part II
Clint jumped when he heard a knock at his door. He glanced out the window; the sky outside was gray and dull even though it was hardly past eleven in the morning. Rain flecked the glass panes.
He sighed, and heaved himself off his couch and up to the door.
It was Tony. Clint blinked, then narrowed his eyes and stepped backwards.
“Yeah, yeah. Come in,” he said. He moved back to the couch and sat down, noticing that Tony wasn’t fallowing.
He turned his head, sighing. “Do you need something?”
“You tell me,” said Tony. Something in his voice sounded cautious, almost as if he were testing the waters.
“Oh, don’t try and pull that again,” he muttered, running a hand down the side of his face.
“Pull what?”
“That,” he huffed, pointing. “Look, I’m fine. Swear.”
There was silence for a while.
“Come on, Buddy. I want to help you. We
want to help you, if you would just talk.” Tony still stood in the doorway.
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Nat and I, obviously.” The gentle voice pounded into Clint’s skull. He hated it.
“There’s nothing to be helped here,” Clint muttered. “Listen I—“
“No, I think there is.”
Clint didn’t reply, he just turned his back and faced his muted TV, hostile, keeping his eyes fixed on the colors dancing on the screen.
“Listen, Natasha told me what happened,” Tony murmured. He stepped into the room finally, and quietly shut the door behind him.
“Oh, really?” Clint cocked his head, still not looking. “What did she tell you, now?”
“That you crashed in her room last night,” he said, with an emphasis on the word crash.
“That all?”
Tony shrugged, shaking his head. He scanned the room with a careful eye— Clint hated how careful. He hated how Tony and Natasha seemed to be walking on eggshells around him.
Instead of lashing out, like he would usually, he felt the lump in his throat swell. tears stung his eyes again, and he bit his lip hard. Not right now, he thought bitterly.
He felt like a child, crying at the little things because he just can’t find a way to express what he needed. What did he need? God, he didn’t even know himself.
He could feel Tony freeze.
“Barton? You alright, buddy?”
Clint drew in a shuddering breath. But the exhale was suddenly replaced with a broken sob, and he brought his arm up to wipe at his face.
“No,” he forced out, gritting his teeth. His wall was crumbling, and he just didn’t have to strength to keep holding it up. “I— I don’t know what’s going on.”
“That’s okay,” Tony said. His voice wasn’t smooth or confident or cocky like Clint’s used to, but instead gentle; his natural voice. “It’s fine. You don’t have to know. Just trust me.”
“Trust you for what?”
“Trust that I’ll be there to listen.” Tony sighed, leaning back against the closed door.
Clint didn’t respond, and Tony could tell he was struggling to keep his front together.
“Listen, Clint,” Tony murmured. “I’m not gonna say I get it, because everyone’s troubles are different. But I know what feeling alone is like.”
“Oh, you do?” Clint snapped, running a hand under his eye. He didn’t know where he was going with this. He just wanted to fight.
“Yeah, okay?” Tony hesitated for a moment. “I know what it’s like to not want to talk to anyone, fight it on your own. Because it’s in your head, right? You think it’s nobody else’s problem, right?” Tony glanced around, moving away from the door. “Wrong. You don’t have to do the fighting alone.”
It took a while for Clint to answer. His gut was tingling at how strange this kind of conversation was. How unnatural, how foreign. He didn’t like the way Tony was talking, but it was better than the empty, cautious, sympathetic tone from before. His words held truths.
“Why are you doing this?” Clint whispered.
“Because I want to help,” Tony said. “The team isn’t complete without you, Barton.”
“Sure,” Clint said, hardly over a breath. His arms felt numb.
“Oh, you don’t think it’s true?” Tony tapped his fingers on the coffee table, the only indication he was nervous at all. “That’s odd. Because you—you’re one of the ones who holds us together. When Cap and I argue, it’s you who can pull us back, see both sides.”
“Right.” Clint clenched his jaw. “Whatever.”
“You—“
“Listen, I don’t even care about that.” Clint hated how his voice shook. “I just... usually I can handle this.”
“Handle what?”
Clint took a minute to answer, hesitant. He swallowed thickly. “I went to a doctor a few years ago,” he said. “I— they always said I had something but I just always ignored it, I guess. ‘til one day I couldn’t take it. Got myself to a psychiatrist.”
“And?”
“They said I had, uh....” he trailed off, hating the way his words got tangled in his throat. He hated this, the explaining. It was easier when he‘d just met the psychiatrist. “They said I had a depressive mood disorder. Which— which is fine, I guess, I just hate calling it that. That’s what it is. I just hate it.”
Tony nodded, glancing around the room at nothing in particular until he focused on the pale, grayscale city outside.
“How come you never came to any of us?” Tony asked. He meant Natasha.
“I don’t know,” Clint muttered. “I just... she knew, I knew she knew about me going to that doctor, and taking the pills for a while. I just never sat down to talk about it. I guess it never got bad enough that I needed to do that.”
“But now it is.”
“But now it is,” Clint repeated softly, and it sounded so raw that Tony’s shoulders seemed to drop in defeat.
“Are you scared?”
Fear fluttered in Clint’s stomach at the question.
“Am I scared?” he repeated. “What do you mean, am I scared?”
“It’s okay, if you are.” Tony spoke quietly.
Clint shifted. “Were you scared?“
Tony hesitated, eyes fixed on the small flowerpot across the room. Orchids.
“Clint, I— I had PTSD. Have PTSD, but I’ve learned how to handle it better. My whole life was fear.” Tony swallowed. “It wasn’t pretty.“
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t about me. I’m okay.”
“Yeah. Yes, I’m scared, Tony.” His voice was shaking again. “I’m not in control anymore. That’s what’s scaring me.”
Tony didn’t reply, he just nodded and sat back against the armrest. He just let Clint talk.
“It’s rough,” he said slowly. “When I... go down. It’s a long fall.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s— it’s not okay.” Clint took a trembling breath. “I’m, like, weighed down. Underwater. Tony, it’s like I’m drowning.”
“Is it your family?”
“Is what my family?” Clint muttered.
“Does it make you sad, that you can’t see them? Because of the arrest?”
“Well, yeah, ‘course it does.” Clint shifted. “None of this is their fault.”
“Yet they’re being punished.”
“I miss them,” he said, eyes drifting down to the coffee table. “God, Tony, I miss them.”
“I know you do.” Tony watched him carefully. “But that’s not all, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s something else, right? That’s bringing you down.”
“Oh, fuck you, Stark.”
Tony paused. “I’m trying to help,” he said gently. He backtracked quickly, though. “But I won’t talk if you don’t want me to. I’m not gonna push it.”
Clint swallowed, but didn’t respond. Tony sighed.
He was really going to have to do this.
He started off slowly, aware of the mild awkwardness but pushing through it. “Did you know there was a time when I was just about ready to let myself die?”
Clint’s eyebrows furrowed, but didn’t speak. Tony’s gut tingled.
“Yeah. Palladium poisoning, in my bloodstream. I knew— I knew I had the answer, somewhere in my head, you know, I just... I was going to let myself die anyways. I lost hope.”
Clint just stared ahead, eyes fixed on— but not looking at— the silent television screen. They looked dull, and he didn’t respond.
“Because I thought— I really thought that I didn’t deserve to keep on living. And it all made sense in my head, that soon I’d be gone, and the world wouldn’t have to worry about me.“ Tony set his jaw forward. “But you know what? I was wrong. My judgement was wrong.”
Clint was completely still, and completely silent. Tony sighed, and tilted his head to the side to look at him.
“You know why I’m telling you this?”
His jaw was set forward, but Tony could tell his wall was crumbling. “To tell me you get it?”
“No, to remind you that it won’t always be like this. I’m not saying it’s a perfect life— because God knows I have my bad days, too— but I’m just saying it will get better. It will get better. Just because you hit rock bottom doesn’t mean you have to stay there.”
Clint drew in a breath, and ran his sleeve under his eye.
“That’s pretty poetic, for a mechanic,” he whispered, looking down.
Tony grinned, but it was still sad. He didn’t say anything more.
There was silence for a while, and then Clint shifted. “Sometimes, at night,” he said quietly, “I close my eyes and I see people getting shot. Impaled, Tony. They’re getting shot by my arrows, and it’s going straight through their eye, or their head... and there’s blood everywhere. And it’s me; I’m the killer.”
“I’m sorry,” Tony said softly.
Clint swallowed, forcing himself to look up. Tony was watching him carefully, with his sad, wide brown eyes, and Clint suddenly felt a sense of understanding. Tony knew these struggles; he’s faced them all before. And yet here he was, standing tall and strong despite it all.
“You had that too, right?” he murmured. “The... the flashbacks.”
Tony bit his lip. “Yeah,” he said.
“It sucks,” Clint whispered, almost like a laugh. Almost.
“Yeah,” Tony repeated. “But listen. I made it through; I survived. And you will too, I promise.”
“Yeah, I know,” he murmured. “I just think...” His heart started hammering in his chest, and he could feel his shoulders twitching. “I think I might need actual help again.”
“That’s okay,” Tony said gently. “That’s fine.”
Clint glanced down at his hands; they were shaking. “Is it?”
“Yes, Barton,” Tony said.
“It’s like I failed the first time around.”
“You didn’t.”
“But if I have to go again—“
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, waving his hand. “It’s like an injury. You wouldn’t not heal a broken bone, so why’s this any different?”
Clint let out a trembling breath. “Okay,” he whispered. “Alright. I’m gonna find another doctor.”
“Good.”
“I’m gonna get on meds, or something. Go to— to talk therapy, if I need to.”
“You got it.”
Clint took a pause, waiting a moment for his heart rate to slow down, and hands to stop shaking. “Tony?”
“Yep.”
“Thanks for, uh, for listening to me. And thanks for— for being there.” He remembered Tony’s words. Trust that I’ll be there to listen
Tony laughed a little. “Yeah. It’s okay.” He stood up finally, stretching his back. “I should get going, if you’re good with that.”
“Yeah, probably,” Clint murmured.
Tony moved towards the door, and when their eyes met, all Clint found was a look of calm understanding. It was a strange revelation he had, just as Tony was shutting the door.
He saw the sunlight glow through the big window, casting a gleam on the dark coffee table.
He wasn’t alone. He was never alone.
It took somebody other than his best friend to tell him this, and for him to really realize it.
—
“Natasha?” he said, voice just hardly raised, calling to her from outside of her room.
“Barton?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
She opened the door, and he felt himself sigh in relief. He needed to see somebody familiar.
Her hair was pinned up, and her lips were a dark cherry red. Her black athletic jacket was tight-fit, and she wore dark gray leggings.
“You going somewhere?” he asked, still standing in the hallway.
She just shrugged. “I don’t have to be.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Clint, I—“
Before she could finish, though, he stepped forward in a sudden movement and wrapped his arms around her, chin falling perfectly into the crook of her neck. He breathed in her perfume, feeling himself relax, at least just a little.
“Are you okay?” she asked, and her voice was so gentle that he wanted to melt into it, and probably live there forever. But he couldn’t, so he just blinked back his misty eyes and responded.
“I will be,” he promised softly.
“Hm?”
“I’m gonna go get help again,” he said, swallowing. “Tony— he... well, I just—“ His thoughts raced far ahead of his words. “I mean— I get it now. That’s all.”
“Get what now?”
“I was never alone. I was never the only one to deal with... this.”
“Well, yeah.”
“And that’s all ‘cause of you. I’m gonna go back to a psychiatrist, Nat. I’m gonna get myself better again.” He let out a controlled, shaky breath. “And yeah, that stresses me out. A lot. But I need to do this... for the long run, so it doesn’t damage me any more than it has.”
“You’ve thought it through?”
“Well, no, not really,” he admitted, stepping back, and then past her into her room. “But I know it’s right. And I know I’m not alone.” He shrugged. “I just wanted to tell you.”
Her eyes were gentle as they gazed back at him, so instead of feeling uncomfortable, he just felt safe.
“I’m glad,” she murmured.
“Yeah, me too.” He scratched the back of his arm, hating the way the lump in his throat was already growing. “I love you, man. I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark for so long.”
“Stop. It’s okay.”
He wanted to keep protesting, but instead he just swallowed thickly and nodded, giving in. He looked at her and suddenly realized that she was everything he had. It was a kind of love that couldn’t be spoiled by something so easy as romance; it wasn’t worth it, and it wasn’t the point. The point was trust, and comfort, and pride, and everything else he’d need in life.
If front of him was someone he should’ve shared everything with since the very beginning— should’ve, but never did.
But it wasn’t too late to start.
He smiled softly, despite the lump in his throat and sting of tears in his eyes. He ran his sleeve under them, turning back around towards the big window. Sunset in New York.
Yes, he’s fallen apart, but now he’s able to pick up the pieces and stitch it all back together— stronger and better.
He watched the sun finally set over the glittering city, and how it glinted on the windows once and then not again. He let out a breath, and then turned back to her, with a new kind of confidence.
Because Clint Barton could function when darkness took hold; depression couldn’t stop him. But maybe he didn’t have to suffer in silence anymore— he didn’t have to suffer alone.
Because he was never alone.