Work Text:
The phones were off, Scott made sure of it. His work phone, his personal phone, even the home phone which only required turning off his AI assistant’s cell service. It’s a necessary precaution, Scott has found, ever since singing on as an Avenger. Don’t get him wrong, the gig was great, free room and board would always be the quickest way to his heart. But he still has some bills to pay; and money for Cassie always at the forefront of his mind. So reasonably, he has to schedule time off so he can make those payments. Unfortunately, “time off” was one of the few things that made Scott really wish the Avengers had an HR department. They seriously can't need him for every Attuma attack. So he shuts off any incoming calls save for the one he holds with his client, narrowing communication down to what is essentially snail mail but with ants. Anything to avoid Tony "Iron Man" Stark.
That doesn't mean he's immune to his bouts of weakness.
“Ya told me no internet, Scottie,” JOEY says, intonation a little pitchy but Scott can tell he’s trying. “No Beyoncé until I’m back online.”
Scott sighs. “Can’t you put anything on?” He's beginning to regret loaning his Walkman to Cassie.
“Ya know, I could if I could just connect–”
“Pass.” Scott pushes away from his workbench, wheely chair juttering as it rolls over dry earth. He pinches the bridge of his nose, idly rocking himself back in forth. “You so much as breathe on those bars, and we'll have Stark knocking on our door. Roof. Hill."
“Well, then, you’re fresh outta luck.”
JOEY’s voice echoes in Scott’s head, a ricochet of sound that only builds upon the headache that's been culminating for the past hour. He should take a break, nap a little. He's been at this since 7 in the morning, and the digital clock on JOEY's screen says he's been going for 6 hours. Experience states that nothing good has ever come out of an overworked scientist unless evil robots were your thing. It seems such a waste though, especially considering how little progress he's made. The circuit board he's been hunched over is only halfway done. He could spare to put in a little more work.
He only needs to ignore the pricks in his eyes and the roiling in his chest. A sound comes out of Scott's mouth; he's not sure if it's a laugh or a sob.
“Eyo! Scottie-boy,” JOEY’s voice crackles. “We got incoming!”
“What–?!” Scott's leg kicks out, spinning the chair in time to see the dirt above shower the room Scott had made a lab. Light spills from the growing entryway, movements quick and coordinated enough that he automatically assumes it to be one of his ants. Only, if that were so, JOEY would have no reason to tell him.
Ant-Man's pheromone gun is in his hand before the newcomer breaches the room, its setting adjusted to call in the colony. Whatever's coming into his home best be friendly, lest they face an overwhelming number of ants. His finger is flirting with the trigger when the red ant comes tumbling head first into the room, trilling and clicking as it lands on the floor.
“Dangit, Euclid,” Scott breathes, immediately switching the gun's safety on. “I should put a bell on you.”
Euclid trills, his wings fluttering restlessly as he turns to fully face Scott. Or at least, it’s an attempt on the ant’s part. It's hard to make eye contact with a creature whose eyes are on opposite sides of its head. Even more so when there's a human body draped over the center of the face. A limp, hopefully unconscious––please be unconscious––body, slumped in a position that will not please the back. Blood cakes one side of the person's head, matting short, blond hair. The brightly colored purple imprinted on the chest is only the icing on the cake.
“Clint?”
Scott reaches out, praying that the head trauma has only caused Barton to be knocked unconscious. He manages to brush the top of the archer’s head when Euclid jerks, pulling Clint away and squeaking as he does. Clint’s body follows the motion, arms flailing like a scarecrow's in a hurricane. Euclid chitters in agitation when one arm smacks him, shuffling again and repeating the same swinging motion. His legs beat heavy against the ground as the ant runs the length of the room, squeaking in distress when it cannot seem to still the motions. Scott watches in astounded horror as Euclid runs into the wall, earth displacing under the force, only to return to his panicked march. All the while Clint's body remains clutched between mandibles, unresponsive.
"Euclid, buddy!" Scott tries, but the ant either ignores him or is in too panicked a state to realize its been given an order. Its already starting what could be called a third lap around the small lab, Clint's head jerking sharply to the left in a way that has Scott feeling sick.
"Need to snap you out of it," Scott mutters to himself, and its enough to remind him of the gun clutched in his hand. He alters the setting from "Enemy. Protect." to "Home. Calm" and fills the room with the pheromone. The smell is strong, making even Scott's eyes water as it hits his eyes, but he doesn't look away from Euclid. Even when a couple straggling ants come over to nudge curiously at the gun, he can't look away as Euclid continues his frenzied pattern. For a moment, he wonders if whatever happened to Clint could have damaged Euclid's receptors. Then the movements start to slow, skittering legs slowly a mild crawl as the ant nudges its way into the noxious cloud of Safe pheromones. Antennae wave happily, brushing gently against Scott's face and hair in a petting pattern. Normally, Scott would find the loving gesture a little obnoxious–the same one would have for a dog licking their face–but the proximity brought Clint close enough that his pulse could be checked. The gentle thrum of life more than made up for the annoyance.
"Good job, Euclid." Scott praises, gently petting the ant's head. Euclid trills, pushing down into the hand. He's still nervous, shifting like he wants to go back into his run, but the pheromones are doing their due diligence.
"Why don't we put him somewhere safe?" Scott says.
He changes the pheromone setting again, this one a concoction that conveys they need to "store their treasure for later." Euclid goes easily, allowing Scott to lead them them to a relatively unmarked wall save for a small trench that might have been the beginnings of a tunnel. Scott was never sure why it was abandoned, but he had converted it into a makeshift bed for those nights he didn't fall asleep at his work station. It is out of the way and smells like Scott, two things Euclid would hopefully associated with safe. Just to sure, he sprayed more pheromones onto the sleeping bag and pillow below.
Euclid shifts nervously, somehow distrustful of what is essentially a hole of old bedding that smells like safety. By all accounts, Euclid should be more than happy to store his prize here. But his antennae twitch and his head swivels, like he's judging the quality of Scott's bed. Deliberating if it's good enough for Clint to be laid down here.
Scott laughs at the thought. Euclid side eyes him curiously.
"What do you see in him?" Scott asks.
Euclid squeaks, nudging mandibles–and Clint–against Scott's shoulder.
"Right. Silly question."
Finally, Euclid starts to ease into the divot, carefully moving Clint to rest on the bedding within. The ant nudges at Clint carefully, arranging the body into a neat pile before scurrying back out. Euclid trills at Scott and races off with no indication where he's going. Knowing the ant, it's probably on the hunt for sweets to give the incapacitated Barton.
Scott crawls into the divot, careful not to step on Clint. While the archer has a pulse, there's still possibility of concussion to worry about as well as other possible injuries. He starts with Barton's head, easing it gently to expose the wound to the light filtering into the hole. Thankfully, despite the blood, the gash itself isn't so deep that it would warrant a mad dash to the hospital. A doctor might be helpful, but that would require getting past an overprotective Euclid. Surely any medical professional worth their salt would understand.
Determining that Clint isn't going to die in his bed, Scott turns to the other ants in the hill for supplies. Per his instruction, they bring him the first aid kit and the Pym Particle scanner. It's unlikely head trauma alone would shrink a man to ant size. He begins with first aid, cleaning and dressing the head wound to the best of his ability. Euclid arrives in the middle of the bandaging, a glob of sweet water brought as offering. He stridulates incessantly.
"I don't need him drowning, Bud," Scott says. The ant isn't too good at English, though, squeaking and wandering back and forth in clear frustration. Obviously sugar water will fix Clint right up.
Scott ties the gauze hastily then moves Barton into the recovery position just as Euclid's patience begins to run out. Scott moves out of the way, allowing Euclid to finally get close and deliver the sweet water. Clint isn’t exactly capable of consuming any of it, but Euclid doesn’t need to know that. He only needs to feel like he’s being useful and who is Scott to deny that? He’ll just omit the mouth-to-mandible account when Clint inevitably wakes and asks about the acrid taste on his tongue.
While Euclid gently feeds Clint the sugary water, Scott scans them both with the particle scanner. He's sure that Pym Particles are to blame for Clint's appearance, but Euclid's behavior has him especially worried. He knows the ant likes Clint, but to spiral into what Scott can only describe as a panic attack is disconcerting. Yet, as Euclid finishes his feeding ritual and the scanner has completed its scan, Scott can't help the bubble of disbelieving laughter. There is some pretty unstable Pym Particles at play; not "shrink-you-down-to-the-Microverse" unstable but definitely not prime material either. Beyond that, there's nothing more to note. It's just a man and an ant with all the particles and chemicals you'd find in any other.
Euclid's behavior, more or less, can be attributed to Clint's condition. That is, Euclid probably found his favorite human hurt and proceeded to panic. It is entirely un-ant-like, yet somehow Clint Barton triggered the effect. Scott's ant liked Clint better.
"You're a traitor," Scott says to said ant. "A filthy traitor."
Euclid chirps innocently.
"'M n't filt'y," Clint slurs. Scott jerks back to Clint, whose eyes are starting to open.
Scott laughs, relief washing over to see his teammate lucid. "I dunno. You're pretty dusty from where I'm sitting."
Clint frowns, those eyes twitching quick to lock on Scott's face. It's the first time Scott has gotten to look at those eyes and he's relieved to find the pupils are of equal size. That's good; no hospital trips just yet.
"Thought you were on vacation," Clint says, still slurring though not as badly. "Where's Tony?"
“If only I knew,” Scott leans forward, resting his chin on one knee. “I wasn’t anticipating company.”
“…I don’t want to be here.”
"I didn't invite you here," Scott returns, smirking down at the archer. Euclid takes that as his cue to introduce himself to the conversation, his head butting into Clint's chest. The panicked screech Clint makes is funny for a second, but Scott comes to find that maybe a giant ant in someone's personal space could ruffle even the most steadfast SHIELD agent.
"Hey, hey," Scott reaches in, grabbing Clint's wrist. "He just wants to make sure you're okay!"
Clint jerks his hand away, but Scott holds tight. Barton's reaction isn't as strong as when he and Euclid first met, but he's starting to have an affect on Euclid. The ant is making sad stridulations, although at no point does he stop his investigations.
"He's the one who brought you here," Scott says. That gets Clint to calm down a little, but his free hand remains firmly against the ant's head. Euclid, despite being more than capable of pushing past such feeble strength, doesn't. He sits there, squeaking like a whining dog.
Scott picks himself up and moves closer to Clint's side, expertly avoiding the swaying antennae, mandibles, and front legs. Euclid pays him not mind, apparently more fixated on why the man he kidnapped doesn't want to snuggle. Clint doesn't pay Scott any mind, which is the only reason Scott is able to wrap his arms around the archer's torso and drag him back onto the bed.
"What are you doing?!" Clint hisses, panicked. He squirms desperately against a hold that, quite honestly, he should be able to break out of easily. They're in a small heap on the bed, Clint Barton half in Scott's lap. It's not something Scott can say was ever on his agenda.
"Just let him do this, Barton," Scott says. "You're intercepting the pheromones."
Man he's glad the only witnesses are ants.
"Are you saying this is my fault?!" Clint hisses in his ear, and for a minute Scott worries he might bit it off. "I didn't ask for your bugs' hel–."
Scott clamps a hand over Clint's mouth. "Shut up, Barton. Let him check you over. I'll buy you pizza later."
Clint grumbles against Scott's hand, but his struggling starts to calm down. He stills shifts uneasily in Scott's lap, but it's more of a restless anxiety that comes with being in an uncomfortable position. He flinches in Scott's arms when Euclid's antennae brush over Clint's face and hair, the same petting motion it had used on Scott before. Euclid squeaks, mandibles scraping gently–Clint cringing away from the sharp click it makes–before at last it's satisfied. Euclid climbs out of the divot and starts for the tunnel Scott recognizes as the path to the food stores. As soon as the abdomen disappears down the passage, Scott releases Clint's mouth.
Clint spits. "Your glove tastes awful."
"What?" Scott glances down at his glove, noting the dark, slimy fabric. "Why?"
"Forgot your gloves have fingers." Clint waggles his own fingerless gloved hands.
Scott shoves Clint off his lap, wiping his palm roughly against Clint's back. The archer squawks, reaching around to, presumably, grab at Scott's head but he's already gotten back to his feet so he gets Scott's thigh instead. Scott is easily able to pull out of Clint's grasp and out of the divot. Clint does not follow, choosing instead to rest against the wall. Right, possible concussion.
"Okay, enough fooling around," Scott says. "Want to explain why you're ant-sized?"
"What?" Clint looks genuinely confused. "I'm not–"
"I don't normally super-size my ants." Not unless he needed fast travel or to scare some kids.
Clint hesitates. Scott starts to worry that maybe there's some memory missing. A clock to the head isn't really known for its health benefits.
"Clint?" Scott prompts.
"Fine, so I'm small. Big deal."
"Funny."
"Shut up!" Clint lifts from his spot on the wall only to fall back again, hissing. "Just—unsmall me so I can get back to the others. It'll be like I was never here."
"Yeah, I don't think I can do that." Scott reaches down into the divot, snagging the particle scanner and turning it over for Clint to see. "You've got a few particles on you, not very well-handled particles. I could grow you, but then you'd be, like, 15 feet by morning."
Clint frowns, looking at the scanner and probably not understanding what any of the numbers or pictures mean. "It couldn't be so bad."
"Maybe," Scott concedes. "Maybe you'll become the Hulk's next sparring partner."
Clint blanches. He shakes his head. "Okay, then. Couldn't you make some kind of, I dunno, perfect measurement so that they wear off at the same time?"
"I could." Scott shrugs. "But that'd be a lot of work. I'm already behind on projects, Barton."
"I thought you were on vacation," Clint says, wearily. "Are you working on your vacation?"
Scott shrugs. "More or less."
"You science guys are weird."
Scott laughs. A real, not stress-induced, laugh. It's nice, after the roadblocks he's hit with his work and Clint's sudden appearance. The ants might be the only witnesses down here, but it's hard to have any meaningful conversation with any of them.
"Tell you what. I'll fix your little problem–"
"I will actually punch you, Lang."
"Shush. I'll help if you're not back to normal-sized in the next twelve hours. I'll let the other Avengers know you're safe with me."
"Pass." Clint says, and he tries to stand again. As before, he sways and leans against the wall for support. "I– the team needs me. I can't sit around here while they're out there."
Scott frowns. "Sure you can. In fact, I really think you should."
"I didn't ask for your opinion," Clint grouses.
Scott hums, but he's no longer taking in Clint's words. Though he's not a full term Avenger like Hulk or Falcon, he's picked up on Clint's stubbornness and determination to not be at the bottom of the food chain. Not that there really is a bottom in the the Avengers team, it doesn't stop Clint from being any less aggressive. If he wants something, he'll get it no matter who tells him it's not worth it. Doesn't mean that Scott has to give Clint what he wants.
"You've got a head injury," Scott says matter-of-factually. He spins on his heel and heads for his desk, grabbing a box and shoving his current commission inside. "And, honestly, you're not going to do much good at two inches tall."
Clint hisses, either from finally noticing the wound on his head or just throwing a fit. Whichever one, neither inspire confidence when it comes to sending someone out to battle.
"JOEY will send a message to Iron Man letting him know you're alive, but not in fighting condition. You can rest here until they respond."
Clint shakes his head. "No. No, screw you, I'm fine!"
This time, Clint manages to get to his feet and even out of the divot. He sways on his feet, but he presses forward into Scott's space. "I've taken on Thanos in worst condition than this. Some villain of the week is not enough to keep me down."
"Sure." Scott shrugs. He fits the rest of the tools into the box and hefts it up. "But Euclid can."
"Lang, I'm serious, I– Hey! NO! Scott!!"
Euclid squeaks excitedly, mistaking Clint's cries as something positive. The ant shook Clint a little bit, not enough that Scott might be worried but it did nothing for Barton's nerves. Satisfied, Euclid returns to the divot with a peppy step. By the hole is another ant with a sugar cube in its mandibles.
"Scott!" Clint shouts.
"Euclid's pretty serious, too," Scott says, following Euclid to the hole in the wall. "Like I've said, Euclid likes you. That includes keeps you alive. So shut up, relax. Think of it as a vacation."
"It's not really vacation with you here," Clint snips, but there's nothing there. It's the same angry squabbling from someone being told to do something he doesn't want to. Scott can empathize with that, but he also knows Clint isn't going to die or get anymore hurt. If anything, Clint is going to be spoiled to all hell by an ant who assumes all wounds can be healed with lots of sugar. It might be confused, but Scott admires the spirit.
Scott waits for Euclid to settle Clint into the divot before slipping in himself, settling into a corner Scott has often used on sleepless nights. Clint glares at him, then the ant, going back and forth in silent fury. Scott starts to worry that maybe he should have taken Clint's arrows earlier.
"I hate you," Clint mutters, and finally settles against the wall, sliding down it until he can hook his arms around his ankles. "Thor wouldn't do this to me."
"We all bring something to the team." Scott says, earning an amused sniff. He nudges Clint's thigh with his toe. "Give me a bit. I'll look over you again."
Clint hums but doesn't say anymore. It's not very Clint, but Scott doesn't see any other alternative. Fighting with a head injury is no slight thing and Scott can't, with good conscience, send him out there. Not after the woozy way he had been talking and moving. He keeps his messages open for when the Avengers reach back out, but there's been no update thus far.
Euclid pampers Clint nonstop, ferrying in one sugary treat after another and "nosing" at Clint while he eats. It's the most affectionate Scott has seen any of his ants and he briefly considers recording the moment to send over to Hank Pym. But he's pretty sure that will land him further in Clint's disfavor.
It takes about an hour before Euclid is sufficiently calm and satisfied with Clint's condition, depositing one last cookie crumb before venturing back into the tunnels. Clint remains still, refusing any eye contact. It reminds Scott a lot of when Cassie was younger, giving him the silent treatment when she was denied his blowtorch.
By the second hour, Scott has only made a little progress on the circuit board—made harder by being balanced on his knee—when Clint finally starts to relax. His legs start to unravel from where they're pressed to his chest, his shoulders uncoil. He's not relaxed, but he's no longer cutting of circulation anywhere. Scott stops soldering to watch, not really looking for anything in particular, just observing.
Clint's lips move, words spoken so softly, but Scott has gotten perceptive to catching those little sounds. Scott tries not to let it shown on his face, even while the gentle "thanks" drills sharply into his chest.