Neon Moon

The alarm on your phone went off, shaking you out of a deep sleep. So, you flung it across the room.

Your head began pounding, and breathing seemed too loud. Groaning, you tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but the churning nausea rolling through your gut would not be ignored. Flinging the covers aside you staggered to your feet. Funny, your slippers weren't where you'd left them. Before you could ponder that quandary further, your stomach roiled again, sending you running, or more likely dragging your half dead carcass to the bathroom. 

Lifting the toilet lid, you dropped to the ground and wretched into the bowl. And then again. Resting your cheek on the rim of the toilet bowl, you closed your eyes and hugged the porcelain like a lifeline. 

"I feel like an extra in the Walking Dead." You moaned to no one in particular. At that moment you didn't care if it wasn't 'socially acceptable to talk to yourself'. You felt like shit, and if you wanted to complain to yourself, by George, you jolly well would. Again, your stomach churned, and you again wretched over the bowl. Your body was shaking at this point, and a few tears slid down your cheeks from the exertion. 

Unbeknownst to you, you hadn't been the only party in bed, and said party was just stirring awake. And suffice it to say, he didn't look much better than you. Clint rolled over, sprawling across the bed and raised his head when his fingers felt the warm spot that had clearly been occupied recently. With some effort, he pulled himself up and cradled his head in his hands. 

Usually, he could handle his alcohol, but not this morning. While his stomach wasn't roiling like yours, he did have a splitting headache, and the overwhelming need to take a piss. Peeling back the covers slowly, Clint rolled out of the bed and stretched, moaning in relief when his back made an audible cracking sound. 

"Getting old, Barton." He muttered to himself, running a hand raggedly through his hair. Pulling on his t-shirt, Clint shuffled to the bathroom, stretching out his arms and yawning loudly. He felt as shitty as you but considering that the last six months of his life had been one long shit fest, this had become the norm.

Eat ramen, fight crime, walk lucky, get drunk, pass out on his broke down mattress, repeat. Or to mix it up, sometimes Clint would fight crime, eat ramen, walk lucky, then get drunk and pass out on his broke down sofa. It was good to mix it up. At least, that's what he told Kate every time she wanted to get on his back about his 'poor life choices'. 

Yawning yet again, Clint stepped into the bathroom and dropped his boxers... only to be met with a piercing scream... which he returned with a startled cry of his own. 

The mating call of the idiots.

"You!" Both voices shouted in surprise. 

The events of the previous night... 

Looking down at the papers in his hand, Clint downed his third shot of bourbon, and refilled the glass. Clint Barton was determined not to leave the bar until he was black out drunk. 

Divorce Papers.  

Chuckling bitterly, he saluted the papers and downed his fourth shot.

"You okay, man?" The bar tender leaned against the bar and gave him a sympathetic smile. Clint slowly poured another shot and shrugged. 

"Why shouldn't I be, okay? I'm a free man." He bit out the last words and held the drink up to the light. "You try your hardest to be the good guy, fight the good fight, and what does it get you?" Narrowing his eyes, he downed the bourbon and placed the glass on the counter with a 'thud'. "Divorced. Apparently, it gets you divorced." The bar tender shook his head and left Clint to his misery. 

If only you'd done the same.  

"Mind if I sit here?" Without waiting for an answer, you plopped onto the stool next to Clint, and took a sip of your tequila. 

"S'a free country." He muttered without looking at you. Shrugging you turned to flag down the bar tender. 

"Tequila, please, a whole bottle." He raised a brow at your still half full glass, and you gave him a disarming smile. "Go big or go home, right?" The bar tender slowly returned your grin and reached behind the counter for a bottle. 

"Here you go." 

"Thank you, my good sir." Sliding a wad of bills, you'd won in a slot machine across the counter, you topped off your glass and glanced again at Clint. "I see we seem to have the same mission tonight." 

"What?" He finally glanced at you, albeit through eyes that were growing glassy. You jutted your chin towards his half empty bottle of bourbon. 

"Getting wasted. Seems to be the theme of the night." Clint shrugged and turned his attention back to his drink. "I've never actually gotten properly drunk before, I figure, what the heck, might as well have one final big hurrah before I hit the big 3-0." You chuckled warmly downing the entire glass of tequila and coughing. 

"Are you always this chatty when you drink?" He grumbled, turning again to glance at you. Twirling the bottle to read the label you hum. 

"I'm a pretty talkative person in general." 

"Great." Clint sighed, pouring another glass. Your attention strayed to the dart board on the distant wall, and you nudged his shoulder excitedly. 

"Wanna play darts?" 

"Do I look like I want to play darts?" He spat, glaring at you. 

"How should I know? I'm not a mind reading guru. If I were, I'd probably know your name and blood type, and if I could divine all that, I'd start a tik tok to gaslight millions." Despite his best efforts, Clint snorted. You caught the sound and grinned. 

"Well, I don't. And no offence, but I'm not interested." 

"Now hold on just a minute," You reeled back, tightening your grip on your glass. Clint continued, cutting you off. 

"Not that you aren't very pretty, or that you don't seem nice," 

"I'm going to stop you right there, mister whatever your name is," 

"Clint." He offered. 

"I'm going to stop you right there, Clint," Your face was growing rapidly more flushed, whether it was from your growing irritation or the effects of the tequila you couldn't be certain, nevertheless, you were as red as a beet. Clint turned to look at you intently. "I simply asked if you wanted to throw some darts, not if you wanted to drop your pants and jump in bed with me. Honestly!" 

You looked kind of cute when your feathers were ruffled. 

Clint covered the growing grin on his face with a scowl and shook off the intrusive thought.  

"My mistake." He muttered, glancing sideways at you. "Sorry." Huffing, you poured another glass of tequila and downed it. Slamming the glass back on the table, you devolved into a coughing fit. Reaching out, he thumped your back firmly until the coughing stopped. 

"Thanks." You rasped. 

"No problem." 

You looked kind of cute when your feathers were ruffled. 

Again, he shook off the intrusive thought and downed another glass of bourbon. Funny thing about intrusive thoughts, though. They seemed to grow clearer with every passing drop of alcohol. 

Present Morning...

Getting your bearings, you dragged yourself to your feet and sat on the edge of the bathtub, head in your hands. 

"I have so many questions..." Glancing up you saw Clint pacing, boxers still around his ankles. So, he wasn't so much pacing as he was waddling. "Can you please put that thing away." You grumbled, again covering your face. Clint paused and looked down. 

"Sorry." He mumbled and yanked up his boxers. "You can look, I'm not naked." Sighing, you placed your hands on your knees and met his eyes. 

"You look like shit." The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them. Clint smirked. 

"You're not exactly sleeping beauty yourself." You felt your face flush, but you couldn't argue. It didn't take a mirror for you to know how you must look. Your stomach roiled again, and you flung yourself over the toilet bowl and wretched. Clint held back your hair. Wiping your mouth, you turned your head and looked up at him with a faint smile. 

"Thanks." 

"No problem." Dropping your hair, he stepped back and leaned against the wall, folding his arms. "First bender?" 

"And last." You said dryly. Deciding karma wanted you to sit by your porcelain prison, you scooted back until your back met the wall and folded your own arms. "Besides looking pretty shitty, you don't seem worse for wear." You observed, looking up at Clint intently. 

"Not my first bender." He said simply. A silent pause lingered between you for several moments as you studied each other. Feeling the pounding in your head returning in full force, you groaned and rested your forehead on your folded arms. 

"I'm so confused." Clint merely grunted and wandered over to a window that seemed to be facing a street. "Do you remember anything that happened?" Raising your head, you watched him as he moved the curtain to the side and looked outside. 

"Not much. It's a blur. But I know one thing." 

"What's that?" You dropped your forehead to your arms. 

"We're in Mexico." His tone was matter of fact. That sobered you up. 

"Mexico?!" Scrambling to your feet, you rushed to the window. Clint stepped to the side to give you room and held the curtain open. 

"Yeah. Not sure how we got here, but this is definitely Mexico." Squishing your nose against the glass, you looked outside. And a growing sense of apprehension filled you. 

"Why on earth are we in Mexico?!" Panic clawed its way up your throat. Closing your eyes, you turned away from the window and began pacing. "I'm getting the funny feeling that we made some piss poor decisions last night." You breathed, stopping to look at him.

Clint's arms were folded, and he was staring intently at the floor, clearly deep in thought. His eyes suddenly shot up, and before you could even open your mouth, he strode back to the bedroom purposefully. Following him, you sat in the only chair and watched him rifle furiously through a duffel bag. And you watched him pull out a piece of paper and tense. 

Turning he looked first and you then at the paper again. Running a hand through his hair, he barked out a hard laugh and shook his head. 

"Figures." He muttered, and you were taken aback by his bitter tone. 

"What is it?" Standing, you walked across the room. Clint handed you the paper and grumbled about 'needing to take a piss' before shuffling to the bathroom. And as you heard the distinct sound of a steady stream landing in the same bowl, you'd wretched in several times that morning, you read and reread the words on that cursed paper until all it all blurred into one big black blob. 

The toilet flushed, the faucet turned on, and you sat heavily on the edge of the bed, your entire life in shambles at your feet. 

A marriage license. For a wedding you didn't remember happening. To a man you barely knew. 

"You, okay?" Clint's voice was decidedly softer as he stood in the doorway to the bathroom, drying his hands. 

"Huh?" You looked at him blankly, clutching the paper in your hands. 

"You don't look so good." 

"I don't... feel so good." Your vision was growing spotty, and was it just you, or was everything very heavy all of a sudden? Clint was by your side in a few strides, and he took your face between his hands. 

"Hey, hey, look at me, okay?" His voice was quiet, and he guided your face towards his bringing you nose to nose. Meeting his eyes, you struggled to focus on him as your breathing grew labored. "Breathe." He said firmly. "Breathe, it's going to be okay, everything is going to be okay." Closing your eyes, you focused on the sensation of his thumbs rubbing soft circles on your temples and drowned out everything but the sound of your combined breathing. 

"Y/N." Your eyes snapped open when he said your name. Focusing, you forced yourself to look into his eyes. Clint continued to hold your face firmly between his hands and looked into your eyes seriously. "It's going to be okay. This is a shitty situation, and I could kill for some aspirin, but it's going to be okay." 

"You got a headache too?" You whispered, managing a slight grin. Clint's eyes creased at the corners, and he released your face, sitting back on the bed. 

"I've always got a headache." He groaned, propping his elbows on his knees and rubbed his hands over his face. 

"I can help with that." You blurted. Clint paused and looked at you curiously. 

"How?" He raised a brow. 

"I've studied a little about massage therapy and pressure points." You explained, crawling behind him and resting your hands on his shoulders. 

"How little?" He looked at you apprehensively. "Hippa violation little, or just plausible lawsuit little?" 

"Neither Mr. Barton." Placing your hands at the base of his scalp, you began rubbing in rhythmic circles, working out the kinks in his neck. 

"Oh.... that's good." He groaned, tilting his head to the side. You smiled to yourself as you continued higher towards his hairline until you both heard a satisfying 'pop'. 

"There." Pulling back, you patted his shoulder one final time and sat back on your knees. Clint rolled his neck and turned to face you, a more relaxed look on his face. 

"Thanks, that feels much better." He gave you a small grin and rubbed the back of his neck. 

"That was the point." You chuckled. Clint waived off your sarcasm and his expression grew more neutral. 

"I know a guy in New York, he's got top notch lawyers. They can go over this paper and tell us if it's even legally binding." 

"And if it is?" 

"Then... we cross that bridge when we come to it."