Silently, Invisibly

Chapter Eleven

Clint, for once, didn't have to worry about noise; just speed. Even if there were any hostiles still around, the klaxon would drown out any sound he made scrambling through the ventilation system. He found the right room, kicked the grate in, dropped to the floor, and looked straight down the barrel of the Winter Soldier's pistol.

Or Captain America's pistol, technically, but Cap was lying on the Soldier's bed, either unconscious or dead, and his weapon had been commandeered.

Clint didn't even bother to raise his hands; he just waited.

"Not today, I think," said the Soldier, and lowered the pistol. "You have another way out of here?"

Clint nodded his head towards the blank wall opposite the door. "Exterior wall," he said. "Tasha's waiting to blow it out for us."

"Good enough," said the Soldier.

Now that he could spare the attention, Clint could see that Cap was still breathing, but in sharp, brief gasps, occasionally separated by worryingly long intervals. With some difficulty, he slung Rogers' limp body over his shoulder and shifted him into the tiny bathroom. He eased him down onto the floor, leaving him propped up in the corner of the shower stall, and beckoned to the Winter Soldier.

"Here," he said and handed the Soldier two pairs of earplugs. "Look after him." He put in his own earplugs, then pulled out two tracking transmitters and stuck them to the wall, in the corner farthest from the bathroom, at floor and ceiling height.

The Soldier had settled himself next to Cap. Clint said "Ten seconds, Nat," on his headset, and squeezed in with them, shutting the door behind him. The explosion shook the floor under them and rattled the heavy wooden door in its frame. Clint waited a few seconds, then took out his earplugs. He stooped and, with an effort, picked Cap up in a fireman's carry. He drew his pistol and motioned the Soldier out ahead of him. The Soldier gave another crooked smile, then nodded and opened the door.

The room lights had been shattered by the explosion; the dim light from the bathroom behind them only served to turn the smoke and dust into an opaque curtain over the hole in the wall. It was more than wide enough, but they'd have to stoop to get through it—awkward for both of them. Clint killed the light to avoid presenting their silhouettes as targets.

As they cleared the smoke he could hear gunfire and see muzzle flashes to the right. There was no cover around the building's exterior, SHIELD not being comprised of idiots. The Soldier moved up beside him, watching their right side as Clint watched the left, and they edged forward. Clint heard a helicopter overhead, but it was showing no lights.

There was a sudden sting on his shin, probably a bullet fragment. From overhead there came a voice, Nat's voice, loud enough to pierce through the the gunfire: "Zashchishchayte glaza!" Clint turned his head, burying his face against Cap's body, and he felt a sudden wash of heat on the back of his neck. As it faded, so did the sounds of gunfire. He picked up his head, then opened his eyes and looked around. The Soldier was doing the same.

About fifty yards ahead and to their left the chopper was descending; it now had dim, reddish lights trained on the ground.

"Let's go," said Clint, and he and the Soldier made their way toward the chopper.

There was less gunfire now, and none of it seemed to be targeting them. Presumably most of the combatants had looked straight into the strobe and were now effectively blind.

As they drew near the helicopter a fire truck pulled up and began spraying water on the smoldering wall through which they'd come. As the curtain of spray descended behind them, Clint tapped the Soldier on the back.

"Head for the fire truck," he said. "The copter's a decoy."

A section of the fire truck's near side slid open, and two of the "firemen" pulled a stretcher out of the interior, helped him lower Cap onto it, and loaded it into the truck. Clint and the Soldier followed. Inside, the vehicle was basically an elongated ambulance; the fierce little ER doc was there, already fitting an oxygen mask onto Cap's face.

Outside, the copter took off, rapidly gaining altitude. It turned, picked up speed, and headed off to the west. A streak of fire shot up from the ground and touched it. The copter exploded.

The Winter Soldier turned white under the burns and dust. His hand tightened on the grip of the pistol he still held. Clint grabbed his wrist.

"No," he said, catching the Soldier's eye. "It's a decoy. A drone. She wasn't on it."

The Soldier's impassive mask was back almost immediately.

The "firemen" shut the sliding door and the truck started rolling.

"So, obviously those weren't your guys," Clint said to the Soldier, "and I guarantee they weren't ours, though I wouldn't rule out inside help."

"Who, then?"

"My guess is they were either hired guns or homegrown terrorists, pointed at us by someone else," said Clint. "The chlorine seems more like the militia crowd than professionals."

"It's been a while since I was out," said the Soldier. "How likely is it that it was a genuine terrorist strike?"

"Not very," said Clint. "Pretty sure it's connected with you and Rogers. Somebody wants both of you dead. This inclines me to keep you both alive, at least until we find out why."

The Soldier gave him an ironic look. "Generous of you."

"You helped Rogers, didn't you?" said Clint. "You could have let him die. You wouldn't have had to lift a finger."

"If he hadn't released me, I couldn't have lifted a finger," the Soldier pointed out. "But…I had my reasons. Maybe the same as yours, in part. This situation makes no sense; I'd rather go out doing something I understand."

Clint laughed. "Another thing we agree on, Tovarishch," he said. He looked up at the medic, still bent over Rogers. "How's he doing, Doc?" he asked.

She was scowling; he wondered if that was her habitual expression, or just something Rogers brought out in her. "Damned if I know," she said. "Normally, with the Cheyne-Stokes respiration, I'd say he was just about gone. But this serum…he might make it. His O2 sats are already improving. Just get us to someplace more like a hospital." She glared up at the Soldier. "And those damn burns are going to have to be cleaned and debrided again," she said.

The Soldier shrugged. "The chlorine and the explosives weren't my idea," he said.

After about half an hour, the bogus fire truck stopped in a secluded area and Clint helped the medic transfer her patients to a normal ambulance; he traded his concrete-dust-covered clothes for an EMT's uniform and stowed his weapons in a go bag. By the time they reached their destination, some hospital somewhere in Massachusetts, Rogers and the Soldier had been stripped and wiped down to remove as much of the chlorine residue as possible. Rogers hadn't regained consciousness, but his breathing, though it sounded harsh and half-choked, was more regular. They'd covered him up with blankets, but hadn't dressed him again; the Soldier was wearing scrubs, with a blanket around his shoulders.

They pulled into the ambulance bay; there was a decon shower set up there. They carried Rogers through on the stretcher, then the Soldier, after he stripped down again. This time they removed his brace and bandages as well. He clenched his teeth as they cleaned the burns on his chest, face and hand, but made no sound. Clint followed him through, stripping down and checking the wound on his shin (only a shallow graze) and the clusters of small blisters where his cheek and arm had been pressed against Rogers' chlorine-permeated clothing.

The techs were waiting with warmed towels and fresh bandages and warmed sweats and bottled water and painkillers. Clint dried off, dressed, drank, followed the gurneys bearing Rogers and the Soldier down the hall. Here we go again, he thought. How long till they find them this time?

Natasha was waiting for them. She stood eye-to-eye with the Soldier for a moment, and then, carefully, wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his unburned shoulder. His hand came up tentatively, and he stroked the back of her short dark hair lightly, once, twice. Then he sighed, closed his eyes and pressed his lips softly to the top of her head. They stood there like that for endless seconds, and Clint felt the wall going back up behind his eyes, cold stone to seal out the world, to keep him safe, alone.

The Soldier glanced up at him over Tasha's shoulder. His slight, sardonic smile should have been infuriating, but there was more pain in it than triumph. Clint didn't move. From an infinite distance Tasha's voice echoed in his memory: You took away everything I had….

Then Tasha moved, turned to him, and the memory snapped and vanished.

"Barton. You okay?"

"Green," he said. "You?"

"Green," she replied. "Got some intel for you. Let's go talk."

He nodded and followed her down the hall to a small lounge. She closed the door behind them and motioned him to sit on the couch. She took off her jacket and sat beside him, took his hand, draped her jacket over her lap so that their hands were concealed under it.

Like this, she fingerspelled into his palm. No comms.

OK, he spelled back.

I talked to Fury in person, she continued. He thinks this goes all the way up to the Council.

Well shit, Clint commented. What does he think it is?

Rogers and the Soldier must know something. If they compare notes something comes out. Maybe each knows half a secret.

So, Clint replied, we need both alive, and together.

Looks that way, Nat spelled.

Fuck. Both need hospital.

Nat nodded. I know.

He looked up at her. Soldier kept Cap alive. Don't know why. Seemed uncomfortable about it.

She nodded again. I will find out.

"Nat," he said aloud. She looked a question at him.

"Never mind," he said. He released her hand and stood up, eyeing the lounge's coffeepot dubiously. "Want some coffee?"

"Sure," she said.

He busied himself with rinsing the pot and finding a filter and a pack of coffee, then started the machine and sat back down. He leaned back a trifle, trying to relax; trying not to think about Tasha and the Soldier embracing; trying not to remember the gentleness and vulnerability in the Soldier's face. Clint knew better than to take anything Tasha did at face value, especially with an enemy; he also knew that, even if her emotion was genuine, she might be using it deliberately to manipulate the Soldier.

Presumably the Soldier knew all that too.

It didn't help. Seeing the Soldier's unease only served to remind him how precarious his own balance was. He and Nat would never have a straightforward, equal relationship. She would always be sure of him; she knew him as he knew himself. Probably better. He could never have that same certainty, would always have to trust that she meant what she said, that what he saw in her eyes was really there. Even when he had watched her lie to a thousand marks, with a look of purest angelic sincerity.

He watched the coffee drizzling into the pot, listened to the dispirited dribble/wheeze of the machine, and thought about their two patients. It seemed likely that Cap would recover eventually, but it also seemed likely that the Soldier would recover first; and then they'd have an able-bodied, wily and skilled prisoner to contend with, alongside a crippled and debilitated ally, and a powerful, well-informed and secretive enemy.

You were the one who wished for a mission, you idiot, he thought.

The coffee was done. He poured himself a cup, with two sugars and a heaping spoonful of the disgusting artificial-hazelnut creamer. He gave Tasha hers black, not because that was how she took it normally, but because he knew she preferred putting up with just the bad coffee, instead of making it worse by adding the other crap.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he said. He couldn't meet her eyes.

Zashchishchayte glaza! (Защищайте глаза!): Cover your eyes!