Part 5

Stranded

Chapter 3

The shield fell like a solid curtain of vibranium before Clint could even manage to blink. Steve grabbed him by the shoulder and together they drove headlong back into the hedge row of wild roses. Even as he fell, Clint pulled back his bow and placed a concussive tipped arrow on the string. The arrow let fly the minute he landed. The explosion rocked through the midst of the battalion. Men flew aside, scattered by the force.

"Get up!" Steve screamed in his ear.

Clint moved at once. They untangled themselves from the briers and hurled like possessed men through the tree line once more. Steve limped beside him, not sparring an ounce of muscle to keep up the pace.

"Don't stop! Don't stop! Run, Clint!" He cried.

Barton's heart pounded in his chest. He forgot to breathe. Blood rushed behind his ears like torrents of a tidal wave. On, on he ran with Steve pressing him harder, faster than he'd ever gone before. They ran for their very lives.

The marsh waters clung to their boots as they rushed through it. Trees behind them splintered apart under the onslaught of gunfire that chased the two Avengers into the woods. Clint's foot tangled beneath a hidden root and he was thrown forward. Steve caught him and dragged the archer up again. They never stopped, never so much as paused, and never looked back. Clint had no choice but to follow the Captain's panicked instructions.

The scent of death fell away like the rapport of the gun shots. Yet still they ran. After a time, when Clint knew he had to either stop or drop dead, he at last tore himself out of Steve's iron grip and pulled up to a halt. He jogged a little at first, heaving lungs full of air into his oxygen starved body. Steve skidded beside him and turned.

"What are you doing?!" He demanded.

Clint folded at the waist, holding a hand against his chest. "I think we . . . just cleared . . . four miles in like . . . twelve minutes. I can't breathe."

Steve looked at Clint as if the man had lost his mind to even consider not going further. He stopped himself, though, beforehand and truly considered all that just occurred. The weight of their circumstances dropped over him like a thousand pound anvil. Before he could stop it, his hands began to shake. They clasped together though it didn't help. His shoulders rumbled next as if a fevered chill cut through him. He blinked. The world flew out of focus. He didn't realize the full scope of his utter panic until Clint began to call his name.

"Cap? Cap, hey, what's wrong with you?!" Clint touched Steve's arm, though regretted the move instantly.

Steve never lost his cool, or his control. It was that unending confidence that made his opinion the first one Clint answered two when missions went south. Poised under even the most horrifying of situations, seeing his reaction to that field of bodies was something Clint never thought he would ever witness. Now, that tragedy seemed to shake the Captain to his very foundation.

Hand met arm and Steve never hesitated. His super-human speed snapped Clint's arm back, lifted a knee into the Avenger's gut and dropped him into the fetid, hot marsh waters. Steve's shield came down in his free hand to rest a mere inch from the brim of Clint's nose. The archer, though, wasn't completely defenseless. He'd managed to work an arrow free. It's broad tip shoved upward just as close to the flesh in Steve's gut as the shield was to Clint's face. A stalemate.

"Cap . . ." Clint said, very slowly, and very clearly. "I am going to drop my hand now. You are going to not kill me. Ok?"

"Oh my God," Steve whispered, stumbling backward. The shield slipped off his arm and cluttered to the marsh bottom.

Clint retracted the arrow and fed it back into his quiver. For good measure, he extracted a knife and held it along the length of his arm and out of Steve's line of sight. He lifted himself out of the mud and rotated his shoulder. Steve did a good job at wrenching it but, thankfully, stopped short of dislocation.

Steve winced as he sank back onto a fallen tree log. The pain from the arrow that passed through his leg had long gone forgotten. With the rush of adrenaline and soldier serum subsiding, he felt it again. Clint let the Captain have a minute to collect himself for both their sakes. Instead of pestering right away, Clint felt around on his scraped up arms to dislodge the tiny thorns randomly imbedded in his skin. Most of his cuts were superficial. He pulled a few others from the back of his neck and patted down his legs to scrape off the water and mud.

"Ticks, Cap," he said. A few of the spider like creatures were marching their way up his trousers, and weaving through his boot laces. When Steve didn't respond, Clint looked over at him. "I said ticks. We must have hit a nest of them. I've got like twenty on me. Check yourself."

Whatever dark place Steve temporarily banished himself too suddenly lifted. He nodded and patted down his own thighs, finding a few too many extra travelers just as Clint had.

"I guess we should be thankful they aren't leaches," Rogers said.

"I'd be happier if they didn't give me some weird disease every time one bit me," Clint replied. He picked up the Captain's discarded shield and set it up right beside the log. He knelt beside Steve. "So does this healing thing worked if you've got pond water and mud caked in your leg?"

Steve glanced at his filthy clothes. "Probably not that well."

"Didn't think so. You mind telling me where we are? You seemed to have a better idea than I do. Especially seeing as how I told you to stay put just a minute before you kept me from acquiring a new bullet hole."

"I don't know how it's possible we're even here. So I'm sorry if I tried to slice your face off a second ago," Steve said.

"You did just try to slice my face off, and you are forgiven for that, but you didn't exactly give me an answer either."

Clint looked around, trying to find any rays of sunlight passed what seemed to be the endless forest marsh. The trees and moss stretched on for what could have been miles in every direction. Despite zigzagging across a fair portion of it during their run, Clint failed to find another clearing like the killing fields they left behind. He wondered if it wasn't prudent for them to turn around and go back. Eventually that battalion would move on. Among so many dead there had to be at least some provisions, like food or water, to scavenge. He didn't see any tents or other permanent structures which meant some sort of command post had to be back there, somewhere.

"I think we're in Europe. I know we're in Europe. The army never made it further than Calais and I think we're North. It's hot. Too hot for Russia. Maybe something more west, like Belgium or Poland. Could be France."

"Army? Steve, I don't know about you, but there isn't a European war going on besides what our guys are doing in the desert." Clint lifted his arms to indicate their surroundings. "And this doesn't exactly remind me of Iraq."

"Clint, you might want to sit down." Steve said.

The once thundering heart in Clint's chest froze. "W.h.a.t?" he asked, enunciating every letter.


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