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Loki had taken his mind and played. He had dragged things out from the depths of his mind, pulled them to the forefront. Clint’s triggers had always been there, humming, constantly in the back of his mind, but his brain was scrambled and memories that had been from so long no felt unbearably raw and fresh. Normally, he was able to suppress flinches and urges to avoid social interactions, but now it was harder to do so.
Clint hadn’t left his floor in Stark Tower in over a week. He spent a lot of time in the nest he had constructed in the vents, hiding within blankets for hours on end.
He’d like to say that things would eventually go back to normal. But the truth of it all was that nothing was the same, and he didn’t see a way it could ever be again. There had been no Coulson to drag him to medical, telling (more like ordering) him to ‘get some rest, Goddammit, you’ve been running on nothing but fumes for over a week, Barton’. Natasha wasn’t around to slip into his bed and just be there after he had a nightmare. There was no missions to go on, Fury had grounded him “until further notice”. Nothing was the same, and he wasn’t dealing with it well.
Clint hadn’t seen anyone on the team since he got to the Tower. He had diligently avoided them and, so far, succeeded in doing so. Clint told himself that he did it because he wouldn’t know what to say. Truth was, he was scared. Afraid of hurting them, killing them like he had all of these Shield agents. Terrified of them clarifying everything that was constantly running through his head, that he was a traitor and he wasn’t worth the trouble Shield had gone through to train him all those years ago.
Clint was shaking. He had just woken from a nightmare, and the room was icy in temperature. Every time he blinked he saw blue.
There was no way he could fall back asleep. Even though his eyelids were heavy and his body exhausted, the idea of falling back asleep terrified him.
He stood on shaky legs and his eyes swept the room quickly, glancing at every corner and glaring at each shadow. A violent shiver ran down his spine. He was so fucking cold. He stuck his hand back under the pillow, retrieving the gun he kept there. It was really habit, at that point, to have a weapon close at all time, so the idea of wielding one as he padded silently out of his bedroom and into the hall seemed more than logical in his state of wakefulness.
He shuffled across the floor, not entirely sure what he was actually looking for. Natasha was gone. So was Phil. Phil wasn’t coming back, ever. Natasha would be gone for a while. The rest of the Avengers most likely hated his guts, and how could they not? He had killed so many people, and Clint didn’t see a way that he could be forgiven.
When he caught sight of the bow case sitting on the kitchen counter, he decided what he wanted to do. Go shoot, shooting got his mind off of things. At least, it used to. Clint wasn’t entirely sure, anymore, he hadn’t touched his bow since the battle.
Well, there was only one way to find out.
Clint grabbed the bow case, not daring to unzip it. That could wait until he was downstairs in the range. He didn’t realize there was a blanket still wrapped securely around his shoulders until he was already in the elevator, so he shrugged it off onto a spare table once he got to the range. The range and gym were empty, as to be expected at three AM. The sudden cold after letting the blanket go hurt, but he forced himself to ignore it.
He set the bow case on the same table, staring at it longer than strictly necessary before finally giving in and bringing tentative fingers to the zipper. He opened it, pulled the bow out and held it in his hands lightly. It felt heavier than normal as if the death and destruction it had caused was weighing it down somehow. He pulled a quiver over his shoulder, bent on shooting, doing something, getting over this irrational tentativeness of the one thing he was good for.
Soon he was standing, bow still held carefully in both hands. He stared, then curled his right hand tightly around it, letting it hang at his side. Nocking an arrow, holding it to him and trying to focus, breathing and letting it fly. The arrow soared and just barely hit the paper target. He sighed in frustration. This was ridiculous. So he tried again. And again. He kept going, even though it was no use because the shaking in his hands wouldn’t let the universe’s best archer shoot straight and accurate. This didn’t stop Clint.
No, a hand on his shoulder stopped Clint. He had slipped in that head space he went to sometimes, the one where his focus narrowed in on one thing and one thing only. It wasn’t always a positive thing, most of the time it was the exact opposite, but he had been startled nonetheless. It took him less than a second to have an arrow aimed at whosoever heart.
Steve was shocked by the wild look in the archer’s eyes. He looked like he was half here and half somewhere else. He also paid no attention to the fact that it was Steve, or that the fingers on his left hand were bleeding.
“Hey,” he placates, “It’s me, Clint. It’s Steve.” he holds his hands up, palms up, in an effort to make himself show no threat. Clint just stares, eyes calculating and then his left hand wavers slightly.
“Steve?” his voice is hushed and then he’s loosening the tension on the bow string, un-nocking the arrow and drops it to the floor in shock. His right hand hangs loosely at his side, the bow still gripped tightly with his fingers. The movements cause a flare of pain to shoot through his left hand and he glances down, staring and not quite registering what the redness meant. He was in a fog.
Steve watches, lowering his arms to his side and assessing the man before him. There was a glimmer in his eyes similar to confusion, and something deep in Steve ached to make it disappear.
“You’re bleeding.” Steve informs him to clarify what the archer was seeing. Clint nods, slow and unsure, and Steve almost sighs. This was worse than what he thought it would be when Jarvis called up to his floor to inform him that Barton was growing more and more distressed by the minute and the AI was concerned for the Hawk.
“I am.” Clint says, trying to solidify his thoughts. Bleeding. Right.
“Come on, I’ll help you clean it up.” Steve suggests, holding out a cautious hand. Clint stares at it, barely suppressing a flinch, and then back up at Steve’s face. Slowly he reaches out and places his right one in the soldier’s, moving the bow to the crook of his left elbow. He follows Steve, his feet moving without having to think about it.
Rogers leads him to the elevator, presses the button for his own floor, and they stand. Steve doesn’t let go of his hand, and Clint is glad, because it may be the only thing keeping him in that damn elevator. All that effort he had put into avoiding anyone and everyone had taken a slight toll and he felt that there wasn’t anything tying him to where he was, he would cut and ran by now, made a break for the vents the moment the elevator doors opened.
He follows Steve to the bathroom on his floor, where he has Clint sit on the obnoxiously large sink counter. Steve goes to pull away, to grab a wash cloth and some bandages, but the archer stares up at him with these wide eyes that make his heart crack slightly.
“I’m gonna get some stuff to fix your hand, okay?” he explains. There’s a pause and then Clint nods and lets go.
Clint isn’t sure what it is, but it hurts in a way to let go. Maybe it’s because his total of human interaction over the last week had been zero. The last people to make actual physical contact with him had been the doctors at Shield, and all they had done was poke and prod. Something gentle and not quietly malicious felt...nice.
Steve rifled, searching, and wet a washcloth in the sink. He came back to the archer and stood beside his legs, lifting his left hand and carefully peeling the finger guard back and placing it on the counter beside him. The skin was red and bloody and he gently blotted it. When most of the blood was gone he guided Clint’s hand to the sink, holding it under a lazy stream of cold water before dabbing it dry.
Steve wraps Band-Aids around the cut up fingers, and they’re the Winnie the Pooh ones because apparently that is the a part of Tony Stark’s sense of humor. It takes a few extra ones per finger to cover everything, but then Steve drops the washcloth in the sink and lets Clint’s hand go.
Neither of them speak for a while. Clint stares at his hands where he carefully folds them in his lap. His feet kick out occasionally, like a little kid swinging their legs.
“Do you wanna tell me what’s been going on with you?” Steve suggests, crossing his arms. Clint’s head looks back up and he clenches his hands slightly.
“What do you mean?” he croaks.
“I mean, I haven’t seen you since you got here. That was a week ago.” Steve replies, watching as Clint squirms slightly.
“It’s nothing. Just tired.” Clint lies, but it’s half-hearted and even he doesn’t believe the words, himself.
“Okay,” Steve agrees, nods his head, but he says it in a tone that says ‘that’s bullshit’. Steve uncrosses his arms, turning slightly in the direction of the bathroom door, “Well, I guess I’ll just go, then. You seem to have this figured out.” Steve takes a step away and Clint’s hands is on his arm before he can stop himself. He’s looking down again, can’t bring himself to stare Steve in the eye. He’s embarrassed, and though he won’t admit, slightly scared.
“Wait.” he mumbles. The archer breaths deeply through his nose, trying to collect himself. Steve’s bathroom is not the place to have a mental breakdown. His own floor, sure, but Clint can’t let other people see him like that.
Warmth settles over his hand where it still sits on Steve’s forearm and he looks up slightly, staring at a spot near the soldier’s chin. Words won’t find themself to his mouth, which he opens and then closes, because he doesn’t know what to say.
“Tell me what’s been going on.” Steve whispers, this time more gentle and soft than before. Clint sucks in a breath which ends with him choking on a sob.
There’s a pause from the hand on his hand before arms are wrapping tightly around Clint’s shoulders. He freezes for a few seconds, but it’s the warmest he’s felt in months, the cold that had wrapped itself around his insides and frozen his veins thawing slightly. His head lolls forward onto the super soldier’s shoulder, into the crook of his neck.
“Don’t go.” he gasps, shocking himself as the words leave his mouth. He can’t take them back, now, though. He half expects the soldier to push him away, but Steve just clutches him tighter and shakes his head.
“Not gonna happen.” he reassures, hugging the man as his body with sobs that ripped their way from his throat.
This was so weird, so weird for Clint. He hadn't spoken so much as hugged or touched another person in so long, and he hardly knew Steve, so why was he suddenly clutching at this almost stranger like he’s the only thing keeping Clint on this earth.
“Can we get you to bed? You look exhausted, Clint.” Steve suggests, the words vibrating against the archer’s chest, a deep rumbling in his stomach.
“O-Okay.” Clint’s voice wobbles slightly but Steve takes no notice, gently pulling back and standing to look at the shorter man for a second. Clint's face was blotchy and his eyes still slightly watery. There were deep purple bags under the man’s eyes, and a hollow look in the hazel irises.
Clint stood there and watched Steve’s every movement until realization dawned on Steve. Clint was waiting for him, for Steve to move towards the door. Clint watched and watched, so Steve gently grabbed his hand again and led him out of the bathroom and down the hall to Steve’s bedroom. He realizes that this is kind of weird, but doesn’t want to hesitate or look unsure so he internally shrugs and leads the archer to his own bed, deciding then and there that he wasn’t just going to ship Clint back up to his floor so he could hide away again.
The archer lowers himself down onto Steve’s bed slowly, rubbing a hand across the bedspread. He stared, watched his unbandaged hand move across the fabric.
“You should sleep.” Steve suggests gently. Clint’s head snaps up, his eyes meeting Steve’s like he had forgotten the super soldier was there. Then he nods slowly.
“Yeah. Okay,” he agrees, “But I...I, this is your bed.” Clint drops his gaze to the floor.
“I know. I’ll take the couch. Your floor is too far away. Don’t even worry about it.” Steve reassures him.
“But-” Clint begins.
“You’re staying here, Clint. And that’s final.” Steve says it firmly, but Clint can hear the space his words, the fail safe, the space that told him that Steve wouldn’t force him to stay here, he wouldn’t be forcing him to do anything. They were just words, words to make Clint feel less bad about stealing the soldier’s bed and sleeping on his floor when he was an adult who should be able to properly take care of himself.
“Alright.” Clint says after a pause, letting out a sigh. He doesn’t move, just stares at the wall behind Steve’s head, so the soldier moves. He leans around Clint, untucks the bedspread and pulls it back, laying the corner of the blankets near Clint’s thigh. This action spurs some movement in Clint, and he stands before climbing onto the mattress, pulling the covers over himself.
He huffs slightly, thinking of how ridiculous this whole ordeal really was but not making any effort to stop it. He was too tired, he realizes.
Clint presses his head into the pillow, which feels unGodly soft against his skull. He’s so comfortable, in fact, that he could be asleep in a second, he already would be, but things had changed. Things were not the same, he reminds himself for the thousandth time. His brain ran in crisis mode almost constantly, expecting something, anything, everything, to finally go wrong. Things had been going okay for a whole week, and so Clint had been waiting for the other shoe to finally drop, a constant half flinch in his mind, preparing for the strike that never seemed to come. It was torture, and he had run himself ragged with it all for so long. He didn’t remember the last time he slept well, and for more than a few hours. Sleeping pills locked him in his dreams which were rarely actual dreams, instead nightmares fueled by terror and violence and extreme loss of control.
So, the idea of sleep felt amazing, it did. But the act wasn’t easy, and Clint knew, even as he laid there, that’s that all he would do, lay there and stare at the ceiling.
Steve crosses the room, his room, his bedroom, and flicks the lights off. He makes a move for the door, ready to leave and shut the door and leave Clint all alone in the dark.
“Steve-” Clint speaks before he can stop himself. The soldier turns back, a faint silhouette outlined by the light from the hallway.
“Yeah?” he replies. Clint cringes internally. He should have just kept his damn mouth shut. He clears his throat.
“I...never mind. It’s, it’s nothing.” he stammers, shaking his head at his own stupidity. He wasn’t a child, he didn’t need to be monitored or taken care of.
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.” Steve points out, and Clint watches Steve’s shadow cross his arms over his chest.
“Can you…” Clint swallows thickly, “Can you...stay?” Clint’s voice is smaller than Steve has ever heard it as he confesses what he had wanted to ask, and Steve considers the man lying stiffly in his own bed. A soft smile sweeps across the soldier’s face.
“Of course.” he replies, shutting the bedroom door and closing the distance between the two of them. He stands on the opposite side of the bed to Clint, the archer following the man with his eyes. Steve makes a move to lay on the floor and Clint stops him.
“Wait,” he says, “I mean. This is your bed.” Clint reasons, propped up slightly on his elbow. Steve searches Clint’s face for a second before nodding and climbing into bed beside the archer, pulling the same covers over his front and settling down into the mattress.
For a while it’s only the sound of the two of them breathing. There’s the darkness of the room, but for once, Clint feels a small amount of warmth spark deep inside of him, so deep it’s almost not there. It is though, low and simmering, a pretty remarkable contrast to the cold, frozen feeling he’d be engulfed in for so long. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Clint to relax slightly into the blankets.
His mind quieted down slightly, fuzzing a little at the edges. The sound of someone else’s breathing, the slight radiance of warmth from Steve’s back (because let’s face it, the guy is literally a human furnace), the overall presence of another human being in the room, somehow calmed him enough. The sound of the super soldier’s breathing lulled Clint, had him fighting to keep his eyes open. In the end, his eyes slipped shut before he could even realize or be worried about the fact that there was no knife or gun under his pillow, couldn’t even stop himself from letting go and just drifting.
The sleep lasted longer than it had for weeks. He slept heavily, and it was relatively dreamless. Clint had slept a whole eight hours when the nightmare struck him. It was far from the severity of the last one, but his shaking and the mumbled sounds he made under his breath that were words in the dream managed to wake Steve. Must be the super soldier hearing and all.
Steve turns over. Clint is curled tightly in a ball, facing inward towards Steve, his fingers twitching ever so slightly. The mumbling struck him as odd but when the soldier noticed the way the archer’s body buzzed, vibrated with what he realized was violent shaking, he knew he had to do something about it. He couldn’t just leave the guy there, trapped in his own head.
So, he put a cautious hand on Clint’s shoulder and shook. Nothing.
Clint was drowning, at least it felt that way. He was trapped in his own head again, back under the control of a deranged God with a power trip. A blue haze had settled around his brain and he couldn't see through it, it filled his lungs and choked him. The possibilities of what he could be doing blanketed his mind. The helicarrier flashes before his eyes, the blood, the explosions. Fellow agents' screams were ringing in his ears and laughter began to flood in from every angle. He knew that laughter, knew it too well, and if it was here that meant, that must mean-
Someone was saying his name. He could barely hear it, but they said it again. He didn't recognize the voice, but they sounded upset. He focused in on it as the laughter grew louder, desperate for an escape, because you can't curl in a ball in your own head, you just had to take whatever the psychotic God dealt and watch as you obeyed because it seemed like the only right thing one minute and the least the next and everything was just so confusing-
Steve shook harder, and then again. He froze when Clint sucked in a breath, ceasing movement before his eyes opened and he glanced around wildly.
For a second, Clint didn't know where he was. This was not his room, not his bed. Suddenly, Steve came into view and he startled slightly, squinting his eyes.
“Steve?” he croaks.
“Yeah, Clint. It's me. You hurt your hand on the range so I took you up here to clean you up. I let you sleep here.” Steve explains rapidly. Clint is nodding, remembrance bleeding into his face.
“Yeah. Okay, yeah, I remember.” and Clint is grateful, because he would occasionally lose time when he was under Loki’s control, being one place and then another without remembering how he got there. It still happened sometimes, and didn't cease to scare to scare the shit out of him.
“Good.” Steve nods. Now neither of them know what to say. Thanks? I'll be going? (We should do this again?) Clint turned over, facing away from the super soldier. He expected more, a parting goodbye, another person pawing at his mind, asking what he thought about.
Instead, Steve hunkered back down onto his side facing Clint, his eyes going lazy with tiredness.
There was a brief pause and then Steve wrapped his arms tightly around the archer, holding his breath and waiting for Clint to shrug him off or tell him to let go. Clint did no such thing. His eyes were wide but the warmth engulfing him radiated throughout his body. He felt…. safe.
Steve didn't even say anything. He didn't question either of their intentions or expectations, just wrapped himself around Clint like it was the most normal thing in the world. No ‘is this okay?’ or ‘do you want me to let go?’. He wasn't walking on eggshells around Clint, that had to be the best part. After weeks of psych evaluations and MRIs, Clint was over his tolerable limit of people pitying him. His limit had never been good to begin with, probably a negative number if you were to put it on a scale, so the aftermath left by Loki was hell for him. Everything tested his patience but he had had to hold it together because he knew people were just waiting for him to finally crack.
Clint relaxes completely, melting into the strong arms caging him in tightly. Warm. Comfortable. Safe.