closed; maybe I'll sleep when I am dead

[cognitived]

Who | Avengerpalooza + friends
What | Clint ran into some beasties in the woods. He didn't come out of it in one piece.
Where | Heading to and hanging around in the Avenger's Base.
When | End of Week 3, beginning of Week 4
Warnings/Notes | Brief mentions of animal death, bodily injury, and field amputations.

closed to sam;

He ran. The argument ends, not because they compromise, not because they decide to stop, but because Clint -- in a concussion fueled decision -- turns on his heel and runs away from the mess that was once a tribute, and the furious figure of his partner. It's a shit awful decision, he knows it from the moment he hits the ground running. But Clint's just as stubborn as Sam is, and he doesn't turn back. No, instead, he headed into the forest, wand clutched tight in his hand, ignoring the way his leg fought to give way out from under him.

And in the end, he winds up wandering half lost in a damn forest when most of him is telling him to turn back. But he's stubborn. But he's mad. But he's got mustard yellow flecks of blood splattered across his hands and he's got that expression of Sam's stamped into his mind.

He's so damn distracted he misses the silent gathering of a pack of massive wolves. Up until a twig snaps and a snarl creeps in at the edge of his hearing, and Clint realizes what an idiot he was. The next few moments are a blur. The snarl and snap of teeth, the crackle of electricity and pained yelps of injured wolves, the pain of teeth sinking into his arm and nearly ripping it clean off.

Later, Clint won't really remember it all. But somehow, through sheer force of will, he backtracked his way through the forest, warding off the few wolves left with lighting from his wand, arm tucked close against his chest. The village slowly rises around him, but he's got his eyes on the castle.

God he wants to throw up, the pain is so much.

closed to amputation party;

Sam works quickly, efficiently, but the truth of the matter is this: Clint's arm is all but useless. Only the barest bit of bone, shredded flesh, and gristle keeps it connected, and the tourniquet can only do so much. If they were in the Capitol proper, or back home, maybe this would be an injury he could come back from intact.

But as it is, Clint's leaning heavily on Sam, dazed, pain shooting through him with every jostle, every step, every shuddered breath. It's killing him.

The walk to the Castle is slow and laborious, with Sam picking off the few remaining wolves and carefully dragging Clint back to their base. It's only luck and maybe the wild, determined cast to Sam's features that keep the way clear. If he wasn't a bit preoccupied with the fact that he might tumble over should he step in the wrong place, and the fact that his arm is only barely connected -- his arm, his arm -- Clint would probably find it a bit more impressive. Here, now, he's more focused on not dying in Sam's arms like Nat did last Arena. He won't do that to him, not if he can help it.

Soon enough, they've made their way back, and Clint leans heavily against Sam as he works the door open. But Clint's goddamn tired of bloodloss, injured limbs and the rising terror of what this means. And a joke is basically the only way he knows how to cope. So he drawls, slowly, carefully, pretending like this isn't as bad as it is.

"Honey, we're home."

open to avengers and their add ons;

Once the party died down, and the chances of Clint bleeding out on the operating table passes, it all seems very surreal. He tries not to look, when he's lucid and not hallucinating or seeing ghosts, because it's terrifying. It shocks him to the core to see that empty space where a limb once was. Where a limb should be.

The blankets help, more than he ever thought they would. But he's so cold, and maybe that's bloodloss speaking. In any case, Clint spends most of the first day after curled up in the nest others placed him in, trying in vain to ignore the ache shuddering through him where what was left of his arm ended. He can't believe it, can't. Can't sleep, even though he's repeatedly told he must. Wakes up gasping for breath, keening with pain as the thrashing sends his arm sparking with reminder of his injury.

Though he's not really up to visitors, Clint welcomes it. Craves the comfort that comes with another human being talking to him like he's simply down with a fracture, or a gunshot wound. Those, those are easy. He knows how to deal with that.

Instead, Clint doesn't deal. He ignores it, the agony and terror and uselessness that claws its way up his throat. Greets a visitor with a thin lipped smile and a mumbled "Hey."

Comments

[honeyibrokeharlem]

"Hey yourself."

It wasn't the first time Bruce helped amputate a limb. It was actually much easier this time than others, because this time he wasn't the most experienced medical resource on hand. Sam is the most experienced because he went through actual formal training, and everyone else in their group is remarkably calm around blood and gore. As amputations go, this one was pretty good.

Or it would be if he didn't actually know and care about the person whose arm they took off.

He has a pot of water and a first aid kit, which he puts to the side as he sits down next to Clint. "I'm here to change your bandages and see how you're holding up."

[cognitived]

Clint's seen a lot in his life, but amputation? Yeah, that was a first for him. Being the one amputated on was even worse, but it's done already and he's got no choice but to move on. To listen to Bruce and Sam as they took care of the mess of what was once his arm, nothing but to be careful with the flesh and blood and bone left. Mostly, this means he doesn't think about it, because when he does, Clint goes cold, hollow.

Easier to sleep it off, easier to think about the familiar ache in his knee and the hollow in his gut than his missing limb.

So when Bruce shows up, greets him like nothing's wrong, it's a relief. Clint's smile eases a little truer, small and faint. Fades a bit at the reminder, though. He looks up from where he's buried in his nest, legs curled in tight, and nods a in understanding.

"Yeah," he gathers himself, plants his hand on the floor and levers himself up into a sitting position. "Yeah, okay."

[honeyibrokeharlem]

Bruce has never lost a limb. There were times when he probably should have, but the Hulk precluded the possibility. Luckily, in this case, Clint's likely to wake up with both arms once something happens in the arena.

He dips a glass into the water and offers it to Clint while gesturing for him to turn his amputated arm towards him. "There should be food in the banquet hall soon. Do you want me to grab you anything once I'm there?"

It's not a good idea for Clint to wander away from the group when he's still suffering the aftereffects of shock and bloodloss, but Bruce presents it as just a matter of convenience. He doesn't want to make Clint feel any worse than he already does.

[cognitived]

It takes more out of him than he thought it would, than it should. The knowledge draws a faint grimace, brow furrowed, but Clint still shifts so Bruce can have access to what's left of his arm. With his remaining hand, he takes the glass of water and sips gratefully at it, pacing himself. They've taken good care of him, and he's not been without water or food, but there is still a limit to clean supplies. He tries not to let them waste them all on him.

Clint's lost any and all illusions of coming through this Arena alive, if he had any in the first place.

Still, Bruce is good about keeping him from dwelling. Good at keeping Clint's autonomy preserved, even struck down as he is. He appreciates it, more than Bruce will ever know. Something fond and trembling kindling beneath the cage of his ribs.

"I'm not picky."

[actually112]

"Hey."

Aang has a little box and a chessboard under his arm. He sits down next to Clint, giving him a bright smile even if he doesn't quite feel happy. It wouldn't be very helpful for Aang to be sad around someone who's been hurt so badly; it's better to be cheerful and let other people feed off of that, even if it takes effort.

"I found a chessboard. Do you know how to play?"

[cognitived]

It's a smart choice on Aang's part. Clint doesn't take sympathy well, and though he'd take it better from a kid, he's halfway to snapping like a cornered dog. The cheer though, that's -- curious, a quiet relief. Clint shifts into that like a sunflower to sun, features still creased with pain, but easier now.

"A bit, yeah." More than a bit, but he was always a checkers kinda guy. "Where'd you find one?"

[actually112]

Aang understands--perhaps better than he should have to at his age--the power of positivity. It's corny, he knows, but it's true. It helps people keep putting one foot in front of the other when there's nothing else to keep them going.

"In some of the old rooms upstairs. They were all laid out like kings would play on them." He puts the board between them and starts to set up the pieces. "I was thinking that maybe you'd play with me. People showed me how to play, but we don't have this game where I come from, so I'm not very good yet."

[tookthewheel]

"I heard imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

Bucky steps into the room where Clint is resting slowly, booted feet falling heavily on the cool stone. He could be silent if he wanted to, of course, but there's no need to sneak up on an ally. Accidentally surprising people like them isn't a good idea either, even when the person in question was weak from emergency surgery.

The fingers of his metal hand twitch and he wonders if it can be considered phantom pain when you do have a limb in place of the one you lost. It's not a question he wants to linger on, nor his very messy memory of losing his own arm.

"You didn't need to go this far."

[cognitived]

Clint's weakened, feeling hollowed out and unsure, his body a new being instead of the full awareness he had before. But that doesn't mean he's less deadly. If anything, he's worse, like a wounded animal cornered and desperate.

So the sound of booted feet heavy against the stone makes him tense, hand wrapped around the knife nobody could have pried from him if they had wanted to. He relaxes slowly at Bucky's voice, by now it's familiar and trusted. There's a moment pause where he shifts, before Clint's looking up and over. He pushes up, blankets pooling around his waist, and doesn't let a wince settle on his face at the throb of pain that goes through him as blankets fall off the mess of his arm. Sam and Bruce tried their best, but there's only so much they could do in these conditions.

Clint's mouth curves with smile, a barely there thing at the corners of his mouth. There, and then gone.

"What, like I'm gonna only go halfway?"

[tookthewheel]

Bucky glances at the sight of the amputation for only a moment, it's all he needs to take it in and there's no point in pretending he isn't looking. Clint is too good at what he does not to notice, so Bucky won't insult him by trying.

"Just saying, there's easier ways of paying me a compliment."

He sits down opposite Clint, inwardly relieved that the attempt at humour was relieved. A part of him had been worried that he'd have miscalculated and the best response he could hope for would be a hearty 'fuck you'. Seemed he really had gotten the hang of talking to people.

"I assume the other guy came off worse."

[metalicarus]

Jet figured they'd seen more of each other over the last few weeks than they had ever before, they just hadn't gotten a chance to talk despite how close their circles ran. Jet had gotten a good first impression that night Sam had called him over with the bird, but he'd gotten a better feel for who Clint was once Jet had started staying with them. He was a good man and definitely not someone who deserved something like this.

Jet had stayed out of the way when they'd brought Clint back -he was only good at patching small things and broken bones, not that- but when it came time for someone to watch over Clint and the people Jet suspected would be first in line needed rest, Jet volunteered. He didn't need rest as much as the others. He settled down beside the archer and was a little startled when he heard Clint's voice.

"Hey yourself. Thought you'd be sleeping."

[cognitived]

Clint had seen Jet before, of course. There are not so many Tributes that a person could get lost completely in, and their circles run close. The first time Clint had come over, Kate on his shoulder, he'd stuck to Sam mostly. But he'd gotten a decent impression, one that's simply strengthened the longer they spent staying in the same base. For the past week though, Clint's not been focused on the people around him. He trusts his teammates, even Steve who often looks two shakes from bolting, and Sam trusts Jet. It's enough.

Enough, that when it comes down to it, Clint doesn't do much more than shift as Jet settles down next to him. His eyes open, as blue as the scepter that once stole him, and they're made bluer by the dark smudges pain and grief and sleeplessness has left beneath his eyes. But despite it all he's lucid, steady, eyeing Jet like he's weighing his words and finding them wanting.

"Would if I could."

A lie, partly. He shifts, pushes up with his arm and winces at the ache that shoots through him, dulling. Sits up to join Jet, rubbing at his shoulder above what's left of his arm, trying to will away the knotted pain. Doesn't work.

[metalicarus]

Concern flashes in his expression when Clint goes to sit up and Jet instinctively reaches out to support him. "Yeah, well, sitting up sure ain't gonna help."

Jet caught the way he rubbed at his shoulder, like it was tense and painful and he didn't miss the tiredness there in Clint's eyes. He either couldn't sleep or didn't want to for fear of it. He could understand that. He could also understand how much pain Clint must be in. Jet had lost his limbs too and he'd remembered some of it, but beyond that, Clint had lost his ability to shoot a bow and arrow. Jet had seen the man's amazing prowess with the weapon in the past and it looked to him like the kind of thing that was second nature, a part of him. Just like how Jet and Sam felt about their flying. With the powers on, Jet could access his again, but it wasn't the normal and he knew how painful it was to lose something that was essentially part of you.

Unfortunately, none of that meant he knew what to say because, he knew none of it would help. There weren't any magic words to be had.

"Your shoulders tense or just the pain kicking up?"

[earthborn]

Between the spooked wildlife and the blood trail, finding the Avengers camp had turned out not to be as difficult as she'd thought. Honestly, Shepard was just happy to know that they were alive, now, whatever the shape they were in. It was better, not to be alone.

Hey he says, like it's nothing. Shepard's seen that look before.

"You look like shit, Barton," delicacy is for the weak, and Clint Barton is anything but, "There are better weight-loss regimes."

[cognitived]

They're not very hidden all told. Well protected is more of the case, with so many fighters holding down the line, careful, careful. Clint had been one of them, but now he's armless and half-dead. It eats at him, carves into his bones, his muscle, fish hooks in the dark of his mind.

Shepard's commentary, though, startles laughter out of Clint. A quick, sharp little thing, here and then gone in a moment.

"What, you don't like my girlish figure?"

[earthborn]

She considers him from her lofty perch, all of her five feet and two inches above him. She's smudged with mud and dust and blood. There's a long black scab on one leg that looks like it might be the beginnings of an infection, and part of the skin on her face has been abraded away. It used to have scars that glowed red-- and now it looks like lava around the islands of red/brown dried blood. They've all lost weight.

He still looks like shit, though. She didn't lie about that-- but the smirk comes sudden, like the punchline to a joke.

"Are you trying to chat me up? Rude, and vain, wow."

post argument

[sizeofyourbaggage]

It's an absolutely terrible decision, and for a moment Sam's so pissed off at Clint just running off that he doesn't immediately follow him.

Guilt eats at him when he knees down next to Psii's body, angry with the fact that he knows he probably doesn't have long before the clean up crew will arrive, that he doesn't know what kind of burial rituals Psii has. And then decides fuck it, they're in the catacombs, the least Sam can do is give Psii some kind of burial. He's already covered in the yellow of Psii's blood and brain, it's not like getting a little more on him while he carries the body.

When Sam's done - he's calmer, though he doesn't feel less guilty. And there's nothing more he can do here, so Sam pushes himself up to his feet and heads off after Clint.

Clint is still his partner, and it's been long enough since he stormed off that Sam's starting to worry. Part of him was sure that Clint would come back before long, maybe for round two, maybe just to pretend like it hadn't happened, but he'd been sure that he'd come back.

When Sam finally tracks him down, he realizes why he hadn't, and the fear and adrenaline that'd faded in the time since the fight comes shooting right back.

"Clint!" he shouts, picking up the pace and flying towards him at a run, zapping off one of the wolves getting a little too close to him with his own wand.

[cognitived]

He can hear the wolves gaining on him. The snap of their jaws at his heels, their snarls, the barely there whisper of their steps. It's all he can do to keep himself together, aim never faltering even as his steps do. The ground is uneven beneath his feet, and he has to focus closely to keep from stumbling and going to his knees. It would be a death sentence, he knows, and Clint isn't ready to give himself to the mercy of these wolves.

He's fought too long and too hard to escape death, he won't let it take him so easily.

But its getting harder, the bloodloss eating at him, the still weakened shift of his knee undercutting him. Running on it hadn't helped one bit, and a part of him knows he's ruined it with these months of hiding and pretending like nothing was wrong. Doesn't matter in the end, because he'll be reset, but the knowledge sparks cold in his belly. He can't think about it, he can't. The wolves are gaining on him, never lost him in the first place. It's a game, herding him further and further, weakening with every step. Waiting for him to fall, to stumble, to end the game with teeth in his throat.

He keeps walking.

A ghost runs past, red hair streaming behind her, a smile stretching across her mouth that can't reach the burned out shells of her eyes. She screams his name, the gates of hell behind the row of her teeth, and disappears. So when Sam appears, running his way, Clint's not entirely sure he's real, until lighting crackles through the air and kills a wolf off to his left.

"Sam." He doesn't sob, but it's close, relief an all encompassing ache. This isn't safety, this isn't assurance, but Clint forces himself forward, spots fur in the corner of his eye and shifts to blast away a wolf. It yelps and goes down hard, doesn't get up.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

At a time like this, Sam’s real damn glad that he has a ton of training to fall back onto. It’d be easy to get caught up in the fear of seeing his partner being chased by wolves, looking wrecked, arm barely hanging on. Easy to get caught up in the guilt of the fact that Clint’d run from him, because they were fighting, that Sam had let hours tick by before he went after him.

But he doesn’t. All of that can come later, now? Now Sam has a job to do, and he closes the distance between them to stand by Clint’s side as he zaps off another wolf.

“I got you, man, we got this.”

Clear the area first, take care of any remaining threats before you take care of them, because you’re no good to anyone if what took them down takes you down too, and he grimly turns his attention away from Clint and onto the wolves, until he can be sure there aren’t any of them left.

Fortunately, now that there are two of them with electricity zapping wands, the few remaining wolves seem to decide that it’s not worth it, and it’s not long before the ones that aren’t a smoking pile of fur slink off.

Then, Sam unslings the makeshift pack from his shoulders. What he wouldn’t give for his full kit, but he’ll have to make do with what he’s got. “Come on, cupid, you can stand down now. You got your badass in enough for the day, all right - goddamn, how far did you walk like this, is there fucking anything that can take you down? - let me take it from here, let me do what I do.” He keeps up the commentary as he pulls supplies out, falling back on the way he used to talk to soldiers he was taking care of - except it’s Clint, it’s his partner, so it’s more personal.

He means it more, but he won’t let that stop him from working.

Post Party

[aboveangrybees]

Steve hesitates to come by for the first couple days, feeling like if there was a time for someone to lash out at him finally, it's when Clint is hurt, when they feel they need to protect him. Sure, he had stayed when Clint first arrived, helping hold down the man while they removed the arm, but once it was done Steve was asked to leave, let Clint rest, and Steve just didn't return to the safe room after. It didn't feel so safe for him, because even though he's slowly come to be comfortable enough with the group to not run, to stay in the relative safety in numbers, but trust is still hard, still not won, yet Clint might be the one he's coming to trust fastest.

So, eventually his concern for the man outweighs the rest and he returns to slowly open the door and peek in at the injured man. And remembers why he's actually kind of mad at him.

Walking in, Steve returns the hey with angry signing, not bothering to mask his upset at the other man. "You're an idiot." He throws his hand out of the word idiot it to point at Clint before continuing. "You could have died."

For a guy determined to win, he still can't help but deeply care about his teammate's well being. Maybe it's because Steve's thinking is in his own situation, what arena death means for him.

[cognitived]

It's been a few days, but Clint's not entirely sure of the count. The first couple of days were a mess of pain and fever and hallucination, he's not sure how long it lasted, only that it felt like ages. He hadn't noticed Steve's disappearance then, but then, Clint had also seen ghosts, mixed dream and reality in a way that was impossible to pick apart. Even now, further along the path of consciousness and healing, Clint hadn't really realized until Steve walked through that door.

He hadn't expected all that anger, though really he's not surprised. Sam was mad at him too, and Bruce, in his own way. Bucky -- well, maybe. He's still hard to pin down and Clint's not in top condition.

"Could've." He signs back, brow furrowed as he realizes signing is just another thing he's lost -- he can only half form most of them. Clint pauses, stares down at the palm of his hand, before shaking himself forcefully, mouth a thin line as he looks up at Steve. Tries again, ignoring the way his hand trembles before he can still it with sheer force of will. "But I didn't."

He's still not sure how he feels about that. He could have gone his whole life without knowing how this feels.

[aboveangrybees]

Steve's eyes are far from good, actually his eyesight is pretty terrible, but he had made sure he was close enough to read Clint's signing without issue, so the tremble in his hand doesn't escape him either. Neither does the fact that Clint only has one hand now and how much more difficult that can make some signs. Early in the war, Steve learned to sign more often with one hand to signal the Commandos while he held his shield, but it's still a difficult task. Some words can't translate.

So he changes his tactic, speaking out loud as he signs at the same time, giving Clint a choice as to how to respond, "Yeah, well, how about we keep the rest of you intact for the time being?"

There's a trace of dry humor there with how the anger has already ebbed from him just about as fast as it came on. He's only really mad because Clint is the one person of the camp he almost trusts, that makes it feel okay to turn his back sometimes. It scared him how scared he was for both Clint and himself when he saw the man so injured.

"No more running out and playing hero, hm?"

Amputation

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Sam's supporting pretty much all of Clint's weight at this point, doing his best to hold him steady so he doesn't jostle his arm too much. There’s no way around it coming off, but he'd rather not cause more damage - or more pain - than it's already going to be.

He's stabilized Clint the best he can, but it's weighing heavy on him that he knows the place he's carting him back to isn't safety, that even at their castle "base," they don't have the kind of equipment that could really help Clint.

It's gonna be dirty and it's gonna be rough, but right now, Sam is just focusing on keeping Clint alive.

"Bucky!" he calls, risking being a little bit louder than he normally would in the arena. He's gonna need the help here. "Jet, Steve, Bruce!"

He turns without waiting to see who's there and who's coming, guiding Clint towards the medieval table that's the best they've got at the moment. Least it's better than the floor in an ice cave. "Come on, man, up here, I got you."

[aboveangrybees]

Steve hears Sam call out for them, any of them, and Steve comes running without a second thought for his own safety. Sam isn't usually the type to call out and risk notice like that, he's a soldier, he's trained to know that in enemy territory you just don't do that. If you do, the likelihood of getting yourself and your team kill skyrockets. So, if the other man is yelling for them, then he knows it's bad.

Arriving on the scene, Steve stops short for a second, eyes wide at image before him, his heart jumping into his throat in fear. What did Sam do to him? was the first thought to cross his mind, but it felt so wrong, foreign, that Steve quickly shoved it to the side.

Steve's mind races with memories of field amputations in the war and he already knows how terrible this is about to become. But he also knows what to do. "Shit, Sam get him on the table, I'll gather what we need."

With that he moves, moving to gather his first aid kit, the cleanest cloth he can find for dressing, that water proof coat-thing Bucky has, something sharp enough to cut without sawing....

[cognitived]

It's getting harder and harder to force himself forward, taking that next step, and then again. Sam's supporting most of Clint's weight, and that's really the only reason he's still able to move. If he hadn't happened across him, Clint probably would have fallen to those wolves, and he's getting pretty damn sick of being eaten alive.

One time was enough.

But the truth is, Clint's dazed, vision swimming, hearing confusing. He doesn't really see Steve at first, not from the way his head lolls, focusing instead of following Sam's steps. One, two, one two. Again, again, again, just get back to safety, just get back to the team. It's the only thing he's been thinking for far longer than he can quite recall.

So Steve speaks up, and Clint can hear him, faint, but he doesn't look over. Simply follows Sam's order, guided up onto the table, a pained sound leaving him as his arm jostles against his side.