thecapitol | and here i am falling

Entry tags:

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

The instant Clint pulls away, Sam misses it. He’d surprise himself with how much, but well. He’s pretty drunk, so it makes sense to him.

Especially since the other thing going through his mind is ’shit’. Sam hadn’t meant to say that, he hadn’t meant to bring up the thing they were both trying - and failing - to forget, not so abruptly like that.

Not when it means Clint pulling away like that, pushing at his eyes like he’s trying to stop tears, even if he can’t keep his voice steady.

“Hey, no,” Sam protests quietly. “Don’t shut it down like that, don’t - c’mere.”

He reaches for him, and as long as Clint doesn’t get violent at him, he’s just going to start pulling him in.

He'd say he misses it too, but he doesn't. Can't. Clint's too busy angrily trying to stop those tears from falling, curled in tight upon himself with the guilt and shame eating at him. He fucked up, he knows it, and maybe he couldn't have done anything to save Natasha. But maybe he could have tried, could have kept her from suffering so much. Could have found his own end right alongside her once more, where he belonged.

After so long as a whole, it's hard being the jagged half left behind. Sam knows this all too well, even if Clint doesn't know he does.

So Sam reaches out, and Clint stills, tension up the curved line of his spine. He's drunk and grieving and angry at his own goddamn self -- Sam is too much, too soon. But Clint just, gives into it, shoulders slumping, listing to the side into Sam's hold. He speaks softly, into the palm of his hands, tremulous and aching.

"I wasn't there, Sam."

Not being there at all, missing most of it and showing up just in time to see someone take their last breath, seeing all of it in startling detail and not being able to do a thing, it's all the same. It all leaves the same feeling of helplessness, of failure, of I should have mixed in with raw grief.

"I know." He doesn't sound hollow anymore. There's too much emotion in his voice now, twisted and weighted heavy in a way that only comes with someone all too intimately familiar with a statement like that. "Couldn't do a goddamn thing."

He keeps pulling, hauling Clint up into his lap so he can slide his arms all the way around him.

"No one around here to see you, Clint. It's okay not to be okay. It's okay to be a little bit broken."

It's like someone cracked open his chest, broke sternum and rib and scooped out the tender beating heart nestled right inside. He feels vulnerable and exposed, bleeding out on the floor as Sam speaks to him. As Sam reaches out and holds him, lets the twisted weight of his voice fall upon his back.

Clint's falling apart. He's been playing good at holding himself together, oh he was. But it's too much, suddenly.

He keens, softly, a trembling, tear-stained gasp of a sound. It lingers in the hollow of his throat, echoes on the calcite row of his teeth. Presses against Sam skin when he lets himself get hauled bodily up into Sam's lap. For a moment, Clint's stiff and ungainly, unsure of himself. But Sam's arms wrap around him, hold him tight, and the warmth of his words -- It's okay to not be okay, it's okay to be a little bit broken -- are so foreign.

He shudders and slumps in against Sam, angrily fights the tears because he can't let himself break. If he does, he's scared he's going to shatter into pieces.

"I can't." Choked off, bitter and aching and full of self-loathing. "I can't do this without her, not after--"

Cuts himself off, unsure, unsteady.

Edited (tights, jfc) 2015-04-06 05:28 (UTC)

Sam slides his arms around Clint, crossing over them over each other so he can rest one palm on each of his shoulder blades. He stays like that, keeping his breathing deep and even, until he feels Clint relaxing against him. Then he breathes out, a deep, shaky exhale as he lets his head fall forward to rest on Clint's shoulder.

He wonders if anyone ever told Clint that he didn't have to be okay before. God knows no one ever said that to Sam, not until he first started going into counseling, and it's still hard for him to believe sometimes.

There's more he's going to say after that - he's going to repeat himself, maybe add that Sam himself is about two seconds away from crying all over Clint's shoulder and it isn't like he's going to notice a few extra tears, but then Clint says that. He doesn't look up, because he's pretty sure that anything Clint could be talking about - or cutting himself off from talking about - is the kind of thing that might be easier to go into without someone staring at you.

Instead he just holds Clint a little tighter, focusing on keeping his breathing nice and steady.

"After what?"

Sam holds him and it aches, a bleeding hollow beneath his ribs, throbbing in time with each pulse of his heart. Clint's hands fist in the fabric of Sam's shirt, tight against his torso, drawing in breath after breath like it's the only thing he can do.

But the easy answer is this: nobody's told him that before. Not really. There had been SHIELD therapists, but they hadn't ever gotten through to him, not really. There had been Coulson, once, but he'd never verbalized it. Simply there is brief touches and a shoulder to lean on, words careful and wry and soft. Clint misses him, aches with his death. It wasn't at his hands, but it might as well have been

Doesn't mean he meant to let things spill, his guilt and shame and agony clawing up his throat. He'd known the instant he said it that Sam would ask, that he wouldn't let it drop. But he'd hoped.

So Clint freezes, absolutely painfully still. For a moment, its almost as if he's not even breathing, more statue in Sam's arms than a flesh and blood person.

"I--" Can't bring himself to talk about it, can't bring himself to say that hated name. Closes his eyes, drags in a shuddering breath. Curses, under his breath and spits it out like poison. "Loki. After Loki."

Yeah, well. Sam's telling him now, and he's just going to keep telling him. Long as they're in the blind spot, here where no one can see them? It's okay to be a mess. It's the best he can do here, when it comes to making a safe space for the people he cares about, but it's better than nothing.

It's better than keeping all that pain locked up inside and left to fester. That Sam knows, he still remembers what it was like when he let it get to that point.

He's quiet for a long moment, fingers curling a little bit to press into Clint's shoulder blades. Sam honestly isn't sure if he's supposed to know what that means, beyond just Loki raining destruction down on New York. Sam'd been there for the aftermath - he'd volunteered to do search and rescue with a number of other retired pararescuemen - but the amount of venom in Loki's name has to mean a hell of a lot more than that.

"What happened with him?"

He doesn't know how to handle this, Sam. Doesn't know how to handle you, doesn't know how to handle this place, the truths seeping under his skin like poison and ichor. He feels tainted, guilt stricken and wounded. And Natasha's not here to help, she's not here to whisper her advice, her belief. He's not alone but--but he is.

Sam isn't Natasha, no matter how much Clint might like him.

So he doesn't speak, doesn't move. Gathers himself slowly. They're quiet, holding each other tight. If he wasn't drunk, maybe Clint wouldn't stay here, cradled in Sam's arms. Maybe he wouldn't open his mouth and let it all spill out of him.

"He--" Presses his face against Sam's neck, as if he could hide from the aching blue truth. His voice is dull, as if repeating facts. "A couple days before Loki attacked Manhattan, he took over a SHIELD base. I was guarding the Tesseract there when he came through, and he decided I had potential."

You have heart, and the ache, the clawing magic grasping at him, dragging him deep down under the truth and loyalty woven into Loki's scepter, into his touch. Clint pauses, breath shuddering.

"He stole me. Used his magic to control me and some others. Got me to shoot Fury, made me run missions, made me take the helicarrier out of the sky. Nat got me out, but just barely."

She hadn't mentioned it, not until later, but it had been luck and hope and the aching amount of trust between them that had had her drawing him down to Medical after that first 'Nat?'. He doesn't explain further, deeper, doesn't tell Sam about the way Loki's magic reached down and took all that made him, and switched it around. Made him loyal and subservient, made nothing else matter but Loki. But maybe Sam can get a bit of that -- stole, he says. And it's true.

That's all right; Sam's not entirely sure how to handle this, either. Maybe he'd have a better handle on things if he wasn't partly caught up in his own grief, or if he wasn't drunk, but with both of them? Yeah, he's pretty much flying by the seat of his pants here.

All he knows is that Clint's in pain, and so is he. He learned a long time ago that grief hurts a hell of a lot less if you're willing to share it with someone else.

Except there's clearly more than grief at work here. It's not like Sam didn't know that Clint had his secrets, that there wasn't something deeper lurking under all that cockiness and flirting and bird jokes. He'd never pried before, but now? Yeah, he's prying now.

He stole me. Sam's a little too drunk to have expected anything, but even if he was, it sure as hell wouldn't have been that. His chest tightens a little, twisting up in a different kind of grief as he absently runs his hand over Clint's back, a small, gentle circle over his shoulderblade.

"How much do you remember?"

The world is made of maybe's. Maybe Clint wouldn't have told Sam, maybe Sam wouldn't have asked, maybe Natasha wouldn't have died and laid them low. Doesn't entirely matter, because they're both bleeding from a wound nothing but time can heal, Clint's just got the added ache of blue dyeing his veins.

He's been hiding this for months, not only during the few months he's been here, but before that. During the months after Manhattan where everyone looked at him like he might be a step from falling apart, a step from going insane and take up Loki's orders once more. Sure, he worked at an Intelligence Agency, but that didn't mean people didn't hold grudges for what he'd done. Didn't hate him in their grief.

He barely been back when he'd been brought here, and that ached. But it doesn't matter here, where the world is a threat on all levels, and Clint and his friends have been forced to murder for the entertainment of a society. A glorified gladiator match, and Clint's still here falling apart in the first blindspot he's had in months. It's no surprise that he's shaking apart, fracturing at the edges, shattering apart into a million pieces.

"Most of it." He grits out, teeth clenched. But once he starts, he can't stop. It comes spilling from him, fast, tripping over his words, "Wasn't like Barnes, he didn't take anything away. He just reached in and played with my brain, twisted everything around. Unmade me. It wasn't--it wasn't like I was riding backseat. He made me loyal, Sam. He asked me to get him what he needed and I killed people for him; my coworkers, civilians. Hell I almost killed Natasha."

He pauses, hands smoothing out over Sam's chest, curling back in, fists against collarbone. The gentle stroked circle over his shoulderblade is ridiculously soothing, even if Sam holds him tighter, keeps him closecloseclose.

"I made the choices. I did it all, and I remember that."

Edited 2015-04-08 02:53 (UTC)

Sam pulls him closer, like if he can just hold on to the guy tight enough, he can block out all of this pain. Like if Clint can’t hold himself together any more - Clint shouldn’t have to hold himself together, he should be able to come apart and fall to pieces - then maybe Sam can hold him together for him, or at least try to help pick those pieces up.

It’s right about then that he actually realizes how screwed he is. This is Steve and Nat, Bucky and Kurloz and Jet and Albert all over again, another person slotting their way into a place that Sam thought he’d closed off forever, one he thought no one would touch after Riley.

Goddamn this is one of the reasons why he’s out here in the first place, because he lost two people who found their way in there and Sam knows better. He’d told Albert as much, that he couldn’t do this, and Albert had said he could but now Albert’s gone and Sam’s -

Sam’s sitting in a back alley with a guy in his lap, a guy spilling poison out of an open wound on him, and all he wants to do is figure out how he can help him live with it coursing in his veins, maybe try to thin it out a little.

“Sounds pretty damn close to what Bucky’s told me, actually.”

He sounds shaky there, even if it’s true, and he pauses a minute to swallow. To regroup, because nah. He can do this.

“Clint.” He’s not entirely sure how the hell he manages to get his voice to come out steady, even strong, for all that it’s quiet, but he does. “You ever say no to him? To any of those things he asked you to do?”

A part of him wants to sink into Sam, wants to press closer until they are more one being than two. Flesh and blood and bone, all intertwined. But that's foolish, and he knows it well. Instead, Clint focuses on keeping his hands steady -- they tremble, gently, gently, against Sam's collar -- and keeps from letting himself fall into that blue clarity. The truth of it, the knowledge. Selvig was half-mad already, Clint thinks, but he remembers vividly just how frantic he'd gotten. The rapture in his gaze, the words that spilled unthinkingly from his mouth.

But Loki hadn't wanted Clint for his thoughts. He'd wanted him for his muscle, for his knowledge. He'd been guard-dog and lapdog both. The snarling pet, the weapon, Loki's finger upon the trigger. He'd told him everything Loki had asked, something writhing and screaming and red in the very back of his mind. But loyalty overruled it all, had him bowing his head and planning for Loki's rule. Had him carrying out missions that would end in the death of his very own Handler in the belly of the ship.

Clint hadn't know it at the time -- hadn't known until after, with glass in his back, shawarma in his belly, and Natasha's arms around him. He'd been fractured before, his life wasn't the easiest after all, but this was shattering. This was all that made him him pulled out and rearranged, tucked back in and his head sewn back up. Nothing missing, but nothing where he was before, either.

So yeah, maybe it is similar to what Bucky had told Sam. Clint doesn't actually know, just the basics that Natasha and Steve had told him, just enough familiarity with the look in Bucky's eyes that very first time. He knows what its like to be the weapon, but Clint had never been blank and cold and aching.

He simply shakes his head, lashes wet, but there are no tears slipping free to wet Sam's shirt.

"Didn't want to, he was all that mattered anyway." Bitter, like he's bitten into a lemon, and the taste of the rind was stuck to his teeth.

Very carefully, Sam shifts around a little, sliding his arm up so he can card his fingers through Clint's short hair. He can't change a damn thing like this. He can't bring Natasha back and he can't undo what Loki'd done, but he can at least try to give him some support. He can at least show Clint that he's not completely alone, even if Sam isn't the one he really wants.

When Clint starts talking again, Sam lifts his head up from Clint's shoulder. He wants to look at him now, and he figures that Clint hiding his face in Sam's neck is enough privacy if he needs it. That's pretty much exactly what Sam figured, but he wanted to hear Clint say it before he followed up on it.

"They weren't your choices if he took away your ability to say no. To choose something other than him." He considers for a moment after that, still running his fingers through Clint's hair, then asks, "Before I start throwing words like 'blame' around, I gotta know - you give more of it to him, or to yourself?"

He tenses again, as Sam runs his fingers through Clint's hair. But only for a moment, and then Clint's sinking back into Sam, focusing on the beat of Sam's pulse under his cheek. Sam accomplishes the goal he'd reached for, a solid, presence around him, holding Clint up from the abyss he's falling into. So no, Sam's not Natasha, and he never will be, but he's doing far more than Clint ever expected.

Clint breathes in shakily, and out, breath warm against Sam's neck. The fingers carding through his hair keep him grounded, keep him focused on the here and now instead of Loki. So he listens as Sam speaks, intent, unnerved.

Doesn't bother answering. It's an answer all on its own.

Yeah, that silence is all the response that Sam needed. He's quiet for a long moment, too, trying to untangle grief and anger and affection and the dumb protective instinct curling in his chest - but it's a hell of a lot harder to do all of that with how much he's had to drink. He wishes he could blame all of those on the alcohol, but - nah. He'd probably be feeling them anyway, if maybe not in as much of a confusing jumble.

"I'm not going to tell you not to blame yourself. Telling people how to feel never works, and anyway, I'm betting you already know who's really responsible. It's just there's a difference in knowing it and believing it, in not waking up every morning seeing the blood on your hands." He has to pause for a moment, swallow thickly, because he's a little too drunk to say something like that without it affecting him. "I will tell you that it's not your fault. Even if you've heard it before, even if you're sick of hearing it, even if you don't believe me, I'm gonna keep saying it. There's no way in hell any of it was your fault, and it doesn't make you any less of anything because it happened."

Sam's still stroking his hand through Clint's hair, gentle and steady, even as he wraps his other arm around tight enough that it might almost be uncomfortable. "When you're throwing around blame, don't hog it all. You're always gonna keep a little for yourself, that's just the way it works, but you gotta give the rest of it where it's due."

He knows, oh he knows. Sam's too smart, even as drunk as he is, not to put it all together, not to read into exactly what Clint's told him. But more importantly, to pick apart the silences and blanks where there should be things. So yeah, Clint might not be able to bring himself to speak up, but he definitely is listening as Sam speaks up. The fingers running through his hair are too damn soothing, running from the crown of his head down the bowed line of his neck, over and over and over. A gentle, steady, movement; just as much reassurance as the tight hold of Sam's arm around him.

Silently, the tears finally fall, lashes wet where he blinks against the line of Sam's neck. Clint presses closer, wraps just as tightly, as if they might merge. Under Sam's hold, his shoulders tremble, shake, a minute little thing. But he can't quite help it, sipping brokenly on his breaths, fingers clutching tightly at Sam's shirt.

A ragged gasp for air escapes his lips, even as Clint tries to steady himself. Tries to keep from fall completely apart in Sam's arms. He's not successful, not at all. But he doesn't believe it, what Sam's saying, what he's trying to get him to understand. Oh, sure, Clint knows it was Loki's fault. Knows that he wasn't the one who decided to get mindcontrolled. But he can't help but feel guilt and hollow and aching. His hands are stained red, dripping blood over everything he touches.

When Clint finally starts crying, Sam just keeps on holding him. Combs his fingers through Clint's hair, curls his hand into Clint's shirt and pulls him in tight, and just lets him cry. After a few moments, he leans back in, tilting his head so he can get his mouth up close to Clint's ear - and then hesitates.

It's dark outside in the alley, but Sam is inches from them, and there's no mistaking the hearing aids there. It throws him, probably more than it normally would, considering his currently alcohol level. But after a moment of debate, he doesn't say anything. The middle of a breakdown isn't the best time to ask about something like that.

Instead, he goes in for what he'd been planning on in the first place.

"It's okay not to be okay," he murmurs. "You're not alone, Clint, I got you. It's just you and me here, all right, you don't gotta hold it together. I got you."

He shudders with his tears, beneath the soft touch of Sam's hands. In between, he feels the way Sam pauses, hesitates, but Clint doesn't know the reason. Doesn't know Sam's spotted the tell tale shape of his hearing aids. Can't bring himself to care about that anyway, not when he's breaking apart.

Besides, Sam speaks up eventually anyway.

Sam's words filter through the drunken haze, the tears, but it's still bewildering. Clint's not used to people stepping up and holding him up, nobody beside Natasha, beside Coulson. He heaves with his breath, feeling Sam's pulse thud beneath his cheek, and curls impossibly closer. He's not okay right now, he's not holding together, but Sam's -- Sam's promising. Sam's here for him, holding him up, holding the parts of him so that they might fit together once more.

Its a foreign concept, but it feels good, kindling beneath his ribs. One hand sweeps up from its tightly fisted hold on Sam's shirt, and curls around his neck, fingertips warming upon Sam's pulse-point. He's grounding himself, plaintively.

Good, that's good. That's Clint taking comfort instead of just kind of accepting what Sam's willing to give him. Sam's - pretty sure, anyway. It makes sense to his alcohol fueled brain. Honestly, he's not sure how much of what he's saying is really sinking in for Clint, but he's not sure that matters right now.

What matters is that Clint's shaking himself loose, that grief and anger and guilt is all coming out, and he's gonna need someone to hold him together so he doesn't pour himself out with them. Sam can do that. Maybe he couldn't do anything else, couldn't save Natasha, can't protect Clint or anyone else, but he can do that.

His lips are still right by Clint's ear, and he leans his forehead in a little, resting it against Clint's temple. "You're not alone," he says again. "You got me."

He's not so sure he's accepting it, or processing it, but Clint's listening. He's settling it aside to work through when he's not drunk or in the middle of a breakdown, and when he doesn't have Sam to get distracted or lost in. He's not sure how long that'll take.

Ages, maybe.

This close though, Clint can hear those words so very clearly. It's intimate, the warm press of Sam's words against the shell of his ear. The tenderness to his voice, the support he's offering. Clint's stunned with it, far too drunk to be as cautious as he probably would be, otherwise. Instead, he soaks in the comfort Sam offers, palm warming against the bowed curve of Sam's neck.

He is loosing all that poison though, the shame, the grief and guilt and anger that was tied up in knots in the pit of his belly. Sam's tearing it all down and away, stitching the pieces left behind together as if it might hold him together. Clint's not sure it will, but he'll try. He'll always try, it's all he can do.

His eyes close a little, focusing on the feel of Clint's hand around his neck, on the weight of him in his lap, the warmth of him pressed against his chest. He keeps his breathing slow and even, grounding himself by counting his breathing in his head - and does his best not to ground himself in Clint. He'd already slipped up earlier, grounding himself in Bucky's heartbeat, it's not going to make it any better if he does it with Clint, too.

Not that his drunk ass self is doing all that great at it right now.

Sam keeps up a steady stream of murmuring, 'I got you,' 'it's okay, man, you can let it out, we got this,' 'it's still not your fault, told you I was gonna keep saying it,' 'long as you need, take as long as you need. As long as you want me, I'll be right here.'

He never moves his mouth from by Clint's ear. It's a blindspot, yeah, and the chances of anyone walking by right now are low, but all the same, Sam doesn't want anyone to hear any of this but him and Clint.

As long as Clint needs, Sam will sit back here outside the club, holding him close so he can fall apart.

Clint keeps his eyes stubbornly shut, but in part its an unconscious thing. He's overwhelmed right now, adding the sheer immensity of what his sight can perceive would drag him down, kicking and screaming and sobbing. Or at least, that's what he's worried of. Instead, Clint sucks in breath after heaving breath, the soft murmur of Sam's voice in his ear and the steady rise and fall of his chest the only thing he's conscious of.

Slowly, slowly, Clint focuses in on the steady thrum of Sam's heartbeat beneath his palm, matches their breaths. Sam might not let himself get grounded in Clint, but Clint's a ship lost at sea. There is nothing but Sam's safety to bring him in, moor him to the dock. His tears slow, wet lashes fluttering against Sam's neck, but it takes a few moments more for them to stop completely. Slowly, he breathes in, holds his breath for a count -- one, two -- and then out. Hiccups, slightly, and can't bring himself to pull away from the cradle of Sam's arms.

Eventually though, he shifts, reaching up with his free hand to wipe away tears from his face, huffing a bit in discomfort. The tight hold Sam has on him is constricting, but in a good way, in a way that keeps him here and present even as Clint shifts. He still feels disconnected, overwhelmed, but not entirely like he's falling apart. No, that's already happened, he's pieces of glass or ceramic laying shattered upon the floor, and even should Sam put him back together, he'll never be the same. It's not the first time he's remade himself though, he can forge on. He has to.

Even when Clint's tears start slowing, when they finally stop, Sam doesn't let go. He keeps his arm wound tight around Clint's back, hand stroking over his shoulder blade.

When Clint shifts, Sam shifts as well, slowly unwinding his hand from Clint's hair so he can slide it around and cup his cheek instead. He smoothes his thumb over Clint's cheekbones, under his eyes, brushing away whatever remains of his tears. Then he leans in again, resting his forehead against Clint's.

"Hey," he murmurs, keeping his eyes open despite the fact that his are barely an inch from Clint's. There's not a trace of anything like pity in them - mostly understanding, and maybe even a little bit of pride. As far as Sam's concerned, it takes courage to let go, to fall apart like this on someone. "How you doin'?"

It takes a while, longer than he wished it would. A part of him is still dimly ashamed, grumbling over his own inability to keep holding this. But Clint knows, even now, that there's no way he could have kept this up forever. If it had been Natasha, Clint would have bugged her until she spilled, until they could share the weight. Maybe he's hypocritical, but Clint's never been the best.

Here, now, he blinks his eyes open, leaning into the cup of Sam's palm. They're impossibly close, foreheads resting together, Sam's thumbs stroking gently over the rise of his cheekbones, delicate under his eyes. The remnants of his tears fade away under Sam's touch, eyelids lowering. Somehow, his eyes seem even bluer here.

So he sniffles, briefly, and god that look in Sam's eyes is too much. Clint barely dares to blink, shifting a little closer somewhat unconsciously.

"'M ok." Murmured, breath soft against Sam's lips, their mouths a hairsbreadth apart.

There's nothing to be ashamed about, as far as Sam's concerned, and if Clint asked - Sam'd spill, too. Probably just about anything right about now, considering how drunk he is and how close he feels to Clint at the moment.

But instead Clint leans in more, and Sam finds himself closing his eyes again, and then - and then, somehow, they're kissing. Honestly, Sam isn't sure who started it, but it's not exactly a surprise. Not with all the flirting they've been doing, not with how much alcohol they'd had to drink, and not with the fact that Clint's been sitting in Sam's lap for god knows how long.

And it's good. Clint is funny and smart and playful and compassionate, and he's warm and solid on Sam's lap and in his arms, and he's a really good kisser and for a moment Sam's tempted, he's so damn tempted. It'd be really fucking nice just to let go, just to lose himself in Clint, for both of them to lose themselves in each other, but...

But Clint's drunk, and grieving, and really damn vulnerable right now. And Sam's drunk and grieving and pretty damn vulnerable himself, and he knows the danger in forgetting that.

So he breaks the kiss, opening his eyes and letting out a shaky breath.

"I can't," he murmurs, keeping his eyes locked on Clint's. "You're worth a hell of a lot more than some drunk making out in back alley, while we're both torn up over something - someone else."

and here i am falling

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