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feverhalo · 6 years

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So. Heres this old fic from uhhhhhhhhhhhhh I really don’t remember how long ago. Originally I had it split into 3 parts on the posts that inspired it- and it was my first attempt at writing anything along the lines of stuffing, but it kind of ended up more like he was already coming down with something. It was on my first attempt at a fic blog- way back when and it got deleted because I didnt know how sideblogs worked back then and goofed. Thought I lost everything, then I found an old disc with a whole whack of it on there.

At the moment I can only find 2 of the 3 posts of the art that inspired it here and here. I’ll link the missing post as soon as I find it.

so um, warnings for vomit, cussing, and over-eating-ish and mentions of drinking. and I also am not editing it because im super lazy so its in the same glory as it was when i posted it years ago (2012 apparently)

2,864 words, apparently.

“Come on people! When I say I want you all mobilized in fifteen I don’t mean in half a damn hour. I mean twenty minutes ago.” Fury fumed over the intercom from his station on scene. His voice bounced off the inside of the transport van and rung through each individual earpiece. “Rise and shine, ‘cause we are in a fucking war against some baddies if you haven’t all noticed. You are my agents and I am expecting you to do your damn jobs at my order.”

“Load of fucking shit,” the sniper agent to Clint’s left mumbled, “two a.m. wakeup call is horseshit. I just finished a mission and got back at ten last night.”

“Yeah, welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D brother, what did you think this was? Day camp?” Clint double checked his packet was still together. He’d read it once they got to their positions, it was too dark inside the van. He shook his head a bit when the other agent went back to fuming. Running on low sleep was nothing, sure the headaches and fuzziness were a pain in the ass sometimes but it’s not hard to get used to. You have to get used to it in this job. Same with messed up schedules on basically everything. They would get an hour tops to set up and get ready for a long haul on their stations.

What he managed to make sense of before climbing in the back of the vehicle through his sleep-fogged mind was that they needed to be ready for anything by three thirty, three forty five at the latest with the other crew up ahead of them set up. He rubbed his face trying to wake up more, must be all the time he’s spent on normal schedule lately, it was causing a real issue. He wasn’t looking forward to the no doubt shitty and militant type food they were all going to have for breakfast within the next hour either. He was getting soft on the new routine of near-normal sleep and actual tasteful food instead of vacuum packed crap made for boosting endurance.

He leaned back to try and get into the mindset for the day. It was going to be a very very long one. Someone mentioned they might be stuck out there until seven that night. By then they’d have relief agents come in to give them a break, but as Hawkeye, well he was probably expected to stay around. Most teams wouldn’t shelf their best shooter if they could help it. He’d probably get a nap in at some stationed area. Though the accidental nap he got on the way there wasn’t something he completely cursed even though he didn’t like the fact of it.

“Alright, come on move out you all got a lot to go over and not much time.” The voice crackling into his ear is what startled him awake, and the hatch of the van swinging open definitely helped make that happen faster. Keeping near silent, everyone filed out and headed into the building while Agent Hill took control of their transport and directed it to their station a little ways away hidden in a different building.

Everyone was handed a pack; filled with the shitty food and bottles of water for their posts, their weapons if they hadn’t brought any and extra ammo and pieces if they did, additional intel for their briefing packages according to pay grade, and some quick hushed instruction to where they were all to be.

Clint took his without a word and made his way to his post. Abandoned, or purposefully emptied, industrial building and the usual sort of interior. Too much moving about would give away his position on the metal catwalk. He had a few windows to observe through and a railing to his back. He dropped his pack as lightly and quietly as he could and set himself facing the railing to observe everyone being dispatched while he read over his briefing package.

Exact sort of thing he expected since they woke him up. Nothing too big, but big enough to require a lot of force if anything went bad. He was given another radio code with instructions to call the other Avengers if things turned too ugly. And it was going to be a long-ass day. No break in sight until afternoon if they were lucky. He ripped open the first package of… well. He opened the first nutritional packet and set to work on it mindlessly while he kept reading and rereading. This was coded, but memorizing it and burning it was always his procedure.

By the fourth read through he was nearly done the second pack. Best to eat as much as he could, as much as he hated it and was off-put by eating at such a strange time after the Avengers got together. Professional agent Clint Barton, code name Hawkeye, sharpest shooter as they came- but totally useless without a sugar rush to start him at this time of night, and hell to deal with if he crashes afterward. Carbs, protein, sugar. The three biggest and most annoying things to eat right now, low on time and rushing to compensate for his mental sluggishness at this hour.

He startled himself with a small belch and nearly dropped everything. He did a quick scan and everything seemed normal. Confused for a second longer as to the origin of the sound, he came to the realization when he hiccupped. Ah. Right. He was eating, and apparently at the speed he was reading if the blooming discomfort in his slightly distended abdomen was anything to go by. He took a swig of the only soda from his pack, no doubt put there as a favor from a very sneaky woman. He let it fizz up in his mouth before swallowing it.

New diet. That’s another thing he reminded himself to update S.H.I.E.L.D on before the next mission. He downed some more soda and let the carbonation work its way back out in a few more small burps. It was definitely a good feeling. He just had to work the rest of the air out before the mission started. No big deal.

“Relax Barton,” He shifted in his new ‘nest’, “nothing you haven’t had to do before. Good to know I can still get mission jitters, heh. Maybe this’ll be fun.” He wanted it to be. He definitely wasn’t expecting this call when he decided to turn in early last night. He tried to tell himself the slight trembling feeling, not that he’d let his hands shake at all if it could be helped, was from nerves. Big man in the world now, sure, but unexpected missions always had excitement to them. Sometimes it left you a little shaken in the best ways. Not that he was sure how good this sort of shaken felt yet, all he could say for certain was that it was strange.

He shrugged his shoulders and straightened out before packing away the left overs and digging out a lighter to burn the paper with. The wind howled a little outside, bringing to his mind the chill of the night.

An hour later had him leaning lazily at a windowsill; nothing happened yet that needed his attention or intervention. He kept flitting his eyes about in a restless sort of way, glancing about but never focusing too long and trying to keep that trembling, tingling feeling filling him up at bay. He thought back to the night before, and about being so tired.

“See anything?” Another agent’s voice crackled through his earpiece. He pressed down on his microphone button to reply.

“Not a damn thing,” he drawled, “Anything from your sights?”

“Nothing yet,”

He let up off the mic and sighed. He felt his body buzz again in a wave under his skin and couldn’t help but shake his shoulders trying to get it out. Part of his mind nagged at him with a reminder of feeling distinctly unwell last night.

Drinking. Stark roped us all into it. Thinks just because he has a miracle liver means we all do.

Though it was harder to remind himself of that when he had to shake his shoulders and head again to fight off a wave of fuzziness.

It wasn’t for another forty-five minutes, and three updates from Fury himself, until Barton had something to hold his attention. He was crouched low at his post and grabbed at the shirt over his stomach as another wave of pain and sudden nausea shot through him. Sure he’d started idly rubbing his stomach a little earlier; he was getting butterflies was all. Usually something happened by now when they got this many people out that fast. He was getting more nervous the entire time, who didn’t when it came to performance issues? He was still having trouble focusing on the vast nothingness happening today by the time the butterflies started. But now this was throwing him off.

“Any news yet? Getting real bored up here,” he clicked the mic off after and waited.

“Nothing. Should be another hour at most. Getting antsy there, a little flighty? Ha.”

“Ha. Leave the jokes to someone who can handle them, Keith.” He turned down the radio and double checked the microphone was off when he curled up tighter into himself and put his head against the sill as another wave of discomfort washed over him.

Eventually, he had to get back up and in proper position. He felt a bit better after some time elapsed and figured as long as he didn’t over do anything and stayed relatively well hydrated he’d be good enough. He turned the radio back up and opened his water bottle as he slid back into the favored hiding position he found where he could stand full height without being seen. Another hour tops and he’d have something in his sights…

Hawkeye swallowed hard and backed away from his post. This was getting a little ridiculous. He stepped back until the guard rail pressed into his back. He hazarded a quick glimpse over before having to go back to staring at part of the wall to calm his roiling stomach, but his eyes didn’t miss a thing. All S.H.I.E.L.D’s other snipers were still focused at their stations. No other agents or personnel were in the area. He figured it was safe enough to sit down for a little and wait this out. Again.

He dropped slowly and cautiously, trying not to upset anything further, and dropped his legs over the side. He pressed his forehead to the cool metal of the guard rail and tried to focus on breathing evenly. At least if it all went to hell, it would go right the hell off his platform. Damn, even some personal snark wasn’t helping anything.

He shut his eyes tight and willed himself not to moan out-loud. Getting seen and getting heard were two ways to royally fuck up in this job, and now were also two ways to grab unwanted attention and ridicule over his gastric distress. His snaked one arm around the bar running at chest level and pulled his head down to lean heavily on it, holding it for dear life if his whitened knuckles were anything to go by. Clint’s other hand rested lightly on his stomach, too nervous to even try and ease the nausea by rubbing or curling up this time. By how ragged his breathing sounded, even trying to call in now wouldn’t work. His jaw felt glued together anyway, he really didn’t trust opening his damn trap for anything. Static fizzled over his earpiece and some other agents gave short updates.

After a few minutes with no relief Clint resigned that he might just actually lose it here. He shoved the microphone back and double checked it was switched off. Still on the right channel so just in case they did need him it was easy to radio back, he couldn’t back out but like hell he could get up right now. His stomach lurched and gurgled, leaving him coughing a little into his hand to stifle the sound and hopefully to help keep everything down. He felt a rush of stifling heat and sweat beaded on his neck.

Did he mention this was going to be a long-ass night?

“Got someone moving.” Clint perked up as best he could in this situation. Not the best idea, he shuddered and folded forward a bit more. He groped blindly for the water bottle he had been taking sips from to help quell the nausea with until now. He popped it open with his teeth and waited for someone else to give up more information. Nobody would realize he wasn’t looking right now, they’d all be too busy searching their own areas and figuring he was either doing the same or trained on the target already.

“Can’t see them.” Clint groaned aloud, unable to help it. He took another sip from the bottle, but just ended up spitting it out.

“I swear I will never say anything bad about anyone ever again…” he started mumbling to himself disjointedly. Promising things to any deity he ever heard of, cursing them all out.

“It’s the Director. No worries, everyone,” Agent Hill came over the comms. “He and I are double checking parts of the perimeter. The targets shouldn’t be this far back at all.”

“Fuck. Fuck everything and the damn horse it rode in on,” he swallowed hard and tried to ignore the burning at the back of his throat.

“Confirmed. It is Director Fury and Agent Hill.”

Radio silence returned for another stretch of time. Felt like almost another hour. Clint spat down on to the floor below again. Finally giving in to the urge to wrap his arm tightly around his middle, he rocked himself slightly to see if it helped. It did for a small moment. He let out a shaky sigh and glanced back over at the windows where the sun was now creeping up through the clouds of dirt and grime on the glass. He considered moving back a bit and laying down before radioing in his distress, but not before he was sure it was something he could handle. After a few more intense seconds he decided that was the best plan of action.

After about four more seconds his stomach decided that was a stupid idea and he needed to keep his ass very still right the hell where it was. And less than a second after that, Barton was parting with a good portion of his stomach’s contents. There was no elegant or quiet and stealthy way to cover that. He retched. He shut his eyes and shook a little harder after the fact. Resting his head, defeated, on the railing again, he Clint tried to work up the strength and his voice well enough to call it in if someone wasn’t already beating him to it.

“Damnit Barton,” Fury’s voice vaulted up to where Hawkeye was slumped, “What the hell?!”

Clint opened his eyes slowly, he shook a little more in some vague form of terror that filtered through his sickened mind. He scooted back a bit, ignoring the wet dripping of his own vomit onto the floor below. He pulled the mic piece down and flicked it on.

“Sorry sir, Agent Hawkeye reporting,” his voice shook, wavered and cracked a little, but still carried over the radio and down from his nest, “I think I’m a little under the weather.”

“Well no fucking shit.” Agent Hill had retreated a number of steps from Fury and the mess surrounding him. She pulled her clipboard up and started flipping through pages while putting out a radio call for a med truck and a replacement. If he had felt any better, Clint would have laughed at the absurd sight, but unfortunately he was back to fighting to keep down what was left in his stomach. “If you’re gonna do that again I’d like some damn warning.”

All Hawkeye could manage for warning was a quick ‘move-aside’ hand motion before leaning through the gap in the rail again and vomiting once more. By now everyone in the building knew what was going on and were switching radio channels and trying to ignore the sounds of Clint losing it all over the cemented floor.

After a third bout of being sick, Clint was left dry-heaving and limp against the fever-warmed metal. Too shaky to even hold the water bottle that hadn’t left his side today, leaving it to fall below him too when he tried to grab it. Within minutes two medical technicians were helping him down from his nest. He felt so shaky and wrung out he didn’t even attempt to fight them over being taken out on a stretcher. He just laid on his side and curled in on himself as they pushed him past Hill and Fury, who was still cleaning himself up.

“Next time spare us the damn show and call it in before the firework finale, alright?”

“Got it.”

#sick clint barton #vomit tw #avengers sickfic #lmk what other tags yall want or need on this #this'll be a tumblr only fic tho i might revisit it and rewrite it for ao3 #so its a super fun surprise for you guys #also a throwback

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