Sam isn't okay. It eats at him, this desperate all encompassing notion that he's failed. It's stupid, since Sam's here, right here with him. Warm and whole and blessedly alive. But he's got metal under his skin now, and sometimes, Sam's gaze goes hazy and distant, thousands of miles away in a way Clint can't fix. He knows that look, and it terrifies him, twists his insides round and round, a bitter taste on his tongue.

But Clint's been playing this game for so long it's second nature to keep his cover. Yeah, he'd purposefully broke it once, fighting desperate once he understood what was coming for Sam, but afterwards there his cover was, maybe a bit battered but whole. Celebrus had once called him birdbrained, and the Capitol had never lost that image -- it served him well. Well enough, he supposes, that his mind is mostly his when they set him loose on the battle field again. Clint would kill them all for what they'd done to him, to Sam, but -- but there's just enough behind him. He subsides, stays quiet and dumb, and they forget there's a master assassin behind his glass eyes.

It's not enough, but it's all he has.

For now, his head tilts, slowly, bird like, bolstered under the warm press of Sam leaning into him. Beneath his newly plated ribcage, Clint's heart beats slow and steady, the breath in his lungs forcibly and carefully regulated with sniper's precision. It's not that he's overly nervous, or anxious -- Clint's simply spent too long under the Capitol's eye, under the thumb, to do anything else.

So his sturdier frame holds up Sam's, and Clint takes the comfort offered in this quiet moment. There's an owlish blink, lashes covering the still newly gleaming blue of his gaze for a moment, before he nods. Clint's quieter now, just a little bit. Sam might have gotten the rougher end of things, but that doesn't mean Clint isn't feeling it.

He shifts, freeing his hands from where he'd been sightlessly checking over the bow they'd given him. They don't need to sign, not really -- his hearing is better than it ever was before, now, and they all know there's nothing hidden in the twitch of fingers. But it makes him feel better, just a tad, seeing the familiar shape of his name.

'Always, angel.' He signs, something muted and softly fond kindling beneath the uncomfortably Tesseract blue of his gaze.

Sam's wings spread with a gentle slip of metal pinions, a comforting sound in the space of all this overwhelming mess. Clint relaxes near unconsciously, the tense line of his shoulders drooping just a tad. He lists to the side, pressing close against Sam's side, holding tight to the warmth seeping into his skin.

It soothes the orders ringing in the forefront of his mind, eases the tinning panic in the very dark. Clint breathes, slow and steady, and lets the gleam of his gaze rest on Sam's hands, reads his words like it's the only truth left to him. In some way, it is.

Clint's mouth twitches, curls up at the corner unconsciously, as Sam punches him in the shoulder. Maybe it's harder than the last time he did it, but Clint doesn't mind. He's built to take it that force now, and some part of him savors the idea of Sam's hand leaving behind a mark, even if he needn't. The attempted smile is short-lived, and Clint blinks slowly, dragging himself back in. For a second, his fingers curl around Sam's wrist, the beat of his pulse against the pad of his thumb.

He doesn't say anything, savoring, the metal of Sam's wing curled around them, shielding. It's the first time he's felt safe in longer than he can remember -- weeks, months, years. His mind might be half in tatters, but this eases it as best as it can.

'Be careful,' he signs, before reaching up to haul Sam in, foreheads touching. Clint doesn't let go, hand curled at the nape of Sam's neck, dragging one breath in, and then another. The gleam of his eyes is near painful this close, the statistics his brain automatically filters scrolling incessantly at the corners of his vision.

He takes a breath, voice rough and tumble, soft in the space between them, "Ready?"

It should be weird, in a way, seeing Sam with these massive metal wings pouring from his shoulders. But it isn't, it really isn't. Sam's always had wings in his mind, they just weren't always visible. But these are -- beautiful, in a way. Sleek and powerful and capable of so much more than the Capitol is aware.

And they're a part of Sam.

So Sam shields them, relaxing with the uncomfortable press of his wings within him eased, and Clint relaxes in turn. It hurts, sometimes, to think. The Capitol kept their fingers from digging too deep in his mind, sure that they would have nothing else to gain by doing so, and it simply means everything is kind of -- jagged. But Clint remembers enough, and he remembers the way Sam looked, all lit and golden, mouth tugged in a smile he couldn't help but return. Beneath his breast, Clint's heart beats to the same tune Sam's does, slow and steady, tied together intrinsically. That's -- good. Sam might not smile now, and Clint's doesn't live long anyway, but they're still here.

In the silence surrounding them, the shadow cast by those wings, their eyes gleam, complimentary. Red and blue, flickering with each blink. He misses the warm brown of Sam's eyes, but this is good too. And it's even better when Sam speaks, the familiar reassurance there in the low curl of his voice.

Clint breathes in as Sam breathes out, in out, in, out. They share everything -- air is the least of it. He subsides easily, content when Sam speaks, when he agrees. Good. That's all he wanted. There's a soft hum though, even as Clint stays right where he is. Both offer their advantages, but -- "air."