Helping A Buddy

Helping A Buddy

A/N: Yes, "Dr Wertham" is a very deliberate swipe at a specific figure from the history of censorship, and back during the Depression era, asthma was indeed considered a psychosomatic illness to be treated with psychoanalysis.



Part 1

It isn't the whiskey he told himself. Or the vodka. Or the brandy. Or the gin. Clint closed the door to his room and laid back on the plush king-size bed that Tony had furnished this room of Avengers Mansion with.



That's not what's pissing me off.



Clint took a deep breath. The memories flashed in his mind; the dark room, the angry noises, his door bursting open in the middle of the night, the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembered the pain that each lash inflicted; the archer inhaled again.



Hawkeye heard a knock on the door. "Come in," he responded.



Steve Rogers entered the room. "You left the party," Captain America began. "Are you alright Clint?"



"I'm fine," Clint replied in a completely flat tone. Yeah, totally hunky-dory. I'd totally leave a party for no reason!



Steve moved forward and looked at the other man. The fellow blue-eyed-blond had a more lithe, flexible build than he did. "If anything's wrong, you can tell me. You know I backed you up when you went after Natasha. You can trust me, Clint."



"I know," Clint responded as he folded his hands behind his head. "You chopped down more cherry trees than George Washington."



"So why not tell me what's wrong?" Steve replied as he moved even closer. He now stood right at the edge of Clint's bed.



"No particular reason, just wanted to make you work for it," Clint continued with a small chuckle and large smirk.



Steve remained silent and just looked at Clint. He listened.



Clint exhaled. "You know I grew up in the circus. I wasn't born in it. I ran away from home." His voice remained completely steady.



"I... I'm sorry to hear that," Steve replied. His eyes widened slightly. I was lucky... I had a loving home. My mother was always there when I was sick.



"So, next question is why I ran, huh?"



Steve simply nodded.



"Dad's blood-type was bourbon-positive. Mom didn't try to stop him from beating the crap outta me and my brother." Clint's gaze remained fixed at the ceiling as he spoke; his tone stayed absolutely flat.



Steve inhaled more loudly than usual. "Clint I..." The Captain searched for any possible way he could express sympathy without giving any impression of pity. "I..."



"No need to say anything," Clint continued with effortless speed. "But back to the party... you know how wasted Tony is? Well, I smelled his breath and it took me on a trip down repressed memory lane."



Steve paused. That's why he left, he thought. Can't exactly blame him. The smells of mud and gunpowder still brought up his own bad memories.

"I can't pretend I know exactly how you feel, Clint. I had my own problems growing up but I didn't have the problem you had. However, if you want to leave the party, I respect your choice."



"Most people wouldn't think you'd say that," Clint remarked casually.



"What, that I wouldn't respect people's choices?"



"Yeah. Everyone expects the ex-Army badass that doesn't stop shouting kinda thing." The archer smirked ironically in Steve's face.



Steve smiled weakly but didn't chuckle. "I fought for the right of people to live their own lives; it was the other side that wanted to make everyone into soldiers. Military discipline is necessary for the military, but just because it was necessary doesn't mean I liked it."

The Captain began to smirk. "Besides, it's not the best way to lead everyone. Or even most people. I know it didn't work on you."



Clint grinned. "You betcha! Fury raged at me every ten minutes. Like that stopped me."



"And I'm glad it didn't stop you, Barton. Orders can be as flawed as the person giving them. I broke my share and I don't regret doing so. Procedure may be one thing, but the real measure of a good soldier... or a good hero.. or a good man... is the fire in his heart, not how much he sticks to rules."



The archer remembered how Steve followed him to track down 'Tasha. Against Fury. Against Stark. He sided with the circus kid. He remembered just before making that impossible trick shot; even Hulk was skeptical. But Steve trusted my track record.

"I'm feeling better already," Clint responded with a smirk. "You know you really should sell mp3's of you saying stuff like that, you'd make a fortune."



"What's an mp3?"



Clint rolled his eyes before swinging his legs back over the edge of the bed and standing up. "Better get back to the party before Tony starts wearing the lampshade. Or Hulk drinks my cider. C'mon buddy," he said as he placed a hand on Steve's broad shoulder and began striding out of his room.



Part 2

After learning about Steve's lack of knowledge of mp3's, Clint took it upon himself to supplement Tony's efforts at introducing Steve to the conveniences of the modern world. If the tech guy hasn't taught him about mp3's yet, the tech guy's making an error somewhere.



So Clint and Steve were sitting on the couch together with a huge bowl of popcorn between them (extra-butter popcorn too) watching movies. Clint passed the remote to the larger man. "Pause if you need to ask anything."



Steve accepted the remote with a smile, sat back and watched.



A few hours later, he hit the pause button; the screen displayed a young man with an unhealthy pallor, shivering and wheezing in bed. He remembered the feeling; the tightening of the chest like having one's lungs wrapped in iron shackles, the thick viscous mucus clogging the airways, the rattling wheeze echoing inside one's skull with each frantic intake of breath... he could almost feel it again..



"Hello, anyone home?" Clint asked as he waved a hand in front of Steve's face.



"Oh... I'm sorry," the Captain replied. "I just remembered something..." his voice became quieter.



"Y'know you can tell me," Hawkeye replied rapidly. Shell-shocked war vet. Maybe we should get a real therapist or something.. His hand moved behind Steve's back and rested on the elder blond's thick shoulder.



Steve began to speak.



"I've done everything I can!" the woman pleaded. "My son's health is fragile and I've been the best mother I could... I... I'm trying, Doctor Wertham."



The Doctor leaned back in his chair and observed the sight; the woman had a very thin, frail boy clenching to her side. The boy's gasps and wheezes echoed through the office.

"Mrs Rogers, asthma is well-known to be psychosomatic. The wheezing child is merely making a cry for his mother. I suspect you have been coddling him too much. If you wish for him to overcome his asthma you must break the apron strings and allow him to mature. I recommend psychoanalysis."



"I... understand, Doctor." She wondered how she could afford an analyst's fees atop her son's other medical expenses.



"And you should definetly prevent your son from reading that pulp-novel trash posing as 'literature.' Those stories have been strongly linked to juvenile delinquency and homosexuality."



When Steve finished, Clint's eyebrows were twisted in confusion. "Wait... you mean they actually believed asthma was just mommy issues?"



Steve nodded slowly. "Freud was cutting edge back then."



"Oh man," Clint responded with wide eyes, "that must've sucked... you couldn't breathe and they just wanted to ask you about your mother? And I thought the clowns were stupid.."



Steve just remained silent. The archer rubbed his shoulder. "We can always go to another film," he heard Hawkeye tell him.



"No... I think I just need a break, Clint."



"Alright. Want me to get you a soda or something?"



"Yes please," Steve responded. He watched the younger man leave the room and steadied the rise and fall of his chest; each breath seemed to bring more relief.



Clint returned with a bottle of cider in his right hand and a can of soda in his left. He extended his left hand and placed the cold metal container in Rogers' grasp.

"Thank you," Steve responded gratefully with a nod.

"No problem," he replied and sat back down. He took a swig of cider and followed it with a handfull of popcorn. He reclined backwards and placed his free hand behind his head.



"Not just for the soda. Thanks for listening."



Clint paused for a second, unsure of how to reply. Okay, feelings-y stuff, not my department.. "Ah.. yeah. Um, thanks. I guess." He tried to avoid eye contact, but then he saw the other man's face smile warmly. He turned his head towards the Super Soldier.



"It helped me, Clint. And your actions spoke louder than words," Steve said in a disarmingly sincere tone.



That's a relief. Who knows, maybe I should start selling movie-night-therapy. Popcorn included. Great deal. But all he could do was extend the arm holding the drink, rest it across Steve's broad back, and nod.

"We could always have more movie nights," he stated.



"I'd like that. Thank you," Steve replied.

The End