Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
Well hello again my wonderful readers. This little snippet has no real bearing on the overall plot development of my universe, but it's quite the little gem if you ask me. And you owe it all to Kylen, who gave me the idea in the first place. She told me she wanted me to give Clint a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Then she helped me plot it out and shoved me towards my laptop screaming, "write, write, write!" So write I did and nearly 14,000 words later, we have this little slice of Clint's life. This was fun and relaxing to write. And I assure you all that I have not abandoned you. I WILL eventually be publishing "The Untold Stories", I'm just not sure when. My six month old is just too adorable for me to take time away from lol.
Kylen here - yup, I did all that in between working on Afghanistan, which I am. Really.
Additional A/N: I totally forgot to post this the first time around intend to rectify that right now. I forgot to say that as usual, Kylen was Dan's voice in this. And also, she and JRBarton both beta'd this for me and kept me from looking completely the fool haha :D
So without further ado, I give you Clint's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day...
When you are having a really crappy day, and life seems to be kicking your ass, try to force yourself to laugh. If you can achieve a smile and a laugh, you can chase any demons away.
L.F. Young
Clint clenched his teeth around the gag and did his best to breath around the blood drying in his nose. He was down a couple of finger nails now, that sucked, but it wasn't anything he couldn't come back from. These assholes had lost interest in that particular mode of torture fairly quickly. He supposed it just wasn't as fun when your victim gave no discernable reaction.
He could hear them now, whispering amongst themselves, trying to decide what to do to him next. He only caught every few words – the pounding in his head robbing him of the only real sense he had available to him – but he heard enough.
Words like 'flaying' and 'peeling' had him holding back a shiver. He thought he heard the word 'gouging' and then a suggestion about 'breaking' something. Then someone mentioned the water hose they'd yet to take full advantage of. The murmurs of agreement told him all he needed to know.
At least Clint was ready for the spray this time and he had precious seconds to draw in a breath.
He'd started counting even as a hand snatched at the back of the bag on his head, catching a fistful of his hair as well, and yanked back. The water went from spraying to pouring.
He counted.
He'd made it to four minutes and 32 seconds when it happened. The alarm was so loud and so sudden, Clint couldn't hold back a flinch. The man holding him flinched too. The water shifted but it didn't stop. Words were spoken hurriedly over him, but he couldn't comprehend what they were saying.
He was counting.
5 minutes.
The men were shouting now, but the water stayed constant. The shouting stopped. The hand on his hair tightened and the water's flow intensified.
6 minutes.
Shit. They were going to kill him…and he'd realized it too late. Too late to fake it before it actually became real. It was too late.
6 minutes and 26 seconds.
He fought it. He tried to keep his lungs closed off, but fire tore through him, forcing his body to inhale even though Clint's head was screaming not to. The water slid down his throat, into his lungs and they rejected the intrusion.
He coughed, but it did little good, because when he inhaled again, there was more water.
Clint tried to turn his head, tried to fight his way free, but there was nowhere to go, no give in his captor's hold.
Jesus Christ it hurt so fucking bad.
The alarm grew louder, so loud that it started overpowering everything else. It was incessant and unforgiving. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted all of it to fucking stop.
Clint arched off his bed with a gasp, drawing in a ragged, choking breath. One hand clawed at his face, trying to pull away the bag that was smothering him. The other hand tightened around the weapon already in his grip.
Clint brought his knife up and around, slashing at the open air in front of him even as he opened his eyes and realized there was no bag. There was no water.
But there was a fucking alarm.
"What the hell?" He gasped, still dragging air into his lungs like he'd just run back-to-back marathons. He dropped his knife to the bed in favor of covering his ears. He glared at the flashing light above his door and continued to try and get his breathing back under control.
It was proving to be a task easier said than done.
He wasn't sure what had woken him, the alarm or the memory of drowning. Well, not quite memory, more of a mixture of flashes of memory and a healthy dose of imagination. Either way, his nerves were currently shot to hell and his hands were shaking like he was a goddamned crack addict jonesing for a fix.
He blamed the lingering effects of the nightmare on his startled flinch when his intercom blared to life.
"Emergency Protocol Drill Delta. Please proceed to your designated emergency zone. Emergency Protocol Drill Delta. Please proceed to your designated emergency zone."
A goddamned drill. Awesome.
Clint didn't move for a long moment, contemplating the odds of getting away with skipping it. He'd only gotten back to base a couple hours ago, having mercifully completed the latest of his long string of shitty assignments.
It'd been five months since he'd pissed on the Council's orders and brought Natasha Romanoff in. And he was still paying for it. Apparently, nearly dying – well, technically he had died – in Uzbekistan hadn't garnered him any lasting sympathy.
As it was, Phil knew he was back. He'd been waiting for him in the hangar and had walked him to his room with promises of a couple of days off before he got sent back out. Clint would take it. Even if he was shunned by everyone on the whole damned base but Phil, he'd take it.
Because he was rapidly learning that he just wasn't as good at alone as he used to be.
Clint sighed. Phil wouldn't let him get away with skipping a drill, no matter how little sleep he'd gotten. And Clint wasn't ready to test the tenuous peace they'd reached over the whole Romanoff fiasco.
So he reached for his pants.
Clint waited with the other field agents in the training gym as Agent Bryan called out the drill assignments. Clint usually helped clear the compound. He was quick, silent, and efficient – all the qualities you wanted on a sweep team. It also made the time go by so much faster.
"Barton, Guard Post 9. Jamison, Guard Post 10. Dismissed."
Clint snapped his gaze to Bryan with a frown. Guard Post 9? What the hell?
"Bryan," Clint called sharply as he approached the trainer. He saw Bryan sigh and square his shoulders before Clint had even taken two strides. "What the hell?" Clint demanded as he came to stand toe-to-toe with the man. "Guard Post? Really?"
"Do you have a problem with the assignments, Agent Barton?" Bryan's tone was firm and prepared. He'd been waiting for Clint to complain, had known the complaint was coming.
"I'm not a goddamned guard. I should be clearing the compound like I always do."
Bryan's gaze darkened. Apparently he wasn't in the mood for Clint's version of bucking authority – especially not with all the other agents watching.
"You're whatever the fuck I tell you to be and I'm telling you to go man Guard Post 9."
Clint was honestly confused.
"Why?"
"Because I said so, Barton," Bryan replied firmly.
"You're putting me in fucking time out. That's what this is. Are you still punishing me too?"
Now Bryan's gaze softened but his tone held firm.
"You have your orders, Barton…and I had mine."
Clint felt his shoulders drop. Bryan hadn't made this call, it had come from higher up. Clint would bet his last dollar that it was Fury himself that had passed down that order.
"It's just a drill, kid. Not life or death. Suck it the fuck up and take it like a man."
Bryan didn't give him a chance to reply before striding away. Clint sighed and headed to the armory – the location of Guard Post 9. The most intensely and highly trained agent on base – and he was guarding a goddamned door.
Clint rolled his head back and forth on the wall, clicking his tongue in his mouth as he stared at the ceiling. Three hours. Three hours he'd been standing by himself in the hallway outside the armory. He knew the drill was coming to a close. They'd announced the all clear from the sweep teams a few minutes ago.
He was still bored out of his mind, though. He heard approaching footsteps and drew his gaze from the ceiling to watch one of the sweep teams approach. They'd be checking all their weapons back into the armory now.
He was able to ignore the mocking glances he got for his drill assignment because he was thoroughly distracted by a shock of red that rounded the corner.
Romanoff.
She'd been part of this team, helping to clear the compound.
He'd not seen her since he'd gotten back, but he hadn't really had a chance. He'd been planning to try and hook up for a sparring session later since that had apparently become part of his job description. To be fair, though, she was no longer allowed to spar with the general population. But him, him they let her beat up on. He could even hold his own against her…usually.
She met his gaze, eyebrow arching delicately. She hadn't expected to see him, he could tell. She might not have even known he was back. Clint pushed off the wall and moved to meet her.
"Look at you all fancy in your standard issued SHIELD gear," he greeted with a smirk.
Her own expression remained stoic and she didn't reply.
Clint gave her an approving nod.
"It fits," he stated simply, knowing immediately by the sudden lightening in her eyes that she understood his meaning. The SHIELD gear suited her. She could fit in here. She could belong. He'd counted on that five months ago when he'd made the call that saved her life. To see her starting to settle in lifted a little of the weight he carried over the whole situation.
"Romanoff, move your ass."
She shifted her gaze impatiently at something over Clint's shoulder but didn't move. She returned her eyes to his instead.
"How long are you back?" she asked simply.
Clint smirked again.
"Why? Did you miss me?"
She didn't rise to the bait, just gave him a dry glare instead as she replied.
"I haven't had a good sparing match in weeks."
It wasn't exactly gushing sentimentality but he'd take it.
"I'll be around a few days."
She nodded and glanced over his shoulder again. He thought that was it, that their conversation was over, but her eyes returned to his a moment later.
"It does fit," she said quietly. Then she moved, stepping around him to enter the armory. Clint turned, watching the door close behind her.
"That it does," he agreed to the empty hallway.
Nick Fury drummed his fingers along the edge of his desk as watched Barton and Romanoff on the security feed. It was interesting watching the two assassins interact. There was a familiarity that seemed out of place considering the only interaction they'd had in the last five months was an occasional sparring session. But at the same time, it made sense. Who better to understand Romanoff and all the darkness she entailed, than Clint Barton. They were cut from the same cloth.
He watched Barton talk, his words holding Romanoff's attention even if she didn't reply. Then she shifted and spoke.
Nick tilted his head, curious now and wishing he'd turned on the audio. Romanoff didn't interact much with the other agents. In fact Agent Bryan's reports showed that she was giving Barton a run for his money in the 'loner' category. Fury wasn't fooled though. Barton kept his distance because he didn't trust anybody – anybody except Phil. Romanoff, though also distrusting in her own way, was remaining aloof for an entirely different reason.
She was studying them. He was sure of it. To what end, remained to be seen.
So seeing her speak to Barton, interact with him almost easily, it was interesting. It made the plans he had for them seem less insane than they had originally appeared. Maybe they would make just as good of a team as he suspected. And whether that would be an asset or a liability to the organization was a whole different type of headache.
Fury switched off the feed as Romanoff stepped past Barton and the archer turned to watch her disappear into the armory. He drummed his fingers again and turned his gaze towards Phil, who was coordinating via radio with all the department directors, crossing the last of the t's and dotting the last of the i's on the emergency drill.
His second in command ended whatever conversation he was having and signed the form he'd been filling out. He then released it from the clipboard and slid it across Fury's desk.
Nick dropped his hand onto the form but didn't pick it up.
"When is Barton's next assignment?"
Phil had been doing a good job of making the kid scarce while Fury's temper cooled over the whole Romanoff situation. And while Nick still couldn't justify Barton's method in bringing her into the fold, he was having a harder and harder time arguing against the decision itself. Keeping Barton scarce was the key to preventing that little fact from convincing him to let the kid off the hook ahead of schedule.
That didn't mean Barton needed to know that, though. The kid was learning a hard lesson, but Nick was damned determined to make sure he learned it well. His assignment to a guard post during the drill was just another part of that lesson.
"He got in late last night…or early this morning…however you want to look at it. He's been in and out for the past six weeks without much down time so I figured I'd give him a few days to recharge."
Fury shook his head. With the shit assignments he was on, Barton didn't need to 'recharge.' Phil always had tended to be lenient with the kid, even more so since Uzbekistan.
"Send him back out tomorrow. That intelligence mess in Guadalajara could use an extra set of eyes."
Phil frowned.
"That's paper pushing."
"Exactly," Nick agreed. "Even Barton couldn't find trouble there."
Phil sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair.
"He's gonna burn out."
Fury rolled his eye.
"Burn out? He just came off a cake walk surveillance detail fresh on the heels of a recon mission. Now we're talking about paperwork. Tell me exactly what he's doing that's pushing him towards exhaustion?"
Phil met his gaze seriously.
"That's not the type of burn out I'm talking about."
Nick sighed.
"I'm trying to make a point with the damn kid, Phil."
"And don't you think you've made it? It's been five months."
"Do you think I've made it?" Nick challenged. They both knew how hardheaded Barton could be. Nick didn't intend to let up until he knew his message had been received. The way Phil sighed and looked away told him that Phil didn't think they were there yet either.
"He's getting antsy. He's not built for inaction. He's going to boil over. It's just a matter of when."
"And what would you have me do, Phil? Let him off the hook?" Nick didn't give him a chance to answer before going on. "I'm not ready to do that yet because I'm still pissed as hell."
Phil sighed and nodded, acquiescing to Nick's authority on the matter. Nick nodded, blowing out a breath.
"I want him in Guadalajara tomorrow."
"Yes sir."
Phil stood to leave and Fury called him back.
"Phil, if Barton can figure out the intelligence mess, there's another mission in Guadalajara that needs attention. A simple retrieval, old school cat burglar type stuff. Nothing too exciting, but it might be what your boy needs to keep his blood pressure down. Do you think Barton can manage that without getting into trouble?"
Phil smirked slightly.
"I think he can manage."
"Good. Never say I didn't do anything for you."
Phil's chuckle as he left had Fury holding down a smirk of his own.
Natasha watched Barton from her position against the wall in the gym. All the agents were in there again, now waiting for permission to return to whatever they were doing before the drill. A glance at Agent Bryan showed him talking on his radio even as he signed a form another agent was holding for him.
She brought her gaze back to Barton.
He was leaning against one of the weight training machines, arms crossed casually over his chest and his gaze fixed with lazy intensity on the spot on the floor he kept rubbing at with his boot. He looked tired, though in all fairness, the drill had started at 5am and she'd been sleeping too. But something in the set of his shoulders leant to more than that. There was a weariness that hadn't been there when they'd met in Paris.
He'd been in and out of the base ever since his recovery from the disastrous mission in Uzbekistan that nearly killed him. She couldn't remember a time when he'd been around for more than 36 hours. "Probation" is what he'd called it when she'd asked. He had to earn the right to be trusted again.
Natasha pushed off the wall she was leaning on and drifted towards him.
She wasn't sure why she moved. She didn't really want to talk to him. Talking to Barton was a lot like talking to a politician. When he actually chose to talk, he said a lot, but didn't really say a damn thing. Except when he did and then his words hit like a punch to the gut.
She adjusted her trajectory, circling off to his left. No, she didn't really want to talk to him.
She paused when she heard her name.
She glanced to Barton, but he wasn't looking at her. His gaze was fixed on a pair of agents huddled off to his right. Natasha stepped towards them, listening for her name again. As she came closer she started catching more of their conversation.
"…creepy ass fuckers, the both of them. I swear to God, every time Barton fucking looks at me, it's like getting watched by a goddamned demon."
"No surprise that he's the one that brought her in as an 'asset.'" The other agent snickered and leaned closer to his friend. "Wonder what 'assets' she used to convince him to do that."
Natasha arched an eyebrow. The guy probably thought he was clever, but she'd heard worse insinuations in the last five months.
"At least that fuck up got him put on probation. He's been on so many shit assignments lately, I swear the stench is starting to follow him around. I wish they'd send Romanoff out too, it's like she's around every fucking corner. The bitch is planning something. I swear to God, she's gonna go on a killing spree and I'm gonna get to tell the brass I told you so in a big fucking way."
The other agent chuckled.
"Hell, we'll put her down ourselves and then they'd owe us for cleaning up their mess. It's all Fury's fucking fault, you know. You can't blame the rabid dog for biting you when you invite it into your house. Maybe it's time the Council cleaned house with the leadership around here."
Natasha frowned, and then flinched when she saw a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye. She'd been so focused on the conversation, that she'd lost track of Barton. He stepped right up to the duo, clasping both of them on the shoulder in a move that appeared friendly, but probably wasn't anywhere close.
"You sons of bitches wanna sack up and say that shit to my face?" She saw the muscles in his hands flex and knew his fingers were digging into the agents' shoulders now. "Normally I'd just write you all off as shit-brained ass wipes, but I've had a really crappy day…hell, I've had a down right shitty year and I'm less inclined to forgive your goddamned stupidity than usual."
His tone was casual, but the undercurrent of aggression was clear to her. Barton was daring them to start something with him, was maybe even hoping they would. And judging by the shared glances of the other agents, they knew it too.
"So go ahead…say it," Barton demanded. His tone had dropped, taking on an icy, dark quality that she'd only ever heard during her sordid recruitment.
One of the agents tried to drift a step away from Barton even as Natasha shifted closer.
"Say what?" the drifter asked, a wary tone in his voice now.
"Call me a demon again…or better yet, a rabid dog. You get points for creativity, those are both new."
"We weren't talking about you with the dog one." An ebony haired agent bravely spoke up. "We were talking about Romanoff…she's the bitch after all."
It was hardly the most insulting thing that had ever been said about her, but she could tell by the sudden tension in Barton's shoulders, that it was just the excuse he'd been waiting for.
His hands slid free of the shoulders he'd been holding captive. He let them drop casually to his sides. It was a deceptively unguarded pose; she'd seen him use it before and had only fallen for it once.
"It's funny you should say that, because the only bitch I see…" she could almost hear the smirk in Barton's words, "is you."
And that was it. The black-haired agent lashed out, swinging a sharp, tight right cross towards Barton's face. But the archer merely leaned back, letting the fist pass harmlessly in front of his face.
"Whoa, tiger, what's the problem? Did I hurt your feelings?"
Barton taunted.
"Take a hike, Barton," the other agent growled. "I'm not going to be your excuse to let off steam."
Barton eyed the agent with a narrowed gaze. She was shocked when he backed off, an icy smirk turning up the corner of his mouth as his eyes cut to something across the gym.
"Put a muzzle on your dog and maybe I can find my way to forgetting just how much he's asking for me to put a fist through his face." Barton took another step back and Natasha wondered why he'd backed down. Everything she knew about his personality suggested a fight should have been coming.
A glance at Agent Bryan gave her an answer. The trainer was watching them all with a slight frown and an arched eyebrow.
She looked back at Barton in time to see him turn. His eyebrows rose in surprise when he saw her watching him from a few feet away.
"Hey Barton…"
He was still looking at her even as he started to turn towards back towards the two agents, heeding the call. For that reason, she saw it coming before he did and took a step forward. He turned right into an identical right cross to the one the agent had thrown just moments ago. Only this time, Barton didn't get a chance to dodge.
Barton's head snapped to the right and he stumbled a step in the same direction, his balance thrown off from being mid turn when he was hit. It took him less than a breath to recover though and then he was all but flying towards the black haired man that had hit him.
Natasha started forward instinctively. She'd barely gotten a few steps when an ear-piercing whistle cut through the air and had everyone, except the three men who were trading blows, freezing. She watched Agent Bryan lower his fingers from his mouth and start towards the fight.
When he reached them, Barton had unsurprisingly managed to get both men onto the ground. One of them was already unconscious, but Barton was straddling the waist of the ebony-haired one, drawing his fist back for what she was certain would be the knockout blow.
Bryan grabbed two fists full of Barton's shirt and bodily pulled him up and away from the downed agents. The archer immediately tried to dodge around him and attack again.
"God dammit, Barton!" Bryan snapped, shoving an open palm hard against Barton's chest. "Stand the hell down."
Natasha watched as Barton hesitated, locking gazes with Bryan for a long, tense moment. He didn't make a move, but his hands remained clenched at his sides and his eyes cut to the agent that was slowly rising from the ground. Barton tensed and Bryan gave him another shove.
"Get the hell out. NOW. Go take a walk before I get as pissed at you as I am at this chucklehead." Bryan gestured at the black haired agent who was standing once again, albeit unsteadily.
Barton stood stock still for a long, rebellious moment before putting his hands up briefly in surrender. Then he turned, met her gaze for a passing moment and then stalked towards the door. The rest of the agents parted before him, none of them willing to risk sparking his temper again.
Natasha moved back to the wall as Bryan started dressing down the agent that had started the whole thing to begin with. She made no move to follow him, but her gaze stayed on Barton's back until he slammed through the doors and disappeared from sight.
Clint took only marginal pleasure in hearing Bryan start to tear into the ass-hat that had sucker punched him. The one time Clint was ready to do what Phil always told him to do – walk away before he completely lost his temper – and the son of a bitch sucker punched him.
Didn't that just fit the day he was having.
He felt Romanoff's gaze on his back as he moved towards the exit, but ignored it. If she wanted to talk to him, she could damn well walk up to him and open her goddamned mouth.
God, he needed to hit something.
He settled for slamming the exit door open with enough force to chip the drywall where it impacted.
He also nearly took Phil to the ground.
"Whoa there, kid. What's with the full steam ahead?" Phil asked with wide, worried eyes as he held out his hands in calming manner, like you would to a startled animal.
Clint felt his hands clench into fists again.
"Take a breath," Phil ordered, his voice growing firm. "Tell me what happened."
"Nothing," Clint grunted, doing his best to force his temper down. Now that he was out of the gym, it was a more attainable task.
"That busted lip doesn't look like nothing."
"Just the usual shit. I took care of it."
Phil's eyebrow arched knowingly.
"Is that why you're taking a walk?"
Clint scowled at his handler, annoyed that he sounded so damn unsurprised.
"I didn't start it." It was a childish defense, even to his own ears.
If the slow arching of Phil's eyebrow was anything to go by, his handler thought so too.
Clint took it upon himself to change the subject before Phil could ask him if he finished it.
"Were you looking for me?"
Phil narrowed his gaze, glancing towards the gym door. When no one came bursting through to either seek revenge or to reprimand, Phil moved his gaze back to Clint, who was watching him with an air of poorly restrained impatience.
"I just came from speaking with the Director."
Clint's shoulders tightened with tension and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth together. His blue-gray gaze searched Phil's for a long silent moment and then he stepped back. His shoulder's dropped and he looked away. That was how Phil knew Clint had already figured out what was coming.
"He has an assignment for you."
Clint shook his head, jaw still tightly clenched and hands refisting at his sides.
"When?"
"You're slated to fly out in the morning."
Phil watched the muscle in Clint's jaw tremble as he tried to reign in his temper. Phil could practically see the fire simmering just below the surface of the archer's expression.
"I just got back. I've only had two hours of sleep," he pointed out in a tightly controlled tone. "I thought I had a few days coming to me. You told me I did."
Phil blew out a sigh.
"The Director overruled me."
Phil saw the fire erupt in Clint's eyes a moment before the archer moved. For that reason, he wasn't all that surprised when Clint's left fist slammed into the wall, cracking the plaster and leaving a smear of blood in its wake.
"God dammit!" Clint growled, but Phil knew the expletive had nothing to do with the new pain in his hand. He was proven correct when Clint whirled, gesturing wildly. "It's been five months, Phil! Five goddamn months. I'm sick of this shit! I'm fucking sick of it!" With that he turned and stalked away.
It took Phil a moment to react to the abrupt end of their conversation.
"Where are you going?"
"To the parkour course." Clint practically snarled his reply without stopping or turning back.
"It's raining and it's below freezing out there," Phil replied reasonably.
"Then I'll wear a fucking jacket." But he made no move to change his trajectory.
Clint was almost to the end of the hallway now and Phil tried one more time.
"Clint…"
"Look, Phil," Clint pushed halfway through the door that would take him outside and then turned to look at him, "It's taking everything I have not to put my fist through the wall again and if I'm around people right now I might just put it through a face instead. So just give me some goddamned space."
He didn't give Phil a chance to reply before he stepped out into the early morning and let the door fall closed.
Phil sighed and rubbed his hand across his face. So much for calmly explaining the change in plans and having a civil conversation about it.
He started slowly down the hallway, following Clint's path.
The damn kid had gone out without a jacket, his impulsive promise more than likely forgotten as soon as it was said. So despite every instinct telling him to follow Clint outside immediately, he changed his course and headed towards the residence halls. He'd get Clint's jacket and his own and then join his protégé outside.
Hopefully the kid didn't manage to freeze to death before then.
Phil had gathered their jackets, pulled his on, and was just about to step through the door that would lead to the parkour course when he heard his name.
"Phil!"
He turned, watching Todd jog up to him.
"You seen Barton?"
"He's outside."
It showed how well Todd knew Clint that he didn't seem at all surprised by that. He even had his own jacket in hand already and started shrugging into it.
"You heading out there?"
Phil nodded and started through the door. Todd followed without waiting to be invited.
"Is he in trouble for the fight?"
Todd didn't question how he knew about that, just shook his head.
"No. I just want to check on him. Lucky for him, this time I saw who threw the first punch. You'd have been proud, Phil. The kid actually tried to walk away….of course, a whole lot of good that did him."
"Wait." Phil turned and pulled Todd to a stop. "What do you mean?"
"Another agent sucker punched him right in the kisser. Luckily I got to them before Barton could exact proper revenge but the other two guys will definitely be moving gingerly for a few days."
"Two guys?"
"I thought Barton told you what happened?" Todd frowned as they started forward again.
They could see Clint moving through the course, as quickly and efficiently as ever.
Phil shot him a loaded look. Todd should know better than to think Clint was ever a wealth of information when it came to his own issues.
"Right." Todd quirked his lips. "It's Barton."
"Exactly," Phil agreed as they came up on the parkour course. Clint was about halfway through it.
"Jesus, he's got to be freezing," Todd muttered as he huddled into his own jacket and yanked on his hood to be sure it was providing the most coverage possible.
"He's an idiot," Phil replied in the same low tone as he watched Clint move.
They both waited patiently for Clint to finish the course, watching the archer move. Clint scaled a brick wall and leapt from it to the tin-covered rooftop beside it. From there he would run across and more than likely thread his body through the solitary window on the opposing wall. It was hard to predict Clint's movement sometimes, though. Now that he'd stalled at a best time, he'd taken to finding new ways to get through the course.
It was Todd that saw it first, his posture tensing in the same moment Phil's eyes recognized what Todd's had.
"Oh hell," Todd breathed as Clint's foot planted on the rooftop, just a few feet from the edge he would normally jump from. But his foot didn't stay planted. It slid. Slid right out from under him, sending him tumbling headfirst over the edge of the roof, arms flailing to find purchase. His momentum carried him through the air to hit the opposing wall with a dull thud and then he was falling.
"CLINT!"
"BARTON!"
Then Phil was running.
Clint was feeling a little better. Cold. But better. He really should have gotten his jacket before he came out because now he was drenched and the cold air was burning his skin. He'd finish this run through then he'd get his jacket from Phil.
He'd seen his handler and Agent Bryan head his way just as he'd started this round. He could sense their gazes on him now as he moved. Hell, maybe he'd just go inside with them when he finished. He'd probably be able to talk Phil into giving him the rest of the day to himself. And now that he felt less like punching something, he might actually be able to enjoy it.
His lack of focus cost him the precious second it would have taken him to notice the icy patch on the roof. Instead, he ended up planting his foot directly on it. He knee wretched as his foot slid sharply out from under him, sending him face first towards the edge of the roof.
"Sonova…"
His momentum carried him tumbling over the edge even as his icy fingers grasped for something to catch on. The torque of his tumble sent his body twisting in the air towards the next obstacle. He knew he was going to hit it before he ever did.
The ledge of the window caught him across the forehead even as the rest of his body impacted the wall with enough jarring force to send his teeth slamming together and his shoulder blade cracking against the brick.
Then he was falling.
He distantly heard two voices calling his name two different ways as he tried to turn and tuck his shoulder. If he could just roll with the fall…but there wasn't enough time.
He landed on his partially outstretched left arm instead.
Maybe he heard the 'snap' or maybe just felt it…either way, it fucking hurt. The added pain of the rest of his body hitting the ground was enough to send him into brief oblivion.
Phil slid to his knees in the cold wet grass, hands hovering over Clint's still body while he tried to deduce where it was safe to touch him. He was sprawled mostly on his back, head turned away from Phil. Todd came to his knees on Clint's other side.
"Head wound," Todd observed even as he dug into his jacket pocket for his radio. They both tensed when Clint moaned and shifted. "Don't let him move." The trainer snapped the command as if Phil didn't already know that. Then Todd started talking into his radio. Phil nodded but didn't look away from Clint.
"Clint?" Phil called firmly, lightly resting his hand on Clint's chest, but not adding any pressure.
Clint shifted and groaned again, this time louder.
"Barney…"
Phil's heart clenched. It was the rain. It was always the goddamned rain and every memory it brought bubbling up. Clint hated the fucking rain and Phil was starting to embrace the sentiment.
"He's not here, Clint," Phil assured gently. He shifted his hand to Clint's shoulder when he tried to move, eyes fluttering. "Don't move, kid."
Either Clint didn't hear him or was ignoring him because he tried to shift again.
"No."
He tried to shy away from the hand Phil had on his shoulder.
"Clint!" Phil called sharply.
"Barney, please…"
His eyes opened fully now and then widened, rare fear flashing through them. He tried to push up and away, but Phil stopped him which just added to the fear.
Phil kept one hand pressing lightly on Clint's shoulder and moved the other to frame his jaw, shifting into his line of sight.
"He's not here," he stated loudly and firmly. "Look at me, Clint. It's Phil."
"Who the hell is Barney?" He heard Todd ask, but Phil ignored him. It wasn't his to explain.
Clint blinked and frowned. Phil could practically see the cobwebs clear.
"Phil?"
"Yes." Phil breathed a sigh of relief.
"What the hell…" Clint tried to shift again, going as far as to lift his head off the ground.
"God dammit, stop moving, Clint." Phil held him firmly to the ground.
"Why?" The kid sounded genuinely confused even as he dropped his head back down.
"Because you just fell ten feet and you could have spinal damage." Todd put in as he tucked his radio away. Phil could only assume help was on the way.
"I'm fine…" Clint insisted stubbornly, lifting his head again.
"Damn it, Barton!" Todd snapped, joining Phil's efforts in keeping Clint immobile.
"Clint!" Phil snapped, waiting until Clint looked at him before going on. "You might feel fine, but if you move and something is broken you could cause permanent damage."
The very thought sent a shiver of fear down Phil's spine.
"So unless you want to trade in your motorcycle for another type of two wheeled transportation – like a goddamned wheelchair for the rest of our life – you're gonna stop fucking moving," Todd added with a slight growl.
Clint frowned at them, but obediently dropped his head back to the ground and stopped fighting against their hold.
"I'm fine," he still insisted petulantly. They were all silent for a moment and then Clint spoke again. "Well, except I'm pretty sure my arm is broken…but other than that…fine."
Phil blew out a breath and shook his head. He wasn't sure how you could only be 'pretty sure' about a broken bone…or how having a broken bone could ever fall under the definition of 'fine.'
"Well, humor me," he requested with forced levity. "Because it looks to me like your head might be broken too."
"Pfff." Clint dismissed his concern. "Head wounds bleed a lot. I'd know if I had a concussion."
Phil sighed and leaned closer.
"You were calling out to Barney when you came around," he explained. Maybe it had just been sense memory, but maybe it hadn't. Phil wasn't taking the chance. He watched Clint frown and wished he was more relieved when he didn't protest again.
Todd cleared his throat and leaned closer.
"Dan is on his way, he'll get you fixed up so just hang in there."
"Tell me what you're feeling," Phil demanded, though he kept his tone as calm as he could manage. "And none of this 'I'm fine' shit. You don't get to decide when you're fine."
Because Clint's definition of the word had never matched Phil's.
"Well, I'm cold." As if to prove the blunt statement, Clint's whole body gave a violent shiver. The sudden tightening of Clint's jaw told Phil the movement hadn't felt all that good. "And I'm wet. I hate the fucking rain, you know," Clint informed him in a flat tone.
"I know, kid." Phil blew out a breath. "But that's not what I'm talking about and you know it. What hurts? Where's it the worst?"
Clint's eyebrows drew together as if he were deeply contemplating his answer. It made Phil frown. It wasn't that hard of a question.
"Clint?"
"Nothing hurts." Usually such a blatant lie would have been said with a smirk and a fair share of bravado. But Clint just seemed perplexed.
"What do you mean, 'nothing hurts'?" Todd questioned sharply.
"You said you thought you broke your arm," Phil pointed out.
"Yeah, well, I landed on it…heard a snap. Or felt it. I don't know." He frowned. "I'm cold."
"You said that." Todd sighed and shot a worried glance at Phil.
Phil frowned, thinking, even as he spread Clint's jacket over him to offer some shelter from the rain. Once the jacket was in place, he rested his hand on the bare skin of Clint's neck. He left it there to offer whatever warmth and comfort he could.
"Cold as in everything is numb?" he asked abruptly.
"I guess." The fingers of Clint's hands wriggled, either in a show of rebellion or just to prove to the archer that they could.
Phil nodded and looked at Todd.
"He's been out here for at least ten minutes already and he's lying on the wet ground. His skin is like ice."
"Going for the human popsicle look, kid?" Todd asked with a smirk that looked forced even as he slid out of his jacket and draped it over the downed archer. Phil offered the trainer a grateful look. He'd been about to do the exact same thing, Todd had just beat him to it.
"Well, you know me…" Clint replied absently and without his usual snarkiness. His body shivered violently again, and this time it was followed by a visible, constant tremble. Clint's body had apparently lost whatever heat the workout had been providing. Phil stripped out of his jacket now and added it the other two.
"Yeah," Todd sighed in response, "I do."
"What the hell happened?"
Todd looked up and Phil twisted to watch Dan Wilson cover the last few feet keeping him from Clint's side. Phil's hand on Clint's neck and the subtle pressure of his thumb against the kid's jaw kept him from looking as well.
"He fell," Phil supplied, pointing up at the structure Clint had fallen from.
"I didn't fall," Clint protested around chattering teeth. "My foot slid on ice."
"And then you fell," Todd added. He gestured at the wall Clint had hit. "His momentum carried him into that. Smacked his noggin pretty good if all the blood is anything to go by."
"Head wounds bleed a lot," Clint ground out in defense.
"How about you let me do the doctor shit?" Dan cut in, nudging Todd aside and leaning over Clint to get a look at the head wound. He then looked up to where Clint had fallen from. "What the hell are you doing out here in this weather anyway?" he demanded as he carefully felt along Clint's arms and then legs, but he didn't give Clint a chance to answer before going on. "Never mind, I don't care. Michelle, let's get him on the backboard. Watch the left arm, there's definitely a break there."
A nurse appeared next to Phil from seemingly thin air and gently nudged him out of the way. When Phil looked back at Clint, Dan was in the midst of strapping a c-collar into place around his neck. The nurse moved the long, hard, plastic red board she'd brought and nudged Phil even farther away from Clint.
He had to fight the urge to snap at her for the action. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that she was trying to help.
"Phil?" Clint's voice had him reconsidering his restraint.
"Phil, come around here and help me," Dan ordered in a calm, patient tone. "Todd, you move down to his feet…there, perfect. Phil, you go by his head."
Phil shifted, kneeling next to Dan and lowering his eyes to meet Clint's gaze. The wide-eyed, borderline panicked look was slightly unexpected. Clint didn't do panic.
"Clint?" Phil leaned closer, unable to keep his concern from bleeding into his tone.
"I-I can't-t feel anyth-thing." The chattering of his teeth made the panic that was starting to creep into Clint's voice even more potent. "N-nothing hur-rts."
The claim – offered only moments ago with calm, albeit confused, confidence – was now stuttered with rising fear.
Phil's eyes slid to the c-collar and then to the backboard Michelle was shifting into position. He'd been given the full spinal treatment himself once upon a time. He knew how disconcertingly terrifying it was to be essentially tied down with the threat of paralysis hanging over you like a black cloud.
Apparently, the reality of the situation was sinking in with Clint all at once. Phil couldn't stop himself from resting a hand lightly on Clint's wet hair. Though Clint often rejected and rarely sought tactile comfort, Phil was quickly learning the young archer practically yearned for it.
"Hey," he kept his voice a shade above what Clint would have considered gentle, "you're cold, remember? You're just cold." He hoped he was telling the truth. Clint had moved his fingers, he'd lifted his head. They were just playing it safe.
Beside him Dan barked a command at Michelle.
"Let's get him packaged and get him inside. He's probably going into shock." He looked next to Todd and then to Phil. "We're gonna log roll him onto his side so Michelle can slide the backboard underneath. You've both done this before, ready?" He barely gave them a moment to prepare before nodding. "Now."
A moment later, Clint was on the board instead of the ground.
Dan nodded at Michelle and she started fitting straps into place even as Dan shifted so he could hover directly above Clint's face.
"Hey. Barton. Look at me."
Clint's eyes stayed on Phil's without straying. Phil nodded slightly, encouraging Clint to do as he'd been asked – and maybe to assure him that Phil wasn't going anywhere. It took a moment, but Clint's eyes obediently shifted to meet Dan's.
Phil watched Dan slip his hand around Clint's right one.
"You feel that, Barton?"
Clint's eyes stayed glued to Dan's – seeming to ignore Michelle fitting a strap across his forehead – and after a moment he cleared his throat.
"Yeah." The word was all but whispered, but it made Phil smile with relief. It turned to a grin when Clint added, "Your hands are cold."
Dan snorted.
"Yeah, well…Pot. Kettle. Black. Squeeze my hand."
Phil watched the muscles in Clint's forearm immediately shift as he obeyed the command.
Dan nodded.
"Sissy grip, Barton, but it's there. Listen to me. About 99 percent of the time, all this shit's just precaution. It's the one percent we just make sure for." Dan paused for a moment, his gaze staying locked on Clint's. "If it's the one percent, it's still fixable. So relax."
Clint was quiet for a moment and then a shadow of his usual smirk quirked his lips.
"Sissy grip?" he challenged. "You go take a ten foot header and then tell me it's a sissy grip."
Dan rolled his eyes and Phil found himself mirroring the action.
He wasn't all that surprised when Clint caught the twin expressions and his smirk grew.
"Smartass," Dan teased and then turned to Michelle. "You ready to go here?"
She nodded.
"Okay, everyone take a corner. Lift on three."
"Good news." Dan's voice had Phil looking up from where he'd been tightly pacing in Clint's usual infirmary room. Relief rushed through him when he saw Dan was pushing a wheelchair with Clint slouched in it, looking beautifully annoyed. "Nothing broken but his arm and three ribs, and a hell of a lot of bruising."
"The head wound?" Phil demanded as he moved to help Clint lever himself out of the chair and over to sit on the bed. His wounded arm was protected in a basic splint and Phil wondered if it had been set yet.
"Nothing but stitches. That steel reinforced noggin did its work. Not even a concussion."
"Told you." Clint smirked in a very self-satisfied manner. "Head wounds bleed a lot." He motioned vaguely at the neat line of stitches stretching across his forehead above his right eye. "Probably won't even scar."
"Yeah, you're practically a doctor all on your own, tough guy," Dan interjected sarcastically before Phil could muster a response. "Let's get some of the good stuff in you and set that arm so you can get some rest, and I can get back to the stack of paperwork that you pulled me from."
"You mean rescued you from," Clint replied. "You're welcome," he offered with a smug grin.
"If that's the case, I could do without your kind of rescue, kid. Now take your medicine like a good little boy."
Phil sighed even as Clint pulled away. Phil knew where this was going.
"I don't need that shit."
Dan's expression darkened and when he spoke his tone was harder.
"Can we skip the whole 'tougher than shit' routine this time?"
"Fine." Clint's own countenance grew darker. "Then set the damn thing and get it over with."
Dan's expression morphed, the annoyance giving way to incredulity.
"Like hell. First, do no harm, Barton. I take that shit seriously and this is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch."
Clint's eyebrow cocked and Phil knew that some part of the archer's tragically damaged psyche had heard that as some sort of challenge.
"I've had bones set before, Wilson. I know how it feels and I've had other shit hurt a hell of a lot worse, so just do it."
"Clint…" Phil was tired of this debate. He'd been fighting it since the first moment they'd met. One day he hoped he'd actually start to win it.
"What, Phil? What?" Clint snapped, surprising him. He'd missed the spike in Clint's temper, but then Phil remembered the whole reason Clint had been out on the parkour course to begin with. "Has my right to make my own damn decisions about my own damn health been revoked too?"
The sharp words had Phil's hackles rising. He wasn't the enemy here, and he didn't appreciate getting treated like he was.
Abruptly, Dan stepped between them.
"Stop." He shot Phil a look full of understanding but then turned back to Clint. "Seriously, Barton…this is why doctors take oaths." Dan let his voice drop an octave. "If not for yourself, could you at least consider that neither of us wants to watch you suffer?"
Phil knew there would be no winning this argument when the genuine plea garnered none of the usual warmth Phil had come to expect from such methods.
"Maybe I don't give a shit what you want right now." He shot a glance at Phil. "Either of you."
Phil wondered if Dan's expression mirrored the hurt he knew had flashed across his own face because a moment later Clint's shoulders sagged slightly and he sighed heavily. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, less full of fire.
"You both know how I feel about pain meds. You know I don't like the way they cloud things up. You also know that I know what I can take." He met each of their gazes individually. "I don't need drugs, not for this."
Dan looked at Phil, question in his eyes. If Phil wanted him to insist, he would. But Phil knew where Clint's anger and stubbornness was stemming from, even if Dan didn't. Clint had had a shitty day. And he'd had too many choices taken from him lately. He'd been told too many times that certain choices weren't his to make. Now he was choosing to assert whatever control he could.
Phil clenched his jaw and met Clint's gaze, neither of them speaking. But Clint rarely had to use words to communicate. His gaze promised war if Phil pushed him on this. Fighting another battle, any kind of battle, was the last thing Phil wanted to force on him. So he blew out a breath and looked to Dan, nodding slightly.
Dan sighed, loudly, and threw his hands up in the air.
"Remind me again who the doctor in the room is?" But he moved to Clint's arm and got it in a grip.
Then he paused, and met Clint's gaze.
"You change your mind, I stop. Fair?"
Clint held his gaze unflinchingly and replied simply and with quiet confidence.
"I won't." He reached with his right hand to grip the bedside table, preparing himself.
Dan rolled his eyes.
"Why does that not surprise me? At all?" Then he levered the pressure he need to on Clint's arm, and pulled.
Phil couldn't hold back a flinch.
The plastic of the bedside tray Clint was gripping creaked and then cracked. Clint half rose off the bed as if to try and move away and muffled a grunt of pain behind tightly clenched teeth.
Phil moved a step forward but a sharp look from Clint had him pausing.
"Dammitall, Barton. Why does it always have to be the hard way with you?" Dan eyed Clint's arm and then gently let it go back to rest on the bed. "I'll send in a nurse for the cast."
Then he turned and stalked past Phil, face red and eyes conspicuously damp.
Phil watched Clint slowly unclench his fingers from the cracked plastic tray and sit back against the raised back of the bed.
"Why do you do that?" he found himself asking abruptly.
Clint shot him a glance and then frowned.
"Do what?"
"Why couldn't you just take the damn drugs? He would give his left arm to keep anything from causing you pain and then you turn around and force him to be the one to inflict it."
"It's just setting an arm."
"To you it's just setting an arm. To him…to me…it's not that simple."
Clint didn't even look mildly repentant. He just didn't get it, maybe never would.
"One day, kid, you're gonna see that what happens to you doesn't just affect you."
"I think it's been made perfectly clear that what I do apparently affects everyone."
Phil cocked an eyebrow.
"You know that's not what I was talking about." He paused for a moment, taking in Clint's countenance. "Am I invited to this pity party? Or are you gonna sulk all by yourself?"
"I'm not sulking."
"Then what are you doing, Clint? Because I get that you had a crappy day, but this 'fuck you' attitude is wearing thin. And don't think I forgot your little temper tantrum in the hallway."
Clint rolled his eyes.
"It wasn't a temper tantrum."
"Like this isn't a pity party?" Phil shot back.
Clint growled out a low groan.
"What do you want from me right now, Phil?" The pain was making Clint's words sharp, but Phil didn't let that stop him.
"I want you to stop it with the attitude and remember that this is me you're talking to, Clint. It's me." Clint's gaze moved to his and something in his eyes shifted, softening. "So talk to me," Phil requested quietly.
Clint clenched his jaw and looked down at his broken arm.
"I'm tired, Phil. I'm just so fucking tired of this shit."
"Of what?" But Phil was pretty sure he knew.
"Of getting treated like the disobedient stepchild that nobody wants to deal with."
Phil slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged slightly.
"I want to deal with you."
The casual comment had the desired effect. Clint's gaze cut to him, studying him to decide if he was serious. Phil quirked his lips in a slight grin and Clint blew out a breath, traces of warmth leaking into his expression as he grinned back.
"Yeah well you have to." Clint replied with mock gruffness. He reached to run his right hand through his hair, leaving it standing at odd angles. "I knew what I was doing. When I made that call and saved her, I knew what it would mean for me."
Phil stayed quiet and waited.
"But I'm just…" Clint blew out a breath and shook his head.
"Tired of it?" Phil supplied calmly.
Clint huffed a slight laugh, though it lacked any real humor.
"Yes. I'm tired of being the one everybody shits on." He met Phil's gaze. "Being on the bottom of a pile of shit sucks."
Phil nodded agreeably.
"I know it does. I wish I could tell you when it was going to end but…"
Clint smirked, and again it lacked any real humor.
"I know. I made my bed of shit and now I have to sleep in it."
Phil stayed serious, continuing where Clint had cut him off.
"But it will end. You're a good agent, quite possibly the best we have. The Director will forgive you." When Clint looked doubtful, Phil made his tone firmer. "He will. You just have to weather the storm until then."
"The shit storm?" Clint smirked again.
Phil grinned slightly and shrugged one shoulder. There was nothing to be done about it. Clint had said it himself. He'd made his bed, now he was just having a hard time staying in it.
"Yeah." Clint sighed deeply, wearily. "That's just…" he shook his head. "I don't know if knowing that is enough."
Phil took the moment to finally approach the bed, reaching to lightly rest a hand on the back of Clint's neck.
"It has to be, kid." He paused, searching for the right words. "You told me that she was worth it. Do you still believe that?"
"You know I do."
"Then let that be enough, okay?"
Clint looked up at him, meeting his gaze and holding it for a long searching moment. Then he nodded slightly.
"Okay."
Phil nodded in return just as a nurse pushed her way into the room.
Clint watched as the nurse applied the cast to his forearm. Her movements were methodical and efficient. She'd obviously done it many times before. Unfortunately for Clint, he'd had this done to him many times before. Well, many by normal people standards. He wasn't sure what the standard was for covert assassins who were former circus performers and victims of child abuse.
Clint held back a scoff. Even if he wasn't one of a kind based on those criteria, he was pretty sure he'd still had more than his fair share of casts.
He'd broken his leg once and both of his arms, all a different times, while he was working for Carson's. Those, by far, had been the most elaborately decorated casts of all time. He was sure of it. Kara and Brit had spent hours drawing and had used every color of marker under the sun.
The casts he'd sported in his more than three years of living in the orphanage hadn't been as colorful. In retrospect, he'd probably made himself an easier target because he was always climbing places he shouldn't. It was easy to explain away broken bones when you had a climber on your hands. It had never mattered how many times Clint had said he didn't fall. No one had ever believed him.
But even Jacobs hadn't been the one to put him in his very first cast. Clint had done that all on his own.
October 1991
"Clint, what are you doing?!" Barney's voice floated up to him from the ground. Barney sounded scared. Clint didn't want Barney to be scared.
"I'm just climbing!" he shouted back even though he didn't take his eyes off his goal.
"You're too little to be on this side of the playground," Barney scolded, but he didn't sound angry. Clint smiled. Barney wasn't angry, so Barney wouldn't tell.
"I'm not too little!" Clint argued, reaching as high as he could and barely managing to hook his fingers on the top of the large playground set. After that, it was easy. When he got onto the roof and looked down at his brother, he couldn't help but crow triumphantly. "SEE! Bet you couldn't get up here!"
"I could if I wanted to." Barney frowned and crossed his arms. "Get down before Dad comes back."
Clint shifted, but only to get in a better position to stand.
"Daddy knows I climb good! He says I'm a monkey!" Clint argued. "He won't get mad." But even as he said it, Clint wasn't so sure.
"He also said not to let you climb on the big kid playground. If you fall, you'll get hurt."
"I won't fall."
"Clint…" Barney sounded angry now. "Get down."
"No."
"Come on! Dad will blame me if he sees you up there! I was supposed to watch you while he got our ice cream."
"You did watch me. You watched me climb." Maybe Clint had waited until Barney was talking to his friends before heading to the playset, but Barney hadn't told him to stop until he was almost at the top.
"Clint, get down or I'll make you get down!"
"You can't make me!" Clint laughed. Barney wouldn't climb up here, he was too afraid of high places.
Barney didn't move. Clint had known he wouldn't.
"Hey, Barn, what's your brother doing?" Barney's friend Travis jogged up.
"He's climbing," Barney said with a sigh. "He won't come down."
"I'll get him," Travis offered.
Clint frowned. He hadn't planned for Barney to have back up.
Barney hesitated.
"Just be careful. He's only six."
Travis waved away his concern and stared climbing.
Clint backed away to the farthest corner of the roof he was on, trying to decide if he should just climb down before stupid Travis could climb up. But before he knew it Travis was already appearing over the edge of the roof. Stupid big kids.
"Come on, brat, don't make me come over there and get you."
"Leave me alone." Clint scowled.
"Clint, just come down," Barney pleaded again. He didn't sound like he liked his plan to have Travis climb up after him anymore. Clint didn't like the plan, either.
Clint didn't get a chance to respond before Travis started climbing up onto the roof. Clint scrambled to start climbing down the other side before the older boy could get near him.
"Hey!" Travis lunged for his arm, but Clint was already moving. The older boy's outstretched hand ended up just knocking into Clint's, dislodging his grip on the playset and knocking him off balance.
"Clint!" Barney sounded really scared now.
But Clint didn't fall. He held on with one hand and glared up at Travis.
"Give me your hand," Travis instructed, reaching down with his own.
"I don't need your help! You almost knocked me down!" Clint accused as he latched his other hand back onto the play set.
"You're such a fucking brat!"
"Hey! That's a bad word!" Clint scowled.
"Don't talk to him like that!" Barney shouted up. "Clint, come down, please."
"Okay!" Clint gave up with a huff.
"You're still a fucking brat," Travis hissed at him as he too started to climb down. His longer limbs brought him to Clint's level fairly quickly.
"You aren't supposed to say that word!" Clint scolded.
"If you hadn't climbed up here, I wouldn't have had to say it!" Travis argued back, descending past Clint quickly – too quickly. His shoulder bumped harshly against Clint's leg just as Clint had let his weight come to rest on it and had let go with one of his hands.
The force of the contact knocked Clint's foot off the play set. His body swung forward, his chin banging painfully against the metal of the structure. The pain startled him and his other hand slipped.
"CLINT!" Barney's shout was the only thing Clint heard as he fell. He didn't even scream himself. He was too shocked.
He'd never fallen before.
He reached out to try and break his fall, but his arm collapsed beneath him. That was when he screamed.
"Clint!" Barney pulled him over onto his back. "Are you okay?"
"My arm!" Clint cried. "It hurts!"
"He just fell! I didn't touch him!" Travis defended as he jumped the last few feet to the ground.
"You hit him! I saw you!" Barney lunged at his friend, shoving him hard enough to send him back against the play set.
"It was an accident!" Travis shouted back.
"You hurt my brother!" Barney yelled, diving at the other boy again.
Clint watched with wide eyes, holding his arm against his chest.
"What the hell is going on?"
Clint turned his watery eyes to his dad as Cliff ran up to them.
"Barney!" Cliff yelled. Barney practically jumped away from the other boy and swiped a hand across his lip, leaving a smear of blood behind.
"He pushed Clint!" Barney defended, pointing at Travis.
"Pushed him from where?" Cliff asked as he knelt next to Clint and gently looked at his arm.
"Up there." Clint stated around hiccupping breaths as he pointed with his other hand. Cliff looked to where Clint was pointing and then back at Clint.
"What were you doing up there?"
"Being a monkey."
Cliff sighed and looked at Travis.
"It was an accident!" The boy defended before taking off in a run. Barney took a step like he was going to give chase.
"Barney." Cliff's voice stalled him mid step.
Clint blinked and felt more tears slid down his cheeks.
"It hurts, daddy."
"I know, kiddo. We're going to go to the doctor, okay? He'll make it better."
Barney knelt on Clint's other side.
"I'm so sorry, Clint." Barney sniffed and Clint was shocked to see tears in his brother's eyes.
The sight had Clint forgetting about the pain in his arm.
"It's okay, Barney. I'm okay." He insisted even though he couldn't stop his own tears from falling or his breaths from hiccupping. "Right, daddy?" Clint looked to his father to agree with him.
"You'll be just fine." Cliff agreed. He looked at Barney. "You can tell me exactly what happened later."
Barney nodded, wiping at his eyes and sniffing again.
"Daddy?" Clint asked as his dad scooped him up into his arms.
"What, little monkey?"
"Where's my ice cream?"
Clint didn't know why his daddy started laughing because when Clint saw their ice cream in a mess on the ground, it just made him want to cry harder.
Clint looked at his bright purple cast with awe. It was so cool. And his mommy had drawn a monkey on it.
"Hey, little brother." Barney dropped down next to him on his bed and held out a bowl of ice cream. "Here."
"Thanks!" Clint grinned and set the bowl in his lap.
"I'm really sorry, you know," Barney said quietly.
"Why?" Clint asked in confusion as he took a big bite of his ice cream.
"I shouldn't have let him go up to get you."
"Stupid Travis is a butt head."
Barney laughed.
"Yeah. He is."
"And he says bad words."
"Yeah."
"His mommy should wash his mouth with soap like mommy did to you when you said a bad word."
"Yeah, she should."
They were both quiet for a moment as Clint continued to eat his ice cream. He thought about offering a bite to his stuffed monkey that was sitting next to him, but then didn't. He didn't really want to share.
"Hey, Clint?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm really sorry."
Clint looked up at his brother and quirked his lips.
"It's okay, Barney. I'm sorry, too."
He offered Barney his spoon and then held out the bowl.
Barney smiled, so Clint smiled too.
"Clint?"
Clint blinked, shocked to feel extra moisture in his eyes. He looked up at Phil in confusion.
"You okay?" Phil asked quietly.
Clint frowned and looked back at the nurse. She was finished. At the moment she was cleaning up the mess she'd made. He looked at his plain white cast and sighed. Maybe he could get Phil to draw something on it.
"Clint?" The concern in Phil's voice drew Clint's eyes back to his.
"I'm fine."
"Does it hurt?"
"No." That wasn't the truth. His arm did hurt. But it wasn't his arm that was causing him pain right now. Thinking about Barney always hurt. It hurt so fucking bad.
"Clint, you're worrying me here."
"I'm fine."
A warm hand landed on Clint's neck and squeezed lightly.
"You can be honest with me. You should know that by now."
Clint swallowed and lowered his eyes to his cast.
"I was just…" he cleared his throat. He wasn't ready to talk about Barney, maybe he never would be. "I was just wishing SHIELD did something other than white for casts. It's so boring."
He felt Phil's gaze on him for a long, heavy moment, before his handler shifted. The hand on his neck disappeared and Clint felt suddenly cold.
"I happen to know Agent Bryan is quite adept with a Sharpie. I expect he can be convinced to help you out."
"Think he could draw a monkey?" Clint asked without thinking. He froze, wondering when he'd decided to say that out loud. He hadn't intended to do anything but think the words. He was surprised when the hand materialized on his neck again and he knew that Phil understood more than Clint had expected.
"I think he definitely could."
Phil slid out of Clint's room, glancing back to make sure his order to stay put was being obeyed. He needn't have worried. Clint was watching Todd draw on his cast with rapt attention. He didn't even seem to notice Phil was gone.
Satisfied, Phil turned his gaze to his current target – Dan's office. After the doctor's hurried exit when he'd set Clint's arm, Phil had the urge to make sure the man wasn't taking it too hard. He'd been on the receiving end of Clint's self-destructive stubbornness more times than he cared to remember, and it always left him feeling raw. Kind of like now.
He blew out a breath as he reached the door and knocked. An invitation came almost immediately.
"Yeah, come on in."
Phil pushed the door open and stepped inside, tossing Dan a weary grin as he shut the door behind him. Whatever raw emotions the doctor had been bearing after dealing with Clint, they weren't visible now. Instead, he just looked annoyed…maybe even a little pissed.
He looked at Phil for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and took a deep measured breath that he almost immediately sighed back out.
"What the fuck is this all about?"
Phil moved over to the old worn couch and dropped down onto it with a sigh.
"It's just been a long few months." It didn't adequately explain Clint's inexplicable need to cause himself undue pain, but it at least explained how they'd gotten to this point today.
But Dan's eyes snapped open and he sat forward.
"You think I don't know that?" Dan pointed at his laptop, sitting open on his desk. "No, Phil, I mean that."
Now Phil was confused. Apparently they weren't on the same page.
"What are you talking about?" he asked with a frown, shifting his eyes to the laptop.
Dan rolled his eyes, reached out and spun the laptop around so Phil could see the screen.
"That's what I'm talking about. As if your boy's stubborn-ass streak a mile wide and his insistence on causing himself unnecessary pain wasn't enough, now there's that." Dan slammed a fist down on the desk. "I've just about had enough of this shit."
Phil scanned the screen, pulse quickening as he realized what he was seeing.
"When did you get this?" he demanded, surprised by the simmering anger in his tone. Fury was going too damned far with this. Phil had had enough.
"A few minutes ago." Dan's voice shook with anger. "I was about to go tell Fury just what the hell he could do with that order when you knocked!"
Phil stood abruptly, feeling his face flush with anger.
"Don't worry," he stated as he started for the door. "I'll tell him for the both of us."
"Phil!"
Phil paused, hand on the door knob.
He looked over his shoulder with a questioning arch to his brow.
"What?" he practically barked.
Dan rolled his eyes.
"You don't have the authority to ground Barton. I do. It's called highest medical authority. I'll be damned if I'm sending him anywhere ever again when he's only half-healed."
Phil's hand clenched around the door knob as his mind unwillingly called up memories of every horrible moment in Uzbekistan.
"You weren't the only one to make that call, Dan," he whispered harshly. He'd insisted Dan do as Fury directed back then. He'd told him to clear Clint for duty despite the bullet wound in his side. Dan had done it, against his better judgment.
And then Clint had nearly died. Perhaps there was a lapse in logic there – correlation was not causation after all – but it was enough for Phil. It wouldn't happen again. He wouldn't let it.
"Yeah, well, I'm the one making the call now. And if Fury needs to hear that from me, so be it. I'm grounding Barton's ass for the next month."
Phil blew out a relieved breath he hadn't even realized his was holding. He fixed Dan with a grateful look and tightened his hand on the door knob again.
"He won't need to hear it from you, because he's damned well gonna hear it from me."
Dan nodded.
"You want the backup, though?"
Phil shook his head.
"No. This is a conversation that's been coming for a while now and it's best had without an audience."
Dan nodded again and didn't try to stop Phil again as he pulled the door open. He strode towards the infirmary doors and paused for only a moment to check on Clint. Seeing his agent sitting in an infirmary bed, cradling broken ribs and quietly watching Todd draw on his cast, had him clenching his jaw. But it was watching Clint smile at something Todd said – he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually seen Clint really smile – that steeled his resolve.
He wondered exactly what expression he was wearing as he stalked his way through the base because personnel parted like the goddamned red sea. He heard vague murmurs rise in his wake as he came to pause momentarily in front of Fury's door. Then for the first time since he'd come to work at SHIELD, he walked into the Director's office without being invited.
Fury's eye snapped up to meet his, surprise registering for a brief moment before understanding dawned. He spoke a few parting words into the phone he had pressed to his ear and then calmly placed it in its cradle on his desk.
Phil stood, hand clenched around the straight back of one of the chairs opposite Fury's desk, and glared.
"I thought I was clear this morning, Phil. I want him in Guadalajara as soon as possible," the director defended calmly.
"That was before!" Phil snapped. "Before he had three broken ribs and a broken arm – his shooting arm."
Fury calmly drummed his fingers on his desk and leaned back in his chair.
"You and I both know Barton can fire a gun just as well with his right as with his left."
"But not his bow!"
Now Fury's eyebrow arched.
"And you think he'll need his bow? While sorting out the intelligence mix up in Mexico?"
Phil frowned.
"That's not the point."
"And what is the point, Phil?" Fury asked with a slight edge to his tone.
"We're not going to make the same mistake, not again." Phil shot back.
Fury's expression sobered, eyes growing grim.
"You know I would never send him into a dangerous situation if he wasn't fit for duty."
"Well he's not fit for duty," Phil growled.
"And Guadalajara is not a dangerous situation," Fury pointed out patiently.
"I'm not sending him." Phil finally just threw down his bottom line. "And Dan's not clearing him. If you want him on that plane, you're going to have to do it yourself. But so help me God, Nick, you'll have to go through me to do it."
"It's just paper pushing, Phil." Fury blew out a frustrated breath – as if he didn't know why Phil was getting so upset – and sat forward. "You said so yourself."
"And Uzbekistan was just supposed to be surveillance!" Phil wasn't sure when he decided to raise his voice, but he could almost hear the words echo around them in the silence that followed his shout.
Fury looked momentarily stricken at the reminder, but covered it just as quickly. But Phil was past paying attention to details like that. Now that he'd dropped the dam, the words just kept coming.
"You and I both know there are never guarantees in his job. We knew that then and we still sent him there, injured. Why? Because we were pissed. Because we were disappointed. Because having him out of sight and out of mind was easier than seeing him every day and having to deal with the shit storm he kicked up by bringing Romanoff in. Because we knew that if we saw him every day, it would be too goddamned hard to remember that…" Phil sighed and shook his head, dropping his gaze. "That we were even pissed at all."
Fury stayed silent as Phil took a moment to embrace the realization he'd just come to. Was that why he'd agreed so quickly to send Clint away five months ago? Deep down, had he known that if Clint had stuck around, Phil would have found a way to excuse his actions? Had it ever really been about teaching Clint a lesson? Now Phil wasn't so sure.
"And he almost died." Phil was still haunted by that, every day. "But we're still doing it. We're still sending him away, only I'm not pissed at him anymore, Nick. And I can't just stand here and let you railroad him again, not when he's injured."
"He has to understand that there are consequences, Phil. And I am still pissed."
"Then send him to Guadalajara…but in a month when he's healed. I'm not asking you to let him off the hook, I'm just asking for a goddamned breather."
"Phil…" Fury sighed shaking his head and rubbing a hand across his eye.
"Sir, I'm asking you to do this for me. Please. One month, that's all, one month."
Fury dropped back against his chair and threw up his hands in defeat.
"Fine. One month. But then his ass is in Guadalajara."
Phil nodded, releasing the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He nodded his thanks and started towards the door. But then he paused, turning to face Fury once again.
"You can't ignore him forever, you know," he pointed out quietly. "You can send him away, you can keep him out of sight…but eventually you're going to have to face him again. And believe me, now that the chips are down and Romanoff is turning out to have been a damned good bet…it's a lot harder to look at him and see the choice he made as wrong." Phil backed a step towards the door and met Fury's eye meaningfully. "But maybe you already know that."
Then he turned and walked out the door, because really, there was nothing more to say.
Clint was admiring the black and white monkey that Bryan had drawn on his cast as he and Phil headed out of the infirmary. The monkey was wearing sunglasses, a quiver, and had a bow in one hand. The monkey was also smirking while using his free hand to flip off everyone who looked at him.
It was perfect.
"I'll go grab us some food and meet you back at your room. The only reason Dan is letting you out is because I promised you'd stay on bed rest for the next couple days." Phil informed him sternly as the headed towards the residence halls.
"Yeah, yeah….I got it. Can you bring me some ice cream?"
Phil rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, I'll bring you ice cream."
"Chocolate…with chocolate syrup."
Phil chuckled.
"Yes, chocolate with chocolate syrup." He gave Clint a slight shove towards the residence hall. "Now go. If your ass is anywhere but in your bed when I get back, I'll kick it myself, got it?"
Clint mockingly saluted.
"Sir, yes, sir."
Phil didn't bother replying as he veered away and headed in the direction of the mess hall. Clint headed into his residence hall, looking down at his cast again. Bryan really wasn't half bad at the whole drawing thing.
Clint looked up when he felt eyes on him, surprised enough to stop mid step when he saw Romanoff leaning against the wall next to his door.
"Romanoff?"
"Hey," she greeted simply, eyeing him up and down as if scanning for hidden injuries. "I heard you fell off the parkour course."
"I didn't fall," Clint defended, perhaps a little more sharply than was warranted. "I was pushed…by nature."
She frowned, arching a dubious eyebrow, but didn't question him further.
"But you're okay?" She looked doubtful and Clint guessed he couldn't blame her. With his casted arm, stitched forehead and arthritic mobility, he probably made a sad sight.
"I'll be right as rain in a few days," he assured. "Then we can experiment with learning to spar one-handed." He smirked.
Now she looked surprised.
"You're staying?"
He nodded.
"Doc Wilson secured me a few weeks of down time to recover."
Her eyes dropped to the cast now, eyebrow arching as she caught sight of the monkey.
"You wanna sign it?" he asked with a teasing grin.
"What? Why?" she asked in confusion.
"Because, my little sheltered Russian assassin, that's what normal people do. Here." He dug a Sharpie he'd stolen from Bryan out of his pocket and offered it to her. "Sign it."
"What do I write?" she asked with a perplexed frown.
"Your name? If you want to draw a picture, I won't stop you, but good luck living up the bar Bryan set."
Her brow furrowed in concentration and she very carefully signed her name…her full name.
"Nice. Very formal." He grinned.
She scowled, offering the marker back.
"So I'll see you on the training mat in a few days?" he offered as a show of peace for the teasing.
She arched an eyebrow doubtfully, but didn't refute his overconfident claim.
"Don't think I'll go easy on you just because you're injured," she said instead as she stepped past him and headed back towards the main part of the compound.
"Wouldn't have it any other way," he replied to her back as he turned to watch her go.
She shot him a look over her shoulder that he couldn't quite decipher and then she was gone. Clint found himself smiling as he entered his room. She'd already come so far from the dark, scared, damaged girl he'd faced in that apartment in Paris. She was changing, albeit slowly, for the better.
Phil was right.
The shit assignments, the getting treated like a perpetual screw up, the long weeks of isolation…it was worth it.
She was worth it. And that was enough.
End of Clint's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
So what did you think? Pretty crappy day, especially on top of all the crappy assignments he'd had. And a broken arm? Ouch...but the flashback? Who loved that? I know I did. Makes me all the more anxious to get to the story where Barney comes back and I give you guys some insight into his and Clint's relationship as it is now...which is in a word...crappy.
Anyways, I hope this little 'day in the life of Clint' has sated your appetites for now. I'll be back with more!
Drop me a line if you don't mind! I love hearing from you guys! :D