kiss kiss fall in death / accepting / @awkeye.
i chose jawline and lips for this
logan is no shoddy medic. a life time of war has forced knowledge into him – healing factor consumes inflicted wounds, but humans, friends, team mates? there is no recovery without attendance. he does not coddle, holding clint’s arm in place with one hand, the other judging the wound and the bar of metal holding it in place. a claw protrudes , middle, left; he hacks one side of the metal, just above clint’s skin, turns the limb and repeats the process. the claw hooks the edge of the metal and slips through with ease, tip pressing against the other side; he slides it out, precise and slow. it clatters when it falls, and the claw retracts.
the wound is tied hard with a clean towel, logan gestures. ‘ hold this to yer arm. ‘ his torso swivels as he retrieves his lighter and the flat knife he’d nabbed from clint’s utensil drawer, lighter flame flooding across the metal. he holds it there, murmurs. ‘ s’gonna hurt like hell. you got no anesthetics. sewin’ would hurt more, so … little pains. ‘ the metal comes away, and logan unravels the towel, places clint’s hand on his shoulder blade, which gives him easier access to the bridge of his arm – and gives clint the option to squeeze into his tendon and muscle, if the pain overwhelms.
knife taps grotesque flesh, only for a second, and again, further, this time; the underside follows, a feathery touch, despite the inherent pain of the instrument. logan sets it aside when he is sure the blood has stopped, and retrieves the towel, gingerly dabbing away what remains on tightened flesh. this is the third wound tended to by the wolverine in the last ten minutes – logan works with fast, deft hands, and no hesitance. ‘ ointment an’ gauze. mupirocin. ‘ he balls the towel in his hand and simply sets it aside.
then he sits with barton, after retrieving the six pack from his fridge. he’d debated on making commentary on the notable lack of content – but it’s reflective of what his own used to look like, and the hypocrisy would eat him away. so he doesn’t, electing instead to set the pack between his feet, and put his teeth to the edge of a cap, popping it off on the sharp aperture. this one, he offers to clint, and sees his dull stare (a not-all-there, pain-glaze) turn into something else, somewhere between what logan interprets as a pinch of fear and curiosity. the other is for him, teeth to metal, and logan relishes the little burn as the alcohol finds his tongue.
ten minutes of silence, before clint speaks. his unmaimed arm hooks around the back of his wooden chair; logan hears the creak it makes, but clint does not, enhanced senses tuned to even subtle disruptions. he hears a pulsing in the archer’s throat, and finds himself shifting in his seat, placing his emptied bottle in the space in the carton. you jus’ gonna sit here for the rest of the night? clint asks, then he moves, and logan almost laughs at the suddenness that overtakes his fellow avenger. not that i’m really complainin’.
logan lifts his shoulders, drops them. ‘ considerin’ i just fixed up ‘bout three of yer wounds, yeah, you’d be an asshole ta tell me ta go. actually – ‘ he leans forward, arms pressed into his knees. ‘ i was gonna get ya th’ shit you need ta keep em from gettin’ infected, drop it off an’ go. i got ta prepare my lecture fer tomorrow, still. ‘ logan isn’t able to read clint, after that, who is still possessed by his usual – lethargy that isn’t because he’s just tired, deep melancholy that he wades through because dying means other people will die. yeah, logan gets it. he’s just better at hiding it. (shockingly.)
alright, barton says, and logan wonders if it’s just resignation – he’s too stubborn and too hard to argue with, teeth and tongue, snarls, fingers balled in the back of the neck like a mother with her kitten’s nape. i’m, i’ll come. logan’s mouth worries into a line that says he’d wanted otherwise, but he doesn’t argue, instead allowing clint to lead him to his car, and claiming the drivers before he can say he’s good enough to drive.
logan says nothing on the drive, lets the radio talk, lets clint fuss with it – his car, anyhow, he would listen to whatever was put on (with only mild complaint.) he makes clint wait in the car when he pulls into a quiet parking lot and maneuvers out, disappearing into the pharmacy. his return is a mere five minutes later, carrying a small, plastic bag. logan prompts it to clint (or, drops it into his lap) when he is back in the car – gauze, paper tape, the aforementioned and suggested ointment, otc amoxicillin, a cheap pair of kid’s scissors (for the tape–logan didn’t bother to ask if he had any lying around at home). ‘ no painkillers. ‘ he’d assumed clint wouldn’t want to bother with weak acetaminophen, as the effects would be too minuscule to nurse pains from combat wounds.
and he doesn’t have oxycodone. the last doctor logan willingly saw was in 1973.
the drive back as quiet as the drive there, until clint talks, and he sounds like he’s coughing up blood, struggling on conversation. logan only catches half of it – uh, thanks, i – do you wanna – hey, look – logan.
logan stops the car, shifting the gear into park and turning the key. the illuminated gas and speed counter fades out, the headlights abruptly shutting off. they’re in front of clint’s apartment, and it looks like it takes clint a moment to figure it out. logan is suddenly on the other side of the passengers door, offering his hand so his friend doesnt have to limp his sorry ass to the door, and clint takes it; logan feels his fingers slide up his wrist rather than his hand, which strikes him as odd.
hey, uh, wait – that’s all logan catches, the rip of passing cars and the thrum of barton’s heart too loud in his ears, why does he hear that?
clint’s teeth knock clumsy into the edge of logan’s neck, where his jaw meets, and the wolverine freezes, does nothing to remove or reciprocate the anticipated gesture. his lips finally catch skin, smile line, and logan softens, considerably; clint’s hand is wrapped up in the plastic handle of the pharmacy bag, and it catches logan’s shirt, above his navel, below the arc of his ribcage. like he’s trying not to fall, but he isn’t even close.
logan looks down, lips parting. he anticipates when clint moves against him, sees the archers back bend to accommodate height differential; tastes the beer when clint kisses him. but one beer isn’t enough to get him drunk (logan cant remember if hawkeye is a light weight, but he does know it’s not a sensitivity that’s that weak.) the little plastic bag bumps logan’s front; it’s a long kiss that isn’t soft, but is far from crushing.
there is a lingering moments when clint pulls away that logan takes to breathe in, soundless; his foot shifts back into some snow. he doesn’t know what clint wants – some people want sex, some want friendship. some want love and security. others don’t know. logan’s always wanted honesty, and anything that didn’t make him feel like a beast – but not to a superficial point, soft cooing and you aren’t evil, logan, like he didn’t know he wasn’t the wolf.
clint would never do that, there’s no question. logan only breaks out of his thought when he realizes he’s been standing, mostly still, for a good minute or two, coming to to the vague sound of barton’s chagrined and shying voice.
‘ you don’t gotta ask me if kissin’ me is okay, clint. i’m a hundred years old, not twenty. but i still gotta prepare my lecture, no matter what ya mean by it. get ta sleep an’ — i’ll call you after the kids get out of class. ‘
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