Hello Internet!

Why have I been inactive? Starting my freshman year in high school was a lot more time consuming than I had planned. I'm taking all honors classes, an online course, and obviously school itself takes up a lot of time in my day. But mainly, it was band.

Some of you had asked about what band camp was. Basically, for two weeks before school started, my marching band spent nine-hour days in the Florida sun working on marching techniques. Since school has started, I have after school practice until 6:30 PM Mondays and Wednesdays, and starting two weeks ago, Fridays we prep for football games directly after school until roughly 11:00. And, to put the cherry on top, I'm in the school's jazz band.

It takes a lot of time, and hell, a whole lot of money, but it's freaking awesome. My four years in band and first year in marching band are experiences I'll never forget, just like this website. If you're considering joining band, I highly encourage it. I went from a severe introvert with (I kid you not) no friends, to someone with over a hundred kids I wouldn't hesitate to call my family. And it actually convinced me to go outside for once. Oh, yeah: Any band people out there? Any trumpets out there? (Woot trumpets!)

So, yeah. A lot of my time's been spent. It certainly didn't help my writer's block, because whenever I logged on, I felt it was more productive to work on my online course or do online homework rather than write, and I had no inspiration. I had stories to tell, but no time to tell them. They just kind of sat in my head, big what-ifs.

But I've seen your comments, guys. Every single one. And too many times I've been the reader begging an inactive story to suddenly spring to life. It felt awful, not writing.

But over my break, I recently watched the first two episodes of Daredevil, and let me just say that Daredevil and Hawkeye are my new favorites. So I got this idea, what if they knew each other as kids?

Note that (like I said) I've only seen two episodes of Daredevil, and my knowledge of Hawkeye's past is short to say the least, so this is pretty much an AU. Could be canon, I suppose. Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you like it! (I wrote it in one night for five hours straight, and I've gotta say, I'm pretty proud of it. On the downside, some errors could be made. Just point them out for me, please?)

I'm not sure if my posting will be routine, but I'll try my best.

If you're still reading, thank you. Thanks so much. For reading all this useless nonsense, for reading my story/stories. For even just reading this chapter because it caught your eye.

Stay awesome, my dudes!

~palmtreedragons

Clint hated support groups. They were filled with too cheery people who told you things got better, and too depressed people who felt like the world was ending, and they were just so uncomfortable. He'd rather see a professional therapist than share his emotions with a bunch of strangers. Well, strangers and Jerry the support leader, who looked liked he smoked four packs a day.

He probably sounded like it, too. Clint always wondered what people who smoked sounded like. Everyone said it was distinct, like a hoarse, scraping croak. He would nod his head as he watched lips move and form the words, thinking to himself, What the fuck do any of those things mean?

Clint couldn't see a therapist. His brother was working four jobs just to make ends meet, their home was the homeless shelter five blocks away, and dammit, why is it so expensive to rant to some doctor?

He wasn't even suppose to be here.

It was a secret, but Clint didn't need ears to know his brother was hoarding every penny he saw on the street to buy a pair of hearing aids. It would mean the world for a little boy to hear for the first time.

But that's where people were dead wrong. On instinct they felt a surge of pity, a need to help. Clint hated that more than anything, honestly. He didn't know what a car's engine sounded like; he learned to watch the streets, sidewalks, and crosswalks like a hawk. He never heard what was on the radio, or the voices of his loved ones; those were easy, because he never knew what they sounded like in the first place.

It was easy to start low and work his way up, rather than start high, and fall.

Those were the ones he pitied. The ones in the group with the red stickers. Red meant they weren't born like that—somehow they had lost the gift of seeing or hearing or speaking. It must be awful.

Not as awful as the meetings, though. There was one in all of the slums of New York that was free, and luckily it was right here in Brooklyn. Of course, his brother forced him to go. He said it was better than Clint sitting around all summer while his brother worked.

He did suppose it was nice. They sat in a circle in a quiet room—well, quiet to the ones who weren't deaf, too—and they talked. The younger kids were taught sign language or brail by the elders.

It was during their little feelings-sharing-circle-shit when Clint would absentmindedly pick at his yellow sticker and laugh to himself at the irony. Mainly, the stickers were to help the staff easily identify who they were handling, but they had other uses.

The deaf stickers were for other kids in the meeting, so they wouldn't strike up conversation that led to awkward apologies. The blind stickers—a nice shade of blue that they would never see—were for everyone else to know to watch out. Some of the kids weren't used to canes or feeling around in the eternal darkness. The red ones were an added sticker for the ones you steered clear from—the ones who could burst into tears at any moment or have a breakdown. Clint saw it happen a few times.

Hell, it even happened to him, and he was just a plain yellow sticker.

When he found the loose change and bills under his brother's pillow, he lost it. They could've rented some stupid, incredibly small apartment with that money, but his brother was sitting on it and letting it all go to waste. And for what? So Clint could hear? So he could be fixed? If his brother hadn't thought about getting Clint some help before, he wadded set on it now.

Three days after that night his brother found the flyer. Every Tuesday and Thursday since Clint made the trek to the small café that rented out the space to a charity for needy children. Or, as Clint had taken to calling it, the Double-A Meetings for Damaged Goods.

He'd made it clear that he was being forced to attend. Jerry and whoever was volunteering that day let him sulk in the corner of the room in his bean-bag chair by himself for four hours. Clint would stare at the clock, willing time itself to speed up. Sometimes he even slept.

Every day kids would come and go. Some moved away. Some were too embarrassed to come back. Some were actually fixed. Clint didn't get attached; every kid left, and someday he would too. No one would miss him.

The days passed by in a blur. Wake up, eat a burrito his brother bought from the stand on the corner, walk to the meeting, sulk, go home, eat another burrito, sleep. It was a beautiful thing of habit.

So Clint damned Jerry to the fiery pits when he had to go and screw it up.

Clint sat in his smushed up bean-bag chair and closed his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, he could sleep for a while. Usually if he pretended, they let him sleep through their sharing circle.

And then something bumped Clint's foot. He pried one eye open in just enough time to see a kid fall on him. He would have snapped. He would have let outa string of curse words to his best capability (which was usually just half-formed mumbling due to his lack of hearing) but he made sure to check the sticker first.

He was a double sticker—red and blue. Not only could he not see, but he knew what seeing was. Losing hearing wasn't nearly as bad as losing sight, in Clint's opinion. He could go without rap, but without a rainbow?

And because he was a double sticker, Clint couldn't tell him off, because then the kid would cry, and Clint would feel like crap. He watched as the kid tried to scramble his way off of Clint, his lips mumbling a mile a minute. God, did Clint hate people who mumbled. Try having a conversation with a mumbler when you could hear, and it was aggravating. When you're deaf, it's enough to make you want to punch their teeth.

But Clint couldn't do that, because the kid was a double sticker.

The kid was staring now. Well, he was staring at nothing and waiting for an answer. Clint sighed, knowing full well the kid couldn't see his sticker. He forced out something resembling the word deaf and watched as a new string of rambling spewed from the kid's mouth. He was glad when the kid pulled himself to his feet and stumbled away, feeling a bit guilty when he walked straight into a wall.

Two days later, and Clint was back in his spot.

Also two days later, the blind kid was back in his. Only this time, he seemed to realize Clint couldn't understand if he wasn't speaking clear. Through the kid's stuttering and fumbling, he could only grasp a word or two.

"I'm Matt . . . sit with . . . Jerry . . ."

Of course. Clint knew Jerry was an ass all along. He just didn't think the man would stoop this low when forcing Clint to make friends. He sent the pity kid over for Clint to babysit.

Matt sat on an old pillow on the floor besides Clint, his back against the wall and his cane at his feet. Clint checked his lips every now and then to see if he was saying stupid stuff, but he never was. He might be tolerable after all. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind ran rampant.

Jerry was stupid. How were the two suppose to communicate? When someone's deaf, they read sign language. When they're blind, they listen to your voice. But when you're deaf, you typically don't speak. And when you're blind, it's pretty damn hard to learn sign language.

It was like one of those paradoxes that just went back and forth with no end in sight. You just had to assume it was impossible.

The next Tuesday was rather uneventful. Clint sat in his corner, now blatantly refusing to join the circle after their lunch break. The Matt kid went, but came back when it was finished. Clint was content with letting him sit there, just as long as he didn't bother him.

During a particularly good dream about a beagle, Clint got the wanting to know how long he was still stuck in this hellhole. The clock was unceremonious with a big fat two hours. Clint sighed, glancing back to the Murdock kid before shutting his eyes—

And his eyes flew open. The kid was crying. His eyes were covered by those tinted glasses blind people sported for some reason, but there were unmistakeably tears falling beneath them. A quick look to the rest of the room, and of course Jerry was occupied. Clint sat there for a good five minutes, glaring holes into the man's head. How long does it take to give a pep talk? That eight-year-old will be fine, come help this sniveling kid.

Clint bit his lip, glancing at the kid. Yep, the floodgates were still open. Hesitantly, Clint slowly lifted his hand and set it on Matt's knee. He visibly flinched, but looked somewhere in Clint's genreal direction.

"Clint?" Matt asked. Clint didn't want to say yes, because his voice was crap, so he just patted the knee again.

Surprisingly, Clint seemed to be doing something right. Matt didn't say anything further, but he wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. He didn't cry the rest of the day. Clint decided the hand would stay on Matt's knee and keep him from crying, just until they went home. It wasn't really a bother.

Clint liked to think he was the most composed of the group of kids.

He was born deaf. He could see just fine, lived his life just fine. (Well, not counting the alcoholic father and the running away to New York with his brother.) He had accepted his disability. And for some reason, he was seen as messed up for not wanting that to change.

It had been nearly two weeks since Matt had joined Clint's angsty corner of solitude. Things went pretty smoothly after the crying; no drama or comforting filled their meetings, just compatible silence. Matt would go to the circle and talk his little heart out and eat his bagged lunch and come back to Clint, who was secretly starving, but the taco stand was all the way down the street and no one would ever let him go by himself.

But one day before the circle, Jerry walked over with a wide grin. Matt, who could hear the approach, asked the question for Clint: What's up?

And then Clint noticed his brother with a wide grin, standing just behind Jerry. Clint's blood ran cold, because he knew what was next.

A gut feeling told him to bolt. It told him to get out of there and don't compromise. For some reason he even wanted to just sit with little innocent Matt and just wish the world away.

But he sat there, frozen. And then they were talking to him, and he was trying to sign back all the thoughts in his head and things were getting jumbled and he couldn't speak for the life of him and—

He said yes.

God, why did he say yes?

Things were so loud, and it scared him to his very core.

He could hear a clock tick. He could hear his brother's voice for the first time—the doctor's and nurses', too. He could hear his own breathing—something he never thought was possible, except for, like, Superman.

All the faces peering down at him in his hospital bed with expectancy and joy, waiting for him to break into a grin. These people worked to build ears, so they'd probably gotten used to the second-hand joy from kids. His brother has spent nearly all their savings for this. He still wasn't sure how his brother had managed to pull this off, but it most likely had a lot to do with charity and pity. Clint was going to break into a grin and laugh—and hear himself laugh for the first time.

He would have liked to say he did that. Or that the first words he heard himself say were "Fuck you." Or that he was even happy.

But he could hear his own heartbeat, heavy and loud and quick in his ears. He could hear breathing and every rustle his arms and legs made under the covers and every footstep and every sound—

Was the world always this loud?

Clint couldn't help it. He screwed up his face and cried.

They told his brother it was natural.

They said it was normal for kids to be overwhelmed when they were experiencing so many firsts for the first time, and all at once.

For Clint, it was the end of the world.

He was a dramatic child his entire life, but this was his reality crashing down at his feet. He could hear. Clint, the deaf boy, could hear.

And it terrified him. He wished he could make his brother happy by just being happy, but every noise made him jump. Every thud seemed like it was a bag of bricks about to fall on Clint. Every footstep was a gun aimed at him and he couldn't dodge the bullet. Shortly after the operation, he experienced his first panic attack. Then his second.

Not to mention the headaches. Things were just loud. Clint found himself one night under his covers, hands pressed against his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound of his brother's breathing.

But he didn't take the aids out. He didn't take them out because as much as it terrified him, he wasn't a coward. His brother spent his entire life for these, so damn it all if Clint was going to be selfish and throw them away, figuratively or literally.

Besides, sleeping with your hands pressed tightly over your ears wasn't too bad.

What was the opposite of a red sticker? The kids who lost their sense were disasters.

But if they were a house fire, Clint was the volcano that buried Pompeii.

His brother had to drag him back to the meetings, nearly a month and a half after he was discharged. Once Clint was ushered inside, he realized for the first time that he needed to be there. He needed to talk—but first he had to learn.

Matt hadn't said anything when they sat in their corner. (To be honest, Clint wasn't sure if Matt knew his companion was back.) When they called for the kids to join the circle, and Matt made to grab his cane, Clint stopped him.

Matt frowned at the hand on his arm, but stayed. "Hi," he said simply.

Clint was an honest to God mess, because he almost cried on the spot. Simply because he could hear.

"Did you get your hearing aids?" Matt asked. Clint listened to the voice, and marveled at how different he imagined it. It was soft, innocent, open. It didn't quite match the guarded, closed-off face.

Taking a shaky breath, he swallowed. "Yes." Clint almost cried for the second time, because damn. That was his voice? His voice? It was. . . . Like a smoker's. A distinct, hoarse, scraping croak.

"What's wrong?" Matt asked, because they would be sitting in a circle drinking juice if there wasn't something wrong.

Clint gritted his teeth and braced himself. Just get the words out. Just get them out, and we can move on. "Can . . . you . . . teach. . . ."

Clint realized something he never noticed before: Matt was very smart.

"Do you want me to teach you to talk?"

"Yes." This time it was a forced whisper, but sounded less like Jerry.

Matt turned his head; he'd been staring at he floor during the conversation. His eyes were just somewhere to Clint's left, but the smile was genuine. "Okay, Barton."

Matt might've been Clint's first friend.

The work was slow, but every Tuesday and Thursday was the highlight of his week.

Matt really was smart. By the end of the first week, Clint could say his name like an average human being. By the end of the first month, Clint had a small arsenal of vocabulary at his command. By four months, he was shocking those who had seen him at his lowest points.

By twelve months, he was almost a functioning human being to society.

Clint could hear. And now, thanks to Matt, Clint could speak.

But he didn't take the help lightly. With every kind action Matt showed him, Clint tried to pay it back in full. Clint started walking Matt home on Thursdays, because that's when his father was out boxing. He would describe anything Matt asked in vivid detail.

One day, Matt asked Clint to describe himself.

Clint hummed thoughtfully. "Incredibly ripped, ruggedly handsome, and insanely hot." He smiled, not only at the obvious joke, but because he was so close with Matt he could just feel him rolling his eyes behind his glasses.

"Would you be offended if I didn't believe you?"

Clint laughed loudly. Most of the room had become accustomed to Clint's laughter. He had a friend who understood him the way no therapist could. Matt had saved him. Things were going good at home, with Clint's improved mood. His brother got promoted, and was even looking at this place to rent just a block away from the café that held the Doulble-A for Damaged Goods meetings. His dark, angsty corner was now filled with a little light.

But Matt wasn't laughing with Clint. He quickly stopped, eyeing the pensive look on the blind boy's face.

"Would you mind if I. . . ?" Matt trailed off, lifting a hand. It took a moment for Clint to remember what they were talking about. Something about faces?

Oh. "Yeah. I mean—sure. Go for it," Clint stammered. He wasn't nervous. Definitely not.

Matt gave a lopsided grin. Slowly he reached for Clint's face. His fingers landed somewhere along his jaw, then trailed up to his temple. Clint tried to stay as still as he could, but he was an open book, and that meant anything he thought transferred to his face. So he couldn't held but smirk.

"Shut up, idiot," Matt murmured with a smile.

Clint tried to hold back his bout of laughter, but ultimately failed.

These last few months had been good. Clint had a solid relationship other than his own brother; he was talking—and making up for all the lost time in full by never shutting up; he was okay, for once in his life.

The only thing he didn't realize was how dependent he was on Matty.

Once Matty answered Clint's question.

It was getting to the point in Matty's speech therapy where he wanted Clint to speak his mind. To "work on communicating," as he put it.

Clint shrugged. "What's the opposite of a red sticker?"

Matt shrugged too. Clint would have thought Matt was mocking him, but . . . well, the kid couldn't see Clint shrug in the first place. "Purple."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Purple?"

"Yeah," Matt nodded. "I like purple. Purple can be for people who got second chances."

Clint smiled. Sometimes this kid was too pure. How he survived Hell's Kitchen and had a boxer for a dad, Clint couldn't understand.

"Hey, Clint?" Matt asked. He was perched on his pillow on the ground, and Clint was sitting in that damn old bean-bag chair, just like any other day.

"Yeah?"

"D'you think I could be a purple sticker?"

The question brought Clint up short. Suddenly he felt immensely guilty. What did he do to deserve a purple sticker? He got his hearing, but there was no way Matt Murdock would ever see. The two sat in silence, blissfully thinking of what-ifs. Neither of them wanted to face reality and answer.

He jinxed it. He damn fuckin' jinxed it.

The night before, a thought ran through his head: So many kids have come and gone from the group. Thank God Matty stayed.

The next morning, Matty wasn't on the pillow in the corner. Clint sat and waited, because maybe Matty was just late. Maybe he was stuck in traffic. Part of him even guiltily wished he was caught in traffic and rushed to the hospital, because that was a better excuse than the obvious answer.

But, no. Some kids were whispering as the hours went on. Finally, clenching his fists, Clint confronted one of them.

"Talk," he demanded. "Where's Matty?"

One of the kids who was blind (and obviously heard Clint, unlike the deaf kid beside him) spoke in a hushed voice, "Didn't you hear? His dad was murdered."

And that was the final straw. Clint sat in his corner and fought back the tears. Maybe he just wouldn't be here today. The next day came with the same thought: Maybe not today. Maybe tomorrow. Just tomorrow.

Every tomorrow had the same result. Eventually, Clint stopped going, too.

God, people were annoying. So were subways. Clint tugged his jacket tighter around him as he waited for the underground train to come. So many people, all chatting mindlessly about their mediocre lives.

Alright, maybe Clint was in a bit of a mood. But some fool had tripped and his coffee cup went right into Clint's face. The man apologized endlessly, and the mess was cleaned up, but it was Clint's ears that worried him.

In the ten years since Clint had gotten the hearing aids, they had become easier. They were just a part of him now, as cliche as it sounded. But some coffee got into his left aid, and now things sounded funky. Like, half your head is underwater funky. He contemplated taking them out and saving him the annoyance, but realized he would need to hear what stop to get off on.

The car came, people got off, people got on. Typical day in New York, Clint thought. Always moving, never looking twice. There was one seat left, between a dark haired man with glasses and the door. It was obviously an invasion of personal space if he were to sit there. And like the child Clint was, he took it anyway.

His shoulder constantly brushed with the stranger, but at least he was sitting. It was almost a ten minute commute, and like hell he was standing when there was a perfectly good seat open.

The man said something. Clint couldn't figure out why he couldn't hear it, when he suddenly remembered the coffee in his ear. God, why'd the guy have to broadchurch on his left side?

"Sorry, man," Clint said apologetically. "I'm deaf. You know sign language?"

Surprisingly, the man beside him snorted, like he had just heard the funniest joke in the world. "I'm blind."

Clint froze. The simplicity of that statement, though ironic, was all too familiar.

Seriously? Clint was dreaming. He fell asleep on the subway again, didn't he? This is some weird dream. Fuck, did the coffee short-circuit his hearing aid and fry his brain?

"Buddy, you okay?" the stranger asked.

Clint stared back. The dark glasses, the messily combed dark hair, the awful fashion sense. . . . "Matty?"

Now it was the blind man's turn to be stunned. He didn't turn his head towards Clint—because what use would that be?—but the corner of his mouth slowly lifted. "Clint?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "It's . . . it's me."

They met again. Ironically.

Hawkeye was battling neighborhood crime. Honestly, all he wanted was a beer and to relax in his small apartment in Brooklyn, but there was a chain of robberies in Hell's Kitchen, and that was too close to home for him to ignore.

He was running along a rooftop, sinking arrows into criminals like it was second nature. It was, after all this time. Clint smiled as the last robber was taken down. Maybe he would get a pizza after this. Or a pie. Or both. Maybe some—

SHIT.

The air was knocked out of his lungs. He had lost his footing and fell off the roof and . . . into the garbage. Great. He could only imagine the jokes Tony would make about this.

SHIT.

Clint clambered back into a corner as something moved. Was that . . . a person? Through the darkness, Clint could just make out the strange uniform.

It was Daredevil. He had heard of him before, but never met until now. The whole Chitauri invasion led by Loki then the Ultron attack in Sokovia had him a bit busy. Not to mention how much time he invested into being an Avenger.

Clint was about to introduce himself when a familiar weight was missing. Where was his hearing aid? Clint made a face at the trash. Gross.

Well, and least he still had his other one. Apparently it wasn't enough, as he completely missed what Hell's Kitchen's vigilante had said.

"Sorry, man. I'm deaf. Do you know sign language?"

There was a pause. A very . . . long pause. Was this guy okay? Maybe he hit his head or something.

Then Daredevil laughed. A maniacal, gut-deep laugh. Clint frowned a bit. Yeah . . . someone was missing a few marbles.

But then he finally spoke; "I'm blind," he stated, wiping laughter-induced tears from his eyes.

"Wait," Clint said slowly, eyes squinting in confusion and accusation, "Matty? What the fuck?"