thearena | let me know that you hear me

Entry tags:

let me know that you hear me

Who | Sam Wilson and Clint Barton
What | getting into an argument about usefulness
Where | one of the rooms in the castle
When | beginning of Week 5
Warnings/Notes | bodily injury, discussions of death, will update as needed

It's not like Sam doesn't get how Clint must be feeling. With getting injured during the mission and having to hide it from the Capitol and probably feeling like he was getting baby-sat - although honestly, hanging around Clint was probably as much about Sam getting baby-sat himself, after what'd happened with Kurloz and Steve - and now this fucking disaster with his arm putting him pretty much out of commission, well, yeah, Sam would be feeling pretty damn shitty himself.

He's tried to be there for Clint as much as possible, tried to find things he could to make him feel useful - it's not like Sam's running blind here, he's got plenty of experience working with disabled veterans who feel like they're a waste of space - but he also knows there's only so much they can do in the arena.

And he knows, he knows, that because it is an arena, because there's a certain recklessness that people seem willing to do when they're pretty sure they're coming back, safe and whole again, what's probably underneath the self deprecating jokes Clint keeps making about putting him out of his misery.

It scares the shit out of him.

Right now, it's just Sam and Clint, and Sam... is having a hard time continuing not to react to those jokes.

"You make another one of those and I'm going to start thinking we need to have a talk." He's aiming for teasing, but he misses, and it comes out pretty damn serious.

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This has been a long time coming. Longer, perhaps, than the mission that ended with Clint's leg out of the commission and Steve captured. Sure that'd kickstarted things into hyperdrive, but even before that. When Clint died bleeding out at Tony's side, and woke up to a world without Natasha. He made it through, forced himself forward, when his world felt like it was crumbling apart around him.

It'd be easy to say Sam was a replacement, a stopgate, the stitches holding him together. It's true, in part. But they're partners, and that means something. Different perhaps to the both of them, but still, something.

This Arena though, Clint's been feeling stifled and restless from the get go, when Sam slung him over a shoulder instead of letting him run. Sure, he'd gotten a chance later, but it's -- he's been feeling rather useless for weeks. A glorified babysitter, half-lame, might as well take him out to the pasture, right?

That sort of talk is what's getting him into trouble though, and he knows it. Sam isn't the only one, though it's increasingly obvious. Clint tenses, pain shooting up his shoulder in protest, and glances over. Slowly, because he gets it, he does. Those jokes have something deep and dark hidden under them, steel under silk, a biting edge wearing through. He can't -- he can't help it. Sometimes he looks over, see the empty space where an arm should be, and it takes him by surprise all over again. Sometimes, he reaches out for something and doesn't realize what he's done until pain eats at him. He's getting better about it, but barely. Most of the time, he's lost in thought, thinking useless, and what if-- and wondering if maybe, maybe, he could make one last risk.

So yeah, he looks over, shadows dark beneath the fever pitch blue of his eyes. There is no hint of teasing in Sam's voice, not so far as Clint can read it, and it has him wary, unsure. Eyeing Sam like he's not sure running wouldn't be a good idea or not right about now. Even if he knows exactly how well that wound up for him last time.

There are a thousand things he could say right about now, and he knows it's damn stupid, but he opens his mouth and:

"Might do me in faster."

He should've tried harder for teasing, maybe, with the way that has Clint looking at him. Sam knows very well that Clint doesn't do so great with shit like this, that it'd taken Clint being drunk off his ass to get him to open up to Sam at all.

Sam needs to remember that, no matter how on edge the arena and all of this has him. No matter how afraid he is that this is going to be what makes him lose Clint, that he's standing on the edge of losing another partner if he doesn't do something, and he can't. He watched Riley fall from the sky in pieces and he watched Steve disappear in a burst of fire and a crackle of static, he can't watch Clint go out like this.

So he looks away for a moment before he glances back, one corner of his mouth turned up in a tiny smile.

"That terrible listening to me yammer, huh?" He shakes his head, fixing his gaze on Clint's. "People like us, man, we don't make jokes like that without a part of us meaning it. The thing I gotta know is - how big of a part are we talking?"

Clint winced as soon as the words fell from his mouth. A tiny thing, there around the corners of his eyes, his mouth. Maybe the cameras, the people watching, don't see it -- but given how intently Sam's eyeing him, there's no way he misses it.

Because Sam knows him too well. Not like Natasha, born out of opportunity, and years watching each other's back, but similarly gained. They came together slowly, then all at once, tied up in each other between one breath and the next. Partners, and Clint has to remember it too, even if he will never ever be all that great when it comes to things like this.

So he shifts, faintly uneasy, because okay yeah Sam's gotten to the core of it, and Clint's not sure how to move forward. He hasn't lied to Sam, he won't -- that's not how partnerships work. Maybe he's still hiding things from Sam, hasn't told him everything, but this is different. So yeah, he's uneasy, unsure, he doesn't want to spill out here where everyone is watching. He also doesn't know, not really.

Does he feel useless? Yes. Does he want to die? No -- but if he did, and woke up whole, he'd be okay with it probably.

"Probably more than you'd like."

A bit of a cop out, because any bit is more than Sam'd like. But -- this is hard okay.

Oh yeah, of course Sam notices that. Aside from that brief glance away, he’s keeping his eyes steady on Clint, not so much studying as trying to pick up on all the little clues that he’s learned Clint gives, on the tiny facial expressions and body movements that sometimes say more than the actual words that come out of Clint’s mouth.

Like that uneasy shifting that tells Sam that yeah, he’s definitely got it, and he nods at the response he finally gets. It’s maybe a cop out, but paired with everything else, it’s more than enough.

“Why?”

Sam can guess. He knows Clint pretty damn well, and he can see the signs in him that sometimes Sam sees in himself - only amplified by a couple thousand in Clint - and he can put it together with what’s going on and what Clint’s been hinting at, but that doesn’t matter.

He wants to hear Clint say it, wants to know how Clint’s going to put it. Sam’s got an argument all geared up, but he’d rather make it against what Clint’s telling him than against what Sam’s assuming about it.

He shoots Sam a look, one that says you know why just as easily as a verbal answer could. That's the easy part, and with it out of the way Clint's not entirely sure how to continue. He glances down and away, brow furrowed, jaw tight. His hand reaches up, rubs at the nape of his neck, grips hard for a moment, for lack of word. Travels, slow, to the shoulder above his amputated limb, as if he could soothe away the ache.

Can't, not really.

So his shoulders slump, a frustrated sound leaving his lips, and Clint looks back up with a fevered blue gaze, sleeplessness having smudged its dark fingers beneath his eyes. Sam needs an answer, even if he doesn't want to give him one. Because there isn't a good answer, and he's feeling trapped, he's feeling like he's drowning. If he opens his mouth -- he's not sure he can stop everything from pouring out of him.

"First time I picked up a bow, I was ten." Fuck, not what he wanted to start with but-- "We'd run away, joined a circus, and the Swordsman" his mouth twists on this name, "figured I'd be a good enough protegee."

A pause, for breath, gaze flicking over Sam's face. It's not the first time he's told this story, but it's only been a couple times, and it's difficult to tell. Especially here, knowing none of this is secret any longer.

"Tore up my arm shootin' without a brace, I've still got a--" pauses, as he realizes he'd been about to turn his arm out to show Sam, only to remember it wasn't there anymore. Something haunted and hollow crosses his face, before he forcibly clears his expression. "had a scar from it."

He can't stop, shifting, leaning closer to Sam with fevered energy, words falling quick and sharp, like he's held them close for too long.

"That's 32 years, Sam." 32 years, and he's never been so long without bow in hand since he first arrived. "The only thing that's been there for me, the only thing I've ever had, was archery. It's the only damn reason I've lived this long, and without it I'm--"

Nothing, though he cuts himself off. He knows how that'd go down, and he knows there's no way Sam didn't miss the meaning even if he didn't say it. He can't watch, looks away again, thumb tight against the ridge of collarbone, pain a starburst upon his tongue. Clint wouldn't have said he was a coward, but he's feeling like it now. Useless, cowardly, can't do anything right, ain't worth shit. His mouth twists, angry and bereft.

He'd been expecting that look. He waits it out, watches Clint with a level gaze, calm and patient and maybe just a little bit demanding. There's an edge to the way his jaw is set, because he has a feeling he knows what's coming, and he has a feeling it's going to hit a little bit close to home.

Sam's not wrong, but he wasn't expecting Clint to give him as much as he did. More than he has before, even if he's alluded to some of it, and for a moment the edge drains out of Sam. For a moment he just watches, soft and quiet and trying to think about what the hell he's supposed to do with this.

Then Clint says that last bit, and cuts off. Clint's right about that. Sam hears that meaning loud and clear, and the tension is back in his shoulders as he grits his teeth a little.

"Goddamn it, Clint," he murmurs, shaking his head and glancing away for a moment before his gaze snaps back. "You wanna go there? The only reason I was able to help Steve out the way I did is because of my wings, you seen a pair on my back even once in these arenas?"

It's not the reason that Steve came to him for help, and it's not the reason that Steve'd agreed when he signed on to find Bucky, Sam knows that, but it is the reason he was able to pull his weight against the helicarriers. He knows that, too.

"I'm a world class combat medic, years of field experience, and we got a kid who heals with water. I'm an expert marksman, I can do calculations just as good as a computer in a goddamn fighter jet, and we got a supersoldier assassin with reflexes I can only dream of. You think it's time for me to roll over, pack it in because I've outlived my usefulness?"

He's snapping now, purposefully ragging on himself harder than he usually does even in his own head - though there's times, there's times, and there's a reason why he can understand where Clint is coming from. There's a reason why this scares him so bad. Sam's further down that path, he's settled into his skin and the faith he has in himself, but it's scary as hell looking back down it and seeing Clint standing there.

Sam leans in close, curls his hand around the back of Clint's head and manages to resist giving him a shake only because he knows it'll just make Clint's arm hurt worse. "When I agreed to be partners, I didn't do it because of a piece of wood and some fucking string, man. If you think the only reason you matter to us at all, the only thing you're good for, is because of a damn bow and arrow, then you don't know you very well."

He's so tired. He aches with it, the pain that lances up through his shoulder, deep in muscle and flesh and bone. It's a sickly feeling, poison in his veins from the infection set into the site of the amputation, fever boiling his blood. Sam's surprised by the weight of what Clint spills, and he's not the only one. But Clint's still not sure what's real and what's dream, it all mixes, leaves him breathless and bereft.

Despite that all, despite the realization of what he's got to be pushing Sam to -- Clint didn't expect the snap of his voice. Unthinkingly, he leans back, shoulders drawing up about his ears, something lost and bewildered and small in his gaze.

It doesn't last long.

Almost before he realizes, Clint's gearing himself for war, gaze sharp enough to flay, burning bright. There's a flush across his cheeks, partially angry, but mostly from the fever that's eating him up from the inside. Sam grabs him, and Clint wants to sway, leaning against the cooler comfort of his body. Instead, he's half-rabid with this. He fucked up, he should have stayed silent, should have lied -- but he can't, not to Sam. Not now, not after all they've done.

He's half way to snarling, to biting, to fighting his way out of this and leaving. But the ache against his side reminds him of how awfully that worked for him, and the grip Sam has around the back of his neck keeps him grounded here where he's sitting.

He's also not sure his legs will hold him if he tried to get up, and that's the thing that keeps him here, swaying faintly, hand fisted in the fabric of his tunic. Usually, he'd stop, realize, agree. He's an assassin, isn't he? A master spy, one of the damn best in SHIELD. And he's a superhero too, maybe. But now, now -- he bares his teeth in a grimace, wordless if only because all that he's got on the tip of his tongue won't help his case any bit.

Clint might be dying -- there's no way around it, he knows he's not going to win, so there's only one other option -- but he's already got Sam on his case. He isn't going to make it worse if he can help it. Except. Except Sam ragging on himself settles uneasily, has Clint shifting underneath his hands, unsure.

When Clint doesn't actually say anything to all of that, Sam isn't surprised. He just hopes like hell Clint actually understood it all, because he'd gone off a little bit more than he planned.

But with the way Clint's snarling at him and baring his teeth, yeah, Sam's betting he heard all of that, and didn't like any of it. Too damn bad, as far as Sam's concerned, because it's the truth, and Clint's going to have to face it sooner or later.

There's another reason why Sam'd pulled him close like this, and that has everything to do with the last time they fought, with Clint running off rather than resolve the argument. He is not letting that happen again, no matter what he has to do.

"You wanna go, Barton? Say the word, man, and I will fight you on this."

Which is a ridiculous thing to say given both of their current states, but he means it, if he has to take a few punches and pin Clint down and sit on him until he listens, he will. At another time, he'd recognize that probably means he's not thinking all that straight, that hunger and the lingering affects of sickness are messing with him, but it seems like a good idea now.

And yet he doesn't make a move, doesn't pull away. If anything, he tugs Clint in a little closer, squeezing his eyes shut.

"If you won't believe it for you, believe it for us, all right, believe we need you." He grits his teeth and forces himself to look at Clint. "I need you," he adds, quieter. "You're my partner, and I'm not losing you because of your dumb ass."

They know each other well enough by now, and Clint's not surprised Sam gets it, not surprised that he rolls with it as if expected. Because it is, because it should be. Clint doesn't have the best track record, and of them all, Sam's the one who knows that intently. He holds him close, holds him in place, and sets spark with a threat that should be utterly ridiculous but has Clint eyeing him calculatingly.

The last time, he'd been knocked silly with a concussion he's pretty sure he shouldn't have walked on, nevertheless fought for his life with. He can't exactly say his thoughts are crystal clear right now, not with the lingering shock and grief, with the fever sending everything wavering.

He's debating it, fighting like hell to get free, but it wouldn't work. Sam's already got him held close, and he has the advantage of not being down one arm and a functional knee. Still, the hand curled at his belly lifts, grabs tight at Sam's shirt, as if he's going to shake him free. Fuck it, he's done with the fever and the infection and the weakness he feels half-dead from. Sam's got him held tight, pinned down with word and physicality and guilt -- Clint hates it but he knows it.

He pants, roughly, a desperate aching gasp for breath.

"Sam," Clint pleads, though he's not sure what exactly he's asking for. Presses closer, palm a brand against Sam's chest, even beneath the layers of cloth. Their foreheads touch, brief, before Clint's pulling back just a tad. Softly, slowly, as if he's turning the words over consonant by consonant. "I can't--"

He looks away, panicked for a moment, breath caught in his lungs, mind spinning circles. What does he do, what does he do? In the corner of his eye, there's a flicker, but he ignores it as Sam reaching for him again, turns back to Sam like he needs -- something. Needs to get this out before he gets dragged under again, feverish and raving, sickness settling its hooks into him. But he has no idea what to say, no idea how to force all these thoughts into words, they stay heavily upon his tongue, tasting like ash.

'I can't.'

Sam has no idea what he means by that. Maybe if Sam were in better shape right now, he'd be able to figure it out - or at least attribute it to the fact that Clint is in absolutely terrible shape and is really not equipped to handle this kind of conversation.

He thinks about asking Clint what he means, about telling Clint that he knows, he knows, that he isn't sure if he can, either. That Clint probably didn't know what he was signing up for when he was drunk and asked to be partners. That now that he does know, or at least has a better idea, it'll be okay if Clint decides he can't.

But he doesn't say any of that, because it won't be okay, and Sam's just self-aware enough to know not to start that conversation when neither of them are thinking clearly.

"Okay," he murmurs, relaxing his grip. He doesn't let go, but he eases up a little, makes it more about trying to provide comfort than keeping Clint there, smoothing his hand up and down Clint's back.

"What do you need?"

"I, I--" He shudders over the words, the comfort that is Sam's arms around him, the sooth of his hand down the curve of his spine. Maybe its the fever dragging him back down, but Clint can't think, doesn't know what he needs, doesn't know what he wants. His gaze skitters away, distant over Sam's shoulder. He's got a thousand yard stare, eyes glazed, until suddenly they're not. Until suddenly, his brow furrows, mouth twisted with confusion.

"Laura?" He mumbles, stumbling over the name. But she's there, kind, beautiful, pale and tearstained -- his eyes slip lower, to the carved out cavity of her chest, and Clint's world stops. She screams his name, a ringing that settles in the ruined hollows of his ears, carves its way into his muscle, his bone.

He knows instantly. He knows, oh god, oh god, where are they, where are they -- isn't even aware that he's suddenly twisting and fighting in Sam's hold, desperate, the words slipping from nerveless lips. There is nothing but panic on his face, a fear that transcends the pain that comes with suddenly knocking his amputated limb against Sam's arms, blood and pus seeping through bandages. It should be painful, but he doesn't notice it. Instead, he screams at a ghost, desperate.

"Where are they!"

He waits, watching Clint closely, trying to see if he can figure out what Clint needs without him having to say it. Sam glances back over his shoulder when Clint’s brow furrows in confusion, looking to see if someone came in, but there’s nothing there.

When he turns back, though, Clint’s changed from confusion to panic, and the look of fear on his face and the way he’s struggling is enough to make Sam pull back, to make him stand and look harder, for what the hell has got Clint this freaked out.

There’s still nothing.

Which means whatever it is, it’s in Clint’s mind. Sam doesn’t know if it’s the fever or the gamemakers, but - but either way, this is going no where good.

“Clint,” he says, sharp and a little desperate. “Clint, there’s nothing there, it’s nothing, it’s just you and me.”

There’s something, there’s someone. Clint can see her, sure as day, bloodless and screaming, a wraith of his sister there before him. He knows without a doubt, in a way that isn’t simply fever or gamemakers but perhaps both, that his family is here and in danger. Even laid low, even with one arm missing and one knee wrecked, Clint will not stand for that.

So Sam climbs to his feet, and Clint scrambles up, hissing as his knee crumbles under his weight and pain jolts through him. He stays there, swaying on his knees, gaze locked upon the ghost before him.

“Laura, please.”

It’s half a sob, desperation fueling him. He reaches out for her, pleading, palm up in supplication. Sam’s words do filter through, sharp at the edge of his hearing, but Clint doesn’t really comprehend it. Can’t, can’t focus on idle commentary when his entire world is falling apart before him.

Sam has no idea who Laura is. But she's obviously someone in important, and Clint never having mentioned her? Yeah, Clint's secretive, but there's always a purpose, and Sam has a feeling it's maybe similar to why he's never mentioned Sarah or Gideon's names, why the only people he ever talks about in detail are the ones who're dead.

Maybe it doesn't matter, with all the Capitol seems to know about them, but - but something's wrong, Clint's not himself, and maybe Sam's not exactly himself right now, either, but he knows he can't let Clint keep talking to a ghost.

He goes down to his knees in front of Clint, when it's obvious that talking isn't doing much to get Clint's attention, trying to cut off his view of whatever it is. But he'd tried that before, and Clint'd just shoved him off, so he...

Well. Sam doesn't think, he just does the first thing that comes to his mind to try to get Clint's attention, to get his focus off something that isn't there and to get him to shut up. He kisses him.

Clint has more secrets than not, all told. It's just part of the business, and his tendency to both hide in plain sight and appear like just another birdbrained soldier means he hears more information than most would assume. It's useful, because it also means most don't ask him many questions. Clint likes it like that, he doesn't need a whole lot of friends, not when he had Nat and Coulson and Laura and the kids.

But it does mean he keeps things close to his chest more often than not, and that's what makes this so strange. Sam's right, he's not himself, and something is most certainly wrong. Clint just isn't in a good way to be able to stop himself as he is.

So Sam kneels in front of him, trying to cut off his view, and Clint swerves, wincing and gritting his teeth when his knee explodes with agony. He isn't expecting Sam to actually reach for him though.

He thrashes, wildly, when Sam catches him and draws him in. It takes a long moment to realize what's actually happening, all told, Sam's lips chapped and warm against his. But once he does, he drops, confused and trembling, his fingers curling in Sam's shirt where he'd been pushing at him. Clint doesn't kiss back, not at first, and then weakly, slumping in against his partner with a confused sound just an edge above a whimper.

Sam gets that, he does. He might not be a spy, but he did have top secret clearance, once upon a time, and he knows that everyone has their own strategies to not only keep secrets, but to make it seem like you’re not keeping any at all. It’s how Sam can be open and honest about so many things in his life while keeping others buried so tight that no one would even suspect they’re there.

And he knows that this is serious shit, that Clint will hate himself later if he keeps going when this isn’t even anything he talks about in blindspots.

Honestly, Sam doesn’t really care if Clint kisses him back right then, as long as he isn’t thrashing around and yelling at things that aren’t there. As long as he isn’t two seconds away from spilling secrets that he’s worked so damn hard to keep.

He breaks the kiss when Clint gives that confused sound, resting his forehead against Clint’s. Sam doesn’t know how to explain his actions while still trying to make anyone back in the Capitol watching think that the only reason that Sam kissed him is because of his and Clint’s little messed up love affair, and he isn’t sure that Clint’s in enough of his right mind to be able to pick up on the cues they can normally give each other.

But he tries anyway, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Stay with me, cupid,” he murmurs, soft and serious, before he kisses him again, light and teasing, and his tone changes to match. “What’re you doing paying attention to anything else when I’m in the room, huh?”

Clint doesn't doubt Sam's capability here, not when he knows what he does of his partner. Maybe they haven't shared all the really tough things, maybe they don't know most of it about each other. But it's enough, it is.

Besides, it got Sam to stop him, and that's all that matters right now.

Because he isn't really in his right mind at all. The fever eats at him, the panic curling sickeningly heavy in his veins. But Sam is real, Sam is warm and alive and holding him closecloseclose. Clint shudders with his breath, focusing in on Sam's words as if they're a raft in the middle of the ocean. Hidden beneath lowered lashes, Clint's gaze flicks over to where Laura stood, but there's nothing, nothing at all.

He nods, slightly, confused and overwhelmed but trusting Sam to have his back here. Even if they'd fought not even five minutes before.

"Guess y'better try harder to keep my attention, angel." A corner of his mouth curls with smirk, before fading away. He doesn't have enough energy left to him to keep up this mask. His hand lifts, cradling Sam's jaw, fighting to keep his fingers from trembling. It's all he can offer, overheated with fever and dazed with it all.

That's all that matters now, yeah, Sam feels exactly the same way. As long as Clint is in the room with him and isn't screaming to nothing, everything else can wait.

He doesn't quite tense, but there's a moment where he's ready, when Clint's gaze flicks back over to where he'd been looking before that made him freak out, just in case - but it's good, it's okay, it doesn't set him off again. Sam relaxes, one hand stroking through Clint's hair and the other down his back, soothing. Never mind the fact that he was just threatening to fight Clint if he needed to.

They're partners. Just because they fight doesn't mean that they won't both still have each other's backs no matter what, even if the fight wasn't exactly resolved. Sam trusts Clint that much.

There's a soft snort when Clint tells him to try harder, and Sam leans a little into the hand on his jaw, just barely nuzzling. Then he pushes himself up, holding onto Clint as he does - half helping Clint up with him, and half just keeping Clint close.

"C'mon. Think we could both use some sleep, all right, and then in the morning you and me'll go hunting, yeah? If you'll let me go with you."

And if Clint's not completely passed out, but they both had good points in that argument, and it reminded Sam that he damn well knows what it's like to feel useless. He won't inflict that on Clint any more than he has to.

Clint can tell, in a dim sort of way, that Sam's gearing himself up for something. But nothing happens, because she's not there. For a second, brief, he's almost disappointed. Clint's missed his sister, even if he'd never wanted to see her like that. He'd do anything to see it again. So his gaze roves back, slowly, urged on by the fingers running through his dirty hair, and the warmth of Sam's hand down the bony curve of his spine.

His heart trembles, a fierce, aching sort of love beating itself bloody against his ribs. And maybe some of that gleams in the blue of his eyes -- or maybe its just the fever. Either way, Clint ducks his head a bit, nodding.

It's reassuring, the soft nuzzle into his palm, the way Sam keeps him safe and secure even as he helps him up. The truth is, Clint isn't so sure that he'd be able to struggle to his feet right now anyway. His knee throbs with ache, enough that Clint grits his teeth and very purposefully controls his features. Sam heaves him up, and Clint lets him take most of his weight.

"Yeah alright, guess I can deal with your dumb mug following me around."

Clint murmurs, blinking slowly, exhaustion laying heavily upon him. There's a few stumbles along the way, but they make it back to bed, and Clint's not all that good for conversation for very long after.

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