Author's Note: First of all, let me apologize profusely for the late posting of this chapter! If you knew the week I've had, starting with finding out I needed new tires on my car...! Either way, here's the next chapter! Fair warning: this does contain some spoilers for the prequel, "Long Time Comin'." I don't believe it's strictly necessary to read that one if you haven't, but it will help you understand a few things.
And I hope everyone's having a wonderful Christmas since the reviews were down last chapter. And I pray everyone has a safe Christmas vacation!
As always, enjoy and let me know what you think! ~lg
oOo
The day that Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers were scheduled to depart for Istanbul, Nick Fury walked onto the bridge of the Helicarrier with an inscrutable look on his face. He normally didn't like sending Romanoff on these sorts of missions, not since she replaced Coulson. But he couldn't keep the Black Widow chained. And she made concessions by taking only the most sensitive cases, letting other agents fill her role and make their mistakes as she had once done. Things would get easier once Barton returned to duty, and, based on McNeil's quiet report, that wasn't too far away.
Stopping near the conference table, Fury took a moment to look over the bridge. He did this every day, meeting his agents' eyes and watching the techs sit up straighter. He found it more than a little amusing to realize his presence caused such a level of intimidation.
This morning, though, snickers bounced around the bridge, and every agent tried to not look at him. One guy's eyes darted upward, though, and Fury slowly followed his gaze. There, hanging from one of the air vents right under his customary spot for surveying the bridge, hung a sprig of mistletoe, the long red and green garland disappearing up into the air duct. He studied it, his mind not needing more than two seconds to figure out who had managed to catch him under the mistletoe. Only Barton used the air ducts, and he only did so on rare occasions—when he needed to move quickly from one spot to another or when he played a prank. Besides, Barton was the only one on the Helicarrier gutsy enough to prank the SHIELD director.
Fury lowered his gaze and met Hill's eyes. His assistant stood in her usual spot, her normally placid face scrunched as amusement sparkled in her eyes. She looked at him and then quickly glanced away, pressing her lips together in an obvious attempt not to laugh. Seeing that, he decided that he'd see just how far he could push her control. "Agent Hill?"
"Yes, Sir?" She swallowed, her lips tipping upward in spite of her best efforts.
"Remind me again what the tradition is concerning mistletoe."
Sheer panic crossed her face. "Uh, Sir, it's. . .um. . . ." She straightened. "The person caught beneath it is to receive a kiss."
Fury gave her a look that clearly said, "Well, what are you waiting for?" At that moment, she lost control of her laughter, and it came spilling out in a loud snort. Now that Hill's composure had been broken, several other agents openly laughed, leaving Fury to retreat to his office. As soon as the door closed behind him, he let out the mirth that had collected over the course of the past few moments. Shoulders shaking, he dropped into his chair.
It felt good to have the old Barton back. And Fury was confident Barton was responsible for the mistletoe. The archer knew Fury would get retribution, and that it would be spectacular. Fury just needed to plan the perfect moment and prank to play. Oh, this would be fun!
oOo
Clint waved as Natasha and Steve headed for the flight deck, serious expressions on their faces. Both were focused on the upcoming mission, and Clint refused to distract either one. That Natasha had asked Steve to be her backup didn't bug him. He preferred having Captain America watching out for her rather than some SHIELD agent he didn't know. Besides, given how the Cap obviously felt, Clint knew the other man would do everything in his power to keep her safe since he could not be there. He had not been cleared for active duty, yet. Until that happened, he could not be asked to go on missions.
No, what bothered him was the lack of information around that face she'd seen. Both SHIELD and Stark had come up empty on their searches, though Stark continued looking. The billionaire hated failure of any kind, and Clint appreciated that attitude. Especially since seeing that face had spooked the Black Widow. Clint would have wondered if Natasha had had a flashback except that she had never experienced something so nebulous before. And the apparent ability of this guy to just fall off the map. . . .That worried a lot more people than just Clint.
He sighed as he approached McNeil's door, shoving his worries for Natasha from his mind. The longer he was in New York, the more he felt the need to get back to doing something more productive than sitting around Stark Tower, playing the occasional practical joke. He'd given McNeil's words a lot of thought over the past week and had decided to think positively. The psychologist clearly thought Clint had made tremendous progress on his own, but Clint doubted that. He hadn't set out to recover from PTSD. He'd just needed to figure out who he was.
Today, McNeil's office door was open, and Clint knocked on the wall. The psychologist glanced up from his notes and waved him inside. "Agent Barton. Right on time."
Clint closed the door behind himself and settled into the chair he'd used last week. "Expecting me, Doc?"
McNeil smiled as he rounded his desk and took the chair across from his patient. "Your file says you're punctual to a fault when it comes to medical exams of any kind, though I believe that is simply your way of getting through the unpleasantness quickly."
Clint shrugged, not denying it. He noticed the doc had settled with his back to the door, something Clint couldn't do, and was watching him closely. "So, what's on the menu today?"
"Have you given much thought to our discussion last week?"
"Yeah, a lot." Clint again braced his elbows on his knees, more comfortable in the hunched position than settled back in the chair. The upturned collar of his leather coat brushed his jaw as he spoke. "I still don't think I've done all that much, but I got what you were trying to say. Coping is different for everyone, and I gotta learn how to do that."
McNeil's eyebrows rose. "That's what you took from last week's session?"
Clint nodded. "Yeah. Why?"
"I thought we merely discussed what your symptoms were and what helped them."
A shrug caused his jacket collar to jab into his jaw a bit more. "We did. But it got me thinking. There's a reason I can relax at Stark Tower. There's gotta be reasons for why I feel so different after four months of driving cross country in an emotional haze."
"Could it perhaps be due to burying a few ghosts?" McNeil asked softly. "Maybe facing a few demons and finding out they're nothing more than men?"
Clint thought about that for a moment. The idea had crossed his mind that he could kill Old Man Willoughby, that Randall wouldn't stand a chance if Clint looked him up, and that Buck and the Swordsmen were truly dead. Seeing Marcy had shown him the harsh life he'd escaped when he left the circus. Yes, he had his fair share of nightmarish experiences, and he did see and do some of the darkest things on the planet. But he had a home, a place to fall back on if it got to be too much. He had roots, even if those roots were in SHIELD rather than a physical location. But Marcy had none of that. In the circus, acts came and went, scams abounded, and the possibility that your closest friend could betray you was ever present.
Clint looked at McNeil. "Maybe."
The psychologist nodded. "I thought so. Sometimes, dealing with current trauma is made easier by resolving past trauma. In your case, your past made the symptoms of Loki's control even harder to bear. Now that the past is no longer an issue, you can focus on the current battle."
Clint made a face that could only be described as a shrug. "Makes sense." He finally sat back in the chair, crossing one ankle over his knee and sighing deeply. "What's on the agenda today?"
McNeil smiled, but it was tinged with sympathy and a touch of regret. "Today, I'd like you to tell me about Loki." He held up a hand when Clint tensed. "Take your time and try to think objectively. This isn't supposed to be easy, though subsequent retellings will become less painful."
Clint forced himself to breathe. "Loki," he growled. "He just appeared out of that thing. Had this spear in his hand and an evil smile on his face." Pushing aside the emotion, Clint tried to find the calm that served him so well in the field. "I didn't know who he was or what he wanted. Just that he started shooting up the place."
"And you reacted as any SHIELD operative would," McNeil prompted after a long moment.
"Yeah." Clint stared at his hand splayed across his knee, his mind latching on to the smallest detail—from the deep blue of his jeans to the fact he needed to trim his fingernails. Anything to keep the panic at bay. "He took a shot at me and two other agents. I dove out of the way. It took me a moment to catch my breath after landing wrong, and he was just. . .there. Touching my chest with that scepter."
"Did he say anything?"
Clint's jaw tightened as he ground his teeth together. He instinctively wanted to touch his chest, where the spot still burned on occasion. "'You have heart,'" he quoted. "I still have no idea what that means."
"And then what?"
Clint swallowed. Even after his breakdown on that New Mexico highway, he'd done everything in his power to avoid thinking about those horrifying days. "Pain." He nodded, breathing out through his mouth in an attempt to dispel some of the emotion. "I couldn't breathe. Everything I'd ever gone through—every nightmare—just flashed across my vision. I couldn't take it and just. . .gave up."
"He was in your mind, Agent Barton," McNeil reminded him. "There is no defense against that. Not that we know."
Clint jumped to his feet and paced across the room. "I could have fought harder."
"Could you have?" McNeil asked. "You were being tortured with your own memories and fears."
"It's not like I haven't faced that before!"
"Not this way." McNeil gave him an infuriatingly calm look. "This wasn't external, Agent Barton. This was internal. Loki knew right where to hit you so you'd fold. He took full advantage of that internal weakness and used it."
Clint hated how weak made him sound. "I tried to kill him once." He shook his head when McNeil looked genuinely surprised. "Before the battle, I mean. He let me sleep. When I woke up, I had some level of control. I would have killed him if he hadn't seen me. But he did. And he used that scepter again. After that, there was no sleep for anyone. Just blind obedience."
"Why?"
"It hurt too bad to resist." And that was the simple truth. He'd been tortured in his own mind. "Ever had a waking nightmare, Doc? Ever been walking down some tunnel and have a moment when you're living and breathing the time a man you once trusted trying to beat you to death, only to blink and be back in the tunnel but in pain from remembered injuries?" Clint waited while McNeil shook his head. "Well, that's what Loki liked to do. Pick random moments to torture us—all of us—and we never knew when they'd hit."
The office was silent for a long time as the two men absorbed what was said. Clint kept his back turned to McNeil, needing to hide the weakness of his tears more than his innate distrust of anyone outside the team. His hands shook slightly as he ran them over his face. But talking about all of this now, after having already faced it on his own, was somehow easier. It still terrified him beyond anything he'd ever known, and he'd likely have nightmares for at least a week. But it was easier.
Finally, McNeil stirred. "So, six months later, do you think there's anything you could have done to prevent what happened? Short of never having recovered the Tesseract in the first place?"
Clint forced himself to think about that question. He turned to stare at the psychologist as his mind shifted gears. He'd always seen better from a distance, and time had given him that distance. Looking back, he saw the pain he'd experienced and caused. But he also saw how woefully unprepared they'd been. "No."
"Why is that?"
"Because," Clint said as he walked back to his chair, "he was using far superior technology and, at the time, seemed invulnerable to anything we threw at him. We were unprepared. None of us could have anticipated what that scepter did or how powerful it was."
And that's when it hit him. Clint dropped into the chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut as he struggled to breathe. It wasn't his fault! People had been saying that for months now, but it had never been so clear to him. In his mind, he was responsible because it was his body performing the actions. But, at the root of it all, there was a very simple issue. They'd been caught unaware, and Clint had paid the price. There was no blame to assign to Fury, who first drew Loki's fire when he asked the Asgardian to put down the spear. Nor could he blame himself for not killing Loki when he had the chance. Bullets had bounced off the guy. In the end, everything that happened after Loki's arrival was in direct reaction to the Asgardian's actions. Clint could no more blame himself for finding a way to come through the torture by blind obedience than he could blame Hill for trying to kill him or Bruce for tearing the Helicarrier apart. The blame landed squarely on Loki's shoulders.
The emotional release that came with that realization was no less powerful than the one that hit that night in New Mexico. Clint looked at McNeil. "Doc?"
"We're done for the day," McNeil replied.
Clint bolted for the door and down the hall. He had very few places on the Helicarrier where he could go to be alone, and he hurried to the nearest air duct. Climbing inside, he crawled to the most isolated place he could find, curled into a ball, and quietly but completely came apart as, for the first time in months, he allowed himself to release the guilt he'd carried for so long.
oOo
The ringing of a cell phone pulled him out of his thoughts. Clint blinked in the dim, cool light of the air duct, surprised to hear Billy Joel's "New York State of Mind" playing from his pocket. He'd forgotten he'd even tucked the Stark phone in his jacket as he left the Tower. Now, he sat with his back braced against one corner of an air duct, his knees pulled up and his hands in front of his face.
Fumbling for the thing, he managed to hit the Answer key before it went to voicemail. "Yeah."
Stark's voice came through loud and clear. "Hey, Legolas, where are you?"
Clint frowned. Why would Stark be looking for him? It's not like the Avengers had a mission or anything. "I'm on the Helicarrier." He looked back and forth, his seat at a junction between two different air ducts.
Stark sighed noisily. "You forgot, didn't you?"
"Obviously."
"The Revels?" Stark asked. "Cambridge? Pepper wanted us to fly out there and you promised when Capsicle and Romanoff had to bail?"
Clint closed his eyes as he remembered. He had made that promise, and he'd even gone to his old quarters and found a suit for it. Cursing under his breath, he sighed. "I'm sorry. I got caught up in something here, and. . . ."
"It's fine. Just get here. We're leaving on time."
"I'll meet you there." Clint started sliding out of his hiding spot. "My clothes are here on the Helicarrier, anyway."
Stark hung up a moment later, and Clint shook his head. He crawled back through the air ducts to his old quarters, not wanting anyone to see him until he'd managed to clean up a bit. Kicking the vent cover from the duct, he dropped into his room and looked around. Things were dusty but just how he'd left them. The suit he'd chosen was black with a silver undertone. Natasha said it was one of his best looks, and he rarely questioned her on style. In the bathroom, he glanced in the mirror and decided he had no time to really do much about the goatee that had started shadowing his upper lip and chin. Deciding to just go with it, he dove under the hot water, quickly bathed, and dressed. He walked on board the Quinjet waiting to take him to New York carrying his tie and smirking at the pilot. "Hey, mind taking me to Cambridge instead of New York? I'm late for something."
"Sure." The pilot gave him a friendly grin when he settled into the copilot's chair to tie his tie. As the silk slid across itself, Clint took a deep breath and let it out. For the first time in months, the weight of responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders. And it felt great.
oOo
Pepper Potts tried not to ask for much from the Avengers. Unlike Tony, she realized that, though they all lived in Stark Tower, they also had their own lives. Clint and Natasha worked for SHIELD, Steve had his own issues to handle with adjusting to the modern age, and Bruce usually hid in his own lab. But some traditions were meant to be shared.
She'd been introduced to The Christmas Revels when she was a child. From then on, she'd loved the yearly presentation and took the time to learn the music. Tony discovered her love during her first year as his assistant and always allowed her to purchase a ticket on his dime. Since they'd been together, he went with her. This year, with the Avengers celebrating Christmas as a team, Pepper had asked all of them to go with her. Having Natasha and Steve bow out for a mission hurt a bit, but she also understood that duty called.
Now, she frowned as they boarded Tony's private plane to fly to Cambridge. "Where's Clint?"
Tony rolled his eyes. "Just talked to him. He said he'd meet us there."
Pepper saw the concern on Bruce and Thor's faces. "Is he okay?"
"I don't know," Tony said honestly. "I mean, he growled at me like usual. But he sounded. . . ." He waved a hand. ". . .odd."
Pepper dropped the subject. She kept up on the various events in the Avengers' lives, and she knew that Clint had been seeing a SHIELD psychologist. Maybe something had come up with his appointment that day, or he'd been caught by a flashback of some sort. Though that didn't fit with the way he'd been behaving since coming back to New York. The Clint that returned from his sabbatical wasn't the reclusive archer from before. This new Clint was a prankster, full of humor, and usually willing to let his guard down a bit. This Clint was a friend.
In Cambridge, a car met them and took them to the theater. Tony stood in line while Pepper, Bruce, and Thor waited by the door. Bruce looked distinctly uncomfortable, but Thor asked question after question about The Christmas Revels. Apparently theater and entertainment was a big thing in Asgard. She had just finished explaining the tradition of the audience dancing out into the lobby with the troop during intermission when she spotted Clint.
Most of the time, Agent Clint Barton looked completely unassuming and almost forgettable. He favored relaxed jeans and t-shirts that wouldn't restrict his movements. Tonight, though, he'd pulled out all the stops. Pepper saw the way women turned to watch him as he passed, and a grin covered her features. For a covert operative, Clint knew how to draw attention. And he did so with his confident swagger and that distracting three-piece suit as he passed under the lights of the theater to join the trio waiting for Tony Stark.
Pepper smiled at him. "You look wonderful."
"Thank you." He bent to kiss her cheek and then shook hands with Thor and Bruce.
Tony chose that moment to return. "Hey, who's kissing my girl?" His eyes widened when Clint turned. "Barton?"
Clint smirked. "The one and only."
Pepper laughed when Tony continued to stare. None of them expected Clint to clean up so nicely, and she idly wondered if he didn't dress up just for this purpose.
Once inside the theater, they took their seats and chatted as they waited for the show to start. Pepper kept giving Clint sidelong glances, more surprised than anything. He seemed completely relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Though he chose the seat in Tony's box that put his back to a corner, he still smiled and laughed freely as Tony made wry jokes and off-color comments about women's wear in the theater. Pepper just rolled her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as the show started.
The Christmas Revels focused on Irish traditions this year, and Pepper noticed how Clint's eyes sparkled a touch in recognition. She settled back in her chair to enjoy the program, which included carols and songs that everyone—the audience included—sang. However, it was during one traditional Irish song, Bánchnoic Éiraenn Ó, that she heard a low voice behind her. It was rough, with a slight touch of rock or blues in it, and Pepper tried to ignore it. She couldn't, however, and glanced over her shoulder to see Clint with his eyes focused on the stage, quietly singing along with the chorus. He missed a few words, but it wasn't the mistakes that drew her. For those few moments, he changed, and she realized that he'd revealed something to all of them.
During intermission, Pepper slipped away from Tony's side and found Clint leaning against a wall. She looped her arm through his and led him back to the group. "I didn't know you sang."
"I don't." He shrugged. "Not well."
She rolled her eyes. "So, what was that song? Not the carols we sang along with, but the one you sang."
"Bánchnoic Éiraenn Ó? In English, it's The Fair Hills of Ireland." He tipped his head to one side. "An Irish lament for the land. I learned it when I was in Ireland a few years back."
Pepper wisely dropped the subject of Ireland, but she couldn't resist one more request. "Do you think you could sing some carols for us? On Christmas?"
Clint stopped walking and stared directly at her. "You really want me to?" The tentative expression on his face, as if he were uncertain about his place in life, surprised her.
"Yes." She tugged him closer to the other members of their group. "Now, come on. The second half of the show is starting!"
oOo
Istanbul. . . .
Steve had never seen a weapons deal go down, as Natasha put it, and he watched curiously as she walked into the warehouse. Hours ago, they'd come and decided on his "nest," and Steve had stayed behind, in position and waiting for Ekrem Aksoy to make an appearance. Right at the appointed time, a large box van pulled into the warehouse and parked. Natasha confidently strode through opposing doors just a few moments later, and the deal began.
Steve couldn't understand the words. After all, he didn't speak Turkish or whatever language these guys were using. But he did understand body language. Natasha had told him it was customary for both parties to bring guards, but she decided to go alone. It would create an illusion of overconfidence, and that worried Steve. While he trusted Natasha's judgment in most things and had seen her in action against the Chitauri, he wasn't confident in her ability to dodge multiple bullets at once. And the three guards Aksoy had brought all carried highly advanced weapons, obviously posturing in an attempt to intimidate the Black Widow. Too bad she didn't scare easily.
The meeting seemed to go without a problem, so Steve settled in his spot and just waited. Natasha had expected this, hence why she didn't want him physically with her. Besides, Steve supposed she was accustomed to operating with Barton at her back. Barton could take out most of these guys before they got more than one shot off, and, not for the first time, Steve second-guessed his decision to accompany her.
Then, things changed. Aksoy said something that caused the Black Widow to tense, and Steve sat up a bit straighter. Three more men entered the warehouse, flanking Natasha and putting themselves right in the path of her escape. Steve started moving as quietly as possible, his black suit not making a sound as he slid to the ground. He wished for the shield that was so much a part of him and crept through the shadows until he got as close to Natasha as he could without giving away his position.
The fight began suddenly. One of the newcomers said something in a completely different language from Aksoy's, and Natasha reacted immediately. She threw an elbow over her shoulder, connecting with his nose and knocking him backward. The three guards Aksoy had brought drew their weapons, and Steve grabbed a trash can lid leaning against a crate. It wasn't as balanced as his shield, but it worked. He managed to throw off the aim of one guy and completely disarm a second before he dove into the fray.
The fight lasted only a few minutes. Both Steve and Natasha fought as fiercely as ever, but these guys had an advantage. Steve felt the sting of a needle in his neck shortly after entering the fight. He clapped a hand over the spot, not surprised to see it come away bloody. Natasha stared at him, her eyes wide and terrified as she began to sway. Steve saw her go down to her knees, but she pushed herself back up and into the fight. Steve whirled and, with one strong punch, sent his attacker flying across the room.
But something was happening. The edges of his vision were blurring, and his veins burned as the poison made its way through his body. He still fought, but his reactions were sluggish, the warmth of the warehouse working against him as he tried to fend off his and Natasha's attackers. He vaguely noted that she'd fallen and seemed unconscious, and he sent a prayer heavenward that this wasn't the end. With one final punch that went wild, he sank to his knees and could fight no longer. This isn't possible! Curling into a ball, he looked up and recognized a face. A face that he'd drawn. "You!"
The world faded to gray and then to black.
~TBC
Author's Note II: The Christmas Revels is an actual performance put on in Cambridge, Massachusetts, every year. Each year's theme changes. This year, it was Irish Christmas, and I found that really a lot of fun to explore given Clint's mentioned trip to Ireland in "Long Time Comin'." The song, Bánchnoic Éiraenn Ó, is an actual Irish lament, and it is being featured this year in The Christmas Revels.
Let me know what you think! ~lg
