Work Text:
Clint was really starting to wish that he had drained the coffee pot when he had the chance.
He was trying to be good. Natasha kept getting onto him about ‘unsafe coffee consumption’ and ‘life-threatening habits’ and while he didn’t really understand her concern — three pots of coffee a day was perfectly normal to drink, what was this ‘FDA recommended intake’ nonsense? — he did appreciate it. It was nice to know she cared, even if he was fine with the amount of coffee he consumed. So, to show his appreciation, he had been trying to be good. He had only drank two cups of coffee. It was a record low.
Now it had been over twenty four hours since Clint had even seen a coffee pot, and he was desperately wishing he had even a drop. Maybe that would have staved off the pounding headache that he had, or at least give him something to focus on rather than the blinding white lights over his head or the way that the metal chair beneath him was digging into his legs. He was starting to wonder if this was what alcoholics felt like… if so, maybe Natasha had a point about his consumption rates. He wasn’t about to admit that, of course.
Maybe he would, if it would get Natasha to come to him. He was pretty sure that his legs had gone numb an hour ago. It was a good thing he was used to silence, otherwise the pressure of nothingness in his ears might start to drive him crazy.
He was lying to himself; the silence was making him go nuts.
Clint’s head snapped up when he saw a shadow shift on the floor beneath him. As he looked up, the door at the far side of his holding cell opened. Clint’s eyes remained trained on the door as it swung to the side, so glad to finally have something to distract him that he hardly even registered the person that was walking in.
“Hey, finally. I was starting to think you guys forgot I was—” Clint cut off with a start the moment he looked up at the person. He had been expecting to see one of the stuffy government agents that had first talked to him in this little cell, maybe some sort of straight-suited lawyer bent on twisting his words against him.
He didn’t expect to find Bucky staring down at him.
“Clinton Francis Barton,” Bucky said slowly, his voice devoid of emotion as he glanced down through the rim of his glasses — since when did Bucky wear glasses? — at the clipboard that was clutched in his hand. Gloves and a suede jacket hid his metal arm from view and made him look pretty much normal. Also, the jacket was brown, not Bucky’s usual all-black style.
Clint blinked in bafflement as Bucky continued. “Does that name sound correct?”
“Uh… yeah.” Clint watched as Bucky settled into the chair opposite from him, frowning the whole time. “Well, it sounds weird since nobody has called me ‘Clinton’ in over twenty years, but it’s my name if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Good.” Bucky picked up a pen from the side of his clipboard and jotted something down, still acting uninterested. He didn’t even bother to make eye contact as he spoke. “It’s good to know that your mind is sound enough to recognize your own name.”
“My… sound mind?” Clint leaned forward, and he felt the handcuffs around his wrists dig into his skin as he frowned at Bucky. “What are you talking about? What is this?”
“An evaluation.” Bucky tapped his pen against his clipboard, still not meeting Clint’s eyes. “You’re in a mess, Mr. Barton. It has been determined that you require a psych evaluation before we proceed further with your questioning.”
“I… what?” Clint blinked at his friend, his mouth hanging open slightly. “What do you mean, I—”
Bucky’s eyes darted up to meet his, the movement so sudden that Clint nearly flinched. The man’s dark eyes suddenly narrowed into a scowl, and he pointedly glanced down at his clipboard before glancing back up, making sure that Clint was following his gaze. Clint did, and he saw that Bucky was still tapping his pen, each tap rhythmic and measured and…
Morse code.
Clint could almost curse himself for not realizing it sooner. Of course. The Avengers had developed their own form of morse code specifically for situations like this; ones where they knew people were watching and listening. Situations where one of them was in trouble. Situations where they had to send messages without anyone else knowing they were communicating.
Barnes was playing the same distinct message on repeat: undercover.
When Clint looked back up at Bucky, he once again had his gaze settled on his clipboard, seemingly uninterested in Clint as he began to drawl on. “My name is Doctor Stanford. I’m a psychologist specializing in cases of hysteria and disillusion. The FBI called me in to determine whether or not you are suited for further questioning.”
“What’s it matter? I’ve already told ‘em everything.” Clint was hardly paying attention to the conversation. His focus was on his hands and wishing that he had started rapping his fingers nervously sooner; that would have established it as a nervous tic and made it seem less suspicious. He hoped that the FBI agents on the other side of the glass weren’t paying too much attention as he tapped out a short message; copy. Situation?
“‘Everything’ is a bit of a generous statement.” Bucky let out a huff of breath, shifting some papers on his clipboard. As he moved, Clint watched him use a finger to tap out his next message. Fury sent me.
Clint frowned, ignoring the continued shifting of papers in the clipboard. Why?
This time, Bucky looked up. He gave Clint a hard look. “In your own words, you took out three police cruisers and about half a block of the city. Care to explain things a bit further?”
Clint blinked, then blinked again. Bucky was still giving him that look, and it didn’t seem to be because he was playing a part. “Hey, wait a second. You don’t think I… wait, seriously, you’re not blaming this on me, right?”
Bucky continued to stare him down. Clint’s eyes darted down to the pen, but it remained still. His fingers did too — no code.
“Answer the question, Barton.”
“I didn’t destroy the city,” Clint said, his voice as firm as it had been hours ago, when he first explained the situation to the FBI agents that dragged him in. “I didn’t destroy the police cars either.”
“Really?” Bucky’s eyebrow raised slightly, and he jotted something down on the clipboard. As he did, Clint saw the pen tap quickly. Did you?
“No.” Clint didn’t even bother tapping out code for the word. “I didn’t destroy anything, not like that. I already told you guys before, I was trying to stop the crash, not aid it.”
“S.H.I.E.L.D. has video files that place you directly at the scene of the crime.”
“I know that, every agent that put me in this dump pointed out—” Clint paused, his words cutting off as he did. He gave Bucky a wide-eyed look. “Wait, you said S.H.I.E.L.D. had these files?”
Bucky didn’t say anything to confirm or deny that, but his silence was enough. Clint gaped at him, and suddenly the words ‘Fury sent me’ meant a lot more.
S.H.I.E.L.D. thinks I did it? He tapped out furiously.
“According to our reports from S.H.I.E.L.D., you have been offline for the past three days.” Bucky’s tone was measured and flat, and he didn’t bother tapping out another code message. “Care to explain where you’ve been?”
Clint was openly staring at his friend now, hardly holding back from full-on gapping at him. There was so much running through his mind, and the headache was not helping him process all of this. “I’ve been hunting down this gang. S.H.I.E.L.D. knew that. They’re the ones that sent me on the mission.”
“And what exactly is this gang, Mr. Barton?”
“It’s a Hydra fractal cell. Or something like that, at least.” His headache was getting worse and worse under Bucky’s scrutinizing gaze. “Neo-nazis, at the very least. Bad people. I was trying to stop them.”
“And you did so by destroying a city block.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Really?” Barnes lazily raised an eyebrow, but Clint could see the sharpness behind his gaze. “Then what exactly got caught on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s cameras?”
Clint tried looking at Barnes’ pen, waiting to see if some sort of code would come through to show him double meaning in the questions, or that they were a facade, or anything else that might reassure him that this was a fake interrogation. He needed something to confirm that S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t actually believe these allegations, because there was no way that they would… right?
“Barton?”
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” Clint’s hand moved to run through his hair, but it was stopped short by the chain connecting his handcuffs to the table. He tried to swallow back his frustration, but there was a lot of it boiling. “Can… can you tell me what you mean?”
Barnes marked something down on his clipboard. As much as Clint watched it, there was no morse code in the movement. “You haven’t seen the video?”
“You think I’ve seen it? I haven’t even been able to get a cup of coffee in this place.” Clint let out a huff and lowered his head, his elbows bracing him against the table as he managed to press his palms to his forehead. It took a large amount of hunching, but at least it blocked some of the light that pounded down on him from above.
“Barton?”
“M’fine,” Clint said, as though his friend was actually acting like a friend and asking if he was alright rather than grilling him with FBI-sanctioned questions. “M’head hurts.”
A shadow on the table flickered across Clint’s vision; Bucky’s pen, once again jotting something down. Still no code. Still no reassurance.
“What sort of hurt?”
“The ‘I-got-thrown-into-a-wall’ sort of hurt?” Clint bit out without looking up. “Did you all forget about that?”
“You didn’t get thrown into a wall, Barton.”
“It sure feels like it. Besides, why’re you interrogating me?” He paused, his thoughts slightly sluggish as he tried to remember the beginning of the conversation, back when it was only confusion and not betrayal that he was feeling. “Didn’t you say this was a psych eval or somethin’?”
“I’m preforming a psychological evaluation, yes.” Bucky’s voice was completely flat, not a single word out of place.
“Then what’s with all the questions?” His head was pounding, and he was really just ready to drink a pot of coffee and pass out. Maybe he would drink two. He deserved it, after a day like this.
“Trying to gauge what you remember of the day,” Bucky said above him. “Evaluating cognitive soundness and cerebral efficiency.”
Clint grunted. He wanted to make a comment about how obvious it was that Bucky was making up words — the guy wasn’t a doctor and it was clear as to why — but he held himself back because he didn’t want to risk blowing Barnes’ cover. Despite how horrible this situation was, he wasn’t about to throw Bucky under the bus like that. It was lucky that no one seemed to know the Winter Soldier’s face; Steve and the others were fighting hard to keep him that way.
It came in handy for undercover operations, and Clint wasn’t enough of an absolute jerk to blow this one for him. Even if it seemed like he was the victim in this scenario, he still didn’t want to screw with what Bucky had planned.
“Yeah. A psych eval. So have I passed yet?” Clint kept his head pressed into his hands, wishing that the chain on his handcuffs was a bit longer so it would be more comfortable. “Seriously, can we just get this all over with? I need coffee.”
“Clint Barton.” Bucky’s voice was firm, commanding, and with a wince Clint raised his head slightly to look at the man. To his surprise, Barnes was actually making eye contact with him. “What do you remember from right before you were brought in here?”
“Right before?” Clint squinted. The lights still seemed too bright. “Guards. Well, FBI, I guess. They pulled me off the street.”
“What street?”
“Do I look like I know every street in New York?” Clint bit out. “I have good eyesight, not photographic memory.”
“Then what did you see around you?” Bucky pressed.
“I don’t know! I don’t—” his headache sharpened, and Clint once again pressed his forehead into his hands. “It’s blurry.”
“Blurry?”
“Yes, blurry. Blurry vision is a thing that happens to people that get tear gassed.”
There was a moment of silence following that. “You didn’t get tear gassed, Barton.”
“I… huh?” Clint frowned, then glanced up. “Yeah, I did.”
“No.” The papers on the keyboard ruffled, and Bucky glanced down to check his notes. “None of the agents reported using tear gas. Only two of them were equipped, and both of them returned with full canisters.”
“They… did?” Clint’s frown deepened. “But… there was fog.”
“Fog?”
“Yeah. Fog or smoke or…” his head pounded, and he grit his teeth. “Look, can I just get a cup of coffee? I think that’d help.”
“There was no tear gas. There was no fog.” The pen clicked, but it wasn’t morse code. At least, Clint didn’t think it was; it was hard to focus on the sound. “Barton, what do you remember from before that?”
“I was… I was on a mission.” Clint could feel the weight of his tongue in his mouth as he tested out the words, as if he was worried about their density. “I was tracking the, um… the gang. S.H.I.E.L.D. sent me to track down a gang.”
“They did?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it was Fury…” Clint frowned, trying to remember. The day was blurring together in his head. This was why he always drank coffee. “He sent me on the mission.”
“And what was the name of the gang?”
Clint blinked slowly. “What?”
“The name.”
“It… uh…” Clint frowned, his forehead pressed against his hands. The name of the gang seemed to be on the edge of his tongue, only… it wasn’t. It was hard to even remember Fury giving him the mission at all. “I… um… I don’t remember, right now. I’m not… great with details.”
“Has Fury ever sent you after a gang before?”
“What do you mean?” Clint asked, his voice tight. “Of course he has, I—”
“Name one.”
Clint opened his mouth to reply, but found the words drying up before he could speak. As he tried to think, he realized that gangs weren’t exactly something that usually fell on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar. He couldn’t think of another one that he had been sent after.
“This… must have been the first,” he settled on.
“This wasn’t a S.H.I.E.L.D. sanctioned mission.”
“What?” Clint looked up, his gut twisting with the movement. Someone needed to turn the lights down; they were so bright. “Of course it was. Fury…”
As he spoke, he realized that he couldn’t quite remember what Fury had said to him when he was assigned the mission. He couldn’t really remember the location of it either, or the time frame. What had he spent the last three days working on?
“Fury didn’t give you this mission. No one in S.H.I.E.L.D. did.” Clint glanced across the metal table, and he was met with Bucky’s firm, unwavering gaze. “Barton, as far as we know, you have been acting on your own since you went off-line.”
“I…” Clint frowned, his heart racing in his chest. “What do you mean? What are… what are you saying?”
“Clint Barton, it has been two years since Loki’s attack on New York. It has been two years since he invaded your mind, as well as the mind of many others. Many of these victims did not survive.” Bucky’s gaze was heavy — burning — as it bored into Clint. “In these two years, have you ever heard Loki’s voice in your mind?”
“What?” Clint recoiled, the handcuffs digging into his wrists as he tried to jerk away. “No. No, I—”
Even as he spoke, he could feel the curl of guilt twisting around his heart. He could feel the way that his throat closed up and his gut churned, and he tried desperately to keep his mind from turning to the countless nights spent lying awake, mind never silent, something whispering just outside of his consciousness…
“Barton?”
“I’m not under Loki’s control.” The words sounded hollow, even to him. “He’s not… he’s not even here. He’s on Asgard, or maybe even dead. He’s gone. He’s not here.”
Bucky was staring at him, waiting. There was a calculating look in his eye, something that Clint could recognize well. Bucky had only been with them for a year at most, but he and Clint had gotten along well. Well enough that Clint would consider him a friend, at least.
Slowly, Clint set one of his shaking hands on the table. He no longer cared if the movement looked suspicious; all of his attention was on tapping out a single message. Why you? Why here?
“There has been a lot of concern surrounding you, Barton.” Bucky’s voice was flat, emotionless, exactly like the specialist that he was posing as. His eyes though, the ones that felt like they were going to burn right through Clint’s skull, seemed to soften. “This was not the ideal circumstance to confront those concerns, but the situation called for it.”
Clint’s mouth was dry. His bones ached — he couldn’t even remember getting thrown into a wall, but it sure felt like he had — and his attention was on Bucky’s raised pen. Slowly, it tapped against his clipboard.
I understand. Bucky’s eyes were still focused on Clint, heavy with their weight. I know this.
Clint’s heart was still pounding. His head still ached, his whole body ached, and he just wanted a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee would make this all better. He was sure of it.
“Clint.” Some of the measured tone to Bucky’s tone dropped away, and it actually sounded like his friend rather than an interrogator. “What do you need right now?”
“Coffee,” Clint said without hesitation. Then, after a moment of silence, he went on. “And… help. I think I might need help.”
Bucky’s emotionless facade flickered for a moment, and Clint watched as the corner of his mouth tilted up in a tiny, almost invisible smile. “We can work with that.”