Chapter Text
When it rains, it pours.
Not even two weeks later to the day after your concert with Steve, you were sleeping in your bed when a noise stirred you awake. You opened your eyes, but lay still in bed, slowly reaching for your Louisville Slugger – an aluminum baseball bat you kept next to the bed. You’d never had to use it before, but as a woman living alone in New York, you couldn’t be too cautious.
As the noise grew louder, you tightened your grip on the bat, and waited. And waited. And…waited. You’d think that if this person was going to rob you, they’d be quicker about it. And why did it sound like they were tapping at the window, instead of trying to open it themselves? The tapping turned into flat out repetitive knocking, far too obnoxious to ignore, and you threw back the blankets, preparing yourself to give a big swing with the bat –
Only to find Clint Barton tapping on your window, crouched on your microscopic patio. In the darkness, he was little more than a silhouette, but the hunch in his shoulders and the bow slung across them could leave no doubt as to who it was.
“Clint, you’re about as crazy as a shit house rat! Get your ass in here, right now!” You opened the window, and stepped back to let him in.
“Have I ever told you that your accent is sexy? Because it is,” he groaned as he squeezed through the open window. It wasn’t that he was particularly a big man; it’s just that the window, like the rest of the studio, was small. Even you had to say a Hail Mary whenever you went in and out of it to get onto the patio. Knocking over a stack of books you had piled under the window and a house plant, he swore softly. “Sorry, sorry…”
“No big.” You leaned over, helping him squeeze through. Wow, those arms. Those shoulders. Noooicceee. Helping him to stand, you quickly moved the books out of the way, righted the flower pot, and reached over to turn on the light. The room was filled with a warm glow.
You gasped – Clint was beat to hell. He had the making of a massive black eye, his lip was busted, dried blood was crusted under his nose, and his arms were covered in scrapes and bruises.
“Did you get in a fight with a Sasquatch? What in the ever lovin’ hell, Barton? Go, sit!” You shooed him to your bed as you paced off, barefoot, to your tiny, tiny little bathroom.
“Comes with being an Avenger, and I’m pretty sure there are no Sasquatches in New York.”
“Don’t try and tell me what can and can’t happen in this cattywampus city. You’d better be sitting!” you shouted back from the bathroom.
You could hear him groaning as he settled onto the bed, the frame squeaking. When you came back with your first aid kit, he was in the process of taking off his quiver, setting it down with a thunk. After it, his arm guards followed, then, much to your delighted surprise, his shirt.
“Barton, I ain’t in no way prepared to help you with all of this foolishness,” you groused, giving him a slow once over. He’d shocked the proper right out of your language, and your drawl was out in full force. He winced in pain as he rolled his shoulders back. Without his shirt on, his chest was a collection of bruises, some fresh violet, others older and yellowing. You weren’t a doctor. You weren’t even CPR certified; how were you supposed to help out with this?
He pointed to a particularly –okay, how the hell had you missed THAT- nasty gash down his right side. “Could you?” he asked, his eyes darting to the wound and then back up to you.
Your tongue was thick in your mouth as you nodded dumbly, and sitting next to him, you started tending to the gash. “I’m warning you right now, I am in no way any kind of trained for this, so if your arm falls off, you can’t sue, okay?”
His response was a dry laugh.
Luckily enough for the both of you, it wasn’t deep, and looked way worse than it actually was. Once you cleaned the blood off, cleaned the cut, and slathered ointment on it, Clint’s breathing had fallen into an easy cadence, and you could see flickers of his aura shifting in front of you. Motherdammit; you were losing control. As you took a deep breath and forced yourself out of the aurora of his emotions, you were relieved to see a warm orange in the midst of them all; he was comfortable around you. Inexplicably, it seemed, he always had been. You and Clint – definitely bros for life.
Wrapping a long strip of gauze (which you’d originally laughed at when you saw it in the first aid kit; who would ever use a whole strip of gauze? The worst thing you’d done was burn your fingers on a baking pan and that was why you had aloe growing in your microscopic kitchen and patio) around his side, you lightly secured it. “That’s about the best I can do with what I got,” you said, surprised to hear that you were calming down enough for your drawl to back off just a bit. “You’re gonna need a real good lookin’ at once you get back to the Tower.”
He nodded, his gaze distant. “I couldn’t make it back to the Tower. I remembered seeing your address, and it was the closest place. I’m sorry, (your name). I know you’re not set up for this.” His tone was flat - and, unable to resist, you snuck a quick peek at his aura, your eyes dully lighting up as you did a quick scan. He was feeling dejected – useless. There was more, but you’d already dug enough without his permission. And, to be fair, anyone that was particularly perceptive could have picked up how the archer was feeling by the slump of his shoulders and the stiff way that he moved.
“…Well, glad I could be of service…What time is it, anyway?” You gingerly sat down on the bed next to him.
With great effort, he shrugged. “No idea.”
You stole a glance at your bedside clock. 2 AM. Well. Seemed like sleep was going to be the last thing on the agenda for the night. “Take off your boots,” you suddenly said, looking at Clint.
“What?” He was confused, but still lost in whatever was going through his head.
“I said, ‘take off your boots.’ Might as well get comfortable; I got a feeling you’re gonna be here a minute, yeah?”
Without another word, the smart-mouthed archer leaned over and began untying his laces. His boots fell to the floor. He grumbled as he laid down in your bed, his arms sprawled out to either side.
By the time you got back to your “bedroom” from the bathroom, Clint was snoring.