as he easily carried him down through the hole Stark had cleared away for them to escape. He was going to be laid up for a while, he knew that, but at least now he knew he had someone to sign and communicate with while he healed. Maybe a few weeks off in the medical wing wouldn't be too bad.