Clint Barton

Steve is not having a good day.

That's fairly rare for him. Normally he can keep it together, or at least have the appearance of keeping it together. His bad days are quiet affairs, private ones, not the screaming, crying breakdowns he's seen some of the others come to. Usually.

He's not screaming now, but he is crying, curled in the quietest, darkest corner he can find to squeeze himself into. It's still too loud, too much. He's bleeding from crescents on his palm and if he keeps scratching at the skin around his ears he's going to start bleeding there too. He's not sobbing anymore, at least; tears are just slipping quietly down his face as he sits there, rocking slightly and trying to focus on the sound of his own breathing. Anything to calm down, to stop listening to all the thoughts that pass through his brain. To be better, like he usually is.



Clint is practicing, holed up with the targets and his weapons. And it is weapons this time, plural; his favorite bow is in his hands, quiver strapped across his back, but there's a gun lying on the bench and a target full of bullet holes instead of arrows among the ones he's been working with. He still likes his arrows better, but it never hurts to stay sharp with multiple weapons. He's considering trying throwing knives too.

But for right now, it's him and the bow and the bullseye. Anyone dropping by should maybe try not to startle him.



Coulson has files in hand, but he's not looking at them at the moment, his eyes closed and the other hand rubbing his temples. He needs a second before he can dive back into it. It's important, looking over the evaluations of the newest rescues, figuring out who needs to be put into safe keeping and who might be approached to help them out, but it's also hard to read about what these kids have been through. This girl is only a year younger than Darcy, and he can't stop putting his daughter in her place; it turns his stomach to think about it.

He'll go back to it, but he needs a moment first.



Loki is tied up, so securely that he can't slip the bonds, even just enough to get to one of the knives they missed when they took his weapons. It's for his own safety and everyone else's, this time, and just in the nick of time. It wouldn't have been much longer before he'd done something to endanger them all.

He isn't gagged, just tied, and he's humming to himself as he works against his bonds, not accomplishing anything but rubbing his wrists and ankles raw. It doesn't seem to bother him very much, but then, not much can get through the manic fog at the moment.