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"I told you, Richard. I'm almost completely deaf." Clint sighed.

He groaned in irritation, staring at the point of origin the closest he could guess. There wasn't anything there, but he'd heard it all the same.

"Somebody talking. It's not like it was that quiet."

" I really don't think you're understanding the concept of deaf. I literally have twenty percent of my hearing all together and my hearing aids got busted up. They're on the fritz. The only reason I know what your saying most of the time is because I'm reading your lips. Who's talking?"

"Her."

As if that meant anything, as if it was some kind of sane explanation for hearing things that weren't there.

"Her. Oh well HER." Clint gave him a bland look. "Richard. We talked about the whole 'explain in full' thing. Remember?"

"I don't know who she is, she's just...there. She talks to me in my head sometimes. And sometimes I can see her."

This gets Clint's attention. He turns and gives Richie his full attention. It wouldn't be the first time a mild telepath or seer was corrupted or driven mad by their visions. Clint's encountered it before.

"What kind of things did she say? What does she look like?"

Clint wonders if anyone has taken Richie's claim seriously before.

He shrugs, ducking his head. "She says something's coming. She won't say what, just that... Night's coming." And she'll protect him from it, whatever that means. She's the only one who can. He shifts in his seat, fingers twisting in his lap; it makes him look childish, but honestly that's the better way for it to swing. It goes the other way it's bad.

"She's beautiful. Curvy. Dark hair."

"Night's coming..." Clint hummed and started to pace. The description doesn't help. It sounds like half the Oracles and telepaths in the universe.

"Yeah. That's what she said. And...something about sheep to slaughter. She shows me things but I don't usually get all of it."

"Doesn't sound like... also sounds like its not a whole lot of fun to listen to either." Clint sighed. "Have you ever told anyone about her before?"

He gave the other a hard look, something suspicious and critical.

"Don't patronize me. I'm not looking for pity. You think I'm crazy. Just like everybody else."

"Honestly I don't think you're crazy. I've dealt with EDPs before. You're different. But I don't think you're crazy." Clint's seen madness before. True madness. There's something up with Richie, he knows. But crazy isn't it.

"Different but not crazy. Like that makes any difference."

"There is. Trust me."

"Yeah, well you'd be the first one to think that."

He retreats into himself, withdraws. Anticipating the moment when Barton decides to agree, because he knows he will. They all do.

Clint has gotten better at reading Richie. Figuring out better and better when to push and when to let things be.

Clint moved slowly and set both hands on Richie's shoulders. Trying to draw him back out and ground him. "I'm not the first but it is the way I see things. I've seen crazy, Richard. Real honest, horrifying madness. The kind of madness that turns planets inside out. Trust me, you're not sinless. Me either for that matter. But I wouldn't call you crazy."

The contact helps; it always has. With as tumultuous a childhood as the Gecko brothers had, the power of touch was always integral. Reassurance that the other was there, that even when everything else went to shit their bond was still strong. They hugged, they fought, they communicated whole ideas with a simple tap, and as whatever this is burrowed deeper and deeper, contact became increasingly more important even as the sources for it retreated further and further away. An outside influence, something tangible.

He tenses at first, but the pressure doesn't ease, only sits. Waiting without demanding anything. He closes his eyes, jaw tightening then relaxing. He can still hear her, but it's quieter.

"Then what is it," he asks miserably, more lost than anything else. "What's happening to me?"

Clint drew a long breath. "I dunno, Richard. I don't know. I have a few ideas but I'm not the expert to confirm anything. I know a few people that could. If you want to try I'll take you. They're in New York City... its a long drive but its home for me. I'm going that way anyways."

Clints idea was simple. Find one of the stronger telepaths in District X. Possibly Steven Strange. Have them get a look in Richie's head. See if he's a metahuman, a telepath, empath, oracle whatever... or the victim of one.

"Its your choice. We'll do what you want."

"...Ideas like what?"

Eyes cracked open, enough to eye the other warily.

Clint shifted back to squat on his heels. "Well. Top of the list is that you're a metahuman. Either an empath or a telepath. Or that you had a run in with one that messed around in your noggin and didn't put things right before you guys parted ways. Theres others but those are my best ideas."

"...you think someone got in my head."

It's the only one of the listed possibilities that makes sense to him; he wasn't always like this, and if it was an X-Men-type deal there should have been signs. It's genetic. But if someone else did it...it's still out of his concept of how the world works, there's no proof for something like that, but it's that or he's crazy, and it's too real for that. It's bigger than that.

"The broad I see. She's got something to do with it, I think."

Edited 2014-04-04 15:08 (UTC)

"Exactly. And that's what I want try and find out. But we have to be careful. There's people to trust and ones we can't but I think we can get it sorted... if you're up for it."