A/N: Hey, look, an update! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed last chapter, I'm sorry I didn't get to write individual replies. End of semester chaos. Will try to do better with this update! Enjoy. :)

That Radium Glow

Chapter 9

Nothing happened.

It had been twenty minutes according to my watch. A bead of cold sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, under my shirt. It stopped and pooled wetly when it hit the place the flesh of my back pressed into the hard wooden chair, making my skin prickle. My stomach twisted anxiously. I took the unlit cigarette from my lips and took a long swallow of water from my glass. My hand shook.

Belated discretion was starting to get the better of my valor. What was I thinking, taking one of Banner's pills? I was an idiot. I should have waited for McCoy. What if I was wrong? What if they really would make me crazy? The hell would I do then?

Twenty-one minutes. Nothing happened.

Rogers was going to kill me when he found out. Well, he wouldn't actually kill me. He would get me into all manner of hot water with Coulson, though. Death might actually be preferable. Forget Vice; Coulson would pack me to the typing pool for going so far off protocol.

I tired of my Bogey impression and reached up to light my cigarette. My hand shook, and the flame trembled. My stomach jolted with fear, but I took a long, deep breath and my fingers steadied. It was just nerves.

So far, anyway.

Ash fell onto my hand, making me jump. I'd forgotten about my cigarette. I stubbed it out in the ashtray at my elbow and checked my watch. Twenty-five minutes. A tight, tingling feeling was spreading through my stomach and up into my chest. I could feel my heart begin to pound against my ribs.

It was starting. What was starting? My hands started to shake again. What should I do? I didn't dare call Rogers, partner or not. I blinked and saw stars. I had to force air into my stiff lungs. That did it. I reached for the telephone, squeezing the Bakelite receiver until my knuckles went white. I asked the operator to connect me to the Black Widow.

"Clint Barton, you absolute moron!" Natasha Romanoff spat, sweeping into my apartment in a huff. "I was working!" The fine gray fox around her shoulders tickled my nose as she passed. She carelessly tossed the coat on the sofa, revealing a shimmering red dress. She dragged me close by my collar and peered into my eyes. After a moment, she released me and dropped into my armchair. "You look fine."

"Really?" I croaked lamely. My heart was still pounding against my ribs, but the anxious choke in my throat eased a little at her proclamation. I crossed to the table and threw her my lighter and a pack of cigarettes with still-trembling hands. She wrinkled her nose at the brand but she took one anyway and lit it.

"Didn't you learn anything while you worked Vice? Your eyes would be dilated, or vice versa, if you were drugged," Natasha explained between puffs. "How long has it been?"

"Oh," I said, suddenly feeling very stupid. "Uh, about an hour?"

"You're fine," she grumbled. "I cannot believe you, Barton. You said you were in trouble!"

"I am, sort of!" I admitted sheepishly. "We're stalled on Banner's case. They're supposed to be iodine pills."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, supposed to be?"

I picked up another one of Banner's pills from the table and dropped it into her hand, before collapsing onto the sofa. I hid the foot with the hole in the sock under my body. Natasha studied the pill with interest; rubbing it between her gloved fingers and sniffing it delicately.

"I thought they might have something to do with these, uh, psychotic episodes Banner's having," I said, wincing a little. It sounded so stupid now. How could I have been that stupid? "Causing them, actually."

Natasha dropped the pill like it had scalded her and rounded on me, eyes blazing. "So you took one just to see what would happen?" she demanded.

I cringed. "Yeah, that's…about right."

"Even though you suspected they might be drugged?"

"Yeah."

"What were you thinking?"

"I, uh, wasn't."

"Of course you weren't," Natasha huffed and folded her arms across her chest. I shot her another sheepishly apologetic look. She rolled her eyes and leaned back in the armchair. "Now that I'm here, I might as well stay a little while," she said carelessly, pulling off her soft leather gloves one finger at a time and setting them neatly atop her coat. "You going to offer me a drink?"

There was a trace of worry buried under her indignant façade. She'd read the plea in my eyes with her usual alacrity, but damned if she'd ever cop to it. I hid a relieved smile and got to my feet. "Got a half bottle of whiskey somewhere," I said over my shoulder while I padded into the kitchen. "Don't usually drink in the house." The floor felt cold through the hole in my sock. I dug through cupboards until I remembered I kept the whiskey behind the breadbox. Old habits died hard. I'd thought it was a good hiding place, a marriage and a lifetime ago.

There were clean tumblers collecting dust in one of the cabinets. I grabbed two and set them on the table. I poured a couple fingers of whiskey into each glass. I needed a drink badly after all this excitement, though I could feel muscles loosening and my stomach unclench as relief finally began to set in. I was wrong about the pills.

Natasha raised her eyebrows at me. "You know, Barton, if you wanted to get me alone, there are easier ways," she said as I handed her a glass. One of her fingers gently brushed the back of my hand. "You don't have to take strange pills and call me in a panic."

"Well, where's the fun in that?" I quipped with a grin. I took up my seat on the sofa again. Despite the evening's rocky start, it was good to finally breathe a little without Rogers looking over my shoulder. I could think of far worse ways to spend a night than drinking with Natasha Romanoff.

Natasha smirked at my remark, and I chuckled. We clinked glasses and drank. The whiskey burned down my throat, a little harshly after Stark's velveteen scotch, but still felt good and warm in my stomach. The second swallow went down easier than the first. Already my fingers were beginning to tingle pleasantly.

At this rate, we were going to need another bottle. I frowned and sniffed a little. Something was burning. It must not be in my flat, though, because I didn't see any smoke. I finished my whiskey in a long gulp and tried to will my shoulders to relax. Maybe I should run down to the car and get that bottle of bourbon.

The smoke took on the horrible smell of burnt flesh. I sat bolt upright. Natasha shot me a questioning look. "Do you smell that?" I demanded.

"They're close," Natasha said. I stared and her eyebrow crept still higher. "What? I don't smell anything."

I blinked. Oily black smoke was filling the room, but Natasha didn't seem to notice. I felt the tumbler slip out of my nerveless fingers. It hit the floor and shattered.

Foliage began to claw its way out of the loud floral pattern on her chair while I looked on in horror. Ragged green leaves, once lush and shiny tore upward from the upholstery. Woody stems shot through the arms and legs, twisting into branches. My breath caught in my chest. A single ragged hibiscus flower bloomed, clinging tenaciously to the place where Natasha's hand had been a moment ago.

The world tilted crazily and I hit something hard. The pain was far away. The floor. I'd fallen off the sofa. I could feel my heart begin to pound. No, that was absurd. A log. I'd fallen off a downed tree. There weren't any sofas for a couple thousand miles, Barton. Automatically my hands went to check my rifle and precious scope.

"'S a hell of a place, Frankie," someone said near my ear.

I started and saw Natasha crouched beside me on the floor. Rocks sprouted like absurd, twisted mushrooms from the loamy floor of my living room. Cordite and melting rubber joined the reek of burning flesh in the air.

Natasha's eyes were wide with fear and confusion. Her eyebrows furrowed with worry as she reached pleadingly towards me and said: "Nail him, little brother."

I put my eye to my scope. Bruce Banner's profile came into focus. I had a shot. "That's a rog," I replied.

Maybe there was once a time when I would have hesitated to put my finger on the trigger with a man in my sights, but if there was, it was difficult to remember. That had been someone else, long ago. I took two quick breaths followed by a long deep one. My hand steadied. Time slowed. My crosshairs settled on the head under the curly hair. I exhaled slowly.

My finger began to tighten on the trigger as the scream of a mortar sounded directly overhead, but I did not move. We'd been getting shelled for days. But Barney swore. My eye was jerked away from the scope as his body slammed into mine, forcing me down into the mud. My rifle bucked in my hands but the crack of the shot was lost in the demonic howl of the falling mortar. It was right on top of us. I yelled, struggling even as Barney's arms tightened protectively around me.

I knew what he was doing. I couldn't let him. But Barney had always been stronger than me. His hand inexorably ground my helmet into the muck. "NO!" I screamed, twisting desperately in his grasp.

The demonic whistle stopped. I could feel my brother's limbs trembling around me in the split second before the explosion. We screamed together as the world ripped apart in a blaze of fire and searing pain.

It was the ringing in my ears, not the agony that ravaged my gut and limbs, that woke me. I clawed my way back to consciousness through humid jungle darkness. The pain hit me full force and I tried to yell, but something heavy compressed my chest and it came out as a strangled gasp. Instinctively I reached for the worst of the pain, somewhere below my ribs. I could feel a jagged edge of metal sticking from my flesh. Whatever was lying on top of me was soft. Too soft.

"Barney?" I croaked. There was no reply.

I sagged back. Dimly I heard weapons firing from down the hill, and distant shouts. Something hot began to soak through my shirt. Palm fronds slithered and scraped between me and the sky. The shouts were growing nearer. I couldn't tell if they were English or Japanese.

"Barney?" I repeated. My voice was tinny and distorted under the ringing in my ears. Nothing.

My lung seared with the effort it took to speak. I coughed and nearly passed out when metal sliced into my innards. The hot liquid flowed freely along the edge of my dog tags, close to where the soft heavy weight pressed down near my heart. I shifted, annoyed. It was sticky and I hurt. I reached up with my non-pinned arm to try to shift the weight off of my chest. I needed to move. I needed to get up.

There was rough fabric beneath my fingers, though it had softened with age and wear. It felt warm and surprisingly limp as I pushed whatever it was away. Encouraged, I pushed harder, until I could get myself up on one elbow.

Barney's head lolled onto my leg, exposing sightless blue eyes in his bloodstained face. What little breath I could get caught in my throat and stayed there. Lifeless blue eyes. I started to shake. The hot substance sticking my shirt to my chest was blood draining from my brother's broken body.

The scream built low in my chest, down near the piece of shrapnel sticking between my ribs, and tore from my throat with all the force of the blast that had killed him.

Leaves scraped in the wind. It was the sound of wind rustling corn stalks; the sound of home. I opened my eyes in the blinding tropical sun and saw palm fronds slithering overhead. All around me were soft groans, the familiar creaks and groans of a forest in wind. But there was no forest. There wasn't even any shade. I was surrounded by canvas litters like mine, draped with wounded men, soaking in blood and sweat and despair.

My voice joined the chorus of thin voices moaning and pleading for morphine. I couldn't help it. The edges of my flesh rubbed together across my legs and torso, where I'd been pieced and sewed back together like a shredded rag doll. I called for Barney, too, even though I knew it wasn't like Guadalcanal; he wasn't going to find me with a Purple Heart pinned to his bandaged chest and a grin on his face.

Two shadows took up positions at either end of my gurney. My stomach lurched as I was lifted into the air. Urgent whispers mingled with the moans and groans and snap of foliage in wind. "Ms. Romanoff?" A pause. "Good Lord. What the hell is going on?"

A low, tense, voice with the trace of a Slavic accent. "I don't know," the other shadow replied. "He said he took some pill; something for your case. He was fine when I got here. I don't know what happened. He just…lost it."

I sagged to the side, sapped by sun and blood loss. Every step they took caused me a jolt of pain. I reached weakly for the gauze covering my chest but a firm, strong hand grabbed my wrist. I struggled feebly under the firm hands. "Let me go!" I cried. "Barney!"

More hands grabbed at me, and I instinctively, irrationally fought back. My wounds seared and I cried out. Something cold and sharp slid into my bare skin near the crook of my arm, and I slid with it into cool darkness.

It was dark when I woke, or at least it should have been. Cold water peppered my naked skin like sea spray from a lifetime ago and I shivered. My cheek twitched against something cold and wet and hard. I opened my eyes. I lay in a pool of harsh white light that made the ragged pavement glitter and glisten like a priceless jewel.

My clothes were gone, save for my ragged trousers. The coppery scent of blood hung in the air, clinging to the moisture like barnacles on a rotting pier. I blinked and saw my hands and my chest were covered in red. A slick red stain marred the concrete, not far from where my head had been. Horrified, I scrabbled backwards, fleeing somewhere, anywhere , but I slammed into a pair of trouser-covered legs. I looked up.

Captain America frowned down at me, an expression like thunder on his patriotic features and disappointment in his eyes. "Barton, what did you do?"

I looked up at him blankly. He indicated a blanket-covered lump in the center of the illuminated circle. My mouth went dry and my heart began to race. Natasha Romanoff stepped languidly forward to pull back the blanket.

My brother Barney's empty eyes started unseeingly up at me, at the sky, at nothing at all. His reddish hair was stiff with blood; his mangled body still dressed in the fatigues he'd died and was buried in. Blood was splashed all around us, everywhere, collected into a sticky pool, smeared by feet and limbs all around the pavement. I wanted to scream but the only sound that made it past my terror-stiffened lips was a choked whimper.

"Look what you did," a low voice said, and when I looked up, Bruce Banner's soft brown eyes stared down at me with quiet hate. "He was your brother, Agent Barton. How could you?"

"I didn't," I gasped. Rainwater dripped down my skin, flowing awfully down the white scars that crisscrossed my torso.

"How could you, Clint?" Natasha said, her husky voice cool and judgmental. "You killed him."

"I didn't!" I cried. I couldn't take my eyes from my brother's body. I wanted to do something, to cover him, to run away, but I was frozen in place. "I tried, I didn't want him to-"

"What does it matter?" a new voice said, a tired female voice. I swallowed hard. My wife, former wife, Bobbi Morse stepped forward slowly. She was dressed in the same blue and white dress she'd worn when she told me she was leaving, when she'd packed her little bag, when she walked out of my life for good, while I looked on through a numb haze of whiskey. She bent slightly to peer into my face and tipped my chin upward with a finger. "You always blamed yourself, Clint. You couldn't bear to blame anyone else, ever, for anything. You couldn't let anyone help, not even me. You believed you killed Barney, and now you have."

I flinched, shaking Bobbi's fingers away. She stepped back and put her hands on her hips, judging me in silence. "No," I choked.

Three accusing pairs of eyes stared down at me. I huddled into myself under their collective unblinking gaze, suddenly feeling more naked and exposed than I'd ever felt in my life. "We found him at the scene," Natasha said. She took a menacing step towards me.

"Covered with blood," Banner added, following her with his soft tread.

I tried to scuttle away from them, but Rogers already had me. He dragged me to my feet, pinioning my arms in an iron grip. Bobbi held a canvas jacket that had once been white, festooned with sturdy leather straps and metal buckles. My hands balled into desperate fists and I twisted in Rogers' grasp, struggling for all I was worth.

"Barton, Clint, please stop," Rogers said. "You'll hurt yourself!"

It was an odd thing to say but I didn't care. "Let me go!" I cried, swinging wildly at his face. Why wasn't Natasha helping me? Why was she helping him? I could feel her fingers digging into my shoulder. "I didn't- I couldn't have- No!"

Bobbi looked bored while I struggled with Rogers and Natasha. Banner looked away, as if sickened by the sudden violence. I yelled, but it was no use. Something heavy collided with my jaw and I fell into darkness.

My nose tickled and I twitched. I tried to scratch it, but my hand wouldn't move. I groaned and dragged my eyes open to see nothing but white blankness. I blinked several times. The dull plaster of my ceiling, illuminated by the sickly gray light of predawn. I winced.

"What…happened?" a distant voice, very far away, groaned. It took me a full thirty seconds to realize that the voice was my voice.

"Clint?" Natasha Romanoff asked, also from very far away.

"Who else…would it be?" I retorted sourly. I was gradually becoming aware of my body and I wished I wasn't. My head throbbed mercilessly, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. The same cotton that had been substituted for my brains. Natasha's bright red hair, followed by her tired face, swam into focus above me. "Tash?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Go back to sleep, Barton," she said. A cool, damp cloth wiped across my aching forehead and I sighed with relief. "You sound drunk."

Was I drunk? I didn't remember being drunk. I didn't remember much of anything. I tugged feebly on my hand, but it still refused to move. I squinted at it, trying to will my eyes to focus. It felt a hell of a lot like there were handcuffs around my wrists. No, not handcuffs. Rope. She'd tied me down. "The hell is this?" I demanded weakly.

Natasha swatted my twisting hand. "A precaution. Go back to sleep. I'm going home to take a nap myself, as soon as Rogers gets back."

"What? You called Rogers?" I cried. I couldn't remember why this betrayal cut me to the quick, but it did. I tried to sit up but I didn't get more than a couple inches before the ropes stopped me and I fell back with a huff of frustration. My head swam and I winced.

"He's your partner, Barton," Natasha snapped. "Start acting like it!"

Stung by her words, I shut my eyes and turned my face towards the window. Despite my irritation, I fell asleep almost instantly. This time, thank God, I did not dream.

I didn't wake again until the sun was fully risen and weakly shone through my bedside window. The smell of coffee permeated my flat. I sniffed greedily and opened my eyes. My vision was clearer, though my mouth still felt like it'd been stuffed with old socks. I tugged my right hand experimentally. It didn't move. I craned my neck to the side, but my bedside table was gone. Not that I could have reached my water glass anyway.

"Anyone there?" I rasped. My voice sounded hoarse and far weaker than I would have liked.

A chill raced down my spine when Steve Rogers instantly appeared in my bedroom doorway. I had a sudden, half-remembered vision of iron fingers and a look of righteous distaste, but I blinked and saw he was just looking down at me with curiosity and a little wary concern. Captain America was in his shirtsleeves and he clutched a cup of coffee in one hand.

"Barton?" he asked hesitantly.

A draft from the window swept over my bare skin, and I suddenly realized I'd been stripped to my shorts. There was no way he hadn't seen my scars. My stomach twisted. I licked dry lips with a drier tongue and scraped together all the nonchalance I could, so Rogers wouldn't see my insecurity. I raised my eyebrows at him. "You going to untie me or what?"

Rogers grinned. "Good to have you back," he said, obviously relieved.

I grunted by way of reply as Rogers fumbled with the ropes binding me to the bed. My bed; not jungle loam or South Loop pavement. My bedroom still felt slightly surreal. I hauled myself laboriously upright and swung my legs over the edge of the mattress. The movement was enough to make my head spin and my limbs trembled like I'd had a bad bout with the influenza. I ducked to press my elbows to my knees and ran my hands through my greasy hair while I tried to breathe. Two raw, red rings burned on my wrists, where the ropes had bit into my skin. I touched one of them experimentally and winced.

"We didn't know what else to do," Rogers said hastily, when he noticed me looking at my chafed skin.

I looked up, and he was holding out a glass of water. I hadn't noticed him leave the room, just like I hadn't noticed the hell of a shiner blacking his left eye. I had a pretty good idea of who had given it to him. "Sorry," I muttered, embarrassed. I accepted the glass and sipped it greedily.

He shrugged. "You weren't exactly yourself."

I choked on my water and set the cup on the floor while I coughed. His eyes, crinkled with concern, lingered on me a little longer than I would have liked. I could tell he wanted to ask, but he didn't.

I ran my hand through my hair again, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. Fragments of memory were slowly coming back, though it was a little difficult to tell what had been real and what had not. I suddenly remembered Natasha had been with me earlier. I was almost afraid to ask. "Is Natasha all right?"

Someone had dragged one of the hard wooden chairs from the dining set into my bedroom. Rogers turned it around and straddled it cowboy-style. "She's fine," he told me in a quiet, surprisingly nonjudgmental voice. "A little shaken up, I'd say. To be honest, I think you scared her."

Natasha Romanoff, survivor of the Battle of Stalingrad and Hero of the Soviet Union, did not scare easily. I shuddered and looked at the floor, feeling my cheeks warm with embarrassment again. Rogers didn't have any holes in his socks. "That bad, huh?" I muttered.

"You'd, uh, busted up a couple of things by the time I got here," he told me, wincing a little. "But it was mostly just…yelling. Yelling and screaming. You seemed more scared than anything else. Not as violent as Banner."

"Christ," I swore under my breath. I rubbed my face and felt stubble prickle my palm. I had a pretty good idea what I was screaming about, too.

"The first night was pretty rough," Rogers continued. I could feel his eyes boring into me. "You were delirious, feverish. Natasha wanted to take you to the hospital, but-"

"Wait, first night?" I interrupted, looking up. "How long was I out?"

"About 36 hours," Rogers told me and I blinked incredulously. "It's Monday afternoon."

"Christ," I breathed. I pressed my hands to either side of my aching head with a wince, trying to make sense of this new information with my drug-scrambled brains. Banner's story was starting to fall into place. "Does Coulson know?"

"Of course not!" Rogers exclaimed. I looked up, stunned by this admission, and he grinned. "Barton, do you have any idea how many regulations we just broke? You think I'd hang my partner out to dry?"

I felt my cheeks color a little, but I managed a sheepish chuckle. Apparently I had badly misjudged Steve Rogers. He only looked uptight, at least most of the time.

"Look, you took a stupid risk," Rogers explained earnestly. "But you also just blew open this case. There's no doubt; Banner was drugged."

"I'd wager Hank Pym, too," I added. I winced as an acid churn rumbled through my empty stomach. I leaned on my elbows again, fighting back a sudden wave of nausea.

"You all right?" Rogers asked, concerned.

I breathed deeply and pressed the back of my hand to my mouth. Every muscle ached and I wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep for a year, but there was a case to solve. "Yeah," I replied tersely. "Nothing a shower and a cup of joe won't fix."

Rogers eyed me suspiciously, and partner or not, I gave him my steely glare. He took the hint and got to his feet. "I'll leave you to it, then."

I levered myself off the bed, swearing as my head spun. I shot a warning look at Rogers and he didn't help me. Instead he hung in my doorway, hesitating. He looked like he wanted to ask me something, but he wasn't quite sure how to go about doing it.

I didn't have the patience to wait for him to decide. I just wanted a shower and a sandwich and a hell of a lot of coffee. "Just spit it out, Rogers," I said with a sigh. "What?"

He swallowed. "Who's Barney?"