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open post

overflows, misc psls/memes, starters that don't seem to fit anywhere else, etc

Frank feels too careful at first. In a knock down drag out one on one, Frank's got him beat. Clint's no slouch, got speed and flexibility and a lower center of gravity on his side, got cleverness in spades. But this, this is something different than just them fighting for real. This is raw. This is a need to scratch and claw and bite and punch at anything that even remotely looks like a target. This is do something about it before the stillness becomes so much he has to break literally anything, himself included. Frank could take him out, stupid as he's being. Doesn't. Because Frank gets it.

The animal frenzy part of him doesn't even fully realize what Frank's doing, even when they take a tumble down the stairs and into the dirt. There's a familiarity, though, in this song and dance. If they wanted to maim, they could. As it is, bruises and split lips and busted noses are practically saying hi. Even the animal in Clint knows he's not gunning to rip open Frank's throat or go for the eyes. He just. needs. to put. the man. down. Or get put down himself.

There's blood in his teeth and red in his vision, grass tickling his ears and a fist in Frank's shirt. His chest is burning. Is that from the rage? It has to be. Because the alternative is the dam opening, the levee breaking. In all the sound of nothingness, suddenly somethingness. A low drone at first that quickly becomes a high whirl, the dust kicking up around and past them, lights of the quinjet as it touches down not far from the house. And he knows what that means, but he throws another punch anyway.

The engines haven't powered down yet when there's boots on the ground, and Rhodey's got one of his War Machine guns trained on the pair, and Steve looks ready to scruff them both and would be able to, and Natasha barrels out looking genuinely mad as all hell and ready to brawl.

"...Frank?"

Is the only reason there isn't an otherwise immediate jump into action. Heads whip to Natasha, who still looks mad as hell, but in a way where it's her looking disappointed in the fact that boys will be boys.

"You made good time. Get off."

Rhodey tips his head, eyebrows cocked. "So are we shooting him or are we not shooting him?"

"I think we'll let Barton decide that." And that sounds so oddly distant from Steve. Even Clint can recognize that. It's not sigh what are we gonna do with you tired, it's bone tired, it's don't want to be conscious tired, it's want to wake up from this tired, and god if Clint can't relate.

He's still got a fist in Frank's shirt. But the fight's leaving him. His other fist stays on the ground this time, and his teeth are clenched so hard they might break, and his chest is heaving from the explosion of action. But the red's going from his sight. Draining away.

He can't say he's a fan of most of Clint's coworkers. He likes Natasha, even if they have a perpetual game of one-upsmanship and occasionally annoy the everloving shit out of each other with slightly oppposing viewpoints on some key issues — the issues that matter, they're on the same page about. Namely, the Bartons. All of them. Clint, Laura, the kids, they see eye to eye on them, so they've got one permanent fixture keeping them tethered.

The rest? Iffy. He doesn't know Rhodey except for what he's seen on the news. Has a slight, begrudging respect for Steve soldier to soldier, even if he's a little resentful about the hypocrisy that separates the two of them. They star-spangle Frank up and he'd bet money he'd go from Punisher to Captain too. Unless they're pretending like those skulls Rogers bounces off of steel with all that super strength don't shatter like tissue paper half the time, like he's not out here killing bad guys just like Frank is, but with a flying disc instead of a gun.

He thinks they're not careful enough. That they take too much for granted with Clint. That they could be doing more to watch out for him. The whole mind control thing started them off on a bad foot, and they never really recovered in his eyes.

So yeah, no, he's got no burning urge to justify himself or redeem the skeptical reputation he seems to instantly have when they come bounding down their jet. All he does is spit blood into the grass beside them, and slowly haul himself to his feet, pointedly ignoring the guns trained on him — if you're gonna shoot me, pull the trigger already and shut the hell up — in favor of holding a hand out to Clint. An offer, obviously, to help haul him to his feet.

Because that's how it works. That's what you do after this.

That's how this works. His muscles are aching. And that feels good. Or at least it feels. He's going to have bruises on bruises, and he's pretty sure Banner's gonna have a field day with whatever fractures or god forbid breaks they've given each other. (Or is Banner still gone? Guy had Hulked off to space last he knew...) It aches in a way that feels acceptable. Not near enough to match the ache inside him, but it's something.

So he clasps Frank's hand, gets pulled to his feet. Feels lightheaded for a moment. Feels dizzy. Feels distant and floaty but at the same time more grounded.

"Hiya Tash," is what he says, though it comes out a little muffled and mumbled through his punched up mouth.

She does not look impressed. Though that doesn't stop her from closing the gap and taking his other hand. Squeezes. Her eyes are searching.

He glances away. It's been years since he's seen her. It's good to know for sure she's here. Physically real. And it's also a lot. "Changed your hair again."

"Like you're surprised."

Rhodey finally lowers his guns and blows out a huff of air, turning and stalking as best as he can back to the jet. There are other people in there, he knows. There have to be. Where's the rest--where's the rest of them?

Clint stares at the jet and then abruptly turns back to the house. "Give us five."

Not for the packed up gear. Though that would be the logical thing. No--it's that Frank made food, and it seems a shame to let that go uneaten, and they can't just leave it all sitting there. Gotta at least wash up the used dishes. Don't even have to put them away. Can tupperware the food and dish some out and actually eat on the flight. Something.

It's something.

"Nat," Frank greets her finally once she's close enough, accompanied by one stoic nod of his bleeding head. Got him right in the eyebrow at one point, right in the nose at another — not that the latter's surprising. Seems to always happen, he's had the damn thing broken no less than twelve times in his life. The more it breaks, the easier a target it becomes. Kind of a vicious circle.

He's set to follow Clint's lead here; when he's ready to go, they'll go. Until then, he'll stay. They'll let him on board that damn plane if he has to stow away with the goddamn luggage right now, it's not a good time for him to be wandering alone. Not after- this. Not for either of them.

He starts to turn to follow Clint into the house — only to pause and turn back to Natasha again.

"Hey- my van, you think you could-" Because he's not leaving it here, but he's also not driving it back to New York.

"We'll handle it."

That earns her the faintest attempt at a smile, and a genuine, "'ppreciate it."

First thing Frank asked Karen about when he found out she broke into his house, those early early days when his head was still scrambled, was whether or not the dishes were on the table or in the sink. Never felt more relief than when she told him they were in the drying rack. He gets this part, too.

He goes in. Picks up the chair and tucks it neatly back into its place at the table.

The chair nearly does him in.

Has to stand there and gulp down air a few time when Frank sets it right.

His motions feel sluggish when he moves over to his uneaten bowl. The thought of eating momentarily turns his stomach, but the order-following (sometimes) soldier in him says you hork down what you can when you can. He barely tastes it. But at least he eats it. Inhales it, even. Like finishing one last meal before setting out on a mission.

Frank takes care of what's left of the food, and Clint sets to washing dishes. Even with the bleeding. They know better than to bleed on food or clean dishes. It's all more than five minutes, but he figures nobody's going to complain about a break, a chance to stretch legs and breathe fresh air after being cooped up in there. Nobody else comes into the house. He has the brief, hysterical thought that it might already be haunted.

A little first aid never killed anyone. He looks, really looks at Frank's face, frowns, and gets the kit. They can at least stop their active bleeds.

It's a little more doing. And maybe now he's hanging on by whatever threads he can grasp at.

Very suddenly, all at once, he gets why Frank was going easy in the house. He was trying to get them outside so they could really go hog on each other without breaking anything. "Thanks." A little broken. A little hoarse. But he means it sincerely.

They do it in silence. Companionable, not strained. Shoveling down food, packing it away, washing the dishes. All of it done in the quiet of the house to the tune of running water, scrubbing blood off hands and forearms to keep shit clean. And he knows they're procrastinating, that none of this really needs to be done, that they're dragging on well beyond five minutes, but...

He'd bet money on this being the last time Clint spends in his kitchen for a long, long while. He won't be coming back here again, not while he can work, not until there's some kind of definitive about Laura and the kids. It's not so bad an idea to just exist here a little longer, while he can. Until he can't anymore.

House isn't gonna smell like her for long. Other houses won't smell like this one at all, ever. The light won't hit tile the same way, the appliances won't hum at quite the same frequency, the central air won't kick on exactly the same way. Soon, all that'll be far, far away.

Clint says thanks; Frank nods, slow and steady, and murmurs back a quiet, hoarse, "Yeah, no problem."

Whether it's for the fight, the minimization of property damage, the food, the chair, he doesn't know. Doesn't matter. No problem.

But- he'll be the one to put it into words.

"It's time to go, man. It's time. We gotta go."

If he was still angry, still raw about it, he'd snap something harsh about how Frank doesn't get to tell him when to leave his own home.

But it is time. He can't just stay here. Or, staying here won't do anything for him. Probably do more harm than good. So Clint nods, a little absently first, but then more solid. Don't leave them all waiting.

He could offer up the house. For one last night. Plenty of room. They could all sleep, and then it wouldn't feel so empty.

Nobody would be sleeping anyway.

"Yeah, I'll grab...my stuff. Lock up."

There's another one of those inane thoughts nagging at him. Are the beds made? Should they make the beds? He was never a fan of it, but he learned to do it real well, and Laura always liked it neat and tidy. She'd want the beds made when she gets back.

If.

If.

He makes sure the lights are off. Grabs his gear. Doesn't double check it, because he's been checking it all damn day, and he knows damn well he's got everything he needs and probably then some. Locks the doors. And then stands there at the door and finds it so so difficult to breathe all of a sudden. He gets to in one two and doesn't make it to three, so it has to be out one two--

And then he turns. Marches toward the jet.

"Whoa," says Rhodey, eyeballing Frank, breaking up whatever conversation some of them have clearly been having, "whoa, whoa, why's the guy that turned you into a punching bag coming?" It's a familiar repartee, things either he picked up from Tony or just one of the many ways they get along so well. Ignore the trauma, ham it up with jokes. Even if it's not really a joke. "He's not coming with us."

"Yes, he is." Natasha. Quiet but firm.

"He's not an Avenger. In fact, it kinda sounds to me like he does the opposite of what we do."

"Either he goes," comes Clint's curt response, not wanting to turn this into a debate, "or I get in his damn van and we drive back to New York."

Steve does not look like he has time for any of this bullshit, but he's always been the defacto leader. He gives Frank an assessing stare. Looks at the assassins. "You trust him?"

"With my life."

Nat crosses her arms and gives a thoughtful inhale, then nods at Clint. "With his life."

That seems to be good enough. There's a fractional softening to Steve, and then he turns and takes the pilot seat. Which is as close to an 'okay' as Clint's pretty sure they're getting, since it's not a no.

Clint is taken aback when he climbs in. Sure, quinjets don't tend to be the roomiest, but there's plenty of room for-- There aren't enough people. Nat, Steve, Rhodes, sure, yeah. Thor's here. He didn't even see Thor or hear his booming voice. He's just sitting there, with a fucking axe, looking like there's all the weight of the universe on his shoulders. Bruce looks so small. And a little beat up. Which is patently insane, because Hulk doesn't let Bruce get beat up, and also, where the hell has Bruce been the past several years?

And that's it.

He looks at Nat, lost. She shakes her head.

...Okay. Okay. That's...something to deal with. He stows his gear and straps himself in and suddenly feels so fucking tired.

He'd kindly argue that he does exactly what the Avengers do by name alone — he avenges. It's just that because his aren't government sanctioned he's the bad guy, even though the government's been screwed up for years, even though the government's been sanctioning packing pounds and pounds of heroin in the corpses of dead GIs and Marines over in Kandahar and using their bodies to mule them back to the states, even though the government's had Hydra in it and they've been exterminating innocent civilians.

Somehow we're all supposed to pretend like everything's honkey fucking donkey because it's some guy in a suit six levels detached from the issues that's calling the shots. Well screw that, he remembers all too clearly a good handful of these guys going off the rails to have their own say in their missions, it's just that he did it first, and he doesn't have a pretty-boy face or a billion dollars.

But as much as he's tempted to go off on that tangent, that steam-powered rant, he got most of his pissed-off energy out in that fight. Good thing, because laying it all out like that would almost certainly ruin his chances of getting on this jet right now. Turns out a little brawling is good for the soul.

He doesn't nod his appreciation to Clint — doesn't really need to. He does to Natasha, because they're not quite on that level, so he's gotta make sure she knows he respects the gesture, her willingness to stand up and vouch for him. She's good people.

And then he's stepping onto the most expensive aircraft he's ever been on in his life, which is saying something considering how much money the military spends on Helos and airdrop missions and shit.

Lowly, wryly, to Clint: "So this is how the other half lives. You guys get complimentary bath robes on these things?"

Thor's low voice comes out at a rumble, lower energy than most have ever seen him, tired, resigned, "Who's this?"

"Frank," he says, and tacks on "Castle," as an afterthought, reaching out a hand to shake because he's got some goddamn manners, unlike some of these other assholes apparently.

Thor takes his hand, flexes his grip just a little too tightly, and says, "Thor, Palace. On Asgard, I mean. Not here."

Frank stares in bemusement, not entirely sure if he's joking.

"I've heard of you," says Bruce, evenly, knowingly — and ends the comment there, because he knows they both know what he means.

"Yeah, heard of you, too," says one rampage murderer to another. Except all Frank's victims were horrible people; murderers and monsters and child abusers. Bruce concedes with a fair enough shrug, too tired to bother. Aren't they all.

And that apparently is all it takes for introductions, it must pass muster, because he's given leave to plant himself down into a seat with no further bleak commentary or tests to pass. Good enough.

Thor's Thor-y introduction is, in spite of the low and somber energy, so normal that Clint almost smiles. Nowhere near close to laughing, but it's almost something lighter inside him. Or it could be the exhaustion creeping in.

Rhodey doesn't introduce himself, so, quietly to Frank: "Colonel James Rhodes, Air Force. Some have taken to calling him War Machine. Or is it Iron Patriot? Get 'em mixed up."

A shake of the head, slightly incredulous, slightly not down for all this. "You know which one it is. Frank Castle, huh? Sounds vaguely familiar."

Frank settles on one side of Clint, which means Natasha takes the other side of Clint. So at least he's wedged between the two best people still in his life. Nat's not having it. "We're not doing this right now." It's less a warning, more a command. Though from a Black Widow (from the Black Widow), it means about the same thing. Rhodey accepts this without a fight but moves up toward the front. Ostensibly to copilot for Steve. Who needs no introduction.

Clint clears his throat, awkward. But it doesn't actually clear anything. He's sitting here at last, and it's gonna be...well, not a long flight, but there's going to be time. They lift off. They move. Away from home.

He tries to cling to the feeling of work. This is like going on a mission. Or coming back from one. It's fine. It's fine. It's going to be fine. He doesn't have to get his head out of his ass. "Tell me what happened," quietly, to Nat.

She takes a breath, one of those steadying, steeling ones. "I can brief you when we get there."

"Tash. Tell me. Catch me up." Because he only got the barest details before on the phone, and if he doesn't get to work on this, then he's going to have time in his own head in this oppressively depressing atmosphere and then maybe might just start screaming to pass the time.

"I was on an alien planet as Hulk fighting gladiatorial fights until Thor and Loki crashed the party," which is obviously from Bruce instead of Natasha, so blase from the tiredness that it could almost be funny. "Asgard--" He spares a look at Thor. Thor's chin is propped heavy on his fingers as he stares hard into nothing. "It, uh, blew up."

Clint's about to say something stupid, Nat looks like she might start throwing people out airlocks, and Rhodey pipes up from the front: "Tony and the Spider-kid are out in space somewhere."

"Wha-"

"And Doctor Strange," adds Bruce.

Clint just blinks stupidly. He thinks he vaguely remembers seeing the name Strange as a person of interest to SHIELD at some point, maybe??? Who the fuck--

Nat grips his hand, and the fond, familiar motion startles him. It shouldn't. He immediately feels bad about the fact that it startles him, but he wasn't gonna hug it out with Frank, no, he was gonna let them beat each other into the dirt as physicality. "Full briefing when we get back, okay?"

And now maybe he's actually...actually thinking that's not the worst idea, because that's still overwhelming, and they haven't even talked about who they lost, except obviously anyone who isn't here got turned to so much dust, but--there has to be more to it than that, right? He needs to know about the big guy that apparently got hand on all the stupid space stones to click his heels together and wipe out half the universe and is still out there somewhere.

He opens his mouth, closes it, a couple of times before he lets it click shut with a finality. He's close to asking something stupid, asking for conformation, are the others dust, or were they killed-killed, or did they stay behind to help Wakanda, or...or...

She's trying to keep it together for his sake. Everyone's sake, but for his sake, but he can read her as well as she reads him. There are so many questions behind her eyes, and disbelief, and she was there. So he'll keep his damn trap shut. And, apparently, so will the others.

"I gotta stop retiring." Okay, he doesn't keep his trap shut completely.

He has to bite his tongue so many times throughout this exchange it's a wonder he doesn't chew it clean off. Doctor Strange? What is it with all these made-up bullshit names everybody comes up with? Do they pick these themselves? Iron Man did, he knows that much. War Machine, though? Was that like a big bad punisher situation, or did this guy get real high on his own farts and lock in the merch deal?

Asgard blew up. Spider-Man is in space. What in the absolute goddamn hell do these people do on a daily basis? Do they butter their toast the same way as everybody else, or do they summon aliens down from the goddamn moon to do it for them?

It's Clint's final words that break him, and a long, loud, graceless snort of laughter rips through the back of his throat before he can silence it. Somebody gives him a look, and he tries to repress the sideways shit-eating grin on his face. Doesn't try that hard, though, so the best thing he can do is just point it in the opposite direction and level it at a wall.

It's goddamn ridiculous. All of it. Everything. It's a cosmic fucking joke. Karen's dead, Laura's dead, the kids are dead, and the universe is laughing. Half the population's dead and somebody's in space. Half the population's dead and there's a guy named Doctor Strange. Damn near every person he cares about is fucking dead and he's on the Avengers plane getting glared at by some guy called War Machine, as though that's somehow better than The Punisher.

"Something you wanna add, Castle?" Somebody from the front asks.

Frank cheerfully returns a simple, pleasant, "Nope."

And that's that.

If looks could kill, Natasha would've murdered everyone on this aircraft. Several times over. She most certainly tolerates Frank; they have an understanding and a certain respect. So instead of making her way up front, taking the controls, and nosediving them all into the ground, she just rolls her eyes at Frank's incredulity.

But damn if Clint doesn't find it infectious. Because he gets it. Everything being said is insane to someone who's just an everyday fucking schmoe on the ground, comparatively. Half the universe is gone, and they're both learning there's someone of some kind of notable importance named Strange. What, that was the best word? Could've been named Doctor Spooky. Doctor Weird. Doctor Vaguely Unsettling But Mostly Unusual. Tony's not here because he's in space. What? In space where doing what? Why did he take Spider-New-Yorker with him? What the fuck does Asgard blowing up mean? Half the universe is gone, and Bruce has spent the past several years just being an alien gladiator that Loki of all people crashed, and how many times has he heard Loki died now? God, did that motherfucker get out of this or--

He snickers at Frank's response. And then it's a bit like a cascade. They share a look, and he laughs, and it's inappropriate but he doesn't really care because there is no appropriate right now. It's all crazy. The world's finally gone to hell in the dumbest handbasket. He can see the confused furrow of Thor's brow, the exhaustion on Banner's face but the barest little flicker of a smirk like he gets it or at least feels the infectiousness of the gigglefit. That there's a certain catharsis to it. And no glares from anyone or smartass comments are going to stop this train once it's gotten rolling.

Because it also feels like the only thing to do. It feels good for a few long moments. "You laugh," says Clint to Frank, laughing, "but I swear, I swear that every time I retire, that's when shit hits the fan. This one just took a few years, but they can't--"

Between the explosive knuckleduster and now this, everything stuck inside his chest has gotten all jostled loose. His cheeks are wet; when did that happen? The laughter changes pitch and oh no no no no not here, he can't do this here, he can't break here. "They can't even--" There's no rescuing this, no matter how hard he tries. To stuff everything back down. Back into boxes to tape shut and hide under floorboards, no, it's spilling out everywhere. It's overwhelming.

He blinked, and they were gone, and they're gone, and he doesn't know when he'll ever see his home again, doesn't know if there will ever be a point. Frank lost his, so, what, now to even the scales, some cosmic fucking scales, now it's his turn? Should he have stayed? Haunted his own house until he turned to dust, too? What the fuck kind of need do any of them have for a god damn archer when all the forces of Wakanda and then some couldn't stop the end of half the universe? What good are the Avengers if they aren't Avenging? No SHIELD, no Avengers, and now no Bartons, so what the fuck would he even be fighting for?

He tips his head back, blinking at the ceiling, every part of him tight and trembling, trying to will it back, trying to curb the reaction. But Nat squeezes his hand, and Frank packed up some of the important stuff and some of the stupid fucking useless stuff, and his lungs hurt, and there should be more people here. It's an ugly noise out of him, the kind of ugly he'd rather do alone in a dark and locked room. Not in the confined space of a quinjet with some of his friends. He feels so small, so insignificant. And all the hurt and horror and agony of the past day is demanding to come pouring out of him.

It feels like pouring his whole self out onto the floor.

It's a ripple effect for sure; Frank starts snorting and then Clint starts laughing and then Frank starts laughing, and then they're a pair of god damn jokers in the back, laughing like idiots right up until the moment it stops being funny anymore. And his heart sinks, because he knows when the switch flips, he knows when Clint starts spiraling down, and it tears at his chest in sympathy — or is it tearing his own pain out of him? Because Karen- Karen- and the goddamn kids, they were kids, they're just fucking kids. Kids he loved practically like they were his own, kids he may have been transplanting just a few too many feelings onto after the loss of his own children, and now they're gone and it's like losing Lisa and Frankie all over again-

Nat takes Clint's hand. Frank throws an arm over his shoulders, reeling him in tight, into some private space between their bodies, blocked off from the rest of the crew by broad shoulders and a ducked head. Not that it does much, because this sadness is a ripple effect, too. Banner's head hangs, face in hand. A tear streaks down Natasha's cheek, though she's holding it together better than the rest of them. Thor's got a full-blown stream happening that he doesn't even bother trying to disguise. The posture in Steve's shoulders is so rigid, so tightly laced, it's a wonder he doesn't explode from the density of it all. Even Rhodey seems grim, lips pulled into a pained grimace that none of them can see from back here.

It's a fucking mess, and it's all Frank can do to hoarsely murmur, "I know man. I know. I know-" like that accomplishes a single fucking thing.

It's an awful pain, full-bodied, soul-searing. He hadn't seen Frank in any of the immediate aftermath, because Frank was supposed to be dead, and it was only after a lot of shit happened that he found out the opposite, right up until Frank showed up on his doorstep and got a punch and a hug in that order. The family went to the funeral. Lisa and Lila were the same age. They would've been the same age. Frankie could've been a big brother. They're all gone. How are all of them gone? Five kids and two amazing women?

So when Frank says he knows, he knows Frank knows. He hates every single moment of this, as he grips Nat's hand so tight he thinks it's probably gonna bruise, and she takes it without a hint of complaint because she can, as he buries his face against Frank's shoulder to hide the shame and the pain and the empty fucking pit inside him.

Nate's not even three. His birthday's next month. A beautiful summer baby. Frank would've been invited, and this time absolutely not allowed to play Baby Shark, banned, and he would've done it anyway just to be annoying. What takes a baby away like that? Lila had an arrow in hand. Cooper, Cooper's the first born and will always be his baby boy. Laura's an amazing rock. Who's going to upkeep the tractor? Tony promised/threatened to turn that thing hi-tech and she had suggested over her dead body, just needs a tune up now and then like any vehicle. Is it just going to rust in the barn? Is everything going to rust? Every nail in that house he put there himself, every board of every addition when he hands can't keep still and his mind could always see the bigger picture, are they going to age and mold and warp? All the food will rot. The lights, the gas, the water, that'll all get shut off. How many homes have suddenly become abandoned in the blink of an eye? He turned his head. That's all it took.

All it took was a snap of the fingers for everyone to lose. Karen's gone. Is Tony gone? Is the Spider-kiddo? Sam? Bucky? Wanda? Vision? Is Yelena still out there, somewhere? He'd never met her, only heard the stories, and now maybe he'll never get the chance.

It's all gone. They're all gone, and sure, sure, yeah, there's a desperate little part of him that hopes with some regrouping and focus, they can find a way to undo all this. But he knows. He has to know. That they also might all just be gone for good.

His own heart is so loud in his ears that it's hard to hear the quiet that starts to come down like a blanket when he bleeds it out everywhere hard enough that he becomes empty, everything inside gouged out. His breathing still comes ragged, little gasps and starts. But the horrible wailing dies down, throat raw with the pain of it all, and the tears just stop coming.

Kind of wants to puke up Frank's meal just to completely empty himself out. But the absurd thought about how rude that would be floats up to the top of his mind. He just wants to sleep. Or rather, just wants to be unconscious and pretend none of this happened for a few days. Just a couple days. Let the world try to keep turning without him for a while.

Automatic instinct, thoughtless reactivity, one of his hands snakes up to the back of Clint's neck, the back of his head, palming there and holding as the guy comes completely unspun against his shoulder. Fingers bury into hair, while his free hand grips a solid fistful of sleeve fabric on the other side. It's a display that makes it immediately clear to anyone with the capacity and the mindset to pay attention just why exactly Frank is here in the first place. What their dynamic is, what level it is.

It's only proven further when he pulls back just enough to bump his forehead against Clint's, eyes squeezed shut, recycling air, breaths low and voice lower.

"I know- I know," another pair of murmurs, echoed, painful — to the tune of an apology that he won't actually give, because it's a platitude and no amount of I'm Sorry will make a single fucking difference here and now. "Listen- listen to me: breathe. Just breathe. Just keep breathing. That's gonna be the hardest part, but you gotta keep breathing. That's it. That's all you gotta do right now, alright?"

From now until whenever. From now until they find a way to fix it — not that Frank's optimistic, but he's willing to concede that it's worth the effort — or now until forever, he just needs to keep breathing. Anybody asking anything more from him right now can get absolutely fucked.

It isn't that Nat's presence alone wouldn't have helped. They've been through damn near as much shit together as Clint has with Frank. But her ideas of family and the loss thereof--she could've been there for him, talked him through or let him sob it out and tell him to breathe, yeah, but it's not the same as someone that's been there. Specifically, there, in that spot of losing everything, losing an entire heart, several reasons to exist.

Frank's been through it, and damn it, he's still standing despite it all. And he's here.

How the hell he's managed that, it's a mystery. Because Clint's exhausted. All he has to do is breathe, and, "I don't--" Know if he can, know if he wants to. The words are all kinds of hoarse, creaking out. "I don't think--"

"Don't think." Natasha rubs circles along his back. "Breathe."

That's easy for her to say, isn't it? But. No. He doesn't even have it in him to want to snap anything. Because it isn't easy. None of this is, for anyone. A deep sigh shudders out of him, his whole self seeming to deflate. He nods absently against Frank. He can't exactly empty his mind and only think of breathing, but he can at least start evening out his breathing. Try to match Frank. Relax against them both.

"That's it- attaboy, that's right, just like that," lilting and thickly accented as he only gets when he's compromised or a little drunk. Maybe he's both right now — drunk on grief, drunk on shared heartbreak and the overwhelming desire to help. To fix things. To take away a pain he cannot possibly take away.

Three, four, five breaths. Six, seven, eight. Steady on, steady on, until Clint finds a rhythm he can keep and hold. Only then does Frank begin to peel away a few inches — hand still on the back of his neck, the fingers of the other furled in his sleeve, but enough distance that he can glance over Clint's bowed head to meet Natasha's eye.

She nods. He nods back at her. They both pretend like neither of them have red-rimmed, shining-wet eyes. Like they aren't both falling apart on their own and for Clint. He gets her, he thinks, better than some of her team members do. Not Clint, obviously, maybe not Steve, but better than Thor. Better than Rhodey. He gets her. They've had talks.

He knows where her head's at, and he concedes a little space to her, to the artful dance of her palm running along his back, to the gentle bow of her head as she leans in to murmur a few things now, too. She needs this. She needs to be able to comfort him, it's important, and he's more than willing to let her, because God knows this man's gonna need every speck of fucking support he can handle for the next-

For a long time.

It's quiet, after that. Quiet for a long time, from everyone. No words but Natasha's soft murmurings, no sound but the engines of the jet, until at last they're making their descent for landing.

They need it. They need it, because Natasha has softness, has bruises and scars on that softness. She's lost a family, too. Aunt Nat and Uncle Frank were always welcome in that house. The kids loved them. Clint and Nat lean on each other, and Clint mostly keeps his eyes shut, because he's bone tired and doesn't really want to see any looks in anyone's eyes. He doesn't want to see pity, or he doesn't want to see the pain reflected back at him. Might have to do some bonding with Thor later, sounds like, but he's not sure he could take a conversation about it right now.

Maybe a big, bone-crushing hug might be nice. Later.

When Steve lands them, and it's late as hell, and it's quiet because even here, half the everything living's gone, they file out. Bruce doesn't leave Thor's side, a comforting hand on a huge bicep, blanket held around him in the other hand. Rhodey lets the distraction take him, his mind clearly elsewhere, doesn't have anything snarky to say. Nat asks Clint if he's good to go, and he nods. Insists on taking one of his bags, and he doesn't even argue. Steve is still solid, rigid, but he can catch a moment where Steve's staring at him and Frank just a few seconds too long before the captain tears himself away again.

The compound's big, as usual spared no expense by Stark, who should be here even in spite of the last big blowout that happened. People always in and out. Was never full. Still feels too big, too empty. Clint's never spent a lot of time here, mostly helping train the new recruits (who aren't here), but mostly god damn retired until he wasn't again.

"Maybe it's about time I get that sitrep," Clint suggests, his voice still thick from all the Too Much.

"You're an idiot," is what Nat says with not an ounce of heat to it.

"Everyone get some rest." Steve's trying to sound commanding, but really just sounds as tired as the rest of them. "Whatever you can. We can all reconvene in the morning and catch everyone up on what's going on. Then we figure out where to go from there." Everyone includes Frank, because now it has to include Frank. "Castle, there's plenty of empty rooms; we'll make sure to give you access to one."

This place, he thinks, is either an empty casket or a full tomb. It's hollow and enormous, it feels like all the people who are missing from it are standing just over their shoulders, staring down accusingly. It feels like turning around to face them makes them disappear, leaving a howling vacancy in their wake.

He feels the spirits of people who've never even set foot in the place, too.

The last thing he wants to do is go sit in his own sterile room by himself, blocked off by walls and locks, wondering if there's been some kind of delayed reaction and the two people in this building he actually gives a shit about maybe turned into dust overnight while he's pretending to sleep.

All the same, he nods once at Steve — more to telegraph appreciation than with any real intent to claim one just yet.

He's not much of a drinker, doesn't tend to turn to alcohol to solve his problems, doesn't like the loss of control over his faculties and his paranoia, resents the fogginess, but... if there was ever a time for it...

"There anything to drink around here? I could use a beer."

It's levelled at Natasha, and there's a subtler question underneath — if he doesn't wanna come, do you got him? She nods. Murmurs, "C'mon, kitchen's on the way. Should still be something stocked."

This is the story of how Frank Castle stole free booze from the Avengers.

Clint isn't in the mood to not want to come. He thinks he should be. He thinks, distantly, that what he should want is to be alone in the room designated for him. Sit in the shower with it too scalding hot until it gets cold and then lay in bed and hate life and feel miserable.

But he follows along to the kitchen anyway. "Could all probably use something," is his useless and unnecessary commentary. He knows where the drinks are. The hard stuff's high up and out of sight, for Tony's recovering alcoholic sake. Or. That's the reason it was initially. And then everything kinda happened and now he doesn't know if it's still there?

He has to climb up onto the counter like a gremlin or a child to reach the cabinets over the fridge, and he sits on it solidly when he retrieves a bottle of scotch. Some of it's been drunk, but not a whole lot.

Natasha takes it easily out of his hands, while he lets out a little "aww" about it. Won't fight it, because he gets that if he starts, well, shit, he'll probably keep going, and nobody needs what happens after that on their hands.

Thor then reaches over and takes it out of her hand, pops the top like it's a soda, and downs half the bottle in one go. "Thank you," he says, with seemingly no self-awareness to be had right now, "for retrieving your Midgardian might to share." He hands it back, mumbling something about proper Asgardian ales, and Bruce just pats his arm and tries to point out that he knows Midgardian ale isn't on par and maybe he should go take a shower?

Nat wrinkles her nose, not for any kind of stink, just for trying not to laugh, and trying not to judge, and having to take a moment to figure out what the hell to do after that. She sighs, has Clint take down a couple glasses while he's up there. Pours out a portion, then tells him to put the bottle back.

It's kind of nice to at least follow the most basic orders. He won't be greedy. Just take what he's given.

She holds up her glass like she's going to toast, but doesn't say anything. He gets it. They can all clink their glasses or aluminum cans or whatever. They can drink. They can commiserate.

These people are a trip. He doesn't know if he's amused or annoyed by them. Always had kind of a vendetta — mild, tiny, annoying little thing about how they aren't doing enough to look out for his brother. Guy's running around in his shirtsleeves with gods and hulks and whatever the hell else, they can't do him a little better than they have been?

But at the same time, the camaraderie reminds him of what it used to be like back overseas with his guys. With Clint. When all of them would get back from some mission that nearly wiped them the fuck out, and hot on the heels of a near-death experience and the loss of a handful of your buddies, all there is... is this strange limbo middle-ground nowhere feeling. This absurd, abstract, impossible to describe sense that reality is at once a fucking joke and not even remotely worth laughing over, which sometimes only serves to make it funnier.

He doesn't really feel like laughing now, but he understands the wrinkle in Natasha's nose. Understands the humor, distantly, at the rapport between Bruce and Thor. It feels comfortable.

He toasts his glass against theirs, and then brings it to his lips to slam the whole thing at once. The burn earns an exhale — been a long while since he bothered drinking. Usually sticks to one beer at a time, but damn if it doesn't feel like the right time to get a little drunk just to cope with it all.

Laura and the kids. Laura and the kids. Maria and the kids. Maria and his kids.

He wants to burn this building to the ground and fight every single person inside it until the flames take him. He wants to hollow himself out and feel nothing at all. He wants to keep his shit together for Clint, but Clint's safe and in good company now, with Natasha taking up about half of his good excuses to remain sober and functional.

Shame she put the bottle back.

To keep himself from going after it, pulling it back down again, he grabs a beer instead and heads over to the table. Drags out a seat and settle wearily into it.

It's a classic case of it all catching up to him once he stops moving. Never should've stopped moving. Too late now.

He never thought he'd have to feel this again.

Frank looks like he's being crushed by the weight of gravity when he practically melts in that chair.

Natasha and Clint have a silent conversation.

Partly it's some perfected bullshit spycraft thing, the ability to talk without talking, with subtle glances and barely there movements. But it's also just the familiarity one gets with someone who feels like another part of their soul. And it is a conversation, whole and complete and impossible for Frank to make out the details of. The way Nat tips her head, the way Clint taps a finger on his glass. Hands ghosting calmly--Clint casts a haunted glance at Frank for just a moment, just a moment, then resumes whatever the not-talk is.

It's a few moments longer before Nat touches his face gently, cupping his cheek warmly, then pulls away, gives space. She passes by Frank and gives his shoulder a brief squeeze. And then she's gone.

Clint stares down into his glass. Fighting the temptation to go dig out the bottle again now that it's just them. He polishes off the last dregs and sets his glass down beside him on the counter next to the others.

"She thinks a shower's the second best idea she's had all day." The fact that he can say something like that without actually exchanging words with her might indicate he's 'paraphrasing' as it were, but who knows, actually. "You know how bad those outfits can start chaffing if you don't peel yourself out of 'em on the reg? And they've been in 'em for a whole epoch-defining fight and hours and hours and hours of flight. 'm not exactly envious."

Maybe he's talking stupid shit to fill the space. But it's his little version of explaining--they're alone right now because Frank is trusted to watch out for Clint, and Nat would like maybe five or ten minutes to cry alone in the shower as she gets all the leftover blood and sweat and dirt off her.

Paraphrasing.

"Y'know, I've never seen Cap with a beard before?" Clint keeps going. On a roll. Fill the space. His voice is hoarse and tired and only lubricated with a drink so far. "Weird. But he's making it look good. It's working for him. And Thor got his hair cut. Less Fabio, harlequin novel guy. I dig it. And I think he's got a new eye? Is that weird? I promise both his eyes used to be blue. Kinda wanna ask, but that might be rude."

The slow shake of his head at what follows she thinks is automatic, rote — he's complained about this before, in that bitching-but-not-really-complaining unserious way he rants sometimes, about how freaky it is they can ESP like that at each other. Have those whole conversations without either one of them saying a damn word, and sure, maybe him and Clint can do that a little themselves, but it's never tap three times if you're gonna go take a shower because it's the best experience you've ever had levels of specific. Fucking spies, man.

Normally, all that would be coming out of his mouth, but the words don't feel real tonight. The rant doesn't feel genuine. He feels like he's one frayed thread away from spinning out, and the only thing keeping him under control is that Nat just transitioned responsibility back over to him again. Pulling himself together's a little bit like throwing a lasso around a hurricane and trying to break it in without a saddle, but he grits his teeth and manages something. Something. That's not nothing.

"So what, you people get new eyes the way the rest of us get haircuts now?" Comes his hoarse, somewhat terse return. Voice a little too thick, pitch a little too low. Lumping Clint in with the rest of his team only when it conveniently suits whatever Frank's bitching about, as usual.

His fingers curl around that beer. He wants to hurl it against the wall. He takes a slow, masochistically controlled drink of it instead, and denies himself the pinprick of catharsis he'd feel from it. Once that door cracks open, it'll take a hell of a lot to shut it again.

They're all just trying to hold on as best they can. In all the small ways. Nat needs a moment, and Frank needs to clutch tight to his control, and Clint needs to fill the space with noise before it's too fucking quiet in too big a place. He can see Frank just fine from here. Sees how every move is deliberate and calculated.

He can see how if Frank lets go, it won't be pretty, and a chunk of the building might end up demolished before a Hulk or a Thor holds him to the ground and keeps him there.

"Man, I don't know, it's usually just fancy contacts with recording abilities, or mesh masks with shapeshifting disguises." Which is still stuff Frank doesn't have access to unless he breaks into some very secure places.

His fingers pick at little things, unable to find comfort in stillness. Bit of dirt here. Loose thread there. Some scuffed skin to peel. "If you need to go another round, I probably got it in me." An offer. For the violence thrumming under Frank's skin.

He can see the offer coming before it hits — it's in the way Clint is picking. Dirt, skin, any excuse to be twitchy with his fingers, to pluck at something when he doesn't have a bowstring instead. And it's not that he doesn't want to that has his head shaking back and forth. It's that he wants to too much.

"Wouldn't go down the same," he says instantly, a little too steely, a little too cold. "It would be different."

Because he wouldn't be able to hold back. There wouldn't be that same presence of mind that got them out of Clint's house without breaking any of his furniture. Once he lets go, he's gonna get carried away and it's gonna get brutal, and he's not gonna stop.

Rather, he'd stop for Clint, but it might be about two minutes after he should've. Only thing that'll do is rile him up more out of shame or remorse, and make him want to swing at something else even harder.

"Maybe we could ask Steve."

But it's better if they all manage to keep a lid on Frank. At least for now. Keep him cool, keep him collected. Maybe in a day or two...?

It feels like this day will never end. If he sleeps, he'll wake up and maybe he'll be at home, and maybe it'll happen all over again. Is that a paranoid thought? Or is that exhaustion starting to bleed in?

"Gym's all kinds of reinforced." For obvious reasons. And for future reference.

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