Title: 'Til I Collapse
Author: Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul
Rating: T
Warnings: Aftermath of torture, Clint has issues, Mental Health issues, deaf!Clint.
Summary: He won't admit that it's taken him this long to get back to Stark's Tower ('cause that would make him weak and Clint Barton - Hawkeye - is not weak), but one look at his trembling limbs, his pale, sweat-soaked skin, and it would give him away.
'Til I Collapse
Chapter One:
It's been a week (seven days; one-hundred and sixty-eight hours).
He's been away from medical for a little over three hours ("Unofficial", "Against Medical Advice", "strong concerns of relapse...") and already he's on edge... (three hours; one-hundred and eighty minutes...and counting.).
He won't admit that it's taken him this long to get back to Stark's Tower ('cause that would make him weak and Clint Barton - Hawkeye - is not weak), but one look at his trembling limbs, his pale, sweat-soaked skin, and it would give him away.
Clint stumbles, sweaty palms sliding down the wall as he fights to right himself, his natural grace buried (restrained! trapped!) beneath the unfamiliar toxins in his system.
Something isn't right... Clint can tell. It's why he discharged himself to begin with... (escape, evade, flee... Must. Get. Out.) He has to find...needs to tell...someone? He can't sort through the muddle of his thoughts right now. He just knows that it's important...
Clint grinds to a halt, ears pricked, scanning his surroundings with a nervous eye as he forces the intrusive thoughts away. (Later. He can deal with it later.)
He easily ignores the rush of blood through his ears; the racing of his pulse with each laboured breath - lungs tight- and he listens...
The hallway is empty (not a threat), although Clint can hear gentle laughter from a room nearby. The sound unwillingly invokes a spike of fear that sets his heart pounding harder against his rib cage but he swallows hard and forces the reaction away; rests the back of his head against the cool brick wall and pushes the uncomfortable thoughts from his brain.
He's okay; he's fine. It's only Nat. He should let her know he's back in the Tower. Did she know he was in medical? He couldn't recall. He should drop in; say "Hi," anyway...
Clint moves with intent, but he's only two steps closer to the Black Widow's position when he stills, unable to move forward another inch.
"Natasha. Natalia, Natalie, Tasha..." He attempts to convince his feet to move, the whispered words sounding harsh through gritted teeth (seven, seven, seven, five...). His breath hitches, a steel band encompassing his chest that squeezes, constricts, tightens.
"No..."
Not today; not right now. Clint can't handle her strangely sympathetic glare. It's...intrusive; knowledgeable. She'll take one look at him and will read exactly what's going on in his messed up head (always does); likely'll drag him straight back to medical. (His head's not a good place to be. Tasha shouldn't be in there. No one should...)
Clint hums nonsense under his breath, a distraction, as he considers his remaining options, fingers tapping out a comforting staccato beat against his thigh (One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four...).
He could find Captain America. Steven Rogers...Steve. (Five. Not like three or seven... Five.) But Steve will take one look at him (forty-eight stitches; two slowly fading black eyes; one fractured wrist; three cracked ribs; a sprained ankle and too large a number of cuts and bruises, burns and scrapes...) and will guilt-trip him straight back to medical without fail.
The thought has his skin crawling, an army of ants setting his skin alight, his stomach threatening to exit through his too-dry mouth.
"No."
There was always Stark... (Five. Tony is four but he doesn't know - doesn't trust - the billionaire well enough to call him Tony. Not yet.). Just the thought of someone choosing to spend time with the self-proclaimed playboy/genius/philanthropist, let alone that person being Clint, is enough to bring an amused smirk to the Archer's bruised face. (He easily ignores the pull of stitches that hold his torn lip together.)
Bruce would be the saner option in comparison, despite his sometimes terrifying and green Hulk-like tendencies. The safer option, perhaps - which, in itself, is ironic and ridiculously stupid. Doctor Banner...safe. (Doctor... No...!)
Once more his body reacts without his explicit permission, the hallway tilting unexpectedly as his vision fades. Only his tenuous grip on the wall keeps him upright, legs trembling as muscles tire from over-use and under-nourishment. (Distraction... He needs a distraction.)
That leaves him with Thor (Thor; four; four is safe). But Thor is usually elsewhere. Not in the tower. Not on the planet? Not around...
"Excuse me for the intrusion, Agent Barton, but may I be of some assistance?"
The disembodied voice of Stark's AI sends a jolt of adrenaline straight to Clint's heart, the resounding rush almost enough to topple him, but he refuses to succumb to the action; muscles locking into place.
The archer counts until he hits a safe number (...fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Sixteen...) before croaking out a response. " 'm looking for Thor..."
"Thor can currently be found on the third floor of the tower. Shall I inform him that you will be joining him, sir?"
Clint contemplates the length of time it will take him to reach the floor (too long) and frowns. "No... Thank you, Jarvis."
"You are very welcome, Agent Barton. If you require anything else, please do not hesitate to ask."
Clint nods, sucking in a lungful of air as he peels himself away from the wall inch by painful inch, trying to force his tense body to relax, to act as though he isn't two steps away from hitting the floor face-first, before he heads for the elevator.
Along the way, his path unsteady, he pretends to not notice that he counts each strategically placed step, lengthening his stride on the last to ensure he finishes on an even number (despite the stretch on his abused thigh muscles and the ache from his bum ankle). He refuses to acknowledge that his fingers automatically seek out the button for the fourth floor and not the third as he'd originally intended (Four. Four is safe...).
Clint was fine.
He was.
He would be...
There was nothing to worry about.
Nothing at all.
(TBC)