The Sound of Silence

[Friday Night]

Tony? Tony…Stark?

Clint stared down at his phone. Natasha's voice sounded small, far away, and…unfamiliar. Without thinking, Clint pressed the red 'end call' button, and the display screen went black. He stood in the middle of his room, phone in one hand and forehead in the other.

Tony Stark.

Tony Stark. Tony Stark. Tony Stark.

The name repeated itself as if playing on a continuous loop inside his brain.

Tony-freaking-Stark.

Clint threw his phone at the bed with such force that it bounced off and fell onto the floor. He left it lying there as he went to tell his mom that Natasha was safe. It was still lying there when he returned to his room for the night, but he didn't pick it up. Instead, he fell face-first onto the bed, fully intending to stay like that until he suffocated.

His plans were interrupted by an unfamiliar beeping sound. Clint pulled his face back from the mattress and listened.

Beep!

He pushed himself up into a sitting position and looked around his room.

Beep!

He scrambled to his feet, his head turning on a swivel, trying to detect the source of the beeping.

Beep!

This time, Clint could've sworn the sound was coming from somewhere near his feet. He looked down. His phone was still on the floor, peeking up at him from halfway under the bed.

Beep!

The infernal beeping was definitely coming from his phone. Clint reached down to pick it up, but the toe of his boot kicked it further under the bed.

"Of course," he sighed.

Beep!

The beeping was muffled slightly but still persistent.

Clint dropped to the floor and shimmied halfway beneath the bed. Once his upper body was completely under, he stretched out his hand, grasping wildly for the errant device. His fingers had only barely grazed the smooth edge of the phone's case when another beep! broke his concentration.

He shrieked—a manly shriek, of course. It was the type of shriek one might expect from an ancient warrior. A manly warrior. The manliest warrior to ever go to war like a man…and then shriek.

Beep!

Even though he should've expected the noise by now, Clint jerked violently at the sound and hit his head on the metal frame supporting the mattress.

"Gah!" Clint tried to rub his head, but he couldn't get either of his hands into the necessary angle.

With renewed determination, Clint clenched his jaw and shimmied a bit further until he had the phone clutched securely in his grasp.

Beep!

"Dude…I will end you," he threatened, then he sighed. "And now I'm talking to an inanimate freaking object. That's just…great," he said with a sigh.

After a few more beeps later, Clint emerged from beneath the bed in bittersweet triumph. Sure, he had succeeded, but at what cost? His head was pounding, and his ego was bruised. He was just glad that no one had been around to witness the whole ordeal.

Even though he'd succeeded in retrieving the phone, now Clint couldn't find the source of the beeping. It was coming from the phone, but he'd received no new messages or alerts or notifications of any kind.

And still, the phone continued to beep. Each time it did, the little light at the top blinked red. Clint tried to restart the phone, but it wouldn't turn off. Instead, the entire screen cut straight to black except for a red dot in the center that flashed with every offending beep! He was about to throw the damn thing out the window when a text box popped up on the screen.

The text in the box could've been a foreign language for all Clint new. He couldn't make sense of it at all. Once the text reached the bottom of the box, it continued in a scrolling motion. Clint could only stare at the screen with a dumbfounded expression.

Finally, the scroll of text disappeared and was replaced by a blinking, white underscore icon. This new development was brief, however, as the icon raced across the screen while words followed after. When the message was finished, it read:

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair.

Clint looked up at his window and then back down at his phone. He did this a few times, unsure of…everything.

Then: I'm waiting…

In an effort to respond to the mysterious message, Clint stabbed the screen with his thumbs in the general vicinity of where his keypad should've been.

A third message appeared: Go to your window. Look out and then down. FFS.

Clint paused. "I'm 99.99% sure this is how at least one horror movie has started," he grumbled to himself.

Nonetheless, Clint did as the mysterious messenger ordered. He approached his window and peered out into the night just in time to see Natasha's car pull into the driveway.

"What the…" he muttered.

The messages couldn't possibly be her. He looked back down at his phone. When he looked back out into the darkness, he spotted two flashing lights—headlights—a few hundred yards away.

Beep!

Clint looked back at the screen.

We need to talk.

"Like hell," Clint said. For good measure, he flipped off the unknown stranger or, at least, the general direction of the unknown stranger.

As luck would have it, this was not a wise move on Clint's part. Moments after making the obscene gesture, his phone went crazy. The device started vibrating violently in Clint's hand and was soon accompanied by a shrill siren-like noise. He was so startled, that he almost dropped it.

Another series of messages flashed on the screen:

First of all, rude…

Second, it wasn't a suggestion.

Third, do it or else.

You've already seen what I can do to your phone, so…

I'll leave the 'else' to your imagination.

The screen dissolved into a slightly darkened, partially blurry picture of Natasha's tear-streaked face.

Blinded by rage, Clint nearly flung himself out the window. He had to stop and take a deep breath to calm himself, which was difficult given the obnoxious noises and motions coming from his phone.

Clint threw up his hands in surrender, and the phone went still.

Another series of messages flashed across the black screen:

Leave unseen.

I'd recommend the window.

Wait until Natasha's inside.

Get in your car.

Drive over to me.

Stay in your car.

Do NOT get out.

Tell no one.

Or else…

Clint sighed in defeat as he grabbed his wallet and keys, turned his bedroom light off, and climbed out of the window without wasting another second. If Natasha was in danger, Clint wasn't going to risk anything; he would do as instructed. Until he got close enough, at least.

And if this stranger was threatening Natasha, Clint would make them regret it, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

It was quiet in Clint's car.

Too quiet.

Aside from the steady purr of his engine, the silence was overwhelming as it threatened to crush him. And Clint's body was buckling under the weight of it. From his too-tight grip on the steering wheel to the tension that settled deep into each of his muscles, every molecule of his being was humming with discomfort. The longer he drove, the worse it got.

After Clint found the car parked on the side road near his house, he did as he was told and remained there, waiting for the next set of instructions.
He received one final message:

Follow.

So, he did.

And that was over fifteen minutes ago.

Normally, a fifteen-minute night drive wouldn't bother Clint. He enjoyed them, in fact, but not this one. The second Natasha's face had popped up on his cell phone's screen, Clint's heart had started racing, and it still hadn't stopped. With every passing minute, Clint grew more and more tense, even as he imagined the many, many, many ways he would hurt this mysterious puppet master.

Finally, the car pulled into a long, paved driveway. Every one of Clint's senses went on high alert. The driveway was well-lit and led to a sizeable house that could possibly be considered a mansion of sorts.

As soon as the other car pulled up to the house, it disappeared into a garage. The door shut behind it, leaving Clint stuck on the other side.

By this point, Clint knew how to play this stranger's game. He parked his car and cut the engine but remained seated with his phone in his hand.

A few minutes later, another message popped up:

Are you waiting for a special invitation, princess? Come on. The door's opened.

Clint looked up and, sure enough, the front door opened—seemingly of its own volition.

His heart was hammering wildly against his chest, and he felt flushed, but Clint pressed on ahead. As he walked up the front steps, Clint realized that this was a terrible idea and that he should get really comfortable with the idea of human skin suits really quick, but it was too late to turn back now. Even if it wasn't, he would do whatever it took to keep Natasha safe. Still, that didn't stop Clint's fine motor skills and most of his gross motor skills from coming to a screeching halt the closer he got to the door.

Walking through the opened door, Clint could've sworn his body was vibrating at a frequency that should've caused it to explode, so it was a surprise that he didn't immediately drop dead of a heart attack when he finally saw the face of the person pulling his strings for the last half hour.

"Seriously, Stark? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kick the crap outta you right now."

Tony Stark shrugged. "Assault's a felony? And this is just a guess, but I don't think orange is your color." He turned around and walked further into the house.

Clint followed, glaring at the back of Stark's head. "Oh, I'm sure I could pull it off."

Tony looked back, with one eyebrow raised. "With that complexion? I don't think so, dear. Orange would wash you out."

They walked into a kitchen, and the room immediately lit up.

"Have a seat," Tony said, gesturing to the barstools by the counter. "Can I get you a drink?"

Clint didn't budge. "No. You can tell me what the hell is going on."

Tony was already searching the fridge's contents. He looked back at Clint with both eyebrows raised in feigned innocence. "You sure? We got practically everything. This might take a while, so…"

"Stark!"

Tony's eyes went wide, and he turned his attention back to the open fridge. "Geez. Fine. Have it your way, but I don't wanna hear you complaining about inadequately lubricated vocal cords later."

"Inadequately lubricated—what?"

"Well, after everything that's happened this week, especially tonight," Tony explained, his head still lost inside the fridge. He emerged with a pair of water bottles and whipped around to face Clint, "I figure you have an awful lot of explaining to do." Tony punctuated the last word by slamming both water bottles on the kitchen island. "I figure we're going to be here a while, so, like I said: Have. A. Seat."

For a while, Clint and Tony stared at one another, both refusing to back down. Eventually, something in Tony's expression convinced Clint to take a seat. Tony tossed one of the water bottles to Clint, who easily caught it, then took a seat opposite his guest/hostage.

Uncertain of how to proceed, Clint waited impatiently.

"Are you an idiot?" Tony finally asked.

Clint opened his mouth to reply, but Tony waved him off.

"No, don't answer that. It was a rhetorical question. Of course, you're an idiot. So, obvious idiocy aside, I guess the better question would be: where do you get off treating Natasha the way you've treated her this week? 'Cause, I mean, the last time I checked, you're supposed to be her friend, not her jailer."

Clint rolled his eyes. "As usual, Stark, I have no idea what you're talking about, probably because you have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh really? Well, let me break it down for you, birdbrain. You've spent the entire week all but permanently perched on Natasha's shoulders like Polly-the-freaking-Parrot, making eyes at everyone like you're daring them to so much as look at her. Now I get it, you may think I don't know what I'm talking about because I don't understand whatever deep, meaningful connection you two have…yadda, yadda, yadda…or that it's impossible to reconcile my perceptions with your facts, but it's not just me. Other kids have seen it, too. And, more importantly, I've also been chatting with Natasha all week on M3, and even she thinks you've been the human equivalent of the word 'extra' lately. That's paraphrased, obviously."

"So, naturally, that means you have to quasi-kidnap and interrogate me in the middle of the night."

Clearly unimpressed by Clint's attempt at sarcasm, Tony pressed on. "First of all, it's not even 11pm on a Friday, so I'd hardly call that the middle of the night, grandpa. Second, this isn't an interrogation. This is a chance to open a dialogue, so you can deal with your childhood trauma before you pull a full Joe Goldberg and lock Miss Romanoff in a box. Spoiler alert, bucko, she's not your property. It's not up to you to decide where she goes, what she does, and who she hangs out with. I don't know if you noticed, but Natasha's a big girl; so, she can make her own decisions. If she wants to go on a double date with actual Joe Goldberg and the couple from Natural Born Killers, it's her prerogative. As her friend, you're more than welcome to try and talk her out of it, but it's ultimately up to her. Ya feel me?"

"You think I don't know that?" Clint asked.

Unphased, Tony shook his head. "No. I really don't think you do. If you did, we wouldn't be here, because she had this same conversation with you a few days ago. I've added a few embellishments, naturally, but the moral of the story remains the same. And you still don't seem to get it."

Clint stood up. "I got it. I get it. When she said she was hanging out with you, I didn't say shit, okay? My family and I were just worried. That's it. I didn't say shit. You can ask her."

"I don't have to ask her," Tony shot back. "I was there with her when she called you. There was a two-foot-wide table between me and her, so I heard everything. Saw everything, too. You know that picture I sent you. That was her moments after she hung up. Crying. You made her cry. She waited until she got to her car—tried to keep herself together for a minute—before she completely and utterly broke down in tears. And, as her friend—yes, I said friend, so wipe that indignant look off your pretty little face—where was I? Oh, yeah. As her friend, I felt compelled to do something about it.

"So, I hacked your phone and traced the GPS to your house. I guess she had to pull over because she was crying too much or something, 'cause I got there a few minutes before she did. And believe me when I say that it took every ounce of my will power not to march right into your house and drag you out by your ridiculous fauxhawk just so I could whoop some sense into that possibly empty, square-shaped head of yours."

Clint bristled at the insults and the invasion of privacy. "I thought this wasn't supposed to be an interrogation…"

Tony took a long swig of his water. "Yeah? Well, I changed my mind."

"Are you finished?" Clint asked.

"For the time being," Tony said. "Don't tell me you've had a thought wiggle its way into that impenetrable thing up there," he added, pointing a finger at Clint's head, nearly poking him in the process.

Clint jerked back a bit. "Stark, I swear…" he warned.

Tony pulled his hand back in mock-surrender.

"I don't know who Joe Goldberg is," Clint began, "but I know who you are, Stark, and I know what you've done when it comes to the girls at school. So, forgive me for wanting to spare my favorite person on Earth from all of that," he gestured towards Tony in a vague manner.

"Spare her? From what? Friendship?"

"Friendship? Seriously, Stark? I don't know who you think you're fooling, but I've seen the way you look at her. Friendship is the last thing on your womanizing agenda."

Tony's face darkened. "That's where you're wrong, Tweety-Pie. I am trying so hard—you have no idea just how hard—to be her friend and nothing more."

Clint rolled his eyes.

"No, really," Tony protested. "I'm not going to lie to you, because that won't get us anywhere. So, yes, I am interested in Natasha. There, I said it. You caught me. Congratulations. But when I say that I'm only trying to be her friend, that's not a lie, either."

Clint crossed his arms over his chest. "Give me one good reason I should believe you, Stark."

Tony shrugged. "Bruce," he said as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

"Bruce?"
"Banner."
"Yes," Clint huffed. "I know who Bruce is, thank you. What about him?"

"Bruce," Tony repeated, his voice just above a whisper.

"Bruce?" Clint asked again, even as realization was dawning on him.

"Yeah. Bruce," Tony shrugged again. "He likes her."

Clint allowed his gaze to inspect every inch of Tony's face, watching as some of the other boy's bravado crumbled. "What does that have to do with you," he asked.

Tony suddenly seemed incapable of making eye contact. "He likes her, but he's shy. It's this whole thing, but the short version is that I promised to bow out unless she actively pursues me for anything other than friendship. He's one of my best friends, so…"

In that moment, Clint felt a tiny spark of sympathy for the habitually cocky teen sitting across from him. It was one of a handful of times he'd ever felt anything better than apathy for Stark, and the feeling made him uncomfortable.

"So…" Clint said, clearing his throat, "you're completely out of the game unless Natasha pulls an Uncle Sam?"

Tony nodded.

"Huh…" Clint mused. "Gotta admit…I never would've seen that coming."

"Me either," Tony scoffed.

They sat there in silence, both adjusting to the changing energy in the air.

"She cried?" Clint finally asked.

"Crocodile tears, man. Felt it right here," Tony said without a beat, pointing to his heart as he did.

Clint allowed his head to droop. "Ah, dammit."

"We're on the same team, man," Tony finally said, breaking another long stretch of silence.

"How so?"

"If all I ever am is a friend to her, I want to do it right. Earlier, you said you knew me, well, then you know that I'm a lackadaisical perfectionist—as nonsensical as that sounds. If I'm willing to step aside for Bruce, imagine what I'd be willing to do for her."

Clint followed along, nodding silently.

"I guess what I'm saying, is that I'm not the bad guy, here. And I'm not saying that you are, either," Tony added hastily. "How much has she told you about the whole Bucky thing?"

"Everything."

Both of Tony's eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing into his hairline. "So, you know who the real bad guy is then?"

Clint nodded. "Well, now that I know you're not going to be an issue, yeah. I guess so."

"So," Tony said, clapping his hands together, "what do you say we put all this crap behind us—you know, kiss and make up—and band together. Direct our efforts where they're most needed…mmm?"

"And, what? Be, like, friends?" Clint asked, grimacing at the thought.

Tony's eyes widened. "Friends? Gah. No. Of course not. What the hell is wrong with you? No. Just be civil, for crying out loud."

They both stared at one another, both feigning disgust but deep down, they both knew something had changed that night. Their frowns weren't as hard, and there was a vaguely friendly gleam in their eyes. It came and went so fast that it would've gone unseen by any outsider, but they both saw it.

They were interrupted from their respective thoughts on that horrifying notion by a loud rumbling coming from Clint's stomach.

"Hungry?" Tony asked.

"Yeah. Dinner was forever ago."

"There's a 24-hour pancake place a few miles away. My treat for the, what did you call it…quasi-kidnapping?"

Clint looked at his watch. "It's after 11."

Tony shot him a 'so what' look. "Like I said, 24-hours. It's not like I'm going to bed anytime soon. I don't want to oversleep and miss the football tryouts tomorrow morning."

This threw Clint for a loop. "You're trying out for football?"

Tony laughed. "Me? No way. Nope. That honor goes to Natasha."

"What?"

"Yeah. She told me at dinner. Somewhere between sneaking up on me and the tears."

Clint grimaced. "Please stop bringing that up. It's going to take me eons to come up with a way to apologize to her for that."

"Well," Tony said, jumping down from his seat. "What do you say to an all-night pancake fest? I can help you figure out a way to make it up to her, how to deal with this Bucky thing, and anything else that might be useful if we plan on playing nice for a while."

"Okay. I'm in, but I'm driving, though. I've seen you drive, and I value my life."

"Fair enough. Let's hit the road, Jack."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Can you quit it with the references?"

"Only if you ask nicely."

"Can you quit it with the references, please?"

"No," Tony grinned. "You can have 'em when you pry 'em from my cold, lifeless fingers."

"Promises, promises…"

As they were walking out the door and climbing into his car, a thought occurred to Clint.

"What's going to happen if Natasha is interested in you?" he asked.

Tony shrugged. "I don't know, man, but I bet it'll be interesting."

Clint could only respond with a non-committal grunt, but he secretly agreed.

Interesting, indeed.

*Song Inspiration: "The Sound of Silence" - Simon & Garfunkle