Author's notes: This chapter is for CyanB, who reminded me that the human element touches us all. Thank you, my friend.

And the chapter nine reviewers! Lil'Fuj'13, Diver girl, Akahara Yuki Itatsu, Melissa, icanhearthedrums, Delphy, Secretchild, RoS13, MerlinWizardPurr (my oldest friend in fanfic!), Kiiimberly, HarmMarie, Dargonlady911, GreenLoki (even though she had to post it as Guest), rose, DBhawkeyeguy30, Aurora Abbot, JRBarton, weemcg33, Ghost Rider of Aragorn, tpt player 5701, VioletBrock, Qweb, penguincrazy, koryandrs, AlphaFlyer, AngelofJoy, Assantra, Dsgdiva, kimbee, silvershadowrebel, khaitsofren, FourHorses, and of course, Nonyvole and Aggie2011.

Clint didn't want to listen.

All he really wanted to do after finally unloading that tale to someone else was close his eyes and drift. The pain had started to creep back in, but more than that, the weariness. He just wanted … no, he needed some time to process all of this, to try and figure out why Coulson was so hell-bent on saving him.

"Barton." Clint closed his eyes, and turned his head away. He couldn't listen to this right now.

"Lemme alone."

Suddenly, a hand closed around his chin, jerking his head back around. Clint's eyes flew back open, and he shivered at the anger that had suddenly appeared in the older man's eyes.

"Not happening, Barton." Coulson dropped his hand from Clint's chin, practically daring him to look away. Anyone else – hell, any other time – he would've just closed his eyes again, turned away and fuck the consequences. But the smoldering anger in Coulson's eyes just wouldn't let him push the envelope.

"You think you're the only one to lose a team, Barton?" Coulson's jaw hardened with irritation. "The only one haunted by a few lost souls? If that's the case, I know a handful of merc units operating that would love your skills. We'll get you out of here, get you healthy – and then you can get a first-hand view of a burnt-out life."

Clint blinked.

"I..I never said –" Coulson cut him right off.

"No, you never said that. Fine. So let's make that clear." Coulson's tone had grown colder, but his face only curved upward into a slight smirk. "You're not the only one to lose people before, or for his world to go to hell as a result. You've got more options than most, but only if you decide to do something with them."

Coulson stopped for a moment and turned away. Clint tried to process the words, tried to figure out just what the agent was trying to tell him. He couldn't see the point – or maybe he just didn't want to. He hadn't seen it yet, so why the hell was Coulson still trying?

A few seconds passed before the agent turned back to him. When he did, Clint could only stare at the transformation.

However Coulson had been masking his emotions, he'd obviously decided to give up on the effort. The anger Clint had heard in the man's voice was clear to see, but so were a wide range of other things. Frustration. Honest confusion. A certain cynical bitterness Clint had seen from too many commanding officers not to know it came from responsibility.

But above all of it, Clint saw pain, with a healthy dose of fear mixed in for good measure.

Fear? What the hell did Coulson have to be afraid of?

"Why?" All Clint could manage was a whisper. "Why the hell … does it matter … so damned much … t'you?" But even as he asked the question, the realization of just what Coulson had been saying start to sink in.

"You lost…" Barton crinkled his forehead, trying to make a connection in his muddled brain. "Who?"

Coulson looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded.

"My entire team. East Berlin, 1989." Coulson's face grew carefully guarded again, but when he started speaking again, Clint could hear the pain in the man's voice.

"We were sent in to watch local activity in early September. Poland had just pushed Mazowiecki into office. Hungary was in a similar state, and Romania and Czechoslovakia – well, what used to be Czechoslovakia – were headed the same way. But Germany…the Berlin Wall, the sheer number of people trying to flee East Berlin … Fury wanted a team on the ground. That turned out to be me and four other people."

Clint didn't remember all the details of his history lessons, but he remembered learning about the fall of the Berlin Wall – of the last of the Cold War era regimes toppling, of communism finally taking a backseat to democracy.

And Coulson had been there? Clint blinked at the agent in disbelief, but all Coulson did was plow forward.

"Front-row seat to one of the greatest moments in history. We had two undercover agents deep in the government, and my team was there to pull them out if their covers got blown." Coulson shook his head. "Never dawned on us that we should've been more worried about OUR covers."

Coulson swallowed hard.

"About a month into the assignment, East Germany closed the border with the Czechs. From there, everything started to spiral. Protests in Leipzig, Gorbachev came to visit, made his famous, "He who is too late is punished by life" speech. It wasn't IF the wall was going to fall, but when – and how many people would get caught in the crossfire." Coulson shook his head. "Rumors started spreading that the government was so desperate, it was going to start massacring its own people."

"We weren't about to let that happen." Coulson stopped, and frowned. "I couldn't let that happen. People were fighting for freedom, and I was ready to make sure no one had to die for it."

Clint tried to envision Coulson – the agent in front of him now in the khakis and a black t-shirt – in the middle of history on the streets of Berlin. He closed his eyes, remembering the pictures in his history books, wondered if Coulson was in any of them.

Next to him, the agent kept talking.

"Early morning hours of October 9. We were literally in the streets, spread out over a four-block radius where we'd heard the protestors were going to land. All we wanted to do was make sure that anyone with a gun knew better than to use it." Coulson's voice grew softer. "We were out there for an hour before I heard a gurgle, a gasp over the comm units. Asked everyone to sound off, and only got three of my four to answer."

Clint's eyes flew back open, his gaze locking onto to the older man as his stomach knotted up in response to the words. But Coulson just stared at the rock wall, seemingly lost in his memories.

"That was Larson. To this day, I don't know what happened. We never found his body. And since we were under cover…" Coulson let the sentence trail off, and Clint filled in the blanks in his head. Under cover. Meaning no support – and no way anyone would know it wasn't just another murder in the middle of a revolution.

Coulson went on, his voice growing tighter.

"I wanted to call it, but the other three – Hammond, Thomas and Burke – wouldn't let me. Said there were too many lives on the line." Coulson shook his head. "I ordered them to close the perimeter, get in closer so we could watch each other's backs. Thomas and Burke made it back to the square, Hammond didn't. Again, never found the body."

Clint blinked at the tone in Coulson's voice. It sounded almost … dead. Like Coulson could tell the story and say the words, but wouldn't let himself feel the emotions. Clint suddenly started to get an understanding of why the agent was telling him all this, why he was trusting him with information that had to be classified.

"Sir…" Coulson didn't even acknowledge him.

"I was up on the roof of a local bank. Sniper's nest with a Harris M86 that I knew inside and out. Saw Thomas make his way into an alley, told him to get high and stay there. I never saw him again. I heard the gunshot, and then a voice in German demanding we show ourselves. Immediately. Think it was the Stasi, but couldn't be sure. I heard Burke swear, and tell Thomas he was coming. Tried to find both of them in my night scope, but…"

Coulson looked at him now, his eyes conspicuously damp.

"You want to know why I care so much, Barton? I've BEEN there." Clint opened his mouth to say something, but Coulson cut him off. "I got Burke in my sights, ready to pick off anyone in the vicinity. Then the back of his head exploded like an overripe melon."

Clint heaved in a shaky breath, but couldn't think of a damned thing to say.

"Sniper shot, center of the forehead. Round wasn't jacketed, so whoever it was didn't care about the mess it had made." Coulson glowered down at him. "I couldn't even go down to them. I had to leave men behind, Barton. Burke was dead, but I don't know about Thomas. I couldn't even go look. I kept my eyes on the scope and tracked the shot backward, found the sniper two roofs over and down a story. Only reason why he never saw me."

"I put a bullet through his head, left the rifle and didn't look back. Two weeks later, the Germans deposed Honecker. The Wall came down in November." Coulson quit speaking, and for a long minute, there was silence. Clint couldn't think of a word to say.

"There was virtually no violence when the Wall came down. Not entirely sure what we ran into. Probably the Stasi." Coulson reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "They were nervous – with good reason. The files that came out after the fall showed they'd spied on everyone from the Beatles to Gorbachev to Mother Theresa. But we weren't there for those.

"All we were trying to do was keep innocent people from getting hurt. We did that, but…" Coulson leaned back against the rocks, and sighed. "I asked to get pulled out of the field, became an analyst. And there I was until someone needed help. That's how Guardian got born."

Clint closed his eyes, wanting to block out the pain now visible in Coulson's eyes. He got it now, dammit. Coulson could've left him behind about as much as Clint could let go of Collins. He didn't want to process any of this, but Coulson didn't give him a choice. A tap on the arm forced Clint to open his eyes again.

"You think you deserve this somehow, Barton? I'm here to tell you that you don't. No one does." Coulson's face grew hard again, calm. In control. In his exhaustion, Clint began to wonder if he'd actually seen the moisture in the man's eyes as Coulson kept talking.

"You're not the only one with blood on his hands that isn't his. Don't ever be that conceited." Coulson's eyes narrowed, and the sudden intensity in those brown eyes almost made Clint flinch. "The only difference, Barton, is I've sworn I'm never letting it happen again when I can stop it. I don't always cheat death out of his reaping, but I've managed it in worse situations than this. And you might not think it, but I see something worth saving.

"You've been stabbed, and you're still fighting. You're hurt, you're sick, you could've given up any time in the last 12 hours, or the last few days, or the last month, but you haven't." Coulson reached out, and grabbed Clint's right wrist in a tight grip – a firm, anchoring grip. A small, almost imperceptible quirk turned the sides of Coulson's mouth upward, and Clint could see more than the intensity there now.

It was a challenge, plain and simple.

"They might have left you, Barton, but you never left them. I've gotten you this far. So you need to find a way. That's on you."

Phil decided he'd said enough. He leaned back against the rock wall, keeping a close eye on Barton as weak sunlight started to filter into the small cave. He glanced down at his watch, realized it was already 6:30 a.m., and fought the urge to sigh.

Whether Barton liked it or not, Phil would be dragging his ass out of here in a few hours. If the kid thought he had any choice in the matter, even before Phil had spilled a fraction of his life story with SHIELD, that thinking would be corrected quickly enough. But dammitall…Phil wanted to know if a single thing he'd said had sunk in. The only thing Barton had done since Phil had finished was close his eyes, and Phil couldn't tell if that was out of exhaustion or contemplation.

Suddenly, almost as if the muscles had twitched convulsively, Barton jerked his arm under Phil's grip. For a second, Phil almost pulled his hand away. Physical gestures weren't exactly his trademark, and he'd made his point, anchored Barton in the here and now.

Then Barton moved again, this time openly trying to pull his arm free. Phil couldn't resist tightening his grip, just to make the point.

"I'm not letting go, Barton."

"Ugh…you quoting…" Barton coughed, then heaved in a rough breath. "You quoting 'Titanic' at me?"

Phil blinked, utterly confused.
"What?"

A slight grin creased the sniper's face, and something suspiciously like a snicker escaped.

"Never mind." It took another moment, but then Barton looked over at him, his face questioning.

"All this…" The sniper used his free hand to gesture to the IV bag – hanging from a small outcropping of sharp rock, its tubing snaking down to the hand Barton stabbed next at his chest. "Guess..." Barton coughed slightly, fogging his oxygen mask, then continued with a smirk ghosting across his face. "Guessing it's not normal secret agent man training."

Phil took the sarcastic words as they were likely intended – a diversion, a chance for Barton to regroup and figure out his own head – gratefully, unsure of how else to proceed.

"You're right, it's not standard SHIELD training." Phil let his mind wander back in time a little further, to a very young Director Fury, an even younger Army Ranger – with far better aim than social skills – and a blown intelligence mission in Iran that should have resulted in the rescue of diplomatic personnel instead turning into a one-man search and rescue operation.

Phil's aim had proved important, but so had following his unit's medic around like an overeager puppy. That first chest tube had been far messier and less exact than it should have, but somehow, it had worked. Once they had both escaped – and Fury had expanded Phil's knowledge of lesser (and vulgar) words of the English language – he'd found himself with a job offer.

Like calling to like indeed.

"Let's just say my recruitment was a little … more complicated than yours." Phil answered Barton with a small smirk of his own. "And my skill set altered to fit more than just my obvious talents as a sniper. Be grateful for that. Your chest tube went smoother than the last one I had to put in."

Barton's eyes went comically wide, then narrowed.

"Yeah, right." Under the oxygen mask, Barton let out what sounded suspiciously a snort. "Sure…you've done that…b'fore."

The slightly breathless note in the sniper's voice had Phil moving before Barton had even finished. A quick check on both his fixes showed they were intact, but the sheen on Barton's skin was new. Phil resisted the urge to pull out the thermometer, or look under any of the bandages. He wouldn't like what he saw anyhow.

He dropped back into a crouch and regarded Barton with a frown.

"I'd ask if you do anything halfway, but I already know the answer." Phil watched as Barton closed his eyes against the sudden scrutiny, and Phil could sense the fatigue – both emotional and physical – rolling off the younger man. Gauging the IV and glancing at his watch, Phil settled back down onto the rock floor.

"You've got an hour until that IV finishes, Barton. You get to sleep that long, and then we're getting the hell out of here." Phil reached for his sidearm, and then turned so he had the best possible view of the cave opening. "You following me?"

For a long moment – a little too long, enough so that Phil thought the sniper had passed out or fallen asleep – there was no answer. But then Barton coughed softly, and out of the corner of his eye, Phil caught a nod.

"Following you…sir."

Morphine was his friend.

Or whatever the fuck it was that Coulson had injected into his right thigh minutes before they'd gotten moving earlier. Fenta…fentaf…whatever. The company medic had used it more than once in the field, just not on Clint – swore by it, actually, and on more than one occasion, at it because…

"C'mon, Barton, quit wandering on me." Coulson's voice cut through the cloud Clint had started to float off on, and he snapped back to full awareness, blinking at the shorter man.

"Huh?"

Coulson sighed, and pushed the canteen into his hands.

"Drink. You've got two minutes, and then we keep moving."

Right. Clint reached for the cap, only to find the agent had unscrewed it. Drink. Uh-huh. Lifting the container with a shaky hand, he managed to get the water mostly in his mouth. The rest splashed gently against his face, cooling his flushed skin and making him want to groan with relief.

When had he gotten so damned hot, anyhow? As he sucked in as deep a breath as he could managed, the throbbing in his chest – held at a distance until then – kicked up a few notches.

Coulson had been methodical for the last two hours. After he'd given Clint the … whatever the medication was, he'd shouldered the medic pack and then ducked under Clint's left arm and levered him up from there. The pack gave Clint something to actually balance against, Coulson being a good 2-3 inches shorter and considerably lighter.

And they'd made progress. Even in the weak morning sunlight, Clint could tell they were getting close to the edge of the foothills. Coulson had even trusted him with a damned gun, though he'd flat-out asked Clint if he could shoot straight in his current condition – and with his wrong hand, since his left had to be up and over Coulson's arm.

He'd done his best to give the older man a smirk and a smartass quip. All it had drawn was a sigh and a shake of the head. Clint had the distinct feeling Coulson wanted to call him on his bullshit, but needed the extra weapon handy more than he needed to drive home any further points about being honest and forthright.

Of course, that didn't mean the safety wasn't still on. The way his luck was going, he'd end up shooting himself in the leg otherwise.

Clint closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the rock. Somehow, Coulson kept timing these breaks almost perfectly. Clint kept putting one foot in front of the other, kept moving, but he'd get to a point where his knees refused to lock out and his vision started to go gray at the edges – and Coulson would swing him over to a ready alcove or a waist-high outcropping, and set him down without so much as brushing him up against the other rocks.

Sleep. Need sleep. Just want to close my eyes and make this –

A hand slapped slightly up against the side of his face, and Clint jumped. His eyes flew open to find Coulson inches away from him, a look of cool determination facing him.

"Two minutes are up, Barton. Let's move."

Clint squinted at Coulson, whose features seemed to be blurring a bit.

"Huh?"

Instead of saying anything, Coulson sighed and dipped forward. The next thing Clint knew, his arm was back around the agent's shoulder – this time with Coulson shoving it toward the backpack strap.

"Hold onto that." Coulson's tone had Clint obeying instantly, looping his fingers under the strap and grasping it like an anchor. "And keep scanning the area. I need a second set of eyes out there."

Clint tightened his grip around the handgun, fighting the blurred edges to his vision. Automatically, he started scanning what little cover remained, the rock walls and ragged cliffs now starting to give way to boulders and gentle hills.

They were almost there. He just had to keep his eyes open, keep himself going for a few more minutes. Coulson had promised him that a ride would be waiting for them once they got clear of the damned cliffs they had gone venturing into …

Had it been 12 hours now? More? Clint tried to turn his head, wanting to check his watch and get a grip on the passage of time. His vision tilted sideways, black creeping into gray. He wrung his fingers tight around the strap of the backpack, trying to find his damned center and stay on feet.

He could do this. Had to do this, or Coulson would –

Clint managed one more step before his knees decided they wouldn't hold him up any longer. He had a fraction of a second to feel dumbly irritated before both knees buckled and tried to dump him unceremoniously onto his face.

Sleepy…just gotta close my eyes—

"Barton!" A voice snapped roughly in his ear, and Clint found an arm wrapped around his back, suddenly supporting his weight. The tone cleared his head for a moment, and his eyes flew open – just as Coulson swung him around so Clint ended up on a low rock instead of the ground.

Coulson dropped down into a crouch in front of him, shrugging the backpack off his shoulders but not off his back. Clint lost that anchor, and with it, his balance, his left arm tumbling down as he slumped forward.

"You're not going down, Barton. Not letting that happen." A hand pushed Clint back upright, rough and decidedly unkind. Clint blinked at the older man.

"N'…not my fault." Clint tried pushing away from the rock, but nothing cooperated. "Legs…won…won't work."

Coulson's eyes flickered with emotion for a moment. Something was there, something Clint knew he should be getting, but all he could focus on was his body's refusal to just do what he wanted it to.

Coulson's face went hard.

"So, that's it? You're just going to give in and let this take you to the ground? You're just going to give up?" The last two words were practically air-quoted the way Coulson spat them out. Clint opened his mouth to say something – anything – to refute the fury he was hearing, but Coulson plowed forward.

"Are you done, Barton, just like that? Finished? You going to roll over and die now? If that's the case, thanks for wasting my time. Wasting my time, for nothing!"

A surge of emotion cleared Clint's vision, enough for him to raise his hand and slap at the hand Coulson was using to support him.

"Fu…fu'you." Clint forced out the words. "N'…not a damned…not a damned dog. M'doin' what you …d'mitall, I'm here." Clint dropped his head again. "Just too…t'damned tired."

"I. Don't. Care." Coulson ground out every word. "Don't you get it? I will carry your ass out of here before I leave you here, Barton. But I need you to help me." Coulson raised both his hands this time, and gave Barton's shoulders a firm shove. "Are you telling me this is all you have left? That we got this far just so you could crap out on me just before the finish line?"

A warm pit of anger boiled in Clint's stomach. The rush of emotion gave him enough energy to push back at Coulson, to push the irritating man away and try to get to his feet. He got halfway up before his legs decided they knew better than he did, and he started to sink back to the rock.

Before he could, though, Coulson had him braced again, his left arm around the older man's shoulders and his hand instinctively grabbing for the strap of the pack.

"Use that." The anger gone now, Coulson's voice had a husky note to it. "Use the anger, Barton, and we're getting out of here." A cool piece of metal was pushed into his right hand, and Clint needed a second to figure out it was the handgun he'd been carrying.

Jesus. His gun. Coulson still trusted him with the gun. Warily, Clint gripped it in his hand, and tested his weight on his feet. Somehow, his knees held up, and he looked up to see the hint of a grim smile on Coulson's face.

"Just a little bit longer now. You with me?"

His vision gritty now, his skin prickly and crawling with sensation, Clint nodded, and started forcing one foot ahead of the other.

"Sir." He ground out the word. "Yes, sir."

Phil waited just long enough to make sure Barton could stay on his feet, and then started moving with the sniper. If digging at Barton's pride kept him on his feet, he'd continue to use it – and more. He'd never been accused of fighting fair, and he didn't intend to start now. They were still half a mile from the secondary evac point, and the more of Barton managed on his own two feet, the better for both of them.

Phil had no doubt he could carry him if he had to – but he didn't want to have to. He couldn't protect them both if he did. Too many variables were still at play right now. The increased visibility now that they were almost out of the foothills. The fact that he was almost certain he and Barton hadn't accounted for all the terrorists yet, and that he had no idea how many were left.

Not knowing how long Barton could stay under his own power – or if the director had managed to pull the strings he needed pulled to put the rescue they were waiting for into play. Trust the system. Every SHIELD agent had it drilled into their head from the first day of training, and Fury had referred back to it before ending their short phone conversation hours earlier.

Fuck the system. They were getting out of here – one way or another.

Beside him, Barton hauled in a gasp, and stumbled to a halt, then sunk to the ground with no warning.

"Goddamnitall, Barton." Phil tried to catch the younger man before he fell completely to the ground, but instead, Barton's hand hooked around the backpack and pulled him along for the ride, landing them in the sand between two sizable boulders.

"What the he –"

"Shh…shut up." Barton barked the command at Phil. "Saw…think…think I … saw a shadow."

Phil took a look at Barton's sweat-streaked dirty face, pulling his own sidearm even as he looked doubtfully at the sniper.

"Barton, you're barely conscious." Even as he spoke, though, Phil flipped the safety off his weapon. "If someone was following us, why the hell hasn't he fired?"

Panting slightly, Barton shook his head.

"Fuck…fucked if …know. LISTEN!" Barton had his own weapon in his proper hand now, and the safety slid off with a soft click. Whatever he'd caught – either out of the corner of his eye or the edge of his hearing – it had the younger man pumped with adrenaline.

Phil slipped silently and quickly out of the backpack and brought his own weapon up to bear. If there was ever a time to trust Barton, it was here and now.

"Where?" He pitched his own voice low, hopefully just loud enough for Barton to hear, and lined himself up so he and the sniper were back-to-back, each hopefully covering 180 degrees.

"Not su –"

Barton's words ground to a stop as a shadow suddenly engulfed both of them. A fraction of a second later, Phil's forehead glanced painfully off a rock, and the full weight of another body pinned him to the ground. His head exploded in agony, gray swimming in even as he struggled to keep his hand around his weapon.

"Alaala ka!" Foul air hissed past Phil's ear with the Pushtu insult, and two quick punches to his ribs followed. He tried to roll, wanting to get onto his back to bring his legs into the fight and clear his weapon to fire. Instead, as he tried, an elbow connected with his the side of his jaw, sending him face-first back into the sand.

An arm came over and around his head, and tightened around his throat.

"Da zmakay khurdaan shay!" the voice spat out in his ear as Phil's vision quickly started to grow dark. He tried to buck under the weight, give himself an opening – any opening – but the attacker had weight on him, and height. "Zama da sara sadaqa she!"

This is how it all ends. Not with a bang, but a whi –

The arm suddenly loosened as the weight on Phil seemed to double, and then suddenly disappear. The pressure against his windpipe gone, he focused on hauling air into and out of his lungs, desperate simply to breathe. Awareness flooded back as he did, and within a second, he realized what had to have happened.

A foot away, Barton had the terrorist pushed to the ground, swinging at the larger man with little to no form and even less strength – panting with exertion, fighting just to land whatever blows he could. A lucky fist clipped the attacker's ear, but Barton's next swing flew wildly off target, and the sniper fell onto his right side, the hand of the terrorist trailing along with him, trying to find purchase. How the hell the injured sniper had even gotten the man off Phil, he'd never be able to figure out.

But even as his vision cleared, and his hand started to search for his own handgun, Phil saw the dark glint of metal on the ground – the late-morning sun reflecting off the black surface of a Heckler and Koch P2000 lying in the dust.

"Barton, secure your wea –" But Phil never finished the sentence. The terrorist saw the weapon at almost the same instant, and let loose an elbow into Barton's exposed right side. As the sniper fell gasping, Phil saw everything play out in slow motion.

The terrorist's hand closing around the gun even as Phil clawed in the sand trying to find his own.

The gun coming up and around, even as Phil's fingers finally found purchase on his own H&K.

And then the report of the pistol – and all-encompassing black engulfing him and pulling him down into the darkness.

For those of you wondering about the Pushtu, "may you be butchered!" and "may you become fodder of the Earth!" and "May you die!" (at least according to the translations I found online.

And in anticipation of the screaming over the cliffhanger…everything does work out. Eventually.