The Screams All Sound the Same
By: Syntyche
Two: Close Your Eyes
Her: The stairs creak, as you sleep, it's keeping me awake…
Him: It's the house telling you to close your eyes…
Predictably, chaos erupts.
Their first reaction is immediately directed to Steve, gurgling and gasping, eyes wide in shock as he stains Tony's expensive couch red - but even the purposefully shallow inventor doesn't give a damn about the upholstery right now.
As soon as he sees Banner's moving in to try and staunch the bleeding Clint turns his attention to where Natasha had been standing: gone already, of course, in a flash of fiery red curls and glinting, cold green eyes. There's a pulsing weakness stealing over Clint numbly for his partner, radiating outward from an epicenter of agony in the middle of his chest in sharp, aching pains. His bright gaze darts around rapidly, immediately assessing and categorizing all exit routes from the room; routine for the archer because that's what he does every time he walks into a room, even at Stark's, so it's just a quick confirmation of what he already knows.
Nat.
It's more than an ache now; it's growing, fiery misery that's burning the archer into ashes.
Clint has a half-second to decide: help Rogers or track down Romanoff, but Tony makes the decision for him with a harried call.
"Barton!" Stark shouts frantically, and there's an edge of horror to his normally modulated tones that snaps Clint's attention to the commotion surrounding Steve. "Get your feathered ass over here!"
He immediately moves to assist without argument because Clint gets it: Steve's the one in charge. Rogers is always thinking of the team, knows what the team needs to do and where everyone should be, while Tony himself is only really comfortable when he's making decisions that affect only him, a self-preservation thing he can't quite let go of. The inventor prides himself on being an independent narcissist, which should be damn annoying in a fellow teammate but is somehow all part of that weird brand of Stark charm that Clint can't help but like, even if it's akin to looking into a mirror where every single part of your reflection is better looking and richer than you.
Clint steps in, easily taking over the not-unfamiliar role of team leader. He works better solo, sure, prefers it unless he's partnered with Natasha, but he's got this.
"Jarvis," the archer directs immediately, "call 9-1-1 and Fury - we'll see who gets here first and SHIELD will just reroute the ambulance if necessary. Track Romanoff too, find out where she's at."
There's no answer.
Of course Natasha would have thought of that.
"Stark!" Clint snaps.
"On it!" Tony replies briskly, clearly glad to look away from all the blood, and Clint's relieved to see that "on it" means that Stark is actually immediately making the calls himself, rather than trying to first fix Jarvis first so the AI can do it. Clint flashes Bruce a questioning look and Bruce's face clearly portrays his nervousness. He's not that kind of doctor, after all, and the mandatory field medicine they've all taken only goes so far - but he directs the archer to put pressure on Steve's chest here and just like this and Clint complies while his mind flies back over everything Natasha did since entering the common room. It had all happened in less than sixty seconds, but there has to be something, something he's overlooking, something he's missing …
Nat … damn it …
Clint finds himself thinking the irrational thought at least her eyes weren't glowing blue - which brings him an immense amount of relief - when he catches Steve's confused, wild gaze darting to his. Barton glances down, see Steve's bright blood bubbling around his fingerless gloves, and the archer consciously meets the soldier's panicked eyes as he forces a grin he's nowhere near feeling.
"Aw, Cap," Clint says wryly, "here I always thought you bled red, white, and blue. I'm disappointed."
Steve huffs a laugh around the blood leaking from his mouth and even manages an almost-smile that's grotesque with red outlining his perfect teeth. Clint knows that a normal man - himself, for example - would be unconscious, probably dead by now, but whatever had turned scrawny Steve Rogers into supersoldier Captain America is very clearly pulling for him now.
Banner's working furiously, Clint's assisting, Tony's doing whatever Tony does, and when they finally have a chance to take an exhausted step back and let the newly-arrived SHIELD medical personnel make sure Steve's stabilized as best as possible before loading him onto a gurney and taking him away, the three of them stand quietly for a moment, Steve's blood coating their hands and shirts and jeans as they stare at each other in dull-eyed shock at what the hell just happened … ?
When Tony skirts the mess of scattered papers and the overturned coffee table - both spattered with tacky droplets of red - to cross to the bar and pour them all something stiff and terrible, no one complains. They empty their glasses quickly, and head downstairs to pile into the SHIELD car waiting for them to follow their teammate.
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