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Steve thinks that Clint might, just maybe, be starting to believe that he can get something out of this kind of stuff, even if it's not (and can't be) the same kind of physical release Clint does. That it's not all for Clint's sake.

That's... a relief.

He opens his eyes and rolls onto his side and toward Clint, because it's easier to see his face there, and so he can access just exactly what kind of state Clint seems to be in. Double checking, checking in to make sure he is on the right side of the line between hurt and really injured. Wrinkles his nose faintly but also uses his thumb to make sure Clint's nose is bloody, not literally out of place.

And because he wants to be touching Clint as part of that check in.

"Up." That's a vague answer that he's not sure translates to anything that means anything. "Overly focused, but clear. It's good. You in one piece?"

Edited 2024-11-12 16:40 (UTC)

Clint has excellent pain tolerance, which is how he can get the shit beat out of him and keep going. But he still winces a little at the touch to his face. Nothing seems like it's broken, nose-wise, but it's still tender.

Of course, his whole body feels tender at the moment.

He licks his lips, tries to come back to himself a little bit at a time. He feels like he's going to be one giant bruise, and whatever stares back at him in the mirror over the next couple weeks will probably be hideous. But the effort also feels like it's settling into his bones. In a good way. Or at least in a not-bad way.

"Arms and legs, fingers and toes, all accounted for. Probably not dying today." He simply breathes for a moment and lets Steve feel out whatever else he wants or needs to. "Grab some water?"

"Yep." He doesn't at least feel compelled to check over Clint's ribs. At least not when his desire to... take care of Clint and be very sure is given a concrete direction. He stands up with a decided lack of effort or soreness and goes to grab the water that Clint brought, and brings the bottles back (and cracks the seals along the way).

He drops down to a crouch, puts the bottles down and offers Clint a hand. "Be careful. Your ribs are going to scream once the endorphins start wearing off."

That's not guilt. It's just... where his head is. It'll get back to normal.

"Oh," that's as much a groan as it is a word in its own right, "don't I know it. There's ice packs in the freezer. Just gotta stay upright until we get back."

Which means getting upright in the first place. He waves off the offered hand of help, needing to make sure he can do the basic shit on his own. Everything hurts so damn much, but he pries his back off the floor and works his way to sitting up. That's where he's going to be for a bit, at least until he gets water in him. Easy sips.

He holds out a hand, palm up. "You brought those pills, yeah?"

Steve backs off physically at the wave, but gets the bottle out of his shirt pocket with a slight rattle, pops the lid so Clint doesn't need to fuck with the child safety and just puts it on the ground within easy reach.

Then grabs his bottle and rocks back to sit on the ground, taking him back a couple of feet further than he'd been.

"Sounds good. I'll grab them and you can put them where you want them when we get back. I'm probably going to eat." Not so much the calories, though also that. Mostly to get himself the rest of the way back down to planet earth. Clint ... he suspects is going to take longer to get to that one, but that's nothing more or less elaborate than a guess. "How's the inside of your head feeling?"

"Fuzzy." He dumps out an unwise but not unfamiliar amount of pills in his hand and knocks them back with a drink. "But not in a bad way. Or a concussive way."

Like really good sex way, or rock concert way. "'m coming back down a bit. Trying not to let it happen all at once." It's a work on the senses. He's got touch and feeling down pat. Water and pills are taking care of taste. He can hear Steve just fine, and the pounding of his own heart in his ears has hushed significantly. He lets his eyes get drawn up to the hole in the roof, rolling of clouds, dappled sunlight. He can see the places where the dust got kicked up and occasional dull splotches of dried or drying blood. Smell's gonna have to wait a bit before it's anything but his own blood, but at least the other senses are working well enough.

He wishes he could hold onto that dulled, almost floaty feeling for longer, but he doesn't want Steve to have to carry him back. It's like Steve said. Endorphins are gonna wear off, and then he's going to feel like an absolute wreck and a half. But nothing he can't work through by the time he needs his body to be a well-oiled machine again. He'll use the pain, have it suit his needs, ignore what doesn't.

But that's for later.

"Probably shouldn't've brought the sword." Just for something to say. Something idle, maybe.

That's a solid, informative, useful, and pretty damn complete answer and it gets a smile out of Steve, though one of the half-smile sorts. The kind that's actually more reflective and honest in some ways than a broader flash of grin usually is, at least these days.

"I don't think the sword was a bad idea," he admits, and pauses to take a drink of water, that turns into him draining half the bottle. "Just maybe more about... giving you a mental transition than I was smart enough to think about in advance."

Clint squints into the middle distance trying to take that in and pick apart what it means. Not quite there yet. All he can see is it putting him at a disadvantage for needing to be non-lethal.

"Was good you didn't let me keep going. Probably would've kept fighting 'til I fell apart or made you break something."

Clint can ask for an explanation if he feels the need. Steve's pretty content to let it be a mystery, though.

Then he snorts a tiny bit. "Don't be dumb: I'd have dislocated something. Easier to put back where it belongs and wrap or brace to keep there without totally crippling you." He's pretty sure he picked the right point, though. Given all the other factors in play. Letting Clint go until he completely fell apart? Might have been pretty satisfying. Just not here and now.

It's nothing to verbally spar over, even if it does briefly make him clench his jaw. Just let it wash over him and past him and let it disappear.

Finish off a bottle and then get on his feet. His body protests the motion, and that's too bad. "'m gonna call the floor my bed if I don't get my ass in gear." The world isn't spinning, so that's a pretty good sign. He walks fairly tenderly, but at least he's not stiff. That'll be tomorrow morning, he's sure, to work through with his stretches and morning exercises, while he tries not to hurt himself. "You good to go?"

Steve had been attempting a joke, but he rolls with it definitely not being taken that way, just makes a mental note and pushes himself back up to stand. He finishes the water, and keeps hold of the empty.

Grabs his hat and sunglasses to put back on, once he's up.

"Yeah, I'm good. Let me get the door." Not trying to be patronizing with that one, it's just pretty... uncooperative thanks to rust and water damage. Easier than getting it open the first time, but Steve has to put some work into yanking it open.

He steps through first though he sticks close. Normal close, just a bit more watchful until he's sure Clint's steady. At least the sunglasses will hide that (probably).

Clint kind of wishes he'd brought sunglasses, or a hood, or anything at all. Feels kind of like taking a walk of shame but for fights. But if he looks like shit, then he looks like shit. He's looked worse in more public places, that's for damn well sure.

"You got anything else on your agenda for me?"

It definitely feels like a walk of shame and Steve's glad he included at least a lower traffic route into his consideration for locations.

The question throws him, though. Because it is damn broad. "I need that one unpacked some more. Or an example."

"Just gonna take that as a no, then." That this was the only thing planned, the only thing Steve for sure needed to do for/with/about Clint even if it helped ground himself, too.

But. Okay. Maybe that's unfair. Steve's just asking for clarification, even if he's not sure what there is to clarify. Rephrase it? "Anything like this."

"I'm gonna say if I can convince you to put up with me close enough to let me crawl in bed with you and grab a couple of hours of sleep while you're using those ice packs. My only other plans a all are eating something before and seeing if I can get a run or swim in sometime late this evening." There's more than one admission in there, and probably a more complete answer than is needed, but it's what he's got.

"I can just lay out on the couch again," Clint says mildly. "Nobody has to put up with anyone else. Unless what you're after is some of that ice."

Look. Clint has good eyes. But he's said it before, he sees better from a distance. Not so much right up close next to him.

Silence doesn't usually feel awkward to Steve. Steve feeling awkward sure as hell makes silence happen while he tries to decide if it's worth trying to explain. How the math on the risk of an explanation weighs against any particular benefit when it's just about him.

He pushes one hand up under his sunglasses and rubs at his eyes, but doesn't break his stride or change pace to do it. Puts his hand back in his pocket once he does and keeps his eyes on the path in front of them.

"That one wasn't about you."

Not exactly an explanation, not exactly not.

Edited 2024-11-12 21:36 (UTC)

...Interesting. Clint lets that sit and suggest. His head is getting clearer as they walk at least. And everything feels like it wants to strangle him for letting this happen.

And Steve touching in a non-violent manner was nice. And maybe Steve touching him was nice to Steve too.

He thinks about a hand on his cheek. He thinks about Steve's comforting weight on him.

"Okay. You wanna fit us both in bed, we'll figure the physics out. For you."

At least they'll have ice packs and avoiding bruises and cracked ribs to keep things from being too weird for Clint. Or maybe that'll make it weirder. Steve doesn't know. Doesn't currently care too much, because he feels so... exposed in that exact moment.

"Thanks."

Just that, at least for now. "Was there something you were going to ask me earlier that didn't quite happen? About the Avengers?" Might as well get it all out of the way and self-sabotage the shit out of himself now. Or rather give Clint a chance to.

"You feeling real alone?" Is not the thing he was going to ask, but he's pretty sure he worked most of the viciousness out of himself. "I mean, yeah, no shit, everyone does. I just mean..."

He makes a motion between them. Trying to make that mean whatever the fuck he means. He's not sure he's being successful about it though.

"Are you trying to ask me if I'm doing all this because I'm lonely?" Steve asks, also trying to figure out what Clint means.

No edge in his voice again, at least, not really even tension. Just... a sincere desire to sort it out.

Edited 2024-11-12 22:54 (UTC)

"Not all this. Just. This." How! does he get this! across! Use your words, Barton. "The bed and the touching and stuff."

"No." At least that, perhaps strangely, is an easy answer. It comes immediately, and without a second of... discomfort on his part. "If being lonely was going to have me trying to drag people into bed, I'd have a different reputation." He's not mocking. "I want to, I like you, and I just beat the hell out of you, Clint."

"Feel like it's kind of a new development, is all. Don't remember you getting all cuddly after sparring sessions with people before." He doesn't mean it meanly, mockingly. It's just something else that he isn't used to. "You don't feel bad about what we did, do you? Cuz we both were itching for it."

"I not only don't feel bad about it, I feel pretty good about it." He doesn't... exactly ignore the rest, so much as not know how to address it just then, and he definitely doesn't know how to on the street. "Let's get inside, find some ice packs for you and food for me." Maybe he'll try to take a run at it there.

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