Hey everyone! Sorry it's been so long; I've had a ton of work dumped on me these past few weeks (college is no walk in the park this year) and also some computer issues. But I haven't given up on these or the longer sequel, although that may be coming in January or so when this crazy semester is over. In the meantime, I'll continue to post here as regularly as I can manage.

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Field Medicine (Post-Shadow Directive)

"How many times do I have to watch you almost die today, Barton?"

It can never be easy, can it? No job ever goes according to the nice neat mission plan Coulson handed us two days ago, tucked in a neat manila folder. Now said plan is tucked into one of my pockets, torn, grimy, and currently a little bloody.

We're in nearly as sad shape as our instructions, just stumbling back into the crappy apartment we're using as a safe house for this op. I'm sporting what I can only imagine is going to be an impressive black eye, my right ankle is swollen to twice its size in my boot, and I've taken all the skin off my palms with a bad hard landing on concrete.

Clint is currently keeping pressure on a three-inch knife gash in his left thigh, his left shoulder is oddly twisted like it's dislocated, and he looks nearly as bruised as I feel. Probably some broken ribs to add to the mix, I've become sadly adept at identifying the breathing pattern that goes along with then.

Clint peels back the cloth around his wound, still bleeding steadily, and frowns. "Damn, I think they nicked something importantish."

"Clint?! Just how bad do you mean by 'importantish'?"

"Like this needs to be cauterized right away, and you're gonna have to do it."

"Why me? I have no experience in this kind of thing!" I start seriously panicking, no way can I handle this kind of field medicine.

"In case you didn't notice, my left arm is kinda useless and I can't do it with my other hand, 'cause I'm already starting to get a tremor from the blood loss and shock." Oh, yeah. I've nearly forgotten he's left-hand dominant. Okay, good reasons. Doesn't mean I want to do it.

"Hen, it's not that hard. Just take one of your combat knives and heat it over one of those stove burners until it's hot enough to sear off the wound. You've got steady hands for your work, now's a good time to use that skill." Clint removes his quiver and places the strap of it in his mouth. "Wouldn't want the neighbors to get curious about what we're up to in here if they hear someone start yellin'," he mumbles around the strap.

Leave it to Clint to turn a situation like this into an off-color joke. I chuckled forcedly, then draw out one of my knives and study the blade far too intently.

"I-I don't think I can do this." I look down at the knife in my shaking hands. "What if I screw up?"

Clint pulls the strap of his quiver back from between his teeth. "Henley, you have to do it, or I'm gonna bleed out in the middle of the kitchen floor."

"Why can't we go to a hospital?"

"I-I don't like hospitals. Or doctors. Don't trust 'em. Only person I let near me with a needle or a knife is Coulson. But he's not here right now, so I need you." Clint rests his hand on mine, trying to give me some comfort and confidence even though he must be in some pretty considerable pain. "You can do this."

I take a deep breath and walk over to hold the knife in the stove's flame. After what seems to be a ridiculously long time, the metal turns red, and I draw it back. "No, a little more, or it'll cool off before you get it on my arm," Clint mutters, shifting uncomfortably. The wait is stressing him out as much or more than it is me. I obediently put the knife back in the flame.

Finally, the blade is glowing again, strongly and almost white, and I grit my teeth and press the knife to Clint's wound.

I've seen people do this in the movies, but they don't tell you how hard it is to hold a flat piece of hot metal to a limb when all the muscles are jumping and trying to shrink away from the pain. They don't tell you that you have to repeat the process at least three times because you just can't stand to hold it there as long as it needs to be. They don't capture the heart-wringing agony of hearing your best friend hold back screams of pain, and knowing you're the one causing all that. And they certainly don't warn you about the smell. It's like someone is burning steak and hair clippings in the same pan. The last thing we need is for you to throw up right now, I remind myself viciously.

Finally, it was over. Clint and I are both panting, sweating, and white-faced. I drop the knife from my hand, which is numb and shaking cripplingly, and slide down the counter to sit on the floor, gasping and trying not to lose my dinner. Clint joins me on the floor a moment later.

"Well, that wasn't so bad, now was it?" His joking tone is forced, hiding the strain and shock that are setting in. I lean back and close my eyes-just for a minute-and the next thing I know I'm waking up with my head on Clint's shoulder, back aching and an imprint of the cupboard handle in the middle of my shoulder, and faint greyish sun seeping through the smog outside.

I stand up slowly and the movement jostles Clint awake. He struggles to stand and I give him a hand to help, then realize that my hands are still covered in soot and blood. It's gross, but Clint doesn't seem to care. He limps to his feet and we both take stock of the situation. Battered and bruised and probably not field-ready, check. Planning on calling for an extraction, no way in hell.

"Ready to give it another go, McBride?" Clint's smile is a little too wide, a little too forced, but it's there. I answer with one of my own.

"Yeah, let's go stop an art thief."

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Henley finds herself doing a lot of things she's never expected in this job! Next up is the story of how Henley got a nickname that she despises…