Guy who tracks these things for a living (how does one get into THAT?) thinks it'll stick around for a bit. You can still have your chance if you want to ride on out. Not sure how much would be left to salvage though.
this place is so weird. the people , too. are you hoping to come back with a lot of things? looking to loot the place?
that's doing a lot.
( she thinks, from their previous conversation, that he's doing a lot. maybe in trying to keep himself from becoming inert, settling the score with his thoughts. but, she's not natasha, and she's not about to tell him what to do or not to do. )
Good to keep busy. And stash some money for a rainy day. Jewelies or whatever.
[Does it seem like a lot? Maybe. Probably. He just knows, remembers, that spending too long not doing things made the world around him a lot darker. Much better to do.]
you really came to know me when things were mostly neat and easy. your dad senses would go haywire if you knew the things we got up to growing up in novi grad.
Haven't we had enough shitty childhood stories between us? [Because while never as bad as Wanda's, not nearly, man, maybe they don't need more fucked up stories about growing up.]
I can take on a powered person just fine so long as I can shoot them from a distance or have something else going on besides taking them head on in fisticuffs.
too bad. i only have one container for everything.
( please, clint!! )
see you soon.
( wanda will make her way to the address clint gave her, on her motorcycle, and will stop only the one time to ask for proper directions. once she is certain she is in the right motel, in front of the correct door, she will knock.
she's got a backpack with cleaning supplies, and an actual plastic bag where the food is in a container. don't worry about cross-contamination. )
[Clint does not look any worse for wear, except that the bruises have had time to really blossom into dark blooms. So maybe a little worse. But he's not any worse.]
Hey there. [It's not much on the inside. At the end of the day, it's a motel, what do you want. There's a bed, a couple places to put things, a bathroom that works most of the time. Maybe if all his fighting and looting and working earns him enough joolies, he can upgrade to a room with a bathroom that works all the time. Lap of luxury!
The mold's not great, though. It creeps along the joints of the walls, not smothering, but more than anyone should want to have in their room. Given the amount anyone should want in their room is zero.] Make yourself at home.
( he's definitely worse than what she remembers, last time she saw him in person, sporting new bruises over his old one, and looking like he might have been braving those punches and hits he got from his opponents tonight. it's strange, considering how he's always been less of a close-combat fighter in her time knowing him, to see him like this.
but they have crossed that bridge before in the past.
wanda tries her best to make herself at home when she walks in, but it's impossible to not notice the mold on the walls. it's not bad, but it could do with being better.
she sets the bag down on the table, once she's made sure it's clean. wanda glances at him. )
Cute flying city rats that probably taste like chicken? [He's just assuming she's asking because it's on the menu.] Probably less gamey than quail.
[It's strange. To see her again, in general, and have her here, and for her to invite herself over like they're going to pretend anything is normal. She's worried, and she's got every right to be.]
I know better than to tell you you don't have to take care of me. Not gonna keep me from thinking it loudly though.
( so, it's not like she'd be able to tell or agree with his statement. still, his words don't deter her from going about opening the bag and putting the food containers down on the table. she even brought some of those wooden forks and spoons.
for clint's benefit, the food is still warm. )
Don't worry, I'll ignore your thinking, too. ( she takes a sidestep, pulling up one of the chairs at the table. ) Have a seat. It actually tastes pretty good.
( considering this is food made by a 'cook' proper and all. )
Cool, I ignore my own thinking all the time anyway.
[He isn't stiff in his movements. That'll come tomorrow, after whatever rest he gets, when the soreness really kicks in. That won't keep him from his job, obviously. Or any of his other activities. He slumps into the seat and gives the food a whiff.] Smells pretty normal, and y'know what? I'll take smells normal and tastes good around here.
[Not that the food is necessarily bad. It just...sometimes tends toward weird.]
So. You placing bets on anyone when you go watch fights?
( once he takes a seat, wanda passes him one of the wooden forks and spoons. she settles down herself, opening up her food container and mixing the rice around with the meat, getting some of the red sauce all over it.
she imagines that clint will feel more compelled to eat if he sees her doing as much, too.
a shrug initiates her answer to his question. her words then come, mumbled and a little rough. )
Don't got enough joolies for that.
( it's not really her scene, as he had surmised earlier, but clint actually participating in them makes her feel like she has to go to just make sure he isn't dead after a match. it's not entirely sound reasoning, but it makes her feel like she has a breadth of control.
a spoonful of rice into her mouth, and wanda starts chewing. it tastes goodβquite excellent, too. trust sanji to make food with the ingredients here and make it feel like it's a gourmet meal.
You can make a pretty good payday off a good fight. Make a name for yourself, get noticed, put on a good show. They're good about not letting someone just come back night after night and fight themselves into a pile of bones. [This obviously doesn't keep people from straight up dying in the ring, of course. But shh.
The important part is that he's eating. He would've eaten all on his own like a big boy without her swinging by with a to-go bag, but it's nice. That she cares enough. Food is a love language all its own.
Still. He stirs it up, helps himself to a couple heaping spoonfuls, and considers her. Considers the question asked.] This isn't an intervention, is it?
( it's a bit of a consideration, should it be a painless way of making a lot of money, and fast. wanda is thankful that she isn't in a position where she feels that she has to, but it makes her wonder about the motivation of others. it's not like clint was always hungry for violence, anyway. for the type of 'job' he has (had?), he seemed to want retirement more than the next big fight to save the world.
so, when he asks, and it becomes clear to her that he has his own suspicions about her being there, wanda can't help but snort. )
What makes you think that?
( she is hardly in any position to try and tell others what to do or not do. )
I might be trying to check up on you without being obvious, ( failing, despite her efforts ) but I'm not going to tell you how to live. your life.
We can keep tabs on each other, no?
( scooping up some rice, she adds, )
You can ask me about what I'm up to, too. I didn't mean to sound like I'm interrogating you.
( there's a small, bemused smile on her features. )
[Retirement feels like a distant dream, now. To lay down his weapons and to rest. He'd spent time at home, under house arrest, indulging in making up for lost time, and now...now he's never going to get the chance again. What does retirement even look like here? What possible incentive is there to lay it all down?
Wanda has kept her promises. Hasn't, to his knowledge, pried into his head. Only skims the surface when his feelings get loud. She doesn't ask what happens (in her future), what happened (in his recent past), and gives him space, and gives him time.
She's a good person like that, and her bemusement mollifies him. He's not ashamed of his suspicions. But it's more looking out for a friend who does some stupid and dangerous stuff, make sure he doesn't die, make sure he takes some kind of care of himself, than anything to do with making him stop. He slumps a little for it with a sigh, makes to rub at his face except that hurts, so he just stuffs his face with more good food that a good friend brought when she didn't need to. He's being kind of ungrateful about it, huh? That he can feel a twinge of shame about.]
Sorry. You're right, sorry, guess I'm just...being paranoid. We all need all the friends we can get out here, right? [What a concept. Friends. People to rely on. He'd started to let himself fall back into old habits with the team, and then he fell and fell and fell, and made himself reset back to relying on only himself, surrounded by potentially dangerous strangers.] You been up to anything interesting? Besides watching stupid old men in a fighting ring?
( to be paranoid, if that's what he wants to be; especially in a city like this, with so many unknowns, so many variables, so many strangers. wanda doesn't think it's wrong to feel that way, and sometimes she wonders if she hadn't been taken in by sanji and the rest of his (current) crew if she wouldn't be feeling exactly the same. perhaps she's even been softened up a touch.
so long as clint understands that he doesn't have to be entirely alone, that much is alright. it's not like she's going to babysit him, anyway, and there's a familial pull towards him. )
How old are you again? Seventy, right? ( βshe jestsβ ) I helped someone dye their hair green the other night. I work some boring jobs.
Feels like ninety. [He is perfectly good for joking about how old he is. He sure as hell feels old some days.] Too old to be getting crazy hair colors. What do you think, should I go bright purple, the kind that lights up under a blacklight? [but like don't tho... He runs a hand through the growing out something-hawk he's had going on for a while.] Guess maybe I should get some kind of touch up anyway.
[Quiet. Boring. He hasn't had either of those in years. He did, for a time. Stuck at home driving Laura a little crazy with more home reno projects. Teaching the kids all sorts of things. Quality time. Making up for so much lost time. He can't imagine it now.
Could he imagine it like this? Quiet conversation with a friend who feels like family? (Someone else lost to a madman's quest, a snap of the fingers-)]
You think you could be happy here? With the quiet and boring and occasionally weird.
( the idea of clint going colorful with his hair is enough to make wanda hit a fit of giggles, leaning back and putting down her spoon, as to not do something impulsively to toss her food around accidentally. if he really wanted to, wanda would be happy to help him with that, if that's what he'd wantβ
though, in her opinion, he looks perfectly fine as is.
but it's his question that draws her back from that moment of mirth, taking in a deep breath, exhaling. )
I am happy.
( she admits, even to herself. if she were to think about it, a kind of sadness, that unrelenting ocean of grief, remains, is unrelenting; here, though, she is free, not just from the raft, but from a world that doesn't seem to want her in it. here, she gets to be some semblance of normal, and the occasional weird perhaps helps with the monotony, for those like clint and herself, who have already dipped themselves into the weird of the world. )
The guy who cooked this... Sanji, we're roommates. I think we're friends. ( with a light smile, she adds, ) He's a pirate, he says, and his crew β Zoro and Nami, they're here, too. We live together. They're strange in their own way, but I β feel that I am one of them.
( the way she's been taken in, by this group of young adults who can manage on their own but seem to just be doing the best they can under the circumstances, who mess up, who fight each other, but who come around together every time, it'sβ
it's just like how it used to be, when she had pietro, when she had her friends, in sokovia, when she had a home.
belonged.
the thought alone brings a grimace to her expression, rubbing the heel of her palm against her eye, to dissuade the forming tears from spilling. pietro's absence rings so hollowly inside her, ever present. with that same hand, she reaches over the table, to grab at clint's hand, even if she only reaches his wrist right now. )
...but it's okay if you don't think you could be happy here.
Has he been that blind, that caught up in himself, that he didn't bother to see it?
She has people. She has people that like her, that she likes, in a place where she feels like she can belong instead of being alone, being an outcast. Here, she doesn't need to be confronted with the obliteration of her own country's existence day in and day out. Here, she doesn't need to hide who she is, but also is free to navigate this world without having to rely on her powers. There's no superhero team here. Just people getting by. She's allowed to be that, a person getting by. She's being that. In a world where she won't get locked up for doing the right thing, she's just being.
There's a venomous part of him that reinforces what he's been quietly telling Wanda, that she shouldn't hang on to a sad and tired old man, whispers that she doesn't need to drag herself down like that, that she doesn't need to bloody her hands by holding onto his. But there's also the part that recognizes that this is family. This is family. And they both need that more than anything. She's just more capable of growing her own family here just as well as she can hold onto the family that's followed her here.
His hand turns in her grip, palm up on the table, to hold and to be held in return. The concept of happiness has been so fucking fleeting over five years. Misery and misery upon misery until Natasha had brought hope. And here, here there are moments where he thinks he reaches something adjacent to happy, something that makes him laugh, meets someone that brings a brief smile to his face. But could he be happy here?
Could he be happy anywhere anymore?
He could try. For Wanda. It seems almost absurd, the grief settled onto him like a second skin, but if he can dig himself out...if he can at least try and make the effort--]
Wanda... [His voice creaks, and he has to clear his throat to try and dislodge the glass shards lining it.] You know things have happened. Things you don't know about yet, things you don't ask about. And I don't want to burden you with the knowledge of things you can't do anything about, because that doesn't seem fair. I don't think it's fair to drag you down for no good reason.
[Is that reasonable, or is that an excuse?]
I don't know. I still have days I'm not sure I'm not dead. I don't know that I can be happy here, but if you're happy...that helps. And maybe I'd like to meet this pirate crew of yours.
( perhaps it is selfish of her, too, the fact that clint has been drowning in the tragedies that he doesn't tell her about. because of all these reasons he states, of it not being fair, of there not being a good reason to be dragged down with him, into whatever pit of despair he is struggling to climb out of. wanda holds onto his hand tighter, foodβfor nowβforgotten.
while she doesn't poke and prod into his mind to get the answers herself, it's impossible to quiet down the noise of his emotions filtering through. this misery, this darkness.
it worries her, but she isn't sure she knows how exactly she can do more, other than just being here, like she is; if clint even wants more from her. she remains quiet throughout what he says, thoughtful, wondering if this is enough. )
They might think you're cool. Archer and all. ( with perfect aimβ ) They're younger than me, though, so don't get all protective about it.
( it's a light jab at his expense, at his always worrying for those he grows attached to.
she squeezes his hand, leaning a little closer, against the table. )
I'm... sorry. That you can't tell me these things. I do want to help however I can.
You're the one gonna get all protective about them, huh. [It's a nice thought. Her running around with a ragtag group of kids getting into trouble, being the one to be the voice of reason (or encouragement, depending). He doesn't ask if they know what she can do. Because it isn't-- Well, it's important, yeah, but them liking her for her is more important. If they find out and turn on her, then fuck them.] Promise I won't give any of them a shovel talk. [She's too old for that anyway. Even if the dad in him always was determined that none of his kids were going to date until they were thirty, and she's...
She's not one of his kids. She's been an adult since they met. But she's still family far as he's concerned.
And maybe all of that means he's been too protective. She's offering help. She's offering her place as friend and family to try and help him, even if he can't see how, even if he can't see much more than the occasional pinprick of light at the end of the long long tunnel. But he can't just dump years of shit on her. He won't do that to her. He can't tell her that she's going to be on the run and fall in love and lose that love, that she and half the entire universe are going to get wiped from existence, that he didn't know what to do with himself with an empty house and empty heart. Maybe if he explains that they might all be back, that Bruce did it, he thinks they did it, that the sacrifices weren't in vain, whatever it takes--
His body slouches forward, both closer to her, and letting himself feel all the weight. Five years have felt like fifty. What does he do with this person he's become? Stay on the path, or try to see what's salvageable underneath? If they're all here forever (dubious claim but so far have found no reason to dispute it), whether alive or dead, then doesn't he owe it to himself to make something better? Fuck, doesn't he owe that to Laura?
Doesn't he owe that to--]
Natasha's dead.
[He squeezes Wanda's hand like a lifeline, his eyes darting between her face and a middle distance.]
The circumstances are... [He makes to rub at his face with his free hand but doesn't quite get there before he just makes an empty gesture with it instead, falling heavy back to the table after.] complicated to get into, but. Yeah. She's dead. It's not that I can't tell you these things. [They're hard. They're enormous and they're hard. But he can tell her. If he means to, he can muster through it. She can easily feel the pain, fresh and vibrant, without having to look. It radiates off him. He was falling before he got here; it'd be irony to die that way after Nat was determined to make sure he didn't fall. His throat wants to close up, voice getting quiet and thick.] I don't...don't know what help looks like. For something like that.
[And now she knows. Someone else she was close to, gone. Does he qualify that they got to spend a few more years together before that? On the run, sure, but free of the Raft? But if Wanda hasn't experienced that, does it matter? What does any of it mean here? What good, then, does it do Wanda to know that tidbit of information except hurt her?
It's a whisper, it's even quieter than a whisper:] I'm sorry.
( the words reach her ears, but wanda doesn't feel the emotion that hits her at the admittance first. the tight squeeze to her hand is what she feels instead, thoughts railing in her mind emptily, trying to grasp at what all exactly clint is sayingβalmost like his words make no sense to her, cannot be made sense of. it explains so much about why clint is asking the way he is, why he cannot seem to contain himself within the presence of a man he used to be; why he clings to solitude and anger the way he does, almost treating her approaches to help and be there for him as unwanted.
it just makes sense, even if it seems to wanda that there is more here than what he tells. these 'circumstances' that are 'complicated to get into'. things from her future that will come to pass, but should not be burdened by.
a future where natasha is dead?
for all their most recent conflict with the avengers splitting up, she was vaguely aware that natasha changed her mind. natasha, who took her in, who helped her assimilate to life in america, taught her the ropes, despite her grief and moodiness; natasha is dead? the way her emotions cave in is from the shock, her eyes only now glancing up to look at clint's face proper, tears threatening to spill; she feels empty, devoid of anything, because this is how clint feels.
standing up (she somehow finds herself still attached to the laws of gravity, by some miracle), wanda pulls her hand away from clint's, but draws only a few steps closer to lean down, to wrap her arms around his shoulders. )
I'm here.
(i don't know what help looks like. for something like that.
when wanda lost pietro, nothing felt right. nothing would ever make it right. what does help for that look like? she didn't know, either, back then. now, she still doesn't know. just putting one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. but clint was there, as was steve, vision, natasha. maybe she won't be able to help at all with these feelings, with this reality that awaits her in the future, that awaits them back home, butβ
[He doesn't know what else to start with. Hard to get into the family's been gone for years or you've been gone for years or I don't remember how you feel about Vision right now but he's dead and gone, but this one, this one he feels brightly, a fresh pain that he knows means the world to Wanda as well. He knows this hurts her, cuts her deep, and even now, it feels unfair to drop that on her unprompted. Does the sharing make the load any lighter? Or does it just weigh them both down the same?
But she's here.
Wanda pulls her hand away, and that's fair, he thinks, fair that she might stalk away, take time to herself, resent him for this unbidden knowledge--but she remains. She is here. Her arms wrap around him, and they share in the pain, and she's here.
A dam cracks, a scab rips off, a precariously perched box falls and spills its contents everywhere. She's here, and they can share the pain, and suddenly it's hard to breathe, hard to see around the sting in his eyes. His arms feel like heavy lead, but they make their way up, tentative at first and then more sure, around Wanda.]
Thank you. [Wet and thick and heavy and choked out. She's here. In spite of everything. Because of everything. A friendship he needs to not take for granted, and distance will not save them. His breath stutters.] 'm sorry. [For not trusting her, for not trusting himself, for doing this to her, for not doing it sooner. That Natasha is gone. That it's his fault, even if Wanda doesn't know that yet.]
( when clint wraps his arms around her, she presses closer. the position is awkward, so she stops leaning down towards him; instead, she straightens, stays close, and keeps her arms at his back, rubbing gentle circles there. it's strange to see the strong men in her life break down, and though clint had always been more emotive in his discontent of things unlike the guarded steve and logical vision, she had never seen him falter to this extent. stuttered breaths and wet words, holding on like it's what he so desperately needs.
wanda knows loss. she is so intrinsically tied to death, since she was ten, that the concept of a 'happy family' or a 'home' to return to feels like a fairy tale. but even if clint hadn't faced the mortality of his loved ones until recently, it doesn't make it any less painful, any less powerful.
she manages to keep herself steeled. only a few tears spill down her cheeks, as clint's pain becomes louder and louder, so much so that wanda has no intention of shutting down. it'll take a few days for it to sink in, given that since she hasn't experienced it, it doesn't feel real to her. )
Don't.
( clint had said something similar to her, i'm sorry, when she had found pietro's body in SHIELD's custody. it wasn't kept a secret from her, at the time, that pietro had died saving clint and costel. wanda never considered it his fault, even if in her darkest hours she wanted to find someone to blame (herself, by the way). she cannot imagine that any of this is clint's fault.
she continues to rub circles on his back, and, after a sniffle, says, )
Is this why you're so often at the Dome?
( getting your ass kicked? tossing out your pent-up rage and pain? wanda doesn't feel ready to ask how it all happened, why it happened. she doesn't think it would be fair to force clint to relive it. )
[If she doesn't want his apologies, he'll try to refrain from giving them. Natasha was a sister to her; hell, at the end of the day, she was around for Wanda more than Clint had been after his (first) retirement. There's a thought--
Jesus, there's a thought that in a place as crazy as this, what if Natasha were to come rolling into town?
But he tucks that hope/fear back. He's at the Dome for a reason, for reasons, none of them good. He doesn't need the extra money, even if that's never a bad thing. He has a violence in him that needs quenched. Not an addiction, but still some kind of need or desire to do more than just shoot from a distance. It helps the bubble of anger-grief from boiling out of control. And it helps him focus. Narrows everything down to just him and his opponent. Keeps him sharp, keeps him on his toes. Makes everything else fall away for a while.
And the pain. Pain's good for focus, too. In a way he's not sure he could explain, even if he wanted to. And why shouldn't he get hit from time to time? He can take it. He deserves it.
Wanda isn't going to judge him. Still, he feels he should warn her, explain just a little:] Been in a bad place for a couple years. 's not easy to just extract yourself from that. Or to even want to.
( it's only when there's a more grounded semblance of balance on their emotions that wanda draws back, one hand left on clint's shoulder, as she moves to sit downβchair a little closer to him now. she studies his face momentarily, wondering if she'll be able to catch on to what goes unsaid.
sometimes is hardly an answer, but it seems like all he can get himself to say about it.
letting go, her hand down onto her lap, wanda leans back on her chair.
listensβ )
You make the future sound really awful.
( βshakes her head, looking down at her hands. )
Clint β I don't want you to feel like you have to be perfectly fine for my sake. None of us are. You're allowed to be this.
( this version of himself, whatever it's supposed to be. whatever it's supposed to hide, protect, keep close so that he doesn't crumble. )
[Her assessment of the future is rewarded with a tired cough of laughter, a barely-there wry pull of his mouth. Yeah, that's cuz the future sucks, but he doesn't say that. Doesn't say that yet, anyway. It's hard to know if that's even okay. She's happy here. What happens if she doesn't go back? What happens if she can't? What happens if she won't? She's happy here. She doesn't need all of that on her shoulders.
Maybe he doesn't need all this on his, either. He just doesn't know how to let it go.]
You were always welcome at home, on the farm. You know that, right? [After the original team became brand new uncles to the kids, that expanded to the new team, too. All good people who might sometimes need a little time living a slightly more rustic life chopping wood and running the tractor and feeding the chickens.] You're always welcome here, too. Or wherever I am. Even if I'm being a surly bastard about it.
Worse. It's people soup. Like two diffusion zones are trying to form on top of each other. People are melded half into buildings. Ground's soft. Buildings are soft. You spend any time there, you start melting into shit too.
Where are you relative to literally anything besides just fringes? Compass direction, distance from city If you're texting me from soup I applaud your ability to spell under the circumstances.
I didn't know they'd be here. Happy little accident. Bunch of people with good intentions are showing up trying to save people from the soup, like you can save a man that's got half his brain and both his lungs merged with a steel support beam. Good samaritans are practically catnip for them.
Don't worry sweetheart, you know how much I love your bow. Don't have eyes for any other bow but yours.
( As it turns out, it's a good thing Clint didn't go home. What happens occurs sometime after he intervened for some other asshole with a bow β turns out he inadvertently bow-cheated on his bow-work wife.
Anyway, the problem isn't with the raiders; Clint will find their corpses sinking into the pavement, halfway melded into blacktop, road lines on their skin, fingertips jutting out at odd angles like shark fins. They've been lying in place for a while.
It makes for a nice breadcrumb trail to find Mister Big Bad Punisher, sunk up to his knees around the side of a building, his back pressed against a wall, and both hands bringing down what looks like a crowbar in a painstaking effort to bust up the sidewalk around his calves. He's put a pretty good dent in it, but he's sweating his ass off. The problem is less about his stamina, though, and more about the fact that being a one man job means he's sinking just about as fast as he's digging himself out. )
It takes time to track Frank down, because 'the Fringes' is not the most pinpoint accurate location, but it's somewhere to start from. The forums help, a little bit. When people start capslocking about bodies melded into the buildings, the ground, between things, along with any supposed spottings of raiders, that helps narrow it down further.
When he sees the vehicles in the distance stopped, some even halfway sunk in, he decides to stop even further back and carefully walk.
It's not great, feeling like he has to tiptoe on solid ground in case any given spot decides it's actually a quicksand pit of fuck you that's going to get his stupid ass caught as well. He tries to keep off the ground, alighting on the stuck vehicles and other objects, though he knows even that is unlikely to save him from getting sucked in. The bodies--what's left of bodies--do in fact lead him to the grunting effort of Frank trying to dig himself out of a sidewalk that looks both painfully solid and like it's trying to swallow him up.
Okay. So don't stand there, maybe, is what he's picking up.
He comes at the problem from above. Grapple arrow still works like a charm, and soon he's working his way down alongside Frank and really really hoping the hook doesn't meld into the roof or his feet don't slip into the wall. One problem at a time.]
What do you need me to do?
[Which is a much nicer and more urgent thing to say than making any smartass comments about Frank soup, which, rest assured, he is thinking about.]
( This is something he'll appreciate about Clint for a long time β that he knows when to be serious. That when it matters, he's a consummate professional, a seasoned soldier. Starting things off with what can I do instead of some bullshit commentary which Frank already knows is gonna come later. He reaffirms in a single line why he's a good choice for a partner, and it's enough that Frank will start to reconsider his strategy of lone wolf'ing it next time.
But for nowβ )
I got a sledgehammer in the back of the van. You get me that, I can break this up, and then it's just dirt.
( Between the two of them, they can haul his ass out of dirt, he thinks. It's just the inches of cement between here and there. )
[He has to make sure Frank is alive to give him shit for 'I'm not gonna get souped' and getting souped. That is priority number one. Clint can be a lil shit with the best of them, but when it matters (and it usually does), he is to the job.
After what they've been through, if he just happens to lose Frank to some fucking diffusion zone freak accident, he can't see the end result of that reaction being a happy one. (And who in the hell could've seen that coming, that he'd come to rely so heavily on the god damn Punisher?)
He nods once, ascends back up his line. Clint's gone for many long minutes. It must feel like forever, the time it takes for him to find and get to the van as efficiently as he can while touching as few surfaces as possible, to come back the way he came because at least he knows it's not quicksand soup while hauling a sledgehammer in his quiver.
But at last, the hammer slams into the concrete beside Frank, dropping it being a quicker way to get it to him rather than wait for Clint to come back down. And obviously, obviously he's not planning on letting Frank do it all by himself.
There's a tentative touch of his foot to the sidewalk by Frank, like it's going to soup him up as well, but it feels solid enough. Keeps the line hooked to his belt to haul himself up if that ever changes, but he alights onto the ground, and as Frank grabs the sledgehammer, he takes the crowbar from his hands and joins in the effort.
It's definitely less efficient for the job needing done. That Frank was managing is actually pretty impressive. But he can leave all that for later, when Frank is out of the god damn soup.]
( The sledgehammer hits the ground, and Frank wastes no time scooping it up. In just the brief minutes he's been gone, Frank's sunk another three or four inches into the earth. There's no time to fuck around. Clint gets a front-row seat to the Frank Castle show, a firsthand view at how good this particular man is at swinging a hammer.
He circles it around over his head and brings it slamming down into the sidewalk with devastating ferocity. The second hit comes with the added bonus of a somewhat feral-sounding, vaguely animalistic grunt of effort β and so does the third, and the fourth, never slowing, never faltering, muscles working despite how hard he's already pushed them trying to crowbar himself out.
Eventually, the concrete's busted and it's just the dirt to contend with. He throws the hammer over to the side, manages a hoarse β )
Can you-
( And holds out a hand; give him a tug, buddy, he could use a little leverage. With the tension and the pull-weight on that bowstring, he's well aware Clint's no slouch himself. )
[It isn't like he had any doubts that Frank could be a machine; anyone can if pushed to it. But the way he attacks the concrete without falter, without hesitation, without slowing from exhaustion or needing to catch his breath, is...impressive. Gets a hell of a lot more done than a crowbar, that's for sure. Man's got a drive to survive, have to grant him that.
He can see the way that even now, into the dirt underneath, Frank still seems to be sinking, the quicksand, the fucking soup, still hungry to make him a permanent part of the landscape. Neither tool is any good for digging, incidentally. Clint foregoes the offered hand and grips his arm instead, one on the forearm, one on the upper arm. Feet planted on terra firma, at least for the moment, and pulling.]
( It takes a fair amount of yanking, coupled with Frank pulling himself out with that grip, pushing at the ground with his free hand, praying his palm doesn't wind up sinking next. At length, they manage it β he goes stumbling out of the dirt, nearly bowling Clint over in the process, catching himself with filthy hands on the guy's shoulders.
Dirt clings to his boots, his pants, all the way up to the knees and then some. Flecks of concrete powder settle above that, along with a couple rubbed-down, worn-out patchy holes in the fabric. It wasn't really graded to withstand getting encased in fucking cement. But all the same, all the same, he's out. Breathless, panting, sweating his ass off, casting a quick glance over at the busted up sidewalk and the gaping maw of a hole that should exist, but simply doesn't. There was no extra space to accommodate him. He was fazing through the dirt and, sooner or later, that dirt would've begun to solidify β on his legs, in his legs.
[Clint catches him, though he damn near stumbles over his own feet in the process. Frank's a big guy. Thankfully, he's gotten pretty used to working around big guys. They're a mess, Frank more than Clint obviously, and covered in concrete dust that is going to be hell on the lungs in the next couple days, but he's out, alive, relatively unharmed.
Clint dips his forehead to Frank's shoulder, laughing, arms around the big lug to hold them both up.]
You asshole. [That's Frank in a nutshell.] You fucking idiot. 'Oh, I'm not gonna get souped, you stay away but I'm totally fine to go into the soup and won't be people soup.' Did you have fun at soup, Frank? Was this fun for you? Gosh, I had so much fun rescuing you from Francis soup.
[He's not letting go to save his life shut the entire fuck up.
They've been causing a commotion that's difficult to miss, however. Yeah, all the raiders in the immediate vicinity seem to have suffered a soupy fate, or a Punisher-and-then-soup fate. Doesn't mean there aren't other people around, friend or foe or neutral. Someone comes poking around.
Someone comes poking around wondering where the hell the rest of their group is and why the hell they haven't come back or checked in. And then there's Castle, becoming a real god damn pain in the backside. Looking like an easy target.
A flash of movement, a drawn gun, the rapid fire of several shots to center mass--]
( Things Frank Castle isn't used to: people that aren't Karen Page demonstrating actual concern for his well-being. It takes him a second to figure out what in the hell's going on, and it isn't until Clint starts raking him over the coals that he realizes. For his troubles, he earns a solid, amused couple of thumps to the back, your stock-standard manly testosterone display of affection during a hug.
Underneath all that lambasting comes a wry New York liltβ )
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get it all out. You happy? Happy with that? You done?
( Thump thump.
It's a goddamn miracle he sees it in time. That asshole off to the side with his gun leveled, a sway in his hand that suggests he's got all the aim of a fucking stormtrooper, intending to hit Frank but not all that bothered by the prospect of winging the guy snuggled up to him in the process if it means taking the asshole out.
He spins roughly, dragging Clint with him, whirling around to put his back to the guy like the meat shield he is. The impact of the bullets hit so hard, the two of them jolt from the force of it. This is how Frank learns that having a built-in bulletproof vest doesn't suddenly somehow make him immune to pain.
But honestly, all that does is piss him off.
A second later, Clint's left to stagger on his own as Frank scoops up the wooden handle, marching directly into two or three more rounds fired off at him, bullet casings tinkling onto the ground as Frank powers directly through them to introduce the man to his sledgehammer.
He's exhausted. What this means is not that he's sluggish. It means he has no patience. The dispatching is brutal. )
[And then he's being physically moved with such sudden force that his body tenses up, ready to have to throw his friend or grapple with him or otherwise be put into a fight mode.
And it's a good and proper response, too, when Frank is fucking shot. Frank, who normally wears his kevlar vest, who is not wearing his vest at current, why the hell wasn't he wearing it out hunting--
The bullets don't pass through, in spite of the power, and Frank leaves him to do his work. Clint, for his part, breathlessly pulls his bow to hand and nocks an arrow. He doesn't have a good shot on the guy given Frank is taking up all the immediate space, Frank who gets shot even more except...
The sinewy string under his fingers thuds rapidly in time with his heartbeat, a thing he hates has happened to his weapon. He keeps his eyes and ears open, even as Frank delivers a blow, several blows, that are both crunchy and squishy. There isn't anyone else in the immediate area that he can figure. Loner, seeing a chance and fucking it up, maybe. What they're going to need to do is lock down the area, secure a perimeter, make damn sure no other stragglers are loitering around.
For the moment, though. For the moment, it's just them again.] Frank. [He isn't bleeding out he isn't dying he's still standing-- Clint makes his way over, at the ready, spinning himself in a slow circle in case there's anyone else, and he sees nothing, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything these days, does it?] Frank!
( The hammer, hefty as it is, droops toward the ground. The smooth polished wood whispers softly against his callouses as he lets it slip until the sturdy head of it presses into the sidewalk, and he leans on it there, catching his breath.
Where the first call of his name didn't get him, the second one does β and how he can tell the difference in Clint's tone is impossible to say, really. He just knows it wasn't a Frank there's somebody else, or he'd have kicked into motion again immediately. This is either concern, or disbelief, or something else on the urgency spectrum aside from combat.
To be entirely god damn honest, he's forgotten. It's been long enough at this point that it slips his mind, how it must look. The fact that he's not wearing a glaringly obvious vest over his shirt, taking five or six rounds to the chest seemingly unprotected. Not a hint of real injury lingers in his posture, though, aside from the stiffness and the ache that always follows getting hit in the vest. People don't realize how much that shit still hurts, the impact velocity of a bullet stopping abruptly by slamming into you, even if they don't penetrate. He's gonna be bruised for days, but it'll be all but invisible under the black.
His eyes track to Clint, and there's a fleeting flash of confusion in them. A mirroring sort of concern, and in a manner that'll seem hilarious in hindsight, he rasps out: )
[The incredulity bleeds through clearly. The arrow stays nocked, but he feels no immediate need to keep the string pulled anymore. Frank is standing and alive and not even bleeding. Like if he was actually wearing his vest. Which he isn't.]
There is not a soul on this planet that is happier you're still standing than I am, [he says, neither of them knowing there's at least one other--] but how the hell are you still standing?
( And you know something? Thinking about it β he thinks that might actually be the truth. Clint might actually be the person on this planet that would be most impacted by him dying. Nash might be sad, maybe see his ghost around, but there'd probably be some measure of relief that things got slightly less complicated for her. Fury might miss him, but they haven't known each other long. Murdock is Murdock, any opportunity to be an angsty little bitch is one he'll take, but that dynamic is fraught at the best of times. It occurs to him, suddenly, that this asshole might actually be his best friend. Well, shit.
That fleeting flash of understanding passes across his expression, and he sighs, ducking his gaze for a second β then glancing over, around, to make sure nobody's in the wings, lurking, looking.
And then he reaches down, and pulls the hem of his shirt up to nearly his collar. )
Somethin' happened. After I visited one of these fucking zones, something... I don't know.
( What lies underneath looks not entirely unlike a blackout tattoo, with slender lighter skin lines etching out the relief of a familiar skull. It's all very obviously musculature, it's skin, to a certain extent β but with a strange texture, a strange color, reminiscent of Kevlar. Beyond that, in the places where the vest doesn't cover, up near his shoulders, the newer wounds and scar tissue are knitted together with that same inky blackness. )
[Things change, sometimes, when out in the zones. His bow changed, yeah. Things, objects, those change. People?
God damn, apparently people also change. Is it temporary? Is there a fix? Does he want a fix?
Clint stares, bow lowering and lowering until he just puts the arrow away back in his quiver and tries to understand what he's seeing. Because it looks like a tattoo. It looks like several bottles of ink spilled on him and stained his skin, save for the parts that accentuate deliberate design. It only stops being uniform where the 'vest' would stop sitting, where it looks like someone's been stitching him together with thick black thread.
Listen. He isn't stupid. He can see 'in the shape of the vest' and 'got shot and didn't penetrate skin' and reach the conclusion. But that doesn't make it easier to really take in.
He takes the last couple of steps in to close the distance, a knot of consternation between his brows. It's skin but it's also not skin. His fingers reach out, hesitate only a fraction of an inch from Frank's skin, and then trace along his abdomen.]
( What he touches is definitely a physical, living body. Muscles twitch under Clint's fingers, an automatic unconscious tense and release, jumping the way abs do. It's warm like body heat, it's pliable enough, it's got give, or it would be if he pressed down with any real pressure. It's only slightly rougher than normal, a light texture not entirely unlike goosebumps. It's organic.
Frank waits patiently, passively, expression stoic as he studies Clint's face for any hints on what he might be thinking. Fury hadn't seemed to mind terribly, but damn, there's not much that fazes that woman. She's seen every fucking thing there is, it feels like. Clint's got a much more typical baseline β which is saying something, because he's a god damn alien-fighting Avenger and his baseline is in outer fucking space, but still.
If he's disgusted by it, or repulsed, or uncomfortable, or freaked out, a saner person would be, too. )
I don't know. ( He says again, just as lost as the first time, but quieter. ) Had to cut my shirt off after the trip because the vest was- it was sinking in in places. Wouldn't come off. Now it's- this.
[He's not really any of those things. Not disgusted or repulsed, at any rate. If there's any discomfort, it gets eased away by knowing that whatever's happened, it saved Frank's life. (And Clint's, by extension.) It is freaky, though. Like, just because he's done time travel and faced down aliens and fought a robot army on a flying city and ate pizza with a talking bipedal not-a-raccoon doesn't make this not freaky.
Frank clearly feels through it. Organic. Skin, muscle, nerve endings. He traces the outline of the skull partway and then pulls his hand back again.] This cuz of the soup? [Makes sense, if people are melding and sinking into their surroundings, maybe things start sinking into people, too.]
( His lips quirk β can't blame him for the question. )
Happened before the soup. ( But he gets why Clint thinks that might be a thing. This feels different, though. He thinks if this had been a soup thing, the vest merging into his skin like this might actually kill him. As he's seen it, the soup doesn't just merge with people seamlessly, it solidifies inside them, fazing two things together. Straight through organs, bones, and tissue. Straight into brain matter. It's horrifying. But either way- ) Feels an awful lot like getting shot, so it doesn't tickle.
( Nerve endings. He still feels it all. Feels almost identical to vest impact, so at least it's not as bad as actually taking the bullet. But still. He lowers the shirt, smooths it down. Rolls his tired shoulders out. )
What I really wanna do? Is get the hell outta soup.
I meant the--that, if that hurts, but yeah, guess taking five is gonna leave you feeling like shit.
So is dealing with soup. [Sledgehammer's useful. He's taking that with so it can go back in the mommyvan. Hell, he'll make room in his quiver for it. Because it doesn't matter if Frank's still standing. Clint's going to situate himself under one of his arms to sling around shoulders, take on at least some of his weight.] You start sinking again, I'll just leave your ass to the soup. [He won't.] See a guy about a horse, you are something else, you know that?
[Unfortunately, having someone that cares about you means getting bitched at for dumbshit behavior.]
( You know what? He appreciates the assist. He won't even bitch about Clint slipping under one of his arms like he's an invalid β he's been standing in soup for the better part of an hour, then taking five slugs to the core after beating on concrete? Not at his best. He leans heavily into the guy for the first couple steps, until his muscles unlock and he can straighten again, carried forth by momentum and spite combined. )
That's what they tell me. ( Wry; Clint has joined a long line of people well-versed in the art of bitching about everything Frank Castle does. He is an infuriating man, and a difficult one to love. For some reason, god knows why, a few stupid people choose to do it anyway. ) I'll bring you with next time.
( That last one β that's actually serious. He means it. He's not sure why; he's more into handling shit by himself, has been ever since the accident, but... for some reason, hell, he doesn't know, he feels the tug. The impulse. This shit would've gone smoother with Clint here. Clint probably would've noticed his ass sinking into the soup in the first place before shit got too bad. Maybe it's not so bad, accepting that he likes working with a partner. That he likes backup.
Not everything has to end the way shit did with Billy Russo.
He chews his tongue and, after a few steps, starts β )
I had this friend once... Somebody I served with. We did three tours. He was like my brother, shit, my kids called him Uncle Bill. He had my back. I haven't- ( He bites the inside of his cheek; his jaw works for a tic. ) I do what I do by myself for a reason. It wasn't because you're not good. You're the best. I'm just not used to having backup anymore.
[He is not going to complain about taking weight, and he isn't going to complain (this time) if Frank only wants to lean on him for a bit before the machismo kicks back in to drive him forward under his own power more.
It does make him feel better, to know that Frank will lean on him (figuratively) more in the future. They don't have to spend every outing together; god knows Clint does plenty of scavenging on his own as it is. Sometimes these raiders are just going to happen. But going hunting, or wandering into a particularly fraught area? He'd like a heads up. Hell, he'll even try not to be a hypocrite and extend the same offer to Frank.
Then there's the rest. The friend, the brother, the uncle. Something happened there. Reasons the Marine who had a band of brothers around him would choose to go at it lone wolf style. He thinks, briefly, about Auntie Nat, feels green around the gills about it, moves on from the thought.] I can be a real pain in the ass to shake. I'll grow on you like a weed; I'll just keep coming back if you try to push me away.
( Neither of them can really know how that statement's going to foreshadow events in the not-too-distant future. Here and now, in the meantime, while Frank is in a relatively healthy place and he's not actively shooting himself in the foot, he only scoffs out a soft, breathy laugh. )
Yeah, I'm startin' to get that. ( Sooner rather than later, the mommyvan (god damn you) is in sight. Sooner rather than later, he's tiredly thrusting his shit into the back β that hammer, his rifle. Sooner rather than later, he's slamming the hatch shut and leaning tiredly on the bumper to level Clint with an earnest look. ) Hey, Barton... Thanks. For coming to soup. Think we might be even.
( For that whole near-drowning kiss of life thing a few months back. )
Could be. Or maybe we'll be even when I bring you back from straight up not breathing. [There's part of him that's tempted to just insist on driving, but that'd be leaving his own car here, and god only knows when shit might turn soupy again. Man's exhausted, not half dead.] Lucky for both of us, I'm not exactly keeping track.
[He's never been that kind of guy. His numbers have always been in the red (bleeding, dripping, gushing red), and doing the right thing's never going to be about getting even about anything.]
'Sides, you saw the shooter coming. [Clint was a little busy being grateful Frank was alive. God damn it.] You knew you could take the hits. Dipshit could've taken out both of us if he was any good at his job, so.
[Thanks for the counter-save, is kind of what he's getting at.]
( And let them both just hope there's never a situation where Clint's ever gotta bring him back from the brink, not breathing, heart barely beating. If they could avoid getting that level of even at all costs, he'd appreciate that.
Anyway, his work out here is done. Another squad of raiders cleaned up, a bystander saved from their shitty attempt at a jump. He'll count it as a win, even if he did need a hand getting out of soup. He's ready to get the hell out of here.
Which brings him to his next pitch: )
Buy you a beer?
( He could go for a fucking drink. As it so happens, he knows a place β one that has him on the buy one, get one list for life, according to the bartender. If Clint takes him up on it, this'll be how he finally meets a girl named Nashua Whelan. )
Beer I don't have to pay for? I'd be stupid to turn that down.
[Something to quietly celebrate not dying. Something to take the edge off. Something not soup. Something that is the closest thing either of them can probably get to normal around here. There's no chance in hell Clint's going to want to meander to the Dome for hits or watching people get hit tonight or even the next several, he's pretty sure.
He cocks his head at Frank, then motions up and down to him.] Tell me you're gonna get cleaned up first. Pretty sure ripped jeans never came back in style.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
after a call that didn't go throughβ
my phone has sticky buttons
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Clean your phone.
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oh , you meant the leave a message after the tone part. that's how it ends.
my phone is clean. it just puts spaces at random , like that , see?
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I'm definitely not changing it ever.
Sounds like your phone wants you to give it some space.
[There is no escaping the dad jokes.]
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as long as you find it funny , i guess.
are you going to that resort place?
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God I hope this one doesn't try to kill me.
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( trying to keep this light(tm) )
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You going?
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it's too hot anyway.
( she will get FOMO later, don't worry. )
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(how does one get into THAT?)
thinks it'll stick around for a bit. You can still have your chance if you want to ride on out. Not sure how much would be left to salvage though.
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are you hoping to come back with a lot of things? looking to loot the place?
that's doing a lot.
( she thinks, from their previous conversation, that he's doing a lot. maybe in trying to keep himself from becoming inert, settling the score with his thoughts. but, she's not natasha, and she's not about to tell him what to do or not to do. )
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[Does it seem like a lot? Maybe. Probably. He just knows, remembers, that spending too long not doing things made the world around him a lot darker. Much better to do.]
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( pft, okay, clint. )
just remember to relax.
it's a resort.
send me pictures.
post-event 1, after a dome fight
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( the hits the other guy got on him. )
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Wait were you at the dome watching fights?
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you really came to know me when things were mostly neat and easy. your dad senses would go haywire if you knew the things we got up to growing up in novi grad.
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So you like watching fight club in real life huh. Hope I wasn't an embarrassment.
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( the shit young clint got up to. )
i guess it helps when you aren't fighting enhanced individuals or people with powers. you did ok.
( lol wanda )
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I can take on a powered person just fine so long as I can shoot them from a distance or have something else going on besides taking them head on in fisticuffs.
1/2
( anyway, )
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( get the hint, clint! )
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[Look...]
Should we go for noodles again? Maybe meat fruit burgers?
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But that sounds nice. If you're willing. Dealer's choice.
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you choose to participate in the dome fights.
i haven't been to your place. what's the address ?
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It's not much. It's home away from home for now.
Does your place have mold? I could visit you instead.
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we got the place cleaned up pretty well.
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( please, clint!! )
see you soon.
( wanda will make her way to the address clint gave her, on her motorcycle, and will stop only the one time to ask for proper directions. once she is certain she is in the right motel, in front of the correct door, she will knock.
she's got a backpack with cleaning supplies, and an actual plastic bag where the food is in a container. don't worry about cross-contamination. )
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Hey there. [It's not much on the inside. At the end of the day, it's a motel, what do you want. There's a bed, a couple places to put things, a bathroom that works most of the time. Maybe if all his fighting and looting and working earns him enough joolies, he can upgrade to a room with a bathroom that works all the time. Lap of luxury!
The mold's not great, though. It creeps along the joints of the walls, not smothering, but more than anyone should want to have in their room. Given the amount anyone should want in their room is zero.] Make yourself at home.
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but they have crossed that bridge before in the past.
wanda tries her best to make herself at home when she walks in, but it's impossible to not notice the mold on the walls. it's not bad, but it could do with being better.
she sets the bag down on the table, once she's made sure it's clean. wanda glances at him. )
How do you feel about pigeon?
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[It's strange. To see her again, in general, and have her here, and for her to invite herself over like they're going to pretend anything is normal. She's worried, and she's got every right to be.]
I know better than to tell you you don't have to take care of me. Not gonna keep me from thinking it loudly though.
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( so, it's not like she'd be able to tell or agree with his statement. still, his words don't deter her from going about opening the bag and putting the food containers down on the table. she even brought some of those wooden forks and spoons.
for clint's benefit, the food is still warm. )
Don't worry, I'll ignore your thinking, too. ( she takes a sidestep, pulling up one of the chairs at the table. ) Have a seat. It actually tastes pretty good.
( considering this is food made by a 'cook' proper and all. )
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[He isn't stiff in his movements. That'll come tomorrow, after whatever rest he gets, when the soreness really kicks in. That won't keep him from his job, obviously. Or any of his other activities. He slumps into the seat and gives the food a whiff.] Smells pretty normal, and y'know what? I'll take smells normal and tastes good around here.
[Not that the food is necessarily bad. It just...sometimes tends toward weird.]
So. You placing bets on anyone when you go watch fights?
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she imagines that clint will feel more compelled to eat if he sees her doing as much, too.
a shrug initiates her answer to his question. her words then come, mumbled and a little rough. )
Don't got enough joolies for that.
( it's not really her scene, as he had surmised earlier, but clint actually participating in them makes her feel like she has to go to just make sure he isn't dead after a match. it's not entirely sound reasoning, but it makes her feel like she has a breadth of control.
a spoonful of rice into her mouth, and wanda starts chewing. it tastes goodβquite excellent, too. trust sanji to make food with the ingredients here and make it feel like it's a gourmet meal.
now, a question of her own: )
Do you make a lot by fighting?
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The important part is that he's eating. He would've eaten all on his own like a big boy without her swinging by with a to-go bag, but it's nice. That she cares enough. Food is a love language all its own.
Still. He stirs it up, helps himself to a couple heaping spoonfuls, and considers her. Considers the question asked.] This isn't an intervention, is it?
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so, when he asks, and it becomes clear to her that he has his own suspicions about her being there, wanda can't help but snort. )
What makes you think that?
( she is hardly in any position to try and tell others what to do or not do. )
I might be trying to check up on you without being obvious, ( failing, despite her efforts ) but I'm not going to tell you how to live. your life.
We can keep tabs on each other, no?
( scooping up some rice, she adds, )
You can ask me about what I'm up to, too. I didn't mean to sound like I'm interrogating you.
( there's a small, bemused smile on her features. )
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Wanda has kept her promises. Hasn't, to his knowledge, pried into his head. Only skims the surface when his feelings get loud. She doesn't ask what happens (in her future), what happened (in his recent past), and gives him space, and gives him time.
She's a good person like that, and her bemusement mollifies him. He's not ashamed of his suspicions. But it's more looking out for a friend who does some stupid and dangerous stuff, make sure he doesn't die, make sure he takes some kind of care of himself, than anything to do with making him stop. He slumps a little for it with a sigh, makes to rub at his face except that hurts, so he just stuffs his face with more good food that a good friend brought when she didn't need to. He's being kind of ungrateful about it, huh? That he can feel a twinge of shame about.]
Sorry. You're right, sorry, guess I'm just...being paranoid. We all need all the friends we can get out here, right? [What a concept. Friends. People to rely on. He'd started to let himself fall back into old habits with the team, and then he fell and fell and fell, and made himself reset back to relying on only himself, surrounded by potentially dangerous strangers.] You been up to anything interesting? Besides watching stupid old men in a fighting ring?
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( to be paranoid, if that's what he wants to be; especially in a city like this, with so many unknowns, so many variables, so many strangers. wanda doesn't think it's wrong to feel that way, and sometimes she wonders if she hadn't been taken in by sanji and the rest of his (current) crew if she wouldn't be feeling exactly the same. perhaps she's even been softened up a touch.
so long as clint understands that he doesn't have to be entirely alone, that much is alright. it's not like she's going to babysit him, anyway, and there's a familial pull towards him. )
How old are you again? Seventy, right? ( βshe jestsβ ) I helped someone dye their hair green the other night. I work some boring jobs.
( a shrug. )
Quiet and boring is nice.
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[Quiet. Boring. He hasn't had either of those in years. He did, for a time. Stuck at home driving Laura a little crazy with more home reno projects. Teaching the kids all sorts of things. Quality time. Making up for so much lost time. He can't imagine it now.
Could he imagine it like this? Quiet conversation with a friend who feels like family? (Someone else lost to a madman's quest, a snap of the fingers-)]
You think you could be happy here? With the quiet and boring and occasionally weird.
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though, in her opinion, he looks perfectly fine as is.
but it's his question that draws her back from that moment of mirth, taking in a deep breath, exhaling. )
I am happy.
( she admits, even to herself. if she were to think about it, a kind of sadness, that unrelenting ocean of grief, remains, is unrelenting; here, though, she is free, not just from the raft, but from a world that doesn't seem to want her in it. here, she gets to be some semblance of normal, and the occasional weird perhaps helps with the monotony, for those like clint and herself, who have already dipped themselves into the weird of the world. )
The guy who cooked this... Sanji, we're roommates. I think we're friends. ( with a light smile, she adds, ) He's a pirate, he says, and his crew β Zoro and Nami, they're here, too. We live together. They're strange in their own way, but I β feel that I am one of them.
( the way she's been taken in, by this group of young adults who can manage on their own but seem to just be doing the best they can under the circumstances, who mess up, who fight each other, but who come around together every time, it'sβ
it's just like how it used to be, when she had pietro, when she had her friends, in sokovia, when she had a home.
belonged.
the thought alone brings a grimace to her expression, rubbing the heel of her palm against her eye, to dissuade the forming tears from spilling. pietro's absence rings so hollowly inside her, ever present. with that same hand, she reaches over the table, to grab at clint's hand, even if she only reaches his wrist right now. )
...but it's okay if you don't think you could be happy here.
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Has he been that blind, that caught up in himself, that he didn't bother to see it?
She has people. She has people that like her, that she likes, in a place where she feels like she can belong instead of being alone, being an outcast. Here, she doesn't need to be confronted with the obliteration of her own country's existence day in and day out. Here, she doesn't need to hide who she is, but also is free to navigate this world without having to rely on her powers. There's no superhero team here. Just people getting by. She's allowed to be that, a person getting by. She's being that. In a world where she won't get locked up for doing the right thing, she's just being.
There's a venomous part of him that reinforces what he's been quietly telling Wanda, that she shouldn't hang on to a sad and tired old man, whispers that she doesn't need to drag herself down like that, that she doesn't need to bloody her hands by holding onto his. But there's also the part that recognizes that this is family. This is family. And they both need that more than anything. She's just more capable of growing her own family here just as well as she can hold onto the family that's followed her here.
His hand turns in her grip, palm up on the table, to hold and to be held in return. The concept of happiness has been so fucking fleeting over five years. Misery and misery upon misery until Natasha had brought hope. And here, here there are moments where he thinks he reaches something adjacent to happy, something that makes him laugh, meets someone that brings a brief smile to his face. But could he be happy here?
Could he be happy anywhere anymore?
He could try. For Wanda. It seems almost absurd, the grief settled onto him like a second skin, but if he can dig himself out...if he can at least try and make the effort--]
Wanda... [His voice creaks, and he has to clear his throat to try and dislodge the glass shards lining it.] You know things have happened. Things you don't know about yet, things you don't ask about. And I don't want to burden you with the knowledge of things you can't do anything about, because that doesn't seem fair. I don't think it's fair to drag you down for no good reason.
[Is that reasonable, or is that an excuse?]
I don't know. I still have days I'm not sure I'm not dead. I don't know that I can be happy here, but if you're happy...that helps. And maybe I'd like to meet this pirate crew of yours.
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while she doesn't poke and prod into his mind to get the answers herself, it's impossible to quiet down the noise of his emotions filtering through. this misery, this darkness.
it worries her, but she isn't sure she knows how exactly she can do more, other than just being here, like she is; if clint even wants more from her. she remains quiet throughout what he says, thoughtful, wondering if this is enough. )
They might think you're cool. Archer and all. ( with perfect aimβ ) They're younger than me, though, so don't get all protective about it.
( it's a light jab at his expense, at his always worrying for those he grows attached to.
she squeezes his hand, leaning a little closer, against the table. )
I'm... sorry. That you can't tell me these things. I do want to help however I can.
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She's not one of his kids. She's been an adult since they met. But she's still family far as he's concerned.
And maybe all of that means he's been too protective. She's offering help. She's offering her place as friend and family to try and help him, even if he can't see how, even if he can't see much more than the occasional pinprick of light at the end of the long long tunnel. But he can't just dump years of shit on her. He won't do that to her. He can't tell her that she's going to be on the run and fall in love and lose that love, that she and half the entire universe are going to get wiped from existence, that he didn't know what to do with himself with an empty house and empty heart. Maybe if he explains that they might all be back, that Bruce did it, he thinks they did it, that the sacrifices weren't in vain, whatever it takes--
His body slouches forward, both closer to her, and letting himself feel all the weight. Five years have felt like fifty. What does he do with this person he's become? Stay on the path, or try to see what's salvageable underneath? If they're all here forever (dubious claim but so far have found no reason to dispute it), whether alive or dead, then doesn't he owe it to himself to make something better? Fuck, doesn't he owe that to Laura?
Doesn't he owe that to--]
Natasha's dead.
[He squeezes Wanda's hand like a lifeline, his eyes darting between her face and a middle distance.]
The circumstances are... [He makes to rub at his face with his free hand but doesn't quite get there before he just makes an empty gesture with it instead, falling heavy back to the table after.] complicated to get into, but. Yeah. She's dead. It's not that I can't tell you these things. [They're hard. They're enormous and they're hard. But he can tell her. If he means to, he can muster through it. She can easily feel the pain, fresh and vibrant, without having to look. It radiates off him. He was falling before he got here; it'd be irony to die that way after Nat was determined to make sure he didn't fall. His throat wants to close up, voice getting quiet and thick.] I don't...don't know what help looks like. For something like that.
[And now she knows. Someone else she was close to, gone. Does he qualify that they got to spend a few more years together before that? On the run, sure, but free of the Raft? But if Wanda hasn't experienced that, does it matter? What does any of it mean here? What good, then, does it do Wanda to know that tidbit of information except hurt her?
It's a whisper, it's even quieter than a whisper:] I'm sorry.
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it just makes sense, even if it seems to wanda that there is more here than what he tells. these 'circumstances' that are 'complicated to get into'. things from her future that will come to pass, but should not be burdened by.
a future where natasha is dead?
for all their most recent conflict with the avengers splitting up, she was vaguely aware that natasha changed her mind. natasha, who took her in, who helped her assimilate to life in america, taught her the ropes, despite her grief and moodiness; natasha is dead? the way her emotions cave in is from the shock, her eyes only now glancing up to look at clint's face proper, tears threatening to spill; she feels empty, devoid of anything, because this is how clint feels.
standing up (she somehow finds herself still attached to the laws of gravity, by some miracle), wanda pulls her hand away from clint's, but draws only a few steps closer to lean down, to wrap her arms around his shoulders. )
I'm here.
( i don't know what help looks like. for something like that.
when wanda lost pietro, nothing felt right. nothing would ever make it right. what does help for that look like? she didn't know, either, back then. now, she still doesn't know. just putting one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. but clint was there, as was steve, vision, natasha. maybe she won't be able to help at all with these feelings, with this reality that awaits her in the future, that awaits them back home, butβ
she's here. )
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But she's here.
Wanda pulls her hand away, and that's fair, he thinks, fair that she might stalk away, take time to herself, resent him for this unbidden knowledge--but she remains. She is here. Her arms wrap around him, and they share in the pain, and she's here.
A dam cracks, a scab rips off, a precariously perched box falls and spills its contents everywhere. She's here, and they can share the pain, and suddenly it's hard to breathe, hard to see around the sting in his eyes. His arms feel like heavy lead, but they make their way up, tentative at first and then more sure, around Wanda.]
Thank you. [Wet and thick and heavy and choked out. She's here. In spite of everything. Because of everything. A friendship he needs to not take for granted, and distance will not save them. His breath stutters.] 'm sorry. [For not trusting her, for not trusting himself, for doing this to her, for not doing it sooner. That Natasha is gone. That it's his fault, even if Wanda doesn't know that yet.]
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wanda knows loss. she is so intrinsically tied to death, since she was ten, that the concept of a 'happy family' or a 'home' to return to feels like a fairy tale. but even if clint hadn't faced the mortality of his loved ones until recently, it doesn't make it any less painful, any less powerful.
she manages to keep herself steeled. only a few tears spill down her cheeks, as clint's pain becomes louder and louder, so much so that wanda has no intention of shutting down. it'll take a few days for it to sink in, given that since she hasn't experienced it, it doesn't feel real to her. )
Don't.
( clint had said something similar to her, i'm sorry, when she had found pietro's body in SHIELD's custody. it wasn't kept a secret from her, at the time, that pietro had died saving clint and costel. wanda never considered it his fault, even if in her darkest hours she wanted to find someone to blame (herself, by the way). she cannot imagine that any of this is clint's fault.
she continues to rub circles on his back, and, after a sniffle, says, )
Is this why you're so often at the Dome?
( getting your ass kicked? tossing out your pent-up rage and pain? wanda doesn't feel ready to ask how it all happened, why it happened. she doesn't think it would be fair to force clint to relive it. )
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[If she doesn't want his apologies, he'll try to refrain from giving them. Natasha was a sister to her; hell, at the end of the day, she was around for Wanda more than Clint had been after his (first) retirement. There's a thought--
Jesus, there's a thought that in a place as crazy as this, what if Natasha were to come rolling into town?
But he tucks that hope/fear back. He's at the Dome for a reason, for reasons, none of them good. He doesn't need the extra money, even if that's never a bad thing. He has a violence in him that needs quenched. Not an addiction, but still some kind of need or desire to do more than just shoot from a distance. It helps the bubble of anger-grief from boiling out of control. And it helps him focus. Narrows everything down to just him and his opponent. Keeps him sharp, keeps him on his toes. Makes everything else fall away for a while.
And the pain. Pain's good for focus, too. In a way he's not sure he could explain, even if he wanted to. And why shouldn't he get hit from time to time? He can take it. He deserves it.
Wanda isn't going to judge him. Still, he feels he should warn her, explain just a little:] Been in a bad place for a couple years. 's not easy to just extract yourself from that. Or to even want to.
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sometimes is hardly an answer, but it seems like all he can get himself to say about it.
letting go, her hand down onto her lap, wanda leans back on her chair.
listensβ )
You make the future sound really awful.
( βshakes her head, looking down at her hands. )
Clint β I don't want you to feel like you have to be perfectly fine for my sake. None of us are. You're allowed to be this.
( this version of himself, whatever it's supposed to be. whatever it's supposed to hide, protect, keep close so that he doesn't crumble. )
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Maybe he doesn't need all this on his, either. He just doesn't know how to let it go.]
You were always welcome at home, on the farm. You know that, right? [After the original team became brand new uncles to the kids, that expanded to the new team, too. All good people who might sometimes need a little time living a slightly more rustic life chopping wood and running the tractor and feeding the chickens.] You're always welcome here, too. Or wherever I am. Even if I'm being a surly bastard about it.
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Or don't go alone.
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It's people soup.
Like two diffusion zones are trying to form on top of each other. People are melded half into buildings. Ground's soft. Buildings are soft. You spend any time there, you start melting into shit too.
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Where are you
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Where are you relative to literally anything besides just fringes?
Compass direction, distance from city
If you're texting me from soup I applaud your ability to spell under the circumstances.
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Why do I get the feeling if I tell you, you're gonna come to soup?
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( For now. )
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Bunch of people with good intentions are showing up trying to save people from the soup, like you can save a man that's got half his brain and both his lungs merged with a steel support beam.
Good samaritans are practically catnip for them.
Don't worry sweetheart, you know how much I love your bow. Don't have eyes for any other bow but yours.
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See you soon babe.
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( As it turns out, it's a good thing Clint didn't go home. What happens occurs sometime after he intervened for some other asshole with a bow β turns out he inadvertently bow-cheated on his bow-work wife.
Anyway, the problem isn't with the raiders; Clint will find their corpses sinking into the pavement, halfway melded into blacktop, road lines on their skin, fingertips jutting out at odd angles like shark fins. They've been lying in place for a while.
It makes for a nice breadcrumb trail to find Mister Big Bad Punisher, sunk up to his knees around the side of a building, his back pressed against a wall, and both hands bringing down what looks like a crowbar in a painstaking effort to bust up the sidewalk around his calves. He's put a pretty good dent in it, but he's sweating his ass off. The problem is less about his stamina, though, and more about the fact that being a one man job means he's sinking just about as fast as he's digging himself out. )
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It takes time to track Frank down, because 'the Fringes' is not the most pinpoint accurate location, but it's somewhere to start from. The forums help, a little bit. When people start capslocking about bodies melded into the buildings, the ground, between things, along with any supposed spottings of raiders, that helps narrow it down further.
When he sees the vehicles in the distance stopped, some even halfway sunk in, he decides to stop even further back and carefully walk.
It's not great, feeling like he has to tiptoe on solid ground in case any given spot decides it's actually a quicksand pit of fuck you that's going to get his stupid ass caught as well. He tries to keep off the ground, alighting on the stuck vehicles and other objects, though he knows even that is unlikely to save him from getting sucked in. The bodies--what's left of bodies--do in fact lead him to the grunting effort of Frank trying to dig himself out of a sidewalk that looks both painfully solid and like it's trying to swallow him up.
Okay. So don't stand there, maybe, is what he's picking up.
He comes at the problem from above. Grapple arrow still works like a charm, and soon he's working his way down alongside Frank and really really hoping the hook doesn't meld into the roof or his feet don't slip into the wall. One problem at a time.]
What do you need me to do?
[Which is a much nicer and more urgent thing to say than making any smartass comments about Frank soup, which, rest assured, he is thinking about.]
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But for nowβ )
I got a sledgehammer in the back of the van. You get me that, I can break this up, and then it's just dirt.
( Between the two of them, they can haul his ass out of dirt, he thinks. It's just the inches of cement between here and there. )
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After what they've been through, if he just happens to lose Frank to some fucking diffusion zone freak accident, he can't see the end result of that reaction being a happy one. (And who in the hell could've seen that coming, that he'd come to rely so heavily on the god damn Punisher?)
He nods once, ascends back up his line. Clint's gone for many long minutes. It must feel like forever, the time it takes for him to find and get to the van as efficiently as he can while touching as few surfaces as possible, to come back the way he came because at least he knows it's not quicksand soup while hauling a sledgehammer in his quiver.
But at last, the hammer slams into the concrete beside Frank, dropping it being a quicker way to get it to him rather than wait for Clint to come back down. And obviously, obviously he's not planning on letting Frank do it all by himself.
There's a tentative touch of his foot to the sidewalk by Frank, like it's going to soup him up as well, but it feels solid enough. Keeps the line hooked to his belt to haul himself up if that ever changes, but he alights onto the ground, and as Frank grabs the sledgehammer, he takes the crowbar from his hands and joins in the effort.
It's definitely less efficient for the job needing done. That Frank was managing is actually pretty impressive. But he can leave all that for later, when Frank is out of the god damn soup.]
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He circles it around over his head and brings it slamming down into the sidewalk with devastating ferocity. The second hit comes with the added bonus of a somewhat feral-sounding, vaguely animalistic grunt of effort β and so does the third, and the fourth, never slowing, never faltering, muscles working despite how hard he's already pushed them trying to crowbar himself out.
Eventually, the concrete's busted and it's just the dirt to contend with. He throws the hammer over to the side, manages a hoarse β )
Can you-
( And holds out a hand; give him a tug, buddy, he could use a little leverage. With the tension and the pull-weight on that bowstring, he's well aware Clint's no slouch himself. )
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He can see the way that even now, into the dirt underneath, Frank still seems to be sinking, the quicksand, the fucking soup, still hungry to make him a permanent part of the landscape. Neither tool is any good for digging, incidentally. Clint foregoes the offered hand and grips his arm instead, one on the forearm, one on the upper arm. Feet planted on terra firma, at least for the moment, and pulling.]
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Dirt clings to his boots, his pants, all the way up to the knees and then some. Flecks of concrete powder settle above that, along with a couple rubbed-down, worn-out patchy holes in the fabric. It wasn't really graded to withstand getting encased in fucking cement. But all the same, all the same, he's out. Breathless, panting, sweating his ass off, casting a quick glance over at the busted up sidewalk and the gaping maw of a hole that should exist, but simply doesn't. There was no extra space to accommodate him. He was fazing through the dirt and, sooner or later, that dirt would've begun to solidify β on his legs, in his legs.
Under his breath, a rusty, derisive mutter: )
Fucking soup.
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Clint dips his forehead to Frank's shoulder, laughing, arms around the big lug to hold them both up.]
You asshole. [That's Frank in a nutshell.] You fucking idiot. 'Oh, I'm not gonna get souped, you stay away but I'm totally fine to go into the soup and won't be people soup.' Did you have fun at soup, Frank? Was this fun for you? Gosh, I had so much fun rescuing you from Francis soup.
[He's not letting go to save his life shut the entire fuck up.
They've been causing a commotion that's difficult to miss, however. Yeah, all the raiders in the immediate vicinity seem to have suffered a soupy fate, or a Punisher-and-then-soup fate. Doesn't mean there aren't other people around, friend or foe or neutral. Someone comes poking around.
Someone comes poking around wondering where the hell the rest of their group is and why the hell they haven't come back or checked in. And then there's Castle, becoming a real god damn pain in the backside. Looking like an easy target.
A flash of movement, a drawn gun, the rapid fire of several shots to center mass--]
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Underneath all that lambasting comes a wry New York liltβ )
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get it all out. You happy? Happy with that? You done?
( Thump thump.
It's a goddamn miracle he sees it in time. That asshole off to the side with his gun leveled, a sway in his hand that suggests he's got all the aim of a fucking stormtrooper, intending to hit Frank but not all that bothered by the prospect of winging the guy snuggled up to him in the process if it means taking the asshole out.
He spins roughly, dragging Clint with him, whirling around to put his back to the guy like the meat shield he is. The impact of the bullets hit so hard, the two of them jolt from the force of it. This is how Frank learns that having a built-in bulletproof vest doesn't suddenly somehow make him immune to pain.
But honestly, all that does is piss him off.
A second later, Clint's left to stagger on his own as Frank scoops up the wooden handle, marching directly into two or three more rounds fired off at him, bullet casings tinkling onto the ground as Frank powers directly through them to introduce the man to his sledgehammer.
He's exhausted. What this means is not that he's sluggish. It means he has no patience. The dispatching is brutal. )
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[And then he's being physically moved with such sudden force that his body tenses up, ready to have to throw his friend or grapple with him or otherwise be put into a fight mode.
And it's a good and proper response, too, when Frank is fucking shot. Frank, who normally wears his kevlar vest, who is not wearing his vest at current, why the hell wasn't he wearing it out hunting--
The bullets don't pass through, in spite of the power, and Frank leaves him to do his work. Clint, for his part, breathlessly pulls his bow to hand and nocks an arrow. He doesn't have a good shot on the guy given Frank is taking up all the immediate space, Frank who gets shot even more except...
The sinewy string under his fingers thuds rapidly in time with his heartbeat, a thing he hates has happened to his weapon. He keeps his eyes and ears open, even as Frank delivers a blow, several blows, that are both crunchy and squishy. There isn't anyone else in the immediate area that he can figure. Loner, seeing a chance and fucking it up, maybe. What they're going to need to do is lock down the area, secure a perimeter, make damn sure no other stragglers are loitering around.
For the moment, though. For the moment, it's just them again.] Frank. [He isn't bleeding out he isn't dying he's still standing-- Clint makes his way over, at the ready, spinning himself in a slow circle in case there's anyone else, and he sees nothing, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything these days, does it?] Frank!
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Where the first call of his name didn't get him, the second one does β and how he can tell the difference in Clint's tone is impossible to say, really. He just knows it wasn't a Frank there's somebody else, or he'd have kicked into motion again immediately. This is either concern, or disbelief, or something else on the urgency spectrum aside from combat.
To be entirely god damn honest, he's forgotten. It's been long enough at this point that it slips his mind, how it must look. The fact that he's not wearing a glaringly obvious vest over his shirt, taking five or six rounds to the chest seemingly unprotected. Not a hint of real injury lingers in his posture, though, aside from the stiffness and the ache that always follows getting hit in the vest. People don't realize how much that shit still hurts, the impact velocity of a bullet stopping abruptly by slamming into you, even if they don't penetrate. He's gonna be bruised for days, but it'll be all but invisible under the black.
His eyes track to Clint, and there's a fleeting flash of confusion in them. A mirroring sort of concern, and in a manner that'll seem hilarious in hindsight, he rasps out: )
You good?
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[The incredulity bleeds through clearly. The arrow stays nocked, but he feels no immediate need to keep the string pulled anymore. Frank is standing and alive and not even bleeding. Like if he was actually wearing his vest. Which he isn't.]
There is not a soul on this planet that is happier you're still standing than I am, [he says, neither of them knowing there's at least one other--] but how the hell are you still standing?
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That fleeting flash of understanding passes across his expression, and he sighs, ducking his gaze for a second β then glancing over, around, to make sure nobody's in the wings, lurking, looking.
And then he reaches down, and pulls the hem of his shirt up to nearly his collar. )
Somethin' happened. After I visited one of these fucking zones, something... I don't know.
( What lies underneath looks not entirely unlike a blackout tattoo, with slender lighter skin lines etching out the relief of a familiar skull. It's all very obviously musculature, it's skin, to a certain extent β but with a strange texture, a strange color, reminiscent of Kevlar. Beyond that, in the places where the vest doesn't cover, up near his shoulders, the newer wounds and scar tissue are knitted together with that same inky blackness. )
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God damn, apparently people also change. Is it temporary? Is there a fix? Does he want a fix?
Clint stares, bow lowering and lowering until he just puts the arrow away back in his quiver and tries to understand what he's seeing. Because it looks like a tattoo. It looks like several bottles of ink spilled on him and stained his skin, save for the parts that accentuate deliberate design. It only stops being uniform where the 'vest' would stop sitting, where it looks like someone's been stitching him together with thick black thread.
Listen. He isn't stupid. He can see 'in the shape of the vest' and 'got shot and didn't penetrate skin' and reach the conclusion. But that doesn't make it easier to really take in.
He takes the last couple of steps in to close the distance, a knot of consternation between his brows. It's skin but it's also not skin. His fingers reach out, hesitate only a fraction of an inch from Frank's skin, and then trace along his abdomen.]
What the fuck.
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Frank waits patiently, passively, expression stoic as he studies Clint's face for any hints on what he might be thinking. Fury hadn't seemed to mind terribly, but damn, there's not much that fazes that woman. She's seen every fucking thing there is, it feels like. Clint's got a much more typical baseline β which is saying something, because he's a god damn alien-fighting Avenger and his baseline is in outer fucking space, but still.
If he's disgusted by it, or repulsed, or uncomfortable, or freaked out, a saner person would be, too. )
I don't know. ( He says again, just as lost as the first time, but quieter. ) Had to cut my shirt off after the trip because the vest was- it was sinking in in places. Wouldn't come off. Now it's- this.
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Frank clearly feels through it. Organic. Skin, muscle, nerve endings. He traces the outline of the skull partway and then pulls his hand back again.] This cuz of the soup? [Makes sense, if people are melding and sinking into their surroundings, maybe things start sinking into people, too.]
Does it hurt? You okay?
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Happened before the soup. ( But he gets why Clint thinks that might be a thing. This feels different, though. He thinks if this had been a soup thing, the vest merging into his skin like this might actually kill him. As he's seen it, the soup doesn't just merge with people seamlessly, it solidifies inside them, fazing two things together. Straight through organs, bones, and tissue. Straight into brain matter. It's horrifying. But either way- ) Feels an awful lot like getting shot, so it doesn't tickle.
( Nerve endings. He still feels it all. Feels almost identical to vest impact, so at least it's not as bad as actually taking the bullet. But still. He lowers the shirt, smooths it down. Rolls his tired shoulders out. )
What I really wanna do? Is get the hell outta soup.
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So is dealing with soup. [Sledgehammer's useful. He's taking that with so it can go back in the mommyvan. Hell, he'll make room in his quiver for it. Because it doesn't matter if Frank's still standing. Clint's going to situate himself under one of his arms to sling around shoulders, take on at least some of his weight.] You start sinking again, I'll just leave your ass to the soup. [He won't.] See a guy about a horse, you are something else, you know that?
[Unfortunately, having someone that cares about you means getting bitched at for dumbshit behavior.]
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That's what they tell me. ( Wry; Clint has joined a long line of people well-versed in the art of bitching about everything Frank Castle does. He is an infuriating man, and a difficult one to love. For some reason, god knows why, a few stupid people choose to do it anyway. ) I'll bring you with next time.
( That last one β that's actually serious. He means it. He's not sure why; he's more into handling shit by himself, has been ever since the accident, but... for some reason, hell, he doesn't know, he feels the tug. The impulse. This shit would've gone smoother with Clint here. Clint probably would've noticed his ass sinking into the soup in the first place before shit got too bad. Maybe it's not so bad, accepting that he likes working with a partner. That he likes backup.
Not everything has to end the way shit did with Billy Russo.
He chews his tongue and, after a few steps, starts β )
I had this friend once... Somebody I served with. We did three tours. He was like my brother, shit, my kids called him Uncle Bill. He had my back. I haven't- ( He bites the inside of his cheek; his jaw works for a tic. ) I do what I do by myself for a reason. It wasn't because you're not good. You're the best. I'm just not used to having backup anymore.
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It does make him feel better, to know that Frank will lean on him (figuratively) more in the future. They don't have to spend every outing together; god knows Clint does plenty of scavenging on his own as it is. Sometimes these raiders are just going to happen. But going hunting, or wandering into a particularly fraught area? He'd like a heads up. Hell, he'll even try not to be a hypocrite and extend the same offer to Frank.
Then there's the rest. The friend, the brother, the uncle. Something happened there. Reasons the Marine who had a band of brothers around him would choose to go at it lone wolf style. He thinks, briefly, about Auntie Nat, feels green around the gills about it, moves on from the thought.] I can be a real pain in the ass to shake. I'll grow on you like a weed; I'll just keep coming back if you try to push me away.
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Yeah, I'm startin' to get that. ( Sooner rather than later, the mommyvan (god damn you) is in sight. Sooner rather than later, he's tiredly thrusting his shit into the back β that hammer, his rifle. Sooner rather than later, he's slamming the hatch shut and leaning tiredly on the bumper to level Clint with an earnest look. ) Hey, Barton... Thanks. For coming to soup. Think we might be even.
( For that whole near-drowning kiss of life thing a few months back. )
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[He's never been that kind of guy. His numbers have always been in the red (bleeding, dripping, gushing red), and doing the right thing's never going to be about getting even about anything.]
'Sides, you saw the shooter coming. [Clint was a little busy being grateful Frank was alive. God damn it.] You knew you could take the hits. Dipshit could've taken out both of us if he was any good at his job, so.
[Thanks for the counter-save, is kind of what he's getting at.]
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( And let them both just hope there's never a situation where Clint's ever gotta bring him back from the brink, not breathing, heart barely beating. If they could avoid getting that level of even at all costs, he'd appreciate that.
Anyway, his work out here is done. Another squad of raiders cleaned up, a bystander saved from their shitty attempt at a jump. He'll count it as a win, even if he did need a hand getting out of soup. He's ready to get the hell out of here.
Which brings him to his next pitch: )
Buy you a beer?
( He could go for a fucking drink. As it so happens, he knows a place β one that has him on the buy one, get one list for life, according to the bartender. If Clint takes him up on it, this'll be how he finally meets a girl named Nashua Whelan. )
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[Something to quietly celebrate not dying. Something to take the edge off. Something not soup. Something that is the closest thing either of them can probably get to normal around here. There's no chance in hell Clint's going to want to meander to the Dome for hits or watching people get hit tonight or even the next several, he's pretty sure.
He cocks his head at Frank, then motions up and down to him.] Tell me you're gonna get cleaned up first. Pretty sure ripped jeans never came back in style.
π
Not my fault you don't understand fashion.
( Before hopping into the driver's seat, pulling out, and lagging behind enough to follow Clint's car back onto the highway toward the city. )