The title is taken from the Linkin Park song 'In My Remains'. It's just another thing I don't own.

This is set a little before the Winter Soldier movie. In my head cannon, Clint is eventually seen by Hydra as too much of a threat and, under the guise of deeming him unstable due to Loki's influence during the events of the Avengers movie, is locked up. That is why Clint is not in the Winter Soldier movie. But before that, he and Steve often worked together and thus became good friends.

A quick warning, Steve does get injured. There is some blood. Just to let you know.

A swift right hook to the side of the head catches Steve unaware, the majority of the blow glancing off his helmet. He drops to a crouch to prevent a second attack. Kicking out, he hooks his ankle behind that of his opponent and sweeps the man's legs out from beneath him. Steve recovers his feet and stares down at the enemy laid out on the concrete floor. The man's eyes have gone wide. He realizes his life is about to be taken. Steve hesitates. He brings a boot forward to connect with the man's temple, rendering the guard unconscious. It's not what SHIELD wants but it's all he can stomach so he does it.

"Barton, I've cleared the lower levels," Steve reports into his communicator.

"Has anyone seen Cap?" Clint asks.

Steve's eyebrows come together.

"Nah, been too busy setting the charges." Rumlow's voice is devoid of any emotion except grim pleasure. He enjoys these covert raids in foreign countries in the dead of night.

"Barton, Rumlow," Steve calls, raising his fingers to his ear piece.

"Does anyone know where the captain is?" Clint extends his question to anyone on the Strike Team.

A chorus of negatives flood the comm line.

"Barton," Steve tries again, though it's obvious the sniper can't hear him.

Frustrated with the small device in his ear, Steve pulls it out to see if he can detect any malfunction. It's not likely that he will. Technology, though not as mind-boggling as it was two years ago when he first defrosted, is still confusing at best, downright aggravating at worst. As he peers carefully at it, he notices a wire that has been knocked loose. Rolling his eyes at the unreliability of all these new-fangled contraptions, he sticks the thing back in his ear so he can at least keep track of the rest of his team, even if he can't communicate.

"Ready for detonation in five, four-" Rumlow is beginning the countdown.

A chill splashes along Steve's spinal cord and he dashes through the winding corridors that make up the underground levels of the terrorist base they'd been dispatched to destroy.

"What the hell are you doing?" Clint is angry.

"Blowing this place off the face of the earth," Rumlow retorts.

"We're supposed to wait for Cap," Clint insists.

Rumlow snorts derisively. "Look at that, the little birdy needs his mama to tell him what to do."

Steve doesn't bother opening the mechanical doors that block his way to the surface. He runs straight through them.

"We wait for Cap." Clint ignores the jab.

"Our orders were to set the charges and then blow them," Rumlow argues. "The cap'n agreed with that."

"Let's just wait for him to get here," Clint compromises.

There's a dead end in front of him and Steve marvels that he became so distracted in the situation brewing above ground that he lost his sense of direction below it.

"How long's that gonna take?" Rumlow complains.

"Dunno," Clint snaps. "For some reason his comm's not working right. But at least the GPS is intact and as soon as the coordinates come through…" he trails off, presumably to check his cell phone for the information.

"We're not waiting," Rumlow brashly asserts. "We do this now."

"Holy s-" Clint gasps. "Cap's still down there!"

His words get lost in a rumble of thunder that shakes the ground, shakes the ceiling, shakes Steve's legs until he collapses, unable to maintain his balance. Successive blasts rip the building apart. If there's any more talking between his teammates, Steve can't hear it. Plaster and bedrock shower him in chunks heavy enough to make his shoulder ache where they land. Like the flickering tongue of a cobra, sparks of electricity snap in and out of existence, flying at his face and biting into his skin. Blinking rapidly, he struggles to discern between shadow, dust and obstacles. It's all black, gray, silver and brown and he can't see. Then he takes a breath and he can't breathe either. More piles of dirt pummel his back mercilessly as he crawls toward what he can only hope is the way out. The debris sinks into him, pushing and pushing his spine into his stomach. Pressure builds around the lungs he can't inflate with anything but the chalky mist, which is clogging the air. His ribs bend as the weight of the entire structure falls on his back.

Exploding outward, rebar bursts from the wall and punches a hole through the left side of his torso, sliding around in his stomach before erupting out his right side in a cascade of warm blood. A shocked gasp drops from his cracked lips. Reflexively, his hands fly to the area. They get very wet very fast. He knows he can't stay here. If he stays, he bleeds uncontrollably until he is nothing more than a hollow corpse floating on the surrounding sea of red. Coherent thought is difficult to manage when his abdomen is leaking and the blood is drip-dripping and it hurts, hurts, hurts.

Leaving.

Escaping.

He remembers that much. He has to go.

Trying to take another step brings a fresh wave of agony so intense it makes white flash in and out of his eyes. Past the lightning in his vision, he looks down to find the reason. Lethargically, his eyes track the metal pole from its origin in the caved-in wall beside him, through his body and on to its end in the opposing mountain of broken rocks and shattered concrete. It takes a moment for his brain to make sense of the sight. When it does, he feels sick. He's skewered like a pig on a spit. Weakly, he pushes against the bar but it's jammed fast between the immovable pieces of rubble. Blood loss is making his skull feel partially detached from the rest of his battered body and he wishes it was completely, because being impaled is disgusting and painful. So, so painful.

Eyelids fluttering like fragile butterfly wings, he fights against unconsciousness. If he falls asleep, he's never waking up. A surge of defiance and the pure desire-instinct-need to live fills him with molten lava. It runs in his veins where it burns, burns, burns all the way to his stomach before sliding out to paint his legs and pool at his boots. Refusing to let him submit meekly to fate, it urges him to get free. It raises the fist he has no energy left to and it smashes his unprotected fingers into the rock over and over and over until his knuckles split and the bones break and he limply drops his arms. They swing once, then twice, pendulums waving goodbye to the last few seconds of his life. One gets too close and knocks into the pole, the reverberations traveling the length of the spike, jiggling it around his insides. His jaw drops into a noiseless shout of pain before he loses the fight and sags, eyes rolling back in their sockets. The unsupported weight of his muscled chest and shoulders falls forward and the motion rips the holes just a little bigger, a little wider, on both sides.

Hands on his bicep, on his thigh, on his neck, on his-oh gosh-on his bleeding stomach, wrench him back to awareness. These hands are professional and rough, pulling, jerking, tugging on his raw body. He coughs and the dust is sandpaper in his throat and gravel on his tongue. Lips forming the words, he waits for his vocal chords to kick back into gear. Finally, the connection between larynx and brain is restored.

"…urgh…st'p…pl's'…" It comes out as a croaking moan.

"Cap? Cap?!" Clint's voice is too loud, too eager, in his ears. "You're alive!"

Clint also sounds a little scared and Clint is never scared but when he is, Steve is supposed to make him not be scared anymore because Steve's the leader of the team and he has to take care of all of them and he can't let them get scared or injured because being injured hurts like nothing he's ever felt before and he wants to help Clint not be scared, he really does, but it's so hard to be the strong leader he's supposed to be when his torn stomach feels so bad that he wants to cry but he won't because soldiers don't cry and Captain America would never even think about crying because he's the symbol of bravery and it's overwhelming agony in his abdomen and he can't do more than try his hardest to at least crack open an eye so he can check to make sure Clint isn't stabbed through and stuck on a metal pipe.

He does it. He's not sure how, but somehow he manages to pry open a crusty eyelid. All he can see is black shadows. It gives him a creepy feeling, knowing there are people all around him but he can't see them.

"Cl'n'?" he tries. "'re y'u hur'?"

Something is making his words lodge in-between the teeth that are chattering so much it's a wonder they haven't already fallen out and left gaping holes in his mouth to match the holes in his abdomen.

"Don't talk, Cap," Clint commands and it sounds like his teeth are rattling too.

Knowing that the pain is shaking his own body in its vicious grip, Steve has to make sure the same thing isn't happening to Clint. If Clint is just as hurt as he is, Steve doesn't know what he'll do. The leader is supposed to keep everyone safe and if he didn't keep Clint safe then he can't be the leader anymore and if he's not the leader then he's useless and he'll be kicked off the team because he doesn't even belong in this century and he has to be useful so he can stay on the team that he's grown to love like his other team and he can't take losing another team, he really can't. His heart is too broken to be put back together even one more time. So he fights against the appeal of sleep and the kiss of death and the hands that are all over him.

"Cl'n', y'u…'ky?" This time, the words leave his lips with shiny drops of blood.

Preoccupied, Clint doesn't hear. He's swearing into his communicator, demanding that the SHIELD medical team turn an eight minute flight into an eight second one. Steve still doesn't know if Clint, his teammate, (his friend,) is okay, so he has to try again. Just as he opens his slack jaw to ask again, the hands suddenly yank him and he can feel the cold, cold metal slipping, sliding, slithering across his intestines, bumping against his liver and his kidneys and he feels scraps of his tender skin peel away and stick to that cold, cold metal and it's sickening and painful and tears are squeezed out past his defenses as his brain goes into overload. He hears a whining keen and wonders if he's the one making that heart-breaking sound.

"Stop! You're hurting him! You're hurting him!" Clint comes to his rescue, shoving away those awful hands.

Blessedly warm fingers land on Steve's clammy cheeks. "Stay with me, Cap!" Another order.

Steve is supposed to be the one giving orders. It's his job. He wishes he could be doing his job instead of bleeding all over the floor.

"What the hell do you freaking bastards think you're doing? Wait for the damn medics! You're only making it worse." Clint's snarling now.

"We were just trying to get him off that stupid pole," Rumlow grumbles.

"You know better than to try that without the proper equipment," Clint growls. "You know what? I'm starting to think you want to get him killed."

Rumlow doesn't reply.

Sweat trickles down Steve's face, stinging his eyes with salty liquid and irritating the electrical burns scattered across his cheekbones and jaw line. He's confused by this. Isn't he cold? Why would he sweat when all he feels is freezing cold like metal and ocean water and ice in his head, heart and soul and he doesn't want to drown. Not again. He already did it once. He left his friends, his best girl, abandoned them all just so he could choke on the stuff that preserved his life, keeping him in secret until he was needed to fight off aliens and monsters and robots and terrorists and he's sucking down dust particles that claw at his sinuses but he swallows them all and maybe there's fire as well as ice because his abdomen is blazing and it's one giant pit of hurthurthurt and the hands are back and he just wants them to stop, stop, please stop.

"Get away from him," barks Clint and Steve would hug him if he could. "Stay the hell away or I will personally slice off your fingers and use them as chopsticks to gouge out your eyeballs."

Sometimes, Steve forgets that Clint has a dark side.

"Alright, jeez," Rumlow grudgingly backs off, affronted but subdued.

"Go and wait for the chopper. As soon as it lands, get the medics down here," Clint commands.

There's the stomping of boots and muttered resentful curses but no outright rebellion.

"Cap, open your eyes, come on, don't do this to me!" Gone is the demanding superior. The fear is back in Clint's voice.

Steve responds with obedience all the same, not remembering closing his eyes in the first place. His chest feels tight and he comes to the conclusion that it must be because he's not breathing but, rather, he's frantically panting. Dirt clumps in puddles of sweat on his exposed skin. But he's so cold. And tired. Very, very tired. He's exhausted. He wants to sleep. Why won't Clint let him sleep?

"Don't do that!"

The slap is a shock and it garners its intended reaction. Steve's whole body jerks and his eyes fly open. Pumping savagely, his heart spills more blood to the splintered floor. The blood drains through the cracks, soaks the earth, feeds the worms.

"Sorry," Clint exhales, one part apologetic, the other relieved. "But you gotta hang on just a little longer."

There's such hope and conviction in his eyes that Steve can't stand to let him down. But Captain America stands for honesty and Steve has to tell the truth.

"..not sur'…I…c'n…" he admits his weakness and it tastes like defeat. It's bitter. Sour and vile. Vinegar and spoiled meat. But it had to be said. It's out in the open now, hanging between them with all the power of a physical divider.

"What?" Clint wavers between denial and outrage.

"..hurts…" It sounds pathetic, even to his own ears so Steve knows he's not fit to be the leader anymore.

That's fine, though. The others will get along without him. They're all extraordinary people with extraordinary talents, abilities and tech. They won't miss him, though he's going to miss them something fierce.

"I know it hurts." Clint reaches for his hand and Steve hisses. "What? What's wrong?" Clint is immediately concerned and tense and treating Steve like he's made of glass, which he isn't because glass doesn't bleed. "What's the matter?"

Steve shrugs as best he can. When the action drags the pipe up and down with his shoulder blades, he knows he never wants to repeat the experience. "nuthin'."

Clint doesn't believe him. The archer takes his hand again and this time, Steve doesn't have any reaction. There's pain but it's nowhere near the level of crippling pulsing in his middle, so he doesn't mind. Inhaling sharply, Clint gently rotates the damaged appendage.

"What'd you do to yourself?" he mutters in horror and sympathy.

Steve wants to give an answer, to explain the whole thing: the futile rush of adrenaline, his limbs moving without his explicit consent, the repetitive bang of his knuckles against the concrete and bedrock as he tried to save himself from this slow, painful, drawn-out death. But his voice is dribbling out with the blood, trickling down his sternum and out the two cavities in his gut.

"Hey, hey," Clint quietly admonishes, his fingers a welcome presence among all the grit gathering on Steve's face. His fingertips streak through dirt turned mud as he wipes it away from Steve's eyes, away from his nose and his mouth. "Look at me."

It's tricky to distinguish between Clint and the murky gloom around them both but Steve focuses until he can see a blurry form that must be his rescuer.

"You're going to get out of here and you are going to get better." Clint is confident. So why does his voice tremble? "Come on, don't leave me to deal with Stark all on my own. That guy's a handful," he tests out humor, dipping his toe in it to feel the temperature. It's lukewarm and unappealing.

"'m tryin'," Steve promises. It's all he has left, the only thing keeping him from floating away on the promise of detachment and a final, lasting peace. He's stubborn. Always has been. Probably always will be.

He doesn't want to shirk his duties. They're his responsibility and he has to do them because he's a soldier in the United States Army and he serves his country by being the biggest, fastest, strongest soldier there ever was and most likely ever will be and it would be wrong to leave and dump all his responsibilities on Clint, who has been nothing but accepting and supportive and-thank heavens-loyal and Steve can't repay him with betrayal. The Avengers might not need him like he needs them (he made them into his new family in this new century, which might have been a mistake,) but it will be an inconvenience if they have to find a replacement for him on such short notice.

Who could they get anyway? It would have to be someone who knows how to strategize and organize each member of the team into a well-oiled machine that works flawlessly in order to defeat the threats to the earth, someone who remembers that Tony doesn't like to be handed things and Thor can't have ice cream after eight p.m. because it makes him hyper and Nat secretly enjoys balloon animals but she'll never admit it to anyone. Someone who makes sure Bruce isn't too caught up in his latest project to have a proper meal and a good night's sleep. Someone who checks over Clint's mission reports because the archer can't spell worth anything. They have to get someone who will listen to Fury's briefings because none of the others on the team do it, someone who gets the coffee ready in the morning since the team can't function without it. They'll need someone who will be optimistic in the face of insurmountable odds, steadfast through conflict. Someone to take the hits and handle the paperwork. A pillar of strength and a beacon of hope. The team deserves no less.

The cotton fibers of his pants are soaked with blood and it makes them weigh so much more than if they were dry. Rough and moist and crusty, the fabric grates against the flesh of his legs and it's uncomfortable, which seems so insignificant in comparison to the drama that is his stomach but that's the whole point. He doesn't want to think about the pipe inside his body or the bleeding that just won't stop but keeps going on and on, down his pants and up his boots. There's liquid on his face too. Whether it's tears or sweat or blood or a mixture of all three, he can't tell.

"That's all I'm asking," Clint assures him.

The ghost of a smile wants to curl Steve's lips.

Clomping shoes and hurried conversation bounce along like the beams of the flashlights that the medical team have brought with them. There are gasps of shock when they catch sight of their patient. They've been warned of the situation but nothing could have prepared them for the reality. For a second, no one moves. Clint's fist twists softly, becoming more firm where it encircles Steve's wrist. It's oddly comforting.

The moment passes and there's a flurry of activity.

Equipment is manhandled through the wreckage and there's shouting and lights and voices and smoke and buzzing and blurs and black and white and Steve looses track of Clint and he doesn't want to because Clint is steady and grounding and he protects Steve from strange hands and extra pain. Through the panicked haze that clenches his throat, Steve picks out Clint's tenor among all the tones drifting through the fog. He's spewing out directions and threats with the same breath and it's warming for Steve to hear but he'd really rather have Clint next to him than near him and what is that noise?

"Hey, Cap, listen." Clint is back and Steve's taunt muscles relax. "They have to cut the pipe so they can remove it. The saw's kinda loud. Just wanted to let you know. I'll be right over here, if you need me."

Clint excuses himself, stepping out of the way of the frenzied doctors and Steve regrets breaking his hand because he wants to grab onto Clint because he knows this is not going to be pleasant and he never likes being alone and he's been so alone for so long and he's finally found a friend and now there's only strangers around him and they've got roaring electrical tools and needles that they plunge into his arm over and over again, which is useless because he can't feel the medication but he can feel the pain, the pain that's become his whole world for the past-how long has it been?-he doesn't know how long since that bar slammed into him but they say they're going to get it out and can he hold still? After that, it's a swirl of disjointed images and impressions.

He knows there's pain and he knows there's anger. He doesn't know who's angry or why. And there's blood. Lots of blood. Red, red. Drip, splash. It's coming out of him by the bucketfuls. Gallons and gallons of it, everywhere. He can see it shining, smell it spilling, taste its sticky-sweet flavor.

Others manipulate his body and he lets them. Limp and pliable, he allows them to jerk, haul, jolt him wherever they want. They move fearfully and they speak fearfully. He thinks they get him off the metal but he can't be sure of anything when his brain is shutting down and refusing all communications from his nervous system.

The sky above twirls and spins, while his entire frame rattles and rattles. Soon he's out in the open and he's not moving himself but he can breath again, see again. The smoke is gone and the black is sprinkled with stars. Faces above him crumple in anxiety and the flat lips are swaying as they rush through their conversations but they're talking underwater, indistinct and distant. But none of them are Clint. They left Clint behind in the smoke and the place where there is only pain and blood. He can't-won't-do that.

"Clin'…" His call is muffled by a piece of plastic that covers his mouth and the air is fresh but he can't do anything with it on and he needs it off but his hands are useless and trying to sit up is not working because he can't use the broken hands and his stomach isn't there anymore but Clint needs his help and he can't ignore that.

"…lin'…" he repeats to the unresponsive audience surrounding him.

They won't do anything, they won't go back. There's nothing but hurt-sweat-cold back there and Clint's there. If they won't go, then Steve will. He has to save Clint. He has to.

Gathering what strength he can imagine he has, he rolls over and then there are arms pushing him back and restraining him, stopping him from helping Clint, from saving Clint from blood-dirt-heat. A snarl tinged with desperation tears its way out of Steve's vocal chords. Orders to calm the patient fly across the air like a swarm of hornets. More needles, more arms, more moving. Unnatural wind rifles through the spikes of his hair but Clint's not here and Clint's in pain and it hurts so very much.

"Whoa, easy, stop! Cap! Stop!" It's Clint's voice but Clint hurts.

Steve knows because that's all there is-just throbbing, pulsing, beating, hammering, aching, stinging. All over. In his stomach. In his chest. In his middle and skull and fingers and eyes and palms and ears and throat and thighs and abdomen. It burns and freezes. He wants to get away from it. Arms and legs thrash and he throws his head from side to side, searching for an escape. Nothing helps. It makes it worse. But he can't stop.

"Steve."

He stills instantly. No one calls him by his name. He's always 'Captain America' or 'Captain Rogers' or 'Captain' or 'Capsicle' or 'Cap' but never 'Steve'. It's always 'Captain' because that's who he is, that's all he's worth, that's all anyone cares about. They don't need Steve Rogers as a person. They just need Captain America. But someone said Steve and he is Steve, even if he sometimes forgets that because he's too busy being Captain.

"Calm down and let these guys do they're job. They're here to help you and you really need it 'cause you're in bad shape," Clint explains, soothes. He heaves a sigh that sounds almost like a sob. "Hang on, okay? Do it for me?"

Steve can do that. He can do it for someone who calls him 'Steve' and sticks with him through the black and the pain and the bloodbloodblood. He'll hang on and he'll come out stronger for it.