Chapter 8: And I'm Ready to Suffer and I'm Ready to Hope

The breath rushed out of Clint's lungs as he plunged into the cold water below. He fought his way against the current in a desperate attempt to breach the surface. The glow stick had tumbled from his grip during the fall, casting an eerie glow along the jagged cavern that the underground river was rushing through. He choked on the water when he hissed in pain, his already battered body colliding mercilessly against the sharp rocks under the surface.

Frantically he looked around in the growing darkness for the Director that had followed him down in his perilous tumble. Bobbing in the murky waters ahead of him was an all too familiar black coat. Using all the strength he had, the archer lined himself along the same trajectory as Fury, using the strength of the current to push him closer to his goal. He grabbed onto his precious cargo with an iron grip, refusing to let the older man succumb to murky death.

There was no place to pull themselves out of the water, even if Fury was conscious to help; the jagged bottom was paralleled by unhelpfully smooth walls. The only thing left to do was for Clint to try and keep both their heads above water and ride this thing out. Hopefully there wouldn't be any ominous drops, rapids or a point where their breathable air was replaced by narrowing rock walls. With their luck, Barton didn't hold out much hope.


It was almost rhythmic, just floating along. Maybe it was the blood loss or some deep acceptance of their inevitable fate, but Barton found himself relaxing. His grip never wavered from around Fury's chest, but it was loose enough to feel the slight expansion with every quiet breath.

He barely noticed as the current started to slow to a leisurely pace. What did drive home the lack of impending death, was the blinding rays of sunlight that assaulted his eyes. He slammed them shut, groaning as the pain ripped through his skull. Hesitantly Barton let his eyes flutter open, slowly adjusting to their bright surroundings that had been absent for so long in their darkened watery tomb.

Sweet fresh air, the river meandering through the endless dunes of sand; they were free from the cave network, finally catching a break. Clint's legs were stiff, but he managed to drop them to the sandy bottom of the river and awkwardly attempt to stand up. It wasn't easy carrying Fury's dead weight on unsteady limbs, but he managed to drag them both out of the water, only to collapse onto the painfully hot sand. Letting out a few ragged breaths, the archer gratefully embraced the darkness descending upon him.


Clint woke with a start, every ache and pain singing in harmony. He tried to wet his dry lips, but his mouth was terribly dry and everything felt overly hot. Even the air felt like it was on fire. He was really starting to hate the desert. The only good news he could pull from his cursory recon of their situation, and really the only thing he could ascertain laying flat on his back, was night was getting closer. The sun's position had shifted to late afternoon and the promise temperature drop night would bring, almost brought a tear to his eye.

Barton pushed himself upright on sheer determination alone, knowing that he would probably be dead before his body was ready to cooperate. It wasn't just his ass on the line at the moment, Fury was counting on him, even if the gruff man would rather accept death than admit it. He could tell the Director was in trouble. The fall having done nothing for his own injuries, he could only imagine what it had done to Fury's. Clint looked disheartened at the items he managed to pull from his water logged backpack and vest, then back to the newly dripped red splashes in the sand next to his companion. He needed to stop Fury's bleeding and the man had precious little to lose while the ex carnie tried to figure it out.

A lifetime of having to patch up his own wounds had taught the archer to be resourceful with what he had. Immediately he set off snapping off limbs of old, dry, twisted wood that curled its way from under the sand. Stacking them appropriately, Clint struck one of his waterproof matched and placed it amongst the dry kindling. He was rewarded with the soft crackle of a glowing fire.

Barton pulled the knife he had strapped to his ankle and placed it partially in the fire. While he impatiently waited for it to heat up, he set some of their more useful waterlogged items around the fire to dry.

Summoning his courage, Barton pulled the knife from the flame and crawled over to the Director. He pulled open the man's black leather trench coat and swallowed nervously as he realized one scrutinizing eye was staring back at him. "Have to stop the bleeding sir," Clint offered weakly. He oddly felt like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

"Wouldn't look good, having your prize bleed out before you dragged him back to your masters would it?" spit Fury with as much spite as he could manage, which was an impressive amount for a man who had been unconscious for the past several hours.

"Not working for the enemy," sighed Clint. He was tired, so very tired; the gusto he had previously had for his defence drained out by the past events. "But I doubt SHIELD would be happy if I didn't get you back there." Brandishing the blade he offered, "This is going to hurt sir."

Fury choked back a snort; they just didn't make double agents like they used too. The boy looked almost apologetic about it, almost. He wasn't stupid. The only thing standing between him and bleeding out was the hot edge of that knife and though he loathed who was wielding it, Fury wasn't in a position to refuse. "Do it!" he ordered. There was no time or place for weakness from neither friend nor foe.

Clint clinched his teeth together and pressed the blade to the wound, holding it fast as the body beneath writhed and wriggled below, before going limp. The scent of burnt flesh hung in the air long after he finished. At least Clint could cover up the grisly sight with the now damp bandages he plucked from next to the fire. One crisis stalled, only two more to go.

Barton looked over at an unconscious Fury and weighed his options. The dizzying, lightheaded feeling that had gripped him since removing the glass shard hadn't dissipated at all. Carefully he reached around to feel the wet mess of bandages stuck to his back. It was more than just water that had drenched them.

The soft roar of an engine pulled Barton's attention to the south. He allowed his heart to flutter with the possibility of hope that he might not have to ponder their survival chances after all. He grabbed his rifle while keeping low to the ground, he scrambled towards the nearest dune before army climbing to the top.

Clint scanned the horizon for the source of the noise. Slowly he shifted his rifle taking in nothing, but sand in the enhanced view of his scope. His arms jerked to a halt as he caught a glimpse of the precession of vehicles negotiating their way across the land. They were still far away but more importantly, there was no tell-tale SHIELD emblem on any of them. As quickly as it arrived, hope died; shot down like a stray dog in the street. The rescue the two men desperately needed was not coming.

Clint scampered back down the dune, stubbornly ignoring the pain that was radiating through his back in waves. "Think Barton!" he spat while doing another mental inventory of the supplies in his possession. He needed a plan, he needed to think.

He drew a blank; SHIELD life was making him soft. Despite the open distrust and hostility aimed at him, Clint realized that part of him had trusted that despite the fact that he'd never be considered one of them, that someone would come for him. For the first time in his life he had believed he'd had a safety net secured tightly below him. The voice in Clint's head had told him not to get comfortable, not to have faith in the delusion they had created to secure their 'weapon,' but some small, desperate, needy part of him had ignored life's hard earned lessons. He had dared to buy into the dream.

"Come on Barton! Get it together," he abolished. He had been here a thousand times before and survived, he could do this. Clint just had to remember his check list.

First, keep from being found. The archer quickly snuffed out the fire, burying their evidence under the sand. They couldn't hunt what they didn't know was there. Clint knew how to disappear and dodge; he could keep them out of the enemies' sight lines.

Second, make sure you're going to be able to take advantage of escape. Barton sucked in a deep breath, preparing for the painful fallout, before crumpling up the last of his bandage supply and packing it in his wound. It wouldn't be pretty or anything but temporary, he just needed something to keep enough of the red stuff in him so he could function.

Third, assess options and supplies available. The supply part was easy. It wasn't like they were weighed down with helpful things. Clint could scratch first aid supplies off the list now, as well as food, having just crammed his last powerbar in his face. They did have: matches, couple of waterlogged guns and ammo, Barton's three knives on his person, a newly broken compass, rope, two expended glow sticks and quite possibly the Holy Grail itself.

Barton's hand shook as he pulled the radio out of the water resistant pouch in his pack. He turned it over carefully, it looked intact. First option: radio for help. The cave would no longer interfere with the signal, but it couldn't be that simple? Could it? Flexing his finger slightly, the archer nudged the dial to turn it on. Quickly he flicked through all available channels waiting for the tell-tale burst of static to indicate the radio was receiving. Still nothing.

"Piece of shit! God damn it!" he shouted tossing the radio to the ground in a fit of rage. Was it too much to ask that not everything he touched turned to shit? Why did the world like to kick him when he was down?

The radio hit the ground with a soft thud before exploding to life. Barton's head snapped down, his heart hammering in his chest as his lungs refused to draw in air for fear of putting some molecule out of alignment and angering the gods into taking away this potential salvation. Cautiously, the archer scooted towards the radio, approaching it like a spooked animal.

Clint twisted the dial to SHIELD's main channel and depressed the talk button. "This is Private Barton, authentication Charlie, Bravo, Mike, India, Lima, five, eight, three, November, Quebec. Repeat, this is private Barton, authentication Charlie, Bravo, Mike, India, Lima, five, eight, three, November, Quebec. Can anyone read me?"