a/n: This chapter is LONG. I do not apologize. I didn't even mean to write it but y'all wanted to know OOOOOH so much about Slade so I felt compelled to add an extra 6,000 words this morning. I'm not cutting it in two, so take this blame upon your own mortal souls. (oh, and enjoy:)

Thank you to:::

YukinaKid, TheNaggingCub, BoomerCat, aps80, shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, Ms. Hawkeye, Hamato Alexa, Batghost, Fire tests Gold, ZafiraMente, BecauseImBatman108, horsequeen1379, discordchick, a fanfictioner, Niom Lamboise, WhoAteMyEnchilada, ozhawk, Lillehafrue

IWriteSinsOrTragedies (slow clap, i loved that so much!)

amy. .(aw, thank you!)

Daughter of the North (thank you so much for the compliment on the writing style!)

khaitosfren (what a wonderful complement! thank you!)

comicsans-spideydehaanfan (I saw someone's diving into the Hawkeye Initiative! Happy reading!)

Friends Check for Bullet Wounds

Chapter 7

Stepping into this new found role was like wading out onto a plank over shark infested waters. One false move, and Bruce might end up dead. Then again, sitting at Clint's bedside watching him recover from anesthesia was a measure less dangerous than what Barton himself had just experienced. The result of that lay on the table just to his left. Clint had the dimensions dead on. Ten inches of cold steel on a saw edged blade had been plucked out of his flesh. It took fourteen hours to remove, his entire blood volume had been replaced twice, and an incision literally cut him open from stem to stern. His damaged lung was salvaged. His liver became a patchwork of carefully woven together thread, along with his vena cava. That had been the trickiest part. His incised bowel was flushed, sutured, flushed again, and sutured a second time. His entire abdomen was filled with saline like a rinse cycle of a washing machine in hopes that the very deadly complication of peritonitis might not set in. He died twice, received cardiac massage the first time since they had his chest filleted open anyway, and went straight to chest compressions the second time.

He was lucky to be alive.

It seemed Barton had an endless supply of luck. When the nurses wheeled him back to the recovery room, it was with a grim sort of determination. If Clint didn't pull through after all they'd done to him, they were definitely going to take it personally. Four of them flanked the head of the bed in nervous anticipation. Apparently there was a mass discussion before they returned Barton to the Avenger's care as to whether he would be allowed to wake at all. Keeping him under heavy sedation and the respiratory assistance of the ventilators, at least for the first few days, might give him a better opportunity to heal. Apparently they had about as much experience with his coming out of anesthesia as him going under. Neither were particularly pretty sights. His odds of surviving the surgery, the post-surgical complications, and the potential peritonitis from his nicked bowel were small. Allowing him to fight and fidget was counterproductive. In the end, though they decided to wake him up. Tony's insistence that if Clint Barton was going to die, he was going to do it knowing his friends were flanking his bedside, might have had the most impact in that decision.

"He has to stay strapped now too, right?" Bruce asked, motioning to Clint's seemingly ever-present cuffs. One of the technicians nodded. "When is it usually safe to start taking them off him?"

"After he's conscious. If Agent Romanov comes, usually that helps. She tends to relax him. If not, then our best option is to wait until he's discharged."

Tony grunted a little. How someone could find Natasha's cold, sarcastic exterior comforting, he wasn't sure. How Clint ever got to agree that letting someone literally tie him up every time he went into a hospital room was also beyond his comprehension.

"Have we heard from her yet?" Bruce asked.

Tony shook his head a little. He was exhausted. They'd spent the entire night pacing the halls, drinking coffee, and not talking. Bruce hadn't checked a mirror yet, but he had no doubt his eyes held the same dark circles he noticed under Tony's. "I tracked her passport. She boarded the plane in Atlanta hours ago. I'm not sure why she isn't back yet."

Bruce checked his watch. "It's rush hour from LaGuardia here. Maybe she got stuck."

Tony rubbed his eyes and sat back a little from Clint's side. "Rush hour? What time is it?"

"It's almost nine in the morning."

"We were up all night?"

"It's not weird for us."

"Nothing from Thor or Steve?"

Bruce shrugged. They left around the same time Natasha boarded her plane. When this was over, Bruce planned to have a lengthy conversation about answering cell phones. "Nothing."

"I'm thinking one of us should go look into where all of them are if no one shows up in another hour."

"Worried they hit trouble?"

Tony only had to motion to the knife. Clint wasn't just good at his job, he was the best. Whoever this Elijah Slade was, he packed a wallop. Bruce had to concede the possibility that Thor and Steve might have walked into a situation they couldn't handle alone. The possibility was incredibly small, but it did exist nonetheless.

There was a clang of metal on metal as Clint swiftly jerked his arm against the shackles. Bruce and Tony both jumped at the sound. Clint yanked his arm back until the catheter in his hand pinched against the cuff and threatened to sheer right off. Tony jumped on Clint's hand and tightened the shackle a little more before he slipped right out of it. Bruce repeated the measure on the opposite side.

"What happens now? Should we do something? What are we supposed to say?" Bruce asked.

Clint wrapped his fingers around the handrail. If he'd been given the strength of Thor, he might have ripped the entire thing off. A guttural snarl rumbled in the back of his throat. He thrust his leg out, twisted in place and threatened to weasel right out of those locks next.

"Stop!" Clint tried to scream. His voice was hoarse from the tube they'd pulled from his throat. The sweet odor of anesthesia he exhaled mingled with the oxygen flowing through his mask. He thrust his head against the pillow. "Lemme go. Lemme go. Tomslin—don't hurt him. Stop hurting him! No!" Clint yanked his hands back and screamed again.

"He's too rough, we're going to have to put him out again." One of the technicians said. He pulled out the locked drug cart and rifled through it for Clint's already drawn emergency dose.

Bruce tried to stop him. "Hang on! He'll be just as crazy with that in him, it'll make him worse before he gets better."

Tony let go of Barton's arms and focused on his face instead. He set his hands along Barton's jaw and tried to talk some sense into him. "Clint, listen to me. This is Tony. We've got you in the Tower. It's ok! I need you to—"

Clint shifted, trying to bite his hand, but Tony avoided it.

"Don't you dare snap my fingers off, Legolas! I'm trying to help you here! It's Tony!"

"Quietly." Bruce cautioned him. He left Barton's side for a minute to snap off the lights before returning again. If Clint knew so many of the relaxation techniques he'd learned himself, maybe those would filter through his current terror. Leaving Tony where he was, Bruce laid his hand gently on Barton's chest.

"Agent Barton, this is Dr. Bruce Banner," he whispered, keeping his voice level and calm despite Clint's continued struggle against him. "Agent Barton, I need you to take two, slow, steady breaths for me. We found you. You've been away for a long time, and we have you back now. If you can hear me I need you to take two, slow, steady, breaths. Can you do that, Agent Barton?"

Slowly, Clint stopped fighting. Tony looked encouragingly at his friend.

"Agent Barton, I need two, slow—"

Clint took his first breath. It wasn't very deep, but it was much varied from those he had before. He opened his eyes a little, but they didn't seem to focus on anyone in particular. The technicians paused, drugs in hand, should the situation begin to escalate. Barton took another, slower, breath.

"Good. Agent Barton, you are back in SHIELD hands. I understand you have endured a great deal. I would like to take off these hand cuffs. I don't think you need them. If you are with me, I need you to ask me to remove these handcuffs."

Clint took another deep breath and pulled again on his right hand. He appeared to be working out exactly what was being asked of him. They could blame his slight delays on being only minutes out of anesthesia.

"Ma—mask. Want my mask off." Clint asked much quieter than before.

"That'll come off next. First can you ask me to take off your handcuffs?"

Clint thought about it. When the filter between hearing, brain process, recognition, and articulation finally came into a single alignment, Barton spoke. "Dr. Banner, can you remove my cuffs?"

Bruce nodded at Tony who set to it. He started at the less dangerous end, Clint's legs. After those came off and Barton made no move to go running from the room, or even worse, scissor Tony's neck between his thighs and twist his head off, he moved up to Barton's wrists.

"You're doing very good, Agent Barton." Bruce continued. "I'm sorry this took a little while, but you're in good hands. The person helping me is Tony Stark. Do you recognize him?"

Tony looked up from his work and offered a smile.

"Tony . . . Yeah, Tony." Clint closed his eyes and shook his head a little. They opened again and refocused with clarity. "Bruce? Tony? What are you doing? Where am I?" His first hand was free. He lifted it up to pull the oxygen mask down.

At the head of the bed, the surprised technicians replaced the drugs into the lock box and stepped away to see what might happen next. It was obvious that what transpired now was unprecedented in Clint's typical recoveries. That fact alone made Banner's skin crawl. It wasn't rocket science. He wasn't even a psychologist and he could tell Clint needed to find his center again. Sometimes for SHIELD it was easier to contain, to stop, and to sedate rather than to fix.

Tony finished with the last cuff and set his hands down on the bed railing. "Hey, birdman. How you feeling? Besides having a broken rib and organs tacked together like a pin cushion."

"Rib? Organs? What?" Clint asked in confusion. He rubbed a hand across his chest and winced at the pain he felt there.

"Agent Barton—"

"Stop with that agent crap." Clint complained. "I'm not an agent since Fury kicked me out."

Bruce smiled. "Alright. No doctor/patient bull crap, no agent crap. Is there any other types of crap that you detest?"

Clint's eyes narrowed. "Gimme a minute, I'll think of something."

Bruce chuckled.

"Seriously what am I doing here? And why does everything hurt?"

"You were in a knife fight yesterday with Elijah Slade. You lost. He stuck you good. Took fourteen hours, but we finally got it out."

Clint tried to keep his eyes forced open, but they felt very heavy. He pushed himself up a little in the bed. Tony's hand remained on him to prevent his overdoing it. There was little he could do to stop from yawning against his pillow. Exhaustion crept up on him. "Elijah Slade?"

"That's what you told us before you went out. Who is he?"

Clint moaned a little, willing his memory to start firing on all cylinders. "Who?"

"Slade, Clint. Who is he? How did you end up on his cutting board?"

"Slade? Name's not Slade." Clint yawned again. The excitement of coming awake paled under his body's need to drag him right back under the warm flow of pain medication dripping into his veins.

"What do you mean, "his name isn't Slade"? Clint, that's who you told us did this to you!" Tony's voice elevated in his shock.

"It is . . . 'nd it's not." Clint scrunched his face and finally forced his blue eyes out from under their shades. They attempted to focus on Tony, but their haze made it evident he wasn't all there. "Slade?"

Tony rolled his eyes skyward in exasperation. Bruce took over for him. "Clint, before you went into surgery you told us that a man by the name of Elijah Slade stabbed you, then got away. It's really important you tell us the truth right now, because Thor and Captain America are out there tracking this guy down."

Clint didn't respond for a few minutes. Apparently he'd either dropped unconscious or fallen asleep with his eyes open. He came around again and began to speak again as if he never stopped. "Slade . . .The Asgardian, Slade?"

Bruce and Tony exchanged a furtive glance. Bruce asked, "Asgardian? What do you mean Asgardian?"

Clint only nodded as he tried to roll more onto his side. "Slade's a fake name. He's Balfore the Surmounter, some other-realm transplant. Called Thor out. Fury didn't want a . . . I didn't want a . . . a scene."

Tony considered sitting before the news knocked him right over. "Fury sent you in against an Asgardian warrior and didn't say a word about it to any of us?!"

"I'm kinda tired here, guys." Clint whispered.

Tony wanted to question him more, but Bruce extended a hand and stopped him. Clint didn't need an interrogation. He needed rest, and plenty of it. While the archer tucked himself in for the long haul, Bruce pulled Tony back into the hallway to talk in private. He shut the door behind them.

"I really think we should get a hold of Thor and Steve, don't you?" Bruce said.

"Yeah, you think? Clint said the guy looked like Thor, he didn't say the guy was an Asgardian. Why the Hell did Fury send him in without back up?" Tony demanded.

Bruce shook his head. It was ridiculous to think that Clint had taken the guy on himself. No wonder he came back looking like he did. It was a wonder he made it home at all. "I don't know that."

"I do."

Tony and Bruce turned in place to meet the voice at their backs. Thor and Steve had returned, with Natasha Romanov in tow no less. From the looks of them, they must have found Balfore the Surmounter. Natasha's face was bleeding. Steve only had half of a shirt and the skin that was exposed had turned into fist-sized purple bruises. Thor had a broken nose and Steve was helping him keep off a possibly broken knee cap. Tony's jaw dropped.

"What happened?!" He exclaimed.

"We have been matched against a valiant foe. A criminal of Asgard banished from our lands more than four centuries before. He blamed my father for his ill events, and sought his vengeance against me." Thor explained. They stopped a few feet apart and looked into the dark hospital room at Clint on the bed. "Is our friend well?" he asked tenderly.

"It'll be a while before we know for certain. He's not out of the woods." Bruce reported. "If Balfore was after you, then what did Clint think he was doing?"

"Defending me, it seems." Thor said.

Steve took up the story from there. "Clint heard scuttlebutt about this guy on the SHIELD lines. Heard that Fury was hoping to make contact and add him to the index. Thing is, all the guy wanted was a grudge match with Thor in the most public way possible. So Clint went in himself. Took him a few days to find Balfore, but when he did he was working to get him out of the city. He planned to call us after they got clear of the public only they never made it that far. Fury's contact team showed up and got in the way. Clint got most of the agents out, one of them took a direct hit from this guy and ended up with a busted spine."

Bruce's gaze floated back to that darkened form tucked under the cold hospital sheets as Natasha took up the rest of the tale of Clint's epic adventure.

:(:):(:):

Clint kept the note tucked against his chest in hopes that he wouldn't need to use it. After all, his initial mission was recon only. Check out the crazy guy wondering around the streets of New York, decimating every image of Thor the populace had erected, and assess a threat level. He was appreciative of having a mission within the limits of his home state for once. The chances of that were so rare, he often lived out of his duffle bag from pure necessity. Today that trusty pack got to take a break and stay in his apartment.

Adding to his original state of pleasure with his assignment was the overall ease in it. He was a high ranking agent, termed "specialist" for a reason. He went in on situations that were impossible, no-win, with no extraction plans. Fury dropping a cake walk on him was about as rare as seeing a zebra-drawn carriage in Central Park. He should have known to raise his hackles and be on his guard. Sometimes, though, believing in the zebras was easier than facing his own reality. Currently, straddled over the crippled body of Agent Makarov, all Clint really wanted was some real back up.

Elijah Slade was not at all what his brief deposition file introduced him to be. At nearly seven feet in height, and enough muscle mass to threaten Thor's manhood, Slade was a veritable beast of a creation. Clint hoped to attribute his size to steroids. It was easier coming to terms with that possibility than the truth. Then Slade reached over, picked up the fallen Agent Simpson, and proceeded to hurl him forty feet through the air. Clint heard the sickening snap as the man left an imprint in the concrete wall of an adjacent housing complex. He didn't bother to look at the dead body. He remained trained on Slade.

He had an arrow mounted and ready against his bow. The fletches lined perfectly along his string, and part of his mind imagined how many of the projectiles it might take before he made a dent in the Goliath. Beneath him Makarov paddled his feet and writhed in pain, though he could say nothing. His jaw lay at an odd angle. Shattered most likely. Clint risked his footing to nudge the man's head sideways. At least he wouldn't choke on his own blood while Barton kept his sights trained on Slade. He didn't plan on starting his day like this. He had a perfectly good plan for making contact with the bone-to-pick guy. SHIELD just ran out of patience.

"Hey, look here, Zeus," Clint said, drawing Slade's attention to himself and off of the cluster of injured SHIELD agents. Clint couldn't help the little hitch in his chest when the man actually did look his way. "That's right. Over here. Hey, look, man, this is gearing up to get extra ugly unless you do me a big favor and take a few steps back. I don't want to slam a few arrows through your skull, but if you push me, that's exactly what's going to happen."

The man flexed his mounds of muscles from beneath his shirt. Clint heard a few of the seams give way as if the man might Hulk out at any moment. Barton lowered a little more into his crouch. It stabilized his core and helped keep the exertion shake out of his hands. This guy might only give him one chance to take him down, but hitting him was going to be like bringing down a water buffalo with a b-b gun. For the thousandth time, Clint glanced at the tip on his arrow. He mentally willed it to be anything beside the standard tip it was. Given the situation, he would have preferred something with a bit more of a punch. Like an exploding one.

Elijah straightened his back, cracking his vertebrae in place. It sounded like slabs of concrete settling under a house. "I am not Zeus! I am Balfore the Surmounter! I am the deposed son of Grogun the Killer and Belfast the Red." He began to stride closer. Each footfall taking him three feet into Clint's comfort zone. Clint's shoulders tightened. "I am he who Odin thrust from court and he who plans to wreak his revenge on the son of the Allfather. He will see no flash of Valhalla when my fists tighten upon his throat and his blood drips through my fingers!"

Mind made up, Clint released the arrow. He watched the shaft launch into the Asgardian's eye socket but didn't see more than that. He swung his bow over his chest and grabbed Markov under the armpits and began to drag. Balfore the Surmounter was officially a threat. Markov didn't offer much help for his own survival, leaving the majority of his heavy lifting to Clint, who struggled to lift him up alone. He cast a look back at the progress of Balfore.

The Asgardian fell over backward with his hands crushed against the side of his face. He roared in anger, screamed about how dare a Midgardian lowlife assault a son of Asgard. One of his hands wrapped around the arrow shaft and instantly plucked it out of his flesh. He rolled to his side and trained his one good eye on Clint.

"Crap." Clint breathed. He shuffled faster, dragging Markov through the metal gate that separated the back alley he'd cornered Balfore in from the watching public. Not that many people frequented this part of town that early in the morning, but Clint wanted to be safe. Since Balfore refused to meet him in Central Park after he'd spent half the night there, he chose this place for its relative decrease in human activity. Until the SHIELD team started sniping them from above, the first contact had gone relatively well. He heard a lot of nonsense that lead him to consider putting "psych eval required" in his final threat assessment of the guy. Instead, he was going to suggest someone with a bigger gun than himself seal Balfore up in SHIELD's super villain prison, the Fridge, for the next four hundred years.

In a way, he was getting sick of Asgard's problem kids finding him.

Clint squeezed Makarov through the gate ahead of him. Four other SHIELD agents took over from there dragged him off to the two waiting SUVs.

"Someone get their head in a mic and tell Iron Man to get off his brass and get here before this guy—AH!" Clint didn't have a chance to finish his statement before Balfore was on him again. The ogre wrapped his massive hand around Clint's quiver and yanked the archer back into the alleyway. He flew ten feet and collided with the adjacent wall of a Shabu Shabu breakfast bar.

"Agent Barton?!" someone cried.

Clint struggled to right himself. He grabbed another arrow out of his quiver, feeling the three hash marks he'd carved just below the nock. The more marks, the bigger the boom. He needed a big boom. He yanked his bow off his chest and from where he sat trying to gain his wits back, he fired the first shot into Balfore's knee. It lodged in the joint a second before the arrowhead sent out a rib-rattling seismic quake. Balfore fell to one side, his hand reached down to pull the arrow free.

Clint used his legs and the wall for support to get back on his feet. There was no way he could stop the guy himself. He needed help. Balfore stared him down. The arrow extracted from his knee and he snapped it in half. If such a thing was possible, Clint might assume the guy was running on a gamma filled rage. His voice sounded like a big dog caught in a '65 Mustang's muffler.

"You will bring me the son of Odin, or I will not rest until I see this entire city burning under the fires of my rage."

Clint swallowed. He had no doubt about that assessment. Beyond him the terrified agents attempted to sneak back in but Clint shook his head furiously. He had this before they showed up and tried shooting people. At his direction they pulled back a little, but hovered by the flimsy chain link. It was time for him to flash that special note he saved just for this occasion.

Clint tapped his leather vest at the V formed beneath his throat. This was some gambit to play, but he was happy he took the precaution. "All right, big guy, I get it. You want Thor. I know where he is. I got news for you, you're in the wrong city. He cleared out three days back, maybe he heard you were coming. I've got that location right here." He tapped his chest a second time for emphasis. He had the guy's attention like a sniper scope burning a hole into him. "Look, I will give you this location. I just-"

Balfore launched to his feet with a snarl. He spun around to the SHIELD agents, three of which who had just attempted to take him down with icers, or their concentrated knockout darts. The only thing they did was enrage him more. Clint inwardly rolled his eyes. He knew SHIELD didn't see him as a reliable agent anymore, but they could at least give him some room to work. Balfore took two of them down with a massive green dumpster he lifted and hurled over his head. Half a second later he was eyeing Barton down.

"This looks bad." Clint whispered. He grabbed three arrows at once, having no time to check their hash marks before he fed them onto his string, pulled back, and let them fly. Not a single one affected him. Clint lost his footing as the Asgardian yanked him of his feet and for a second time Barton found himself flying through the air. He hit another wall, but thankfully this one wasn't made of concrete. He sailed right through the Shabu Shabu into the main kitchen of the New York resturant, and landed wedged against a sous chef's prep table. Luckily for the chef, the guy just happened to duck down to retrieve a fallen slice of cherry tomato. He stood back up and noticed the SHIELD agent on his cutting board.

"I'll take two double cheese burgers, hold the mayo with a side of Hulk and Thor to go." Clint said.

The sous chef flipped around to see Balfore the Surmounter muscling his way through the Clint-sized hole in the wall. Having a good deal of sense, the chef took off. Clint groaned, dropping out of the depression over the counter top to land on the floor. He crawled a few feet down the prep line, found an opening beneath a rolling tray just large enough to slide under and quickly stuffed his body in. He clutched his bow against his chest and held his breath in anticipation.

"ARCHER!" the Asgardian roared.

Clint closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and waited. He could hear the man stalking around the room, unearthing first a stove, and then the fridge. A butcher block sailed end over end by Barton's face and spilled the block of knives over the floor. He arched his eyebrow and reached over to grab the paring knife. He held it over his bow and continued to hold out for the right moment.

"I will have Thor's head upon my wall before the morrow ends! I will grind your bones in my hands and feel your life extinguish like an insect!"

Balfore continued to stalk down the line, destroying the kitchen as he went. Clint remained in his hideout beneath the metal dish cart. He was in his happy place, the little area in his mind he liked to hideout in when life dragged him to the most unsavory locations on the planet. He had a beach there. One of those beaches where the sand didn't stick to you, the water was always the perfect temperature, and his chair was set up right in the surf. There was one perfect cloud floating up in that sky to block out the majority of the sun. He glanced over at the spot next to him, expecting to see Natasha in his daydream but instead saw one giant foot stomp down against rust colored floor tiles. So much for paradise. Work showed up.

He spun the knife around in his hand and drove it home into the giant's foot. Balfore screamed. He lifted the edge of the dish rack and hurled it across the room. Clint scrambled away as the white plates sailed into the air and came crashing down. He spun halfway to the door and yanked another arrow out of his quiver. He sent this sonic tip whizzing by the Asgardian's face. Balfore's hands clamped to either side of his head. He threw out his booted foot and caught a wheeled cart. Clint had a split second to climb over the gas burners on the industrial stove to keep from getting his legs smashed. He was lucky it was still early in the morning, and the breakfast sous chef had yet to turn on the range, otherwise he'd be cooked.

From the top of the stove, Clint yanked another arrow free and planned to bury the standard tip someplace more sensitive. He didn't exactly want the guy dead, but if it was between Barton and Balfore, Clint was planning to be a smidge selfish.

"Agent Barton!" Someone called from the swinging kitchen door. The entry was at Balfore's back, across from Clint. The Asgardian turned in place with an entire cabinet raised over his head. He let the furniture fly with a massive crash of silverware and an explosion of wood. Clint sent the arrow into the base of his spine and dropped off the stove top while the Asgardian squirmed. He twisted around the massive body and dug the SHIELD agent out from under the cabinet.

"You got a death wish?!" Barton screamed at him. "I said get Stark! Stop running in here!"

"My back's busted!" the agent screamed.

"I don't doubt it, he hit you with a kitchen!" Ignoring the man's cries, Clint dragged him to his feet and dropped him into the waiting hands of the nearly fifteen "backup" agents sent to help him control the monster. "Out!" Clint ordered, one step away from firing an exploding tip at the flock of them. "This guy's gonna bring the whole place down!"

As the words left his mouth, someone shouted out a warning. Clint ducked just in time to avoid a knife slicing through the air after him. He dodged sideways, groped around the nearest shelf for anything that he might use as a weapon, and his hand met the handle of a cast iron pan. He smiled despite being trapped in a corner with no way to escape.

Balfore ignored the agents, who had finally decide their own lives were worth more without snapped spines, and backed away. He focused all of his animalistic fury on Clint. Blood smeared both of his hands and dripped into the massive red beard covering his face. Clint tried not to focus on the gaping hole where his left eye had once been intact and was now no longer visible.

"Do you believe your paltry arrows will fell the Surmounter?" he roared.

Clint held out his free hand, having draped his bow against his chest again. His eyes flicked to the knife in the man's hand, ready to disarm him if need be. "Easy, Brock Sampson. You got me, all right? I'm giving you whatever you want. Thor, right? You want Thor? Need to make him pay, and revenge, and all that? Here—" Clint reached into the V of his leather vest and extracted the note he placed there. "I've been following the guy too. Just like you. This is where he is. I was going to go track down exactly where, but you were closer so I just came here first." The paper was folded up like a paper football, making it easier for Clint to flick it across the room at the guy. Sure the only thing written on it were some hand drawn directions to Finland and a blurry photo of a smiling Thor, but he figured Balfore would take the trumped up bait. "I'm not stopping you. Just take it and walk out of here. Thor's not in this city. He's right where that map shows."

The paper football bounced off Balfore's chest and hit the floor. Distracted, he leaned over to pick it up. Clint grabbed the handle to the cast iron pan, wound up, and aimed a line drive right into the side of the Asgardian's face. Clint tried to slip to the side of him and escape through the front door. He felt the punch catch him square under the ribs. He hit the swinging doors with a heavy thud. He struggled up on his hands and knees. His side was throbbing from the punch to his gut.

He noticed the SHIELD agents finally took his advice and were packing it in until heavier artillery arrived. It was about time. Clint tried to use the nearest table to help pull himself up, but he never made it so far. He saw the coming wall of knuckles rushing toward the side of his face. He ducked his head just in time to take the knuckles against the back of his skull instead of the bridge of his nose. The room swirled around him in a kaleidoscope of stars. At first he still tried to stay conscious, but he swiftly lost the fight. He fell over onto his side and knew no more.

:(:):(:):

Clint shook awake on high alert. He reached backward to grab an arrow out of his quiver and hissed as his brain did a mental backflip. A moan escaped his lips as he flipped over onto his side. He hoped the SHIELD van grabbed the license on the truck that ran him over. He stopped trying to pull out another arrow. Apparently he was alone. And there was a cabinet on top of him.

He squinted through the coming daylight at the lines of caution tape surrounding the outside of the building. One black van idled out front in the cool air of the September, almost October, morning. Two SHIELD agents leaned on its door, sharing a couple of coffees.

"Seriously?" Clint whispered. He shoved himself up and out from under the broken wood, using the chair and table from the nearest breakfast nook as hand holds. The change in angle sent an ice pick of pain through his skill. He swayed for a moment and tried to get his bearings again. His side hurt from where Balfore socked him and his head swam like he was trying to think through mud. The only thing he really cared about was why, when two SHIELD agents were yakking back and forth outside, was he still laying on the floor?

"Good job, guys, you know, just leave the comatose Barton on the floor. He won't care." Clint grumbled under his breath. He stiffly trudged to the front glass door and shoved it open. The carefully placed caution tape cascaded to the ground on either side of him.

"Agent Daniels, the next time I decide to not let an Asgardian rip out your thorax, remind me of the time you left me on a floor to die. I could have been bleeding internally or something stupid." Clint growled, stalking by them.

Agent Daniels started, causing the second agent at his side to squeeze his Styrofoam cup into a miniature eruption. He held the coffee away from his jacket as the liquid flowed down his hand.

"Barton, you're alive?!" Daniels cried. He pointed to the room. "You were in there?!"

"Yeah, shocker, right? Thanks for poking me with a stick and confirming that death. Lucky I didn't actually bleed out or I would have held it personally against you." Clint found a cab parked by the curb. The driver was standing by the hood of the car snapping photos of the destruction in the alley and front windows. Apparently when Balfore took off, he left a trail behind him. As Clint slid into the car, he called over his shoulder to the SHIELD agents. "Do me a favor the next time I die on a mission and MOVE MY BODY out of the scene. I'd rather wake up in a morgue than wake up with a bunch of agents standing around sipping coffee!"

The driver dropped his phone into his pocket and jumped behind the wheel. He spun around to consider his new fare. "Hey man, you got up like some zombie or something. Aint you that Avenger guy?"

"Hawk guy." Clint replied, sitting back. His side hurt, but not nearly as much as the headache.

"You need a hospital or something?"

He thought about it. Tony had been building a new place a few floors down from their private rooms in case emergencies ever came up. He didn't imagine he had anything worse than a concussion and frankly he had to get back to the Tower and make sure Thor was given a heads up about his Asgardian adversary. Clint looked at the time on the dashboard. "Geez, nine? Is it really nine in the morning?"

The cabbie nodded. "Yeah man."

"Well if SHIELD didn't care to move my dead body out of a building, they probably did have enough time to call Thor. Head to Stark Tower. I'm sleeping this one off."

"You sure about that? You look like some guy hit you with a stale Chicago pizza. And them things are like bricks."

Clint sunk down in the seat. "I'm sure. Got first aid there. I'll be fine but thanks for being the one concerned soul I've met today."

The cabbie grinned and turned to face the roadway. "Sure thing, Hawk Guy. Ya know, some of us folks here like a chance to drive heroes and such around. 'Specially ones supposed to be dead. Think the others are out lookin' for you? Wanna call 'em?" He reached into his pocket and held up his cell phone, shaking it enticingly. It was a generous offer. Clint imagined, though, the only reason he did give the option was so he might have a chance to store Tony Stark's number and call him like a stalker. While that option held its own sort of appeal, Clint declined. He wasn't in that bad of shape, and the team didn't even expect him back from his mission till that night when Pepper—

"Crap. The party. Hey, is there a store, like a convenience food stop or something along the way?" Clint asked, rubbing the knob on the back of his head. He'd almost completely forgotten about Pepper's party that night. He had no intention of even showing up, but Natasha called and suggested it might be a good way for him to start blending in. He was attracting a little too much interest, in her opinion, from the others by staying a loner. Curiosity often had people hunting through his things when he didn't want them to. Avoiding that, prevented unwelcome occurrences. Like accidentally shooting people who came to raid around his room for clues about his life. Clint liked to point out that he'd only ever shot someone once, and he still blamed that agent entirely, but Natasha never seemed to see it from his point of view.

"There's a Wawa on Eighth, want me to swing by there?"

Clint looked up from where he rubbed his temple. "Wawa? What's a Wawa?"

"It's like a convenience store but don't tell nobody from Jersey that's what it is. They'd cut ya and tell ya you're wrong."

Clint arched his eyebrows but covered his eyes again beneath his hand. "Hmm. Don't need to get cut by anyone in Jersey today." Eighth Street was on the other side of Manhattan, a nice distance from where they were already. There used to be a local shop, but the Chitauri made short work of that. He noticed a corner hoagie place and made the cabbie pull over, but he could tell from the backseats the shop hadn't opened since something took out its dividing wall with the pawn shop next door. Three strikes and he was out.

"You know, forget it. I'll figure something out. Thanks for trying, just take me home."

The cabbie stared at him for a while in the rearview mirror as he guided the yellow car back into the flow of morning traffic. Clint wondered why he'd chosen to say the word 'home' instead of "Stark's Place", the "Golden Tower" or "The Monolith" instead as were his usual go-to choices for referring to the place he slept at. He must have hit his head harder than he thought. A brain injury could make him sentimental, or at least that's how he reconciled himself.

It didn't take long to reach the underground garage. From there his security pass would access the private elevator to the lobby and he'd switch to a second elevator once Happy checked him in. He was impressed by Stark's security for the most part. That didn't mean he couldn't still break in whenever he felt like it.

Clint let his quiver down from his shoulder stiffly. The gut punch made it hard to breathe if he moved too fast. Broken ribs weren't out of the question either. He added those to the tally of his injuries. He slipped a hand into the side pouch of his quiver and came up with a few bills.

"All I've got is forty. Will that cover it?" He asked.

The cabbie waved his hand. "For you man? An Avenger takin' my cab outta all the ones in this city? Nah, it's on the house, just don't tell my boss that, ya know?"

Clint smiled but leaned forward and shoved the two bills in the guy's front pocket. "I don't do free. It's nothing on you, I just don't like owing people things. You can keep that for you though, I'm not telling anyone."

The guy smiled and laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I got ya. Hey, hold on a sec!"

Clint had turned and swiped himself into the elevator's control panel. He slipped the Avengers ID card into his back pocket and turned to see what the man tried to hand him. It was a business card for Mr. Jerome McDonald III. The black man's smiling face adorned the front as he stood by the nose of his cab with arms crossed and teeth glistening white. He either looked like someone's old and demented uncle, or the guy a mobster might higher to take you on the final ride. Clint didn't point the ill fitting likeness out though. He took the offering and slipped it into his pocket by the ID card. "Thanks. Might regret it, though. I tend to fall off a lot of buildings and need a ride. I don't fly like the other guys."

He laughed again and patted the archer's shoulder. A few parting regards later and Clint was walking into the elevator and Jerome pulled away.

Clint took the elevator up, signed in with Happy and asked about where Thor might be. Hearing the Asgardian had stepped out that morning, he made the obvious assumption that he'd been sent off on Balfore's trail. Good for him. The two could tear up Finland together and leave Clint out of it.

The elevator ride up to his apartment was easy and thankfully silent. Natasha wasn't planning to be back until later that morning. She was going to grill him for not stopping and picking up a dish for that night's potluck, but she'd figure something out. She was good like that.

His apartment door was locked as per usual. He slid his ID card along the entry and typed in the private code onto the side of the door. His boots instantly came off once he stepped inside. Breaking in a new pair was probably one of the most painful processes he had to endure. Given the last ones had their soles sliced up from a plate glass window, he didn't exactly have an option except replacing them. Looking at the mud all over them, from the crap in the alley and tracking all over Central Park, he knew later that day he'd have to sit down and clean them. That was a task for later.

He left the door to swing shut on its own and headed into the living room. It usually took him a few minutes to settle into the place out of habit alone. In a zombie apocalypse, rule number 35 was to always check the back seats of a car before you decided to drive it. Rule number 1 in Clint's apartment living guide: always check your apartment for hidden ninjas before settling in for a nap. He did his traditional rounds, checking the highs and then the lows of every room, surface, and cabinet before finally dropping his gear in the SHIELD duffle by his wall of windows. When he stood up, the entire world spun around him.

Clint threw his arms to either side and steadied himself. Too much. He was doing too much. His chest was tight and painful. His side throbbed from the hardy blow he'd received but that would go away in time. Having spent almost four days on his feet, all he wanted was a little rest and relaxation. Over to the couch he went.

A shot of pain cut through him when he dropped down into the cushions. He scrunched his face, wincing against the spasm. Natasha would suggest he get a bottle of aspirin. That was in the bedroom, sitting in the back of a drawer. The idea of getting up to get it sounded like more work than the reward was worth. He should have checked in with the team. Should have went to medical first and had them clear the smack on his head. Instead, he tucked against the cushions of the world's best couch and let his exhaustion reach up and drag him under.

Then his phone rang.

Clint groaned. He glanced over his shoulder at the bag on the floor, willing the duffle to sprout legs and heed to its master's request of crawling closer. When that failed to work, he summoned the Force, throwing out his hand like a Jedi and hoping that a punch from an Asgardian Goliath had somehow transported him to a different galaxy far, far away. With two non successes, Clint simply gave up. If he wasn't standing to grab aspirin, then going over to pick up his phone wasn't worth the effort either.

The phone rang again. Clint growled against his arm and rolled on his back. He gasped when the bottom cushion he slept on came in contact with the bruise surely forming along his side. He leaned his head to both sides, hearing the satisfying pop of his cervical vertebrae releasing their tension. Naturally his eyes went to the clock on the wall above the end of the couch.

"Three?!" He exclaimed, forcing himself up. How was that even possible? He'd only been asleep for a few seconds at most before the phone started screaming again. It was a little past nine when he initially hit the couch. Where had all those hours gone? How long had the person been trying to call him? Most likely it was Natasha. He'd planned to pick her up from the airport. Crap. She wasn't going to let him hear the end of this one.

He dropped his arm against the couch cushion and lifted himself up. He hardly made it halfway when something shot through him like a bolt of Thor's lightning. His entire body tensed. A cry escaped his lips and he reflexively sent a hand against the pain in his side. That was when he felt it. A bath of ice showered his spine. He froze in place, his fingers probing that little bit of metal hanging out of him. He followed it in, against his flesh, and stopped.

"This is bad." He whispered.

:(:):(:):

Natasha sidled up to the glass and pressed her palms down on the window sill. Clint was sleeping fitfully inside his makeshift hospital room surrounded by a gaggle of SHIELD nurses and techs. He attempted to lash out at a few of them when his nightmares became too much. They waited for him to settle again, then slowly fed the cuffs onto his wrists. This was his normal. It wasn't right, he was never right all the years she'd known him, but the little peculiarities came with the package that Clint Barton was wrapped in. She started keeping a med kit in his mission pack to avoid the majority of hospital runs. He liked the idea and overtime they stole themselves half a hospital's worth of drugs and supplies. They became pretty decent field surgeons, but the big things, the ones that triggered him the most, still always landed Clint in the ER.

He never visited her when she got laid up. That was simply a part of him she'd come to expect and deal with. But being a Black Widow meant she didn't need someone sitting at her bedside filling her with false hope and lies. Maybe that's why she liked him. He literally took the awkward option off the table entirely.

"Clint dragged more than one agent out of that fight. Their C/O got booted to Bahrain for the hair brain moves he made. He tried to cover up his team's deficits. when Balfore took off for Finland, he thought he might have enough time to do just that. He sealed the restaurant off and posted a few guys to watch the place until he could figure out what to do with what he thought was Clint's body. " Natasha said, finishing the story the Avengers all gathered to hear. "Clint hadn't slept in four days, so I guess I can't fault him for being such an easy target. SHIELD thought he was dead. Balfore did too. The agents were already clear so Balfore left Clint there. Clint used up one of his nine lives to jump a cab and come home."

That was the tallest tale Banner had ever heard. Short of a scientist turning himself into a giant greed rage monster with the help of gamma radiation. He indicated Natasha, Steve, and Thor. "All right, so I'm guessing the three of you tracked this guy down? I'd hate to know how he looks. How'd you even find him?"

Steve hiked a thumb at Natasha. "Remember when Barton called her before going under? He told her how to find Balfore. To avenge Clint if she needed to."

"My assailant now resides in the prison of the Fridge where your Midgardians assure me he shall not again see the day's sun. We have done some mighty avenging today my friends!" Thor exclaimed, lifting his hammer. Halfway up he winced, and lowered his arm again.

"I'm sure you have." Tony said. "Do us all a favor, though, and keep it down. Clint's back taking a cat nap. If he was really awake for as long as you say he was, I don't blame him for trying to sleep it off."

Natasha peered through the darkness in the room. The nurses around Clint attempted to keep his oxygen mask in place without much success. He might not be able to move his arms anymore, but he continued to rub his face against the pillow and push it off. He didn't like the air blowing against him. It was an old diving problem he had. When a person went scuba diving, the air only flows when the diver inhales. An oxygen mask supplied it continuously. Clint almost drowned once in a diving accident off the coast of Petit Martinique four years back. Since then, he never liked oxygen masks. He related them to that moment. Apparently it felt like the air was trying to drown him. She'd never been in that situation before and couldn't commiserate.

"He's going to be alright?" she asked.

"It's still touch and go. Could have been worse, but worse means he died and didn't come back."

"His heart stopped?"

"Twice on the operating table. He's still got a long road ahead of him." Bruce said.

The joviality of a battle fought and won instantly depressed in the room. It was easy to forget Clint's struggle when their own was so tangible. Thor limped over and stood beside her. The heroes watched as Clint tried to find some rest after his first day post op. They'd stick by him, in case there was anything the Avengers could do to help.

what a marathon. obviously the next chapter isn't going to be as long. expect some team bonding/Natasha comfort coming next

not many chapters left. maybe 2. i know this was a long one but guess what? you made it through!

Please don't forget to review!