Title: Surface Pressure
Author: Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing :( I don't have, nor do I know anyone with, narcolepsy/cataplexy. Everything here is a result of what little research I was able to scrounge off the 'net and a huge dose of creative license. Apologies for anything I got wrong, and no offence is intended in any way.
Summary: "Barton, a moment?" The building anxiety triggered his cataplexy and Clint fell with a solid thud onto the bench behind him as, thankfully, just his knees went weak. Narcoleptic!Clint
Author's Notes: Sequel to High (All The Time)
"Barton, a moment?"
Clint froze.
Six months ago, the sight of a sweaty Steve Rogers stalking toward him in skintight workout gear (gear that left very little to the imagination, thank you very much) would've fuelled many a late night fantasy that he would've joked about with Nat and Phil over one too many beers at the end of a long day. (Because, hey, he's not blind, okay? He's just a little dead inside.)
But six months ago, Clint's Pretty Damn Important Sleep Schedule™ and his ridiculously expensive medication had been doing its proper job. Six months ago, the archer hadn't been magically mind-screwed into servitude to a dangerous trickster god, or forced to work against and take down his own people. He hadn't tried to kill Fury and he hadn't managed to successfully kill Phil Coulson - the only man that'd ever proven time after time to give a damn about him. (And maybe, just maybe, Clint had cared a lot about him too. Not that it mattered any longer.)
So right now, the sight of a sweaty Steve Rogers stalking toward him, perturbed expression on his usually bright and sunny face, only filled him with one thing:
Dread.
"Hey, Cap." Slamming his locker door shut, Barton used the towel draped over his shoulder to wipe at his damp face and to disguise the sudden jaw-cracking yawn that came from out of nowhere. This obviously wasn't going to be a fun conversation. Not if good ol' Captain America was using his last name.
Shifting closer to the bench next to his locker, Clint forced his face to not show just how anxious he was as he offered the Super Soldier a smirk. "What can I do you for?"
"Care to explain this?" Steve scowled, ignoring the archer's attempt at humour and slapping him gently in the chest with something thin and flat.
This, it turned out, was a mission report. Clint's own mission report, if the spidery scrawl across the page in barely legible writing (and purple biro, naturally) was to be believed.
Fighting the urge to rub at the sore spot on his chest (because a gentle slap from Rogers was like a sucker punch from anyone else), Clint took the paperwork and scanned the date on the report to find out what the issue might be. Had he forgotten to dot his i's and cross his t's?
No.
It was actually much worse than that.
It was his report from the Doombot attack last week. The one where he'd almost fallen asleep when he was supposed to be evac'ing civilians. The same one where Nat had pretty much caught him red-handed taking his meds and had startled him into a cataplexy attack on the floor of some scummy bathroom in the middle of New York City.
Clint swallowed hard.
Was that what this was about? Had Romanoff told Steve what had really happened that day? Nat might have promised her discretion over him abandoning his post, and she'd always had his back in the past, but what if she'd changed her mind? Finally realised he was little more than a liability and far more trouble than he was worth now she didn't have Coulson around to back her up.
Well, shit.
The building anxiety triggered his cataplexy and Clint fell with a solid thud onto the bench behind him as, thankfully, just his knees went weak. At Cap's startled look, Barton cursed the shitshow that was his life and shrugged off his teammate's concerned frown, covering for his actions by scrubbing a hand through his sweat-dampened hair after making sure he wasn't about to fall flat on his face and make a further ass of himself.
"What exactly do you expect me to say here, Cap?" If Nat had ratted him out, Clint figured he could handle a metaphorical ass-kicking from their team leader. Hell, he'd even take a real one if it meant it didn't get back to Hill or Fury that he'd fucked up. Again. Because he'd been dodging those two assholes for weeks already and they would be more than happy for any excuse to cut him from the team. They'd been trying since the whole Loki disaster.
Steve's concern quickly reverted to annoyance at the obstinate tone the archer threw his way.
"I expect," he admonished, keeping his voice low so no one else in the locker room would hear him reprimanding his fellow teammate, "that the next time you're too lazy to fill out your after-action report, you at least try to do a better job than just scribbling jibberish at the bottom of the page like a toddler set loose with a crayon."
Confused, Clint flipped to the section in question and rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw the inside of his head.
Narcolepsy, it seemed, somehow always managed to bite him in the ass, even when he was trying his best to be a fully-functioning human being.
"I'm, uh, really sorry, Cap." It didn't take much acting to pull off an embarrassed grimace. "I guess I must have fallen asleep writing it."
The irony of it had Clint biting his lip so as not to burst out into hysterical laughter at the absurdity of it all. Because that was literally what he'd done: he'd fallen asleep writing the report.
Narcolepsy had a lot of well-known asshole traits, but automatic behaviours were one of the less talked about (thankfully, also the least dangerous, he'd discovered). It looked like he'd had a sleep attack midst report, so the last several lines were, as Steve had so eloquently put it, jibberish. Just a bunch of scribbles, dots and dashes that weren't even within the lines. How he hadn't spotted it before handing the document in, he'd never know.
Something flickered across Steve's boyish face at Clint's explanation, but it was quickly masked with a stern but, thankfully, forgiving sigh.
"Make sure it doesn't happen again, Clint. I mean it. I don't appreciate Hill calling me every few days checking you're behaving and asking me to keep you in line."
There. Clint was forgiven. Even if the confirmation that he hadn't dodged Fury and Hill yet wasn't something he needed to hear. Ever.
"It won't, Cap. I swear, okay? I'll even rewrite this one for ya. How about that?"
See, Hawkeye could behave. Sometimes.
Rogers rolled his own eyes at that one but seemed happy to leave things there.
Taking that as his cue to leave, Clint prayed his body wouldn't betray him as he climbed warily to his feet. His cataplexy episodes didn't usually last for longer than a minute, but he wasn't willing to risk outing himself to Captain America of all people.
"I'm gonna get right on that," he declared with a vague wave of his hand, turning his back on the Super Soldier and attempting to slink away.
"Hey, Clint, uh-"
No, nonononono... Not now!
His anxiety returning tenfold as his heart started pounding in his chest, Clint felt his knees threaten to give way again. Refusing to succumb - not yet! - and almost biting through his lip with the effort, Clint ignored Steve's attempt at - whatever that was, and threw a peace sign in the man's general direction before darting through the closest door he could find.
As soon as it clicked shut behind him, Clint's knees buckled and he hit the floor. There was no bench there to break his fall this time around, but at least he managed to land facedown on the carpeted floor without breaking his nose or cracking open his skull. Small victories, right?
It did, however, mean he missed the crestfallen face of the teammate he'd left back in the locker room.
Steve debated with himself for a full thirty seconds on whether or not he should follow Clint before pulling out his phone and scrolling through his limited contacts.
He found Tony's number, fourth from the top, and hit dial as he turned on his heel and headed back the way he'd arrived.