{Fic} Betrayed the Body (1/1) | MCU | Gen
Title: Betrayed the Body (also on AO3)
By enmuse
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Characters: Tony Stark, Clint Barton, J.A.R.V.I.S.
Rating: Mature
Word Count:~1500
Warnings: Depression, unadvised alcohol consumption, alluded to suicidal ideation.
Summary: He isn't good at this. He understands the exhaustion, the defeat, in the lines of Stark's body, but Clint doesn't voice this sort of thing. His S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist still won't clear him for field ops.
Notes: Inspired by Anne Sexton's Wanting to Die, written in response to likewinning's prompt on comment_fic.
He paints a sorry picture, sitting there in the corner of the dark room, slumped back in a chair designed for aesthetics, not comfort. The windows are tinted nearly opaque, only the muted spots of the evening city lights showing through like a hazy night. The brightest light comes from the center of Stark's chest, the arc reactor partially revealed under his half-unbuttoned shirt. He looks gaunt and ghostly, underlit by the blue glow.
He doesn't look up as he says, "Come to stare? Come to lecture?" His voice sounds empty. He rolls a thick bottle of something against his thigh, looking almost too tired to lift it to his lips. He smells strongly enough of alcohol, though, to put that hope to rest.
"Sir, I thought it prudent-"
"Shut it, J." Stark says it without heat, sounding bone-weary. He still doesn't look up, does not show any sign of recognizing who his visitor is. "You should go," he tells the intruder. "Nothing's going to happen. Give me a half hour and I'll go sleep it off. It's fine. I'll be fine."
"No, you won't."
Stark's head jerks up and despite the dim lighting, it is clear that his eyes are attempting to focus. He frowns, squinting into the dark. "What are you doing here?" he asks gruffly.
Clint exhales sharply through his nose. He tells his fingers to uncurl from fists at his sides. There is no physical fight to engage. That would be easier.
"I moved in, if you don't remember," Clint says, for lack of anything better.
Stark snorts and tips his head forward again. "It's been a long time since I got drunk enough to forget any... anything," he finishes on a mutter.
Clint crosses his arms over his chest, feeling twitchy and uncertain. He isn't good at this. He understands the exhaustion, the defeat, in the lines of Stark's body, but Clint doesn't voice this sort of thing. His S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist still won't clear him for field ops.
"Get out, Barton." Stark sounds as if the hint of heat in the order takes all his energy.
"So you can pass out and choke to death on your own vomit?" he snaps, fingers clenching against his biceps.
"JARVIS will call if there's an emergency," Stark counters as he drops his head back against his chair.
"He already called," Clint says.
Stark waves halfheartedly with his hand holding the bottle. Clint barely hears the slosh of liquid; he wonders how full it was at the start. "Overreaction."
Clint moves a little closer, stepping down into the sunken living room. His eyes catch on what looks like an orange little bottle sitting next to one of the chair legs. "I don't think so," he says quietly.
Stark makes a little hum of disinterest and lifts the bottle to his lips. "Give me a night," he mutters, an edge to his voice despite the low tone.
"How many nights?" Clint returns. "How many pills?" he continues sharply. Stark lifts his head and frowns. Clint unfolds his arms to jab a finger toward the pill bottle on the floor. "How many?"
Stark rocks forward and seems to stare at the bottle for a long minute. Eventually he chuckles, low and bitter. He gives an uncoordinated kick to the bottle and the orange cylinder tips and rolls a couple inches, pills rattling inside. "None, asshole," Stark says.
"Sir has not consumed any medication," JARVIS contributes. "Yet."
Stark is unexpectedly silent after that. He slumps further forward, forearms on his thighs. A minute later his fingers loosen around the bottle and it thuds onto the carpet. In a low voice Stark begins speaking and Clint surreptitiously adjusts the volume of his hearing aides.
"It's ridiculous, of course it is. Billionaire, genius, more second chances than anyone deserves, somehow earned the title of hero. Work to do and people to talk to. Nosy fucking AIs in need of reprogramming. Castle in the fucking clouds."
"It doesn't work like that," Clint blurts out, his interruption unplanned. Stark stills but doesn't look up. Clint grimaces and rubs a hand over his face. "Doesn't matter if your life's good or bad if your head is fucked up."
"Watch who's talking, birdbrain," Stark mutters.
"I know!" Clint snaps, crossing his arms again, pressing tightly against his chest.
Stark shakes his head, chin dipping forward a little more. "Give me a night," he repeats. "It'll pass."
"Until the next time," Clint says, throat tight.
"What are you looking for here?" Stark demands wearily. "Something to report to your handlers? To Captain fucking perfect?"
"No," Clint's voice raises in volume, "I want to know why you're sitting in the dark alone!"
Stark doesn't say anything for a while after the outburst. Clint stands there, heart pounding heavily in his chest in a way it never does when he's in the field and the mission all comes down to his one opportunity to shoot. He doesn't do this, doesn't interfere in someone else's breakdown.
Eventually Stark mutters, "What the hell else would I do?"
Clint takes a shuddering breath and tries to get his body to relax. He feels his shoulders slowly ease from their hunched position. "In normal circumstances I'd drag you to a bar or bring over a six pack and cheesy monster movies," he says.
What might be a laugh escapes Stark in a huff. He flops his hand in the vague direction of his dropped bottle.
"Yeah, you don't need anything else," Clint says. He looks at Stark's blue-lined features and feels a sick twist in his gut at how ghost-like the man looks. Clint turns away, gaze sweeping the room searching for inspiration as much as an excuse to look away from the chilling image.
"Go," Stark says on a sigh.
Clint walks away from Stark, not towards the elevator, but further into the living room. "JARVIS, queue up Plan 9 From Outer Space."
"What are you doing?" Stark asks.
"Watching a movie," Clint replies as the television screen flickers on, almost painfully bright in the dark room. Clint drops onto the couch and leans back, coaxing his muscles to relax. "Your screen's bigger than mine."
Stark doesn't say anything for a long time.
Clint keeps his gaze fixed on the screen, though he barely recognizes the images showing in black and white. With careful effort he keeps his breathing steady and relaxes his arms along the back of the couch.
He isn't sure how long it takes for Stark to move. Eventually Clint hears the shift of clothing and the bumps of various body parts knocking into furniture. He stares intently at the television, resisting the urge to get up and support the other man. Stark appears in Clint's peripheral vision; his shoulders are hunched and his arms hover away from his body awkwardly as he wavers on his feet. When Stark sits, it's more of a fall onto the couch. He lands hard, Clint able to feel the bounce against the cushion. Stark immediately drops his head against the back of the couch, coincidentally knocking against Clint's stretched arm. Stark grunts but merely shifts his head to a position that presumably is more comfortable.
They don't speak, Clint can feel how tense Stark gets any time the archer takes a little deeper breath, a potential precursor to speech. So Clint doesn't say anything.
Later - much later, after Stark dozes fitfully, starting awake with half-finished pleas on his lips - Clint lets one arm drape over Stark's shoulders. Clint doesn't say anything except to murmur the occasional reassurance during Stark's partially lucid nightmares. During one of the times he nodded off, Stark's head dropped against the archer's shoulder. Even when he wakes, Stark remains where he is and doesn't comment on the arm half-embracing him.
Even later, as Stark shuffles about the kitchen preparing coffee after shoving Clint towards a stool at the breakfast bar, Stark mutters something under his breath. Clint can't make out the mumble and frowns to himself. Before he can ask if it's something he's supposed to hear, Stark speaks up.
"You stayed."
Clint shrugs, careful to keep his movements and voice casual as he responds. "You didn't kick me out." He admits, "I'm kind of surprised."
Stark stands in front of the percolating coffee machine, pushing an empty mug back and forth with one finger. His posture's defensive again and it looks like he can't quite decide if it's better to have his back to or face Clint.
The kitchen remains silent except for the sound of the coffee machine for some time.
Eventually Clint says, "Next time, pull up a movie and call me. Or have JARVIS hit me up."
Stark's fingers curl into a fist against the counter. "It was ju-"
"Next time," Clint says firmly, "I'll call you for absurd fighting games with gravity-defying boobs and ludicrous voice-overs."
"I don't-"
Clint continues to talk over him, "And I'll expect you to show up unless you're halfway across the world or doing something for that CEO of yours."
He can see when Stark gets it. The other man's head comes up suddenly and he turns to look at Clint questioningly.
Holding Stark's gaze, Clint says, "So next time, I call you. Next time, you call me."
Stark doesn't agree, but he doesn't look away.
-Fin-
By enmuse
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Characters: Tony Stark, Clint Barton, J.A.R.V.I.S.
Rating: Mature
Word Count:~1500
Warnings: Depression, unadvised alcohol consumption, alluded to suicidal ideation.
Summary: He isn't good at this. He understands the exhaustion, the defeat, in the lines of Stark's body, but Clint doesn't voice this sort of thing. His S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist still won't clear him for field ops.
Notes: Inspired by Anne Sexton's Wanting to Die, written in response to likewinning's prompt on comment_fic.
He paints a sorry picture, sitting there in the corner of the dark room, slumped back in a chair designed for aesthetics, not comfort. The windows are tinted nearly opaque, only the muted spots of the evening city lights showing through like a hazy night. The brightest light comes from the center of Stark's chest, the arc reactor partially revealed under his half-unbuttoned shirt. He looks gaunt and ghostly, underlit by the blue glow.
He doesn't look up as he says, "Come to stare? Come to lecture?" His voice sounds empty. He rolls a thick bottle of something against his thigh, looking almost too tired to lift it to his lips. He smells strongly enough of alcohol, though, to put that hope to rest.
"Sir, I thought it prudent-"
"Shut it, J." Stark says it without heat, sounding bone-weary. He still doesn't look up, does not show any sign of recognizing who his visitor is. "You should go," he tells the intruder. "Nothing's going to happen. Give me a half hour and I'll go sleep it off. It's fine. I'll be fine."
"No, you won't."
Stark's head jerks up and despite the dim lighting, it is clear that his eyes are attempting to focus. He frowns, squinting into the dark. "What are you doing here?" he asks gruffly.
Clint exhales sharply through his nose. He tells his fingers to uncurl from fists at his sides. There is no physical fight to engage. That would be easier.
"I moved in, if you don't remember," Clint says, for lack of anything better.
Stark snorts and tips his head forward again. "It's been a long time since I got drunk enough to forget any... anything," he finishes on a mutter.
Clint crosses his arms over his chest, feeling twitchy and uncertain. He isn't good at this. He understands the exhaustion, the defeat, in the lines of Stark's body, but Clint doesn't voice this sort of thing. His S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist still won't clear him for field ops.
"Get out, Barton." Stark sounds as if the hint of heat in the order takes all his energy.
"So you can pass out and choke to death on your own vomit?" he snaps, fingers clenching against his biceps.
"JARVIS will call if there's an emergency," Stark counters as he drops his head back against his chair.
"He already called," Clint says.
Stark waves halfheartedly with his hand holding the bottle. Clint barely hears the slosh of liquid; he wonders how full it was at the start. "Overreaction."
Clint moves a little closer, stepping down into the sunken living room. His eyes catch on what looks like an orange little bottle sitting next to one of the chair legs. "I don't think so," he says quietly.
Stark makes a little hum of disinterest and lifts the bottle to his lips. "Give me a night," he mutters, an edge to his voice despite the low tone.
"How many nights?" Clint returns. "How many pills?" he continues sharply. Stark lifts his head and frowns. Clint unfolds his arms to jab a finger toward the pill bottle on the floor. "How many?"
Stark rocks forward and seems to stare at the bottle for a long minute. Eventually he chuckles, low and bitter. He gives an uncoordinated kick to the bottle and the orange cylinder tips and rolls a couple inches, pills rattling inside. "None, asshole," Stark says.
"Sir has not consumed any medication," JARVIS contributes. "Yet."
Stark is unexpectedly silent after that. He slumps further forward, forearms on his thighs. A minute later his fingers loosen around the bottle and it thuds onto the carpet. In a low voice Stark begins speaking and Clint surreptitiously adjusts the volume of his hearing aides.
"It's ridiculous, of course it is. Billionaire, genius, more second chances than anyone deserves, somehow earned the title of hero. Work to do and people to talk to. Nosy fucking AIs in need of reprogramming. Castle in the fucking clouds."
"It doesn't work like that," Clint blurts out, his interruption unplanned. Stark stills but doesn't look up. Clint grimaces and rubs a hand over his face. "Doesn't matter if your life's good or bad if your head is fucked up."
"Watch who's talking, birdbrain," Stark mutters.
"I know!" Clint snaps, crossing his arms again, pressing tightly against his chest.
Stark shakes his head, chin dipping forward a little more. "Give me a night," he repeats. "It'll pass."
"Until the next time," Clint says, throat tight.
"What are you looking for here?" Stark demands wearily. "Something to report to your handlers? To Captain fucking perfect?"
"No," Clint's voice raises in volume, "I want to know why you're sitting in the dark alone!"
Stark doesn't say anything for a while after the outburst. Clint stands there, heart pounding heavily in his chest in a way it never does when he's in the field and the mission all comes down to his one opportunity to shoot. He doesn't do this, doesn't interfere in someone else's breakdown.
Eventually Stark mutters, "What the hell else would I do?"
Clint takes a shuddering breath and tries to get his body to relax. He feels his shoulders slowly ease from their hunched position. "In normal circumstances I'd drag you to a bar or bring over a six pack and cheesy monster movies," he says.
What might be a laugh escapes Stark in a huff. He flops his hand in the vague direction of his dropped bottle.
"Yeah, you don't need anything else," Clint says. He looks at Stark's blue-lined features and feels a sick twist in his gut at how ghost-like the man looks. Clint turns away, gaze sweeping the room searching for inspiration as much as an excuse to look away from the chilling image.
"Go," Stark says on a sigh.
Clint walks away from Stark, not towards the elevator, but further into the living room. "JARVIS, queue up Plan 9 From Outer Space."
"What are you doing?" Stark asks.
"Watching a movie," Clint replies as the television screen flickers on, almost painfully bright in the dark room. Clint drops onto the couch and leans back, coaxing his muscles to relax. "Your screen's bigger than mine."
Stark doesn't say anything for a long time.
Clint keeps his gaze fixed on the screen, though he barely recognizes the images showing in black and white. With careful effort he keeps his breathing steady and relaxes his arms along the back of the couch.
He isn't sure how long it takes for Stark to move. Eventually Clint hears the shift of clothing and the bumps of various body parts knocking into furniture. He stares intently at the television, resisting the urge to get up and support the other man. Stark appears in Clint's peripheral vision; his shoulders are hunched and his arms hover away from his body awkwardly as he wavers on his feet. When Stark sits, it's more of a fall onto the couch. He lands hard, Clint able to feel the bounce against the cushion. Stark immediately drops his head against the back of the couch, coincidentally knocking against Clint's stretched arm. Stark grunts but merely shifts his head to a position that presumably is more comfortable.
They don't speak, Clint can feel how tense Stark gets any time the archer takes a little deeper breath, a potential precursor to speech. So Clint doesn't say anything.
Later - much later, after Stark dozes fitfully, starting awake with half-finished pleas on his lips - Clint lets one arm drape over Stark's shoulders. Clint doesn't say anything except to murmur the occasional reassurance during Stark's partially lucid nightmares. During one of the times he nodded off, Stark's head dropped against the archer's shoulder. Even when he wakes, Stark remains where he is and doesn't comment on the arm half-embracing him.
Even later, as Stark shuffles about the kitchen preparing coffee after shoving Clint towards a stool at the breakfast bar, Stark mutters something under his breath. Clint can't make out the mumble and frowns to himself. Before he can ask if it's something he's supposed to hear, Stark speaks up.
"You stayed."
Clint shrugs, careful to keep his movements and voice casual as he responds. "You didn't kick me out." He admits, "I'm kind of surprised."
Stark stands in front of the percolating coffee machine, pushing an empty mug back and forth with one finger. His posture's defensive again and it looks like he can't quite decide if it's better to have his back to or face Clint.
The kitchen remains silent except for the sound of the coffee machine for some time.
Eventually Clint says, "Next time, pull up a movie and call me. Or have JARVIS hit me up."
Stark's fingers curl into a fist against the counter. "It was ju-"
"Next time," Clint says firmly, "I'll call you for absurd fighting games with gravity-defying boobs and ludicrous voice-overs."
"I don't-"
Clint continues to talk over him, "And I'll expect you to show up unless you're halfway across the world or doing something for that CEO of yours."
He can see when Stark gets it. The other man's head comes up suddenly and he turns to look at Clint questioningly.
Holding Stark's gaze, Clint says, "So next time, I call you. Next time, you call me."
Stark doesn't agree, but he doesn't look away.
-Fin-