Author's note: To everyone who patiently waited (and sometimes begged for more), I'm going to apologize right now. Due to work and real life landing on my shoulders, I haven't even started the next chapter left. For those who thought the last ended on a cliffhanger, this one certainly does. So no one freaks, I'll say straight off: no permanent damage will done to our heroes. That said, it's gonna get painful. I hope to get the next chapter started this week on vacation, but I do have company visiting, so I'm pleading the real life card and begging for patience. Everyone's response has been wonderful, and I hope you all stick around.

Even as he issued his warning to Coulson, Clint was already on his feet. Another burst of fire from an insurgent's AK-47 shattered the rock inches from his head, and he cursed as he dropped behind what little cover the outcropping on his left provided.

He reached out to snag his Remington, but his fingers had barely brushed the polished metal before a flurry of bullets hit the rock the rifle rested on. Shit. Someone either had a night scope or shit blind luck. Clint flattened himself back against the outcropping, but not anywhere quick enough to avoid the splinters of rock that exploded at him. He felt something rip along the outside of his right thumb, pain burning its way up his wrist.

"SonofaBITCH!" Clint wrapped his fingers – now slick with what had to be blood – around the muzzle of the Remington and pulled it back into his cover, his hand singing a loud chorus of pain with the effort. He spared just a second to flick on the safety, and then yanked the camo bandana from around his neck and wrapped it tightly around the wound.

An incomprehensible yell sounded out of the earpiece, still dangling free of his ear, and Clint quickly stuffed it back in.

"-eye, do you copy?" Coulson's voice crackled across the earpiece. "What the hell just happened?"

Clint closed his eyes, trying to push back the pain and just deal with the situation.

"Fucking machine gun fire hit the fucking rock, and the splinters just happened to chew up my fucking hand."

"Jesus…are you OK?" No static on Coulson's line now, and the older man's worry came through loud and clear. Clint could tell he hadn't stopped moving, though, as the words were punctuated with rough exhalations – the kind you got when you tried talking and running at the same time.

Clint snorted.

"Oh, just fan-fucking-tastic, sir. Could do without a repeat performance, though." He didn't need to admit anything more than that right now, and what Coulson didn't know wouldn't kill him. Clint pulled a deep breath, and pushed it out through his teeth. The trick was compartmentalizing. The pain was in his hand, nowhere else, and he could keep it there. He could do this. "Tell me where you are, sir, and what your orders are."

A frustrated sigh echoed back across the line.

"We have about three minutes to get clear of this area, if you get my drift." Clint didn't need to be a genius to figure that one out, especially since he'd seen some of the more … exotic choices Coulson had slipped into his backpack. "Time for you to –"

A staccato burst of AK-47 fire had Clint wincing and ripping the earpiece out in an attempt to save what might be left of his hearing. It took the noise out of his ear, but the sound of gunfire still traveled up from the compound below.

Hurriedly, he shoved the earpiece back in.

"Guardian, do you read?" He knew a note of panic had started to seep back into his voice, but he also didn't care. That note took a firm hold when Coulson didn't answer.

"Dammitall, Guardian, answer me, or I'm ignoring orders and coming down there." Another burst of gunfire echoed down near the compound, but this time, Clint didn't get the feedback over the earpiece.

"Guar –"

"Little busy at the moment, Hawkeye." Coulson sounded out of breath now, and Clint was willing to bet the man had taken off running even as the machine gun rounds had found his position. "They're back on me. Take advantage of the opportunity if you don't mind?"

Relocate. "On it." Clint flexed the fingers on his injured hand, then got a grip on the sniper rifle. He'd set up an escape route before he'd even settled on a spot for his sniper nest, a path up and over the rocks, a route that would take him to a secondary vantage point he could only hope would give him a line of sight on the agent's pursuers.

It took Clint all of a few seconds to scamper up the loose rock path, followed by nothing by a light breeze. Dammit. Either these guys were grossly incompetent, or Coulson had truly pissed them off enough to draw all the pursuit. Clint was willing to better it was the latter, and he had no real clue what direction the agent had run off in. Dropping to a prone position, he reset the rifle and looked through the night scope.

Aha. There they were, the bastards. A good-sized group of about 10 were weaseling their way around one of the outbuildings, hanging close to concrete block in hopes of presenting less of a target.

Time to even the odds in Coulson's favor. Clint took a deep breath, blew it out quickly, then sighted his first target and fired.

One down. He chambered another round, took another deep breath, exhaled – and the count on the ground reached two. Every bit of movement at the building halted as the terrorists whipped their heads around in the dark, crouched down low to the ground even as they raised their AK-47s, looking for a target. Clint let a feral grin cross his face as he chambered the third round.

Fuckers. Hope you aren't attached to your heads. He was in a zone now, one where he didn't even need to breathe. It was better than target shooting at the circus, because this time, the targets meant more than earning a free meal or a bonus. Bad people were dead, thank you very much. Three quick shots later, three bodies collapsed on the ground – all missing a significant portion of their heads.

Clint was just about to crow triumphantly into the comm when three weapons let loose automatic fire at once. One set tracked in his direction, and Clint barely had time to recognize he'd have caught the blast full in the chest if not for the fact he'd dropped down to reload the magazine. Even as he ducked his head down, though, the fire in his direction stopped, and he heard a string of curses echo in his ear.

Clint thunked his head against the rock. Of course the bad guys were still trailing the agent. Because nothing could be easy out here, could it.

Suddenly, Coulson quit swearing.

"Hawkeye…report." Coulson panted out the directive. "Let … me know…"

"Down and dirty, sir. But still in one piece. Give me a second to – "

"NO." Coulson's words were emphatic. "Remember that order you didn't care much for earlier? I need you to follow it. NOW."

A cool pit of anger started to boil in Clint's stomach, and the next words were out of his mouth almost of their own accord.

"Copy that, Guardian. But no can do. Reloading, and then I'll see how many more I can pick off your tail."

"Dammitall, Hawkeye, I'm ordering you to clear the area. Follow the directions back to the fallback point and –"

"I'm sorry, Hawkeye can't come to the phone right now. He's too busy sniping the bad guys off his boss's ass." Clint paused, slammed the magazine home, and reeled off two more quick shots. "Please leave a message at the sound of the beep." He paused, then added a loud, "BEEEEEP."

There was a second of silence, and then Coulson let loose a string of invectives that would have made Barton's Ranger group blush.

"Gee, sir, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Looking through the scope, Clint found three more targets, and dispatched each with a head shot. Then he pulled the magazine out, tossed it on the ground, and reloaded. "Trying to save your ass, sir. Talk less, run more."

"Hawkeye, I gave you a goddamned order and you said you'd follow it!"

Clint yanked the ear bud out, letting the earpiece still hang from his ear. Nothing worth hearing right now anyway. As soon as Clint had a sight line on the next group, he opened fire. This time, he had five good head shots, five bodies dropping without even firing a shot. But even as he let loose the final bullet, Clint saw another group peel off in his direction.

Clint sighed, picked up his rifle and made for the next line of rocks. About time he got outside the blast radius in any case.

"Hawkeye! Dammitall, answer me!"

Phil got absolutely nothing in response. Probably pulled the earpiece so he wouldn't have to listen – or get distracted. Even as his stomach started to boil in anger, he ran, refusing to let the gunners still on his tail get a good bead on his position. The anger served as an added boost of adrenaline, though, a needed push as he kept up as steady a sprint as possible.

He should have known. Barton had made no secret that he didn't like that portion of the agent's instructions – and damned if he hadn't said as much to Phil's face. But Phil was the experienced agent, and if something went wrong on his end, he'd wanted Barton safe. Not to mention Phil had a HELL of a lot more experience when it came to evading capture under circumstances like this.

Dammit. He hadn't wanted to be worrying about Barton in this situation. Hell, it was the very reason he'd given the damned kid the damned order. But apparently, trust and respect only went so far in Barton's somewhat screwed-up head.

The rapport of another set of shots echoed through the rocks, and Phil knew instinctively that a handful of his pursuers were now down and out of the fight. He had absolutely no idea how many were left, and didn't care so long as none of them put a bullet in his body. If he kept moving, the odds of that happening diminished considerably – and would get him outside of the radius of the blast he knew was coming. His thoughts went back to Barton, and Phil wanted nothing more than to simultaneously thank the damned kid for saving his ass – and then chew him out for not doing exactly what he'd been told in a deteriorating live-fire situation.

No wonder Maxwell had been all over Barton's ass. There was a too-fine line between genius and insanity in this business, and no one could survive every hellish situation thrown at him. Except that Barton had, and the shiny new lieutenant either couldn't cope with that kind of brilliance, or lacked the experience to figure out how to deal with it. Even as he reached the first low rocks that marked the very edge of the camp, Phil let a small little grin crease his features.

We get out of this, and that kid has a brilliant future. And also probably a shitload of unofficial SHIELD reprimands coming his way.

The thought carried him another 15 or 20 steps – maybe 30 seconds all told. Then without warning, night turned into day, a rush of air almost pulled him backward, and Phil had barely enough time to throw himself to the ground, throw his hands to his head and pray that he'd found the right balance between blowing the compound to hell and gone and not taking himself and Barton along with it.

The concussive blast from the explosives skimmed over the top of Phil's head, but either luck or skill kept it to just hot air and no actual flames. He coughed in the sudden heat, but kept his body down behind the rocks and waited it out.

After another minute, he felt comfortable enough to inch up and peer over the boulders. The sight that greeted him was nothing short of impressive. The building that had housed the prisoners didn't even appear to have a foundation left beyond a few concrete blocks, and the surrounding buildings were in various stages that would've impressed even SHIELD's explosive experts.

All that with nothing but a few blocks of C-4. Coulson grinned mirthlessly. When pushed, he could make do. When he realized that no one was rushing toward him out of the conflagration, he tapped his earpiece.

Time to find his wayward sniper.

"Hawkeye. Report." Phil didn't know if Barton would have put the earpiece back in or not, but his brief impressions of the kid told him that the sniper had enough common sense to try and reestablish contact after something as refreshing as an explosion.

And yet, there was no answer. Coulson rolled his eyes as he pulled out the earpiece to check for damage. Finding none, he slipped it back on and put an extra edge in his tone.

"Dammitall, Hawkeye. Report. That's informing me of whether or not you're still in one piece, and you'd damned well better be after that stunt you just pulled."

Again, silence. When Coulson finally managed to swallow back the surge of nausea in his stomach, his words had an acid touch to them – and an annoying touch of worry.

"Barton, so help me God, if you don't –"

The comm link crackled to life.

"Not now, Guardian. Got company. Bye!"

Clint hated being wrong.

No, scratch that. He really, REALLY despised being wrong – especially when he was the one left holding the shitsack full of consequences. As he ducked back down under the minimal cover provided by a jagged outcropping of rock, he wondered idly if Coulson was the type to say, "I told you so."

He really hoped not, because this kinda sucked enough as it was.

At least one of that small group he'd seen peel off from the pursuit of Coulson had followed him up here. He'd managed to get out of the original outcropping he'd been using as a vantage point, and down almost to ground level – about 50 meters from where he'd been, a spot where the rocks were a virtual labyrinth of small caves, passages and jagged edges. He'd been about ready to make a run for the clearing he knew Coulson had been heading for when the first round of shots from an AK-47 pinned him down so effectively that all he could do was blindly return fire with his pistol and pray he actually HIT something.

Another round of fire from the assault rifle hit the rocks, spattering him with shards, and Barton swore softly. These damned assholes were seriously starting to piss him off. But as he raised his gun to return fire, the world around him suddenly … shifted and flared to the light as bright as the sun.

Oh, shit, Coulson's expl…and then Clint was propelled up and backward by a rush of air and heat so intense that for a moment, he thought his skin had caught fire. Then he hit the unyielding surface of the rock wall behind him – hard enough to knock every last bit of air out of his lungs – and dropped to the sand, instinctively covering his head with his arms and gasping for oxygen.

The rush of heat past him now, he realized that the rocks had blocked most of the blast. The clamp on his lungs loosened as the heat backed off, and it became easier to breathe. He groaned as he stretched, but with the exception of blossoming soreness in his back – and wasn't that going to feel just terrific tomorrow – Clint could move everything with some semblance of normalcy and with a minimum of pain.

He put his head back on the ground, closed his eyes, and sighed. Join the Army. See the world, they said. Shoot the bad guys, they said. Never had anyone mention secret agents, an organization called SHIELD or big nasty explosions in nasty rock-filled mountains.

I so did not sign up for this shit. Clint went to lever himself up on his elbows, aiming for upright. Then he could try the comm and find out just where the hell Coulson had –

The skittering of pebbles down the rock wall behind him was the only warning Clint got. But even as he reached for his sidearm and made to roll to his side, someone slammed into him from behind, crunching him forward into his knees, back and neck screaming in protest.

A hand came up across his face, but Clint grabbed the arm, pulled, and rolled, throwing a wild elbow that connected with bone and flesh. The man cursed viciously in Pushtu, and retaliated with a fist right into Clint's solar plexus.

Oh, fuck. Suddenly unable to breathe, Clint brought his knee up hard, aiming for the man's crotch. He didn't land quite all of the blow he meant to, but he caught enough for the terrorist to curl in on himself – and away from his attacker. Wheezing, Clint took the opportunity to scramble away, reaching for his gun and instead closing his hand around an empty holster.

Are you fucking kidding me? Clint scanned the area quickly, and found nothing but sand. That was all he had time for, too, as the man in front of him regained enough control to push himself to his feet. Blood streamed down the face of his attacker, a ragged gash above the eyebrow showing just how true Clint's elbow had landed.

Slowly, the man crouched into a fighting stance, glaring at Clint with an almost-maniacal expression of glee. On the upside, the man wasn't holding an AK-47, and that in and of itself was a minor miracle. On the downside, Clint didn't exactly have anything left to shoot the man with.

For now, though, having jumped Clint once with the element of surprise, the guy seemed content to size him up and look for an opening. Probably a wise move on his part, since everything Clint had ever seen on insurgents involved guns and IEDs, not hand-to-hand knife fighting.

"You Americans and your explosives," the man spat out at him in rough, heavily accented English. He then slid his hand along his thigh, slowly removing a brutally-edged knife from a hidden sheath. "But you did not get all of us, and you will pay for your aggressiveness."

Keeping his eyes on the man the whole time, making sure the knife wasn't going to just be thrown at his heart or his eyes, Clint reached for his own blade. A Marine K-Bar, it slid easily from the sheath on his bulletproof vest, and Clint palmed it confidently.

"Bring it." But just as he began eying up his opponent, his own mirthless grin crossing his face, his comm – the earpiece still securely in his ear in spite of the open salvos of this fight – crackled to life.

"Hawkeye. Report." Well, that answered the question of whether or not Coulson had made it out safely. Fine. Everyone was still in one piece. He'd get to Coulson in a bit. Right now, he had one terrorist to go bad-ass on. The agent would just have to wait.

"Dammitall, Hawkeye. Report. That's informing me of whether or not you're still in one piece, and you'd damned well better be after that stunt you just pulled." Keeping his eyes on the man in front of him, Clint started to slowly advance, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Coulson apparently had no patience.

When the comm piece crackled a third time, Barton was ready for it.

"Barton, so help me God, if you don't –" With his free hand, Clint tapped the microphone to life and snarled.

"Not now, Guardian. Got company. Bye!"And then Clint ripped the earpiece out, tossing it to the ground, out of the way. The terrorist, still eying him warily, raised his knife in response, and Clint nodded.

"I said bring it, you bastard."

Clint wasn't surprised when the man didn't immediately lunge at him with the knife. A little disappointed, maybe – after all, a hot-headed asshole would make this fight a lot easier – but not surprised.

Patience, Barton. He could practically hear his Ranger Instructor in his head. The man had been a black patent leather dick, but he damned well knew his stuff. Thought before action had been the man's mantra, and it had saved Barton's ass a few times in the field.

Didn't keep my fellow Rangers off my ass, though, did it. Clint narrowed his eyes and tried to focus, forcing himself to keep an on every little twitch his enemy made. He kept his back to the rocks, taking a deep breath and then letting it out – slowly – through his nose.

You can do this. Let him make the first move. Clint wanted to let the other guy strike at him first. His best offense would be to react to an opening salvo, see what the man did – and then respond. Even as they sized each other up, Clint looked and saw weaknesses. Little things, like how the man skirted nervously away from the rocks, wanting to stay in the center of this small cove Clint had found. Or how he fidgeted with his knife, spinning it in his hand as he moved, constantly readjusting his grip. And he stayed his crouch, looking low, aiming low.

Bastard is gonna go for my – and then the man dove toward Clint's feet, swiping upward with the knife even as he rolled and tried to sweep Clint's legs out from underneath him. Clint didn't even stop to think. He reached up with his free hand, instinctively finding a hand hold and pulling himself up and away from the attack, anchoring himself with a foot in another small outcropping. The knife ripped along the inside edge of his boots and then up into the fabric of his pants, but didn't find purchase. A moment later, he'd lashed out with his own kick, catching the terrorist square in the chest with both feet.

Clint felt a brief moment of triumph, and then the rock his right hand had latched onto first shifted. He didn't even get a chance to swear as the rock pulled completely free. The momentum of his kick carried his legs out and away from the rocks, but plunged him back- and head-first into the outcropping. The Kevlar kept the rocks from chewing up his spine, but his head slammed painfully into the surface.

Vision going grey, Clint rolled to the ground and onto his chest, his only thought the knife still in his left hand. Don't let go, keep a grip, don't – A weight landed heavily on his back, and fingers threaded into his hair and yanked backward, exposing Clint's throat.

Clint didn't think, he just reacted. He bucked against the weight pinning him down, at the same time jerking his head forward and to the side. The motion was enough to keep the knife from connecting with his throat, the terrorist sliding off Clint's right side with a vicious curse in Pushtu. For a moment, Clint felt a heady surge of relief, tucking his head down and giddy to still be alive as he thought he heard metal clatter against rock. But as he rolled, his right side exploded with pain as the man's fist connected with his ribs at the weak spot where the vest ended and Clint's underarm lay exposed.

Fuck, that's gonna leave a bru – Then the terrorist pulled away, snarling, his knife still in his hand, a nasty smirk creasing his features. Clint's vision blurred for a moment, as the pain burned in his side, and then cleared as a surge of adrenaline worked its way into his veins. Then the knife came down again, this time aiming for his heart.

He scrambled for purchase in the sand, trying to back away, trying to get his own knife up and around. But instead of his left hand coming up with the blade, Clint's right closed around more metal – a barrel, and then a handgrip.

It took him a millisecond to raise the weapon and aim, another to latch his finger around the trigger and pull. A blur of motion, an explosion of sound, and Clint felt the gray encroach again, dead weight collapsing against him and pinning him to the ground.

His chest screaming for air now, Clint couldn't move. He tried to push the terrorist up and off him, expecting the man to somehow still be alive and ready to strike a killing blow with his blade. But the man didn't move, and after a few seconds, Clint realized that his lungs were still working. He fought to get the air into his lungs, his whole body burning with the exertion and the weight lying on top of him, gasping at the night air like he couldn't get enough.

Push him off. Push him off, Barton, get free, and – Clint twisted, gained as much purchase as his limp arms would allow, and heaved. The terrorist fell away, but as he did, Clint's whole chest caught fire and burned. Shit, that punch broke a rib. He gasped, curling in on himself even as he looked and saw the shattered remains of the terrorist's face, the bullet having torn through the jaw and then up into the brain.

Dead, very damned dead, and Clint tried to chuckle as he remembered he'd done the damage with his wrong hand. His right let go of the gun almost of its own accord, and Clint's laugh turned into a wheeze. Groaning softly, Clint brought his left arm across his chest to brace his ribs, wondering if Coulson's first-aid pack had some decent tape he could use when they got back out.

But when he got his hand across, Clint didn't feel the familiar ache of a broken rib. Instead, his hand slid across something wet. As his brain registered the fact that his shirt was well soaked, Clint found he still couldn't pull in a decent breath. A growing realization hit him as he pulled his hand back, sticky and covered in blood.

His blood. His mind suddenly connecting the events and then the blade that had been in the terrorist's hand as he'd come in for the killing blow, Clint collapsed back against the sand, and wheezed out the only words that came to mind.

"Well, shit."

Five minutes, and Phil had counted every last second of it on his watch. Every thirty seconds – and he'd been clocking it exactly on the '30' mark and the '0' – he'd tried raising Barton, only to hear silence over the comm. Every. SINGLE. Time. With the flames from the compound still providing enough light to navigate by, he'd started to double back along the rock formation to Clint's last known position, trying to figure out just what he would do when he found the kid.

That would likely depend on the condition he found him in. Letting loose a harried sigh, Phil looked down at his watch, caught the second mark kick to zero – and keyed his mike.

"Barton, status." When, yet again, he didn't get an answer, Phil stopped and snarled into the mike, "You have exactly 30 seconds to get back on this comm line, Barton, or you really aren't going to want me to find you."

Suddenly, there was static on the line, and then a scuffling noise. Then, finally, Barton's voice sounded over the comm.

"Didn't…copy…that last, Guardian. Say again?" Phil could hear the hitch in the younger man's voice, and the panting note to Barton's breathing.

"I said, give me your status, Barton." Phil knew he wasn't using the damned code names now, but frankly, he didn't care. It was taking everything he had to keep ahold of his irritation. "Preferably in the form of, 'I'm fine, and I promise never to pull a stunt like this ever again.'"

"Funny, sir. You sound just … just like …" And then the words were gone, replaced by a hacking cough and then a painful gasp for air. Phil winced, and then turned and slapped the rock wall in frustration.

So much for getting, "I'm fine," and getting the hell out of here.

"OK, that's it, Barton. Never mind your status. Give me your location. I'm coming to get you." Sighing, Phil started looking for handholds, a way up into the rocks toward the higher ground Barton had been occupying since this began.

"Uh, negative, Guardian." Barton seemed to be grinding the words out through a clenched jaw, but there was also a hint of that smartass grin. "We're … we're all fi…fine here…now. Thank you. How…are you?"

Phil rolled his eyes.

"Barton, unless you want to be tied down in a SHIELD infirmary and subjected to a 24-hour loop of the disco Star Wars theme, give me your location and status." When there was nothing but the sound of Barton panting for a long second, Phil added angrily, "NOW!"

"No need … Coulson." An edge crept into Barton's voice now, all good humor gone. "Just … got the wind … knocked out of me. Plus the bastard landed on…" Barton coughed, then continued shakily, "landed on my goddamned back. Think he broke a few…few ribs, but I can … I can walk."

Phil sighed.

"That all, or do you have anything else to add to that tally?" Remembering Barton's earlier words all of a sudden, Phil added, "And what about your hand?"

Of all things, a soft chuckle sounded over the line.

"My hand?" The chuckle dissolved into another cough, and then the sound of the microphone scuffling against cloth as Barton shifted around on his end. "Least of my … my problems, Coulson. And yeah, that's about … about it." There was a pause, Barton still panting air in and out of his lungs. "Primary evac point, or the secondary location?"

Phil swallowed hard, fighting a nagging disquiet that Barton hadn't told him the whole story. But if he wasted time trying to climb up and around the rocks, chances were he wouldn't find Barton, but one of the handful of terrorists that had to still be combing the area.

As if the sniper had read his mind, Barton spoke again.

"C'mon, Coulson, you know those…'plosives … didn't ta… take out everyone." Barton was all seriousness now. "More time we waste … fucking …'round, th'more chance one … one of them finds you, me, or both of us."

Phil sighed loudly. Trust had to come sometime, he supposed.

"Fine." Coulson pushed away from the wall, pulling the spare clip for his sidearm from his belt, ejecting the now-spent cartridge, and slamming the new one home. Better safe than sorry. "Primary evac point. You have two hours."

On the other end, Barton snorted in derision.

"Gonna…make it … make it in one, Guardian. Don't…don't be late, OK?"

Phil shook his head, and started walking again.

"Whatever you say, Hawkeye. Out."

Listening to the comm line click off, Clint leaned back against the rock, thankful for the cool surface on his head and neck. Gingerly, he pulled his hand away from the kerchief he'd shoved into his vest against the knife wound, and then poised his small Maglite – red bulb to diminish any effect on his vision – to get a look.

Even in the dim light, he could see the darker stain of blood on his fingers.

"Fuck me." He hadn't been able to get a good look at the wound, or do much of anything except rip off his bandana and press it up hard. Even then, the damned thing still had managed to bleed through the cloth. How much, he wasn't sure, but enough that it had gone through several layers and ended up on his hand.

Nothing for it. He didn't have the materials to deal with this here – not even a packet of that damned clotting agent the company medics had made sure to hand out before missions. How the hell had he missed that in the rush to get moving?

"Easy, Barton." Clint whispered out loud to himself. "Didn't think … at all." He hadn't thought about anything, apparently. About getting hurt, or things going sideways so bad that he'd be separated from Coulson, or having to do anything other than bare basics on scene for Coulson's now very dead agents. Clint clamped his arm against his side, gasping in pain at the effort. It would've taken him all of 30 seconds to have shoved a few extras in his pocket, and then he wouldn't be –

"Fuck it all." Clint hissed out the words. He had to try to get moving. Otherwise, he'd be putting Coulson at risk by making the agent double back for him. He wasn't about to let anyone else put themselves in harm's way for him, not now, not after McDermid and Collins and the fucked-up rescue mission from hell. Pulling his hand away from the wound, he cinched the Velcro on his Kevlar as tight as he could, wincing at the pressure on his chest.

"Move your ass, Barton. Just … move." Clint pushed himself away from the rocks, bringing his legs underneath him so he could use the rocks to try and level himself onto his feet. His hand throbbing and his chest protesting, he got about a third of the way out of his crouch before his vision went gray and his legs suddenly buckled, sprawling him back onto the sand and bouncing his head up against the unforgiving rock wall.

Panting harshly, Clint clung to consciousness with every last ounce of willpower he had left.

"Just…a…rest." Clint dropped his head down to his chest, focusing only on getting air into his lung. The pressure from the vest, the pain, the gray in his vision wanting to go to black, it piled onto him, forcing a fresh spike of adrenaline into his system. With it came a rush of clarity, and Clint shifted first to his knees, and then back to his feet.

He made it a few yards down the passageway in the rocks before he stumbled on a small outcropping in the sand. His unsteady feet refused to stay under him, and he tumbled back to ground, landing on his right side.

His chest now burning, the gray in his vision returned, and Clint curled into himself, pulling himself out of the open air into a small alcove in the rock.

Just a short rest. Just a short…and the darkness came up to claim him, suddenly, swiftly, and without remorse.