Thank you, everybody.
Clint suddenly stopped and held up a hand. "Movement." He gestured to one side. "Go there."
Coulson didn't reply before obeying. Sliding around a piece of machinery, Coulson carefully glanced around, hoping that Clint's first time as a leader of a group – even a group of two – wouldn't end in disaster.
Just in time to see men coming out from the opposite side of the room. Clint cursed as he fired an arrow and both he and Coulson stopped short when it went through the man Clint had aimed at. "Shit," Clint swore. "Coulson, go for the right!"
"Make for the exit!" Coulson yelled back as he started firing. "I'll meet you there!" There was a clear path between him and the door…
"Go!" Clint hollered as he started swinging with his bow. "I'm right behind yo-" his voice cut off and Coulson could hear a grunt. "Fuckers."
Clint glanced out of the corner of his eye at where he could see Coulson hovering in the shadows. "Order! Go!" Clint grabbed an arrow from his quiver and stabbed a man in the stomach with it. Letting go of the shaft, he grabbed his knife and started aiming for eyes. He saw Coulson start moving – finally – and decided that the other man would be able to get out on his own. He hissed when a liquid was sprayed in his face and his vision started to blur. Sudden pain in his back had his muscles locking up. Taser, Clint identified, and as his vision went black he hoped that Coulson had made it out in one piece.
Coulson sprinted through the door and to the waiting truck. Spinning around, he stared at the door. He felt his stomach drop when a familiar shape didn't follow. Coulson quickly shot at the two men he did see before he climbed into the passenger side and nodded in satisfaction when they both dropped. Hit or not, he didn't care. "Go," he tersely ordered. "Not too far."
"Sir?" The man sitting behind the wheel looked confused. "My orders were clear. Take whoever came out of that building to a waiting jet?"
"There were two of us in there!" Coulson snapped. "Barton-" he suddenly stopped. Clint was good, but he wasn't that good. Ten or more against one, no matter how well that one was trained, rarely ended well, and Coulson's only option was to get himself and one other captured or leave, get a group together, and track Clint down. "No. To the jet." He swallowed convulsively and hoped that Clint would forgive him for leaving like this.
Clint woke up to find that he'd been tied up to a wall. Trying to move his fingers didn't work, and Clint tried to shove his panic back. "Fuck," he hissed. He felt his panic crash over him when he saw the things carefully lined up on tables against the opposite wall. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes. "Calm down, Barton," he muttered to himself. "Boss'll find you. A.I.M. Advanced Idea Mechanics. They're about technology."
"It's the science, Agent…Barton, is it?" A voice had Clint trying to turn his head, only to find that the feeling of pressure against his neck wasn't his vest, but a collar holding his neck to the wall. "Of which technology is part. We have some…other things that we're working on." A short man appeared in front of Clint. "And we always need volunteers. Shame that your friend didn't stick around to join you."
"Fucker," Clint spat, tugging at his restraints. He hid his relief at Coulson's escape. "When I get out-"
"When you get out," the man said as he gestured, "I don't think you'll be wanting to fight. No, we want to make people happy."
"Send them to Disney World." Clint tensed up. "Save you some money and effort."
"But then we wouldn't be able to ask you our questions! Since you should know all about what parts of SHIELD interests us." The man stepped back. "So, Agent Barton, take some time to think things through."
"When I get loose," Clint swore as a needle approached his arm, "I'm going to kill you. All of you." He swore at the burning feeling. "Slowly."
Everything became fuzzy after that. Clint felt one arm become free and tried to swing, but found that he couldn't move anything, either. He was aware of being put on a stretcher and tried to fight when they cut off his shirt. A voice chattered at him, and from the tone Clint could only think that he was being told to stop trying, which made him try even harder. Another sharp prick in his arm and everything went dark.
Clint woke up to find himself curled up in a ball. Carefully assessing what he could without moving – beyond the shivering that he wasn't able to control – he decided that he really wasn't having fun. He hurt, it was cold, and he wasn't quite sure why he was missing most of his clothing. He tried flexing his fingers and bit back a curse when he couldn't tell if they were moving or not. With a low groan, he closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he was home.
Coulson threw himself out of the plane as soon as it landed and grabbed at the first phone he came across. "Need to get an extraction team pulled together and some eyes looking out for Barton." He sagged against the wall when he felt his pager go off. "Let me know." He sighed at the number before dialing a second time. "Coulson."
"My office. Now."
Coulson didn't wait but hung up and moved as quickly as he could to the command deck. "Sir."
"What happened?" Fury gestured at a chair. "This was supposed to have been a simple mission. In, get some data, out again."
"We were on our way out and were caught. There were at least ten of them." Coulson slumped down. "Clint was in charge of this one, I was just along for the ride and because both of us wanted to see how he'd do in charge. He spotted them first, told me where to go and to get out. They focused on him; why, I don't know. I was firing at them, too, but maybe it was because my back was to the wall and his wasn't. But he ordered me to go."
"And you went." Fury slowly nodded. "Good. I'm glad that only one of you was caught, instead of both of you. Did you get the data?"
"Did-" Coulson bit back everything else that he wanted to say. He didn't know if Clint was even alive, and all that Fury wanted to know was if they'd been successful.
"Agent Coulson!" Fury's voice cracked like a whip and Coulson jumped. "Do not feel guilty, Barton was doing his job. Now do yours!"
Coulson slowly reached into his pocket and removed two floppy disks. Tossing them onto Fury's desk as he stood up, he nodded. "Part of it. Barton had the rest. Excuse me, Director, but I have things to do."
"Sit your damn ass down, Agent Coulson." Fury leaned forward. "And listen to me. Barton's a survivor, like a damn cockroach. Nothing you can do will find him any faster. Now, I want your report on the Georgia situation. Red Room?"
"I…I…yes." Coulson stammered. "Red Room. Black Widow, it looks like; she's been seen hovering around a few places. I put Barton on that and he's saying that she's getting something in place. He's not saying anything about when she's going to pull the trigger or even if she is, but he does think that it's worth keeping an eye on."
Clint bided his time. They fed him, he thought it was twice a day, and if it wasn't exactly what he would call food, not after two years with SHIELD, he'd had worse in his lifetime and he reminded himself that something was better than nothing.
He also observed everything that he could. Which, he admitted to himself, wasn't much, if only because whatever drugs they had running through his system made everything fuzzy and slightly tinged with pink. They also made him feel robotic. He was ordered to eat – he ate. He was ordered to move to the back wall of his cell – he moved. He took a grim satisfaction in the fact that he wouldn't answer their questions logically and that he didn't respond to their orders fast enough for them.
"Again, Agent Barton, you were sent to bring information back to SHIELD. What is it?"
"It's a covert agency with a crapload of people," Clint snarked, "But that's not important right now." He hissed as another needle was jabbed into his arm. "Ow."
The man sighed. "We have been over this. You tell me facts, understand?"
Clint smirked. "Facts you ask for, facts I give." He blinked, hard, and tried to shake his head.
"What are you seeing, Agent Barton?" The voice was quietly persuasive and Clint couldn't get away from answering.
"Nothing." Clint felt himself panicking. "Fuckers…made me go blind! Fuckers!" He tried to calm down, tried to get that voice in the back of his head that sounded like Coulson to order him to calm down and say that it was going to be fixed, but he was suddenly aware of somebody screaming and realized that it was his voice he heard. Another needle prick, this time in his thigh, and Clint lost all control over his body.
"Fascinating," he heard a voice say. "Give him some oxygen. I don't want to lose this test subject; he hasn't shown any of the usual reactions. Maybe this formula is the correct one?"
"I don't think so," a second voice said as a mask was loosely dropped onto Clint's face. "He resists. He resists too much; I worry that this formula is not strong enough."
The first voice hummed. "Maybe he simply has that strong of a will. Shame that we did not capture the other one, too. You! Return him, he is of no use to us for now."
Clint tried to move his head but it wouldn't respond. Lights started flashing in his vision and he was able to identify them as either the hall lights between his cell and the…other place, or else they were all in his imagination. Clint tried to close his eyes, but was still aware of the tears dripping down the sides of his face. He just wanted to go home.
Coulson carefully lined his phone and his pager up before reaching for the lights. It had been two days already and there were no signs of Clint. Frustrated, Coulson had finally told everybody to get some sleep and they'd start back up in the morning. The search programs would run on their own. Coulson didn't admit it was also because he needed to get out of there, away from everybody, and spend some time wallowing in his own guilt for having left Clint there alone.
"He ordered you to leave, Phil," he muttered. "He was in charge, he knew the dangers going in. You would have done the same if your positions were reversed." He rolled over uncomfortably and punched at his pillow. "He's a survivor." He wasn't reassured and threw himself out of bed to start pacing. Quietly arguing with himself, Coulson kept pacing around his quarters until he stumbled, and then he stretched out in bed and continued his self-recriminations and arguments until he passed out.
A shrill noise had him sitting bolt upright. Phone. "Coulson!" He snapped as he swung his legs over the side of his bed and felt for his slippers with his feet. The news had him softly cursing. "Understood. Call in whoever's in charge of the rescue team."
Coulson was aware of people staring as he ran through the halls, but he didn't care. Not this time. Skidding to a stop in a room that was suddenly much fuller than he'd expected, he tensed his jaw. "What did we find?"
"Sir, we have a hit on the tracker in Hawkeye's bow." A technician pointed at a map. "It's in a completely different country. Now, I don't know if they would've dumped it or what, but we found that and now we're trying to narrow our scans."
"Get the team ready to go." Coulson nodded. "Keep on seeing if you can't find anything else down there, and see if any of our sources have any information." He headed back for the door. "And no comments, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you."
The door didn't close fast enough. "Coulson…was in the Air Force?" "Damn. Pay up, Benny, he doesn't sleep in a suit." "My grandfather wears those slippers!"
Clint stayed limp as he heard the barked order for him to move to the wall. A second voice cursed when he didn't move. He didn't recognize the language, but he recognized the "why me" tone. Thankful that his vision had come back Clint quietly watched as the door opened and two men entered. "Up! Wall!" Was barked again and Clint had to work harder to resist.
He willed them to come closer and quietly prayed that they didn't have a sedative or whatever drug it was that made him lose control over his body. A feral grin suddenly split his face as hands grabbed at his arms without the accompanying jab and burn of a needle. Clint erupted.
He held back his hiss when his bare foot exploded in pain as he slammed it into one of the men's sides and hit something very solid. The level of pain and the sharp crack he heard told him that he'd done damage to himself – but Clint had felt worse and he pushed past it. A hand grabbed at his wrist and he swung his other hand around, only to feel something sharp go through it. He cursed.
"Stop." The click of a handgun's safety being taken off and the pressure on the back of his neck, more than the command, had Clint stopping. "Walk." Clint walked. He tried to hide the fact that he was limping.
By the sudden exclamations – none of which sounded very pleased – Clint knew that he hadn't been completely successful. With a cold smile, he obeyed the commands to lie down on the table and felt his hands being shoved into restraints. His injured hand was firmly grabbed and Clint felt something being wrapped around it. They didn't do anything to his feet outside of restraining them, too. With a cold smirk at the two men who were now being backed up against a wall and berated, Clint settled in for another long day and hoped that Coulson would find him – soon. He didn't know how long he could hide his pain.
Clint shoved himself up against the wall and blinked at the figure standing in the doorway. "Heya, boss. You're late." The medic pushed past Coulson as the sudden realization that he was safe had Clint crumpling to the floor. "I'm fine," he snapped at the medic before looking up at Coulson. "So how'd you find me this time? Kinda missing just about everything."
A bundle of clothing was tossed in his lap. "Same thing that's normally done. We looked. Found your bow, then worked outwards from there. It looks okay, but I'm not the expert in the room; it's on the jet."
"Slow." Clint fumbled as he tried to pull on the sweatshirt, hissing slightly as bruises pulled and his hands refused to work correctly. He shook his head when he wasn't successful. "Gonna need help. Or a blanket." Aware of people standing in the door, he glared up at Coulson. "I'm not a damn circus act anymore. Get them out."
"Right." Coulson glanced at the medic and jerked his head at the door. "As Agent Barton is obviously not about to die, or, even worse, pass out, you can wait outside and give him a chance to calm down." He shrugged off his jacket as the doorway cleared. "You need this more than I do."
"Yeah. Thanks." Clint let Coulson drape the coat over his shoulders. Closing his eyes and carefully pulling his knees up, Clint felt Coulson tug a knit cap over his head. "Thanks."
"Pants?" At Coulson's dry question, Clint just shook his head. "They'll be warmer than just your boxers and my coat."
Clint realized that he was shaking. "Just…reacting." He pressed his face against his knees as he felt the shakes increase. "Go away or stop looming, please." Aware of Coulson sitting down next to him, he tried to make them stop.
"Don't fight it, Clint." Coulson gently put his hand on Clint's shoulder, and when the archer didn't tense up or fight, moved it to the back of his neck. "We've got time; building's almost cleared and we can go whenever you're ready." Coulson ruthlessly shoved his emotions back as he listened to Clint's ragged breathing. There'd be time enough for them later. "Let me see your hand." He frowned when he was able to get a good look at the damage.
"Yeah, knife or something right through it. But lookit my foot," Clint gasped out. "But I didn't say anything, boss. Didn't even scream."
Coulson frowned. "What did they do to your foot?" Eying the appendage in question, he realized that it was bruised and swollen more than he'd originally thought. "How could you even stand up?"
"Wasn't…" Clint paused and rubbed a sleeve against his face before taking a deep breath and forcing the shakes to stop. He could break down later. "Wasn't gonna give them the satisfaction. Little pain wasn't about to kill me."
"No, but…" Coulson trailed off. "But I can't say for sure." Picking up the sweatpants that were still sitting in Clint's lap, he nodded. "Come on, Clint. You may think that you don't need these, but I do. Take it slowly."
"Whatever." Clint hissed slightly as the fabric was pulled over his feet. "Can we go home now?"
"Please. I've got things to do that don't involve holding your hand and playing teddy bear." Coulson returned to his spot next to Clint. "Let me get some folks in here with a litter, so you don't hurt anything even more. No arguing, Clint, that's a direct order," he warned when he saw the archer open his mouth. "Coulson. Need a litter for Barton." Lowering his radio, he shifted slightly and looked firmly at Clint before moving back to lean against the wall. "You may think that you're fine, but I know that people with more medical training than you and I combined will disagree. My definition of fine, and theirs, will always trump your definition of fine, if only because you've got an amazing lack of self-preservation."
"Mother henning nag," Clint grumbled but relaxed against Coulson anyways. He didn't want to admit it, but he liked being taken care of when he was hurt or sick. It was comforting.
"Idiot archer," Coulson retorted with a small quirk of his lips, not moving as he felt more of Clint's body sag against him. "Brought you some pudding. It's in the jet." He was startled to realize just how…fond he'd become of Clint. It was easy for him to say Barton was part of his family, but it was harder for Coulson to accept that the younger man had become his family in truth. Part younger brother, part…son? Clint certainly acted young enough most of the time, and Easter at June's had, for some reason, just cemented some of the feelings. Lightly shaking his head, Coulson stored that thought to work out later; now was the time to focus on making sure that Clint was okay mentally. "Received the oddest phone call a couple days ago."
"Yeah?" Clint closed his eyes and gave into the urge. Resting his head on Coulson's shoulder, he waited for his handler to tense up. "What about?"
"Your history professor. He was wondering where you were, if everything was okay, and if you'd be returning in time for your final." Coulson told himself to stay relaxed, that Clint was always tactile after he was put in situations like this. "I told him that you didn't know, and you'd get in touch as soon as it was possible. You're also going to need to figure out a way to explain how I answered the phone. And I'm sorry for leaving you behind."
"Don't be." Clint didn't move. "Told you to get out. Knew you'd find me. Besides, you're gonna spend the next couple days dealing with me having nightmares. Think that'll be payment enough."
"I…" Coulson trailed off at Clint's simple acceptance.
"Look, Boss," Clint sighed. "I had time to think about it. You'd've told me to get out if our positions had been flipped, yeah? And I probably would've disobeyed and both of us would've been caught. This way people knew I was caught and instead of being written off, you came to get me. Stop beating yourself up."
Coulson was saved from answering when a group of men entered the room. "Ride's here, Clint." He forced himself to flip his mental switch from wanting to beg Clint for some reaction other than forgiveness to being the one in charge. He could tell that Clint was doing similar as the archer's face twitched.
"Thanks. And with school, I really like history, but I'm thinking that I like the idea of International Relations more." Clint carefully shifted onto the litter. "History professor talks about that a lot and it sounds pretty cool. Think he's actually part of that department, too."
"And it might be a good thing to study. If you like history that much, you can always minor in it," Coulson agreed. Seeing Clint yawn, he smirked. "Get some sleep, Barton."
"But, pudding?" Clint closed his eyes. "Anybody takes it, it's your fault."
Clint couldn't fall asleep, but he pretended as he was carried out of the building and onto the jet. He was just too hyper-aware of everything that was going on around him, and he needed to be awake just in case he had to make a run for it, injured feet or no. A.I.M. thugs were a lot smarter than other people he'd encountered, and he wasn't quite sure that everybody in this particular hellhole had been found.
"I know you're not asleep, so sit up, Clint. You're taking up valuable real estate and the medic wants to look at you." Clint opened his eyes to see Coulson crouched down next to him. "Just because you got to spend the past week lazing around, doesn't mean that the rest of us did." He lowered his voice. "Can you hold on a little longer?"
Nodding, Clint forced himself to sit up. "Ow. Yeah. Too many eyes here." He stared at his hand. "It's a good thing that I can still move my fingers, right?"
"Can you feel anything?" Clint didn't expect the medic to shoulder Coulson out of his way and grab Clint's wrist. "Whoa!" He fell backwards as Clint suddenly erupted forward with a snarl. "Chill out, man!"
"Don't. Touch. Me," Clint hissed, cradling his hand to his chest. "Fucker."
"And that, gentlemen, is why you don't just shove trained operatives around, especially those who may have spent nearly a week held hostage," Coulson announced as he knelt next to Clint. "Look at me, Barton. What did you just say about not flipping out?"
Clint kept glaring at the medic. "That was before this shithead went and grabbed at me and made me hurt. Where the hell did you learn to work with people, asshole?"
"Clint." Clint reluctantly turned his head slightly and watched as Coulson carefully reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "He's sorry. I need you to calm back down now, or you're losing the pudding and the beer that I've been keeping stashed away. I got some of that microbrew that you like."
Taking a deep breath, Clint closed his eyes. "Okay. I'm calm, but no guarantees if people don't stop staring. Where's my bow." He felt Coulson shift and a familiar weight was dropped in his lap. Opening his eyes, he held out his injured hand and started carefully running the fingertips of his good hand over his bow. "Don't grab, don't order, don't assume. Talk it out. Coulson's the only one who won't make me go postal and even he pushes it sometimes." Feeling the hand give a warning squeeze, he snorted. "It's true. Remember Spring Break?"
"Very well, unfortunately. But there were extenuating circumstances, remember? And I had warned you that I would push buttons, especially since I knew what to say."
Clint tensed up as the medic started poking at his hand. "Ow." He forced himself to stay still as the medic suddenly jerked at his jacket and jabbed him in the arm with a needle. The lethargy suggested that it was a sedative and Clint had to force his eyes to stay open as he started to sag. "Bastard," he thought he said as the world went dark.
"I'll be sure to have somebody sign the request for your transfer when we get back," Coulson leaned Clint back against the bulkhead. "I would suggest not waiting for it to go through completely but instead just packing up a few things and catching the next flight off the Helicarrier. It doesn't matter where; you're going to want to avoid Barton for a while."
"Huh?" The medic glanced up as a few men started laughing. "Transfer?"
"Simple." Coulson fixed Clint's jacket. "You just drugged Barton, who is known to have some sensitivities to medications. I truly hope that you checked the set list of medications and dosages to use that Medical has created. Barton also happens to be one of those people who you don't do anything to without him knowing what is going on, and he will retaliate. I will not stop him, nor will Fury."
"Is that even legal?" The medic muttered. "Can I file a complaint?"
"For all the good it'll do you," somebody snorted. "Barton makes Fury laugh." That, for some reason, made the medic pale and the rest of the flight was spent in relative silence.
"Well," Doctor James mumbled as Meg quietly bustled around the room, "I think that this isn't enough to spend the night."
"But?" Coulson asked when the doctor didn't continue. "What's wrong?"
"Bruises, a couple broken bones in his foot that I'm going to give him a brace for, no reason for his other foot to be that swollen so we're just going to keep an eye on it, and his hand, which I'm not going to suture. Touch of dehydration, but nothing to worry about. That redness and swelling where you said that they were injecting you with their experiments. Meg will work with you on how to use crutches, and be careful with that hand until it's healed up some more. If you notice anything else, please let me know. However you, Clint, were amazingly lucky."
"Lucky, right." Clint yawned. The sedative had been light enough – or his adrenaline had still been high enough – that he had woken up as the Quinjet was landing. "Bed? Not here?" Right now all he wanted was his own bed and a chance to sleep off the rest of the sedative. He was feeling loopy, which was setting him even more on edge, and he eyed Doctor James. "Soon?"
"Actually, Doctor," Meg said, coming up and gently patting Clint's leg, "I'm going to suggest holding off on trying to teach Clint anything until he's awake and ready to learn. You want to go back to your quarters now, dear?"
"Yeah." Clint nodded. Feeling uncomfortable, he shifted on the bed. "Space please?"
Coulson sighed, moving so that he was in Clint's view. As Clint carefully watched, he gently rested one hand on the archer's shoulder. "Better?"
Clint relaxed. "Kinda. Still. Go now?" He heard Doctor James sigh and the door open as Meg vanished. "Please?"
"Come back tomorrow," the doctor ordered. "And Clint? I'm glad to see that you're back and mostly in one piece. And yes, antibiotics and I'll have Meg give you another shot of painkillers. Plus some ointment for the itching."
"Thanks." Clint looked over as Meg pushed a wheelchair up to the side of the bed. "Gotta?"
Meg nodded. "Yes, you have to. You're too sleepy to use crutches, your feet need a little bit more time before you can put your full weight on them, and you don't want to sleep here. So you get a ride."
Clint shouted as he woke up, finding that he'd made it halfway to the corner before collapsing to the floor. "You're home," he panted as he reached out with his good hand and felt for the closest piece of furniture. "You're safe. Just a dream. They found you." Thankful that his bathroom light was still on he carefully pushed himself to his knees and then slowly crawled back to his bed.
"It's okay," he muttered. Reaching over to turn on the light next to his bed, Clint paused and then hit the switch to turn on the overhead lights. With a glance at the door to make sure that it was locked he picked up the phone and stared at the handset. "They said…" his hand twitched towards the buttons and he set the phone firmly down. "No. You can do this on your own. You gotta learn to deal with the nightmares."
He dug under his pillow for the TV remote as he lay back in bed. "No movies. Last time they just kept you up all night," he reminded himself as he turned on MTV. Trying to relax, he stared at the TV and tried to fall asleep. Closing his eyes, he bit back his moan at the memory of the nightmare that had woken him up. Sitting up, he shook his head. "It's okay. You're okay, it wasn't real. You're in your bed, in your room. MTV is playing crap music because it's…two AM."
With a sigh when an hour passed and he couldn't calm down enough, Clint rolled over and felt under his bed. "There." Rolling back over, he curled around his stuffed bear. "Stupid that a toy makes you feel better." Burying his face into the soft plush, he ignored the fact that his face felt wet and fell asleep.
Coulson banged on Clint's door with a sigh. The archer hadn't made it over to Medical and wasn't answering his phone, so Meg had called Coulson's office. "Clint," he called out. "You don't answer the door, I'm coming in." He shook his head at the lack of a response and unlocked the door. He was only partially surprised to see that all the lights were on and the TV was blaring. "Clint?" He sighed when he saw his target in bed curled up in a ball around his stuffed bear. "Clint." He stayed by the door and watched as Clint woke with a start. "You missed your appointment. Couldn't sleep?"
"Had a nightmare," Clint muttered. "Woke me up, couldn't get back to sleep."
"Why didn't you call me, Clint?" Coulson knelt down by the side of Clint's bed. "You don't have to deal with all this by yourself."
"Yeah I do, if it's two AM." Clint lifted his head up. "I'll deal with it, sir."
"You don't have to deal with it alone, you know. That's why there's an entire Psych department." Coulson rested his arms on the edge of the bed. "Meg's on her way over, by the way. And I really don't mind the odd phone call if you're having issues like this."
"But I do." Clint blinked sleepily at Coulson. "'Cause I gotta be able to do this on my own and pick myself up and go on."
"Clint," Coulson couldn't hold back his sigh. "Nobody here has to do anything on their own. That's really not part of what it means to be part of SHIELD."
"But I'm supposed to work alone?" Clint closed his eyes and ducked his head back down. "I mean, that's what solo means."
"Have you ever done anything truly alone here? Or have you always had a radio and a microphone so that you could talk with people?" Coulson raised one eyebrow. "You're only truly alone when you choose to be."
"What about that undercover mission when you weren't there?" One eye cracked open. "'N you're trying to distract me."
"And it's working," Coulson retorted as there was a knock on the door, followed by Meg entering the room with a pair of crutches and a bag. "Right?"
"Kinda?" Clint slowly raised his head. "Meg?"
"How did you sleep last night, Clint? I was worried when you didn't show up this morning."
"Overslept," Clint muttered. "Nightmare and I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep and nobody set my alarm last night."
"That one is on us, then. Right, Agent Coulson? Sit up, dear. I need to do nursing things and you need to prove to me that you can get around on crutches." Meg leaned the crutches against the wall before lightly kicking at Coulson's foot. "Budge up, I'm not about to stand here all day." Moving to sit at the foot of Clint's bed, she beckoned. "Now, I remember last time. So come here and help me out, okay?" She frowned slightly as Clint's breathing increased and he tensed up. "Agent Coulson, please come down to this end. Thank you. Now sweetie, how do you want to do this?"
"Can't," Clint forced out.
"Okay." Meg kept her voice calm. "One step at a time, then. Will you look at me? Thank you. Now, how about sitting up?"
Coulson sat on the floor at Meg's feet, watching as she carefully talked Clint through letting her take his pulse and look at his hand and feet. Spotting a minute shudder in Clint's shoulders, he slowly stood up. "Clint, I'm going to go get you something to eat, okay?" He nodded at Meg's approving look. "I'll be back in about 20 minutes. What do you want?"
"Whatever," Clint muttered, forehead pressed into his knees. "Orange juice."
Clint waited until the door had clicked shut before lunging forward and grabbing Meg around her waist. Burying his face in her stomach, he let out a small moan. "I don't like it."
"Don't like what, sweetie?" Meg carefully rested one hand on the back of Clint's head. When he didn't react, she started gently rubbing the back of his neck. "Reacting like this?"
"I know I'm home and safe and nothing bad can happen here but then something like last night happens or just now and all I wanna do is find a corner to hide in." Clint's breath hitched. "'N I wish I didn't react like this. I don't like feeling like I gotta run. I don't like crying."
"I don't think anybody does," Meg said dryly. "What happened just now?"
"Cornered."
"Okay. How do you wish you reacted?"
"Coulson." Clint pulled back and sat up, swiping at his eyes. "'Cause he just got angry and yelled at people a lot."
"Clint," Meg gently touched Clint's chin. When he didn't pull away, she lifted his face up. "Reacting like this might actually be better. Because you're not afraid to talk about things to the people that you like and trust, which is healthy, and I've seen you when you're angry. It's a little scary, and having you stalk around making people think that you're going to kill them isn't a good thing. That's not a criticism, dear, just an observation," she hurried to add when Clint's face went still. With a sigh, she nodded. "Well then. Are you feeling up to trying to use crutches?"
Clint shook his head as he clung to Meg again. He felt her gently start to rub his back, and that simple action broke down the last of his resolve. He collapsed against the nurse with a sob.
"Shhh," Meg soothed as Clint cried. "It's okay, sweetie. You're home, with friends. Agent Coulson and me and Doctor James and Doctor Beeks. All of us just want you to feel okay and are here to help you." Shifting on the bed, she pulled Clint into a hug and lightly hummed under her breath. She glanced up when the door opened and Coulson entered with a tray. With a small smile of thanks, she gently tapped Clint's back. "Food is here. Do you want to eat now or in a few minutes?" Clint just shook his head. "Okay." She went back to rubbing his back, Coulson sitting down in Clint's desk chair and leaning forward anxiously. "It's okay. Just let it all out."
If felt like an hour to Coulson before Clint quieted down. A fast glance at his watch, though, showed that it had only been a few minutes. "Clint. Feeling better?" Grabbing at a napkin on the tray, he held it out. "Here."
"Little." Clint winced at how hoarse he sounded. "Tired, though." Straightening up, he shifted away from Meg. "Can I have that juice, please?" With a nod when Coulson held the glass out, he quickly drank it all.
"What can I do for you right now?"
"Go away?" Clint whispered. "I wanna go back to sleep right now. Not hungry, don't want to try and deal with learning how to use those. Come back this afternoon?"
"It is afternoon, Clint." Meg pointed out. "But when should I come back and check on you? I also want you to take your medicine, please."
Clint shook his head. "No."
"Clint," Coulson frowned. "What's wrong?"
Giving Coulson a betrayed look, Clint tried to calm down. "What isn't wrong? I'm hurting, I'm tired, I don't want to take those damn pills because they make me sick and I can't walk without hurting more. I don't want to go back to Medical because they'll make me stay there and I don't want to and I'm starting to feel cornered again and I don't know where any of my knives are! Not to mention," he finished bitterly, "I'm not feeling safe." He gestured. "Why d'you think I turned everything on?"
"Ah." Coulson blinked and stood up. Moving to the foot of the bed, he folded his arms over his chest. "Better?" At Clint's nod, he relaxed. "Your knives are in your desk where I put them last night, I'm sure that you'll sleep through the worst of the side effects of the meds, and if I promise to stay in here, will that help too? I just need to grab a couple things that I'm working on."
"Please?" Clint whispered. "And I know that this is something to work on. You're not a teddy bear."
Coulson shook his head when Meg opened her mouth. "If you want, Clint," he said. "It does get better, and you know that. What was your dream about last night?"
Clint winced. "Losing everybody and being all alone. I had to just watch people die in various painful ways and I couldn't do anything about it. Almost just like the one I had at June's, boss. Not like the last really big one when I kept on dreaming about getting beat on again. Although there was some of that this time too, but it wasn't nearly as bad." He paused, looking thoughtful. "And right now I'm tense when somebody's between me and the door, but I don't like not having an escape route anyways."
"Okay." Coulson glanced at Meg. "He will take his medicine now, or he'll explain why, with reasons that he hasn't used before. Clint, have something to eat, too, and I'll be back. Okay?"
"Okay." Clint nodded. "Thanks, boss." Looking at Meg, he yawned. "Dunno when you should come back. Four hours?"
"I think I can do that," Meg agreed. "How are you feeling?"
"I just said." Clint slowly scooted back to the head of his bed, reaching out and grabbing at a piece of toast. "And it'll get better and then it'll get worse and then it'll get better again. Least, that's what happened last time." He felt a bitter smile emerge. "And unlike the last time, I got some good licks in on them first. Wish that I could've taken 'em out, too."
Meg shivered at the cold look on his face. "But?"
"Somebody else got to them first. And Coulson and the others found me." Clint lifted his injured hand and stared at it. "So that's okay." He sighed, and Meg watched as he suddenly shrank. "I'm telling myself it's okay. That it'll be okay, and that I'll be able to get to school tomorrow. I will be, right?"
"Tomorrow is Saturday. But Monday, yes." Meg held out Clint's pills. "You said that you would take these?"
Clint obediently held out his hand. "Um, would you stick around until Coulson gets back? Just in case?"
"Of course." Meg nodded and watched as he swallowed the pills dry. "Where would you like me to sit?"
Clint settled back into bed. "Wherever. Just, um, thanks?" He yawned and relaxed even more as Meg sat down next to him and picked up his hand. "Makes me feel better. Safe."
Clint leaned heavily on the crutches. "Do I have to?" Readjusting his sore hand, he looked pleadingly at Meg. "I can get around my room just fine without these."
"Yep!" The nurse cheerfully chirped. "Do you really want to crawl all over the place?"
"Ugh," Clint groaned and carefully balanced on the foot that hurt less.
"The amazing Hawkeye, archer extraordinaire, has the ability to shoot a gnat out of thin air backwards while balancing on one foot high in the air, and he can't use a pair of crutches," Coulson observed sardonically from Clint's desk chair. "I think the ringmaster was lying."
"Course he was. They always do. I used stuff the size of golf balls because people could see it better." Clint winced before he'd managed to take a step. "And it isn't because I can't balance, it's because it hurts."
"What hurts?" Meg narrowed her eyes. "Hands, feet, shoulders?"
"Hand, mostly. Foot I can deal with because it's getting better. Shoulders?" Clint looked curious.
"Pressure on your armpits. Sit down and let me take a look at your hand." Meg pointed at Clint's bed. When he obeyed, holding his hand out, she nodded. "Gloves," she announced. "Wear a pair of padded or reinforced gloves. That might help keep pressure off of that knife wound. I'll also show you how to bandage it a bit better."
"Bottom drawer, boss?" Clint nodded as Coulson tossed him a pair of fingerless gloves he used for shooting. "Thanks." Sliding them on, he carefully stood up and froze. Squeezing his eyes shut, he slowly sank back down. "Just…just a sec."
Coulson and Meg watched as he bent over and took a few deep breaths, lightly massaging his wrist. "S'okay," they heard him mutter. "Home. Safe. Coulson 'n Meg are here, nobody else. Okay. Everything's okay. Dammit, what did Beeks say?" He fell silent for a minute and continued rubbing his wrist in small circles. Straightening up, he took a deep breath and nodded. "Sorry."
"Don't worry about it. Are you okay?" Meg asked. "You do have another day to work on all this."
"Yeah." Clint nodded. "But I wanna get this done now. And I'm fine. Gloves just made things a little weird for a minute." He pushed himself to standing and reached for the crutches. "It's better now."
"How did the gloves trigger that?" Coulson raised one eyebrow. "Or was it something else?"
Clint scowled. "They restrained me. I think the knife, or whatever the fuck it was, was an accident. Know my foot was. Lotta yelling after that happened because that was the only time that they didn't stick me with something first and I fought 'em. And I'm almost done with my report. I couldn't sleep last night again. It's under my textbooks. I think."
"You think?" Coulson turned around and started sorting through the papers on Clint's desk. "Ah. Would you like me to take a look?"
"Yeah. So I don't have to talk about the past few days more than I want to." Clint winced slightly as he put his full weight down, but under Meg's guidance he managed to make it across the room and back. With a grin, he looked at the nurse. "Gloves. Gotcha."
"Good!" With a bright smile, Meg opened the door. "Then let's go get lunch."
"Wait, what?" Clint glanced at her, the door, and then down at his clothes. "I-"
"I'm hungry," Meg said. "And I'd like your company, and you haven't left your room since you got back, so it's also time to go show people that you're alive."
"And it will give us a laugh." Coulson stood up. "Five minutes, Clint, because I'm hungry, too. And I refuse to keep on playing waiter."
"How do I carry stuff?" Clint limped over to his wardrobe.
"Balance it on your head. Three minutes." Coulson ushered Meg out the door. "Yell if you fall down on your face again, if only so that we can take pictures."
"Bastard," Clint lightly grumbled. When he found that Coulson had snuck a new pair of boots into his wardrobe, he grinned. "Less of a bastard."
"Two minutes. Congratulations, I'll carry your tray." Coulson nodded as he straightened up.
"You'd carry it anyways because you're still feeling guilty. Thanks for the boots. They help it hurt less, too, better than the brace that Doctor James gave me." Clint carefully navigated down the hall.
"Good," Meg said. "Don't you want to lace them up fully?"
"Why?" Clint glanced down at his feet. "They stay on and they're comfortable like this."
"It can look sloppy sometimes." Coulson paused when he realized that Clint was falling further behind. "Sorry."
"So? Why should I care about looking sloppy? You should see some of the stuff that people at school wear, you know that I can look professional when I have to, and around here? People only care if you're about to screw something up." Clint nodded. "And it looks cool, too."
"Only you, Clint," Coulson sighed. "And what was that earlier? About Beeks?"
"Good coping skills that don't involve doing damage to stuff. Or people," Clint said shortly. "He tried hypnosis, but it didn't work. And I'm really cool with that. But he said I could try this acupressure thing 'cause it worked pretty well for his wife and she got curious and looked some stuff up and sent him a book."
"Does it help?" Meg asked. "I haven't really heard of that."
Clint tried to shrug and gasped when he overbalanced and landed on his broken foot. "Ow. Dammit. And I don't know but it gives me something physical to focus on that doesn't run the risk of hurting anything else." He glanced up when a siren sounded. "Oh, what now?"
Coulson glanced at his watch. "There was a rumor about all-ship drills this week. Keep on going to get lunch; I'll catch up." He paused by a phone on the wall. "Real emergencies tend to involve screaming and things exploding."
"Okay." Clint nodded and then fell. "Dammit!"
