Coulson hadn't said a word since they had parted ways with Bobbi. And even before then, everything he had said had been addressed to Bobbi and not to Clint. There was no mistaking it; Coulson was pissed as hell. And why the hell shouldn't he be, really? Clint had basically gone over his head by appealing to Director Carter. It was obviously a blow to Coulson's pride and a pretty blatant undermining of his authority.
Silently, Clint berated himself as they both crept down the length of the crawlspace. Coulson was the one guy left on the planet who was willing to give him an honest-to-god chance to make something of himself and he had to go and piss him off. Odds were good that Coulson would be putting in to have Clint's training transferred to someone else. And given that everyone else around the place seemed to hate his guts, he figured that he was, right now, running his one and only op with SHIELD.
If it was going to be his only one, Clint decided he would wow them. Some razzle-dazzle, as they used to say back at the carnival. He'd at least leave an impression on his way out the door to god-knows-where. Maybe Marcella would take him back, though how he was going to get back down to Texas he had no idea. Assuming, of course, the carnival was still there.
Today sucked. Clint really wanted to go back to bed.
Coulson came to a halt next to a panel in the crawlspace with a small hand-hold at the top. It looked like it was spring-loaded and there was a rubber gaskit around the edge of it. Two dead-bolt locks, one on either side, held the hatch closed.
"All right," Coulson said looking at his watch, "we've got fifteen minutes before Fixer's deadline. Mockingbird should be in position by now. This hatch leads out into a hallway on the 55th floor. There'll be gas out there, so get your mask on."
"Just one question before we do this," Clint said as they both retrieved their masks from their belts and adjusted the straps. "Just why in the hell were you trying to keep me from doing this with you?"
Coulson fixed him with a scowl. "Stay on mission, Hawkeye," he said, pulling his mask over his head, "that's an order."
Clint gave a growl at the back of his throat and began to pull his own mask on. "Yes, sir, Pelican, sir," he muttered, rebelliously.
As soon as he was satisfied that they both hand their masks on securely, Coulson carefully undid the dead-bolts holding the hatch shut. Carefully, silently, he reached for the hand-hold and pulled it back. A thin wisp of what looked like smoke threaded in through the tiny gap. Coulson peered out through the gap, looking both ways down the hallway as best he could, then he pulled it open, the hatch now resting on the floor, and he began to climb over it. Clint put a hand on the back edge to keep it from slamming shut. When Coulson had climbed out into the hallway, Clint followed him over the hatch, careful to keep a hand behind him to keep it from slamming. As soon as it had closed back into place, he stood up to his full height and grabbed his bow from its place on his quiver. With a shake, he extended it to its full length, then nodded at Coulson.
They were in motion a moment later, heading for the nearest exit to a stairwell. Jarvis had informed them that it was the particular stairwell that the bad guys were using to get their people up from the lower floors to fortify the 56th. The lockdown barriers were not in place, so they would be able to use the stairs to go one floor up and start taking down Fixer's guys.
The stairwell was dark and empty, thankfully, so they were able to make their way up unhindered. They approached the door and Coulson silently got Clint's attention. He pointed to a glass-encased ax just outside the door, one of those red-wedged fire emergency jobs with a long handle. Coulson then pointed to Clint, and then to his own head.
Remember this is here. Clint nodded that he understood. He could think of a lot of ways a simple fire ax could be used as a weapon and evidently so could Coulson.
Coulson carefully leaned against the door to the 56th floor hallway, putting an ear to it. Clint heard muffled voices talking low, just on the other side. He wondered what Coulson's trained ear was hearing.
Coulson looked back at Clint and held up two fingers. Then, he pointed to Clint and then to the right side of the door. Then he pointed to himself and then the left side. Clint again nodded his understanding and took up a position behind Coulson, ready to go through the door right on his tail.
Coulson gave a silent countdown on his fingers and then wrenched the door open, sailing through and to the left. Clint's target gave a surprised start and before the guy could react properly, Clint had a hand in his hair, pulling his head back and snaking one leg around the guy's. With his other hand, he snatched the radio from the guy's belt before he could reach it. Coulson had dragged his target back through the door into the stairwell and Clint followed suit. By the time he was back through the door with his opponent, Clint noticed that Coulson had already bereft his of the gas mask he was wearing. The thug was sputtering for breath in the gasses that floated in the stairwell and began to weave, though still trying to fight back and get his mask back.
Clint continued to grapple with his guy and they both bucked backward. Clint's back slammed into the metal railing in between the two flights of stairs. Clint kept a vice-grip in the guy's hair and pulled, snaking his other arm around the railing and then under the guy's armpit and pressed it against the back of the thug's neck. The thug's left arm flailed uselessly in the air. Neither of them were moving any time soon.
Coulson's guy finally went down, sinking to his knees and his eyes rolling back into his head before he face-planted, his head dangling down the downward flight of stairs rather uncomfortably as his entire body went slack. Coulson didn't even wait to see that he had stopped moving and spun around to grab Clint's target's other arm, twisting it behind him. With his other hand, he tore the thug's mask off, tossing it over the railing to land somewhere far below, and clamped a hand over his mouth. The three of them stayed locked like that for long moments while the thug continued to thrash. But soon his strength left him and he, too, succumbed to the knock out gas.
"Well, that's two down," Clint crowed, careful to keep his voice low.
"Lots more to go," Coulson replied, "we got a lot of work ahead of us. Keep focused."
"Right," Clint said with a resigned sigh as Coulson once again pulled the door open and entered the hallway. "Would it kill ya? 'Not bad, Clint, the training's really paying off.' Just once?" He allowed himself the short moment of carping to himself, then followed Coulson through the door and on to their next targets.
They continued on in much the same way as they navigated through the hallways. Evidently, the Fixer had decided there was some value in having at least part of the floor filled with the lockdown's knockout gas. It was also partly because of practicality, he supposed. After all, there wasn't any sort of pressurized airlock for the stairwell and that was filled with the stuff, too.
Silently, they left a path of unconscious bad guys in their wake, with various states of head-trauma. But they also removed the masks of everyone they took down, ensuring that they wouldn't be waking up any time soon.
They were only a couple of corridors up from the briefing auditorium by the time they reached a pressurized metal door with a large window of high-impact plexiglass in the top of it. Coulson kept them close to the wall as they approached and carefully peered through. Then he backed them off away from the door and kept his voice low.
"There's four of 'em," Coulson whispered, "none with masks. Here's where the gas ends."
"How are we gonna take down four quietly?" Clint asked, his voice also hushed.
"We're not," Coulson said, drawing his gun and checking the clip to ensure it was fully loaded. "This is where we give Mockingbird her distraction. All hell is going to break loose when we go through that door. You've got your trick arrows, right?"
"Course," Clint replied.
"Break out a net," said Coulson, "see if you can tie up one or two of 'em. Thin their ranks a little."
Clint gave a lop-sided, mischievous grin and he pulled the arrow in question from his quiver and knocked it on the string.
Silently, the pair crept back to the door and Clint took up position behind Coulson once again. Glancing through the window, he sighted his targets for the net; two of them, slouching against a wall in perfect position to find themselves pinned to it.
Coulson gave the count and then burst through the door, a pressurized hiss going with them. In the blink of an eye, Clint had his targets sighted and let fly the arrow. The tip broke open into several smaller darts, each dragging an anchor-point of a net through the air. It spread out and pinned itself to the wall, tangling the two targets. Clint spun, ducking a wild swing from one of the other bad guys. Shouts filled the hallway and the patter of feet could be heard coming their way. Using his bow as a staff, Clint charged and knocked the guy that had taken a swing at him head-first into the wall. He tumbled to the floor and lay there in a heap. Coulson, too, made short-work of his guy just in time to see three more thugs come barreling down the hallway toward them. He fired two shots, catching one guy in the knee and another in the shoulder. They both went down screaming. By then, the third was close enough to take a swing at Coulson. Clint readied another arrow and took aim, pinning the guy's other hand to the wall. This thug, too, gave a pained wail. Clint allowed himself a grin of satisfaction.
It was short lived, however, as a moment later, Coulson grabbed his bicep and pulled, stepping to Clint's other side as he did. He vaguely heard Coulson call his name as he did. Then, there was a loud bang and Coulson lurched back against him, holding his left shoulder as his left arm went limp. The agent nearly sunk to his knees, but Clint was able to catch him, dragging him back toward the door they had come through. As he pushed his way through with his mentor stumbling along in tow, he noticed that one of the netted thugs had managed to reach his gun and was trying to line up another shot, though he was hindered by the netting.
Just before letting the door swing shut, Clint grabbed a flash bang from Coulson's belt, pulled the pin and threw it back into the hallway. Then, he slung his bow over his back and pulled Coulson's good arm over his shoulder. Coulson was gasping and grunting with pain as they stumbled along, following the trail of unconscious men they had left behind. It wasn't long before Coulson was flagging, but Clint was able to get them past the door to the stairwell, then lowered the agent to the floor.
With an elbow, Clint broke the glass encasing the fire ax, then used the end of his bow to clear the shards away enough that he could retrieve it. With the biggest swing he could muster in the tight space, he wedged the ax head under the door, jamming it closed at least for a little while. But he knew that would only buy them a bit of time. Quickly he returned to Coulson and pulled the agent to his feet.
"C'mon, c'mon!" he exclaimed. "We gotta go!"
Together, they stumbled down the stairs back to the 55th floor. Clint could see the color beginning to drain from Coulson's face and the agent was getting heavier in his grasp. By the time they were through the door to the 55th floor and had returned to their secret panel, he could hear repeated thuds from the stairwell door above. Quickly, he pressed the panel open and shoved Coulson through. With some last unspent reserve of strength, Coulson pulled himself along, allowing space for Clint to dive in after him as he heard the door upstairs give way. As the patter of feet on stairs came down, Clint got the panel back in place and threw the two deadbolts.
Coulson was awkwardly leaned against the side of the crawlspace, gasping for air and pressing a hand to his profusely bleeding shoulder. Just outside, there were feet coming down the hallway. Clint grabbed on to Coulson, tearing the mask off his face and clamping a hand over his mouth.
The sounds of voices muffled by masks and booted feet clattered down the hallway on the other side of the panel. One voice rose above the others.
"You two, that way," the voice said and Clint realized it sounded familiar. It was the same voice that had made demands over the loud speaker almost two hours ago, now. The Fixer himself had come to oversee the chase. "You two, take the next corridor over! You, with me! Don't let them off this floor!"
The patter of feet faded away from them and Clint took his own mask off, trying to get a better look at Coulson. Blood was welling up from the agent's shoulder and he was still gasping, looking more pale than before.
"Oh, god!" Clint exclaimed, still keeping his voice low, though beginning to panic a little. "Why would you do that? Why the hell would you do that!?"
Coulson's blood-covered hand reached out and landed on Clint's forearm, demanding his attention. Coulson fixed his protege with a stare, his teeth clenched together.
"Stay focused!" Coulson ordered. "Back to home base! Go!"
"I'm not leaving you here," Clint ground out.
"Hell, no," Coulson replied wryly, though his face was still drawn, "you're gonna drag my ass back to Harris and Gideon. Get moving."
Without hesitation, Clint shifted so that he could sling Coulson across his back, allowing him to keep weight off his arms and crawl only with his knees. It was a slow and painful process, but in that way they began to make progress back toward the medical wing.
Clint reached back and retrieved the radio from Coulson's pocket. He keyed to talk. "This is Hawkeye," he said into it as they clumsily continued along the crawlspace, "Pelican's been hit! He doesn't look good. We're heading back. Have help ready!"
"Hawkeye, what's the injury," Doctor Harris' voice came over the radio next.
"Gun shot, left shoulder," Clint replied.
"Exit wound?"
"No."
"All right, do what you can to keep pressure on it and get him back here as quick as you can. We're going to need to dig that slug out before sepsis sets in."
"Yeah, yeah, got it," Clint breathed out, then shoved the radio into his own pocket. Then, he put all his focus on moving forward toward their goal.
It took nearly twenty minutes for Clint to haul Coulson back to the panel that led to the room in the medical ward. He banged on the panel urgently until it fell away and hands reached in to lift Coulson off his back. By then, Coulson didn't seem to be completely aware and there was no hope of him getting his own legs under him. Harris and Gideon carried him over to the bed and somehow got him on to it. Coulson's breathing was shallow and rapid and his face had a sickly grey pallor to it.
Clint tumbled out of the crawlspace, allowing Carter to place the panel back in its spot. Clint pushed off the floor and dashed for the bed, leaning a hand against the up-turned end, just to the side of Coulson's head. His own breathing wasn't much better than Coulson's.
"He's in shock," Harris pronounced, "get the oxygen. We gotta get his BP back up." Gideon nodded and was in motion, wheeling a tank and a mask over to them.
Clint registered very little of this, his focus on Coulson as he fought to get control of his panic.
"What the hell was that!?" Clint shouted. "Why the hell did you do that!?"
"Out of the way, Barton!" Gideon snapped. "Let us work!"
"What the hell was that about!?" Clint continued to rage.
"Director!" Gideon called. Hands were on Clint's shoulders a moment later, pulling him away from the bed to give the doctor and the nurse space to do their job.
"Over here, Clint, over here," the Director's voice was in his ear a moment later, "give them space. Come over here and calm down."
The sense of that finally penetrated the haze that had settled around Clint's mind. He shook loose of Carter's grasp and backed up against the wall, running his hands through his hair and watching the frenzy of activity around Coulson. Soon, he found his legs giving way under him and he slid down the wall, resting his elbows on his knees. Carter crouched down next to him, lighting her hands on his shoulders once again and placing herself in Clint's line of sight.
"Listen, eyes on me!" she said, commanding yet gentle.
"Why'd he do that?" Clint whimpered.
"It's all right, you got him back to us," Carter said, "forget everything else. You got him back here. Focus on that. He has the help he needs."
Clint's breathing began to slow and he jammed his fists into his forehead, his head falling forward.
"Why'd he do that?" he repeated.
Carter shifted and pulled him closer, rubbing circles on his back. "It's all right," she said, "calm down. He's safe. You're both safe."
Unable to help himself, Clint buried his face in Carter's shoulder and clasped on to her for dear life. He just wasn't sure if it was his own or Coulson's life he was hanging on for.
Fury was heavy. And big. Helping him through the crawlspace with a broken leg was an ordeal that Bobbi hoped never to have to endure again. She supposed it could be worse. He could be unconscious. If that had been the case, she had no idea how she would have managed it. On the other hand, the obscenities that kept coming out of his mouth were... creative.
According to Fury, Fixer had seen fit to make it harder to get away and one of his thugs had used something big and metal. Apparently, the Assistant Director of SHIELD had a reputation.
So when the panel to the room in the medical ward opened up and others appeared to help Fury out of the crawlspace, Bobbi was relieved, to say the least.
Well, for a moment. Then she got out of the crawlspace, too.
Coulson was on the bed that had previously been reserved for the flu-ridden Clint, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and an IV in his arm. He was presently unconscious and that was probably a good thing as Doctor Harris was working at his shoulder with sharp implements. Gideon was nearby assisting and they were functioning like a well-oiled machine.
Carter helped Fury over to a nearby chair. The Assistant Director was keeping any and all weight off his left leg and any time it was jostled, he let out another swear.
Clint, meanwhile, was her biggest worry when Bobbi saw him. He was sitting on the floor, against the wall, his eyes fixed on Coulson, Harris, and Gideon across the room. Bobbi had the distinct impression that he had withdrawn. She had never seen him like this. Cranky, sure. Flirtatious, of course. Rebellious, hell yeah. But never like this.
Harris and Gideon would see to Coulson. Fury was taking the broken leg in stride, cursing besides. But what to do about Clint, Bobbi had no idea. So she did the only thing she could do and plopped herself down on the floor next to him. When it became obvious that no reaction was forthcoming from him, she broke the ice herself.
"Doin' okay, sport?" she asked, nudging his shoulder with her own.
"I don't get it," Clint said at last, "he just... stepped right in between me and the bullet."
"Wait, he took a bullet saving you?" she said, amazed. "Damn, talk about dedication."
"Yeah, but why?" Clint pressed, finally looking over at her. He looked genuinely confused.
Bobbi was too, actually. "What do you mean?" she asked.
She didn't get a chance to hear an answer, though. The speaker of the announcement system came to life again with a crackle and a moment of feedback.
"Very clever, Director Carter," the Fixer's voice came over the loudspeaker a moment later, "using the deadline I set myself as a countdown to coordinate a covert rescue at the moment I would least expect it. Not bad at all."
The mocking voice seemed to be enough to rally Clint a little and he started and then climbed to his feet, listening. Bobbi got up, too and tried to keep down the sinking feeling in her stomach. Fixer also appeared to have the attention of Carter and Fury and was at least providing a distraction for Harris and Gideon. The doctor and nurse both paused when they first heard his voice, then continued.
"Doing exactly what I expected as a distraction, too," Fixer continued, "for a little bit, I actually thought you were attempting an assault on the 56th floor. Obviously, you have ways around the building of which I was not aware. But with the entire building on lockdown, you have no way out. So, now it's just a matter of time. You see, with Fury rescued, I don't have to worry about guarding him any more, so I can send men out to search the building and find you. You've bought yourself some time, Director. But I happen to know it cost you dearly. With Fury injured and another of your men shot, I imagine you're hard-up for help. So go ahead and hide. I've got all the time in the world."
"Well, that don't help one damn bit," said Fury after the loudspeaker had cut off with another short burst of static, "we might need to move. Anyone have any ideas?"
"Coulson's not going anywhere until I can get his shoulder patched up," said Harris as he pulled at something with a pair of heavy tweezers. Something came loose and he reach over and dropped something hard into a pan,"got the slug out, though. No sign of any infection, so it shouldn't be long."
"Work as quick as you can, Doctor," said Carter, reaching for the shoe-radio, "Mister Jarvis, any indication they've found our little mouse holes, yet?"
"Not so far," Jarvis replied, "but I wouldn't count on that for long. If I can see the entry and exit points, then so can they. I imagine they'll be checking surveillance soon."
"Then we need to come up with a plan sooner rather than later," said Carter, "I want ideas."
"Well, the crawlspace is like a maze," said Bobbi, "once Coulson can move, we could hide out in there for quite a while, even if they only know about the two access points. We know the building, they don't."
"No," said Carter with a shake of her head, "with two wounded, we'd be moving too slow and making too much noise. We can make a short move to another location, but that's all."
"What about all the other agents locked up in their offices?" Fury asked. "Any way to get them out?"
"Mister Jarvis?" Carter prompted.
"I'm afraid I can't access that system," he replied, "Fixer has full control over it. If I try to override, he'll know I'm watching. And It probably wouldn't work, anyway. I'm afraid he's hit us rather hard."
"Hit back."
Carter, Fury, and Bobbi all turned to look at Clint, rather surprised he had said anything. He wasn't looking at any of them. His eyes were focused a million miles away, as if remembering something long past.
"Mister Barton?" Carter asked, obviously hoping he would elaborate.
Clint's head snapped up to look at them and Bobbi nearly jumped. There was a cold steel in his gaze. "We hit 'em back," he said, "he hit us, so we hit him back. He hits us harder, we hit him harder. We don't stop hitting until he does first."
"You want to go on the offensive with just three able-bodied agents?" Fury said incredulously. "Two of whom, I might add, are trainees of less than a year."
"I know the Fixer's type," Clint replied, "he thinks he's the tough guy, in control, that we'll just roll over if he hits us hard enough. The only thing you can do against that is hit back." The muscles in Clint's jaw were jumping as he clenched his teeth. He looked at the three of them with a certainty that Bobbi had never seen before, as if this was his oldest and most deeply held truth. And the longer Bobbi looked at him, the more she was convinced, too.
"It would be what he least expects," she said, "this guy's got an ego the size of Texas. He thinks we're running scared and he's operating based on that."
"Just for the record," Gideon put in from her place next to Harris, helping him stitch Coulson's wound closed, "I'm scared. Just saying."
"He's scattering his men to look for us," Carter mused, "meaning there will be fewer men to contend with on the 56th floor. And with the lockdown in place, he'll need to release it selectively to let his men move about."
"Meaning he'll be at the controls with a skeleton crew around him," Fury agreed, "we take him, everything else falls apart, we regain control of the Triskelion and suddenly we've got the manpower 'cause we can set our guys loose."
"It's risky," said Carter, "if it doesn't work, we'll have exposed ourselves and he'll have us. But it may be the only option."
"Yeah, well it's better than sitting around here waiting to be found," Clint said.
"All right, then, it's settled," said Carter, "we hit back."
Clint felt like crap. There was just no way around it. The meds that Harris had given him earlier had helped take the edge off, but he was definitely still feverish and his stomach was still tied in knots. After his display of bravado had gotten the group galvanized into action, Clint had retreated back to his place on the floor. He had his head down and his eyes closed and was only vaguely listening to the brainstorming session that Carter, Fury, and Bobbi were having. Harris and Gideon had finished stitching Coulson up a while ago and now it was a waiting game for him to wake up.
It was all just too much. This world was so different from what he thought it would be. It wasn't that he thought it would be all sunshine and kittens. He didn't have any delusions about that. He just didn't think that he would be stuck in an impossible situation, where people were shooting at him, so damned soon. And he sure as hell didn't expect it to be happening at SHIELD's home base.
But more than that, it was that he was different. Clint was not the kind of person that the rest of the agents of SHIELD were. He wasn't super-intelligent. He wasn't a tactical genius. He sure as hell wasn't administratively inclined. And above all, he couldn't figure why someone would take a bullet for someone else. That sort of thing only happened in action movies and cop shows and shit. SHIELD was all military discipline and serious business and danger. Clint was just a washed up circus freak with good aim.
No, Clint Barton didn't fit in. Story of his life, really.
A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there. Long enough for his butt to get cold on the linoleum. His head felt like lead as he looked up to see Gideon looking down at him.
"Holding up?" she asked.
"I'm fine," he said with a roll of his eyes.
"Honey, I don't need to be a nurse to know that's not true," she replied. Clint only slid his gaze to the side. "I got some good news, though," Gideon continued, "he's awake. And he wants to talk to you."
Clint looked back up at her, then his gaze shot over to the bed where Coulson was resting. Sure enough, his SO's eyes were open and were looking his way.
Clint swallowed a lump in his throat and slowly got to his feet. The few steps across the room felt like a mile and he noticed that Gideon had not followed him. Harris, too, had given them space. Clint and Coulson looked at each other for a long moment.
"Hi," Coulson finally said, his voice sounding raspy and tired.
"Hi," Clint responded, lamely.
"You okay?"
"You're the one who needed to get stitched up and you're wondering if I'm okay?"
"Yeah," said Coulson with a wry smile, "that does sound kinda dumb, I guess. Still, it's my job. But that isn't the question you want an answer to."
Clint took a long moment to consider what he needed to say. What does one say to someone who got shot because you screwed up? An apology seemed just a little bit inadequate.
"I screwed up," was what he finally got out, "I screwed up and it won't happen again. So... so you're off the hook. As soon as this is over I am gone and out of your hair and-"
"If there's a question at the end of this ramble, you're taking a long time to get to it," Coulson said, looking at Clint with a mixture of confusion and a little bit of amusement, but still gentle, "c'mon. Ask it."
Clint's throat clenched up. It felt like his breath had just stopped coming. He tried to frame the word but it took several tries to get the breath out.
"Why?" he finally managed, voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm your SO," Coulson said, "and we were on an op and you were my partner."
"But he was aiming at me."
"Yeah, he was," Coulson replied, "but better my shoulder than your head."
"But... why? I mean... people don't just do that. They just don't."
"You mean they don't do that for you," Coulson cut back in again, "and I've told you, things are different here."
"But you don't even..." Clint trailed off. Somehow, he couldn't make the words come out.
"Don't even what?" Coulson asked, looking genuinely confused.
He couldn't look at him any more as the words finally tumbled out. "You don't even like me."
There was a long moment of silence between them. Clint couldn't help but look back at Coulson again to gauge his reaction. If Coulson had looked confused before, it didn't hold a candle to the look on his face now.
"Ouch," Coulson finally said, "when did you get that idea? I mean, I took a bullet for you. What's a guy gotta do, anyway?"
And then the floodgates opened. Clint couldn't stop what started coming out of his mouth. "Yeah, but why?" he asked. "What the hell did I ever do for you? What was the point of it? Why would someone like you do that for a... a worthless piece of trash like me?"
"There it is," said Coulson, "that's the question you mean to ask. I needed you to say it so it's out in the open. So we both understand what's being asked. But I think I know why you're asking it better than you do. You've been told you were worthless back as far as you can remember. People have walked out on you, beat you up, even tried to kill you. That's not what people do when they think you're worth something."
Clint didn't have the energy to stay on his feet any more. Eyes fixed on the floor, he dropped into the plastic chair next to Coulson.
Coulson pressed on. "Clint, you're not garbage. A little broken, maybe. But that's what happens to a thing you don't take care of. And I don't throw something away just because it needs a little work. Neither does SHIELD. So I don't ever want to hear those words from you again. Got it?"
Clint couldn't look up at him again. In fact, he couldn't even seem to keep his eyes open any more.
"C'mon, I need some kind of response, here," Coulson pressed, "so you got it?"
Clint sucked in a breath and forced a nod.
"Good," Coulson said, "then there's only one more thing you need to understand. I chose this. I chose what happened. I chose to take that bullet. And it's because I give a damn. And it's the kind of thing that friends do for each other. And I know what you're gonna say; that you don't have friends. But that isn't anything you get to decide on your own. That part of your life is over and I'm not going to toss you back to it or let you run back to it. End of story."
There was a long silence between them. Across the room, they could hear the voices of the others, still working out their plans. Clint didn't know if Coulson was even looking at him any more. In a lot of ways, he was afraid to open his eyes and check.
"So," he finally said, not sure until the last moment if he could speak steadily, "where do we go from here?"
"Right now?" Coulson said. "You get back over there with your team. They need you."
"I work better alone."
"No, you don't. So get over there and stop moping. After this is over, we're taking a break from training. We got some stuff to work out and I don't think my shoulder could take it anyway."
Finally, Clint found the wherewithal to look at Coulson again. He couldn't help the weak smirk that came to his face. "I'm not moping," he said.
Coulson's eyebrows went toward his hairline. "Pondering again?" Clint couldn't help but deepen his smirk for a moment before getting it back under control. "You're moping, stop it," Coulson pressed, "now get over there. That's an order."
Taking a steadying breath, Clint nodded and stood up again. He was just turning to join the others across the room when Coulson spoke again.
"Hey, you never answered my question," he said, "you okay?"
Clint looked away again and considered for a moment. "No," he finally said, then he looked up at Coulson once more, "but I can get there."
