Day 2!


Bloody Hands

The target at the bottom of the 20 foot range was starting to blur. He couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or something else. Something in his eye, definitely not any kind of emotion causing it.

Clint took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, centring himself. The arrow was draw, his fingers in line with his lips so that he could feel the breath he released as it blew softly passed them.

With his eyes still closed he let the arrow fly, knowing he already had it lined up right. In quick succession he opened fire with four more arrows, only then opening his eyes to see his damage.

Like the previous million times in the last five hours - a glance at the clock showed four hours fifty two minutes but who's counting - the five arrows formed a perfect line down the circular target, splitting it in half from top to bottom.

He lowered his bow as he started the walk to retrieve his arrows. He pulled them out with more force than necessary, gripping them tightly and leaving small chunks in the cork of the board. He'd have to ask Stark to order a new one after this.

Ensuring that the tips were all ok he placed them back into the quiver on his back and started the retreat to his starting point.

He loved the pain right now. The harsh stinging in his fingers, the raw blistering pain of his palm, the tightness of his shoulders that would take a hell of a physio session to release. It reminded him he was alive, and it was his punishment for everything that fucked up on his account.

He shook his head clear. The whole reason he was here was to keep that thought from his mind. He was here to focus on his breathing, on the pull of the bow string, of the glide of the arrow, the thunk of the board. The pain in his hand that the slicing string and rough bow caused. A pain that should be a lot worse somewhere else right now.

He let the arrows fly without thought, without focus, slightly off but right now his mind was too.

"I'd keep whatever you have to say to yourself, Cap." Clint mumbled, his throat dry and sore with the hours of lack of use. The space was big enough to acoustic it around though. He started the walk to the target again, ignoring the man standing in the door way.

"Just watching." Steve replied. Cool and collected. Clint spared a glance the mans way, spotting him leaning against the door of the gym. His hair was in a mess, he had been worried. Rogers always pulled at his hair when something was on his mind. The hoodie hung loose off his shoulders, his comfy clothes. He had been waiting for a while if he was in those.

Clint glanced down at his own mission gear; covered in grime and tears and...

He didn't want to change yet. There was no point. When he came to the tower they tried get him to, tried to get him to eat and shower and rest, but he wanted to shoot.

The arrows were back in the quiver, the archer back at his mark, so the bow raised and he went about his business.

"She's asking for you."

He stalled in his last arrow, eyes closing against the stinging once more as he let the tension release.

"Thought you were just watching." Clint mumbled through gritted teeth, ignoring the images in his mind right now.

Being surrounded, trying to fight, getting knocked the fuck out, her jumping in front of him, the gun raising, the bullet, the blood...

"Well you want one thing, Natasha wants another." He hated how cool Steve always sounded.

He shouldn't be that relaxed, shouldn't be able to speak so easily about what happened, shouldn't be standing here. Steve should be by her side in case she needed anything, in case she got bad, in case there was no one else there if something happened. He should be in Clint's place right now, because Clint just couldn't.

"You know what Natasha wants, Natasha gets."

"She got a bullet to the chest, did she want that?" Clint asked lowly, opening his eyes to swing around and aim the arrow Steve's way. The Captain didn't even so much as blink in surprise. "How about I send this through your chest and you can tell me if that's something anyone would want?"

"Clint-"

"Don't try make this better!" Clint voice finally raised, but he couldn't help the crack in it. He just hoped Steve didn't notice it. "It should have been my head."

"We don't know that-"

"You weren't there. You don't know anything."

"Clint, listen-"

"I don't want to." Clint sighed, shaking his head and turning to send the arrow into the target. He drew another.

Focus on this, Clint. Focus on the arrow going into the board, focus on nothing but your breathing and the feeling and not on her lying prone on her back bleeding out with no way to help other than push so fucking hard you were convinced you broke something in her rather than help.

Another arrow sailed through the air before Steve tried speak up again.

"I know we weren't there. I'm sorry." He began, Clint kept tabs on the other man movement in his peripheral. He was creeping a little closer, Clint would allow him for now. "It wasn't our mission, it was yours, you can't hold that against us."

"I don't..." Clint sighed, shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. The Captain sounded disappointed, he hated that he made him sound like that. "I just... Don't make it sound like what happened was ok."

"I'm not." Steve replied. "None of it was ok, all of it was a shit show. But Clint, it's ok now. You got out, you're fine. She's fine, you saved her."

"I got a bullet in her chest." He growled, putting the arrow back in his quiver before walking to the side of the gym to stow away his bow.

"What about if the alternative did happen?" Steve pushed, following after Clint. "What would she be like?"

"The fuckers would be dead if that happened." Clint replied quietly, locking his bow away. A smear of blood appeared on the lock and he frowned slightly at it. "I let them go."

"You were concussed, trying to stop Natasha bleeding out. I'd hardly say you let them go."

Clint turned his hand over to see where the blood had come from. His shooting fingers, the ones he refused to cover so he could feel the sting, were dripping blood down his hand from wire cuts. He had no idea how long they'd been like that, the feeling wasn't enough. He used his other hand to press down on them, testing it, but still nothing.

"You did everything you could. You can't control the things that go wrong, just like you can't control what she decides to do when they do go wrong. If that was the same position you'd have jumped in front of her in a heartbeat, and you know what? She'd be by your bedside right now instead of sulking in a shooting range and - Jesus Clint..." Steve's rant cut short, the last two words being breathed behind him, at Clint's shoulder, and he cursed himself for allowing someone to get so close without realising. "Lets get you cleaned up..."

Steve was right. He was always right. It didn't make him feel better at all about it, but it at least made him realise that maybe he should pull his head out of his ass and help the woman who saved his life instead of hiding. The exhaustion hit him like a tonne weight, the blood triggering something in him that screamed 'Go get some fucking rest you idiot.' He had to smile at it because it oddly sounded like Natasha's voice.

"She probably hates me." He whispered, defeated. He accepted Steve's hand on his shoulder and allowed the man to pull him towards the door.

"I don't think that's ever possible." Steve said quietly, shaking his head. "You two could never hate each other. The world would be on fire if you did."

Clint smiled a little more at that, his eyes on his hands as they walked their way to his living area.

The blood was piling up a little more now, a few drops had fallen that he knew would have be cleaned up later, but right now he didn't care.

He had blood on these hands.

In more ways than one.