❝ In a mirror, darkly. ❞
• • •
Clint Barton. Spy, assassin, master archer. Caffeine addict. Hot mess. After the Battle of New York, Clint is forced to come to terms with the mind control Loki forced him into. The longer he's recovering, the cleare...
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
Clint couldn't sleep. No matter what he did, all he achieved was tossing and turning in the opulent room he had chosen. Finally he'd had enough of hours alone. He didn't know what Thor's people had decided to do with Loki after his attack on Earth, but somehow he doubted death had been the answer.
He pushed the comforter off of himself. Bare feet touched the brown and gold marble tile floor silently. He sighed, his shoulders sagging as he gripped the side of the bed with both hands. The seemingly perpetual fire on the other side of the room offered some light. Clint finally stood from the bed, slipping on black sweatpants over his purple boxers.
"I am a god. You are but mortals."
Clint gasped, grabbing at his face out of pure instinct. He fumbled around for a shirt from his pack. He found one. Drawing his hand out quickly, he nicked the back of his hand on one of his arrows. Clint hissed in pain, pulling his hand close to his chest.
"Mortals bleed, Agent Barton. I need you to do what you do best."
As he muttered a few expletives under his breath, Clint found his backpack where he kept his bandages. The cut wasn't particularly deep, but it stung. He slapped on a white bandage across his hand and shook his head. Fury's mandated four months of therapy had barely helped... then again Clint supposed he hadn't exactly helped himself. He hadn't thought he needed help.
He would push through this. He didn't need help. He could do this. He didn't need help.
Walking over to the large window, he separated the red velvet curtains that flowed ten feet down from above him attached just below the high ceiling. He slid himself so that he sat on the window alcove seat. He saw the very beginnings of a sunrise and breathed a sigh of relief. He stayed like that for at least an hour, watching and waiting. Slowly the brilliant stars faded as a sun rose on Asgard.
A knock sounded on his door. Clint slipped down from the window seat and padded over to it. His feet stuck to the tile ground as he walked. When he opened the door, he found Natasha and Tony dressed and ready for the day.
"You're going to meet the royals looking like that?" Tony asked with a chuckle.
Clint sighed. "When?"
"Thor's getting the others up," Natasha said. Her eyes flickered down to the bandage on Clint's hand. "Tony, why don't you go help the others, since you're the fashion expert."
Tony scoffed. "Fine. Still think Clint needs my help the most." But he left the Shield agents alone to find Bruce.
Natasha gestured for Clint to head back in. He felt his jaw clench. When Natasha closed the door behind her, she leaned against it and looked him over. "You look like crap, Clint," she said.
Clint chuckled. "Never were one for small talk, Nat. I'm fine, trust me. Not my fault my hair gets crazy after I sleep."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't lie to me, Clint. We've gone through too much to do this song and dance."
