Chapter Text
7/27/2015
Director Nicholas Fury
Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division
219 West 47th Street
17th Floor, Suite 9
New York City, NY 10036
Director Fury,
As per your request, please find outlined below the findings reported following the neuro-biopsychosocial assessment of subject 7071-0014504, completed by Dr. Chantal Brooks-Quenneville, Director of the Psychiatric Intensive Critical and Criminal Care Unit (PICCC-U), located at S.H.I.E.L.D Headquarters, 4th Floor, Suite 2.
Following extensive neurological testing, psychological assessments, magnetic resonance imaging, medical and blood workups, along with consultations and oversights by Asgardian law enforcement and healers throughout the process, it has been determined that subject 7071-0014504 was not operating under his own conscious will during the time frame of his engagement with S.H.I.E.L.D operatives in 2012. It has been determined that the majority of neurological faculties required to make independent decisions were under duress by an unidentified outside factor.
All test results were within meaningful range to be comparable to the results of subjects 3517-537715 and 07147-845704, respectfully. It is this clinician’s recommendation that subject 7071-0014504’s identification of “Terrorist Threat Level 1A” be reconsidered, as the subject currently shows comparable results to above named subjects and does not appear to be a risk of harm to self or others. Above named subjects are currently identified as “Threat Level 0” in case a reminder is necessary.
Please do not hesitate to reach out with any further questions.
Dr. Chantal Brooks-Quenneville, PsyD, PhD
Director of PICCC-U
Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division
*
Clint read the folded photocopy again, slower this time, allowing himself to parse out the information and sort it out fully in his sleep-addled brain as he went line by line, rather than trying to stuff it all in at once. Upon his second, slower read, he took it upon himself to step back into his apartment, thinking it wise to close the door behind him so that he could have his panic attack in peace (or at least in privacy, as to not freak out the neighbors).
“I should make coffee,” he muttered to himself, even as he was sliding downward toward the ground, his back to the door, knowing full well that his legs wouldn’t be able to carry him to the kitchen to do so. “I should really, really make some coffee.”
Lucky plodded over to him then, sensing something was off no doubt, and while the coldness and wetness of his nose did manage to keep Clint from losing his grounding completely, not even Lucky could keep his breaths from shortening. In a matter of seconds Clint was reduced to near hyperventilating, his lungs on fire as they tried to draw in as much air as possible in quick, rapid bursts, the photocopy that he had found taped to the outside of his door now crumpled in his fist even though he had taken such care to fold it back along its perfect creases.
Clint wasn’t sure what to do with his eyes, and that was the most panic inducing thought. If he kept them open, there were too many things to see, too many open spaces to take into account and too much input, but if he closed them? If he closed them, he wasn’t sure what color they would be when they opened, and that thought was so, so much worse.
“Fuck. Fuck. What color are his eyes? They were blue, they were goddamn blue, but are they blue?” Clint rambled, to himself or to Lucky he couldn’t be sure, but hearing the words as they tumbled from his own lips did nothing to help quell the rising panic in his chest. He did close his eyes, then, remembering to imagine the brick wall that he had built in his mind’s eye countless times over the previous half-decade, one of the more worthwhile skills that he had learned in his mandated therapy sessions after the battle of New York.
The bricks in his mind were rustic, brownish red, and he knew that they belonged to the side of a building that he had spent days and nights leaning against whenever the circus would set up their usual haunt in some bumfuck town in Missouri. Why that brick wall, he didn’t know and frankly he had never taken the time to really care. Clint focused on it, leaning against his door, forcing air into his lungs, fighting against the barrage of images trying to assault his mind.
It worked with time, as it usually did. After however many minutes passed (Clint couldn’t be sure), he brought his free hand up to his throat to feel his pulse. Satisfied that his heart rate was under 100 beats per minute, he inhaled as fully as possible, the expanding of his lungs creating a smooth tension, a dull ache beneath his breastplate, an indicator that he was fine and that this anxiety hadn’t managed to do him in this time, either.
Clint cracked his eyes open slowly, focusing on his socked feet directly in front of his body, zeroing in on the whiteness of them before opening his eyes completely. Satisfied that nothing was even tinged cerulean in the slightest, Clint leaned his head back against the door, where it thunked ever so slightly. By his side, Lucky let out a low whine.
Clint buried his hand in the dog’s fur. “It’s alright, bud. I know, it’s been a minute since you’ve seen me freak out like this. Didn’t mean to worry your little mutt head.” He scratched behind Lucky’s ears for a beat before bracing himself to stand, ensuring his balance once on his feet and only then putting one foot in front of the other, carrying himself numbly to the kitchen, Loki’s psychological test results still clutched in one blanched, aching fist.
*
“Tash, I get that you’re trying to be, I dunno, reassuring or something for reasons that I don’t quite understand, but c’mon. Give me some credit, I’m not a goddamn idiot, contrary to popular belief,” Clint said, phone on speaker where it rested on the countertop as he focused both on his conversation with Natasha while also trying not to scald himself as he poured himself a mug of coffee. “You think I’d ever forget my subject number? I needed it to sign into my therapy appointments. Besides, context clues. Hello. Superspy assassin, just like you.”
Natasha made an amused sound on the other end of the line. “Just like me? You’re not an idiot, I’ll give you that, but that sounds like a challenge.”
Clint groaned. “Not the time. Thanks for trying to distract me, but I’m feeling a bit up in smoke here, Nat.”
A sigh. “Fine. I don’t know what you want me to say, Clint. I don’t think you need my validation. The assessment is obviously talking about you and Selvig as the comparison subjects, and I won’t pretend that there’s any mystery as to whose results these are.” Natasha fell silent, and Clint used the opportunity to take a long pull of his coffee. It burned on the way down. He didn’t appreciate how his hands shook around the mug.
“I’ve been telling you for years to put up surveillance in that damn ramshackle hut you call an apartment complex. Think you’ll finally listen to me now?”
Clint snorted. “You would find a way to turn this into an ‘I told you so’ moment. It’s a real skill. You should add it to your resume. Master assassin, former S.H.I.E.L.D Special Operative, Avenger, Righteous Asshole.”
Through his hearing aids and all, Clint could practically catch her smirk through the phone. “Tell me I’m wrong. If you’d been a responsible building owner, you’d have installed security ages ago. But no, your big head got in the way. I will say that the fact you’re being a dick is making me feel like you’ll be just fine, though.” Another pause, a moment of hesitation. “Right?”
Silence fell across the line as Clint debated between being completely honest, lying through his teeth or walking a line somewhere in between.
“I dunno. There was so much comfort in knowing who to blame, in having a face and a fucking monster to hate for what I did. I don’t really know what to do with the thought that I’ve been hating another victim this whole time.” The moment the honest answer left his mouth, Clint wanted to swallow the words back; they tasted bitter on his tongue.
“Survivor. Cut the victim bullshit, it’s been years since a slip like that. What would your therapist say?” Natasha’s voice was rigid. Clint gripped the cup harder, annoyance sluicing through him.
“Gee, Nat, I don’t know and I can’t really say I give a damn right now. Allow a bit of a backslide given that I’ve just had my entire fucking trauma rewired, or what’s the fucking word, reframed from under my ass, will ya? Christ.” He could tell that he was being harsh with her, and he took a breath to apologize; instead, he kept going.
“And fine, so, what, Loki’s a ‘survivor’ like me ‘n Selvig, that’s just great. Knowing that isn’t just going to make every association I’ve ever had with the greasy haired asshole just poof, disappear, and now guess what I get to do, Natasha?”
“You get to wonder who was controlling all of you.”
“Ding ding fuckin’ ding. See, not an idiot, just like you aren’t. And, AND, not only that, but I also get to stay awake nights wonderin’ who scotch-taped this cursed goddamn crooked-as-shit photocopy to my door in the first place.” Clint sighed and drained the rest of his coffee before setting it down in the sink. He rested his forehead on the cool countertop. “And I get to wonder that because I didn’t install stupid security cameras. I’m sorry for being a jerk.”
“No, I partially deserved that. Some of it, at least. I guess I shouldn’t pretend to know how to be a psychiatrist after attending one therapy appointment with you in, what was that, 2013? Let’s call it an even ledger.”
Clint hummed his agreement, and Natasha continued.
“Is there anything you need? I can do a little bit of digging with Hill. With S.H.I.E.L.D files essentially having been wiped last year, I don’t know if she’ll have any idea how someone managed to get their hands on something from 2015, but I’ve seen her work some magic before. And I’m pretty sure I can convince her not to tip off Fury if you don’t want her to.”
Clint started nodding his assent before he realized that Nat couldn’t see him. Right. “Yeah, that’d be good. Don’t kill yourself, I don’t expect any miracles and I don’t need you getting your wrists tapped. You managed to get out of this Accords nonsense without house arrest; you gotta stay free, or else who’s gonna bring me pizza, beer and overpriced coffee?”
“It’s called DoorDash, Clint.”
Clint snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, bud. You gonna be hangin’ out with your handsome beau over there at the compound for awhile?”
“Do you want to tell Wilson what you just said? Or should I? Oh, please, please let me do it, I don’t want to miss the look on his face when he decides to kick your ass in, what is it now, 17 months when the monitors come off?”
“Pleasant, thanks for that.”
“Bye, Barton.”
“Romanov.”
When the call ended, Clint was again left alone with only Lucky for company. He felt more settled, however, and he was grateful for Natasha and her ability to soothe him with her knowledge of him and his needs; distraction via taunting, humor, escalation, confirmation of his own competence. He missed her something fierce and allowed a few moments of self-beration for deciding to serve his two-years of house arrest at the complex in Bed-Stuy rather than at the compound with Sam, Wanda and Steve.
“Scott has his kid, you’ve got your...this place, these people,” he reminded himself under his breath, not for the first time, and likely not for the last.
Feeling calmer and safer within his own skin, Clint stretched where he stood in the kitchen, put his phone in the pocket of his sweats and went to put on some real clothes before taking Lucky downstairs in order to get one of the Harrington kids to take him for his morning walk. On his way out of the kitchen, the ball of paper on the countertop caught his eye. Clint stilled, and stared.
When he threw the psychological assessment into the trash, it was from across the room and over his left shoulder, blind. It was a clean land.
*
Three days passed.
They passed like most of the other days had over the previous seven months of Clint’s house arrest; the minutes felt like hours, and then all too suddenly the day was over, as though it hadn’t even had the chance to really start. Time didn’t make sense on house arrest, Clint had learned quickly, and so he’d stopped trying to make sense of it. He’d picked up the habits of eating when hungry instead of trying to stick to any kind of schedule; he read or drew mockups of new arrow designs when his mind buzzed with boredom, and exercised in his bedroom when his body shook with apathy. He’d taken to spending time tending to the small garden on the roof and fixing things around the complex; he had free reign for the most part, and only lost signal to his ankle monitor in the basement and in Ms. Jones’ kitchen in 3B.
On the third evening after Clint’s history had been thoroughly twisted inside out, he decided to treat himself to ordering takeout from the somewhat expensive Indian place uptown; he had barely slept in the last seventy hours, had eaten a few bites here and there, and his body had started aching at that point from being on high alert whenever he so much as heard someone walk by his apartment door, or a voice carry through the window from the street below.
He deserved some goddamn comfort tikka masala, dammit.
Twenty minutes after placing his order there was a knock on the door, and Clint’s stomach rumbled, a conditioned response. It was nearing 10:00 pm (nearing closing time), so Clint made sure to snatch an extra crumpled ten from his wallet as a tip for making the delivery person come out into the neighborhood so late. Money in hand and more than ready(finally ready, after three futzing days) to devour his food, Clint pulled the door open with gusto.
Standing on the other side of Clint’s apartment door, a takeout bag in one hand and the other raised, palm forward and empty, was Loki.
Clint had learned all about trauma responses in therapy. Fight, flight, freeze, fawn, or a combination. Sometimes predictable, sometimes not. Clint? He found, through experience, that he cycled between fighting (most of the time) or freezing (occasionally). When he opened the door, expecting to find a delivery person from the Indian place uptown and instead found Loki fucking Odinson or whatever the fuck his name is, Clint responded in an entirely novel way.
He froze. And then he burst out laughing.
“You-” Clint wheezed, unable to look at Loki, unable to do anything but wrap his arms around himself as he drew in a breath, only to continue giggling as he spoke, “-have got to be fucking with me right now.”
He wanted to look up, but instead focused his attention on Loki’s hands. His training was always on, and in that moment, he was grateful.
“You can’t be here,” Clint managed, still squeezing his arms around his own ribs, tears (from laughter? He hoped so) threatening to spill. He noticed how tightly Loki’s fingers were clenched around the handle of the food bag; white and then red, the circulation interrupted. “You have to go. Right now, you have to go.”
“I think,” and oh, fuck, that voice was much louder in reality than it had been in Clint’s head for the last five fucking years, “that you may benefit from sitting down?”
The statement was so out of left field, so unexpected, that it shocked Clint into snapping his head upward, finally looking at Loki full force, head on. Ever the spy, ever the assassin, ever on, Clint took in many minute details at once.
Loki didn’t look a day older than he had in 2012, but he did look different. His cheeks appeared fuller, his skin less sallow, and his hair had grown; even pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck, Clint could tell. It was clean, the shine soft instead of greasy, and Loki hardly looked like Loki dressed in black jeans and a dark grey cashmere sweater. The brightness of his skin, the darkness of his hair and the color of his shirt brought out his eyes, which were locked onto Clint’s beneath the furrow of his brow.
Loki’s eyes shone emerald green, and Clint’s hold on himself broke loose.
Clint quickly slammed the door closed in Loki’s face, latched both locks, and pressed against the door with all of the weight of his body as though Loki was going to start ramming through at any moment.
Green. So green. Undoubtedly green. Not a hint of fucking blue. This is bad. Or good. I don’t know what this is. Why is he here? HOW is he here? Where’s Thor? Green. His eyes a-
A light rap on the door caused Clint to startle.
“Barton?”
Clint clenched his jaw.
“My presence is obviously unwelcome. I was hoping that given some new information, you might’ve been more willing to sit down with me. For conversation, if that wasn’t clear. I-” A pause, and Clint’s mind whirred, because why didn’t Nat or I parse that out? Some super spy assassins we are, fuck.
“I don’t know what you want me to do with your food. While it’s in a bag, I feel unsettled putting it outside of your door. To be frank, the floors out here leave much to be desired in terms of cleanliness.”
There was something about the smug air in Loki’s tone that eased some of the tension out of Clint’s shoulders; the surreality of the God being bitchy about the state of the apartment hallway carpets had a settling effect.
“Did you come here to talk to me about apartment renovations?” Clint choked out, backing away slightly from the door.
“Hardly,” came Loki’s reply, and Clint wondered why he was being so patient, why he hadn’t simply magic-ed his way inside yet. His gut squirmed uncomfortably at the thought, and sweat prickled at his brow. “What I did come to discuss with you cannot be discussed effectively through a door however, I’m afraid.”
Clint didn’t move. Loki didn’t speak. Minutes passed, and nothing happened aside from the sound of shuffling on the other side of Clint’s door. Adding together the logistics in his head, Clint figured that Loki had hung the takeout bag on the doorknob.
“I’ll be leaving you, then. I suppose this all has been a shock; I will say, don’t be surprised when I return, because I will. The persistence, which I’ve been told is an obnoxious trait, was always all me, so I’ll be back, unless you tell me not to return, in which case I’ll find another way to say what I must. The control is yours, Agent Barton.”
With that sentiment, Clint heard Loki’s footsteps as they began to retreat down the apartment hall. Rather than feeling a decrease in his anxiety, however, Clint felt the pressure in his chest start to ratchet back up incrementally as the seconds ticked by, and the footsteps grew fainter.
All test results were within meaningful range to be comparable to the results of subjects 3517-537715 and 07147-845704, respectfully.
“The control is yours, Agent Barton.”
I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of freezing.
His eyes are green.
“Fuck, this is gonna be bad,” Clint whispered to himself, unlocking and opening the door.
“Loki - wait.”