"Let me die. Please, let me die."

It had taken days for Clint to track down the rumors, the resources, Fury and Hill's not as hidden as they thought trips to a side wing of SHIELD medical. Many of the vents had serious biofiltration systems in place, and Clint, mindful of how badly a lot of the people from the carrier had been hurt, respected the limitations that could affect someone's health.

"Let me die. Let me die."

But the vents that lead to the patient rooms were the standard type, ie, Clint's Private Freeway.

"Please . . . why won't you let me die?"

He hooked his fingers through the grate over this particular vent, staring at the broken man in the bed in the empty room, begging for release.

They weren't even letting him sleep, afraid that he'd find a way to slip their grip if they granted him even that much escape.

So many machines, attached to so many places on his body. What were they doing to his head? The security footage showed his head untouched, he'd been conscious and coherent. What was wrong with his head?

Phil didn't even notice when Clint shifted the grate into the vent and dropped lightly into the room. "Please," he whispered, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

There was a reason why bad things were called traumatic. Massive injury sapped the will, the effort of repair, of healing seemed insurmountable. Clint had been there, at the bottom of the pit, aching to just fade away into nothingness instead of facing that mountain of pain and fear. Other people had helped him out, though he hated them at the time. Natasha had come into the valley of the shadow of death and tugged him out, yelling at him and begging him in turn, swearing that it would be worth it.

"Phil," he whispered. "Sir."

Phil blinked. His eyes shifted, but he couldn't move his head. "Who-"

Clint straightened and went to the bedside, into Phil's view. "It's me, Barton."

"Clint . . ."

He looked, but didn't see a square inch of skin that he thought he could safely touch. "Yeah. Hi, there."

Phil looked hopeful. "Are you here to kill me?"

"No." Clint swallowed hard. He'd been hoping Phil was with-it enough to appreciate a reunion a la 'Rumors of my death etc.', like they'd done so many times before. "God, why won't they even let you sleep? Why do you have to be awake for this? I thought that's why they had medically induced comas."

"Please . . . it hurts so bad . . ."

"Yeah, I imagine." He risked a fingertip against the end of Phil's left thumb. "I know it's horrible, boss, but hang on. They must have a plan for you getting better. There will be a end to this where you'll actually want to be alive."

"They're doing things to my head. My mind . . ."

Clint shook his head, fighting his own tears. "I don't know. But hang on. I know how you feel, I've been there, you remember."

The thumb pushed into Clint's fingertip. "Yes . . . I do . . . I'm sorry."

"No. You called me every name in the book, but you kept me here. I'm glad. You'll be glad, too, eventually."

Phil stared, terrified, into Clint's eyes. "I don't know what they're doing to me."

"We'll find out. When this is done, we'll figure it out. All of us. There's a lot of very smart people who care very much about you, once we get Stark and Banner on this, we'll know everything."

The heart monitor's beep became a little less strident. "You'll be there?"

He pressed his finger harder against Phil's thumb. "I'll be there. Wherever you want me." He tried not to grin too hard at how reassured Phil looked. There'd been a thing between them for years, a thing born of adrenalin and battlefield lust and opportunity, something Phil had kept strictly separate from the life that let him have something normal with a beautiful, talented musician. But there was potential, as well. They'd never pursued that, but they both knew it was there.

Clint glanced at his watch. "I can't stay, I'm sorry. Fury's holding tight to the story that you're dead, and I don't know what he'd do if he found me here." He reluctantly stepped away. "I won't be far."

Some of the pain lines had eased from Phil's face. "Thank you."

"It's going to be bad, but you need me, you holler for me. I'll come."

Phil managed a faint smile. "I'll remember."

Clint nodded and hoisted himself back into the vents.

Fury looked up from his troop scheduling plans when Dr. Streiten stormed into his office. He sighed, knowing where this was going. They'd been having this argument for weeks.

"This is wrong, Director!" the doctor snarled. "You've heard the man! How can you torture him like this!"

Fury bit down hard on the urge to give the man the full weight of his disapproval. "We can heal him. And we're going to!"

"At what cost!"

"One I am fully prepared to pay."

"And what about the cost he's paying?"

Fury sighed. "Phil Coulson is not a pet we don't want to let suffer. Every wounded warrior knows that wall, the one you don't think you have the strength to get over. Most of them we can help climb over it."

The doctor shook his head. "But the trauma we're putting him through, that leaves scars."

"Which is why we're doing the other procedures. He won't remember it. He won't remember anything that's happened here."

Streiten sneered. "No, he'll have those memories of an idyllic recovery in Tahiti."

Fury resisted saying the catchphrase they'd programmed into the scenario. "You're the one worried about him having memories of the procedures."

"He would never have agreed to the lengths you've gone to."

"We need him. I need him. And if you can't bring yourself to be involved, we can find somewhere else for you to be."

"And will you rewrite my brain and give me a Tahitian vacation as well?"

Fury stared at him. "Simpler to kill you. Though I personally think you're too valuable for that."

Streiten shifted uncomfortably. "That device is obscene. He knows he's being changed."

"I'll explain it to him one day. And I'll let him smack me around for it. But now we save him."

"And when he's well? People who care about him are going to ask questions, especially when word gets around that he's survived."

"Sufficient unto the day, doctor." Fury looked over the orders he was creating that would put those Avengers he had control over far away. "Time and distance and the knowledge that we're all lying bastards will take care of things." He looked up at Streiten. "And you have a critical patient to oversee."

"I hate this," Streiten growled.

"So noted. Good day, doctor."

Clint read his orders again, the ones sending him to an undercover assignment in Russia. Phil hadn't sent word to him, and it had been two weeks. The staff in that wing had been reassigned to other cases, the resources reallocated. Clint had investigated the rehab sections and found no sign of anyone doing post-cardiac-trauma work.

He sighed, then got started packing. He'd made his offer. Things shared during desolate middles of the night didn't always survive daylight re-evaluation. But Phil said he'd remember, and Phil kept his word. Clint would go when he was called. No matter how long he had to wait.