sparrow // mcu

chapter 8 - mistrust

The clothes turned out to be another matter entirely. Clint apparently had very little fashion sense; the pair of soft black track pants were all well and good, but the bright purple shirt just about hurt to look at...not to mention the loud 'I Heart Hawkeye' emblazoned across the front. She assumed it was Clint's idea of a joke. It wasn't very funny. He could have done better.

Imogen glanced at her old shirt. Dirty, ripped, and stiff with sweat, it wasn't the most inviting piece of clothing. A loud sigh escaped her. He could have at least bought her a normal shirt. Reluctantly, she pulled it on and left the bathroom, preparing a speech with which to chew Clint out about his idea of good clothing choice.

The plan didn't get much further. Barton, it turned out, had really needed that rest – he was stretched out on the bed, fast asleep. Hadn't even lasted the time it took for her to shower, after all that, she thought with amusement. She glanced at the cuffs, lying forgotten on the radiation. Should she do it herself? The idea wasn't one of her favourites, and the couch across the room looked much more inviting. Besides, it wasn't like Clint was waking up any time soon.

The choice was easy, then. She drew the curtains closed, shutting out the morning sun, and then settled down in the couch to wait.

---

It was still morning when Clint began to toss and turn, drawing her attention. At first, it was just the occasional twitch, disturbing her from her own attempts to fall asleep, a muttered word here and there that she had no hope of making out. His distress built as the morning wore on, movement becoming more violent, incoherent mumbling growing louder. For a while, she just sat and watched, not sure what to do – as he grew more frantic though, it became increasingly apparent that she'd have to do something, if only to keep anyone from coming to see what was going on.

Were you supposed to wake people who were caught in a nightmare? She had a feeling she'd read something once that said no, waking him would be dangerous (and not just for her, what with the weapon that was undoubtedly hidden under his pillow) – but she also saw no other solution to the problem.

He'd better not kill her, she thought. She hadn't come all this way just to end up dead.

Standing behind him, she reached out and gave him a solid shove, then ducked for cover. He shot up, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, a gun pointed at the spot where her head had been just seconds before. She peeked out at him from over the mattress, having dropped to a crouch next to the bed, waiting for a sign that it was safe to stand again.

Only once he had run his eyes over the entire room did he slowly lower the gun and regain control of his breathing. She stood and then perched on the end of the bed, staring at the floral curtains Clint had nearly put a bullet through. In the corner of her eye, she saw him glance between her and the cuffs several times. "Didn't I, uh..." He gestured uselessly, but she got what he was trying to say and shook her head.

"You fell asleep," she told him bluntly.

"Right." Silence. "Why'd you wake me up?"

Imogen shrugged. "You were moving around a lot, and muttering. Figured I should wake you up before someone next door complained or something."

"Right."

"Nightmares?" she asked casually. He eyed her suspiciously, and didn't answer. She rolled her eyes. "Obviously nightmares."

"Everyone has nightmares," Clint replied defensively.

"Not me," she replied. He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Never done anything worth having a nightmare about."

"Right." It wasn't hard to tell that he didn't believe her. "Stay here," he instructed unnecessarily, standing and stumbling into the bathroom. Rolling her eyes once more, she returned to the couch.