This story is something I would normally never write, but the muse struck and I think it's an important one. The subject matter (though ambiguous in the story) is heavy and therefore never talked about. There are a lot of people that pretend it doesn't happen, especially when applied to males. Hopefully this fic will bring about some more awareness, while still keeping true to the characters.
Feedback is so loved. Especially for this one because I'm not sure how it might be received. Especially because I didn't spend too much time on it for fear I'd back out and never post it. Follows, Favorites and Reviews mean the world
Warnings: Language; sensitive material that is only vaguely mentioned in the last few paragraphs
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Aww, Marvel, no
It was early.
Like, Satan's ass-crack of dawn early.
(Or late if you took into account his tinkering had prevented him from actually sleeping at all that night.)
So Tony was pretty surprised when he waltzed (stumbled blearily) into the communal floor to hear the quiet rumble of TV and see the dull glow as the scene changed. He blinked, squinting and trying to determine who in God's name would be up this early.
Cap was really the only inherently morning-person, though when he peered closer he realized the blonde hair was too dark and splattered with brown to be him. It looked almost damp like it had just been showered, which could make it appear darker, but the curtains were drawn and even if they weren't the sun hadn't properly risen to shed any light. (Ha, no pun intended.)
But he was pretty sure it still wasn't golden enough to be their fearless leader.
So ol' birdbrain it was then, and - like himself - it was likely he had never been to bed in the first place.
"Barton?" He called out, surprised at how raspy his voice was. Other than muttered curses and the occasional order to JARVIS, he hadn't spoke much so it really shouldn't have been any news.
The other man didn't even flinch. He was a goddamn assassin, though, so he'd probably been well aware of Tony's presence the whole time.
After a beat of silence, he replied with a soft, "Yeah?"
Didn't turn around or acknowledge him in any other way though. Not that it was expected or anything.
"When'd you get back?" He'd almost forgotten SHIELD had sent him off on some mission that was supposed to take a minimum of two weeks.
It'd been almost three.
Another pause.
"Coupla' hours ago." Infinitely quieter than the 'yeah', and Tony grunted in annoyance because he was tired and because he could.
"Coffee?"
Barton's response was an almost immediate, "Sure" this time. Was even loud enough to be heard.
Still an idiot though.
Tony mumbled something back, and turned his feet away from the living area with chairs and couches (one of which the resident Robin Hood had claimed) towards the kitchen instead. Stubbed his goddamn toe on the goddamn table and cursed the rest of the way to the coffee pot.
Once the nectar of the gods had been made - and not douchey gods like Loki or weird warrior gods like Thor, but awesome coffee-bestowing gods whom he muttered to JARVIS should be sacrificed to when he got around to it - he poured himself and Barton a cup and shuffled over to the same couch he was on.
Splashing a little on the surface, he set the two mugs on the coffee table.
He plopped his ass down, feeling his whole body sink into the cushions because money may not be everything but it bought everything and he considered comfortable furniture a priority. Barton still hadn't said anything, or even looked his direction, so Tony rotated his neck and got his first good look at him.
He was uncharacteristically small; all curled up and nestled into an ass-load of blankets that were bunched around him like a goddamn cocoon. He noticed that the Tweety bird throw Tony had given him for the irony (because, bird, ha - he was hilarious) was swirled in there somewhere, and felt a swell of happiness.
Really only Barton's head stuck out of the mass, and he took immediate notice of a deep, black bruise on his cheekbone and the nasty gash on his forehead. When the TV flashed a little brighter, he also realized his teammate looked a tinge pale and had bags under his eyes that seemed to be dragging his entire body down with their weight.
"You good there, Legolas?"
Blue eyes flickered to his, accompanied by a nod that looked too sincere to actually be sincere, then his gaze returned to the TV.
What the hell were they watching anyway.
"...Johnny Bravo? You're watching fucking Johnny Bravo?"
"He's hilarious," Barton defended indignantly, hunching over a bit more and quite literally pouting.
Tony had to give him that, but still found the whole thing weird. Barton didn't just collapse on people's couches and watch cartoons.
"I'm glad we can bond over toons and all, but you do realize you have your own bed? Hell, I gave you your own damn floor," Tony pointed out as an after-thought.
Another one of those stupid fucking pauses that were impossible to decipher.
"The best coffee maker in the goddamn world is up here." And as if to prove his point, he somehow freed an arm - clad in a gray hoodie from the looks of it so if there was any additional injury there the sneaky bastard could hide it (and hey! Was that his hoodie?) - and reached for his mug, taking a theatrical gulp or two or three and smacking his lips.
"Mine's not nearly this good. You'll need to fix that," he informed, clutching his mug with both hands, now only those and his head visible as his arms were once again swallowed by fleece.
"I'm surpised you didn't just steal this one up here," Tony commented, keeping a close eye on Barton, though he felt his lids drooping with each moment. Even chugging half the mug did little good.
One second Tony was laughing at the genius of freaking 90s cartoons the next he was out like a light.
. . .
The sun had just broken over the horizon, and Bruce found himself clamping his eyes shut in a thus-far-fruitless attempt to sleep. He wasn't sure what woke him up - didn't really care at that point - but he hadn't been able to go back to sleep since.
It was still another half hour before he convinced himself to get up.
A yawn stretched his mouth open wide and he scratched absently at his tee when he stepped from the elevator and made his way towards the kitchen.
He'd stepped over the threshold a good five seconds before he consciously processed that others were actually awake.
Took two eye-rubs to squint and realize Clint and Tony were watching TV.
Scratch that, Clint was maybe watching but Tony was snoring softly on the other end of the couch.
Bruce wondered when the former had gotten back, and - hey, cut him some slack, his brain was still waking up even though his body had been awake for quite some time now - because it was another few beats before it occurred to him he could just ask.
He lumbered over and stopped to the side of the couch, so he wouldn't be blocking the TV - was that - ?
The fact it was Pinky and the Brain spoke to him on some level.
"Hey, Clint," Bruce greeted softly, conscientious of Tony's slumber.
"Mornin', Bruce," came the equally low reply. He looked infinitely tired, had a couple marks on his face that seemed taken care of well enough, but he knew the archer too well and figured there were likely other injuries lurking somewhere under that mass of blankets. .
"I didn't realize you'd gotten back from your mission. Was it a success, I take it?"
A funny look passed his features, but it was gone the next instant so it was probably just a trick of the flickering light of the show.
"In the end." Came his response so late Bruce had all but forgotten his own question.
"Glad to hear it; it's good to have you back. Do you need me to take a look at anything?" 'Anything' was really just a polite way to ask how badly he injured himself and if he needed help or not.
"I'm all good."
Too fast and too sincere so yep.
He was definitely hiding something.
They had a system though. Anything so severe that Clint couldn't patch up himself would be attended to by Bruce, and if he still couldn't fix it then - and only then - would Clint trudge onto SHIELD medical.
"Stark made coffee about an hour ago. Should still be good with that yuppie-ass coffee maker he's got."
Bruce nodded his thanks, and went over to the kitchen area, being as considerate of the sleeping Tony as he could be while he fried up some eggs and poured some coffee - two creams, one sugar.
. . .
She had been getting worried. Yeah, the op was officially supposed to take two to four weeks, but still. It had been almost three weeks (nineteen days, but who's counting?) and still no word from Clint. They made it a point to keep in touch if at all possible, even - no, especially - on SHIELD missions.
While she wasn't privy to the exact details, she did know that it wasn't his usual sniper position but actually an undercover one where he was supposed to get in close with some trafficking (drug, weapon, human, you name it, he's done it) overlord in Madripoor.
So it was pretty reasonable she get antsy.
Even more reasonable she get pissed when she walked in the door and saw the crown of his dirty blonde hair peaking over the edge of the couch.
Asshole.
Natasha stalked over, hearing Stark's snoring and Banner's subtle cooking and ignoring both of their presences.
"Clint, you idiot!" She hissed, at least a little considerate of the billionaire's sleep.
His eyes snapped up at hers - which narrowed at the battered and weary state of his face - and he flashed a grin.
"Hey, Nat, didn't see you come in."
"And I didn't see you come in! Why the hell didn't you tell me you got back?"
He shrugged - hid a wince she noted with both irritation and worry.
"Sorry 'bout that. Just kinda came in and plopped here. I was going to come find you at a reasonable hour," he added, clearly smart enough to realize he'd better damn well start defending himself sooner rather than later.
"Do you need any medical attention?" She knew better than to ask if he'd already gotten it.
He hadn't.
The gash on his forehead was stitched immaculately but not bandaged so he had obviously taken care of it himself. (He always did a piss-poor job at that though - not because he was incapable but because he was a moron.)
"I'm good, Tash. Promise." Another damned grin.
One of these days, she really was going to kill him.
She huffed, throwing herself on the couch next to him, gently pressing herself against him to prove he was there and he was safe. Ignored that he shied away from her and how it took far longer than normal for him to relax.
After a moment, she grabbed the remote. "We are so not watching your childish cartoons."
He protested.
But only half-heartedly.
Just grumbled mildly about "his damn show" and "find your own tv then" and that was it. No theatrical grab or loud yell or even a pout.
Natasha was officially worried.
. . .
Thor's raucous boom of a laugh jolted him out of his heavenly dream (involving Pepper and dessert and a good old fashioned robot), and he was less than amused to find drool had leaked out of his mouth and crusted it to the leather couch.
That type of shit is just nasty, ask anyone.
He swiped a hand down his face and ran his fingers through his haphazard hair, ignoring the amused looks he was getting from Barton and Natasha and Rogers and Banner and when had they all gotten here? What douche bag opened the curtains?
Better yet, when had the goddamn sun come up?
Grumbling darkly, he pushed himself so he was sitting up and grumbled, "What time is it?"
"Not quite nine," Rogers answered, looking like he was amused but ashamed of being so.
As he should be.
Tony grunted, and hauled himself to his feet, grabbing his mostly-empty mug and sparing a glance at Barton.
He looked even worse in the proper lighting; now one of his knees was poking out of the blankets, though he suspected that was only because Natasha's own knee happened to be right there brushing up against it.
Thor erupted in laughter again, which, yeah, he was now pretty concerned at what trouble Blondie had gotten into.
Apparently he had discovered the wonder of spray cheese.
Tony had always found it absolutely disgusting, and wasn't sure how exactly it had gotten into his home, but whatever. He stopped questioning stuff like that a while ago.
The demi-god was tipping his head back and squirting an obscene amount into his mouth, proclaiming its wonder at decibels that should really be outlawed this early in the morning.
He got his coffee - traded mugs for one twice the size then again for one bigger than that - then mumbled something about doing that thing to that thing and wandered down to his lab.
. . .
Tony spent the rest of the day alternating between tinkering and dozing and ignoring various invitations to emerge from his lab.
So imagine his surprise when he lumbered back up to the kitchen for a midnight drink before bed and found Barton still curled up in a corner of his couch.
Like he hadn't left the whole fucking day.
Detouring from coffee to Clint (alliteration is such a good thing), he crossed his arms and stood in front of the the archer.
"What's up with you these days, Barton?" He asked. He'd tried to sound concerned - really - but mostly he just sounded annoyed. (Pepper would just tell him his irritation was just a guise for his worry, so good thing she was taking care of some stuff in California.)
He earned a scowl for that, and caught a grumbled, "Wouldn't you like to know."
Tony rolled his eyes at that. "Yeah, all right Mr. Mystery-Man. God forbid you be anything but an enigma."
Barton switched tactics and grinned at that. "Good to know I can confuse a self-proclaimed genius."
He didn't respond for a moment then went with, "I'm pouring myself a few drinks and maybe making some popcorn. You in?"
"Just water for me," Barton answered, turning up the volume on whatever the hell he was watching now and effectively ending the almost-but-no-not-really conversation.
Tony was a little concerned. Not a lot or anything because it's not like he actually cared.
Sure, Barton had definitely taken the longest to warm up to them. Once he had though, he reminded him a lot of himself - snarky and sarcastic and interested in similar music and movies. He'd get cantankerous (great word, very fitting) if he was around people too long; guess that made him more of an introvert according to Banner, but was overall quite the pleasure to be around.
They'd gang up and tease the others mercilessly which made him a little partial towards the archer sometimes.
So to see him pale and half-hearted and withdrawn worried him.
Just a little though.
Tony grabbed the drinks - just water for Barton, apparently, even though the agent held his liquor just as well if not even better than he himself - and popcorn and settled himself a cushion down from Katniss.
Discreetly watched him from the corner of his eye and decided he'd need to call Coulson and dig up what might have happened.
. . .
As it turned out, he never needed to call "Agent".
Agent called him.
Told him curtly to get the others because he had news regarding Barton.
Tony gathered them - minus Barton, obviously - in one of his labs, and called up SHIELD.
Coulson answered on the first ring (if Skype calls even 'rang'), looking as frazzled and worn as Tony had ever seen him.
Tight lines had deepened around his eyes and mouth, his hair was a bit mussed up and his tie was loosened.
"As you know, Agent Barton was sent undercover in Madripoor. His mission was to get close to the man codenamed Mandark. Mandark is infamous for his dealings in trafficking of - " here Agent's falter is enough to make the whole team's heart race, he's pretty sure it wasn't just him, because Agent doesn't emote. At all. " - most everything, humans being the big one. Barton was supposed to gain his trust enough to gain information on his operations to bring him down."
Tony didn't like that one bit and already tapped away at one of his tablets and told JARVIS to dig up as much shit as he could on this "Mandark" dick.
"While we knew communication would be limited, we have been unable to contact Barton in four days though I - Fury's now agreed we need to clue to you in. He - We didn't want you to lose focus should the Avengers be needed, which I - "
Agent was definitely struggling to remain impassive, and that alone made Tony lose all ability to really function because even though he knew where Barton was - knew he was safe - the hidden desperation was enough to make him almost forget that.
"Coulson, he's here." Natasha was the one to cut Agent off and inform him that his worry was misplaced.
Well, no, probably not misplaced because Tony was beginning to worry what happened during those four days and knew it could be nothing good.
Agent blinked.
Blinked again.
Looked like he might laugh then like he might cry then like he would love nothing more than to kill Barton himself.
At least that's how Tony interpreted the twitch of his lips and shudder of his eyebrow.
"Here? As in the Avengers' Tower here?"
Natasha just nodded.
A pause.
(Tony was beginning to think dramatic pauses were something SHIELD had special classes for.)
"Is he all right?"
Natasha's turn to blink, and now he was certain blinking was another class because that seemed to tell Agent more than her soft,
"Yes."
"I'm coming to you then."
And with that the call was ended, no one really sure what to do with any of that information.
. . .
Phil strode through the door less than an hour later, deciding firmly that Barton was just more trouble than he was worth most days.
Idiot.
A simple phone call was all he needed.
Stark greeted him first, a curt "Agent" passing his lips that was disconcertingly void of most of his usual annoying snark.
"Where is he?"
Natasha appeared from nowhere - he'd gotten used to that pretty early on - and guided him down a hall, left, and gestured inside a doorway.
"Nesting, as Tony's dubbed it, on that couch,"
He had to admit, 'nesting' was a good term. Barton had crashed on the ugly couch in Phil's office numerous times over their history. He always did it after a particularly rough mission when he just couldn't bear the thought of being alone. When he needed people and, more importantly, people bustling about and doing noisy things if possible, to keep him grounded and remind him he was back and he was safe.
Barton had only confessed once, an off-handed, "It's easier to place myself when I wake up if other people are there who wouldn't be there if - ...yeah."
Phil remembered that comment every time he looked at the now comfortable leather couch he had replaced his old, lumpy one with.
"He's been...reserved, Phil."
She added that last part just so he - and not the Avengers trailing behind - could hear, and he picked up on the subtle worry only because he'd known her for so many years.
"I'll talk with him. Get this straightened out, just make sure no one comes barging in."
She nodded, a little more relaxed now that she had a task, which is why he tacked that last bit on anyway.
To his credit, Barton had the decency to look a little sheepish when Phil stood in front of him, arms crossed.
"Coulson," he acknowledged, offering nothing more.
"I suppose it would have been too painful to contact your handler and inform SHIELD you were alive and home?"
"Oh, did I forget to do that?" He had the nerve to look innocent for that question.
"Yes, yes you did 'forget' to do that," Coulson repeated firmly, sitting down on the coffee table across from Barton to keep better eye contact. So not pleased with the state of his face.
"Oh."
"Oh? Just 'oh'?" A pause. He softened his voice, "What happened out there, Clint?"
A dark look passed over his face, one that only Phil and Natasha would recognize, then he shrugged. Explained in a quiet, monotone voice and brief sentences.
"Got close. Seduced him like I was supposed to. Things got a bit hairy, but I got the information and set the people free in Madripoor. Managed to get word to people we trust on how to free the rest and take down the global system. Things got a bit hairier and I put a shard of glass right through the base of his skull. Mandark is eliminated; hostages set free; mission accomplished, sir."
He added, as if that was what mattered.
SHIELD had gotten word that various bases of Mandark's had been raided and his system had collapsed in on itself, but if they had a way to get reliable information about the man himself and more so his HQ in Madripoor to keep them updated on the Barton's status, than the archer wouldn't have been needed in the first place.
Phil had known Barton had completed at least most of his mission - because no one else would be able to accomplish what he had - but that didn't let him know what had become of the agent himself.
"...When you say hairier, do you mean - ? Did he - ?" Phil couldn't bring himself to say it.
Clint had been through abuse his whole life, he was almost certain even the sexual abuse that went hand-and-hand with human trafficking (especially when he was supposed to seduce the bastard), though he had never asked and, other than vague comments, Barton had never said.
Just because he'd endured the trauma before didn't lessen the severity of the situation in the slightest though.
That same dark look from earlier crossed his features - so Phil had his answer and now he wanted to resurrect Mandark just to kill him all over again - but then Barton grinned.
"He didn't do anything. Sure, some of his goons landed in some good hits and a few times I was pretty sure I was going to get shot and bleed out, but don't be dramatic because he didn't 'do' anything."
It was heart-wrenching to watch.
Because it sounded like Clint was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince Phil.