See, I told you I write all the requests I receive. Sometimes it might take a year. Or two. *blushes in shame* But I do finish eventually!

This chapter is written for Aqua Mage, untill i have a name, JuliaAurelia, Slightly Afraid, DeanGirl4ever12, ChildofGod, Ecri, Olivia52, Mellia Bee, and the many anonymous guest reviewers! Thank you all for being patient and for your encouraging demands for more to be written. I hope this chapter is as enjoyable as the others.

The pov does change several times in this one. And Rumlow's language is worse than Clint's.

"You should consider yourself lucky," Dr. Whynton muttered to his irritable patient.

"Lucky?" Rumlow repeated angrily. "You call this lucky?" He pointed to the bandage secured to the bridge of his swollen nose.

"I do," Whynton said, finishing the last couple of notes on Rumlow's chart. "You went up against Barton. Honestly, I'm surprised there wasn't more damage."

"Went up against, my ass. He attacked me," Rumlow grumbled.

Whynton rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure it was a completely unprovoked attack," he said sarcastically.

Rumlow glared at him and leaped off the exam table. "So what's the final prognosis?"

"The swelling will go down soon, although a little lingering pain is to be expected," Whynton reported, flipping the folder shut with finality. "There shouldn't be any permanent damage."

Rumlow nodded and then picked up his dusty uniform top. "Where can I get something to wear around here?"

Whynton raised an eyebrow. "I believe the nurses offered you a gown when you arrived."

Rumlow crossed his arms. "There's no way I'm putting on that crap."

"Then it looks like your options are limited," Whynton said, unsympathetic.

Rumlow grumbled under his breath, yanking his dirty uniform over his head as he stomped out the door.

He pushed his way past a knot of nurses gossiping in the hallway. Ignoring the whispers and the stares that followed him, he finally made his way through the SHIELD medical wing to the security office.

"Well?" He demanded of the single operative on duty.

The other man jumped, spilling coffee down his shirt front. "Damn it, Rumlow."

"Report, Kuchar," Rumlow snapped.

"The surgery was touch and go for a while. I hear the captain coded at least twice. But he pulled through. He's stable now," Kuchar obediently recited, wiping futilely at his stained clothes with an old napkin.

"Damn. He just won't die," Rumlow muttered in grudging awe.

"I know," Kuchar agreed.

"What about Barton?" Rumlow asked.

"He's in the same place he's been since they brought Rogers to Recovery hours ago." Kuchar tipped his head to indicate the row of monitors displaying the security camera feeds.

The center screen showed Clint slumped in the plastic chair next to the bed where a slumbering Steve was hooked to multiple machines. Rumlow frowned.

"Who's Rogers' doctor?" he inquired.

"You're not going to like it," Kuchar warned, rotating his swivel chair to face his companion.

"Who?" Rumlow prompted impatiently.

"It's Whynton," Kuchar reluctantly told him.

"That son of a bitch," Rumlow growled, smacking a hand on the desk. He turned suddenly to Kuchar. "Who do we have on this floor?"

"Uh… Richmond maybe?" Kuchar answered. "But it doesn't matter anyway. With Whynton around, we won't have the chance to try anything."

"Where's Whynton now?" Rumlow asked, already scanning the screens for a glimpse of the doctor.

"Looks like he just got paged." Kuchar waved his hand at the appropriate monitor.

"Good. Now if only Barton would get the hell out of there," Rumlow grunted.

To the surprise of both men, at that moment, Clint unfolded from his chair, stretched and trudged out of the captain's room.

"No way," Kuchar whispered.

"Call Richmond. Get him in there now," Rumlow commanded, spinning on his heel. "This might be our only chance. Keep me informed!"

"Hail Hydra," Kuchar whispered as the other agent quickly left the room.

On his way to the Recovery section of the medical facility, Rumlow nearly crossed paths with Barton. The archer's head was hung low as he forced himself to move down the corridor in the direction of the waiting room coffee machine. To avoid a confrontation, Rumlow ducked into the closest doorway until Barton passed by. After shooting an angry glare at the marksman's back, Rumlow continued on his way. He nodded to the appropriate staff, managing to maintain a neutral expression until he was safely inside the captain's room. He carefully closed the door behind him before turning with disgust to the man on the bed.

"I will give you one thing, you're a tough son of a bitch," Rumlow said, gaze raking over the soldier's form.

Rogers was cleaner than the last time Rumlow had seen him. The nurses had scrubbed every speck of dust from his skin, revealing the paleness beneath. There was no trace of blood left either, although Rumlow had no doubt there was an impressive line of stitches hidden beneath the blue blanket.

"Always so perfect," Rumlow sneered, observing the calm planes of Rogers' face as he slept.

The door creaked open behind him to admit a thin redhead and Rumlow spun around.

"It's just me," Richmond announced, holding up his hands.

"Get in here already. And close the damn door behind you," Rumlow growled. "Did you bring it?"

Richmond hurried to obey. "Of course I did." He hesitated and glanced at the security camera suspended in the corner. "Are you sure we're clear to do this?"

Rumlow tapped his earpiece. "Kuchar, are we clear?"

"Yes, sir. I've got the looped footage in place. You never even stepped foot in that room," came the reply.

"We're good," Rumlow said. "Now get your ass in gear and start."

"Okay, okay." Richmond glanced around nervously before withdrawing a syringe from the pocket of his scrubs.

"You're sure this is going to work?" Rumlow asked, crossing his arms.

"Not by itself, no," Richmond admitted, coming closer to the bed and preparing to empty the syringes contents into the IV line attached to the captain.

"Then why the hell are we even doing this?" Rumlow snapped.

"Because," Richmond pressed the needle, allowing the poison to mingle with the medication flowing into Rogers' arm. "Once we combine it with a little dehydration," he moved to the iv on the other side of the bed and shut it off, "His body will be fighting on three fronts. His initial wound, the lack of proper nutrients and water, and the special cocktail they designed especially for him down in the lab," Richmond gleefully counted the reasons off on his fingers.

"Sounds like a painful way to go." Rumlow grinned maliciously. "How long until the job's done?"

Richmond shrugged. "Hard to say. Obviously, this is an unprecedented situation. There are so many variables we just can't predict, such as how the serum will respond, how long his body can keep fighting. Hopefully, it won't be long."

"And they won't be able to trace anything back to us, right?" Rumlow asked.

"Well, the nutrients drip will probably be one of the last things they check so we're good on that. It'll just be pinned on mechanical malfunction. As to the poison, if they don't know what they're looking for, they'll never be able to identify it," Richmond declared proudly.

"Uh oh. We got a problem." Kuchar's voice crackled in Rumlow's ear.

"What is it?" Rumlow asked irritably.

"Stark just arrived."

"Have them stall him in Reception," Rumlow ordered.

"We've got another problem," Kuchar interrupted. "Barton's coming back."

"Shit," Rumlow grunted.

At that moment, one of the monitors around Rogers' bed began shrieking. Rumlow rounded on Richmond.

"I thought you said they wouldn't go off," he accused.

"They aren't supposed to!" the nurse immediately protested. "We had a device installed that was meant to interrupt the-"

"Just fix it!" Rumlow snapped.

As the young man scurried to remedy the problem, Rumlow heard running feet approaching the door.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath before whipping his pistol from his holster and firing it directly into Richmond's back.

The gunshot thundered through the small room, followed quickly by the crash of the door as a well placed kick sent it off its hinges. Barton burst into the room, weaponless but for his raised fists and the anger in his eyes.

"What happened?" he barked after first checking that Rogers was unharmed.

"I don't really know." Rumlow plastered an expression of bewilderment on his face. "I came in and saw him messing with Rogers' IV. Then the alarms went off and I knew he was up to no good and that he had to be stopped."

"What the hell, Rumlow?" Barton yelled. "You shot him? Did he at least have a weapon?"

Rumlow shrugged. "You could say thank you, you know. I did just save Captain America."

Barton's lips twisted down. More personnel swept into the room, doctors, nurses, receptionists, even other agents who happened to be on the floor. A couple of men stepped forward to drag Richmond's body out of the way of the medical staff, who were bustling around the captain, working quickly to stabilize him and figure out the cause for the alarm. One voice rose above the cacophony.

"What is going on?" demanded Whynton, appearing in the doorway, feet planted shoulder's width apart and fists on his hips.

The sea of people parted, allowing him visual access to the scene. His gray eyes scanned Rogers' face, the numbers racing across the monitors, the body in the corner, Barton's angry expression and Rumlow's glower.

"How's the captain?" Whyton questioned, never taking his eyes off Rumlow.

"His vitals are dropping fast," a nurse reported.

Whyton abruptly launched into action at that. In a couple of steps, he was across the room and beside Rogers. Before he began his work, he stabbed at thumb at Rumlow. "You. Out."

Rumlow narrowed his eyes but offered no protest. Without a word, he pushed his way to the door. As he left, he could hear Whynton selecting the staff he wanted and dismissing the rest. A surge of people exited the room, chattering and hypothesising amongst themselves. Suddenly a hand snatched Rumlow's arm and yanked him down the corridor. Rumlow nearly stumbled as his captor shoved him into an unoccupied room.

"What the hell?" Rumlow grumbled.

"Tell me what you did," Barton commanded.

"I already told you-" Rumlow started.

"Bullshit," Barton interrupted, placing his arm across Rumlow's chest, just below his collarbone, and propelling the agent into the wall. "Tell me," he snarled.

"There's nothing more to tell," Rumlow stubbornly insisted.

Barton pushed his arm up higher, harder, his forearm pressing into the other man's throat. "You're lying. And if you don't tell me exactly what I want to know right now, you can expect some broken bones to match your busted nose."

"I didn't do a thing," Rumlow sneered. The pressure on his throat increased marginally as Barton's eyes narrowed.

"I swear I didn't lay a single damn finger on him," he repeated, gloating. "It was all Richmond."

"I know it was you," Barton growled menacingly.

"Prove it," Rumlow challenged, leaning as far forward as he could in the other man's grip.

The two men glared at each other, neither one willing to yield a fraction.

"Wow, is it just me or is the lady at the front desk getting meaner?" Stark's voice shattered the tension as the billionaire strolled casually into the room.

With a huff of frustration and disgust, Barton released Rumlow. Stark glanced between the pair uncertainly before resuming his nonchalant attitude.

"So what's going on around here? There's talk of murder," he said, tucking his hands into the pockets of his sports jacket with projected indifference. "The interesting stuff always happens when I'm not here," he faux pouted.

"I think you mean heroics," Rumlow corrected.

"No. Murder," snapped Barton.

Rumlow rolled his eyes. "Again with the accusations. Give it up, Barton. You've got nothing to go on. There's no way to know what shit Richmond was actually doing in that room."

Barton's jaws ground together, gaze burning.

"What about security footage?" suggested Stark innocently, pointing with his chin to the camera suspended in the corner of the room.

Rumlow and Barton turned to look where he indicated. Barton grinned predatorily.

"Let's go take a look at that footage, shall we?" He spun on his heel and marched out of the room.

Rumlow waited until Stark followed the archer before activating his communicator.

"Kuchar, pull the plug. Delete everything. Barton's on his way and he's got Stark with him," he muttered quickly.

"Copy that, Rumlow," Kuchar acknowledged.

Rumlow hurried to catch up with the other two men, sidestepping the gurney with a body bag that was being wheeled from Rogers' room. Barton glanced over his shoulder and Rumlow raised an eyebrow at him.

"Keep up," Barton complained.

Rumlow rolled his eyes and increased his pace until he was beside the archer. Barton slammed open the door to the security office.

"I need the footage from Cap's room. Not that far back, just the last twenty minutes," he announced.

Kuchar swiveled his chair to face them. "I'm sorry, Agent Barton. But the cameras have been down for the past two hours. I've been waiting for I.T. to get here, but who knows when they'll actually show up." He shrugged.

"No," Barton muttered. "No. That can't be right."

"See for yourself," Kuchar invited, sweeping a hand at the static filled screens.

"Stark?" Barton turned to the inventor. "Is there anything you can do?"

Stark leaned forward, examining the monitors. "I'm good. But I'm not that good. If these things haven't been running, there's no point in me trying."

Barton's head dropped, shoulders slumping. Then he raised it suddenly and pierced Rumlow with a sharp look. "You did this. Somehow. You must have had quite the plan."

"Have the doctors checked you out yet, Barton? I think you must have hit you head. You're talking crazy," Rumlow suggested.

"I didn't hit my head," Barton countered, fists clenching.

"Well, maybe you just need some sleep. You're starting to sound kind of paranoid," Rumlow offered, a smirk hiding at the corner of his mouth.

"You know damn well I'm not crazy and I'm not paranoid. I'm not sleepy and I'm not concussed. I'm right," Barton growled, raising his fist as if preparing to hit the STRIKE leader.

"Easy, Legolas." Stark stepped between the pair. "Let's all just take a second. Calm down. Smell the roses, and all that jazz." He lifted his empty hands placatingly.

"Listen to Stark," Kuchar piped up.

"Yeah, listen to Stark," Rumlow parroted mockingly.

Barton leaped forward but Stark intercepted him.

"Nope. This is a hospital, not a boxing ring. Let's go, Rocky." Stark placed a hand on Barton's shoulder and pushed the marksman toward the door.

As they went out into the hallway, a woman in uniform slipped past them and Tony heard her say, "Agent Rumlow, Director Fury wants to talk to you."

Then the door closed and Tony focused on finding somewhere for Clint to cool down. They hadn't gone more than three steps before Clint shrugged him off. Tony wordlessly let him and made no attempt to replace his hand. Despite the lack of physical contact, the agent remained close, following when Tony found an empty office and went inside.

"Don't worry," Tony said, crossing the room and settling himself in the chair behind the desk. "I'm sure," he flicked the nameplate around to read it, "Dr. Lisa Nawi-Nawakas-Nawokawski won't mind if we borrow her office," he stumbled through the unfamiliar name.

"He's lying," Clint snapped, throwing the door shut behind him with enough force to rattle the door frame.

Tony easily adapted to the change of subject, his own conversations being random and spontaneous. "I don't know. He kind of had a point." Clint whirled on him and Tony was quick to elaborate. "You've got to be tired, if your appearance is anything to go by. You look like crap. When was the last time you slept?"

His non-aggressive words seemed to take all the fight out of Clint and the archer deflated, slowly crossing the room and collapsing into one of the armchairs in front of the desk. "I don't know," he admitted, body slumping.

Tony opened his mouth but Clint spoke before he could.

"His heart stopped, you know," Clint mentioned dully.

"Yeah. I heard," Tony said quietly, trying not to remember the panic that had gripped him when Jarvis had given him the report.

"Three times," Clint added in the same monotonous tone.

Tony jolted forward. "What?"

"The third time, it took them almost ten minutes to get it started again," Clint said, unfocused gaze aimed at the floor.

"Okay, I did not hear that." Tony gradually sank back into his seat, processing the news.

Clint blew out a shuddering breath. "They weren't sure he was going to survive surgery, let alone make a recovery."

Tony couldn't think of anything to say to that so he said nothing. Clint rubbed a tired hand across his mouth before propping his elbow on the arm of his chair and leaning his head against his fist.

"I don't know how I know, but I just know that there's something wrong with Rumlow," he murmured.

"Like wrong up here?" Tony questioned, tapping a finger against his temple.

Clint glanced at him. "No. Like," he paused. "Like he's trying to get Cap killed."

Tony frowned. "That's a pretty serious accusation. What makes you say that?"

"I don't know." Clint shrugged, frustrated at his inability to explain his gut feeling. "It's been going on for a while. At first, it was just little things, going too far in training, not pulling his punches, that kind of thing. Then it was undermining him, questioning his authority, and not following his plan. And this past mission, he blew up the base, even when we knew Cap was still inside."

Tony tilted his head, considering. "That does sound pretty bad. But come on, the guy's a SHIELD agent. Why would he want to take out Captain America?"

"That's the part I can't figure out," Clint admitted. "But I can tell you without a doubt he wasn't in Cap's room to hold his hand and cry at his bedside. In fact, I should probably go back there." He rose, and almost fell to the ground when his legs gave out beneath him. He barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the desk.

"Whoa, are you sure that's a good idea? You nearly kissed the floor," Tony said, standing up and coming around to assist him.

"I'm fine," Clint insisted, slapping away Tony's offered hand.

"Yeah, you look fine," Tony said sarcastically, crossing his arms.

"I am," Clint bit out. "And I'm going back to watch Cap."

"Because that's not creepy at all," Tony muttered to himself before stepping in front of Clint. "No, you're not. You're going to go find somewhere horizontal to lie down and close your eyes until you recharge your batteries."

Clint stared at him in open challenge. "Make me."

"You know I can't," Tony said.

A smug smile lifted the edges of Clint's lips.

"But I brought backup," Tony announced, opening the door to reveal Natasha standing impassively in the hallway.

"How-?" Clint trailed off, looking betrayed.

"Jarvis interrupts me in the middle of a board meeting to tell me Cap's heart stopped during surgery and you think I'd rush over here without telling everybody else?" Tony snorted in fond exasperation. "Just because you go on super secret spy missions with him doesn't mean he's only your captain. You have to learn to share with the rest of us," he gently ribbed.

"Wow, Barton. I've seen corpses with more color," Natasha observed, cocking one perfectly shaped brow at him.

"NIce to see you too, Nat," Clint grunted.

"Alright, boys. Here's what's going to happen." Natasha stepped forward authoritatively. "Tony will go keep Thor company in Cap's room, while I get Clint cleaned up, fed, and rested."

"Will everyone quit saying that?" Clint growled. "I am fine. I don't need a doctor. I don't need food, and I sure as hell don't need a nap. Stop treating me like I'm five years old."

"Then quit acting like it," Tony muttered under his breath.

"Says the rich, spoiled brat," Clint snapped at him.

"Hey." Natasha softly took the archer by the hand. "We are not being condescending, and we're not trying to dismiss you. But you do need those things." She traced a careful finger over the crusty scab that ran from his hairline down to the point where his jaw met his neck. "Stand down, Clint, and let us help."

For a moment, Clint stood stiffly, the harsh hospital lights picking out the bags beneath his eyes and the dust in his hair. Finally, he surrendered, allowing his shoulders to droop.

"Okay, Tasha," Clint whispered.

Natasha gently led him from the room, nodding to Tony as the billionaire headed down the hallway in the opposite direction. Their reputation as SHIELD's most ruthless assassins ensured the pair was not disturbed as they moved through the medical wing until they reached the cafeteria. The only other occupant of the room soon left, due to a vicious stare from Black Widow. Once the place was empty, Natasha carefully pushed Clint into a seat. He folded his arms across the tabletop and rested his chin on them. After squeezing his neck a few times sympathetically, Natasha crossed the room to retrieve a sandwich from the display cooler. A bottle of water completed the meal and she set the food in front of Clint. He merely blinked at it before letting his gaze wander away.

"Eat," Natasha commanded softly.

He met her eyes for a brief second, then picked up the sandwich and took a half-hearted bite from it. Satisfied for the moment, Natasha left him. She went through the doors at the back of the room, into the kitchen area. After finding a clean rag, she wet it beneath the faucet and returned to Clint. He was in the process of taking another bite, but she could tell he was performing the action mechanically. Noiselessly, she claimed the seat next to him and began wiping away the dried blood, ash, and dust from his face. He froze at the contact, closing his eyes as her tender ministrations continued. As she worked, he nuzzled his face into her palm. Eventually, she finished. Clint reluctantly opened his eyes and picked up his sandwich again. Natasha crumpled the dirty rag and pushed it to the far side of the table.

"I should have grabbed the detonator from him," Clint abruptly said, his quiet voice echoing in the empty room.

Natasha tilted her head, questioning.

"Or located Rogers sooner," Clint continued, tone dark with self-recrimination.

Understanding dawned on Natasha. "You know there's no point in thinking about what you could have done different. Things happened the way they did and there's no way to change it."

"No, Nat, you don't understand," Clint protested. "You don't know what it was like to search through that rubble, thinking he was dead. And then finding him...impaled like that…" he trailed off, shivering with the memory. He laid down his food as what little appetite he'd managed to dredge up left him. "There was blood everywhere. It was coming out of him so fast and there was nothing I could do because he was stuck on that damn pole and he cried. Tasha, he was actually crying." He cut himself off suddenly, voice catching painfully in his throat, and he ducked his head, eyes darting away from her compassionate ones.

Natasha stretched out to stroke his cheek but he moved out of her reach.

"He was going to die. I could tell. And I just-" he swallowed audibly and folded his hands in a futile attempt to stop their shaking. "Tasha," he said, naked pleading on his face.

She immediately placed her lips on his, providing solace as he finally began processing what had happened to him and Steve. Breaking contact, she didn't pull away, keeping her face mere inches from his. "You got him out of there, Clint. You did it. He's not dead. He's going to be fine."

Clint jerked his head in a nod, arms coming up to circle around her frame to draw her to him. Natasha allowed the embrace, holding him in return.

"It's okay. Just relax," she soothed, rubbing her hand up and down his spine. "It's all over. You're okay."

An indeterminable amount of time passed before Clint released her, rubbing self-consciously at his face. Natasha didn't say anything. They had both done this same thing, seeking comfort in physical contact as the horrible events of their lives caught up with them. Sometimes, when the adrenaline had finally worn off, and the darkness seemed a little too black, and guilt overwhelmed, the only thing that could help was the feeling of another body beside them. Just to let them know they weren't alone anymore. That redemption was possible.

"I don't think I'm going to finish my dinner," Clint said, reclaiming his emotional equilibrium.

"Technically, that's your breakfast," Natasha observed, pointing to the clock on the wall.

Clint groaned. Natasha collected the nearly untouched sandwich, waterbottle, and the soiled rag and dumped them all in the garbage can. She passed Clint and sat down against the wall on the other side of the cafeteria.

"Come here," she beckoned gently.

Clint shook his head. "No, Nat."

"Yes," Natasha countered, fixing him with a look.

He reluctantly joined her, legs stretched out in front of him, back to the wall, his side pressed against hers. Gently, she tugged his head down to rest on her shoulder.

"I don't want him to die, Nat," he mumbled drowsily.

"I know," Natasha agreed. "Now, hush. Sleep."

She stroked a hand through his hair until his eyelids fluttered closed, his breathing evened out and he slipped into slumber. Every now and then, some agent or another would wander in, looking for a quick bite to eat. Most of them didn't even notice the spies huddled against the far wall of the room. The ones that did correctly interpreted the look Natasha sent their way, and they hurried away in the name of self-preservation. While Clint slept, his partner monitored his sleep. At the first sign of forming nightmares, she rubbed his furrowed brows and made soft shushing noises in low tones until the lines of distress faded and his face became peaceful once more.

She knew what he was seeing behind his closed eyes. What had happened to Steve was horrifying. It had made her cringe when she heard the news. Only her bloody past allowed her to be able to imagine what it must have been like for Clint to experience the event in person. It would be a lie to say she was unaffected by what had happened. She was not prone to sentiment, or emotional attachment. The Black Widow had no relationships. Her training had taught her, and her experience confirmed, that she should trust only herself. That others were not allies, could never be friends. They were useful at best, obstacles to be gotten rid of at worst. She was manipulative, deceptive, and suspicious.

But somehow, in spite of her instincts, in the face of her cold exterior and distant disposition, no matter how clear she had made it that she neither desired nor valued a friendship with him, Steve Rogers had managed to make a place for himself in her heart. His goodness was in opposition to her wickedness, his honesty contrasted with her lies, his willingness to give pitted against her tendency to take. In the short time since she had first been formally introduced to the war veteran who called her "ma'am", she had become charmed by his manners, fascinated by his strong sense of morals, and captivated by his selfless personality. As a spy, she had grown to respect his leadership skills, his ability to direct a diverse team of individuals and to devise a strategy in short time from limited information. As a woman, she appreciated his strength, not dismissing his exceptional physical build. As a person, she thrived on the genuine care he displayed for her time and time again.

Pragmatic nearly to a fault, Natasha had no doubts that if Steve died, there would no longer be a team. Without a unifying leader, the Avengers were too fractured to survive. Each member was too damaged, too scarred by past experiences, to hold onto the others. They needed an external force to bind them. Someone who believed in them and what they could become. It never ceased to amaze her the way Steve looked past their sins to see their potential. He dismissed their earlier mistakes and focused on what they were doing right in the present. There was nothing he wouldn't do for his team. Natasha had been witness to this tendency of his. It didn't matter if the issue was physical or emotional, Steve's strength and faith were enough for all of them. To lose him would be to cut the beating heart out of Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

Clint stirred, gradually coming back to consciousness. Once his eyes fully opened, Natasha dipped her shoulder down to indicate he should hold himself up. He took his cue, straightening, and blinking to dispel the lingering traces of sleep. By the white light coming from the ceiling, Natasha was able to assess his appearance. Color had returned to his cheeks. The bags beneath his eyes, though not completely gone, were faded. His bruises had changed to a different shade of purple and his scabs were dry. His hair was mussed from the awkward angle he'd been sleeping in and Natasha smothered a chuckle as she smoothed it down for him.

"Thanks," he whispered.

"I can't have you walking around looking like a One Direction wannabe," she countered, knowing he had been talking about more than his hair.

"Who?" he asked, pushing himself to a standing position.

"Nevermind," she dismissed, easily getting to her feet in one smooth motion.

"How long was I out?" Clint queried around a yawn.

"Not nearly as long as you need," Natasha observed. At his unamused expression, she relented. "Almost an hour."

Clint nodded. "That's plenty. Now come on, we have to get back to Cap."

Natasha shook her head as he nearly sprinted to the door. "Rogers isn't going anywhere."

Whatever reply Clint made was lost as he exited into the hallway. Smiling to herself at the loyalty Steve had inspired in the lone wolf archer, Natasha followed at a more sedate pace.

Between the bed and the machines Steve needed, a demigod, a scientist, a billionaire, two assassins and a doctor, there wasn't much empty space in Captain America's room.

"Sold out. Standing room only," Clint muttered, squeezing into the crowded area.

Thor gave him a nod of greeting, though the Asgardian appeared to be in conversation with Bruce and Whynton. However, it soon became obvious he was completely lost as the other two men theorized and debated using medical jargon. Relieved to have a distraction from the unfamiliar words and terms, Thor squeezed his large frame between the bedrail and a monitor to come stand in front of Clint and Natasha.

"My friends," he greeted, spreading his arms as wide as he could in the confined area.

"What's up, Thor? How's Cap?" Clint immediately asked.

Thor's forehead crinkled. "I am afraid I am not the one to whom you should pose your question. I do not understand the language used by your healers."

Natasha slid past them, presumably to get a report from the doctor. Clint watched her go, expression full of open concern.

"Do not be troubled." Thor's heavy hand landed on his shoulder, drawing his attention back to the prince. "The captain is a valiant warrior. He shall overcome this illness as he has overcome all his other foes. He will emerge victorious. Fret not." There was compassion in Thor's tone, but also an unshakable confidence.

Bolstered by Thor's unwavering optimism, Clint managed a smile that was almost normal.

"Well, unfortunately, I have other patients to attend to," Whynton announced loudly. "So I will leave Captain Rogers in your capable hands." He passed a clipboard to Bruce and said his goodbyes before heading off to his other duties.

"Hey, doc." Clint stepped around Tony, sleeping in the room's single chair, and addressed Bruce. "When's he going to wake up?"

"With the hours he keeps and his sporadic schedule, there's really no way to know," Bruce started.

"Not Stark." Clint rolled his eyes. "I meant Cap."

"That makes much more sense." Bruce consulted the clipboard he held. "Uh, well, there's really no way to know for him either."

"Come on, can't you give me a better answer than that? You're a doctor!" Clint complained.

"I'm not actually that kind of doctor," Bruce murmured.

"Is this normal? Is he supposed to be sleeping this much? How long before it's considered a coma? Did Rumlow and that other guy do anything to him?" Clint fired his questions rapidly.

"I can't say for sure." Bruce nervously adjusted his glasses. "When you consider how little we actually know about the serum…"

"Aren't you the expert on that?" Clint interrupted.

Bruce chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I would not classify myself as an expert, especially since my work turned out the way it did."

Clint forced himself to stamp down on his impatience, realizing his lingering exhaustion was making him short-tempered. "Alright, fine. Can you just tell me if he'll be okay? If he's going to make a full recovery?"

"As far as I can tell, yes," Bruce answered. "My best guess is that his body has fallen into a self-induced coma-like state to reduce superfluous energy expenditures in order to focus on healing. However, without running additional tests, I can't be certain of anything."

"What a perfect opportunity for you to continue your research."

Clint spun around at Rumlow's voice. "What the hell are you doing here?" He stepped forward menacingly but Natasha appeared at his side, latching onto his arm and holding him in place.

Rumlow smirked and clasped his hands behind his back as he came further into the room, scanning it and its occupants as if critiquing a piece of art. He paused briefly by Tony's chair.

"Hmm. Cute," he sneered. After making as much of a circuit of the room as he could, given how full it was, he stopped at the head of Steve's bed.

"So, Dr. Banner, I see you've wasted no time picking up where you left off," he tsked disapprovingly. "Then again," he lifted Steve's lifeless hand and let it drop back onto the mattress. Clint bristled at the casual disrespect. "Maybe that's the silver lining to this black cloud. At least something productive can come out of this mess. Who knows? Maybe this time, you might actually do something right instead of turning yourself into a freak monstrosity."

Bruce's shoulders hunched and he shrank back into the wall behind him.

"That's enough, Rumlow," Clint snapped. "How are you even here? Shouldn't you be locked up somewhere?"

Rumlow shrugged. "Why? They got no reason to hold me. I saved our golden boy here." He poked at Steve's leg through the handrail of the bed.

"You shot a man," Natasha reminded him, voice flat and cold.

"An enemy," Rumlow countered.

"An unarmed one," Clint pointed out.

"Except for whatever he was doing to the captain. How is America's favorite hero doing, by the way?" Rumlow's eyes lit up with feral interest. "Any setbacks I should be concerned about?"

"Oh, now you want to show concern?" Clint's tone was dripping with sarcasm and anger. He pulled out of Natasha's grip. "Because I seem to remember you were the one who said we should kill him to put him out of his misery!"

Before anyone could move to stop him, he smashed his fist across Rumlow's jaw, sending the agent crashing into one of the many machines cluttering Steve's bedside. Tony jolted awake at the commotion. Natasha placed herself between the two angry agents, eyes darting between them. Rumlow wiped his split lip with the back of his wrist, and grinned around the blood.

"What's going on?" Tony questioned, straightening in his chair and attempting to determine the cause for the thick tension in the air.

"I've just been attacked," Rumlow answered. "Cap's on the edge of death, and Banner's doing who knows what just to further his own scientific interests."

"I do not believe that is a correct representation of the situation," Thor disputed.

"What's with the accusations?" Clint snarled.

"He may have a point," Natasha said mildly.

Clint, Tony, and Bruce whirled on her with identical expressions of betrayal.

"What the hell, Nat? How can you say that?" Clint demanded.

She held up her hands placatingly. "Just because he put it in those harsh terms doesn't mean he's wrong. You've been kind of unhinged since you got back, Clint."

The archer opened his mouth to argue but Natasha pushed forward before he could.

"And Bruce isn't a physician," she pointed out.

"What are you saying?" Bruce stiffened. "You honestly think I would exploit him like that?"

"Watch yourself, Widow," Tony warned. "I really wouldn't make him mad if I were you. For one, he'll turn into a giant green rage monster and smash you and every other person in this facility. And second, it really pisses me off when someone accuses my friend of something nasty. So if you want to go up against a Stark, be my guest. I'm sure you've seen in the papers what happens to anyone who tries."

Natasha arched a curved eyebrow at him. "I'm not scared of you. Or your fancy lawyers."

"Are you scared of him?" Tony asked, stabbing a finger to where Bruce stood with his arms crossed defensively over his chest.

Natasha's gaze slid over to the scientist before skittering away to focus back on Tony. She didn't answer the question. Her silence caused Bruce to flinch.

"Perhaps we should all take a moment to calm ourselves," Thor suggested to no avail.

"All I meant was that maybe we should leave Steve's care to Whynton," Natasha explained quietly.

"Bruce is more than qualified," Tony shot back. "I trust him way more than any of your SHIELD MDs."

"Right. Because Banner's such an old friend of yours," Natasha said sarcastically.

"At least he can help Cap. Which is more than I can say for some people in here." Tony stared pointedly at Clint.

Clint narrowed his eyes in reply. "You weren't there-" he started.

"No, you're right. I wasn't," Tony interrupted. "But if I had been, I could have done a hell of a lot more than let him get blown up."

"You think I let this happen?" Clint asked, incredulous. "That I stood by and did nothing?" His voice grew louder. "I searched for him. I dug through rubble for an hour to find him. Do you know what he looked like when I did? Do you know, Stark?" He stepped into Tony's personal space, forcing the billionaire to take a step back, nearly falling over the chair as he did so. "He looked like a damn pig on a spit." Clint took grim pleasure in the way Tony's face blanched. "Had a metal bar punched clean through his middle. He bled until he passed out. And I was there for every damn second. I was there when they had to cut the metal out of his body. I was there when they flew him out of that shithole of a country. I was there when his heart stopped during surgery. Three times." He curled his lip in disdain. "Where have you been, Stark? You think you can just waltz in here when it's all over, acting like some benevolent king, deigning to bless us poor commoners with your presence, as if that's some kind of a gift. Well guess what? No one cares. Your lame jokes and one liners don't do anyone any good. Not after the hell we've been through. If you don't bleed with us, you don't get to pick at our bandaids."

Hurt flashed over Tony's face before his features twisted into something cruel. "If you're such a good friend, then why is he lying there dying?" He tipped his chin to where Steve lay on the thin hospital mattress.

"He's not dying," Clint barked. "No one's dying. He's going to be fine."

"Last I heard, you weren't in a position to hand out miracles," Tony retorted spitefully.

Clint's fingers returned to a fisted position. Tony's eyes tracked down to them before returning to the marksman's face.

"Are you going to hit me?" he asked, his tone almost taunting.

"Don't tempt me," Clint warned through clenched teeth.

"I'm not going to hold him back," Natasha said, putting a hand on her hip as she watched the situation escalate.

"Hey, now. Clint, Tony, you guys should probably think about what you're doing," Bruce advised nervously.

"I believe it is too late for that," Thor commented, shoulders tightening with the feeling of an impending fight.

Tony met the archer's furious glare determinedly. Until Clint actually raised his fist. Tony flinched, Bruce gasped, and a weak voice froze them all.

"Stop."

Everyone spun around to stare at Steve. His eyes were closed, his skin was pale, but there was no doubt it had been his voice. Instantly, Clint forgot his argument with Tony, much to the billionaire's relief. The assassin dropped his arm and rushed to Steve's bedside.

"Cap?" he called hopefully. "Are you awake?"

A blue eye cracked open. "It's kind of hard to sleep with all the shouting you fellas are doing."

The Avengers looked chastised, sheepishly shuffling their feet and shifting their weight guiltily.

Tony cleared his throat and changed the subject. "So what's the verdict? How long until you're up and running again? Two, three days?"

Steve shut his eyes and adjusted his position on the bed to a more comfortable one. "It's going to take longer than that, Stark."

"Okay. A week then," Tony cheerfully predicted.

Smiling indulgently, Steve didn't bother correcting him again.

"So, really, Cap. How are you?" Clint asked quietly.

After a moment of self-assessment, Steve shrugged. "I'm fine."

"I think your four hour surgery and thirty-eight stitches say otherwise," Natasha disagreed.

"I will be fine," Steve corrected wryly. "Right, Dr. Banner?"

His purposeful inclusion of the scientist proved that he had heard at least part of, if not all, the previous disagreement. Clint felt a light blush of embarrassment steal over his neck and the tips of his ears. He studiously avoided Steve's eyes.

"Oh. Of course." Bruce started at the unexpected attention. "The serum appears to be doing its job. Washing out the infection, regenerating new cells, producing collagen-"

"Wait," Clint interrupted. "What infection? Whynton cleared him after the surgery. He said there weren't any infections."

Bruce frowned and checked the folder in his hands. "No, it's been recorded right here."

"What time did they notice it?" Clint asked impatiently, crossing the room to peer over Bruce's shoulder.

"Sometime late last night," Bruce answered.

Clint clenched his jaw. "So about the time Rumlow was in here?"

"I don't know," Bruce said honestly, confused. "He was here before?"

"Where is he now?" Natasha queried, suddenly noticing the STRIKE leader was no longer in the room.

"The bastard must have slipped out while we were arguing," Clint realized.

"Language," Steve admonished sleepily.

"So he did do something to him," Clint continued. "I knew it."

"You know, this could be natural," Bruce reminded him. "It's actually quite common for infections to set in post-surgery."

"Not for Cap. This was done on purpose," Clint insisted.

Natasha laid a hand on his arm. "It could have been Richmond. Rumlow might be telling the truth."

Clint scoffed at the idea.

Tony joined the conversation. "Well, whatever was done to him, it doesn't look like it's going to work. The serum's kicking it's..."

A chastening look from Steve made him trail off the end of his sentence.

"I never had a doubt that the captain would recover," Thor proudly proclaimed. "A warrior's inner strength defeats many outer foes."

"Is that an Asgardian saying?" Bruce asked, interested.

"That is the rough Midgardian translation, yes," Thor obligingly answered.

"Does it sound dirty in the original language?" Tony questioned with a teasing wiggle of his eyebrows.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Stark." Natasha rolled her eyes.

While Thor launched into an explanation of the proverb, Clint took the opportunity to talk to Steve.

He nervously licked his lips and his gaze ping-ponged around the room. "Hey, Rogers, I'm sorry," he finally managed to say.

Steve's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why are you apologizing?"

Clint's left shoulder hitched up and then down. "I dunno. For everything. No reason. Never mind. It's just…" He flicked a glance at Steve's face, trying to sort out the thoughts in his head. He wanted to apologize for the explosion. For doubting Steve would make it through the surgery. For letting Rumlow get near enough to hurt the captain. For his loss of control and the way he lashed out at both Rumlow and Tony.

Steve's expression softened and he clasped Clint's hand above the wrist. "You don't need to apologize for anything."

Clint's mouth curled into a tiny smile, grateful for the absolution.

"Hey," Steve gave his arm a slight shake through their connected hands. "Thank you."

And Clint didn't ask for an explanation he didn't need. Instead, he grasped Steve's hand in return. "You're welcome."