A/N: Thanks to dysprositos for improving the rhythm of this piece a great deal. We both agreed that there is not enough hurt/comfort fic out there, so I'm doing my part to remedy that. Oh, and just a reminder: I have a Tumblr now: Westgateoh is the name. Check it out and say hi! Thanks for reading!

Warnings: Claustrophobia and brief Clint/Coulson (nothing explicit).

Darkness and dust filled Clint's senses, and sharp pain. He breathed in, coughed, and felt his leg explode in fire. He couldn't see anything even with his eyes open, couldn't move, and couldn't think. Blood thundered through his ears and he clenched his eyes shut, useless as they were, and he tried to remember something from before, tried to think around the pain, tried to ignore the black claustrophobia filling his chest with sand and fear.

An hour ago, this had been the dumbest mission he'd ever seen.

"A cave," Clint had muttered as they climbed down the wooden ladder to the tunnel below.

"Quiet, Barton," Phil had commanded.

They were on radio silence from here on in, and it was just Clint and Natasha, with Tony and Steve on standby outside. "Only the smallest and the sneakiest for this mission, Hawkeye," Stark said in his ear as he climbed.

"Stark, shut up or I'll send you in there, too," Phil said.

Clint loved to hear Phil threaten Tony, but he also knew anyone would be crazy to want this job. He and Natasha had to navigate two separate cave tunnel paths to two separate chambers, where they might find a loosely or tightly guarded cache of weapons being hoarded by a branch of HYDRA.

"Find those weapons," Phil had said, "Get rid of the guards and get out of there so we can send a SHIELD team in to destroy them safely. Quiet from here on so we can get the hell out as quickly as possible."

No one was comfortable with this mission.

That they were dealing with HYDRA meant a question mark on what types of weapons they'd find and how many guards. It was also the reason for the Avenger team. The cave itself was labyrinthine and mostly uncharted, which was why only the two smallest of the Avengers were going in. The question mark about the guards necessitated the most trained of the team as well, and that left Clint and Natasha giving each other a quick hug at the point where their paths diverged and then plunging into the darkness with only a dim headlight, a few knives, and a couple of small pistols strapped to their legs.

Clint followed his tunnel for about a quarter of a mile before it sloped downward and his steps became guarded. His respect for spelunking grew. There was no sign of anyone, and his path seemed to stretch on and on. The silence and darkness made Clint twitchy, and the further in he went, the closer the walls seemed to get. He could hear something scurrying around at his feet, and he could smell sulfur from a pool somewhere along the path as he climbed over rocks and twisted himself around corners. Finally, he broke into a wide, open chamber that actually had some natural light from a few cracks and crevices from the surface.

He ducked along the wall and found an outcropping of rock to slip behind, but he didn't find any guards. He went further in and didn't find any weapons, either, even though this would be a good place for them. He searched for ten minutes, but he didn't even find another path out of the place, and decided his end was a bust.

He was making his way back towards the tunnel when Natasha whispered over the comms, "Found them."

He got a sinking feeling in his gut and hurried, trying to wind more quickly through the passageways. When he heard gunfire over the comms, he picked up his pace even more. Suddenly, as he rounded the corner to the uphill slope, Natasha swore loudly in his ear, the ground rumbled beneath his feet, and the world caved in.

When he came to, he heard voices swirling around in the dark.

"Clint! Natasha!"

"I made it out, Coulson. Clint's path is wasted, though. There's a pile of rubble and I can't see anything."

"Stark, Captain Rogers, we need you. Natasha, did you take out all the guards?"

"Yes, there were only two, but I think one triggered the explosion. I don't think there's anything left back there."

"Clint! Can you hear me? Come on, Clint."

Clint opened his eyes and tried to stop coughing. He could hear the voices over the comms, but there was too much dust clogging his throat and he didn't know if he could talk. He coughed again.

"He's coughing. He's alive," Natasha said, relief seeping through her usual cool voice.

Clint tried to ignore the pain as he threw his arm over his face in an effort to limit the dust getting in. His throat was tight and already sore, and even in the darkness he saw spots every time he coughed and pain rolled through his trapped leg. That was it—his leg was trapped. He could move his arms but nothing else. He tried to talk again. "Can't breathe," he whispered and was overtaken again with a coughing fit.

"Clint, are you hurt?" he heard, but then he was too busy blacking out from the pain of coughing to respond. When he came to, he heard scuffling above him and felt the rocks shifting. It was still dark as pitch and he still couldn't breathe right. Something shifted above him and the pain in his leg was simply a fuse for fire that lit through his whole body. He screamed.

"Stop!" he heard Coulson command, and the noise around him quieted. His scream died in the chamber of stone around him as the pain receded to settle back in his right leg. He could hear his own ragged breathing in the darkness as everything tipped backwards.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! What you are about to see will astound you, delight you, and fill you with awe! I present to you a young boy as you've never seen before! This boy is the world's greatest marksman, and he's only fourteen years old! Would you like him to prove it?" The ringmaster's voice rang through the tent and Clint felt the thrill he got every night course through his lithe body. He grinned through the spotlight and stepped out into the ring.

Later, he lay under the starry sky on a warm and humid summer night in Kansas, and the darkness wrapped him in its arms, holding tight, making him feel small but safe. He loved it. The dark of night after a show was Clint's favorite time, where no one bothered him and he was finally alone. The dark of night held no threats, no one making demands, no one warning him that if he screwed up a beating was coming his way. No, the dark of night was a show done well, Trick letting him collect a snack from his trailer and letting him slip away unscathed. The dark of night meant the day was good. Clint loved the dark.

He woke again, coughing in the darkness, with Phil talking in his ear.

"Clint, we're trying to get you out. Clint answer me, please." Clint heard it, then, the shift away from command in Phil's voice, the shift to worry, concern, fear.

Clint pulled his shirt up over his mouth after the fit dissipated, and tried taking a breath through the fabric. It worked. He sucked in the dust-free air and managed to tap his comm. "My leg's fucked up and trapped." His voice sounded like he'd swallowed a few shards of glass.

"Okay. Okay. Is that all?" It was Phil, trying to assess and not at all hiding the relief at hearing Clint's report.

Clint sucked in another cleaner breath. "Can't breathe very well. Can't see. Phil, it's so fucking dark in here."

"I know. I know, Clint. We're trying to clear the rock, but you screamed and passed out the last time we moved anything."

Clint heard the unspoken 'you scared me' in that statement and he closed his eyes against the oppressive dark again.

Clint tried to keep the fabric of his shirt over his mouth, but his arm was tired and he had to let it flop to the ground. That's when he realized how tired and heavy he was, and he tried reaching his arm down through some of the rubble to his leg; when he pulled his hand back, it was wet with warm, sticky blood. A shiver wracked his frame and he tried harder to breathe through his nose this time. He managed to say, "Leg's bleeding, Phil. A lot, I think."

He blinked his eyes, hoping some light would miraculously appear, but even when he ran his hands over the ground around him he couldn't find the headlight he'd been wearing.

"Okay, Clint. We're going to dig you out now. It's going to hurt, but we have to get you out of there." Phil added quietly. "Hold on."

Clint felt panic at the edge of his mind and he tried to clamp it down, but all he managed to do was draw a too-sharp breath and fill his lungs with dust again. He coughed some more, bracing hands on the ground so that his body wouldn't move as much. Now that he knew he was bleeding, he imagined blood flowing out of his leg dangerously with every jolt.

When he got his breath back he whispered, "I'm cold, Phil." And he opened his eyes, straining to see something, anything, a sign of help and rescue, but it was just black. "And it's so dark."

"Faster, you two," Phil implored over the comms.

"Tasha?" Clint asked. He just wanted to hear her voice, needed an anchor.

"I'm here, Clint. I'm okay. The weapons exploded back from me, and that chamber must have been backed up to where you were. I'm okay. Steve and Tony are going to get you out of there," she reassured him.

He held onto the confidence in her voice for a moment, until the rock shifted above him and hot knives tore through his leg again. He tried to breathe through the pain, to stay awake, to find some light, and he managed not to scream this time as the weight on him moved. But he felt the blood throbbing out of his body, and now tremors ran through him and he tasted bile in the back of his throat.

"Barton, report." Phil's calm voice broke through the silence and Clint tried to focus.

"'m freezing, boss. Tired. It's so dark," he said, and his voice sounded thin and slurred in his ears. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt the dust fill his throat and scrape its way down to his lungs, but he didn't have the energy to cough it out anymore. He could hear Phil losing his calm and yelling at Tony and Steve. Clint could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard Phil Coulson rattled, and this was definitely one of them.

Clint closed his eyes against the pain in his throat and the cold of shock and the throbbing of his leg and the world tipped backwards again.

"I love coming out here. I thought you'd like it, too," Phil said over his shoulder as he opened the trunk of his car. He leaned over and Clint laughed as Phil struggled to pull the bulky telescope case out. Clint stepped around him, his hip brushing Phil's, and helped maneuver the case to the ground. Phil sighed and picked it up easily now that it was out of the car. "Grab that blanket, and there's a cooler in the back seat."

Clint did as he was told, and he followed Phil from the tiny parking area through an old wooden fence gate into an open field. They'd driven about an hour out of the city, listening to music and laughing about Tony's latest antics. Now, Clint spread the blanket out where Phil directed and flopped down on his back as Phil fiddled with the telescope. He stared up at the clear night sky, and sighed deeply, relishing the fresh air and memories from his circus days. "I haven't been out in a field like this since I was a kid," he said. Phil turned and smiled warmly, the smile that made Clint's chest warm every time he got it.

"Did you like to sleep outside?" Phil asked, adding, "I used to sleep without a tent, just under the stars, when I was a kid."

Clint nodded. "Yeah." He sat up and decided to explain what the night sky meant for him as a kid, sharing how a night allowed outside meant he'd done well, that no one was angry with him, no one cared how he spent his time that night. "I loved being in the dark, alone," he finished, and Phil chuckled.

"Hope you don't mind my company tonight," he said, sitting down and pressing his side into Clint, who laughed.

"Makes it even better, I think," Clint said, leaning in for a kiss and enjoying the feel of Phil's lips and the silence around them.

Clint woke with an oxygen mask on his face, the smell of antiseptic and lip balm hanging in the air, and when he dragged his eyes open, he saw Phil sitting in a nearby chair with his laptop open. Clint was too tired to do anything but watch him, but after a moment, Phil looked up and caught his eye. Grinning, he shoved the laptop to the floor and sat down carefully on the edge of Clint's bed, twining his fingers in with Clint's.

"Hey. You're awake," Phil said, his smile softening.

Clint nodded; he felt leaden and fuzzy and couldn't seem to get enough air to talk.

"Don't try," Phil replied to the question in Clint's eyes. "You inhaled enough dust to build a small village and managed to contract pneumonia, and you've been through surgery to repair the artery in your leg. Rest."

Clint felt himself blanch, and he glanced down at his leg.

"It's going to be all right. You're going to be off duty for a while, and you're going to have what Dr. Sanderson called a 'shit-ton' of physical therapy, but he said with your track record you'd make a full recovery."

Clint nodded weakly and closed his eyes. He felt Phil run his hand through his hair and down his cheek, and he felt warm and safe, but the good drugs carried him under again without any warning.

The next time he woke, there were voices-Natasha and Tony-and he managed to stare at them for only a minute, long enough for them to come and stand near him, before he was swept under again.

He was afraid.

He dreamed of rocks and dust, of darkness and muddled, worried voices boring into his ears. He dreamed of stars winking out in the sky, leaving only a blanket of black, smothering, choking. He struggled and fought, and finally opened his eyes again.

This time Phil was back, and he'd stretched out next to Clint in his bed, his arm draped over Clint's belly; he was snoring softly. Clint burrowed into him as best he could, but the movement rustled his bad leg and pain shot through his haze despite the drugs. Phil felt him tense and startled awake, and he sat up, climbing out of the bed sheepishly.

Clint noticed the oxygen mask was gone, and Phil held his hand gently as Clint tried to talk. "Didn't want you to leave," he said, and his voice was weak, but his throat felt normal again.

Phil smiled and shrugged. "I probably shouldn't do that."

"Why not?"

Phil didn't have an answer, except to climb back in and nestle down next to Clint, rubbing Clint's chest and mumbling, "You were touch and go for three days. You scared us."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. That's the last time I let you near a cave, though."

"That's fine with me," Clint replied. "That kind of darkness? Pitch black? I hate it."

But he thought then of the night that he loved, of the wide open fields, of the stars lighting the darkness, and of the fresh air filling his lungs. And he slept.