File ID: 72311 - 16 days after the battle of NY
Name: Clinton Francis Barton/Hawkeye
Species: Human
Date of birth: January 07, 1971
Place of birth: United States of America
Citizenship: American
Occupation: Agent of SHIELD
Family status: No comment (note: info from T.S.: single)
Clint Barton waits for me in the corridor when I arrive to my office with my morning coffee. I smile at him and reach my hand out. "Agent Barton? Nice to meet you, I'm Stella Moon. Do you mind if I finish this?" I ask.
Clint smiles at me and shakes my hand confidently. "Of course not, Miss Moon." We take our seats in the room and I set my coffee on the small table between us.
"You are perfectly on time. Do you have a reason to be?"
He shrugs. "I was at the shooting range. I just finished, I thought if we start a bit earlier, I might have time to go back to bed."
"Didn't you have enough sleep last night?"
"Didn't have a good sleep," he corrects. As I remain silent, he adds, "nightmares."
"Are they frequent?"
"Recently yes."
"What are they about?" He doesn't respond, instead he drops his gaze to his intertwined fingers in his lap. "About the battle? Or what happened before?" He sighs.
"The others told me that you don't quite beat around the bush."
"I don't think it's part of my job requirements." He looks at me with a smirk but as he starts speaking, his tone is serious.
"You see, Miss Moon, I probably killed about 10-20 of our men. Nobody tells me the exact number. It's natural if I dream about them, right?" The question started as a statement, but at the end of it Clint seems rather worried. Is his mental state progressing in the right way? Is he coping well?
"Absolutely natural," I comfort him. "Does it bother you that you don't know the precise number?"
"Yes," he replies without hesitation. "They say it was not my fault. That I should not think about it at all. But if it truly wasn't my fault, why don't they treat me equally?"
"How do they treat you?"
"As if I were some fragile kid who can't take the truth."
"Do you feel they are not honest with you?"
"It's not a feeling. They are quite straightforward about hiding the details of that… incident from me."
"If it had happened to someone else, would you give them the exact number?" He thinks for a moment.
"To Banner, no, he probably couldn't take it. Neither to Stark. To Steve, perhaps. I would give it to Thor right away though. He is a god. He doesn't concern himself with human suffering." I wait but he doesn't continue the list. I have to ask directly.
"What about agent Romanoff?" He laughs at the question but without any mirth.
"Agent Romanoff has her own methods to coax information out of people. My intention would not matter in that case."
"Does she do it to you?"
"Do what?" he asks back. He stalls for time.
"Does she manipulate you? Has she ever?" He gives the same mirthless snicker, shaking his head.
"It is her hobby."
I sip my coffee letting him alone with his thoughts for a little while. "How would you describe your relationship with agent Romanoff?"
I can see he expected the question. "We're friends."
"How long have you been working together?"
"Ten years or so."
"I've read you saved her life." He shrugs. "According to your files you always executed your orders perfectly until that point. You received one to eliminate Black Widow and you refused to complete the mission."
"That's correct," he answers simply.
"Why?"
"Because she was just a kid."
"A trained assassin."
"Who never had the chance to choose a different path. I gave it to her." It is tempting to ask him if he did it just out of human kindness or it was the first time right there that Natasha manipulated him, but I refrain from it.
"Do you ever think you made a mistake that time?"
I enraged him if his cold glance is any indication. "Nat saved my life just as many times as I did hers. And she is one I can trust. I wouldn't do it any differently."
"You had a brawl with her a couple of days ago."
He raises his eyebrow. "So?"
"Do you do it often?"
"Often enough." Barton is the more communicative of the two, so it must mean something that I cannot get him talk about the brawl. It intrigues me further, although it is not necessarily my professional curiosity.
"When was the last time you had a good night's sleep?" I switch the topic.
"I don't know, when I was five?" He replies shrugging.
I take a deep breath. "I'm asking because if sleep deprivation causes you problems, you might need medication."
He hisses sharply. "Not a chance."
"Clint-"
"Not. A. Chance," he repeats almost threateningly.
"Your colleagues don't have to know about it if you don't want them to. Every doctor who works here needs to respect the the obligation of confidentiality." He obviously expected me to drop the topic after the tone he used and now he rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably.
"No. You certainly know that we live under constant threat here. If anything should happen it is imperative that I react immediately. We have to be prepared at all times."
"It must be exhausting."
"It is."
I try to turn it around. "But don't you think that you being constantly sleep deprived carries a significant risk as well?"
"I am used to it. To be honest none of us sleep well."
"Alright." I pause. After some moments he nods. He seems relieved. "Can we talk about New York?"
"What do you want to know?"
"I'd like to talk about the way you felt during the battle."
He raises an eyebrow. "This question makes no sense, Miss Moon. No sense at all. This is my job. Should it touch me?"
"Not necessarily. It doesn't?"
"No. It does not." It seems his answers turn less and less honest. He feeds them to me to distract me from having a real discussion with him. I put my pen and notepad on the coffee table.
"Well, that would be it for today then. Thank you for your time."
"So we're done?" he asks as we stand up and shake hands.
"Yes. I'll see you next week."
"Oh." The realisation makes him frown. "I just thought-"
"No, you have to show up every week," I interrupt. "I hope it is not a problem for you?"
"Of course not."