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Birds of a Feather Flock Together

Chapter 1: Down the Rabbit Hole

"Clint."

"You're going to be alright Clint."

Barton cracked an eyelid and shifted uneasily. "Is that what you know?" passed over his lips before he came back to his senses. The small, hard cot began a symphony, one that promised aches and pains, as he stiffly pushed himself into a sitting position. His hand rubbed at his forehead, a rhythmic pounding making itself ever more present in his conscious mind. He blinked a few times and took in his surroundings; the stark white room creating a chilling medical feel. Attempts to try to remember where he was and how such a place had become his surroundings failed miserably with a blank answer to show for it.

The plastic bracelet on his left wrist caught his attention next, turning it over to reveal the neatly typed information on the widest part. Clint Barton, well at least they got his name right. The padded walls and thick door with the observation window were a dead giveaway that he landed himself in the hospital, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of why that would be a common occurrence. Despite the information he was being given about his surroundings, which was enough to shake even the most sound individual, he found the truly terrifying part not to be where he was, but the fact that he couldn't remember much of anything. The archer's breathing picked up as panic rushed through him; his hands ghosted over his clothes looking for something that should have been there but he came up empty. His mouth twisted into a disapproving frown, the white scrub outfit just feeling incredibly wrong and out of place on him.

Clint's hands started to shake as the unknown slowly started peel back leaving terrifying clues in its wake. The dizzying array of cuts and scrapes along his hands and arms seemed like something that would stick out in the mind, how being the biggest detail, yet there was an absence of any explanation. The reasons for the wounds, the memories, seemed as though they were just out of reach, blurry shapes that were trying to come into focus. Nothing made sense, even if he was able to decode one or two. There were flashes, explosions, and a man in a metal suit accompanied by panic and the ever constant whisper of someone in his ear. Despite this lack of understanding of recent events, his earliest memories were surprisingly crystal clear. The days spent hiding from his father on the highest branch of the apple tree in the backyard, the accident that left Barney and him in the orphanage, and the day they ran away to join the circus; it all ran through his mind in high definition. The only things after the circus were guns, dead bodies, and the always present factor of blood.

Orders, he remembered getting orders to go on a mission. The weight of a sniper rifle was practically in his hands and faces flashed through his head, but emptiness settled in him more than any sense of connection to why and who came with the memory. All he was left with after a moment was a vague feeling of what his life had been like. He was definitely military trained and could almost remember saluting a black man with an eye patch on several occasions.

Another troubling thought occurred to Barton. Somewhere deep in his gut he had the feeling he was in the hands of the enemy, that this was so very wrong. The medical bracelet caught his eye again; surely the enemy wouldn't have left him unrestrained, have tended to his injuries. They wouldn't know his name and definitely wouldn't have given him a cot, it wasn't the most comfortable thing, but still seemed more than what was reserved for the enemy. Which begged the question, since they had treated him so differently, who the hell was he dealing with?

Clint got to his feet, keeping himself from emptying his stomach as he swayed for a few moments until the world settled. He took a shaky step towards the door, becoming more sure footed the closer he got. There were too many holes in the puzzle for him to feel confident, but Barton was rather impressed with how steady his hand was as it wrapped around the door handle.

The door clicked open giving Clint access to the hallway beyond; he poked his head out and glanced in either direction but there wasn't a soul in sight. Reluctantly his bare foot crossed the threshold followed by the other. The soft sounds of conversation and laughter drifted down the hall and Barton cautiously padded along towards them.

The archer came around the corner, to find that the origin of the delightful laugh were two women standing with files in hand. It was definitely a hospital because no one wore such brightly colored outfits outside of medical scrubs; he'd obviously stumbled upon the nurses' station. They both paused in their conversation to give him warm reassuring smiles, though Clint couldn't quite bring himself to return them.

"Good afternoon Mr. Barton. I didn't think you would be joining the group for free time today," chirped the blonde.

Barton's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Free time?"

"Yes, in the common room. There's still another hour there before dinner time, so lots of time to engage in some kind of activity." The blonde nurse looked expectantly at Clint.

Barton caught the sign on the wall directing people to the common room. "Right, free time," he nodded before moving in that direction. Though both women seemed friendly and non threatening, he couldn't find it in himself to turn his back to them as he made his way down the next hall.

There were no guards lurking the halls but every door was closed to him and the few he tried were closed tight. They weren't the most intimidating locks, probably offering minimal protest if he found something to pick them with, but they were locked all the same. The only ones that seemed capable of opening were a set of double doors at the end of the hall; Clint hesitantly pushed and they opened up to show a fairly large room. Abundant amounts of light flooded into the beige, neutral, colored space through multiple windows. Decor of the space seemed to followed the same idea of comfortable, yet efficient; there was a small TV in the corner, a well worn couch in front of it, a sad attempt at a library in the other corner, and several round tables in the center. On the opposite wall was another nurses' station and a set of reinforced double doors, which had a security pad requiring a pin to open.

All the occupants glanced up at the newest arrival but quickly returned to their activities, except the brunette sitting at the table as though he owned the place. The man produced an air of self importance, to where the personality trait of selfishness was nearly guaranteed, yet, he seemed to be rather interested in Barton's arrival. His companion on the other hand, seemed more interested in his drawing, not bothering to give Clint the intense scrutiny as the other man was. Seated on the couch, thoroughly engrossed in a book, was a man with curly brown hair and glasses; a sense of déjà vu tingled in the archer. There was something familiar about some of these people, like he should know the names that accompany the faces, yet it refused to come.

Across the room, a young nurse placed his clipboard on the counter and approached Clint; the archer couldn't help but size the man up, pinpointing the potential weaknesses to strike at should this turn ugly. Question was, why did he do that, why did he automatically assume that things would go bad?

"Ah, Mr. Barton, it's nice to see you up and about," greeted the nurse as he placed a hand on Clint's shoulder. "Why don't you come and join the group at the art table?"

A frown contorted the archer's face, but based on a serious lack of intel, he couldn't think of a reason to fight the gentle, but firm, grip that was guiding him. At least he might be able to engage in a fact finding mission or at least gain the opportunity to escape. The blond offered a small smile, glancing up from his drawing briefly, but the other man still held his scrutinizing stare from the moment Clint entered. Tension crept into his shoulders and he fought back the urge to offer a sarcastic quip to the man, whose name was on the tip of Barton's tongue.

The nurse, or Karl as the bright blue name tag suggested, placed a large blank paper and a cup of macaroni in front of Clint. "We're working on expressing ourselves through noodle art this afternoon." Raising his head to address the two men at the table, Karl wryly cautioned, "I shouldn't have to remind anyone not to eat the glue or the noodles."

The man sporting a goatee snorted, before offering a 'would anyone do that' look. He waited until the nurse left before sliding his chair closer to Clint and, without offering a hand, the man declared, "Tony Stark, and you are?"

The name rang a bell as flashes of memories came to Barton, like puzzle pieces snapping into place. The head of Stark Industries had his picture plastered everywhere, it was hard to go a month without hearing or reading something on his wild exploits, so why had his name escaped Clint earlier? And more importantly, why was he here? There was still the nagging doubt that said there was something more, that they actually knew each other, though Barton couldn't place why.

"I know who you are," snapped Clint, his frustration slipping out and finding release on the nearest target. Instead of irritation, the retort only caused Stark to lean back in his chair as he surveyed Barton again.

From over on the couch, the more timid man wearing glasses spoke up, though he never took his eyes off of his book. "Everyone knows who you are Tony."

Stark glanced over at the man on the couch, offering a twisted grin, before raising his hand and pointing at the blond. In a serious tone, he declared, "He didn't!"

"Steve's moral compass prevents him from knowing people like you." A small smile tugged at the corner of the man's mouth before he turned the page and wormed his way further into the comfort of the lazy boy.

Tony replied with an overly fake smile that screamed bite me before turning back to his source of current interest where he leaned closer nodding his head towards the TV area. "That's Bruce Banner and this yutz here is Steve Rogers." Steve offered a small nod in way of greeting as Stark waved his hand at Barton to ask, "And you are?"

The archer raised his left wrist displaying the clunky medical bracelet. "Clint Barton."

"Well Clint Barton, what's your issue?" The eccentric billionaire wiggled his eyebrows and leered.

Both Bruce and Steve glanced towards Clint with mild interest in his answer. Frowning at the sudden discomfort at being the center of attention and being completely in the dark as to what lie was going to smooth over the situation, Barton mumbled, "Issue?"

"Yeah, what's your brand of crazy?" elaborated Stark. He let out a sigh, as the answer from their newest member wasn't forthcoming in the slightest; clearly, he was going to have to use small words with this one. "Bruce over there, has anger management issues to the point where he freaks out and believes he turns into a giant rage monster, then claims he remembers nothing. Captain Peroxide over here, apart from being an ass, has PTSD, an overinflated sense of do-gooderness and delusions of grandeur." Tony put his hand by his mouth in the pretence of whispering but raised his voice to add, "He thinks he's the all mighty Captain America."

"Right, like you aren't delusional?" scoffed Steve, obviously irritated by the description of him.

"My delusions of grandeur are not delusions," countered the billionaire with mocked offence, before turning his attention back to Clint. "Myself, well besides being incredibly awesome to the point where other people can't handle it, also have PTSD and narcissistic tendencies. It's alright if you don't want to share, I was just being nice. I already know. You, I managed to sneak a peek at your file the night that you arrived…"

"The night I arrived?" questioned Barton, hoping that the blurriness that he could remember would clear with the new information.

"It was quite the dramatic entrance, what with all the kicking and screaming and biting. Most excitement we had around here for days. Anyways, you can join our PTSD club and Bruce's anger management classes, what with the whole shooting your superior and all."

"Tony!" chastised Rogers.

An uneasy feeling ran through Clint. Everything he was hearing was painting the picture of some mental hospital and the bright white bracelet on his wrist was chaining him to that idea. He racked his brain trying to lock down a solid memory, something that would dispute the evidence gathering before him but they were all jumbled like colors washing down the drain. There was a little voice that screamed that this wasn't right, that everything Tony was saying, that the man seemed to believe so thoroughly, was a lie but the logic of the situation was hard to ignore. "I don't remember any of that," confessed Clint, his voice coming out a combination of defeated and broken.

"Are they giving you the green pills? The green pills will knock you on your ass like that," said Tony with an almost sympathetic glint to his eyes.

"Wait, when did I get here?"

"A couple of days ago," answered Steve, as though he was worried that Tony would say something to exacerbate the situation. "Dr Norris said you were having a hard time adjusting and wouldn't be joining us in group for awhile."

"Yes, we like to get together and hug it out once and awhile," interjected Stark with an impressive amount of sarcasm rivalled only by what Barton instinctively knew he could bring. Raising his voice so Karl and the other orderlies could clearly hear, he added, "That's when we're not gluing our troubles to paper with dry macaroni!" Tony punctuated his point further by throwing a handful of noodles in Karl's direction.

Karl raised an eyebrow but kept his calm, years of training and experience tempering his natural reaction. "Mr. Stark, if you're going to cause a scene you're going to be banned from free time again."

Using his flair for the dramatic, Tony quipped, "Oh god, whatever shall I do without arts and crafts time?" Ignoring the eyerolls of the other occupants in the room, he leaned over to Clint. "Seriously, you really should make a picture. It earns you bonus points in group, which short of slitting your wrist, can be the only thing that gets you out of caring and sharing hour with these freaks."

Assuming this truly was a mental institution, there was little doubt as to why Stark was confined within its walls but Clint still couldn't remember what would have led him down this path. His childhood memories, the relief of running to join the circus were crystal clear, but after that, the only thing he felt was feelings. The circumstances that were behind them were missing, clouded, and the last ten years continued to be burly flashes of random places and faces. Maybe that was why he was here, because he was missing so much?

Barton asked hesitantly, "What exactly did the file say?" He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Stark seemed to think it over for a moment. "Military, some sort of secret organization or such. Took a shot at your superior, lucky for the guy he was wearing a vest, rumour has it you're an extremely good shot. After that you suffered a complete breakdown culminating in you killing a fellow agent, all the while claiming some Norse god made you do it."

Something stirred in the archer as Tony relayed the information. The man's words were cold and factual but the emotions they awakened in Barton were molten and irrational. There was something familiar about that story, it just felt so right, like he could feel himself pulling his gun and shooting the man with the eye patch. Was that his superior and why couldn't he put a name to that face?

Clint watched Tony get back to his art project; it looked vaguely like some sort of schematic, though it was made all the more crud by the materials comprising it. The blank page sat before the archer taunting him with its comparable emptiness. The last time he had made a macaroni picture he was six and it was going to be a gift for his mother, not having any money didn't mean he wanted to forget her birthday. It was the last art project he ever did, and while it didn't signify a thoughtful moment in his life, it did culminate in a hard lesson learned. His father had returned home early and promptly taught him not to waste food in such a fashion. The wounds had long since healed but they ached just a little as Clint reached out to grab a handful of noodles and arrange them on the page. It wasn't a pleasant sensation but it was real and currently the only thing he knew for sure.