After that harrowing day, for just a moment, there was a lull. Rogers, Stark and Banner all scurried into their respective corners. Clint would have felt more sympathy for them had it not been for Tasha.
And the captured kid. There was that, too.
He was probably in his late 20s or even early – to mid, maybe – 30s. Malnutrishion and trauma make a person look younger and more breakable, until they make them look older and more breakable--- but, yeah. He was probably second youngest, a few years after their too-young "leader".
A few years before Tasha.
Oh, who was he kidding? Tasha's age. They were the same.
"Do you want me to be there with him?"
A long pause. "No."
He had stayed just behing the door when Banner was trying to shield the kid. Inches away from his thin layer of protection.
Twice, Tasha was sent away, and stood beside him with empty eyes.
"No. Stay away from him, please." So he did. He could give her that much, at least.
Tasha spent more of her days with the captive now - something Clint was not going to report. She spent more of her nights with him - something Clint was also not going to report, unless he had to. He wondered if it was for her or for him. For the reports, probably.
He leaned over the kitchen counter, where he stood. Braced his arms on either side of his stove and stared at his should-be breakfast. Burned it again, he thought dully. Together with the pan.
His hands didn't shake – he had very sure hands, well trained to aim deadly weapons at vulnerable targets – but he was mature enough to admit it was a close thing. He let himself breathe unevenly. Tasha was long gone, she wouldn't witness this.
He unclenched fis fists and straightened. Tasha spent time with the captured kid. Tony spent time in his robotic Lego rooms. Banner spent time hiding in his Inner Zen as much as he could. Steve spent his time wherever Captain America went to twist himself into anxcious knots about responsibility and ignore trauma.
Clint... took not-so-cleansing showers and spent his time polishing weapons with hypnotically practiced moves, consciously away from all of his sniper's nests.
Throwing burnt items away.
But he didn't ignore fires, at least. Just stood beside them.
Fill: part 20 - Clint
After that harrowing day, for just a moment, there was a lull. Rogers, Stark and Banner all scurried into their respective corners. Clint would have felt more sympathy for them had it not been for Tasha.
And the captured kid. There was that, too.
He was probably in his late 20s or even early – to mid, maybe – 30s. Malnutrishion and trauma make a person look younger and more breakable, until they make them look older and more breakable--- but, yeah. He was probably second youngest, a few years after their too-young "leader".
A few years before Tasha.
Oh, who was he kidding? Tasha's age. They were the same.
"Do you want me to be there with him?"
A long pause. "No."
He had stayed just behing the door when Banner was trying to shield the kid. Inches away from his thin layer of protection.
Twice, Tasha was sent away, and stood beside him with empty eyes.
"No. Stay away from him, please." So he did. He could give her that much, at least.
Tasha spent more of her days with the captive now - something Clint was not going to report. She spent more of her nights with him - something Clint was also not going to report, unless he had to. He wondered if it was for her or for him. For the reports, probably.
He leaned over the kitchen counter, where he stood. Braced his arms on either side of his stove and stared at his should-be breakfast. Burned it again, he thought dully. Together with the pan.
His hands didn't shake – he had very sure hands, well trained to aim deadly weapons at vulnerable targets – but he was mature enough to admit it was a close thing. He let himself breathe unevenly. Tasha was long gone, she wouldn't witness this.
He unclenched fis fists and straightened. Tasha spent time with the captured kid. Tony spent time in his robotic Lego rooms. Banner spent time hiding in his Inner Zen as much as he could. Steve spent his time wherever Captain America went to twist himself into anxcious knots about responsibility and ignore trauma.
Clint... took not-so-cleansing showers and spent his time polishing weapons with hypnotically practiced moves, consciously away from all of his sniper's nests.
Throwing burnt items away.
But he didn't ignore fires, at least. Just stood beside them.