The next time Clint was fully conscious and lucid was a week after what'd happened outside the range. Natasha had been less than pleased, finding herself across the country while the one partner she could actually stand, and who'd sort of become her best friend, was having some kind of unidentifiable medical emergency. Coulson had seen the surveillance footage of her little 'match' with Stark's driver (As had most of SHIELD. Someone had seen fit to send a mass email) and he had no doubt she'd used the opportunity to burn off a little anger.

He couldn't blame her for being on edge. The status updates he'd periodically given her hadn't been promising. For days Clint had been unresponsive only to sporadically wake, confused as to where he was, who they were, and why he was there. By day two a Nasogastric feeding tube had joined the saline drip that he'd been put on shortly after his admittance. Phil hadn't liked seeing him like that- hooked up to so many tubes and wires that seemed to double in number as the days went by- but with Clint's metabolism it was a necessary evil.

But on the seventh day of everyone in SHIELD waiting with bated breath for news of their colleague, Clint fully woke and had promptly taken the initiative to extricate himself from the various things attached to his person. He'd been in the middle of pulling out his feeding tube, alarms blaring around him, when the nurses had gotten there.

It'd been one of the few times Phil hadn't been by his bedside, having being called away for a meeting concerning Stark's newest misadventures and a quick briefing on Ivan Vanko. By the time he'd been able to check his messages and walked (practically jogged) down there, Barton had been settled back in his bed and he was already begging for real food. Needless to say, no one had ever been so relieved to hear him whine and complain.

From what their scans and psychiatrics could determine, other than a little disorientation and some lethargy, whatever had put Clint down for the count had passed with no lingering side effects. It was the best outcome they could've imagined, but Phil couldn't help but wonder just what had set him off in the first place. And if it would happen again. R&D had already been set to work trying to come up with a way to prevent a recurrence, but Phil didn't hold out much hope. There was only so much you could do to a person's mind without some severe repercussions. There were bound to be side effects no matter what they tried.

But aside from him and Dr. Alison, everyone else within SHIELD was just happy to have Clint back to normal. News had traveled fast and even Fury seemed to brighten up- which basically meant he cackled more malevolently and started scaring the junior agents again. Say what you will about Fury's relationship with Barton. They didn't agree on much, and they argued more often than anyone in SHIELD, and that included Fury and Stark, and sometimes they just stared at one another as they passed each other in the hall and it was pretty damn weird. But if they shared anything in common, it was their penchant for emotionally scarring the lower ranked SHIELD agents. Phil knew that they swapped stories over coffee in the morning and sometimes, if Clint wasn't parked on his couch or hiding out in the ceiling, he could be found sitting on Fury's couch.

So yes, everyone was pretty happy with the state of things- well, everyone except Clint who was apparently so bored he wanted to "Claw my fucking eyes out, Coulson!"

Really, he couldn't say he was surprised when only two days after Barton had woken he received a call while typing up a report telling him that their resident Houdini was at it again.

"If you see him, tell him to get his ass back here," Dr. Alison growled through the phone before the line went dead.

Phil sighed and while a lesser man would have jumped, he just flinched when a voice called out from the ceiling. "I'm not going back!"

Dear God.

"Barton," he started calmly, as he set down the phone. He must've done something truly horrible in a past life to warrant all the crap he had to put up with. "I don't care if you're bored, you haven't been cleared for release yet, so you're going to march back there if I have to get someone to go up there and drag you out."

"Listen to me when I tell you this, because I've never been more serious in my life: I'm not going back! It's torture Phil," Clint whined, his voice muffled behind the ceiling tiles. "They don't even have a TV. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"You're supposed to be resting!" he yelled, knowing it was useless.

"I can rest up here."

Coulson was suddenly having flashbacks to when he'd had to babysit his four year old niece one weekend.

"Barton- Clint, just," he said, frustrated. "Get down here. If you're not going back to Medical, at least rest on the couch."

After a moment a tile hesitantly slid away, revealing one rather cautious and overtired looking Clint Barton. "You're not going to turn me in?"

"No."

"Promise?"

"For the love of God, just get down here!"

He dropped down easily, landing squarely on his feet and still dressed in the regulation white t-shirt and grey track pants Medical gave to their more physically able patients. He gave Phil a small smile that seemed almost out of place on his face. It wasn't his normal smirk and playful grin; it was timid, almost shy in a way. Clint didn't say anything as he made his way to the couch, pulling the blanket from where it was folded along the back, and wrapping himself up before quickly flopping down onto the cushions.

Phil just watched him for a while, but wasn't completely surprised when five minutes later Barton was fast asleep. A hospital bed wasn't exactly known for being the most comfortable thing to lie on.

Dr. Alison had said she didn't want him out in the field for at least another month, just to make sure he was alright. So if Clint was driving people crazy now, well, Phil was actually grateful that he'd have to head out eventually to meet with Natasha at Stark's. Fury was scheduled to fly out there next week and from what Phil could discern of his plan, he could already tell Stark wasn't going to know what hit him.

Fury had a...flare for theatrics to say the least. The induction speech he gave every year for new agents was like something scripted straight out of a movie. It scared all the newbies; half into quitting and half into indentured service. He had a feeling that the Director lay in bed at night thinking up snappy one-liners and running through scenarios in his head. Besides, a cackle like that took practice.

Clint muttered something in his sleep as he shifted, shoving his face into one of the pillows before letting out a little sigh. Coulson leaned back in his chair, letting himself relax for a moment.

Despite the possible (horrendous, earth shattering, international incident causing) repercussions, he was almost tempted to request that Barton be assigned to him when he travelled out to California. It was a simple babysitting job really, nothing too demanding. If anything it would be a nice way to ease him back into active duty.

Clint grumbled something about elephants and Phil cradled his head in his hands, staring at the man who he used to call Fury's Pet Project, who he used to watch thrash as he was tied down to a hospital bed, a man that he once thought was a lost cause...a man that he was now completely and utterly in love with.

Because logic won out, Phil had made the right decision to not ask for Clint to be sent to California with him. Unsurprisingly dealing with Stark had been a nightmare, if amusing at times.

("Why do you all keep laughing at Happy?"

"No reason.")

But when he received a call about New Mexico he figured it was about time he broke Clint out of 'the joint' as the archer called it in his emails. Apparently he'd been loaned out to R&D for the duration of his leave and wasn't exactly enjoying it. The plan was that Clint would fly into LAX and then they'd drive out ahead of the main force to get a look at whatever the hell this thing was.

Phil couldn't deny the flutter of excitement in his stomach as he waited outside Arrivals, scanning the out coming crowds for a familiar head. When he finally spotted him he was rather perturbed to find Clint limping down the hallway, his bag tossed over his shoulder and the kit containing his bow tucked under his arm.

Phil stared at him, unimpressed as he made his way over. "Do I want to know what you did?"

Barton glared as he threw his bag down, but kept his bow in his arms. "R&D decided to try out some new kind of Prophylactic braces that protect your knees and ankles when you jump for heights. I've spent the last two weeks with my legs encased in that shit jumping off of twenty foot platforms. And let's just say the braces need some major fucking work," he growled, wincing as he bent to pick up his bag.

Phil waved him off and ducked down to grab it himself. "You can stretch out in the back seat if you want. It's a long drive, so you'll have time to relax and go over the mission file."

The car was waiting for them just outside the gate, the government plates and stickers stopping it from being towed. Taxi drivers gave them dirty looks from behind their wheels as they loaded in Clint's gear and climbed in.

"You'd think SHIELD could spring for something nicer," he complained as he gingerly sat down in the back, spreading his aching legs out along the seat.

"It could be worse," Phil warned him, experience colouring his voice. "Believe me."

There'd once been an incident involving a Toyota, a raccoon and a cut break line that still gave Sitwell a haunted look in his eyes whenever it was mentioned.

He grabbed the mission file from its place on the passenger seat and passed it back. Barton quickly pulled out the satellite images, tossing aside and completely ignoring the four page long report with footnotes that a junior agent had spent eight hours writing.

The object was completely unidentifiable and of unknown origins. Even the top scientists at SHIELD were puzzled as to what it was and were contacting NASA for some input. At this point, it looked like they'd have to actually examine it in person to really get a read on what it—

"Looks like a hammer," Clint pointed out, turning the photo this way and that.

Phil leaned back to take another look. "Yes... I suppose it does sort of resemble a hammer," he admitted as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

"Nah, man, I think it might actually be a hammer. I mean, look at it," he said, holding the photo out for Phil to look at.

"It's not a hammer, Clint. It's an unidentified object that fell from space forty-eight hours ago that is of unknown origins. It could be many things, but a hammer, it is not."

"Pretty sure it is."

Phil kept his eyes on the road, but he could hear the smirk on Barton's face. "Well, no matter how much it might appear to resemble one in the photo, I assure you it isn't."

"Whatever you say, boss," the archer laughed, pulling the photo back as he settled down. "Let me know if you get tired and I'll drive."

Phil couldn't help but chuckle at that as he adjusted the air conditioning- it was so damn hot.

"When was the last time you actually drove a car Barton?"

When only silence answered him he continued. "You don't even have a license."

"I don't?"

He could hear the surprise and confusion in Clint's voice and looked in the rear view to find him frowning thoughtfully.

"It's expired. And believe it or not, the government isn't exactly keen on giving someone with a history of seizures and recent head trauma a license."

William Brandt's license was still very much valid, but the last time Clint Barton had registered with the DMV had been back before he'd joined the army. And with what had happened, Brandt's license would have been revoked because of the medical complications.

"They'll give me a gun, but they won't let me drive a car?" he asked incredulously.

"What can I say? That's the American government for you."

Clint huffed, clearly put out by the news but even his annoyance wasn't enough to keep him awake and soon he managed to doze off, leaning back against the cool glass of the window.

Phil made a mental note to have a word with R&D about using highly trained agents as test subjects. He doubted whoever had set the placement up had jumping for high heights in mind when they'd assigned Barton. Generally agents were asked to try out new guns or in Clint's case, bows, to make sure they worked well under different conditions. Not exactly fun, but there wasn't much chance of injury either.

The rest of the drive was normal except for a little hiccup at a gas station he'd stopped at the fill up, but he'd been back quickly enough that Clint hadn't even woken up from the air conditioning being switched off. He'd set the powder donuts on the seat beside him, knowing Clint would be hungry when he woke up before he'd turned the ignition and took off down the long stretch of road again, intent on making it to their destination before nightfall.

"Phil, I don't normally argue with you-

"What?"

"But I'm going to have to disagree with you on this one. Because this thing," he said wildly gesturing at the foreign object in front of them. "Is definitely a hammer."

By the time they'd arrived at the crash site Clint had apparently recuperated enough to be annoying again. He was standing in a non-regulation t-shirt, his arms crossed as he stared intently down at the mysteriously object that may have slightly resembled a hammer.

Dust had already gathered on his boots and jeans and Phil's suit wasn't fairing any better as the sun beat down on their necks. Even in the late afternoon the heat was merciless and the ground was cracked and dry beneath their feet in a way that old of weeks of draught.

Clint planted a foot on the ground, wrapping both of his hands around the handle and gave a sharp tug. The ham— object didn't budge, staying firmly embedded into the rocky earth.

"Well, that thing isn't going anywhere anytime soon," Barton grunted as he stepped back. "Don't know how we're going to move it to the base."

Coulson glanced around the area, taking some quick measurements with his eyes. "We aren't going to move it to the base, Barton," he said. "We're going to build the base around it."

Clint crossed his arms again, and Phil was glad that his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses so Barton wouldn't see him staring.

"Huh. Sounds fun."

Phil rolled his eyes as he turned to look at the surrounding landscape. "Sounds like a pain in the ass."

Clint nodded, walking around the object to get a view from all sides. "So the hammer is emitting some frequency that interferes with communication signals?"

Phil sighed, deciding it was a lost cause. "Yes, something like that. With the proper equipment we should be able to work around it though."

Clint bent down, running his finger along the hammer to clean away the dust. "This thing isn't some satellite, or debris or anything. Look at these engravings. These are intricate," he pointed out, tracing the pattern that had been hidden beneath a layer of dirt.

"Celtic or Scandinavian," he muttered, his eyes narrowed as he examined it. "Sørensen might know, but then again, I'm pretty sure he's from Oregon."

Phil eyed the hammer doubtfully, wondering just what the hell they were getting themselves into.

"This is weird," Clint pronounced as he stood, dusting his hands off on his pants. Phil nodded in agreement, but otherwise didn't comment. Clint shaded his eyes with his hand, spinning around to look at the parameter of the crater.

"Seeing as we're basically in a valley, we're going to need something with height, or we'll be sitting ducks."

"An order has already been put in for a guard tower. I've also taken the liberty of getting a crane for you."

Barton turned to stare at him, a questioning look on his face. "What the hell will I need a crane for?"

"We'll attach a bucket to it and—

A smile broke out across Clint's face as he caught on. "This is going to be awesome."

"Don't get too excited," Coulson said, trying to sound disapproving as he started walking back towards where he'd parked. This close to the hammer his phone was basically useless. Clint was quick to follow after him, even with the slight limp to his step.

"What's not to be excited about? A hammer fell from the sky, I get a crane, and I got to spend the day with you."

Phil almost tripped over a rock at the last part, his eyes flying to Clint. The archer gave him a small smile before hurrying up the hill ahead of him.

"And who knows? Weird hammer that no one can lift, with even weirder Scandinavian engravings? Maybe Thor's visiting New Mexico," he joked, kicking up dust as he hopped from rock to rock.

Phil rolled his eyes, a smile sneaking onto his face. "Shut up."

If Clint could hear the blatant fondness in his voice, he didn't mention it.

When all was said and done, they were left with a half destroyed New Mexican city, twelve injured agents, several totalled cars, traumatized civilians, a useless base, no hammer, and one very smug Clint Barton.

"I'd just like to point out that I so called this one."

"Sitwell, hit him."

I've no idea why it took me so long to post this, because it's just been sitting in my computer for ages, as have other chapters. Thanks so much for everyone who has reviewed, they really mean a lot to me! I'll start putting these up regularly considering I've got a bunch of chapters already written and just sitting around.

ForeverFalling.

PS. Oh yeah, Happy Holidays!