This hasn't been a choice for a very long time. Before the rebellion got it's hooks into him, before the Capitol sunk beneath his skin, before, before -- before he could bring himself to admit it. Maybe when Tony was executed, maybe even when Natasha never returned. Clint had thrown himself into the rebellion full throttle, long before he'd been part of Thirteen.
Sam had promised Clint he'd get him home, once. After the memories, after Laura and the kids, guilt and shame and an unending need to see this through. It should feel like a betrayal, giving that up, staying here when he has so much waiting for him. But it isn't, it can't be. Natasha would understand, Laura would see, the kids, the farm -- well, it wasn't really his home anyway, in the end.
This isn't home either, really. Clint's not sure he has a word for that any more, not after everything. But maybe, maybe -- maybe ghosts and memory and the ache of those he'd lost, those he'd failed. Bitter, tender, a jagged sort of redemption beneath the birdcage of his ribs. The shells of his ears ring hollow and honeycomb, aching in the static of the room, still unused to this sense even months after the fact. How could he go back to his world, when he'd long ago promised to help save this one?
But home -- Maybe it's lightening in his palm and a hand around the ruined mess of his arm. Maybe it's blindspots and booze filled hugs, long moments and silent conversations, purple feathers and metal ones, cages and chains and a trust so deep it can supersede all of it.
Fight for what you want, Panem. And they had. How could he do any less?
So Clint doesn't hesitate, doesn't bother to think. Sam's hand reaches out blindly, and Clint's already moving to meet him. Mind pressed close, blueblueblue, the familiar ache that soothes with their shared pulse. Always, he swears, clasping Sam's hand in his. They're immovable, metal creaking beneath skin, fingers laced together like two pieces of a puzzle. Nothing will tear them apart, Clint will make sure of it. He repeats, determination written in every gilded bone.
Always
Still, Clint turns, palm held open for the next in the chain, blue eyes gleaming neon.
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Sam had promised Clint he'd get him home, once. After the memories, after Laura and the kids, guilt and shame and an unending need to see this through. It should feel like a betrayal, giving that up, staying here when he has so much waiting for him. But it isn't, it can't be. Natasha would understand, Laura would see, the kids, the farm -- well, it wasn't really his home anyway, in the end.
This isn't home either, really. Clint's not sure he has a word for that any more, not after everything. But maybe, maybe -- maybe ghosts and memory and the ache of those he'd lost, those he'd failed. Bitter, tender, a jagged sort of redemption beneath the birdcage of his ribs. The shells of his ears ring hollow and honeycomb, aching in the static of the room, still unused to this sense even months after the fact. How could he go back to his world, when he'd long ago promised to help save this one?
But home -- Maybe it's lightening in his palm and a hand around the ruined mess of his arm. Maybe it's blindspots and booze filled hugs, long moments and silent conversations, purple feathers and metal ones, cages and chains and a trust so deep it can supersede all of it.
Fight for what you want, Panem. And they had. How could he do any less?
So Clint doesn't hesitate, doesn't bother to think. Sam's hand reaches out blindly, and Clint's already moving to meet him. Mind pressed close, blueblueblue, the familiar ache that soothes with their shared pulse. Always, he swears, clasping Sam's hand in his. They're immovable, metal creaking beneath skin, fingers laced together like two pieces of a puzzle. Nothing will tear them apart, Clint will make sure of it. He repeats, determination written in every gilded bone.
Always
Still, Clint turns, palm held open for the next in the chain, blue eyes gleaming neon.
"C'mon," He reassures, "I've got you."