thearena | and this bird

Entry tags:

and this bird

Who| Sam Wilson and Clint Barton
What| dumb birdvengers
When| week one
Where| somewhere around the caves
Warnings/Notes| Vodka, wrestling

Maybe it's because this is his second arena, or maybe because he knows powers aren't activated this time around, or maybe because the wilderness is a lot more familiar to Sam than a space station, but either way - Sam's found himself a little less paranoid this time around. Not a lot less paranoid, he's still got a healthy dose of 'watch his back at all times' going on, but it isn't kicking completely into overdrive.

He and Barton had gone out hunting, to keep their food supplies well stocked, just in case the gamemakers decide them having the means to feed themselves isn't fun anymore. At least they're getting sponsor gifts this time - which is kind of a messed up thing to be grateful for, Sam knows, but when he thinks about the sharpened metal he'd had to make do with last time, he's pretty damn thankful for his hunting knife.

And he's pretty damn thankful for whoever'd decided Barton needed a big thing of vodka, because when their hunt is a success and they're cleaning their future dinner, it kind of seems like the thing to do, to share a little of it. And then when Sam's crouching over, washing his hands off in the snow, and he happens to look up and see Barton close by - and not holding a weapon, Sam's not that stupid - it kind of seems like the thing to do, to give him a playful shove.

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This might be Clint's second arena too, but he's still pretty new to the whole deal. He's grateful that powers aren't active this time around, because it definitely stacks things higher in his favor, but he's a paranoid man. He didn't get this far in life without relying on his instincts, and those instincts right now are making sure he's scanning the tree line every so often, just in case something or someone sneaks up.

For now, they're good. It's cold, but the caves they'd staked out are warm enough with the body heat and close quarters of the entire team. There's safety there too, weapons and skills and the knowledge that someone else will back you up and drag you to safety if needed. Plus, the sponsor gifts are a hell of a bonus. The bottle of vodka was nearly a godsend, it feels like, and well, who is he not to share with his hunting buddy?

In all honesty, they haven't had too much of the vodka though. Just enough to be loose-limbed and easygoing, warmed by the success of their hunt and the food soon to be in their bellies. Clint's not actually paying all that much attention as Wilson washes up, on look out mostly for his own peace of mind. So that shove catches him off guard, sends him stumbling briefly, blinking owlishly.

And then he smirks, shoving back.

Oh, there's no way that Sam's not just going to grin, at having caught Barton off guard. Sure, the little bit of vodka probably helped, and the rest of Barton's attention had to be on keeping a look out in case someone snuck up on them while they were working, but that still means Barton hadn't been guarding himself against Sam. Sam'd considered it a triumph when he first realized Natasha let him under her guard like that - it might not be quite as much of one here, but he's gonna claim it anyway.

He manages not to fall on his ass when Barton shoves him back, but it's a pretty close call.

A call close enough that it deserves retaliation, and since he's already kind of crouched down, he might as well just kind of lunge forward, attempting to take Barton down with him.

The vodka definitely helps, and the fact that Sam and Clint got on like a house on fire from nearly the get go. But Clint also has the approval of Natasha to work on, clearly she cares for Sam, and that speaks louder than anything. So yeah, Clint will consider Sam more backup than threat. Even if he doesn't quite realize it at first.

In any case, Clint snickers when Sam has to flail his arms to keep from falling right on his ass, and that's his own downfall. Sam's eyes narrow, and all of a sudden he's lunging forward and--

--Clint yelps, falling backwards into the snow with a muffled thump. He doesn't waste time laying dazedly, though, immediately twisting and pushing Sam onto his back, positions switched.

"This is war, Wilson." But he's laughing, a glint in his eyes as Clint grabs a handful of snow and shoves it down Sam's shirt.

Sam's moment of triumph is short-lived, his little victory celebration at that yelp that Clint'd made ruined by Clint rolling over on him.

There's a brief flash of the last time Sam was in a position like this, with someone else, his head cracking against the metal floor of the space arena and Sam's knife driving into the other guy's stomach - but it's gone as quick as it came, chased away by Clint's laughter.

Natasha trusts Clint, and so does Sam.

"Yeah, you sure you can handle it, Barton?" Sam teases, even though the question ends in a hiss as he gets snow shoved down his shirt. "Oh hell no."

Rather than try to squirm out from under him, he takes advantage of his position, scooping up double handfuls of snow and giving Clint a bearhug, shoving the snow all over his back.

In all honesty, Clint's been in far too many situations where he could have been killed. He doesn't think about it, though there's a brief moment where something dark flashes in Sam's eyes and Clint shifts, leaves Sam's arms unpinned -- he could push him off if he really needed to.

Which really just means Clint's opening himself for the giant bearhug, and the snow shoved down his back. God it's cold, Clint shudders all over, presses Sam even further into the snow. He flails a bit, manages to half sit up, and presses one hand to Sam's sternum to keep him pinned as he shoves a cold hand under Sam's shirt.

"The real question," He smirks, laughter in his voice, "Is if you can."

It's gone from Sam's mind almost as quick as it'd shown up, and then Sam's caught in the moment, laughing at Clint flailing and not at all trying to get away.

Even when Clint shoves his freezing ass hand under Sam's shirt.

Sam makes a yelping noise that's half a laugh, retaliating by wrapping his legs around Clint's hips and locking his ankles together, keeping him trapped there as much as Clint's got him pinned by his sternum.

"That you trying to trash talk me, man?" he asks, grabbing another handful of snow and pushing it down the back of Clint's pants. He can't go too far, considering his legs are in the way, but it's the principle of the thing.

It's almost like they're not in the middle of some crazy arena, but rather just two friends playing in the snow. Admittedly, it's been a long time since Clint roughhoused around in snow, especially not like this, but eh. He laughs outright at the yelping noise Sam makes, briefly surprised at the way Sam wraps his legs around him in retaliation.

Quite suddenly, they're both stuck together, trapped in the snow. And its fucking cold, their clothes are wet and cold and if they're not careful they'll get sick -- but damn it's fun.

"I'm not the one on my back in the snow." His voice slips an octave higher as Sam shoves snow down his pants, even if he mostly just gets his own legs. In response, Clint presses Sam a little further into the snow, hand retreating to shovel a handful of snow against Sam's stomach.

Yeah, it's been a while since Sam messed around like this, too. Well, in snow, anyway, he'd done something similar last arena with Steve and a couple of very squished cakes. Falling back into old habits, he guesses - when you're serving with friends and you got down time in the middle of a warzone, you gotta get nervous energy out somehow.

Even if that somehow ends up with him soaking wet and freezing, but hey, at least his legs are warm where they're wrapped around Clint.

It's possible he's laughing just a little bit too hard at the way Clint's voice raises up there, but damn, it still feels good.

"Hey, man, closer access to the weapon supply."

And yet he shifts a little, grabbing Clint's hand through the snow now on his stomach and sliding his legs down to tangle them with Clint's, so he can try to roll Clint back over.

It's clearly a trend. Sam's a serial funstarter, there's a BOLO out on his head, and Clint's just the latest victim.

Which is to say, Clint most certainly doesn't pout at the laughter. Sam's cold hand rests against the small of back, even as his chest heaves with that delighted laughter. Clint's snickering, shivering, losing feeling in his fingers and loving it.

It's the most fun he's had in a while.

Sam's legs move, tangle with his own, and Clint knows exactly what he's trying to do, but there's a shove and his hands' caught and he -- goes crashing back into the cold snowy bank. Even sputtering at the cold, Clint's moving, grabbing a handful and sloppily tossing it at Sam's face. Which, of course, means he gets caught in the crossfire. But that's okay, Clint's laughing, tangled up with Sam.

"Gave up your advantage then, man." Cold, cold; he's grabbing handfuls and shoving them down Sam's pants, keeping him pinned with the tangle of their legs.

Oh, hell yeah. That's going to be Sam new tagline in the arena, Clint should be glad he played a major part of it.

Sam's laughing so much he can barely celebrate his victory at flipping them over - but he manages it a little, squirming around so he's resting as much of his weight on Clint as he can while keeping his hands free, pressing him into the snow. Not even the face full of snow can dampen his mood, especially not when half of it just falls back on Clint.

"Nah, not when you're doing my job for me an-" But he cuts off into a shout when Clint just starts shoving handfuls of snow down his pants.

He wiggles his hips around, trying to make it as hard as possible for Clint to actually get the snow in there, or at least getting him to end up with snow on himself in the process, and shimmies down a little so he can get both hands at Clint's stomach, one stuffing snow up his shirt and the other fighting with Clint's hands to get the snow down Clint's pants instead.

But neither of them are laughing so hard that he doesn't hear the loud crack in the trees a little bit away. Sam freezes immediately, looking up to try to find the source of the noise, and he assumes without checking that Clint's doing something similar.

Sam's not particularly heavy -- not when compared to Steve or Bucky or Thor, but he's not light. It means Clint wheezes for air around his laughter, surprised at the sudden press of weight and push of hands to stomach and sternum. The cold is a shock, drags another shuddering sound, even as he laughs at Sam's loud shout once Clint starts shoving snow down his pants. It's not long lived, of course, and soon there's the retaliation of snow shoved up his shirt, and at attempt to shove snow down his pants that Clint barely manages to block.

They're loud, laughing and tussling, soaked through and cold. But it's good, it's great. It can't last.

The sound of twig breaking is like a gunshot in the clearing. Clint moves instinctively, shifting, a knife appearing in hand just in case. With sharp eyes, he peers through the underbrush, looking for a hint of metal or cloth, any sign that there's a threat waiting to strike. With one hand he gently, slowly, pushes at Sam to get him to ease up off his legs.

In the way back of his mind, somewhere down below where he’s still got a read on their surroundings, Sam is perfectly aware that they’re acting like children - or possibly the leads in a bad rom-com, he can’t decide - rolling around in the snow like this and laughing so much he can barely breath. But really, so what? He’s having too much fun trying to shove snow down Clint’s clothes to care.

Or he was, anyway, until it becomes obvious they’re not alone.

He rolls up when he feels Clint pushing a little at him, pulling his own knife out, and the fact that they can both untangle themselves and go from goofing around to ready so quickly is… actually pretty reassuring, really. Sam shifts a little, so his back is towards Clint’s and they can get a 360 view without leaving either of them open, as he looks through the trees.

Children and bad rom-coms are rather different situations, really. Clint's not entirely sure he could decide which they are either, even if he doesn't watch an overmuch of rom-coms. Despite what Natasha might say.

Still, it's a relief when they both go from children playing around to armed and dangerous in 0 to 60. Clint's become rather fond of Sam in a short time, but it's reassuring to know the other guy is more than competant, even if Clint had already known he was. Here, now, the press of Sam's back to his and the heft of knife in his palm is a reassurance. Clint can focus on scanning the forest around them, looking for any hint. But it's quiet, still, for a long moment.

And then there's a shifting of steps through underbrush, and the long neck of a deer appears, shaking it's head to clear foliage from the tine's of it's antlers. Clint relaxes marginally, just in case there's still something out there -- or just in case it becomes suddenly apparent the deer is of the man-eating sort. He doesn't take any chances.

"Time to go."

Sam'd like to say he didn't, either, but he has an older sister. He's seen enough of them to know that they could have been a scene right out of it, except for the lack of kissing.

And the way they transition almost instantaneously back to soldiers. Or a soldier and a spy, close enough. And having someone he trusts at his back is almost as good of a feeling as laughing in the snow - just in a very different way. But when the deer comes into view, some of the tension in him eases.

"Yeah." Sam lets out a huff of air, part amused and part relieved. He's still a little cautious, though, the adrenaline that'd pulled him out of laughing not quite fading from his veins. This one might have been nothing, but it's a reminder that there's danger out there. And that it's freaking cold, now that he's not on top of or pinned under Clint.

He moves to gather up his share of their little hunting part, shivering a little as the movement makes some left over snow trickle down his leg. "Goddamn this is going to be a really cold walk the rest of the way back, man."

Good thing they don't have too far to go.

It's okay Sam, they had the prerequisite amount of touch, and even a bit of too long staring into one another's eyes. Or, well, no they didn't. But later, maybe. Hell, the Capitol is probably already swooning and coming up with scripts for a new rom-com featuring characters not so subtly based upon them. God, if they become the next Twilight, so help him.

Then again, maybe it would be hilarious, and they could make a date night out of tossing popcorn at the screen. That'd be nice, probably.

For now, there's the silence of the glade, and the deer bolted at the first sound and shift of them getting up and moving about. Clint covers Sam as he gathers up his share, even as he quickly, and carefully, picks up his own. There's snow still under his clothing, slipping free, moving, and he shivers at the aching cold. He thinks longingly of the heat awaiting them at their base, but can't focus on it. He'd just feel worse, cold and shivering where they are out in the snow.

"Guess we better hurry, then." He shoots Sam a reckless grin, unrepentant.

The touching and the laughing is the most important part, anyway. Besides, Sam’s really good at staring into people’s eyes for way too long, he’s pretty sure they’ll make up for it later.

But yeah, judging by what Sam came back to after his first arena? It wouldn’t surprise him if they did become the next Twilight, terrible writing and all. Better get the popcorn ready.

And maybe some beer, make a drinking game out of it.

Sam grins back as he starts walking back to the base, leaning over to bump his shoulder into Clint’s and jostle him a little. “Race you.”

He may be freezing his ass off out here, but he doesn't regret any of it.

Don't worry Sam, they can forgo watching Twilight For Birds and instead stare into each other's eyes. Maybe toss popcorn at each other and be far too touchy. But it's totally not a date. Totally.

Who are they kidding?

In any case, they might as well make their own drinking game about their own movie. Although that would probably just lead to two bird losers drunk off their asses. On second though, Clint would definitely want to do that. what else is there even to do in the Capitol anyway?

Here, now, he moves with that little jostling gesture, brows lifted at Sam's grin. That doesn't promise anything good -- or rather, it promises everything good, entertainment and bad decisions at its finest.

"Oh you're on."

He laughs, gathers his items close and secure, and shoots Sam an impish look before booking it.

Sam is pretty damn sure that Clint's eyes are a hell of a lot more interesting than whatever Twilight for Birds ended up being. And he's not saying that to be sappy, it'd probably be just that terrible.

That does sound like a pretty good date, though.

Honestly? Not a lot else. There's training and being social and that's about it, as long as you don't count Sam's trips to Capitol blind spots. Which he doesn't, since no one's supposed to know about them, so getting drunk with Clint seems like a decent idea to Sam.

Sam'd never had any doubt that Clint would go along with his dumb challenge. It reminds him of Steve, a little - both of them seem to bring out the playful side of Sam like nothing else. It's all wrestling and racing and dumb jokes and teasing, and even in the middle of the arena Sam's grateful for it.

So he pushes off when Clint does, letting out a quiet whoop as he runs with him, feet crunching in the snow.

Well, that's probably true, if it's the same as Twilight back home. Or worse, even. Plus, Clint's pretty sure he could come up with some top notch commentary. Something sure to have Sam rolling around laughing, it's probably a really good look on him.

So yeah, maybe a date. A good date too, if they get that raincheck.

But he doesn't think about the Capitol all that much, not when he's stuck in some snowy arena, waiting for the next strike. Waiting for the next death. Clint's always worked well under pressure, but this is more than anything he's dealt with. Of course he takes Sam up on whatever dumb challenge and distractions he offers, wrestling and racing and all the dumb jokes he can rustle up.

It's a freeing feeling, running like he's being chased, but knowing it's a friend doing the chasing. It's like tag, of sorts, but the homebase is up ahead and he's so very close, wild laughter tearing from his mouth.

Oh, Sam is betting worse. Way, way worse. He's got no doubt in Clint's ability to get him cracking up at it, though, considering he'd somehow ended up cracking bird jokes and wrestling in the snow with him in the middle of two different death arenas. Getting him laughing at a terrible romance movie about their "relationship" seems pretty easy in comparison.

But for now? Hell no is Clint going to beat his ass to the caves. Sam's a good sport about Steve and Bucky being faster than him, because super serum, but nah, Sam can take Clint. Absolutely. It's the principle of the thing.

For a moment, Sam considers tackling him just outside the caves, wrestling around with him a little more before they tumble into the base. With everything they're carrying, though, and the fact that he'd seen Tony setting up various traps around the place, he has to admit it's probably not the best idea.

Still, he runs all out, echoing Clint's laughter with some of his own, and damn if they don't get there at just about the same time.

Probably. Clint wouldn't put it past the Capitol, as little of it as he's seen in his time here, that is. He'd make it his own personal mission to make Sam crack up, and they'd probably wind up just rolling on the floor howling with laughter, making their own rifftrax. In all honesty, their own jokes would probably be way better than the movie.

Sam's clearly got a voyeur kink going on if he wants to tackle him down and wrestle again, Clint didn't peg him for it at all. Honestly, Clint would be all for it, if he wasn't freezing his ass off and soaking wet. Cold, wet boxers are not fun things to be in for an extended time, Sam. Please don't tackle him yet.

This doesn't mean Clint wouldn't take it upon himself to trip Sam up so he could win though. He's never said he played by the rules after all. But man, okay, he'll be responsible, and also not trip those traps if Sam won't.

So they slide in, laughing, wheezing, breathless with their humor. Clint nearly goes tripping over his own feet, skidding to a stop and grinning over at Sam, catching his breath.

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and this bird

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