Long Haul
Synopsis: In the wake of his injuries Clint begins his long recovery while coming to terms that his life as a SHIELD agent may be forever changed.
Characters: Clint Barton, Laura Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Phil Coulson, Melinda May, Cooper Barton, and Frances (OC)
Pairing: Clint/Laura
Disclaimer: All characters, except those I created, are the property of Marvel/Disney. I do not own any rights to the franchise.
"It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop."– Confucius
Chapter 1: New Normal
Home, it slipped off the tongue and warmed the heart. A welcome word to describe the existence of something tangible and hearty. An official notice that his journey in the hospital had come to an end. Three weeks, three long weeks he had been surrounded by sterile, white walls and dwindling hope. It had been an arduous path filled with agony and dwindling hope. There was a time he thought this was the end, a sorrowful conclusion to a meaningless life. He had fought and gave it his all, determined to the very last until his turnaround had come. Now twenty-one days later and he had seen the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.
"Ready?" a faint whisper in his ear, guttural Russian flowing off the tongue.
"More than," he responded, words breathy and low.
Clint Barton was going home, now waiting patiently for the wheelchair that would take him into the sun he had yet to see in three weeks. He yearned for the feel of the air, the cold wind on his skin, wanted more than anything to bask in the sun's warmth while they waited for the car. He sat on the bed in his hospital room, Natasha by his side. A backpack rested on the bed beside him, two tubes exiting out of the side to lead to his right arm and under his shirt. It housed the portable feeding and IV pumps, both sustaining his fragile nutrition with TPN and formula. His duffle sat on the floor; his meager belongings that kept him sane stuffed into the worn canvas.
As he sat on the bed, he adjusted himself, wincing in pain as his muscles pulled. Thankfully Nat had enough sense to bring him comfortable clothing as the waistband on the sweatpants was loose enough to barely hang on his hips putting no pressure on his sensitive abdomen. The thin t-shirt he wore had a faded SHIELD logo, given to him back in his academy days and thrown into his gym locker as an afterthought. Nat held his jacket, SHIELD issue with the eagle emblazoned on the back. Just seeing the jacket made him feel human, less of the experiment he felt like the last three weeks. Either way he was discharged, even had his book of instructions in his hands. Color coded and everything the novel of discharge instructions included everything he needed to know about his condition, had a very detailed list of complications to look for, and an extended summary of the growing list of medical diagnoses he had acquired since taking a bullet to the gut twenty-one days earlier.
"May and Coulson pulling the car around?" he asked Nat.
"Last I heard," Natasha shrugged.
Clint glanced out the open door for any sign of the nurse, he was more than anxious to leave, nerves jangled with every minute he waited. Every moment he waited was one more moment they could keep him here. He wanted to leave, needed to leave, and get on with his life. Readying himself to go Clint hoisted the backpack on his shoulders ensuring neither tube pulled before crossing his arms. His hearing aids caught the faint whirling clicks of both pumps, mind creating a pattern with each one. He felt the slight trickle of formula enter his stomach, the liquid cold in the chilly ambient temperature of the room. He felt like his autistic son, every noise and sensation creating a disruption in his patterned mind. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts Clint reached forward to the Ensure he had left on the table. Unscrewing the cap, he began to sip slowly, taking in the rich vanilla taste the smooth liquid had to offer.
"How many is that?" Natasha quirked as she motioned to his protein shake.
"Three, whose counting. Besides someone stole my orange Jell-O," Clint complained.
Natasha would neither accept nor deny the fact that she had willingly swiped the cup of orange gelatin from Clint's tray that morning and downed it in three bites.
They went back to waiting, Clint trying his hand at patience as he formulated a list of "full liquid diet" foods he needed for the night. So far milk went down smooth, the dietitian recommending it for a natural source of protein and fat. Pudding, ice cream, and Jell-O satisfied his ever-growing sweet tooth, and he was satisfied to learn that black coffee had yet to make him vomit. He had spent the last two days of his 'imprisonment' testing various liquid foods against his ailing digestive system, longing for something besides the multiple bottles of Ensure he had been downing. He was learning the hard way that the tramadol he took for pain combined with the lack of fiber, due to its difficult nature to digest, was a surefire way to constipation. One of the many symptoms he had to now contend with in his long road to recovery. At least he had been tolerating the increasing tube feeding rate, now creeping up to his goal rate set by the dietitian. The doctor had said the TPN would begin weaning once his goal rate was achieved.
"Ready Agent Barton," Marcia came in with his chariot.
"Freedom," he held back his best Mel Gibson Braveheart impression but was more than tempted.
Gingerly standing from the bed he angled himself in the waiting wheelchair, swinging off his backpack to rest it in his lap. Nat grabbed his duffle and the laundry list of instructions including the bag that held the foldable cane and abdominal binder he 'promised' to use. It wasn't crutches, he could tolerate that, but Clint felt just holding the thing made him an invalid. A true symbol that he couldn't quite hide the fact he was temporarily disabled.
"Away we go," Marcia was happy, more than pleased that a patient who had been near death three weeks previously was now going home. She had seen too much death since she had started at SHIELD, too many agents coming in with life-ending injuries. Having to watch them die and suffer was something she had become all too familiar with. From the first day Clint was admitted to the ICU she saw his strength and will to survive. Despite the complications he had suffered and all the setbacks he never lost that drive to recover. To see him now with the backdrop of the mental picture of his fragile body in her mind, wracked with infection and fighting so desperately to fend off the ravages of sepsis, it was a nurse's best outcome. Grasping the handlebars on the wheelchair she pushed her discharged patient happily out of the room.
Clint watched the faces of the medical staff as he passed by, it was hard to imagine that this had been his 'home' for three weeks. A week ago, he was contending with a new way of life, coming to grips with the long-term complications the injuries had caused. A week prior to that he was fighting for survival against the sepsis that wracked his body. He had made strides to go home, passed all the tests required for discharge, now he was looking forward to being in a room without the stinging smell of a hospital.
As Marcia wheeled him through the main doors of the facility Clint couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped his smiling lips at the feel of the fresh air. He took a deep breath lavishing in the crisp Washington DC air of a beautiful fall day. The sun felt good on his skin, its warmth lighting up his soul after many hard days without it. He relaxed in the chair, tension releasing from his muscles as they waited for May and Coulson to pull the SUV around to the door. Home, he was just one more step closer to holding his wife in his arms.
"You look like a kid Barton," Natasha smirked.
Clint smiled before looking down at his choice of footwear.
You helped Widow with your rubber ducky slippers
"There they are," Marcia said as the nondescript black SUV pulled around the curve and parked in front of the three.
"Took you long enough," Clint sniped jokingly as Phil stepped out of the passenger's side.
"You want to walk back to the Triskelion Barton?" his handler returned, a rare smile curving his lips upward.
"Go slow," Marcia warned as she braked the wheelchair and assisted Clint to a standing position. He needn't be told, standing alone was a chore, muscles in his core adjusting to having been cut open twice in a row. His legs felt week, his steps shaky, as he hobbled to the back seat set up just for him complete with the mountain of pillows May insisted on. She had even added a water bottle and a replacement orange Jell-O for the one he lost to Natasha, sitting idly in the cup holder awaiting his arrival. With Phil's help Clint maneuvered himself onto the running board, one foot after the other, before shifting himself in the seat. The process was slow and painful but when completed he was allowed to rest back into the pillows and sigh in relief. Phil handed him the pillow for his middle, placing it under the seatbelt to protect his incision. When he was settled, he turned to the nurse who had the pleasure of putting up with him for three weeks.
"Thanks again for everything Marcia," he was more than grateful to the young nurse.
"It was nothing, I better not see you again," she pointed a finger at him in mock disappointment.
"Trust me, I'm done with this place," Clint said.
"Good, now drive back to the Triskelion safely and you have my number if you need anything. All the discharge instructions are there, Dr. Park even included his number as did Dr. Graham. Any questions don't hesitate to call. I'm pretty sure Agent Coulson already grabbed all the supplies you needed," Marcia ordered.
Phil glanced back to the trunk before answering, "I did."
Clint noticed the pink bucket of supplies, syringes, and a bottle of sterile water for his g-tube. There were hospital belongings bags, three of them, that included the rest of the supplies that were his life now. Alcohol swabs, IV tubing, flush syringes, just to name a few. The binder of instructions Nat held still; the stack of prescriptions was to be driven to the pharmacy once they reached the Triskelion. Clint even noticed the infernal incentive spirometer he was told to use for his lungs, the device that was going to be used for target practice once he could hold his bow again.
"You get better and stay away from experimental bullets," Marcia waved as she folded up the wheelchair and made her way back inside.
"Everyone buckled in?" May turned around in the driver's seat, sun glinting off her aviators. Clint nodded, Natasha ever the rebel ignored the elder agent and settled in her seat. May was cleverly ignoring the seatbelt warning that blinked on the dash. After Phil buckled into the passenger's seat May pulled out slowly, speed steady as to not jostle her injured friend. Clint for his part just relaxed, sipping casually from the bottle of water, and ignoring Natasha's watchful eye. He wished she would stop staring at him as if he were to break, shatter into a thousand pieces like a piece of fragile glass. There would be a time and place when he decided to fracture his careful mask but now wasn't it. Staring out the window Clint smiled softly as he watched the cityscape pass him by.
Arrival back at the Triskelion was overwhelming, too many agents and personnel were around to witness his struggle to the barracks. They had run into Jasper, the other agent giving kind words of encouragement after seeing the state Clint was in. Others had added their own statements of well wishes, Agent Hand had personally seen to it that Clint got a welcome back from superiors. However, despite the well-wishers and encouraging words the walk to the barracks was painfully long. His cane tapped on the floor as it supported his right side, Phil had a hand on his left guiding him down the hall cleared by Fury on notice of his arrival. Not allowed to be left alone Clint was assigned to Phil's quarters for the duration of his short stay at the Triskelion before flying home.
"Home sweet home," Phil announced as he unlocked the door and swung it open.
Coulson's quarters were near sterile, only a slight rumpling of the sheets told of the man living here. Clint limped into the room making a beeline for the bed wanting desperately to get off his feet. He was exhausted, his head hurt, and the pain in his abdomen was creeping up to a level that was near unmanageable. He wanted to call his wife and sleep, in that precise order, after Natasha returned with his meds. The assassin had gone to the pharmacy and Clint feared what she may bring back. The book of prescriptions she grabbed along with the list of other necessary items including the hastily scrawled foods he could eat. He would kill for a cup of coffee, black and strong to temper the headache building in his temples.
"You okay?" Phil asked as he dropped the bags from the hospital on the floor.
Clint moaned, a low groan at the back of his throat before answering, "Headache."
"I got something that'll help, May picked it up on the way," Phil dug through one of the many belongings bags and came up with a box.
Children's Motrin
Clint cocked his head in confusion before looking down.
Forgot, feeding tube. At least I won't taste it.
And again, he felt like his son; memories of long nights and fevers after usually wearing the medication when Cooper decided puking was a better option. Bubblegum, Clint read, good flavor; always better than grape when it made a reappearance. He watched Phil take a syringe from the bucket of g-tube supplies and draw up twenty milliliters after making the quick calculation. Stepping over to Clint on the bed he opened his 'medical' backpack and paused the feeding pump before lifting Clint's shirt. Clamping the tube, he carefully removed the cap to the medication port and inserted the syringe of water before releasing the clamp and flushing the water through. Clint watched closely, noting minor errors in the procedure but chose to keep his mouth shut as Phil continued. Replacing the syringe with another containing the ibuprofen Phil depressed the plunger making certain all the pink syrup went into Clint's stomach. Clint could taste the faint flavor of bubblegum in the back of his throat, strange but not unpleasant after Phil was finished. The tube was flushed once more and the medication port was plugged before Phil restarted the pump.
"I feel like Cooper," Clint complained.
"Well, it's that or attempt to swallow a pill," Phil finished cleaning up as Clint carefully laid down in the bed.
"Point taken," Clint quipped.
The art of swallowing pills had not ended well the last time he tried it. Children's medication or not he preferred it in his feeding tube, it prevented the dreadful puking that came later. As he relaxed in the bed he must have dozed off because the next thing he knew Phil was turning him on his side and pulling the covers from beneath his back. He vaguely heard hammering as he settled under the warmth of the blankets, gone were the scratchy institutional sheets, replaced with the personal sheets Phil had replaced the SHIELD issued bedding with. Cracking one eye open he saw his handler hammering two sturdy nails into the sheetrock, leaving just enough room between the end of the nail and the wall to easily hang the TPN and feed bag when Clint was in bed. Clever, an IV pole stuffed in a bag was impractical and impossible, so Phil decided to improvise.
Clint just let Phil do what he was doing, allowing himself to settle in a light doze. He didn't know if it was a placebo effect or children's liquid medicine worked faster than adult tablets, but he could already feel his headache melting away. Letting his mind drift off Clint surrendered to sleep.
Natasha was beginning to think it was a miserable idea volunteering to go to the pharmacy. It was specialty drugstore; medical supplies lined the shelves mixed in with typical over the counter drugs one would expect. She had grabbed a basket, big enough to accommodate what she needed and began roaming the aisles after dropping off the booklet of prescriptions. She had a list, a long one, that was currently being split between her and May. Split gauze, feeding tube bags, protein powder, IV dressings, and a whole host of supplies she had come to recognize in the past three weeks. She was currently lost in the medical nutrition section, staring aimlessly at the long aisle of canned and bottled formula, the stuff currently being pumped into her friend 24/7 until he could maintain his own nutritional requirement. She glanced at the list again, her ripped off section, and grabbed the can of protein powder that was added to Clint's cocktail and threw it in the basket.
Natasha roamed some more, her cart now filled with what she had grabbed and what May was currently dropping into the basket. It wasn't the amount that was currently at Clint's house, much less for the two or so days he was to remain in Washington but to Natasha it was a mountain of supplies that just reminded her that her friend was sick. Natasha dropped the last few items in the basket, OTC medications listed on Clint's medical discharge summary before following May to the pick-up counter. May oversaw the prescriptions, Nat had agreed that her anger did little to appease the pharmacist after she handed over the papers. After giving Clint's name and date of birth May was now in charge of the large paper bag of his medications. Most were bottles, liquid formulations designed to be pushed through a g-tube, some even reminded Nat of the antibiotics she had seen his son take after strep throat. Others were in powder form or easily dissolved tablets for his tongue, some in much less desirable formulations Clint had yet to know about.
"Let's check out and go," May urged as she took over pushing the basket towards the front of the small store.
"Hill went to the grocery store?" Natasha asked softly.
May nodded quickly, Maria Hill had graciously offered to travel to the local grocery store for some of Clint's food items on the list. While it may have been Fury behind it, the deputy director didn't seem bothered in the slightest to run the errand. With their priority being the medications Natasha had little worry about getting her friend the carton of milk he requested. The orange Jell-O she specifically requested, more for her she supposed when Clint couldn't finish it. Along with the cookie dough ice cream and a bag of Chips Ahoy just to torture Barton more.
He deserves it
As May started placing items on the counter the cashier gave a look of sympathy, "Got a sick relative at home I see."
"Something like that," May answered shortly, voice tight and anger held back.
Natasha took the keys to the SUV from May as the cashier finished up, she didn't want to be in here anymore. The smell and surroundings were bad reminders that Clint was out of the field for God knows how long. She was without a partner, her second half of their perfectly formed team. Working alone was something she was good at but in the two years she had been at SHIELD working alone had been a rarity, one that Natasha wanted to keep. Exiting the pharmacy quickly she got behind the driver's seat and buckled in. Sighing she leaned her head back into the headrest and waited for May to finish wanting nothing more for this nightmare to end.
Knock, Knock
Phil was deeply concentrated on the report he was reading, catching up on three weeks of work left behind in his days spent at Barton's bedside. Enhanced humans, a young girl in Bahrain, the initiation of Jericho upcoming in Tony Stark's agenda; there were far too many potential missions Barton wouldn't be a part of in his convalescence. He had received a note from Fury upon their return to the Triskelion, he was officially paired with May for the foreseeable future. It would be a walk through history, a step back into their academy days where most missions were completed as a pair. Romanoff was given a brief reprieve, her promise to join Barton in the early days of his recovery kept after she had spoken with Laura. The woman would need Natasha if she were to keep her sanity intact after dealing with an ornery Clint Barton, he never made the best of patient.
Getting up from the small couch he sat on Phil threw a look at Clint fast asleep on the bed, curled on his side tubes at danger of tangling. His hearing aids were removed, placed haphazardly on the bedside table. He had let his guard down when others were there to watch his back, rare when he was down and out but necessary in his moment of weakness. Usually the agent was tense, ready to pounce at a moments notice, wound tight with little obstructing his precise vision.
"Coming," Phil called out softly, his voice carrying through the thin door, as the knocking continued.
He opened the door to Maria Hill standing awkwardly, hand halfway up to knock again. In her other hand were two grocery bags filled with pre-ordered food by the way of Romanoff. She waited for a moment, peeking beyond the door before following Phil back into the room. When she noticed Clint sleeping on the bed she winced. Had she come earlier Hill would have been treated to a very interesting conversation about field training Phil started with the archer before the agent fell asleep.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"It's fine, he can't hear you," Hill was one of the few that knew Barton's personal file, knew about his hearing deficit, a direct result of a mission gone wrong.
"Romanoff gave me a list, well May did but it had Romanoff written all over it," Hill lifted the bags for clarification.
"Yeah, sorry about that. I'll talk to Romanoff," Phil smiled tightly.
He led her to the mini fridge that was in all the quarters, currently filled with nothing more than the Jell-O Barton didn't eat on the ride home and a moldy sandwich Phil could swear was three weeks old. Need to toss that science experiment. After Hill dropped the bags to the floor Phil began to put all the perishable items away. His eyes widened at the three pints of ice cream in various flavors he had stuffed into the freezer on top. Vanilla, definitely for Barton, but chocolate cookie dough and mint chip stumped him. Romanoff and May, both flavors lined up perfectly, and they had weaseled their way into free delivery using Barton's discharge as an excuse. Sorry Maria. Other items were expected like the carton of milk and two things of pudding, Clint's going to be diabetic when this is all over with. The four packs of Ensure with the added Ensure puddings made the fridge look like an elderly man's in an age home.
"Didn't know what flavor so I got them all, Fury's paying so-," Hill shrugged.
"Did you get the water?" Phil had also put in his request for a gallon of bottled water for Clint's tube.
"An agent will drop it by, couldn't carry it," Hill responded.
After a moment Hill waved her hand towards the wall, two bags of fluid hanging from separate nails, "Clever."
"I thought so, didn't have an IV pole in my back pocket," Phil joked.
"How's he settling in?" Hill asked seriously.
"Okay, just very tired. Happy to be out of the hospital, that's for sure," it was hard to tell with Barton, he kept his emotions tightly hidden, and his pain tucked away.
"I bet; well, I have to go. Give him my best," Hill said.
"I will," Phil returned as he escorted the deputy director from the room.
After Phil closed the door he stepped back to the couch, sitting down in the worn cushions, and picking back up the folder he was reading through. He was exhausted both emotionally and physically from three weeks of struggle he had witnessed Barton undergo. He wanted to knock some sense into his asset after making him feel this utter emotional pain the man had caused. The headaches alone were sapping what remained of Phil's sanity. He was almost glad to get back into the field if it took his mind off Barton's lengthy recovery process. Off the potential chronic illness the man was bound to suffer with such a grievous injury. Glancing at his watch he wondered where Romanoff and May were, surely, they would be finished at the pharmacy by now.
After parking in the motor pool and gathering the many bags they had acquired at the pharmacy May and Romanoff walked determined through the Triskelion. It was evening, many agents having gone home for the night or still in the field. May walked at a steady pace not even trying to keep up with the younger assassin. Natasha just stepped briskly daring anyone to stop her with a look that could kill. She held the paper grocery bag of medications Barton required and while nothing was critical, she rushed to get them to him.
"Out of my way," she snapped at some junior agent who had accidentally stepped into her path.
May just rolled her eyes, keeping pace with the assassin as they walked through the relatively quiet barracks. Romanoff's anxiety the past few days had hit an all-time peak after Barton was discharged that afternoon. Standing with the woman at the pharmacy waiting for the prescriptions hadn't helped matters once she had started pacing and roaming aimlessly through the shelves of medical supplies. Looking down at the bags in her hands Melinda knew Romanoff went overboard with the list, grabbing far too many multiples of each item required for the next two days Clint was in Washington. It was going to be an interesting two days between Romanoff's energy and Barton's grumbling.
As they neared Coulson's quarters Natasha didn't wait as she jammed the key into the lock, had her palm read, and yanked open the door. Her movements got Coulson's attention, the door slamming into the wall loud enough to wake Clint despite the absence of hearing aids. The man jolted, wincing, and groaning as he attempted to sit up in alarm. He got as far as an inch before falling back to the bed, breathing deeply through the pain that assaulted him. Opening his eyes he shot a glare in Natasha's direction, lids merely slits as his steely-gray eyes communicated his anger.
"Romanoff," Phil shook his head, his voice dripping with frustration. Coulson about had a heart attack when the door nearly flew off its hinges, his heart still beat furiously in his chest. Looking over at Barton, the man felt very much the same.
"Don't ever do that!" Barton growled, rolling over gently to grab his hearing aids before slipping them in both ears.
Natasha didn't say anything, just stared seriously at Barton who lay helpless on the bed.
"Welcome back May, you missed Romanoff giving Barton and I a heart attack," Phil quipped as the other agent stepped around Natasha in the doorway.
"You've had worse Coulson," May returned.
"Got your meds Clint, you're due for a few," Natasha stepped into the room and dropped the heavy bag on the bedside table.
"All for me?" Clint asked sardonically.
Truthfully, he didn't want to know the answer. His eyes widened at the sheer number of bottles that were in the bag. Some were temporary, antibiotics for the continued infection in his body and the newer bladder infection he had acquired at the end of his stay. Others were more long-term such as the iron solution and multivitamins. Natasha wasted no time in pulling up an empty chair and sitting down before pulling each bottle out individually and lining them up on the table. Fuck! Too many! He took a deep breath before reading each labelled bottle, his name expertly at the top Barton, Clinton Francis.
Natasha also decided to read each drug name despite Clint's hesitation.
"Let's see what we have….," she began.
Ferrous Sulfate (after all those transfusions his iron was still in the toilet)
MiraLAX (so he can shit properly)
Nystatin (Clint was still trying to overcome the yeast that had taken up residence in his gut)
Specialty formulated liquid multivitamin
Zantac (his favorite so far, one he was already quite familiar with before this)
Bactrim (or the generic which Clint was not attempting to say the name of)
Tramadol (his new favorite narcotic, far less potent than the morphine that knocked him out cold)
Phenergan (wait suppositories?)
"Really?" Clint picked up the box and showed Nat.
"It's just a suppository Clint, you've had them before," Natasha rolled her eyes.
That indeed he had, after a trying concussion left him puking for a day with the headache from hell. Laura finally gave up and reached into her supply of nausea drugs from her morning sickness days. He was mortified with the idea but after it had taken effect Clint had been too loopy to care. Besides he had the indignity of suppositories multiple times in the hospital, most on the days he could hardly remember, being too drugged or in a feverish haze. However, the Bisacodyl, or Magic Bullet as it was so aptly named, had been utilized after constant threats from the nurses when he had failed to have a bowel movement and complained of bloating and gas. That one he remembered well, unfortunately. Either way he was tired of having things stuck up his ass, exhausted from the prospect that not even his bodily functions were sacred anymore.
"They gave you plenty of meds for your bowels, didn't want you getting backed up again," Natasha was enjoying this way too much.
Yeah, I noticed. MiraLAX. Forgot, can't have fiber despite what the instructions say.
Fuck my life
The last of the items in the bag were mostly over the counter, liquid children's acetaminophen, a decent container of Mylanta, and another bottle of ibuprofen. There was a can of powder, Beneprotein, he read; an additive his nutritionist had told him to combine with his formula. Speaking of, he looked up at the feed bag and noticed the level, time for a fill up. What am I a car needing a gas station? Whatever, he needed to do it sometime so waiting for May to hand him a bottle of Peptamen Clint reached up carefully and unhooked the bag from Phil's cleverly positioned nail. Squeezing the bag in his hands, luckily, he caught it before the alarm pierced through the room. His head couldn't handle shrill noise now despite the ibuprofen he took earlier.
Opening the can of protein powder, he peeled off the seal and used the provided scoop to measure out to heaping portions to toss in the bag. Once added Clint opened the carton of formula and poured it gently in the bag before squeezing it in his hand to mix the powder in with the liquid. Snapping the cap closed he hung it back on the nail and restarted the pump. Damn, I'm getting good at this. It was never a skill he wanted to learn, too many bad memories of his premature son coming home with a host of medical ailments.
"Time for meds," Nat declared as she used the syringes to measure out each one.
Pausing the pump again he allowed Nat to administer his nightly doses. She was an expert at the skill already, flushing between each one and remembering to clamp the g-tube to prevent backflow. As she administered the five medications, excluding ones labelled as needed, he grabbed the pill crusher from the bag and began pulverizing a tramadol tablet. Dissolving the crushed tablet in a small cup of water Clint grabbed a free syringe and drew up the milky suspension before handing it to Nat. He was in little pain sitting here on the bed but going to sleep was another matter, he'd rather go to bed knowing that accidentally moving the wrong direction wouldn't bring excruciating pain. Clint pressed restart on the pump after Nat finished flushing the tube once the tramadol was administered.
Good, I'm tired as hell
Going to bed sounds great!
"Sleepy?" Natasha remarked.
"Yep," Clint exclaimed emphasizing the 'p'.
"Go to sleep Barton," Phil ordered from his place across the room.
And that he did, laying down cautiously and placing a pillow against his middle for protection Clint drifted off in a drug-induced sleep.
Slumber parties were still a thing, or so it would seem among STRIKE Team Delta and associates. As Clint climbed into wakefulness the next morning he noticed two things, Phil Coulson was asleep next to him and was snoring loudly, fit for a drunk truck driver. Another thing he noticed after a moment of scanning the room was, they were not alone. May was passed out on the couch, bent at an impossible angle that would take more than an hour at the gym to work out. And Natasha was on the floor, in her own proverbial nest of blankets she had kindly stolen from the bed without permission.
Reaching over a weak hand Clint slapped Phil on the chest and grunted, "Stop snoring."
"I don't snore Barton," Phil mumbled in sleep.
There was a sound of shifting from the couch, "Yeah…. you do…. loudly."
Only May could get away with that
Natasha didn't move or say anything, either too tired to do so or plain ignoring all those in the room. Clint guessed the second as he saw her body shift on the floor, curling up into a tighter ball and throwing the blanket over her head in protest. Closing his eyes Clint tried to remember what woke him besides the freight train next to him then he remembered. Moving suddenly, he gasped, abdominal muscles pulling and heaving, a spasm of pain down his middle. Bathroom, I need to go now! One annoying consequence of the resolving bladder infection was the urgency that came with it, an urgency he felt desperately now. The fluids being pumped into his body didn't help matters either, his kidneys were working in overdrive with the overload. His movement roused Phil, the older man sitting up quickly before helping Clint sit up in the bed. Together they walked awkwardly to the bathroom, Phil had the backpack with Clint's tube feeding and TPN in his hand after he had quickly shoved them inside.
Once Clint was finished, he hobbled back to the bed and glanced at the clock, 6:02, his internal body clock was also a factor in waking he supposed. He couldn't lay back down no matter how much he wanted to. Despite the pain his body demanded to move, loosen stiff muscles from days of disuse. He stayed seated on the bed, left his TPN and enteral feeding in the backpack, and thought about the day ahead of him. Clint wanted to call Laura, tell her his plans of arriving back home tomorrow. He would do it later in the day when he knew Cooper was in his day school and Laura was free. For now, he readied himself to take his morning meds and have a bite to eat, longing to try the vanilla ice cream he knew was in the small freezer.
May woke up with the noise, the sound of shuffling feet on the carpet and a groan of a man in pain. She sat up quickly, wincing against the artificial light in the room as her brain awoke from a peaceful slumber. It was the first good sleep she had in days, free from nightmares of blood and death, tossing and turning absent as she was dead to the world around her. Her muscles seized, testament to sleeping on the couch, but overall, Melinda felt great. As her mind cleared, she took in Phil's rumpled appearance, loose fitting army t-shirt with his equally worn shorts. He was standing by the bathroom in a daze obviously not fully awake as Clint hobbled back to bed. Shifting her gaze, she saw Natasha squirm on the floor mumbling something about 'shutting up, so she could sleep' before drifting off. Melinda smiled, a real and true smile she hadn't done in weeks. While her embarrassment would have hit its peak knowing she had fallen asleep in Phil's quarters she could care less. They were family, blood or not, they stuck together.
Natasha was annoyed, in a peaceful sleep the rattle of snores woke her first. It wasn't Clint, on pain medication was the one time her partner didn't snore. She groaned in protest before falling back into a light doze. The sound of footsteps woke her a second time and Natasha had given up. She faked sleep, pretended to remain in her doze while snuggling up in the blankets she currently used for her 'nest'. She listened attentively as Clint shuffled to and from the bathroom, listening for any faltered steps or mentions of pain. When he sat back down on the bed Natasha cracked one eye open to observe her partner deep in thought.
"You keep thinking like that and you'll fry your brain," Natasha mumbled.
Clint read her lips, hearing aids still on the table, and signed a very recognizable curse with his middle finger.
"Mature," Natasha returned.
Clint looked over as Natasha stood up slowly from the ground, arms stretching high as she loosened her tight muscles from the night. She reminded him of a cat, her personality fit perfectly, and her limber body did wonders to sum up the comparison. She sauntered over to him, looking down at the bottles of medications on the table deciding which ones he needed that morning. I already have two nurses in the family, don't need another. He watched carefully as she began to dose out each liquid, shaking the bottle of antibiotic vigorously as she got to the Bactrim. She lined up four precisely dosed syringes, all in various colors with their own label. Nat was bored the night before and had taken the label maker she found in Coulson's desk. Now each one of his g-tube syringes had proper labels with the corresponding medication including the one for MiraLAX that now had in bold black lettering shit powder.
Oh, how the mighty hath fallen
"I got it," Clint took over his own care taking the four syringes in one hand and dropping them into an empty solo cup. He reached over to the half of bottle of sterile water that was left from the night before, using the remaining empty syringe for a flush. Pausing the pump he completed his task, inject drug, flush, inject drug, flush….it was just another patterned routine. Natasha had saved the MiraLAX for last, the medication requiring the most water to dilute. She mixed it in a measuring cup, where she found it in Phil's quarters of all places Clint had no idea, and got the large sixty cc syringe without the plunger that was dedicated to bolus feeds which he had yet to tolerate. He carefully disconnected the formula, laying the tube on his lap and inserted the empty syringe. Taking the measuring cup from Nat he unclamped the PEG and poured the liquid into the tube, holding it higher to allow gravity to push it into his stomach. He still fought the slight tinge of nausea, the amount of liquid pouring in greater than he was used to with his low set feeding rate. He managed; the medication was all in his stomach. He took the bottle of water and poured a small amount to flush the remains of the medication into his stomach before clamping and removing the syringe. Attaching himself back to the pump, unclamping his tube with an afterthought, he pressed restart. Done for now until afternoon when his next dose of nystatin came due.
"Tramadol?" Natasha held out the bottle of pain medication and pill crusher.
"Nah, I'm good," he was in pain, but it was manageable, he'd rather not feel fogged over on his first day out of the hospital. He needed to call his wife and wanted his mind sharp for that.
"Coulson wants to go to the cafeteria," he knew exactly what she meant, he wants you to come with us, was left unsaid.
"I'm good Nat, probably read or sleep all day," Clint countered.
May finished stretching before stepping over to the bed, "You're coming with us, that's final."
Shit May, always the hard ass
"Cookie already has a nice tray of liquids for you, even included a homemade protein shake and cup of ice cream," Coulson remarked.
Cookie was the best chef SHIELD could have, I love that woman
Clint relented, he'd been cooped up in a room for far too long and besides, he had a meeting with Fury later in the morning, "Let me put on new pants at least."
He looked down at the worn sweats he was wearing, he could swear they were back from his army days, quite possibly a souvenir from the circus as a teen. They hung loosely off his thinning frame, barely secure on his hips and felt wonderful as they did little touching to the incision and tortured muscles on his abdomen. He had other clothes he could see as Coulson started taking out a set of loose-fitting SHIELD issue black scrub pants (from medical he supposed) and a black tee. He would wear his jacket over the shirt to conceal, or at least attempt to conceal, the PICC and feeding tube. It would also be an excuse to stay warm as his body was in a perpetual state of chill since his injury.
"I'll meet you in the cafeteria, I need to change," May announced.
"Likewise," and it was rare for Natasha to agree but her jeans were on the verge of walking by themselves with how many days she had gone without washing them.
As they left Coulson and Barton were by themselves, it was also a hidden agenda to preserve Clint's dignity. Phil had to help him dress like a child, bending down was out of the question and he was too weak to move quickly. He also needed assistance with the PICC line, still foreign to get to get clothes over as the learning process was ongoing. Clint lowered his pants, kicking them onto the floor before looking down at his legs. The white TED hose were still on, concealing his pale skin with stark white. He had forgotten them as they had become something of a second skin since being admitted. He'd take them off later, for now they provided some warmth to his legs and frankly he was too tired to care. Still sitting on the edge of the bed Clint allowed Phil to place his feet into the scrubs. Phil raised them to his hips as Clint stood slowly, tying off the string loosely yet secure so they didn't fall. The shirt came next, the hardest part, with the addition of the PICC.
"How are we doing this?" Phil wondered aloud.
"They gave me those cap things for the PICC, unhook the line and cap it," Clint reached over to the bucket of supplies grabbing a plastic baggie of swab caps he was discharged from the hospital with.
Phil disconnected the IV after pausing the pump, securing the lumen with the cap Clint handed him. Clint capped off the tubing with the end of the flush syringe, no longer sterile he would repurpose it later. Both ends of his PICC and tubing safely capped off Clint gingerly lifted the shirt off over his head giving Phil a good image of his wrecked body. Phil swore there were ribs visible, the amount of weight Clint lost blatantly obvious. The incision, while healing well, was stark on his pale skin. Starting just under his breastbone it ran down below is pants to just above his genitals. The staple line was beginning to fade leaving only granulating skin over the precise scar. In his upper left abdomen was the feeding tube, jutting out of the ring that was flush to his skin, attached to the feeding pump that was Clint's second source of reliable nutrition. Three weeks ago, he was joking in that safehouse, strong and hardy, ready to take on the world. Now he looked emaciated, weaker than a day-old kitten, sickly like some parody of an old man still in his late thirties. Clint must have seen him stop, noticed his shock, because his asset was staring straight into his eyes.
"I'm fine Phil," Clint reiterated.
"Yeah, I know. How about we get this show on the road, I'm hungry," Phil shook himself out of his shock as he assisted Clint with donning the fresh t-shirt.
Once he was dressed Clint hooked himself back up to the TPN with Coulson's help, securing his line with the netted dressing he used to tack the tubing down and protect the site. It also allowed the line to run upwards across his chest making it easier to put on his jacket. After restarting the portable IV pump Phil had placed both bags of formula and TPN carefully into the backpack with their corresponding devices and zipped it up. Clint was ready to see the world again, or as much of it as he could in the confines of the Triskelion. Grabbing his jacket, he fed his arms through the sleeves making sure his PICC didn't pull as he did so. Looking down he saw his appearance; he felt the most normal than he did in days. The black scrub pants and SHIELD tee did wonders to conceal his outwardly fragile appearance and with the modified Jansport backpack he was currently using for his nutrition support he looked like any other agent if one could see passed the two tubes exited under his black jacket.
"I'm ready," Clint said resolutely.
Everyone at SHIELD knew about his injury, had heard of the investigation into the ammunition and assassin who had taken the great Hawkeye down. He wasn't concerned with them knowing as much worried his fragile appearance would turn heads. He'd been training in the gym with broken ribs in the past, had conducted exercises at the academy after taking a bullet to the leg. Now was different, he walked with a cane and had a backpack of medical equipment that was essentially feeding him. According to Dr. Harvey he was on the disabled list, for how long it was up to Barton's body if it ever healed.
Sliding his feet into his well-worn black Merrell's he usually reserved for the home and on base Clint grabbed his purple (another one of Nat's bright and colorful ideas) cane and levered himself to his feet after having taken a seat on the bed. He was stiff, muscles protesting the prolonged lack of use. His hand shook on the cane rattling the strap against the aluminum. Hell, he couldn't do this. Couldn't be seen in such a state of distress, he was weak, and he knew it. Gone was the confident agent replaced by something Clint could hardly recognize.
Clint grabbed a few items to stuff in his backpack, namely his combat knife and water bottle. The glucometer also came with him, a consequence of TPN, in case he felt his sugar tanking again.
"Let's go," Phil stated as he started towards the door.
Clint took a cleansing breath, deep and grounding before following his handler out into the hall.
The cafeteria was busier than normal with the increased traffic at the Triskelion. Now fully operational and open more agents had moved from the New York headquarters to Washington DC on Fury's order. It was overwhelming for someone who had spent the better part of three weeks in a sterile hospital room. As Clint walked slowly through the main doors, he ignored the plentiful stares he received as Phil steered him towards the empty table where Romanoff and May sat. Clint saw them immediately, Romanoff's tray ladened with what looked like porridge and May's with her usual Chinese spread. He had to giggle inside; it was like old times with the four of them enjoying breakfast before an extended briefing.
"Phil," May called out waving the pair towards the table.
Phil let Clint walk himself to the table while he turned to the food line. He walked silently, noticing all the agents in his path stare sympathetically at Barton. He doesn't need sympathy, he needs support. He saw Jasper, the other agent loading his tray with random baked goods and fruit. Phil did the same, a few pieces of fruit and a hearty bowl of oatmeal. After watching Barton, he couldn't look at food the same way, couldn't take for granted something that was generally such a trivial task. He saw Cookie, the older woman giving him a brief wave. Cathy, or Cookie she was nicknamed, was a former agent. Brought to retirement after a brutal injury left her without the use of one leg. She had repurposed her skills having had culinary training from her father and remade her career at SHIELD as a chef. Ever since she had made a name for herself, almost a mascot for the Triskelion and the New York base before that.
"That Romanoff girl picked up Barton's tray already," Cookie exclaimed, deep Brooklyn accent dripping from her words.
"Thanks Cookie," Phil said.
She always had a soft spot for Barton, perhaps it was his love of cooking they shared.
"So, I hear Barton is back, discharged I mean," Jasper started.
"Yesterday, he's in the cafeteria now, sitting down," Phil informed his friend.
As they stepped out of the line into the main cafeteria Jasper glanced over to where Barton sat, cane leaning up against the table, "He looks terrible."
"Better than he did in the ICU," Phil shot back.
"I would imagine, any news on when he's getting back in the field?" Jasper asked, he was almost afraid to bring it up.
Phil thought for a moment and sighed, "Nothing yet, not for a while Jas."
"Sorry to hear that. Did you hear Stark is getting ready to test his Jericho project?" Jasper changed the subject.
"I heard, not quite up to date. Barton's still pissed at the man considering his company's connection to the bullet that tore him apart," Phil shrugged.
As Phil neared the table, he saw Barton tense when he saw Sitwell, maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Sitwell must have read the signal or had other things to do because after a quick goodbye and a well wish in Barton's direction the agent stepped away. Clint was quiet where he sat, picking idly at his tray. Cookie had done the agent well; the half-finished vanilla protein shake must have been going down well considering Clint continued to sip the other half through a straw. The partially melted ice cream was what Barton focused on now, taking tiny bites every so often while staring intensely at his partner. Over on Romanoff's tray Phil saw the reason for their staring contest, an empty cup of orange Jell-O had been devoured by the assassin after she swiped it from Clint's tray.
Not the Jell-O wars again
May was ignoring both, reading a report as she nibbled on the youtiao she casually dunked in her soy milk. Enhanced persons, he read the excerpt; Fury had been researching up on various enhanced individuals that had become a possible threat onto society. May had been considering the mission, a means of distraction from the emotional fallout of the past month and if Phil was correct she was going to drag him with her. The next year would be interesting to say the least, a vacuum had been left in the wake of Clint's injury with SHIELD now in desperate need of an expert sniper of his caliber as a temporary replacement. Many had already stepped up, comparing their proficiency and skill to Hawkeye, stating boldly to Nick Fury that they were indeed a match for the archer's skills. A worthy replacement for Agent Barton and a good fit to work on STRIKE Team Delta.
Nobody is a match for Clint
Barton can't be replaced
Just wait until they have to go toe to toe with Romanoff
"No more," Clint pushed the bowl of ice cream away, hand on his stomach as he breathed deeply.
Nausea, Phil could see it in his face. Since being able to eat the liquid diet Clint could only take in so much until his stomach started rejecting sustenance. He watched as Clint leaned his head against his hand, breaths shallow as his eyes closed. Meditation, it had been a constant since May had taught her own lessons on the craft after Barton began refusing pain medication. It wasn't working, not well enough, as Clint gagged, hand to his mouth as he willed himself not to vomit all over the mess hall table. There were a few hitching breaths, a moan of pain as his muscles tensed before Phil put a hand on his shoulder.
Clint cracked an eye open, nodding his thanks before stating, "I'm fine."
"Why don't you take him back," May mouthed from across the table, it served little purpose considering Clint's expertise at reading lips.
"No, I'm fine. Just give me a moment," Clint countered quickly.
Natasha continued to stare; eyes boring into Clint's as she studied him closely. She could sense the moment he faltered, saw the absolute sickness rise in his face. She witnessed his pain enough times to know when he was feeling it. She watched as his hand strayed to his abdomen, pressing hard as if willing away the cramps that assaulted him. Diversion tactic, they both knew it well. Find another source of pain, this time his incision, and the focus was driven away. She'd seen him do it plenty of times, usually on missions and with a much lighter touch.
Breathe through it, just breathe through it, Clint repeated the phrase over and over in his mind as bile crept up his throat. Memories of waking up in utter agony, vomiting uncontrollably before being rushed back into emergency surgery plagued his brain. It was wracked with reminders of sepsis and necrotic tissue. He'd seen the pictures, nearly puked after he did, of his organs preserved in jars for pathological research in the medical department. What had become of them after the bullet and it's ten little friends tore a path through his abdominal cavity pulverizing everything in their wake. He knew of the polymer's decomposition and how it accelerated infection, the cut of blood flow to a considerable length of his small intestine, the image of blackened dead tissue still gave him chills. Focus, he willed his mind to tear away from those images instead turning all of his attention on keeping his stomach contents where they belonged.
"I'm heading to the gym," Natasha announced.
Perfect timing
It was a ploy, a way that would get him to follow. Clint was quickly losing the battle with his stomach, the threat of vomiting ever more real. Gym was just another way of saying she was going back to quarters with him in tow. He nodded afraid to open his mouth in case his gag reflex didn't hold. Grabbing his cane, Clint levered himself to his feet, the change of position caused vertigo to spin the room around him. He could feel sweat dripping down his temples, a chill ran through his bones. Yes, it was time to go, he needed to relieve the nausea in the only way he knew how: puking. Then again, a Phenergan suppository didn't sound half bad right about now.
"Of course, we'll take care of the trays," Phil tried to lighten the mood with sarcastic humor, Nat and Clint ignored him.
Clint followed Natasha back to the barracks and into Coulson's quarters where he had been staying, well all of them if you count the unattended sleep over the night previously. He had noticed she was keeping his pace, slow and steady with her hand by her side in case he stumbled. Natasha was quick with the door when they arrived, lock and hand scan then the door opened. Clint made it just in time as he lost the fight with his stomach. How Natasha was that quick he would never know but there was one of the blue puke bags from the hospital shoved under his chin as he retched. Hot bile and the remnants of his meager breakfast spilled from his lips added to it was the Peptamen being pumped into his stomach, of which it said not for oral consumption on the carton. The taste alone made him gag more, his stomach muscles tightening and spasming that left him shivering in pain. Keeping hold of the bag Natasha led him towards the bed, sat him down slowly, and helped slide the backpack off his shoulders.
Her hands slid up his shirt after taking off his jacket, to the feeding tube where she clamped it off and disconnected the tubing after turning off the pump. It was decided that he couldn't handle any more in his stomach, even the constant stream of formula was too much. She covered the end with the clear plastic cap he left on the nightstand before laying the pump and feeding set on the table. The TPN she hooked back on the nail, laying the pump carefully on the table where it wouldn't fall. Clint watched it all through his haze, the pain was back wreaking havoc on his nerves. The nausea continued while the dry heaving replaced the productive gags. Natasha must have been reading his mind because she came back up from his medication stash with a box in her hand.
Phenergan Suppository
Take 1 every 4-6 hours as needed
It would knock him unconscious, always did, but Clint could care less if it took away the nausea gnawing at his gut. Natasha took one out of the box while he prepared himself, leveraging himself on his side and pushing down his pants and shorts. He would put it in, no way in hell was he allowing Natasha Romanoff of all people insert something up his ass. He glanced up as she unwrapped the medication from its protective foil and rolled it in a small jar of Vaseline she found in the bathroom. Handing it over Clint took it from her, Vaseline slimy on his fingers and glared until she turned around with her back to him. He positioned himself carefully, bending one leg, and reached behind to slide the suppository up his anus. Natasha handed him a wet wipe to clean his hands before helping him to pull up his pants. He didn't tie the scrubs, just allowed them to lay open as he waited for the medication to take effect.
Thirty minutes later he got his wish as the soporific effects of Phenergan pulled him under and took all remnants of nausea from his thoughts.
The following day Clint felt much better. The Phenergan he had taken put him out for a solid eight hours allowing him only a brief period of wakefulness at night to reconnect his feeding tube and take his medications before drifting back off to sleep. Apparently in his comatose state May had replaced Nat and had given his meds before sitting with him until Phil returned from his meeting with Fury and Hill. The following morning when Clint awoke with the rising sun, he was taken by surprise to have slept an entire day. Damn Phenergan, damn Phenergan indeed to have stopped the debilitating nausea the day before. He awoke feeling refreshed, feeling human as his energy level increased with each passing day.
Clint was to get one final check with the doctor today before being allowed to leave Washington DC and for all intents and purposes return to Brooklyn. It was his cover, a small rundown apartment in Bed-Stuy that served as his private residence although really an off the books safehouse he had frequented when the situation called for it. In reality he went to a two-story farmhouse in nowhere Missouri, off the grid and miles outside civilization. He looked forward to that day when he could step off the quinjet and lavish in the crisp midwestern air and hold his wife and son in his arms. Tonight, he was promised by May. She was the pilot therefore had the final say in departure. Hell, he would fly it himself had he not been nervous about falling asleep at the controls.
Rolling over in bed he contemplated getting up for a while, glancing around the windowless room for any site of May or Romanoff. Both had surrendered to their quarters; the latter having been forced out by Coulson after a heated debate. Thankfully the snoring was notably absent from beside him, Phil now wide awake and looking at Clint with an expectant stare. What, Clint signed, fingers fumbling with his last dregs of sleep. He waited for a moment before Coulson signed back, meds. Right, he had an early morning appointment with SHIELD medical. A final discharge from Dr. Park and Dr. Graham securing his journey home. He also had a scheduled meeting with Fury, the matter of which the director wanted to discuss with him Clint had absolutely no clue.
Clint waited for Phil to get out of bed before levering himself to a sitting position, reaching over to the bedside table to grab his hearing aids once he did. Sharing a bed was certainly strange but given the number of missions he had been on with Coulson, often sleeping in less than desirable arrangements he couldn't complain. Slipping the hearing aids behind each ear he flipped the switch, and the ambient sound came alive in the room. While not completely deaf his hearing was at a range that extreme low or high frequencies were lost, speaking was determined on how loud a person talked. Before now it was his greatest weakness, the one thing he kept secret and in a closed file. Now he figured having a hearing deficit was far less of a hindrance than the inability to eat.
"Need any help?" Phil asked between the toothbrush currently in his mouth.
Clint frowned, shaking his head at the white toothpaste covering half of Coulson's mouth, "Nah, I'm good."
He chose not to mention the mess on his handlers' mouth, keeping it to himself he focused on his own task. Pausing the enteral pump he administered each medication carefully, flushed between everyone, and clamped the tube. Wash, rinse, repeat, it was quickly becoming second nature. When he was finished it was decided that the near empty bag of formula with its overused feeding set was due to be changed. Leaning over carefully and dragging over a bag of medical supplies Clint grabbed a new feeding bag set, opening the bag with his teeth. Working through the motions taught to him he uncapped the bag and shook it to loosen the plastic before opening two cartons of formula and pouring each in one at a time. Opening the door on the pump he pulled out the old set and threw it aside before replacing it with the new. Snapping the door shut he pressed the prime button and waited for the formula to run out of the end. In his haze he wasn't paying attention, just going through the motions as he listened to the mechanical whirling as the pump primed the tubing. What he hadn't expected was the pressure to rise in the set. As he sat there half-asleep Clint was shocked when the cap on the end shot across the room, pressure launching it from the tubing set to hit a bullseye on Phil's forehead as he turned around. Clint just looked down at the tubing in his hand, staring at the white adaptor at the end, formula dripping out the sheets, as his finger quickly slid off the button. The look Phil gave him was one that could kill any lesser agent, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and eyes crossed towards the one droplet of formula that ran down the bridge of his nose.
He looked ridiculous
But I hit my mark
Without breaking eye contact with his handler Clint opened his mouth, "Oops."
Coulson could only shake his head trying desperately to keep his dignity.
It was in that moment that Clint laughed for the first time in three weeks, an honest childish giggle.
The ride to the facility was quiet, Clint had just stared out the window the whole time never saying a word. It was Phil and himself in the car, Natasha and May had stayed back to train per Clint's request. More bad news was coming, Clint felt it in his heart, and he couldn't have Nat there when it did. There had been a preliminary discussion with Dr. Graham about the seriousness of his disorder, a truth that was hard to bear. She had explained that while at the time the measurement had been hasty due to his unstable condition there was some error in the final numbers. The actual length of intestine taken was greater than the prior measured six feet. How much of his bowel remained was still being determined but considering the way she had addressed him Clint feared the worst.
"I guess Fury couldn't afford valet parking," Phil joked as he pulled into the parking lot.
Clint didn't respond, not even a smile as he turned his head to stare blankly at the windshield. He fiddled with the tubing on his IV, a new nervous habit he had recently adopted since the hospital, his nimble fingers curling the plastic around each digit like a girl would play with her hair. He was not looking forward to this. Beyond scared Clint tried to keep his emotions in check, filter all the dark thoughts into a carefully constructed box he currently used to compartmentalize his grief. Although highly impossible and beyond dangerous for her safety Clint wished his wife were with him. A warm hand to hold his and an interpreter for the medical words he was quickly becoming accustomed to. This was his life now, doctors and hospitals. A backdrop of pain and grief.
"Barton?" Phil was looking at him now watching and waiting for his reaction.
"I'm fine," it was becoming a knee jerk reaction, those two words came easily to him now.
Phil knew better, he could see the emotional agony written all over the archer's face. He had received the call from Dr. Graham shortly after getting ready that morning and Phil knew immediately the news was bad the minute Clint's face morphed in anguish. This was not going to be a good visit, not in the slightest, so Phil wanted to be sure it was quick. The quicker they finished; the faster Clint could board the quinjet for home. Things were never going to be the same, Phil knew it deep in his gut that this was the new normal.
As Phil pulled into the empty parking space Clint's anxiety shot up. He breathed through it, meditated away the fear that rose in his subconscious. Clint pulled his jacket tighter as a chill came over him, an all-encompassing biting cold that dug deep into his bones. It wasn't real, couldn't be with the car's heater blasting in his face. There it was again, the doubt prickling the back of his mind. The hesitation that the news brought to him would shatter his whole world. Can't think like that, been through worse. He had; been in this same situation sitting in front of the audiologist telling him his hearing loss should have disqualified him from the field. He had overcome that and with adaptive technology excelled in his work.
"Ready?" Phil turned to look at him, face passive and eyes expressing the uncertainty Clint felt inside.
"Got to be," Clint mumbled in return.
They sat for a moment, the echo of the engine dampening the silence before Phil switched the car off. Clint relented, opening the car door, and sliding carefully onto the pavement. He grabbed the backpack, swinging it to one shoulder before taking the folding cane and snapping it open. At least he could prove to the doctor he heeded at least one of their discharge instructions, if not all considering he had little choice in matters. He limped behind Coulson, cane tapping on the recently paved asphalt as they stepped up the ramp to the main doors of the facility. First floor, building two, Clint remembered the directions very clearly after Graham had given them. A clinic attached to the SHIELD medical facility for physical therapy and outpatient visits, usually reserved for healthy agents getting back into the field but his doctor had made an exception.
"This way," Clint pointed towards the sign, the one that pointed away from the main hospital.
He had seen enough of this place, had visited almost all the floors in his nearly month long stay. The bold letters I.C.U still gave him chills, horrid memories of fever dreams and pain echoed in his mind. Walking down the unfamiliar hall of the single floor building Clint passed a few agents as they stepped by. Many he didn't recognize, a few he recalled seeing in missions past or in New York. Most were here on routine visits, after mission checks or just a yearly physical for SHIELD protocol. Clint was the exception; his sickly appearance began to turn heads. He pushed himself harder, walked as fast as he dared testing the limits of his ailing body to get to the main clinic where Dr. Graham waited for his arrival. He wanted this over with, wanted to be on the way home.
As he and Phil entered the small waiting area of the outpatient clinic Dr. Graham was already waiting, "Agent Barton, come on back."
Clint smiled tightly as he walked past the doctor's outstretched hand as she directed him back. The back of the clinic was sterile, all white with a few exam rooms and a main desk. The chill Clint had shaken before was back, gnawing deep at his nerves as he followed a nurse into a waiting exam room. He took his seat on the low exam table and stared darkly at the wall. Pain was beginning to seep into his belly, a result of skipping a dose of tramadol prior to coming; he was beginning to regret that decision. When he broke from his stupor, he saw Dr. Park had joined them, casually dressed in black SHIELD scrubs with a stethoscope dangling from his cargo pant pocket. Dr. Graham was more traditional, medical lab coat rumpled and loose with wear, one pocket overflowing with pens and notebooks that came in handy for everyday work. Neither were Dr. Harvey, far more professional with a passion for patient care. Clint respected that.
"How are you doing Agent Barton? The truth please," Dr. Graham must have read his old chart, she was good.
"Fine, well not fine but getting there," Clint tried to cover but he knew it wouldn't work with her.
"Any problems with the incision, any signs of infection?" Dr. Park added.
"None that I can tell, muscles still hurt like a bitch," Clint only told the truth, he felt safe here.
"Well let's take a look then," Dr. Park came closer the bed after waiting for Clint's silent permission.
Clint knew what to do next, he'd been practiced in this for the past three weeks. Lying back slowly he put his feet up as Dr. Park slid the bottom of the table out for his legs to rest. Unzipping his jacket and pulling his shirt up he gave full access to his midsection for the doctors to examine. Park placed his gloved hand, palm down on his belly as warning before pressing down gently. Clint tried to hold back a hiss as pain spiked through the incision, muscles protesting the movement and assault. Park noticed as his hand lifted switching his focus instead to the stoma of his gastrostomy. To Clint everything looked good and by Park's pleased hum the doctor agreed.
"Looking good, the abdominal muscles are going to be tender for quite a while. Sometimes it takes up to a year for them to fully heal. What I want to discuss is the potential for what is known as an incisional hernia, it can happen if too much strain is put on the abdomen following a major surgery like you had. That's why I urge you to use the abdominal binder, especially when you get back to exercising or training, it'll help support your core," Park explained.
"I will, promise," Clint would pinky swear but that was childish.
"Any new symptoms; bloating, gas, nausea?" Graham asked taking Park's spot.
Clint thought for a moment, he had too many to list, "Nausea, vomited yesterday, had to take the Phenergan. As for the other ones, I'm gassy and bloated all the time."
"How about a bowel movement, have you had another since discharge?" Graham was asking questions as she casually performed her own abdominal exam, her touch light, and her hands warm.
"Small one, haven't been eating enough to have one," Clint's face flushed, it was not usually in casual conversation one spoke of their bodily functions like whether they took a shit in a day.
"Probably constipated due to the adjustment to the fiber free formula with the tramadol, it's common. Continue with the laxatives prescribed," Graham finished palpating his abdomen and went onto listening with her stethoscope.
Clint remained silent; the cold bell of the scope caused his belly to flinch. He could feel the gurgling of his bowels, his stomach rumbling with rare hunger.
Lifting her stethoscope and placing it back around her neck Graham looked happy, "Sounds good. Very active in there."
"You said there was more to discuss over the phone, that my condition was worse than initially diagnosed," Clint asked softly earning a shock look from his handler.
Shit! Forgot to tell Coulson.
"Yes, it is," Graham began her tone soft and guarded. "Six feet was the initial estimate of the total bowel resected but looking more closely it's far more than that. With the state of your condition, it was hard to tell and we generally look at the remaining length rather than the length removed. We also consider the areas removed. From what I've seen and have discussed with the team you only have about a little under half your small bowel remaining Agent Barton."
Clint was clinging to his sanity, grounding himself, "So more was removed than initially thought?"
"Yes, the average small intestine is around twenty feet. I would guess by looking at your scans and the pathology report you have about ten feet remaining if you're lucky, but I want to say it's more like eight to nine, closer to nine. That's greater than a fifty percent loss, which included a good portion of your jejunum and ileum, which are the primary locations for absorption which meets the criteria for a solid diagnosis of moderate short bowel syndrome," Dr. Graham.
"So, it is chronic, what next?" Clint was more resolute than he gave himself credit for.
"So, we continue with the treatment plan. You're tolerating the liquid diet well, the enteral feeding is going without complication, I see no reason to discontinue the TPN in a month once you meet the goal rate on the feeding tube and solid foods are introduced. You can lead a normal life Agent Barton, just as I said before. You will have to make some adjustments to your diet, no heavy fats, and oils. Stay away from high fibrous foods. The feeding tube will remain, even after you start maintaining oral intake supplementation will need to continue. Your caloric intake will need to increase to sustain healthy nutritional requirements," Graham went on.
"What about symptoms, what kind of things do I need to look out for," Clint was taking charge now, there was an absolution in all of this.
"Once you're off the tramadol and any post-op constipation resolves, diarrhea usually severe. You will also probably experience some cramping and bloating with it as well as possible dehydration and other symptoms related to vitamin deficiencies. There are medications to manage the symptoms, many that will allow you to function fine. Diet is often a way to manage the diarrhea and other GI symptoms, watching what foods cause more symptoms and which don't," Dr. Graham finished.
"Can I get back into the field?" Clint questioned bluntly.
"In time you can be reevaluated physically and then we can go from there, I don't want to give you any false hope but there is a very good chance that you can return to active field duty in time, let your body heal first. Your abdominal muscles alone will take up to a year and with further adaptation of your gut we can see less reliance on continuous tube feeding, you can even drop down to a nocturnal or intermittent schedule and when you return in a few weeks I will even change out that tube for a low-profile MIC-KEY button. It'll be easy to protect and hide under any uniform," Dr. Graham urged.
"That's all I need to know," Clint nodded.
Coulson's phone rang after the doctor was finished giving her the perfect time to intervene in the manner of her patient's mental health.
As Coulson stepped away Graham turned to Clint and handed him a paper prescription, "I wrote you a prescription for diazepam, it's a lose dose and you don't have to take it, but I think it will be beneficial if the anxiety of it all becomes overwhelming. You have a serious condition Clint, sometimes it can take a while for it all to set in. It's already in a solution so you can put in through the g-tube."
Clint looked at the piece of paper in her hand for a moment contemplating his options before grabbing it and shoving it into his pocket. Added to the prescription was the referral to the VA, a resource he could still heavily lean on considering his veteran status through the US Army.
As he knew his handler was thinking this was the new normal, his new life.
I'm going to beat this
Autopilot engaged, May flipped the switch, and glanced back at her cargo. Romanoff was flipping her favorite knife around in her hand, staring blankly at the interior of the plane. Coulson was relaxed as he read her copy of The Art of War. And Barton, Clint's body was slack in the jump seat, backpack on the floor with the tubing leading under his jacket. Maybe it was the sound of the engines and the feel of the vibration or perhaps it was the stress from his final discharge visit with the doctor, but the man was out cold the minute she took off. Zero complaints were heard, absolutely none of the usual backseat piloting he enjoyed pestering her with. Just silence and a soft snore.
He is out, she mouthed to Coulson as he looked up from his book.
Finally, he motioned back.
After returning from the doctor both Phil and Barton were escorted to Fury's office for their scheduled meeting. As handler and medical proxy Phil had been charge of official SHIELD medical leave paperwork, a book of material that repeated Dr. Harvey's report of Clint's disability status. Fury had been adamant about Barton taking his time, stating multiple times that his position within SHIELD was never at risk. Clint had been silent throughout the meeting occasionally nodding and flipping through the pages of his leave paperwork. It wasn't until Fury uncharacteristically lifted his eye patch and pointed Barton with stare of both his good eye and bad that Clint jolted from his silence. Eye on you, everyone knew the silent message by now. Disability or not, living with a chronic condition, Fury was expecting Barton back in the field.
Turning back to the controls May flipped off the autopilot as the green fields came into view, "We're here."
Like a sixth sense coming over him Clint jolted awake, eyes snapping open as he could practically feel home. Narrowing his eyes towards the cockpit he could make out the green fields and smattering of trees, flat land that made up the Missouri countryside. Closing his eyes Clint saw his wife, beautiful and strong, a pillar of resilience as she held their son close. The quinjet jerked as May brought it around for the landing sequence, despite being in the air Clint unbuckled his restraints and hoisted the backpack on his shoulder as he turned in his seat. May had shaken her head in the pilot's seat as she lowered the landing gear, a broad smile lighting up her face. As they locked eyes after Clint turned, he nodded his head in thanks.
Grabbing his cane where it rested on the adjacent seat Clint struggled to his feet and slammed a hand on the ramp controls as May brought the quinjet to a graceful stop on the ground. He saw his wife immediately walking swiftly from the house towards the jet, tears of joy streaming down her face. Clint's pace quickened, adrenaline fueling his every move as he finally joined his wife. It was a joyous occasion, one that was a beacon of hope for the last three weeks. Clint grabbed hold of Laura, arms tightening around her back head burying itself in her hair as he inhaled the scent of her shampoo. They held each other like that for what seemed forever, time had stopped around them to savor the moment. Quiet sobs erupted from both husband and wife, brittle emotions fueling every action they took. Home, it was a chant in both their hopeful minds.
Clint breathed deeply, voice barely a whisper as he spoke first, "I'm home."