He's very good, and Steve can take hits that would be a stopping point for others. But in spite of being too good to simply inadvertently disembowel his friend, sparring with a weapon while the opponent is completely unarmed does make things more difficult. Were he still using his bow, this fight would not be happening without some kind of shield, for instance. Here, yes, Steve has to worry about reach, to actually getting in close enough to Clint to out maneuver him, but when Clint lands any hits, he finds he often can't do the natural follow through. There's certainly blood on Steve's end, though. His injuries heal rapidly, but not instantly.
(The dutiful little SHIELD agent in the back of his mind is considering the act of cleanup at the end of this. Thinks about Fury sending in teams to clean up lest someone inadvertently get their hands on some super blood. Not that Fury's around anymore to give a shit.)
There comes a point where Clint decides this kind of holding back is just getting in the way, a moment when they have a little distance from one another to catch breath, when he slices at the air in one decisive strike to let force of air and friction clean loose droplets and bits of grime from the blade. And then lets it slide back into its handle that doubles as a sheath.
It feels more real when it's just them and their fists, their kicks. He doesn't have to hold back near as much, gives as good as he gets relative to his own plain jane human strength. With sword in hand, he was calculated and cold steel. The longer it's just them beating on each other, it's still Clint, still thinking on his feet the way he always does, but in a manner becoming more desperate and feral.
It's a losing fight. It was always going to be. And that was the acknowledged plan from the start. But he fights through the pain, the way it burns bright and hot inside him. Fights with the copper tang of blood on his tongue. Fights when his muscles start to protest.
He gets put on the ground in a manner that rips all the air from his chest, and his body decides that this is the stopping point before his bell gets rung any harder. Every part of him save the adrenaline singing in his veins protests any attempt to get up, and every dazed pull of air sears his lungs (as well as sharply hurts his entire chest with the motion).
He wants to keep going. And if this were life and death, if this were a mission, he would get the hell back up and keep going.
But it's not. It's Steve. Who is not trying to kill him. Who could easily put him out of his misery like he's a rabid dog and staunchly refuses to. Because Steve Rogers is a good man, has been good ever since he was a sickly little brat, and Clint Barton has only ever been a good man when surrounded by people to put him on that path.
He grits his teeth, a noise of pure frustration surging from his throat, as he attempts to get back up for another round.
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(The dutiful little SHIELD agent in the back of his mind is considering the act of cleanup at the end of this. Thinks about Fury sending in teams to clean up lest someone inadvertently get their hands on some super blood. Not that Fury's around anymore to give a shit.)
There comes a point where Clint decides this kind of holding back is just getting in the way, a moment when they have a little distance from one another to catch breath, when he slices at the air in one decisive strike to let force of air and friction clean loose droplets and bits of grime from the blade. And then lets it slide back into its handle that doubles as a sheath.
It feels more real when it's just them and their fists, their kicks. He doesn't have to hold back near as much, gives as good as he gets relative to his own plain jane human strength. With sword in hand, he was calculated and cold steel. The longer it's just them beating on each other, it's still Clint, still thinking on his feet the way he always does, but in a manner becoming more desperate and feral.
It's a losing fight. It was always going to be. And that was the acknowledged plan from the start. But he fights through the pain, the way it burns bright and hot inside him. Fights with the copper tang of blood on his tongue. Fights when his muscles start to protest.
He gets put on the ground in a manner that rips all the air from his chest, and his body decides that this is the stopping point before his bell gets rung any harder. Every part of him save the adrenaline singing in his veins protests any attempt to get up, and every dazed pull of air sears his lungs (as well as sharply hurts his entire chest with the motion).
He wants to keep going. And if this were life and death, if this were a mission, he would get the hell back up and keep going.
But it's not. It's Steve. Who is not trying to kill him. Who could easily put him out of his misery like he's a rabid dog and staunchly refuses to. Because Steve Rogers is a good man, has been good ever since he was a sickly little brat, and Clint Barton has only ever been a good man when surrounded by people to put him on that path.
He grits his teeth, a noise of pure frustration surging from his throat, as he attempts to get back up for another round.