Short drabble I had posted on Tumblr that I've cleaned up a bit. But it is gonna be unbeta'd so note that.
Note that in this fic Clint is not trying to belittle what happened. He's trying to keep Steve from swallowing anymore guilt.
I do not name Steve as having PTSD. But it can be seen that way.
Also, I know you guys have been hanging on for other updates, and school has knocked me on my ass, but I'm hoping to have stuff up longer than this up either in December or January. Thanks for the patience. 3 u guys.
Title taken from "Sad Eyes" by Bat for Lashes.
"Did you dream while you were in the ice?" Clint asked, one morning when the sun was just beginning to lighten up the blue of the sky.
Snuggling deeper into their comforter, Steve made a little grunt to show he had heard the question but didn't know. He wasn't even sure why they were awake, and glanced over at the clock, hating the 5:25 am that shown brightly.
"Would it be weirder if you hadn't been dreaming at all or if you dreamed the entire sixty-five years?" Clint moved his hand across Steve's stomach over the white t-shirt he had worn to bed.
"I think it's weird that you're awake," his lover remarked, shifting to flip the pillow over. Rogers hadn't thought about the ice in a while, and maybe that showed he was slowly getting over it.
"What would you even dream about for sixty-five years?" Clint continued on, tucking himself firmly against Steve's warm body. The archer moved his head to his firm chest beside him.
Steve had a flash of music and laughter and people but shook it off. He brought his free hand to rub at his eyes. Why on earth had Clint picked this topic for conversation at this ungodly hour?
"If you're going to be awake, you think you can cook breakfast this morning?" It's an obvious change of subject, but Steve thinks that it's probably for the best.
"Gotcha babe, burnt eggs and toast coming up," Clint rolls toward his side, and is almost out of the bed before Steve catches sight of a huge bruise forming on Clint's right upper arm.
"Whoa! Wait," Steve catches the archer, tugging him back and sitting up to look at the bruise properly. "What the hell is this?" he demands, lightly tracing the outline.
"It's nothing," Clint shrugs, like his arm isn't partially black and blue.
"It's obviously something. It looks just...like..." Steve trails off and brings up his left hand and neatly fits it over the bruise. "Oh god," he whispers, and feels ill.
"Hey, no, stop that," Clint cups the side of his lover face and forces Steve to look at him.
"I hurt you! I did that! When did I do that?" The pieces start to fit together and Steve yanks his hands away. "I was asleep, wasn't I?"
"Steve! Look at me, right now," Clint's voice is stern, almost commanding and Cap can't refuse the order.
"You were having a nightmare, babe. It was not your fault. I took care of it, okay?" he moves a hand to touch the spot on Steve's stomach he had been caressing earlier.
Looking down, Steve pulls up the shirt, and seeing a light discoloration from where Clint had probably forced him away. It still makes him feel sick and closes his eyes when the archer pulls him in close for a hug.
"I only brought up the dreams in case there is something you want to discuss, okay?" his voice goes soft towards the end, and Steve hates the way he knows it's because Clint is worried more than pissed off.
"I could have killed you," Steve says in a low voice, announcing the part that is really scaring him.
"I could have killed myself cooking breakfast," Clint returns, causing his lover to let out an unintentional snort.
"This isn't a joke, Clint," Rogers says, though he feels a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Of course it isn't, have you watched me cook pancakes? Bruce almost Hulked out last time," the archer draws Steve up, a devilish smug smile playing at the corner of Clint's lips.
"Clint, I really could-" the words get silenced with a kiss and swallowed down when their mouths open for each other. They kiss until the air between them isn't enough to keep them sustained.
"I love you," Clint says, when he gets his first breath in. "And we'll work on this, but together, okay? You don't have to handle this alone."
Steve nods, remembering again that he's the luckiest guy in the world, and it has nothing to do with the serum. Whatever he has to do, Steve knows he will to keep Clint safe from whatever is still lingering in his subconscious. He watches as the archer stands and stretches.
"And besides, the only acceptable way you can kill me in that bed is with your dick," Barton offers, with a salacious wink.
Shaking his head fondly, Steve throws a pillow at his idiot lover. "You're ridiculous."
"Ah, but I give good head, now get your ass out of that bed and let me suck you off in the shower," Clint states, and marches off towards their bathroom.
Sadly, Steve couldn't argue this point and didn't even care to as he clambered off the bed to race after him.