Clint is the last to move in, and it's probably because he was waiting on clearance from psych so Tony doesn't nag him about it or try to wrangle updates out of him by sending him demanding text messages. He still gives him a good welcoming thump on the back when he finally shows up, looking a bit more clear-eyed than the last time Tony had seen him, but still worn and strained, with tired shadows under him eyes that mean he isn't sleeping. He's got a military-style duffel over one shoulder--SHIELD gray instead of the dusty green of Steve's old army pack--and he's shuffling a cardboard box across the floor, shoving it with his feet until Tony waylays him, and then he stops and lets himself be hugged and ruffled before asking, "Heard there was some free space 'round here?"
"Some space!" Tony huffs indignantly, "Boy are you in for a surprise. You got more stuff coming?"
Clint shrugs, "I've got a suitcase I left by the elevator. Clothes and stuff. That's okay, right?"
"What? Sure. Of course it is. What do you think this is? A barracks? Bruce has a lab. And he brought along a whole Winnebago."
Clint grins, and it looks like polite confusion. He probably thinks Tony's making it up. "The man used to hide out in the desert," Tony explains, "He's got his former home sweet home in my garage. I'll show you after I escort you to your digs and you put away your two socks. Where's that suitcase?"
-----
Tony wheels Clint's luggage back into the elevator, and then out into the hall on the floor just under Tony's. Floor Spyland is outfitted with two apartments, a shooting range--just a traditional, single lane. There's a more complete one downstairs, but this should hold Clint if he gets antsy in the middle of the night--and a mini gym set up for Natasha's acrobatics and dancing if she wants to work off steam in private.
"This is you," Tony says, and keys Clint's door open with a flourish before gesturing him in like a professional doorman. "Where would you like me to put your things, sir?"
Clint peers in, looking weirdly like a shy kid but says, "I'm not tipping you."
"Part of the welcoming service," Tony says, abandoning the suitcase against a wall, and turning to gesture impatiently at Clint, "If you'd been on time, you'd have gotten a free drink. Maybe even with a little umbrella. Kick your box in. Come look around. There's no furniture yet, but Natasha wanted to make her own selections, so I thought everyone else might also like to. Except for Bruce. He'd live with a mattress on the floor and a chamber pot and nothing else if you let him. You have a Starkpad. Just order what you want." Tony points it out, then starts pushing doors open. "Half bath. Closet. Closet. Kitchen through there. Not a closet. It looks like one, but it'll take you to the range. Bedroom, Bedroom. Master bath's over there. Closet. Emergency exit. Secret emergency exit. Balcony." He stops to do a little spin in the middle of the open plan living/dining area to face Clint with a little ta-dah move. Clint looks a bit stunned, then kicks his box again, shuffling it forward a few more inches.
"Where--?" he starts and Tony cuts him off, grabbing the box by one of its fold-down leafs and drags it towards one of the bedrooms.
"This one has a bed. I thought you might need one of those right off. I stuck it in the room with the best windows. You can move it to the guestroom if you like. Obviously." He shoves Clint's box into the closet and pulls the door shut. Grins. "And now you're moved in. Welcome home. Dump the sack and I'll show you the common areas."
Clint blinks and tests the not-a-closet door, peering down the narrow hallway it reveals. "Did you say take me to the range?"
"Well. To your range. It's just one lane, for those insomnia nights. I'll show you the big time for-serious one downstairs if you get a move on."
"When can I use it?" Clint asks, still peering down the hallway.
"As soon as you get your bow. Where'd you leave it? Because I don't think it's in that box or the suitcase, unless it folds up tinier than I thought."
Clint ducks into the bedroom and sets his bag down cautiously on the end of the bed. Not like he's carrying fragile things in it, but like he's not sure that's where it should go, glancing at Tony like he's looking for cues. Tony taps a finger impatiently, then continues.
"And there's a gym. Mostly for dance, but there's some gear in there too. That's really Nat's but I'm pretty sure she'll share with you if you want to bust a move or whatever the kids are calling it these days. Now let's go. I want to show you the pool."
Clint decides the duffel is fine where it is and passes Tony again to get the suitcase and wheel it into the bedroom, and with the box out of sight, it looks like a pathetically small accumulation of things. He's pretty sure Clint doesn't have dishes or things to hang on the wall. Helicarrier living is probably not for the materialistic, like Tony, but this is still ridiculous.
"Let's get your stuff set up," Tony says, "then pool," and waves at the suitcase, "Now unzip that thing. I'll help you decorate."
-----
"I didn't live on the helicarrier," Clint says, grinning as he digs through his box, "Nobody lives on the Helicarrier. That's a temporary station. I lived with Phil."
Shit. Tony frowns as Clint waves a picture at him before setting it down on his dresser--the other piece of furniture Tony had presumed to pre-supply for him. "We shared an apartment. On base. Or technically, in town but administratively SHIELD's. But," he shrugs and tugs open a drawer, cramming in half a dozen t-shirts and two henleys. Gray and black, or muted purple. A couple dress shirts, a few pairs of jeans. Sweaters, a coat, work out gear. It's like Clint got the basics and then quit shopping entirely. Tony's a bit disappointed in him, considering his circus past. He'd have expected his fashion sense to be great. Or at least terrible, but not this utilitarian bore. At least he has a tacky Christmas sweater--even if turns out to have been Phil's--that he stows reverently in the bottom drawer of the dresser.
"You shared an apartment? Where's all your stuff? Towels, forks, ugly lamps. That kind of thing?"
"It was mostly Phil's," Clint says, pulling a few books out of the cardboard box and putting them in a stack on the dresser. A SHIELD textbook of some sort--looking freakishly well thumbed for something that also looks boring as hell--a history of archery, an ammunition guide, something about bows, and a coffee table art book about circus signage and posters that Steve would probably enjoy, and a couple of paperbacks. "It got sent to his sister's."
It's just as well that Captain America hasn't taken over Clint's apartment. It would have been kind of awkward to have inherited Phil's sizable shrine to the guy, what with Steve living right downstairs.
"Pots, mugs, toothbrushes?" Tony pushes, snooping through Clint's suitcase. Clint snorts.
"I have a toothbrush."
"And a mug," Tony says, pulling one out. It's goofy. Purple with an orange cartoon cat wearing a party hat and blowing a noisemaker on the outside of it and lime green on the inside. The text Fweee! written on the inside base in bright orange. "It's classy."
"It was from Nat," Clint says. "Birthday mug." He grins and takes it from Tony, turning it in his hand a couple of times, chuckling. "It's still the best personal items permission form I've ever filled out. Description: Mug, purple with party cat."
"Huh. Helicarrier birthday parties any good?"
"I dunno," Clint shrugs, carefully setting the mug down on top the dresser with the rest of the things that don't have a place yet, "I'd moved into the apartment by then."
Something about that doesn't quite fit, but Tony lets it lie in favor of pulling a tie out of Clint's duffel. "Ah. The corporate noose strangles us all."
"I snuck it out of Phil's things," Clint admits, looking sheepish and snatching it back. Tony lets him. "Lucky mission tie. I didn't think his sister would need it." Which meant Clint thought he might. Tony watches him wrap the silk into a careful roll and put it away in a drawer before turning and saying, "This is kind of just making a mess, Stark. I need a bookcase or--something."
He needs a lot of something. "Fine, fine. Put party cat in the kitchen and let's go. Bruce is a decent cook, so if you don't feel like wok shopping just yet, he's your guy."
Clint obediently picks up the mug and heads back out of the bedroom, but when Tony follows him he finds him standing in the kitchen with the cabinets open and the stupid mug still in his hands, looking almost shell-shocked. "What's the matter, Barton? Imagining your potential culinary future?"
Clint doesn't answer, but he sets the mug on the shelf and steps back, then looks at it for a long time before asking, "That's okay, right?"
"Yep. Looks great. I'd have set it a little to the left, maybe turned the handle in a few more degrees, but that's me. Come downstairs and take the tour. And you look like you need food and a beer."
-----
"Avengers, Clint. Clint, the Avengers," Tony announces as they step out of the elevator. The common area is open-plan, with big windows opening onto a wide view of the city. Clint trails him across the broad space, to the kitchen area where Bruce is busy sautéing something and Steve is sitting at the counter studying a tablet screen and chewing on the end of a pen. He takes it out of his mouth to stand and meet them halfway, shaking Clint's hand and whacking him companionably on the shoulder in greeting.
"Avengers?" Clint says, "There's only the two of you."
"Well. And us," Tony points out, "Now the gangs all here. Minus Thor, but you know how he has that long distance teammate thing going." Natasha's absent too, still sorting through the Mess of New York but Clint probably knows that already. Bruce lifts a spatula in greeting and a puff of fragrant steam rises from whatever he's just flipped in the pan, drawing Tony in.
"Beer, Hawkeye?" he asks, yanking the fridge open, "Soda? Juice? Sparkly water thing in a girly bottle?"
"Beer?" Clint asks, like it's a genuine question and not a request. Tony tosses him a can.
"Why not? You're still off duty." Since he'd left half his back on a high-rise window and possibly parts of his brain on the helicarrier floor, along with maybe sizeable chunks of his sanity. Tony's hacked the files. Clint might be out and about, but SHIELD is far from convinced that he's fit for any sort of duty yet, unless reporting to the head shrinkers counts--and Tony's not entirely sure that it doesn't, but it's not the sort of duty that precludes an afternoon cold one.
"Sit," Bruce says, nodding at the row of bar stools as Steve re-perches himself and goes back to his notes, "You'd better be starving. I didn't realize Thor'd left for Asgard. There's enough here for two armies."
"Steve accounts for the first army," Tony puts in, then grins as Clint pulls the tab on his can and foam spills up and drips down its sides.
"Shit, shit, shit." Clint starts off trying to catch the spill with his mouth, like a kid with a melting ice cream cone, then holds the can over his free hand to catch the drips as he makes his way to the kitchen so he can set it down in the sink. "Hell. Sorry, Tony. I'm here what? Ten minutes? And already destroying your floors."
"My floors took a full body slam from a Hulk-propelled god. I think they'll make it through okay," Tony points out, "And I'm the one who threw that at you. Don't worry about it."
"You got paper towels? A mop? I'll clean it up."
Even busy bee Steve looks up at the frantic note that's creeping into Clint's voice, but Bruce is the one who interrupts whatever spiral Clint is getting himself onto by pulling out a drawer and handing him a bunch of paper napkins.
Clint's weirdly meticulous for a guy who doesn't own sheets, wiping up the spill then going over the spot twice with dampened napkins before carefully drying it. Tony would have let it air dry, but Clint's probably one of those military corners spit shine types of guys and the leaving of puddles--even small ones--probably isn't much encouraged on SHIELD installations.
"See? It's fine," Clint says when he finishes, and Tony rolls his eyes and dries the bottom of Clint's can on his sleeve and hands it back to him.
"Of course it's fine. And Bruce is on permanent potato peeling duty already, so it's not like Steve was going to give you KP or whatever it's called." Anyway. It's their home, not a base. Clint, Tony thinks, is kind of unexpectedly high strung.
Clint grins and slurps beer and Tony sees his eyes go to the clock--Bruce's because, JARVIS, how long has the chicken been in is apparently not how he cooks--surreptitiously, like he's maybe trying to be polite.
"Got somewhere to be, Agent Spy?" Tony asks, "I can kick the chef into high gear."
"No, you can't," Bruce says, "These things take what they take," but he lifts one of the spicy smelling wrap-things out of the pan and onto a plate, adds another and then a spatula full of what smells like curry fried potatoes and pushes it at Clint. "Here. Get started if you're in a rush."
Clint hovers uncertainly, and his eyes flick back to the clock, "I'm not. I was just--You know. Checking. Is this regular lunch time?"
"So it's a bit late. Bruce is pokey."
Bruce shrugs and fixes a plate for Steve, and Clint glances at the time again and seems to be doing some kind of math, frowning like something is really dire as he fiddles with his fork. "So," he says, "around one normally?"
"Or whenever you can coerce Bruce into putting on an apron. I suggest cultivating a blackmail library."
Bruce hands Tony the spatula, like he's throwing in the towel out of peeve, but then goes to get out another plate since Clint's arrival had thrown off the count.
Clint frowns, looking serious and maybe confused, but Tony doesn't push it. There's a private kitchen in every apartment, entirely snack-raid proof, but it's possible that Clint just can't cook and has all this time been SHIELD mess dependent. Which is just sad. Tony's eaten at a couple of those and they barely deserve the name food service. "Hey. If you ever miss lunch, we'll save you some leftovers. There should be a ton unless Thor shows up with a craving for Earth foods. Now eat. Stop being weird."
-----
Tony doesn't have any reason to go to Clint's apartment for a while, even though he does run into him in the communal kitchen most days, at roughly the same time. Usually around when Steve starts jonesing for second breakfast--or maybe first lunch--and Clint's weird don't want to miss it thing is maybe a cry for companionship, because it turns out Clint is a decent cook, if lacking Bruce's exotic repertoire. He can more than handle the basics of stovetop cooking or grilling out on the balcony--even if he's not exactly a baker--so Tony can't quite figure out why, when he helps Clint limp back to his apartment from doing his ankle trying to spar with Steve, his kitchen is still empty except for the mug and a coffee machine.
"And you were halfway back to active duty, too," Tony says, heading to Clint's freezer to see if he at least has an icepack. "And now you're back to hobbling around."
"I wasn't hobbling before," Clint argues, like that makes it better, but then follows it up with a low, "Sorry."
"Hey. No skin off my back. You're the one with the enforced vacation and Cap's the one who has to adjust the battle tactics. But he's also the one who tried to break your foot, so I don't think he can complain too much. Why didn't you buy any furniture?" None of Clint's stuff is set out either, probably still stowed in his bedroom. There's not even the picture Clint had showed him before, of him and Natasha and Phil in Clint's old apartment. It's a perfect mantelpiece shot, but it's also put away somewhere, along with Clint's books and everything else. Tony frowns then turns back to Clint as he hops carefully onto the kitchen counter to take the icepack from him and press it to his ankle.
"I'm getting you people clothes. You look like a reject from basketball camp."
"Basketball camp is for people," Clint says, but doesn't stop him from going into his bedroom to rifle through his dresser. Tony's not really surprised that it's still the only furniture in there, that Clint hasn't bought curtains or a nightstand or anything, despite how nest-like the bedroom is--all Clint's things arranged neatly and tucked away, like he has no idea how to occupy more space than a single room--so he grabs Clint's Starkpad along with the clothes and brings the whole arm load back to the kitchen.
"Are you in some kind of not-a-barracks culture shock or something?" he asks, "You can put stuff out here, you know. You don't have to live in a box. I thought you said you'd had apartment life training with Phil."
Clint blinks and looks around, then says, "I got a coffee machine," and nods at it, "I don't know if there's any form or anything. I couldn't find one on the tablet, but this is civilian space, right?" He has a little frown that looks like he thinks he might have fucked up, and Tony has no idea what he's talking about, but then he remembers Clint's mention of the silly cat mug form and catches back up.
"Oh. Right. The tower doesn't have a weight allowance, Barton. Or it probably does, but your percolator isn't about to tip us over the limit. If I ever need the thing to fly, I'll let you know and we'll decide what to jettison then." Tony taps at the tablet screen then holds it up, "Put on your big kid pants and come pick out a couch or I'm moving you into Bruce's trailer."
-----
"Your buddy there," Tony tells Natasha, when Clint comes home late one day and then stands in front of the elevators like he's waiting for something to turn back into a pumpkin, "is kind of weird."
"He was really close with Coulson," she says, and shrugs one shoulder, "He'll get better," then smiles when Clint comes over to join them, still seeming somehow jittery. "You okay?" she asks, "You missed dinner."
Clint lets her tug him down next to her and slouches. Like someone's left him in the sun to long and now he's melting. "I know," he sighs, but glances across the room to the kitchen area anyway. Trying to check Bruce's muffin timer, maybe. "Lost track of time."
"Oh?" Tony raises an eyebrow at him and smirks. Clint glares.
"Practicing. I was just down at SHIELD."
"At SHIELD? What's wrong with the range here? The ranges here, even?"
Something about it makes Clint's guard come up. In a weird, jumpy kind of way. "Had to go in anyway. Sitwell wanted to see how I was shooting, and then it was easier to stay."
Tony had meant more, what's wrong with my design and not why are you going out, but Natasha's right--Clint's still struggling with Coulson's death and with Loki being in his head, and he looks so fidgety and nervous that Tony doesn't make the comment that comes to mind about curfews and school nights and instead pours himself another drink and goes back to fiddling with blueprints on his tablet.
-----
The furniture arriving, for some reason, gives Clint what looks a lot like a panic attack and for about ten minutes Tony thinks that he hates what they'd picked out or that he'd somehow just given into Tony's suggestions because he perceived himself as being under some kind of duress. It hadn't felt like he was bullying Clint into that squashy yet classy leather couch, but maybe he had. It looks great in Clint's living's room, but it's possible Clint doesn't think so.
“Buyer's remorse?" Tony asks, "We can send it back if you want. Get something else.”
Clint's tense frown turns into a tense smile, and then he shakes his head. “No. It's great. It's really great. I didn't know sofas could look that good.”
“Then what is it? The lamp? The dishes? The coffee table? The bookshelf?”
Clint looks at him like he’s nuts, which is funny because Clint’s the one who'd been close to hyperventilating over whether to put the small table he'd chosen in the kitchen or outside it and how many of the chairs he wanted set up around it versus shoved into the spare room until needed.
“It’s all great, Tony. All of it.” Clint says, in the tone of voice he uses to say, I’m fine. I’m really fine, after Natasha’s choke holds last a little bit too long. “It’s just. Wow, I’m that guy now. With furniture. In the living room. And--I don’t know. It just seems like there should be a ton of paperwork involved.”
Right. He’d forgotten a bit about Fancy Couch Barton’s threadbare upbringing. Maybe he should have offered up something more farm-housey, but the apartment really does look pretty good and he’s sure all the stuff will break in nicely once Clint gets around to moving his personal items out here instead of squirreling them all away in the bedroom and actually dares to start sitting on his own sofa.
“Well. I might require some written defense of that cat mug,” Tony says, “but from Natasha. Let’s never do secret Santa. Or if we do, let’s rig it so she gets Thor.”
-----
Clint getting back on active duty puts Steve in a good mood, since he has his high-up eyes again. And it puts Tony in a good mood because he gets to do his own thing again instead of playing substitute Hawkeye.
Clint, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be in a good mood. He’s not missing his shots, but he’s clearly struggling after his time away, and when they wrap up he’s twitchy and worn out. Tony gives him a lift down to the medics’ and to where Steve and Natasha are already gathered around with some SHIELD personnel and a half-naked Bruce. Tony sets Clint on his feet and says, “Got another one for you guys. I think he’s okay.”
“I’m fine,” Clint confirms, “I just--that was kind of a mess,” and looks back at the roof that had been his vantage point with a scowl before turning to Steve. “I stayed in practice, Cap. I should’ve held that last rush better. Could have been shooting multiples, but I wasn't stocked for--”
Steve cuts him off with a rough nudge towards the medic, saying, “Get checked out. You look awful.”
“Sorry.”
“You did fine, Hawkeye. First day back, right?” Steve grins.
“Yeah.” Clint lets himself be led the few steps to the van so he can sit on the edge of the open rear bay, “Yeah. First day. I’ll be better next time.” He says it with un-Clint-like earnestness, like it’s really, really important that Steve is hearing this.
“You did fine,” Steve repeats, with his own frown now. “Maybe you should eat something.” There’s a brief Steve-medic exchange consisting of questioning looks on Steve’s end and nods on hers but Clint misses the whole thing, busy contemplating a crack in the asphalt.
“Yeah,” he says, and repeats, “I'll do better next time, Cap.”
-----
Next time gets delayed, because SHIELD doesn’t like something about the mission report, and re-benches Clint, pending more psych work.
Which causes Clint to disappear to the gym. The small one, on the floor he shares with Natasha and Tony doesn’t see a sign of him for days unless it’s one PM or seven thirty and they're in the kitchen, and eventually even Steve gets worried and they head upstairs, Natasha falling in with them somewhere between communal area and elevator. “This is looking more and more like an intervention,” Tony says, smiling uneasily.
“I want to know what he’s up to, thumping around in there,” Natasha says, with fake irritation, “He better not be fucking up my floors.”
“Maybe just one of us should go in,” Steve says, while Tony’s breaking into the lock, “He’s kind of--”
“Weird?” Tony supplies, as the door slides open. Subtlety might be Steve’s thing, and the best plan, but it’s not really Tony’s style, so he just steps through and after a second Steve follows--maybe out of a sense of responsibility--and Natasha gets pulled along on the stream of everybody is doing it.
Clint--looks fine. Like he’s overworking, considering he’s back on medical stand-down--or psychological stand-down, whichever--but Tony had kind of expected to find him half-dead or doing jumping jacks on a broken leg or something else self-destructive and pointless, but really he just looks tired and like he needed a break maybe two hours ago. “Hey,” Clint says, breathing a bit hard, “How’d you guys get in?”
“I’m going to ignore that insult,” Tony says, “What the hell are you doing?”
Clint frowns. “Practicing.” Obviously. That’s not what Tony means.
“There’s a gym downstairs,” Steve points out, “A lot more complete. A lot more space for that,” and nods at what looks like some kind of crossbow, and the scatter or low-impact shafts all across the floor. At least Clint had enough brains online to avoid risking damage to the dance studio mirrors.
“There’s no time table posted,” Clint says.
“There’s only the six of us.” Steve’s frown is back. “And Bruce and Thor don’t even use it much. It’s usually just me in there.”
“Ha,” Tony says, “I'm in there. I work out, thank you very much.”
Clint ignores it and hops down off the balance-beam-like catwalk he’d been shooting from, landing heavily but not inexpertly, and unloads his crossbow. “That doesn’t mean it’s useable,” he says.
“I promise there’s no scheduling conflict,” Tony says, “Cap might be buff, but he doesn’t take up that much space.”
Steve doesn’t look like he appreciates the support. “Is this about the other day?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer, “Clint, you did fine.”
“Yeah. So fine I’m back on the--”
“Why don’t you take a break?” Steve interrupts, tone mild, “And do something else? The Guggenheim's got an exhibit I’ve been wanting to see, or we could catch that show Nat keeps mentioning, or just get out. Walk around.”
“Get some damn sun,” Tony adds.
Clint looks a bit taken aback by the options. Keeps glancing back at the practice equipment like he can’t think of anything to do that isn’t that. “All work and no play, Barton,” Tony says, “If you’re feeling lazy we can just ride around in the limo and watch Steve feel embarrassed when his fans realize who’s likely inside Stark1.”
“Your license plates are an embarrassment,” Natasha says, but her eyes are on Clint, who looks really uncomfortable with their combined attention.
“I don’t know,” he says, “I don’t usually--I have a lot of work to do.”
“You have no work to do,” Tony tells him, “You’re on stand down. You have anti work. Now move.”
-----
Clint moves. His apartment's living room still looks tidy and unused, but he has brackets up over the couch. Tony nods at them and gives him a questioning look when he comes back from a quick shower, pulling a shirt on and with his hair standing up in a damp mess. “I’m thinking of getting a bow,” Clint explains, nodding at the new hardware as his head re-emerges from the collar of his t-shirt, “Of my own, I mean.”
Steve looks surprised. “You don’t have a bow?”
“Mission ones,” Clint says, and shrugs, “and practice ones. But those either go back to SHIELD lock-up or kind of suck. I used to have this,” his hands move like he’s holding something long and relatively thin, approximating, “longbow. Wood. Kind of antique, I guess.” Like fighting with any kind of bow isn’t, “It was a pretty heavy draw, but the distance you could get on that thing! And man. It was so--” Again with the hands. Like Clint can’t describe it accurately enough. He’s all excited about it like Steve talking about oil paints.
“I never saw you have a bow,” Natasha says, “Not that kind.”
“Yeah. Well,” Clint deflates and frowns at the brackets, then shrugs, “It got wrecked.”
“Helicarrier crash?” Tony suggests and Clint gives him a look.
“Why are you so hung up on the helicarrier? I wasn’t living on the helicarrier. I hardly ever really live on the helicarrier. There’s not that much need for an archer on that thing, you know.”
“Sorry. Geez.”
Clint looks a little embarrassed for his crankiness and covers it by scruffing his hair up, like he's trying to help it air-dry. “I just. Phil had to break it,” he shrugs. “Can we go?”
Tony has a hundred questions, but Steve cuts him off, suggesting, “There’s old weapons at the Met. Interested? You ever been?”
-----
Clint acts a bit like a poorly socialized kid when they drag him out--sticking close or keeping a watchful eye on them like he's suspicious of strangers, which is possible, or worried about getting separated, which is a bit weird considering he's probably been expected to navigate his way home from more out of the way places than Central Park--but the occasional city touring gets him out of the gym and his still kind of unlived-in looking apartment for something other than missions and maybe it gets his mind off brainwashing and abduction and murder for awhile.
Enough, anyway, that after a few weeks of he gets another First Day Back.
"Take it easy," Steve tells him, which makes Clint twitch, "Cover fire only, fall back if you need to. Stay safe."
"Safe, huh?" Clint smirks, and he has a point considering they're heading out to fight robots, but the sarcasm is soft-edged and a second later his smirk settles into something hard and determined. "I won't screw this up, Cap."
Steve gives him an odd look. "You won't," he agrees, but the nod Clint responds with is still solemn.
"Nerves, Barton?" Tony asks, and thumps his shoulder in support. "Don't worry. I'll watch your back. This one should be a cakewalk anyway."
"Unless Stark just jinxed it," Natasha adds, "Think of it as a practice run. Don't push too hard."
Clint doesn't look like he appreciates their pep talk. He looks pretty grumpy about it, actually. "I feel like I'm in Little League or something. 'Just try your best.' 'We're here to have fun.'" The sarcasm in that isn't soft at all, but bitter and sharp. "'It doesn't matter if you win or lose.'"
"I'd rather you tried not to lose," Steve tells him, with the mild patience that Tony's starting to think of as his Clint is being an idiot voice.
Tony flips his faceplate down and says, "We're embracing the fine art of quitting when the going gets rough, is what Steve's trying to say. We'd like you to get on board. And also, on board, if you know what I mean? I'll give you a lift."
-----
There's only a couple of minor hiccups. Some misfire blows up a gargoyle near Clint, but he's sheltered enough that the only damage he takes is a gash across his arm, and it's not even too deep. That and a bump to the head that Natasha picks up are the only damage if they don't count some red scraped off the Iron armor, and Tony somehow doubts the rest of them would.
"So. Robots," Clint says, as soon he's patched up and Natasha's pressing an ice pack to her head and telling the medic how many fingers she sees. He looks like he's feeling cheerful about it, but holding the grin back.
At least until Steve wanders up, and then his face goes dark and set. Watchful, waiting for Steve to get close enough to be heard without his comm and he belatedly responds with, "Good job, everyone," and follows it with a Steve-charming grin and a, "Good to have you back, Clint."
Clint's mouth is half-open like he's about to say something, but then he closes it again and regards Steve for about ten solid seconds before he decides to take that at face value and grins, slouching insolently against the side of the medics' van. "Just doing my job, Cap."
-----
The inside of Natasha's apartment is pretty different to Clint's, so the spartan thing isn't a SHIELD agent aesthetic. She even has a cozy over her toaster that looks like a pig, ears and curly tail and everything. Tony wisely doesn't mention it, but Natasha catches him looking anyway and puffs in annoyance. "Stuff falls in the slots. It's gross."
"Stuff?"
"Bugs. Dust." She shrugs. "I make food in that thing."
"Bugs," Tony sniffs, "In my tower. When you're not suffering head trauma, we're going to have about a talk about your clearly defective perceptions. This would be a five star accommodation, you know. If I did stars."
"You don't have to babysit me."
"That's what I said, but apparently we have turns." Tony taps at his tablet screen, "You have food?"
"Of course I have food," Natasha sniffs, "But I'm not cooking for you, so help yourself. Just clean up when you're done. I'm taking a nap."
"'Kay. See you in two hours."
"Wake me up and I'll kill you," Natasha says, going away to settle on her couch and pull a quilt over herself, the television on at low volume. Maybe to drown Tony out. "If I was in danger of dying in my sleep, I'd be in medical."
That's true. Still. "Don't care. It's my watch. Now you're down to an hour and fifty four minutes." He can feel Natasha's glare without looking up. "I like your blanket," Tony adds.
"Shut up, Tony."
"Hour and fifty two."
-----
Eating Natasha's cheese doodles and sampling her drinks is a cakewalk compared to peeling Clint off a sidewalk two weeks later. He's an even crankier patient than Natasha, and that's including the death threats, but the last time he woke up in a strange place was post mind hijack, so Tony's willing to cut him a bit of slack and give him his space. Mostly.
"Back to hobbling," Tony says, trying for sympathetic, but he can't help but grin at the fact that Clint's huddled heap of misery is a huddled heap of misery on the couch. His blanket is a utilitarian gray thing that looks like he stole it out of a SHIELD medical van. It matches his duffel and Clint might have a theme going, but it's not a very good one. "You might be overdoing this whole military surplus thing, Barton. It's very manly, but even Steve has an afghan. Some old lady probably sent it to him, but at least he has it."
Clint peers up from his huddle long enough to regard Tony with a single, baleful, bloodshot eye before ducking back into his blanket. "S'fine."
"That's what everyone on this team says. And they're always lying," Tony says, "Bruce wants to know if you think you're internally hemorrhaging and-or dying."
"No," Clint says, without moving.
"No, not telling or no, not dying?"
Clint groans and shifts around impatiently, like his grouchiness is so intense he can't communicate it in any other way. "Not dying," he growls, when Tony's not deterred and just leans against a wall, waiting for an answer.
"You know someone could sit with you."
"No."
"Bruce feels really, really bad that the other guy didn't catch you."
"It happens."
Tony sighs and puffs, but Clint ignores it, turning over stiffly until he has his back to the room and his forehead against the squashy couch's squashy backrest. The stubborn asshole still looks totally uncomfortable. "Clint," Tony starts only to be cut off with an ill tempered grunt. He rolls his eyes and goes on anyway. "You want more drugs? I'll hook you up with whatever." Whatever Bruce agrees is responsible, at least, but Clint's head rolls a bit in his direction. Interested in that, at least.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Clint, I have a flashlight embedded in my sternum. I think I know the value of a handful of vicodin. Or a good dose of morphine. Which do you want?'
Clint rolls back a bit to look dubiously at Tony, "A handful? Really?"
"Well. Not for all at once. You can opt for an aspirin and an icepack too, if you prefer. Or ten icepacks. That might get a bit chilly, but it's your choice."
Clint considers that about as carefully as he'd considered armchair color options and how many shelves he wanted in his bookcase and what kind of pots he thought he might need for his kitchen. "If Steve asks, I'm telling him you're a pusher," he says, finally.
"Steve saw you hit the concrete, I don't think he's going to be wondering about the Tylenol."
-----
"I have JARVIS watching him," Tony says, before Steve can ask about anything, "if his vitals change, we'll know about it. You can watch his heart rate through my tablet if it'll make you feel better, and you don't mind being a little bit stalkery."
"You can check on him if you want," Bruce adds, "I gave him a top up. He's out."
"Bivouacked in his living room," Tony adds, "So if you go up, maybe you can move him to his bed. I thought Bruce and I could try it, but he's dropped him once already."
"The--" Bruce starts, then adjusts his glasses and goes with, "I didn't drop him, I--"
"Yeah, yeah. Missed entirely." Tony waves a hand dismissively and plunks himself down on the stool next to Steve, who's slowly formulating his mission report, obnoxiously conscientious and making the rest of the class look bad. "It was bound to happen at some point. So you got it out of the way early. It's just bad luck. I'll build you a rabbit's foot."
-----
JARVIS insists that Clint is fine and not quietly expiring, but he still doesn't re-appear until late the next day, dragging into the communal area in faded sleep pants and a t-shirt, zip-up hoodie hanging crookedly off his shoulders.
"Thanks for answering our check-ins, Barton," Tony calls, "Oh wait. That was JARVIS."
Clint frowns. Then his gaze flicks to the kitchen clock, quick, and weirdly nervous. "I missed the window, huh?" he asks, and shifts his weight a bit, from one foot to the other and back. Tony's not sure if he's having trouble keeping on his feet or if coming off whatever Bruce gave him is making him twitchy. He's giving Steve a flat, measuring look, shoulders hunching a bit. "I was asleep," he says to Tony.
"Kind of figured," Tony says, and looks over at Steve, trying to figure out what the hell it is that Clint's trying to figure out. "Maybe you should sit down. You're acting kind of weird."
Clint makes an acknowledging noise, but doesn't move except to jam his hands in his pockets. When he keeps standing there except to shift his weight uncomfortably, Steve gets up and walks over, saying, "Clint? Are you okay? Do you need a hand?"
"You don't have to tell me I screwed up," Clint snaps, jerking into the defensive out of nowhere, practically vibrating with tension. "I know I screwed up, so can we skip the damn lectures?" There's a second where Tony's pretty sure he's about to deck Steve, but then he deflates just as suddenly and shrugs. "I know it's off schedule, but I'm pretty hungry. I know I should have set a--"
"Off what schedule?" Tony asks, "Does it look like anyone's that organized around here?" Well. Maybe Steve.
"The--" Clint starts, but Tony cuts him off again.
"This establishment is open all day long, Barton. Sit your ass down. We'll feed you."
With the dark pooling under his eyes, Clint's suspicious look comes off almost threatening. Or at least a bit more cracked than it normally would. Even Steve looks a little taken aback by it, but he makes a good show of ignoring Clint's weird behavior, tugging his sweater straight like Clint is the world's biggest grade schooler, and steering him to the kitchen and a proper chair because he'd probably fall off the counter-side stools.
Clint drops stiffly and eyes them for a few seconds before sliding into a careful slouch. "Thanks," he says, and then, "Sorry."
"Not a problem," Tony says, "We're just glad you're not a street pancake. What do you want Steve to fix you?"
-----
"When are you getting your bow?" Tony asks, when he and Steve haul Clint back upstairs after and lower him back onto the squashy, very cool looking couch, the brackets still empty above it. "And why aren't you sleeping in your bed?"
"Harder to get up from," Clint grumbles, shifting around until he can pull his legs up and wiggle his way back under the blanket. It's sort of uncoordinated, for Clint. Or at least ungraceful. His living room is still bare of personal items if Tony doesn't count the bedding that's migrated out here and since it's a pillow and SHIELD issue blanket, he kind of doesn't.
Steve's wandered into the kitchen, probably to get some water to set in Clint's reach, since harder to get up from sounds like he's not really as mobile as he's putting on. Tony jerks a thumb in the direction of Clint's bedroom. "You need anything from in there? Tablet? Another pillow?"
Clint's only response is a low grumble.
"Maybe a shitty novel? Can I put your books on the bookshelf it took you twenty minutes to decide on?"
"Can Bruce give me more drugs?"
"Done and done," Tony says, as Steve comes back with a plastic sports bottle, "JARVIS, ask the good doctor to pick something up from downstairs."
-----
Phil's tie--still neatly rolled up--is out of it's drawer, sitting out on top of the dresser but other than that everything is still in it's slightly off-kilter place. Tony grabs the stack of books and Clint's tablet and the second pillow from the bed and heads back out, gesturing as best he can with his arms full for Steve to come grab something. The tablet, at least. It's kind of sliding from its place on top of the paperbacks.
Steve catches it before it can fall, but two of the novels and the SHIELD manual slip when he does and almost take Tony's toes out.
"Geez, Captain Reflex," Tony snaps, but remembers to keep it down out of regard for the way Clint looks like he's halfway back to dead-to-the-world. The mishap leaves him holding the archery books and the one about circus posters and he hands those over as well, so he can go tuck the pillow under Clint's more hobble-y leg before coming back to pick up after Steve.
Who's managing to rifle through the poster book even with his hands full of things, go figure.
"Computer first, Stevie, then fun times," Tony teases, picking up something stupidly action about a submarine--Clint reads utter shit. His taste is horrible--then using the book to wave in Clint's general direction. There a soft sound as Steve puts his armload down somewhere and then a grumble from Clint. Even half asleep, he's cranky and Tony's in the middle of an eyeroll when he snags the SHIELD manual by its cover.
The pages are marked-up, so he pulls a Steve and stops what he's doing to rifle through it, about to make a comment about Cadet Barton being a way more conscientious student than he'd have guessed based on Agent Barton, but stops. "Clint?"
"Out," Steve says, and follows it with, "We should wait till Bruce gets here, then go."
"Check this out." Steve's trying to get the archery books to stand in the shelf without the aid of a bookend, but he leaves it to come look over Tony's shoulder, then takes the manual out of his hands to flip quickly through it. "Citation, citation, citation," Tony says with a grin, going to drop the paperbacks onto a shelf while Steve peruses.
Steve smiles at that, but it turns into a frown as his flipping slows. He glances over at Clint, who's happily oblivious, face turned away as his chest rises and falls steadily, broken only by the occasional mutter, then hustles Tony into the kitchen.
Which is when Bruce shows up and asks what the hell they're up to.
-----
Steve hands the manual over to Bruce without a word, and Tony watches as Bruce's face gets darker and darker--but not greener--as he flips slowly through it and after a few minutes Tony looks back at Steve and makes a face.
"Citation, citation, huh?" he asks, wincing now at having made a joke about it.
"Mess times," Bruce reads, and flips pages, "Allowable clothing items," he flips some more, "Limit of personal items in agency housing. I thought he had an apartment with Coulson?"
"On base," Tony frowns, "administratively, anyway," because he should have caught that. He'd been thinking helicarrier, even after Clint had mentioned that he'd had independent quarters, and Clint's item allowance hang-ups had niggled, but not enough to dissect. Not enough for him to jump to the conclusion that Coulson had been holding him to barracks rules in his own home.
Tony reaches and yanks the manual back from Bruce. He'd thought it was freakishly well-read looking, but he would never have expected the lists of offenses. The pettiness of the infractions noted, or the strictness of the penalties. There's mess hours written in pen on the inside of the back cover and partnered with a series of little marks. A note about tardiness, and about taking food off-hours. A few pages in, near a description of personal item limits, is a list of confiscated goods. A similar list is scribbled in the margin near the section about SHIELD issued clothing, bedding, gym equipment, and gear. There's instructions for putting in a request for extra or otherwise disallowed items, and Tony's pretty sure the section is only meant to cover on-board quarters, or other on-duty, limited-space housing situations, but Clint's basic wardrobe and SHIELD-themed possessions seem to fall pretty tidily in line with it.
So do his repeated questions about forms and mealtime punctuality and any number of other off behaviors that they'd all written off as eccentricity or put down to grief and trauma and Clint's continued struggle with both.
Steve looks back out into the living room, at the space above the couch where Clint's snoring softly, and says, "Coulson--He said Coulson had to break his bow."
"Son of a bitch," Tony says.
-----
"You shouldn't be in his things," Natasha tells them, her expression flat and her tone disapproving, but she's reading over Steve's arm. "He probably wouldn't like it, and it's none of your--" she trails off as she reads more, or as something she reads strikes her, and then she reaches over Steve to take the book and says, "He thought the world of Coulson," low, and angry .
"Son of a bitch," Tony says, again, because that kind of betrayal of trust hits a little bit too close too home. He can't help but think of his own hanging the fucking stars on good old Uncle Obie. Except Clint--Clint doesn't even seem to realize that anything about Coulson had been out of line. Clint adores the guy still, as evidenced by the fact that his response to near fatally smashing into the pavement and being laid up had been to get Phil's lucky mission tie out of its drawer.
Natasha's probably thinking the same thing, because she hands the manual back and says, "Put it back, Tony. Phil's dead. Whatever he did, or was, he's gone. Let Clint have him."
"Have--?" Tony starts indignantly, then stops before he can get really started on that track and looks down at the book in his hands. Snorts. "You know he has Coulson's Christmas sweater? You gonna let him haul that out when winter rolls around and act all sappy and nostalgic about Agent?"
"Yeah," Natasha says, her face set in stubborn lines. "I am."
Tony flaps the manual at her. "Fine. But you get to train him into the all-hours fridge raiding, then." Clint's nervous clock-checking is suddenly fresh in his mind. That and the time he'd come back late from SHIELD and missed the window. Fuck. "And schedule-less gym use. And I'm giving him your quilt."
"He thinks Phil saved him," Natasha says, and frowns. "You think he's not dealing with enough right now?"
He could not be dealing with feeling bad about losing Phil on top of it all, but Tony scowls and lets it be.
-----
They don't say anything about Phil, which feels a bit like conspiracy, but Steve finds a bow--even Tony can't figure out where from--and hangs it carefully in the brackets Clint's left empty, likely in anticipation of anything he finds going the way of firewood as soon as something goes wrong, then grins at Clint's baffled, wary look.
He stops poking at his mission report--unenthusiastically, even for Clint, tapping at a few keys, then grouchily backspacing before going through the cycle over again, with unsteady determination--and picks up his stupid party cat mug to shuffle over. "Well. Come on in," he says, dryly, "Don't mind my engaged locks or anything." He doesn't really sound that pissed. He's probably used to spot checks, or other invasions of his privacy, which means no more casual breaking and entering. His acceptance is a lot less fun than Natasha's indignation, or Steve's exasperated questions anyway.
Steve smiles and shrugs. "I don't know that much about bows, so if it's wrong, consider it a placeholder till you find what you're looking for."
Clint sips his coffee, either considering that or covering his reaction, then says, "Okay."
"It's all yours," Steve goes on, not looking at Clint, but at the bow, like he's not sure he's hung it straight. Then, more carefully, "Don't worry about anything happening to it."
"Or that stupid mug," Tony adds, nodding at it.
Clint snorts and swirls his coffee around, but something in his shoulders relaxes a little. "It's nice," he says.
"Yeah?" Steve grins, immensely pleased with himself even though Clint's crabby look has barely smoothed out. "It's supposed to be old, but shootable. I guess you should look it over first to be safe. Or. You know."
Steve stumbling over archery finally makes Clint crack a smile, almost in spite of himself. "Yeah. I--Thanks, Cap."
"It looks good," Tony offers. Better than those depressing empty brackets, anyway. Now all they have to do is get Clint to stop being twitchy about stocking up his kitchen with orange juice and peanut butter, in case they think he's got bad self discipline or something. "But I'll build you something cool and modern and indestructible that you can jump off water towers with." He doesn't say, that you can keep, but Clint grins into his ugly mug anyway, a little bit like he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since he'd kissed pavement and is surprised that the repercussions weren't just caught up in the lines somewhere or else waiting for him to recuperate enough to properly appreciate confined to quarters or curfew restriction or whatever fucking inane sanction Coulson might have selected and recorded in the manual of Barton screw-ups.
Which is still out on the bookshelf, where he and Bruce had returned it to, but it looks untouched. Clint isn't keeping notes on himself then, and fuck if any of them will. The thing can just damn well sit there and gather dust until Clint wises up and decides he's ready to burn it.
Along with Phil's holiday sweater and lucky tie.
Tony hopes it won't take him too long.
=====
Coulson picks him up off the proverbial street, not like he's garbage, but like he's found something valuable that everyone else had failed to notice the potential in. His offer starts with the promise, "We can make you better. We can make you into something worthwhile," and the almost apologetic warning, "It'll take work."
Clint leans forward, resting his weight on the dull metal table of the interrogation room while he thinks about that. He can see his face reflected in the surface, blurry and indistinct. Worthwhile is everything he'd wanted when he'd first picked up the bow, his childish wish while he'd been on the run from the law, and now it's being offered back, unearned and undeserved. "Yeah," Clint says, "I'd--Yeah."
He works.