harcourt

"S'okay," Clint said, when he had his breath back. "Gotta do what you gotta do." He mumbled something after, then let a hand drop to his side. Steve didn't look. Didn't want to see the horrible snap-shot of Clint's fingers smearing through his own blood. He could feel the damp of it when Clint found his leg and clung on, pulling at the fabric of his uniform. "Laser guy?"

"Tony got him."

"Oh, nice. I had him in my crosshairs, you know?"

"I know."

Clint had. Tony should have gone for the gun, but like Clint, had rated the danger and opted to prioritize the greater potential damage.

"A fucking handgun," Clint complained, moving his free hand to hold it in front of his face. The ruined handguard, blood crusting around his nails. "Can't fucking believe this."

It reminded Steve of a story Bucky had told him. Some guy in the war, killed with what may as well have been a pocket knife, at the very tail end of some skirmish, when everyone should have been well in the clear. The threat coming unexpected and from a laughable direction.

"Gotta get to our extraction," Clint said suddenly, like it had just occurred to him. "Are we late?"

Steve swallowed and kept his hand on Clint's side. Kept the pressure as steady as he could. "No, we're not late."

"You don't want to be stuck here with me," Clint went on, but the hand holding on to Steve didn't let go. He was definitely looking pale now and Steve could feel him shivering, going into shock.

"ETA?" he demanded over the comms. "We need a medic."

Clint gave him a little push. "Go, Steve."

"I'm not going anywhere. We're fine."

"Just help me up." He made a move to do it himself, pushing ineffectually against the ground before falling back, head hitting the wall with a hollow thunk, then laughed. A breathless, pained sound that scared Steve. He didn't sound like he was all there anymore. Like he was hurt so bad his body couldn't process it and left his mind floating. Steve had seen that before, too.

"Help," Steve said, into the comm. It sounded small and desperate, so he added, "Hawkeye's down. Where's my medic?" in a more demanding tone.

"I can walk," Clint insisted, even though there was no place they needed to walk to. No extraction team they needed to meet. The dull thump of someone setting down behind Steve was unlikely to be useful help, but at least it meant he wasn't alone anymore with a half-delirious Clint Barton.

"Oh, geez," Tony murmured. "What a mess."

Clint gave him a testy look. "I'll mop up."

"Hey. Not my tower, not my problem. Bleed on whatever you like." Then he turned to Steve. "Sounds like he's still with us."

"He's worried about making it to our extraction point."

That made Tony pause. Then he asked, "Does he know we aren't SHIELD?"

"Avengers." Clint said, and smirked. It looked ghoulish with the blood spattered and streaked on his face. "I'm an Avenger."

"Yeah. You made it to the major leagues, Barton. Big boy ball." Tony's usual bullshit, but delivered gently. When Steve looked up, Tony's face was dark with concern, looking back with a scared, questioning expression.

"He'll be okay." It came out more certain than Steve felt. Clint's chest and stomach were rising and falling in too-quick spasms, and his skin was slippery under Steve's hands. His eyes bright in a way that reminded Steve of fever.

"Heard you got my laser guy," Clint slurred.

"Yep. Sorry I didn't get the other guy first."

"Gotta--" Clint made a wheezing sound, and his foot made that searching, sliding move again. "Gotta learn to coordinate, Stark."

"I know, I know. Civilian mistake. I'm sorry. From now on it's cavalries and pincher maneuvers, okay? And when we get home you can teach me all your secret agent hand signals. And naval flags. You guys do naval flags on your flying ship?"

Clint laughed, then winced and spasmed under Steve's hands, like he was trying to curl in on himself. His head rolled against the wall, his eyes turning up in his head, showing white, before he relaxed with a long whine. He fixed Tony with an accusing stare.