Work Text:
Steve found Clint sitting behind a kitchen counter.
The stoic archer was huddled in a corner of the ruined room, just shy of the shattered glass that was strewn over the once-pristine slate like an abstract painting. He looked tense, drawn in, his body shouting sharp, angry paintstrokes. His face pointed out, radiating a fierce glare towards the opposite wall.
“Clint?” Steve asked carefully.
No answer.
He maneuvered across the debris-laden floor, wincing slightly at each crunch beneath his foot. He’d have to pick those out later. “Clint?” he said again, a tone of urgency rising into his voice. “Are you all right?” His commanding voice shot out.
No response again. If it wasn’t for the fact that Clint’s head was held straight, not drooping, and that Steve could spot the minute crests and falls of his chest, he would have assumed the worst. As it stood, though, there was still little knowing whether his [teammate? colleague? probable friend?] was once again under another’s control.
Crunch. Steve stepped into view, prompting a startled twitch from the man on the ground.
The latter composed himself, looking up after a moment and giving a curt nod of acknowledgement. “Cap.” He fell into silence again, his gaze resting on an unknown point ahead.
Steve frowned and crouched down. “Can I give you a hand up?” he asked, inspecting for bruises, gashes, wounds. Aside from the usual scrapes, the man looked largely intact, physically. Of course, Steve had no knowing how Clint’s mind was faring. If he had to guess, he’d say the man was just barely holding himself together. Who could blame him?
Clint’s lips parted, the small sound audible only because of the unusual silence around them. “Huh?” he muttered. His eyes lifted blearily. Up close, they were definitely far from Tesseract blue. Glassy, unfocussed, but mostly himself. Steve heard his own breath release.
He stuck out his hand. “I’ll give you a hand,” he repeated. Clint stared at him a moment, then grunted in acquiescence and gripped his hand. A few moments later, Clint was upright, stumbling sideways before catching himself. It had been decades and decades, but Steve remembered a time when his effortless action would have made his once-tiny frame fall over like a blade of grass in a gale. Now, Steve towered over his stocky, battered companion.
Clint turned, shuffling around so he was leaning on the counter. His shoes kicked up a spray of glass, which tinkled like windchimes as it fell. Steve strode to the other side of the counter and faced Clint. “You okay?” The man was leaning heavily on the counter, one shoulder dipped below the other, his split lip shining red.
“Wha?” Clint looked around the room before landing on target. He grunted again. “‘m fine.”
Steve was slightly unnerved by Clint’s direct gaze, shifting in light of this unintended staring contest. “Do you need to go to SHIELD medical-?” He had barely uttered the final syllable before his words were met by a vehement shake of the head.
“No!” said Clint, his fingers skittering across the counter until his hand gripped the edge. “No,” he said again, white-knuckled. “I’m fine.” Then, in a twist of irony, Clint shivered suddenly, eyelids fluttering closed. His posture half-collapsed as his elbow skidded across the surface, unable to hold his weight.
Before Steve could shout his name, Clint’s eyes shot open, edged with panic. His palms slammed down, the quake displacing a metal vase that had somehow managed to stay upright until that point. Short, heavy breaths noisily filled the room. Steve grabbed Clint’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay. Clint. You’re here. You’re here. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Steve was babbling, and he wasn’t sure any of it was going through, but in any case the archer’s breaths seemed to steady over time and wash away to a quiet rhythm. He let go.
“I... I...” murmured Clint. He blinked, squinted, blinked some more. He shook his head. His jaw ticked.
“It’s okay,” Steve reiterated, watching Clint carefully, ready to run for help at any given moment if necessary. “I’m here.”
Clint scanned the scene, doing a double-take as he seemed to notice Steve again. “Cap,” he said, sounding surprised. His head twitched like he was trying to rid a persistent fly.
Steve smiled as reassuringly as he could manage. “It’s okay,” he repeated, quieter. “How can I help you, Clint? What do you need?”
Clint squinted at him and shook his head yet again, this time slower, signaling incomprehension. “I... wha? ‘m sorry, I didn’t...” He seemed to lose his train of thought. “‘m fine,” he repeated.
Crunch. Crunch. Steve walked over so he was standing next to Clint. “Why don’t we sit down?” he said, pointing his chin to the nearby leather sofa. Without waiting for a reply, Steve gently took Clint by the arm and marched him over, guiding him down until he was stable against the cushions. Steve sat down next to him.
They sat there for a minute, neither doing much except flick through their own thoughts.
“There’s somethn’,” started Clint. He licked his lips. “Something...” He stopped, confused. After a moment, he seemed to regain his alertness and carried on, lit anew. “Something I should tell you, Cap.” It was the most Steve heard out of Clint since out of the field. Clint looked at his hands, examining his calluses. His fingers closed into tight fists.
Steve waited.
Clint swallowed. “I...”
“Clint,” Steve interrupted gently. The man looked over, locking his gaze. He looked alarmed, as if caught in the spotlight. “If you’re going to tell me you’re deaf... I already know.”
A beat passed. Then, after a flash of surprise, Clint chuckled. The heaviness in the room lifted with the unexpected and light sound. “Prolly woulda chickened out,” Clint drawled in reply, his Iowan roots coming on thick. “If ‘m bein’ honest.”
“I’ve read your file, Clint,” Steve smiled. “Wouldn’t be a good Captain if I didn’t.”
Clint grinned, ducking his head.
Okay, the situation wasn’t that amusing, but they both needed the distraction by pretending it was. By pretending it was the only problem. By pretending that there wasn’t something else that Clint needed to tell. That he couldn’t tell. That strangled his throat each time he tried. That set his heartbeat going like a machine gun each time he remembered. But that telling would come later, Steve hoped. It would come with time.
“Let’s get you outta here,” he said, “and into a bed. Not medical. Just a bed.”
Steve had a story to tell, too. A story about a feisty kid from Brooklyn who had a few problems of his own.
“Bed?” echoed Clint, his voice tinging with promise.
Time heals all wounds, someone said. Not quite true. After all, if anyone could lay claim to time, it was Steve.
He nodded. “Come on,” he said, pulling himself up. “We can do it.”
Still, he was holding out hope. There was hope for them all.
He stuck out his hand.
With time.