Connect-The-Dots
Clint was a bastard, Peter decided. He was the biggest, smarmiest bastard in the history of bastards.
Look up “bastard” in the dictionary, and there would be a mug shot of Clint drop-kicking some poor schmuck through a wall.
Oh, and Steve needed to die, too. Law abiding, do-gooder Captain freaking America was helping Clint. Surely such blatant favoritism violated dozens of world peace treaties.
Peter’s life was misery and it was all their fault.
Ned was oblivious to Peter’s struggle, so enthralled by the two Avengers walking ahead that he was centimeters away from tripping on Cap’s heels. And frankly, nobody deserved that level of humiliation, not even grade A bullies like Flash.
Quickly, Peter dug his fingers into his best friend’s collar and yanked him back by his side. “Buddy, a little personal space.”
“Oh, shoot, sorry dude.”
“Hey, remind me to do something after this.”
Ned nodded. “Yeah?”
”I need to get an ASL book out of the library, complete with all the cuss words.”
“Deal.”
They exchanged a discreet fist bump before following the group.
As they walked, Emmet wrung his hands and squeaked faint protests over the elated clamor. Something something, “standard protocol,” something something, “lose my job,” something.
“Don’t sweat it, bro,” Clint grinned awfully like the awful human being he was. “Sit back and enjoy.”
“You all beat up a child,” Emmet hissed. “On my watch.”
“No, the Black Widow beat up a child on your watch. I engaged a Stark industries employee in NDA protected activities.”
“You handed a child a gun.”
”Again, that was Barnes, not me. You’re confusing us spooks. Not all flak jackets are created equal.”
Emmet whimpered, like a man standing between a wolf pack and their next kill. “I was so close to getting that promotion, too. Years of work.”
Clint shrugged and slung a buff, amicable arm around the poor guide’s shoulders. He steered the man towards the edge of the herd. “Still might, bro. I’ll tell you, child endangerment looks real good on monthly reviews. But listen,” and his voice dropped so low Peter had to strain to pick up the next words, “if you keep your hands off that handy-dandy help-button and play along with this next part, I’ll put a good word in with your boss. Capisce?”
”Play along with what exactly?” Emmet breathed.
Clint just clapped Emmet with a calloused hand and winked, like there was a secret punchline everybody was missing. It was deeply unsettling, to say the least. “Good talk, bro.”
Then, like someone had pulled a string on a Rube Goldberg machine, Clint’s words snapped into focus, and all the little worries of the last hour or so shifted to press something much more dire to the front of Peter’s mind.
He froze.
He had missed something very, very important during the time he was busy being embarrassed by everyone, but oh my god this was huge. And he was so, so stupid.
His mind rewound like a tape all the way back to the lobby.
FRIDAY dissing Flash. In the labs, Shuri ignoring him completely, going out of her way to make sure everyone saw she knew Peter.
And the fighting ring.
When Flash said Emily, Natasha shouldn’t have gotten that pissed. Clint wouldn’t usually have challenged Peter to a frickin’ cage match.
Natasha wouldn’t have even looked twice at Flash’s hideous wink. He was so far below her it was funny, but she challenged him anyway.
Sam’s pissed off expression. The way they conveniently positioned Thor, the most oblivious person to ever exist, right in the group’s path. Wanda’s glowing hands. The secret ASL conversation with “blast” and “window” and “catch”.
Once the idea-ball started rolling, nothing could stop it. It tumbled along hypothetical pulleys and springs, bouncing off of mental walls until a string yanked, dumping the equivalent of a metaphorical bucket of ice-water directly on top of Peter’s head.
Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier? He’d convinced himself that they couldn’t know about him, that his secret was still a secret, and he was so worried about Flash outing him that he hadn’t even considered the more obvious option that they already effing knew.
Peter felt a hand on his shoulder. Chewed nails smudged with ink: MJ.
But this time, he didn’t even register that he should be stammering and turning red. It seemed...kinda trivial now.
”You alri—?” she started, but he cut her off.
”Uh-yeah, great. Gimme a, um, gimme a sec. Just-just gotta check—“
He ignored her stare as he tripped over himself trying to get to Cap and Clint.
Well, only Clint now. Cap had peeled off to God-knows-where, probably in on the scheme that would surely ruin Peter’s life as he knew it. Forget the ASL book; Peter needed to get through today alive before even considering what was on his reading list next.
Stupid stupid stupid stupid.
A few more steps, and Peter latched onto Clint’s arm, dragging the startled archer aside.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Ned and MJ, but he shooed them off vigorously until they moved on with the rest of the group, Thor and Trash, sorry, Flash in the lead.
He waited until they were gone to face Clint, who watched him steadily with eyebrows raised. His emotions roiled like a wave.
Without preamble, Peter hissed, “Dude, what the hell?”
“‘What the hell’ what?” Clint asked, looking genuinely perplexed.
”Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”
”Knew what?”
Peter examined his expression. “You know what I’m talking about. About me being...”
Clint just looked at him blankly.
”...um, you do, right?”
More blank stare.
Maybe he was making a mistake maybe Clint really didn’t know. Shit. This was gonna be hell.
“Know about what, kid?”
Peter groaned. Had he really just inadvertently outed himself? Because that would be pathetic. Seriously pathetic. Facepalm pathetic. Good job, Peter.
”About what, kid?” Clint pressed, looking at him with a concerned expression.
“Forget it.”
”Nope.” Clint grabbed his shoulders as Peter tried to spin around. Peter slapped his hand away, fury suddenly roiling in his stomach.
”Shove off.”
”Not a chance, kiddo.”
”I’m serious, Clint.
“I’m sure you are.”
”You can fu—“
”Language.”
”Oh shut up. You sound like Steve.”
“Mr. Perfection himself.”
A half smile crept its way onto Peter’s face before he stop it. Clint slapped him on the back so hard he almost lost his balance.
”There he is!” The archer grinned at him, then grew serious. “But really, Pete.”
”Fine.”
Dang peer pressure. He had no willpower. Zilch. None. “I—“
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He hadn’t had to come out to anyone since MJ, and even though Clint was being the perfect model of support, it never got any easier.
And this is an Avenger, his traitorous brain whispered. He told his brain to piss off.
“I-I’m transgender,” he mumbled, feeling his hands shake as he said the words. Stupid hands. “That's why Flash bullies me. I-I’m still Peter, though. Nothing’s changed. It just means that—“
”I know what it means, kid.” Clint said shortly. Peter couldn’t tell his tone. Was he mad? Disturbed? Sad? Peter knew that there was a wide range of possible reactions.
He dared lift his gaze from his worn out sneakers, only to find Clint with an unsurprised look on his face.
Oh, man. This was even worse.
"You knew," he breathed, and it wasn't a question.
"Yeah, kid. I figured it out first, about a year ago."
His stomach swirled bitter, disoriented as Clint bobbed his head in acknowledgement. His suspicions had been dead right. The little shit...
Wait, hold on, first?!
"How many know?”
Clint didn’t even have the decency enough to look cowed as he ticked them off on his fingers. "Nat, me, Bucky, Wanda, Sam, Steve, Scott, Shuri..."
Holy fuck. Peter jerked his arm away from Clint’s hand like it burned him, not even bothering to try cooling down. Outrage, relief, panic, and something else, all burned like lava, pooling in his stomach, running in his veins.He rubbed the spot with his hand, trying to comprehend what Clint was saying.
His idols, his friends, had pretended not to know his secret, had lied to him for over a year, had spread it amongst themselves. All the times he thought he was passing off his dysphoria as a migraine, a bad anxiety attack, and he thought he was being smooth, and they were walking around, talking behind his back.
Turns out he didn’t know shit.
"When are you telling Mr. Stark?" he asked dully, trying not desperately not to cry.
"When are we doing what?" Clint really had no right to sound so offended when he was the one who made this whole mess.
"Telling Mr. Stark. About me. Like you did the others."
Clint stopped short, goggling at him. ”Christ, Pete!” Clint sounded horrified. “You think I outed you to everyone?”
Huh? That didn’t line up at all. “Wait, wh—b-but don’t the others know too?”
"Yeah, they figured it out on their own. Right around the time you told us your identity."
"Of course they did," he mumbled, dazed.
"Kid, there's the whole freaking internet, and, well, no offense, but we had no reason to trust you without knowing your face. So..." he shrugged. "We dug. I mean, Stark almost definitely knows. He had to research your government records or whatever for Germany."
For an alumnus of the 'gifted class,' Peter felt like the world's biggest chump.
"He definitely wouldn't care. And if it makes any difference, I think he's caught up at the moment with other problems. He called Ms. Potts 'prettier than average' the other day, and now he's doing double-time to cover up his ass, buying rich chocolate and hiring shitty Mariachi bands—"
It was so awful and so Tony, that Peter was gonna cry. Right here. In the hall. Floodworks incoming in three, two, one...
"Aww, Pete. Dude. Jesus mother of—no wonder you were freaking out."
”I-I just thought—well, I hack my biometrics, and you talked to Tony last week like you didn't know—"
"Yeah, like I said, I'm almost definitely sure he knows, not completely confident. Wasn't about to bust your cover for an 88% accuracy reading."
Peter nodded, at a loss. His brain was wading through a swampy mist of total confusion. Thirty seconds ago he’d been so nervous he was shaking, then fuming, and now he didn’t know what to feel.
Clint leaned forward. “Kid, I'm an asshole, but not that kind of asshole. Promise, they're all smart little specialists who did the legwork on their own. Your secret is as safe as it'll every be.” He looked so earnest. And Peter felt so, so terrible.
"And they're okay?" he whispered. He didn't think he could take it if not. "With me?"
"Always, and anyone who says otherwise gets chucked in the dumpster." Clint glared, and Peter glimpsed a tiny bit of what made him an Avenger. “From thirty stories up. Listen, don’t you dare apologize for yourself. No apologizing from your sorry ass.”
”But—“
”Nope.”
"Clint—"
"Zip. Shut it."
“Then do me a favor?”
Clint nodded.
“Call off the ambush.”
Clint's left eye twitched. "What ambush."
"That whole hallway conversation wasn't high level language skills, you know. Call it off."
"Ummm..." Clint's face did a complicated little thing that Peter couldn't make heads or tails of. "It was an..unrelated. Mission thing. Yeah. Nefarious planning."
"Mmmm." What did Natasha do? Oh right, square the shoulders, summon fire from the depths of Hell and stare. Unblinking.
Wait for it.
Clint sighed, and suddenly the storm clouds lifted, and the world regained its mundane tint. “Shit, yeah, you caught that, huh?”
”Call it off Clint.”
”But the kid’s a dick, Pete!”
”Don’t tell me to watch my language. You cuss more than me.”
Clint ignored the jab. “He deserves it,” he grumbled mulishly, and Peter could barely feel the glint of exasperation under the mountainous wave of gratitude.
Still. He did have a reputation, and this was a massive liability to that.
Clint stared at him. Peter stared back.
Crickets.
Then,
“Here’s the thing.”
Did I just win a staring contest with an Avenger?
“I’m really sorry about this...but I can’t.”
“Bullshit.” Peter immediately broke his own two second long rule principle against cussing. Clint looked at him pointedly before continuing.
”Really, kid. I can’t.” He sounded genuinely apologetic. Peter watched as he tapped the purple plastic hooked round the backs of his ears. “See these? Normal hearing aids. No comms, no network, and I...may have magically lost my phone, watch, and walkie-talkie in the HVAC system. So, no can do.”
Peter wasn’t buying it. “But there’s gotta be a way. Man, you’ve already beaten him to a pulp.”
”Really sorry kid.” Clint shook his head, and Peter knew it was a lost cause.
In other words, Peter was still going to die.