#if they do bonk it'll probably be fade when i say

[izzysarchivedblogs]

There were several things in Clint's life that were never simple. Whatever this was with Tony, whatever the touch was, the sleeping together. The wanting so desperate to punch Tony because he was emotionally raw but not. The letting Tony make him spew his feelings. It's fucked.

It's fucking fucked and it's gonna take a beer to figure out what or more forget to even think about whatever this was. The touch had been nice though. He had been bored, lonely, and way too over his head in the lab. Too shaky, that calmed him a little.

❝ And I thought you wanted to get to London. ❞ A quick retort, the smallest poke and reminder of where they were headed. At least Clint didn't go for the darker joke. So he should get one of Captain America's gold stars. Clint was seriously contemplating the offer of kicking the pilot out of the seat. Lives would literally be in his hands, he'd had to be focused on plenty things that there would be no room but it wouldn't be the same.

It's not the kind of flying he meant or wanted. A biplane would be more fun than this.

❝ So you're admitting that I outclass you? ❞ He means that more in the Avengers gym and sparring sense but he'll take it on the pole as well. ❝ We could put that to the test. ❞ Tony means the pole, Clint, not whatever need you have to fight.

He holds his hand with two fingers up. ❝ Two words. ❞ Clint can remember that time. The first go-round as a secret avenger, tested by Steve to be the leader. Clint's pretty sure he failed to some degrees but he couldn't just admit that. ❝ Captain Britain. Brian Braddock. ❞

A groan is let out as Tony points out how much longer this plane flight was going to take. There's no alcohol. Tony really had to point out that he was itching. Should he just say sex? It wouldn't be a thought that wasn't in his head. Get it over with, nip whatever tension there was in the lab and that finger touch in the bud?

❝ I hate this. ❞

Fuck it, what more could he lose?

❝ Sex. ❞

Tony shrugged, studying Clint's face. There had been a few little tells, though Clint was good at playing his cards close to his chest. He'd reacted to the touch on his fingers, not in a stop touching me way, but a curiosity way. Tony could work with curiosity. The question was, should he?

There had also been a flicker when he mentioned flying. It wasn't for long, but Tony could tell it was something Clint wanted. Maybe not this plane but a plane. "I mean it," he said. "It's my plane. I can decide whose behind the stick. I fly it sometimes."

Tony laughed as the suggestion he get on the pole. He could just imagine how badly he'd go on the pole. But it could be a funny way to spend their time. And an excuse to keep touching him. Maybe if Tony kept touching Clint, he might forget that he's mad at him. "I'm not sure I'm as nimble as you are, nor do I have the core strength. You'd have to teach me."

Tony laughed again. "You hate Britain on principle? What did they do to you? Colonize you home?"

He leaned in a little and sighed. "So what do you want to do, Katniss? you're on a private jet for another -" he looked at his watch - "five and a bit hours. There's no alcohol. So what would distract you?"

[punisheye]

Somewhere halfway through the Mistwood, Wolfwood passes out. The last thing he remembers are his legs buckling under him and Vash's startled gasp.

He wakes up God knows how much later in a bed. Not his bed. It's not very comfortable because it's not really big enough for him, but when he weakly tries to shift around to adjust the dull throb in his body makes him wince and go still.

It's a hospital. He's in a hospital. The walls are pale blue and the curtain drawn around his bed is off-white. The heart monitor next to his bed beeps steadily. They're feeding him something through an IV drip in his arm; probably some powerful painkillers. The meds do make him a little nauseated, though.

Vaguely, he's aware of a bandage around his shoulder, one on his gut, another around his thigh. Did he get shot there, too, and just not notice?

A nurse comes in soon enough and, upon seeing him awake, is quick to fetch the doctor.

"Where's Vash?" He asks groggily, before she can even get a word in.

"Mister... Saverem? He's down the hall. He's been asking to see you for hours. You ought to be grateful to him, he carried you here on his back with an injured shoulder and bullet wound in his leg."

"Mmgh." He's too tired to really reply. Or talk in general. While the doctor talks to him a nurse applies ice to his bruised-up ribs. Whatever she says is kinda muffled. Something about fractured ribs, digging a bullet out of his gut, and a lot of painkillers and bedrest. He's fading in and out the whole time before finally, finally slipping back into unconsciousness.

He dreams this time. In front of him stands a dark figure shaped just like him. It has a cross on its back. It's staring at him with his eyes.

"Yer still here," Wolfwood says.

"Always been here," he gets in response. "Always will be here."

They're in the chapel of the orphanage. It was always the cleanest area, but there are still signs of kids. Toys left behind, a small missing shoe, a crude drawing of baby Jesus in the manger sitting on the pulpit. Sunlight filters in through the windows. Dust motes float through the air. Somewhere, distantly, he hears children laughing.

"Even if we shed every other part of ourselves, we'd never forget this place," the Shadow says. "The old man could never beat that out of us."

"Would you've gone after this place, too?"

The Shadow stares at him for a long time. Something inscrutable swims in his eyes.

"No," he finally says. A simple answer.

Around them, the scene shifts. They're sitting on a familiar white couch, holding shot glasses. Wolfwood's on the opposite end now. The Shadow's got The Bride in his other hand, one leg folded over the other, slumped back. Confetti rains down around them.

The Shadow says, "I'm everything you hate about yerself. Think you can ever let me go?"

"I don't know." Wolfwood stares down at the shot glass. "I don't think so."

"Yer friends accepted me. All the ugly parts of you. They saw me and still loved you."

"Yeah."

"You accepted me, too."

"...Yeah."

"That all you know how to say? Jesus." He bonks Wolfwood over the head with the bottle. Wolfwood rubs the back of his head, scowling. "Whatever. I'm not yer therapist. I'm just you."

Again, the scene shifts. They're standing over his own grave. The cross remains a tall, vigilant guardian over the stone. The Shadow leans against it with one arm.

"Time to go," he says. "Everythin' from here on, you gotta figure out yerself."

"You still scared?" Wolfwood asks.

"Always am. I think it'll be a li'l easier now, though." The Shadow stands up straight and lights up a cigarette. He walks forward, his stride steady, and brushes past Wolfwood. "I love you more than you'll ever know. Be well."

Wolfwood looks over his shoulder, only to find the Shadow gone.

When he wakes again, he can still smell cigarette smoke.

Listen to my voice. Listen to our heartbeat. Listen… I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you... — Fray, Final Fantasy XIV