Title: Leap of Faith (HowThe Mighty Fall)

Author: Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul

Rating: K+

Summary: Phil permitted a small smile to reach his face as he stopped outside the door to Barton's room. "I'm in one piece, Nick. Clint saw to that, the reckless sonofabitch." Fighting the urge to run a hand through his hair, Coulson sighed as he opened the door and stepped through into the archer's room. "Although I think you owe me a - damn it!"

"Coulson?"

"Nick, I'll call you back." Phil hung up without another word, taking in the sight of Barton's empty bed with a huff of concern.

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me...not even that pesky archer :(


Chapter Three: And A Few Home Truths

Phil Coulson eyed his dishevelled appearance in the rest room mirror with an air of disdain whilst biting back a tired sigh with practised ease. Pulling his handkerchief from an inside pocket, the senior agent rinsed it under the tap before attempting to wipe away the layers of dirt and grime still covering him.

It was a lost cause. Phil knew this, but he also knew that he required something to keep his hands busy so they'd maybe stop shaking; some inane distraction to help keep his mind from picturing his asset - bloodied, bruised and unconscious on the cold concrete. Clint had only been in that position because he'd put himself between Phil and imminent danger without a thought for his own well-being.

Again.

Swallowing thickly, Phil dropped the soiled cloth in the sink and gave up on his efforts to make himself presentable, choosing to splash cold water on his face instead.

Phil had left Barton's bedside for the first time in... Well, he'd lost track of the actual hours. At least two, maybe even three. After the dust had settled in Manhattan, it felt like someone had hit the fast-forward button. The EMT's had Barton loaded into the back of the ambulance in record time, a second removing the body of Martin Williams as Coulson had arranged for the detainment of the Chief of Police pending further questioning. Reluctant to abandon the scene entirely, Phil had been relieved to see the familiar bald head of his good friend, Jasper Sitwell. The agent took control of the scene and sent Coulson on his way, demanding that he get himself checked over whilst he was at the hospital. Phil hadn't bothered to explain that barely any of the blood on his suit was his own.

Upon arriving at the New York Downtown Hospital, Phil had done little except wait, brushing off the receptionist's concern about his crumpled, bloodied appearance with a flash of his I.D and the demand for an update on Barton. They'd moved him temporarily to the family waiting room before a young nurse chaperoned him to Clint's bedside and there he'd stayed.

Clint was going to be fine, the doctors assured him. Had done several times, in fact, but Phil had to keep reminding himself; was having trouble reconciling the sight of his pain-in-the-ass, full of life asset with the pale, lifeless body currently laying in the hospital bed down the hall.

The doctors were keeping Clint under light sedation whilst the cyclobenzaprine got to work on relaxing the abused muscles in his back from the fall. The broken ankle had already been set and put into plaster, whilst his sprained knee had been iced and the road rash to his arm thoroughly cleaned and disinfected alongside the multitude of other cuts, scrapes and minor burns. Coulson thanked every god ever known that Clint's close proximity to the explosions had caused little permanent damage. The archer would be out of commission with his broken ankle for the next few months at least, and on strict bed rest for as long as possible (though Phil didn't hold out much hope for that one), but that was a small price to pay for walking away from a hundred-foot fall and two consecutive explosions. A small price, indeed.

By the time the doctor had finished updating him on Clint's condition and had excused himself from the room, Phil had been struggling to stay awake, the day's events hitting him with a wave of exhaustion. Unwilling to allow himself the luxury of sleep he'd climbed slowly to his feet and, with a final glance at his charge, left for the rest room in an attempt to shake the cobwebs away.

Phil was distracted from his thoughts by the shrill chirp of his cell phone from his jacket pocket. With a final glance in the mirror he took a deep breath and pulled himself together, answering his phone on the fourth ring as he exited the rest room and walked along the hallway. "Coulson."

"Phil." It was the Director.

"Sir." Coulson used the pregnant pause that followed to gather his thoughts. Now that he had the time to think of it, Phil remembered that Sitwell and Hill had been locked in with Fury and the WSC that morning for talks on a suspected breach of security at the Hub. "Is everything okay?"

"How're you holding up, Phil? Your boy re-joined us in the land of the living yet?"

So it was Nick he was talking to, who, for the time being, was not the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. but simply his friend. Phil was glad.

"He's still sedated, which is probably the most peace we're going to get from him for a while. You know that."

Fury snorted indelicately. "Kid'll be back to reigning havoc and mischief in no time. But you only answered half of my question, asshole."

Phil permitted a small smile to reach his face as he stopped outside the door to Barton's room. "I'm in one piece, Nick. Clint saw to that, the reckless sonofabitch." Fighting the urge to run a hand through his hair, Coulson sighed as he opened the door and stepped through into the archer's room. "Although I think you owe me a - damn it!"

"Coulson?"

"Nick, I'll call you back." Phil hung up without another word, taking in the sight of Barton's empty bed with a huff of concern.


Clint bit back a whimper as his weakened legs gave way beneath him despite the valiant effort he put into remaining upright. The slide to the floor was quick and painful, the wall both supporting his frame and reawakening the cuts, scrapes and abused muscles as he landed in a graceless heap on the cold, tiled floor.

Stealing a moment to catch his breath, Clint could feel the remnants of the sedatives as they moved sluggishly through his veins; the staccato beat of his heart exacerbating the thundering in his skull as he fought to chase away the dark spots clouding his vision. Clint knew he should be resting; knew that realistically he should still be semi-comatose in his hospital bed, but upon awakening to find his handler missing, the compulsion to track him down had taken hold and it wasn't something that Barton could fight. Not until he knew Coulson was safe.

If, along the way, Clint had somehow found himself inside the Hospital's Morgue, well...the opportunity to confirm Coulson's kill on the Williams kid wasn't one he could turn down either. Not when his own memories of the incident were currently a jumble of confusion, uncertainty and pain. He'd seen the kid hit the deck, of that he was certain, but his memory from that point on was refusing to cooperate and that left him unsettled.

Taking a deep breath, followed by another, Clint counted patiently to thirty before even considering the notion of moving again. Now that he'd stopped, the adrenaline that'd been keeping him mobile had worn off and his body had decided it was a good time to remind him that, in spite of what he sometimes thought, he wasn't superhuman and he hurt.

A lot.

Eyeing the sturdy cast on his ankle and the thick bandaging to his arm properly for the first time since he'd woken, Clint sensed that he had a lengthy recovery time ahead of him. Even with the mix of sedatives and painkillers in his system Clint could feel the scream of his fractured ankle and the relentless sting of damaged and exposed nerve endings from his arm above the many other aches and scrapes, cuts and bruises. Using his bow was going to be difficult, though not impossible, for the next few weeks at least, and Coulson would probably threaten to handcuff him to the first solid surface he could find if it meant Clint would allow his ankle enough time to heal before he forced himself back to active duty.

The next few weeks were going to suck.

Knowing he couldn't sit around feeling sorry for himself all day, Clint grit his teeth and prepared to move. Bracing his good arm against the wall, his attempt at dragging his aching frame upwards ended in failure as his body steadfastly refused to cooperate. As punishment for even trying, Clint's stomach chose its moment to rebel at the fresh wave of adrenaline and pain. It was all the archer could do not to empty the meagre contents of his stomach all over himself, turning his head to the left in time to decorate the floor at his side instead.

Screwing his eyes shut Clint groaned in disgust, allowing his head to thud gently against the wall as he struggled to fight the lightheadedness and exhaustion; nausea settling like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. Eyes closed, Clint convinced himself that he would rest for a few minutes before trying again, whilst stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the way that his body trembled and shook like a newborn kitten.

It wasn't until the soft hiss of an opening door that Clint startled back to awareness a few short minutes later, the scalpel once carefully concealed under his loose scrubs now gripped tight in his trembling fingers without conscious thought. The familiar yet uncharacteristically dishevelled figure of Phil Coulson gliding through the door reminded Clint that he needed to breathe and he swallowed another wave of nausea as he willed his racing heart to slow.

"Barton?"

Clint blinked stupidly in his handler's direction for a few long seconds before huffing out an exhausted sigh, the scalpel hitting the floor with a clatter as his arm tired itself out. "Hey, boss..." Clint's voice cracked painfully.

Phil lingered where he was for the moment, absorbing the sorry state of his asset and the mess he'd made of himself before scanning the rest of the room to check it was secure.

Clint regularly made a habit of escaping medical, so Phil really shouldn't have been all that surprised to have discovered his empty bed, although this was the first time he'd tried it after falling 100 feet and then narrowly escaping with his life after being blown up - twice. Why Clint had felt the need to–

Coulson's internal thoughts trailed off as his eyes came to rest upon the several covered gurneys in the room. One in particular, in the corner nearest to the door, drew his attention with its toe tag and lopsided clipboard.

Realisation dawned quickly.

Phil took a careful step toward his asset. "He is dead, you know."

Barton frowned, running the words through his sluggish brain. It took longer than necessary for his handler's words to make sense but then Clint snorted softly, blinking owlishly in Coulson's direction.

"I know... Now. I know now," Clint felt the need to clarify, his relief palpable as he shifted minutely to relieve the ache in his swollen knee. "But I needed to be sure."

Phil sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Hawkeye had one of the sharpest minds in S.H.I.E.L.D. and yet Phil still struggled to follow the man's logic at times. "So you felt the urge to confirm this for yourself now? In spite of falling off a building only a few hours ago?"

Clint opened his mouth as if to explain, caught off guard by the bite to Phil's words, but Coulson was having none of it, the anger and frustration suddenly evident in the older man's voice as he closed the gap between them. "I find you roaming the halls with a busted ankle, a sprained knee and –" Coulson eyed the mess to Clint's left, "-a concussion, no doubt. What exactly were you thinking, agent? Were you even thinking?"

"Sir…" Clint dropped his gaze to the floor, no longer able to look his handler in the eye as he swallowed audibly. "I- You weren't there, and I... I panicked."

Clint's miserable admission was soft enough that Coulson struggled to hear it the first time. "What?"

"You weren't there, Phil. You were gone and I - I thought..."

Shit.

"Clint…" Phil sighed, dropping to the floor at his agent's side and mirroring Barton's graceless sprawl. "I'm sorry. I made a promise after...after everything with Loki and the Alpha, and I messed up. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry."

Barton snorted softly, watching his exhausted handler from the corner of his eye. "No, sir, you're right. I'm the one that should be apologising. I shouldn't have disappeared like that-"

"Too right. You should be resting, Barton. That ankle isn't going to heal if you're walking on it. I don't even know how you managed to get this far as it is." Instead of taking the bait, Clint just nodded, neither of them willing to delve too far into the nightmare that was their recent history. The wince that followed reminded Clint that they were sitting on the cold floor of the Hospital's Morgue.

"C'mon, let's get you back to your room before the nurses report you as missing. I owe Fury a phone call." Phil climbed to his feet, smoothing down the creases in his jacket before giving it up as a lost cause. "And you owe me a new suit."

Clint grinned tiredly, holding out his good arm for Coulson to help him to his feet. Despite almost dying, the archer felt proud of what he'd achieved that day. He was alive and Phil was safe.

It was all that mattered.


Coming soon... Look out for the prequel, Alpha.