If it changes it, if it makes it something better, he thought he was stronger than this too. He would have said, before this, that he'd keep a grip on himself no matter what people did to him. That he'd be able, somehow, perhaps through simple force of will, to keep his mind, despite the torture and pain and drugs and whatever other horrors whoever contained him had in store. He was over-confident, perhaps, cocky, arrogant, but he had reason to be, and he knew who he was, knew his history and his place and his mind, and he knew he'd be stronger than everything they could throw at them.
Except, of course, when he wasn't.
Because he hadn't been stronger than this.
His confusion only deepens as she releases him, unsure what, exactly, he's done wrong, but not sure how to express the sort of tight uncertainty this leaves in his chest. Something tells him, some echo across the space and time of his lost memory, that he wants to impress this woman. Wants to do things so she'll look at him with surprised sort of stare, head tilted with a tiny, genuine smile on her face--
But he doesn't know how. Doesn't know what she wants from him or how to give it to her. But he knows, just like he knows the number they've assigned him, that the tight, pleasant smile she's giving him now is wrong. But he can't place why. Can't--it's making his head pound, just trying to figure it out, and he doesn't think he can take the extra level of pain, doesn't think he can handle the ache, and so when she reverts to the pattern, he does as well, clinging to the familiar words. He still doesn't want to disappoint her, this woman he doesn't know.
"Clint Barton." It's true, and if he were Hawkeye right now, he'd worry about giving her his identity, but he isn't, and she asked, so he doesn't. This is part of the routine. The things she could learn about him, if she cared to know. His pulse is jackrabbit fast though, against her fingers, because of the confusion, because of the pull of the drugs, because he thinks he knows her, but that makes no sense, and he feels, maybe like this is some sort of hallucination given to him by the sedatives. Maybe another nightmare, maybe another stress test to see how long their minds can handle the strain--
no subject
Except, of course, when he wasn't.
Because he hadn't been stronger than this.
His confusion only deepens as she releases him, unsure what, exactly, he's done wrong, but not sure how to express the sort of tight uncertainty this leaves in his chest. Something tells him, some echo across the space and time of his lost memory, that he wants to impress this woman. Wants to do things so she'll look at him with surprised sort of stare, head tilted with a tiny, genuine smile on her face--
But he doesn't know how. Doesn't know what she wants from him or how to give it to her. But he knows, just like he knows the number they've assigned him, that the tight, pleasant smile she's giving him now is wrong. But he can't place why. Can't--it's making his head pound, just trying to figure it out, and he doesn't think he can take the extra level of pain, doesn't think he can handle the ache, and so when she reverts to the pattern, he does as well, clinging to the familiar words. He still doesn't want to disappoint her, this woman he doesn't know.
"Clint Barton." It's true, and if he were Hawkeye right now, he'd worry about giving her his identity, but he isn't, and she asked, so he doesn't. This is part of the routine. The things she could learn about him, if she cared to know. His pulse is jackrabbit fast though, against her fingers, because of the confusion, because of the pull of the drugs, because he thinks he knows her, but that makes no sense, and he feels, maybe like this is some sort of hallucination given to him by the sedatives. Maybe another nightmare, maybe another stress test to see how long their minds can handle the strain--