Thanks very much especially to reviewers - I appreciate your time! You keep the story updated, believe me. Thanks also to those who have favorited and/or are following!
Slipping
By: Syntyche
The hawk is extremely cold. And damp. And miserable.
And, for one of the few times in his life, uncertain. Clint's exhausted, beaten, worn out, and unsure.
If he'd had his cell phone on him, he could have checked any of the several messages a too-calm Tasha has left for him, telling him to call her immediately. There's even a snarky text from Tony waiting.
But Clint doesn't have his cell, as far as he knows Tasha isn't even in the country, and he can't fathom a reason Tony would want to text him, unless one of the cleaning bots got stuck in a vent again and needs to be retrieved.
What he does know is that he's a little shocky from blood loss, and the fading part of his brain that's still functioning rationally is warning him that hypothermia might be setting in - maybe he has a concussion, too. He's pretty sure his face is still bloody from that kick to the head earlier, and he might have fallen asleep for awhile and that certainly doesn't help, either.
Clint also figures he's really not dressed to be outside on this crisp September morning - is it morning? - because it's still dark out but it feels like morning. When he'd put on his jeans and black t-shirt yesterday, he hadn't realized he'd be running away in them; he'd figured it'd be another dull day of angsting and hiding in the ductwork and waiting for SHIELD to either decide Hawkeye had gotten his shit together and give him an assignment or just cut him loose.
But it hadn't been that kind of day at all. It had actually turned out to be the day that Clint Barton had had enough of the crap his fellow agents were intent on giving him. It hadn't been a breakthrough, or an epiphany, or a blinding revelation. He'd just had enough. If they wanted to pummel him for his sins and errors, fine, he could accept that. If they thought they were beating the shit out him for Phil's sake, well, they didn't know Coulson at all. So Clint had stopped them, and then he'd just started walking, leaving the agents in a tangled, moaning heap. He'd walked away from the Avengers, from SHIELD; not permanently, just long enough to try to clear his mind and figure out exactly who Hawkeye had become, and who he needed to be again.
He probably should have commed Fury that he was running away, but at the time he hadn't given it another thought.
Clint shrugs. They probably won't even notice he's gone.
He looks up as the low thrumming of a SHIELD helicopter sounds overhead, and Clint sighs as he wonders what menace they're searching out this time without even realizing it's him they're looking for.
The archer stifles a grin. He's running away. For some reason, the thought is fucking hilarious, and he thinks that maybe it's just funny to him because if he weren't laughing, something much, much darker would take over, and he can already feel the shadows that have crept into his mind and staked their own territory there. Thoughts of Phil, and Natasha; older, harsher memories he wished he didn't remember. They're all there, burning brighter and much closer to the surface since Loki had amused himself by digging through Clint's brain to pull out every memory the hawk hated and despised and feared, and laid them bare before the archer's terrified eyes in an attempt to keep him under some sort of control.
The god of mischief had certainly had a field day with all of the jacked-up shit in Clint's mind to play with. Memories long buried and mostly forgotten were pulled out and exposed, and when Clint thinks about them, he can't believe he hasn't gone completely batshit before now.
OoOoOoOoOo
The hawk jerks awake, barely realizing that he'd fallen asleep again, but he doesn't think it was for long. God, he's cold. Clint carefully rubs his hands up and down his arms, mindful of bruising.
He can't seem to think clearly; the mere effort of stringing coherent thoughts together is exhausting. He needs help and he knows it, but the only person who comes to mind is Tasha, and she's off in some shithole doing grunt work for Fury. There's no way in hell he's going to go crying to her to save his sorry ass; it would ruin the foundation of their relationship.
He has no one but himself, so the archer rouses himself from the pile of garbage he'd made a nest out of and pushes himself to his feet unsteadily. Clint's surprised by how much effort it takes to stand, and he wobbles a little - a lot - on his bad knee once he's finally up.
Despite his shivering it only takes him a minute to bypass the locked door leading inside the small building of cheap apartments he's perched on. Shuddering and increasingly disoriented, Clint lets himself in, moving silently through the hazy yellow glow of the hallway lighting until eventually he finds a door with light shining through the frame and he knocks on it, and maybe because it's early, or maybe because he looks like shit the couple he's inadvertently woken are not pleased to see him. The archer's fragmenting mind is trying to comprehend what's happening, and his teeth are chattering which makes it hard to concentrate; the woman takes pity on him but the man says absolutely not and Clint just slides down the wall outside their door helplessly to rest his butt on the carpet while the man stands over him menacingly and the woman gives him an apologetic look as she phones the police.
The archer tells them he was mugged and that's why he doesn't have a wallet, but the man is still suspicious and Clint can't blame him because this is New York and weird shit happens here all the time. It's like a fucking bad guy magnet and apparently now a prime destination for domination-hungry aliens; probably because the Avengers and the X-Men and all other sorts of caped and tighted superheroes live around here and most bad guys stupidly want a challenge right off instead of taking over some Podunk town in the Midwest or Alaska or some shit and working their way up from there.
At this point, the thought makes its slow way into Clint's muddled brain that maybe he should tell the couple he's an Avenger and that would make things better, but a weak giggle slides past his teeth and he knows instinctively it's not going to help, because who the hell would recognize Hawkeye even if he weren't half-dead and hypothermic? He's not a god or a green rage monster, and he doesn't have a crazy-recognizable suit like Tony or Steve. Hawkeye is the guy who hides and tells the actual superheroes what to look for. He likes being the guy you don't remember passing on the street.
So he doesn't say anything, just glances up tiredly when the police arrive and ask him question after question; he hears the woman say he'd said he'd been mugged and Clint thinks the officers can tell he's disoriented and really cold and maybe he should ask for help because the hallway has started fading at the edges and Clint's pretty sure it's not supposed to do that.
Clint struggles to his feet and the officer in charge tells him to take it slow, to be careful, and Clint tries to obey, but when the officer tries to help him by setting a hand on him just so, something in Clint's subconscious panics and before Clint realizes what's happening, his hand is stinging and the officer is cradling a broken nose gushing crimson spatter and glaring at him murderously.
The archer opens his mouth to apologize, but even that pathetically weak spike of adrenaline has sapped all that he has and his knees buckle as another officer strikes him from behind in swift retaliation. The wobbling hallway suddenly turns into dark shadows latticing across his vision, and Clint decides that maybe closing his eyes might be a good idea after all.
Some time later, Clint wakes up in a room easily identified as a hospital unit, and his wrist is manacled to the bed. A pained-looking man dressed as a doctor is standing by his side and asks him gently who they can call to vouch for Clint because the phone number he'd deliriously murmured to them when they'd asked who to call for him is unavailable.
Clint realizes when the doctor carefully repeats back the digits he had given them that Phil's is the number he gave for his emergency contact, and with this knowledge comes the confusing realization that something warm and wet is slipping down his cheeks and he figures it's blood; he reaches his free hand up to check and is surprised to see clear moisture settled on his callused fingertips instead.
Fuck.
He is so alone. And messed up. And he really wishes that Tasha were here, even if she'd kick his ass for wanting it.
The doctor pats his shoulder awkwardly and maybe adjusts whatever is flowing into his IV because Clint suddenly feels incredibly sleepy again and although he wants to fight it, he just gives in.
OoOoOoOoOo
Hmm… not too much angst, I hope … I just like to balance out the whump that inevitably follows. lol. next chap… should we check in with the rest of team? Or see what kind of trouble Clint gets into now? Please review! hopefully the story isn't dragging too much or at all. :)