CHAPTER III
The most logical places for the Black Widow to be found where the range, the gym, or his perch on the roof, he opted to check the range first, and when that proved to be empty he checked the gym; still no Nat. He found that odd, since she was more often in those two places than the roof. He stopped to think of any other place she could be before going up to the roof. The mess was always empty this time of day, though it was only a few hours till lunch. Fury said they were both on leave for the next few days, so no missions and no briefings. Both agents had already turned their reports in from the last mission. Thinking of no place else to check, he started toward the roof. He took an elevator up to the top level, then the stair case to the roof access door. Upon opening it, he winced from the sunlight and slipped his sunglasses on.
He scanned the roof quickly and efficiently, spotting a shape on his perch. He walked up, not bothering to mask his steps or sneak around. She didn't acknowledge him at all as he came up to her, "Hey, Nat." he sat down. He let his legs hang over the edge and looked down at the city below. "Whacha doin' up here?"
She gave a half smile, "What's the matter, Barton? Don't like other people on your perch?"
"Well no… 'cept you or Phil. But Phil has almost no reason to be up here by himself, and you usually don't either sooo…." he shrugged.
"I hadn't seen you since we got back, having leave and all, though," She looked at him, "I thought it was only yesterday. Then Fury tells me I have a few days." He kept his gaze on the city. "Do you know what's going on?" He was quiet, and he fidgeted with his hands on his lap. He almost never did that, unless he was upset or nervous about something – and those were few and far between. "What's going on, Clint?" He took a deep breath, "Fury called me in yesterday, about the physicals a while back." She watched him, "I'm fine, but they found something in my blood work."
"What?"
"Um.. heh," He chuckled nervously, "the ah… the X-gene." He kept is gaze on the city, not willing to look at his partner. He didn't realize it, but he'd been dreading telling her, or anyone for that matter. Like they would look at him differently for being… well… different.
"The X-gene. As in the Mutant X-gene?" Was there another X-gene?
Clint nodded, "Ya." He took a chance in looking at her, he didn't know what he was expected to see in her face – or rather her eyes, because only two people could really read Natasha Romanoff and know what she was thinking. He saw, not contempt or anger or fear, but confusion that mirrored his own on the situation. "You're a Mutant?"
"It looks that way."
"But you've never- I've never seen you have, or use – you know, powers."
Clint took another breath, "You were right. A few days ago, when I nailed that guy to the wall. No one could have made that shot. Not even me, with my aim. But I could see him. Clear as day, like it wasn't even night out. …it never occurred to me that other people didn't see that good at night." He forced his hands to relax and exhale. Why was he so nervous about this?
She looked away from him, down the city, "I don't know what to say, Clint."
"That's good, cause honestly, neither do I," she looked at him, "But we're partners, you deserve to know. Besides… if I'd known and not told you, you would have kicked my ass." He smiled wryly and she rolled her eyes, not disagreeing with him. They settled into a comfortable silence, Clint, for his part, glad she didn't walk away from him entirely.
"So what can you do?"
"Besides what you already know?"
"Yes, besides your ability to see in near perfect darkness."
"You know that kid that's always selling papers on the corner?" He pointed in the direction and she nodded. "I read part of it from here. And… I don't think that's as far as I can see."
"Impressive, Barton," Clint couldn't tell if she really meant it or not. He didn't really care. It felt good to tell someone, someone he trusted. "Anything else?"
He breathed, thinking. "Coulson said I might have a… a healing factor, he called it."
"What makes him think that? You heal as fast as I do." She said matter of factly and Clint agreed.
"Coulson didn't become my handler on a whim; I've known him since I was thirteen." He saw he her sit up a little, hearing something new about her partner. "When he found me I was injured. Badly. Besides the broken bones and being carved like a turkey, my eyes were torn up. It took 3 months for my eyes to heal enough for me to see – longer for me to see clearly. They called it a miracle, Phil never thought so. Or so he tells me." They normally didn't share the past – it was often too painful, but when they did, they listened, and more often than not understood and moved on, usually not mentioning it again. The past makes you who you are, but that doesn't make it less painful.
"He also seems to think, that whatever happened, is the source of my PTSD." She nodded, she had known about his Posttraumatic Stress, thought she'd never witnessed the panic attacks or flashbacks, except after nightmares. Clint had only told her that he couldn't remember anything, that he knew it was there, but he could never grab it. He saw her nod, and looked over at her for a moment.
"You know," she started after he'd looked away, "We could always test how fast you heal."
He looked at her again, "How?" He eyes followed her hand as she went to her belt and pulled out a small throwing knife. Of course she had knives on her she always had knives on her. "Give me your hand." He hesitated for only a moment, before putting his right hand in hers, palm up. She rested the blade on the flesh opposite his thumb and looked at him, asking silent permission. He nodded once and she quickly drew the knife backwards, slicing the flesh as it went. Only his thumb twitched. The cut wasn't deep, and didn't bleed too much. Nat wiped the knife off and put it away, "We'll see how long it takes that to heal." He looked down at his palm; he thought that it should be bleeding more. He just decided to ignore the wound for now.
The two settled into calm conversation and occasional friendly banter for the next twenty minutes, finally falling silent for another five before they heard the sound of the roof access door opening and closing. Only Coulson had ever come up here for them, so neither agent needed to turn around to see who it was. Clint cocked his head slightly at the sound of plastic bags and he turned to look over his shoulder at the suit clad agent making way over to them. In his hand, he held three bags, each filled with take-out boxes from, what was quite possibly, the best Chinese joint in all of New York. Clint's mouth started watering, and all he could think about was how impossibly good some orange chicken, fried rice with chow mien and teriyaki chicken would be. He turned his body to face Phil as he strolled up and handed each agent their lunch before taking the last bag for himself and sitting on the wall. Thanks were not needed; they had an understanding between them all. No one owed any one anything, except Natasha, who could not be convinced that she didn't owe Clint anything. And Clint, who silently owed Phil his life, but besides that, none of them would owe the other a single thing. Clint opened his box, found all his favorites and instantly dug in. He saw Nat smile a bit before, calmly, digging into her own food.
They ate silently till most, or in Clint's case, all the food was gone, the trash discarded in the waste bin that was near the roof access door, which had been brought up there because the three of them seemed to like their spot on the roof. Clint returned his gaze to the city below, he was still trying to absorb everything he'd learned over the past two days. First off, he was a Mutant. He was still trying to wrap his head around that, never mind the stuff with his eyes – all the things that made them different. He'd heard someplace that mutations manifest around puberty. He tried to think back, but so much of those memories were lost or too hazy to make out clearly.
His face must have shown how deep in thought he was when Nat bumped him with her shoulder, "You alright?"
"Huh? …Yeah. Just thinking."
Phil chewed on his fortune cookie thoughtfully then swallowed, "About?" Clint didn't answer right away, still trying to remember some snippet of his past. He'd always been able to see distance, but he'd had trouble reading or seeing anything up close. He looked down at his hands, which were as sharp as the people walking below. What was it called when you could see distance, but not close up?
Farsighted...ness? He knew there was probably a clinical term that he didn't know, nor did he really care to. "I used to be farsighted."
"How bad," Phil asked.
"Reading was impossible."
"When did it improve?"
Clint thought for a moment, when did his eyesight improve? He closed his eyes in thought, a stray memory coming to the forefront of his mind.
"Buck!"
A much younger Clint Barton slid on the dirt floor of the big top as he rounded a corner, right into the Swordsman. He tumbled to the ground with a grunt, and the older man deftly avoided being bulldozed by the pre-teen. "What's gotten into you, Boy?!"
Clint quickly picked himself up and dusted himself off, "Sorry, but I need to find Buck."
"Not that badly, you don't." The boy shrunk back a tiny bit at the older man's gaze, then it softened only a little bit, "You ready for the show tonight?"
Clint smiled wide, he liked doing acts with the Swordsman, he didn't particularly like the man himself, but the acts were always fun, "Yes, Sir!"
The older man walked away, yelling over his shoulder, "Good. And next time, don't run!"
Clint waited until the Swordsman was out of eyesight and he jogged toward where Buck spent most of his time honing his skills for the show. Mindful to keep out of the firing range, Clint stopped at the edge of the room, watching his old mentor pull the arrow back with practiced ease and release. The arrow flew straight and true hitting the bull's-eye with a sharp TWACK.
"You watchin' kid?" Clint nodded and bounded over to Buck as he pulled another arrow from the quiver, Buck looked at him at the corner of his eye, "You learnin'?" Clint met his eyes and nodded with a smile. He loved watching Buck practice, he never got the chance during the show, and Buck always taught him new tricks during practice.
The old man let the arrow fly, splitting the arrow that already rested on the target. Clint awed and promised that one day, he'd be just as good. Buck turned to face the young boy, "Wha'ch you got there?"
"Huh?" Oh. He looked down at the book he'd managed to keep a hold of during his run-in with the Swordsman. "It's a book," he lifted it to show the old man.
"I know that, why have you got it? You know you can't read, Clint. Eyes ain't good 'nuff." Buck put a hand on his shoulder in a fatherly manner.
"But I can see the letters now, Buck." The old man raised an eyebrow, "I can't read it, but they aren't fuzzy anymore."
"Well now…."
The memory ended, and Clint sighed, wishing it would keep playing like a movie. What happened next? He shook his head; he should be very used to cliffhangers by now. "I don't remember… maybe twelve." He looked down at his hand and rubbed the dried blood away, "Huh."
Natasha reached for his hand, "Wow." Phil looked over, "What?"
"We, ah, were testing Clint's healing," Natasha said, "Cut his palm about ten minutes ago." She examined his hand, "Fully healed. Barely a scar." Clint looked up at Phil, who was frowning. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Phil said, "Just something I need to ask Harry later on."
Clint watched Phil, a question burning in his eyes, and Phil just stared back and Clint knew he wasn't getting any answers.
At least, not until tomorrow.
0o0o0o0o0o0
After a short barrage of CT scans which thankfully, Clint has absolutely no issues with, Clint and Phil found themselves in Harry Barnes office, waiting for the doctor in question to return from going over the results. While Phil occupied his time reading files and keeping an eye on Clint; Clint drummed his fingers on the wood arm of the chair he was lounging in.
The archer sat up as the door opened, and watched intently as Harry walked around and sat himself in his over-plush chair. He took his time arranging the files, and looking them over one last time. "First off, you have the healthiest set of eyes I've ever seen. Now, I was told to find the differences in anatomy, and I found several."
Meaning…?
"First thing I noticed is that you have a fully functional 'Nictitating Membrane', which is a secondary, clear, protective eyelid. This is a trait usually found in birds and some reptiles." Clint frowned slightly. He'd never noticed that before, and you'd think he would. "Next is that you have what is called a 'Pectin'. Again, birds and few reptiles have this. It lifts blood vessels, which can obscure the image, away from your retina which leads to sharper eyesight." So he had two things a human did not have. Awesome.
"How's your night vision, Agent Barton?"
Huh? "Fine."
"I should say so. You know when you see light reflected in a dog or cat's eyes, and it glows? Yours do the same thing." He paused, "How well can you see in the dark?"
Clint thought about it, something he'd never really given much thought to at all. But he realized, "Just as good as during the day. Maybe better. But…" Barnes and Phil waited, and Clint found himself thinking that THIS is something he should have noticed straight off, "I can't see color in the dark."
"Only in the dark?" Barton nodded. "You can see color otherwise."
Another nod, "Coulson's wearing a grey-blue tie, and yours is pink." Clint suppressed a grin at the older man's expense.
"Ah, Agent Barton. Haven't you heard? Only real men wear pink," Said Barnes, without missing a beat.
Clint smiled open at this, slipping flawlessly into his usual attitude, "Only if they are attempting to compensate for something."
He grinned to himself when Harry made a point to ignore Clint's comment, "Moving on." He glanced down at the files, "Your sensitivity to light could be due to a number of things. One is that, unlike dogs or cats, your eyes aren't reflecting the light properly – at least not all the time. And the cause of that is a bit more difficult to determine; could be anything from past injury to just not being able to control it."
Clint nodded, trying to absorb this information. "And lastly, you don't have full range of motion with your eyes." Clint frowned at this news. He'd always thought he had good range of vision. "But your peripheral vision makes up for it. You have better range of vision than someone with will full range of motion. The reason for this is the shape of your eyes, they aren't round like normal. They are more narrow, giving you better visual acuity, but at the cost of your range of motion. Your eyes are locked in your sockets." Clint nodded, still trying to absorb all this information.
"You okay?" Harry asked.
"Yeah," Clint nodded, "Just… a lot to take in."
"I have a few questions," Phil said, "His sensitivity to light, you said it could be due to past injury."
The doctor nodded, "With his background, I wouldn't be surprised."
"But if he has a healing factor…." Phil looked at Clint, "Show him your hand."
Clint sighed and leaned forward, holding out the hand that Natahsa had cut, palm up, "Nat cut my hand last night." Harry found the new scar and examined the flesh for a moment before looking up at Clint.
"How long did it take to heal?"
He shrugged, "Less than 10 minutes. I wasn't paying enough attention."
Barnes let Clint have his hand, and leaned back in his chair, "It would explain how your eyes healed, and all the other various injuries you've sustained over the years. Though, as far as I know, most Mutants with a healing factor don't scar."
"I was thinking about that, too."
Clint looked at Phil, "You were?" Phil ignored Clint, "You found trace chemicals in his bloodstream after he was brought in."
"Yes, and I'd say that's clear evidence of chemical enhancements."
Clint swallowed; he knew and had long ago accepted that he had been experimented on… The alterations to his heart and lungs gave him more endurance and stamina than most humans on a good day. The alteration to his muscular structure was never completed – thus it gave him 40 percent more strength in his upper body, and 20 percent more in his lower body; still higher than the human norms. No one was sure why the changes hadn't been completed, but it was sort of a good thing he chose archery to excel in.
"What if," Clint looked at Phil as he spoke, "it's inhibiting his healing? The enhancements were never completed, we know that."
"It's possible. Without more tests, it's too hard to say." He looked at Clint, who had shrunk down in his seat, "No more tests for your eyes. I think we are done with them for now." Clint straitened in his chair, suddenly self-conscious. "Tomorrow, I'd like to test your healing factor and run a full body scan, see what else we can find." Clint nodded, suddenly feeling very weary and drained. "Till then, we're done." All three stood, said their farewells, and Phil and Clint exited the office. The older Agent turned to Clint, "You okay?"
God, he wished people would quit asking him that, "Fine," he snapped, he sighed, then repeated himself more calmly. "Fine, just tired," And a headache, he rubbed his face. "I'm gonna go to my quarters and chill out." And by chill out, he meant sleep like the dead. Phil nodded and Clint made his way back to his quarters.
He glanced down at his watch, noting that it was still early – but he was so tired. After a very long three days and his nice episode in Medical yesterday, he deserved a bit of shut-eye, right? Not even bothering to turn on the lights after he'd entered his room, nor change his clothes or even remove his boots; he flopped on the bunk face down and wondered briefly why he found it so much easier to sleep during the day. Before he could examine this question, his mind shut the world out and sleep enveloped him.
TBC
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