I do not own any aspect of The Avengers, or any of Marvel's other creations.
Rowsdowersavesus asked if I had heard of the artist Gingerhaze, who draws Hulkeye among other things. I have heard of her and I love her work! For those of you who haven't seen her stuff, you can check her out at gingerhaze dot tumblr dot com, and to see her Hulkeye stuff just add slash tagged slash hulkeye to the end of that.
Thank you guys so much for all of the time you've devoted to this fic; I'm so glad you're enjoying it so far!
-M.
It takes more time and energy than Bruce feels like he has right at the moment to scrub his skin to his satisfaction. By the time he's done, the steam from the shower has eased the pain in his throat and lungs a little, but the chemical burns on his skin feel open and salted.
He leaves the bathroom exhausted, shaking, and convinced that the kiss was nothing more than an 'I'm so glad you didn't die' rush of adrenaline. A band of brothers sort of thing.
Bruce is dressed in nothing but a towel slung around his hips when he walks into his bedroom to find Clint balanced on the back of the sofa by the fireplace in a one-armed handstand. The archer cranes his neck, eyes meeting Bruce's for an instant before his legs drop—back arching into a bridge—and he plants his feet on the edge of the couch. Clint steps lightly to the ground like he hasn't just blurred the laws of gravity.
Bruce is stuck in the no man's land between embarrassment and curiosity. He ensures that his towel will stay in place with one hand and asks, "Where did you learn to do that?"
"I ran away and joined the circus when I was a kid," Clint says.
Bruce waits for the laugh that will signal that Clint is joking. It doesn't come.
"JARVIS said sodium carbonate meant washing soda," Clint says instead, reaching for a yellow box that wasn't on Bruce's coffee table when he last walked through the room. "He told me where to find it."
"Thanks," Bruce says, reaching for the box. "Have you heard anything from the others?"
"I checked in with Nat a few minutes ago; she said that the elements disappear into thin air when cornered. They're down to three last I heard, and she said the team would probably be back here in an hour or two."
"Good," Bruce says, waiting for Clint to head for the door. The mention of Natasha is enough to make him feel guilty for the kiss, regardless of how obvious it was that Clint didn't mean it in any sort of romantic way.
Instead, the archer gestures to the box in Bruce's hand. "How are you supposed to apply that?"
"I think the easiest way would be to make a paste, smear it on, and then cover it with some kind of bandage."
"Okay," Clint says. "I'll get some gauze and something to mix the stuff in and let you put some shorts on before your blush heats up any more and catches your hair on fire."
Bruce drops his gaze. He hadn't noticed the heat in his cheeks, but now that Clint has said something he can feel it intensify. He covers his face with his free hand.
Clint chuckles on his way out of the room.
By the time he returns, Bruce has pulled on a pair of jeans and thought about adding a tank top, only to dismiss the idea a second later when he realized it would cover up part of his burns.
Clint drops a roll of gauze on the bedspread, plucks the box of washing soda from where Bruce set it on the dresser, and heads into the bathroom without slowing. Bruce follows him in, watching as Clint dumps several inches worth of the powder into a glass, adds some water, and stirs it into a thick white paste.
"Is this okay?" Clint asks, holding out the cup.
"Yeah." Bruce reaches to take it.
Clint pulls his hand back. "You're going to need help getting it on," he notes as he steps out of the bathroom and sits down on the bed beside the roll of gauze.
Bruce stares after him.
"Come on," Clint says, gesturing to the open stretch of duvet beside him. "JARVIS said we should get this stuff on you sooner rather than later."
Bruce runs his fingers through his wet curls, smoothing them away from his forehead, before he follows. He perches on the edge of the bed and rolls his shoulder forward so Clint can get at the burns on the back of it.
Clint smears the mixture on with his fingertips, the contact deft and gentle.
Bruce stares down at the patterns of the threads in his jeans and decides that this is just another one of those things that soldiers do for their comrades.
"What did I miss?" he asks, because this is a normal, typical interaction, which means there should be some normal, typical conversation to go along with it.
"We played tag on the flight deck," Clint says. "I'm pretty sure the Hulk won."
"How?"
"Well, he's faster than me, so it's sort of a given."
"No, I mean, how did you get him to play?" Bruce clarifies. "He doesn't play games unless there's a body count involved."
"He does if you take the time to teach him how." Clint sets the glass down on the nightstand and starts wrapping the gauze around Bruce's arm upper arm. "I had to stop a few times to remind him it was a game, but I think he had fun."
"How did SHIELD react?"
"We had a pretty big audience by the end of it. Half of the agents there know about your time in detainment; I think watching the Hulk keep his shit together was probably just as strong an argument for our cause as anything the rest of the team said to Fury."
"Did they tell you what happened with him?"
"There wasn't really time," Clint says. "I did get the impression that the meeting wasn't tied up in a nice bow, but that's not exactly surprising when it comes to our beloved director." He finishes with the gauze and raises his hands to Bruce's shoulders, twisting them gingerly so he can get a few different angles on his work.
"How does that feel?" he asks.
Bruce rolls his arm in its socket, testing his range of motion as well as the level of pain as the gauze rubs the paste into his burns. "It's good. Thank you."
"We should get you to the med ward so JARVIS can check you out," Clint says, standing. "He said there could be some serious problems if you inhaled too much bromine, and I know the Hulk spent enough time with the element that that could be a problem."
His time as the Hulk and the pain of his burns is enough that all Bruce really wants to do right now is crawl into bed, close his eyes, and float away from everything for a few hours. But JARVIS and Clint are probably right; the burning in Bruce's throat and lungs has slowly grown back since his shower, and it's probably wise not to ignore it and hope it goes away. He pushes back the pain and exhaustion and forces himself to his feet.
He and Clint walk to the elevator in silence.
Bruce hasn't actually used the medical ward before. He got the once-through on each of Tony's grand tours, but this is the first time he's needed anything inside the wing.
JARVIS seems to recall that. "If you'd be so kind as to step on the platform to your right, Dr. Banner," the AI says as they walk into the wide room, "I can do a quick scan to determine if you need further medical attention."
The platform is a steel circle raised about six inches off the floor. Bruce steps on to it, and although there's no visible machine at work, the room around him begins to hum.
"Thank you, sir," JARVIS says a moment later. "You may step down now."
"How is he?" Clint asks.
"Dr. Banner appears to have mild to moderate bromine poisoning, as expected. Unfortunately, there is no cure, but it appears that the exposure wasn't extensive enough to be devastating. With your permission, Dr. Banner, I'd like you to come back once a day so I can monitor your progress and turn you over to medical professionals if your condition worsens."
"Sure. Thanks," Bruce says, stepping off the platform just as Clint's phone begins to ring, reminding Bruce that he had his own phone on the Helicarrier but it was gone from his pocket by the time he stripped down for his shower. He's pretty sure it's at the bottom of the Atlantic by now.
"Hawkeye," Clint answers, and Bruce wonders whether he should mention the phone to SHIELD, or just ask Tony to build him a replacement.
"Do you want us there?" Clint asks the person on the other end of the call and then says, "I'll ask." He turns to Bruce. "We won and the rest of the team wants to go back to SHIELD for round two with Fury. They want to know if you'd like to be there for it."
Less than twelve hours ago Bruce had a whole collection of good reasons why he should be in on meetings concerning himself and his continued freedom, but his burns are throbbing and it feels like he's been inhaling fire for the past hour. He reaches up to settle a hand over his bandaged shoulder. "I think I'm going to sit this one out. Please tell them to keep it peaceful."
"We're going to let you guys handle it," Clint says into the phone. "Bruce says play nice if you can." He 'uh-huh's, and then hangs up the phone.
"Tasha says she'll try to keep Tony from talking, but no guarantees," he explains.
Bruce nods. He jumps when Clint catches his arm and wraps it around the archer's shoulders. "You look dead on your feet, Doctor," Clint says, his free hand curling around Bruce's waist and reminding Bruce that he's shirtless as Clint's fingers settle on the bare stretch of skin over his hipbone. "Time to get you to bed."
"I can walk on my own," Bruce tells him, trying to keep pace with Clint as the archer guides him from the room. Every point of skin on skin contact hums electric along Bruce's nerves and he wants to expand it, prolong it, distil it and study it under a microscope. The sensation is overpowering, and he needs to pull away before something happens.
"Hey." Clint's voice severs his thoughts. "We haven't even made it to first base yet and you're already looking a little green. I'm flattered that I have that effect on you, but maybe you should get some sleep before letting the other guy take over."
Bruce's muscles lock up and Clint falters slightly at the stop.
"I'm not gay," Bruce tells him.
"Okay," Clint says, left eyebrow arching.
"And you're with Natasha," Bruce continues before his brain can override his mouth.
"Really? Does she know that?"
Clint is grinning now, and between his expression, his words, and his fingers that won't let go of Bruce's wrist or hip, Bruce is getting the sensation that he can feel the planet spinning on its axis and hurling through space, and he's pretty sure he's going to lose his balance in a minute.
Or his lunch.
Or his control.
Clint, if he notices, doesn't comment on it. "Are we talking 'not gay' as in you've tried it and didn't like it or 'not gay' as in you haven't felt that way towards a guy before? I need to know my odds here."
Bruce pulls back, dropping his arm from Clint's shoulder as Clint's fingers slide from his hip to his the small of his back before falling away altogether.
"There are no odds," Bruce says, centering his weight on the balls of his feet and monitoring the rhythm of his pulse. "I'm not gay, and even if I was, I can't have sex because of the whole 'turning in to a big green monster whenever my heart rate gets too high' thing."
"We fight aliens and robots and anthropomorphized incarnations of the elements, and you think your heartbeat is really enough to draw a line that we can't cross?" Clint snorts, but the amusement scatters before it reaches his eyes. "You don't get to live through hell just to pitch a tent at the edge and call it good. If you're saying no because you're not interested, then I get that; I'll back off and we can be kickass teammates together, but if you're saying no because you're giving up without even trying then fuck that.
"I watched you in your apartment at SHIELD," he adds abruptly. "We were supposed to keep you under surveillance, because SHIELD was scared you'd Hulk out and go on a rampage."
Bruce thinks back to his blanket forts and his conversations with Ender and Winston and Noname Protagonist. He knew, of course, that SHIELD was watching him—how else could they have read his supply requests?—but the image of nameless, faceless agents monitoring his actions is much different than the thought of Clint sitting in an office, hunched over a cup of coffee as he watches Bruce's decent into insanity. The heat in his cheeks and ears sparks back to life.
"God you're beautiful when you're flustered," Clint says, closing the gap between them by a few feet. "No, listen, you lasted eight months in solitary and you can still hold up your end of a normal conversation. You could have unplugged from reality completely, but you didn't. You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, and I find that extremely hot."
Clint reaches out to rest his thumbs on Bruce's cheekbones and push his fingers into Bruce's hair. The archer leans forward, bringing their foreheads together.
"Your choice, Bruce," Clint says softly, his clear sky eyes filling the expanse of Bruce's vision. "But choose wisely."
The tension of the moment snaps as Bruce coughs up a laugh. "Did you just quote Indiana Jones at me?"
Clint winces. "Nat warned me against using movie references, but sometimes they slip in when I'm not paying attention."
"You're crazy," Bruce tells him. "And you need to take me down off that pedestal you've created."
"Okay. Sorry about that." Clint's hands drop to his sides and he takes a step back.
"Look," Bruce says. "I've been straight my whole life and I've been blocked by the Hulk from any sort of physical relationship since the gamma rays, but if you think you can change those two aspects of who I am then you have my permission to try. You just need to be ready to back off when I tell you to so you don't end up as a red stain on the sidewalk."
Clint's expression breaks into a smirk. "Hey, the Hulk likes me; I can probably get him to join my cause."
"Maybe you should try seducing him instead," Bruce says. He takes a step toward the door, the action jerking his injuries and causing him to hiss. Clint pulls Bruce's arm back over his shoulders and secures his hand on Bruce's hip before the doctor can react.
"Let's try this again," Clint says, guiding the way to the elevator. Inside he flexes his fingers over Bruce's hipbone as they wait for Bruce's floor. The elevator dings and Clint helps Bruce down the hall and into his room, shutting the door behind them without an explanation.
"The 'straight and can't have sex' thing went right over your head, didn't it?" Bruce asks.
"No, I get it," Clint says.
Bruce sits down on his bed, wishes he had chosen pajama pants instead of jeans when he was dressing himself, and waits for Clint to continue.
Clint indulges him. "You're tired, I'm tired; why can't we just be tired together?"
"Are you volunteering to sleep on the floor?"
"You have a king-size bed. You get the side you usually sleep on"—Clint gestures to where Bruce is sitting, before rounding the bed. "And I'll just be over here. Completely innocent."
Clint is grinning, showing off too many teeth for 'innocent.'
Bruce has to give him points for creativity.
"Fine," he says, asking JARVIS to dim the lights as he pulls back the covers and crawls between the sheets. "If you're going to stay you should tell me about your time in the circus," he says to Clint.
Clint focuses on untying his shoes, back to Bruce. "Not right now."
"Why not?"
"No one wants to hear a sad story before they go to sleep. Is it going to make this awkward for you if I take off my uniform?"
Bruce arches a brow, although Clint doesn't turn to see it. "Are you wearing anything underneath it?"
"Boxers," Clint says over his shoulder.
"You do realize you're coming on a little strong, right?"
"It's not like I'm going to do a striptease for you, although if you wanted one…"
"Fine, you can take the uniform off, but I'd prefer it if you held back on the striptease. Or don't," Bruce says, shifting so his back is to Clint and closing his eyes. "Just do it quietly."
Clint's laugh gives way to the sound of a zipper and the rustle of clothing. The mattress shifts as he settles in.
Bruce rolls back over, eyes tracing the patchwork pattern of scars woven over the muscles of Clint's torso. Bruce has never been attracted to men, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate good features when he sees them. "Why bring this whole thing up now?" he asks.
"Because you look badass shirtless and bandaged up," Clint says with a smirk.
It's nice, Bruce realizes in the haze between waking and sleeping, not to fall asleep alone. He hadn't recognized how much he'd missed this until now. It scares him, because if there's one constant theme of Bruce's life it's that all good things end, and usually it happens sooner rather than later.
Bruce drifts off to the image of blue eyes and quirked lips and the sound of steady breathing from lungs not his own.