8. Chapter 8

Phil hadn't really thought about the combined effects of his inhaler medicine and an adrenaline high until he registered Hawkeye snapping loudly into the radio mike.

"Yes! Medical emergency! You have those, right? And doctors? Yeah yeah, assholes, just have an ambulance pulling up to the plane the second I land! …I don't know, breathing hard, got the shakes; took a couple of shots off his inhaler…no I don't know his fucking prescription, I--"

"I'm fine!"

Hawkeye side-eyed him. "You've been glazed out for ten minutes and your hands are shaking."

"I've been worse, stop being a drama queen."

"Oh fuck you, Coulson." Hawkeye sat back again, listening to his headphones. "Yes, Coulson, Phil Coulson. That's what I said. Yeah I thought that might get your ass in gear!" He shouted the last part and Phil flinched. Hawkeye's hand shot out and landed on his chest. "Breathe! In! Out!"

"Oh my God, stop." Phil pushed his hand away. "Adrenaline plus adrenaline was a bad idea, but I'm fine."

"Whatever." Hawkeye grumbled. "We're coming in to Vienna in a couple of minutes. There is a small airfield that SHIELD keeps dibs on, we're landing there. They are going to have tech and med teams for standing by for the crate, and an ambulance for you."

Phil looked at him, horrified. "What?"

"You're not walking in this condition."

"I am not taking a fucking ambulance!" Phil had not been shoved into an ambulance since his senior year at Wesleyan, and he was not going to break that winning streak in Vienna.

"Not arguing about this. Am-bu-LANCE." Hawkeye poked a finger in the air in front of him, accentuating the word as he spoke.

"Mole in the ranks." Phil poked Hawkeye's arm with his own finger.

"You got the data!" Hawkeye looked over at him, genuinely startled.

"Data I haven't interpreted, and could mean anything. Don't forget Culbreath wasn't our mastermind here, he was working for someone, and that someone is probably watching this whole op unfold."

"Aw, shit." Hawkeye slumped. "That means we can't even trust the medicos."

Phil nodded as if he had thought of that absolutely horrifying possibility himself, which he hadn't. He glanced back. "Can we trust them with the crate?"

"Sure, there's safety in numbers. Three people on the tech team and at least two on the med team, not counting the ambulance staff standing by. Wouldn't trust any two of them together but we'll have four in place at any one time. My biggest worry is landing."

"Landing?" Phil looked at the instrument panel, glowing eerily in the dark.

"Easiest way to pick us off is when we come in for landing. But I can't bluff it, come in from a weird angle or anything, that would show our hand." Hawkeye's lips went tight. "Let's just hope we threw enough of a wrench in things that our mole is scrambling, and didn't plan for contingencies."

"I would have," Phil said.

Hawkeye -- Clint -- gave him a shy grin. "I bet you would've."

Phil seriously considered another shot from his inhaler, but managed to stay sane. He focused on counting his breaths.

"But in my experience, bad guys tend to have really big egos. They figure their plans are full-proof, and never expect trouble. That works to our advantage more often than I'm going to admit to you or in front of witnesses." Hawkeye sighed.

Phil rubbed his shaking hands together, his blood still buzzing and his chest sharp with pain every time he breathed in. He knew from experience, though, that he was going to be okay, so he pushed all of that to the back of his mind. "I think the important thing is to get the data to a safe place, where I can sit down and analyze it."

Hawkeye nodded as he stared out into the sky. "Ambulance."

"No. I'm not—"

"Wait! Hear me out: It's a good way to travel."

Phil waited, but that seemed to be the end-all of Hawkeye's explanation. "Not in my experience," he said, his jaw tight.

"I'm thinking more along the lines of get-away vehicle."

"The ambulance crew might demur."

Hawkeye sighed. "You trust me?"

"Of course."

"You mean that, don't you?" Hawkeye glanced over at him.

"Is there a reason why I shouldn't?" Phil rubbed his hands on his thighs for something to do.

"Most people think Strike Team Delta lives a little too dangerously." Hawkeye shrugged, but there was a tension to his shoulders that Phil thought spoke volumes.

"You do. But that doesn't mean I don't trust you. You're Agent Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye, and you've been one of our top-rated assets at SHIELD for thirteen years."

"Oh. Hey, thanks," Hawkeye grinned.

"Also we've sunk approximately 1.4 million dollars in training on you over the past decade." Phil wasn't too sure of the amount, but he knew that they had spent at least that much so it was probably on the low side.

Hawkeye grimaced. "You really know how to ruin the moment."

"I can itemize, if that would help." Phil couldn't stop himself from smirking.

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "Shut up. Can I get to the point now?"

"Any time."

"Let me make the call when we're on the ground. At least one of the people there will be in cahoots with the mole; it'll be a risk for him, but he has to keep an eye on us. Give me some leeway, follow my lead." Hawkeye scrunched up his face and Phil got the distinct impression that he was waiting for Phil to shoot him down.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." Phil rubbed his hands together again, knowing he was bordering on a nervous tic. "What do you expect me to do, argue?"

"Uh, yeah."

"We're going in blind to a potentially lethal situation. If I had a plan, I'd tell you. I don't. My plan was to get our team out of Budapest, and here we are, out of Budapest. The whole of my current plan is that I'd like to make it back to New York alive."

"Believe me, that makes two of us." Hawkeye took a deep breath. "Speaking of New York, do you like coffee? I mean, uh, to drink? Like going out for coffee? With me, maybe? Is that something you do?"

Phil's brain, still stuttering from adrenaline and his medicine and fighting for oxygen, tripped over the words several times, trying to resort them into coherency.

"Or not, that's cool, I'm okay with that. Whatever." Hawkeye shrugged one shoulder and glared out the window.

"Did you just—"

"VIENNA 4-5-Bravo, this is Hawkeye checking in!" Hawkeye yelled into the microphone.

"Clint—"

"ROGER THAT, VIENNA 4-5-Bravo." Clint kept talking at a loud volume, relaying information to the ground and scrupulously not looking at Phil.

Phil sighed and sat back in the seat, closing his eyes. His lungs really didn't need the extra stress anyway.