Chapter Text
Slip Out The Back (Before They Know You Were There)
1:
It was almost four in the afternoon by the time Barton wandered half-dressed into the communal kitchen, barefoot and without his hearing aids in. He was on a time-sensitive mission: to grab a bottle of water and some Tylenol for the migraine that had been plaguing him since he'd woken up from his Pretty Damn Important Sleep Schedule™ nap twenty minutes earlier. He was sure there'd been a stash of the little white pills buried somewhere in his room for such an event, but, for the life of him, he couldn't seem to find where they were now.The archer had only ventured out after checking with JARVIS that the coast was clear. Clint wasn't in the mood for small talk. Wasn't in the mood for much of anything, really. Not with the way his brain was throbbing against the inside of his skull and sending shockwaves down his spine with each step he took.
According to Stark's AI, Nat was otherwise occupied with Banner and Cap inside one of the conference rooms a few floors down. On any other day, Barton might've worried they were about to be called out to go save the world - or that they were up to some kind of mischief. Today? They could be planning on taking over the entire planet and he wouldn't give a damn.
Tugging open the door to the silver monstrosity of a fridge, Clint recoiled with a violent hiss of pain as the glare of the light struck him blind, both eyes slamming shut as he stumbled backwards with a curse. "Sonofa-"
Rubbing a shaky hand across his face, it wasn't until he tentatively opened one eye, testing that he hadn't been permanently maimed, that Clint realised he wasn't as alone in the kitchen as he'd first thought.
Scowling his betrayal up at the ceiling, in what he hoped was the general direction of JARVIS' sensors, Clint didn't bother trying to disguise the defeated sigh that escaped.
Stark looked... nervous? Worried, maybe. Definitely guilty, but he was sure the playboy was guilty about a lot of things and most of them probably had nothing to do with Clint. Unless he'd witnessed Clint's less-than-graceful interaction with the fridge and he'd laughed? That was something he should be feeling extremely guilty about.
Tapping pointedly at his ears to let Tony know he was minus his hearing, Clint turned his back on the billionaire and padded on over to the sink, suddenly unwilling to take on the fluorescent light of the fridge again now he had unexpected company. He'd happily make do with tepid, disgusting tap water if it meant he could get back to the sanctity of his room quicker. Not that tap water would ever dare to be tepid, nor disgusting, in a building owned by Tony Stark, but Clint suddenly needed to get away from the beady eyes that he could feel boring holes into the back of his skull.
Filling his glass halfway, Clint concluded that he'd also be better off searching his room again for the missing pills. At least, that was the plan, until he spotted Tony trying to catch his attention from his peripheral.
<You. OK?>
Clint was reluctant to admit that there could be anything even remotely decent about the genius, billionaire before him, but the man's sign language had actually improved drastically over the last few months. Which meant, for some godforsaken reason, Stark had made the effort to take time out of his busy schedule to learn it.
For him.
Admitting that particular brand of weakness to the team, a team that included a Super Soldier and an actual god, no less, had been... not fun. But Clint'd had Coulson and Natasha in his corner back then. Being Deaf? That was surmountable. The narcolepsy and his cataplexy? That was a whole other kettle of fish. (Coulson- Phil - had discovered it purely by accident, and Clint had done everything in his power to make sure his handler was the only person to ever find out.)
<Headache,> Clint signed back with an exaggerated grimace. <Tylenol?>
Tony's face fell.
Clint frowned, but decided Stark either didn't recognise the sign, or he was fresh out of painkillers.
With a shrug, Clint turned to leave, fully prepared to suffer through the migraine in the safety of his own room, when he suddenly found Steve Roger's muscular body blocking his path.
Even through the sickening pounding of his skull, Clint couldn't fail to recognise the warning bells that were going off like an air raid siren in his head. First JARVIS had lied to him, the sneaky bastard, and now he was being cornered like a wild animal inside Stark's extravagant kitchen.
Something was going on.
"Cap."
Rogers offered up a kind smile at the greeting, but his attention was quickly pulled away by something Tony was saying from behind Clint. It was obviously about him, because Steve was about as subtle as a brick, his eyes travelling from Clint to Stark, and back again. It made the archer wish he'd put in his ears before he'd left the safety of his room.
"Can I?"
Miming his intention to get through the blockade that was Captain America's chiselled abs, Clint felt the first tendrils of panic start to rise as he spied a flash of red hair on a cursory glance over his shoulder to make sure Stark wasn't about to do something stupid. Like, stab him in the back.
Something was definitely up, and Clint couldn't help but think that he was the something. The sudden urge to get as far away from...whatever this was...sent a flood of adrenaline through his veins.
Unable to hold back a startled flinch as Rogers tried to refocus his wandering attention with a gentle touch to his shoulder, Clint took a wary step back, locking his knees in case his cataplexy reared its ugly head again. Now was not the time to be putting on a show of just how screwed up he really was.
<Sorry.> The crestfallen look on the super soldier's face was genuine, but Barton's overly sensitive skin wasn't willing to forgive the intrusive touch just yet, so he ignored the signed apology and instead angled his body away from Rogers, putting his back to the fridge so he didn't have Stark and Natasha at his unprotected six either.
"Did I miss a Team meeting or something?" Clint kept his breaths steady, his voice casual, but could already feel the cataplexy weakening the rigid lock he had on his knees.
Nat stepped forward then, keeping her distance, knowing he didn't like to feel crowded, but making sure she had his full attention, even as Banner entered the kitchen and came to a nervous stop next to Tony, hands buried deep in both pockets.
<Can we talk?>
Her flawless face gave nothing away as she signed, but Clint knew Natasha far better than anyone else.
So this was it.
Clint had known it was only a matter of time before the team were done with him. Now that Phil - no. Now that Coulson wasn't there to cover for him, to make excuses for his apparent laziness, or clear up his messes before the others found out, they'd clearly come to the decision that a disabled fuckup had no rightful place on a team of superheroes.
Clint didn't even have it in him to be hurt by the team's actions. If anything, he agreed with them. Well, that, and he'd been expecting it a whole lot sooner than now.
But the time had apparently come.
With a put upon sigh, Clint made a point of emphasising his bare chest, shuffling his un-socked feet, fiddling with his aid-absent ears. "Sure thing." He kept his voice casual, but resigned. "But can I at least get dressed and grab my hearing aids? I don't want to be half-naked and Deaf for... whatever this is. Right?" He even threw in a playful wink and a smile, relieved to see some of the tension in Stark's shoulders fade away, even if Nat hit him with a knowing glare.
With the others hopefully distracted by their hastily-voiced agreement to Clint's terms of capitulation, the archer threw his best friend a sign only she would understand.
<Compromised?>
Nat studied him before responding, her eyes bright with emotion.
<Safe, Clint. Promise.>
Clint nodded, watching as Nat repeated the sign for Promise. Safe.
Mind made up, he turned on his heel and eased through the small gap Steve had made between himself and the doorframe, making sure not to accidentally touch the much larger man along the way.
"Gimme five minutes to get decent," he yelled over one shoulder, maintaining a lazy plod in the direction of his quarters until he was out of sight of the rest of the team.
And then Clint ran.