Work Text:
Clint Barton's body carries a lot of scars, telling the tale of a wild, adventurous life. They are too many to count, that's what he's telling himself and why he never tries it, but he knows where he got most of them. He doesn’t count all of his scars, only the important ones.
The one from the iron fence of the orphanage he was pushed in, three days after he and his brother got there. It had bled like crazy, and Clint mostly remembers the helpless feeling of pain and humiliation and, worst of all, the helplessness as he sat on the gravel, blood staining his pants dark, while his brother tried to defend him and got beaten up for it.
It had been one of the few times Barney had stood up for him, which makes the pale silver line on the back of his thigh so special. It's a physical reminder that there was a time when Clint had a real family.
There's the usual collection of bullet holes and knife wounds across his body, whip marks and scars from rough hemp rope wound too tight around his wrists and ankles. There's the ragged line along his upper arm - growing up in the circus isn't as fun and wildly romantic as it sounds like, but hard work - and there's all kinds of missions gone wrong that left their marks on him.
There's a round scar on his upper thigh, where Phil shot him, and if Clint learned anything from that one, it's that even people who are on his side, people who swore to protect him, sometimes hurt him.
It's not Phil's fault, he knows that. Phil was running a fever and had just fought his way out of the hands of a drug lord when Clint stumbled over him, and Phil reacted on instinct alone as he lifted the gun and squeezed the trigger.
It's probably a good thing he was running a fever at the time, his hands shaking badly enough that the bullet only hit Clint in the thigh and far away from anything vital, except maybe his balls, but Phil didn't hit those and all was good.
And then, Phillip Coulson died in an attack on the Helicarrier led by Clint himself, and his death left a deep, gaping wound in a place where nobody can see it.
He tried to get over it. He tried to settle in with the Avengers, with a new team and a new SHIELD liaison and new responsibilities, tried to do right by Pepper-the-cat, because he knows it's not the cat's fault Phil got himself killed. He tried so hard, going on with his life because he knows Phil would want him to, and then, Phil comes back.
It's like ripping fresh stitches, skin gaping open and blood rushing out without him being able to do anything about it. He tries to curl up and press his hands against his chest, but it doesn't help at all.
He doesn't know how much time passes. It's dark in his room, and he's curled up in the corner of his bedroom, unable to move.
When something soft and small comes close on almost silent paws, he reacts on instinct, and before he can stop himself he lashes out. The edge of his palm strikes against something, and then, a burning pain races along his nerve endings.
It abruptly clears his mind, and the awareness of what he's done fills him with horror and a sickening roll of his stomach.
"Pepper," he whispers and shifts. His knees ache, and his voice is rough, and he isn't surprised that she doesn't react. He just hit her, after all. "Damn it," he curses. "JARVIS, lights."
The lights slowly come on, slow enough for Clint's eyes to get used to it. The first thing he sees is Pepper, crouched low under the bed, her ears pressed flat against her skull.
"Pepper," he whispers, forcing himself to stay still. "I'm sorry, girl. I didn't mean to..."
Her eyes follow him as he shifts, but she stays under the bed, clearly not trusting him to get close as long as she doesn't know how he's going to react, and she's right, Clint thinks, even if it makes his eyes burn.
No matter how much they play, she and him, she's always careful with her claws, and until now, she was the only thing in his life that has never hurt him.
Everybody else did.
His parents - the less said the better. Clint remembers very little of them, and what he does, he keeps to himself. He doesn't think very many people are interested in his vague recollections of screaming and crying and getting hit with whatever was close.
His brother betrayed and left him before Clint was even of age.
Trickshot, the man who trained him and taught him everything about a bow, tried to kill him in the end and left him for dead.
Natasha, his best friend, did more damage to him in friendly sparring matches than some of his enemies, and some of the scars on his body are directly Natasha-related. He still loves her like the sister he never had, but there is no doubt that she is dangerous, even to her friends.
And then, there's Phil.
Phil, who died and came back, who shot Clint when Clint tried to save him from that drug lord, who slammed a knife into Clint's shoulder once to recruit him to SHIELD and save his life at the same time.
He collapses back into the corner and blindly stares at his hand. Red, angry lines cross the back of it, blood welling up with a sharp, angry burn. It hurts, more than it should, especially when compared to all the other injuries Clint has ever suffered in his line of work.
On top of it, he feels horrible. He never meant to strike out at Pepper and he doesn't understand how it happened and why he did it. He doesn't want to be the kind of guy who hits others, animals and people, without a damn good reason, and the ease which it happened with scares him.
Maybe he's more broken than he thought, maybe it's Loki's fault. Maybe being under Loki's control changed something in him, or maybe it just released something that has always been there.
Maybe he is his father's son, after all.
The thought spurs him into action. He never wanted to be his father, not after all the things he figured out years later, when his brother left him. He's going to fight this with all the strength he has, until his dying breath.
He never wants to end up like that.
A bowl of kibble and some treats lure Pepper out of her hiding place. It takes some patience, but Clint is a sniper, he has patience when he needs it. He pets her, long slow strokes down her spine and over her sides while she empties the bowl, kibble crunching between her sharp teeth.
She lets him. He figures she forgives him.
Clint is so relieved, he almost cries. He keeps on petting her, scratches gently behind her ears and under her chin until she starts purring and climbs into his lap, and then he holds her, his whole body trembling while he breathes in the familiar smell of her fur.
He doesn't know why she came back to him and didn't stick with Phil. Pepper has always been Phil's cat, even during the time when Phil was dead, never Clint's. Now Phil is back, but Pepper apparently doesn't care enough to abandon Clint completely.
He's strangely relieved about it; relieved and spiteful.
He's the one who took care of her, and Phil is the one who left her, who left them and abandoned them.
And now, Phil is back, and Clint still doesn't know what to do with that.
One thing is sure - he can't forgive and forget as easily as Pepper apparently did, when she greeted Phil so readily when he stepped into the room. He can't forget the sharp pain in his chest caused by the knowledge that Phil was gone and it was all Clint's fault. It's not just a game to him.
This is serious. Deadly serious, even.
"What am I supposed to do?" he asks Pepper, who butts her head against his chin and jumps out of his arms to stretch and curl up on his bed.
"Sleep? You think I should sleep over it. Probably a good plan," he agrees and goes to brush his teeth and wash his face.
He leaves the scratches on his hand alone. The blood already dried, and he feels like he deserves the pain he feels every single time he balls his hand up into a fist.
It's a reminder. He's not sure exactly of what, but he will figure it out sooner or later.
***
As long as he doesn't know how to react to Phil being alive, he does his damn best to stay out of the man's way. Pepper-the-cat comes into his bedroom every night when he goes to bed, curls up with him and waits until he's asleep.
She's there when he wakes up during the night, heart racing and sweat drenching his clothes, the remnants of nightmares choking him, but when it's morning, she's gone, probably back to Phil.
Phil has an office in the Tower now. Clint only knows because Tony told him. It's just his luck that the Avengers didn't have to assemble, because he doesn't know if he could work with Phil now. Maybe he could, but he doesn’t know for sure.
He just doesn't know, and he doesn't know where or how he should start trying to figure this out.
***
"We need to talk." Steve sits down opposite Clint, his face so damn earnest it makes Clint's heart ache. He can't remember ever being so earnest in his whole life.
"What about?" he asks. He doesn't have a good feeling about the whole situation, but something about Steve makes him unable to get up and say something hurtful before storming off. Maybe it's the years of being with Phil and living with his hero worship that has rubbed off on Clint. He doesn't know.
"About Coulson." And there it is. Clint flinches and hunches his shoulders.
"All I need to know is - can you work with him? Can you go ahead and listen to his orders, and can you go in and give your report to him, or do we need to figure out an alternative solution?" Steve asks, his voice firm and even. He’s not just Steve right now, he’s Captain America, the guy who gives Clint his orders in the field.
The guy Clint doesn’t want to disappoint, for whatever reason - because Steve is a good guy, because Steve doesn’t deserve to be disappointed, because Steve is Phil’s great idol and Clint is maybe not quite over the whole thing.
Screw that, he’s definitely not over Phil. How could he be over that, of the one long-term relationship that survived for so long?
"Sure," Clint mutters. He doesn't look up at Steve. "I can do that."
"You sure?"
Clint has to think about it for a moment longer.
"I do," he then says, his voice calm and sure. He's a professional. He can handle seeing Coulson in a professional capacity.
It's like having an ex-wife. The thought comes unbidden, but once it's there, it won't leave again. They share custody of the kid, only instead of having her on the weekends, Clint has her in the evenings and Phil has her for the rest of the day.
It’s another scar on his heart, but one he is starting to learn to live with.
“I can do it,” he tells Steve, and he believes it.
Under the table, he can feel soft fur rub against his legs, as if Pepper approves of his response.
As if Phil would approve of his professionalism. Phil, who hasn’t once tried to talk to Clint, hasn’t sought him out, hasn’t done a single damn thing to make sure Clint was okay.
Clint balls his hand into a fist, the healing skin of the scratches stretching with a twinge.
He can be civil with Phil, if he has to be.
It doesn’t mean he has to spend any of his free time with him. It’s easy as that.
Just another scar.
Clint has a lot of scars. He knows his way around them, and he knows that most of them sooner or later will stop hurting. They will fade with age, and some will even disappear completely.
He hopes that his Phil-scar is one of those.
He should know better.
~end