NOTES: I don't anyone who has suffered from traumatic hearing loss. Any mistakes made in that area are solely mine for insufficient research.
Doctor Panetta, a veteran SHIELD medic, shook his head at Phil's question. "Agent Barton is not completely deaf, but he did suffer some damage."
"How bad?" Phil pressed.
The physician shrugged. "We'll need a few days to see what's temporary and what's permanent. At the moment, he's lost eighty percent in each ear, but that number could improve."
"To zero?" The way the doctor's lips pursed was all the answer Phil needed. "Is he awake?"
"Not yet," Panetta replied. "He took a couple hits to the head before setting off the sonic arrow. Combining those injuries with the sensory overload from the arrowhead is going to leave him knocked out overnight, probably."
"Concussion?"
"It's Barton—of course he's concussed. We're keeping a close eye on him, Agent Coulson," the doctor reassured. "Just wanted to give you a head's up on the preliminary scans. I'll check in with you again in a few hours. Your asset is down the corridor and to your right when you're finished here."
Phil nodded his thanks but made no move toward the tiny patient's quarters assigned to Clint. Instead, the majority of his mind continued to replay the comms conversation he'd shared with the archer during the climax of the battle as he tried to parse out whether or not he'd given an incorrect order.
"Sorry," Natasha apologized behind him. Phil turned back toward her and Cap as they sat on their exam beds. "Pretty sure I'm the source of the blows Clint took to the head. But for once, they weren't on purpose."
He nodded, his usual dry quip dying on his tongue. "Once you two are cleared, go home. We'll save the debrief for tomorrow once we know how everyone's fairing."
"I can keep an eye on Tony trying to calm down The Other Guy if you want," Steve offered. "I'm sure you'd rather have one less thing on your plate right now."
Phil mulled over the proposition and reluctantly agreed; as much as the distraction would be welcome, he needed to focus on the greater task at hand. Leaving the two of them behind, he made his way per Panetta's directions to the small quarters down the hall.
The room was barely big enough to contain both men. Clint appeared to be sleeping peacefully, but Phil knew that appearances, especially when the archer was involved, could be deceiving. He was still in his tactical gear from the fight, which Phil considered changing him out of. But past experience reminded Phil that Clint wasn't a big fan of someone changing his clothes for him without permission. And Phil was also all too familiar with the fact that it was best to leave Clint's boots on his feet so as not to asphyxiate oneself with foul odor.
The handler double-checked the bank of monitors hanging above Clint's head. Seeing that nothing was too far out of the ordinary, Phil settled himself into the metal chair bolted to the floor against the opposite wall. He loosened his tie and pulled his phone out of his pocket. If he was going to be here a while, he could at least put a dent in his email inbox.
An hour after he'd settled into his spot of watching over Clint, the door to the room hissed open and Fury stuck his head in. The Director hooked a thumb out into the corridor, causing Phil to stand from his chair and walk out of medical quarters. He followed his boss down a maze of halls until they wound up in a secure and empty conference room.
"What's his condition?" Fury asked as he sank into one of the swiveling chairs.
"Concussion, the usual array of bruises and lacerations." Fury quirked an eyebrow at him until Phil gave up the last bit of information. "At the moment, eighty percent loss of hearing in both ears."
The director released a displeased sigh and shook his head. "I can't use a deaf sniper. You know that."
Phil did. He knew it as soon as Rogers'd told him that Clint had made the shot with the sonic arrowhead hanging from his mouth. He knew what the consequences would be, including Clint getting his field status revoked. SHIELD would of course be willing to keep him on at a desk job, but Phil knew that Clint wouldn't last long in that position. He was built for action and taking orders, not sitting still and dressing in suit and tie until he retired.
"What about his place in the Initiative? I can understand your reluctance for solo missions, but what about when he's on a team?" Phil asked.
Fury cracked his knuckles while debating his answer. "You're going to have to show me you can make it work. I need to know I'm not exposing Barton or the others to further harm by doing something like that. Show me numbers, Phil."
The agent nodded. Whatever modicum of hope that blossomed from Fury's willingness to at least let Clint try and remain an Avenger was squashed in Phil's stomach when a file folder hit the table. Phil recognized it as soon as he saw it—it was the transcript from comm channels during the battle. "Page eighty-seven was flagged," Fury informed him before rising from his chair and leaving the room, black trenchcoat swirling ominously behind him.
Phil stared down at the file folder like it was a ticking time bomb, which, in a way, it was. Fury's warning about a section being flagged was a heads-up that the internal review board was more than likely going to have to examine what happened, especially since the events from the battle might cost SHIELD one of their Avengers.
He knew what he would find on the eighty-seventh page. Phil couldn't remember word-for-word the orders he'd issued, or maybe he could but didn't want to think about it. It sickened him to think he could be at fault for ruining Clint's career, and quite possibly his life.
They'd known each other for almost a decade, and lived together in a relationship Phil never thought could happen for a year-and-a-half. They still didn't know everything about each other since they lived in a world of secrets, but Phil certainly knew the other man well enough to know how badly this could go. He also knew that he had to be the one to tell Clint what happened to him; he just had no idea how to find the words.
Slowly, Phil reached down and picked up the file. He tucked in under his arm as he retraced his footsteps back to Clint's medical bunk. The archer was still unconscious when Phil returned. He removed his tie and jacket and draped them on the back of the metal visitor's chair. His stomach growled a reminder that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, but Phil ignored it. He dropped into the uncomfortable seat with a weary sigh, heels of his hands digging into his eyes. He waited for his vision to clear once more before opening the file and thumbing to the flagged page.
P. Coulson: Hawkeye, do you read?
C. Barton: Copy.
P. Coulson: Sonic arrows. If you activate one and keep it close, you can take him down. Can you make the shot?
C. Barton: I'm hurt you even have to ask.
P. Coulson: Fire the sonic first at—
Phil knew what the end of the sentence was: a space between the two of you. Close enough that it would disrupt the anger-inducing sonic waves yet far enough away to keep Clint out of relative harm. But he'd made the mistake of saying "keep it close" beforehand. He knew better, after years of giving orders, to be more specific—even if the asset receiving the order was the one person on the planet who knew you best.
He'd minced his words and this was the result. It was a rookie mistake, and he deserved whatever hearing or charges the internal investigations committee was going to charge him with.
Phil barely heard Natasha enter the room over the sound of the monitors hanging above Clint's bed and the noise of his own thoughts. His eyes flickered her way before settling back on to the transcript in his lap he'd been staring at for the last three hours. She'd showered and changed clothes since the last time he'd seen her. "You should be at home."
"I put Nadia to bed half-an-hour ago. Steve can handle things by himself for a while," she replied as she looked down at Clint and gently brushed some hair off his forehead. Since Phil occupied the lone chair, she settled herself on the foot of Clint's bed.
"How are you?" Phil asked.
She shrugged. "I can feel the bruises I'll have in the morning. Not quite sure where exactly they came from, but like that's anything new."
"Your hearing?"
"Medical signed off on both Steve and I. Tony and Bruce, too. We're fine. Still have a headache and sensitivity to eight-month-old, shrieking daughters who hate getting a bath, but time will fix one of those things."
"I thought she'd be over the bath thing by now."
"I think she's against being clean." She paused to look over at Clint. "I'm blaming you for that."
They lapsed into silence once more before Phil remembered the name she didn't mention. "What's Thor's status?"
"He never came back to be checked out. You know what kind of mood he gets sucked into whenever Jane's at a conference. The medical staff wasn't too inclined to wrangle him in for an ear exam. Are you?"
"I'd better," Phil sighed. "Don't want to give anyone more evidence against me." He hadn't realized he'd said the words out loud until he caught Natasha tilting her head and staring at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"Not here."
Her eyes darted around the room as she took in what security measures could be embedded in the walls. She stayed quiet for a minute before asking, "Were you flagged?" He didn't answer, which was enough of a response for her. "You've gotta be kidding me."
"They have good reason," he told her, eyes locked on the eagle emblem emblazoned on the front of the file folder in his lap.
"You found the solution to putting a stop to what happened today."
"And I gave faulty orders in carrying that out."
"You gave the order that was necessary."
He shook his head as a bitter chuckle escaped him. "Necessary," he spat under his breath.
Phil felt Natasha's gaze flicker back and forth between him and Clint until it settled on him. "What aren't you telling me?"
He scratched the back of his neck while wording a reply in his head, something that could serve as practice for whenever Clint awoke. "His hearing—"
"Will recover."
He shook his head. "Not entirely."
"So? We'll work around it. Tony and Bruce can—"
"Tasha," he started, his handler tone of voice creeping into the conversation. "They're pulling his mission-eligible status."
She silently studied Clint before asking, "What about his place on the team?"
"Fury's undecided. He's willing to make it work if we can prove that having Clint there won't put him or the team in further danger."
Beeping from the monitors once again became the only noise in the room, and Phil found himself wondering what exactly Clint could and couldn't hear at the moment.
"It's not your fault," Natasha said quietly.
"What?" he asked as he tried to bring his thoughts back around to whatever she was trying to say.
"I've seen that look before—Brussels, Burmese jungle, Shanghai four years ago. You're blaming yourself for this."
"I gave the order, Tasha."
"Because it's your job to give the order. We know that." She paused to roll her head around, a sign that her headache was getting worse. "You remember what you told me when I signed on?"
"That if you turned on us, I'd personally put a bullet in you."
That at least brought a small smirk to her lips. "Other than that."
He sighed and let his head fall backwards against the bulkhead. "Natasha, I'm really not in the mood for you to ask me questions you're just going to answer yourself."
"You promised to bring us home." He cringed at her words and braced himself for the tongue-lashing she was probably setting up for. She kicked his foot so he'd look back up at her. "You said, 'I promise to always bring you home, but I can't promise that it will always be in one piece.'" He nodded at the memory; it was an oath he swore to nearly everyone who worked under him. "We knew what we were signing up for," she continued. "We knew the risks. You did your job, and so did he. You cannot blame yourself for this."
He let the words watch me stay in his head for fear of the physical retaliation she would take out on him otherwise. They stayed in the comfortable silence that countless hours on missions and years of building trust allowed them. Shortly before midnight, he cleared his throat. "You should get back down to ground. Go be with your—" He stopped himself before he said family, knowing that she still wasn't fully settled with that term.
"Call me if he wakes up or you need anything." She slid off the bed and brushed a quick kiss to Clint's cheek before slipping out the door.
Because he'd given an order.
He let his head fall backward again with a thud. His foot began restlessly tapping against the grated floor. Scenario after scenario played out in his mind as he prepared himself for any and all possible reactions Clint could have when he woke up. He pieced together speech after apology after fumbling words in an attempt to memorize what he would say. Not that it helped him when Clint actually regained consciousness four hours later.