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Steve is perfectly aware he is being stared at suspiciously. He is also perfectly aware that there is no ulterior motive beyond... yeah, trying to take care of Clint, he guesses. Not a lot of benefit in leaving Clint alone later, when later he's going to be at least banged up. Definitely no benefit in adding any additional trips in and out.

Which is to say, Clint stares at him and Steve looks back and looks bewildered while he does it. He does not have a poker face. He's not saying anything, which makes it easy to ignore, but his expression's pretty clearly asking what the fuck.

"... All right, then." Then fills the mugs and hands one over to Clint, and leans back against a counter so he can drink his own, around getting his own protein bar down. It'll take him maybe three minutes and he'll grab his hat and sunglasses and go.

If it turns into a thing, Clint might start an argument. But he'll simply let it be for now. Coffee is blessedly coffee no matter where you go. Food will be something he doesn't have to worry about immediately. Steve going to run his little Take Care Of Clint errands or whatever means he's left to his own devices for at least a short while, and that...feels kind of nice, actually. Clint's perfectly fine with cramped, confined spaces for longer than anyone should be comfortable in, but suddenly having an old friend drop in feels strangely claustrophobic.

He'll 'enjoy' what counts as breakfast as much as he can savor the plain basics, wake himself up, and then go into his own morning routine which involves exercise. He doesn't need any fancy equipment or a gym to keep fit. (Though he misses it sometimes. He's not gonna keep any weights in his bag like he doesn't have enough to carry; he has to make due with his own body and the things around him.) He's in the middle of one-armed push-ups when Steve makes his return, and he thinks nothing of getting the door shirtless and a little sweaty and offering to help put things away or carry bags or...whatever. Hm. That sounds very stupid to him. But it's out of his mouth anyway, and that's that.

Steve does, belatedly, remember that he needs to put on street clothes along with a hat and sunglasses to go out. It doesn't delay his departure by much, at least. Just something he does around drinking the coffee and brushing his teeth.

He's gone a little longer than he necessarily intends, both due to not being super familiar with the area he's shopping and making sure the route back from that warehouse is one they can take easily.

And, you know, the shopping. Which is a maybe four or five bag deal. Eggs, oatmeal, cheese, milk, yogurt chicken type stuff and some prepared ingredients like precooked and season meat, shredded cheese, pico and tortillas that can be slapped together with no effort. Refills on some of his own shit like more protein bars and toiletries - and socks.

It is maybe a solid 24 hours worth of food, when accounting for Steve in the mix. The one thing there that is there soley for Clint's benefit is a bottle of naproxen, and Steve's not apologizing for that one.

He has no problem at all handing it over to Clint. He's strong. He still only has two arms and two hands. Though there's definitely a second there where he's pretty still and processing Clint shirtless (along with any new scars and the tattoo).

After that he throws his glasses onto the counter with disdain. "Those things bug the hell out of me. Just throw anything that's not food into one bag. I'll shove it in my backpack once the rest of it's put away."

"Fruitful haul. Not getting all the calories a growing boy needs while sightseeing, huh?" He's seen Steve eat. It could be considered a drawback of super metabolism for a super soldier super body, though Clint's of a mind that being able to eat a metric ton without consequences is a positive. Must be hell on a grocery bill, though.

He does as asked, chucking all the not-food in a bag, ignoring the naproxen for right this moment knowing it is definitely not for Steve, and shoves everything else in the space that's ostensibly a fridge. Steve will find there's not much in there to start with. Bottled water, mostly.

This is why he just bought enough to feed at least two people for at least a day, and didn't assume anything was there.

"I sure hope I'm past growing," he says, dryly. "The mess after Ultron- " Which is the only way he's referencing that outside of his own head, thanks, "-was pretty uncomfortable. This is just complicated tourism and making sure I'm not running in and out anymore than I have to."

He just drops the bottle of pain killers into his shirt pocket.

Then starts poking through bags and gathering his own stuff out of it, into one place.

Clint barks out something like a laugh. "If you were any bigger, I wouldn't have been able to lend you any shirts. The one I gave you, you barely fit in. At least Tony and Bruce are more my size. Thank god Thor had to go on some vision quest; I probably would've just loaned him a robe."

It's a positive to think about, when it comes to things relating to Ultron, so long as he doesn't think too hard on it or linger on it. Cramming the team in the house and trying to keep the kids from being underfoot.

Don't linger.

"Complicated tourism. I like that. I think I'll steal that phrase for myself."

"If we'd had to put Thor in one of your shirts, no one would've been thinking anywhere close to right," he says, dryly. "Might've kept me from fighting with Tony, though." He's not dwelling, either. Or lingering.

Not flinching away, either, though.

"Steal away. I'll never say anything that concise again." And now that he's got his stuff, he goes and just crams it into his backpack and slides that backpack under the bed. "You have anything besides a shirt you need to grab before we head out?"

"Every seam and stitch would've ripped the second he flexed. I gave you something with stretch to it, at least."

He could go on. It's making him think of other things, and if he lets that dam burst, they might not make it anywhere. So he takes a moment to gather himself back up, grab a couple of those water bottles to throw in a bag, and then grabs a shirt. Give himself enough time to mentally tidy up. Shore up defenses. Steel himself.

"Better I don't bring anything but my own charming self. You don't need me cutting you up." He gives Steve a sidelong glance. "Unless you do."

At absolutely no point in the process of planning this has Steve considered that question, even indirectly.

What he wants to do is sit down and have a blunt conversation with Clint - about limits, lines, and desires. He's not gonna do that, because so far if he's figured nothing out, it's that there are more hard limits on what Clint trusts him enough to talk about than on his physical safety.

So, he's left trying to figure out both whether he wants a blade involved for his sake - and solid pain sounds pretty good to him right now too, but that's not the same thing - and how that changes the interaction with Clint, and Clint getting what he will admit to needing (or at least not deny wanting) out of this.

And to do it fast enough that Clint doesn't start feeling awkward or reading ulterior motives and traps into Steve's silence.

He shoves the sunglasses back on his face.

"Bring it. I'm not gonna go out of my way to let you land hits, but if you manage to I'll enjoy it." When in doubt, go with the truth. ...once he's worked out what the truth is, anyway. Might as well take as many of the 'safeties' off as they can.

They know each other well enough to trust there will be no accidental killing blows. Their reaction times are too good. They know to aim for body shots rather than head shots. It means Steve trusts Clint not to gut or decapitate him, and Clint trusts Steve that he means it when he says he'll enjoy it, however temporary the wounds might be.

So he snatches up the handle, slides it in a pocket, and nods. "Long as it's just you and me and not a single other soul. Lead the way."

"If anybody else is there, they showed up without an invitation and we've both got a problem." He heads for the door and then out of the building. Leading the way. "Hopefully our response is to handle that problem, not make more."

Clint has as good an idea as anyone on this planet, and better than most, exactly what will put him down. What he'll heal, what he can't, and what kind of shit and circumstances will slow that healing down. He's not worried on that level. Bloodied up is what he expects and he probably will get a clearer head for it.

Clint getting twitchy and turning on him before an intruder... he will get worried about if anyone shows up.

"I don't think company's likely. Especially not during the day. Activity out there is the sort more likely to pick up after dark."

Handling the problem and making more problems are concepts they might have different definitions of. He doesn't really care if anyone sees them fighting. That's a duck your head and pretend you didn't see anything situation. He cares about if someone sees a white boy with a fucking katana on the streets of Mexico looking like he knows exactly how to use it.

So sue him, his weapons of choice tend towards being oddball as modern gear. A giant metal frisbee of death would be even more identifying, so at least that's left behind.

"Sounds good." Clint has the better idea about the local warehouses, the ones used for the shadier businesses, the ones more legitimate, the ones left out of use for a while. If there's company, then yeah, it's completely coincidental.

"You miss the fight?"

The world, the universe, is a lot smaller now. Crises still happen, but nothing Avengers-worthy since. Not with everyone busy with their own problems.

"Something you can really sink your teeth into?"

Steve doesn't care if they're seen fighting. Steve cares if someone else tries to insert themselves into the fight. He can think of very few reasons that would happen, much less of ways for those to happen, but it's just about (not wholly, but close) the only scenario there's a problem for him.

At least the only weapons involved are Clint's knife, anyway, and yeah that simplifies a lot.

The question while they walk is fair, but it's another one of those things that makes him look at his own shit a little more than he necessarily enjoys. He doesn't flinch from the answer, dress it up or soften it at all, though. For all the same reason he didn't hold back much when they were sitting on Clint's kitchen floor.

"I miss feeling like there was a reason I was alive." The fight was just the thing filling that role since he woke up - and the thing he was good at.

Edited 2024-11-11 23:13 (UTC)

"You gotta give yourself a reason to still be here." And alive, yeah. But also the random fucking happenstance of still being here instead of dust.

Because this wasn't the first thing Clint did. He didn't vanish into the darkness and the next day become the Ronin. He had to craft this, bit by bit, until he realized what would make his existing feel more worthwhile. Give himself a reason, else there is no reason.

"You can't wait for someone to hand one to you anymore."

Steve shakes his head, very slightly and without turning to look directly at Clint. "I'm not waiting on anyone to hand me anything." He never actually has been, he doesn't think. Maybe he has. He doesn't know. "I'm not just sitting on my ass, even when I'm at the compound. Don't worry about it, though I'll take the fights I can get when I can get them."

Every word of that is honest, including 'don't worry about it'. Just realizes he doesn't know how to take it any further, and even if he did being pretty sure that the attempt is more likely to make things worse than help either one of them. A second, if that, of recognizing that this is one fight he accepted defeat in, years ago; he can't explain himself into fitting anywhere, and that's not going to change. Good enough is... enough.

"Take the next right." The area's getting more run down and industrial, with fewer people. Which is the idea and works for their purposes.

Clint rolls a shoulder as a half-hearted shrug. "Between SHIELD and being an Avenger, it was nice being given missions. Always liked having something to do, task to complete, goal to reach, project to finish. Even in my downtime."

And then all that got fucked, and then he had to cobble together something for himself before he went truly insane.

"Feel like if you're gonna go through all this trouble to worry about little ol' me, I get to worry at least a bit right back."

"...and that was me underestimating you, and shutting you down for no damn reason," he realizes. There's a slight twitch of a smile. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

He hadn't snapped, but he had entirely stopped trying and gotten defensive about it. No big guilt fest there, at least, just some the apology and a bit of almost... pained embarrassment.

It's not like he doesn't know Clint's a good guy. He is a little surprised Clint's worried about him. Which is probably insulting, though it says more about Steve's view of himself than it does Steve's view of Clint.

And not a single word about to come out of his mouth is anything but trying too hard, awkward, and kind of uncomfortable. Not apologetic after the actual apology, but fumbling through his own head, and then trying to... both explain and reassurance Clint. Not with any expectation of it changing anything, but from a basic drive to be fair--

-- and try to hold onto a connection with Clint. He does not want to admit how much that matters to him.

"Before the serum I always wanted to be able to... I don't know, matter. To be able to at least fight back against some of what was wrong with the world. The serum gave me that. I'm grateful for it, but aside from the team I didn't really have a whole lot else going on. Right now, neither one's there. We lost the most important fight I've ever come near. I've got my time filled doing something that's...useful, and that helps. Knowing where you are helps. Constructive violence will help. I'll be okay. It was just... a real abrupt stop for everyone."

The apology is painfully earnest and, Clint feels, wholly unnecessary. So maybe he pulled a little bit of a Clint. Made an assumption, got defensive. Whatever. It isn't like it hurt him in any way.

Hard to think of a way he can be hurt anymore, really.

He can't help the snort at the description of an abrupt stop. It sure as hell was. He had a life, and in the blink of an eye, he didn't. Can't even be upset at the fact that they all use metaphors and little phrases, never talking about it directly, never giving it any real good name. Better that way, easier definitely. But at the same time, it feels like a flimsy layer of gauze over a gushing wound.

"I didn't have a lot, before. Made my own way. Mercenary, for a while, and got on big brother's radar for it. Coulson brought me in, and I was a real shithead about the whole thing 'til I started straightening out. Got taught a better use of my skills besides making money off the highest bidder. Got a cause. This is a cause. Protect people, right at the source."

He's a weapon with nobody to wield him effectively, so he has to wield himself.

"Well, we've got were real shitheads at some point, and switched owners a few times in common. Your decisions right now might make more sense than mine, but we'll see how it plays out when I start borrowing them."

He's not competing, he's not really even comparing, but he definitely does understands parts of it, and this is one of the few places he's willing to say that to Clint. The other ones... he's long since put away and trained himself out of being angry about. Doesn't much want to go back to them now, anyway, even in his head.

Because Clint can be hurt. Clint is hurt. If Clint weren't hurt, he wouldn't be out here. Hurt more might be pretty damn questionable, but he's been hurt and is still hurting and he not only has a right to be, he should be.

He takes another turn, this one down an alley, and starts heading for a specific building, that has some structural damage, mostly at the roof, but is still standing pretty solid.

"Come on."

"Avenging's not working out too well for the rest of you guys, I take it."

There's a real biting question at the back of his throat when he thinks about it. Because he knows Tony came back, and he knows Tony didn't stay, but he wasn't around for any of it. Clearly he didn't think the idea of Avenging anymore after that wasn't going to work out for him.

But now doesn't feel like the time for biting questions. Observations. Casual ones. Not digging too deep, but brushing away some of the top soil.

"Well, you could've picked a worse place for a first date, but not by much," he jokes instead.

Oh, ask the biting questions. Maybe he'll bite back, maybe he'll flinch.

Maybe he'll ask one or two of his own.

Maybe he'll just remember that he buried a lot of anger at Tony about older shit than truly let it go, because he's not a saint.

"I'd say something about coming home from dates bloody and bruised not being a great sign, but at this point I don't think it'd hold water." There's a slight smile, and a pause while he kicks the door to force the rusted hinges to give. "There are two people out there most of the time." Occasional visitors but... not really.

"Gosh, people might talk."

This is starting to get a little more real, with a location and everything, space for them to do the whole bruised and bloody thing. Making him antsy, he thinks, like before a mission when he has to make sure he's as cool and calm as can be.

"You know how to treat a guy right."

He forces the door open enough for them to get inside with one shoulder, looks around and up and -Okay, yeah, this is fine. It's been too locked and damaged for active use. There's some rubble from the roof caving in, some dirt and evidence of urban wildlife, but the light's decent and it's good space.

"I even gave you breakfast first and bought food for after. No idea why I don't have people lined up to date me." That? is pure sarcasm.

Once Clint's in he gets the door closed again, just to make sure no one wanders in. Not so far closed it becomes a scenario where Clint's locked in - though he could certainly make it out the top if it came to that.

"You still good?"

Clint takes in the surroundings, listens to the echo of his footsteps in the abandoned space, kicks up some dust. Yeah. This'll do.

Doesn't say as much. He lets himself breathe it in, find the center, try to shove down all the distractions and pain and anger where he doesn't need it, not for friendly sparring, if more intense. His hand grips around the handle of his sword and draws it, simple button pressed as he does so to allow the blade to unfurl to its full length, smooth and sharp and delicately curved.

"So long as you're still good. You want me to bareknuckle, you say the word." He takes a well-practiced, ready stance with the blade held with steady aim. "Otherwise, I'll make sure to leave you with all your limbs where they're supposed to be."

Steve has a moment of visceral unease about the sword, accompanied by a desire to put down some more lines around this, make some strong reminders, have that entire discussion.

He covers both of those by taking his hat and sunglasses off and leaving them near the door, and takes a couple of deep breaths and goes over what his own plan is here, and with Clint. No outward demeanor change, no weapons, no external defense. Space and his body.

"I'm good."

Which is about the warning he gives before he turns around, faces Clint, gives him a slight nod, and then moves. Not just moves, but goes in with speed and intensity from the start.

Learns and adapts. Takes hits himself along the way, because Clint's really good (though specifics are down to Clint). Steve keeps the hardest of his own hits to Clint's upper back, ribs, and even backs of his thighs. Pulls his punches enough not to do serious damage, but not too far. Cracked ribs, bloody nose, bruises deep enough that in the meatier areas of Clint's body they're likely to turn more black than blue. The occasional finger print shaped bruises and scratches.

And he's not likely to let up until Clint either asks or is visibly starting to flag.

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