The pair of guards on the armored door didn't seem to know what to do about a furious, terrified Avenger showing up-other than to do what he said and let him in, after confirming he had a current lanyard and ID.
Agent Weaver was the unfortunate soul to be the first one to encounter Clint Barton once he got inside. "Agent Barton! How do you know about this base!"
"Where is he!" Hawkeye snapped back, fingers twitching.
"The Avengers aren't cleared to know about the new SHIELD facilities, how did you get a pass?"
His hands stopped twitching. "Where. Is. Coulson."
"Oh my god, how do you know about-"
Just as his hand started sliding towards his hip, Skye poked her head out of a conference room. "Did I hear-oh, thank god, Clint! He kept telling us not to tell you, then asking where you were."
Barton didn't even glance at Weaver as he ducked around her. "How bad is it?"
Skye grabbed and squeezed his arms. "It's bad but he's going to absolutely fine. Just-two percent less than himself than he was."
Clint stopped moving and closed his eyes, wobbling slightly. "Who did this to him?"
"One of our own, who did it to save his life, and he's lucky to just have lost his hand. No, really, it could have been a lot, lot worse."
"Well, what the hell happened?"
Skye's face shut down. "I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to tell you in any case, but-clusterfuck."
Clint studied her. "Personal clusterfuck?"
"The personal is involved, yes."
"Right. Like I'm not at all familiar with that." He looked at Weaver, who still looked outraged, then back to Skye. "Can I see him? Am I allowed to see him?"
"Duh, you're listed as his next of kin, of course you can see him."
Weaver found her voice. "He is not allowed-"
"Wrong rulebook, Agent Weaver," Skye snapped. She grinned. "He's got a lanyard."
Whispers of "Hawkeye!" went around the infirmary when Skye took him in. He glanced around at the damaged equipment and the filled beds. "Warzones at home, huh?" he said quietly.
Before Skye could say anything, Simmons appeared. "Oh, Agent Barton, you're here. Did someone call you?"
He smiled a little. "I got a message, but I'm not going to betray my source."
"No, of course not. He's over here."
Phil Coulson was tucked up in a bed behind a broken portable X-ray machine. The monitoring equipment was minimal, the IV stand held only a bag of saline, and his left arm ended in a heavily bandaged stump resting on top of the blankets. For all Clint tried to walk softly in combat boots, Phil's eyes cracked open. A smile appeared before being erased by a frown. Simmons slipped away.
"You're not supposed to be here, Barton."
"I guess you're just going to have to give me an official reprimand when you're able, Director." Clint settled into the chair at Phil's right side. "I wasn't aware the Directorship of SHIELD required the loss of a major body part, sir."
"It's one of those things they don't like to list in the public hiring requirements. You're not supposed to be here, Clint. Who told you?"
Clint settled a careful hand over Phil's right hand. "My source shall remain classified. And I have to be here."
The spikes on the vitals monitor were losing some of the disturbing spikiness as Phil tilted his head over to look at Clint. "You could get in trouble."
"With who? You're the Director."
"I have my own council-well, I did . . ."
"I'll take my chances. And I can't stay long."
Phil's fingers shifted until Clint's fingers slipped between. "I'm down a hand, Clint. It was one of my favorite hands that aren't yours."
"So they do still have you on good drugs." Clint squeezed Phil's fingers. "I was rather fond of it, too. Stark's been salivating over the data he's got on Barnes, I bet he could cobble you together something cool-if you let me tell him, that is."
"It would probably talk to me or something. Or try to take over."
"Evil hand," Clint snickered. He leaned down closer. "I could stay, you know. Keep a low profile, help you with the stuff that needs two hands." He kissed Phil gently. "Or the stuff that just takes one hand."
"Shirt buttons are going to be a problem."
"And driving."
"I was thinking I could let Skye be my chauffer."
"Woah, Dad's going to give her the keys to the car?"
"Well, I'm not going to let her *fly* Lola."
"You don't let me fly Lola."
"You do barrel rolls without strapping in. It hurts, Clint."
"I know, babe."
"It hurts worse than Loki."
"You don't have dying to distract you this time, thank god."
"He chopped off my *hand*. With an axe."
"Apparently you would have died if they hadn't. I like you not dead." Clint turned his head quickly as someone appeared quietly at the foot of Phil's bed.
Simmons held up a syringe. "It's time for more pain meds," she whispered.
"Yeah, I guessed so." He turned back to Phil as Simmons injected the drug into a port on the IV line. "You're going to take a nap now, Phil, not hurt for a while."
"Stay, please. Unless you get in trouble." His eyes were already sliding closed.
"I'll be here."
Clint waited a minute or two, then looked at Simmons. "So who chopped off his hand?"
Simmons lifted her chin. "No one you need to worry about."
"So he's dead?"
"I thought you were here to worry about the Director."
"Skye said it was one of your people."
"As I said, no one you need to worry about." Simmons picked up a tablet from a nearby table. "I have some footage you can see of the process that would have happened if the Director's hand hadn't been removed." She held it out to Clint.
Clint settled back into his chair. "No thanks. Just-don't point him out to me, OK? I don't react well to people who take sharp objects to Phil."
"Perfectly understandable." She patted him on the shoulder. "He'll be out for a couple of hours, if you want to lay down yourself. I believe you know the way to his quarters."
"No, I'll stay here. I don't get to see him enough as it is." He gave her a hard look. "He's going to be all right?"
"Yes, I promise."
"Promises are dangerous."
Simmons shrugged. "That's just the kind of life I lead these days," she said dramatically.
"I'm sorry," Clint said solemnly. Simmons smiled and walked away.