Chapter title: A Man with Breathtaking Anger Management Issues
Author's Note: So sorry for the delay! Life's been crazy! Onto chapter 4!
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of anything or anyone you might recognize. Everything goes to Kevin Feige, the MCU, Marvel or whatever else.
Monster - MILCK
Avengers Tower, New York – 3 months post the Battle of New York
Bruce was torn out of his musings by three, quick knocks on his door.
Throwing a sideways glance on the papers on his desk, he turned towards the open doorway where he was startled to see Barton leaning against the frame, looking sheepish and uncomfortable.
"Hey, Banner… you got a second?"
"Yeah, sure. What can I do for you?" Bruce gestured him inside while spinning his chair to properly face the archer, who only took a single, hesitant step into the room.
"Nat sent me here. Said you might have some… medical supplies."
Bruce frowned, taking a good and proper look at the man standing in front of him. His features were drawn and tired with dark circles underneath his eyes, like he hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep for weeks. But nothing to suggest any medical emergency, at least not that he could spot.
"I'm not really a medical doctor… And doesn't Tony have every doctor in New York on call?"
"Seems a bit excessive for this."
Barton uncrossed his arms and twisted them so that the underside of his forearms became visible. Red, angry welts marred the both of them. Bruce rose from his chair, tentatively examining the injuries. The skin was bloodied and raw and the gashes all displayed various stages of healing. Whatever had happened, occurred continuously over several days.
"What did this?"
"Bowstring," Barton explained with a shrug. "I couldn't find the armguards so I went without."
For a spy and an assassin, the lie was remarkably lazy and transparent.
Bruce wasn't blind. They had all noticed how the archer kept himself isolated and withdrawn, rarely participating when they were all present in the same room and certainly not initiating contact. Even Thor, on a brief visit to Earth, had expressed concerns on the detached behavior. They could all see Barton struggling, and they all understood why. But out of everyone, Bruce was probably the only one who could truly relate. Because it was a struggle he could easily recognize. It was behavior that came from self-loathing and guilt. The kind borne out of actions you had no control over, and few could understand what that felt like.
And Bruce was suddenly struck by an odd feeling of his own guilt as he realized he could have reached out the minute he started recognizing the signs. He had to remedy that. The quicker the better.
He ordered Barton to take a seat while he rummaged around for some of his medical equipment. It wasn't much but he had managed to gather a good deal during his time in Calcutta. He settled down in front of Clint, who had obediently taken a seat opposite of his own chair. He maintained the stiff and uneasy body language.
Bruce gently took Barton's right wrist in his grip and held the arm steady as he began to dap disinfectant on the wounds. He felt the muscles tense under his stinging touch, but Barton's features remained passive with barely a flicker of discomfort flickering across. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, as Barton watched him work with a detached interest and Bruce cleaned the welts carefully while gathering his courage. It practically blurted out of his mouth.
"No one thinks you're not a monster. And that should mean something, coming from me. Trust me, I would know."
Barton's entire body stiffened at the statement, his downcast eyes glued to his exposed and torn skin. The silence quickly turned tense and as it stretched on, Bruce wondered if perhaps he had overstepped a line.
Then a low voice broke the quiet. "That's not really the word on the street."
"There's plenty of blame to go around," Bruce said, grateful that Barton hadn't shut down on him. "Loki, Fury, SHIELD… But none of us here blames you. I know that doesn't really help with the guilt or the anger. And I won't lie to you. That will probably always be there, but it will get easier to bear."
"How do you deal with what the Hulk has done?"
The question was equally startling and heartbreaking. First off, because it was still an ongoing process for himself. Secondly, Barton clearly saw his own actions rivalling or outmatching the destruction the Other Guy had wrecked throughout his whole existence. That last part was the thing tearing at Bruce's chest the most. He figured honesty was the best course of action.
"For a long time, I didn't. But I learned to separate the two. That whatever the Other Guy had done, I would work to weigh it up."
Barton snorted humorlessly. "Easier said than done."
"Yeah, I know," Bruce conceded with a quick smile. He finished cleaning the inflamed welts on both of the arms. Since the injuries resembled burns, bandages would only slow the healing process so he left them open to breathe. He leaned back into his chair. "For a while, it was just telling yourself over and over, and pretending like it was working. Until, eventually, it did. At least to some degree."
"Fake it till you make it," Clint summarized. He seemed to briefly contemplate the notion until an incredulous laugh erupted from his throat. "Seems a little too out there, Banner."
"Steve's technically 90 years old but still looks to be in his late 20s; I'm pretty sure Thor qualifies as an extraterrestrial; and I turn into a green monster, if you put a bullet in my chest… I think 'out there' is a pretty viable option in our world by now."
"Monsters and magic," Barton mumbled, barely loud enough for Bruce to overhear. The archer shook his head, his eyes staring unseeingly off to the side as they became lost in deep thought. Bruce patiently let him take his time.
Barton looked up eventually, all sense of distraught emotion seemingly wiped from his face. One of the first genuine smiles Bruce had seen from him flickered over his lips. It was small and brief, but it was there. "Thanks, Doc."
The archer exited very quickly after that with packages of square bandages and instructions on how to best keep the wounds clean.
A week later, when Bruce happened to walk by the weapon's range within the Tower, he spotted Barton prepping his bow and arrows, a target already set up and waiting for the first shot. The welts Bruce could spot were well on their way to healing and no longer looked angry and bloody as they had been given a chance to rest.
He couldn't see all of them, because of the carefully applied bandage that was just visible underneath the protective armguards Barton had strapped onto his lower arm.
Present
"Barton. Get up."
The urgent tone of Coulson's voice tore him from strange, incoherent dreams and into the waking world.
Clint was wide awake in an instant, years of training and sharpening instincts jolting his blurred mind into immediate action. Even before he had blinked the remainder of sleep from his eyes, he heard the shuffling coming from the outside. The noise was unmistakable. Four pairs of boots crunched on the soft snow just on the other side of the wall. They were edging closer to his abandoned warehouse.
They had found him.
Luckily it sounded like a scouting party, judging from the number of footsteps, and not the full force. Coulson was standing a couple of feet ahead him, looking alert and tense. The sky outside was still dark with the deep night and barely any light filtered in through the broken windows. The shadows had grown deeper and cast the large, open storage space into black. Clint didn't have time to ponder any defense strategy as the already busted door was forced open. The metal creaked on the hinges as it hung sad and askew.
Clint scrambled to his feet, ignoring the burn and pull of his scorched, protesting thigh, and grabbed his bow. He pressed a rapid combination of buttons on the grip, heard the telltale whir of arrowheads clicking into place, and he had an arrow nocked and flying within the next breath. The smoke bomb detonated as the arrow implanted itself in the middle of the armed four-man group that entered the warehouse.
With a hiss, the smoke quickly engulfed the room, further deepening the already shadowed corners and its airy tendrils snaking their way around the confused bodies. Clint ran at the door and fired a single arrow into the grey, choking mist, hearing the gasp as it buried itself into a chest.
Then he entered the fray.
The fog swallowed him whole as he latched himself onto the first shadowed figure he came across. With a practiced maneuver, he twisted the guy's arm forcefully. The man grunted with the pain and his assault rifle clattered out of his grip and onto the floor. Clint then planted his boot into his sternum and sent him staggering backwards. At the same time, he nocked an arrow and it let it loose. It flew the short distance into the throat of another assailant, who crumpled to the floor with a choked gurgle. Startled shouts echoed through smoke as the two remaining men attempted to regain their bearings and fire at Clint's flowing form. Discharging rifles lit up the foggy air with sudden, blurred circles of orange light. Clint never stood still enough for the bullets to hit their target. He dodged in and out of shadows and smoke.
"Barton, duck!" Coulson's warning voice tore through the confusion.
Clint dropped without hesitation. Two shots that would have torn through his chest now sailed harmlessly above his head as he dived to the floor. Instead, the bullets embedded themselves into the unsuspecting Serbian that had tried to sneak up behind his back. The man collapsed, dead before he even hit the ground, and his partner that shot him stared dumbfounded as the body fell. Clint used the man's shock to his advantage. He pushed against the floor with one hand while the other extracted his knife from its sheath and then tackled the larger man to the ground.
They each collided with a grunt, Clint landing on top. He grabbed the other man's wrist and dug his fingers into the sensitive skin and the delicate nerves underneath, to get him to release his weapon. He raised his other hand to plunge the knife into the open chest. The man didn't go down without a fight.
His flailing hand managed to slam into Clint's burned thigh. The hit set his entire leg aflame with aching flares shooting though his muscles. He tipped unwillingly to the side with a shout of pain. His opponent wasted no time and rolled on top of him and suddenly their roles were reversed.
He straddled Clint, the bulkier weight flattening his ribcage and lungs. Clint's quiver dug into his back and contorted his spine. A meaty underarm pressed itself onto his throat. Clint's hands shot up and grasped at the elbow and wrist of the arm that threatened to crush his windpipe. He gasped as he attempted to halt the descent of his attacker's choking limb.
It left his side completely exposed and the assailant didn't take the opening for granted. His large fist smashed into Clint's already sore ribs. Again and again, the fist pounded unrelentingly at his side. Clint heard the disturbing crack as a rib finally gave into the abuse. He felt the bone snap. Agony blossomed across his chest. For a second, he couldn't breathe. He was trapped in a white-hot ball of misery and suffering. He spluttered and choked with the pain.
Anger and desperation coursed through his bloodstream and Clint roared with all of the emotion. Newfound strength from all the adrenaline and his own self-preservation fueled his limbs as he managed to ram his thigh in between his attacker's legs. The high-pitched moan was followed by a slight easing of the man's body and Clint tightened his grip around his arm and wrenched the elbow joint up and sideways. The man screamed as the joint popped and he crashed to the side and onto the floor. In one fluid motion, Clint rolled onto his knees and snatched an arrow from his quiver. He angled the tip downwards with a single twirl. With a yell, he buried it deeply into his opponent's heart.
The man's startled gasp quickly turned into a choked cough. His eyes became empty and unseeing as he exhaled once and then never breathed again.
The warehouse was suddenly quiet again, and only Clint's heavy and rattling breaths echoed in the vast silence.
TBC
