Missions were both the hardest and the most natural thing in Clint's life. He had been doing them almost everyday since he was nineteen and yet, he could never shake off the post-mission jitters; hyper-vigilance, the constant nagging feeling that something was about to happen and the inability to make his heart stop hammering in his throat. Usually he and Natasha calmed down together, even if he had gone solo, she was always there to help him come out of that terrible state of mind.
But, as his luck would have it, she was on her own solo mission, for at least another week. So here he was, sitting on the floor of his room in Stark Tower, taking slow measured breaths as he tried to push the smell of gun smoke and blood out of his nostrils. But damn, if it hadn't stained his lungs.
Clint wiped at his nose, drawing his hand back to see it smeared with face paint. Right. He hadn't cleaned himself up yet. He didn't know if he had the energy or even the will to. The four or five steps to the bathroom might as well be a million for the effort it would take. As he forced his aching body up off of the plush carpet, he felt the earth spin and he was running down a flight of stairs after a stray target; a hunter giving chase, urgent commands spilling in over his earpiece-
Clint sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head to clear out the fog, he staggered like a drunk leaving the bar-stool as he made his way to the sink. Grabbing a hold of each side, he leaned heavily into his palms. He felt drunk, loopy, paranoid and itching for a fight. He didn't have enough damn eyes, he had too many blind spots and fuck, his hearing was shit but he could hear ribs expanding with someone's breath in the lobby. He gave his head another hard shake, only succeeding in encouraging a headache.
He licked his dry lips, not minding the taste of sweat and face paint as he turned on the faucet. He jumped at the sound of running water. Clint closed his eyes one more time trying to pull himself out of Yemen, out of that fight, out of the summer where Loki had ruined him. It took three months of a year for SHIELD to even consider letting him near one of their bases, convinced he might slip back under Loki's mind control. Fury still had faith in him, even though others didn't. Phil wasn't there to vouch for him, his superiors watched him the way one watches their children pet a strange dog. His fellow agents were cautious; their fallen brother's tombstones weighing heavily on their minds.
The shrinks would have never let him walk if he wasn't so damn good at lying. No, he hasn't had a nightmare in a while. No, there is no urge to hurt himself. No, he's eating just fine, it never happened, he's not broken, he was never broken. But, he was. He was just barely holding together with stitches and Band-Aids, floating about like a spiderweb in the wind. Sure, he knew how to stick, he knew how to cling to an act and believe his own lies because they taught him how.
Clint took hand fulls of the warm water and scrubbed his face with his rough hands, sticking his head under the faucet to let the now hot water clean the dust and gravel from his hair. He would have showered, if he wasn't so afraid of taking his hearing aids out. They might be water proof, but only for a little splash in the sink. A shower would fry them.
When he finally lifted his head, he took a quick glance at himself in the mirror. A black eye, a split lip, bags under his eyes, bruised cheeks; all telling him a joke he heard a thousand times and long since stopped laughing at. He dried off his face first, pressing his face into the soft terry cloth, wishing he could fight off the paranoia long enough to keep it there, resisting the urge to scream into it. Eventually, the water dripping down his neck annoyed him enough to lazily rub the towel against his hair before dropping it on the floor and unbuckling the pieces of armor from his uniform.
After stripping down and managing to tug on some old sweats, Clint climbed into his vent and made the journey to the floor above him, room five. Yeah, there was some kind of joke going on about him always creeping through the vents but this was the only way he could get to this particular room. He had even just left the grill off of its vent, seeing as no one ever used the room. The guy who did, Banner, went back to Mumbai after getting some research done. Finding it was an accident. He had gotten drunk one night when he and Natasha were staying here, decided he was going to try and spook her but ended up here instead. He just kept coming back ever since. It was quiet, well lit and had a little cot under the vent that smelled like sandalwood and lavender.
Clint huffed out a happy breath as he dropped down onto the stiff mattress, immediately tugging the crappy sheets around himself and rolling into a comfortable position, letting his body go slack as his eyes closed. He wouldn't have to worry about anyone bothering him here. He could sleep as sound as a dead man. Everything was quiet enough for him to even considering taking his hearing aids out. Or at least, until he realized he wasn't alone when a sigh come from behind him.
His heart jumped just as hard as he did, snapping out of his half-asleep state like a live wire as he got into position to spring at the intruder. His wild eyes locked with a frightened brown pair and he realized he was the intruder here. Because he was baring his teeth at the rightful owner. Dr. Banner. They stared at each other for a few tense seconds, Clint as bristled and stiff as a rabid wolf with Banner being midway to sipping whatever was in his mug and holding the neutral position until he slowly raised his free hand, softly waving it in greeting. Clint's shoulders dropped instantly and he rubbed his forehead with a quiet groan.
"Sorry. Uh...Didn't think you'd be back." Clint said, a little frightened over the fact that he didn't notice a guy sitting five freaking feet away from him, but he sure as hell panicked over imaginary noises for half an hour. He stood on the bed to climb back in the vent when Bruce stopped him.
"I don't mind sharing," He said, setting his mug down and Clint looked over his shoulder at him, eyebrow raised. "It looks like you've set up shop here anyways," Bruce motioned to the wad of Sprite cans and Sour Patch Kid wrappers stuffed under the cot. "I just need to run a few tests and I'll be out of your hair." He assured with a smile.
Clint blinked at him in confusion before narrowing his eyes. This was Banner's place. It was his lab, Stark gave it to him, his name was on the door, yet here this guy was acting like it was Clint's. Hell, Clint even trashed it up with junk food and he still wasn't mad, what the hell was wrong with this guy? Maybe the radiation fried his brain after all.
"I jus' wanted to get some sleep." Clint said, sitting back down in the bed, folding his hands between his knees. He felt like he had to explain his reason for being here. "It's always nice an' quiet down here. No one gets in either." He shrugged before scratching the stubble already starting on his chin. Bruce just gave him a little nod before returning to work, showing that he really didn't mind the other's presence. With that, the archer laid back down on the cot and pulled the blankets around him. "...I'll clean up the mess tomorrow." He said, opening one eye to Bruce.
"Don't worry about it," Bruce looked over at him with a soft smile. "I've made worse of a mess. I'll do a little spring cleaning tomorrow, get some old papers out of here." Bruce said, not looking away from the screen as he tapped mechanically away.
"So you're stayin' for a while?" Clint asked, knowing he would have to find another room to call his safe zone. Banner's lab was an accident anyways, he was trying to scare Natasha one night after being drunk, he had fallen in here instead.
"A while," Bruce confirmed with a soft nod. "Maybe a month. Maybe a little less." He shrugged noncommittally. Clint nodded, curling up for one last night in Vista Banner and taking his hearing aids out as prior planned. Bruce would be gone soon enough anyways, and that tapping was annoying as hell.