In S.H.I.E.L.D people got on with things.
Clint, as always, did as he was told. He followed orders, shot straight, and was generally a quiet, polite and helpful assassin. In S.H.I.E.L.D it didn't do to be traumatised. Sure, they had counsellors and probably armies of psychotherapists, but Clint did not need his head examining- he assured himself. Yeah the bad dreams were probably a bit dodgy, but he also was pretty sure that they weren't only dreams.
Some of it was real.
That- he couldn't explain to anyone, and didn't want to try.
Real?
Firstly, Clint saw Loki in mirrors.
It was actually any reflective surface, shiny kitchen pans, distorted reflections on the back of his bathroom taps, faint outlines and sun hidden reflections in the glass of shop windows. Mostly, though, it was in the mirrors at home. Bathroom, while shaving. Hall mirror, while fiddling with your hair. The mirrors in cars- that was the worst one. He had to explain to Natasha why he swerved so suddenly: he'd seen the back of a tall man walking along the sidewalk, dark hair swept behind his shoulders which were hunched a little. A powerful stride in a long coat. A very familiar silhouette.
Clint never saw Loki properly. It was just the glint of an eye behind him at home in the bathroom, and when he spun around there was nothing and nobody there. It was a silhouette across the street when he glanced at a shop display. It was the way the shadows melded themselves into a two horned helmet and shone back at him from the glass face of his watch.
It was driving him insane.
God of Mischief? God of Insanity and Chaos.
Of course it brought back the memories of his time when Loki had possessed him. (Possessed- such an awful word. Controlled. Manipulated. Not possessed.) Yet, that Clint was almost okay with. He'd killed many people, some of who he knew, but he killed people all the time. It was sad, it was troubling, but it wasn't completely crazy. He could deal with it.
The sensation of being controlled by Loki he couldn't deal with. It wasn't even as if he couldn't control his limbs. He was still Clint Barton. He had his own thoughts, voice, mannerisms. But he knew what Loki wanted and did what Loki wanted. He didn't even feel trapped. He felt accomplished and useful and powerful.
That was an awful feeling.
Awful.
And then there were the other ways Loki haunted him: his smell. That was what assured Clint that he wasn't inventing this, that the freaking God of who-knows-what was haunting him. Maybe not dangerously- they had Thor's word he was locked up- but all the same.
Leather and sour iron.
A spicy smell of someone else, like bitter Cinnamon.
Something clean like unperfumed soap.
It drifted around the flat, sometimes with the corner-of-your-eye Lokis, sometimes just on its own. It was a strange thing to notice but so much more powerful than a sound or an imagine. It threw Clint right back into Loki, as though he could feel the heavy arm around his shoulders, the kiss of his black hair on Clint's cheek as Loki leant over him from behind with a smile that was all teeth.
Too close.
It brought Loki too close. Far too close. Close in memory, and all those things Loki made Clint do, and how Clint did them. Happily, contentedly. Naturally. And Loki's smile.
"So Barton. Tell me about your Ms. Romanoff." Such a cool, pleasant voice like honey, like clear cold water.
So Clint had told Loki everything. Of course he had. You don't resist a voice like that.
It worried him now that Natasha had never told him what Loki had said to her. He knew he said something nasty- no surprise he guessed- but the others had never actually said what. He hoped it didn't trouble Natasha. Damn the girl had bigger balls of steel than the rest of the team, but Clint couldn't help but wonder. He knew how scared she was of loosing her mind.
The only problem was he'd told Loki that. He'd told Loki Natasha's paranoia about brain-washing, that fear of anything that couldn't think and couldn't reason. She had her own reasons for it, and as fears go it was pretty reasonable. But then Natasha had Bruce Banner's alter ego to contend with and Clint himself. And he was her- she'd punch him for this- best friend. Teammate. Partner.
Loki really knew which buttons to press.
But why was he doing this, still?
Even Director Fury had asked about Clint's tired eyes: "Caught something," he lied with a shrug. Though maybe he did have something, something pale and drawn, green eyed and laughing haunting his flat for- fun?
That ghost of a smile.