Work Text:
“This is so good,” Tony sighs as he ravenously tears bites from the days-old sandwich Clint found in his bag. “Really, I haven’t had anything like this in weeks.”
Clint knows that many people have to make do with even worse throughout their lives, so the billionaire living off scraps during his kidnapping probably reestablished global equality a tiny bit. But something about the way Tony wolfs down the food as if he’s afraid it will vanish before his eyes breaks Clint's heart a little.
“Honestly, the food was probably the worst,” Tony continues in a conversational tone. “The rest wasn’t so bad. Less torture than last time, and I didn’t even have to build a suit to get out – thanks for that, Birdy, by the way.”
And Clint would almost believe him - would almost buy the engineer’s repeated assertions that he’s fine, that he just wants to get home and why on earth do we have to stay in a crappy motel now? But the way Tony’s eyes are darting across the room, how his face continually looks just a bit alarmed, how his hands just won’t hold still, makes it obvious to Clint that he’s not. Thanks to SHIELD, the archer has been on both sides of the prison door more often than he can count, which means that he recognises the signs all too well.
“God, is there really no way we can just ask Nat to bring the quinjet here?” Tony complains, gesturing at the water-stained walls of the tiny room. “This place sucks.”
Clint rolls his eyes, but he isn’t actually annoyed. He understands how much Tony must be missing home after three weeks in the clutches of “the most unprofessional kidnappers ever” (Tony’s words, but the fact that one of them actually lost their mobile phone in Tony’s cell probably speaks for itself).
“We would need clearance from the local government, and we don’t know who was involved in the kidnapping,” Clint explains yet again. “We can’t let them know where we are before we’re positive who was behind all that.” They’re going to fly civilian, but the earliest connection to the states isn’t until the next morning.
Tony grunts disdainfully and swallows another mouthful of sandwich.
He looks a bit better now than he did when Clint blasted through the cell he’d been held in, no longer dizzy from hunger and ready to pass out. But he’s still pale and shaky and tired and thin, like a low-quality photocopy of the Tony Stark they all know, and Clint guesses it will take a long time until he returns back to his usual showman appearance.
He’s also full of blood, grime, and dried sweat. With the mission successful and the adrenaline finally tapering off, Clint can’t help but notice that the man stinks.
“How about a shower?“ he suggests. “Seems like you could use one.”
Surprise flashes in Tony's tired brown eyes, as if he hadn’t even considered that possibility. Then he beams and pushes himself up with one arm on the dirty table. It doesn’t escape Clint’s notice that he’s swaying slightly.
“Sounds great,” Tony declares, grabbing a towel from Clint’s bag and making for the bathroom. “But don’t finish my sandwich, Bird Brain.”
*
A shower sounds great indeed.
God, Tony’s missed this so much. He’s gotten so used to the layer of grime on his skin, the foul smell surrounding him, and the itching of the greasy hair on his skull that he’s almost forgotten what it is to be clean. He undresses quickly, suddenly eager to rid himself of the clothes he’s been wearing for weeks, then flinches when they scrape over the wounds and bruises covering his body.
Some of the burn wounds are clearly infected, which might be the source of the low-grade fever he’s sure he’s been running for days. He knows they’ll need proper dressing and probably antibiotics to heal. Clint offered several times to examine him, but Tony refused adamantly. He’ll have to show them to the doctors either way, probably tomorrow once they get back to SHIELD and he’s forced to go through the whole-ass process of debriefing and recounting and getting every inch of his skin checked over. But for now he’s just happy to have his body to himself. Nobody kicking what they aren’t supposed to kick, no burning irons and god-knows-what scorching his skin, nobody touching where he doesn't want them to.
Tony gets into the shower, and god, it feels so good. It’s like heaven, except that the shower is too small to sit down and the water pressure is a bit too low and he sort of misses the customised massage functions that the Tower’s bathtubs offer. But hey, after three weeks with a rusty bucket of ice water, his standards aren’t exactly what they used to be.
He's half under, feeling the hot water run down his aching back, cleaning layers of dirt off his skin. He moans with relief before stepping in fully, reaching for the small packet of shampoo on the basin’s edge. Then the next thing he knows, he’s on his knees on the floor, the showerhead hitting the ground with a bang, and he can’t breathe anymore.
“Tony?” Clint immediately calls from outside.
I’m fine, he wants to shout, I’m a-okay, stop worrying Bird Brain, but all that comes out is a choked cough. Tony’s breaths are heaving, his heart is running a marathon in his chest.
“Tony? Answer me, or I’m coming in!”
“‘m good,” he manages to croak. “Jus’ slipped.”
He can’t hear whether Clint replies anything, but at least the other man doesn’t enter. Tony manages to maneuver himself into a sitting position against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees, the shower spilling water between his toes. He’s trembling hard and the breaths still won’t come, leaving him on the verge of hyperventilating. Even the thought of getting his head back under the shower spray causes his chest to constrict and the panic to rise up, flashbacks threatening to take over.
Fuck. These assholes even managed to ruin this for him. It had taken him years to stop getting nightmares of drowning after his time in Afghanistan, and now four rounds of waterboarding were enough to bring all of it back. Fuck his life.
After what seems like centuries, Tony finally manages to get back to his feet. He cleans himself off with his hands and the towel, standing as far away from the shower as possible, and pointedly avoids the cracked mirror on the wall.
When he reenters the room wrapped in the towel, Clint gives him a long look, his eyes lingering at the barely healed cuts and scorch wounds on his arms and on his visibly unwashed hair. He doesn’t say anything, and Tony doesn’t know whether he should be grateful or worried that the obvious marks of torture don’t seem to faze the archer in the least.
*
It doesn’t take long for Tony to drift off against the sound of the TV, which is really more white noise than anything because neither of them understands the local language.
Clint has had years of practice learning to exist in a state that is not really asleep and not really awake. He rests, knowing that tomorrow will be a long day, but doesn’t let himself slip too deeply into unconsciousness. So when Tony starts twitching in his sleep, his face screwed up in obvious distress, and lets out a low moan, Clint is immediately alert.
“Hey,” he soothes. “Wake up, shellhead.”
When this doesn’t yield the desired effect, he reaches for Tony’s shoulder. A light touch is enough to cause the man to jerk upright, his hand batting Clint’s away reflexively even before he is fully awake. Clint has enough training to evade the hit and catch Tony’s hand mid-slap, guiding it back down. He frowns when he realises that Tony’s skin feels warm to the touch.
“Hey,” he repeats. “Tony, it’s me. 2013. Europe. Shitty motel, remember?”
Tony looks at him, recognition slowly flooding back into his eyes, then nods at Clint’s hand on his wrist. “Care to let go?”
Clint does as demanded. “Care to explain why you’re running a fever?”
Tony glances away. “Nothing serious,” he deflects.
Clint scoffs.
“Fine, if you must know - a few of the burns got infected,” he amends. “Nothing that some Penicillin can’t fix.”
“Because you can judge that, Stark MD.” Clint raises an eyebrow. “You should let me look at them. You know that you’ll have to get a complete medical examination as soon as we’re back at HQ anyway, right?”
“Yes, and that’s why I don’t need your hands on me now,” Tony spits back, but the look he gives Clint is almost pleading.
Clint remembers Texas - two months held in captivity by a bunch of neo-Nazis who found a perverted pleasure in using his arms and back as a human ashtray. He remembers the feeling of his body not being his own anymore, how it took weeks until he would stop flinching at Laura’s gentle touch. His skin didn’t look much different from Tony’s then.
“Okay,” he concedes. “But minor burns - that’s all there is, right? Fury’s gonna be up my ass if you kick the bucket on my watch after being rescued.”
“Pinky promise, Barton,” Tony mutters. He’s laid back down and is almost out again. Clint has never seen Tony voluntarily go to sleep in front of anyone before and it worries him a bit. He can’t get them back to New York quickly enough.
The fever rises, leaving the engineer alternately shivering under the blanket and kicking it away. Tony’s made it clear enough that touch is not an option at the moment, but Clint still tries to make him a little more comfortable by draping a wet undershirt over his forehead in the absence of any clean washcloths, refreshing it every half hour to keep him cool.
It’s almost four in the morning when Tony wakes with a strangled cry, panting.
“Tony,” Clint says firmly. Calmly, he leans over to switch on the bedside lamp. Tony’s wide eyes follow him, his breaths still coming out fast, but once the light flickers on, he visibly relaxes.
“That bulb’s from the 70s,” he remarks hoarsely when he’s caught his breath, nodding at the lamp. “Let’s get out of this shithole.”
It’s obvious that neither of them is going to go back to sleep, so Clint prepares a meagre breakfast with instant coffee and the sandwich that’s left. Tony sips at the coffee listlessly, his head leaned heavily against the wall.
“What’s wrong?” Clint nods at the sandwich that Tony hasn’t touched. “Yesterday you were so wild about it.”
Tony shakes his head. “Kinda nauseous,” he admits.
“Well, you need to have some of it if you want meds,” Clint states the obvious.
“Yeah mom,” Tony retorts, staring at the bread with a distinct lack of enthusiasm before biting off a tiny piece and then reaching for the painkillers across the table. The blanket falls off his shoulders, and Clint notices fresh spots of blood all over the loose SHIELD t-shirt he’s lent to the other man.
“You should really let me dress those wounds,” he tries once more. “It’s a long flight."
Tony gives him a long look, his eyes a bit glassy. Finally, something softens in his expression. “You got stuff for that here?” he asks.
Clint snorts. “I’m a SHIELD agent on a mission. What do you think I carry in my bag, cupcakes and lipstick?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Tony mutters with a shrug. “You know how to suture?”
His expression is dead serious, but Clint catches a sparkle in his eyes that’s not caused by the fever. He doesn’t even bother to give an answer.
*
Tony pulls the shirt over his head, all of his muscles protesting. Every cell in his body aches, his bones feeling heavier than lead and his skin on fire. Tony’s vision is a bit blurred, giving the world a surreal quality, which doesn’t really help convince him that what he’s seeing now is any more real than his nightmares were. He’s nauseated. He’s tired. He wants Pepper, now. He wants to be home, like, three weeks ago. But it’s not as if the world ever listens to him.
He definitely doesn’t want Barton to stitch him up, but then again, he knows that a 12-hour plane ride won’t be fun with his fever on the rise, and in the end it doesn’t make much of a difference whether it’s Clint now or SHIELD Medical later who get their hands on him. At least the archer is someone he knows, someone he – well, trust is a strong word and not one Tony likes to use carelessly, but he guesses that it comes close to what he feels for the team.
Tony tells himself not to flinch when Clint starts with the first of the wounds, but as soon as the needle pierces his skin, he does anyways and catches the other man glancing at him with knowing eyes.
Oh, fuck that. These assholes had to show up just when he thought he’d gotten a grip on the PTSD that was his little souvenir from the whole New York experience. He really hopes Clint’s dealt with all of his kidnappers the same way he did with the guard in front of Tony’s cell door. His memory is more than fuzzy, but he’s pretty sure that the man had been writhing in a puddle of blood when they’d left the place.
“Lean forward,” Clint directs, and Tony does as he’s told, exposing his back to the archer and letting his feverish head rest on the cool wood of the rickety table.
The needle stings a bit and the disinfectant burns, but he’s had much, much worse over the past few weeks, and once he’s convinced his brain that Clint is not going to start beating him up any minute, it’s almost pleasant to have someone take care of his bruised and battered frame.
Tony feels himself drift off, thinking of home and his bed and JARVIS and Pepper, of movie nights with Happy and Rhodey, of Bruce and their lab work, of Nat’s and Clint’s bickering and Steve’s angrily raised eyebrows. He allows himself to look forward to them as something real, something in reach, not just a vision to hold on to in order to get through the next round of torture. It still feels surreal to be free, as free as anyone can be with the memories hovering just at the back of their mind.
“All done, Frankenstein,” Clint states after a while, rousing him from his almost spaced-out state. “Ready to go home?”
His eyes still closed, Tony nods against the hard surface of the table. Home. Yes, home, that sounds wonderful.