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

[aboveangrybees]

((cw: references to discrimination based on disability, brief reference to suicidal ideation))

Steve watches Clint for a long second, really just watches him, not responding, not doing anything but looking at him with eyes that know exactly what they are looking for. Because he does. Steve knows better than most what it's like to wallow in justifiable self pity, to feel useless and broken, to be seen as useless and broken by just about everyone. He knows what it means to so miserable with your own state of being that you don't know if it's even worth it. He grew up so sick and weak that his mother was terrified of taking him to the hospital because he was considered disabled and a burden on society and the way they treated those they considered that way. To have everyone limit and refuse you for it, that he had to fight for every right he had, for every job, for every once of self worth.

So, he looks at this man before him, an archer with a bum leg and a missing arm and knows what he needs to be looking for, because it's plain as day.

And because he gets it, he's not about to treat him fragile and skirt the subject.

"So, on a scale of one to ten, how much are you pitying yourself right now. One being: you know what, I'm going to be a badass one armed archer. Ten being: I'm actually hoping it's possible to choke to death on my misery,"

[cognitived]

Clint knows, sort of, what it must have been to grow up as Steve did. Sickly, weak, a spirit too big for his small frame to contain. But he doesn't get it, not really. Doesn't know about living in a world where eugenics was a valid thing, where Steve was considered more burden than anything. If he did -- maybe he'd understand, maybe he'd react differently.

But probably not.

The thing is, Clint likes Steve, he trusts him, but this is another thing entirely. He looks up, carefully, prepared to lie his way out of this. He could, lying comes easy to Clint, but he's tired. And, well, there's no way to really hide it, is there? Steve knows. He can see that in his expression, in the way he speaks and holds himself. Clint breathes in and out, very carefully, and bites it back. Ten, is his immediate thought, snarling and desperate and aching. Maybe that shows in the clouded blue of his gaze, some of it, at least.

"You won't like that answer." Is what he says, steady, sure. Not a lie, but not an answer either, not really.