brandingproblem | open post

If this had happened 12 hours ago, Steve would have been much more thrown than he is now. Now? Now, Clint's trying to give him context for the upset. Clint's trying to explain to Steve. The context itself is helpful, sure. The act of putting in the effort to use words and explain, even through that kind of grief?

That gives him more hope than anything so far that Clint might just not end up bleeding out in a gutter. That? Is a man who is making an effort to at least be understood, even if... well more raw than finessed, maybe uneven, but those aren't things Steve would recognize or care about, either.

He stays put in his chair, but leans back and wedges one leg up, so the table edge is dug into his shin and his heel is just balanced on the seat. Keeps his eyes on Clint, but not in an overly intense way, not judging or calculating.

"It's okay to worry about it." Just that. "It's also okay if it hurts like hell, you know it's going to hurt like hell and you want to try, anyway. I know what's going on. You don't need to fake your way through the shitty part to keep me from flinching away from you." Because nothing in there said 'I don't want to'. Everything just said 'it's hard'.

It feels like pointed barbs digging in. And he knows that's not what Steve's going for. That doesn't keep the feeling from happening. They've been skirting around talking about any of this too directly, save for when Steve had so bluntly pointed out that the magnitude of their losses were incomprehensibly different. And he does not want to get too direct about it, because he's pretty sure he'll collapse in on himself, simply stop and never start again, break and shatter into too many pieces to clean up.

And maybe he won't, but is that a risk he's willing to take?

"I'm not worried," he repeats in a little snap. "And everything hurts like hell, all the time." He would prefer not to be an open wound every second of every day. Sometimes one has to suture himself back up. "If you wanna deal with my shitty parts right now, this is a hell of a time for it."

Steve figures that is a pretty predictable, fair, and not terrible response. He's even a little relieved that there's a snap in there, for reasons that have nothing to do with his own... issues around literally every person still in the world and the ones who aren't.

He doesn't flinch away from any of it, doesn't interrupt and in fact just waits on Clint to be done and then another couple of seconds in silence. Because he meant what he said and that's not changing.

"It was a statement and offer, not a demand." He leans forward, somewhat awkwardly since he's got one of his own legs wedged between himself and the table, and drags the sketch book over to himself, flips back to that view, and props it open against his knee.

He doesn't need a fight right now. He already got an extremely good one that set a lot of things feeling right, feeling more whole, feeling good. But god damn, sometimes he wishes Steve would just fight him. Verbally sparring, anyway. Instead of just making his statements and his offers and being a well of calm in the face of Clint's volatility.

If Steve wasn't such a friend, or maybe if this was yesterday, or maybe if Clint was just a hair pettier, he'd use it as an excuse to dig in, to drag a fight out of this by force if he has to. But they were in such a good place, and...he shouldn't ruin that. Just because Steve placed a finger on a nerve for a moment.

His jaw works in frustrated annoyance, weighing his options, before he turns away and makes himself get the hell to bed.

If Clint decides to try and get a (real) verbal fight out of Steve, he's going to get some more insight into Steve's current mental health (or maybe just confirmation) that he probably doesn't want and Steve definitely doesn't want him to have.

Hell, Steve might get some insight that Steve doesn't want.

He stays where he is, awkward position and all, for a solid couple of hours, experimenting with that sketch. Not quite paying attention to what he's doing as he adds shading and shifts the perspective to something that includes some of the room, the window, even the suggestion of glass and looking out into the view.

When he finally gets up, he just closes the book and leaves it on the table, with the pencil on top, goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth, shuts off all the lights and goes to bed. In front of Clint, back to him. Doesn't avoid him, let's contact happen where it will.

Getting to sleep isn't all that hard. Even with a heightened emotional state, he knows how important proper rest is. More than a nap, actual sleep. He just has to try and shut his own stupid brain off first.

Steve joining in later, no idea how much later, of course wakes him. He can feel the stiffness starting to creep back in that's going to be a bitch to deal with later, but for now, it's not any effort to assess the situation, take in that it's Steve coming to bed, try not to overanalyze the whole thing, and then throw an arm over Steve's middle. His chest aches like hell, so his press up to Steve's back isn't intense, but present and touching and warm.

It's a little awkward. Because all he can think for a blazingly painful moment is how Steve feels nothing like Laura. Too big, too broad, too solid. Not enough hair. His hand tenses up over Steve's stomach even as he tucks his head close to Steve's neck, and then makes himself relax it again.

He's curious if Steve's going to have any response. Before dropping back into sleep.

He has not a single concern about Clint at his back. Worrying about his physical safety isn't a thing Steve really does, or has ever done - even when he should, even when he was about a hundred and twenty pounds, soaking wet.

That doesn't mean there isn't a reaction. It's just mostly an emotional one and he doesn't see it coming or expect it at all. His stomach tightens briefly under Clint's hand before he manages to stop it with an almost impossibly soft sound. Then he closes his eyes, curls his body around Clint's arm. Brings both arms up, fingers of one hand woven into his own hair, face buried in his own forearms.

Clamps his teeth together and resolutely does not let his breathing change or tension creep into his body to disturb Clint. But also absolutely falls apart and silently cries. Can't stop it, doesn't really try to. Just focuses on not letting it translate into physical tension or noise.

He doesn't even know why he's crying, exactly. Something about Bucky, or Sam, or just how fucking goddamn impotent he is and has been for ... years, and feels fucking stupid and selfish for it.

And will absolutely end up asleep, anyway.

Feels that brief tension, hears that soft sound, finds it hard to interpret without seeing him. This had to be expected, so it can't be a surprise. Maybe Steve simply really needed this and felt it unfair to ask for it?

Or there's something going on that they are probably not going to talk about. Clint's gotten the very distinct sense of avoiding something, or a few large somethings, and if they end up doing this shit again, there's probably only so long it can be avoided.

It's like Steve said. It hurts, and he knew it was going to hurt, and he's doing it anyway. Because there's also something about it that doesn't hurt. And Clint might be a fucking one man killing machine these days, but if he can offer a little bit of comfort in turn to a friend who so willingly offered up so much to him...

Then he can drift off tucked up against Steve with an arm curled around him.

Steve is pretty sure he can do this and not talk about himself indefinitely. Sadly, he's pretty sure if he expects Clint to talk, he's going to have to. Not that he'd know what to say.

Meanwhile after he gets that... unwanted and unexpected emotional release, undignified though it is, he sleeps and he sleeps hard. Especially for a guy who can, under pressure, go days with no sleep and didn't really expect to sleep at all.

In fact he barely stirs for hours and when he does it's because the light insists on stabbing him in the eyes. He groans as he straightens out and stretches. Then pretty much rolls out of the bed and then up to his feet. Still groggy but headed for the bathroom and then to start coffee.

Steve moving means it's awake time, and daylight means he probably shouldn't roll over and go back to sleep, even if the temptation is there. Clint flops to his stomach, sprawled over the vacated spot with an impetuous sound, and regrets the little things, like being alive and conscious. Ugh. Who invented that?

When he pushes himself up, he can feel the protest in his shoulders, the stiffness in his neck threatening to become a raging tension headache, the way it feels like each and every rib throbs with his pulse.

Well, the workout this morning is going to be a fun one, but he'll push through. Coffee first. Always coffee first. He gives Steve's sketchbook a glance when he shuffles into the kitchen, but it's closed and he's not about to snoop, not just yet.

Steve sets the bottle of Aleve beside his sketchbook on the table between getting coffee brewing and pulling mugs down.

The silence isn't a refusal to talk, or awkward for him. It's just being unusually sleepy and a little... stuck in his head, trying to work out what the fuck happened with him last night, and thinking about Clint's... activity for the day, and his own positioning and mental preparation for the potential for it to go straight to hell. Just fragmented nonsense that doesn't want to (and Steve doesn't want to) turn into anything too real.

Once he does talk? It's pretty normal. "I don't think I've slept that hard in a decade. I kinda feel like I got hit by a truck and I don't even have anything physical to blame it on. You doing ok?"

"Ouch. Could at least pretend I gave you a hard workout for pride's sake." He gives a nod of thanks for the pills, because yes of course he's going to down an unhealthy amount again. Just for today. "You look like shit. But like, well-rested shit, so you must've really needed that sleep."

He knows if he simply ignores the question, Steve will still want an answer. His movements are a little clunky, so he's clearly not great, but the question is probably also from an emotional standpoint. So. Better figure out an answer.

"Stiff as a board and hoping to do some solid work today." Tonight, whatever. It's not a great answer and he knows it.

"If my ego can handle looking like shit, yours can take my stupid stamina," he says, watching the coffee, rather than looking directly at Clint. "I'm going to try to get out of here for a few hours again this morning. Probably go for a run or swim, come back, shower and settle down out of the way and draw while you take care of what you need to get ready. Head out after you and get into a position I can watch from and keep being out of the way." Be ready to help Clint with clean up. Follow the plan they already had in place, basically.

He should probably just admit that he wasn't prepared to be the one who's subconscious decided it was relatively safe, then started trying to collapse. He might. It won't be before Clint takes care of this. That's just... dangerous at this point, even if it might serve some purpose later.

"Do what you need to, and I'll do what I need to. And then..."

Ah. An elephant in the room? "And then I guess we part ways for a while. You were saying you might bounce back and forth? Go back home, then come track me down, do the song and dance over again?"

"Unless you have some heavy objections, the plan is to go back and check in with Natasha and maybe go find Tony and let him get it out of his system so he can really settle down. Find you again."

No way, no how, far too fundamentally honest to even think about using the word home in that one. "Probably not going to leave until dawn tomorrow, though."

Edited 2024-11-21 17:59 (UTC)

"You think he hasn't settled down yet?" Maybe he hasn't. He hasn't known Tony to settle for anything, really, but then again, he hasn't seen the guy in years. And that last time wasn't altogether pleasant. "Hope I didn't inspire you to also go out picking fights."

"I don't know how to answer that one. I think he's making a good attempt to build a life for himself, but he's got some shit he needs to get off his chest and that I'm past being able to be hurt by anything he says or does. It's not going to be a fight though, and if it's inspired by you it's only in the sense that I've had a few days of breathing room and stopped... flailing around."

He pours the coffee when it's done and holds the first mug out to Clint.

Edited (have not haven't.) 2024-11-21 18:17 (UTC)

"Pretty sure he already had a life for himself built. A whole empire, even." He'll take the coffee, blessed caffeinated warmth, with a thanks. "You think it's wise to try and be everyone's therapist when you need a little help yourself?"

"I'm not playing therapist, I'm letting him use me as a verbal punching bag. I am sure as hell not playing therapist to you. The entire ass support group back there, maybe, but I apparently do a good enough job of faking it for them." He shrugs, and leaves Tony alone. The kind of life he's trying to make is a different kind of thing, and... He can't even imagine it beyond knowing that it's something he wants Tony to have, if he can. Ideally without a shit ton of repressed anger.

"The hell you aren't. Just cuz you get something out of it, too, doesn't make it not therapy." Clint leans on the counter, bobbing his brows up. "Support group, huh?"

Steve absolutely blatantly ignores the 'accusation' that he's being therapy for Clint, because he recognizes that his response is pure defensiveness and almost feeling...rejected or accused of something by that statement in ways that make no goddamn sense.

the rest: "Yeah. I'm Captain America. I'm a symbol of hope now. I am fantastic at it." He's not joking but his tone is just dry as hell.

"Sounds like it's doing wonders for you." Clint doesn't need to roll his eyes to get the point across. But he will anyway. "No wonder you wanted to get away from it all. Sounds...depressing. You got a lotta people there?"

"Nat's done a pretty good job of keeping me... reasonable." Which is about as far as he's going with that. "Turning up at these things looking for a reason to stay alive? There's some variation. Probably a couple of dozen."

Clint makes a humming noise into his coffee. But doesn't make a nasty aside that's in his head about how many more people have probably chosen to not find reasons.

"Nat's a good stabilizing force. She's always been real grounded."

"Most of the time." She's not immune to struggling, either, but he at least hopes they're... managing to hold onto some kind of balance and function between them. Maybe. Fuck if he knows.

"I'm gonna go get that run. Expect me back in a couple of hours. Don't let me startle you when I come in."

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