A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, and Captain America: Civil War.

As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.

Note 1: I know it's been a while since this story was updated, but it couldn't be helped. Not only is my muse a fickle little scamp, my family has been experiencing a great deal of emotional turmoil that may not get better any time soon. Such is RL.

Note 2: This story is being revamped. Some scenes will be removed completely. Others will be changed to better conform to the MCU movies. Also, parts 2 and 3 will be eliminated and the chapters posted all under one title, beginning with this chapter, 24. If you have alerts set, you might want to shut them off until all the chapters have been reposted into one.

Namaste,

Sunny

"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."

― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems

Winter Soldier

And You Will Know Me Still

Chapter 24

Steve proper the phone on the table so he could pack. "What about your friends, family? Don't they deserve to know?"

"It's not required that you understand, Captain Rogers." The tone of Coulson's voice changed, became stern and unyielding. Even a bit dangerous. Steve remembered something Barton once said about Coulson being one of the most dangerous men he'd ever known. His calm voice, bland smile and laid-back demeanor drew people in, gave them a false sense of security by convincing them that he was as harmless as an accountant in the off season. "Just that you comply with my request."

The man gave his life to rally the Avengers into a cohesive unit. In Steve's opinion, Barton was right in his assessment about Coulson. "Of course, Director. As long as you understand that you can't keep it a secret forever. Someone with questionable ethics could announce it to the world out of spite or to cause another international incident."

Coulson pushed back from the desk and stood, effectively ending their conversation. "That's my problem, Captain, and I'll deal with the repercussions when the time comes."

The screen went blank, replaced by a set of coordinates. After a short map search, he located the helicarrier's position in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of British Columbia. Steve didn't waste time wondering what the boat was doing in Canadian airspace. He zipped up the bag and made another call. "It's Steve… I need another favor…"

Taking a sheet of paper from the old desk in the corner, Steve wrote a quick note, folded it in half and carried it out to the living room. Clint, Kiba, Sam and Santino were all that was left of their original group of nine, ten with Dooney.

Steve propped the note on the game console where he knew at least one person would find it and climbed up to the roof. Less than a minute later he was joined by Thor. The Asgardian always landed on one knee, and Steve wondered if it was done for dramatic effect or the sudden stop. "Thanks again, Thor. I wouldn't have called, but it's an emergency."

"It's never a bother, my friend. Where to?"

"The SHIELD helicarrier." He didn't give the coordinates. Mjölnir always knew the way. Steve hooked the duffle bag over his head and moved in next to Thor. The big man's arm went around his waist, the hammer hefted in his right hand.

"You are troubled, Steven."

Not wanting to talk about it, he exhaled loudly. "Maria's ill, Thor. She may be dying."

"Then let us not waste time." He swung Mjölnir, and they were in the air.

~~O~~

Steve burst into the medical bay, threw his bag in a chair and headed for Maria's room. He was stopped in mid stride by the doctor, a man with Asian features and the name Nomura above his left pocket. "Whoa there, son. You need to put on a gown, gloves and a mask."

Glaring at the shorter man, Steve had the momentary urge to punch him in the face. "I don't get sick. Let me see her."

Nomura didn't budge. "The precautions are for her protection, Captain Rogers. Hill's immune system has been weakened by the infection. Even a common, everyday microorganism could be fatal." He motioned to a nurse. "Show him where to suit up."

Reluctantly, Steve followed the woman down the hall. She gave him terse instructions in a tone that said "don't mess with me, buster", reminding him of his mother. Sarah Rogers was a force to be reckoned with, stern with a kind and compassionate nature. After his father died, it was just the two of them against the world, and they'd made the best of it as a team.

A few minutes later, standing at the door to Maria's room, Steve could hardly believe this was the same woman who saved the lives of Natasha, Sam and himself against the superior forces of HYDRA. If it had been a part of her personality to play elaborate jokes, he would expect her to jump out of bed with an unearthly scream in an attempt to startle him. But she wasn't Barton. She indulged in teasing, but would never purposely hurt someone by letting them think she was dying just for a laugh.

Maria's naturally tanned skin now had a sickly pallor making her hair appear even darker. Her left hand was elevated on a pillow. The doctor had performed surgery on the wound to drain the infection hoping to slow it down. If she lived, she would have to endure weeks of physical therapy. Small price to pay, in his opinion. The rest of what he'd been told about her condition had gone in one ear and out the other, aside from the part about her organs failing.

He pulled a chair up to the bed and gently held her right hand in both of his. "I'm here, Maria. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand."

There was no response, not even a twitch. He watched her face for even the smallest glimmer of the woman he cared about more than he thought possible. The steady rhythm of the medical equipment soothed his nerves because it meant she was alive. "I'm not leaving until we can go together."

For the first time, Steve delved into the reasons he'd been drawn to Maria, comparing her to Peggy. Both women had strong personalities, an unwavering sense of justice and ethics, a deep well of compassion, loyalty, and the air of authority that put more than one man in his place, including himself. They were both incredibly beautiful, filled with passion, devotion and ambition. And above all that, both women could and did love with everything they had, though they seldom showed it to the world.

But was Maria a substitute for Peggy, the one woman who had ever shown him kindness even before his transformation? He'd only kissed Peggy twice. Once before he climbed aboard Red Skull's plane, and when he visited her in the nursing home just a few weeks before she passed away. Which brought to mind Maria and their forays into intimacy.

The answer was no. Steve and Maria had worked together for a while before their friendship changed. With Peggy, there were specific instances he could point to that made him care for her as more than a friend. It was a series of moments where he could connect the dots. With Maria, it was more of a long, slow slide that brought them to their current status, whatever it was. But was this love, infatuation or what Natasha called friends with benefits? If that's all this was, then why did he feel like someone had stabbed him in the heart when he was told she would most certainly die?

Still holding her hand, Steve closed his eyes, his other hand resting on her knee. Sometime later, the doctor came in and asked him to leave so they could perform yet another round of testing. He went down to the mess hall to get something to eat.

Taking a table in the corner where he could see the room, Steve set his tray down, unwrapped the silverware, and lay the napkin across his lap. He drained his coffee cup and set it out of the way. Picking up his fork, he used it to push the mashed potatoes around on the plate, mixing them with the corn and green bean medley. When he got bored with that, he plucked the roll from its plate and ripped it to pieces.

Steve's stomach grumbled again. Annoyed, he went back to poking his food with the fork. A shadow fell over him and a hand came into view holding a carafe. His cup was refilled and the carafe set on the table. "Thanks."

His benefactor pulled out the chair opposite and joined him uninvited. "You're welcome."

Steve stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth at the sound of a familiar voice. He looked up into the eyes of Phil Coulson. "Look good for a dead man."

A slight smile turned up the corners of Coulson's mouth. "Ditto."

As much as he wanted an explanation, Steve wanted even more to be left alone. Then he thought, might as well make the most of the situation. "Why let everyone think you're dead?"

"Wasn't my decision. The secrecy or the resurrection."

"Fury." Steve sipped from his coffee, eyes on his plate. "Seems to be a common theme with him. He's out of the picture for the time being. What's stopping you from coming clean?"

Coulson crossed his knees, one hand toying with his cup. "Circumstances dictate that this particular data be shared only on a case-by-case basis."

Picking up his fork, Steve went back to pushing his now cold food back and forth across the plate. "The need-to-know defense is a crock and you know it."

"One day in the not so distant future, circumstances will come into play that hopefully will mitigate the animosity displayed by my friends and colleagues after the big reveal." Coulson leaned forward, hands clasped together on the table. "You're not an agent of SHIELD, Steve. I can't give you orders. I'm asking you as a friend to keep this to yourself."

Steve hesitated then reluctantly agreed. In a small fit of annoyance and frustration, he pushed the tray to the side a little too hard and it fell to the floor with a crash. He and Coulson crouched to pick up the pieces of broken glass, piling them on the tray.

"Ow!" Blood welled up bright red against the fair skin of Coulson's thumb. Steve passed him a napkin and Coulson pressed it to the wound. "Clumsy of me. Too bad I don't have your super-fast healing powers."

Without a word of good-bye, Coulson walked away. Picking up the tray, Steve carried it to the pass-through, and stood there holding it as Coulson's words penetrated the worry in his brain, muttering to himself, "Super-fast healing powers."

An idea energized Steve, hope growing with every second. He shoved the tray through the opening and returned to the medical bay at a run, skidding to a stop just inside the entrance. The whine of the heart monitor's steady tone was annoying and frightening at the same time.

Maria's room was filled almost to capacity with doctors and nurses working frantically to save her life. The older doctor shouted the word everyone dreaded hearing when a loved one was in critical condition, "Clear!"

It was followed by a thunk. Maria's body arched off the bed and relaxed. Thankfully, her heart started beating again, the steady beep of the monitor once more giving him hope to go with that inadvertently provided by Coulson. Or had it? Coulson always seemed to be several steps ahead of everyone else.

The doctor's face was grave as he approached Steve. "She's stable for now, but I don't know how much longer she'll last. Each time it happens, she doesn't rebound to her previous condition. We need a miracle, Captain Rogers."

For the first time since he found out about Maria's illness, Steve smiled. "I might be able to provide one, doctor."

Brooklyn, New York

Angrily pacing the length of the attic, Clint stabbed the end key on his phone, wishing it was an old school phone so he could slam the receiver down. Dooney said he'd call with the results of the tests ordered by his doctor, but now he wasn't answering the phone.

Throwing himself down on the bed, Clint stared at the slanted ceiling. He needed sleep, but was too antsy to close his eyes. A few minutes later, he rolled out of bed, pulled his shoes on and jogged down to the first floor. Santino and Sam were playing video games while Kiba read a book.

Sam looked up and Clint just held out his hand. The keys to the SUV flew through the air, and he caught them. When Rogers took off to be with Hill, he left Clint in charge. Not that he wanted the job, but someone had to do it.

For a brief moment, Clint debated with himself whether to tell Kiba what he suspected or keep his trap shut. In the end, he stayed silent. His colleagues also didn't ask where he was going. Good. That meant he wouldn't have to lie.

~~O~~

The drive over to Dooney's apartment only took a few minutes, and soon, he was knocking on the door of apartment 10G. The only response was silence. Using his lock picking skills, he let himself in.

Scanning left to right, Clint surveyed the combination living room, dining room and kitchen. The whole place had been trashed. Not broken, but thrown around, like someone had a tantrum and didn't want a big mess to clean up. "Dooney? You here?" he called out. "Yo, Doon!"

The laundry room and kitchen were was neatly arranged, nothing out of place. Same with the bathroom. The door to the second bedroom was open, and again, nothing had been disturbed. The computer was turned off and unplugged, which was odd. Dooney did most of his business over the Internet. He left it on 24/7 to have ready access. In the corner, a treadmill sat idle with clothing thrown over it.

That left the master bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was ajar, and as he approached, Clint listened for signs that his friend was about to spring a trap. Nothing. Clint put one hand up and slowly pushed the door open. Alarms went off in his head as he took in the scene in a single glance.

Dooney lay face down on the bed, head turned to the side, one arm hanging off, the knuckles. On the bedside table with the lamp, a box of tissues, a photo of Dooney as a teen with his mother, and his cell phone were a number of prescription pill bottles, an empty water bottle and a folded sheet of paper with Clint and Natasha's names on it. One of the pill bottles was empty, and beside it, another unlabeled bottle lay on its side, also empty.

Clint gave his friend a shake. "Dooney?"

There was no response. Clint pressed two fingers under Dooney's jaw, relieved to feel a pulse, and see his chest moving shallowly. He rolled Dooney onto his back and sat him up, slapping his face.

Taking out his phone, Clint dialed 9-1-1, gave the address and apartment number. "Male Caucasian, approximately thirty-seven, six-two, weight one-eighty, recently diagnosed with leukemia. Only know allergy is ragweed. Possible accidental overdose. Pulse thready, respiration shallow."

He didn't wait for the operator to acknowledge his rapid-fire speech. Just hit end and tossed the phone on the bed. Again, he slapped Dooney on the cheeks and was rewarded with a weak moan. "Hey! Hey, hey, Duane! Wake up, pal. Wake up! It's Clint. Can you hear me? Dooney!"

His friend moaned again, turning his head to get away from Clint's slaps.

"C'mon, pal! Open your eyes. Look at me!" Grasping Dooney's head in both hands, he got up in his face. Dooney's eyes opened and closed. With a huff of annoyance, Clint put his arm around him and lifted. The difference in their heights made it awkward as he literally dragged Dooney into the bathroom and set him on the floor in front of the toilet. Time was of the essence. They had to get the pills out of his stomach.

Grabbing Dooney by his long hair, he bent his head back. With the other hand, he pried the man's mouth open, took a deep breath and stuck a finger down his throat. Dooney gagged, and Clint was just able to get him over the toilet. The pills couldn't have been in his stomach long because most were still whole. If he'd chewed them up, it would've been a different story.

Dooney groaned when Clint pulled his head back again. Good. That meant he was waking up. Time for the next step.

Picking Dooney up under his arms, Clint dragged him into the shower and propped him in the corner. He stepped out and reached in to turn on the cold water. It hit him in the chest, splashing his face and soaking him to the skin within seconds.

Dooney came to so fast, he almost fell over. His arms and knees came up, and he turned into the corner in an attempt to protect himself from the assault. "Argh! Wah-do-fuh! Get that shit outta m' face ya som'bitch!"

"Not till you wake up."

"Shit! Ima 'wake! Now shut it off!" Clint relented, and Dooney slowly uncurled, prepared to duck and cover again if need be. He rubbed the water out of his eyes, blinking and staring blearily at his surroundings. "Clint? Wah you doin' 'ere?"

"Saving your sorry ass. Not that you deserve it, but Laura would tear me a new one if I didn't." Clint grabbed a towel and knelt next to Dooney, using it to wipe his face and hair. Dooney shifted around trying to get away, but his strength was no match for Clint's in his present condition. Clint grabbed a cup, filled it from the tap and held it to Dooney's mouth so he could take a drink. He set the cup out of the way and climbed into the shower to help his friend out of his clothes, leaving them in a soggy mess in the corner. With a great deal of physical encouragement, he helped Dooney stand. "C'mon. We gotta get you dressed."

Dooney staggered and stumbled into the bedroom, Clint the only thing keeping him on his feet. Clint set him on the side of the bed and handed him a towel. "Dry off while I get you some clothes." He went into the walk-in closet and came back with pajama pants and a t-shirt. Dooney was half-heartedly rubbing his hair with the towel. Clint took the towel and vigorously rubbed Dooney's hair, then used it to dry his back and legs.

"Wouldn't need t' change if ya didn't try t' drown me."

"Yeah, well it wouldn't've been my first choice either." As if Dooney were a child, he put the shirt over his head and held open an arm hole. "Put your arm in there… Now the other one." Down on one knee, Clint held the pants out. "Put your feet in there… Both of them! Now stand."

Clint pulled the pants up to Dooney's waist, but when he tried to tie the drawstring, Dooney pushed his hands away. "Ima big boy. I c'n dress m'self, y'know."

"You're sure not acting like a big boy." Clint held out a pair of socks and dropped slippers in front of his friend. Just as Dooney was shoving his feet into the slippers, someone pounded on the front door.

"NYPD! Open the door!"

Clint got in Dooney's face. "That's the cops and the EMTs. I'm gonna let 'em in. When the EMTs ask you what happened, tell them you had a bad night and got confused about your meds. Other than that, name, rank, serial number only. Got it? Don't. Volunteer. Anything." His friend nodded and looked away, guilt and shame in his expression as he reached for the comb on his bedside table. Clint slapped him on the cheek again, this time with fondness. "Good boy."

Clint pocketed the paper and unlabeled bottle from the bedside table on the way to let the cops in. He had a hunch what was in the note, and didn't want anyone to see it.

Thirty Minutes Later

The paramedics wheeled the stretcher carrying Dooney out into the hall. The cop taking Clint's statement pointed over his shoulder. "Wanna ride along? We can finish this at the hospital."

"I'll drive myself. And I've told you all I know." Clint gave his phone number. "If you have any more questions, call."

"Thanks, Mr. York. If you hadn't been here, your friend wouldn't've made it. He's lucky you stopped by." The cop turned and followed his partner down the hall to the freight elevator and rode down with the paramedics and their patient.

When the cop asked his name, he'd automatically given one of his AKAs that hadn't been in the SHIELD database, Ryland York. It was the one alternate ID he carried on him at all times when not on a mission.

He closed the door and went to sit on the sofa with a silent groan. The paper in his pocket crinkled, reminding him of its presence. Taking it out, he hesitated before opening and reading what was written there. Dooney had surprisingly neat handwriting, and there were only two lines.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause.

Shaking his head, Clint chuckled humorlessly. Leave it to his friend to check out with a quote from Hamlet. He shoved the note back in his pocket. For Dooney's sake, Clint wouldn't tell Natasha about the note. If he could get away with it, he wouldn't mention the trip to the hospital either.

Taking out his phone, he sent a text to Santino to let him know he wouldn't be getting the SUV back for a while, then turned the phone off. After a short search, he located Dooney's keys, locked the front door and ran down the stairs to the underground garage. Though he was tempted to take the Corvette, he stuck with the one he came in. Gunning the motor, he pulled into traffic, and for once, obeyed all the traffic laws.

At the hospital, he drove round to the incinerator and used it to dispose of the bottle and the note. In the parking lot, Clint took the first space he came to, locked up and jogged to the emergency entrance. The doctors would likely keep Dooney at least one night. Seventy-two hours minimum if they suspected he'd overdosed on purpose. Secretly, he thought it would do Dooney good to spend a couple days in the psych ward though he wouldn't say so out loud.

The ER was like most, filled with people, a swirling mass of humanity constantly moving, alternating between talking, yelling, crying and sullen silences in which they stared at their mobile devices. Behind the reception desk sat a woman in her thirties, hair pulled back into a ponytail and eyes glued to the computer screen. She was a master at multi-tasking, fielding phone calls, notating charts and answering questions.

"Excuse me…"

A clipboard and pen were pushed across the counter. "Fill this out and return it with a picture ID and your insurance card."

"I'm here to see a patient. Duane Nelson. He was brought in about forty minutes ago."

The woman didn't even look up. Her fingers flew over the computer keys and stopped. "He's in bed six, through that door, turn right. The doctor's with him now."

Clint didn't get a chance to thank her because the phone rang again. The door opened as he approached and closed behind him. Turning right, he located Dooney's bed. His friend was awake and balking at being "manhandled" by the orderly while the nurse made notes and the doctor ordered tests.

"Duane?"

The nurse pulled the curtain back, peering at him through her glasses. "Only family is allowed in here."

Scowling, Clint pointed at the tablet she carried. "I'm his next of kin. Clint Barton."

She scrolled through Dooney's records, shaking her head. "We show next of kin as Laura Hagen of Columbia, Washington."

He shifted his weight and crossed his arms, not in a mood to be put off. "She's in Columbia, Washington. It'll take hours for her to get here, if she can come."

The woman would've continued the argument, but they were interrupted by Dooney. "'S'okay. Let him in."

Another woman stood over Dooney, shining a flashlight in his eyes. "You're very lucky, Mr. Nelson. If you hadn't vomited the drugs, you'd've died in spite of our best efforts. We've given you Naloxone to neutralize the remaining drugs in your system. You should be back to normal in a few days. The good news is that it didn't exacerbate the leukemia."

Dooney declined to respond to the veiled inquiry and reference to his condition. "When can I go home, doc?"

The doctor took the tablet from the nurse, made a few notes and handed it back. "Not for at least forty-eight hours, I'm afraid. I'm not recommending a psych eval, though I do suggest you seek counseling." The doctor gave the men a bland smile and left to tend to other patients with the nurse in tow.

~~O~~

Using ASL, Clint signed This really should be coming from Laura. She's better at it than I am. Facing away from Dooney, he rubbed the back of his neck, one of his tells for emotional distress. He swung around to face him, angrily signing What the hell were you thinking?

Careful of the heart monitor, IV and oxygen sensor, Dooney huffed at his friend. You're semi-intelligent. Figure it out.

No cure?

Dooney looked away from Clint's penetrating gaze. Did he teach that look to Laura or did she teach it to him? He always wondered. Waited too long, I guess.

Still, that was a stupid, stupid, stupid thing to do, Duane. Clint slammed his hands against the foot of the bed making it shake.

Was it stupid to want to end it now before the pain gets so bad I can't even get out of bed unless I'm mainlining oxy? To not want my friends have to watch me waste away and lose what little brains and dignity I have?

Clint slammed the footboard once more, stepping back as if to distance himself from his anger. Not as easy as it sounds. Suddenly, Clint was as close to getting in his face as he could with the medical equipment in the way.

What you don't get and never did is that suicide is a selfish act. It's the ultimate selfish act. You think killing yourself ends the pain? It doesn't. Clint paced away and faced him again. It transfers the pain to the ones who care about you and continue to live long after you're gone. Death ends your life. Not the relationships you have with others.

Have it your way. My solution sucked. Dooney rubbed the center of his forehead. I'm tired, Clint. Tired of raging against the dying of the light. It's the quality of what little time I have left that was my motivation. If you could read my mind, you'd understand. I don't want to go, but this is life, Clint. No one gets out alive. The big question on everyone's mind is when, and I wanted to choose the time and place. Was that really too much to ask?

His pacing took him to the end of the bed again where he leaned on the footboard, his head hanging down. The doctor's sure nothing can be done?

Dooney scoffed. I made him do the tests three ******* times just to be sure. If treatment had started right away, there might've been a chance. But now, all he can do is relieve the symptoms.

What about Kiba? Did you stop to think what this would do to her?

Don't be more of an ass than you have to be, Clint. We had two nights together. That's all. He was lying through his teeth, and thought it was for the best. Don't tell them what happened. Especially not Nat. Clint got that stubborn set in his eyes. I mean it. Not a word.

The team's going to want to know where you've been all this time.

His friend was right. The team deserved to at least know he was in the hospital. Tell them I had a fall, or a seizure. Anything but the truth. Shaking his head, Dooney mused, It's too bad one of your government doctors can't cook up a cure.

With those words, Clint stood up to his full height, and now the light in his eyes was different. Wide and intense without the anger he'd displayed a few moments ago. He had an idea. Waving distractedly, Clint pulled the curtain aside. "I'll be back. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Remembering the story Steve had told of the day he met Dr. Erskine, Dooney chuckled, blatantly stealing Steve's line. "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

The last thing he saw was Clint's hand flipping him off.

~~O~~

On his way back to the car, Clint dialed a number from memory. The owner answered on the third ring.

"Banner."

"Hey, doc." Clint heard a huff of annoyance, or was that his imagination? Nope. He heard it.

"What can I do for you this time, Agent Barton?"

Clint opened the door to the SUV and got behind the wheel. "What do you know about genetics?"

TBC