Standardized disclaimer: Anything that's recognizable isn't mine. These are real places mentioned. Pioneer Square in Seattle is a good place to visit. People are all made up.

Many, many thanks to Kylen for putting this idea in my head, and to the people at The Beta Branch for checking my grammar. No relation to any of my other stories.

With a low moan, Clint stumbled against the side of a dumpster and slid down it to land on the ground. His free hand hit a puddle, and he couldn't help laughing bitterly at his initial flinch – shot, probably dying, and he was worried about a puddle of liquid on the ground after three days of rain. Four, he amended, hearing raindrops start to hit the metal lid of the dumpster with sharp pings. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his knees up to better hide from the view of the street.

"Find…get…" Clint winced at the feedback coming from the radio. Reluctantly, he pulled it from his ear and stared at it for probably longer than was necessary, before putting it under his heel and pressing down. A cracking noise indicated that it was broken, and he carefully eyed it before tossing the pieces to the side. Shivering as the rain quickly soaked through his clothes, Clint leaned against the side of his dumpster. He just wanted to go home…if he even had a home to go back to. With a shudder, he wished he still had the rest of his gear; it would have made trying to figure everything out that much easier.

Carefully lifting his hand, he took a slow breath and relaxed slightly when the holes didn't start bleeding again. Glancing around, he spotted a spot where most people wouldn't think of looking, and slowly moved towards a hole in the wall of a building. He finished shoving bricks in the entrance just in time to hear a male voice cursing. "He got rid of it. Back to the van; we're going to have to try something else. You sure you hit him?"

"Yeah. At least twice. Something's gotta be up with him, if he's still able to walk…" the voices trailed off. Clint didn't move, but relaxed slightly. This was as good a place as any to hide while he debated contacting somebody. He didn't think that Natasha would, but there was those comments about…he wasn't able to finish the thought before he passed out.

Faces. Faces and words ran through Clint's head as he woke up with a start. Wiping off the dust that had fallen on his face, he carefully shifted enough debris to look into the alley. When he didn't see anything moving, he made the hole large enough to slide out of, biting back his hiss of pain as the scabbed-over bullet wounds stretched. He hoped that they didn't start bleeding again. Sitting against the wall, he felt in his pocket for his wallet. "Damn," he cursed when he found it empty of cash. Either he used his debit card or he stole, and both ran the risk of him being found. "Think, Barton," he ordered himself. "Shelter, food, first aid."

He suddenly felt dizzy. "First aid." Carefully peeling his shirt back, he frowned at the sight. Carefully touching one of the holes, he groaned. "Fuck. Okay." He tried to remember options as he closed his eyes. "Water. Gotta stay hydrated. Keep this clean. You can do this, Barton." He opened his eyes and looked around. "Find the tourists." He used the wall to carefully stand up and check his balance, before shuffling towards the dumpster. Even an old bottle would give him something more than what he had.

Head down, he was aware of the stares as he carefully hugged the sides of buildings. But compared to the looks he'd been given before finally giving up and leaving, he could take the looks of pity. Even if he didn't like it, he could ignore it, especially since he was still trying to think of who, exactly, was behind everything and who could be considered safe. "Nat," he murmured wistfully. He could really use backup, but he didn't know who...Then the answer hit him, and he almost swore out loud at how stupid he'd been. "Fury," he whispered to himself. "He wouldn't do this."

Spotting a public library, he slowly headed for the door and found a payphone. Dialing a string of numbers, he held his breath and hoped that the misdirect he'd used still worked. At Fury's rough greeting, Clint slowly exhaled. "Barton. Don't look for me and call off the dogs." He hung up before Fury had a chance to respond and took a careful look around. Heading straight for the bathroom that he hoped had paper towels and soap to wash his injuries off with, Clint also hoped that Fury really would hear what he had said.

"What the hell happened to you, man?" The question had Clint groaning. "Dude, you need a doctor or something?"

"Or something," Clint muttered. "'M fine."

He heard movement but didn't look up as a some money was shoved in front of his face. "Look, dude. Get some band-aids or something. Take a taxi to the hospital." When Clint shook his head the hand shook the money. "Really. That shit looks nasty. Paying off my fines can wait. And hell, maybe the people here know of a place. Stay here."

Closing his eyes, Clint felt the other man shove the money into his front pocket and heard the door shut. "Damn Samaritans." Shoving the money further down in his pocket, he slowly straightened up and made for the door. The mantra don't stand out, don't be seen was running at high speed through his mind.

"Hey!" Clint ignored the shout coming from behind him as he pushed through the main doors. With a surreptitious glance around, he started heading downhill. It was easier, and he thought he saw a sign for a drugstore. The 20 bucks in his pocket would get him some water, some snacks, and some antibiotic ointment. He might even have enough for a t-shirt without as many bloodstains or holes.

"Sir?" Clint didn't look up from his position on the bench. "Sir?" A piece of paper was slid into his lap, and Clint reluctantly looked up. "What's your name, sir?"

Clint shook his head. "Please leave me alone." He felt miserable. He hurt, and he just knew that his attempts to keep his injuries clean weren't working. "I'm just…passing through."

"Okay," the voice said. "I'm just giving you a list of resources for the homeless. I've seen you outside my store these past two days, so I'm guessing you don't have the money to pay for a hotel. But there are places that you can get bus tickets."

Clint laughed hoarsely. "Trying to get rid of me?"

"Frankly…yes. You people annoy the customers and stink up the area. You also drive away tourists."

Clint tried to stand up, but was only able to make it halfway. "Help me up?" He glanced up and caught the look of distaste he was being given. "Or not." He chuckled. "I'll leave."

"Thank you." The man turned around and walked off.

"Eventually." Clint sagged back and closed his eyes, crumpling the paper in his hand. "But not right now." Propping his elbow on the arm of the bench, he rested his forehead on his hand. "You're fucked, Barton," he whispered. "Completely and totally." Shaking his head, he snorted. "Not that it's a bad thing. Not right now. Worse places to be." He tried to ignore the slight shiver that ran through him. Digging into the plastic bag on the bench next to him, he pulled out a granola bar and forced himself to eat it. Shoving the wrapper back into the bag, he sighed and glanced around before carefully stretching out on the bench and closing his eyes. He'd find a better place after a nap.

He didn't think he was going to make it to Alaska…he couldn't even remember why he'd chosen that as a destination, or why he'd decided to skip simply hopping a jet and flying there. Clint squeezed his eyes tighter and slowly breathed out as his pain suddenly increased. Any movement made things worse, and Clint forced himself to relax his legs and abdomen. There. Maybe…he drifted off.

"Sir?" Clint groaned. It had been almost a week now, and he'd thought that his spot to sleep was safe. "You can't sleep here. Where do you live?"

"Don't," Clint muttered as he slowly sat up, feeling light-headed. "'M fine." He irritably wiped at his face. He didn't like feeling as off as he was.

"You don't look it," the police officer crouched down, one hand on his Taser. "I'm going to give you two options. One, you let me drive you to the emergency shelter for the night; they have some medical staff there. Two, I bring you in and get you looked at."

Clint's eyes went wide at the choice of words. "Can't go back," he panted, pressing further back against the wall. "Can't. They'll kill me."

"Hey hey hey," the officer quickly said. "Kill you? Who? And can't go back where? The shelter? What's wrong?" He carefully reached out for Clint's shoulder.

"Home." Clint shook, panicked. "Can't go home. And everybody." With a groan, he doubled over. "Leave me alone! I'll leave!" One hand lashed out, weakly, and tried to push the officer away.

The officer shuffled backwards, out of the range of Clint's hand. "Look, bud, don't do that again. Two options. I take you to the hospital or I arrest you. Either way, you're not staying here tonight and you're getting looked at by a doctor. What's your name?"

Clint used the wall to help him stand up. "I'm leaving. Really."

The officer stood up, too, and reached for his radio. "Dispatch, car 2667. Put me out at Pioneer Square and I'll call in." He quickly moved around to stand in front of Clint. "You're probably about ten minutes away from falling flat on your face. Let me help you out." When Clint didn't respond he sighed and pulled out his cell phone. "Dispatch? Roy. Hey John. I'm following a new guy for a few minutes; he's not looking too good. I think if I tried to do anything he'd crash and…yeah. Yeah, put EMS on standby. Hey, bud! Where're you going?"

Clint stumbled and nearly fell. He was so tired and thirsty and hurting and he just wanted his own bed…"Away," he muttered. "Go away. 'M going."

"John, get EMS rolling, would you?" The officer turned slightly away from Clint. "Thanks." Clint seized the opportunity to stagger away. "Oh, for the love of…yeah, John, he's trying to leave."

Clint closed his eyes and sagged against the side of the building, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest. He shivered, a violent movement that felt like it was going to shake him apart, and he was aware of people stopping and staring. "No," he tried to say. "Go away." His vision dimmed and he slumped over.

"Hey, somebody call an ambulance!" A man knelt next to Clint's body. "This guy's burning up!"

"Damn." The police officer knelt down before reaching for his radio. "Dispatch, ETA on EMS? Guy I've been keeping an eye on finally passed out." He glanced up. "Pioneer Square, right next to the tour office." Carefully feeling at Clint's wrist and then his neck, the officer frowned. "Dispatch, put a stat on that ambulance. Starting CPR. Request backup for crowd control."

It was a tense few minutes before an ambulance pulled up and two men shouldered through the crowd. "What's going on?"

"New guy," the officer said, not stopping pressing on Clint's chest. "Collapsed less than ten minutes ago. No pulse. Haven't checked for ID yet."

Nodding, the paramedic glanced at his partner before pulling out AED pads and a pair of scissors. "Good compressions…keep on going." Carefully cutting Clint's shirt, he inhaled sharply. "Somebody's shooting bums? Hold compressions, don't touch." He stared at the cardiac monitor and pressed two fingers to Clint's neck. "He didn't need CPR, come on."

The three men lifted Clint onto the stretcher and at the paramedic's gesture, the police officer climbed behind the wheel. "Where to?"

"Harborview, this is Medic One. We're coming in with a male, thirties or forties. Unresponsive, shocky, two possible bullet holes to his abdomen." The paramedic pointedly glanced at the cab of the ambulance with raised eyebrows. Nodding, the officer put the ambulance in gear and started driving. "ETA five to ten." With a glance at his partner, the paramedic reached for a box. "Hope he has ten minutes."

The ER doctor took one look at Clint and started snapping out orders. "Stat labs. Lactate. Blood cultures. Give me that airway kit. Radiology here yet?" As Clint was slid onto a table, he shook his head. "Sorry, fella. You're not going to like this. We have a line yet?" He glanced up. "Good. Call whoever's on for ICU and get them down here and we're going to need a central line. Fluids need to go faster…somebody find the rapid infuser or just squeeze the damn bag!" Satisfied at the movement he saw, the doctor bent back over. "Respiratory? Going to need a vent. Where are the students? This is as close to a perfect case of septic shock as they'll ever see. You can practically smell it on him."

"You sure that it isn't his clothes?" A tech quipped from where he stood, a bag of IV fluids in each hand. "Two liters almost in."

"Found his wallet." A nurse had been carefully sorting through Clint's pockets. "Two bucks in cash, credit card and driver's license don't match. Keep him as a John Doe, I guess."

"Then how hard should we try?" The doctor cursed as Clint bucked and gagged when he tried to slide a breathing tube in. "Don't answer that, and give him some…thank you," he finished as Clint suddenly went still. "There. X-rays, see if we can figure out what's causing all this." He caught the eye of a medical student who had gone pale. "It's called the Hippocratic Oath, ladies and gentlemen, and you nurses have something similar. First, do no harm, which means, to me, that we will do our damndest to make sure that everybody brought here makes it out of this place under his or her own steam. However, there are patients who," he gestured to Clint, "we have to ask ourselves, is it truly helping them to survive if they'll just end up back on the streets? Or do we have a gentleman who needs a chance to get back on his feet because he's otherwise a…son of a bitch." He stared at the x-rays. "Is that cop still here? We're going to need him, and call Surgery, too. He has two bullets in there."

Staring down at Clint's face, the doctor sighed. "Sorry, fella. Why didn't you come get help sooner?" He didn't look up, but raised his voice. "How soon can we get this guy up to a bed? And can we get him cleaned up some, too?"