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Most people probably don’t go to bed expecting much for how they wake up. Some might have plans for what happens after the initial waking up, what to eat for breakfast, maybe a shower and so on. A lot of people are no doubt too tired to think of what the morning brings.Some might be too busy with their own thoughts to consider the morning particularly important. And so on and so forth it goes. The bottom line is: the initial part about waking up is seen as a detail - and easily looked over. Which is why Clint had not expected he’d wake up because he couldn’t breathe.
It went from a hand holding him to painful pressure he was trying to sit up, trying to fight back - but what can you fight back with when a super soldier is holding you at arm’s length with the grip unlike anything else. To say it was like iron would be an ill timed pun Clint couldn’t even consider laughing at.
His hands were clawing at the metal and flesh hand alike. Just get them off. He needed them to let up. Make it stop. Make it give. It was relentless. No words could properly come out of him, all he managed was wheezing sounds. Pleading sounds. Sounds which couldn’t get through to the man above him, holding him down.
Even in the dark Clint could see Bucky. He could see how Bucky didn’t see him, even with his eyes wide open, in a mindset of pure survival for himself, completely unaware that he wasn’t at risk at all, and that what was happening instead was at the risk of Clint’s life if it didn’t stop.
Flailing his hands, reaching for anything; a lamp, a book, whatever he could get at. Clint panicked more and more, realizing just how far in the middle of they bed they were. His body was as securely locked under the weight on top of him, in a way one could only expect coming from someone with both training and skill. Clint had both, and it scared him knowing what position he was in. How few options he had.
What Clint finally got at - yanked at to be honest - was the bedpost they had promised each other they would get around to fix. Boy was Clint happy it wasn’t fixed yet. The top of the post had been loose for weeks now, because for some reason Lucky liked that one post, and somehow the way he chewed on it it always came loose.
Yanking the top free with what strength he had left, Clint hit the bedpost against the top of Bucky’s left arm. Hoping it’d go for the muscle attachment in the man’s shoulder. It earned him little help, but one of Bucky’s hand momentarily struggled on holding him down. Hitting a second time, Clint thank his genes for being the taller of the two. He managed to get the bedpost to collide with Bucky’s neck. It made the man’s whole body jerk in reaction. He was blinking, failing to hold on - and it was all Clint needed.
The failing attention and commitment was all in Clint’s favor, as he both gasped for air and moved methodically to shove Bucky off of himself. Using every muscle in his whole body to throw the man to the floor. It left him alone on the bed, crawling around to be on his knees and hands, coughing and gasping for air. Even in such a vulnerable position Clint was grasping the bedpost hard. Clinging to it as his only weapon while tears gather in his eyes from trying to force oxygen down his lungs.
Aside from the sputtering coming from all that was Clint - the room was surprisingly calm. Bucky was a groaning mess of a shocked state on the floor, trying to put pieces together to understand. Then it all dawned on him like a piano dropped on his bed.
Fear had him pale as ever before when he stared at Clint. Watching his shoulders move with each ragged gasp for air. Did he dare consider what he was the cause of? What was the supposed reaction to this? Was there even a handbook explaining anything to him for a situation like the one at hand? He doubted it.
In the turmoil the door to the bedroom had been pushed open, lucky standing in the dimly lit doorway, looking between the two trying to understand in his own way. For some reason neither Clint or Bucky could put words to at the moment, the dog went for the later. Sitting down beside the shocked man, leaning against him. As if he was supporting the soldier, holding a hand to help him gather courage to speak. To move.
“C… Clint?”
The careful voice didn’t reach Clint, as his aids wasn’t in, and he wasn’t looking at Bucky’s lips. But he did pick up that Bucky was moving, noticed the legs moving from sprawled to be under the rest of him. Noticed how careful his body language was. It was enough for Clint to stop grasping at the bedpost. Allowing the sharp edges to not bite into his hand. But he still kept it close. Just in case.
He didn’t doubt Bucky. Didn’t mistrust him, or even blamed him. But he worried. He worried for the sake of his safety. Yet even so, he mustered the will to hold up a finger. Asking for a moment to get himself together better. Bloodshot eyes kept a firm position on Bucky. Seeing every moment in the dark.
“We… need to talk.” Was what he finally managed in a hoarse voice, leaning on his forearms on the bed. Of course he noticed the reaction it gave. He could practically feel the lump of ice falling through Bucky’s stomach. “No. Not… Not like that.”
Confusion followed on Bucky’s features, as the yellow ish dog decided now was a great time to take up half the man’s lap, lying down on him. Yet Bucky’s full attention was on the hurt man. The man he cared for so much. The man he wanted to keep safe - not in the line of danger.
“Talk?” Out of habit, Bucky was speaking with overly clear articulation, making it ridiculously easy for Clint to read his lips - even if the lack of good light was a struggle.
“Don’t go to bed scared.” As he spoke, one of Clint’s fingers spun around, gesturing at the bed as the whole - or rather at the scene he was on his own. “I don’t want you waking up to this mess.”