He wasn't eating. He wasn't sleeping.
Not that that was a problem.
Because it wasn't. It wasn't at all.
Maybe it was a tad selfish, because the others put everything into helping out the rest of the team and his contributions were minimal at best. Maybe it was a bit dangerous, because dependability was a cruel, cruel thing and the hurt and pain could double with an alarming ease. It no longer mattered if Clint didn't care if he crashed and burned, because his teammates were so damned stupid for trusting him and would blindly follow him to the laughing tendrils of death because that's what friends do for each other, Clint.
But he couldn't sleep when the nightmares got bad, or the blood would refuse to wash off his fingers like it was victims begging for him to give them answers why did you kill me, what did I do, please notice me, I'm innocent and he could hardly fight the urge to vomit, so eating was out of the question.
And it had been really bad the past week.
He could still hear the children's screams of desperation (they still had hope; always had hope) dominating the air. He could pinpoint the exact moment where the screams were cut off and fifteen lives were stolen from right under his nose.
He knew he couldn't have stopped it. Arrows don't stop bombs.
But they do stop people.
The person responsible for the deaths was no longer. Clint made sure of that.
However, it still didn't prevent the heart-stopping moment of complete and unadulterated dread as he felt the lives he had fought so valiantly to preserve rush past him, on their way to their next great adventure.
The death of children always got him the worst. Maybe it was after killing so many people whose minds had been taken over by dominance and greed, the sight of innocence in its purest form was refreshing. It was a sign of hope. A sign that maybe this generation would be better than the last. One of the children will one day discover the cure for cancer, while another becomes the next Mozart, and his friend would be the guiding hand in achieving world peace.
So he didn't eat and didn't sleep. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't.
As he stood atop an old apartment building, watching the fight unfold like a blossoming flower as the aliens made their descent upon the city, he couldn't keep the blurriness from creeping into his vision. Seven and a half hours of sleep a week and maybe a granola bar or two a day if he could stomach it was pushing it for him.
When the Chitauri attacked, it was like finding a chink in Earth's armor, and now the whole universe knew about it. SHIELD did a good job with damage control, but drawing out the Avengers had become something of a favorite pastime for a whole bunch of species. The fact that they hadn't yet been defeated only strengthened their desire to go a round with the team, seeing how they matched up.
It was fucking annoying. The fact that innocent people got caught in the crossfire only fueled his anger.
He snapped back into focus as Tony swooped by him in his suit and made a beeline for the street below. He was so distracted by the red and gold metal throwing sunlight into the air that he almost missed Tony's light remark. "So, what's the alien du jour?"
Steve was already bashing an alien's head in with his shield. "They can fly, and that's all I know. Thor would know what they are. Too bad he's in Asgard."
"Yes, damn him for maintaining intergalactic peace," Natasha remarked dryly. Clint wasn't sure where she was. Probably skinning one of the poor creatures somewhere. "Have you tried asking them? The aliens?"
"Ah, the diplomatic approach!" Tony said. "Well thought out. I shall attempt that now." There was a short pause, followed by an unmanly screech that Tony later denied ever making. "I would like it to be noted that the targets are hostile and respond negatively, and may I add, unnecessarily so, to friendly conversation."
The arrows Clint released were slightly wobbly as they streaked toward his targets. He pretended not to notice, because denial seemed to be the only thing he was good at.
"Hawkeye, watch the aliens tailing Iron Man," Steve ordered. Clint could see the flash of red, white, and blue three blocks away, and absentmindedly wondered how the hell Steve had known there were aliens chasing Tony.
He shook himself out of his thoughts, because holy hell there were aliens chasing Tony. In retrospect, maybe he should've had more than half a banana to sustain him through the entire battle. Maybe he should've attempted to sleep last night as well. However, there was nothing he could do about it now, so he shook his head and released another arrow into the fray. "I got it, Cap," he replied easily. He selected an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and took aim.
It was an easy shot. The aliens were completely exposed; their broad backs an inviting target. It was a shot Clint should have made in his sleep. But "should have" wasn't good enough. He knew as soon as he released the bowstring that something was off. His gut feeling proved to be true as the arrow impaled itself in a wall not two inches from Tony's head, almost ten feet from the intended targets.
"Holy shit!" Tony yelled in surprise. Clint's heart crawled into his throat as he took in the knowledge that one more inch and Tony would have been shish-kebobed.
"Iron Man!" Steve's voice sounded slightly strained, and Clint could see one of the aliens all but pinning him onto the ground. Cap's worry for his teammates, as always, far preceded self-preservation. "What's wrong?"
"Hawkeye almost impaled my fucking head, that's what's wrong!" Tony shouted. Clint felt sick. All my fault all my fault all my fault—
"Hawkeye?" Steve asked, surprise coloring his voice even over the slightly static sound of the comms.
Clint lifted a shaking hand to his hair. His bow hung limply at his side, suddenly feeling unbearably heavy. I almost killed Stark. "I—I didn't mean to—I missed the shot—"
From his vantage point on the roof of an apartment building, Clint could see Steve deliver a hard kick to the opponent holding him down that crumpled its chest like a crushed can. Enemy incapacitated, he took the opportunity to fairly rip its head off, digging his shield into the back of its neck. The contorted corpse was kicked onto the ground while Steve retrieved his shield from where it was trapped between monster and rubble and started running towards the rest of the team. Now that he wasn't distracted by the enemy, he returned to the conversation. "You're telling me that you missed the shot?" he repeated dubiously.
"I didn't mean to!" Clint felt the need to repeat those words, though they did little to reverse what happened and the others probably already knew anyway.
There was a short puff of breath on Steve's end and then a long stretch of silence. Finally, he began to speak again, but it was not directed towards Clint. "Black Widow, what's your status?" Steve asked. Clint knew the captain had a team to lead, but he couldn't help feeling dejected, like Steve was ignoring him. Like he blamed him.
And in truth, Clint couldn't fault him for it. It was his arrow. His shot. His mistake. There was no other way around it.
Natasha's calculated response came over the line, but Clint was too distracted to notice. Because the aliens that he was supposed to have taken out had regrouped and were once again advancing on Tony.
"Stark! Enemy directly behind you!"
Clint could see the red and gold suit turn midair, like a bird in its graceful ignorance, but he knew in his gut that it was too late. The aliens overwhelmed the Iron Man suit, pulling him down to the street.
"Cap, Stark's being attacked," Clint reported, hoping his voice sounded calmer than he felt.
Cap spun in the middle of the street and started sprinting in the opposite direction, towards Tony. Super serum or no, he was still on foot and it would take at least thirty seconds for him to get to Tony's position.
Clint began to feel lightheaded. "This is all my fault!"
"You were bound to miss a shot sometime." That was Natasha.
That only served to make him feel worse. His head was spinning, and oh God what if Tony was killed—
He didn't notice the alien behind him until he was already spiraling into unconsciousness.
-:-:-
He awoke to the smell of antiseptic and shrill beeps. A quick analysis of his condition revealed a throbbing headache and a body flushed with pain medication. His mind was severed from his body, and his limbs were made of cotton. His tongue felt too large in his mouth.
He blinked slowly, eyebrows furrowed, trying to remember what landed him here. It was like scratching at a thick stone wall that he was too exhausted to break through.
"A concussion," said a low, soft voice to his right. The noise rang in his ears like his head was empty. Clint slid his eyes toward the sound and came face-to-face with Bruce. He looked very collected—shirt tucked in, newspaper propped against his knees and Clint's hospital bed, glasses perched on his nose—which was about as put together as Bruce could ever manage. He always seemed like an old pencil drawing with smudged graphite that had been rubbed bare over time. Still, his smile was like a crumpled piece of paper with a beautiful stranger's scrawling handwriting on it—a kind of familiar Clint didn't know he found solace in. His smile was encouraging, like he knew exactly what Clint was rolling around in his mind.
"I was wondering what happened, actually," Clint replied, hoping the doctor would help him out.
Bruce sighed, stretched, and stood up. He picked up a chart and began to flip through it, slowly and deliberately. Clint could feel the memories between his fingers and the sheets, but he didn't grab hold of them. He was too afraid of what he might find. As the silence began to build in its magnitude, Clint started to wonder if he had even heard him. Then Bruce glanced up and said, "I can tell you Tony's pretty pissed at you."
The memory came crashing back—the fight, the misfire, the aliens, Tony—Clint winced, guilt worming through his veins with heart-stopping force. "Is Stark alright?"
Bruce jerked his head to the right. "He's in the room next door." At Clint's horrified expression, he quickly added, "He's alright for the most part. Broken arm and a couple of cracked ribs. A mild concussion, as well, but yours takes first place severity-wise."
"I don't think that's a good thing," Clint grumbled. His head throbbed in agreement.
Bruce let out a low chuckle. "Probably not," he agreed. He saw the guilt painted on Clint's face, and his expression melted from a smirk to gentle kindness. "But all-in-all, it was something that could've happened to him in his workshop."
The words were meant to assuage Clint's guilt, but they didn't. Yes it could've happened in his workshop, but it didn't. It happened because of Clint, and humans had the cruel privilege of having a conscience.
But he knew Bruce was looking for signs of weakness, so Clint just nodded, and let a mask of relief cover his remorse as the two Avengers lapsed into silence.
Bruce meticulously folded his newspaper and Clint refused to meet his eyes, even though he could feel his steady gaze on him. The silence was becoming suffocating, and the distance between them was thick and electric with words aching to reveal themselves. Clint scratched at his IV, the silence seeping into his bones and making him restless. It was a long minute before Clint asked, "Can I help you with something?" Making light of the conversation, skimming the surface, trying not to get pulled under by the unremorseful hands of truth.
Bruce let out a sigh. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"
Clint frowned, trying not to show that the blood had frozen in his veins. His voice was careful, measured. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you never miss a shot. Never. So why did you almost nail Tony in the head today?"
Clint's frown deepened. He should have expected Bruce to want to talk. Lay it all out, categorize it in alphabetical order, color-coded. Clint was simply not interested. So he told Bruce a lie. "I miss shots sometimes."
Bruce smiled gently, but in such a way that told Clint that the bullshit wouldn't cut it. "No you don't."
Clint didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything he could say. The truth enveloped him like he was being swallowed by a beast.
Bruce seemed to know what to say though, and he spoke. "I'm not blind."
"I didn't say you were." The bed was too small, the sheets were itchy. The walls seemed to be closing in.
"I see things. I watch you guys." He let out a mournful chuckle. "This team is the closest thing to family I've had since the gamma accident. I've always had to watch myself constantly, fend for myself…and suddenly, I have a whole bunch of people who each come from their own past of misery. Each dealing with their own problems, and each taking refuge in this little eye in the storm. My problems don't matter so much anymore. Because you guys understand. You come from the same places. So I'm always watching you, because I don't want to lose you guys." Bruce put the admission gently into Clint's hands.
Clint let Bruce's tone surround him silently. He analyzed each word, weighing them for truth or platitudes. Bruce watched him soundlessly, his pen tapping rapidly on his clipboard.
"You haven't been eating. Haven't been sleeping. I know because I care. I really care," Bruce said finally. "You've got people who understand. You've got people who will help."
Clint averted his gaze, staring resolutely at the peaks and valleys of the heart monitor. Bruce touched his shoulder. "Let us help."
Clint finally drew enough strength to look at him, but was met with empty air. He was gone.
-:-:-
He was released the next day from the hospital.
"Get plenty of rest and watch the physical exertion. It'll be a couple weeks before you're out on the field again," his doctor told him. He gave Clint a smile. "But you're pretty much as good as new."
Clint wished that was the case.
The guilt hung around him like a cloak, and he felt it choking him when he caught sight of Tony's arm, nestled in a sling. Even though Tony had been released almost a whole day before him, it would take him a lot longer to be whole again as his bones healed. And if that didn't just rub it in Clint's face.
Tony shot him a withering glare as Clint shuffled into the kitchen upon his release from the hospital, letting him know that the incident hadn't been forgotten, and certainly not forgiven, and turned toward the door with mumbled words that Clint could decipher just enough to hear "work" and "lab."
Bruce was watching the whole exchange from the counter, mouth contorted in disapproval. Clint couldn't tell if the displeasure was directed toward Tony or him, as he turned back to the stove before Clint could see much more than that. Something was crackling appetizingly in a pan, the aroma warm and heavy and comforting, though Clint didn't really know why. "Doctors give you a clean bill of health?"
Clint sat himself at a stool at the counter, dropping his duffle on the ground next to him. "Not allowed to be on the field for a couple weeks, and the gym is off limits for one. Plenty of sleep and water." Clint rolled his eyes. "Heard that one a time or two before."
"Have you?" The tone was light, but the implications were anything but. When Bruce caught Clint's halfhearted glare, he raised his hands in defeat. "Just saying."
Clint rested his head on his arms, probably looking like a sulking child, but his head was throbbing too painfully to care. The events of the past few days, coupled with his lack of sleep the week before, were finally catching up to him, and he felt utter exhaustion settle on his shoulders.
Bruce was clanking around at the stove, metal hitting ceramic and forks and knives tinkling against each other in domestic harmony. The sound was comforting, like a warm blanket he imagined his mother would have settled around his shoulders had he remembered more of her than brief flashes of gentle smiles and fleeting touches of soft hands. He felt his eyes drooping and would've been completely content to drop into sleep for a decade or two, but a hand touched his elbow and there was the noise of ceramic sliding across the granite countertop. Clint opened one eye and stared uncomprehendingly at the omelet, seemingly out of place on Tony's expensive dishware.
"Eat," Bruce ordered. Clint met his eyes and saw the unspoken words. Let us help you.
Apparently mixing chemicals translated to the culinary arts, because the omelet tasted better than anything he had ever had before. And while not exactly the connoisseur of fine dining, Clint had been around a while and around the world even more.
"See?" Bruce said, settling into the seat next to him, a plate of his own in his hands. "We're your friends. We can help if you just let us."
Clint flattened his palms on the counter, like he could tamp down the sudden swirl of emotion that sent pinpricks of warmth into his skin. Bruce smiled slightly; Clint could see him out of the corner of his eye.
"Finish that and go to bed," the doctor said. "I made sure to tell Jarvis to keep everyone away from your room for at least fifteen hours. We'll sort out the Tony situation tomorrow. I'll talk to him."
A swell of gratitude caught in Clint's throat. It was taking him an embarrassingly long time to accept that his teammates weren't leaving him, but he was learning.
"Thank you," Clint whispered, and he meant it with every fiber of his being.
Author's Note: He's learning, guys! Please review, it would mean the world to me!