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"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.

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.

Getting the sword out of there was a good call, for multiple reasons. Removing distance and a need for both of them to think quite so hard - or in Clint's case be careful at all, are a couple of the biggest from Steve's perspective.

It letting Clint let go enough to get to desperate, hard, feral fighting though is by far the biggest. It is the point - for Steve, anyway - above and beyond him being able to precisely hurt Clint in ways that won't hinder him but will stick. Something in the emotional release, mental shut down and physical release.

All of which is part of why when Clint doesn't get back up but is still clearly frustrated and trying to, Steve just... drops down over him, kneeling across him and shoves Clint onto his back and holds him there with one hand on Clint's shoulder.

Could he have stopped sooner? Yep. But if Clint's trying to fight, he's... still trying to fight. Exhausted and frustrated, but not exhausted enough. Besides, Clint knows damn well how to tap out. All he really has to do is ask.

One of them can totally let go, give everything they've got and then some. That's not Steve for very obvious reasons, but Clint can.

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.

Steve rides out the last of the fight, though there's a second where Clint's got his fingers dug in that results in a teeth gritted and bared grimace from Steve. Not so much pain, though nothing's wrong with his nerve endings, or physical effort. Just a second of deep fucking tension that makes its way all the way to his jaw.

It's barely there before it's gone.

Then Clint's eyes close and he relaxes and so does Steve, with a single deeper breath. Waits on the verbal acknowledgement, and lets up pressure and lets go. He brushes a thumb over Clint's cheek, then pretty much just rolls off of Clint and onto his back beside him. Still in contact, but not on him. Casual contact.

"My pleasure."

Catching his breath isn't much of a thing, but he still closes his eyes and focuses on the points where healing is making skin and muscle feel hotter. And getting his brain back together.

His head is buzzing, not with concussion given he knows damn well what that feels like, but just with the flood of chemicals after a good hard fight. Steve removing himself makes the buzzing go a little quieter, though he keeps in contact.

Hard to tell if all the physical contact is for Clint, for Steve, or for the both of them. He doesn't particularly care at the moment.

He might think he doesn't particularly care about much of anything at all at the moment, but the gentle touch to his cheek is a sensation that stays with him. It's stuck on a loop, feeling it over and over until he makes it become background noise.

He tips his head in Steve's direction. "Yeah?" Steve doesn't lie to him. But it's good to have the confirmation that he did actually get something out of it, too. Something he wanted, or needed. His eyes crack open. "How you feeling?"

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."

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