[FIC] Bond
Title:- Bond
Author:- carriesagun @ LJ | irradiations @ AO3 | brucefucking-banner @ Tumblr
Fandom:- Avengers (MCU)
Characters/Pairing:- Clint Barton/Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanov
Rating:- PG
Prompt:- comicdrabbles prompt #007 - Bond
Genre:- Hurt/Comfort(?)
Word Count:- 5 x 100 & 1 x 300
Spoilers:- N/A
Warnings:- Very brief description of injury
Summary:- Bruce just knows Clint's in trouble, but why?
Disclaimer:- I don't own them. Or they'd have had far more on-screen time together.
Notes:- This is a series of 5 100 word drabbles, concluded with a single 300 word drabble.
Bruce woke up, heart in his mouth, sweat-slick, fists tangled up in the bed sheet. He checked the bedside clock, blinking at the garish green numbers. 01:37. Which made it 8:37 in the morning where Clint was.
Bruce slumped back into the covers, fingers trawling through his hair, taking some deep breaths. He rolled onto his side, tucking down into the bed, and staring at the far wall, heart still racing in his chest.
When sleep didn't come soon enough, he got up, dressing quickly and heading for the bridge. He had a bad, bad feeling about Clint's latest mission.
*~*~*
"This is bad."
"I hadn't noticed."
"Really? Sarcasm?"
"Nat, I've got at least 3 bullets digging in, no clear shot and there's a suicide bomber headin' this way. It doesn't get much worse."
There was a pause. Natasha pushed back harder against the wall which was gradually being disintegrated by heavy weapons fire, glancing at the make-shift bandage on Clint's thigh, blood blooming through. She swore under her breath in Russian, rubbing her eye wearily. "We've got to get back to the jet."
"Really." Clint winced at her look, the narrowing of the eyes, so reminiscent of Bruce. "Let's go."
*~*~*
"You mean… They're not in radio contact?" Bruce crossed his arms, tapping a foot. Maria's hand twitched towards her gun but she stopped herself, taking a breath
"It's normal, Bruce. Behind enemy lines-"
"Something's wrong, Maria. Please try them again."
Maria sighed, then turned to her comms, dialling into the frequency for Natasha and Clint. "Romanov, Barton, you guys topside yet?"
Static.
"I told you, something's wrong."
"Doctor Banner, please-"
"Please don't tell me to calm down, Maria. There is something wrong."
"How can you know that?"
"I don't know. I just really need you to find out what's happening."
*~*~*
"Barton, come in."
"Maria? Busy here." Clint strung another arrow, took aim, fired. Retreated a few steps to the next piece of cover. His leg hurt, his arms hurt, that stupid graze on his face hurt. He didn't have time for nice chats with HQ.
"Do you need advance pick up?"
Clint frowned before he answered. "Yes, but how-"
"Doesn't matter. Give me a landmark so I can guide the Quinjet in," Maria replied, skidding across the floor on her wheely chair to her radar desk.
"There's a temple, blue dome, 500 metres away. I'll bring Nat."
"See you soon."
*~*~*
Maria looked over at Bruce, his fingers steepled under his chin. She smiled and nodded, then went back to her main desk, focusing on bringing her agents home.
Bruce stood, that nagging, aching feeling in his chest still there but lessened. He'd known; something inside him had known they were in trouble, that Clint was in danger, and it had woken him up. They'd have been attending a funeral in a few days if that nagging feeling hadn't stirred him.
He went back to their room, choosing a book and curling up in a chair to wait for Clint's return.
*~*~*
The Helicarrier's medical bay was like a second home to Clint by now. He was even on first name terms with the attending on the graveyard shift, which is why he had all three bullets they'd pulled out of his thigh in a handy pot by his bed. They were pretty big, and had been exceptionally lucky shots.
"You're a bit late coming home aren't you?" Clint looked up from the leaflet entitled 'Caring for your bullet wounds' which Natasha had left him, his whole demeanour changing as he saw his partner standing in the doorway.
"No flowers?"
"The gas station was closed." Bruce smiled, strolling in with his usual air of nonchalance, taking the only seat in the room heavily. "You okay?"
"I know you're desperate. Grab the chart, Bruce," Clint replied, scanning the rest of the leaflet as Bruce scanned through his chart. It was quicker than repeating what the doctor's told Clint.
"You got shot in the ass."
"It was my thigh, actually."
Bruce put the chart back, kissing Clint on the forehead. "Glad you're home."
Clint smiled. "Maria said you told her we were in trouble. How'd you know?"
Bruce started to go pink. He had a lot of theories, most of them far more new-age than his usual logical trains of thought, but some were too obvious to ignore. "I don't know. I woke up, and I just knew you needed help. Maria thought I was crazy but…" He shrugged.
Clint smiled back, his personality lending itself far more to exploring ridiculous ideas than Bruce's. "It's like… A psychic bond, like from a kid to their parents," he said, looking intently at the canula in his hand.
"Something like that. I'm just really, really glad it worked."
Clint laid his hand on Bruce's. "Me too."