Chapter Text
Among all the forceful and headstrong personalities that made up the Avengers, Clint was the last person Bruce expected to be having problems with.
- -
When Tony offered, practically shoved him into a room in the rebuilt Stark Tower, Bruce stayed because leaving wouldn’t make any difference to his situation. And, frankly, he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Bruce made himself comfortable by fading into the background, being inconspicuous. He kept mostly to himself and the labs. Times Square on the days he needed to feel the crowds moving around him. Sometimes he enjoyed working with Tony, but he made sure it was in moderated doses. He was aware that SHIELD had him under watch, but no one was building a cage for him yet. At least not one where he could see it. So basically, he thought he was doing pretty okay.
And he continued doing okay when Clint first moved in, along with the rest of the Avengers, after the big CUBE breakout. (That was the one where Ironman had blatantly disregarded Captain America’s orders and barely survived. The immediate threat was resolved but the following three weeks of cold war might just have been worse. Bruce was honestly grateful when Fury finally stepped in to express some strong concerns about the level of teamwork they were displaying… Somehow it ended up with everyone moving into the Tower and having movie nights on alternate Thursdays, also know as Thorsdays. But that wasn’t really related to Bruce’s problem with Clint)
Initially, Clint Barton Codename Hawkeye had seemed like any other highly secretive, highly trained SHIELD specialist — polite but aloof. Except it quickly became apparent that the guy shared some sort of strange intimacy with Natasha. And he got along with Steve well enough. Thor referred to him as “Bro Clinton” as if the term ‘bro’ was some sort of title. Even Tony mentioned him now and again. True, it was mostly work-related, like ideas for new arrowheads and obscure structural weaknesses in the Tower’s ventilation, but it definitely hinted at some degree of regular interaction between the two.
So Barton clearly wasn’t an emotionless cyborg with standing orders not to attempt friendliness. But somehow his casual interaction with Bruce never extended beyond a sharp nod and a short ‘Dr. Banner’ in the mornings.
It was particularly noticeable because all the other Avengers were trying pretty hard to make sure that Bruce felt included, in their own awkward ways. Even Natasha made it a point to join him for meditative exercises some mornings. And Bruce appreciated their efforts (though he’d really really prefer that Thor never visited the labs again). Only Barton was blatantly not even bothering to try.
Bruce didn’t mind it too much though, because he was used to being treated like social pariah. It came with the tendency to turn mean and green. In fact, he found Barton’s cool and guarded looks more familiar than Tony’s straightforward (and at times overbearing) charm or Steve’s earnest affability. And it wasn’t like Barton was throwing rocks at him. So Bruce accepted the clinical politeness and kept out of Barton’s way.
This worked out for four entire months.
Then the Gamma Ray Incident occurred.
--
Bruce had no idea what happened while he was hulked out (which was unusual because he usually remembered, if only in bits and pieces), but he knew immediately upon waking up that something major must have gone down.
For one, he was aching all over, like someone chewed him up and spat him out again.
For another, he was staring straight into Hawkeye’s face from less than a hand’s breadth away.
He was also naked except for a jacket draped haphazardly across his lap. Which the other Avenger was bleeding onto, looking as if he’d just survived being run over by a monster truck.
“Finally, Obi-wan,” Hawkeye huffed right up in his face, “You’re my only hope.”
“Okay,” Bruce replied eloquently, finding that level of familiarity disturbingly unfamiliar.
Hawkeye’s lashes fluttered down for a moment, considering, but then he's out of Bruce's personal space and explaining the situation shortly.
They were dealing with the Leader, your garden variety super-powered genocidal psychopath trying to take over the world. Except he also came complete with genius level intellect and crazy gamma ray guns, the latter of which had caused the rest of the Avengers to transform into homicidal mutant monsters. Hawkeye had managed to collect exactly two samples of said guns before beating a hasty retreat. And now they were hiding out in a high school laboratory, the closest and most secure location with any functioning scientific facilities.
Bruce stopped him there and just blinked. “Really,” he said, “You’re asking me to come up with a magic solution, rescue all our compromised superhero teammates, and save the world. Just like that.”
Hawkeye shrugged and informed him they had 4 hours before nuclear missiles were launched.
“Gee, I don’t know where you get all that confidence,” Bruce remarked drily.
“You’re the genius, Doc,” Clint grinned at him for the first time. “You figure it out.”
So Bruce was left to formulate a serum using plastic petri dishes and rusty Bunsen burners while Hawkeye disappeared off to obtain tranquilizer guns. (With a dislocated left arm. But he said it was fine because he was ambidextrous. Bruce knew better than to argue.)
Fortunately, Bruce’s phone was the epitome of the latest Stark technology. This meant that it could sync to JARVIS, and thus everything else. Including all his previous work on gamma radiation. If anyone could have solved the Gamma Ray problem in less than four hours, it was Dr. Bruce Banner, M.D., Ph.D.
So for everyone else, the world was saved for yet another week. But for Bruce, he was only just getting his first real introduction to the problem that was Clint Barton.
--
It started with Clint doing things that should probably make Bruce angry but mostly just confuses him.
Little things like taking his bland healthy oatmeal and replacing it with fruit loops, uploading Angry Bird widgets into every single one of his digital devices. Or strange and immature things like jumping out at Bruce from around dark corners, dropping out of the air vents when he enters a room. Or deliberately insensitive things like watching King Kong and The Elephant Man and The Hunchback of Notre Dame in the drawing room and not changing the channel when Bruce walked by. He even invited Bruce to watch Beauty and the Beast with him.
There was also once when he perched on top of the chemicals shelf and just silently watched Bruce work for an entire afternoon.
“You know you’re starting to make me nervous,” Bruce had spoken up after the first hour.
“Good,” Clint had replied, not shifting an inch.
“It’s not a good idea to make me nervous,” Bruce tried to protest again, but it sounded weak even to himself.
He wasn’t really nervous. He wasn’t even angry. He just didn’t understand why Clint was doing this. Why Clint was doing this now. After they had gotten along for four tolerable months by effectively ignoring one another.
“Hmm,” Clint made a non-committal noise.
He didn’t leave until Bruce had decided to pack up and escape by joining the rest of the team for dinner (it was the first time since the incident where the other guy had somehow broken Captain America’s leg).
And then there was that thing — after every mission where Bruce had to hulk out and wake up in a foreign bed, Clint would come by and slap him hard enough on the back to dislodge his glasses. “Good job, Doc!” he’d say in an exaggeratedly cheery voice and then leave Bruce staring dumbly at his back.
After the third time, he started bringing donuts. Not the plain bagels Bruce usually restricted himself to, but sprinkle-loaded, chocolate-coated capsules of diabetes.
They would mostly be consumed by the rest of the team, popping by intermittently after various medical exams and debriefings, but Bruce would nibble on one or two while he watched Clint scribble out mission reports and listened to one or two tales of the other guy’s ‘brave deeds’, as told by Thor.
All in all, the things Clint did were mostly harmless (would be wholly harmless if not for Bruce’s propensity to turn into a destructive rage monster). But these things piled up. They added up one by one until, slowly but surely, his mind was filled up with them. The sheer confusion of why Clint was doing what he did was starting to cause Bruce low levels of constant frustration. It was definitely a problem. A big one.
Big enough that he talked to Tony about it.
But Tony merely insisted that Clint had always just been that annoying, that it’s his way of being nice. Those first few cordial months? Clint was just being shy. It wasn’t like Bruce had made an effort to get to know the archer better. It probably also didn’t help that Bruce didn’t happen to have Tony Stark levels of charisma.
Bruce remained skeptical because if anyone tried to be ‘nice’ to Natasha like that, she would have broken all their fingers.
“Valid point. But you’d think that I would have thrown anyone who redecorated my lab with Captain America memorabilia outta the house— Yet here I am, building him a new compound bow. It’s just Clint.” Tony shrugged, as if that explained everything.
“You did make JARVIS blast Trouble to wake him up at 4am for a whole week” Bruce pointed out, perfectly legitimately and without the slightest hint of disapproval.
“Hey, he likes the song,” Tony smirked, “It’s like his theme song.”
“Well you liked the Captain America memorabilia,” Bruce replied because he was just asking for it.
“And you liked the Disney movies!” Tony finished triumphantly, “We’re all friends here. We’re allowed to do nice things for each other."
But Bruce knew all this, whatever it was, wasn’t ordinary Clint behavior. At least not ordinary Clint behavior towards him. He knew that something happened that day, during the Gamma Ray incident. While he was hulked out and before he had woken up to Clint’s ridiculous blue eyes just four inches from his.
He knew for sure when Clint went and broke the unspoken rule that you don’t talk about the other guy unless Bruce does it first.
--
“Hey Doc,” Clint said as he slid into a chair across the table where Bruce was spreading out his experiment printouts. Bruce had no idea when or how he’d gotten into the lab, but he was no longer surprised by Clint’s surprise visits.
“If this is about time travelling DeLoreans again, I can and will use Stark’s electric prod against you,” Bruce answered, not looking up from where he was shifting through the datasheets, even though the numbers always seemed to stop making sense in Clint’s presence. It was just another facet of his Clint problem.
“Anger leads to the dark side,” Clint snorted, “Or the green side. For you.”
“Well then, what can I do for you, young padawan?” Bruce finally gave up on pretending to work and met Clint’s eyes. He recalled the days when he was still “Dr. Banner” and Clint was “Agent Barton” and wondered how they’d ended up trading quips about Star Wars.
There was a long silence. He waited but Clint was giving him a strange deer-caught-in-the-headlights look — which was really unfair because it was Clint who’d come disturbing him in his lab unannounced.
“Clint?” he prompted, softening his voice the way he did when he’s trying to convince people not to freak the fuck out because he’s not freaking the fuck out (but he might if they don’t stop). He could tell that Clint had come with a purpose, and that it somehow involved him. All that suspense wasn't exactly helping with his heart rate.
Something visibly tightened in Clint’s eyes. He was steeling himself, as if he’d come to a decision that he’s not sure if he’d regret.
“Do you remember what happens during missions, Doc?” he started carefully, but even a whisper could knock down a wall, if it’s a very thin wall. And Clint was treading upon a very sensitive subject.
Bruce let his face assume his most neutral expression, smiled blandly and answered vaguely. “Some of it.”
If Clint had caught the hint, noticed the way Bruce had shuttered himself off, he gave no obvious indication of it.
“How much do you remember about the time with the Leader?” He continued asking. At Bruce’s blank look he added, “Five months ago. Gamma ray guns that turned everyone into mutant monsters. You made a serum in a high school science lab.”
Of course Bruce remembered the Gamma Ray incident. It was when everything changed; everything between Clint and him. But he didn’t remember most of the actual details, so he told Clint as much. It was a relatively innocent question and now he wanted to know where this conversation was leading.
Clint nodded slowly, chewed his lower lip and shifted subtly in his chair. As a marksman, Clint rarely made unnecessary movements, so those tiny motions were equivalent to glaring signs of unease. Bruce watched him fidget and, again, waited. He hadn’t realized that he had so much patience until Clint.
“What happened before. I know. Some of it,” Clint finally said. He spoke haltingly, almost timidly, like he was offering up something intensely private. “Do you want to know?”
Truthfully, Bruce wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if it was all right for him to accept something that seemed so personal. But Clint looked like he wanted him to know, so Bruce said yes.
--
Clint told him: It started as a routine mission. SHIELD had gotten a lock upon three of the CUBE escapees and the Avengers had been assembled to bring them in. Two field teams had already been sacrificed, so they were cautious. Clint stayed up high while the rest of the team breached the premises from different positions.
They had been careful, but nothing could have prepared them for the Gamma rays.
One moment, Clint was watching from the neighboring rooftop, squinting at the strange green light shining through the dusty windows; the next moment, he was abseiling his way down the building as an ugly as fuck, big, green version of Captain America smashed out onto the streets. He had almost made it to the ground when monster Thor decided to destroy everything within a half-mile radius. Luckily, Thorster was up in the air, so Clint didn’t get vaporized. He merely dropped the remaining three stories and would have escaped unscathed, except he ended up being crushed by debris while still reeling from the fall.
Upon regaining his sense, he was greeted by the sight of the Hulk, who apparently couldn’t be mutated any further, facing down the rest of their Gamma-mutated teammates. The Hulk was holding up, but obviously suffering from the disadvantage in numbers. Thorster was particularly pesky and relentless, barely pausing even after taking a Toyota Hilux to the face. And though Clint couldn’t be sure, he felt distinctly like the Hulk was maybe, possibly pulling his punches.
The fight was starting to turn into a beating when Clint made a decision. His entire left torso was pinned under solid concrete, but he wasn’t about to be taken for dead. He couldn’t shoot an arrow, but he was no less deadly with a gun. So when the Hulk’s knee hit the ground, Clint fired a full round into the knee joints of the other Avengers. He didn’t think it was going to be keeping them down, but it should buy the Hulk enough time to escape the fray.
He had one more gun and two magazines for refill, though he probably wasn’t going to be able to reload. Worse come to worst, he’d start throwing rocks.
Clint had done the math. Five is greater than one. Hawkeye never missed a target, but he wasn’t capable of reversing the effects of gamma radiation or whatever the fuck it was. He could only hope that Bruce Banner, certified genius, would eventually come back and fix everything with his powers of science. Hopefully before Hawkeye got ripped apart (but failing that, the numbers still worked out).
Except things didn’t exactly proceed as planned, because while Clint was firing uselessly and chattering deliriously at an approaching Ironmonster (“your goatee makes you look like wannabe Italian outlaw. I keep waiting for you to paint black tights onto the ironman and shout ‘Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line’. And how is it even your suit turned green? It’s totally not your color”), the Hulk slammed down in front of him and swiftly dispelled his imminent death with a lamppost thrown like a javelin.
The Hulk hadn’t left, even though Clint had been so nice as to hand deliver him a well-aimed opening. It boggled his mind, but the Hulk was somehow still there. Right in front of him. He wasn't hallucinating.
Clint was half dug, half wrenched out of the concrete slabs by sheer brute strength. His entire left arm was dislocated in the process, but he was probably getting it as gentle as it could get, all things considered.
“Then the Hulk tossed me into a telephone box and smashed up a building,” Clint smiles here, a crooked quirk of his lips, “Brought the entire thing down on himself and the freak show Avengers. I managed to make it there just as the dust was settling, saw him crawling his way back out of the ruins like a scene out of The Living Dead.”
Bruce kept his face impassive, though his insides were churning. He hadn’t said a single word, not even when Clint was trying to rationalize his stupid suicidal plan.
It wasn’t really what Clint was saying though; it was the way he was saying it. Honest, intimate, and just a bit reverent. It made Bruce feel like someone was peeling back his skin, exposing muscles and sinew and bright, emerald green. It wasn't right, he should calm down. Clint probably didn't mean anything by it. Except Bruce just didn't know what the fuck Clint did mean. He never did. The pressure was building behind his eyeballs, the heat rising in his blood.
“He crawls all the way back up and just collapses, right in front of me. But not before I got a good look at him. It was the first time. I looked him straight into the eyes. And I saw —“ Clint’s voice trembled but he held Bruce’s gaze, didn’t even blink, “I saw you. You were in there. You’re the Hulk.”
Bruce froze as the silence dragged out. It was like someone had suddenly turned the spotlight on him. He was on stage but he didn't know his lines. He abruptly dropped his gaze because he couldn’t take anymore of that plaintive look in Clint’s eyes.
When he finally spoke, it was a disaster.
“Is that all you have to say, captain obvious?” He tried for a chuckle but it died in his throat.
Clint shut down hard and fast, eyes narrowing and back snapping straight. Bruce wouldn’t be surprised if he immediately disappeared back up the ceiling or however it was he infiltrated the lab.
Again, Bruce found it highly unfair because Clint was the one being downright inconsiderate. He shouldn’t look so betrayed just because Bruce didn’t want to talk about it. People didn’t talk to Bruce about the Hulk. Not like that.
People who cared about Bruce didn’t care that he’s the Hulk. People who cared about the Hulk didn’t care that he’s Bruce. It’s always been mutually exclusive. It’s neat and simple and it’s necessary. Bruce Banner was the Hulk, but not really. He didn’t want to be the Hulk. He couldn’t be the Hulk, not if he wanted to be Bruce Banner.
And the Hulk just wanted to smash. It didn’t give a shit about being Bruce Banner.
“Yes, I turn into the big green monster. That’s why I’m here or they’d have to put me in a cage,” Bruce could hear the sharp edge bleeding into his tone. His carefully maintained mild-mannered front was cracking, but he felt like he had keep speaking -- let the rage all fall out of his mouth, or he would fucking lose it right there.
When Clint just kept looking at him with those eyes, Bruce didn’t know what to think so he decided to take offence. He didn’t deal well with anger but he was goddamn familiar with it.
“So the other guy saved you. You had an epiphany. But maybe you should have paid more attention to the fact that it has also been saving the world on a regular basis. You think it’s all Barney and friends because right now it’s playing by your rules, but only right now. For now. Because it can stop – at any time, for any reason, even without any reason. And when it stops, you are going to have to save the world from it. Oh. No. I apologise, I mean from me. Surely SHIELD has some protocol in place for the eventuality when their pet monster goes feral. In fact, I really think it ought to be on my file. Maybe you should go read it again. Remind yourself of what you’re dealing with, agent.”
Then he stopped because Clint flinched — visibly recoiled at the last word. They’d been working together for more than a year and Bruce had never seen Clint so much as twitch when facing down would-be alien overlords and giant killer robots.
So when Clint flinched Bruce stopped dead in his tracks, the anger rushing out of him like air from a deflated balloon.
“Clint. I’m sorry,” he tried, unconsciously taking a step forward and reaching for the other man’s arm. Strange echoes of his first meeting with Natasha flashed through his mind. I’m sorry that was mean and the fear feverish bright in her eyes.
But there was no fear in Clint’s eyes. There never had been any, not even in the first few months of cold cordiality. There was just distance. The gaze of a marksman eyeing his target from somewhere far, far away.
Clint took one step back, away from him.
“He’s not a monster, Dr. Banner,” Clint said and the address hurt almost as much as the look in his eyes, “Not unless you are.”
He left by the door.