Author's Note: Hi everyone! Sorry for the delay today, it ended up being a busy day! Thank you so much to white collar black wolf; Lesfont25; m klindt; and LisaG16 for taking the time to review that last chapter! I very much appreciate all the support from you guys! Hope you enjoy this next chapter, we get a little intense here!
CHAPTER TEN
PANIC ATTACK
"Okay, I'm really gonna need you to stop being so damn dramatic, Phil," Clint griped as he pushed open the door to the safehouse, shifting to better take on Phil's weight as he practically dragged his handler across the threshold.
"Now you know… how I feel… when you do it," Phil grunted through labored breaths.
Clint was about to quip back, but at that moment Phil's knees finally decided to give out. The sudden shift almost sent Clint toppling, but he managed to catch himself at the last second. He carefully lowered Phil to lie on the floor just a few feet from the door of the safehouse.
Then he was moving again.
As painful as it was, Clint knew he had to secure the safehouse first. He made sure the door was firmly closed and checked and then double checked the locks. He turned and hurried across the safehouse to where they kept the first aid supplies, grabbing fistfuls of gauze and tape before running back to where Phil lay. As Clint began to kneel next to Phil, one foot slipped out from under him in the blood that was pooling on the floor, causing his knee to slam painfully into the floor.
Phil's blood.
Clint didn't stop long enough to let that thought overwhelm him. He layered gauze heavily in to the gash in Phil's side, pushing down firmly and ignoring the groan of pain crawled its way up from Phil's throat and deliberately not thinking about how the noise really should have been louder.
"Easy, Phil," Clint said, his voice shaking slightly as his hands worked. "Just gonna get you put back together here, okay?"
He didn't comprehend that Phil didn't answer.
After packing an excessive amount of gauze to stem the bleeding, he taped it into place using a generous amount of medical tape. Then, for good measure, he yanked his belt off and wound it around behind Phil, cinching it tightly over top of the wound.
"Phil? Phil, can you hear me?" Clint practically pleaded as he shifted his attention to Phil's startlingly pale face.
Phil didn't move, his eyes half open but unaware of what was going on around him. Clint swallowed thickly as he placed a hand on his handler's chest. He could feel Phil's heart beating, though it was beating significantly faster than it should have been. That was concerning, but one thought rang clearly in Clint's mind. Phil was still alive.
Phil was still alive.
Clint kept one hand firmly on Phil's chest as he fumbled his phone out of his pocket and navigated through the screens, using the physical contact with Phil as a lifeline to ground himself. He took a deep breath as he lifted the phone to his ear.
"Barton. What's Phil's status?"
Dr. Jaqueline Hendricks answered the phone on the first ring and was immediately all business. Fury must have already filled her in on the situation after Clint had called in for emergency evac when they were still making their way to the safehouse.
"Phil's bleeding." Clint could hear how pathetic he sounded. He knew that wasn't helpful information, but somehow his brain just couldn't get passed that fact. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the blood-stained floor. "He's… he's bleeding a lot, it's all over the floor."
"Clint," Hendricks said sharply but evenly. Clint couldn't help but flinch at the tone. "Close your eyes." He did as he was told. "Take a deep breath." He did. "Take another one." He did. "Okay. Now tell me what we're dealing with here."
Clint opened his eyes, feeling steadier than he had a minute ago.
"Knife wound to his left side," Clint reported tightly. "Solid slice, probably went in about half an inch and stretches about six inches. He's been bleeding significantly for probably fifteen minutes now. He's easily lost two or three pints, might be approaching four."
"Pulse?" Hendrick's prompted.
Clint checked. "Weak and thready." His voice was flat and emotionless, desperately trying not to think about what that meant.
"How's his breathing?"
Clint leaned in closer. "Fast and shallow. Hitches every couple breaths."
"Shit," Hendricks murmured tensely. "Did you pack the wound?"
"Yes," Clint confirmed, nodding even though she couldn't see him.
"Pressure?"
"Wrapped it with a belt."
"Good, okay," Hendricks said, but there was something off in her tone. "Hopefully nothing major was damaged and that will slow his bleeding. Here's the problem, Barton… your emergency evac is still an hour out and it's unlikely that Phil will last that long without a blood transfusion."
Clint blinked, and when he spoke again his voice sounded strangely detached. "So… what do we do?"
"You are damn lucky, Barton," Hendricks said. "Your blood type is O negative, a universal donor. You can do a direct donation to keep him going until the evac gets there. I need you to get some IV tubing from your med kit, two needles and medical tape. Can you get those things?"
"Yeah, yeah, I can do that," Clint said.
He put the phone on speaker as he hurried back across the room to gather the supplies, feeling a burst of hope flooding through him. Maybe he could still fix this.
"You're also going to need a stool or chair or something," Hendricks went on. "You need to be above Phil for this to work."
Hendricks quickly walked Clint through attaching an IV catheter to one end of the tubing and then cutting the other end that was normally meant to attached to the IV bag. Then he carefully taped another IV catheter to the other end, making sure it was sealed. Clint started the IV on himself – he barely felt the needle as he pushed it into his own skin – and let the tube fill with his blood before carefully starting the other end of the IV on Phil. Then Clint heavily pushed himself up off the floor and perched on the edge of the chair he had pulled over.
"The blood needs to flow down the tube," Hendricks reminded him. "So, make sure you are sitting above him the whole time. You can let it run until you get dizzy, no more than thirty minutes. As long as his bleeding slows and starts to clot, it should hold him until the evac gets there."
"What else, what else can I do?" Clint asked, desperate to do everything he could.
"That's it, Barton," Hendricks told him sympathetically. "For now, this is all you can do." Clint blinked, uncomprehending. "I'm sorry, kid. Keep checking his vitals and call me if anything changes, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Clint said quietly, staring down at Phil's unmoving form.
"Hang in there, Barton."
Clint was barely aware that the call disconnected.
Everything had been moving so fast up until that moment. The fight, Phil going down, Clint finishing off the rest of the hostiles. Then the call to Fury, the frantic trip back to the safehouse, Clint desperately working through packing the wound and starting the blood transfusion. But now, with nothing else he could do, everything came to a screeching halt and the realty of the situation finally crashed down over him like a bucket of ice water, stealing his breath away.
Phil could die.
Clint stared vacantly at the tubing filled with his blood, working his right hand open and closed to help the flow. He sat in silence, barely aware of the passage of time around him. He took one unsteady breath and then another, decidedly ignoring the sharp pain in his chest with each breath.
"Don't… don't do this to me, Phil," Clint found himself saying quietly. He scrubbed his free hand over his mouth. "You can't… you can't fucking do this to me. Okay?"
Phil didn't move, didn't so much as twitch. Clint swallowed and then winced as he suddenly found there was suddenly a painful lump in his throat. He rubbed the palm of his free hand up against his pant leg, trying to ignore the tremble in his hand and the pins and needles feeling in his fingers.
What if Phil dies? The thought took a steel-gripped hold of him, strangling him as he suddenly gasped in a labored breath. Phil could die. I could be left alone. Phil is dying because I can't save him. After everything he's done for me, this is how it ends. I should have been better, I should have saved him, it should be me instead of him bleeding on the floor of this safehouse. Phil is dying.
With that thought, Clint's emotions spiraled wildly out of his control. No matter how hard he tried to reign them in he couldn't think of anything other than Phil's death. He could vividly picture Phil's funeral – simple flowers, a somber urn containing Phil's ashes, quietly melancholy music – and it was like a clamp suddenly slammed over his stomach. He leaned forward, putting a hand that had broken out into full tremors to his head. He wheezed in one breath after another, forcibly pulling the air past the lump in his throat and into his lungs.
Clint honestly wasn't sure how long he existed in that state before he noticed Phil stirring. His heart leapt up into his throat, choking him for a moment at the sight of Phil's shifting his head. Or was that just the strange floating quality that his vision had taken on at some point?
"Ph-Phil?" Clint stuttered hoarsely.
Forgetting that he was supposed to stay on the chair, Clint slid off the seat, his kneecaps hitting the floor heavily as he kneeled next to Phil's still form. Clint heaved in an unsteady breath as he reached a shaking hand to brace on Phil's shoulder, desperately willing some of his own lifeforce into his handler's still form.
"You don't get to do this, Phil," Clint murmured, his words slurring. "You don't get to leave me here like this."
A few minutes later when the door to the safehouse opened, Clint barely reacted. He resisted weakly as someone pulled him away from Phil, but suddenly the room was spinning around him, the lights overhead blurring as his body pulled him down toward the floor. The floor filled his nostrils with a sharp, metallic scent of dried blood. And that was the last thing that he remembered.
Consciousness came back to Clint slowly. He grimaced at the smell of antiseptic. Carefully, he blinked his eyes open but immediately squeezed them shut again as the bright, fluorescent lights burned them.
"I ought to beat your ass."
Clint couldn't help but smile at that familiar, annoyed voice. He took a moment to realize that he could actually hear the voice. His hearing aids were still in, which meant that he hadn't gone into surgery or had any x-rays or MRIs where they would have had to remove the devices. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that considering those were usually a given when he was admitted to the infirmary.
He took a steadying breath before he pried his eyes open again, blinking until the room came into focus. He took everything in slowly. Sterile, white walls loomed over him. He was lying in a bed, IV attached to his arm. He turned his head, taking in Phil laying in a hospital bed on the other side of the room, the top of his bed tilted up and his head turned toward Clint, looking at him critically.
"You okay, Phil?" Clint asked, his voice dragging up out of his throat.
"Yeah, kid, I'm expected to make a full recovery," Phil assured him.
"Good," Clint sighed in relief. He paused, glancing up at his own IV quizzically. "So… what the hell happened to me?"
Before Phil had a chance to answer, the door to the recovery room swung open.
"Oh good, you're up," Dr. Hendricks said as she briskly strode into the room. "Barton, do you have any recollection of a conversation we had? I said something about transfusing blood for no more than thirty minutes?"
Clint eyed her annoyed expression. "I'm thinking it might have been a little longer than thirty minutes?"
"Try an hour!" Hendricks snapped. "You had transfused over three pints, kid. You're damn lucky the team got there when they did. You were about ten minutes away from being in more trouble than Phil!"
"My bad," Clint said with a tiredly sheepish smirk.
Hendricks rolled her eyes as she checked his vitals. Satisfied, she turned on her heels and left the room, still muttering about why she bothers to give instructions if no one's going to listen.
"It was a stupid risk to take, kid," Phil said with a frown.
"No," Clint said, taking in the sight of Phil alive and well as he relaxed into the infirmary bed. "It really wasn't."
NEXT WEEK'S PROMPT:
OUTNUMBERED
(Natasha finally returns in the next chapter!)