Archive of Our Own ^beta

Clint is not as subtle as Natasha. That's not really saying much, though, because Natasha is probably the foremost authority in the world on being subtle. She might have created being subtle. Clint didn't. But he can hold his own when he needs to. He's going to need to at the moment.

If Wilson cottons on to what Clint is doing, he's going to want in, and just—no. Clint is not returning Cap's best modern day friend to him in anything less than perfect working order. Cap called Clint and said, "I need you," and just because he'd been talking about a specific confrontation at a random German airport, that didn't mean Clint was going to stop before the job was finished.

Scott's an unknown, but Clint can't chance it. Scott dropped everything and came just because some guys he never knew asked, and he doesn't deserve to be in this hellhole. None of them deserve it, but Scott…this wasn't even really Scott's fight. As far as they knew, he hadn't put on the suit in months.

But fuck if Clint's going to let any of them touch Wanda while she can't fry them herself, so, subtle is going to have to be the name of the game. He needs all eyes on him from the guards and no eyes on him from the rest of the team.

It's a really good thing it was Natasha who trained him in subtle.

He makes his move the next time the shift changes. The guards don't really need to come into the cell area. There are cameras everywhere, and a communication system that would take care of anything that needed to be said. Their meals are delivered through slots on the door-side, not the bar side.

Nah, this jerk off just likes being creepy in the vicinity of mostly-comatose women. Clint's praying it's the mostly-comatose thing that gets him going, because Clint can do submissive when he needs to, he knows how to force himself into all types of corners he'd rather not be in, but the woman thing—that might be a bigger problem.

But, nothing ventured nothing gained—and the earlier he knows if he's gonna have to come up with another plan, the better—so the next time Creeper Extraordinaire comes in to "monitor the room," Clint waits until he's passing by Clint's cell and says softly, "You like 'em pliant, huh?"

Creeper halts in his steps. He turns toward Clint and says, "What did you say to me?"

Clint holds his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I'm just saying, if you're looking for easy without being mostly-dead, there's another option, here."

Creeper manages to sneer and laugh at the same time. "Well, well, well. Hero to the core, I see."

Clint keeps quiet. This guy can think what he wants. Sentient piece of rotting garbage will never understand what it means to just be fucking human. To do anything and everything to keep the people who matter safe. And if Clint opens his mouth right now, he's not sure he can stop himself from saying at least some of that.

"And what do I get out of letting you get your hero boner on, huh?"

Clint barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes. "Someone who sucks cock like a turbo Dyson and doesn't break easy."

Creeper blinks. After a moment, though, the corner of his mouth curls up. "Well. You just might have yourself a deal."

Clint has himself a deal. The four prisoners are only ever let out of the cells one at a time for bathroom or shower privileges, and Clint almost laughs when Creeper comes to get him for Clint's turn. He doesn't, because there's valor in not pushing the guy you're bribing with rape into being pissed. But the absolute predictability of it is hard not to find darkly amusing.

They're all made to strip before leaving their cells, presumably so if they've managed to fashion a weapon, it doesn't get transported. Clint wouldn’t be sloppy enough to leave a weapon in his jumpsuit, but what the fuck ever.

Creeper accompanies Clint to the showers. Clint's gaze flickers to the cameras in each corner, which, unsurprisingly, all have red lights steadily shining from them. The door has barely closed when Creeper shoves Clint.

Clint could hold his ground, but that's not the bargain he made, so he goes to his knees. Creeper snickers and says, "Open wide."

Clint does. He almost chokes at the first stream of acrid heat that hits his tongue. He probably should have seen that coming, but it's been a few years—over a couple of decades, actually—since he's been under the thumb of someone who's only real purpose for him was humiliation, possibly with a side of physical sadism. Even Loki had actually needed Clint for logistics, or, at least, needed someone with Clint's logistical acumen and his knowledge of SHIELD.

Clint forces that thought out of his head and tries his best not to choke on the urine. He's catching his breath in the aftermath of the stream when Creeper buries a hand in Clint's hair and pulls Clint onto his cock. It's not a particularly large cock, actually, it's fairly average, but it's been a few years since Clint has deep-throated anyone, and it's been a lot longer since he's done it with only the barest patina of consent.

It takes his body a minute or so to remember the technique and in that time he digs his fingernails into his knees and forces himself not to panic. There's a good chance he'll kill this guy if he loses control and Clint doesn't really want to find out what kind of punishment that merits in a prison that doesn't appear on any map and isn't known to anyone outside of the intelligence community.

Those sixty or so seconds are interminable, but once he finds the rhythm and gets himself under control, it's just disgusting and mildly painful, and Clint is more than fine with both of those things if they keep this asshole from touching Wanda.

Clint's still swallowing when the guy pulls back and kicks him in the torso. Clint's naked and the guy has steel-toed boots on. Clint hears one of his ribs crack. Some of his vision greys out, which is why he's not quite prepared when the guy drags him up by his hair and flings him toward the wall. Clint just manages to get his hands out in front of himself. He presses his forehead to the wall, forces himself to take small breaths and think, Calm, stay fucking calm, Barton.

His legs are kicked wider and he can't stop himself from taking a deeper breath, trying to relax himself. Rather, the pain of his ribs causes him to tense up just as Creeper shoves the first inch of his night stick up Clint.

Clint nearly bites through his tongue to keep himself from screaming. He grinds his forehead into the wall, presses his hands into its surface until they hurt. He thinks, been there, done that, thinks, that all you got, limp dick?, but he keeps his tongue between his teeth and doesn't open his mouth.

He's not sure how long it goes on, or how much of the stick is forced into him. He drifts after the second push, letting his mind coast somewhere else, anywhere else. He only comes back when a torrent of icy water starts pouring over him, and the same night stick that’s been raping him catches him in the torso.

Creeper laughs when Clint doubles over, retching cum and urine. He says, "You've got three more minutes, Barton, better clean up quick."

Showering in three minutes isn't a problem. Clint can manage it in one, even injured. It's also not that complicated to dress quickly and in the corner hardest for the others to see. He doubts there's bruising yet, but he's not taking the chance.

Sam takes one look at him and says, "They 'run out' of hot water again?"

Clint makes sure to laugh at the air quotes. It hurts, and he's not entirely sure he manages to not flinch, but he's lying on his bed, so Sam can't see his face. "I'm pretty sure hot water isn't a thing on this boat, Wilson."

"Along with edible food and blankets that don't feel like steel wool?" Scott pipes up.

"What," Clint says, "not your favorite incarceration experience?"

Scott says, "Don't get me wrong, the company's top notch."

Sam snorts. Clint murmurs, "Mhm," but forgoes a laugh.

Sam asks, "You're not feeling sick, are you?"

Clint says, "Nah, just cold. I'm gonna huddle up with my steel brush wire and catch a few z's."

Sam's, "Mhm," is clearly a slightly-off echo of Clint's murmur. Clint swallows down a groan as he curls into a ball, closes his eyes, and does his best to force himself into sleep.

Clint wakes from a nightmare with his teeth buried in his forearm, tearing the skin. It's an old habit, from before the circus, even, when waking an adult with a kid's nightmare was a good way to get himself beaten. He winces, because he's not due for a bathroom break for a bit, and bites infect easy.

There's a tray by his door, which means he slept through the delivery of breakfast. That doesn't usually happen. He's not hungry, not even mildly, but he drinks the water and makes himself eat some of the powdered eggs. His body needs the protein to help it heal.

He calls out to Wanda, asking how she is, just in case today is the day she answers. It's not, but Scott's not frantic, so she's probably still showing signs of life. Scott, Sam, and he have exhausted all their I Spy options. Clint starts up a game of twenty-one questions. They all recognize that none of them are telling any important truths when they play, but it's something to pass the time.

At some point Clint falls asleep sitting against the wall. He wakes and considers trying to do the basic stretches and exercises he's been keeping at in order to maintain his physicality. On the one hand, he doesn't want the others to get curious about a change in routine. On the other hand, his ribs fucking hurt.

He chooses the middling path of shortening the workout. If the others are wondering why, neither says anything. Sam changes his workouts up all the time, so it's probable he just thinks Clint is bored. Scott, in all likelihood, isn't paying that much attention.

Clint isn't surprised when Creeper is his own personal escort to the bathroom later that day, but it tells him he's going to have to be careful. Clint can take a small beating every few days and still force himself to be mission ready. If Creeper's going to go at it every day, though, especially when there's a chance of escalation, Clint's going to have to see if he can keep a small threshold of control over the situation. He can't be subtle if he's bleeding out.

Thankfully, Creeper is either smart enough to realize this as well, or yesterday took the edge off, because other than shoving Clint down over the sink—which hurts his ribs like a bitch and isn't necessary, for the record, thanks no thanks—and fucking him with all the finesse of a twelve year old virgin, Creeper leaves Clint alone.

Clint gets back to the cells and starts up a game of three truths and a lie.

Clint keeps telling himself there's no reason for how disturbed his sleep is. This is not the first time he's traded his body for something more important. Sure, it's been a while and maybe he has a little more awareness of this self-worth than he did back when that was more the rule than the exception. But this isn't new.

The pep talks aren't really making his sleep more regular, though, and he's exhausted. Even when he can sleep, he's on edge, waking up at the smallest sound—the scratch of Wanda's collar against the wall, Scott snoring, Sam pacing. The exhaustion is ratcheting up the nausea he was already experiencing, which is making it hard to keep things down. He forces that issue more stringently than the sleep, because he doesn't want to cohabitate with his own sick. Also, it'll be pretty hard to convince the others he's fine if he's throwing up.

Of course, at a certain point, Creeper chooses a blowjob over fucking at just the wrong moment, pulls Clint's hair just a centimeter too far, and doesn't let go when Clint struggles. It ends with Clint vomiting all over the guy's dick and shoes.

A squealed, "gross," is Creeper's response. Well, that and a kick directly into Clint's balls. Clint manages to curl in a different direction so he heaves onto the floor in response. He's catching his breath when Creeper hauls him up by the collar of his jumpsuit, cutting his air off for a few seconds.

When he's got Clint on his feet, Creeper asks, "You want me to switch over to the girl, huh? That what you're aiming for?"

Clint will kill him and take what comes to him before that happens. He doesn't think they're there, yet, though, so he says, "No sir, no. I didn't mean to, I'm sorry. Sir."

Creeper looks at him for a long moment, and Clint waits, trying to keep breathing. After what feels like forever, Creeper smiles, a little casual and a lot mean, and takes his hand off Clint's collar. Instead, he takes Clint's dominant hand and quickly, without any telegraphing or warning, breaks two of the fingers. Clint manages not to scream, but barely. Things go gray for a bit.

Some of the fuzz clears when Creeper says, "Clean me the fuck up, or I will break the rest of them."

Clint is careful when cleaning him up, careful to set the fingers before going back to the cells—he doesn't have anything to splint them with, so it might not matter, but he has to try—careful about the tone of his voice when he talks to Sam and Scott.

He thinks he's going to have to be more careful all around.

Sometimes, when Clint wakes up, teeth buried in his arm and the taste of blood in his mouth, he spends some time in his head thinking about Wanda in her first days with the Avengers, when she would alternatively follow him around like a lost puppy and flinch away from everything. About the way she had fought her way out of the grief, inch by inch.

When that's not enough, he lets himself spend some time in his first moments—and okay, some of the moments following—with Sam. Clint had liked him from their initial meeting. He hadn't expected that. Mostly, it takes a while for people to grow on him. It's not that he doesn't like them. He just doesn’t know them, and that's fine.

But Sam, when Clint had shaken his hand and said, "Jealous of the flight tech," and meant, "both Nat and Cap seem to trust you, so I'm on my best behavior," had said, "Jealous of the skills." Not shooting. Skills. And even if he'd meant shooting, Clint had felt the chink in his armor forming in that second.

The problem with Sam, as Clint sees it, is that he's a good person. He can be cutting, is often judgmental about stupidity—which Clint appreciates—and at times a little aloof. But his moral core unfailingly points due North and that's…nerve wracking when you're a recovering merc whose best friend is a recovering assassin.

But he's also ex-military, insanely good at practical jokes, and easy as fuck to have a beer and throw a few darts with. And, as Natasha once pointed out, "He's objectively hotter than a thousand burning suns."

Clint had said, "That's not something you can objectively be."

"But if you could," she'd continued, "he would be."

She's not wrong. When you add it all up, Sam Wilson is trouble. Worse, Sam Wilson is the kind of trouble Clint has a tendency to fall head first into.

Clint doesn't think about all that, though. He thinks about the way Sam protected Nat when nobody else would, the way he geeks out every time he gets to use a new bit of tech, the way he still laughs, even in this place. He thinks about all the reasons he has to keep walking out of this cell with Creeper and not kill him.

Over in the next cell, Sam asks, "Ever played Fortunately Unfortnately?"

"Fortunately, we're getting out of here shortly."

"Why you gotta do that, man? You know I'm the optimist here."

Clint smiles. "Suck it, Wilson."

Clint's pretty sure Sam knows something is up. He hasn't said anything, so Clint can't say how it is he senses this, but he does. Sam's job is reading people, figuring out what's going on with them and how to help them. And Clint is holding on to control over himself and the situation by the skin of his teeth. It's been close to two weeks since he made the deal, a couple of days since the finger incident. He's a ball of repressed rage, bottled anxiety, and unrelenting pain.

On the upside, Creeper hasn't made the mistake of trying to control a blow-job again. Silver linings.

Clint keeps working out despite now having broken fingers and broken ribs. He works around both, but he knows he's irritating them. Stopping, though, has taken on the specter of giving in, and Clint is incapable of giving in. It's what has kept him alive until now.

He's not sleeping, he's hardly eating, and either he's running a low grade fever, or they've turned the air down to freezing-your-balls-off. Neither Sam nor Scott seems to be about to go into hypothermia, though, so Clint's pretty sure it's the former. He wants a real fucking blanket. It doesn't seem like so much to ask.

Creeper dials up the threats against Wanda since evidently not being able to put his dick through the back of Clint's neck is "reneging on their deal." Clint, tired and out of options, looks straight at the guy and says flatly, "Surely you've wanted to do more exotic things."

It gets Clint fisted for his troubles, but it also shuts Creeper up. There's blood after that. Clint's sure it's just from tears. It should be. Clint's had worse and lived to tell the tale. Or at least, to bury it so far in his own subconscious that not even he'll ever find it.

After that, though, he stops working out. He starts sleeping again, but it's fevered, nightmare-filled sleep from which he wakes, falling off the "bed" slab, every few hours. Somewhere in his waking moments, Sam asks, "Barton, are you sick?"

Clint grabs that lifeboat with both hands. "Yeah, flu, maybe," he says, and then closes his eyes again, and lets the nightmares wash over him.

Evidently beating someone with a belt is also "exotic" in Creeper's mind, but Clint's been getting hit by belts on and off since before he can remember. As in, his first memory of it is from when he was five, but he's entirely sure that wasn't actually the first time it happened. It still hurts, though. Especially the ones that land on his kidneys. Creeper stops when the skin breaks, but Clint's skin is tough. He's gone well away by that time, only to be jolted back into paying attention by Creeper shoving into him, running blunted nails over the welted skin.

Clint breathes, takes his quick, cold shower, pisses blood, and goes back to his cell. Sam asks, "Feeling any better?"

Clint says, "Maybe in a day or so."

Scott's looking at him with suspicious eyes. Clint considers whether trying a quick smile will just make that worse. He decides it will, and instead lowers himself carefully onto the bed slab. He doesn't wince when the welts on his ass make contact with the surface, but it's closer than he's completely comfortable with. Curling on his side, he doesn't even bother with the blanket, just closes his eyes, and lets himself drift.

Clint wakes up to darkness. It's never dark in the cells. His first instinct is a desperate need to make sure Wanda's okay. He calls her name, which he knows is useless, but he has to try. She doesn't answer.

Thankfully, Natasha appears out of the dark. Better, definitely better. She says, "Cavalry's here."

Clint wants to wrap her up in a hug and hold on for days. Instead he asks, "Wanda?"

"Barnes has her. Cap's working on Sam and Scott. Gimme a minute and I'll have you out."

"Yeah," Clint says. Roughly a minute later she's fulfilled her promise and gotten him out of the cell. Cap's freed Sam and Scott, so Nat hands him a gun and he takes point while Cap takes lead. For the most part, Barnes has cleared the way for them, making it easier than Clint's expecting. A few skirmishes, and then they're in the helicopter bay. The breach doors are open, and Barnes is seated in the pilot's chair, ready to take off.

Clint's reassured to see Wanda's safely strapped in. They haven't taken the collar off yet. As much as Clint hates it, he knows that's for the best. Fuck only knows what that thing is doing. Clint gets himself belted in and flagrantly ignores the speculative look Natasha pins on him. It's not going to deter her, but it might put her off until they're on solid land again. Clint's willing to take that.

Clint almost faceplants getting down from the helicopter. He's dozed on the flight there, doing his best to keep from actually sleeping, despite the length of the flight, because it means not listening for trouble with Wanda, and also, he's not sure he won't ramble deliriously in his sleep.

He swears his hair is aching, but the dull, encompassing pain in his kidneys along with the broken ribs and fingers are taking most of his attention. He thinks he might be a little dehydrated. In any case, he's made it through worse, he just doesn't take enough care rising and moving to get out of the chopper. There's an arm supporting him, righting him. He looks over, expecting Natasha. Instead, Sam's steadying him, saying, "Whoa, man, that fever's pretty intense."

"Mm," Clint says, because he's exhausted and afraid anything more than that will give him away.

"Let's get you to a doctor."

"Wanda first," Clint manages. He has a feeling he's leaning more heavily on Sam than he really should be.

"I bet they have more than one here, but sure, if it comes to that."

Clint looks over and sees Natasha walking on his other side. She's carefully Not Looking At Him—a little too carefully. He says, "Sick. I'm sick."

"Mm," Natasha says, with the precise intonation he'd given it the moment earlier. Clint is screwed.

The Wakandan palace has a hospital in it. Clint can't decide if that's genius or weird. Possibly a little bit of both. A few of the doctors converge on Wanda, and Clint hears Scott explaining how she's acted since it's been on her, and answering the questions they ask. Another person in a white coat—presumably medical personnel—approaches him and says, "I'm Dr. Okilo. If you'll just follow me into this room over here."

Sam and Nat help him into the room. Clint pointedly says, "See you in a bit," and waves.

Nat is definitely suspicious now, but she doesn't argue. Dr. Okilo waits until the door closes and says, "What's the first thing I should be worried about?"

Clint does a mental coin flip between his ribs, fingers, and his kidneys and decides, "Kidneys."

"All right." The doctor's hands slip under the hem of Clint's shirt and pass over the kidney area. He asks, "What happened?"

Clint opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He closes it, takes several breaths through his nose, and tries again. This time, he starts with, "One of the guards…took a liking to me."

After the first sentence, when the doctor merely nods, it gets slightly easier. The doctor doesn’t interrupt, waits until Clint has said, "And then Cap and the others came," to even take Clint's temperature. He prods lightly at several areas, asking about pain levels.

He is professional and quick in the rape examination, as well as in cleaning up the places where the skin on Clint's back and thighs has torn. After that, he wraps Clint's ribs, splints his fingers, and says, "I need to put you on some IV meds for the kidneys. I'm going to add a sedative and some painkillers, because you need to rest and let your body heal."

Clint hates drugs, but one look at the doctor's face tells him exactly how far arguing is going to get him, and aside from that, he's reasonable enough to know he's exhausted and desperately needs something to keep him in REM sleep long enough for it to do some good. "I need to talk to one of my team, first."

Dr. Okilo nods and opens the door, clearly about to go find someone, but Nat and Sam are both standing outside it. Clint asks, "Wanda?"

"They've got three of their best biotech experts working on it," Nat says. "The collar is off, they're just making sure there aren't any lasting effects. Cap's with her, and she was mildly responsive to him a few minutes after the removal."

"Okay." Clint nods. "They wanna put me on some IV meds to help the virus run its course. Sedatives and stuff."

Sam frowns, and zeroes in on the splinted fingers, but stays silent. Nat says, "One of us'll be here."

That's all Clint needs.

Clint has some sense he wakes up now and then to reflexively check that one of the team is there, but he doesn’t come to with any real lucidity for a while. He glances over at Sam, who's laughing at something on a tablet and tries to say, "Hey."

It's more of a grunt than a word, but Sam looks up, taking out his earphones. "Water?"

Clint signs, "Please." He can hear just fine since Tony fucked around with his cochlear implants several years before, but the instinct is still there. Clint's stomach burns at the thought of Tony, and he pushes that down for later.

Sam must know enough ASL to get it. Either that, or he was just going to give Clint the water anyway. Clint takes the water with his left hand, since the fingers on his right are still splinted. They're feeling better, though.

Sam rubs a hand over his face and walks to the window. When he's taken a few sips and can, Clint asks, "Sam?"

"I've been thinking while you were out. Which, for the record, has been about 72 hours now, and even Natasha is starting to look a little rough around the edges."

Clint winces, glad Sam is looking the other way. "Wanda?"

Sam sighs. "Doing better. Speaking. Able to reach her powers again. Just a little shocky. The Wakandans are having her talk to someone who's not an involved party. And I think Scott's kind of taken her on as a project."

"Project?"

"I think he sees his kid in her. Or someone's kid. I dunno. Also, I think both of us did the math on how it is you've got broken fingers and broken ribs and probably a bunch of other shit neither of us wants to know about." Sam sits back down.

Clint hands him the cup of water. "I'm not going to apologize."

"Nope, I didn't imagine you would."

"Kay then. We're good here."

"Cute, but no again."

"Sam—"

"You gotta talk to someone. It can be me, it can be Nat, it can be another Wakandan professional, I do not give a flying fuck who it is, but it is so non-negotiable that I will sit here in this chair and tell you to your face that I will straight up tell Wanda what you did for her if you don't agree."

Clint is reflexively impressed by Sam's unwillingness to give an inch. It's something he's built in himself, so he knows what it takes. He could rant and rave, but it's not going to get him anywhere. "You. You and nobody else. Nat will know anyway, but we—there are things we don't talk about. She's got her own scars, and I try not to rip them open."

"Sure."

"And maybe—maybe after I sleep some more."

"Yeah. We'll take a walk when they let you out of here. You've got to see this place. It's—well. You've gotta see it."

Clint sleepily and messily signs, "sounds great," with his unsplinted hand. Sam laughs. "I've got no idea what that means, but it contextually and tonally indicates agreement."

Clint means to tell him, only he's asleep before he can.

Clint's released a day later with instructions to keep resting, drink between seventy and a hundred ounces of water a day, and eat small, easy-to-digest meals. Oh, and not strain any broken parts. Clint's been to this motion picture before, so he's got it under control.

Nat's there when they release him, and she shows him to the quarters they've assigned him, which are conveniently next to hers. Then she takes a nap with him. Well, Clint doubts she actually sleeps, but she curls up with him, warm and solid and familiar, and allows him to sleep without the aid of drugs. He appreciates it more than he can say, so it's nice that he doesn't have to, not with her.

Clint gets up and finds the glasses in the kitchenette his rooms have. He drinks two glasses of water before starting to think about food. Nat says, "Sam said he'd take you to the food hall if you wanted to explore. You should, the food here is insanely good. And available constantly. Literally. I got hungry at four in the morning the first night I was here."

"You got somewhere to be?"

"I've been working with Wanda in the evenings. She's still a little…withdrawn."

Not for the first time, Clint is grateful Natasha's lessons in human psychology ended up being good for far more than just interrogation. He says, "What are you doing still here? Go."

She laughs. "I'll send Sam."

"Tell him to take his time. I'm gonna acclimate." Clint gestures at his new, if temporary, living quarters.

"Sure," Nat says, hip-checking him on her way out.

Sam and Clint make their way to the food hall in companionable silence. At some point Clint asks, "Scott doing all right?"

"Yeah, he's been letting the Wakandans see the suit's capabilities in between eating."

Clint smiles. "Nat says the food's good."

"She's not kidding, man."

Clint smells roasted meat and rich coffee before they ever reach their destination. He ends up having to take two trays, there's so much he wants to try. He takes a sip of the coffee and is forced to pause a moment. When he's had the moment he tells Sam, "I'm having a religious experience."

"Yeah, I hear you," Sam says, popping a slice of apricot in his mouth.

Clint takes some of the bread that seems to have something, maybe saffron, in it, and sops a bit of the lamb stew into it. "Shit," he murmurs. "I'm not leaving this place. They're going to have to physically remove me."

"They've offered asylum, so for the moment, I suspect staying is what they expect."

Clint nods. "That's got to be something of a diplomatic mess."

Sam grimaces. "Well, it's a secret."

"Mm," Clint says. Nothing like this ever stays a secret for long.

"Yeah." Sam sighs.

"Problem for tomorrow. We'll need to get together, see if Cap has a plan. But it'll hold, for now."

"And you? You holding?"

"Don't think I don't hear the unasked question there." Clint takes another sip of coffee. "I can hold for however long I need to."

"I'm not—I'm not underestimating you. I'm telling you that you've got a support system."

Clint is exceptionally good at reading body language. It's a combination of being an observer and having depended on it when he couldn't hear words growing up. "You're pissed."

"I'm frustrated," Sam argues. "You came to be part of a team, and when push came to shove, you decided you couldn't depend on us."

Clint's eyes widen slowly. "Um, no. No, that's not what happened."

"What, then?"

Clint rubs at the back of his neck with his good hand. "I—Nat would say I considered our skill and experience sets and made a tactical choice."

Sam meets his gaze and watches him for a few beats. "Okay. I'm going to… There's a lot there. But let's talk about how the hell it was tactical not to involve anyone else in your team."

Clint blinks. "To what end?"

The muscle in Sam's jaw flexes. "To the end of figuring out a better plan. Or maybe a way to better control the plan."

Clint smiles. He tries to keep as much condescension as he can from it. "C'mon, Wilson. Not everything can be controlled. I controlled what had to be controlled. And I let go of what I couldn't control."

"Because you were alone."

"And you were safe." Clint swallows, his eyes flicking to the side. "You think Wanda's the only team member I'd have come up with that plan for? Seriously? I had the experience. I used it. And I got what I wanted from the deal."

"What you wanted," Sam says, words flat and soft.

Clint wrinkles his nose and grants, "Well, for certain values of want."

"I say this both as a case-working professional and a friend: your values are skewed."

"Yes, well. Avenger. Or ex-Avenger. But y'know."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," Sam says. "It's still not okay."

Clint asks, "What do you want?"

Sam shakes his head. "Let's just say I'll settle for knowing that you know you don't have to constantly take one for the team. That sometimes it's someone else's job. That sometimes there's a way around anyone having to be the person who takes that hit."

"Sometimes there's not."

"Maybe. But I think it's less often than you think."

Despite the coffee, Clint is tired. This has been a big outing, and even talking around the situation takes more emotional energy than Clint would prefer. He says, "I'm not sorry for what I did."

"I don't want you to be. But I also don't want you to be harmed by it, and I think I'm not getting my second wish."

Clint shrugs. Sam narrows his eyes. "Okay, well. We'll work on it. You might have been able to cut me out of the front end, but fucked if I'll be cut out of the back."

"There's a dirty joke in there somewhere, but I'm too tired to find it."

"I'll take a raincheck for when you're back on your game."

Clint knows better than to aggravate his healing ribs and fingers by going to the range, but being unable to is driving him out of his mind. Nat spends time playing chess with him, which is engaging if somewhat dispiriting, since she tends to kick his ass. He can do infiltration, and he can see the big picture as well as the small details, but putting it altogether into a strategy is something best left to others.

Sam gets him out of his rooms, taking him on walks around the grounds, which are genuinely breathtaking. Sam's good at talking about nothing: a skill Clint appreciates when he's feeling like this, like opening his mouth will mean screaming.

Wanda's coming out of her shell again, and the two of them have breakfast together most days. Clint makes it a point to spend time with Steve each day, since the guy seems like he's quietly coming apart at the seams while he waits for a miracle.

Around the time he's nearly healed up enough to get back to the range, Clint says to Sam, "You should focus your energy on Cap. He's…there's a lot happening there."

"Well, thanks for suggesting that I can only handle helping one of my friends at a time."

"Wilson—"

"No, Barton. Clint. No. I'm here. Even when you're pissing me off, which you are right now, I'm here."

Clint tightens all his muscles, the way he does when he's expecting a blow, and spits, "You don't owe me anything."

"No, asshole, you're completely right. And I know you and Tash have some weird shit where each of you think that you're just trading favors, or at least you both think the other thinks that, or whatever, that's not—she's your friend. You're her friend. And I'm your fucking friend."

Clint clenches up even tighter for a moment and then just…lets go. Sam must see his shoulders sink, because his own body language loosens in return. Clint says, "I'm gonna suck at that."

"Sure. Telling me how I can help would be a good place to start."

It takes a while for Clint to be able to convince himself to admit to needing anything, but Sam waits without acting like he's waiting for anything. And finally, Clint can say, "Sleeping is not really happening for me. Much."

"Okay. Let's work on that."

"What's something you've always wanted to learn?" Sam asks him over breakfast the next morning. Wanda's eating avocado slices, but she looks up at the question, evidently interested.

Clint shrugs. "Lots of things, I guess. How to speak a fourth language, preferably a non-cyrillic one. How to ice skate. Astronomy, that seems pretty cool. To name a few."

"Well, I've got no idea if they've got any ice skating rinks around here, but I was thinking about finding someone who might be willing to teach me Wakandan, if you want in on that," Sam says.

Clint looks at Sam, who has looked away to the eggs he's eating. "I think they might be a little less interested, understandably, in teaching a white guy. They, uh, they seem to have done pretty well avoiding the fuck out of us."

Wanda says, "Point," sounding more than a little wistful.

Clint gives her a rueful smile. Sam just says, "You might have to sign an agreement not to go sneaking around in their air shafts, but I'm pretty sure they're not threatened by a single white boy."

"That air shafts thing is something Nat perpetuates so it seems like we're gonna pop out of nowhere at any minute. You know that, right?"

"I know she's going to kill you when she finds out you're giving away all her secrets," Sam says.

Clint spears a strawberry. "Bound to happen sooner or later, might as well be on my own terms."

Wanda snorts. Sam says, "And point."

Clint is decent with languages. He's not anywhere near as good as Nat, of course, but he doesn't struggle to remember vocabulary, and once the overall scheme of grammar becomes clear to him, he can pretty much string together enough to get what he wants. Even so, learning something new always involves a fair amount of concentration, and after a few hours the first day Sam brings him lesson plans, Clint is flagging.

Sam must be watching for it, because he just about hauls Clint out of the chair and tugs him into the bedroom a few feet away. They're in Sam's rooms, but the guest suites all have the same basic layout and look. It's as familiar as anything right now.

Sam lies down facing Clint. Clint takes a breath and exhales, trying to loosen muscles that do not want to unwind. He murmurs, "When did you know I was going to be trouble?"

Sam laughs, a shocked sound bursting from his lips. "When did I not, Barton?"

Clint feels a smile roll through him, a little like warmth. "Sure. I just mean—"

"First time I met you. When you shook my hand without squeezing and didn't posture and weren't the asshole I one hundred percent expected you to be."

Clint tilts his head against the pillow. "How did Tash bill me, exactly?"

"As her best friend. I kind of figured between that and you being a government white boy, things would be in pissing contest territory within seconds."

Clint's too worn out to lie. "I go in for the sneak attack."

"Yeah," Sam says softly. "Figured that out later. But you never attacked me."

"You're annoyingly likeable." Clint yawns. To his surprise, his eyes are actually closing. "If you’ve got other things to be doing—"

"Just so happens I don't. Shut up and close your eyes."

Clint follows directions and finds, to his pleasure, that he's able to ride the wave of fatigue into sleep.

Clint wakes up slowly. There's a gentle weight on his stomach and for a brief flash he almost panics, letting that simple touch spiderweb out into something much more sinister. He opens his eyes to stave off the panic and it does the trick, because his gaze lights onto Sam, snuggling into his pillow, one arm thrown haphazardly over Clint. It makes Clint smile with an unguarded ease he hasn't felt in a while.

Sometimes, Clint forgets how nice it is to sleep next to the warmth of someone he trusts. Not even in a sexual way. In fact, Clint's sexual encounters with trusted partners have been somewhat rare.

He relaxes back into the bed and lets the soft whir of the ceiling fan's white noise settle into him, enjoys the gentle heat the Wakandans don't blast out of their buildings with overworked air conditioners. He's safe, or at least as safe as he can be as a wanted fugitive, and it's the first time his body has been able to understand that since the airport.

He needs more sleep, one nap isn't going to do it, but hell if it isn't a nice start. He feels like he can actually deal with some of the stuff he's been letting slide, not the least of which is getting Cap in working order again, because Sam and Nat have largely been taking that one on alone, possibly with some help from the king. Cap is mostly the strong silent type when it comes to his own suffering, but he looks like he shot his own dog, and it's going to take a team effort to wipe that expression off his face and put the "let's fix this" one back on.

Sam's eyes don't open before he says, "You're thinking very loudly."

"Bullshit," Clint says. He does think loudly sometimes. This, however, isn't one of those times. "You heard my stomach grumble."

"Well, your stomach was thinking very loudly, then, I guess."

Clint laughs. "You got coffee?"

"And that cinnamon-spice pancake batter they make in the hall."

"It's like three in the afternoon," Clint says.

"You got a point?" Sam asks.

Clint opens his mouth. "Ah—no, not really."

"Yeah, didn't think so."

Clint starts sparring with Natasha again. He can tell she's taking it easy, but he can also tell she doesn't want to talk about it, and since this is an instance where he can respect that desire, he does.

Instead, he says, "We should maybe try and include Scott in a few more things. Get him integrated."

She says, "Yeah," like it's both agreement and a question.

Clint shrugs. "He's stuck with us."

"Sure."

Clint narrows his eyes. "Are you pissed?"

She puts him in an unnecessarily firm chokehold and asks, "What would I have to be pissed about?"

Clint can play dumb, that doesn't make him dumb. He stops struggling. He could fight, but he'll lose, and he doesn't feel like being choked out because she's avoiding the topic. She lets go, stepping back, breathing harder than the move calls for. He raises an eyebrow at her.

"I'm pissed," she gives him.

He waits. She flexes her hands like maybe she can grow claws if she just wants it enough. Then she admits, "I know it's not fair, okay? I know that if you did it the way I taught you, he couldn't have noticed. Sam didn't notice, and Sam had some nominal knowledge of you. But Sam's my friend, and being pissed at Steve for getting you into the situation just feels mean right now and the anger's got to be focused somewhere."

"How about me?" Clint suggests. "I'm the one who did it."

"Oh yeah, okay, how about Wanda? For being put in the collar."

Clint closes his eyes and counts to ten. He knows Natasha's tricks. Maybe not all of them, but certainly the dirtier ones, like that. He hasn't even finished counting when she says, "Sorry."

He shakes his head and opens his eyes. "I can't give you his name, but I can give you his face. And I bet anything T'Challa or about half this country can hack the Raft's records."

Quietly, she says, "You understand that I don't want to kill him, right?"

"Honestly, Nat, it doesn't make a damn bit of difference to me what you want to do with him. Your anger's legitimate, and he's a legitimate target." Clint spreads his hands. "Go manage your anger."

"And you won't look at me differently?"

Clint frowns. "I know who you are. You're my best friend. Practically my other half. You put me on the ground so they could throw me in that cell and I know you did it because it was the only way you could see to making things right for all of us. A little appropriate frontier justice isn't going to change that."

"And if my anger is really at myself? For that very thing?"

"Channel it," he tells her, reaching out to pull her into his side. "I don't want you hurting one of the people I love most in this world. Please."

She buries her face in his chest, her nails in the skin of his arms. It stings. It feels safe.

Clint finds Sam after Natasha flies one of the Wakandan stealth jets out and says, "Let's get mildly fucked up on that kasiri stuff they've got here and have a conversation."

"Mildly being the operative word. I need you to remember it," Sam says.

"I grew up in a circus, Wilson, and then became a merc. Trust me, I can hold my liquor."

Sam doesn't budge. Clint sighs. "I'll stop after two."

"You've got yourself a deal."

Thankfully, two is enough. The Wakandans spice the drink in a way that masks the alcohol content, but Clint thinks it must be a pretty high proof. Higher than the average beer, which is how the Wakandans categorize kasiri. He repeats, "I grew up in a circus."

"Okay."

Clint scrubs a hand over his face. "You know that Cher song, the one about tramps and thieves?"

Sam blinks. "Uh, yeah."

"Circus folk and gypsies, at least the kind in popular culture, they have a lot in common. Life spent on the road, performing to make a living, usually not enough of one, so after the lights go down, you go into town and…make a few extra bucks."

Sam's gaze is even-keel, not judging. "How old were you? When you joined?"

"Thirteen. But I had a foster mom at twelve who, uh, got the jump on teaching me about that stuff."

There's rage banked in Sam's eyes now, but it is banked, and it's not aimed at Clint. It's enough to allow Clint to keep going. "In the merc world, even as a guy, sometimes a job requires it, or you wanna get to someone and there's a few dicks to be sucked along the way, you know? I'm just saying, sex only became about enjoyment well after I joined SHIELD and even then, only sometimes. I propositioned Fury after he brought me in, thinking that was how things worked and from there on out I knew if I slept with anyone in the organization without telling Nick it was exactly and explicitly what I wanted, they were going to lose their equipment, possibly their life."

Clint looks out the window for a moment, at where the sun is falling lazily below the horizon. "Bobbi was one of the only to really risk it, and I married her for being so damn brave and gorgeous and smart and kind. You—you should meet her some day. She's still all those things."

"Just didn't work out?"

"Basically. We wanted different things from our careers. She didn't want kids. I did. A million little things, none of which were us not loving each other. It sucked."

Sam asks, "Was she the only one?"

Clint shakes his head. "No. A few others. A civilian at one point, guy I met in the apartment building I was living in at the time. The secrets got to be too much. Friends-with-benefits with a CIA agent once. But there are some things that…it's like shooting a bow and arrow, right? Well, not, because I like doing that, but my point is, I could go for ten years without picking one up, and I'd be able to make my first shot. It's just in me."

Sam draws in a deep breath. "That's something you tell yourself to survive. And it's going to suck having to dismantle it, but you have to dismantle it."

"Why? You got something against survival?"

"I got something against you thinking it was okay for a guy to take a belt to you because of shit you were forced to do as a kid."

"Forced is a complicated—"

"No," Sam cuts him off. "It's not. If the reason for having sex isn't because you just damn well want to, there was some kind of force. Economic, power-based, you name it, it might not have been the other person, per se, but it was there. Just like this time."

Clint turns that over in his mind. He knows it. He's told Natasha variants on it. It's strange the space between knowing something and comprehending it for one's self. Softly, he says, "I did what I had to do."

"Yes," Sam says. "That's—you did what you thought was best and it saved you as a kid and Wanda now."

"Then why do you think I was wrong?" Clint makes himself look at Sam when he asks the question.

"I don't. I think you think having had it done means you should be able to push it aside, means it doesn't mean anything when it happens again, means you deserve it. And all of that? That's what I think is wrong."

"You're looking to be Sisyphus and his fucking boulder in this," Clint laughs, low and choked.

"If you think you're the boulder, then I will shoulder you up that fucking hill every time, and just be glad you're still there when I get back down to the bottom."

"Sam."

"Clint," Sam says, and it doesn't give an inch, doesn't respond to the soft censure in Clint's expression.

Clint swallows. "I wanna have another drink and go to bed. Can we do that?"

"I'm staying," Sam tells him.

That's what Clint meant by "we," but he doesn't mind that Sam didn't notice. He nods. "Good. That's good."

Clint wakes up to a mild hangover, and Sam pressed along his side. One glance at the curtains tells him it's just barely dawn. He doesn’t want to wake Sam. He does want water and protein and some painkillers. And a run. A long run that will allow him a pleasant, shaky numbness by the end of it.

He tries closing his eyes again. After about half an hour, he admits defeat, and works himself out from underneath Sam. Sam grumbles and opens an eye. Clint says, "Go back to sleep. Gonna go for a run."

Sam asks, "Want company?"

Clint thinks for a second. "No. I'll be okay."

"Better be. Gonna beat you to death otherwise," Sam says, turning over and relaxing back to sleep.

Clint laughs. He goes to the kitchen, grabbing a hard-boiled egg, a bottle of water, and a couple of aspirin. He pulls on running shorts, a t-shirt, and his running shoes, and hits the trail that runs the length of the river, as Clint understands it. He's never gone that far, seeing as how the full length is evidently some fifty miles. He tends to go about five miles out and then come back. Five miles is marked by the most extensive orchard Clint has ever seen, full of trees that are entirely foreign to him.

He pushes a little further this morning, because he can tell he needs it. By the time he gets back to the palace, the sun is well up, and Sam is in Clint's rooms. He looks up when Clint rolls in, going straight to his fridge for more water. Sam asks, "Good run?"

Clint says, "What I needed." Then, "Would you believe a cold shower sounds good?"

Sam's smile is small. "Yeah, you white boys aren't made for this kind of heat."

Clint worked days in the circus in the heat of Georgia, Florida, Mississippi, and other states defined by their ability to turn into the sweltering armpit of Satan during the months of May through September. He laughs, and says, "Must be it."

He still takes a moment before stepping under the cold water, but when he does, all he feels is relief.

As predicted, when Clint finally gets back to the range, his shots are dead-on. He also has to be dragged away by Natasha, who finds him bleeding from overextending himself and relying too much on arm guards that can only take so much. She calls him names in Russian and Wakandan—they never pass up an opportunity to find new ways to call each other idiots—and makes him take anti-inflammatory meds before putting him in the shower.

When he gets out of the shower she's gone and Sam's there. For a second, Clint is worried. "Wanda okay?"

"Yes, and so is Cap, and as far as I know, Scott, although I haven't seen him yet today. Nat just said that maybe since I had actually gotten through to you on at least one occasion, I could field this one, too."

Clint makes a rude noise. "I bet those were her exact words."

"My momma raised me better than to use her exact words," Sam says. "Now, lemme see."

Clint sighs. He's cleaned out the scratches and put ointment on them. They'll be fine. He lets Sam see, though, because it's easier than arguing and also, arguing seems stupid when…when it would be kind of nice for Sam to touch him. He blinks at the thought, playing it back in his head.

Huh.

Sam's perusal is clinical, and he says, "Okay. Don't be a dumbshit again."

"What was that about your momma?" Clint asks.

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "You really wanna go down that road?"

Clint doesn't. "I want ice cream."

"Dinner first."

Clint's brain gets stuck on all the mom jokes he can make and he finds himself opening and closing his mouth without being able to stop. Sam must cotton on, because he pushes Clint gently toward the door. "You'll come up with something in the next hour or so, I have faith."

Two hours later, Clint asks, "If I kiss you because tasting the fucking amazing almond ice cream thing we just ate on your mouth sounds amazing to me, are you going to think it's because I think you have a magic dick and am trying to use you to screw myself back into normality?"

Sam blinks. "Okay, that's a first."

"It happened to Nat once. He was such a nice guy until she decided she was, you know, interested in him as a nice guy."

"Wow."

"Yeah, magic or not, I have no idea if he even has his dick anymore."

Sam blinks again.

"I mean, probably," Clint says. "She'd pretty much gotten over her tendency for swift reprisals at that time."

"Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me."

Clint smiles. He's glad Sam doesn't reach out to him, doesn't even put a hand to his face, or on his neck as their lips touch. He finds himself settling Sam's hands on his hips. He wants the contact. He just wants to make sure there aren't new triggers he hasn't discovered yet. There usually are.

He rests his forehead against Sam's and says, "You're right."

"Yeah, it happens now and then." Sam's voice is a little softer than usual. "About what, in this instance?"

"Me telling myself things don't matter because they've happened before."

Sam nods, the motion moving through Clint where they're touching. "They matter."

"Yeah," Clint says, his throat dry.

"I'm not a trauma specialist."

"Find me one? I—I can't—"

"I'll take care of it."

"Would it make me a tease if I kissed you again and asked you to stay the night just to sleep?"

Sam puts his lips right against Clint's. "Who says I don't like to be teased a little, now and then?"

The doctor Sam finds likes to meet Clint at the range. At first Clint is wary of the idea: the range is his safe place. But Clint's also a big proponent of the idea of trying everything once, so he tries it.

It's actually pretty awesome, at least in terms of therapy. The doctor asks questions in the space right after the release of the arrow, and somehow, it's easier to answer. Easier to talk about loving his mom and thinking he shouldn't hate his dad. Easier to admit there had been one or two good foster families, but they hadn't taken Barney, and Clint had felt like a traitor staying. To explain "training" at the circus, which had more often than not come closer to the worst of boot camp-level abuse. It was just was easier, overall.

Sometimes the doctor gives him "homework," like paying attention to thought patterns and picking at them, finding ways to redirect them. Clint tells him after the first few, "I really suck at this."

The doctor tells him, "Everyone does."

Clint's never been reassured by the idea that he might be normal. His entire livelihood depends on being extraordinary. In this case, he's reassured.

A few weeks in, the doctor asks, "Are you allergic to pets?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Get one."

"What?"

The doctor shrugs. "Get one. You need something to teach you that being responsible for another living being isn't necessarily meant to be painful."

House cats aren't evidently much of a thing in Wakanda, which is how Clint ends up with a Macaw. Okay, Clint ends up with a Macaw because he tells Sam, "I always kind of wanted one of those colorful birds, the big ones," and Sam finds him a big colorful bird. Clint, who's never been good at names, names the bird Red. Red spends a lot of time making fun of Clint with his noises. He doesn't say anything, but Clint knows. He knows.

But Red also whistles whenever Clint comes through the door, and repeats some of his most used phrases, like the things Clint says matter, and tries to groom him. Basically, Red is awesome and seems to care about Clint just because, and Clint likes coming home to him, likes waking up to him, doesn't have to think too hard about what will please him.

For the first time in his life, caring about something is easy. Clint tells Sam, "It's possible this doctor knows what he's doing."

Sam doesn't laugh, he just rubs Clint's shoulders and says, "Good."

Wanda sometimes comes to Clint's rooms in the evenings, the two of them sitting side-by-side in the window, listening to the roar of the nearby waterfalls, talking about things that happened that day, or Steve or Natasha, or occasionally random things, like books they both enjoy.

They're never interrupted. Clint doesn't know if Wanda puts a sock on the door, or what, but nobody ever bothers them.

It's hot, even for Wakanda, the night she leans against him and says, "I miss Pietro."

Clint nods, not surprised by the topic so much as that it's taken her this long to speak of it. He kisses the top of her head. "I know."

"But… Before, it was the two of us. Always the two of us. On our own."

Clint rubs at her back and doesn't say anything. She doesn't seem to be done. She blows out a breath and says, "I miss him in a way where I think my heart will always be broken, bleeding maybe, a bit. But I'm glad I have you. You and Natasha and Sam and Steve and—"

Quietly, Clint says, "And Tony and Rhodey."

She nods, her breath hitching. He squeezes her to him. "It's okay, Wanda. Okay to miss Pietro, to be glad you have people who care about you now that you don't have him, to miss Tony and Rhodey, to…to feel however the fuck you wanna feel."

She presses her fingers into his thigh and says, "I have you."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, you do."

Natasha and Clint engage in a tree-climbing contest on the palace grounds and when she's finally acknowledged that he's more of a crazy dumbass than she is when it comes to heights, she says, "No pressure, okay, but if this thing between you and Sam doesn't work out, I'm gonna have to kill Captain America's best friend and a teammate, so, be careful, right?"

He blinks down at her. "Bucky is Cap's best friend."

"Bucky is Cap's husband. It's like calling Pepper Tony's best friend instead of Rhodey. Different roles."

Clint mouths, "Oh."

"Seriously? You missed that?"

"I've been a little preoccupied," he excuses himself.

She rolls her eyes, but lets it go. "Back to my point—"

"I'm doing my best," he cuts her off. He's still working on the part where she doesn't have to think over whom she'd choose in that situation. "And also, it wouldn't be Sam's fault. I don't even know what would happen, and I know that."

She glares up at him. "You're missing the part where I don’t give a shit."

"I'm not, actually, I'm just missing the part why."

The glare falters. "Because…you're—you're mine."

The way she says it, not possessive or angry or even jealous, just factual, feels like a punch to the gut, but strangely, not in a bad way. Like the shock and the warmth after, but not the pain.

Her eyes narrow. "You wouldn't for me?"

"You don't need anyone to do that for you."

"Neither do you," she presses. "That's not the point."

And now that he thinks about it, she's right, it's really not. "Yeah. I mean, yeah, of course I'd do it for you. You're…Natasha."

"Yours," she says with a nod, like that's what he'd said. It might have been. It doesn't feel different, not to Clint.

He slips down to the branch she's on. "I won't fuck it up."

She smiles tightly. "I know that, Clint. More than you do," she says, leaning over to kiss his forehead. "But on the off chance you do, I've got an escape plan for us."

He believes her. And he'd follow her, even if he didn't.

Red likes to call Sam "Spam." Clint highly suspects Scott is to blame for this, but he has no proof. He has set Wanda on the case. Nobody lies to Wanda.

In the meantime, Sam responds to the situation by calling Red "Tastes Like Chicken," which Clint figures is pretty fair. Still, "You know what would be really awesome?" Clint asks.

"Hm?" Sam responds without looking up from the article he's trying to read in Wakandan. Clint's made his way through with a pretty solid understanding, and is searching for the words he clued in to contextually in a lexicon.

"If my pet and my boyfriend could bring down the Iron Curtain they've got going on."

Sam does look up at that. Clint goes over what he just said, but it still takes Sam saying, "Boyfriend, huh?" for him to catch what's happened.

Clint offers, "Partner? Seems a little presumptuous at this point, but I know some people think boyfriend's a tad high school. I never went to high school, so—"

Sam cuts him off with a hand to his chest. "I just didn't want to put words in your mouth until now."

"You sleep in my bed most nights."

"You sleep better with a friend."

"I sleep better with you," Clint corrects.

Softly, Sam says, "I just wasn't sure, is all."

"Be sure," Clint says, equally quiet. "I'm not the most exciting ride at the carnival at the moment, but you don’t seem to mind and—"

Sam leans in for a kiss. "Only damn ride I'm interested in."

Clint smiles. "Yeah?"

"Fuck yeah," Sam says, and kisses him again for emphasis.

"Boyfriend it is," Clint decides.

"Better than Spam."