Clint's not entirely sure how much the Capitol believes him. The Capitolites, sure. They're easy, in general, shallow and thoughtless and flighty. The fact that he hasn't left them, fights and kills and dies, means the populace still loves him. They mourned with him, they were betrayed right alongside him. It doesn't matter that Clint had been faking it that entire time -- they didn't know.
But Snow doesn't buy it, he's sure. If he pays attention to one little archer, that is. And certainly he's not alone, despite all that he's tried.
Doesn't matter anyway. Clint knows the fight in his bones, and it doesn't belong to either the Capitol or the Rebellion. He fights because he has to, for the Districtors and what's left of his friends, for his Partner soaring above head and the family he's so painfully sure he's never seeing again. A little extra blood on his hands is a price he'll pay, easily. He's just a little bit unused to having someone at his back, after months without. Clint usually can see more than anyone, but he's just human.
The battle is chaos, thundering through his bones, tinnying in the wrecked hollows of his ears. Clint can fight with the best of them, but even a master assassin can be taken by surprise.
He doesn't hear the warning, faint to his ears, but he hears the explosion, feels the heat across his skin, spinning automatically in surprise. A fucking rookie move, but whatever. It's just in time to catch the shattering of metal through the air. Clint gets tossed, back hitting the dirt hard, dazed and breathless. For a moment, the ringing in his ears outweighs everything, and then he tries to breath, and near blacks out from the agony. One hand slips against the ground, the other gropes for his bow, and then he's near heaving with the ache, catching sight of the metal spiraling out of his abdomen. There's a smaller piece punched through his leg, and instinct has him reaching with trembling fingers, brushing against the heated metal, dazed, unthinkingly tuning out the battle around him.
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But Snow doesn't buy it, he's sure. If he pays attention to one little archer, that is. And certainly he's not alone, despite all that he's tried.
Doesn't matter anyway. Clint knows the fight in his bones, and it doesn't belong to either the Capitol or the Rebellion. He fights because he has to, for the Districtors and what's left of his friends, for his Partner soaring above head and the family he's so painfully sure he's never seeing again. A little extra blood on his hands is a price he'll pay, easily. He's just a little bit unused to having someone at his back, after months without. Clint usually can see more than anyone, but he's just human.
The battle is chaos, thundering through his bones, tinnying in the wrecked hollows of his ears. Clint can fight with the best of them, but even a master assassin can be taken by surprise.
He doesn't hear the warning, faint to his ears, but he hears the explosion, feels the heat across his skin, spinning automatically in surprise. A fucking rookie move, but whatever. It's just in time to catch the shattering of metal through the air. Clint gets tossed, back hitting the dirt hard, dazed and breathless. For a moment, the ringing in his ears outweighs everything, and then he tries to breath, and near blacks out from the agony. One hand slips against the ground, the other gropes for his bow, and then he's near heaving with the ache, catching sight of the metal spiraling out of his abdomen. There's a smaller piece punched through his leg, and instinct has him reaching with trembling fingers, brushing against the heated metal, dazed, unthinkingly tuning out the battle around him.