I Never Miss

He didn’t spare any pity for the still steaming corpse of the agent that threatened Clint, only gracing the remains with a pointed snarl. Reed tried to wiggle his claw fingers, letting out a satisfied rumble when they responded, albeit somewhat sluggishly. Some parts of him were still melting like wax but at least he could walk now.

Clint came back with a small machine, the box chirping the closer the archer stepped towards him; as regressed as he was, he still could understand the concept of the chip inside him and able to feel anger…rage and fear at such a thing being placed inside his body. His friend probed at his collarbones, rubbing against thin tissue and inflamed muscles until he found it.

Reed of course knew it had to come out and trilled quietly in agreement. He also knew that getting the chip out would hurt significantly. And alongside the fear was a note of worry that Clint would have to hurt him; they had come so far in such a short time. He knew he could not hurt his friend so it would be hard for the opposite to happen as well.

But it had to be done. Clint lead him away from the gruesome remains of the SHIELD agent, back towards the cave where they had chosen to sleep for the night before the fight happened. In a snow covered embankment he pushed down on Reed’s shoulder to get him to lay down, one hand glossing over his jaws in a friendly gesture before Clint was gathering up their gear and getting ready to leave as soon as the chip was out. 

The chill of the snow made his side ache but Reed lay there, patiently waiting. Until a crunch of boots in snow and more comforting pats along his jaw and tendrils signalled that Clint had returned, brandishing the de-boning knife he had used back at the cabin a few days ago. Reed remained limp, trusting that Clint would do what was best for him, as the archer rearranged his limbs, pushing his head upwards to stretch out his neck and twist the collarbone upwards.

He let out a whimper of discomfort as the knife dug into the freshly sealed arrow wound along his collarbone, splitting the thin membrane, the blade scraping past rubbery bone.

As sharp as the blade was; it felt as dull as rock trying to cut through elastic skin that resisted being split. His whimpers turned to snarling when blood and yellow plasma splattered on the ground, Clint’s fingers scrabbling to pull the chip out from stringy muscle and slippery blood. 

Clint already knew firsthand from trying to knit Reed's side wound that the rubbery skin was incredibly difficult to puncture, let alone cleanly slice like he'd of preferred. The only thing he had going for him was the fact he had a chance at lessening the trauma by going through the still-healing thin membrane, where one of his arrows and their payload had done some damage, and even then the archer had resigned himself to the fact it was going to be like trying to puncture through steel. 

So he'd gathered up the boning knife, heated it in the flame to ensure it was sterilised, and after soothing Reed as best as possible gotten to work. 

For a while it was okay, considering, but once he'd made it through that last layer it was like hell; plasma and blood oozed quicker than the archer would've liked, his hands hot and tacky from the fluids as he did his best to grip the tiny, bastard of a thing that had caused all this trouble. 

It took the fine tip of the flexible blade and some very artistic wriggling to scrape the chip off the bone, but when he had it, Clint just about roared his triumph, and wasted no time crushing the thing to pieces. 

Tracking: off. Emergency mode: on. 

The blade was swapped for handfuls of snow, Clint apologising profusely as he packed the wound with it for the different kind of pain it bought -- quite literally a transition from fire to ice. The cold did at least start to help stem the bleeding, not to mention help clean it out. Slowly but surely, the cold numbed the edges enough to take things down on the pain scale, even if only just, and when Reed sagged a little bit more into the ground Clint knew he could dress it without being cleaved in two by an accidental claw swipe. 

"I know it's gonna suck, but we've gotta move after this," Clint said while he padded up the wound with non-stick dressings to absorb any seepage, firmly bandaging it to keep it together, "Get out of the firing line in case they have more forces out there. You're in no fit state to fight, and neither am I if I take a few more hits to my torso." 

Breathing blood wasn't exactly great. He'd done it once, wouldn't recommend it.

The dressing done, Clint scrubbed his hands once more in the snow to try and get rid of as much blood and grime off of them, and let Reed rest as he gathered their belongings up and took stock of everything to make the next leg of the journey. The fire was snuffed out, and under the cover of darkness with his exceptional eyesight Clint pillaged the SHIELD assault team for anything he could possibly use or need later on, then ensured that most of the carnage was irreparably tampered with, bodies and body parts buried under snow and mud for scavenger animals to find and feast on and make it harder for SHIELD to make sense of where the fuck their tac team had gone. Classic subterfuge. 

Then he made his way back to Reed, soothing the irradiated man-cat with a gentle rub to his shoulders as he coaxed him to get up.

"Just a little bit longer, stay with me a little longer then we can pass out," he promised, sliding the saddle onto Reed's back and fastening only the torso strap so it would stay on him with the lightened load Clint had set onto the sides of it. 

Neither one of them were in a fit state to ride. Clint's ribs, broken or cracked or whatever they were, burned with each jostle -- not helped by the extra weight he'd taken on with their pack gear since Reed was more grievously wounded -- and Reed had just been through hell at Clint's hands no less to try and retrieve the GPS chip. So it was walking for both of them, the darkness their cover and their guide, until they were far enough away from their possible perusers to catch a break. 

Nothing came near them. Reed's presence alone, and the occasional deep rolling growl, kept anything that attempted to eye them off for food at bay. 

He was bone-ragged and exhausted by the time the soft glow of late dawn started to light the path, outlining a possible shelter Clint had spied off in the distance as they'd trekked. A barn. They were much closer now that his keen eyesight could better make out the condition of it; clearly derelict and abandoned, but still holding up better than most things tended to out in the Alaskan wilds, and ample enough to keep the weather at bay while they healed up. 

"End of the road bud," Clint murmured tiredly. "I think we'll be able to safely hole up in there for a long time." 

Hopefully. There was no solid way SHIELD could be tracking them as it were, and there was little satellite coverage out in the wilds. Their best option would be an UAV, but Reed would be able to hear one of those from miles away -- plus the barn gave them cover and a roof over their heads so unless SHIELD really wanted to glass a few possible structures on a 'just in case' basis, Clint doubted they'd be found for a while which meant they could lay low. Lick their wounds and catch their energy after the trauma they'd just endured. 

The barn was dark inside when Clint pushed the door ajar, the only other occupants inside from what he could see were a few spiders chilling in their webs. Clint coaxed Reed in first, checked their six for a few minutes, then slunk inside himself and securely closed the door behind him. The ground floor wasn't going to be ideal for hiding in, mostly because if someone did charge in battle ready they'd be sitting ducks, so Clint eyed off the upper floor and tested the old ladder, deeming it safe to climb. 

Then the really hard part came. Clint had to get himself and Reed up there -- his friend was in no state to climb or jump up there. Despite major protest from his ribs, Clint hefted Reed up over his back, arms and paws dangling over his shoulders and those ridiculously sharp claws catching in the kevlar of his coat for grip while also being delicate enough to not shred it. Slowly but surely he crawled up the ladder, dragging the huge amount of extra weight with him despite how much it damn well hurt, until they reached the upper landing and he dragged himself up across the wood bodily until they both didn't have their legs dangling over the edge anymore. 

Clint groaned lowly, forcing himself through the fatigue to push up onto his knees and help undo the few straps of the saddle he'd done up on Reed to help carry supplies, hands gently rubbing over where the belts had been. 

"S'all good, we're all good," Clint drawled, sagging down and pressing their foreheads together while letting his fingers graze and rub the soft warm thin flesh of Reed's ears. "We're safe now." 

God, he hoped they were. 

He didn’t like it at all. Wounds he could deal with; this felt like he was being taken apart, piece by piece and melted back together. His head hurt most of all. Reed at that moment felt very small. Clint approached him and Reed tried to stand up but his legs could not support him, the front left one even splitting into two limbs in an unconscious effort to stand up before his slumped forward.

There was nothing he could do, except cough out an estranged bark to try to warn Clint that there was someone behind him and even that was pointless.

click

Reed’s jaws quivered; feeling an odd sense of violation at knowing there was something inside of him. He should have expected it; given what else he could remember being done to him, but it was a slap to the face he was not prepared for.

Worse still; Clint was in danger and he could do nothing. The sheer force of his limbs meant nothing while they were shivering puddles of flesh and spasming uncontrollably.

He had made a promise; to himself and to Clint that he would protect him.

Perhaps if it was his head with a gun pressed to it, he could relinquish and accept his fate. His world had been reduced to pain and suffering and the hunt and he was tired. But Clint had opened that narrow view, if only to give him the hope that there was a life outside of that. Even if right now it consisted of running away and fighting for it.

So he would do anything to save Clint. If he couldn’t use his arms or teeth then maybe he had one option left. The flange on his muzzle lifted up and he began to gag, trying to move his stomach from where it normally sat to up into his throat; he needed to be able to control the liquid flow to be able to hit his target: the agent holding a gun to Clint’s head. Thankfully his little show was enough of a distraction that the weapon hadn’t been fired.

It felt so odd, trying to move a part of him that was inside but it was working, even if it made him feel awful. Maybe that was a good thing; it would make the next step faster.

“What the hell…”

Reed snarled and stretched his jaws open; enough of a warning for Clint to hit the ground before Reed vomited, compressing his throat so the emesis was a forceful thin stream that hit the agent square in the face and spattering on his hands and chest. 

Clint had seen what the blue bile could do to a cabin floor; the agent had not. The toxic, corrosive liquid stripped flesh from bone in seconds before softening bone. Death was swift but extremely painful; the gun dropping from the oozing, liquified hand of the former SHIELD agent as he body crumpled and hit the ground.

Reed met Clint’s eyes before dropping his head in shame.

This was his fault. He had led them right to Clint.

He carefully eased his hands up, ensuring that his captor could see he was passive and unarmed, though he doubted that it'd save him from a quick execution. 

"The orders said we could bring you in alive if you didn't put up a fight. What a shame," the other man said as he ground the barrel that bit harder against Clint's head. "Not that alive was in my prerogative anyway. That thing going rogue sentenced it to death, or a nice science experiment anyway, but you Barton. Oh, they really want to silence you. I'm just doing them a favour by doing it now." 

Clint barked a bitter laugh, his voice level despite his wide eyes as he looked down at Reed. "Then do it. At least give me the dignity to die without you monologuing." 

I'm sorry, bro. I tried. 

Except it seemed Reed was trying too. He was shifting, moving, making a godawful retching noise, catching the attention of the agent grinding the gun against his skull as much as Clint's own. The flare of his flanges and teeth pushing forward with a tremendously earth-shattering yowl was all the warning Clint had and needed, and the sudden confusion and hesitation of the agent allowed him to push hard off of his knees and dive toward Reed's side -- 

Out of the range of the caustic as hell bile that squeezed out of Reed's throat, pressurised and thin like venom, which bubbled and rippled the other man's skin as it ate at it.

Melted it.

The agent barely made a sound because such a vicious amount of it had hit his face and throat first; only a quiet wheezing burble signalling the extreme pain that was likely felt.

Clint bonelessly sagged into the ground for a moment to catch his breath, fingers knotting in his hair as he processed through the adrenaline that still throbbed through his system and how that was just too fucking close a call for both of them; that he should've accounted for there being some kind of tracking in Reed because they'd fucked with him so much, hell Clint possibly had something too and he just didn't know. 

"Christ." 

The soft whine that emanated from Reed only hurt his heart. It wasn't his fault, he hardly knew what had happened to him given his current state, and Clint understood that because he'd been down a similar road too. 

The archer pushed himself up off of the ground and onto his knees, eyes surveying the darkness across the decimated SHIELD agents. They'd have to make a move again and soon -- who knew when back up would try to come. He could salvage munitions from what was scattered around for sure, but he had to get rid of that chip otherwise they were just fighting a losing fight. 

Clint reached for Reed's head and gently rubbed across his scalp. "Hey, it's okay. We're gonna work this out okay? You stay right here, I'm going to go through some of their gear, maybe see if they have anything on them that could help us find this chip. It's gotta go." 

He hardly wanted to try and carve into Reed, not with his current injuries as it were, but if they were to survive and make it to safety to recoup for a while... 

Clint got up proper, wincing as he cradled his tender ribs, and stepped over what was left of the last agent to investigate the shredded remains of the others, taking the time to pull and wipe down his arrows as he did so. They had some rations at least, clearly they'd been prepared to possibly have to tail them for a few days, which Clint stuffed into his coat pockets before he pilfered the corpses with deft fingers. 

Ah. That might help. Clint activated the mini tablet, the screen blinking to life with a soft chime.

"Hey, this might help," Clint drawled as he made his way back to Reed, kneeling by him as he flicked through the screens rapidly, frowning deeply as he found the geo-fence that they had on Reed.

He moved the small tablet over his friend's body, the chime picking up the closer he got to Reed's neck and collarbone until it pinged a confirmation of the tracking chip in it, and Clint cringed for it. 

"Good news, I found the chip, and I think I can get to it. Bad news, it's on your collarbone." 

Clint's fingers gently pressed against the thin tissue where his arrows had damaged Reed when they first fought, probing and comparing to the other side despite how liquified Reed kind of still was thanks to the sonic weaponry from before. And damn it, it was right there. A little nodule under his fingertip that was so tiny, so obscure and discreet, that rolled like a grain of rice against Reed's collarbone. 

Reed didn’t wait for any signal, instead leaping out of the enclave and landing into the slush and snow with a heavy thump; a rattling growl building into a deafening roar of anger. He would not go back. He would not let them take Clint and he would not let them harm him. Mane flared and jaws spread wide so the sparse light of the night sky made them shine in the dark; it was enough to spook several of the agents into action.

Two of them split from the group, aiming their assault rifles at Clint, shouting in fright as Reed slammed his full weight between them and the archer, bullets pinging uselessly against rubbery skin tightened to an armour like consistency. One cried out in shock as his own bullet tore through his thigh as it ricocheted.

Not that it would matter as Reed swung one clawed hand at the agent’s face, tearing through skin and bone with enough force to break his neck, the rest of his body flopping to the ground. The other one scrambled to place some distance between herself, when Reed clamped his jaws around her right leg; dragging her down to the ground before then swiping through her neck with the same bloodied paw; the blow killing the second agent as quickly as the first; blood spraying out in a fan-shape and making the snow steam from the warm red fluid.

He barely heard the rapid fire orders of the SHIELD agents; didn’t hear the swearing over the red tinge that settled over his vision. Instead he roared again, the poor moon-light painting his skin a murky grey blue, patterned with dark swirls and spots. A monster and he reveled in it. He would kill them all. He could see them plain as day; pupils expanded so his eyes were nothing but inky black pools. They could not hide in their tactical gear and night vision.

So absorbed in his basal instincts and blood lust, he missed Clint calling him back, urging him to come back to the archer’s side; fight together.

There was no strategy; only the single minded focus of a trapped animal fighting away its predators. Mane flared out; he snarled again, teeth stretching outwards before charging another agent, this one wielding a high powered sniper rifle. The gun was dropped hastily; its caliber useless at close range. The agent dropped to the ground, rolling past a heavy swipe of claws; kevlar gloves punching into the thin membrane covering the acid wound from days ago. It did little damage but it was enough of a distraction for the agent to get away from teeth and claws that sliced through bone. Reed howled in outrage.

It was enough to give some time to the rest of the group to finish setting up a weapon he had never seen before. He knew the guns most humans carried were useless; the fire that shot the bullets out couldn’t reach enough velocity to pierce his hide. This strange new gun looked unwieldy; curved bowls made up the majority of its structure.

Reed squared off at the device, muscles tensing before he would lunge at it, smash it into the ground and scatter the remaining personnel across the snow.

Springing into the air, he hit the ground running, charging at the two SHIELD agents manning the weapon. One of them franticly hit a button and Reed’s world was flipped upside down. 

A NOISE slamming into him like a physical wave the NOISE was nothing but pain. His roar of anger and rage twisted into a squeal of agony as the weapon stopped him dead in his tracks, claws digging into the snow. He couldn’t move, it was like the NOISE turned his sleek, liquid muscles into molasses. Reed shrieked in inhuman horror, his hands and feet liquifying under the pressure of the NOISE. 

Clint barely had time to react to Reed's fast movements, but when the solid muscle wall shoved between him and the oncoming assault Clint did manage to duck his head down so he was covered by his partner. The weird fleshy warble of bullets pinging against rubberised skin an estranged comfort, sharply ricocheting back at their assailants, and Clint's training kicked in as he arched back to heft his quiver up over his shoulder so he had ammo.

No time to play nice. No time for mercy. SHIELD clearly were there with kill orders, so it was going to go both ways.

Something Reed had already showcased going by the disgusting wet sound of claws tearing through muscle. 

"Targets are hostile -- repeat, targets are hostile. Weapons free, weapons free!" 

Clint snarled as he nocked his next arrow fluidly, eyes finding the faintest outlines possible that were human-shaped to lose the deadly shaft in to. One arrow went through an agent's hand and wrist, making them scream bloody murder before the second went through their throat and up into their skull. Another shot was made almost blind as Clint frantically tried to re-locate Reed whom he could only hear in the chaos, 

"Reed!" Clint called, grunting as he deflected a blow from a cattle prod with his bow. "C'mon, I need you back here, we need to take them on together!" 

Might've just been yelling into the wind for the fat load of fuck all that did. The agent trying to down him was subdued with a swift palm blow to the nose, their own weapon turned against them and jammed into their neck until the current outright killed them.  

The next threat was taken care of with the stun rod too, Clint being slogged hard in the ribs first but certainly not out for the count despite the groan of protest from his bones. His revenge came in the form of breaking the guy's shin with the armoured butt of the rod before vindictively jamming the rod in the agent's groin, draining the charge. 

Vwoom!!

That noise had to of been tremendous. Clint was struggling just feeling the vibrations as it threatened to make him nauseous and dizzy, and he was out of the firing line. Reed however was turning to putty, a horrific discovery Clint learnt as his eyes honed in onto the source of the vibrations and deep sound.

It was Clint's turn to give in to the rage. Let the carnal heat of battle feed into the anger he'd been leashing. Without even thinking Clint had his quiver cycling through into his more specialised arrows, the unique weight of the arrow that was pinched between his fingers belonging only to the bulbous cryo rounds he carried. Not breaking a beat, Clint jogged toward the pair of agents huddling by the vile RnD weaponry that was making a mess of his partner as if it could shield them from him as well -- or maybe they'd damn well forgotten about his squishy less threatening self. 

He'd show them just how fucking threatening he was. 

The round was loosed right into the centre of the group rather than a single target, the payload releasing with a sharp hiss and pop that startled the group just about out of their skin -- their shock turning into pure horror as tissue and bone were snap frozen by the experimental cryo compound. What happened next was relentless and vicious, Clint sliding his bow through his hand so he grasped one of the limbs so he could use it as a reinforced poll, the recurve whistling through the air with force as it was swung into their crystallised limbs, shattering them like glass without hesitation. 

The retched weapon powered down. 

Clint's adrenaline was running high and his concern for Reed blindsiding him as to if they were entirely out of the water yet, but he did take a (somewhat) measured breath, and readied another arrow just in case. Only then did he brave wandering around the other side of the intimidating sound gun to approach Reed, crouching and wearily reaching for the somewhat liquefied puddle of cat-human. 

"Holy shit." Understatement of the century. "Reed, y'okay? I dunno how they found us --" 

Click.

"That thing has a chip in it. You really think we'd let it roam without one?"

Such thoughts disappeared when he woke up properly; Clint shoving him out of the bed, hatchet in hand so he could hack apart the bed for tinder. It was undignified but Reed sulked at that; the bed had been comfy and it held a…a strange word floated into his mind.

Cwtch.

Then it fluttered away when Clint scratched along the underside of his jaw, arms curling around his broad chest and shoulders. The was then saddle was hoisted on him without complaint; Reed wasn’t in a playful mood so he dutifully bore the extra weight; it would not impede him but it meant the wild dashing he had done yesterday would need to be scaled down, especially for long distances.

Reed butted his head against Clint when he crouched down, snout wandering to the new jacket, before he was shoved away gently, before his attention was drawn to the sheet of paper. It was hard to understand how the lines turned into mountains. It bothered him, again that sensation of wrongness appeared. The piece of paper should be able to he understood, but it was just lines and squiggles to him. But Clint could read the map and he could guide Reed and tell him where to go. He could grasp the concept of the blue line. River. Water. Follow the water.

Reed rubbed his muzzle along the bristle covered line of Clint’s jaw, enjoying the prickly texture. It scratched, but in a good way. He wouldn’t be too upset if it stayed for a little while longer and huffed quietly to express that. 

It was time to go; Clint had started a fire and it would soon spread and destroy the cabin. And once it was gone, it would fade from memory. The funny feeling of warmth he had earlier was also gone, now just surrounded by cold and licking flames. Clint climbed into the saddle and shifted his weight down, enough of a signal that it was time to move on.

East. 

Away from the sun. Follow the sunrise; he understood that. Any other changes, he would rely on Clint to direct him. Reed sprang into action, wanting to leave the now blazing area where the cabin had once been. For hours he maintained the hard and fast pace, as if he knew that fire, while distracting would be a beacon; the smoke forming a trail in the sky. 

As the overcast sky gave way to the muted colours of sunset, Reed slowed down to a slow canter, tired and worn out. The thickets and forests around Clint’s former home had now shifted to more rocky and uneven terrain. The mountains they were aiming for a long way off. But Reed had been taking a less than straight route, following the encouragement of Clint to make a trail as difficult to follow as possible. The disadvantage being he had plow through some thick snow banks and rough terrain. The chill made his toes ache and crimp when they hit hard ground after being in slush and snow.

He would have to get used to that, along with his still healing wounds to ache bitterly at dusk.

Inclining his head, Reed drew himself to a stop, before gesturing at a rocky outcropping, noting it was almost a small cave. Inhaling sharply, he could not smell anything living in there. 

Hopefully burning the evidence of their temporary living had been enough of a distraction. After what had happened in the township a few days ago, he practically could guarantee that SHIELD were on full alert in regards to them being threats -- two dead agents, one of them clearly being the lead on handling Reed in his subsequent reconditioning, was not something easily swept under the rug after all.

Clint had no doubt that they'd become a joint number one threat. 

(He would be lying too if he said that he wasn't just a little proud of that idea.)

The sun started to set after many more hours of moving through the varying landscape, and had almost sunk beneath the mountains as they reached their latest stretch of land. Instead of the thickets of trees, brush, and slush that'd been their zig-zag trail shadows for most of the day, a much more barren sight befell them. The arching uneven ground was dotted with rocks that jutted from the snow-kissed hills, letting them know they were getting closer to mountain terrain, and the change of scenery was frankly welcome because Clint didn't really want to entertain the idea of making a tree-shelter on their first night when both were exhausted. 

Reed caught his attention with a soft trill, felt through Clint's legs more than anything, and the archer noted where Reed inclined his head. It was a tall rock that bowed over like an arch at the top, providing a natural shelter, complete with a small surrounding set of granite stones that  more or less made it like a cave. 

"Yeah, I think that's a great call," Clint murmured, gently rubbing Reed's forehead. "Let's call it a day. You've really pushed hard and carried us far." 

Clint carefully dismounted, cringing somewhat at the ache in his thighs from being straddled over something for so long, and stretched himself out with a few clicks and clunks, groaning at the relief. Shaking his legs out he then paced up toward their proposed shelter, nodding his approval that they could make this work, before beckoning Reed over to join him. 

Soon after he had that saddle off, a canvas sheet rolled out for the pair of them so they had something to rest on, and had dug a small but practical fire pit to get some warmth going for the night. 

And damn was it good. 

After some much needed food, Clint ended up with Reed sprawled out by his side, Reed's paws stretched out toward the small fire to thaw out. He softly stroked over the man-cat's neck and shoulders tiredly, fingers working in a little firmer where he felt small bundles of tension from carrying the extra weight for the day, and after a while Reed's breathing evened out into the deep and slow rhythm that indicated he'd fallen asleep.

Clint kept up the gentle affections for quite a while longer, more or less staying up on guard watch, before stocking up the fire to keep it going warm through the night, getting ready to settle in for a rest himself when something caught his attention in the darkness beyond the soft glow of the fire. Like the glint of faint moonlight off of metal. Something no normal person could see for sure, but something that Clint's high-contrast vision could.

Odd.

Maybe it was paranoia. But maybe something was out there. 

Clint plucked up his bow from the stash of goods they had nestled by their bedding, unfolding the limbs and cautiously resting his fingers against the fletching of his arrows in his quiver.

Something definitely moved out in the distance. 

He drew an arrow silently, nocking the tail into the string and resting the shaft against the riser, fingers loose against the serving ready to pull back to loose the bolt if needed. Practiced motions saw him crouched and primed, edging out beyond the perimeter of their small encampment so the glow of the fire was behind him and he could adjust to the darkness better. 

Oh fucking hell. They'd been found. 

Clint wasted no time in pulling his bowstring back, kissing the fletch as he mapped the trajectory of his shot, before the soft 'fwump' of his string being released and the practically silent arrow sailed out into the darkness. One target fell wordlessly with a muted thump, the arrow through his temple. 

Nothing popped up to prompt him to chase; and really it would have had to be something spectacular to tempt him to spill the stacks of elk meat he and Clint were toting. So it was an uneventful trek back, Reed stopping right by the cold locker so Clint didn’t have to drag around the meat too much. The hind quarters were taken off his hips and Reed stretched out, shaking his hips and shoulders after hauling everything back. The weight didn’t shift anything out of alignment; just about nothing could given his rubbery physiology, but it still did ache and strain to carry weight like that.

It was then that Reed finally noticed Clint was drenched in animal blood and was pouting about the mess. Right. Clint couldn’t clean himself; he couldn’t twist and turn right and there was no way such a tiny tongue could do anything. Nudging him along until the blood soaked sweater was removed and the other man was by the stove, one hind leg expertly tripping him so he was sprawled onto the floor.

Time to clean.

One paw pinned the archer down, while Reed’s long and perpetually stretchy tongue swiped over the fabric of the underclothes Clint was wearing, the rough prickle texture soaking up the still warm, wet fluid. Some blood had splattered across his neck, so the tongue then swiped across, the tip flicking behind Clint’s ear with a slurp before sucking back into his jaws. Reed blinked and inclined his head. There was…a lot of cleaning to do. So Reed shimmied up from his position and sat on Clint, legs set either side of his lower torso, one paw pressed against the archers chest, just enough pressure to pin him down, while the bristle tongue went to work; down from the shoulders to the webs between his fingers, tongue shifting and twisting; sometimes stretching to a decidedly bizarre and inhuman length to lap up every spot of blood and grime. 

Clint was squirming under him, grunting uncomfortably but nothing was going to deter Reed; knowing that Clint could get a chill from being soaked through and along with being covered in blood and dirt; it was the least he could do really.

Grooming hair was interesting, the straw blond hair sticking to his tongue while he shaped sections of it into cowlicks. The spines on his tongue acting more like a comb now they were more widely spaced out from Reed shifting his tongue again.

Mostly because no matter how he twisted and bent, Reed just moulded to him. The whole rubber stretching power totally was an unfair advantage.

"C'mon man-- augh, gross," Clint hissed out under a low laugh, his cheek being unceremoniously lapped at before his hair was found next. "Ugh." 

All his protesting was moot however.

Clint did have to admit though, it was weirdly nice having his hair... 'cleaned' as it were, his squirming settling for a moment as he more or less just relaxed into dead weight -- resigned to his life of being groomed by a mutant man-cat so he wasn't soaked in caribou blood like a giant bear attractant.

If anything it lulled him into a false sense of security, the indignant squeal as Reed moved on from hair to torso minus thermal being paired with him trying to wrestle Reed's face out of his thermal spoke volumes; asshole cat wasn't having any of that though. Clint's arms and even legs seemed to be pinned down all too easily, making escape practically impossible once more, and he whined pathetically as he finally threw in the towel 100% and just let it happen. 

In the end he wound up on his stomach, chin tucked up on his forearms and face stuck in a perpetual shocked-yet-grumpy frown with Reed pretty much laying completely atop him, occasionally nuzzling and licking at his very cow-licked short hair whist rumbling with a deep and contented purr. 

"I'm gonna need therapy." 

Clint pretended he didn't hear the huffed gurgle-chuckle that emanated from Reed's throat at that. He sure as hell needed therapy for when Reed had gotten into his pants, literally, with that tongue in complete innocence to clean up his poor legs that'd also been pretty saturated too, at least. On the upside he wasn't covered in blood anymore. Sighing deeply as if he held the weight of the world on his shoulders, Clint shuffled one hand out from under his chin to reach up and rub Reed's flanges and brow, resigning himself to the fact that this was just how life was now. Big cat came with estranged bonding via grooming. There could be worse things, especially since he did get the perk of saddling up and riding atop such a streamlined and fast murder machine. Trading that off for being licked half to death like a giant human tootsie-roll was a sacrifice he could endure. 

"That was amazin' today -- the first time not so much, kinda fucked that one up and didn't compensate for your side, but... definitely was awesome the second time 'round," Clint mused aloud to Reed, scritching and rubbing along Reed's brow blindly. "We can make this work. Get outta dodge, stay safe, lay low for a while." 

A single buck was selected out, his keen eyes picking out the overgrown hooves and muscular thighs before his claws reached out, severing through the hamstrings and hock to cripple the animal, the buck honking in distress as it collapsed and crashed into the ground, kicking wildly. With a roar, Reed clamped down on the deer’s throat, fangs slicing into the throat. He held his jaws firmly around the animals throat for a minute, waiting until the life faded from it before letting go, tongue curling out to swipe away the blood. Nostrils flaring with a sharp intake of breath, sides heaving with the sudden bleed off of adrenaline. The rest of the herd scattered out of sight, the thundering of hooves fading into the distance.

He rumbled happily when Clint stroked his mane, praising him for the kill. Then the other man cursed at the realisation that taking the corpse back to the cabin would be…difficult given its size and the fact Reed had traversed several miles in a matter of minutes. With a sigh, the archer unhooked his feet and swung his leg over Reed’s shoulder to dismount, scratching at his face while mulling it over. Reed then moved across to the fallen caribou’s flank, inclining his head as if to ask for permission to start eating.

Clint responded with a nod, musing on just how they were going to bring back the kill. Trilling loudly, Reed tore into the underbelly, snapping up intestines as they slipped outward before they scattered onto the snow. Then proceeded to shove his snout further in; the soft, still warm organs gulped down in little time.

“We could probably get this back if you use your teeth to cut it into more…manageable chunks.”

At the mention of that Reed chirped with an open mouth smile, the effect somewhat dampened by the gore splattered on his face and neck. With one paw hand flexed and pining down the hip of the carcass, Reed twisted his head at a sharp angle, teeth tearing through fur, muscle and bone until only a few strings of sinew held the limb to the body. Reed pawed at the thick swatch of muscle that ran down the spine of the deer, pondering how to pull it off in chunks without ripping it to shreds like he might do if he was eating it himself.

Besides, he didn't enjoy field dressing a kill as much as Reed clearly did. 

Then again he didn't exactly slurp up entrails like fresh spaghetti, either.

Clint settled into pacing a small spot of ground as Reed worked, not for lack of patience but because he wasn't keen on keeping still in the cold, and only stopped when his companion chirped at him while proudly puffing out his chest, sitting all proud by the wonderful supply of meat on offer that'd been cleaned off of the carcass.

"That's a lot of meat," Clint remarked, complete with a low whistle. "Gonna keep you going for a few days, at least. S'gonna be good."

It was just going to be... messy to take back. Clint awkwardly glanced down at his clothes and pulled at his thick sweater, almost pouting at the idea of getting it covered in caribou. It'd wash out but, man, it wasn't exactly the most fun thing in the world to experience.

First, Clint picked up some snow and rubbed it over Reed's face to help him clean up the rather abundant amount of gore, snorting and playfully pulling the rubbery skin of his jaw. Then he got him to stand up again and took the larger, longer piece of meat that were held together by sinew and fat and laid them across Reed's hips, sacrificing one of his saddle tethers to hook around the meat straps and keep them from sliding off.

The other pieces? Well. Clint made a face as he scooped them up and awkwardly squished them against his torso while mounting the saddle, using the hem of his sweater like some kind of meat basket so he could keep one hand free to grasp at one of his handles. 

Aww, caribou. 

"Nice an' easy on the ride back -- last thing I want is a face full o' raw meat. Might be your thing but I'm kinda less enthralled by the stuff," Clint said, smirking as the purr-chuckle like noise that came from Reed vibrated up his legs. "Uh-huh. Laugh it up chuckles. But it's all on you if I can't hold onto your dinner." 

Sure, he might've still been having a small internal crisis over how much power he was sitting on right there, but it didn't mean Reed was exempt from teasing still. 

The ride back to the cabin was thankfully uneventful and rather pleasant, asides from the whole gross-wet-still steaming meat thing, despite being longer due to the slower pace. Reed padded on up to the outside cold storage for the sake of convenience, and Clint carefully unhooked his feet from the saddle before sliding off and pushing the door open with his hip. The meat bounty was neatly stacked and packed up to keep fresh and cold, including the back strap chunks Reed had over his hips. 

Clint then closed and locked up the cold storage, took one look at himself and his blood-soaked clothes, and made a face at how much it'd soaked through. "Well this'll suck to wash out." 

A head butted into his thigh gently, before more insistently pushing at his hip to get him walking toward the cabin despite protests that they were going to trek a mess in. Reed, however, persisted until Clint was inside and the sweater was shirked. His thermal underneath hadn't gotten off lightly either, and Clint squeaked as Reed pawed at it curiously before artfully tripping him up by the stove so he flopped down onto the floor. 

Then one big paw pushed down on his leg and kept him from escaping.

Oh.

"Oh -- aww hell no -- aaah!" 

Sluuuuuurp.

So putting on the saddle just reminded him of that. No reason to get agitated by it, at least. Even if he felt like bouncing around and being full of energy. Reed swayed from side to side and rolled his shoulders. The saddle didn’t rub against his shoulder blades or restrict his movement. It just felt…unusual. He was used to being fluid and flexing, so being strapped in was constricting in a way he hadn’t expected. There was however, no feeling go being restrained or choked to being held against his will.

Reed chirped his acceptance of the saddle. Clint tried what he did last night; easing one leg over and slowly settling his weight along Reed’s back. It felt okay until the other man tried to get his other foot up into the loop, jerking the straps and tightening them in a way he wasn’t expecting. That, alongside with the coffee still buzzing in his bloodstream, made him gurgle with a bizarre mix of playfulness and confusion. Reed snapped his body like a whip, kicking up flurries of snow as he twisted into a tight circle before rearing upwards on his legs, roaring and pawing at the air before throwing Clint off.

Oh right. 

He probably shouldn’t have done that. He bounced again, this time working out the skin flap that stretched from his arm to a section of his torso; one of the leather straps had trapped and folded a section of it down. Reed trotted around Clint, circling closer as the archer started laughing. With a semi-concerned huff, he nudged at Clint’s shoulder with his snout. He might have been a bit rough.

Clint glared at him and flung a clump of snow into Reed’s face before grabbing gently at the torso straps and guiding him towards the shed. Scrubbing his face tiredly, the archer then fumbled some more with his tools while Reed watched, this time he chose to behave himself and sit quietly by the work bench, only occasionally rolling his shoulders and making the freshly plaited leather creak and groan. A thick metal loop was clipped to the handholds and then thin straps tied to them. Clint fussed over them a bit, muttering whether he’d move them or add new studs to the side of the saddle but for now, he was more eager to test if the saddle was actually feasible to ride on.

“Take two and no bullshit this time.”

Reed’s eyes rolled but he obligingly  stayed stock still and allowed Clint to properly mount himself on the saddle first; taking the time to pat down Reeds wounds and loose skin to check it wasn’t caught like last time.

"Asshole." 

It was meant to be genuine, but it was kind of half hearted really. 

Clint dragged himself up out of the snow and tugged at the straps to get Reed to follow him closely back into the shed, mentally drafting out some straps he could use to more or less anchor himself to the saddle with like a harness. It'd come in handy for multiple things, but it'd definitely help for any more rearing incidents. 

Unlike before where he'd had to try and wrangle and try to smack paws away from tools, Reed was incredibly well behaved, which was great because Clint was sore and cold and tired and likely wouldn't of had much patience for the poor guy. Eventually he had his go-to tethers ready to go, with mount loops that pulled tight over the hand holds he had on the crown of the saddle. With a bit of fiddling and adjustments he had them firm, and he hooked the small d-clips around his belt loops on his cargos. 

"Well, they're not pretty, but they're practical -- take two and no bullshit this time," Clint drawled to Reed, the expression definitely not being missed by the archer, before he carefully settled into seating himself on the saddle once again. 

This time being extra cautious to not have anything snag the more sensitive skin closer to wounds. Clint smoothed his hands down over Reed's skin before he inched his legs up into the mounts for his feet, testing how well they held proper now that he was anchored in and found himself pleasantly able to lean forward to hunker down just as he'd hoped, even when Reed started to move. 

It started slow, both of them adjusting silently with one another being in such a position, with Clint working out how exactly to seat himself -- totally different to riding something like a horse, because Reed's spine wasn't exactly stiff across the board, and with his shoulders being where they were the shift of the blades meant that Clint had to fall into a rhythm with him; at the very least had to relax his torso and more or less roll and ripple with Reed's motions. 

Something that became very handy when his mutated steed picked up speed around the yard, first galloping along, then darting from left to right, banking hard and zipping like a cat out of hell. Clint held onto his handholds and just hunkered down, let Reed control everywhere they went and just moved with him like another natural limb that helped counter balance the extra weight. Before Clint could even blink Reed turned sharply and made for the tree lines, paws eating up the ground effortlessly as they gained even more speed and practically glided through the brush, over logs and through terrain impossible for someone like Clint to go through fast on foot. 

Clint's heart was pounding. 

Adrenaline fuelled his veins and coursed through his chest, breath calm and knuckles white, a monster grin on his face as they rode fast and hard through the forest for a few miles until they made it out into a spiralling field that was dotted with caribou, the lot of them scattering at the sight of such a predator with a human on it's back. 

"Yeah!! Run, g'on run!" Clint roared with delight, pushing weight into his foot straps so he could raise his pelvis up a fraction, changing up the balance like a jockey. "Reckon you can get one of those big bastards?" 

Oh, he had a feeling Reed would be able to without a problem, even with him riding along. The deeply guttural sound Reed made in response as he picked up the pace very much cemented that feeling. 

Clint was a hunter himself; people, animals, either way he was used to being the predator, but nothing held a candle to what it felt like crossing over the icy field at such a speed. Reed singled out a buck from the fold, meaty and sizeable and a monster feed potentially if caught, and Clint banked hard in counter to Reed as they kept tight on it's ass through any turns and passes. For the caribou though? It kind of was all for naught. 

Claws sank into legs, shredding muscle and skin, and the buck honked in alarm as it tripped up and crashed hard. 

Teeth found the throat, and the chase ground to a startling halt, Clint prying one hand free from his grips to rub against Reed's neck fondly. Handy to know that Reed could hunt with the extra weight on top of him -- that'd come in handy if they ran into trouble, especially if Clint was properly armed. 

So for now, he was happy. He was full of food and felt as safe as possible, given circumstances and location. His front paws did a happy shuffle as he got the remains of the last halibut; at least it wasn’t going to waste and the fingers raking down his scalp and through the fine wiry tendrils felt good. 

He ket his jaws shut, flinching a bit when the tape was peeled off his collarbone and the wound prodded gently. It didn’t really hurt so he shrugged it off. Then Clint moved to his side and left the coffee pot in sight.

Big mistake.

The smell….it felt good. It made him feel warm inside and it also made him think of a very pretty woman; holding a cup full of the same smell. So of course he shoved his face into the pot, long tongue curling and twisting to lap up the hot drink, the bitter taste tingling and comforting, making him rumble loudly in happiness, even through the irritating, itchy and uncomfortable sensation of having extra sticky tape pulled off his flank. He did whine when it was all gone, long tongue stretching out to lick the pot dry, before curling back into his mouth. He got a poke on the nose of his effort, nostrils flaring, before he decided to sit by the work bench in the shed.

The peacefulness lasted for all of fifteen minutes, when the caffeine in the coffee started to work its way into Reed’s mutated system. With a full warm belly and an excess of energy, it was bound to spell disaster. At least he just rolled around on the floor, long tongue hanging outside his open jaws before he got bored with Clint working and decided to investigate. One large hand-paw appeared on the edge of thee bench, claws flexing a little. Then a slitted snout. Then one eye before he snatched one of the tools that was close to his paw, grabbing it in his jaws before dancing off outside. Clint then shouted at him, growled and yanked the tool out of his mouth, grumbling about what a fucking nuisance he was being.

So Reed slunk off for a few minutes. And waited, hind quarters jiggling with excess energy. Then he started belly crawling back into the shed, noticing Clint was back to focusing on working the pelt and leather. One paw lent on the edge of the bench, this time Clint swatted at it.

Which was an opening for Reed to grab one of the tools again and dash outside. Actually rearing up on his legs before actually galloping about Clint who was uselessly trying to keep pace. Keep away worked for a few minutes until he was smacked right on the jaw flanges by a hard packed snowball. With a surprised and offended yowl, he dropped the tool and sulked.

Okay, maybe he was being annoying. Flicking his mane down in apology, Reed bounded off to the smashed chicken coop this time and left Clint in peace, deciding to channel his excess energy into biting and wrestling with the broken struts and wire caging, sniffing around. The birds that had been in the cage had flown the coop and were long gone. There was no eggs to play with, but he did have fun ripping apart the broken feeder that had been dented by one of the support struts breaking.

The grumpy remark from him cemented that as well. Not so much for Reed though. 

"Hey-- hey!" Clint barked in alarm when a second offending paw clawed up onto his workbench and stole his tack puller completely. "Reed!" 

The archer spun on his heels and found that the man-cat had already started to make a bolt for it, and Clint loudly groaned as he took off after him at full pace across the icy grounds. That was something that only worked for a few minutes though, where even Clint's endurance could only hold up so much while attempting to tight corner and weave with Reed to keep up, so Clint skidded to a stop and made use of his surroundings to get his precious tool back. The freshly disturbed powder made for a basis, scooped up in his battle hardened hands and packed into a sphere that then was squeezed until it fused into a dense lump, then lobbed with terrifying accuracy at Reed's flank just as Reed drifted to turn around.

Which meant it smacked his face in the soft flappy flanges. Clint would be lying if he said he felt no sense of satisfaction in that. 

The tool was dropped into the snow, complete with a sulking apologetic look, and Reed bounded off to go and make more of a mess of the (as of a few days ago) dilapidated chicken coop. Good. Shaking his head and snorting out a laugh, Clint dusted himself off and sauntered over to his precious tack puller while catching a glimpse of the utter havoc starting to occur on the remains of the chicken house, glad that all that excess energy was being taken out somewhere other than his shed and his tools.

It meant as well that he was able to get back to work in peace -- save for the occasional sharp noises of wood splintering and other destruction that managed to make his dodgy hearing -- while he set about stretching and cutting at the pelt. His brain had a mental blueprint for what he was doing, so he easily went through his eidetic measurements of the whirlwind of horror out in his yard, along with the general idea he had been tossing about with making it something more akin to a motorcycle seat; something that would work with the fluidity of Reed when he ran. 

The end result was probably something that'd work for riding a dragon or something. Padding in all the right places for the rider and the steed, layers of elk pelt worked in a fishtail braid over the bulk of the seat, reinforced grips at the head of the saddle to make up for the fact he'd be riding without some kind of reins, and a set of straps that ideally would hold firm across the bulk of Reed's chest from the sternum to the base of his ribs, helping distribute the pressure and weight without having the saddle be too firm, nor too loose so Clint came flying off. 

Or worse, end up underfoot. With those claws. 

The finishing touch was the small foot straps -- simple leather loops instead of bulky or possibly painful metal footholds that were slung high, designed so that Clint would ride atop Reed almost like he were a sports bike to keep wind resistance down, along with allowing the best manoeuvrability. Proud of his work, Clint wrapped up his tools to keep them safe before he picked up the hefty saddle and wandered out to see where Reed had ended up, amused to find him still rolling about the chicken house debris.

"'Ey Reed! You might wanna check this out," he called, laughing as Reed bounded over and huffed at the saddle before butting his head into it. "You like it? I hope it fits nicely, pretty sure I got everything right." 

Never mind that Reed was a rubbery mutant and could change his shape at will. That was kind of out the window right there and then given the more primal-esque state he'd taken on. 

With trepidation Clint levelled the saddle out over Reed's back, then gently let the weight sit against his shoulder blades for a moment, the archer watching for any signs of dislike or potential aggression. When he got none, he then set about doing up the straps -- the reinforced shoulder and chest section first, before they were all connected together with the torso strap which sat nicely well above the wound on Reed's side so it'd not agitate it. The straps were pulled firm but not constrictingly tight, and Clint stepped back for a moment to admire his handy work. 

"Feel okay?" 

That was answered with a nonchalant chirp. Taking that as a rather good sign, Clint then decided that the next step was to see if he could get on without Reed doing something like sending him flying onto the roof of his shed. Much like the night before, he carefully slung one leg over and made sure to settle his weight slowly and carefully. Only when he felt like it was safe enough to do so, Clint curled his fingers around the grips and pulled one leg up off of the ground, getting it hooked in the loop before he went to do the other one -- 

And then things went a bit pear shaped. 

Clint yelped in alarm when Reed made a trilled cackle deep in his throat and wildly bucked, snow being kicked up around them as Clint found himself being hurtled along on Reed's back half in the damn saddle, his tailbone being given quite the hiding as he wobbled unsteadily and tried to compensate. Reed reared with a roar and Clint slipped from the saddle onto the ground, thankfully into powder snow that sunk beneath him rather than act like the cement the walked in crap was like. 

Damn it. 

Reed huffed in agreement, he was tired and not really eager to do anything but rest for a while. The sofa was looking promising, as it was near the warm stove, but the bed was larger. With a stiff, tightly curled arch of his back, Reed got to his feet and slunk off to the bed to rest for a few hours, curling into a ball at the end of the bed. 

This time graciously leaving Clint more room than he had the other morning. He didn’t even rouse as Clint then tiredly dragged himself to bed, and haphazardly threw a blanket over him and stroked his white tendrils, ending with a solid pat across the back of his muscled neck.

It was daybreak when Reed woke again; there had been no sounds to indicate anyone had followed them back to the cabin; the air was still and calm, not as charged with energy as it had been this past few days. His side certainly hurt less, but it was terribly itchy, so he decided now as as good as time as any to wake Clint up so he could take a look at the tape stuck to his side and start work on the saddle and whatever else needed to be done.

Clint responded to the rude awakening by shoving at Reed’s face, wedging one foot under his chest so he could push him out of bed, muttering loudly about what a complete asshole he was, shooing him out the door. Reed slunk back to the kitchen and unhooked the entire ream of halibut that had been hung to dry, taking it outside so he could eat it all himself.

The air was crisp and cool, but it was bright and clear, a slight breeze blowing. Tilting his head, he sniffed, enlarged maxillary sinuses only picking up a herd of deer and small predators nearby; no men, no smoke or motor oil. Dropping the bundle of fish to the ground, he stalked around the property, as it had become habit, finding nothing unusual. A small red fox was standing in the tree line, licking it’s muzzle at the fish lying on the ground until Reed bounded over to his breakfast, flaring his mane. With a scattering of snow, the small vulpine high-tailed it out of the area.

Satisfied, Reed sank down on his haunches, gulping down one fish whole. The smoky taste was nice; not as appealing as the caribou from earlier. Pulling apart another one, this time Reed clawed at it, shredding the fish apart and snapping up the meat with flakes of snow. Another fish disappeared until nearly the whole bunch was gone. The last fish hanging from his mouth as Clint appeared out of the cabin with the pelt from yesterday, along with the other bits of leather and metal. And with a sour look on his face.

Well, they met a fiery end in the stove. Less evidence left behind, and guaranteed destruction. 

He made sure to properly stoke it and fluctuate the airflow so it would keep kindling through the night, tidied up, grabbed up his bow and quiver then shuffled tiredly toward the bedroom with one last check of all the cabin on the way. Reed was totally out of it. Taking care to keep quiet, he set the quiver and bow down by the foot of the bed before crawling up onto it, dragging the warm blanket up over the pair of them as he flopped down beside him.

The other guy didn't even so much as stir as Clint made himself comfortable. "Sleep tight kitty-man," he drawled as he stroked over Reed's tendrils. "S'been a big day." 

With that, Clint was out like a light, curled up by Reed beneath the blankets so they could both keep safe and warm as they slept. Once again, Clint found sleep came in the form of total exhaustion, not even dreaming or so much as really moving asides from squirming closer into Reed's paws. 

Which meant when Reed chose to wake him up with the equivalent of kitty death breath and a loud noise that definitely was heard and pretty much crawled under his skin, he awoke with a sharp start as silence became blood curdling horror for a split second. With a loud yell of alarm Clint shoved himself back, leg drawing up to plant a foot between them against Reed's chest so he could shove that lump of asshole cat out of his goddamn bed. 

"You are such a fuckin' asshole!" Clint growled, trying to sound aggressive even though he probably sounded sleep drunk. "G'on an' get outta my damn bed." 

Whether he succeeded in shoving Reed out, or Reed gave in and moved, Clint wouldn't exactly be able to tell, but soon the bed was his and he hoarded the blanket all to himself while haphazardly tossing a pillow at Reed's ass as it went out the door. Clint stubbornly hiked the blankets up over his head and tried to drown out the light that was coming into the cabin, but then he found that no matter what he wasn't able to go back to sleep. 

Damn it. Fucking cat. Man. Cat man. Genius-slash-angry-mutant-cat. Oh well, it was probably for the best. 

Clint tumbled ungracefully out of bed and dragged himself into the kitchen where he automatically got the fire roaring again in the stove, put the kettle on, then set about making himself a nice strong coffee. A whole damn pot all for himself. He was going to need it to get the energy buzz going for the day. He'd just about finished half of it when he bent over and tucked the pelt under one arm, then collected up the rest of the belting and catches complete with coffee pot still in hand, and made for the excuse of a front door they had to go outside. 

That was where that asshole was. Clint sulkily frowned at Reed, a frown that got deeper and more skeevy when the last halibut was dropped from his jaws for just a little bit longer, before he rolled his eyes and chuckled quietly. 

"I'm guessing someone is feelin' a little better if you're sharin', and waking me up like hell on earth is happening," Clint remarked with a cocky smirk. 

He wandered over to the large shed he had and set the pelt and other assorted bits down, nursing his steaming coffee pot still as he trudged back over and picked up the smoked halibut which was rather ravenously eaten. 

At least as much as he could eat it, because crunchy pudding wasn't exactly his forte. It was however Reed's. The archer held the rest of it out by the tail and had it happily snapped up, and he followed it up with a fond scruff to Reed's tendrils before kneeling before him and placing the coffee pot down, mistake number 1 of many to come that day he'd later find out, to free up his hands proper. 

"Let's see how these are going," Clint said, patting the bandages softly. "I wanna make sure they're actually knittin'." 

The collarbone was going to possibly be scarred, but Clint was hazarding a guess at that when he checked it out. It was at least smoothing over with a very thin membrane of new rubber-skin. Clint then carefully undid the bandages on Reed's torso, pleased to see that there wasn't even blood spotting against the tape. 

And then he heard a muffled snuffle, complete with the wet sound of a tongue working at liquid. 

"Aww, coffee," Clint whined. 

At least it was probably a distraction -- the archer carefully worked loose a section of the sturdy medical tape and drew it down so he could check out the wound; it too had a thin membrane starting to grow over it that had dark bruising beneath it from the deeper damage, but it was at the very least sealed on its own now. So, all the tape went, much like the rest of his morning coffee, and he rolled up the bandages to dispose of later. 

Some AU!MCU RP sketch work. Now with more asshole “kitty" Reed and Clint. For kyuofcosmic since this has been our sanity RP.

Steak sounded good; his long, rough tongue curling out and licking across flanges and gums. When it was offered, he grabbed gently with his jaws from Clint’s hand; he didn’t need it cooked or prepared, it tasted good as it was right now. He did sniff at the air; the butter cooking in the pan, along with the steak smelt good. But it also meant he’d have to wait and that wasn’t something he was terribly good at right now.

Flicking out his claws, he dug into the thin rind of fat on the outside of the cut of meat and yanked on thereat, tearing it into smaller chunks. He wasn’t quite as ravenous as he was the last time he’d eaten so this time it was more enjoyable to snap up small chunks of steak, instead of tearing apart an entire carcass.

While chewing on dinner, Reed’s eyes glanced towards the box in question and then back to Clint, head tilted to one side, slowly blinking as the other man ran one hand along his brow, one finger feathering one of the tendrils that formed from the back of his head.

Reed couldn’t help Clint in that respect. His ability to speak and reason, recall and remember was locked up inside himself. He could no longer explain why he’d originally been sent to kill Clint or what he could even remember he had been told about him. With a frustrated whimper, Reed clawed at his head, as if that might pry out the answers. He had nothing. Whatever was trapped in his mind was staying in there for the time being and he was stuck how he was.

Perhaps it was for the best; at least for now. He’d need heightened senses and strong limbs; teeth and claws for the next part of the journey. He supposed that trying to coax out memories could wait. It would only hurt and right now he needed to be here instead of inside.

Snapping up the last strings of meat, Reed then returned to the elk pelt, snuffling and rubbing his face along the tanned skin side of it and rolling over on it, limbs a-kimbo. Being inside in the warmth was more appealing then the promise of more food; his hunger was sated for now, enough that he didn’t feel the need to beg for cooked scraps from Clint’s dinner at least, as the meat turned from red to brown and then eased from hot pan to plate, the archer sitting down with a groan of relief. 

Clint almost sheepishly ducked his head as he felt the noise Reed made -- something high and quiet and indistinguishable to his poor hearing but felt through vibration -- and moved his hand as the other man pawed at his head like he was trying to recall something, before shaking the moment off and returning to eating. 

"Yeah, I guess I'm kinda the one who needs to try and do that sort of thinkin' and sorting out," Clint amusedly surmised, turning back to his sizzling steak which was deftly flipped in the pan. "Suppose it could be way worse." 

He could be dead after all. The run in at the town had been a very close call; while Reed had been a lot more psychologically messed around by his own encounter, he was much better equipped for taking down a potential captor or assailant due to sheer strength, sheer ability to shift and adapt and do things that Clint was wholly unable to. Clint was a squishy meaty human sack of flesh and bone, complete with lots of scar-tissue that made up his back, shitty as hell hearing that wasn't helped by the fact he didn't have access to his aids, and was a hell of a lot more of a bullet attractant than his newfound friend. 

Natasha had called him a bullet sponge once. That was pretty damn apt.

The steak cooked through, Clint slid it onto a plate and garnished it with some salt and some kind of sauce he had on the counter, before he sunk down onto the floor with a deep groan of relief. Reed had finished his steak and was rolling about the floor again, playing with the pelt and kneading at it with a deep rumble that translated to Clint through the floor while the archer himself ate his steak in peace. The protein hit was badly needed for him being injured as well, but most of what energy he'd built up sleeping some of it off had been spent in town stocking up and taking down an agent. All nicely sandwiched between a nice long cold trek on snowmobile. 

The steak was polished off faster than he probably should've downed it, Clint unashamedly sucking some of the lingering sauce and juice off of his fingertips as he wiped the plate clean, before he haphazardly pushed the plate up onto the counter above him blind and reached for the box on the table in one combined motion.

(Kind of a shitty idea because Clint cringed at the pain up his arm from toting heavy weight on an already tender arm with no other support.)

He eyed off the goods he'd scored from the combined dual bodycount they'd racked up on their outing, carefully laying the items out and frowning as he singled out anything that could potentially be trackable once they made a move out of their current blind spot, then made a separate pile for other useful items. The tablet was one of them once he'd disabled the sim inside of it, fingers deftly prying the well-known tech apart to do so as he more or less systematically went through the motions. That tablet would have good info -- emails, correspondence, order manifest, the works; breaking into them was kind of easy too if one knew how, and given Clint kind of prided himself on breaking all of SHIELD's toys he knew for a fact he could do so, even while out in the middle of fuck-off nowhere Alaska. 

He'd do that later though, when his mind wasn't so edgy because of their close encounter before. Constructing the saddle took priority, followed by testing it, then packing everything and making a plan to trek out toward Yukon -- they could resupply in Whitehorse then more or less keep living in subsistence off the grid and out of sight. 

Clint took out the extra leather he had bartered out of the shop, along with the metal fittings and other saddlery goods he'd snatched up that he'd just have to kit bash a little with the tools in the shed, and laid them out in their own pile before he lazily listed onto his side and reached for Reed, softly rubbing at his jowls.