Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
Thanks to those who reviewed Chapter Nine: CyanB, tpt player 5701, BatmanOtaku, GremlinX, Silfvarg, Reading4Ever, TP, Melissa, thababes, Maire Caitroina, DBhawkguy30, Dsgdiva, weemcg33, Reteka Hyuuga, Saffygirl, The Pris, MissKallie, Eringo94, kimbee, Sandy-wmd, Noweia, bookworm1517, Anon, horselover28, YukinaKid, Hornswaggler, coastalcajun, R1dDL3M37h15, JRBarton, penguincrazy, Shazrolane, books101, awkward hawk, hawkeyeforever, jaguarspot, isi7140, Sara, truefairytales, Viviannafox, Kylen, Lollypops101, GreenLoki, JennyBunny65, Brandi Golightly, VioletBrock, penguin357, ladybug114, Kiiimberly, Rose, Aliblast, Guest, silvershadowrebel, phoenixqueen, Guest questioner, discordchick, and zaynahamore
Shout out to those who figured out the song this time around: hawkeyeforever
To The Pris: I can't tell you how far down the line Germany is because I don't reveal my secrets :D
To Viviannafox: DOES Fury still have the teddygram and the mug? That's a good question :) I'm not sure I want to give away the answer, but Fury DID change the subject AWFULLY quickly :D
To penguin357: thanks so much for the PM! It was awesome and made me super happy to get :)
To phoenixqueen: Brianna had the hit on her because of her father's involvement with Mascov - Williams was into something shady and Brianna paid the price. As for Cole Williams from Vantage Point...no relation...I wish I'd thought to make him related to them, but I didn't :(
To Guest questioner: the story you're asking about is called "Cairo" and it is not yet written. I like to hint at past missions in stories to help tie the universe together. That's one mission I've hinted at A LOT, but that hasn't been written yet. It will be eventually though! :)
Thank you to Kylen for her beta-powers. Again, anything that comes out of Dan's mouth is from her lol
This story is dedicated to Kylen
On to Chapter Ten...
If a man can bridge the gap between life and death, if he can live on after he's dead, then maybe he was a great man.
James Dean
Natasha had been dozing in her copilot seat while Clint munched on another protein bar when a loud, slightly obnoxious cartoon voice suddenly broke the silence of the jet.
"Ehhhh…What's up, Doc? What's cookin'?"
Natasha blinked in confusion.
"Bugs Bunny," Clint explained as he dug the phone out of his pocket. Natasha still looked confused – the poor, sheltered little Russian assassin.
"What's up, Doc? Oh, you're lookin'…For Bugs Bunny bunting…"
"I'll explain later."
"Elmer's gone a-hunting, just to get a rabbit skin…"
"It's Wilson."
Clint already knew that before ever looking at the screen. That was the point of personalized ring-tones. Still, he stared at the name as if he were frozen in place.
He knew he should answer. He had told the doctor to call him when Phil woke up. But he was suddenly petrified that Wilson was calling because something had gone wrong, because Phil wasn't okay anymore.
"Oops! The rabbit's gone again!"
"He told you he'd be fine." Natasha's tone was somehow firm and gentle at the same time. He wasn't sure how she managed a tone like that.
"What's up, Doc? What's cookin'?"
"Clint."
He braced himself and slid his finger across the screen – bringing it to his ear.
"Barton."
He knew Wilson knew who he'd called – Clint didn't need to identify himself. But in moments of overwhelming emotion – emotion like fear – he tended to fall back to habitual behavior. It was one of his 'coping mechanisms,' if the SHIELD shrink was to be taken seriously.
"Hey, kid."
For a very short moment, Clint was confused. Everything in his consciousness had been preparing to hear Wilson's voice. So when a voice that was distinctly not Wilson came over the line, his brain took a fraction of a second to recover from the shock. Once that happened, he put a name to the voice that was possibly even more familiar to him than his own.
"Phil."
Before he could check himself, he'd laid every emotion that had been trying to overwhelm him for the last thirty something hours into that one word – fear, pain, anger, self-loathing, affection and the recently-developed relief.
"God damn it, it's good to hear your voice, man."
Another voice – this time it was Wilson came across the line.
"You're on speaker, Barton. Your stubborn ass of a handler insisted on talking to you himself even though he can't even manage to hold the phone to his damn head right now."
Clint nodded and huffed a slight laugh. Stubborn? Phil? That was just crazy.
"I'll give you guys two minutes. Then he's getting sedated and you and I are gonna talk, Barton."
"Understood."
There was a shuffling and Clint heard a door open and then close again. He couldn't hold back a sigh as he scrubbed a hand tiredly across his face.
"You okay?"
Trust Phil to be lying on what had almost been his death bed and to be worried about Clint. It was so familiar and classic Phil that Clint couldn't help but grin.
"I'm fine. I'm not the one that got shot." Clint ignored the sudden spike of pain that shot down his spine, almost as if it flared in response to his claim. He shifted in his seat and went on before Phil could call him on it as easily as his own body had. "And you went for the hat trick at that. You know if you wanted me out of the infirmary spot light so badly, there are better ways to do it – less dramatic ways. If I didn't kn – "
"Clint."
Clint stuttered to a stop at the interruption, feeling his shoulders slump even though Phil wasn't there to see it. He should have known Phil would see the sudden fast talk for what it was – a bullshit defense mechanism.
"Are you okay?"
And Clint suddenly realized they weren't talking about anything physical. Phil knew him – knew him better than anyone. Phil knew what the last 30-odd hours had been like for him. Hell, the man had been on Clint's side of a situation like this too many times before. He knew about the fear, the pain, the absolute, unfiltered terror that the most important person in your world was going to be ripped away from you.
Clint braced his elbow back on the armrest and turned his mouth into his palm – scrambling to pull back on the emotions that were suddenly deciding to attempt an escape. He scrubbed his hand up his face and into his hair. He squeezed his eyes closed and forced himself to respond. The longer he waited, the more worried Phil would get.
"I'm fine, Phil."
Clint huffed a fractured laugh. He wouldn't even believe himself sounding like that – like the only thing holding him together was pure force of will.
Though, to be fair, that was probably all that was holding him together. Phil didn't need to know that, though. Phil just needed to focus on getting better. Clint could figure his own shit out for once.
The line was quiet for a very long moment – long enough that Clint started to wonder if Phil had fallen asleep. But just before he called out, his handler spoke – his tone calm and soothing.
"I'm gonna be okay, Clint."
Clint clenched his jaw so tightly, his teeth ached.
"You sure?" It was out before Clint could stop it. It sounded so damn needy and terrified, Clint suddenly felt all of eighteen again – when he was lost and scared and slowly realizing that Phil Coulson was his saving grace.
"I promise."
Clint nodded and forced himself to take a deep, albeit shaky, breath. It was past time for him to pull his shit together and that meant turning the conversation away from all this emotional crap.
"Natasha and I are on our way back now and I promise to sneak you in some real food first thing."
Phil allowed the subject change with no argument. Probably knew exactly where Clint and Natasha had been without having to be told.
"Good luck. They seem to run a tight ship around here."
Clint chuckled wearily.
"Did you just make a boat joke on a boat?"
"You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."
Clint rolled his eyes and felt an honest-to-god grin pull at his lips.
"You should get some rest, Phil…you sound like shit."
And he did. Phil sounded exhausted with a side of beat to hell. Almost on cue, Clint heard the door on the other end of the line open and close again. Dan's voice filtered over the line for a second time.
"I gave you three minutes. Now, Phil promised to be a good patient, Barton – keep that for future reference, will you? – and take his meds. I'm going to let the nurse take over and head out into the hall. That okay with you two?"
Clint smirked. Like either of them had an option to disagree.
"I love how you ask questions like you're actually giving a choice, Wilson."
"Yeah, well, considering Serene already has the meds in Phil's IV port, I figured you'd both say yes. Sleep tight, Phil."
Clint didn't get a chance to say anything else before he heard the door opening and closing again. He rubbed his right hand across the back of his neck, wincing when his broken finger bumped the headrest.
"That the same Serene I love to hate so much?"
The phone clicked off speaker and Wilson's voice became clearer.
"One and the same. We're a little short-handed right now with the staff you two know, and I wanted you in familiar hands."
Clint nodded. He appreciated that, but it didn't mean he still didn't believe Serene was a crayon or two short of a full box when it came to talking to humans.
"So he sounded…well, not exactly good…but not completely terrible. He's still doing okay?"
He wished he didn't need the reassurance – but it had been a long 36 hours.
"Relax, Barton. We're well past that 12-hour threshold. So long as no one puts this flying crate down with another attack, I think he's out of the woods."
Speaking of attacks…
"Things settling down around there?"
The last time he'd been on board "chaos" hadn't really seemed to cover it.
Wilson sighed, and Clint could picture the man running a hand through his hair.
"Settle down? Kid, I don't think this crate can ever be called settled. We're maintaining the status quo, how about that? We've treated all of the critical patients. Of the 35 flown here in that first wave, 33 made it. Bad news: 15 or 20 that couldhave made it, didn't get flown out fast enough. As far as I know, they all died in the LZ. And we won't even get into all the people triaged off or that never made it to the RV." Wilson paused for a moment and Clint could imagine him shaking his head.
"Fury sent a relief team to get Bryan's trainees off the base, so they've stood down. Everyone still alive from the New York base is now on the Helicarrier, along with an ungodly amount of other people that flew in." Wilson sighed. "Medical staff have been rotating out for hour-long naps for the last 10 hours. I'm due for another turn in about an hour." He took a breath. "Just in case you were going to ask me about sleeping. Because no, there are not a surplus of beds at the moment."
Clint blinked, taking in the long explanation. Wilson sounded…just not exactly Wilson. They were his words – everything Clint would expect him to say but…
"You okay, Wilson?"
There was a beat of silence, and then a huff of amusement.
"That's supposed to be my question, kid."
Clint smirked, glancing over to where Natasha had started dozing again in her seat and then resting his head back against his headrest.
"I asked you first."
This time the silence dragged on a little longer. When Wilson finally answered, his tone…
"I haven't seen anything like this in too many years to count, Barton. And even then, it wasn't like the medic units were primary targets." Dan's voice lowered a notch. "Serene's on this case because of the nurses on staff in New York, three were killed with that damned grenade. We lost another when we got here...bled out in surgery. And three orderlies died before they ever made it to the RV. And that's just the serious injuries. It's literally last man standing around here right now. Of the staff we had on the ground, maybe four…no, five of us are up and around."
"Jesus, Wilson…" Clint didn't know what else to say. He hadn't realized – hadn't had time to ask – when the report had come through that the infirmary was compromised. Everything had started happening really fast and it had been all he could do just to keep moving forward.
A sudden horrible thought struck him. With so many dead…
"Braxton?"
There was a beat of silence.
"Should've known you'd ask, and I'm sorry I didn't say it straight out. She's fine. I'm sure you'll find this amusing, but she was asleep in my quarters when this all started."
Clint released a relieved breath. Maybe if he wasn't so damn exhausted he could find the energy to make a comment with the intent of making Dan blush. As it was…
"Damn, Wilson…just…damn."
Wilson let loose a ragged sigh.
"Yeah, well…I'm still here and still standing. That'll have to be enough."
Clint shook his head, letting it roll back and forth on the headrest. He was really getting tired of having to settle for "it'll have to be enough." It was the story of his goddamned life these days.
"So now what? What's the word for the higher ups? Has the shit about Williams come down the grapevine yet?"
"I don't know, kid, and honestly, I don't care. Right now, all that's being said is the threat has been neutralized and there's no reason to believe 'another attack is imminent.' So…we run with that. Now…what about you and Romanoff?"
Clint sighed before he could stop himself.
"Would it cause you undue panic if I told you I didn't even know what day it was?" He frowned. "That might be the time change though."
Jumping forward ten hours, spending some time there, and then jumping back six hours did a number on your internal clock.
What started out as a light chuckle turned into a rolling laugh.
"No, Barton, because I don't know what day it is." There was a pause. "Okay, my watch says April 18, 1:49 p.m. How about yours?"
Clint looked down, frowning when his watch wasn't on his wrist where it should have been.
"I'd tell you if I knew where the hell my watch was."
If he had to guess, it was buried in glass in Williams' living room.
Dan laughed again.
"Why am I not surprised? Now quit stalling, Barton. How are you and Romanoff?"
Clint glanced down at his broken finger, and felt a spike of pain in his back.
"Tasha took some knocks, but she's fine – sleeping actually…" Natasha's suddenly waving hand countered that point and he smiled. "Kinda, at least. I'm fine too."
He should have known he wouldn't get away with that.
"I know you, Barton. That's not an answer."
Clint scowled. Wilson was just as bad as Phil sometimes with this whole mother-hen thing.
"I took some knocks, too." He admitted it grudgingly. His back spasmed in pain briefly, almost as a testament to that fact. He ignored it in favor of glaring down at his broken finger again. "I broke a finger."
"You…broke a finger." Wilson's voice rang with incredulity.
"Yeah." Clint answered simply. He waited a beat. "I might have fallen through a skylight, too."
This time Wilson heaved a full sigh.
"How long ago did that happen? And how far out are you?"
"It was…" Clint glanced at a watch that he was instantly reminded wasn't there, "I dunno…maybe 24 hours ago?" He looked at the GPS. "We're two hours out."
"And you're still awake and moving? No numbness – anything like that?"
"No – no numbness."
He was afraid if he admitted to any of the actual pain he was decidedly ignoring, he wouldn't be able to decidedly ignore it anymore. He just needed to keep moving for a couple more hours – until he saw Phil.
Dan was silent for a moment.
"There's a whole list of things I should have Romanoff do to you right now, Barton." Clint smirked suddenly. "And no comments from the peanut gallery. Get your ass back here so we can get you checked out."
"I'm not doing anything until I see Phil."
There was more ice in his tone than Wilson deserved, but this wasn't a point he was willing to negotiate.
"Oh for fuck's sake…fine. You're breaking all the rules anyhow."
Clint sighed, relieved he didn't have to argue about it. He didn't know if he had the energy to be anything but pissed if that had come to an actual verbal sparring match.
"That is what I do best."
Or so everyone seemed to enjoy telling him.
"Yeah, tell me about it. Just…call if you need anything, okay?"
Basically don't pass out until Wilson was there to catch him. Got it.
"See you in a few hours."
Clint tossed his phone onto the console with a sigh, letting his head fall back against the headrest again. He stared at the roof of the jet for a long moment, remembering the sound of Phil's voice. Some of the tension that had been settled in his shoulders for so long that he'd gotten used to it, slowly bled away – leaving him even more drained and exhausted than before.
"Think you can sleep now?"
Clint opened his eyes – he didn't remember closing them – and rolled his head on the headrest to look at his fiery spider. She'd only asked him one other time since they'd started their return flight. He'd just shaken his head sharply and checked his phone for what felt like the millionth time. She hadn't pushed, had seemed to understand that he wasn't ready to stand down yet.
But now he'd talked to Phil. Now he'd done everything he could to make it right with Brianna's memory. Now he should be able to sleep. But something in his mind rejected the idea.
Maybe it was that he hadn't actually seen Phil yet. Maybe it was because the last time he had seen him, the man had been bleeding and unconscious. Maybe it was because every time he let his thoughts wander, Brianna's terrified eyes were suddenly all he could think about.
He couldn't do it. Couldn't let his guard down in the way sleeping would require – couldn't leave his consciousness unprotected yet. Dreaming of Brianna he could handle.
Well…
Mostly handle.
But Phil…Clint didn't want to open himself up to dreaming about his handler getting gunned down. About him maybe not surviving. About 'bleeding and unconscious' being the last time he ever saw him. That he couldn't handle – not until he had the actual sight of Phil alive and awake to fight back with.
"Clint?"
He blinked and pulled his head away from the headrest abruptly, looking out into the blue sky around them.
"No – not yet."
"Clint." She had her 'convincing' tone now, the one she used to persuade him to doing something he didn't want to do. He was proud to say he could usually withstand it.
Well…
He could sometimes withstand it.
If he was feeling particularly stubborn.
Which he was.
"Not yet." His words were sharp – clearly showing that he was fully prepared to dig his heels in and battle this one out with her.
She sighed deeply and he could almost hear the fight drain out of her.
"Fine."
Clint felt a shot of guilt and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked so tired and worried and bruised and generally just ready for all of this to be over. Clint felt his own shoulders droop. He hadn't meant to kick her while she was already down.
"I just need to see him. I'll get some sleep after that, I swear, but I need to see him first, okay?"
Her weary green eye shifted to his and softened. Then she nodded. She understood – she usually did. Why she put up with the minefield he called his emotions, he would never know.
As a peace offering – and maybe because after everything that had happened in the last 36 hours, he found himself in the rare state of actually wanting some form of comfort – Clint shifted his right hand out to hover in the small space between their seats, palm up and waiting.
A moment later her hand slid into his. Her fingers tightened around his hand and she sighed again, letting her head fall back against her head rest with her eyes closed. Clint tightened his grip as well and turned his gaze back to the blue sky.
Two more hours – two more hours and he could finally start accepting that this nightmare was over.
Phil shifted slightly in his bed, hand moving to brace against his chest briefly. The twinge of pain faded away and he sighed. He was sitting up in bed – well, he was propped on several pillows and the bed had been shifted into a very slight incline – trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.
Clint would be back any minute. Dan had brought word that his and Natasha's jet was inbound ten minutes ago. Knowing Clint, as soon as he'd signed the jet back into the hands of the hangar crew, he'd be making a bee-line for the infirmary.
And God help anyone who tried to slow him down.
Startled voices of protest suddenly rose from somewhere outside of his door and Phil found himself smiling slightly in anticipation, his eyes going to the window that showed him the hallway.
Sure enough, seconds later, his favorite archer came stalking into view.
Clint's eyes found his through the window only to break contact a moment later as he practically ripped open the door.
"Clint…"
It was all Phil could manage to get out before Clint took two long strides to the side of his bed. The archer's knee folded under him as he braced it on the mattress and wrapped his arms around Phil's shoulders in the closest version of a bear hug he could get without causing Phil pain or disrupting any of the equipment surrounding him.
Caught completely by surprise by the initiation of physical contact, all Phil could do at first was bring his arms up automatically to wrap around Clint in return. He expected the hug to end as quickly as it had started, but it didn't.
For several long moments, Clint remained right where almost clinging to him. Phil heard the archer's uneven breaths and felt the near hitch rise in Clint's back. Feeling his own throat tighten, Phil shifted one hand to grip the back of Clint's neck – a familiar method of offering comfort that had worked many times in the past.
The archer's breath hitched again and for a moment, his arms tightened around Phil's shoulders.
"You scared the shit outta me."
The words were meant for his ears alone – though there was really no one around to eavesdrop – that much was obvious by the low tone in which they were spoken. The sheer level of emotion that bled into those simple words had Phil tightening his grip on the back of Clint's neck.
"I know. I'm sorry."
Clint huffed, pulling back and sitting on his bent leg. He shook his head, keeping his face down turned and his eyes hidden.
"Did you get shot on purpose?" The archer scrubbed a hand across his face and went on before Phil could decide if that was meant to be rhetorical or not. "Then why the hell are you apologizing?"
Phil made a wry face because, seriously, he'd be rich if he had a nickel for every time Clint had apologized for scaring him. Phil let it slide though and carefully watched the top of Clint's head, waiting for the archer to face him.
Finally, Clint seemed to pull himself together enough to raise his gaze.
"This whole bedside vigil shit isn't my thing. You don't get to do this ever again, got that?"
Phil arched an eyebrow – only to wince when the action pulled against the bullet crease on the side of his head. Clint suddenly frowned deeply and Phil quickly breathed away the pain, and then scrambled to deflect the worry rising quickly in the archer's eyes.
"Bedside vigil? You just got here."
Clint paled abruptly, guilt sprouting in his eyes almost immediately. Phil reached out and gripped his forearm.
"That's not what I meant." He assured firmly. "It was a bad joke."
Clint nodded, but still looked pale.
That was when Phil's – admittedly slightly scrambled – brain suddenly took in all that his eyes were seeing.
Small cuts scattered across Clint's face, deep bruises painting the skin in various places. Dark, bruise like half circles had taken up residence under both his eyes, which for their part were both red rimmed and bloodshot. His expression was drawn and exhausted – more exhausted than Phil had ever seen it.
His forearm under Phil's hand was covered in cuts and scrapes, some angry, red, and slightly swollen. His middle finger on his right hand was colored in deep purples and blues and was nearly twice the size it should have been. His black t-shirt was torn in several places, dark, stiff stains discoloring it slightly.
Most noticeable, though, was the way he was sitting. Stiff was never a word Phil would use to describe Clint. But that's how he was holding himself – stiffly. Like allowing his back to bend was too painful of a prospect to even attempt.
Clint shifted suddenly, drawing his arm out of Phil's grasp and he knew he'd been caught staring. Better to just fess up and move forward than try to play it off.
"You look like shit, kid."
Clint scoffed in real amusement.
"Seriously? I look like shit? You're one to talk, Mr. Trifecta of bullet holes."
"I want Dan to check you out."
"He will." Clint assured calmly, though he made no move to leave.
"I meant now."
"I'll get to it." Clint promised.
Phil opened his mouth to demand Clint 'get to it' right the hell now, but the words died on his lips. Clint was looking at him like he was suddenly terrified that if he looked away, Phil would disappear on him.
All at once, he knew he wouldn't get Clint to leave any time soon. How many times had he been sitting where Clint was now – bearing the same fear and refusing to move with the same resolve? He couldn't make him leave, not until those fears settled.
Maybe he could help the process along though. He reached for his bed controls, slowly lowering the bed back to a completely flat position. He remained propped on pillows, but the angle was much more conducive to a nap.
"Tired?" Clint asked, shifting off the bed into a nearby chair – the same chair that Dan or Todd occupied when they visited.
Phil nodded, surprised by the yawn that snuck up on him to prove the point.
"Where's Natasha?"
"She volunteered to handle the post-flight check list."
Phil nodded, a small smile quirking his lips. Natasha hated the flight check lists with a passion. She made sure that job fell to Clint every opportunity she got. Her volunteering spoke to the mess Clint must have been over this.
Phil settled back into his pillows, watching Clint shift uncomfortably in the chair. He realized for the first time that the archer's bow and quiver were missing. He opened his mouth to ask, but then stopped when Clint hid a nearly painful-looking yawn behind his fist.
He'd ask later.
He felt his own eyes drift closed and absently wondered how long it would take Clint to follow his example and get some sleep. Because Phil was absolutely certain that was one thing the archer hadn't gotten since this mess started.
Clint watched Phil's breathing even out and he knew his handler was asleep. The weight that had been bearing down on him ever since he' d turned to see Phil lying in his own blood finally melted away completely.
He blew out a deep breath and leaned back in the chair, only to wince and shift when the position put pressure on his aching back. He shifted forward, folding his arms on the edge of Phil's mattress and resting his cheek on them, watching the slow rise and fall of Phil's chest.
His back didn't like this position any better than the last – the chair was a little too far away to be comfortable even on his best day – but he suddenly didn't have the energy to move again. So he stayed where he was, listening to the steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
He hardly noticed when the rest of the world faded away and all he remained aware of was that steady beep. He blinked slowly, having to work a little harder each time to force his eyes open again.
Finally, he gave up on that battle – about the same time even the beeping faded away.
Dan glanced through the viewing window to Phil's room as he headed for the door. He allowed himself a small smile as he took in the sight of the two agents and then he slipped silently into the room.
Phil was asleep – from the drugs or his own free will, it didn't matter. He was gone from the world for the moment.
More surprisingly, so was Barton.
He was all but collapsed forward against Phil's mattress, head pillowed on his arms, back hunched a bit awkwardly out of the chair that was just a little too far away from the bed. Remembering the archer's admittance to a free fall through a skylight, Dan moved closer.
The back of Barton's shirt was a mess – nothing but sliced-up fabric with dark stains surrounding the cuts. He hoped to hell there was no glass in there that he'd have to dig out. There was tension bunched in the broad muscles – even in sleep – though Dan wondered if that wasn't to be expected after everything that had happened.
He hated to wake him – especially since couldn't have been asleep for more than fifteen minutes – but he had to get him checked out. Because knowing Barton, he was hurt worse than he seemed or admitted.
Blowing out a breath, he crouched next to Barton's chair and reached to tap the archer's knee.
Every single muscle in the kid's body visibly tensed. His head shot up and he half rose out of his chair, leaning towards Phil.
"Easy, Barton." Dan kept a hold on the knee he'd tapped and pressed the kid back into the chair. "Everything's fine." He kept his voice low, a soothing whisper like he was talking to a startled, wounded…well…Barton.
The archer all but collapsed back into the chair, head snapping around to face him in confusion.
"I just wanna get you out of here for a lookover."
Barton blinked blearily, obviously struggling to shake off the sleep he desperately needed.
"'M fine." He finally insisted – though the slight slur wasn't exactly comforting. "Wanna stay with Phil."
Dan rolled his eyes.
"Cut me a break, kid. I know you haven't slept in at least the last 36 hours but I didn't forget about your free fall through a skylight, either. Sleeping like this won't do you any favors." He made sure to keep his voice low and soothing. "He's not going anywhere, Barton, and he'd kill me if I didn't at least check you out."
That seemed to do the trick. Barton's lips quirked tiredly.
"He'd kill us both."
Slowly – as if he were a ninety-year-old man – Barton started to push himself up from the chair. Then – like he'd been hit with an unexpected blow – he bodily flinched, every muscle in his back seeming to lock up in a painful mass. His mouth dropped open in a silent cry of pain and he staggered back a step, feet getting tangled in the chair and an arm windmilling in an attempt to find his balance.
Dan was sure he would have gone down in a tangle of limbs and plastic chair legs if he hadn't been able to get a hand on Barton's bicep. As soon as he was sure Barton wasn't going to go down anyway, Dan wrapped his other arm around Barton's lower back, hooking his fingers in the kid's belt loops. Then he pulled him away from the bed and towards the door.
Every muscle in the kid's body seemed to lock up in response to whatever was happening and by the time they made it through the door, Barton's legs were betraying him and he was going to his knees.
Dan allowed the descent and crouched with him, keeping the supporting hand on his bicep and the arm around his back.
"Tell me what's going on, Barton."
Outward displays of pain were about as common from Barton as love ballads. It wasn't something he let the world see. That meant this was bad – whatever it was – but the positive side of that was that it was unlikely Clint would try to lie to him now.
One of the few perks of the walking contradiction that was Clint Barton.
Sure enough, after sucking in a few painful-sounding breaths, he ground out a response.
"My back."
Not all that informative – but it was a start. Barton's right hand was braced in front of him, fingers pressing painfully into the floor. And there was the broken finger Barton had mentioned.
"Lie down." Dan eased the archer down and helped him shift so his back was flat against the ground. His knees remained bent, boots braced on the floor. "Stretch out your legs and control your breathing."
Even as he said it he pressed a hand against Barton's nearest knee, urging him to straighten out. Surprisingly, Barton didn't even put up a token resistance. He just clenched his jaw and blew out a pained breath as he tried to obey the directive. Slowly – and after what seemed like an extremely taxing effort – he managed to straighten his legs completely.
Dan shifted his hand to Barton's shoulder.
"Control that breathing, Barton." He waited for the archer to draw in and blow out a few deep breaths. "Now – tell me what you're feeling."
Barton grimaced in sudden pain, but forced the expression off his face a moment later.
"Hurts." He ground out through tightly clenched teeth.
"Yeah, I kinda figured." Dan replied impatiently.
Barton seemed to hear the impatience and swallowed, one of his hands shifting vaguely to gesture at his lower back.
"Lower back."
Now they were getting somewhere.
"Scale of one to ten, Barton. You know the drill."
Barton swallowed thickly.
"Nine and three quarters." Barton's lips quirked into a sudden smirk – and though it was a far cry from Barton's normal version of the expression, Dan understood the attempt. He chuckled, allowing Barton the momentary deflection.
"Do I look like a train conductor to you? This isn't the Hogwarts Express, kid. Give me a real number."
Clint grimaced again – as if hit by a sudden pain – and his reply was ground out once again through tightly-clenched teeth.
"Higher side of 8."
Dan nodded. A little concerning, but nothing to panic about yet.
"Stretching out help at all?"
Barton thought about that for a moment before nodding slightly.
"Loosening up a little."
Small mercies, Dan supposed.
"Describe the pain."
This time Barton replied immediately.
"Sharp."
"Let me guess: your lower back feels like someone reached in and started twisting a fist in the muscle."
Barton's expression twisted in pain again and his next words were slightly panting.
"Something like that."
Dan shifted his hand to lay flat on Barton's chest.
"Easy, kid. Keep those breaths deep and even. This probably isn't anything big, okay?"
Barton huffed a laugh that was mixed with a heavy dose of sarcasm and pain.
"Have you looked at my track record lately?"
Dan snorted. Point.
"True, but you've been up and moving for how long since this happened?"
Barton titled his head slightly and quirked an eyebrow in acquiescence.
"So barring worst-case scenarios, what the hell is wrong?"
"You fell through a skylight, Barton. You probably sprained your back, maybe cracked some ribs. But I'm getting a stretcher down here so we can do an MRI and x-rays to make sure that's all it is. This is you we're talking about." Dan smirked, patting Clint's chest as condescendingly as he could manage.
He was pleased when Barton rolled his eyes and hummed in sarcastic agreement. A moment later he flinched and his hand fisted at his sides, even his broken finger contracting part way. His eyes snapped closed and he swallowed thickly as he rode out the pain.
Dan took the moment to pull his walkie-talkie off his belt and quietly call for a stretcher. He looked back at Barton when the archer's eyes opened again.
"It can't be that bad, right? You just said I wouldn't have been up and around if it was bad."
Dan sighed.
"Look at me, Barton."
Dan kept his hand carefully on Barton's sternum – a constant pressure meant to reassure. The archer blew out a sharp breath through his nose, visibly attempting to calm himself down, and then shifted his eyes to meet Dan's.
"It's been a hell of a 36 hours. You're exhausted and you've been running on nothing but adrenaline and stubbornness. All that's worn off now and the one person who normally walks you through this type of shit almost died. You need to be horizontal for a while, okay? We can do that and rule out any other issues at the same time."
Barton swallowed again and nodded.
"Good. The stretcher is on the way. And remember, I'm always straight up with you. Let's just make sure things are all in the right places, okay?"
Barton nodded again.
"Then what the hell are you waiting for? The red carpet to roll out?" But there was no fire in his tone and the tired smirk on his lips took away any bite in the words.
Dan rolled his eyes. As long as Barton was being sarcastic, then they were practically 'situation normal.'
Dan stared at the screens as the MRI ran in the room opposite the window in front of him.
"Is he asleep?"
Dan glanced away from the screen and to where Carly, a nurse from the Panama base, was monitoring Barton's vitals and watching the feed from the camera inside the machine.
Sure enough, Barton's eyes were closed and his breathing seemed even.
Dan smirked.
"I hit him with muscle relaxants and a painkiller. Add a noise-reducing headset and lack of any real sleep in way too long, and I'm not really surprised he's out."
Though he couldn't remember the last time someone had actually fallen asleep in an MRI. Leave it to Barton to be the first. Finally, the scan finished, and Dan headed into the adjoining room, reaching to guide the panel Barton was lying on out of the machine.
Barton started – probably startled awake by the movement. Even drugged, the kid was like a soldier in the trenches.
"Only need you upright for a second, kid, work with me."
Dan gripped one of Barton's biceps and Carly gripped the other. Together, with minimal help from Barton himself, they levered him up and supported him towards the stretcher.
Barton finally managed to get his feet under him and stumbled along between them.
"Gonna tuck me in, Wilson?"
Dan snorted.
"Not personally, no. But I'm sure Carly here would be up to the task."
Barton tisked, shaking his head drunkenly as they eased him onto the stretcher.
"I got a deadly spider for that type of thing – and she's the jealous type."
This time, Dan laughed. He shot Carly a look, clearly telling her that comment was something never to be repeated. Barton and Romanoff weren't in the habit of advertising their relationship.
"Sounds about right, kid. How's the pain?"
"Down to three and three quarters."
Dan shook his head, a warm smile on his face.
"Good. Somehow your ribs are nothing but badly bruised and nothing is out of place. Just a good, old-fashioned lower back sprain with a side order of back spasms. Nothing sitting in an infirmary chair is going to help, though, so Carly is gonna splint your finger and then she's taking your ass up to recovery to get some sleep. That work for you?"
Protest rose in every part of Barton's expression.
"But Phil…"
Dan held up a hand to stop him.
"You trust me, Barton?"
The archer's expression grew even more serious and his eyes were almost painfully sincere.
"You know you don't need to ask that."
Dan saved the warmth that response caused to bask in later.
"Good. Because I'm going to go sit with him for a while so you can get some sleep. Then I'll hand him off to someone equally trustworthy."
Barton nodded slowly and then abruptly glanced around.
"Where's Natasha?"
He was still looking around like he expected her to pop out from behind a corner.
"Currently warming the chair next to Phil. I'm about to go relieve her and send her your way. Everyone is getting some sleep even if I have to drug both of your asses."
Barton held up a hand in surrender.
"I want it noted that I'm not resisting."
Dan nodded.
"So noted. I guess there is a first time for everything. Now let me go so I can relieve Romanoff, okay?"
Barton nodded, settling back on the stretcher with a weary sigh.
"Get going, Wilson. What are you waiting for? Permission?"
Dan was already walking away, holding a hand over his shoulder with a certain finger pointed up.
He smiled as he heard Barton's answering chuckle.
End of Chapter Ten
I didn't show Phil's return to consciousness because I wanted all of you as suprised by his phone call as Clint was :) Hope I succeeded. And who was so excited to see Clint just flat out HUG Phil on sight? Even our steel strong, never show emotions archer has been pushed up to his breaking point this time around.
Chapter 11 tomorrow! :D
Feed my pet review monster! If you don't, he'll attack me and then we'll really be in a pickle! :O
And finally you're preview:
"Maskov didn't tell me who she was and I didn't ask."
She was hearing a seventeen year old Hawkeye talk about his job. That darkness – that was what he was back them. That detachment – that was how he survived it.
The lead council member scoffed.
"Are you suggesting that had you known, it would have changed anything?"
Clint tilted his head slightly, a dark – and in no way humorous – smirk quirked his lips.
"No."