Chapter Text
Clint heaves a sigh for what feels like the millionth time that morning alone, bare chest glistening from a sheen of water. He stares himself in the eyes, the edges of the mirror still fogged from the scalding shower he’d just taken, and refuses to blink. His worn down reflection glared back with familiar cold and steely silver eyes but a part of him still expected them to fade into an almost glowing electric cerulean. Calloused fingers flexed, gripping the sides of the porcelain sink and he watched as his arms flexed and his muscles tensed. His eyes trailed along the skin of his arms and glanced at the exposed flesh of his chest. He took in every scar despite having memorized the intricate map they’d carved into his body. Some marks were ugly and knotted, raised and still pink in places despite being years old like the puckered wound on his shoulder that throbbed during especially cold winters. Others were thin, white, little things that one could overlook as if they were but an accidental slip of hand while shaving. Not him though, no, not Clint. He knew every scar, every mark, and he remembered every story no matter how old or how gruesome; he remembered.
With a shake of his head he snapped himself from his thoughts and pushed himself away from the sink. It was one of those days where he woke up feeling off. A spark of discontent in his chest from the moment he woke up and old memories from however long ago haunting him at the edge of his thoughts. Usually Natasha would be there to snap him out of it and bring him back, stage him and his mind in a reality he couldn’t ignore, but she wasn’t here right now. She was on an uncover mission in a classified location (classified meaning she told him the moment she knew), gathering intel and had been for almost a week now. They’d both known he was long overdue for one of these contemplative remembrance spells-- he refused to call them existential-- but neither of them mentioned it. He was a big boy, he could take care of himself.
He left the bathroom without a second glance at the mirror, unease blooming in his stomach at the idea of looking at himself again and possibly glancing at a blue that had only ever truly been there once. He made quick work of getting dressed, feeling goosebumps rise on his naked skin as he left the heat of the bathroom and entered the air conditioned bedroom attached. He grabbed the underwear laid on top of the clothes set out on his already pristinely made bed and tugged them on before sliding on the dark jeans underneath. He kept his room almost outrageously cold, the AC almost always running even in the winter months, but it was an odd comfort for him that no one questioned and Natasha understood. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his socks followed quickly by his oldest pair of steel-toed combat boots, S.H.I.E.L.D issue and practically falling apart but simultaneously comfortable and practical thanks to their worn down state and constant use. He could already feel the warmth seeping back into his skin, cloth soaking up any remainder of water left on his body. With yet another sigh he grabbed the shirt from his designated clothing pile, black and short-sleeved, and tugged it on over his head before stretching out an arm to grab the multipurpose hearing aids settled on his nightstand so he could put them in.
Dressed enough to be decent with recently activated hearing Clint leaned back and fell onto the mattress, folding his arms comfortably underneath his head and staring at the high ceiling for a moment. He just needed to take a moment to take a breath. Not too long ago he was practically living on the Helicarrier with a rogue, run-down apartment he hadn’t spent any time in before Lucky, who had now been snuck into the tower with promise from J.A.R.V.I.S of telling no one. Now he lived on his own floor, with almost complete privacy if he so desired, in a tower filled with superheroes on a team he was a part of. It was a drastic change, going from unknown assassin to hidden Avenger. It was only thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D that his and Natasha’s faces were almost entirely undisclosed so they could continue their more stealth based line of work. It was an interesting life, certainly, but it was a good one. Clint thought it suited him well.
“Agent Barton,” JARVIS’, no one referred to the A.I like the acronym he was, it just felt wrong, voice springing to life without so much as a whir, “It is approaching six a.m.” The A.I reported dutifully in his ever-so-polite British accent. Clint always wondered why JARVIS had such an accent but he’d never actually gotten around to asking the resident genius. Maybe if he got the chance today, before he forgot once again thanks to the interesting quality of their lives.
“Thank you, JARVIS.” Clint responded, pushing himself up and snatching the old leather jacket laying next to him and standing as he shrugged it on. Clint had a rule to be out of his room on weekends by o’ six hundred on the dot so he could hit the communal kitchen before anyone else was awake, except Natasha, and get a head start on the day. None of them used their personal kitchens anyway. He wasn’t used to sleeping a lot, always something to do or missions to finish so it worked out for him. He had to stay on his toes, never too comfortable and always alert.
“Of course, Agent Barton.” JARVIS assured, leaving Clint to only the near silent hum of the air conditioning. When he opened the door leading from the room portion of his floor a golden lump laying in front of his door like a roadblock hopped up and immediately began darting around his feet, practically falling against his legs.
Clint snorted and kneeled, smiling like a mad man as he ran his fingers through the dark caramel fur of the retriever and ruffling the mound of fluff as he scratched behind the dog’s floppy ears. Lucky blinked his single big brown eye at Clint and let out a soft whine before butting his head against the archer’s slowing hands, tail wagging a mile a minute when the man continued scratching with vigor. Clint laughed, tilting Lucky’s head up and gently bumping their foreheads together, “I’m sorry buddy,” he said with a particularly aggressive shake of the dog’s ruff, “I passed out as soon as I got back and I guess I didn’t notice you weren’t in the room with me.” Was it weird Clint took Lucky’s onslaught of slobbery licks as a reassurance? Probably, but Clint wasn’t really a normal guy anyway.
The dog, seeming to accept Clint’s apology without fault, turned and bolted excitedly down the small corridor leading to the large open space of the floor complete with living area and attached open kitchen along with more closets then any single person should need. Lucky made a b-line for the two dog bowls against the base of the breakfast bar separating said kitchen from said living area and gave Clint this sad, pleading look that only a dog could give. It didn’t matter how well fed Lucky was or how long ago the dog had eaten, one look at that superb little face and Clint would give Lucky anything. Natasha found it both adorable and pathetic how easily he could withstand various torture methods and then turn around and cave instantly at any mutt’s begging.
He agreed wholeheartedly, but he’d never tell her that.
Clint was quick to fill Lucky’s bowl with dog food before filling a stray cup with water from the fridge and tipping off the water dish. Lucky dug into the kibble like he was starving, tail swaying lazily as Clint ran a steady hand down the length of his spine. It was top of the line food, real meat and everything. Not Clint’s choice, but JARVIS had insisted that Tony said he’d care for their needs and that included, apparently, feeding his secret pet. It’s not like Tony would notice the charge of dog food on his receipts and JARVIS was sworn to secrecy so there was no reason to decline the offer. That means that Lucky was now eating better than he ever had, but if Clint was being honest the dog still had a diet mostly consisting of Pizza.
“Alright Luck, I’ll be back.” Clint gave the shaggy retriever one last affectionate scratch, “You and I both know the best coffee pot is on the communal level so you’ll have to eat alone today.” Lucky lifted his muzzle from the bowl for a moment and looked at Clint before turning back and lapping up some of the water. Clint huffed out an amused breath and stood, making for the elevator next to the door leading to the stairs with a vague wave towards the audibly crunching Lucky signifying the dog once again eating away.
The trip down to the communal levels was short and sweet, the elevator sliding down without interruption as usual and opening to the familiar setting of the neutral zone. What wasn’t familiar was the sight of Tony Stark lounging on one of the couches looking for the most part asleep. If Clint was Clint he would’ve bought it.
“So, where are the others?” Clint asked as he exited the elevator, making a b-line for the kitchen to his right and grabbing the pot from the coffee machine. He took a swig from the almost empty container and turned to look over the breakfast bar at the figure of Tony Stark taking up the length of the couch. He knew, of course, where Natasha was, and Thor was off with his girlfriend somewhere, but Steve and Banner had still been in the tower when he’d retreated to his floor the night before. Usually, Clint could here Steve getting ready this early and Banner was usually wherever Stark was. Considering Stark was here and he hadn’t heard Steve preparing for his morning run, the two weren’t around.
Stark grunted, removing the arm that was tossed carelessly over his eyes to tilt his head up and glare at Clint, “It’s too early for questions, come back later.” The arm was then re-situated over Tony’s face and the genius made a show of tilting his entire body away from the kitchen and therefore the archer inside.
“It’s no one’s fault but yours that you didn’t sleep last night, Stark,” Clint downed the rest of the pot and slid it back onto its stand before opening the fridge and grabbing an apple from the lower drawer. “JARVIS, can you tell me where Steve and Banner are?” He requested, taking a loud bite from the fruit in his hand and relishing in the way Tony cringed from his place in the room over.
“Captain Rogers and Dr. Banner were called away to S.H.I.E.L.D at exactly four-thirty a.m, Agent Barton.” JARVIS’ soothing British tone filtered down from the ceiling, “And may I apologize for Sir’s behavior, he may have ingested too much alcohol for a normal night.” Clint raised an eyebrow, gazing at the billionaire almost expectantly waiting for the man to dignify the A.I’s confession with some snarky response. Instead, all Clint heard was an oddly dejected sigh.
Clint pushed away from the fridge and took another, much quieter, bite of his apple. He looked Tony over but there was nothing new to see, the man just looked exhausted. Maybe the exhaustion just ran a lot deeper than Clint first suspected. “Are you hungover?” he questioned, eyes narrowing when Tony huffed. “Am I gonna have to ask the A.I again?”
“What do you think, Hawk-ass?” Tony tried to sound casual but the words came out strained through clenched teeth.
Clint hummed softly, if only to prove that he hadn’t left while Tony wasn’t looking, and strode silently towards the couch and crossed him arms. He looked back on the last couple days trying to determine if anything had been amiss but Tony hadn’t been any extravagant kind of self-destructive recently and Clint had never been fooled by the man’s masks before. So he lifted himself carefully onto the back of the couch, skillfully unnoticed and balanced, and sat back on his haunches on the the spine. Just watching Tony now was like watching a star implode in slow motion, it was like with every breath the billionaire’s skin grew paler and his hands more clammy. He rested his arms on his knees simply for the illusion of being casual and tilted his head.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked. Tony startled at his sudden close proximity, flailing in attempt to keep his over-the-top reaction from landing him on the floor. He gripped the dark cushions to keep himself steady and glared at Clint with frightened brown eyes. But it was more than that, there was something more than basic surprise in those eyes. There was something that made Tony afraid lingering in the back of those eyes. Clint felt himself tensing, shoulders squaring, and the urge to clench his jaw and grind his teeth snuck up on him. It’s not an unusual feeling, a kind of primal protectiveness that came with who he was and the shit he’s been through. The unusual part was that it was directed towards Tony, of all people.
“I need to get you and Romanoff bells,” Tony insisted, falling back against the arm of the couch as his heart ceased racing. It wasn’t the first time Tony’s said something like that and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last, but the genius never acted on it. Besides, they’d just take off any jingling bobbles anyway.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Clint rumbled, voice low and cautious but tinted with the underlying concern he felt bubbling up inside of him. The look on Tony’s face and the way the man held himself made it very clear to Clint he was dealing with a wild animal.
“Not important-” Tony tried to deflect. Always deflecting; always hiding.
“Very important,” Clint interrupted gruffly, glaring daggers at the man and daring the brunette to argue. Tony, against all odds, obeyed. That was setting off even more alarms in Clint’s head. Tony never backed down on the opportunity to argue it out with him, usually a battle of wit and snark between the two. Clint’s never seen Tony be so compliant without so much as a comeback. So Clint sighed again, rolling his shoulders and doing his best to release the tension that coiled his muscles tight. He was getting tired of sighing so much. “Look, Tony, we’re on a team together and against popular belief I do give a shit about the people I work with. So can you stop bullshitting me for like fifteen minutes and tell me what’s wrong?” Not his best motivational speech by a long shot, but perhaps it’ll do.
Tony stared at him. He stared hard and long and kept his face as neutral and blank as an expressive guy like Tony could. If Clint was anyone else he wouldn’t be able to read the emotions that continued to explode in brown orbs, he wouldn’t have been able to see the pain and fear and wariness. He was shocked to see the inkling of hope, the slight dilation fighting against the fight or flight response ticking like a time bomb inside Tony’s head. Clint didn’t break eye contact and let his face relax, hoping the protective fire that shone in him was at least somewhat visible to the billionaire. He wanted Tony to know he was serious. That he wasn’t just fucking with him. He knew he could very well say it out loud if need be, but he wasn’t the best with words at the best of times let alone on one of his very own off days.
For a moment the two of them seemed locked in their own little psychic match of tug-o-war. Trying to prove which one of them had a higher will power and see which one of them would walk away first. Tony’s expression became more and more calculating as the seconds ticked by and slowly but surely the steel left his features. The world decided it was Tony’s turn to sigh, for which Clint was thankful, and the Stark practically melted into the cushions of the expensive furniture. Those haunted eyes stared at the ceiling now but to Clint it seemed more like Tony was gazing through it, off into a reality that only he could see. They were silent for a few moments more. Clint was content to wait.
“Do you know how I got this?” Tony finally broke the silence, raising an arm from where it had landed thrown over his stomach to tap the reactor in his chest. The room was filled with a soft tink tink as Tony’s nail clinked against the metal skeleton.
Another beat of silence.
“Afghanistan. A man named Yinsen helped you make it.” Clint answered in a quiet tone, not quite a whisper but a voice clearly trying not to disturb the atmosphere. Clint remembered the files perfectly, any important information he had access to regarding his team- friends- was knowledge he made himself well-acquainted with. “I’m sorry, for what happened.” He added distractedly, as an afterthought. Tony seemed shocked by the words, eyeing him carefully before returning his gaze to where it still stared through the ceiling.
“It was the first time something like that happened to me,” Tony confessed. Another beat of silence, “Guess my irresistible charm couldn’t resist the bad guys for long.” The man joked, pathetic smile pulling at chapped lips. Clint gave Tony his best unimpressed look but the flimsy smile didn’t fall. Vaguely, Clint wondered if Tony knew he’d never fallen for any of the facades the other man had ever put on. “Thing is, something like that just doesn’t leave you alone.”
Clint hummed. Turning his gaze from Tony and deciding it was time for him to stare through something. He met his own eyes in the reflection of the dark screen of the T.V and barely restrained his physical flinch, hands clenching tightly into fists where they hung between his legs, toes curling within the confines of his boots. His own gaze became unfocused, blurring the figure perching on the couch in the reflection. Clint almost thought there was a flash of blue.
“Yeah,” He muttered, low and dark and distracted. He heard Tony shift below him and he could practically see the curious expression on the man, eyes glinting with a need to know. Curiosity killed the cat, Bruce would say. Satisfaction brought it back, Stark would shoot back with that certain careless ease he was known for. Forcing himself back into the present, Clint turned to meet Tony’s eyes for the third time that night, “Somethings will haunt you. For the rest of your life, even, but you aren’t going to get better internalizing it.”
The staring started up, again, eyes locked in that same tug-o-war. It seemed gentler this time though. It was more like a battle of who deserved comfort. Who was worthy of both of their attention. Tony’s chocolate irises were glazed over with a wet sheen and the fear had retreated in Clint’s presence. It gave the archer a brutal sense of satisfaction knowing he’d chased away the bad things. They were filled with more of that spark of hope that he’d thought he’d seen earlier. The curiosity had replaced the wariness, a distraction Tony had so clearly welcomed. Clint was sure he didn’t fair much better, his brief eye contact with himself for the second time that day had left him feeling vulnerable and he was certain he was looking at Tony with a fondness and need that usually only Natasha was privy to. He was too relieved not to be alone on a day as bad as this one was turning out to be to not feel the desire to be close to Tony. Tony was a good distraction. He was an attention seeker, even when he wasn’t intentionally screaming “Look at me!” If Clint had to focus on Tony, he didn’t have to focus on himself.
They came to a crossroad in their little battle, breaking away and looking their own separate ways once again. Clint hung his head for a moment, glaring at the fists still clenched between his knees. With one more sigh he stood, watching as Tony looked at him alarmed as if he was going to leave, and proceeded to kick Tony’s legs off the end of the couch.
Tony squawked, offended beyond belief at the assault, but he didn’t fight as Clint lowered himself onto the now available cushion. Tony huffed, pouting the the only way he knew how (meaning: over the top) before he laid his legs over Clint’s lap. It was clear the man expected to be shoved away, but Clint just smirked at him and rested his arms on the man’s shins. Tony sputtered; Clint chuckled. The contact was nice, though, and oddly enough he didn’t feel invaded by Tony’s touch. It was warm and gentle, heavier than Natasha’s comforting hands and larger than her soothingly familiar weight, but it was nice. Maybe he didn’t have to deal with a bad day on his own, maybe he could use someone else on the team as a Plan B for when ‘Tasha was gone. Maybe he had more options.
Tony scoffed, drawing Clint’s attention again, but smirked back after getting over the shock of the assassin’s compliance to his utter ridiculousness.
“Movie?” Clint suggested.
Tony eyed him for another moment, something on his face that Clint didn’t bother to read. It wasn’t scrutinizing and it made the ever-so-distracting curiosity flare. Distraction is what they needed. He could handle a little not knowing.
Another beat of silence.
“Hell yeah.” Tony smiled, snatching the remote off the glass coffee table and turning on the T.V. He winced subtly at the bright light the screen shone directly into his eyes. Clint restrained from laughing, aware the man likely had a nice headache from his hangover and he didn’t want to ruin this moment seeing as he didn’t know if there would ever be another one like it.
“JARVIS, can you dim the T.V brightness?” Clint asked smugly.
“Of course, Agent Barton.” The T.V dimmed accordingly and Tony sagged further into the cushions.
“Thanks, Legolas.” He smirked.
“Anytime, Tin Can.” Clint gave his best smile back.