Barton hadn't been lying when he said he'd just finished up a job in the Crimea, nor that he was in motion. He dropped the receiver back on the cradle, glad that some parts of the world were still so backward that pay phones were still an option. He'd ditched his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued satellite phone moments after he'd left the dead body of Agent Peterson.
He'd been stupid to let the handler get that close, to trust the man with his back, and he'd almost paid for it. He scratched at the fresh wound marks around his neck; received from the garrote of the treacherous handler.
I earned the scar - like I've earned all my scars - for being too stupid to read the writing on the wall.
He'd gotten spoiled with Coulson; there wasn't a better handler, or a man he trusted more, and somehow that trust had transferred itself to Peterson simply because both men wore expensive suits and boring ties.
Barton swung his pack over his shoulders and began walking toward the bus station at the edge of town. The coordinates Coulson had provided were a good two thousand miles away and he was cold and miserable. The sooner he started, the quicker the journey would be over.
Barton was relieved that Coulson was unavailable when he arrived three days later. He was dirty and tired after the fifteen mile hike from the road, and he was in such a bad mood that he feared his caustic manner would ruin the reunion he'd looked forward to since he found out that his handler – his friend – was still alive.
Melinda May took his gear, promising to stow it in a private room, while Koening gave him a battery of psychological tests. He was too exhausted to give two shits about what the man gleaned from them, so he was biting and sarcastic throughout.
He was cleared and given a lanyard, begrudgingly; Barton didn't care. Since the Battle of New York, he'd been persona no grata among most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. He was so used to being mistrusted that to be trusted now would throw off his entire worldview.
His room was the last one in a long hallway. There was a stairwell exit across from it, and he appreciated that May knew him – at least in reputation – well enough to know that this was the room he would have picked for himself. The air vents were too small for traditional recon, but after locking the door and wedging the standard-issue chair under the handle, he climbed onto the second bunk and unscrewed the vent cover. A thorough inspection proved that there were no surveillance devices. He swept the rest of the room before getting undressed.
It's been… he thought back, trying to remember the last time he'd felt secure enough to take a shower and sleep in the same place… too long.
Blue, it's always blue, but sometimes it's also green and purple, like a bruise on his soul. He moves without volition, pulls, aims, fires, but he can't see the target. Out of control and deadly, he spills blue blood, green blood, purple blood, there is no red in his vision, just… darkness.
He woke, panting into the full glare of the fluorescent light above the top bunk. He untangled his feet from the sheets and swung his legs over the side, his breath caught in his throat. Panic bubbled over as he fought to remember the dream. If I can just catch the memory, I can let it go. But he was unable to do more than recall the colors of his nightmares and the feelings of despair.
His S.H.I.E.L.D.-appointed counselor had a name for his disease – PTSD – and wanted him to take medications to lessen the symptoms, but they made his senses dull and slow, made his eyes droop, made his aim less than perfect. Fuck the drugs, I'm a big boy and I can deal with this.
He pulled on the pair of least dirty jeans from the pile he'd made on the bunk below (in the shape of a sleeping body to slow down the reaction time of anyone who burst through the door) and padded barefoot into the hallway.
He followed the signs toward the cafeteria, hoping that the kitchen was open at all times of the day.
Skye sat on one of the high bar stools in the kitchen eating cookie dough straight out of the tube. In front of her was a tablet and she scrolled through her favorite forum, searching for any drop of human companionship in the wee hours of the night.
[Hello? Anyone lurking?] she wrote and hit post. She hated how weak it made her sound, but she didn't care. Ward wasn't here to look over her shoulder and accuse her of sentimentality or… he wasn't here and that's all that mattered. She'd trusted him, and he'd tried to kill her. There was nothing she could do about it, but in the middle of the night, when they'd meet in the kitchen – her to eat cookie dough and him to have one last cup of coffee before bed – they'd debrief the day and she always felt…
"Is this pity party open to anyone, or do I need an invitation?" a voice snarked from the doorway. She hadn't heard anyone approach and in the back of her mind she heard Ward's voice. He's close enough to kill you, stupid girl.
"This isn't a pity party, Agent Barton," she tried to keep her tone a balance between strong and confident and at ease. She'd read his file, up to her clearance of course, as soon as AC had announced he was coming. He was an archer, an assassin, an Avenger, and Coulson's friend. "But, we've got plenty of cookie dough if you're interested." She offered him the spoon, but he smirked and pushed away from the door, headed toward the refrigerator.
"My apologies. In my experience, people only eat raw cookie dough when they are upset or wallowing in self-loathing. You didn't seem upset, so I assumed the other."
"That's ok. I just can't sleep."
"Tell me how this works, the supplies," he said, his head disappearing inside the fridge.
"If you don't want to share something, put your name on it, and put it on the top shelf. If you don't care, put it anywhere else."
"So this chili on the second shelf is fair game?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at her with a wicked grin.
"Yeah, but be warned, Trip made it and it's super hot. I think he uses a lot of Tabasco sauce."
"Sounds good," he took the container and popped it open, taking a deep breath. His eyes watered.
"Utensils are in that drawer," Skye pointed to the far end of the counter. He took a seat, two down from her, and inhaled the chili straight from the container without bothering to heat it.
"So, you're an Avenger, huh? You're the first one I've met." Skye tried some small talk when it was obvious he wasn't going to start the conversation. "What's that like?"
Barton exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. "What? Coulson doesn't count? He's just as much an Avenger as I am."
"AC? I thought he was just –"
"Coulson's not 'just' anything. He went up against Loki, by himself. Coulson's an Avenger, through and through. Ask any of us, we'll all tell you the same thing."
"Don't lie to her, Barton, she's earnest enough to believe you," Coulson said, from the doorway. He was dressed in sweatpants and a frayed Captain America t-shirt.
Same old Coulson, Barton thought.
"I ain't lying to the girl," he answered, because honestly he didn't know her name. "Ask Steve or Tony, they'll say the same thing. You are an Avenger."
"So you can't sleep either, huh?" Coulson asked, the previous conversation dropped.
"Haven't had a full eight hours since before the Battle of New York. You?"
"Same," Coulson admitted. "We all end up in the kitchen at some point during the night. I've gained ten pounds since coming here."
"We should spar next time we can't sleep."
"You'd kick my ass."
Skye watched the conversation Ping-Pong back and forth, not adding anything.
"Of course I would," Barton smirked.
"What did your psych evaluation say?" Coulson asked casually. He's seen the reports and knew the official diagnosis, but he wanted to know if Barton would admit it.
"PTSD," he said, shrugging one shoulder. He stood, and washed the container out, before putting it in the dishwasher. "You?"
The question was just as casual in a tone that said, I'm only asking in return to be polite. The tone didn't fool Coulson. He knew this man and could read his poker face better than anyone on earth.
"Same," Coulson answered and watched as Barton's shoulders relaxed by millimeters.
Kindred souls, Barton thought. He remembered then the girl sitting at the counter, watching their conversation while pretending that that tablet in front of her was the most interesting thing on earth.
"By the way," he addressed her. "Don't call me Agent. I don't work for S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore. The name's Clint Barton."
She held out her hand in response, "I'm Skye."
"Nice to meet you, Skye."
"If you don't work for S.H.I.E.L.D., what are you doing here?"
"I'm here to watch that fool's back," he said, indicating Coulson with his chin.
Skye smiled at him, then looked at Coulson.
"I like him, AC, try not to make his work any harder than it needs to be, ok?"
