That look isn't fair, not now, not ever. Sam's lost, and Clint isn't sure he can pull himself back to shore, nevertheless carry someone with him. But even after all this, after the panic and the betrayal and the ache, Sam is still his partner. And Clint has learned the hard way how it feels to have that person you trust the most cut away from you.
So he listens, heart a dull throb against the cage of his ribs, and it's -- it's not a surprise but it is. He doesn't know what to say, what to do, wasn't expecting this onslaught even though he asked for it in his own way.
But the thing is, all this? Everything that Sam's saying? It hits hard. Clint's not that far removed from the trauma he experienced at Loki's hands, for him, it hasn't even been a year yet. He still wakes up some days fighting desperately against the blue, knowing that he's locked in his own body and can't do anything about the actions he's taking. Knowing it's all his own damn fault. Sam told him otherwise not too long ago, after far too long of trying to bear the burden all on his own. Held Clint close as he trembled and quaked, tears staining the collar of his shirt, but it hadn't made its way completely through.
This decision took away Clint's choice, in as much as it took away Bucky's, and Clint can't say he'd have made the choice either way. He's too tied up in it, too tied up in the idea that this is his problem, that this is his blood, that he's a man too weak to prevent something that wasn't possible to fight. He's got blame resting heavy on his shoulders, and Sam had started to chip away at that, but it's still there, heavy, heavy, seeping into every breathe and action. So he watches, and he listens, and he doesn't know what to do with this knowledge but pack it away to pick apart later. Breathes in, slow, forcibly calm, and nods to himself.
Fuck, but yeah okay, he gets what Sam is saying and he doesn't like it but he didn't expect to. Instead, his gaze skitters away, hand rubbing at his temples, shoulders slumping as if under a great weight.
"I get it." He does, but he doesn't like it. He wasn't ready, not now, not ever. Still. Clint steels himself, breathes in as he takes those steps closer, fights the urge to reach out and ground himself in Sam. "Okay? I do."
God but he's breaking apart, the stitches holding him together fragile and fraying, blue seeping from beneath the wounds. His hands twitch, curl into fists momentarily before relaxing. And now, Clint's gaze lowers again, brow furrowed, mouth a shaking line, murmurs soft between them.
"But I don't know if I can. I can't -- I can't trust him like that."
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So he listens, heart a dull throb against the cage of his ribs, and it's -- it's not a surprise but it is. He doesn't know what to say, what to do, wasn't expecting this onslaught even though he asked for it in his own way.
But the thing is, all this? Everything that Sam's saying? It hits hard. Clint's not that far removed from the trauma he experienced at Loki's hands, for him, it hasn't even been a year yet. He still wakes up some days fighting desperately against the blue, knowing that he's locked in his own body and can't do anything about the actions he's taking. Knowing it's all his own damn fault. Sam told him otherwise not too long ago, after far too long of trying to bear the burden all on his own. Held Clint close as he trembled and quaked, tears staining the collar of his shirt, but it hadn't made its way completely through.
This decision took away Clint's choice, in as much as it took away Bucky's, and Clint can't say he'd have made the choice either way. He's too tied up in it, too tied up in the idea that this is his problem, that this is his blood, that he's a man too weak to prevent something that wasn't possible to fight. He's got blame resting heavy on his shoulders, and Sam had started to chip away at that, but it's still there, heavy, heavy, seeping into every breathe and action. So he watches, and he listens, and he doesn't know what to do with this knowledge but pack it away to pick apart later. Breathes in, slow, forcibly calm, and nods to himself.
Fuck, but yeah okay, he gets what Sam is saying and he doesn't like it but he didn't expect to. Instead, his gaze skitters away, hand rubbing at his temples, shoulders slumping as if under a great weight.
"I get it." He does, but he doesn't like it. He wasn't ready, not now, not ever. Still. Clint steels himself, breathes in as he takes those steps closer, fights the urge to reach out and ground himself in Sam. "Okay? I do."
God but he's breaking apart, the stitches holding him together fragile and fraying, blue seeping from beneath the wounds. His hands twitch, curl into fists momentarily before relaxing. And now, Clint's gaze lowers again, brow furrowed, mouth a shaking line, murmurs soft between them.
"But I don't know if I can. I can't -- I can't trust him like that."