( This is something he'll appreciate about Clint for a long time — 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 now— )
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 — 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 — )
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 — 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 — 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 lilt— )
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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — )
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 — 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 — 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}
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But for now— )
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 — 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 — )
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 — 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 lilt— )
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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — )
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 — 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 — 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.
🎀
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. )