Chapter Text
Clint loses by some kind of bizarre plan conflict, his and Natasha's coming together at the same moment as someone else's--probably Tony's. The man just smells of chaos and plan dismemberment--does, and interacting in a way that ends with Natasha dangling from Thor's big stupid fist by an ankle and Clint getting bounced into a wall, and then Steve and then the floor.
There's a second of sudden stillness when everyone realizes that the stakes are suddenly a lot lower, and Natasha takes the opportunity to twist, kick Thor in the face, and take Bruce and Tony down in one possibly accidental strike when she's tossed aside. She rolls to her feet and bounces away and then it's her and Steve and Thor and that's okay. She's not going to win, probably, but she's positioned well enough. Clint just really, really doesn't want Thor to be alpha, even if for no reason other the potential weirdness of that situation.
He's busy trying to hex Thor--sending jinx vibes in his direction for all he's worth--when Tony rolls sideways into him and tips his head back to regard him with a weird, upside-down expression, but whatever he's going to say is cut off when Thor somehow trips over Natasha while he grapples with Steve and hits the floor close enough to where Clint's sitting with Tony that they bounce a little.
"Well hey, Red," Tony says, instead of whatever it was he was going to say to Clint, and gives Natasha a thumbs-up over Thor's fallen body. Clint kicks him for distracting her, but Natasha smiles and bows out, giving it to Steve, the sneak. Undermining his win, since hers is unlikely as hell now that she doesn't have any more pawns in the game to throw, trip and bounce at each other.
"Yeah, no surprise there," Tony says, with a mock grumble, still leaning on Clint. Clint shoves him off, ignoring the way Tony's head hits the floor with a gentle clunk.
Steve looks like he doesn't know what to say, now that he's won his top dog alpha spot. He looks a little awkward, standing there at a loss, and then he says, "Omega--?" like he'd missed that whole production, and Tony, still lying flat on the floor, quickly touches his finger to his nose and says,
"Not it."
"Not it," Clint echoes sourly, but doesn't bother moving because even though Bruce fails to participate in the opt-out, he probably still is it.
"This is pretty unexpected," Bruce is telling Tony, sounding pleased, "I'm always the omega."
"Ah. And there's that correlation with last picked for kickball," Tony muses giving Bruce a considering look, even though they'd both wiped out at the same time and not in a dignified way either, and gives Clint a pat as he starts to stiffly get up, "Not you though, Barton. I'm sure you were a kickball champion."
Clint flips him off.
-----
He's not that big, but he's always been scrappy, so he's always landed himself somewhere in the beta hierarchy--the amorphous middle that's always jostling for a space up or getting bumped down--and he's seen omegas be scented before, but he's never had to do it.
So it's a bit weird to stand there with Steve carefully tipping his head one way and then the other, one hand around his throat, but gently. More cradling his jaw than anything. It's like Steve's taking some kind of weird inventory, looking him over carefully before dipping his head to inhale against Clint's hair, against the angle of his jaw, the crook of his shoulder, and Clint's never seen this done this slowly before. He's about to duck away before Steve can bite him or something, but Steve's other hand is wrapped around his upper arm, and Clint shafts the escape plan he's reflexively formulating. It's probably better to get it over with anyway.
Steve makes a soft sound, a quiet laugh into the side of his head, before he leaves an unthinking kiss there and straightens. Steve's already giving off alpha-scent, probably hopped up on the fucking joy of victory, even though Clint would have thought that Natasha's opt-out would have kicked that adrenaline spike in the shins somewhat.
But Steve doesn't seem fazed at all, even though she's stolen his opportunity to beat his chest in victorious triumph or whatever it was that Steve did when he actually got to win the final round rather than having it whatever-ed over to him by someone who either didn't think the final effort was worth it, or who--maybe--declined to be the final authority in charge of lunatics like Stark and Thor.
"Clint." Steve still has a laugh in his voice. He's either pleased with himself or really amused, but his brow has a weird little furrow in it that's somewhere between concern and apologetic. It's not a very I-just-cinched-alpha look. "You look like someone just shot your dog," he says, and, "Come on. I know it's not that bad," and his hand leaves Clint's jaw and throat to squeeze his shoulder in a companionable way. Very friendly and casual and Clint eyes it suspiciously before looking back up at him. Steve's kind of a big guy.
"Yeah?" Clint says, and points out, "I just lost to Bruce and Tony." Even ignoring the omega thing, it's still pretty embarrassing. Tony's not exactly a human weapon without his suit, and Bruce is awkward and vaguely nerdy in a way that just screams easy takedown.
"Hey," Tony objects, and points at Bruce like he needs to defend his buddy's fighting prowess, "He's a Hulk, you know."
"Technically, we all lost to Natasha," Bruce says, ignoring Tony, "Just with staggered timing. If it makes you feel any better."
"And only on a fluke," Tony adds, then decides to back Bruce up and says, "Or you could consider us defeated by Thor's spy-bowling. Whatever helps you feel competent and athletic again."
Clint gives him a narrow eyed look, and says, "Right," in as sarcastic a tone as he can manage with Steve getting up in his space. He's probably supposed to be having some kind of reaction to the combination of Steve's alpha-radiating proximity and the hormone-depressing effects of getting his ass kicked--fluke or no--but he feels pretty normal. Maybe it's because he still can't process the fact that he did lose. Or maybe he just can't process that fuck, Tony's a beta over him.
Even the expectation of how obnoxious that's going to be is obnoxious.
-----
Steve gives him a weird look and lets him go when he says, "Bite me and I'm biting you back."
"I'm not going to bite you, Clint," he says, in a tone that should come with an eye roll, but doesn't. It's not exactly the advance that Clint's preparing for and it takes the wind out of his sails a little.
"Or whatever," he says, keeping the threat in his voice. He might never have been an omega before, but he knows how it goes. No matter how normal he feels right now, there's an initial heat on the way--triggered by Steve's alpha scent and whatever the fuck it is that simply getting bounced to the ground before anyone else sets off--and it's better to lay down the law now rather than later, when he might not be able to remember the law, or what words mean.
He's not really cynical enough to think that the pack thing always goes ugly, but when it does, it always starts with that first cement-the-hierarchy heat. With an alpha still riding the adrenaline high of victory, the betas still competing, jockeying for a better position, and an omega going full throttle despite their body still being unready that early in the game.
Even with the best intentions, the whole thing could go to shit. Clint's seen it happen more than once.
If he'd twisted left instead of right after getting thrown into Steve, he'd probably have been okay, and this would have been--Bruce's problem, maybe, which was as good as no problem at all, since heat or no heat, none of them would be stupid enough to aggravate the Hulk.
Unless heat aggravates the Hulk, in which case maybe the better wish is that it should have been Tony's problem.
Or Steve's. Someone indestructible, anyway.
-----
There's nothing for two days, which is long enough that Clint starts to think that nothing's going to happen. He lost by a fluke, and maybe it counts. Maybe knowing that is enough to shut down his body's recognition of the defeat. It's not like that never happens. Young, immature alphas find themselves actually a beta--victory be damned--often enough that it's not news and the reverse isn't entirely unheard of, either.
"So maybe," he tells Bruce, "I'm just not omega material."
"Or," Bruce suggests back, "you've just never been an omega and it's taking you longer to catch on," and lays a hand briefly over the back of Clint's neck as he passes, giving him a gentle squeeze that's maybe supposed to be reassuring but just seems smug.
"Sorry I haven't had your practice," Clint snips after him.
-----
It hits in the middle of the night, and at first Clint thinks he's sick because he has an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and a fuzziness in his head that he usually associates with head trauma or high fevers. He's drowsy enough that he just curses and turns over, tugging the blankets higher to ward off the shivers.
When he wakes up again, there's clearly something wrong, but his head is even foggier and it takes a while to realize just what exactly is going the fuck on. His insides feel odd, not quite cramping but like they might soon. He's not sure if he feels sick or not, but his skin is prickling and everything aches.
Everything down south especially, and god. Nothing about this is hot, but he's getting hard and--not slick. He grimaces and ghosts a couple of fingers over his hole and they come away damp, but nothing like omegas he's been with.
"JARVIS," he calls, when he catches a whiff of himself and even if his own pheromones don't really register with him realizes that he's starting to smell like heat and omega, "JARVIS, lock the door."
"Your apartment is already secure, Agent Barton," JARVIS intones, "Perhaps I should notify Captain Roge--?"
"Shit. No. No notifying," Clint groans, and staggers to his feet so he can go splash water on his face and maybe on the rest of him. He wouldn't mind something warm to drink, but he hadn't recognized the signs of heat when the recognizing was good and now the kitchen seems too god damn far away.
The bathroom seems too far away. His spine feels like it's turning to something hot and liquid, and when that's been described to him it's always sounded kind of sexy, but it's really just uncomfortable and frightening. It takes the strength right out of his legs, and he just manages to stumble back towards the bed before slumping back down with a strangled sound that comes out a bit like a whine, a bit like a choked gurgle.
He's grinding against his mattress, but there's not anything pleasurable about it, almost like his body doesn't give a shit about enjoyment and is moving on its own. Like it knows what will bring relief, even though everything is uncomfortable and painful and feels more like being ill than like being overcome with lust. His skin is so sensitive it feels like his ratty, worn-to-handkerchief-thinness t-shirt is scraping his skin raw.
He rolls onto his side and slides a hand into his boxers and tries to bring himself off, but it's a no-go. It's as uncomfortable and raw as the rest of him, like his skin doesn't know if it wants to be touched or not. Like his body is confused. He's not even sure if he's too hot or too cold. His heart is racing, and that's probably the most alarming part, because it feels like panic.
"Fine. Fine," Clint tries to snarl, but it feels like it gets lost somewhere in his chest. He's not sure if he hopes JARVIS can hear it or not, "Get whoever you want."
-----
He falls asleep--or just drifts away somehow--hunkered under blankets and with his hand still down his shorts, but he wakes up curled around something warm and solid. The crawl in his skin isn't gone, but it's not painful and raw anymore and when something strokes down his back, he arches into it, pressing his shoulders and spine into the contact, breathing a scent that's calm and soothing and that burns his lungs at the same time, but in a way that makes him want more.
"Easy," someone says, and Clint recognizes Steve.
"Everyone lied," he mumbles into Steve's ribs, "this is the least hot thing ever," and hears Steve laugh a little.
"Bruce is getting you some water," he says, and shifts a little to let Clint slump further into him, and with Steve's arm loosely around him, it's like he's surrounded by alpha scent. It's not the first time he's smelled it, or been cocooned in it, or even been affected by it, but when he'd been a beta it hadn't been like this. He's not sure he wants to fuck Steve, exactly, but he could just about crawl into his skin.
It's probably a creepy sentiment, phrased that way.
"Come on," Steve says, with his hand on the back of Clint's neck and that's another thing that's never felt quite like this before. Even if Clint had a reason to resist, there's not a single part of him that wants to, so he lets Steve pull him into a more upright position.
"Not sure I'm ready to go, Cap," Clint tells him, and notices that his words come out a little slurred. He sounds drunk.
"Of course you're not ready to go," Steve says, and he sounds a lot more in control than alphas are supposed to, in this kind of situation. He also sounds kind of exasperated and Clint wonders if he's maybe been saying weird shit for a while now. It's not like he really remembers Steve coming in, or a lot of what happened between then and now. "You've never had a heat before. You're not going to be ready for a while."
"They suck," Clint informs him, a little blearily.
"This isn't it yet," another voice says--Bruce--as the bed dips, and then there's a plastic cup in his hands, with a plastic bendy straw and a Mets logo printed cheaply on its sides. Good old gas station giant slurpee memorabilia. There's nothing in it but tap water--at tap temperature--but it still hurts his hands. He might as well be holding ice cubes. Bruce looks amused and takes the thing back, then leaves and comes back with a dishtowel wrapped around it.
"If you'd had heats before, you'd be having one now," Bruce says, "But since you've managed to somehow avoid ever being an omega, it's going to take your body some time to," he gestures vaguely, like he thinks Clint should be up to speed on this, "adjust," he finishes.
"I haven't done pack that often," Clint tells him, a little peevishly. There's a part of his brain that's foggily aware that he's probably supposed to be being a whole lot nicer to Bruce, who is a beta who is also looking after him, but Bruce just smiles and sits back down.
"I wasn't--Look, I've never been an alpha. It's fine. I'm pretty sure Steve's never been a--"
"Beta," Steve supplies.
"You've never been a beta?" Even for Steve, that's weird, but Clint feels a bit bad because Steve shrugs a little at his incredulous tone and says, a little self consciously,
"By the time I was old enough, it was just me and Bucky," he says, and now Clint definitely feels bad for him. "That's not exactly a real pack, you know?" he says, "We didn't have anyone to be beta," and nudges Clint's hand to make him drink. The water still feels too cold, but it's a lot more comfortable in his mouth and sliding down his throat than against his hands.
"And then there was the war, and then. Well." Steve stops to nuzzle the back of his neck. It's fucking disconcerting. "By then, I was a lot harder to knock down."
"I'm usually a lot harder to knock down," Clint offers, "I used to do acrobatics. My backflip is still pretty decent." He doesn't really think he can argue his way out of this, but whatever's happening to him is too weird. Too uncomfortable. The no way out feeling is starting to make him feel trapped and claustrophobic.
"You'll be fine," Steve says, his hand back on Clint's neck, his thumb stroking small circles. "Bucky wasn't thrilled about the idea either--"
"Barnes was your omega? Huh."
Steve's hand ghosts up the side of his neck, till he's gently cupping Clint's face from behind. "Well," he says, with a quiet laugh, "He wasn't in the best shape at the time. It was probably unfair." Steve sounds really smug about it, like he pulled the winning prank in a drawn-out competition, and that more than anything--that Steve doesn't see omega as something too bad to inflict on his best friend--makes Clint relax.
"It was the war," Steve goes on, a little wistfully now, inhaling against the back of Clint's ear. His breath tickles. "But the pack was good."
"Quit sniffing me."
"Scenting," Bruce corrects, and gives him a nudge, "Keep drinking. You're going to lose a lot of fluid, and--"
"Jesus."
Bruce honest to god pats him, and says, "You'll probably just sweat a lot this first time around. Still feel feverish?"
Clint makes an mm sound around the straw, then narrows his eyes when Bruce edges closer and takes a whiff, under the guise of feeling his face to check for temperature. "You're probably going to have a series of this kind of heat, so don't be alarmed if this happens again sooner than you think it should. It's just things coming online."
"Great," Clint says and gives the cup a little shake like he's checking how much is left, but it's really just something to do while Bruce is pretending to not notice that he's still leaning in too close and still kind of creepily inhaling.
"More water?" he asks, reaching across him for the cup, and Clint gives him his best unimpressed look, then hands it over with a brief head-shake.
"Is everyone going to be doing this now?" he asks, when Bruce leans close enough that his nose almost brushes Clint's t-shirt.
Bruce self-consciously un-leans and his fingers fiddle along the handle of the cup and the edge of its lid. Says, "Sorry," but Steve makes an amused sound that's not quite a laugh.
"Probably," he says, and Clint lets himself be settled against Steve's chest, "You don't want to?"
He's not sure. The raw feeling is pretty much gone from his skin, and even if there's still a thrum of something--like a gentle electric current, or like laying his hand against Tony's armor when he has his repulsors going--it's not uncomfortable, and it's more than clear that it's Steve's scent that's doing it. Even his hard-on's subsided, which is good--if backwards, based on what he knows about heat--because no way in hell is he taking care of that in front of Steve and Bruce.
Still, he presses a palm against himself and registers a little distantly that his boundaries are kind of shot.
"This is just a ramp-up," Bruce tells him, tucking a blanket over him and Steve. Maybe to give him some privacy, or because he's offending Bruce's sense of propriety. "You're okay. You just smell nice right now."
"Bet you say that to all the girls," Clint returns, moving his hand to stroke over the inside of his own thigh. Bruce is right. Touch, regular touch, and Steve's super-warmth against the side of his face feels better than anything. Steve seems to pick up on it, because his hand goes back to stroking over Clint's shoulders and down his back and Clint can't help the sigh that comes out of him. Can't help squirming into Steve a little and--maybe a bit hypocritically--tucking his face close to Steve's throat so that he's inhaling alpha with every breath, until he feels almost dazed with it.
Bruce gives him one of those Bruce half-smiles but just says, "Try to get some sleep, Clint."
-----
Tony is a lot less tactful than Steve or Bruce, catching Clint by the back of his t-shirt the next day and hauling himself in to snuffle loudly into his neck before draping his arms over his shoulders and pressing himself up against Clint's back. At least he isn't pulling or really leaning that much, because Clint's not that sure he can take Tony's weight right now, or catch his balance fast enough to avoid tipping over.
"Hello, hello," Tony murmurs ridiculously at him, wrapping each hand around the opposite wrist to solidify his grip when Clint tries a half-duck away and being scented by Steve was one thing--with his alpha scent to muffle the sense of awkward weirdness--but having betas crawling all over him is a little unexpected. In the few packs he'd been in, the omegas had been the alphas' prizes, and the betas' contact with them limited to alpha favorites. Clint's been with omegas before, but not to harass and mold himself against, just occasional moments of rut. He tries to give Tony a hint via a little elbow action, but Tony somehow manages squirm out of the way without releasing him.
"Don't be like that, Barton," Tony chirps, and for a second Clint tenses, thinking Tony's about to do something more than be cheerfully obnoxious, but instead Tony relaxes his grip and makes a little distance, almost managing to be subtle about it except for how he makes goofy shushing noises into Clint's ear.
"Jesus. Could everyone just stop fucking breathing on me," Clint snaps, and tries to shrug him off, but Tony refuses to be budged any further.
"You're the prickliest omega," Tony observes, and breaks the circle of his arms to brush the backs of his fingers over Clint's face. It's not soothing like Steve's touch. His hair is damp with sweat and Tony touching him just makes him feel sticky and kind of gross.
Reminds him how his skin isn't quite fitting.
"Get off, Stark."
"Fine. Okay," Tony grouses, and lets go, but doesn't really go anywhere. Clint's not sure if Tony's waiting for something. Maybe for his scent to affect Clint and make Tony something other than heavy and a pain in the ass. "You want me to win you over. I get it. Sit down. I'll make you breakfast. Eggs, coffee. The works."
The works when Tony's cooking usually is eggs and coffee, but Clint doesn't make the comment and lets himself be steered to a chair where he can crankily fiddle with the silverware while Tony hums and putters.
"If you start with the sniffing too," he says, when Natasha shows up, and brandishes a fork at her, "I'm going to start stabbing. Indiscriminately."
"Stark's right," Natasha tells him lightly, "You're terrible at this."
Clint snorts.
Tony says, "When you decide you want cuddles, Barton, you'll be sorry you were such a snob. How do you want your eggs? Sunny side--oop. Scrambled it is."
Tony's scrambled-by-default eggs are a bit sad looking. Flat and unfluffy like the world's most pathetic omelet. His coffee's pretty good, but Clint's enjoyment of it is more than a little mitigated by Tony's comment and the fact that yeah. Pretty soon he's going to need a bit more than Steve's proximity to see him through.
"You. Russian girl," Tony says, pointing his pan at Natasha, and Clint looks up in time to see her left eyebrow rise coolly. "Scrambled or sunny side up?"
Natasha looks over at Clint's plate then says, "Toast."
-----
"Tony keeps cooking for me," Clint reports to Steve, a couple of days later, when the weirdness had died down and he feels more normal. Steve's sitting at the dining table doing some kind of paperwork. The team hasn't been doing anything--they still have a good chunk of downtime--and Clint can't imagine what could have generated the small stack Steve's meticulously working through but he's been at it for an hour now. Probably reading every line of small print, but he looks up from it to give Clint a weirdly apologetic smile.
"I know you like having your space, Clint. I can talk to him if you want."
"Don't. I tried that, and he sulks." Tony's sulks were impressive. Clint's not really sure why he cares more about Tony's apparent upset than his obnoxiousness. If it's because the team's getting closer, because they're a pack, or because his brain is utterly fucked up on omega hormones.
"Or I can yell at him," Steve offers, with a smirk that means he won't. Tony being a beta might mean that their butting of heads had come to an end, and that he'd maybe even listen to Steve but Clint somehow doubts it. It would still be interesting to test, but it's not like getting knocked over one time by fucking coincidence means he can't fight his own battles.
"I'll get back to you," he tells Steve.
Steve goes back to his paperwork with an agreeable little shrug and Clint slouches further down in his chair and says, "And Bruce keeps asking if I'm okay."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, Steve." He's only okay for now. He knows there's a ticking clock counting down in his--something. Brain. Or some kind of gland, maybe. Secreting go nuts sex hormones into his bloodstream whether he likes it or not.
"Alright," Steve says, still without any argument and sounding almost absent as he sets a page aside and starts on the next one. "Just checking."
Clint snorts. "Checking, huh?" he says, a little sarcastically since even the betas are climbing all over him--with the exception of Natasha who's not unaffected but at least keeps her newfound touchy-feeliness to a gentle smile now and then.
Steve looks back up at him and says, "Clint," in a tone that's not particularly anything, but then doesn't follow it up except to reach out and pat his shoulder.
-----
"You're our omega," Tony says, "This is totally appropriate."
Clint's not sure it's appropriate under any circumstance, but it's not like he knows that much about real packs and as much as taking Tony's word on things might be inadvisable, Tony'd at least had a little robot-obsessed baby pack going on in college with some nerds or something.
Clint's pretty sure that hadn't involved sex toys, though. Or maybe, knowing Tony, it totally had.
"I'm not sure if I should be scared or," he's not sure how to finish that sentence and goes with, "scared," again.
Tony's face contorts, then goes through a series of twitches. Like he's not sure if he wants to laugh or sulk which pretty much convinces Clint that his whole over the top emoting thing is a put on.
"Bruce said you seemed nervous about heat," Tony says, picking up one of the toys--it's horrifyingly colorful--and fiddling with it. Not turning it on, thank god, because Clint notices switches and he is not ready for a tutorial on mechanized dildos from Tony fucking Stark. "And. You know." His face is serious now. A little self conscious. Clint would be really entertained by that if he wasn't also suddenly horrifyingly fixated on the toy in Tony's hands and the mention of heat.
"I don't want to use this on you," Tony says with a little smirk, not quite succeeding at the reassuring tone Clint's pretty sure he's shooting for, and waves the toy at him before putting it back with the others, "Or, I do, but that's not what this is about."
"What?' Clint asks, picking up a different toy--an opalescent lime green thing with orange accents. Tony's either color blind or doing these things on purpose--then drops it when it starts buzzing in his hand, "You want a show or something?"
"If you want to provide one." Tony says it like it's an offer, and Clint scowls at the toy buzzing its way across the worktable. "But if you don't, you take all of this," Tony wiggles his fingers at the pile of cartoon colors, "and you figure out what works for you."
Clint narrows his eyes suspiciously, "And?"
"And we'll make sure you don't starve or dehydrate to death while you're at it, I guess," Tony says, "Speaking of which, you want lunch?"
-----
Thor isn't an earthling, so he isn't really a beta, which means he hasn't become some strangely handsy, caretaking version of himself, which at least means a reduction in the grand total of beta lingering, but Bruce's gentle concern and Tony's weird mother henning still gets to him. Enough that when Natasha forgets and pats the back of his neck as he passes, Clint just bolts. And it's ridiculous and he feels ridiculous for doing it--and kind of like he's being an ass to Nat--but it's still nearly impossible to shake the boxed-in feeling that they're giving him. Everywhere he turns someone is patting him or putting an arm over his shoulders or gently gripping the back of his neck.
It's that last one that really freaks him out. Mostly because it also makes him feel weirdly quiet in a way that he loves until it's gone and then he just thinks fuck fuck fuck. He's working on turning his freak-out off when his body decides to go on working on its heat skills.
It's different this time. Less feeling of being feverish and sick and more--more slick.
And that's when Steve decides to come check on him.
"Bad time, Cap," Clint tells him, opening the door a crack and hoping Steve doesn't notice the way he's shifting uneasily. He feels disgusting and it doesn't help that the smile Steve gives him is all friendly patience.
"I can smell it, you know," he says, gently, like he thinks Clint might actually not have realized that, and Clint sighs and opens the door a little further.
"Still the least hot thing ever," he tells Steve, stepping back then freezing as he feels his skin slide against itself, his thighs and ass wet and slippery. It's awkward and uncomfortable and Steve looks like he's trying really hard to not sniff the air.
He looks Clint up and down, and then asks, "But you're feeling okay?"
"Yeah. So far." He tries to cross his arms and prop his hip against the doorframe in a casual I-got-this pose, but shifting makes his pants stick to the damp backs of his legs. "I think I'm gonna--" he lets it trail, gesturing with his head in the general direction of the inside of his apartment and Steve holds both his hands up to show--something. It's not like Clint thought Steve was about to grab him, but now he's not sure that Steve wasn't.
"I'll send Bruce?" The question in it is obvious, and Clint's about to say no, but he doesn't exactly want to snub Bruce entirely when he's still not sure what other weird shit his body is going to decide to do before this is through.
Or, god. He's an Avenger. Fury's not going to let the Initiative come apart. There is no through. This is for the long haul.
"Whoa. Hey," Steve says, suddenly reaching for him. Clint jerks away out of reflex, then stills when Steve's grip tightens for just a second, before he lets go again with an awkward little pat. "Sure you're okay, Hawkeye? You look a little--?"
Freaked out. He looks freaked out.
"Yeah. Fine. I just--Thought about it a little too closely."
It makes Steve look serious again, and solemn around his eyes, and Clint tries to ignore the way he's obviously aborting some kind of movement. "I swear to god, Cap. Pat me again and I won't be held responsible."
Steve smiles like he thinks Clint is kidding but he shifts his weight back, not really making distance, just giving the sense of it. He's still more than close enough to brush his fingers carefully over the ends of Clint's hair. "That's not a pat," he says, with that Steve smirk that's a lot more likeable than Tony's smug look. It's sort of gently self-effacing on Steve and there's no real way for Clint to make good on his threat without feeling like a jerk.
"Fine," he says, laughing a little--it sounds weird and awkward--and dips his head a bit to let Steve's hand make firmer contact, "Free pass. Just this once."
Steve responds by letting his fingers rest with a little more weight, but he doesn't do more than comb through Clint's hair a little as he takes his hand back. Maybe he brushes Clint's temple a little, but that could be by accident. It makes him blink when Steve's fingers move through his vision, too close to his eye, and he takes the opportunity to duck away.
"So. I'm just gonna," he says, and gestures again towards the inside of his apartment. He really wants a shower. Maybe to live in his shower. The damp slickness he can feel rolling down his thigh is as disturbing as it is disgusting. He just wants his skin back. His regular, null, no-pack skin where his body works like it's meant to and Captain America doesn't give him understanding looks and stroke his face.
"Alright," Clint says, awkwardly stepping back so he can close his door, "Going now."
"Okay," Steve says, not alpha-pushy, "Call if you need anything."
-----
He doesn't need anything but Bruce shows up anyway, thoughtfully waiting for Clint to let him in instead of wrangling Tony to get JARVIS to open his locks.
Bruce gives him a weird look when Clint absently thanks him for not huffing and puffing his way in, warm from the shower and with a towel draped over his head even though he's dressed. His hair is short enough to dry fast, so he has to admit to himself that he's using it as some kind of stupid shield. To keep scent in or hands off or maybe a bit of both.
It's probably not working for either purpose though, because Bruce tilts his head a little and Clint snaps, "No sniffing," which stops whatever Bruce was about to do--scent the air, Clint guesses--and gets him an apologetic little smile.
"Steve said you were--" Bruce starts, in the explaining tone he uses to say things like, You need stitches, but we can wait for medical, or I'm just going to take a quick look.
"Stop. Stop right there," Clint says, "This is weird enough without having to have conversations about it. I don't need new omega 101. I have internet."
Bruce lets out a puff of breath and leans a shoulder against the doorframe, and really Clint's having a record number of conversations at his door today. He should probably let Bruce in, it's probably weird that he hasn't, but he's also pretty sure that his entire apartment reeks of omega and that thought makes him edge his door further closed, just by a few inches.
"Clint," Bruce says, and sounds like he's trying not to laugh. He probably does look pretty ridiculous, hiding behind the edge of his door with a towel over his head. He wonders if he looks as paranoid as he suspects. "I told you I've been an omega before. Everything that you're going through now, I've been there."
"Okay," Clint says, "How long is this ramp-up shit going to go on for? Because I'd really just like to get it over with."
"I thought you had internet?"
"Yeah. Well. It just says every omega is different." He doesn't make air quotes, but he does say it in a bitter little mocking voice that makes Bruce smile.
"Every omega is different, Clint," he says apologetically, "There's various factors that--"
"Fine, doctor useless. I'll stick to my google then," Clint says and shuts the door on him.
"Clint!" Bruce calls through it and Clint's not sure if the undertone to his voice is concern or exasperation.
-----
By the time he ventures back out of his apartment, whatever's been going on downstairs has dried up and he's scrubbed himself raw under too-hot water so many times that his entire skin feels dry and oversensitized and abraded. He hasn't kept hydrated and now that he can concentrate on something other than seeping through his clothing every couple of hours he's thirsty as fuck.
"Juice?" Tony offers, as soon as he wanders into the kitchen. Clint would almost swear he's been lying in wait.
"Are you changing professions?" he snips, "Because there's a diner four streets over with a help wanted sign."
Tony pouts. Clint glares.
"Baby," Tony starts, and Clint says, "Oh, fuck," and makes himself scarce.
-----
"Throw me into the wall," he tells Thor, getting his footing even though he has no chance of out-wrestling him, "Or out the window. Or off the roof. Please?"
Thor pulls and twists and flips him onto his back with almost no effort. He probably didn't even need to do the throw. He could have just picked Clint up and dropped him.
"Alright," Clint says, "Now do the same thing, but land me on my head."
Thor helps him up but pats his back instead of putting him out of his misery, but at least it's normal Thor companionship and not whatever the fuck is going on with Bruce and especially Tony.
"Had I known this would be so difficult," Thor offers quietly, "I would have given you the victory," and shrugs. "Defeat wouldn't have affected me in this physical way."
Clint can't really imagine Thor throwing any game, much less one with even half an element of martial competition, so he appreciates the sentiment.
"And I would not object to Tony's . . . care."
Clint can't help but laugh. "I bet," he says, because Thor is a fucking glutton--by earth standards--and his own brain maybe doesn't care that Thor is an unaffected Asgardian because he feels a faint wash of fondness that he knows isn't just the camaraderie of being practice buddies and team mates.
He tries to remember how he'd felt about members of the piecemeal packs he'd been part of, but most of his time had been preoccupied with other betas, watching his back and his place in the changeable middle hierarchy, making sure that the bulk of the pecking order stayed below him rather than above.
He sure as fuck doesn't remember being overcome by a desire to coddle and housekeep.
And he definitely doesn't remember any omega sidling up to him for whatever it is that some tiny muted part of his brain is starting to jangle for, the longer he spends in close contact with anybody on the team.
This whole thing, he thinks as he thrums at the feeling of Thor gripping his arms to pull him up for another round, is going fuck things up with Nat.
-----
Nat tells him, "I felt bad about that game plan going badly for you, but now I think it's probably a good thing."
"Traitor," Clint says, flatly. There hasn't been much time between the last short burst of his body going nuts and this. His skin's starting to crawl again, like the first time, and if he had any real illusions that he could side step heat, they're gone. Bruce is right. His body is ramping up to it and there's nothing he can do to stop it.
Nothing safe anyway. A huge dose of suppressants at an early stage has been known to derail heat permanently, but ever since he mentioned it to Bruce he's been banned from the lab and medical floors.
"I think you might benefit," Natasha says and doesn't explain any further. Clint's grateful as fuck that she doesn't sniff or pat or try to feed him. He's pretty sure his scent is ramping up again, and he'd love to wash it off but he's not sure his skin can deal with another round of soaking and scrubbing. It would probably be tactically wise to just stop fighting it at this point.
Natasha smiles as his face pulls into a scowl and she rests her chin in both hands, elbows propped on the edge of the table. She looks pleased or amused and Clint's considering moving her from his best friend column to his fuck you column. Right after Stark and Banner. Maybe ahead of Banner, since this whole thing is partly her fault and now has her apparent blessing.
"Oh, Clint," she says, the corner of her mouth quirking into a not-quite sympathetic smile. "It's not going to be awful. The last time I was in a proper pack, I was omega and--"
The thought of that, of Natasha hot and needy, hits him like a ton of bricks, and he says, "Fuck."
"You like that, huh?" Natasha laughs, still watching him. They've never been anything more than good friends, but the way her eyes are sparking with gentle humor now makes him want to lean over and kiss her.
His sense of boundaries is really, really shot.
"It's not a bad thing to be taken care of, Clint," she says, "and I like seeing you be spoiled. So stop acting like a little shit about it."
-----
When Tony rolls onto him--not in a creepy way, just kind of casually propping his head on Clint's hip and draping an arm over him as they sprawl on the mats in the gym, utterly out-stamina-ed by the horror that is Steve versus Thor--and he has no reaction other than to arch his back a little so Tony can tuck his fingers under his ribs, he knows he's in trouble.
Steve seems to realize the same thing maybe fifteen minutes later, while Clint's still debating the comparative benefits of staying utterly still against those of knocking Stark in the head and making a getaway. He cuts off the match with Thor to look over and even though he's way more subtle about it than Tony, Clint can tell that he's testing the air.
If he can smell it from there, it means Clint probably reeks of omega pheromones. Which explains Tony sticking to him like a damn leech.
"Stark," Clint tries, and tries to squirm out from under him, but stills when the movement requires hip action and doesn't dislodge Tony anyway. If anything, he grips tighter. "Tony. Let me up."
Tony releases, but doesn't get up and now Clint could flip and twist and catch him in at least four different pins, one of which includes the threat of breaking his arm in two places, but he doesn't make a move. It's like his body can't remember how to want to.
For about ten seconds, and then Steve's got Tony by the back of the shirt and is saying, "Get off him, Tony," in a low, even voice before he turns it on Clint to ask, "Clint? Are you alright?"
"Uh," Clint fumbles, and almost involuntarily snags Tony as he moves away, then lets him go as his fingertips hit the edge of the arc reactor. "Sorry."
"No problem. Your rejection means nothing to me," Tony mopes, misunderstanding his apology on purpose, "My heart's already ripped out after all."
It hurts Clint's brain how much unwarranted sympathy he feels for Tony at that, and he covers his face with both hands and groans. "Please tell me this isn't going to be permanent. Tell me I'm getting my damn mind back. At some point."
"You're fine," Steve says and even though there's a laugh in it, he also sounds sort of serious.
"I'll be fine when you fix Tony," Clint grouches, even though yeah. They don't seem to be worried about the brainfuck that's been going around. For a sex-driven fuck-mad omega, he's the only one who's seeing the insanity here.
"There's nothing wrong with Tony either," Steve says, but carefully and like he thinks he might regret saying so if Tony decides to quote that declaration later.
"It's just the pheromones in the air," Tony puts in, not very helpfully, "No one is losing their sanity."
"Oh. Well. Good, then," Clint says, sarcastic, and drops an arm back over his face, "As long as your weirdness is just chemically induced."
"Right. I forgot that you think you're the normal one here, Hawkeye." Tony's looking down at him now. Clint can tell by where his voice is coming from and by the way he's kind of rubbing the arm Clint still has flung over his face. It's at odd contrast with the obnoxious jokeyness in his voice.
Clint ignores him. And stubbornly shoves aside the way he's been maybe acting a bit off. Maybe. "I think I'm in heat," he says, blurting it. He's not sure. It's just that Tony smells other than work-out sweaty. And then there's a whiff of something else, something better and it's fucking Steve, grabbing him by the upper arms and hauling him to his feet with obnoxious ease.
"Alright. Come on."
"Come on where?" Clint hedges, just to be difficult, but Steve just makes sure he has his balance--even if of course he has his balance, who the hell does Steve think he is?--then gives him a fond pat to the back of the head that could be some kind of correction if Steve didn't look so friendly, giving him that smile that he gives about-to-panic civilians. Clint can't help but smirk at it.
He has no idea if it's working or not. He thinks it's probably coming off a bit strained. Steve--Steve smells really good.
"Kitchen," Steve says, giving him a little push, "If this is happening you need water and food."
"So Tony's been feeding me to fuel my impending sex mania? Good to know." It sucks to know. Tony gives him a double thumbs up. Clint makes a mental note to put him on his shit list.
-----
Steve's a much better cook than Tony, but Clint mostly pushes the food absently around on his plate, attention turned inwards, trying to make note of any weird thing new thing his body decides to do.
"Least hot thing ever?" Steve asks, with a small quirked smile, setting bottles of sports drink down. "See if these are too cold."
Clint lets the fork hang from his mouth and puts his hand against one to test. Whatever his body is doing it's not going back to being hypersensitive. The bottles feel chill, but not enough to be painful, and his clothing doesn't feel like it's scraping his skin off this time. "They're fine," he says, taking the fork back up in his hand and making small circles with it to indicate the row of bottles Steve's set out. The overkill is very Tony.
"Workout, heat," Steve says before he can ask the question, and shrugs one shoulder a little. The Bruce stay hydrated song and dance is a little bit weirder coming from Steve, but Clint just says, "Huh," and twists the cap off of one of them. The cold sweetness of it is a lot more welcome than the food, and Clint pushes his plate away in favor of chugging down one bottle, then downing the next a little more slowly before settling to slow sips. He hadn't realized he was that thirsty, but now his stomach is protesting. Or. Or something.
The sensation is like a mild ache. Not quite pain, but uncomfortable. Hollow. He can't quite locate where it's centered.
Steve notices his distraction, because what feels like a second later he's by Clint's side, blocking his field of vision on the left and Clint starts to adjust for it automatically then decides evasive maneuvers are ridiculous when it's Steve, who's probably just there for a hit of omega, and slouches instead, putting a hand over his stomach, trying to find the source of the empty feeling.
"Oh god." Empty feeling. Fuck.
Steve tugs the still half-full bottle from his suddenly-tense fingers and sets it back on the table, careful not to touch him. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I just--" Need to be filled. Fuck, fuck. "Need to go." He doesn't move. Steve's so close and Clint needs--painfully, stupidly--for him to give his okay before he can beat the hasty retreat he has planned. He picks the plastic bottle back up--Steve's put the cap back on it--and picks at the label, turning it in his hands. The remainder of the drink's warmed up to just below room temperature, which means he's been here longer than he'd realized. "Steve?"
Steve's hand settles against the back of his head, his fingers moving lightly, making scratching sounds as Clint's hair shifts under the pressure. It feels impossibly loud. "Okay," he says, "Not a problem," but doesn't move back. Out of the corner of his eye, Clint can see him giving the nearly untouched plate a critical look. It makes him worry a bit for how bad this is going to be, if Steve's concerned about his not having enough lunch, but he's not going to hang around for Steve to decide that he should hang around. He grabs the remaining full bottle and ducks out from under Steve's hand, bolting for the elevator and his rooms.
-----
Tony comes not so much to check on him but to lean in his doorway and hold out a box filled with the pile of colorful plastic Clint had last seen in the lab. It's like the world's most obscene Easter basket and Clint eyes it suspiciously and doesn't let Tony in.
"Relax, Barton," Tony says with a grin that's more sympathetic than Clint would have expected him capable of, "If you don't want company, you don't want company, but you'll probably need something."
Clint shifts uncomfortably and says, "Yeah," but doesn't take the box until Tony shoves it against his chest and catches him by the wrist to wrap his arm around it, then holds it there to make sure Clint won't just drop the whole thing. "Um."
"Don't be shy, Hawkeye," Tony smirks, still holding his arm pulled across the box and his wrist pressed against it, "No one's judging." Clint wants to throw the whole fucking mess of it back at him, but he also can't make himself pull away. Tony of all people shouldn't be able to keep him pinned. Shouldn't be able to keep him still with just that one hand on him. Clint shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again and obediently grips the box, letting his breath out in a low sigh as he gives in. Tony's just a beta, and pretty damn low on the pack ladder, considering. If this still isn't heat, he's going to be a helpless mess when it really hits.
Tony lets him go and pats his cheek--or really, the whole side of his face--gently, and Clint turns his head a little to keep Tony's fingers away from his eye and maybe to get him to slide them into his hair. Just a little. He wants--
Clint swallows, then swallows again, hard, and steps back into the cool safety of his apartment. He can still feel the warmth of Tony's hand against his face like a brand, even though Tony has both hands held up in a mean no harm gesture. He steps further back, out into the hall, saying, "If you need anything, Clint--Need anyone--tell JARVIS and we'll be right--"
"Okay," Clint interrupts, getting his wits back a little, "Thanks."
It's another doorway conversation. He's glad Tony hasn't mentioned it or decided to discuss the sex toys in any depth.
"You look like you need a pep talk," Tony says, with a thoughtful frown, "You want me to send you Cap? I think we all know he can rally the troops like no other."
"Okay," Clint says again, flat, "Thanks," and closes the door with his foot.
"Okay? That looks more like a 'no'," Tony calls through it. He sounds gratifyingly muffled.
-----
It's still the least hot thing ever, but now his body is disagreeing with his mind's objections and insisting that no, this is totally hot. Or something is totally hot, even if he's not sure exactly what. He wants. He's restless and hard and the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach is growing until all he is is the hollow feeling. He drinks the last of the sports drink and another from his fridge and retreats to the shower where he turns the hot water all the way up and stands under it until he feels unsteady from the empty feeling and from inhaling steam and then he slides to the stall floor and tries to beat off.
He feels maybe three times crazier when he finally gives up, panting and still desperate even after he finishes, with no relief from the aching, empty feeling at all. "Fuck," he says and reaches to twist the water off.
-----
Sitting in the bottom of the shower with his face in his hands doesn't create any improvement in the situation either, so Clint stumbles back out into his bedroom to find something comfortable and worn. And clean, even though that's probably not going to last for very long. There's already dampness on his thighs that has nothing to do with the shower and that doesn't stay gone no matter how many times he wipes it away.
It's not bothering him as much as it had the first time, but it's still sort of gross. Or disturbing. It's not really a thrill to be reminded about what his body is up to.
The box from Tony is sitting by the end of his bed, on the floor. Pink and blue and something Clint can't even figure out in silver and safety orange visible over the edge of it. He drops his towel over the whole jumble of it, then gets dressed--t-shirt, boxers, another pair of boxers, sweats--then can't figure out what else to do other than roam restlessly around his apartment, like a trapped animal pacing the perimeter of a cage.
Even out of sight, the stupid box is haunting him.
-----
Natasha shows up while he's contemplating chewing his fingernails off to keep from touching himself--it just makes it worse, brings him to an edge he can't tip over even when he makes himself come over and over--and he at least has the presence of mind to kick Tony's goody bag of candy color filth and depravity under the bed before stumbling over to let her in.
When he opens the door, she has her hand on her hip and a grin on her face, and it's not what Clint wants to see when he's dying. "Nice get up," she says, and Clint realizes that he's brought the comforter with him, wrapped around him like a shield or a parka.
"Sorry. I've decided to keep being a shit about this," he tells her, with as much dry normality as he can scrape together. Natasha laughs. He can't decide if he thinks it sounds sympathetic or not, but he gives her the benefit of the doubt and doesn't shut the door in her face.
"I figured as much," she says with a little shrug that says, I tried. Clint gathers the comforter closer around himself and frowns at her in a way that's probably failing to be threatening. She's still smiling and when she starts to push past him and into his apartment, he almost lets her past out of habit, then steps to block her almost at the last minute and they end up with an awkward shuffle in the doorway, Natasha thinking that they're just accidentally getting in each other's way, and Clint trying to stay in her way without tripping over the trailing end of the comforter.
"Picture of grace, Barton," she says, when he almost fails at that last and has to grab for the doorframe. He doesn't quite manage that either, with his arms still tangled up in fluffy fabric, and ends up having to catch his weight with one shoulder against the wall, just inside the doorway. He shoots Nat his best dirty look.
"Go away."
She doesn't. "Are you okay? Steve said--"
"Yeah. Great." Good for Steve. Spreading the fucking word.
Natasha's expression goes determinedly patient. Like she's trying very hard for him, and Clint feels a pang of guilt then shoves it away and stubbornly sets his jaw.
"You look terrible, Clint," Natasha says, as if he needed that pointed out, then adds, "And ridiculous."
Clint hitches the comforter further up around his shoulders, as a barrier in case she's gearing up to sniff him. Or in case she does something like step in close and it sends his brain into park. "And whose fault is that, Ms. Trust Me I Have A Plan To Take Down Thor?"
Natasha sighs and pats his shoulder, ignoring the way he hunches defensively under the comforter, then gives him a loose, brief hug. "You don't have to hole up, dummy. No one's going to jump you. Come watch TV. Or watch Stark try to make you soup. It's pretty entertaining."
Sex toys and soup. He is being spoiled, but in a way that's kind of invasive and more than mildly disturbing.
"I don't think so. I'm just gonna--I don't know. Microwave some tea or something. Try to sleep it off."
"It's not a hangover, Clint, but alright," she says, and gives him a pat as she steps back. It's a little odd, but not too unlike gestures she's made before, mostly after kicking his ass, so it's not as disconcerting as when Tony tries it. "But call if you need anything. Or if you feel yourself getting any weirder."
"Funny."
"Or if you get scared," she says, from out in the hall, her tone a mix of serious and kidding, and Clint sticks his head out to look both ways so he can make sure no one else was around to hear that.
"Go away, Tasha."
-----
"Okay," Clint says to himself, dumping Tony's box out onto his bed, "Now I'm scared." He's pretty sure Tony has the things color-coded. It seems like something Tony would do, and there's a definite correlation between stupid flashy color and shape. Or something. Clint's not about to sort them to figure out exactly what system Tony had used to organize them.
Instead, he pulls the end of his comforter over his head and lets himself flop over backwards. Something rolls and hits the floor with a thunk and Clint automatically turns onto his side to reach for it. It's pink and dark purple. Yellow buttons. And it's still a more restrained color combination than some of the others. He pushes what looks like the on button, expecting it to start humming, but instead a section near the base of it starts to expand.
"Holy shit, Stark."
The worst thing about it is that some part of him is more than a little interested, and Clint hurls the thing across the room before that part can get any specific ideas. As it is, he has to tamp down the sense of anticipation. It's so intense it makes his skin hurt.
-----
Safety orange has a huge knot. Tony could have just put a warning label on the thing, the psycho, because the traffic cone color isn't nearly enough of a heads-up. A gentle baby blue one, no bigger around than maybe two of his fingers, has none. The green one Clint had set off in the workshop is somewhere in between, thickening inside him but nothing more than that. The sensation is still somewhere between discomfort and pain, but it makes him gasp in relief and hunger and want.
-----
He gets his mind back in what feels like the early morning. It's still dark out, but he's been out of it too long for it to be any earlier than two. Somewhere along the way he's shed all his clothes and his bed is a mess of colored plastic and tangled sheets. It's horrifying, and Clint tries not to think about it as he sweeps the lot of them back into their box and shoves that as far under his bed as possible. All the way into the far corner.
There's still a weird sense of electricity under his skin and even an over-hot shower doesn't chase it away. The clothes he pulls on feel rough and constricting and even though he's still shivering with occasional chills he can't deal with anything heavier than a thin T-shirt.
He can't deal with the air in his room and the way it stinks of omega, and even if the early morning is when Tony tends to wander the halls on a circuitous route back to the penthouse, Clint tugs his sneakers on and slips out into the hall, with the half-formed idea of heading to the pool or the gym even though he's shaky enough that he'd probably drown himself or land on his head or something else that Natasha would have choice words about.
Instead, he finds himself knocking on Steve's door. Which is really stupid, because Steve probably can't hear him and it's not like he's living in some cottage in the woods or something. There's an intercom and a buzzer, but the idea of the sharp sound of the alert or of talking is too much. He lets his head thump as it comes to rest against the door and a second later JARVIS is asking, "Would you like me to wake Captain Rogers for you, Agent Barton?"
Clint tries not to, but he hears himself saying, "Yeah."
-----
For once he doesn't mind Steve pressing his face into the crook of his shoulder. He does dodge away at the gentle scrape of teeth, but Steve lets him, and scents his way up his neck until his nose is pressed to the side of Clint's head, just above his ear. "Feeling better?" he says, and even with the rising inflection, it's not really a question. Clint doesn't doubt that Steve can tell it just from how much heat scent is still lingering on him.
"Mm," he says, and Steve puffs a breath against his hair. Maybe laughing. It's gentle though and not particularly mocking. Steve just seems quietly pleased, and Clint shoves him off enough to glare and say, "I don't want anything from you," and even he has to admit that it's kind of mean, or manipulative, or maybe just plain weird to come to an alpha stinking of heat just to say something like that.
Steve doesn't look like he takes the rejection personally. But then, it's not like the lie isn't obvious because when Steve takes a step back to give him space, Clint follows in a pathetic, desperate stumble and can't even stop himself from grabbing onto Steve's shirt, twisting his hands into it like that's going to do anything to keep Steve from leaving if that's what he wants to do.
"Steve." He's not sure what he's asking for. He's past enough of the heat--thank god--that the hollow, empty feeling is mostly gone and the ache in his chest is odd and directionless.
"Are you okay?" Steve asks, not knocking his hands away but instead pulling him back in and oh. That's what he wants. Steve's hands on his back are warm and soothing and he thinks he can feel where they've touched, like after Tony had put a hand on his face when he'd delivered the. The things. He doesn't really notice what he's doing until he's pressed so far up against Steve that Steve's stepping backwards.
"Uh," Clint protests, intelligently.
"Come on," Steve says, taking him by the wrist, and Clint follows his backwards walk like a duck led by breadcrumbs. He should be embarrassed. He should fucking stop, but he doesn't until he's well into Steve's bedroom and Steve is throwing his covers back, and then he's reversing direction and trying to twist his arm free of Steve's grip.
"Hang on. I--"
Steve sits and gives his arm a tug. It's a little too careful to be called sharp, but his balance is off enough and his legs shaky enough that he bumps the side of Steve's bed when he tries to take a step to absorb the momentum and ends up tipping half onto Steve and half onto his bed, then tries to roll away. "Wait. Wait, Steve." Steve's not holding on anymore, but his hand on Clint's chest is just as effective a pin, even with no force or weight behind it.
"It's four in the morning, Clint. Just--I'm going back to sleep, okay?"
Oh. Oh.
"Oh," Clint says. It's probably not that Steve hadn't noticed his freak out so much as that he's ignoring it, because as soon Clint manages to calm the hell back down, he's taking the restraining hand away so he can maneuver around Clint to get his legs up on the bed and under the blankets, leaving him sprawled mostly sideways across the mattress even though it means Steve's kind of cramped up near the wall.
It's not a bad act, except that Clint can smell the way Clint being only about halfway back to sane is affecting Steve. There's an undertone to his regular alpha fragrance that's familiar enough to Clint to know that Steve's shifting gears into rut and fuck. He's an asshole. He clearly hadn't thought a damn thing through before coming here. "Sorry," he mumbles, pushing himself up, "Fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry."
Steve's response is to catch him by the back of the shirt and pull him back down, holding him there until he stops struggling. "Steve. Cap. You're strangling me."
"Clint. Hawkeye. You're keeping me up."
"Right," Clint says and stays where he is when Steve lets go to toss the blanket over him, then pats him awkwardly.
"Go to sleep, Clint."
-----
He wakes up with Steve's arms wrapped around him and his own leg hooked over Steve's. His arm flung across Steve's face in a way that's probably kind of rude, considering, even if Steve doesn't seem bothered by it. He pulls it and his leg back and rolls away to lie on his back and the movement makes Steve grumble and shift.
"Sorry. Kind of. In your personal space," Clint says, but Steve doesn't seem to feel the same way about how he's still got Clint mostly trapped under his arm because he doesn't remove it. Instead, he pulls Clint back in.
"N'a minute," Steve mumbles and Clint laughs into his arm and relaxes.
"Sure. But after that, up for school." he cracks. Steve blinks an eye open, and regards him blearily, then snorts and lets it drift closed again.
Asks, thick voiced, "Are you okay?"
He's pretty sure he is. His skin feels quiet--that's a thing now, unbelievably--and nothing hurts or aches. His head feels mostly clear, and he's not sure why, but he was sort of expecting something more like a hangover.
"Depends if Tony's cooking or not," Clint says, but settles back in against Steve.
-----
Tony, as it turns out, is cooking, but it's not sad eggs so Clint counts it as a plus and accepts the plate that gets shoved at him without making a snide remark. "Waffles?"
"From scratch," Tony brags, and gestures grandly at the old style iron he has on the stovetop, "Just like Cap's mother used to make."
Something about that seems off kilter, but Clint can't put his finger on it firmly enough to harass Tony, so instead he says, "You learned actual cooking? How long was I out for?" and right. He'd forgotten Tony's touchy beta thing.
"Long enough that Bruce wanted me to over-ride your lock code," Tony says, being handsy and inappropriate and patting him a little bit like Natasha did on missions when she thought he might have an injury he wasn't registering over the rush of adrenaline and contained terror, hands firm and searching over his shoulders and face before obnoxiously ruffling his hair. "We tried to--Well, I tried to--come water you and turn you towards the sun so you'd get even daylight on all sides and that kind of thing, but you didn't answer your door."
He might still not be all the way back yet, because he feels kind of bad about upsetting Tony, even though Tony's upset is mostly coming across as an incomprehensible ramble. "Oh," Clint says, "There was an. Um. A circumstance."
"Yeah, yeah. I know all about your circumstance," Tony says, and looks like he's just managing not to wink at him, but then he reels the weird in and brushes aside his own drama, saying, more seriously, "JARVIS would have told me if you were in trouble." Clint's sure that two thirds of everything Tony says is just random for-the-hell-of-it bullshit, but it's still pretty impressive how easily how he can change gears.
He watches Tony pour syrup over his waffles and drinks the juice set by his plate and then the one set by Steve's and asks, "How long was I--?"
"Day and a half? Maybe a bit longer. Wasn't so bad, right?"
Clint tries very hard not to think about the box under his bed or if that's even what Tony's referring to. "It was fine," he says.
-----
Tony and Bruce get pissed off with each other, which was probably inevitable considering the beta drive to compete. But it's also a little tragic to watch them have some kind of brilliant idea and look towards each other before remembering that they're on the outs. Still, Clint's kind of relieved to not be the focus of the team's weird behavior, and Natasha being impatient with Tony and Bruce beats her being exasperated and concerned at him any day.
"It's almost like things are normal again," he tells Natasha, when no one's sniffed or patted or tried to feed him or randomly put an arm around his shoulder for no reason for a whole three days. That last one seems to happen a lot at practice. Like the fact that he can kick half the team's ass ninety nine point nine percent of the time and give the other half a respectable run for their money is lost on them and they need to make sure he's not damaged or shaken up or something from tumbling on mats. It's something of a relief to have personal space again.
"Things are normal," Natasha tells him, "There's nothing not normal about this."
Clint gives Tony--storming through the living room again--a meaningful look, then turns back to Natasha.
"Still normal," she says.
"Bruce," Tony says, in a tone that makes the name an insult, "Thinks he's too good to share a rung with me anymore," and it's probably something ridiculous that Tony's reading too much into and probably doing it because Bruce was standing in the way of something he wanted to do or build or blow up, but Clint remembers that beta paranoia and rank guarding. He's actually a little surprised that there hadn't been a problem before now. The first thing he'd done as soon as he'd secured non-omega status was to start plotting his take downs.
"You could challenge me," Natasha says, and lazily drapes an arm over the back of the couch to give Tony an innocently sweet smile. "If you don't want to be a bottom feeder anymore."
"I didn't say he beat me," Tony snaps.
"Cry me a river," Clint tells him, "I'd kick your ass right now if it would move me up."
Tony scoffs. "No, you wouldn't. You know you love the attention and the--" and stops, like he's heading into a social blunder that he actually notices, then comes over to kiss the top of his head and say, "The war is with Bruce, Clint," before leaving.
"You call that normal?" Clint asks Natasha, then scowls when she just drops her head and shoulders into his lap and reaches a hand to his face to pat his cheek.
"Yes, I do."
-----
Beta showdown only lasts a week, but by the end of it Clint's the one jangled, which is almost as unsettling as the showdown itself. He's used to being on his own or, at worst, as part of an alliance of solitaries. The way it had been with Natasha, before the Avengers and before he apparently decided to give a crap about Tony's feuds. And it is Tony's feud, because Bruce doesn't seem that interested in being involved in it anymore even if he's letting Tony egg him on. Clint's not really sure how to interpret that. It's really unclear which one of them is winning.
"Everything's fine, Clint," Steve says, when he comes into the kitchen to find him crankily shoveling sugar into half a cup of coffee.
Clint lets his gaze slide over and away from the velcro tipped darts he's been tossing at anything they will stick to--which isn't much. The kitchen Tony has installed in the communal area is modern sleek and the hand towel hanging on a hook by the sink is the only real stick-friendly target. Natasha's left some kind of fluffy wallet or phone case or something on the counter, but hitting it is just edging it dangerously close to the far edge and he has no idea how whatever's in it will take hitting the floor. "Mm," Clint says, and gets Steve in the middle of his chest. "I don't remember ever being that crazy. Maybe I just didn't notice."
"Tony's not really acting that different," Steve points out, and grins as he plucks the dart off himself and tosses it back. Clint hits him with it again.
"He was already a bit crazy to start with," he allows, and this time Steve presses the dart into his hand when he returns it. His fingers brush Clint's wrist as he pulls back. It's probably not an accident. And it's definitely not an accident when Steve presses the backs of those fingers to his cheek briefly before he sits down. At least the sniffing thing has died down. Mostly.
The patting thing is alive and well though, because when Bruce wanders in a little later he absently lays his hand over the back of Clint's neck, then slides it up into his hair as he passes, fingers moving against the back of his head, ruffling the hair there as they slide away. Clint rolls his eyes. Asks, "How's the war going?" and even though he means it to be sarcastic, it comes out sounding concerned and tense.
Bruce huffs. "It's not going. Tony's just offended. I wasn't even--"
"If you want to fight it out, I'll trip him for you," Clint offers and throws the dart. It doesn't stick to Bruce's shirt the way it had to Steve's sweater and bounces off. The plastic clatters a little on the floor and Bruce looks down at it and then back up.
Says, "Clint--"
"Bruce."
"Everything's fine, Cli--"
"Jesus," Clint interrupts and ducks out of his chair to scoop the dart back up so he can flick it at Bruce again. Bruce catches it awkwardly against his chest and sticks it to the hand towel with the others. "I don't care about your goddamn fight with Tony."
-----
The next time Steve manages to strong-arm Tony into actually joining practice, Clint ducks under his punch, flips him, then drops down on top of him, gets him into a pin, and refuses to let him up until he agrees to declare truce.
"I thought you didn't care," Tony grunts, squirming around trying to get free. Clint leans a little more weight onto him, putting pressure on his arm.
"Ow. Fuck, Barton."
"Say uncle."
"Uncle, you psycho. Uncle." Tony slaps the mat, "Look. Tapping out."
"To Bruce."
"What?" Tony's squirm goes indignant, but his kicking around is pretty ineffective. Someone should really teach him some proper fucking grappling. "You--Fuck. Let me go. Foul! Foul! Omega interference. This counts for nothing."
Clint doesn't let him go. "Bruce?"
"This is how you move up, Banner? That's low." Clint can tell he's glaring daggers at Bruce as he comes padding over the gym's wooden floors and onto the mats to crouch in front of them.
"Give, Tony," Clint says, when neither of them say anything.
"This is so not legit. Why are you siding with Banner?"
It's a reasonable question, and Clint's not that sure what the answer is, except that it would probably be a really stupid idea to try to pin Bruce onto a floor. It's not like tackling him was ever a realistic option.
"I'm willing to call it a draw," Bruce offers.
"I'm willing to make a real match out of--Ow. Barton!"
"No moving up," Clint says. "I'm vetoing the move-ups. If I don't get to, no one gets to. Unless you want to fight Thor, because I'd like to see that."
"Okay. Fine," Tony snaps, "Truce. I give. I'll take the draw. Jesus."
-----
Tony's reaction to being released--after he'd finished dramatically working his arm and wincing--isn't to do something utterly justified like punch him in the face. It's what Clint would have done if someone had interfered with his designs on self improvement, and he's only ever had to deal with betas trying to stand in his way. Having an omega jump in is probably even more infuriating, but the only thing that happens is that Tony and Bruce decide to engage in another round of touch-and-pat, which is probably a sure sign that the feud is over, whatever the hell it had originally been about.
"I better not have to sort you guys out every fifth week or anything," Clint says, "Because that could get old pretty damn fast."
Bruce says, "Okay," in an amused tone and Clint lets himself be tipped against Bruce's side for reasons he can't even start to get a bead on.
Bruce's fingers trail over the side of his neck, down to the curve of his shoulder, where they'll eventually clamp down to bond him. "The pack's fine, Clint," he says, as his thumb pushes in lightly, stroking circles over that spot, but never exerting any real pressure.
"Yeah, yeah."
"Betas fight."
"I know betas fight," Clint snaps. He'd just never cared about beta fights that weren't his own. He'd stood by all-out beta brawls and not even bothered, if it didn't look like he was at any risk.
"Alright," Bruce says, and his thumb pushes a little harder for a few strokes, until Clint's quiet against him and he should probably not be letting Bruce do that, but the restoration of order is making him feel kind of okay about a lot of things.
He kicks Tony a little anyway, for good measure.
-----
"Sorting out my pack for me?" Steve asks him, when he notices Tony and Bruce's return to accepting their tie for the ass end of the beta hierarchy. Clint grins and turns from the open fridge to sketch him a little bow, then pulls the milk out of the door and kicks it closed.
"Your pack? I though this was a group venture," he says, and goes to rummage through the cupboard for a glass. It's a mess of snack food boxes, cooking implements and ziploc and garbage bags. Either no one has a sense of organization, or they're all insisting on their own organization, regardless of what anyone else is doing. Or, like Clint, they're all just shoving stuff where ever there's space. "Are you going to give me a lecture on the functions of inter-beta aggression too?"
Steve snorts. Asks, "Bruce?"
"Bruce," Clint confirms. Everyone's treating him like he's never been in a pack, rather than just that he's never been tossed on his ass at a crucial moment and it would be irritating--has been irritating--but he's starting to feel like maybe he has missed something, because he can't remember ever bothering to make up with fellow betas before, or recall feeling any particular affection for their omega. Tony is treating the aftermath of his beta spat with more diplomacy and magnanimity than Clint had ever managed and wasn't even holding a grudge for the interference. Obnoxious pats aside, he might have misjudged Tony, just a little bit.
Steve watches him fish a mug out from behind a box of cereal, then try to cram the door shut on all the boxes he's shifted around.
"It's not going to last, you know," Clint says, pouring the milk, "They're going to find something to piss each other off about until someone breaks the tie." It could be dangerous with a Hulk involved. A Hulk and Tony's mean right hook to set the spark.
"It's not your job to worry about," Steve says, after a few moments. Not dismissive or code for know your place, but reassuring. An I got this, or maybe a that won't happen.
"I wasn't worried about it before," Clint snaps, because really. Everything was fine before, and if they could, through the magic of higher brain function and common human sense, manage to not kill each other, it stands to reason that they could also have managed to withstand the urge to sort themselves into pack order. There were plenty of coalitions of unaligned solitaries that worked just fine, and they would have worked just fine without throwing the Hulk and the world's most obnoxious mouth into beta rivalry.
There's chocolate syrup sitting out on the counter. Clint squeezes way too much into his mug, shoves it into the microwave then turns and leans back against the counter to wait out the thirty seconds he punches into the keypad, frowning at the line where the kitchen tile turns into dining room hardwood.
"Maybe I just have beta sorting reflexes," he offers.
-----
Natasha spends an entire practice session knocking Tony over. Tripping him, flipping him over her hip, or, once, just shoving him when she catches him already off his balance and sending him sprawling. Just to make sure he knows who's boss and doesn't think to try anything with her.
Everybody is losing their mind, but Steve doesn't seem bothered. He does offer Natasha an awkward little fist-bump that makes her smile and makes Tony comment on like watching your dad try to high five, but he doesn't try any funny business and no one tries any funny business with Bruce, which isn't that surprising for Natasha, but even Tony is laying off.
It's unexpectedly civilized behavior, for betas, but Steve idly stroking his back while they're cooling down later isn't exactly regular either. Clint could peel himself off the mats and leave, or at least roll over a couple times to make some distance, but it doesn't seem to matter, suddenly, if Steve is getting in on the patting thing. Even if Clint's sweat-damp and disgusting.