Fic: Travelogue (3/5)
Posting another chapter before I run off into the land of no internet (i.e. my weekend job).
Travelogue
Avengers
Rating for all chapters: adult
(content notes, this chapter: violence, explicit sex, introspection about canon suicidal tendencies. Gratuitous Doom.)
Characters: Clint/Bruce/Natasha, Tony Stark, Maria Hill, Nick Fury, Victor von Doom
Wordcount (total): 25,000 (this chapter): 7,500ish
Summary: Post-New York, Clint's still having trouble dealing with the whole Loki-controlling-his-brain situation, and Natasha seems to be avoiding him. Bruce Banner, meanwhile, just wants to get back to Kolkata.
A/N: Not as heavy as the content notes make it sound, jsyk.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
SHIELD needs to retrieve an ancient manuscript that Doctor Doom has stolen (or 'liberated,' according to his official press release) from the British Museum. Clint's told that it could do unimaginable harm if Doom is allowed to keep it and use it in his techno-mystical experiments, but also that preventing that harm isn't worth the international incident of sending a full SHIELD team, let alone recalling the Avengers. So they decided to send Hawkeye solo.
The mission briefing had been chock-full of hypocrisy and doublethink, to the point that Agent Hill hadn't even tried to run the briefing, brought in Director Fury instead. Clint still thinks that the most ridiculous part is that they expect him to not cause an international incident. He's stealthy, yes, and effective, but he's still recognizable. Especially after New York.
Well, it'll be a challenge, anyway.
When Clint's plane touches down in Latveria, he's wearing a suit and tie. He's carrying a briefcase. He's also itching to pull off the tie, because he hates these things - feels like someone's getting ready to strangle him, all the time. But Clive Waverly, mild-mannered investor-slash-entrepreneur, wears a tie.
The security agents at Doomport aren't wearing ties, they're wearing armor. Clint tries not to look too envious as they pat him down and wave him through.
He's not normally a disguise guy - that's Nat's specialty. The only times Clint plays infiltrator is when he can impersonate a wise-cracking bruiser, i.e., himself. But no one's got much intel on Doom's little fiefdom, and it's near-impossible to sneak in without putting Doom on alert. Too many security satellites and robots.
So Clint decided to walk in the front door.
----
"Doom needs investment capital from no man," says Doctor Victor von Doom. Obviously. The guy loves third-person, though Clint can't really blame him for wanting to say his awesome name as much as possible. 'Barton' doesn't have the same ring to it.
"Of course not," says Clint, with a self-deprecating smile that's blatantly stolen from Banner. "You're the ruler of an entire nation. But I'm sure you've had ideas which you don't have time to develop, given your busy schedule and intense creativity. My firm would simply provide development and marketing, for a small cut of the profits."
Doom inclines his head, looking pleased and a little amused. As much as you can tell through his metal mask. Clint's going off a tiny crinkle around his eyes, here.
"Latveria does not starve for researchers," Doom pronounces. "We have more than enough development. But perhaps your marketing skills may be of use. Doom has no patience for the whims of the public."
"Then I think we could have a very fruitful partnership." Clint shows his teeth. "Especially if your R and D department is all that you say."
Doom stands up, and Clint jumps up too, because it's probably a mortal offense to stay seated when the ruler of Latveria is on his feet.
"Follow," says Doom. "Doom will show you."
Clint gathers up papers with made-up figures in them, stuffing them into his briefcase before trailing Doom through the castle. This is good - a tour will give him at least part of the layout, since the castle's been destroyed and rebuilt so often that none of SHIELD's maps are up-to-date. Clint notes passageways out of the corners of his eyes and marks a few libraries for later.
Up three staircases and down four, and then they're on a landing, overlooking a huge room full of machinery, tools, and workers in lab coats. It's very impressive, even if Clint isn't the man to appreciate it. He watches one woman distilling some chemical in a fragile-looking glassware apparatus, while the man one table over solders together heavy pieces of sheet metal. Doom probably doesn't care much about work-place safety (supervillains never do, though admittedly neither do superheroes - Clint's seen Tony Stark's workshop).
"These are my laboratories," says Doom, waving an imperious hand at the little hive of productivity. "But this represents only a fraction of the research undertaken in Doomstadt. The arboretums are this way."
Doom starts to walk off, but Clint's picked out one important guy out of a sea of white-coated scientists and assistants. Clint hesitates, and he can see Doom noticing, so he figures he might as well go for it.
"Is that Bruce Banner?" he asks, as innocent and surprised as he can make it. "Hey, Doctor Banner?"
Banner turns, and Clint waves.
"Unauthorized personnel are not allowed-" begins Doom, but Clint is already half-way down the stairs. Banner's staring at him, and he's gone a little white. Well, so long as he doesn't go green.
"Clive Waverly." Clint sticks out a hand, and Bruce juggles the tablet and pen he's holding so that he can take it. "I don't know if you remember me-"
"Of course I do," says Banner, warmly. "How are you, Clive?"
"Doing great." Clint lets Banner's hand go. "How are they treating you here?"
"Can't complain," says Banner, but his half-smile looks strained. His eyes flick over Clint's shoulder, and Clint catches a corner of green cape in his peripheral vision. Doom can move quiet for a guy in armor. "No," continues Banner, "I really can't complain."
"A touching reunion," says Doom. His words sound like he's gritting them out, under that mask. "But unfortunately we have business. Perhaps you two can... 'catch up' later."
"I owe you lunch," says Banner, carefully, and with Doom looming over Clint, Banner's hunching even smaller than he normally carries himself. "Maybe-"
"Yeah, let's get dinner after this," says Clint. "I'm staying at the hotel, call it six?"
Banner nods, and Clint allows himself to be swept along with Doom.
"Have you known Banner for long?" asks Doom. The question is so casual that Clint knows it must be important.
No one knows Banner is here or SHIELD would have included it in the briefing. Hell, it would have been the briefing - Doom and the Hulk are a killer combination, literally. So Doom doesn't want it spread that Banner's here, especially by someone who knows about the Hulk.
"Met him at a conference, and we hit it off," says Clint. "I haven't seen him in years - I don't know why he dropped out of the biotech circuit."
Doom grunts. "I understand that Banner has a... medical condition. He is seldom in the public eye."
Clint makes an appropriate noise of pity and fellow feeling. Doom will probably still try to assassinate him within the day, but he's escaped any immediate ramifications. Doom would probably like to let him out of the castle before killing him anyway - these are nice rugs, and getting blood out of antique weaving is difficult.
The arboretum is really boring. Clint angles for a tour of the libraries, but gets nowhere. Nor are there any convenient airshaft entrances, as far as he can see. Getting the manuscript is going to take some doing.
Doom kicks him out at four, and Clint spends the next two hours scoping out restaurants until he finds one with high ambient noise and poor lighting. They're not going to find anywhere devoid of spies, so this will have to do.
Banner shows at six, punctual. Clint watches him walk down the cobble streets to Clint's olde-worlde hotel, and tries to keep his face neutral. Banner looks a little better-fed, a little less threadbare, but his walk is full of tension and his eyes have new lines around them.
"I'm surprised they let you out," says Clint, when Banner's near enough to hear an undertone.
"I think Victor's trying to find out how important you are to me," says Banner, equally quiet. "Whether he can kidnap you as a hostage, or if he should just kill you to get you out of the way."
"Shit," says Clint, though he's suspected as much. "I'd rather be kidnapped. I'll propose marriage over stew, or something."
Banner smiles and shrugs and ducks his head, keeps quiet as they walk over to the restaurant. Clint puts a hand on Banner's lower back to guide him, after asking permission. It really would be good for Doom to believe that this is some kind of conference fuckbuddy rendezvous.
The restaurant is an inn, built in the last ten years but done up like it's been there for centuries, to appeal to whatever tourists Doomstadt manages to attract. The food is all traditional and the menus are in English, but Clint lets Banner order because he doesn't recognize anything anyway.
"So," says Clint, when the tracht-wearing waitress is gone. "Latveria."
"I'm consulting," says Banner.
"What could Doom possibly have you consulting on that isn't going to turn out disastrous for the world?" asks Clint. It's rhetorical, and Banner frowns at his napkin.
"Can I talk here?" he mutters.
"Sure," says Clint. "We're difficult to hear clearly, and anyway, there's nothing he can do to you and I don't plan to be here long enough to find out what he can do to me."
"He wants to make Latveria a nuclear power," says Banner.
"That's all?" Clint would've expected Doom to be more interested in making monsters.
"I told him I wouldn't be involved in any super-soldier research," says Banner. He doesn't look up, but his frown melts into something a little vicious. "It makes me anxious."
Clint grunts an acknowledgement. "I thought you were trying to avoid aspiring nuclear powers."
"Sure, trying," says Banner. "I didn't plan on accepting Victor's offer at all. But, I was convinced that it was in my best interests. And the best interests of everyone in Cluj-Napoca."
"Got it," says Clint. "Hulk blackmail." He puts on an affected accent and says "this is a nice town, with the fountains and all. It'd be a shame if something were to... happen to it."
Banner looks up at last, eyes meeting Clint's. "Why is your mobster accent from California?"
"Only accent I can do worth a damn," says Clint, and thankfully the waitress takes this relatively-innocent moment to set down their meals. Clint has some kind of vegetable soup with meat ravioli in it, and he decides he approves of Banner's taste.
Banner's looking at him, though, jaw set. He's not touching his plate of goulash. "Did you come to rescue me?"
Clint mulls it over, considers lying, but decides Banner deserves the truth. "Nah," he says. "No one knows you're here. This is just-"
"A weird coincidence," finishes Banner. His shoulders slump.
"Hey, don't be like that," says Clint. Hopelessness is a terribly familiar look on Banner, and Clint doesn't like it. "You have a plan to get out of here?"
Banner shrugs. "I'm working with Victor for now. He has diplomatic immunity, so even if anyone knew I'm here, I don't think they'd come after me. But Victor also has a fleet of private jets."
"You think he can get you to India, if you build him a nuclear power plant" says Clint.
"I think I might be able to hack a jet's autopilot before Victor tries to steal my blood and restart the Hulk experiments without me," corrects Banner. "I just need to get to the hangar. Unfortunately, those are pretty heavily guarded, and the other guy doesn't really like enclosed spaces." Banner finally takes a bite of his food.
"Yeah," says Clint, imagining the Hulk trying to fly a plane. "Yeah, I can see why that would be a problem."
"So," says Banner. "Why are you here, if not for me?"
Clint takes a piece of paper from his briefcase, folds it up, and passes it under the table. "Looking for a book. That's a photo of it before it was stolen from the British Museum."
Banner slips his glasses on and studies the photograph. He holds it tight to his body, away from possible cameras. Clint wonders how much of Banner's discretion was learned during his time in hiding and how much of it is new, forced on him by Doom's personal oversight. Either way, it's useful for Clint's purposes.
"I've seen this," says Banner. "It's in Victor's kitchen."
Clint stops eating his ravioli soup, and stares at Banner while he tries to swallow. Some questions come to mind: why were you in Doom's kitchen? Why do you call Doom 'Victor?' Is anything going on there?
"He does feed us, occasionally," says Banner, dryly. "I noticed it on his coffee table while we were discussing some construction plans."
"I was just going to ask why he kept a valuable manuscript in his kitchen," says Clint, defensively. He shouldn't be that easy to figure out.
"I think he likes to read in the mornings," muses Banner. "That table is covered in journal articles and books."
"Okay," says Clint. "I need that book, and you need to get to the hangar. Let's see what we can do."
Banner takes off his glasses and focuses on his goulash, and for a moment Clint wonders if he should have asked if Banner wanted to team up instead of just presenting it as a certainty. Clint's not used to relying on people besides Natasha, but somewhere in his head he figures Banner's on his team. Clint relied on Banner in New York, even though he'd never properly met the guy, and the Hulk came through, took out several tons of Chitauri. But Clint was kind of messed up, at the time, and he knows he shouldn't trust the thoughts he had then.
He draws breath to tell Banner 'no pressure' and 'I'm sure you can make your own way,' but Banner looks up from his plate again and takes a sip of water. Clint waits, watching.
"Clive?" asks Banner. "Seriously?"
"This is what happens when they let me choose my own aliases," says Clint, spreading his hands. "I make them easy to remember."
Banner nods and relaxes, just a bit. Clint can see it in his shoulders, in the way Banner leans forward and gestures between them. "The guard change is at two am," says Banner. "Think we can be in the hangar by then?"
Clint grabs a pencil and a notepad out of his briefcase, starts to sketch out the beginnings of a timetable, working backwards from the two am deadline. He's not going to waste time on telling Banner that he's pleased they're working together, or revealing his doubts. But Clint still grins, as Banner leans close, making corrections in a low voice. Mostly he grins because Banner is dragging the edge of one rolled-up sleeve into his goulash, and part of it is for the benefit of the woman three tables over who is definitely spying for Doom, but some of it is just for Banner, and for having someone to rely on.
---
Banner won't hulk out, because he doesn't want to hurt any of Doom's innocent staff or the kidnapped scientists. Clint argues with him about it some, but honestly he doesn't really need to deal with the Hulk here. And Banner's right, the green guy wouldn't fit in one of the small hypersonic jets and they don't have time to wait for him to calm down and become Bruce again. But it would be a lot less complicated for the Hulk to just smash everything and let Clint pick the book out of the rubble.
Once they iron out their differences and settle the details, the new plan is this:
Banner will get the manuscript from its current place on Doom's coffee table, crash Doom's surveillance equipment or generally create as much computer-related chaos as possible, and meet Clint in the courtyard at one am. Clint will be there, having disabled as many guards and Doombots as necessary. Together they'll make tracks for the hangar, on the other side of the grounds from the castle, and hotwire their way out of there. Banner says he's already got a virus set up that should give them a backdoor into the autopilot system - he just has to get close enough to the jets to plug it in. Hitting the hangar at the guard change should give them the space they need.
It's a relatively simple plan. Clint's not surprised when it goes wrong.
It starts when the assassins come to Clint's hotel room. Two thugs with a supervising Doombot, one of those robots that Doom made to look exactly like him. The creation of an egotistical mind, or someone who couldn't get anyone else to model for him. At least Clint was expecting them, had time to change from the monkey suit into his real work clothes.
Doom's assassins go for the lump in the bed, and then the closet, when they realize the lump is made of pillows and the now-empty briefcase. They don't look up.
No one ever looks up.
Clint's comfortable in the ceiling's crossbeams, legs folded up in a crouch and his bow ready. He could wait here until Doom's cronies get bored and go away, and Clint plans to. God bless top-floor rooms. God bless old-style timber frame hotels, with sturdy beams that don't even creak when Clint shifts his weight.
Maybe they creak a little, enough for cybernetic ears. The Doombot does look up.
So much for stealth. Clint looses an arrow, and the Doombot goes down, shaft sticking out of its eye. Doom needs to armor those things more.
The two human thugs are moving, and the next arrow goes in the bigger one's thigh before Clint draws a knife and drops, leaving the bow up on the beam. Bows aren't great for close range against two opponents, when they can distract you and keep you from making a second shot.
The thugs are good, moving fast and hitting smart, not just hard. Clint lets a few blows glance over him, watching for guns. There aren't any - either Doom wanted him captured, or he was relying on the Doombot. Either way, it was a mistake. These guys are okay, but Clint's been training with Nat. It's going to take a lot more than this to bring him in.
The bigger thug's favoring his leg, but the smaller one's picking up the slack, moving in on Clint from his friend's injured side, keeping Clint from taking advantage of the weakness. Clint swipes at the smaller thug with his knife, missing the guy's face as he jumps back, but catching his shoulder. While the smaller guy is swearing and trying to see how bad it is, Clint kicks out and sweeps the bigger guy's legs out from under him. He goes down hard, lands on his thigh wound. Clint ignores the screaming as the smaller guy comes at him, pushing him back into the wall. The thug focuses on the knife, grabbing Clint's hand and pinning it to the wall. But you shouldn't just focus on the weapons, instead of the person using them. Clint waits until the guy leans in a bit too close, and then he bucks his head forward, crushing the smaller guy's nose with his forehead.
The smaller guy topples. The bigger thug is still on the floor, and he looks like he might be feeling the blood loss. Clint shakes his head, trying to make sure his brain hasn't dislocated, and then grins. Still plenty of time to make it to the rendezvous.
A metal hand clamps around Clint's ankle, and he looks down into the one-eyed face of the Doombot.
"Won't stay down, huh?" Clint says. He flips the knife in his hand, gets ready to throw. "Just take a nap, there's a good-"
The electric shock seizes through him just as Clint sends the knife into the Doombot's remaining eye. The Doombot jerks and collapses, which isn't much comfort to Clint since he's currently doing the exact same thing.
---
When Clint wakes up, everyone else is still down. Small mercies. If he hadn't dealt with the thugs before the Doombot sucker-punched him (or sucker-shocked him, whatever), he'd probably be in a stockade in Doom's living room by now.
Clint's watch needs resetting, after the shock the Doombot gave him. He presses a few buttons and waits for the satellites to feed it the correct time.
One am. Fuck.
Clint grabs his bow from the ceiling-beam and heads for the castle as fast as he can. He's running late. If Banner's already in the courtyard, he'll be worried or, worse, under fire from the guards that Clint didn't manage to take out.
The courtyard is beautiful, young trees and delicately grown shrubberies outlining a carefully cut lawn. It's also built like a firing range, with no cover as soon as you emerge out of the garden paths and into the courtyard proper. Clint's seen the design before, at old castles and new estates. No one can sneak up from the gardens without being seen by the house.
It works against Doom as well - Clint had planned to stay in the shrubberies and pick off the guards that patrol the courtyard, while Banner took out the surveillance equipment inside.
But there aren't any guards in the courtyard. Just Banner, clutching a briefcase and talking to Doom.
Clint thinks betrayed, the word clawing its way through him before he kicks and shoves it down. The next thought is that Bruce is probably in trouble. Either way, Clint needs to get closer, to hear, and he moves through the shrubberies as silently as possible, the leaves barely stirring around him.
"How long must we wait for your accomplice?" Doom sounds angry, and betrayed flashes through Clint again and his knuckles twist white around his bow, Banner must have told Doom everything-
"I told you, I don't have an accomplice," says Banner, and Clint breathes out. Right. Banner is a good guy, Doom is the villain. Keep it together.
"You were conspiring with the so-called Waverly." Fortunately, Doom must be totally unaware of Clint's tiny trust crisis over here, because his focus is all on Banner. "You could not think that you would escape my grounds alone, with that book you stole."
Banner shrinks a little under Doom's scrutiny, bends but doesn't break. "I don't have your book," he says.
Doom actually scoffs. "Do not be absurd, Banner. Give me the book and the true name of your accomplice, or Doom shall make you do so."
Banner straightens, at that. "You can't make me do anything. Did you forget about the Hulk, or are you just dumb enough to think-"
His voice cuts off as Doom grabs Banner by the throat. Doom's armored glove is glowing red, and spots dance in the air around it. He lifts Banner off of his feet, and Banner convulses, like he's trying to change but can't.
"No man insults Doom's intelligence and lives to tell about it," shouts Doom. "I am prepared for you, Banner, and your strength will be useless against my magic, you-"
Doom stumbles as one of Clint's arrows hits him in the chest. Clint can only barely remember loosing it - if he'd been thinking, he would have picked a more useful one, armor-piercing or explosive or a gas-grenade-
Doom growls and turns to the shrubberies, other hand glowing, and Clint looses another extremely normal arrow at Doom's head.
Doom goes down, this time, because armor is armor but that arrow was going well over 225 miles per hour and even Clint's normal arrows are tipped with steel. Bruce falls with him, coughing and scrambling away as Doom's hand releases.
"Clint?" shouts Bruce, and Clint emerges out of the shrubbery to reassure him and also give Doom a few good kicks while he's down.
"Got the book?" asks Clint. Kicking someone who's covered in armor hurts the feet, but Clint's prepared to sacrifice them for a good cause.
"Yes, come on, run," says Banner, grabbing at Clint's hand, and Clint lets himself be dragged away. Doom's groaning, anyway, and Clint doesn't particularly want to be there when he wakes up.
"Are you okay?" he asks Banner, and Banner nods, his mouth open for breathing, not for talking. Banner's obviously not a runner, the way he's having to concentrate on pushing forward without killing his lungs, so Clint leaves him to it. They're two-thirds of the way to the hangar before they see any guards, and then they find what seems like all of the Doombots in the castle. The 'bots are blocking the way into the hangar, and Banner swears without much breath but a lot of feeling. Clint just grins.
"I'm going to need my hand back," he says, and Banner drops his hand like it's hot. Probably hadn't realized that he was still holding it. Then Clint rotates an explosive arrowhead into position in his quiver, notches the arrow and draws back his string in one easy motion, lets fly into the barricade of Doombots.
Clint and Banner are still running as the explosion shatters robots and sends pieces flying. This is what Clint should have done to Doom himself, though admittedly that probably wouldn't have been great for Banner. Still, something to think about. Clint grabs Banner's hand, this time, tugs him through the dust and loose circuitry.
The hangar is very dark, and Clint almost stops running because he doesn't know where to go, but Banner picks up the slack, leading him forward.
"We want the five sixty-two," says Banner, pointing to the dim outline of a jet in the back of the hangar. "It should handle like a SHIELD jet, I think it was based on a captured one."
"Shh!" Clint can see the soft glow of Doombot eyes, coming in behind them. Not all of the 'bots were caught in the explosion. He ducks behind a plane, pulling Banner with him, and some kind of ray gun fries the spot where they had been standing.
The jet Banner wants is five planes down. Clint ducks and starts running beneath the undercarriages, Banner in tow and the Doombots' shots scattering across the planes.
"Oh my god," says Banner, "this is really, really awful."
"If you're going to hulk out on me, now would be a better time than, say, five minutes from now." Clint skids under the last plane and fetches up against the jet. A Doombot pushes the plane out of its way and advances, hand held up. "Just, you know, if you need to get it out of your system."
"I'm fine," pants Banner, but his skin is gleaming green. "The passcode for the five sixty-two is-"
"Don't tell me, just type it in," says Clint, because he's already pulling back his bowstring and aiming an arrow at the foremost Doombot. He lets loose, and then again, and then again, three down with electricity twining up the arrow shafts that sprout from their facsimile eyes, and then Banner is dragging him into the jet and the hatch is locked behind them.
"We're okay," says Clint, checking his arms surreptitiously for scorch marks. "We're okay, right?"
Banner looks at him, and the Doombots slam on the outside of the jet.
"Stop talking and start hacking!" yells Clint.
"I haven't been talking," says Banner, but he's scrambling up into the pilot's seat, plugging a chip into a USB port.
"You're talking now," says Clint, and the wall dents under a robot fist. "Is there any way to make code work faster?"
"The problem's getting the direction right - the default is north, but we want to head east-"
"Bruce," says Clint, very deliberately. "I don't fucking care which direction we're going, as long as it's out of here."
"Right, sure," says Bruce, and then they're moving and Clint hurries up to the cockpit so he can see where they're going. Toward a bunch of boxes.
"Bruce, the runway is over there."
"You're the one who just said direction doesn't matter," says Bruce, and his half-smile is back, but apparently that was the extra time he needed because soon they're heading the right direction and the Doombots are chasing them on foot, far too slow.
"In your face, Doom!" shouts Clint, as the jet lifts off of the runway. They're good, they're golden, they're headed for Hungary, apparently, and Hungary has approximately zero death robots-
Flying death robots.
Clint can see a flock of Doombots on the rear monitors, and the jet shakes as they open fire.
"Since when have they been able to fly?" he asks, leaning over Bruce and looking through the control panel for some kind of weapon, Doom never built anything without some kind of weapon-
"This must be what Victor was working on this week," mutters Bruce. He gets out of Clint's way, slumping into the co-pilot's seat and gripping the arm-rests. His eyes are squeezed shut.
"Stay with me, Bruce," says Clint. He really doesn't like Bruce's color. "Not good with flying?"
"Not good with being shot at," says Bruce. "Or flying, yes."
"I can't do this alone," says Clint. "Are there weapons here? Anything I can use on them?"
"I didn't figure out how to hack into the weapons systems," says Bruce. His eyes are still closed, but he gets a laptop from his bag, opens it by touch.
"Then you have to give me control of the plane." Clint's hands are already on the wheel, but the autopilot is firmly steering, rejecting Clint's attempts at evasive action.
"Five minutes." Bruce plugs a USB cord into his computer and then connects it to the plane.
"I don't know if we have five minutes, Bruce." The jet shudders again, and then the autopilot beeps and the wheel starts responding.
"She's all yours," says Bruce, like Clint hadn't noticed. He puts the jet into a dive.
The Doombots have one thing in common with the Chitauri - they can't bank worth a damn. The land outside of Doomstadt is flat and rural, but there are still things to dodge around and let the 'bots smash into - signaling towers, giant satellite dishes, all of Doom's mad scientist apparatus. Clint grins as Doombot number five hits a shuttle launcher platform.
"We have to make it over the border," says Bruce. He has a hand over his eyes, now. "Doom can't send his Doombots into a neighboring country, even in hot pursuit - everyone would treat it like he'd declared war."
"Sure, sure," says Clint, and sends them into a spin. Bruce turns a very unthreatening shade of green and bends over, tucking his head between his knees. "Are you motion sick?"
"Yes," mutters Bruce.
"Hey," says Clint, brightly, eyeing the throttle, "did you know this Doomjet will go hypersonic?"
Bruce groans, but you can't hardly feel the acceleration in the cockpit. Clint appreciates the smoothness - Doom does good work, even if he is an evil genius.
The Doombots keep up through mach 1, but they drop away at mach 2 and the border is closer, closer-
The jet starts trying to turn around.
Clint tries to fight the turn, but the jet is ignoring the wheel again. "Bruce!" he shouts. "Pay attention, I need you!"
Bruce is up and typing on the laptop, glasses settled on his nose this time, that's how you can tell it's serious, and then he shuts the laptop and sets it down. "We have to disable the whole autopilot - Doom's trying to take control of the jet remotely."
"I thought you had disabled the autopilot," says Clint. Their speed is slowing, now, as they return.
"Disable permanently," clarifies Bruce. "Manually. Do you have a penknife?"
It's Clint's turn to squeeze his eyes shut, as Banner cuts wires and tries not to electrocute himself. Clint doesn't like this, the feeling of losing control, not having any way to fight it. They should never have stolen Doom's plane, if it was going to end up like this.
"There," says Bruce, somewhere behind Clint, and the jet is responding again.
Clint sends them into another spin, just because he can. Bruce says something and he sounds annoyed, but Clint grins and aims for the border.
"I'm not done," says Bruce. "The radar box has some connections, and it's over on your left-"
"Lean over," says Clint. "I can't really let go of the wheel."
Bruce probably nods, but Clint can't see him from here, so the first thing he knows is that Bruce has his left hand on Clint's thigh and is leaning over Clint's lap with a knife in his right hand. Clint thinks pure thoughts and not about how much this reminds him of his last friends-with-benefits night with Tasha. Or about Bruce's warm hand in his, or about how hot Bruce looks when he's wearing glasses, or about-
Bruce cuts out a couple more wires, and the map shows that they're in Hungary, and Clint punches the air.
"Hooray," says Bruce, dryly, folding up the penknife, and it would be very easy to pull him up and kiss him, but Clint's pretty sure that the fewer surprises the better, after all that.
Bruce doesn't seem to agree, because when he straightens up, he seizes Clint's face in his hands and presses their mouths together. Clint grabs his shoulders and keeps him there, warm and alive and wow, Bruce is actually a pretty good kisser, until the radio pops and crackles on.
"Miscreants," snarls Doom. "You have not heard the last of this. My minions will find you, in whatever hole you hide yourself, until you beg for-"
"Should I cut the radio too?" asks Bruce.
"We'll probably need it," says Clint, "Let me just-" He turns the volume knob and Doom's rantings settle down into an angry murmur.
"So," says Bruce, slowly. "Was that okay? I- Sometimes I don't really get 'signals.'"
"That was great," says Clint. "And when I don't have to steer and watch for stray geese, we are doing it again. For longer."
"Oh," says Bruce, and settles back into his own chair. "Right, steering. Very important thing, steering."
Clint glances over and Bruce is smiling, wide and proper, and Clint feels his own grin starting.
"Next question," says Bruce. "Is Natasha going to kill me? Because I'd like to start on my will."
"She'll just be jealous I got there first," says Clint.
Bruce goes blank on him, and then his hands are worrying at each other. "Oh," he says. "Um."
"What?" asks Clint, and then he gets it and for a second he's actually not steering, just clutching the control wheel until Bruce makes a noise and Clint remembers why it is an especially terrible idea to crash this plane, with this passenger.
"Okay," says Clint. "So maybe I'm a little jealous that she got there first."
"I thought she would have told you." Bruce looks at the ceiling, then the floor.
"Yeah, me too," mutters Clint, and Bruce looks at him at last, and Clint swallows, says, louder, "Look, if it doesn't bother you, then it doesn't bother me. We can all continue on just like we were."
"Okay. Forget I said anything." Bruce rubs at his forehead. "Forget I did anything."
"Nope," says Clint, popping the 'p.' "No, the kissing is on the record. All in favor of post-daring-escape makeouts, say 'aye.'"
"Oh," says Bruce, again, but he sounds a lot happier about it this time. "Aye. Definitely aye"
---
Flight time from Latveria to Kolkata is just a couple of hours at mach 6, and it feels like less. Bruce falls asleep in his chair, slumped in on himself and probably drooling a bit on Doom's black leather upholstery. Clint keeps the Doomjet's stealth shields up and tries not to think, not think at all. Flying manual is good for that. All he has to focus on is the speed, and the direction, and the radar, and not on Nat and Bruce.
Well, maybe he focuses on Bruce a little. He's quiet even when he's sleeping, doesn't snore at all, and his hair looks ridiculous.
When they reach the Indian border, Clint starts to decelerate before reaching over and shaking Bruce awake. Bruce wakes up slow, and Clint can see that he'd rather stay asleep and miss the rest of the flight.
He also wants to land in a secluded mountain valley or some shit.
"No," says Clint. "See, Bruce, this is why we have the radio."
Bruce looks skeptical, but Clint just radios in to air traffic control and lands the plane at the airport. He has to wave his SHIELD identification around a lot, and Bruce's consultant credentials from Latveria and SHIELD, but eventually they make it out of the airport and into a hotel room in the bright and shiny side of Kolkata. Bruce is sprawled out on the bed like he's found heaven.
"I love this place," says Bruce, eyes closed. "I love sheets."
"Should I leave you and the bed alone together?" asks Clint. It's half tease and half serious. There are two beds in the room, and he could take the other. "I wouldn't want to intrude."
Bruce cracks an eye open. "Come here," he says. "Do you want to, uh-"
"Post-daring-escape makeouts?" says Clint, and Bruce smiles at him and beckons.
Kissing Bruce is good, slow and careful and a little sleepy, Bruce's hums as Clint shifts on top of him and Clint breaking away to ask if he can touch Bruce's shoulders, if he can kiss his neck, if he can touch his chest-
"You can touch me anywhere," says Bruce, at last. He sounds a little exasperated.
"Anywhere?" Clint raises his eyebrows, looks down.
"Fuck, please," says Bruce, angling his hips up. Clint grins and unzips him.
For a second Clint thinks that he can taste Natasha on Bruce's lips, but that's a ridiculous and really creepy thing to think, so he shoves that into the back of his mind and forgets it. It's more like he can see what Natasha must have seen - the way Bruce's hair falls into his eyes, and the way his hands clench and unclench, and the way his mouth falls open but he doesn't make much noise, just hums and little gasping breaths. It's beautiful, and Clint is glad that he's here to see it, to see Bruce.
"I don't have a change of clothes," says Bruce, when Clint can tell he's close. "I- this is awkward, but-"
"Yeah, I probably shouldn't get come on the uniform," says Clint. Wouldn't be the first time, but Bruce is sensible, that's good. Clint thinks he's taking a second to calm down, too, but that's just a guess.
They break to get naked, and Clint makes a note to do that first, next time. Not that he doesn't enjoy watching Bruce step out of his boxers, turned away from Clint so he can see the weird scientific diagram tattooed on the small of Bruce's back.
Bruce looks over his shoulder, and it's Clint's turn to beckon him back to bed.
Bruce sits down, kisses Clint, pulls away, says "hey." Bruce's smile fills Clint's range of vision. "Is it okay if I touch you?"
"Baby," drawls Clint, "you can touch me anywhere."
"Anywhere?" asks Bruce, trying to imitate Clint's voice, and Clint laughs.
"No grabbing on my neck, you don't want to find out what reflex that triggers. But everywhere else should be good, if you want to-" Clint tries to finish with 'experiment,' but the last word comes out in a squeak, his hips bucking up to meet Bruce's hand on his dick. Bruce's half-smile is more of a smirk, and he says "Tell me if I do anything wrong," before his mouth closes on one of Clint's nipples.
"This is good," says Clint, trying to catch his breath. He lets himself be pushed back, Bruce leaning over him. One of his hands tangles in Bruce's hair. "Keep doing this. Can I pull on your hair?"
Bruce gives him a thumbs up, and Clint tugs, guiding Bruce to his other nipple, then back up to his mouth. They kiss for a while, and even when they break apart, they don't move away from each other. Bruce leans his forehead against Clint's, and they breathe each other's air in gasps.
"I really like you," mumbles Bruce, against Clint's lips. His hips stutter as he rubs against Clint's thigh, comes.
"Same," says Clint, and arches his back, coming in Bruce's hand.
He lays there for a second, feeling warm and comfortable and pleased with himself until Bruce starts to snore and Clint starts feeling a bit trapped underneath him. He pushes him off, gently, and goes to the bathroom for a washcloth. Cleaning them both up only takes a second, and Bruce sleeps through the whole thing, completely out. Clint lies down next to him, taking advantage of a chance to study Bruce without having to simultaneously fly a plane.
Bruce is a kind of a hairy guy, solidly built now that he's had a few weeks of eating regular meals and not traveling. Clint wants to run his fingers over Bruce's stomach, see if the hair is as soft as it looks, but he's not sure if Bruce would be okay with Clint touching him while he's asleep.
The only thing Bruce is wearing now is a medical bracelet, a surgical steel tag on some kind of thin cord. Clint pulls on it and it stretches wide without much tension. It's obviously not a normal material. Maybe Starktech. Or Bannertech, if that's a thing.
Bruce is still asleep, even if he twitches and mumbles while he's doing it. Clint flips the tag over to see what's engraved on the other side.
BLOOD INFECTION - TREAT AS BIOHAZARD
Which is sound advice for any medic encountering a random casualty, but probably even more important when the patient's blood is running with gamma radiation. Clint's more concerned about the second line.
DO NOT RESUSCITATE
Obviously Clint's not the only one with some issues. He's seen Bruce's file, of course, updated after New York to include 'past suicidal tendencies.' Apparently Nat was witness to something of a scene, but she won't tell Clint about it: too serious for gossip, not vital enough to tell him anyway. But the line in the file is enough for Clint to imagine, along with the medical bracelet and the way Bruce talks (or doesn't talk) about the Hulk.
It feels too personal for a file, though, even if Bruce had realized what he was doing, admitting things in a room full of SHIELD operatives and recording devices. But files tell Clint Bruce's blood type, and where he lived when he was seven, and the number of people he killed during the Harlem incident. Bruce has probably seen Clint's file, in turn, when he was up in the Helicarrier and Clint was a compromised agent they were trying to recover.
Now Clint knows what Bruce looks like when he comes, and that, at least, isn't part of SHIELD's intelligence. Best to keep it that way. He's not going to tell Hill about this, though she'd probably be (officially) interested.
Clint's phone buzzes, over with his clothes and low on battery, and he gets his charger out of its pocket in his quiver. He makes sure to keep it on him, ever since his phone died in Tunis and he had to call for reinforcements on a borrowed civilian phone. Nat had ragged him about it for a solid month.
Nat. Clint stares at his phone, then at the Bruce-shaped lump on the bed, then at the phone again.
He doesn't text Nat with any recriminations, because it's not like it helps to be mad at her. She knew that he didn't like what she was doing with Bruce, so she didn't worry him with it when it got more intimate. That makes sense to her, and if Clint thinks about it, it makes sense to him too. No reason to give Tasha a hard time, when no one did anything wrong.
Clint does text her a picture of himself giving a naked thumbs-up, along with something about Bruce doing well, though, because he's not above being passive-aggressive.
He falls asleep before Natasha replies.
This entry was originally posted at http://neveralarch.dreamwidth.org/45602.html. Comment wherever you want.
Travelogue
Avengers
Rating for all chapters: adult
(content notes, this chapter: violence, explicit sex, introspection about canon suicidal tendencies. Gratuitous Doom.)
Characters: Clint/Bruce/Natasha, Tony Stark, Maria Hill, Nick Fury, Victor von Doom
Wordcount (total): 25,000 (this chapter): 7,500ish
Summary: Post-New York, Clint's still having trouble dealing with the whole Loki-controlling-his-brain situation, and Natasha seems to be avoiding him. Bruce Banner, meanwhile, just wants to get back to Kolkata.
A/N: Not as heavy as the content notes make it sound, jsyk.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
SHIELD needs to retrieve an ancient manuscript that Doctor Doom has stolen (or 'liberated,' according to his official press release) from the British Museum. Clint's told that it could do unimaginable harm if Doom is allowed to keep it and use it in his techno-mystical experiments, but also that preventing that harm isn't worth the international incident of sending a full SHIELD team, let alone recalling the Avengers. So they decided to send Hawkeye solo.
The mission briefing had been chock-full of hypocrisy and doublethink, to the point that Agent Hill hadn't even tried to run the briefing, brought in Director Fury instead. Clint still thinks that the most ridiculous part is that they expect him to not cause an international incident. He's stealthy, yes, and effective, but he's still recognizable. Especially after New York.
Well, it'll be a challenge, anyway.
When Clint's plane touches down in Latveria, he's wearing a suit and tie. He's carrying a briefcase. He's also itching to pull off the tie, because he hates these things - feels like someone's getting ready to strangle him, all the time. But Clive Waverly, mild-mannered investor-slash-entrepreneur, wears a tie.
The security agents at Doomport aren't wearing ties, they're wearing armor. Clint tries not to look too envious as they pat him down and wave him through.
He's not normally a disguise guy - that's Nat's specialty. The only times Clint plays infiltrator is when he can impersonate a wise-cracking bruiser, i.e., himself. But no one's got much intel on Doom's little fiefdom, and it's near-impossible to sneak in without putting Doom on alert. Too many security satellites and robots.
So Clint decided to walk in the front door.
----
"Doom needs investment capital from no man," says Doctor Victor von Doom. Obviously. The guy loves third-person, though Clint can't really blame him for wanting to say his awesome name as much as possible. 'Barton' doesn't have the same ring to it.
"Of course not," says Clint, with a self-deprecating smile that's blatantly stolen from Banner. "You're the ruler of an entire nation. But I'm sure you've had ideas which you don't have time to develop, given your busy schedule and intense creativity. My firm would simply provide development and marketing, for a small cut of the profits."
Doom inclines his head, looking pleased and a little amused. As much as you can tell through his metal mask. Clint's going off a tiny crinkle around his eyes, here.
"Latveria does not starve for researchers," Doom pronounces. "We have more than enough development. But perhaps your marketing skills may be of use. Doom has no patience for the whims of the public."
"Then I think we could have a very fruitful partnership." Clint shows his teeth. "Especially if your R and D department is all that you say."
Doom stands up, and Clint jumps up too, because it's probably a mortal offense to stay seated when the ruler of Latveria is on his feet.
"Follow," says Doom. "Doom will show you."
Clint gathers up papers with made-up figures in them, stuffing them into his briefcase before trailing Doom through the castle. This is good - a tour will give him at least part of the layout, since the castle's been destroyed and rebuilt so often that none of SHIELD's maps are up-to-date. Clint notes passageways out of the corners of his eyes and marks a few libraries for later.
Up three staircases and down four, and then they're on a landing, overlooking a huge room full of machinery, tools, and workers in lab coats. It's very impressive, even if Clint isn't the man to appreciate it. He watches one woman distilling some chemical in a fragile-looking glassware apparatus, while the man one table over solders together heavy pieces of sheet metal. Doom probably doesn't care much about work-place safety (supervillains never do, though admittedly neither do superheroes - Clint's seen Tony Stark's workshop).
"These are my laboratories," says Doom, waving an imperious hand at the little hive of productivity. "But this represents only a fraction of the research undertaken in Doomstadt. The arboretums are this way."
Doom starts to walk off, but Clint's picked out one important guy out of a sea of white-coated scientists and assistants. Clint hesitates, and he can see Doom noticing, so he figures he might as well go for it.
"Is that Bruce Banner?" he asks, as innocent and surprised as he can make it. "Hey, Doctor Banner?"
Banner turns, and Clint waves.
"Unauthorized personnel are not allowed-" begins Doom, but Clint is already half-way down the stairs. Banner's staring at him, and he's gone a little white. Well, so long as he doesn't go green.
"Clive Waverly." Clint sticks out a hand, and Bruce juggles the tablet and pen he's holding so that he can take it. "I don't know if you remember me-"
"Of course I do," says Banner, warmly. "How are you, Clive?"
"Doing great." Clint lets Banner's hand go. "How are they treating you here?"
"Can't complain," says Banner, but his half-smile looks strained. His eyes flick over Clint's shoulder, and Clint catches a corner of green cape in his peripheral vision. Doom can move quiet for a guy in armor. "No," continues Banner, "I really can't complain."
"A touching reunion," says Doom. His words sound like he's gritting them out, under that mask. "But unfortunately we have business. Perhaps you two can... 'catch up' later."
"I owe you lunch," says Banner, carefully, and with Doom looming over Clint, Banner's hunching even smaller than he normally carries himself. "Maybe-"
"Yeah, let's get dinner after this," says Clint. "I'm staying at the hotel, call it six?"
Banner nods, and Clint allows himself to be swept along with Doom.
"Have you known Banner for long?" asks Doom. The question is so casual that Clint knows it must be important.
No one knows Banner is here or SHIELD would have included it in the briefing. Hell, it would have been the briefing - Doom and the Hulk are a killer combination, literally. So Doom doesn't want it spread that Banner's here, especially by someone who knows about the Hulk.
"Met him at a conference, and we hit it off," says Clint. "I haven't seen him in years - I don't know why he dropped out of the biotech circuit."
Doom grunts. "I understand that Banner has a... medical condition. He is seldom in the public eye."
Clint makes an appropriate noise of pity and fellow feeling. Doom will probably still try to assassinate him within the day, but he's escaped any immediate ramifications. Doom would probably like to let him out of the castle before killing him anyway - these are nice rugs, and getting blood out of antique weaving is difficult.
The arboretum is really boring. Clint angles for a tour of the libraries, but gets nowhere. Nor are there any convenient airshaft entrances, as far as he can see. Getting the manuscript is going to take some doing.
Doom kicks him out at four, and Clint spends the next two hours scoping out restaurants until he finds one with high ambient noise and poor lighting. They're not going to find anywhere devoid of spies, so this will have to do.
Banner shows at six, punctual. Clint watches him walk down the cobble streets to Clint's olde-worlde hotel, and tries to keep his face neutral. Banner looks a little better-fed, a little less threadbare, but his walk is full of tension and his eyes have new lines around them.
"I'm surprised they let you out," says Clint, when Banner's near enough to hear an undertone.
"I think Victor's trying to find out how important you are to me," says Banner, equally quiet. "Whether he can kidnap you as a hostage, or if he should just kill you to get you out of the way."
"Shit," says Clint, though he's suspected as much. "I'd rather be kidnapped. I'll propose marriage over stew, or something."
Banner smiles and shrugs and ducks his head, keeps quiet as they walk over to the restaurant. Clint puts a hand on Banner's lower back to guide him, after asking permission. It really would be good for Doom to believe that this is some kind of conference fuckbuddy rendezvous.
The restaurant is an inn, built in the last ten years but done up like it's been there for centuries, to appeal to whatever tourists Doomstadt manages to attract. The food is all traditional and the menus are in English, but Clint lets Banner order because he doesn't recognize anything anyway.
"So," says Clint, when the tracht-wearing waitress is gone. "Latveria."
"I'm consulting," says Banner.
"What could Doom possibly have you consulting on that isn't going to turn out disastrous for the world?" asks Clint. It's rhetorical, and Banner frowns at his napkin.
"Can I talk here?" he mutters.
"Sure," says Clint. "We're difficult to hear clearly, and anyway, there's nothing he can do to you and I don't plan to be here long enough to find out what he can do to me."
"He wants to make Latveria a nuclear power," says Banner.
"That's all?" Clint would've expected Doom to be more interested in making monsters.
"I told him I wouldn't be involved in any super-soldier research," says Banner. He doesn't look up, but his frown melts into something a little vicious. "It makes me anxious."
Clint grunts an acknowledgement. "I thought you were trying to avoid aspiring nuclear powers."
"Sure, trying," says Banner. "I didn't plan on accepting Victor's offer at all. But, I was convinced that it was in my best interests. And the best interests of everyone in Cluj-Napoca."
"Got it," says Clint. "Hulk blackmail." He puts on an affected accent and says "this is a nice town, with the fountains and all. It'd be a shame if something were to... happen to it."
Banner looks up at last, eyes meeting Clint's. "Why is your mobster accent from California?"
"Only accent I can do worth a damn," says Clint, and thankfully the waitress takes this relatively-innocent moment to set down their meals. Clint has some kind of vegetable soup with meat ravioli in it, and he decides he approves of Banner's taste.
Banner's looking at him, though, jaw set. He's not touching his plate of goulash. "Did you come to rescue me?"
Clint mulls it over, considers lying, but decides Banner deserves the truth. "Nah," he says. "No one knows you're here. This is just-"
"A weird coincidence," finishes Banner. His shoulders slump.
"Hey, don't be like that," says Clint. Hopelessness is a terribly familiar look on Banner, and Clint doesn't like it. "You have a plan to get out of here?"
Banner shrugs. "I'm working with Victor for now. He has diplomatic immunity, so even if anyone knew I'm here, I don't think they'd come after me. But Victor also has a fleet of private jets."
"You think he can get you to India, if you build him a nuclear power plant" says Clint.
"I think I might be able to hack a jet's autopilot before Victor tries to steal my blood and restart the Hulk experiments without me," corrects Banner. "I just need to get to the hangar. Unfortunately, those are pretty heavily guarded, and the other guy doesn't really like enclosed spaces." Banner finally takes a bite of his food.
"Yeah," says Clint, imagining the Hulk trying to fly a plane. "Yeah, I can see why that would be a problem."
"So," says Banner. "Why are you here, if not for me?"
Clint takes a piece of paper from his briefcase, folds it up, and passes it under the table. "Looking for a book. That's a photo of it before it was stolen from the British Museum."
Banner slips his glasses on and studies the photograph. He holds it tight to his body, away from possible cameras. Clint wonders how much of Banner's discretion was learned during his time in hiding and how much of it is new, forced on him by Doom's personal oversight. Either way, it's useful for Clint's purposes.
"I've seen this," says Banner. "It's in Victor's kitchen."
Clint stops eating his ravioli soup, and stares at Banner while he tries to swallow. Some questions come to mind: why were you in Doom's kitchen? Why do you call Doom 'Victor?' Is anything going on there?
"He does feed us, occasionally," says Banner, dryly. "I noticed it on his coffee table while we were discussing some construction plans."
"I was just going to ask why he kept a valuable manuscript in his kitchen," says Clint, defensively. He shouldn't be that easy to figure out.
"I think he likes to read in the mornings," muses Banner. "That table is covered in journal articles and books."
"Okay," says Clint. "I need that book, and you need to get to the hangar. Let's see what we can do."
Banner takes off his glasses and focuses on his goulash, and for a moment Clint wonders if he should have asked if Banner wanted to team up instead of just presenting it as a certainty. Clint's not used to relying on people besides Natasha, but somewhere in his head he figures Banner's on his team. Clint relied on Banner in New York, even though he'd never properly met the guy, and the Hulk came through, took out several tons of Chitauri. But Clint was kind of messed up, at the time, and he knows he shouldn't trust the thoughts he had then.
He draws breath to tell Banner 'no pressure' and 'I'm sure you can make your own way,' but Banner looks up from his plate again and takes a sip of water. Clint waits, watching.
"Clive?" asks Banner. "Seriously?"
"This is what happens when they let me choose my own aliases," says Clint, spreading his hands. "I make them easy to remember."
Banner nods and relaxes, just a bit. Clint can see it in his shoulders, in the way Banner leans forward and gestures between them. "The guard change is at two am," says Banner. "Think we can be in the hangar by then?"
Clint grabs a pencil and a notepad out of his briefcase, starts to sketch out the beginnings of a timetable, working backwards from the two am deadline. He's not going to waste time on telling Banner that he's pleased they're working together, or revealing his doubts. But Clint still grins, as Banner leans close, making corrections in a low voice. Mostly he grins because Banner is dragging the edge of one rolled-up sleeve into his goulash, and part of it is for the benefit of the woman three tables over who is definitely spying for Doom, but some of it is just for Banner, and for having someone to rely on.
---
Banner won't hulk out, because he doesn't want to hurt any of Doom's innocent staff or the kidnapped scientists. Clint argues with him about it some, but honestly he doesn't really need to deal with the Hulk here. And Banner's right, the green guy wouldn't fit in one of the small hypersonic jets and they don't have time to wait for him to calm down and become Bruce again. But it would be a lot less complicated for the Hulk to just smash everything and let Clint pick the book out of the rubble.
Once they iron out their differences and settle the details, the new plan is this:
Banner will get the manuscript from its current place on Doom's coffee table, crash Doom's surveillance equipment or generally create as much computer-related chaos as possible, and meet Clint in the courtyard at one am. Clint will be there, having disabled as many guards and Doombots as necessary. Together they'll make tracks for the hangar, on the other side of the grounds from the castle, and hotwire their way out of there. Banner says he's already got a virus set up that should give them a backdoor into the autopilot system - he just has to get close enough to the jets to plug it in. Hitting the hangar at the guard change should give them the space they need.
It's a relatively simple plan. Clint's not surprised when it goes wrong.
It starts when the assassins come to Clint's hotel room. Two thugs with a supervising Doombot, one of those robots that Doom made to look exactly like him. The creation of an egotistical mind, or someone who couldn't get anyone else to model for him. At least Clint was expecting them, had time to change from the monkey suit into his real work clothes.
Doom's assassins go for the lump in the bed, and then the closet, when they realize the lump is made of pillows and the now-empty briefcase. They don't look up.
No one ever looks up.
Clint's comfortable in the ceiling's crossbeams, legs folded up in a crouch and his bow ready. He could wait here until Doom's cronies get bored and go away, and Clint plans to. God bless top-floor rooms. God bless old-style timber frame hotels, with sturdy beams that don't even creak when Clint shifts his weight.
Maybe they creak a little, enough for cybernetic ears. The Doombot does look up.
So much for stealth. Clint looses an arrow, and the Doombot goes down, shaft sticking out of its eye. Doom needs to armor those things more.
The two human thugs are moving, and the next arrow goes in the bigger one's thigh before Clint draws a knife and drops, leaving the bow up on the beam. Bows aren't great for close range against two opponents, when they can distract you and keep you from making a second shot.
The thugs are good, moving fast and hitting smart, not just hard. Clint lets a few blows glance over him, watching for guns. There aren't any - either Doom wanted him captured, or he was relying on the Doombot. Either way, it was a mistake. These guys are okay, but Clint's been training with Nat. It's going to take a lot more than this to bring him in.
The bigger thug's favoring his leg, but the smaller one's picking up the slack, moving in on Clint from his friend's injured side, keeping Clint from taking advantage of the weakness. Clint swipes at the smaller thug with his knife, missing the guy's face as he jumps back, but catching his shoulder. While the smaller guy is swearing and trying to see how bad it is, Clint kicks out and sweeps the bigger guy's legs out from under him. He goes down hard, lands on his thigh wound. Clint ignores the screaming as the smaller guy comes at him, pushing him back into the wall. The thug focuses on the knife, grabbing Clint's hand and pinning it to the wall. But you shouldn't just focus on the weapons, instead of the person using them. Clint waits until the guy leans in a bit too close, and then he bucks his head forward, crushing the smaller guy's nose with his forehead.
The smaller guy topples. The bigger thug is still on the floor, and he looks like he might be feeling the blood loss. Clint shakes his head, trying to make sure his brain hasn't dislocated, and then grins. Still plenty of time to make it to the rendezvous.
A metal hand clamps around Clint's ankle, and he looks down into the one-eyed face of the Doombot.
"Won't stay down, huh?" Clint says. He flips the knife in his hand, gets ready to throw. "Just take a nap, there's a good-"
The electric shock seizes through him just as Clint sends the knife into the Doombot's remaining eye. The Doombot jerks and collapses, which isn't much comfort to Clint since he's currently doing the exact same thing.
---
When Clint wakes up, everyone else is still down. Small mercies. If he hadn't dealt with the thugs before the Doombot sucker-punched him (or sucker-shocked him, whatever), he'd probably be in a stockade in Doom's living room by now.
Clint's watch needs resetting, after the shock the Doombot gave him. He presses a few buttons and waits for the satellites to feed it the correct time.
One am. Fuck.
Clint grabs his bow from the ceiling-beam and heads for the castle as fast as he can. He's running late. If Banner's already in the courtyard, he'll be worried or, worse, under fire from the guards that Clint didn't manage to take out.
The courtyard is beautiful, young trees and delicately grown shrubberies outlining a carefully cut lawn. It's also built like a firing range, with no cover as soon as you emerge out of the garden paths and into the courtyard proper. Clint's seen the design before, at old castles and new estates. No one can sneak up from the gardens without being seen by the house.
It works against Doom as well - Clint had planned to stay in the shrubberies and pick off the guards that patrol the courtyard, while Banner took out the surveillance equipment inside.
But there aren't any guards in the courtyard. Just Banner, clutching a briefcase and talking to Doom.
Clint thinks betrayed, the word clawing its way through him before he kicks and shoves it down. The next thought is that Bruce is probably in trouble. Either way, Clint needs to get closer, to hear, and he moves through the shrubberies as silently as possible, the leaves barely stirring around him.
"How long must we wait for your accomplice?" Doom sounds angry, and betrayed flashes through Clint again and his knuckles twist white around his bow, Banner must have told Doom everything-
"I told you, I don't have an accomplice," says Banner, and Clint breathes out. Right. Banner is a good guy, Doom is the villain. Keep it together.
"You were conspiring with the so-called Waverly." Fortunately, Doom must be totally unaware of Clint's tiny trust crisis over here, because his focus is all on Banner. "You could not think that you would escape my grounds alone, with that book you stole."
Banner shrinks a little under Doom's scrutiny, bends but doesn't break. "I don't have your book," he says.
Doom actually scoffs. "Do not be absurd, Banner. Give me the book and the true name of your accomplice, or Doom shall make you do so."
Banner straightens, at that. "You can't make me do anything. Did you forget about the Hulk, or are you just dumb enough to think-"
His voice cuts off as Doom grabs Banner by the throat. Doom's armored glove is glowing red, and spots dance in the air around it. He lifts Banner off of his feet, and Banner convulses, like he's trying to change but can't.
"No man insults Doom's intelligence and lives to tell about it," shouts Doom. "I am prepared for you, Banner, and your strength will be useless against my magic, you-"
Doom stumbles as one of Clint's arrows hits him in the chest. Clint can only barely remember loosing it - if he'd been thinking, he would have picked a more useful one, armor-piercing or explosive or a gas-grenade-
Doom growls and turns to the shrubberies, other hand glowing, and Clint looses another extremely normal arrow at Doom's head.
Doom goes down, this time, because armor is armor but that arrow was going well over 225 miles per hour and even Clint's normal arrows are tipped with steel. Bruce falls with him, coughing and scrambling away as Doom's hand releases.
"Clint?" shouts Bruce, and Clint emerges out of the shrubbery to reassure him and also give Doom a few good kicks while he's down.
"Got the book?" asks Clint. Kicking someone who's covered in armor hurts the feet, but Clint's prepared to sacrifice them for a good cause.
"Yes, come on, run," says Banner, grabbing at Clint's hand, and Clint lets himself be dragged away. Doom's groaning, anyway, and Clint doesn't particularly want to be there when he wakes up.
"Are you okay?" he asks Banner, and Banner nods, his mouth open for breathing, not for talking. Banner's obviously not a runner, the way he's having to concentrate on pushing forward without killing his lungs, so Clint leaves him to it. They're two-thirds of the way to the hangar before they see any guards, and then they find what seems like all of the Doombots in the castle. The 'bots are blocking the way into the hangar, and Banner swears without much breath but a lot of feeling. Clint just grins.
"I'm going to need my hand back," he says, and Banner drops his hand like it's hot. Probably hadn't realized that he was still holding it. Then Clint rotates an explosive arrowhead into position in his quiver, notches the arrow and draws back his string in one easy motion, lets fly into the barricade of Doombots.
Clint and Banner are still running as the explosion shatters robots and sends pieces flying. This is what Clint should have done to Doom himself, though admittedly that probably wouldn't have been great for Banner. Still, something to think about. Clint grabs Banner's hand, this time, tugs him through the dust and loose circuitry.
The hangar is very dark, and Clint almost stops running because he doesn't know where to go, but Banner picks up the slack, leading him forward.
"We want the five sixty-two," says Banner, pointing to the dim outline of a jet in the back of the hangar. "It should handle like a SHIELD jet, I think it was based on a captured one."
"Shh!" Clint can see the soft glow of Doombot eyes, coming in behind them. Not all of the 'bots were caught in the explosion. He ducks behind a plane, pulling Banner with him, and some kind of ray gun fries the spot where they had been standing.
The jet Banner wants is five planes down. Clint ducks and starts running beneath the undercarriages, Banner in tow and the Doombots' shots scattering across the planes.
"Oh my god," says Banner, "this is really, really awful."
"If you're going to hulk out on me, now would be a better time than, say, five minutes from now." Clint skids under the last plane and fetches up against the jet. A Doombot pushes the plane out of its way and advances, hand held up. "Just, you know, if you need to get it out of your system."
"I'm fine," pants Banner, but his skin is gleaming green. "The passcode for the five sixty-two is-"
"Don't tell me, just type it in," says Clint, because he's already pulling back his bowstring and aiming an arrow at the foremost Doombot. He lets loose, and then again, and then again, three down with electricity twining up the arrow shafts that sprout from their facsimile eyes, and then Banner is dragging him into the jet and the hatch is locked behind them.
"We're okay," says Clint, checking his arms surreptitiously for scorch marks. "We're okay, right?"
Banner looks at him, and the Doombots slam on the outside of the jet.
"Stop talking and start hacking!" yells Clint.
"I haven't been talking," says Banner, but he's scrambling up into the pilot's seat, plugging a chip into a USB port.
"You're talking now," says Clint, and the wall dents under a robot fist. "Is there any way to make code work faster?"
"The problem's getting the direction right - the default is north, but we want to head east-"
"Bruce," says Clint, very deliberately. "I don't fucking care which direction we're going, as long as it's out of here."
"Right, sure," says Bruce, and then they're moving and Clint hurries up to the cockpit so he can see where they're going. Toward a bunch of boxes.
"Bruce, the runway is over there."
"You're the one who just said direction doesn't matter," says Bruce, and his half-smile is back, but apparently that was the extra time he needed because soon they're heading the right direction and the Doombots are chasing them on foot, far too slow.
"In your face, Doom!" shouts Clint, as the jet lifts off of the runway. They're good, they're golden, they're headed for Hungary, apparently, and Hungary has approximately zero death robots-
Flying death robots.
Clint can see a flock of Doombots on the rear monitors, and the jet shakes as they open fire.
"Since when have they been able to fly?" he asks, leaning over Bruce and looking through the control panel for some kind of weapon, Doom never built anything without some kind of weapon-
"This must be what Victor was working on this week," mutters Bruce. He gets out of Clint's way, slumping into the co-pilot's seat and gripping the arm-rests. His eyes are squeezed shut.
"Stay with me, Bruce," says Clint. He really doesn't like Bruce's color. "Not good with flying?"
"Not good with being shot at," says Bruce. "Or flying, yes."
"I can't do this alone," says Clint. "Are there weapons here? Anything I can use on them?"
"I didn't figure out how to hack into the weapons systems," says Bruce. His eyes are still closed, but he gets a laptop from his bag, opens it by touch.
"Then you have to give me control of the plane." Clint's hands are already on the wheel, but the autopilot is firmly steering, rejecting Clint's attempts at evasive action.
"Five minutes." Bruce plugs a USB cord into his computer and then connects it to the plane.
"I don't know if we have five minutes, Bruce." The jet shudders again, and then the autopilot beeps and the wheel starts responding.
"She's all yours," says Bruce, like Clint hadn't noticed. He puts the jet into a dive.
The Doombots have one thing in common with the Chitauri - they can't bank worth a damn. The land outside of Doomstadt is flat and rural, but there are still things to dodge around and let the 'bots smash into - signaling towers, giant satellite dishes, all of Doom's mad scientist apparatus. Clint grins as Doombot number five hits a shuttle launcher platform.
"We have to make it over the border," says Bruce. He has a hand over his eyes, now. "Doom can't send his Doombots into a neighboring country, even in hot pursuit - everyone would treat it like he'd declared war."
"Sure, sure," says Clint, and sends them into a spin. Bruce turns a very unthreatening shade of green and bends over, tucking his head between his knees. "Are you motion sick?"
"Yes," mutters Bruce.
"Hey," says Clint, brightly, eyeing the throttle, "did you know this Doomjet will go hypersonic?"
Bruce groans, but you can't hardly feel the acceleration in the cockpit. Clint appreciates the smoothness - Doom does good work, even if he is an evil genius.
The Doombots keep up through mach 1, but they drop away at mach 2 and the border is closer, closer-
The jet starts trying to turn around.
Clint tries to fight the turn, but the jet is ignoring the wheel again. "Bruce!" he shouts. "Pay attention, I need you!"
Bruce is up and typing on the laptop, glasses settled on his nose this time, that's how you can tell it's serious, and then he shuts the laptop and sets it down. "We have to disable the whole autopilot - Doom's trying to take control of the jet remotely."
"I thought you had disabled the autopilot," says Clint. Their speed is slowing, now, as they return.
"Disable permanently," clarifies Bruce. "Manually. Do you have a penknife?"
It's Clint's turn to squeeze his eyes shut, as Banner cuts wires and tries not to electrocute himself. Clint doesn't like this, the feeling of losing control, not having any way to fight it. They should never have stolen Doom's plane, if it was going to end up like this.
"There," says Bruce, somewhere behind Clint, and the jet is responding again.
Clint sends them into another spin, just because he can. Bruce says something and he sounds annoyed, but Clint grins and aims for the border.
"I'm not done," says Bruce. "The radar box has some connections, and it's over on your left-"
"Lean over," says Clint. "I can't really let go of the wheel."
Bruce probably nods, but Clint can't see him from here, so the first thing he knows is that Bruce has his left hand on Clint's thigh and is leaning over Clint's lap with a knife in his right hand. Clint thinks pure thoughts and not about how much this reminds him of his last friends-with-benefits night with Tasha. Or about Bruce's warm hand in his, or about how hot Bruce looks when he's wearing glasses, or about-
Bruce cuts out a couple more wires, and the map shows that they're in Hungary, and Clint punches the air.
"Hooray," says Bruce, dryly, folding up the penknife, and it would be very easy to pull him up and kiss him, but Clint's pretty sure that the fewer surprises the better, after all that.
Bruce doesn't seem to agree, because when he straightens up, he seizes Clint's face in his hands and presses their mouths together. Clint grabs his shoulders and keeps him there, warm and alive and wow, Bruce is actually a pretty good kisser, until the radio pops and crackles on.
"Miscreants," snarls Doom. "You have not heard the last of this. My minions will find you, in whatever hole you hide yourself, until you beg for-"
"Should I cut the radio too?" asks Bruce.
"We'll probably need it," says Clint, "Let me just-" He turns the volume knob and Doom's rantings settle down into an angry murmur.
"So," says Bruce, slowly. "Was that okay? I- Sometimes I don't really get 'signals.'"
"That was great," says Clint. "And when I don't have to steer and watch for stray geese, we are doing it again. For longer."
"Oh," says Bruce, and settles back into his own chair. "Right, steering. Very important thing, steering."
Clint glances over and Bruce is smiling, wide and proper, and Clint feels his own grin starting.
"Next question," says Bruce. "Is Natasha going to kill me? Because I'd like to start on my will."
"She'll just be jealous I got there first," says Clint.
Bruce goes blank on him, and then his hands are worrying at each other. "Oh," he says. "Um."
"What?" asks Clint, and then he gets it and for a second he's actually not steering, just clutching the control wheel until Bruce makes a noise and Clint remembers why it is an especially terrible idea to crash this plane, with this passenger.
"Okay," says Clint. "So maybe I'm a little jealous that she got there first."
"I thought she would have told you." Bruce looks at the ceiling, then the floor.
"Yeah, me too," mutters Clint, and Bruce looks at him at last, and Clint swallows, says, louder, "Look, if it doesn't bother you, then it doesn't bother me. We can all continue on just like we were."
"Okay. Forget I said anything." Bruce rubs at his forehead. "Forget I did anything."
"Nope," says Clint, popping the 'p.' "No, the kissing is on the record. All in favor of post-daring-escape makeouts, say 'aye.'"
"Oh," says Bruce, again, but he sounds a lot happier about it this time. "Aye. Definitely aye"
---
Flight time from Latveria to Kolkata is just a couple of hours at mach 6, and it feels like less. Bruce falls asleep in his chair, slumped in on himself and probably drooling a bit on Doom's black leather upholstery. Clint keeps the Doomjet's stealth shields up and tries not to think, not think at all. Flying manual is good for that. All he has to focus on is the speed, and the direction, and the radar, and not on Nat and Bruce.
Well, maybe he focuses on Bruce a little. He's quiet even when he's sleeping, doesn't snore at all, and his hair looks ridiculous.
When they reach the Indian border, Clint starts to decelerate before reaching over and shaking Bruce awake. Bruce wakes up slow, and Clint can see that he'd rather stay asleep and miss the rest of the flight.
He also wants to land in a secluded mountain valley or some shit.
"No," says Clint. "See, Bruce, this is why we have the radio."
Bruce looks skeptical, but Clint just radios in to air traffic control and lands the plane at the airport. He has to wave his SHIELD identification around a lot, and Bruce's consultant credentials from Latveria and SHIELD, but eventually they make it out of the airport and into a hotel room in the bright and shiny side of Kolkata. Bruce is sprawled out on the bed like he's found heaven.
"I love this place," says Bruce, eyes closed. "I love sheets."
"Should I leave you and the bed alone together?" asks Clint. It's half tease and half serious. There are two beds in the room, and he could take the other. "I wouldn't want to intrude."
Bruce cracks an eye open. "Come here," he says. "Do you want to, uh-"
"Post-daring-escape makeouts?" says Clint, and Bruce smiles at him and beckons.
Kissing Bruce is good, slow and careful and a little sleepy, Bruce's hums as Clint shifts on top of him and Clint breaking away to ask if he can touch Bruce's shoulders, if he can kiss his neck, if he can touch his chest-
"You can touch me anywhere," says Bruce, at last. He sounds a little exasperated.
"Anywhere?" Clint raises his eyebrows, looks down.
"Fuck, please," says Bruce, angling his hips up. Clint grins and unzips him.
For a second Clint thinks that he can taste Natasha on Bruce's lips, but that's a ridiculous and really creepy thing to think, so he shoves that into the back of his mind and forgets it. It's more like he can see what Natasha must have seen - the way Bruce's hair falls into his eyes, and the way his hands clench and unclench, and the way his mouth falls open but he doesn't make much noise, just hums and little gasping breaths. It's beautiful, and Clint is glad that he's here to see it, to see Bruce.
"I don't have a change of clothes," says Bruce, when Clint can tell he's close. "I- this is awkward, but-"
"Yeah, I probably shouldn't get come on the uniform," says Clint. Wouldn't be the first time, but Bruce is sensible, that's good. Clint thinks he's taking a second to calm down, too, but that's just a guess.
They break to get naked, and Clint makes a note to do that first, next time. Not that he doesn't enjoy watching Bruce step out of his boxers, turned away from Clint so he can see the weird scientific diagram tattooed on the small of Bruce's back.
Bruce looks over his shoulder, and it's Clint's turn to beckon him back to bed.
Bruce sits down, kisses Clint, pulls away, says "hey." Bruce's smile fills Clint's range of vision. "Is it okay if I touch you?"
"Baby," drawls Clint, "you can touch me anywhere."
"Anywhere?" asks Bruce, trying to imitate Clint's voice, and Clint laughs.
"No grabbing on my neck, you don't want to find out what reflex that triggers. But everywhere else should be good, if you want to-" Clint tries to finish with 'experiment,' but the last word comes out in a squeak, his hips bucking up to meet Bruce's hand on his dick. Bruce's half-smile is more of a smirk, and he says "Tell me if I do anything wrong," before his mouth closes on one of Clint's nipples.
"This is good," says Clint, trying to catch his breath. He lets himself be pushed back, Bruce leaning over him. One of his hands tangles in Bruce's hair. "Keep doing this. Can I pull on your hair?"
Bruce gives him a thumbs up, and Clint tugs, guiding Bruce to his other nipple, then back up to his mouth. They kiss for a while, and even when they break apart, they don't move away from each other. Bruce leans his forehead against Clint's, and they breathe each other's air in gasps.
"I really like you," mumbles Bruce, against Clint's lips. His hips stutter as he rubs against Clint's thigh, comes.
"Same," says Clint, and arches his back, coming in Bruce's hand.
He lays there for a second, feeling warm and comfortable and pleased with himself until Bruce starts to snore and Clint starts feeling a bit trapped underneath him. He pushes him off, gently, and goes to the bathroom for a washcloth. Cleaning them both up only takes a second, and Bruce sleeps through the whole thing, completely out. Clint lies down next to him, taking advantage of a chance to study Bruce without having to simultaneously fly a plane.
Bruce is a kind of a hairy guy, solidly built now that he's had a few weeks of eating regular meals and not traveling. Clint wants to run his fingers over Bruce's stomach, see if the hair is as soft as it looks, but he's not sure if Bruce would be okay with Clint touching him while he's asleep.
The only thing Bruce is wearing now is a medical bracelet, a surgical steel tag on some kind of thin cord. Clint pulls on it and it stretches wide without much tension. It's obviously not a normal material. Maybe Starktech. Or Bannertech, if that's a thing.
Bruce is still asleep, even if he twitches and mumbles while he's doing it. Clint flips the tag over to see what's engraved on the other side.
BLOOD INFECTION - TREAT AS BIOHAZARD
Which is sound advice for any medic encountering a random casualty, but probably even more important when the patient's blood is running with gamma radiation. Clint's more concerned about the second line.
DO NOT RESUSCITATE
Obviously Clint's not the only one with some issues. He's seen Bruce's file, of course, updated after New York to include 'past suicidal tendencies.' Apparently Nat was witness to something of a scene, but she won't tell Clint about it: too serious for gossip, not vital enough to tell him anyway. But the line in the file is enough for Clint to imagine, along with the medical bracelet and the way Bruce talks (or doesn't talk) about the Hulk.
It feels too personal for a file, though, even if Bruce had realized what he was doing, admitting things in a room full of SHIELD operatives and recording devices. But files tell Clint Bruce's blood type, and where he lived when he was seven, and the number of people he killed during the Harlem incident. Bruce has probably seen Clint's file, in turn, when he was up in the Helicarrier and Clint was a compromised agent they were trying to recover.
Now Clint knows what Bruce looks like when he comes, and that, at least, isn't part of SHIELD's intelligence. Best to keep it that way. He's not going to tell Hill about this, though she'd probably be (officially) interested.
Clint's phone buzzes, over with his clothes and low on battery, and he gets his charger out of its pocket in his quiver. He makes sure to keep it on him, ever since his phone died in Tunis and he had to call for reinforcements on a borrowed civilian phone. Nat had ragged him about it for a solid month.
Nat. Clint stares at his phone, then at the Bruce-shaped lump on the bed, then at the phone again.
He doesn't text Nat with any recriminations, because it's not like it helps to be mad at her. She knew that he didn't like what she was doing with Bruce, so she didn't worry him with it when it got more intimate. That makes sense to her, and if Clint thinks about it, it makes sense to him too. No reason to give Tasha a hard time, when no one did anything wrong.
Clint does text her a picture of himself giving a naked thumbs-up, along with something about Bruce doing well, though, because he's not above being passive-aggressive.
He falls asleep before Natasha replies.
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