Synopsis: It started as a simple mission, an in and out job before it all came crashing down after Clint is taken by surprise. What appears to be a simple hit quickly turns into something more, something that makes them face all their fears.
Relationships: strong May/Coulson/Clint friendship, strong Nat/Clint-friendship, Laura/Clint, May/Coulson-subtext
Warnings: Medical realism (graphic depiction of injury and surgical procedures), blood, violence, and strong language
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters under the Marvel/Disney franchise, they are the property of Marvel/Disney.
"The only thing to fear is fear itself"-Winston Churchill
Chapter 1: Bang!
Mexico City, it was decided, had shitty air. One could almost taste the bitter pollution of the stale air, enough that it made your eyes water. The upside was the temperature, what the city lacked in air quality it evened the playing field in weather. If one didn't consider the more than average rainfall since arrival. Today was different, the rain had stopped for now, the clouds had lifted and with the temperature in the mid-seventies was mild and pleasant.
On the outskirts of the city sat a safehouse, rotting shingles were a testament to its age, running water its only redeeming quality. The windows were dirty, the fog on the glass having nothing to do with the humid air. Shutters barely held on to the rotting wood panels. Inside was a different story. Two agents sat on a couch that was in dire need of a dumpster while a third stood in the relatively small kitchen hand brewing coffee. One agent looked up with a smirk, taunt on his tongue as he addressed his colleague in the kitchen.
"Are you trying to give yourself a heart attack?" Agent Clint Barton joked.
"Shut it Barton, couldn't sleep all the snoring," Agent Phillip J. Coulson could give back just as good as he received.
"I don't snore!" Clint snapped back, although his wife would say otherwise.
"Yeah, you do," Agent Melinda May said sardonically from her spot on the couch next to Barton.
"The air quality is shit so sorry for having allergies," they were trying to get a rise out of him, one Clint wouldn't allow them to have. Nat on the other hand would have said something quite different about the subject and her lack of sleep on previous missions.
"So coffee is needed. Besides I'm not the only one in this house," Phil pointed out.
Both Barton and May looked up suspiciously before May interrupted, "Don't drink coffee, I have tea."
"Never do before an op," Barton added.
Shit, they see it too, Phil had been anxious since the start of this mission. He hadn't figured why, it was a simple operation, one weapons trafficker to check off SHIELD's list. There was something else that nagged him, the true reason beyond Barton's unfortunate snoring to necessitate the extra caffeine. It had kept him up most the night, diverted his attention from the target to something else. He had to focus now, they had work to be done. Focus Phil, you're being paranoid.
"We just got confirmation, Stark technology is at play. Bunker busters, armor piercing ammunition, and heat seekers," May broke the silence as she read a report from her tablet.
"Lovely, this is going to be fun," Phil smirked.
May's resulting eyeroll he chose to ignore.
"Merchant of Death, isn't that what he's called these days," Clint asked no one in particular.
The Merchant of Death, or so Stark was aptly named in the public eye, was well known at SHIELD. Several operations had been solely to pull his weapons off the market be it assassinating a terrorist leader or infiltrating a weapons trafficking ring. They all read the mission brief, words like imminent threat and underground terrorist ring were high on SHIELD's priority to extinguish. Clint lost his hearing as an indirect correlation to Stark. A joint mission with the US Army and an IED retrofitted with Stark technology was all it took. They could not let a deal carry through, the ring of traffickers had to stop today with one clean shot.
Tony Stark, billionaire and weapons inventor. Phil found it truly amazing to see that a man, whose father worked alongside Captain Steve Rogers to help bring an end to war, was so invested in prolonging another one. Phil recalls the memories of war, his time with the Rangers still fresh in his mind. He'd seen the trauma Barton had endured during those long months after Afghanistan, the PTSD and adjustment was hard to bear and agonizing to watch. He had to wonder if Stark had played a part in all of it He had to be given the benefit of the doubt though, it wasn't like Tony Stark of all people was here in Mexico trafficking weapons across the border. Phil walked over to the couch, cup number five in his hands (whose counting) to join the other two. May was backup, joining the mission last minute as the 'calvary' (someone at the academy came up with that name, but considering how many times she saved his ass Phil conceded that it fit and it stuck much to her chagrin), Fury even suggested it much to the displeasure of the WSC. She and Phil were to stay back in the van, eyes on and comms ready while Nat and Clint shined. It was an in and out job, self-explanatory with little in the way to complete the mission. Romanoff was good at her job and Clint always hit his target.
Phil figured they would be wheels up by tonight and home tomorrow. Not before that bottle of tequila Barton still owed him.
If only that nagging fear in the back of his mind would dissipate, he could finally relax and complete the op.
Something was coming and the unease in Phil's gut told of nothing good.
Marcus Scarlotti was a career criminal, a master assassin, and he was good at his job. Blood on his hands was a legacy better than any tangible trophy he could hold. Of course, money was always better and for what he was being offered for this job he was intrigued. The man had come to him two days ago with a folder and a mark. Marcus was skeptical at first after he researched further into the job, SHIELD was not an easy target by a long shot unless there was insider information. In his experience usually by the time the mark was made SHIELD had a secondary plan. Last time when he located his target the agency had already ordered an extraction.
This time would prove to be different; he could feel it in his bones. His contact knew a hell of a lot about an underground agency so in the dark most of America did not know of its existence. He figured his contact was a former, or current, member of some alphabet agency but who he was didn't matter after Marcus saw the pay cut.
The man in front of him wore sunglasses and a gaudy tropical button-up only a tourist would be willing to flaunt. In one hand was a flashy drink complete with a stereotypical little umbrella, the other held a plain manila folder. He was flamboyant to say the least, an air of arrogance surrounding him but Marcus had a good feeling this was a good payout.
"This is your mark, do it clean and you get the cash," the nameless man's accent was clearly American. "Oh, and by the way try to hit a non-lethal shot if you can. I'd like to see the results."
Marcus took the folder from the man's hand and opened it. The picture was recent, surveillance from a higher-level agency (alphabet no less). The uniform said it all, the eagle was emblazed on one shoulder. Looking up he noticed the man had a wicked smile on his face, sly and mischievous. He was inside the organization if the picture he had in his hands said anything. More information was taped to the back of the photo, locations, and mission sensitive data. A detailed map of the surrounding area with red x's on set buildings and alleyways. Marcus read it over, memorizing the information and the level of skill his mark really had.
Non-lethal? A test?
Non-lethal was not what he had planned but if it brought him closer to his reward Scarlotti would follow through.
The man smiled, a box in hand that he willingly handed over.
Marcus took the other item the man held out, an unlabeled aluminum box, in it a round of bullets he had yet to see in the mainstream market.
"It will be done," Marcus was confident, maybe too confident given the skillset he was up against.
Now he sat in some rundown hostel on the edge of town in Mexico City of all places. On the single table in the room was the manila folder he spent the better half of last night reading. The overall mission was simple for such an agency, something generally carried out by the CIA or other organization specializing in high level arms trafficking. He found it interesting, Stark level technology trafficked in an underground to set it up on the mainstream market to gangs and cartels. It sounded lucrative. Maybe when he was done completing this man's 'test' he would sally in on the opportunity Fontaine had to offer. That is if the man had more to offer. He followed the money.
He shifted his thoughts back to his job. Go in quick, clean shot, then leave. However, he was skeptical his mark would allow for such a feat. Sniping was out of the question; his mark would had extensive experience. From what he read the man could clearly see all angles, scanned the location before ever setting up a shot. This was going to be hard, but he liked hard, it gave him a challenge. He sat there combing over his weapons, knives hidden from the public in various parts on his person. The garroting line was wrapped around his wrist and he just finished stripping and cleaning his Baretta. Opening the aluminum case he was handed for this test he examined the bullet. Larger than the average 9mm, armor piercing tip and hollow, the center rattled when he shook it. Nothing he had seen before, more like a fictional model of a cluster bomb created to be fired by the average handgun. Interesting. A prototype he was given to test. Engraved in the side was the company name, very popular around the world and loved by terrorists alike for the Merchant of Death made good weapons. Smiling Marcus loaded the last round into the clip and slid it into place.
Replacing his clip with the 'prototype' bullets he slid it into place with a click, cocked the slide, and was ready.
Holstering his weapon on his hip, backups on both ankles, Marcus took one last look at the photograph and walked out the door.
Natasha Romanoff was good at her job, infiltration was the key to success in taking down a mark. Seduction also helped and she was good at both. She was still new to SHIELD, twenty-four and still flushing the Red Room from her memory, remaking herself into something she could live with. When Clint Barton had brought her in from the cold two years ago, took her hand and offered a different path she had called him an idiot. She was a monster at the time, fearless with little empathy, training long ingrained into her memory that made rehabilitation impossible. But two years later she had changed, becoming the SHIELD agent Barton had seen in her. She held her demons inside, went against that programming that had made her a monster. The Red Room was still with her, that fear of change still hard to approach, but Natasha Romanoff had become so much more in her two-years of SHIELD, and she couldn't help but think Barton was the cause of all it.
Natasha walked into the ballroom of the nondescript closed hotel. The hotel was abandoned, bought out by a megalomaniac with a penchant for lethal weapons and drugs. The perfect place to hold a party for the scum of the earth. A waitress approached her to offer a drink, something fruity and vaguely alcoholic, before walking over to the man in charge. Fontaine, ugly in more ways than one, his dark skin weathered and thick like leather, pouched belly a sign of his gluttony. He wore a Giorgio Armani suit which contrasted with the local average income. In his right hand a cane, for show Natasha didn't know (and could care less), the head of a solid gold snake adorning the handle. His left held a glass of champagne as he conversed with a woman far younger than him in a revealing short red dress. She herself was in a gown, low-cut and form fitting with a long slit up one side. Inserts to accentuate her cleavage. Low-profile SHIELD body armor lined her body like a glove, her gun tucked in her inner thigh and her widow bite adorned like a gaudy diamond bracelet. SHIELD tech division was good at their work.
"Just give me a moment my darling," he held only a hint of an accent, a testament to his travels to America in his all his trade.
"Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to be the famous Mr. Fontaine would you now?" Natasha slinked up to the man seductively running her hand down one arm.
"Why yes I am, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mrs.-," Fontaine smiled attention now solely pointed on Natasha.
Gotcha!
"Oh silly me, its Miss Pressley, you can call me Candy," Natasha put an edge of 'California' in her voice, playing well into the role of the eager girl playing for money.
"Well Candy, what brings you to my little shindig?" Fontaine's hand ran sensually down her waist coming to rest on her ass.
She tensed briefly as he cupped her butt cheek, hand twitching to intercept but caught herself quickly. She raised her right hand instead and followed through, running delicate fingers down his chest.
Suck it up Buttercup!
Fuck you Barton!
"You see I don't want to be lonely this afternoon, I thought maybe a pick me up," Natasha had his attention, she could lure him to Barton's mark.
"That sounds delightful if I may add, why don't you join me for the rest of this party," Fontaine's voice lit up with satisfaction.
Party was an exaggeration; it was merely a business venture for Stark weapons. A gathering of traffickers willing to make a deal. Natasha glanced over at the other potential targets; Oscar Garcia (heroin), Lena Haggerty (undercover CIA, what?), and another man she vaguely recognized. Extremist cell maybe, KGB? He wore a Hawaiian shirt, brightly colored and tacky, with dark sunglasses sipping from the fruity drink. Who the hell drank that garbage, Natasha preferred the hard burn of vodka. Natasha stayed glued to Fontaine's side as he danced around the room, watching Haggerty carefully. Neither wanted to be 'made' so both women focused on their marks.
"May I introduce you to my business partners," Fontaine said with an elaborate show of his arms.
Here's where the fun begins.
The van was parked in the park adjacent to the hotel, hidden well by the overhanging trees. Phil and Melinda set up comms while Barton made his way to his position. It was a good area for the op, one of the best considering the locations of their previous ones (Sarajevo still haunts Phil). Barton's perch was the building across from the hotel's courtyard. Natasha would lure him out to the open, Barton would take the shot, then Natasha would play the part of innocent frightened victim before disappearing. The meetup was the park, abandoned and blighted by drug addicts and rats. As good as place as any for an undercover op.
"Comms are up," Melinda announced as she tapped her earpiece.
"Okay comms check everybody," Phil began as he put his own in his ear. "Barton, Romanoff report."
I'm in position, Barton barked.
In position, Natasha followed quietly.
"Let's do this thing," Phil remarked loudly, his hands gesturing wide and bold.
Melinda just looked at him her eyebrow twitching.
"Ratatouille? Really May, keep up with the times," Phil admonished.
"You've spent too much time around Barton," the humor in Melinda's voice was palpable.
"You're one to talk," Phil shot back, how was he to forget the prank war she and Barton had started on him and Romanoff a week previously. He was still washing the dye from his hair.
Smiling she returned to the op, fully engaged in the video feed coming from the body camera Natasha wore. This was relaxing, more so than usual, a simple op. If given the chance to kick some ass, that would be good too. She was on standby if the mission went sideways, she was the one-woman extraction team, the 'calvary'. The van went silent when there was feedback from Barton's comm, May listened carefully. It was not the usual whine from his hearing aids, something different as if he moved suddenly. They waited for a moment before an abrupt shout on the other end had both agents tensing.
Shit! There was a choking noise, Barton, and a scuffle.
"Barton! Barton!" Phil barked into the comm.
He didn't receive an answer. More sounds of struggle echoed through the van, followed by what sounded like punching and kicking. There was brief silence before a gunshot rang out followed by a gasp. Phil tensed and May had her hand already on the door.
"Barton! Report!" Phil kept trying but was met with silence.
No answer
A painfilled groan and a series of thumps followed before a final loud hit of something hitting pavement. Then the line went eerily quiet.
Phil and Melinda were out of the van before Natasha could respond.
Clint was in his zone, this was what he enjoyed, being up high. He shimmied up a dilapidated fire escape to the roof of a low-rise building. It was abandoned, had been for quite some time now home to squatters and druggies, even had one inside possibly dead with a needle in his arm. It was good enough for him as he set up his shot when it was provided. He relaxed his body, loosened up his muscles, when something akin to fear began prickling the back of his neck. Easy mission Barton, worry less, he told himself dispelling the tiny flutter of anxiety that shot through his nerves. Sixth sense, that's what it was, looking behind him he saw nothing. He was paranoid, he knew that, always was. Shaking his head Barton crouched down, setting his full quiver beside him before pulling an arrow. Notching it against the riser he waited for Natasha.
Later he would blame his hearing aids for not picking up the sound or perhaps he got complacent.
Clint reeled when a fist slammed into the side of his head, it caught him off guard. "Shit!" he cursed as he was snapped back to awareness, his ears ringing. Got sloppy Barton! Or maybe there was something more. Before he could react, a line was wrapped around his throat pulled taught, he was being toyed with. The line wasn't sharp enough to cut through any vital structures, the man wasn't even trying. Whoever got the drop on him wanted to make him angry. Good, he could use a fight. Choking against the wire his vision merely dimmed with the lack of oxygen. He's toying with me. Stepping back towards an old chimney Clint used all his weight to pin the man against the brick. Throwing his head back it connected with the man's face as the wire loosened. Slack enough under his fingers he pulled it from his neck and ducked underneath to face his assassin head on.
He met his attacker's eye's, primal energy flowing through both. The fight was on.
Hand to hand was his only option, his bow was tossed from his hands at the first punch. Fuck it he really let his guard down. The assassin, that's what Clint was calling him, rushed him again but Clint was prepared. Putting his hands up in a block he caught the next three punches before throwing one of his own followed by a roundhouse kick. As the assassin ducked it gave Clint enough time to grab the man's shoulders and bring his head down violently against his knee. The assassin went limp, collapsing to the ground seemingly unconscious.
Good, it gave Clint enough time to reach for his bow. Keeping his eyes on the man he grabbed his weapon, an arrow notched on the riser in less than ten seconds. Pulling back on the string he was surprised when the man moved, his hand lifting from beneath his leg. Before he could loose the arrow a gunshot rang out, shattering his resolve. Clint was fast but the assassin was faster. Clint jerked, breath leaving him, as the shot hit his Kevlar. Clint sighed internally, body armor, he was okay. He thought that for an instant until pain nearly whited out his senses, it felt as if he was punched in the gut with a machete. In the seconds he watched the assassin smile, smoking gun held pointed at his chest, Clint could feel something warm run down the inside of his vest. He ignored the pain, ignored the pull of his body trying to fail. Instead, he took the shot. Arrow imbedding in the man's upper right chest. It was off target, rare for him but necessary with his shaking arms. He needed to get out of here, something was very wrong.
Clint's hand slid down the riser of the bow and pushed a button. His attacker stiffened and writhed on the ground, electricity paralyzing every nerve. Clint breathed a sigh of relief; there was his window. He had to focus on himself now. He held his bow loosely in his right hand, his left coming to cover the hole in his vest. The hole was larger than anticipated, armor piercing but something was different. Clint felt as if something exploded inside his abdomen. The pain was piercing, intense and numbing all at once. He could hardly breathe, nausea bubbling from the surface of his throat. He was bleeding, badly, he could feel his mind growing sluggish with every heartbeat.
Staggered towards the side of the building facing the alleyway Clint left his quiver behind. The mission was blown either way, he had been made. Taking his left hand away from his abdomen, coated in blood and slick, he edged over the railing of the access ladder. Every footstep sent a shock of pain through him, his feet slipping as he lost control. Once he reached the first fire escape, he jumped on the metal, body slamming on the metal with a jolt of agony and crawled down the ladder. He repeated the process for the second and the third, his vision darkening with each step. The final escape's ladder was up, locked into position with rusty clasps. Clint had no other choice but to bend his right knee, lifting his boot up, before slamming his leg down on the ladder. He couldn't help the scream that pushed through his defenses, grateful for having lost his comm on the roof. Lifting himself to his feet, hand clasped firmly on his vest he couldn't help but think that this was more than an assassination attempt. The gut was the worst way to go, it was agonizing but still fixable if given treatment in time.
Shaking his head to clear the descending fog his thoughts strayed to those of his family, his wife and son staring back at him. It was enough. With one final push Clint leveraged himself over the ladder and fell to the pavement, his bow slipping from his grasp. A jeering pulse of white-hot agony shot through his body before his world grew dark around him. Vaguely he heard footsteps in the distance and while his apprehension was clear Clint could do little more than fall into unconsciousness. His final thoughts on the family he hoped to not leave behind.
Bang! It echoed in Natasha's ear so forcefully she lost her breath. Fontaine looked over at her with a question, shit, her mask must have dropped. Thankfully he was distractible enough to not realize her slipup. Barton! Panic, it was dripping from Coulson's voice. Coulson never panicked; he was always calm even in the face of terrible odds. Something happened, something bad. She had to get out, had to find Clint! Excusing herself to the bathroom, she took a deep breath before bringing a shaky hand to her ear.
"What the hell just happened?" Natasha barked over the comm once she was out of earshot.
There was answer in return, more silence.
"Coulson where's Barton? What the hell is happening?" Natasha's voice shook, fear was rising from the surface of her usually composed revere.
Once again, no answer.
Son of a bitch! She cursed and with a final look behind her Fontaine she made up her mind. Taking off in a job she ran in the direction of where the surveillance van was parked before changing course to Clint's perch. She tried to think of all angles, Clint could have easily fired the shot. Deep down she knew, Clint would only resort to his sidearm in dire emergency, if his bow had been taken off his person. As she rounded the corner of the building Clint had taken up his perch Natasha heard May and Coulson yelling, the desperation in their voices palpable. When she finally reached their position her greatest fears were realized.
Coulson ran, faster than he thought he could. May was right behind him her finger up to her ear continuing to yell for Barton to respond. They came up to the alley of Clint's last location and Phil's heart dropped. Clint was on his side with his hand curled against his middle. His bow was discarded a foot away where it slipped from his hand in his escape. The fire escape ladder had been pushed down where it hovered inches over Clint's legs. His agent had escaped off the roof despite the condition he was in now.
Jumping off buildings again Barton?
"Barton!" Coulson's voice echoed in the alley as he approached.
"Phil…," May breathed from behind her voice soft and shaky.
"Barton! Talk to me!" Coulson demanded; no answer followed.
Barton was lying in a pool of blood staining the old cobblestone street a dark red. Clint looked dead, Coulson couldn't even see his chest rising until he came to an abrupt stop beside his agent. Dropping to his knees he ignored the blood soaking through his suit pants. May was behind him calling for backup, ignoring Natasha's continued demands for a report. It was against protocol for the mission, he'd have to deal with that later. This time it mattered not; rules need not apply. This was life or death.
"Boss?" Clint croaked, music to Phil's ears.
Clint remained silent as his face screwed up in agony as Phil put a hand on his shoulder. There was bruising around Clint's right eye, a streak of red on his neck. What worried Phil the most was the hole in Clint's vest. Phil turned Barton on his back and the weak moan evolved into a wail. Phil was shocked, whatever had shot Barton had left a gaping hole in the SHIELD issued Kevlar. He'd been shot before and was left with merely a bruised chest and aching muscles; it was SHIELD tested to withstand shrapnel and several types of ammunition. Stark Industries, something related to Fontaine, it had to be. The bullet had cut through Clint's armored vest like a warm knife through butter before drilling a hole in his belly.
May came up from behind and as if reading his mind held out her combat knife which he took with a grateful nod. Phil made quick work of the buckles on Clint's vest before using the knife to tear through the black tank he wore underneath. The bullet hole was just left of his bellybutton, larger than Phil was expecting of an entrance wound. Blood poured from the wound with every breath Clint took. Arterial. Phil slid his hand under Clint's back feeling for a second hole. No exit wound, shit! Something had slowed the bullet enough that it was still in Barton.
Clint looked up at Phil, cloudy eyes locking with determined ones, "Tell Laur-," he slurred as his eyes started to flutter.
"Stay with us Barton!" May shouted from where she stood.
That got Clint roused as his eyes shot open to meet May's. He pinned her with a stare before his lips pulled into a wry smile.
"Always a hard ass," Clint joked despite the agony.
"Have to be around you," May returned gruffly.
There were footsteps in the alley behind them, a flustered (and Phil thought that was odd and unnerving) Natasha rounded the corner.
"What the hell is going on?" Natasha ground out between clenched teeth.
She called the mission, must have considering she was with them instead of seducing her mark. At this point Coulson could care less with Barton's blood staining his hands.
Looking up at his other agent he listed off quickly, "GSW, abdomen. No exit wound, lots of bleeding."
He's wearing Kevlar, Natasha thought, then she got a glimpse of the bullet hole.
Whatever wall was holding back her emotions had fallen because Natasha was suddenly at Clint's side, falling to her knees with little care of the blood she kneeled in to caress his face, "Clint!"
He looked up at her, a sad smile gracing his lips as he took a shaky breath, "Nat…I guess you get that vacation you wanted."
"Shut up Barton," Nat snapped her tone serious and dark.
May must have handed something to Coulson because he was shaking a SHIELD issue combat dressing from the package and placed over Clint's wound, he pushed hard. Clint writhed under the pressure, face white and breathing labored. Nat knew he was bleeding internally, a gunshot wound like that did not just miss organs. With his vest off and shirt open Natasha could see Clint's abdomen practically swell before her eyes. His normally flat, muscular stomach was rounded and taught. She ignored Clint's moans as Phil pressed, blood soaking the gauze as it dripped down Clint's side.
"Ah! Fuck!" Clint cursed. It was pure agony, Phil's hand was magnifying the explosion of pain through his gut. He had to tell them, had to let them know. This wasn't an ordinary shot, something exploded inside him or so it would seem. The man on the roof, the assassin. The thoughts were too muddled in his brain, he could feel himself slipping.
"Stay still Barton!" at the snap of Coulson's voice Clint grew still.
"SHIELD team Delta requesting immediate extraction! Medical emergency! Agent down! I repeat we have an agent down!" May's commanding voice over the radio brooked no argument for any on the other side. She kept her eyes on Barton as she said them. The agent was shaking now with shock, clammy sweat breaking out on his skin. His skin was pale, blood on his middle a shocking contrast. He was growing silent, his movement under Phil's hands slowing. She knew Barton could take a bullet, he had in the past but this was different. This was becoming a reality every agent and handler had nightmares of. She waited patiently for the response before her radio crackled in her ear.
"Copy that. Coordinates received, quinjet inbound," Maria Hill's response was cool and quick but there was just a hint of urgency rarely heard from the assistant director.
"Extraction team is inbound Phil," May addressed Coulson who just nodded.
Clint was fading, his vision dimmed ever so slightly as black encroached sight. It was harder to keep his eyes open despite the agony Coulson's hand brought. Breathing was difficult, each breath a chore to his struggling body. He was starting to accept his fate; he would bleed out in this alley in Mexico City. They just needed to know now and accept that cold, hard truth so using the last of his reserves Clint opened his mouth. "Phil…I don't think-," he never finished his thought as his eyes rolled back in his skull and his body went limp.
Grabbing the agents chin and forcing his face towards him Coulson shouted, "Barton!"
Nat seized up; eyes frantic as two fingers shot to Barton's carotid. She breathed when she felt the skipping beat and looked to Coulson, "Pulse is weak and fast."
May gave Coulson a critical look as she rushed back to their side from where she left to see the progress of the extraction team. The look he gave her sent a shiver down May's spine. She kept looking to the sky, praying that the quinjet arrived and for once they got what they wanted. All three ducked over the unconscious Barton as the wind picked up around them. The rustling of leaves and trees filtered through their ears and brought the hope they sought after. The rumble of familiar engines followed soon after as a quinjet landed in the nearby abandoned park.
"Hill said you called for extraction?!" the lead agent yelled over the quinjet's engines.
"Barton's hit! GSW to the abdomen!" Coulson reported.
Two other agents rounded the corner to join the mission leader. SHIELD medics, Coulson could not have been happier than in this moment. SHIELD medics were all combat trained, they had advanced skills that some military medic didn't even possess. Barton had a chance; they were going home. Coulson and Natasha were pushed aside by the lead medic as he dropped to assess Barton's condition. Coulson's combat dressing was yanked off, now soaked with blood. Granules were poured into the open wound, Barton seized at the contact, growl slipping from his lips. QuickClot Phil recognized, hurt like hell but saved a patient from bleeding out. The bleeding slowed but only by a little as the medic placed a fresh gauze over the hole The second medic came in with an oxygen tank, placing a mask over Clint's nose and mouth and dialing the tank to 10 liters. The medics had Clint's arms out, tourniquets on both, tapping the collapsed veins.
"He's got nothin'," one of the medics shook his head.
"Get what you can I'll throw in an IO," the other stated.
One medic had a 16G angiocath running saline wide open in Clint's left arm while the other drilled the intraosseous line in Barton's left shin. They had fluids running. The golden hour was ticking. They needed to get back to base if Barton was to live.
The lead agent came running towards them with a litter that he placed on the ground. Barton was lifted by his shoulders and legs onto the litter and hoisted off the ground. Phil made himself useful, grabbing both IV bags and holding them high as he followed behind. Within five minutes of the teams arrival Barton was being rushed to the waiting quinjet. May and Romanoff were following close behind, there was something in the look on May's face, determination. The extraction team's leader must have seen it for he never commented when May ran up to the cockpit and relieved the pilot of his duties. She had her hand on the throttle, flicked switches for pre-flight, and ran through the checklist in her mind. May had wheels up before the cargo ramp closed.
They were in the air for five minutes when Clint snapped back to reality. His eyes fluttered open and his breathing quickened. Bolts of agony shot through his abdomen, travelling down his thighs. He was being disemboweled, he had to be. This was pain he had never faced before. He had been shot before, blown up, broken bones more times than he could count but the pain would never compare to this. He tried to take in his surroundings, felt something hard and unforgiving in his right leg. There was pressure still in his abdomen followed by burning. Clotting gauze, he'd had it before. He lifted his head and tried to look down when plastic obstructed his view. He brought his hand up to the offending object and yanked it off his face, the IV in his left arm pulling as he did so.
"Leave it on," Coulson was suddenly in his eyeline, commanding face and worried eyes.
"Wh-wh-where?" Clint muttered gasping as pain overwhelmed his senses.
As Coulson replaced the oxygen mask on Barton's face he answered, "Quinjet, on the way to the carrier."
The carrier being the mobile command aircraft carrier stationed in the Gulf of Mexico right off the Mexican coastline. It was one of the many SHIELD had discretely positioned around the America's.
He felt someone palpate his abdomen, more blood dripped down his side to pool at his back. He noticed his vest had been opened, his shirt cut open to his chest. "Hurts…"
Natasha, who was sitting in the jump seat, caught her breath. It was rare for Clint to admit pain.
"We're almost there!" May called back from the pilot's seat.
Clint's breathing quickened, eyes squeezing shut. The medic at his side was manually pumping the BP cuff on his right bicep. Something must have gone wrong because the medic started moving quickly relaying orders to his partner. His heart was beating out of his chest, headache forming from the lack of blood to his brain. The dressing to his abdomen was changed again and he could vaguely feel the pressure of fluids being pumped into his leg. Clint's belly felt full, he could practically feel the blood leak from punctured organs
"BP is falling, 75/32!" the medic called, voice alarmed as he tore the stethoscope from his ears.
Phil sat back and tried to breathe through his anxiety. No medical professional had to tell him why Barton's blood pressure suddenly took a nosedive. Barton's abdomen was ballooning as they spoke, the man was bleeding out internally.
Phil thought about panicking, his heart was jackrabbiting in his chest. He took a deep breath and waited. They would be there soon, Clint would be in surgery, and they could all have a pointed conversation later as to why Barton had let himself get shot in the first place.
"Hold on Clint," echoed through the jet.
Fury was not a man to coddle. He kept his agents at a distance and allowed them to either grow or fall. But there were some that had wormed their way into his cold heart. It was something to be said if an agent was close to the director in a more personal manner. Only few agents thus far could say they were. Phil Coulson was one, the man had risen in the ranks to become Fury's second right hand man. Of course Maria Hill stood by his side. Melinda May was close second to Phil. Those were the higher-ups, they ones who already held command. Clint Barton however was one agent Fury could always count on. He took every mission, completed his task, and went home. There was something there that warmed Fury's heart. He was a family man and Nick appreciated that. Together they had formed a weird sort of extended family at SHIELD. When one went down, they all did.
"Sir, just got word. Mission was blown, requesting extraction," Maria Hill came to his side.
Fury rubbed his mouth, since when did Strike Team Delta request an extraction.
"There's an agent down," Maria went on.
"Who?" Fury inquired.
"Barton, just got word. They are inbound on the quinjet, five minutes out," Maria reported off.
"What the hell did that mother fucker do this time?" Fury just had to ask because the last time Barton went 'down' the moron jumped off a roof and got a concussion for his stupidity.
"Gunshot wound to the abdomen, it's critical," Maria clarified and if her voice shook Fury made no mention of it.
Fury stopped short at her words and pondered the situation. Being shot in the gut was at many times a death sentence.
"Have medical on alert," Fury ordered.
"Already did Sir," Maria was always a step ahead, his missing eye.
"Director! Quinjet Alpha is requesting to land," the radio tech shouted from his terminal on the bridge.
Looking out at the Gulf of Mexico Fury saw a glimpse of the quinjet inbound, "Approved."
Dr. Krisha Patel was a quiet person by nature. She rarely spoke with others on the ship and when she did it was to those she was close to. Trained initially in Mumbai she had travelled around India after medical school to various regions of her home country and neighboring Pakistan providing care to those most at need. Ten years ago, she had emigrated to the States to fulfill another long-lived dream. Coming to America had been the hardest decision she had ever made. She had come with a modest income in her pocket, basic English skills, and a desire to help those suffering in the worst days of their life. Krisha had taken to a fellowship in trauma surgery at Bellevue in New York City. Strived through the influx of gunshot wounds, falls, and car accidents. It wasn't until two years into her fellowship she was approached by Nick Fury offering her the job a lifetime.
Krisha had joined SHIELD five years ago and had never lived to regret it. Her path to citizenship was set by the director and she had the opportunity to learn new techniques using technology not yet found in the mainstream of medicine. She had gained a reputation at SHIELD, rising through the medical division and was regarded as one of the finest trauma surgeons the organization had ever employed. Fury had always known, that's why he held her in high regard when he approached five years previously. She was now stationed at the mobile command aircraft carrier, a bygone relic of the US Navy and revitalized by SHIELD to its former glory. It was home away from home to many SHIELD agents, a secret base on water for the director. Krisha hated it, open water always made her nervous and it took a good month before the seasickness was something in the past. But she managed, even excelled in creating the absolute best work environment for her staff. Krisha was noticed for being one of the kindest medical personnel in SHIELD, her staff respected her and she returned that respect in highlighting each and every members strengths.
As Krisha stood at her desk in her office there was an air of calm in the infirmary before one of her staff had approached her.
"We have incoming, agent down in the field. Gunshot to the abdomen, heavy blood loss on scene," Julie, seasoned trauma RN and a veteran of the Iraq war, stepped into her office. Julie left soon after to prepare the trauma bay. Krisha stood from her desk and took a breath. Now was the time, this was there time to shine. The golden hour had started in the first moments the agent was shot. She would see to it that it didn't run out. Walking over to where her team prepped, she was curious as to which agent was going to be rolled through those doors.
"Do you know the agent's name?" Krisha's heavily accented voice broke the silence.
"Barton," Andy, an African American medic who was built like a tank but was gentle as can be, alerted.
Krisha breathed deeply, Agent Barton was never well known to be the best of patients. Maybe it was because of his status as a field agent or his previous history she did not know. She was always told stories from the other personnel that treating him was akin to helping a raging bull. Either way he would get the best treatment, his golden hour was ticking. She kicked into high gear when the telltale engines of a quinjet could be heard overhead. It would be minutes before Barton was under their care. Putting on her gown and goggles Krisha made sure everything was set before donning her gloves.
Rapid transfuser: check
Andy and Julie: check and check
Blood and saline: check
Ready OR….
"Andy put a call to the operating theater and tell them to be on stand-by, have a laparotomy tray ready," Krisha ordered.
"Yes ma'am," Andy nodded as he turned to the phone.
Krisha bowed her head and said a quick Hindu prayer, she was ready. It was in time as a litter was carried in by two SHIELD field medics, Agent Barton was critical, as critical as they come. Julie had ushered Agent's May, Coulson, and Romanoff out of the room and into the waiting area before returning to Krisha's side. After hanging up the phone Any too joined them. With one quick lift Barton was on the gurney and was officially in their hands.
"Agent Barton, 36, entrance wound to left mid abdomen, no exit. BP 80/35 after fluid resuscitation, pulse is tachy at 145. Resps 22 and labored. Two liters given in route. 16G in the left forearm, IO in the right lower leg. Abdomen is distended, pain on palpation. Alert and oriented but in and out of consciousness. Lungs are clear, normal heart sounds. I gave 5mg of morphine at scene," the medic rattled off.
"Alright, let's start with the basics. Julie and Andy get him out of that uniform. We need to roll him and check his back," Krisha said before doing her own assessment.
His breathing was labored, whether due to stress or actual trauma to his lungs Krisha wasn't certain. His eyes darted confused around the room before locking onto Krisha. "We have you Agent Barton," she reassured before continuing with her assessment. Krisha put her hands on his distended abdomen, it was tense and rigid. Barton yelped when she pushed, jerking on the gurney. She didn't need a scan, she needed to open him up and explore, he was clearly bleeding out into his belly. Taking her stethoscope, she listened to his heart after Julie cut the rest of his tank off. Heart sounds good, lungs are clear, small favors. There was no tunneling to the chest. She listened to his abdomen; bowel sounds were absent. With the amount of bleeding, absent bowel sounds, and the location of the bullet Krisha was already assuming that his bowel, liver, and/or spleen were hit or even some of the major vessels in his abdomen. Her suspicion of arterial bleeding was confirmed with his rapidly plummeting vitals. Krisha stepped back when Andy had grabbed Barton's vest and pulled it off before tossing it on the floor. They pulled his uniform pants off next, cutting off his boxers to expose his groin. He needed a catheter and an NG, then she was certain he was going straight to OR for an exploratory laparotomy.
Clint was in lost in a sea of pain, his naked body shivering against the frigid cold of shock. His eyes danced around the room as he tried to make sense of it all. He couldn't help but cry out when he was rolled on his side. Hands touched his back, running down the length of his spine and inspecting both flanks. 'Wiggle your toes' was lost in an echo of voices and stimuli. An unexpected sensation gripped him as the hands travelled lower. There's a finger up my ass, his addled brain supplied as he felt a gloved finger moving around in his assessment, he'd seen enough medical dramas. He was losing control of his faculties, shock was setting in. He tried to keep up the fight, but his strength was waning.
"How is your pain Agent Barton?" Krisha put a gentle hand on his chest after they rolled him back.
"Five," his voice was guarded, she took that as a nine.
"Alright, absent bowel sounds, and abdomen is rigid. Rectal exam is positive for blood, he's probably lacerated his intestine. What is his BP?" Krisha looked at Julie as she cycled the monitor.
The alarm on the monitor echoed as the cuff on his upper arm stopped, "BP just dropped, 78/35, pulse 135."
"Hang two units on the rapid transfuser, have another three standing by. I'm going to put in a central line. Also draw labs, CBC and chemistries, PT/PTT, and dip a urine for blood," Krisha announced.
Julie took her cue, splashing betadine on Clint's upper left chest. He shivered with the cold as Krisha pulled up the tray. Changing into sterile gloves she carefully carried out the procedure. Aiming for the sternal notch she guided the needle into his subclavian, advancing the catheter and pulling the guide wire when it was in. He had central access, maybe now he could get blood faster into his system. Julie had set up the transfer while she inserted the line, Barton was now being transfused to replace all that he lost. Andy was inserting the Foley, guiding the catheter up Barton's urethra without so much as a complaint. Krisha was worried, his response to stimuli was diminishing, his consciousness waning with his decreasing mental status. His reaction was weak when Julie started pushing the NG down his nostril, urging him to swallow as it made its way down his esophagus to his stomach. When she attached it to the suction Krisha saw blood. He needed OR…now.
Agent Barton is bleeding out
Barton was losing hold of consciousness as his eyes fluttered closed, his protests getting weaker. Krisha was worried. Looking at his oxygen saturation the 85% flashing on the screen made her realize he couldn't protect his airway much longer.
"Julie RSI, get the box. I'm intubating. Push 25mg of etomidate and 100mg of succinylcholine," Krisha began before addressing Barton. "Agent Barton I'm going to put a tube down your throat to help you breathe before we take you to surgery."
"Yeah….yea-," the drugs worked fast as Barton's eyes closed and his head went slack.
"Size 7.5 ET tube," Krisha grabbed the scope and tube handed to her and tilted Barton's head. Inserting the scope, she avoided his teeth before visualizing the vocal cords. Expertly she guided the ET tube through the cords and into his trachea. She was in. His airway was secure.
Krisha pulled the scope as Julie attached the ambu-bag. She squeezed a couple of time and Krisha watched as she listened for placement. Good chest rise, breath sounds equal bilaterally, the CO2 indicator at the end of the tube was yellow. Good placement. Julie handed the bagging off to Andy as she continued with her prep, the dressings were taken off before his abdomen was liberally doused with betadine. Krisha looked carefully at the exposed wound, the hole was large, resembling closer to an exit than an entrance wound. What was he shot with? A cannon? She was almost afraid of what she may find when she opened Barton's belly. This was going to be a messy surgery. Krisha did a mental systems check before going to the operating theater, running down the ABC's.
Airway: Intubated, secured.
Breathing: Julie is bagging, ventilator
Circulation: Central line is in, blood on infuser
Disability: unknown about spinal injury, sedated
Pre-op: Foley catheter and NG placed, abdomen exposed
"Let's move him now," Krisha ordered and the side rails snapped up into position and breaks came off. "Get him to OR, I'll be there in a moment. Have anesthesia set up a vent."
Now came the matter of family, or in this case team, she would have to do this quick. Stepping out the medical bay door she addressed those who came in with him.
"I'm taking Agent Barton to surgery, he is grossly unstable. I will know more after I open him up, I will update you when I am finished," Krisha said quickly before walking down the hall to the OR.
She left three shocked faces in their wake, with bloody hands and wishful hearts.
"Well, I didn't expect much but you get what you pay for," a man crouched over him as he slowly came back to awareness. Barton, that son of a bitch, had shot out his last Hail Mary after Marcus took the shot. Taser arrow of all things and it brought him down like a brick. It didn't help that his first bought of wakefulness had him falling down a fire escape before passing out again. Now he looked right up into the sunglasses of his employer and wished he could punch his smug face in.
"I took the shot, the bullet worked wonders," Marcus complained as he slowly gained his footing.
"Yeah, you did. The test worked," the man smiled.
"Now the time you say I failed and put a bullet in my brain. If so do it quick or else I have things to do. Catch 22," yeah like run away and look for better money.
"Hell no, you get to live. My experiment worked perfectly, now I get to see how the prototype worked when I return to my work. Either way we both win. You get your money and I got to know that my prototype worked. Besides Barton's a hard man to kill, you'll have a second chance to get back for putting that arrow in you," the man eyed Marcus in such a comical way the assassin felt like his was in some practical joke prank.
"So, that's it. Walk away and be done with it? Barton lives? No real assassination, just a gut shot? Who do you work for anyways?" Marcus asked brushing off his shirt.
"Let's just say I have close ties with Barton's organization and I have a feeling you will too someday," the man tapped his finger to his temple. "See you on the upside Mr. Scarlotti."
With that the man walked away, stepping down the fire escape with grace and poise before disappearing.
The OR was silent save for the beeping and chirping of the monitor. The anesthesiologist was already administering dopamine when the blood failed to keep Barton's BP stable. He was administering constant sedation; the paralytics were still in effect. Barton was naked, on the table with his arms spread out. Abdomen was fully exposed, wound still leaking blood despite the hemorrhage control pack applied in the field. Krisha walked in, mask on and sterile gloves ready. Barton was ready for surgery, and she couldn't wait much longer, he was grossly unstable.
"Ready?" she addressed her team.
They nodded in unison before she stepped up the table.
Her incision was quick and precise, vertical midline from below his breastbone to down just above his pubis. The fascia came next before she cut down the Linea alba and separated his rectus abdominis muscle. She used the retractor to expose his peritoneal lining and took the scissors Julie handed over. The lining was tense, taught as a drum as it contained the blood underneath. She cut down the lining and prepared for the worst. As Krisha cut at least a liter of blood poured from Barton's abdomen onto the floor, Julie suctioned despite him losing faster than she could collect. Krisha remained silent, she always did, as she focused. Krisha pushed her hands deep into Barton's abdomen as Julie continued to retract, moving away intestine to gain access to anything that bled. She saw the bullet almost immediately, a mere inch from his spine. When she looked further her brow furrowed. It was more than one, as if Barton was shot with a shotgun but the fragment resembled nothing like a pellet. One such fragment centimeters from Barton's aorta. Any closer and Agent Barton would have died in the field.
His abdomen was a mess. His spleen was nicked, small enough that it bled less than the other injuries. One lobe of his liver was nearly pulverized, the bullet had transected in a way Krisha knew it wasn't salvageable. His intestines were littered with perforations, taking up most of a human's abdominal cavity it had been hit the hardest. What concerned her was the two lacerations to Barton's mesenteric arteries, the cause of his grossly unstable vitals upon his arrival. She had to get to work so taking a breath Krisha prepared to repair what was damaged.
Isolating the arteries first Krisha repaired the lacerations before repairing Barton's spleen. The lobe of liver she resected, it would regrow in time, he could live without it. His intestine was a different story. She resected what she had to, repaired the rest. The amount of damage was staggering, it would be a lengthy recovery for his digestive system. A lengthy recovery for his body. In addition to the lobe of his liver Barton lost a total of 34 inches of small intestine. He should function well without the lost segments but any future trauma to his bowel and subsequent removal would likely lead to complications and short bowel syndrome. She made sure to wash out the cavity thoroughly before running the large intestine. Thankfully the laceration she found was repairable with sutures, but the risk of infection was still high with the spilled bowel contents.
An hour later and Krisha was done. She had sewn, resected, and patched everything that had been damaged in Barton's abdomen in addition to pulling nine other (little) bullets from his peritoneal cavity. He was still critical; it was touch and go but all in all Krisha felt like this man had good chances. His recovery would be long, benched for at least a few months if not a year as his abdominal muscles healed. There was still no telling how long his intestines would adapt. But Clint Barton had defied the odds, survived a potentially life ending injury.
Krisha finished with adding two surgical drains that exited on either side of the incision before stapling closed the skin. When finished Barton had a neatly stapled incision that curved around his bellybutton down the length of his abdomen. Julie had placed a Vaseline gauze over the open gunshot wound and covered the incision with a large abdominal dressing. Barton was ready for recovery, his vitals were stable, blood pressure improving. But he lost a lot of blood, would need continued blood transfusions and Krisha had decided to keep him on the ventilator for at least a day.
Now it was time to tell his team as they wheeled the agent into the small recovery room until he could be shipped off to a SHIELD hospital.
It took three attempts, but Coulson finally got the blood off his hands. His suit was a different matter but he could care less. His pants were stiff between the dried blood and whatever murky water he kneeled in in that alley. His shirt was a total loss, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while his jacket was thrown hastily on the waiting room chair. He looked over to Natasha, the assassin was staring blankly at the wall, hands still sticky with blood. She hadn't so much as moved since they were planted in this room by the nurse. Not even when Fury had come to ask for a report did she address the man. May was a different story, she was currently wearing a hole in the proverbial carpet as she made her laps. It was so unlike her it had Coulson quirking an eyebrow.
"May-," Coulson began.
"No Phil! What the hell happened out there? It's not like Barton for someone to get the drop on him. Someone sold us out," May confronted her friend.
"That's what we will figure out once he's awake," Coulson tried to sooth the other agent's nerves but in reality he was trying to calm himself….it wasn't working.
"Fury said he wanted a report," May reminded him.
Coulson reiterated Fury's order, "When Barton was awake."
"Sorry Phil, its just-," May trailed off.
He knew, agonizingly so.
"Scary, yeah thinking the same thing," Coulson finished.
Silence erupted before Natasha stood abruptly fierce eyes on her handler, "Coulson."
All three stood when the doctor made her entrance, scrubs bloody and tired. Coulson knew her well, had his own chance to be in Barton's position after catching a bullet to the leg two years ago. She was quiet and reserved yet fierce, Barton was in good hands. Despite that his gut clenched and his heart raced, the news she brought could always be bad. He could be making that call tonight, to tell Laura he failed to bring her husband home. Stand in front of that coffin to hand her that folded flag. Coulson shook himself from those thoughts instead focusing on the here and now. Patel was standing in front of them, serious yet hopeful.
Good
"How is he?" Coulson was the first of the three to speak.
Patel took a breath before telling them, "He's lucky. Thankfully the bullet did not hit the aorta however it did do quite a bit of damage."
"But he's going to be okay," Natasha's voice was small, as if she were that lost child from her past.
"Yes, with a few months recovery time. He had extensive damage done to his small intestine and liver, I had to resect one lobe of his liver which will regrow. I however also had to resect approximately 34 inches of his small intestine that was damaged beyond repair. He also sustained damage to his spleen and the mesenteric arteries that feed the intestines, but I was able to repair both injuries with success. It could have been a lot worse," Patel went into lengthy detail of the horrors Barton's body sustained.
"Worse than that?" May asked skeptically.
"Considering the bullet came very close to his spine he could very well be a paraplegic or dead if it had transected his aorta," Patel clarified, Barton had come close.
May relented, she was just overwhelmed, "Point taken."
"Is he awake?" Coulson cut in.
"He is in recovery, you may visit him as soon as you can. A medical evac helicopter has been called, once they arrive we will be transferring Agent Barton stateside to the SHIELD base in Corpus Christi where he can be flown to Washington to the SHIELD medical facility," Patel answered.
Rising from her chair and voice low Natasha stated, "I need to see him."
Patel sighed and refused to argue, "I can send two back, but only two."
May and Coulson glanced at each other before May conceded, she had something else to do.
"Go Phil, I'll make the call," and for once it was out of his hands.
Together Natasha and Phil followed Patel back to the surgical area of the medical bay. Natasha's steps were light but everything about her was heavy, pent up anger and anxiety willing for release. Emotion rolling off the young woman begging for release. Coulson was optimistic, willing to move forward and get Barton recovered no matter how hard it may be. But there was something else, something Patel had left off in her description of his injuries. As they neared the surgical recovery Coulson hung back as Natasha eagerly stepped through the doors. Turning to the surgeon Coulson wanted to know.
"There's something you're not telling us," he began looking the doctor in the eye.
"Forgive me, I didn't know the right way to describe it," Patel looked nervous.
"What is it?" Coulson urged.
"The bullet that hit Barton, it was more like bullets…plural. I found the shell along with nine additional smaller bullets, they were similar in shape to the original round Barton was shot with but smaller, almost akin to a shotgun pellet but slightly larger. It was the cause for most of the damage when they spread about in his abdominal cavity. It was as if after the initial impact the bullet exploded," Patel was professional when explaining but Coulson could hear the fear in her voice.
"Exploded?" Coulson demanded clarification.
"It was almost as if the main bullet that entered his abdomen broke apart, releasing several additional rounds. The main bullet was mostly intact unlike say a hollow point, like a timed release. Agent Coulson I have never seen anything like it," Patel's voice got softer as she continued.
"Are you saying Barton was hit with some kind of cluster bullet….I can't believe I'm saying that," Phil was in disbelief, cluster bullet? Perhaps the Stark theory wasn't far off.
"Here, I saved what I pulled out of Barton," Patel handed him a small glass jar, the metal pieces still wet with blood.
As he took the jar from the doctors' hands he had a bitter thought, I can put this in my office, have it framed.
"The Bullet(s), plural, that almost killed Clint Barton"
Phil scoffed at the idea; the thought was dark but that's where is mind was. This was something SHIELD had yet to see and they had studied advanced weaponry curtesy of HYDRA. Studying the artifact in his hand he vowed to get to the bottom of this. If this kind of technology was on the streets it would be more than Barton who would be on an operating table.
Natasha walked slowly into the recovery bay, footsteps faltering as her confidence waned. She was afraid, scared beyond reason, a fear Black Widow was unaccustomed to. But she was Natasha, Natasha Romanoff agent of SHIELD. The Red Room was behind her, this was a time to be Natasha…just Nat. She stepped over to a curtained off area, she knew Barton was there. Wiping a lone tear from her eye she cursed the day Barton found her. She was weak, compromised, this level of emotion made people break. Fear made people sloppy, it made her cave. Gathering her emotions, she pulled the curtain and faced her fears.
"Agent Romanoff," the nurse greeted as she tended to her partner.
Clint lay still as death, ventilator taking the strain off his lungs. His chest rose in tandem with the machine as it echoed through the room with its rhythmic whoosh and click. The ET holder obscured her view of pale lips. Other monitors she recognized; the BP cuff around his left bicep, the monitor leads attached to his chest, a blinking red pulse oximeter on his left pointer finger. He was naked, only a gown was tossed over his groin covering where she knew the Foley was inserted through his penis. Drains led out from under the skin of his abdomen, the area swathed in bandages to cover the long incision that cut him open down the middle. The two bulbs, surgical drains she surmised, were already filled with blood. The gunshot wound itself was covered with a yellow bandage she couldn't quite recognize.
Another tube was inserted down his nose, the wall mounted suction passively removing his stomach contents and decompressing his abdomen. The triple lumen subclavian central line continued to deliver blood and essential fluids he had lost. The third lumen was open, a bottle hanging on the IV tree yet to be infused. Propofol, Natasha recognized the milky white liquid immediately. Clint looked terrible, so very close to death, so fragile. Natasha had been surprised, shocked at how he had yet to be breathing on his own by now. She was now just beginning to realize how critical he was.
"He's on a ventilator," she commented.
"We're keeping him heavily sedated until we reach the SHIELD facility, it also takes some strain off his body right now," the nurse described.
Pulling up a rolling stool Natasha took a seat next to her partner and took his hand, both in restraints tied to the bedframe standard for a patient intubated. She caressed his fingers, memorized the calluses from his years in the field. His knuckles were bruised in spots, offensive wounds. There was bruising around his right eye, a line of faintly broken skin across his neck. There was a fight before the shot, Clint was taken by surprise, yet he fought back. He always fought back; Clint Barton had always been a fighter since the day they met.
She was lost in thought when his hand twitched, the restraint around his wrist yanked, the clank of the metal rail pulling her from her thoughts. She almost had to smile, he would always object to being tied to his bed. His hand twitched again, this time tensing around her own. She felt his strong fingers curl around her palm and squeeze. His eyes opened, mere slits revealing his confused and pain-filled stare, pupils constricting against the harsh fluorescent light in the room. His stare bore right through her soul. Deep and penetrating was the pure anguish that was communicated through those sharp steely-blue eyes. His hearing aids had been removed by the staff she remembered, his sight the only reliable sense. Clint blinked once before his eyes opened further, agitation stirring in his confused orbs.
"You're going to be alright Clint," Natasha's low voice would not be heard, she ensured her lips were in full view for her partner to read.
There was a pause before he squeezed her hand again, this time weaker than before.
Hypervigilant, tense, utterly terrified. Clint was on edge, focused solely on one thing: fear.
Natasha was taken aback, she tried to think what to do.
Coulson had stepped into the room to rescue her. He always knew what to say, "Stand down Barton."
Clint relaxed near instantly, restraint going slack against the bed as his grip loosened. His heartrate on the monitor slowing as his anxiety drained. His eyes met Coulson's and he nodded slightly.
"I'm going to start the Propofol infusion to keep him sedated," the nurse was grabbing the unused line, the bottle with the white medication. She swabbed the port with an alcohol wipe and attached the line, setting the IV pump to the correct drip rate after doing so.
"Is that necessary," Natasha growled, he was conscious….she needed him conscious.
"He's stable but still critical and he just had extensive surgery. Until we get him back on shore and to the facility it would be better if he remained sedated," the nurse was good, she didn't shy away from Natasha's unpredictable temperament.
"Do it," Coulson advised, he was Barton's medical proxy after all.
Hand hovering over the IV pump she pushed the button. White Propofol began to drip steadily as it infused into Clint's chest. He stiffened for a moment, realizing her intention before relaxing as her hand came to his chest, "We have you Agent Barton. It's okay."
She was capable, this was her territory. Hypervigilance was something she was all too familiar with.
"My brothers an agent, I understand. And you can call Olivia," the nurse introduced.
"Thanks Olivia, we appreciate everything you've done," Phil complimented while Natasha remained silent.
Clint relaxed fully on the bed, body growing slack and his eyes fluttering closed. The Propofol worked fast as Clint was pulled under a veil of sedation. Phil and Natasha only watched him loose grip of consciousness before standing back and watching him sleep.
Melinda May had always been an agent that scared many new recruits and younger agents alike. She prided herself in that intimidation factor although a part of her always laughed, she was just another operative. This time she relished it as she stepped down the halls of the aircraft carrier. Maybe it was the blood on her uniform or perhaps the look on her face but no other agent or tech intercepted her as she walked towards one of the many weapons lockups on the ship. As she opened the door May tapped the radio on her ear before a click resounded and the security systems were disabled. Fury had waited for her signal; nobody would suspect why she was truly in here.
She pulled out her backup phone, untraceable and personal property, before dialing the familiar number. She hated this, despised even having to make the call but it was necessary. She needed to know. Listening to the dial tone May waited before it picked up on the third ring.
Hello
Having a four-year-old was never easy, having a four-year-old with high-functioning autism that had his father's personality was beyond difficult. Meltdowns were common place and the frequency only increased when Clint was away. Maybe it was Clint's own history of PTSD but having him close tended to decrease the frequency. As if a shared mental health bond was secured between father and son. Whether or not her hypothesis was correct Laura Barton was used to dealing with difficulties. With years of nursing under her belt she could wrestle with difficult situations.
The screaming continued before Laura finally picked Cooper up and placed him in his play area. She allowed him to stim, to rock back and forth as his screams lessened to the occasional whine.
What a day for pre-school special education program to be called off.
Laura flicked the TV on and hit play on the DVD player and relaxed as Cooper's concentration focused on Finding Nemo. She walked back to the kitchen to finally get caught up with the dishes she had in the sink and perhaps make herself some lunch. She was caught off guard when the landline began to ring. The phone on the wall was the emergency line, only four people knew that number. A million things ran through her mind as she rushed over to pick it up.
That line was for devastating injury or death.
"Hello," Laura's tone was shaky at best preparing for the inevitable.
Laura there was an incident, Melinda May sounded exhausted, emotionally spent.
"Tell me he's still alive," Laura knew those words well since Clint's induction into SHIELD.
He's alive, stable. He just got out of surgery. He was shot in the gut, lost 34 inches of small bowel and part of his liver. The doctor also said he had damage to his mesenteric arteries and spleen, but they say he's going to make a full recovery, as May spoke Laura's vision tunneled, heart dropping as she stood on shaky legs.
She took a moment to take it all in, calculated the length May had described and gasped, "Over two and a half feet of bowel?! What the hell was he shot with?"
I'm sorry, I can't say, it's classified but it was bad. He's sedated now, resting in the infirmary. We're waiting on the helicopter to transfer to the SHIELD base then Triskelion from there, he'll be transferred to a medical facility once we arrive, May went on, undercurrent of fear in her usually strong voice.
"I understand. Phil and Nat with him?" Laura asked although she knew the answer.
They are. Look Laura I can't stay on the line much longer, I disabled the security, they'll know. I wanted you to know though. He's alive and he'll recover, doctor said it will be a few months, May continued, fear left her voice replaced by something else….anger?
"Good luck keeping him down for that long," Laura held back a laugh, Clint was never one to follow medical advice, not even her own.
I don't think he'll have much of a choice this time, May conceded.
There it was, Laura's confirmation that this was as close as it came. Her husband was not going to bounce back quickly this time.
"Thanks for keeping me informed, have Clint call me when he's settled and awake," Laura knew it wouldn't be for a day, maybe two, with as critical Clint was. She wouldn't be surprised if he was still intubated.
Yes ma'am, Laura heard a door open in the background. I have to go.
"Thanks Melinda," Laura finalized before the line went dead.
Placing the phone back on the cradle Laura stepped over to the dining room table before falling into the chair. The last time that phone rang it was Phil informing her that her husband 'was an idiot and jumped off a roof' and 'he broke a few things but will recover'. His voice did not carry the same weight as Melinda, the call was almost funny now that she looked back. This time was different, Melinda wavered. Agent Melinda May rarely wavered, she was stoic against the odds. It was a shock to even hear that amount of fear in her friend's voice. A shaky hand came to her mouth, tears in her eyes. She had to stay strong, had to be a pillar of strength for both her husband and son during this trying time.
She yearned to see his medical chart, to visualize the damage. The medical part of her brain wished to guide him through the multitude of treatments he now endured. She had to sit back, play the role that was given. Laura wasn't a nurse now; she was a wife and mother who had received the worse news imaginable. Laura had to remain calm and focus on the future when Clint came home. She had to trust the medical professions, trust the others to bring Clint home.
Please Clint….Come home.
Fury was standing steadfast in the infirmary. He refused to go near the recovery rooms in fear of breaking his mask, his emotions fragile at the thought of Barton in that bed. Instead, he stood there in the trauma rooms taking in the blood that still stained the floor. According to Agent May's quick report this had been a close one, as close as Barton had ever come. Barton's blood staining the floor was a testament to that. He inspected Barton's armored vest where he picked it up where it lay forgotten. Holding it out in front of him Fury looked really hard at the hole carved out of the middle. The usually light armor was heavy with blood, tacky and stinking of copper. In the middle was the hole, drilled straight through into Barton's abdomen. He was shocked by the size, even more so by the sheer amount of damage the round had caused. According to May the bullet punched through Barton as if his SHIELD tested armor was made of tissue paper.
Huh? Nick could hardly think straight imagining the pain Barton was in. Gut wounds were hell, he knew firsthand. He'd been shot before, was laid up for months afterword. He though long and hard about the man who had managed to get one up on Barton. It was no ordinary assassination, if so Barton would have one between his eyes. This was a test, showboating by a man who wanted to display a new weapon. True there were plenty of assassins and criminal organizations that had put a price on Barton's head, he was one of the best agents SHIELD had to offer. This was someone new, a person who was working for someone higher.
Fury still waited on the full report, to hear Barton's side of the story. He would continue to do so until Barton was off the ventilator and awake. He could see two options of how someone got the drop on Barton in the first place. Either Barton got sloppy which was unlikely in Fury's book or someone inside the organization had shared classified material that put Barton in the crosshairs. The second option had Fury angry to the core, had there been a plant he vowed to dig it up. This was personal, this went deep. Someone knew their exact location and details down the type of body armor Barton wore. Enough so to get the drop on an agent who was incredibly good at his job. Fury would dig it up and he would use his own team to do so.
Hill had stepped up from behind, taking in the blood. She knew where he was going, could see it in his face, "You think someone sold them out?"
"I know someone did Hill," Fury's statement was final.
He would get Barton's side of the story. Would take a long, hard look on this new weapon Barton was shot with. Fury would get to the truth, he would find whoever the hell set this up.
Five hours had passed since receiving the news and they continued to sit. Phil and Natasha sat there like sentinels watching over a charge. It was almost as if they were fearful Barton would stop breathing, that someone would come to try to finish the job. Fear, it was a common feeling since Barton was shot. To Natasha it was acid in her mouth, vile and unrelenting that had even Black Widow shivering. It was as foreign to Phil as it was to Romanoff and May, it chilled him to the bone. So why had this shaken them as much as it did? This overwhelming fear that had gripped their hearts. A clean mission, in and out, and the unexpected happened. No, it was more than that. It was the fear of the unknown, fear that invincibility was a myth. Fear that an easy mission could never be just that. They had underestimated the power of complacency, how even simple acts could lead to heartbreak. But there was something else besides this lingering fear, a sixth sense that told of deeper troubles. A nagging ache betrayal.
They were all compromised.
"Five minutes until the chopper arrives," May announced from where she stood guard at the door.
A Blackhawk was scheduled to take them to Corpus Christi, to one of the many SHIELD outposts around the nation. From there a medical transport jet to Washington.
Barton was in good hands on the ship but the extended care they could not provide. He needed a hospital, a SHIELD medical facility where he could start his recovery. May stepped into the recovery room, arbitrary rules be damned, to stand behind Phil where he sat next to Natasha. Looking down at the man on the bed she sighed deeply. The phone call with Laura had been agonizing, she still fought her instinct to punch a wall. The feeling only grew as she Clint on that bed deeply sedated and intubated, more ragdoll than man. He looked smaller in the bed somehow, wires and tubes dwarfing his usual steady presence. Placing her hand on Phil's shoulder it was a silent message, one learned from years of practice. They were there for each other, this was a modicum of a family unit despite the absence of blood relation.
"We should grab our gear," the statement shattered the silence as Coulson looked over to Natasha.
"Already did, packed and ready on a quinjet," May answered.
"Damnit Clint's bow-," Coulson began.
"The secondary team swept the area, brought his gear back, it's with the other things," May assured him.
"Did they find the assassin?" Coulson asked.
"No, they were gone when the team arrived right after we took off. There was evidence though, Barton managed to put an arrow in them. Must have pulled it out before they ran off," May smiled at the end and Coulson couldn't help himself.
Good job Barton.
"Fury tasked the forensics and science team at the Triskelion to get working on it, dust it for fingerprints," May continued.
"Good, then we can track this son of a bitch down," Phil's voice held a dark tone rarely heard from the man.
"Careful Phil," May warned.
"The mission…. Fontaine?" Natasha spoke for the first time since sitting down.
"Another team, another day. We'll get him," Phil reassured.
Fontaine was in the wind; they all knew that. Natasha didn't care, she stood by her decision to abort the mission without orders.
There was a noise at the door when Olivia and Krisha stepped into the curtained area.
"It's time to move Agent Barton, the medical evac has landed," Krisha said.
They took the cue to leave, Natasha being the last as she squeezed Barton's hand before following May and Coulson behind the curtain. Clint was transferred to a portable monitor, his IV drips on battery operated pumps. The ventilator was last unhooking from his ET tube with a hiss before Olivia attached the ambu-bag and manually ventilated. He was rolled carefully, a backboard slid underneath his back for the transfer. As he was wheeled down the corridor all three agents were abruptly halted with Krisha's raised hands.
"You need to let us take him now," the doctor advised.
They were hesitant but understood, stepping back they allowed the medical team to take Clint to the waiting Blackhawk. Natasha was the first to leave, walking briskly through the bulkhead challenging anyone in her way. May and Coulson were reserved as they followed the younger agent down the hall at a steadier pace. The silence was palpable as fellow agents looked at the pair, taking in the blood still on their clothing. Neither of the three had changed, merely washed their hands and sat in waiting. Coulson knew his suit was rumpled, blood staining his white dress shirt. His jacket was long forgotten on some chair he left it on. May's black uniform was glistening with blood, her sleeves and pants soiled when she assisted Barton on the pavement. Romanoff's silver dress was splashed with crimson, the once elegant fabric tainted with Barton's blood. All three wore the identical blank look on their faces with red-rimmed eyes and sheer exhaustion.
"You should change Phil," May looked carefully at Phil's shirt.
Glancing in return at May's soiled uniform he returned, "Same goes for you Mel."
She shook her head, flustered for a millisecond, before growing silent.
The Triskelion, that's where they could live again. That's where Phil could finally catch sleep, lay down and rest after a hot meal. Where May could release her anger, that innate need to shake out the tension in her body. Where Natasha could finally face her fear, stand up to that ever-growing need to be by Clint's side.
The deck of an aircraft carrier was loud, deafening without the ear protection given. The commotion of the flight deck drowned out the thoughts in their head. The quinjet was prepped, waiting for takeoff. Barton had already been loaded in the Blackhawk, Patel and two other medics in back as the pilot completed pre-check procedures. Coulson wanted to laugh at the irony, Clint loved to fly, loved to pilot anything in the air. He was a lot like May in that aspect. The Blackhawk was no different and had he been awake Coulson could already imagine the complaints.
The back door to the chopper slid closed, view of Barton cut off from the rest of them. It was time to go, Natasha was already with Fury and Hill waiting by the quinjet. Coulson almost forgot Fury was even here, forgot that he had been the one to suggest this mission. The Director had been stationed on the carrier for the better half of two months. Why he was flying back with them Coulson didn't know but his primary objective was to follow Clint to Washington. Fury had looked over to May with a nod, and the agent knew where her station was immediately. Walking up the ramp May took the pilots chair in the cockpit and readied herself to takeoff. Natasha had followed, the younger agent taking up the copilot's position.
May was methodical as she flipped switches and tested her gauges. She was comfortable here, filtering her anger into something productive. The pre-flight checklist was done, they were ready for takeoff. Grabbing the headset, she put it over her ears before issuing a message to flight control. You are go for take-off, the radio technician's voice filtered through her ears. Flipping the ignition May relaxed to the sound of the engines. Hand on the throttle she lifted the quinjet in the air, stowing the landing gear when she was clear of the deck. Setting the navigation May grabbed the yoke and pushed the throttle following the Blackhawk to their destination.
It was a painful three hour flight to Corpus Christi, Texas. The SHIELD outpost was among the US Naval base, airfield tucked behind away from the prying eyes of the public. Fury had set up preparations for the medical jet, spoke with Jasper Sitwell for the final details of their transportation back to the Triskelion. Jasper had been quick to heed orders as the SHIELD medical jet was already parked on the tarmac, doors open and crew ready.
"We leave in ten," Fury ordered before descending the ramp and giving orders to the ground crew.
"I'll meet you on the plane," Hill called back before following Fury.
May was powering down the quinjet, unbuckling her harness and taking off her headset when she noticed Phil's hesitation, "Go Phil, I'll meet you there."
Natasha was already up and moving, watching as Barton was carried to waiting jet. He was hoisted onto the plane, set up quickly by the crew on a portable ventilator and IV drips. Once Barton was loaded the passenger door was opened, ramp lowered for the others. There was no pilot he could see until Coulson realized with a smile. May was already anticipated to fly the jet, pilot or not she had already planned to do so.
"All set?" he heard Patel ask the flight nurse.
"Yep, got the drug box and cooler of blood. Propofol drip is running, we have dopamine standing by," the flight nurse reported.
"Good, alert over the radio if there are any complications. Keep close eye on his BP and heart rate. Orders are as followed: keep saline at 100/hour, hang a gram of Ancef enroute, continue with the Propofol. Watch for fluid overload, we don't want him to third space," Patel listed off as she wrote in a chart.
"Will do!" both were yelling over the engines.
"Sat's are a little low, I'm going to suction before we take off," the respiratory therapist joining them said.
Coulson watched the medical transport crew disappear into the plane before turning to Patel, "Thanks."
"It is my job," Krisha smiled kindly.
"You heading back to the carrier?" Phil asked.
"Unfortunately, my tour doesn't end until the end of this month then it's back to New York," Krisha explained, and Coulson knew about her intense dislike for the ocean.
"Well have fun," Coulson shrugged.
"Tell him to take his time! He will recover, I promise," Krisha promised before stepping away.
May had come over with Natasha a cup of steaming liquid in her hands, tea, she always drank a cup before a long flight. It was drunk fast before she threw the empty cup in a nearby trashcan. The three of them did not exchange one word before climbing into the front compartment of the plane. There were seats set up like any normal flight, only three rows of two, behind them was empty except for medical equipment and a jump seat for the nurse. Barton was on the stretcher, sedated and surrounded by the medical equipment that currently kept him alive. The nurse strapped into the harness motioning for the respiratory therapist to take the opposite seat near the ventilator. Coulson watched in fascination was the respiratory therapist fed a catheter down Barton's ET before carefully pulling back, mucus suctioned into the canister. It made him choke for a moment, gag at the thought.
"I'm Stacy, this is Will," she introduced while pointing at her colleague.
Coulson waved as Natasha took her seat quickly, buckling up her seat belt while keeping an eye on Barton as she twisted in her seat. May spoke with Fury as he and Hill entered the plane to take their seats before stepping up to the cockpit. She opened the door and ushered a tech out as he finished his checks. The copilot along for the ride was another agent, May could not take another flight with Natasha's nervous energy. Sitting down at her chair she grabbed the headset and did the usual pre-flight check. Before taxiing off the runway she flipped on the intercom.
"Make sure you're all buckled in," May's voice echoed in the plane.
"Ready for takeoff," she relayed to the air traffic controller.
The plane raced down the runway into a smooth takeoff as the wheels left the ground.
They were finally on their way home.
They made record time with May at the controls. In a little over three hours, they had touched down at the airfield in Washington. An ambulance was there to take Barton to the medical facility and a nondescript black SUV waited for them. Fury had already urged the others to join him at the Triskelion; shit, shower, and shave he relented at seeing their appearance. Fury was tired of looking at them, covered in blood and haggard they needed rest. Natasha had been first to protest before Coulson shut her down. Food and rest, he urged to even himself. He had a feeling that this was just the start to a long few days.
"Triskelion, let's go. Clean up, eat, and rest then we can go see Barton," Coulson pointed out, May was keen to follow but Natasha had other plans.
"Coulson….," Natasha ground out.
"No, he's right. We're no good to Barton like this," May relented noticing not for the first time her own bedraggled appearance.
"Fine," if Natasha sounded like a petulant child she didn't care as she stomped to the waiting SUV.
"They said he was coming off the vent tomorrow morning," May reminded Coulson.
"Yeah, I know, I just…," Coulson's voice trailed off as he followed May to the waiting vehicle.
I know Phil, were unspoken on May's tongue.
Barton was still listed as critical; the ventilator was to ensure his body was well recovered from the initial trauma to carry its weight. It was a precautionary measure to allow Barton's body to regulate itself following a shock. They said his chances were good for an early morning extubation, they would lift the veil of sedation and pull the ET tube. Looking at his watch Coulson gawked at the time. Almost midnight and his anxiety had his exhausted mind in an endless loop. It would give them enough time to get at least five hours of shuteye and a meal before returning to the hospital. They all had personal quarters at the Triskelion and now more than ever Coulson wished for his bed. Despite his wired brain he couldn't help his eyes closing as the lull of the vehicle pulled him under. May was already in a light doze, head back on the seat. Natasha refused, staring directly out the window as the city of Washington DC passed her by.
As they neared the Triskelion the monumental building was a relief to Coulson's eyes. Hill had driven them through the first guard post before travelling towards the motor pool. Coulson had exited the vehicle, May by his side, before going to the trunk and gathering their gear. Natasha was on her feet, stretching from the lack of movement and swaying slightly with exhaustion. Fury had taken his leave, stating 'personal business', Hill followed after a quick order to the agent in the motor pool. They were to go to quarters, shower, change, and get some sleep. Then eat a hot meal in the commissary before going to the hospital to visit Barton. Fury's orders were final and given by Hill a second time for emphasis.
Personally, Coulson was beginning to think bed sounded like a good idea. His feet only carried him on instinct as his strength was quickly waning. May had already gone to quarters, handing over energy bars to them before leaving. Natasha was quick to leave, disappearing to God knows where as she sauntered off opposite of the residency quarters. Coulson contemplated grabbing something more substantial than the energy bar May had given him but food sounded nauseating in his exhausted state. He decided to skip the prospects of a meal on the premise he was too tired to even think. Sleep it was.
He palmed the door control and entered the locked room before stripping off his clothing. Loosening his tie Coulson dragged it off his neck before unbuttoning his once white dress shirt. Both shirt and undershirt came off next, his pants followed soon after once toeing off his dirty dress shoes. Looking down at his bare skin he noticed blood stained his pale complexion. He shivered at the thought, nausea racing up his throat. Damnit Barton why do you do this to us, he thought warily as he stepped into the bathroom. Running the water as hot as he could stand Coulson kicked off his boxers and stepped into the shower leaving a trail of soiled clothing from the entryway.
It felt good to scrub the mission from his skin. Felt glorious to finally rid himself of his 'brothers' blood. He watched with fascination as red water swirled down the drain. The realization of the sheer amount of blood Barton lost in that alleyway. The bullet(s), Patel had made that clear, that were pulled from Barton's abdomen had done considerable damage. The blood running down the drain was the realization that put it all into perspective. Barton had come close this time, real close. Mere centimeters from his aorta Patel said, inch from his spine. He continued scrubbing until the water ran clear before shutting off the tap. He got out and wrapped a towel around his hips before staring at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were puffy, bloodshot, with dark circles rimming the bottom. He was the exact reflection of May and Natasha, the events of the day finally hitting home.
He was too tired to even think as he pulled his cellphone from his discarded pants pocket and placed it on the charger plugged into the wall by the bed. Staggering over to the dresser he pulled out a clean pair of boxers and an old baggy ARMY t-shirt as he dried out his thinning hair. He let the mattress bounce underneath him as he practically fell onto the bed. Pulling down the SHIELD issued blanket and sheets Phil lay down, asleep before his head hit the pillow.
It was five AM when his internal clock woke him. Rolling over in bed Coulson picked up his phone and glared at the digital numbers, the light piercing his sensitive eyes. Placing the phone back on the table he slowly got up and groaned as stiffened muscled made themselves known. Old injuries in his long tenure at SHIELD. Stepping into the bathroom he emptied his desperate bladder before brushing his teeth and shaving the day-old beard he had let grow. He dressed quickly in his usual attire, pressed suit a second skin on his body. Grabbing his phone and badge from the table he felt almost human. Sidearm holstered he was ready to walk to the cafeteria to join May and Romanoff. He was more than eager to see Barton, hoping that today they could remove him from the vent.
He entered the cafeteria, empty for the most part save for a few agents who got an early start on the day. The Triskelion was new, a freshly minted base designed to hold all of SHIELD's assets. Due to this it was relatively still empty and for that Phil couldn't be more grateful. He found May and Natasha right where he expected them, sitting quietly at a lone table picking at their meager breakfast. Phil noticed May's food and had to wonder how she had convinced the chef to make her a traditional Chinese breakfast every time: congee, youtiao, and a glass of soy milk to complete the spread. Phil shook his head, then again it was Agent May he was talking about. He settled for his own light food, toast and eggs that would hopefully get him through this day. As he entered the line he noticed Jasper Sitwell came to him and looked in square in the eye, there was something there Phil saw…concern.
"I heard about Barton, took one to the gut. Sounds bad," Jasper stated.
"It was, still in ICU but expected to recover," Phil was short with his friend.
"Tell him to get better, need him out in the field," Jasper smiled while clapping him on the back.
No telling when he will get back into the field.
"I'll tell him you said so," Coulson realized his smile was forced but his friend didn't seem to notice, or care for that matter, as he stepped away.
He neared the table; Natasha was picking at her oatmeal while on her second cup of coffee. May was for the majority finished as she sipped her soy milk.
"Be ready to go in five?" Natasha started without pause.
"Hold it Romanoff, let me eat first," Coulson took a deep breath to maintain his composure.
Setting her cup on the table May looked over to Phil, "Hill arranged a driver."
He was grateful, without one they would have to suffer with Natasha behind the wheel.
"I'm ready to go when you are," Natasha tried again and while she was in a clean uniform, eyes relatively rested, she was not fooling anyone. That fear and anxiety crept up again threatening to burst to the surface and break her mask.
May ignored Natasha as she addressed Phil, "According to Hill evidence was sent to the Forensics squints, they're analyzing the arrow.
"That's good," Phil said hand straying to his pocket to finger the jar of metal. He'd put it there this morning, maybe as a reminder or possibly by accident, but it was wearing a hole in his pocket, nonetheless.
Finishing his food Phil tossed back the last dregs of coffee before addressing both women, "You ready?"
"Yeah, I'm going to get some tea to go, want anything Phil?" May asked as she stood.
"Coffee, black," Phil stated bluntly.
"No cream or sugar. Got it," May knew him well, had for years.
Natasha was already out of the cafeteria when May went to get their drinks, by now halfway to the motor pool no doubt. May had returned quickly with two steaming to-go cups, after handing Phil his coffee they both stepped out of the cafeteria. Phil had opted to stop by his quarters to grab his bag, if Clint was to be sleeping most of the day he could at least catch up on work. May had already had hers and Phil already knew Natasha's backpack contained a few of Clint's things for his upcoming long hospital stay.
They arrived at the garage, black armored SUV waiting by the door. An agent was waiting, driver Phil surmised, to take them to the hospital. The SHIELD medical facility was the agencies idea of Walter Reed, it was state of the art in medical care and research. Recently opened the five-floor hospital was SHIELD exclusive and off the books to the average medical world. It was now a mainstay for critical care and research, a central designation for agents and personnel injured in the field housing the best doctors and nurses the country had to offer. Larger than the previous facility in New York it was now home to the SHIELD division for medicine and medical research. Clint would be in good hands Phil knew but his anxiety would only decrease once he saw for himself.
Phil opened the front passenger's door and slid into the seat offering a smile to the agent driving before relaxing back in his seat. Natasha and May were in back, the younger agent fiddling with something in her lap, likely the phone game Clint had recently introduced. The agent relayed something over his earpiece before pulling out of the garage. From there the car descended into silence as they made the journey through the clogged rush hour streets of Washington DC.
Clint was allowed to wake slowly, the Propofol decreased until the infusion was stopped entirely. When the fog of sedation was lifted his mind was fuzzy and slow, senses dulled with alarming precision by heavy narcotics. He noticed first his restricted hearing, his aids were out, only muffled sounds were heard. Higher decibels were lost in the sea of voices and equipment. The second glaring fact was his wrists were tied to the bed, soft material rubbing his skin as his motions were restricted. Clint was startled, scared even, as movement was limited. There was no escape, no way to fight. When he tried to take a breath his lungs seized, something was breathing for him forcing his chest to rise and fall. The mechanical sound of the ventilator was washed out in his deaf ears. He was intubated, something must have happened. He felt a catheter slide down his throat hitting his gag reflex, he chocked as it was pulled out slowly. His body seized, agonizing pain ripping through his core. His nerves were on fire, axions firing abruptly at the assault.
His world was blurry, faded in unrecognizable shapes. Faces and bodies moved about him in a dizzying array. His anxiety heightened to a level that jackrabbited his heart. Where the hell am I? What the fuck is happening? Were all questions on his mind surrounded by the overhanging cloud of pain.
"Agent Barton…..Agent Barton, settle down. You're in ICU at the SHIELD hospital. You still have that tube down your throat but we're going to take it out soon," a voice said loud enough for him to hear followed by another.
"Sorry…...Suction ET…..I know…..Uncomfortable," the words were broken by the mechanical sounds of the ventilator.
He had enough! He wanted answers! Why the hell was he tied down and in so much pain!
Clint slammed his restrained hand down on the bed, rattling the rail. He demanded answers now.
"Hold on," the voice reassured before speaking to someone else in the room. "Get…slate."
The blurry face cleared, female with dark complexion. Hispanic? Southeast Asian? Clint didn't care he just wanted her to tell him why he was here. His eyes roamed her uniform, black scrubs with a SHIELD logo on the breast pocket. Her nametag read Marcia Gonzalez, RN, underneath was SHIELD MEDICAL DIVISION. Back in Washington, Triskelion, but how? The last thing he remembered was a vague recollection of Natasha. He was on an aircraft carrier being brought to surgery. Surgery? Why couldn't he remember. The nurse, Marcia, was bending over him now, placing something in his hand. There was a scratch board, like the ones he gave to Cooper. Trying his best for legible handwriting he scratched his question out with his left hand.
Where? What happen?
Marcia nodded before explaining, "You were shot in Mexico yesterday afternoon. We were able to transfer you out quickly after surgery to Washington."
Bad?
"Yes, you shot in the abdomen. You had extensive surgery. The doctor will update you more when he arrives," Marcia continued
He remembered; he had woken to Natasha's scared face. Wait, Nat didn't do fear. It must have been bad. Closing his eyes, he gathered his thoughts. He had to get up, there was something Phil needed to know. He tried to lift his head; an alarm sounded when the ET tube in his throat was yanked. His breathing halted when the pain hit, the machine giving him a breath and rising his chest without his command. He tried to bite the tube, mouthpiece between his lips preventing him from doing so. He tried to move again and was met with pure agony.
"Easy Agent Barton," Marcia's hand on his shoulder had him relaxing back into the mattress.
He closed his eyes to center himself before cataloguing his body. There was a pinch of tape on his left collarbone, a central line led to his heart. Pressure and pain assaulted his abdomen, he could feel the incision and subsequent trauma. A cuff was around his left bicep, a probe on his right finger. Itchy leads covered his chest, the wires leading to the monitor above. He continued; a tube was in his nose, he could feel it as it travelled lower to his stomach. Faint clicking and a pull, something was being suctioned from his GI tract. There was a catheter up his penis, he could feel the pull with every movement his legs made. Wait…. his legs were free, no restraints.
"Get…. vitals…..admit…last…..draw…," voices were hushed as they floated around him.
He must have arrived recently.
There was someone at his upper body, he saw a syringe filled with blood attached to his central line. There were more hands, a prick to his finger. Blood glucose, he knew that one. Had it several times after missions gone wrong. An unforgiving catheter was taped to one wrist, hindering movement with an unrelenting ache. 'Arterial line' he heard someone say. The voices around him continued to talk, a report was being given.
Agent Clint Barton 36 admitted last night status post exploratory laparotomy following a gunshot wound to the mid abdomen. Last BP 92/48, pulse 95, vent is on assist-mode. Central line in the left subclavian, dressing clean and dry. Arterial line in the right radial artery. Respiratory just came by and suctioned. He's been awake and slightly agitated since stopping the Propofol drip. Currently in two-point soft restraints, bilateral upper extremities. He has a vertical midline incision with bilateral Jackson-Pratt's, just emptied the drains this morning, moderate drainage. Just did an assessment last rounding, lungs are clear, bowel sounds still absent. NG is set to intermittent suction, Foley is on a volumetric bag, last emptied at 0500, 500cc output. Allergic to shellfish, unremarkable medical history. He's hard of hearing in both ears, wears hearing aids. His friends have them. Just gave 1mg Dilaudid thirty minutes ago, Harvey's ordered a PCA for when he's off the vent. Harvey's on his way with respiratory to extubate.
The report stopped when the door opened.
"Looks like you have some visitors Agent Barton," Marcia looked down at him.
"Barton," Coulson was by his side.
Clint opened his mouth to talk but all that came out was a croak around the tube.
"When can that thing come out," Natasha, she was there, he felt safer.
"We're waiting on Dr. Harvey and respiratory therapy," Marcia turned to Natasha.
"They're on their way," must have been a nurses aid, Clint didn't see her badge as she entered the room with a handful of sheets.
"You're looking better Hawkeye," May was standing next to bed. Clint watched her lips and hands, had eye on both as she signed when she spoke.
He allowed the vent to take the strain, allowed it to fill his lungs on the next breath. May had stepped closer and his hand reached out. It was involuntary for him, unexpected as his mind sought comfort. He felt May's hand take his and just squeeze.
"We got you, you can stand down," May gave the order and it grounded him.
Clint relaxed, soaking in the warmth of May's grasp. Then the cold returned, ice cold, as the sheets were removed from his body. He locked eyes with Natasha and received her nod, he was safe, stand down Hawkeye. Marcia and the aid were up to something. He was rolled to one side abruptly, a warning may have come but Clint never heard it. The agonizing pain that followed travelled up his chest and down to his toes. He felt something rolled against his naked back, tucked underneath before he was rolled to his other side. His eyes squeezed shut, chest seizing has he bucked the vent. He was dizzy, room spinning as the lights overhead blinded sensitive eyes. As quickly as he was rolled to his other side he was on his back, feeling of warmth covering his body as something soft and heavy was laid over him. Underneath the feel of crisp sheets, free from blood and other bodily fluids. Despite the warmth he shivered, blood loss Clint reminded himself, it took time to recover from.
"Where are we at?" a new voice had him tense, just out of the corner of his drug-addled vision, a blurry figure. More imposing than the nurse and aid.
Clint tensed, his eyes snapping towards the door. The exit, he needed the exit. Always have eyes on the escape route Barton, the academy's lessons rang in his brain.
Coulson was suddenly in his line of sight, commanding eyes boring a hole through Barton's skull, as he spoke and signed, "Stand down Barton."
An order, he could live with that. Relax Clint.
"Agent Barton, I'm Dr. Harvey I'll be overseeing your care in here," the man figure came closer to the bed, his image clearing as Clint shook the drugs from his brain.
He got a better look at his target, Dr. Harvey had graying hair. Taller than him by at least 3 inches. Weathered and wrinkled skin told his age. No warning came when the doctor pulled the blankets away, Clint whimpered when the warmth disappeared. The stethoscope was ice on his sensitive skin, tiny pinpoints of shock on various locations on his chest. Upper right, upper left, then both lower areas. He must have passed the doctors test, words like 'extubated' and 'off the vent' were read on the doctors' lips. He picked up only half of what the doctor said wanting desperately to scream I'm deaf you idiot!
Coulson must have realized because his handler was placing something in both ears, flicking a switch, before Clint's senses came alive.
"Hearing aids," he heard Coulson say as he stepped back.
"Hard of hearing, I read his file. I apologize about that Agent Barton," Dr. Harvey smiled softly. At least he acknowledged his fuck up Clint thought. Read my chart, my hearing is shit. It was a welcome relief to hear his surroundings as a newcomer entered the room.
"How about we get that tube out Agent Barton," Dr. Harvey's words were blessed relief.
"Okay we're going to remove that tube now Agent Barton, my name is Todd, I'm from respiratory therapy," the newcomer greeted.
Clint had a moment of sheer panic when Todd disconnected the vent. I can breathe, they wouldn't be doing this if I couldn't, Clint reassured himself. The wretched catheter was back down his throat once more as the therapist suctioned his lungs. He gagged more forcibly than last time, body tensing with the triggered reflex. The syringe was screwed onto the port of the tube, air being extracted from the balloon that held it in his trachea. This is going to suck. Todd looked directly at him and gave a faint order, 'Take a deep breath then cough'. Clint did just that, tube burning the entire way up his throat. The resulting spasm of coughing had him in tears after.
"God…S-shit," Clint croaked against his abused throat. Every muscle in his core spasmed as if struck by electricity.
"It's okay Barton, breathe," Natasha urged, hand on his leg.
Easy for you to say Nat!
Clint was breathing, hyperventilating really as he sucked in air. There was hard plastic in his mouth as Todd held the Yankauer between his lips to suction out the crap that came up with the tube. He tried to speak, glass eating his throat, his abdomen on fire. The suction was removed, replaced by a misting mask, albuterol his brain supplied. It worked to loosen his tight airways, helping him clear the mucus that came with the intubation. On one hand the stimulant effect of albuterol did wonders to lift the fog from his brain, on the other his heart was now jackrabbiting in his chest. Hell, he felt like he had run a 5k before going a few rounds against Nat.
"Try not to talk for a bit Agent Barton, your throat's going to be tender," Dr. Harvey explained before turning to Todd. "Switch him to nasal cannula 2-4L after the treatment and get him started on incentive spirometry."
"Will do," the mask was lifted and replaced by the cannula before Todd finished cleaning up and left the room.
"Marcia, how about 2mg Dilaudid IV push and let's set up a PCA, I'll write the orders in the chart. Also monitor NG output and urine output. Give Phenergan 25mg IV every 6 hours as needed for nausea. Keep him NPO, standing orders are on the chart," Dr. Harvey was transcribing orders to the nurse.
Clint felt the Dilauded being injected through the central line, the resulting warmth that travelled down his body was not unwelcome. He was fading fast.
"Agent Barton I'm going to take a peek at your abdomen," Dr. Harvey announced.
Peek was an understatement. Clint felt the bell of the stethoscope on his distended abdomen pushing gently. The dressing was lifted next as the doctor inspected his stapled incision. God, Clint felt like he was cracked open like an egg.
Dr. Harvey sat up and placed his stethoscope around his neck before discussing his finding, "Bowel sounds are absent and he's still quite distended. We need to monitor for obstruction and peritonitis. Page me immediately if he has any acute abdominal pain or worsening distension, or if his bowel sounds haven't returned in 24 hours."
So apparently his bowels are center stage for this one. What the hell happened inside his abdomen?
"Marcia, keep monitoring his liver function as well, there shouldn't be a problem, but I'd prefer to catch it before anything worsens," Dr. Harvey continued.
Okay so his liver too and it had nothing to do with trying to drink Nat under the table.
Clint felt Marcia unhook his wrists, careful of the arterial line in his right. 'Remove later' she mouthed at his questioning look. Clint's hand drew up to his chest once free tangling in the leads and tubing across his body. He wanted more than anything to sleep, to escape from his current hell. As the pain medication coursed through his system Clint got his wish. His eyes fluttered, vision growing blurry as he allowed the drugs to take him into oblivion.
He was safe, the others had the watch…..he could stand down.
"I need to punch something," May's voice held an edge that had most backing off. Leaning against the wall May watched the man in the bed. Clint was sound asleep after the last round of pain medication the nurse gave. He was not waking anytime soon May could tell. She had been in Barton's place, taken two in a botched mission in Bosnia. One to the upper chest, the other to the thigh, a collapsed lung nearly killed her before extraction. Natasha had yet to be found and brought into SHIELD, it was just the three of them. May had woken to Barton at her bedside, a tidal wave of blame rolling off the younger agent as he failed to take a shot. It wasn't his fault, nothing could have been done, the intel was sour. She spent the better half of the next three months forcing into the other agent's head that the blame was not on him. Had even threatened to beat the shit out of the man once she was walking on two feet again. Watching Romanoff in her self-misery May made up her mind. She would do the same she had with Barton.
"Let's go Romanoff," May said pushing off the wall she was leaning against.
"I'd rather not," Natasha didn't look at her when she replied softly.
"Not up for suggestion," it was a command, one which Romanoff couldn't refuse after looking into May's eyes. The elder agent was stoic, eyes lit with fiery passion and anger.
Natasha hesitated, orbs mirroring the same fire as May's. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife. She knew May's intention and on a second thought decided it was for the best. This pent-up fear inside her, the anger and rage it led to, was begging for release. That release came with physical contact. She had been here before, May has too, physical motion was the way to dissipate this anxiety that crawled up her bones. Natasha stood from her chair, leaning over Clint before whispering into his ear. The graceful Russian that slipped from her lips was unheard by Coulson and May as they watched. Stay strong, sleep peaceful, it was what Clint needed. A bountiful rest to heal his battered body. Stepping away from the bed Natasha looked at May and nodded.
Realizing May's intention Phil huffed a laugh, "I really wish I could be there to see this."
May cocked a smile, "In your dreams Phil."
Natasha and May left the room without another word leaving Phil to his thoughts. Barton slept on, peaceful and without tension despite the lines of pain in his face. Phil sat back in his chair, removing the tablet from his bag to catch up on past work. He had a feeling this was just the start of a very long few days, weeks even. Looking down at Barton he smirked, it was odd to see him still.
"Well it's just you and me now, eh Barton?"
The silence was broken when Marcia entered the room.
"Would you like anything Sir? Coffee maybe?" Marcia offered.
"I'm fine," Phil shook his head.
"Well I'll bring one anyways, you look like you could use it," Marcia smiled.
"That obvious, must be losing my touch," Phil joked.
"I'm just going to get his vital signs real quick then I'll be back with that cup of joe," Marcia walked over to the bed and hit the button on the monitor above his head. Phil watched Barton's heartrate on the screen, while a bit fast it was regular. When the readings flashed a droning alarm alerted to his lower-than-average BP, 94/56. If the nurse was alarmed by it she didn't show it as she continued with the task. The thermometer was next, and Phil cringed, if ever there was a time for Clint to wake suddenly. Marcia just pulled down his gown at the chest and inserted the probe in his armpit, waited for 30 seconds, and recorded the reading when it beeped.
"His blood pressure supposed to be that low?" Phil frowned at the screen.
"The blood loss he suffered combined with the meds, he's still in what we call serious condition, but it is improving," she noted as she stepped over to the computer cart in the room and recorded Clint's vitals in the chart.
Phil was amazed, never has he seen Clint this passive. Barton had not so much as flinched when Marcia was fiddling with him. That alone was completely unsettling.
"Well, that's finished, I'll be back with that coffee. Black, I take it?" Marcia's eyebrow hitched.
"Thanks," Phil nodded, he didn't really want coffee, but it was a nice distraction.
Phil went back to his silence, tapping away on the tablet shifting his thoughts from the injured Clint dozing in the bed.
"Barton's off the vent," Maria Hill announced as she entered Fury's office. Nick glanced up from his preliminary report on the mission. Good, now I can get Barton's report. Figure out what the hell happened out there. "Good," Fury said abruptly before standing from his desk. He had yet to inform Alexander Pierce or the WSC on the failed mission, why Fontaine was still running loose instead of having an arrow through the heart. The sudden extraction had more than likely scared the man away, had him running at the first sight of a SHIELD jet. Pierce would be upset, this mission was easy, a guaranteed success. The WSC would blame Melinda May for even having such a thought to call for such a quick extraction. Looking down at the medical report Patel had given him on Barton his mind was set. Fury wouldn't have had it any other way.
Fuck the WSC. Fuck Pierce for that matter.
Fury had to do it sometime so biting the bullet he made the call.
An hour later and Fury was exhausted. He wanted to post his phone on the range, put more than a few rounds in it. The call had been long and aggravating. Pierce was indignant, questioning the decision to put Barton's life above Fontaine. The WSC was going to launch an investigation into the entire mission. Son of a bitch, I hate internal affairs. He had been very close to not biting his tongue when he wanted to tell Alexander Pierce he could go fuck himself. Pierce had been more than a little insistent that Barton had screwed up. Going as far as to initiate a full analysis of the agent's 'slip'. This was not a slip-up, he could tell by Barton's groggy voice when he took the man's report, when the man was lucid enough to do so, ten minutes ago over a conference call with Phil.
Barton's voice was shaky during the entire thing, Fury amounted most of it to pain but at least a little could account for fear. It had been unexpected to say the least, a dirty hit by an assassin that was willing to have their mark suffer. Gut shot, it was bold and cowardly. Thankfully Barton's would-be assassin was sloppy, allowing himself to get shot by the arrow put in his chest. The arrow that was now in the forensic teams hands pulling fingerprints and blood matches. Most terrifying was the weapon, not the gun itself but the ammunition that tore through Barton. He could hear the denial in Phil's voice.
Stark Industries and while the billionaire was maybe not directly involved his new prototype was now proliferated to assassins and weapons dealers. He thought about the Ten Rings, about Al Qaida, about homegrown terrorists and fringe groups getting ahold of that type of ammunition. They had little to no leads, a possible leak, and one of his best agents was now in the hospital facing months of recovery. Tidying up his desk he made sure to put the 'official' report in the envelope for Pierce. The unofficial report, his own report, stayed in the locked filing cabinet. Nobody had to know, nobody needed to know except those directly involved with this mission.
"Make sure he gets that Hill," Fury handed the envelope to Hill and ignored her pointed stare as he locked the cabinet.
Two reports, one to Pierce the other for their eyes only.
Barton, Romanoff, Hill, May, Coulson, and himself.
"Heading over to the hospital?" Hill inquired.
She knew the answer, "Make sure he gets it."
"Yes Sir," and with that Hill walked out of the office.
He couldn't think straight, his mind was filled with too many 'what ifs'. Maybe it went against his normal protocol but Fury wanted to check on Barton if not also be there for Coulson. He didn't make the call to Laura, May had seen to that on the ship. It was better coming from her. Fury stood from his desk and gathered a few items in a brown paper bag. A non-descript jewelry box still sat on his desk, inside SHIELD's equivalent to a purple heart. Barton more than deserved it, had on many occasions but refused the fanfare. Checking first his sidearm on his holster Fury grabbed the bag off the desk and stepped out of the office, his coattails flapping with his quick departure.
"Are you ready to talk about what happened?" May panted as she blocked another kick. Kick, punch, kick, punch. They had been at this dance for an hour. Jasper Sitwell in an unexpected break of protocol locked down the training room leaving both agents to their brand of 'stress relief'. May kicked and Natasha blocked. May twisted and countered with her weight, Natasha fell hard to the mat. Weak, dead. Her emotions made her sloppy. Breathing heavily she took May's hand leveraging herself to her feet..
"No," Natasha said bluntly.
That's all, Barton was shot end of story.
The anger from before was dwindling replaced by something far more aggravating, fear and uncertainty. There was blood in her ledger, Barton's blood only added to the stain. Not your fault Nat, Barton would say. There was truth to that, the assassin who jumped Barton was at fault. Hell Stark was at fault for even conceiving such a body shattering invention. They were all at fault for the careless complacency that landed Barton in that bed. Sweat covered her entire body, dripping from her face as it stung her eyes. It felt good, Natasha soaked up the pain if it took any of the agony Clint was feeling. May had handed her a water bottle and Natasha took a greedy sip before handing it back.
"Thanks," May said.
"I don't know what to think," Natasha's admission was sudden, striking for someone who voiced little emotion.
"He went down, that's it. Barton's alive, we made sure of that," May urged.
"I just thought he…," began but May cut her off abruptly.
"Was invincible? Nobody is," May snapped.
Invincible, yes. Barton always got back up, laughed it off. Fragile, he is fragile.
It was her first time watching someone she cared about in so much agony, watching someone she had grown to consider family fall so suddenly, so close to death.
I'm scared
"I'm not used to dealing with this…. emotion, this fear. I don't know how to handle seeing Barton. I don't know," Natasha's tone darkened. Anger, Rage.
"You deal with it then you move on. Don't bottle it up, feel it. I've run away plenty of times, it doesn't work, that fear stays with you, makes you sloppy. Use it instead, use that anger, that fear to fuel you," May took her arm, eyes locking with her own.
She had let anger dictate her motions; the result was death. The fear came back to haunt her.
"I'm afraid of what I may do," Natasha's voice small, a lost little girl.
"If it means putting a bullet between the son of a bitch's eyes who shot Barton I'd say that a good use for it," May answered.
Her walls were not easily broken, she cursed Barton for allowing her to feel. May was the same, that hardened exterior but tempered emotion that allowed her deal with the innate fear that came from losing a friend, family. They weren't all that different she and May.
"Another round?" May's eyebrow shot up.
"I won't make it easy," Natasha smirked.
"Good, wasn't planning on easy," May smiled
They were face to face on the mat, fueled by fear and anger as they released the tension building in their mind.
Nick Fury walked down the hospital halls ignoring the stares of staff and agents. Nice facility, he couldn't help his own astonishment of the newly built facility. He heard the whispers in the halls, the famous Hawkeye taken down, others spoke of Barton's grievous injuries. He continued down the hall to the intensive care, room 406 Coulson had told him. Barton had fallen back to sleep once he gave his report. It was then Fury heard the more personal details from Coulson. Barton was in bad shape. He stepped up to Barton's room and opened the sliding glass door without knocking.
Barton looked like utter shit. The sheer number of tubes and wires that ran over his body made him look smaller. The large gown drowning out his muscular figure. His skin pale and face drawn Barton looked as if he could die any moment. Fury had been assured that it was not the case, he was critical but stable. Fury couldn't help himself, he looked closer at the agent taking in weight of his injury. He was still on oxygen, nasal cannula competing for space with the NG tube in his nose. Central line and leads ran out of his chest. The gown did little to obscure the mound of bandages on the man's abdomen. It was shocking, Barton was really down this time.
Phil was halfway to his feet when Fury looked over, "Director."
"Sit down Cheese," Fury demanded.
There was biting silence before Fury opened his mouth.
"How's our boy?" Nick knew the answer but it did well to cut the tension.
"Out of the woods," Phil sighed tiredly.
You look like shit Phil
"May and Romanoff?" Fury asked.
"Gym, trying to beat each other to hell I surmise," Phil had to smile.
That sounds like them
The images in Fury's mind had him smirking, both agents were hopelessly even matched.
Phil's hand strayed to his jacket pocket as Fury neared the bed. There was a noise, metal on glass, His hand reached into his suit coat pocked to the jar. It rattled, metal hitting glass, before he noticed. In Phil's hand was a jar, red staining the glass. Fury looked for a moment before noticing. The bullets taken out of Barton's belly, all ten of them. He took the jar from Phil's hand after the agent held it out and studied it carefully. He saw the report but needed to see it for himself to believe.
"What's that?" Fury asked.
"Patel took this out of Barton," Phil said quietly.
"This is the weapon you talked about, SI prototype?" Fury continued to look closely at the jar.
"Something like that, tore Barton apart inside. Patel said it exploded inside him after the bullet hit. Armor piercing too, sharp tip, drilled straight through his vest," Phil described, face blank.
One large bullet casing with nine smaller fragments, each fragment almost a tiny replica of a 9mm round. Ten fragments of metal that nearly took Barton's life or had him in a wheelchair for life. He held in his hand a jar of lethal metal that successfully ensured absolute destruction to the organs of the person it was shot at. The medical report said it all, parts of Barton were now in medical research while the scientist investigate the true damage this bullet could do.
34 inches of small intestine, partial liver removal…. splenic and arterial damage.
Patel's report was thorough and generally terrifying.
Fury stopped abruptly when Barton shifted, face scrunching up before relaxing back onto the bed.
"Don't worry, he has enough narcotic in him to put down a small horse," Phil commented. "He's not waking up anytime soon."
Good, Barton could use it
"By the way what's in the bag?" Phil noticing for the first time the paper bag in Fury's hand.
"Just a few things. A couple of those sci-fi novels he likes, Jolly Ranchers, and the commendation," Fury listed.
"He'll appreciate it, thanks. About the mission-," the extraction, Fontaine was left unsaid.
"To hell with the mission, the reports already on Pierce's desk. Agent was down Cheese, nothin' you can do about it. Extraction was warranted," Fury clarified.
Phil was still uneasy, but it helped for Fury to say it, "Good."
"I've got to get back, took you all off active rotation until further notice," Fury made the right call.
"Thanks," Phil perked up.
"None needed, get some rest Cheese, you look worse than Barton," Fury walked out the room.
The opening of the door pulled Phil from his light doze; an aid walked in with a bundle in her hands. Clint didn't move at the sudden sound something Phil was both grateful and concerned by. The trauma and narcotics hit the archer hard, he had been asleep, breathing even with a steady heartbeat on the monitor. Clint was generally a light sleeper, waking from the slightest noise, his guard always up. To see him like this was new but considering the drugs pumped through his line Phil wasn't surprised. Phil relented, Clint needed rest, his body had a shock.
The aid came closer to the bed placing the machine in her hands on the floor, "Sorry to interrupt, I'm just going to turn him on his side. I'm also going to put some compression stockings on his legs and put him on what is called an SCD pump to prevent blood clots."
He wasn't in charge here but he acted just the same, "Go ahead."
Here goes nothing, Phil waited and readied himself to grab Clint's had had it come to attack position. He waited with bated breath as the aid pulled down the covers and exposed his legs. Clint flinched at the cold, involuntary shiver running down his body. Phil's eyes widened, that's all Clint did. He's more drugged than I thought. The massive blood loss probably had something to do with it but Phil was intrigued.
Clint didn't move as the aid as she maneuvered his feet and pulled white stockings up each leg to the thigh. Neither did he move when she covered the stockings with wraps, velcroing them snug, before plugging them into the pump she lifted on the foot of the bed. His leg twitched when the pump was turned on, moving slightly at the pressure. He didn't so much as twitch when she maneuvered his catheter, draining the urine in the tube into the bag before emptying it.
When she came back from dumping the urine down the toilet, she used her hands to grab the drawsheet under Clint's midback. Carefully she pulled before pushing him gently on his right side. He moved for this, moan eliciting from his mouth but did little else. A pillow was tucked behind his back for support another between his legs. Pulling the covers over his shoulders she was done. Quick and easy, Barton didn't move. No complaints were issued. Phil was shocked.
"Wow! You're good," Phil remarked.
"Been doing this for a while besides it helps when your patient is too drugged to be ornery," she smirked.
He watched Clint's breathing settle hitching ever so slightly at any small movement. He was stable, he had to keep telling himself that. The memory of the pain Barton experienced in that alleyway was enough to give him gray hair or make him tear out whatever he had left. Seeing him so plaint on the bed, dead to the world around him wasn't doing Phil any favors for his sanity. Every injury Barton received in the field usually resulted in a shouting match and ignored medical advice. This time was different, he wasn't walking this one off.
"If there is anything else you need don't hesitate to ask," the aid offered before taking her leave.
The aid passed May and Romanoff as they reentered the room, both sweaty and tired. Good, they can stop giving me heartburn, Phil thought about the half-eaten tube of Rolaids in his pocket. I'm getting too old for this. He made no mention that he felt like an older brother and father in one, trying to wrangle his merry band of family. He and May were always close from back when they met in the Academy. Then came Barton, swinging in to push into his guarded heart. Natasha had come later; the young woman was fierce but painfully naïve to emotion. Phil guessed he could call them a strange rendition of family, a home away from home for Barton when separated from his wife and son.
"How was sparring?" Phil had a twinkle in his eye.
"Romanoff tapped out once," May said, her voice sardonic.
Natasha scoffed, "Like that would happen."
"Fury came by, dropped off some things for Barton. Barton gave his report over the phone earlier," Phil told them.
"WSC and Pierce?" May asked.
"Taken care of," Phil answered.
"He still sleeping?" Natasha was skeptical, she had been around Barton to know his sleeping habits.
"Like a baby," Phil smiled.
Silence descended among them, steady beeps from the heart monitor a calming noise. Looking at the clock on the wall Phil narrowed his eyes. Six-thirty already? He'd been at the hospital all day, majority of the time at Barton's side. He couldn't even remember when he ate last assuming breakfast was his last meal. Fury must have noticed, or maybe it was Hill, because a knock at the door was followed by the blessed smell of take-out. Three bags, local Chinese restaurant, each one with a name.
May, Coulson, Romanoff…. I know it's not authentic May so just eat it-NF
"American Chinese food, better than nothing," May joked as she read the note.
Clint's nose twitched at the smell before his face evened out back into sleep. Lightweight, Natasha thought wryly. His relaxed state, while drugged, was a relief. It allowed them to eat without the image of blood and agony. May was the first to dive in, tearing into her Kung Pao chicken as if it were last meal. Natasha was perfectly content eat steadily, nibbling on an eggroll she stole from May. Phil just watched them as he ate his own meal, family indeed.
Food had been finished, occupants hungrier than they initially thought, so sleep was the next option. They weren't leaving, even when Phil suggested all three looked to one another and ignored the optional order. May had already settled in the recliner, head back and legs up relieving the tension in overworked muscles. Natasha settled on the floor laying on an extra blanket she stole from Barton's bed, carefully making her own 'nest' as Clint called it facing the window overlooking DC. She ignored the raised eyebrows of her fellow agents after fluffing a pillow and curling up in the fetal position. Phil just shook his head, May chose to not say anything. It wasn't long before Phil began to feel the pull of sleep, the overwhelming exhaustion that had seeped into his bones.
Marcus Scarlotti, Fury had at least a name after returning to his office from a brief visit with the forensic lab. The fingerprints were easily lifted from Barton's arrow, analyzed, and spat out on a computer with the assassin's complete dossier. They had a lead to go by but only a slight edge. He was a hired grunt, a pawn to do the dirty work. There was someone higher at play, something deeper that Fury feared ran through the organization. The bullets Phil gave him were currently being studied but they had definite knowledge of the maker. SI was carved into the casing, done by factory professional engraving equipment. Whether or not Stark had this prototype at play was another matter.
He considered calling Tony Stark for details on the prototype, almost pressured to pick up the phone and speak with the man who decided that something called a cluster bullet was a good idea to create. Stark had to have known that his inventions land in the wrong hands, that they fuel war and misery. Fury wondered if the man cared as he sat in his tower in Manhattan. War came with consequences, led to new discoveries, but it also proliferated evil. Fury knew better than most that some barriers had to be crossed to win a war but some weapons were beyond comprehension. He'd seen the results after going to the lab and seeing the glass jar of formaldehyde holding parts taken from Barton, the sight of them torn apart sickening.
They had a start; Fury would continue until the case was solved.
For now he relented to calling it a night. He was emotionally wrought, physically tired, and in dire need for a drink of something hard and straight. He'd detoured on the way home, had his driver go to the hospital. He had one final thing he needed to do. As he walked down the familiar hall, he spotted room 406 and was shocked at what he found.
Clint was out cold, the PCA button held loosely in his hand. On his right side he was comfortably nestled in a mound of blankets, propped up by numerous pillows as they supported his injured body. Good, he's using the drugs, Fury mused. Notorious for dodging medic's and denying pain medication despite appearing to be in pain Clint never made the best patient. He figured taking one to the gut was enough to need mind-altering drugs to dull the agony. As Nick walked deeper into the room, he couldn't help but smile.
Phil was asleep in the visitor chair, head down on Barton's bed, with his neck in an impossible angle. Going to be stiff as hell in the morning. Romanoff was on the floor, curled up in the fetal position in what Fury could only describe as a nest. Clint would have approved. May was in the recliner, stretched out with her feet up looking more relaxed than Fury was accustomed to sound asleep. He nearly laughed; it was a parody of some picture of family. Mom and dad watching over two children, one a sick son, the other a petulant teen. Fury took some time to soak in the image.
Clint cracked an eye open, glassy and unfocused, "Director," he slurred.
"Go back to sleep Barton," Fury whispered softly.
Barton settled back into sleep, eyes closing as his face relaxed. Fury took that time for his own inspection as he neared the bed. Pulling down the sheets carefully he had to make sure. Lifting Barton's gown he saw the devastation. The entrance wound was covered, the rest of his abdomen covered in one large dressing. Settling the gown back over the man Fury carefully tucked the covers back up to his shoulders. This was about to be a marathon for Barton, one Fury hoped would not ruin the man. This long recovery had just begun, with it all the trials and tribulations that came with the severely injured. Looking at the three agents stationed by his bed Fury wasn't worried, Barton had support.