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

[cognitived]

He hums something in reply, honed in on Sam's voice like it's guiding him back. Now that he's stopped moving, now that he doesn't have to focus on step after step, it's harder to think. He shifts, and agony claws up his body, enough to make him stand still and steady as can be. That's not right though. Sam's focused, Sam's here, but if Sam's focused on him then who's focused on Sam?

Clint rips his gaze up, unsteadily, swaying, as he remembers the wolves and their tenacity. If they come back, if they come back -- but Sam speaks up, bids him listen, and Clint does. He moves easily, unthinkingly, mouth parting, teeth sinking into the yield of fabric.

It already hurts, he's not sure Sam can make it worse. He's wrong. There's a thin sound from behind the muffle of fabric, jaw clenched tight as Sam gets to work.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

“I know,” he murmurs, without taking his eyes off his work. “I know, man, I know. You be as loud as you need, all right? We got this.”

There’s a reason Sam’d essentially gagged him, because being able to bite down on something really does help with the pain - and so does shouting your ass off, and this way no matter how loud Clint ends up getting, it’ll be dampened. Less attention drawn to them that way.

He twists the stick he’s using to tighten the tourniquet one more time, then tucks it under the fabric and ties it off.

“You still with me, cupid? We gotta head back to the base.”

[cognitived]

He doesn't entirely scream, but that's less due to strength of will than the lack of air in his lungs. Instead, there's a gasping, ragged sound, muddled behind the fabric in his mouth. Doesn't bother answer even if he could, trusting Sam implacably, blind to anything but the pain cutting through him at the tightening of the tourniquet.

For a moment he's not even sure it's over, tourniquet twisted and tied off, until Sam's hand is curling around his good arm, urging him on, back towards base. Clint blinks owlishly, jaw tight and tense, eyes dazed. His head ducks, agreeing, moving on autopilot. Mission resumed, it takes more effort now to force his leg forward, swaying even as he moves.

The truth is this, without Sam, he wouldn't make it to base. Even now, he's slowly leaning his weight in against Sam.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

If Sam didn’t know that it would only cause more damage to Clint’s arm - and more pain - he’d have just picked Clint up and started carrying him towards the base. But there’s no good way to carry Clint that isn’t going to jar his arm, so this is the best Sam’s got.

He ducks down so he can get under Clint’s good arm, straightening up so Clint’s arm is slung around his shoulders without Clint having to move at all. Sam wraps his other arm around Clint’s waist, pulling him in so he can lean as much of himself against him as he needs to.

So really, he is pretty much carrying Clint back to the base, keeping one hand free to clutch his wand so he can zap anything that so much as moves in their direction.

His only thought now is getting Clint back.