A/N 1: Because I had so much fun with Oxycodone Days, I decided to continue it. It isn't essential that you read it first, but some of the characterizations and motifs will make more sense if you do. This story was heavily influenced by the "Hurt Locker," because I really liked Jeremy Renner in it
A/N 2: A few people have PMed me about using Gator's character, and I'm fine with it. Sadly he just a plot device so feel free to play with him if you want.
Into the Fire 7b: – The Ashes Settle Part 2:
Tuesday August 15th 7:41 pm – Stark Tower New York City, USA
Natasha steeled her nerves just as she would before any battle and entered the kitchen, the smell of Thai food mouth wateringly good after months of disgusting Army food. But she ignored it to gage Stark and Roger's reactions. She was glad Pepper wasn't here to see this and that Rhodes wouldn't be here to comment. Frankly she didn't give a shit what that puffed up, Pentagon puppet thought. To be honest, she was surprised she cared what Stark and Rogers thought but to be fair, this affected where they would be stationed.
"Natasha," Steve started and rose to hug her, she allowed it but did not return it.
"Jiggles," Stark slurred at her, clearly ignoring his dinner in favor of a bottle of expensive liquor. Bruce concentrated on his Pad Thai.
"Stark," she smiled sweetly.
"It's good to have you back. It hasn't been the same around her with you gone," Steve pulled her chair out and handed her a plate.
"That remains to be seen," she said sternly, no longer pretending to be amiable. "Rogers, what possible grounds do you think you have to for asking for Barton to be removed from the Avenger's Initiate?" She tapped her fingers in an offbeat staccato. It was a trick she had learned from Coulson, tapping out off rhythms made it harder for people to think.
"Natasha, you don't understand," he started.
"You're right, I don't. Please enlighten me as why the most senior SHIELD agent here is deemed to be no longer a good fit by someone that has about a 1/50th of his experience and training?" She stared him in the eyes. Super soldier or no, right now he was just a blond douche bag that thought he was better than everyone else. He was lucky that things were so cut and dry in the 30s and 40s but they weren't that way anymore. Either he had get over it or go find another line of work.
"Please, just hear me out," he started and she waved her hand for him to continue. "The Avengers are the good guys, we represent hope for humanity and a source of safety against evil. We can't do that when one of our members is more evil than the people we face. What he did over there, the things he did, were inexcusable. He killed civilians for no reason."
She held her hand up. "So your criticism of him is that you didn't like the way he fulfilled the mission?"
"He killed," Steve started.
"So?" she raised an eyebrow at him.
"So, he took lives, he murdered those people," Stark tossed in. Murder was a harsher word than killed, showing that Tony was more affected than Rogers, which didn't surprise her.
"What exactly did you guys think assassins did with their time, played darts?" She questioned, purposely pushing them to realize that nothing that had happened should be new to them.
"There is a difference between war and what he did. He killed a woman," Rogers was pacing now.
"While in the midst of a mission," she corrected, "so it was a legitimate sanctioned hit."
"He could have found another way. He could have captured them, taken them back to be tried," Steve started and Tony nodded in agreement.
"Actually no, he couldn't," she produced the copy of his orders she lifted from his gear. He was going to be pissed about it but fuck him, this was more important. She handed them over to Rogers.
"What is this?" He asked as he read through the 3 sentences, "No witness. No evidence. No survivors." He handed the paper to Tony.
"Hawkeye's orders signed by the Council, the head of JSOC, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was ordered not to leave a shred of evidence or a single survivor behind."
Steve looked stymied but Tony looked annoyed. "I still think that maybe we would be better off with a different agent," Rogers started but sounded less sure.
"Then I'll go back my things," she rose to leave, calling his bluff.
"We don't want you to go, Natasha, just Hawkeye." She found it rather odd that she had technically killed more people this time around because she had set the bombs off, yet they were more angry at Clint. Their rosy view of women was ridiculous.
"You can't have one without the other, Captain, we're partners, a package deal. Either you accept us for who we are or we leave but no matter what we stick together." He looked down and she knew she had won with Rogers. He would understand the need to follow orders, even ones you didn't like. She actually found it fairly funny that Steve defined himself so much as a soldier yet hadn't actually been in the Army for more than a year, while Clint had been in the army for over 13 years but didn't identify himself as only a soldier.
Tony crumpled up the paper and tossed it on the table. "And I'm supposed to be fine with 'he waz just followinggg orderz, herr kommendant,'?" Tony mimicked a terrible German accent. "It worked so well at Nuremburg. Goddamn it, he's not a robot, he can and should have said no. And look at the date, he got that after he killed those kids."
"Frankly, I don't care if you are fine or not, Stark. He did the right thing with those kids and no matter how many times you harp on it, that fact will not change," she snapped at him.
"He murdered someone he said was his friend," Stark snapped right back. "He didn't even seem to think twice about it. He just kept joking till he went Terminator on his ass and slit his throat."
"His friend was guilty of high treason and terrorism," she defended already feeling like this might have been the wrong track with Tony.
"I don't recall their being a trial of his peers or a chance to defend himself. All I seem to remember was Barton spilling his guts all over the place then bleeding him like a pig. Was he ordered to do that?"
"Actually, yes, he was," she answered. "And before you get on some high horse about saying 'no' to bad orders, give yourself a reality check. If he had said no, or refused, his best case scenario would have been Leavenworth and at worst, one of his SHIELD buddies smiling while they double tap him in the chest. Then more than likely, I would be taken out as too volatile to have around because he wouldn't follow orders," she finished.
"So it was self preservation that made him kill all those people?" he quirked an eyebrow and took a drink. "Answer me this, Tasha," she felt herself stiffen at his use of Clint's nickname. No one, not even Coulson used it. Clint had given her that name and the identity that went along with it and only he was permitted to use it, because only with him could she really be Tasha. "How exactly did you tell the difference between Hawkeye under Loki's control vs. normal Hawkeye, other than eye color? Because from where I sit he is a stone cold, soulless killer regardless of if he is following Loki or Fury," He asked then continued at an almost shout, "he didn't shoot his friend from far away, he got up close and talked to him, right before he killed him. That is not the work of a soldier following orders, that's a fucking sociopath."
"Tony," Banner warned but she hushed him. Let the brat say what he wanted. It wouldn't change anything. Tony would never understand that slitting Gator's throat had actually been a show of respect and a final act of friendship. He had saved the man the humiliation of a trial, his wife the loss of his benefits, and his friend the pain of a slow death.
She could have answered him in quite a few different, more politic ways, but she opted for telling him exactly what she thought. "It was a matter of National Security because they had Stark designs. The US government was so afraid of someone else getting your designs that they ordered him to kill civilians and blow up a facility at all costs. He had to assassinate one of his oldest friends because of your weapons. And before you start pointing fingers at him about being a killer, maybe you should check your own body count," she snapped, then added. "If you want us to leave then that's fine but don't you dare look down your noses at him because of what he had to do. We warned you how bad this would get and you didn't care, you only cared about yourself, which again is fine, because we never expected any of you to care about us. But do not make him feel worse about what happened because he didn't have a choice," she headed to the door, then stopped and turned back around, looking at Steve, "You have the chance to prove to him, to us, that you guys are willing to accept us. That we can trust you even with the things that you won't like, or you can turn your backs on us but after all this time and all we have been through, Clint and I are tired of trying to trying to hide who we are from you," finished and walked out. She just wished she had taken the food with her.
Wednesday August 18th 6:01pm, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY
"Hello, I'm Dr. Lipinski, please have a seat." Clint did as he was told by the 30ish, balding doctor. He hadn't talked with this one before, he was probably new, but he supposed it didn't matter. All shrinks were the same anyway. "Before we begin, Agent Barton, I want you to know that I have been fully briefed on your situation and I assure you I have the highest level of clearance so you may speak freely," he finished and sipped from his coffee. He put his accent northern Midwest. Not Michigan but there was a touch of city in there, maybe Green Bay or Milwaukee. "You can trust me with anything you need to discuss." Clint smiled at that one. He had found as a general rule that anyone that had to say you could trust them, shouldn't be trusted. "I'm here to help you," another platitude and another sip of coffee. Fool, if you are going to try emotional anchoring, you need to actually illicit the emotion first, not just talk.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Clint waited for a clue of what this guy wanted. "How is your hand doing?" Dr. Lipinski finally broke the silence. He shrugged in response. "You know this will go much faster if you actually talk. Now let's try again, how is hand?" His smile was forced, trying to put Clint at ease, amateur mistake.
"It's ok, I guess," he answered non-committally. In point of fact it hurt like hell but the shrink didn't need to know that.
"How did you hurt it? Lipinski questioned.
"The Target used his helmet to block my strike. Hitting the curved top of a helmet caused a boxer's fracture and a couple of broken knuckles," he explained.
"Does it hurt?"
Well d'uh it's broken in 5 different places of course it fucking hurts. He was losing respect for this guy pretty quickly. "It hurts but it's broken so that's to be expected," he kept his voice neutral.
"Have you spoken to the doctors to get some stronger pain medications?" He shook his head no, ignoring the slight sour shift of the doctor's expression at his non verbal response. "Why not, if you're in pain?"
"It's not that bad."
"Your file says you frequently decline pain medication, why is that?" Lipinski asked and he almost laughed at how heavy handed this guy was. Coulson used to trick him into talking all time, but he was subtle like a poison. This guy was a like a club.
"I do it to punish myself for the horrible things I've done," he answered completely straight faced. If he was stuck here, he wasn't planning on making this guy's job easy at least not unless he put a little bit of effort into it.
"Really," the shrink furiously scribbled.
"No," Clint answered.
"Then why did you say?"
"Because I wanted to judge how good you were at telling when people were lying," Clint actually answered honestly.
"And how did I do?"
"I'll put this way, I doubt I'll have any compunction about getting caught in a falsehood," he smiled gently. No reason to antagonize the guy too much.
"Ok, then honestly, why do you refuse pain killers, if it isn't to punish yourself?" The doctor adjusted his glasses and wrote on his pad that "Patient exhibits trust issues." The guy was going to have to learn to take off his glasses or sit with the window to his back so that you couldn't read the backwards reflection of his notes in the lenses.
"Honestly, it's the exact opposite. Pain meds almost always make me want to puke. Given a choice, I would rather be in pain, than nauseous."
"I see, so I understand that you just got back from Louisiana. Were you visiting family?"
"I thought you said you read my file?" Barton asked.
"I did," the man shifted position and Clint could immediately tell that by read, he meant perused or maybe skimmed.
"I'm an orphan, Doctor. My only living relative is a dead beat older brother I haven't seen or heard from in four years. So no, I was not visiting family."
"I'm sorry to hear that, a family support system is very important to most people."
"I wouldn't know," he smiled again and the doctor smiled back. This guy was bush league at best. He couldn't pick up a lie or stop himself from mirroring a false smile. What was Fury thinking? It actually sort of depressed him because he had been looking forward to these meetings. He had hoped they would be a distraction from the things he was thinking about because he would have to concentrate to not talk about the things he was thinking, while talking about the things they expected him to talk about. Oh well, he was only stuck in here for an hour anyway.
"If you were not there to visit family, why were you there and for such a short amount of time?"
How should he answer that one? "I was taking Gator's body back home because I promised him 10 years ago I would make sure he got home." Or maybe, "I wanted to see that absolute devastation Gator's choices had caused his family so maybe I would start to feel guilty about killing him, like I should." He could try, "I wanted to see my Goddaughter one more time before she and her mother refused to ever talk to me again because I came home but Gator was in a pine box." He settled for,"Gator and I had been friends for over 12 years. He was my unit brother and I owed him an escort home."
"You were escorting his remains home, admirable, but isn't that usually a job for a lower ranking enlisted man? It's rather odd that a Major would be acting as an honor guard to a dead soldier?" The guy's haughty tone was getting on his nerves. He didn't like the fact that SHEILD was changing. When he had started, it was primarily made up of military on loan from DoD or ex Clandestine Service people, who usually started out as military, like Squawks. Now he was in the minority behind civilian recruits and Ivy League brats that thought drones and soldiers were the same thing. People like Hill, who never got her hands dirty so she didn't understand what it meant to be in the shit and therefore didn't respect the opinion of a mere Army man. And OK, maybe was still a little bitter at her about this whole thing, so what, who could blame him. But mostly he was annoyed because he had done the same thing for Squawks on his trip from where he lay in State in DC back home to his family in Carlisle, PA. He and four Marines had stayed with Coulson until he was laid to rest. But he didn't like thinking about it. That had been a particularly shitty day.
"Like I said, we had been friends for a long time," he mumbled, trying to affect that he was unhappy talking about this subject without giving away just how unhappy he was with it.
"How did it go?" The shrink asked. How did it go, indeed?
Clint had landed at Fort Bragg and checked in with his CO, Colonel Burgess, who was devastated that one of his best unit leaders was dead, before arranging transport for Gator's body. His only option was to fly commercial, which meant he would have to hop a commuter from Fayetteville to Charlotte then fly into New Orleans. He hated flying commercial. He also hated the fact he they kept Gator's casket closed because the wound in his neck was too deep to hide. Before he left he made sure to sneak a flag from another fallen soldier's kit. He didn't know who the guy was but he had no doubt that everyone would assume it was an accidental oversight and requisition him another before his burial. Gator wouldn't be so lucky and Lisa deserved a flag after she had given her husband to the Army for the last 17 years.
Fayetteville hadn't been a big deal. They were used to seeing caskets go in and out so they were kind to him but mostly left him alone, which he appreciated. Charlotte was another story. His layover was more than3 hours and the only seats available at the gate had their back to hallway. There were so many people just milling around he felt exposed and jumpy. Airports were great places to kill people. He had made 21 kills in airports; it was just a matter of planning and avoiding the cameras. The fact that he knew how easy it was, did not help his nerves. The longer he tried to stand around the terminal and get over it, the worse it got and he couldn't stop himself from twisting his ring around his finger to make himself feel better. It had been a gift from Tash. It looked like a normal double wedding band with a small design in the center but was really a garrote with two metal rings. That and a ceramic switch blade hidden in his phone case were his only weapons.
He thought about calling his partner but decided against it. She was probably enjoying the luxury of Stark Tower and her reunion with the Avengers. She didn't need his inability to relax bringing her down. He made it all of 22 minutes before he gave up and went to the USO club, where at least as a Major, he could probably get a chair with his back to a wall. He had been right and spent the next 75 minutes or so sucking down soda water with lime trying to settle his stomach from the pain pills he had taken that morning and trying to calm his frayed fucking nerves. He had been doing ok, except for an occasional startle when one of the loud ass enlisted men getting drunk at the bar made too much noise or took pictures using a flash. He had even managed to zone out, slightly watching people move around the room. Everyone except for an older, Marine Sergeant that stayed parked at the bar.
Like he said, he was doing fine relatively speaking, until one of the busboys dropped a tub full of dishes. Before he knew what he was doing, he was reaching for a gun that wasn't on his hip and he felt like his heart and a good deal of bile were in his throat. He got up and quickly threw a few bucks plus a tip onto the table and bolted for the bathroom. He was so out of it, he didn't even see the Marine following him. He ducked into a stall and locked the door behind him, leaning against the door, trying to catch his breath. He unbuttoned his jacket and wished he could loosen his tie but with only one hand he wouldn't be able to tighten it back. Much to his embarrassment, he had had to have Mockingbird tie it for him.
He tried to calm himself and his stomach down but the shakiness from the adrenaline rush was working against him. God he was a fucking mess. He could shoot kids and not even bat an eyelash but some guy dropping dishes sent him into a tizzy. He gave up, bending over and puked. Better here than on the plane anyway. He almost forgot to hold his tie down with his bum hand as he folded double and retched but to be fair he wasn't going to kneel on the floor of a public bathroom in his Class As. These things were a bitch to get cleaned.
When he was finished, he staggered out to rinse his mouth and wash his face off. Again, a pain to do one handed. He hadn't expected someone to hand him a towel. He looked up and met the eyes of the Marine Sgt from the bar. "Here you go, sir."
"Thank you," he tried to steady his voice.
"It's ok, sir, it happens to everyone now and again, especially when you first get back," he smiled and his eyes crinkled in his tanned face. Clint gave him a questioning look. "You're jumpy as Baptist preacher in a liquor store, you're wounded, and you're about as wind burned as I've seen anyone. Not hard to tell you just got back Islamville. Where were you stationed?"
"Baghdad but I spent most of my time in Syria," he answered honestly. He wasn't sure why, maybe he was just tired of lying.
"I didn't think we had any men over there," he saw the man's eyes scan his uniform and he could tell when he noticed the lack of name or unit insignia, that plus being so close to Bragg must have been obvious. "I see. Where are you heading?"
"Slidell, LA. I have to take my buddy, or what's left of him," his stomach twisted and he swallowed quickly, "home."
"I'm sorry, sir," he said simply and Clint could tell he meant it. Clint made his good byes and headed to his gate.
They let him board the plane first, even before first class, which was ok with him, even though the Captain wanted to come out and shake his hand. Then he settled himself in his window seat and tried to zone out on the flight. It didn't work so well. They touched down and Clint arranged for the body to be sent to the only funeral home in the town, picked up his car, and tried to remember how to get to Gator's house. He'd been there a few times for barbeques or birthday parties. Gator had always tried to bring him into his family but he had resisted, at the time unable to trust a kind gesture. It wasn't till Coulson, that he allowed himself to truly be brought in out of the cold.
He pulled up on Hickory Lane and watched Evie play in the front yard with a baton, still in her school uniform and her wild curls tied in a pony tail. Lisa was a public school teacher but Evie went to Catholic school. He never had been able to figure that one out.
He took a deep breath and opened the door, Evie looking up at him. She squinted at him for a minute before running over to him and wrapping him in a big hug squealing, "Uncle Clint, is that you, it's been a long time," she buried her face in his uniform and hugged him tighter. He really wanted to puke again.
"Hi, Evie," he returned the hug one handed.
"Evie, who are you talking to?" Lisa came out of the front door, just as beautiful as the last time he had seen her. She smiled at him for a split second before she realized he was in uniform, had a flag, and Gator wasn't with him. "Evie, sweetheart, go inside." The little girl looked confused but listened, gathering her baton and going back into the house.
"I'm sorry," was all he said and watched the women fold into herself on the porch. He wanted to do something but wasn't sure what. He had never been very good around crying women.
He was surprised though, how quickly she gained control of herself. "How, how did it happen?" she stuttered.
"You know I can't tell you that," he looked away hating himself that he was glad he couldn't tell her. "I brought him back though, it was the best I could do."
By the time he had explained to her where his body was and what she needed to do, she had called her mother over to sit with Evie and the sun was starting to go down. "You know, he always used to say you were his good luck charm," she gave him a watery smile. "That as long as the Hawk was there, he would make it home. I bought him a pendant with a hawk on it as a joke for him to carry in place of you. I guess he was right, you did bring him home," she started crying again.
He watched her and knew he should say something. He knew he should be crying along with her, especially since he killed Gator, but he was mostly thinking about how long it would take to get back to the airport and through security. He wanted to feel something, he would be happy with guilty but he didn't. The only thing he had felt was nervous in crowds.
God he was fucked up.
"Earlier you referred to him as 'Target' but just now you said he was your brother. He can't be both," Lipinski pointed out.
"Actually, Doctor, yes he can," he answered and left.
Thursday August 17th 6:05pm, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY
"Where were you earlier today? The logs said you badged out for a few hours." Lipinski asked.
"I took walk around the city. I'm not used to being idle for so long. I was getting bored," he answered.
"Where did you go?"
"The library. The one by Bryant Park," he supplied.
"How was your trip?" the shrink questioned, seeming bored already.
Not so great doc, not so great.
Clint liked libraries. He always had, not because he was a particularly avid reader, though he did read out of boredom on long flights, but because they were quiet. When he was a very little boy, his mother used to take him to the small library in town to keep him entertained and away from his father. They would sit together and look at books about cakes and pastries. She had been a baker by trade in her native East Germany, before she had fallen in love with an Army sergeant and moved to Iowa. She always spoke to him in German, that ultra clipped Berliner accent was like second nature to him now, as fluid as English and later Russian. The county library near the farm had very few books, a leaky sink, and a squeaky floor, but it was a haven away from his father and the other kids Clint's age that made fun of him for his bruises and his shyness. He had never had Barney's naturally easy way with people.
After his parents died and after him and Barney had run from the orphanage, libraries were a place to sleep safely without the fear of other homeless people. They had running water and heat. The chairs were sometimes soft and sometimes they had free cookies or crackers. But most of all he liked to pull down the picture books of cakes and pastries and remember how his mother taught him to measure out the flour but not press down on it and the wrist movements to ice a cake, or never to touch the sugar after it melts until it rehardens in to clear pieces. He would look at the tarts and the loaves of bread and remember how their kitchen smelled though oddly he didn't imagine eating them, unless he was very hungry. Even as a child he hadn't really liked sweets. When hunger was gnawing at his gut because there hadn't been anything good in the dumpster that day, he would look at pictures of Schweinshaxe, Bratkartoffeln, or juicy hamburgers and imagine getting to eat them until he wasn't hungry anymore. He hadn't made Schweinshaxe in a while, maybe, maybe if he ever went back to Stark Tower he would make it.
Once they had joined the circus, libraries had been where Barney would dump him so he could go off with whatever Sally Rotten-crotch he could find in town. He would sometimes read about Robin Hood, Ivan Ho, or Treasure Island and wonder what it would be like to be a hero. Other times he would randomly pick a book off the shelf and read it, not caring if it was about economics, nautical engineering, or dealing with post partum depression. But mostly he liked to look at pictures of the food from far away places and imagine what it would be like to go there, to just pick up and not be hot, hungry, and ignored someplace other than the dusty back roads of America. Where he didn't have a brother that only paid attention to him when he needed him to make money by performing and he didn't have to spend 9 hours a day working on martial arts and getting whacked by a bamboo stick if his form was off, tumbling that made his feet and wrists hurt all the time, trapeze where he had to trust someone else's grip to stop him from falling, and arrow work. When he grew up, he wanted to be a chef because some of his best memories were in his mother's kitchen as he stretched as far as he could to help his grandmother sprinkle flour on the butcher block so she could roll out dough. Her hands were boney and chapped but her movements were sure.
Now libraries were just a place for him to kill time between missions. He still loved their quiet and the smell of the musty books. He tended to haunt them when he had nothing else to do and he still randomly picked up things to read, like about conservation of black rhinos or the social stigma of successful women in China. But eventually he always gravitated towards the cookbooks. He liked to look at the pictures and imagine creating the beautiful dishes for Natasha.
And today he decided, was a good day to go to the library. He had stayed cooped up at the SHIELD base for over 2 days with nothing to do after he finished his reports and debriefing, which normally wouldn't bother him but he never liked the New York base. The rooms were really small, they made you lock up your weapons, there was no range, and it was in New York City. Clint was a realist about most things and he figured out long ago he was not a happy city dweller. In fact he sort of hated urban settings and given his druthers would never set foot in one if he could avoid it, NYC being one of his least favorite locals in general. It was closed in, smelly, LOUD, and just plain too crowded, but Tasha liked it so he sucked it up. Besides, she usually indulged him on vacations and went some place completely out in the middle of nowhere.
Anyway, today he realized he was going to climb the walls if he didn't get out for a while. It might not have been so bad, if he had been able to sleep to kill time but he couldn't or if he had had his partner or his old handler, but he didn't. So he had spent 48 hours staring at the wall and trying not to think. Ergo, why was trucking down 42nd Street, heading towards the main branch of the NYC library. He had never been inside before, even though it was nearly in Stark's backyard, but figured he should be able to kill some time. Of course he should have considered how unpleasant the trip from the SHIELD base to the library would be, which he hadn't. He was pretty sure by the time he ducked under the archway, he was about to jump out of his own skin. But then again, he was usually like that after he got back from the Middle East, another reason he hated that fucking place.
He ignored the large opened area with people crammed into long tables to head up to the higher floors and hope they weren't as crowded. After nearly giving up, he found a mostly quiet alcove near the biographies and settled down to read his day away. He started reading one about Tony Stark but couldn't finish it. It was self-serving tripe that glanced over his uncontrolled bi-polar disorder and completely ignored his rampant alcoholism.
It was strange for him to think on the subject but he and Stark did oddly have quite a bit in common. Both of them were orphans, though Tony had been 10 years older when his parents died, a college graduate, and more than financially stable. He suspected that Stark had never once had to flip open the top of dumpster cans to create a rain shield between the building and the can to keep the rain off of him, while he slept. Both of their mothers were European, Tony's an Italian model and Clint's a baker from East Berlin, though he suspected that Maria Stark never had to spend days bound to the farm so no one in town saw her bruises. And both of their fathers had been alcoholics.
He supposed in general it was really that strange until you compared them as adults and realized that they were virtually nothing alike, other than their shared penchant for being sarcastic. Though he had to admit, Tony was funnier than him. Clint never drank, too petrified to turn into his father, while Stark was a lush. Stark tried to play himself as a natural alpha and leader, but when push came to shove during combat, he bowed down to Steve and Clint easily, while he was about as submissive as it comes generally, until he got into combat, where he naturally took charge unless Rogers was around. Tony was a true believer in good and evil, believing himself to be good. Clint had long ago lost any concept of good and evil, realize it was all a matter of perspective. But probably the most glaring difference was that, while Clint recognized his own faults and what a completely useless shack of shit he was, Tony couldn't accept his short comings to save his own life.
Even after he put away Stark's "biography," he wasn't able to relax into the stories the way he usually did. He was queasy from his meds and jittery from nicotine withdrawal. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to relax and lose himself so after 4 hours, he gave up, neatly placing the books back onto a cart to be reshelved. He couldn't have checked them out, even if he had found them interesting. You needed a NY driver's license and a valid Social Security Card to get a library card. The license he had in his pocket was from Georgia and he didn't have a matching SSN to go with it. He couldn't use his real one anyway, as far as the Government was concerned, Clint Francis Barton didn't and never had existed. Some days, like today, he thought maybe they were right.
He steeled himself and walked out into early rush hour traffic and stopped to consider that if he went a block west and crossed 6th street, he would almost be at Stark Tower. He purposely turned away from the park he often ran in and headed further east. He didn't want to bother Tasha or anyone else when he was like this. He kept his head down as he walked along 40th Street, back towards the subway but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a car speed by and something silver and dark thrown from it. Without thinking, he dove into the concrete doorway of the 5th Street HSBC tower and maybe tackled some poor lady in the process. She screamed and someone tried to pull him off of her, he managed to stop himself from killing the good Samaritan by a hair.
"Get off of me, you psycho," she screamed and he moved away, leaning against the wall and noticing it was nothing more than a Red Bull can. He had reacted like that over a fucking Red Bull can. He needed to get the fuck out of there but he couldn't because now there were people all around him and he really, really wanted to grab his knife and get away.
"I'm sorry," he stuttered at the woman, she had a cut on her forehead. "I'm very sorry."
"What is wrong with you, are you drunk or something," she snapped at him, just as a uniformed police man showed up.
"No, ma'am, I'm not drunk. I'm sorry," he tried to calm her down and defuse the situation, even as he heart pounded in his chest at being surrounded.
"Is there a problem here?" the Cop asked, Whitaker, his name tag said. Why do all cops have to have mustaches?
"Yes, this lunatic tackled me for no reason, and my jacket is ripped," the woman snapped.
"I'm sorry, it was an accident," he tried again, hoping the officer would be more sympathetic.
"And you are?" Whitaker stood very aggressively, his thumbs looped into his belt. A rookie mistake, Clint could have snapped his neck before he could even get his hands free.
But more importantly, fuck, he was lucky he still hadn't taken his false military ID or driver's license for Piece out of his wallet yet. "Pierce, my name is Captain Pierce, 75th Airborne," he answered and slowly reached into his wallet to produce his IDs proving that he was the nonexistent Captain Pierce.
"How did you accidently tackle a woman, Captain Pierce?" he asked, his fat partner, finally having caught up.
"I saw someone throw something out of their car, I reacted on instinct. I'm sorry. I've only been stateside for 3 days. Walking around Manhattan probably wasn't the best idea," he tried to give a mea culpa expression.
"75th Airborne, those are the Rangers, right?" Whitaker's fat partner asked, a look of awe on his pudgy face.
"Yes, sir," he eased into parade ground rest, hands behind him. Stupid fucks didn't even make sure they could see his hands. He almost wanted to kill them on principle. He looked over at the woman, "I really am sorry, ma'am. I guess I don't have my sea-legs yet, or civilian legs," he smiled as charmingly as he could. "I hope I didn't hurt you."
"No, no, I'm alright. It's ok, Captain. No harm done, officers," she waved the police off and he knew he was off scot free. It was amazing what you could get away with when you were a convincing liar. It didn't matter that this time it was the truth.
"The library was ok. There were a lot of books. It was nice to get out for a bit," he answered the doctor.
Friday August 18th 6:05pm, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY
Clint tried to relax his shoulders as he sank into the black leather chair across from Dr. Lipinski. He was tired, too tired to deal with this guy but Fury insisted so here he was.
"Good afternoon, Agent Barton, how are you today."
"About the same," he smiled because that was what was expected of him.
"Tell me about your relationship with your partner, Agent Romanov?" he questioned and Clint almost started. That was an odd question.
"She's my partner. I trust her with my life, I always have," there was no reason to lie about that.
"I've heard rumors that you two have a, how shall I say it, unorthodox relationship."
"If you are trying to ask if we are sleeping together the answer is no," he lied. As far as SHIELD was concerned they were merely partners. He sort of missed getting to be more openly affectionate while with the Avengers.
"I understand from Fury that she is back at Stark Tower. Have you talked to her?"
What and odd question.
It was 2:43 am and the thunder outside sounded like mortar fire and he couldn't sleep. He wanted to pace but his room was too small. He wanted to go shoot his bow but he couldn't. Scratch that, he wanted to fucking sleep. It had been 3 days, since he had slept at all. He had sleeping pills, he should just take one but couldn't bring himself to do it. He wasn't sure why, he just couldn't. He gave up and picked up his phone and stupidly dialed her number.
"Hello," she mumbled half asleep. He was going to give her 3 rings, she picked up on the second one.
"Tasha," he whispered, "I'm sorry," he went to hang up, feeling guilty for waking her.
"Don't you dare hang up on me," she snapped now sounding quite alert. "Four fucking days I don't hear from you and you call me in the middle of the night? Don't you even think about hanging up."
"Ok," was there something wrong with him that having her chastise him helped him relax? He tried to think of something else to say to her but the words stuck in his throat. He just wanted to hear her voice, to not feel so, whatever he was feeling, alone maybe.
"Pepper came back into town last night," she supplied and he wanted to cry in relief. "Tony was thrilled but she is clearly still mad at him. She totally ignored him unless it had something to do with business, and then spent nearly all day today with me. We went to the salon for a nice relaxing spa day. I got my hair and nails done, then we went shopping and spent Tony's money," she rambled about the shops they went to and the food they ate until Clint felt the lump clogging his throat finally dissolve.
"What have you been doing lately, other than apparently staying up late?" She asked him casually. He could picture her, laying on her back with one knee bent and her arm behind her head, probably playing with one of her curls.
"I went to the library yesterday, the big one by the park," he started, clearing his throat.
"You were that close, you should have called and I would have come by to see you," she scolded him half heartedly.
"Sorry."
"Did you find any good recipes to make me?" He could hear the smile in her voice. Sometimes he thought she liked him best for his culinary skills.
"Not really. I was reading biographies. I started reading Tony's but had to stop because it was painfully inaccurate."
"They made him sound like a nice guy?" she chuckled.
"Sort of. Anyway, I read for a while then left and I may or may not have tackled some poor legal secretary and nearly got arrested."
"Awesome," she said. "You really should have called me, I would have liked to have seen that."
"It wasn't really that exciting," he explained what happened and she laughed. He wondered if she was in the quarters he usually slept in or the really girly ones that were hers.
"What did you do rest of the time?" She asked and he felt the lump coming back but ignored it.
"I hung around the SHIELD base for 2 days, bored stiff, went to my psych evals, and I took Gator's body back to wife and daughter," even he could tell how flat his voice sounded.
"You should have let me come with you," she whispered.
"You were supposed to stay with the Avengers, besides, they didn't know you not like Squawk's family," he mumbled, trying valiantly not to remember telling Retired General Coulson and Mrs. Coulson that their only son was dead. If he had ever before wondered what it felt like to have his heart ripped out, that day showed him.
"You still should have called me," she sounded annoyed.
"Sorry," he apologized and meant it.
"Good, not knowing where you are makes me jumpy," he could hear the half smile in her voice but his own mouth refused to mimic it.
"If it makes you feel better I puked in the airport," he tried to joke. For some reason she tended to laugh at him when he was sick.
"Good, serves you right," she continued on, talking about some dress she thought about getting if she had to play a high roller again and for the first time in days, he felt his back and shoulders start to relax.
"Thank you, Natashen'ka," he finally whispered to her.
"You're welcome, Cossack."
Saturday August 19th 6:05pm, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY
Clint ached all over as he slouched in the chair. He hadn't taken his pain meds that morning because frankly he was tired of feeling pukey. Of course without them, his face and hand hurt like a mother fucker but on top of that, his head ached, his bones felt sore, and his muscles were tender. He would be worried but he knew it was from lack of sleep. He had tried again last night, to simply lie down and rest but it hadn't worked, AGAIN. He had spent most of the night pacing the halls of the base.
He was starting to feel physically ill from not sleeping and it was wearing on him. He didn't know why he couldn't sleep. He wasn't afraid of nightmares, he wasn't in that much pain, and he didn't feel scared or unsafe. He just couldn't fucking fall asleep and it was driving him bat shit crazy.
"Hello, Agent Barton," Lipinski greeted him from his seat. Clint grunted at him, no longer even bothering to be pleasant. He guessed he could add irritability to his list of complaints about not sleeping. Well to be fair there was a 50/50 chance that was caused by wanting a goddamn cigarette. "How are you doing today?"
"About the same as usual," he intoned. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears but to fair, he hadn't talked to anyone since he had talked to the doctor yesterday. He couldn't help rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his eyes. His eyelids felt like sandpaper and his peripheral vision was swimming, meaning he probably had horizontal gaze nystagmus.
"You look tired, how are you sleeping?"
"Ok," he answered, then finished with, "except I'm not."
"Your file mentioned you suffered from chronic insomnia, is that correct?"
"I chronically have problems falling asleep," he answered, seeing no reason and being too tired to lie.
"When was the last time you had a good night's sleep, we'll say more than 6 hours and sleeping off anesthetic doesn't count," he added. The little shit must have guessed he was going to say the night he came back.
"Good question, April, I think, before I had to leave for Cambodia." He remembered 2 nights before he had shipped out, he and Natasha had gone to bed early, and had a really fun night. He had slept quite deeply after she put him through his paces and he had woken up with her still in his arms. It had been a good morning. He missed her, he probably wouldn't be so damn high strung if she were around. Almost without realizing it, he started to bounce his leg, and old nervous tick. He had to force himself to stop.
"You seem jittery, too much coffee?"
"I don't drink coffee, it keeps me up," again the truth. Plus he never had really liked it. He was more of an ice tea person.
"I'm going to write you a prescription for something to help you sleep," Lipinski started to grab for his pad.
What the fuck was it with these guys and trying to drug him? "What are you going to give me because I already have enough bottles full of sleeping pills to probably kill a baby elephant?"
"This is a non standard sleeping pill, it's called Amitriptyline. I think it will help you."
"Don't bother, I won't take it," he looked the doctor straight in the eyes. He had taken it once before, when he had first come to SHIELD and Squawks had forced him to go and get something to help him sleep. It had made him sleepy alright to the point of near narcolepsy, made his hands shake, and made his ears ring constantly until he thought about gauging out his ear drums with a screw driver just to get some peace and quiet. Not to mention it made him think that stabbing himself in the ear with a screw driver was a good idea. After that Coulson marched into his room and threw them away and handed him some Benadryl and told him to try that.
"I think it will help you feel better," the doctor tried.
"First off, I'm not depressed nor do I have anxiety problems and second, I have taken it before and I doubt SHIELD wants me with hands too shaky to hold a weapon or my violent thoughts retarded," he explained.
"So you've heard of it?"
"Yes, I took it once a while back and didn't like it."
"Ok, you don't have to take it if you don't want to, how about Ambien, are you ok with that?" Lipinski had that annoying placating the nutcase tone in his of voice. It made it want to say no on principle before he realized that getting annoyed by some random doctor's tone of voice meant he probably did actually need the sleeping pills.
"I'm ok with that," he conceded and the doctor scribbled on his tablet.
He held his hand out for it, trying to remember if there was a pharmacy in this base or not. Lipinski refused to hand it to him though, "I do disagree with your assertion that you don't have anxiety problems, though."
"Do I look anxious to you?" Clint asked, ignoring the niggling honest part of himself that remembered how uncomfortable he was in the airport or on the street in the City. That wasn't anxiety though, it was just him detoxing from a long mission. It was perfectly normal to need a few days to get your equilibrium back after being in very heavy combat for 4 months. He did not need to be medicated.
"Let's cut the bullshit, shall we, Agent Barton. I've sat here for 4 days and listen to you tell me half truths and bald face lies because you are unwilling or unable to talk about what happened. Of course we both know that these sessions are pointless because you aren't ready to process any of the feelings the mission brought up in you. That's fine, because all you or Fury care about is making sure I sign off on you being fit for duty. But don't lie to yourself. You damn well know you were diagnosed with PTSD and borderline disassociative behavior disorder your first year in the Army," he finally snapped.
"I have always disagreed with that. I don't have flashbacks," ok that was another bald face lie because he had them after being water boarded in fact he had had a hard time even letting water hit him in the face in the shower, after being in that Iranian Prison with Gator, after Loki, and fuck after watching his parents die and having one of the counselors at the orphanage forcibly sodomize him two times a week every week for 4 months. He had however NEVER told anyone but Squawks and Tasha.
"Well, allow me to enlighten you, clinically you can still present and be diagnosed with PTSD even in the absence of one of the symptoms as long as another present significantly. So for example, in your case, you may not admit to flashbacks but your level of sleep disturbances, hypervigilence, and your frankly staggering emotional numbing make up for it. "
"I'm fine, Doctor," he intoned, trying to sound convincing.
"Of course you, Agent," at least he handed over the prescription.
Sunday August 20th 10:59am, SHIELD Base, NYC, NY
"Have you talked to any of the others involved in the Avengers Initiative?" Lipinski asked right off the bat
"No."
"Why not?" the doctor scribbled again and Clint didn't bother to read it.
"I don't have any reason to," it was true, mostly. He had no mission critical reason to talk to any of them.
"Friends usually talk to each other, even if there is no reason. They haven't called to check on you?" he threw out and Clint thought about lunch, hoping they had some good soup. His nose still hurt, when he chewed.
"They aren't my friends, they are co workers," he defended. It was true, he wasn't really friends with any of them, maybe Steve a little bit but they didn't care about him. If they cared at all, they would have listened when he and Natasha said they didn't want this mission. He suspected they liked him even less now.
"Doesn't that make trusting them in combat difficult?"
"No, I trust their skills and abilities during combat. I don't have to be friends with them or even like them to do that."
"How do you define a friend, Agent Barton?" Lipinski pushed his glasses up his nose.
"As someone you like and trust off the battle field and that likes and trusts you," he tried, not sure if it was accurate or not.
"According to that definition, how many friends do you have?"
He thought about it for a moment. "I had two, now I have one." Coulson was gone, that just left Tasha.
"How do you decide who is going to be your friend?" This line of questioning was very odd. He wasn't sure how he needed to answer to stay under the radar.
"I don't know. I guess I look for someone that I can trust with things I don't trust other people with." Someone he could show his darker side too and wouldn't run away. Someone he could show his softer side too and wouldn't call him weak. Someone he could be Clint with rather than Hawkeye or Agent Barton, even though Clint wasn't perfect.
"And you don't feel like you can trust the other Avengers with things you can't trust others with?" He thought about Cap's hurt look when he reminded him he wasn't in the Army anymore, Tony's shocked look as he killed those children, Rhodey's placating look as he held Stark by the neck, and Pepper's look of pity as they boarded the plane. No, he wished he could but he realized that they couldn't or wouldn't accept him with his faults, only the positively, perfect Hawkeye. But frankly what was the point of getting close to people he may one day have to assassinate? It was just an exercise in masochism, having friends.
"Does it matter? I don't have to like them to work with them," he asked, rather than answering.
"I don't know, does it?"
TBC (one part left)