Non-canon, Clintasha, hearing-impaired Clint, angst ridden, AU, WIP set after the events in Winter Soldier. Also follows events in the stories: Shadows & Bird On The Wire. It may be more enjoyable if you have read those but it should stand alone. This first chapter is heavy on the angst. It's mostly spill-over from Bird On The Wire, and though I left Clint and Natasha in a mentally okay place in that story, I assume that there would be emotional aftershocks that could hit well after that story ended.

Rated: M for language and potential story developments.

Disclaimer: I do not own them.

Battle Scars

By: GalInTheMoon

Clint awoke with a start. The sweat that had been pooling in the hollow of his chest ran down his abdomen as he wiped the salty beads from his forehead. Beside him Natasha sat up, running her hand along his damp back. She looked around his shoulder, into his face, "You okay?"

"Fine. Go back to sleep." He slid out of the bed, pulled on his sweatpants with one hand, and was out of the room shortly after. She wouldn't follow. This had become their routine for the past couple of weeks. He would wake just as he had, abrupt and sweat soaked. She would question if he was alright and he would silently leave her to her concern. Different night, same scenario.

It had only been a couple months since he was abducted by a mad man out for revenge and only a few weeks back home. Anyone could easily guess what was plaguing his rest. The incident had left him injured. His right arm was still causing him pain, strapped to his abdomen in a brace, and it would be weeks, most likely months before he would be cleared to even try to use his bow again. To make matters worse the removable exterior piece of his SHIELD designed ear implants had been damaged so badly Tony and Bruce were still trying to put the tiny tech marvels back together. Everyone seemed to tiptoe around him and as much as he would deny it, he felt isolated, alone with all the thoughts that plagued him.

At the moment one of the thoughts that loomed large as any other was Barney, his older brother. Their youth had been one of constant struggle and survival. When they did go separate ways it was violent, and aside from a little reunion several years ago when Barney showed up at Clint's door under the guise of brotherly love only to leave him with scars from the encounter, Clint hadn't had any contact with him in his adult life. Then, seemingly out of the blue, his abduction, the injuries he currently suffered were because of Barney. It was to pay Barney back for putting SHIELD on his tail, and the loss of his wife, that Cross had taken so much vengeance out on Clint. When all was said and done he had had only enough time to say goodbye to Barney before he was gone, again. It had to have taken a toll on her partner. How could it not?

His brother was a mental poltergeist and a physical hurricane, destroying everything in his path. In person or by proxy it made no difference and the few times Clint was caught in Barney's shit-storm he was left demolished. There was no answer for it though. There was nothing Natasha could do or say to ease what haunted her partner. At least not tonight, not now. She closed her eyes, rolling over to try and give sleep a chance to return before Clint.

Meanwhile, Clint made his way down one of the hallways of the suites wing. He was heading to the common room and the small bar there. He wasn't proud of the fact that he had started taking this route to get some sleep but it was what it was. He stopped for a second when he made it to the large room whose entire outer wall was glass. The city lights twinkled outside just as the bar lights made the rows of bottles shimmer. He thought of turning back around for a split second when he saw Tony standing at the windows, drinking glass in hand, still dressed in his jeans and t-shirt of earlier. It was nearly four a.m. and he hadn't even tried to go to bed.

Forget this, Natasha would be happy to exhaust him back to sleep, but just as he was ready to sneak back to her side Tony turned around.

"Cupie." He raised the glass in his hand and walked over to the bar.

They had run into each other this very same way several nights since his return to the tower. It was becoming a thing and Barton was less than comfortable about it, but he suspected Tony wasn't tickled pink over their situation either. At least he seemed alright with his company. Tony began pouring him a drink, a whiskey dry, just the way he liked it. Damn it, he thought. He had a drink to call his own. His stomach turned a little as he took the glass and finished the burning liquid in one gulp. Tony smiled and poured another. He stared at Clint a minute as the other man twirled the amber liquid in the glass in front of him but didn't take a drink.

"What was it tonight?" He asked, once Barton glanced up at him.

Clint shrugged. That translated to, hell if I know and double hell if I'm talking about it, in Barton non-speak-speak. Whatever was troubling him it wasn't making itself easily known, to the man himself least of all, and the last thing he was interested in doing was talking it out with Tony. "You?" He shifted the question to Stark.

Tony's smile was sharp and bitter. His humor ever more tipped in arsenic, "Gotta feed the beast or it gets angry."

Clint knew what he meant. He could nearly see the monster on Tony's shoulders. It was a monster he knew, a damned creature given to anyone who had seen a fight for survival of one form or another. And while some brought home a nippy Chihuahua that could draw blood but be managed with work, others, like Tony, were handed over a feral wolf with horns...and rabies.

"Starve the bastard Tony." He said as he continued to swirl his drink, fighting the urge to check over his own shoulder.

"Shhh," Tony put his finger to his lips, "It'll hear you." The man had clearly been at it for a while before Clint had gotten up. He watched him a moment, frowning. Tony Stark, the man who had everything including enough demons to fill an acre of hell. Tony returned the stare a second before the smile slid from his lips. He raised his glass and finished its contents. "Yeah." Was all Clint could say in return before he took a drink himself and dropped his head along with the glass once finished.

Tony watched him a moment before tapping his arm, making Clint look up. He pointed to his own ear, "We can do a test run tomorrow." He said referring to the hearing aids he and Banner were working to repair.

Clint swallowed, "Great."

"It's just a test. May be for nothing."

"Got it. It's good."

"Bruce thinks we have it locked in but I, uh, I don't know. Seems like SHIELD made some modifications beyond the schematics we have. We're missing something."

"Missing something?"

"Yeah. Do you remember how many they tested before they were keyed in?"

"None. Those were it."

"Perfect."

"You afraid of that?"

"We'll get it." He watched Barton a moment, "How's the arm?"

Barton dropped his hand midsip, "Shit Tony. Can you not?"

"Sure." He shrugged. He couldn't help but poke at bruises, "How's Red? She upset you're having these little middle of the night rendezvous with Jack Daniels?"

"Ask Pepper."

Tony rocked onto his heels, feigning emotion. "Oof, point taken."

"She doesn't know." Clint swirled his drink a little faster, teasing the amber liquid nearly to the crest of the rim.

"Sure she does. They always know Cupid." He took another drink.

"They do, and Pepper isn't dragging you back to bed?"

"She knows me too well." He shrugged, "I'll just come back out when she falls asleep again. She picks her battles."

Clint shook his head. He was ready to say something along the lines of, we're a couple idiots, when Steve walked into the room.

"Oh captain my captain!" Tony mock-yelled across the room.

He grimaced before sitting down, "Tony, Clint."

Tony offered a drink though he knew it wouldn't be accepted. Rogers didn't get anything from alcohol and usually chose to skip the pointless burn.

"No thanks. Water?" He looked between the two men, "This is becoming a habit."

"What's that?" Clint asked, ready to defend himself despite his heart not being in it.

"This. Meeting up in the middle of the night. It's becoming a habit."

Barton nodded. There was no arguing the facts. The three seemed to be in this same position every other night. The only thing that changed was at what point in this little scenario they met-up. Tony pushed Steve's iced water across the bar as Clint was sliding his glass toward Tony without a word. Tony filled it just as quietly. He stole a glance at Steve's hands as he slid Clint his drink. "You use up another one of my punching bags Cap?"

Steve followed Tony's line of sight. His hands were bruised and the skin over his knuckles torn and scabbed over, it was nothing that wouldn't be healed by mid-morning. What could he say, they all had their release in one form or another. "I'll replace it."

"Oh yeah and what about the last dozen?" Stark took a sip.

Clint stared at his glass, opting out of the conversation happening beside him. A simple turn of the head put him a million miles away.

"Seriously?" Steve asked, face fallen. "You said, and I'm quoting here, go at 'em pops."

Tony smirked but didn't respond. He didn't care about the bags any more than Steve cared about his own knuckles. He just liked to give the guy a hard time whenever possible. It was his thing and people, the captain especially, tended to be more honest once prodded past the niceties. Steve's eyes narrowed as he realized what Tony was doing. He waited a beat to give the man what he was after, "I don't think I'll ever get used to the hum."

"The hum?" Tony leaned forward, entirely confused but curious. Happy to be getting what he wanted after several nights of prodding, he rested his elbows on the bar.

"Everything hums or buzzes these days."

"Really, and you hear that?"

"You don't?"

"No I don't." He stood up. He got the answer he wanted but it was looking less interesting than first suspected, "Must be your super capi senses kicking in."

Steve drank the water in front of him, "No, no the worlds changed Tony."

"That what's messing with your sleep, the hum? Or the world?"

Steve shook his head, "Take your pick." He stood, finished his drink, slapped Clint on the back and once the archer looked over his shoulder said, "I'm turning in."

Clint lifted his fingers from his glass, "Night."

"Nighty-night Spangles." Tony watched Steve nod as he made his way out of the large room, his raised hand staying visible a moment longer as he disappeared around a corner to return the goodnight.

Tony looked back to Clint who was clearly still in his own head. He smirked to himself at the irony. One man was inundated by the world, while right beside him another felt cast out from it. "If people could only see us now." He looked at the ceiling. They were a mess. Some heroes. Whatever fading trust, hope, or faith the public had in them would be nothing but a memory if they saw the toll this superhero shit took out of them. Entire cities were easier to rebuild. Whatever numbing buzz he'd had was suddenly evaporating. He tapped Clint's glass to get his attention. "I'm going back to bed. The magic's gone."

Barton nodded, "Night Tony."

Tony started to walk away but paused, looking back, "You want company?"

Clint shook his head no. Tony nodded and waved at the glistening bottles, "Enjoy."

Barton raised his glass to his lips and finished the last of the whiskey before exhaling, "Not the word for it." When Tony paused, eyes concerned, Clint added, "Thanks."

Stark gave an index finger salute before walking away. He wanted to say something along the lines of not thanking the man who gives you the gun you shoot yourself with, but he was just too damn tired. He paused, remembering something, and pulled a folded envelope from his back pocket, "Forgot to give you this."

Frowning Clint reached out to take it as Tony came close.

"Came in this morning." He said with a shrug, "Night."

Clint didn't catch Tony's good night. The envelope had his total attention. He flipped it over in his hands. There was no return address and it was simply sent to Clinton F. Barton, Avengers Tower. He held it up to the dim light but could see nothing more than a faint rectangle slightly smaller than the envelope. He tapped it on the counter before dropping it and returning his hand to his cup.

He sat in silence twirling the empty glass battling his desire for another and his desire to walk away. As if she had been waiting there, Natasha materialized from the shadows of the hallway. She walked silently to the bar and sat beside him. Her hand rubbed along his back as she lowered into the seat. He watched as she did. Her short, ivory silk robe caught the dim lights. Creamy liquid metal cascaded across her thigh. Clint watched the colors play along the garment, admiring the form beneath before making eye contact.

"Hey." Was her simple response to his admiring gaze.

"Hey." His eyes shifted before he gave up the fight and looked away. She knew him too well. He could hide nothing from her.

Next to him she leaned over the bar, he assumed getting a glass for herself, but when she sat back down she was opening a bottle of water. She slid his whiskey glass out from his fingers while sliding the water into them. He watched her. She returned the look but said nothing as his eyes held hers for a long, heavy silence that was thick with meaning for them alone. At last, he nodded and drank the water, nearly finishing it in one gulp.

"Tired?" She asked once he had lowered the bottle.

"Exhausted."

"Let's go." She stood.

He grabbed her arm, stopping her in place as he met her eyes. He wanted to tell her he couldn't sleep, that he was scared to try. He wanted to tell her that something was chasing him every night and it wasn't the sandman. He wanted to tell her the only thing that numbed the fear that was growing in the pit of his stomach was just another monster he had been running from all his life. He wanted to tell her he was falling apart in more ways and places than he could comprehend. And that the realization scared him shit-less. That the only thing that scared him more was that she might one day pay for his spreading fault-lines. That he didn't know what to do. He wanted to say all of that but instead he dropped his hand and let her go, standing as he did.

She waited and watched him a moment. "Clint?"

"Let's go to bed." He rubbed her arm as he walked past. She watched him walk away. She understood more of what was tearing him apart than he would believe, maybe more than he knew himself, and because of that she didn't push. She accepted what he offered while he offered it.

After all, she had her own fears that she wouldn't confess to him if by chance her voicing them would make them so. Fears that he wouldn't want this life much longer. That he couldn't live this life much longer. That he needed more, that he needed normalcy, that he needed things she couldn't offer. A life she couldn't give or join. She watched him walk out of sight before she followed, grabbing the forgotten envelope he had left on the bar as she did.

Her mind fumbled as he turned a corner in front of her. What would she do when the day came he left her behind? She knew it was coming. She could feel it. She could see it. He had already put in so many years and now with the Avengers, it was too much. Sure as he would wake up soaked in sweat again before the sun ever broke the horizon he would look for something else, an escape from all the death and nightmares. This life was killing him. Many would have been chewed up and spit-out already.

What he needed, what would sustain him was a word, an idea, she couldn't allow herself to say much less live. It was one thing lacking in their lives that had brought them together on one level and it would be the thing that would tear them apart on another. Family. A life filled with safety, love, and normalcy. It was something that the Red Room had taken from her. A life she could never know. It was the one thing Clint needed. The thing he longed for whether he knew it or not. The one good, solid plug for the gaping hole in his soul and she couldn't be a part of it. She couldn't live like that. The words alone were so bitter on her tongue. At some point she would have to step away. If she loved him, and she did (though she denied it to herself), she would have to before there was nothing left of him. The only question was how long would she hold on. How greedy would she be with this love she danced around and teased?

When she walked into his room Clint was already sliding under the blankets, his brace dropped to the floor. He slowly rested back against the pillows that propped him up, arm across his waist, eyes closed. The blinds were open allowing the light to spill into the bedroom and lay in stripes across the bed and Clint. There were times pitch black darkness was just too suffocating. She dropped the letter in her hand on the nearest surface, and let her robe slip to the floor before walking over to the bed and sliding in beside him. She draped her arm over his waist, gently resting her hand upon his. She gazed up at his still features. The lines around his eyes were growing deeper and no longer faded when he rested. She wanted to disturb him, to make him talk more, but she didn't. She had coaxed him to bed. She had pulled him back for an hour or two. She would take the little victories where she saw them. Pick your battles, she thought, as she wrapped her leg over his and whispered good night to the walls. Pick your battles.