A Gift From: geckoholic
Title: Stand In The Rain 'Til The Page Is Turned
A Gift For: kiss_me_cassie
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Choose Not To Warn: depression, mental illness
Summary: Clint slides into a holiday depression. Natasha and
Bucky show up to coax him out of it.
Author's Note: Just to avoid misunderstandings, yes, this is OT3 fic. XD

Stand In The Rain 'Til The Page Is Turned

New York in winter only looks good on photos in those glossy tourist guides. In truth, the pristine blanket of white, untouched and glittering in the light of a myriad of beautiful Christmas decorations, only ever exists in the early morning. Not even then, really. The city never sleeps, and so the half life of such a pretty dis-play amounts to mere minutes, if that, before footsteps ruin the undisturbed white and cars sprinkle it with dirty gray slush from underneath their wheels.

Clint doesn't care. If New York would be so picturesque, it wouldn't be fit to be his home.


***


He likes Christmas shopping. This regularly comes as a surprise to whoever he tells about it, because he's not a big shopper as such, but it's way different when it's not for himself. He can get by on second-hand clothes and discounted everything if need be. He doesn't like to spend money on himself. Spending money on his friends, however... that's another matter entirely. He buys small tokens of his affection for an ever-increasing number of Avengers that he's worked with, and he takes real cash in hand when it comes to buy-ing gifts for Natasha and Bucky. He's already got three neatly store-wrapped presents for her and two for him, hidden in the back of his wardrobe, and he's not done yet. If something else catches his eye, he'll get that as well.

On the evening he brings back the fourth, Natasha levels him with a glare when he marches back into the living room after storing it away. She knows about his not-so-secret hiding place, of course. She would nev-er sneak around to actually find out what's in them, but she keeps count.

“You should buy something nice for yourself, too,” she admonishes, waving a finger at him.

“Eh.” Clint shrugs, giving her a sheepish smile. “I got everything I need.”

That wasn't her point, and he knows that, and she knows that he knows, but she only rolls her eyes and beckons him over to sit with her on the couch so she can make him gradually melt down with his head in her lap, her fingers carding through the short hair at the back of his scalp.


***


The days tick by, closer and closer to the day on which happiness is mandatory, and Clint's brain takes that as a challenge. It happens sometimes, around Christmas. One year he'll get lucky, able to sink into the fes-tive spirit and enjoy the holidays in a way that he only ever discovered as an adult, with his two lovers, his friends, the community he's grown to be a part of. The next year, his mood diminishes the closer it gets to Christmas Day, reaching its lowest point just when all the holiday cheer culminates.

Sadness settles over him like a heavy blanket, masquerading as a comfort when in reality it's a burden, the weight of a monster his back wearing him down. It pretends to be his friend, disguises its lies as well-meant advice, and before he knows it the world seems foreign and hostile and he's sure, absolutely sure, that the people he loves are better off without him, his absence the best gift he can possibly make them. The pre-sents in the wardrobe, on the other hand, seem cheap and insufficient, and he ignores the plans they made for Christmas together this year. No visiting the big tree at Rockefeller Center, no ice-skating badly, no takeout and Christmas music and unwrapping presents at the small actual tree that Natasha always finds them at the last minute.

“We're celebrating at my place this year,” Bucky texts him on the twenty-third. “Fear me, I have found The Jethro Tull Christmas Album at the flea market last week and I intend to play it on loop.”

Clint can't even muster up a smile at that ridiculous threat. He leaves the message unanswered for a whole day, then texts back a quick am hibernating, maybe next year and turns his phone off. He scours his fridge for something edible, finds some cheese that's only four days past its best before, digs some stale crackers from his snack cupboard, and takes them upstairs with a newspaper for a plate because all actual plates are in the sink, creating a unique new biotope for all sorts of mold.

He'll sleep the holidays away. Bucky and Natasha still got each other. They'll have a nice Christmas togeth-er. They don't need him for that; chances are he'll only find some way to ruin the evening for everyone.


***


Clint wakes to voices wafting up to him from upstairs, arguing over the noise of clinking dishes and splash-ing water. He startles at the noise, but his fight-or-flight settles back down in seconds; burglars or assassins wouldn't bother washing the dishes for him, and also, he recognizes both their voices. Then he pulls the sheets over his head, draws them closer around himself, a likely vain attempt to disappear between them, and winces in shame.

It's Christmas morning and Bucky and Natasha are here, cleaning up the mess he made of his apartment, instead of enjoying a quiet, festive day like they should. There. He tried to stay away and he still ruined their Christmas.

Moments later, the opening riffs of holiday songs in the style of old-fashioned rock music blare through his apartment, the quality of the record adding a special tinny note to the whole affair, and Clint wails in pro-test. It's so loud he doesn't even hear the footsteps of someone climbing up the stairs, and he flinches, full-body, accompanied by a rather colorful curse, when there's a tug at the sheets.

“Told you,” Bucky says, sounding smug, his voice muffled through the fabric Clint's hiding under. “The Jeth-ro Tull Christmas Album.”

He tugs again, and Clint grunts, holding onto the sheets with all his strength, but Bucky has that metal arm and therefore isn't playing fair, and so their little tug-of-war ends with the sheets pulled down to around his hips. Bucky shakes his head at his sorry state – unwashed hair, still wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and likely somewhat stinky – but jumps onto the bed anyway, enveloping Clint in a crushing hug.

Clint fights him at first, trying to wriggle away, but Bucky is warm and he smells like Christmas punch and that aftershave Natasha bought him for his birthday last year and that Clint loves beyond words, and it's suddenly so hard to remind himself why he shouldn't deserve any of it. The music gets turned down a bit lower, less of a screaming racket and more of a comfortable lull, if The Jethro Tull Christmas Album could ever be a lull, and the noise of clinking dishes in the sink has long since been replaced by the familiar jiggle of Clint's Christmas decorations.

Bucky pulls him closer still, so that Clint's head is resting on his impressive but still somehow comfortable pecs, and Clint curls around him on autopilot. He doesn't cry – this kind of sadness doesn't produce tears, it's not that simple – but he heaves a heavy sigh and swallows a few times and lets himself be held.

“We brought the tree,” Bucky whispers, petting Clint's hair like he's five years old and it somehow isn't ri-diculous or embarrassing. “And the presents, and Natasha ordered Indian food for this evening. Huge amounts of it. We'll still be eating that well into the new year.”

“Oh, shut up,” comes Natasha's voice from downstairs because of course she still somehow overheard. “Like you haven't picked at least half of it.”

Bucky laughs and calls her names in Russian, she replies with a sharp series of curses in French just because she can, and Clint closes his eyes and lets their banter wash over him like a fresh breeze of morning air. The monster on his back is still feeding lies into his head about how he ruined their holidays and they'll have a full-fledged fight because of him before the day is out and it'll be awful and all his fault, like when he was little, but it's somehow much easier to ignore, now, surrounded by their love.

Give him a few more days, and then, maybe, he can actually start chasing that monster away yet again. If not for himself, well, then at least for the two of them.





Stand In The Rain 'Til The Page Is Turned
Needtobreathe – Bridges Burn