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.
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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.