Chapter Text
Underface
Underneath my outside face
There’s a face that none can see.
A little less smiley,
A little less sure,
But a whole lot more like me.
-Shel Silverstein
Steve was waiting for the elevator, worn out by a particularly long run that morning and a fitful night of sleep and not wanting to climb the six flights of stairs to the common area to scrounge for food. He’d been living in Stark Tower about a month at that point, and it was only two months after the Battle of New York.
JARVIS’ disembodied voice interrupted his thoughts. The robots’ (AI a voice that sounds like Tony’s in his head corrects) voice sounded mildly more concerned than normal. From the little experience Steve had with JARVIS, this made him very concerned.
“Captain Rogers?”
“Yes, JARVIS?”
“Mister Barton is in some sort of emotional distress and is not responsive.” Steve’s eyebrows rose of their own accord. While Clint socialized with them, he was generally withdrawn and rarely spoke to anyone but Natasha. He didn’t know why JARVIS would be calling him instead of her in this moment. And while emotional breakdowns were common enough on the team, given their collective backgrounds, somehow Steve hadn’t though Clint the type. He didn’t know why he thought that way, really. As team leader Steve had access to each of his team’s full files, including what S.H.I.E.L.D knew of them before. Clint had it as rough as any of them, maybe rougher if Steve started filling in the gaps himself - after all, ten year old boys didn’t run away from foster homes for no reason. The elevator dinged open, and Steve stepped on.
“Is Natasha not available?” Steve asked, pressing the button for Clint’s floor (two above his).
“No, Captain. You and Mister Barton are the only Avengers here at the moment.”
The door pressed open and Steve struggled to restrain his shock. Clint was standing in the middle of the room, sobbing, a dark spot evident on the front of his pants and a puddle on the floor. It was evident the man had wet his pants. A part of Steve wanted to turn around and run from the grown man sobbing so hard he could hardly breathe, wet and childlike, where his team mate should be. But Steve wasn’t Captain America for nothing. With a deep breath, Steve walked towards Clint, body forcibly relaxed and calm. Clint startled and looked up at him with wide eyes. He made a shuddery gasping noise and his hands fell to cover his groin, as if he could somehow make the accident disappear from Steve’s gaze.
“Clint. It’s okay.” Clint only sobbed harder, shaking his head. Steve reached his team mate and very carefully reached a hand out to Clint’s shoulder. Clint was clearly completely out of it, as he neither resisted nor reacted to Steve’s hand intruding on his space. Usually Clint was hyper aware and never let anyone in his space but Natasha, and her only rarely.
“It’s fine. Shh. What can I do?” Steve said quietly, cajolingly.
“I...I need Ph-phil!” Clint gasped out, chest heaving and tears pouring down his face.
“Phil?” Steve frowned, thinking.
“C-Coulson!” Clint followed.
Oh. Steve knew, intellectually, that Agent Coulson had been Clint’s (and Natasha’s) handler for almost a decade now. He hadn’t thought about what the two must be going through. Of course, they all felt bad about the agent’s death. They all felt guilty. But for your handler, the person you had to trust with your life over and over again, to die like that...well.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Clint.” Clint shook with the force of his tears and wrapped himself with his arms. Steve’s heart broke. This is what it had felt like when he’d woken up and realized that his entire world was gone, that nothing remained, that everything was broken past recognition. “I can’t make it better, I wish I could.” And then Steve is pulling Clint close for a too-tight hug, ignoring the tears and snot and urine.
Maybe Clint was so upset anyone would do in that moment, but Steve likes to think that some part of Clint recognized him in that moment. Either way, Clint collapsed into Steve like his ability to stand on his own had vanished. Steve didn’t know how long they stood there, his arms wrapped tight around Clint, and Clint’s slowly creeped their way around Steve until he’d been hugging him back, but eventually Clint calmed. With the calm comes shame, and Clint pulled back, looking away, face flushed bright red.
Steve had a couple thousand questions he wanted to ask, but he also wanted to be reassuring. He doesn’t want Clint to feel bad about this, even if it’s….well, not exactly average.
“It’s Loki!” Clint burst out. Steve blinked, confused. Clint flushed harder and wrung his hands. “I mean, since Loki. Sometimes my body isn’t my own. And I…” The man trailed off, but Steve thought he understood. He’d been briefed about what to look for after mind control (though why S.H.I.E.L.D. has a standard briefing for team leaders on that is not something Steve wanted to think too hard about) and while he doesn’t remember this being on the list, he doesn’t think it’s all so different from mood swings and night terrors.
“Okay.”
“I didn’t mean to or nuthin’...wait, what?”
“It’s okay, Clint.”
“But…” Clint is frowning and staring up at Steve in befuddlement. “You’re not angry?”
“No,” Steve says firmly. Clint blinks a couple times and looks like he doesn’t really know what to do now that Steve’s not angry, so Steve takes control. That, at least, will be familiar to them both.
“Why don’t you take a shower, and I’ll take care of this.”
“You don’t have to do that!”
“I know I don’t. I want to.”
“Why?”
That’s a good question. It’s not like Steve loved cleaning up bodily fluids. But there’s something - Clint had just been so broken, and Steve had gotten to help, and Clint had let him help….and well. Steve liked to help.
“You’re my teammate. It’s my job to help you out.” Steve said, not sure that’s the right answer, but not sure that’s it the wrong answer either. Clint frowned again. “Clint, you’re my friend. And I don’t have many of those.”
Clint blinked, face screwing up into an expression Steve couldn’t really make sense of.
“Look, you’ll feel better if you go shower, and I’ll feel better if I...if i can help you out. Okay?” Steve finally said.
Clint nodded slowly. “Okay.” Clint slowly headed into his bedroom while Steve walked towards the kitchen, finding cleaning supplies just where they were kept in his living space. Tony may have had each space designed with them in mind, but some things remained constant across the apartments. This particular feature was probably for the benefit of the cleaning staff who still made Steve feel mildly uncomfortable.
Steve’s mind churned as he went through the motions of cleaning up. The image of Clint broken down and crying, wet and pathetic, whirls in his brain. It evoked familiar feelings in Steve, if he was being totally honest. Steve needed to help - had always needed to help. Probably because he was always being helped, since the moment he was born. Helped to breathe, and to learn to walk, and to get strong enough to run. Helped with school work and household fees when his body wouldn’t (couldn’t) do what other boys’ bodies could. In those days there weren’t a lot of ways for Steve to help the people he cared about - he couldn’t work, he couldn’t fight, he could barely climb the stairs some days. He did what he could, of course. He learned to cook and clean and sew, so that his mother didn’t have to do those things when she came home, bone tired, from a day at the factory. Later, he would do the same things for Bucky.
This wasn’t so different, really. Clint was someone he cared about, little as he knew about the man. Clint was his teammate and had his back, so, yeah. Steve cared. He cared about his teammates more than was really appropriate, probably, given that they’d barely known each other for three months. But hadn’t that always been Steve’s way?
As he finished mopping up the floor and putting the cleaning supplies away, leaving the room smelling faintly of citrus, Steve started picking up, mostly to keep his hands busy. With a pile of clothes in his hands, Steve walked into Clint’s bedroom through the open door. He paused, not sure whether to be surprised or not. Clint’s bed had been stripped of it’s linens and there were multiple yellow patches on the mattress, all at varying stages of fading. Steve supposed he shouldn’t be surprised - he had just walked in on Clint after he wet himself, fully awake. It wasn’t too much of a leap to suspect that Clint would be having issues at night too. Still. All of this was kind of a jump, wasn’t it? None of it fell into Steve’s regular realm of helping but… it did make him want to help. It made him want to wrap Clint in bubble wrap and protect him, if Steve was being totally honest with himself. And he didn’t know what to do with those feelings. For the moment, he dumped his armful of clothes into the laundry chute and headed for the linen closet, only to find it empty of everything but towels. What on earth was Clint doing with the sheets? If they went to the wash, the cleaning crew would return them to the room they came from…
“I didn’t want anybody to find out,” came Clint’s quiet, hesitant, voice from the door to the bathroom. Steve turned toward his teammate. Clint had wrapped his hips in one of the luxurious towels Tony had provided them all with and had a smaller towel draped over his shoulders. He also had his arms crossed protectively over his chest and a blush that spread from his cheek bones to his chest. Steve quirked an eyebrow.
“About the…” Clint continued, waving a hand at the sheetless bed. “So I just, um, throw them down the garbage chute. I know it’s wasteful, but I didn’t...what if the press. Or Tony….” Clint ducked his chin into his chest and looked all of five years old.
“It’s okay. We’ll have to get you some more sheets, is all.” Steve said as gently as he could manage. “I have my own washer and dryer, so, when -”
“Why?” Clint interrupted, frowning up at him, “How?”
“I asked Tony when he was making the rooms up,” Steve admitted, “I just like to do my own laundry. It’s soothing. And…” Steve blushed a bit, but, well, no reason not to after everything he’d learned about Clint today, “There’s so many different detergents now. Some of them make your clothes softer and they smell amazing….” Steve trailed off, running a hand through his hair ruefully.
Clint chuckled, and Steve was glad to hear the noise. It relaxed something tight in his chest.
“Anyway. You’re welcome to bring your laundry to my place, anytime.”
Clint’s face fell again and the blush returned as he looked away from Steve. “I don’t understand why you’re...I mean, why would you…”
Steve struggled to come up with an answer that made sense. He understood his need to help - the need that lay so close to his bones that he didn’t think he’d recognize himself without it. But this was different than fighting the good fight, or stopping a bully, or saving a life. This was different, even, from the domestic chores he had done for his Ma and Bucky, back in the day. Not quite as different, but. Different.
“You’re my friend. For me, that means...taking care of you, however I can. If this is how I can do that best. Well, that makes me feel good. Like I’m doing right by you, I guess.”
Clint frowned up at him, but it was a thoughtful, considering frown, not a disbelieving one.
“And it’s not a big deal for you to bring your laundry to my place. We could...watch a movie or something while it runs. I mean, you don’t have to stay or anything, I just thought…”
“No! I mean, that sounds nice.” Clint said awkwardly. “That would be good.”
“Good.” Steve smiled. “I’ll, um, leave you to get dressed. I’ll have JARVIS order you some more sheets, but I don’t know when they’ll come, so I’ll bring a set of mine by later?” Steve rambled, rubbing the back of his head and smiling at Clint.
Clint smiled tentatively back. As Steve turned to leave, the other man called out, “Thanks, Steve.”
Steve turned around and said, “Of course.”
“No, I mean. Just, thanks for...everything.” Clint waved his hands awkwardly as if to encompass the sheets and the clothes and the cleaning and the hug.
“Anytime,” Steve said, finding himself meaning it.