Hold On
Present
Clint gritted his teeth and pulled himself back up to his feet, Coulson spurring him on every step of the way.
"You have to stop the bleeding Barton," instructed Phil in his usual unflustered manner.
Coulson wasn't wrong. If he could slow the bleeding, it would buy him more time. All of Clint's weapons and supplies had been lost somewhere along the way, and his shirt, the only thing shielding him from the elements, was soaked and soiled from his arduous journey so far. He looked down the street for any place that might be useful.
Some deity must have taken pity on him, because like a shining star guiding him home, there was a small vet office at the end of the block. Coulson followed his agent's gaze and smiled. "That's it."
Clint put one shaky foot in front of the other, one deep breath after another getting him through the pain. It was slow, but the building was getting closer.
"Move it Barton. You can do it."
Clint let out an exacerbated huff. "Slave driver."
"You have to keep moving Clint," encouraged Phil. Clint nodded, droplets of rainwater dripping from his hair as he did so. He wanted nothing more than to collapse in a heap, but he had to keep going for Phil.
Barton threw a rock through the window, then carefully reached in and unlocked the door; the last thing he needed was to slit his wrist on the broken glass. He stumbled through the office part of the building until he reached the supply room where he began to rummage through the drawers for anything that could provide aid. It wasn't going to win any prizes, but he managed to clean and tape up the wound in his side. He could feel the heat radiating from it. There was no way he could get the bullet out on his own and the only thing that was going to stop the infection now was antibiotics. He did manage to stop the bleeding, which in the face of everything was a victory he was going to take.
He spent a few minutes searching for painkillers and extra bandages and stuffed them into a small backpack he found. His next task was to raid the fridge in the lounge. He slammed back one bottle of water and started on a second. Whoever Justine was, she made an excellent sandwich. Clint threw a couple bottles of water and granola bars he found in with his medical supplies before slipping out the back and into the night.
He made it another few blocks before he had to sit down again. The small amount of water and food he consumed had fueled his energy reserves but an all too familiar fatigue was washing over him. He just needed to rest; why couldn't the world go away and let him rest?
"What is it with you and dark dank alleys, Barton? You seem very determined to die in the gutter even though you're better than that," prodded Phil after he took in their bleak surroundings.
Leave it to Barton's feverish delusions to get Coulson's unwavering belief in him correct. "Yeah? And what would you know about it?"
Phil frowned and stood there assessing his agent. "I worked too hard for you to throw it away like this."
"Well, you'd think since you learned the hard way and all, you'd be a bit more thrilled by the prospect of me dying here," argued Clint.
"How so?" asked Coulson in his usual unflappable calm; concern flooded his face. His agent was dangerously close to giving up, and though the situation was dire, there was still a chance of making it through.
"I got you killed." There it was, because only the archer would hallucinate the one person that had given him everything and been rewarded by Barton's betrayal. Only he would want to seek comfort from the one person he had no right to ask for it from.
Phil's lip quirked up. "I spent all those years trying to get you to take credit for the good things you did, and that's what you choose to call your own? I'm disappointed."
"Can't be disappointed, you're dead remember? I'm just talking to myself."
Phil knelt down beside Clint and grabbed him by the chin to force the archer to look him in the eyes. "Then have some respect for the dead and listen well. Everything that doesn't work out in the universe is not your fault. You were never responsible for me, and even knowing how it ends, I would do it again. You didn't make me go up against Loki, I chose it for myself, because that's what we do. Just like you're going to choose to get your ass up right now!"
Clint frantically shook his head. He was done. He just didn't have it in him to take one more step; he was tired and in pain and still had so far to go before reaching the team. And even if he did get back to the team, what then? His mission was still a failure and Jäger was still going to be out there haunting him.
"I can't do it." It came out weaker and with more tears than he would have liked.
"Yes you can. Of that I have no doubt. You've made it this far, you're half way there. You've done more in worse shape." It was a sad and painful truth that they had been through worse situations than this and far more often than either could remember. "Please Clint, you have to get up."
That got his attention, because that wasn't right. Phil Coulson never begged anyone for anything, ever. Clint looked at Phil and saw the desperation in his eyes. Even though he knew it wasn't real, he still couldn't bear to see that look on his handler's face.
"Are you going to take me home, sir?"
"I wish I could Barton," apologized Phil, "you have to get yourself home this time."
"Start searching the buildings, he can't be that far ahead of us now," echoed down the street. Clint knew that voice and it sent a shiver down his spine. It was the voice that narrated so many of his nightmares: Jäger.
Phil squeezed his hand and gave a reassuring nod. Biting his lip, Clint got back on his feet. He had to keep ahead of them, but they were so close now. Barton pushed on.
"Extraction point …
… team …
… home …
… can't disappoint Phil."