The Control of Tension
Chapter 1: Unstrung
Most archers, when accuracy is critical, when making a shot is life and death, use a compound bow. The draw is easier, can be held longer with less effort. The accuracy is superior, and the bow itself more compact than a recurve.
Clint, of course, can use both, but he prefers the more basic recurve. If people ask him why, he tends to mutter about changing strings and maintenance in the field, and the dependability of his favorite bow.
But really, it's all about the feel of the bow. He loves the tension of the string resting behind his curled fingers, where he can feel the force of the thing, like a living creature waiting to pounce.
When Clint trains, he holds his draw as long as he can. He holds his draw until he can't stop his arms from shaking, and then he stops his arms from shaking, and looses the arrow.
Sometimes these shots don't hit perfectly where he intends to put them. That's what happens when you push yourself.
Natasha knows and trusts Clint, knows that despite his jokes, the archer values human life and companionship over any tool. But even so, sometimes she wonders if Clint has more passion for that bow of his than he allows himself to have for any person.
Nock. Draw. Aim. Loose.
Nock. Draw. Aim. Loose.
Natasha watches Clint from the back of the range. He always takes training seriously, but this is something else. It's like he's driven, like he's searching for something.
Nock. Draw.
"You're in perfect practice," she tells him. "It's not going to help anything if you exhaust yourself."
"So, this isn't for practice. This is for fun."
Aim. Loose.
"Yeah, you look like you're having a barrel of monkeys."
Clint recognizes the words; he's used them on her often enough when she's taking work too seriously and not giving herself a break. He stops and looks down at the bow in his hands. The curve of the thing, like muscles, full of potential power. The thick string, stretched straight from arm to arm.
It's just a tool; it can't feel resentment or neglect.
Still, Clint struggles to put it down.
He unstrings it, folds in the arms and puts it back in its case. He presses down the latches with his thumbs until they click. He lifts his eyes to Tasha's face, seeing a pointed look overlying concern.
"So, fun. How's that supposed to work?"
He conjures a smile from somewhere, to reassure her, and he can tell from the shine in her eyes that it's worked, as he agrees to go on some outing or other with her and Steve.
Inside, he still feels out of control. Has since he woke up in the Helicarrier. He just wants to feel like he has a handle on some part of his life.
When he unstrings his bow it feels like letting go, and letting go feels like drowning.
Bruce is usually okay when he's working in the labs, but Tony is being particularly irritating today. Bruce's head is buzzing with anger; half the day's data needs to be thrown out because someone changed the settings on his equipment without changing them back. Bruce becomes conscious of his fists, tightly curled around the useless printouts, and he knows he needs to get away from here right now.
Bruce opens his hands. He walks to the stairs, and he counts each step, willing his brain to latch onto the numbers to keep afloat, to keep above the dark water that is the Other Guy churning in his mind. As he lifts his foot to the eighteenth and final step (eighteen factors to two, three and three), he's reached a level of control where he feels it's safe to step out of the stairwell and into the Avengers common area.
Thankfully it's empty. Bruce walks to the kitchen, fills the kettle with water and sets it to boil, then opens the cabinet to find a tea bag. There are twenty-eight kinds of tea (Tony keeps buying odd things; Bruce suspects it's things that he thinks Bruce will like, to entice him to stay, and that Jarvis has been spying to help pick)(no, Hulk, that's a good thing, he's trying to be nice)(twenty-eight factors to two, two and seven). Bruce picks a particularly nice decaffeinated green tea with mint, and a mug with a Celtic knot design (the knot, untwisted, would form three loops, one large and two small).
Then Tony walks out of the elevator.
"Hey, Puffer Fish. Sorry about messing with your settings, but you know how it is. I get caught up and distracted and I'm not used to working around other people."
"It's okay, really," Bruce says, and it's half true. Bruce has been expecting something like this to happen. It's not exactly a shock.
The kettle whistles, and Bruce moves to silence it, quickly but smoothly.
"Seriously, you're so chill," Tony continues, leaning on the breakfast bar. "I'd get angry, and I haven't even got the excuse of having a giant green monster inside me wanting to get out. Whatever you're taking, I want some."
"No," Bruce says, shaking his head. "You really don't."
Bruce pours the boiling water into his mug and watches tiny bubbles rise as the tea bag becomes saturated (thirty-five bubbles, which factors to five and seven).
Tony is still talking. "Like how can you just stand there and watch your water turn into tea? I can't even sit still long enough to wait for my pizza to cool."
Bruce smiles to hide his irritation. "I can see that."
"I'm starting to think you have more control than anyone knows. That everyone's afraid of you for no reason."
Bruce bites back a comment about what happened on the Helicarrier, and instead catches Tony's eye and says, "Maybe I should move out."
Tony is silent for a blessed moment, and Bruce adds honey to his tea, noting the calories per tablespoon (sixty-four, which factors to two, two, two, two, two, and two).
"What if I promise to stay out of your work area," Tony says at last.
Bruce sips tea from his spoon, and ponders his next words.
"It's not about today," he says. "It's not about the labs, or even you. It's about the fact that another incident is inevitable, and it's irresponsible of me to stay too long in such a populated area."
"That's crap," Tony replies, and Bruce looks up from his tea, to see that Tony is angry now.
"You may not trust the Hulk, but I do. He saved my life. I wouldn't be alive if not for him, so forgive me if I feel safer with you here than off somewhere playing hermit."
"Of course, you're the only person that matters," Bruce mutters. The dark water churns. He takes a breath and sips his tea.
"Okay, I'm not talking about me because this is about me. I'm saying look at the evidence. Come on, Banner. The Hulk doesn't smash unless you or someone you know is threatened. He's not the bad guy. He doesn't deserve exile, and neither do you."
"You think I don't know that?" Bruce says, and he feels the danger in his veins. "Nobody deserves this, but he kills people, Tony. I kill people." Bruce's heartbeat thrums through his temples.
"Woah, okay, I like the guy, but I don't need to see him right now in my second-best kitchen." Tony holds his hands up placatingly.
Bruce breathes in as deeply as he can, trying to focus. "Give me a four-digit number," he growls at Tony.
Tony at least knows enough to comply with that immediately. "Three thousand two hundred and fifty," he says quickly and clearly, and then he shuts up. Finally.
(Three thousand two hundred and fifty factors to two, five, five, five, and thirteen.)
Bruce breathes deeply.
His fingers curl around the warm mug of tea, and he stands, body focused on that sensation as his mind multiplies back up to check his work.
Tony clears his throat.
"I'm going back down to the labs, but could you not leave without talking to me again?"
Tony has some remarkably good puppydog eyes when he wants to.
Bruce nods tightly, and Tony leaves.
The Avengers common floor of the tower is actually two floors. The main room is enormous; it's probably built to accommodate an accidental social visit from the Hulk with minimal damage. What Tony didn't foresee is that Bruce spends most of his time here in the kitchen, making tea. The kitchen is only one story tall and full of granite and appliances and things. An exposed staircase leads up to the floor above, where there is a sort of library with computers and other Tony toys. Bruce doesn't go up there much. When he needs quiet he goes to his own floor.
So Bruce and Clint don't cross paths much, because Clint is pretty much always either in the shooting range or crouched on the landing at the top of the staircase.
He looks down at Bruce as the scientist comes out of the stairwell and crosses to the kitchen, face full of preoccupation. He listens as the elevator dings and Tony comes out, throwing his nicknames and smart comments everywhere. He hears the sounds of built up pressure as the kettle boils and whistles, and Bruce growls. He hears the silence left when Tony retreats, and he sees Bruce carry his mug out into the gargantuan room, and settle himself with a sigh into one of the sofas. It's amazing how small this man can look when he's not staving people off, when he thinks he's alone.
This landing is Clint's spot, yes, and he likes it here, but that's not the only reason he's stayed to hear the conversation between the scientists. He would have left, in fact, if it were up to him. Clint Barton doesn't generally feel a pressing need to learn other people's personal business.
No, it's the mission.
When Tony invited the Avengers to come and live in his tower, Fury had told him and Natasha to accept. "Because," as he had said, "someone needs to keep an eye on the Hulk. And it might as well be you two."
Clint has a soft spot for assets with problematic lives.
There's something sad about the man below him, when he thinks he's alone, when he lets go of the tension and looks around him and just sort of accepts that he's alone, that that's how things are going to be if he wants to keep from being dangerous.
There's something sad about Bruce, when he's alone.
Like an unstrung bow.