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

[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."

[cognitived]

It's wrapped clean as could be, hiding the brutal mess of his arm from sight. But despite their skill, Bruce and Sam could only do so much in this place with the amount of supplies they had. And nothing can hide the missing limb from sight. So no, Clint doesn't miss the way Bucky's gaze skitters over his amputated limb, there and then back, and while something in him tenses, he's grateful of the transparency.

He returns it, doesn't bother hiding, or snarling. Simply breathes and shifts, sitting cross-legged. His humor is shaky, a little more biting, a little darker, but he can't help it. Clint feels like he's drowning.

"Pretty sure it's still a charred mess on the forest floor."

[tookthewheel]

"Good."

Bucky has little else to say. The confirmation means he doesn't have to go hunt anyone down; or anything in this case. It's a little discomforting to find out it was a mutt who did this to his teammate, rather than another person that Bucky can take apart in fair payback.

He curls his metal fingers inwards against his part, creating a short parade of gentle clinking noises.

"Don't think I ever felt any worse pain, except for..." he trails off for a moment, shuts it down, away. Compartmentalise. "You're going to be alright."

[cognitived]

It's almost funny, in a way. They're like inverses of each other's pain, fingers in brains and the haphazard horror that comes with the loss of a limb. He'd almost think someone was making a point, if Clint bothered to think on it much at all. Clint wasn't thinking revenge when he shot that Mutt, he was near desperate to live, adrenaline and agony keeping his aim sharp. He wishes he'd killed it earlier.

Clint isn't so far gone that he doesn't see the effect thinking about it is having on Bucky, though. The little sound like bells reaches his ears, almost too faint to be heard, but it's his tone, the words that edge slow up the spine. Clint shudders, faintly.

"Yeah." He agrees, softly, an odd note in his voice. Bucky is a teammate, trusted, but Clint doesn't let the For now fall from his lips. Bucky can probably piece together the shadow of it's sound anyway.

[tookthewheel]

Bucky cocks his head, eyes slid to the side in thought, searching for the words in the parts of memories he doesn't want but has to suffer through.

"You'll still feel it sometimes, even though it's not there." There's a name for that, he's sure, can taste it on the tip of his tongue. "It'll go away though." Eventually, though who knows that Clint will live that long? If he dies he'll get the arm back and this will just be lived-in nightmare. There'll be no prosthetic limbs needed for him.

If he lives till the end Bucky is sure the Capitol will provide; after all, they don't like champions with scars.

[cognitived]

He doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to dwell. But he does, turning so he can better hear, watching the play of thought on Bucky's face. His mouth is a twisted line, jaw tight. He has no words, nothing upon the leaden weight of his tongue but ash.

The only thing he feels now is a pervasive ache, and hollow sort of loss, sunk into flesh and blood and bone. Part of him is missing, and he's somehow thankful that it's here, in an Arena, where there is a chance he'll wake up whole and healthy in the Capitol. Maybe it's selfish, but he'd rather die than live and deal with whatever the Capitol provided for him.

[tookthewheel]

Bucky looks at Clint's face and knows he's fucked up, gone too far. His limbs tighten, curling further inwards on himself as he drops his head, eyes sliding to the floor as his jaw tightens.

"I'm not good at this."

Best to just admit it. Maybe he used to be but not now, he and Clint don't know each other that well and Bucky can't talk that well, like the chair took something fundamental out of him.

[cognitived]

Clint snorts with a helpless, hollow, sort of laughter. His hand lifts, scrubbing hard at the nape of his neck, grounding himself with the ache. Instead, he gestures soundlessly for Bucky to sit with him. Doesn't offer a word of platitude, isn't sure he has it in him. But -- but he can allow this.

Bucky looks more like a kicked puppy than the brutal assassin he once knew him as. It's disconcerting somehow, and Clint's got too much of a fevered itch within his blood to figure it out.

"Just don't wanna talk about it." Short, but not sharp. He frowns, looking up at Bucky half petulantly.

[tookthewheel]

Kicked puppy seems more apt as Bucky moves forward, cautiously and like he's waiting for a reprimand or a hand held up to tell him to stop at a moments notice. Nothing happens though and he makes it to Clint's side, hunkering his large form down like he's trying to fit himself in with the archer.

"Yeah." he should've known that, given how many things Bucky still holds tight to his chest. "That's okay."

He won't push it now he's been told.

[cognitived]

It's actually pretty sad, but kind of amusing, like watching a giant dog trying to fit itself on someone's lap. Or it would be, if Clint wasn't feeling like hell, more focused on breathing through the pain and the horror still lodged in his throat. He doesn't speak up, but once Bucky curls up next to him Clint nudges their shoulders together, a brief little thing, it's okay he says without having to actually let the words fall from his lips.

He's not sure he can do anything more than this, really.

Clint's tired, aching, and there's a soft, drawn out exhale. Fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose, slumping in against Bucky. By now he trusts the guy, and he's feverish, running off too little sleep for what he's trying to recover from. They sit in silence for a long moment, but if allowed, he'll let his head drop onto Bucky's shoulder, stealing what brief moment of sleep he can. More trust than he'd usually ever afford, but not unreasonable after all they've been through.

[tookthewheel]

"It's okay," Bucky says after a moment, when his surprise at the touch and the trust being demonstrated wears down. "I'll keep watch."

That nudge of the shoulder, right before Clint actually slumped down against him to relax, that would've been enough. The fact that Clint's willing to fall asleep -- and when did he become Clint and not Barton? -- against him means more than he knows. Or maybe he does know, given his history with the Black Widow. Bucky know only pieces but it's enough, her past was similarly bloody to his and for people like them trust is a gift, always.

He settles himself, just the slightest easing of his muscles without disturbing Clint, and prepares to sit there a while. It's one thing he can do.

[cognitived]

Clint hears that, idly, already half caught in the thick veil of slumber. His reply is less cognizant, more of a muddled murmur of assent than anything. But the thing is, Clint does get it, he does know. Natasha, the person she'd been all those years ago when he spared her and drew her in, he sees that in Bucky. Harsher, edges crackling and sharp, but still there.

He gets it, he understands. Trust means far more than he can ever put into words, and it's not like him to offer it unthinkingly. But Clint relies on a well honed instinct, and right now, he's listening. It doesn't seem unfounded either, given that Bucky simply shifts, settling in.

Clint sleeps, dreamlessly, for the first time in a long time.