Archive of Our Own ^beta

Clint looks down, feeling the weight of the knuckle guards on his hands. His muscles bunch as he flexes and stands up straighter, white wifebeater sticking to his skin - he's looking ahead now, but not seeing anything precisely, forcing his focus away. The less he thinks, the better; not dwelling on the consequences of his actions is usually what gets him going through his days, and it’s the exact reason why he can follow orders.

He can hear the buzz of voices, the hum of excitement coming from the other side of the door, and if he could be bothered by it all, he would smile, but he’s too numbed down to give a toss about anything else than the thrum of anticipating rushing through his veins, the knowledge that soon enough he’s going to feel like a man again, if only for a few minutes.

He’s pretty sure nobody he works with would get it; they get beat up on a regular basis as it is, so doing it even more, looking forward to the moments where it’s just him and his opponent in the ring, the smell of sweat and blood, the feel of flesh under his knuckles and the squelching sound of gushing wounds, they wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t get that it’s not the same in missions, with tech and comms and backup and his bow and arrows to support him. This is different, this is exclusively him, and his weaknesses, and his problems, and he can shed his skin and be exactly himself, for the time of a fight, as long as necessary, until there’s too much blood in his eyes or he’s on the ground, coughing out a tooth or two.

This is raw, and easy, and sometimes Clint wins, and sometimes he loses, but he always walk away with a proud look in his eyes and doesn’t shy away from his bruises – until he has to, until he’s called into SHIELD. If they knew, they could kick him out of the Avengers Initiative as quickly as they offered him a spot in; he’s not indispensable like Stark or Rogers, he’s just a marksman, and there are enough of these lying around, waiting to take his place if he fucks up. So he doesn’t, and he doesn’t talk about his extracurricular activities, even to Natasha. He’s been doing this for years, he’s a pro at handling himself and projecting a mask of complete blankness that seems to be enough for the people around him.

It’s not like anyone cares, he’s not naive enough to believe that. It’s been too long since anyone has really, truly given a genuine fuck about where he goes and what he does and who he does it with, so now it’s part of who he is, this fierce independence that doesn’t keep him from following orders, but keeps him from revealing anything he doesn’t want to. That is something he is not about to let go of, and he’s not going to let anyone try, either.

The buzz of voices and screams and music from the other side of the door grows louder, intensifying with each passing minute, and Clint takes a steadying breath, flexing his fingers and clenching them into fists, jumping from foot to foot as he braces himself for what’s to come. He is throwing himself into something completely mindless, dangerous, and also totally illegal, but here, in the basement of some seedy, bad-reputation bar, Clint has no name, no history, no religion, no family.

He is just a fighter like so many others, and when the doors open, he bounds into the cage, feeling his muscles tense as he takes in the crowd gathering around the wired cage, yelling unintelligible things at him, bookmakers making the rounds, grabbing money right, left and center – money Clint will see nothing of, whether he loses or wins, no difference. His opponent is a big guy, but Clint has come to grips with Frost Giants and Abominations, so the man in front of him is nothing that frightens Clint. He’s sporting a thick mustache and is bald, his scalp gleaming in the artificial lights dangling over the cage. Clint smirks to himself, running the back of his hand over his mouth, already thinking about how to get into this fight, where to corner the man or how to get out of a corner if he’s the one in it. The guy in front of him is so bulky he should be lacking in speed and reactions, which is a good thing for Clint, but he’s also quickly learned not to underestimate his opponents just because of physical attributes.

He’ll have to go in and see, assess as it goes – just like any other mission, nothing he’s never done before. The gong rings, and Clint licks his lips, loosening his muscles as much as possible, and then, he goes in.

;;

The next morning, Clint steals into the Avengers mansion, into Natasha’s room, and steals enough foundation for her to nothing, masking as well as possible the purpling bruise over the left side of his jaw. He’s become quite the makeup artist with time, managing to mask most bruises and cuts with a quick efficiency that would awe any zombie movie maker. When he’s happy with his work, he joins the rest of them for breakfast, pretending he just woke up when he didn’t even sleep in the house – they’ve stopped questioning his nightly habits very quickly, after too many jokes from Stark had given him a bloody nose, courtesy of Clint’s left hook.

Natasha gives him a look from over the rim of her mug of coffee, licks her lips. “You smell like a truck stop. You could at least shower.”

“Sorry, Princess. No time, you know how it is.”

“Actually, I don’t, but I’m not even going to ask.”

He smirks at her, getting a mug for himself. He doesn’t even care if he upsets her, not anymore, and he doubts he could, anyway; she is just as guarded as he is, with some deep-seated secrets and issues that she wouldn’t share even under torture, so he has no qualms in not telling her anything back. As a relationship, it works for the both of them.

“That’s the best policy. Morning, Captain,” he ends with, as Steve walks into the kitchen, looking bleary eyed, his hair sticking up everywhere. The man looks so young at the best of times, Clint still can’t believe he’s supposed to be over 90, and a Captain of the United States Army.

Steve nods around, bleary-eyed and sleep clinging to the corners of his mouth when he yawns, Natasha obligingly pouring him a mug of coffee. Slowly, one by one, the rest of the Avengers fill the kitchen of the mansion, and Clint ignores looks, knowing very well how he looks, how he smells. Soon enough they’ll be scattered around the city and he won’t have to pretend he’s just fine and he slept the night before. No problem, it’s no problem at all to spend a couple of hours acting like he wasn’t someone completely different during the night, like he’s not been beating some guy to a bloody pulp just five hours ago. He doesn’t care if they have a doubt, if they don’t trust him or don’t believe his lies; he’s got nothing to prove because he’s always the first one willing to take a bullet for either of them while on the field. They can’t complain about him, or his attitude, or his lack of skills – if only because he can’t fail this, won’t fuck up this part of his life.

The conversation over breakfast stays well away from Clint, centered around scientific discoveries and JARVIS’ latest attempt to keep Tony out of his lab, pulling Clint into a lull, the closest thing to sleeping he’ll get, probably. When the phone rings and Fury commands them all for briefing to the Helicarrier, Clint follows silently.

;;

He doesn’t usually go down to the bar every night. Usually, one time every few weeks is enough for him, gives him time to heal, for wounds to become scars, tender reminders that he’s not invincible. But this week has been particularly hard, with Von Doom launching a series of attacks on a series of Consulates, and Clint cannot wait to lose himself into a fight again.

The owner of the bar sees him as soon as Clint comes through the door, nodding at him from the other side of the counter. Clint walks through, hands buried deep in the pocket of his thin gray hoodie, and comes to a stop by the beer taps, licking his lips. The bar is the kind of seedy, filthy dive that hosts a slew of no-gooders; probably a few Russians around, some gang members, a number of girls looking haphazard and in need of a good night of sleep. Some of them will end up going downstairs at some point, place a bet or two on fights, but most don’t care about the illegal fighting ring right underneath their feet, too taken by their own problems.

Which could be a way to accurately define Clint, too, if only he had a single problem at the moment. He doesn’t, not really; his life isn’t bad, all things considered: he is part of a group of super-heroes that save the world on a weekly basis, he’s got a really expensive roof over his head, access to all sorts of toys and weapons. Some people would say he’s got friends, too, some sort of glued-together family, but Clint doesn’t really believe that. He’s got himself, his bows, his strength and skills. He’s got this, too, he thinks as the barman nods him through and Clint makes his way to the back door, jogging down the stairs. They open on a large room, the cage right in the middle of it, men and women crowded around it, palms hitting the metal regularly, cries of encouragement or mockery filling the air as bookmakers walk around, filthy smiles on their faces as they collect bets from everyone, some people too busy with the fight to even give their bet a thought.

Clint slithers his way through to the double doors at the back of the room, leading to changing rooms for the fighters. He’s not stopped once he pulls his hood over his head, not wanting to be recognized by anyone around, any regular that might know him for the gritty, snake-like, vicious fighter Clint knows he is. It’s not one of his usual nights but some people came here every day, looking for a thrill, for some blood.

The changing rooms are more like a gym, large and empty and impersonal. There’s a set of benches and lockers lining one wall, some gym equipment on the other side, and the lights are almost non-existent, half of the bulbs broken. It’s somewhat comforting, for Clint, though, especially when Hugo follows him into the room. As the main bookmaker, he’s the one that sets the fights for the night, and he’s the one that gets angry when Clint doesn’t follow his words of advice. Sometimes it’s pummel him to the ground, and sometimes it’s give it 15 before throwing the towel. Clint doesn’t do it for the money, which makes him dangerous, a liability for Hugo. Hugo has taken to carrying a gun recently.

“Didn’t expected you, Clint, or I’d have pencilled you in.”

Clint shrugs, taking his hoodie off and leaving it on top of his gym bag, looking away from Hugo. “It’s okay. If there’s no one for me to fight, I’ll just train in here a while.” It’s not like he needs it; they’re trained almost daily with SHIELD supervision, focusing on strengthening weaknesses and sharpening skills. But coming in here and just putting a good effort on the punching bag feels like relief, even if there are no bones crunching under his hands.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll find you something. Might be a bit big for you, though.”

Clint snorts; they both know size is no matter for Clint. He cracks his knuckles. “Bring it on.”

;;

Clint loses track of time, once in the ring. Something happens, the same thing that happens when he’s on a mission, with a bow in his hands and an arrow hooked, the deep calm that fills him up from inside, grounds him so thoroughly he cannot feel anything else, fear and anxiety and excitement vanishing into the background as he does what he has to do. In the ring, it’s the same thing; he realizes his movements and he knows he has a plan, but his mind is almost shut down, muscle memory maxed out.

This is how he ends up with his legs around his opponent’s chest, feet braced on his hip, keeping steady through the man’s flailing to get him off as Clint slams his elbow into the back of the man’s neck, sending him hurtling forward. For a moment, Clint digs his thumbs into the man’s eyeballs, just to disorient him further, feeling blood and squishy parts under his fingers when he presses into the man’s jaw. His opponent screams, in rage and pain, but Clint’s too fast for him.

He lets go, uses the man’s body to push himself off, and watches him stumble around, hands in front of him, blindly trying to find Clint. There’s blood in his eyes from when Clint broke his eyebrow. It’s been dripping down his bare, gleaming chest, and transferred to Clint’s pants, rendering them sticky around the knees.

Clint doesn’t care. His side hurts from a kick early on in the fight, but he’s been at an advantage of being fresh when this man was on his second fight of the night; other than that, he’s mostly fine, and could go on for hours. When he runs the back of his hand over his nose, he discovers it’s bleeding, but there’s no pain – it’s not broken. He licks the blood off his hand without even thinking about it, taking in the metallic taste, and then he charges, slams his body full into his opponent’s back, sending him right into the metallic frame of the cage. There’s a crunching noise, satisfying, and Clint hops backwards, jogging from one foot to the other, ready to go on if the man gets up again, but he’s done for the night, whimpering against the cage, fingers feebly flexing against the floor. There’s a roar in Clint’s ears, the crowd going wild for him and his bloody victory, but also coming from deep within himself, the feel of being alive, strong, invincible. It thrums through his whole body as he exits the ring, not waiting to be congratulated, declared as the winner; he doesn’t care about this part, just like he doesn’t care about the money. He only does it for these few minutes in the ring, bones breaking under his own, flesh hitting flesh, and the feeling it creates. That’s all he cares about.

And if that makes him more dangerous, then so be it.

;;

Phil Coulson’s office is in a light but drab corner of the Helicarrier, like they put him where they could find some place, big enough for a desk, some filing cabinets, and two chairs. It seems to be enough for the Agent, who spends little time in there anyway, but it makes Clint feel a little claustrophobic. It’s time for yet another debriefing, one that dissects exactly what Hawkeye has been doing during the latest mission, nothing that requires the whole team to be present. These are the debriefs that make Clint even less comfortable.

Coulson sits back in his chair, looking straight at Clint, specifically Clint’s jaw, which makes Clint duck and look away. The bruise is fading but if you pay enough attention, the darkened skin becomes very apparent, and Clint doesn’t need a lecture.

“So, what happened after the Abomination got a hold of Iron Man?”

Clint runs his tongue over his front teeth, not quite expecting the question to still be about the mission after that piercing look. He reassembles his thoughts – Coulson has a knack to scramble Clint somewhat, making him lose his composure, and Clint can’t explain the why’s or how’s of it.

“I was on the roof of the warehouse, trying to get a clear shot of the Abomination, get him with a tranq or explosive, and when he got Iron Man I just – I jumped. Sir.”

Coulson leans forward, stapling his fingers under his chin. “You jumped from a 15 stories building. To what purpose, exactly?”

Clint shrugs. “I didn’t know what else to do.” He knows it’s not a satisfying answer, but at least he’s being honest. All he could think of at that moment in the mission was that he needed to get Tony safe, and that’s what he’d done.

Coulson sighs, looking down at a file on his desk, like it can magically give him the answer to all Clint-related questions. “That’s not what you were trained, or told to do.”

“Yeah, sorry to want to save my colleague’s ass. Want me to tell you it won’t happen again? Because I’m not telling you that, it might happen again, and I’ll regret it just as much as I do now. Which is not at all.”

“Yes, I gathered that. Barton, we just don’t want you to take unnecessary risks.”

“All things considered, I hope this is a joke, Sir. All due respect.”

Clint has reached the end of his rope, turning to sarcasm and snark not to explode in an angry rant about how all of this is bullshit, and how much he hates being treated like a puppet on strings. It seems Coulson is well aware of it, which is why he sighs again, flipping past a few pages of Clint’s report, and nods.

“Fine. You’re done, Barton.”

Clint stands up, nods as well, some little curtsy that makes him smirk. “Sir.”

Coulson doesn’t look at him again when he says, “And get that nasty bruise on your jaw looked at, will you?”

Clint’s stomach drops, and he flies the office without answering.

;;

Clint is smoking on the roof of the Avengers mansion when Tony finds him, walking out and rolling his shoulders under his shirt, the arc reactor glowing brightly through the material. It’s fascinating, and Clint finds himself staring for a couple of seconds, before he hears Tony huff a laugh.

“You wouldn’t happen to have one of these for me, do you?”

Clint smirks when he passes the pack over. “What would JARVIS think?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll get a lecture. It’s rare to see you in at night, these days.”

Clint looks away, at the expanse of the city under their feet, bright lights glowing in the night. “Been busy.”

Tony chuckles. “I bet.” There’s an edge to his voice, though, like he doesn’t really believe his own innuendo, and Clint would be tempted to spill about his extracurricular activities, almost. Of all of the Avengers, Tony Stark is the least susceptible to talk about whatever Clint could admit to him, but there’s no way. Even if he truly wanted to, Clint knows he’d be unable to say anything, burden anyone with his secrets. They all have enough bullshit going on in their lives, Clint doesn’t need to add anything to the others.

“Look, Barton, I wanted to say – thanks, for the other day. You saved my life.”

Clint looks away again, focusing on taking a long drag of his cigarette, the glowing red tip growing brighter for an instant, the smoke filling up his lungs. He exhales on a sigh, throwing a look at Tony. “Just doing my job.”

Tony’s hand falls on his shoulder. “Still. Thank you.”

“T’was nothing.” But he’s sort of smiling, and Tony seems to take it, pulling away and turning towards the city, carpeting the world in front of them. He looks different, in the night light, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He looks almost – normal, like any other guy, not a super-armored billionaire playboy.

“And their lives go on, oblivious that they could all be dead now,” Tony says, wistful.

Clint snorts. “They’re the lucky ones,” he says quietly, throwing his cigarette over the low wall, and walking away.

;;

He only does this at night, between nurses’ rounds. He fully well knows there are cameras everywhere, but he also knows dead angles, and he’s the best at gathering intel for a reason; not being seen or heard is one of his things. He slithers his way through Medical, quick and silent.

The storage room is always fully stocked, and Clint doesn’t doubt they’ll know someone came in and stole a few things, but suturing needles, gauze and bandages are not as bad as morphine and painkillers, which he tends to leave alone. He just needs to get patched up, not lull the pain; the pain matters.

He grabs what he needs in a few quick moves; he’s cased the place often enough, and this is not his first trip, he knows what he’s doing. If he is seen, caught, he’ll spin some kind of lie about a fight, nothing so unusual that it’d raise flags. It’s only him, anyway, it’s not like Fury will give a damn. He’s not precious Steve Rogers or Natasha, the teacher’s pet. He swipes his bounty in his bag, going back the way he came without meeting a single soul, but when he reaches the elevators, there he is, Phil Coulson, looking weary and half-asleep in a way that almost makes Clint want to drive him home.

“Barton, what are you doing here?”

Clint shrugs. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Coulson smirks, but it’s heavy, tired, and he looks like he can’t deal with this anymore, possibly about to pass out. Clint decides he doesn’t care. “Only this is normal habit for me. You’re not usually here in the middle of the night.”

“Lost track of time in the range.”

Coulson nods, his eyes softening as he gives Clint a look, the two of them stepping inside the elevator. “Don’t overdo it, okay?”

“Me? Never.”

Coulson snorts, staring at the blank space in front of him. Then, surprisingly, he runs a hand over his eyes, slumping forward. “God, I’m exhausted. This might sound strange to you but – do you mind driving me home? Think it’s more prudent.”

It sounds strange because Coulson’s not in the habit of letting his guard down this way, with anyone, even less with Clint, who’s never given him a reason to do so. But Clint finds himself unable to say no, to lead Coulson to an accident by forcing him to drive himself home.

Clint takes a breath, exhales quickly, before saying, “No, I don’t mind.”

;;

Clint gasps, tries to gulp air into his lungs, but he can’t breathe, black dots dancing in his eyes as he tries to focus on the EMT around him, cutting open his costume. He looks down at himself, watches the large bruise on his chest, over his lungs and his heart, the edges of it red and ugly, and then he throws his head back, still unable to breathe, panting desperately into the oxygen mask fitted around his mouth and nose.

“Clint!” He hears from somewhere around, and he thinks it’s Rogers, but he’s not sure, his brain refusing to answer simple questions at this point. The fight had been vicious, but he didn’t think the ugly machine that had been unleashed on the streets of New-York by Loki – again – was a match to the Avengers. It still managed to knock him almost unconscious with one arm when he’d launched himself to it; he’d wanted to climb on its back, get an explosive arrow into all that machinery. The fail was spectacular, even for Clint, but right now he barely has time to think about it, because he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, and he doesn’t want to fucking die.

Clint feels himself being lifted, and when he looks around he can see the other Avengers clustered around, looking at him, the Machine – it looked like the Terminator, only much bigger, and Clint wonders for a second why does Loki feel the need to overcompensate so much – lying on the ground, a steaming, smoking heap of metal and anger.

As he gets loaded into the ambulance to bring him back to the Helicarrier, Clint can’t help but think that, again, he’s proven just how little help he is, and maybe, possibly this will be the last straw. Maybe Fury will come to him, and tell him he can stop trying, because he’s off the team, not efficient enough, not good enough. It wouldn’t be a first time Clint heard those words directed to him, and maybe, maybe it’d be a good thing, for the others not to have to check if Clint’s still alive every five seconds. They could perform better without Clint, surely.

Clint passes out on these thoughts.

;;

His room in Medical Bay is typically bland. He’s been fed bland beef and bland mashed potatoes earlier, followed by a bland chocolate yoghurt that only looked like it could be chocolate, and now he laid back on his bland white sheets, in his bland white hospital pants, trying to find something to watch on tv. Bland, bland, bland. His chest is bare, wrapped in tight bandages that make it hard to breathe normally, but with the number of broken ribs he’s managed to get during his latest stunt, it was the best the doctors could do for him. He’s not uncomfortable, mainly thanks to painkillers, but he’s bored, so bored he’s considering falling asleep again. He wishes he was fit enough to just up and leave, disappear into the night and get back to his usual dive, get flesh under his hands, take a pounding of sorts. Here, now, he feels so dead he could cry, because this is his life. Empty hospital room, no flowers, no visitors. Just the blandness of it all.

He’s staring into space, thinking about absolutely nothing, when Coulson walks into the room. It’s more than a surprise, and Clint can’t help the noise he lets out, the way his eyes widen. Coulson doesn’t say anything at first, just walks closer to the bed, looks down at Clint like he’s sorry, like he’s done something wrong. Clint frowns.

Maybe this is it, then. This is Coulson telling him he’s off the Avengers, that he’s not good enough to be part of an elite team with Captain America and Iron Man. He grits his teeth, getting ready for the blow, telling himself, over and over, that it won’t hurt. He knew this would happen.

“Hey, Barton. How are you feeling?”

Clint stops, surprised all over again. Coulson’s voice is soft, and if Clint allows himself to think this, worried.

“Like my chest got crushed inwards.”

Coulson’s eyes travel over the bandages, take in the old scars and discolorations from the past, peeking out everywhere around the broken ribs. Clint sees his fingers twitch, his jaw clench. If he wasn’t still so surprised that Coulson was here, Clint would have mocked him. But this moment feels fragile, a delicate minute where the two of them were not really SHIELD agents anymore. It’s unsettling.

“Have I been neglecting you, Clint?” Coulson’s question is just as surprising as the use of Clint’s first name, and Clint blinks up at Coulson, not quite getting where he is going with this. Neglecting him? He never deserved any kind of special treatment.

“No,” he answers simply, and Coulson huffs out a breath, sounding annoyed.

“Then why the death wish? I thought maybe you were clamouring for attention at first, and maybe I ignored it, because,” Coulson pauses here, like whatever he’s about to say is embarrassing – he blushes – but then thinking better of it. “Doesn’t matter. But I’m not going to ignore it anymore.”

Clint rolls his eyes, something deep-seated, not anger or annoyance, but something more like fear, taking place in the back of his throat, so tight he almost chokes on it.

“Nothing to ignore, Coulson,” he replies, his voice more strangled than he really wants it to be. He tilts his chin, defying Coulson to doubt him. His usual self-defense is taking hold of him again, reassuring. “Just doing my job.”

Coulson sighs, hard, probably disappointed. He touches Clint’s wrist, just a feather light touch, barely there for an instant, but it sears through Clint’s skin anyway.

“Get some rest, Clint,” he says, and leaves the room. Clint is not getting thrown out of the team just yet, then.

;;

Hugo takes one look at Clint before assigning him his opponent, a scrawny looking kid Clint has seen fight before, someone Clint would have no problem taking care of under other circumstances, but tonight it feels too much already. He’s still sore, still wearing bandages under his thin white shirt, but he wanted this; needed it. He warms up in the gym, stretches his muscles as much as he can, loosen them up to gain speed and agility, but he knows he’s not fit yet.

He’s only been released from Med Bay a week ago, and he’s been told not to overexert himself for the next five weeks, but he’s never been good at listening to doctors. The itch under his skin had been too strong, sending him back to the underground ring way earlier than recommended. He’s probably going to lose, and he knows it, but he’s more than willing to get to that point if it gets himself back to feeling his pulse beat wildly. It’s perfectly stupid and reckless, he’s aware, and anyone would tell him no, straight away, but Hugo doesn’t care, not as long as there’s money involved. People are used to see Clint win; if he loses, more bets will end up in Hugo’s pocket. For him, Clint being far from 100% is a win-win situation.

Clint sighs, raises his arms over his head and pulls, joints popping in place and muscles screaming, making him wince. Avoiding blows to his chest is almost impossible, but he’ll have to try – work a crouched position. Anything, as long as he spends some time in the ring.

He knows it’s not smart, or rational; he doesn’t care. It’s a need, and he associates it with feeling alive. He can’t turn away, even when he walks into the cage and he’s almost limping already. It doesn’t matter that it’s not smart, or rational, he’s never pretended he was either of these things anyway. The cries of the punters around the cage are deafening – louder than any music they could have wanted to play in the background. Someone introduces him, yelling into a mic over the crowd, ineffective; Clint doesn’t care if they remember his name, since they remember his face. He cracks his knuckles, rolls his head over his shoulders, hops from foot to foot, and it hurts, it hurts in a good way.

He’s probably going to lose, but he doesn’t care, because his heart is beating wildly, and that’s all he wants.

;;

He does lose. It’s one blow that does it, square to the chest, and it sends him reeling into the cage, rattling against his back and doubling the pain, hot bursts surging through his whole body, making his legs give out, a grunt escaping him. There’s blood in his mouth and he knows he’s bitten his tongue open, his lip is split, but it’s this one blow that finished him for the night.

The gong goes off and Hugo grips Clint under the arms, pulling him out of the ring like a broken doll, a metaphor that makes Clint chuckle to himself, his brain a mess of delirious pain. He can barely breathe, winded to the extreme, and there are black spots in his eyes again. It’s all too familiar, but it also doesn’t last. A few minutes later, sitting on a bench in the changing rooms, Clint lifts his shirt gingerly, looks at the dark splotches on the edges of the bandages. It’s come a bit loose, and he’ll have to change them when he’s home, but it doesn’t feel worse when he presses fingers to his chest, slow and careful.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” asks Hugo when he hands Clint his hoodie, his voice weirdly fond. Clint almost believes he cares for a second.

“You’re lucky to have me.”

Hugo leans closer, a damp towel over Clint’s brow, cheeks, lips. “I know that. You’re great entertainment; you make me lots of money. So don’t die, okay?”

Clint pulls away, forcing his hoodie over his filthy shirt, already done with this conversation. He doesn’t need Hugo’s condescension, it feels like another wound, this one deep and mocking, a long scar crossing Clint’s chest.

“I’m fine.” And now he’s angry, because fuck, he is an idiot, and this is all he’s got, a greedy bookmaker. This is the only person who cares if he dies. Clint looks away, feeling like he’s about to get sick. He stands, unsteady, his whole body screaming as he walks towards the door. He can’t stand straight.

“Anyone driving you home?”

Clint flips him off. “I’ll walk.”

;;

Clint is barely three steps walking through the parking lot when he sees the car still parked there, sees the shadow leaning against it, indistinguishable in the moonless night. If he’s interested in a beating because he’s lost a bet, Clint isn’t sure he’ll be able to get away from it, or get back up from it. It looks pretty bad, and dread slowly takes hold of Clint’s limbs, making him move even slower, sluggish.

“Need a ride?” Clint stops again, his senses on alert. Maybe not a beating, then, but something just as unsavoury – Clint is nobody’s bitch and this is definitely not the way he’s going to chose his partners.

“Not –“ he starts, but then the man starts again, insistent.

“Clint.”

Clint stops. This voice, he knows it, and now that he thinks of it, this car, he knows it too. For a split second, Clint relaxes into the knowledge that he’s not about to get shanked or raped, but relief doesn’t last long. Fuck, fuck.

“Coulson?”

Coulson moves away from the car and steps into the pool of light the only lamppost is providing. His eyes are dark, and Clint can’t read him, for all he’s trying. There’s lead in his stomach, something heavy and cold, keeping him frozen in place, unable to move or look away. This is bad, this is so bad.

“Care to explain what that was?”

Self-preservation kicks in. “If you don’t know, I really don’t think I can help you.”

Phil looks away, and Clint wonders if he’s disappointed, or angry. Probably it makes no different to him, the stone-cold Agent, whatever happens to Clint, or what Clint does in his spare time.

“I should report you,” Coulson says, in a voice that tells Clint right away that he’s not going to. Clint pushes his luck, smirking at Coulson without feeling the cockiness that usually accompanies it. Somehow, Clint is feeling sort of ashamed to having been caught out so easily. He’s cared so little recently that he’s been completely unsubtle and totally reckless, and now this is probably it for his career as an Avenger, even if Coulson doesn’t report him. There are other ways, and if Coulson decides that Clint is a danger to his team, it won’t be long before Clint is out of a job.

“My free time is my own.”

Coulson snorts at that, his own smile distorted, completely humorless. He looks completely different, with emotions out there in the open, like this actually matters to him.

“That’s news. You relinquished a lot of rights to be where you are, Barton. What the fuck are you doing cage fighting, Clint? You’re not even fit! Do you not get enough in your daily job?”

Clint brushes his thumb under his nose, expecting to see blood when he glances at it. It’s spotless.

“Maybe not. Maybe I just enjoy the thrill. Why the hell would you care, anyway?”

Coulson looks away for a second, before turning back to Clint, his eyes hard, steely. “The fact that you’re even asking this question shows just how disconnected you are.”

“Am I? How long do you think this has been going on? Med Bay doesn’t even report when I steal bandages from them anymore. Natasha’s practically to the point where she buys her makeup for me. And yet nobody says anything, does anything.”

Coulson swallows hard, like Clint just landed him a physical blow, and Clint doesn’t feel ashamed anymore, just angry, desperate. For something, what he’s not sure, but something, something unyielding under his skin, crawling from his heart to the tip of his fingers, making him want to reach out.

“This is stopping, Clint. You can’t keep on doing that.”

Clint raises his chin, eyes narrowed. “Who’s going to stop me? You?”

It’s a low blow, but Coulson seems unphased.

“Are you punishing yourself, for some reason? Is that what it is? You’re a glutton for punishment? What is it you feel guilty of, Clint?”

Clint takes a step back, anger flaring again; he’s sure that if asked, Coulson could recite a number of reasons why Clint would be looking for punishment, from his family to failed missions, with a myriad of psychological bullshit in between, but Clint hasn’t even thought of it before, and it feels as low a blow as the one he just dealt.

He’s going to punch Coulson if he doesn’t get away. “Are you going to report me?”

Coulson shifts, then says, quietly, “No.” For a second there he looks guilty, stricken, and Clint doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Then I’m leaving.”

Clint turns away, walks – limps – to the edge of the parking lot. He’s got his share of money for the night in his pocket, and it’s enough for a cab ride.

;;

It’s a quiet time for the Avengers, and it’s a quiet time for Clint too, altogether stuck in the Mansion while his ribs heal, and it’s terrible, terrifying, how much he wants to be away from it all and into something he knows and hurts, just to escape. He knows what it is, this fear seizing his lungs when he walks down for breakfast and they’re all there, and he thinks he knows why, too, but he doesn’t really like the implications of these thoughts, so he avoids them as much as possible.

He sleeps a lot, which is unusual for him, because the dreams and more often nightmares are enough to keep him awake most of the time, but these days, he can’t even train on the Helicarrier; his rights have been revoked until he’s healed up. He literally has nothing to do, and he’s going crazy.

“You should take up a hobby. A passive one, I mean, like crochet, or crosswords, or the Internet. The Internet is an amazing time-waster,” is what Steve tells him one afternoon, when Clint is looking mournfully outside, rain beating down on the windows of the Mansion. He smiles, this still naive, all-too-trusting smile of his, and Clint smirks, can’t even hold it against him.

“I’m already an expert at crochet, Captain.”

“Something else, then. Doesn’t have to be forever, just keep you occupied until you’re fit again.”

Steve wouldn’t understand, and Clint can’t explain it, either. Maybe he’d like to, tries to make Steve see how nothing would be enough, wouldn’t bring him the satisfaction only physical exertion does. He can’t explain the glutton for punishment thing, even though since Coulson brought it up, Clint can barely think of anything else.

Coulson. Hasn’t seen the man since their fight, but Clint is certain he is the one behind Clint’s sudden restrictions. It’s not going to work forever, but for now, it’s enough to keep Clint confined in the Mansion, and it’s pissing him off.

“I am fit.”

“No, you’re not. You still wince when you stand up from the couch.” Steve can be really observant, and he hides it terribly well.

“Fine. Fine, I’m not fit, whatever. I’m pretty sure crochet’s not going to get me back to fighting form faster.”

“Maybe not, but you might stop thinking about it for five minutes. Might stop thinking altogether. Looks like you need some time away from your thoughts, is all I’m saying.”

Clint snorts. He doesn’t want to be angry, not at Steve, but he can’t help it; the defensiveness always comes first, protects him like a shell every time anyone comes too close. “How would you know, huh?”

Steve’s jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark for a second, before he takes a step closer to Clint, towering above him. “I watched my best friend die. I said goodbye to the woman I love because I was dying. I woke up, 60 years later, to a world completely different, and with everyone I ever knew dead and buried long ago. You think I don’t want time away from myself?”

Clint takes a sharp breath as Steve’s eyes bore into his own, daring him to say anything mocking or snarky after that, and Clint can’t help but look away. Suddenly, they don’t seem so very different.

“I’m just saying, Clint. You should consider doing something else than brooding. Not that we’re not used to you walking around the Mansion like a desperate ghost, but still. It’d probably be good for you.”

Clint bites down on the fuck you that almost spills out of his lips, settling for squaring his shoulders and looking out again, decidedly putting an end to the conversation. Steve walks away a moment later, mumbling irritated words to himself. Clint sighs, resting his forehead against the windowpane.

;;

This time, Clint thought it’d be an easy fight. He’s back to fighting form, and he’s been aching to come back here, not understanding why but wanting so badly to feel flesh against his fists he was going crazy with it. It isn’t about valor, or strength, or competence, it’s about relief, letting go. He was ready for this, and he thought it’d be a piece of cake, but it was discounting Hugo and his masochist streak.

It’s not easy, and Clint isn’t winning at all. He’s not losing, either, but the fact is, his opponent is just as quick and snakey as Clint is, and the two of them keep on pushing and pulling, without one of them getting the upper hand. It’s one of these exhausting fights, where you don’t know the outcome and there’s a lot of circling each other, which is something Clint hates. It’s exhausting because it’s sort of boring, for him and for the audience.

He could go on for hours, that’s not the problem. The problem is that this is not the kind of entertainment that keeps people coming back, and it’s not what sends Clint’s pulse racing, singing in his blood like a warrior song, making him feel invincible. This is the two of them gauging each other and judging what would be the most efficient way to get to the other. This is tactical, something Coulson would enjoy, probably.

The sudden thought of Coulson startles him, and Clint blinks his focus away, looking around the room for a second to try and see if Coulson’s around. It’s enough for his opponent to go right at him.

It’s the push that Clint doesn’t expect, sending him flying into the wire frame of the cage, and there’s a nail, there, a broken bit of metal, Clint isn’t sure but it digs into his left side, ripping skin and the material of his shirt. The adrenaline coursing through his body keeps him from feeling any kind of pain, but this will be a bitch later, not to mention a pretty bad disadvantage now. There’s blood dripping down his side, the frayed sides of his shirt sticking to the wound with blood and sweat, and it’s turning into a dull ache that makes his movements a little slower, enough for his opponent to take command of the fight.

Sometimes, they stop when blood hits the ground, but not this time. This time, in a last ditch attempt, Clint lets out a cry and rams himself into his opponent, sending him flying into the cage, sprawling to the ground. The man is not knocked out, but he’s close to it, and Clint falls next to him, dizzy with blood loss. When the gong goes off, there is no winner.

;;

It’s desperate, and it’s stupid, and Clint has no idea what he’s doing, but then he’s ringing the doorbell, and man, does he hope Coulson doesn’t have a 2.5 family and a dog, because if he does, then Clint’s in deep trouble.

A minute later the door is opening and Coulson is looking at Clint owlishly from behind a pair of black thick-framed glasses. “Clint, what are you doing here?”

Clint lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a second, before opening them again. Nope, not a dream, not a nightmare, they’re still there and he’s still doing this. It’s the most idiotic thing he’s done in a while, even counting the fights, because he’s giving Coulson the perfect opportunity to tear him a new one when the last thing he wants is to be judged. But he can’t take care of this himself, and he really needs to take care of it, and Coulson was the first and only person Clint could think of.

“I need your help,” he says, and by way of explanation, turns around, about to lift his hoodie. Coulson gasps even before that, though, because blood has gone through the light grey material of Clint’s hoodie, a long, jagged path across his back.

“The fuck happened to you? Come on, come on in, don’t stay here, come on.” Coulson ushers Clint inside and closes the door behind him, his hands careful on Clint’s shoulders, guiding him towards what Clint guesses is the bathroom. He’s still tired, dizzy, a little nauseous, but the relief he feels at Phil helping him without question is palpable, thrumming into his veins.

“The cage had a defect. Think it was a broken nail.” His words are slow, heavy in his mouth; he’s so tired he could lie down right here and sleep for a few days. Phil’s hands direct him to sit, cool against Clint’s heated skin when he touches Clint’s cheeks and neck.

“A broken nail. A broken nail, Clint? Do you even realize?”

Clint shrugs, forcing his eyes to stay open. He can’t quite pass out now; it’s hard enough, being this vulnerable in front of someone, anyone, Phil Coulson especially. He’s already shown him too much, allowed him too close. Willingly, he isn’t sure, but he definitely let it happen.

Phil rids Clint of his t-shirt, deft hands moving over Clint’s skin, and it doesn’t hurt, even when Phil’s fingers touch the edge of the wound, long and fat along Clint’s ribs.

“S’not very deep. Hey, Clint, stay awake, I’ll be right there, okay?”

Clint hums, trying his best not to fall asleep; he’s hot and dizzy, and the bathroom light sort of hurts his eyes, but fuck this, he is an Avenger, he can stay awake and not pass out from blood loss. This is nothing new and it isn’t the end of the world, he isn’t dying.

Phil’s returned and Clint leans into his hands gratefully. The first few dabs of alcohol hurt, but it soon dulls, along with the rest.

“Tell me, did you at least win that fight?”

Phil is probably just asking to keep Clint awake and talking, but as Clint leans forward, hands on his knees, and rounds his back, allowing Phil better access, he can’t help but smile to himself, eyes fluttering shut. Nobody has touched him like this in – a while, surely too long, and it makes his chest ache.

“Hell yeah, I did.”

“Good. I mean – nevermind.”

Clint tenses slightly, because Phil has moved again and a needle and thread have just flashed past Clint’s eyes, but also because of the word, of Phil’s careful tone. He braces a hand against the sink.

“I don’t want you to save me, Phil.”

Clint has no idea why he chose these particular words, like his brain-to-mouth filter shut down. The needle goes through his skin, and Clint’s hands clench, and so does his jaw. It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t.

“At least you realize you need saving.”

“I don’t. I know what I’m doing,” Clint replies, voice tight. He’s breathing; slowly, in through the mouth and out through the nose, getting to a safe place where he can think through the pain, the burning of the antiseptic, the stitching, the open wound on his back.

“Obviously. I’d ask you to stop, tell you it only hurts you and those around you, but you won’t listen, will you?” There is something so completely resigned in the way Phil talks that for a second, Clint feels guilty, hangs his head down. He would lie, but they both know the truth.

Through it all, he feels more real and alive right now, breathing through the pain and feeling it through his whole body, Phil close to him, smelling of sandalwood and something weirdly approaching strawberries, sharing body heat in Phil’s white-tiled bathroom.

“No,” Clint replies after a moment, honest and blunt, and he feels Phil’s fingers twitch on his back.

“Almost done,” Phil says, sounding unsure. “It looks cleaner, but I’d like to keep an eye on it. You shouldn’t be walking or driving around with this, anyway. Any movement could rip stitches, especially at the beginning. You’re going for a tetanus shot in the morning, by the way.”

“Are you saying I should stay here?”

Phil breathes out, slow, like he’s hesitating himself. For a split second, he pulls back and Phil looks up, their eyes meet, and the world tilts. For a second. Phil turns back to his handiwork right away, and Clint looks at the fingerprints he’s left around the bathroom sink.

“I have a spare room.”

Clint has a number of reasons why he should say no, why this is completely stupid; but for the life of him he can’t think of a single one that can hold its own. He feels too drained of his energy to put up a fight, especially when Phil’s hands tape gauze to his newly stitched wound with trained assurance. Anything Clint thinks of, how stupid this idea is, what will the others think, this is entirely unprofessional, he doesn’t trust Phil not to call Fury and spill Clint’s secrets, nothing holds.

He doesn’t care what the others would say. He trusts Phil. Fuck.

He is so tired.

“Alright.”

;;

Avoiding one Agent Phil Coulson should be easy, considering the amount of work the man has to do on a daily basis, but somehow, Clint can’t seem to be able to get away. Every time he walks into a shooting range, turns around a corner, bounds into an elevator, Phil is one side or the other. It’s not even like he’s got something important to say to Clint, sometimes it’s just for a look, a smirk that Clint doesn’t really understand.

Overall, Phil doesn’t allow Clint to avoid him, and Clint is starting to wonder why it doesn’t make his skin crawl as much as it should, why it doesn’t bother him that much. He’s been done with human intimacy for a long time, he doesn’t do it and hasn’t felt the need for it in forever, he doesn’t even remember how long. Just the way he is; normal people don’t like to be around Clint because his usual broody, taciturn attitude freak them out, and the few that get turned on by it are not the kind of people Clint want to be around, either.

Phil – isn’t like that. Phil acts completely normal around Clint, despite everything he’s witnessed and the fights they’ve had; he’s still cool as a cucumber and keeps these things to himself, keeps the Clint he now knows to himself, which is something Clint is so dearly thankful for he’s scared of what it makes him feel, how it makes his chest expand and tighten when he meets Phil’s eye sometimes. It’s a whole slew of sensations and desires he’s not felt in so long he doesn’t know how to deal with them, and it freaks him out how much it doesn’t freak him out.

Which is enough reason for him to try and avoid Phil as much as possible, but Phil doesn’t let him, doesn’t let up, doesn’t allow the feelings to dissipate and Clint should be angry at him for it, should hate him for it, but he can’t. His chest bruises with the way his heartbeat picks up and he doesn’t care anymore, or at least he pretends to, another thing he can deal with and put to the back of his mind, another small issue to work through during a fight, with his fists clenched and his mind blank, easy.

Easy.

;;

Clint starts to see patterns in the Avengers Mansion he didn’t use to realize. Steve and Tony, mainly, spend much more time together than they used to, in the lab or the gym or the training range or outside, in full costumes, trying out new weapons or tricks.

They also come and try to get to Clint’s mind together, too. Not that they corner him together, but it’s a planned strategy that Clint only sees through later on. It starts with Tony, finding him on the roof once in a while, borrowing a cigarette from Clint more often than not.

Sometimes they don’t talk, sometimes it’s just random chit chat, about the city, about music, about what movies to watch later on in the cinema room. Nothing really engaging, nothing about their pasts, their family issues, the things that hurt and that neither of them want to share. Clint plays along because he doesn’t really know how not to; Tony is nothing if not persistent, and eager, pushing through for answers even when the question is what do you think the weather will be tomorrow?

It’s not dangerous, and it doesn’t edge around Clint’s phantom aches and bruises that everybody knows about but nobody talks about in the Mansion. It’s good enough for Clint, and he doesn’t even mind the company so much, after a while, when he gets used to Tony’s strong presence next to him, the wind blowing in their hair.

But then it’s Steve, at random moments during their days when it’s quiet. And one day he comes over with a guitar, looks at Clint and says, “For your passive hobby,” and Clint knows that this is because Tony told him about Clint’s passion for music. It should be upsetting, annoying, irritating at least, but Clint just feels stupid for not even realizing that he was being coaxed into admitting things about himself, into letting them in, one way or another. He’s been letting his guard down again.

He hasn’t played music in forever, and at first, he wants to decline the offer, but the deep dark wood of the body of the guitar is gleaming and calling out for him, and he finds he can’t actually say no. He doesn’t say thank you.

Steve doesn’t follow or try to make him talk about it when Clint walks away with the guitar, locking himself in his room and sitting on his bed, the instrument in his hands, feeling foreign, scary almost, back from the past like it wants to haunt Clint.

But then it’s a slow process of getting to know one another again, Clint sliding his fingers over the strings and the frets and remembering melodies as the guitar hums under his hands, like it’s buzzing with anticipation, just like Clint is.

It’s strange, to be thankful for Tony and Steve ganging up on him, and it’s also strange, the newfound feeling that maybe, possibly they care somewhat, enough to do this for him. It’s not something Clint is used to think, his knowledge that he’s the one outside looking in running too deep in his veins for him to admit to anything different, but. This is nice. This is sort of nice, in a really weird way he can’t pinpoint, that they’d look hard enough to find this out about him, and get him a gift.

He’s not gotten a gift in forever, since his first bow and arrows. But it’s not the same, not the same; this is for entertainment purposes only, not for work and training and teaching him a new skill that they can sell at the circus. This is for him, in his moonlit room, to play the first few chords of Stairway to Heaven and hum the melody under his breath, his eyes closed as his fingers slide over the frets easily, like they were meant to do this, and nothing else.

Too bad he never had a say in his career path.

;;

As Clint hooks his arrow on the string of his bow and aims, his focus on his target and this single moment in time, there is nothing that can stop him, make him waver, make him miss. It’s once he’s let go, once the arrow is going flying to its target, that’s when his focus can lapse, that’s when he can get surprised, jumped in on.

Today, it’s Coulson that takes the advantage, sliding inside the shooting range while Clint is shooting away, and making him jump with surprise when he starts talking, “You’re not wearing your gloves.”

Clint doesn’t let it show. He turns around slowly, pointing his bow down out of habit, and hopes to all Hells his surprise isn’t showing on his face or in his eyes. Coulson is a ninja.

“It’s fine,” Clint manages to answer, his fingers releasing tension on the bow string. They hurt a little, but not enough to worry Clint; he’s been playing with bows for a long time before he even got his first pair of gloves, it’s nothing he can’t deal with.

“Standards and procedures, Hawkeye. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t hurt just now.”

Coulson’s ability to remain professional at all times is somewhat of a wonder to Clint. They – despite Clint wanting to forget everything about it – went quite a way over strict professionalism recently, but inside of SHIELD, Coulson never acknowledges it.

Clint straightens. “Sir.”

“What do you think about Taco Bell?”

Clint doesn’t even blink at the complete 180 in the conversation.

“Unhealthy, but who cares when it’s that good. Why?”

“Because I’m going to one now.” He doesn’t outright offers, but it’s all the same for Clint, who nods briskly, going to his bow case and laying it down in the casing carefully.

It’s a few minutes before they’re on their way, out of HQ and into the streets of New York, Clint walking next to Coulson. They couldn’t look more disparate, Coulson in his suit, crisp and classy, Clint in his SHIELD issued trackpants and black hoodie, looking close to hobo territory. Clint couldn’t care any less.

The restaurant is close to empty when they walk in; Coulson orders and Clint gets a table in a corner, with eyes on all entry and exit points, because old habits die hard and it’s still possible this place will be attacked by aliens or mutants, for all Clint knows. This is New York, after all, and thinking about this keeps Clint from thinking about the circumstances of his being here right now.

Coulson sits in front of him, giving their surroundings a look before passing his taco to Clint, looking down at his own. He doesn’t look up when he asks, “So, how are you healing up?”

Clint considers his possible answers, and then considers who he’s with, and where they are. There are no cameras here, their movements and words not recorded every second, and it’s Coulson. He knows already, anyway.

“Fine. The top is taking longer to close because of my movements, but I’m taking care of it.”

“Still fighting?”

“Haven’t since this, no.”

Coulson looks up, quickly. He’s got tomato sauce and beef mince running over his fingers. “But you’ll go back.”

Again, Clint considers lying. He has a strange compulsion to try and reassure Coulson that he’ll be okay, that this is nothing he’s never done before, that it isn’t scary.

But it’s lying.

“Yes. I’ll go back.”

Clint isn’t really hungry anymore, but he picks at his fries anyway, dabbing at the puddle of ketchup on the side. Coulson lets go of his taco, wiping his hands on three napkins before saying anything.

“I tried to understand why, you know? I still don’t get it. Don’t you think you put yourself in danger enough?”

Clint has no idea how to explain that it isn’t about danger. “Guess not.”

Coulson stills, looks right at Clint with something in his eyes close to anguish, if Clint is anyone to judge, and that’s strange, and unusual, because this is Coulson and he doesn’t have feelings. He just has a job.

“I just want to understand, Clint.”

Clint sighs. There’s nothing to understand, because it’s not logical, and it wouldn’t make sense if Clint tried to put it into words. It’s about feelings, about his blood singing in his veins, about feeling alive and feeling indestructible, about having an impact on someone. There’s nothing to understand.

“Maybe you should try it for yourself,” Clint answers, not even thinking about the words as they leave his mouth. He expects anger in answer, Coulson to grow cold, but instead, he gets a crooked smile.

“Maybe I should.”

;;

The next time the Avengers are needed, it’s a bad one. It’s aliens and they’re suddenly swarming Manhattan, and yet, when Clint walks into the briefing room, all suited up and his bow in hand, his quicker strap pockets all filled with all sorts of different arrowheads, Steve stops him at the door.

“You’re staying here.”

Clint blinks up, confused, the words not making sense. “What do you mean, I’m staying here?”

“I mean exactly that. You’re staying here. You were recently injured, barely recovered. You’re not 100%.”

Clint is healed up. Mostly healed up, anyway, and his recently closed wound is barely causing him any pain. He lifts his chin, defiant. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve avoided training for the past week, and even now you’re still favouring your left side. Hawkeye, you are not going.”

Clint could go on, yell and try to force his way on the team, but the threat is more important than he is. The Avengers are more important than he is. Everything is more important than he is. He retreats suddenly, eyes flashing as Steve stands in the way of Clint getting briefed for a mission; as Steve softens, Clint grows angrier.

“Sorry, Clint. We can’t afford to lose you to a repeat injury. We’ll be fine.”

Of course, they’ll be fine. They’ll always be fine, Clint or no Clint, with his lack of powers and gloomy nature. They’d be better without him, maybe they’ve just realized, maybe Phil told the others about the fighting, maybe they want him out. Everything runs around Clint’s head, like a mantra of dark thoughts, and he turns away from Steve without another word. He wants to scream, he wants to punch someone; he’s vibrating with it, his hands closed into fists and his jaw clenched painfully, driving spikes to his brain.

He thinks about going to Manhattan anyway, getting into the fight without being authorized, but it wouldn’t change a thing. It wouldn’t help.

Well, fuck this.

;;

Clint lets out a deep breath, staring out at the darkness in front of him, muscles tense and coiled, ready for action. He allows the welcomed blankness to fill him up, breathing steadily, toes to the tips of his hair, conscious of every inch of skin, every twitch and every knot. He’s not wearing a shirt this time, only his drawstrings pants, no shoes. He’s ready.

He opens the door leading him to the cage, and the blood thrumming in his ears is louder than the cries of the crowd around him. Tonight, it’s only him and his opponent, nowhere left to run, nowhere else to be. Right now, Clint isn’t even thinking about anything else than this, the host presenting them, the gong going off. He’s not thinking about his anger, about his team sidelining him, about Coulson not even saying a single thing about any of it. He pushes it all away from his mind, laser-focus on this moment, now, his feet parted, his knees bended, his hands in front of him, ready to grab.

His opponent is about the same height as Clint, built but lean, corded muscles showing in his arms and sides when he moves ahead, going for a first grip. He doesn’t have Clint’s habits and experience, though, and his first attempt ends with him on his back, Clint landing a few blows just to hear the man’s jaw crack, before pulling away, jumping back to his feet and dancing away. The scar up his side protests a little, and Clint leans more heavily on his other foot for a moment, turning his injury away from his opponent; surely the bright pink scar running up the back of Clint’s ribs is too much of an opportunity.

It goes on for a while, a game of cat and mouse for Clint, who moves in and away as he likes, enjoying the dance for a moment, blood singing in his veins. Soon it’s not enough anymore, and he sweeps his foot under those of his opponent, sending him to the floor. There’s a lot of wrestling around before Clint takes the upper hand, looming over the other man, a grin on his face that probably looks manic to anyone seeing it. He can’t keep it at bay.

He guesses it’s a lot of residual anger and frustration that lead him to be unable to stop hitting his opponent when the fight definitely turns to his favour. He’s not hearing anyone around them, he’s not even hearing the moans of the man under his hands, the soft pleading words of mercy escaping his mouth; Clint can only hear the thunder in his own head, his eyes blurry with rage, faces appearing instead of that of his opponent’s, Rogers, Stark, Coulson. Straddling his opponent, Clint sends punch after punch into his flesh, pounding him to the ground, feeling blood, wet and warm, over his knuckles, spattered over his bare chest, too, his feet slipping against it on the cold ground, seeping through the material of his pants at his knees; it’s everywhere over his opponent’s face, running down in rivulets as the man’s breathing becomes labored, drained, his hands feebly gripping Clint’s, fingers slipping through the blood.

Someone pulls Clint away, grabbing him under the arms and bodily taking him away from his fight; he’s screaming, he knows he is, but he doesn’t know what he’s saying, if he’s saying anything. He’s barely conscious of where he is, what he is doing, words and faces rushing through his brain, mocking him, Captain America and Iron Man and Thor and Agent Coulson telling him how useless he is, smirks on their faces, laughs in their voices, and he wants to fight them all, he wants to be at their throats, taste their blood, make them hurt like Clint is hurting.

Whoever’s holding him is big, and strong, and lets go of him in a small room Clint doesn’t recognize, locks the door behind Clint, efficient, quick moves. Clint punches the wall, biting down on a cry of pain and shame, before he crumples in a heap in the middle of the room, cradling his throbbing hand close to him, blood all over his face, his knuckles, his chest. The room smells of damp, small and claustrophobic.

He refuses to cry.

;;

“So it seems you’ve put us in quite a situation, Mr. Barton.”

In front of Clint stands a fifty-something man in a ratty suit, deep-set eyes making his face look emaciated, jet black hair brushed off his brow, swept back over his scalp, probably to hide a bald spot. He’s flanked by two gorillas, huge men with arms crossed and sour looks on their faces, and Clint suddenly feels like he’s in a very, very bad movie.

He’s still sitting on the floor, still shirtless, and there’s blood all over him, drying and crusting over his skin, making him want to scrub himself clean for hours, or turn even wilder than he has earlier, growl and lash out with claws and teeth at these men in front of him. What has he done?

“See, your little show from earlier was really impressive, but you put one of my assets in a coma, which is rather...unfortunate.”

Clint stills, thinks back on the fight, on all the blood, on his fists hitting his opponent over and over again, restlessly, mercilessly. He feels a bit sick, and he wants to ask about the guy, but he has a feeling it won’t end well for him.

“What do you want from me?” he asks instead, voice raw and rough, hurting when he speaks.

“Just your cooperation, Mr. Barton. See, I had plans for Adam. He was my fighter, and he was winning money for me, and it was all going very smoothly until you came into the picture. So I’m thinking that now, you’re going to replace Adam.”

“Why would I do that? I don’t fight for money.”

The man laughs, crouches close to Clint, eyes level. Clint could easily tear his throat out, he’s not even zip-tied or cuffed, and yet he doesn’t move, keeps his eyes steady, his hands curled over his lap.

“Because if you don’t cooperate, I’ll slit the throat of the ones you love, and I’ll make you watch.”

It’s Clint’s turn to laugh. The guy can’t be serious. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Oh, I know. Clint Barton, the Avenger, isn’t it? Funny how it is, though, that all these superheroes are being taken care of by perfectly human handlers. I’m sure Agent Coulson wouldn’t mind sacrificing himself for you.”

Clint’s hands twitch, blunt nails digging in his thighs at the threat. “You’d never catch him.”

“I’m sure we wouldn’t need to. He’d come to us, for you.”

No, Clint thinks, he wouldn’t. Clint knows it’s a lie, though, as much as he wants to believe it.

“We’ve been watching you, Mr. Barton. Now the question is, do I have to threaten you some more, or will you work with me? Threats are so tacky.”

Clint remembers, replacing Adam’s face in the ring with Coulson’s, wanting to beat him up just as badly as he wanted to beat up the others. But it doesn’t make him want some random guys to do it. It’s personal, and it’s twisted and it makes Clint’s chest ache when he thinks about it too much.

So he nods. “I’ll work with you.”

;;

On the multiple flights from New York to Taiwan, Clint is mostly silent, and Coulson doesn’t seem to feel the need to keep up appearances, either, walking and sitting and eating right by Clint without asking a thing. If he talks, it’s just to warn Clint he’s going to the bathroom, or to make a call.

But it’s not uncomfortable, either. And Clint has to admit, it’s smart of the lot of them, sending him on a mission with Coulson – restoring the faith in his abilities, giving him something important to do, and sending him with the one Agent Clint trusts the most, if he has to trust anyone.

It’s not like it’s a difficult mission. The artefact they’re looking for has been stolen and is hiding somewhere in the ghettos; nothing Clint hasn’t done before. They’re looking for a glove coming from Asgard, something they could possibly use with the Tesseract – Clint isn’t sure on the details, but that’s not his job. This time, he is a hunter.

He gets to spend a week away from his newfound friend from the mob – Costorelli, Clint had time to discover - which isn’t a bad thing overall, especially with Coulson by his side. They won’t find either of them if they come looking, which is exactly what Clint needs at the moment; a week to stop thinking altogether. He’s never thought he’d need it, but in one of the three planes they take to Taiwan, Clint finds himself relaxing slightly.

There are still so many things he wants to talk about but never will, his current issues not resolved by a trip abroad. When he dozes off in the plane he imagines fighting with Phil, something vicious tightening in his gut and groin that makes him wake up suddenly, look around with wide eyes and meet Coulson’s quick, worried glance.

“Everything okay?”

Clint can still feel Coulson’s blood on his hands.

“Everything’s fine.”

;;

They’re eating dinner in their shared hotel room, Sanbeiji that comes from the restaurant downstairs and smells a bit rank, when Phil says, “We need to keep alert.”

Clint raises an eyebrow, not letting the dreadful feeling he’s getting invade him. They’ve identified and localized the glove, now it’s just about securing it, and Clint is pretty sure they’ve not been made, but Phil probably has intel he hasn’t needed to share with Clint.

“Okay?” he asks, because he’s not sure what else to say. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, his shoulder brushing Phil’s calf, who’s on the bed, every so often.

“I mean, we need to train. Keep you, mostly, ready for anything. You’ve been jogging every morning,” so has Coulson, Clint almost remarks, “which probably also means you’ve done all sorts of gymnastics, too. You won’t be able to use your bow in such tight spaces so archery’s not required, but we should have a hand-to-hand session.”

Clint freezes, chopsticks in mid-air, the piece of chicken they’re holding precariously hanging there; this is a stupid idea, he can find people to beat up if he needs to, doing this with Coulson sounds like complete idiocy. Clint has no idea if he’ll manage to stop himself, but that’s not what bothers him the most. He’s not sure he’ll want to stop.

“It’s okay. We should be done by tomorrow night, so there’s no need.”

Coulson raises an eyebrow, moving enough for Clint to feel it, but their eyes don’t meet. “You afraid of something? Hurting me, perhaps?”

Clint doesn’t answer, not sure whether to feel angry, annoyed, or just numb, deny whatever Phil’s saying. He can’t find words, though, thoughts going by too fast in his head, the idea of slamming his fists in Coulson’s sides and face sending something rushing through Clint’s veins, heady and amazing.

Coulson slides off the bed, sitting next to Clint at the foot of the bed, looking at him with slightly hooded eyes.

“I don’t mind if you make me bleed, Barton.”

Clint swallows suddenly, looking at Phil for a second before looking away, something like a blush rising up to his cheeks, warm and insane and it wants it all to stop, wants to put his hand on Phil’s throat, and squeeze, just to feel a pulse. This is mad, to hear the undertones in Phil’s voice, to maybe think there is more to it, to want it this much, but Barton finds himself nodding, turning back towards Coulson.

“Okay.”

;;

Clint’s finger drags through a smear of blood over Phil’s cheek as he goes for hair, pulling Phil’s head back and using the leverage to bring himself back to his feet, staggering back, breathing fast and hard. They’re not pulling their punches, for the first time; Clint never realized just how much Phil restrained himself before. Right now, in the tiny little gym of their hotel, the two of them shirtless, wiry, barefoot and angry, they’re letting out frustrations and Clint doesn’t really understand what’s it to Phil, but he’s giving just as good as he’s getting. The tangy taste of copper is coating the back of Clint’s teeth, and it reminds him of his last fight, of Costorelli and his goons, of being halfway to feral. He wants to get to Phil with his teeth and his nails, dig past skin and it’s all exhilarating, it’s the kind of training he’s never got to have with SHIELD, that he’s been looking for elsewhere, making him dizzy and excited.

Phil charges, and Clint slips, feet in sweat and saliva and blood, landing with a groan on the hard floor, shoulders and head knocking against the ground; he doesn’t even have time to get his bearings again that Phil is straddling him, pressing Clint’s hands against the floor, effectively trapping him. Phil’s got blood over his cheek and between his teeth when he grins, looking manic for all of one second before he sobers up, fingers squeezing Clint’s wrists.

“See, I knew you needed training.”

Clint almost answers, but something in Phil’s tone throws him enough to keep him silent, observing the two of them breathing raggedly, wondering exactly what is behind the words, and suddenly, behind this whole operation. Could it be that it was all a test, to make sure he was still good enough to be part of an elite team? He wouldn’t put it past Fury, Hell, he wouldn’t put it past Rogers, but Phil – Coulson?

Before Phil has time to do or say anything else, Clint flips them over, a quick and efficient move that uses more of Phil’s strength than his own, gets them in a position where Clint has a knee between Phil’s legs, pressing against his crotch threateningly, holding both of Phil’s wrists against the floor, his free leg stretched out beside them, foot planted on ground, keeping his balance as he leans closer. Phil’s pupils are dilated, his breathing slow but short, and his eyes are following Clint’s, wide and unblinking.

“Don’t need training, Sir,” Clint says softly, too close to Phil, smelling his sweat and his blood, making Clint want to lick, nose, touch.

“Fair enough.”

Coulson’s voice is hard, throaty, and Clint’s eyes flick to his mouth, bloodied and beautiful. He’s not dreaming Phil’s physical reaction to their proximity, and he almost ignores it, instead deciding to press his knee a little closer to Phil’s crotch, only to watch him gasp; that’s all Clint needs to know, reassurance enough that Phil is not playing him.

Now Clint can let his guard down.

;;

He starts getting envelopes in his gym bag. He doesn’t see Costorelli or any of his goons when this happens, but it’s them all the same, letting him know when his next fight will be, who he’ll be fighting, if he’ll win or lose. The handwriting is little more than chicken scrawl over a piece of paper, and Clint thinks about pretending he couldn’t decipher it a couple of times.

But he always ends up going anyway, and following his instructions. It makes him a lesser fighter, and there are less people coming to see him fight than there used to be; he’s getting boring, going through the motions, and it might soon drive Clint crazy, too, because this new way of fighting, with no surprise and little adrenaline is not giving him what he was seeking when he first started fighting.

The last time he felt the way he started fighting for was in Taiwan, fighting with Phil. It was the last time he fought for the sake of fighting, not with any agenda or hidden intentions behind it, and it is the last time it really felt good, felt right, blood under his fingernails and chest heaving with exertion. Now, in the cage, being sent flying by a man twice his size, but that Clint could take in three swift movements, it feels pointless, useless. He knows why he’s doing it, he knows exactly why he keeps on going to the ring, even when it doesn’t bring him any pleasure or relief anymore, but it doesn’t make him smile anymore to see the bruises on his skin after a fight. He doesn’t feel proud of them anymore, doesn’t feel like the aches are earned.

It has become a game and Clint is playing it to protect Coulson, but he is an unwilling pawn being moved around, against all of his better instincts. He could tell Fury, tell Phil, get it all sorted in ten minutes and a team of highly trained specialists, but it’s like cheating. It’s like admitting defeat, and that is something Clint has never been able to do, even before...everything. He is a sore loser.

So, instead of telling anyone and getting it sorted, getting himself free – from one person, but admitting anything to Fury might mean being trapped in the gold cage that could be the Stark Mansion – Clint stays, and fights, and reads the notes that he gets in his gym bag every time he goes back to the illegal ring, and wonders when he’ll be done with his debt.

If he ever is.

;;

“Going in,” Clint says over the comms, flinging himself from the warehouse rooftop edge into an open window, landing on top of a container in the warehouse, deadly silent.

“Wait, Hawkeye, don’t compromise yourself,” comes Rogers’ worried reply, which almost make Clint snort as he surveys the place, carefully casing entrance and exit points, not forgetting the ceiling. Venom could be anywhere, the sly bastard. Steve sighs over the comms. “Too late. Fine, okay, Black Widow and I are going in from the ground, Iron Man, Hulk, on standby.”

There is a group of hostages somewhere in the warehouse, and Clint is determined to find them before Venom can do any harm. It’s not a hero complex; that he leaves to Rogers and Stark with no problem, but there’s definitely something here, that he’s not willing to think about too hard. He likes to be at the front of the assault and he doesn’t really care about his own safety – it’s something he recognizes nowadays, something he’s not really scared to face anymore. Maybe he’s got his day job to thank for that, or Phil; he’s not sure, and that part is something he doesn’t really want to touch.

He travels from container to crate, jumps on light feet and keeps his eyes trained on any movement, bow at the ready. The warehouse is dark, but he can still see the shadows of Natasha and Steve walking around, separated for now, trying doors that creak loudly in the silence, making Clint wince to himself. Venom’s senses are too developed to miss that, and they’re probably going to be in a lot of trouble, very soon.

For the longest time, it’s quiet, the three of them advancing in the warehouse, Clint attentive for any muffled sounds, cries maybe, hearing nothing. But it’s when they get on the nest of hostages – hanging from the ceiling in a sticky spiderweb net – that he realizes why it’s so quiet; they’re all unconscious, a heap of limbs and soft breathing, probably 5, 6 people all thrown together haphazardly inside the net.

Clint’s about to shoot through the knot at the top of the net, to at least jostle the hostages, if not free them – the fall might hurt some but it’s not high enough to kill any of them, the net hanging low with their combined weight, when Venom jumps him, all tongue and claws grabbing at Clint, with a snickering little sound, way too delighted to Clint’s ears.

Clint yelps, shouts into his comm, his arms full of Venom, trying to get him away, “I need backup, here!”

For a moment, as Venom manages to close his arms around Clint, as Clint feels his bow break into his hands against the pressure, as his breathing become shallow, he thinks nobody’s going to come. Clint tries to get to his belt for an arrowhead, any kind to plunge through Venom’s belly, but he can’t reach, can’t move, lost in the sticky disgusting skin of Venom. And he thinks, for a split second, that this is it and he is done and nobody actually cares, because they can get someone else and he doesn’t matter, not really. He’s given it his all, but now it’s over, thank you, good luck in the afterlife.

For a moment, just a moment, he really believes it. But then he hears a shout in his comm. – Coulson, he’s pretty sure – and the windows shatter above him and Venom, still wrapping around him, like a spider snake smothering him in black poison, showering the two of them with broken glass. Clint closes his eyes against it, tries to control his breathing, give himself some more time, before there is a shout of pain over him, and a sudden relief in the pressure, Venom letting go, allowing Clint to scramble free, moving away on his hands and knees, breathing hard. Stark is hovering above, his helmet open, his eyes bright. Venom is nowhere to be seen.

“You okay, Hawkeye?”

Clint sits, feeling groggy, heavy. He realizes the net is now gaping open, the hostages on the floor, a woman still clinging to Rogers.

“I’m all right.”

Stark nods. “Good. You had us worried here, for a second.”

And thing is, Stark looks sincere, for once.

;;

Clint sighs as he gives himself a hard, long look in his en-suite bathroom mirror, droplets of water dripping from his hair onto his bare chest. The punch that he took on the jaw the night before – a fight he had to lose, despite his opponent being barely a kid – has blossomed into a sickly green bruise, creeping down his neck. When he pushes his tongue against his teeth, Clint feels one of them wobble, and he sighs, closing his eyes. It’s early, but Natasha won’t be sleeping anymore, Clint knows her well enough to be sure of that, and now is the best time for him to sneak into her room. He jumps into jeans and a threadbare t-shirt, sticking to his skin in patches where he’s not completely dry from his shower, and then he goes, creeping along the hallway from his room to Natasha’s. He picks her lock just like always, just like he used to do when they were both living in SHIELD quarters, when it was easier to talk to her.

He stops when he sees Natasha sitting on her bed, looking for all she’s worth like she was waiting for him. She raises an eyebrow, and Clint fumbles inside the room, feeling like a kid all over again. It’s not shame, but it’s definitely embarrassment – he doesn’t like to get caught.

But Natasha doesn’t look mad. She takes one glance at him before going to her makeup shelf, grabbing a brush and a few pots. “Come on, sit down.”

Clint does. He sits on the bed with his feet tucked underneath him, and Natasha sits cross legged in front of him, delicate fingers turning his head to the side. She doesn’t wince, doesn’t cringe, doesn’t make a sound, just scrapes her nails along the bruise, the touch barely there, and Clint finds himself relaxing into it, like a cat being petted. Despite everything, Natasha is still the one person besides Coulson Clint knows he can trust the most, for knowing him, for having worked with him, for keeping him around even when he fucked up. For a second, Clint thinks that Natasha has never given up on him.

“I’m not going to ask how it happened, because I don’t want you to lie to me today.”

“Okay,” Clint nods, and she opens one of the pots she took with her, dipping her makeup brush in slowly, running it in a circle before blowing on it lightly. Bringing it to Clint’s cheek, she keeps her eyes on the task, and Clint lets himself feel guilty for pushing her away, even when he needed her. They’d gone through so much together, but the Avengers Initiative took so much away from them; Clint has a hard time separating things.

“You know, we all worry. I mean, even Director Fury worries. He’d have you followed if he didn’t think it would push you over the edge.”

She sounds so sincere, her voice breaks a little on the words and she refuses to look into his eyes; Clint’s guilt explodes tenfold, fragments of moments past, of conversations had coming back to him, and not just with Natasha, but also with Rogers, and with Phil. Maybe some of them do give a damn; maybe he’s been hurting them as much as they’ve been hurting him.

Clint stops her hand, grabbing her wrist and pulling the back of her knuckles to his lips, kissing them lightly before letting go, her startled eyes boring into his own.

“I’m not going over any edge, Natasha.”

;;

Clint knows something is wrong the second Phil sits next to him in the training ground gallery, overlooking the terrain built inside the Helicarrier for the Avengers to play around in. He winces as he sits, an arm around his stomach, and Clint’s senses go on high alert, trying to determine what exactly is wrong. Phil takes a deep breath, looking ahead.

“Are you in trouble, Clint?” Phil asks, his voice low.

Possibilities run through Clint’s mind, and he wonders if he should go for snark, because he’s not the one obviously injured, here, but he’s not naive enough not to think this isn’t his fault, in some way.

“What happened?” He asks instead, dumbly, not quite managing to connect the dots. He’s been doing everything Costorelli asked for.

Phil turns to look at Clint, his fingers flexing over his lap. “I got a visit from someone who told me you needed to sort your fighting out, because you’re boring the customers.”

Phil doesn’t sound like he’s angry, doesn’t look like he’s angry, either, but Clint flinches anyway, turning away as he suddenly feels violently sick, dizzy with the rush of rage going through his veins. Maybe he was lying when he told Natasha he wasn’t going over any edge, because right now he feels pretty much ready to jump off.

“Clint,” Phil drops a hand on Clint’s shoulder and it should not be as soothing as it feels, but Clint leans into it anyway, closing his eyes for a moment. He can’t find the words to explain how sorry he is, or what he’s willing to do for this to stop. He’s been played, lied to, and now people - Phil - are suffering for it.

This wasn’t part of the deal, and this definitely isn’t part of Clint’s plan; he’s going to have to change it. Turning back to Phil, Clint stares for a moment, finding himself unable to say anything else than, “I’m sorry, Phil.”

He can’t remember the last time he apologized to someone, but the words are sticking to his lips, sincere and a little liberating. Phil smiles, Clint isn’t sure why.

“Okay. Don’t do anything stupid, Clint.”

Clint can’t promise that. He can’t promise anything.

“Too late for that.”

;;

Clint has fought his last fight for Costorelli. That was decided the second he saw Phil and his wince of pain, the moment he heard the words that Costorelli and his goons went too far. So Clint packs his favourite bow and sonic arrows in his gym bag along with the rest of his stuff, and goes for his last fight.

It’s an easy one; one he can win, and for a last hurrah he gives it his all. It’s more than enough to send the crowd reeling at his acrobatics and well landed punches, and Clint knows it’ll be a good night for everyone involved, besides his opponent. Which is exactly what he wants, lulling Costorelli in a sense of false security, go out with a bang.

He spots Phil as he’s circling his dizzy opponent, sends a rueful grin his way; he’s not surprised Phil is here, but he is that Phil is clinging onto the cage, looking proud and smug and terrified, all at the same time.

“He’s weaker on his left, Clint,” Phil shouts, managing to sound perfectly calm and composed. Clint nods, because he knows – he’s taking his time, savouring the fight, because he doesn’t know when the next will be, or where. It won’t be in this place.

It has to end, though. Clint ends up a few feet in the air, holding on to the cage as his opponent falls face first on the mat with a groan, and that’s that. Game over, for all parties involved. The gong rings in Clint’s ears, he doesn’t have a plan, he doesn’t really have an idea what he’s going to do, but he is going to do it. He is going to free himself, and those around him, from Costorelli and his goons.

He’s done playing.

;;

Clint is focused. Muscles tense and ready as he holds his bow up, looking straight at Costorelli, he is ready for anything to happen. Earlier on, when he walked to Costorelli and his goons, he found a special sort of satisfaction to see one of them sporting a black eye, knowing that occurred during his meeting with Phil. Now, it’s his turn. Costorelli is looking unaffected, but he’s not taking his eyes off Clint’s bow either, wary; wise move.

“So I have decided I don’t want to work with you anymore,” Clint begins with, pulling a little tighter on his bowstring when one of the apes takes a step towards him. “If you move, I am gutting your boss. It won’t be pleasant for anyone.”

Considering he has a sonic arrow hooked to his bow, he knows what he’s talking about. Even from deep within Costorelli’s insides, the results would be destructive for anyone close.

“There’s no reason to get hasty. I thought we had a good deal.”

Clint snorts, not moving an inch. From the corner of his eye he can see a shadow move, making him frown, but he does his best not to focus on it, keeping his gaze on Costorelli, who looks like he’s wanting to pace, but not daring to. An arrow could come loose so easily, he really is a wise man.

“This stops now. I swear I will kill you if you don’t disappear from my life. I can promise I will disappear from yours, and you can go on with your little game here. Find another fighter, because I swear to god I am done with you.”

“So what, you’re going to tell your superhero friends now?”

“If I have to, I will.”

Costorelli looks like he’s about to laugh, but Clint lets loose its arrow, planting in the wall right next to Costorelli’s head. It gets his attention again, at least, and his smile fades right away. The shadow at the corner of his eye moves again. It looks familiar, and in a flash of light, Clint sees Phil, his sidearm drawn. Hope and something else, a little darker and a little different, something Clint can’t explain, blooms in his chest; this time, he smiles, drawing another arrow.

“Do we have an agreement?”

“I guess you’ve made us a lot of money.”

That’s enough for Clint, even if he doesn’t relax his muscles, still pointing yet another arrow towards Costorelli and his men.

“We agree, then. You should go.”

It’s not that they’ve been talking for long, but Clint has had enough already, can barely stand the sight of Costorelli now. He doesn’t feel like he’s won anything, nor does he feel like he’s free, yet; he’s not sure he ever will, because underneath it all, he is still missing the way fighting makes him feel, how there’s this itch under his skin that doesn’t move away, whatever Clint does. It’s a lackluster victory, to watch Costorelli and his men walk away, but when Clint can finally lower his bow, the door closing behind the three men, and Phil steps out of the shadows, sidearm back into its holster, relief floods through Clint’s veins.

“You okay?” Phil asks, and Clint nods, and suddenly he’s tired, so fucking tired.

“Yeah. Need to find a new place to fight,” he says, not even thinking about it. His arms ache and his chest feels too tight; Clint isn’t quite sure if he wants to cry or laugh, he mostly wants to sleep. He staggers forward, wanting to get his bow packed up but his eyes are blurry and he feels stupidly disoriented, not sure where he’s supposed to be, or go.

An arm slides around his waist and guides him to a bench, and Clint sits heavily, breathing hard. He can see Phil look back at him, and it’s easy to allow Phil to take his bow, put it back in its box, careful moves. Then Phil sits next to Clint, their shoulders pressed against each other.

“Maybe I can help with the fighting situation. But right now, I think you need some solid sleep. When’s the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. My place is closer than the Stark mansion, and it’s more private.”

It’s not a question, not like the last time Clint let himself be vulnerable in front of Clint. This time it’s an order, and Clint is all too happy to follow it.

“Alright.”

;;

Clint wakes up in the middle of the night; there’s no noise and there are no nightmares, but one second he’s sleeping, and the next he’s awake, staring at the ceiling. The room is familiar but still feels foreign and Clint doesn’t think as he pushes the covers off him and pads out of the room, only wearing his thin black wifebeater and boxer-shorts. It’s not cold in the apartment but Clint shivers anyway, silently making his way to what he knows is Phil’s room.

It’s another kind of itch under his skin that makes him push the door open, something else he wants to answer to, another part of his brain he barely ever gives time to. It feels like a now or never kind of moment, and when he looks into the darkness of Phil’s room, he hears the duvet shift, but it’s pitch black.

“Come on in,” Phil says, voice low, barely a whisper. Clint does, shuffling inside the room, all the way to the bed and he slides under the covers, lying there, next to Phil, now able to make out his features in the dark. He appreciates the lack of questions coming from Phil, and he buries in a little deeper, smelling Phil all around him, surprisingly soothing.

Maybe – maybe not so surprising. Clint sighs, admitting this to himself finally, trust and desire. And he knows it’s mutual, he remembers Taiwan and all the little things Phil’s done, compiling them together and making sense of them, of what he didn’t see then and sees now. He moves even closer, feeling Phil’s breathing against his skin, but he still doesn’t dare touching.

“How long have you wanted me?” Clint asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Phil shrugs, eyes soft and hooded.

“Long time.”

It doesn’t feel like a moment where a lot can be said. It’s too late and it’s too dark, so Clint just smiles, leaning in and brushing his lips against Phil’s, a fleeting touch that has him reaching out, flexing his fingers over Phil’s hip. Phil sighs softly, and pulls Clint in, one hand on the back of his head and the other around his arm, the kiss harder this time, more intent in the way they move against each other, making Clint smile helplessly against Phil’s mouth. He slides a leg between Phil’s, not needing more but craving the contact, Phil’s body against his; he hasn’t realized how much he wanted it until it was right there, under his hands, warm and pliant.

Phil pulls away reluctantly, dropping a couple of kisses to the corner of Clint’s mouth, his eyes closed. “Think you can sleep now?”

Clint would laugh, but he settles for smiling against Phil’s neck. “Yeah.”

;;

Comms are down. It’s the curse of tiny little robotic aliens, they tend to jam everything, and then comms are down, and Iron Man is about to lose his balls, because, well, tiny little robotic aliens, they also tend to fuck with JARVIS and the suit. Clint glances around them, the dark avenue not telling him much about where his teammates are, but there are explosions coming from a side street and people screaming madly from the other side of the building Clint is perched on, so he guesses the other Avengers are otherwise engaged. Which leaves Clint to try and take care of the multitude of tiny little robotic aliens climbing Tony Stark at the moment, five stories down.

Clint isn’t sure where they come from, just that they got an emergency call and suddenly they were in the middle of all these spider-like robots jacking everything up in central Manhattan, sparks flying from their little legs to hit every electricity-fuelled anything in their way. Before comms went down, Phil asked Tony to sit this one out, but of course Stark ignored it, going full in like he could slam all these aliens in one go.

And now Tony is on his knees with aliens all over him, thoroughly short-circuiting him, and there’s no one around but Clint to do something about it. One more second, and then Clint is monkeying down every story of the building, holding onto balcony railings and gutter pipes, slicing his hand open and cursing as he touches the ground.

He aims his first arrow for a wide semi-circle above Tony’s prone body and a second one straight after, a wider arc. The arrowheads detonate with three seconds in between them, the electromagnetic pulse illuminating the street for just a moment before it’s gone, and the aliens freeze, their mechanisms fried. Clint knows that the pulse probably fried part of Stark’s suit, too, but it’s a risk he is willing to take to save his life; the suit can be repaired, Stark’s face? Maybe not so.

Clint rushes to Stark’s side, pushing now dead and frozen robotic aliens off the suit, and digging his fingers in the openings of the helmets, cutting himself as he feels for catches. Finally the helmet gives and opens with a small noise and Clint looks at Tony’s pale face underneath, his closed eyes; panic rises up in his throat.

“Tony? Tony!”

There are more aliens coming their way, Clint can hear them skittering closer, but there is nothing he can do here – Tony in the suit is way too heavy for Clint to carry, and he has no comm to ask for backup. This, overall, is not the best situation, but he can’t just stay here and wait for the robots to get to them; getting his hands under Stark’s arms, Clint starts pulling him towards shelter, anything that can keep them away from the aliens for a while longer. He only has two electromagnetic arrowheads left, and this is starting to feel too much like an apocalyptic movie scenario for him.

“Nnngbzuuh?”

“Oh, thank fuck, Tony, come on, move yourself, we need to get out of here!”

Tony is still dazed, but he manages to get on his feet, after some effort, the suit moving with difficulty, heavy and unwieldy without the help of JARVIS. Somehow, they manage to get themselves on the first floor of a building, fire doors closed and blocked to keep the aliens away as much as possible. They sit on the floor in front of each other, panting heavily, Tony’s eyes closed.

“Thanks, buddy,” he still says between two harsh breaths, and Clint feels his body give, his arms aching, unable to support him. He’s tired now.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

;;

Clint wakes up in a bright white room, and the surge of panic settles down as soon as his eyes focus on Phil’s face. He’s sitting by the bed, eyes closed, snoring lightly, which makes Clint smile despite himself.

“Hey.”

Phil blinks his eyes open, straightening in the chair right away, leaning close. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“Like a truck ran me over. What happened?”

“Captain Rogers went on a one-man mission to find you and Iron Man, but didn’t manage before the aliens. They’d started taking on your energy.”

Clint frowns; he doesn’t remember any of that. After getting Stark inside the building, everything got a bit blurry.

“How long have I been out?”

Phil smiles, raising a tentative hand before letting it drop to his lap. “Two days. You needed it, and feel free to get some more rest, by the way.”

“Hmm.”

They fall into silence, comfortable and easy, and Clint is about falling back asleep when the door opens softly, Steve’s head popping in, quickly followed by his enormous body, Natasha close behind. Clint forces the sleepy haze away as he sits up, back against his pillows, almost confused by how relieved they both look.

“Hey, you’re awake! How you feeling, Clint?”

“Better, thanks.”

Phil leans closer again. “They’ve been coming to see you every day,” he says softly, only to Clint, like it explains everything. In a way, it does, and Clint’s heart starts beating faster.

“Tony’s been moaning for the past 8 hours, so you’ve been a nice change of pace. Don’t scare us like this again, okay, brother?” Steve claps a hand around Clint’s shoulder, who can only nod dumbly, struck by the words and how genuine they sound. Clint is starting to actually believe this.

Phil stands and stretches, looking pointedly at Natasha. “Are you staying around? I need to get some food.” She nods, gracefully climbing on the bed and curling herself in the small space next to Clint, her head on his chest. Clint can only wrap his arm around her shoulders, closing his eyes in the sweet smell of her hair and the heady feel of her warmth.

“I’ll be back later, Clint. Captain, would you join me?”

“Sure. Get some more rest, Clint,” Steve says, and again, Clint nods, not trusting his words. They leave quickly, and Clint would fall asleep, if only Natasha curled up against him didn’t make him so confused. He’s tense, his fingers moving over Natasha’s arm, trying to make sense of what’s going on in his head.

Natasha looks up at him moments later, her eyes slightly hooded, like she’s falling asleep. “We’re okay, Clint,” she says softly, with that terrifying instinct of hers, and then she smiles, putting her head on his chest again. They’re okay.

;;

It’s a couple more days before Clint is allowed to leave Medical. He’s spent most of it with Tony, cheating at poker and moaning about being cooped up in a hospital, the two of them wreaking enough havoc to get themselves released early. Steve takes Tony back to the mansion and offers to give Clint a ride, but Phil is waiting by the reception desk, and Clint declines Steve with a grin.

Phil drives them back to his place, the two of them talking about the last mission both Clint and Tony had to sit out, and the easiness is so foreign to Clint he isn’t sure how to take it, until he just gives in to it, relaxing into the car seat and letting Phil humming under his breath along with the radio soothe him. It’s...nice.

Of course, he had known there would be some serious talking at some point; it waits until they’re at Phil’s, sitting on the couch with beers in hand. Phil licks his lips, taking a slow breath, and Clint’s stomach knots.

“So, I may have found a solution for you and your fighting.”

Clint scratches his throat. “Um.”

“Before you start freaking out, it’s not for you to stop. I don’t – I don’t want you to stop. But my cousin works in a gym in Brooklyn, and they hold MMA tournaments. At least it’s a safe environment.”

Clint sits back further in the sofa, bewildered. He’s been expecting a lot of things; I’ve talked to Fury, you can’t keep on doing this, it’s the Avengers or the fighting – but this, this he wasn’t expecting at all. Relief blooms in his chest and he has to fists his hands into his lap not to just grab Phil, biting his lap hard enough to taste blood.

“Won’t be as exciting as something clandestine, I admit that, but it’s still –“

Clint does reach out then, curling his hand around Phil’s wrist. “That – I’d like to try that.”

And he does. Surprisingly, unexpectedly, the idea is appealing; a place where he can let go, without having to hide, like it’s not a dirty little secret anymore. He’s never been ashamed, but it’s always been something he couldn’t talk about, and now Phil makes it sound like it could be just another hobby, just like Steve’s boxing and Tony’s underground lab.

Clint could get used to this. And he could get to Phil smiling at him like this, kind and relieved.

“There’s something else,” Phil says, sounding worried all over again, but Clint can’t, not right now. He shakes his head, pulling on Phil’s tie until they’re kissing, the tang of blood mixing on their tongues.

There’s nothing quiet about it, the two of them gone from quietly sitting next to each other to rubbing shamelessly against each other, half falling off the couch, Clint biting on Phil’s bottom lip as he tries his best to get Phil’s pants open, turning more desperate by the second, spurred on by Phil’s helpless noises and the way he keeps on tugging at Clint’s hair, fingers flexing against his scalp.

How Clint ends up sprawled on the sofa with Phil between his legs, he’s not sure, but he’s certainly not complaining; Phil is being agonisingly slow, yet Clint’s every nerve is on edge, exploding everywhere Phil touches him, licks at him. He lifts off the sofa without being able to help it, tiny little thrusts that have Phil suck him down and deep, humming lightly to himself as he does so, surprisingly enthusiastic about the whole thing. It’s crazy; it’s perfect, and Clint can’t take his eyes off Phil, even when he’s so close to coming his vision goes blurry, even when he comes and his mind goes off wandering somewhere far away.

Phil is coming, breathing hard and damp against Clint’s thigh, by the time Clint finds the ability to move his limbs again. It’s a shame, but Clint promises himself he’ll have other occasions to make up for it, to watch Phil come, Phil rumpled, Phil glowing. Phil, slumping over him, sweaty and panting, just like he is right now, his nose cold against Clint’s neck. Clint can’t help but drag his lips over Phil’s forehead.

“Bed?” He asks, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

Phil nods, and smiles. “Bed.”

;;

Clint leans back on the leather couch, looking back at Dr T. with something he hopes looks like boredness. This; this thing he’s doing now, twice a week for an hour, in one of the basement floors of SHIELD HQ, this is the something else he’d stopped Phil from telling him about the first time they had sex. Clint had been unable to say no, listening to Phil’s reasoning about it.

It’s not about saving him, although now, three months down the line, Clint can admit that he needed it, maybe a little; it’s just about finding a place and be content with it. Twice a week for an hour, for however long it was needed – the therapy sessions were always followed by a visit to the ring.

“Come on, Clint.”

“You’re just as bossy as Cap.”

Dr T. grins, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s cool, for a therapist, Clint has to admit that, but it’s still never easy to talk about his feelings, to anyone, even someone who would never repeat any of it. Clint has Phil for that, and midnight confessions in the dark tend to come easier to Clint.

“That’s why we get along so famously, he and I. Come on.”

“Fine, fine. It was – I don’t know, I was maybe 12 or something, and Barney found this guitar lying there abandoned on the circus grounds, and he gave it to me. It was out of tune as all hell, but still, for my birthday he got me this book of chords, rock classics like AC/DC and Led Zeppelin. It was one of these things I would turn to when nothing else worked.”

“Nothing else worked for what?”

“To calm me down. To keep me from wanting to hurt people.”

This is the part Clint dreads the most, where Dr T. digs and digs and finds exactly what he’s looking for, another piece to the puzzle Clint forms in his therapist head. It’s unsettling for Clint, to be talking about his childhood, and the things he wants to do and don’t want to do, about the people he loves and the people he wants to hurt. How they all mix up sometimes.

“So why did you stop playing?”

“Barney broke the guitar. Ran it over with his pickup truck. Almost ran me over, too.”

“And you never thought of getting another one until Steve did?”

“No.”

“So how does it make you feel that Steve gave you one again?”

Clint checks his watch, thinking about how much Steve hates lateness. Clint’s got a sparring and training session with Natasha in the ring, and dinner at Phil’s place planned. At that, Clint freezes, things clicking into place in his head, and he smiles to himself.

“Thankful.”

;;

MMA is exactly like underground cage fighting, only with more light, more audience, softer mats, and less illegal betting. Clint hops from foot to foot as he waits by the entrance of the cage, Natasha holding out his mouth guard for him, Phil standing by their side, as cool and collected as ever in his usual crisp suit. He’s smiling, though, hands in his pockets as he looks at Clint.

Natasha pushes the mouth guard into Clint’s open mouth, patting his cheek afterwards, a grin on her face. “Go get ‘em.”

Clint rolls his eyes, but fist bumps both she and Phil before walking inside the cage, the crowd cheering hard as he steps under the spotlights, already sweaty from the heat of the room and his pre-fight training session. He looks around, over Phil and Natasha’s heads, to see the rest of his team cheering from their seats, colourful array of disparate people that make up Clint’s life nowadays.

His opponent is a monster of a man, so Clint evaluates before the gong goes off; slow, but if he gets in range of his opponent’s fists, he would quickly be in bad shape. Stay low, stay quick; Clint’s tactics might not be super advanced, but they’ll hopefully keep him alive for a while longer.

He’s not wrong; when his opponent charges, it’s slow and sluggish but with brute force, and Clint reverts to acrobatics to stay out of the way. He can hear Natasha yelling out orders at him, and Clint grins, going for the attack.

It lasts for a while – it’s not because the man is big and slow that he is stupid, and they manage to stay even for a while, the crowd cheering them on endlessly. Clint takes the advantage with a knee in the middle of his opponent’s back, a foot to his head, dizzying him enough to slam him to the floor. Clint looks up for a second, blood dripping down in his eye from his split eyebrow, to see Phil wince and Natasha grin, clapping like a little girl in a candy shop. The rest of the Avengers are on their feet, louder than everybody else, popcorn flying over their heads, and Clint realizes, slowly, like a flicker of a light in his head:

I won.