Colombia

Less than a week had passed since Clint was brought back to the DC base and already he was making life hell for any of his attending nurses and especially Dr. Graley. The archer, used to having little to no downtime, was chomping at the bit to get out of the hospital bed and back onto the range. Graley was standing next to Clint’s bed, clipboard in hand, in another heated argument with the stubborn archer.

“I told you, I don’t need the pain meds anymore!” Clint’s voice lashed out at the doctor, he was tired of being confined to the bed, tired of staring at the same four white washed walls, as everyone tip toed around him like he was going to break any second. The only ones who treated him halfway normal were Phil and Natasha, the latter had been spending an abnormal amount of time hanging around his room, and Clint was beginning to get suspicious.

“Barton, be reasonable. You had surgery to remove a bullet from your gut less than ten days ago! You should barely be moving let alone being taken off all medications!” Graley waved his clipboard around, clearly exasperated with the agent in front of him, whose attitude had returned full force after the effects of Campos’ drug had worn off.

“I don’t care how long ago it was! I told you and I’ll tell you again. No more meds. Or so help me God, I will walk right out of this medical wing.” The archer crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw set stubbornly, and Graley knew he would make good on his threat. Graley released a long sigh, knowing there was no way he would be able to talk the kid out of this.

“Can I just ask why you’re refusing them? I know you are still hurting, even with the dosage that you’re on.” Graley softened his voice, trying to emulate the way Coulson talked with the kid, hoping to get a response out of him. But the second the words were out of his mouth Clint’s eyes darkened dangerously as his trademark blank mask fell back down over his features.

“Get out.” Clint’s vocal cords had healed from the bouts of screaming during his hallucinations and the words came out growled and deep, leaving no room for argument. Graley wanted to smash his head with his clipboard, he didn’t know how Coulson could deal with the kid who had mood swings more mercurial than the weather back in his home state of Nebraska. Graley simply sighed again and turned around to walk out of the room. As he shut the door behind him he looked up to find Phil standing in front of him.

“He’s that bad huh?” His friend questioned him, sympathy in his voice.

“Yeah, he wants to be pulled off the painkillers I have him on, and won’t even tell me why.” Graley looked at Phil, feeling helpless. “I know he still hurts, he thinks he’s really sneaky and stoic, but I can read him like a book Phil, the kid is still in a lot of pain, but is refusing help. What do I do?”

He spread his hands out, hoping his friend would have a better idea than holding Clint down as they forced the painkillers down his throat. Phil shifted on his feet slightly, feeling as if he had neglected the archer the past couple days as he tried to track down who had sent the assignment to Fury.

“I’ll talk to him okay? And if he refuses them there is nothing we can do about it but respect his wishes. Who knows, maybe a few miserable days in pain and he will change his mind.” Graley shook his head, knowing as well as Phil did that there was no one as stubborn as Clint and he would not be changing his mind, even if it killed him.
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Clint stared at the door as it softly clicked shut behind Dr. Graley trying to contain the dark thoughts swirling through his mind. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about his time spent in the dirty cell at Campos’ mercy. He knew Phil had tried to get him to open up several times, but every time he just couldn’t seem to get the words out. How could he tell Phil the horrors he relived in that cell when he just wanted to forget?

The whispered voices in the back of his mind had returned, and every now and again when he looked down he could see the rusty stain of blood coating his hands. It took every ounce of his shattered self control to keep himself from screaming as memories came rushing back, faces from his past crowding around to haunt him, each voice clamoring to be heard, adding on another layer of guilt.

He wouldn’t tell Graley that he wanted to be off the medications because they made him feel hazy, and reminded him of the time he spent as a drooling, hallucinating mess thanks to the drugs Campos kept pushing through his system. He wouldn’t tell the doctor he wanted to be off medications because he felt he needed to suffer through every bit of pain in order to stay sane. He wouldn’t tell the doctor that the pain eased some of the guilt eating away at him. It was easier to snap at Graley than to explain the emotions that Clint wasn’t even sure he understood. He couldn’t explain how fucked he was in the head or he would be locked up.

A soft knock at the door stopped him from venturing farther down that dark path in his mind and he blew out a deep breath at the welcomed interruption. The door opened and his handler stepped inside quiet as always. Clint took a second to observe the dark shadows under Coulson’s eyes and allowed another lance of guilt to cut through him as he realized he had been adding to his handler’s stress, after everything Phil had done for him.

“How are you feeling Barton?” Phil’s voice was even and soft, a soothing balm on his frazzled psyche.

“I’m good.” He forced the two words out, afraid to say much more, knowing the usually strong tether on his emotions was frayed and approaching a breaking point. Phil simply took the archer’s lie in stride as he pulled a chair closer to Clint’s bedside and settled himself in it.

“Want to tell me why Dr. Graley is wanting to pull out his hair and threatening to start drinking on the job for the third time this week?” Phil took advantage of the close range to look over the archer, noting that the bruises had begun to fade, but the haunted look in his eyes was worse than ever. Even his attempt at humor had fallen flat when that usually roused the playful side of Clint, as Phil suspected he not so secretly enjoyed terrorizing the hospital staff.

“I told him I wanted to be taken off all medication.” Phil had to keep himself from flinching at the dead sound of Clint’s voice. He wanted desperately to reach out and soothe the troubled archer, but knew Clint would not approve of that. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into his chair looking at Clint thoughtfully, hoping the scrutiny would cause the kid to crack and reveal his motives. Barton merely raised an eyebrow at his handler, as if to tell him he wasn’t going there.

“If that’s what you really want, I’ll make sure Graley takes you off all medications…” Clint’s eyes swiveled to meet his, a tiny glimmer of hope in his eyes. “On one condition though.” The glimmer of hope disappeared, and was replaced by suspicion.

“What’s the condition?”

“I want you to stay in medical until Graley clears you, none of your usual escape artist shit.” Phil stared his agent down as he watched the indecision cross the archer’s face. Finally Clint nodded his approval.

“Get me off the meds and I’ll do whatever Graley wants.” Phil couldn’t help the way his eyes widened at the determination in Clint’s voice. Something was seriously wrong with the archer, and Phil had no idea how to help. Sensing he had reached the end of the conversation with the stubborn kid Phil stood and began to move to the door.

“I guess I’ll go inform Dr. Graley that he’s to take you off all medications, effective immediately. Try and get some rest Barton, there are a few new recruits who need to be taken down a few notches, and I’m sure you’re getting rusty with all this bed rest.” That got a snort out of the kid who waved his hand dismissively.

“Tell them I’ll take them seriously after they take a bullet for the first time. I’ll be out there soon, they better get practicing.” Phil let out a soft laugh, his redirection had worked, some of the tension drained out of the kid as he laid back against the pillows.

“I’ll be sure to pass your rather intimidating message along.” Phil smirked as the archer flipped him off from his bed.

“Don’t you have other people to antagonize Phil?”It took all of Phil’s training to keep his jaw from dropping, that was the first time Clint had ever used his first name, something that he was coming to learn from both Natasha and Clint was a sign of trust. And judging from the somewhat shocked look on the kid’s face he realized what he did as well.

“Now that you mention it, I do suppose I haven’t tormented Directory Fury nearly enough yet today. Thanks for the reminder.” Phil waved cockily at Clint before he opened the door and stepped outside, just barely catching Clint’s softly spoken,

“Don’t mention it.”
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“Please no!” Clint cried out, cut off by the sound of low dark laughter. He caught the flash of silver out of the corner of his peripheral vision as the blade sank into his chest with a sickening sound as it cut through his flesh. His arms flailed madly as he tried to buck the larger man off of his body.

“Do it again.” The low voice of his brother cut him deeper than any blade ever could, what had he done to make his brother hate him so much? The Swordsman pulled the blade out of his chest and he could feel the blood leaking out of the wound, soaking into his worn tee shirt and onto the straw below him.

A white hot pain erupted across his chest as the blade was drawn across his chest again, leaving a trailing deep wound. Black dots began to dance in his vision as he weakly tried to lift his hands to cover the deepest wound. Laughter danced in his head as the sound of footsteps faded.

“P-please, Barney….. Save me.”
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Clint awoke viciously, a scream trapped in his throat, sweat rolling down his back, as he held a long black blade out in front of him, warding off any potential attack. His keen eyes searched the shadows for any sign of movement as his right hand rubbed at the faded scar that ran across his chest, the phantom pains as sharp as they had been that night five years ago. Once he was sure there was no immediate threat he lowered the blade in his left hand and took a deep breath, trying to get the panic racing through his system under control.

The small room echoed the raspy sounds of his pants, his heart thundered out of control, and with each second that passed Clint could feel the panic spiraling higher. He whipped his feet to the side of the bed and stood quickly, gripping the chair in front of him as his vision wavered and his body protested the sudden movement.

In that moment he didn’t care about the pain, the blind panic was driving him, and he had to get out of the suddenly too small room. He limped across the room and out of the medical wing, using the walls as a crutch until his legs gave out. Slumped against the wall he was able to survey his surroundings and wasn’t surprised when he found himself in the archery range, his personal escape. The motion sensing lights had flicked on when he entered the room and bathed the range in a soft glow.

But the light couldn’t chase away the shadows crowding around in his mind. Whispers swirled insidiously in his head, casting blame and sowing seeds of self hatred, louder and louder the voices rose in volume, each clamoring to lay a list of sins down at his feet. The blade that had been clutched in his hands clattered to the ground as he clapped his hands to his ears, trying to mute the ever growing roar of voices.

“No! No! NO!” He cried out, desperate for relief from the nightmare he couldn’t seem to wake himself from. He lashed out, punching the wall, and the tendrils of pain that shot up his arm quieted the voices slightly. His harried mind grasped onto the pain and he reached to his side, patting the floor around him searching for the knife he dropped.

His fingertips brushed against the blade’s edge as he fumbled for a good grip on the weapon. Once it was firmly in his grasp he brought it up to his thigh and quickly pushed the blade into his flesh, hissing at the sharp bite of pain, before drawing it quickly downwards, the blood welling up from the wound and soaking into the thin cotton shorts he had on.

The roar of voices in his head quieted to a low hum as Clint could feel the blood pouring down his leg from the rather deep cut. But all too soon the sting wasn’t enough and the taunts began to echo through his head again.

“You’re nothing but a killer….. A coward!! You were always the weak one son……” The voice of his father had him lifting the blade and opening another gash alongside the first one. He gritted his teeth at the pain as the blade sliced easily through the muscle of his thigh. He was so focused on his task he didn’t catch the feather light sound of footsteps creeping up beside him until a low husky voice broke the trance.

“Clint, please stop.”

Notes