Chapter Text
Wind rushed around him, sending his hair flying into his face as he ran across the rooftops, squinting his eyes to block out the jarring light from the sun. His arrow quiver shook on his shoulder, bouncing with every stride. Air burned in his lungs, his eyes stinging from the wind, and his legs ached more than they had in a long time. Clearly, he had fallen out of practice.
He spared a quick glance backwards and saw nothing. The people chasing him must have either given up or fallen too far behind to catch up.
And then he was falling. Falling through space, his arms flailing wildly, hands searching for something to grasp.
His body slammed into something crumpled and squishy, and his feet sunk deep beneath him. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, Clint Barton opened his eyes.
He was in a dumpster. His arms laying uncomfortably at his sides, his legs wedged into a narrow space between two large, greasy trash bags. Groaning, he struggled to get up, but his limbs were worn out and he couldn’t muster the energy to drag himself out of the dumpster. Turning his head to the side, he noticed that he just avoided falling onto a sharp metal rod. He whispered a quick thanks to whatever deity was looking after him, then added a few curse words for getting him into this mess in the first place.
Slowly, he began to sense movement coming from somewhere. Instantly, he tried to get up with renewed effort, not excited at the potential of being eaten by rats in an unknown dumpster.
Before he had a chance to get up, a head popped out behind a rather small trash bag. It was a man in a scarlet costume, a mask clenched in his hand, revealing his face. He had tussled brown hair and dark, round sunglasses. Hastily, he yanked his glasses off and pulled the mask over his forehead to shield the upper half of his face.
Though Clint couldn’t hear anything, he could see the man’s lips moving. “Is someone there?”
Clint held up a hand, gesturing for him to wait, as he fumbled to adjust his hearing aids with shaky fingers. The costume looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it, nor the face. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” the man repeated back to him.
“I asked first, you have to answer,” Clint said petulantly.
“I don’t have to answer anything. This is my dumpster.”
“Well, I don’t see your name on it.”
“It’s not like I go around painting my name on dumpsters, it’s just that I—never mind. You sound familiar.”
“You sound familiar, too. But I don’t meet guys like you in my line of work.”
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Cosplayers. I mostly deal with aliens, if you know what I mean.”
“Cosplayer? I’m—yeah, I do cosplay. That’s why I’m wearing this costume.” He paused. “Wait. Is that Hawkeye?”
Clint raised an eyebrow, looking down at his usual purple get-up. Regardless of whatever Natasha always said (Used to say, his mind un-helpfully reminds him), it was stylish. “Yeah, if it wasn’t obvious from the bright purple outfit.”
The man tapped his sunglasses; his fingers were calloused and bloody. “I can’t see. I’m blind.”
“Oh.” Clint felt like an asshole. “Sorry. I’m deaf, if you didn’t know. Which you probably did. Or not.”
“I didn’t know that, actually,” he said. He sighed. “This is the third time I’ve been thrown into this dumpster. Despite the fact that Hell’s Kitchen has a lot of them, I always end up in this one.”
With a jolt of surprise, Clint realized why the man looked and sounded so familiar. “Hell’s Kitchen… Daredevil?”
He gave a resigned sigh. After all, there was no point in denying it when he was dressed as a fucking devil. “Yes.”
“So, I’m finally meeting the famous Matt Murdock.”
Matt’s eyebrows furrowed and his mouth fell slightly open. “What—what makes you think that?”
“Give me a break, man. We work in the same circles.”
Shaking his head, Matt said, “I thought I was more discreet.”
“To be fair, I only know because Natasha told me. And I didn’t tell anyone, before you ask.”
Matt stiffened. He and Natasha dated for a few weeks more than a decade ago, and though it didn’t work out, Clint knew they were still friends (Had been, that torturous part of his mind corrected). According to her, it never could have gone anywhere because Matt was hopelessly in love with his best friend, Foggy, even if he didn’t know it.
“It’s hard to believe she’s gone,” Matt said quietly. Though, in the end, it was clear that Matt hadn’t truly had romantic feelings for her, Clint knew firsthand that loving—and losing—a friend could be just as painful.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, swallowing the lump. “Anyway, can you get us out of this dumpster?”
Without answering, Matt felt around with his hands until he touched the wall of the dumpster, then grabbed a ridge of the wall and pulled himself up so he could reach the top of the dumpster. Throwing a leg over the edge, he held out a hand in Clint’s direction. “Here.”
“How do you know where I am?” Clint asked, taking his hand and letting Matt pull him out of the area he was slotted into. He had heard of Daredevil’s abilities, but never seen them in action before.
“I can hear you breathing and shuffling around. You were making quite a lot of noise, actually.”
“Good to know. These stupid hearing aids malfunction a lot. I think Stark made them to mess with me.”
“Tony Stark made your hearing aids?”
Another pang of pain struck him at the reminder of his friend. So many ghosts. “Unless there’s any other Stark who makes technological devices, and makes them malfunction to annoy me, yeah, he made them.”
Unceremoniously, Clint tumbled out of the dumpster and landed on a patch of wet mud; at least, he hoped it was mud. Matt got up to his feet quickly. Clint glanced back at the rooftop. Thankfully, the men were gone.
“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I should get back now.”
“Good luck,” Matt replied, more than a little amused. “And next time, find your own dumpster to fall in.”
-
The next time they met, Clint fell into the dumpster. Again. At least this time he wasn’t running from anyone. It was supposed to be a routine check, and he couldn’t deny that he was wanted to see Matt again, even if only to continue their argument on the proper ownership of the dumpster. Of course, he wasn’t planning on falling into it again, but his plans always had a way of getting away from him.
“Great,” he muttered to himself. He could feel something gooey and sticky near his leg; he tried not to think about it too much.
“You know,” a voice sounded from behind him. Recognition shot through him. “I would have assumed that a trained spy would be able to get himself out of a dumpster.”
“Maybe I would do it if you didn’t keep interrupting me.”
“I guess I’ll just leave you alone then—”
“No!” Clint protested, trying to get up and failing. The sticky substance had spread to both his legs, and a horrible smell was spreading around him. “There’s something really gross here and I want to get out.”
With a sigh of resignation, Matt helped Clint out of the dumpster again, voicing more than a few complaints when the liquid got on him as well.
“This really is disgusting,” Matt said, frowning. “Usually the bags are tied pretty tightly. I don’t know what asshole decided to leave this one open.”
“Do you have a place I can crash at for a while?” Clint asked, desperate for a shower and a meal. He hadn’t been eating properly for a few days, on account of the fact that Laura and the kids were away visiting her family. Again. Laura’s parents had been anxious to see their grandchildren more often since the Blip, as if they were worried that they would disappear again.
“How long is a while?”
“A few hours. Or days.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
Clint huffed. “It’s not like I’m going to hunt you down and kill you. I just need to get this goo off me.”
“Alright, then,” Matt said, “but don’t say anything to my roommate.”
“Does he not know that you’re—”
“He knows, but you’re not very socially adept.”
“Ouch,” Clint said. “That hurt, Matt.”
“What a shame.”
“Just take me to your home, smartass.”
“Coming from you,” Matt said, but he led the way down several streets and shady alleyways, knowing precisely where to step to avoid a streetlight or turn a sharp corner. The streets were strangely empty, but then again, the sky was growing darker and they weren’t exactly in the safe part of town. However, they continued until the buildings started getting fancier, the streets cleaner and tidier.
Finally, they reached Matt’s apartment; at least, Clint hoped it was, or they were breaking into some random person’s apartment. It had happened to him far too many times than he cared to count. Matt unlocked the door and they entered. The living room was tidy and modern, with a navy blue sofa placed in front of a massive television, and tall windows let the evening light stream in to illuminate the surroundings.
“Foggy isn’t here,” he said.
Clint gaped at him. “How do you know that?”
“For starters, I can’t hear the television or any noise that he usually makes. I can’t hear his heartbeat, either.”
“That’s creepy.” Clint shook his head. “Don’t listen to my heartbeat.”
“It’s not something I have control over. Your heart is practically yelling at me. It’s average, if that interests you.”
“Uh… good to know?”
“The bathroom is over there.” Matt gestured with his hands as he sat down on the sofa. “Take a towel out of the cupboard next to the door. You can borrow some clothes from me, but don’t touch the suits.”
“As if I’d want your suits,” Clint muttered as he went into the bathroom and peeled his outfit off his sweaty body. He really needed to get more subtle clothing. The water coming from the shower was upsettingly cold but it wasn’t anywhere near the icy showers Clint was forced to take in Russia. He rinsed the goo off his legs and the Trash Juice out of his hair. Just to annoy Matt, he used as much of the shower gel as possible. He only realized afterwards that it probably belonged to Matt’s roommate, as he doubted that Matt would use ‘Strawberry Blossom’ shower gel.
Thankfully, the towel was dry and fluffy, and the clothes Matt left on the doorknob for him while he was showering were reasonably comfortable. He returned to the living room, where Matt was watching the news. He held a warning finger to his lips in the universal gesture for shut up and let me listen to this. Natasha used to do the same thing.
“—to a small neighborhood in Manhattan. The police are trying to track him down but there’s been no news yet.”
“You missed the important part,” Matt said.
“Seriously? In movies the hero always shows up when they’re saying the important stuff.”
“This isn’t a movie, and if it were, I’d be the hero.”
“Yeah, right. What was the important part?”
“They said something about a figure who was seen running on a rooftop, chased by a gang of men.”
Clint groaned. “I should’ve known they’d see that. Did they show any pictures?”
Wordlessly, Matt turned to stare at him, his dark shades glaringly visible.
“Sorry,” Clint said with a grimace. “Did they give any other – um, verbal clues?”
“Not much. I don’t think there’s anything that can identify you. Still, it would be best if you lay low for a while.”
Clint couldn’t help but grin, even though Matt wouldn’t see it. “Is that an invitation?”
“No. No way.”
“You have a guest bedroom.”
“No,” Matt repeated firmly.
Before Clint could press the matter any further, the door swung open and a man walked in. He had neat, combed hair and was wearing a carefully pressed suit, carrying a briefcase.
The man, who must have been Foggy Nelson, stopped when he saw Clint. “Matt… who is this?”
“Clint,” Clint provided brightly. “I’m your new roommate.”
Foggy looked confused. “Is this some weird power move? Am I being kicked out?”
“No—shut up, Clint,” Matt snapped. “Foggy, don’t listen to him. He’s being kicked out.”
“Please don’t kick me out,” Clint said, his tone dangerously close to begging. “I don’t want to get killed.”
Matt turned to Foggy. “Could you leave for a minute?”
Utterly bemused, Foggy went into his bedroom. The fact that he didn’t question it made Clint wonder what misfortunes—shenanigans, if you will—had befallen Foggy at the hands of his vigilante roommate. Clint decided the man deserved a medal for putting up with a best friend who fought crime every night, yet wasn’t brave enough to admit that he loved him in a decidedly non-platonic manner. How difficult would it even be to say, hey, I know we’re besties, but I also want us to boink. Do the bedroom rodeo. Plant the parsnip. Dance the goat’s jig. It was absolutely ridiculous, and Clint would make it his mission to resolve this if it didn’t work itself out.
“You’re a master assassin,” Matt said once Foggy left. “You’ll be fine.”
“I know, but my family is away and it gets lonely.”
“You… you want to mess up my life because you’re lonely?”
“I won’t mess up your life,” Clint protested. “It’s only for a few days, then I promise I’ll leave you alone. Come on, Matt. We’re dumpster buddies.”
Matt groaned. “Fine. You can stay, as long as you promise never to use that term again.”
“Great! I’ll let Foggy know.”
“No,” Matt said forcefully, holding out a hand to stop Clint, who was already springing to his feet. “I’ll let him know. You sit here and… and think about what you’ve done.”
Clint watched as Matt expertly made his way to the bedroom and opened the door. They must have been talking, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying through the closed door. Finally, they emerged.
“Sorry about that,” Foggy said politely. “I was kind of confused at first, then—”
“Don’t apologize to him,” Matt muttered. “We don’t like him.”
“He seems alright.”
“Exactly,” Clint said. “See, Matt? I’ve known Foggy for thirty seconds and he’s already nicer than you.”
“This is exactly why I told you not to talk to him,” Matt hissed.
“So this is a weird territorial thing?”
Foggy looked weirded out at that while Matt looked horrified. Clearly, Clint had struck a nerve. He bit back a smile.
“I’ll intervene before this gets worse,” Foggy said hastily. “Clint, you can have my room. I’ll take the sofa.”
“Clint will get my room,” Matt interjected. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
Clint had expected to be exiled to the sofa, so it was a welcome surprise that Matt would give him his own room. Then again, Matt hadn’t been hostile until Clint invaded his house, so he couldn’t have minded him that much. Maybe he had judged him too hastily.
“On second thoughts,” Matt said. “Maybe Clint should get the sofa.”
Clint groaned. Oh, well. Better than nothing.
-
During the time Clint stayed at Matt’s house, which ended up being a week, they gradually grew accustomed to each other. Matt got used to Clint instinctively attacking him in the mornings because he hadn’t put on his hearing aids yet and couldn’t hear him walk in behind him, and Clint got used to describing the weather outside before Matt left for work. In all fairness, Matt could hear the absence of rain and figure out what the weather was like anyway, but by the last day, they enjoyed sitting by the window while Clint described how the sun looked as it set at dusk.
“Foggy sometimes does that,” Matt said, somewhat dreamily, as Clint tried to describe what flowers looked like when they bloomed in the spring. Foggy was outside buying groceries while Clint and Matt were setting the table. More accurately, Matt was setting the table while Clint lazed on the couch.
“He’s always liked describing everything to me,” he went on. “Normally people’s expressions, gestures, but sometimes nice things, too. A sunset, a little bird, things like that. It’s almost like I can see them.”
Clint sat up, interested. “What’s your thing for him, anyway?”
Matt’s face pinkened. “What thing?”
“I don’t need to hear your heartbeat to know that you’re smitten, Murdock.”
“I’m not smitten. I’m simply… intrigued by him.”
“That’s just a fancy way of admitting that you’re smitten while retaining your dignity. And it doesn’t even make sense. Intrigued, of all words? Is that how you talk about your friend of, like, since college?”
“If I had any dignity, it was destroyed when you came here. It was bad enough that you walked in on me in—”
Clint threw his arms up in the air in frustration. “I already told you I didn’t hear you telling me to go away!”
“Take the hint, Barton! The door was shut. It was my bathroom.”
“Well, why wasn’t it locked?”
“I don’t lock it when I’m showering, because I don’t expect anyone to come in.” He threw in a glare for good measure. “Normal people don’t.”
“You need to move past that,” Clint informed him. “I didn’t see anything, anyway. Well, not much—”
“Please stop talking.”
“Noted. But we’re not moving past the Foggy thing. You love him.”
After a minute, Matt said, “Maybe just a little.”
“A little?”
“Don’t make me kick you out just when I was beginning to tolerate you.”
“Aw, you were tolerating me?” he cooed. “That’s just another word for love.”
The door opened, and Foggy walked in, his footsteps almost silent. Noticing that they were having a conversation, he gave a silent nod, not speaking up so as to not interrupt. Clint could already see where this was going. He tried to hide the glee on his face, hoping it would go where he thought it was about to go.
Matt’s face was unamused. “That’s right. I love you, and I’m disastrously in love with Foggy.”
As a tight silence fell over the room, Matt sighed. “Foggy’s right there, isn’t he?”
“Yep,” said a wide-eyed Foggy.
“I can explain,” Matt said hurriedly, turning his head towards Foggy with an expression halfway between desperation and total mortification. Clint almost felt bad for him, but not really. Maybe those idiots would finally get their shit together and admit that they were head-over-heels in love with each other, then Clint could be best man at their wedding. On second thoughts, that was unlikely.
“This is my cue to leave,” Clint announced. “Thanks for letting me stay here, guys. Buddies? We’ll work on that.”
He threw himself out of the window, landing on a nearby roof and running away. Soon, he realized that he had no idea where he was going.
Well, that was stupid.
-
When Clint got shot at 2:30 am, he found himself knocking at Matt’s door once more.
“What happened?” Matt asked, his voice unsurprised. Without waiting for Clint to answer the question, he stepped aside to let him in. At moments like these, Clint was immensely grateful to have an almost-friend who wouldn’t interrogate him in situations like these, knowing that Matt wouldn’t push him to answer the question.
His head swimming, Clint looked around for somewhere to sit where his blood wouldn’t stain the fabric, but ended up collapsing on the floor before he could sit down. “Shot. Mission went wrong. I can’t go home, don’t want to scare Laura and the kids. Didn’t know where else to go.”
Matt rushed off to get some a first-aid kit and settled beside Clint, reaching out to feel the wound. Clint winced when he touched the stinging skin.
“I’ll have to stitch this up,” Matt said. “I don’t have any anaesthetic, though.”
Clint waved a limp hand. “Just do it. Not the first time.”
He bit down on his hand as Matt sanitized the wound then stitched it up, finishing off with a cotton bandage to protect it from infection. It stung like hell, but clumsier people than Matt had done this to him before.
“All good,” Matt said, satisfied. “Does it look okay?”
Clint looked down at his shoulder. The stitches were as precise as if they were done by a surgeon. “Yeah. Perfect, actually. Where the hell did you learn to do this?”
“Not important. Do you want some coffee?”
“At 2:30 am?”
“I’ll just make it for myself, then.”
“No, no, I’ll have some. As black as you can make it.”
Matt walked over to the coffee machine. “No sugar or cream? It might help bring up your blood sugar levels. They must have dropped.”
“A little,” Clint allowed. “Thanks for helping me, man. I would have taken care of this myself but I’m in a pretty bad state. And you understand why I can’t go home like this.”
His tone was stern. “You should be more careful. You have a family to live for.”
He raised an eyebrow, though there was no one to see it. “And you don’t?”
Matt turned around, bearing his trademark poker face. “Not like you do.”
“I thought you and Foggy were, like, a thing now.”
As he predicted, Matt’s face softened, as it always did at any mention of Foggy. “We are—” he sniffed— “though I wouldn’t call it a thing.”
“Soulmates? Lovers? Smash pals?”
“…On second thoughts, let’s stick with thing.”
They decided to watch a movie until Clint was feeling better, so Matt put on a random action movie. As they watched, Clint gave descriptions of what was on screen while Matt described the audio at the parts where Clint couldn’t catch it over the dramatic sound effects, even with his hearing aids on. It was a good system.
After the movie, Clint returned home, assuring Matt that he would be fine.
The next week, he got shot again. Seemed about right.
-
“This is just excessive,” Clint complained as he fell into the dumpster for the third time. Thankfully, all the bags seemed tightly sealed this time. He almost expected Matt to show up, but when he didn’t, he climbed out of the dumpster by himself and shook himself down, disgusted. His wallet was in the dumpster, and he really didn’t want to enter the dumpster again, so he needed to find another way to get some money.
One bad – or maybe good? – decision and half an hour later, Clint was knocking on Matt Murdock’s door.
Matt opened it, wrinkling his nose. “Clint?”
“I don’t always smell like this,” Clint said indignantly, offended that Matt had identified him so quickly.
Matt let out a short laugh. “Your heartbeat is quite recognizable. Very healthy. I’m guessing you fell in the dumpster again. Either that or you’ve seriously fallen behind on your personal hygiene.”
“Hilarious. Please let me in.”
Matt stepped aside to let him in, silently pointing towards the direction of his bedroom. Gratefully, Clint rushed into the shower, rinsing himself off as quickly as possible, emptying out half of the ‘Island Breeze’ shower gel in his endeavour to eliminate the odor. If it was this bad for him, he couldn’t imagine how bad it was for Matt. Within five minutes, he was sitting at the dinner table in clean clothes while Matt rummaged around in the fridge.
“Need any help?” Clint asked.
“You can set out two plates.”
“Foggy won’t be here tonight?”
“He’s working late. We were working on a big case together, but he made me go home to rest,” Matt said, pulling out a plate of leftover lasagna. He put it in the microwave and set it to the correct temperature while Clint put two plates down on the table. Clint dug into his lasagna with the reckless abandon of someone who hadn’t eaten in months, though he had eaten three hours ago. So what? Running away from bad guys required a lot of energy.
Matt sat down across him. “Why are you always here?”
“That’s rude,” he said with his mouth full.
“I mean, why do your missions always bring you here?”
“Oh.” Clint shrugged. I don’t know. I’m just given the missions. I can’t question them.”
“Are they successful?”
“Most of the time. The ones here always end up going south, for some reason.”
Matt smiled mischievously. “Maybe the criminals here are used to dealing with heroes of a higher standard.”
Clint shot him an unamused look before remembering that he couldn’t see it. With Matt’s heightened senses and awareness of everything around him, it was easy to forget that he couldn’t see. “Very funny. At least I saved the world multiple times. You just micromanage the hell out of a few blocks in New York.”
He took a bite of his lasagna nonchalantly. “Firing a few arrows counts as saving the world?”
“Smug bastard.”
They ended up drinking on the couch until it was almost midnight and they were both shit-faced. Matt was more coherent than him, slumped on the floor with his head tilted against the armrest, but he was slurring his words in a way that Drunk Clint, sprawled on the ground, found absurdly hilarious.
Clint tried to lift his head, but he was unable to. “Matt. Did—didn’t you meet the Mex-Men?”
“X-Men,” he corrected.
“That’s what I said. Can’t they read your mind? Find out you’re M-Matt Murdock?”
“Too fucking polite to bring it up,” Matt said, his voice suddenly very loud. “And anyway.”
“Way?”
“My mind’s a fucking mess, they don’t want to delve into this,” he announced as if it was a triumph, grabbing the nearest vodka bottle and brandishing it in the air like a trophy. He was getting increasingly passionate. “I’m fucking depressed, an’ angry, an’ sick.” He gave a bitter laugh. “And I’m Catholic.”
“Fuck, man. Takes a lot of messed-up-ness to get a blind Catholic to run around in a devil costume. Whoever the fuck read your mind, they prolly had a heart attack.”
“It’s just so much. Like, I hear breathing, and blood, and heartbeats, and every little sound everybody makes, every sound passing by. Then there’s touch, and scent, and some fucking sonar and radar shit. A billion crazy sensory inputs, all the time. It’s a fucking nightmare of overstimulation.”
“You’re a hot mess, dude. We’re hot mess bros.”
“And I have a shit-ton of guilt,” he repeated, almost under his breath, as if it was the only answer he could muster.
“Amen, brother,” Clint called out loudly, though he wasn’t sure of who he was addressing. His own voice seemed ear-splittingly noisy. He wondered if this was what crying babies felt like. “I—I love you, bro.”
After his outburst, Matt seemed dangerously close to sobbing. Through teary eyes, he got out, “Love you too, man.”
Clint had always been a sappy drunk, but he hadn’t expected Matt to be so emotional. Even in this state, he knew that they’d regret this in the morning. “I—I feel like I’ve known you for long time.”
“For long time?”
“Looooong time” was the reply, just before Clint passed out. Right there on the floor.
At least, he thought that he passed out because everything went black for a minute. Then, his vision reappeared, and nothing seemed to have changed. “No pass?”
Matt, who was ranting to himself, stopped talking. “Huh?”
Clint concentrated hard on the words. “No pass out? Me?”
Matt didn’t say anything for a while. Then, he said, “We need to sober up.”
Just before blacking out for real this time, Clint said, “Definitely.”
-
In the morning, they did regret it. That was one thing Drunk Clint got right.
Clint cleared his throat. Matt looked up from his cereal. “Sorry about yesterday, man.”
“It’s fine,” Matt said tensely. “Listen, uh… you wouldn’t remember anything I said, would you?”
“No,” he said, but he knew that Matt picked up on the lie. It was impossible to get anything past him.
He sighed. “I’m sorry for unloading all that on you.”
Clint Barton might have been stupid, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the time to joke around, and when to be serious. This was clearly one of the serious times. “Don’t worry about it. I mean, it’s like you said. I kind of figured something was wrong up there—” he gestured towards his own head— “what with the whole devil costume. But I didn’t know that you’re Catholic.”
“I am,” Matt said, ignoring the ‘something wrong up there’ comment.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“…Being Catholic?”
“No, idiot. Feeling guilty. It might do you some good to let it out, but if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”
Matt sighed, rubbing his temples. “I have the worst hangover.”
Clint didn’t say anything.
After what seemed like an eternity, Matt said, “It’s just… a lot of anger.”
Clint waited for him to continue.
“I’m angry all the time,” he said again. He was speaking faster now, like the words were torn from him. “Everyone I love betrays me, except Foggy. He’s the only… the only good thing I have. He’s all I have left to lose, and every single day, I’m worried that someone will take out their problems with me on him. Except for him, I can’t tell anyone who I really am, and everyone who sees me treats me like I’m helpless.” He pressed his fingers to his temples. “Worse of all, I’ll never get absolved of sin because I can’t tell anyone what I do.”
His breathing a ragged rhythm, Matt said, “I can’t remember what it was like to be normal.”
“You don’t have to be normal,” Clint said quietly. “None of us do.”
“I wish I was.”
Rather than offering empty words, he just stood up and walked around to place his hands on Matt’s shoulders, offering him nothing but raw empathy. Matt was shaking, and Clint stood there, supporting him in silence. For countless nights, he’d sat on the bathroom floor at midnight, raging at the universe for taking Natasha from him, for taking Tony. He knew what it was like to fear that someone would attack his family to hurt him, and it was a fear that would never go away no matter how carefully he protected them, hid them from the world.
It didn’t ease the pain, but it was comforting to know that Matt felt the same, and Clint would do whatever he could to help him in return for how much Matt had helped him. All the times he stitched him up, let him stay at his house without questioning him, offered him comfort after a mission went wrong; Clint would never be able to pay him back fully for being the only true friend he knew anymore.
When Matt had calmed down, Clint walked back to sit across from him again.
“Thank you, Clint.”
“Don’t mention it.” He tried for a bad joke. “If I wasn’t around, who knows what you might do to yourself?”
Matt gave a watery smile. “I’d spend a lot less time pulling Avengers out of dumpsters.”
“Excuse me, you are lucky that you get to pull an Avenger out of a dumpster on a regular basis.” Clint sobered up. “Though I’m not sure the Avengers are even a thing anymore. Without Tony and…” he trailed off.
Matt understood the name he was leaving unsaid. “I’m sorry.”
“She liked you, you know,” Clint said, his throat thick. “She always spoke of you nicely.”
“Nicely?”
“Well, nicer than her other exes,” he amended. “She really thought of you as a friend. She would have been really happy to see that you and Foggy finally got your shit together.”
They sat together in solidarity, two people who didn’t really have much in common other than their disabilities and their love for Natasha Romanova. Clint was sure that Natasha, wherever she was now, was finding the whole thing hilarious as fuck.
“Clint?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re welcome to come over whenever you want.”
Clint smiled proudly. “I wore you down.”
Matt couldn’t help but smile as well. “Well, I may be slightly fond of you.”
“That’s just another word for love,” Clint said, and in the space between them, he could hear a silent maybe it is.