( 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 — 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: )
no subject
Where the first call of his name didn't get him, the second one does — 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?