thecapitol | my friends are so distressed

Bucky doesn't question Sam when he asks him to come to the blind spot with him. By now these meetings have started become almost routine and as soon as he recognises that they're heading in the direction of the bar he knows for certain. He wonders what Sam wants to talk about this time. Maybe there's been an update on District 13 and the possibility of escape for him and Steve.

What he doesn't expect is to find Clint Barton there. For all that they're on the same team and that Bucky stepped in to try and stop the archer from getting himself into trouble at Tony's Crowning they're not exactly friends. They still don't know each other well enough to bestow that title upon the other. Bucky doesn't trust people easily and given how Clint had reacted to finding out that he was the Winter Soldier he thinks it may be a long time coming on the other side as well.

So whatever Sam has brought both of them here for at the same time must be important.

Bucky stands on the opposite side of Sam, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his face before he suppresses it. "What kind of proposition?"

The last time he'd been here, well, Sam had knocked him down and picked up all the pieces. Fit the glass back together like Clint might be whole one day. It had been too much, lingering, grasping, drawing him back down. But at the end of it, within the next few days, he'd felt somewhat better. Supported.

So Sam asks him to meet at the blind spot, and Clint goes easily. There's relative safety here, the absence of cameras upon him, but it's enough to have Clint relaxing, head tipped back against the wall. He's not entirely sure what Sam wants to bring up this time, but that's okay, he can wait.

Doesn't mean he expects Bucky Barnes to be the first to step into the alleyway, and Clint tenses a bit, eyeing him carefully. They're not friends, even if Barnes stepped up to keep him out of trouble, and Clint certainly doesn't trust him. But if Sam brought him here, well, okay. His gaze slides from Barnes to Sam, intent. Cocks his head, nods a bit to show his acknowledgment. Barnes stole the words right out of his mouth, so he doesn't bother, simply waits to see what's going on.

They're eyeing each other like uncertain, wary cats who aren't sure if they need to start feeling threatened and get territorial or not - and that mental picture probably shouldn't be as amusing as it is, not with how serious Sam is about bringing them both here.

Fortunately, he's comfortable enough with both of them that he doesn't have to fight to keep his body language open and relaxed.

"I know you two don't trust each other all that much," Sam says bluntly. "And I'm not here looking to force it. But I trust you both, a whole hell of a lot. And the thing is-"

He hesitates for a moment, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. "You two have got some shit in common. And I learned a long time ago, how much it can mean knowing you're not alone in something."

That's vague, and he knows it, but he's doing that on purpose. Sam's guessing they can both assume what he's talking about - maybe Clint more than Bucky - but he doesn't want to go into details about either of them in front of the other, without their permission.

His arms are folded across his chest, posture unthinkingly defensive as the alley lacks its usual relaxed atmosphere with the addition of an extra person with an unknown purpose behind it.

Sam's not wrong, he doesn't trust Clint all that much. Oh, he'll trust him to fight beside him and protect the other members of their group, trusts that he's capable thanks to the good word of other but other than that? No not much at all. Bucky doesn't trust quickly, not without it being earned.

"I don't understand." Bucky says cautiously, curiously glancing Barton's way before he looks back at Sam. "What are you talking about?"

Trust isn't a common thing in Clint's life. He doesn't offer it easily, and he didn't let go of it easily either. So Sam shows up, Barnes in tow, and Clint's ready to listen to whatever he says. He trusts Sam enough for that, at least. (Trusts him far much more than just that.)

Doesn't mean he expects this.

Clint knows. Oh, he most certainly does. He goes very, very, still, eyeing Sam like the air's been stolen from his lungs. Betrayed almost, but Sam didn't actually....say anything. Left it open for Clint to expand on, if he wanted. Barnes looks his way, curious, and Clint shifts, unconsciously copying the defensive pose Barnes had picked up. Arms crossed over his chest, mouth a flat line, moving away from the wall he'd been leaning against.

"Sam." He doesn't want to share this, not now, not ever. "What are you doing?"

"That's... a question I can't really answer. It's not up to me." Even though he's pushing it just by getting them both here and telling them they got something in common, he knows that. He's trying to be as careful as he can not to betray either of their trust, but it's a real fine line.

It maybe hurts a little - more than a little - when Clint looks at him like that, but Sam doesn't back down from it. Shoots him an almost apologetic look, but he's gonna keep going.

"Other than hoping I'm not about to get punched in the face?" Sam gives a one shouldered shrug, looking between them. "Trying to give you both an option. It ain't like we got a lot of those here, man. I'm not saying either of you have to take it, now or ever, but it's there."

He goes quieter, taking one hand out to rub the back of his neck. "Shit like this saved my life, a couple years ago. All I'm asking is for you to think about it."

"Why would we punch you? What's he talking about?" Bucky asks Clint, now shooting him a look at the expression on his face and the suspiciousness of Sam dancing around the subject. It raises the hairs on the back of Bucky's neck, threatens to put him even more on the defensive and close himself off completely. Too far and he might even just take off.

Bucky doesn't like this, the understanding of the situation dancing just out of his grasp. Something he and Barton had in common? He tries to think and comes up with things they both already know that aren't exclusive to the both of them. They were both killers, both skilled in espionage... other than that he comes up empty. Some piece of the puzzle is missing and he doesn't like it.

He just wants to understand. Doesn't understand why Sam doesn't just up and explain it to him. It's not something Sam has ever done before.

The apologetic look should help, but really all it does is get Clint to subside. He's not calmed, but he's waiting, watching Sam and Barnes warily. Barnes especially, considering the guy is looking like he's about to bust himself out of here. It's how Clint feels right now, actually. Except the confusion -- that strikes him, unsure. Sure, he'd known SHIELD would cover up, but people hadn't been blind to his part in the invasion.

He'd thought it would be common knowledge. Clint Barton, the guy too weak to resist Loki's hold, the makeshift Avenger -- not that he really was one of them, right?

He opens his mouth, not sure if he's going to explain or tell Sam off, and just stops. Can't. Lets his breath escape him instead, a hissing sound between the calcite row of his teeth. Turns, slightly, watching Barnes with a sharp gaze.

"You don't know."

It's a question, but it's not phrased like one. More of an epiphany.

"Because you both told me shit in confidence, and I promised I'd never tell anyone else." He didn't, actually. Not in those words, anyway, he never really specified that anything that either Bucky or Clint told him would stay between them. But as far as Sam's concerned, knowing how hard it was for either of them to open up, he made the promise anyway.

"I'm still not, but I know that this is cutting it real damn close, and I'd understand if both of you were pissed off at me." He knows exactly why Bucky's getting more on edge, at least, and he feels pretty damn shitty about it. "I'm not trying to hold anything back from you, Bucky. It's just that it's Clint's details to give, not mine."

But Clint's comment makes him frown, brows furrowing. He doesn't understand why Clint is so surprised about that - as far as Sam knows, it was never common knowledge, and he doesn't know that Clint expected it to be.

"Of course not. I didn't brief you on each other before I brought you here, I just wanted to try to open a potential line of communication."

"I don't know what?" Bucky's voice has changed, gone lower, flatter. His expression blank except that, if you knew him well and looked in his eyes, you'd see the hidden trickling of anger and nerves. It's not comforting to be the only one not in the know, like sitting in a metal chair and being talked about, talked over, never addressed.

He's used to straightforward honesty with Sam, it's one thing with the man that he has come to rely on and expect. This situation is turning that on it's head, pulling up strands of the Winter Soldier more than Bucky Barnes as a means of protecting himself.

Bucky's looking at Clint now, actually has his gaze intently fixed on him as the one who apparently holds all the answers to what the hell is going on here. "Explain."

"That's not what I--" He stops, frustrated at himself, because of course Sam didn't brief them on each other. Even from the little he knows of the guy, Clint knows that's not something he would do. Clint doesn't know exactly what to say, exactly what to do, but it doesn't matter. Barnes turns to them and there is something there that has Clint on guard, the Winter Soldier there behind his gaze instead of Bucky Barnes. It crawls up his spine, ice and steel in each plate of his vertebrae.

There's no way he misses it, no way Sam does. But Clint's never done well with being cornered and threatened, and a part of him is still feeling that. He might not be feeling quite as betrayed by Sam, knowing now that he didn't spill everything Clint let slip, but the most of what he's thinking is simply run. He needs to, intensely, an urge in his bones and the dark of his mind; runrunrun--

--instead, he braces himself, readying himself for this. Isn't sure he can, even, but Clint turns to face Bucky where he stands, because that's the bigger threat, that's the bigger issue. Gearing for war, and the battle against the large part of him screaming at him for being an idiot. The order draws a bitter little smile to his mouth, sharp edged and humorless, not even close to reaching his eyes.

"You aren't the only one who had your brain fucked with, Barnes."

By now, Sam likes to think he knows Bucky at least decently well. Well enough to recognize that anger hidden there, but more than that - well enough to notice the way he's slipping into solider mode. Both of them are, actually, they're both gearing up to go on the offense as a defensive mechanism, and there's no way Sam can let that keep going.

He takes a step towards them both without really thinking, reaching out automatically before he catches himself and stops. Just because they've both been okay with him touching them in the past doesn't necessarily mean either of them will react well to it when they're not alone.

"Hey," he says quietly. "This ain't a war room or a battlefield. You don't want to talk to each other, that's fine, you wanna be pissed at me for pushing you like this, that's fine too."

No it isn't. It's the exact opposite of fine, and Sam suddenly realizes the giant mistake he might've made, doing something he'd normally do with the vets he worked with at the VA with two of the people he cares most about here. But he can't fixate on that right now.

"Just please don't take it out on each other."

"Then just tell me." he growls in frustration at the two of them, a second before he catches onto what exactly Clint just said.

Bucky freezes, his eyes widening across the stretch of Sam's pacifying motion. The level of aggression in his body drops a level but he remains guarded. This is still a painful subject for him, even if it is an open secret amongst not just the Avengers but all the other Tributes; and, though he doesn't like to think about it, Panem too. Living a life broadcast on television had many privacy invading consequences.

Despite this the list of people who he has actually opened up to and spoken with about what was done to him was very small, certainly not in the double digits. Thing is, rarely has he ever been thrust into the position of doing so by a third party, even a trusted one. So yes, he's wary, he isn't sure if he wants to talk. Getting answer as to why they're here helps a little though.

He's silent for a long few seconds before cautiously asking, "... HYDRA?"

The look on Barnes' face sends a faint thread of terror through him, ice in the pit of his belly. Its not so much fear of what Barnes might do, or fear of what he's done, but rather a reminder of the threat. A reminder of the truths being drawn from his mouth even know.

A reminder that for Barnes, this was seventy years, unpacked just long enough to shove him into a murder game.

Clint's posture eases slowly out of the impossibly rigid one he'd held before, a wary reprieve. It's only Sam's words, the way he's reaching out to them -- though Clint doesn't want that reassurance, doesn't want to settle into the grounding Sam offers -- and the way Barnes slowly loses some of that aggression. Some, not all, and that's alright. He wouldn't have expected otherwise anyway.

Here, in the Capitol, people's histories are touted for everyone to see. Its a miracle his own control hadn't been drawn out and shared. Clint doesn't like to think about it, but he supposes he's thankful for that bit. Shakes his head, a muted fury in the down-turned line of his mouth, "Loki."

Despite the tension between them, Sam's been purposefully keeping himself relaxed. Well, as relaxed as he can be, when he's got the underlying worry that he's just screwed up his friendships with both of them.

But he's still relieved with both of them ease the smallest bit out of soldier mode, even if it's not complete. Hell, Sam hadn't expected them to actually drop either of their guards completely, even back when he'd decided this was probably a good idea.

They're talking now, kind of, so for the moment, Sam keeps quiet and lets them work this out with each other. He does move a little closer, an echo of what he'd done back at the crowning, getting close enough to touch - though this time he doesn't quite make contact, just leaves the option open.

"Loki..." he repeats slowly, drawing the syllables out. "The Loki," there had been two Loki's here, once upon a time. "the one who attacked New York?"

The one who talked too much and bragged on the network about his own prowess, the one he'd been warned about. That was the Loki he was given to understand came from the same reality as Bucky, Sam and Clint. Bucky had been told bits and pieces about that battle, from Steve and Bruce as well as the others. An alien army led by Thor's brother had attacked New York over the device known as the tesseract, a weapon which had been in HYDRA's hands back in the war. The Avengers had stopped him.

That had been as far as Bucky's knowledge had gone, the fact that Loki had brainwashed one of them, even that he'd been capable of doing so had never come up before. All of a sudden Bruce's warnings about him seem that much more important.

He wonders if that not being brought up was solely for respecting Clint's privacy or a mixture of that and knowing Bucky's own sensitivity on the subject. Either way, the reason Sam brought them both here and wants them to talk is now abundantly clear, except that Bucky had no idea what he's supposed to say next. It's such an intimately raw wound for him and it looks to be the same for Clint, if his reaction to it being brought up is anything to go by.

Loki, Loki, Loki. That hated name fills the air, curls upon his tongue like ash, hides in the hollowed shells of his ears. Clint's heard it for years, it seems, hidden in the shadow of his actions, in the cadence of his words. Lately, its eased up. The sieze of that guilt, that shame, that all encompassing banked fire -- ready to be stoked into a flame hot enough to scorch the earth.

But Loki's blood is on his hands now, and has been for months. Ever since his first Arena, where he'd slit that would-be god's throat and left him choking and bleeding out.

Clint doesn't know that the others warned Barnes, that they hadn't told him of the control he wielded at the tips of his fingers and the ice blue point of his scepter. Here, when Loki had been among them, Clint hadn't feared him -- or, well. He had, in that instinctual way an animal shrunk from flame and shout. He'd known what Loki was capable of, he'd known his anger, his control. In the very core of himself, Clint had been running terrified from that being. But he also knew that without that scepter, Loki was jack out of luck. He couldn't drag him down into the blue control, couldn't sink his fingers into Clint's brain and twist him about.

Couldn't draw everything he knew and loved and stood for out, and twisted it into some parody of loyalty only to Loki himself.

But that's gone, it is. He's got his feet under him, the shattered bits of himself carefully glued back together. And yeah, maybe he's still fractured, maybe he'll never be whole. But Clint is his own now. In as much as one can be, here.

So he nods, gaze never moving from Barnes.

"Yeah, that's the one."

It's a touchy subject with both of them, Sam knows that pretty damn well. But it isn't because of that, that Sam hadn't brought it up with Bucky before now - it's pretty much just because Sam hadn't known. Not until Clint told him, and then it was too wrapped up in Clint for Sam to feel comfortable sharing, even with how honest with Bucky Sam usually is.

They're still not really talking, but honestly, Sam hadn't expected them to right off the bat. At least they're not spiraling into a pattern of feeling threatened and firing off aggression at each other anymore.

But just because Clint isn't looking at him doesn't mean that Sam can't tell how hearing Loki's name affects him, and he can't resist shifting his weight just enough to briefly brush his hand against Clint's.

"Like I said, you two don't have to do anything with this. But we don't have a lot of opportunities in the Capitol, and thinking you're alone in something is a terrible feeling."

"You killed him in the arena."

Bucky says it almost calmly, but his eyes are bright and alert as they focus on Clint's face. Maybe it's an unspoken question of what doing that meant for him. Did it help? Did he feel better for that action even though Loki would be brought back to life after?

The chance to visit violence back on his tormentors has been taken out of Bucky's hands. Pierce was dead before Bucky even came out of the river and though he'd taken Rumlow's life here the HYDRA agent had never been one of the men with his finger on the button of the chair that stole his memory. It went further back than them as well, other men, other Handlers who broke him down and reshaped his pieces into their Asset. Men who might even still be alive back in their own world.

Barton killed the architect of his brainwashing and Bucky is curious as to what that did for him.

"I did."

Just as calmly, never shirking from that bright gaze. He doesn't know what to tell Barnes -- it helped, i slept better, i stopped turning corners expecting his scepter to dig into my sternum and drag me under -- because the truth it, it was a stopgap. Clint never claimed to be a healthy person, sure he's been better in recent years, but this cut him down to the quick. Skin and muscle peeled back, bone cracked, marrow supped upon. Loki devoured him, and sometimes Clint isn't entirely sure he made it through in once piece.

But he understands. A guy like Barnes, with all this agony and torment stitched in under his skin -- yeah, Clint gets it. He woke up wanting to put an arrow through Loki's eye, and in the end, he did. Barnes doesn't have that option, and chances are he never will. Sam's words filter through, and Clint's gaze leaves for the first time, briefly, to meet his. There's something unfathomable in his gaze, measuring. But yeah, Sam was right, and Clint gets that.

So here, one shoulder lifts in a shrug, knuckles brushing against Sam's hand when he shifts closer.

He's not sure how to feel about it, any of it, but he does know how it felt to watch Loki bleed out on the floor. This rests, cold and dark in the blue of his gaze, a faint spark of satisfaction that's long since died in the months following. He's got more to worry about than a would-be god who died at his blade.

"Good."

That's really all he can think to say to that, when Barton isn't anymore forthcoming. Not that Bucky blames him, as he feels little compulsion to open up about his own experiences either. What HYDRA did to him is still there, entrenched in his mind, compelling his behaviour no matter how much he tries to fight it. The Winter Soldier sleeps in his bones, waiting for any opportunity to awaken and walk in Bucky's body.

It's an ongoing fight, between the man he wants to be again and the weapon he has existed as for decades, even in frozen sleep. He exists in a limbo, unable to transition further forwards with factors of his current existence holding him back.

So no, there's nothing more forthcoming on Bucky's end. He goes silent after that one word, still and waiting for anything further from Sam and Barton.

The fight bleeds out of him, the lingering defensiveness, it leaves him tired and aching. Entirely too cold, even though he's well aware its not cold out here. But no, here, Clint's shoulders slump, back easing out of its straight line. Barnes doesn't speak up, doesn't spill, but Clint gets it. He breathes in and out, calm calm calm, knowing the Winter Soldier is still there in Barnes' bones. Knowing without doubt he could slip further into that cold grasp instead of the man that Barnes once was.

Fuck, but he doesn't know what to say to that. It was one thing to bring in an ex-KGB assassin, it's another to spill his guts to someone, even if they know intimately exactly what he means.

So he matches Barnes' silence, eyeing him for a moment, before turning to look at Sam, brow raised. Is this what you wanted, Sam? He's not entirely sure what good it did, nor is he sure how to feel right about now. The sharp bite of betrayal from earlier has faded, simply a lingering shadow in the pit of his belly.

Sam's still quiet, watching both of them, even though they aren't saying much, reading their body language to try to get what they're not saying. In a way, it's not all that different from when he first started getting to know them, when he had to do his best to pick up what they were thinking and whether or not he was making the wrong move.

He hopes like hell it's just because they're around each other, too, and not because he's taking a step backward with either of them. He maybe didn't realize it until now, but he's... gotten comfortable with them, and he really doesn't want to give that up.

When Clint looks at him, Sam lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug. "I just wanted to point out that the path was there, I'm not going to try to make either of you walk down it. You both gotta know how much I trust you, and how much you mean to me, but you two are still figuring each other out. Just, maybe now you can start doing it where the Capitol ain't looking."

He hesitates, then adds, "But I am gonna ask you both for the chance to explain privately, if you're still pissed at me."

Bucky's still tensed up, still holding himself all guarded and wary. He's clearly not going to give, not today anyway, not until he knows Barton better. It's alright to be told that you can trust someone and to trust that person to an extent, like guarding your back, but opening up all the most raw intimate wounds you possess is another story. Whether it'll ever happen remains to be seen.

As it is right now Bucky finds little comfort in knowing he's not the only one to his mind fucked over by someone else.

He shrugs his shoulders a little at what Sam has to say, a non-committal gesture. "I got that."

Is he angry at Sam? Yes, to an extent. He was trying to help, Bucky believes that, but still he wishes he had warning and a chance to decide first. It wasn't even a secret, not really, but it still stung.

Bucky doesn't know, he doesn't want to think about it anymore right now. He wants to leave. "... later. Maybe." he needs more time to sort through his own feelings first.

It's threatening, in a vague way, watching Barnes stand there like a damn attack dog. Clint knows how to read people, it's the only reason he's alive, it's gotten him out of so many mission mishaps. So yeah, he knows Barnes isn't going to give, and honestly, he doesn't want him to. He's not ready to talk, not yet. All he wants is to go home to Kate, curl up and chirp at her as he feeds her little scraps by hand.

Maybe that's cowardly, wanting to run from this. But he doesn't care. Doesn't care that now there are more people who know he wasn't strong enough to resist getting dragged under the blue of the Scepter, wasn't strong enough to fight his way back. In his own way, he knows it was impossible. Knows he tried, knows he missed shots, backdoors left to his own actions.

Doesn't mean he doesn't blame himself. Doesn't mean he's not angry with Sam, a little bit. He trusted him, and while this might have been an attempt to help, it's, it's too much. Still.

"I'll stay." Softly, because while he might have subsided from his need to run, the betrayal a muted thing, if Sam's offering answers then Clint wants them. It offers Barnes the escape he wants, but that's secondary.

It's hard to remember sometimes that not all that long ago, being next to Bucky when he's tensed up like this would've put Sam on edge, would've left him guarded and wary, too, even if he tried not to show it too much. Now? Well, now it still puts him on edge a little, but for a completely different reason.

He's more concerned about damaging his and Bucky's friendship than he'd ever been about whether or not Bucky was going to try to kill him again.

Sam nods at Bucky's noncommittal response, unwilling to push any more than he already has today. "Okay," he agrees. "I'll give you your space for a little while, man, you know where to find me."

When Clint at least agrees to stay and hear him out, Sam - doesn't really relax, because he's got no idea if his explanation's going to be worth anything, but at least they're not both hightailing it out of here. He nods again.

It seems like his cue to leave them.

Bucky nods back at Sam, part of him feeling wrong for choosing not to stay and listen, at the same time as the rest of him needed to go and take some quiet time to sort through his emotions. His eyes go one last time to Clint, assessing, before he finally takes a step back.

He doesn't have words to say, so he just turns and walks back out of that alley with his hands shoved into his pockets, head bowed and shoulders hunched up against anyone who might see him outside.

He doesn't miss that last little assessing look, his own gaze sweeping over for a moment. Clint watches Barnes step back, watches him sweep out of the alley, curled in on himself like he was barely holding himself up. There's something incredibly humanizing about it, a vague thought, wonderingly, if that is what Atlas looked like with the world resting upon his shoulders. A blink, and Barnes is gone, swallowed up by the alley and the streets awaiting him.

Then, then. Well, Clint's gaze flicks back over to Sam. He shifts, faces the man he'd called partner not too long ago, and hopes beyond hope that there's a good fucking reason upon his tongue. He's damn tired, and it shows, body slumping, aching.

He has things to say, things to explain, but if he'd been terrified before -- well. It's not easy to spill when he's spent his entire life keeping everything held tight to his chest.

Sam watches Bucky go, doing his best not to look like a wounded puppy who knows it did something wrong but doesn’t know what it’s supposed to do to fix it - but considering that’s the first metaphor that’d come to mind when he thought of what his face is probably doing right about now, he’s not sure he’s all that successful.

His shoulders droop a little when he looks back over at Clint, giving up on any pretense of confidence. Sam runs a hand over his head, fingers curling around the back of his neck and thumb digging into the muscle at the base. “On a scale of one to go fuck yourself, how bad did I just mess this up?”

Ouch, well. Clint's got experience dealing with a look like that, you don't help raise a couple kids without knowing it. But on Sam's face, it eats at him. He's gotten used to seeing Sam as a pillar, as the strongest one of them all. Not that he hadn't known the guy had his own problems, that he couldn't be strong all the time. But still.

"Sam," A wordless little sound, hands gesturing, like if only he could grab the words and force them forward. Doesn't work like that, and he knows it. So instead, Clint scrubs a hand over his face, through the spikes of his hair, sighs. "There's something you gotta know, okay? Just listen."

And there is, but it takes a lot. A lot of trust, a lot of hope, a lot of courage. Clint's not sure he has all that, but part of him -- well, part of him remembers the last time they were here and the way Sam held him through. Remembers naming what they are, and that affords answers.

"Outta all the people I've trusted, man?" Serious, serious. The blue of his gaze is fathomless. "Only two of 'em never betrayed me. Both are dead."

Sam watches Clint, half-hoping that Clint'll just tell him what he needs to do to fix this. Which isn't fair, Sam knows, especially since Sam's the one who got himself into this in the first place, but he's accepted that he got in way over his head here, and he's kind of hoping anyway.

He isn't expecting that. It's not like he didn't know that Clint had some trust issues - it kind of came with the whole spy/assassin territory - but that makes his chest ache on a whole other level. Maybe Sam wasn't the only one getting in way too deep going into this whole partner thing after, after- His train of thought skips and stutters when he realizes that one of those two must be Natasha, and oh, damn it.

"Clint," he murmurs, still sounding a little lost. But what he got out of that is pretty much, 'so your explanation better be real damn great,' and okay, yeah, he can do that. He can explain what the hell he thought he was doing.

"When I first got back after retiring, I didn't talk to anyone. Didn't want to admit I wasn't doing okay, and I sure as hell didn't want anyone telling me that. I didn't want anyone to see, to know, that the reason I stopped giving a shit was because I couldn't handle watching my best friend die. That I wasn't strong enough. The hardest thing I ever had to do was admit that I couldn't do it alone, that I needed support. And I knew there were guys out there like -" He pauses, grimaces a little. "Well, maybe not exactly like me, but who'd been through something close enough to maybe get it."

He's rambling now. Rein it in, he needs to get to the point. "I thought I could make it less hard for you two. I thought maybe if you knew you weren't alone, taking the next step'd be a little easier. I thought I'd just introduce you again, make sure you knew you had the option, let you guys decide whether or not to take it. I thought yeah, I wouldn't push this fast at home but here we gotta move while we have the chance or we'll miss it.

"I didn't think about what I was springing on you. I didn't think that even doing this much was taking away a choice I should've let you both make, exactly the one I was trying to let you make." He considers stopping there, because the next bit feels like an excuse, and he's not trying to excuse anything, but. Once he started, it's like he can't stop. "I maybe do this thing where I focus too much on trying to help other people when I'm not in a good enough place to think what I'm doing all the way though."

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."

Sam reaches out before he can stop himself, hands covering Clint’s where they’d been clenched into fists. It’s only after he makes contact that he wonders if Clint maybe doesn’t want him touching him right now, if Clint’s still a little too upset to be willing to take any support Sam might offer. Especially when it’s over something Sam’d caused in the first place.

But he’s not going to take it back now. If Clint doesn’t want it, he can shake Sam’s hands off, or take those steps back again.

“I messed up, man, I know that. That’s on me, not you.” You don’t have to get it, you don’t have to trust him, he means, but he leaves that unspoken.

“I know it’s a hard sell,” he adds quietly. “Bucky’s… not the kind of guy you trust on someone else’s say so. I didn’t even take Steve’s word on it, not at first.” There’s a pause, then he ventures, “Can I tell you what sold me on him?”

He thinks about it, pulling away from Sam's touch, taking those steps. But he doesn't. Lets Sam's hands cover his fists, gaze sweeping up to meet Sam's eyes. Listens and thinks, because it's true, Bucky isn't the kind of guy you trust simply on someone else's dime. But Sam hasn't led him wrong -- beyond this moment, of course. And even then, well, Clint can't deny that Sam's already done his level best to explain just what he was thinking and hoping for.

They're partners, it still means something to Clint, enough that he doesn't pull away or leave. Simply stands there with his hands uncurling like morning glories under the sun that is Sam's touch.

"Go ahead."

Softly, voice low. He doesn't look away, because he wants to read the truth there in Sam's face, wants to know.

Honestly, it’d be easier if Clint did look away. Sam wants to look away here, because talking about what really sold him on Bucky means talking about Riley, means going into just how badly watching his best friend get blown to pieces messed him up. But Clint is his partner, and that means something to Sam, too.

It means a lot.

So Sam holds his gaze steady, thumbs smoothing over Clint’s hands as much to ground himself as for Clint.

“At the end of the space arena, I wasn’t doing so hot. Got in a fight with a Viking, not my best idea. Bucky found me trying to hold my guts in on the way back to the infirmary, and he sat me down with him, let me bleed all over him. The countdown’d already started, and I think we both knew what was coming.” He swallows, jaw locking briefly as he grits his teeth, trying to get this out. Yeah, maybe he talks a lot about this, but he rarely goes into specifics, into exactly what his weaknesses - triggers, he knows that - were.

“Riley, my wingman, he was hit with an RPG, our last mission out with the wings. I, uh. I’m not crazy about fire, explosions. Shit, the first fourth of July I was back, I spent an hour hiding in the bathroom trying not to puke. I mean, it’s better now, but-” Not the point, moving on. Clint can fill in the gaps there.

“Bucky stayed with me, held my hand, right up until the end. Without him I would’ve been in a lot worse shape.”

Fireworks may not bother him anymore, but goddamn, Sam knows there’s no way he would’ve been anything like ready to face getting blown up alone.

Edited 2015-07-10 03:47 (UTC)

He should have looked away, he really should have. Clint's regretting his decision already, heart lodged in his throat, something cold gilding his spine.

That first Arena -- god he remembers it, of course he does. His end was no less fiery, hand in hand with Natasha, spinning and drawing her into his arms, as if he could protect her with the shield of his body. Impossible, he knew, but still he had to try. Clint didn't know Sam then, not really, but now Sam's his partner and he aches with the image of Sam holding his own guts in as he tried to walk back to safety. Almost without thought, Clint's hands move under Sam's touch, lock their fingers together, squeezes gently, and then tighter, as if he could double check for sure that Sam was real.

Because this is news to him. All of it, Riley, the RPG that took him out, the end that Sam found not so long ago. Clint understands, he more than understands. He's been there himself, and sometimes, he's not entirely sure he's left it far behind at all. Loki was nearly a year ago, but that means jack shit. So yeah, okay, maybe he definitely gets now why Sam trusts Bucky, why he started to in the first place.

He's quiet for a long time, holding Sam's hands, gaze flicking away as he thinks. Briefly, his mouth twists, jaw tight, before easing out as his gaze slots back.

"Okay," careful, calmly, "Okay."

Maybe Clint's doing it to make sure that Sam really did pull through, but the gesture soothes Sam a little bit anyway.

Especially when Clint doesn't say anything for a while, and Sam very carefully does his best not to read anything into that, not to let his mind wander down any roads that he might not be able to get it back from. He squeezes Clint's hands back, waiting, and then lets out a slow breath at Clint's response.

"Okay."

He's feeling a little exposed right about now - says the guy who regularly stands up in front of twenty or thirty people and talks about the things he regrets and the shit he brought back with him - but this is different. This isn't talking about his experiences to try to help someone who might have been through something similar, this is just talking about his experiences. This if for him more than for Clint, and he always has a harder time opening up like that.

"Okay. We, uh. We good?"

The truth is, Clint's not the most touchy person out there. Reaching out for Sam is a comfort, yeah he's reaffirming belief that Sam's alright, but it's faintly selfish. A need to make sure, a need to keep him steady and close and sure. He needed to think, but he needed to make sure they were fine too.

Even if they're both feeling somewhat exposed, insides scoped out and set on display. Clint shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot as he spots that vulnerability written carefully in the lines of Sam's face. He doesn't pull away though, hands locked, leaning closer just a tad.

"Yeah," Painfully soft, quiet in the space between them, "Yeah, we're good."

He's not sure what else to say but that, what to follow this through with. The betrayal from earlier has faded, sour and bitter, an echo upon his tongue.

Honestly, Sam isn't one hundred percent sure of what to do here, either. He's painfully aware of just how badly he could have messed up here, and he's only mostly sure he managed to salvage it okay.

And he still has to figure out a way to apologize to Bucky, and god he doesn't even want to think about how he's going to manage that.

But he knows what he wants to do, and - fuck it, he might as well go for it. He tugs Clint in by his hands, letting go when he's close enough that Sam can wrap his arms around him for a hug.

Clint goes easily, wrapping his arms around Sam, holding tight. His breath shudders out of him, but this close he can feel the beat of Sam's heart, steady, strong. It's good, they're good. Maybe everything isn't perfect, maybe he's still feeling vulnerable and shamed and unsure. But that's -- well, somehow that's not too unusual.

Instead, he holds tight, basks for a long moment like a cat laying in the sun.

It takes a moment, pulse soothing out from the jackrabbit rate, mind clearing from the blue and he fear and the panic. Eventually, he pulls back, but not so far as to lose contact all together. Eyes Sam, takes in the worry still written faintly into his expression, and doesn't know what to do about it beyond what he's already doing. So, he makes a joke. Kind of.

"Should I get used to the emotional hugs?"

Sam closes his eyes for a moment, hands splayed over Clint’s shoulder blades and holding on tight. He’s not sure if he’s giving comfort or taking it, if he’s trying to soothe Clint after Sam’s fuck up caused him trouble or if he’s trying to soothe himself back out of being vulnerable. Maybe both.

Either way, he just breathes for a long moment, watching Clint closely when he pulls back. And then he grins at that joke - it’s almost a relief, something to lighten the mood, and Sam gives him a slight squeeze before he lets go.

“Nah. This was a once in a lifetime kind of opportunity, man, I hope you enjoyed it.”

He gives him a little shove, then slings his arm around Clint’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get back before they wonder where we are.”

my friends are so distressed

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