fic: like you for always 2/5

[curiouslyfic]

Stark does a lot of unhappy muttering when he takes over her maintenance, first about SHIELD’s total ineptitude, then about Hydra’s general idiocy, and Clint sticks to the background to watch the man work because he still can’t quite shake that moment of panic.

Her light had been off. That thought’s still terrifying. Then again, apparently she’d gone months without, well, a tune-up or whatever, clearly SHIELD’s medical scientists aren’t what she needs.

Clint can’t help thinking he’s already failing this mission and it’s only just started, and isn’t that encouraging?

::

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Banner says in that way he has that makes Clint’s sure the guy’s laughing behind his hesitation. Stark’s a non-stop spectacle of manic genius and poor decision-making but Banner’s so locked down, as tightly controlled in his own way as Natasha and every bit as good at putting on a show to hide behind. Clint has a theory that Banner might actually be scarier overall, because his non-threatening smile looks genuine.

It’s taken Clint a few days to get used to his own surface read of Banner, taken a few more beyond that to get Clint comfortable with his own responses. The way Clint remembers, Hulk didn’t have a lot of subtle happening but Banner’s got a load of secrets in his pretty brown eyes.

“You trying to get rid of me again, Doc?” Clint’s got his feet up on the edge of a workstation, got his hands tucked behind his head.

Banner is very carefully avoiding eye contact, trying to play busy with whatever he’s doing. “No, of course not.” Funny thing is, Clint thinks Banner means it. Banner tries faking eye contact again, glances Clint’s way and maybe gets as close as looking at Clint’s chest, like Clint can’t tell the difference. “I just thought you might like the chance to stretch your legs.”

Clint arches a look at his own feet, propped up and planted. “I think I’m good there, actually.”

Banner doesn’t hide his wince well but hell, Clint can let that slide. Bruce Banner is fascinating for oh so many reasons. It’s so convenient Clint’s talked Flip’s way into her own baby canister corner in Banner’s lab.

But hell, he figures spending time with her alone is an invitation to overshare and considering how wired the rest of Stark’s place is, the apparent autonomy of the AI’s surveillance access, Clint’s really not comfortable with that risk.

“Get food,” Banner blurts, sliding off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. “You’ve been here as long as I have and you haven’t eaten anything all day. You’re not hungry?”

Either Banner’s trying to mother him, which Clint cannot even consider without having to fight a smile, or Banner really is trying to run Clint off. “Am I bothering you, Doc?”

Clearly Clint is. He’s just not sure why yet, and he likes almost all the answers he considers viable possibilities.

“Is food not something normal people do?”

Oh, crap. Clint’s gone full-tilt into scientist baiting again. It is fucking hilarious and gratifying to wind Stark up, Clint’s learned, but doing it to Banner gets a bit like poking at puppies if Clint’s not careful. “I dunno, Doc. You tell me.” Banner looks wide-eyed and frustrated - still just brown-eyed, though - so Clint throws the guy a bone. “Never exactly considered myself a model of ‘normal people’ behavior, you know?”

It’s maybe a little mean to play it straight, pull guileless innocence while Banner’s blinking at him in the grips of his chronically tangled tongue but what the hell, Banner is adorable. Hands down Clint’s favorite scientist by far.

“I think the best model for normal around here is probably Pepper,” Banner admits, though he makes it sound like a confession and not, well, a blatant statement of fact.

“Might be on to something there,” Clint agrees. “I’d have said JARVIS.”

Banner’s control slips on his guilty smile so Clint grins back, feels wickedly encouraging when Banner ducks his head back down to work again.

“Stay as long as you’d like, Agent Barton. I don’t mind. It’s nice, actually, having someone else around.” Banner’s smile turns sweet then, almost wistful, but he blinks it off quickly, hides behind his control again. Clint wonders about that, whether Banner using his title has anything to do with it. From what Clint’s seen, the guy doesn’t have the greatest history with government agents. “I just meant that since I’m not going anywhere for a few hours at least, if you wanted to take a break or something, she wouldn’t be alone.”

Clint considers that a moment, steals another just to watch Banner work.

“You want something from the kitchen, Doctor Banner?” Clint makes a big show of Banner’s title so maybe next time, Banner won’t be so quick to use Clint’s. The way Banner looks at him then says maybe Banner knows that’s what he’s doing, maybe Banner doesn’t mind so much if it is. Clint rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly and lets a grin play over his mouth. “I mean, since apparently I’m heading that way and all.”

“Whatever you’re having’s fine, if it’s not too much trouble.”

And because Clint’s trying to behave himself, he makes it to the elevator before he lets himself imagine exactly what sort of trouble Banner might be.

::

Stark’s muttering unhappily and poking tools at her canister when Clint gets back, which is not exactly a welcome sight. Stark’s explained repeatedly that proper maintenance means going near her with tools and Clint gets it, he really does, but he still has issues.

Her light had been off. It’s still fucking terrifying and it’s been days.

Banner’s seemed like a semi-responsible individual; Clint wants to know how the fuck this happened.

“He said he got inspired downstairs,” Banner explains, shrugging slightly, which does not fill Clint with confidence.

Downstairs is where most of Stark’s explosions are. Clint hasn’t heard anything go off so far today but, well, he wouldn’t necessarily. There’s a lot of soundproofing - and what Clint imagines to be significant fireproofing - around the residential areas.

“Something I should know about, C-3PO?” Clint slides Banner’s sandwich onto Banner’s workstation and hooks a foot around his own chair to push it into optimal Stark-menacing position.

Stark waves a screwdriver dismissively and goes right on muttering. Clint can’t tell if Stark’s cursing SHIELD’s medical science team again or deriding Hydra. It tends to be an either/or with Stark, though Clint figures someday he’ll really get going and cover them both together.

“I am not C-3PO,” Stark counters. “I am clearly Luke Skywalker in this scenario.”

Something hisses on her canister; something else clangs. Stark hisses something sharp that might as well be specs on the Millennium Falcon and sucks at his finger like it stings.

“Oh, I dunno about that,” Clint baits lazily. “Kickass pilot, ninja with a sword, extensively trained - personally, mind - in the fine art of mindfuckery by a pair of creepy old dudes? Sounds more like the Clint Barton: Behind the Music to me.”

Banner blurts a laugh. “Did you just call Yoda creepy?”

Clint cocks a brow at him, holds out his hands in a what can you do. “Prove me wrong.”

“Okay, A) you are so very wrong, Barton, it - yes, it physically pains me how wrong you are; B) whoever designed this filtration system deserves a trip to the Great Pit of Carkoon; and C) I can beat that Behind the Music, probably without violating any non-disclosure agreements.” Stark snaps and points at him but doesn’t look away from her canister.

“I nominate JARVIS as C-3PO,” Banner volunteers, probably to keep the peace.

Stark blows out a breath. “Yeah, I can see it.” Then Stark…touches her canister. Brushes his hand over the metal casing he’s been working on, and Clint thinks maybe it’s just Stark brushing away dust or whatever only, well, that’s not quite what’s on Stark’s face. “Right, R2? Back me up here.”

Banner holds his hands up and shakes his head, Clint catches that in his peripheral vision, but he can’t quite make himself look away from Tony Stark touching Phillipa’s canister gently.

Stark looks a little lost. When he glances up and finds Clint watching him, Clint expects the guy to snap back behind his defenses. Instead, Stark’s chin lifts stubbornly and he gets his genius jackass on again; Clint can see the science rant building, he swears.

To head him off, Clint says, “Okay, so that makes me what, Han?”

“I am not Leia,” Banner protests, and Clint’s not even thinking about it until Banner brings it up but once he has… ”No.”

Okay, so Banner’s serious. Good to know.

“Obviously,” Stark says, as though it is. Banner stares balefully. Stark looks like a kid chasing trouble, trying to charm his way out of it with his big, angelic eyes. This is not at all what Clint’s life is supposed to be now but he kind of likes that it’s what he’s got. Then Stark’s gesturing at Banner with that screwdriver again, cocky and confident and just this side of obnoxious. “Clearly you’re Chewie.”

And that’s…Clint likes that, he really does, but he suspects he’d like it more if he could read whatever’s passing in the silent staring between Stark and Banner right now.

Banner’s attempt at a Chewbacca roar makes Clint laugh, sure, and not just because it’s coming from such a generally quiet guy, but it doesn’t do a thing to appease Clint’s curiosity.

::

It gets peaceful in the lab after that. Clint eats his sandwich in relative silence, half-watches Banner forget about his until he puts his elbow in it accidentally, listens to Stark’s unhappy grumbling at the numbers JARVIS rattles off on command.

When Stark gets too tense, Banner cracks out another Chewie sound. He ducks his head fast just after he does it and he sneaks a look at Clint through his lashes, as though he’s not certain it’s okay, and Clint’s really tempted to throw on a little Han swagger, do his best impression of “C’mere, you big Wookie.”

The only thing stopping him, really, is that he can’t be sure how Banner would take it. He still can’t tell for sure whether Banner’s flirting with him or whether that’s just Clint’s dick getting ideas because Clint’s getting comfortable around here.

It’s all a little early Clint-and-Coulson, and this time, Clint needs to know this shit’s got a better ending coming before he lets himself do anything about it.

::

“God fucking dammit, who built this disaster?” Stark blurts, sheer irritation, and Clint’s bristling about it, picking the pace up so he can get back there in with her to touch her glass reassuringly, only he gets to the doorway and lo, Stark does it for him. Stark wipes his sweaty forehead with a forearm and leaves a pretty visible smear of grime, shakes his head a little and breathes as though he’s just gone ten rounds in his armor.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. If it were up to me, you’d be in the Cadillac of baby bakers, okay? Top-of-the-line, Stark prototype, no expense spared. You’d be the envy of all the other baker babies. But it’s not up to me and I can’t get you out of this thing without risking, well, you, and I am not going there.” Stark makes a face at her canister, reacts with put-on affront. “Oh no, young lady. Don’t give me that look. I am not stripping your matrix, I don’t care how much it would boost your efficiency. Your father would kill me, I’m pretty sure.”

Then Stark’s shifting back, taking a breath, turning quiet and soft, gentler than Clint’s ever heard him. “I need you to be okay, kid. When this is over and you’re finally out of there, I need you to be…” The look on Stark’s face says Clint needs to either back the fuck off or let the guy know he has company but, well, he doesn’t. Natasha does better with information and so does he, better still with information he’s not supposed to have. “You can’t be another mistake I make, okay? So could you just work with me here? Because I’m trying and I just can’t…I just can’t give you better than this. Okay?”

And all right, surveillance for intel is one thing but spying on Stark playing canister confessional is something else entirely, something Clint maybe doesn’t need to see.

And later, when Banner’s back and they’re all hanging out in the lab again, when Stark starts swearing and shaking his hand like he’s stung and Clint lowers his voice to mock distance, pitches falsetto and says, “Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope,” Clint thinks maybe Stark gets it.

::

Tony calls her R2 and decorates her lab, hauls out a bunch of Star Wars stuff that makes Clint gape and has Bruce making the Chewbacca roar on a semi-regular basis for days.

Clint calls her Flip, because she’s still so little, the name Clint’s picked for her is bigger than she is and hell, there’s only so much he can do with Phillipa.

Bruce calls her Sweetheart and casts shy, glancing smiles her way when he thinks no one’s watching, cons JARVIS into playing lullabies for her when the lab’s dark and keeps Tony relatively quiet when he gets excited.

And maybe none of that will convince Fury or the World Security Council that this is where Clint’s meant to work out this mission but hell, it’s more than enough to have Clint lowering his guard.

::

The night of Phil’s birthday, Clint skips the lab after dinner, needs time alone to clear his head before he spends time with his geniuses tonight. He’s not even sure why it’s affecting him, because it’s not like Clint and Phil ever did the birthday thing, but maybe it’s that this year, Clint remembers what day it is without being told, and with enough advance notice to have cooked up something really flashy to celebrate it properly.

Maybe it’s just that he can’t annoy Phil with strip-o-grams to his hotel room - and okay, Clint jokes but he wouldn’t actually have sent one while they’d been in the field - or, like, brought him a really ridiculous cake or something.

He wishes now that he’d actually done that, though, even just once. Just to say he had, in case Flip asks someday about her real dad.

Clint has a beer and a balcony and he’s dangling his feet off the Iron Man launch, staring down at nothing and trying not to compare himself to Phil Coulson again. Phil would have known about her fucking red blinky light. Phil would have made that medical science team cry with efficiency.

Fuck, Phil probably would have had her out of her canister already, perfectly fine and, like, happy and shit.

Clint needs another beer.

Clint needs Phil back, is what Clint needs, but that’s not going to happen. There are gods and monsters and magic in his life now, aliens and a billionaire and real life superheroes, but it won’t stretch that far. Phil’s nothing but a memory, a ghost for his nightmares, one more in the long string of regrets Clint’s already racked up.

He needs to hear from Natasha soon. Knows he won’t if she’s busy somewhere out in the field but right at this moment, he needs to know she’s okay. She’s avoiding him and he knows it, but he also knows why, and he’s okay with it. Can’t take it personally; she’s not actually avoiding him. It sucks that Nat’s not here and that she won’t be heading through the doors at any moment to snap him out of this but hell, he’d probably be avoiding his own infant clone, too.

Three beers in, he’s maudlin; two more and he’s somber, staring out at the night not seeing anything outside his own head. He doesn’t drink much, a hazard of the job Clint’s never minded, but when he does, he’s intensely aware of his own behavior at all times. Can’t quite shake the mental image of his father long enough to just let himself go.

Clint’s pretty sure he’s earned that maudlin but the somberness just sucks. What kind of fucking birthday is this?

“I should totally have gotten you strippers, at least once,” Clint tells no one, hefts his beer in salute and wonders exactly how many surveillance cameras are on him now, exactly how many agents Director Fury’s going to have to keep quiet if Clint says much more.

“Uh, it’s the thought that counts, I guess?” he hears Banner say from behind him and oh, lovely, Clint totally missed someone coming at him. There’s another mistake for his mental list, then, letting down his guard. Clint’s spent too much time in the lab lately, maybe, because he’s sure without looking that Banner looks delightful back there, probably ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at Clint, watching the world through those dark lashes.

That is not a thing Clint can think about while he’s under the influence; that cannot possibly end well. Clint’s already too attached as it is.

Phil would know exactly what to say to shut Clint up and actually, he’d probably already have done it.

“Something I can help you with?”

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay out here. Not really the best weather tonight.”

There’s that hesitation again, that tentativeness Banner only ever gets with Clint, and Clint knows he should avoid looking while he’s drinking but fuck it, Banner’s tentativeness looks so good on him.

Banner’s got his hands shoved in his pockets and he’s bracing himself, looking in Clint’s general direction but quite obviously not at Clint.

So fucking weird, he thinks, but he might mean frustrating. Bruce Banner feels increasingly like a missed opportunity Clint doesn’t necessarily have to miss.

“Nah, it’s all right. Seen worse.” Clint looks Banner over again, allows himself a long look at Banner’s ducked head. “You out here just to check on me, Mom, or are you going to join me?”

And okay, that makes Banner look up. “Didn’t want to interrupt,” Banner shrugs. “JARVIS told me about today.”

For a moment, Clint thinks maybe he’s had some disaster-failure he’s forgotten about but no, Banner apparently means Phil.

Christ.

“Not interrupting anything,” Clint dismisses. “Trust me, the SHIELD psychologists have made it real clear that he’s not coming back.” When Banner just hovers motionless, Clint sighs and pats the balcony beside him. “Grab a seat, Doc. Pull up a little balcony.”

Clint waits until Banner’s slipping in beside him, warm and solid and comfortable, before Clint offers him a beer. Banner looks like he’s not sure how to take the offer.

“Thanks, but I don’t drink.” His body language screams that Banner isn’t in a position to let himself say yes.

“Me, either, usually. It’s, uh, not the greatest idea for a guy like me.” Nat’s promised if and when Clint starts turning into his father, she’ll put him down quick and easy; Clint’s favorite op plans include anti-zombie maneuvers. Phil would have done the same; for a while there, Clint had had options about how he’d check out if he ever went rogue. Now Nat’s avoiding him and Phil’s not really a viable choice.

Banner, though…Clint thinks if he pushed the big guy, that might get him results. Figuring that out is the only reason Clint can let himself drink tonight, because his kid’s downstairs in a canister and he needs to know he’s got people around her that can keep her safe from everything, even him.

“Isn’t that my line?” Banner asks, blunt and surprised.

Clint squints at him, steals a moment to get caught up again. “You mind timesharing it? We could…We…” Christ, the stars are pretty. Prettier still in Banner’s eyes, which Clint better not be mentioning out loud like an idiot, but even just seeing ‘em twinkle and shit above the city, it’s really something. Can’t even tell where Loki ripped the sky apart this time of night, nothing up there but shit they’ve all seen and shit they blew up.

Clint might have to take up stargazing as a hobby or some shit with his upcoming free time.

With his luck, he’ll find Loki staring back through the telescope someday. Clint can’t quite believe he’ll never see that fucker again.

“You really think that?” Banner murmurs, pulling Clint out of his own head with an elbow nudge to Clint’s arm.

“Probably?” Clint passes a hand over his face, tries to rub the confusion out with clumsy fingers. “Sorry. I’m a bit out of it right now. What?”

“Loki,” Banner prompts, but Clint suspects he’s lying.

“Had him in my head, Doc. Can’t be sure he’s gone now, let alone forever.” Clint can’t help the bitterness because fuck, life’s never promised to play fair by him but alien possession shouldn’t even have been in the cards.

Even Clint’s life shouldn’t have gone that wrong.

“I get that,” Banner says and there’s that little smile of pleasure playing over his mouth.

Clint is going to do something stupid tonight, he can feel it coming, and right at this moment, the odds look pretty good that it’s going to involve Banner’s mouth somehow. It’ll be so stupid and it’ll wreck everything, make things awkward and awful until Clint hits the road again, but it’ll feel so good for a moment and Clint’s never been great at worrying about how much feeling good is going to cost him later.

Clint can’t help wondering how Banner’s mouth is going to feel against his, whether Banner’s lips are as soft and full as they look, whether Banner’s going to freeze in shock long enough to let Clint coax his way in or whether Banner’s just going to hulk the fuck out.

Clint wants all of it, whatever Banner does and lets Clint do. He wants Banner’s stubble scraping his palm when Clint cups Banner’s jaw to fix their angle and he wants to know how Banner tastes, whether Banner’s as wide-eyed and inexperienced as those ducked-head flushes suggest. Hell, Clint wants a lot and at least he knows that part’s going to end badly, which is way more comforting that all this uncertainty.

Kissing Banner right now will be disastrous, Clint thinks, gleeful, and of course he’s leaning in to do it.

Better to rip the stitches out all at once, get the shock of pain over with. Clint can handle open wounds; it’s the still-healing ones he can’t stand.

“I’m sorry about Agent Coulson,” Banner says in the space Clint wants to be a kiss and okay, Clint can want what he likes but he’s never been good at just taking what’s not on offer.

He backs off. Figures Phil’s laughing at him from somewhere, giving him that terrible tut-tut head shake. “Right.”

As letdowns go, that one’s pretty decent. Clint probably ought to be grateful. He’ll have to work on that.

“I’m sorry. I meant to say something earlier. There just never seemed to be a good time.” It’s Banner’s turn to laugh hollow, make a face at himself. “You weren’t at the memorial.”

“Nah. Went to the SHIELD one, figured that covered it.” A guy can only take so much hostility, Clint figures, and he hadn’t felt right leaving her alone that long.

Banner nods. “It’s not the same, obviously, but I do know a little something about losing someone you love for something you can’t help. If you ever want to talk…”

And Banner means it, is the thing. He’s all soft and serious and not hostile at all, and Clint can’t help snort-snickering at the incongruity, the way Banner’s getting this wrong.

Shit, Banner doesn’t even get the laughter. Seems to think it’s some sort of slap at him and his oh-so-misplaced offer. Clint sighs. “Yeah, thanks, doc. Might take you on that someday, actually.”

“I’d like that,” Banner says simply. “I wish I’d known him better. From what I’ve heard, I think I’d have liked him.”

“Probably. He was a pretty hard guy to dislike.”

“Were you two together long?”

“Partners, off and on maybe six years? Mostly on once Fury saw our success rate. Hard to argue with perfection.” Clint shrugs, feels something slip from his hands an instant before something smashes below them and oh, right, his beer. Great. Broken glass to handle later. “Me and Nat and Phil, man, we were something else. Off the charts good, you know?”

“Agent Romanov?” Banner sounds surprised. Banner’s met her, though, so Clint’s not sure how that’s possible. “Huh. She didn’t say anything.”

“She wouldn’t.” Nat’s never been that type of girl. “I should do something about that glass.”

Banner’s hand settles on Clint’s back, firm and hot, as though he means to hold Clint there himself. “It’s fine. We’ll deal with it tomorrow. No one else is coming out here tonight anyway.”

And Clint knows he should pull back, put some space between them so he’s not tempted to try something stupid again tonight, but Banner’s hand feels comfortable through Clint’s shirt and when Clint shuts his eyes, tips his face up to the stars for a moment, he knows he’s not going anywhere.

“You know the best part? I finally know the guy’s real birthday and all I can do with it is fuck myself up worse.” Clint forces a laugh because Christ, it should be funny, at some point in Clint’s future it is no doubt going to be. Right now it’s a raw scrape Clint can’t seem to forget for long enough, but that’s going to change. Clint’s been abandoned before; he knows how this works. “Seriously, man. Strippers would have been awesome, he would have hated that so much.”

And maybe it’s Banner half-smiling sadly at him, maybe it’s just that he’s five beers into a shitty night and so goddamned tired of every thought in his head, but something about the whole mess makes him want to turn his face into Banner’s shoulder, hide there and hold on until midnight strikes.

Christ, who knew how much having the kid around helped keep his head straight? Or maybe fucked with it. All that practical bloodlust he’s used to fighting, that’s all vague and uninteresting now, something he’s put off long enough to maybe lose the taste for it.

Nothing to fight except Loki or himself, he figures, and anyone else is going to feel like a subpar substitute, one more shitty mistake in a lifetime with too many of them as it is.

“We should go in,” Banner suggests with that softness Clint wants to kiss out of him. Clint’s not sure where that softness comes from or how Banner’s held on to it this long but Clint wants to cup Banner’s face in his hands and taste it. Can’t quite trust himself to stop if he starts. Banner clears his throat a little. “You must be getting cold.”

“You’re warm,” Clint counters. Doesn’t realize he’s apparently leaned in against Banner comfortably, that he’s already got a loose fist in Banner’s shirt to hold them still, until he sees that gorgeous want in those dark eyes. Banner tucks it away fast, hides it behind lowered lashes and that luscious, solemn mouth. “Don’t really want to move, you know? I like it here.”

Clint’s never pretended to be a particularly good man, only ever just one on the right side of law enforcement, and he’s not above pulling strings, playing dirty sometimes.

“Clint, this is a really bad idea,” Banner says, low and thick, and it sounds most like he wants to be talked into it.

“I am really, really good at bad ideas.”

Banner laughs, soft and helpless. “Maybe, but I try to avoid them.”

“This mean you need convincing?” Clint can do that. Clint can probably…

“No. Tonight it means you should tell me more about Agent Coulson if you’re feeling up to it?”

“You’re really comfortable,” Clint says, trying to burrow his face into Banner’s chest again.

“Clint, it’s only been a few months. Don’t you think you’re rushing this?”

Banner sounds so gentle, so very concerned, and Clint doesn’t want to pull away while he’s got himself settled this well but, well, this is one of those things that’s probably going to take eye contact to clear up.

“Okay, I wasn’t going to presume or anything but I think maybe you’ve been talking to someone at SHIELD about me?” God, Clint wishes Banner weren’t cast in near silhouette by the lights inside Stark Tower; Clint bets Banner’s flushing but to his credit, he doesn’t duck his head.

“I may have asked around a little, after…” Banner trails off and looks away. If his head ducks, Clint is kissing him somewhere creative. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk at shawarma.”

“And whoever you talked to told you Phil and I were a thing? Hooking up or whatever?”

“Practically married,” Banner corrects.

Clint rolls his eyes, has to steady himself forcibly before his vision settles again. “Phil married his job a long time ago. Planned to have 2.5 terragigs of digitalized paperwork with it someday, maybe a white picket desk set and an assigned parking space by the front door. And even if he hadn’t, we weren’t exactly what you’d call compatible.” Clint hesitates a moment, though he has no real clue why he does. “Kinsey opposites.”

Banner’s brows knit thoughtfully, Clint thinks, but he needs more light to be sure. “That’s not what I heard at all.”

Clint jerks his shoulders in a passable shrug. “Junior Agent baiting,” he says simply. “The only reason Phil agreed to it was because it fucked up the office betting pool.” He sighs then, misses the heat of Banner’s body, the shelter to hide his face from whoever the hell’s watching him now. Always under surveillance, another fucking hazard of the job, but tonight, Clint really doesn’t want to be. “We were brothers,” he says miserably. “Phil and Nat and me, we were Fury’s field kids, you know? And we were already going to lose him on account of the kid but now, it’s like I’ve lost both of them. This fucking thing with Loki cost me both. And I don’t really…” Clint trails off, too damned frustrated to keep going with that train of thought. “So now I’m 0-for-2 on keeping brothers, 0-for-3 maybe if things don’t change with Nat, and I just…You ever need to not be in your own head, doc?”

Which, given the whole clusterfuck with Loki, should be the absolute last thing Clint wants but he feels like he’s drowning in his own bullshit now and all of his escape routes are gone.

Banner doesn’t say anything, Banner just hooks a hand on the back of Clint’s head and draws Clint back down to his shoulder, turns his own body so Clint’s almost lost in him, and Clint’s not sure whether Banner’s anchoring him or whether they’re both adrift together.

::

Stark’s waiting in the kitchen when Clint tries to scrounge breakfast the next morning, which is unusual enough to have Clint’s gaze sharpening behind his sunglasses. He feels like shit this morning, like he’s ripped something open and can’t quite get the mess off himself, and he could probably fix the worst of it with a shower but, well, he still smells like Banner.

Like Bruce.

Pathetic as it makes him feel, Clint likes it.

Stark waits until Clint’s dumping cereal in a bowl to speak up but Clint knows it’s coming; Stark’s been watching him since Clint walked through the door and Stark’s not exactly subtle. Not for someone used to Natasha.

“So you two looked pretty cozy out there last night,” Stark says, which isn’t unexpected. Stark’s nosy, they weren’t exactly hiding, he should have figured this would be Stark’s approach.

Still. “Huddling for warmth,” Clint says, as though that’s all it was.

“And yet, you didn’t come inside. JARVIS, we paid the heating bill this month, didn’t we?”

Clint rolls his eyes a little, bites down on a grin. “But then you might have overheard us. No point plotting if you’re going to lose the element of surprise.”

Watching Stark try to figure out if Clint’s kidding is more entertaining than Clint expects; Stark is made to be trolled.

“Clint, don’t tease Tony,” Bruce says mildly as he shuffles in.

“Not teasing, it’s baiting,” Clint corrects. “Besides, he has it coming. Somebody was spying on us like a big, supergenius creep.”

And Clint’s not expecting the way Bruce’s eyes go wide and gorgeously full of humor, the way Bruce gasps “Tony!” and makes it sound like he wants to clutch his pearls in horror, and maybe Clint doesn’t know yet how Bruce’s mouth feels against his own but when Bruce ducks his head and sneaks a wicked grin at him, Clint figures it’s only a matter of time before he does.

::

Clint should probably regret running his mouth the night of Phil’s birthday but he can’t, not with how Bruce opens up afterwards. He smiles easier, makes eye contact more, doesn’t look away as fast when Clint catches him staring.

Hell, sometimes Bruce grins, secret and coy, increasingly warm until Clint wants to call it flat-out hot. Clint still wants to do things to that pretty mouth, still wants to touch Bruce until those sweet brown eyes fog, but he’s not sure he’d call it a mistake.

It’s not all looks and smiles and eyefucks in the lab, though; it’s the things Bruce lets slip, bits of information Clint’s still too SHIELD to ignore. He hears about Bruce’s time on the run, more than he’d expected from someone so self-contained, and he hears about Bruce’s life before the Hulk, the mother he’d lost and the foster mother who’d raised him, his time in undergrad and his deep, abiding love for the lab.

It’s not enough to be called solid intel, not on its own, but Clint’s pretty good at reading between the lines.

Natasha would laugh at him for running surveillance on his team, Clint thinks, but she’d also understand. Between the three of them, they have enough triggers that eventually, it’s going to sour; someone’s going to say something to set someone off and the easy way they’re interacting now is going to stop.

Clint figures he’d be a pretty shit agent if he didn’t at least try to figure out the hazards in this op.

When Bruce mentions the factory, he means Brazil, doing his best to play normal when he’s anything but, and when Bruce mentions the city, he means New York, means slinking back unannounced and trying to fix things, watching it all go to hell again. Clint still has security clearance and access to SHIELD’s mission files, which makes him suspect he could have Bruce’s whole life laid out for him easy enough -- Director Fury would probably consider it mission-related, given where Clint’s living now and why he’s not out in the field -- but honestly, Clint likes this better.

Because there’s something about the way Bruce confesses the good things from the edges of the shit he’s survived that makes Clint feel human, like maybe he’s more than just his job, and without Phil Coulson and Natasha in his life, Clint’s not sure at all where else he’ll find anything like it.

::

Clint can’t sleep, too restless to keep his eyes closed for long, and it occurs to him pretty quickly that this is the itch he gets when he’s out of the field too long. Staying put in a single place, it’s not really what Clint does on his own, and the atmosphere in Stark Tower lately’s making it real hard to remember he’s technically on assignment.

Watching his kid in her canister, hanging out in the lab, none of that feels like anything he needs to include in a report. The World Security Council’s still not too happy with him for the Loki mess and if Clint weren’t out here on canister kid detail, he’d be kicking around a base somewhere, on unofficial stand down and being observed by a hundred wary eyes.

He’s better off where he is and objectively, he knows it, but that don’t stop the itch between his shoulder blades, the sense of disconnect because he still hasn’t heard from Natasha.

So he gives up on the whole sleeping thing for a while, shoves his shoes on and pads down to the lab. Figures if he can just steal a few moments quiet with the kid, he’ll get his head clear enough to get some shuteye later.

Only, she’s not alone.

Bruce is sitting at his desk, feet propped up on a corner and mug of something cupped in both hands, and for maybe the first time ever, Bruce isn’t looking at his screen.

He looks over as Clint walks in and if he’s surprised by the company, he doesn’t show it. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

Clint shrugs, slumps low in the chair he’s adopted, settles in to watch her canister for a while. She’s getting bigger now, still so little but filling more of her canister all the time, looking more and more like something from his First Year baby books. It’s still not real, exactly, the thought of himself with a kid, but it’s getting hard to ignore the fact that someday in the not-so-distant future, she’ll be too big for her canister. That she’ll be out.

There’ll be noise then, when she is. There’ll be things for him to do, something more than lurking around the edges of all this science. Clint’s still fucking terrified about how he’s going to mess her up somehow, all the mistakes he’s going to make with her, but this feels like postponing the inevitable.

She’s here and she’s real and she’s coming, not a damned thing Clint can do to stop it, and now he just wants it to fucking start.

“Too damned quiet up there,” he mutters and hears Bruce’s soft, encouraging sound. “Still not used to that. Not usually a lot of quiet in my life, you know?”

“I think there might be too much quiet in mine.” Bruce’s smile is thin and wan. Not tight, though, and not sharp; there’s no bite to it. “Never feels like enough, though.”

Clint nods sagely, kicks back in his seat to put his feet up on the edge of the nearest workstation. “Yeah, I can see it. You seem like a quiet sort of guy.” Clint can’t help a snuff of laughter when a thought occurs to him. “Must make you nuts sometimes, sharing lab space with Stark.”

Bruce finds his bite, lets it bloom slow and easy in his smile. Clint wishes he’d been there to see Bruce and Nat meet, because he bets that was fantastic for oh-so-many reasons. “Actually, I don’t mind when other people are loud. As long as they don’t mind when I’m not.” The glow of Flip’s canister casts Bruce’s flash of teeth something Clint thinks lesser mortals might call a threat. All Clint sees in it is honesty, the kind he hardly ever finds. Then Bruce seems to catch himself and it all disappears, pulled back behind the mild-mannered scientist with the impeccable control. “I’m dangerous when I’m loud.”

It’s almost an apology. Christ. “Huh,” Clint says, mostly to distract Bruce off that train of thought. “I’m usually more dangerous when I’m quiet.” It’s bordering on overshare and he knows it -- Banner really doesn’t need to know the fucked up things Clint’s done in his time, especially not when Clint can’t reliably fake remorse -- but that’s not really something he wants to leave hanging between them, either. “Always said it’s the shit you don’t see coming that’ll get you in the end. The ones who see me coming, they don’t have to worry.”

Bruce doesn’t look worried, though. If anything, he looks pleased. Gratified, maybe. “Stealth’s not really an option for me.”

“Oh, I dunno about that,” Clint drawls, relaxing into it now that he knows Bruce isn’t over there freaking out. It’s one thing to suspect what Clint does -- did -- for a living, something else entirely to hear about it personally. “I’ve seen you gaming Tony. I know you know how to work that pretty face.”

It works to cut the tension and it makes Bruce laugh, but it’s true, too. Clint’s seen Bruce work miracles in Stark management, seen Bruce hide everything behind that projecting calm; Bruce Banner knows more about the long con of stealth in plain sight that he’d ever freely admit and Clint finds that fascinating.

“Right. Me and my pretty face.” Bruce sounds like he thinks Clint’s kidding. Jesus. “So what do you do with yours?”

It’s too halting to be as off-the-cuff as Bruce probably wants it to sound but honestly, Clint’s too intrigued to care. “My pretty face?” Clint rolls his eyes, can’t quite stop the rush of pleasure from forcing his smile broad enough to feel ridiculous. “I, ah, the usual, I guess? Stop a few fists, break a few hearts, scope out the scenery.”

He bites his upper lip, can’t stop the dickish grin long enough to wince at how obvious he’s being. Jesus, he should just wear this shit in lights. Bruce Banner is a gorgeous, wily genius with the proverbial heart of gold and Clint wants to crawl all over him for days.

That scenery thing, it’s awful but it’s the kind of blunt even Bruce can’t pretend to miss. Clint should probably be expecting return fire.

No way in hell he could have predicted what he gets, though. As it is, he considers himself lucky his jaw doesn’t drop.

Bruce watches him for a moment, long and intent, then eases himself up out of his chair and stalks Clint‘s way, deliberate enough that Clint’s tempted to put his feet down and sit up properly. It’s a show of weakness, maybe, but refusing leaves him stretched out vulnerable when Bruce leans over him, hand planted on the back of Clint’s chair.

“Scenery, huh?”

“You’d be surprised what most people miss.” What the hell, Clint figures; life goes better with some risk. “A guy can see a lot, he takes the time to look.”

Bruce shivers like Clint’s talking dirty. Hell, he might be.

“I want to cook for you,” Bruce murmurs, mouth near enough to tease, more heat in those eyes than Clint expects with a verb like cook. “I want to take you out and show you how well I do noise and I want to cook for you, Clint.” Bruce’s gaze drops to Clint’s mouth. Clint fucks up swallowing. “You should let me.”

“You getting tired of my sandwiches, Bruce?”

God, the way Bruce smiles. Clint’s half hard already and it’s only a little wicked, not nearly what it could be, and Clint thinks Bruce might be trying to kill him with blue balls even before Bruce says, “Something like that.”

Clint masters -- temporarily -- swallowing as Bruce walks away.

“Banner?” Bruce stills, looks back over his shoulder. “I don’t think you’re dangerous.”

Bruce laughs a little, low and smooth. “Yeah, you do.”

Okay, point. “I don’t think you’re too dangerous,” Clint amends.

“No,” Bruce agrees, stealing one last look. Just dangerous enough hovers between them, unsaid but not unheard. “Good night, sweetheart. Sweet dreams, Agent Barton.”

And when the lab door’s closed behind Bruce, Clint covers his face in his palms and swears.

::

Clint’s idea of cooking is microwaving, maybe boiling water if he feels fancy, but Bruce’s is considerably more involved. Clint lays an arm across the back of his chair, rests his chin on his forearm and watches Bruce move at the stove, the contents of his chopping board slipping neatly into the pot at a nudge from Bruce’s knife.

Clint has no clue what Bruce is making but really, does he care? He’ll eat whatever Bruce puts in front of him and for Bruce, he’ll smile through it no matter how it tastes.

“This is going to take a while,” Bruce says as he stirs his pot, only glancing back when Clint lets the comfortable silence stretch. “When I said I’d cook for you, I didn’t mean you had to help.”

“You want me to go?” Maybe it’s a thing about people cooking, maybe they really do run other people out of their kitchens sometimes.

Bruce shakes his head. “It’s going to be hours. Can’t rush a good Feijoada or it’s not worth the Chorizo.”

“This a science thing?” Clint saves his slow grin for when Bruce is looking, steals a moment to appreciate the way Bruce fills out his jeans. “Because I’ve got some experience waiting those out, if it is.”

Bruce blinks at him, baffled for a second. “It’s feijoada, Clint. Black beans and meat. It’s dinner. Or it will be in a few hours.”

“Right.” Clint gets what’s happening at the stove, mostly, but he’s not sure how to explain to someone who might not actually know how much time Clint’s spent watching him from across the lab. “You just looked pretty intense, you know?”

“Haven’t done this in a while. Wanted to make sure I get it right.”

Clint’s not entirely sure Bruce is just talking about cooking but he knows slow and steady when he hears it, can’t even say he’s all that surprised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

::

The feijoada’s good, probably, but Clint doesn’t remember much about it. Bruce says he’s picked it up in his travels and talks a bit about Brazil, how settled he’d felt there even when he’d known he couldn’t be, and Clint thinks about his week in Costa Brava, the mission he’d spent tracking a mark through Santiago and that month he’d spent lying low in Goa, all of them pretty enough to stick in their own ways but nothing that had ever made him want to stay.

If it weren’t for the Hulk Busters, though -- and that’s a stupid fucking name for a squadron, that’s not even pretending to be anything but dicks -- Clint has the very real sense Bruce would still be in South America working in a factory.

Clint wonders just how shitty he should feel about the fact that now he’s kind of glad Bruce has had Hulk Busters prodding him along, if that’s what brought Bruce to here.

Probably pretty shitty. He’s, uh, working on it.

So Bruce hears Clint’s never really spent much time in South America and Clint asks a few pointed questions and Bruce decides Clint needs the whole experience, all the cultural immersion Bruce can conjure up, so by the time Clint’s got a bowl of feijoada in front of him, there’s something soft playing in the background, candlelight and privacy, Bruce doing his best to teach Clint Portuguese.

Nat could tell him Clint doesn’t really do new languages without a pretty steep learning curve. Given the way Bruce smiles at him, though, the way he keeps stealing heated glances, Bruce probably wouldn’t care.

Clint’s accent is terrible, apparently, but Bruce’s sounds like aural sex; Clint doesn’t want it to stop.

Still, there’s only so much eyefucking they can do here, only so long they can both pretend this is just dinner.

Bruce trails off mid-sentence, frowns slightly like he doesn’t want it to end, either and looks around like maybe he’ll find something new to keep the evening going.

“Let me guess,” Clint drawls as something slow and soft and sad starts up on Bruce’s playlist. “Another cheery one?”

The prettier Bruce’s songs are, the more likely they seem to be to be about some bleak, depressing shit. What gets Clint most is that this is supposed to be Bruce at his happiest, the closest thing to home he’s had since his Gamma experiment.

Bruce cocks his head, listens to the lyrics and winces. “Yeah,” he lies.

“You know JARVIS’ll tell me later, if I ask.”

Bruce only looks a little guilty. “I wasn’t really in the mood for chipper much while I was there. Not for a long time.”

“So what changed?”

“I did. The place just grew on me while I wasn’t looking. And after I’d been there a while, I couldn’t imagine how I’d leave.”

Clint gets that, sort of. For him, home’s never really been a place as such, it’s always been people, but he knows how it is to have that anchor yanked away, to find himself adrift for a while, and from what Bruce has told Clint about his childhood, Bruce is a guy who wants his anchor more than most.

“You still feel like that?” If Brazil’s still home on some level, Clint can’t afford to get attached.

Bruce thinks first, doesn’t just tell Clint what Clint so obviously wants to hear. “Manhattan has its moments.”

Clint nods a little, can’t look away from Bruce’s eyes. “I can work with that.”

Then Clint’s pulling Bruce back down, fitting his mouth against Bruce’s and teasing Bruce’s mouth open for him, fingers threaded through Bruce’s short, dark curls to encourage Bruce to linger.

::

Slow and steady means something entirely different in Bruce’s room, long touches and scorching looks, Bruce mapping Clint’s scars with his mouth, hands everywhere but Clint’s dick until Clint’s laughing and swearing and begging dirty.

But fuck, for this sort of payoff, slow and steady suits Clint just fine.

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