Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, bookmarked, and read this story. You guys are awesome!

A special thanks to the fantastic 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 color purple.

Clint debated turning on the Director's surveillance equipment when he heard the indistinct rumble of voices heading toward the office and two or three sets of footsteps stalling in front of the door for a quiet conversation. His hand hovered near the 'secret button' he wasn't supposed to know turned on the miniature cameras and microphones stationed near the Director's door, but one look at his "Phil-lucination" had him returning his hand to a safer position.

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," Phil said with a long-suffering sigh.

"Would you prefer 'halluci-Coulson'?" Clint whispered, raising an eyebrow. "I have to call you something more than Phil or it gets confusing. Besides, aren't you going to do a vanishing act?"

"I thought I would stick around for a bit," Phil said. "Figured maybe I could lend you some emotional support."

"So you're going to be my Jiminy Cricket?" Clint asked.

"I would hope that by now you can determine right from wrong without help, Agent Barton," Director Fury said.

The door snapped shut behind Director Fury as he strode into the room, and Clint found himself wondering how the Director managed to enter without Clint noticing. It must have been the concussion.

"When did you start hallucinating Agent Coulson?" Director Fury asked in his not-really-a-question voice.

Definitely the concussion.

"Sir, how did you-," Clint paused, running a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes were drawn to bookshelf, scanning for the camera he was certain had to be sitting there. "Surveillance?"

"Phil Coulson is the only I man I know who could be a hallucination and still manage to give a lecture on morality," Director Fury said, sounding amused.

"Fair point," Clint agreed.

"What do you know, Agent Barton?" Director Fury asked. "And spare the theatrics, we're short on time."

"Well, I know that your bed-side manner is about as good as Hill's," Clint said. "And I'm guessing that the World Security Council wants to use me as an excuse to investigate S.H.I.E.L.D., am I right?"

"Unfortunately."

"And you're going to let them."

"The World Security Council has been trying to gain access to S.H.I.E.L.D. for over a year, waiting for a slip-up ever since we discovered we'd been infiltrated by HYDRA," Director Fury said. "They're making the argument that you're a threat to world security, and if we refuse them access, they will push for a full investigation into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s affairs. If we cooperate, we restrict their access to include only you."

"Which means I'm expected to keep them away from S.H.I.E.L.D. by any means necessary," Clint said. "Awesome. How long are they keeping me in detention for?"

"You may be a pain in the ass, Agent Barton, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is not in the habit of losing good assets," Director Fury said. "We've arranged a plan for you to be released from custody in four days. That's long enough for the Council to perform a thorough risk assessment and interrogation, meaning they can't demand further access to you or the base."

"And how much access are you giving them to my records and files?" Clint asked.

"They've demanded your full history, personal files, mission reports, and the right to conduct any exams or interrogations they see fit. As all mission reports and details are classified and irrelevant in determining your current risk status, the W.S.C. won't be getting their hands on them," Director Fury stated. "The same goes for personal files, but in the spirit of compromise, we are forced to allow them to perform a complete physical, psych eval, and interrogation of you, all using W.S.C. approved personnel. Of course, all of this is on the condition you are willing to comply."

"Sure," Cint said. He shrugged, one hand rubbing casually over the back of his head as he asked, "When will the W.S.C. start their investigation?"

"As soon as possible."

"Great," Clint said unenthusiastically. He stretched, aborting the action halfway through when his sides cramped and spasmed. He muttered a soft "ow" and pressed his arms against the worst of it. "Any chance we can skip the physical and do everything else while I'm resting on one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s finest medical bed?"

"I sincerely doubt it, Agent Barton," Director Fury said. "Although I've been told the detention cell chairs are as comfortable as the beds."

"I think I told him that," Phil added with a small smile. "Between you and Natasha, I've spent more than enough time on both."

Clint's expression lightened for a moment then turned serious. "What about me being-?". He couldn't say the word, instead tapping his index finger near his ear, arching it a small way, and then tapping it again near his mouth.

"They want a complete physical with W.S.C. sanctioned doctors," Directory Fury said. "If there were anything S.H.I.E.L.D. could do, we would."

"I figured," Clint said. He shrugged, the fingers of his right hand digging into ribs.

"Do you have any hiding spots you can reach without being seen?" Director Fury asked. He moved toward Clint around the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out an almost full box of energy bars and an unopened water bottle. "Preferably one that could still be found if agents looked hard enough?"

"I can think of a couple," Clint said, confusion creeping into his voice.

"Get to one of them and wait to be found," Director Fury said. He pushed the box into Clint's hands and dropped the water bottle on the desk. "Rest if you can. With all luck, we can keep the Council away from you until tomorrow."

"I take it back, Director," Clint said, pocketing the water bottle and rising slowly to his feet, treats in hand, "Your bedside manner is way better than Hill's."

Clint swore he heard Director Fury chuckle, a half-fond and half-exasperated smile on his face as the Director moved toward the door. He stopped long enough to say, "It's good to have you back, Agent Barton," before he and his long, majestic black coat swished out the door.

Clint was surprised they didn't find him sooner. The alcove hidden in the upper walkways of the Quinjet hanger was rarely used, but there were stairs that made them easily accessible. And while he was careful in making sure nobody saw him climb up the stairs, he made sure somebody had seen him in the nearby area earlier.

Trekking up the stairs to the alcove was perhaps the most difficult part of everything. By the time Clint reached the landing and shuffled his way into the little nook, sweat was beading on his forehead, his breath was more labored than it should have been, and his heart was pounding. Clint wouldn't say he collapsed, but there was nothing graceful about the way he sprawled out on the floor, muttering tiredly, and waited for his heart rate to return to normal.

He could hardly keep his eyes open long enough to eat a few energy bars and drink half the water, cushioning his head on his arms once he had set the food aside and quickly drifting off to sleep.

He slept well initially, catching maybe four hours before the nightmares caught up. After that, Clint had a hard time staying asleep. He would doze for a short while, shifting restlessly, and when he woke he would stretch and search for something to do in the small room. He often ended up talking to himself or one of the hallucinations, but a few times, he would poke his head outside the doorway curiously and see if anyone was looking for him.

After about the fifth round of napping and his sixth energy bar, Clint started to consider relocating to a more visible location. Maybe the cafeteria where he could get a hot cup of coffee and something more substantial than peanut butter energy bars. He had no idea how long he had been in the room, feeling sore and stiff where he was stretched out on the floor. Clint had the hood of the sweatshirt pulled over his head, staring at the cotton lining as he lazily half signed, half mumbled about all the foods he wanted to eat.

And coffee. Clint estimated he had spent an hour talking about coffee, and the second he had access to a machine, he was going to make a full pot and walk away with the container.

Scratch that, Clint decided, he hadn't had coffee in over a month, he was going to take the whole machine.

"Check over there," a voice said, the clank of boots on metal as someone walked toward his hiding spot.

Clint groaned, sitting up and scooting backward so his back rested against the wall. He propped his arms up on his legs, waited until the S.H.I.E.L.D. recruit came into sight and said with a grin, "I'm guessing you came looking for me?"

Clint took joy in the way the recruit jumped, one hand flying toward their holster before they realized it was Clint and radioed to the others.

For Clint, time passed quickly after they found him. The recruits shepherded him to a small debriefing room, waiting until he took a seat, before leaving and locking the door behind him. Minutes later, two agents from the World Security Council sauntered into the room. The man was tall with a defined jaw and neatly spiked hair, dressed in a black suit. The woman was an average height, hair pulled back into a pristine bun, and sharp bright green eyes that moved impatiently around the room. She was dressed in much the same way, but there was a subtle awkwardness about it that suggested she didn't normally dress so formally. A field agent then.

"Agent Barton," the man said, extending his hand to shake Clint's, "it's a pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Agent Denai, and this is my partner Agent Johnson. We're here with the World Security Council."

"I heard you were looking for me," Clint said.

"It would have been a lot easier if you had stayed in medical like you should have," Agent Johnson said rather grumpily.

"Sorry, I'm not a huge fan of hospitals," Clint said, faking sincerity. "You spend as much time as I have in those beds and you would go a little stir crazy too."

"I expect it's difficult staying confined to one location after being imprisoned so long," Agent Denai said.

Clint recognized his attempt of empathy as a way to seem more approachable, an attempt to mark himself as a potential ally. He shrugged noncommittally, hands pinching his legs to redivert the pain. So if Agent Denai was the good cop, that meant Agent Johnson-

"We are here, Agent Barton, because the W.S.C. is concerned you may be a threat to national security," Agent Johnson said. "Considering your recent history with the demi-god Loki and your lack of presence when Hydra was exposed from S.H.I.E.L.D., I'm sure you can understand why. We would like to run a complete set of physical and psychological tests to determine your threat status to the intelligence community."

"That doesn't sound like a question," Clint said.

"No," Agent Johnson said. "At this point, you are in our custody until the Council has made a decision."

"We can't force you to comply, however, your cooperation will not only speed up the process, it will make it easier for everyone involved," Agent Denai added.

"Not to mention, the World Security Council can make your time at S.H.I.E.L.D. very difficult if you obstruct our investigation," Agent Johnson said.

"I've been told I'm naturally averse to authority and generally a pain in the ass," Clint said, "but it's not for a lack of trying to cooperate. I'll do what I can to help."

"Thank you, Agent Barton," Agent Denai said. He sat down in the seat across from Clint, hands crossed in front of him. "I know you've already seen a doctor, but the World Security Council is nothing if not thorough. We'd like you to see one of our doctors as well as one of our psychiatrists so we can get an accurate reading on your mental and physical well-being. Once that's done, we plan to discuss your time recent events and your time at S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Sounds fair enough," Clint said. He gave an exaggerated yawn, heavily dropped his hands on the table, and slumped forward. "Any chance we can start all the fun question, answer things later today? I'm exhausted."

"I would have thought you'd slept while you were hiding," Agent Johnson said judgmentally.

"I did," Clint replied, ignoring her tone. He smiled. "I haven't had good sleep in over a month, though. Can't blame a guy for wanting to spend time in his own bed."

"The Council is on a very strict schedule, Agent Barton," Agent Johnson said. She crossed her arms over her chest. "We've wasted enough time as it is."

"What Agent Johnson means to say is that the Council would like to take care of this immediately so we can all continue on with our business. S.H.I.E.L.D. will be given some access to you to provide medical care, but you will operate on our schedule," Agent Denai said, giving his partner a stern look. "Furthermore, we will, unfortunately, require you to remain in one of the holding cells until we get this sorted out. However, in the spirit of cooperation, if there are any accommodations we can get you for between sessions, we are happy to provide them."

"There is one thing," Clint said. He pulled down the hood of his sweatshirt, exposing his hearing aids. "In the 'spirit of cooperation', is there any chance I can skip the hearing exam and get food instead? Considering I'm deaf, I think it'll be a waste of all our time."

You know that feeling when you read a story, and you keep waiting for a part to happen, but it seems like you're waiting foreveeeeer? I do...which is why I promise Clint and the Avengers will be back together in the next chapter. Spoilers, but we all know it has to happen.