Title: Blood on My Name

Summary: An enemy attack leaves Clint and Steve stranded and alone. But as the ploy unfolds, the two agents realize it is tied directly to the events in Slovakia and to Clint's own past. Sequel to 'Of Bonds Forged in Fire'. It might be a good idea to skim through that one before reading this.

Chapter title: There's Nowhere We Can Hide

Author's Note: So sorry it took me awhile to post this next chapter. I am wickedly busy these days, but I will do my best to get the next one up earlier. I promise! Anyways, enjoy this one, a bit shorter, but hopefully just as intriguing. And please do review, when you're done. Then I'll know if anyone is still reading this and want more :)

Disclaimer: All rights go to Marvel, Disney and whoever else is lucky enough to have a part in the glorious MCU and its characters!

Steve woke with a headache so intense he thought his head would actually split open right then and there.

For a while it was the only thing he could focus on. The relentless pounding ricocheted around in his skull, rendering his mind completely useless. For a second he wanted nothing more than to go back to the comforting darkness he had come from and just stay there until his headache let him be and he could actually think for more than a fraction of a sentence. But there was something nagging in the back of his mind that refused to let him simply drift off.

His body felt stiff and sore and he could feel himself lying on a cold, hard surface. Aside from the throbbing of his head, his right bicep felt tight and aching even more than the rest of him. Vaguely Steve could discern the sting of several cuts all around his body along with several bruises that would take at least half a day to heal, even with the serum coursing through his veins. It was only then he remembered.

Flashing images of the plane crash flashed in front of his inner eye and immediately he remembered everything. A quick flash of clear water streaming over his face also came to him, although for the life of him he couldn't decipher the memory. It did however explain the dampness in his clothes and hair. He also remembered that he wasn't the only one who had been aboard that Quinjet.

That thought caused Steve to snap open his eyes.

It proved to be a huge mistake as the world he woke up to tipped and spun even though he hadn't even twitched a muscle. He had to pinch them shut shortly after to prevent him from giving in to the nausea that rolled around in his stomach. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Steve tried again. Very slowly, he blinked his blue eyes open and steadily the world began to drift into focus.

The first thing he saw was grey and at first he thought the sky had fallen down. The dull grey color stretched out in front of him like a low-hanging stormy sky. Only later than he was supposed to, did it dawn on him that he was staring up at a cement ceiling and gingerly he tilted his head to the side. First he saw the same color cement floor stretching out before him, thick square pillars supporting the ceiling in the corners, tall grass sticking up by its end and long, thin trees that lost more of their height the further down the hill they were planted. The sky behind was painted in a deep pink and orange color from the setting sun.

The second thing he spotted was the black-clad figure lying next to him, back turned.

"Barton," Steve whispered and rose to sit. The world tipped again and the soldier had to wait a short second before everything stopped spinning. He told his tight throat and rolling stomach to knock it off. He didn't have time to be sick now.

He turned Clint over to his back. The archer rolled limply around and his head lolled on his shoulders. His complexion was pale, which made the small cut on his eyebrow shine a bright red. Like Steve's own body, Clint's were littered with small cuts, the worst one on his stomach having bled through his vest, covering the black and purple fabric with red. A deep purpling bruise covered most of his left shoulder, indicating a dislocation, but the joint seemed to have been popped back into its socket already. His chest moved up and down in a deep steady rhythm. Had it not been for the color of his skin and his injuries, he looked like he might have been sleeping peacefully.

Steve gently shook him, mindful of the archer's normal instincts when being touched.

"Barton," he called out to rouse the man.

But there was no response. He shook him a little harder and was rewarded with a slight groan.

"Barton," Steve tried again. "Clint."

The archer rolled his head slowly from side to side, grunting every once in awhile as he was slowly coming to. Then to Steve's relief, he blinked open his eyes with what seemed like a great effort. Clint's grey orbs seemed to drift around to take in his surroundings until they landed on the super soldier, kneeling and leaned over his face.

Apparent relief crossed his features at seeing the Captain up and awake. At first Steve was confused about the look, but it was only when he looked at their surroundings again he realized that they were in an abandoned construction and there was no Quinjet in sight. He must have been out longer than he had first thought, if Clint had managed to drag him in here, although he couldn't for the life of him remember what had transpired since the crash.

"Cap, you're making me uncomfortable," Clint's rough voice dragged him back to the moment. He was still leaning over Barton's body, staring at his face.

"Yeah, sorry," he quickly mumbled before leaning back on his heels to give the archer some breathing space. Barton nodded his thanks as he slowly eased himself into a sitting position, his arm wrapped protectively around his bleeding midsection and his face contorted in a pained grimace. With a quick glance around, he started dragging himself towards one of the supporting pillars a few feet away. It wasn't far but the progress took longer than it really should and Clint's face had lost a shade by the time he finally leaned up against the cement with a heavy grunt.

Steve had watched it all with a sympathetic frown but didn't offer his assistance. He knew the archer well enough now to know he wouldn't take the help. Just as stubborn as the rest of the team. The soldier cleared his throat a single time before asking what was burning on the tip of his tongue.

"So what exactly happened after the crash? How did we end up here?"

"The Quinjet crashed further upstream on one of the hills above the river. You fell in the water and I jumped in after you. I think the rapids must have carried us one or two miles before we got out, but I can't be certain," Clint nonchalantly explained like he was giving a normal report.

Steve suspected it had been far from that simple, given the fact that he had found the archer passed out, presumably from exhaustion and blood loss. How the man had managed to actually do it, Steve could only guess but he could feel the gratitude burbling in his chest in knowing Barton had went in after him without a second thought.

He caught Clint's tired eyes with his own. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Clint only mumbled and leaned head back against the pillars and closed his eyes.

What little remained of the day Steve used to find wood for a small fire and bandage Clint's wounds.

The stomach laceration wasn't quite as bad as Steve had feared. It was still deep and rough around the edges, but the bleeding had stopped fairly easy. But the real challenge was keeping it clean until they could get to sterile proper medical attention. It was nothing compared to the knife wound from Slovakia but it would still leave a scar to match the fresh one from that ordeal. The rest he couldn't do much about; the dislocated shoulder Clint had already sat and he refused to wear a sling to keep it that way and aside from a massive black and purple bruise on the archer's back, which Clint refused to share how had gotten there, there wasn't anything else Steve could do.

He turned his attention towards his own injuries shortly after, but his arm was the only thing that really bothered him. The bruises and scrapes he had gotten were already well on their way towards healing, much to Clint's open resentment. His right arm on the other hand were still stiff and every time he moved it he could feel the tender healing flesh pulling and throbbing, but he had no doubt it too would heal within the next couple of days. His headache had eased off slightly during the two hours that had passed, so black spots no longer danced before his eyes whenever he moved too fast.

Twilight came quickly and the deep darkness of night followed close by. Soon the sky was completely black, contrasted by the bright small lights of the million stars plastered on it and a crescent moon shining down on the hilltops of the small Greek island. Flames were crackling softly, painting the two faces that stared at it a warm orange, each lost in their own thoughts.

"So what's the plan?" Steve was the first to break the silence.

"Make for the Quinjet," Clint replied without tearing his gaze away from the fire.

"That could be crawling with hostiles by the time we get there. I know your bow is still on board, but it's not worth getting captured for. We've been compromised. We should head for the nearest SHIELD compound and go from there," Steve argued. A crashed plane was the first place whoever had shot them down would look to finish the job.

"It's flattering to know you believe I would risk my life just to get my bow back, Cap, it really is. But as much as it disgusts me to see it end up in the wrong hands, it is not the main reason for doubling back there," Clint said with a light smile. "SHIELD Quinjets have a tracking system that enables us to track foreign objects the moment they reach the radar. If the hard drive isn't fried we should be able to find where the missiles originated from."

Steve let out a grunted laugh and shook his head. "Sometimes I forget I skipped a few years in the technology department."

"Don't sweat it," Clint shrugged and then gestured towards the burning pile of wood in the middle of them. "We still have this familiar relic."

"It was 1945, not the stone age."

"Whatever you say, Grandpa."

TBC