That's the final straw, then. That's Steve calling it, when he puts his weight down and presses him back into the concrete and keeps him there. Clint's hands scrabble for purchase for a few desperate moments, nails digging into the meat of Steve's arm and pressing his body up like he's got any chance of throwing him off, putting one last final push of effort into it.

And then he drops back flat, panting, exhausted, aching everywhere, done.

He shuts his eyes, letting the pain wash over him as the adrenaline starts to slowly ebb away into a nearly numbing sensation. Having Steve's solid pressure and presence over him is actually pleasant in its own way. Grounding. Solid. Real. And allowing for no argument. Stay down. And he's safe in doing so. Safe to start trying to regulate his breathing, take the burning in his chest and hold tight to the feeling, let it go.

He can assess the rest of the physical aches and pains later. Trying to exist in the moment lets him feel blood drying across his upper lip. The way the muscles in his thighs throb with each pulse that passes through. The heat radiating off them both. Curls his fingers, curls his toes, breathes and holds back the urge to cough lest that rattle his ribs even further.

"Thanks," creaks out of him.