clint "idk the archer or something" barton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brandingproblem) wrote2023-01-10 03:10 pm
brandingproblem) wrote2023-01-10 03:10 pm
open post
overflows, misc psls/memes, starters that don't seem to fit anywhere else, etc
overflows, misc psls/memes, starters that don't seem to fit anywhere else, etc
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.