Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, followed, and read this story. You guys are great! Especially if you stuck around though the long break in getting up a new chapter, because honestly, if you did, you deserve all kinds of good things to happen to you.

A special thanks to finchfiesta for doing such a wonderful job beta-ing for me!

Feel free to leave reviews. I love them as much as Clint loves the movie Blade Runner.

Okay. Things looked, well…not exactly bad. To be honest, it was an improvement to A.I.M.'s hospitality, but Clint wasn't ready to throw confetti and have a party yet.

The Avengers showing up and breaking him out of A.I.M. was a welcome surprise. It saved him the trouble of having to single-handedly fight through dozens of henchmen when he finally escaped, and of course there was the added bonus of knowing the plane waiting for him meant he wouldn't have to walk back to civilization. The downside was that between Tony's helmet, Thor's dialect, and Bruce's…Hulk-ness, the only person who he could easily understand without his hearing aids was Steve.

And yeah, he wouldn't say that he had passed that test of lip-reading and context guessing with flying colors. Tony had definitely said something to him, which wasn't surprising considering Tony Stark never shut up, and Clint had muttered his default response of "I'm fine," hoping it fit with the conversation. Even if his responses weren't perfect, Clint figured he could pass it off as a side effect of a concussion.

Which wouldn't exactly be a lie.

Then the realization that they wanted Tony or Thor to fly Clint back to the Quinjet finally sunk in through Clint's thick skull, and since there was no way in hell he was letting that happen, Clint caved a little. He let slip a few of his injuries, knowing that if he played up being hurt the Avengers would rush to comply. And as much as he hated showing weakness, Clint was thankful for their compassion, because he really didn't feel like passing out today.

On the other hand, it didn't help Clint's guilt that Bruce then felt obligated to attend to Clint's injuries, even while Clint was certain Bruce was exhausted after being the Hulk. Maybe in a perfect world, Clint wouldn't have minded having the doc fuss over him, but putting Bruce through that kind of stress, especially when Bruce wasn't that fond of Clint in the first place, was something Clint wanted to avoid.

All in all, though, Clint was almost proud of himself. The Avengers didn't seem to notice he couldn't hear them, and in the Quinjet, he would find somewhere to sit where he wouldn't have to talk with them. Clint was ready to pat himself on the back for navigating that obstacle, when he had to go and make an idiot of himself and fall asleep.

Sleep deprivation had hit him like a truck, snatching away consciousness the second he sat in the comfy seats of the Quinjet and allowed himself to feel an ounce of security. He dreamed about Jacques Duquesne, the dark, murderous glint of his former mentor's eyes as he chased Clint, Jacques slashing at Clint with his famed sword. His brother Barney stood by watching blankly, Buck Chisholm shooting arrows at his heels, spurning him on even as the Swordsman gained on him.

Clint had tried climbing away from Jacques, but his perch on the platform of the high wire support disappeared beneath him, both of his legs breaking in the fall. He had scrambled back, dragging his legs, but Jacques was in front of him, thrusting his sword into Clint's shoulder and drawing blood.

That was when Clint woke up, his mind too muddled to separate Tony shaking his shoulder from Jacques's sword. Clint reacted, looping his arm around what he thought was Jacques and squeezing, hoping to knock the Swordsman out so Clint could run. Clint was surprised when he discovered it was Tony not Jacques caught in his choke-hold, and he quickly found himself shoving Tony.

He slipped. The Swordsman's name fell from his lips before he clamped down on the impulse to talk, searing pain passing through his body at the action. His legs felt like lead. It was embarrassing how difficult it was to make them cooperate, the muscles going limp several time before Clint could lock his knees and stumble out of the Quinjet with a muttered excuse.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. medics swarmed him, easing him into a wheelchair that Clint was happy to accept. Clint told them the extent of his physical injuries as best as he could, then relaxed his body, letting himself pass out while they fussed over him.

He woke up alone in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s private medical rooms, eyes blinking quickly to adjust to the harsh light. It was amazing how much it looked like the holding cells on the Quinjet, all bare metal walls with a large reinforced window for observation. He was half propped up on the narrow bed, a heart monitor to his left and a small table on his right holding water and his purple
behind-the-ear hearing aids.

He made to reach for his aides when the soft padding of restraints around his wrists made themselves known, both hands tied to the bed frame, although Clint noticed the left arm had been fitted with a brace and was attached looser. He dropped his head on the back of the bed and sighed.

"Are the restraints really necessary?" he asked, directing his scratchy voice toward the ceiling. "They're required in certain situations, but I doubt 'Clint-waking-up-in-medical' has restraints written in the protocol."

The door opened, Deputy Director Maria Hill walked purposefully toward Clint and released his right hand. She stepped back, crossed her arms and watched closely as Clint muttered his thanks and set about releasing his other hand. When he finally had his hearing aids in and adjusted, she said, "The only reason restraints aren't part of your medical protocol, Agent Barton, is because Director Fury refuses to authorize it. The doctors have petitioned him to add it in multiple times."

"You accidentally punch one doctor-"

"Five doctors and three nurses. Dr. Blakesly required stitches."

"Well, Dr. Blakesly's an ass," Clint said, gently propping himself up into a better sitting position. "But I'm guessing you didn't come here to talk about doctors and medical protocols."

"Director Fury wants a debriefing with you to discuss what happened at A.I.M., including the information you obtained," Hill said.

"Tell me something I don't know," Clint replied. "Will he be bringing me a get-well card, too?"

"You were lucky, Agent Barton. The fracture on your arm wasn't a full break; radiographs show it has mostly healed and should be back to normal within a week or two. You've got a couple of broken ribs, some internal bruising, yet on the bright side, most of your lacerations are superficial. A probable concussion, but believe it or not, A.I.M. appears to have taken care not to kill you. If that was everything, you would be back to active field duty in a few months," Hill said.

"Except they don't know how long I'll have the truth serum in me," Clint guessed.

"We have our best doctors and scientist examining samples taken from your blood, but they're dealing with a new compound," Hill said. "We're unsure how long it will take to manufacture a reversing agent as A.I.M. destroyed all their information on the serum, so until we know how it reacts in the body, you won't be allowed any pain medications."

"Great," Clint said sarcastically. "I was worried I'd be too comfortable."

"Director Fury will meet with you after he finishes with representatives from the World Security Council," Hill added smoothly. "They've taken an interest in what happened. In fact, while you were unconscious, their agents came in to check on your progress. They'll be in the lab for the next thirty minutes, then they'll meet you in here, so I'd recommend resting while you can."

She left quickly, the door closing soundlessly behind her. Clint's brow furrowed. His hands shook, fingernails digging into his palms, but he could handle the pain if it gave him the few minutes he needed to think without speaking.

The W.S.C. didn't have an ounce of compassion for anyone, and especially not for someone who killed innocent people and helped Loki try and take over New York City. Who was forced to kill and help Loki while under mind control, Clint thought in a voice that sounded distinctly like Tasha's. She would be proud of him if she knew her attempts at conditioning him to remember he was under mind control, that it wasn't really his fault, were finally working.

Too bad it didn't help with the guilt. It didn't help with the nightmares or the accusing looks he still sometimes got from S.H.I.E.L.D. agents whose friends and family he had kil-

Nope. Don't go there, Barton, you've got more important things to focus on, Clint thought. He shook his head, swinging first one leg then the other over the side of the bed, stopping briefly to catch his breath as the pain intensified. The W.S.C. wanted something. Hill said they were in his room, which meant he could say without a doubt that they had bugged it while he was unconscious.

And telling him to rest up? Clint was about 98% certain Hill didn't believe in relaxing. He would bet his bow that telling him to rest was Hill's subtle command to get his ass up and moving, most likely to the Director's office.

He could make it to Director Fury's office in thirty minutes. Hell, even with his injuries, he could make it there in ten minutes with extra time to look through all of Fury's desk drawers if the fancy struck him.

"I hate waiting. Especially in medical," Clint said, more for the W.S.C.'s sake than for his own. He stood up, one hand wrapping protectively around his ribs as he shuffled toward the bathroom.

Muttering to himself, he changed out of the standard issue hospital gown they had somehow wrangled him into and into the standard issue sweats that he knew they left behind for him to wear.

He didn't hesitate at the door. Flipping up the hood of the sweatshirt, he walked as nonchalantly as he could toward Director Fury's office. Clint thought he did a decent job of not drawing attention to himself, his hands signing a narration of his journey as best as they could in his sweatshirt pouch, twitching agitatedly when the inconspicuous hand-movements weren't enough to appease the serum's need for chatter.

Clint's handprint gave him access to Director Fury's room via the biometric scanner. The lights flipped on the moment he stepped inside, and Clint was quick to close the door behind him, scanning the sparsely furnished room before settling himself in the Director's chair.

Clint contemplated putting his feet on the Director's desk, but he was bold, not suicidal.

"That's a smart decision," a calm, dry voice said.

Clint slouched in the chair, smirking at Phil Coulson as he sat in the seat across from him. "I thought you were in Tahiti, Phil."

"I am. It's a magical place," Phil said. "You should go someday."

"Yeah. Maybe when I'm not plagued by honesty and hallucinations," Clint said. "So what are you here to tell me? Because if you're here to blame me for getting stabbed and killed by Loki before being resurrected, get in line."

"That's not necessary," Phil said with a slight smile. "I'd like to offer you a little perspective. You play dumb, you let people underestimate you, but you're a smart man, Clint. Why is the W.S.C. here?"

"Because it's Taco Tuesday?"

"This is one of the few chances you have to really think, to speak freely instead of spouting off whatever thought comes to your mind first," Phil said. "Utilize the opportunity, don't waste it. Why are they here?"

"Maybe they want the truth serum?" Clint suggested, scratching at the back of his head. "It could be useful in interrogations?"

"You don't really believe that's the reason. They sent agents, not scientists," Phil said. "And they were here before they knew about the serum, so the serum couldn't be their sole purpose in coming. What else are you missing?"

"It's not effective," Clint said. "S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't be interested in a truth serum that someone like me could easily manipulate, and if S.H.I.E.L.D.'s not interested, there's no way in hell the W.S.C. is interested."

"So answer the question, Clint," Phil said. "Why is the World Security Council here?"

"They're investigating S.H.I.E.L.D.," Clint said, sitting up straighter. "The Council has wanted to get inside and snoop around since Director Fury took over, but Director Fury has kept them out of the way, even after Loki and Hydra. They've been waiting for an opportunity, any opportunity to get inside S.H.I.E.L.D., and my disappearance must have been the straw that broke the camel's back."

"Why you?"

"Because I was Loki's henchman," Clint said carefully. "I wasn't there when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. They can fabricate some story that I'm working for the enemy, Fury's blinded by some kind of personal attachment, and they demand access to me for an investigation. They use me to get agents inside of S.H.I.E.L.D., and now that they know about the truth serum, they'll
probably use that to get information too."

"Not bad, Clint," Phil said. "You understand that the Director will be forced to let the W.S.C. interrogate you. They're going to question you about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets, and you need to be prepared to divert the conversation away from that. Lie if necessary. It'll be harder now that you can hear, but the W.S.C. does not need to be involved in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s affairs.

"And one other thing," Phil added. He stood straightening his suit, and leaned closer. "After today, there will be no more hiding that you are deaf. The W.S.C. will find out, and once they know, they will make certain the whole base knows. You better prepare for how you want to handle it."

Clint nodded, leaning back in the chair and swiveling slightly side to side. "I suppose I could try handling it with dignity and grace," Clint said, a fake grin smile on his lips.

"You've never let being deaf be a disability, Clint," Phil said. "Don't let other people make you forget what you are capable of accomplishing."