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saoneTitle: A Runaway American Dream 3/?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saone77
Pairing: pre Clint/Steve
Summary: Steve gets uninvited company on his great American roadtrip. But with Clint running from demons of his own, how can Steve leave him behind?
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Major for the movie
Warnings: Not betad, grammarians beware. This chapter deals with the emotional fallout of plot points and the fate of a certain character in The Avengers. There are issues, including possible PTSD, and survivor's guilt.
Word Count: 3729
Disclaimer: This is indulgent, cracktastic fiction.
Part 1 Part 2
Steve had chosen a Hilton as their destination for the night because it was a name he recognized from the time before the war and the ice. As soon as he walks through the automatic doors and into the cool, climate controlled lobby, though, he can't help but feel like he's made a horrible mistake.
Everything he can see - from the high ceilings, to the polished marble floors, to the lush furnishings - screams opulence. Steve falters, feeling every bit the tired, dirty traveler that he is. He tightens his grip on his rucksack and thinks about trying to find some other place for the night - like the simple, one-story motor courts he had been staying at. But Clint's already pushing past him and striding up to the reception desk.
There's not one ounce of hesitation as Clint - who actually looks more like a vagrant than Steve with his faded jeans, worn tee shirt, and old duffel bag - gives the lady behind the desk a grin and asks for a double. Steve's so concerned with his uncomfortableness that he doesn't realize Clint's paying for the whole thing until he's signing the credit card slip.
"Hey," Steve says, stepping up, "you should have let me get that."
"Don't worry about it, man," Clint says, easy as all get out. "You'll get the next one, okay?" He takes two key cards from the lady, gives her another smile, and then moves off towards the elevators. All Steve can do is follow.
"I'm serious," Steve says again once the elevator doors close and they begin their assent. "I should have at least paid for part of this. Or we should have found some place cheaper."
"It was under two hundred, chill."
"For one night?!" Steve squeaks. If he didn't know it was impossible, he would swear his asthma was making a comeback.
The elevator dings as they reach their floor. Clint rolls his eyes and gets a grip on Steve's elbow just like he did earlier at the museum.
"Look," he says as he propels Steve down the hallway, "I know we could have found some place cheaper, but we could have found some place more expensive too. There's nothing wrong with wanting to stay at a hotel that doesn't have bullet holes in the wall and lizards in the bathroom, okay, Steve?" He stops in front of a door and quickly uses the card to open it. "Besides, like I said, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s still paying me and-" Clint stops abruptly. He lets out a grunt and staggers a little as Steve runs into his back.
Steve immediately regains his balance and grabs onto Clint's upper arms to steady him. A part of Steve's brain can't help but notice how solid Clint's muscles are. It's promptly and thoroughly chastised by the rest of Steve's brain which is kind of mortified.
"Are you okay?" Steve asks, letting his eager hands drop to his side.
Clint turns to him. "Dude," he says, "I bet I could totally file an expense report for all this. Remind me to start collecting receipts."
"An expense report?"
"I might be able to take all this off next year's taxes," Clint says, walking over to deposit his duffel on the room's bureau. "I might even be able to get my money back. I'm, I don't know, helping Captain America in his quest to discover the 21st century, or something." He waves one hand around. "I could get the S.H.I.E.L.D. accountants to go for that, right?"
"Is that really ethical?"
Clint blinks at him. "You do know I make my living putting various projectiles between people's eyeballs, don't you?"
"Being a sniper doesn't automatically mean you can't have a moral compass, Clint," Steve says with a scowl.
Clint stares for a moment, then walks right up to him so they're standing chest to chest. Steve tenses and wonders if S.H.I.E.L.D. agents consider being told they have a moral compass to be some kind of insult. Clint cocks his head to one side, reaches up, and uses his pointer finger to poke at Steve's cheek.
"Huh," Clint says before heading back to his duffel.
"What the heck was that?"
"Oh, I wanted to make sure that Stark hadn't developed some life-like android or something. But, nope, you're real. Go figure."
Steve thinks he should be insulted. Maybe. He decides to let it go in lieu of taking a proper look at their room.
It's not nearly as fancy as the lobby had been, though the beds are huge. Steve lets out a deep breath and makes himself relax. This is fine, and if Clint isn't worried about it then Steve is determined to not let it worry him either.
"Which bed do you want?" Steve asks.
"Either's fine with me," Clint says, not even bothering to turn around.
"Are you sure?"
Clint does turn now. "Do you have my back, Cap?" he asks.
"Of course."
"Then, like I said, either bed's fine." Clint shrugs. "When I'm bunking with someone I trust, I'm good with the window or the door."
Steve nods. There's a warm and kind of fuzzy feeling in his chest. He ruthlessly tamps it down.
Steve puts his rucksack on the bed closest to the door, then absently rubs at his stomach. He tries to figure out how long it's been since he ate. His belly's not bottomless, but his metabolism does require that he eat - a lot - on a mostly regular basis.
"Hungry?" Clint asks, eying Steve's hand.
Steve curses his pale skin and the pink that he knows is blooming over his cheeks. "Uh, yeah. Kind of."
"Dude, why didn't you say anything? We could have gotten something to eat before we came to the hotel." Clint puts his hands on his hips. "I do not want to be responsible for starving Captain America."
Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not starving, Clint," he says.
"Okay, fearless leader," Clint says. "What are you in the mood for?"
Steve grimaces as his brain helpfully supplies Louis Armstrong crooning about Love. "Um, I don't know... Stuff. Whatever." He tries to smile, but he's not sure it comes out right.
Clint raises one eyebrow. "Uh huh. Let's get a recommendation from the front desk. And maybe we'll hit up a grocery store while we're out and get some non-perishables that we can keep in the car."
"Oh." Steve had thought about carrying some food with him, but the available space on the back of his motorcycle had been so limited. "That'd be really nice, Clint. Thanks."
Clint waves him off. "It's no big."
Steve wants to dispute that. What Clint's doing is actually kind of big - not the offer about food, but just how patient he's being with Steve - but he knows it would fall on deaf ears. Instead, Steve just smiles and claps a hand on Clint's shoulder. Clint looks startled, then pleased. The smile he gives Steve is a soft, almost shy thing, and Steve can't help but wonder how many people in this world have seen it.
Clint clears his throat and steps away from Steve's touch. "So, dinner?"
"Yeah," Steve says, "dinner."
_____________
Irene, the very nice lady at the front desk, gives Clint and Steve the names of a few different restaurants to choose from. They pick one that's in the middle of town, close to the college. The building is old, the decor quaint, and the food plentiful, if a bit on the pricey side.
Clint orders the largest steak the restaurant serves, then raises one eyebrow at Steve in a clearly challenging manner. Steve orders the steak too with a baked potato and some grilled vegetables. Clint's still got that eyebrow cocked, so Steve also orders a full salad and another baked potato.
The water is looking at him doubtfully, but Clint declares Steve to be a growing boy. Steve smiles as he kicks Clint under the table.
While they're waiting for their food, they start talking about this and that. There are some topics they steer clear of, but if one of them hits on a sore subject, the other quickly turns the conversation around to something else. Steve is relaxed and enjoying himself. By the time their food comes out he's in the middle of a passionate diatribe about the state of baseball in this century.
"You know, at some point, you're just going to have to let the whole Dodgers moving to LA thing go, Steve," Clint says.
"No, I don't," Steve says belligerently.
Clint laughs, and Steve laughs, and they eat and keep chatting in between bites.
Steve picks up the bill. He doesn't let Clint have the receipt.
True to his word, Clint finds a grocery store before they go back to the hotel. Steve, who's managed to avoid large markets after one very disastrous outing with an over-eager S.H.I.E.L.D. agent not long after his defrosting, is indescribably happy to simply push the cart.
"Pay attention, Cap," Clint says. "There is nothing, nothing more vital to a road trip than snacks."
Steve somehow doubts that, but he follows along anyway. Clint picks up various brightly colored boxes, extols on their virtue, and pitches them into the cart. They get protein bars, and packages of nuts and dried fruit, but Clint also loads the cart up with silly, salty, sweet things meant to be eaten for nothing other than enjoyment.
They begin to tease each other and act like fools. Clint pouts when Steve starts putting his more outrageous choices back on the shelves. Clint makes a game out of trying to distract Steve so he can slip the items back into the cart.
They get some dirty looks from a few store employees they cross paths with, but Steve's pretty sure he and Clint are the only customers in the place, and he's having fun, dammit. Easy, uncomplicated fun.
It all goes south when they hit the bakery section, though.
There are prepackaged donuts beside the ones made fresh in the store. Clint picks up one of those packages and his face shuts down. Steve has no idea what significance powered donuts could hold, but they obviously mean something to Clint.
He nearly bites his tongue to keep from asking if Clint's okay.
"The men in your unit," Clint says, his eye still on the donuts, "were they your friends?"
"Some more than others," Steve says, "but, yeah, we were all friends."
Clint nods. "Do you ever feel..." Clint tosses the donuts back on the shelf and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Fuck it."
"Do I ever feel what, Clint?" Steve asks. Steve's still not exactly keen on confronting his own issues, but something's stolen any trace of happiness off of Clint's face. Steve can feel the need to help him in his bones.
Clint takes a deep breath. "Do you ever... Jesus, I can't believe I'm doing this in the middle of a fucking super market..." Clint shakes his head. "Do you ever feel bad when you let yourself..." Clint trails off again. He puts both hands in his hair and tugs.
Steve steps up to Clint and grasps his hands. He gently, but firmly, moves them down until they're at Clint's side. He keeps his grip on them, though.
"It's hard," Steve says softly, "when you lose someone and you think it's your fault." Clint's body jerks harshly, but Steve doesn't let go. "And you mourn, but that can't last forever, and eventually you realize that you're smiling at something. And then you feel like shit because it's such a betrayal." Steve can feel his throat closing up and a bitterly cold Alpine wind whipping past his face.
He drops Clint's hands and takes a few steps backwards.
"I'm sorry," Clint says quickly.
"No, no, I'm-"
"Look, I shouldn't have-"
"Clint, it's not your-"
"God." Clint barks out a laugh. "We are a pair, aren't we?"
Steve smiles as best he can.
Clint's eyes grow wide. "Wait a minute. Wait just a... Holy crap, did you curse?"
"What?" Steve frowns. "No, I didn't."
"Uh, yes, you did."
"Did not."
"Dude, you totally did!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Agent Barton."
"I'm talking about the fact that Captain America just said the word 'shit'. That's what I'm talking about."
Steve rolls his eyes. "You know your generation didn't invent swear words, right?"
"Whatever, Grandpa Potty-Mouth."
"Bite me, whippersnapper."
_____________
By the time they make it back to the hotel, it's still not quite late enough to go to sleep. Clint turns the television on and changes the channel until he finds some kind of show about the possibility of aliens visiting ancient humans.
Clint turns to Steve and raises his eyebrows. Steve shrugs. Clint leaves the television as is, tugs his boots off, and flops onto his bed.
"You know," he says after a few minutes, "I used to think things like this were hooey, but now I can't help wondering who else might have paid Earth a visit way back when."
"I wish we could have had more time to talk with Thor," Steve says, "We could have picked his brain about what else might be out there."
Clint snorts. "I guess I'm biased, but I think getting Loki safely under Asgardian lock and key was a bit more pressing than pumping Thor for intel."
Steve grimaces. "Yes, of course. I didn't mean to-"
"I'm gonna hit the shower," Clint says, raising his voice over Steve's. He grabs some stuff from his duffel and disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut, but there's no sound of a lock being turned.
Steve turns his attention back to the television. When Clint exits the bathroom, freshly scrubbed and wearing sleep pants and another old tee shirt, Steve gathers his things and takes his turn. Steve dawdles under the high pressure of the shower, and by the time he comes out, Clint is under the covers. He's still awake, watching the next documentary that had come on.
Steve climbs into his own bed and rests against the headboard. Clint doesn't say anything, but the silence between them is companionable.
From one blink to the next, the program on the television changes, and Steve realizes that he must have dozed off. He yawns and starts to stretch, but a sound from the other bed makes him freeze.
Clint's face is turned in the other direction, but Steve can tell that his body is one long line of tension. There's another soft, broken noise, and Steve's up and out of his bed almost before he knows he's moving. Steve turns the television off. Without the background noise Clint's cries of distress are clearer.
Steve has a moment's hesitation as he considers how one should wake an assassin from a nightmare. Despite his healing factor, Steve decides to keep his distance.
"Hey, wake-" Steve's barely finished the second word before Clint's up and swinging.
Clint catches himself before he can tumble out of bed, but he's still looking around wildly.
"It's okay," Steve says. "You're safe."
Clint blinks bleary eyes at him. "Cap?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Yeah, it's me; I'm here." Steve moves back to his bed. He sits on the edge, facing Clint, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "You okay?"
"I, uh..." Clint sits up and swings his legs around so he's mirroring Steve. "I..." He chuckles "No. No, I am definitely not okay."
Steve, who had been expecting denial, is a little thrown. "Oh. Um, do you... Do you want to talk about it?"
Clint stares at him. "You're a genuinely nice guy, aren't you Steve?"
"I can be."
"Is your niceness going to absolve me of my sins?" Clint asks with a bite to his voice.
Steve doesn't know what to say.
Clint rubs at the center of his forehead. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not. You're Captain America, and I-"
"Do you see a shield anywhere?" Steve asks. "Right now, I'm just Steve. And I'm pretty sure I can take anything you need to dish out."
"That so?" Clint asks with a quirk to his lips.
"Try me."
Clint's silent for a while, and when he does start talking, it's not about what Steve expected. "When I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D. I got tested for the mutant gene. You know about mutants, right?"
"I know the basics," Steve says. "Fury was supposed to arrange for more briefings, but, you know, things happened.
"Yeah. Things." Clint smiles, but there's nothing resembling humor in his expression. "Anyway, when I first joined up, some people thought that because of my aim I couldn't be human. They thought I had to have some kind of special power. See, I never miss. Ever. Unless I want to."
Steve hadn't paid that much attention to Hawkeye during the battle in Manhattan, but what he had seen had impressed him greatly. "Your skill is almost uncanny," Steve says.
"Yeah," Clint says, "that's me. Un-fucking-canny. Anyway, after the invasion, when everything started to get squared away, both Fury and Hill came up to me, separately, and thanked me for not killing them. I thought they were being sarcastic at first, especially Hill. But, no, they were serious."
"You never miss," Steve repeats softly. "Unless you want to."
"I know, up here," Clint says, tapping the side of his head, "that nothing that I did was my fault. I had my brain, my soul, hijacked by a fucking alien with more daddy issues than even I could dream of. I know, that for every betrayal, I managed to keep enough of myself to soften the blow somehow." Clint runs a hand over his face and then up into his hair, making it stick up in tufts. It's completely adorable, and totally incongruous with the sorrow in his voice and the devastation in his eyes.
Steve wants nothing more than to wrap Clint up into the tightest hug he could safely manage. He knows, though, that his touch wouldn't be welcome. So he stays put and watches Clint come apart.
"I could have shot Fury and Hill in the head," Clint says. "I could have led an attack on two, or even three engines instead of just one. I could have found one of my favorite people-watching spots and picked off agent, after agent, after agent until my quiver was empty and bodies fucking littered the floor." Clint's voice breaks. He takes a moment and a few deep breathes before he continues. "I know, logically, that I was fighting Loki's control every step of the way."
"But guilt's immune to logic, isn't it?" Steve says, his lips twisting up into some sad parody of a smile. Steve kind of knows about guilt.
"Ain't it a bitch?" Clint says, his eyes focusing hard on one knee. Then those eyes - red-rimmed, but so blue - dart up to Steve's face. "Did you meet Phil?"
Yeah, Steve knows about guilt. "Briefly," he says. "On the jet to the carrier."
"I'm glad," Clint says. An almost wistful expression comes over his face. "That must have been... Man, Cap, you don't even know what kind of fanboy Coulson was, just... Meeting you was probably-"
"I wasn't that nice to him," Steve blurts out. He tries to still his hands, but they keep twisting in his lap. "It wasn't that I was mean, I think, but I was dismissive. I was rude."
Clint cocks his head and studies Steve for a moment. "Why do I get the feeling Phil would have classified his interactions with you in a very different category than 'rude'?"
"I could have been nicer," Steve says. "He asked me to sign his cards, and I didn't even... I could have been nicer," Steve says again.
"He actually came right out and asked you about the cards?" Clint grins. "Was he flustered? I bet he was flustered." Clint's eyes go soft and fond. "God, Phil Coulson flustered; that must have been a sight."
Steve doesn't know why Clint is letting him off the hook so easily, but he does think that he has one thing he can give the man in regards to his friend. "He said he watched me while I was sleeping."
For a moment, Clint does nothing but stare at Steve. Then his face scrunches up, he throws his head back, and he lets out this loud peal of laughter. He turns red, and tears leak out of his eyes. "Oh, God..." he wheezes. "Oh, God, I can just... I can imagine his face..."
Steve starts to chuckle. He can't help it; it's contagious.
Clint clutches at his stomach and falls over onto his side, his face coming to rest close to one of his pillows. Steve expects him to right himself again and continue on with their conversation, but Clint stays there, his face pressed into the comforter. Steve's heart seizes when he realizes that Clint's sounds of amusement have turned into sobs.
Steve has a horrible few seconds of feeling completely helpless. He wants to do something, but he has no idea about what might be welcome. Steve ends up stretching out his leg and pressing his foot against one of Clint's. It's not nearly enough, in Steve's mind, but at least it's some kind of contact. At least Clint will know he's not alone.
Clint eventually quiets, but his breath keeps coming in soft, little hitches. "Someday," he says, "I'm gonna tell you all about Phil Coulson."
"I look forward to that," Steve says.
"Yeah." Clint lifts his feet from the floor and rolls so he's flat on his back. His eyes - still red but no longer leaking - stare up at the ceiling. "So... That happened."
"Yeah," Steve says. He slips underneath his covers, but he keeps his face turned towards Clint.
"You gonna still respect me in the morning?" Clint asks, the merest hint of bravado in his voice.
"You're my friend," Steve says. "Of course I will."
Clint huffs out a breath. "God, are you sure you're not some new Stark android."
"Go to sleep, Clint," Steve says. He reaches for the light.
"Hey, Cap," Clint says in the darkness.
"Yeah."
"Thanks."
"Anytime, Clint. Anytime."
_____________
Part 4
Author:
saone77Pairing: pre Clint/Steve
Summary: Steve gets uninvited company on his great American roadtrip. But with Clint running from demons of his own, how can Steve leave him behind?
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Major for the movie
Warnings: Not betad, grammarians beware. This chapter deals with the emotional fallout of plot points and the fate of a certain character in The Avengers. There are issues, including possible PTSD, and survivor's guilt.
Word Count: 3729
Disclaimer: This is indulgent, cracktastic fiction.
Part 1 Part 2
Steve had chosen a Hilton as their destination for the night because it was a name he recognized from the time before the war and the ice. As soon as he walks through the automatic doors and into the cool, climate controlled lobby, though, he can't help but feel like he's made a horrible mistake.
Everything he can see - from the high ceilings, to the polished marble floors, to the lush furnishings - screams opulence. Steve falters, feeling every bit the tired, dirty traveler that he is. He tightens his grip on his rucksack and thinks about trying to find some other place for the night - like the simple, one-story motor courts he had been staying at. But Clint's already pushing past him and striding up to the reception desk.
There's not one ounce of hesitation as Clint - who actually looks more like a vagrant than Steve with his faded jeans, worn tee shirt, and old duffel bag - gives the lady behind the desk a grin and asks for a double. Steve's so concerned with his uncomfortableness that he doesn't realize Clint's paying for the whole thing until he's signing the credit card slip.
"Hey," Steve says, stepping up, "you should have let me get that."
"Don't worry about it, man," Clint says, easy as all get out. "You'll get the next one, okay?" He takes two key cards from the lady, gives her another smile, and then moves off towards the elevators. All Steve can do is follow.
"I'm serious," Steve says again once the elevator doors close and they begin their assent. "I should have at least paid for part of this. Or we should have found some place cheaper."
"It was under two hundred, chill."
"For one night?!" Steve squeaks. If he didn't know it was impossible, he would swear his asthma was making a comeback.
The elevator dings as they reach their floor. Clint rolls his eyes and gets a grip on Steve's elbow just like he did earlier at the museum.
"Look," he says as he propels Steve down the hallway, "I know we could have found some place cheaper, but we could have found some place more expensive too. There's nothing wrong with wanting to stay at a hotel that doesn't have bullet holes in the wall and lizards in the bathroom, okay, Steve?" He stops in front of a door and quickly uses the card to open it. "Besides, like I said, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s still paying me and-" Clint stops abruptly. He lets out a grunt and staggers a little as Steve runs into his back.
Steve immediately regains his balance and grabs onto Clint's upper arms to steady him. A part of Steve's brain can't help but notice how solid Clint's muscles are. It's promptly and thoroughly chastised by the rest of Steve's brain which is kind of mortified.
"Are you okay?" Steve asks, letting his eager hands drop to his side.
Clint turns to him. "Dude," he says, "I bet I could totally file an expense report for all this. Remind me to start collecting receipts."
"An expense report?"
"I might be able to take all this off next year's taxes," Clint says, walking over to deposit his duffel on the room's bureau. "I might even be able to get my money back. I'm, I don't know, helping Captain America in his quest to discover the 21st century, or something." He waves one hand around. "I could get the S.H.I.E.L.D. accountants to go for that, right?"
"Is that really ethical?"
Clint blinks at him. "You do know I make my living putting various projectiles between people's eyeballs, don't you?"
"Being a sniper doesn't automatically mean you can't have a moral compass, Clint," Steve says with a scowl.
Clint stares for a moment, then walks right up to him so they're standing chest to chest. Steve tenses and wonders if S.H.I.E.L.D. agents consider being told they have a moral compass to be some kind of insult. Clint cocks his head to one side, reaches up, and uses his pointer finger to poke at Steve's cheek.
"Huh," Clint says before heading back to his duffel.
"What the heck was that?"
"Oh, I wanted to make sure that Stark hadn't developed some life-like android or something. But, nope, you're real. Go figure."
Steve thinks he should be insulted. Maybe. He decides to let it go in lieu of taking a proper look at their room.
It's not nearly as fancy as the lobby had been, though the beds are huge. Steve lets out a deep breath and makes himself relax. This is fine, and if Clint isn't worried about it then Steve is determined to not let it worry him either.
"Which bed do you want?" Steve asks.
"Either's fine with me," Clint says, not even bothering to turn around.
"Are you sure?"
Clint does turn now. "Do you have my back, Cap?" he asks.
"Of course."
"Then, like I said, either bed's fine." Clint shrugs. "When I'm bunking with someone I trust, I'm good with the window or the door."
Steve nods. There's a warm and kind of fuzzy feeling in his chest. He ruthlessly tamps it down.
Steve puts his rucksack on the bed closest to the door, then absently rubs at his stomach. He tries to figure out how long it's been since he ate. His belly's not bottomless, but his metabolism does require that he eat - a lot - on a mostly regular basis.
"Hungry?" Clint asks, eying Steve's hand.
Steve curses his pale skin and the pink that he knows is blooming over his cheeks. "Uh, yeah. Kind of."
"Dude, why didn't you say anything? We could have gotten something to eat before we came to the hotel." Clint puts his hands on his hips. "I do not want to be responsible for starving Captain America."
Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not starving, Clint," he says.
"Okay, fearless leader," Clint says. "What are you in the mood for?"
Steve grimaces as his brain helpfully supplies Louis Armstrong crooning about Love. "Um, I don't know... Stuff. Whatever." He tries to smile, but he's not sure it comes out right.
Clint raises one eyebrow. "Uh huh. Let's get a recommendation from the front desk. And maybe we'll hit up a grocery store while we're out and get some non-perishables that we can keep in the car."
"Oh." Steve had thought about carrying some food with him, but the available space on the back of his motorcycle had been so limited. "That'd be really nice, Clint. Thanks."
Clint waves him off. "It's no big."
Steve wants to dispute that. What Clint's doing is actually kind of big - not the offer about food, but just how patient he's being with Steve - but he knows it would fall on deaf ears. Instead, Steve just smiles and claps a hand on Clint's shoulder. Clint looks startled, then pleased. The smile he gives Steve is a soft, almost shy thing, and Steve can't help but wonder how many people in this world have seen it.
Clint clears his throat and steps away from Steve's touch. "So, dinner?"
"Yeah," Steve says, "dinner."
_____________
Irene, the very nice lady at the front desk, gives Clint and Steve the names of a few different restaurants to choose from. They pick one that's in the middle of town, close to the college. The building is old, the decor quaint, and the food plentiful, if a bit on the pricey side.
Clint orders the largest steak the restaurant serves, then raises one eyebrow at Steve in a clearly challenging manner. Steve orders the steak too with a baked potato and some grilled vegetables. Clint's still got that eyebrow cocked, so Steve also orders a full salad and another baked potato.
The water is looking at him doubtfully, but Clint declares Steve to be a growing boy. Steve smiles as he kicks Clint under the table.
While they're waiting for their food, they start talking about this and that. There are some topics they steer clear of, but if one of them hits on a sore subject, the other quickly turns the conversation around to something else. Steve is relaxed and enjoying himself. By the time their food comes out he's in the middle of a passionate diatribe about the state of baseball in this century.
"You know, at some point, you're just going to have to let the whole Dodgers moving to LA thing go, Steve," Clint says.
"No, I don't," Steve says belligerently.
Clint laughs, and Steve laughs, and they eat and keep chatting in between bites.
Steve picks up the bill. He doesn't let Clint have the receipt.
True to his word, Clint finds a grocery store before they go back to the hotel. Steve, who's managed to avoid large markets after one very disastrous outing with an over-eager S.H.I.E.L.D. agent not long after his defrosting, is indescribably happy to simply push the cart.
"Pay attention, Cap," Clint says. "There is nothing, nothing more vital to a road trip than snacks."
Steve somehow doubts that, but he follows along anyway. Clint picks up various brightly colored boxes, extols on their virtue, and pitches them into the cart. They get protein bars, and packages of nuts and dried fruit, but Clint also loads the cart up with silly, salty, sweet things meant to be eaten for nothing other than enjoyment.
They begin to tease each other and act like fools. Clint pouts when Steve starts putting his more outrageous choices back on the shelves. Clint makes a game out of trying to distract Steve so he can slip the items back into the cart.
They get some dirty looks from a few store employees they cross paths with, but Steve's pretty sure he and Clint are the only customers in the place, and he's having fun, dammit. Easy, uncomplicated fun.
It all goes south when they hit the bakery section, though.
There are prepackaged donuts beside the ones made fresh in the store. Clint picks up one of those packages and his face shuts down. Steve has no idea what significance powered donuts could hold, but they obviously mean something to Clint.
He nearly bites his tongue to keep from asking if Clint's okay.
"The men in your unit," Clint says, his eye still on the donuts, "were they your friends?"
"Some more than others," Steve says, "but, yeah, we were all friends."
Clint nods. "Do you ever feel..." Clint tosses the donuts back on the shelf and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Fuck it."
"Do I ever feel what, Clint?" Steve asks. Steve's still not exactly keen on confronting his own issues, but something's stolen any trace of happiness off of Clint's face. Steve can feel the need to help him in his bones.
Clint takes a deep breath. "Do you ever... Jesus, I can't believe I'm doing this in the middle of a fucking super market..." Clint shakes his head. "Do you ever feel bad when you let yourself..." Clint trails off again. He puts both hands in his hair and tugs.
Steve steps up to Clint and grasps his hands. He gently, but firmly, moves them down until they're at Clint's side. He keeps his grip on them, though.
"It's hard," Steve says softly, "when you lose someone and you think it's your fault." Clint's body jerks harshly, but Steve doesn't let go. "And you mourn, but that can't last forever, and eventually you realize that you're smiling at something. And then you feel like shit because it's such a betrayal." Steve can feel his throat closing up and a bitterly cold Alpine wind whipping past his face.
He drops Clint's hands and takes a few steps backwards.
"I'm sorry," Clint says quickly.
"No, no, I'm-"
"Look, I shouldn't have-"
"Clint, it's not your-"
"God." Clint barks out a laugh. "We are a pair, aren't we?"
Steve smiles as best he can.
Clint's eyes grow wide. "Wait a minute. Wait just a... Holy crap, did you curse?"
"What?" Steve frowns. "No, I didn't."
"Uh, yes, you did."
"Did not."
"Dude, you totally did!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Agent Barton."
"I'm talking about the fact that Captain America just said the word 'shit'. That's what I'm talking about."
Steve rolls his eyes. "You know your generation didn't invent swear words, right?"
"Whatever, Grandpa Potty-Mouth."
"Bite me, whippersnapper."
_____________
By the time they make it back to the hotel, it's still not quite late enough to go to sleep. Clint turns the television on and changes the channel until he finds some kind of show about the possibility of aliens visiting ancient humans.
Clint turns to Steve and raises his eyebrows. Steve shrugs. Clint leaves the television as is, tugs his boots off, and flops onto his bed.
"You know," he says after a few minutes, "I used to think things like this were hooey, but now I can't help wondering who else might have paid Earth a visit way back when."
"I wish we could have had more time to talk with Thor," Steve says, "We could have picked his brain about what else might be out there."
Clint snorts. "I guess I'm biased, but I think getting Loki safely under Asgardian lock and key was a bit more pressing than pumping Thor for intel."
Steve grimaces. "Yes, of course. I didn't mean to-"
"I'm gonna hit the shower," Clint says, raising his voice over Steve's. He grabs some stuff from his duffel and disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut, but there's no sound of a lock being turned.
Steve turns his attention back to the television. When Clint exits the bathroom, freshly scrubbed and wearing sleep pants and another old tee shirt, Steve gathers his things and takes his turn. Steve dawdles under the high pressure of the shower, and by the time he comes out, Clint is under the covers. He's still awake, watching the next documentary that had come on.
Steve climbs into his own bed and rests against the headboard. Clint doesn't say anything, but the silence between them is companionable.
From one blink to the next, the program on the television changes, and Steve realizes that he must have dozed off. He yawns and starts to stretch, but a sound from the other bed makes him freeze.
Clint's face is turned in the other direction, but Steve can tell that his body is one long line of tension. There's another soft, broken noise, and Steve's up and out of his bed almost before he knows he's moving. Steve turns the television off. Without the background noise Clint's cries of distress are clearer.
Steve has a moment's hesitation as he considers how one should wake an assassin from a nightmare. Despite his healing factor, Steve decides to keep his distance.
"Hey, wake-" Steve's barely finished the second word before Clint's up and swinging.
Clint catches himself before he can tumble out of bed, but he's still looking around wildly.
"It's okay," Steve says. "You're safe."
Clint blinks bleary eyes at him. "Cap?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Yeah, it's me; I'm here." Steve moves back to his bed. He sits on the edge, facing Clint, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "You okay?"
"I, uh..." Clint sits up and swings his legs around so he's mirroring Steve. "I..." He chuckles "No. No, I am definitely not okay."
Steve, who had been expecting denial, is a little thrown. "Oh. Um, do you... Do you want to talk about it?"
Clint stares at him. "You're a genuinely nice guy, aren't you Steve?"
"I can be."
"Is your niceness going to absolve me of my sins?" Clint asks with a bite to his voice.
Steve doesn't know what to say.
Clint rubs at the center of his forehead. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not. You're Captain America, and I-"
"Do you see a shield anywhere?" Steve asks. "Right now, I'm just Steve. And I'm pretty sure I can take anything you need to dish out."
"That so?" Clint asks with a quirk to his lips.
"Try me."
Clint's silent for a while, and when he does start talking, it's not about what Steve expected. "When I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D. I got tested for the mutant gene. You know about mutants, right?"
"I know the basics," Steve says. "Fury was supposed to arrange for more briefings, but, you know, things happened.
"Yeah. Things." Clint smiles, but there's nothing resembling humor in his expression. "Anyway, when I first joined up, some people thought that because of my aim I couldn't be human. They thought I had to have some kind of special power. See, I never miss. Ever. Unless I want to."
Steve hadn't paid that much attention to Hawkeye during the battle in Manhattan, but what he had seen had impressed him greatly. "Your skill is almost uncanny," Steve says.
"Yeah," Clint says, "that's me. Un-fucking-canny. Anyway, after the invasion, when everything started to get squared away, both Fury and Hill came up to me, separately, and thanked me for not killing them. I thought they were being sarcastic at first, especially Hill. But, no, they were serious."
"You never miss," Steve repeats softly. "Unless you want to."
"I know, up here," Clint says, tapping the side of his head, "that nothing that I did was my fault. I had my brain, my soul, hijacked by a fucking alien with more daddy issues than even I could dream of. I know, that for every betrayal, I managed to keep enough of myself to soften the blow somehow." Clint runs a hand over his face and then up into his hair, making it stick up in tufts. It's completely adorable, and totally incongruous with the sorrow in his voice and the devastation in his eyes.
Steve wants nothing more than to wrap Clint up into the tightest hug he could safely manage. He knows, though, that his touch wouldn't be welcome. So he stays put and watches Clint come apart.
"I could have shot Fury and Hill in the head," Clint says. "I could have led an attack on two, or even three engines instead of just one. I could have found one of my favorite people-watching spots and picked off agent, after agent, after agent until my quiver was empty and bodies fucking littered the floor." Clint's voice breaks. He takes a moment and a few deep breathes before he continues. "I know, logically, that I was fighting Loki's control every step of the way."
"But guilt's immune to logic, isn't it?" Steve says, his lips twisting up into some sad parody of a smile. Steve kind of knows about guilt.
"Ain't it a bitch?" Clint says, his eyes focusing hard on one knee. Then those eyes - red-rimmed, but so blue - dart up to Steve's face. "Did you meet Phil?"
Yeah, Steve knows about guilt. "Briefly," he says. "On the jet to the carrier."
"I'm glad," Clint says. An almost wistful expression comes over his face. "That must have been... Man, Cap, you don't even know what kind of fanboy Coulson was, just... Meeting you was probably-"
"I wasn't that nice to him," Steve blurts out. He tries to still his hands, but they keep twisting in his lap. "It wasn't that I was mean, I think, but I was dismissive. I was rude."
Clint cocks his head and studies Steve for a moment. "Why do I get the feeling Phil would have classified his interactions with you in a very different category than 'rude'?"
"I could have been nicer," Steve says. "He asked me to sign his cards, and I didn't even... I could have been nicer," Steve says again.
"He actually came right out and asked you about the cards?" Clint grins. "Was he flustered? I bet he was flustered." Clint's eyes go soft and fond. "God, Phil Coulson flustered; that must have been a sight."
Steve doesn't know why Clint is letting him off the hook so easily, but he does think that he has one thing he can give the man in regards to his friend. "He said he watched me while I was sleeping."
For a moment, Clint does nothing but stare at Steve. Then his face scrunches up, he throws his head back, and he lets out this loud peal of laughter. He turns red, and tears leak out of his eyes. "Oh, God..." he wheezes. "Oh, God, I can just... I can imagine his face..."
Steve starts to chuckle. He can't help it; it's contagious.
Clint clutches at his stomach and falls over onto his side, his face coming to rest close to one of his pillows. Steve expects him to right himself again and continue on with their conversation, but Clint stays there, his face pressed into the comforter. Steve's heart seizes when he realizes that Clint's sounds of amusement have turned into sobs.
Steve has a horrible few seconds of feeling completely helpless. He wants to do something, but he has no idea about what might be welcome. Steve ends up stretching out his leg and pressing his foot against one of Clint's. It's not nearly enough, in Steve's mind, but at least it's some kind of contact. At least Clint will know he's not alone.
Clint eventually quiets, but his breath keeps coming in soft, little hitches. "Someday," he says, "I'm gonna tell you all about Phil Coulson."
"I look forward to that," Steve says.
"Yeah." Clint lifts his feet from the floor and rolls so he's flat on his back. His eyes - still red but no longer leaking - stare up at the ceiling. "So... That happened."
"Yeah," Steve says. He slips underneath his covers, but he keeps his face turned towards Clint.
"You gonna still respect me in the morning?" Clint asks, the merest hint of bravado in his voice.
"You're my friend," Steve says. "Of course I will."
Clint huffs out a breath. "God, are you sure you're not some new Stark android."
"Go to sleep, Clint," Steve says. He reaches for the light.
"Hey, Cap," Clint says in the darkness.
"Yeah."
"Thanks."
"Anytime, Clint. Anytime."
_____________
Part 4