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It might be the closest he has sounded to affectionate. It is definitely the closest he's sounded to Clint.

It (or 'super tits') means that Steve's choking on a laugh when he rolls back over, and is definitely less awkward for it. "Leave my cleavage out of this." He is still pretty damn careful wrapping an arm around Clint, pulling him slightly in. At least careful enough to dislodge the ice pack. "It was a gift from a friend."

Instantly, immediately, better. Partially from being called an idiot and absolutely also from settling with the warmth, weight, and contact.

"Your friend had good taste." That's all he's saying! He appreciates the care with which Steve moves, even if Clint would not have complained if he aggravated anything. It still stings along his upper back, but in a way the pills have dimmed. He's a little curled in on himself, trying to be as cozy as his aching body will let him, and keeping the ice packs in place, and it makes him feel a little small. Smaller, in comparison to Steve, anyway.

It's awkward in its own way. It's familiar in a way he hasn't let himself feel in a long time, and more familiar between them than he feels like they've ever been before. This close, with his chin tucked down, is it weird to notice the smell? The scent of another person in his space rather than just himself. God, is this what the loneliness has done to him? Make him notice weird shit? Feel both comfortable and uncomfortable at the very same time? Like he knows the moves to a very familiar dance but hasn't heard the song in so long, he's convinced he's going to stumble over his own feet.

"Better?" he murmurs. Just to make sure.

The process of Steve settling carries on in small shifts of his weight, in particularly letting his hand settle and bending his head down in a way that means his nose is pretty well in Clint's hair. Then letting his eyes close.

"Good taste is going to far; he liked schnapps."

If noticing scent's weird overall, it isn't weird to Steve and Clint isn't alone. Steve might even be weirder because he has a really good sense of smell and can pretty easily pick up not just Clint, but shampoo and dirt from the floor they'd been laying on and sweat and it's... It's nice.

A deep breath in and slower one out, and then absently almost petting Clint with the drag of his fingers lightly along Clint's back - barely touching, moving fabric across skin, mostly. "Yeah. This is better."

If there are objections, Clint doesn't voice any. Steve wanted this. Needed this, really. A grounding part of the come down. Some comfort, some relief, a need to not be alone.

Given the beating just taken, he doesn't feel any urge or need for another one. All the deep throbbing the meds can't reach and the almost creaking of his ribs, the exhaustion after giving Steve a run for his money as far as mundane human powers go, he can't possibly consider much of anything except rest.

Even if Steve is distracting. Clint can't need this; he hasn't needed this since he ran off under everyone's noses. Wanting...well. Maybe it's not so bad to want now and again. Something that feels good. If a little odd, if a little awkward, but it's soothing. Hearing Steve's heart strong and steady. The even rise and fall of his chest with each breath. He finds himself matching up in sync.

He knows that if they hadn't had that extra-strength spar, there would be a very loud part of his brain fighting this. Can't have nice things, can't take comfort, can't allow this. A loud part that would take the creature comforts he had been used to and get mad about it, get sad about it, get messy and ugly and hateful about it. It's quiet, instead. A distant voice under the floorboards. It doesn't mean sleep comes easy. He's aware, hyper vigilant, taking in every sensation and trying to file it away if he can't find some immediate meaning to it. But it's Steve. He reminds himself, constantly. It's just Steve. Who will only hurt him if they agree it's something they need, and otherwise by complete accident. Stop looking for the ulterior motives. They both had needs. They're taken care of. It doesn't need to be more than that.

A gentle rhythm and his body's own needs win out in the end.

Steve isn't injured - he isn't even sore. He isn't tired, and he certainly isn't anywhere near needing sleep.

Physical release from anything that's not a serious fight isn't an option that's on the table. It hasn't been since the serum, outside the very specific period when the team was together and functioning, anyway. Tony in one of his suits and Thor were about it, even then. Might have something to do with why he isn't feeling anger he's academically aware he has plenty of.

He has other options to keep his mind from spinning out replaying too vivid memories, or just chasing itself in circles between guilt and grief. Like what they did earlier and the precision it took to be enough and not cross the line.

And what he's doing now, which is just focusing on Clint. Points of contact, the rise and fall of Clint's ribs when he breathes, the chill of the ice pack contrasting with Clint's body heat, keeping his breathing and hand on Clint's back timed together.

It's all... needed and useful. Grounding. Reassuring.

He can feel Clint fall asleep.

He can also feel when Clint starts to move at all and subtly gets the weight of his arm off him, so that he's not pinning them man down. Otherwise he just stays put until Clint is solidly up, however long that ends up being.

It's not a long sleep, but it's deeper than what he got through most of the night. The packs have since lost their chilly touch, and when he stretches, he can feel the stiffness starting to take hold. But he feels a little more solid and present.

He pats Steve on the shoulder and tries to ease himself up to sitting. "Teddy bear time's over, big guy. Up and at 'em."

"I'm up."

He gets his arm off Clint and pushes further back in the bed so Clint has room to swing around and sit up. "You feeling all right?" He'll get up once Clint has. The space involved is kind of tight and he isn't going to crawl backward to get out of the bed.

"Good as I'm gonna be." Under the circumstances. He can't lay in bed all day even if it would be better for him.

He trudges over to the freezer to toss the pack back in, then peruses the fridge for something quick and hearty. They don't have to talk about it. There's nothing, really, to talk about, right?

"Y'know, it always sucks to spar against you, cuz you heal too damn fast."

Steve waits for Clint to clear the space completely, then rolls up and to his feet, and stretches out. "Yeah, always makes Natasha crazy too." He sounds apologetic. "Really drove Tony nuts." Not that everything about Steve didn't drive Tony nuts, and vice versa.

Once he's up and in the space he... moves past and around Clint. Not trying to crowd, but to grab a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. At least with Steve having done the shopping it's all easy prep and nutrient dense. "Makes me a little nuts once in a while, too. There's no real... way to make it work."

Edited 2024-11-14 15:25 (UTC)

"Anything that's gonna hurt you enough to stick around for a good while is something I think most of us aren't willing to do to you." So. Yeah. No good way to work it.

Though he rolls over the comment about Tony in his mind. Hm. A little drink. Slap some food together. Mull it over. After all this, he's more than earned a more pointed question or two. Hell, Steve had even called him out on it earlier, though he'd dodged it entirely.

Fuck it. Now's not the time to shy away from this shit.

"What'd Tony say when he got back?"

"And I don't much want any of you doing it to me." It would say terrible things about their mental health and how they felt about it.

Believe it or not, Clint, Steve's finding the pointed questions a pretty damn big relief. They're not necessarily comfortable, but it's not like they're all hanging in the air and making him navigate them, anyway.

Easier to address them and try to dodge them.

"Not a whole heck of a lot. He is firmly retired and... happy. Probably happier than he's been in his life." If that's not what Clint's asking, Steve is more than happy to redirect. But there's a lot of 'not comfortable' in just the fact that what Clint lost? Is exactly what Tony's building.

Edited 2024-11-14 16:15 (UTC)

"He just came back and fucked off without saying anything? Bullshit." Not that it's bullshit he fucked off; Clint knows that as empirical fact. It's just...of all people who would try and do their best, however that's defined, to try and keep the world safe in the face of overwhelming disaster, it's Mr. Armor Around The World that feels like would be near the top of that list.

Steve shrugs, slightly, like there's nothing in what Clint said or he's about to say that bothers him at all. Very little physical tension, nothing but blunt in his voice.

"Tony and I have never exactly had an... easy relationship. It got bad before Thanos. Since then it doesn't exist." Tony definitely blames Steve for their failure, and Steve doesn't blame Tony for that. "He might have some kind of plan he's working around the happy. It's possible he said something to somebody, but he didn't say it to me."

It just... it is what it is, Clint.

"I kinda figured if nothing else you'd have picked up that I didn't show up with the shield." Tony's still got it and as far as Steve's concerned should keep it. Something about deserving it and Captain America. Probably better off being a family heirloom.

Edited (I'm done now, omg sorry!) 2024-11-14 17:21 (UTC)

"So he came back and decided fuck all this and picked up his toys and went home to just be a recluse or whatever?" Which he has decided is different from what he did, is doing. Shh. "Maybe I should pay him a visit."

"Leave it alone, Clint. He's got every right to be mad at me, and he's got just as much right as anybody to fuck off and do what he needs to do to try and make something worthwhile out of the shit."

He isn't making any direct comparisons. For many reasons.

"Jesus, fine. He can be as mad about you about whatever shit he's decided to blame you for this time so long as it makes him happy."

Clint has stopped being mad at Tony for the things that happen, the sides that got chosen. It was hard to hold that grudge when incarceration turned into house arrest and a pretty cozy retirement.

He quirks a very light smile, at... all of that, actually. It's a little amused, but it's more affectionate than anything.

"You're a good guy." He means that with every earnest fiber of his being. "So is Tony. Some of what he blames me for is fair, some isn't, and none of it matters. You gonna be staying in for the next hour or two?"

He nearly chokes at being called a good guy. In that voice Steve gets when he means what he says, when he's being very deliberate about saying what he's saying, how he's saying, and who he's saying it to. His shoulders draw up, then back down again when the pull aches more than he'd like. He has to let lunch sit for a minute so he can get the appetite that so swiftly left him back.

Remember to breathe.

"Yeah." To answer the question while he stares at the countertop for a few seconds longer before making himself take another bite.

It doesn't take any kind of genius to see that tension or know why it's there. He isn't going to apologize for it, though. No matter how uncomfortable it is - to hear, or be reminded of it, or even just having somebody believing it - Steve hadn't been lying and he's not sorry he said it.

"Okay. I'm gonna see what I can do about shutting my brain off for a while, without drawing any attention to myself. Think about maybe leaving a note if you decide you can't stay put. Just so I know if you're coming back."

Worried about Clint bolting, still? A little. Still pulling on his shoes and grabbing his hat and sunglasses, though.

"You think I'm gonna leave you high and dry now, after all this? Nah, you're in it for the rest of this trip." Anything after is, of course, a mystery left up in the air. But running now wouldn't do much good. Steve knows the target, and he knows Clint's never been one to abandon a mission. He wouldn't go far.

"I'll be here."

Anything's possible. "All right. I'll handle my end of the deal and bring back dinner." Not that there's not some food still there.

He doesn't put any pressure behind it but puts a hand on Clint's bicep before sliding his glasses firmly on his face and heading out.

He'll be back - with food he picked up from a place down the street, that's still hot - at exactly the two hour mark. What did he do those two hours? Walk. Nothing more exciting or complicated than unobtrusive but constant motion at a reasonable pace.

Because fuck attention. Not this close to Clint's temporary place and plan going live.

Steve's still about the casual touching. The whole teddy bear thing didn't disperse that desire, apparently. Clint only looks at the hand, briefly, and not at Steve.

It feels like it means something, but he knows he's also being a (rightfully) paranoid fuck trying to find meaning in everything that might not have it. Stop. fucking. thinking about it.

Well, he did the cold to keep swelling down. But now it's time for hot to ease some of the stiffness. And a shower will get any of the rest of the blood, sweat, and dirt off. And it might distract him from Steve insisting on how good he is, distract him from brief touches that want to linger in his senses. Take in the sting of impact and the relief of warmth. And always remember to breathe.

He's shirtless again when Steve's back this time, apparently having said 'fuck it' to pulling a shirt back on. The deep, dark mottling of bruises are clear on display, but Clint's in the midst of doing some cleaning of his blade at the table. Making sure no dirt and dust and grime's in any of the mechanisms, making sure no blood is going to start crusting and rusting on the metal. He'll sharpen it and set himself in the right mindset before the mission, but this is simply weapon maintenance.

"Lemmie know if you need me to clear off the table."

Steve's look is what lingers this time, though at least it's mostly clinical and all about assessing those bruises. He's both satisfied by their presence and making damn sure nothing looks worse than he'd expect (or want) it to.

"Only if you need the room." He puts the bag on the counter, fishes out one of the take-out boxes and puts it off to the side of where Clint's working, then heads off into the bathroom to clean himself up some. Not a full shower, just washing his face and hands. Makes a mental note to shave when he does get that shower, and then heads back out.

Where he takes his food and just sits down on the floor. It's comfortable enough and isn't in Clint's way. "You get most of what you needed to do done while I was out?"

"Gonna do another good walk around, double check positions I scouted out before. Keep my ear to the ground in case of any last minute changes. But I can do that later." When it's darker, when it's more night, when it's more the conditions he's expecting.

He holds the blade up to the light, casting a keen eye over the edges. "How's it looking back there?" He could kind of make out some of the bruising, twisting over his shoulder to see in the mirror, but he trusts that if something looked worse, Steve would say something.

There's something about that blade that is still making Steve ever-so-slightly uneasy. It's not fear, or wariness, or even really emotional discomfort from Clint using it. Probably not the last anyway. Feels like something entirely in himself.

Since he can't explain it, he's going to keep ignoring it.

"Like I should've done a better job accounting for range of motion needed to use a sword," he admits, around bites of food. "But not bad enough for me to be worried about it, either."

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