The next time it happened however was the very unsexy crash of his breakfast tray as he overturned it on the way back from the restroom. The metal tray, utensils, bowl and cup all fell to the floor in a loud, startling cacophony.
For an instant afterward, he saw the outlines of the chair and the tray table like chalk outlines on a blackboard, but brighter and with some shading of shape.
Sound. It had to be the sound waves. Like radar. No, like a bat. Echo-fucking-location.
Then it was dark again. He snapped his fingers, hoping to see it again, but nothing. He groped around in the mess on the floor until he found the spoon and the lowered metal bed rail and tapped them together, creating a nice clear tone. Nothing happened.
He tried again, trying to concentrate and make it happen, but with no idea how to do it.
"Agent Reese?" the confused, appalled voice of Nurse Ramon questioned.
"Go away," he ordered. "And shut the door."
When all was all silent again, he waited patiently and banged the spoon again on the metal railing. He could very nearly feel the sound waves in the air, but there was no vision.
He was tempted to be annoyed, but tamped it down, holding onto the patience he'd had to cultivate in years of waiting for things to happen. This was a new talent, and he needed to figure out how to activate it.
By the time Phil got the report that Agent Reese was going crazy in his room, banging his silverware on his bed, and made it down to the infirmary, Natasha, two orderlies, and Nurse Ramon were there, too.
Phil glanced in through the window and saw John groping on the floor to gather the fallen items of his tray. Heedless of the spilled water and a bit of oatmeal, he gathered everything up on the tray and his expression was set and determined. It seemed like an excellent thing for him to be doing, really, if he'd spilled a tray. Phil was certainly not going to get in the way of John flexing some independence.
"This seems fine," he observed. "Why am I here?"
"Wait, sir. He's done it twice," the nurse said.
Phil noticed he'd missed a cup that had gone rolling away, but after making a sweep for it, John stood up without it. He had the tray in his hands and then dropped it. Everyone but Natasha flinched as it fell, and she, Phil noticed, seemed pleased by what John was doing, not concerned about his behavior.
"What the hell is he doing?" Phil asked, peering inside.
But then something startling happened - John looked toward the door. He didn't just turn his face in the direction of the door as if he heard them there, he looked at the window. Then with a smile on his face, he said, "You can come in, Coulson. I can see you."
That caught Phil flatfooted long enough for Natasha to wriggle past him inside. "You did it again?" she asked eagerly.
He nodded. "It worked."
"What worked?" Phil asked, picking his way across the floor which was now a total mess of breakfast bits, water, and dishware. He wasn't so busy looking at his feet that he missed the way John and Natasha's hands brushed, and since Natasha did nothing accidentally, she must have meant to touch him.
John explained, "Turns out I have some sort of sound-based vision. It's just a flash, during the noise, but it gives me a glowing outline of things, but it's pretty accurate. Almost night-vision in front of me."
Phil listened, amazed. "That's… good." He might have been more amazed if he hadn't seen the Destroyer from another world and Captain America coming back from the dead, but he was getting used to odd things. At least this was an odd thing that was good. "A miracle even."
"Don't know about that. I've only done it three times and it doesn't last -"
"Training," Natasha interrupted. "It's like anything else. You need to train it."
Phil nodded. "We'll have to do some tests."
"Why? He's fine. It's a good thing." Natasha challenged, glaring at him as if she might break his arm for daring to suggest otherwise. Phil made a mental note not to get between her and John. It was interesting to see how protective she was of him, when he couldn't fight for himself.
"Yes, of course. But if something in that weapons store did this, we need to know what it did and how. And make sure it's not doing something else to John." Phil paused, reluctant to mention it, but added, "The other children who grew up in the lab with John developed genetic diseases."
"That eventually killed them," John added softly and his expression darkened with sorrow, bowing his head. Natasha moved nearer to him, her shoulder brushing his. When they stayed touching, Phil smiled inwardly, now sure.
Phil added, "I'm not saying that's going to happen now. And I don't mean to crush your excitement, because getting any vision back at all is amazing, but I think we should all be sure about what's going on."
"That sounds smart," John agreed.
"I'll talk to Doctor Farhan." But because Phil didn't want to leave on that note, he reached out to squeeze John's shoulder. "I still think it's a miracle. Be back soon. Don't get up to anything you don't want me to see," he teased for the sheer joy of seeing them both turn a bit pink. Oh yes, that would teach them for thinking they had secrets.
At the door he glanced back. John was trying to make it back to his bed, and his foot was about to come down on the cup, but Natasha's foot lashed out to kick it away, as she gripped his elbow. "Let me help. There's crap all over the floor."
"Turns out echolocation requires a mess, who knew?" he joked.
She snorted. "I foresee a housekeeper in your future."
Phil left them to it, shaking his head.
John sat on the bed, a kids xylophone across his lap. He knew it had baby animal pictures on it and probably was different colors, but it had eight notes. The problem was striking them - he had to find each metal bar with his fingers, but he couldn't touch it as he tapped it with the small hammer. His aim was not the best, at first.
The door opened and John automatically turned his head that way, though it felt stupid the instant he did it.
"Hey," Barton greeted and deposited himself on the chair with a creak of the faux-leather seat. "Came to see how you're doing. Have you learned to play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' yet?" he teased.
John really wished he could bang out the notes, but that wasn't what he was doing. He shook his head. "I'm trying to find the right tone to make it work again, but it's not any of these." John shrugged, trying not to be discouraged, but the vision hadn't happened again since the breakfast tray and all he had to show for his attempts afterward was an ache in his ribs and head, and an irritable temper. He put the xylophone aside and heard the little mallet start to roll off. John tried to catch it, but missed completely, banging his hand on the wheeled table.
"I've got it," Barton said, and moved the instrument away to the bedstand. "It's like any new skill, it takes practice. But I am sorry you need it at all."
"Yeah."
"But on the bright side," Barton added more lightly, "you don't have to worry about me kicking your ass at the range."
John snorted, unexpectedly amused by the reminder. "I'll have to take a rain check. But I don't know if this new vision'll ever be accurate enough."
Barton's hand closed on his forearm with warm strength. "It'll be what it is. I'm just sorry we didn't do it before. I hope we can, it'll be fun. And if you want my help for training, I'm there."
"Thanks. I'd settle for the on-switch."
"All right. Let's work on that," Barton offered.
With a sniper's patience, Barton tried every combination of sounds he could in the entire room - the spoon against the tray, the pencil on the wall, even breaking a glass on the floor much to nursing's dismay. But the one that actually worked, was the simplest - he struck two wooden pencils together.
The image of Barton's shape formed against the black and before John lost it, he grabbed the little rubber mallet for the xylophone and hurled it. The image faded before he saw it hit, but he knew the trajectory was good and he heard it smack Barton's chest and the exclamation of surprise. "Hey!" Then Barton's voice changed to pleased excitement, "It worked!"
"Try the pencils again. I want to figure this out."
John stood in the training room they made for him. Punching bags hung from the ceiling, and the game was to make it across the room without touching them.
In his hand he held a castanet, to make the loud, sharp sound that seemed to work best. Click.
He got a view of the arrangement and as it faded, he clicked again, as he walked forward. Rounding one bag, he discovered a new obstacle of one on the floor. "Hey!"
Natasha's voice came over the intercom. "I never said they'd all be hanging."
Then Clint's voice joined in, "She made me do it."
"You're both cheaters," John replied. "Now shut up so I can concentrate."
Clint said, "If it's sound, it should be all sound, shouldn't it? Why not voice? Or singing."
"If you start singing, Barton, I'm going to have to make you stop," Natasha threatened, only half-seriously.
John clicked the castanet again and the resulting image was precise enough that he could step over the bag on the floor and even though it faded, he remembered the position of the next well enough to avoid it. He passed two more bags, while his friends were thankfully silent, and then he heard the far door open.
He didn't hear anyone come in - it was Natasha then - so it wasn't a complete surprise when she 'adjusted' the rules of the game again. But it was a surprise when he heard a thump against one of the bags and the next bag moved, swinging toward him. He barely leaned out of the way in time.
"Natasha! Dirty cheater!" he exclaimed.
"But you did it," she replied, smugly. "I knew you could."
"Thank you for your support," he grumbled in her general direction and clicked the castanet again, to reorient himself.
It was a strange sort of feeling that he was beginning to learn how to use consciously - a sort of reaching - but once he had it, it was easier to do it again, like knowing where the switch was finally.
So he reached and saw the glimmering outlines of the bags in his way that wavered with each click, but as he clicked rapidly, the images stabilized into near solidity.
"Good," Natasha coaxed from the side. "You're moving faster, with more assurance. Keep going."
He'd reached the last two bags, which she'd started swinging to play games with him, and he was clicking and trying to time the passage between them, when a vicious pain lanced through his head. It was so abrupt and agonizing, he dropped the castanet and bent to hold his head, gasping. "Oh God."
"Clint, call the doctor!" Natasha called and rushed to John's side, wrapping a strong arm around his back. "John? What is it?"
"Head. Like a spike in my brain. Oh God, this is worse than the concussion…" Consumed by the fire behind his eyes and in his brain, he staggered to his knees, Natasha at his side, keeping him upright and stroking the back of his neck.
tbc...