Chapter Text
Clint doesn’t expect his life to fall completely apart on a random Tuesday morning. Not for the usual reasons, the way normal people forget that bad shit can happen to them. No, instead he’d been pretty confident his life was already as fucked up as it could get. There hadn’t seemed space for any more, that’s all.
Forget the abandoned and abused shit from his childhood and adolescence. He wasn’t the only one with that particular sob story. And falling in love with someone unattainable, well, that was common enough.
Being mind-raped by an alien god? Yeah. Clint thought maybe he deserved some sympathy points for that. Coming out of that control to find he’d attacked his own organisation and killed a bunch of colleagues? Again – not your ordinary complaint.
And then there was that last thing. The one Clint couldn’t begin to think about.
So, all up, he felt he was a pretty special kind of messed up already. Which is why he went along with Tony fucking Stark, of all people, when the guy threw out a casual invitation one Tuesday morning. It seemed so harmless.
“Want to join me and Cap for lunch?”
Clint glances up from the freeweight he’s been lifting and raises a brow. They live in the same building and therefore, eat lunch together most of the time without needing to make an appointment.
“We’re going out,” Tony clarifies
Clint hesitates. He doesn’t want to go out. Doesn’t want to make conversation, doesn’t even want to eat. But he can’t show any of that, not if he doesn’t want to be rendered inactive by the psychs. Being useful is all he has left.
What he does want, mostly, is to be taken out back like Old Yeller. But that isn’t an option. He doesn’t get the easy way out.
“Sure,” he says after a moment, and goes back to the rhythmic curl, eyes on the weight.
“Great,” Stark says lightly. “Banner’s off doing something scienc-y about opening the bifrost again, so he’s a wash. Bring our friendly neighbourhood spider if you can find her.”
Clint manages the ghost of a smile, knowing Stark expects it. The entire team has accepted Clint’s reserve, his aloof attitude and his avoidance of physical contact. He suspects the team had been given a crash course in PTSD in the three week period when Clint had been in secure custody aboard the Helicarrier. Of course, in this team, at least it isn’t only Clint carrying the issues.
So in return for them not bothering the shit out of him to talk about his feelings, Clint has put some real effort into faking a slow climb back to normalcy. He plans it carefully.
First, there was a slow unclenching of his body language over the first few weeks after he’d moved in. Over this past month he’s started offering small smiles carefully doled out every few days. He attends every Psych session Chandler - the deuche-bag handler Fury has stuck them with - schedules for him. When the team has finished a mission, Clint lets Medical check him over without complaint.
Sometimes he feels sure Natasha has seen through his bullshit, but the others don’t know him well enough to spot a fake, and lately Tasha is constantly being dragged off to deal with the cleanup of a long-term solo op she’d been running in Estonia, of all places.
She’s only been back two days from her latest trip, and Chandler takes up way too much of her time debriefing, trying to find a way in, Clint suspects. Chandler doesn’t have a hope of handling any one of the Avengers, let alone the whole team, but he sure keeps trying.
“I’ll ask,” Clint says without looking up. “Time?”
“Noonish,” Stark says from the doorway and Clint nods. The door closes and Clint lets out a careful, slow breath in rhythm with his arms, but gives no other sign of his frustration. It helps, in a twisted way, to know that Jarvis is constantly watching. It means he has no letup from this pretence of recovery.
It’s oddly like working undercover, and that, Clint can do.
Stark’s restaurant is unremarkable, which should have pinged Clint’s radar. Would have, if he’d been giving a fuck about anything at all beyond putting one foot in front of the other and looking like he wasn’t half-mad with grief and guilt. Tasha glances around them as they file inside, her brow crinkling.
“Why are we here, Stark?” she asks, her voice its usual low timbre.
“To partake of the cuisine, naturally,” Stark says, but he sounds distracted. “They have private dining rooms in the back for working lunches, I thought we’d try dining without an audience.”
Tasha narrows her eyes at him, but Steve says, “Great,” sounding relieved.
Steve has taken most 21st century changes in his stride, but the narrowing of personal privacy and what he considers basic courtesy is an ongoing struggle for him. Case in point: he hates being approached for autographs and pictures when he’s eating, but he grits his teeth and smiles, every time. Whenever Clint sees it he can spot the shallow showman the US Army tried to mould him into, taking one for the team, and then it’s like being stabbed, thinking about Captain America and war bonds and collector cards-
Clint focuses his gaze on the vertical garden of herbs on the far wall and breathes carefully, evenly, knowing Tasha is in the room which means he has to lift his I’m-fine-no-really-I’m-fine game.
Tony smiles his usual public smile for the staff and after only a few seconds delay they’re being ushered around a corner and down a long corridor. Clint maps out the layout in his head from habit more than anything else – behind the long expanse of wall to their left is likely the kitchen. On their right they pass the bathrooms and then the waitress pauses, swipes a card over a security pad. The timber door swings inward automatically – good for a waitress with her hands full, Clint guesses – and she gestures them into the room.
It’s big enough to seat eight or so, and they file inside obediently, though Clint notes that Tony doesn’t head for the table the way Steve does. That has Clint hesitating, then, eyes flicking to Tasha, who pauses just inside the door and watches Stark like a mongoose and a snake.
“Give us a minute, would you?” Tony says, all teeth.
The waitress smiles back and shuffles into the corridor, closing the door behind her.
“You know...” Tony begins.
“Why are we here, Stark?” Tasha asks, voice sharpening.
“...I think I’d prefer the other room, personally. There’s something lacking in the ambience here.”
“What?” Steve asks, nonplussed. He pauses in the act of pulling out a chair – probably for Natasha – and finally seems to sense something odd. “Tony?”
Stark shrugs. “I just want to try the other room.”
“Stark,” Tasha starts, but he’s sauntering into the corridor like he owns the joint. Hazards of being a billionaire, Clint guesses. She’s on his heels, frowning, but when she shoots a glance at Clint he shrugs. Stark hasn’t really done anything requiring intervention... yet.
“It’s occupied,” Clint offers when they get to the next door. He hadn’t paid much attention to their own room but there’s a discreet red light to the side of the security pad that can only mean one thing.
“You sure?” Stark asks, smirking, and casually swings his phone over the red display which, naturally, immediately switches to green.
“Stark-”
“Tony!”
Tasha and Steve’s voices snap off like they’ve been punched in the throat as the door finishes its inward arc and the two inhabitants of the room are revealed.
Nick Fury.
Phil Coulson.
Clint blinks.
Coulson. Phil Coulson.
Tasha curses, low and vicious and Russian.
Tony blinks and says, “Huh. Okay. That- this I did not expect. Agent?”
Clint blinks hard, but what he’s seeing doesn’t change, not even the unfinished plate of ravioli – Coulson’s favourite – pushed to one side.
Beside Clint, Steve mutters something low and bulls forward, getting all four of them into the room and quickly dragging the door closed behind them. Good soldier Steve, always aware of security issues.
Coulson – Phil fucking Coulson – flattens his hand on the table, preparation for standing. Beneath his fingers are maps, field reports and satellite photographs. Business as usual, apparently, despite his being three fucking months dead. His eyes are locked on Clint’s and just before Clint’s knees give out completely he feels Tasha’s arm press against his. He sags back instead, shoulders hitting the wall and keeping him upright.
Fury, meantime, lets out a slow breath and turns in his seat. His eyes are watchful and wary. “Some day, Stark,” he says darkly, “Some day you’re going to finally realize that the entire fucking world does not revolve around you.”
“Huh. Yeah, you know I doubt it,” Tony shoots back.
“Tony,” Steve says, low and chiding. He’s looking from Clint to Tasha and back to – Coulson. Coulson.
“What?” Stark says, defensive, then he follows Cap’s gaze and his mouth snaps shut.