Work Text:
endurance
[en-doo r-uh ns, -dyoo r-]
noun
1. the fact or power of enduring or bearing pain, hardships, etc.
2. the ability or strength to continue or last, especially despite fatigue, stress, or other adverse conditions (source: https://www.merriam-webster.com/)
Part 1
At first, you’re not sure which is worse. The assessment, or the little bastards themselves.
“We have to perform a series of tests,” Coulson explains to you, not long after you agree to sign with SHIELD. “Immunizations, you know, the standard. Of course, we’re going to screen your vision and hearing.” He gives you a slightly sympathetic nod. You both already know that your vision is razor sharp. You both already know that you’re going to fail the hearing screen.
So of course, the day comes shortly after, when they place the large set of headphones over your ears. A wave of panic creeps over you when you realize that the only bit of sound you could hear quickly dissipates. You look around to see the technician, but she’s around a corner now, and you can’t read her motions or lips or body language as you usually would. She can see you through a two-way mirror, but you’re too far away to focus on being able to see her outline through it. You’ve already been explained the rules. Listen for a sound at different pitches. Raise your hand on the same side as where you hear the sound.
The problem is, you hear nothing but silence.
You turn your head back and forth at least half a dozen times, hoping for a sign that it will be finished soon. The silence, in a way, is deafening within itself. You shrug at the mirror a few times, and maybe there’s a point where you whisper a small “sorry”, but you can’t even hear yourself with these god forsaken things on. Finally, you figure it’s hopeless. You take the damn things off your head and wait.
The tech comes back from around the wall and gives her own sympathetic smile. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Barton,” She says. She’s talking louder than she was before. You don’t need to watch her lips, but you do anyway. You also sneak a glimpse at your chart as she ushers you out of the room. “Referred for comprehensive evaluation.” Of course, you think.
The next day, Coulson calls you to see an audiologist.
“I suppose it isn’t worth mentioning,” he says, and you can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. “That you failed the audio screening.”
“I suppose not,” comes your response. But really, you think, no shit, Sherlock.
The audiologist is a young man with dark skin who smiles too much for a job at SHIELD. You’re not entirely impressed as he explains how he’s going to look into your ears for blockages, and then insert a device attached to some wires to a thing called an audiogram. The results from the audiogram will produce graphics to illustrate the type, pattern, and degree of any hearing loss. You shrug. He also explains that there will be a pure tone test to determine the threshold at which you can hear various frequencies of sounds. He also mentions a speech test. It’s all too much, you think.
When the whole thing is said and done, you’re sitting in a small room with Coulson and a physician. You’ve already decided that you don’t like your physician, and you’ve hardly spoken to him. He makes side conversation with Coulson of which you don’t particularly care to take part. You don’t acknowledge it, but you’re nervous for your results.
Finally, the audiologist enters the room with a print out from the audiograms, as well as some charts and diagrams. You know the words are coming, but it still stings when he says them.
“Moderate hearing loss.”
You nod and try to focus. He reviews what you can and can’t hear. He explains pitches and tones. He explains that based on the physical and speech evaluations, and well as an interview with you, that it’s a trauma-based hearing loss. He mentions that surgery might help, but that you’d have to have an appointment with someone called an otolaryngologist. You can’t even pronounce that word, let alone know what one is, with your half-assed education. He mentions hearing aids, and you stop, dropping your hand on the table.
“I won’t wear them,” you say. It comes out automatically.
“Mr. Barton,” the audiologist says. “I believe you’re underestimating the effect these will have on your life.”
“Clint, give them a chance,” Coulson adds.
“I didn’t ask for them,” you respond.
Naturally, Coulson launches into an explanation of how it wasn’t part of your stipulations, and that it is necessary in order to send you in for field work. He talks about how agents need to be in peak condition, and that includes the ability to hear. He explains that they can have special devices implemented so that he’ll be able to hear in his environment as well as through comms. He ends by saying that this is not a choice.
“I still won’t wear them.”
“You have a fitting after lunch.”
You roll your eyes.
Part 2
The fitting itself turns out to be anti-climactic. It turns out to be nothing more than a technician placing a small tube in your ear, and filling it with a sort of wet foam to make a mold of the inside of your ear. The tech explains that they’ll use the mold to custom-fit the devices for you. You shrug. It’s not like you’re planning to wear them anyway. You’re told that you’ll have to come back in three days to select the final model. You wonder if it even matters.
There’s no reason to mentally prepare yourself for the final selection. You already know you’re never going to be truly ready. Most people, you think, would want to instantly improve one of their five senses. But, you, you think, see no reason to change. You aren’t broken, even if SHIELD wants to think you are.
They try a variety of models. This technician is equally as optimistic and cheerful as the audiologist, and you can’t stand it. She explains, in a voice that is unnecessarily loud, that you are approved for a variety of models of hearing aids. Those two words themselves make you cringe every time she says them. She shows you five different models inside a plexiglass case, and then proceeds to explain how each one fits in your ear. You can’t help but roll your eyes again.
The first fits snugly inside your ear, like a bulb being planted. You hate the sensation. Your ears feel clogged, as though they’re filled with water. You keep touching them, over and over, cringing again. They feel like they’re going to fall out. On instinct, you’re pulling them out of your ears and slamming them down on the table. You glare at the technician for a second before taking a breath and saying, “not these ones.”
The second set is much smaller and fits deeper inside your ears, more like a seed than a bulb. It’s not as uncomfortable, but it still makes you swallow deep as you try to adjust to the new sensation. It’s still difficult. You shut your eyes and sigh. “Do you...have something different?”
The third set is still a no-go. You’re impressed that the tech is being as patient as she has been with you when you pull them out again. You try not to slam them down on the table this time. You’ve been here half an hour and the whole process already feels exhausting.
When she gets the fourth set out, they’re different. They hook behind your ears and a small piece, no larger than the head of a cotton swab, fits lightly inside your ear canal. The whole model is light, and you hardly feel them. The tech smiles when this time, your face doesn’t scrunch up. You raise your eyebrows and shrug at her.
She tells you that they can be programmed by tomorrow.
In the evening, Coulson asks you how it went, and you scoff.
“I hear you’ve made a selection.”
You know it’s an expression, but that word alone makes you groan. Your right fist is clenched so tightly that you’re sure you’re leaving nail marks in the palm of your hand. Your left hand holds the edge of the table. You can tell from Coulson’s expression that it’s gone completely over his head.
“Clint.”
“Yeah.”
“I know you don’t think so, but these really are going to help you.”
You’re tired of being told what you need.
Part 3
It’s less than a week later when you’re called down to the clinic yet again. Another day, another cheery technician. This time Coulson decides he’s going to come with you, as if he’s some proud parent. You’re sure he can’t wait to see the look on your face when you put them on, as though you’re going to have some sort of epiphany or something.
On one hand, you can’t help but be a little bit curious as to what it might be like, though you’re struggling to admit that to yourself. On the other hand you’re quietly terrified, but you won’t admit that either. Instead, you keep a mild scowl on your face as you tell the newest tech your name, and he smiles, saying, “Oh, Agent Barton, we’ve been waiting for you!”
Of course, you think. Coulson smiles.
You sit down in the chair, and the tech brings them out in a small bronze colored case. He explains that he’ll fit the first one in for you in the mirror, and then have you do the second one for yourself. You swallow and nod. You can’t, for the life of you, figure out why you’re nervous.
You’re sitting on a stool in front of a large mirror, the tech on your right and Coulson on your left, as he hooks the device over the back of your ear and inserts the smaller piece into your canal. It’s as light as you remember during your fitting, and you really can feel it. Good, you think.
“There’s a small switch right here -- come on, touch it,” the tech encourages you, and you do. “This turns them on. We’ll wait until they’re both in your ears to do that.”
The second one, you manage easily by yourself. It isn’t exactly rocket science.
“You ready?” Coulson asks. You shrug in response.
Finally, you turn on the damn things.
At first it isn’t so bad, you think, when Coulson asks “well?” and he sounds significantly clearer. The technician smiles widely and you don’t quite roll your eyes. Even his small chuckle sounds clearer. A quick second passes and you realize that soft jazz music is being played in the background of the room. You hadn’t heard it before.
You’re looking around the room when suddenly a door shuts and your shoulders tense, head snapping to the side. Coulson raises an eyebrow, you play it off as nother. Above you, you can hear the ventilation system kick in, and your head snaps up this time. A hand goes to cover your ear.
“It’ll take some getting used to, Clint,” Coulson says, realizing what’s going on. “But you really should try to keep them in.” He says it as your fingertips start to curl around the devices.
You say nothing, but in your mind, you’re wondering how you’re going to handle this.
The tech show you a few simple procedures for how to care for the little bastards. How to clean and store them and change the batteries. Coulson tells you to put them back in before you leave, and you glare at him before you decide to follow through.
You almost break down when you’re three steps into the atrium.
You cringe, hands flying to cover your ears, shutting your eyes. Your instinct is to crouch down, as though you’re ducking out of sight, and you find yourself squatting in the middle of foot traffic. “Clint!” you hear Coulson say, and it sounds like he’s screaming it. Goosebumps cover your arms. He offers you a hand.
“Is it always this loud?!” You’re asking emphatically. Coulson swallows and shrugs. “This is how it always sounds, especially around shift change.”
What was once a dull hum, is suddenly a roar. Instead of a swirl of soft murmurs, you’re making out words from dozens of conversations. You hear laughter, a belch. You hear the pips and beeps and notifications from various electronic devices. You hear the purring engines on the carts that people use to get quickly from different departments. You hear the elevators ring. You hear noise and it’s all too much, echoing.Your brain can’t process it, and your instincts kick in to high alert.
“Put your hands down, Clint,” he tells you before you realize that you even had them up. You pull the damn things out of your ears and ball them up in your fists before you can relax again.
“I told you, I can’t wear them!”
Coulson looks on with a sympathetic smile. “Give it time, Clint,” he says. “Little by little.”
Part 4 - The Happy Ending
You were already hyper-aware of everything going on around you. But now, you think, it’s like having a super power. You feel enhanced in a way, like you can hear every word to every conversation around you, every white noise, every faint hiss. You force yourself to keep them in for at least an hour a day before you ultimately reside to pulling them out in a fury, cursing and cussing at them as you slam them on the nearest surface.
You learn that some sounds and pitches are more overwhelming than others. You learn that even the overhead fluorescent lights make noises. You learn that some people chew their food more loudly than others. You learn that you can hear yourself breathe too loudly when there is no other sound to be heard.
You learn that they help you on the field.
It’s Coulson who makes you wear them during your training, and at first, you think, they’re nothing but a distraction. But all it takes is one time for you to nearly miss having your name being shouted from another part of the facility as someone sets an explosive off, and you know this isn’t just a luxury anymore. It may not be necessity for you to live your life, but it might be one that helps you do your job at the best of your ability.
You never miss a target. But now you don’t miss anything.
Coulson smiles at you that day as you head back to your locker, the hearing aids still in your ears.
“Thought you would’ve taken them out by now,” he says with a shit-eating grin on his face, and you think for a second, that you should punch him in the gut. But it’s Coulson, and of course, you wouldn’t dare.
“Who says I’m not about to?”
He laughs as you narrow your eyes.
“You could, but you won’t,” he says, with a hint of amusement in his voice. You sigh. The fact of the matter is that, for one of the first times in your life, you weren’t thinking about the damn things at all.
“Maybe I’m learning to adjust to them,” you mutter.
He smiles and claps an arm around your shoulder. “Like I said, just give it time.”
And while it’s second nature to roll your eyes at virtually everything Phil Coulson says, you don’t this time. You leave the hearing aids in your ears, and let him rest his arm on your shoulder before resigning yourself to just nod. You expect him to say more, to rub it in your face, but he doesn’t. Instead he just pats your arm before saying that he’ll see you at dinner.
You’re still not sure which part of the process was worse: the assessment, or wearing the damn things themselves. The fact of the matter is that you’ve endured it, just as you’ve enduring so much other hardship in your life, and perhaps this time, it’s ended in a pleasant surprise.