Title: The High Road Is Hard to Find
Summary: He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.
Chapter title: Were You So Afraid
Author's Note: A little Clint and Phil bonding in this one! I hope you will enjoy and review your thoughts afterwards!
Disclaimer: This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.
"You got a few hours, Coulson," the security chief gently explained. He was the head of the cell blocks in the maximum security area, where Phil found himself now.
He found it kind of funny to know that maximum security probably couldn't hold in neither Romanoff nor Barton should any of them decide to break out. It would slow them down perhaps, but not hold them in. He nodded gratefully at the commander as the buzzer alerted it was safe to enter. He stalked through the dark hallway down towards Barton's cell, his steps echoing in the empty space.
He passed Romanoff's cell that was right next to it and couldn't resist taking a look through the large two-way mirror that took up most of the iron door. He didn't know what he expected but all he saw was the assassin sitting much the same way as she had on the plane: sitting on the slim sleeping cot, staring emptily ahead. Her clothes had been removed to only the simplest of things: A thin shirt and pants. Her shoes had been taken too.
Her green eyes shifted to him as she felt him near. He had passed her cell before he could figure out what the look she had sent him meant. Then he found himself in front of Clint's cell door. There he ran his ID badge through the scanner where it beeped a single time and placed his hand on the identification pad next to it. A loud buzz sounded and Phil opened the iron door.
Clint was leaned against the wall, sitting cross-legged on top of the thin mattress of the cot and holding his side protectively. His clothes had been removed too, leaving him in only the shirt he wore underneath his suit and his cargo pants. He looked up as Phil entered and the meager light caught his skin. It was pale and a slight sheen of sweat shined on his forehead. Though nowhere near death, he still looked worse for wear.
"Thank God. I was about to crazy in here," he stated, though no relief or humor entered his voice.
"When were you going to tell me?" Phil demanded.
"Tell you what?" Clint frowned at him innocently.
Phil tilted his head at the question and gave him the look he always did, when Clint was talking bullshit. He might as well have had it painted across his face.
The archer let out a breath through his teeth and nodded his head knowingly. Then he shrugged lightly before he said, "Well, I figured with everything else going on it shouldn't be a priority."
Phil swallowed a single time. How this stubborn archer would continue to demean his own safety and well-being just because it didn't fit into the program was beyond Phil's understanding. It saddened him more than it angered him to know Clint didn't think himself a priority. But that discussion wasn't one he was planning on having today. There was too much occurring right now. So he chose the light-hearted response instead.
"Lucky for you, the security head owes me a favor," he said and tugged at the strap of the medical bag slung over his shoulder for emphasis for his next words. "They couldn't let in any medical personnel, but I managed to sneak this in instead."
"They think I'm gonna break out using IV-bags and gauze?" Clint's words were light, but Phil could detect the bitterness underneath.
"Security precaution," Phil gently explained before dumping the bag into the cot next to Clint. "Am I gonna have to ask you to take your shirt off?"
"Geez, Phil. Aren't you at least going to buy me dinner first?" Clint mumbled as he lifted his T-shirt over his head to reveal his bare chest. Coulson immediately caught sight of the problem. Tattered blanket remains stuck to his abdomen and the right side of it was soaked with red.
As he untied the blankets and let it fall aside, he saw a gaping round hole, lazily oozing blood. Phil would recognize such a wound anywhere.
"So it was a bullet."
Clint gave no answer other than the quick rise of his shoulder.
"The round still in there?"
"No."
"Good," Phil sighed. He unzipped the medical bag and produced a packet of gauze, which he ripped open quickly. He pressed the white material into the wound firmly. The only response he got from the archer was the automated contraction of his muscles. Not a sound made it past his lips. He instructed Clint to place his own hand on top of the gauze and once he did, Phil dug out the IV-bag filled with saline along with the accompanying line and needle.
"Give me your arm," he instructed. He grabbed a hold of the limb as it was extended to him and massaged the crook of Clint's arm to make the large vein there more visible. Then he gently inserted the needle and used the medical tape to make it stay in place. He also taped the IV-bag to the wall above Clint's head and hoped it would stay there. Then he took over from applying pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding.
"How are things out there?" Clint asked then, breaking the silence that had settled.
Phil looked up from his work and for a brief moment wondered if he should sugarcoat it. But he knew Barton would see straight through it and for better or worse, the archer always did prefer bluntness. "Safe to say," he started. "Everybody is a little on edge. Fury's in with the council right now."
"I know."
Phil raised his eyebrows at the statement. Clint had only been withheld for a few hours now. But then again, the Director never did waste any unnecessary time. And perhaps that was why the security commander had allowed him such easy access.
"What did he want then?"
"To yell mostly. When he was done wasting his vocal chords, he asked for my side of it." Clint shrugged the best he could without aggravating his injury further. "He asked me to convince him."
"How did that go?" Phil asked, while he replaced the soaked gauze with a fresh one. The bloodied bandage he threw to the floor carelessly.
"He's talking with the council, so take a guess."
Phil only nodded affirmatively. He figured as much. If Fury hadn't believed the archer or had been convinced of his decision to bring in the Widow, he would have made the agent stand before the council in person and explain himself, gunshot wound or not. But it went a long way for the Director to place trust in his asset and Phil knew Clint appreciated it too, though he would never voice it.
"I'm surprised he didn't just put you in front of them instead." Phil's attempt at a small joke fell to the ground fairly quickly.
"Perhaps he's more concerned about me trying to escape than handing me over to the Council."
He looked up at his charge with a firm stare. He wasn't surprised at the dry look he received back.
"People are angry, Clint," he gently said as an explanation.
"They should be. I caused a lot of crap today."
"That's an understatement," Phil grumbled and added another pad of gauze to the wound when the other got soaked through. The used ones were added to the pile on the floor. The blood was a clear red, which meant no pus or infection. A good sign at least. "This isn't just gonna disappear overnight."
"I don't expect it too. But I don't regret anything I've done. And I'm not gonna lie and say that I do, if that's what they want."
"Clint," Phil warned. He searched the archer's face, but found only the stubbornly set jaw and confident eyes. Once Hawkeye set his sights on his target, he never missed.
"I'm not saying sorry for something I don't regret doing," the archer said.
"I know, but they might want an explanation at some point."
"I can't give them one."
"You are going to have to try. If Fury doesn't manage to convince the Council of your great idea, you're the one who's going to explain yourself."
"You're not listening, Phil. I can't give them one," Clint said again. At Phil's frowned expression he added softly, "Because I don't have one. The only one I have is what I said to you. And I don't think they're going to accept that."
Phil found himself averting his eyes and instead turned his attention back to the injury at hand. He felt Barton's eyes on him as he removed the gauze. The bleeding had now slowed down to almost nonexistent. He grabbed a thick, square bandage and placed it on top of the wound where he taped the corners so it wouldn't slip. Then he found a bandage roll and started wrapping it tightly around Clint's stomach. He made sure it would hold before he scooted back to inspect his work.
"That should keep you going until you get out of here," he said gently and started gathering the supplies he had used. "But as soon as you do, I want you down in the infirmary. That's an order I'm going to force you to follow."
"Sure thing, Phil," Clint grinned dryly before he gingerly put his shirt back on.
The older agent let out an up-giving sigh. No matter the circumstances, the game would always remain the same. He swung the now lighter medical bag over his shoulder again and headed for the door. Just before he exited though, he turned around to look at his charge with a sad smile. He wanted to comfort the young man before him, to tell him that things would eventually get better. But he knew Clint would only see it as empty words filled with pity.
So instead, he softly stated, "No matter the outcome, I'll always have faith in your decisions."
Clint didn't voice an answer but instead gave him a long, grateful look that spoke volumes.
Five more hours passed until Clint was finally let out of maximum security. And true to his word, Phil had been waiting right outside to escort him directly to the infirmary.
The archer had been far from pleased, stating he was fine although his pallor sunk that argument pretty quickly. He grumbled an incomprehensible sentence under his breath as his handler had stood guard by the door until Clint was lying in a bed with an IV feeding him both fluids and blood. Whatever it was, Phil was certain the words had been far from appropriate.
He had stayed by his charge's bedside then and waited until he had involuntarily fallen asleep. The pain medication he had been forced to take mixed with the already lingering fatigue of the past few days and it wasn't long before Clint's eyes slid closed.
Phil stayed a little while longer. It was only on occasions like these that Clint's mask seemed to disappear from his face. He always kept his emotions heavily guarded and the high walls he had built to protect himself seemed present at all times. Rarely, did he let it slip unless he wanted it. But unconsciousness had an almost youthful effect on the archer, as the pained lines disappeared and in those moments he looked like the young man he really was. Free from the turmoil of his life and the heavy weight that haunted his eyes. Phil only wished that at some point the agent would learn to wear it while he was awake. He sighed heavily before he rose from the lounge chair.
With a gentle squeeze of Clint's limp shoulder, he exited the small room. He went directly from the infirmary back to the holding cells.
It was time he had a talk with a certain redheaded assassin.
TBC
