cognitived | mental link;

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mental link;

PRACTICAL if we're gonna win this one, some of us might have to lose it.	RESILIENT do you know what it's like to be unmade?
SKILLED if i miss, it means im just another dude with a bow.	DETERMINED this is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for.

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

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[ the thing is, the thing is, clint doesn't want to let go of that ache. it's all he has, sometimes. the agony clawing underneath his ribs, the hollow where laura and the kids dwelled, where nat's spent years and years and years curled up. where wanda weaseled her way in, after the dust and the blood and the death that was sokovia.

the team, an ache carved into his bones. he'd saved them, gutted and bleeding at the altar like a sacrificial lamb.

cowardice, maybe, that made it such an easy answer. the sacrifice play had always been easier than domesticity. he was more comfortable holding a gun than his own child. ( but he'd tried, hadn't he? that counted, it had to count-- )

but sam dazes him, like light shining in his eyes, toomuchtoosoonletgo -- and he shudders back, flinching away. hands curl, stiff with cold, distant from him. lift, still as marble, to press to his temples, back bowing under too much and too little. sam hauls him in, sunshine and warmth and safety. a lighthouse, and clint's a ship battered and broken, taking on water with each gasp forward. but he's not too far gone, not yet. there's just enough control that he reaches back and yanks, spilling shivering and shuddering out of the shadow. the floor is cool, but he can't feel it, ice in his veins. ]

[ Cowardice, maybe, but Sam knows that, too. When all you have left of someone you loved is the pain you feel from losing them, the idea of letting go of that pain seems insurmountable. Like it means forgetting them if you no longer hurt so damn much without them. He'd felt it with his father, with Riley, and even though he's learned better, there's still part of him that feels it now.

And he knows that ultimately, Clint will have to be the one to decide to let it go. To find another way to keep them close than pain, than the ache of their absence. All Sam can ever do is be there.

He can do this - be someone trusted to have Clint's back, to haul him back when he strays too far and almost loses himself. There's determination in him as he holds on, as he feels Clint reach for him - he won't lose Clint to this.

The second that Clint appears from the shadows, Sam's moving towards him. He's cold, too fucking cold, and Sam can feel that from the bleedover between their minds before he even sets his hands on Clint. It's worse then, and Sam immediately checks him over both visibly and through their symbiote connection - not frostbite, thank God, but definitely bordering on hypothermia, and the distance of Clint's mind is what scares him the most.

He pulls Clint half into his lap, cradling him close, shivering at the touch of too much chilled skin even as he runs his hands over it to try to warm him up. ]

Can you hear me? Talk to me, man, anything.

[ for the moment, there is nothing. it all sweeps away, lost in the cold, the aching absence of anything. you have heart, something whispers in the ruined shells of his ears, fading fading gone -- bitter in the gasp for each breath.

the world seems too bright, too colorful, after the greytoned shades of the shadows.

dimly, distantly, clint hears sam, feels him. it's almost as if he's watching from a distance. as if sam was picking someone else up off the floor, cradling them in his lap. logically, he knows its his body, knows it's his face sam tucks into the crook of his neck.

but there's a disconnect. something that says he's still there, as if he left something critical behind in those shadows. sam holds him close, tries to warm him up, and clint's hands lay limp and idle where they'd fallen at his side. too cold, too gone, not yet able to move this foreign-familiar body of his to hold on. the cold clings to the marrow of his bones, leaching slowly from his skin, fading under the pins and needles of warmth to hypothermic skin. still, sam's voice slips underneath his awareness, distorted and tremulous, calling, calling.

vocal cords refuse, after so long in the cold, after so long using only the press of their minds. but still, a muted little sound, caught in the back of his throat -- acknowledgement. building, building. his fingers twitch. ]

[ Too distant. Not the faded sense of a symbiote connection gone wrong, of a Host slipped into a coma, just - separate. It pricks at Sam's skin, hair on edge and goosebumps down his arm as his mind keeps searching out Clint's. He doesn't push himself in more than usual - he doesn't have to - just stays there, a solid mental presence even when Clint's has somehow slipped.

Relief trickles through at the twitch of Clint's fingers, at the briefest acknowledgement that at least Clint can hear him. ]

I got you, Clint, I got you. Come on.

[ He hauls Clint up in his arms as he stands, balancing Clint's limp weight with relative ease. It's hardly the first time he's carried someone non-responsive, and the symbiote's enhancements to his physical strength make it easier than ever.

Sam moves quickly, getting them back into the ship they've claimed as their own, tugging off shoes and bundling them both up in blankets, pressing in to share body heat. He ignores the feeling that he knows what this is that makes it feel like Clint's detached from himself, refuses to let himself freak out. He can't, he has to stay calm.

Focus on his own breathing, keep it slow and steady. He doesn't need to count anymore to keep it even, but he does anyway, trying to give Clint something to focus on. Something to hold on to, so he can ground himself back down. ]

( I'm here, man, you're safe. Just breathe with me. )

[ something is wrong. he knows it, feels it, lives it. it's as if something has been cut away from him, something extraneous, something precious. sam panics, clint knows, even in the thread-thin connection left between them. the relief swamps the connection, drowns him under it all. too much, but, somehow he breathes it in. lets sam haul him up in his arms, limbs trembling with cold. turns inward, confused but not quite concered. too distant from the word. looks for the jagged edges where something had been cleaved from him. can't.

time slips, dizzying and muddled, caught in the slip-slide of sam's voice and his slowly warming skin. he doesn't respond, not yet, voice caught in the back of his throat and the too-sharp-too-distant press of his mind. instead, clint simply accepts the way sam curls them together, the even thread of their breathing. synchronized, even unconsciously, and it draws him back. slow, steadily, there in the blink of his eyes and the curl of his fingers.

mental acknowledgement first, responding slowly to the grounding reverberation of sam's voice. wordless, but there, coming back to himself. presses forward, maybe too soon. ( not soon enough ). ]

( Sam. )

[ murmured lowly, the distant edge not quite gone. ]

[ Something is very, very wrong. Even with Clint as distant as he is - even aside from that, god that feels wrong enough as it is - Sam can still feel the bleedover of detachment. Of not quite belonging in the world, knowing that something's missing but unable to figure out if it's something that should be worrying.

Sam's worried enough for the both of them, anyway. He tries to keep it hidden, but as he's gotten better at shielding out most of the rest of the Nest, it's never quite worked with Clint, with some of the others he's more attached to. He can bury it though, shove the worry down for later, for when they're figuring out what the hell this is and how it'd happened - now all that matters is getting Clint back.

Now he holds Clint close and breathes, listens to the way their heartbeats echo each other, feels Clint's chest rise and fall in time with his own. Slow, slow, guiding Clint back into himself, grounding him in reality instead of the shadow world he'd almost gotten lost to.

There's a hitch in his breathing when he hears Clint in his head, saying his name. One hand runs down Clint's arm, briskly, trying to get the blood circulating again - the other is splayed between Clint's shoulderblades, for no other reason than touch. ]

( I'm here. )

[ Stay with me, he doesn't say, but of course the feeling moves across their connection anyway. He doesn't quite realize he's seeped more of himself than usual into Clint's mind, an unconscious attempt to seek him out when he'd been cut away from it. ]

[ it's gone, a tremulous ache somewhere beyond him. familiar distance, the actions of a body severed from a mind. ( too blue, you have heart, echoes echoes, but it's not right, not right--)

trips anyway, on the way sam shelters him under the golden eaves of his mind, worry lapping at the formless shape of clint's own. supped upon relief and reassurance and safety. sam will handle it, will watch his back as frozen hands weave tatters back together. slowly, he comes back to himself. feels the ice in his veins melt away, the chill sunk into his bone marrow little more than a dull throb. breathes in, easily, phantom ice crystals faded. one hand lifts, curls in the worn fabric of sam's shirt, breathes him in. familiarity, safety.

trust, unconscious, all-encompassing, cuts through him. breathe, and so he does. heart beat slow and steady, one two, one two. ]

( I'm here. )

[ he echoes back, catching that thought, stay with me, and where else could he go? sam is -- sam sometimes feels like the only one he has left. his anchor. unbidden, the thought spills, always, whipcord sharp and thin, even as he stitches himself back together. they're too close, minds spilling over, more one being than two. ]

[ Familiar, by now familiar to Sam too, the whisper of blue and the loss of self, and he knows. You are your own, no one will ever control you again.

There will always be a safe place for Clint to land. A harbor for him to put himself back together when the storm threatens to tear him apart, no questions asked, no second thoughts. What happened and how can we prevent it next time will come later, now there's nothing but the trust between them as Clint comes back down.

He breathes again when Clint's hand curls into his shirt, closes his eyes and lets himself rest his head in the crook of Clint's neck. Breathes, in and out, calm and even. ]

( Clint. )

[ It's all he needs to say, the feeling of relief and renewed security as Clint settles back into his own mind passing easily between them. Sam's already woven in there, watching as Clint stitches himself back together - never interfering, never, just supporting. Always, Clint says, and something in Sam shudders loose, sinks even deeper into the connection between him and Clint.

No one has ever said always and meant it - and managed to keep it if they did - but right now Sam doesn't even question it. Right now he believes it, easy as if Sam'd said it to himself, and for a moment - for a moment both of them are more in sync with their symbiotes than ever, more attuned with their connection because of the way they've come together. And even if Sam was aware of that - he isn't, nothing matters but settling back in and setting things right again - he'd have no desire to change it, not like this. ]

[ He'd never meant to share that, to drag someone into the ice and ache and wrongwrongwrong that was Loki. But it's far too late to regret that, and he's far too distant, still, to do more than dredge up a notion of apology.

Especially since it is Sam. Sam, whom Clint trusts inexplicably. Sam, who offers a safe place, a harbor from the storm. Sam, who doesn't speak, but allows him the space to stitch himself together, slowly, achingly, but sure. Sam, who is everything. He says Clint's name, voice catching, softly, softly, and Clint's chest aches. ]

(...sorry. )

[ Gruffly, still not quite there -- he's still piecing himself together. Breath by breath, stitch by stitch, he draws closer. The hazy edges fitting back together in more or less the same as before. Always, always, it catches and turns and digs in deeply into the meat of his mind. Belief, written into the very core of himself. Catches, distantly, the surprise and relief that sparks in the spaces that are neither Sam nor Clint but both.

Yes, belief, for the both of them. In the both of them. Synchronization that goes beyond the symbiotes and the broods. Heartbeats and breaths, dim dim dim in the ship they've purloined for their own. ]

[ Sam'd never meant to share in that, to have it spread and be a part of him - but he's not sorry it did. Some burdens are easier to bear when they're divided, when they're shared, and Sam is glad to share in this.

There's a quiet huff of acknowledgement, breath warm against Clint's skin. Clint couldn't have known what would happen; neither of them could. He wouldn't be Clint if he didn't push himself, that's something that he and Clint shared even before they learned to ground themselves in each other and breathe as one. ]

( Scared the shit out of me, man. )

[ You're here follows, not spoken, just felt. Apology acknowledged and forgiven, easy, easy. They didn't lose him to the shadow world he walks in, the place that Sam can't quite follow - not yet, though he will always try, always, and maybe one day. Until then he'll be an anchor, holding Clint steady while he reattaches himself to his own mind, waiting until he can settle back in where he belongs.

Until they can both settle back in, strengthened by a promise made in the heat of the moment, unconscious and unbidden but solidified as it passed back and forth between them. Woven into Sam's mind the way Clint has already been, stitched in along with Clint's as he pieced himself back together until it's as much a part of either of them as they both are.

Always, Sam agrees, seals it in the way their hearts beat together, in the hum of their mental link where Sam can no longer tell which feathers are his and which are Clint's. ]

[ Later, maybe, Clint will appreciate it. The knowledge that someone knows, understands, intimately. The others had understood, somewhat, but nothing compares to the feeling of fingers rifling through your brain. Of too blue and too true, loyalty twisted and turned on its head, fierce and achingly wrong. Of anybody -- Clint is glad it's Sam.

But those thoughts are mere wisps, at the edge of his mind. No, for now Clint's fighting with the ache of pulling himself back together, the uncertain edge of fitting mind back into body that doesn't seem right. His still distant, in a way, but it feels as if nothing but time can fix that. Time, and the soft warmth of Sam's breath against his skin. The comfort and trust and stability he craves. The bits and pieces that are Clint all the way through never want to go through that again. The rest is pretty sure it's inevitable.

He winces, feeling Sam's fear, his worry. He hadn't meant to cause that, flinching apology ebbing softly at the edges where they merge. ]

( Didn't think that'd happen. ) [ A sigh. ] ( Probably should've expected something. )

[ Stupid, nothing's free. This power is useful, a nearly natural progression on a life spent in shadows. But something about still eats at him, an edge of unfamiliarity. Cold, distant -- the greyscale washing out of the world around him. It's strange, standing next to someone and having them look right through him.

But Clint isn't one to let a skill or advantage escape him. He'll master this eventually, regardless of cold or the threat of the loss of self. Stubborn -- he's drawn that one back. ]

[ They've got time. Like this, Sam could believe they've got as much time as they need - that there's nothing stopping them from staying wrapped up in each other until Clint is completely back in his own skin, until every where that Sam presses against him is no longer cold to the touch. Sam closes his eyes as he nuzzles his face deeper into Clint's neck, breathing so and even.

He presses his hand over Clint's heart at that wince, soothing away his apology. Clint's back, they're together, that's all that matters now. Whatever fear Sam'd felt when he couldn't quite reach Clint has faded now, now that all of Clint is within easy reach.

Nothing's ever free, both of them know that. Sam gives life at the cost of taking it, takes life at the cost of giving it - but then he'd done that before, only not quite as literally. Same as Clint'd always walked in the shadows and now they pull at him to join them, curl around him and try to get him to stay. Maybe the symbiote only tapped into what they were and pushed them to be more. ]

( We know for next time. )

[ Because of course there'll be a next time. Of course Clint will keep going until he can control this, and there's no question that Sam'll be there with him. ]

[ His heart beats, quickening the longer Clint is freed from the shadowy realm. Like this, with Sam's palm smoothed over sternum, Clint can breathe. Fear ebbs, recrimination heating Clint's blood for a minute more before he nods.

They know, yeah, it's true. This is no secret, no surprise -- Clint's got red in his ledger that years as a superhero could never wash away. He's spent decades in the shadows, figures that one day they shadows would try to consume him if he wasn't wary. It's almost amusing, in an ironic sort of way. As it is, Clint scrubs a hand over his brow, fingertips still chilled, and sighs. ]

( Yeah, yeah. )

[ Softly, but the way Clint's mind flickers with the edges of planning for the next time is obvious. How soon? The shadows slumber in his blood, sup on the marrow of his bones. Calling, calling. He wants to sink back into the shadows, push his limits -- but he knows better. ]

( We're done for today though. )

[ He reaches out without really thinking about it to take Clint's hand in his free one, lips curling into a tiny smirk as he huffs warm air over Clint's fingertips before he laces their fingers together.

His fingers curl into Clint's shirt at the shadows he can feel flickering at Clint's mind, unbidden, and the wings that form his mental shield at its highest level of defense stretch out, wrapping around Clint's mind. Like he can shelter them both from the shadows, like the soft gleam of golden light that glints of the feathers can keep them at bay. ]

( You're damn right we are. )

[ He doesn't have to say it for Clint to know how much Sam isn't willing to risk losing him. They're in each other's heads enough for it to be obvious - and it's not just that, not just that they've become so entangled in each other's minds that it's hard for Sam to pull them apart. It's that Clint is one of the few people he trusts here, the one who knows him the best.

But Sam also knows Clint, knows that he won't be satisfied until he's pushing his limits again. ]

( Maybe tomorrow. )

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