Disclaimer: The Avengers are not mine, but Marvel/Disney's. Any operations medical or military may have been written using research and some artistic license. If there are inaccuracies, no offense is intended.
Four weeks after move-in...
Clint rang the doorbell to the large Greenwich Village mansion, turning quickly to make sure he hadn't been followed. Fury claimed he had pulled the surveillance detail, but the archer wasn't hedging his bets. If Nick knew who he was visiting, he was likely to toss him back in Medical for observation again.
Arrow whined again, leaning into his left leg for comfort. The dog had been fine when they had left the Tower, but as they had approached their destination, the German Shepherd tensed and grew more and more alert and on edge. His hackles rose, and every now and then the canine gave a soft growl.
Not that Clint could blame him. The archer could almost feel the energy buzzing, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The last time this had happened was when he had first been introduced to the Tesseract.
He reached down and patted the dog lightly, ruffling the animal's fur. "Easy, pal. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies too."
Maybe he should have left Arrow at the Tower. Though, if he had, he probably would have faced another round of twenty questions from Natasha or Stark...possibly both. While he had been cleared for light duty recently, Natasha still had a tendency to want to know his complete itinerary, as if he would vanish again without warning.
The door finally opened slightly, revealing an Asian man wearing clothing that was similar to what Clint had seen some of the monastic sects wearing during some of his past trips to China. The man gave Clint and the dog an appraising look. "How may I help you?"
Clint shifted his stance, looking at the other man. "My name is Clint Barton. I've got an appointment with Dr. Strange at noon."
"Identification, please?"
He pulled his driver's license out, showing it to the other man, who nodded and opened the door, ushering him inside.
"Please wait here," the man proclaimed after showing him to a spacious office filled with books, knick-knacks and expensive-looking furniture. "The doctor will be with you shortly."
Clint frowned at the last remark, holding back a nervous twitch. It was easy to forget that the occult specialist and self-proclaimed sorcerer had once been a practicing medical doctor and neurosurgeon, if SHIELD's information was correct. Doctors and hospitals made him nervous ever since he had left the Army.
It didn't take long for his host to arrive, opening the door with his assistant trailing behind. Clint stepped away from the glass-encased tome he had been admiring, turning to face them. Arrow watched them closely, his ears pricked forward and standing in what Clint had learned was a "working mode" for the German Shepherd.
Clint moved to greet the occult specialist, shaking Dr. Strange's outstretched hand.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Barton," the older man greeted, waving a hand towards an empty chair in front of the ornate desk. "Or do you prefer Agent Barton, perhaps? Please, do have a seat."
"Whichever you prefer." Clint sat down in the offered chair, keeping his eye on the door. "I'm not exactly here on business."
The doctor nodded, steepling his hands in front of him as he sat back in his chair. "I see. How can I be of assistance?"
Clint twisted a section of the slack from the heavy leather leash nervously. "I'm, uh, hoping you're not gonna think I'm crazy."
"After you spoke to my assistant over the telephone," Strange commented, nodding towards the Asian man, "I was given the impression that you were here to discuss an arcane matter, not a potential diagnosis for mental illness. I haven't been actively practicing medicine for some time."
The archer looked down at his feet, taking a deep breath before looking back up again. "Most people in my line of work would get tossed in a straightjacket for telling you what I'm about to."
"I can agree with that, usually. However, when I am approached by a government agent who works with an organization known for dealing with, how shall I say, unique matters, I tend to take the request a bit more seriously than fending off the usual crackpot." Dr. Strange looked towards his assistant. "Wong? Would you care to put on a pot of that special blend you brought back from Shanghai?"
"As you wish, Doctor."
Once Wong had left the room, Strange turned back to Clint. "Now, I take it the issue you wish to discuss is sensitive?"
"It is. Sensitive enough that I'll probably be in major shit for even being here, much less talking about it."
Strange smiled. "Your superior, Director Fury, seemed to predict that you would be paying me a visit. He mentioned that should you care to discuss a certain...cubical object..."
Clint gave him a surprised look, which Strange appeared to take as a confirmation, based on his knowing grin.
"...That I should tell you that he has given clearance code four-niner-alpha-dash-twelve-bravo, followed by the passphrase, 'You still owe me for Cairo.'"
Clint snorted in amusement before breathing a sigh of relief. "Yeah, that sounds like him. You've been on our consultant list for a while."
"Director Fury contacted me shortly before we were invaded, asking if I could assist in locating that particular item. Unfortunately, it was well hidden, and even my considerable abilities could not locate it," the sorcerer admitted apologetically. "Had the perpetrator not been so well-versed in stealth magic, I may have been able to help shorten your ordeal. For that, you have my apologies, Agent Barton."
"Don't worry about it, sir - Loki's a god, pretty much," Clint replied with a shrug. "He's slippery."
"Indeed."
Arrow growled slightly, causing Clint to frown. "Will you calm down? Spazzing out isn't helping. I'll buy you a slice of pizza or something when we get done - will that make you happy?"
The dog gave him a hopeful look, yipping at the mention of the magical "p" word.
"Sorry about him," Clint said, giving the other man an apologetic look. "He's an addict."
The sorcerer chuckled softly. "No problem at all, Agent Barton. Animals tend to be sensitive to the supernatural, and this fellow seems rather perceptive. It could almost be expected for him to be on edge."
"I guess. There is kind of a buzz to the place, that's for sure."
The sorcerer gave him a slightly surprised look. "I see. Very well, then - let's start from the beginning."
Clint took a long breath and began recounting the events starting from the time the Tesseract had begun to "misbehave," and finishing up with his recent move to the Tower. He was thankful that he had always had a decent memory, though some of the details felt clearer than they should have while others were still slightly hard to focus on.
Strange stopped him every now and then, not necessarily asking him to elaborate on a missing detail so much as describing a feeling or sensation. Clint was taken aback by some of the odder questions, but answered to the best of his ability. Like Tasha had said – it was far beyond anything they had trained for, after all, and he supposed that the answers made their own weird sort of sense to the other man.
The neurosurgeon-turned-sorcerer took special interest in the odd inability to feel hunger or sleep after his time as a thrall. Dr. Strange had nodded slowly in agreement when Clint described the treatment method the SHIELD specialists had come up with to combat it. Clint hoped the older man had better answers than SHIELD had.
"How much do you know about the human brain?" Strange asked finally, setting his pen down.
Clint shrugged. "Not a whole lot, to be honest."
The older man nodded. He stood, slowly walking towards his bookshelf. Pulling the occasional tome down, he replaced it after checking the title and glancing through the pages. Apparently not finding the one he was looking for, he continued his search.
"Your description of this Tesseract," Strange began, "makes much more sense when you think about it in more familiar terms – let's say, a database or server, perhaps. The human brain itself is said to be much like a computer, after all, or, maybe computers are designed much like the human brain. You can take your pick of whichever stance you like on the subject, but it's been up for debate for a very long time."
"Like the chicken and the egg?" Clint asked, giving the sorcerer a pinched look.
Dr. Strange gave him a bright smile. "Precisely!"
Finally locating the book he had been searching for, Strange began flipping through pages while he spoke. "I take it you are at least somewhat familiar with the basics of computers, such as viruses, firewalls, and the like?"
"I know a bit, though I'm no Tony Stark," Clint replied, nodded slowly. "He told me that it was like my brain got rewired or something."
"Mr. Stark is very astute," the doctor commented appreciatively. "I would have to agree with that assessment. Though, another phrase comes to mind in your situation. You, my friend, were essentially hacked."
Clint frowned. Laura had tried to explain some of the terms and differences in viruses years ago, when they first met. Dr. Strange's idea made sense, in a disturbing sort of way. His mind and free will had been re-directed, not re-written - much like remote hijacking, as Laura had called it.
"So, why is this...hacking, if you will, still affecting me?" Clint asked, his brow wrinkling in confusion. "I don't feel the need to sleep, or didn't until a couple of weeks ago. I still don't get hungry. It's like his last orders are, I dunno...stuck. I mean, the Tesseract and Loki are out of the picture. He can't control me anymore...right?"
"Theoretically, yes and no." The doctor gave him a sympathetic look. "I sense that there is some residual energy, but it seems too minute to be able to affect you – not like it did before. Unfortunately, we may not be able to tell for sure without speaking with the one who cast the spell. Namely, Loki himself."
At Clint's scowl, Strange offered an understanding smile. He snapped his book shut, handing it to Clint. "Now, without the actual caster here to be questioned, we can and will work with what information we have. First, I understand his brother has been a rather helpful ally?"
"Yes, but we only got a rough briefing from him regarding Loki's magical repertoire. Thor said he was more of an illusionist. A trickster, he calls him."
"And was mind control typical of his skillset?"
"No," Clint replied, frowning as he focused on the memories from The Tomb. "Thor said he had a way of influencing others, but not outright controlling them. Apparently the instant brainwashing is a new trick."
"Did you observe Loki enthrall anyone else after you were taken?"
"He took Agent Peters, and Dr. Selvig. He had this...spear. No - more like a bladed staff, or glaive. It had this crystal." Clint shuddered as the memories hit him. He motioned with his hand, indicating a size. "About yay big. All he had to do was touch you...right here, and you were gone into the blue."
Strange arched an eyebrow. "Into the blue?"
"Yeah. Blue. Look, sir - I don't see blue properly anymore," Clint explained, leaning back and reaching out to rub Arrow behind the ears. "Nerve gas, a long time ago. I've got a very limited color spectrum, so imagine my surprise when the cube looked like a pretty deep shade of blue when I first saw it - a shade of blue that I technically can't see anymore."
"Do you think it could be psychosomatic?" Dr. Strange asked, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It means -"
"I'm familiar with the term," Clint interrupted. "After I was...taken...it was like there was this haze. Kind of like one of those fancy photography color filter things. More like...just a hint of it, like it was all edged in blue."
The self-styled sorcerer held up a hand as a knock sounded, right before the study door opened. Wong entered, carrying a tray laden with small, dainty tea cups and an enameled tea pot. They waited to continue until the assistant finished with his preparations before excusing himself again.
Clint politely declined, having never been much of a tea drinker, much less anything from a mug or tea cup. It had been a habit that had driven his wife nuts, but it was better than risking the communal coffee mugs. One time under the influence of a psychotropic compound courtesy of a disgruntled SHIELD bio-chemist had been enough for him to swear off of unattended glassware permanently.
Unless he had watched it be poured or prepared it himself, that was.
"So," Strange continued after taking a sip, "I believe your ultimate problem, at least in the case of your hunger and sleep issue, boils down to residual energy, I'm afraid."
"You think the energy is still there. Am I right?" Clint paled at the implication.
"It's much like the damaged operating system in a computer. Pardon me if I get it wrong – I'm running off of an explanation my IT consultant gave me when I accidentally downloaded a virus last week. Sometimes when a virus is removed, it doesn't come peacefully, and can leave fragments behind – bits of the malicious programming that sort of slip through the cracks. It leaves traces, Agent Barton."
"So, what you're saying," Clint replied slowly, "is that my brain is corrupted. Or damaged by what Loki did? Can it be fixed?"
"Not without much more intensive study than I believe you're prepared for," Strange admitted.
Clint nodded in agreement. "The control. Could it be reactivated fully?"
The sorcerer shook his head. "You would need to be exposed to this...Tesseract, again. Its power is what enhanced the initial spell, after all. If the Tesseract is off-world as you claim, then you should have nothing to fear. The item was unique, was it not?"
Clint nodded weakly. "Unless there's something I haven't been told yet. There were old experiments from World War Two, but as far as I know it was all destroyed by the time the Fifties rolled around."
"If you would permit me," Dr. Strange said after watching him with a penetrating gaze, "I would like to do a reading on you."
"What, like tarot cards?"
Strange shook his head, fingering the large amulet around his neck. "More like a reading of the energy in your mind and soul. Nothing intrusive, but we should be able to detect if there is in fact any residual influence."
"You have got a lotta balls asking that," the archer hissed, his eyes narrowing as he stood up in protest. "I've had enough people digging around in my head, thank you very much."
"There is no need to panic, Agent Barton," the sorcerer replied gently as Arrow stood, growling menacingly in response to the archer's sudden move. "I have no reason to harm you."
The archer looked down, finding his hand on his pistol. He frowned, his voice beginning to quiver. "I was unmade, Doc. Do you have any idea what that's like?"
"More than you could ever know," the other man replied quietly.
Clint sank back into his chair, his face still pale. He whispered soothingly to the dog, who sat back down, watching the sorcerer with wary eyes. The Sorcerer Supreme remained unperturbed.
Dr. Strange steepled his hands again. "Let me be frank with you, Agent. I will most likely be consulted by your superiors officially in regards to your condition, being the primary arcane consultant for your organization. I would much rather have you as a willing participant, in a more relaxed setting such as my study. Sitting you down in a cold, barren interrogation room would be counter-productive, wouldn't you agree?"
The agent nodded numbly, his hands reaching down to clutch at the dog's scruff. The mage was right; he had been brought in to assist with arcane matters before, and Clint had seen the results of his "readings." The man didn't just watch your expressions and body language like Natasha could - he could literally look into your very soul.
"I don't really have much choice, I suppose," Clint replied, giving the other man a defeated look. His hands trembled, betraying his fear at letting another mage into his mind. "Just...get it over with."
A short while later...
Clint tucked the satchel that Dr. Strange had given him under his arm, digging into his pocket for his phone. With a curse, he fumbled with still trembling hands as he unlocked it. Sighing, he opened the text from Natasha as he left the Strange property, heading for the street.
Longer walk than usual. Green?
Super-green, he texted back. He should never have let Laura show her that damn movie...
"Figure out what you're looking for?"
He whipped around, reaching for his sidearm out of reflex. Leaning against a brick column and flipping through a bus schedule was none other than Nick Fury. The spymaster looked up from his paper, arching an eyebrow.
Clint rolled his eyes, groaning.
"You're off your game, Hawk, lettin' me sneak up on you like that," the spymaster critiqued, tossing the schedule into a nearby trash can. He gave Clint a quick appraisal and frowned. "My car's down the street. You are not walkin' home in that kinda shape on my watch - you're gonna get your ass mugged or run over by a bike messenger. Come on, I'm suddenly in the mood for a chili dog or something."
Clint shrugged, following his boss and friend to a non-descript sedan that appeared to be one of the older SHIELD undercover pool vehicles. It was a far cry from the Director's usual tastes.
"Where's the SUV?" he asked, frowning at Fury, referring to the armored vehicle that the Director usually drove as he loaded Arrow into the back seat. His watch beeped quietly, advising him it was time for lunch.
"One of those big ass space whales landed on it," Fury replied with a snort. He opened the driver side door, ignoring the loud squeak. "Just had the damn thing detailed, too."
Fury glared at the German Shepherd through the rear-view mirror. "No drooling on my upholstery."
Fury drove them to a small hot dog shop they had frequented years ago, back before Fury had become the Director and their lives became more complicated. Back then, they had just been handler and asset, enjoying lunch and quietly discussing such mundane things as the last office prank or who was dragging who into the supply closet.
Clint often missed those days.
After placing their orders with the young waitress, they both sat back and took in the delicious aroma of bread, chili, and roasting frankfurters. The fact that they still served their drinks in sealed bottles and had a large display where customers could watch their food be prepared had been a bonus.
Clint smiled. "They still make the buns here?"
"Fresh every morning," Fury replied, accepting his glass and soda bottle from the waitress. "Some things around here'll never change."
"Let's hope it stays that way," Clint replied. He paused as he spotted something familiar. "Hey - is that the same card?"
Fury nodded, giving him a wry grin as he looked over at a faded playing card; one of the corners was embedded into a street map of the area mounted on a corkboard, exactly in the restaurant's location. The card looked as if nobody had touched it since the day Clint had flicked it there.
"The old man still talks about it," Fury commented with a shrug. "He thinks it's funny as hell when the college kids try to duplicate it."
The spymaster's face grew serious. "Look, Clint - I know it's been a rough couple of months -"
"That's a bit of an understatement."
"Seriously. Let's just put away the formalities for now, and stick with just Nick and Clint," Fury offered, continuing to watch his reactions. "How are you holding up? And don't patronize me with the same 'I'm fine' bullshit you feed anyone who isn't the Chaplain."
Clint's eyes fell to the floor, his shoes suddenly seeming more interesting than the conversation. "I'm...coping. I guess. It still feels surreal, you know?"
Fury nodded, smiling up at the waitress as she appeared with their order. Clint reached down with the extra hot dog he had requested, setting it gently in front of the dog. The spymaster rolled his eye, shaking his head in amusement.
"The talk with Dr. Strange helped, sort of. I didn't like the idea of him poking around in my head though."
"It was either him or a Council investigator," Nick replied with a light shrug. "I think you know which of the two would be gentler. As far as they're concerned, Strange's report will be enough to finalize the clearance procedures when you're ready to get back into the swing of things."
Clint gave him a skeptical look. "You really think they're gonna let a compromised asset back in the field? I was surprised you even let me babysit Coulson at the graduation. Oh, and lying about his death? Not your best choice."
"I think I'll survive," Fury drawled, though that wasn't quite enough to keep him from squirming slightly in his seat.
Clint almost chuckled. "I don't know. Coulson's pissed at you, and Natasha…she's pissed at you both. Though, tickets to the ballet might help keep you from having to check for a knife in your back."
Fury gave him a speculative look in response. "I'll look into it."
"Though, to be honest, I'd be more concerned about Coulson," the archer replied lazily. "You have told him that you ruined his cards, right?"
"I'm still having trouble with number seventeen."
Clint winced. "Yeah...good luck with that one, Nick. You do realize that that's his favorite? As in, the one his mom gave him right before she died? I think you're gonna need a little more than just replacing the cards."
Fury ran a palm over his face. "Of course it had to be the damn favorite."
"Jesus, Nick he's your best friend. How did you not know which one it was before you ruined it? I'm guessing that's the reason for the cold shoulder?"
"It's that noticeable?"
"One word. Duh. Even the junior agents have noticed."
"So, what do you suggest I do about it, oh wise Hawkeye?" Fury asked, his voice full of sarcasm. "Give Coulson a set of Captain America bedsheets?"
"I'm thinking something bigger. He loves the classics, if you recall."
"I'm not getting you."
"Well," the archer drawled, swirling his bottle, "I do recall the Logistics Department signing out a couple of Old Man Stark's storage crates. I know there were more than just those two trunks you gave Tony in that warehouse."
The spymaster's eye widened. "You don't mean..."
"Lola," Clint replied with another smirk.
"Lola. She was retired years ago, Clint. The car's a wreck."
"So pull her out of retirement. Give 'er a refit, some upgrades...you can even get the R and D guys to sign off on it as a research project for adaptation of advanced technology to older assets. You know they've been full up working on that Chitauri crap - working on something like a classic Corvette spy car will do wonders for their morale."
Fury had a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, that just might work. Stark can't find out about it though."
"Bullshit - you can bring him in on it. Repulsorlift technology is kind of his thing, and it is one of his dad's designs. He's the best person to ask. In fact, he'll probably jump at the chance if it'll make Pepper happy. You know she's got a soft spot for Coulson."
"I'll look into it." The one-eyed man gave him a baleful glare. "So, you gonna give me a hand with number seventeen or what?"
Clint frowned. "I don't know, Nick. I still think it was a dick move. You should have told us. Natasha and I didn't need a fucking push."
"I know that, but drastic times call for drastic measures." Fury took a sip and sighed. "You know, if my contacts could pull this off, I'd have settled this mess already. Mine apparently ran dry - I need yours."
"I might be convinced."
Fury sighed. "What is it you want this time? More explosives?"
"I've got enough, but thank you for the offer," Clint replied, taking a swig of his drink. "I did have my eye on that new programmable laser etching system they're working on in R and D. You know, the one inspired by the Bifrost patterns from New Mexico?"
The spymaster nodded, arching an eyebrow. "You plannin' on directing wormholes?"
"This one's a little more compact. They used a lot of cool words like photon intensity, variable beam width...you know, a lot of technical jargon that's a bit out of my league."
"I'm calling bullshit on that one, mister engineer. What the hell are you gonna do with a programmable laser etcher?" the spymaster replied, narrowing his eye. "Please tell me you're not gonna try to make a lightsaber again."
"Maybe I just want to use it to label my arrows. I keep running out of tape," Clint replied with a light shrug.
Fury rolled his eye as he pulled out his phone. "Somehow, I'm not sure I even wanna ask."