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

3. Looking Upwards and Beyond

Chapter 3: Looking Upwards and Beyond

Warning for medical procedures and nudity (absolutely nothing sexual), also the relationship between Nat/Clint is purely friendship/brother/sister

---

"Just use the damn button, Clint!" Natasha's exasperated voice cut through his haze of pain. For a solid two hours Clint had been wilting in bed at the pain in his abdomen. Two hours of Natasha staring him down and threatening to take his self-administered narcotic. After nine days in the ICU, he had been moved to the step-down unit on his tenth day in hospital. The move had been an adventure, a welcome change to the constant monitoring, but about did him in with the commotion. His thumb hovered over the little red button, just take it, the voice of his wife said in his mind. Addiction ran in his family, the thought of dependence terrified him to his core. He willed the pain to disappear, even resorted to the meditation techniques May has been teaching. He gave up, the red button it is.

Beep

Relief

"Idiot," Natasha mocked in Russian.

"You could at least mock me in English, so people knew how you treated me," Clint returned.

"Trust me Clint, we got what she meant," May smiled.

Relaxing back onto the bed the warm rush of narcotic washed over him. The pain dulled down to a slight roar, still present but nowhere near before. The doctor had spoken to him prior to his move, the news was not what Clint wanted to hear. His blood pressure was stable, actually rising from its perpetually decreased state. His oxygen requirement had decreased to the protocol of 2 liters by nasal cannula and whatever crap was in his lungs cleared. That being said he could almost pass as a typical surgical patient if not for the ever-growing list of diagnoses the doctor plastered on his chart.

Functional bowel obstruction, ileus, and the newest one pseudo-obstruction; Clint had to laugh at the last one, how can I have something fake. The doctor assured him that with time he could heal but the trauma to his gut required extensive recovery time. His bodily functions had yet to return, bladder continually emptied via catheter, and TPN was his nutritional lifeline. Clint was angry, livid, at his prospects of trying to find what the doctor labelled meaningful recovery. A year, that's what he was given, up to a year before active duty was even a thought. Daily plans now revolved around 'try sitting up in a chair' and tests. Tomorrow he was scheduled for a series of x-rays and scans, contrast included, to evaluate his intestinal tract.

"So abdominal series, when is it?" Phil asked between bites of his salad.

"Small bowel follow through and abdominal CT," Clint groaned.

Light me up like a Christmas tree

"You may set off the Geiger counter by the end of this," Natasha joked.

The details given to him by his wife were less than exciting. Contrast through his NG while under what the doctor called fluoroscopy to evaluate how and why his bowel was paralyzed. Contrast going through the same organ that was currently out of commission. The CT was less exciting, lay in a tube asleep. Clint was still trying to wonder if radiation poisoning was still a concern. Neither was he looking forward to his third blood sugar check of the day and the Lovenox injection that followed. Nightly rounds, med rounds the nursing staff called it. A time for routine blood work from his PICC, PCA check, blood sugar, and the five or so medications they had him on. It also included the infernal visit from respiratory therapy and his torture machine.

"When is shift change?" May asked.

"Now, should be coming to torture me. I swear SHIELD should use Lovenox as a torture device, stuff burns like a bitch," Clint answered.

"Not as bad as potassium," May countered.

Yeah, May's right

"Lucky I don't have to feel it with a central line, perks of being critical," Clint quirked.

May was correct, he had suffered heat stroke on a mission in the Middle East, electrolytes low enough to cause his heart to jump. The medic had infused potassium in his arm, Clint felt as though he had acid in his veins. It worked wonders but Clint refused to have it again, vowing a Camelback of Gatorade on the mission. His countless infusions of magnesium and potassium per what the nurses described as 'electrolyte protocol' were thankfully in a deep enough vein Clint felt nothing as it infused. Small comforts he insisted, just a few in his chronically sick state.

There was a knock on the door before Marcia came in followed by another, "I'm going home, this is Billy. He will be taking care of you tonight. Go easy on him, he's new to SHIELD."

"He must have drawn the short straw," Natasha commented.

"Shut it Romanova," Clint bit back.

"Don't get your feathers in a bunch Hawkeye," Natasha sniped.

"Ignore both of them," May turned to both nurses.

"Romanoff, Barton both of you shut up," Phil demanded.

"Whatever man," Clint admitted defeat.

Clint relaxed, watching as Marcia reported off to the night nurse. It had been a daily thing, twice daily considering shift change. He would sit in his proverbial perch and watch as he always did, analyzing the information given. He watched each nurses' expressions, their reaction to the information provided. He made assumptions on his observations, seniority of every nurse and how they handled stress. It was a way of using tactics as a tool to better his care. It was his only way to maintain the façade of a specialist in SHIELD. So he sat back as usual and listened, turning the volume up on the hearing aid in his weaker left ear.

This is Agent Clint Barton, 36 admitted ten days ago status post exploratory laparotomy following a gunshot wound. Was stable the first day and extubated, day three he suffered a perforation of the small intestine and septic shock. He was removed from dopamine two days ago; pressure is holding stable. Last vitals: BP 105/55, pulse 86, temp 97.9, and oxygen saturation 98% on 2L nasal cannula. He has telemetry on, last check was normal sinus at 87. Has a left subclavian triple lumen central line and a PICC to the right upper arm. Arterial line in the right radial that's due to come out. Drips include hydromorphone PCA and TPN, PCA on the subclavian and TPN on the PICC. Blood glucose checks per protocol every four hours, he's on sliding scale per TPN orders, last glucose was 82. He has an NG and foley, NG is on intermittent suction. Strict I/O and NPO.

He's currently on Protonix twice daily IV, promethazine as needed for nausea, Flagyl, and cefotaxime. Prior history his unremarkable, no medical conditions. He can move in the bed with some help. There's a vertical midline incision on the abdomen, 2 Jackson-Pratt drains along with the initial gunshot wound. Everything is clean and dry, dressings intact. Other notes, he has a previous allergy to shellfish and is hard of hearing in both ears, wears digital hearing aids. His friends have been at bedside and helpful. He can be ornery so watch out, but he's harmless. Electrolyte protocol is in place, potassium and magnesium were replaced yesterday. He's scheduled for small and large bowel series tomorrow, Harvey already discussed it with him. Standing order on the chart for blood transfusion if there's a drop in H&H. I'm going to remove the art line before I leave, I promised.

Thank God!

Clint just sat back and listened, taking in the story he labelled his 'medical shit show'. So many words that had little meaning ten days ago were now in his growing notebook of terms by his bed. The same notebook Natasha had stolen and was currently drawing obscene pictures beside each term. He wished to go back to where it all began, wished for an absolution to it all. This was soon becoming an injury he would not soon forget. One that he feared recovery was too difficult to reach.

"How about I take out that arterial line," Marcia suggested.

He was more than willing to answer yes at the first word, "Please do."

He held out his braced right hand, line peeking through the heavy tape. His wrist ached from the thing, the immobilizer hindering his motion. The nurse carefully unhooked the sensor and pulled the tape. Clint remained as still as possible as she pulled the catheter out of his radial artery in one fluid motion. After gauze was applied and held, Clint flinched at the pressure, bruising already forming on his wrist. She continued to hold pressure for five minutes before applying an elastic wrap around the gauze.

"There all done," Marcia chirped.

"That sucked!" Clint grimaced as he looked down at his hand.

He had two free hands again and while his right appeared to be battered from all the needles it was a welcome ability to use all ten fingers. Down one more tube, only four more to go, two of which he was already warned he was being discharged with. The PICC line he could handle, in his non-dominant right arm it remained out of the way. It's added benefit of access to blood draws meant one less needle. The NG tube was a different matter entirely. Though Marcia did explain that the NG meant for enteral feeding, if he were to go that route, was a smaller bore than the hose down his nose now. He agonized about the thought of his wife caring for him like an invalid. He was her husband, the father of their son, not some weak and sick old man.

"Now you sound more like you," Natasha smiled reaching over to touch his left hand.

He had no other response other than a soft smile in return. Did he? Did he sound more like his old self? It was hard to tell with the undercurrent of pain in his voice. The weight of the day was pulling him further into an exhaustion he couldn't shake. Every movement a struggle as if he were stepping through quicksand. Phil and May were speaking on the other side of the room, he heard faint whispers of 'investigation' and 'classified', Natasha remained by his side soaking up his presence as he had hers. For the first time in ten days, he felt as if a curve was overcome, that in this race the finish line was even more apparent.

I can come back from this

---

"He's getting better," May commented sipping her tea. They had retreated to the small cafeteria on the basement floor after Clint retired his hearing aids and fell asleep, Natasha curled up by his side. The assassin had been growing closer to Clint, a lifeline that was giving him strength. Phil didn't comment when the young Russian slipped into the free area on Clint's bed and fell asleep, her breathing in tandem with the archer. Nor did he mention her reluctance to leave the hospital. It had it them all hard, her the hardest as she struggled with her emotions and fear. Thinking back to May's question he had to ponder what he had witnessed in the past day.

"I know May, it's just-," he trailed off.

"Hard seeing him like this," May finished.

It was hard, agonizing to see such a strong person had had previously waved off broken bones be reduced such a sick man. Phil had spoken with Dr. Harvey in private, utilizing his medical proxy by the means of gathering more information on Clint's case. His intestine was expected to recover but the length of time that recovery took was up to Clint's body. He was looking at a year on medical leave at least. A well-deserved time home with his family.

"I've seen him injured, multiple times, this is different May. This was close, closer than ever, it's just hard to face," Phil relented.

"Phil, he's alive. No matter what happens we need to accept that and move on, no matter how hard or long his recovery is," May put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

May had accepted the fact the moment they touched down at the Triskelion. Accepted that Clint was alive by a narrow margin but still breathing. Phil just had to accept it too, that while Clint had extensive injuries they were not handing over a folded flag to his wife. Invincibility, May realized, was the key. It had shielded them from grief but had also covered the horrid thought that anyone could fall. That's what May saw in Phil's eyes, if it could happen to Clint than maybe it could happen to him. May knew well enough that despite the mask Phil wore he feared death more than anything. Falling in the field before his time, leaving unfinished business behind. Honestly, he wasn't alone, May felt the same, had images that one day it would be her in a casket. This was the life they led; the life SHIELD called them to do.

Switching subjects May asked, "Didn't Fury need to see us?"

"Yeah, called a private meeting," Phil was reminded.

---

Laura Barton was at a crossroads, standing in the proverbial fork in the road that detailed her life. She was blessed with quiet after dropping Cooper off at pre-school, her mother's promise to pick him up. The hard decision came with risking security and her family to be by her husband's side or remaining where she was with brief and concise long-distance reports. It was maddening, heartbreaking to say the least. As Clint's wife she felt as if she were a failure, a wife was needed at the side of her ailing husband. Her only relief came with the hastily shot picture from Phil, of Clint and Natasha seeking comfort from another in sleep. She didn't fear the intimacy between the two, she had been close to Natasha too. Their friendship surpassed all expectations after her defection from the Red Room. The familiarity between the two was a mainstay in their family. A closeness that came with familial love, the bond between brother and sister.

Thanks for looking out for him, Laura thought as she took in the image.

Natasha was an addition to their family, just another puzzle piece in their hearts. It wasn't long before meeting that Laura became close to Natasha, taking the young girl in and showing her what love could be. Natasha had shown her strength and Laura had easily shared her devotion as a mother. Laura always could trust Natasha to bring her husband home. Even now as he lay infirmed so far away Natasha would bring him home. But she needed to know, she needed to be the one to initiate that contact.

Hesitating for a moment Laura dialed a familiar number and waited through three painful rings before the line picked up.

Hey Laura, Natasha's sultry voice flowed through her eager ears.

"Nat, sorry to call. I just wanted an update," Laura waited listening to the background noise. Natasha's voice was a mere whisper, there were sheets rustling and a door closing.

Clint's asleep, I stepped outside, Natasha began before continuing. He's been okay, sleeping a lot. Actually, using the PCA with encouragement.

"Are you threatening my husband?" Laura's voice rose with sarcasm.

Yes, I am, he's grumpy when he's in pain. Pitiful too. I don't know if Coulson told you, the arterial line was removed. He's happy, Natasha reported.

"Good, I've heard more complaints about that than the incision in his belly cutting him from top to bottom. Feel free to torment him on my order," Laura laughed.

Tomorrow he has his battery of tests. Abdominal CT and small bowel series, doctor said his staples may even come out, Natasha explained.

"He'll be fine," Laura was assuring Nat more than herself.

I know, he's just disillusioned. He starts PT tomorrow, get him up to the chair. In his words he's 'fucking tired of this bed', Natasha did her best impression.

"That sounds like him, PT will be good. May even stimulate something in his GI tract. Phil said he'll be discharged with the TPN and PICC line, may even have nasogastric feeding as well until his system adapts," Laura just wanted him with or without medical devices, she wanted to hold her husband in her arms.

He'll get through this Laura, he's stubborn as hell. He's getting stronger every day, Natasha assured.

"Thanks Nat, for everything," Laura was beyond grateful, she needed Nat to know.

Never have to ask, I'm here no matter what, Natasha's voice dropped, a tone of sadness in her words.

"Well, I'll let you go, Cooper's coming home from my mother's soon and then I have a date with a glass of red wine. I'll even consider taking a shot of that Russian firewater you left last time," Laura joked.

If you don't send it my way, I could use it. just call anytime Laura, I'm here, we all are. Talk tomorrow? Natasha said.

"Of course, talk tomorrow and tell Phil to stop scaring the shit out of me," Laura answered.

Will do, Natasha told her before ending the call.

Laura set her phone down on the table and sat back in her chair. The sheer relief she had from the call was something rarely felt in the past ten days. Speaking to Natasha brought her clarity she had yet to feel. It was calming, the notion that Clint was finally overcoming the obstacles in his way. A joy to hear that his recovery was progressing farther than it had. Laura knew as a medical professional that physical therapy was just one more hurdle that put patient's closer to home. For once Laura could feel the anticipation of being able to hold her husband in her arms and kiss his pain away.

---

Early morning in any hospital was chaotic, shift change at seven followed by rounds. After ten solid days of this routine Clint excelled at playing the patient. Spotlight, that's what he likened it to, standing on some stage, his medical conditions the script. Shift change was finishing up, long-winded report longer every day. Clint knew what came next, fingerstick and IV check. The routine was becoming easier to him than the average mission.

"Need anything before I leave?" Marcia was back and while Billy the night before was decent Clint was becoming needy to consistency.

"Nah, maybe some more mouth swabs?" Clint said.

"Will do, you should be going to radiology after clinical rounds," Marcia informed him.

Yes, he forgot about the day's plan. Today was the line of tests he was to endure. Abdominal CT, small bowel follow through, series of labs, and a visit from a specialist. First, he had to play his part in the SHIELD production of grand rounds, sitting back and feeling like the proverbial science experiment on display at a museum. Today Phil was his costar, May had been absconded to the academy for an evaluation of one of the students. Nat had been kicked out after Phil noted that her anxious energy was in desperate need of release in the gym. Phil elected to stay, his sanity as Clint tried his hardest to remain passive and compliant.

"Here goes nothing," Clint remarked nodding his head towards the door.

Harvey was outside, two others in crisp white coats by his side. New docs? It wasn't as if there was a medical school attached to SHIELD, but the academy science operations did offer several medical programs. Recruited doctors and nurses then went through an accelerated academy for SHIELD medical operations. He was grateful for his treatment, appreciated every doctor who was a direct cause for him going home to his wife and child, but Clint was generally tired of being on display. Why the hell did he of all people have to get shot with experimental ammo that essentially rerouted his digestive tract? Barton luck he supposed.

Knock, knock

"Good morning Agent Barton, Agent Coulson," Dr. Harvey's voice was always too cheery for this time of morning.

"Mornin'," Clint greeted.

"These are my associates. I hope you do not mind they join me for these rounds as you know SHIELD is all about training," Dr. Harvey repeated the companies line.

"Yeah, yeah," Clint slurred as he pushed the PCA button.

I need to be drugged for this

Dr. Harvey, infuriatingly ignoring his patient, turned to his associates and began his lecture, "He came in eleven days ago, with a gunshot wound to the left paraumbilical abdomen. On arrival to the aircraft carrier, he was in severe hypovolemic shock and suffering obvious bleeding in his abdominal cavity. He underwent emergent exploratory laparotomy with a partial liver removal and a resection of 34 inches of small intestine, among repair to other injuries to the mesenteric vessels, colon, and spleen."

"Was a colostomy required?" Thing 1, Clint deemed, asked.

The minions will now be named Thing, it's final, Thing 1 and Thing 2.

"No, it was not. Unfortunately, day 2 post injury he suffered from secondary perforation with impaired vasculature that required a second massive resection and septic shock. His current predicament includes nutritional support with TPN during which he has been strict NPO due to prolonged paralytic ileus and intestinal dysfunction. I would care to ask what are the likely reasons?" Harvey droned.

Thing 2 raised his eyebrow and took a good look at Clint, "I would say he's suffering from possible short bowel syndrome requiring extensive small bowel adaptation with enteral and parenteral nutrition."

What the hell? That's new.

"And you would be correct. The conditions which will be discussed in further detail once radiological studies are complete," Harvey finished.

Thing 2 decided to initiate the exam at Harvey's nod, "May I take a look?"

At least he asked.

"Be my guest," Clint flopped back down on the bed and prepared himself for the inevitable.

As with every visit Harvey and his minions were less than gracious with conducting a thorough exam. Tossing up his gown and exposing his abdomen both minions had hands on him. Pushing and palpating his tender abdomen Clint squirmed. He breathed out a relieved sigh when the hands were lifted but frowned when the cold of the stethoscope had him flinching. Bowel sounds, and this was when Clint was a little peeved that this was his new normal.

"What do you hear?" Harvey inquired.

"Very hypoactive consistent with paralytic ileus and acute intestinal failure," Thing 2 pointed out.

Intestinal failure? I was never told that.

"And how are you doing?" Harvey finally acknowledged his permanent presence on the bed.

"Just peachy. And I would like to know what the hell you're talking about? Short bowel syndrome, intestinal failure? Why wasn't I informed about this?" Clint fumed.

"It was on the agenda after the radiological studies and consultation with the specialist," Harvey defended himself.

"And we would also like to have information and updates about his condition before hearing it out of the blue," Phil came to Clint's aid.

"Well, I'm sorry. I believed you knew after what I discussed the previous days," Dr. Harvey was quickly getting on Clint's fragile nerves.

"Yeah, whatever," Clint groaned as he readjusted in bed.

"Well before I finish up, I will go over some expectations. Physical therapy, starting today we can start getting you to the chair after your tests. And continue improving, your labs are looking better," Harvey did his version of a thumbs up.

If Clint had any hopes of recovery, they were drowned out in a sea of new diagnoses. Everything Harvey was warning about was chronic, something that would take him permanently out of the field and riding a desk. Clint looked over to Phil who continued to passively sit in the chair as they both watched the doctor step out of the room. Clint was shaking, he could feel his hands quiver, fingers unconsciously drumming on his blanketed legs. What was he to do? What could he do? Nothing, absolutely nothing. He was at the mercy of his own body, living each day trying to reach some near impossible milestone that marked his recovery.

"It's okay Barton," Phil must have seen the beginnings of his meltdown.

"Yeah…..yeah….," Clint trailed off.

He placed the PCA control on the bed and sat back on the pillows, he didn't need drugs. Didn't want to alter his mind any more than it was. He was in the deep end of the ocean with no life raft in sight, falling from the trapeze without the safety net. Clint felt as though his world was crashing down around him. His vision began to tunnel as his breathing sped up, the quivering in his hands soon became all out shakes. He was like an alcoholic in DT's, a heroin addict waiting for his next fix. Eyes darting to the exit his innate reflexes took over. Adrenaline coursed through chemically altered blood, veins throbbing with its intensity.

I can't! I have to get out!

Let me out!

Phil must have noticed his distress; the older man was hitting the call bell requesting immediate assistance. Clint was falling, falling, and then he hit ground. Breathing heavy, heart pounding, fear overruled every sense. Ripping the hearing aids out his ears his brain demanded silence. He wheezed against the nasal cannula in his nose, lungs requiring more oxygen than it received. Shit! He was dying, falling to his inevitable demise. His vision began to blacken, dark around the edges as bright light continued to assault his pupils. He groped Phil's hand, securing strong fingers around the man's palm for support. He was alone yet surrounded, the unseen enemy closing in.

Fight! You have to fight!

The ultimate fight or flight took him down with one blow and Clint's world exploded in panic.

---

Phil was still contemplating what Harvey had said. It was unexpected, a blow right to the heart. He was cursing the doctor under his breath for his blatant lack of human decency. Whatever, Phil should know by now that there were those at SHIELD medical that merely cared about the science behind a person's condition. The human touch that allows for maximum healing was left for a nurse. Either way he would see to it Clint recovered; see that the man even if Clint never fully recovered from his injuries Phil would find a way to adapt.

"It's okay Barton," it was all a lie, it would not be okay until Barton was home safe.

Phil relaxed as best he could on the chair, tired hand running over his eyes. He was alert when Clint's hands began to tremble, just a minute tremor that started at his fingers. It grew at an alarming rate, first his fingers than his hands and wrists. Phil looked up then, eyes scanning for distress. Ever the handler Phil knew the exact moment Clint was falling. Clint was panicking, full attack brought on by the stressors of his condition. Phil felt his hand pulled, strong fingers tightening around his palm in a bruise inducing grip. Wheezing filled his ears, desperate breaths from a man struggling for every one. There was a tap on the table, two hearing aids thrown hastily against the wood. Phil recognized it immediately, Barton had been here before so very long ago.

"Barton breathe," Phil soothed voice soft and even.

Clint didn't listen, his mind assaulted with panic and flight. Phil had to control the man, hands on his hands to prevent the other man from ripping off his leads. He could see the man was very close to blacking out, just seconds away from failing entirely. Tapping the call bell on the bed Phil called for help, I need some help in here! Looking into Clint's dead stare he saw the other man's blown pupils, absolute fear in his gray-blue orbs. Clint was falling and he was crashing down hard.

"What's going on?" Marcia rushed into the room.

"Panic attack," Phil replied softly.

Marcia was quick, she didn't say anything as she cranked up the oxygen and attached a mask. Placing it over Clint's face the man's breathing began to even out, harsh wheeze disappearing under the plastic. She was already back to the computer cart in the room, opening one of the drawers and drawing up medication from a vial. Ativan, Phil read the label, a usual heated topic among the archer but desperately needed. Grabbing the filled syringe and flush syringe she wiped Clint's central line with alcohol carefully before screwing on the syringe and pushing the Ativan fairly quick. Following with a flush of normal saline she sat back and waited for the results.

Phil was amazed, any other day Clint would have fought against any mind-altering substance injected into his body. He watched as his asset calmed, tremors lessoning to mere twitches as his eyes fluttered. Glassy eyes peered up at Phil, a mix of confusion and relief written all over his face. Clint relaxed, tense muscles uncoiling and frazzled nerves numbing. Clint fought for a moment, forcing his eyes open with every heavy fall before he gave in and his head fell back onto the pillows, sleep clawing at his body. Phil released the breath he was holding as he watched Clint finally lose the fight against the Ativan, finally give in to its calming effects. He watched the nurse carefully lift the mask off his face and replace the nasal cannula, adjusting the sheets afterward. Phil noticed Clint's skin was sweaty, the leads on his chest partially falling off with the wetting of adhesive.

"Do you need help? Central tele is saying he's off monitor," an aid peeked through door.

"No, we're good now. I'm replacing the leads," Marcia shooed the aid off as she replaced the stickers on Clint's chest.

"Panic attack?" Phil confirmed.

"Classic one at that," Marcia answered.

Phil had seen Barton panic all but once in his many years with the man. It had been a mission with human trafficking, a child was abused, and all the sour memories of Clint's past had slapped him in the face. He was reserved at the time, holding back his flight response as his hands trembled. It took ten minutes to talk him down off that roof, a week of silence that followed, and secret communications with Laura to evaluate his recovery. After that mission Clint had never experienced any such symptoms, merely reserved anger, and a crack of a joke. Sarcasm had always been Clint's armor, a joke or a snide comment. Phil yearned for the day when that façade replaced the weakness the man held now.

"I'll be outside, radiology should be ready in an hour," Marcia informed.

Phil only nodded, sitting back, and watching Clint doze lightly from the effects of benzodiazepines. It was a testament to his condition that Clint was so willing to give in, to give into that fear that had nagged all of them. Clint had always been an unmovable force, a pillar of strength that influenced all around him. Clint's ability to attract those lost to him was something Phil always appreciated, his loving and strong heart always inspired loyalty in those around him. There was something to be said about a man who could singlehandedly rehabilitate a Russian assassin who was lost when she was found and hungry for blood. He had inspired Phil to look beyond death and blood that followed Natasha Romanoff and think outside the box about her disposition. He always had that ability, the skill to practically throw out the box and set his mind to impossible feats.

Relax Clint, I got you, we got you.

---

Hit, punch, kick, hit.

Natasha had been at this for more than two hours. Standing in the middle of a SHIELD training room she took out her aggressions on the punching bag. It wasn't her usual style, more apt with sparring with another but May was at the academy and no other agent wanted to face the famous Black Widow. Instead, she threw herself at the available equipment, punching and kicking with every spike of anger and fear. The wraps on her hands did little to dull the pain, nerve receptors awakening with every blow. This was her penance, her punishment for all the red in her ledger. This was just another stain, her friend horribly injured and confined to bed, recovery far out of reach at the given moment.

Right hook, left, kick…. follow-up

Every hit gave clarity, gave purpose for her anger. Flashes of blood and agony, red hands, and a dripping ledger. Clint was a constant in her dreams, pale twisting in agony with his skin covered in red. She hit harder, knuckles bruising with the force. She lavished in the pain and yearned for more. It brought her some semblance of peace that maybe, just maybe, she could take some from her friend. A string of violent punches and a flash of agony through her arms, then Natasha broke.

Staggering backward she stumbled towards the bench. Tears leaked down her cheeks leaving a burning trail on her red-hot skin. Dropping heavily to the bench she bent forward and dropped her face in her shaky hands. Light sobs echoed in the empty training room, breath hitching in desperation with the veil of her anxiety. Tears began staining her pants as they fell without pause, heart clenching with the internal mental agony that clawed at her soul. She shook, the breakdown a long time waiting. She needed this despite her fighting against the mental strain. Heartbeat fast in her chest, ribs straining against every powerful contraction.

Why did you do this to me!

Natasha sat what felt like forever sobbing uncontrollable despite her resistance against it. The Red Room taught her compliance, taught her that emotions made one weak, that love was for children. Clint taught her compassion and love, a far more important lesson in humanity. Sitting up she wiped the tears from her eyes and sniffed. It was not intimate love, not sexual passion, but her bond with Clint surpassed anything she could ever hope for. He was her person, her soul mate and brother in one. Clint was her other half, the side that made her human. Imagining a life without him was devastating, a tragedy greater than any death. The fear it brought shook her to her very core.

Love is for children

She tried to tell herself that repeatedly not quite believing the foreign words in her mouth. She had changed, two years after living amongst hatred and death and she had experienced life. Collect yourself, her mantra repeated as she gathered her wits. She had to be strong, had to be a pillar of strength for Clint and his family. If he were to move forward in this recovery Natasha knew it was only time before he would fall, collapse from the strain of knowing his future had changed. Looking down at her wrapped hands she could practically feel the pooling of blood throbbing beneath her skin. Closing each hand into a fist she winced with the ache yet thrived in it all the same. Natasha Romanova, name echoing in her head. Not Romanova, something different. She was different, not a doll she was made out to be. A killer, taking lives without purpose, blood dripping from her ledger staining the ground below. Black Widow, that was her name, bitingly on her lips and flowing easily from her mind. No, it wasn't right, that was merely a codename to conceal her identity. She had another name, another life, new and improved to create something more.

Natasha Romanoff

Friend, sister…. Soul mate?

That was who she was, Clint's support and his crutch if he need one. Standing resolutely from the bench Natasha prepared herself to return to the hospital.

I'm here for you Clint

---

Nick Fury was disillusioned, the reports on his desk did little to help his rising blood pressure. Alibi confirmed, agent has gone dark, it was the most recent news on Agent Beekman given from his handler. The second report given recently from the medical facility honestly broke his resolve. It was only partially expected but new details had set into stone a bleaker outcome. As he read Fury wanted more than anything to burn the folder in front of him. He knew Hill had already glanced over it, her facial expression had spoken of surprise with a note of sorrow. A deep breath to secure his resolve and Fury read on.

Further details have been enlightening the medical team currently in charge of Agent Clint Barton's care. The intra-abdominal infection complicated by sepsis has for the most part resolved but other complications have come to light. It is confirmed that he has been suffering from acute intestinal failure as noted by the prolonged ileus and is beginning to show signs of short bowel syndrome from the direct relation to the massive 6-foot resection of his small bowel. Nutritional therapy and adaption are key to his recovery, as for my prognosis there is a greater than fifty percent chance that remaining bowel will recover as for the time for adaption it is currently unknown. I suggest a year or more off active duty, desk duty when stable enough to do so. As for active duty in the long run the outcome is unknown.

As for my medical directive Agent Clint Barton is to be pulled from active duty effective immediately for the foreseeable future pending evaluation of long-term complications- Wayne Harvey MD

One of his best agents, a friend, pulled from what he lived for. Barton would be devastated with the news, angry at the prospect of riding a desk. Fury would make it as comfortable transition as possible, pull Barton to training at the academy perhaps, make him an analytical tactician from behind the scenes on Strike Team Delta. Meanwhile Fury had to inform his superiors, the WSC likely to have little compassion for the thorn in their side. Looking at the other file on his desk Fury kept Barton's dossier in the folder. He refused to pull it despite the obvious news of his disqualification.

Recommendation of Clint Barton, Hawkeye, for Avenger's initiative. Tactical genius and high marksman skills combined with extensive knowledge of hand-to-hand. I have further recommended his skills for any future initiative and will continue to do so -Nick Fury

He wouldn't give up, neither would Barton. In all the years he had known the agent Barton never gave up on anything in his path. He thought outside of the box and found another way around, hell he threw out that box ages ago if there was any box to begin with. He knew Barton well, the man would excel in his recovery, probably aggravate anyone who stepped in his path. He had never met such a determined man in all his years at SHIELD and knew that no matter what Barton would strive to recover despite the odds against him. But Fury would keep his word, always had when it came to Barton, he would continue with this investigation until clear evidence was brought into the light that found the agent responsible locked in the FRIDGE.

This week

This week he would plan a visit to the hospital to see Barton's progress and let him know that he was never alone.

---

Two hours in radiology and Clint was finally back in his room. The test went smoothly, CT a breeze and the contrast only caused minor discomfort. The results were pending but by the look at all the practitioners present Clint assumed it was not good. He heard several phrases in his haze, his bowel was finally making some progress at movement and according to the CT the infection had cleared. That had been the good news, the rest was dismal. The specialist had yet to speak with him but Barton was already understanding the gist, up to a year of recovery if he recovered at all.

"You need anything?" Phil asked out of the blue.

"Nah, I'm good. Doc on his way?" Clint answered.

"That's what Marcia said," Phil kept a keen eye on the agent.

Clint was beyond embarrassed by his performance before the tests, he vowed to never stoop low enough for a repeat panic attack after the first time he suffered one. He had crawled back up from the stupor of sedation halfway through the CT scan, shocked to his core that he had required such chemical intervention in the first place. He managed to control his emotions while he was lying still on the table, breathing deeply, and mediating through techniques May had taught him. It worked, well in fact, as he was able to think clearly about the potential results the tests and take hold of his body and mind.

"You call Laura?" Phil inquired.

"Want to, after the specialist. She would want to know," Clint lowered his head and looked down at his hands.

He was cramping again, intestines in a knot and protesting their lack of muscular contraction. Miraculously his surgical incision and wound were mild compared to the intestinal distress, incision irritated and raw, but the pain was muted by the hydromorphone. With the infection more or less cleared his entire body had gained strength, fever cooling and blood pressure maintaining blood flow without any aid. Despite the news he awaited Clint felt pretty good considering the battering his body had taken. His heart functioned, his kidneys filtered, and his brain was sharp if only his intestinal tract could follow. Laying his hand over his slightly distended abdomen Clint contemplated his future.

The knock on the door disrupted his thoughts, "I'm sorry to interrupt, may I come in?"

"Sure," Phil spoke up.

The person that walked in was new, a woman with long gray hair tied back in a loose ponytail, coke-bottle glasses adorning her face. Professor type she looked as if she stepped right out of a university.

"Good afternoon Agent Barton, my name is Dr. Rose Graham. I'm a gastroenterologist, I was called in to consult by Dr. Harvey," she entered the room slowly as she sanitized her hands with the alcohol sanitizer on the wall.

"Hey," Clint huffed.

"So, I hear you had a significant injury, as I read six feet of small intestine was removed and there was an intra-abdominal infection with sepsis. Been through a lot haven't you," she read off his chart.

"That's what I'm told," Clint resisted rolling his eyes.

"Let's see what we can do then, I'm just going to do a quick exam," Clint already had his gown lifted, hands by his sides.

Rose was gentle, so gentle it had almost alarmed Clint. Her warm hands palpated his abdomen slowly, she hummed with every finding. She evaluated his incision, examined the discharge from his drains. Listening to his abdomen her eyebrow twitched, and he flinched, he could feel something moving in there, as if gas pockets were breaking apart. According to the nurses he had hypoactive bowel sounds and he was beginning to feel the full feeling that came with needing the bathroom.

"Okay, good, there seems to be something at least trying to function. If you don't mind, I do need to do a quick rectal exam, I promise I'll be quick and gentle," Rose's face was pure regret.

"Yeah, whatever, it's not like it hasn't been done yet," Clint's tone was sardonic and bitter, but he carefully rolled onto his left side.

Thankfully the doctor hesitated to drone and annotate the exam. He heard gloves being pulled on and a cap snapping open. He tried taking deep breaths, tried breathing through his humiliation. Since his admittance to the hospital objects and fingers being up his butt had been commonplace. Actually, his dignity was lost a long time ago and Clint was certain it wasn't coming back anytime soon. There was a warning touch on his hip, hand light and soft. He closed his eyes when he felt the gloved finger at his perineum, his legs twitched, and his anus clenched. Relax, he heard, and he tried, he tried hard. There was a moment of hesitation before the finger entered his rectum the pressure against his unused sphincter foreign. Rose was quick, finger moving against the rectal walls before she slipped her finger out with a chirpy 'good'.

"You can roll back and get comfortable," Rose was slipping off her gloves and throwing them in the trash before coming back to his bed.

Clint rolled over carefully with Phil's help, rearranging his gown to cover what was left of his dignity. He could feel the wet, cold KY jelly on his backside rub against the pad underneath him. Adjusting his arms he crossed them over his chest, careful of the TPN line running to his PICC. He was ready, he had to be, this may be the worse news he was to receive. Rose had grabbed his chart and opened the binder to read off her diagnosis and evaluations of his condition.

"So, I do apologize for that. So, about the tests from earlier. I had a chance to evaluate the films taken. The good news is that the infections appear to have cleared or at least mostly cleared and there doesn't appear to be any surgical complications concerning the anastomosis sites or otherwise. There's also no mechanical obstruction as far as I can tell, of either your small or large intestine. The rectal exam was to evaluate whether you may have an impaction, which you don't," Rose began.

"And the bad news?" Clint didn't want to know.

"According to the amount of intestine you have lost compounded with the prolonged paralytic ileus you are suffering from acute intestinal failure. What I'm concerned about is the telltale symptoms you have been showing of short bowel syndrome, it is a direct result of a massive, small bowel resection particularly the amount of jejunum and ileum you lost. You've been started on TPN so that's a start, but I would like to go over the treatment plan I believe is best," Rose explained.

"Treatment plan?" Phil piped up.

"From what Dr. Harvey has said you appear to be on indefinite medical leave, I would say give it a year or so. I would like to insert something called a PEG, percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy. It's a tube that we insert into your stomach through the abdominal wall, and we can initiate enteral therapy on your discharge, I believe it's the best way to ensure nutritional intake," Rose suggested.

"Feeding tube? I'm not going through surgery again," Clint was resolute and adamant about that.

"No surgery involved, we go down your esophagus with a endoscope which allows us to insert the tube through the wall of the abdomen with either a needle or small incision, it's technically an outpatient procedure. I believe this will indefinitely help you recover, and we can wean off the TPN. This is also a way we can ensure the adaptation of your remaining bowel," she assured.

"What are my chances?" Clint's tone was stronger than what he felt inside.

"First of all, you will survive no problem. Second with the short bowel syndrome it appears mild-moderate and considering you still have a considerable amount of bowel left many times the remaining gut grows to adapt. I give it a year, year and a half at most, and I believe we can remove the gastrostomy tube once you can maintain a healthy weight with proper oral meals, or at least change to intermittent feeds if needed. As of now I don't believe you can achieve that weight with just eating, the amount of calories you will require will be too high to sustain by mouth," Rose went on.

"Can he eat at least?" Phil was skeptical.

"Once your intestine begins to regain full function than yes, eating by mouth with the gastrostomy is no trouble. Consider it a supplement of sorts, it will take a lot of stress of your GI tract and for your body as well. With the length of time the tube must stay in its more feasible than just an NG tube," Rose finished.

It's the only way, you can do this.

Clint could practically hear his wife's voice in his head.

"And this is the only option?" Clint knew he had little choice but he wanted solid confirmation.

"Yes, but with this treatment I believe in a solid year, perhaps sooner, you will be back in the field. In a few months we will change it over to a low-profile Mic-Key button that is easily concealed under clothing or SHIELD field uniform. Agent Barton, I assure you, with your tenacity and current state of health prior to the attack you will make a full or near to full recovery," Rose put a gentle hand on his shoulder as Clint rubbed his mouth with an unsteady hand.

With a deep breath he opened his mouth, "When do you do the procedure?"

"I can schedule it for tomorrow or the next day, I suggest the next. Let everything settle in and get moving with physical therapy. I also believe you have started to make improvements concerning the ileus, your bowel sounds are returning slowly. Also, Agent Barton, there is no reason that when you physically recover you can't restart training just because you have a feeding tube. You can remain physically active and have a normal life, you just require some extra help with nutrition," Clint didn't know if it was her voice or her outward demeanor, but Clint felt a sense of hope.

Clint nodded reluctantly, shaky but confident, "I'll do it, day after tomorrow."

"Good, I believe it's in your best interest," Rose said before adding. "Clint, you can live a normal life and I do believe your remaining bowel will adjust just fine, it just needs time."

He believed her, the first doctor he had that he could trust. Clint felt hope flare in his heart and while the diagnosis was nothing, he wished for he did have the chance for recovery. He would return to the field, spar in the gym, feeding tube or not Clint would find a way; he always did. After losing his hearing he was told the disability would disqualify from the field, he found another way. Clint was determined to not make this new reality his only defining feature, to overcome and adapt to any obstacle that may lay in his path. Smiling up at Dr. Graham he watched her walk from the room, light steps graceful, her peace permeating the room as she left.

"I can do this, give it a year," Clint said aloud.

Phil remained silent, a pillar of strength by his side, "You will, you can do this Clint. You have help."

Crossing his hands over his stomach Clint lay back and for the first time in eleven days felt at peace.

---

Morning of the twelfth day and Clint had turned a corner. While he remained on TPN for the time being his gut was beginning to "wake up" as Dr. Park said. His surgeon had come in that morning for a follow-up and a promise that his staples were to be removed. The drains would remain for a few more days to ensure the infection was completely drained from the surgical site. Physical therapy was also due to visit and while he was thrilled with changing his scenery from the bed, he was still anxious about the mere thought of moving. He had yet to get out of bed, had shifted in the bed but had not relocated farther than the edge after Nat was pushing for real estate.

"Procedure tomorrow?" Nat asked between bites of Chips Ahoy.

Torture, fit for Black Widow

Bitch!

"Are you just going to eat those in front of me all morning?" Clint cracked.

"Yes, yes I am. You deserve a little torture Hawkeye," Nat's expression was neutral.

"And yes, tomorrow. Give me a swab you sadist," Clint reached out towards the table which Phil had stolen for his work.

Nat reached over and grabbed the green mouth swab from the cup of water before handing it over, "Here you go Mr. Needy."

Clint shoved the swab in his mouth, swirling it around to wet his mucosa before handing it back.

"Anything else your highness?" Nat quirked sardonically.

"Yeah, my book and my bow so I can put an arrow through that thing," Clint pointed towards the incentive spirometer.

"Grow up Hawkeye, it prevents pneumonia," Nat rolled her eyes.

May, sitting on the bench of the windowsill, gave Clint and Nat a serious look, "So back to the original question. Procedure tomorrow, what time?"

"Two in the afternoon, said it will be an hour or so. Get some happy drugs, no general anesthesia," Clint looked up from his book.

"We'll be here, call Laura yet?" Phil piped up after looking up from his tablet.

"Going to once I'm in the chair after PT," Clint said.

There was quiet again, the sound of Nat's chewing echoing in the room along with the tapping of Phil's fingers on the tablet. Clint sighed, normally more of a man who enjoyed being alone he couldn't deny that those who surrounded his bed gave him strength. Phil was the older brother he had lost, never holding his hand but lifting him up. May the older sister, mother almost, who leant a helping hand without the hovering of an overbearing friend. And Natasha, Nat was more than a partner, more of his second soul mate away from his wife. Fraternal love surpassing an average friendship, a kindred spirit he had adopted into his loving family. Never a sexually intimate love, just understanding of a pure partnership. Far from his wife and child he was never alone.

With a breath he returned to his book, sinking into the fantastical world of the novel. He got lost in it, imagined the landscape and characters in bold detail to take his mind off his new surroundings. It was as much a drug as the hydromorphone he pumped into his veins. As his eyes roamed the page, he felt something deep in his gut. Gurgling, almost like hunger, but far lower than his stomach. There was pressure in his lower abdomen, spasming in his belly. Really? It almost was reminiscent of his unfortunate encounter with dysentery in Africa, a mission he spent the better half of in the latrine. But it couldn't be, his bowel was not working. Dead to the world as it lay paralyzed for more than a week in his abdomen. Pressure moved lower and Clint did something he had yet to do since the bullet impacted his abdomen, one of the criteria that told of further recovery.

Shit! That stinks!

All occupants looked up at the sound, a look of surprise and flush of embarrassment on Clint's face.

Natasha was the first to speak, her pointer finger and thumb dramatically pinching her nose, "Seriously Clint!"

And that's when Clint, better known as Hawkeye, master archer and agent of SHIELD farted.

Well somethings working again

Smiling Clint was happy, he was finally recovering.

---

"Cooper! Put that down!" Laura was in over her head, it was official. Her mother had been staying at the house helping her to keep what little sanity Laura had left. Cooper on the other hand was having the time of his life terrorizing the house. Currently her son was running around the kitchen, her phone in his hands after he was desperate to call his father. Earlier the word 'no' had led to a meltdown, one thankfully her mother was able to assist with utilizing her former psychiatric nursing skills. The meltdown led to a burst of energy after finally getting him to take his afternoon medications. Now Laura just wanted to bang her head against the wall and castrate her husband on his return.

"I got him, you go sit down for a while," her mother intercepted Cooper on his third pass around the counter.

The boy screamed, tried to maneuver out of his grandmother's grip before giving in and growing limp. Laura was grateful and not just for her mother's assistance, she had recently received word from Phil that Clint was progressing nicely. She had yet to learn of the results of his recent tests but considering he had jumped the hurdle of critical with threat of death Laura couldn't complain. She was desperate for further updates preferably from her husband. She knew the probability of long-term complications, her husband had six feet of small bowel removed, nearly half of an important organ for nutritional stability.

"Did your friend say Clint was going to call?" her mother, Francis Miller, looked over as she wrestled with Cooper, the boy calming in her arms.

"Couple of hours, he has PT today. Hopefully they get him out of bed," Laura told her mother.

"He needs to get out of bed, is he at least on DVT prophylaxis?" Frances was ever the nurse, like mother like daughter.

"Yes mom, Lovenox twice daily. What they're more concerned about is the fact his ileus hasn't resolved itself," Laura answered while cleaning the dishes.

"Good, good. I remember back when I worked Lovenox wasn't a thing. Good old-fashioned enema always helps stimulate those bowels; they should try that at least. Get him moving around," Frances reminisced.

"That would be difficult considering he hasn't eaten in eleven days, they have him on TPN. Mom, he still has an NG tube," Laura countered.

"I'm sorry honey," Frances quickly corrected at her daughter's distress.

There was a time when Frances despised Clint Barton, a soldier in special forces with his only defining and redeeming quality a way with a sniper rifle. No formal education and an army issued GED Clint was never the man she wanted for her daughter. It was a long time before she saw passed his shortcomings and found Clint was much more than that. Smarter than she gave him credit for his passion for her daughter was nothing short of resilient. He loved with all his heart, gave everything he had to his wife and son. It wasn't until after her husband died, a veteran and an agent from Peggy Carter's SHIELD, when Frances learned the true heart Clint Barton had. He had held her as she cried, remained there until her sobs were little more than tears. Frances had known then that Clint Barton was the one, the man fate had deemed her daughter deserved.

"He'll get better baby, he just needs time," Frances walked over to the sink and put motherly arms around her daughter.

"I know, I just, it's all so sudden," Laura was breaking, one of the many times in the past few days.

"Yes, it was but I know Clint, he's a fighter," Frances reminded her.

"And stubborn too," Laura huffed a laugh.

"Mommy, hungry," Cooper interrupted, hand rubbing down his chest as he repeated the word in ASL.

"Okay sweetie, one moment," Laura spoked and signed.

They all knew it in the family, fluent in ASL after Clint's careful instructions.

It was a welcome distraction as Laura busied herself with making a quick lunch for her son. He was hesitant to eat little else than chicken nuggets and Pediasure, a picky eater made worse with his autism. He preferred consistent routines, textures were a given for a meltdown and refusal to eat. She had developed a plan with help of his child development therapist, introduction of foods slowly was the key. So far, he had an obsession with green pepper, a strange taste picked up from his father but Laura couldn't complain, it was at least green. Thankfully the Pediasure was introduced successfully, one of the few drinks Cooper would tolerate other than milk and apple juice. It had been difficult at times, her life alone when her husband was away, but she had made it work. Her mother had been an immense help, Cooper loved his grandmother. Sharing a look with Frances as she prepared the food Laura let out a relieved sigh.

"Need any help?" Frances asked as she took various items from the fridge.

"Can you cut the green pepper?" Laura pointed out.

"I still wonder why your kid still likes those," Frances quirked.

"Ask Clint, he eats them like that guy on Iron Chef. I can't complain, its green," Laura smiled.

Throwing a plate of chicken nuggets in the toaster oven Laura pulled a bottle of Pediasure from the fridge and opened it for her son. Cooper was already at the table, bouncing and in constant movement as he played with Laura's phone. He was briefly distracted when she placed the bottle of Pediasure in front of him, straw inserted for spill prevention. As the toaster oven heated his lunch Laura just sat back and stared at her son. She could always see Clint in his face, so much of her husband was mirrored in their son. He had Clint's eyes, bluish-gray and sharp; same expressions including that quirky cock of his eyebrow. It was a small consolation that Clint lived in within his son.

"Hold on Cooper," Laura urged when her son began getting antsy at the table.

Quick plating and Cooper's lunch was finished, a weird mixture of processed chicken nuggets and sliced green bell pepper. She never mentioned it nor did her mother after she had scraped the vegetable from the cutting board onto the plate. As she stepped over to the table with the plate a shrill ring of her cellphone pierced the silence. Cooper was determined to answer the call, clumsy fingers trying to hit the touchscreen. Frances intervened quickly, intercepting one flappy and angry hand and grabbing the phone from Cooper. Gotcha! Frances said under breath, ruffling her grandson's hair. She handed the phone quickly to her daughter after looking at the caller ID.

Clint

Collecting herself Laura answered, this was the first time it had been a direct call from Clint, not from Phil with her husband in the background.

Laura? Clint's voice was music to her ear.

"Hey baby, you doing okay?" Laura answered.

I am, thought you wanted an update. I spoke with the gastroenterologist, got the results from the scans, Clint started.

"Hold on Clint, I'm putting you on speaker, mom's here," Laura switched the call to speaker phone.

Hey Francis, Clint's voice sounded stronger than it had in days.

"You sound better from what I heard," Francis commented.

That's what they keep saying, actually believing it now. Got some bad news though, Laura held her breath, heart dropping.

"Bad news? Is the infection back?" Laura spoke quickly.

Infections gone, well mostly, the drains are still in. Staples are going to be removed today. The doctor said I may have mild to moderate short bowel syndrome because of the resection, she said I'm showing the signs. Said something about intestinal failure because of the trauma and surgery, Clint rattled off.

"Treatment plan?" Frances spoke up.

Feeding tube, she said I need extra nutrition or something to allow my intestine to adapt. A year or so she said. I'm scheduled for the procedure tomorrow afternoon, Clint reported.

"What procedure?" Laura inquired.

PEG insertion, she said no surgery just endoscopic, I refused further surgery. I can't do it anymore Laur. But I'm optimistic for once, she said I can function normally with it, change it to low-profile or something in time, Clint sounded forlorn but with an element of hope behind his words.

"You can function just fine, I've had patients who had feeding tubes that were athletes," Frances always knew what to say.

Yeah, that's what she said. I'm going to be okay Laura, I'm getting better. On a better note, I farted, the mention led to a giggle from her son.

"Lovely Clint, how polite," Laura tried to contain her own giggle.

Hey something's working down there, said my ileus is beginning to resolve. After the PEG they may take out the NG, my nose is killing me, Clint complained.

"They suck but work wonders," Frances said.

Yeah, whatever, well I gotta go soon, PT is on their way. Going to get me up to the chair, try walking in a few days. Maybe in a week or so I can get out of this prison, Clint mentioned.

"Good for you, don't hit anyone," Laura warned.

I'll try not to, didn't during the panic attack I had, sorry shouldn't have mentioned that, normally she would have been worried but considering Clint never really revealed his emotions Laura found it was good he finally broke.

"Well, you take your happy drugs and get ready for PT torture and with those bowel's moving get ready for the constipation with the narcotics," Frances knew better than most after her hip replacement a year before.

Lovely, I've been using the PCA less and less. Pain is more manageable, the nurse said that once my gut starts to function more and with the PEG, they can switch me to liquid meds. I want NSAID's, hate the narcs, Clint told them.

Laura thought it over and knew the undertone of his request, Clint always feared becoming his father.

"You'll be okay baby, just jump those hurdles," Laura encouraged.

I am, I'll do it. Is Cooper there? Clint's voice had Cooper sitting up at the table.

"Hi Daddy!" Cooper shouted.

Hey kiddo, you behaving for your mother and grandma, Clint asked, she could hear tears in his voice.

"Yep! Grandma cut me pepper!" Cooper announced.

Well, eat extra for me. Daddy can't eat right now, Clint's voice lowered.

"Dada can't eat?" Cooper looked up to his mother.

"Daddy's very sick but he's getting better," Laura informed her son.

"When Daddy get better, he come home?" Cooper's voice was containing a hint of desperation.

Yeah Coop, I'm coming home. Just need to get better. Uncle Phil and Aunt May are taking care of me, Clint ensured.

"Auntie Nat?" Cooper piped up.

Yeah, Auntie Nat is here too, Clint added then under his breath Laura heard, torturing me.

Laura held back a laugh, she knew Natasha well, "Well I'll let you go, stop giving the nurses a hard time."

I'm not! Clint protested and in the background, she heard Phil, he is.

Laura looked over for a moment at her son and mother before opening her mouth, "We love you, Clint."

I love you too, can't wait to see you and Coop…and you Frances, Clint's tone was longing.

"Well, I'm glad I'm missed," Frances said sardonically.

I gotta go, PT is here, there was a knock on the door in the background

"Well, you behave," Laura smiled.

I'll make sure he does, Melinda said in the background.

"Thanks Melinda, and you too Phil. Thank Nat for me," it wasn't about the joke, it was more the fact they were his home away from home.

I'll call tomorrow after the procedure, Clint said.

"I'll be waiting," Laura returned.

Laura hit the side button on her phone as the call hung up, screen going black. She sat slowly in the chair next to her son watching him eat his lunch. Clint sounded better, a far cry from when they last spoke. Laura felt a spark of hope, just a sliver of optimism as he spoke of his condition. No matter what happened she would see him through this, he was never alone. Laura would count down the days until his arrival whenever it may be. Reaching over and patting her son's head she was looking forward to her household returning to normal.

---

"I can do this," Clint chanted to himself as he cautiously sat up on the side of the bed with the physical therapists help. Just like riding a bike, he could do this, it was nothing more than another task. Clint tried to relax when the therapist helped him sit up and slide his legs over the side of the bed, Phil taking a secure grip with his hands behind his knees. For a moment Clint felt nothing but vertigo, his world spinning off an invisible axis. When it cleared his new world view came sharply to life, and it felt good. When he was finally sitting up the therapist made certain his tubes and catheters were secure while Nat tied the back of his gown closed. Clint held up his arms as the therapist tightened a gait belt around his waist and positioned the walker in front of him for leverage.

"Here goes nothin'," Clint joked.

Hands on the walker, knuckles white with strain, he pushed himself up to standing. His breathing was quickening as the pain shot through his system. A perpetual ache stabbed at his abdomen down to his spine but he muscled on. Just a few steps, that's what they wanted, then he could collapse into the recliner that had moved to the side of the bed. The first step was a marathon, second came easier, then Clint was being lowered into the waiting recliner. Two pillows were propped up in the back, a pad for his bottom covered the seat. May had jumped in and grabbed the catheter bag, leaning over to hang it on the hook at the bottom. His NG pulled slightly where it was pinned to his gown, IV pole wheeled to accommodate his new position as to not pull the central line or PICC. He sat back with a sigh, relaxing into the comfort of the fluffy pillows, adjusting his bottom on the chucks pad.

Head leaning back, he closed his eyes with a content sigh, "I can get used to this."

"Here," Nat threw a pillow at him for his middle.

"You did great, it will get easier the more we get you up, day after tomorrow I want you to walk down the hall some," the therapist suggested.

"Yeah, yeah, sounds like fun," Clint waved him off.

"Well, I'm leaving, just call me back when you want to get back to bed," the therapist said before leaving the room.

"We can get him back," Phil told him.

Clint was more than happy, he felt free of the prison he had been lying in for almost two weeks. Phil moved the overbed table to the recliner positioning it in Clint's reach. On it lay everything he needed; his book, swabs, and phone were easily at arm's length and his PCA button was clipped to the sheet on the chair. Honestly, he had not been using the button preferring to ride out the pain or accept the Toradol he was recently being given. He felt good considering everything, Marcia had promised to remove his staples tomorrow before the procedure and after the procedure there was a high likelihood of the NG being removed as well. He was still booked for at least another week in the hospital but with improvement came more independence.

"Well, I have an appointment with a few new recruits," May announced.

"Don't break any," Phil warned.

The look May gave him had Clint cackling.

As May walked out of the room Clint turned to Phil, "She's going to break someone."

"They deserve it," Nat put in.

"Any news on the investigation?" Clint asked suddenly.

"Nothing much, Beekman has an alibi, says he had to go dark," Phil informed.

"Beekman the piece of shit that sold us out? Working for Fontaine?" Clint urged.

"Don't know Clint, maybe or maybe not. We think he's the leak," Natasha added.

Clint knew Beekman from the time the younger agent was at the academy. He was arrogant and pigheaded; the biggest son of a bitch Clint had met. Thankfully he had never had the grace to work with the man, but he heard stories. Beekman had risen the ranks after a few failed missions, the last of which cost an agent his life. How and why, he was special Clint would never know. Apparently, his disdain for the kid was well founded considering he was suspect number one for Fury in the investigation that landed Clint in this hospital bed. Clint wasn't surprised, the feeling of hate was mutual between the two. He just never thought that the agent would go as far as to betray the agency that gave him a second chance and sell out a fellow agent.

"We'll get him Barton, it just takes time, Fury's not giving up," Phil assured him.

Clint thought long and hard about the director and his relationship with the man, he had always been closer to Fury more than any other agent at SHIELD. There was always something behind his friendship, something akin to the paternal love Clint was denied as a child. While the leadership at SHIELD, the WSC and Pierce, could care less for Clint's disposition he knew Fury had his back. It was only a matter of time before Beekman was flushed out of the darkness and into the light.

---

"We need to talk about the matter of Agent Beekman," Hill started. She was currently deep in the investigation and becoming more aggravated the more it moved along. Two days ago his handler had spoken to them and had informed leadership that the man was worried for his safety and was required to go dark and off comms. Had Hill agreed she would have believed him but the farther this investigation was progressing the more Beekman had a target on his back. Now Hill was one step away from tearing her hair out after Sitwell stated the Beekman was just a pawn in the game, a misguided lead to steer SHIELD away from the real culprit: Fontaine.

"Beekman's not the leak, it had to be someone working for Fontaine," Sitwell countered.

"So, we are just going to dismiss that Beekman was seen on the carrier after Barton went down and suddenly had to go dark a few days later?" Hill was beginning to lose patience's.

"I'm not saying he's agent of the year but Beekman has a solid alibi, he's gone dark because he was made by the drug cartel he had been tracking. As for him being on the carrier he burned his arm, needed treatment. It's just coincidence he was there when Barton was brought in," Sitwell debated.

Fucking logistics, Beekman sold them out, I know he did, Hill's mind was full of contradictions.

"Meanwhile, Fontaine is in the wind. He is the real face behind all of this and when Barton didn't take the shot he ran," Sitwell continued.

He's blaming Barton

"Are you blaming Barton for this?" Hill turned slowly to Sitwell, eyes dark and authoritative.

"No, I'm not blaming Barton, I just mean that somehow Fontaine made his position and sent Scarlotti after Barton, I mean I hate to say this but maybe Barton just got sloppy," Sitwell suggested.

"Barton doesn't do sloppy," Phil walked into the room quietly and pinned Sitwell with a glare.

May walked in to stand beside Phil, "Barton was surprised because his location was compromised, only a member of SHIELD would be able to get mission details. Fontaine may be working with Beekman but there is no doubt in my mind that he sold us out."

"May's right Jasper, I know you want to believe Beekman is just a pawn there's no other explanation as to why he was in Mexico when he was technically in Europe. He needs to be questioned," Phil looked at Jasper Sitwell.

"But what about Scarlotti, just another plant?" Sitwell asked.

"Think about it Jasper, there are few who can get the drop on Barton. If Scarlotti was that good of an assassin it would make sense to utilize him," Phil was right, he had to be. There was no other reason as to why Barton was taken so cleanly and quickly.

"I guess we have to leave it to Fury then," Sitwell mused.

"Yes, we do," May stared back at Sitwell.

"He's investigating, wants to bring Beekman in for questioning after an extraction team pulls him out of the line of fire. We just sent a STRIKE team to his last known location," Hill told them.

"Good, if he's innocent than we go back to the drawing board, but I think there's something we don't know yet. Barton looked at the report, he agrees it was an inside job," Phil informed the group.

"Barton's looking at reports now. I thought he was medical leave?" Sitwell cocked an eyebrow.

"He had a right to know," May replied softly.

"Well, I have a team I must oversee at the academy," Sitwell bowed his head and began walking from the room.

There was a silence that descended between the three of them following Sitwell's departure. Hill was still aggravated, had been for nearly a week when it came to this case. Sitwell was wrong, she had said that plenty of times. While Sitwell was a good man and agent, he never liked to look at an internal matter as a cause. Seeing a fellow agent, whether one liked him/her or not, as the enemy always sat sour in Sitwell's mind. He'd rather believe an external cause, a break of protocol that led to an unfortunate accident when an agent was compromised, never that an agent had gone rogue. May and Coulson were pragmatists, like Hill they saw the bigger picture and believed that while most in the agency were wholesome there were those who used their seat as a tool to gain power. Hill always knew Beekman was like that, utilizing his failure as a mission leader and a fellow agent's death as a means for promotion.

"So, STRIKE team?" Phil turned to Hill.

"Yeah, Beekman's last known location was Mexico City. His handler said he was trying to track Fontaine after you were extracted and was made, fearing for his life he went radio silent and dark," Hill explained, she didn't believe anything that came out of her mouth.

"Fury believes our theory, you obviously believe it, now we just have to act on it," May said.

"We are, spoke with Fury this morning, he's arranging for Beekman to be questioned on his arrival," Phil told her.

"Good, Barton will like that except he still wants to put an arrow between his eyes," May smirked.

"How's Barton?" Hill wondered.

"Good, he's going to be on leave for possibly a year or more. It was bad Hill, the damage was extensive," Phil gave what he thought necessary, Clint was still iffy about the concentrated medical details.

"Damn," Hill cursed.

"Any news about Stark's possible connection?" May put in.

"None, according to a S.I. representative all and any information dealing with the polymer technology was sold to another company, Cybertek. Stark has little interest in his father's work on it probably because it was a failed design," Hill described.

"So, it mysteriously vanished from SHIELD labs?" Phil quirked.

Hill rubbed a tired hand across her forehead, "Everything about this case is giving me a headache."

"You're not the only one," May intoned.

This entire situation was exhausting, the emotional pain alone was enough to break a person. Phil just wanted it all to end, wanted to lay down and sleep for a year. Phil looked over to where May leaned against a table, her blatant need for sleep palpable. Phil held a glimmer of hope at the progression Clint had been undergoing. Sharing a nod with May and a quick goodbye at Hill Phil wanted to return to his quarters. Natasha had been staying at the hospital with only minimal breaks at the gym or her quarters. He and May wanted to be well rested to support Clint for his procedure tomorrow, while nothing like his previous two operations wasn't anything to scoff at. Clint for his part was relatively relaxed about the whole prospect, anticipation, and excitement bubbling to the surface at the notion of going home.

"Going to quarters?" May walked up to him.

"Yeah, feel like an old person. Going to bed at eight," Phil scoffed.

"We deserve it besides you didn't sleep last night," how could he forget, he spent the better part of the night in his thoughts after May fell asleep on his bed.

"I'm going to stop by Clint's room, pick up some clothes and things for him," Phil said.

"I can go if you want to go to bed," May offered.

"No, I got it," Phil waved her off.

"Goodnight Phil," May smiled softly.

"Night May," Phil just looked longingly into her eyes.

She has Andrew, she's taken Phil

You lost

Phil walked briskly to his quarters avoiding any agent who tried to intercept. When he entered his room the smell of lemon cleaner assaulted his nose, Phil had been nervous enough that morning to adopt Laura Barton's habit of cleaning. Opening the second drawer on the nightstand he grabbed the familiar rubber duck keychain, a gag from May, from the basket inside. He stepped out of the room and down the narrow hallway to the quarters four doors down. Clint had chosen this, close to his handler after the Triskelion opened, the proximity allowed for a quick talk-down after one of Clint's many nightmare induced PTSD episodes.

Stepping up to the door Phil shook his head at Clint's aversion to electronic locks, unlike the rest of the doors with doorknob keyholes mainly for show his was fully functional and hardly used. Phil had to wiggle the key until it fit into the tight lock, turning quickly, and entering the apartment-like room that served as a home away from home for all field agents. The main room was stark, bed made military style, drab SHIELD issued bedding. A bow case and gear bag sat in the corner, placed there after their return from Mexico City. Natasha had in a grief filled night oiled the string and checked the gear before stripping and cleaning Clint's Berretta. Stepping over to Clint's nightstand Phil was noticing how little the agent really utilized these rooms.

He had one goal, get a few things that would make Clint comfortable that he could bring to the hospital tomorrow. A pair of sweatpants for when the catheter was finally pulled, a few worn SHIELD training t-shirts, a mini dartboard, extra hearing aid batteries, and Clint's Gameboy. A divisive toy Clint often hid in his quiver on long missions Phil always thought it made him a child. He opened the second drawer and found what he was looking for. A folded picture, faded with weathering from several mission's past. Clint with his wife and son, Cooper a one-year-old, shot in the vast yard at Clint's farmhouse. Phil picked up an empty small duffle bag and shoved the items inside. He would deliver them to Clint and surprise him after the PEG insertion.

Checking the lights were off Phil stepped out of the room and locked the door behind him.

---

Once again Clint sat in pre-op, or pre-procedure they called it, but was relieved to find that this time he was far more awake and, in a lot, less pain. The doctor had been by, spoke quickly about the procedure, and had him sign the consent. Now he waited none so patiently as the TV droned in the background. His hearing aids had yet to be taken but he was on the verge of removing them for the sheer fact that the rattle in the background was making him nervous. Clint glanced up at the TV, an old ridiculous episode of SpongeBob had him cringing at the characters voice. Really?

"We're going to take you back soon Agent Barton," an orderly had entered his curtained off area.

Clint just nodded, about damn time. He was getting antsy with the wait, just wanted to get all this over with. Anticipating the future removal, he slipped his fingers up to his ears and removed his hearing aids, handing them to Natasha as she stepped into his cubicle. She looked to be a mixture of mischievous and angry, for reasons Clint had no idea. She sat down on the rolling stool and twirled around on the seat. Clint couldn't help but think of Nat as a child, a petulant teenager trying to make those around her insane. He hesitated to ask why Nat was acting the way she was but decided against it. She was currently staring at the open curtain, eyes sharp and body alert with muscles tightened like a rubber band.

"Nat relax," Clint soothed.

"I am relaxed," Nat intoned.

Yeah right

Clint rolled his eyes skyward and shook his head, she was making him nervous. The rising tension in the room was jolting his already jittery nerves. He thought about his wife, pictured his son in his mind, mused about his eventual recovery, anything that took his mind off his pending procedure. He enjoyed the silence, the peaceful quiet removing his hearing aids brought. There was a warmth on his hand, pressure of Natasha's hand in his. He looked over, steel-gray eyes meeting green, a peace was shared between the two. Understanding flowing through their bones as they connected on a deeper level. I will be fine, was his silent message, comprehended only on an unconscious level.

There was movement out of the corner of his eye, muffled sounds meeting his deaf ears as the visitor began speaking, "We're ready to take you back."

At Clint's cocked head Natasha signed for interpretation.

He nodded as the nurse came towards his bed. Keeping the syringe in his view she instructed him to relax as the Versed was injected into his central line. It worked quick, the room rushing in his blurring vision. While never one for any drug to alter his sense of self Clint felt pretty good considering. There were hands in front of his face, a nasal cannula inserted into his nose and secured behind his ears. The oxygen was bliss for his drug ladened brain, easing his slowing respiratory rate. When the brakes on the bed were released, he jolted with the movement, tensing briefly as they began to roll him down to the procedure room. Nat was left behind, standing by herself in the curtained off area, eyes locked on Clint. When he entered the cold endoscopy suite he was gently rolled on his side, plastic apparatus placed between his lips keeping his mouth open. I'm going to give you something that will help you relax, he hardly heard behind him before something was discoloring his central line white. In only a moment Clint felt himself drift away, world blurring in and out of view as his brain ceased to function on a conscious level.

---

Natasha was determined to redecorate the waiting room into a sparring gym, a target on the wall may do her good. She paced back and forth wearing a small path in the drab carpet, counting her steps in each direction. A knife remained in her hand, switchblade, that she opened and closed with marked precision. An agent on security detail kept attentive eyes on her with every flip of her blade. His expression was one of judgment, one of the many Natasha had been accustomed to since her arrival at SHIELD. There were few agents that looked at her and saw who she really was, that she was more than a killer. Clint had been one of those agents from day one, lowering his bow and reaching out a welcoming hand. It was both a blessing and a curse of the man, his unflinching loyalty to his friends and the bonds he formed with those closes to him was the exact cause of Natasha's chaotic emotions.

"They take him back?" Phil walked up to her, suit impeccable yet eyes tired. In his hand a worn duffle Natasha recognized to be Clint's.

"About thirty minutes ago," Natasha answered bluntly.

"They said it wouldn't take long," May reminded them as she stepped out from behind Phil.

I'm just tired of this, was left unsaid on Natasha's mind.

Phil walked over to an empty chair and dropped the duffle on the ground before taking a seat, "Brought some stuff for Barton, thought he'd want some tees and pants. Grabbed some extra hearing aid batteries."

Placing a hand on the small black case on the chair beside her Natasha made sure Clint's hearing aids were still secure. Picking the case up she handed it over to Phil who stuffed it in his suit coat pocket. Normally one to be alone Natasha was secretly comforted by Phil and May's company. Giving up her pacing she took a seat next to her handler, May joining on his other side. They waited like so many times before, painful and nerve wracking. They swore Clint was the reason for their lack of sanity, at least their recent loss of it. All three just sat in silence, awaiting news better than previous times. A quick procedure, the doctor told them. Clint was stable and recovering, heart strong and physiologically improving. Once complete his full convalescence could begin, he could start adapting to his new situation and learn to control new aspects of his body.

"Here she comes," Phil nodded upward to Dr. Graham as she walked towards the three waiting agents.

Dr. Rose Graham stepped towards them, calm and peaceful expression on her passive face, "Family of Clint Barton?"

They all held their breath, expecting bad news as they had before.

It never came.

"Is he-," Natasha began, voice cracking until Dr. Graham interrupted her with hands held up calmly.

"Everything went well, very well actually. He came through with flying colors, just coming out of anesthesia now then we will get him back to his room," she updated them.

"Tubes in, he's ready to go?" Phil asked.

"It's in, no complications. We're keeping him NPO until tomorrow then I think we will start some water through the PEG and see how he does, if he tolerates it well then, I don't see why we can't start a low feeding rate. Maybe even start him on some clear liquids by mouth," the doctor explained.

"So, his system's getting better?" May put in.

"It would appear so; bowel sounds are returning, and I heard he's tolerated small sips of water. Once he's awake we'll pull the NG," Dr. Graham sounded hopeful and optimistic.

There was a moment of painful silence between the three before Dr. Graham smiled, "I would say he's officially on the road to recovery."

Melinda took a breath, letting it out slowly as she turned to Phil. She noticed his relief, it was palpable in the room, echoing off the walls. After living through the past two weeks May had begun to grow accustomed to the excessive amount of stress and angst. There came a time when all agents went through absolute hell when they or their partner went down in the field. She had her own story in Sarajevo, but recovery was minuscule compared to Clint. Sharing a look with Coulson she could tell they thought the same, while Clint was over the major procedures his fight was far from over.

---

Clint woke slowly, groggy eyes sliding open to the sight of his friends. Nat was once again sitting on the edge of the bed, hand in his with delicate fingers curling around his palm. May was on the recliner, sitting back and reading her book. Coulson was at the corner of the room, standing by the window and looking out at the view. Clint's eyes closed until a few breaths later reopened locking with Nat's green orbs. He felt relatively good, little pain besides the same surgical ache he'd had for days. He noticed the nasal cannula was removed, NG dangling on his chest no longer hooked into the wall suction. His upper abdomen felt almost numb, heavy tape and gauze covering the new device inserted through his skin.

"Wake up you faker," Nat mumbled.

Waiting for his brain to catch up Clint's eye's fluttered open before opening wide in an attempt to remain awake, "Nat."

His soft voice got the attention of everyone in the room, May putting her book down and sitting up in the chair, "Welcome back Barton."

"Can't hear," Clint croaked motioning to his ears.

Phil stepped towards the bed black case in hand before unzipping the canvas and slipping the two BTE hearing aids behind Clint's ears, "How's that?"

"Better," Clint's foggy brain began unveiling slowly, sharper every minute he was awake.

He waited for his mind to clear, metabolism flushing the drugs from his system. Clint was back in his room, lights on low to protect sensitive eyes. The new device in his stomach was connected to an empty bag, bile and stomach contents draining through extension tubing. Nothing else was altered, the PICC still infused TPN and the little used PCA was connected to the central line through one lumen while saline dripped through another. He fought sleep, remnants of sedatives pulling him under. His delayed senses snapped to alert when the door opened.

"Good afternoon Agent Barton," Marcia was exceptionally cheery.

"Draw the short straw?" Clint teased.

"You're growing on me Agent Barton," Marcia smiled.

Natasha nudged Clint's shoulder earning her a smug look, "That's not a good thing."

"Hey! I'm a model patient," Clint remarked.

"The hell you are," May cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah, whatever, you won't have to put up with me for much longer," Clint was hopeful his days were limited in this room.

She stepped over to the bed and did her assessment, checking vital signs after wrapping the BP cuff around Clint's upper left arm. As the machine cycled, she read the amount of TPN infused throughout the day from the history on the IV pump, ins and outs, the next would be his Foley catheter for urine output. He had the unfortunate education now of a patient, learning all about medical terms only his wife knew. He must have been doing well because she only typed the results in his electronic chart before scanning his daily medications and administering the routine drugs in his central line. He pulled down his gown for access and waited for what she was to say next.

"So, Agent Barton I'm going to remove the NG and also get those staples out," Marcia announced.

"Please call me Clint, drop the agent, I'm not exactly in the field," Clint corrected.

There was a brief flash of sadness on Phil's face, a frown turning his mouth before returning to stark business seriousness.

"And yes, I'm more than ready to be able to breath through my nose," Clint was more than elated.

"Suck it up Hawkeye," Nat pushed his shoulder.

Clint shot her a look, eyes glaring, "You have a garden hose up your nose and see how you feel."

Natasha only rolled her eyes, standing up from the bed and joining Phil by the window. Clint relaxed as Marcia peeled the adhesive on the NG holder above his lip, the tube now loose in his nose. He took a deep breath on her demand and winced as the tube was pulled slowly out of his nose, the feeling strange as it made the path upward in his esophagus. His nose scrunched up in disgust as it exited his nostril, end of the tube brownish and stained with bile. The feeling was glorious, nose free at last after more than a week. He breathed deeply and inhaled the sterile smell of his room. His nose itched, mucus membranes irritated and swollen from the prolonged foreign body rubbing against the sensitive tissue. He rubbed his finger vigorously and scratched his nose, eyes watering with the irritation. Despite the discomfort he felt better than ever with one less tube.

"That felt wonderful," his voice was garbled as he rubbed his nose.

"You're a little too happy Barton," Phil commented with a roll of his eyes.

"Shut up," Clint countered.

Marcia just huffed a laugh at the dynamic as she cleaned up the mess. She helped Clint change into a clean gown, inspecting his wounds as his abdomen was exposed. The incision was clean and dry, the newest wound was swathed in gauze, tube peeking out underneath tape where it led to the drainage bag. Marcia brought over another tool, staple remover, where she expertly lined it up under the first staple and removed the metal holding his incision closed. The first few hurt, his abdomen tensing and spasming with the burning pain. After that the pain subsided, the feeling merely a pinprick followed by pulling as it stretched the skin upward. Clint lost count after the first ten as she moved from his pubis upward to his lower chest under his breastbone. By the last one he was partially asleep, dozing with the remains of the drugs in his system.

"All done," Marcia chirped.

"Wow, you look like Frankenstein's monster," Nat commented.

Clint narrowed his eyes and looked down; the long incision bisected his belly curving around his bellybutton. Telltale signs of staples left tiny punctures on either side. Both drains remained on either side and the newest g-tube was concealed with gauze, positioned in the upper abdomen just left of midline. He agreed but was not allowing Natasha this one, "You know what Commie?"

"Cranky," Nat returned blandly.

Smiling at Natasha Marcia began to go through the next phase of Clint's recovery, "So now that those are out the drains will be removed in a few more days. Tomorrow the doctor wants to start water through the PEG at a slow rate and get you up walking after that hopefully in the next few days we can start actual formula and try getting you to eat something by mouth, fully liquid diet to start. As long as you can tolerate liquids through the tube the PCA will be discontinued and start you on liquid morphine."

"Sounds great, going home soon?" Clint inquired.

Marcia nodded slowly, "Hopefully in the next week or so, we need to make sure your GI system is working, and you can tolerate tube feedings."

About damn time

After Marcia left the room Clint relaxed into the bed and for the first time in more than a week slept peacefully.

---

The next day was busy, busier than Clint would have liked. Marcia was off leaving newer SHIELD employee Billy as his nurse. According to Dr. Graham who had completed her rounds that morning Clint's gut was finally working albeit slowly. With it came excess gas which Nat was good to call him out on. He was also changed over to a slow rate of water flowing through his feeding tube, the sensation quite nice compared to the hollow emptiness he had been feeling. The nausea only lasted a few minutes after the addition of water before subsiding increasing his prospects of formula being added tomorrow. Just one more step before going home. The next item on the list for today was getting rid of the PCA (Clint hadn't used it in a day) and walking.

"You ready to get rid of that PCA?" Billy announced as he stepped up to Clint's bed.

Clint only waved in confirmation as he continued to read the latest report on the investigation.

Billy only nodded after noticing Clint's hearing aids on the table. He was good, worked plenty of places with the disabled and elderly. He was also very adept at working with ornery patients. Quickly he disconnected the PCA, Clint sighed when he did, and flushed the line. He knew from day one of meeting the infirmed agent that Barton hated narcotics. Even looking at the log showed little to no usage in the past day, the agent preferring the occasional injection of Toradol instead. As he was wheeling the extra IV pole out into the hall Clint inserted both hearing aids and turned his attention to the nurse.

"What next?" Clint asked.

"Well PT should be here in an hour or so to get you up walking. Dr. Graham said if you continue to tolerate the water through the PEG I can give you clear liquids by mouth later this afternoon," Billy listed before listening to Clint's abdomen. Even he could hear the gurgling as the stethoscope was moved around, "Yep, bowel sounds definitely returning."

Fourteen days, two major operations, and sepsis and Clint's intestinal tract finally decided to function. Now with the return of peristalsis meds were switched over to liquid solutions and syrups pushed through the feeding tube including the liquid morphine for his pain management regimen. He was also warned that with the return of movement came the threat of constipation when advancing to formula and oral food, he was less than enamored with that prospect. Despite that he was looking forward to getting everything moving, his back was beginning to ache lying in this bed. He yearned to move, to feel normal, to feel like a man again; like the husband, father, and agent he was supposed to be.

"He's gassy," Natasha joked.

"Shut it," Clint snapped, he was more than tired of comments on his bodily functions or malfunction of them. He had yet to rid himself of the catheter draining his bladder.

He watched as Billy uncovered his abdomen and disconnected the PEG from the tubing, clamping before so water didn't drain onto the bed. He had three blunt syringes, three different colors staining the plastic. Morning dose of narcotic for PT, iron supplement, and what? Wait stool softener, just one of the many newest additions to his medical file for when the formula and food began. He attached each syringe and pushed the medication through the g-tube, flushing with water between each. It was a strange feeling to have something injected into his stomach, even stranger since his stomach had been painfully empty for fourteen days. Clint could taste the medication in the back of his throat, brief nausea bubbling to the surface before subsiding.

"Done?" Clint looked up to Billy.

"Yep, PT will be here in a while so sit tight," Billy answered.

"Not goin' anywhere," Clint resisted rolling his eyes.

After Billy stepped out of the room Phil turned to Clint, "He's nice."

"Yeah," Clint was distracted, too focused on the report in his hands.

Per my investigation and theory there is compounding evidence of Agent Beekman's involvement in the substantial breech of security and subsequent compromise of Agent Phil Coulson's recent mission, of which Agent Clint Barton alias Hawkeye was gunned down by a known assassin likely linked with Beekman's hidden agenda. I recommend the capture and questioning of Beekman and further investigation to any agency or group the agent is currently working with. -Deputy Director Maria Hill

So, it was official, only Hill and Fury at this moment of time believed that Beekman was responsible. Clint wanted nothing more than to jump out of his bed and with what little adrenaline he could muster find the agent and punch the son of bitch out. Even better yet, put an arrow between Beekman's eyes. Clint knew there was more to this, a bigger underground organization Beekman had to be working with. There was no way Fontaine was the ringleader, the arms smuggler was rich and powerful but lacked a certain level of intelligence. Romanoff had him wrapped around her finger and reeled in before the mission was compromised when Clint took that bullet.

There was a moment of silence after Phil saw Clint's concentration before the agent urged, "Clint?"

"It's Beekman, he sold us out but there's a bigger reason, he's working for something higher up," Clint described out of the blue.

"Higher up?" May put in.

"SHIELD's been compromised," Natasha translated.

Phil looked over at May and sighed.

Clint's right, this runs deeper

---

"Send the STRIKE team," Hill ordered as she stepped back from the command table. Fury had placed the final puzzle piece, an image captured from Haggerty with the CIA at the hotel. Beekman and Scarlotti, in a clandestine meeting three building's down, a folder being handed over. It was a complete accident; Haggerty's partner had been looking for intel on Fontaine and had stumbled into the job. It worked in SHIELD's favor; Hill was beyond ecstatic that this information had come to light when it did. It proved Fontaine, while still a lowlife criminal on SHIELD's radar, had no idea Coulson's team was there. That also meant there was a high likelihood that the mysterious man in the Hawaiian shirt Natasha had mentioned in a report was Beekman securing a deal with Fontaine.

"STRIKE team?" Jasper was flustered, or so it would seem.

"We're bringing Beekman in, Fury's order," Hill said without looking up from her tablet.

She only looked up when the sound of boots signaled May's arrival in the room, "You are bringing Beekman in?"

"Yes, we got a lock on his position. He's made a home at the Mexico City safehouse," Hill informed the other agent.

"That dingy place?" May said sardonically.

"Looks like he's keeping it warm for you," Hill joked.

May read the report further, looked closely at the grainy photos taken by the CIA operative. Eyes scanning the picture May scoffed, Beekman's position had him in perfect sightline of the alley Clint nearly bled out in. That piece of shit, he watched from afar; they could have easily apprehended him despite his play on a tourist just enjoying Mexico City. That's when May realized, Beekman was observing his work. He wanted to watch, wanted to see the destruction he caused. She knew this was a test, that Clint was the unwilling guinea pig, but May was unclear of the details on how they were so easily made until now. Beekman's secondary goal worked, Scarlotti threw the mission leaving Fontaine open for escape. It was perfect for whatever agency Beekman was working for, as mole securing one of the most prolific arms dealers on SHIELD's radar. This was the ultimate plan, test their new weapon and secure an arms deal. Barton was the collateral test subject and if Beekman's history with Barton was anything to go by it was a vindictive hit.

"I want a go at him when he's brought in," May ground out.

Hill decided not to answer, just looked over at May and kept her mouth closed in a thin line.

"Well, I heard the little weasel Sammy Beekman is a leak, even went as far as to put one in Barton, well sort of," both looked up to John Garrett as he sauntered into the room.

"We won't know more until questioning. I thought you were on a mission?" May turned to Garrett.

"Just got back, mission was a no go. Terrorist cell we were sent after high tailed it after local PD got the drop on them," Garrett explained.

"Sounds like fun," Jasper remarked.

Hill gave Garrett a long, hard look before ordering, "Just have the mission report completed by tomorrow."

"When have I ever failed you," Garrett held his arms out in surrender.

Hill merely rolled her eyes and huffed a laugh. John Garrett was an exceptional SHIELD agent but was also known for his sarcastic wit much like Clint Barton himself.

"I have to report to Fury," Hill began before turning to look at May. "I'll let you know."

"I'll tell Coulson," May nodded.

Garrett just looked between the two before stating, "It's about damn time we get that son of a bitch and drop him in the Fridge."

"I don't disagree," May replied softly.

"Well, I have a STRIKE team to monitor," Jasper announced.

After Garrett and Sitwell left the briefing room May shared a look with Hill. There was understanding between the two, a mutual grief over this whole situation. While Hill was often annoyed with Barton's off-book antics she respected him as an agent, and in many ways a friend. She also understood the prospects of many a headache for Fury with one of his best agents on an extended medical leave. Hill couldn't imagine what the mission roster was going to look like in the following year. It was going to be interesting to say the least, Strike Team Delta appeared to be broken apart for now. Either way Hill knew Fury would make it work, put Romanoff on solo infiltration missions and leave May with Coulson for the time being considering Barton was on desk duty when he returned. Shaking her head Hill was in for an interesting future.

---

Clint was more than ready to move, more than willing to get up and prove he could walk. Take it easy, he could hear his wife chanting in his head. He vowed to take it slower than he ever had in the past, take his time and not reinjure what he worked so hard to heal. The physical therapist was by his bedside giving directions, Clint turned up the volume on his hearing aids to hear every single one. Phil had his hands under Clint's knees maneuvering his stocking-clad legs over the side of the bed as the therapist carefully sat him up by the shoulders. Clint sat for a moment, feet dangling off the side of the bed catching his breath and breathing through the vertigo that came with lying for so long. While he collected himself the therapist had unfolded a walker and set it in front of him. Clint only gave a glare of disdain before planting his hands firmly on the handles and with the therapists help levered himself to his feet, the walker supporting most of his weight.

"Wow!" Clint winced at the pain that pulled his abdomen, the newest tube yanking as it caught on the bed.

"Nice and easy," the therapist soothed.

"I can do this," Clint whispered under his breath.

Taking his first step in fourteen days Clint walked slowly with the aid of the walker. He felt like Cooper, his son's delayed first steps wobbly and unsure. Letting the walker carry his weight he pushed forward, determined to move on in his recovery. Behind him Phil was at his left side wheeling the IV stand, Natasha and May were at his right; watchful eyes glued to his every move. Clint continued forward, halting every few steps to catch his breath. Tubes swayed and dangled from his body, coming out from under his gown to the feeding pump or tangling up over his wrist from the PICC. He didn't care, so as long as they didn't pull Clint felt free.

"You want to go back?" the therapist asked.

"Not on your life," Clint held back a grimace as pain flared in his healing belly.

He knew not to push it, knew not to throw back his recovery but standing felt glorious. The therapist guided Clint out into the hall, walker wheeling steadily in front of him and for once Clint let his pride be forgotten. If anyone saw him in this state, then they could see a survivor finally rising up from the proverbial ashes. He made it halfway down the hall when he forced himself to stop, Clint felt like he had run a marathon. Trained harder than ever in SHIELD's gyms before taking on Natasha in a spar. His throat ached for water, parched mouth pleading for something wet. Tossing out exhaustion and physical barriers he was determined to finish his lap. Taking the last few steps to the nurse's station he turned slowly and began the arduous journey back to his room. As he reached his door the room began to sway, lights bright in his suddenly sensitive eyes. Shit! I'm going down! He'd passed out enough times in his life to know the feeling. Probably an after effect of moving after such a long time sedentary. His ears rang despite the hearing aids, and he could feel pressure on the gait belt around his waist. Collecting himself Clint took a deep, cleansing breath before lifting his head.

I can do this

"You okay Barton?" Phil questioned.

"Time to go back," Clint replied in a small voice.

Clint hobbled with the walker back to his room, it was slow and steady but with every step he could feel himself growing stronger. Gone was the weak feeling of fainting, his vision cleared, and the fog lifted. He got his second wind, but the pain was clawing its way back, while he wished to continue sitting felt like a good idea. Steering the therapist away from the bed Clint set direction to the recliner. They stopped for a moment as he leaned on the walker, bent over slightly to relieve the pressure off his abdomen while Phil hastily threw a sheet over the chair and set up a few pillows. Clint turned slowly, aware of his surroundings and sense of orientation before lowering himself into the waiting nest of pillows Phil had set up.

He let out a sigh and closed his eyes, "That felt great."

"Well, you did great. A few more times and it will get easier," the therapist was already snapping closed the walker and leaning down to remove the gait belt from Clint's waist.

"Tomorrow, same time, same place," Clint joked softly.

"Yes sir," the therapist threw a mock salute before leaving the room.

Natasha sauntered up to the recliner, sitting on one arm as she ran her hand down Clint's arm, "Tired?"

Clint only hummed in reply, eyes fluttering closed as his body relaxed into sleep.

"Sleep," she whispered in Russian. "I have the watch."

And he did just that, surrendering to his body's need for rest while Coulson and May tidied his bed. He would call his wife later, announcing his feat but now all he wanted was rest.

Sleep

---

Arrogance always clouded one's judgement, a cloud of surefire wit that overruled practical knowledge. There were those who knew such advise and came to learn from their mistake, others were less fortunate living to steal the spotlight and always prove they were right despite evidence against such fact. Sammy Beekman was the latter, always proving himself to be the best at any situation. Now he sat at the abandoned safehouse basking in his glory, drinking from an expensive bottle of Patron rewarded to him by the great Fontaine himself. The deal was sealed, HYDRA would take home a welcomed win for discovering results of a long-forgotten scientific study.

Well Stark, you've done HYDRA proud

Last reports passed over from higher command placed Barton still in the hospital. The polymer had done wonders and while the ultimate test of anonymity had proven a failure the subsequent chemical breakdown had been Barton's undoing. Last Beekman had heard Hawkeye was now on medical indefinitely with prospects of return unknown. Oh, how the mighty fall, he had always hated Barton back to when the older agent discovered Sammy in the academy. Barton, while having his own impressive resume and brag worthy skills, was never one to gloat. In fact, the elder agent despised those who did, saying flaunting one's self-worth was only as good as one's skills. Beekman had skills, plenty of them, it was how he had risen through the ranks of HYDRA and SHIELD faster than even Barton himself. He wanted more than anything to push it in Barton's face that he, Sammy Beekman, had the ability to take the archer down. Scarlotti was the perfect choice, sleek and skilled he couldn't have chosen better. Now what remained was Beekman's final chance at the spotlight, to prove to his superiors that he deserved a more lucrative position.

Tossing back the shot of tequila Beekman waited for the ringing of his untraceable phone. Instead he read the text, unknown number but familiar from previous communications.

You're Compromised, stand-by for extraction.

Well, if that gave him a chance to take the deputy director down, two birds one stone. Let them come, he thought. Beekman already had the perfect excuse; he had already gone dark with an elaborate explanation of fear. Fontaine had made him in his mission to avenge Barton, he was sent in replace of the archer to complete the assassination of Fontaine. Poor Agent Beekman was apprehended and escaped torture to hide-out in the loan safehouse awaiting a SHIELD extraction. It would be perfect, he would be looked upon as a hero, his ego would be properly stroked. He smiled, cocky and sure, and continued doing so until his phone lit up with another text. Beekman looked carefully, the grainy photograph of a familiar location. Two words underneath had him faltering.

Fury's waiting

Beekman's eyes widened, shit, SHIELD knew. Not only that Fury was his Achilles heel, the one person he feared. As HYDRA he hated the man but also knew the director had methods of extracting information. If he knew then HYDRA would take the next step, a final solution to ensure their anonymity in the ranks of SHIELD. But Beekman had allies, plenty to allow him to go underground. That's what the extraction was for, to drop off the map and have his death faked at the hands of an expert. Looking more closely at the picture Beekman was almost smug looking back at his face. He and Scarlotti, folder passing between the two. A second photograph of himself gloating while looking down a familiar alleyway, Barton bleeding out on the pavement. He loved it, the spotlight was on him, his inner ego was properly nurtured.

I shall rise up the ranks and join the likes of Red Skull himself

But there was one flaw in his plan, Beekman was a shit liar. There was no way for him to hide his involvement with HYDRA. If a picture was passed to Fury, then HYDRA'S secret was compromised.

Unfortunately, Beekman figured that part out too late.

He never heard the door open through his own haze of arrogance. Never heard the cock of a gun or the gunshot that followed.

Beekman fell boneless out of the chair, dead before he hit the floor. A messy exit wound carved a circle between his eyes, a neater entrance marking the back of his head staining his blonde hair crimson. His sightless eyes stared uselessly up at the ceiling, broken shot glass by his nerveless hand. In the doorway was a lone figure, male, stocky build with weathered skin. In his hand a black-market handgun, standard 9mm with Fontaine carved on the ivory covered handle. The man walked into the room silently, boots causing the weathered wood to creek before stepping up to the table. Grabbing the half-drunk bottle of liquor, he took a healthy swig and huffed a pleasant sigh at the taste.

Holstering his gun and giving the dead man a hard, almost sad look, he took a brief cellphone picture before leaning down carefully.

Accent vaguely Southern, words on the precipice of grief, he stated, "Sorry it had to come to this kid."

Gaining his footing and taking one final look at the safehouse the man nodded.

What a waste, Agent John Garrett thought as he left the house.

---

It was official Agent Clint Barton, dedicated father, and agent of SHIELD, was returning to school. Lesson plan included how to feed himself through the tube in his stomach and deal with the new aspects of his life. Marcia was his nurse again, Billy having the night shift, and was currently setting up the supplies to teach Clint how to administer a feeding and medications through his PEG. He had overcome the curve of not eating, now sipping delightfully on the vanilla Ensure he'd been allowed after passing the test of clear liquids. Clint sat in the recliner, table in reach and hearing aids turned up to full volume for his upcoming lessons. Marcia handed him the supplies; her method of teaching was for the patient to go through the motions under her instruction.

"So, to start you need water, plain tap is fine. The medications, feed bag with tubing, pump, and an empty syringe. The large syringe without the plunger is for a bolus feed which I'm going to walk you through as well," Marcia began.

Clint just listened intently, lifting his gown out of the way to grab the end of the gastrostomy tube. It had been clamped all morning after the night shift stopped the water and disconnected the enteral pump. Clint was more than ready for something more substantial considering drinking the Ensure at the pace he was didn't do anything for the hunger. He went through the motions, taking the proffered syringe and filling it with water before waiting for the next instruction.

"All you do is take off the cap of the PEG and insert the syringe when it's in the port you can unclamp and flush. Make sure you keep it clamped until you're ready or you are in for a mess," he had already found out the hard way after unconsciously fiddling with the clamp and ended up with a lap full of stomach contents earlier that morning.

"Like this?" Clint did as she asked, attached the filled syringe to the port and unclamped the tube before pushing the water through the PEG.

"Yep, next part are meds. You do the same thing just flush with water between each one. I'll let you do your morning round," Marcia began handing over various colored syringes listing them off as she went.

Colace

Iron

Zantac

Tylenol

Multivitamin

Nystatin (he needed to ask about that one)

"Nystatin?" Clint read off his medication list.

"For yeast, you've had some evidence of fungal infection with the antibiotics," yeah, he remembered, his mouth still felt fuzzy.

"Antibiotics?" Phil piped from the other side of the room.

He's updating Laura

"Still through the PICC," Marcia answered quickly.

Clint ignored what ever Phil said next as he focused on his task. With each syringe he administered the medications as he was told, flushing in between. It felt strange, cold liquid entering his empty stomach. Marcia brought back a bucket, the pink kind he was tired of seeing, and set it on the table. Clint inspected the contents eagerly, recognizing things he should never have known about. Feeding bag with tubing, a few syringes, gauze for around the insertion site; Clint was becoming old hat at this medical stuff, even his wife would be proud. Marcia was shaking out the tubing, straightening the line and making sure the bag was opened before setting down two cans of formula. Peptamen, a case of the stuff was already sent to his house after Phil spoke with Laura the day before. That along with other medical paraphernalia that was to take up his life for the foreseeable future.

Good thing my wife's a nurse

"Here we go, this is the easy part. This is the feeding pump, it's small and portable," Marcia pointed to the device on the table. EnteraLite Infinity, he read as he picked up the device. It was turquoise and white, fit easily in his hand, and was incredibly light as to fit in a backpack and take on the go.

Sounds like an infomercial

Shut up Clint! Focus! This is your life now!

"Just take the can of formula and pour it in the bag, once that's done you can prime the tubing and insert it in the pump, or you can have the pump prime it. Either way," Marcia instructed.

Clint was hands-on, he always was so taking the feed bag he uncapped the top and loosened the plastic before opening both cans of Peptamen. Pouring the white, flavorless formula carefully in the bag he repeated with the second can before snapping the cap shut. Not so hard, Clint plugged the set into the pump and snapped the door closed before hitting the power button. Following Marcia's motions, he pushed PRIME and watched as the formula ran from the bag down the length of the tubing before dripping out the end. He grunted at his mistake, taking a napkin, and wiping the mess he created before licking the remnants of formula off his finger. Shit! That's nasty! He saw the nurse smile at his grimace, a warning would have been nice. He was reminiscing back to a time when Cooper was an infant on special formula and Clint, being exhausted and half asleep, had accidentally grabbed his son's formula in lieu of his coffee and had taken a healthy drink. Laura never let him live down the mess he had made on the counter after his spit-take.

"Yeah, not for oral consumption," Marcia read off the label.

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock!" Clint cursed.

Laughing for a moment Marcia took a quick breath before continuing, "Before we set you up on the pump, I want to walk through a bolus feed."

Clint had a feeling he was not going to like this.

"Take the large syringe and insert it in the port as usual, then just pour the formula directly in the syringe and unclamp. It should flow easily into the g-tube," Marcia handed him the syringe and can.

He inserted the syringe into the port as she said, unclamped, and poured the formula directly into his stomach. The effect was instantaneous, he started as his unused stomach was flooded with calories for the first time in fifteen days. It wasn't painful so much as filling, the liquid added pressure to his useless GI tract. Noticing his discomfort Marcia reached over and clamped his g-tube before detaching the syringe. Start low and go slow, it was a good life lesson to someone who had not eaten or used his digestive system in more than two weeks.

"You don't seem to be tolerating bolus feeds so let's start with the pump, you're going to set it to the desired rate, right now it's 20ml/hour, and press start. It will alarm if there's any blockage or issue," Marcia placed the pump in front of him as Clint attached the end of the tubing into the port of his PEG. Pressing start he heard the whirling and clicking as the formula began flowing into his stomach at a steady rate. Easy, or so he thought until a shrill alarm pierced his hearing aid.

"Fuck!" he cursed.

"Unclamp your tube," Marcia reminded.

Fucking idiot Clint

He remedied his mistake, flipped the clamp open, and restarted the feed. Sitting back, he smiled to himself as Marcia clamped the pump to the IV pole.

I can do this

Just one more task in his long list accomplished, just a few more hurdles to jump before he was homebound.

---

Laura was at the grocery store with her mother when the shipment arrived. A case of formula and two boxes of medical supplies. It was a flashback to when Cooper came home, a preemie with special needs after surgery to repair a malformation in his gut he was a sickly child requiring much of same care Clint would when her husband came home. The last communication with Natasha had Clint hopefully being released within the week and with her current stress levels she wanted to be prepared. One major shop at Walmart later and her house was thoroughly ready for her husband's arrival. She had even gotten the little bottles of chocolate milk he eyed every time he joined her.

Grown-up man child

I like it Nat

"They said he may be discharged by the end of the week?" her mother inquired as they carried the groceries into the house.

"That's what Phil told me, whether it's true or not we'll have to see," Laura heaved one of the boxes of medical supplies left out on the porch onto the dining room table.

This is real, it was not a nightmare anymore seeing the monumental amount of supplies Clint would need upon his return home. Laura was immensely happy, complete joy ran through her bones at the prospect of holding her husband, but there was an edge of doubt. Coming home Clint would require a lot of care and despite his tenacity to recover he was also stubborn. Against her initial wishes Laura's mother had decided to stay, sleeping in the guest bedroom as a live-in nanny for Cooper for when Clint returned. She opened one box and rifled through the contents: feeding bag sets, batteries, syringes of various sizes with blunt tips, a replacement low-profile g-tube for when the original could be changed, extension set, and the list went on. The second box contained three cases of Peptamen, Clint's current source of nutrition. A third was primarily IV supplies for the PICC, heparin that she was very familiar with, and flush syringes. Laura couldn't imagine had she not been a nurse, this was overwhelming for even her with the training she possessed.

My husbands an invalid

Not entirely so, he was mobile and talking. He already possessed a disability from the start, his hearing aids were a testament that Clint had overcome an impairment that should have pulled him from the field. Knowing her husband, she had an inkling that when he was able Clint would be training, even working around the house starting yet another project. Looking at her vast new supply of medical equipment Laura took a deep breath. It was overbearing to say the least, but they had overcome worse, they would persevere.

"Honey your phone is ringing," Laura was abruptly broken from her thoughts.

Taking the cellphone from her mother's hand she nodded, "Thanks mom."

The voice that answered was one she was very familiar with these past two weeks, Did you get the supplies?

"I did, all three boxes of them," Laura resisted rolling her eyes.

Curtesy of Fury, they arrived quicker than I thought, Phil sounded far away.

In the background she heard more voices, yeah, I'm on the phone with Laura. Is Barton asleep?

Like a baby, that was Natasha.

Here, I'm putting you on speaker, Clint's aids are out, you won't wake him, there was a beep before Laura heard the other two in the room: Melinda and Nat.

"How is he?" Laura asked softly.

Good, just fell asleep about thirty minutes ago. Got a dose of morphine for the pain, Phil replied before Natasha threw in, I was tired of his complaining.

"Well, that's what he does, once had to force feed him Advil so he would stop complaining about a headache for three days," Laura laughed, her husband was a master at evading pain medication.

Lots of improvements today, the nurse walked him over how to use the PEG tube. Taught him how to set up the feed and everything, give medications, Melinda explained in the background.

"Good, I don't have to hold his hand. Did he gag with the stomach contents?" Laura would never forget the sight of her husband gagging after Cooper threw up on him when he was two. Just his face alone was a Polaroid moment.

Nah, only a little. Besides I think he's quite used to his bodily fluids by now. He's also tolerating the liquid diet, drank more than a half of an Ensure today. Stayed down well, tolerating the g-tube feeding well too, Phil reported.

"Thank God, just one more step," Laura sighed.

The TPN is still going for the time being, probably will be released with the PICC the nurse said but it's something. Also said his catheter may be taken out day after next, the improvements had Laura smiling. She almost couldn't fathom that two weeks ago her husband was nearly on his deathbed.

"Good, good. Will he be discharged with antibiotics?" Laura still had yet to hear the full story about the remnants of infection.

Don't know, they're trying to switch him to oral, or tube, I guess. Started him on nystatin yesterday, he has some yeast in his gut they said, he's swishing it by mouth too, Phil added.

"So, the PICC is for fluids I guess, weaning him off the TPN," her mother mused aloud.

He's been doing good walking, tolerating the feeding well. They said once his catheters removed it shouldn't be but a few days after that we can take him home. Fury already has an unregistered, untraceable quinjet ready for May to fly, Phil informed her increasing her excitement.

"Trust me, I'm counting down the days," Laura smiled.

There was movement in the background, Natasha huffed, and Melinda gave a brief order. We have to go; the nurse is coming back for shift change.

"Tell him to call tomorrow…tell him I love him," Laura had tears in her eyes that translated through her voice.

There was a brief pause before Melinda answered, I will.

Laura hung up the phone with a smile, a single tear made a track down her cheek.

Her husband was coming home.

---

Nick Fury walked with purpose down the familiar hallway, white walls in his peripheral vision as several agents present came to attention as he passed. Fifteen days, nearly three weeks had gone by since he'd received the call that Barton fell in the field. He had yet to visit the agent since seeing him on his first night back to Washington DC when Barton was more or less unconscious. Now he wished to remedy that, wanted to see the agent he felt he failed. The failure being his inability to see through Beekman's lies and outward deception that had led to Barton's injury in the end. In his hand was a thick file, full investigatory details surrounding Beekman and Scarlotti, a complete dossier detailing the research behind the ammunition that had taken nearly half of Barton's gut. It was for Fury's eyes only, much of the information had been redacted prior to communicating with Pierce. Something told Nick that this was bound to return in the future when they were least expecting it.

"Good morning Director Fury," a young nurse greeted, olive skin beautiful under the hospital lighting

Marcia Gonzalez

Phil told me her name, Barton's assigned nurse

Brave girl

Brave girl indeed having to put up with the typically ornery patient Barton was. He nodded in reply before continuing onto Barton's room, 508 if he remembered correctly. Looking through the glass door it was vastly different from the cold, stark ICU suite Barton previously inhabited. Gone were the heavy monitors and life-saving equipment that kept Barton alive, instead a standard hospital bed and recliner was in its place. The room was empty besides its single patient, Romanoff had been dragged off earlier that morning by May for training and Coulson was currently with Hill monitoring the STRIKE team sent after Beekman. It left Barton all alone, sitting up in his recliner completely engrossed in his book. His hearing aids must have been removed or turned down for Clint didn't even notice the door sliding open.

"Barton report!" Fury barked.

That got his attention, in a second Clint was turning up the volume of his hearing aids and placing his book on the table, attempting, and failing to stand on ceremony.

"At ease agent," Nick immediately countered seeing the wince on the agent's face.

"Director," Barton greeted.

Fury didn't wait for permission as he stepped into the room sliding the door closed after he entered. Looking Barton up and down he was impressed by his improvement. He sat up in the recliner, pillows almost in a nest as they supported his back with another across his stomach to protect the incision. Nick saw the tubes he remembered from before, the catheter snaked down Barton's leg leading to the drainage bag hooked onto the chair. Another led from under his gown to his stomach, white formula being pumped directly into his stomach. The PICC was still present in his upper right arm infusing the IV nutrition Phil had spoken of, his left free of any tubing and the NG was notably absent. All in all, despite the newest feeding tube Barton looked good. He even had color back in his cheeks, having lost the hollow look that came with critical illness. What caught Fury's attention was the bottle of Ensure, vanilla, with a single straw and the gaudy, yellow rubber ducky slippers on Barton's feet.

A sum of opposites

Both eight and eighty

"What are you eighty?" Fury nodded towards the Ensure.

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you tried it, vanilla tastes good and I can keep it down. Besides it tastes a hell of a lot better than the shit they pump through the g-tube," Clint shot back.

Nick walked closer to the bed pulling up an empty chair before taking a seat across from Barton, "How you Barton?"

Clint thought for a moment before answering, "Pretty good, pain's not that bad anymore. Gut's sort of working, got my fuel line going."

He pointed to the tube feeding that led to his stomach.

"Only you would joke about being fed by a tube," Fury huffed a laugh.

"In all seriousness sir," Barton started. "I feel better, looking forward to going home."

"I bet," Fury placed the folder on the table before pointing a serious look in Barton's direction. "I read your full report, disregarding the typos."

With or without heavy pain medication Barton was a shit speller.

"Yeah?" Clint prompted.

"Man on the roof, Scarlotti, you saw him in the building with a needle in his arm," Fury read off.

"Thought he was a heroin addict, a lot of them there, looked strung out to me. Guess I let my guard down, got sloppy," Barton answered.

"The hell you did! Pictures tell a thousand words," Fury handed over a grainy photograph. Beekman did sell them out.

"You think he was showboating, wanting to take the credit for taking me out?" Barton shifted for a moment, wincing in discomfort, before taking a drink of Ensure.

"I think he was showing off his brand-new ammo and testing a theory that Stark's design worked after all despite the obvious design flaw in the coating. You made a good guinea pig for whatever organization Beekman's working for," Fury described.

"Can't say I enjoyed it," Barton's tone was bitter and raw with agony.

"That being said, we have Beekman. Hill sent out a STRIKE team to apprehend him now then I plan to crack him like an egg before throwing his ass in the Fridge. The mother fucker won't get away with this Barton," Fury's voice lowered.

"And the bullet from hell? That just a fluke with the science department," Barton's voice rose before lowering again. "Sorry sir."

Fury shook his head, giving Barton a long, hard look, "Nothing to be sorry about. And yes, I have a probe in the science department as we speak, even spoke with Stark himself about modifications made to this Cluster Bullet Beekman was so proud of. As of right now the design is in Cybertek's hands, proprietary, for research purposes only. Off the books I have a good feeling Fontaine now has the specs," Fury explained.

"Wonderful! It works great, half of my liver and six feet of my bowel are living proof. Wonder if Beekman will pay the medical bills once it's all over, I can send them directly to the Fridge," Barton's tone was dark.

There was silence between the two, Barton staring blankly at the wall while the director's eyes bored directly at the agent. Barton's anger wasn't unfounded, wasn't more than a childish tantrum. The man had been the victim in all of this, the living proof that SHIELD was compromised. He was facing months, perhaps years, of recovery that would abscond him to a desk. The other side was his wife, the thought of leaving the woman a widow had hit Barton hard. This was the closest he had come in his years at SHIELD. While he had injuries in the past nothing compared to the trauma and the complications that followed. Fury had to shake his head; it was two weeks ago there was a good chance Barton wouldn't survive. Lost in fever, septic, and with drugs keeping his blood pressure stable Barton was on the edge of death. To look at him now it was astounding, Fury couldn't fault the man for his tenacity.

Suddenly, Clint opened his mouth, "This goes deeper Sir."

"What do you mean Barton?" Fury's eyebrow raised, his eyepatch shifting with the movement.

"Think about it, I was the test subject for Beekman's pet project. This has to go deeper than just him, sorry to say it but Beekman was an arrogant son of a bitch but kind of an idiot. He lived to show-off, that's why he had Scarlotti take me out, he couldn't do it himself. Fontaine was a part of this all along, once I took that bullet the hit was thrown, the mission failed. Fontaine was Beekman's secondary target, shot thrown a prolific arms dealer was still alive to sell his science project to," Barton explained.

"You think there are more plants in SHIELD?" Fury cocked his head.

"Yes, a bigger plant, organization maybe. I don't know, maybe it's the drugs talking but seeing the bigger picture Beekman wasn't working alone. He couldn't have, no way was he able to get those plans from the science vault and understand them, the man was an okay agent but was frankly an idiot. We already know Scarlotti wasn't there for a straight assassination, I've read his file, he's good. Shooting someone in the gut is a cowards move, to inflict agony on the target, that's what Beekman wanted to see, his cluster bullet in action. Not to mention he knew exactly what armor I was wearing, knew the weak spot for armor piercing rounds, only higher-ups would know that information and know classified mission details," Barton always saw the bigger picture, threw out the proverbial box and stepped outside it.

Fury always liked that about Hawkeye. He could see all angles where others could not.

Fury contemplated what the agent said before sighing, "Well, I should let you get some rest."

"Nah, it's fine, about all I'm doing these days," Barton joked while shifting in the recliner with a low groan.

"You heal up, need my best agent in the field," Fury ordered, voice holding a tinge of mirth.

"Be back before you know it, give me a few months," Barton sounded optimistic, but Fury still couldn't look passed the feeding tube snaking out from underneath his gown.

"Take your time Barton, you took one to the gut," Fury replied gruffly.

There was a sound at the door as Phil reentered the room, "More like eleven if you count the mini-bullets. Fragments? Are we calling them mini-bullets now?"

"Call them whatever you like Coulson, they suck," Barton sniped.

There was a brief sigh from the director before Fury announced, "I gotta go, have a meeting in an hour with the WSC."

"Have fun with that," Barton waved his hand in dismissal.

"Shut the fuck up Barton," Fury returned sardonically.

"See you later boss," Phil said.

"Keep him in line Cheese," Fury warned pointing to Barton.

Clint merely smiled, reaching across the table for the file Fury sat down. He skimmed through the pages skipping the scientific report on the weapon, it was too raw, too close to home. He was still learning to live with his new predicament Beekman had caused, allowing himself to face the fact his body would never be the same. Instead, he read Hill's directive, scanned through the pages of her report on the investigation. Once he was done reading, he watched as Fury exited the room, the director catching his eye as he looked down towards Clint's stretched out legs.

"You look fucking ridiculous Barton," Fury remarked before exiting the room.

Looking down Clint smiled, he quite liked the outwardly childish bright yellow rubber ducky slippers Natasha had bought for him.

---

"Son of a bitch!" Hill was furious, beyond angry as she communicated with the STRIKE team. She tried to control her emotions in front of her colleagues, it was not working well. For two days Maria had focused on nothing but this mission, two days of intense investigation and it had all come down to this. She watched the live feed and held back another curse. In the Mexico City safehouse, lying by a dilapidated table was the dead body of Agent Beekman. Cold and in the later stage of rigor mortis they had been too late. While not particularly saddened by his death Beekman was the only link to finding more leaks in SHIELD. Fuck my life, Maria needed a good stiff drink when all of this was over.

He's been dead at least a day ma'am, the agent's commanding voice echoed over the feed.

"I can see that Agent Timmons," Maria barked.

Calm down Maria

"Was there a weapon? A gun maybe?" Jasper spoke up.

Nothing, a bullet casing we bagged. Looks like he was shot execution style, never had a chance to turn around. Assassinated by the looks of it, Agent Timmons described.

"Secure his body and the evidence and return to the Triskelion," Hill ordered before stepping away from the command table. She had to tell Fury; the director needed to know upon his return from the hospital. Then came the hard task of informing Barton that his wish to put an arrow in Beekman's ass was taken away from him. Trails gone cold; the investigation ended with Beekman's assassination. If there were further plants in SHIELD only time would tell if they were to rise up and gain momentum. The only potential remaining lead was Fontaine who had gone so far underground not even SHIELD had a way of finding him. Hill knew better, later this would bite them all in the ass but for now the investigation was closed. In the end Barton was just another unfortunate casualty in the field. Attempting to dispel her rising anger and stress Hill opted to close her investigation for the foreseeable future, at least the formal one dedicated solely around Beekman. She and Fury had other plans, a hidden folder in his desk that would eventually be moved to an off-site location for future work. This isn't over, Beekman was only a beginning. As Barton had stated in his report this ran deeper than ever and Hill refused to be caught unaware.

This isn't over, it's just beginning

---

"Beekman's dead," Phil wanted to make the blow easy, so he just came out and said it. Barton looked up at him with disdainful eyes, a want for revenge in the steely gray orbs. He had received the news via text after Hill had learned of it herself. Since then, he had been holding out what to tell his asset knowing full well that Barton would be livid. The investigation was officially closed, Barton's injuries were just another fact that being an agent of SHIELD was dangerous. That was the official report considering there was nobody left to interrogate for the bigger picture. Looking away from Barton he saw Romanoff faired no better in the anger business, the former Russian assassin wanted blood. Was begging to get her hands on Beekman once his capture took place, now she was denied the chance.

"So that's it, case closed," May snapped.

"What can I say May, the trails gone cold, Beekman was our last chance to get to the bottom of who he was really working for," Phil amended, he was as angry as the rest of them but did better at hiding it.

Natasha continued to look down at her hands, body trembling minutely with anger, "So we just let this go, deadly ammunition on the street in the hands of a madman potentially, give Stark another reason to be the Merchant of Death."

"First of all, Stark had nothing to do with it, his father designed the weapon and closed the project soon after, second, we will Fontaine, we just need time. It's not over Romanoff, not by a long shot, just on hold for now," Phil retorted.

Clint was dangerously quiet, eyes seething before speaking up, "Lucky for Beekman, he catches one to the back of the head while I get my bowels torn apart. I'd say he got the better end of the deal. Shame I couldn't add an arrow between his eyes."

For emphasis Clint threw a syringe swiped from a nurse earlier in the day where it landed a perfect bullseye on the picture hung hastily on the wall.

Between the eyes of the grainy photo of Beekman the needle hit its mark.

---

Two days after learning of Beekman's assassination Barton had relatively cooled his anger. He was anticipating his release by the end of the week and while he had a set of new medical problems to deal with he'd rather deal with them in the comforts of his own home. Eighteen days in the hospital, trapped mostly in the bed he called his prison and Barton was more than ready to split. Two more days the doctor had said, just two more of this wretched hospital then he would be free. Other than the anticipation today was a big day, his drain (the one that remained) was to be removed during a follow-up with Dr. Park and his catheter was going to be pulled.

"How are you doing Agent Barton? Tolerating the PEG fine I see," Dr. Park stepped up to the bed, scissors in hand.

"Wonderful," for once Barton's voice didn't hold an edge of sarcasm.

Out of the many medical professionals Clint had the luck of dealing with Park was one of his favorites right behind Marcia, Billy, and Dr. Graham. Dr. Harvey could go fuck himself and his minions could very well join him. Park was gentle despite his military past, was commanding yet compassionate at patient care. He reminded Clint of Laura a little, her military nursing training similar to that of the Korean American surgeon. Park carefully lifted Clint's gown exposing his abdomen, bruised, and scarred in all its glory he was happy to rid himself of one more tube. The gauze over the g-tube had been removed, merely a cut drainage gauze was carefully inserted under the ring that secured it to his abdomen. Clint had taped the tube to his skin to prevent pulling on the healing stoma. Otherwise, the vertical incision looked good, already pink tissue was granulating to form a scar, the staple punctures on either side beginning to fade. His muscles were another story, just moving hurt like hell, deep pain that encompassed his abdomen. It would be a long time before training was an option. Park had already prescribed an abdominal binder to prevent hernias and protect the g-tube for when Clint did decide to train again.

"Looking good Barton, lets get that drain out," Park set about pulling up the taped gauze on the remaining Jackson-Pratt drain, the bulb still squeezed with suction having little to drain from his abdominal wound.

The sutures holding in the tubing were cut and Clint flinched as the drain was pulled from his skin. Letting out a breath he winced as it pulled, the feeling both strange and painful as it travelled a path out of his belly. Park had wrapped the slack length of the tubing as he pulled until it popped out with a tiny drop of blood. Wiping Clint's skin with an alcohol wipe Park looked down at his work before placing an ordinary Band-Aid over the hole. Overall, his patient looked good, had his color back and was regaining strength. It was only Clint's nearly ten-pound weight loss that was concerning.

"Yuck," Natasha made a noise, and Clint was still mildly impressed that an ex-assassin was that squeamish with blood.

"Well, that's all done, I'm going to get the nurse to remove the Foley," Park declared as he exited the room.

Thank God, it's beginning to burn like hell

"Well, hello there Agent Barton, how about we get that catheter removed," Billy was his ordinary chirpy self but for once Clint didn't mind. The young, flamboyant nurse was growing on the agent.

"I can step out," Natasha looked both mischievous and sheepish all in one.

"Nothin' you haven't seen before," Barton snarked.

Truthfully with Phil having gone to the Triskelion with May to debrief Fury he wanted someone to at least by his side if he lashed out. Natasha was as good as any to hold his hands had he decided Billy was a threat as the young nurse pulled the catheter from his penis. It had already begun to hurt in the last few days so Clint was prepared for agony once it was pulled. Besides, Natasha had seen him naked more times than ever by now, their fraternal love for one another was not offset by the sight of each other's body.

Billy had stepped up to the bed with a blunt syringe and inserted it in the port of the catheter, drawing the water from the balloon that held it in place in Clint's bladder. The Stat-lock was already untapped from his leg, the area now reddened and irritated from the prolonged application of adhesive. Take a breath Barton, relax, he chanted as Billy pulled the catheter from his penis. The burning he expected, the sheer acid in his urethra he had not. Groaning and tensing up Clint forced himself to keep his hands from covering his groin, fuck that hurt! Natasha had grabbed his free hand, the one not currently in a white-knuckled grip on the bed rail and squeezed hard. It was a gesture of solidarity and prevention; Clint was eager to punch someone.

"It's out Agent Barton, breathe," Billy was already throwing the catheter and bag into the trash when Clint risked opening his eyes.

Breathe

In and out

So, he held his breath, whatever, it helped with the acid now licking his genitals. Just one more milestone, now his next chore was to urinate unaided then he could be considered for discharge. Had he known it would be that hard Clint would have prayed to whatever deity would accept his pleas. He kept a careful eye on Billy as the nurse hooked a plastic urinal to the bedrail and pulled up his sheets. Natasha had let go of his hand and sat on the bed, looking into his eyes as if peeking into his soul. He was hopeful, more than happy to take a final step that would get him home to his wife. Unfortunately, nothing ever was that easy, he'd learned the hard way.

Barton luck

---

More than eight hours had passed since the removal of the catheter and Clint was in misery. The pressure and urge were there, the absolute desperation, but he had yet to urinate. Now his bladder was the size of a small melon, and the pressure was overwhelming. He had walked around the room at a steady pace, sat in the recliner, even sat on the toilet in the bathroom with the water running to see if that made a difference. Harvey had already had the gall to tell him Clint he was mildly constipated from the lack of movement in his GI tract combined with the narcotics, easily and embarrassingly solved with a Bisacodyl suppository to force the requisite bowel movement out of his sluggish colon. Now if only his bladder would obey, he would feel much better.

"Feeling any better?" Billy stepped into the room carrying what looked like a portable ultrasound machine.

"Can't piss, what do you think," hurts like fucking hell was left on his tongue.

"What's that?" Phil, who had returned two hours ago with May, asked.

Billy was already squeezing jelly on the end of the probe before lifting Clint's gown. His lower abdomen was taut, groin slightly distended from his engorged bladder. "It's what we call a bladder scanner, it will tell if we need to catheterize."

"Hell no! You are not going to stick something up my dick again!" Clint protested.

Reading the situation May shared a look with Natasha before speaking up, "We'll wait outside."

Billy waited for the women to leave before squeezing more jelly on Clint's groin. With the wand over his bladder Clint had to flinch as the nurse applied pressure. "Do I have a bun in the oven?" Clint's joke fell flat.

"More like about twelve-hundred cc's, I'm going to have to cath-," Billy began.

"Nope!" Clint snapped.

"It's what we call in and out, insert it to drain the urine then pull it out. It's not a Foley, not leaving it in, but you need it. It'll make you feel better," Billy promised as he used a washcloth to clean the jelly from Clint's abdomen.

"Fine," Clint groaned.

Billy set up his supplies at the end of the bed while Clint bent his legs at the knee, placing both feet flat on the bed. Look like Laura giving birth to Coop, shut the fuck up Barton and focus. Billy annotated the procedure, droning on with length descriptions of how he was about to stick a rubber tube up his urethra and drain the ever-growing collection of urine in Clint's swollen bladder. Just another fun thing he had to endure in his three-week hospital stay. Phil had his hands ready, in case Clint reacted unconsciously to the pain, with his eyes focused on Clint's clenched face. Billy was ready, or so he said, as he warned of the cold betadine Clint was about to be cleaned with. Clint tried to relax as cold, and slightly burning, liquid was swabbed liberally around the end of his penis. He opened his eyes and watched like the proverbial hawk he was as the nurse dunked the catheter end into a pool of KY jelly and carefully lined it up with his orifice. One deep breath later and Clint felt the catheter snake up his urethra, burning following its path as Billy kept a strong grip on his penis.

"Almost done Barton," Phil encouraged as he watched the catheter be inserted with a wince of solidarity.

Clint felt the moment it hit the bladder, the organ spasming in protest as it drained suddenly. He could vaguely hear the urine being drained into a receptacle, sighing deeply as it did. It felt glorious, absolute nirvana as his bladder released what it had been storing for the better half of the day. After filling a specimen cup Billy just allowed the catheter to drain into an empty bucket. In a few minutes Clint was empty, bladder artificially relieved and painless. The catheter was pulled, the burning still prominent but less of a problem in Clint's current peace.

"All done, you were about to pop," Billy mentioned as he measured the output and dumped it down the toilet. Labelling the specimen jar, urine cloudy and foul, the nurse stepped out of the room.

I'm getting more antibiotics

Whatever, it didn't delay the inevitable discharge. Park had said that himself, urinary tract infections were common with prolonged catheter. Or so his wife told him after giving birth to their son. Lowering his legs and getting comfortable Clint felt better. While the catheter was one more thing to damage his dignity it did wonders decompressing an organ that refused to drain naturally. He watched through one eye as Phil waved the others back into the room, rearranging Clint's gown and pulling up his covers.

I'm coming home

---

The next day Clint was already making plans. He had an added medication, Bactrim, for the bladder infection he acquired but was making strides. Currently he was sitting up on the side of the bed with Natasha's help and peeing in the bedside urinal. The straight catheter did wonders to stimulate his urinary tract, ever since he'd been peeing like a racehorse with the constant fluids infusing into his body. Finishing up he placed the filled urinal carefully on the ground and stood gingerly to pull up his sweatpants. Real clothes, or at least close to them, and Clint was feeling semi-human. Gone was the backless hospital gown, in its place worn sweatpants and an old SHIELD tee. It was loose enough to not put pressure on his healing incision and muscles yet accommodated the feeding tube that dangled from underneath and the PICC in his right upper arm.

"They remove the subclavian?" Phil asked looking up from what he was reading noticing for the first time the white bandage on Clint's left chest.

"This morning, felt good to get it out," Clint answered as he and Nat made their way slowly to the recliner.

He was waiting on Dr. Harvey, the original doom and gloom to sign his discharge. It had been made official that in two days he was to go home. He had learned all that he needed about the care of his PICC and PEG, his wife could help with the rest, and absently promised to use the abdominal binder and cane he was being sent home with. That along with a laundry list of medications which Clint was now in the process of recording in his 'medical shit show' notebook. So far, he had a decent grasp of the three antibiotics he was being discharged with, good understanding of the various vitamin supplements he now needed for the rest of his life. The pain medication was still a divisive subject, the morphine muddled his mind and did little to help his digestive system, so the doctor had switched him to tramadol for severe pain and allowed ibuprofen for the rest. His wife had already sent him a cheeky picture of Children's Motrin that would be easily administered through his feeding tube.

Lowering himself into the recliner, easier with each coming day, Clint sighed, "I'm hungry."

All three faces looked up in awe, it was the first they had heard of the expression.

"What, I am?" Clint shrugged.

Natasha passed him a fresh Ensure, chocolate for today, and a cup of butterscotch pudding he was allowed to nibble on. He ate slowly, taking sips of the protein shake between bites, stopping when his gut cramped and twisted. It was a slow process; eating had become somewhat of a chore. He was relegated to a full liquid died for the next couple months and while he yearned for something more substantial Clint knew better than to push his healing intestines. The tube feedings kept him partially full, taking the burden off his digestive system and body as Clint could only eat so much at a time. The TPN continued, scheduled to be tapered off in the first week of discharge. He felt good, felt normal, or as normal as he could be.

He had a long way to go, his journey into this medical adventure just now beginning, but with his wife and those surrounding him by his side he figured he could approach the fear of the unknown. He would temper that fear with optimism, bring light to the shadows of his mind. He, Clint Barton, would recover and come out the other side a stronger person.

To Be Continued…