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Clint went back to his floor the next morning. It wasn't exactly awkward, persay, saying goodbye to Steve when the sun had finally risen. It was more of a situation where neither of them knew what to say. How do you thank someone for helping you when you momentarily lost your mind? You can't. There's no card for that, no cliché words to express thanks. So, Clint arose when Steve did and the two had caught each other's gaze for a few seconds, in which Steve nodded minutely, a nod that said ‘we’re good, don't make this weird because it's not’, followed by Clint swiftly exiting the super soldier's floor.
Clint hadn't fallen back asleep after Steve had wrapped himself around him. He was tired, sure, yet he somehow felt more rested than he had in a long time. He instead opted to drift lazily, eyes not totally open but not entirely shut, and listen to Steve breathe, feel the rise and fall of his fellow teammate's chest against his back. It put his mind at ease and calmed his tired joints. Shaking so hard for so long takes a lot out of people.
When he initially gets back up to his floor he finds that he is actually kind of hungry, which is crazy because he hadn't seemed to have much of an appetite at all for a while.
Clint eats and finds himself thinking that maybe being in the company of another person is what he really needed all along. The idea of people had him running in the other direction for weeks, yet he had just spent the night, shared a bed, with another person, Steve Rogers, no less. For once the world didn't feel like it was weighing down on Clint’s chest, he could breathe a bit more freely. He wasn't amazing, he wasn't exactly happy, but his stomach didn't feel the way it had for so long, the feeling where you almost fall but catch yourself but having it never end.
Clint had gone to bed the next night, but he was up in less than three hours. The minimal high he had been riding for the day ended, gravity yanking him back down to earth. He woke and didn’t know where he was, and when he went to grab his bow, grasp it with his right hand and remind himself that he’s at the Tower, that he’s safe, it wasn’t there. Blind panic had gripped his ribs and he was in the elevator on his way to the range without remembering how he had gotten there.
The gym was empty and he was grateful for it as he crossed it. His bow was where it had been left from before. His hands hover near the case before he finally steadies them and zips it back up. He takes the case up in both hands and turns, making his way back through the gym. He treks swiftly across the sparring mat and stops when he notices the presence in the doorway.
He jerks back at the sudden appearance and takes a slight step back. Tony’s lips are moving and he is growing more and more agitated as Clint continues to stare blankly.
-Are you even listening?-
“I’m deaf!” Clint finally shouts, unaware of how loud he really is. He had left his aids up on his floor, he didn’t think he’d need them since it was early morning, hardly four AM, and he hadn’t expected anyone to be awake. Tony’s hand cease their movement as he he pauses and then begins to speak more clearly.
-You’re what?-
“I’m deaf. I’ve been deaf since I was a kid.” he reiterates, clutching the bow case a little tighter, “I left my aids upstairs.” he adds.
-And you can read my lips?-
“No, Tony, I’m reading your mind right now.” he snarks back, but it’s missing the sass it used to have before everything...happened.
-Alright, no need to be so spicy. Wanna go get those puppies so I can take a look at them?-
“Take a look?” Clint questions.
-Don’t tell me those Shield issued ones are any good. Let’s be realistic, here, Birdbrain-, Tony quirks his eyebrows slightly and Clint rolls his eyes.
Clint considers telling the genius that he’ll bring them down the next morning, but figures he has nothing better to do since he was certainly not about to go to sleep when he got back up there. Clint nods in agreement.
“Yeah, I’ll run up and get them. You can come up with me if you want.” Clint agrees, pressing past him into the hall. He makes his way quickly to the elevator, and isn’t exactly surprised to see Tony following closely. It was as if a hibernating creature had appeared, one that hadn’t been around for long enough for people to believe that maybe it had gone extinct entirely. Clint hadn’t seen Tony since the battle of New York, which was saying something because this was Stark Tower, I mean, the guy’s name is on the outside of the building.
Clint pressed the button for his floor and rides up to it with Tony a few steps away from him. There was comfortable silence as the doors slid open and the two stepped out onto the archer’s designated floor.
The living room area wasn’t a mess, and neither was the kitchen, so it didn’t really portray how Clint had really been spending his days, locked up in his room, alone. He hesitates when he rounds the corner to the short hall that led to the bathroom and his bedroom. The door to his room was still flung open, left wide and abandoned after Clint’s blind panic. He had woken up, not known where he was, and when he couldn’t find the one thing that never failed to ground him, his bow, he had completely lost his mind and charged out of the room, tripping over the sheets that had managed to tangle around his feet in his hasty escape. It was kind of embarrassing, the state of the room, with the sheets in the exact shape of someone who had done what Clint had done, panicked and ran, and he feels his face burn slightly as he maneuvers his way around the tangled blankets and discarded clothing that littered the floor.
His Shield issued hearing aids are sitting on his bedside nightstand. He plucks them up and turns back to see Tony leaning unassumingly in the doorway. He raises an eyebrow and then straightens slightly. Clint slips the hearing aids in and turning them on. He fiddles with them for a second before meeting Tony’s gaze once more.
“You know, none of have seen much of Legolas in the past few weeks.” Tony observes lightly. Clint shrugged, straightening his spine. He glances down at the bow case he had placed oh so gingerly down directly on his unmade bed.
“Yeah well,” he clears his throat, “Shield had me locked up for a while. I only got back last week.” he reasons.
“You spent the entire week up here by yourself?” Tony questions, eyebrows raised completely. Clint swallows. He shrugs.
“Sorry.” he mutters quietly. Tony looks slightly taken aback but doesn’t move or say anything for a while.
“Don’t be sorry. Just...this is your home, too, you know? The team eats dinner together every Saturday night. Movie night sometimes. Widow’s not back yet,” he pauses, studies the look that crosses Clint’s face, “but I’m sure you know about that part.”
“Yeah. She’s been off the grid since...for a while.” he fumbles with his words slightly, cringing inwardly.
“Well, what I’m trying to say is you’re welcome everywhere,” he pauses, “I won’t admit this any other time but we’d like to see more of you.” he jokes and Clint rolls his eyes but sees the rare sincerity in Stark’s eyes.
“Okay.” he agrees.
“Come on,” Tony turns back out into the hall, “to the lab!” he exclaims and Clint nearly laughs at that as he follows the inventor back to the elevator.
***
He sits on a rolling stool near Tony’s side as he fiddles with the aids. They’re in Tony’s workshop, somewhere Clint’s never been before. He’s pretty sure there’s music playing but it’s really just a muffled blur to Clint so he just sits and watches. There’s a StarkPad in his lap that’s been sitting there, off, since he had gotten down there.
He finally grows bored enough to press the home button, and the screen brightens. He swipes his finger to unlock it and scrolls through the Avengers page on Facebook that Pepper had made. It started as a joke but it had stuck, and enough people had ‘liked’ it that the team decided not to take it down after a week or so. There wasn’t much there, but hundreds of people wrote on the wall everyday. It made Clint that maybe they really were the good guys, no matter what the WSC or government in general said.
Tony has some sort of ‘aha!’ moment nearly half an hour ago, holding up one of the aids with a bright look on his face. Clint shuts the tablet off and places it on the table nearest to him before rolling over closer to Tony. He holds the aid out to Clint with an outright gleeful expression, and Clint takes it gently from the man’s hands. He slips it over his ear and Tony wheels closer to Clint, proceeding to fiddle with the device for a second before Clint jerks and nearly falls over.
Tony watches as Clint glances around wildly. He can hear everything. The AC/DC playing over the sound system around them, the soft whirr of Dummy a little far off in the workshop. He clapped a hand over his mouth. This was the best he’d been able to hear anything in a long time, maybe the best ever.
Tony’s grin widened at the expression of awe Clint wore. He leaned back against the edge of the desk, watched the archer acclimate himself to the new sounds.
“How did you…” Clint trails off, finally looking at Tony full on.
“Magic.” Tony jokes.
“This is actually crazy.” Clint huffs a laugh.
“Science, Hawkguy, science. How did you lose your hearing to begin with, anyway?” Tony inquires curiously. Clint stiffens slightly at his words, looking down at the hands that he begins to knead together in his lap. Tony catches sight of the bandaged hand, but doesn’t say anything, which Clint is overly thankful for when he looks up and catches his gaze.
“When I was younger, my head got hit pretty hard,” he pauses, wondering if he should elaborate, “a lot. My hearing finally started to go around the time I bashed my head into a coffee table. Got worse and worse as I got older.” something in Tony’s eyes shifts at the archer’s words, a form of understanding drifting through them.
“Oh. Okay. Well,” Stark clears his throat, looking away, “well, I’m gonna start developing some better ones. Already got an outline sketched. You should expect an even smaller in-the-ear set sometime in the near future, Tailfeathers.” Tony informs him. Clint nods.
“Tony,” Clint says, and the man looks back up, their eyes meeting completely, “Thank you. I mean it.” Tony swallows and nods briefly, breaking the archer’s gaze and looking away again.
“I guess I’ll be seeing you?” Clint suggests as he stands.
“Would be nice. Breakfast is a thing, too. Bruce makes mean pancakes.” Tony agrees. Clint picks up his StarkPad and briefly puts a hand on the inventor’s shoulder before excusing himself from the workshop.
***
He takes the elevator back to his floor, and steps off and glances around. His floor is completely empty, like it always is, and he eyes the direction of his bedroom but knows that sleep at this point would be a joke. He checks the clock above the stove, 7 AM, and nods, confirming his assumptions. Too early to do much, but too late to sleep.
He briefly considers heading up to Steve’s floor, and almost trips over himself to stop the thought before it can truly develop. Who the hell did he think he was? The only real reason Steve had taken him up there, shared a bed with him, was because he had a literal meltdown and couldn’t be trusted alone. Clint had no right to go barging up to the soldier’s floor in the middle of the night (morning), waking him up just so he could feel comfortable.
Clint decides to sit down and watch a movie in the living room area, pulling the worn blanket Natasha had bought for him many years ago (he had kept it in his Shield designated quarters before the Tower) over himself and flicking on some late night movie, too lazy and not caring enough to actually browse through the various Netflix selections. Eventually he takes his hearing aids out all together, playing a game on his phone and occasionally glancing up at the television.
Early morning light had already begun to filter in through the windows, and at around nine o’clock Jarvis alerts him by flashing the lights in the room. He slips his hearing aids back in.
“Sir has requested that you join the team for breakfast on the common floor.” Jarvis informs him, and Clint nods in acknowledgement.
“Okay. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.” Clint agrees.
Clint takes a shower, a long due shower. He scrubs over his skin efficiently yet gently, his fingers brushing over every scar he had accumulated over his many years on earth. He washes his hair and then stands there under the spray. His muscles were sore but it was nothing the archer wasn't used to.
He finally forces himself out. The shower had only lasted less than three minutes. He didn't want to keep the team waiting. He scrubs his skin, lets his fingers linger over the multitude of scars he had acquired over the many years on earth. He rubs shampoo into his hair, and rinses it out before letting himself just stand there. The spray hits him in the back and he savors it for about a minute before cutting himself off, shutting off the water and climbing out of the shower. It had overall taken about five minutes, because he didn’t want to keep the team waiting.
He dries his hair and pulls on some comfortable jeans and a t-shirt, combing his fingers through his hair as he tries to make himself look presentable and halfway decent for the first time in a while. He completely avoids mirrors, though, because ever since New York he hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it. He was too afraid of what he might see.
He takes the elevator down, and steps off onto the common area floor for the first time since the Battle of New York. It was repaired, and everything looked new to Clint, but he knew that it must have looked like this for a while: he had been gone for a while.
He follows the sound of voices and laughter and finds Bruce flipping pancakes while Steve and Tony sit at the kitchen table, joking about something. The mood of the room changes when Clint’s presence is made, and he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. Steve recovers first.
“Morning, Clint. Pancakes?” Steve questions, pointing to the plate in the middle table, piled high with the flat, golden stacks. Clint stares for a second, taking in the gazes coming at him from all directions before nodding slowly.
“Sure.” and he even manages to force an awkward smile onto his face. He sits across from Tony, closest to the stove, and picks up a fork, carefully selecting the top two pancakes and dragging them onto his plate. Tony smacks a bottle of fancy maple syrup down in front of him and Clint eyes him gratefully.
“I’m just gonna come out and say it, but it’s great to see that you’re alive, Katniss.” Tony grins widely, leaning back in his chair. An odd expression crosses Steve’s face before it is gone in seconds, and Bruce just rolls his eyes, flicking off the stove.
“What Tony means to say is that we are glad we finally have our favorite archer back.” Bruce sits down next to Clint as the archer shovels a forkful of fluffy pancake into his mouth. If Clint is being honest, it’s the best thing he has tasted in a long time, but that may be because he hadn’t exactly been able to taste much of anything for a while. The blandness of what his life had become seemed to transfer to his tastebuds as well.
“Thanks, I guess.” Clint shrugs, slightly embarrassed and also kind of unsure. Clint didn’t think he was anything special, so why would a team of literal superheroes admit that they actually missed him? He was hardly anything compared to them, right?
“Anyway, do you have any idea when our favorite spider is gonna be back?” Tony inquires curiously. Clint stiffens slightly but forces himself to relax. Now was not the time.
“No. She’s on a mission. Classified. I haven’t heard from her since...New York.” he replies faking nonchalance when really the question had ignited a sudden flare of loneliness in the archer once more.
“Oh. Sorry.” Tony says, his smile falling flat.
“It’s whatever. Must be important, though.” he adds the last part with a huff and a slight roll of his eyes. Fury wouldn’t tell him anything, when she was getting back, where she was, what it was about, how much danger she’d be in (but, let’s face it, Black Widow is the human embodiment of danger when she wants to be). It stressed Clint out, but he knew his partner would be able to handle herself.
Clint spends the rest of breakfast eating in silence, listening to the others talk. Bruce and Tony were discussing something new that they had been working on, and Steve occasionally included himself in the conversation, though it was clear to Clint that Steve really had no idea what the two of them was yammering on about.
Eventually, Tony and Bruce excuse themselves to the lab. Tony winks at Clint as he leaves, as if to say ‘thanks for actually showing up’. This leaves only Steve and Clint.
Clint stands, picks up his plate, and then swishes around to Steve, grabbing his empty one as well and placing the both of them in the dishwasher, along with their used silverware.
“Thanks.” Steve says as he stands as well.
“No problemo, Cap.” Clint shrugs, turning back to face the super soldier. Steve crosses his arms and studies the man before him for a second.
“How are you?” he asks, which throws Clint for a loop. He opens his mouth before shutting it.
“What?” he questions.
“How are you?” Steve repeats. Clint shrugs.
“Good, I guess. I don’t know. Besides when I almost shot you yesterday.” Clint replies. Steve stares back intently.
“That wasn’t your fault.” Steve argues.
“Yeah, well, that’s not a very good argument for murder. ‘The crazy made him do it’. Doesn’t work.”
“You’re not crazy.” Steve presses.
“Yeah, okay,” Clint laughs drily. He steps away from where he had been leaning against the kitchen counter, making a move to walk away, but Steve grabs his arm gently.
“I’m serious, Clint. You’re not crazy. Everything that’s...what’s happened is not your fault, you know that right?” Clint meets the soldier’s eyes head on, and he suddenly feels like Steve is looking straight into his soul somehow. It was unnerving. Clint is suddenly aware of how close the two of them are, Steve’s arm still holding his arm tightly. He can practically feel the soldier’s breath, hot on his face.
Clint doesn’t know how it happens, how the two of them somehow met in the middle and their lips met, but it happened, and it was actually still happening! Clint’s eyes are wide, staring at Steve eyelids that had fluttered shut. The two pull away from each other slightly when they run out of air, panting slightly. Clint takes a full step back, leaning heavily with a hand on the marble counter.
Where had that come from?
Clint’s mind was reeling, completely shocked. His past was flickering before his eyes, and he realizes that his hands are shaking. He curls them into fists to suppress the tremors.
There’s this look on Steve’s face, and he’s practically glowing as he stares at the archer, who was currently on the edge of a meltdown.
“Clint-” he breathes, but the archer shakes his head.
“No,” Clint says, forcing himself to stand straight and swallow the bile rising in his throat, “It’s okay.” and then he’s gone, gone before Steve can even blink.
***
Clint didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with him. Wasn’t this what he had wanted, a day ago when he was lying in Steve’s bed with the man’s arms wrapped around him? Wasn’t this what he was after?
Clint goes to his floor, and paces. He paces the length of the living room area over and over and over, thinking but not constructively, just blips and fragments and memories and warnings from his past self. It was exhausting, and stressful, and impossible to deal with. Clint wanted to bash his head against a wall, drink himself into oblivion, curl up tightly in the vents, lock himself away again, because clearly he was better off on his own, right?
Clint stops so suddenly he almost trips over his own feet. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t deal with this. He was being ridiculous.
“Jarvis, where is Steve right now?” Clint questions.
“Captain Rogers is currently on his floor of the Tower.” Jarvis informs him, and Clint nods in understanding.
“Do you think he’d...let me up?” Clint’s voice goes incredibly quiet, his fear of rejection bleeding into his voice. It was an ingrained fear, one he couldn't seem to escape.
“I believe so, Agent Barton.” Jarvis replies. Clint nods to himself.
He steps onto the elevator, which takes him to Rogers’ floor, and steps off of it cautiously, suddenly unsure of what he was actually doing. He’s about to turn around and go back to his own floor to wallow and maybe pace some more, but a voice has him stopping in his tracks, back toward the floor and front in the direction of the doors.
“Clint.” Steve’s voice is cautious, like the archer is a wild animal that could take off at any time. Clint’s shoulders hunch slightly. He doesn’t say anything, listens as footsteps grow closer to him and then stop a few feet away.
“I’m sorry about earlier.” Steve says, and his voice is closer than before. Clint remembered to put his hearing aids in before he made the overly impulsive decision to barge onto Steve's floor.
“It's not-” Clint swallows the waver in his voice, “It’s not like that.” Clint finishes.
“Like what?” Steve takes a few steps closer.
“I- Dammit, Steve. I do like you. But I'm…fucked up. I don’t do well with relationships. I don’t want to put that on you.” Clint confesses.
Steve gets closer and the archer tenses up when strong arms wrap around his middle. He forgets to breath until Steve speaks again, the words vibrating against his back. He’s reminded of the night they had shared not too long ago, the security and the warmth.
“I want you, all of you. And if you're willing to be with me, I’d be the happiest fella around.” Steve murmurs into his back, in the slight dip where his spine is.
Steve feels Clint's body tremble slightly against him. He squeezes the man tighter, waiting for him to speak.
“S-Steve.” he stutters out a breath, shuddering.
“Let me get to know you.” Steve says. Clint looks down at the floor. There are tears in his eyes that he won't let fall, a million thoughts running through his head.
Steve wants him, little old him. Fuck-up Clint who didn't finish high school, who grew up in the circus. Clint, the guy who's only good for his aim, who was basically abused by everyone is his life up until Shield, who was eventually abandoned by everyone he let into his life until Phil hauled him in.
“I'm not a good person, Steve. I should be-I’m-I've done things.” Clint’s breath hitches.
“I've done things, too, Clint. We all have. That doesn't change things for me. I want you for you and everything that comes along with it.” Steve recites firmly into Clint’s back, refusing to back down no matter what. This man has come to mean more to him than he ever thought he would. He wanted him to be his, to be able to hug him and share a bed and spend their free time doing stupidly fun things.
“Turn around. I wanna show you my face when I say this.” Steve guides Clint around, and Clint directs his gaze firmly to the floor as Steve puts his hands on the archer’s shoulders.
Steve takes in the other man, sees the gray irises directed toward the floor. He looks slightly wrecked, his hair mussed up in all different directions and there are tears pooling and desperately trying to escape.
Steve guides Clint's gaze up gently with his fingers. Smoke meets ice and Clint's eyes water even more at the sincerity in the super-soldier’s bright irises.
“I want you for you. That mean everything that goes along with you.” Steve repeats his words from before, words separated and easy to understand, reiterated so well that Clint would be able to decipher them even if he wasn't wearing his hearing aids.
“Steve.” he whispers, and the tears that had been threatening to escape finally spill down his cheeks and his entire body trembles slightly.
“I mean it. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I want this.” Steve reassures.
“You...want me?” Clint mumbles.
“Yes.” Steve nods, wiping the tears off of the archer's face with his thumbs. Clint stares, disbelieving. Steve pulls him closer, wraps his strong arms around Clint's shoulders tightly. He presses a kiss to the sandy-blond hair and then pulling back slightly. Clint looks up, meets Steve's eyes and the two of them reach some sort of agreement before Steve is leaning down and pressing his lips to Clint’s.
This kiss lasts longer than the first one, the one from earlier that had sent Clint running, trying to regroup his racing thoughts.
Clint moves his lips against Steve’s like he’s been kissing the super-soldier for years. Clint wants to scream and cry at the same time because it's probably the sweetest kiss he has ever received. Lips have been forced upon his before, bodies and kisses against his will, and Steve somehow manages to overpower all of it enough for Clint to lose himself in the other man.
They pull apart only when their lungs are screaming for air and Clint presses his face into Steve's neck. Steve runs a hand through the archer's hair as Clint's chest heaves.
“Are we dating, now?” Clint mumbles into the soldier's neck. Steve huffs out a laugh and Clint feels it against his chest.
“If that’s what you want.” Steve replies.
“I do.” Clint nods.
“Well then, guess we’re dating.” Steve muses, and Clint rolls his eyes at how ridiculous the whole situation is. Two grown men, negotiating whether or not they're dating like a couple of teenagers, but he can't bring himself to care completely because the feeling of being wanted, to belong, warms him up inside, melts the ice that has been flowing through his veins a little bit more.