If Sam's grateful for his training, then Clint's all but praising hallelujah for his. Well, not really. He's just damn glad he's stubborn and well-trained, even with one arm chewed to hell and an age old fear turning him cold. His concussion isn't helping one bit, headache building higher there at his temple, but he's forcing forward anyway. One step, two step, aim, shoot -- start over.

This isn't easy, but it's familiar in a way. Keeps him focused and aware, not yet falling to the fate that dodges at his heels. When Sam joins him it's like Strike Delta all over again. Natasha at his back, deadly and beautiful and sure. He trusts Sam here, now, so intently it's almost painful. Sam says they've got it, that he's got Clint, and he believes him. Knows Sam will try his hardest irregardless.

But he stays standing, even at the order. If he drops, he'll stay there on the floor, and he won't be able to get back up. At least, that's what he's scared of. Instead, Clint sways and steadies himself, watches as Sam goes into action, commentary largely white noise to him, filtered out in the flood of pain and adrenaline. The tone is what he hears, comprehends, and it settles soothingly upon his shoulders.

Let me take it from here, and it's enough. He does, shoulders slumping, his arm feeling like a heavy, dead weight, pain wracking up his body with every breath.

"Lost count."

He breathes, and he means how far he walked, not how many wolves, but it doesn't matter. As he turns to watch Sam it becomes apparent the arm isn't his only injury. His hair is dyed and slick with blood, mostly dried now, dripped down the side of his face from where he'd hit his head earlier. He had to blink it out of his eye, smears of red and yellow covering him.