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

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.