For almost two hours now, he's been trying to ignore the constant pain and it's been working fine. But slowly the pain grows and it feels like being run over by a truck. He would prefer the truck, however, because that would mean he could sit and just breathe for at least five minutes.
For days he suppressed the pain and it worked sometimes more, sometimes less better. Now, however, the pain speaks up and seems to know no mercy. It comes at a bad time considering the current alien invasion. The worst thing, apart from the throbbing aches and sleepless nights, are the accompanying symptoms, which are also getting worse.
The well-known nausea mixed with a slowly coming blurring vision. The more he focuses on a target, the more intense the pain becomes. It's a constant dull throbbing that presses against his forehead and feels like his head is swelling. The sensory overload he has from all sides doesn't help either. The whirring and clicking of the aliens. The screaming people. Cars honking and ambulance sirens. Tony's constant chatter. The sunlight, the stinking smell in the air-
"Hawkeye, are you okay?" Cap asks, and Clint blinks several times to squirm out of the light trance. "Yes, everything is fine," he says snippy. "Sure? Because Friday says the last arrow shot was forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight-” “I get it,” he interrupts Stark, more harshly than he intended.
Mood swings.
Another unnecessary symptom.
"If you need a hand over there-" Cap starts so incredibly annoyingly indulgent that Clint wants to shoot an arrow up his Irish ass. "or just need a break-" "Yeah damn shit," Clint interrupts, taking an arrow from the quiver. "I need a fucking break-" he nocks the arrow to the string and draws the bow. "I need a fucking break from your constant chatter and fucking buzzing-" he follows the alien, but his vision blurs. "they both mix into one fucking sound and I can't concentrate when that sound is in my ears-" he lets the bow hang. "and then there's the fact that I-"
"Clint"
Natasha's voice is sharp and he steps away from the edge of the roof. "Sorry," he murmurs softly, rubbing his forehead. It would be nice if a truck could hit him. "I'm sorry," he repeats again, fumbling with his hearing aids. The world falls silent, but the pain remains. He goes over the roof and uses the door that leads to the hallway. It's dark and cool and a delight to his eyes. The way down is long and the nausea gets stronger with every step.
He should have eaten more than just a banana.
He reaches the side door and lands in an alley. He leans against the wall of the building and closes his eyes. The stinking smell of garbage and alien blood is overwhelming and everything in him rebels. His breakfast joins the garbage contents on the street. "Ow," he groans and slides down the wall.
There are worse places I could die, he thinks while the pounding behind his forehead is like a jackhammer. His hands feel slightly numb and it's getting worse with every second that goes by. He tries to focus on his breathing to escape the pain, but it doesn't work. The pain has him firmly in its grip and seems to be getting ready for the climax.
Two hands gently touch his shoulder and Nat suddenly stands in front of him. Her face is worried. >What is it?< she asks. Her hand movements are slow and clear so he can follow her too. He points to his head and she grimaces, which he can't quite interpret. >How long?<. He shrugs. >Few days<. >And when did you want to tell me that?!<
"Ooops"
She sighs.
He blinks a few times to stay focused, but her shape is already blurring and he gives up. Natasha's hands grab his and she pulls him to his feet. She's going to lead him home, so he lets her lead the way. He follows her, but every step feels like he's walked a kilometer and his head finally explodes.
He wakes up in a bed that isn't his. An ECG is attached to him and when he disconnects from it the monitor starts to flicker. He's glad he doesn't have to hear the high-pitched beeping. He gets out of bed, staggers, and then sits back down on the bed. The pain isn't quite as bad as it was a few hours ago, but it's not gone yet. The door to the room opens and the team storms in.
He's glad he doesn't have to hear the babble. He sighs wearily. Natasha shoos everyone out of the room and closes the door before turning to him. Her gaze is a mixture of loving condemnation. He holds out his hand and she hands him a hearing aid. He carefully puts it in his ear. "Why didn't you say anything?" Nat asks, sitting down next to him. "It's just a headache," he replies, shrugging.
"Clint," she sighs, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Are you taking your meds?" she asks and he shakes his head. "They're not helping and I have a feeling it's only going to get worse," he replies, leaning his head against hers. "You have to give them time to help you-" "It's just a headache," he repeats, sounding more tired than he wants to. He's had this conversation many times.
With Barney.
With Phil.
With his Doctor.
With Nat.
He knows they mean well.
But none of this helps him and sometimes he gets so tired of it. The constant pain that doesn't go away no matter how many pills he takes or how long he sleeps. He knows there will come a time when the pain will go away and everything will be back to normal until a new phase comes when he wants to lose his head.
It's just a headache.
And if he keeps telling himself that, it gets better. It has to get better. He also wants to convince himself that he can live with pain. His whole life is pervaded by it of one kind or another. His father showed him one way, Duquesne another, and various criminals showed him entirely new ones, but it's the headaches that drive him mad and tear him apart.
"It's just a fucking headache," he murmurs, wiping away a tear. "I know," Nat replies, grabbing his hand. "But you have to tell me if it gets bad." She squeezes his hand in a gentle gesture. “It's just-” “You passed out today. You could have passed out on the roof. It could have been worse"
Her voice is worried and there is a slight hint of fear underneath. He hates triggering it in her. "Sorry-" he replies, squeezing her hand. "Next time, I'll be more careful and-" "Next time, you'll let me know. Promise me"
"I promise it"