Chapter Text
It’s 2 am, Clint knows he’s supposed to be asleep, but the sweet taste of cider and his phone screen are too important. Music’s playing through his earbuds in hopes of not waking his neighbours. When shuffle play gives him Creep by Radiohead, he decides he wants it on repeat for the rest of the night. Because it accompanies his feelings so perfectly right now.
He gets up, bottle still in hand, his body turning and moving in time with the music that blasts through the buds.
Clint wants them here. He wants to be wrapped in their arms. How’s he supposed to do that when he can hardly express his feelings. He can’t tell them how perfect they are. Because in the end, they’ll realise he’s not special at all and is fucking disgusting. They’ll cut off ties with him and he won’t even have a friend. He’ll be drinking alone more nights than not.
A creep. That’s what he is. He’s a weirdo. Nobody wants him here, and he sure as hell doesn’t belong here. The Avengers don’t need him. They have another sniper that could easily replace him.
His journey of mindlessly following the music takes him to the bathroom. It’s painful, but God he needs something to ground him. Thighs are bloody now, but it feels better. Like he deserves it. When he looks in the mirror his body still isn’t perfect, he wants them to like him. He wants to be good enough. It’s like they look into his soul as well, they see it’s far from perfect, and ugly like the rest of him.
Lifting the phone back up, he looks to see if he has any notifications. None. Not even his games want to talk to him. They don’t notice that he isn’t at the movie night. They don’t care. They don’t need him. They don’t notice when he isn’t there. They don’t care.
He’s a mess as he bandages up his legs and gets changed into new clothes to sleep in.
His fist bangs against the plush bed as he cries into the covers now, sobs wracking his body. He hates this. He wants to be special like them. He doesn’t want to be a creep or a weirdo.
The tears keep on coming as he lets himself fall asleep, song still going, and the blankets around him are his only comfort. Nobody is there for him. Not now, not ever.
It’s 11 am that he ends up waking up, the earbuds, aids and his phone have been put on the bedsides table. There’s a presence in his bed next to him, there arm around his waist as they hold him. Clint shouldn’t get used to it. Instead, he put the aids in and sits himself up.
“You’re awake finally. How much did you drink last night? Are you okay?” They ask soothingly, there hand going through his hair, when he starts to cry again, they pull him closer. “Talk to me.”
“I just wanna make you happy, give you whatever you want. But I can’t you’re so special. I’m not, I’m a creep, a weirdo. What am I doing here? Why am I still alive. I don’t belong here.” He gets out through tears, it’s probably staining their shirt now.
“Oh, Clint.” They whisper gently and kiss the top of his forehead softly. And that’s all Clint needs right now.