Work Text:
The Bridge
The bridge will only take you halfway there
To those mysterious lands you long to see:
Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fairs
And moonlit woods where unicorns run free.
So come and walk awhile with me and share
The twisting trails and wondrous worlds I’ve known.
But this bridge will only take you halfway there-
The last few steps you’ll have to take alone.
-Shel Silverstein
It wasn’t what Steve had been expecting (though he didn’t really know what he had been expecting). The first time they played, after their aborted discussion, Clint only managed to stay little for half an hour before he got ‘too into his head about it,’ as he said.They tried again, a couple days later, but Clint couldn’t even get into his headspace that time.
“Let’s back off it, a little.” Steve suggested, handing a frustrated Clint a glass of water.
“I want this,” Clint said angrily, curled tightly into the corner of Steve’s couch. “I’ve wanted this for so fucking long and now -” He grunted under his breath.
“I know,” Steve said, trying to hide his own frustration. He’d hoped they would fall right into it, that it would be easy and natural as breathing. But he felt stiff about the whole thing and obviously so did Clint. “Maybe let’s try things that aren’t really playing but could open the door?”
“Like what?” Clint said, voice moody.
“I don’t know. Maybe we could watch more kid-appropriate movies when you come over sometimes. Um, I could cook dinner for you instead of ordering in?” Steve sat up a little feeling inspired, “I could read to you - not kid’s books, necessarily, but just to be together. And maybe I could take over some other stuff - like when you bring laundry, let me do it, so that you’re here to relax not to do any sort of work.”
“I couldn’t ask you to-” Clint mumbled, flushing, as he always did to even a veiled mention of his accidents.
“Yes. You could,” Steve interrupted. “But you’re not asking. I’m offering.”
“Okay,” Clint whispered. “Those things sound good.”
“Yeah?” Steve asked, perking up.
“Yeah.” Clint agreed, looking a little calmer and happier himself.
“I have some books we could try now…” Steve got to his feet, and went over to his bookshelf, trying to pick something that would appeal.
“I, um, always wanted to try Agatha Christie,” Clint admitted, shyly. “But they’re too much for me.”
“I’ve got a bunch of Agatha Christie!” Steve exclaimed, picking one at random. He sat down next to Clint on the couch, not too close and opened to the first page and started to read.
After that, things got easier. Big Clint loved to be read to. He was intensely curious but got easily frustrated when he tried to read. Clint and Steve branched into many different areas of fiction and non-fiction, which helped Steve catch up on the last seventy years. Kid’s movies turned out to be a lot of fun too, and it was interesting to watch new Disney movies and rewatch the couple he remembered from before.
The first time Steve cooked for Clint, Clint got really nervous and edgy and scarfed all his food down in record time, watching Steve over his plate. Steve recognized long years of hunger and fights over food when he saw them. (His mom had worked hard to keep food on the table, but sometimes the choice between life saving medicine and eating everyday had to be made.) Steve didn’t know how to build trust in that area, but he made it a habit to feed Clint. He always had a cookie or other homemade treat in his pocket when he was out in the tower, so that every time he saw Clint (even if it was just for a floor or two on the elevator or crossing paths in and out of the gym) Steve was feeding Clint. It seemed to work and Clint relaxed. (Bucky had always fed Steve, when he could manage).
Steve didn’t know if it was it was because Clint was more relaxed or because they were spending more time together or if it was just a matter of time, but it wasn’t long before Clint had another accident in front of him.
They’d been reading a non-fiction book about early space exploration. One moment, Clint was lounging on the couch, feet in Steve’s lap, totally relaxed and the next he was up and dashing towards the bathroom. Steve was up an instant later and found Clint standing stock still in the middle of his bedroom.
“Clint?” Steve called gently as he approached.
Clint flinched, his whole body jerking away from Steve. “I’m sorry - I’ll, I’ll leave, just -”
“Clint, buddy. You don’t have to leave.” Steve put a hand on Clint’s shoulder, turning him around. “Let me help with this. Let me help.”
“I’m sorry,” Clint whispered again, and Steve’s heart broke for him all over, “I dunno why it -”
“Did you know you had to go?” Steve asked softly. Clint shook with a single solitary sob
“Not til-” Clint waved a hand to indicate the past couple minutes. Steve nodded, troubled.
“You said this started after Loki?” Worry was now gnawing at Steve as he thought of all the things Clint had struggled with since Loki’s control over him. Steve had just recently discovered how much Clint had been struggling with missions. He knew, of course, that Clint had issues with this. But they’d never discussed it, not really.
“Yes.” Clint stared shyly down at his feet.
“I think we need to talk about this more, but for the moment, will you let me help you clean up?”
“Please.” The mumble was barely audible, but Steve had advanced senses and he caught it. He gently lifted Clint. Clint whimpered, “I’m gonna go little if you pick me up.”
“That’s alright. I’m happy to be with you and help you, little or big. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”
There was something oddly reassuring about helping Clint clean up. It might have been the trust Clint showed in him by letting Steve remove his clothes and wipe down his privatest parts. It might have been the soft, comforting stillness that they fell into, where Steve could hear Clint’s breath and heartbeat. It might have been the way Clint leaned into him when they were done, silently asking with his whole body to be lifted again. Steve had dressed Clint in a pair of his own sweats, which made Clint look like a little boy in his dad’s clothes, which soothed something inside Steve that had started to worry that this thing between them would never actually happen.
“How little are you feeling, Clint?” He asked to check in, sitting down on the couch with Clint in his arms.
“Uhm. Sorta little, I guess? Not as little as I usually feel. I don’t think I’m gonna stay here for very long though. I’m not as...floaty as I was before.”
Steve smiled (if somewhat sadly). “You float as long as feels good, bud, I’ll be right here.”
They sat in silence for Steve didn’t know how long. Though when he thought of playing with Clint this was not what he pictured, there was something nice about just sitting close and holding his boy, knowing that Clint was there and cared for.
He was surprised that he could tell when Clint started shifting back - a change in the body language and the quality of breath. Clint sighed and said, “That was nice.”
“For me too,” Steve agreed, rarely having the chance to sit and hold anyone. The team barely accepted his pats on the back, let alone a hug or quick cuddle. Steve had always been a tactile person, and he’d always had Bucky. Things were - different, now. Clint shifted up and away, leaning sideways against the couch so his knee pressed into Steve’s thigh, a reassuring point of contact.
“Can we, um, just get the talking over?” Clint asked, awkwardly flapping his hands and folding his body in tight.
“Yeah,” Steve sighed, sitting up a little himself. “I am sorry I have to ask, but it’s my job to make sure you’re okay.”
Clint looked a little flustered, but nodded.
“I guess I should be clear,” Steve said, thinking, “I’m asking about this as your friend and, uh, big, but also as your handler. Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” Clint glanced up at Steve, “But thanks for checkin’.”
“Of course. So the day accidents started after Loki and the night time ones increased?” Steve asked, blushing a little. Clint blushed furiously and tucked his hands under his legs as he nodded.
“I know that at night it’s less than when I found out, right?” Steve continued, trying to marshall his courage and determination (and calm, which he didn’t always have that much of). He waited for Clint’s affirming nod. “And during the day - has that decreased at all?”
“A little,” Clint murmured, sounding and looking terribly embarrassed. Steve didn’t know whether he should reach out to comfort or not - what was his role right then? He didn’t know. He put his hand on Clint’s knee and squeezed. Clint shot him a tremulous grin.
“Can you tell me how often?”
Clint hunched his shoulders in a little tighter. His throat worked for a moment, as though he was trying to make the words come out. “Now, s’maybe twice a week? Before it was...more. Depended.”
“Depended on what?” Steve asked as gently as he could manage.
“Like, if I was stressed out or somethin, that would make it worse. When I had missions. Or moved here.”
“Thanks for being so honest, bud. I know that’s not easy. Is it still triggered by stress?”
Clint nodded, face a brilliant shade of red and hands still tucked tightly under his thighs.
“Do you think the night time issues are also caused by stress?” Steve mused, trying to put all the pieces together.
Clint kinda shrugged. “Always stressed, these days.”
Steve gave a small sad smile. “I’m sorry. I think that’s enough for now. I’ll do a little research, see what I can drag up. But, for right now I think...well I think you should let me help a little more.”
“How d’ya mean?” Clint asked his knees.
Steve shifted a little bit. He didn’t really know why it was so important to him that Clint let him help, but it was. It was just good to help. And being needed...well it made things a lot less lonely. That was probably the biggest reason, right there. And since he’d known it was an option, the need to have Clint as his little boy laid on his bones and radiated desire.
“Well, uh, like today. When I helped, you got to be little for a bit, so it’ll help with that. And maybe it could help with the stress? I mean, so I can help you hold this. So you’re not alone with it and feeling more stressed,” Steve shrugged awkwardly, not sure about what he was saying or if it would really help.
“So what, just ring you up every time I piss myself?” Clint scoffed, voice tense and angry.
Steve wanted to shift awkwardly, he wanted to tell Clint not phrase it like that, to soothe the anger and make it disappear. Instead he said, voice as steady as he could manage, “Yes. That seems like a good idea.”
Clint looked up, absolute shock written all over his face.
“Or, if you are in the tower, we could just have JARVIS alert me. Yes, I think that would be good. JARVIS?” Steve said, trying to pretend he felt sure about this course of action, like he believed it really would work. Clint was still gaping at him, mouth ajar.
“Of course, Captain Rogers.” Steve didn’t know if he was imagining things, but JARVIS sounded oddly approving.
“But - but, Steve, that’s -” Clint opened and closed his mouth a couple times, apparently searching for words.
“Clint? I want to help.” Steve said, firm. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
The first week Steve was sure that the plan was backfiring - JARVIS called him three times that week, and Steve barely got Clint to the bathroom one time while they were hanging out together. But he stuck with it because, well, it seemed feasible that Clint was stressed about the new plan, causing the increase in accidents. Maybe with time it would settle. Until Clint said he was done, Steve wanted to keep trying.
Steve busied himself with research. He started with the effects of stress on the body and found that there was probably enough reading material to last him the rest of his life, so had to narrow his field of search. He also ended up reaching out to the others who had been controlled by Loki, like Thor’s Dr. Selvig, with a series of carefully phrased questions. He was incredibly relieved to discover that many of them were having similar issues (if not always to the same extent as Clint was suffering) and also made notes of other side effects they had noticed to ask Clint about.
He was just adding some of his latest discoveries and observations to Clint’s assessment folder, when a hesitant knock came on his door. He flipped the folder shut and locked it away where he kept all of his team assessments, before heading to the door.
Clint was there, shoulders tight and hands fiddling with the edge of his t-shirt. He had a small bag over his shoulder that Steve recognized as the one that Clint kept his little things in. His heart skipped a beat. Was Clint ready to play?
“Uhm, hi. I...I was, uh, am feeling sorta little and uhm, could we maybe play?” Clint asked, all in a rush.
“Of course,” Steve said, trying not to sound too eager, opening the door wider. Clint slipped in and headed to the living room. With a shy glance back at Steve he sat on the floor and opened his bag.
Steve came and sat down next to him, trying to hide a nervous tremor in his hands. Clint was pulling out his legos (Steve had been horrified to learn that when Clint said he had some legos, he meant approximately 15 blocks) a battered toy car, and a couple toy soldiers (most missing limbs). Finally he pulled out a soft purple blanket. The blanket looked old, and well loved. A rip in the corner needed mending, Steve noticed.
“That’s a lovely blanket,” He said quietly, easily picking out the most precious of the items.
Clint blushed and rubbed a hand over it, nodding.
“Was it a present?” Steve asked.
Clint shook his head slowly, “I saw it in a store, after I started at SHIELD. I had money and I was safe...so I got it.”
“It’s a present from yourself,” Steve suggested, and then slowly, “There’s a little rip there. Would you like me to fix it for you?”
Clint blinked at him and then his whole face brightened, “You can do that?”
“Of course,” Steve said, feeling pleased. “Let me get my sewing kit.” Steve knew that the others would probably find it odd that he had a sewing kit, but he’d always been the domestic sort. Back in high school he couldn’t attend workshop with the other boys - the sawdust had set off his asthma, so he attended home ec with the girls. He’d gotten teased ruthlessly over it but had found the skills incredibly useful. They’d allowed him to help his mother more, and later, take care of him and Bucky. And there was something particularly satisfying about taking something broken and making it whole again. Steve quickly fetched his sewing kit from one of his cupboards and set it on the floor next to him as he rejoined Clint.
He quickly found a needle, and he offered the box of thread to Clint.
“Why don’t you pick a color, bud?” Clint bit his lip as he perused the carefully organized spools of thread. With hesitant fingers, he picked out a purple a few shades darker than his blanket. Steve was starting to sense a trend.
“Good choice,” Steve affirmed, taking the spool from Clint. Under Clint’s curious gaze, Steve threaded the needle. Slowly he reached out for the blanket. Clint handed it to him, a cautious look in his eyes. Steve spread the blanket over the two of them and inspected the hole more closely. With quick, deft motions, Steve mended the blanket and handed it back to Clint. Clint hugged the blanket to his chest before examining the stitches with his fingers and gaze.
“Thanks, Steve.” Clint looked up at him with wide, grateful eyes, lips a little parted and turned up at the corners just slightly.
And that, there, was the little Clint Steve had been waiting for.
fin.