Chapter Text
Phil was finishing lunch with Bruce in the common kitchen when Clint and Tony came in, discussing the new archery equipment that Tony had made for Clint. "So now that you've gotten a chance to shoot for a few hours, what do you think?" Tony asked.
"I love the EMP arrowheads and the armor-piercing ones. Not as sure about the harness, but the selection feature on the quiver is definitely more user-friendly," Clint said, rolling his shoulders under the straps.
"You happy with the grab function on the EMPs now?" Tony said.
"Yeah, I like the magnetic tip in addition to the spring-claws," Clint said. "It's definitely worth the slight increase in weight, because almost anything I need EMPs for will attract a magnet."
"That should help a lot, Tony," said Phil. "Thank you for taking the time to improve Hawkeye's gear." Last week a rampaging robot spider had nearly crushed Captain America because the team had counted on an EMP arrow frying its circuitry. The arrow had struck true but the grip function had failed.
"I live to make the cool toys," Tony said with a grin.
"You make the coolest toys ever," Clint said. He linked his fingers together behind his head and stretched to the right, then further to the left. "Stark tech outperforms SHIELD almost every time."
"Almost?" Tony said, clutching his arc reactor. "Cut me to the quick, Legolas!"
"You're too sensitive, cupcake," Clint said as he flexed his shoulders.
"Are you all right, Clint?" asked Bruce, pushing away his empty salad bowl.
Phil swept an appraising gaze over Clint. He didn't see any sign of injury, but he trusted Bruce's observational skills. "Talk to me, Clint," he said.
Clint shrugged, paused, and rubbed a hand over his left shoulderblade. "Ah, it's nothing, I'm a little stiff from practice is all."
"From a measly three hours of practice?" Tony said with a frown. "I've seen you go twice that without flinching. Something must be wrong."
"Your movements after shooting usually look more fluid," Bruce said. "This isn't like you."
"It'll wear off," Clint insisted. "I just need to stretch out a little more."
"Tony's right, Clint, a three-hour session shouldn't faze you," Phil said. He'd seen Hawkeye shoot for considerably longer, or climb down from a bird's nest perfectly supple after remaining in position all day.
"Turn around so I can see the rigging," Tony said, pulling Clint into place to look at his equipment from behind. "I need feedback, Robin Hood. Without input about what specifically works or does not work, I can't deliver the best goods in the world. Most you'll get is quasi-terrific." Sensitive engineer's fingers traced meticulously along the straps and down the line of the quiver where it rested against Clint's shirt. "In fact, take this off, it's trash, I'll figure out what's wrong and fix it."
"I could give you --" Bruce began.
"Thanks but no thanks, doc. I hate muscle relaxants, they mess up my reflexes. If I'm not screaming, I don't need 'em," Clint said. He started to unfasten the straps.
"-- a backrub, is what I meant. I could actually fix this by hand," Bruce said. "It's probably just knotted muscles and lactic acid buildup. At least let me take a look." He got up to examine Clint's back. Just as Bruce put a hand on Clint's shoulder to push him into a better position, Tony peeled back one of the velcro tabs with a loud ripping sound.
Clint jerked away, spinning to press his back against the nearest wall, one hand automatically reaching for the fletch of an arrow even though he didn't have his bow. "Don't do that," he said tightly. "I don't like having anyone right behind me, especially more than one person."
"It's okay," Bruce said, spreading his hands.
"Take it easy," Tony said at the same time. He flattened his hands over his thighs, because palms-forward was actually an attack position for him.
"Sorry, I'm sorry, it's just -- bad memories, yeah?" Clint said. He gave Phil a pleading look.
"A sniper's hyperfocus on target can leave him vulnerable to attack from other directions," Phil explained quietly. "One time in Tuzla, three men dropped on top of Hawkeye from a higher balcony and dragged him away from his post. It took us two hours to extract him, and by then he wasn't in very good shape."
Tony held out a hand and snapped his fingers. "Give me the gear, Cupid," he said. "I'll go work the problem from that end." Slowly Clint shrugged out of his harness and held out the quiver for Tony to take. It took a few extra seconds for Clint to make his fingers uncurl. Tony waited. Only when Clint pulled his hand back did Tony sling the straps over his shoulder and head for his lab.
Clint sidled over to the table and sat down next to Phil, leaning against his shoulder. "This could turn into a problem, working with a team," he muttered, guilt thickening his voice.
"It could," Phil said. "Hasn't yet, though. Don't beat up on yourself."
"How can I not? It's stupid," Clint said. "I know nobody on the team means me any kind of harm. It's just -- Tony was pulling on me, and Bruce was pushing, and velcro sounds like cloth tearing, and -- well. My head went to a bad place. I need that not to happen if I'm going to be around this many people on a regular basis."
"Maybe I can help with that too. The Other Guy hates people flanking him, for rather similar reasons," Bruce said. "Clint? If I sit beside you instead of standing behind you, would that be okay? I'd still like to check your back."
"It's fine, I'm fine," Clint said. He slumped forward, elbows on the table, then rested his face in his hands.
"We need you to be honest with us, Clint," said Phil, because Clint obviously was not fine.
"Okay, so, my back's a bit sore and I'm twitchy," Clint admitted. "Sitting beside me won't make it any worse."