This is much longer than I wanted it to be, but I did cut a lot out too. This was written for a prompt over at AvengerKink, who wanted Clint with emetophobia, which is a phobia of vomit and/or vomiting.
Nearly everything in this is drawn on my own personal experience with this fear. I have gotten a lot better with it in recent years, and many people are dismissive of it so I've had to deal on my own.

Please view this as a very small window into what it's like to live with emetophobia, and I ask that if you review to respect it as a real and difficult part of a lot of people's lives. Thank you.

An Every Day Fear

There weren't many things that disturbed Clint. He was an assassin, after all, and a weak disposition was a death sentence. Indeed, someone who scared easily probably wouldn't even take up a position like Clint had; a criminal and a bow-for-hire. It was a job that required the toughest, most focused kind of person.

It also meant he could be alone. He didn't have to associate with a partner and for the sake of anonymity he doesn't go to parties or restaurants. It gave him the perfect life to separate him from the masses of people and their... unpredictability.

But then he'd met Natasha, and suddenly there was someone who wanted to be around.

She was made of stone and blood. Unshakable in any context and composed with a fine art. She was deadly and careful and seemed so detached from the normal foibles of humanity that Clint could never have pictured her being anything but physically perfect, despite her damaged mind and heart.

Over the years, Clint had learnt every weak-spot in the corners of Natasha's mind. He could have broken her into millions of tiny pieces if he'd wanted to, but every fibre of his being wanted to protect his goddess so that he could maintain her perfection.

They had been working in a small foreign city (although 'city' was putting in generously). Clint was usually the one who cooked his meals, and he took great pride in the food he made, often refusing to eat anything else despite his habit of over-cooking chicken to the point where it was dry and barky. Natasha, however, had insisted that after their recent near-death experience they should just buy something from a street-vender.

Clint had pretended to pick at it, preferring to go hungry for a night rather than risk unknown foods.

He had claimed that he was going to take a walk before bed, that his sore muscles would thank him the next day for being stretched out. Natasha hadn't argued, and just collapsed into the tiny cot.

It wasn't until morning that the Archer returned. He hadn't slept, and had instead worn himself down, practicing his acrobatics and throwing rocks as a form of target practice. He was exhausted and hungry, his nerves frayed and still humming uncomfortably, but had refused to go back to the small hovel for fear of what he would find there.

When he chanced a return several hours after sunset, he found Natasha sleeping soundlessly on the bed, no sign of distress or sickness and Clint cursed himself for ever doubting her.

The deadly duo was in a tiny cottage in Europe. Natasha had returned to the hideout several days before Clint had, having found her target well before him. The archer was incredibly happy that he could finally get out of the terrible weather that had been sweeping over the countryside for the past week.

The hideout was small, and they had been sharing a bed, which had been fine with the two of them.

Clint had made his way through the cramped and cluttered house, aiming for the bedroom and the bathroom that was situated just off it.

He opened the door slowly, worried about waking the sleeping assassin, which he had long since leant was a very dangerous move. But the sound of the door was met with a wakeful groan, and a shifting in the bed as Natasha's silhouette sat up.

When Clint had turned on the light he'd felt himself freeze. Natasha was pale, with sweat making her hair cling to her face and dark circled under her eyes. She sniffled pathetically and Clint forced himself to blink.

"Could you pass me a tissue?" She gestured to a box on the other side of the room.

"Yeah, sure." The archer managed.

He grabbed the box, but hesitated to move it closer to her. He liked this position; it was close to the exit.

Natasha, he'd leant, wasn't one to ever show weakness. After a while she had gotten comfortable allowing her emotions to show in front of him, but she still sequestered herself away when she was physically compromised, be it by injury or something else. The fact that she lay before him, clearly ill and asking for his aid, was a massive step in their relationship. It was extending trust in a way that she never had before.

Clint approached the bed with caution, hoping he could play his shaking hands and sweaty palms off as exhaustion and stress from the mission.

"Here," he held it out at arm's length, giving it a little toss in order for it to reach her.

She started to say 'thank you', but instead she coughed harshly into one hand. Clint felt his heart pound against his ribs as he involuntarily took a step back. He had to run. He couldn't breathe and he had to run.

So he did.

He sat in the mud in the rain outside the cottage. Head on his knees and hands clasped over his ears, even though wouldn't hear anything through the walls and over the rain. It had taken several hours for him to stop shaking, having forced himself to fight tears and just not think about it.

Clint decided, then, that he could never be with Natasha. She deserved someone... stronger.

She had been objectified by men so often that she held her physicality close to her, using it as a weapon and a bargaining chip. She needed to know that the man who loved her could accept her in any physical condition, including being sick, in order to love him back.

Clint, as much as he wanted to, couldn't do that. He didn't deserve the trust that Natasha placed in him.

He didn't deserve her.

They had signed up with S.H.I.E.L.D not long after that.

Clint wanted to separate himself from Natasha, slightly. Remove their co-dependence by introducing more people into their little circle. She had originally convinced him that he should join in more with the crowd, take more assignments that meant mingling with people rather than just shooting them from the distance.

He had refused. He wasn't as flexible as she was.

They went out drinking most nights. Sometimes he would join them for the first hour or two, picking a prime spot where he could keep an eye on everyone in the bar and assess their sobriety.

When the others had asked him why he never stuck around, he didn't have a valid reason to tell them. He knew they wouldn't understand, that to them it would seem like a cop-out or, more devastatingly, a weakness. They didn't need to know, he decided, and just shrugged.

"It's just not my kind of scene."

After a year of only coming to a handful of get-togethers, his nerves causing him to either leave the party ridiculously early or prevent him from going in the first place, the agents stopped inviting him all together. Clint didn't realize this was happening, until Natasha asked him why he hadn't shown to the surprise birthday party the others had thrown her.

Part of him knew it had nothing to do with being disliked, they probably wanted him there but just didn't think it was worth asking him anymore... It still hurt though.

Clint's birthday went by without any real celebration. He had volunteered to work late, to watch the base on night duty so that he didn't have to throw a party or feel rejected when no one threw one for him. Or, worse, be obligated to stay till the end of whatever Natasha wanted to throw for him.

At night the base was empty and quiet. A few techies would hang back, but they were virtually invisible in the dark corners of the rooms.

They were the people Clint had, on occasion, socialized with. They didn't drink and they managed to have fun without it. They had taught Clint how to play computer games, how to do dungeons and dragons. They had introduced him to television shows and cartoons where the humour came from intelligent references and clever wit, rather than cheap jokes about body functions.

He felt like he belonged here at nights, when the other 'tough-guy' agents had gone.

So when he was up in the rafters of the lab, playing a retro Pokémon Blue that Deeks in filing had lent him, and he heard someone approach him from one of the observation ledges he didn't think it would be anyone who had just come from a bar.

"Hey, Barton."

Clint had nearly dropped the borrowed device, startled at Agent Coulson's presence.

"Oh. Hi, agent."

"You can call me Phil." He laughed, holding one of two beers as high as he could in Clint's direction. "Thought you could use some company on your birthday."

Clint eyed the bottle warily. "I don't drink."

"I promise it won't make you throw up."

"What?" Clint laughed nervously, "Why the hell would I care about that?"

Phil turned the bottle over, so that the 'non-alcoholic' part of the label was visible, and smiled knowingly.

When Clint met Tony Stark, he instantly disliked him.

Sure the man was smart and rich, and in many ways charming, but he'd been sent enough youtube links by ignorant friends to know that Stark was not someone he wanted to hang out with. He was too irresponsible and careless when it came to his drinking. And he definitely seemed like the type of person who would find being sick, or watching someone be sick, the highest form of humour.

Clint managed to be polite. Part of him knew that Tony wouldn't be drunk all of the time, but he was so uncomfortable around the man that the archer decided it was best to actively try to avoid him.

He passed it off as guilt. He had, after all, tried to kill everyone under Loki's influence.

One thing that Clint liked about working with the Avengers was that at the end of the day they all went their separate ways.

Clint knew from experience that the prolonged adrenalin of a big fight could cause a crash afterwards. The archer had long since learned the fine line that came with a tight control over his own body. He knew just how much stress he could put himself under before resulting in any unpleasant after-effects. It was about keeping himself steady and calm, not pushing himself unduly.

It was what allowed his hands to stay so steady when he aimed his arrows, and to be able fight just as long as the super-soldiers, gods, and big hulking green things.

The others all praised him for his ability. Clint had thanked them, feeling slightly flattered but embarrassed that it had come about because of something that was, in the grand scheme of things, so trivial.

Each Avenger hid themselves away for a few days after each battle, licking their wounds in peace. So if anyone's body decided to shut down because of the strain, Clint didn't have to bear witness to it. Especially after eating shawarma, a suggestion from Tony which had made Clint dislike him just a little bit more than he already did.

The Avengers had a movie night after a while. Apparently it was a team bonding exercise, although Clint didn't know whose suggestion it was. However, the proposal that they have alcohol too had been shot down, which meant that Clint didn't have to make excuses not to go.

It lifted his spirits slightly, until he realized that he hadn't seen the movie they were watching before.

For the few years that he had been working with Phil, the understanding agent had taken it upon himself to provide Clint with detailed reviews of the movies that he'd seen at the cinemas. Including whether Clint would be able to sit through them or not. Even older movies that were on dvd were recommended to Clint, and he knew he would be comfortable watching each one.

At some point, Phil had also given him a copy of The Witches of Eastwick. He'd explained that there was an 'unpleasant scene' in it, but that it was so fake that if ever Clint wanted to try and ease himself into being comfortable with it, that this movie was the way to go.

The sentiment had been nice, but it just cemented the fact that while Phil was understanding, he could never fully understand. The dvd had been locked away and forgotten in the back of Clint's cupboard.

But Phil wasn't there anymore, so Clint sat stiff throughout the new movie. He had seen a couple others that had been made by the same people and it was still a close joke between him and Natasha that any serious injury they obtained was 'only a flesh wound', so he assumed that it would be alright.

Despite the different personalities in the room everyone seemed to find it funny. Particularly Thor, whose booming laugh made everyone want to laugh along.

There was a song in the movie about sperm that Clint found particularly amusing. Especially when Steve had gone bright red and exclaimed 'how can they sing about that in front of children'.

And they continued to enjoy the random humour for a while longer... until a scene with an obese man in a restaurant.

Clint could tell what was going to happen before it did, just from the characters' behaviour. He stood and announced that he needed to pee before he practically tumbled over the other's legs in his haste to leave the room.

Bruce turned, "Do you want us to pause it for you."

"No." Clint snapped.

But the room was large, and in an attempt to not seem too eager to leave Clint hadn't quite made it to the door before the surround sound decided that it hated him.

He flung the door open, not hearing the crash as it collided with wall behind it. He ran through Stark tower, not knowing where he was going and only caring that it was away. Away from the television and the sounds and the sight and the smell and the people. He had trouble banking as every part of him didn't want to slow down to take the corners.

The elevator was too slow, he decided. He wouldn't be able to sit still long for it to take him anywhere anyway, so he ploughed up the stairwell.

Out. He needed to get out, where there was air. He needed to breathe, and just breathe.

By some miracle he made it to the roof, although later he would have no clear memory about how he got there. He took gulps of the cold air, listening intently to the wind that whipped around the building and drowned out the sounds of the streets below, along with any other sounds even though they still rang in his ears.

"I'm fine." He mumbled to himself. "I'm alone, and I'm fine."

"I beg to differ."

Clint whirled on his heal to see Tony closing the door that granted roof access behind him.

"So what was that all about?" The billionaire asked.

"I... needed to pee."

"Off the roof of my building?"

"No." He winced, "Yes?"

"Look," Tony started, taking a few steps closer, "I may not be a 'touchy-feely' kinda guy, and I've noticed you don't seem to like me very much, but how you just reacted reminded me of when I used to take too long in the shower after I came back from Afghanistan. Cold water doesn't seem to like me, almost as much as I don't like it. I can't even drink water cooler than room temperature."

Clint nodded, his still too-fast beating heart pumping self-loathing through him. "At least you have a reason not to like cold water. I don't have a reason to be afraid of... anything."

Tony shrugged, "Maybe. Not really my point, but maybe." He moved past Clint, resting his hands on the rails and leaning over to look down at the street. "Nearly all of those people down there would run screaming from the kind of fights we do. You don't even blink." He shrugged again, "Maybe that's the trade off."

"Maybe," Clint parroted, frowning at the odd depths the billionaire playboy was showing.

"I've cut down on drinking, a lot." Tony said suddenly, turning on his heal in a sharp motion. "I'm going to try and not get drink at all, anymore, if that'd help you like me. It's probably too risky given that someone could try and take over the world at any time, it'd be bad if I get caught out."

"That... sounds like a good idea."

"Great!" Tony smiled widely and stepped over to Clint, embracing him briefly. "And you can choose the next movie, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."