Beta read by: markofthemoros SinikkaVonWolperting DragonRiderSayomi (aka KageroAssassin - Tumblr)
Alright, so I kinda fell back into the Hawkeye Hype recently. Read a few more fics after years, and that really put me in the mood. I know I'm late to the party, like SEVERELY late and have no idea if there is even still interest around for fics in this fandom. But, what the hell, I need to write some stuff. XD So, here we are, my first Avengers fic. Decided to do a one-shot for my first as a way to ease into the fandom like I usually do when I'm still learning a lot of the details.
I do have a few ideas I wanna do at some point, possibly. We shall see. ;w;
Warning: I am not an expert of all the details, nor am I a medical expert. I did do a little bit of research on shrapnel, and I do not that most of this stuff is not recommended. But, sure, let's roll with it for the sake for fluffy H/C.
With a deep yawn, Tony reclined back as much as his chair would allow. After a few weary blinks, he glanced at the time. 4:26 A.M. He pressed his palms against his burning eyes before taking a generous sip of coffee and setting the half filled cup next to the empty one. Luckily, he was now a third of the way through his latest project, so that meant - he counted and mumbled under his breath - only about 36 hours left until he could call this prototype 'done'.
Taking a deep breath, the genius hunched back over his drafts, pencil almost moving on autopilot. Hopefully, with these newest adjustments to the suit, he'd be able to move more flexibly. A few more minutes into his work and he picked up a tune - some catchy song he recently heard on the radio, he couldn't remember which. To him, most of them sounded the same anyway.
He was just getting into it, falling into rhythm of sorts with his marks. Tony was only able to get a few more minutes into his work when the 'ding' of an elevator disturbed his much needed peace.
"How am I supposed to get anything done when people come back past curfew…" he muttered, glancing towards the door. The room was too dim to make out many details, but the silhouette was unmistakable.
"If you keep coming here at such ungodly hours, might just have to get your wings clipped, Birdie-boy." He chuckled to himself, even if his quip wasn't appreciated by the other.
In fact, there was no response as Clint made a beeline for the kitchen. Tony half paid attention as the archer slowly near-hobbled to his alcohol cabinet. "I need a drink," the blond finally said. Clint grabbed the first thing his hand could reach, Tony noticed. His brows bunched; there was something off-putting about his movements.
"Kinda early for a drink, isn't it?"
He caught a half shrug - and didn't miss the accompanying grunt - as Barton dropped into the closest chair. Stark wasn't sure if he should be insulted, worried or impressed by the swig the man took before slamming the bottle on the table with a hiss. Again, a motion that didn't sit right with Tony.
Downing the rest of his coffee, he pushed himself up with a hefty sigh, pausing to stretch his back (And, of course, not to come off as too concerned). "So, why are you here and not...you know...in your own quarters? That I have graciously provided you. And everyone out of the kindness of my own heart."
As he got a little closer, he inwardly flinched at the sideways glare their resident hawk was giving him.
"You have the best alcohol," he replied flatly.
Ok, he had to give him that one at least. He offered an approving nod and finally stole a once over at the other. His brows just drew closer together. "You alright? No offence, or some, actually, but you look like shit."
"None taken," Clint replied, taking another quick drink. Cringing, he went to push himself back up. "Hey, I'm just gonna...borrow your bathroom, if you don't mind." Tony watched as the man took a step with his left foot, barely putting weight on it before quickly shifting to the other.
"Something wrong with your leg?" Tony cut right to the chase, nodding towards the appendage.
Clint hesitated, jaw set. "Just a little sore, was a long mission." He looked the other dead in the eyes. Tony had to admit, Barton was a good liar, that much was for damn sure. But, no amount of lies could veil the exhaustion and pain clouding his stare. "I'll be fine after a shower and a nice, long nap." With a deep, steadying breath, the archer again went to walk and managed to keep himself surprisingly straight and even with his steps. Tony almost believed the facade.
Almost.
"Barton?" he questioned, beckoning the other to pause with the stiffening of his shoulders. "Last I checked, general soreness didn't cause bleeding." Eyes eyes drifted from the few drops on the floor to the man's back, which he could now see the dark stains littering the left side of. And furthermore, he realized the odd movements were likely due to him favoring one side.
Slowly Clint turned, his mask finally crumbled away to reveal the fatigued-etched features underneath. "It was a rough couple of days, I got some scrapes. That's why I'm using your shower."
"Jarvis?"
"There's no need for tha-" Clint began, closing his eyes to prevent himself from rolling them when the AI sounded off:
"Agent Barton is suffering from moderate blood loss, mild dehydration and a heightened heart and respiratory rate."
"See?" Clint cut back in, "just some flesh wounds tha-"
"There are also foreign objects embedded in Barton's left arm, side and leg. Ten in his arm, five in his left deltoid, two in his bicep and three in his brachioradialis. Six in his side…" As the AI listed off, Tony kept a quick tally in his head: Ten plus six plus twelve…
Tony's eyes widened as he muttered, "28?"
The blond took a deep breath, not even trying to hide his hisses of discomfort anymore. "I guess so," he shrugged with his good arm. "I managed to block most of it," he half joked, raising his arm to show off all the bloody tears. "Coulda been a lot worse. But, guess there's no hiding it, so I'm sure you'll understand why I need to go 'wash up'."
He tried once more to turn on his heel. It was never that easy though. A hand landed on his right shoulder. He would have instantly shaken it off if it weren't for the uncharacteristic gingerness it showed.
"Hold up," Tony sighed. "No, you're not gonna go wander off and operate on yourself, or lick your wounds, or whatever it is you and Natasha do. I don't even wanna know." He ignored the confused raised eyebrow. "You're littered with shrapnel like a damn pin cushion…" His eyes unconsciously flicked to the tattered material that was uncomfortably close to the man's chest.
Clint was reluctant to reply. For a moment, he seemed stuck between the two options before finally letting out an exasperated sigh and slightly shaking his head. "No, thank you, but I think I-" he drew in a sharp breath - "got this."
Now, Tony's grasp tightened. "I was trying to give the illusion of choice; was kinda betting on you accepting the help, you see. That and…" he cut his eyes down, "I can't have you tracking blood through my home...it stains, Barton. You get any on the carpet, and you're paying to have it cleaned."
He wasn't certain, but he was sure a small whimper escaped the other man as he leaned to the side and placed a single hand on the counter. All of his weight appeared to be focused on that spot; his arm trembled under the effort it took to hold it there.
"Let's just make it quick so I can go to sleep," he muttered.
Despite his haggard expression, he did well to partially shove Tony and partially stumble around him back to his previous seat. Without hesitation, he plucked the whisky bottle back up only to let out a noise of complaint when it was snatched away.
"That's enough of that," Stark chimed in. "You heard Jarvis, you're already dehydrated." The hairs on the back of his neck raised as daggers bore into him. He didn't let the death glare affect him as he instead filled a glass of water and handed it over. "Here, drink this instead. I'll be back with something for the pain." He then took a sip of his own from the bottle. "And this is for the pain in my ass you're causing."
This time, Clint let his annoyance plainly known with a low groan. For the half a minute Tony was gone, the archer had sunk deeper into his chair and leaned his head back. Now that he finally had time to take a break, all the stinging, burning and overall exhaustion were catching up. At once and like a truck. Before he could stop it, a pitiful whine snuck passed his lips. By the time he realized his eyes were closed, a snapping of fingers brought him right back.
"Here."
Tony held his hand out, two small pills in its palm. Clint accepted them without objection. He didn't think he really needed the water to get them down. He sighed after chasing it with half the glass of water. He then dragged another chair closer. "Prop your leg up so I can reach better." Once more, the other obeyed without question.
The blond brought his attention to the table, just then noticing all the other equipment: tweezers, various size rolls of bandages, scissors and what looked like a damp rag. Clint raised an eyebrow at the assortment.
"Uhm, a-are you qualified for this?"
Tony paused for a fraction of a second, "Are you? This isn't an infirmary, you know. Speaking of, you are aware we have one, right?"
"Fair enough."
Tony grabbed for the whiskey again. Instantly, Clint cut his eyes over. "I'd still prefer you be sober…"
The other gave him an incredulous stare. "Really? You think that lowly of me?" Barton retained his glare. "Seriously?!" Popping the cap off with more force than necessary, he provided no warning as he poured a generous amount over the wounds on the archer's arm. He almost felt a pang of guilt at the pained gasp and the involuntary twitch.
"G-Give a w'rning next time," Clint grunted between clenched teeth.
"Ok, Jarvis, gonna need you to tell me exactly where the pieces are." With a confirmation, the two men fell silent as Tony followed the AI's orders, moving with impressive precision. Guess that's to be expected of a man who works with delicate materials on the daily. Still, precise did not equate to gentle. It took him about a minute to get the first piece out of the archer's arm and drop it on the table. "One down…"
"Great," Clint near-growled. "How long for these drugs to kick in?" he asked, eyes closed tightly.
Stark shrugged. "Dunno, around 20 minutes maybe? Give or take."
The words barely made it out of his mouth when a hand swiped the whisky from the table. "H-Hey, you probably shouldn't drink any more of that with pain med- nevermind...too late, I guess." Tony shook his head and got back to removal. "Don't blame me if you start puking your brains out."
He glanced up when he didn't get a reply and found Clint to be pretty much the same as last he saw: eyes squeezed, jaw firm. Only difference is he now had a visible sheen of sweat and a pallid complexion.
"You holdin' out alright?" The gruff hum he received would suffice enough. Tony looked back to the shard of metal on the table and sighed heavily. "Only 27 to go." He didn't know if it was the lighting or his imagination, but Barton paled a shade more. "Just so you know, the moment you pass out, I'm handing you over to the professionals." That did the trick. Clint forced his eyes back open, mumbling incoherently under his breath. Tony would just have to keep him talking.
"How did you even get yourself in this mess? Had a date with metal porcupine or something?" Not his best joke, he would admit.
The blond twitched as he plucked another piece from his arm. "Too close...to, uh, a tur - ngh - turret before I-I shot'it." He inhaled shakily through his nose and slowly released it through his mouth. "Good news is," he continued when he had a few seconds break before Tony moved to the next, "the others got...the worst end." He shifted instinctively when Stark got close to the third.
"More good news is that these aren't as deep as I expected." He spared a glance at the archer's drawn expression. "Still, this stuff hurts like a bitch."
"You're tellin' me…" Dulled blue eyes drifted down to the arc reactor, a stare that was picked up on instantly. He awkwardly cleared his throat, "I-I guess you are."
For the rest of Clint's arm, they both remained quiet; only the occasional hiss and gasp sounded out from the archer. On the bright side, at least it was easy to tell he was still conscious. Slowly slipping closer to the passing out side of things, but awake nonetheless. The moment he plucked out the last piece and added it to the pile, Tony traded the tweezers for the bandages. It wasn't his best work, but all that mattered was the wounds were bound.
"So, what? Did you just come straight here after sucking in all the metal within a ten mile radius like a fleshy sponge?" He cringed at the imagery. 'What the fuck?' he thought to himself.
Regardless, Clint snorted as the first bandage was tied off. "Don't be an idiot. Of course I got out what I could. The larger pieces, anyway." He pulled his arm back to drape it over his chest and allow access to his side now.
"Apparently you did a shit job."
"Clearly," Clint hissed as the scissors bagan slicing through his clothing. He didn't need to look at the other man to know the face he wore. "I think that's where the worst of it is," he muttered after the genius's 'Holy shit.'
Without a word, Tony took the whiskey back. This time, before pouring a single drop, he offered the other man a quick, sympathetic glance. "This's gonna suck." Barton tensed as the bottle neared, teeth clenched enough to almost be at a breaking point. As if it was just as painful to him, Stark again poured a hefty amount of the wounds. This time, there was more than ping of guilt. More like a tsunami when Clint barely held back a cry. "Almost done," he assured as he poured over the last of the wounds.
When he set the alcohol aside, Clint was left breathless, every exhale a whimper. And Tony had to say, he was not a fan of the way his eyes lost focus for a few seconds.
"You good?" he questioned, preparing to call Banner in a heartbeat.
A wheezed "Uh...uh-huh." Clint was blinking rapidly, fighting off a bout of dizziness. "M'good...I'm good."
Tony nodded and instructed Jarvis to guide him once again. He tried to go for the worst of them first, wanting to get the most painful out of the way. And agonizing they were, if Clint's writhing and spasming was anything to go by. If that wasn't enough, then his moans and groans were. The first he pried out, he hoped was the toughest because he spent longer removing it than he cared for.
"Five more in your side, then we can move on to your leg."
Barton gave a curt nod.
"In the meantime, drink some more of that water, if you can. You're still dehydrated, after all. And I'm sure that's not improving at the moment on its own." He was waiting for that famous Barton stubbornness, but was disappointed when it never came. When he glanced back up, Clint was sipping cautiously. "So, those meds kicking in yet?"
"I'unno." His voice came out strained. "If'it is, can't tell."
Alright, and like routine, keep him talking. "Tell me, Tweetie, why didn't you, ya know, go to the medics, whose job it is to deal with this stuff? Why the hell did you come here?"
The archer lifted a brown. "Told'ya. You 'ave good liquor," he said again, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "And…" he took a trembling breath, "I thought you'd be asleep, t'be honest. Planned on grabbin' a drink, and headin' to my own bed."
"So, let me get this straight. Your brilliant plan after getting pelted with metal shards was to come into my home, steal my whiskey. Not to mention, trail blood all over the tower in the process of all this. Then to go back to your quarters so you could die peacefully in your bed? Did I get all that right? Or am I missing something?"
Clint scoffed under a ragged breath. "Wasn't gonna die." He braced himself as another sliver was extracted and dropped onto the pile. "Was plannin' on goin' to the infirmary in the morning."
"And why not tonight? Or would that just have made things too easy for ya?" he added mockingly, starting on the next wound.
The blond turned his head the other way, a clear sign what he said next was going to make Stark want to punch him. "They're too...persistent?" he croaked. "Too much going on, too many...people." He waved his good hand for good measure. "At least want some sleep...before being pestered non-stop."
"In other words...you're a child," Tony summed up, dropping another piece. A small smirk played on the corner of his lips at the lack of a reaction that one elicited. Just two left here.
Another scoff, this one forced and exaggerated. "Like you're one to talk. I seem'to reme-mber you...tryna lie your...way outta shots more than once."
The fourth piece joined the pile.
Now it was Tony who was starting to work up a sweat. "Yeah, well...I could also live without them," he shrugged. "You never mentioned, what kind of mission requires blowing up artillery?" Stupid question, he knew. Almost every mission they were sent on, something was being blown up.
"Can't talk 'bout it."
Of course he couldn't.
"Guess that takes all the other questions I had planned off the table," Stark sighed, dropping the last shard with the others. "And then there were twelve," he announced, almost cheerfully. "Over halfway done."
Clint visibly relaxed and managed to straighten a tad bit. "Let's get this over with," he breathed out tightly. Tony could only assume that was permission to just toss gentleness out the window. He quickly got the man's side patched up and made one more reach for the whiskey bottle. Luckily, the reaction wasn't quite as strong as previous ones had been. Either he was getting used to the pain, or he was really starting to lose the battle with consciousness. Likely a combination of both.
"Alright, Jarvis, you know the drill." Tony counted silently to himself as each piece of metal was added with the collection. When the last one 'clinked' at the top, the both of them released a simultaneous sigh of relief. One last bandage was applied and Tony stretched to his feet.
"Ya'done?" Clint asked, barely any awareness in his voice. "Welp, time f'r bed," he muttered, sliding his leg off the chair with a pained grunt.
He never made it to his feet, barely made it into a sitting position before things began to swirl in his vision.
A hand grabbed onto his good arm, firm yet careful. "Easy there, you lost a decent amount of blood." He took a small detour to deposit a few things in the sink and gathered all the shards. "As soon as I get all this cleaned up, I'll help you to the couch, alright? So try not to konk out before then; I don't want to haul your dead weight around."
He moved quickly, likely missing spots here and there, but he was in a rush. Clint was growing wearier by the second. And, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, Tony was starting to sense a crash of his own.
After another hearty yawn, Stark stepped back to the archer's side. "Alright, come on. I would say we should get you a change of clothes first, but...I don't see that working out." He doubted Clint could stay awake long enough to do it himself, and Tony, well, there was no way he could do it on his own. It was fine, he'd just lay a towel down. One of the guest towels.
He slipped an arm around Barton's waist, careful to avoid his wounds, and together - more so Tony - hefted him to his unsteady feet. "Ok, Imma need to you work with me here, start walking or I'm going to have to drag you.
"M'goin'," Clint slurred, finally taking more of his own weight from the other's shoulders. They got a few steps, and he added a reserved "Sorry."
"Hm?"
Clint took a slow, deep breath. "I said 'm'Sorry," he repeated, a bit louder and a lot more hoarsely. Catching the confused glance, he elaborated, "'Bout comin' in 'ere so late? Makin' ya stay...up." He hissed as Tony's hold on him was adjusted.
"That's enough of that." They gradually made it to the couch, and Clint was helped to sit and lean back. "Don't move, I'm getting a towel." He knew though, that there wasn't much a towel was going to do at this point. There was already a bit of blood on the carpet and couch from the trek over here. But, that wasn't the point. There was a front to keep up, and not even in front of an injured and delirious comrade was he going to let it fall so easily.
He returned to find the man already reclined back, good arm wrapped around his torso almost protectively. His breathing was even, at least, and his face was a few shades in the right direction now. Still too pale for Tony's liking, but it was something.
"Hey, sleeping beauty, got your bed sheet," he announced, draping it over the cushions.
In less than a minute, Barton was situated, already drifting off again. He shook his head, the moment anyone found out about this, they were gonna have his head for not forcing Clint to actually get checked out.
Before doing anything else, Tony grabbed a spare cover and tossed it over the still form. To be honest, getting blood on anything was one of his lower concerns. "You're too damn much trouble," he muttered, wiping a hand down his face. Just as he turned his back, he heard a quiet, 'thanks'. It was then followed groggily by: "Sorry again, I know it's late."
Tony offered at least a chuckle at that. "Yeah, yeah, don't mention it. Seriously though, not a chirp to anyone, you got that? Don't want everything thinking this is a free clinic or anything." He started back towards his desk, but stopped after a few steps and tossed a look over his shoulder. "And don't worry about it, was pulling an all nighter anyway. Which, I need to get back to. If ya need anything, I'm literally a name away."
Please let me know what you thought, feedback is beyond appreciated. And, if it's wanted, I will add a follow-up to this one. If not, I'll leave it as is and focus on another idea~