His head hurt like hell. That was the first thing that he recognized when he regained consciousness. The pain in his head throbbed like the epicenter of an earthquake, sending quivers of pain to his nerves. It took a while for him to notice that his head wasn't the only body part that hurt. He recognized a stinging pain every time he took a breath and he wheezed slightly.

His eyelids were bricks of cements and as he finally heaved them open he had to snap them shut immediately. A bright white light was erupting in his vision, sending a new wave of pain through his head. Even though his eyes were closed he could feel himself on the verge of drowning in nausea.

It was only then that he noticed that he didn't know what his head hurt. His senses were overwhelmed and he decided to give himself a moment to sort his thoughts. He was lying on his back, his head cradled in a stiff cushion. An equally stiff blanket covered him up until the waist. The mattress under him seemed rather comfortable.

His ears started to filter sound. He flinched as the steady sound of a heart monitor brought light into the shadows that were his clouded mind. Was he at hospital? If so, why?

Steps. A quick, urgent sound. Clicking. Heels, he guessed. The sound seemed to get closer. Suddenly, silence. Another click. A door opened. A voice spoke. No, it was two voices.

"We fixed his ribs, his lungs won't be damaged permanently. He should be able to walk and breathe properly in, let's say… Two days. The concussion also won't affect him for longer than a day, although I am not so sure about his memories. I say you ask him about that. You're listed in his contacts so that should be no problem, yes?" The voice was firm yet kind.

"I'll ask him. When will I be able to talk to him?" The voice was female. He could detect an accent, his best guess was Eastern European.

"Soon. It looks like he'll wake up any moment. About the cuts on his neck and chest… I'm afraid that they'll stay behind as scars. They might fade after a couple of years but in case he doesn't know where they came from I suggest you tell him. Here in my reports I have a notice about him not being too open to doctors… Anyways. Should I leave you two alone?"

"Yes, please. Should I call you when he wakes up?"

"Oh, no, no, everything should be alright. Unless there is an issue that you cannot handle, of course. Then please notify me. Just press the button on the side of his bed. It will alert either me or someone who can help you equally well."

"I'll call if there is a problem."

He could hear a pair of feet leaving the room as the door clicked again. For a moment he contemplated opening his eyes to take a look at his visitor but he decided that playing dead was a safe option for now.

The sound of heels clicking on the floor appeared again and it came closer. It stopped just to his left and he could hear delicate breathing. He did not know how to react. Who was the woman? Why was she visiting him? Why was he here? He knew that the answer to all of his questions would come to him if he just opened his eyes yet he decided to leave them shut.

"Clint?" It was a question. The woman was speaking carefully with sympathy in her voice. Something in her voice ringed a bell. It was the way she said the name.

Was she addressing him?

"Clint… Can you hear me?"

Was that his name?

He suddenly felt a warm touch on his hand. It was so sudden yet so familiar that he couldn't resist the urge to open his eyes. He ripped them apart and immediately regretted it. The light was still blinding and the pain in his head pulsed again. A pained groan escaped his lips and he turned his head away to face something other than the bright light in the ceiling.

And that's when he saw her.

It took him a while to make out her face as his eyes were still adjusting to seeing again. Her frame was delicate yet she emitted a strong aura that sent a shiver across his spine. He could see a hint of fear in her eyes, but there was something else… Relief? Long, dark blonde hair fell down her shoulders. Even though he couldn't find a name to match her face she seemed oddly familiar. It bugged him that everything about her screamed memory but he couldn't connect any ties to her.

She looked confused, apparently noticing the same emotion showing in his face.

"Clint?"

He opened his mouth to speak and yet no words came out. He tried again, this time being able to croak out a couple of words. It surprised him that his voice was so low.

"Why… Why do you keep calling me that?"

The woman blinked and stepped away. He could see shock in her face as she looked him right in the eye. Apparently she did know him.

"I'm sorry… Did I say something rude?" he asked, worried about might having offended her.

"No," she said after some hesitation. "I'm just… Do you know your name?"

He blinked. He was so busy with the pain in his head and with the presence of the woman that he did not realize that he actually had no idea of what his name was. Neither did he recall a home address, a city, any memories of significance.

"I- I thought I," he stammered, not finding the appropriate words to string together. He started to panic and he could hear the heart monitor beeping faster. He didn't know who he was. He did not know the simplest thing about him; a name. Who was he?

She took another step towards him, carefully, as if she were approaching a wounded animal. Maybe he was just that, he figured. "It's okay," she said. "The doctor said that something like this might happen. Temporary amnesia or something. You had a bad concussion."

"A concussion? How? What happened to me? Did I have a car accident?"

She nervously bit her lip. "No. And you have no idea who you are?"

"No," he said, somehow feeling guilty because he genuinely had no idea who he was. It felt weird to be someone who was able to feel, speak and think yet not being able to recall anything about a life he was supposed to have. He felt like he was robbed of something very precious.

There was a pause.

"Well, now that I know my name… Nice to meet myself. And what's your name?" he asked, trying lighten the mood.

"Wanda," she said, carefully watching him while she did. He knew that he hoped to see a trace of recognition in his face yet he himself was disappointed that the only emotion that surfaced was more confusion.

"Wanda," he repeated, enjoying the sound of the name. "A very nice name. Where are you from?"

She waved it off. Apparently she did not want to speak about that.

"So…" he started again, feeling himself becoming impatient. "What happened to me?"

"You fell."

"I fell?"

"…Yes."

"I got a concussion and presumable broken ribs because I fell? What in the world did I fall from?" he asked, not sure if he was able to believe her. He did not know that woman, even though she appeared to know him. What if she was just messing with him? She wasn't a doctor. This woman, this… Wanda. She could have been anyone. He couldn't come up for a reason for why she would tell him lies but as he did not have hard facts he wasn't sure of anything right now.

She took a deep breath and looked away. "You fell off a plane."

Silence.

"Excuse me? I fell off a plane?" he asked in disbelief. The possibility that this woman was a liar became more and more reasonable to him.

"You didn't exactly fall. You were pushed off a plane," she corrected herself, still avoiding eye contact.

That was too much. He tried to sit up, fighting against the wave of nausea that was overcoming him again. First she was telling him that she knew what happened to him, and then she was reluctant with sharing the information with him. Now she was telling him that someone threw him off a plane?

"Clint," she started, trying to hold him back. "You have to stay in bed, your head-"

"Leave," he cut her off. She seemed perplexed at that command, staring at him in confusion.

"Clint, please, you know me-"

"I asked you to leave. Please."

"Clint-"

"Stop calling me that!" he shouted, immediately regretting it. His chest stung and he had to fall back into the cushion. He wheezed and held his ribs, remembering something about the doctor saying that his lungs were damaged.

Wanda looked at him in pity, still refusing to do as he asked her. Quietly she leaned over and helped him settle down on the cushion so that he was lying comfortably without putting too much pressure on his ribs. He fingertips brushed his shoulders, which sent another chill across his spine. The touch felt so familiar and it tore him apart on the inside not knowing why it felt like that.

"Clint, let me show you something, alright?" she said, looking for something in her pocket. He felt too exhausted to protest so he just lay there, watching her. Eventually she found what she was looking for and she fished a smartphone out of her pocket. She unlocked the phone with a six-digit passcode and spent another few seconds looking for something on the screen.

"There," she said as she stopped scrolling. She turned the screen towards him so that he could see the image that she wanted to show him. "Look at it and try to believe me."

He squinted his eyes and examined the picture. It showed a small group of people at a rectangular table, eating dinner together, all smiling into the camera. At first he could see Wanda on the very left of the picture, laughing wholeheartedly, carrying a glass containing a red liquid in her hand. Wine, he presumed. On the other end of the table he made out a muscular, blond man who also smiled into the camera. He, unlike the others who were drinking wine and eating something that looked like fancy pasta was drinking water and eating salad. Sitting together, shoulders aligned next to each other sat two people, a man and a woman. He recognized the man to be himself. He, apparently being a person called Clint, looked extremely happy as if he were surrounded by his best friends. His past self held up a glass as if making a toast to the company. Clint gasped as his gaze fell on the woman sitting next to him. She was a striking beauty. Her hair was full and red and she was wearing a brilliant white dress with red highlights that accentuated her hair. The woman seemed to be very close to Clint. One hand was placed on his other shoulder and the way she was leaning towards him was suggesting that they were more than just acquaintances.

Like when he saw Wanda for the first time he felt like he knew that woman, but this time that feeling was stronger. Something nagged him in the back of his brain as if a memory was playing tug of war with his nausea. Clint blinked repeatedly and leaned back again to relax his neck.

"The red-haired woman," he started," who is she?"

"Oh, her?" Wanda said, looking at the picture. "That's Natasha. Natasha Romanoff."

"Natasha…" Clint repeated slowly. Like Wanda's name he liked the sound of it, but this time he felt like experiencing colorful music for the first time. "Natasha…"

That was when it hit him. There was a reason that something in the back of his brain was unsettling, something was wrong. It was the only thing that he seemed to recall of his past life and he was sure of it. His expression melted away as his head whipped around to face Wanda.

"Danger," he said, gasping. His head started to throb again.

"Danger?" Wanda asked, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"That woman," Clint gasped, pointing at the phone. "Natasha."

"Yes, what about her?"

"She's in great danger."