His arrow found anchor in the stone side of the building feet above where the floor to ceiling windows began. Chunks of debris fell around him as he swung in a graceful arch toward one of the windows. In the two seconds directly after he extended his legs in front of him to breach the window and before his boots made contact, Clint had one thought: 'well… this is a bad idea.'

And then his boots were shattering the glass and his knees were absorbing the blow; that he kept them locked in his exhausted state was a testament to both extensive training and years of experience, and he was sliding against the tile, shards sliding with him, all around him, under him, quiver digging into his back.

As he slid to a stop he attempted to role onto his side but only managed to turn his head and barely suppress a groan. He let his head fall to the floor with a soft 'thunk,' instantly regretting it as pain reverberated against his skull from where his head had met the metal bar only hours previously. He could feel the last of the adrenaline leaving his system, his endorphins fading, the dull pain being replaced by sharper, more acute aches. His left leg throbbed in agony; at the ankle, at the knee, he could feel his pulse in his toes, each beat causing waves of torment. Beads of warmth dripped down his exposed arms as he became aware of needling stings akin to paper cuts across his skin, knew that shards of glass had embedded themselves during his less than textbook breach.

Light and shadows drifted across the dark office, bouncing off of the glass and walls and tile, the room shifting in and out of focus as Clint tried to slow his breathing. It was eerily, peacefully quiet; the sounds of battle barely penetrating the thick glass, and he let his eyes drift shut.

So quiet… Too quiet. Clint's eyes snapped open as he lifted his head off of the floor, ignoring the throbbing. The radio chatter had stopped. Which on a regular mission with trained soldiers and agents was normal, but this odd group that Natasha and Fury and Coulson were so fond of never shut up. Tony Stark seemed to be obsessed with bad one liners and side comments while talking endlessly to his AI, while the captain had been constantly shouting orders; to them, to police, to bystanders. He and Natasha had been trading the occasional inside joke, their usual mission banter, and Thor had mostly been yelling and grunting.

As more shadows lapsed along the wall Clint realized that they were from the enemy craft passing the building, and suddenly the battle sounds seemed to pierce the room. He was not the only one in trouble, if the radio silence meant anything, and he had to get up.

Clint threw his right shoulder forward and successfully rolled fully onto his side, his left leg and head protesting profusely and his left arm digging into even more glass. He propped his right arm against the tile, his glove protecting his palm and fingers from the glass, and pushed. Clumsily, slowly, he managed to sit up. His stomach lurched and rolled and his head pounded. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. 'Don't close your eyes.' He stared out of the windows, watched more craft pass, slowed his breathing, waited for the pain to ebb. 'Get up.'

Clint braced his left arm on a desk and pushed himself up with his right leg, then slowly eased weight onto his left. It collapsed under him, and he instinctively shifted his weight back to his right, but that leg collapsed, too, followed by his arm on the desk, and suddenly the tile floor was flying up to meet him. 'Well, shit.'

The tile was cool against his burning cheek, and it occurred to him that he was probably running a fever. He has not eaten. Has not slept. He was out of adrenaline, out of endorphins, out of arrows. Clint Barton was done.