Clint had been, to all appearances, calm when he first got back to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. When he had talked to Fury about staying there to "take a break from the media circus and refocus," Fury agreed immediately. Maybe Fury already knew the truth, maybe they all did.
Clint was so sure he was hiding it all from them as he nonchalantly approached the front desk to have a new access card made and find out where his room was to be located. He even joked with the photographer before getting his picture taken, although it did seem that all his jokes were falling flat. Then he saw photo on his access card. Gone was his piercing stare replaced by hollow, haunted eyes. Was that how everyone saw him? Hollow, haunted, a shadow of the man he was just a short time ago. He immediately dismissed the thought; they probably just thought he was tired. He was always good at masking his feelings why should that stop now.
But now with each step toward his room, his new sanctuary, the exterior facade began to crumble. Hollow brick by brick falling apart under the pressure of trying to keep up the rouse that everything was fine, the battle was over and the good guys won; accept the accolades and then back to the real world until it's time to be called again into service. By the time he reached the hallway of his quarters he was almost running at full tilt. His hands so shaky it took several tries to get the access card to work and then only after testing the lock on the door several times did he allow his legs to finally give way and his body to drop to the floor.
Exhaustion kicked in and he fell asleep right there. But it was a restless sleep lasting less than an hour, but long enough for the nightmares to start again. He woke with a scream frantically scrambling for his bow and the quiver of arrows, only to succeed in kicking the bow to one end of the room, scattering the arrows to the other.
Arrows and bow collected, he slides back down on the floor resting his back against the door. He kicks the duffle he had brought away from him with disgust. After all he had been through had he become this fucking fragile? No, he was just tired, just needed to focus, to think, and slowly put his mind back together. He laid his bow to one side of him, the quiver to other, stretched his legs out, dropped his hands in lap, found a spot on the wall, an imperfection in the plaster, and just stared.
Clint is startled out of his meditation, not sleep because his eyes never closed, by a knock on the door. "Phil?" he thought. It did sound very much like Phil's polite but insistent knock, but then he remembered Agent Coulson wouldn't be knocking on anyone's door ever again. He blamed himself for that as he was sure the rest of the team still did. Then who was this new minion and why were they disturbing him? It was, he looked up at the digital clock beside the bed, 2am for Christ sake. Or was it 2pm he could never remember if the dot beside the number it meant a.m. or p.m. Didn't matter, he wanted to be left alone. The knocking continued. From the clock he could see it had been going on for 15 minutes. It was giving him a headache and one more headache he didn't need.
"Go the fuck away," he growled. "Tell Fury I said I want to be left alone. When I'm ready to be part of society again, I'll let him know." He got up to accentuate his point by kicking the door but instead had to quickly hobble to the bed because his deadened legs could barely hold him up. Just how long had he zoned out?
Once feeling returned to his legs, Clint gathered up his quiver and bow and maneuvered himself into a better position on the bed, sitting up so that he wouldn't be tempted to fall asleep. A couple minutes later the knocking outside ceased. "I guess they finally got a fucking clue," he thought. He began his vigil again, this time using the peep hole in the door as his focus. Not that he could see a thing through it really at this distance, but it comforted him that he could lie to himself and believe he could, if the danger was great enough.
Time passed, the knocking came again, softer this time. Maybe it was… her. He missed nothing outside of these walls but her. But how could he even believe he had the right to see her right now, to look her in the eye knowing how horribly he failed her. Yes, she had brought him back but she shouldn't have had to do it in the first place.
"Whatever we could've had is all pissed away now," he thought. "How could she begin to trust me now after this? She must think of me as some weak-minded fuck. Even Banner has a better control on the beast inside of him than I do of my own thoughts. He… he knew I was weak, that's why he targeted me. I made her think I was so strong, when all the while I was nothing."
He continued to stare at the peep hole while the knocking continued. He's eyes began to water from all the intense staring and focus, no other reason.
Out of the corner of his eye could tell the walls were starting to close in. Not much, maybe only an inch or so, but the room was definitely smaller. No one else would've been able to see it but he was Hawkeye, he could spot a target hundreds of yards away. Certainly he could tell if the walls in a room he had been in for hours, days, weeks, he wasn't sure anymore, had moved.
Maybe he was just going crazy. Being alone in a windowless room has got to do that to you eventually, make you see whatever it wants you too. That bastard had made him see whatever he wanted him too as well, and he followed along like some love-sick cheerleader.
Loki. He had only begun to be less apprehensive about even thinking his name. He still couldn't bring himself to consciously say it aloud, as if it would invoke him into this very space, letting him once again rob him of his will, his mind.
He drifted off to sleep. He who could stay up for days on a mission couldn't seem to keep sleep at bay, and with sleep came the nightmares, and the screams. He needed something to keep him awake, coffee, pills, anything, but those were outside the room, outside these four walls that were protection. Whether they were protecting him or protecting others he wasn't sure anymore.
It had been three days since he retreated into own world. Had it really been three days? He wasn't sure; time seemed to be getting away from him. He measured time by the knocking on the door, assuming Fury would only spare one minion a day with the meaningless task. He didn't dare to turn on his phone to see what day it was, didn't want to contend with the deluge of voice mails and texts he was sure to have had. He let out a single mirthless chuckle. No one would be trying to contact him. If there wasn't a mission, no one needed Hawkeye. Although he wasn't totally sure they would even contact if there was a mission. Sure they were all pals after defeating Loki and that alien horde from hell but he could see they were still giving him the sidelong glance when they thought he wasn't looking. They were all still waiting for the glowing eyes to reappear or just any indication that once again he was someone's meat puppet.
Fucking Loki. Clint had long ago figured him and God was never going to be friends. But then this minor god, demon, alien piece-of-shit goes and scrambles his brains, takes away his will, makes so he can't even trust himself. And he's on the inside screaming for someone to save him and where was God then? Not saving his ass that's for sure.
He notched an arrow into his bow, pulling it back, aiming at the door. He figured that if he let it go it would probably go straight through the head of the annoying little minion tapping a slow death march on his door. But he couldn't do that, Fury would have the door forcibly removed and have his ass hauled out and thrown into a cell faster than you could say one-eyed jackass. He chuckled quietly to himself at the thought, and then regained his focus and the tension on the bow. Something felt good about this, it was such a part of him he didn't have to think and thinking was the last thing he wanted to do right now. So he held the position until his arms began to ache and then burn and finally when a tremor started in his fingers he relaxed his position and placed the bow in his lap just in case he changed his mind.
A change in the knocking brought his attention back to the door. It wasn't a knocking so much anymore as it was a pounding, erratic pounding at that. Had the little minion finally lost their mind? Then there was a series of loud thuds, as if someone was throwing their whole body against the door. "Fury must be pissed," he thought. The pounding stopped and Clint quietly crossed the room to look through the peep hole to see what he was up against in case they were considering more drastic measures. At first he couldn't see anything, just the hallway but he looked down slightly and then he saw it, her hair; it had to be hers, the color, no one had a color quite so beautiful.
He leaned his head against the door. "It can't be her," he thought. "Why would she come here for me?"
He looked through the peep hole again and the hair was gone. A panic rose up within him. He felt like he was drowning and the only lifeline, he hoped, was outside that door.
It took all his concentration to still his shaking hands enough to unlock the door. He had only opened the door a small crack when he caught his first complete glimpse of her. Even though it was just the back of her, it was enough to stop him in his tracks.
Her. He still believed he didn't have the right to even think her name after all he had done under Loki's influence, all her secrets, all her trust in him, betrayed.
He just stared at her, her shoulders slumped, her head down. His heart ached to just reach, to step out of his self-imposed prison, and hold her, comfort her. But he was the cause of her sorrow, how could he even begin to be the solution.
Then he heard it and his heart broke. One word, one word from her precious lips, one word so underserving to be uttered, one word, tinged with hurt and sorrow, one word, his name, Clint.
He tried to go to her but his brain and body couldn't coordinate and he was rooted to the spot. His brain was in a loop of "I'm sorrys" and hands that wanted to reach out only uselessly opened and closed.
He tried to reach her with his voice but his throat was dry, his tongue thick in his mouth. The first two words, I'm sorry, were just a movement of his lips. The next word, propelled through hurt, guilt, and loneliness, was but a whisper but carried with it the one spark of hope he had left that he could ever be put back together again.
One word, carried beyond the walls of his prison, one word, he didn't have the right to say, one word, her name, Natasha.