Archive of Our Own

It was one of those odd friendships; the ones where you're so fucking different it's dizzying; the ones where sometimes you laugh so hard you cry and other times you want to rip your own fingernails out; the ones where it somehow feels like you're both talking to a stranger and someone you know far too much about.

Sitting in the stretch-marked diner booth, Clint felt nauseatingly lost. The half-finished fries on his plate had long gone cold and across the table Tony was animatedly babbling to Steve about some car upgrade. There was a pair of expensive looking tinted sunglasses perched on Tony's nose, so dark it was impossible to see his eyes through. When he'd quickly tired of the conversation, Clint had sat wondering why the other teen was wearing them. It couldn't be a hangover - he was normally hellishly bitchy when he had one, and anyway, Clint was pretty sure the guy still didn't have access to his parent's alcohol cabinet yet - and it seemed equally unlikely to be due to a sudden bought of insomnia the night before, because he hadn't covered up the bruise-deep circles previously from weeks worth of shitty sleep, so why would he now? And somehow that train of thought had evolved into an evaluation of their friendship and how the fuck the two of them had ended up so familiar with each other.

If it hadn't been a bi-product of his trauma, Clint would have probably found the amount of time he spent evaluating his friendships quite funny. But when you're raised partially by two alcoholics and partially by an incompetent care system, you quickly learn not take people for granted and simultaneously not get attached to them. When he'd first starting dating James, it hadn't taken long for the imposter syndrome to set in, for the chemically imbalanced mess in his skull to start screaming that he didn't deserve any of it. The happiness. The excitement. The affection. The goddamn dark haired sex god that scowled at him from under thick black brows whenever he was vacant for just too long. Any of it. But then, somehow, he'd stuck it out; he'd broken a promise he'd made to himself when he was some titchy emotional thirteen year old. A promise to not get attached to anyone - or anything - and to fucking cut ties and run if he did. At least that way he'd have control of the situation and the hurt.

"What about you, Legolas?" The other two in the booth had turned and were watching him: Steve with a measured look of concern and Tony with his head tilted forward so as to stare at Clint over the top of his sunglasses. 

When Clint stared back at him blankly, Tony sighed overdramatically and rolled his eyes. "Steve and I were talking cars, if you weren't aware. Steve's baby is a Chevy, and I've got plans for the new Audi, so what's your car preference?" 

Clint shrugged and leaned back against the leather seat. "'m more a bike guy, if I'm honest." Tony raised his eye brows and Clint laughed. "Had a foster dad when I was, like, fourteen or fifteen, who had a motorbike. He got on my nerves too much, so I packed my shit and fucked off on his bike. No idea how to ride it, of course. But there's only so many falls you can make before you figure it out." 

The dark hair teenager snorted with laughter, muttering something about being unsurprised. 

"Do you think you're going to pick it back up again?" Steve's concerned look had softened around the edges, his shoulders more relaxed now, though, Clint hadn't missed the way they'd tensed up during his story-telling. Steve often seemed to get uncomfortable whenever Clint relayed something about his less-than-desirable upbringing. 

"The bike-riding?" Steve nodded, "yeah. Laura said if I get my grades somewhere half-way decent she'll go halves with me on a bike and pay for lessons. Then, once I've got some income, I can pay her back and cover my own insurance." 

Tony was grinning now. "You think Barnes would go driving with your crazy ass?" 

Clint laughed. "Oh, he doesn't get a choice."

*     *     *     *

"Do you think Tony finds me annoying?" 

For a moment there was silence in the bedroom; Clint could practically hear James' brain whirring as it tried to compute how and why Clint had come to this conclusion. They were lying side by side, on their backs, staring up at Clint's cobwebbed bedroom ceiling (he kept forgetting to vacuum it every time he cleaned his room, okay?) and he resisted turning his head at the chance he could read his boyfriend's face. 

"What makes you think he does?" James said eventually, his eyes remaining trained on the ceiling. 

The blonde shrugged. "Well, y'know, we're just so different-"

"That doesn't mean he finds you annoying." James cut in, his tone firm.

Clint sighed heavily.  "It's just- I know I'm a lot to deal with, an', the three of you are being nice enough to put up with me and-"

"Woah, woah, woah." James rolled up to his elbow and frowned down at the blonde teenager beside him. "The hell are you on about?"

Clint tried not to squirm under the commanding stare of his boyfriend. "You don't have to be all nice about it." He burst out, frustration suddenly boiling up through him, hot like white ashes. "I know I'm a pain, okay? You and Steve always seem to put on this front around me, like I won't see through it. Like I said, I know I'm a lot to deal with." He pushed himself up on the bed so he was sitting back on his heels, eyelevel with James. 

The other teenager's face had contorted for a moment, then within a blink, it had fallen emotionless and stony - a face that Clint was used to associating with his difficult moments; the moments where emotions ran too high and became overwhelming; the moments where blocking out reality was easier than facing the anxiety of the situation. The gravity of it yanked tight knots into Clint's intestines. 

"Don't you start trying to tell me what I think and feel, okay?" James' voice came out quiet and low, strung with anger and hurt. "And don't you dare try and do it for Steve, either. You can't read our minds, Clint." 

"I've been doing this shit for years, James. I know I'm a lot to take on, and it's not fair on any of you. I'm just fucking up your mental health and pretty soon I'll start wearing on Steve, too. It always goes like this: people pretend they can deal with me, but they can't and at some point it always goes tits up." His shoulders hunched up protectively as he spoke bitterly, avoiding James' gaze. 

"Clint Barton, you are doing anything but fucking up my mental health." The laughter in James' tone made the blonde instinctively look at him, as if to check he hadn't suddenly gone insane. "I've been in the best state of mind - like, ever - since we started dating. I haven't had a flashback, or a panic attack, in, probably, over a week - that's never happened before." James locked their eyes, the firm line of his mouth softening. "You've dealt with a lot of shitty people. I get it. But that doesn't mean everyone's like that. There's a lot of shitheads in this world, but there's a lot of genuine and good people, too. And I'd like to think Steve, Tony and myself are amongst those."

Clint dropped his chin down to his chest, staring at his hands as he picked at a loose thread in his jeans. "Doesn't mean I'm not a lot to deal with, though." He mumbled. 

James shrugged and gestured with his arms. "So? Everyone's a lot to deal with in one way or another. I know I can be, and Tony certainly is. But being a lot to deal with doesn't necessarily make you a burden - and you are not a burden, okay?"

When Clint didn't respond, the dark haired teen hooked a finger under his chin and tipped his head up. James had leant forward, one hand on the mattress between them, his face close enough to Clint's that each breath brushed ghost-like over his face, smelling like the soft-mints they'd shared not long before. 

"You know me, and you know that if I couldn't deal with something - or someone - I wouldn't just put up with it. I love you, okay? Sometimes we deal with shitty things, but that's what a relationship is about, isn't it? Supporting each other through the good and the bad? Through sickness and health, and all that." 

An unfettered smile of amusement pulled at Clint's lips as he pulled back from James', laughing. "That's marriage, you idiot." 

James grinned and shrugged, unperturbed. "Well, it still works, doesn't it?" He watched his boyfriend laugh for a moment, before spreading his arms encouragingly. 

Clint surged in and hugged the other teenager. "I'm sorry." His voice was so muffled by the collar of James' sweater he wasn't sure he would be heard, but the tightening of the pair of arms around his body told him otherwise. 

"I love your overthinking ass, okay? No need to apologise." James pressed a kiss atop Clint's head and squeezed him again. 

*     *     *     *

A little known fact about Clint Barton was that he loved reading. Not like school-assigned reading, of course, but actual books. Fiction had been his friend ever since he was a kid; "a reader lives a thousand lives before he dies", or at least according to George R.R Martin. Once he'd been old enough to leave the house by himself (or at least, old enough that his parents didn't really care to keep an eye on him), he'd carefully trekked their shitty little estate to the moulding library a few blocks away. On the occasion an adult had crouched down beside him, brow all wrinkled with concern, and demanded to know where his parents were, he had quickly learned to just say "the library". 

As he'd gotten older and he and Barney had gotten tangled into the suffocating mess that was the care system, he'd often found himself finding solace again and again in the artistry of fiction. Of all the homes he'd ended up in, there had only been one where there had been no books - luckily they hadn't stayed there very long, though, that was more accountable to all the bruises and shrieking phone calls to their social worker, than the unfortunate lack of reading material. 

Laura had been thankfully quick to pick up on his reading interest. It had been one of the earlier bridges she'd been able to make with him, and Clint was pleased to say it was a damn strong one. 

The school library was not as fruitfully stocked as the shelves crammed with well-thumbed paperbacks and creaky hardcovers that home was full of, however, it did have a pleasant range to choose from. Clint was particularly partial to horror (look, when your everyday is scary, it's good to read about shit that's even scarier and get some perspective) and had 'The Sleep Room' spilled open on his lap when a nasally snort of brutish amusement disrupted his flow. 

"Didn't realise you were a bookworm, Barton." Tony's dark haired form loomed in Clint's peripheral vision, making him twist his neck awkwardly. The other teenager shifted his weight stiffly, as if preparing to defend himself against Clint's inevitable attack. 

But instead, Clint just sighed; the library was hardly ever this empty and he couldn't entirely be bothered with Tony's shit. He was finally just managing to shake the depressive episode that had swept cloyingly over him after his little evaluation session. "What do you want, Tony?" 

Tony hesitated, swirling his iced coffee round and round in his Dunkin' Donuts cup noisily. He took a long draw from the metal straw poking out the top of his cup and exhaled in a heavy groan. "Look, I just- wanted to ask you something." 

He broke off and let out a short impatient sigh. Clint opened his mouth to reply as the dark haired boy threw himself down heavily into the squashy green armchair opposite Clint's, but before he could speak, Tony was waving his hands about in sharp, sweeping gestures, his coffee rattling rhythmically. 

"-Don't think you're special or anything, though. This is a one time thing, okay? Doesn't make us extra chummy, or whatever." 

As Tony rambled on, Clint took the opportunity to actually take the guy in; his Flannels tee shirt was crumpled under expensive looking blazer he was wearing, and the Levi jeans adoring his legs appeared like they belonged more in a laundry hamper than on somebody - let alone Tony Stark. 

"Just spit it out, Stark." Clint said abruptly, cutting Tony off. A tightness had suddenly erupted in his chest - that cramping anxiety you get when you know someone is going to reveal something shitty, something that makes you feel guilty and neglectful and concerned. 

Tony slumped suddenly in his seat, like all the bravado had been sucked out of him, shucking him of his armour and leaving the real him exposed. He stared sheepishly down into his lap. "How do you, y'know, talk to other people about how you're doing?"

Clint blinked at him, stunned into silence for a moment. 

In the lack of response, the other boy quickly added, "With partners, I mean. I don't really care about talking about my feelings to my parents, or other people." He trailed off and moistened his lips, looking like he was already regretting his decision to come and ask the blonde. 

"What makes you think I'm any better at talking to my boyfriend, than you are to yours?"

"Okay, true, I don't know that. But you've got to be communicative to some degree - I'm sure you and Barnes wouldn't have lasted this long if you were both keeping shit from each other."

Clint shrugged. "True." He marked his page in his book and closed it, before leaning back in his chair and regarding Tony carefully. He didn't exactly look like he was in the middle of a swing, more like going through the ringer had been his own doing. The bitten down and raw edges of his fingers screamed overthinking rather than numb boredom; his unshaven jaw more likely a result of oversleeping than exhausted lack of hygiene. Even his coffee just smelt overwhelmingly of artificial sweeteners, rather than than the overpowering sourness of alcohol - a classic tell-tale sign of a Tony Episode, regardless of the fact his parents frequently kept their alcohol cabinet under lock and key. 

He blew out a heavy sigh. "Look. I'm gonna be honest: it ain't fuckin' easy. You really gotta just challenge that ingrained mindset that tells you to keep it all in and t' keep it to yourself." 

He expected Tony to roll his eyes and whine about him being overdramatic, or some shit, but instead the other boy slumped down a little further in his seat, an expression of bone-deep tiredness washing over his features. 

"Yeah, I figured it would be, but I've got to address it at some point. The sooner I do it, the easier it'll be - or something like that." Clint nodded.

Tony looked up at him, making eye contact for the first time since he'd appeared in the quiet nook in the library, though only for a brief moment before he was staring down at his hands, spreading his fingers wide across his thighs, then curling them in tight again. 

"But," he started, then cut himself off, clearly struggling to force the words through his lips. Clint stayed silent, patiently. "How do you start ?"

Clint scrunched up his nose. "That's the fuckin' hardest bit, 'cause you gotta take a leap. You've gotta trust them - Steve, James, whoever - when they say you're not a burden or a bother, and you gotta just open up to them. Doesn't have to be big at first; maybe just that you're feeling a bit shit, or some random intrusive thought you're having or whatever." 

Tony was staring at him like he'd just suggested he go do some weight training with the world's strongest man. "But- But how do I know Steve actually mean it? And, I don't just want to dump everything on him, that'll worry him too much." 

Clint rarely got to see Tony's vulnerable side, but he wasn't really one to walk on eggshells around others anxieties. He rolled his eyes. "That's the thing - you just gotta trust  that he means it." Tony started spluttering out excuses, but Clint cut him off. "And, if it makes it easier for you, you could ask if he's in the space to hear about your shit. Or, get him to ask you how you're doing, that way you know if he's feeling okay, 'cause he'll be the one who's opening up the conversation."

Tony, who had lent forward while Clint had been talking, suddenly slumped back against the chair, a look of defeat painted across his face. 

"I know you don't want to worry Steve - I get it, I'm the same with James - but he cares about you." Tony cringed and the blonde rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I hate the mushy shit, too, but it's true." Clint dropped his eyes down to his own hands, studying the lines and cracks that snaked across his calloused palms. "People who care about you would rather worry about you 'cause you've opened up to them, than be hurt and worry about you 'cause you've kept something from them." 

For several long moments, the two sat in silence, neither of them looking at each other, while the sounds of fingers on keyboard and pens scribbling across paper echoed through the bookshelves around them. 

Then Tony cleared his throat noisily. He stood up in one fluid motion, rattling his iced coffee, before sucking on his straw obnoxiously loud. 

"Thanks for the sob pep-talk, Barton. If this ever  happens again, I will definitely be needing alcohol and the strongest stuff your dealer can get. Later, Punk." He strode out of the nook, slapped Clint heartily on the shoulder as he passed him. 

For a moment, Clint scowled down at his closed book. Then realisation struck him: everyone had their own way of saying thanks and the Tony way was just to throw up his walls again and insult you, because Tony Stark, just like Clint, hated being open and vulnerable. Some past version of Clint would have exploited Tony's vulnerability and used it against him, just to have power over him. But he wasn't like that anymore; he'd grown up, matured, started to heal, and learnt that just because people used their power to throw their weight around against you, didn't mean you had to do the same to others. Being a dick didn't win you many favours, and certainly not with the right kind of people.

*     *     *     *

Even though both James and Tony attended the support group, too, Clint didn't always get a lift there with them: sometimes Laura made the excuse that she wanted to spend some time with him because they "hardly crossed paths anymore" - which was an outright lie, but Clint wasn't going to argue with that because, surprise surprise, he did actually like his foster mom - and other times, he just needed more time to wake himself up before dealing with Tony at that time of day. 

That morning, it was a case of the latter; Clint had been up late the night before and with group occurring at ten that morning, he hadn't had much of as chance to sleep in. Well, he could have done, but he'd really been making an effort to take care of himself, like an actual human being. It felt weird to be regularly showering, shaving and eating a substantial breakfast. He never used to bother actually trying in regards to looking after himself, for his mental health, because he knew it would all go down the drain when he hit a depressive swing again. And anyway besides, he didn't used to care about getting better; he was fine with feeling shit and hating himself. 

That was, at least, until things had developed between him and James. It had been like someone had pinched him out of a dream. The fog had lifted and he'd finally been able to see clearly. 

Well, it had been a lot more gradual than that, but still. To start with, he'd made little changes, and they had always been for James, rather than himself. He'd stopped harming, and reduced his caffeine and cigarette intake for James at first. But over time, he'd come to see how much better he functioned without all that shit and how damaging it had all been. That was when he started recovering for himself. 

Once he'd gotten just a brief taste of what life was like without all of his issues dragging him down, he couldn't stop, didn't want to stop. A lot of the time it was the hardest fucking thing he'd ever done, and sometimes he wanted to give up and go back to the easy choice of destroying himself inside and out. But, that wasn't going to happen, not anymore. 

Laura unlocked the car doors and smiled across at him from behind the wheel. "Alright, there you go, bud. Do you want picking up after?" 

Clint chewed his lip in thought. "I'm gonna preliminarily say yes, but I'll let you know if anything changes."

As per usual, he'd arrived slightly early - early enough that there were only a few other teenagers wandering around the meeting room, either sat hunched over their phones on one of the chairs, arranged in circle, chatting quietly to their friends, or orbiting the refreshments table. Feeling the tiredness of less than five hours sleep griping his every move, Clint headed to the drinks area and made himself up a coffee. As he stood stirring the instant granules into hot water, a petite red-head girl - whose name was Natasha - sidled up next to him, dumping boiling water from the urn over some herbal teabag in her paper cup. She'd been coming to the group sessions for longer than Clint had, though they'd only really spoken a few times. She had OCD, he knew that much, and always sat with a quiet nerdy guy who had chronic anxiety, depression and some kind of anger issues. 

Feeling his gaze, she glanced up at him and smiled. She didn't seem to smile often, though those directed at him always seemed genuine, at least to Clint. 

James and Tony appeared not long after Clint had settled himself down in the circle, somewhat opposite Natasha, who had been accompanied by the nerdy boy (was his name Ben? Or maybe Brody?). With the seats either side of Clint already occupied, his friends sat further around the circle, almost directly beside Holly, the Social Worker; James' sour expression spoke volumes about his opinion on the matter. 

Holly got on with her usual daft little introductions; Clint may have been invested in his mental health than he used to be, but that didn't mean he would ever get any kind of enjoyment out of the support group meetings. He had long ago accepted their laboriousness as a permanent thing.

"Okay, tell me something good that happened in this last week, for you. Doesn't have to be anything massive or ground-breaking, just something." Holly smiled with tight lips and looked eagerly around the circle. "I'll start: a friend of mine got engaged and I'm very happy for her because he's a lovely and very thoughtful guy. You next, Maiya." She gestured to a girl sitting to her left whom Clint didn't recognise at all. He wondered if she was just new, or whether his observational skills had been lacking in recent meetings. 

"I met my mom's new boyfriend and not only did I not get triggered, but I actually got along pretty well with him." James' voice was soft as he spoke, but the proud smile on his lips betrayed his happiness at the achievement.

Clint had been over at the Barnes' house when James' mom, Winnie, had brought her new man in. Clint had been trying to teach James' how to make risotto (it was essential at the time, okay?) and the dark haired boy had noticed the unknown man first. His hand had suddenly clenched into the fabric of Clint's tee and his entire body was immediately stiff. The blonde had glanced up and seen the tall, skinny ashy-blonde man standing awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen, with Winnie peering past him, from the hallway, at James, an apprehensive smile on her face. Clint had felt James take a careful breath before releasing his boyfriend's shirt and stepping towards the guy, a steady hand outstretched. The man had introduced himself, with a southern twang, as Lenny. As Clint had offered up his hand, too, he had felt self-conscious of the scars that generously covered his arms, as he often did when wearing anything other than a long-sleeve when meeting new people. 

He didn't think it would ever be possible to express to James just how proud he was of him for such a huge step.

"I willingly opened up to my boyfriend about an issue I was having, for the first time."

Tony's admittance took Clint by such surprise that he wondered if he'd heard correctly. Of course, in classic-Tony-style, he spoke with board nonchalance, idly inspecting his fingernails, because god forbid anyone have any kind of access to Tony Stark's vulnerabilities. Part of Clint wanted to follow-up on Tony's "Good Thing" later and ask how it had gone: how Steve had reacted, whether or not he had asked Steve if it was okay first, if his trust had remained secure. But he knew he couldn't; Tony was the kind of guy you just didn't do that with. If he wanted to talk to you about something personal he would do so, unprompted, but you had to leave that option up to him. If you tried to push anything, you ran the risk of causing him to shut down and close up shop.

Holly smiled wide and nodded encouragingly; sometimes the best validation from her came when she wasn't saying anything. Not necessarily because you didn't have to deal with her accidentally talking down to you, but because her lack of comments spoke volumes about your competency. 

A dark skinned kid, almost directly to Clint's right and barely older than fourteen, rattled something off about getting a new video game high score. Clint mentally flipped through his week, searching for something to say. It wasn't as if nothing good had happened in his week - it was the opposite in fact - but sometimes these things presented themselves.

"I'm getting my dosages reduced." It definitely wasn't the best thing from his week (that was awarded to the day he'd gotten to spend half naked with James, fucking passionately as frequently as they fancied), but it was certainly something good. It was an achievement he felt oddly proud of. When he'd first been assigned lithium and lamictal for his highs and lows, respectively, he had refused to take them - the last thing he'd wanted was to be drugged up to eyes, just to get through the days. He'd decided it was easier slice open his own skin, forget to eat, jitter endlessly on caffeine and survive off nicotine, than float through his every waking moment, like a fucking zombie. 

Hollie flashed him a thumbs up and the attention of the circle moved onto the next kid. As he glanced up across the room, he caught James' eye, who was smiling softly at him, his gaze thick with affection and pride.

*     *     *     *

Sometimes, it felt like Tony was the bipolar one, not Clint. In reality, Clint was well aware of the irritability and mood swings that accompanied chronic depression, but that didn't mean they were any easier to deal with. 

Tony was having a "morning" and had already snapped at Steve three times, not counting the balled up napkin he'd thrown at him. The diner was pretty empty that particular morning, though, Clint was wasn't sure it would have made much difference. As they sat around the booth, their table a mess of half finished plates of waffles, syrup and bacon, everyone seemed a little rough around the edges. James had had a panic at two o'clock that morning, and was now curled up against the the wall at his end of the booth - Clint wasn't taking it personally, he knew how worn out and raw panic attacks could make you. Plus, their fingers that lay interlocked on the aged leather between them reassured him, at least a little. Steve, who'd been on the other end of the phone to James that morning, was looking bleary eyed regardless of Tony's fussing, his hair a bird's nest that got messier every time he sighed and raked his fingers through it. Clint himself felt endlessly shaky, like he hadn't in a long time, like he needed something self-destructive. His fingers itched for a cigarette, or an energy drink, or something sharp. Naturally, he'd neglected to tell James, though mostly because his boyfriend had enough on his plate - anyways, it wasn't like he couldn't deal with the urge by himself. 

Tony had been bitching at all three of them all morning, though Steve had been on the receiving end of the majority of the barbs. 

"How is it going with the car?" Steve was trying to redirect the conversation into more neutral territory, into something more safe. 

Apparently he'd chosen the wrong topic, however, as Tony groaned through his teeth and rolled his eyes behind his dark shades that had slid halfway down the bridge of his nose. "Dad's taken away the keys to the garage, again. I didn't even do anything, this time! I haven't touched the fucking alcohol cabinet in ages, even though they had it unlocked. The way they walk on eggshells all the goddamn time, you'd think I'd tried to off myself, again." 

Steve's face twisted into a grimace at the mention of Tony's attempt. Sometimes, Clint could understand why James' didn't always like the pair's relationship. Steve was a worrier, meaning that the good times were amazing, but the bad times could get truly shitty. James' fingers had tightened their grip on his own, though went Clint snuck a glance across at him, his boyfriend was still staring impassively out of the window.

"I'm sure they're just concerned about you, Tony. You have been a bit up and down lately and they just want to make sure you're okay." Steve explained sympathetically. 

Tony huffed. "I guess. But do they really have to lock up the garage? It's not like the car even runs. Plus, all my robotic's shit is in there, and the big sound system I wanted to get set up." Tony whined.

Maybe it was the itch wearing on him, combined with the shit sleep he'd been getting as of late, but something in Clint gave out and he rolled his eyes in pure irritation. "For fucks sake, get over  yourself, Stark. You sound like such a goddamn princess." He snapped. His attention was so focused on the asshole in sunglasses sitting across from him that he didn't even register James' hand suddenly grasping his wrist and squeezing around his flesh in a way that was likely intended to be comforting.

Tony fixed him with a hard glare, his jaw clenching and unclenching mechanically. "Fuck off, Barton. You're just jealous 'cause you wouldn't even be able to dream of affording so much as the jacket I'm currently wearing." 

Clint scowled back at him incredulously. "Jealous? Of what? Your alcoholism and shitty father and ideation of suicide?" He spat back. He could feel the shake that had been wearing at his hands beginning to vibrate through his entire body as frustration and emotion washed over him.

"I'd rather have that than look like a mangled piece of meat that can't be trusted around anything sharp. And anyway, at least my father actually wants me around, and didn't dump me in the care system like some fucked up mutt that's well overdue euthanization." As soon as Tony's words spilt from his lips, a heavy silence fell over the table, like a thick blanket. 

A knot swelled violently in Clint's throat, but he forced down the emotion that threatened to spill over. He kept his eyes trained down at the table in front of him, refusing to look up and meet either James' concerned gaze or Tony's stupid smirking face.

"Whatever, man." He spat out, retrieving his wrist sharply from his boyfriend's grasp, despite the jolt of hurt that bit into his chest as he did so. As he stood and stormed out of the diner, Clint felt his consciousness separating from his body, disassociating. He flicked his hood up over his head and shoved his hands in his pocket, feeling around for his phone to turn it off. Part of him wanted desperately for James' to come running after him and cling onto him in the brisk chill of the morning air, but realistically he knew that wouldn't happen - on a normal day, perhaps, but not today, not when James' mind was still glazed over with exhaustion and anxiety. Another part of him felt guilty for cutting himself off, even if only for a few hours, but it was a necessary evil, and anyway, he could call his boyfriend later, if need be. He could sort it all out later, when he was calmer and less likely to bite.

Disconnecting himself from everything was a trick he'd learned when he was a little kid; separating from all emotions, feelings and thoughts was always easier than dealing with the pain of them. Why feel the hurt and rage and helplessness when you can make yourself numb to everything, instead. Part of the therapy for his trauma and bipolar disorder was to address his feelings rather than push them down, but right now that was too hard. The last thing he wanted to do was let everything boil over at once, because he knew all it would do was overwhelm him and that was even worse than the numbness. Instead, he would hold it all back and deal with it one bit at a time, breaking it down into manageable chunks - that would come later, however, because all he wanted to do right now was walk and forget about all his obligations and responsibilities.

*     *     *     *

"Alright, enough moping." 

Clint didn't even bother looking up from the copy of 'Never Fade' curled into his lap. "I'm not moping." 

He could practically hear Laura roll her eyes from his doorway. "Sure you aren't." When Clint ignored her sarcasm, she sighed and came over to sit on the edge of his bed.

"Come on, what's up?"

"Nothing." He grunted out, turning the page.

Laura squeezed his leg just above the knee and smiled gently at him. "C'mon, kiddo, you can't just wallow in this little rut. Whatever it is, you've got to address it somehow." 

For a moment, Clint found himself wondering when he'd gotten so comfortable and secure around his foster mom - not that he didn't trust her, just that at some point he'd broken an age old promise he'd made to himself about not getting too comfortable in foster homes. Sometimes, he found himself wanting to ask her if she took his trust for granted, or if it still meant as much to her as it had the first time.

He sighed, relenting. "It's about the thing with Tony," he'd given her a brief rundown on the argument when he'd dragged himself home the evening after. He hadn't intended to spend all day wandering, but it had kinda just ended up happening. She had been pissed off, but relieved to see him, saying James' had been by at least four times looking for him, "but it's fine 'cause I've talked it over with James." 

Laura gave him her unimpressed look. "You'd better have talked it over with him. He's good for you, that boy, and you're not going to push him away, if I have any say in it." Clint smiled softly. "But, clearly, it is still bothering you if you're still here moping about it, so, what is it?"

He fidgeted with the cover of the book, twisting thoughts over in his mind. On one hand, he was as reluctant as ever to share because when did Clint Barton ever want to talk about his feelings and what was bothering him. But on the other hand, Laura was pretty damn good at calling him out on his shit, plus her advice was usually half decent, too. Though, neither of which he'd ever openly admit to her. 

"What Tony said, it really stung. A lot more than I thought it would, I guess. Normally shit doesn't get under my skin, but.." He trailed off, digging his front teeth into his lower lip.

Laura nodded sympathetically. "That's understandable, after all, he is your friend. Friends often get to see and learn your vulnerabilities and it hurts a lot when they use that against you because, well, you've trusted them with that information." 

Clint nodded silently. Even if it hurt to drag all his emotions and feelings up, it felt good to hear his thoughts said aloud - and even more so to hear someone understand them. 

"Have you spoken to Tony since Sunday?" 

He shook his head. "No. I've been avoiding seeing them, to be honest." He paused. "Well, except James."

Laura nodded again. "What did James have to say about the whole thing?" 

"He was real pissed off with Tony. He said Steve had a right go at Tony after I stormed off, but I'm not sure Tony really listened. He was kinda pissed off at me, too, but that's mostly 'cause he was worried." Clint paused again and frowned a little. "He thought I was kinda in the wrong, too, though." 

"Why's that?"

"'Cause I was the one who started it all, by calling Tony out for bitching abou' having all his 'toys' taken away." Clint rolled his eyes dramatically. 

Laura snorted and shook her head at him. "And what do you think?"

He shrugged. "I mean, maybe I could have been a bit gentler about it, but it needed saying. Like, yeah, I get it, it's a pain in the ass that his parents still don't trust him, but they're just concerned, even if it comes out a bit sideways. Whining and bitching about it won't solve anything - why not instead of having a tantrum, he ask why they're doing what they're doing and what he can do to regain their trust." 

A sudden burst of anger had sparked in his chest, spreading over him like a hot flush across pale skin. Clint realised his hands had curled into fists of frustration and he forced himself to uncurl them, and relax his uncomfortably clenched jaw. He blew out a short angered breath, slumping his shoulders and refusing to meet Laura's gaze. Even though he knew she wouldn't pity him, he was still anxious of what he might find in her eyes.

"Has he tried to message you, at all?"

Clint shook his head, the irritation at Tony beginning to surge, again. "Nope. Haven't heard a damn thing. Only a few messages from Steve that Tony feels guilty and all that bullshit. Told him if Tony's too much of a coward to come talk t' me himself, then I don't wanna hear it." 

She hmmed sympathetically. "Have you thought about going over to talk to him yourself?" 

His gaze snapped back to hers, accompanied with a scowl. "No? Why on earth would I do that?"

"Maybe, he's just afraid to come and talk to you about it - literally or in terms of pride. Either way, sometimes you have got to be the bigger person and take that step, even if you're not really the one who needs to apologise." 

Clint hated it when Laura talked sense like this. Okay, that wasn't totally true, but sometimes he just liked to wallow in his own misery, okay? 

Seeing knitted brow, and frustration filled and narrowed eyes, Laura patted his knee and rose to her feet. "Just think about it, yeah? I'll be downstairs if you want to talk about it - or anything else, for that matter." She smiled at him and left the room, carefully shutting his bedroom door on the way out.

*     *     *     *

Not a lot of things intimidated Clint, but the Stark estate was definitely one of them. The way the huge wrought iron electric gates towered menacingly over him, to the almost half mile long white gravel drive way that trailed through trimmed grass verges, bordered by expanses of field space, and the immense manor house that somehow looked simultaneously modern and aged, Clint always felt like an imposter. He'd walked there, headphones in and heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to escape. Half a dozen times he'd almost changed his mind and turned around, but in the end, he'd finally reached Stark's house, swearing under his breath as he pressed the intercom button. 

Before he'd left, Clint had briefly called James, with the hope that his boyfriend might tell him it would be a waste of time. Instead, James had sighed and said "uh huh, Laura's on the right track with that one. You and I both know how stubborn and prideful Stark is; no matter how bad about how shittily he treated you, he could never stoop low enough to make himself come to you to apologise. Even if his depression makes him irritable and whatever, it doesn't give him an excuse to be an ass to you. Or anyone for that matter." 

Jarvis' monotonous voice rang out through the crackle of the intercom. "Hello?" He sounded as if he had been trying to catch Clint's attention for some time.

"Uh, sorry, yeah. It's Clint, Tony's friend." As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt like an idiot - he'd met Jarvis several times, and anyway it wasn't as if the Stark's would know any other Clint. 

"Mr Barton." Jarvis said by way of greeting. "Shall I let Master Stark know you're here?"

Clint hesitated; he hadn't thought this far ahead and suddenly he wasn't sure if it was better for Tony to have some time to prepare, or not. "Uhh... sure." Then he quickly added, "please." The intercom crackled off and the gates began to groan their way open, swinging smoothly until they clanged against their respective magnets, holding them wide open.

Being around Tony's house and family always made him very self-conscious of his speech, mannerisms and appearance. Out of himself, Steve and James, he was always the one that stuck out like a sore thumb, in regards to both his background, the way he talked and looked. It almost made him feel like an alien dressed up in human skin, trying to interact with actual humans whilst desperately attempting to avoid being detected. The fear of putting his foot in his mouth by saying or doing something that was frowned upon, unbeknownst to him, constantly loomed over him.

Clint pressed the oversized and ornate silver doorbell, wincing internally at the smears his fingerprints left on its reflective surface. He wasn't sure if Tony or Jarvis would be the one to answer the door, however, when it swung open to reveal the kindly and smile-line face of Maria Stark, he was taken by complete surprise, any words he had planned immediately dying in his throat.

"Clint, hello" She said, the amusement on her face making it clear he hadn't hidden his shock very well. "Come on in," she added when he nodded dumbly.

"Would you like a drink?" She asked, leading them down the main hallway and into the expansive marble-topped kitchen. 

"Uhm, sure. Coffee, please, if you have it." He felt out of his depth in the Stark house normally, but this took it to a whole new level. He'd met Maria a few times before, but only ever in passing; she'd only ever been nice to him, though, and never treated him any different to James or Steve. 

Maria gave him a look, clearly saying of course we have coffee. "Have a seat, dear. Jarvis has gone to drag Tony out of bed and into the shower, so God only knows how long he'll be." The fondness in her tone was clear as day and Clint found himself taking comfort in that fact. "In the meantime, I thought maybe you and I could have a bit of chat, if that's alright with you?" She glanced up at him and smiled reassuringly.

Placing two steaming and sweet smelling mugs down on the island, she slid onto a cushioned leather stool beside him and leaned her arms on the marble top. 

"Tony told me a little about the disagreement the two of you had." Ah, so she was like Laura then - straight to the point. Part of Clint wanted to shutter up and brush off her concern, but he pushed the feeling down, focusing instead on the trust that fluttered inside of him. Maria had never come across as a judgmental person to him, despite her slightly overbearing concern, in regards to Tony. Though, when he thought about it, he did understand hers and Howard's caution - no one wants to find their child after a suicide attempt, or ever risk that happening again. 

"How much did he tell you?" Clint asked, cupping his mug and focusing on the burning needles that spiked against his palms, willing himself not to chicken out.

"Just that you called him out, he said something he shouldn't have and you left in anger. Though, as ever with Tony, I suspect that's not the whole story - he's like his father, ever reluctant to admit he was in the wrong." She sighed.

"He was just in one of those moods. Y'know, all irritable and biting at anyone and everyone." Maria nodded in understanding and part of Clint felt stupid for explaining it. She was Tony's mother; of course she had seen him in his mood swings. "He was complaining about how his dad had taken the garage key away from him, or something and how unfair it was. It was getting on my nerves, 'cause he just sounded like a spoilt princess - and I told him as much." 

Maria laughed. "Yes, I can see how that might annoy Tony. Not that you're wrong, at all, though." Clint found himself liking Maria increasingly, the more he spoke to her; she wasn't afraid to admit the flaws of her son, unlike some moms, who seemed to think the sun shined out of their kid's asses. 

"He said something sharp back, so I retaliated and then he really threw it back in my face and I just had to put some distance between us. Don't get me wrong, I know I shouldn't've lashed out after he did, but I dunno." He shrugged.

She nodded. "You felt the need to defend yourself." 

"Yeah." Clint bit into his lower lip; it felt oddly draining to be laying his feelings out twice in one day. Especially when the only people he usually talked about this shit with were James and his therapist. Even then, both parties often had to coax it out of him. 

"Well, I'm glad you came to talk to him about it. One day, he'll be able to leave his pride at the door and be the first to apologise, but for now, he just needs a little help. Maybe he'll stop moping, now." 

Clint laughed, taking a drink from his mug. "Yeah, well, my foster mom, Laura, kinda had to convince me to stop wallowing and be the bigger person." 

Maria smiled. "Sounds like a smart woman. Definitely one I can agree with." 

He grinned. "Yeah, she is. She's never afraid to call me out on my shit - I think everyone needs a mother-figure like that." 

She nodded in agreement. There was silence for a long moment and Clint stared back down at his half-drained mug. He could tell Maria was waiting to say something and anxiety was beginning to simmer at the back of his mind. What if she asked about his past? Or the scars peeking out of the cuffs of his hoodie? Or-

"You're always welcome here, Clint." 

He froze. Fear crept up his spine and his mind began to race - had Tony said something about Clint feeling out of place in the house, like he was dirtying it up like a pest? But how would Tony know that?

"All of you are. I know the manor and estate can easily be intimidating to anyone - sometimes it feels more like a show house than a home to me, admittedly." She stood up from her seat, collecting their now empty mugs and taking them over to one of the counter tops, where she leant down and pulled open a hidden dishwasher. "Howard isn't always the most welcoming person, at least outwardly, but you, Steve and James are welcome here any time, okay? Tony isn't the easiest for anyone to deal with, at times, but I'm glad he has you three." She looked up and met his eye with a serious but thankful smile.

Clint nodded numbly. "Thank you." He moistened his lips and open his mouth to say something else, but the sound of heavy quick footsteps echoing down the immense staircase silenced his words.

Tony swung himself around the door frame and into the kitchen, his damp hair trailing loose waves over his forehead. The faded navy sweater he was wearing had been shoved up past his elbows and had clearly been stolen from Steve's closet if the amount of excess sleeve was anything to go by; it seemed such a juxtaposition to the expensive looking high-end deep grey jeans he had on, along with the sharp scent of some cologne that Clint couldn't quite pinpoint the spicy smell of. 

The dark haired boy narrowed his eyes at the pair of them. "Why do I feel like this is a conspiracy waiting to happen?" 

Maria laughed musically. "That's just you being suspicious." 

"Bet you were talking about me." Tony folded his arms and lent against the doorframe. 

"Naturally," Clint replied with a shrug, "all bad stuff, of course." 

Tony rolled his eyes and shook his head, grinning. "Impossible." Then he turned and started back down the hallway towards the staircase. "C'mon then, Barton." He called over his shoulder. 

"Thanks for the coffee, and the chat." Clint said to Maria as he rose from his seat. He felt less nervous about talking to Tony now and he was pretty sure Maria could tell, as well. 

*     *     *     *

Clint had barely closed the front door behind him when the squawk of a car horn blare out through the street. Rolling his eyes, he locked the front door, stuffed the key into the back pocket of his jeans and strode out to the Audi parked alongside the curb. He stuck his middle fingers up at the dark haired teen sat smirking behind the wheel and slid himself through the gap behind the adjusted front passenger seat and into the back. As Steve clicked the passenger seat back into its upright position, Clint leant over and kissed James by way of welcome, cupping his jaw and pulling back just as he began to feel the heat of want uncurl itself in the pit of his stomach. 

Tony wiggled the gear stick and cleared his throat. "You love birds buckled up back there?" 

"Am now." Clint replied, pushing the belt into its socket with a metallic click. As the car pulled away, he hand sort out James' and threaded their fingers together. 

"Hi," his boyfriend smiled softly, gently squeezing his hand, "you doing alright?" 

In the front seat, Tony had turned up the speakers, letting the heavy bassline of ACDC wash over the car, just loud enough to drown out the other conversation happening, but not loud enough to make speaking impossible. 

"Yeah, other than feeling like I'm constantly swimming through treacle and battling against day four of a headache, I'm grand." He could tell the humour in his tone was relieving James a little, though definitely not entirely. 

"How did the meeting with your Psychiatrist go?" Concern was twisted into James' expression; he knew reducing lithium and lamictal could result in some pretty shitty withdrawal symptoms. Clint hadn't been too worried about it, though the weekly check-ins with either his Psychologist or Psychiatrist had been mandatory. He'd gone to see his Psychiatrist the day before, but had figured it would be easier to tell James about it when they actually saw each other in person - especially considering it would only be the following day - rather than over the phone. Cling always found it easier to damp down James' worries in person as he could actually see his boyfriend and read his body language, as opposed to guessing it based on tone of voice alone.

"It was fine, really. As before, she said the only lithium withdrawal effects are heightened mania or depressive episodes, and she's not overly concerned with how mine have been recently." Truth be told, they had been worse than usual, but nowhere near where they used to be and still within manageable bounds. "The lamictal is the one with more serious side effects, but really I'm fine with those, too. I'm only getting some of the minor ones - the lethargy, headaches and moodiness, I mean - if I was getting suicidal, or the other effects were impairing daily function, then they'd probably raise my dosage back up again. But neither of those are an issue, so." Clint shrugged and smiled at James, who was already looking calmer. 

His boyfriend leant over and kissed him soft and sweet, gently nipping at his lower lip as he pulled away. He grinned as he settled back into his seat, clearly proud of himself, as though he could feel the heat flexing throughout Clint's body. 

The blonde stuck his tongue out childishly. "Are you alright?"

James hmmed in response. "Yep, I'm good. Becca's got to get to a retainer, which is obviously the funniest thing, ever. She hates it but mom's making her wear it." The smile curling into the corners of his mouth made Clint's chest tighten with fondness. 

"Uh huh, and you're being a really supportive older brother about it, right?" 

"Totally." 

It barely felt like they'd driven far enough before the car was cruising into the carpark of the Gotham Archery centre. A few months back, they'd made a list of activities they could do as a group; some were as simple as going out to the cinema for a midnight film, others were more unique, like Alpaca Walking (Tony had seen it on some programme from the UK and declared they were going to find somewhere to do it). Several of the activity ideas were based on their individual interests and hobbies, like Steve's love of art, and the only thing Clint could think of was archery. Once or twice a month, they chose an activity idea at random and rotated through who got to choose the place they went to in order to do the activity. This time it had been James' turn and naturally, he'd found an archery centre that also did axe and knife throwing. 

Clint sat quiet and patient through the check-in and safety talks; he knew it all already, but going over how not to lose your fingers was always good. From the depths of his mind, memories of his uncle, Trickshot, who used to work in a travelling circus as an archery performer, leaked into his consciousness. He could remember his first time using a bow, the way the beautifully varnished wood had felt slick and smooth under his soft fingers and how the string had bit deep into his flesh as he drew it back, scraping down his guard-less forearm as he released the arrow. Trickshot had been a short-tempered teacher that produced good results through punishment and fear. Memories of blood-slicked hands and aching thighs and shoulder from holding one position flickered through his mind. 

An elbow dug subtly but firmly into his ribs, disrupting the flashbacks like frightened pigeons. James was glancing at him with a concerned look in his eyes. Clint flashed a smile back, hoping it looked less forced than it felt. 

The instructor, who'd introduced himself as Ian, at the front of the small room had begun to split them into groups based on ability. There were two other small groups, of around the same size as their own, along with them. Ian stopped in front of the four of them.

"Beginner," Tony and Steve chimed off, and Ian waved them over to another guy, called Lewis. 

"I've done some. I know what I'm doing, but I'm no pro." James said. For a moment, Clint was struck by how proud he was of James for doing so well, sat in a room with multiple adult male strangers and with hardly any tension curled through his muscles.

"And you?" Ian asked, looking pointedly at Clint. 

Clint shrugged. "I've done some as well. Used to be pretty decent, but I haven't done any in a while." 

Ian nodded, "alright. You," he gestured at James, "over with Mikey, and you over with Kate." He spoke to Clint, pointing to the one female instructor in the room - a young woman with dark hair dressed in purple leggings and a dark purple tee shirt. Clint decided he liked her already.

All of the groups - beginner, intermediate and advanced - filed through into the range, each instructor leading their respective group over to a sectioned area to shoot. They were set up with a bow and a quiver, then two people fired at a time in each group, taking breaks between the sets of people to collect arrows. 

Clint stepped up to the firing line, notched his arrow, lifted his bow, aimed, drew and fired. The arrow landed dead centre in the target. A rush flooded through his body - a rush he'd long forgotten about. It felt like some mix of pride and adrenaline coursing through his veins, brimming up and egging him on. 

He notched a second arrow, aimed, drew and fired in one quick fluid motion, the muscle memory of it all coming back to him within moments. A gasp rang out through the group behind him as his second arrow sheared straight down the centre of his first. Clint's stomach dropped. How had he even managed to fuck this up, too? Hesitantly, he lowered his bow.

"Shit. I'm really sorry." He mumbled, turning to look over his shoulder at Kate. But, to his shock, Kate was grinning. 

"Oh, man. I don't think I've ever seen someone manage that. That was awesome, kid." 

Clint had cycled through the rest of his arrows before Ian came over. The girl who'd been shooting alongside him had stopped entirely while he'd been doing so, just to watch him hit the bullseye every fucking time.

"You know, I think you were understating yourself when you said you were 'pretty decent'." Ian chuckled, stopping beside Clint.

The blonde teenager flushed and ducked his head out of habit. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"Who taught you, if you don't mind me asking?" Ian continued.

"My uncle, when I was a kid. He used to travel with a circus and had an archery act." For once, he fought against the urge to lie about his upbringing. So what if this guy thought he was a carnie? Fuck 'im. Well, that and as long as he didn't push too far about his uncle - Clint might be open to admitting where he'd learn to shoot, but there was no way he was opening up about crimes his uncle carried with him. 

Ian nodded thoughtfully. "Hm. Might explain why your form is a little unusual." He paused, in thought, then added, "what did you say your name was again?"

"Clint. Clint Barton." 

"Well, Clint, we have a member archery team, here, that have access to private practise ranges any time and compete state-wise and nationally. There's try-outs occurring in the next few weeks for a place on the team, if you're interested."

Clint hesitated. It sounded fucking amazing. He'd loved archery growing up, despite the asshole Trickshot could be, and honest to God, he'd missed it. But at the same time, it was so damn overwhelming - the other people who were probably so much better than him at shooting, the putting himself out there - all of it. His eyes drifted across the room and he caught James' gaze, who had been watching him from the next group over, clearly able to hear the conversation. James was beaming at him and nodding encouragingly. 

Fuck it.

"Sure. That'd be awesome." 

Ian's face broke into a grin. "Great. I'm glad to hear it." He clapped a calloused hand onto Clint's muscled shoulder. "Now. Our archers use these specialist compound bows - why don't I go grab one, so you can have a bit of a practise with it?" 

His eyes were still locked with James' who was eagerly giving him a thumbs up, his smile so wide and bright it looked like it was going to split his face in half. I'm so proud of you, he mouthed, I love you. 

Clint mouthed it back and bit the insides of his cheeks to stop himself from smiling like an idiot. A nagging voice in the back of his mind hissed that he probably wouldn't make the team, so what was the point in even trying; but he ignored it 'cause what the fuck did it know - and anyways, he never missed.