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tick tick tick [post-movie]
It was just passed three am. Clint knew, because there were two clocks in the kitchen, and he's avoiding sleep like it was his goddamn job. He'd pretended, at around eleven thirty, to turn in for the night. He'd flipped Tony off when he'd joked that Clint was worse than an old man, and had gone to his room. He'd stayed silent, listening to the footsteps in the corridor, for when everyone had gone to bed themselves. He was patient, waiting for the last door down the hall to click shut. He counted the seconds, into minutes, until it was safe for him to leave his own room. He'd memorised everyone's sleeping patterns, so he could avoid running into them, because he really didn't want to explain that he hasn't been sleeping. Not since Natasha brought him back from Loki's spell with, what he'd been told, was an impressive blow to the head. At least, he hasn't been sleeping for long. Admitting that will just get him a one way ticket to a psych eval, and get him benched pending evaluation. Clint doesn't want either of those things.
He sat up on the counter, a bowl of cereal balanced on his lap. He'd probably sneak onto the range Tony built here in a bit, lose himself in the twang and thwack of his arrows hitting target after target after target. He'd let the seconds trickle away, until the sun started to rise. He'd sneak back to his room then, the same as he always did, and hide out until late morning. It was simple enough to make out that he's the laziest of them all. He let Tony crack his jokes about him being the teenager of the house. It was easier that way. Easier than having to see the faces of the people he'd killed in Germany, and on the Hellicarier, every damn time that he closed his eyes. He dropped the bowl to one side, milk sloshing up and over the edge, suddenly not feeling hungry any more. He isn't sure how to live with himself after this one. As a SHIELD assassin, he'd killed countless people. The ones he'd put in the morgue this time had been more than assignments, they'd been friends. Agents and junior agents and scientists. People he'd talked to in the halls, had made jump when he swung down from the ceilings, had eaten lunch with. They had faces and voices and names. This was what always happened to him. Whenever he got too comfortable, too safe. Something always gives, and he loses the people he loves, that he trusts.
They all assumed he wasn't conscious, wasn't aware, whilst Loki was controlling him. They're wrong. He remembers everything. Every damn thing he did, every word he said. All of the power and leverage and information he gave Loki.
He hid his face in his hands, swallowing thickly, willing himself not to throw up. It wasn't enough that he was doing this to himself. It'd never be punishment enough for what he'd done. Natasha said that she had red on her ledger. Clint's was drowned in it.
He sat up on the counter, a bowl of cereal balanced on his lap. He'd probably sneak onto the range Tony built here in a bit, lose himself in the twang and thwack of his arrows hitting target after target after target. He'd let the seconds trickle away, until the sun started to rise. He'd sneak back to his room then, the same as he always did, and hide out until late morning. It was simple enough to make out that he's the laziest of them all. He let Tony crack his jokes about him being the teenager of the house. It was easier that way. Easier than having to see the faces of the people he'd killed in Germany, and on the Hellicarier, every damn time that he closed his eyes. He dropped the bowl to one side, milk sloshing up and over the edge, suddenly not feeling hungry any more. He isn't sure how to live with himself after this one. As a SHIELD assassin, he'd killed countless people. The ones he'd put in the morgue this time had been more than assignments, they'd been friends. Agents and junior agents and scientists. People he'd talked to in the halls, had made jump when he swung down from the ceilings, had eaten lunch with. They had faces and voices and names. This was what always happened to him. Whenever he got too comfortable, too safe. Something always gives, and he loses the people he loves, that he trusts.
They all assumed he wasn't conscious, wasn't aware, whilst Loki was controlling him. They're wrong. He remembers everything. Every damn thing he did, every word he said. All of the power and leverage and information he gave Loki.
He hid his face in his hands, swallowing thickly, willing himself not to throw up. It wasn't enough that he was doing this to himself. It'd never be punishment enough for what he'd done. Natasha said that she had red on her ledger. Clint's was drowned in it.