Clint opened his eyes as Steve shot back at him, the unfamiliar current of anger in his voice jolting him back, waking him up. Everyone was always so angry at him when he told people the truth. As if the burdens he'd been carrying for twenty years should've been lighter, somehow, as if he wasn't trying hard enough to be cheerful. As if they all didn't know damn well what it felt like when giving up seemed like the most attractive option.
He drew breath to speak, but Steve was talking now, in that rabble-rousing voice of his, about how they didn't have to just roll over and accept it, about hope, about --
A list of some names. That stopped Clint, stopped him dead. Steve was always talking about change, about how someone should do something. He'd had revolutionary tendencies since even before his Games; it was why Clint had been called in in the first place; to teach him how to suppress them. But the words were finally coming out of his mouth, the confirmation that Clint always knew, in his heart, was coming: he really was planning to rebel. He wanted this, and he was going to do it.
And Clint's heart froze with fear.
He yanked Steve closer, ignoring the fire in his ribs. He held on like a lifeline, his arms tight around him, Steve's head against his chest. "Jesus, kid," he murmured, as if this was a surprise. "You're really serious about this."
He didn't tell Steve that he wished to God he weren't so determined to get himself killed. He didn't plead with him or tell him it was a bad idea. How could he? Steve was going to do what he was going to do with or without him. He believed in this, and Clint knew firsthand how absolutely goddamn impossible it was to even begin to go against something he believed in.
Clint knew better than that. And he knew, too, that Steve really could raise an army, if he wanted. People in the districts loved him. Most of the victors did, too, even if it was in a complicated, not always entirely trusting sort of way. If he was careful, maybe he could pull off something. Not a full-on revolution, maybe, but an evacuation. A mobilization. Something. If he was careful. Clint could help him to be careful.
But oh, he was trembling. "Okay Ace," he breathed. "You tell me what you want to tell me and I'll make sure you don't get killed. Same as always. But you gotta promise me to be careful, okay? I mean it. No martyr shit." He cupped Steve's cheek in one hand, steadying his face, his eyes serious. "If you want to lead this thing, then you have to decide to survive."