thecapitol | and here i am falling

Who| Sam Wilson and Clint Barton
What| raincheck date ending in possible emotional breakdown
Where| A bar in the Capitol, one of the blind spots
When| After the arena
Warnings/Notes| Bird losers being bird losers, drinking. Discussions of death, violence, mind control, and PTSD likely.

Sam hadn't watched any of the footage of the space arena, but that's harder to do this time around. They play the footage even more when it's going on, and with Sam being back before the arena's ended, it feels like he can't escape it. So he knows when all his friends die. How they die, though he's trying to ignore that in favor of knowing when they're going to be coming back. He checks in with all of them - or, well. The ones who let him, anyway. Jet won't answer his door, and Sam tries not to fixate on that too much, even though Jet is the one he's most worried about.

But Clint is a close second. Natasha didn't come back, and as much as Sam loves her, as hard as that's hitting him, he knows it's gotta be worse for Clint.

So a couple of days after Clint comes back, Sam's at his door again.

"Come on. I owe you a raincheck on a better date, don't I? You and me are gonna go have some fun."

And if they happen to end up in the blind spot in the back alley by the club, no one will know but them.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's the first time Clint's been here, all told. Between the last Arena, and this one, he hadn't actually had more than a few days to get himself together and look around, and he hadn't felt comfortable enough to bother. Now, he needs the change of scenery, needs to jolt away from the cold ache still lingering in his bones.

So Sam drags him to a club and Clint goes easily.

He looks up, spots the sign as Sam brings it to his attention, and nearly chokes on his laughter. It feels almost sacrilegious, laughing when, when -- when Natasha's dead. But Clint's managed to live this long by compartmentalizing, shoving things down so he doesn't have to deal with them. Eventually, it'll bubble up, choke him and drown him, drag him screaming and gasping down.

For now, he slots Sam a sly little grin, ignoring the way some of the nearest patrons squeal and giggle.

"How 'bout we start with the first and see where it goes?"

This isn't exactly what Sam'd had in mind, when he promised Clint a raincheck. Oh, it was the right place, and he was doing just about everything he'd planned, but he hadn't thought one of the motivators would be trying to shake them both out of grief. It can't even be simple grief, either, the Capitol and all its complications just makes things even more confusing.

But she's still gone, and Sam's still worried about Clint. And he's still hoping that maybe both of them can put everything aside for a couple of hours and just have some fun.

He smirks at Clint's response, waving over the bartender so they can order their first round.

"You know I'm gonna take that as a challenge, right?"

Clint knows grief. It's been no stranger since he woke up one day to hear his parents were dead, and it's been within arm's reach ever since. But he doesn't dwell on it often, because grief is debilitating, and to an assassin, it could mean his own death. Natasha though, she was so much more to him. It cuts him to the quick, flays him alive and leaves him open and exposed for these capitolites to poke and prod at.

He misses her so goddamn much.

Sam's done a good job of trying to cover that space, support and contact and comfort. Here, he drags Clint out for the night and smirks like he had back in the Arena, snow down his back and Clint's hand up his shirt. That, if anything, is what gets Clint to come down from it all, focused in on Sam and the easy way he gestures for the bartender.

"That's exactly how I meant it."

"Oh, I was hoping so."

Honestly, Sam has no idea what he orders. Something bright and shiny and full of alcohol, and really, that's all that matters for tonight. When the first two drinks come, Sam just goes ahead and orders another couple.

It's going to be that kind of night. The kind where he doesn't focus on anything but the drinks and the atmosphere, and maybe on getting Clint to smile.

He picks up his glass of Dayglo liquid, holding it up in a toast before downing about half of it. "I'm counting on them accepting autographs from us as payment for our tab, by the way, so get ready to run at the end of the night if they don't go for it."

If Sam has no idea, then Clint's even more lost. But they're obnoxiously colored, fruity and sharp with the bite of alcohol, and that works perfectly fine for him. He picks it up, brows lifted, and tips in toast to Sam, follows his example easily. It's not a bad drink, all told, and since he's here trying mostly to burn through the grief eating him up, any alcohol works.

Especially when its Sam sitting next to him, someone Clint's come to like and maybe trust in far too short of a time. But he does, that's fine. It simply means he snorts with laughter, smirk of his own curling briefly at his mouth as Sam speaks up.

"What, takin' me out on a night of crime, Wilson?"

Given the glint in his eyes, its rather clear Clint would honestly find it hilarious. He rests his elbow on the counter, chin in palm, and watches Sam like a lazy lion looking over its lands. Amusement writ into the lines of his face, even as he takes another drink.

These days, Sam doesn't think a lot about the timing of things. It's not like he's got any leg to stand on, considering he was trusting Steve and Nat wholeheartedly after about a week with them. The only way it's come back to bite him so far is in having more people he loves - but he's here not to think about that right now.

Sam smiles at him, slow and pleased and a little bit impish as he takes another long drink of his glowy alcohol.

"An upstanding soldier like me? Nah, of course not. What kind of example would that be setting, huh?"

And yet he's still smirking as he finishes off his drink.

Hell, Clint's in right along Sam on that one. He didn't trust Natasha right after recruiting her, he wasn't that stupid, but he'd seen something in that desperate, aching young girl. Something that wanted redemption, something that was better, or could be, eventually. Clint's good at that, seeing the parts of people they want hidden.

He's not called Hawkeye just for his marksmanship, after all. So here, now, Clint watches. He grins, just as slow, just as pleased, gaze lingering on Sam's mouth, the line of his throat as he swallows.

"Right, 'course not," There's a pleased smirk all his own, one that actually meets his eyes. "And you're all about setting good examples."

and here i am falling

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