Nick's DC office is airy. Empty, except for an uncluttered desk, with a wall of windows overlooking the Potomac, letting in light and giving Nick a view of sky and clouds. It shouldn't feel as suffocating as it does, Phil think, standing in front of Nick's desk and declining a seat in favor of gripping the backrest of one the chairs in his hands. Looking calm but for the way his knuckles are pale and his hands tight.
"He doesn't know the different between doms and having a dom," Nick says, elbows resting on the glass of his desk, expression bland and reactionless in the way that Phil associates with bad news and Nick trying to be circumspect about it. "He can't go down without drugs, and he's so conditioned, he's one stern word away from falling in at someone's heels." Nick calls up a file. Rotates the hologram so Phil's not reading it from behind, in mirror-image. "Yours. Mine. I don't think it matters. Maybe he'd even do it for a hard enough neutral."
"You're a monster," Phil tells him, with more exhaustion than heat.
"They made him into a weapon." Nick leans back. Gestures at the data suspended between them--medical records and psych evals and security reports. There's no way to argue with it. Not really. Maybe if Hawkeye hadn't evaded them for so long, or didn't have as long a kill list, or wasn't so extensively programmed. Nick's right. Letting him loose meant putting him out where anyone who wanted to could pick him up and put him right back to the work he'd been doing, and that was if they could get him rehabilitated enough to function on his own, in the regular world, without oversight and clear rules and who knew what else. "A very good weapon. You build a gun, someone's going to want to shoot it."
Phil looks down at his hands. Away, at the river.
"We didn't do it to him, Phil, and at least he's got options now."
"Custody or SHIELD?" Phil asks, and laughs without turning back to Nick.
"Protective custody."
"Some option."
Nick gives him a questioning look. "You want to give him to the WSC instead? Have them send him to some sub correctional facility? Or let him face a fair and just trial? I think we both know how that would go."
Phil takes a breath and lets it out. Echoes, "Fair," in a soft voice and snorts. Shakes his head.
"He could end up in worse places than SHIELD." Nick points out. "It's worked out all right for us, hasn't it?"
"Oh yeah. We have great apartments and missions and some of us have goldfish that even survive the weeks of neglect."
"You need to get out more, Phillip."
It's a nice afternoon. Phil could take that advice, if he didn't have a mountain of paperwork and a dangerous criminal on his hands. A dangerous victim. He sighs. Swallows.
"This isn't your fault," Nick adds.
"We could have caught him sooner." If intelligence hadn't made assumptions and leapt to conclusions. If they'd looked more carefully and given Phil and his team better information. If they'd realized Hawkeye wasn't working alone and had turned their attention to cutting the strings controlling him instead of playing cat and mouse games across rooftops and through alleys, losing and finding him for years because he was only brought out when needed. "Found him sooner," Phil corrects. "Gotten him out of there in time to--"
"Fix him? That's not your job. It's not SHIELD's job."
"Sure. We just eliminate the threat. And repurpose it for our own benefit whenever possible."
"We're giving him a choice."
"You're giving him jail or the army, and you know it."
"It's the same choice a lot of us get."
Not after what's been done to him, Phil thinks, but doesn't say, because Nick's got enough of a point that he's not easy to refute. Hawkeye is a weapon waiting to be picked up and aimed at something, and what damage or good he does will come down entirely to who's doing the pointing. The options are taking up the task, or putting him somewhere out of reach. Maybe at some SHIELD facility with high security and housing at-risk retired agents, or maybe someplace like the Raft. Maybe any spare place they can shove him, if whoever is put in charge of the job prioritizes public safety over fairness and Hawkeye's well-being.
"I can assign him to your team if you like, Phil, but we're in the business of security," Nick says. "Not justice."
"We're monsters," Phil agrees, correcting his earlier assessment, and adds, "I'll think about it."
-----
Hawkeye's not in as trusting a state as he'd been in that small, awkward room the night Phil's team had caught up to him, but he's still quiet and pliable. Passive in a way that's a leaning a little closer to creepy than to willing sub. Eerily silent unless he's asked a direct question, but aware enough to track the personnel that have been assigned to him.
To question him, Phil thinks sourly, but it's not like he has a leg to stand on. The dom moving on Hawkeye's side of the glass is trained medical staff and just sitting at the heavy metal table in the middle of the room--bolted down, to prevent it becoming a weapon--drinking coffee and talking about the goddamn Yankees, of all things. His voice is coming through the speakers in slightly aggravated, conversational tones. He rustles the sports page every so often, scowling like that will change the scores. Keeping his focus on something other than Hawkeye.
Definitely not contemplating how to most efficiently murder him, if necessary.
Hawkeye's watching his own bare foot swing, perched on the edge of his bed, dressed in hospital cotton, with the blankets bunched around him. He looks ruffled and drowsy, and there's a blurry, unfocused look sticking to him, such an obvious a remnant of his past drugging that Phil doesn't know how he could have gone as far as he had. How he could have come so close to putting a bullet in Hawkeye's brain. It's not even that Phil had missed it. It's not that he hadn't understood what the situation was when Kelley had first balked. He'd just been relieved at the ease of the wrap-up and had somehow, in the course of things, forgotten how to be more than SHIELD's trigger finger. He can almost hear himself saying close your eyes for me, pushing everything back with do the job and those are the orders.
He's still trying to tell himself those were the orders, trying to shove everything down and fold it up small enough to cram back inside its box, so he can stop feeling sick with himself and stop coming down here to berate himself for lazy thinking and irresponsible, complacent obedience.
Hawkeye looks up, stilling as he does it, and for a second Phil thinks he's seeing through the two-way glass and into the observation room, but then his gaze focuses a little too far left, before sliding away again. He's just catching his own reflection. Jumping at his own movement in the mirror. His attention's already shifted again, head tilted, watching the dom from the corner of his eye and listening to him calmly expound on the unworthiness of New York baseball. Manipulating Clint as surely as his previous--Masters. Owners. Captors. Any way Phil can come up with to finish that sentence is unsettling, and SHIELD aiming to keep Hawkeye for their own purposes is only a little less wretched. Phil can still see the empty little room, and picture the ugly death he'd somehow convinced himself would be merciful, tidy, and quick. Can see himself turning away from the body and walking out.
Can imagine going home to sort through his kitchen for something to fix a quick dinner with, never giving his actions a second thought. Maybe he'd have watched some TV before going to bed and falling into restless sleep, the way he had after countless other missions.
Hawkeye blinks. Phil's not sure at what. Some word, maybe the movement of the newspaper. He's already still again, eyes back on his foot or the floor beyond it. The room looks cold, and just as bare as his prison had been, but spartan and clean instead of dingy, part sterile hospital white and part interrogation room security. The blankets on the bed are a pale blue, looking even more washed out in the room's artificial lighting, but they're making Hawkeye's eyes seem very bright, picking up the color.
Do you have a name, sweetheart? There'd been no need to know. He could kill Danson.
Or he could fucking kiss Danson. Phil's feelings about it are kind of a blur. Smearing through rage to tired disgust through to grateful relief, with no real boundary to distinguish the change from one emotion to the other.
"I don't want to be that guy," Medical Dom says from the hall, when he exits a while later, newspaper folded up under his arm and coffee mug held dangling from his fingers, like he's been having a leisurely breakfast instead of trying to subtly interrogate Hawkeye. "Who says things like 'that sub needs a dom', but--" He grins, self-effacing, and tucks his free hand into a pocket. Tips his head towards the window. "But there's a guy that needs a dom."
Medical Dom--he's got some stupid name. Stalwart, or something, but he's in a t-shirt instead of proper uniform, so Phil can't verify--comes into the observation room and moves to take up position against the back wall, no doubt watching Phil watch Hawkeye. Probably delivering reports on Phil and his frequent appearances as much as he's reporting on Hawkeye.
Phil wonders, briefly, what and how much he's showing on the surface. How much is visible in his face. If how close he'd come to murdering Clint, or the way he'd almost done it, is in any way apparent.
"Any word on how long we're planning to keep him in a souped-up interrogation room?" Stalwart--Valiant? It's something ridiculous like that--asks, setting his mug down on the sound system control box in casual violation of protocol, then drops his paper next to it. Phil doesn't turn, but he can tell by the sounds. Track the actions and positions. Stalwart is either a great dom or a great interrogator. Maybe a great therapist. Or maybe all of those things. As much as Phil hates to admit it, he's playing the right tune. Hitting the notes that make Phil's urge to snap at him bleed away into numbness.
Which, if he was alone, would be the next best thing to shoving everything back down where it belongs. With a witness, and a witness that's probably sizing him up to report back on, he has to at least pretend to be mentally present and aware. Keep a light on behind his on-duty calm.
"I know we're not planning to integrate him into the milk-buying, apartment-renting general population." There's a scraping noise. The coffee mug being slid or turned, but not lifted. "He's got a murder list as long as my arm."
"They're not his kills," Phil says automatically, even though he knows he's being played. Or prodded, at least. He'd call Yankee fan Stalwart--that's two points against him--on his game, but he's probably got some tidy dodge ready. Some way to turn things back on Phil. There's no way this is just a casual conversation.
Phil takes a breath to sigh, then remembers he's being observed and lets it out slow and silent. On the other side of the glass, Hawkeye hasn't moved much. There's none of the return to life Phil's used to seeing with sub prisoners, once left alone. His eyes scan the room every so often, finding the camera in the corner--and that's at least a sign that he's alert and able to process his surroundings--but other than that he's quiet and keeps his head down, like he's entranced by the pattern on the linoleum, nothing like the Hawkeye Phil had watched wriggle his way out of any number of dead-end situations. Effortlessly sidestepping the traps SHIELD--and Phil--had set for him, to disappear, traceless as vapor, two roofs and an alleyway later. Lithe and cunning as a goddamn fox, and deadly.
Escaping them, only to return willingly to captivity after, like a trained dog coming in from the hunt, pleased to lay himself out at his masters' feet.
Phil's stomach turns, but he swallows back the sour taste crawling up his throat. The observation room smells like stale coffee and cold grease. Like old cigarettes, even though there's officially no smoking on base. Phil had lit up himself during long or difficult interrogations, now and again, and he knows where a pack is likely to be stashed, but he's sure going for it now would give too much away. Instead he chews the inside of his cheek until the urge dissipates.
"There's places that could hold him," Phil says, in delayed response. There are places. Decent places, even. Places that could probably deal with the psychological aspects of forced murder and whatever medical effects long term heavy drug use might have, and those places aren't SHIELD. All SHIELD has is more guns and what may as well be the same situation they'd supposedly just freed Clint from, and the ability to keep anyone else who might want him out.
"SHIELD's not eager to give up its assets, Agent Coulson," Medical Dom says, voice light with false humor, but the statement alone is enough to confirm Phil's suspicions. There's no way a low level agent--even a medical officer--would be given this sort of free access to Hawkeye.
"That's--" Phil starts, finally turning from the glass and the sight of Clint blankly watching the door from beneath lowered eyes. "He's not your asset," Phil says. He sounds tired and hollow instead of angry. It's probably going to show up on a psych report later.
"SHIELD's asset," Stalwart corrects and picks up his mug--a scrape and a click as it leaves the surface of the sound control box.
"Sure," Phil says, "SHIELD's asset," and turns back to the glass to watch Clint continue to not move. Stands there, just as silent as their prisoner, until the anger drains away, leaving him feeling empty and over stretched like a deflated balloon. Pulled slack and out of shape by the pressure it had contained.
-----
There's no good angle, Phil decides, other than the angle that's good for SHIELD, and it would help if the lack of options for what to do with Hawkeye weren't so tactically advantageous. If their best solution could hurt them as well, just a little bit, Phil would have felt a lot better about it.
It's self-serving, to want that kind of easy justice, probably. To be able to pretend that he and SHIELD were making sacrifices and bearing some kind of cost. Instead, his team receives commendations that Phil has to admit are well deserved, much as he wants to turn them down. He can't really deny Green Kelley the boost to his career, when he owes him at least one solid favor. Even with the misinformation they were basing the entire op on, they'd done good work.
"So while we're patting each other’s backs and telling ourselves that making Hawkeye ours is the best thing for him," Phil starts, slouching in a chair in Nicks' office this time, with his suit jacket open and rumpled, and his tie loosened to let him open the top button of his shirt.
"When was the last time you went home?" Nick asks. He doesn't look up from the papers he's sorting. Shuffling them into piles after a quick scan. He doesn't fit behind his desk the way that Phil does his. He looks trapped there and like he should be manning the literal helm of a ship instead of an administrative one. The office is too quiet for him, and devoid of personal effects, like Nick had lost patience settling in and then never bothered with it again.
Phil laughs. Partly at the mental image of Nick decorating, and partly because it's funny to have been in such a hurry to get back to his quiet little apartment before, and now he can't stand the idea of rattling around there by himself. "You think I should head out? Put my feet up and get up to speed on my TV shows?"
"Sounds like a plan I wish was mine."
"Tell you what. I'll trade you." Phil smiles with one side of his mouth. Pleasant. He knows Nick will read the edges in it, and he does. Letting his breath out as he shoves his pile of papers away and sits back to regard Phil with a flat, hard look.
"We've made mistakes before," he says. Phil mimes a mock toast. Not really in agreement to the statement, but because Nick obviously knows what this is about, which means more than likely, Phil's right about SHIELD keeping tabs on him. "Sometimes, the information we get--"
"The information we assume," Phil corrects.
"It's being seen to."
"So now we all walk away with gold stars in our report cards, and case closed?"
Nick's expression doesn't change, but he crosses his arms and regards Phil for a long moment before repeating, "Go home, Phil."
It sounds more like friendly advice than an order or even dismissal, but Phil gets to his feet anyway. Offers Nick a smile--more official than genuine--and tells him, "I don't like this. You go down there and get a good look at him, and tell me you still do, and if you really think there's an agent in that mess."
Nick reaches out. Taps keys, then turns the screen of his computer with one finger, until it's facing Phil. It's security footage of the interrogation room and probably a live feed. On it, Clint is still sitting on the bed, the way he had been the last time Phil had seen him, and most of the times before. Phil had left him what must have been hours ago, and he's not swinging the foot this time, but his head is bowed the way it had been. His hands at his sides. Phil can't see his face, but the way his head is canted means he's probably looking at the door, or the floor near it.
Watching the hair's breadth of space at the base of the door, Phil realizes. Looking for the flicker of a shadow that would warn him of impending entry. Not quite as passive or switched off as Phil had thought.
"I think there might be an agent in that mess," Nick says.
Phil watches the feed a little longer, then says, "He gets the option to work behind a desk. Or as a trainer. We find a place for him that isn't the field, until he can decide if he wants that. And if he decides he'd prefer secure housing instead, we get him that."
"It's a waste of his talent," Nick warns.
"It's his talent to waste.'
-----
The first practical issue is that Hawkeye has a rep, and SHIELD is full of agents he's either taken shots at, or who have friends he's taken shots at, or who have at least heard a lot of swearing, griping and flat-out lying about what chasing Hawkeye had been like, and there's nothing like having a legend in custody and potentially at one's feet to bring out the ego.
"Which is why," Phil tells Kelley, in his own office, where the view is much less expansive than from Nick's. He has a window that opens into a hall, and one behind his desk that looks out over the parking lot, and both are obscured with ugly off-white blinds. "I want you to keep that psycho partner of yours away from him."
"It's not like I picked him," Kelley grumbles. "It's was more like an arranged marriage situation."
"So's this. Except with interested third parties. You keep him out of trouble, and don't, for the love of god, get comfortable and attached. Do you get me?"
Kelley frowns but keeps his peace, not wanting to jeopardize the assignment even though his annoyance is thick, and obvious. "Oh, don't tell me you're not interested in Danson, sir," he snips, but then the moment of peeve is gone and he's back to suppressed enthusiasm. "So. I get Hawkeye, huh? I mean. That's really--"
"If you say 'cool', Agent," Phil warns.
"No, sir."
"Do you need to be reacquainted with his file?"
"No."
"Because I remember you being with us on this case. I remember you getting shot at on this case."
"Of course, sir."
"This isn't a game. He isn't your sub, he isn't my sub. Your job is just to keep other doms off him, and make sure he gets to medical and to evaluations when he's wanted."
If he's trying to glare Kelley down, it doesn't work. All he gets for his trouble is that the grinning gets taken down a couple notches. "So this is like--what? A good old fashioned guardianship?"
"Something like that. But involving drugs, lock up, and the very real possibility that given half the chance, he will shoot you in your face."
"Well." Kelley doesn't even have the decency to frown. "Thanks for the honor, sir."
"Don't think of it as a reward, Agent," Phil says, already thinking of the days ahead and the time they'll have to spend integrating Hawkeye into SHIELD and looking every day at the mistake Phil came so close to making. "Think of it as a consequence."