[fic] Spread Your Wings, My Little Butterfly
Title: Spread Your Wings, My Little Butterfly
Fandoms: AU Marvel Cinematic Universe
Characters/Pairings: Clint Barton/Bruce Banner, Avengers ensemble, Reed Richards.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Clint Barton is a man with many secrets, but sometimes it just takes the right person to break through his walls. Bruce Banner happens to be that person.
Notes: For the epic Cally’s birthday. It’s kind of tradition that I write her some Hulkeye for her birthday every year, and while I promised domestic fic, I hope this suits just as well. Enjoy!
Bruce stared into the box with a frown creasing his brow. There had been a full forty dressings in there when he'd last checked - now, there were thirty five. He put the box down and picked up last night's inventory check list. There'd been 40 last night, too, noted down in one of the nurse's neat scrawls and signed off. Which didn't really help his puzzlement, but in the mean time, he had an officer with a burn which needed dressing, so he pushed it out of his mind and got on with his job.
The mystery of the missing dressings deepened over the coming couple of days. Gauze, sutures, more dressings, needles, even a bottle of sterile saline solution went missing from the infirmary ward. No one else seemed overly bothered, and a few laughed at Bruce's new-found obsession with the inventory of the ward, but it troubled him immensely.
He carefully catalogued every item that went missing, and came to a few conclusions, each one more horrible than the last. Either someone was hurting themselves and using the infirmary to treat the injuries, someone had hurt someone else and was treating them in secret, or one of the members of SHIELD was injured and wouldn't come to the infirmary. Any of them greatly upset Bruce, who prided himself on having helped make the infirmary a warm, professional, safe space for everyone.
So he found himself working the graveyard shift, doing a crossword puzzle between his rounds of observations and leaning back artfully in his chair. He almost missed the movement on the small CCTV monitor, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted it, a mere flicker really. He turned his full attention to the monitor and was startled by what he saw.
Clint Barton was in the store closet. He looked like he knew where everything was, going by the way he quickly filled up his pockets with all the articles that had been going missing over the past few days. Added to that? He looked sick as a dog. Pale, shivery, sheened with sweat. Bruce sat bolt upright, staring at the monitor, and weighed his options, pros, cons, then got up and hurried to the corridor where the closet sat.
"Agent Barton?" Clint whirled on his heel and levelled a gun at chest height. Bruce put his hands up and aimed to look as innocent and harmless as he possibly could. "Agent, I just want to help."
"I don't need any help," Clint replied, holstering the gun and turning back to the closet. "Don't need… Don't…" And, abruptly, he was flat out on the floor.
Bruce startled, freezing in place for a few moments, then hastened to Clint's side, kneeling beside him and feeling for a pulse. He was suffering a raging temperature, his skin clammy and hot beneath a thin coating of sweat, cheeks flushed with his pallor pale, heart beating up a storm under his ribs. Bruce gently eased Clint into a sitting position, then lifted him up and took him into one of the side rooms, laying him on the cot and setting to work.
Which was when he realised that Clint didn't lay flat on the cot. His shoulders sat raised, awkwardly so, and as Bruce got a line into the vein in Clint's arm, he saw blood seeping through the agent's clothes and into the bed sheets. Whatever it was, it was bleeding heavily - Clint's battlefield first aid wasn't holding up so well, Bruce guessed.
Gently, he tapped Clint's cheek and spoke to him, trying to rouse him into consciousness. Slowly, the agent came around, bleary eyed and blinking, and instantly gasped and tried to recoil. "Stop, Clint, stop," Bruce whispered, catching Clint's wrist and holding it gently.
"I can't, you… Let me go back, I'm fine."
Bruce shook his head. "You're hurt - worse, whatever injury you've got's infected. That's why you feel like crap, why you're sweating and hot, why your head is pounding and you feel like you're going to die." He relinquished his grip on Clint's wrist and sat on the edge of the bed, slowly, like he was dealing with an anxious child - but not seeking to patronise Clint, simply wanting to make him feel safe and comfortable. "Let me help you."
Clint stared at Bruce, thinking deeply. He knew he was sick, had known for a few days, but every time it'd happened before, he'd gotten over it in a week. This time was different; he figured maybe the scalpel got dirty, or his hands were clean enough. He also knew that he was going to die if he didn't get help, and he wasn't ready for that, not yet. Not yet.
Slowly, he sat up, swinging his legs past Bruce so he could sit on the edge of the bed beside him. Hesitantly he lifted his shirt, peeling it off enough that his back was bare but he didn't catch the needle in his arm. His chest shuddered with an anxious sob as he felt Bruce's gaze settle on the two bloodied bandages taped badly against two stumps sitting in his shoulder blades.
SHIELD didn't hire mutants. Especially not mutants with huge-disgusting-inhuman-vile wings. And so Clint learned a long time ago how to cut them down, file the stumps, keep them clean so they never grew. He hoped and prayed they'd stop coming, would leave him be, but no. Every day they healed, and every day he rasped off the new growth until it was as flat as he could manage against his shoulder blades.
Bruce checked his gloves then stood, gently peeling the gauze away from the wounds and gasping when he saw them. Both were infected, badly by the looks of things, but more than anything, he felt horrible that Clint was hiding such a secret. He knelt down in front of Clint, using the bed as support, and caught his eye, watching the tears of shame brim in Clint's eyes. "They're infected, okay? I'm going to get some antibiotics for you, and clean them up properly," he explained, his tone warm and kind.
"They're disgusting," Clint replied, "And I hate them."
Bruce frowned hard, a sick, sad feeling growing in his stomach at the bitterness in the young man's voice. "Please, let me help you. Wait here, I'll just be two minutes," he answered, standing, peeling his gloves off then making shakes to the supply cupboard. He picked up some intravenous antibiotics as well as a course of oral ones, clean sterile dressings, some saline and a suture set, all the while musing over what this meant.
It meant, of course, Clint was a mutant. Probably quite a high level one, from what Bruce could recall from his medical training in the field and his own private interest, but a mutant was a mutant in SHIELD's eyes. He made a decision in that moment that would change his life forever. He'd keep Clint's secret just that - a secret.
He went back into the little side room, and sighed with relief when he saw Clint was still there. Blood and lymph fluid trickled down Clint's back from the raw wounds, but he didn't seem to notice, he was too busy staring at his hands where little spots of water were dripping onto his skin. Bruce handed him a tissue, then sat on the little plastic chair nearby, pulling it up so he could sit in front of Clint.
"I'm going to numb those off for you, clean them up, stitch them properly, then we're going to talk, okay?" he said softly, nudging Clint's knee with his knuckles. Clint nodded mutely, snuffling into his tissue and wiping his eyes absently, and Bruce smiled and stood up to begin work.
He talked Clint through every single thing he did, from the dose of lidocane to numb Clint's back off right through to the delicate stitching work and gentle bandaging he did to keep the wounds clean and dry. He pulled Clint's shirt back down over the bandages, swapped Clint's IV for the antibiotic IV, then sat back down in his plastic chair and looked up at Clint, a worried look on his face. "How long've you been filing these down?" he asked after a little while, giving Clint space and time to reply.
"All… All my life," Clint replied anxiously, his tone shy and scared. "M'dad he… He hit me… They're hideous…" Bruce frowned more deeply, sitting forward in his chair to show he was listening carefully. "I shouldn't… No one else can know. Ever."
Bruce nodded. "If anyone were to find out, it wouldn't be from me," he promised, then sighed. "Have you… Seen them? What they look like?"
Clint shook his head, twirling the tissue in between his fingers. "I don't want to. They're horrible, they're unnatural, they're-"
"Part of you? Incredible? Rare?" Bruce shuffled closer again, so Clint couldn't avoid his gaze. "I'm sorry that you feel like this about them, Clint. You have a gift, and if… If your father was too stupid to see that? Then that's his problem."
Clint huffed a bitter laugh, looking away from Bruce and rubbing his face angrily. "What the hell do you know about-"
Bruce this time laughed, shaking his head. "Abusive fathers? Dead mothers? Being a freak? Oh, Clint, I'm an expert," he said, laughing quietly. "Look, I'm not saying grow them out, okay? But don't hide them away, let them get infected or anything. Come to me, I can help you."
Clint nodded mutely. "Thank you, Doctor."
*~*~*
That one night marked a change in Clint and Bruce's relationship. They developed an uneasy friendship, one where Clint sought out Bruce's help and comfort and Bruce happily helped Clint out, treating his wounds and helping him keep them filed down.
And then they kissed.
The kiss made everything awkward. Clint stopped coming, Bruce thought he'd majorly screwed up, and they managed to evade each other for a week before Bruce got too worried to stay away.
Clint was sitting in his office, alone, at three in the morning when Bruce finally pinned him down. He had a plan, a long convoluted speech, that he would deliver and whisk Clint away and everything would be glorious and amazing. In fact, when he got there, he just about managed to stutter that he was sorry before Clint was on his feet and they were kissing again and it was amazing.
So now they had two secrets. Fraternising with fellow agents was strictly forbidden, and as for Clint's mutant status, they were hiding what felt like the whole world behind their lies and deceit, even to their friends.
Bruce sat in a conference in New York, idly checking his phone occasionally to see if Clint had text him back. He had two hours before the SHIELD transport came to pick him up, and it was crawling by, despite the ample people watching that a conference on astro particle physics. He slumped down in his chair a little more, closing his eyes to rest them for a moment, then startled as he became aware of someone standing in front of him.
"Doctor Banner. It's been too long." Bruce smiled broadly up at his new companion, nodding in agreement as he stood and extended his hand to him.
"Reed Richards, geez, you haven't changed a bit," he said, grinning as they shook hands. "How'd you find the lecture?"
"Dull. But I did get time to catch up on some emails, so it worked out pretty well," Reed replied, then nodded towards a nearby coffee shop. "Have you got time?"
"Plenty," Bruce said, and the two found themselves sat outside in the May sunshine tucking into rich coffee and enjoying a catch up session. Reed found himself puzzling over Bruce; he could tell his old college compatriot was holding something back, and something big, but what it was he couldn't even guess. He didn't press him for details, because he knew Bruce would come clean eventually.
A comfortable silence fell between them as the sun started to set, an hour after they'd first sat down and chatted about work, family, irradiation and superpowers. All the usual things one talked about when you hadn't seen an old friend in a while, of course. Eventually, Reed's curiosity got the best of him, and he dived right in to quizzing his friend. "So, Bruce. What's troubling you?"
Bruce shook his head and answered quickly, "Nothing, why?" Reed gave him a look, and Bruce sighed, then caved in. He spilled about everything, until his throat was dry and he couldn't even begin to look at Reed as he finished. "And now… Now all I want to do is steal him away and take him somewhere SHIELD can't get to him."
Reed took a breath, thinking things over for what felt like hours but was likely just seconds. He slid a business card from his wallet over the table to Bruce, nodding at it for him to pick it up, then said, "Work out what you want, then call me. I'll help you if I can, Bruce. You sound pretty hung up on this guy."
"I am. In way too deep, Reed."
"It's good, Bruce. You've been on your own too long, a change is good for you. You deserve to be happy," Reed told him, and Bruce nodded, smiling gently.
*~*~*
Which was how Bruce and Clint escaped SHIELD. They tried to keep it legal, above board, to resign with reasons through the proper channels, but both of them were held in breach of contract and informed they had three years to work out before they could resign.
Bruce called in his favour. Reed was amazing, truly living up to his nickname Mr Fantastic. He found them a ranch house in Montana, up in the hills, far away from everyone and everything. He built them new identities, cover stories, set up bank accounts and paper trails. But first of all, he picked them up from the helicarrier, bold as brass, with the cover story of taking them for a peace treaty meeting with the Atlanteans.
Clint couldn't take his bow, but he brought some clothes and a few photographs he had laying around. He didn't know where he was going, but he trusted Bruce. Bruce, who was all soft touches and tender smiles, gentle, kind, brilliant. Who didn't recoil when Clint touched him, who doted on his wounds and kept them so clean and neat, who understood when Clint cried or laughed or hated everything.
It took a month for them to settle in the new house, to feel confident enough to leave without feeling like they were being watched. Bruce stayed in touch with Reed, but no one else; they had to make a clean break, or SHIELD would track them down, and the court marshal that would doubtless follow would be horrendous for them both.
Bruce woke early one day in late July, and set to work on the daily chores. The cows were milked, Daisy, Roe, Lisa and Shelly, the dog let loose to play in the field, and he started on breakfast and manufacturing coffee once he'd finished with the cows and fed them. The smell of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee drew Clint out of bed, shirtless and stretching, a smile on his face as he saw Bruce cooking for him. "Hey, gorgeous," he murmured, helping himself to a cup of fresh coffee and then perching on one of the stools by the breakfast bar.
Bruce turned and smiled at him. "Morning, beautiful," he countered, flipping the bacon rashers over to cook them through. "How's the back today?"
Clint shrugged; he didn't notice the dull ache in his wing stumps much anymore, it was just there all the time. But he felt that prickle of anxiety as he built himself up to the announcement he wanted to make. "I… They're okay," he said shyly, then added, "Would you… Will you help me grow… Grow them out? My… My wi… Well…"
"Yes. Of course I will," Bruce replied, turning around properly to look at Clint. He turned the heat down on the frying pan and crossed the kitchen to wrap Clint in a bear hug, hugging him tight and close. "Of course I will, I'll be here, help you and love you and them all over."
"I… Thank you," Clint said softly, nuzzling Bruce's neck. "I love you so much."
*~*~*
It took six months for Clint's wings to grow out. Bruce researched how to support them and help them grow, reading about bird rehabilitation, studying every word Warren Worthington the Third wrote about his own experience being bestowed with wings, and even emailed the man himself. He learned how to bind the joints as the wings grew in weight and size so the joints didn't stretch abnormally, how to gently exercise the muscles five times a day to develop the strength in them, how to preen the feathers and groom them so they were straight and clean.
Clint's wings were vast, six-feet across each span, and coloured like a kestrel's wings. Red and black striped on top, like a tiger, then light and mottled underneath, and soft as silk all over. He practiced with Bruce's help flexing them, moving them, right as they grew into little prickly shrubs then flourished into proper wings. He had to keep exercising his torso, or found himself struck with major back pain and core pain due to his body adjusting to the change in weight and balance, but he slowly learned to live with his wings.
His favourite hobby was enveloping Bruce in them, wrapping him up and holding him close in a feathery, intimate hug. Bruce would curl up beside him and preen his feathers, straightening them, fussing over each one, where it sat, how it shone. Bruce oiled them in the winter with sweet almond oil to protect them from damage from the cold or the fire place, and generally loved all over the two wings with every bone in his body.
Clint learned to trust Bruce, and Bruce never broke that trust.