By the Way: Scars and Souvenirs
Title: By The Way: Scars and Souvenirs
Universe: the Marvel Universe
Pairing: Johnny Storm/Clint Barton
Rating: mature. language and implied sexual situations between two smoking hot men
Word Count: 4473
Disclaimer: i own nothing in this story beyond the plot. the characters contained within belong to Marvel. i'm just borrowing and i will put them back one day. not sure when but i will. i'm not making any money off this.
Author's Note: the first line of this popped into my head and i couldn't make it go away. so there you go.
"Damn it," Johnny whispered, vision blurred by tears he refused to let fall. "Don't do this to me, you stupid son of a bitch. You can't go. You just can't."
The stupid son of a bitch in question never said a word. Not that Johnny expected him to. There was no way Clint could respond. "God damn it, Clint. Don't you dare leave me."
Such a thing was always a possibility. Such was the life of a superhero. And for one that didn't actually have a superpower... Well, those odds were doubled. Johnny had always known that it was possible Clint would get hurt on a mission. Part of the job. He'd nearly been injured more than once himself. Came with the territory, he supposed. But knowing that something like that could happen and actually having it happen were two entirely different things. So when Clint had left with the rest of the Avengers for some crisis in Europe last week, Johnny hadn't thought anything of it.
And then the reports had started coming in. There'd been reports on the news. Reports that Reed had put together. Hell, even S.H.I.E.L.D. had put out a few themselves. And none of them had sounded good. Even worse had been the images that had come with. Death and destruction. Whole towns and villages destroyed in the carnage. Bodies piled up, bloody and broken, like a child's forgotten play things. Some unseen, unknown, unnamed evil entity or some shit that was tearing a path of horror across Europe and leaving nothing but wreckage and blood in its wake. Each new picture had seen Johnny's heart squeezing down just a little tighter until it felt like the organ would shatter with the next beat. Each image of terror had frozen his lungs until he'd thought he would pass out or die.
Clint was trying to fight that?
Johnny had gone to Reed, demanded to know why they weren't in Europe with the Avengers. He'd gotten some bullshit explanation that had gone at length. The Four had to stay in New York and keep an eye on things. The Avengers didn't want anyone else caught up in this mess. Orders were coming down the line that told them not to attempt any kind of mission. It was all total crap. All of it. The X-Men could handle New York. The Avengers needed them. Clint needed him.
It had been Sue who had talked him into doing something stupid. Something like flying to Europe and lending a hand. She'd convinced Johnny to stay in New York, that the Avengers wouldn't appreciate it if he got in their way. Because they'd told everyone else they could handle it. Steve and Tony, she'd told him, had been sure. So he'd stayed. And he'd waited. And he'd worried.
The news had finally come last night that it was over. The thing tearing up Europe had been dealt with and the Avengers were on their way home. So Johnny had made sure that their house had been clean, that their bed had been made with new sheets. That beer had been chilling in the fridge and that steaks had been ready for the grill. All that he'd needed to complete the picture was Clint coming through the door.
The ringing of the phone had sounded almost wrong in the silence of the house. It had been a strident, dirty sound that had sent fingers of dread shivering down Johnny's spine. He'd answered it slowly. Apprehensively. Because he'd known. Somehow, some way, he'd known. But he'd picked up the receiver all the same, tried for normal when he'd said his greeting. Had felt his knees start to shake the moment he'd heard Steve's voice, soft and tense and pull of pain, on the other end of the line. "Johnny. Its Clint... There was an accident."
Johnny glanced down at Clint's face and clenched his jaw, working hard at keeping his anger from spilling over. This didn't look like an accident and he wanted to rage at Steve and Tony for letting it happen. Which was stupid, because Clint was an adult. He knew what he was getting himself into every time he put on his Hawkeye costume and went out the door. The others were in as much danger of getting hurt as Clint was. But Tony and Steve weren't Clint and Clint didn't have powers and Johnny was so afraid of losing him and his heart just ached as he stared at the other man and he wanted to cry because...
Clint could have died.
Half of Clint's face was nothing but a swollen bruise, shifting in color from the faintest yellow at the outer edges to a ring of pustulant green to brown to blue to purple to black and, in the very center, bright red. The bruise started at the edge of his nose and flowed down over his face, hiding an eye behind a puffy lid. The top of it ended in his hair while the bottom edge ran down under his cheek. It looked like someone had taken a sledge hammer to his him. How the bones underneath weren't shattered was something Johnny couldn't figure out. The other side of his face, the one that hadn't been bashed, sported a long gash that was held shut with tiny, neat, terribly precise stitches. Dried blood crusted and matted his hair down, turning golden strands deep, rusty brown.
The medical staff had put him in a pair of pajama bottoms, leaving his torso uncovered except for the bandages that banded his ribs. Six of those had been broken and the bruising that leaked out from under the support bandaging was almost as black as the one on his face. There were scrapes and scratches, each ringed in red, that dribbled more bruises up and down his arm, across his shoulders. There were cuts, some shallow like an after thought while others were deep enough to have required stitches.
And he'd discovered, after one of the nurses had come in to check his vitals and IVs, that Clint had some kind of wound in his thigh. The bandages that covered it ate up nearly half of his thigh and there'd been crimson flecking the pristine white of the gauze. Whatever the Avengers had fought... It had nearly killed him.
The monitor beeped at him, slow and steady, echoing through the silent room. Clint's heart beat so slowly. Johnny kept telling himself it was the pain killers that the doctor was pumping into his lover's veins. There was no way Clint could have sustained such damage and not be in pain.
Heaving a sigh, Johnny put his elbows on his knees and bent over so he could run his hands through his hair. He'd been at Clint's side all day and, in all that time, hadn't seen one flicker of life from the other man. Again, it had to be the drugs. Sleep was best for him. It would help him heal up and get stronger. But that didn't stop Johnny's heart from catching in his throat every time Clint's breath came short and fast, afraid that the next breath would be one a choking one as the other man gasped for air. God, he couldn't lose him. He didn't think he'd be able to live without him.
This must have been how Clint had felt that one Christmas, when Johnny'd walked away from him after a stupid fight. So lost and powerless. Johnny hadn't really believed in Clint's depth of emotion until that day, when he'd come back and found the other man passed out on the couch. Until he'd seen the letter Clint had written him. A letter, Johnny had no doubt, he was never supposed to have seen. What was he going to do if Clint didn't pull through this? Who was he without the man he loved at his side? Without the man who loved him? How could he go on?
A hand on his shoulder pulled him from those morbid thoughts. He lifted his head and stared, almost uncomprehending, at the fuzzy face before him. Then he realized that he was crying and angrily wiped the tears from his eyes. Steve was staring at him with deep compassion and concern. Tony was a few feet behind him. Both men looked stressed and tired. "Come on, Johnny. Let's go get something to eat," Steve coaxed, head motioning for the door.
Johnny shook his head and turned back to the bed. Clint hadn't moved. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry. And I want to be here when he wakes up."
Steve sighed, the sound drawing Johnny's attention to the other man's face once again. The look Rogers wore wasn't a good one. "Johnny... Clint's in a coma and... When he hit his head... The doctors think..." Every sentence trailed off, as if Steve couldn't bring himself to finish them. Tony closed the distance and laid a hand on the taller blonde's shoulder.
"The doctors think its a temporary thing, but they won't say for sure. They're being cautiously optimistic," Tony told him, a snort of disbelief at the end letting Johnny know what he thought of that statement. "He needs to rest to get better. And you need to eat. He'll kill us if we don't take care of you for him."
"I should stay here," Johnny shook his head again.
"Go," Tony insisted. One hand dipped into his pocket and came out with a slim cell phone. "If he shows any signs of waking, I'll call Steve and let him know. Just go. You need to eat. You need to rest. You need to be clear headed."
Johnny really didn't want to go. He wanted to sit there and hold Clint's hand, but he didn't dare touch him for making him hurt any more than he already did. But he hadn't eaten since before the call last night. He hadn't slept since then. He was groggy and disoriented. Maybe food and something with caffeine in it wasn't such a bad idea. Heaving a sigh, he rose slowly to his feet and glanced down at Clint. Urged him silently to get better. Threatened just as silently that he'd kick the other man's ass if he didn't. Then he let Steve lead him from the quiet room out into the hall.
They ended up in the hospital's cafeteria, a tray in their hands as they picked fresh foods from the line. Johnny had a sneaking suspicion that the hospital was a S.H.I.E.l.L.D. facility in disguise. Some of the people he'd seen in the halls looked more like agents than physicians. After randomly picking up food he had no appetite for, Steve handed over a couple of bills at the register, then directed Johnny toward an empty table set off in a corner. Privacy was a good thing, so he went without complaint. They settled in their respective seats and Steve began lifting lids and unwrapping plastic that had been used over his meal.
"I'm sorry, Johnny," he said softly, fork in one hand. Johnny blinked and looked up at him.
"Why are you sorry? You didn't do this."
"You want to blame me anyway, though. I can tell," Steve said quietly. "He got hurt and we're at fault. Tony and I were supposed to take care of him for you and we failed. You blame me. You blame Tony."
"No," Johnny shook his head. "I don't. This isn't your fault."
"Johnny," Steve began, but Johnny held up a hand and stalled the other man's words.
"You're right. But only partially. At first, I wanted to lay the blame for all of this on your shoulders. I wanted it all to be your fault. But I can't blame you. Or Tony. No more than I can blame Clint. Because this is who he is. Hawkeye is who he is. He'd wither and die if he didn't get to be a hero." Johnny sighed and pulled the plastic off a roasted chicken breast. The smell hit his nose and made his stomach rumble with hunger. "I won't tell him to stop being who he is anymore than he would tell me to stop being who I am. I worry about him because he doesn't have any powers. But I have to trust that he knows what he's doing and that he can take care of himself."
Steve gave him a curious look. As if he didn't understand something.
"I love him." The statement was soft and quiet. And filled with everything that he felt about the other man. "I know most people think I'm some kind of vapid air head who runs from one bed to the next without thought for who I hurt or what I'm doing. But I'm not that person. Not anymore. Not since Clint fell in love with me. He accepts me for who I am. I can do no less than pay him the same respect in return."
Steve smiled, just a little bit, and took a drink of the juice he'd picked. "He loves you a lot, you know. He's lucky to have you."
Johnny smiled in return. "I'm lucky to have him."
~*~*~*~*~
A tug to his hand woke him from a light, fitful sleep. Of course, as he was coming to learn, sleeping in a chair didn't really allow for a decent night's sleep. Back stiff, he sat up straight and pulled his hand from Clint's so he could rub the back of his neck. Pick the sleep from his eyes. Rake his hair into another freaky and frightening style. He was practically living at the hospital, a small bag filled with his things hidden in the bathroom for when he needed a quick shower or he had to brush his teeth. He was starting to wonder if he'd ever get the kinks out of his spine.
It wasn't until he was halfway to the bathroom that he realized what had been odd about waking this time. His hand. It had been clasped in Clint's. Johnny was sure he'd fallen asleep with his arm across his chest. Stopping dead in his tracks, he turned to find familiar blue eyes staring at him. Staring at him. Johnny couldn't stop the small show of surprise when his brows went up, then he smiled and returned to his seat. Clint reached out and took his hand the moment he did so. "Hey."
"Hey," Johnny returned, voice suddenly hoarse. He wished he could claim disuse as his excuse like Clint could.
"You look like shit."
"You should see yourself," Johnny replied. Clint's grip on his hand tightened, silently letting him know that it was alright. Things were okay. Relief surged through Johnny, left him so weak that he wanted to sag in the chair so that everything could slide from his shoulders. Instead, he shot a frown at the man in the bed. "If you ever do this to me again, Barton, I swear to God, I'll kill you myself. You asshole!"
"Hey! I'm the one who got hurt!" Clint defended, though not quite as fervently as if he'd been fully healed.
"No shit! You're a dick!" Johnny snarled, frowning at him. Then the anger slid away as quickly as it had come and Johnny shook his head while the fear rose to the front again. "I've been out of my mind with worry for a week. I thought you were going to die! I thought I'd lost you. I... I can't do this again, Clint. I can't take this."
Clint frowned. "You're saying you want out?" The question was soft, totally lacking emotion. And all the deadlier for it. Then hand in his slid away and Johnny felt the loss to his soul.
"No, God damn it! That isn't what I'm saying. You're an even bigger idiot than I thought you were if you really believe that," Johnny snapped back. "No. I'm saying that you aren't allowed to get hurt again. Ever! You get hurt and I'll kick your ass myself."
Clint managed a cocky smile at that statement, despite the fact that bruises still painted his face with blossoms of sickly colors. Most of the swelling had gone down, but the bruises were still bright and vivid against his tanned skin. He needed a shave in the worst way but he'd finally gotten one of the staff to clean the blood from his hair so he almost looked human. "You'll try, Storm. I can kick your ass with my hands tied behind my back."
Johnny snorted at that. "I can fly. You can't."
Clint gave a slight shake of his head. "I can still kick your ass."
"You'll try." Johnny let the words trail off into nothing and simply stared at Clint. Drank his fill even though the marks had yet to fully go away. Some of them probably never would. Johnny took his hand back and used it to once again make a mess of his hair. Clint was silent. The air around them crackled with tension. Johnny's tension. No doubt Clint could feel something building. But he waited, just waited for the tension to break. As if everything was okay. As if he hadn't nearly given Johnny heart failure. As if... "You could have died, Clint."
The words came out on a whisper that sounded hoarse and raw. Clint sighed and shifted in the bed before finding the controls and raising it slightly. He cringed as the tenderness in his ribs twinged and pulled, but he said nothing. "I didn't."
"But you could've. How am I supposed to function without you?"
"Come on, Johnny. You know I--" he began, but fell silent when Johnny shot a glare at him.
"Damn it, Clint. Don't. You didn't see yourself a week ago. You've been unconscious for a full week! Just... It was so hard to sit here and watch you and not be able to do anything to make you feel better. I felt so helpless," Johnny admitted. "I didn't like it very much. And I can't do that again. Please don't make me go through that again, Clint."
"You think I wanted to put you through it?" Clint asked him. Johnny looked up and saw the emotions the other man would never admit to filling his eyes. "The last thought I had before going down was that I'd never see your face again. It hurt."
"Not as much as it hurt me to walk into this room and see you all beaten up and bruised. All I could think when I saw you laying there is 'This feeling must be what Clint was feeling when I walked out on him.' I hated it and I don't want to feel it again. I'm sorry I made you feel it."
"That's old news, Johnny." Clint waved one of his hands, just barely bringing it up off the bed to do so. "I'm just glad you're here. Waking up to your face is... I heard you talking to me. Knowing you'd be here when I woke up was what kept me going, John."
"I want to wake up to you every morning, Clint. You should know that by now," Johnny replied.
"So you still want this? After everything that's happened? You'll take me as I am, with all the scars and souvenirs of the job?"
"You know I will, dumb ass." Johnny told him.
"Come here." Clint reached for his hand and pulled. There wasn't as much strength behind it as usual. But Johnny went and leaned over the bed's rail so he could press a kiss to Clint's lips. Something soft and feather-light. Something that wouldn't hurt him. But even as he was trying to back away, Clint's free hand reached up and curled into Johnny's hair, held him in place so that the other man could deepen the kiss. Johnny sighed when Clint's tongue dipped into his mouth and danced along Johnny's.
This... This was what Johnny needed after two weeks of uncertainty, of waiting to see what would happen. He'd forgotten how Clint tasted, forgotten the smell of him. Forgotten the essence of him. Clint was all cool summer breezes and beer. Golden sunshine and healthy sweat. Masculinity with an underlying thread of vulnerability that he hid from the world. Sheer heaven. Divinity. Johnny's.
"I don't think this is what the doctor had in mind when he said Clint needed rest." Tony's voice, full of amusement, cut across their kiss and broke them apart. Johnny looked at Tony and felt the faint hint of a blush stain his cheeks.
"My idea, Tony." Clint replied without remorse.
"I guess that means you're feeling better. Glad to see you awake."
"Glad to be awake. Even if I feel like someone beat me with a sledge hammer."
"Thor was no where near you. You can't blame this on him."
Clint sighed and closed his eyes. "Damn. And I was looking forward to making him feel bad."
"Don't count on it. He's already planning a feast for when you're fully recovered. It wouldn't do to make him upset. He might cancel the strippers." There was a hint of amusement coloring Tony's voice. Johnny laughed.
"You haven't told him?"
"Of course I haven't. You don't think I haven't seen him looking at my ass?" Clint retorted. "I do not want to go there. Not at all." Considering the size of the man they were discussing, Johnny didn't think he wanted to go there, either.
Tony cleared his throat. "I'll go let Steve know you're awake. Carry on." Stark slipped out of the door and left them alone. Johnny stared at Clint. Clint smiled again, then reached for Johnny's hand and gave it a tug.
"I want to kiss you again. Come here."
~*~*~*~*~
"Johnny!" Clint bellowed from the bedroom. "I need you. Come here!"
Johnny sighed and shook his head, then turned and headed for the bedroom. He was getting tired of this shit. Clint had been home from the hospital for over a month now. He was still on medical leave from the Avengers though his last trip to the doctor had told them he was almost back to normal. A few more weeks of rest would see him back in fighting condition. Johnny couldn't fucking wait.
Clint Barton was the biggest baby on the face of the planet and Johnny never wanted to go through this again.
For the first week home, Clint had been pretty much confined to bed and Johnny had been left doing almost everything for him. The only thing that the other man did on his own was get up and hobble to the bathroom. He'd taken a very deep dislike to the bottles the nurses had brought him in the hospital. And, for a while, Johnny hadn't minded.
But now that Clint was almost completely healed up, it was a pain in his ass. Much as he hated to admit it, he was damned tired of waiting on Clint hand and foot. And, smug bastard that his lover was, Clint took full advantage of the fact. As soon as he was fully recovered, Johnny was seriously going to kick his ass. Hard core.
So it was on his lips to tell Clint to fuck off when he stepped into the bedroom. Only to find that Clint was lounging on the bed, absolutely naked except for a smirk. And a bow tie. Around his... Johnny's eyes slid to the sheen of newly healed scars before moving back up to the smirk that curled those glorious lips up at the corners.
The lights in the room were low, candles combining with the lamps to cast soft golden light everywhere. It gleamed off the twinkle in Clint's eyes. A bottle of something sat chilling in an ice bucket on one of the bedside tables, a pair of long, thin stemmed flutes next to it. The scent of sandalwood filled the air. It was a scene made for seduction. Johnny rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Enticing you," Clint replied shamelessly.
"Your ribs are still healing," Johnny pointed out.
"They're well enough. I think I can manage this without problems." The smirk became a grin, utterly unrepentant.
"Clint, you really should finish resting up."
"Johnny, I have been resting. For weeks. I'm so tired of resting that I can't think straight. I need you. So come over here and let me show you how much I love you."
Damn him for being charming. Johnny had to steel himself against giving in. Because he really wanted to go over there and see how much Clint loved him. He forced himself to sound angry. "I don't want to undo all of the healing you've done."
Clint slid from the bed and started toward him. "Damn it, John. Don't. I want you to come over here and let me show you how much I love you. And how much I appreciate everything you've done for me since I got home."
That kind of startled him. Johnny hadn't thought about that. And he had missed being able to really touch Clint. The other man gave him a serious look. A look of longing. A look of such open, raw need that it hurt Johnny to look at it. "I don't want to hurt you, Clint. I want to touch you so bad. But I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't hurt me, Johnny. I promise. Just please. I need to feel your skin against my own. I need to feel your hands on me. I just need you, Johnny."
And there it was. Those four words told Johnny just what Clint was feeling. All of his insecurity and uncertainty was there. Maybe he'd suffered more than just some physical injuries. Maybe those scars had left him with the misguided notion that Johnny wouldn't want to touch him. That they'd turn Johnny off and see him walking away. Johnny sighed. How could he say no to the deep need in Clint's eyes.
"You've got me, Clint. I'm always going to be here for you. Always. Nothing's going to change that." Johnny pushed the door closed and stepped forward, hands already working his shirt off. Clint watched him, the uncertainty still there in his eyes. He reached out and pulled Clint into his arms, pressed a kiss to his lips to let him know that he cared. Kissed him again because he loved the way Clint's mouth tasted.
When he pulled back, he let his gaze rake the length of Clint's body. Let his eyes flood with all the love and lust and desire he felt for the other man. "All the scars and souvenirs."
Universe: the Marvel Universe
Pairing: Johnny Storm/Clint Barton
Rating: mature. language and implied sexual situations between two smoking hot men
Word Count: 4473
Disclaimer: i own nothing in this story beyond the plot. the characters contained within belong to Marvel. i'm just borrowing and i will put them back one day. not sure when but i will. i'm not making any money off this.
Author's Note: the first line of this popped into my head and i couldn't make it go away. so there you go.
"Damn it," Johnny whispered, vision blurred by tears he refused to let fall. "Don't do this to me, you stupid son of a bitch. You can't go. You just can't."
The stupid son of a bitch in question never said a word. Not that Johnny expected him to. There was no way Clint could respond. "God damn it, Clint. Don't you dare leave me."
Such a thing was always a possibility. Such was the life of a superhero. And for one that didn't actually have a superpower... Well, those odds were doubled. Johnny had always known that it was possible Clint would get hurt on a mission. Part of the job. He'd nearly been injured more than once himself. Came with the territory, he supposed. But knowing that something like that could happen and actually having it happen were two entirely different things. So when Clint had left with the rest of the Avengers for some crisis in Europe last week, Johnny hadn't thought anything of it.
And then the reports had started coming in. There'd been reports on the news. Reports that Reed had put together. Hell, even S.H.I.E.L.D. had put out a few themselves. And none of them had sounded good. Even worse had been the images that had come with. Death and destruction. Whole towns and villages destroyed in the carnage. Bodies piled up, bloody and broken, like a child's forgotten play things. Some unseen, unknown, unnamed evil entity or some shit that was tearing a path of horror across Europe and leaving nothing but wreckage and blood in its wake. Each new picture had seen Johnny's heart squeezing down just a little tighter until it felt like the organ would shatter with the next beat. Each image of terror had frozen his lungs until he'd thought he would pass out or die.
Clint was trying to fight that?
Johnny had gone to Reed, demanded to know why they weren't in Europe with the Avengers. He'd gotten some bullshit explanation that had gone at length. The Four had to stay in New York and keep an eye on things. The Avengers didn't want anyone else caught up in this mess. Orders were coming down the line that told them not to attempt any kind of mission. It was all total crap. All of it. The X-Men could handle New York. The Avengers needed them. Clint needed him.
It had been Sue who had talked him into doing something stupid. Something like flying to Europe and lending a hand. She'd convinced Johnny to stay in New York, that the Avengers wouldn't appreciate it if he got in their way. Because they'd told everyone else they could handle it. Steve and Tony, she'd told him, had been sure. So he'd stayed. And he'd waited. And he'd worried.
The news had finally come last night that it was over. The thing tearing up Europe had been dealt with and the Avengers were on their way home. So Johnny had made sure that their house had been clean, that their bed had been made with new sheets. That beer had been chilling in the fridge and that steaks had been ready for the grill. All that he'd needed to complete the picture was Clint coming through the door.
The ringing of the phone had sounded almost wrong in the silence of the house. It had been a strident, dirty sound that had sent fingers of dread shivering down Johnny's spine. He'd answered it slowly. Apprehensively. Because he'd known. Somehow, some way, he'd known. But he'd picked up the receiver all the same, tried for normal when he'd said his greeting. Had felt his knees start to shake the moment he'd heard Steve's voice, soft and tense and pull of pain, on the other end of the line. "Johnny. Its Clint... There was an accident."
Johnny glanced down at Clint's face and clenched his jaw, working hard at keeping his anger from spilling over. This didn't look like an accident and he wanted to rage at Steve and Tony for letting it happen. Which was stupid, because Clint was an adult. He knew what he was getting himself into every time he put on his Hawkeye costume and went out the door. The others were in as much danger of getting hurt as Clint was. But Tony and Steve weren't Clint and Clint didn't have powers and Johnny was so afraid of losing him and his heart just ached as he stared at the other man and he wanted to cry because...
Clint could have died.
Half of Clint's face was nothing but a swollen bruise, shifting in color from the faintest yellow at the outer edges to a ring of pustulant green to brown to blue to purple to black and, in the very center, bright red. The bruise started at the edge of his nose and flowed down over his face, hiding an eye behind a puffy lid. The top of it ended in his hair while the bottom edge ran down under his cheek. It looked like someone had taken a sledge hammer to his him. How the bones underneath weren't shattered was something Johnny couldn't figure out. The other side of his face, the one that hadn't been bashed, sported a long gash that was held shut with tiny, neat, terribly precise stitches. Dried blood crusted and matted his hair down, turning golden strands deep, rusty brown.
The medical staff had put him in a pair of pajama bottoms, leaving his torso uncovered except for the bandages that banded his ribs. Six of those had been broken and the bruising that leaked out from under the support bandaging was almost as black as the one on his face. There were scrapes and scratches, each ringed in red, that dribbled more bruises up and down his arm, across his shoulders. There were cuts, some shallow like an after thought while others were deep enough to have required stitches.
And he'd discovered, after one of the nurses had come in to check his vitals and IVs, that Clint had some kind of wound in his thigh. The bandages that covered it ate up nearly half of his thigh and there'd been crimson flecking the pristine white of the gauze. Whatever the Avengers had fought... It had nearly killed him.
The monitor beeped at him, slow and steady, echoing through the silent room. Clint's heart beat so slowly. Johnny kept telling himself it was the pain killers that the doctor was pumping into his lover's veins. There was no way Clint could have sustained such damage and not be in pain.
Heaving a sigh, Johnny put his elbows on his knees and bent over so he could run his hands through his hair. He'd been at Clint's side all day and, in all that time, hadn't seen one flicker of life from the other man. Again, it had to be the drugs. Sleep was best for him. It would help him heal up and get stronger. But that didn't stop Johnny's heart from catching in his throat every time Clint's breath came short and fast, afraid that the next breath would be one a choking one as the other man gasped for air. God, he couldn't lose him. He didn't think he'd be able to live without him.
This must have been how Clint had felt that one Christmas, when Johnny'd walked away from him after a stupid fight. So lost and powerless. Johnny hadn't really believed in Clint's depth of emotion until that day, when he'd come back and found the other man passed out on the couch. Until he'd seen the letter Clint had written him. A letter, Johnny had no doubt, he was never supposed to have seen. What was he going to do if Clint didn't pull through this? Who was he without the man he loved at his side? Without the man who loved him? How could he go on?
A hand on his shoulder pulled him from those morbid thoughts. He lifted his head and stared, almost uncomprehending, at the fuzzy face before him. Then he realized that he was crying and angrily wiped the tears from his eyes. Steve was staring at him with deep compassion and concern. Tony was a few feet behind him. Both men looked stressed and tired. "Come on, Johnny. Let's go get something to eat," Steve coaxed, head motioning for the door.
Johnny shook his head and turned back to the bed. Clint hadn't moved. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry. And I want to be here when he wakes up."
Steve sighed, the sound drawing Johnny's attention to the other man's face once again. The look Rogers wore wasn't a good one. "Johnny... Clint's in a coma and... When he hit his head... The doctors think..." Every sentence trailed off, as if Steve couldn't bring himself to finish them. Tony closed the distance and laid a hand on the taller blonde's shoulder.
"The doctors think its a temporary thing, but they won't say for sure. They're being cautiously optimistic," Tony told him, a snort of disbelief at the end letting Johnny know what he thought of that statement. "He needs to rest to get better. And you need to eat. He'll kill us if we don't take care of you for him."
"I should stay here," Johnny shook his head again.
"Go," Tony insisted. One hand dipped into his pocket and came out with a slim cell phone. "If he shows any signs of waking, I'll call Steve and let him know. Just go. You need to eat. You need to rest. You need to be clear headed."
Johnny really didn't want to go. He wanted to sit there and hold Clint's hand, but he didn't dare touch him for making him hurt any more than he already did. But he hadn't eaten since before the call last night. He hadn't slept since then. He was groggy and disoriented. Maybe food and something with caffeine in it wasn't such a bad idea. Heaving a sigh, he rose slowly to his feet and glanced down at Clint. Urged him silently to get better. Threatened just as silently that he'd kick the other man's ass if he didn't. Then he let Steve lead him from the quiet room out into the hall.
They ended up in the hospital's cafeteria, a tray in their hands as they picked fresh foods from the line. Johnny had a sneaking suspicion that the hospital was a S.H.I.E.l.L.D. facility in disguise. Some of the people he'd seen in the halls looked more like agents than physicians. After randomly picking up food he had no appetite for, Steve handed over a couple of bills at the register, then directed Johnny toward an empty table set off in a corner. Privacy was a good thing, so he went without complaint. They settled in their respective seats and Steve began lifting lids and unwrapping plastic that had been used over his meal.
"I'm sorry, Johnny," he said softly, fork in one hand. Johnny blinked and looked up at him.
"Why are you sorry? You didn't do this."
"You want to blame me anyway, though. I can tell," Steve said quietly. "He got hurt and we're at fault. Tony and I were supposed to take care of him for you and we failed. You blame me. You blame Tony."
"No," Johnny shook his head. "I don't. This isn't your fault."
"Johnny," Steve began, but Johnny held up a hand and stalled the other man's words.
"You're right. But only partially. At first, I wanted to lay the blame for all of this on your shoulders. I wanted it all to be your fault. But I can't blame you. Or Tony. No more than I can blame Clint. Because this is who he is. Hawkeye is who he is. He'd wither and die if he didn't get to be a hero." Johnny sighed and pulled the plastic off a roasted chicken breast. The smell hit his nose and made his stomach rumble with hunger. "I won't tell him to stop being who he is anymore than he would tell me to stop being who I am. I worry about him because he doesn't have any powers. But I have to trust that he knows what he's doing and that he can take care of himself."
Steve gave him a curious look. As if he didn't understand something.
"I love him." The statement was soft and quiet. And filled with everything that he felt about the other man. "I know most people think I'm some kind of vapid air head who runs from one bed to the next without thought for who I hurt or what I'm doing. But I'm not that person. Not anymore. Not since Clint fell in love with me. He accepts me for who I am. I can do no less than pay him the same respect in return."
Steve smiled, just a little bit, and took a drink of the juice he'd picked. "He loves you a lot, you know. He's lucky to have you."
Johnny smiled in return. "I'm lucky to have him."
~*~*~*~*~
A tug to his hand woke him from a light, fitful sleep. Of course, as he was coming to learn, sleeping in a chair didn't really allow for a decent night's sleep. Back stiff, he sat up straight and pulled his hand from Clint's so he could rub the back of his neck. Pick the sleep from his eyes. Rake his hair into another freaky and frightening style. He was practically living at the hospital, a small bag filled with his things hidden in the bathroom for when he needed a quick shower or he had to brush his teeth. He was starting to wonder if he'd ever get the kinks out of his spine.
It wasn't until he was halfway to the bathroom that he realized what had been odd about waking this time. His hand. It had been clasped in Clint's. Johnny was sure he'd fallen asleep with his arm across his chest. Stopping dead in his tracks, he turned to find familiar blue eyes staring at him. Staring at him. Johnny couldn't stop the small show of surprise when his brows went up, then he smiled and returned to his seat. Clint reached out and took his hand the moment he did so. "Hey."
"Hey," Johnny returned, voice suddenly hoarse. He wished he could claim disuse as his excuse like Clint could.
"You look like shit."
"You should see yourself," Johnny replied. Clint's grip on his hand tightened, silently letting him know that it was alright. Things were okay. Relief surged through Johnny, left him so weak that he wanted to sag in the chair so that everything could slide from his shoulders. Instead, he shot a frown at the man in the bed. "If you ever do this to me again, Barton, I swear to God, I'll kill you myself. You asshole!"
"Hey! I'm the one who got hurt!" Clint defended, though not quite as fervently as if he'd been fully healed.
"No shit! You're a dick!" Johnny snarled, frowning at him. Then the anger slid away as quickly as it had come and Johnny shook his head while the fear rose to the front again. "I've been out of my mind with worry for a week. I thought you were going to die! I thought I'd lost you. I... I can't do this again, Clint. I can't take this."
Clint frowned. "You're saying you want out?" The question was soft, totally lacking emotion. And all the deadlier for it. Then hand in his slid away and Johnny felt the loss to his soul.
"No, God damn it! That isn't what I'm saying. You're an even bigger idiot than I thought you were if you really believe that," Johnny snapped back. "No. I'm saying that you aren't allowed to get hurt again. Ever! You get hurt and I'll kick your ass myself."
Clint managed a cocky smile at that statement, despite the fact that bruises still painted his face with blossoms of sickly colors. Most of the swelling had gone down, but the bruises were still bright and vivid against his tanned skin. He needed a shave in the worst way but he'd finally gotten one of the staff to clean the blood from his hair so he almost looked human. "You'll try, Storm. I can kick your ass with my hands tied behind my back."
Johnny snorted at that. "I can fly. You can't."
Clint gave a slight shake of his head. "I can still kick your ass."
"You'll try." Johnny let the words trail off into nothing and simply stared at Clint. Drank his fill even though the marks had yet to fully go away. Some of them probably never would. Johnny took his hand back and used it to once again make a mess of his hair. Clint was silent. The air around them crackled with tension. Johnny's tension. No doubt Clint could feel something building. But he waited, just waited for the tension to break. As if everything was okay. As if he hadn't nearly given Johnny heart failure. As if... "You could have died, Clint."
The words came out on a whisper that sounded hoarse and raw. Clint sighed and shifted in the bed before finding the controls and raising it slightly. He cringed as the tenderness in his ribs twinged and pulled, but he said nothing. "I didn't."
"But you could've. How am I supposed to function without you?"
"Come on, Johnny. You know I--" he began, but fell silent when Johnny shot a glare at him.
"Damn it, Clint. Don't. You didn't see yourself a week ago. You've been unconscious for a full week! Just... It was so hard to sit here and watch you and not be able to do anything to make you feel better. I felt so helpless," Johnny admitted. "I didn't like it very much. And I can't do that again. Please don't make me go through that again, Clint."
"You think I wanted to put you through it?" Clint asked him. Johnny looked up and saw the emotions the other man would never admit to filling his eyes. "The last thought I had before going down was that I'd never see your face again. It hurt."
"Not as much as it hurt me to walk into this room and see you all beaten up and bruised. All I could think when I saw you laying there is 'This feeling must be what Clint was feeling when I walked out on him.' I hated it and I don't want to feel it again. I'm sorry I made you feel it."
"That's old news, Johnny." Clint waved one of his hands, just barely bringing it up off the bed to do so. "I'm just glad you're here. Waking up to your face is... I heard you talking to me. Knowing you'd be here when I woke up was what kept me going, John."
"I want to wake up to you every morning, Clint. You should know that by now," Johnny replied.
"So you still want this? After everything that's happened? You'll take me as I am, with all the scars and souvenirs of the job?"
"You know I will, dumb ass." Johnny told him.
"Come here." Clint reached for his hand and pulled. There wasn't as much strength behind it as usual. But Johnny went and leaned over the bed's rail so he could press a kiss to Clint's lips. Something soft and feather-light. Something that wouldn't hurt him. But even as he was trying to back away, Clint's free hand reached up and curled into Johnny's hair, held him in place so that the other man could deepen the kiss. Johnny sighed when Clint's tongue dipped into his mouth and danced along Johnny's.
This... This was what Johnny needed after two weeks of uncertainty, of waiting to see what would happen. He'd forgotten how Clint tasted, forgotten the smell of him. Forgotten the essence of him. Clint was all cool summer breezes and beer. Golden sunshine and healthy sweat. Masculinity with an underlying thread of vulnerability that he hid from the world. Sheer heaven. Divinity. Johnny's.
"I don't think this is what the doctor had in mind when he said Clint needed rest." Tony's voice, full of amusement, cut across their kiss and broke them apart. Johnny looked at Tony and felt the faint hint of a blush stain his cheeks.
"My idea, Tony." Clint replied without remorse.
"I guess that means you're feeling better. Glad to see you awake."
"Glad to be awake. Even if I feel like someone beat me with a sledge hammer."
"Thor was no where near you. You can't blame this on him."
Clint sighed and closed his eyes. "Damn. And I was looking forward to making him feel bad."
"Don't count on it. He's already planning a feast for when you're fully recovered. It wouldn't do to make him upset. He might cancel the strippers." There was a hint of amusement coloring Tony's voice. Johnny laughed.
"You haven't told him?"
"Of course I haven't. You don't think I haven't seen him looking at my ass?" Clint retorted. "I do not want to go there. Not at all." Considering the size of the man they were discussing, Johnny didn't think he wanted to go there, either.
Tony cleared his throat. "I'll go let Steve know you're awake. Carry on." Stark slipped out of the door and left them alone. Johnny stared at Clint. Clint smiled again, then reached for Johnny's hand and gave it a tug.
"I want to kiss you again. Come here."
~*~*~*~*~
"Johnny!" Clint bellowed from the bedroom. "I need you. Come here!"
Johnny sighed and shook his head, then turned and headed for the bedroom. He was getting tired of this shit. Clint had been home from the hospital for over a month now. He was still on medical leave from the Avengers though his last trip to the doctor had told them he was almost back to normal. A few more weeks of rest would see him back in fighting condition. Johnny couldn't fucking wait.
Clint Barton was the biggest baby on the face of the planet and Johnny never wanted to go through this again.
For the first week home, Clint had been pretty much confined to bed and Johnny had been left doing almost everything for him. The only thing that the other man did on his own was get up and hobble to the bathroom. He'd taken a very deep dislike to the bottles the nurses had brought him in the hospital. And, for a while, Johnny hadn't minded.
But now that Clint was almost completely healed up, it was a pain in his ass. Much as he hated to admit it, he was damned tired of waiting on Clint hand and foot. And, smug bastard that his lover was, Clint took full advantage of the fact. As soon as he was fully recovered, Johnny was seriously going to kick his ass. Hard core.
So it was on his lips to tell Clint to fuck off when he stepped into the bedroom. Only to find that Clint was lounging on the bed, absolutely naked except for a smirk. And a bow tie. Around his... Johnny's eyes slid to the sheen of newly healed scars before moving back up to the smirk that curled those glorious lips up at the corners.
The lights in the room were low, candles combining with the lamps to cast soft golden light everywhere. It gleamed off the twinkle in Clint's eyes. A bottle of something sat chilling in an ice bucket on one of the bedside tables, a pair of long, thin stemmed flutes next to it. The scent of sandalwood filled the air. It was a scene made for seduction. Johnny rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Enticing you," Clint replied shamelessly.
"Your ribs are still healing," Johnny pointed out.
"They're well enough. I think I can manage this without problems." The smirk became a grin, utterly unrepentant.
"Clint, you really should finish resting up."
"Johnny, I have been resting. For weeks. I'm so tired of resting that I can't think straight. I need you. So come over here and let me show you how much I love you."
Damn him for being charming. Johnny had to steel himself against giving in. Because he really wanted to go over there and see how much Clint loved him. He forced himself to sound angry. "I don't want to undo all of the healing you've done."
Clint slid from the bed and started toward him. "Damn it, John. Don't. I want you to come over here and let me show you how much I love you. And how much I appreciate everything you've done for me since I got home."
That kind of startled him. Johnny hadn't thought about that. And he had missed being able to really touch Clint. The other man gave him a serious look. A look of longing. A look of such open, raw need that it hurt Johnny to look at it. "I don't want to hurt you, Clint. I want to touch you so bad. But I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't hurt me, Johnny. I promise. Just please. I need to feel your skin against my own. I need to feel your hands on me. I just need you, Johnny."
And there it was. Those four words told Johnny just what Clint was feeling. All of his insecurity and uncertainty was there. Maybe he'd suffered more than just some physical injuries. Maybe those scars had left him with the misguided notion that Johnny wouldn't want to touch him. That they'd turn Johnny off and see him walking away. Johnny sighed. How could he say no to the deep need in Clint's eyes.
"You've got me, Clint. I'm always going to be here for you. Always. Nothing's going to change that." Johnny pushed the door closed and stepped forward, hands already working his shirt off. Clint watched him, the uncertainty still there in his eyes. He reached out and pulled Clint into his arms, pressed a kiss to his lips to let him know that he cared. Kissed him again because he loved the way Clint's mouth tasted.
When he pulled back, he let his gaze rake the length of Clint's body. Let his eyes flood with all the love and lust and desire he felt for the other man. "All the scars and souvenirs."