Spy Daddy
*******
Clint wakes up in the hospital in restraints, and that, in itself, is not unusual. He has a history of waking up badly, of coming back to consciousness swinging, fighting, his body trained since childhood to respond to the end of dreams with an immediate broadcast of runrunrunrunrun.
What he is not used to is being restrained because the medical personnel is completely convinced that he is mentally ill.
He feels awful; his body feels like its been through hell, but Clint immediately knows there is something else. His need for self control has always been so complete that he shuns anything that would alter his thinking, his reactions--he hates to even take Tylenol if he can avoid it, caffeine being his one and only vice--so he recognizes the effect of drugs right away.
And he is absolutely awash in them. There is a hyper real yet faraway quality to everything, as if he is viewing the world through five layers of slightly warped glass. His arms and legs don't seem to want to respond to his brain in a timely manner. Of course, there's not much they can do anyway, being tied down, as is his middle, a wide velcro strap pinning him snugly to the bed while also undoubtedly shaping his waistline quite nicely. A low buzzing rings constantly in his ears and he shakes his head back and forth, trying to drive the sound out.
"Hey," a voice says far too loudly, a man's face suddenly close to his, appearing out of nowhere. He flinches back in surprise and sees the man--he's a doctor, if the stethoscope and white jacket are any indication--frown minutely, sharp eyes cataloging his every response. "Can you hear me?"
He tries to answer but can only manage "......uhhh?" The doctor keeps shining a penlight in his eyes and Clint wonders vaguely how long it would take for the tiny light to burn a hole in his cornea if the doctor never moved it away.
"You're in the hospital. You've had a psychotic episode. But you're safe now, we're going to keep you safe."
I'm not crazy, he wants to protest, but the message short circuits somewhere between his brain and his mouth and evaporates, leaving him with nothing but a garbled mash of vowels and soft consonants.
The doctor frowns, shines the light in his eyes again.
*******
They must give him different drugs then, or more the first kind, a lot more, because things go very watery.
He's aware of someone, or a pair of someones, manhandling him into a shower while talking cheerfully to each other about weekend plans and someone named Fred.
A television drones on and on, some sort of daytime game show playing interminably.
Next he hears someone speaking very loudly and snapping their fingers near his eyes. Reflexively Clint reaches out to grab that hand and break those goddamned fingers, but he's slow--horribly, frighteningly slow. He not only fails to grab the hand but misses it entirely, instead knocking the person limply in the chest with a half curled fist. The person makes a surprised sound, however, so it's sort of a win.
Then there's nothing for a really long time until a man's voice, gruff and croaky, but soothing all the same, is encouraging "That's it, atta baby, open up" and feeding him oatmeal so flavorless that it's like eating pure texture instead of food. But it's something, something real and not so distressingly dreamlike, and Clint latches onto the moment the best he can. He swallows the food and tries to open his eyes to see the person in front of him, only to realize a few moments later that his eyes are already open, have likely been open the whole time, and the man wavers into an unsteady focus.
He's brawny and bald and his hospital scrubs don't cover the tattoos that peek out of his collar and sleeves. There's even a few up behind his ears, and Clint thinks to himself that it's just the right amount of ink, just the right sort of person to wake up to. This guy looks like he could be mean as hell if he wanted to be, but he isn't; instead spooning oatmeal carefully into a mental patient's mouth. This is the kind of guy that Clint Barton can get behind, can understand. His mouth twitches up into a smile that feels weak and shaky from disuse.
The man pauses in surprise and then smiles back. A good smile, with a missing top canine that adds to the charm. "Hey, buddy. Are you looking at me? Lookin' at me for real?"
Clint's throat is all thick with oatmeal and he has to clear it a few times before struggling out "...Yeah?"
"Kickass," the man proclaims earnestly, grinning again. "Let's get the rest of this goop in you and then I'll get the doctor."
*******
"Can you tell me your name?"
They must have him as Coughlin, the name that SHIELD had paired long ago with his fingerprints, the one that pops up whenever he lands in civilian hospitals. But he hasn't used it in a long time, and everything's so wobbly that he struggles to come up with the corresponding first name. "Scott?" he answers, hating how it comes out as a question. The name sounds right, though. Familiar. "Scott," he says again. "Scott Coughlin."
The doctor frowns. "Your name is Clint Barton. Isn't that right?"
Clint stiffens, hopes the shock doesn't show on his face. That name shouldn't be anywhere, should belong only to a foster care kid who ran away ages ago and never resurfaced. SHIELD had seen to that, Clint's sure of it. He wonders then if this is all some sort of trick, someone using drugs and fake doctors to get him to give up information.
"I....uh...." His mind is so sluggish that he can't recover his conversational footing, unsure about how to respond next and undoubtedly broadcasting that confusion with the world's worst poker face. They obviously know his name; he's accidentally told them, or someone else did. The only thing accomplished by arguing the point will be to make himself look crazier. "Yeah. Clint."
"Why did you say your name was Scott?"
Clint shrugs. Only one of his shoulders responds jerkily. The other hurts. He looks down at his arm and realizes it's in a cast. Huh. Okay.
"Do you remember being brought here?"
He doesn't. The last thing he remembers is them gearing up to go...somewhere. Almost certainly a mission, because he'd had his bow along. They had seen something terrible, and then there's a long string of vaguely formed memories that he can't catch or organize at all. "No," he admits.
"You attacked someone," the doctor tells him, then asks, "Do you know why you did that?"
"No." God, it could have been for a number of reasons. The person could have been HYDRA or AIM or someone from any period of his life looking to settle a score. Or maybe Clint was being mugged and just defended himself. That's a possibility, right? "Who?" he manages finally.
"I don't know who it was; you were fighting a man in the street. He broke your arm. You cut him quite badly with a knife."
"Oh." He doesn't remember that at all, but it doesn't sound completely out of character, and, frankly, like an appropriate response to someone breaking his arm. "Sorry," he adds, because it seems rude not to.
"Can you tell me why you were fighting?"
"No." There's a vague memory of taking a walk somewhere and being angry at Tony. And then sparring with Steve on the sidewalk, which doesn't sound quite right. Surely it hadn't been Steve he was fighting. Steve would never break his arm, and he would certainly never cut Steve with a knife. He swallows uncomfortably. Those memories aren't right. They can't be true.
"You were taken to the emergency room and were so out of control that they had to restrain you," the doctor goes on, unaware of Clint's climbing unease. "You've been here since. Where do you live, Clint? Are you under a doctor's care?"
I live in Avengers Tower and my primary care physician is the Incredible Hulk, Clint longs to say, and struggles with the imulse to both laugh and cry at the absurdity of the situation--being in a hospital drugged to the gills and unable to tell the truth about anything without appearing crazier.
*******
He feels a little less zombiefied a few days later, as he adjusts somewhat to the torrent of antipsychotics they force on him. He's finally able to string together whole sentences between huge waves of doped up sleep and attempts to talk his way free.
"I refuse medical care," he tries, and "I want to check myself out. I want to leave the hospital." Each time the doctor just smiles sympathetically and shakes his head and tells him he has to stay for his own good, until he's stable, that they just want to 'make him better'. Clint hears those words so often that he thinks he might develop a Pavlovian vomit response.
He tries not to take the pills, palms them from the cup with shaky hands or hides them in his cheek, but the bald nurse--whose name is Jerry and was in a biker gang before he found Jesus--is a pro and has probably forgotten more medication tricks than Clint Barton ever knew. He has all the drugs switched to liquid form and then Clint can't get out of taking them.
He asks and Jerry tells him he's been in the hospital almost three weeks. It's unbelievable that SHIELD hasn't come to get him yet. Clint is admitted under his own name, for God's sake; it's not like he's exactly hidden away. There's a slight terror that maybe SHIELD stuck him here on purpose--the lost time before waking up here is concerning--but he chalks that paranoia up to the drugs and refuses to acknowledge it. If SHIELD did decide to cut him loose as a bad asset, they wouldn't go about it this way. And even if they did, Natasha would come get him. He's sure of it.
Well, pretty sure of it. There's still that troubling memory of him fighting Steve, and possibly Tony.
Clint can't dredge up Natasha's phone number from his soupy memory, but he can remember the SHIELD emergency number--he could probably recite that fucker with full amnesia as many times as Coulson had made him practice it. Jerry gamely calls for him but then apologizes and hangs up immediately when the person on the other end chirps "Leanne's Washateria--we're open 24 hours a day and have a change machine on site!"
"Let me talk to them," Clint begs. "Or just say my name. Just say 'Barton'. They know me." But the nurse doesn't go for it.
"Let's not waste the lady's time, huh?" he advises kindly. "Who did you think was gonna answer?"
"My...uh...family."
"You know, it's okay if you don't have anyone to call. You can just tell me that, there's no shame in it."
"It's the right number," Clint insists. "They can't answer their phone openly." He knows how helpless and foolish he sounds, and the hilarity of it hits him all at once. "They're spies," he confides, fighting a bout of hysterical laughter. "I'm a spy, too. A super spy!" He does laugh this time, so hard that tears spring to his eyes. He tries to wipe them away and ends up poking himself in the nose instead with uncoordinated fingers. "Ouch." He laughs some more.
"It's okay, kiddo," Jerry says, patting his arm and looking a little sad.
Clint realizes that actually his whole life sounds pretty funny. "Remember about a year ago, that dick that came and tore up New York City? I helped him; I was there. I almost brought down an invisible flying aircraft carrier with a bow and arrow. I tried to help aliens conquer the world, and I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't been for those pesky Avengers!" He shakes his fist dramatically, still grinning, then adds "My best friend smashed my face into a rail and then sucker punched me. That's our cure for crazy. Hey, Jerry, how about YOU punch me in the face and see if it helps?"
The nurse just raises his eyebrows and later that day there are additional medications added to an already sizeable list.
Whoever claimed that honesty is the best policy has obviously never been forcibly committed.
*******
The doctor wants him to draw a picture about his feelings. Clint grits his teeth and says nothing, because there is literally no artistic way to convey the shit sandwich that his life has become. He considers drawing a picture of himself pointing and grinning at the corpse of the doctor--good old Dr. Pillpusher with x's over his eyes and his tongue lolling out--then decides that might not be his best idea. Clint draws a rainbow instead, disturbed by the shakiness of the lines, the way his hand has trouble gripping the stupid giant crayons.
The doctor looks at the picture doubtfully. "What does this represent to you? Can you write it out?"
Clint sighs as quietly as he can, then scrawls out 'Peace. Love. Tranquility. Excellent mental health.' He probably shouldn't add the last part, but can't resist. Then he blinks in horror to realize half of his letters are transposed, and all the printing almost illegible. 'Tranquility' has come out 'tarqillnty' and is so crooked that it looks like it is dripping down into the red part of his rainbow.
He needs to get out of here.
That night he has the vague idea of tying his blankets together and jumping out the window. It's so badly thought out and poorly executed that he never gets beyond a few clumsy knots, and he thinks that Natasha would die of second hand embarrassment if she knew. But instead of Natasha seeing him, the night nurse does, and she assumes it's a noose he is attempting to create.
They tie Clint down again and blast him off to pharmaceutical heaven.
*******
He's laying in bed but if feels like he's on a boat, rocking on the ocean. He hears angry shouts that sound a little familiar, and that might be worrisome if anything was capable of bothering him right now. Instead he just drifts and listens to the ringing in his ears.
A man's face suddenly looms down over his.
Clint closes his eyes and would push him away but his hands are still cuffed. The man grumbles and takes off the restraints and lifts him up easily with strong arms. When the room tilts and dips Clint tries desperately to catch himself, accidentally throwing an elbow into the man's throat and knocking himself in the face with his own casted arm.
"Goddamn modern medical bullshit!" the man hisses, and drops him bonelessly into a wheelchair, pushing him carefully back upright when Clint sags over the armrest. "Sit your ass up, Barton, and if you drool on me, I will pop your cracked-out head straight off your neck!"
His voice is angry but his hands are gentle, and Clint recognizes him at last. He manages to open his eyes just in time to see Dr. Pillpusher cross his arms and frown from the doorway.
"Spyyyyyyy," Clint slurs at the doctor triumphantly, jerking his thumb to point behind himself towards his savior. "I told you guys. Spy. Came for me. He's my Spy Daddy."
"You are a gigantic pain in my ass, Clint Barton," Nick Fury growls, and takes him away.