Approaching Fear

by ChemistRN

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. Part One of Trials and Tribulations series

2. The Fight Begins

Approaching Fear

Chapter 2: The Fight Begins

Warning for medical imagery and real take on medical procedures and treatments. This is also an early tribute for Sepsis Awareness Month in September

---

Clint slept for most the second day, his periods of lucidity few and far in between. He was awake for much of the night, either it was his sleep/wake cycle that was turned on its head or Clint had fought against his exhaustion Phil was unsure, but it had him up and pacing the room. It had been on repeat for much of the night, May and Natasha were given their rest while Phil was up and down with Clint. The first time he had awoken it was abrupt but brief. Confusion in his eyes faded as Phil walked into his field of vision. The second time it was to violent retching into a bucket, Natasha and May had been awoken for that as well. After being medicated for the vomiting Clint finally drifted back into sleep. Phil followed soon after in what he was now calling the chair of torture.

It was five AM in the morning, the third day after Clint was shot, and his condition deteriorated rapidly. Natasha and May had stepped out to the bathroom when Phil was woken suddenly from a dreamless sleep. Clint was writhing on the bed, crying out in agony as he tried to curl up around his abdomen. Patel had warned complications could happen but seeing them in real time gave Phil the jitters. There was a sheen of sweat on Clint's skin, his skin pale. It was five minutes later the vomiting started. For a solid ten minutes Clint endured a rash of intermittent heaving bringing up little more than blackish bile. Natasha had reentered followed by Natasha, the latter sitting on Clint's bed trying to give what little comfort she could. There was a five-minute lull before Clint started again.

"God!" Clint's face was beet red from strain, tears leaked from the corner of his eyes. Feedback rang through the room as his hearing aids continued to shift with the constant movement.

Clint was in agony, utter absolute hell. His abdominal muscles clenched against the strain of heaving, feeling not unlike tearing at the seams. If this is what torture felt like he wished for death. His hand came to his abdomen and pushed trying to escape from the pain. Something was very wrong; this was beyond abnormal. He reached for the PCA, content when Natasha placed it in his hand before pushing the button. It did little to relieve the endless ache, only dulled it enough to think straight. His teeth chattered as another wave rolled over him before reaching over to squeeze Natasha's open hand.

"I'm going to find the nurse," May spoke up before leaving the room.

What the fuck is going on inside me?

His legs were in constant motion, a distraction from the pain. The SCD pumps attached to him pulled and snapped off the pump. His foley tore at his penis, it was a welcome shift in discomfort. His belly felt bloated, agonizing when touched. He wanted release from this pain. Where's a gun when you need one? No, he couldn't think like that, there had to be some reason he had descended into this. Taking a deep breath, he centered himself and waited for help. Thankfully it came quickly as the nurse entered the room.

"What's going on?" Marcia asked him.

"Something's not right," Natasha spoke for Clint.

"He's been like this since five, his abdomen is killing him and he's been dry heaving," Phil voiced Clint's woes and it was all for the better, Clint could hardly think much less talk.

Urging Natasha to move Marcia began her exam. Years spent working ICU and other various critical care floors and she had seen it all. She noticed first that Clint was pale, white almost, his teeth clenched in insurmountable pain. When she cycled the blood pressure, noting his elevated pulse as she did, Marcia saw what she feared. His blood pressure was hovering on critical at 82/43, pulse a rapid 125. Vitals unstable and the acute pain she suspected surgical complications, possibly something left over from the initial trauma. Clint was shaking as she lifted his gown to expose his abdomen. Pulling the stethoscope from her neck she placed it on his belly and noticed him tense (tenderness and guarding). She listened for two minutes closing her eyes, silence. Nothing. Absent bowel sounds. She made her decision, this was serious. His sweaty skin was warm to the touch, Pupils blown from narcotics and pain. His vitals were worse, BP unstable and his abdomen was as hard as a board. Grabbing the digital thermometer from the monitor she held the probe under Clint's tongue and waited. Shit! 101.3, sepsis, a nurse's worst nightmare. She clicked off symptoms in her brain: Abdomen rigid, distension, severe pain, absent bowel sounds.

Peritonitis

He's likely perforated his bowel

"How's your pain Agent Barton, scale of 1 to 10," Marcia knew the answer, but she needed the subjective report.

"8 or 9….Fucking hurts," Clint didn't lie, not this time, his world was surrounded by red hot agony.

Pushing the call bell Marcia waited for the front desk, Can I help you?

"This is Marcia, page Dr. Harvey to room 406 stat. Send someone with some blood draw supplies and another liter of saline," Marcia ordered over the intercom.

Phil had listened intently when the doctor had stressed that while Clint was stable, he was not out of the woods by a long shot. His organs had been through trauma and in many cases there were complications, especially for a man whose intestines had been nearly ripped apart. Phil just offered up his support, putting a hand on his Clint's forearm and waited for the doctor. Natasha sat back on the bed holding Clint's hand in a foreign display of emotion. Phil just watched the scene play out. May had stepped back out of the way just watching from afar. Phil took in Clint's condition, with his gown off, torso exposed, he was shocked. Clint's abdomen was distended, his skin deathly pale, it was a flashback to where it all began. Clint was growing still on the bed breathing deeply and whimpering every other breath. This was wrong, things were getting better. This was a large step back Clint didn't need or deserve. He was shaken from his thoughts when the doctor rushed into the room, impatience written on his face.

"You paged me?" Harvey turned to Marcia as she drew blood from Clint's central line.

"Yes, he's complaining of worsening pain, BP has dropped, and pulse is high. Pain is 9 out of 10 and abdomen is rigid and distended. Absent bowel sounds. I'm drawing labs just in case," Marcia reported.

"Fever?" Harvey walked over to the bed.

"Temp 101.3," Marcia quickly added.

"So how are you doing Agent Barton?" Dr. Harvey turned to his patient ignoring the look May shot him.

Was that rhetorical?

"Feel like shit, fuckin' hurts," Clint slurred.

Dr. Harvey had yet to have Clint as a patient before now, but he had read the man's medical history. Heard the stories. For Clint to be admitting pain so outwardly it was a sure sign of agony.

"Let's take a look shall we," Dr. Harvey began his exam with palpation. Clint seized when hands pushed down, crying out as pain overwhelmed him.

Harvey was concerned to say the least, while Barton was not on the edge of death at this very moment, he had an acute abdomen suggesting several diagnoses. He palpated his abdomen, all four quadrants, and was met with diffuse pain. Sharp in nature with intense guarding he had an inkling of what to expect on X-Ray. He listened to his abdomen and concurred with Marcia's findings; Barton had something brewing inside. With absent bowel sounds, severe pain, and distension Harvey was looking at a perforated bowel complicated by peritonitis. He needed the films to be sure, needed to make certain before bringing this man back to the operating room.

"Get a stat abdominal and chest film, with the blood you drew send a CBC and chemistry. Bolus a liter of saline and hang 2 grams of cefoxitin," Dr. Harvey ordered. He could tell the nurse was thinking the same thing.

"Got it," she was fast, the blood was already sent and the saline was started before Harvey finished. She was now on the phone with pharmacy to expedite the antibiotic order.

Dr. Harvey began walking out of the room before ushering his patient's 'family' outside.

"What's going on doc?" Phil asked first.

"There's a very good change Agent Barton has what is known as a perforation of his bowel. It can happen after surgery. What I'm more concerned of is that the perforation has led to peritonitis. It's a serious complication, it can lead to septic shock if left untreated. I will know more once I see his X-Rays," Dr. Harvey explained.

"And?" May put in.

"We may have to take him back to surgery," Dr. Harvey clarified.

"I'll tell him," Natasha said darkly before going back into the room

---

He ignored Nat as she told him, blocked out any recollection of surgery. He focused instead on remaining calm and in control when the X-Ray technician had come to shoot his films. Moving was an issue, every shift caused enormous pain. He white-knuckled through the tech placing the board behind his back as the films were shot. One of his chest, head of the bed lifted so he was upright as possible. The second of his abdomen, thankfully when he was allowed supine again. Natasha had grown silent when they finished but so did Clint. He couldn't go through this again.

---

Dr. Wayne Harvey was a man of great renown but even he could not predict what he was seeing. Barton's x-rays were on the lightboard and as he studied the films, he rubbed his face tiredly. There wasn't an option, Barton was going back to surgery. Free air was seen on the chest film, a clear sign of perforation. On the abdominal film a white speck in the loops of gas filled intestines. A fragment left behind that had shifted to puncture Barton's healing bowel.

Marcia had come in and handed him two papers of labs, they looked worse. His white count was grossly elevated, hemoglobin and hematocrit were spiraling down the toilet, Barton was septic. Barton was sick, very sick, and in need of immediate surgical intervention. He had called in Dr. Park, an exceptional trauma surgeon recently recruited to SHIELD after two tours in Iraq.

"Are these the films," the surgeon asked.

"Yes, free air under the diaphragm, there appears to be a small fragment in the abdomen. Labs are a mess," Harvey explained.

"Presentation?" Dr. Park urged.

"Classic perforation with peritonitis, I'm thinking small bowel. There's some blood in the NG," Harvey pulled the films off the board and stuffed them back into the envelopes.

"Okay, get him pre-op'd I'll be ready to cut in ten," Dr. Park nodded before taking his leave.

"Now for the hard part," Harvey groaned. It wasn't going to be easy convincing Barton.

---

After the x-ray's, the multitude of labs, Clint was in no better shape. He lay in a haze of pain, waiting for bad news as Dr. Harvey had yet to arrive. He heard fragments, alarming words like 'perforation' and 'sepsis', he read Natasha's lips and made out 'surgery'. No, he wasn't going through with it. They can find another way. He shifted in bed and groaned, the pain in his abdomen was only growing worse. He stiffened when Dr. Harvey approached the room with a look that all patients fear.

"What's up doc…..am I dyin'?" Clint's voice was humorless and tired.

"Well, I'm afraid the news isn't good. The x-ray of your chest showed what we call free air under your diaphragm. It's a sign that your bowel has been perforated. There's also what appears to be fragment that could be the cause. I hate to say that the only treatment is surgery. We need to take you back to the OR, now," Harvey detailed

Fuck no! Not again!

"No! No!" Clint used what little reserve energy he had left to shout, his denial palpable.

"This is not up for debate Agent Barton. You will get sicker, go into septic shock, and die if we don't. Your labs are already looking bad, your white count is high and there is evidence of early sepsis. The longer we wait the poorer the outcome," Dr. Harvey's voice was urgent and stern.

"You're not cutting me open again, that's final," Clint protested as what little adrenaline he had left drained from his system.

Natasha turned to Clint, looking him in the eye, voice low, "Listen to him Clint, you need this."

"I can't go through it again Nat," Clint breathed, he was desperate, the pain was overwhelming.

"Listen Agent Barton I promise this is the last one. After you can go about your recovery and get out of here. You need this, it's the only way," Marcia discussed when Clint hesitated.

Clint lay back in defeat. He had to think of Laura, his son, so he gave in and nodded.

Dr. Harvey was pleased, his patient could get treatment, he had consent, "Good. Move him to pre-op and prep him, Dr. Park is waiting."

"Okay," Marcia said before handing a clipboard to Clint. "I need you to sign the consent."

Clint didn't care anymore; he was truly spent. Taking the pen, he scrawled his name along the dotted line before falling back to the bed.

"I'm going to the waiting room, we'll be here when you wake up," May put a motherly hand on Clint's arm and looked him in the eye.

Phil and Natasha hung back a moment, taking in the whole situation.

"I'm fine," Clint ground out, the truth was glaringly obvious.

He's terrified

"We'll see you after surgery, don't choke anyone," Natasha warned smile twisting her lips

"Try not to," Clint sent back at his partner.

Phil looked down at him before leaving and placed a hand on his shoulder, "You'll be fine Barton. Just relax."

"I need to take him to pre-op now," Marcia interrupted.

That was their cue, they had to go now, had to do the painful waiting game once again. Natasha watched as Clint's bed was wheeled to the elevator, the last image before the door closed was of his pale, drawn face. It had been shocking, an unwelcome surprise. He had been getting better, was awake and even joking then this. Once again that fear Natasha had finally managed was rising to the surface, bubbling like a cauldron ready to explode. Taking a deep breath, she had to say it for more than Coulson's reassurance.

"He'll be okay Coulson," he had to be.

Coulson didn't answer, just remained staring down the empty hall before finding his voice.

"I'll call Laura."

---

Laura had been in a perpetual state of anxiety for two days since receiving the news Clint was shot. Every ring of her phone brought heart stopping terror, every new update a glimmer of hope. She yearned to be by his side, to be allowed to hold his hand to take away his pain. It wasn't an option, Fury and Coulson had insisted that safety was priority and anonymity was to be upheld at all costs. The last phone had been Natasha, her voice small and meek as Laura listened to the recent progress. She was encouraged, Clint was off the ventilator and breathing on his own. Had been awake and passed very neuro exam, alert and oriented, and had yet to be the ornery patient she knew him to be. It warmed Laura's heart to know that while she was not by her husbands' side he was never alone. An unexpected phone call had woken her at midnight from a restless sleep when she answered it was to Nick's voice followed by a snapped picture of three agents asleep in Clint's room. Her husband would be okay, he would come home soon. Then she could give him a piece of her mind for getting shot.

Now she had to stay occupied, and the only way Laura knew how was to clean. It had been a long habit, one Clint always pointed out in times of stress. The kitchen had been cleaned twice, the smell of bleach sharp on the nose. Dishes were washed and rearranged and now Laura busied herself with vacuuming the family room. Her son sat on the couch, nervously rocking as he played his game. While he was occasionally disconnected from the world around him, he was perceptive. It had been a morning of meltdowns and screaming as the young boy demanded his father. He had calmed after holding him close to her chest, the tears she had tried to resist soaking her son's shirt. That had been an hour ago, before her marathon of cleaning. Laura flipped off the vacuum cleaner and walked to the kitchen to grab the rest Cooper's breakfast, his Pediasure already sat half empty on the table. She was opening the cabinet when the shrill ring pierced her ears.

Laura stopped abruptly and turned to the table where her cellphone sat. Centering herself with a deep, cleansing breath she answered on the second ring after reading the caller ID, "Phil?"

Laura, there's been a change in his condition, Phil sounded utterly exhausted.

In that moment Laura's heart stopped, her vision tunneled, and her world went gray. The words that came from her mouth were choked, "Is he-?" dead?

No, God no sorry! They have to take him back to surgery, there were some complications, Laura was going to hit Phil the next time she hit him. He couldn't have led with that? Damn you Phil!

"Just like Clint to make things difficult," Laura said under her breath.

Laura? Phil urged.

"Sorry, what complications?" she was a nurse, she had to be a nurse, it was the only way she continued standing.

He woke up in severe pain, Doc said he perforated his bowel, that there was another fragment, was Phil's voice shaking?

"Perforated his bowel? Is he septic?" a million scenarios ran through her mind, her old textbook of critical care nursing a photographic memory in her brain.

"Doc said he's showing early sepsis and peritonitis, they took him to the OR pretty quick. He looked bad Laura, like really bad, Laura was trying to figure out if Phil was reassuring her or himself.

"He'll be okay, always is. Sounds like they caught it early. Gunshot wounds are tricky, especially to the abdomen. Things can get missed if the patient is unstable," Laura's voice was methodical, more of a medical professional than a wife.

We'll get him through this, I promise. He'll be okay. He's a stubborn son of a bitch, Phil echoed.

"That he is," Laura smiled bitterly.

I have to go, May and Natasha are waiting. I'll update you when he comes out, Phil said.

"Thanks Phil, tell them I say hello. Please call me when he's out," Laura was on the verge of tears.

I promise, Phil hung up.

Promise me you will bring him home

Laura sat down heavily on the dining room chair and stared blankly at the wall. She broke in that moment; whatever walls had been holding up her fragile mask were shattered. Breath hitching, she sobbed into her hands, tears staining the wood of the table. She hardly noticed when Cooper leaned against her leg, hand tangled in her pants.

"Mommy?"

---

Pre-op was not all that different than the recovery room or so it would seem to Clint. When he was moved, he had no option than to comply, give into what he least wanted. He had no say in the matter, his failing body was in control. He would give anything to be removed this world of agony. The fever that had been prickling up his skin had only worsened, his body chilled and his skin fiery hot. Clint knew he was critical; this went beyond a simple operation but the fear of the unknown was overwhelming. A nurse, surgical he assumed, had approached his bed, and begun her assessments. His blood pressure was worrisome, he could tell by the dizziness in his brain. His heartbeat furiously in his chest and his breathing shallow from the pain. He couldn't move, couldn't exist in the condition his body was in. She must have said something to him he missed because her hand was shaking his shoulder.

"Agent Barton! Stay with me Agent Barton!" he started, when had he blacked out?

When his eyes snapped open it was to someone new. Asian, Korean American maybe. The surgeon he supposed was standing over him. He shuddered when the sheets were pulled down.

"Agent Barton, I'm Dr. Park. We're going to take you into surgery now," Dr. Park's voice was fading in and out.

Yeah, whatever, there's even a zipper down the middle for you

Clint jolted when hands were on his abdomen, pushing and feeling the fragile mess inside.

For the love of all that's holy, fucking stop doing that!

"Sorry, I needed to do the exam," Clint cocked his head, he hadn't meant to say that out loud.

The nurse was talking again, her voice stern, "BP 90/50 after a liter, sinus tachycardia 130. Temps up to 101.8."

"We need to open him up now, piggyback a gram of Zosyn, increase his fluids. Call the blood bank and have two units standing by," Dr. Park was issuing rapid-fire orders.

When Clint looked up the surgeon was gone, the nurse remained as she completed his pre-op. His attentive eyes followed every move as she hung the medication. watched as she changed the rate on his IV pump. 'This Agent Barton' he heard from afar, the anesthesiologist, he recognized him. Eddie Zhang, his name is Eddie, and Clint had been acquainted with him when the doctor sedated him to put his shoulder back into socket. Clint relaxed, he had no other choice as his vision was fading in and out. Eddie screwed a syringe onto the free port of his central line, in mere minutes Clint was falling faster. Sedative, Ativan, he'd had it before, knew very well how it felt when the effects hit. The dizzying array of lights swirled above him, humans' fuzzy shapes now in his vision. Damn that hit hard, Clint was no longer in control of his body, his muscles were pliant and manipulatable. Lightweight, Nat would say. There were fingers poking at his ears, he flinched, my ears don't hurt. Wait, hearing aids, he knew more than enough that the devices were less than sterile. They had to come out. He looked up at the nurse who had both aids in her hands and read her lips, 'I'm giving these to your friends, we'll put them in after'. Two senses down, two more to go, were his fingers numb? His bed jostled when the break released and then he was moving, closing his eyes tightly against a wave of vertigo.

"We got you Barton, taking you to OR now," Eddie was saying, Clint caught every other word. At least the anesthesiologist knew enough to talk louder than the rest.

The temperature change between rooms was acutely noticeable, Clint shivered in the artic air of the OR. The warm blankets the staff kept insisting he have were removed, then his gown came along with it. He was naked, bare of any protection. The only cover he had were the wires and tubes that led off and out of his skin. He tried to lift his head to get a good view, but everything was so heavy. There were hands under his shoulders and knees before a wave of sheer agony struck like lightening when he was moved to the surgical table. His arms had been moved apart, spread eagle on the platforms they rested on. Full exposure, he was on display, like some parody of crucifixion without a cross. One wrist was secured in the Velcro restraint when fight or flight took over. Clint's senses flared, what little strength he had left was fueled by a surge of adrenaline overwriting any sedative in his system. He had to get out, had to escape. This was the prelude to torture, an interrogation that would lead to the death of friends and family. His free hand reached over and ignoring the barriers of pain and sedation Clint managed to undo the strap before strong hands held him down.

Get the fuck off me!

He must have shouted because Eddie was in his face, his shoulders tacked down by sure hands.

"Settle down Agent Barton! Relax!" a nurse was attempting to console him. It didn't work.

"Barton stop moving and look at me!" Eddie was commanding in his ear. When Clint turned his head away from him, he tried again.

"Look at me!", Clint's head snapped back, eyes locking with the doctor.

"We have you Barton, you're safe. You're okay. Now let us take care of you," Eddie's words were soothing, the calm he needed in this endless hurricane.

The adrenaline left him; Clint let the sedative take hold. He dropped his arm and relaxed tense muscles back to the table.

Safe. Secure.

Clint closed his eyes breathing as deeply as he dared, meditating on his existence. The fear still gripped like an iron fist, but the hold was loosening. With a nod he allowed the staff to continue with their work. His arms were once again spanned open, wrists held in loose Velcro straps. He could feel Eddie at his head, gloved hand holding his shoulder. Eddie looked him square in the eye as he lowered the mask onto Clint's face. He could taste the air, recognize the faint smell of anesthesia. 'Count backwards' he imagined Eddie would say and in his mind he did. Clint never made it passed eight before his world was fading away. Another syringe was attached to his central line, a white liquid streaming into his veins. Clint fought to keep his eyes open, with every blink an image of his friends and family on his eyelids. There was warmth flooding his body, a feeling of falling without a net. He was tumbling into the abyss, black taking over, body growing limp. Ten seconds later Clint's whole being drifted away.

---

"He's out," Eddie sighed when Clint's lolled on the bed and his body went suddenly limp. He'd been at SHIELD a long time, been an anesthesiologist for longer, he knew the drastic effects drugs could do to a person. Even more so to a man living on the edge with every mission he took. He'd cared for Clint before, minor injury resulting in a need for sedation. He had been loopy, almost giddy, a complete opposite to now. Eddie looked down at his patient as he set up, Clint looked like hell. His vitals on the monitor were shit and the signs of impending sepsis were clear to see. Textbook, down to the sudden agitation. He had to put personal matters aside, Barton needed to be opened up yesterday. Lowering the mask from Clint's face Eddie set about intubating him. Scope in, tube down the cords, stylet out it was as smooth as they came. He attached the ventilator and set up the continual anesthetic gas, regulating the knobs before sitting back in his chair. The alarm on the monitor blared behind him, the anesthesia had done well to put Clint out but caused his blood pressure to nosedive. Opening the clamp on the saline he pushed more fluids into Clint's ailing body and set up the transfusion after the nurse handed him a cooler of blood. As he started infusing the first unit of blood the circulating nurse had pulled up the drape obscuring Eddie's view below the patient's neck.

"We ready?" Dr. Park asked as he entered the room, wiping the excess water from his hands with a sterile towel.

"Just put him under, he's intubated and ready to go," Eddie finished locking the tubing into the pump and started the infusion.

Dr. Park didn't reply, just lowered his hands into the sterile gloves held out to him and stepped up to the bed. The nurse had already removed the staples from Barton's previous incision, the cut partially open without closure. It made his job easier but did little favor for the man on the table. Park knew this was going to be a long recovery for Barton, benched for months perhaps a year. His first surgery was extensive as it was there was no telling what this one would bring. Taking the scalpel Park cut down the line of stitches holding the underlying tissue together before exposing the abdominal muscles. Down the previous incision he cut the sutures holding the muscular layer in the middle of Barton's abdominal muscles he fit the retractor in and pulled exposing the abdominal lining. Even with a mask he could smell the infection, definitely perforated. Park cut down the peritoneum and exposed the abdominal cavity. It was a mess; puss had collected between loops of bowel. A pocket of blood was seen near the site of the probable perforation. He could practically taste dead tissue on his tongue beneath the mask.

Long recover indeed

The circulating nurse assisting winced, "It's a mess in there."

"Sure is. He's perforated, looks like an intra-abdominal abscess. I'm glad we took him back when we did. Irrigation please, I need to find that fragment," Park instructed.

The saline that filled the cavity cleared his operative field but did little to settle his mind. Barton's abdomen was a mess of patchwork stitches and infection. He ran the previous injuries first ensuring that the holds were solid. His remaining half of liver was pristine, no evidence of leak around the sutures, Patel performed good work. The splenic injury and arterial graphs were also clean, the blood had to be coming from the intestine. Pushing his hand further into the abdominal cavity, moving bowel away as he did, Park's hand stopped when his finger hit a sharp metallic object. Bingo! He couldn't fault Patel, according to the notes this man was close to death when he arrived in her care. Not to mention the ammunition he was shot with it was almost as if these mini bullets (Park laughed internally) burrowed through Barton's organs. Accepting a pair of forceps, he carefully extracted the fragment and dropped it into the waiting basin, satisfied with the stereotypical clink that followed. The fragment had been adjacent to an unhealthy-looking loop of small bowel, there's my perforation. Uncoiling and running his fingers down the length of the small intestine he got a good look at the damage, it was bad. The segment was edematous, grossly discolored a ruddy red and had tell-tale signs of ischemia from lack of blood flow, something must have impaired the vasculature. Measuring almost thirty-eight inches in length it had to come out.

Up to 6 feet now, shit this man is a mess.

"What's he up to, total length? Six feet?" the nurse voiced his thoughts.

"Just about, hopefully he can undergo adaptation over time. Just hope he doesn't lose anymore," Barton could adapt in time but the effects on his recovery were going to be staggering.

How much more are we going to have to take out of this man

Silence descended again as Park finished up resecting the bowel and connecting the two remaining ends. Now came the hard part of cleaning out the sludge left over in Barton's abdominal cavity. Sepsis was a real threat; he was already showing signs. The next two days would tell if he was truly out of the woods, so Park was thorough. Three pitchers of sterile saline he poured into the abdominal cavity for irrigation before closing. When he was certain the abscess was cleared, he felt better about stapling the man's abdomen closed. Only time would tell if the infection was completely controlled and caught on time. Park was assured the antibiotics were helping though, Barton's temperature had started to lower during surgery, not by much but it was a start. Once any systemic abdominal infection cleared Park was certain Barton would make a full recovery, albeit a long one.

He finished stapling the skin close and used a towel to wipe away any blood before stepping back and tearing off his gown, "Take him to PACU and watch his vitals, once he's more awake and stable you can move back to ICU. I want every 2-hour observations with temperature check. Continue intermittent suction on the NG and keep NPO until further notice. Standing order for 650mg rectal Tylenol for temp above 100.8 and continue the antibiotics. Bolus a liter of NS if his pressure drops. If the bolus doesn't work, start dopamine at 5mcg/kg/min and titrate up to a MAP above 65. Keep an eye on his urinary output."

"I'll get him extubated before we move him, I think he'll do better off the vent," Eddie suggested.

"You're call," Park quirked an eyebrow his direction.

"Respiratory wise he's stable, started bucking the vent as I lowered the anesthesia. If he worsens, we can always re-intubate, initiate a coma. But I think it's in his best interest," Eddie urged.

"I agree, he'll be closely monitored either way. I'm going to talk to his team," Dr. Park annotating one last note on the chart before stepping out the door, lowering his mask as he went.

---

The waiting room was hard on a good day, chairs not meant for human use and a chill in the air no jacket could remedy. The SHIELD medical facilities waiting room were no different, in fact worse with the prying agent's always on guard. When Phil had finished his call to Laura, he had trudged back to the waiting area to find Natasha and May had a war of wills with the wall they were perpetually staring at. From what he could see Melinda was on her third cup of tea and he couldn't be too sure that whatever Natasha was sipping from the travel mug was not stronger than black coffee. If it was what he thought Phil would gladly accept any offer to share. Long day Phil, it was a long day indeed and was only one in the afternoon.

Clint had been in the operating room for an hour and a half, the identical time as his previous emergency surgery, and there was no sign of the surgeon. With every passing minute Phil's anxiety was rocketing to a level that was soon becoming a panic attack. May had asked the receptionist and was met with the usual line of 'nothing yet, we will let you know when there is something', Melinda was not appeased. He watched as she had removed her eyes from the wall and went back to her book. Sun Tzu, really May, The Art of War. Phil didn't know why he expected anything less. As he walked over to an empty chair his phone vibrated in his pocket. He had no new information to give her, he couldn't lie. When he pulled it out and looked at the screen Phil sighed.

What's going on?- Hill

He typed a response quickly, punctuation be damned.

Barton went back into surgery, complications. It's bad.

The message was received and answered within a minute.

I'll let Fury know, update when you have more news-Hill

And apparently news travelled fast because ten minutes later his phone vibrated again.

How's Barton? Just heard- Jasper

Phil didn't know what to say, he didn't know himself.

Don't know

Pushing his phone back into his pocket Phil took a seat wearily. God, he was exhausted, every fiber of his being demanding sleep he knew would be a luxury. He looked over at Romanoff satisfied the assassin's eyes had drifted from the wall, though less satisfied she was now tossing one of the many knives she held on her person back and forth in her hands. If it kept her calm and composed Phil couldn't deny her the distraction if only he had his own he'd be able to relax. Reaching over to the table in the center of the chairs Phil grabbed the first magazine on the pile, Car and Driver, and flipped mindlessly through the pages. He thought about Clint, about all those times he had insisted he knew his way around engines good enough to get a peek under Lola's hood. Phil never believed him, Lola was far superior to the tractors Clint managed to repair. Maybe one day he would allow Clint his fantasy, his asset had always been good with mechanical engineering, had a talent for numbers and physics. Lacking proper schooling and obtaining his GED before running off to the army Clint was in no way stupid. He had excelled at the academy after being brought in, had a knack for mathematics that still left Phil scratching his head, and was one of the best tacticians SHIELD had ever seen. If only his self-preservation skills matched his attention to detail Phil could sleep better.

Natasha was tired, emotionally wrought and she blamed it all on Clint. When this was all said and done she promised to take him to the mat, make his life miserable in any way she could. She hated him, despised that he had to put her through this. While outwardly some would disagree Natasha Romanoff wasn't a living statue without feeling. She suffered the same emotions as her partner, craved love and attention. Her robotic nature at times hid her underlying fragile soul. Since being brought in Natasha had struggled to let go of the memories that haunted every dark corner of her mind. She bore as many scars as Clint on her body, from missions past and wretched practices. Faintly she thought about the cut down her lower abdomen, the scar tissue underneath, the missing parts that made her a women. Look Clint, we match now. Only her partner knew the true pain they brought, the crushing agony that had her in the fetal position every month. The Red Room was thorough, but the job was incomplete. She had functioned normally, sterile from ligation and cutting but the bands of hardened tissue had filled her uterus and coiled like a snake around the precious unused organ. Her hand strayed from the knife, pausing for a moment before rubbing the scar that ran from her bellybutton to her above her pubis. It was a reminder, a stark memory that she was broken. Fear, that word again, the scar brought fear. Fear that she was less than a woman, shattered without repair. Fear that it could happen again. Fear that Clint would suffer the same pain.

The book dulled the anxiety in her heart, distracted from the obvious tension in the room. Melinda wasn't digesting the words merely scanning as she read. Sarajevo was on her mind, at how close she had come. She had been discharged in four days, spent a month recovering before getting back into the field. Seeing Clint admit to the pain he was in came as a shock. Only once had she seen him so willing show weakness as he had in that room. Only once had she seen him cave so willingly. He had thrown out his shoulder after an untimed jump, arm in agony he was more than willing to take the drugs the doctor offered. May had been as surprised as now, even laughed afterword reminding him of his loose lips on sedatives. Other injuries he had shaken off. Concussion, back in three days. Broken ribs, back on the range in a week. Stabbed or shot, back in the field in less than a month. She had never seen him taken down as quickly as he had by this bullet. It served as a warning to them all, the same words she said to Natasha: nobody was invincible. Sitting in the chair now Melinda tried to use her fear and uncertainty to fuel that passion inside her. That strength would be necessary to carry the weight if need be. Looking over at Natasha and Phil she couldn't help but notice she had to be their rock.

They were rocked from their thoughts when footsteps echoed through the hall, the sure steps of the doctor as he walked towards the group.

Please be okay, Natasha pleaded to whatever deity that would listen. Closer examination of the surgeon's face brought a welcome relief, it was not the look of grief and death.

Phil was the first to stand, tossing the magazine on the table as he got to his feet. He took a long look at the doctor, exhaustion from a prolonged surgery. Glancing down at his watch Phil quietly calculated the time, Barton had been in surgery for a little over two hours. Two long hours of painfully waiting for news. May was instantly at his side, her presence easily grounded him, it always had. Her book was forgotten in one hand, her other hand displayed a nervous tick, hand squeezing into an unconscious fist. Natasha was slower this time, hesitant as she gained her feet with her knife in one hand. They were already looking very much as if they were ready for an op. Prepared for any news praying for good but accepting the bad. The doctor drew closer and all three tensed.

"Family of Clint Barton," Dr. Park called out into the waiting room.

Phil swallowed before speaking, "How is he?"

"We just took him to PACU, the surgery went well. My suspicions were correct he had perforated his small intestine. The fragment that we had seen on x-ray must have shifted at some point and nicked the bowel. It was left behind in the initial exploratory laparotomy which can happen in such a traumatic injury. The concern now is the infection, with the abscess in his abdominal cavity and the extent of the perforation he has developed sepsis. I also had to remove more of his intestine, unfortunately it was a significant resection, almost 38 inches. With extensive treatment he should recover," Dr. Park droned.

"Should?" May countered bitingly.

Dr. Park took a breath before answering, "The next 24-72 hours are critical. He's not out of the woods yet. He will remain in ICU until we can be certain the sepsis has resolved. During surgery his vital signs deteriorated, and he began to show clinical signs of septic shock, we have him on a dopamine drip to maintain his blood pressure and I have given him broad-spectrum antibiotics for the intra-abdominal infection. Hopefully with the current treatment the shock will not progress, but I have to warn you it is touch and go at this point. I also must stress this will be a long recovery, he has a way to go. Currently there's no telling how or when his intestinal tract will adapt to the resection he's undergone."

"Good to know, can I see him so I can kill him," Natasha snapped ignoring May's pointed eyeroll.

Dr. Park's eyes widened, eying the knife in Natasha's hand before May sighed.

"She's concerned," the agent shrugged.

"We will be moving him back to the intensive care soon, you can see him then," Dr. Park nodded eye on the knife the entire time.

Phil breathed out, shoulders sagging with relief. Barton was alive, he was in recovery and while the next two days were critical, he had a fighting chance. Now he had to tell Laura, but the news still weighed heavily on his mind. How the hell was a metal fragment, equivalent to a miniature bullet, left behind and missed in Barton's abdomen. He respected Dr. Patel, very much in fact, but could not overlook the glaring mistake. She was too good at her job to miss something so critical. Or perhaps she hadn't, burrowing bullet? Yeah, that sounded worse and farfetched. He must be tired, it was a fantasy dream, a made-up weapon designed in the far reaches of his addled mind. Either way Barton was on the first steps to recover, finally. As he looked over to his companions he could sense their relief, it was thick in the room. May had stepped back to the chair and taken a seat, head in her hands as she appeared to be meditating. Natasha continued to pace, knife dancing in her hand with every step. Phil only continued standing, staring down the hall the doctor just walked down, there was a lot on his mind. He had to see that bullet, something about the entire contraption did not sit well in his gut.

---

Krisha sat in her office on the aircraft carrier pouring over old charts. She was relieved when she had received word that Barton was stable, taken off the vent and recovering. A lot was to be said about trauma surgery, many instances ended well as with Barton. Others ended in misery leaving her the only option, giving the worse news of a person's life. She had dealt with both here at SHIELD, had several agents on her table. Most cases left her mind quickly, she dwelled on her performance, tracked the progress but they left her mind with a short amount of time. Only a few cases had stuck with her in her five years with SHIELD. Agents injured in the field, brought back in a sea of blood and pain. Those were the ones that kept her up at night, had her doubting choices made in life. Barton was one of the ones that had stuck, painfully so, remembering his face on that table. No matter what angle she saw the case from Krisha still couldn't tell why his injury in particular remained burned in her memory.

Dr. Patel pickup on line 2!

The voice on the intercom surprised her from the inner musings she had been trapped in.

"Dr. Patel," she answered the phone on her desk, satellite call, long-distance.

Krisha, hey, it's Dr. Park in Washington, the man greeted.

"How is DC Steve?" Krisha smiled, a fellow colleague she had not spoken to in sometime Steve Park shared a common surgical profession.

I thought you would like an update on Clint Barton's condition, there were some complications, Krisha's heart dropped, karma, it was a gut feeling she had yet to shake.

"What did I miss?" Krisha's voice shook no matter how hard she tried.

There was a tenth fragment, must have shifted at some point and perforated the bowel. Lots of puss and intestinal contents, he had abscess formation. I had to remove almost 38 inches, he's had a massive resection if you count the first, Steve rattled off his surgical report.

"Is he stable? What about sepsis?" Krisha was already routing through her cabinet desperate to find the film she searched for.

He's showing signs of septic shock, fever's been high and white count is through the roof. Blood pressure has stabilized with dopamine. Anesthesia was able to extubate post-op, Eddie was determined. I put him on broad-spectrum antibiotics and sent him to ICU. Hopefully the next 24-72 hours brings some good news. Honestly, what I'm most concerned of is short bowel, Steve at least sounded hopeful.

Finding what she was looking for Krisha slapped the x-ray up on the on the board and turned on the light, "I don't understand, I thoroughly searched his abdominal cavity. I found only nine fragments, there was no more. The post-operative x-ray was negative, there was nothing seen."

You may have just overlooked it, Krisha, it can happen. We're all human. It could have also been flush with the spine, hidden, Steve's voice did little to calm her jangled nerves.

"You don't understand Steve, I'm looking at the film now. There is absolutely nothing, I have looked over it with a fine-toothed comb, a magnify glass even there is nothing. I also explored the area you speak, had it been there it would have hit his spine. i saw nothing!" Krisha's anger got the better of her.

That's strange, I'm looking at the film now. It was sent digitally with his records. How can that be, you're right if it was there, it would be easy to spot on an x-ray no matter where it was. If it had tunneled, it would explain why you couldn't feel it. I'm now more thankful it didn't hit the artery and embolize to the lungs or heart, Steve's voice dropped as she heard a rustling of papers.

"We need to investigate further, this type of ammunition is terrifying. If there is in fact something that cannot show on x-ray on initial exam there could be complications that lead to death without treatment. This is serious Steven. We must give a report to the research team," Krisha was shaking, this was a whole new field for her.

I agree, I'll update forensics and pathology. They're also gathering a pathology report on the specimens I took out during surgery. I'll call you if I know more, with that Steve hung up.

Krisha sat back at her desk and continued to look at the x-ray on the lightboard. The only thing she could think of would be some kind of coating but how? After a breath she grabbed a notebook and started writing down theories.

---

Since the two-hour long surgery Clint woke a total of three times that day, at least coherently. The first had been in PACU, dazed and confused from anesthesia and disoriented from fever. His eyes fluttered open to bright lights and muted sounds. His first sense, or lack thereof, his hearing came into stark contrast to his sight. Hearing aids…..deaf, his mind fired on multiple cylinders, none of them correctly aligned. He became aware of dulled pain, abdomen stiff and tender but nothing like before. The mask on his face blew oxygen into his partially open mouth, he made no attempt at removing it. He was too confused to read lips, his vision blurred so he took to following the command of guiding hands. A hand shook his shoulder gently, another adjusted his body. He was moved onto a softer surface, body molding into the comfortable nooks and crannies of a bed. That was the last thing he remembered from his first coherent consciousness.

It wasn't long when he awoke a second time, the room familiar, a face clear in his vision. His hearing was sharp, the feel of plastic in his ear canals. Finally, he reached up clumsily to adjust one that had slipped off the back of his ear, the whine of interference catching him off guard. That hand moved to the right, to the prongs in his nose competing with the NG tube. His nose was dry, itchy, the mucus membranes burned with the constant assault. A hand grabbed his, strong and unwavering, pulling his away from his face. A face came into view, so very familiar and safe.

"Nat…," he groaned.

Worried eyes and a scowl on her face she leaned over and whispered in Russian, sleep.

The third and final time of the day was wrought with pain. He'd jolted awake suddenly, memories dark in his mind when discomfort stabbed at his abdomen. He stifled a moan, trying to curl up around his core. It was muted from before but no less painful. The hands were back, delicate despite years of touching firearms. Soft fingers rubbing his arm as he writhed in the bed. His skin was dry, mouth the Sahara Desert yet the room was Siberia. He shivered, reaching for the thin sheet that covered his naked body.

"Thirsty….," he whispered, his voice so frail in his deaf ears.

"I'm sorry Clint," Nat intoned.

"Water," he tried again his throat aching from dehydration.

"I can't, you can't have anything by mouth," Natasha was standing stepping over to the door. Her absence sent a chill through his soul.

Come back

He's thirsty, he needs something to wet his lips, he heard her say to someone in the hall.

There was a moment of pause before something blessedly wet was rubbed onto his parched lips. He sucked it in, savored every drop before it was taken away.

"Mouth swab, it's all you can have," Nat continued her ministrations, continued to dab his chapped lips.

The swab was taken away, he heard it placed in a cup at his bedside. What water had dripped down his throat was easily suctioned by the NG as it trickled into his empty stomach. His head throbbed from the anesthesia; throat burned from the ET tube. Nat's hand had returned this time on his cheek, thumb rubbing softly on his heated skin. It was an intimate gesture, unfamiliar to them both. Nothing near sexual in nature it was a practice between to close friends, a brother and sister almost. He forced his eyes to open squinting against the light and focused on her face.

"Hey there," she said softly.

"Tasha," his voice was soft and breathy.

He shifted in the bed and cried, abdominal muscles tensing uncontrollably. He tried to gather his wits, his self-control, but all was lost in the haze of pain.

"Here, take a dose," hard plastic was placed in his hand, his thumb slid up the device before depressing the button.

Beep, he felt the warm rush of narcotic travel up his veins, flushing his face and body.

There was a pause before Natasha spoke again, "You're not allowed to do that."

"Do….what?" he was confused, trying to formulate a reason for her sudden demand.

"Worry me," her admission was abrupt, surprising to say the least.

"Sorry?" he raised an eyebrow as much as he could, eyelids resisting as they threatened to close.

"By the way here's another one to add to your growing collection," something was rattled in his face, his ears caught the sound of metal on plastic.

He looked carefully at the object, such a small piece to do so much damage.

"How did I-," get shot in a hospital was left unsaid.

Then he remembered, left behind, the fragment was left behind.

Oh

"Oh, and you officially are down 6 feet of small intestine," she added her words bitter.

Well, shit

"Phil….May?" his speech was growing more slurred as the narcotics rushed his system.

"Triskelion," was her blunt answer.

She went quiet after that, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. The dip in the mattress and her close presence helped him relax. She held his hand gripping tight as much for her comfort than his. He could feel the tremble in her arm, the poorly concealed fear she hid behind her mask. Closing his eyes Clint relaxed back a fitful sleep. The fever that wracked his body brought nightmares old and new before his eyes. This was just the start, there was a long road ahead one he feared he would travel. Letting Morpheus take him away Clint wandered off into the thick darkness of sleep.

---

The Triskelion was bustling when they arrived, an influx of new agents fresh from the recent class of the academy had seen to that. Phil Coulson and Melinda May had received more than a few side glances at their arrival and subsequent walk down the hall. For those just now exiting the academy for active duty both were legends. To all others Coulson and May were merely on another mission, one that hit closer to home than all the rest.

Neither agent spoke as they walked briskly down the familiar hall, nor did they wish to converse with those around them. Both had left the hospital when Clint was stable enough for them to do so leaving Natasha to watch over the injured agent. After a message from Hill brought new details on the investigation Phil was eager to talk to Fury, May was more than willing to accompany him. Any news they were willing to take right about now. Clint was expected to recover in time but the warning about the next two days was still appalling. Sepsis, potential for worsening shock, further complications it was all too much. Coming to the Triskelion was a welcome change of scenery.

"Heard there was a change with Barton, complications or something," John Garrett, long-time friend of Phil, stepped in line with him.

"Yeah John, there was. Got out of surgery for a second time a few hours ago," Phil kept walking, mission objective clear in his mind.

"I'm sorry Phil," Garrett slowed trying to get Phil's attention.

"Look John I wish we could talk more but there's something we really have to do," Phil sighed slowing to Garrett's pace.

"I understand, man goes down in the field you need to catch the son of a bitch," Garrett clapped him on the shoulder with a final smile walked back down the opposite hall.

Phil appreciated his friends concern but the image of Clint's writhing and wilting body in his mind had him on edge. There was something about all this that twisted his gut. From the actual weapon down to the recent discovery left behind by Dr. Patel. According to Hill both doctors who operated on Clint had handed over operative reports and pathology results gathered during the surgeries. And according to Hill's message new findings were seen that contradicted the theory that Dr. Patel just happened to 'miss' something in the initial surgery. He trusted the team of scientists and forensic experts that Fury had assigned to the investigation, he had to.

Stepping through automatic doors of one of the many labs Phil saw Hill waiting, "Coulson, May."

"You said there was a new report," May started.

"Interesting too, the nine fragments-," Hill started before being interrupted by Phil.

"Ten, ten fragments. They pulled another one out in the last surgery. So, ten, eleven if you count the actual bullet," Phil's answer was blunt.

Hill digested the information for a moment before holding up a hand, "So the nine fragments not counting the most recent tenth one that were pulled out initially appear to have some kind of coating. Forensics have tested it, appears to be some kind of proprietary polymeric coating."

"Polymer coated mini-bullets'?" Phil was skeptical.

"It gets even more interesting. According to recent images and reports we received from Dr. Patel any sign of a fragment would have been seen on x-ray. Dr. Patel stated that in the post-op film she obtained nothing was there and yet it magically appeared two days later, she seems to think that whatever this polymer was it degraded inside Barton," Hill continued.

"That is exactly what it did and would appear that decomposition led to further damage to the surrounding tissue," a new voice entered the room, Celia Glass PhD was a master at her craft of pathology and forensic biology.

"Decomposed?" May cocked her head.

"Yes, it's quite fascinating really, it would appear their formula needs a little work considering the molecular bonds appear to be acid-base sensitive," Celia went on earning herself three identical looks of confusion.

"I wouldn't label this as fascinating doctor, my agent is currently in the intensive care missing two feet of his small intestine," Phil admonished.

"Fascinating for the research field. You see the inside of the small intestine is relatively alkaline, or basic, so when the fragment perforated the lining, it would appear the polymer coating began a decomposition reaction inside the body, it would also explain the pathological findings we received from the tissue taken from Agent Barton during surgery and the acceleration of infection," Celia smiled despite herself, it was an astounding finding.

"Acceleration of infection? Are you saying that the coating literally dissolved in Barton making the infection caused by the injury that much worse?" May inquired.

"That's exactly what I'm saying, you see this Cluster Bullet was designed to prolong death and to keep anonymity. How it reacted it was as if it mimicked the surrounding tissue that it damaged, this coating was designed to allow the bullet to not be found, to allow for a delayed death. Being that this was a prototype the test was not so successful in that aspect," Celia pointed out.

"Test?" Hill asked eyebrows shooting to her forehead.

"Yes, test. Considering the technology used that's what it looks like," Celia nodded with an eyeroll.

"Are you saying Barton was a guinea pig?" Phil gasped.

"That's exactly what I'm saying. With this type of ammo, a shot to the chest would have been fatal so if it was a hit why didn't Scarlotti take it," Hill pondered out loud.

"But why Barton?" Phil shook his head.

"Easiest target. We were in the van and Romanoff was on the ground. Barton was on the roof and if they got mission details Scarlotti would have known where to find him easily," May described.

Phil took a moment to gather his wits, to take in everything he heard before taking a breath, "This was never a hit. We were being toyed with. This was research."

After Celia left Hill, May, and Coulson just stood quietly at the table. The reason was clear now the details and how must come to light. Digesting the new information all three knew they had to dig deeper.

---

Phil was beyond exhausted, the meeting in the lab did nothing but magnify that fact. What little sleep he had gotten the night before was restless at best. He felt as if he was one step away from withering away himself. He was currently walking back to the living quarters to grab a change of close when he stumbled. He placed a shaky hand on the wall, the hall spinning alarmingly in his vision. Sleep deprivation, he knew all the signs.

"Phil," he heard May's worried voice, her hand on his shoulder.

She looks how I feel

"I'm fine," he answered abruptly

"You're not, you need to get some sleep Phil," she wasn't wrong.

"May I'm fine," Phil brushed off.

"No, you need sleep. We both do," May urged.

"I'll grab a wink or two before going back," to the hospital he hesitated to say.

"No, both of us are staying here. In quarters, tonight. We need a full night's rest; besides we have a meeting with Fury tomorrow," May ordered.

"Romanoff?" Phil asked.

"She's staying with Barton; she's not leaving anytime soon. We're the agents in charge Phil," May reminded him and she was right, he had to concede to that fact.

"I'll call Romanoff tell her what we're doing," Phil kicked off the wall and began walking, his steps only slightly steadier than before.

May was certainly right, they were no good to Barton dead on their feet. Besides Barton would have Natasha, the young assassin was hard pressed to stay. Since her initiation to SHIELD she had formed a strong connection with Barton, a connection that soon evolved into a very close friendship. They had more in common than they even realized. Clint often joked that Natasha was his 'work wife', that he had almost a home away from home. The solidified bond between the two was something beyond anything Phil had seen. They had been through pain together, shared laughs, and could speak openly of their sins. Phil knew Natasha had shared information with Barton even he as their handler never knew. The same went for Clint, they just clicked from the moment he let down his guard and made a different choice. He trusts wholeheartedly that if anything were to change with Barton's condition Romanoff would call them. So, Phil made the logical choice offered and walked into the direction of his quarters, an exhausted May joining him.

---

Natasha sat in the chair beside Clint's bed in the intensive care watching him sleep. He'd woken three times during the day, more coherent each time but no less weak. The combined effects of the lingering anesthesia and narcotics along with the sepsis he was facing had Clint dead to the world around him. Occasionally she would lean forward, taking the mouth swab dipped in water and wet his lips. He would moan, sometimes suck on the swab before relaxing back into sleep. Sometimes he would wake, eyes opening before making the agonizing plea for water, hand straying to his abdomen in some innate reflex of pain.

For now, Clint was peaceful, appeared to not be in the same agony as before but looked closer to death than Natasha wanted to see. His skin had yet to regain any color and was hot with fever that burned bright in his blood. While his vitals had been wavering, the nurse had assured her that he was stable for now but only time would tell how his body would react. Natasha opted to stay beside him despite the odds, with that fear of letting him out of her sight she had yet to leave the room in the many hours she had been here. Looking up at the clock she read the time and contemplated, ten at night. Making her decision she pulled out her phone and began to type.

She received a response near immediately.

How is he? -Laura B.

Natasha looked up to the man on the bed and sighed.

Not good

Keep me informed please -Laura B.

She didn't reply to the final message Coulson had already spoken with her earlier in the day after the surgery. She didn't want to give Laura false hope. Instead, she sat where she had all day, eyes roaming over the medical implements that surrounded Clint. Her hand strayed to the scar on her belly remembering the care she received. It was nowhere near to this, she had vague memories of a clinic, of pain and blood, before waking up in the confines of the Red Room once again. Shaking off the memories Natasha willed herself to think of the present. She still had plans to dole her own punishment when Clint was ready. Still angry he made her face her fears.

As the hours ticked by exhaustion clawed at her eyes, lids heavy and refusing to remain open. A vibration from her phone broke her concentration, staying at Triskelion be back tomorrow, were the quick words from Coulson. Good, she wanted to be alone. Finding that sleep was pulling her under despite her fight against it Natasha lay her head on the free area of Clint's bed. Breathing deeply the medicine scent around him she surrendered to Morpheus pulling her under.

---

The next day brought worsening news of Clint's condition. Overnight his fever continued to rise and level off. His blood counts had little improvement and his vitals began to fall. Septic shock, that's what the doctor warned from the very beginning. Now Marcia was at his bedside waking Natasha in the process as she completed her observations. The arterial line in Clint's left wrist monitored his blood pressure on a frequent level, temperature checks were every 2 hours. Clint's greater demand for oxygen had the respiratory therapist change him to high flow delivering twice the amount he was receiving before. The humidifier that came with the new nasal cannula helped alleviate the dryness in his nasal passages. Pain management had to be carefully regulated with his cycling blood pressure.

Natasha had woken with a start as the bed shifted under her head. She sat up abruptly locking eyes with the nurse. She noticed that Clint was completely naked, without any protection with a gown or sheet. Tired eyes had opened to mere slits to look at her, Natasha could see pain in his gaze. She looked up at the IV tree and saw new drips flowing through his veins. Dopamine had been started during the night, a low dose to keep his blood pressure from falling any further. Antibiotics were at regular intervals and the PCA for pain was switched to IV push medication delivered from the nurse. There was another unit of blood as well, infusing steadily through Clint's central line.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," Marcia grimaced.

"It's fine," Natasha said bluntly.

Marcia continued with her work, checking monitor leads, and recording vitals. Natasha took stock at Clint's naked body. It wasn't the first time to see him naked, probably wouldn't be the last. Both had been acquainted well with each other's bodies. On a recent mission both had been stripped bare of their clothes after capture, had sat for a day in a cold, dank room with only the skin on their backs. She had memorized every scar on Clint's body, and he had remembered every divot on hers. Now was no different yet his body seemed small. Muscular arms were obscured with medical paraphernalia, modesty invaded with a catheter. Bruises were beginning to sprout from around the incision, the older marks from the mission on his face and neck now yellowing at the edges.

"Temps still high, 102.8," Marcia announced as she removed the thermometer probe from Clint's armpit.

Higher than it had been for the last day, he was only getting worse. Marcia finished with her assessment, adjusting the drips before she left. Natasha was left in her woes, trying to decide what to do. She had to go to the bathroom, needed some semblance of a meal, but was hesitant to leave. Afraid leaving meant letting go. Damn you Clint, she just wanted everything to be normal again, wanted all of this to fade away. Leaning forward Natasha grimaced, her bladder's presence was very known by now. I'll be back, she whispered in Russian before taking her leave to the lady's room.

---

Phil had to admit sleep felt good, it was a testament to his body's aching need for it. He had woken at the crack of dawn to zero messages on his phone and while he attributed it to good news he was still anxious to see how Barton was doing. As he made his way to the cafeteria May had joined him in the hall. She too looked rested, no longer did she hold the black rings beneath her eyes. Sleep when I'm dead, that had been his mantra the last three days but when he started to stagger Phil realized he was little use to anyone in his current condition. Sleep had not only rested his body but refreshed his mind, allowing himself to face the facts he had to digest yesterday.

"Sleep well?" May quirked an eyebrow.

"Like a baby," Phil smiled.

It was true, the moment his head hit the pillow Phil was in such a deep sleep nothing short of a nuclear explosion could wake him. Today he wished to use that energy from his long rest to catch up and put together details on the whole matter of Clint Barton. Fury had been waiting for them this morning for a detailed report. He knew the director subliminally wanted an update on Barton as well. A quick bite of food at a lone table then they were off to Fury's office. After Phil was eager to return to the hospital, make sure his agent was still fighting.

"Director," both May and Coulson greeted in unison.

"Take a seat," Fury instantly ushered them in and indicated towards the empty chairs.

The silence that followed was a pleasant relief. A report sat on Fury's desk, old school as Clint would say complete with the 'top secret' stamp on the manila folder. Beside lay the combined report of their team including Barton's statement of events. May glanced at Phil before her gaze turned on the director. Something was up, nothing good in her mind.

"Found a preliminary report, back ten years or so. The polymer coating was designed by Stark, his father in fact but never was put into use. Technically it's our design, made for SHIELD to be untraceable but taken out of R&D because the formula was fucked up. Never worked," Fury began.

"So, you're saying the bullet came from SHIELD?" May leaned forward in her chair.

"That's exactly what I'm saying. The prototype was most likely taken from a vault in the lab. High security, it would need a Level 6 or higher," Fury answered.

"There's a mole, we were sold out. But why Barton? Why our mission in particular?" Phil looked shaken.

"Don't know, maybe someone had a beef with Hawkeye, my theory is that he was wearing the next generation SHIELD body armor, top of the line, makes a good test to see if the prototype works," Fury shrugged as he spoke.

"So Scarlotti was just a tool, an assassin good enough to get the drop on Barton, nothing more. Now the next question is who sold us out?" Phil inquired.

"Still working on that, have no leads. I'm still trying to contact Stark Industries about the actual round that hit Barton. The polymer formula was still shit but the design was improved, including the cluster design," Fury opened the 'top secret' folder and turned it towards May and Coulson.

We have concluded that while the design specifications and theory have proven worthy the polymer's formula is not stable enough to execute a successful test. Failure has been linked to an innate sensitivity to acid-base changes in solution leading to catastrophic decomposition of molecular bonds. Conclusion-the zeta cluster ammunition has been deemed a failure and all further work has been suspended regarding its research and design -Howard Stark

Phil read through the report, carefully digesting the information that was provided. We did this, our design in the hands of a madman, it was alarming to think that someone in the agency had enough cruelty and hate to use such a device. He had been skeptical since the very start of the mission; something had been off from the moment they landed in Mexico City. He had to admit to himself that the plan set about by perpetrator worked, unassuming mission, easy target, Barton was front and center: an easy target. Now came the part they were all dreading, finding the plant who had given away classified mission details that put his team in the crosshairs of this supposed 'test'.

"So, what do we do now? Internal affairs? Flush them out?" May's rapid-fire questions had Fury handing over yet another report, scientific and newer than the first.

Adjustments have been made to previous experiments involving the zeta ammunition project conducted by Howard Stark. Adjustments include a redesign of the initial formula stabilizing the base monomers. After further reactions and complete polymerization, the final reaction product has shown positive results in tests. There are still slight abnormalities and concerns with stabilization as alkaline solution has proven to break chemical bonds and lead to decomposition of the formed polymer. I suggest further studies if allowed, the science team has agreed that the zeta project should be given further exploration. – Dr. Celia Glass to Alexander Pierce and Nick Fury (classified document)

Placing a hand to her mouth May was angry, "That explains how she knew so quickly the effects it had on Barton."

"I only received this today, I talked with Pierce, and he did agree that this project was sound but it had fallen into the wrong hands. We're still working out leads," Fury stated as he took back the report.

"So, Glass is innocent in all this? Are we sure she wasn't the leak?" Phil piped in.

"We're sure, she had no idea. She's arrogant, a little strange, but after speaking with her she has declared that this side project of hers was just that. Apparently, she wanted to see if she could do it after going through some failed projects from the past science teams. Besides whom sold you out was higher, the actual prototype was beyond Glass's capability to get," Fury clarified.

"So we officially have a leak at SHIELD, possible defector that has sold classified mission details. A prototype out in the open that could potentially end up in Fontaine's hands. That was their play, Fontaine, steer us away and one of the top weapons traffickers of Stark technology is still on the board," May put all the pieces together.

"And they get their test and in my eyes it worked. Barton's still critical, they expect him to make it but the recovery is uncertain," Phil added.

"I'll get to the bottom of this Cheese, this agent whoever he is won't get away. I have eye's everywhere," Fury punctuated forcefully.

Sitting back in their chairs with a tired sigh Coulson and May just had to believe the director. This was out of their hands. They just had to be there for Barton now, that was their sole job.

---

Marcia had reentered Barton's room after finishing up charting on her additional patient. The man had been sleeping for most of the morning, slight agitation as he writhed in the bed. Fever, she thought. After a dose of Toradol earlier there was little change in his temperature. She had enough sepsis patients in the past to know the disease process was unpredictable. Considering the amount of infection that was pulled from Barton's abdomen with his additional injuries his condition was fragile.

"Hello Agent Barton, I'm just going to give you some medicine," she greeted despite her patient being for the most part unconscious.

With the help of a male aid, she was able to roll Barton to his side gently. She was quick with her insertion of the suppository wincing when he flinched against her hand. Rolling him back over to his back he moaned in pain. How much more could this man endure? She questioned that every time she entered his room. Now she had to wait for Dr. Harvey while the physician was completing his daily rounds. There had been little change in Barton's condition and while that could be said to be a good indication he had not worsened Marcia was still grieved to see that no progress had been made.

"Good morning Marcia, how is Agent Barton doing today?" Dr. Harvey stepped into the room followed by a fellow colleague she recognized to be new at SHIELD.

"Good considering. Just administered 650mg rectal acetaminophen for fever. Gave ketorolac about an hour ago with no change," Marcia reported.

Stepping up to the bed Harvey began his exam while prying, "How's his mental status?"

"In and out, when he's awake he's groggy but oriented. Had some agitation last night from the fever I think. He's calmer with his friends around," Marcia admitted.

"Where are they by the way?" Harvey glanced around the room noting the absence of the three that had been an unmovable obstacle for the medical team these last few days.

"Agent Romanoff stepped out to the bathroom, I told her to get something to eat. Agent's Coulson and May are at the Triskelion," Marcia busied herself by monitoring Barton's IV.

Harvey had closed the gap between the bed and began listening to Barton's chest and abdomen, she noticed her patient squirm as she put a hand on his shoulder to calm the man, "Blood pressure? How has it been holding?"

"Pretty good, been stable on 10mcg of dopamine. I haven't had to titrate recently. I've been giving 1mg Dilaudid every 2-4 hours for pain. His vitals have been relatively stable, I did notice some crackles at the base of his lungs bilaterally, but his oxygen level is stable on the 8 liter's high-flow," Marcia had discovered the new finding this morning, just another ailment to add to the list.

"Yeah, I hear it too, probably atelectasis from the surgery. Keep monitoring it and have respiratory set up treatments every 4 hours, albuterol should help open him up a little. Try to see if you can get him to use the spirometer when he's awake, get him to cough. What about foley output?" Harvey finished up with Barton's abdomen, listening in all four quadrants before palpating lightly.

Marcia tried not to wince when Barton moaned and tensed with pain. Harvey was a great doctor but bedside manner was never his strong suit, "Pretty good considering, about 900cc."

"Good kidneys' are working at peak, now if we can get the rest of his innards working that'd be great. Bowel sounds are still absent, probably post-op ileus but we have to monitor for obstruction. Keep an eye on the NG output and let me know if anything changes," Harvey finished up and alcohol sanitized his hands before offering encouraging words to Barton. "Keep it up Barton, we'll have you out in no time."

Marcia was encouraged when Barton's shaky hand had maneuvered into a thumbs-up before falling back down to the bed. Good, she thought to herself, he's fighting despite the pain he must be feeling. Looking at the clock she decided it was time for his next dose. Pulling the vial from her pocket she drew up the Dilaudid and slowly pushed it through the open lumen in his central line. He shuddered for a moment, the warmth of narcotic washing over him Marcia presumed before growing silent. While his blood pressure was only stabilized with medication Marcia was determined to keep him out of pain. When she finished and dropped the syringe in the sharps container she was taken by surprise when the door slid open.

"Good morning," Agent Coulson greeted.

Agent May just smiled.

"Hello agent's," she said pulling the sheet back over Barton.

"How is he doing?" May asked.

"Better, didn't have to titrate the dopamine anymore, his blood pressure is holding. I did have to give him Tylenol just now for the fever. Dr. Harvey was just by, and he agrees that he's doing better," the relief on their faces was palpable.

"Agent Romanoff?" Agent Coulson took a seat in the free chair.

"Kicked her out about thirty minutes ago after she used the bathroom. Told her she needed a hot meal," Marcia smiled.

There was a huffed laugh from Coulson and a skeptical look from May but they didn't know the truth, nurses could be very persuasive when they had to be. Marcia was no different, she had been working with SHIELD agents for a while now, knew how they ticked. Besides there was something in the four of them that encouraged her, some form of deep seeded energy that felt right. She had seen partners, friends, but none as close as the three that stood beside Agent Barton.

"I'll be outside if you need me, feel free to push the call bell," Marcia finished her rounds before stepping out of the room.

"They're tight," one of the other nurses commented as she entered the hall.

"Yes, they are," Marcia nodded while looking through the glass door.

---

Clint heard voices around him, his hearing aids had been left in after determining that when removed it was a cause for agitation. The voices were familiar yet far away. He had felt hands on him briefly, rolling him before something touched his backside. The contact was brief, he felt something foreign, suppository, his fever must have been bad. There were more voices as he was rolled back, male and female, back and forth with report on his condition. Blood pressure stable, urine output, dopamine, ileus, the words had no correlation.

He'd spent most of the night reliving missions past, nightmares of blood and pain as the fever dragged him into a disoriented sleep. Nat had been there, holding his hand when the memories assaulted his mind. Sitting by him when the pain reached a level he could no longer contain. He felt hands on his abdomen now, pushing lightly but inducing a scorching sear of pain. A moan escaped his loose lips without his volition. Weak, he was beyond weak. Any firewall for his average pain tolerance had fallen, his constitution fragile to the point of breaking. In the field he'd be dead in an instant but wait, he wasn't in the field. Hospital, safe, he had this on repeat in his mind.

The voices shifted and the hands were lifted. Keep it up Barton…..out in no time, the phrase just barely graced his ears. Clint moved his hand as well as he could. Every muscle in his body was beyond shaky, wasted from his time in bed. But he tried, he had to let them know, I'm still here. Hoping his hand followed his command Clint just barely raised his thumb in what he hoped was a positive gesture. There was a hand patting his shoulder, a slight laugh, it worked. Then something washed over him, warmth that flowed from head to toe. Narcotic, it had to be as his body relaxed. Sleep was pulling him under, but he resisted.

Hello, he heard in the background of his drug-addled mind.

Nat was back or was there someone else. He must have phased out for a moment before he lost time.

"Nat?" his voice was hardly a whisper. His eyes opened slowly, enough to take in his surroundings without the light assaulting his optic nerve. The two standing over him were not Natasha but neither were they unwelcome. He stared into the worried eyes of his handler, Phil Coulson looking far more rested than the previous day. Beside Phil was Melinda May, the same motherly presence she had adopted since his admittance to the hospital.

"Boss….," Clint breathed feeling Phil's strong hand on his shoulder, he must have tried sitting up.

Bad idea

"You feel any better?" May asked earnestly.

Did he? No, he was absolutely not feeling any better. At a loss for words in his weakness Clint just shook his head.

He was starting to fade, most likely a result of the most recent dose of hydromorphone running through his veins. He hadn't in his life felt sicker than he did now, the pneumonia he had caught a few years ago that left him bed-bound for nearly three days came close but failed to reach this intensity. His mouth remained parched, a thirst he couldn't quench. His stomach felt desperately empty yet full, belly bloated and swollen. He could feel the spasms of his intestines, shocked and reactive to the trauma they had endured. His chest felt tight, airways sensitive with every breath he took. He could feel the slight rattle in his chest.

Pneumonia again?

No, it had to be something different, it didn't feel like the crushing chest pain he had experienced then, and he had yet to cough. Clint rubbed the plastic off his finger when the skin began to itch, the alarm that followed pierced through his heavy skull. He tried to pull away when the plastic was reapplied, pinching around his finger, but stopped when the alarm faded. Nodding off slowly Clint drifted back into sleep.

"Whoops," Phil commented when the alarm broke the silence.

Clint had flicked off the pulse oximeter probe on his finger, monitor lighting up in alarm with the sudden absence. He replaced the probe sharing in the same wince as Clint from the resulting headache. The alarm worked however as a tech ran into the room and looked over the monitors. Clint was stable for the time being, the nurse had recently assured them that the medication prevented his blood pressure from dropping further. The fact that he was at least semi-oriented and recognizing faces when he awoke was also a good sign in Phil's book. He sat back and watched as Clint fell back into a restless sleep, narcotics pulling him under allowing his body to heal.

A knock at the door had both May and Coulson looking up, "It's Todd again, I'm just going to start Clint on a breathing treatment."

Todd entered the room without another word and set about his work. Phil watched closely as the respiratory therapist hooked tubing to the wall and attached the mask. Todd had unscrewed a cup from the bottom and squeezed two ampules of medication into the receptacle before attaching it back to the mask. Albuterol, Phil remembered very well their shared pneumonia incident from three years ago. The treatment worked wonders then, but Phil was questioning why now of all times Clint required such breathing treatments.

At his questioning look Todd answered, "The treatment helps open his airways and lungs and get him to cough, there's some junk in his chest probably from the anesthesia and not being able to move. We just don't want it to progress further into something like pneumonia."

Cough, Clint was not going to enjoy that conscious or not. Todd placed the mask over Clint's mouth and nose and cranked the knob on the wall. The mist started instantaneously, puffing out of the mask with every breath Clint took. Phil could notice a difference in Clint's breathing almost immediately, the slight wheeze was gone, his body didn't seem to struggle for every breath. They still had the machine by his bed, the ventilator with BiPAP in case Clint's condition deteriorated. Phil tried not to look at it, tried to focus on the fact that Clint was breathing and while teetering on the edge was stable.

There was a cough followed by another before Clint began to groan hands straying to his stomach. The coughs were weak but heart wrenching to witness. Phil had broken ribs before, had endured his fair share of coughing while having them, it hurt like hell. He couldn't imagine how Clint was feeling after having his abdomen flayed open twice in so many days. Thankfully it stopped relatively quickly after Todd removed the treatment when it had finished. He hung the mask on the wall and placed a few foil packets of albuterol on the stand next to the bed for further treatments.

Like ships in the night Todd passed Marcia as they exchanged places in the room. She had an IV bag in her hands, larger than the one currently keeping Clint alive. It was twice the size of an average saline bag and was white in color. She had different tubing connected to it, a filter in the middle for particulate matter. In her other hand was a smaller bag, magnesium sulfate, he read on the foil package. He was familiar with that, Clint had two doses of the stuff since arriving.

"What's that?" Phil had to ask, his curiosity peaking.

"It's called TPN, total parenteral nutrition. Since Clint can't eat and the damage to his digestive tract the doctor wants to ensure that he is getting some form of nutrition to help speed up healing. It goes in his central line, the other IV is magnesium, his levels are low," Marcia set up the drip quickly, TPN going to the middle lumen needing to be separate from the rest while the magnesium was connected with the bag of saline on the third. The dopamine remained, still in its dedicated port on the central line. Three ports, all served a purpose for life saving drugs, antibiotics, and now the liquid nutrition that had replaced Clint's gut.

"He still can't eat or drink?" May knew the answer but it came from her mouth either way.

"No, he can't. With the trauma done to his intestine and the infection they are not working properly. He has what is known as a paralytic ileus, or paralyzed small intestine. Good nutrition in the body helps speed recovery, with the added nutrients like fat and protein his body will have more fuel to focus on healing the infection," Marcia explained.

"When he does start getting better?" May pried.

"Then we can introduce food and liquid, generally clear liquids first then progress to a liquid and soft diet," Marcia assured them.

When she was finished Marcia smiled and left the room, Phil couldn't have asked for a better nurse than her. She was attentive but more than anything she cared, not just about the patient but all those around Clint. Seeing Clint now he was flabbergasted as he counted off the tree of drips now leading into his chest. TPN, dopamine, saline, round after round of antibiotics, the occasional electrolyte infusion. Each one came with its own set of tests, random blood draws either from the free port or the now bruised section of Clint's left arm. The newest addition of finger sticks for his blood glucose with the IV nutrition. Thankfully the blood gases were drawn from the arterial line, Phil respected how much they hurt. Clint was sick as a dog and only getting sicker. All because of one prototype bullet that he was the test subject for.

---

When Natasha returned to the room Coulson and May had arrived back from the Triskelion. She noticed the new changes to Clint's medication hanging on the pole. Also noted the new events listed out on his patient board. BG check every 4 hours, treat with insulin if needed. Daily medications: Dopamine, TPN, hydromorphone as needed, Protonix, Zosyn, Flagyl, cefotaxime, sliding scale insulin. NPO. It was all just too much, she frowned at the insulin. Clint wasn't diabetic, never had been.

"Insulin?" Natasha asked out loud.

"They put him TPN IV nutrition, Marcia said it's required if his blood sugar changes," Phil was quick to calm her.

"Was he awake when I was gone?" Natasha walked up and sat on the edge of Clint's bed.

"For a moment, they gave him some pain medication, nodded off soon after that," May said.

She had left despite her reservations and while Natasha didn't want to stray far from Clint's side the food and break did her body wonders. She opened a bag of cookies she bought in the cafeteria and began nibbling, passing the bag to May when the other agent held out her hand. Clint would kill her for just having such a temptation before him in his state of being unable to eat. Natasha didn't care he deserved some torture after all the things he had put them through. A sudden moan shifted her concentration, Clint was writhing on the bed as if he were in agony.

"Clint," Natasha was on her feet across from her Phil was placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Hurts….hurts….," Clint repeated.

"What hurts Barton?" Phil demanded.

"Stomach," Clint's quick answer was cut off when he tensed, a hiccup escaped his mouth before he began to retch.

Natasha's quick thinking had him on his side where he began to gag onto the floor. Nothing came out but a few dribbles of bile. Tears leaked from his eyes as the heaving continued, moaning as he attempted to curl up in an ill attempt of the fetal position. Natasha eyes drifted to his stomach, poorly covered by the sheet that had been shoved aside with Clint's sudden move. His abdomen was distended, very distended, as if he were being pumped with air.

"We need some help in here," Phil slapped his hand on the call bell.

"What's going on?" Marcia was quick to arrive, thank God.

"He started vomiting, his abdomen is distended," Natasha pointed out.

Marcia looked over at the cannister on the wall before disconnecting the suction from Clint's NG. Inserting the syringe of sterile water into the NG she pushed slowly watching for Clint's reaction before reconnecting it back to suction. It was an instant reaction, water mixed with bile and brown sludge filled the cannister. Clint relaxed, moans dying on his lips, as his stomach decompressed. Easy fix, Natasha thought.

"Sometimes the NG can get clogged, all the gas we're trying to remove has nowhere to go. Once you flush it the problem resolves," Marcia informed them.

"Better?" Natasha looked Clint in the eye.

He nodded before relaxing back on the bed, the look of nausea disappearing from his face.

Stop doing that Clint

Natasha just sat back on the bed taking Clint's hand in hers. His response was immediate, hand closing around her delicate fingers grasping as if she were his lifeline. The pain faded from his face, features growing passive with the need for sleep. She was tired of the complications, tired of seeing Clint in pain. The only she was able to do was sit here and be with him.

---

Five days, five days gone since Clint had taken a bullet and there was still little improvement. His temperature leveled out over the previous day finally dropping to a reasonable level. His blood pressure however was still unstable without the aid of medication. Septic shock they heard the doctors say but caught early enough that Clint would be spared an inevitable death. Today brought increased lucidity but with it came displeasure and protests. Sometimes it was a blessing, to see that fight Clint had lost over the past few days. At other times it magnified the stress they were all feeling.

Today he sat in the bed, the head elevated in such a fashion he could take in the world around him. He was miserable, the pain was constant, gnawing feeling of hunger, and he had yet to quench his thirst. Yanking the mouth swab from the cup Natasha put in front of him he wet his lips again. No food, no water, that was the rules. His nutrition was being solely given through a tube leading to his heart. Intestinal tract paralyzed, body weak all he could do was sit and suck what little water remained on the faintly mint flavored sponge.

"Nat, another one," he complained.

"Give me a second Clint," Natasha was rifling through a bucket of supplies searching for the packet.

He glanced into the bucket, all for him yet nothing he would ever wish for. Packets of the glorious swabs, lip balm, pile of pads they had kept under his butt, cleansing wipes….all the signs that he was a long-term patient. Natasha had handed over a new swab into his free left hand, his right was on the bed in fear that moving would bring pain. The arterial line hurt; his wrist immobilized in what looked like a brace to secure the tubing to his hand. He was not amused, not in the slightest that he only had one working hand. He was less amused after having to suffer through the indignity of a bed bath earlier that morning.

"You need anything?" Phil spoke up from where he sat on the chair and read.

"Go home, not get shot. My guts to start working," Clint was sarcastic they would give him that.

"Use your hookah Hawkeye," Natasha reminded him.

The 'hookah' as Natasha had so eloquently called it was the bane of Clint's existence. Incentive spirometer, that was the technical term for what Clint labeled a torture device. Todd, the friendly neighborhood respiratory therapist, would come by three times a day and demand he suck into the device to raise the little ball to new heights. Clint hated it; all it did was cause pain. He imagined his abdominal muscles were tearing apart with each deep breathing exercise. The fact that he still had high flowing oxygen blowing into his nose didn't help Clint be encouraged that his deep breathing was helping at all. But he appeased them all by using it, grabbing the device he envisioned as his new target, and sucking hard on the mouthpiece. It only landed him a whole lot of hurt.

I'm putting an arrow through that piece of shit when I'm out

"Getting better," May smirked. Ha! He went up one more notch. He was making progress now only if his digestive tract and blood pressure would make the same strides he could get out of here. The attempt at weaning him off dopamine was less than successful after his blood pressure nosedived only correcting itself when Marcia titrated the infusion back to where it was. There had been some good news in all of it. His white count was down, and his blood counts were climbing slowly, and he had yet to need an insulin shot, that was until now. After his finger stick revealed a blood sugar of 220, he was now in the crosshairs of a shot of insulin.

"Okay Agent Barton, I'm going to give you those shots now," a different nurse had entered with two syringes. One prepackaged with a large needle, the other a small orange capped insulin syringe.

"Great," Clint cursed.

He pushed his gown out of the way to expose his abdomen. Two shots, one of which burned like a mother fucker going in. Lovenox, they called it, it was acid to Clint, just another medication he had to take in his growing list of treatments. He knew it was required; blood clots were serious enough before adding in the fact he was still listed critical. He watched closely as the nurse wiped down each side of his abdomen, injecting the insulin first before the Lovenox. The bruises they left were stark on his bare skin.

"Okay, that was only 2 units, your blood sugar wasn't very high," the nurse smiled before tossing the syringes and left the room.

He lowered his gown back over his battered abdomen and relaxed back onto the bed, his finger scratching underneath the NG where it irritated his nose. He hated all of this, he wanted to go home, wanted to sleep in his own bed with the comfort of his wife beside him. According to the doctor he was in for at least a week longer in the hospital, probably more. They had yet to determine if or when his gut was going function normally. Until then he was on IV nutrition and after the doctor said enteral feedings through NG until his nutritional status could completely recover. That said the doctor also concluded his rounds with telling Clint he was to have a PICC line placed for further antibiotics and central access, in case the line in his chest wasn't enough.

"When are they coming to do the PICC?" Phil asked spooning a large helping of Jell-O into his mouth despite Clint's glare.

"Five I think," Clint continued to glare as the food went into his handler's mouth.

"Well, I'm going to get coffee then before they come," Phil announced.

"You sadist," Clint seethed.

"Sick or not Barton, I'm not sacrificing my coffee for you," Phil told the ornery agent.

Coffee, he would kill for a cup, the smell tantalizing every time one of them brought in a cup. Clint just had to grin and bear it, had to suck it up and acknowledge the fact that nothing was going down his esophagus anytime soon. Perhaps he could sneak it through one of his many tubes, the doctor would never know. Inject it into his radial artery through the line in his wrist. Suck it up Barton, he imagined Natasha would say. Looking at the clock he was due for pain medication but decided against it. This was the first time he was even conscious in the last few days; he was still too groggy to even function now. Instead, he picked up the paperback Fury had brought him and begun reading. He was three paragraphs in before his eyes slid closed.

Phil noticed the exact moment when Clint drifted off, his book dangling from nerveless fingers. Taking it carefully from his hands he lay it back on the table. He thought back to how Clint had been the past few days, how his waking moments were few and far in between. His cognition had improved, his periods of consciousness more alert. It was a welcomed sight to see Clint being his old self but there was the undercurrent of desperate sickness in his pale blue eyes. The doctor had been cautious to assume Clint was over the proverbial hump, that he had crossed the finish line in defeating the enemy known as sepsis. Clint had yet to conquer the enemy, but he had it on the ropes. Phil just hoped these next few days brought improvement.

---

Sunrise over DC was always a magnificent sight. The monument in the distance and the glare off the Triskelion always amazed May. She and Natasha were recalled to headquarters by Hill late the previous night. Phil had elected to stay with Clint while Natasha was hesitant to leave. Jasper Sitwell had called that morning and discussed developments in the search for the mole at SHIELD. Natasha was all ears and raring to go once the news passed her ears. She was eager to kill someone, whoever messed with Clint Barton.

May was eager to hear the news, she was willing to join the strike team if it meant hitting the agent who sold them out. She was still trying to accept the fact that an agent who had potential worked beside her, one she would have taken a bullet for, betrayed her so utterly. May had been recounting the entire mission from day one. Looking at it from different angles and trying to remember if she had seen anything at all that day from the van. Nothing, she could recollect nothing out of the ordinary except for Barton's blood on her hands.

"Agent May, Agent Romanoff, I just returned from a mission. I heard what happened. Barton was shot?" Agent Victoria Hand intercepted them down the hall.

"Yeah, he was," Natasha's bore straight into Hand, dark and fierce.

"He's still listed as critical, in the ICU at the medical facility. It was bad," May added.

"When I heard the news, I was surprised. He called for extraction?" Barton was notorious for dragging himself from situations by himself.

"No, I did. I called for the extraction," May countered forcefully.

"I wasn't going to debate either way, just surprised is all. Well, if it's any consolation I do hope he recovers, and I hope his condition improves," Victoria recovered.

May took a deep breath understanding her poor attitude, "I'm sorry Agent Hand, it's just been…. Stressful."

"An agent you work closely with goes down in the field, it's any handler's worst nightmare," Victoria agreed.

Natasha continued to stare at Victoria, steadfast before sharing a look with May.

"I'm sorry, I won't keep you any longer," Victoria Hand got the silent message quickly.

After Hand walked away Natasha looked at May, "No extraction?"

"You know more than I do you and Barton never call for extract, usually you both fight your way through and cause more paperwork for Coulson," May answered.

"It's more fun that way," Natasha's lips quirked up in her own way of mischief.

"Come on, Hill's waiting," May shook her head.

As they stepped into Deputy Director Maria Hill's office, they noticed Jasper Sitwell already waiting for the meeting to begin. As for the reason for Sitwell's involvement May was unsure but likened it to his friendship with Phil. She couldn't complain, the more eyes on meant the faster things got accomplished. Beside her Natasha was for lack of a better word antsy, like she was ready to pounce on anyone who looked the wrong way. May knew the young woman was conflicted, on one hand she desperately wanted to find and maim the person who was responsible for her partners near death. On the other hand, she yearned to be by Clint's side.

"You found new evidence?" May decided to get right to the point.

"We did and a direct link to SI, the logo was etched on the main casing so we're not the only ones with a leak if the prototype was recreated by Stark Industries. Fury talked to Tony Stark, he knew absolutely nothing, nor did he care, he looked at the old files said the thing was a dud on a good day," Hill pointed out.

"And you believe him?" Natasha quirked an eyebrow.

"Stark is an arrogant, self-centered bastard on a good day, cares little about those caught in the middle, but he doesn't lie about something he would create. Actually, he likes to flaunt it, considering the fact Fury listened for ten minutes about his Jericho project he's about to test," Hill rolled her eyes.

"Besides why would Stark have any reason to infiltrate SHIELD for one test, he has plenty of facilities not to mention contracts with the US military to do so. It's not his MO, he prefers the spotlight," Sitwell added.

"It still doesn't answer the fact that if there is someone at SI creating these things then they could easily be selling them to Fontaine," May countered.

"Or maybe it wasn't Stark Industries, maybe someone who previously worked there is using Stark as a scapegoat, an easy target for us to draw a lead," Natasha suggested.

"Also a good point, we're narrowing down any and all former employee's that may have any recent dealings with SHIELD or other government agency but there is one," Hill quietly turned a folder around to show those standing at the desk.

A picture, grainy CCTV camera captured at a SHIELD facility.

"Who the hell is he?" Natasha's voice grew darker.

"Samuel Beekman goes by Sammy. He was supposed to be in Europe on an op but magically appeared in Mexico. This is a CCTV capture the aircraft carrier, he was seen walking in the infirmary maybe two hours after Barton was hit," Hill pointed out the man in the image.

"What the hell was he doing in Mexico? The last report given from his partner was in Germany," Sitwell fumed.

"Don't, got an alibi though. His partner said he got redeployment orders two days prior to your mission. A direct relocation to Central America," Hill looked baffled.

"What other ops were going on in Central America?" Sitwell though aloud.

"A few, mostly drug and arm trade, one local terrorist cell. I don't know what to say, we spoke with his partner apparently Beekman's gone dark, and we have no further proof of him being involved in this. We spoke with Patel on the carrier she said he had come down for a burn on his arm, has a chart and everything," Hill clarified.

"So, if he is the leak…," May started.

"We need to find him, I need to find him," Natasha growled before growing silent.

"And Scarlotti?" Sitwell inquired.

"In the wind, ran off immediately after Barton shot him. It was almost like he was showboating or something, leaving an arrow behind that clearly had his prints on it," Hill shrugged.

"So we just need to make certain if Beekman was the one who hired him and who Beekman is working for," May said.

"And if he does have his hands on classified SHIELD intel?" Sitwell pried.

"Then who is he receiving it from and why. This test that was carried out on the bullet, who was it for? Fontaine? That is the ultimate question," Hill questioned.

"If that ammunition gets trafficked through Fontaine…. That round went through Barton's vest like it was made of tissue paper," May sounded frightened, so unlike her it had Hill catching her breath.

"We're looking into it, we'll find him May and if is the leak Fury will handle it," Hill reassured.

It did little to reassure her, the thought that Beekman, if in fact he had sold them out, was free and potentially proliferating a weapon that had taken Barton down so easily. Out of all the missions she had been on, all the ops she had completed as a specialist nothing was as fearful as this. Betrayal was one thing, using another human as a test subject was another. In her gut May knew the truth, was fearful that perhaps this ran deeper than Beekman alone. Looking down at the CCTV capture in her hands May had to wonder what she may do to the man when he was found.

The atmosphere in Clint's room was a welcome change, six days had passed, and he was finally turning a corner. Phil remained by his side after Nat and May left for the Triskelion earning him a much-deserved phone call with his wife in the private of his ICU room. It had been brief, fear of security measures still high, but the sound of her voice was the most beautiful thing Clint heard. It wasn't long after he received his next dose of hydromorphone and preceded to sleep for four hours.

---

He awoke to Phil reading and the sound of the TV in the background. He shook the sleep away and tried to stretch his aching muscles. He was beyond stiff from being in bed, yearned to at least stand. Reaching for the overbed table he wanted to give the spirometer another shot. His arm stopped abruptly when the TPN line running to his PICC caught on his monitor cables. Shit! Got to get used to that. It was just another tube he had to endure, placed yesterday the procedure was bedside and frankly a breeze. The central line was dedicated to his dopamine drip and saline while the PICC took over the more sensitive nutritional IV.

"You good?" he must have cursed aloud.

"Yeah, tangled. Phil can you…," Clint held his arms apart as Phil came to his side.

"How did you manage that?" Phil wondered as he untangled the lines that more resembled spaghetti.

"Magic," Clint remarked.

Now untangled Clint could relax, already once he nearly pulled out his foley after his foot caught on the drainage tube. Nat had managed to tear his leads off his chest creating a panic among the staff. Clint was a mess; he was well aware of that. Unable to eat or drink, urinating through a tube, blood pressure stabilized by chemicals, and being fed through an IV. He never knew he could drop this low. He waited for the doctor to tell him something good about his condition, that maybe he could see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. It had yet to happen.

Knock, knock.

Clint was startled by the knock on the door.

Must be losing my touch

"Good evening Agent Barton and how are you doing today?" Dr. Harvey's cheery voice did little to appease Clint's anxiety.

"Peachy," Clint's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Opening Clint's every growing binder of a chart he remarked about his condition, "Let's see, labs look better this morning. I see respiratory decreased the oxygen….. good….. good, potassium and magnesium both had to be replaced. Okay, not game changing. Tolerating TPN well, blood sugars are stable. And you tolerated the PICC placement well."

"Yeah, not bad. Better than gettin' shot," Clint shrugged.

"Your urine output looks good, and your vitals have been stable, I would like to try to wean off the dopamine tomorrow, if you tolerate well, we should be able to move you to the step-down unit," Dr. Harvey at least seemed happy.

Should, there's that word again.

"What about his intestine, eating and drinking again?" Phil put in.

"That is another matter, the TPN is being tolerated well. Once we get those bowels of yours working, we can consider introducing a fully liquid diet until then I'm afraid we must continue having you NPO. I will consult the nutritionist, but I think they would agree that even after discharge enteral feeding is suggested until you can maintain solid food and weight gain," Dr. Harvey snapped closed the binder and placed it back into the rack at the end of the bed.

"Feeding tube you mean," Clint shook his head.

"Unfortunately, I don't know much more until your condition improves more than it has. Currently your still suffering from a prolonged ileus compounded with the resection of your small bowel. It may take some time for your body to adjust. The addition of the intra-abdominal infection and sepsis didn't help make matters easier for your recovery," Harvey explained.

No shit Sherlock!

"Great," Clint scoffed.

Recovery, time, they are all relative

"Now that we got that out of the way I just want to take a look at your abdomen, any increase in pain? Pain management working well?" Harvey started to lift his gown.

Yeah, recovery is a pain in the ass!

"Drugs are working, still cramping a lot," Clint admitted.

Harvey pushed on all four quadrants and Clint held back a curse. The pain medication dulled the pain, but it didn't remove all the agony Clint had been experiencing. The cramping in his gut was a new addition, a likely symptom of his intestines being paralyzed. The cramps came on suddenly with a wave before dissipating, at least the NG kept the nausea at bay. Clint tensed when the doctor pushed harder, feeling deeper in his belly around the naval. Stop it! It mother fucking hurts! He swore the doctor's hands stimulated something because the cramping was apparent again. He wanted to curl up, wanted to hide in a dark room and never come out. He wanted to be done with this.

Harvey finished with listening to Clint's abdomen before speaking, "The incision is healing nicely. The cramps are due to the ileus, I would like to get another series of your abdomen, we can schedule that for tomorrow or the next day. Have you been able to pass any gas?"

"Fart? Not at all," Clint's anger was increasing.

"Like I said your small and large intestine is paralyzed and coupled with the trauma I would like to maintain total bowel rest for at least the next few days," Harvey finalized.

At least the dopamine will be gone, he was tired of his heart racing

"So step-down unit?" Phil asked.

"Hopefully in two or so days, if the dopamine is weaned successfully, I don't see why not," Harvey told him before turning and leaving.

"I'm really starting to hate that guy," Clint commented.

"He's just doing his job Barton," Phil countered.

Clint just sat back in bed and attempted to relax in his haze of emotional exhaustion. His abdomen was in agony after the doctor's manipulation, his brain overloaded with the facts he received, Clint just wanted to escape it all. He was trapped in his prison of medical jargon and pain, kept passive by the drugs they fed him. He had to get out, had to run away. Reaching up to his ears Clint pulled both hearing aids out of his canals and placed them on the table. Leaning his head back on the pillows he soaked up his newly silent world.

---

Laura was in over her head; she would gladly admit that. As a wife to a SHIELD agent and mother to an autistic boy Laura had more to deal with than the average housewife. Adding to the fact her husband was currently in ICU at a medical facility she could not visit had her needing more than a glass of red wine at night. She had been receiving regular updates, even one HIPAA violation cellphone picture of Clint's chart. She had read it carefully the glaring words like 'septic shock' and 'dopamine' taking her by surprise. She'd known he was septic from the very first report of the perforation but descending into shock was a vast deterioration in his condition.

Now she sat at the kitchen table debating to open the bottle that sat in front of her. Barton, Laura: Xanax 1mg, take 1 tablet every 6 hours as needed for severe anxiety. She had filled the prescription by request of her therapist but had yet to take it in the year she had the medication. She and Clint shared everything, even this, at which her husband agreed that anxiety pills were warranted when her husband made a habit of jumping off buildings. At the time it had been a joke, a sick try at humor concerning her husband's profession. Now it had become terrifyingly real. My son already takes medication for his autism related symptoms, my husband is currently stoned on narcotics, why shouldn't I? It can't hurt. Grabbing the bottle, she pushed down and unscrewed the child-protective cap and dry swallowed a tablet grimacing at the bitter taste.

This is because of you Clint

Her thoughts were bitter before evening out.

Sorry, not your fault

She was about to replace the bottle in the kitchen cabinet when her phone rang.

Now what?

"Hello," she answered quickly.

Laura, it's Phil, the man greeted.

"You're not going to give me a heart attack like last time, are you? Because if you are I just took Xanax so it won't work buddy!" Laura ordered.

No ma'am, Clint trained him well.

"Is he okay? What has the doctor said?" Laura wanted to know more but time was limited.

Doctor was just in. They're going to wean off the dopamine tonight or tomorrow. He's been placed on TPN, doc said Clint's on complete bowel rest. His intestines are still paralyzed. Even discharged he may come home with a feeding tube until he can eat solid food again, Phil's report was not what she wanted to hear.

"TPN? When did that start? So, he's still NPO and on bowel rest, poor Clint. At least they're weaning the pressors that's a start. And Nat told me he got a PICC line yesterday, how did that go?" Laura was still taking in the situation.

Tolerated it well, didn't hurt. The TPN started a day ago, they wanted to maintain his nutritional status. And yes, he's NPO and not loving a moment of it. The cramping's still bad, he's been complaining silently. The nurse said that once the dopamine is stopped, they can try out a PCA for his pain, Phil continued.

"That's good, only if he actually uses it that is. You know how Clint is, took me an hour and a half to get him to take the Darvocet for his five fractured ribs that one time. And yeah, I agree, the TPN is the only option for prolonged NPO patients. Enteral feeding, I can help with once he gets home, probably won't be for a few months at best," Laura was assuring herself more than Phil.

Hold on, here's Clint, she heard the phone drop for a moment followed by a whine of Clint's hearing aids.

Hey honey, Clint's voice was music to her ears.

"Hey sweetie, you behaving?" Laura joked.

Never, Clint returned.

"So, Phil updated me on everything, complete bowel rest huh, sucks for you. Nat torturing you with cookies and coffee yet?" Laura smiled.

It's ongoing with Nat's Chips Ahoy and Phil's coffee, May is the only one to have enough decency to bring her stinky herbal tea, Clint sounded relaxed for a change.

"And Clint the feeding tube will be temporary, it's just to keep your weight up once you get home if you can't tolerate solids yet, I have an inkling solid food is out of the question for a while," Laura appeased.

Yeah, I know, it's just a shock. I'm sick of tired of being sick and tired and in pain, Clint's voice was fading like he was struggling to stay awake.

"Clint you okay?" Laura's concern peaked.

Yeah….ye-ah….I'm….fi-, the phone was breaking up, that's what Laura kept telling herself.

In the background was Phil's commanding voice, Barton! Barton! Dammit wake up!

"Phil? What's happening? Phil!" the line went dead before she received an answer.

---

One moment Clint was talking on the phone, his hands were trembling Phil noticed. As the call progressed, he could see something in Clint's eyes, vertigo? He'd seen that look before, Barton had been on a roof for hours and skipped meals, he checked up on his asset when he stopped answering the radio. Hypoglycemia? Clint's voice began to trail off alarmingly, his body growing slack.

Clint you okay? Phil heard on the other end.

"Yeah….ye-ah…I'm…fi-," Clint's tone slurred more until his words abruptly stopped.

"Barton! Barton! Dammit wake up!" Phil called out when Clint went limp on the bed. His skin was cold and clammy and too pale. He continued to shake Clint's shoulder for a reaction before slamming his hand on the emergency light. It didn't take long before the team arrived, Harvey in tow. Phil just held his breath as they began to work on Clint.

"What happened?" Marcia turned to Phil.

"Don't know, he was fine then he started to slur his words and went unconscious," Phil's voice was desperate.

"Agent Barton! Agent Barton, can you hear us! Squeeze my hand if you can hear me!" Harvey ordered receiving a weak squeeze from Barton's left hand.

"I'm sticking a glucose," one of the tech's was pricking Clint's finger and squeezing blood onto the glucometer strip.

"Vitals are stable, heart rate's a little high. What's the sugar?" Marcia turned to the tech.

"Blood sugar is 42," the tech called out.

"Hypoglycemia due to overcorrection probably, he's not diabetic it's just related to the TPN. When was his last sliding scale?" Harvey turned to Marcia.

"Shift change, she said his sugar was high, gave 2 units. I guess he overcompensated," Marcia said.

"Okay give an amp of D50 and recheck in 10 minutes," Marcia was already pushing the large syringe of dextrose through Clint's central line.

That was fast, Phil mused as he watched Clint come violently out of his unconscious state. He came up swinging, hand clenched ready in a left hook. It only took a moment for the team to restrain him, pinning his swinging arm back to the bed in an effort to protect him from further injury. There was a brief moment of complete confusion on Clint's face before awareness sparked in his eyes. He locked eyes on Phil waiting for the nod from his handler that declared safety.

"Did I just faint?" Clint's voice was still slurred.

"Yeah, we got you Barton," Phil soothed.

"It's okay Agent Barton, you had a hypoglycemic event it can happen to people with TPN because of the sliding scale insulin. We gave you some sugar through your IV. You back with us?" Marcia explained while checking his level of consciousness.

"Yeah, I'm at the hospital. Name's Barton, codename Hawkeye. Strike Team Delta," Barton listed off quickly.

"He's back," Phil declared.

As Clint relaxed back into the pillows holding out his hand for the tech Phil waited for the result of the fingerstick. The beep came and the tech smiled, 98, he was back to normal. One syringe of dextrose and Clint came back fighting, the fear was palpable but the relief that a more serious complication had erupted was overwhelming. His phone vibrated and he read the panicked message, what the hell is going on?! He typed quickly, a quick assurance that the woman's husband was not dying. Hypoglycemia, he's back up. Came back swinging. There was something to be said about Clint's fighting spirit and in that one moment Phil was encouraged that Clint could finally surpass every obstacle.

Phil read his final text message before sitting back in his chair.

He'll get through this

---

The dawn of a new day and hope was on the horizon. In seven days, there had been little strides made in Clint's progression. Until now there had been waning encouragement when new complications arose. Today it had changed after Marcia drifted into the room and began dialing down the dopamine dose on the IV pump. Little by little they would watch for his body's physiological response, holding their breath with every new number on the heart monitor. 'Low and slow' she had stated watching the blood pressure carefully as it wavered at times as Clint's cardiovascular system adjusted.

Twelve hours later, night of the seventh day he was confined to bed, and Marcia had come in to detach the drip. Clint's blood pressure stabilized, his need for life saving medication had dwindled and he was officially taken off the 'critical' list. Phil looked at the monitor and smiled, BP 100/50 HR 88 the arterial line read MAP 67, the picture he took was sent to Laura. The dopamine was replaced with albumin to increase Clint's circulatory volume and the second lumen on his central line in his chest was now dedicated to patient-controlled pain relief. Of which the PCA button sat largely forgotten on the bed as Clint contemplated the likelihood of dependence.

"About damn time!" Phil exclaimed.

"One more hurdle," May added.

Natasha chose not to comment as she sat next to Clint on the bed. Her eyes stayed glued to the monitor, every new beep setting her at unease. Clint's stable, he's fine, she repeated to herself. With that stability his medical team had made the promise of step-down a reality. They would give him a day, a day of consistent monitoring for any new drops in blood pressure, then the prospect of moving to a lower tier unit was a possibility. It would be there where he could start the next phase of recovery, rehabilitating his gut and body to return to active duty once again. Natasha thought deeply on the notion, the windy road of recovery was merely beginning.

---

I kind of like it here, the man thought inwardly. Mexico, a good place to lay low, even start a well earning trafficking ring. He could eventually take to living here. Sammy Beekman sat at the rickety table of the SHIELD safehouse savoring in his success. Arrogant and self-confident he was never a man to shy away from acknowledging his accomplishments. On the table in front of him a file, obtained through secured channels through the organization he worked for. It had been a good test, his theory worked, and the results were promising. Max damage, polymer coating lived up to expectation, good enough at least, he was basking in delight.

So I hear that our theory worked, the prototype lived up to it's name, a voice over his phone declared.

"Yes, it did, quite well actually. The design worked brilliantly, Scarlotti used it like an art form. Looking at the reports I received Barton is still in ICU near death," Beekman smiled to himself.

I agree, I have seen the laboratory studies. While the polymer still had faults in the molecular structure the decomposition actually led to greater yields in damage. I would say that phase two is ready to be planned when we finally step out of the shadows, the caller sounded pleased, he could hear it in their voice.

"Now the only question is, when can we actually do that? I am already planning on proliferation of the ammunition to Fontaine curtesy of my contact at SI," Beekman added.

Soon, but remember to stay in the shadows. I do realize your propensity for the spotlight, your arrogance may be your undoing Agent Beekman, while it held some truth Beekman was appalled of the admission.

"I will, nobody suspects me either way, going dark was worth it. Besides it took Barton out of the picture, one thing can be said to taking out the almighty Hawkeye, Fury will be scrambling without his strongest agent," Beekman elaborated.

True but he is also on a witch hunt for the one who sold Coulson's team out. Stay hidden, if SHIELD contact's you inform them you are radio silent due to compromise. The intel about your safety has been passed along. My team of scientists are analyzing the information received from the test to modify the prototype, once achieved I believe this will yield something untraceable and equally lethal. The polymer matrix is being modified to act as a potential toxin for the future, that sounded interesting to Beekman.

"Well, I look forward to hearing the good news once we have a definite working design. I'll keep on Fontaine and work with his associates, call if there are any new developments," Beekman promised.

You see to that and Beekman, remember low profile unless you wish to be acquainted with one our specialists, the warning was clear.

"I'll sit back and enjoy Mexico, heard the beach is nice this time of year," Beekman sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

You do what you wish and remember, Hail HYDRA, with that the line went dead.

Beekman smiled, one day they could finally be known, one day he would shed his mask, Hail HYDRA indeed.