If looks could kill, Natasha would've murdered everyone on this aircraft. Several times over. She most certainly tolerates Frank; they have an understanding and a certain respect. So instead of making her way up front, taking the controls, and nosediving them all into the ground, she just rolls her eyes at Frank's incredulity.
But damn if Clint doesn't find it infectious. Because he gets it. Everything being said is insane to someone who's just an everyday fucking schmoe on the ground, comparatively. Half the universe is gone, and they're both learning there's someone of some kind of notable importance named Strange. What, that was the best word? Could've been named Doctor Spooky. Doctor Weird. Doctor Vaguely Unsettling But Mostly Unusual. Tony's not here because he's in space. What? In space where doing what? Why did he take Spider-New-Yorker with him? What the fuck does Asgard blowing up mean? Half the universe is gone, and Bruce has spent the past several years just being an alien gladiator that Loki of all people crashed, and how many times has he heard Loki died now? God, did that motherfucker get out of this or--
He snickers at Frank's response. And then it's a bit like a cascade. They share a look, and he laughs, and it's inappropriate but he doesn't really care because there is no appropriate right now. It's all crazy. The world's finally gone to hell in the dumbest handbasket. He can see the confused furrow of Thor's brow, the exhaustion on Banner's face but the barest little flicker of a smirk like he gets it or at least feels the infectiousness of the gigglefit. That there's a certain catharsis to it. And no glares from anyone or smartass comments are going to stop this train once it's gotten rolling.
Because it also feels like the only thing to do. It feels good for a few long moments. "You laugh," says Clint to Frank, laughing, "but I swear, I swear that every time I retire, that's when shit hits the fan. This one just took a few years, but they can't--"
Between the explosive knuckleduster and now this, everything stuck inside his chest has gotten all jostled loose. His cheeks are wet; when did that happen? The laughter changes pitch and oh no no no no not here, he can't do this here, he can't break here. "They can't even--" There's no rescuing this, no matter how hard he tries. To stuff everything back down. Back into boxes to tape shut and hide under floorboards, no, it's spilling out everywhere. It's overwhelming.
He blinked, and they were gone, and they're gone, and he doesn't know when he'll ever see his home again, doesn't know if there will ever be a point. Frank lost his, so, what, now to even the scales, some cosmic fucking scales, now it's his turn? Should he have stayed? Haunted his own house until he turned to dust, too? What the fuck kind of need do any of them have for a god damn archer when all the forces of Wakanda and then some couldn't stop the end of half the universe? What good are the Avengers if they aren't Avenging? No SHIELD, no Avengers, and now no Bartons, so what the fuck would he even be fighting for?
He tips his head back, blinking at the ceiling, every part of him tight and trembling, trying to will it back, trying to curb the reaction. But Nat squeezes his hand, and Frank packed up some of the important stuff and some of the stupid fucking useless stuff, and his lungs hurt, and there should be more people here. It's an ugly noise out of him, the kind of ugly he'd rather do alone in a dark and locked room. Not in the confined space of a quinjet with some of his friends. He feels so small, so insignificant. And all the hurt and horror and agony of the past day is demanding to come pouring out of him.
It feels like pouring his whole self out onto the floor.
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But damn if Clint doesn't find it infectious. Because he gets it. Everything being said is insane to someone who's just an everyday fucking schmoe on the ground, comparatively. Half the universe is gone, and they're both learning there's someone of some kind of notable importance named Strange. What, that was the best word? Could've been named Doctor Spooky. Doctor Weird. Doctor Vaguely Unsettling But Mostly Unusual. Tony's not here because he's in space. What? In space where doing what? Why did he take Spider-New-Yorker with him? What the fuck does Asgard blowing up mean? Half the universe is gone, and Bruce has spent the past several years just being an alien gladiator that Loki of all people crashed, and how many times has he heard Loki died now? God, did that motherfucker get out of this or--
He snickers at Frank's response. And then it's a bit like a cascade. They share a look, and he laughs, and it's inappropriate but he doesn't really care because there is no appropriate right now. It's all crazy. The world's finally gone to hell in the dumbest handbasket. He can see the confused furrow of Thor's brow, the exhaustion on Banner's face but the barest little flicker of a smirk like he gets it or at least feels the infectiousness of the gigglefit. That there's a certain catharsis to it. And no glares from anyone or smartass comments are going to stop this train once it's gotten rolling.
Because it also feels like the only thing to do. It feels good for a few long moments. "You laugh," says Clint to Frank, laughing, "but I swear, I swear that every time I retire, that's when shit hits the fan. This one just took a few years, but they can't--"
Between the explosive knuckleduster and now this, everything stuck inside his chest has gotten all jostled loose. His cheeks are wet; when did that happen? The laughter changes pitch and oh no no no no not here, he can't do this here, he can't break here. "They can't even--" There's no rescuing this, no matter how hard he tries. To stuff everything back down. Back into boxes to tape shut and hide under floorboards, no, it's spilling out everywhere. It's overwhelming.
He blinked, and they were gone, and they're gone, and he doesn't know when he'll ever see his home again, doesn't know if there will ever be a point. Frank lost his, so, what, now to even the scales, some cosmic fucking scales, now it's his turn? Should he have stayed? Haunted his own house until he turned to dust, too? What the fuck kind of need do any of them have for a god damn archer when all the forces of Wakanda and then some couldn't stop the end of half the universe? What good are the Avengers if they aren't Avenging? No SHIELD, no Avengers, and now no Bartons, so what the fuck would he even be fighting for?
He tips his head back, blinking at the ceiling, every part of him tight and trembling, trying to will it back, trying to curb the reaction. But Nat squeezes his hand, and Frank packed up some of the important stuff and some of the stupid fucking useless stuff, and his lungs hurt, and there should be more people here. It's an ugly noise out of him, the kind of ugly he'd rather do alone in a dark and locked room. Not in the confined space of a quinjet with some of his friends. He feels so small, so insignificant. And all the hurt and horror and agony of the past day is demanding to come pouring out of him.
It feels like pouring his whole self out onto the floor.