A/N: This fic has been resurrected and revamped in light of the events of Cap 2. There shouldn't be that any spoilers for the first couple chapters and I will mark when the spoilers start at the beginning of the chapter which contains them. Enjoy!
As Clint walks through SHIELD headquarters, agents avoid his gaze and swerve out of his path. Whispers erupt around him. He imagines what they are saying:
"Who is he, thinking he can walk around here like nothing happened?"
"Why isn't he being punished?"
"He killed my best friend."
"How can he be trusted?"
"He could turn on us at any second."
"What if he's still under Loki's control?"
"He should be locked away for good."
"He should be dead."
The only reason Clint can devise for his freedom is Fury. Natasha brought him back from Loki's control. Fury trusts Natasha. Therefore, Clint is free as long as Fury believed he is safe and uncompromised.
But he is compromised. Loki got inside his head. He read every thought, dream, and idea he had ever had. He knows everything about Clint – his childhood, his relationships, and his mission history. Loki knows everything. Clint's secrets are no longer his, and never would be again.
Clint slows his pace once he reaches Doctor Hayes' office. These sessions are a pointless exercise. Three months of them and he doesn't feel any different. The guilt still hangs around him like a cloak, crushing his chest in his sleep. He doesn't think he'll ever be rid of it.
He knocks on the door. Hayes' voice tells him to come in.
Clint steps into her office, glancing over to the patient chair. He decides to stand.
Hayes walks over to her chair from her desk, carrying a clipboard.
"Please have a seat, Clint," she says. She stopped calling him by his last name after the first session.
"No," he replies shortly.
She examines him carefully. Stiff posture, hard gaze, fists clenched. He is ready for a fight.
"I know you dislike these sessions, Clint," she says. "But they are necessary."
"Why?" he demands. "How on Earth do you expect to 'help me move past' what he did to me? A god picked apart my brain, made me into a puppet. There is no going back from that."
"None of us want to see you suffer," Hayes says. "Talking about the situation can help you."
"It's been three months," he insists. "I feel exactly the same. I killed good people. Everyone here hates me. They want me dead, and I agree with them. You should stop trying to heal me and punish me."
"Your suicidal tendencies are what I wanted to discuss today," Hayes speaks softly, gesturing to the empty chair. "Please sit down, Clint."
He stares at her for a moment. Reading people was never his best skill, but he could easily tell when someone was being disingenuous. In this moment, Hayes was not. She genuinely wants to help. Why? He did not understand.
Clint sits across from her.
"Clint," she begins. "I realize that you are truly unhappy. I also realize that the only person you can safely discuss this with is myself. With your handler gone…" she trails off, seeing his face harden. She swallows. "I had hoped to bring Agent Romanoff into one of your sessions, but she has been assigned on a long-term operation and is unreachable."
Clint nods. Nat had been sent off on an infiltration op, taking down a human trafficking ring in Russia. She went deep undercover. Any contact would jeopardize the mission. He still remembers what she said to him before she left: "You're not alone in this." With Coulson (his heart lurches every time he thinks of his handler) gone as well, he felt very alone.
"In light of your current situation," Hayes continues, "I think it would be best to put you into twenty-four hour care."
"You mean, you want to put me into a mental hospital," he spits, his body tensing. He had only been to an insane asylum once on a mission. It was a nightmare.
"I want to put you into a psychiatrichospital because I believe that is best place for you right now," she says, her voice tender. "While several SHIELD agents have been monitoring your behavior, I do not feel comfortable with your depression. I'm afraid you'll hurt yourself if you are left to your own devices."
Clint is silent. If he's honest, the only reason he hasn't tried to kill himself already is because of Natasha. It felt wrong to leave her without saying goodbye. Now, he wishes he had.
"Clint," Hayes calls softly.
"I'm not going," he states flatly. He'd rather have his limbs cut off than be trapped in a facility with eyes watching his every move. No control, only rules that he will be forced to follow. His chest tightens.
"Clint, it's best for you. If you cooperate, you shouldn't be there long," she says. "You could be out and healed before Natasha returns."
"Don't drag her into his," he threatens, standing. "I'm not going to receive your 'treatment' because of her, or because of anyone. I'm done with this shit."
Hayes stands as well. "Clint, just lis-"
"No. You can't force me to do anything."
He charges toward the door, yanking it open. Just before he exits the room, he hears Hayes call in security. He breaks into a run, hearing several sets of footsteps follow him. He'll have to fight his way out.
An agent reaches for his arm in Clint's peripheral vision. He swings his elbow toward his face, feeling and hearing the agent's nose break with a satisfying crunch. He keeps running, launching into a sprint as he counts the footsteps behind him. There are five men in pursuit.
Clint jumps toward the wall, kicking off of it with a spin. His foot hits one of the agents, and a punch knocks him to the ground. Without a pause, he launches against the next target, sending a powerful blow to the third agent's gut. Clint takes him out with a sweeping kick to his ankles.
The fourth agent knows he's coming and manages to get Clint into a headlock. He feels a sharp prick on his neck. Sedative. He has to move fast. Clint leans forward, taking the guard off of his feet. He throws him to the ground, landing with a hard thud.
Four more agents flank the fifth man. Clint turns and runs toward the exit at the end of the hall. It's an emergency exit, and alarms will go off, but he has no choice. Besides, if anything were to be considered an emergency, it would be this.
Just as Clint kicks the door open, a dart pierces his shoulder. He groans, yanking it out and tossing it aside. He tries to run, but he's losing his balance. His eyes won't stay open. Terror shoots through him as he falls to the ground.
Just before he loses consciousness, he hears Hayes.
"We're just trying to help you, Clint."
