Part 10. Loyalty
Clint's immediate response was a sharp bark of laughter, clearly startled, as Bruce and Tony began to protest. Natasha shut Tony up with a glare, and Thor placed a massive, comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce didn't appear comforted as he took deep, steadying breaths.
Steve reacted by shifting his composed gaze to Clint.
Clint hesitated, just for a moment, before he relaxed his posture and pulled a mildly amused smile to his lips. He was aiming for disarming. He was usually a crack shot, but this time they were looking for it.
"Sorry, sir, but that's not on my agenda for the day," he shrugged, taking a casual step backwards, as though shifting to a more comfortable position. He was one step closer to the exit.
"Agent Barton," Phil repeated, tone bland, "I would like you to shoot Captain Rogers."
"This stopped being funny before it even began," Clint rolled his eyes dramatically and took another casual step backwards.
"Remain where you are, Agent Barton," Fury ordered severely, arms crossed over his broad chest as he leaned his hip, not very Director-like, against the large table.
Clint's slow but steady retreat halted instantly. He relaxed his posture even more, raising his eyebrows cockily, as though he were granting a favour instead of following an order. He made the move seem natural, entirely at ease. From the opposite side of the room Natasha's blank mask twisted darkly. Clint must have seen it, as well as the narrowing of Hill's suspicious gaze, but he didn't react to them.
"Look, does someone want to clue me in to what's going on here? Because last I checked shooting Captain America was not sanctioned. I'd go so far as to say it's considered an act of treason. Shooting Stark on the other hand-" he looked to Tony with a wicked grin, clearly expecting him to rise to the bait, to start an argument, to distract. It was a familiar tactic that suddenly wasn't as friendly, as innocent, as it had been before.
How many times before?
Tony didn't say a thing, looking unimpressed and…and worried.
"What is going on, Agent Barton, is that I would like you to shoot Captain Rogers," Phil repeated, firmly. Clint dropped his casual act, all traces of friendliness disappearing.
"I'd rather not, Sir, if it's all the same to you. And I'd like to pose a question, just to quell my own curiosity, but has everyone gone insane? Whatever this is? It's not acceptable."
"No," Phil agreed, staring hard at Clint, "this is not acceptable. I want you to shoot Captain Rogers," his voice was hard, and Clint snapped to attention, back straight and hands stiff down at his sides. His sharp eyes focused somewhere beyond the group of people watching him so intently.
"With all due respect Sir," he said tonelessly, "I will not be shooting Captain Rogers today," he tersely refused. Nobody relaxed, not even a fraction.
"Agent Barton," Phil's tone remained as firm as it was before, "I am ordering you to shoot Captain Rogers."
The change in Clint was minute, but it was unmistakable, and it was all in his eyes, because nothing about his posture shifted. Nothing altered to indicate duress. Not at first, at least.
"Director Fury," Clint addressed, "Rescind the order, sir."
Fury didn't respond, pointedly deferring to Phil, his gaze unyielding.
"Shoot Captain Rogers, Agent Barton," Phil ordered again, and Clint began to tremble, his body slowly shaking enough that it became visible to the team. In a matter of seconds a few beads of sweat began to gather at his hairline. Steve just watched Clint, waiting with the expectation that it would never happen, that Clint would never just shoot him without reason. Clint wasn't like that, and they all knew it.
Then Clint abruptly relaxed, and between one blink and the next he'd pulled his gun and fired. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space, but nobody flinched, except Steve. He jerked, body dipping to the right, but he straightened up just as quickly, his left hand clasped over his bicep with blood seeping through his fingers.
Clint was back to acting at ease, eyebrows high and expectant again, mocking, all trace of strain gone.
"Sorry, Cap, but orders are orders," he explained, cavalier, as he slipped the weapon back into his thigh holster. The look Steve was giving him wasn't angry; it was incredulous. Then it was darkly concerned. Clint's gaze shifted to stare over Coulson's shoulder once more. "Anything else you need today, sir? Maybe there are some kittens I could go drown for SHIELD."
"That won't be necessary, Agent Barton. Please remove all your weapons and place them on the table," Coulson ordered instead and Clint's eyes narrowed, unhappy, but he moved forward and began the process of laying every single weapon on the table without question. Tony made an incredulous sound at the action, but that could have been because he hadn't been expecting the garroting wire. When he indicated that he was done Coulson moved to the door, sharing an indecipherable look with Fury, who nodded in return. "Come with me, Barton," he ordered and Clint followed, clearly unhappy.
"You can't punish me for following your orders, sir," he pointed out, ignoring the way his entire team trailed after them, and ignoring the looks Steve was getting from the crew for the blood that was coating his arm. Coulson hadn't ordered a kill shot. The bullet had gone right through, not hitting anything vital. It was already healing.
"When have I ever punished you for following orders?" Phil asked blandly. Clint didn't respond. He followed Coulson into the interrogation room, all attempts at pretending to be at ease had evaporated long before they reached the room. Nobody else followed them in and the door clicked shut. Clint winked at the light grey wall opposite the table, the one that looked like a wall but acted as a viewing window from the other side. "Sit down," Phil ordered. Clint sat, ramrod straight and right at the edge of the metal seat, but without any resistance.
Phil shoved the table out of the way, its loud scraping cried into the room like a wounded animal, before he grabbed the only other chair and sat across from Clint, staring at him imploringly.
"I want you to explain what just happened, Clint," he asked, and Clint blinked at him as if he were being purposefully obtuse.
"I followed your orders, sir."
"You shot Steve Rogers."
"If you didn't want me to put a bullet in your hero you shouldn't have told me to, sir." He glared in irritation and Coulson's expression didn't change.
"He's your friend," Coulson reminded Clint, who didn't look impressed.
"He's my teammate, and we both know I've done a lot worse to the people I care about."
"Tell me why you shot him," Coulson ordered, and Clint's face did a funny little twist before smoothing out.
"I was following your orders, sir," he answered dutifully, no longer looking at Phil.
"Yes," Phil agreed coolly, "you were following orders. Like you always follow orders," he pointed out and Clint didn't react: in any way. "Are you incapable of not following orders, Agent Barton?" he asked, soft but firm. Clint didn't shift his gaze from the back wall.
"I'm loyal to SHIELD sir," Clint responded automatically.
"That's not what I asked," Phil retorted.
"I'm confused as to why it's suddenly a problem," Clint shrugged, indifferent, trying to turn the conversation elsewhere.
"Are you incapable of not following orders, Agent Barton?" Phil repeated, resolutely, and Clint swallowed noticeably once, before he was back to being coolly unaffected.
"I don't know what you're talking about, sir. I'm loyal to SHIELD."
The door to the room clicked open and Maria Hill smoothly stepped in. Clint cut a look to her, his eyes quickly tracking to what she was carrying, and he was abruptly standing. He put Hill and Coulson before him, clearly in his sights as he rapidly backed towards the nearest corner. A mild thump came from the direction of the viewing room.
"You understand why we need to do this Clint?" Phil asked, softly but firmly. His distaste with the situation was clear, but so was his determination. He wanted answers, and he was getting them.
"It's unnecessary, sir," Clint snapped, glaring down at the familiar metal collar in Hill's hand, "and I would rather we didn't do this. The first time was more than enough," he pleaded indirectly, softening his stance to wariness that had both Hill and Coulson narrowing their eyes in suspicion. Neither of them could recall the last time Clint pulled the 'feel sorry for me' card. If ever.
"We need answers, Clint," Coulson stared at him hard, "and right now I can't trust yours."
"I'm loyal to SHIELD," Clint snapped, and tensed to retreat.
"Sit down, Agent Barton," Hill ordered sharply, "and let me put the collar on."
Clint glared coldly, eyes narrowed and body tense, before he dragged the seat back in place and sat, silent. He didn't meet either of their gazes as she stepped forward and gently snapped the collar around his throat. There was no whine as it activated, but Clint's right eye twitched as it pinched into the back of his neck. It's his only reaction. Hill gently checked around the collar, asked a few base questions that Clint answered without hesitation, and then moved to the back corner of the room, crossing her arms and staring with an intensity that almost rivaled Fury's.
Coulson watched Clint silently, and when Clint briefly made eye contact, he didn't know how to interpret the look. It was angry, upset, betrayed. Relieved? It was more of a feeling than anything else, but Phil trusted his instincts. For a long moment he watched his agent, and then took a deep breath.
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"Agent Barton," Phil asked, his voice firm, demanding. His eyes pleading and honest to fucking god scared. Clint looked at him, the collar brushing his skin uncomfortably, the heavy, warm ache wrapped around his entire skull squeezing. Clint had never wanted to make Phil's eyes look like that. He could only imagine the regret he was feeling for locking the collar on him. Clint wasn't regretful, he was desperate, and he couldn't express it.
"Are you physically," Phil paused, eyes hardening, "incapable of disregarding a direct order from a higher ranking member of SHIELD?" Pain lanced through his brain, through his eyeballs, in his damn teeth that were clenched so tight he could be cracking molars. He forced his mouth to open, and then closed it, and struggled to answer. The effects of the truth collar clashed violently with the effects of his conditioning and please fuck just get the word out! It was one fucking word!
He struggled to answer and to not answer for long moments, and he felt the unmistakable warmth of blood trickle from his nose, spread over his tightly pressed lips. In front of him Phil sat, still as a statue, staring, already knowing what the answer would be. It was not difficult for Clint to see the hope, the near desperate hope, that Phil was wrong in his eyes.
"Answer the question, Agent Barton," Phil ordered, using his sternest voice. The Voice that was never to be unheeded. The Voice he'd used to order Clint to shoot Steve. Clint loved and hated that voice. But fuck it right now if it didn't sound like salvation, even if his hearing seemed muffled, muted, and distant.
"Yes," he slurred the answer, forcing it out with more effort than ripping barbed arrows from his own flesh took. If he was expecting relief at being able to give the answer, he didn't feel it. Phil's face didn't change at the admittance, but his eyes, they fucking crumbled with despair before the emotion was locked away. Clint flinched, unable to help it, and swept the back of his hand over the blood on his lip, trying to wipe it away.
"Why?" Phil asked, and the spike of heated pain lanced through Clint as he again, instinctively fought to respond. He curled forward slightly, hunching over, resisting grabbing at his head, tearing at the collar. He needed to keep it on, he needed it. He needed it. He couldn't get the words out this time, he couldn't- "Was Agent Warner responsible for this?" Clint brought a hand up, knuckling at his forehead, feeling more blood trickle from his nose and he'd be concerned, maybe, if it wasn't taking everything he had to just stay in his seat and struggle against conflicting needs.
He managed to nod his head, once, sharply. There was a long moment of silence in which Clint breathed raggedly, unable to help it. So fucking useless. He felt Phil's eyes on him, imagined the thousand and one questions he wanted to ask, imagined his razor sharp mind filtering through to find the ones most needed to be asked, to cause Clint the least amount of pain. Clint didn't blame Phil for this, he never could, but he didn't need to look at him to know he was blaming himself. He wouldn't see it on the surface anyway.
"Did he order you to actively conceal your inability to not follow orders?"
Fuck. Phil. Clint keened, doubling over in his seat, barely feeling Phil's hands wrap around his shoulders to support him as his entire skull felt like it was going to implode. His ears might be bleeding- they felt like they should be gushing, colours spotted his vision, the pain blinding enough that he nearly started gagging. He'd felt this before, this specific, overwhelming tearing inside that fought between free will and the forced instinct to hide hide hide.
Breathe he thought he heard Phil coaching, his words soft and insistent and the sharp bang of the door slamming open and familiar footsteps storming the room. He struggled to answer, he fought to conceal.
"We're taking that thing off him, right now," Stark's sharp declaration cut through the ringing in his ear, and he cracked open his eyes just in time to see Phil nod tightly in agreement. No. No! He launched himself away from them, stumbling to the nearest wall and slamming his back into it violently. His entire body protested the retreat, protested his instinct to let them remove it, his muscles cramped. He knew Phil followed him, he was right there on the floor with him, and Clint held out a shaking, clawed hand to stop Tony from getting close, the other held in front of him, fisted tight. He couldn't spread his fingers. He looked at Phil.
"Yesss-" he choked a little, sucking in a breath, scrambling for any control after answering, unable to keep up the eye contact. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat.
"Agent Barton," Phil's hands wrapped firmly around his shoulders again and Clint very nearly broke one of them in surprise. "As a higher ranking agent than Warner ever was I am ordering you to disregard any instruction ever given to you to conceal your inability to disregard orders." Clint stilled, the words penetrating. It took a long moment for their meaning to sink in, and then he laughed, ragged, because it couldn't be that easy. It couldn't be.
The agony in his head, neck, and shoulders began to release almost instantly. The pain clung to the inside of his skull, stubborn, scratching, and then it was gone as well. Just gone.
He didn't trust it.
It didn't stop him from immediately struggling to regain control, forcing his breathing to appear calm and at ease until his body had no choice but to match his will. He lowered his defensive stance, flexed his sore hands quickly, and Phil carefully released his shoulders, his hands lingering longer than Clint would have expected. Phil backed away and Maria slipped out of the room, having to push through his team crowded just inside the door, staring, different levels of horror on their faces.
Steve wasn't giving anything away, but his hand was tracing the bandage that had been hastily slapped over his bullet wound, blood crusting down his arm. It should be halfway healed by now. Stark looked like his brain was going to combust, his face was so outraged. Bruce was breathing calmly. Always calm. His eyes looked greener than normal. Thor looked heartbroken, and didn't that just make Clint all kinds of uncomfortable. He looked back to Phil, who was righting the two chairs that had fallen over, no doubt dramatically. Phil looked at Clint and then eyed the chair in question. Clint forced his body to move, tried to hide the lingering pain that protested in what must be every damn cell, and slid onto the chair. His body had already been aching from his mission, he was going to need some serious muscle relaxants for the next day.
He looked at his handler. Phil was a blank slate. Shut down. He wasn't letting anyone have a glimpse into the inner workings of his mind right now. Clint swallowed but didn't try to mimic him, he didn't have the energy to hide now that it was 'apparently' no longer an instinctive drive. He was too tired to appreciate how it felt.
"Do you need medical?" Phil asked softly, at odds with his stance.
"No sir. I'm okay."
"Is this your version of okay, or our version of okay, because truth collar or not I'm not sure I believe you," Tony interrupted, and crossed his arms over his chest, clamping his hands in his armpits to keep from waving them about. Clint couldn't quite meet his teammates, or Phil, in the eyes just yet, so he pretended to by glancing at their foreheads briefly.
"Does it matter? My version is always the right one anyway," Clint smirked, and it felt thin, stretched. Nobody was impressed with his answer. Phil took a moment too long to ask his next question, and Natasha finally slipped into the room, wordlessly dropping a handful of paper towels in Clint's lap before taking up residence right behind Phil. Her eyes were cold and hard and Clint did not take it personally. He never did.
"Are you able to answer questions without the aid of the collar now?" Phil asked and Clint nodded without thought, agreeing with ease, nothing but a warm pressing tingle in the back of his mind to ensure truth. Bruce and Tony were at his side before he could follow with a verbal response, hands familiar and almost embarrassingly gentle as they opened the collar and gently removed it. They knew how the thing worked now, after the first time. The pinch as it slid out of his neck was nothing compared to what he'd just been through. He couldn't find the energy to even twitch at the brief burn.
"Did you agree to work for SHIELD of your own accord?" Phil began as Bruce was slapping a bandage over the cut in his neck, and that he nearly flinched at.
"You don't waste any time do you?" Clint grunted, automatically. "You know you're supposed to check that the water's clear before you dive right into the deep end right?" he deflected, rubbing at the tacky blood on his face with the towels and belatedly reaching up to make sure his ears hadn't actually bled. They hadn't. He suspected if they had then he would already be having his brain scanned in medical with Bruce hovering anxiously over his stretcher as opposed to over his seated shoulder.
Bruce wasn't a medical doctor by trade; Clint had no idea how the man kept getting roped into acting as one.
"Answer the question, Clint," Natasha broke the strained silence that followed, gentle, and he inhaled sharply, realizing that he could. He didn't have to lie, to redirect, or hide. Apparently the magical words of Phil Coulson solved that. No big, it had only been repressing him for about ten years now. He had always imagined he'd be singing to the rooftops about Warner the moment he got the chance. It was surprisingly difficult to find the words now. Something flared up in Phil's otherwise cool eyes, but only briefly, and Clint found himself grateful that Phil wasn't leaking his thoughts everywhere. It was a relief.
"I wasn't very impressed with SHIELD's recruitment tactics at the time." It was indirect, but it was enough of an answer, for now.
"How did this Warner guy even get close enough to get your attention?" Tony asked, moving to hop up on the table just beside them, legs dangling, distracting. Clint followed his movement out of the corner of his eye but kept his attention on Phil and Natasha. Right now, they were the ones that needed answers most.
"I was injured, taking a break." His medical files would show the assortment of injuries he'd been recovering from at the time. It was no excuse. It never had been. "He got the jump on me, some kind of paralytic, took me back to his room and had his wicked way with me," he leered, like it was no big deal. Deflect. Steve's frown deepened. "I woke up and I couldn't kill him, couldn't walk away. Had to follow his orders, had to follow SHIELD's orders. I'm loyal to SHIELD." He didn't pay attention to his last words, they were so long ingrained, had run through his thoughts so often that he rarely noticed them anymore. He didn't see how his team, his friends, reacted. He was too focused on Phil and Tasha, who didn't react at all.
"Did he use any tech?" Tony asked, sounding strangled and Clint shrugged.
"I remember some metallic disks on my forehead, there were some drugs too, lots of words and some flashing lights. I could never figure it out." He didn't mention the restraints, the agony, the fear, the confusion- they didn't need to know. Bruce wordlessly walked out of the room, and Thor, after a moment of hard staring, followed him. No doubt to make sure he was okay. Clint wasn't worried about the Hulk making an appearance, not over this. Hulk typically waited for the really important issues to join the party.
"So what you're saying is that Warner has somehow brainwashed you to instinctively, and unquestioningly, follow SHIELD directives. He imprisoned you into servitude." Steve declared more than asked, his tone severe.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Clint grinned, "but it's not like I didn't have the ability to think for myself, to act freely. It was nothing like Loki," he pointed out, deflecting again unintentionally, trying to steer the conversation away. They weren't accepting it this time, and his new topic left a lot to be desired.
"When we deployed on the mission to rescue the SHIELD agents, to rescue Ria, you tried to get out of the meeting with Deputy Director Hill," Steve frowned. "You knew she'd order us not to go."
"If I don't hear the order, I don't have to follow the order," he tipped his head in a classic 'what can you do?' gesture.
"I've ordered you to do lots of things in the field that you've disregarded," Steve pointed out and Clint smirked, relaxing his body, trying to appear at ease without realizing it.
"You're not SHIELD," Natasha responded for Clint, clearly not needing the clarification the rest wanted. "Not really."
"So if any random, higher ranking SHIELD employee ordered you to go, say," Tony waved his hand around, "jump off the carrier, you'd do it?"
"I would, and I have," Clint agreed, grinning like it was no big deal. "Just another day at the office for the Wildman Barton." He had no idea they knew the specifics of his last mission.
Phil stood abruptly from his seat and Clint straightened to attention sharply, sensing that he had somehow gone too far.
"Agent Barton, I want you to report directly to the medical bay for examination. You will comply with any tests deemed necessary."
"Yes sir," he agree instantly. If it was possible, Phil seemed to harden even more after the easy obedience, but didn't change the order to a suggestion.
"Mr. Stark, I trust that you and Dr. Banner will aid in the discovery of a solution to deprogram Agent Barton." It wasn't a request, but it also wasn't an order. It was an expectation that brooked no room for failure. Clint paled, the shock of the request not something he'd been expecting. Phil stared at him blankly for a moment, and then left the room so swiftly he might have teleported.
Clint let out a suddenly shaky breath, and had no idea what to do about it. He wanted to go after Phil. He dutifully stood and followed his remaining team members to the medical wing.
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Nobody said a single word to Phil as he moved briskly through the hallways. They just moved out of his way. The security guard lounging in the giant entryway that divided the second floor front room (the real entrance hall to SHIELD and not the dummy corporation on the ground floor) from the memorial room tensed when Phil entered.
Phil stopped ten feet from the wall, his eyes tracking the shiny eagle emblems, flitting over the names until he found the one he was looking for. He put six bullets through it, the thick, polished granite behind the shaped piece of metal chipping and puffing dust. It clattered to the ground after the sixth bullet. Phil would have put his entire clip into it otherwise.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the crumpled piece of metal, the look on his face so foreign that the few agents and guards that had scrambled into the room, weapons drawn, didn't know how to interpret it. They didn't relax even when Phil holstered his weapon. He picked up the destroyed eagle, Marcus Warner's name no longer distinguishable due to the holes in its place.
"Do not repair that," he ordered the room at large, making his wishes very clear as he pointed once at the marred granite, bullets lodged inside its cracks. When he marched out of the room, as swiftly as he arrived nobody stood in his way. They also made no attempt to fish the ruined emblem from the trashcan he tossed it in on his way out.
That night the cleaning staff didn't think twice about dumping it in with the rest of the daily garbage, and nobody was called to try and fix the holes in the wall.
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Clint sat through the tests because they were necessary. He sat through the second round because Phil had told him to, and because they were apparently still necessary.
At least two teammates were within shouting distance the entire time.
Of all the ways Clint had thought this would go, had imagined how his 'great reveal' and bid for freedom would progress, he had never really pictured the…awkwardness. He hadn't even contemplated that the people he worked with day in and out, the people he lived with, wouldn't know how to react. He'dimagined the part where they'd be angry on his behalf, probably, and that they'd work tirelessly to help solve his little problem now that they were aware of it, because that is the type of people they are.
He hadn't expected Steve to fall to some kind of macho, stoic silence as he stood guard at every door Clint was carted through, actually glaring at the doctors that were walking around. Like maybe he blamed them for not having noticed Clint's 'condition' over the years. Then he'd get this twisted little guilty look on his face because Clint knew the person he was actually blaming, was himself. Captain America, ladies and gentlemen: willing to take the blame for global warming and kicked puppies worldwide. Clint would tell him to knock it off, but he was keeping his distance and this wasn't something that needed to be shouted to the room.
"Clint," Bruce sighed softly, legs dangling off the gurney Clint was assigned to but refused to use. He wasn't a fucking invalid. Not this time. He looked up from his hard plastic chair into familiar, compassionate brown eyes, and quirked an eyebrow in question. "It would really help us figure this out if you'd tell me everything you remember about the- the procedure," he ended, slightly awkward, because they hadn't figured out what to call Clint's first mind-fucking without sounding insensitive.
"Already told you, Doc," Clint shrugged and looked back down to the tablet he was using, a game of plain, boring Solitaire spread across the screen. Bruce was quiet for a pointed moment and Clint imagined he was resisting a frustrated sigh.
"I'm familiar with research and experiments performed for deeply integrated indoctrination, Clint, I know that you're not telling us everything-"
"You've got everything you need to know," Clint cut him off, focusing intently on his electronic card game. "I'm under orders to comply with medically relevant questions, remember?"
"Clint-"
"No, Doc. Just, no. Some things aren't meant to be shared."
Clint didn't want them to know. Didn't want them to understand that he'd screamed, and begged and cried. That he'd lost control of his body before he'd lost control of his mind, and that he'd woken up like a caged animal, covered in his own filth and tethered to strangers he didn't trust.
He didn't want them to know.
He didn't want Phil to know.
"If you ever decide that you need to share-" Bruce started and Clint couldn't help the coldness that snuck into his sharp bark of laughter. He shook his head and refused to look up at his teammate.
"I appreciate the solidarity, Banner, but don't worry about it, okay? It's done- nothing to do but move forward."
Bruce was smart enough to drop it, at least for the moment. He didn't look happy. Clint didn't have the energy to care.
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"What I don't get," Tony groused, finger trailing along the book spines on the shelves in Phil's office in an attempt to appear apathetic, "is why a psychic never picked up on it. SHIELD has telepaths. You've worked with them directly on two different occasions," he tossed in Clint's direction. Clint blinked slowly from his end of the couch. He wanted to lie down, rest for a moment, but not with Tony in the room. He didn't trust him not to try and draw a dick on his face or something, in an attempt to try and prove to Clint that he wasn't going to treat him any differently now that his real 'status' within SHIELD had been revealed.
Clint really didn't want to have to explain why Stark had a Sharpie impaled through his forearm before dawn had even broken.
"I don't know," he answered. "When I knew I was around them I think I was incapable of even thinking about it, in case they picked up on it."
"Seriously?" Tony stopped pretending to be interested in the books and turned to glare at Clint. Like this was all his fault. Clint very carefully hid his unease at the knowledge that it was his fault. He'd gotten caught in the first place. "When you were around someone who could see into your mind you couldn't even think about it? Why not just make you forget about it all together? Why so specific?" His questions were more heated towards the end, demanding, like maybe the answer would be the missing piece to the puzzle. Like it would miraculously make sense and bring reason.
"Fuck if I know Stark, it's just how it is," Clint refused to close his eyes. He hadn't gotten any sleep in the last forty-two hours and it had begun tugging at his already weary bones ages ago. He ached.
"It makes no sense," the genius insisted and Clint glared at the back of Phil's desktop, hoping Tony would take the hint and shut-up about it already. Clint had spent a lifetime thinking pretty much the same thing; he didn't need the extra weighted words. "What about when you were around someone you didn't know was a psychic?"
"If that ever happened," which Clint was pretty sure it hadn't, "then it's pretty obvious they didn't feel the need to speak up," he carefully kept the urge to snarl from his voice. It would just make Tony louder in defense, and Tony was only trying to understand. To help.
"What kind of asshole wouldn't say anything?" Tony wondered, mostly to himself as he started rifling through Phil's desk drawers. Clint would tell him to stop, but the guy had watched him do the same thing half an hour before so it would appear hypocritical.
"Loki didn't seem to have an issue with keeping it to himself," Clint pointed out dryly, looking at the tiny cactus in the window. He wondered if it was time to water it yet. Tony went back to perusing the book shelf, eyes not seeing what they were looking at. A few minutes later his frustration reached the verbal point once more. "What kind of tech can even do that?" He muttered out loud, just as the door opened and Phil eased into the room. His gaze was on Clint before he'd even finished stepping inside, taking him in with a familiar, practiced glance that instantly put Clint at ease. Then Phil looked at Tony.
"Out," he ordered and Stark raised an inelegant eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
"You have a fascinating collection," he started. "Have your personality Doctors seen this yet? I'm thinking it could give them a much better understanding of what makes you, you." Clearly Tony intended to ignore the order as he gestured at the bookshelf in general, and Phil narrowed his eyes.
"Mr. Stark," he began, his voice cool and smooth and Tony dropped his arm. He recognized the tone, all the Avengers had learned it within the first few weeks of working in the field with Phil in their ears.
"Keep your tie on, Agent, I'm going" he smirked, waving jauntily at Clint on his way out, casual and easy. Like Clint couldn't see the lines of strain at the corner of his eyes or in the press of his lips. The door slid shut and the room dropped into a heavy silence that felt unnatural. He tracked Phil as the man moved to the other side of his desk, before looking over at Clint expectantly.
Clint grinned and pulled the small black binder from where he'd had it stashed in the couch cushions, hidden from Tony. There was a reason he'd gone through Phil's desk after all. He tossed it to Phil, satisfied with his easy movements as he plucked it from the air.
"Wouldn't do to have Tony know you've got a couple special edition Iron Man cards. He's got enough fodder with your Captain America fixation as it is," he grumbled and relaxed when Phil let a soft smile of thanks appear. It was only brief, but it was enough.
"My sanity thanks you," Phil sat in his seat and put his card collection back in its drawer. Then he went to work, like usual, booting up his computer and thumbing through his inbox. Clint sat and waited, patiently, for about thirty seconds.
"Time to debrief, sir?" he asked, because he was well aware that the brief questions in the interrogation room earlier hadn't come close to what Phil needed. After Phil had walked out he wasn't sure what the man needed. Phil looked over at him, seemed to pause and breathe for a long moment. Clint had seen him do this when Stark was being particularly annoying, which, what the hell? Clint hadn't done anything to warrant that.
"Get some rest," Phil suggested, his intonation very clearly not making it an order and the outburst that Clint had been gearing up to evaporated.
"Sir? Standard procedure dictates that a full debrief is necessary-"
"There is nothing standard about this, Barton," Phil cut him off sharply and Clint very carefully kept his face clear of his surprise. Phil never bucked procedure. He must have seen some of Clint's uncertainty anyway, because he sighed and rubbed his forehead. "We do need to debrief," he agreed, all bite gone from his tone, "but you need to sleep more. This has waited ten years, it can wait another few hours."
Clint wasn't sure if Phil was putting this off for him, or because he needed a few more hours to get his own head around the idea that Clint literally belonged to SHIELD. To him. Clint had been trying to see it from other people's perspective for the last few hours, but frankly he was having difficulty focusing at the moment. He was pretty certain that Phil had put everything into perspective back in the interrogation room, when he'd walked out, so right now this suggestion to rest was purely for Clint's benefit. Clint had made a career out of grabbing opportunities with both hands when they came his way, because it was never a certainty that they'd come again.
He stretched out on the couch, bruises and aching muscles from the battle burning in protest but he ignored them with practiced ease. He loved this couch.
He felt Phil's eyes on him for a long time after he shut his own, but in the end it just helped ease him into sleep. He could take this time now, because he knew Phil had his back, like always.
CcCcCcC
When Clint woke up, alert and warm, pressed into the ridiculously comfortable cushions of Phil's couch, Phil was still behind his desk, working steadily. The corner of his eyes were pinched, no doubt from a headache, and he looked drawn. Weary. Clint scanned the room again, just to be sure he hadn't missed some sign of danger at first glance (he hadn't), and then sat up.
"You're on stand down until this can be resolved."
"Stand down?" Clint blinked, confused at the words, not the lack of a softer greeting. "I can do my job, Coulson."
"Until it can be verified that you are no longer a risk to yourself or others in the field-"
"A risk?" Anger bubbled up from what felt like nowhere and Clint pushed to his feet, moving sharply in agitation and he couldn't help clenching his fists as he glared. "I've been stepping out those doors for the last ten years under SHIELD's orders, sir, and I haven't managed to kill myself yet!"
Phil froze, eyes flashing with a new kind of fear that Clint didn't understand right away but knew enough to be wary of. He kept a keen eye on his handler as Phil deliberately stood and moved out from behind the desk.
"Is that something you've actively tried to accomplish, Clint?" he asked, voice forcibly calm, like he was at the apex of a world saving mission and had no room for error. Clint stopped, because…what?
"What? Kill myself?" His laugh was more shattered than he intended. "No, sir. Suicide has never been on the agenda. I might have deserved the servitude shtick, but we both know I'd rather run from my problems than end them permanently."
"You did not deserve this, Clint!" Coulson was suddenly in his face, spitting like an angry lion, eyes smoldering with pent up rage as he planted a hand on Clint's chest and shoved him back until the wall caught him. Clint didn't resist, because it was Phil, but his chest suddenly felt tight. He kept his arms loose by his sides, not needing to twitch for a hidden weapon, not caring about the flaring of the ever-present ache of healing injuries. He took a deep breath, feeling the hand rise and fall with him, and waited.
Phil…Phil looked furious. His face was flushed, his eyes unmoving as he stared darkly at Clint, his body was a tense coil waiting to do anything but strike, because if there was one thing Clint knew it was that Phil wouldn't hurt him. It took nearly a full minute and slow, deep inhalations before the rage tempered in Phil and he willfully pulled his cool agent demeanour back in place.
When he stepped away Clint missed the heat of his hand, the strength in him, but was relieved to have his space.
Phil retreated a few more steps, keeping his gaze steadily on Clint, before breaking the uncommonly tense silence between them.
"You did not deserve this, Clint," he spoke softly and with conviction. Clint heard his words, but hearing and ten years of believing were two different monsters.
"Sure," he agreed smoothly, and quirked his lips in what he hoped alluded to amusement. "Who would? Do you mind if I grab a coffee before the debrief?"
"No coffee," Phil refused, not looking appeased in the slightest. "Medical wants to run a few more tests. You can have it after."
"Yes sir," Clint fell back to formality and stepped away from the door he had been pushed against, opening it in the same move. He didn't bother waiting for a formal dismissal, it wasn't how he did things with Phil; one of the little things that his handler had never insisted on that gave Clint the illusion of control. Feeling Phil's eyes on him now, assessing his every move, he wondered if the man had figured that out as well.
He hoped not. He wanted the right to keep some things to himself.