[Lutha could kick him. Hell, he wants to kick him. But he's too exhausted from having already circled hallway after hallway, hearing only scraps of sounds from nowhere. By the time he finally stumbles on Clint, his frustration with the man has whittled away against the sheer desire to stay alive.
There's a tired grunt as he crouches next to the blond, bopping his fist against the elbow of that outstretched arm.]
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There's a tired grunt as he crouches next to the blond, bopping his fist against the elbow of that outstretched arm.]
Oi. What the hell are you doing?