Author's notes: First of all, to everyone who reviewed chapter six, and has been patiently (or not so patiently) waiting for this next installment: THANK YOU. I have not been holding it hostage – at least, not on purpose. Life threw me a curve ball in August, as I received a promotion at work, and have spent the last month and a half getting settled into a job I never expected to have in my life. I'm finally in a position now where I'm not frantically treading water, and Aggie's beginning to post "New York" was just inspiration I needed to get this moving. Well, that and making a few hours in a crazy schedule to write the last section.

So, here is chapter seven (well, by 's count, eight, since it seems to think the prologue is chapter one). Please enjoy. And like Aggie, I love reviews. Special shout out to Nonyvole, who beta'ed this for me in spite of being sick. *hugs* Thank you, hon. You are awesome.

Clint Barton had been sure of a lot of things in his life.

But now, as he stood in the chill of the midnight air, his chest aching, riding this surge of adrenaline and pain, he suddenly understood – he just knew – what he'd never figured out before now.

He couldn't be sure of anything. Not now, and maybe never again.

"C'mon, bro, you know how it goes." The tone in Barney's voice … it was so … greasy. Clint had heard it from others in the foster home, those trying to weasel their way through others' defenses, trying to get away with something. That little bit of fake innocence, all there to fool people into believing what they could see – he'd heard it so many times before.

His brother could pull it off better than anyone else.

"You…you let him…" Clint heaved in a breath, which triggered a cough. The cough went on and on, doubling him over as he fought to get control over his breathing, over his emotions. He never thought … he didn't deserve to be punished like that, did he?

Stepping closer, Barney laughed.

"What, bro? You think you're the first to get the plastic bag treatment around here?" Barney's voice cut Clint, HARD. His breathing started to come back under control, but his emotions…

Clint shook his head.

"That's wrong! All I did was stand up for Ben!" Ben, the smallest of the five foster children in the McFarland's home, and the youngest at age nine. Ben was closest to Clint's age of 11, and Barney, Jason and Eric – all 16 or older – ran game on the youngest in the house. Game, as in making sure they got blamed for everything, up to and including the pot Mr. McFarland had found hidden in Ben's mattress an hour ago.

He'd tried to explain, tried to tell Mr. McFarland that the drugs didn't belong to Ben, belonged to one of the older boys. He thought…he'd have thought Mr. McFarland would know Ben and Clint better, know that neither of them would ever do drugs. All Ben and Clint wanted to do was to stay out of trouble, keep under the radar, keep the older boys from…

A palm impacted the side of Clint's face, brutally sending his lip along the rough outline of his teeth. Clint sucked in the blood he tasted in his mouth, not wanting to let it show.

"Can you hear me?" Barney's fingers latched around Clint's hair, jerking his head back. "You little prick, whaddya think would happen if you tried get all up in our faces? You're lucky Daddy Dearest doesn't like to leave marks."

Barney's grip on his hair tightened, and an arm came around Clint's neck. Clint squirmed, knowing what his bastard of a brother was about to do. He'd done it enough times to bully him. But just like every other time, Clint couldn't break free. He bucked, but Barney's arm tightened up against his throat.

"Can you hear me? Huh?" Clint tried to pull in air, but he could already feel his vision starting to grey out. "Can you hear me? Hear me?...Hear…" Clint could feel his brother fading away, could feel everything starting to slip…

"Hear me, dammit…"

"Dammitall, Barton, answer me, or when I find you, I'm going to ship your sorry ass right to the goddamned brig!"

Clint groaned, consciousness rushing back in along with pain and dizziness and a wave of nausea that the loud voice in his ear most definitely was NOT helping. As he opened his eyes, and saw moonlight painting the rock around him, the last of the nightmare faded away, and he groped for the earpiece before Coulson had an aneurysm.

"Here, Coulson…" He coughed, jarring his chest and bringing back the memory of the stab wound. "Ow."

In his ear, he heard Coulson mutter something under his breath, and when Clint heard a few creative swear words clearly, he managed a weak chuckle

"Language … boss. Remember…open channel?"

There was a long pause before Coulson answered. When he did, the tension in the older man's voice was tinted with anger.

"Barton, I realize you have extreme issues with authority." Holy shit, did the man sound pissed. "But under no circumstances should you be ignoring a report call for 10 minutes."

Clint blinked. Ten minutes? Fuck, just how long had he been out? Gingerly, he lifted his right hand, and tapped the light button on his watch.

2:30 a.m. He'd been out for two hours.

"Barton?" The anger in Coulson's voice had dropped a few notches, and in its place, Clint could hear a few stirrings of concern. He didn't want to hear it, didn't need it – and had NO intention of letting Coulson know he was hurt.

So, he dug for the smartass exterior he knew Coulson wouldn't see past.

"What…what happened to the code names, 'sir?'" Clint coughed – and curled in on himself to keep a groan from escaping. "Was getting to like Hawkeye…" Clint swallowed back a small gasp, and tried to grin instead. "Again."

He could hear the older man's frustration immediately.

"You have exactly five seconds to cut the bullshit and tell me why the hell you weren't answering me, you understand?"

Clint sighed. If he lied, he had a gut instinct Coulson would figure it out – and come racing back to find him. Clint didn't want that, didn't want to put the agent at any kind of risk just because he'd zigged when he should've zagged.

On the other hand, telling the truth would guarantee the same reaction. So…Clint went with vague.

"Had to lay low." Clint winced, hearing the evasion in his own voice all too clearly. Well, it wasn't a lie, anyhow, and with any luck, Coulson would take it as Clint had been ducking an enemy sentry. Clint swallowed hard as a fresh wave of pain shot through his chest. "Think I can get moving now, though."

There was a moment of silence, one where Clint just knew Coulson had seen through the half-truth and was going to call him on it. Then the agent's voice came back over the comm piece.

"Fine. But keep in contact this time. Regular check-ins every half hour from here on out." Clint's mouth quirked up in a grin, happy they'd both been trusting each other enough the first time that Coulson hadn't insisted on that proviso. "And if you run into any kind of resistance, use your words this time, Barton. Or else the next time you see me, it will be me leaving your sorry ass in country and to hell with whatever Maxwell did or did not have planned for you. Are we clear?

"Aw, sir, didn't know you cared."

"Move it, Barton. Coulson out."

The comm quit with a crackle, and Clint sighed.

Now if he could just figure out how to get moving.

A half hour later, Clint had made about a half mile of progress.

At least, he thought it was a half mile. Every inch of it seemed to come at a price. He'd forged his way stubbornly forward, stumbling every couple of steps as his side protested loudly at having to move at all. He refused to stop, and he refused to give in. He'd be fucked if Coulson would have to haul back in to find him.

He was a fucking Ranger. He could do this.

Then, miracle of miracles, he'd stumbled clear of the rock maze that he'd been clawing his way through and almost stepped right off into the clear air of a dropoff. But instead of it being a sheer, splinter-edged rock wall, Clint found himself at the top of what looked to be a nothing more than a pebbled hill. He lowered himself to the ground with as much care as he could manage – and promptly felt his feet skid out from under him as the small rocks shifted.

He ended up at the bottom about 10 seconds later, coughing uncontrollably, the dust from the ground getting pulled into his lungs and making it impossible to draw a deep breath. All he could do was curl up in the fetal position and hope to not pass out. Each ragged breath slowly got deeper, and the coughing eventually slowed, but the pain increased every time he moved.

So he quit trying to move. He'd just sat here, and prayed no one with an AK-47 came stumbling along, pouring sweat, gasping for air and wondering just what the hell he'd say when Coulson checked in. The truth would just get him in trouble.

"Hey, Agent Coulson, taking a breather…got the wind knocked out of me. Well, more than just the wind, actually…"

"All's well boss, if you consider 'well' being 'collapsed on the ground with stabbing pain in my side from a fucking stab wound."

"Got a helicopter nearby you can send for me, sir?"

None of those options seemed particularly appealing, and the sweat eventually cooled on his skin, leaving him shivering in the light northwest wind that had kicked up. But Clint was no closer to moving when the earpiece crackled to life.

"Barton, position." Coulson sounded no less irritated than when Clint had spoken with him a half hour ago. He supposed he had something to do with that as he huffed out a breath, winced and tapped the comm link open.

"Uh, not entirely sure, sir." And he wasn't, and Coulson would just have to live with that. "But I'm making progress. More, uh…down than up now."

"Did you lose your GPS marker, Barton? Or did you decide to navigate by the stars?" Coulson clipped out every word, and even though it hurt, Clint reached into his pocket for the small hand-held device. Scowling at the bright light from the display and immediately turning it toward the sand, he rattled off the coordinates to Coulson.

There was silence for a long moment, then the agent came back on the line.

"What aren't you telling me, Barton?"

"Beg your pardon?" Aside from the fact that he was hurt, Clint had absolutely no idea where Coulson was going with this.

"You're all of about 500 yards from their base camp. So, either you're lost, you're hurt – or you've decided you're making Afghanistan your new home."

Fucking smartass. Clint rolled his eyes.

"I'm NOT lost, I'm just trying to make progress in one helluva bitch of a…" And the tickle that had been sitting at the back of Clint's throat took that exact moment to erupt. The pain, which had died down to a dull roar, rose to a fever pitch, and Clint let out a noise that even to his own ears sounded like a cross between a moan and a keening hiss.

The comm piece in his ear stayed mercifully quiet until the cough died down, and when Coulson spoke again, the acerbic tone had dropped a few degrees.

"How bad, Barton?" Coulson got to the point, but this time, Clint could hear the older man actually attempting to be … gentle with him. "I need to know if I need to come back for you."

"Nothing, sir. It's NOTHING." Clint hissed the words out even as the sting of tears poked at his eyes. "I can do this. Not worth you risking yourself. Please."

"That's …" Coulson's voice trailed off for a second before actually finishing the sentence. "That's not the point here. I can be back with a medic pack in two hours."

"NO." This time, Clint poured every ounce of strength he had left into his voice. "I can do this, sir. It's just going to take me a little…" Clint coughed again. "A little…TIME." Didn't Coulson SEE? He let loose his next sentence in a rush. "Too much chance of us missing each other and finding more bad guys instead."

A sigh came through loud and clear over the comm.

"You may have a point." Coulson's voice had gained a measure of resolve of its own. "But I'm not leaving you behind to struggle on your own just to prove whatever else is running that mind of yours around in circles. So…compromise. Keep moving forward, and I'll come to you. I'll check in again in a half hour."

Shit. Shit, and more SHIT.

"Sir…"

"I'll take that as a 'yes, sir,' Barton. Coulson out."

For a long moment after the line went dead, Clint just sat there, working way too hard to draw air into his chest and fighting against the pain there. Sometime in the last few hours, his hand had started to throb, too, and his skin seemed coated with a slight sheen of sweat – his body feeling too warm when he moved, and chilled when he stopped.

God, this sucked. And now the one person he thought could get clear of this mess had turned around and was coming back for him. Clint fought back the sudden prickle of moisture in his eyes, and the surge of fear in his stomach. He had to do this, had to move.

His body protested as he rolled over and pushed himself onto his knees. Even that simple motion cost him, pushing the air out of his lungs and producing another low keening noise.

He WOULD do this. Even if he had to crawl.

"Did you hear? Barton didn't even get a reprimand on his file."

The voice sniggered in the darkness, full of loathing and sarcastic bitterness – a tone he'd heard too many times over the past week. He'd heard it when any small group gathered, whether it was just two members of his Ranger squad, or a handful of the squeaky new recruits that hung around the edges for whatever gossip they could pick up.

The tone he only heard when no one thought he was listening, because people didn't have enough common fucking decency to call him out to his face. Amazing that some of these people he'd called friends. Now they all whispered behind his back, hushed tones and caustic words that half the time seemed to be said just so he could overhear them. Fucking cowards couldn't even look him in the goddamned face when they ripped him amongst themselves.

The bitch of it was, Clint would've taken it. He'd look them in the eye and take whatever shit they could dish out.

"Yeah, must've been all that blood on his hands. Maybe they think if they give him enough rope, he'll just hang himself, huh?" That voice…had to be Nelson. Fucking bastard. "You get it, hang himself? Bastard should just – "

Barton swallowed hard and forced a blank look onto his face as he came around the corner.

"Hey." The greeting, muttered low and harsh, hadn't changed in any of the time the Rangers had known each other. Only the reaction had. At first, men had jumped – like he'd come out of nowhere and his voice represented their worst nightmares. Then gradually, with Collins running interference and forcing Clint to be more than the crazy-ass sniper he saw himself as, that "hey" had turned into more than a greeting. It had signaled acceptance, respect – and maybe even a few hints of friendship.

Now, though, that greeting caused both men to jump slightly, backs stiffening and heads whipping around in surprise. Clint wanted to laugh it off, make a smart-ass Barton comment about how Brown and Nelson had shit for situational awareness in a fucking combat zone.

Brown, at least, had the good grace to look sheepish. His face flushing red, he turned away, unable to look Clint in the eye. But Nelson…the look of surprise quickly migrated into a sneer. Clint shivered slightly, the twilight breeze cutting through his fatigues as he tried to brace himself for whatever was coming next.

"Barton…you jackass. Barton…"

"Barton…"

"Barton, answer me, dammit!"

Cold. He was so damned cold. Clint reached for his blanket, wanting to shut out the breeze, shut out the voice – do anything to fight off the shivers wracking his body. Damned wind must've shifted out of the mountains again, and Nelson would just have to –

"Barton. I'm not asking again. Status report. Please." The voice…it wasn't Nelson. And Clint's fingers closed on nothing but dirt-covered civilian cargo pants as his eyes flew open.

This wasn't his bunk. Clint found himself staring up at the stars, a low crescent moon barely visible above the high rocks surrounding him. He blinked for a long minute, not understanding where he was or what he was doing here.

Then the voice in his ear spoke again, and this time, it came across the line soft – gentle.

"Hawkeye." Clint blinked for a long moment, trying to place the once-familiar nickname. The Amazing Hawkeye. The circus. Where was he, really?

"Barton." That made more sense. But who…

"Clint. I need to know if you're still with me." Coulson. That voice. Clint's brain snapped out of its stupor as the name fell into place, and with it, his surroundings.

Desert. Super-secret spy agencies. Dead agents. Getting the hell out of Dodge.

Got it. He reached up and keyed the comm link.

"Here, Coulson." Clint heard the rasp in his voice, even as his wrist throbbed in time with his pulse and his chest kept trying to seize up and make him cough. God, he hurt, in too many places to count. And that made no sense to him.

"Tell me what's going on, Barton." The tone in the older man's voice sang out loud and clear over the line, making it clear he wanted answers this time. An order. Clint let out a low moan, trying to figure just how the hell he'd lost control of this situation, how Coulson knew something was wrong and seemed determined to FIX him.

"I … something's wrong." Clint fought to keep the tremor of fear out of his voice. "Keep…keep going down. Keep dreaming. I'm here…then I'm not. Something's WRONG."

There was a moment of silence before Coulson answer.

"OK. I need to know what happened. Now." Coulson's voice seemed calm, but there was a note of urgency there that Clint hadn't heard from the agent before.

Fuck. He cared. Coulson cared, and because of that, he was going to try and HELP him.

"No…" Clint coughed, and for the first time, felt a hint of a coppery taste at the back of his throat. "No, you don't need anything. Working…on it. Coming... to you." Clint pulled himself slowly forward, making what progress his body allowed him to. Slow, ponderous progress, but he'd do this.

Coulson would NOT put himself at risk for Clint. Wasn't going to happen.

"Barton, if that were going to happen, it would have already. You've missed your last five check-ins." Coulson's voice was firm, unyielding. "Let me help. Give me your coordinates."

No. No way. How had he lost that much time? A fresh surge of fear, not for himself, gave Clint a little adrenaline. His senses flared to some semblance of normal, his body suddenly finding that little added bit of strength. He flailed his way to his feet, stumbling forward, his legs refusing to hold the weight with any kind of assurance.

What the hell…this wasn't…he couldn't…

"Sir…no…don't. Can't have …" Clint kept pulling himself forward, trying to figure out just when he'd lost control of all this. He couldn't let Coulson do this. "Please…don't come."

There. He'd said it. Now all he had to do was convince the older man to just leave him. Didn't Coulson SEE? With that surge of adrenaline, Clint's brain locked onto everyone – everything – he'd lost. Barney. Jacques. The circus. Collins. McDermid. The fucking U.S. Army and the Rangers and the only family he'd had since his parents had died 16 long years ago.

"Barton, stop."

"NO." Clint forced the words out past the hitch in his breathing. "Don't you … don't you get it? Collin, McDermid…my fault. Could've stopped it…could've not been there."

"Barton." Coulson sounded confused, baffled almost. But Clint didn't care. He kept going.

"Can't be the reason…you…you get hurt, sir."

"Dammitall, Barton. CLINT. You won't be." Clint could hear emotion creep into Coulson's voice, maybe even a little bit of pleading. It didn't matter. None of it did, not anymore. It couldn't, not for him. "Listen to me. I'm not going to let you – "

"'m sor…sorry…." And then Clint's voice dissolved in a wracking, wet cough. His knees refused to hold him, and he collapsed against the rock behind him. As he did, he felt an opening with his left hand. Even as he did, a wave of vertigo sent him tipping sideways, his mad reach for purchase coming up with absolutely nothing but thin air.

He fell – hard. The impact, first with the side of the small cave he'd managed to find and then with the ground, pushed what little air he could get into his lungs back out. His whole chest suddenly felt … compressed, like an invisible giant's hand had closed around him.

He felt…he almost couldn't breathe. His whole body trembled as the night air again cooled the sweat on his skin, and then the chill was gone, overtaken by a wave of pain and furious heat. Curling in on himself, Clint fought to get any air he could into his lungs.

"Cl….can…c'm to the…"

"Barton, shut UP." The anger was back in the agent's voice now, and even as spots of gray started to creep into his vision and consciousness began to swim away yet again, Clint gasped out the words he needed Coulson to hear.

"Don…don't c'm back…" The words slurred no matter how hard Clint tried, and the gray started to turn to black. "Not…no…worth…gonna be…"

And then the darkness grabbed him again.

He didn't want to be here.

No, scratch that. Not only did Clint not want to be here – on a fucking night patrol with temps in the low 20s and Mother-fucking Nature deciding a little light snow would be the perfect touch – he didn't deserve to be here.

Fucking Nelson. It had to have been Nelson who went and played recess tattletale to McDermid. Someone had, and it wasn't like Barton hadn't pulled out the William Tell routine before to liven things up on a shit-tastically boring day. Hell, all someone had to do was ask, and "The Amazing Hawkeye" would make a re-appearance from his olden days.

Not like anyone knew his former stage name, though – not even Collins, who knew just about everything about Barton, including his childhood in foster homes, on the streets and finally in the circus. Hell, it was Collins who had found the bow and quiver for sale in Shor Bazaar in Kabul. On leave, no one recognized them in civvies in the bazaars, and the hour or so his spotter had disappeared with a flippant remark about finding a little local "civility" had apparently been spent finding Clint the one thing he'd been forced to leave behind in the states.

"You deserve this, Barton," Collins had told him as he'd produced it from his backpack when they'd gotten back to camp. "Try and have a little fun once in a while."

Since then, the bow and arrows – surprisingly sturdy, probably someone's hunting gear being sold for cash – had been stress relief for him, entertainment for the rest of the camp. He'd take down just about anything from any distance, IF the bet was right and the audience big enough.

Clint scowled. Nelson had been the one to up the ante last night, telling Clint he wouldn't dare try a live-target exercise – literally and figuratively, as Nelson grabbed a pomegranate off the table in the open-air recreation area, and placed it mockingly on top of his head.

"Game on." The words were out of Clint's mouth before he even thought about the intelligence of actually aiming an arrow at a squadmate, and the arrow nocked before anyone had even a chance to offer any words of wisdom.

A split-second later, the ripe red fruit exploded off of Nelson's head, a look of shock and fury quickly covered by thick runs of pomegranate juice streaming down the man's face.

"One live target destroyed, one still standing." Clint couldn't keep the laughter out of his voice as he mocked Nelson. "Anyone else got any bright ideas?"

In retrospect, mocking the man had probably been the last straw. Of course, if Clint counted every last straw Nelson looked to have stacked on his back, he was pretty sure the man's spine would've fractured about 10 times over. Shivering in the darkness, Clint rolled his eyes. Why the hell Nelson ever had joined an elite Army unit was completely beyond his comprehension. The man seemed ready to piss his pants if anyone clicked a safety off a weapon near him.

Reaching down, Clint thumbed the light on his watch. 5 a.m. Sun would be up in another half hour or so, and then this shit punishment duty would be over and McDermid could claim he'd done right by Nelson. Clint fought the urge to roll his eyes again, as he reached for his radio to report in. McDermid was good people, but Nelson … the man practically begged Clint to find shit to irritate him with.

The pomegranate deserved to have died a nicer death, though. Too much good fruit wasted on a fucking lost cause.

"Base, this is Echo 4-9-November-Sierra-Papa." Clint repeated the phrase, identifying his unit ID and the night surveillance patrol he was on.

No answer.

Growling in irritation, Clint reached down to check the battery power. Hell, the damned thing had been working an hour ago when he'd checked in, and he'd made damned-all sure the thing had a full battery before he'd left camp. Screwing around with a dead radio on a night patrol where the enemy liked leaving nasty little surprises buried in the road was a quick trip to a shallow grave.

The power light on the radio, though, didn't blink when Clint gave a toggle of the switch. He did it again, and still no joy.

Shit. Of course the radio would have a short. Or a dead battery. Because this night wasn't fucked up enough already. Heaving a sigh, Barton shoved the receiver back into its designated spot in his backpack, and shouldered the damned thing.

The unit would send someone out to find him when he missed his check-in. The least he could do was make it to the road and meet them halfway. Pushing to his feet, Clint started sliding his way down the small hill he'd been using as his observation post. He stopped just short of the graded surface, not wanting to invite any IEDs his way if someone had been a busy fucking bee when he'd been walking the other half-mile of the surveillance route.

Fifteen minutes later, Clint wondered why he'd ever been cold that night. Double-timing his run had worked up a good sweat, and his body hummed in appreciation for the exertion. A grim smirk crossed Clint's features. If he hauled ass, he could be halfway back before his ride even showed up.

Then night went to blinding sunlight, and Clint dropped to the ground, getting his hands over his head before anything came flying his direction. A split-second later, the crash of an explosion threatened to rupture his eardrums, and the ground beneath him shook.

Clint's hands were pulling him forward before the motion even stopped.

"No…nononono…"

"NO!"

Even as Clint's hands flexed in the hard dirt beneath him, he heard cold laughter bounce off hard surfaces all around him.

"So this is the example of American intelligence?" The words, harsh Pushtu rolling off someone's native tongue, forced Clint to try move away from the scuffling noise next to him, but he couldn't. He could hardly draw air into his lungs, much less pull away from the foul voice and even fouler breath now clouding his face. Above his face, he heard a soft 'click.'

The sound of a safety being slid off a weapon.

"Intelligence. Pah." Then came the sound of someone spitting, a wet sound of something hitting the ground, and a rough cough of a chuckle. "You are hardly worth wasting a bullet on."

Clint couldn't tell if the voice was real or not, if he still dreamed in the darkness or if reality had returned for one last visit. It didn't matter, really. Because as he struggled just to breathe, gasping in small sips of air around whatever the hell sat on his chest, Clint didn't care. The inky blackness already crept back toward him, what little oxygen he could get in his lungs not enough to stave it off.

He couldn't even open his eyes as the cool metal of a gun barrel settled on his forehead.

"May you rot in whatever hell you believe in."

A moment later, the sound of a round being expelled from a handgun echoed in the space around him. He heard it. Clint heard the noise, and wondered just how he could hear the sound of the gunshot that had taken his life.

Even more, he wondered whether the pain and the lack of air truly meant he'd found the hell the terrorist had pushed him toward. Then an immeasurably heavy weight landed on his chest, forced every bit of air he'd managed to pull in back out in a weak, shrill scream.

Couldn't…he couldn't BREATHE…

Then as quickly as the weight had landed, it was pulled up and away. A minute later, two hands closed on his face, one slapping against his cheek in an almost gentle movement.

What the fuck?

"Hold on, Barton. C'mon. Look at me. I didn't hike all the way back in here to carry out a dead body." A hand closed around his wrist, and dimly, Clint realized fingers were reaching for a pulse. The tightness in his chest loosening just the tiniest bit, he forced open his eyes – and found another face just inches away from his, the eyes on that face searching for a reaction.

Clint closed his eyes, and focused strictly on trying to breathe.

Coulson.

Son of a bitch.