"Well, kids, you know I'd like to say to you
'Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag,'
but I know that little old kit bag is much too small
to hold all the troubles you kids have got."
- Axis Sally
Stuttgart, Germany; February 28, 1945
"What are you doing?" Steve seethed, nearly wrenching the door of the shed off its hinges as he tore in after Tony. He found Stark examining the insides of the shed with all the air of a real estate agent, admiring the rotting planks as if they were fine marble. Typical.
"I am finding us a place to hide, thank you very much."
"A place to hide? Are you insane? That fire outside will bring any Germans in a twenty-mile radius running our way!"
Tony shrugged, turning away to fiddle with a locked cabinet hidden below a mountain of crumbling firewood. "Hiding in plain sight, then."
Steve looked up to the heavens and prayed for patience. "There are snipers and foot soldiers tailing us as we speak, and you want to camp out here? We have to go."
Tony turned back from the cabinet with a lopsided grin on his face and two bottles in his hand, salvaged from the collection of the shed's previous owner. He whistled with appreciation as he admired the labels. "1918 Pinot. Here's to the end of another war, yeah?"
Interrupted from his serious consideration of kicking Tony out into the cold at the mercy of the Germans, Steve turned to the window as a rush of fear came over him. "Where's Clint?"
-o0o-
Clint, at the moment, was pretty damn sure he was dying. There was no sound, no sight, no sensation save the gnawing pain tearing away at his leg at the knee, as if someone has loosed a wild dog on him. He wouldn't put it past the Krauts to sic some hound on him. Mustering all of the strength he could, he raised his head and looked down to ensure he wasn't becoming some German Shepherd's kibbles.
What he saw was infinitely worse. His leg was still attached, thank God, but it was surrounded by a rapidly swelling comma of blood seeping through the fresh snow. The scent of copper clogged Clint's nostrils and bile rose in his throat; the gnawing pain rose to a boiling intensity and he lowered his head back to the snow, feeling the cool of the ground against his burning skin.
"I'm not going to die," he growled into the snow, planting his palms into the sludge and trying to drag himself away. The merest nudge of motion sent tears to his eyes – he was sure he was pulling his leg in two, the German bullet searing like a thousand hot pokers. "Come on, you coward! Move!"
He could hardly see through the haze of smoke and tears and his swimming vision, but Clint could make out the form of the shed Tony had fled into. His anger inspired him to keep moving. When he got into that shed he would wring the kid's neck – one push, his palms scrabbling against the ice, his lungs burning to keep himself from screaming – he would tell him who's boss.
The singing twang of a bullet sounded and Clint flinched, flattening himself to the ground as the shot went wide. He was an easy target, lying wounded in the open with an obvious trail charting his path. A river of red traced a shaky line over the snow, brilliant scarlet against the ice. Move!
Throwing his weight to the left, Clint rolled over his good leg so that his stomach rested against the ground. Every limb screamed in agony and he dropped his chin to his chest, taking in shallow breaths, dispelling the fog rapidly spreading across his vision. He planted his elbows into the snow and dragged himself forward, bloody fingers clawing into the sludge. A moment of torture, a moment of rest. If his leg had fallen off he probably wouldn't have noticed.
The shed swam into view, hazy through the musk of blood and fire. Clint shook his head to clear it and watched as a twinkle of snow began to fall. A little late for a white Christmas. He was so close he could taste it. His arms were shaking uncontrollably, every muscle trembling and his mind on fire...
The door slammed open, and a spurt of gunfire followed. Clint held an arm above his head to shield himself, looking up through the crook of his elbow to see Steve standing over him, his M1 clutched in both hands as he sent fanning bursts of gunfire into the woods. Properly deterred, the Germans didn't fire back. Dropping his gun, Steve grabbed Clint by the elbows and pulled him back into the shed.
He couldn't hold it back anymore – Clint roared in agony as Steve dragged him across the floor into the safety of the shed. Snatching his gun from the doorway, Steve slammed the door and ducked beside the window, leaning forward ever so slightly to catch a glimpse out the frosted window. The glass promptly shattered and he pulled away, face stormy and brows knit in concentration.
"Now you've got us trapped. Are you happy now?" Steve scowled, his face swimming into focus before Clint. The sound seemed warbled to his ears. "Give me a hand here. Are you okay, Barton?"
"Welcome to the party, seaman." Tony toasted him from the side with what appeared to be a bottle of wine. Surely Clint was hallucinating.
"Where are you hit?"
"Give him a chance to breathe, all right? You want a drink, Barton?"
"What he needs is medical attention. Put that down now."
"You're not my commanding officer. Go boss someone else around."
"You really are a child, aren't you?"
"Fellas, please," Clint gasped, screwing his eyes shut, "Can't we do this somewhere else?"
There was a pause, then Steve leaned over to Tony. "Have you got any scissors in that briefcase of yours?"
Reaching to the side, Tony set down his bottle pulled his case from the side of the shed. "Scissors? I've got a full toolkit in here."
Looking grim, Steve took the pair of proffered scissors. "We may need that later."
Clint recoiled, squinting up at the man kneeling above him. "Beggin' your pardon?"
"Tony – I can't believe I'm saying this – I need you to find the strongest drink you have. Vodka would be best." He moved to the side and started to cut away at the layers of clothing over Clint's blood-soaked leg. Clint gritted his teeth and turned away, unwilling to look at what Steve would reveal.
"You're doing great, Barton, you're doing really good. You might want some of this," Tony knelt over him and held open a silver flask. Reaching up with trembling hands, Clint grasped it and took the largest swig he could muster, wincing as the drink burned its way down his throat.
"Stark, the washcloth from your shave kit?" Steve held open his hand and Tony gave him a clean white cloth. Steve took the flask as well, paused for a moment, then took a short drink. Clint nearly choked – Steve Rogers, drinking?
Turning the flask upward, Steve poured the vodka over the washcloth. "This is going to hurt, Clint. I'm sorry." Holding his hand over Clint's leg, Steve reached down and began to clean out the wound.
A lightning bolt split the shed and pinned Clint to the spot, sending fire spinning through his veins, and the world clicked to black.
-o0o-
"He's out," Tony called, tipping back the flask. Steve watched as he did so with concern. Having his last remaining conscious ally drunk was not ideal during a surgery.
"No exit hole. We're going to have to remove the bullet. Tweezers?"
"I would be lost without them," Tony winked as he handed over the tweezers. Steve dipped them in the flask. Drawing a deep breath, he pulled back the blood-sodden fabric from Clint's leg. The wound was rapidly swelling with blood again, so Steve mopped it up with Tony's washcloth and peered into the hole.
"Do you see it?" Tony looked down at Steve between his fingers.
"You're not helping," Steve growled, placing the tweezers between his teeth as he gently brought the skin apart at the source of the wound. Scarlet billowed over his fingers. The washcloth was rapidly becoming congealed with blood, but Steve mopped out the wound one last time before readying his tweezers.
"Tony, I need you to hold this open."
"What? Are you crazy? Oh, Jesus..." Tony muttered, kneeling opposite Steve and looking down at the gunshot wound with a sick expression on his face. "Right here? Oh, God!"
"It's just blood. It's not going to kill you, but we need to act fast here!"
"Okay, okay – oh, Jesus! Just go!" Tony cried, his eyes shut and his chin angled to the ceiling. Looking down into the wound, Steve brought his tweezers into the wound and probed around the sides as carefully as he could, forcing his fingers not to jerk back when he came in contact with something solid. He carefully grasped the object with the tweezers and removed it, mindful to keep the metal from inflicting any further damage. Removing his crimson-streaked fingers, Steve held the tweezers to the light.
"Did you get it?" Tony whispered.
"I think it's bone," Steve muttered. A low groan followed, and Steve watched as Tony darted to the side of the shed to empty his stomach. When his violent retching had subsided, he crawled back to Clint's side, swiping his sleeve across his mouth.
"One more time. Ready?" Steve angled an eyebrow at Tony, who nodded and brought the sides of the wound apart again. Steve lowered the tweezers one last time, forcing his face to remain impassive and his hands steady as the metal prongs dipped deeper. Another contact, this time the definitive touch of metal on metal. Bracing himself, Steve sucked in a breath and felt his way around the intact bullet, outlining the shape in his mind as he did with any machine.
That's it, this is a machine project. Just tinkering with a loose part. He forced his index finger between the two prongs of the tweezers to separate them further and gripped the bullet. Tightening his touch, he shook the metal up and down to separate it from its lodged position, then carefully raised the suspended bullet clasped tight between the tweezers. Steve breathed a sigh of relief when it came into view, and he snatched his sulfa packet.
"Got any more washcloths? Bandages?"
Tony's horrified face stared up at him blankly for a second, then he stumbled back to his briefcase and rifled around with its contents for a minute. Steve did a double-take when he returned – in Tony's hands was what appeared to be a three-piece suit.
He looked apologetic as he offered it to Steve. "It's the one I picked up in London, remember? Just cotton, really cheap. Don't know why I kept it. Anyways, I think he deserves to have it." Tony looked down at Clint and gave him a definitive nod.
"Thanks. That's very decent of you, Stark." Steve smiled, nearly shocked into silence.
"I know. I'm a very decent person."
"And you just ruined it." Tearing open the sulfa packet with his teeth, Steve sprinkled the powder over the wound. Tony began tearing the suit into strips and handing them to Steve, who wrapped them around Clint's leg to staunch the bleeding. They worked in tandem and in silence until most of the material of the suit had been butchered into bandages. Blood-streaked and exhausted, they shared a look of quiet satisfaction.
"What now?" Tony sighed, rocking back on his heels.
"Keep him warm and hydrated. He should come to soon." Steve wiped his forehead and dragged his hair from his eyes, unable to pull his eyes from Clint's prone frame. A flutter of worry pulsed at his heart – had he forgotten something? Was there anything else he could do? Did he do something wrong?
"Where did you learn all of this, anyway?"
"Agent Carter's lessons on the Reuben James. The ones you couldn't be bothered to attend."
The faintest trace of an embarrassed flush spread across Tony's face. "Had I known they were useful, I might have shown up." He paused, the mood sobering. "Think he's going to make it?"
"He'd better. He's going to survive this war, I'm damn well sure of it."
Tony's eyes popped and his jaw dropped. "Steve Rogers drinking and swearing in the same day? What'll happen next? Maybe the Germans will win the war!"
((Chapter 45! We've made it so far! Thanks for your dedication to reading this!))