Trekkiehood requested a continuation of this fic! So this chapter is dedicated to them! (Not only because they asked for it, but also because they've been leaving reviews on all my stories and I love reviews! :D )
I do quite a bit of research for my stories and sometimes find interesting stuff to add in. Also, I tried to let the characters speak for themselves but if there's confusion about their motives or reasoning, please review or PM me and I can clear things up ;)
Final thing, this chapter picks up a few hours after the first one.
"Good news," Clint announced, coming into the common room. "I'll live."
Steve sprang off the couch immediately. "What did the doctor say?"
"Just the usual." Waving away the helping hand Steve offered, Clint gingerly lowered himself onto the couch cushions. "Eat well, don't smoke, get eight hours of sleep."
Steve sighed, exasperated. "Come on, Clint."
"Nothing a good night's rest won't fix," Clint said.
Crossing his arms, Steve stared down at the archer. "How bad is it?"
Clint rolled his eyes and held up a finger. "Okay, first of all, it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say-" Steve began.
"If you hadn't, I'd be dead right now. I think that's a pretty fair trade, wouldn't you say?" Clint interrupted.
Steve scratched lightly at the gauze beneath his sleeve and said nothing.
"And second," Clint continued, "Six to eight weeks, I'm good as new."
Steve exhaled in relief before his brow furrowed. "You won't be able to shoot with that, will you?"
Clint snorted. "You do realize I work for SHIELD, right? You honestly think a cracked rib is the worst injury I've ever gotten? I've played through far worse. And sit down already. You're making me antsy."
At the marksman's request, Steve settled on the nearby armchair. "But you shouldn't fight?" he clarified. "You're supposed to rest and take it easy?"
Throwing his feet up on the coffee table, Clint curled his mouth into a smirk. "You bet. Which means I'm going to milk this for all it's worth."
Steve raised an eyebrow. "You've got that look."
"What look?" Clint spread his hands innocently.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway behind them, accompanied by the rustle of plastic bags.
"Okay, I got two orders of Thai, a bucket of chicken wings, a couple of large pizzas, and the biggest bottle of extra strength Ibuprofen I could find." Tony's voice could be heard coming closer.
Steve's mouth dropped open. "You didn't?!" he exclaimed, staring at Clint.
"I did," Clint snickered, quickly changing his expression into an exaggerated grimace of pain as Tony entered the room.
"Here you go, you invalid," Tony declared, depositing the many bags on the coffee table beside Clint's boots. "I think I got it all, though that was quite an extensive list you gave me."
Making a show out of nudging the bags with the toe of his shoe, Clint looked up with faux accusation. "Where's the beer?"
"What do you want with all this stuff anyway?" Tony questioned. "It's not like you can eat everything yourself."
"Most of it's for him." Clint jerked a thumb at Steve. "So where's the six-pack I asked for?"
"You don't want to mix booze and medication. Trust me, I'm talking from experience," Tony said.
"You do it all the time." Clint frowned.
"That's why I said I was talking from experience. Duh," Tony said.
Grumbling under his breath about hypocritical rich dudes, Clint shuffled through the items on the table until he found the bottle of pain medicine. He shook several pills into his palm and dry swallowed them.
"Remind me again why I had to go out and personally fetch your food for you?" Tony asked, crossing his arms.
"Because I'm a suspicious son of a gun and don't trust anyone else to deliver it?" Clint offered with a cheeky smirk.
"...That makes sense," Tony agreed after a moment's thoughtful pause. "But I kind of meant why couldn't you go and get this stuff yourself?"
Clint looked offended. "Because I have a broken rib!"
"Don't be a drama queen, Barton. It's only cracked," Natasha said, gliding into the room.
She invited herself into the seat next to him before leaning forward and claiming one of the cartons of noodles for herself.
"You mean to tell me he's perfectly capable of grabbing his own takeout?" Tony demanded.
Natasha's arched eyebrows were all the answer he needed as she casually began her meal.
"Tasha," Clint groaned. "Why'd you have to spoil it? Couldn't you at least have given me a couple weeks? I was just getting used to the idea of having a personal servant."
"Nobody makes an errand boy out of Tony Stark!" Tony spluttered in outrage.
"The food on the table suggests otherwise," Clint pointed out.
"You owe me. You owe me big for that, birdbrain," Tony swore, shaking a finger in Clint's face.
Unapologetic, Clint popped the lid off the first box of pizza. "You're gullible. You can't lay that on me."
"Valid point," Natasha commented.
"Do you all want to find somewhere else to live? Because it would be my pleasure to evict you," Tony threatened.
"You know you love us," Clint said, proudly displaying a mouth full of pizza.
Disgusted with the partially mashed pepperoni and dough, Tony looked away.
"Hey, errand boy, turn on the TV, will you?" Clint requested. The remote smacking off his chest was the only response Tony gave him. "Ow! Broken rib, remember?"
"Cracked," Natasha corrected.
"Move over, errand boy. You're blocking the screen," Clint called at Tony.
"Okay. The whole 'errand boy' thing has got to stop. Like right now," Tony demanded.
"And you have to move. Like right now," Clint quipped in return.
Natasha rolled her eyes. "I swear it's like living with a bunch of children."
"What are we watching? A Hallmark holiday original?" Tony finally caved in and found a spot on the second sofa.
"It's the middle of January," Clint said.
"Don't worry. I recorded them all for you," Tony said. "I'd hate for you to miss even one sappy second and now you can watch them all year round."
"Cap, you've been pretty quiet over there," Natasha noted without even looking at him. "What do you think we should watch?"
Steve opened his mouth, but Clint spoke before he had the chance.
"Why are you asking him? I'm the one with the broken rib!" Clint protested.
"Cracked," Natasha and Tony corrected in unison.
"Either way, out of all of us, I'm the one with the most serious injury so that means I get to pick," Clint argued.
"What? No, it doesn't," Tony said.
"Yes, it does. That's the rule," Clint said.
Tony shook his head. "You're making all of this up."
"No, remember that time after the whole Dr. Doom incident? We all agreed whoever was the most badly injured got control of the remote." Clint insisted.
"You are so full of it!" Tony accused.
"If you want the remote, you'll have to fight me for it," Clint warned.
"I thought you said you have a broken rib?" Tony reminded suspiciously.
"Cracked," Natasha and Clint corrected in unison.
"I could have three cracked ribs and still take you down without breaking a sweat," Clint boasted.
"Whatever." Tony flapped his hand dismissively. "Just pick something to watch already."
"I have," Clint said, navigating through the television's menus. "I've picked something educational." At that, he glanced to Steve, who was observing his team's interaction with a look of amused contentment.
"Uh, Legolas? I thought you messed up your ribs, not your eyes. You just selected Star Wars," Tony said.
"I know."
"Well, last I checked, Star Wars doesn't fit the definition of educational," Tony said.
"Maybe not for you," Clint said cryptically, eyes sliding to Steve again.
Tony noticed and surprise came over his face. "Cap's never seen Star Wars?"
Steve shook his head.
"Geez, Rogers! You can't call yourself an American if you haven't witnessed the epic saga of Luke Skywalker and his quest to rid the galaxy of the evil emperor," Tony complained.
"See? That's what I told him," Clint said, gesturing enthusiastically with the remote.
As the opening score blasted through the speakers and the golden letters scrolled up the screen, Steve leaned forward in his seat. "Is any of this real?"
"What? No, of course not. This is all the brainchild of George Lucas," Tony said.
"But is it based on anything real?" Steve persisted. "You know, any people who actually lived."
"Aliens aren't real, Steve," Clint reminded.
"My friends! I have just returned from that excellent Midgardian place of dining with the golden arches!" Thor's booming voice drowned out the trumpeting of the movie's theme.
Steve raised a challenging eyebrow at Clint as Thor strolled into the room.
"Except for Thor," Clint grudgingly conceded.
"And Loki," Natasha chimed in.
"And the weird alien army he brought with him," Steve added.
Clint threw his hands up in exasperation. "The point is Star Wars is all fake. Now shut up and watch the movie."
"What are we watching?" Thor asked, grabbing a piece of pizza before flopping onto the sofa beside Tony, launching the billionaire a couple inches into the air.
"I thought you said you just had McDonald's," Tony said as he dropped back onto the cushion.
"Indeed. But now I am returned and have found a feast prepared," Thor said, stuffing half of the slice into his mouth in one bite.
Worried that the demigod might devour everything before he had a chance to eat, Tony snatched the bucket of chicken, hunching over it possessively.
"Shh!" Clint ordered.
The movie viewing wasn't nearly as quiet as Clint had hoped. Steve frequently needed to ask questions, as he found the story difficult to follow with the distractions in the room, namely Thor and Tony wrestling each other over the fried chicken, while Natasha snapped her chopsticks into splinters that she used to craft oddly shaped weapons that she didn't hesitate to test on her teammates.
Two hours later, as Princess Leia awarded Han and Luke their medals, the Avengers decided that, since no world-ending crisis had arisen, they would enjoy their peaceful evening by playing the next movie of the trilogy. JARVIS automatically dimmed the lights in deference to the late hour. Even before Han was frozen in carbonite, a crumb-dusted Thor was already slouching against the back of the couch, snoring robustly. Tony's attention had been abducted by his tablet and Natasha eventually ran out of supplies for her experimental weapon crafting venture. This time, when the end credits replaced the characters on screen, there wasn't enough of the team invested in the movie marathon to justify starting the final installment.
Stretching stiff joints, Tony rose and begged off from further activities in the name of assisting Bruce with a project in the lab. Natasha left for her own room, but not before giving Clint a gentle reminder to get some rest. Wisely deciding to let sleeping Asgardians lie, Steve gathered the empty food containers, dirty utensils, crumpled napkins, and plastic bags, and took them to the kitchen to dispose of. As he finished, he heard footsteps. He turned to find Clint coming to a stop by the island and then carefully settling himself on one of the bar stools there. The archer mildly gestured to the seat next to him.
"Shouldn't you be heading to bed?" Steve questioned, glancing at the microwave's clock.
"Five more minutes, mom?" Clint teased.
Steve huffed and braced an arm against the counter. "Come on, Clint. You had a pretty rough day."
"Yeah...about that." Clint fixed Steve with a concerned gaze. "What happened out there?"
"What do you mean?" Steve asked, confused.
"I mean you weren't your normal cool and collected self," Clint said. "We've been in plenty of dangerous situations and you've never lost your head. But today, in the river, you...I don't know. It was like you spaced out on me."
Steve looked away, ashamed.
Clint leaned forward, grimacing at the muted pain the motion caused his rib, in an attempt to catch Steve's gaze. "Is this something we need to talk about?"
Silent, Steve stubbornly stared at the sink.
"Cap, if something like this ever happens on a mission-" Clint started.
Steve's head whipped up and his eyes widened with panic. "It won't! I swear, Clint!"
"Okay, calm down," Clint placated, straightening again. "I didn't say that it would, just that we might need to deal with this now so no one gets hurt later on."
"I'm fine," Steve murmured, fingers clenched into a desperate fist. He raised his chin, as if daring Clint to argue. But the tense line of his shoulders and the tick in his jaw allowed Clint to see how untrue the statement was.
Clint sighed, recognizing the familiar need to convince other people, as well as one's self, of a lie that should be true.
"Today was-I just…" Steve had to stop, pressing his lips together firmly as he struggled for words. After a moment, he squared his shoulder and made direct eye contact with the marksman. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."
"Uh-huh." Clint nodded, skeptical. "And just how are you going to do that?"
Steve stiffened. "I'll figure it out."
"Right. Because you've had two years to figure it out and you still haven't," Clint pointed out. Steve's eyes flashed with hurt. Clint mentally braced himself and kept talking. "But you are the Man With a Plan, so I shouldn't be worried. Next time, you won't have a panic attack. You won't be having some kind of flashback. You won't lose control while doing CPR." When Steve flinched, Clint pressed harder, raising his voice. "Or maybe you will. Maybe next time you don't just crack my rib, you break it. You break it, and it punctures a lung, and I die from internal bleeding. That would be on you." He stabbed an accusatory finger at Steve's blanching face. "It would be your fault for being too stubborn to admit you need help."
"I don't need help!" Steve automatically protested, his face a mixture of anger, guilt and fear.
"Stop lying to yourself!" Clint snapped. "I was there. I saw what happened to you. You're clearly not okay with what happened to you back then and you're clearly not okay if something similar happens now. Obviously, it's something you need to deal with. And if you don't want to talk to me about it, that's fine. But you need to talk to someone, Steve!"
"Talk about it?" Steve repeated with irritated incredulity. "What the heck is that supposed to do?"
"I know it sounds cheesy and like something only weepy women do, but I promise it actually helps," Clint said.
"You know who else told me talking would help?" Steve's tone abruptly turned bitter. "My doctor, back when I was a kid."
Clint frowned in confusion. "You saw a psychiatrist when you were a kid?"
"No, he was a physician. Came to the house to treat my asthma. Always told me talking about it would help. And you know what? It never got any better!" Steve argued.
"Why would he say that? Asthma is a physical condition. It has nothing to do with your state of mind. Why would a doctor want you to talk about it?" Clint wondered.
Steve didn't seem to hear his questions. "If talking didn't help then, why would it help now?"
"I don't know what psychology was like when you were growing up, but the field has definitely advanced since then," Clint insisted. "Psychotherapy is now one of the most common ways to treat PTSD." His lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile. "After Loki stole my mind, I needed a little help getting it back. Psychologists aren't all bad."
Steve shook his head. "That's a completely different situation."
"Why are you so against this?" Clint demanded. "You have a problem and you don't want to fix it. Why?"
"I'm not broken, Barton," Steve growled, shoulders hunching defensively.
"Look, Cap, what happened to you was awful and, gosh, I can't even imagine what you've been through, but there are ways to cope with it," Clint said.
"I am coping," Steve insisted.
"Really? The sleepless nights, the lack of appetite, all of your darn depressing drawings-that's coping?" Clint crossed his arms lightly, mindful of his injured rib.
Steve's jaw dropped, betrayed. "You've been spying on me."
"Look who you're talking to. That's literally my job description," Clint snorted. "But really, it's stuff anyone can see if they just pay attention."
"You've been going through my sketches," Steve accused.
"Okay, so I snooped. A little. But if you didn't want anyone to find them, you should have hidden them better."
"They were in a locked box in a locked drawer of my desk in my locked bedroom," Steve said, narrowing his eyes.
"Like I said, they need to be better hidden. Geez, Cap. Keep in mind that you live in the same building as a pair of highly skilled secret agents," Clint said, using a blase attitude to cover the twinge of guilt he felt.
Steve sighed in resignation, allowing the matter to drop without seeking an explanation or retribution. A lull in conversation took over, allowing a hush to settle in the room.
"It's not weakness to admit you need help," Clint told him quietly. "And it doesn't make you any less of a man, or a captain, to accept it."
Steve hung his head, face downturned, hiding his expression from Clint. The silence came back, longer this time. Clint could think of nothing else to say, no argument he hadn't already made. Coming to the conclusion that Steve was unreceptive to his attempts to help, Clint slid off the stool, disappointed to a degree he hadn't anticipated.
"It's usually worse at night."
Clint paused halfway to the door. He turned to look over his shoulder. Steve was slumped in defeat, finally putting words to a struggle he hadn't wanted to face. But he lifted his chin, carrying on with his intrinsic courage. He met Clint's gaze without flinching, though the corners of his eyes were pinched with anxiety.
"The nightmares?" Clint prompted after a minute had passed without Steve adding more to his admission.
Steve shook his head. "No. I have those, but I've gotten used to them."
"Then what is it?" Clint asked, taking a couple steps closer.
Taking a deep breath, Steve said, "It's being alone."
"Alone?" Clint repeated, uncomprehending.
"The rest of you are asleep and I'm awake at two in the morning, wandering the empty common rooms, thinking of everyone I lost and wondering when it's going to happen again," Steve explained. His lips turned up in a sad parody of a smile. "It's stupid, I know." He shrugged. "The whole ice situation probably won't happen too often. But what happened after," he gestured to Clint's rib cage. "When I pulled you out and your heart stopped...I panicked. All I could think about was that I was losing another friend, and I couldn't do anything to stop it."
Clint swallowed. He knew he had gone into cardiac arrest, but hearing it out loud still sent a shiver down his spine.
"Just when I think I'm over it, that I'm adjusting to my life here, something happens and all the issues I thought I was past come back out again," Steve revealed, watching Clint nervously to gauge his reaction. "I know I shouldn't be having these problems. Like you said, it's been two years." He looked down again, as if confessing something shameful.
"Steve," Clint called softly, but firmly. Steve chanced raising his eyes. "What you're going through is completely normal," he assured him. "Heck, I'd be worried if you could fight Nazis, get frozen, wake up in an entirely new century, and resume your usual heroics without at least a little PTSD." He counted it a victory when Steve huffed a quiet laugh at that. "I wasn't trying to give you the wrong message earlier." Clint's tone sobered. I'm sorry if I pushed too hard, but I knew you wouldn't talk otherwise. Look, you're going through some stuff. So am I. And I know for a fact every other member of this team is too. It comes with the territory. There's no way to live the kind of lives we do, to see the crap we see, to do the bad things we have to, without getting affected by it. I wanted you to deal with it, not just because you're our captain and we need to be able to trust you in any situation out in the field, but for you. You're a good man, Steve, and you don't deserve to struggle with this on your own."
Relief came over Steve, visible in the loosening of his rigid spine and the softening of his eyes.
"Don't worry about the team thinking any less of you. You've already proven yourself to us more than enough times. Not to mention, you doing this? It might set a good example. At the very least, Stark could benefit from a visit to a therapist," Clint said.
Steve smirked. "And then the therapist will need therapy."
Clint laughed at the unexpected joke, agreeing.
Steve grew serious once more, though there was a lightness in his posture, as if he was no longer bent beneath an unseen burden. "Thank you, Clint."
"You saved my life. This is the least I could do," Clint stated confidently.