Avengers 1. Regrets Collect like Old Friends

Disclaimer: The Avengers characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story.

Reviews are always welcome and appreciated

**author's note**

I had the next few stories I'll be posting planned out before Agents of SHIELD aired and the first drafts complete before Captain America 2. It's going to be a few stories before the events from the movie factor into my writing. I did go back through the next few stories and try to add form continuity for the movie. Most of these things doesn't impact this story anyways, because it occurs long before the Avengers movie, and just after Barton joins SHILED. A good story to read before this would be _Pound of Flesh_ but it shouldn't be necessary.

* * *

**Uneasy Lies the Head that Wears the Crown**

Chapter 1 **Regrets collect like old friends**

The whispers seemed to pause as the people parted, hugging the walls of SHIELD headquarters to give the agent room to move down the hall. The fresh stitches neatly sewn above his right eye, that still oozed slightly would give the office mice something new to talk about come morning and for days to come. Had it been anyone else, the effect of getting people to clear your path and fear you without cause, would have gone to gone to their head, but Coulson still made it a point to smile politely at the other agents and employees that tactfully avoid eye contact. The newest Director of SHIELD had quite a reputation, the designation of being Fury's right hand man meaning that Fury's reputation and awe had in turn passed onto Coulson. Not that the famous Agent Coulson hadn't earned that respect in his own right.

Phil paused for a moment before rounding the corner to Fury's office. Catching his reflection in one of the glass panes he straightened his tie and jacket, still slightly askew from medical. He gave Miranda a warm smile as the secretary buzzed him in to the office.

"You can go right in, the Director has been waiting for you," she offered in a pleasant tone, not betraying whether her boss was in a good mood, bad mood or Fury mode.

"Thank you," replied Phil, boldly stepping into the intimidating office. The metal and glass décor as cold as its resident.

Fury looked up from his desk, the large backed chair and dark wood desk suiting his ability to intimidate without words. Phil stood at attention, letting Fury scrutinize every inch with his stone cold eye. "You missed the briefing," stated the Director, his voice even and impassive.

"Yes sir, sorry sir, won't happen again," answered Coulson, all manners of professionalism pouring out of every pore.

"See that it doesn't." The subtle hand gesture for Phil to take a seat was the only sign of relief from Fury that his friend had returned mostly unscathed. "How was Rome?"

"Warm this time of year."

"Not what I was asking," countered Fury. He leaned forward, his fingers steepled under his chin. Stall tactics didn't work for the junior agents, they certainly weren't going to work for a senior agent.

"The informant delivered the goods. The information has been verified and looks to prove useful." It was left unsaid that Phil still disagreed with the number of lives it took to bring the information to the light of day, but Fury had been right, it would prove necessary for many agents and future missions.

"I'm still waiting for the but, Coulson."

Phil was never sure if it was the weight of the information, of knowing the consequences and implications of it that made divulging things to Fury so stressful. Perhaps it was the lack of emotion from the man before him, the unwavering intimidation that made the situation feel more like an interrogation than a conversation. Swallowing, he added, "The Russians are sending in the Black Widow."

The famous Black Widow, feared by good guys and bad guy alike; with an impressive number of confirmed missions and suspected missions under her belt, the assassin was feared by any self-respecting person in the business. Anyone familiar with her work had to admire it; it was thorough and always seemed to be pulled off seamlessly. She even had an impressive amount of success against SHIELD, which in and of itself should be admired if not for the number of lives this one variable had taken from the agency.

The slight twitch of Fury's eyebrow was a tell-tale sign of his peeked interest. It was almost like a personal challenge against him, to see if he could still bring the mission to a close now that the Widow had entered the game. "That does complicate things."

"It does."

"See that you put someone on that. The Black Widow has my attention, I want her removed before she has my undivided attention," the Director ordered, raising an eyebrow as he tilted his head for emphasis.

Phil nodded, running through his mental list of possible candidates he could put on the case. The loud thud of a very large report hitting Fury's desk pulled his attention back to more pressing matters. Coulson picked up the notes from the morning's briefing, casually flipping through the pages to get a general sense of what he missed. Clearly his night was going to be devoted to going through the large document in more detail.

Fury leaned back, his leather coat creaking as he made himself comfortable. He watched his friend read, waiting for the tell tale look that he found the item they needed to discuss. Sure enough, the agent's face scrunched up at the appropriate places.

Phil raised his head to stare at Fury, not bothering to hide his confusion on the matter. "This can't be right sir." He had seen a lot of things in his day, some very unbelievable things, but something about this just didn't feel right. _Feeling_ was all he really had on this subject.

"Intelligence feels they have enough evidence to put him on the list. This mole is good, but they have narrowed it down to five people." The problem had been kept quiet, but Fury's disposition had obviously been one of fury since the notion that one of his own was double crossing his organization.

Coulson stared at the second name on the list, the bold type emphasizing his disbelief. "I don't think Barton would bite the hand that feeds, Nick."

In truth, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the archer could be selling out SHIELD. He hadn't exactly come aboard willingly and the five months locked down in medical followed by seven months of self imposed isolation hadn't endeared the young man to his coworkers. In fact most people avoid the archer whenever possible, giving him lots of opportunities to access classified information.

Coulson had given him an opportunity to right his wrongs, to make a difference instead of dying at the end of the dark path he had been on. It was a decision born out of a gut feeling that there was something more under the cold brash exterior but Phil didn't know him, not really. He might have been so blinded by the shred of humanity he thought he saw, that it all could have been part of Barton's plan to infiltrate, and dismantle from the inside.

"That's what I've been talking about. What is it with this kid that keeps you from looking at him like an agent assessing an asset?" questioned Fury. The use of his first name had been a dead giveaway that Phil was pleading as a friend and not an agent, that this had become personal and not professional.

"I just… I don't see Barton betraying us. Giving him a chance, that's something he wouldn't throw away lightly."

It was a hard position to defend. Fury trusted Coulson, the man was rarely wrong, but he couldn't very well eliminate a suspect based on intuition. Barton fit the profile, he was distant from everyone, he and authority certainly didn't get along; it wasn't as if the kid had ties to anything or anyone to keep him connected to SHIELD. More importantly, he was trouble.

Reaching into the top drawer of his desk, the Director pulled out a medium manila folder. "I have here in my hand thirty-two complaints against trainee Barton," he informed before slamming that file on his desk. Being the constant center of negative attention would be a good deflection for other activities and certainly didn't help Barton's cause when it came to eliminating him as the mole.

"Only thirty-two," sighed Phil. The agent was good but when it came to following orders, the archer's interpretation of them seemed to be called into question more often than not. Coulson had to give the kid some latitude, he'd managed to pull some of the most difficult senior agents as supervisors. Phil was slightly relieved that Fury hadn't been advised of Barton's difficulties until now.

"What, is he having a slow week?" Fury snapped, Phil's sudden avoidance of eye contact proof the man had been censoring the information he was sharing with his superior and long time friend. "It is only Wednesday so I guess we'll give him that, but it's thirty-two pains in my ass Coulson. I don't run a babysitting service, so congratulations, you just inherited a problem. I'm putting you in charge of him when we get to base, assuming Agent Horn hasn't strangled him beforehand. You will watch him, assess him and if he is on our side you will whip him into shape, do I make myself clear?"

Phil held his ground under the intense glare. "Perfectly sir."

"I'm going to be keeping my eye on him Coulson and if I see anything I don't like, I will not hesitate to use the bullet you were supposed to put in him." The warning was clear, there would be no mercy based on sentimentality. Cold hard facts would decide the young man's fate, betrayal would be tolerated by none. "I need to know that my agent can make the call himself."

If it turned out to be true, Phil knew he could do it, defend the organization and everything he believed in from those that would sell them out, but he knew he'd require more evidence than Fury. "If it turns out that Barton isn't friendly, I will not hesitate sir."

"See that you don't," added the Director sternly. "Go relax somewhere, you've earned it. Wheels up at 0400 tomorrow." Fury waved his hand dismissively.

Phil left, the briefing heavy in his hands as he made his way to his office. There was no way he was going to relax until he analyzed and scrutinized every bit of evidence that was condemning Barton. He had made the call to give the archer a chance, to bring him in, if he was wrong, then Coulson was going to be the one to find out and deal with it.


	2. Here to Relive your Darkest Moments

**Chapter 2 Here to Relive your Darkest Moments**

It was the same monotony day in and day out. Being the only one in the unit that had to ping-pong between the night shift and the afternoon shift, Barton felt the desolate cold of the two am desert one night, while feeling the deadly heat of the late afternoon sun the next day. It was a hard transition, one that left him exhausted, but he would not fail this test. Coulson had told him he had to work for his second chance, and while the unrelenting and mistrusting scrutiny of his commanding officers over the last few months promised the fatal banishment that was inevitably lurking on the horizon, Clint knew he owed the Agent for his brief lapse in judgment at showing the archer compassion.

Clint knew he could follow orders, lord knows he'd followed his share of shitty ones from mob bosses and thugs in the past. Thing was, now the lives of others, people who were supposed to be his comrades, were on the line. That made it harder than ever to fall in step with the other sheep and exhibit the level of stupidity his CO's seemed to want from him, because the last thing he wanted was for the wrong people to get hurt. If he wanted to get things done at any cost, he would have been far richer as a mercenary, instead of a poor grunt working for an agency claiming moral values over monetary.

It was a double standard that confused the young man. He knew that any serious thinking was above his head. There were no fancy, framed, high priced pieces of paper on any of his walls explaining to the world how intelligent he was; so maybe that's why he couldn't reconcile the concept of an agency that valued its people only to turn around and give faulty orders that could get them killed when other less textbook options were available. This shortcoming in Barton's logic had pushed him through eight commanding officers in less than a year, landing him with this plum assignment, a painfully tense meeting with the Director of SHIELD himself and apparently just enough rope to hang himself with now.

It wasn't the intimidation of Fury that forced Barton to fall in line. Clint had never needed anyone before, but after Coulson's offer and being brought into SHIELD, the young archer realized it hadn't been because he was independent and world savvy, it was because he had never had anyone before. Being on his own seemed cold and lonely after the bright light of opportunity and compassion had been shone into his dark and desolate world. He was aware he didn't have any friends there; most people looked at him with suspicion and mistrust while whispering all Barton's past atrocities to one another, but there were a few people, that if a mission went south they would have his back. Clint didn't believe for one second they would launch a rescue mission or go horribly out of their way to save his ass, but if they were there and it was possible, they would save him and that was a far cry from anything he had before. No matter what his CO dished out, mud he had to crawl through or shit he had to take, he was going to hold on to what he had with both hands.

It was still hard to be alone in a sea of people with their shiny morals and untainted souls. Clint often found himself checking out mentally as he automatically shoved the slop that passed for edible food into his mouth. It was like all those high school dramas that played out on the TV he had been left watching from his hospital bed while he recovered from Coulson's impressive aim. Different groups all sat at various tables, never intermingling with one another and certainly never making the mistake of sitting at the archer's table which sat alone in the back corner of the mess tent like he always did during his meal time.

Clint rolled his shoulder as he made his way through the mess tent. All night in the same position left him feeling cramped and the three hours of hauling sand bags to reinforce one of the outer walls, thanks to Horn 'volunteering' him, didn't help either. All he wanted was something cold to drink and breakfast before he flopped onto his cot. He let out a sigh as his sharp eyes caught one of the men on the food line kick the cooler full of cold water back towards the kitchen crew, allowing them to push the warm bottles to the front. It was another reminder that Barton was the odd man out in the unit, with a team of people who were overly loyal to Horn and thus shared his strong dislike for Clint. He took the warm bottle of water that was handed to him with an evil smile from the line cook without a word and moved towards his table.

Choking back the disgustingly warm water, Clint lost himself on the lull of whispers that followed him wherever he went.

* * *

_Light flooded the back compartment of the plane as the cargo hatch slowly cracked open, the door shuttering and creaking in protest of further operation in its old age. Clint blinked a couple of times, his eyes adjusting to the sudden bright light in the once darkened hold. His fingers wrapped around the strap of his bag as he sucked in his first breath of dry, hot desert air._

_The rest of the agents filing towards the exit seemed to possess a little more enthusiasm for their arrival than Barton could even hope to fake. Major Horn shot him a glare from the edge of the plane where he was assigning bunks to the newly arrived men as they stepped out into the unforgiving heat. Clint rolled his eyes in response and sauntered over to the end of the line._

_It was basically a glorified security detail; sit, watch, keep an eye out for trouble on a base that hadn't seen any considering its location on the border of hostile territory. That part wasn't so much the problem, it came part and parcel with the sniper end of his job, but this time it didn't promise a target. To add to the potential unending boredom, was Horn who seemed to take great pleasure in riding Barton every second. Horn had been his latest incarnation of punishment personally handed down from Fury himself after the latest mishap with authority. _

_If not for the knowledge that this was his last chance, Clint would have responded to the man they way he had everyone else that thought they could control him, make him their puppet. Being a ghost had its advantages, one being able to overhear conversations without being noticed or given a second thought. It was the result of his nightly skulking through the empty halls of SHIELD that Barton had overheard his former supervising officer discussing his forthcoming termination should he fail his next review._

_Joining SHIELD was supposed to be a second chance, a chance to make things right, to do good and like everything else he was messing it up. Now his fate was in the hands of a self involved, self important dick, who lived to see him miserable._

_Clint let out a small huff as he waited for Horn to flip through all his papers. They both knew the man knew Barton's assignment__, __but if he could make the archer wait, then Clint was going to stand there with his gear running on three hours sleep until Horn read all seven pages._

_"Let's see here, Barton… ah you're bunking in tent nine and you're lucky enough to pull the 2200 hour watch." An evil smile swept of the larger man's face. "Go stow your stuff and meet me at the command tent in fifteen minutes. We still have to go over disciplinary measures for your last transgression." Horn pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, sending the archer on his way._

_Clint mumbled his unhappiness, not loud enough for Horn to hear, just moved his lips to release some of his stress rather than putting a fist in the man's face. He glanced at his watch, six hours before his watch started. There was no way he was getting any sleep now. It was the precursor for the hell Barton was resigned too._

* * *

"If you keep making that face it will stay that way."

Clint blinked the world back into focus and looked up from his plate to see a Captain standing at the end of his table. Resisting the urge to look around for who the Captain could possibly be speaking to, he sucked in his bottom lip and gripped his fork a little tighter. That awkward feeling was coiling its way through Barton as it became apparent the other man was waiting for a response from him.

"Huh?"

"If you keep making that face it will stay that way," warned the Captain again, looking earnest in his concern.

"What the fuck is it to you… sir?" spat Barton, muscles tensing for whatever the punch line to this sudden attention was going to be. People didn't just strike up conversation with the new guy who was rumoured to be not only a cold blooded killer, but the murderer of an entire SHIELD agent's family. His reputation might have been based on half truths, but something as trivial as correcting that it was only the agent's daughter, wouldn't change the sentiment behind the mistrust directed at the archer.

"I assure you, my motives are self-serving," the soldier offered before taking the seat opposite the glowering man. "Rylan Brody," he offered with an outstretched hand that quickly dropped to his side when it became clear Clint wasn't going to accept it. He quickly pulled out the crisp cool bottle of water he had in his pocket and slide it across the table towards his companion with an encouraging nod to take it.

Clint made no move to take the water, no matter how nice it would have been against his dry parched throat. Gifts always came with strings attached and he was in no position to get into anything, especially over a bottle of water.

Undeterred from the open hostility radiating from across the table, Brody prattled on as if speaking with an old high school buddy. "I need your help in settling a wager."

Putting down his sludge covered fork, Barton crossed his arm over his chest. "Is this an order sir?"

"I've heard you're the unruly shit with incredible aim."

Clint snorted, unable to dispute either claim. "Is that _all_ they're saying?"

With a shrug the young man conceded, "It's not the _only_ thing. Anyways, Baxter's team and mine have had a healthy bet going for the last few month in regards to a small shooting competition and to be perfectly honest, I'm getting tired of buying those bastards' beers."

"Maybe you shouldn't make bets you aren't prepared to pay."

"True, but that only holds true if the other team isn't cheating and since they've hired a ringer, I thought it in my best interest to do the same. There's a standing offer of five hundred dollars to anyone that can outshoot Robinson and I'll split the profits with you," explained Brody eagerly.

"Or, I could challenge Robinson on my own and keep all the money for myself," countered Barton with a reserved bite in his voice.

Brody smiled and got to his feet. "First lesson in spy work, always pay your informant."

"I'm not a spy, I'm a soldier." Clint pulled on the collar of his uniform for emphasis.

"No, you're a problem that's been dumped on Horn because the powers that be have as much faith in you as an asset as they do in Horn as a leader, but someone high up wants to keep you around. So here's your chance to shut all the gossipers up and prove you're at least dangerous enough to earn their respect if you can't do it through loyalty. More importantly, welcome to SHIELD, where you'll be whatever they need you to be and it's best you learn how to wear all those hats. It's up to you," added Brody with and edge of authority before slipping a piece of paper with a time and location on it towards Barton before leaving.

Clint glanced at the paper briefly before crumpling it and stuffing it in his pocket. Suddenly finding himself with no appetite, he got up and deposited his tray in the collection pile and headed back to his bunk.

.


	3. And All of the Ghouls Come out to Play

**Chapter 3: And All of the Ghouls Come out to Play**

It was the same every time; the sureness of his hands, the arrow that never wavered from its target. The world's greatest marksman never missed, no matter how much he wanted to. It was like someone else had control of his body and he was just a helpless passenger forced to bend to the atrocities he was charged with. She should have been just another nameless, faceless victim, except that she wasn't. She was Kelly Pierce, murdered daughter of Phil Coulson's deceased partner, Agent Pierce.

Barton's ability to rub everyone the wrong way always had unintended effects. A brush with his usual demeanour usually led to his fellow recruits in his training group digging into the depths of SHIELD's sealed mission files. It ended with them incorrectly assuming that Clint was the mysterious gunman that had taken Agent Pierce out, a fact of the rumor he never bothered correcting. Having killed as many people as he had, most whom would never be attributed to him, taking the blame for one he hadn't didn't seem like that big of a deal. Besides it wasn't like declaring his innocence of half the crime was going to win him any friends. It did however, give extra fuel to his nightmares.

It started with Kelly going about her business until the first arrow pierced her shoulder, pinning her against the wall. Pierce would burst into the room trying desperately to free his daughter before Clint could take another shot. The archer had never tortured anyone before; his shots were clean. He had become a murderer out of desperation, but there was no need to be cruel about it. Perhaps his subconscious was trying to show him who he really was by taking sick pleasure in drawing out the pair's deaths night after night.

Twenty-three arrows between the two of them, all carefully placed to draw it out. Clint mindlessly drew the last arrow back and released. It wasn't Kelly or her father it embedded into though, they had both morphed into Aiden, the boy that lived across the hall in the rundown dilapidated apartment Clint had called home briefly. That was the name that died on Clint's lips as he bolted up in bed, sheets clinging to his sweat drenched body as his chest heaved in vain effort to pull in enough air.

"What the fuck," he gasped, dropping his feet to the floor and burying his head in his hands. His breath came out in hard pants as he tried to dissolve the nightmare from his consciousness. The tent was empty, which he was grateful for because no one could witness his small breakdown, but the space stood as a reminder to how he felt. He could handle this, he'd handled everything else in his life and he wasn't going to let the fruits of his actions be the thing that crippled him.

He glanced at his watch; too early to be up but no way he was going to be able to sleep anymore. His rifle resting against the trunk at the foot of his cot caught his eye. His hand itched for his bow but letting off a few rounds with the rifle would soothe his nerves just as well. The note Brody had given him was burning against his thigh, forcing him to retrieve it from his pocket. Clint's exile was self-imposed, but reinforced by the other agents and soldier around him. This was the first act of kindness directed to him since arriving at base Nessus.

Part of Barton wanted to go, revel in what he was good at. For a moment, he would fit into the camaraderie around the base, instead of the outsider looking in. With his next breath he cursed himself for being weak enough to need interaction with Brody, to want someone to be impressed or at least not look at him like the child killing monster he was. Clint wanted to know what it was like to not look at himself with hate, even if it had to be through someone else's eyes. He carefully weighed his options, hoping to not make the wrong decision.

* * *

The all too familiar and somehow reassuring thunderous echo of bullets speeding towards their intended targets greeted Barton long before he laid eyes on the group. Brody and company were nestled amongst an impressive and elaborate course, which had been set up not only to relieve boredom, but maintain sharpness in the wake of an enemy that had thus far refrained from engaging the foreigners in their land. He stood there for a moment, there was still time to recognize this as the bad idea it was and retreat to his bunk before anyone noticed he'd shown. All eyes were fixated on the current shooter, Clint could do it, he could slip back into the shadows where he lived his life and not fall victim to the trapping of some need to belong. Really, hadn't he learned his lesson about that in the circus?

"Barton, thank god," called Brody catching a glimpse of the archer out of the corner of his eye. He approached with a grateful smile, giving Clint no chance of retreat. "I thought I was going to be paying theses assholes again."

"Yeah, well…" Clint trailed off, scuffing his boot in the sand as he inventoried exactly who was involved in this friendly wager. Though he didn't know any of them personally, lord knew they hadn't gone out of their way to include him either, none of the faces were unfamiliar.

A whooping holler rose up as the last bullet found a home in its target, giving the illustrious Zulu team a firm grasp on victory. Brody wasn't part of a strike team, Barton wasn't really sure if the Captain was attached to any particular contingent within SHIELD, but he had accumulated a small group of social outcasts to be a part of his crew as it were for this particular recreational activity.

"Alright Barton, you're up," Brody informed, clapping his hand down on the archer' shoulder and steered him towards the shooting line.

Clint tuned out the chatter of his new found supporters and disbelievers as he set up his rifle and laid down on the line. He wanted to ask where the challenge was, but opted to keep his mouth shut; demonstrations would do all the bragging for him. He adjusted his scope and curled his finger around the trigger, a small smirk on his face as someone suggested they make things more interesting and raise the bet.

In quick succession he put four shots dead center bringing silence to those watching.

"Where the hell did you find him?" asked the previous shooter, impressed with the results.

Another soldier stepped forward. "Bet he can't do that again. Hell, double or nothing he can't hit the logo on them sandbags over there."

"The ones way over there?" asked Brody, pointing towards the new target, considerably further and off course from the previous. He glanced at briefly at Clint who offered a _whatever_ shrug "Sure, why not?"

The shots continued in their perfections as the difficulty increased. The last one filled Clint with a particular amount of pride from both its difficulty and his ingenuity at pulling it off. His success was short lived as someone grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet.

"I don't know how you did it, but you cheated. No one can make a shot like that," snarled Figgens, second in command of Zulu group and personally on the line for six hundred dollars after the afternoons proceedings. His beady little eyes bore into Barton's as his hot breath crawled up the archer's skin.

"I don't need to cheat. I never miss," Barton countered, shoving the other man hard.

Brody paused in his collection of money from the other men. "Don't be a sore loser. We have you guys beat this time."

Figgens glared at Brody before shoving Clint back. "It ain't your money if he cheated."

Clint took a step back with the force of the shove. A wicked grin spread across his face as he let his fist fly. He could handle a little abuse and maybe the idea that someone didn't think he could make his shots, but not both. The two traded blows, aiming to inflict as much damage as possible, while others jumped in to help each man accomplish their task.

The fight continued, growing in number despite Brody's ineffectual shouts to break it up until a harsh ear-splitting whistle echoed through the air. Everyone stopped hastily standing and straightening their uniforms for the quickly approaching superior officer. With the help of one of his friends, Figgens got in one good kick to Clint's ribs before getting to his feet.

Barton's arm curled around his aching side as he worked to suck in a deep breath that wasn't filled with sand. Still on his hands and knees, he lifted his head only to get an up close and personal view of someone's dress pants.

"Barton," barked Horn, "I see you're causing trouble again." Turning to glare at the men standing at attention around them he added, "You're all on notice, now get out of here."

The assemble troops quickly vanished except for Rylan who looked unimpressed with the whole to-do. "This isn't Barton's fault Horn," he protested, crossing his arms over his chest.

Horn rounded on the Captain, ignoring Clint as he climbed to his feet. "I'm not in the mood for your crap Brody. How I deal with my men in none of your concern." The rest of his rant was put on hold as a black chopper flew over head towards the base landing zone. Snapping his fingers, he pointed at the archer and like trained dogs, the MP's he brought moved to flank the smaller man. "Take him to the brig until I have time to deal with him. Looks like we have company."

The first MP put his meaty hand on the archer's arm but Clint yanked it away, not giving them the satisfaction of dragging him anywhere.

* * *

Clint wiped the sweat off his brow, not that it would last long under the harsh rays of the afternoon sun. As far as punishments went, this wasn't the worst. A couple of weeks pulling double watches meant he would be exhausted more often than not but at least it wasn't his termination yet. He could take anything Horn could dish out, just to spite the man.

The heat must have fried his brain more than he would have cared to admit because much to Clint's surprise someone was holding out a can of beer for him without catching his attention before they were upon him.

"Here," offered Brody, stretching his arm further so the can was closer to Barton.

Clint eyed it sceptically but made no move to take it.

Brody rolled his eyes with a shrug. "I feel that I'm responsible for your current predicament and I want to make it up to you."

The archer couldn't ignore the way his gut screamed that it was a set up. It all seemed too nice, too friendly. There was no benefit for Brody to trudge all the way out to the lookout post to offer Barton a beer, especially after Clint had already fulfilled his requirement of winning Brody the money from the bet. "Beer sir? That seems like a sure fire way to earn my last strike."

Brody sat down next to Clint before pulling a second beer out and cracking it. He took a sip savouring the coolness and the taste. "I'm drinking too, so you have something on me, I have something on you, we can be friends now. Besides, I'm giving it to you and I out rank you so consider it an order."

It wasn't uttered as a threat but Clint still couldn't shake that uneasy feeling. Something never came from nothing. He took the can, turning it over in his hand. The condensation ran over his fingers, promising cool relief from the scorching heat but still he couldn't make his fingers crack the tab.

"Are you going to get drunk off of one beer?" asked Brody, cocking his head to the side to assess the fortitude of the man beside him.

"No," scoffed Clint. He might be small, but he was no lightweight. A bright smile appeared on Brody's face as the decisive snap of the can popping open cut the tension.

"Oh, I almost forgot," enthused Brody, fumbling with his pockets. A hefty wad of crumpled bills were passed into Clint's hand. "Your cut from this morning, it's almost eight hundred dollars there. Good work."

The archer hesitantly pocketed the money, rather astonished that Brody had even bothered to give him anything, let alone the entirety of his cut. The Captain just smiled and took a sip of his beer. Clint went rigidly still, his finely honed instincts taking over as something caught his eye. He turned his razor sharp vision towards the horizon hoping to catch a second glimpse. His breath came out in slow even measure, while his muscles coiled for possible action. Beside him Brody had quieted, cocking his as eyebrow in question, but making no move to pull Barton's attention.

Clint bit his lip in anticipation. Something was out there, he was rarely wrong. Another brief flash of something moving in the desert pulled his attention a little further right. It was far enough away to only register as a small blob lacking detail but moving slowly enough to be something on foot or hoof at best. He lifted his rifle and peered through the scope, watching for his pray to surface over the many ridges that obscured his view.

His eyes narrowed as it finally climbed over the crest of the next dune, a person running away from the base. Clint tracked the movement, moving his scope further along the target's projected path, trying to pinpoint a destination.

"Enemy, two o'clock," Clint muttered, eyeing a caravan of armored vehicles and contingent of men a couple of miles outside the base perimeter. "We got a runner heading for hostile forces."

"Can you take the shot?" inquired Brody.

"Yeah. But if I drop him and those guys are watching for him, they're going to be able to grab that bag he's clutching before we can get anyone out there."

Brody scrunched his brow weighing their options. "How are you close combat skills?"

"I can hold my own sir."

"Can we reach him in time?"

Clint glanced through his scope once more. "Yep."

"You go right, I'll come at his rear," instructed the Captain. "Take him quietly and quickly with any force necessary. We don't want to have to engage the other hostiles."

Barton gave a curt nod and began to climb down from the lookout tower. He could feel the sweat roll off of him as he pushed himself to move faster. The heat stole his breath as the sand terrain stole his surefootedness, but still he pressed on. The twists and turns of the ridges and sand dunes would give him the element of surprise, keeping his pursuit hidden until he was on top of his target.

His burning, aching, muscles brought him to the top of the sand dune just above the crevasse the infiltrator was running through. With all the force of a jungle cat, Barton leapt, crashing down on the man below bringing them both into a heap of tangled limbs and sand.

The hot grit stung Clint's eyes and coated his mouth while burning any spot of exposed skin. The enemy wiggled and squirmed beneath him trying to buck the archer off. A wayward elbow brushed Barton's ear and he grabbed the other man's arm with both hands. It was a jerk reaction that had put Clint off balance enough for the other man to pin Barton to the ground.

Clint let out a small groan as his back slammed against the ground. He squinted against the blazing sun to make out the shadow of the man bringing his blade down. Barton rolled out of the way kicking his opponent as the man's wild swing brought his knife into the sand the archer had previously occupied.

Clambering to his feet under the continued assault of the other man, Clint freed his own trusted knife from his boot. Blade met blade as they continued to trade blows, each giving as good as they got. It reminded Clint of all the drunken bar fights Barney would drag him into when a night out with the locals after a show inevitably turned into locals versus circus folk.

The enemy got in a lucky shot to the archer's already sore ribs causing him to double over. The moment of weakness was costly, giving the other man an opening. Clint hissed as the blade sliced down his forearm, spilling ribbons of blood onto the sand. Being highly skilled in working with disadvantage, Clint turned his mistake into an even more costly one for his opponent.

As the other man moved in to finish off his wounded pray, Barton surged forward. It was a risky move, one a seasoned veteran would dismiss as foolhardy and dangerous but Clint always felt that being unpredictable was worth far more than practiced moves any day of the week he felt the man's knife slide over his shoulder but it didn't matter; his was sliding straight through the man's lung.

They stayed in their deadly embrace for a moment, the life flowing out of the infiltrator at the same rate as Barton's adrenaline. He eventually leaned back, falling onto his ass while the lifeless body flopped to the side. He stayed there, breathing hard, finding it hard to take his eyes off the body. Clint wasn't repulsed by the sight before him, it wasn't as if it was the first time he had ended someone's life but it was the first time he realized he didn't feel anything. No regret, nor sadness, turmoil or righteousness, just cold complacency. He had expected it to feel different, now that he was killing for the supposed good guys and he had to admit it didn't feel as gut wrenching as it use to when he was working on his own but it didn't feel like a victory either.

Clint's incriminating self introspection was interrupted as Brody finally caught up. "Holy shit kid," he declared taking in the aftermath of the struggle and Barton's bleeding arm and shoulder," are you alright?"

Ignoring the harsh sting dancing along his forearm, he replied, "Yeah," without taking his eyes off the corpse. "And I'm not a kid. You're about a minute older than me."

"Whatever you say kid," the Captain muttered, fumbling in his pocket for some field dressing. "I'm certainly more than a minute older. Some of us just aren't born ugly like you."

The half hearted insult brought Clint's focus back and he ground his teeth together as Brody tightened the bandage.

Brody moved with experience, taking control while watching everything in the area. He was calm and reassuring but forceful in his command. "You see where that satchel went?"

Barton pointed over his shoulder. "Back there. He dropped it when I jumped him.

"See if he has anything important on him." Brody patted Clint's good shoulder as he got up to retrieve their package.

The archer began to search the layers of clothes for anything useful or out of place. His brow creased as his fingers hit something thick in the shirt pocket. He turned the leather case over and undid the worn soft leather tie. The hastily folded documents crinkled in his hand, and careful as to not get blood on them, he unfolded them. The specifics of the information were beyond his pay grade but they were undeniably blueprints of the underground cavern the science team was working in.

The details were all there along with a list of mathematical formulas and coded messages; not something one got from sheer observation, but rather the depths of SHIELD's intelligence operation. Clint could feel the anger burn a hole in his gut. It was the all too familiar sting of betrayal, Trickshot all over again and the archer wanted none of it. Someone on the inside was trying to destroy his home. SHIELD may not have been most people's idea of home, hell it wasn't most people's idea of a job, but they had given a wayward kid a roof, three square meals a day and a feeling that maybe someone had his back. Clint wasn't a fool, he knew he was the outsider, the one everyone avoided, but SHIELD had given him a purpose, a direction in the shit storm that had become his life and that was more precious than anything he had had before. He had an outlet to use his skills for good and while others might not have wanted him anywhere but the cold ground or a jail cell, one agent with kind eyes and a warm hand had offered him a chance, had chased away the coldness for one brief and all important moment. Clint wasn't going to let someone take that away from him again.

This was big, much bigger than a runaway from Iowa. Clint had been bitten once before and wasn't looking to be made the fool by letting it happen again. He had trusted Barney; wasn't one supposed to trust their brother? That had led him to the wrong end of a gun and abandonment in the dark alley of some backwater town in the middle of who cares. SHIELD was filled with bright shiny people all of which were trained to lie, cheat and lead someone on; they couldn't be trusted, not completely. One misstep and he would hasten the destruction of the home he was trying to protect.

Clint sucked in a deep breath and with shaky fingers, pocketed the documents. He would do this on his own, he would protect everything SHIELD had gave him.

"Surveillance pics," called Brody from right behind the kneeling archer. He held them up and waved them triumphantly before dropping the empty bag next to the now empty shell of a person. "You find anything interesting?"

"No," he growled. Clint tensed for a moment waiting to see if Brody had seen anything, if he would call Barton on it. There were too many wild cards in this game and he knew too well what trusting the wrong person could do but part of him still felt bad as he looked into Brody's eyes and saw nothing but respect and that unspoken bond between comrades. He had made his mind up, whoever was threatening his home, he'd just have to find them on his own.

A sudden explosion of gunfire had both men scrambling for weapons and cover. "Guess his friends got tired of waiting for him," offered Clint as he levelled his gun in the direction of the commotion. Both were poised and ready but held their fire as a truck came into view.

The familiar black jeep was a welcomed sight in the potential chaos and even though the sounds of battle raged around them, they still felt a certain relief.

"Barton!" screamed Horn from the passenger's side. The major stormed out of the jeep before it came to a complete stop. The man's anger was betrayed by the deep shade of red that washed over him and the throb of the vein in his neck. "You fucked up for the last time Barton."


	4. It's Always Darkest Before the Dawn

**Chapter 4 It's Always Darkest Before the Dawn**

Horn stood at attention with a stiffness that could rival a tree. The gentle flapping of the command tent's door flap in the mild breeze was the only sound besides the constant flipping of pages. Director Fury said nothing, his expression unreadable as he leafed through the extra large file Horn had blessed him with.

It was not the start to the day Coulson had hoped for. Unobtrusively reading over the Director's shoulder, he knew he had been put in a hole that would be next to impossible to dig out of. Unlike the other handlers that had taken their turn with Barton, Horn had catalogued every single infraction, alphabetically and chronologically to boot, that the young man had incurred during his service under the Major. It was just more fodder to implicate Barton in the whole mole problem that was plaguing the Director.

"Where is Barton now?" asked Fury with cold indifference, before closing the file and passing it over to Coulson.

"Under guard in the brig sir," snapped Horn respectfully. A small gleam danced around the edge of his eyes as he saw an end to his problem. All the men in his command knew the importance of order and structure, but Barton constantly failed to fall in line with everyone else. He had been warned that though the archer had impeccable aim, he was more trouble than he was worth by the agents who had had him before. The Major had believed that transferring Clint over to the military branch of SHIELD and more specifically under his direct command, he might be able to break Fury's newest stallion. Instead, Barton had made him look the fool for not becoming the perfect automaton like all the others before him. Victory would be Horn's in the end, there was no other course of action other than to kick Barton out of SHIELD and into a cell in one of SHIELD's many holding facilities. "I respectfully ask to begin court martial proceedings at once."

"That won't be necessary," snapped Fury in his usual calm that still conveyed his irritation. He didn't pause at Horn's furious and bewildered look. "I'll have my specialist look into things and if he decides this needs to move to that level, we will conduct a hearing back at headquarters."

"But sir!" protested Horn, his hands balling into fists as his eyes narrowed.

"Is there some part of that that was unclear Major?" the Director replied, leaning forward.

Horn sneered. It was always the same with the intelligence part of SHIELD. They failed to understand how proper order and discipline should work unlike the military branch. It was just Horn's luck that the recently appointed Director happened to be another spy and not a member of the military contingent. "No sir," he growled between clenched teeth.

"Then dismissed!" barked Fury. Horn turned on his heels and stomped out of the tent. The Director waited until he was sure their guest had cleared the area before turning to Coulson and motioning him to take a seat across from him. "Four months." Fury paused, as though he wanted the number to mean more than Coulson already knew it did. "Four months and not a sound, nothing. We haven't had an altercation with the enemy until today, and yet when it did happen, who's at the center of the conflict?"

Coulson sat there impassively at the rhetorical question.

"This isn't helping your cause Coulson," added Fury.

"No it's not Director, but I still feel that we're missing something here," he offered, that lingering doubt as to Barton's involvement as unexplainable as it was relentless would not leave him alone. Sure Barton was capable of it, the boy was smart in ways more highly educated people overlooked, but Phil couldn't see that broken boy from the alley betraying them like this, not yet anyway.

"I'm giving you five days to find the spy Coulson, and not a second more. After that I'm having Barton arrested and throwing him into the deepest, darkest, pit I can find." Fury leaned forward his one eye locking onto Coulson's with a steel grip. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Undeniably." Not needing to be told, Phil scooped of the file and left the tent in search of his current project.

* * *

Clint sat quietly on the hard bench that passed for a bunk while his four guards stood rigidly around his makeshift cell. If there was a self-preservation bone in his body, he would have been planning his escape. An outraged Horn had quite literally dragged him back to base, with a protesting Brody in tow.

Barton huffed a sigh before flopping over to lay on the cot. Running away had little appeal, really where would he go that Coulson wouldn't be able to track him down. Not to mention that the immediate area was surrounded by hostiles and miles upon miles of deadly desert. The man had done it before; sure it had taken a year and it was possible that he could do it again, but nothing had really changed since then that would make the outcome any different for Clint when faced with the relentless man. The archer resigned himself to accepting what would be most likely, a swift and permanent conclusion to his short SHIELD career.

His only regret would be not wiping the smirk off Horn's face as he tore Barton a new one. Brody had tried to diffuse the situation, taking responsibility for authorizing the action to leave the lookout post, for engaging with hostiles who up until that point had not engaged with the SHIELD base, but Horn would have none of it. The Major had what he needed to make his greatest wish come true, and no amount of arguing was going to dissuade the man from tearing Clint a part.

The archer was even going to have the pleasure of having Fury at his court martial. The Director's helicopter had landed hours earlier, casting a weird sort of tension and proficiency amongst the men at the base before Clint had been sent on watch. The higher ups on base had been scurrying around preparing for some important meeting, putting everyone on edge. It had also added another bounce in Horn's step as he declared his intent to take this matter to Fury personally.

Part of him wanted to use the information he found to negotiate his freedom. Trading information about a potential spy seemed like a good bargaining chip, but what would he bargain for? His freedom? Freedom to starve in the streets or take jobs that slowly destroyed what small fragile piece of his soul he had left? SHIELD wouldn't let him work for just anyone. Bargain for a stay of execution, life in prison instead of any of the other scenarios Horn had promised; that wasn't a life he wanted either. Bargain to pretend all this never happened, a clean slate to try SHIELD again? No one would forget what he had done, forget that he was more trouble than he was worth and knowing Clint's luck, he'd probably end up trying to negotiate with whoever was selling SHIELD out. No, for now the information was safer tucked in his jacket, even if Horn's men had confiscated all of his things except his t-shirt, pants and boots.

Clint was torn between surprise and uncomfortable indifference when he saw Agent Coulson walk into the brig. He was still a hard man to read and the archer was beginning to wonder if the man actually felt anything in the gamut of human emotion. Surely, if there was ever a moment for the agent to feel something, this would be it, whether it be vindication or disappointment. Yet, Barton wasn't sure.

"Open the cell door and wait outside, please," asked Phil in a cheery mild manner voice. The guards looked at one another briefly before falling in line with the request. The agent stepped into the cell, closing the door behind him but waited until the guards had left the room before taking a seat beside Barton on the concrete slab of a bench.

Clint eyed the small black case Coulson had propped on his lap warily. Coulson had this way of seeming so bland and unassuming that Clint found it hard to know what to expect, what kind of danger he was in. He tried not to flinch at the sharp click of the case snaps popping open and Clint would deny it with his last breath, but his breath did hitch as Coulson reached into the case.

Phil pulled out a roll of bandages and small pair of scissors. He gestured towards Clint's hastily bandaged arm, "I doubt anyone has had a chance to look at that properly yet."

Clint looked towards the blood soaked bandage adorning his forearm. Horn's men hadn't cared about the state of their prisoner and if it hadn't been for Rylan's aid out in the field, he doubted if anything would have been done for it.

Coulson seemed unfazed by the mistrust being levelled at him, continuing to layout his supplies on the bench beside him. "We wouldn't want that to get infected," he offered.

"Yeah, be a disappointment not to make it to the firing squad," huffed Barton as he begrudgingly offered Coulson his arm.

"No firing squad." He carefully cut away the soiled bandage keeping his eyes on the task at hand instead of the boiling hatred in the man's eyes.

"What? SHEILD more into hangings?"

Coulson snorted, but didn't stop. The wound was still bleeding and with one hand keeping pressure on it, he fumbled in his first aid kit for a needle. "SHIELD hasn't hung anyone in weeks." The week attempt at a joke seemed to fizzle with his companion who was eyeing the syringe with even more suspicion than he had the agent. "Sorry, that was a bad joke. This is just some freezing." He hefted the needled up for Clint to get a good look. "It will numb the area so I can put some stitches in and with any luck, there won't be a mark once it's healed."

"You're a doctor too?" growled Barton.

"No. Just had a lot of field experience." A part of Coulson wished he didn't have enough experience that he could patch up Barton's arm without feeling self-conscious under the boy's intense stare as he sewed the wound together. It had been far too long since he felt nervous about performing some sort of medical procedure, too long since he felt unqualified to do it and though he knew his work had made the world safer, sometimes it weighed on him just how much he had survived. "I'm trying to figure out if you're suicidal, but unable to pull the trigger yourself, which I guess just makes you self-destructive, or so damaged that you honestly believe that everyone in life is going to betray you or set you up for failure."

"To be fair, it's probably a little of column A and a little of column B," replied Clint, never taking his eyes off Coulson's steady hands as the man completed stitching up the gash.

Phil hummed in response, clipping the thin black string and freeing the needle. With a gentle touch worthy of a wounded bird, he placed a cotton pad over top of his work before wrapping it more securely in bandages. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"I'm fine," spat the archer, pulling his arm away.

"I didn't ask if you were fine, I asked if you were injured anywhere else. I chased you for over a year, I know you can handle injury, but you don't have to do it alone anymore," explained the agent curtly.

It felt like the time he had been held back at recess during one of the brief months he and Barney had been at a foster home long enough to warrant actually being sent to school. The soft voice managed to be strict, leaving no room for argument without the loud force his father had to use to produce the same results. Clint swallowed, turning his head away before gritting out, "My shoulder."

"Take your shirt off," ordered Coulson, pulling out another set of bandages.

Barton complied, feeling the cool air bite at his skin. He hissed as the agent swabbed the cut with disinfectant before examining it.

"This one isn't too deep. A couple of butterfly bandages should do the trick." Conversationally he added, "I have a problem you might be able to help me with."

Clint snorted. "That seems to be a theme around here."

Phil frowned but opted not to ask. "I have an asset not living up to their potential and it's causing some to believe it's a front for an ulterior motive. I think they're just afraid to see their faith and trust misplaced again. What do you think?"

"I think you're a professional spy and you'd be a fool to trust anyone." Clint ignored the steadfast voice screaming at him to make a move. The medical kit held all sorts of weapons he could use to escape. Coulson was valuable, he could use him as a hostage to gain away out of the desert, to get a chance to flee but instead he sat there, too grateful for the small measure of kindness shown him. He wasn't an idiot, this was an attempt to lure him into a false sense of security, a way to placate him so there wouldn't be a struggle later, so he wouldn't fight Coulson when he came to end it, and he hoped it would be Coulson. Out of everyone, the agent was the one who had to crave putting a bullet in Barton the most for what Clint had done. Instead he was forced to play the saint, to be the one that had to be nice.

"That's probably sound advice but you need to have faith in someone at some point. You might be surprised by them." Phil closed his medical kit, ignoring the way Barton rolled his eyes. He straightened his suit as he got up and moved towards the door. It was a calculated gamble he had taken but he just couldn't picture Barton betraying them, not when the things he desperately needed weren't money or power. But Clint hadn't taken advantage of the situation the way an exposed double agent would have, the way a diabolical spy could have, he'd just sat there and waited for the inevitable betrayal that he had become so familiar with. With his hand resting against one of the bars he turned to the scowling young man still sitting on the bench. "Are you coming?"

Clint watched as Couslon pushed the door open, a door that should have been locked while he was with the prisoner, a door that should have been locked and guarded by four guards but the agent had very obviously left slightly ajar.

When Barton still didn't move Phil added, "I hate having to listen to soldier's incident reports in such inhospitable locations."

"You want to hear my version of events?" Barton's voice trembled slightly betraying his utter shock.

"I assume they differ slightly from Horn's. I can't get a clear picture of what transpired without all accounts, but if you'd prefer to stay here…"

The archer shook his head before getting to his feet and falling in line behind Coulson. He wasn't sure what the agent's game was yet so he certainly wasn't going to turn his back on Coulson, but he wasn't going to shuck an opportunity like this.

* * *

"I want the prototype packed up and sent to the Island before we continue," snapped Fury at the department heads in the command tent.

"Sir, we should harvest all of the resource without delay," object one of the scientists.

The director cocked his head to the side in irritation. His reminder of who was in command was cut short as an MP burst into the tent. "Sorry for the interruption sir, but you have to see this," he exclaimed, thrusting a set of papers into Fury's hand.

The Director snatched the papers preparing to dress down the soldier as he began to read the documents. His frown softened slightly, turning into a silent rage. "Where did you get these?" he snarled.

"They were among Private Barton's effects sir," clipped the soldier.

Everyone in the command tent was knocked to the floor as the ground shook violently. The tell tale whistle of a rocket sounded overhead before the corresponding explosion sounded from further in the SHIELD compound. In between explosions, rapid gunfire secured the forgone conclusion that the base was under attack.

"Box up the prototype and get it on my helicopter. Sound the alarm and give Roberts the order for his men to engage the enemy," order Fury, leading the charge out of the command tent. With his firearm drawn he motioned for the other to head to their prospective posts. He had to find Coulson .


	5. I Can See No Way, I Can See No Way

**Chapter 5: ****I Can See No Way, I Can See No Way**

Clint quickly fell in line behind Coulson as he navigated the yard outside the detention building. It was a nice feeling to step outside once again without the distasteful accessory of shackles but he wasn't naïve enough to believe he was out of the woods yet. It had been proven by experience that those that showed kindness tended to be the most treacherous and Barton refused to play the fool again by not seeing it coming. The agent had offered nothing more than to hear Clint's version of events; the man could still decide the archer's place was behind bars or worse.

They made it to the middle of the complex when the earth shuddered beneath their feet. The sudden rolling motion sent Clint tumbling to the ground. As fast as it started, it was over but the world erupted in the sound of combat.

Coulson got to his feet first, turning to offer his hand to help the younger man to his feet. Barton accepted the hand, pulling himself while carefully taking in the commotion all around them. Several squads were filing into the armoury to obtain better, more effective weapons than their assigned arms before joining their brethren in the heat of battle. Several explosions sounded around them bringing down two of the observation towers around the complex.

Their greatest advantage would be eyes up high and the path to the north wall was clear. Phil caught Barton's lingering glance towards the possible vantage point. "Go!" he instructed. They were being overrun and Barton was classified as a top notch sharp shooter. There was a chance Fury's information was right and he was the mole but if that was the case, it wouldn't matter in regards to holding the base. If he wasn't, Clint might be the difference between holding it, getting everyone out safely and losing everything to the hands of the enemy. With the archer on his way to his perch, Coulson manoeuvred his way back to Fury's last know location.

It wasn't hard to spot the Director. Fury was simultaneously mowing down the enemy that was scurrying like ants through the breach in the wall, and snapping orders at anyone within earshot.

Phil pulled his sidearm, picking off anyone that set their sights on the Director with familiar ease. Discharging the empty clip he quickly switched it out for his back up. "What's the situation sir?" he shouted, finally reaching Fury's side.

"The package is being secured as we speak. I want you to take charge of it," Nick shouted over the gunfire.

"Sir?"

"I need someone I can trust to see that it doesn't fall into the wrong hands." There was no one he trusted more. Phil wasn't just loyal, he abided by a personal code that had never been shaken. If Fury told him to guard the package, he knew without an ounce of doubt his old war buddy would guard it to the bitter end with no exception. The flip side of the coin was, the package needed to leave and if Coulson was in charge of it his friend would have to leave too, ensuring Phil wouldn't do the whole self-sacrificing this he was so prone to. A pleasant little safeguard if he did say so himself.

"You should be the one to go sir, I'll stay and see to the evacuation," insisted Coulson.

"I have other things to ensure get safely off this base Coulson. I need a high ranking agent to see that the package finds a nice secure home in the Candy Shop. Don't argue with me."

"Yes sir," agreed Coulson reluctantly. The pair moved in different directions, Phil towards his entrusted package and the Director to carry out a covert mission.

* * *

Barton detoured from his assigned post to the barracks to grab his gear that Horn and his men had so thoughtfully relieved him of. His fingers trembled slightly, not unlike the first time he put his costume on to perform his first solo act in the circus. It hadn't been the first time he had preformed, he had stepped out in front of the crowd before, but only as the assistant, never the star. It was like that now. It wouldn't be the first time Clint was going to kill people, it wasn't even going to be the first time he played sniper for SHIELD, but it would be the first time in a live active war zone. All his previous missions before Major Horn had been cushy sniper jobs, waiting in his nest for the target to appear and the kill order over the comms, or on the edge of the battle zone, not dead center. His missions with Horn had been lookout duty with the potential for action, but now it was upon him.

Doing the last snap on his tactical vest up, Clint wished his first CO hadn't pulled him out of training on day ten for a pressing assignment that had needed a sharp pair of eyes, pressing him into continued service and never sending him back to the academy. Gripping his rifle tightly, he hustled towards the watchtower. The enemy had established a foothold within the base and was engaging in close quarters combat with SHIELD soldiers. Barton moved around those locked in combat; he would be more effective up high than trying to lend a hand with those on the ground.

He made it unopposed to the base of the tower and swung his rifle over his shoulder to begin his climb up the wooden ladder. It was second nature taking up the correct stance and picking off the enemy one by one. Find a target. Aim. Pull the trigger. Lather, rinse, repeat. The chaos of SHIELD's private little war faded into the background as Clint found his rhythm. He had a job to do.

* * *

Making his way to the helicopter pad was proving to be a challenge. Despite his fierce appearance, it seemed like every enemy soldier wanted a piece of Fury, and the Director was happy to oblige. His skills were hard earned and not easily tempered by his recently acquired position. The enemy had gotten in a few lucky hits but for the most part, Fury was unscathed. He shook his right hand trying to dispel some of the pain from the adversary that had gotten up close and personal with his fist. The path before him was now clear, but taking one last look around as his base, his project was slowly burning to the ground, bathed in blood, a glint in the distance caught his eye.

Fury squinted trying to get past the small glare to see what was causing the reflection. His eye immediately zeroed in on the north tower and the sniper rifle bearing down on his location. Unable to take action fast enough, the Director felt the sharp impact on his left side. His breath fled his body in a whoosh, replaced by fiery magma erupting in his side and spilling along every nerve. The impact with the ground went unnoticed to the more pressing agony. His hand automatically moved to his side, slipping in the blood coating the wound and the neat hole in his supposedly bullet proof vest.

* * *

For most it would have gone unnoticed in the confusion and chaos of battle but for Coulson, Fury's whereabouts were a finely tuned sense. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the shadowy figure go down. Like being punched in the gut, all of the air fled Phil's lungs. Time came to a standstill as he rigidly waited for some sign that his long time friend was still alive. With a flick of Fury's wrist Coulson's world started moving again.

Coulson's head snapped to the side, carefully searching the north wall for anyone who could have gotten off the shot at the Director. A few combatants ran along the wall but were otherwise engaged with their own enemy. He lifted his gaze higher until the only person in sight was Barton.

The archer swung his rifle over his shoulder and began climbing down the tower. He hit the ground, pulling his sidearm to the ready and moved towards the downed Director.

Phil turned back to the helicopter to check on the progress of his package. They had lost the base, that fact wasn't in dispute. All they had now were a few precious moments to try and get everyone and everything safely out. His gun felt heavy in his hand, torn between friendship and duty.

"Markem and Gillette, see to the Director. Robins and Smyth, keep loading the package," Phil ordered, biting down on his own need to go and aid his friend. Some things were bigger than age old friendships. He believed in the work he did for SHIELD, in keeping the missions of innocent people in this world safe and right now that meant following orders.

The two agents dispatched didn't get very far. The ground rumbled and trembled once more, opening a huge chasm that ran through the base. The exposed tunnels and caves SHIELD had hidden below the surface burst open exposing jagged rock and depths to those suddenly swallowed up by the rifts. Phil watched in horror as men became stranded between the cracks, too wide to jump and too deep to climb down.

Strong hands grabbed at Phil's shoulders, pulling him away from the edge.

"We have to go sir!" yelled Robins, trying to pull him into the helicopter.

Phil took one last look at the destruction going on around him; it was time to pull the plug. He searched the shifting ground until his eyes landed on the Director laying still. His men wouldn't be able to get to him, but there had to be someone. Even if he couldn't do it, no man left behind still needed to be applied. Coulson's hand moved to where his sidearm should have been as he caught someone moving fast towards Fury's location. His gun was missing, lost in one of the tumbles he had taken but the potential threat moving to his friend was probably going to be his saving grace; assuming his instincts about Barton were right.

He grabbed Robins' radio out of the man's hand. "Everyone fall back to secondary location. Repeat, base has fallen. Fall back to secondary location." Coulson released the talk button and took a deep breath. He knew he was about to put a tremendous burden on a young man and though he had faith the SHIELD operative could pull it off, it was unfair all the same. Perhaps the most unfair part was the small voice that reminded him that the agency he served believed the young man was a traitor and Coulson's mind was entertaining the idea that it could be true. "Barton… look after the Director."

The archer glanced towards the helicopter but didn't slow in his dash towards the fallen head of SHIELD. Both men were cut off from any other SHIELD agent and would have to make their way to a secure location via another route.

Reluctantly, Phil climbed into the chopper and prayed he made the right decision.

* * *

Clint glanced down at the radio strapped to his vest as it crackled to life. He wasn't surprised to hear the call to evacuate; you didn't need to be up high to see that SHIELD wasn't going to pull out the win in this one, however, he was caught off guard by the order directed at him. _Barton, keep the Director safe_. He had seen the man go down, realized he was the only one in a position to get to their leader, but why would someone believe he was solely up to the task of protecting SHIELD's most valuable asset?

He pushed his burning muscles harder to cover the ground between him and his charge. Smoke burned his eyes and clogged his mouth while the wind from the leaving chopper sliced his skin with sand. But still he kept going, he wouldn't, couldn't, fail in this mission. Coulson never asked anything of Barton before except to take the opportunity he was being given; the archer wasn't going to fail in the first task set by the man.

The Director was in the same spot where he went down. His small attempts to move had begun to cease as Barton reached the downed agent. It wasn't the heroic save from the movies; the one where he would throw the Director over his shoulder and carry him out, and certainly not the one where he'd throw Fury's arm around his neck and the pair would walk out with determined grins. What Clint lacked in stature he made up for with sarcasm and amazing aim, but neither were going to help a still somewhat scrawny nineteen year old carry out a man like Fury.

Clint grabbed a hold of the Director's tac vest and began to pull. It was hard work, but they were making ground. He tried not to focus on the trail of blood that seeped into the sand behind them. There would be time to try and patch the man up later. Battles were all about priorities and right now that was making it out of the line of fire.

It was difficult trying to navigate around the fissures and crevasses, dragging an unconscious man but the archer had mapped out a path. They were half way there when the ground pitched and rolled once more. Barton's stomach leapt into his throat as he felt himself falling, the ground no longer under his feet. Blackness swiftly followed.

* * *

Clint let out a hacking cough that shook his whole body, setting off an explosion of pain within him. He tensed trying to get his breathing under control while still trying to expel half the desert from his lungs. His hand rubbed at his eyes, removing the grit that was clogging another one of his senses.

It was dusty and dark and Clint tried to rack his brain for what had happened. His stomach rolled as the dark cavern swayed back and forth. The archer tried to turn to the side to throw up but found it difficult. His left leg was under something heavy and his right hand was equally trapped. The sudden acknowledgement caused his limbs to start throbbing. It was a dull ache, and nothing felt broken; a small miracle considering.

He managed to wiggle his hand free pretty easily but prying his leg out of the rubble took a few exhaustive tries. Fumbling through the pockets of his vest, Barton found his glow sticks. With a quick snap the cavern was bathed in a soft green glow.

Not too far from his position laid the Director. Careful not to disturb too much debris and bring it all crashing down on them, Clint crawled over to the other man. Barton was hit with a moment of panic as he tried to determine if the head of SHIELD was still alive. Fury didn't exactly make the list of his favorite people, while simultaneously not making his list of douche bags, but it was more a selfish desire to not face the situation alone that had Clint rooting for life.

The archer found a pulse. Determined not to squander his third miracle of the day, he began implementing what basic field triage he knew to make sure the Director continued to breathe. Clearing debris from the ailing man, Clint fumbled with the bandages trying to tie them correctly to stanch the bleeding. Fury had fared better than him in the collapse, however, pulling Nick free from what little rubble was burying him, sapped what little energy Clint had.

He slumped against the debris, panting hard. There was no time to rest, he had a job to do. Pulling his field dressing packs out of his pockets, he finished bandaging the ugly wound in the Director. The man needed proper medical attention; Barton could slow the bleeding but couldn't stop it and Fury had already lost a good measure of blood.

Having done all he knew how, Clint began to survey what supplies that were available. His rifle had survived the fall as did his backpack. A quick jostle knocked tiny flecks of debris loose from his prized possessions. They had a canteen of water, couple of more glow sticks, a few power bars, a rapidly deteriorating supply of medical basics, a couple of knives, a compass and a few clips of ammo. The radio was a little dented but as Barton turned it on, it crackled to life.

"This is Barton can anyone read me?" he called into the handheld device. Static. "This is Barton of SHIELD, can anyone read me?" Again only static replied. Frustrated, Barton pulled his knees to his chest and let his head drop. Either the radio was broken or the signal couldn't penetrate the rock surrounding them, either way, they were on their own.

The way back up was blocked, there would be no digging themselves out, which on the plus side meant the enemy wasn't going to be coming down to get them anytime soon. That also meant help wasn't going to be coming. There was a maze of tunnels before him anyone that could lead them out. There was a chance the rifts had collapsed the tunnels too. The soldiers were never allowed in the tunnels only the research scientists and upper brass. Any path Clint chose would be a shot in the dark. He looked at Fury once more. This was the man's only chance but any choice Barton made could make the situation worse.

* * *

Fury woke in a world of white hot pain. He bit down hard on his lip to deter the moan that threatened to burst from him. Accepting the promotion to the Head of SHIELD was suppose to limit the amount of all too familiar times he felt the searing pain of a bullet in him. It was dark and quiet, never a good sign. He tried to sit up to get a better look at whatever pit the enemy had locking him up in only to cry out in pain. The sharp agony caused him to abort his effort to sit up.

"Take it easy sir," cautioned Clint as he immediately jumped up to help Fury.

Fury took a few deep breaths to try and get the pain under control. Of all the people he expected to see, Barton wasn't one of them. It certainly didn't give any clues as to whether he was in enemy hands or not. "Report," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"You were shot," started the archer, only to flinch at the Director's hard stare.

"No shit," he snapped, curling his hand around his chest protectively.

"The ground collapsed. I'm pretty sure were in the cave system that ran under the base. Can't go up and it's doubtful help will becoming; Coulson gave the final order to evacuate. We have a little bit of water and food, couple of weapons and a possibly broke radio," informed Barton. He tried not to shrivel way under the Director's soul piercing gaze. The man was intimidating at any time but there was something about this look that gave the archer an uneasy feeling. He wouldn't wish this look on his worst enemy. "Anything to add to that list sir?"

Fury could feel his concealed sidearm digging into him. He wasn't sure what Barton's agenda was but he certainly wasn't going to tell the enemy where his last weapon was. He didn't stand a chance of overpowering the young man in his current condition but Barton didn't seem eager to escalate things to revealing his deception. All Fury had to do was play nice, believe the archer's act at being a loyal member of SHIELD and wait until Coulson could pull off a rescue. "No. I dropped my gun when a bullet pierced my vest. Being Director means I don't have to carry a lot of gear anymore soldier."

Clint nodded glumly. He had been hoping for a Hail Mary, some special device cooked up by R and D to ensure the Director's safety. Looks like they were going to have to do things the hard way. "You don't happen to know which way is the way out?"

"Should be that tunnel over there." The director pointed to the left only to quickly drop his arm as the pain flared up.

"Alright," said Barton, pulling his pack on before reaching down to pull the Director to his feet. "Let's see if we can't get ourselves home."


	6. And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if

**Chapter 6 And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't **

Fury let out a cry of agony as Barton lowered him to the ground. The noise stretched along the endless halls reminding both just how alone and screwed they were in the tomb like tunnels. The archer tried to be careful of the other man's wound but clearly wasn't successful.

"Let's just rest here for a moment," offered Clint, backing away to give the Director some space. They had been stumbling along for an hour and both were tired and aching. "Here," he said, passing Fury their canteen, "have a drink, something to eat then I'll change your bandage sir."

Nick stared reluctantly at the bottle in the young man's out stretched hand. Some water would be heavenly at the moment, but it could be an easy way for the infiltrator to drug or poison him. Fury tried to remember if he had seen Barton take a drink or not. He decided that the archer's window to spike the water was relatively small given the fact that the smaller man had been supporting most of his weight as they staggered along the tunnels. If Barton really wanted him dead, he would have finished the job before dragging him along. No, Fury was more valuable alive. He accepted the canteen, carefully watching his companion for any reaction.

Clint pulled the wrapper off his power bar with trembling fingers. His overall condition seemed to be going downhill and he was at a loss as to why. Sure, he had aches and pains from the fall, but none of it seemed serious except for an ache in his lower back. It had started out as a dull pang, but had morphed into a sharp relentless pain over the last hour. Slowly, he reached down to feel the back of his right hip. His finger brushed something hard sending his pulse racing. Clint tentatively probed the area before grabbing the object and pulling.

It had been a mistake. Immediately, warm blood gushed from the now open wound. He stared at his blood covered fingers and the piece of glass he had extracted from himself. Adrenaline must have been blocking out the initial pain while the shard kept the wound from bleeding.

Not wanting to alert Fury to a potential problem and because old habits of not exposing weaknesses never died, he kept quiet, casually tossing the shard in the dirt. The Director was focusing most of his energy on eating his power bar that it didn't take much stealth to pack the hole with some field dressing. It was a hasty job, but it would have to hold until they could find help. It wasn't like Barton could reach the area well enough to stitch it himself and it didn't seem as though Fury was up to the task. Besides, the wound was hot, implying infection and if the continued sharp pain was any indication, a piece was probably still in there; not ideal conditions to close it up.

"Ready to get moving sir?" Clint asked, more out of formality than seeking permission. Neither one could afford to stay there.

The Director gave some sort of a grunt that Barton took as a yes. Slowly the archer helped him get to his feet and together they proceeded down the tunnel.

* * *

The makeshift command center was a flurry of activity carefully disguised as organized and under control when in reality it was anything but. Even the most seasoned vet was rattled when things went spectacularly FUBAR as they did at base Nessus.

Coulson took as steadying breath before stepping into the shark infested waters, projecting an air of calm, control and professionalism that underlings needed in the face of crisis. Clearing his throat he declared, "Alright people we have a situation to get on top of. What's out status?" The detour to the Candy shop had put Phil three hours out of the loop; at the moment it felt like a lifetime.

Everyone paused briefly, silently determining with their eyes who would be unfortunate enough to give the situation report to the agent in charge. One of the analysts stationed at the first row of computers spoke up. "We have no concrete information on the base at this time. Any attempts to establish eyes or ears have failed. The enemy has something jamming all our radios, satellites and radar in the area. At present, they still have control over the base."

"What about our people?" asked Phil. There was an undercurrent of fear pulsing through his carefully tempered hope.

"We're complying a casualty list now. So far it looks like we suffered at least ten percent personnel loss with only a handful of people unaccounted for."

Any sort of casualties were too high as far as Coulson was concerned, but given the circumstances he would take what he could get and be happy with it. "What about Director Fury and Barton?"

The room took on a cold and uneasy feeling. "They're among the unaccounted for sir," announced Brody regretfully as he entered the room with Major Horn and two other officers hot on his heels.

"Agent Brody," greeted Coulson with a minute nod. Brody was classified as one of the up and coming stars of the agency. The young man had an ability to seamlessly fold into the different branches of SHIELD, offering a unique perspective to any situation. Though it was still a sense of us versus them that lingered in the background whenever the multitude of SHIELD branches came together, Coulson was slightly relieved to have a fellow agent at his back in the face of Nessus's ranking army officers.

"Higgin's team was the last to pull out," continued Brody. "they said it looked like Barton got to him just before the ground collapsed but then visibility went to zero and they can't be sure if they got clear of the area in time or were trapped in the collapse, sir."

"Barton! This is all his fault," raged Horn, pushing past Brody.

"I don't have time for your petty squabble right now Major. As you can see I have a SHIELD base to try and retake and a Director to extract from enemy territory," snapped Phil, slight irritation fraying the edges of his closed off approach.

"And whose fault do you think it is that both are in the hands of the enemy? Or is it just coincidence that they attacked after Barton failed to deliver intel to the enemy?" countered Horn.

"What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Brody, confusion and disgust warring for property on his face.

"Not to mention," Horn continued, not losing any momentum from Brody's outburst, "the shot that took down the Director came from Barton." Ignoring the looks of disbelief, Horn spat, "Don't believe me, take a look at the video. The shot came from the North wall, right where Barton was."

The accusation gave Coulson pause. He tried to replay the scene in his mind but there was too much distraction, too much going on that he hadn't seen the whole scenario play out, just the aftermath. Instead he managed to ask in his flat professionalism voice, "What video?"

"The security cameras managed a final information dump to the surveillance department before the final tremor hit. We have the video feed up until Barton gets to the Director." Under his breath he added, "No doubt to finish off Fury."

"It was chaos out their Horn. You can't be certain the shot came from Barton," defended Brody in a tone that brokered no argument.

"The angle's good. My analysts said it's a ninety-five percent guarantee Barton's the shooter. Besides we already have him on espionage." Horn's smug smirk grew just a fraction larger. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a stack of wrinkled and bloody documents.

Coulson begrudgingly took them with Brody leaning over to catch a glimpse of the Major's imaginary proof. The all too familiar images in the photos settles like a lead weight in Phil's gut only giving way to the growing nausea as he flipped through the blueprints and preliminary report on the project. "Where did you get these?"

"My MP's pulled them out of Barton's effects after they arrested him. If we hadn't shown up when we did, he would have successfully handed them off to the enemy."

"Except," interjected Brody, crushing Horn's triumph, while his hands gripped the computer console tightly to keep from lunging at the man, "that we were engaging the enemy. Hell, I ordered him to engage."

"Probably a cover to slip out and deliver," the Major countered smugly.

"He killed one of them," returned Brody, matching Horn in volume and spite.

"Barton is a snake! He probably killed his contact to throw you off his trail and look, it worked because Coulson here put the Director in his hands!"

"Enough." The word was calmly spoken but somehow carried more weight than either Horn's or Brody's. The warring men closed their mouths with audible clicks. "We're governed by the ideas that we protect the innocent and one way to do that is to presume people are innocent until proven guilty. I want the security footage sent to my computer and after I have viewed it and _after_ I am satisfied as to the indisputable conclusion it apparently provides then we can discuss if we have two men to rescue behind enemy lines or one. Do I make myself clear?"

Both men nodded at Coulson, standing rigidly at attention while he proceeded to leave for his temporary office.


	7. And Every Demon Wants his Pound of Flesh

**Chapter 7 And Every Demon Wants his Pound of Flesh**

One foot,

Then the other.

One foot,

Then the other.

It was an unsteady rhythm Fury and Barton fell into as they traipsed along the winding tunnel. Both were too lost in their own pain to engage in uncomfortable small talk. Even for someone in perfect health, the situation would be bleak. Trapped underground in what now constituted enemy territory, not knowing if SHIELD was going to be able to swoop in and save the day, let alone retake the base, while fighting against the clock; Fury did not miss the old days.

"Sir?" asked Barton, staring at his boss with concern and as though he was waiting for a response.

"What?" replied Fury, a little self consciously.

"I said, which way?" The archer nodded ahead to the fork in the road. Three tunnels, each snaking off in different directions. He had cursed softly as they came into view. Being nothing more than a lackey, he had been forbidden from entering the underground portion of the base, where unethical experimentation was rumored to have been taking place. No creature feature had ever emerged from the dig site so Barton had felt relatively safe that the rumors had been based on unfounded speculation. His only real hope was that Fury knew enough about the operation to keep them from wandering aimlessly, especially since he didn't think the Director had that kind of time.

Before the Director could ponder their predicament, the ground trembled and rolled beneath their feet. Both men lost their footing, tumbling to the ground in a painful heap.

"Wonder how long the aftershocks are going to last?" muttered Barton as he tried to right himself.

It was a rhetorical question, that Fury would blame on the blood loss for exposing as a legitimate question. "The system's unstable," he hissed through clenched teeth. "The tremors will continue building in severity until it reaches critical and releases like it did during the attack."

"SHIELD's building weapons that make attacks look like natural disasters?" Clint tried not to flinch at the added pressure on his back as he hauled Fury to his feet. The man just glared at Barton, unwilling to confirm nor deny, but possibly taking offense to the subtle accusatory tone in the archer's voice. "Right, of course you are. So how long till this thing overloads and crushes us like bugs down here and can we shut it off?"

Fury swayed on his feet, his hand gripping Clint's tac vest a little too forcefully. "I don't know and no."

"That's not very good intel sir."

"That's all you get soldier," snapped the Director. The truth was he really didn't have any idea. With the key component safely away with Coulson, there was no way to know how the system would work. There were no conditions on Earth that would make him give any useful information to a potential enemy either.

"Alright, do you at least know which way will get us out of Dodge?"

Fury eyed the little piss ant that dared to go toe to toe with him in a game of wills. Of course he knew the route to freedom and he sensed Barton knew he knew. Three options: one led to freedom, and two lead to nowhere. One tunnel was unfinished, leading to a dead end, another abandoned early in their search for hitting an underground aquifer. The last would take them not only to the secondary escape route, but through the testing grounds for their new device and more importantly through the real reason they were digging in the area.

The Director let out a slow and measured breath, some things were worth dying for. This latest discovery was one of those things. "That one," he said pointing to the tunnel on the far right.

Barton was quiet for a moment. It wasn't hostility that rolled off of him, more a sense of melancholy. He didn't know which tunnel to take but he knew which one not to. He could see the selected tunnel was going deeper, the opposite direction they needed to go. The walls glistened in the pale green light of the glow stick indicating a dampness the rest of the complex didn't have. Clint shouldn't have been shocked by the apparent lack of trust, hell he didn't trust himself, but it hurt all the same. SHIELD had been willing to set up a base on the edge of enemy territory to go after whatever secrets were lying beneath the sand and it looked as though Fury would do anything to keep them from everybody; including putting both of them in the grave.

"How about this one sir?" he suggested, pointing to the middle one. "It seems less… obstructed."

Fury clenched his jaw but didn't speak for a few very tense moments. "Fine. I'll defer to your expertise," he growled. It wasn't like he was in a position to stop Barton from doing what he wanted, hell Fury couldn't even stand on his own. There was no room for traitors within SHIELD and the second he got an opportunity to eliminate this one, he was going to take it. Coulson's gut instinct be damned.

* * *

Coulson lifted his finger off the rewind button and watched the footage again in silence. Somehow, the silent, grainy, black and white playback didn't do the experience justice. It seemed more confusing, more important, more alive when it had been in bright technicolor playing out in front of him, the complete opposite of what the sterile, almost clinical and cold depiction would suggest.

Horn's specialist's report sat smouldering on Phil's temporary desk. Numbers were hard to ignore, they didn't lie. If Coulson was a betting man, he would have laid it all down on the recommendation of this report. Ninety-six percent certainly, in this business, was a guarantee. But there was something he just couldn't swallow. Perhaps it was that pesky human element to the equation that seemed to make the numbers inadequate.

Then again, Phil was a reasonable man. How many times would he have to be told it was a duck before he stopped insisting it was a swan? Internal affairs had put Barton near the top of a very short list. The analysis unit just produced a lengthy report explaining that the video showed Agent Barton shooting Director Fury, but still, the painful stab of doubt insisted everyone was wrong.

Was he truly so vain that he couldn't admit that he had misjudged Clint so bad, that Agent Coulson was human? So human, in fact, that he made mistakes and fell for the ex carnie's desperation rouse? Or was it everything the video didn't show? Like Barton's finger on the trigger.

Eventually he would have to make a decision. Right now it just seemed premature to write off what could be their best asset in getting the Director back safely.

* * *

Clint could feel the Director starting to sag, worse yet, he could feel himself faltering. The bright shiny promise of home was the only thing keeping the young archer going. He hadn't survived it all for this to be his final stand and he was damned and determined to drag his hard ass boss along for the ride. The latter might have been fuelled by some youthful need to prove to the world he was right or rather, he was good enough.

The Director's silence had been a sure sign that the man's principles were worth more than both their lives and maybe in the grand scheme of things they were both expendable, but Barton had slightly higher expectations for his life. He had just gotten it back on track, sort of, thanks to Coulson.

Fury grunted as Barton stopped abruptly.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" howled Clint, finally letting his frustration and anger escape. How much bad luck could one person have?

The Director pulled himself free of the archer's grip allowing Clint to take his new found rage out on the newly formed rock wall blocking their path. Carefully to reduce the amount of pain in his side, he slowly lowered himself to the ground with a chuckle.

Barton whipped around from ineffectually beating the wall to glare at Fury. He snarled, "What's so god damn funny?"

"You're not going to get what you came for," Nick chuckled, staring at the collapsed part of the tunnel that was blocking them from the research cavern and mining portions of the underground complex.

Clint was hurting, tired, and done with taking SHIELD's crap. He snapped. "What the hell are you talking about? We've wasted an hour traipsing through this tunnel trying to find a way out of here, time that you don't exactly have, sir, and we have to backtrack and hope there's another way out."

"Give it up." Weariness was creeping into Fury's voice. "You're the spy Barton. I'm too tired for games. You're not going to succeed and we're both going to die down here so just cut the crap."

Barton had been accused of a lot of things in his time, but he'd never been anything but loyal, sometimes to a fault. It made him feel small and completely alone in a way he'd never felt before. As hard as he tried, he just never seemed to measure up. "I'm not a god damn spy."

"Please, much better men than you have tried to pull the wool over my eyes. You don't stand a chance. I may have been born at night, but it wasn't last night. You kind of gave your hand away when you shot me."

"I didn't shoot you."

"So it's just a coincidence that I caught a glint off of your scope before taking a round in my chest from the exact location you were occupying," Fury argued.

"I didn't shoot you!" scoffed Clint. "Believe me, if I shot you, I wouldn't have been so wide as to miss the kill shot. I don't miss."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you."

"Fine, but I'm going to find a way out of here. And you know what? I'm going to make sure you're along for the ride." Clint wasn't sure if it was a threat or a promise. He didn't get the chance to find out as everything began to shake and the floor beneath them collapsed. For the second time that day, Barton found himself in freefalling into darkness.


	8. And I'm Ready to Suffer and I'm Ready to

**Chapter 8: ****And I'm Ready to Suffer and I'm Ready to Hope**

The breath rushed out of Clint's lungs as he plunged into the cold water below. He fought his way against the current in a desperate attempt to breach the surface. The glow stick had tumbled from his grip during the fall, casting an eerie glow along the jagged cavern that the underground river was rushing through. He choked on the water when he hissed in pain, his already battered body colliding mercilessly against the sharp rocks under the surface.

Frantically he looked around in the growing darkness for the Director that had followed him down in his perilous tumble. Bobbing in the murky waters ahead of him was an all too familiar black coat. Using all the strength he had, the archer lined himself along the same trajectory as Fury, using the strength of the current to push him closer to his goal. He grabbed onto his precious cargo with an iron grip, refusing to let the older man succumb to murky death.

There was no place to pull themselves out of the water, even if Fury was conscious to help; the jagged bottom was paralleled by unhelpfully smooth walls. The only thing left to do was for Clint to try and keep both their heads above water and ride this thing out. Hopefully there wouldn't be any ominous drops, rapids or a point where their breathable air was replaced by narrowing rock walls. With their luck, Barton didn't hold out much hope.

* * *

It was almost rhythmic, just floating along. Maybe it was the blood loss or some deep acceptance of their inevitable fate, but Barton found himself relaxing. His grip never wavered from around Fury's chest, but it was loose enough to feel the slight expansion with every quiet breath.

He barely noticed as the current started to slow to a leisurely pace. What did drive home the lack of impending death, was the blinding rays of sunlight that assaulted his eyes. He slammed them shut, groaning as the pain ripped through his skull. Hesitantly Barton let his eyes flutter open, slowly adjusting to their bright surroundings that had been absent for so long in their darkened watery tomb.

Sweet fresh air, the river meandering through the endless dunes of sand; they were free from the cave network, finally catching a break. Clint's legs were stiff, but he managed to drop them to the sandy bottom of the river and awkwardly attempt to stand up. It wasn't easy carrying Fury's dead weight on unsteady limbs, but he managed to drag them both out of the water, only to collapse onto the painfully hot sand. Letting out a few ragged breaths, the archer gratefully embraced the darkness descending upon him.

* * *

Clint woke with a start, every ache and pain singing in harmony. He tried to wet his dry lips, but his mouth was terribly dry and everything felt overly hot. Even the air felt like it was on fire. He was really starting to hate the desert. The only good news he could pull from his cursory recon of their situation, and really the only thing he could ascertain laying flat on his back, was night was getting closer. The sun's position had shifted to late afternoon and the promise temperature drop night would bring, almost brought a tear to his eye.

Barton pushed himself upright on sheer determination alone, knowing that he would probably be dead before his body was ready to cooperate. It wasn't just his ass on the line at the moment, Fury was counting on him, even if the gruff man would rather accept death than admit it. He could tell the Director was in trouble. The fall having done nothing for his own injuries, he could only imagine what it had done to Fury's. Clint looked disheartened at the items he managed to pull from his water logged backpack and vest, then back to the newly dripped red splashes in the sand next to his companion. He needed to stop Fury's bleeding and the man had precious little to lose while the ex carnie tried to figure it out.

A lifetime of having to patch up his own wounds had taught the archer to be resourceful with what he had. Immediately he set off snapping off limbs of old, dry, twisted wood that curled its way from under the sand. Stacking them appropriately, Clint struck one of his waterproof matched and placed it amongst the dry kindling. He was rewarded with the soft crackle of a glowing fire.

Barton pulled the knife he had strapped to his ankle and placed it partially in the fire. While he impatiently waited for it to heat up, he set some of their more useful waterlogged items around the fire to dry.

Summoning his courage, Barton pulled the knife from the flame and crawled over to the Director. He pulled open the man's black leather trench coat and swallowed nervously as he realized one scrutinizing eye was staring back at him. "Have to stop the bleeding sir," Clint offered weakly. He oddly felt like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

"Wouldn't look good, having your prize bleed out before you dragged him back to your masters would it?" spit Fury with as much spite as he could manage, which was an impressive amount for a man who had been unconscious for the past several hours.

"Not working for the enemy," sighed Clint. He was tired, so very tired; the gusto he had previously had for his defence drained out by the past events. "But I doubt SHIELD would be happy if I didn't get you back there." Brandishing the blade he offered, "This is going to hurt sir."

Fury choked back a snort; they just didn't make double agents like they used too. The boy looked almost apologetic about it, almost. He wasn't stupid. The only thing standing between him and bleeding out was the hot edge of that knife and though he loathed who was wielding it, Fury wasn't in a position to refuse. "Do it!" he ordered. There was no time or place for weakness from neither friend nor foe.

Clint clinched his teeth together and pressed the blade to the wound, holding it fast as the body beneath writhed and wriggled below, before going limp. The scent of burnt flesh hung in the air long after he finished. At least Clint could cover up the grisly sight with the now damp bandages he plucked from next to the fire. One crisis stalled, only two more to go.

Barton looked over at an unconscious Fury and weighed his options. The dizzying, lightheaded feeling that had gripped him since removing the glass shard hadn't dissipated at all. Carefully he reached around to feel the wet mess of bandages stuck to his back. It was more than just water that had drenched them.

The soft roar of an engine pulled Barton's attention to the south. He allowed his heart to flutter with the possibility of hope that he might not have to ponder their survival chances after all. He grabbed his rifle while keeping low to the ground, he scrambled towards the nearest dune before army climbing to the top.

Clint scanned the horizon for the source of the noise. Slowly he shifted his rifle taking in nothing, but sand in the enhanced view of his scope. His arms jerked to a halt as he caught a glimpse of the precession of vehicles negotiating their way across the land. They were still far away but more importantly, there was no tell-tale SHIELD emblem on any of them. As quickly as it arrived, hope died; shot down like a stray dog in the street. The rescue the two men desperately needed was not coming.

Clint scampered back down the dune, stubbornly ignoring the pain that was radiating through his back in waves. "Think Barton!" he spat while doing another mental inventory of the supplies in his possession. He needed a plan, he needed to think.

He drew a blank; SHIELD life was making him soft. Despite the open distrust and hostility aimed at him, Clint realized that part of him had trusted that despite the fact that he'd never be considered one of them, that someone would come for him. For the first time in his life he had believed he'd had a safety net secured tightly below him. The voice in Clint's head had told him not to get comfortable, not to have faith in the delusion they had created to secure their 'weapon,' but some small, desperate, needy part of him had ignored life's hard earned lessons. He had dared to buy into the dream.

"Come on Barton! Get it together," he abolished. He had been here a thousand times before and survived, he could do this. Clint just had to remember his check list.

First, keep from being found. The archer quickly snuffed out the fire, burying their evidence under the sand. They couldn't hunt what they didn't know was there. Clint knew how to disappear and dodge; he could keep them out of the enemies' sight lines.

Second, make sure you're going to be able to take advantage of escape. Barton sucked in a deep breath, preparing for the painful fallout, before crumpling up the last of his bandage supply and packing it in his wound. It wouldn't be pretty or anything but temporary, he just needed something to keep enough of the red stuff in him so he could function.

Third, assess options and supplies available. The supply part was easy. It wasn't like they were weighed down with helpful things. Clint could scratch first aid supplies off the list now, as well as food, having just crammed his last powerbar in his face. They did have: matches, couple of waterlogged guns and ammo, Barton's three knives on his person, a newly broken compass, rope, two expended glow sticks and quite possibly the Holy Grail itself.

Barton's hand shook as he pulled the radio out of the water resistant pouch in his pack. He turned it over carefully, it looked intact. First option: radio for help. The cave would no longer interfere with the signal, but it couldn't be that simple? Could it? Flexing his finger slightly, the archer nudged the dial to turn it on. Quickly he flicked through all available channels waiting for the tell-tale burst of static to indicate the radio was receiving. Still nothing.

"Piece of shit! God damn it!" he shouted tossing the radio to the ground in a fit of rage. Was it too much to ask that not everything he touched turned to shit? Why did the world like to kick him when he was down?

The radio hit the ground with a soft thud before exploding to life. Barton's head snapped down, his heart hammering in his chest as his lungs refused to draw in air for fear of putting some molecule out of alignment and angering the gods into taking away this potential salvation. Cautiously, the archer scooted towards the radio, approaching it like a spooked animal.

Clint twisted the dial to SHIELD's main channel and depressed the talk button. "This is Private Barton, authentication Charlie, Bravo, Mike, India, Lima, five, eight, three, November, Quebec. Repeat, this is private Barton, authentication Charlie, Bravo, Mike, India, Lima, five, eight, three, November, Quebec. Can anyone read me?"


	9. It's a Shot in the Dark Aimed Right at m

**Chapter 9 It's a Shot in the Dark Aimed Right at my Throat**

Phil's head snapped away from the computer screen and his obsessive replay of the surveillance footage as the door burst open.

"Sir, you're required in control. There's something you need to hear," panted Brody, his chest still heaving from running full out down to Phil's quarters.

Coulson snapped his laptop shut, unconsciously straightening his tie as he stood up. The other agent's urgency brokered no room for negotiation and Phil followed Brody obediently back to the heart of their makeshift command center.

The room was a flutter with activity. The tech team was slaving away at the controls with renewed determination. Brody gestured towards the communication section and Coulson stepped up. A tech slid a microphone in front of the agent without taking her eyes off of her screen.

"This is Private Barton, authentication Charlie, Bravo, Mike, India, Lima, five, eight, three, November, Quebec. Can anyone read me?"

The tech placed her hand over her own mic to block out her words. "We've verified. It is Private Barton's current designation."

Phil swallowed, the words suddenly unwilling to form on his tongue. He always had data on his situations, had every angle and contingency covered so there were no surprises and he knew how to play it. He had nothing for this moment. All of the information was countered by a gut feeling that that information was incomplete. There was nothing solid to grab onto. There were too many ways this could go wrong if he made the wrong choice. Was this an agent in distress or a carefully planted mole continuing with his mission?

"We read you Barton. This is Agent Coulson, Papa, Charlie, Victor, Juliet, two, zero six." Phil suddenly felt the pressure of all eyes focused on him. "What's your status?"

There was a long sigh over the comm. "Screwed sir." It was a frighteningly honest answer from a voice that sounded far too weary. "But we're both still here."

Coulson held back his silent prayer. In that moment, he almost felt safe, yet it was the second after that it all went to hell. "Can I speak with the Director?"

"No."

Phil's stomach dropped as he mentally prepared for battle, and to accept that his defence of Agent Barton may have been in vain.

"He's not doing so good." There was another long sigh and Coulson couldn't help, but notice just how young Barton sounded, how tired. "I'm not doing so good either, sir. Would really appreciate it if you could come and get us."

Coulson bit his lip. He made his decision. The odds were just as in their favor as they weren't that Barton was one of theirs. Morally he didn't think he could live with himself if he didn't do everything in his power to save their agents, _his_ agents, if at the end of the day Phil found out Barton was loyal. His soul just couldn't take the chance. Not to mention the road that condemning a man before he had a chance to defend himself, was going to put himself and SHIELD down.

"I need a situation report Barton!" snapped Coulson in his most authoritative agent voice.

It did the trick because the hopeless and lost edge in the archer's voice seemed to melt away as he fell back on the motions of reporting to a superior.

"We fell into the cave system underneath the base. Director Fury had taken a hit to the chest which I've only recently been able to stop the bleeding. After making our way through the tunnels we came to a fork which branched off in three directions. We took the middle one."

Coulson snapped his fingers at Brody and mouthed the map. The agent nodded and made his way to the large table in the middle of the room. He quickly typed on the keyboard causing the table to light up and project a map of the area, base and tunnels underneath.

"We walked some more, but the ground shook again and the tunnel collapsed. Next thing I knew we were stuck in an underground river. It gets kinda spotty after that but the river eventually made it to the surface and became shallow enough that I could drag us both out. I have eyes on the enemy sir, they're not far from us," reported Barton.

Phil covered the mic with his hand as he turned to one of the techs frantically typing away at one of the computers. "Do we have their location yet?"

The tech shook his head, his fingers never losing contact from the keyboard. "The locator beacon in the radio appears to not be transmitting and something's interfering with our ability to trace the location of the radio signal."

"I guess we can confirm they do have all the neat toys intelligence believed they were developing," added Brody sullenly.

"What does this mean for our people on the ground?" snapped Coulson.

The tech shook his head apologetically turning his focus solely to the screen. "It means," elaborated Brody, "that we'll be looking for a needle in a hay stack. Even if we narrow our search to the river, it branches off in four different directions underground, coming up in four completely different locations all within enemy territory. There's no way to narrow it down without that locator and we don't have the resources right now to start combing the area."

"Those are our people out there, the Director of SHIELD. I'm not going to give up on them," stated Phil with an unwavering resolve. He didn't know how he was going to bring them home, but damn it, he was bringing them home. The rest could be figured out later. "Can we counter what's interfering with the signal triangulation?"

"We're trying sir," answered the tech.

Phil let out a long measured breath in preparation for sounding far more confident than he currently felt in their situation. He removed his hand from the mic. "Barton, we're having difficulty triangulating your signal. I'm going to need you to hold tight for a little while longer while we put together a rescue team. Can you do that for me?"

There was a long moment of silence and Coulson waited for the world to fall from under his feet. "Don't see as we have much of a choice sir. We'll be here, but please hurry. I'll check in in half an hour." And with that the connection ended, leaving everyone with the feeling of so close, but so far.

* * *

Clint's finger hovered over the talk button on the radio. It was time to check in, but part of him was terrified of what was going to happen if they couldn't find them. Stuck in the middle of the desert wasn't exactly conducive to harrowing plans of survival. If it was possible, Fury looked like he was getting worse and the metaphorical hour glass was spitting out its last grains of sand.

Focusing on the Director was a distraction from the archer's own deteriorating condition. It was the sheer stubborn streak that his father often threatened to beat out of him that kept the nausea, tremors and bone weary tiredness from consuming him in the warm, comfortable blanket of nothingness.

Clint closed his eyes and let his head drop forward taking a minute to prepare himself for the worse. Things just didn't work out for a screwed up, runaway, excarnie, and while he had absolute faith SHIELD would move heaven and Earth to retrieve the Director, he doubted he factored into that consideration. Especially if everyone in the organization believed he was a traitor, a fact Horn would have no doubt informed every breathing agent of by now.

"This is Barton reporting in."

A brief flash of static gave way to the calm cool voice of a radio technician. "Hold one moment Private Barton, connecting you with the Agent in charge."

Coulson's reassuring voice firmed up Clint's resolve. "Barton, what's your status?"

"Still hanging in there, that's our status sir. Made any progress on your end?" he asked, not entirely sure he was prepared for the answer. The long pause was answer enough and the archer felt his shoulders slump and the pain in his back flare anew.

"We've got the best tech guys on trying to triangulate your position and stop whatever's interfering with it, it's… it's just going to take a little time." They both knew it was the greatest lie Phil ever told and yet it had flowed smoothly over his tongue. SHIELD employed the best, but time was a foe not easily vanquished and it was currently working against all of them.

Infection was setting in for both of them, compounded by blood loss; neither had the luxury of believing false sentiment. "Yeah sure." Something needed to be done now.

"I need you to believe we're going to be there Barton," encouraged Phil, able to offer nothing but the false conviction in his own voice from so far away.

They were out of medical supplies and options. If they waited, SHIELD would be recovering bodies, not people. Clint nodded to himself as he began to form a plan and commit himself to his fate. He knew where there were medical supplies, probably doctors and a shot at keeping Fury alive long enough for rescue.

"We're close to an enemy base Coulson." The words were cold and hollow, spoken as mere facts rather than concern.

Phil struggled with a reply. It was easy to inspire confidence when resources were available and agents were trained, neither was the case here. SHIELD was still rallying, trying to reroute forces and receive approvals from higher ups like Alexander Pierce who were pushing for results, but bound by red tape. Then there was the soldier in question; a young kid plucked from the darkness with a promise of hope, whose loyalty was in question and his training incomplete. Coulson had had missions go spectacularly sideways and still played out better than the current predicament dropped in his lap.

"They'd keep him alive right?" asked Barton.

"Who?"

"Fury. If the enemy found him, they'd keep him alive right, being the Director and all."

"Yes… it's in their best interest to interrogate those with high level clearance. Where are you going with this Barton?" Phil's voice wavered, dread and fear tearing apart his carefully constructed Agent shell.

"So they won't shoot the Director point blank?"

There was a quiet youthfulness in the voice that made Phil shudder, prompting a panicked, "What are you thinking?"

Silence. Clint knew that Coulson understood, he didn't need to put it in words; which was good because if he said it out loud he might lose his nerve.

"Barton, listen to me." His voice was panicked, the words coming fast and hard. "Just hang tight. Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't."

"I have to do something now. You know where their strong holds are. It will narrow down your search and you can get the director back."

There was wisdom in the plan, a certain logic that someone that young shouldn't be able to project. It was heroic in a way that many aspired to but would never actually see through. "Barton. They have no use for you. I can't guarantee they won't…"

"I have to do something."

"We're coming for you…"

"Yeah, sure." Another moment passed in nail biting silence. "Why?"

The question threw Coulson as much as frailness of it. "Say again."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this sir?" No one ever did anything out of the goodness of their heart, not in his world. There were always strings attached; they might be invisible at times, but they were still there, weaving their way around him until the noose was good and tight. "I know what everyone thinks. I know what Horn's probably told you by now and I know how it looks."

"And how does it look?" asked Phil, removing all emotion from his voice. He couldn't afford to allow the war between his beliefs and hopes show to anyone. They were all looking to him, at him to be the one in charge, the one to make the hard decisions.

"Like I'm screwed sir."

"You just need to hang in there and help will be on the way. We're coming for you Barton." Clint snorted over the comm. and Phil could picture the eye roll that went along with it. He tried to sound reassuring, but life had shown him that the moment you think you have a situation figured out, you were already screwed. Coulson couldn't be one hundred percent sure about the archer until he brought him back to SHIELD. Friend or foe; either way end with Coulson bringing him in, but he wanted to commit completely to the idea that it was a rescue mission and not a target retrieval. He had to be sane and realistic, not paranoid or cynical as many around him were.

The false comfort hurt more than outright hostility that should be directed at him. Coulson was the epitome of truth, justice, hell he was the reincarnation of the pillar of virtue that he held in high regard and worshiped at the altar of: Captain America. "Why are you doing this sir?"

Phil found the words following freely off of his tongue. "You're my asset. I brought you in and promised you we'd get you on track. Can't do that if you're wandering in the desert or rotting in some hellhole."

"You always go to bat for people that kill your partner's kid?" bit out the archer. Betrayal wasn't very becoming of Coulson and he wasn't going to force the man to continue the facade.

Phil was momentarily paralyzed; it was like being gutted all over again. He had locked the events in a box, it was necessary if he was going to be able to give Barton a fair shake. But now, the cracks were forming, releasing memories Phil had shut out to protect himself. Ignoring it had not only spared him the difficulty of the events, but it had protected Barton and his future career. His thumb pressed the talk button several times, but his couldn't find his voice.

How could he even begin to explain? Never mind his promise to Fury and his loyalty to those involved, how was he going to soften the blow to a young man that was standing on the edge. "You weren't supposed to know about that." He had agreed to Fury's clean slate/motivation plan as it was as much a punishment for both of them as it was a reward. Phil had ignore his orders and in doing the right thing, had to keep his knowledge and feelings on the situation to himself.

"Yeah, well, people talk. For a spy organization, people sure have big mouths around here," explained Barton. The whispers followed him like a shadow, it was hard not to notice. Fury's accusation was really only a logical escalation and conclusion to draw. Truly, some people just weren't worth saving.

"I'll take that under advisement and see the situation rectified." Phil knew he was hiding behind formality and image, but it was the only way he was going to stay in control.

"You still haven't told me why."

Coulson turned his back to the other people in the room and leaned in closer to the mic, voice dropping to a whisper, in some vain illusion that made it so no one would hear. "You're not the cold blooded killer you think you are. There is a good man inside of you that just needs a little polishing, someone to believe in you." It surprised Phil just how desperately he wanted to believe Barton was just some scared kid who had gotten a bad hand at life.

"How strong do you believe?"

Coulson found himself back in the dark alley where he had cornered Barton. That tired, used up kid had burned himself into Phil's memory. _"What are you waiting for? Just do it already! Please." _A few different decisions in life and Phil could have very well found himself on the opposite side of that scenario. Suddenly, Phil realized he knew whether Barton being a traitor was true or not. "Wholeheartedly."

"Well we'll see about that. Thank you… for this opportunity sir. I won't disappoint you," replied Barton before static filled the comm. and the tenuous connection between them was severed.

Clint looked ahead to the looming base in the distance. He wanted to live up to the impossible image Coulson had unfathomably created in his head. He wasn't a traitor yet, but he wasn't dumb enough to know what happened when you feel into the hands of the enemy. Assuming he would live long enough to regret his decision, there would be the inevitable conversation to learn what he knew.

The archer knew all about loyalty. He'd seen it up close and personal and on the tip of a bullet. Doing the right thing was hard, Clint wrestled everyday with his fear about his natural and genetic disposition to taking the 'easy way.' He had watched his drunken, con man father take his frustrations out on the nearest body; an easy way to let off a little steam, cheap therapy for a raging alcoholic. He watched as Barney took to a life of crime like a fish to water during their early days at the circus; the easiest way to survive, to get 'rich' was to liberate things from people too dumb or too nice to do it to someone else. Clint had willingly followed his big brother down that path because it was easier to go with the flow than against it.

Despite what people thought, Barton didn't have a death wish. He had bartered every piece of his soul; he had taken to being a mercenary to earn money quick and fast to survive. Others died so Clint could live. Now he was going to be at the hands of the enemy who would no doubt use every trick in the book to get him to talk, assuming they didn't put a bullet in his head out right. He was going to be facing the hard choice of holding what he knew about SHIELD, about an organization that had taken a chance on him, a man in a suit that had despite having every reason not to, trusted him, and making it easier on himself by caving to anything the enemy would undoubtedly demand.


	10. So Here's to Drinks in the Dark at the E

**Chapter 10: So Here's to Drinks in the Dark at the End of my Road**

The awkward static filled the room as the radio connection was ended. A heavy melancholy hung in the air pinning everyone under its weight. Phil's hand clutched the edge of the console until his knuckles were white and screaming in pain, as his mind raced every improbable scenario he could conceive to aid the stranded agents.

"Sir, we need to do something. Permission to scramble a team and start… somewhere?" There was a note of pleading in Brody's voice. One didn't have to be best friends with the missing agents to want to help; there was a certain camaraderie that came with a SHIELD badge. It was an unspoken promise that one would lay down their life for another because you never knew when you'd need someone to go to extraordinary lengths to bail your ass out of the fire. It didn't hurt in this case that Rylan felt a smidge responsible in a roundabout domino effect sort of way.

There was protocol to follow, authorization required to storm foolhardy into enemy territory and start what could potentially turn into a war. At the moment, Coulson couldn't give a damn. Things were too murky, too muddy. If ever he needed a risk analysis and outside opinion for a mission it was now. Even if he had either of those, there was only three outcomes: A) Barton was a spy and Coulson was going to play right into his hand even more, B) Barton was innocent and depending on his for rescue, or C) Phil was going to take action, to give assistance and fail to get there in time.

Phil nodded before his voice caught up with him. "Yes. A small incursion team, survey and confirm target, but do not engage in all out warfare without SHIELD backup. And take Crewe, he's supposed to be on base and has successfully infiltrated two of their facilities," ordered the senior agent.

"Right," snapped Brody standing at attention and offering Coulson a salute of respect. He turned quickly on his heels only to stop abruptly and look back at Coulson. "What about you sir, won't you catch a lot of flak for this?"

"I'll worry about the higher ups, you just find Barton and Fury so I can bring the cavalry."

Brody left the command center at a quick pace, making his way through the base with practiced ease. He'd pulled his fair share of impossible missions, had opportunities to work with the best, and thus his list for a small strike team wasn't hard to formulate. He rounded up his first four team members without much convincing, the last was going to be a tougher sell.

Brody made his way through the hanger, his eyes finding no one but the members of the maintenance crew despite being peeled for his target. He leaned against the side of one of the test Quinjets that SHIELD was rolling out based on designs from one of their founding members and recently constructed technology from one of the US's military weapons contractors, contemplating how to track down the man in question.

"The answer's no," sounded from under the jet and Brody leaned over to take a closer look.

The creeper rolled out from underneath, clearing just far enough for the grease stained agent to sit up without banging his head on the underbelly of the jet. He wiped his hands on the rag he pulled from the loop in his flight jumper before getting up and moving towards the work bench.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask," protested Brody half heartedly. Damian cocked an eyebrow expectantly. "I need you for a rescue…"

"No."

"… mission to rescue…"

Damian raised his hand to forestall the rest of Rylan's story. "You're a trouble magnet. I don't need that in my life. There's a reason I switched out from active agent status to just being a pilot. The only trouble that comes my way is the trouble I find, not the stuff that gets dumped on me from others. With all the other agents kicking around, you can find someone else," he suggested, turning to scrutinize some gadget on the workbench with singular focus. As an afterthought he added, "Someone better."

Brody let out a sign while looking rather unimpressed with the man's token protest. "You're middle name's trouble. Besides, there's no one better and if I can't count on my friend to come on dangerous missions with me…"

"Friends? I think you need to look that word up in the dictionary; you're using it wrong," protested Damian.

"We have to go save the Director's ass," informed Brody, dropping any form of formality in favor of facts.

Damian turned around, looking a little more interested. "Your request just got more interesting."

"Coulson ordered me to get you for the rescue op's strike team, Crewe."

"You should have lead with that," replied Damian heading for the door with an enthusiasm that oozed from every pore. "I like him better than you. I need ten minutes to grab my gear."

* * *

Clint paused just outside the perimeter of the enemy base. Fury was heavy slung over his shoulder, but the real weight bearing down on him was self-preservation screaming at him to flee. It was a long shot at best that he could hope the enemy didn't actually know what their informant looked like. The courier that he had run down in the desert definitely hadn't been on the base to acquire the documents and information he had with him, meaning someone had passed the information along to him. Maybe, just maybe he could convince them that he was the one passing the information along; buy himself a little time for Coulson to pull off an impossible rescue.

Fury's head lulled to the side as he let out a small groan. It was entirely too hot and he didn't think the desert climate had anything to do with it. He blinked at the blurry building before him and wondered if they had actually stumbled upon someone or if he could add hallucinations to his list of ailments. Barton tensed up underneath him as they came to stuttered halt. The building before them started to become clearer as Fury's anger began to boil. It was the enemy's stronghold and Barton was walking them straight for it. If ever a situation required a giant 'I told you so' this was it.

"I thought you said you weren't the son of a bitch betraying SHIELD and everything we stand for," the Director snarled over the mechanical grinding of the door in the well fortified wall surrounding the base began to open.

Barton's gaze didn't lose any of its determination, but there was a flicker of resignation that washed over his features. "I have a plan. You're just going to have to trust me!" he growled between clenched teeth as heavily armed men cautiously approached from behind their concrete fortress.

"Throw your weapons on the ground, get on your knees and put your hands in the air," barked one of the brown clad men with a Middle Eastern accent Barton couldn't quite place. The ten approaching men were probably overkill but had either been at one hundred percent, it might have actually been warranted. All were at the ready, guns pointed at the men brave or foolish enough to walk up to the front door.

Clint slowly dropped his backpack from his shoulder, raising his free hand away from himself. Careful as to not jostle either of their aching and damaged bodies, he lowered them down to a kneeling position as requested.

In a no-nonsense voice, Fury whispered, "I trusted people before and let's just say, I see clearer now because of it." There was an underlying threat to the words that caused a shudder to run down Clint's spine. It was a promise he knew he could count on should the bad guys not beat Fury to the punch. He wasn't sure who he feared more.

Rough hands pulled the archer's arms painfully behind his back allowing one of the men to secure his wrists. He bit down on his tongue to stifle his groan as his back twisted to accommodate his new position; he quickly expelled the glob of blood that welled up. The hard and unforgiving plastic chord bit into Clint's wrists. There was no way he was going to break these by brute strength alone, presenting the first of his many problems in his implausible plan to survive his plan.

The hot sand rushed up to meet Barton's face as a happy gun toting guard introduced the butt of his gun to the back of the young agent's back. Coughing and sputtering up sand, Clint lost track of the Director as he was thoroughly searched for any weapons or things of value. As his SHEILD issued belongs were confiscated, it was times like this that he was glad he didn't have his much beloved bow. The thought of these men putting their dirty paws all over it was a crime in and of itself.

"This one's definitely not worth our time," called one of the men and Clint twisted his head around to attempt to figure out which one of them they were talking about.

"Shoot both of them and be done with it," suggested another man.

Barton soon felt the all too familiar press of cold steel against his temple. His heart hammered in his chest as his rapid breathing failed to provide enough oxygen to his burning lungs. Fear coiled like a snake in his gut as a cold tingling spread through his limbs. He had faced the end many times before, far more than anyone of the tender age of nineteen ever should. Most of the time he had been asking for it and while he could never say he wanted to die, this was the first time that he actually had something worth living for. The dark rain clouds that overshadowed his life had been thinning and threatening to part and now some nameless henchman was going to end it all over nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fury similarly being pulled to his knees and a gun being pressed to his temple.

"Wait!" Clint croaked. He'd never begged for his own life, but he found himself being willing to beg for the Director's. "Do you know who that is?"

He could feel the heat from Fury's glare even if he couldn't see the look of utter loathing directed at him. The guns never wavered but the quiet murmurs of a private conversation could be made out in the background. The language was unfamiliar and the archer had to rely on tone to try and figure out if things were going his way or not.

"You're SHIELD scum," replied the man that had ordered them to kneel on the ground, apparently having been elected the English translator. It wasn't hard to spot who was in charge; the short stout man kept to the middle of the hoard, watching quietly and only speaking to the first man.

"Yes, but that man is important," started Barton, directing his protest at the one in charge, hoping to see some sign of interest or understanding.

"Shut up Bart-!" shouted the Director, only to be violently cut off by a vicious backhand to the face.

The leader shouted an order to the man who hit Fury in his native language causing the offending party to stand at attention. Casually, he sauntered over to Clint. The man grabbed a hold of Barton's chin with enough force to leave deep bruises and wrenched his head up so they could clearly see each other in the eye. "And what is so special about this one?" he asked in the slow drawl of someone who was speaking in a tongue they weren't quite masterful with.

"That is the Director of SHIELD."

The leader glanced towards their second prisoner, scrutinizing the potential prize brought before him. "You would say anything to save your worthless hide, I think. Why would someone so important come knocking on my door?" he questioned with a slight gleam in his eye like a cat toying with a mouse.

"He needs medical attention," explained Barton. He swallowed hard to steel himself to committing fully to his plan. "Besides, I figured what better prize to offer since I didn't deliver my last package."

The leader cocked his head to the side and Clint felt like a bug under a microscope. Neither said anything for a moment, but they also weren't listening to Fury's rant promising righteous vindication upon Barton's ass should the opportunity present itself.

"And just what package were you supposed to send me?"

"Blueprints, surveillance photos, all the documentation regarding the real reason SHIELD was working in the area," professed the archer, hoping there was enough of an edge in his voice to sell the idea.

Looking skeptical the leader asked, "You are the Koala?"

It took everything he had not to scrunch his face at the code name. Weren't agents supposed to pick something that put fear into the hearts of their enemies; especially double agents? More importantly was it so ridiculous that there was no way it wasn't a set up? "Yes." The word didn't sound quite sure to his own ears.

The breath whooshed out of Clint's body as he found himself off balance and falling face first into the sand. Before he could figure out what hit him, he felt strong fingers grab a fist full of hair pulling his head awkwardly up and a fist slam hard into his face. His head snapped back with the impact, but his assailant didn't loosen his grip. After three more punches, the hand finally loosened and he flopped back into the sand boneless.

A wet choke worked its way from Barton's throat as he weakly attempted to force aching muscles to turn him over. Blood poured freely down his face and down the back of his throat and though it hurt like hell, he didn't believe his nose had been broken. With his reprieve from his assault, the frantic sounds of the leader trying to restore order permeated the fog rolling through the archer's brain.

"Restrain him and do it right this time!"

Clint lazily rolled his head towards the commotion to see two guards trying to restrain Fury. The Director was fighting like a man possessed. Blood dripped from his knuckles as he fought to free himself from the guard and get back to his target; Clint's blood. The archer tenderly probed his face to feel the damage as he tried to block out the hissing and spitting being directed at him by Fury.

It wasn't the first time he had been called a traitor. The rant was eerily reminiscent of the hate filled speech Barney had given him the last time he had seen him. It had hurt then and while Barton had promised himself he'd never let anyone else in a position to hurt him like that again, it hurt now. He was surprised that the agency had worked its way so deeply into his sense of being, to be able to match the pain he had felt with Barney.

With the Director now firmly restrained, another painful moment passed in silence only to be broken by manic laughter from the leader. He closed the distance between himself and Clint, slapping the archer hard on the shoulder in a playful manner. "It would appear SHIELD does not take kindly to deception. You have brought a much better prize than just the project information," he chuckled. Turning to the man still standing guard over Barton, he ordered, "Untie him and take his present here to the doctor."

The guard nodded before reaching down and pulling the knife strapped to his ankle free. In a quick motion the restraints were cut and Clint's arms fell loosely to his side.

"Come Koala, we must have a drink in celebration," cheered the leader, wrapping his arm over Barton's shoulder and dragging him along as though they were old friends from school.

Clint tried to appear relaxed, like he belonged, while trying to keep an eye on where they were dragging Fury and how they were treating him. For better or worse, they were being walked into the lion's den.


	11. And Given Half the Chance Would I Take A

**Chapter 11: And Given Half the Chance Would I Take Any of it Back**

Compared to the blessing of medical treatment and water, where he was led next was paradise, a small piece of luxury seeming out of place in the inhospitable sands of the land. Truthfully, it reminded Barton of the penthouse suite he'd conned his way into during one rebellious night in Vegas. He'd surrounded himself with the finest things Vegas could offer, under a stolen name attached to a stolen credit card of some young privileged brat of a man of industry. While the experience was an exercise in indulgence, excess, and celebration he had never truly relaxed in the lap of such solidly conned opulence, not unlike now.

His lie had been bought with the cost of his soul but as he had learned at a young age, his soul didn't have much to offer. The universe had two shoes and the other was due to drop. Allowing himself to reap the spoils of his lie would only blind him to his inevitable fate.

This in mind, he couldn't help but watch the burgundy liquid swirl and splash in the hand crafted crystal glasses that had been set on the elaborate wooden table. His host had assured him of the wine's pedigree; a celebratory drink for the impending victory.

Though it wasn't much to look at on the outside, the fortress hosted several large rooms dressed in golden accents and fine silks. A bubbling fountain adorned the middle of the room spilling precious water in such a wasteful manner as to elevate its owner to higher level of standing than the men he commanded. The greater the opulence, the greater the whims of the mad men that dwelled within them and the archer knew he was going to have to stand the eccentrics of a man with less sanity that most.

"Please, drink up," offered the older man, as he handed the fine crystal stemware to Clint.

Barton politely took the drink, but placed it carefully on the table. "Alcohol's not really conducive to blood loss." He raised his arms to show off his various cuts and scrapes hoping to deflect from the stiff way he was carrying himself and his current weakness.

"This wine is two centuries old. It would be a shame to have it go to waste," the leader prompted, taking his own glass and sitting down at the other end of the table.

Clint eyed the glass and the guards at the door equally. The air crackled with the unspoken order to drink up as all eyes fixed on him while itchy trigger fingers slowly coiled around their destinations. The conversation took on a painful lull as the archer wrapped his hand around the stem of the glass and moved it towards his lips.

It was bitter in Clint's mouth and a not so subtle reminder that a wayward kid from Iowa was never going to aspire to high society. He nodded gratefully as a butler placed a golden trimmed plate of triangular sandwiches in front of him. It wasn't quite the comfort food it advertised as; the meat wasn't identifiable and the spread had a unfamiliar tang, but his rumbling stomach wasn't going to complain.

The butler moved elegantly towards the host and passed over a crisply folded white paper, before taking his leave. The older man read the note, a small smile working its way into the corner of his mouth. "It appears the doctor was able to stabilize your friend. He should be in good condition to travel with us."

Clint tried to keep the relief off his face. Stabilized was good; probably wasn't the same definition that SHIELD would use to describe the Director's condition, but the man was alive. "He's not my friend," offered Barton a little coldly.

"Right," conceded the host, a wicked smile crinkling his eyes. "The enemy couldn't possibly be your friend since you work for us."

An icy ball of dread exploded in the pit of Barton's stomach, sending shards of cold fear stabbing into every inch of him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. "Righ-," he slurred around numb lips. Despite the room starting to spin, he glanced around for something, anything that could be used as a weapon. Sluggishly his arm tried to follow his command to reach for the butter knife that had been sitting beside his plate as his host slide out of his chair and made his way over to Clint.

Barton let out a hiss as a rough hand yanked hard on a fist full of his hair, wrenching his head back so he could look his host in the eye. "You think we're stupid?" snarled the man, spit flying out of his mouth. "That I wouldn't know what my own contact looks like?"

"Well if the shoe fits," mumbled Barton fighting the growing urge to close his eyes and collapse in a heap. A sharp pain exploded in the back of his head and his last thought before it all went black was it was worth a shot.

* * *

A soft groan slipped past the archer's lips as he lulled his head to the side a little in a useless attempt to alleviate the kink in his neck. It felt like a huge chunk of his head was missing and he dreaded prying his eyes open to face the harsh light of morning after the bender he must have gone on. The last time he had felt this hungover had been when he, Barney, and Rick, the knife thrower's son, had stolen a case of whisky off the back of a delivery truck when they'd been sent into town to grab some medical supplies for one of the injured tigers.

It wasn't until he tried to rub away the thick and dried substance sealing one of his eyes shut that he realized his hands were tied at his sides. With one bleary eye, he lifted his heavy head and glanced around the darkened room. Definitely not his bunk at the circus; not even some rundown flea bag hotel he was holing up in. Prying his other eye open with painful effort he caught sight of the blood that had clear run down the side of his head to drip down the front of his shirt. Someone had gotten in a cheap shot after he had been knockout from a combination of a blow and dosed wine.

The bindings around his wrists had little give and what little he had to work with had been stripped away when his captors took everything, but his t-shirt and boxers. There wasn't a square inch of him that hadn't ached before he lost consciousness and now he had spots that were protesting twice as hard. If things hadn't been looking all that good before, he'd definitely found a new level of hell to try and weasel his way through.

"You SHEILD agents believe you are so smart," started the older man from his chair in the corner of the room. Two large, well muscled men stood at either side of him, fists curled around brass rings and Clint knew instinctively what was about to happen. "You come into my home and think I'm stupid enough to not know the people in my employ or those of my colleagues?"

The rhetorical question was punctuated with a solid right hook by the first of the two guards to step towards Barton. His head snapped to the side and fresh blood ran flowed from his lip. He wasn't going to be able to talk his way out of this one, but the smart thing to do would be to keep his mouth shut. As Barney had constantly told him, Clint had never been very smart. "Well you are dumb enough to mess with SHIELD in the first place," he coughed around a mouthful of blood.

Another punch, this time from the other side; Clint had to blink a few times to get the spots dancing in his vision to disappear.

"You do well to mind your tongue boy. Though you should feel free to let it wag with any information you might have in regards to my newest contact."

A desperate laugh bubbled up in the archer as he spit a blob of coagulated blood on the cold cement floor. "I'm not going to tell you anything. You're men are just going to end up with sore wrists."

"We'll see about that. I paid a lot of money for that information and was promised the very best asset would deliver it. I highly doubt a dumb kid like you're self got the better or someone with such a reputation…"

"As Koala?" The next punch rocked the archer's whole body.

"You will tell me what you know about the asset," promised the older man as his second guard selected something shiny and pointy from a tray off to the side.

Barton swallowed the lump in his throat. He had missed the tray of party favors sitting in the corner of the dank dark cell; it didn't bode well for his current state, which certainly didn't need the Neanderthal twins unleashing their testosterone fuelled rage upon him.

"Let's begin shall we?"

* * *

The ground came rushing up to Clint and there wasn't anything he could do about it. The arms that were supporting him as his nearly dragged lifeless body was dragged through the complex, suddenly released to where there was no hope of him getting his arms out to break the fall. Everything hurt so much already, that the impact with the floor barely registered, even as his face scraped against the rough floor. The cell door clanged shut behind him, echoing around the barren cell. The footsteps of his captors disappeared completely before Barton even let the idea of moving to a more comfortable position cross his mind; not that he'd be able to find one.

Slowly he inched his knees up into a fetal position, pausing to catch his breath. He needed a new word beside pain to describe the constant and unrelenting agony that had seized him. Tears threatened to spill as a gut wrenching sob fought against every ounce of control and resolve he possessed. He'd be damned if he would give any of them the satisfaction of seeing him cry, even if it was the only response he felt he had left. Tears were a piece of himself that he swore he'd never give to anyone. The few times in his life that had shown that particular weakness, it had been exploited by others for their own personal gain. This is the hand he had been dealt; another shitty one in a long line of shitty ones, but he had long ago learned to work with what he had been given or rather what he hadn't been given.

Ever so slowly, so as not to awaken the sleeping dragon of torment within, he slithered to the side of the cell and collapsed against the bars. The cold metal felt wonderful against his hot skin as he pondered how long it would take for things like blood loss, infection or trauma to kill someone.

"What part of your plan is this?"

Clint's head shot up, pangs of dizziness and aching quickly reminding him that wasn't such the brightest course of action. The idea that he wasn't alone hadn't even been a thought, yet sitting in the corner of the adjoining cell was the Director. Currently he looked better than Barton had imagined he did. There were fresh white bandages around his chest and arms, with a tray of edible looking food and water within arms' reach. The archer wasn't batting a thousand, but at least he got something right.

Turning himself so he was sitting more upright, Clint put on a forced half smile. "This is the part where I wear down their fists with my face."

"How's that working out for you?" asked Fury with cold indifference that had an aftertaste of amusement of Barton's current situation.

"Got them right where I want them sir," he answered, finally taking in his surroundings. Screwed didn't even begin to cover it.

"I can see that. Amar didn't like what his dog brought him?"

"Amar?" asked Barton only half listening to the chilling calm voice beside him. His hand gently probed his chest causing him to wince as he came to a particularly tender spot.

"The sociopath you climbed in bed with Barton." His voice rose a little bit, but it wasn't worth it unleash his anger. Metal bars separated Fury from his target, but he was a patient man; he could wait. If he didn't teach Barton that you didn't betray SHIELD Coulson would see to it; even is the agent had to hunt the archer to the ends of the Earth to do it. He only hoped that Amar wouldn't deprive him of the chance of doing it himself, despite the underlying justice there would be to have the traitor betrayed.

"Does the thought even cross your pea brain mind to trust me?" asked Clint with a huff of frustration. He had to hold strong, it was the only thing he had left. Too many times he had taken the path of least resistance and it had gotten him nowhere, but further into the pit of darkness that twisted and corrupted his soul. Proving everyone right would be the easy thing to do right now, to let his lips spill everything he knew the next time a sharp knife was brandished in front of him but despite what Fury would answer, Clint knew he couldn't do it.

"I trusted someone once," began Fury, rubbing his eye patch, "let's just say I see better now because of it." It was hard lesson in betrayal, but it served as a constant reminder to never become too complacent with people. There was a very small exception of people that weren't out for themselves.

"Here was the only help available. You might be ready to die for your ideals, but there's a bunch of people back at our base that aren't ready to let that happen. Believe me, this is the last place I want to be!" Clint swallowed hard as he pressed his head against the cold bars. He probably wasn't going to receive any warmer of a welcome back with SHIELD. His cohorts weren't exactly rooting for him to start with. Betrayal, whether true or not was going to be a death nail in his coffin. Barton realized that no matter what happened, what the truth was, he was once again without a home. The only difference this time, was he thought he might be okay with it, if it meant that he had protected the only good thing that had happened in his life, no matter how brief. "Walking into this shit storm wasn't for my benefit, it was for yours!"

"And you're just all about doing what's right for other people, aren't you?"

Barton sucked in a ragged breath. It was a low blow.

"Petty theft, grand theft, extortion, fraud, assault, arson, murder, and all before the age of twenty one, but please, stop me when I get to a part that's not true. I know your kind," snapped Fury, leveling himself up against the bars of his cell. "You look out for number one, doesn't matter what it costs the people around you. All that matters is the easy score, the quick gratification, whatever makes it easier for you to squirm and slither your way through life while good men pay the price, while they sacrifice for snakes like you. Don't tell me about sacrifice Barton. I order far better men than you to their deaths for the greater good every day."

"And how would you know if people are capable of change if you never give them the chance?" The words hung there in the empty space of a cold dank prison, illuminated by the truth of the situation.

Looking at the beaten and broken kid before him, Fury thought back to another young man that had been the biggest gamble of his life. It was a gut decision that changed the course of history not only for himself, but a juvenile delinquent that would be a trust side kick during war and a right hand man in a world where everyone was out to get you; the long shot gamble that had paid off in spades. Now Coulson was asking him to take that chance on someone else.

There was no point in continuing the rouse. Little could be gained by putting himself through this when they had their prize cooling his heels in their cell. There was no point in Barton working so hard to keep up appearances when he could claim Fury had died and return to SHEILD to continue his work for Amar. There was nothing to gain by trying to win over the Director's sympathy or friendship. It occurred to Nick that there was a small remote chance that Barton and Coulson were cut from the same cloth; that all the kid needed was a chance to do the right thing.

A door outside the room creaked open allowing the ongoing thud of combat boots to trail down the hall and warn the prisoners of the guards impending arrival. Barton and Fury locked eyes for a moment, each aware of what was going to happen when the men entered the room.

As the key turned over the lock to the door where the cells were, Fury asked, "Knowing what you know now, would you go back and change any of it?"

The guards opened Clint's cell and roughly hauled him to his feet. Staying vertical by virtue of their strong grip only, the archer was dragged out of the cell. Just before he disappeared beyond the door he answered, "No."


	12. I'm always Dragging that Horse Around T

**Chapter 12: I'm always Dragging that Horse Around; Tonight I Gonna Bury that Horse in the Ground **

"Miss me already?" grunted Clint as he was manhandled before Amar. The older man didn't answer, simply nodded to the man to the archer's left who in turn, reintroduced Clint to his meaty fist. There wasn't really a spot left that wasn't black and blue, which made the hit hurt all the more. A small trickle of blood rolled over his top lip and dribbled off of his chin. The thug to Barton's right released his bindings, allowing his arms to flop forward. After having them pulled back for so long, it should have been a relief to have them free, but the fierceness of the ache grew. Hesitantly he rubbed at his torn up wrists.

"Put that on," ordered Amar from what could only be described as a half hazard attempt of a throne.

Clint glanced over to the black leather coat tossed over the back of a nearby chair. The coat was eerily familiar. "You're letting me join your biker gang? Not really my spee.."

Pain exploded as Barton's gut forcefully absorbed the fist being driven into it. His feet, which he hadn't been too steady for awhile, stood no chance of keeping him up in the wake of such a hit. Even his moan of agony died quickly as the air fled his body under protest. Crumpled on the floor, he watched as a pair of combat boots came into view. Helpless to stop the ensuing kicking, he tried to curl up into a tighter ball to protect his aching ribs. Perhaps it would be better to just let the maniac smash his rib, puncture a lung and let the inevitable end of the whole situation take place. Yet, if there was one thing Barton was always dumb enough to follow through with, it was a beat down.

"Enough," sighed Amar, looking to all the world as though he was bored.

The violent pummeling stopped, but there was no reprieve, no moment for the archer to catch his breath. If it wasn't for his two friends, he never would have managed anything resembling vertical. The coat was thrust at him and unceremoniously draped over his shoulders as his arms were forced, at angles that were almost impossible into the sleeves.

A cold feeling settled in his gut as the air whooshed through the bullet hole in the coat. No one had even bothered to try and clean the blood off of it. It was far too long and too baggy on such a small frame; then again, a punk assed little twerp wasn't meant to be the Director of SHIELD.

"There, see? That wasn't so bad. I do not understand why you have to make everything so difficult. Are you stupid or just reckless?" commented Amar, descending his throne like a king and circling Barton like a vulture.

"To be fair, a little if column A, a little of column B," he retorted, bracing for what should be a blow. None was forthcoming.

"Your friends are sticking their noses where they don't belong. Perhaps some cowboy rescue you are famous for in all those Hollywood movies, yes?" Clint didn't rise to the bait, just stood there as the older man eyed him up like a predator ready to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. "I'm not ready to give up my, how do you say it, golden goose, just yet."

Barton sucked in a startled gasp as a black hood was pulled tightly over his head and tied firmly around his neck.

"You're of no real use to me, so I have decided to have you executed. But before you face the firing squad, you will do me the favor of distracting your people long enough for me and your leader to disappear. They'll be so busy trying to follow you, they'll never notice us leaving out the back way," chuckled Amar as his men dragged Clint out of the room.

* * *

Crewe adjusted the sight on his binoculars, moving them across the complex to follow the modicum of activity taking place within the complex walls. The warm sand pressed against him was an afterthought in comparison to the impatient energy raining down on him from Brody laying next to him.

"Well?" asked Brody impatiently.

"We have a truck preparing to leave out the west gate, with what looks like several armed men. They're definitely prepared for a party," reported Crewe dutifully, while keeping his irritation to himself. Brody was always impulsive, but surprisingly obsessive over micromanaging every little detail to the point where one wanted to ask if the man would prefer to do it himself. Crewe had long ago learned not to give into that particular impulse because the answer was almost always yes, which on the surface seemed like a fine arrangement, until Brody got himself in over his head and it almost always fell to Crewe to bail him out.

"Let me see," said Brody, yanking the binoculars out of Crewe's hands. Brody silently watched the activity below, safe and concealed in his perch on top of one of the many sand dunes a few miles from the enemy stronghold. It was a shot in the dark as to which base to try first but based on the activity, at the very least something was going on that SHIELD should disrupt. It was a catch fifty-two mission. By attacking one base, blind as to whether or not they would find their missing people there or not, they could inadvertently blow their element of surprise. If the base holding the Director and Barton learned SHIELD had mustered enough of a force to retaliate, they might kill their hostages out right.

"I think we need to move on this now," barked Brody.

"I'll radio the team and let them know," replied Crewe pulling out his radio. The rest of the team had stayed further back; it was safer to have two men move into an observable position as opposed to a whole strike team. A full mobilized force of SHIELD combatants had situated themselves equal distance between all three suspected outposts for a faster response time to which ever destination they were called to, but it put them further out than the waiting strike team.

"You do that." Brody was already standing and hefting his gear bag over his shoulder.

Crewe offered him a scowl. "What are you doing?"

"If they're in there then we need to move on this now."

"No."

"Yes," retorted Brody with as much conviction as Crewe before him.

"Nope," sounded Damian again, with a tone that implied he was putting his foot down. Too many times he had to chase after Brody of some half brained scheme when protocol dictated a better option.

"Yes!"

"What part of no are you having trouble with exactly?" he asked with a no bullshit glare.

Rylan shrugged. "Clearly the whole concept."

"We wait on the rest of the team and then we move," countered Crewe, remembering with crystal clarity why he preferred the sleek curves of an aircraft over people; particularly Brody.

"You wait, I'm going to take this opportunity to give us the upper hand and maybe gather some intel on where are people are before the cavalry shows up and blows the hell out of that base," called Brody over his shoulder as he began his journey towards breaching the walls of the ominous fortress in the distance.

"And he wonders why I hate him," Crewe muttered to himself while trying to rub away the increasing pressure of a building headache along his forehead. Reaching into his vest pocket he pulled out his radio to call up the rest of the strike team and relay their position to the reinforcements Coulson had waiting.

* * *

Clint was hauled along at a pace he couldn't adequately keep up with. Several stumbles had earned him a few very pointed reminders that the men escorting him had no problem dragging a dead body along with them as opposed to a live one. It wasn't that the base had been air conditioned, but he knew he had stepped outside when the direct rays of the scorching sun kissed the black bag covering his face and neck.

He had taken a chance and now was going to pay for his mistake. It seemed every time he tried to do the right thing, he came up short. Clint wasn't stupid, he had known it was a longshot at best. Technically, he had kept the Director alive and currently Amar was planning on keeping him alive, but it was the part where he was potentially going to be used against SHIELD that bothered him. Despite everything that Coulson had told him since the agent ran him down in that alley, Barton knew it was going to end with a bullet and some unkind face looming over him. Some things were just meant to be.

He tried to roll as one of the goons threw him into the back of a truck, the hot metal burning at the exposed skin of his stomach as his shirt twisted up. He hit the back of the cab with little force but his current state made it feel as though he slammed against it. With a start, the vehicle roared to life creating a slight tremor that rattled the back compartment. He silently prayed that any help SHIELD had managed to send wouldn't be fooled by Amar's ploy. "Barton… look after the Director."

His final objective had been to keep the director safe; Coulson had counted on him and now it was out of his hands. If in the end SHIELD rescued Fury, then his short miserable life would have some value; a footnote of genuine significance where he contributed to the universal good instead of tainting it. It all might be bearable if something worthwhile came of everything he had gone through but the reality was he was going to fail, he had failed, and that burned all the more than anything Amar and his goons had inflicted. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift on the motion of the vehicle. Disappointment was hard to swallow, whether it was letting down his abusive father, his selfish brother, his first love Katya, or Adian the small kid that thought he saw a glimmer or something decent on Barton, but Coulson, the first person to believe that the archer had some small shred of humanity worth saving, that hurt all the more.

* * *

Coulson passed off his hand radio to the nearest officer and placed his earpiece snugly in his ear. He turned to the men waiting at attention for the word to launch their rescue mission. "I just received word that our scouting team believes they have the location of where the Director is being held. We have a green light to go," he commanded, his forces already in motion.

There was something reassuring about the precision and speed at which SHIELD moved and Phil took comfort in it. It was the calm before the blood bath that was on the horizon. Plan for the worst and hope for the best, it was the motto for any given mission; the stakes for this particular mission however, had never felt higher. It wasn't a matter of saving the world, it was personal. This was his best friend in the whole world in need of Coulson's help. This was a hard luck kid that Phil had promised the world to. If ever the Coulson legend needed to hold up, this was that moment.


	13. And I am Done with my Graceless Heart

**Chapter 13: ****And I am Done with my Graceless Heart**

The hallway was dark, but not fully pitch black. If someone was paying attention they could easily catch the shadow or flicker of desert camo passing through the halls in search of some treasure held within. Impenetrable bases bred complacency and overconfidence, easily exploitable by the stealth SHIELD agent negotiating the unfamiliar corridors. Brody readjusted his grip on his gun to get the feeling back into his fingers. The scenario was nothing new, but the tension never seemed to lose its dark hold.

He moved cautiously through the complex, pausing at every junction to check for anyone able to out him as an outsider. While it would be beneficial to dispatch all souls that were in reach, the element of surprise dictated taking out only those that threatened to remove his anonymity. That was the difference in his training. Years of hard work and training to be a field agent taught him the value of not being seen, where his missions with the more military side of the agency allowed him to use the intimidation of might and force out in the open. Currently he was playing the spy game; when reinforcements appeared to level the grounds and anyone that openly stood against the founding principal of the organization established to protect the world, then he could satisfy vengeance in a cloud of war.

Boisterous laughter filled the hall. The language might be foreign, but the universal sentiment of a good time came in loud and clear. Pulling his knife from out of his boot, Brody angled it around the corner to catch the soft lamplight and reflect the four guards engaged in rousing game of poker. Without a set of blueprints he couldn't be one hundred percent positive, but intuition and process of elimination told Rylan the heavily armed yet casually lounging men were what was standing between him and his mission.

The gentle pressure of fingertips brushing his shoulder had Brody spinning around, knife at the ready, only to have a hand clamp down tightly on his wrist. Before his brain piece together an effective counter move, his back was pressed firmly against the wall and his wrist held by his head so his attacker could use the forearm of the hand pinning the agent's wrist to silence him.

"It's me," hissed Crewe, mindful not to alert the men still blissfully unaware in the next room. He waited until Brody's eyes focused on him before releasing his hold.

"What are you doing here?" snapped Brody, regaining his composure as his heightened adrenaline subsided into its pre-action status.

"What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing?" Crewe countered angrily. "We were supposed to wait for reinforcements, not pull some stupid hero bullshit that you like so much."

"We can use the element of surprise, besides, we're never going to learn anything if they just come in here and blow this place to hell. What's their ETA anyways?"

Crewe glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes."

Brody nodded, plans and scenarios dancing in his head. "Pretty sure they're keeping our people down there." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the room behind the wall.

Crewe peeked around the corner quickly. "What makes you say that?" he asked, the frustration from earlier cautiously dying down.

A shit eating grin spread across Brody's face. "Trust me, I have a sixth sense for this sort of thing."

"I most certainly do not, but it would be easier for everyone if we get them out before Coulson's reinforcements arrive. What's the play?"

"We pull a Baltimore," Brody whispered before springing into action.

"Alaska, there has to be a post in Alaska I can transfer to," Crewe muttered before following Brody into the fray.

* * *

The rule of hired help holding, the slightly inebriated guards went down faster than the hands of cards they dropped. Crewe just finished restraining his last unconscious guard, pulling the zap strap satisfyingly tight before moving towards the open pathway. He made it about four steps before he realized Brody wasn't his shadow. Damian narrowed his eyes as he turned to find Brody heading towards the door they had just entered. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed, mindful to not make too much noise in case an unfriendly was lurking at the bottom of the stairs he was standing on.

"You should have a clear shot to them now," offered Brody as though that explained everything. Crewe's look of utter irritation demanded further explanation. "There's going to be a systems access point further down that hall. I can hack into it and pull up all the information they don't want us to know. We can't pass up an opportunity like this."

"How do you even know that?" Crewe asked warily. Nothing really surprised him any more when it came to Brody. The guy had a knack for knowing a little something about everything; just enough to make him dangerous. It wasn't shocking given the fact that Rylan took to the whole espionage part of the job like a fish to water but Crewe sometimes had to wonder how much of it was hard earned facts and how much was just pure dumb luck.

Brody just offered his patented shit eating grin and a wink before taking off at a slow jog. "Oh, I hope he gets blown to hell when the team arrives," Crewe muttered, turning to continue on with his portion of the bastardized mission.

His gun felt heavy and reassuring in his hands as it led the way down the ominously dark stairwell. There was no other sound besides the rasp of his breath as it betrayed his nerves. His well honed sixth sense for danger gave no alert though his mind replayed every ambush he had survived and every late night horror movie he snuck into as a child.

Crewe's foot final touched the safety of the floor, but his senses stayed on high alert. Carefully he cleared the corners and the dark crevasses of the hall until it opened up into a large room with several cells on either side. They were all empty except one, but he'd know the man kept inside anywhere.

Fury looked eyes with Damian, never sparing a moment for relief but offering a nod and a silent reassurance that they were alone. Crewe loosened slightly, eyes darting around to make sure nothing had escaped the Director's sharp gaze as he increased his jog towards the cell.

Crewe pulled against the bars testing its construction before asking, "Are you alright sir?"

It was clear to both men that alright wasn't the correct adjective for the situation but in scenarios such as this, alright had a very broad description. "I'm good," answered Fury, contradicting his assessment with the awkward manner in which he got to his feet. Both men tactfully ignored the way the Director leaned against the bars for support as soon as he made it to the door.

"Calvary's on its way," stated Crewe, offering redundant commentary as he worked to pick the lock, "we'll have you out of here in no time." His deft fingers turned his lock picks with familiar ease; the simple skill saving his life far too many times to count, even before becoming gainfully employed by SHIELD.

"Where's Barton sir?" It didn't escape his attention the way Fury's brow pinched at the mention of the younger man's name.

There was a moment of silence as Fury gave the archer his full consideration. The kid had been a constant pain in his ass since the first arrow turned up in a SHIELD sanctioned target. A circus side show had made his people look foolish, running around for years trying to take the kid out of the equation. But then Coulson had been blessed with the assignment and Fury believed the matter could be considered closed. Instead, Phil brought the kid home, like some lost puppy he couldn't leave at the pound, claiming he could be molded into something useful, something good. It had been one disciplinary action after another, despite Coulson's attempts to keep that information hidden from Nick. The final cherry on top had been Barton's implication in the hemorrhage of information to the enemy, something that usually earned the suspect a bullet in the back of the head, in a dark alley in the middle of nowhere, no questions asked, yet Phil had been adamant that wasn't the solution here.

Out of everyone Fury had worked with or recruited, Coulson was the one person he could depend on no matter what. The agent bled loyalty for Fury, on more than one occasion, in a way that the other qualified and devoted members of SHIELD had not nor could not. Phil could see things Fury could not, which was incredible, considering Fury had a behind the scenes pass to all the dark secrets.

There were countless bodies buried all over the world and Fury had not lost one moment of sleep over them, but there were some that, a small select group that stayed with the hard Director of SHIELD. Innocent people were going to lay their lives on the line for a cause Nick had devoted his life to, it was inevitable, and he was going to be the man to ask them to do it. He was going to be the one to send them into no win scenarios for an objective, they and their families would never know about; he was going to be the one to design their demise and he had accepted that it was going to be a constant, familiar part of his life. He could live with adding Barton's name to that list, even if the boy would be one that stayed with him; a constant question of whether he should be mourned or celebrated in his removal.

"Amar and his men took him. From what his bodyguards were saying, it sounded like they were pulling out to a secondary location."

"Are we rescuing Barton sir?" asked Crewe, pulling the Director's arm over his shoulder to help the man make his way out of the inhospitable place in which he had been residing.

It occurred to Fury as Crewe was waiting for an answer, an order to go after what he believed to be a brother in arms, that the Director wasn't troubled about the man's guilt or improbable innocence, it was Coulson's reaction that made the decision difficult. Coulson had wanted so much to believe that he could save someone so much like himself that he was blind to Barton's betrayal and Fury didn't want to be the one to pull back the curtain to the cold bleak world in which they lived. Being the Director meant making the difficult decisions, even if the hurt the one man that had his back. "No."

Crewe looked troubled by the response, but nodded obediently. Together they slowly ascended the staircase as the soft hum of background noises erupted into a cacophony of bullets and explosions that sang SHIELD's arrival.

* * *

Coulson's eyes scanned the various buildings and open spaces within the compound as he stepped off the back of the jet. The latest innovation to roll off the assembly line had given SHIELD another edge in engaging the enemy, even if they were in limited use at the moment. The sounds of battle had long lost their mysticism over him, allowing Phil to easily slide into what he desperately hoped was his temporary command role.

Coulson almost sagged with relief as he caught the first glimpse of Fury as the man staggered out of one of the buildings, Crewe hanging onto him tightly. With his men easily overpowering the enemy, Phil held his hand gun tightly to his side and jogged the distance to his close friend.

Fury greeted him with a ghost of a smile and grateful nod as Coulson slipped around to the opposite side of Crewe and pulled the Director's limp hanging arm over his shoulders. "Nice to have you back sir," offered Phil in his bland agent voice, a mask for the real feelings lurking underneath the formality.

Fury grit his teeth against the pain. "Bout time you showed up Coulson."

"Sorry sir, got tied up in some red tape. I believe Pierce will be expecting a call from you. I would have dealt with it myself, but communications have been on the fritz lately," apologized Phil.

Despite the slow trickle of blood that was dripping in his eye, Fury turned his assessing gaze to his friend. "I bet," he snorted.

"Let's get the Director out of here," called Coulson to the waiting medics who eagerly rushed forward taking the injured man to begin some much needed and long overdue medical intervention. He watched them lay the Director down on the back bench in the second Quinjet, reassuring himself that his friend, though bruised and bloody, was very much alive and once again safely in their possession.

It didn't go unnoticed that Crewe had yet to leave his side, that there was no urgency from the younger man to be anywhere else or assist Brody with anything. Phil was almost afraid to ask, but if the mission was only going to be half successful, if he was going to ultimately fail here, he needed to know. "Where's Barton?"

"The Director said they took him when they pulled out. They couldn't have gotten far," reported Crewe.

Phil wasn't sure if that was better news than he had been expecting. "Think we could catch them?"

Crewe stared back at Coulson as if he was looking for any signs of a trap. "Fury said not to bother," he put in hesitantly, "but we should be able too. Are you assigning me a mission?"

"Has the Director assigned you to Barton?" asked Coulson, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. The senior agents often referred to Crewe as Fury's Hell Hound and nothing escaped his clutches once the agent was put on their scent.

Crewe shook his head, a small ripple of relief washing over him.

"Good. I don't really think Barton needs that kind of attention, but what do you say we go and get our man back?" Phil turned to make his way to one of the waiting jeeps.

"Sir, I think this would be a better alternative," called Crewe, tipping his head towards the other Quinjet.

"You can fly one of those things?" Rumors had been circulating for months over the newest jets coming out of aeronautics, but this was the first time Phil had even seen one in the flesh. SHIELD certainly didn't have time to train its pilots readily on the pilot models yet.

"This lovely lady," said Crewe as he ran his hand lovingly along the haul as he walked towards the back, "is why I stood down from agent status." He wasn't quite drooling, but it was a near thing.

"Let's do it." As Damian ran up the ramp to start his preflight sequence, Coulson issued orders to the senior most agents on the scene. Normally he would stay and make sure everything was being taken care of but the immediate danger had passed, the fighting all but finished, leaving the most immediate point of attention his missing man.

Coulson began buckling himself into the copilot seat when he finally put a finger on the one thing that was missing. "Where's Brody?"

The hard edge returned to Crewe's features as he bit out, "Doing usual Brody shit. He said something about intel and took off. Pretty SOP as far as he's concerned."

"You two fight like an old married couple," sighed Coulson. He could emphasize with Crewe's position; loose cannons put everyone in jeopardy not just the mission but Fury liked results and Brody knew how to produce results. While Phil adamantly abhorred Brody's methods, Nick reverently supported him. It would be one of the many boned he would pick with Fury once the man was cleared for visitors, but at the moment Coulson would have to let it slide.

* * *

Barton's body swayed back and forth with the rocking of the vehicle as it sped over the uneven sand. The stiff and unforgiving ropes binding his wrists behind his back were slowly getting slick with blood as he furiously worked trying to slip off his bonds. The hood made everything black, not a speck of light getting through the dense fabric. He didn't need to see to figure out the situation, Clint had been in it enough times already, he could figure it out blind.

He could slip his restraints and attack the closest of the three guards he could hear chatting in the back, hell, he might be able to take all three out without getting shot, but then what? There was still at least Amar and the driver in the cab, if not at least one more guard and it wasn't like he could run and hide, the rolling seas of sand offering no place to disappear and without supplies, would surely be his killer. Or he could wait it out; wait until they reached their final destination and take his chances on what kind of hell hole he'd find himself in then. From the frying pan, into the fire; sometimes Clint just couldn't win for losing.

He didn't have to make a decision though, the jeep banked hard to the right throwing the archer in to the side and one of the guards right on top of him. The jeep swerved again toppling the men in the back like bowling pins. Clint could feel a strong breeze ruffling his clothes and a steady thrum that had nothing to do with the jeep's engine.

Barton flinched instinctively as the rapid succession of bullets filled the air. His heart fluttered with a small glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, someone had shown up to save his ass. The task of working the ropes free from his wrists was compounded by the chaotic driving as the jeep tried to out maneuver whatever was chasing it. The fibers burned the archer's skin claiming blood and skin as tribute. Finally, believing there was enough blood to lubricate his attempt, Barton committed to his escape, tucking the slack between his wrist under his butt, dislocating his thumb and reefing as hard as he could to pull the ropes free.

The inside of his cheek began to bleed as he bit down hard on it. The pain was necessary to endure if he wanted to escape, but that still didn't take the edge off of it as much as he would like. He cradled his mangled right hand against his chest, using the other to pull the hood off. The sun was bright and harsh but welcomed. Clint was just about to put his thumb back into place when his whole world went ass over teakettle. It was a tornado of sand and streaks of blue that seemed to go on forever until there was just hot sand molding to his body.

Barton's body thrummed with a slow deep ache that consumed every inch of him. He experimentally wiggled his toes and fingers to see if everything was still attached and his brain tried to piece together what had happened.

* * *

Coulson was already in the back of the jet pulling one of guns out of the storage locker. The second Crewe placed the Quinjet on the ground he planned to be out on the ground dispatching anyone who survived the crash. The occupants in the back of the jeep had been tossed when the vehicle started to roll. It hadn't been part of the plan, but after the driver refused to stop in the face of SHIELD's force, the man had lost control and flipped the jeep.

Crewe put the jet on the ground like a gentle tender kiss and Phil's hand immediately pressed the hatch release button. He cautiously stepped out into the hot, dry air, his guard up and nerves on edge. The sharp whiz of a bullet narrowly missing its mark drew his attention to one of the men taking shelter behind the overturned jeep. Coulson twisted to take cover behind the jet, hazarding a peak back to gage the best angle to shoot the enemy. Several more bullets flew haphazardly and in the moment of silence that followed, where the enemy decided to shift to another angle, Phil took his shot; deadly and true.

As Crewe joined Phil at the bottom of the ramp the heavens cracked open in a hail of gunfire. "How many contacts?" asked Crewe, pressing his back against the reassuring solidness of the jet standing between them and what seemed like a firing squad.

Phil raised his voice to be heard over the all the noise. "Three so far and one down. Any sign of Barton?"

Crewe dared a glance around the other side of the jet as Coulson open fire to pull attention away. There was nothing obvious, but the gentle rolling mounds of sand created dips that obscured parts of the landscape. Firing a few shots of his own, Crewe slipped back behind the haul, pleased to hear a howl of pain when his bullet found its mark. "I don't have eyes on him."

* * *

Clint slowly raised his head and fought back the nausea as his stomach rolled and his vision swam. His internal alarm rang in his head, screaming that the muffled noises trying to pierce his ears were important, a threat but they sounded so far away, like they weren't real. Everything hurt, but if he kept painfully still, it seemed to ebb to a manageable level. He was lost in a sea of nothingness as he stared up at a bright blue sky, but the sinking feeling that he was forgetting something was beginning to pull him down like an anchor.

It was like a balloon popping, the sounds of the world started to register with crystal clarity revealing a terrifying shit storm that Barton once again found himself smack in the middle of. The sounds of bullets whizzing through the air was unmistakable and he struggled to get his weak, leaden limbs to respond to the frantic commands his brain was trying to supply. Clint let out a body shuddering cough, rattling bones and releasing an unhealthy amount of sand that had violated his mouth.

A few feet from where he had been tossed lay a prone body and beyond that just at the curve of the long mound of sand sat the overturned jeep. Barton crawled towards the body, adrenaline flowing, making it easier to force his broken body to keep going, to keep fighting for every moment. A not so gentle shove rocked the body but didn't illicit a response. The archer grabbed the discarded weapon, a priceless treasure its previous owner no longer had use for and cradled it tightly to his chest like a beloved childhood stuffed animal.

It wasn't lost on him that the bullets weren't being directly targeted at him; something else was drawing the fire of the men crouching behind the overturned jeep. Relying on all his skills from his mercenary days and youthful attempts of hiding from his father often lost in a violent and drunken rage, Clint breached the crest of the sand mound. If Saturday morning cartoons depicted the divine workings of the world, then surely Agent Phil Coulson was the angel perched on Clint's shoulder; his saving grace to counter his own tendencies to be the devil on his other shoulder. Despite Barton's hard fought efforts to prove what the world had always believed, that Clint was just no good, the man seemed determined to defy universal law and find, nurture and establish something good, something worth saving in Clint, even if it killed him.

Barton wasn't going to let that happen. The one person that actually saw him for something more than his aim, that believed there was some smidgen of good the world hadn't managed to stomp on yet, wasn't going to die saving his worthless ass yet again. No, not if there was anything Clint could do about it.

Three men firing on Coulson and another agent, pinned down behind the jet and not adequate cover for any of them; Barton had seen worse scenarios. He'd pulled off some pretty impossible shots in his life but the only way to be sure this time was to put himself out in the open. If this was on the range, he was certain he could probably pull off the shot from what little cover he had. However, the gun he had looked like a reject from Ikea, as apparently terrorist cells had funding problems too, and with one of Amar's men quickly positioning himself to get a clean shot at the two SHIELD agents, the archer just didn't have the luxury of chancing it. Clint wasn't willing to gamble with Coulson's life and that left taking the only position that guaranteed a good angle on all three men: out in the open.

Clint took position, lines up his shot and fired. One kill, now he had their attention. He line up his next shot, glancing briefly to his left as a groan escaped the body he had taken the gun off of. Ignoring the movement out of the corner of his eye, his finger tightened around the trigger. The shot echoed through the air as it found it's mark sending the now dead man's shot wide, comfortably missing Barton.

He shifted his gun towards his last target, the footsteps of the enemy thundering in his ears as the man closed in on the crouching sniper. The last gunman had also turned his complete attention on the archer, aiming his gun in the young man's direction. Self-preservation demanded Clint put the gun down, duck for cover or engage the enemy that was a few precious steps away from attacking him but he ignored it; he would finish his job.

Clint exhaled, waiting for that split second to take his shot. In that moment he heard his name screamed in the distance, the loud crack of a rifle and a sharp all encompassing pain that quickly gave way to a warm feeling that spread over his body. Barton looked down to see the knife protruding from his gut, feel the harsh tug as its owner yanked it free, brandishing it with intent to plunge it in again. The warmness that had washed over him spilled over his lip as blood trickled over his chin. The gun dropped to the ground, too heavy for his suddenly numb fingers to support despite knowing there was one more gunman out there that had miraculously failed to take a shot.

Clint braced himself as best he could for the coming blow, knowing full well this was going to be his swan song; final seconds of a rejected circus freak who had crawled out of the gutter. He watched as the man folded to the ground beside him, empty hollow eyes staring back at him but Clint couldn't quite figure out what that meant. Then there was Coulson looming in his vision, tapping on his cheek, keeping the grayness from swallowing up his vision.

Barton blinked, or at least he thought he just blinked and found himself on the hard metal floor of the jet. Phil was a flurry of frantic activity, barking at someone named Crewe to help.

"Barton, listen to me, you're going to be okay. Just stay awake. We're going to take you home," assured Coulson, gripping the archer's shoulder tightly. Crewe was rummaging through the medical bag trying to find more bandages to stanch the steady flow of blood, while simultaneously trying to monitor the wounded man's decreasing breathing. The pair traded off, each trying to set up some life saving method their lifetime of experience had facilitated. They just need to get the archer stable enough for one of them to stay with him so Crewe could fly them back to base and the waiting arms of medical professionals. Neither was willing to say out loud how hopeless the situation looked.

Clint held onto Coulson's words like a warm blanket against frigid coldness of a winter's night. He knew it was a lie but it was the greatest lie anyone had ever told him. He realized, that Coulson might actually believe the lie he was selling. Not wanting to be a disappointment, Clint confessed, "N't sure 'm gonna m'ake it bossss."

"Yes you are," affirmed Phil with a fierceness he usually reserved for lecturing new recruits.

Crewe locked eyes with the archer, his words dripping with sincerity. "You're making a mess all over my floor. You need to live because you're going to be the one cleaning up my lovely lady."

"Damian get this bird in the air," order Phil. It was times like these that he wished the rumor of him being a robot were true. No matter how many times he had to stand by and watch someone die, it never got easier. Phil could hide behind the idea that it was for the cause, one in which he believed wholeheartedly, but somehow in the late hours of night when it was just him and his conscience, it never seemed to help.

Crewe jumped to it, bringing the Quinjet to life with the press of a few buttons. Clint's lazy eyes followed him, taking his first look at the inside of one of SHIELD's latest marvels. "Ssis a nice plane."

"Well hang in their kid," called Crewe over his shoulder as he began take off. "You make it through this and I'll teach you how to fly it."

"Promise?" asked Barton, his voice growing heavy like his eyelids. He never heard the answer as everything faded to black. The last thing to register was the reassuring warmth and weight of Coulson's hand firmly wrapped around his.


End file.

Avengers