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If he had to admit it (and it’s usually Kate who makes him do so), Clint’s been around the block more than a few times when it comes to the whole dumpster thing.
And really, most of the time, it’s not even his fault. Tracksuit Mafia be damned, he does try really hard to not let himself end up in the middle of a park, or on crutches, or at home with a concussion all the time. He doesn’t necessarily like being laid up or taking dozens of pills or changing bandages in the middle of the night, thank you very much, but, well, he’s a goddamn human being. Not a beefed-up guy with super serum or a billionaire with a suit made to withstand bullets. Which means that sometimes, being caught in a dumpster is just freaking unavoidable.
So maybe that’s the reason behind why the guy who he finds near his apartment – the one looking just as beat up as he usually does, dark hair, superhero-type jaw, tinted glasses askew and half-broken across his face – seems like he’s right up Clint’s alley. Not that Clint is looking to take in any strays; Kate is enough of a hassle, and he doesn’t even consider her his charge anymore so much as his equal. But Clint doesn’t want to leave him here, either, especially given the severity of the man’s injuries. Besides, he’s also had enough instances of being passed out on the street and having his photo appear in the gossip pages to know that it’s not really worth it. And so against his better judgment, he hauls the man onto his shoulder and drags him the few blocks to his apartment, dumping him rather unceremoniously onto the worn couch once he gets inside.
He’s left his aids out, mostly because he’d been lazy, and because he hadn’t planned on doing more than taking out the trash when he initially left, jabs the one he can find in his left ear while looking a little forlornly at its partner. The causality of another recent assignment gone wrong, broken beyond repair, and the cost to fix it was out of Clint’s current superhero budget price range. Natasha had promised to do some of her hacking handiwork on that front, but missions had taken precedence, which means he’s been operating on one good ear for longer than he feels comfortable with.
Clint changes into a set of more comfortable clothes before striding back into the living room, surprised to find the man already stirring on the couch. Then again, Clint realizes he has no idea how long the man had been out before he had come across him. Could’ve been hours, for all he knew, which wouldn’t make his waking up all that strange.
“Grrrmph.”
The sound that escapes from the man’s mouth reminds him of a cross between a groan and a whine, and sadly, it’s one that’s pretty sure he’s emitted more often than not, one he recognizes all too well from his own experiences. Clint walks a little closer and folds his arms over his chest, staring the man down with a mixture of amusement and skepticism.
“Who’re you?”
“The guy who pulled you out of a dumpster. My dumpster, to be exact.” Clint rubs at his ear unconsciously and the man furrows his brow in a way that looks like it hurts.
“I thought that was a woman.”
“Yeah, maybe the first time,” Clint responds with a barking laugh, and the mystery man makes a face as he moves his jaw back and forth.
“Aw, shit.” He raises his arm slowly, bringing a hand to his head as he slowly shifts himself into a semi-sitting position. “How, uh...how exactly did I end up there again?”
“You tell me,” Clint says, surveying the cuts on the man’s face, as well as the dark stain of red starkly visible through his grey tee shirt. He’s guessing it’s probably a surface wound if the man can move as well as he can, though he knows it needs a fair amount of medical attention all the same. “Kind of would help you not to move too much, by the way. You’re pretty banged up.”
“Can’t be the only one,” the man grumbles, adjusting broken glasses so that they’re less askew and still covering his eyes. Clint doesn’t answer, self-consciously rubbing the back of his neck as he looks down, noting the fresh scrapes and bruises on his arms. The man struggles to stand and Clint cracks a half smile because it’s exactly the same way Clint would have reacted if their positions were reversed. Who needed self-care, anyway? (“Everyone,” Kate likes to say when he feeds her the line, and that’s usually the end of that.)
“Perks of the job, bro. As long as you’re not bothering to care about your wellbeing, you want some coffee?”
The man does, and Clint’s going to trust his judgment enough that he can drink it without spitting it back up all over his floor, and he’s gotta be alert anyway if Clint wants to be of any useful help. He walks into the kitchen and grabs a mug from the drying rack.
“So. What superhero squad do you fly under?”
Clint hears the man stop in his tracks behind him, and when he turns around, the stranger is offering a wary look.
“How did you know?”
“Seriously?” Clint eyes him. “Not to brag, but I’ve been around the block a bit. Not to mention: tight build. Handsome features. Face that looks like it could be the cover of this month’s Men’s Health. Plus, you ended up in my dumpster with a ton of injuries.”
“Well, the papers got the handsome part right,” the man mutters as he limps into the kitchen, leaning against the small stand-up table. He extends his hand as he does so.
“Matt Murdock.”
“Clint Barton.” Clint grabs the other man’s palm before reaching for the half-full carafe he’s left on the counter. “You wanna take a seat while I look at your injuries?”
“Mostly surface wounds,” Matt answers as he lowers himself onto the chair. “I mean, by all means, feel free to take a look. Been around the block with this kind of thing as well, but this is apparently the second time I’ve ended up in a random person’s apartment because of it.”
“You were in my dumpster,” Clint says unapologetically. “But whatever you came from before you ended up there must’ve been pretty nasty.”
There’s a change on Matt’s face, Clint manages to catch the way his cheekbones clench and the way he swallows but he decides to ignore it, walking to the sink to wet some clean towels. It wasn’t his prerogative to start talking about what happened on his missions, either, especially if it was someone he didn’t know. In fact, he suspects that if Kate or Natasha or Jess weren’t around to pull it out of him, he wouldn’t even bother at all.
He’s got his back to Matt as he wrings out the washcloths, and when he turns around again, the other man is staring at him silently, as if he’s expecting Clint to speak again. It takes another moment for Clint to realize he must have tried to ask a question, one which he knows he wouldn’t have heard given that he was on the wrong side for his aid to pick it up.
“Sorry,” he apologizes. “Wanna repeat that? And take off your shirt while you're at it so I can actually do something about this injury?”
Matt gives him a curious look, stripping off his tee, and Clint shrugs. “I’m actually deaf. And I’ve only got one aid in right now...it’s kind of a long story.”
“Deaf,” Matt says a little shortly and Clint sighs as he hands over the rag.
“Yeah, so what? You never knew a superhero with disabilities?”
“No.” Matt shakes his head, wiping blood off his shoulder. “I mean, not like that. I’m actually blind.”
Clint stumbles backwards slightly, knows he can’t hide the surprise on his face, and suddenly the dark glasses and the facial expressions click into place. He immediately kicks himself for not realizing it earlier, though Natasha’s penchant of being so in tune with nonverbal communication tended to make him less susceptible to thinking something like this was out of the ordinary.
“Seriously?”
“You never knew a superhero with disabilities?” Matt mimics with the same amount of sarcasm, and Clint finds himself outright laughing because what the hell.
“Touche.”
Matt prods at his wound a little more and sighs heavily. “Look, if you need to know...the dumpster thing. It wasn’t anything heroic or whatever. I was chasing some bad guys, and one of them got the jump on me. I didn’t have a way out of the building I was in, so I ended up on the roof, but I guess sometimes I have to remind myself I’m not Spider-Man. Or Superman.” He looks down. “Didn’t really make the jump, but I guess the guys thought I was dead anyway, so it was a win-win all around.”
“You sound like me,” Clint says as he takes another drink. “Any day you don’t die is a good thing, right?”
“Pretty much,” Matt admits. “Hey, you got a bandage or something?”
Clint does, and he’s already halfway to unearthing the first aid kit from underneath his sink as Matt hands the bloodied cloth back for Clint to wash.
“You know, you should really get a suit,” Clint says a little conversationally as he unrolls some dressing, handing it over. Matt glares, as much as Clint figures someone can glare through tinted glasses.
“Working on it. And you’re one to talk, considering your comment about ‘being around the block’ and all.”
“I had a suit,” Clint says a little defensively. “And a mask, if you need to know. Not exactly my finest hour. They don’t seem to make comfortable and practical clothing for people who shoot bows and arrows. Anyway, this is my suit now.” He motions to himself and stops before forgetting the other man can’t see. “I mean, not what I’m currently wearing -- which, if you care, is like an odd combination of pajamas and work out clothes -- but a jeans-and-tee shirt type get-up.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Matt says dryly. “Does it take long to wash the dumpster smell out of those?”
“Brilliant,” Clint mutters, wiping his hands on his pants. He pauses, tilting his head to the side. Superhero stuff aside, it shouldn’t surprise him that Matt’s apparently good about taking care of himself. Even though the other man can’t see, he seems adept enough to be able to assess the rest of his injuries, which makes Clint wonder how many times he’s found himself in this particular situation. Clint helps him secure the bandages on his shoulder a little more securely as Matt rolls a hand over his face, his fingers skirting over a black eye.
“You said something about a woman earlier,” Clint finally tries as the silence continues to stretch between them. It’s not awkward, per se, but it’s definitely not the comfortable silence he feels with Kate, or the tense silence he feels with Jess, or the mutually understood silence he feels with Natasha. “Partner?”
Matt stops with his cup halfway to his lips. “Not...exactly,” he hedges. “More like...an acquaintance, I guess.” He drops his voice, looking up. “You got a partner?”
Clint smiles wryly, nodding to the bow in the corner, mostly out of instinct. “Katie. My other half. Spoiled rotten, kind of annoying, but the best shooter I’ve seen in a long time. I mean, other than me.”
“Huh. Decent doctor?”
Clint snorts as Matt puts down his coffee, angling himself out of his chair. “I’d be more inclined to speak fondly of her if she hadn’t up and left me for California and taken my dog, to tell you the truth.”
“Jesus.” Matt shakes his head, and makes a small noise before composing himself. “What kind of superhero group do you run with that you have to worry about your partner stealing your dog?”
“The Avengers,” Clint says, trying to stop himself from sounding a little too proud. “I mean, usually I’d just show you my card and stuff but –“ He cuts himself off before he can continue, biting down on his tongue, and the corner of Matt’s lip quirks slightly.
“But I’m blind?”
Clint scrunches up one eye. “Hey, I’m deaf. Not like you’re alone, here.”
Matt chuckles, a noise that turns into a small cough. “Sorry,” he apologizes, holding up his hands. “Really. Didn’t mean to imply anything with that comment. I guess I was just curious about the man whose dumpster I fell into, who seems to have all the makings of a hospital in his living space.”
“Yeah, well.” Clint pauses, because he realizes that for what it’s worth, he’s actually is enjoying the conversation, which is more than he can say for how he’s spent the last two weeks since Kate’s departure. “At least you didn’t think I was Iron Fist or something.”
“Silver linings, am I right?” Matt pushes his glasses up his nose, and Clint finds himself smiling again.
“You know,” he says after another moment, “if you ever find yourself in Brooklyn again, you should come up to the roof sometime. Not for like, jumping or anything, because I don't want to keep patching your ass up. But I do barbecues every week, and there are drinks, and it’s a great space to hang.”
“Huh.” Matt nods slowly. “Yeah, you know, minus the whole injury thing, that sounds like an amazing opportunity for the duo of the deaf and the blind.” Clint shrugs.
“As long as you don’t end up in my dumpster again, we’ll call it even. I’ll even let you steal a beer. Besides, we kind of equal each other out, anyway. And I make a mean hot dog.”
Matt stops at the doorway, leaning against the frame, and fixes Clint with a look that, despite his sunglasses, speaks volumes.
“Tell you what, Barton. Find me a suit, maybe introduce me to that decent doctor partner of yours, and we have a deal.”