Author's Note: First of all, thank you to everyone for your patience, your support and not giving up on this. Real life intervened in a huge way, to the point where I could barely open this and add a word here and there for months. The people who love this story have made me stay the course (especially GreenLoki, who has cajoled, begged AND threatened). Second, a huge thank you to Aggie2011 and Nonyvole, without whom this story would have stalled long ago. And AlphaFlyer, too.

All Clint wanted to do was run away and hide.

His chance to do that, though, had come and gone.

Barney had him pinned to the ground behind the Sawyer's house, his face pushed mercilessly into the dry dirt that comprised most of the backyard. Every time he tried to draw in a breath, he got a lung full of dust, which in turn made him cough.

Which in turn made him want more air – and the cycle wore on.

"Still think you're hot shit, huh, bro?" Barney's words were snarled in a harsh whisper, suddenly too close and in his ear. Already panicking from the lack of air, Clint bucked abruptly.

When he did, his elbow got up and away, connecting with something with a sickening crunch.

"You fucking brat!" Barney's weight reestablished itself with a vengeance on Clint's back, but this time, Barney took no chances. The older – and the heavier – of the two, his brother cinched Clint's left arm up behind his back, grinding the joint almost out of socket.

Clint whimpered and then suddenly couldn't breathe, as Barney's free armed choked up around his neck.

"You're gonna pay for that, you little shit." The pressure around his neck tightened. Clint tried to move, tried to find some way to free that grip. Instead the pressure just increased, gray spots in his vision quickly turning to an ever-increasing sheet of black.

But when the voice hissed in his ear, it was no longer his brother.

"You're going for a little trip, Barton." Nelson, hatred and sarcasm practically oozing from his voice, pulled the hood up tighter around his neck. "Just a little trip, and then the world will get to see how fucking brilliant you really AREN'T."

Hands closed around Clint's arms, forcing them behind his back. Moments later, a rope cinched them together tightly – and then then cinched his arms tight up against his back. He viciously bit back a cry of pain, even as he got pulled roughly off his bunk, landing on his back.

This time, the scream escaped as his shoulder came close to dislocating. He heard a bark of laughter, and then felt rope being bound around his ankles.

"Gonna string you up and drag out and leave you for the fucking buzzards, Barton." Nelson's voice was back in his ear. "You hear me, Barton?"

Clint tried to buck against the weight pushing him to the ground – and got grips tightening around his arms as a reward. Something tightened over his face at the same time. A hand, a gag, a mask, Barton didn't know.

All he knew was he couldn't breathe.

"Do you hear me, Barton?" The voice … it didn't … it wasn't Nelson.

Who was it this time? He struggled again, flexing his arms, trying to kick out with his feet.

"Quit fighting us, Barton!" Like hell. But that voice, he knew it. Why did he know it? Clint arched his back, wanting to get away, trying one final time to break free.

"Dammitall! Barton, listen to the damned nurse and calm the hell DOWN!"

The demand in that voice … Clint relaxed for a fraction of a second, knowing that voice – trusting that its owner meant him no harm. But then hands clamped down on his arms and Clint became aware of something clamped over his face and the adrenaline spiked again.

Free. He needed to get free. Clint bucked his back, ignoring the screech of pain in his side and his chest when he did. The arms tightened, the tightness across his face didn't budge. The panic spiked again and his chest tightened and the air just felt like it wouldn't – it couldn't –

The voice came back through the pain and the fear.

"You can breathe just fine." The volume level had dropped what felt like a few decibels, but the words were announced right next to his ear. Clint stiffened, and snapped his head to the side, his eyes flying open and finding a face just inches from his.

A familiar face, one with exasperated brown eyes and a scolding glare being directed right at him.

"That's better. You're safe. Quit fighting everyone and just relax. And that mask over your face? It's oxygen. Helps you breathe, and trust me right now when I say you need it."

Coulson. Clint's muddled brain cleared a little. He knew this man, knew his name – knew he had to trust him because he'd … Clint sagged back into the softness beneath him.

Because Coulson trusted him. Snippets of memory, dregs of images and thoughts started to claw their way back to the surface. Coulson had saved him from … from what again? He'd come back for Clint, but why? Clint remembered fire, an explosion, but nothing came together to bring him in the here and now, hands pressing him to a hospital bed and pain just a step away from overwhelming him.

Safe. He was safe. And he trusted Coulson to keep him that way.

Clint closed his eyes, trying to force himself to relax, to focus enough to figure things out. Instead, the weariness that the adrenaline had forced away crept back into the picture. At first, it lingered at the edges, but after a few moments, it swept over him like a wave. As it did, he could feel a the warmth wash through his body, pulling him back down into the darkness with a gentle, pleasant tug.

"Go back to sleep, Barton…Clint. You're safe. I'll make sure you stay that way."

Barton tried to fight it, tried turning just so he could open his eyes and see the man he knew represented safety.

A hand landed gently on his chest, pushing him down.

"I'm serious. Sleep is your friend, Barton. Get some."

Clint registered the words, but already, the pull of unconsciousness had sound receding into the darkness. He tried to nod, but his head grew heavy, and then sleep swept over him.

As his eyes drifted shut seemingly of their own accord for about the 10th time in 10 minutes, Phil wondered whether waking Barton up just to have him conscious would be considered cruel and unusual punishment. The sheer amount of time Barton had been asleep had Phil fighting the common sense of Barton needing his rest – and the desire to take a step or two forward to having Barton be SHIELD's newest agent.

A smile creased his face, though, as he realized what he had just termed the young man in the hospital bed across from him.

Newest agent. Phil was already thinking of Clint Barton in those terms, and like hell he was going to take "no" for an answer. After he'd grabbed a few hours of sleep in a far-too-comfortable hospital bed, he'd forced Fury to track down a doctor and get him released – well, released to sitting at Barton's bedside, anyhow. He'd even gotten himself freed from the IV medication on the condition he'd "cooperate fully with any and all requests from the medical staff."

Since he was finally past the concussion checks – and any immediate danger – that mostly meant eating food, drinking fluids to stay hydrated and switching off with Fury every few hours on what the director had sarcastically termed a "Bartonwatch." Phil had simply smiled, snapped off a "yes, sir" that drew a few choice expletives from the director and settled into a surprisingly-soft ICU chair.

He'd felt fortunate that he'd been at Barton's bedside when he woke the first time. The high fever the kid had been suffering from put the sniper in one hell of a state – one, frankly, Phil thought they'd have to sedate him out of. That Barton had actually listened to him and calmed down was the first surprise. The second was that the medical staff had followed up with a sedative and pain medication.

"For his own good" was the reasoning. Phil had opened his mouth to ask what, exactly, was good about sedating Barton into unconsciousness. But he'd seen the look on the nurse's face, and quickly clamped his jaw shut again. Some things just weren't worth the battle, and the gleam in the nurse's eye made Phil wonder if she'd drug him just for shits and grins. When she simply nodded at his acquiescence, he'd flat-out wondered where she'd hidden the second syringe.

Barton had surfaced two or three times since – briefly, without a great amount of coherence but thankfully cooperative. Well, cooperative in the "no more hand-to-hand combat over the oxygen mask" anyhow. He'd been sleeping peacefully for the last 12 hours or so, and Phil could only hope he'd wake up before Fury came back and kicked him out again.

The damned kid had hit a few nerves on their way out in the desert, and damned if Phil wouldn't be following up on that. In a few small ways, he – and the director – already had, but Phil wanted to make sure this kid understood his future included options.

Hopefully with SHIELD. Phil stretched out his legs carefully, working hard not to jar his upper body, and then yawned. The noise coming from Barton's monitors had been steady and calm for hours now – temperature dropping as his body responded to the IV antibiotics, breathing evening out as the collapsed lung began healing itself with the help of a properly hygienic, surgically-placed chest tube.

The doctors had given him very little grief, actually, about that chest tube. It'd done its job well enough. The reaction when Phil had been asked how many times he'd done it before, though…

Sometimes it was nice to surprise the hell out of people.

Phil let his eyes settle on the monitor. The sounds were turned down in the room in hopes of allowing a more restful environment, so all Phil could do could watch the monitors repetitively post respirations, heart rhythms, oxygen levels and temperature – all of which were continuing to show more encouraging numbers. He leaned his head back into the chair, and relaxed, wondering just when…

"Coulson, wake your ass up."

Phil snapped upright immediately at the sound of voice, biting back a hiss of pain when he jarred his ribs and smacked his elbow into the rail on Barton's bed simultaneously. Behind him, he could hear a short bark of laughter as Director Fury stepped into his line of view.

"All of five minutes late, and you're asleep. Should I be getting you confined to a bed again, Agent Coulson?" Fury's one good eye gleamed with humor. "Or maybe just go find that nurse again."

Phil couldn't help it. After the last 72 hours, his patience had run out and punch-drunk, pain-in-the-ass humor had begun to creep in. He let the corners of his mouth creep up into a narrow grin.

"Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir. That'll be a pleasure, sir."

It got the desired response, as Fury rolled his eyes.

"Knock of the damned 'sirs' already."

Phil's grin widened.

"Yes, sir."

The director looked at him for a long moment, his mouth opening, then closing. The argument was an old one, practiced and perfected over the last 10 years. Finally, Fury just sighed.

"You know, Phil, maybe it'd be better—"

"S'd'up. 'M try'n t' sleep."

The voice, coming from the bed next to him after too many hours of silence, pushed a fresh round of adrenaline into Phil's system. He turned away from the director, and found himself looking into a pair of bleary gray-blue eyes, heavy with annoyance more than anything else.

"About time you woke up, Barton." Phil leaned into the rail, offering the younger man a smile. "I see you've decided we're worth your time again."

Barton blinked at him, then yawned. The nasal cannula that had replaced the oxygen mask 12 hours before shifted, and Barton grimaced. As he raised a hand to pull it away, Phil swatted at it.

"Leave that alone."

"It itches."

"Too bad. You need it." Phil squared his shoulders and glared Barton into submission. With a sigh, the sniper dropped his hand back to the sheet and closed his eyes.

"'M awake now. You suck, Coulson. And you, too, Mr. –" Clint opened his eyes and shoveled a blurry-eyed squint at Fury. When it became clear Barton didn't have a clue who the man was, the sniper's eyes slipped closed again.

"Mr. Whoever-The-Fuck you are." Phil saw Fury's head snap around, his jaw dropping open. Just as quickly, the director snapped his jaw shut and started to chuckle. Phil just rolled his eyes.

"Clint Barton. Meet Director Nick Fury." When Barton's eyes stayed closed, Phil leaned over and flicked a finger into the side of Barton's head. The sniper's eyes opened again, focusing on Coulson with bemused annoyance.

"Ow. That hurt."

"Didn't do it hard enough to hurt, especially with the amount of pain meds you're on at the moment." When Barton just kept staring at him, Phil pointed at Fury. "Director. Nick. Fury. Of SHIELD. I think I might have mentioned who I work for?"

Barton just blinked at Phil slowly for a moment, then lifted his eyes and stared at the director. After a long moment, Clint's lips quirked into a small smirk.

"Love the jacket." With that, Clint closed his eyes again, though the smirk stayed on his face. "Go 'way, Eye Patch. Sleeping. Right, Coulson?"

Phil shook his head and resisted the urge to cuff Barton upside the head. But the attitude gave Phil a pretty good idea the sniper hadn't permanently fried his brains, at least. He looked up at Fury, and shrugged.

"Right. Introductions later." Phil gestured toward the door with his head, hinting that Fury might want to give them some time alone. The director gave Phil his best "no shit" glare, then turned to open the door.

"Nice to meet you, Barton." Fury looked back over his shoulder, and winked at Phil. "We'll see if you remember the name later."

The director then slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind him. Phil's glance didn't linger on the door. Instead, he turned back to Barton, whose eyes were still closed. The sniper's breathing had evened out, and the heart monitor didn't betray anything.

"Barton."

The sniper didn't answer. Phil rolled his eyes, and reached over to flick his finger against Barton's forehead again.

Barton's fingers closed around his wrist.

"Don't you DARE." Phil couldn't keep the edges of his mouth from quirking upward when Barton's eyes opened slowly. He could see the muted awareness there – probably from the combination of the painkillers and Barton's injuries – but it was awareness.

"Then stay awake. We should talk."

Barton sighed and tried to turn over and away.

"Fine. You talk, I'll sleep." Barton's mouth opened in a weary yawn. "I know when I'm beat, and I'm beat."

Phil couldn't help it. He sighed.

"No. You've slept for the better part of the last 72 hours, and while I realize that you've—"

It was immensely gratifying to Phil to see Barton's eyes fly open wide.

"Wait. Stop. Three days?"

"Yes, Barton. Three days."

The sniper took that in silently, his eyes questioning Phil when words didn't.

"One collapsed lung - the knife wound that caused it, by the way, got infected. So did your hand." Phil rattled off the list dispassionately, but watched Barton's face as he went on. "Docs here were throwing around the possibility of sepsis, given the way your vitals started bottoming out on the flight in, but you managed to avoid it. Not by much, mind you. If that knife wound had been even an inch higher or lower, it probably would've been a given. Then again, it might have hit a major blood vessel, then, and you probably would've bled to death before I even got close, so it's probably beside the point."

Phil pinned him with a hard glare, exhaustion fighting with the spike of anger the kid had inspired more than once over the last few days.

"Just what the hell were you thinking, Barton?" Phil managed to keep most of the bite out of his voice. Barton just sat there and blinked at him for a moment, then offered a lopsided half-smile.

"Y'asked me that b'fore." Phil raised an eyebrow, silently encouraging Barton to continue, which he did. "Thought … thought we determined I wasn't."

Phil thought about that for a minute, then nodded.

"Fair enough." He didn't add anything more, and in the silence that followed, he could hear the wind pick up again outside, battering the small window with sand. Barton shifted slightly at the noise, his eyes going to the window.

"Where're we?"

"Kandahar. The field hospital, if you want to get technical." Convinced now that Barton would remain awake, Phil leaned back – though not before raising the head of the bed a few more inches. "About midnight, give or take, April the 17th. You've been awake a few times before this. You remember that?"

Barton seemed to think for a moment, then tried shaking his head. The resulting movement made the sniper first blanche, then tightly close his eyes.

"You also have a nasty concussion, so I'd recommend not doing that." By way of response, Barton swallowed once, then twice, holding himself completely still. Finally, Barton re-opened his eyes.

"I'm good."

Phil scoffed.

"Of all the things you are right now, I doubt 'good' is one of them." Phil smirked. "But I'm sure you'll get there. Especially if I have something to say about where you go from here."

Barton gave him a half-hearted glower. He almost rolled his eyes – Phil literally saw the eyes start to shift like he would – and then seemed to think better of it at the last moment.

"Fine." Barton shifted slightly in the bed, and tugged irritably at the nasal cannula. "You wanted to talk. Talk."

Phil sighed, and reached over his shoulder to snag the manila folder he'd settled on the chest of drawers earlier. Making sure he had a firm grip, he turned it around so Barton could see the front – and waited for the reaction.

Clint stared first at the folder for a long, long moment, then shifted his eyes back to Coulson, his eyes cloudy with emotion.

"So the fuck what?" Phil recoiled at the sound of anger – and the clarity it provided to the sniper's voice. "What the fuck am I supposed to know from you having a folder?"

Phil didn't rise to the bait. In fact, he even risked quirking half a smile.

"It's an eyes-only folder, Barton. Only a limited number of those in any branch of the government, and only one with your name and photo attached. Pretty sure you know what's in there."

Barton deflated suddenly, closed his eyes and seeming tried to shrink back into the bed.

"You know, don't you?" The sudden fire, and Phil could hear almost the sense of … shame emanating from the sniper's voice – the same shame he'd displayed when they first talked. Phil didn't even pretend to understand.

"What am I supposed to know, Barton? Is there something in here you're supposed to be ashamed of?" Phil had read the file thoroughly when Fury had handed it to him the first time, and several times since. SHIELD prided itself in actionable intelligence – and even more so in finding … direct solutions to the problems they presented.

Five separate targets, all high-level terrorist threats, ones that the United States had deemed extreme threats. Five separate kills – all with one shot, to the head, expertly executed with no evidence tracing back to anyone. Not the Army, not the CIA, really, not to anyone. It could've been internal problem-solving to anyone who looked.

Across from him, Clint just looked at him, and now Phil could see the exhaustion in those eyes as well – and not a little impatience. So Phil cut to the chase.

"OK, yes, I know. There's more to your time in Afghanistan that what you first told me, and yes, it's not exactly on-the-books work." Phil raised an eyebrow. "I'll go so far as to compliment you, if you'd like. I couldn't have done any better, even if my sniper skills were still up to par. I have a feeling that might just add to your current self-flagellation, though."

Barton looked away, muttering something.

"I didn't quite catch that." Phil reached out and tapped Barton on the shoulder. "Care to repeat it?"

Barton hissed a sigh through his teeth, and turned his eyes back to Coulson. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly even.

"I don't have a problem with the work I did, sir." The last word curled out of the sniper's mouth with a hint of sarcasm, but that was it. "The problem is the people telling me to do it changed suddenly."

Phil nodded once, digesting the words. When he didn't say anything immediately, Barton continued.

"Not a single one of those bastards deserved to be sharing the same air with the rest of planet – or at least, not with my unit. They would've kept right on twisting the wires on the explosives, deciding where to put them, deciding which of my people got to live or die, unless I'd stopped them." Barton opened his mouth to say something else, then stopped and closed it again without another word.

Phil watched him for a minute, gauging what he'd seen in those eyes and everything he'd learned about the sniper over the last few days. When he finally spoke, it was with surety.

"This is about McDermid and Collins." Phil didn't phrase it as a question, and Barton didn't take it as one.

"You think?" This time, there was no doubt about the sarcasm in the younger man's voice. "You can tell me all you want it wasn't my fucking fault, and on some level, I'll believe you. Fine. But they're dead and I'm still alive, and the asshole that replaced them decided that—"

"Shut the hell up and listen for a minute, Barton." Phil cut Barton off without a second thought, and gave the younger man a look that silenced him. "In case you were too sick to hear it the first time, I'll say it again – you're not the first person to lose people here and have life go to shit as a result. And like I also said before, you do have more than a few options on where to go moving forward."

Barton stayed silent, so Phil continued.

"I can also tell you that, in the last 72 hours, Maxwell's been removed from the command structure of your unit." Barton's eyes opened wide at that comment, and Phil let a slow, satisfied smile grow on his face. "He'll be manning a desk at a supply depot until the end of his tour, and when it's over, I know a few people who will be personally discouraging him from continuing his military career in any form or fashion."

Still disbelieving, Barton opened his mouth to say something, but Phil shook his head.

"Not finished, Barton." Barton's jaw shut again, and Phil moved forward. "Maxwell's a problem that's been taken care of now, and I suppose if you have a desire to go back to your unit, I can make that happen. But everything I read here –" Phil held up the file again – "shows me that you can be an asset in so many more ways. I want you to listen carefully, Barton, because you need to hear this. You are one hell of a weapon. Someone like you comes around once or twice in a LIFETIME. You'd be wasted going back to your Army unit. You deserve to be aimed with better accuracy than that."

Barton crinkled his forehead slightly in confusion.

"Sir?"

Phil smiled again – confident. He had Barton's attention now, and damned if he wasn't going to bring the point home.

"McDermid knew exactly how good a damned weapon he had, and not to misuse it. I'm pretty damned sure Collins did, too. Am I right?" Barton nodded, but the confusion remained in his eyes. Phil pushed forward, pointing at Barton with the folder.

"Even if they didn't know the details of these missions, they knew how to use your skills, and you repaid them with your loyalty." Phil could see Barton following him now, finally getting it. "And then they died, and you got stuck with Maxwell. At least one of these missions happened after he took over-"

"Two." Barton's voice had turned husky. "Two. The first a week after they died, the second three days later. Maxwell didn't know the details, but when I got pulled off for them –"

"He knew enough to guess, and then needled you about it and pushed every last one of your buttons. He got it so everyone was talking. And then your whole unit turned to talking behind your back." Phil let a little bit of an edge creep into his voice, anger at Maxwell and the situation. "How much talking did it take before you started getting paranoid, Barton? Before you lost trust in them – and in yourself?"

"It wasn't just talk!" Barton spat the words out with such force, Phil physically recoiled. "When I didn't respond, when they didn't get what they wanted, they tried…" Barton swallowed convulsively. "They put a hood over my head. Tied my hands up so tight I had rope burns for days. Would've dragged me God only knows where if I hadn't gotten in a lucky elbow and screamed bloody murder."

Barton laughed bitterly.

"Riley heard me. Fucking Riley. They took off and just left me sitting on the ground. When he cut me loose, he wanted to go to Maxwell." Barton snorted softly. "Like that would've helped. I told him it was a prank gone bad and to LET. IT. GO. And then told him if he didn't, I'd let Nelson and his buddies go back to terrifying him."

Phil's eyebrows shot up at that, but Barton chuckled.

"Oh, I wouldn't have – and he knew it. But he also knew well enough to drop it, because he'd seen who'd run away. Nelson, and the rest of his few prick friends." Barton swallowed again. "After that? I just tried digging a hole where no one would see me. Ever."

This time, Phil didn't hesitate.

"Just like you did with your brother."

Surprisingly, Barton just nodded.

"You know about that, huh?" Barton kept going. "You know, I ran that time. Long, and hard. And I found someplace I belonged. Until I didn't anymore. And then I found this." The younger man looked away for a moment, then back at Coulson, his eyes heavy with pain.

"I don't know where to run this time, Coulson."

Phil knew the pain there, though he could only guess how deep it ran. He'd read about everything in Barton's file – in the official version, and in a few of the reports that had already come back from their sources back in the States. The death of his parents, the betrayal of his brother – and Phil knew only what Barton had deemed worth sharing about the incident. He already knew enough of Barton that he could guess it was just a fraction of the whole story.

That would be for another time, though – if not for him to find out, maybe SHIELD's psych unit. He suspected, though, Barton would tell them less than he would a friend, and do so in a way that would wind SHIELD's best into a few knots along the way.

As for the last thing Barton had said, though…

"Maybe you don't need to run anymore, Barton."

The sniper let out a low chuckle.

"Everyone runs, Coulson. Everyone's always running. Maybe I never stopped."

Phil couldn't help but roll his eyes in response. This? This he could – and would – handle.

"Of all your faults, Barton, I doubt self-pity is normally on the list. So knock it the hell off." Barton recoiled a little into the pillow and broke eye contact, but Phil plowed on, turning the folder around again so Barton could see his own picture. Phil tapped the picture with his finger.

"This, here? Barton, everything I see here … I see someone who fought to get everything he could. Most circus acts never finish high school, never mind with a decent enough GPA to join the Army with the stated goal of becoming a sniper." Phil shook his head. "The harder you try to convince me you want to give up, the more you show me just how hard you've fought. Maybe you never quit running, Barton, because you knew you had to reach someplace better. And maybe I'm telling you, right now, you found it."

For a long moment, Barton's eyes remained locked on the blanket. Frustrated, Phil opened his mouth to state it in blunt, clear words, but as he did, Barton looked up at him.

And dammitall, Phil could see the hope in his eyes as a hint of a genuine smile edged its way onto the sniper's face as he uttered just two words.

"You think?"

Note: Just a brief epilogue, and this story will reach its ending point. But never fear – Belfast is near!