Chapter 9
When the safe-house finally comes into view, nestled deep in the woods with a small lake sitting still next to it, Clint lets out a long, relieved breath and parks the car in front of the porch. He and Sam both look back at Scott to find him sleeping, relaxed and lightly snoring, one arm wrapped protectively around Tony’s middle and the other supporting the genius’ head.
He almost smiles at how adorable the scene is.
Sam is the first to get out of the car, closing his door as soundlessly as possible and rapping his knuckles softly against the window Scott’s head is resting on. Scott opens his bleary eyes and looks around, confused. Clint reaches back and shakes his knee gently, making him turn towards him with wide eyes.
“We’re here, sleepyhead” the endearment slips out of Clint’s lips without permission, reminding him of all the times he used to wake up his children with the same term. Scott blinks once, twice, and then nods before looking down at Tony. He hooks his left arm under Tony’s knees and moves him further into his lap slowly as to not wake him. Clint turns back around and comes out of the car just as Sam opens the door for Scott. Clint looks around with sharp eyes, looking for threats and finding none. Once his search is done they get to the door and before any of them can ask Friday speaks
“To open the door just say ‘open sesame’” she says
Clint does as told and a kind, so young it almost sounds adolescent, male voice with a Scottish lilt welcomes them “welcome home” he says “before you ask, I am Another Rather Tactful Youngling or, as Papa likes to call me, Arty. Mr Katniss, Mr Wingman, Mr Fun-Size, I thank you for bringing Papa here safely” saying that hearing Tony’s nicknames for them doesn’t jar something deep inside him would be a lie. Before he can answer though, Scott does
“Arty?” He asks
“Yes, Mr Fun-Size?” He answers
“Where did you take that nickname from?” Scott asks wide eyed
“Papa called you such while he was going to the RAFT the first time, Friday told me later and I found it quite amusing. All the aforementioned nicknames were previously used by Papa” Arty explained
Scott seems almost speechless “Tony… he knows who I am?” He asks, lips parted in astonishment. At Arty’s affirmative hum his mouth snaps shut and he looks down at the man in his arms “he gave me a nickname?” He asks softly, looking heartbrokenly at Tony.
Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, comforting him “let’s get him to bed” he says quietly, trying to distract them all from all the feels “Arty? Where is Tony’s bedroom?” He tells them, and they go to the upper floor, taking Tony to the furthest bedroom from the stairs, which has a balcony with a beautiful view over the lake. Clint pulls the covers off the bed and Scott lays Tony down, Clint tugging the sheets back into place and Sam tucking the genius in. They stand there a moment not knowing what to do now.
Clint shakes his head “we need to wash him and change the dressing of each wound” he says, braking the silence
“If I may interrupt, Mr Katniss” Arty says “a team of professionals is headed to the cottage to take care of Papa’s wounds” at everybody’s worried expressions he keeps going “trust me when I say, Papa trusts them, and so do I” he says soothingly
That calms them some, but Clint’s still worried and, from the frowns the others are sporting, so are they. Barely a moment passes before the soft ringing of the doorbell sounds and they all turn towards the bedroom door, startled. “I’ll stay, you go” Scott offers. Sam nods at Clint and they get their guns from their holsters, closing the door behind them
“I assure you, although I appreciate your carefulness, it isn’t necessary” Arty tells them as they descend the stairs. They ignore him.
Clint opens the door carefully, ready to attack… and drops his fighting stance instantly “Helen?” He asks baffled at her being there.
Cho smiles stiffly, nodding at him and looking past his shoulder at Sam “Clint. Sam. If you could point us to where Tony is?” And just then Clint notices the other person standing behind her
He nods “come in” he says, opening the door wider and shifting to let them in. “I didn’t know you and Tony had stayed in touch” he wonders out loud
“Yeah well, we did” she replies shortly, giving him another forced smile. He wonders for a moment why her smile seems so forced. Honestly, there are so many reasons she could be to be angry at him for, he finds himself lost in all the possibilities for a moment. He supposes, having stayed in contact with Tony, she probably knows all about what he did to Tony thanks to Friday. He shakes his head, coming back to reality and finding her looking at him with her eyebrows raised in question
“Sorry, follow me” he says, and goes to Tony’s room.
When they reach the door Helen knocks and, once Scott opens it, she asks them to stay outside. “It’ll take half an hour at most” she reassures them.
They hesitantly nod and he and Sam sit on the hallway’s floor, Clint next to the door, legs crossed and head in his ands, and Sam opposite to him, elbows resting on his bent knees and head down. Scott paces, and after fifteen minutes of it Clint is sure he’ll leave trail on the carpeted floor if he keeps going. So he snatches Scott’s right wrist as he passes by him and brings him down, making him sit forcefully by him.
“Sorry” Scott murmurs
Clint sighs “no, it’s okay, I’m just… stressed out” he says, apologetic, and throws an arm around Scott’s shoulders to make up for it. After another fifteen minutes Scott lays his head on the archer’s shoulder and Clint ruffles his hair tenderly. Ten minutes later Sam stretches out his legs, his right foot touching the side of Clint’s right ankle, the barely there contact seeming to relax him.
The events of the last weeks, and mostly of the last two days have been physically and mentally exhausting for them all and both Sam and Scott start dozing off after another five minutes. But Clint can’t find it in himself to rest. He sighs. He’s tired, so, so tired. But he can’t sleep, not while Tony’s being examined by a doctor that could come out any second and tell them how Tony’s shoulder is infected or how his fractured ribs pierced one of his lungs or how-
The door opens and they all shoot up from the floor. They look at Cho with a mix of hopeful and concerned faces. She closes the door behind her and speaks softly “he’s still sleeping, and, from all the drugs they gave him, he will be out for a while. None of them were painkillers so I took care of that and gave him a low dosage seeing as, knowing him, he’ll want the lowest dosage imaginable if one at all-”
“Why?” Sam asks, interrupting her
“Tony has been battling addiction for a very long time, and giving him a too high dosage of painkillers would hinder him in his road to recovery” she explains “now, he has multiple fractured ribs and a couple of broken ones. Fortunately they did not pierce his lungs, although we’ll need to take him to surgery for them. His sternum also needs surgery to be replaced. He has several burns that only time will cure, but it would help for the scars if you put this on them” she says before giving them a cream for the burns “I’ve checked the stitches you gave him and they’re all fine, the cuts should heal nicely. His shoulder should be okay, a specialist will come once a day to check on it. The recovery will be long and hard, but he should make it”
she pauses
“mentally speaking though, it’s another story. You should expect PTSD as well as Anxiety, Depression and phantom pains, it’s only normal after losing a limb. I understand he just went through something traumatic enough to try suicide as a way out and I have taken that into consideration-”
“What?” Clint asks numbly, the others echoing him. He shakes his head “what did you just say?”
Helen looks at him weirdly “didn’t you notice the scar on his arm?” she asks as if it’s obvious “which I suppose would be on both his arms if he still had his left one” she thinks out loud
“Oh” he breathes out, relieved “no no” he says “Ross” he explains “he did that to him” and he almost smiles at how thankful he is that she’s wrong
There’s a pause, a moment he’s grateful for as he knows he won’t be able to have a minute this peaceful for some time judging by the look Cho is giving him, and then “I’m sorry” she says sadly, and that, he thinks, that’s a look he hopes he’ll never see again. He can’t quite breathe for a second until “but the gash on his arm is… well, it’s self inflicted”
And he can’t breathe
Clint hasn’t had an panic attack in years. Not since Cooper was born. He almost can’t remember the last time he had one. Emphasis on ‘almost’. Because who wouldn’t remember the day their kid is born? He has an almost perfect memory, and the day his firstborn came into the world is particularly clear in his head. He remembers everything, from the too early contractions to the too late hour of the night in which Coop was born. And he remembers the constant I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not ready running through his head, his whole thought process reduced to that single sentence right up to the moment he saw his baby boy. And then it dissolved like snow in the summer.
He almost smiles at the memory of the little ball of life squirming in his arms, a shrill wail coming from his small scrunched up face, accompanied by the oh so distinctive smell of a full diaper. But for some reason he can’t smile. He just hasn’t got it in him to do so now. He doesn’t know why until another memory comes forward, making him whimper as he remembers the I’m sorry and that terrifyingly sad and pitying look he was subjected to.
A hand on his shoulder takes him back to the present, but he doesn’t want to wake up, he just wants to sleep. He wants to ignore the guilt eating at him and the cold feeling in his chest. So he turns away and buries his head in the pillow, an arm thrown over his eyes, as if he could shield the reality of the situation from his eyes, or hide his tears from the world.
“Clint…” Sam says, and he can’t bear to hear his voice so small, pleading
“I-” he starts, but a sob interrupts him and the dam breaks “I can’t do it Sam- I can’t” he cries out, a lump in his throat so big it hurts and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t swallow it down. So he chokes, breaths stuttering as he cries hysterically, sobs tearing past his teeth, lips already open in a silent scream. He barely notices the dipping of the mattress and the arms wrapping around him but he still clings to Sam’s torso, his shirt fisted in his hands like a lifeline. His eyes closed so tight it hurts, he starts shaking uncontrollably, burying his head in the crook of Sam’s neck.
“I know, I know, let it out, it’s okay, it’ll be okay” Sam is murmuring
And he just cries harder, not being able to believe that it’ll be okay. Not now, not ever. But he can’t find it in himself to contradict him, so he just cries. And cries, and cries, until he falls back asleep, exhausted