hollow weight
Clint drifted back into consciousness slowly, his head throbbing like a jackhammer was going off inside his skull. His whole body felt heavy, like he was sinking into whatever he was lying on.
He groaned, eyes fluttering open—only to immediately squeeze them shut again as bright lights stabbed into his skull. Too bright. Too damn bright.
He took a slow, steadying breath, trying to get his bearings. Something was wrong.
There was no sound.
Nothing.
Not the low hum of the tower’s ventilation. Not the distant murmur of voices. Not even the annoying buzz of his hearing aids struggling to process background noise.
Shit.
Clint forced his eyes open again, blinking rapidly to adjust to the light. His vision swam, but he could just barely make out the familiar surroundings of the Avengers’ common room. He was on the couch, a blanket draped loosely over him, and across the room—
The team.
Steve, Nat, Tony, Bruce, Sam, and Bucky were all gathered in a tense huddle, talking about… something.
He could see it in the way their mouths moved, in the way Steve’s arms crossed tightly over his chest, the way Natasha’s hands curled into fists at her sides. They were talking about him.
But he had no idea what they were saying.
His stomach dropped.
Where the hell were his hearing aids?
Panic flared in his chest. Clint reached up, fingers searching his ears—but they were gone. Someone had taken them out.
His breathing hitched, heart pounding unevenly in his chest. He was completely cut off.
His gaze darted back to the others. He tried to focus, tried to read their lips, but his head was still pounding, and his vision was too blurry. Their words were just shapes, indistinct and unreadable.
He felt his throat tighten.
They hadn’t noticed he was awake.
They were talking, strategizing—about him, probably—and he was just there, stuck in silence, useless, waiting for someone to realize.
He hated this.
Hated the vulnerability.
Hated the isolation.
A deep-seated, familiar frustration coiled in his chest, making his hands tremble slightly. He clenched them into fists, pushing himself up, blinking hard against the way his vision swam.
It took one second for Natasha to notice.
Her sharp gaze snapped to him immediately, her whole body tensing before she was suddenly moving—quick and fast, across the room in an instant.
The others turned, their expressions shifting the moment they realized he was awake.
Clint barely had a second to brace himself before Natasha crouched beside him, mouth moving—saying something.
But he couldn’t hear it.
Couldn’t understand her.
His breathing hitched again, frustration spiking. He shook his head sharply, bringing a hand up to his ear before tapping his palm against his other, signing instinctively: Where?
Natasha’s face flickered with something—guilt? Frustration?—before she reached into her pocket, pulling out his hearing aids.
She pressed them into his palm gently, but Clint still snatched them up fast, hands shaking slightly as he fitted them back into place.
There was a brief second of static before—
“—you hear me?”
He winced as Natasha’s voice came in way too loud, causing his headache to flare. He quickly adjusted the volume, exhaling sharply when the noise settled into something more manageable.
Then he looked at Natasha, really looked at her.
She was pissed.
No—they all were.
Steve had his arms crossed tight, jaw clenched. Bucky was glowering. Tony looked tense, like he was barely holding himself back from ranting. Even Bruce looked angry.
Natasha, though—hers was different. Sharper. Colder.
Clint swallowed. “I’m guessing Baldie didn’t get far.”
“You’re lucky he’s still breathing,” she muttered, voice like ice.
Clint huffed a small, pained laugh. “That bad, huh?”
Natasha didn’t answer.
Instead, she reached out and smacked him, hard, on the shoulder.
Clint groaned, wincing. “Ow—okay, what the hell—”
“You scared the hell out of us, Barton,” Steve cut in, voice firm. “That’s what the hell.”
“Not my fault,” Clint muttered, but it came out weaker than he intended. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I’m fine—”
“No, you’re not,” Natasha snapped. “You got kidnapped. You got hurt. And you were unconscious for hours.”
Clint blinked, startled. Hours?
That… actually explained a lot.
“…Oh.”
“Yeah,” Tony said, arms crossed. “Oh.”
Clint sighed, sinking back against the couch. His head still hurt, but now it wasn’t just from the concussion—it was from them. From the weight of their anger, their worry.
He swallowed hard, fingers twitching slightly against the blanket.
“…You came for me,” he said quietly.
Natasha’s expression softened—just barely. “Of course we did.”
Clint exhaled slowly.
Maybe Baldie had been wrong, after all.
Clint didn’t realize he was crying at first.
The team kept talking—nagging, scolding, worrying—but it all sounded distant, like he was underwater. His head still throbbed, his body felt heavy, and there was this strange, hollow weight pressing against his chest.
He’d been through worse. He’d taken beatings, been shot, fallen off buildings. A concussion and a few bruises shouldn’t have been a big deal.
So why did it feel like everything was cracking inside him?
He blinked, trying to focus, but his vision was blurry. His face felt warm, his nose was stuffy, and there was this odd, stinging sensation trailing down his cheeks.
It took him a second too long to register it.
Tears.
He was crying.
And he didn’t even know why.
A shaky breath hitched in his throat, and when he lifted a hand to scrub at his face, his palm came away damp.
Shit.
The others noticed immediately.
Natasha was the first to move. She was already kneeling beside him, hand hovering just over his arm, eyes wide but unreadable. “Clint—”
“I—I don’t—” His voice cracked, and he sucked in a sharp breath, grinding the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying desperately to stop. “I don’t know why—”
But he did.
Because Baldie’s words had been ripping through his head ever since he woke up.
The Avengers won’t notice you’re gone.
You’re the weakest Avenger.
They won’t come for you.
Clint choked, pressing his palms harder against his face, but the tears wouldn’t stop.
There was a sharp intake of breath—Tony, maybe. A muttered curse from Sam. The sound of Steve shifting closer, like he wanted to do something, but he didn’t know what.
“Clint,” Natasha said, softer this time. “It’s okay.”
No, it wasn’t.
His chest ached, his throat burned, and no matter how many times he wiped his face, more tears kept coming.
“Shit,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “I—I don’t—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Natasha cut in. “Just breathe.”
Breathe. Right.
He tried.
But all he could think about was the cold, dark room. The ropes cutting into his wrists. The feeling of waiting—for someone to find him, for someone to notice he was missing.
And that ugly, sinking thought that maybe… maybe Baldie had been right.
But then—
“Of course we came for you.”
It was Steve’s voice this time. Steady. Unshakable.
Clint blinked up at him, still sniffling, still feeling embarrassingly wrecked, but Steve just held his gaze, expression serious.
“You really think we wouldn’t?” Steve continued, voice low, but firm. “You think we wouldn’t burn the whole city down to get you back?”
Clint swallowed hard, throat tight.
“You’re not the weakest Avenger,” Bruce said quietly, and there was this rare, raw intensity in his voice.
“You’re our friend,” Sam added. “Our family.”
Bucky nodded. “Anyone says otherwise, I’ll break their jaw.”
Tony huffed. “You scared the hell out of us, Barton. Next time you get kidnapped, could you at least leave us a damn note?”
Clint let out a small, watery laugh—not because it was funny, but because if he didn’t laugh, he might completely fall apart.
He sniffled again, swiping at his face, but his hands were still shaking.
Natasha sighed and finally moved.
She reached out, pulled him in, and wrapped her arms around him.
And Clint—exhausted, overwhelmed, and still struggling to breathe—let her.