Archive of Our Own

God, did Clint hate magic. Illusions and deceit, wrapped up in pretty bows that pulled so tight around you that you lost your grip on oxygen and saw the stars it wanted you to see - that's what magic was to him. And he hated it; it destroyed without fail, and he had never seen it put to good use before, so he wasn't surprised to see it do even more harm now.

This is the doing of magic, Thor had said when they'd found Bruce, corpse-like and huddled on the hard ground after a raging battle, unresponsive and staring sightlessly up at the blue, smoky sky, his face slack. Clint had assumed he was dead; it was like second nature to Clint, to see a fallen comrade and assume the worst. But when they checked his pulse they found it fluttering, and his chest rose and fell with breath, though shallow and hardly noticeable. So, not dead, but he made no other show of awareness; when Natasha closed his eyes, they went willingly, and when Thor lifted him from the ground, he dangled as limply as a rag-doll. Some twisted sorcery. Yeah, Clint could see where magic might come in, if the fact that the most indestructible creature on their team was suddenly comatose had anything to do with it.

But what they could do about it, he had no idea; magic wasn't something they were really equipped to deal with, not even after all the instances where they'd encountered it. There was a fear, a general uneasiness amongst them all, that they might not be able to get Bruce out of whatever terrible spell he was ensnared in. And what would they do without the Hulk, their backup in dire times? (And what would they do without someone around to keep Stark occupied with science?)

But Thor, apparently, wasn't daunted by the fact that magic was afoot; he told them all, resolutely, that he would go out and find someone to come and assist in reversing the spell, or at least give them advice on what it was they would need to do to awaken their teammate.

And that's how they all ended up in Bruce's hospital room, watching his IV drip clear liquid into his veins and listening to the steady beep of his heart monitor, no comfort found in the quiet that had descended on the room as they stared at the prone figure in the bed. Clint perched high at the corner of the room, having taken up some disused stool, and watched the others in their various states of worry or indifference - well, Natasha seemed to be sporting the indifference, but that was just generally her face, so no one thought too deeply on it. The others, though, they were worried as they awaited Thor's return with whatever all-knowing sorcerer he managed to scrounge up in his otherworldly playpen, while they paddled around doing absolutely nothing.

The team was antsy, displeased with sitting around and waiting, while Clint treated it as more of a mission of observation; watch the mark, and wait for Thor's return. And so he did, sat and perched and waited until Thor came through the door with the very last person they'd expected to see when he said he was going to get someone to find a solution.

Bruce was cold.

That was unusual for him, the way he burned inside with radiation and anger, but he was cold now, lost and wandering barefoot down a mud-and-gravel street, not knowing where he was, how he had gotten here, where he was heading.

That part was, unfortunately, less unusual.

He'd found clothing somewhere, but after the torrential downpour that had turned the road to treacherous mud, they were probably doing more harm than good, and although he had yet to see another soul out here (wherever here was), he refused to abandon them.

He had a feeling he should be heading somewhere in particular, but he didn't remember any plans to move on, and if he was wandering barefoot in the middle of nowhere, chances were good he was no longer welcome wherever he had been.

Chances were decent that that place no longer existed.

Bruce's heart twinged, although he couldn't at this moment remember any faces; that was probably for the best, actually. He had enough faces to haunt his dreams.

So he did what he always did - he kept walking, kept going, and he'd deal with whatever he found.

Tony had been pacing, ranting, yelling at doctors and at Jarvis via his phone, complaining that he'd finally had someone he trusted to help him with medical and biochemical stuff but he wasn't exactly available right now. The others all politely didn't notice when the inventor developed a suspicious wet gleam in his eye.

When Thor returned, he turned to the door, ready to hope, but what he saw made him burn with anger instead.

The world was a terrible place, sometimes, Clint liked to reason. Sometimes, of course, it was nice and things went how they should, babies were born and people fell in love, but today it was a cruel and treacherous place filled with pockmarked memories and still-healing scars, and seeing the imposing figure of his past abuser left a bitter taste on his tongue and a coiled anger burning in his gut.

The feeling, he imagined, was shared throughout the room as Thor entered, face slightly desperate, mostly resigned, but his shouldered squared with determination, as the lithe God of Mischief strode in behind him, a small, vile smirk playing across his face.

"Avengers," he purred in way of greeting, getting a cold glare from his brother, and striking the entire room into action, seeing how frozen in time they'd previously been. Guns sprang from hiding places, Steve took up position before Bruce's bed to ward off the God, and Clint silently observed the amused look to the God's eyes through the sight of his pistol, face a muted mask of rage.

"Friends, I--" Thor began, only to be derailed by Steve, who was bristling.

"What is he doing here, Thor? Are you insane? Are you even yourself?"

And Thor frowned, but lifted his chin, brow furrowed. "I assure you, I am myself; I bring my brother here to assist us in this matter and nothing more. I would not see my fellow Avenger rot, and if it is by magic we must reverse this, then so be it."

Distrust permeated the room as Clint hopped from his perch and came forward, keeping his gun raised at half-mast, face inscrutable. "How can we even trust him? He could do more harm than good if he wanted."

Loki's gaze slithered from Steve's defensive position towards Clint, setting the archer's skin to crawling. "Quite the contrary," he replied, grin pulled high and wicked as his green gaze glinted. "I plan to help. If only because it puts you all within my debt, and that is oft to my favour. And, I assure you, no one else will be able to save your slumbering Doctor; he wanders, far from your reaches, and I am the only one with means by which you could retrieve him."

Tony took a step towards him. "How do you know that? How could you know that unless you were the one who put the whammy on him in the first place? I can see where you'd have a grudge against his giant green side, so don't think we're gonna just step aside and let you finish the job." He glared at the trickster.

Loki's smile was like the sweetest honey, and he waved one pale hand absently, as though he didn't care one way or another. "Oh, you fret so kindly for the beast, you really do," he replied, ignoring the look Thor shot him, simply examining his nails with a distant smirk. "But think of it like this; on the one hand, I could be lying, and I could kill your friend while he slumbers. Or, of course, I could be truly trying to help, and have no wicked intentions at all. Would you risk him dying without trying to save him at all?"

"No games, brother," Thor growled, only to have Loki stride past him, elegantly advancing on the protective barrier, craning his head to see the slumbering doctor.

"Oh, how he sleeps. I know because I've seen it, been a victim of it in a past life. A spell of ensnarement clouds his mind, and he will not leave it without a guide. It will be but a simple thing, sending either myself or another within him to retrieve his wandering consciousness. Or, of course... I could be lying." He laughed, low and menacing, and slid his gaze over everyone, including Clint, whose anxiety was growing with each passing moment.

"It's a coma," Tony insisted. "He's not gonna die. He just... might not ever wake up." His face scrunched in pain at that admission, and he visibly wavered. Then he fixed Loki with the glare again. "But if you do hurt him, I'm gonna make sure you stay dead, this time, huh?"

Loki tsked, looking at the engineer with disdain. "Yes, I tremble where I stand," he replied, before clapping his hands together, grinning. "So, I assume you are all in agreement, then? If that is so, I would like to get to work, so..." He made a shooing motion, Steve's face wavering, uncertain, Natasha crossing her arms over her chest with narrowed eyes, and Clint gripping his gun, knuckles white. They all looked to Thor, who was frowning worriedly.

"He is the only one capable of this, I am afraid. My... mother would have been able to, and she passed that skill to him." He shook his head. "He... is our only choice."

Loki snorted, glancing over his shoulder at Thor. "Such faith you have."

Tony chewed at his lip, frowning. Then his eyes drilled into Thor. "What about you? Do you have any way of knowing that this is magic, and not some... normal coma? Discounting the fact that... Hulk always takes care of that stuff. How do we know it's not something else? Something none of us have ever seen?"

"This is not a natural slumber," Thor replied instantly, confident in at least that. "I could tell that the moment we found him. If it were something human sciences could fix... I would not have sought out such assistance."

At that, Loki gave another smile, this time small and appeasing. "See? On this, I do not lie; your friend is far from your own reaches. Allow me to assist you, and he might wake yet. If not... I am afraid you will have nothing but his motionless body to remember him by."

Steve's stance was already slumping, nearing the admission of defeat, and Clint was passing calculating eyes between the team, finding the pros and cons weighed heavily against each other. It seemed their hands were well and truly tied.

"And we want to, what, send Loki to play inside his head? Given your history, I'm not sure if that's a good idea for either of you." Tony looked around at the others. "And much as I'm dying to volunteer," he said with a grimace, "Bruce and I have a deal. World can't afford to lose both of us."

Loki smiled, all teeth, and glanced from one Avenger to the next. "Ah, yes, I would much prefer not to play within the doctor's mind; it is quite a treacherous place, and if one is caught within its folds for too long I am sure they would perish...." He paused, looking at them all archly. "Who will take the risk, then, for their fellow teammate?"

And as Steve deliberated, and Thor frowned pensively, and Natasha watched with narrowed, thoughtful eyes, Clint lowered his pistol completely and stepped forward. "I'll do it."

Tony looked at him speculatively. "You sure, Legolas?" he asked. "Not that I'm complaining. If we need to send in someone for a rescue mission, to find some 'mystical path' or whatever, we could do worse. But Loki dicking around in your head, again?" He shook his head. "Wouldn't be my first choice."

Clint's jaw clicked, before he glanced over at Tony, face neutral. "Exactly; I know what to expect more than any of you. And, sorry to say it, but out of all of us? I have the least baggage going in on this." He shrugged one shoulder, casual, though his nerves were singing with tension. "If someone's head's gotta go in there, better make it someone who's not gonna have an existential crisis, right?"

Loki laughed, pleased, and smiled at his past pet. "You always were smart, weren't you, Hawk?" He shifted around where Steve and Tony stood, moving towards the bed. "If I am to do this, your bird will need a seat, and you all will need to hope, because once inside I can do nothing for him."

Tony's jaw ground together, but he nodded, watching Clint.

Bruce could feel distant rumbling under his bare feet, tremors of unease he didn't like. The landscape here was precipitous, and if this became an earthquake....

Bruce wondered if his luck would ever turn, if there would ever be anything like stability in his life. Right now, it didn't seem like it.

In the minutes to follow, Clint found himself settled into a chair beside the doctor's bed, Natasha watching him with an indecipherable expression, the others standing about in varying degrees of apprehension as the God of Mischief stood between him and the hospital bed, hand absently tapping at Bruce's forehead, a curious expression on his face. "Oh, this will be fun," he chuckled, before reaching out to grip the archer's shoulder, hand claw-like as he hummed absently to himself.

"Three things to remember, little bird," he chirped, grinning. "Nothing within that mind is real, but it can all affect you. Tread with caution." Clint sat silently, hands in fists, and nodded. He felt his eyes droop. "His mind is not a dream to him. It is a reality. Do not ignore this fact." Clint nodded again, felt his head droop to the side now. "And, of course; if you should fail to lead him out, you, too, will be trapped. So fly swiftly and precisely, little Hawk."

And with that, Clint's head fell forward and Loki pressed his consciousness into the tight folds of Bruce's mind with a green flicker of light and a grin.

Perhaps Loki played a part in where he landed; perhaps it was at random, somewhere distant and dark and cold, where Clint's mind decided to make its landing. Either or, it didn't matter; when Clint woke up, he felt hard ground beneath him, and he couldn't see past a confused, green haze. And then he sat up, looked around with bewilderment, and rubbed his eyes. For a moment, he couldn't recall where he'd been, or what he'd been doing; was he on a mission? What country was this? Hell, what continent was this? And then, it came rushing back, and he gazed around himself with surprise.

He was in.

There was a sharp crack, and near Bruce, a stone outcropping split into two. Bruce flinched away from it, falling to one knee as the shaking of the ground increased. His eyes darted around at the crumbling landscape, and he listened for screams.

Bruce looked around as the trembling stopped, searching for people to help, thinking that if he found someone worse off than him it would at least take his mind off things.

A figure had appeared in the road behind him, and Bruce took in only a few details - armed, SHIELD logo on his chest - before darting away, praying that the next corner hid a town or at least a few buildings he could get lost in.

The surroundings Clint found himself in were trembling, grit and dust whipped up into the air, rocks shifting and moving beneath his feet like living serpents slithering in some underground lair, and he snapped his head up as boulders cracked in half, reaching for a bow that, reasonably, was always awaiting his grasp, and when his gaze flickered around the disaster zone of an area, he saw a figure darting out of sight.

Target acquired.

He darted forward, body faster then his mind as he sank into the desperate feel of the area, compartmentalizing as his mission came to the forefront of his mind. He could think more about what was going on later.

Bruce scrambled over rocks and through mud and debris, acquiring small scrapes as he went, but a little pain wasn't going to be the thing that ruined what there was left of his life to salvage if SHIELD had gotten this close. With relief, he heard the sound of shouting ahead, and he threw himself into the middle of the town, which was all chaos and faceless people.

People in need of help. Medical help. He could do this.

The ground finally settled under him as he realized he knew what he was here to do, how this worked.

Bruce lost himself in the routine of it, fell into the rhythm of the methods of first aid, the little interactions that would organize chains of hands to bring things like clean water, clean rags, any medicine or supplies they might have to wherever they were needed. Here, he was comfortable. Here, he could put almost everything aside.

Dark and murky and muddy, that's what the world was to Clint as he pelted around rocks and twisted outcroppings of things he supposed might be stone, but from how they stood he couldn't be sure. All he knew was that the doctor was escaping, the world was shaking, and he needed to get surer footing if he ever wanted to catch him.

And then the world went still beneath his feet, and he nearly toppled over as the sky went from murky and grey, to light and warm, illuminating a town that hadn't been there before. Just up ahead there were people milling about, faceless and grey, apparitions making rounds on perpetual repeat.

Clint's steps stuttered for a moment, bemused. The world wasn't spinning on the right axis, it would seem. But he was quickly on the move again, ignoring the irrationality of it all and trying to spot where Bruce had slipped off to.

As he came closer he found the world shifting beneath him again, but motionlessly, soundlessly, swimming in and out of coherent vision before he was at the center of the town - without having walked there. He paused his steps, whipped his head around, saw a weeping apparition with a ghostly child head further into the village, and, in a moment of decision, he followed after them, wondering where his target could have run off to.

Clint followed this apparition for a short while, before he came upon a hovel of a shack, where it disappeared inside, and instead of marching in - like his body told him to do - he hung back, glancing about this town with confusion, unwilling to scare off the doctor if he truly resided inside - and he felt like he did, like he was hidden in there, and all he needed to do was go in after him. But he needed a moment to think. To figure out exactly what this place was.

Sooner than he would have liked (and he always hated himself a little for thinking things like that), Bruce came to the point where he'd done everything he could to make the injured comfortable, and it was time to wait and see, look out for infection and wait for concussions to resolve. He accepted some flavorless food, and sat down in a corner.

Bruce watched as more people trailed in and out of the structure he'd set himself in, bringing news, supplies, carrying on with the business of setting this place back to rights. Those chains of people connecting to people gave him satisfaction, but also called him to move on. These people would do well enough without him. And he, as always, had to be moving on. He stood and looked outside.

Bruce followed the chains of communication in the direction of logic, of safety, towards the work he had trained to do so long ago, and without a thought for the missing time, he found himself in a laboratory, borrowing or wheedling or stealing time to test one of his thousands of ideas.

Pipets and slides and testing equipment of many kinds surrounded him, and the purposeful monotony of test after test with only the slightest of variations surrounded him like the comfortable buzz of a beehive.

The further into logic Bruce sank, the less likely he was to notice anything that might disturb him, because this was his safety, his defense against fear, pain, passion - against the Hulk.

It had become mostly about pattern and repetition now, Bruce neither knowing nor curious about what experiment he was doing, simply following the methods he knew and notes he seemed to have made previously.

Just as Clint was beginning to orient himself - a slum town, though indiscernible exactly where, filled with ghosts of people that may have been. He was grasping at a thought as to why this was a place within Bruce's mind, beyond the obvious 'he lived there!', but then, quite suddenly, the world around him shifted like a top on its axis and went tumbling over, to be replaced by something else, another place inside of Bruce's thoughts.

Clint nearly toppled, not quite landing in this new place as sliding into existence within it, like a computer error slipping through a coding crack, and he realized how out of place he was the moment he stepped into this stark place of contrast, sterile and precise, sharp edges and clean cuts. He, within its confines, was a ragged bit, a broken off edge, and matched this laboratory setting ill; he fit much better in the previous environment, and he felt it in the jarring sense of wrongness he received when he glanced about, and ignored it only because he saw the doctor in a haze of science and logic, oblivious to the archer in the room.

Clint assessed the area further, though he found it hard to focus on things for any great amount of time - things here didn't stay solid, no, they seemed more liquid than that, shifting in function and shape, as though they didn't matter beyond those few seconds of attention. And then he decided he would try and wake Bruce from his stupor, stepping forward towards the focused figure - only to hit a wall face first.

Well, not a visible wall, but a mental wall, something thrown up around the wide expanse of the lab, keeping Clint at bay; and for a moment he thought Bruce was more aware of his state of mind than he'd previously assumed, keeping the assassin out on purpose.

But he discovered, as he tried to pass through the nothing again, that it reacted to disorder. Because right down the center he found a test tube - or, as it shifted, a beaker - and discovered trying to pass it all the way through the field of energy was impossible, because of a small chip on one half of the beaker's lip.

Disorder. Like his bow and arrows, and black SHIELD clothes? Was he a form of the chaos that Bruce's mind was keeping at bay? And it slowly dawned on him how he would get through the force-field. He would have to straighten out.

Tranquil inside Bruce's bubble, that's what it was. And Clint had never been a tranquil sort; he carried weapons and fought gods and monsters more often than he'd like, and through and through he was an adrenaline junkie. But not Banner. Banner was a calm, tranquil thing, and if Clint wanted there he'd have to try it on for a size. So he glanced around, looking for somewhere to hide his weapons, maybe a lab coat he could squeeze into--and a moment later he looked down and blinked in surprise when he found his weapons gone and a pristine white lab coat on.

Neat. That trick might come in handy in the future.

Something was niggling at the back of Bruce's mind, trying to pierce through his calm. He assessed his workspace, wondering if something was out of place, if there was danger.

Bruce glanced to the side, seeing a technician, and that snapped him out of his process just a bit. He tried to remember what project he was working, and for who. "Are you here for the results, or...."

Clint was surprised to be acknowledged, and almost frowned when he realized there wasn't the slightest recognition in his eyes. They may not have known each other very well, but Clint knew he should've known him.

His face stayed neutral, and he stepped past the outer edge of Bruce's little bubble. "I'm here to see you, Dr. Banner," he replied half a second late, filling a role he wasn't quite prepared for yet. Bruce didn't know he was locked in his own mind; what would he do when Clint told him?

Bruce blinked a little, and their surroundings shifted again as interpersonal awareness ratcheted up. The bubble fell back as the edges of the room came into razor-sharp focus, all the exits clearly labeled. "Well, then, what can I do for you, Doctor...?"

"Barton," Clint replied instantly, hands clasped peaceably in front of himself, keeping himself open, pleasant, even, a smile on his face. He noticed, with sudden clarity, doors and windows that were previously non-existent. Or, if not completely missing, than entirely reliant upon the glance of the observer. But Clint had keen eyes; he hadn't missed them. They hadn't been there until Bruce was nervous.

"It's a bit of a delicate matter," he continued, stepping forward, but making it so he seemed without intent, glancing towards the work on the doctor's desk. He couldn't make head nor tail of it, but he wasn't actually sure if it was any one thing - it seemed to fade without the doctor's attention.

Bruce blinked at him for a moment, taking that in and very carefully not visibly retreating. The name did sound familiar. But.... "Delicate, how?" he asked, frowning.

"Well," Clint began, before he paused, his pleasant smile faltering slightly. How could he even begin to broach a subject like this when Bruce Banner was like a jack-rabbit waiting to bolt, and in his head it was a hell of a lot harder to chase him. He would have to tread lightly. "It's a matter that you may need to keep an open mind for," he finally supplied, and resisted the urge to snort. Yeah. An open mind, alright.

"Okay, well, trust me, I've seen a lot of weird things," Bruce replied. This guy had known his name, so he should know that. Bruce's unease ratcheted up a couple of notches.

"True," Clint replied, nodding and feeling rueful - hadn't they all? - before shaking his head. "But this, ah, this is a bit... different," he said, before he jumped in head first. "Where are we right now, Doctor Banner?" he asked, glancing around the room and raising a brow when his gaze landed once more onto Bruce.

Bruce considered the question. He was in a lab, with people who knew his name. He hadn't let that happen since....

Wasn't it the Mr. Blue incident? Or something else....

He put a hand to his temple, trying to remember, but it wasn't working. He couldn't think straight. Had he been drugged? Captured?

"I don't know," he told the other man, backing away slightly. "Why don't you tell me?"

Clint opened his hands, palms out, and he shrugged. "I would if I could." He glanced around, shaking his head. "I know that this is somewhere you've been before. Or maybe a group of places you've been before, shoved together." He looked to Bruce, and took a step back on his own. "I'm not the bad guy here. I'm here to help."

Bruce shook his head in wordless disbelief, watching the too-familiar man for a moment, then ran.

"Shit," Clint muttered, before he bolted after the doctor - no time to wait around - and the nice loafers his doctor self had been wearing turned once more to combat boots, jacket gone, replaced with Kevlar and quiver. "Banner! Wait!"

Bruce dived out a window, into the streets of he wasn't sure where, seeking out the busiest places, the markets and transportation centers, the safety of chaos.

Before, the world had seemed tranquil. But as Clint went diving out a window after a wayward doctor, he found the world suddenly consumed by noise and chaos, the streets of Brooklyn, but not quite them exactly, erratic, far faster than in reality; cars sped by, people shouted and walked briskly and generally were just amassed, faceless and intimidating. Clint struggled through them, shoving and forcing his own way through, and he tried to keep an eye out for the doctor, who seemed to be headed for either a market or a subway, but all in all just beelining away from Clint.

"Shit, Banner, you dunce!"

It was an American city, one with the nooks and history and crowds of the Eastern seaboard, and a picture formed for Bruce of the kind of place he wanted to head for. He recognized a street, a cement garden full of benches and huge mosaic-covered geometric shapes, and he darted across an intersection and to a set of doors he knew would be waiting for him.

He sighed in relief as he crossed the threshold. Nothing quite matched Philadelphia's Reading Terminal Market for chaos, noise, and a hundred little aisles and alleys to get lost in.

Clint watched him go as he darted around pedestrians, whipped over the hood of a car, and all in all just barely managed to get across the way without getting jetted by some wayward truck. This was shaping up nicely. And then he actually meandered his way into the place Bruce had disappeared to and let out a full body groan.

"You're joking. You're kidding. Dear god, Banner, you prick." Wherever this place was, he hadn't the slightest idea, but Bruce seemed to know his way around because he was just gone, and Clint looked around the packing of stalls and bodies with frustration.

His target had escaped. Great. Time to hunt him down again.

At least this place smelled nice. It was a mixture of human disposition and warmth, food and flowers and candles, colors and chaos, and Clint tried to reconcile it with Banner. He'd escaped here. He knew the effectiveness of chaos, no matter how much he enjoyed the isolation of order.

Now how could Clint blend in? Because he needed to see Bruce long before Bruce saw him.

He pressed a beanie over his blond hair, smoothed down the sleeves of a purple hoodie, and glanced around as he placed a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. Man, this Inception shit was convenient.

Bruce had found his way through the florist's and up and down a few of the little indoor alleyways, into the exotic grocery place full of high shelves stuffed with all different dry, canned and bottled goods before he allowed himself to take a breath. He still kept an eye out, but let his attention drift to the shelves, to all the things he'd tried and the things he hadn't and the things you usually couldn't get in an average store on this continent.

Bruce left the booth behind reluctantly, knowing he had to keep moving, but he'd tuned himself to the food, watching for interesting recipes or nice-looking ingredients. He stopped to talk to the guy behind the counter at the olive place, discussing their curing methods. The chemistry of that had always been interesting to him.

Clint kept the guise of a browser, glanced at stalls and wares and tried to keep himself from turning his head to scan the area, gazing from behind the sunglasses this way and that. There was too many people, too many places for Bruce to scurry off to, and he thought for a moment it was useless.

And then he spotted that curly mop of a head over the sea of people, and instead of giving chase, or heading straight towards him, he started slowly browsing the stalls on the opposite side, keeping a watchful eye on the figure as he moved. He'd follow once Bruce's back was turned completely, and he'd wait to confront him again when they were out of such a heavily congested area.

Bruce was having trouble remembering who or what he was running from, which was odd, because it was usually so vivid. He relaxed into the wall of noise around him, letting himself drift. He didn't have a place around here that he knew of, but he found he had cash in his pockets, so he decided food was the priority, and began eyeing the menus as he walked.

Next Bruce was eyeing ingredients and starting to consider going home and cooking for himself - which was odd, because he hadn't had a place he thought of that way for a long time... had he? But it was there, solidly in his mind, the idea that there was somewhere he could go.

He frowned down at the contents of his pockets, weirdly large amounts of cash, crisp bills in a proper wallet. Cards with his real name on them. A smartphone. That couldn't be right.

Bruce thumbed out the driver's license, bearing an address deep in Manhattan, and that seemed right, it seemed familiar, except in all the ways it was impossible. He put everything away again, looking around with a frown. He was pretty sure he hadn't come here in a car, but it seemed weirdly natural that he should take the subway down to 30th street and then catch the next Amtrak train heading right up practically to his supposed doorstep, one building over from Grand Central.

Well, it was possible that if he wanted answers, that's where they would be waiting.

Watching the crowd carefully, he wandered up the center aisle and past the main produce market, then out and across the dark, tunnel-like street to Market East.

Clint found it strange, the way Bruce was acting--he wasn't trying to blend in, or hide, or even walk briskly. He'd slowed, began looking at items more thoughtfully, speaking with tenders and all-in-all acting as though he hadn't just been running like a madman. And then Clint realized with a start something he hadn't noticed before - Bruce wasn't wearing a lab coat anymore. He was dressed to match the surroundings. Again.

His mind had switched gears, and now Clint was probably forgotten. That was for the best, but now he had to figure out how to time this, how to get ahold of Bruce, the real Bruce, again.

Clint kept browsing, eyes focused largely on Bruce as he moved, looking thoughtful, then slightly confused, and Clint wished he could hear what he was thinking, figure out what he should do. He wasn't just going to approach him without a plan this time. That had been a dumb idea in the first place.

How he longed for a mission where the target was easy to find and easier still to handle. This was all so delicate.

Clint swore lightly, watching Bruce wander off more purposefully, and he changed directions of his browsing, keeping his pace brisk, though he stayed far enough back to go unnoticed. It was times like these he wanted a higher vantage point, to better stalk after the doctor.

The stairs down into the station weren't as thick with people as the market, but the station itself, and the platforms below, were bustling. Bruce got on the first train bound for 30th street, packed with passengers, and elected to stand near the door for the short trip, rather than finding a place to sit.

It was barely two minutes later that the train stopped again and Bruce skittered off ahead of the rush, into the crowd in the busy station, and made his way to another part of the complex where he bought a ticket and sat and waited, everything weirdly easy and smooth, as if he'd done it several times before. He stared at the ticket, wondering what was waiting for him at the other end of this trip.

Clint traded his Yankee cap for a hood, hands in his pockets and head down as he slithered through the bustle of people heading onto the tram, pressed himself through the doors a moment before they closed, and slumped over to one of the open seats, kicking on leg up and generally just keeping the demeanor of 'troubled youth', keeping an eye on where the doctor placed himself as the train began to move. He wondered where he was headed. Wondered when he should make his second move.

Clint's internal monologue was turning rather sour as he followed after Bruce, snatching someone's newspaper from their grip as he passed them, sitting tall and careful on the next train, reading the headlines - okay, scratch that, reading a paper that looked genuine if you weren't paying attention, but was, in fact, complete gibberish nonsense. Great. He couldn't even read while he followed Bruce around.

Whatever. He just had to keep from seeming suspicious; he could mourn not being able to read the funnies later. He wondered how Natasha could do this so often; he'd have much preferred his nest right about now.

Grand Central was much the same as the other stations had been, busy and safe and... bizarrely familiar. Through the station, through the lobby of the tower next door, to an elevator that he stood and looked at with suspicion, wondering if this was somehow an elaborate trap.

This couldn't be right. This couldn't be his space. But it was practically calling to him. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, Bruce pressed the "up" button.

Clint was distracted. Okay, not really distracted, but he wasn't paying as much attention to the area around him, and was focused solely on blending as he trekked after Bruce. If this had been a high-stakes op, he'd have probably been dead by now, because when they finally left the train he hardly glanced around, and didn't realize where they were until they were already there.

Oh, was his only thought as he slipped into the lobby of the tower.

Clint waited as the elevator ascended, watching the numbers tick away, a frown creasing his forehead. He just hoped Bruce didn't decide to mind-jump on him before he got up there.

Once it had arrived, Clint hopped in, pressing the floor number and crossing his arms over his chest anxiously. Bruce was out of his sight, could have been up to anything right about now, and Clint was busy in an elevator. Great.

But at least this meant he would catch Bruce alone.

The place was, strangely and unaccountably, his. He recognized things, recognized the feel of it, and especially the kitchen. A feeling of safety and security snuck its way over him as he walked through it, and though that uncomfortable feeling in the back of his mind never went away, he began to trust that this wasn't a trick. He looked through the cupboards, seeing everything he expected, anything he'd wished to have once or twice.

There were fresh herbs in the refrigerator, even, Bruce discovered, and he fell into the process of figuring out what he could make with what he had. Something that had been a necessary skill for a long time, making do with what he had, but here it was different, here he had everything.

When the elevator doors opened and a vaguely familiar but impossibly beautiful man stepped out, Bruce turned to him with a new theory on his lips. "Am I dead? Is this heaven?" he asked with a concerned frown.

Clint had barely exited the elevator, glancing around the living quarters - he'd never been in Bruce's space before, and it all seemed so foreign and strange to him - when he was accosted with a question he wasn't prepared for. He paused his steps, looking to the doctor and blinking in surprise, pulling the hat from his head.

"Er," he fumbled, before looking around the neat little space. "No. You're not dead. Technically," Clint said after a moment. He frowned, looking to the doctor. "Why would you think you're dead?"

Bruce frowned as he tried to muster his thoughts. "Well, I can't remember exactly how I got here, but this - this space is mine? And it has pretty much everything I could think to want. It can't be real." His forehead crinkled as he took in the rest. "What's 'technically' about it?"

Clint glanced around, nodding; though he knew this place existed, it was Bruce's space, but he ignored that thought, before scrunching up his face, making a so-so motion with his hand. "Eh, it's hard to explain. You're not 'dead', but you're not currently awake, either, so you're kinda, like, almost brain dead?" He gave a shrug, making a face. "I don't really get it yet. You're definitely not dead, though, because I think then I'd be dead too."

Bruce's mouth twisted up in a conflict between amusement and worry. "Almost brain-dead?" he asked. "I don't suppose you know where I've been falling on the Glasgow coma scale?" His eyes traveled around the space again, thinking that if he had conjured all this up in his mind, he had done a good job.

Clint's brow furrowed thoughtfully, and he looked about as he thought, like the answer would pop out to him through some sort of divine intervention. "Ah, no. I don't - I'm not the doctor type, that's all you." He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "But you were, like, completely unresponsive; didn't move at all, if that's any help?"

Bruce nodded. "Who are you, exactly," he asked, "if you're not a 'doctor type'?" The 'too good to be true' air of the place around him was starting to take on a more menacing tinge.

"I'm Clint Barton," he said, offering up a slightly apologetic smile. "I'm... a man with a specific skill set." Clint didn't want to say exactly what he did, mostly because he knew Bruce Banner was the flakiest man in existence - or, that's what he'd gathered so far - and ran at the sight of the big guns, so he'd stick to being vague for now. "I'm here to get you out."

That vague smile told Bruce more than he really wanted to know. "Am I being experimented on?" he asked, subtly shifting his weight towards the exit.

"What?" Clint was caught by surprise by the question, and instantly took a step back, hands out and open, trying his best to show he wasn't a threat. "No, no, you're not being experimented on," he replied, watching Bruce's face. "You're our teammate, we wouldn't do that to you."

"Team," Bruce repeated back as if he were tasting the word. "And what kind of a team would take someone like...." Bruce paused, not knowing whether he wanted to say "me" or "the Other Guy."

Clint frowned at Bruce's words, but answered him anyways. "Well, you're not the weirdest one on the team, you can say that," he tried to reassure, though that probably didn't come out as well as he'd hoped, before he continued. "And we're like... Superheroes," he finally managed, grinning. "'The Avengers'," he air-quoted. "Fight crime, save the world; definitely awesome."

Bruce peered at Clint for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "Dreaming," he muttered. Their surroundings faded for a moment, taking on a hazy white quality before solidifying again. "Okay."

Clint looked around with wide eyes, watching the world fade and become clear, before turning his gaze back to Bruce, brow furrowed. "Well, you're kinda dreaming," he said, frowning. "But the team is real. I'm definitely real. I'm just in your head for now."

"Right," Bruce said. "You know, if you're really a separate person lurking in my psyche, it might be in your best interests to get out, before I have one of my not-so-pleasant dreams."

"Well, uh, that's the thing, see...." Clint rubbed the back of his head, looking sheepish. "I'm stuck in here. If I can't get you out, we're both dead. At least, that's what I was told; don't know if I believe it all, but... I can't get out until I wake you up."

Bruce... looked at Clint with dawning horror. "No," he murmured. "Please don't tell me that. I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of me."

There was an ominous, indistinct rumbling in the distance, and the sky outside darkened slightly.

A shiver ran down Clint's spine, and he glanced towards the window, eyes widening a fraction. "Uh, hey, it's okay, Doc," he tried to reassure Bruce, unsure if the darkness gathering outside was because he'd upset him. "I volunteered. I wanted to help; none of this is your fault."

Bruce shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You don't understand. Everything that's in here, everything that's happened since the accident? All of that's me. All of that's mine. So I hope for your sake that you have a plan that can get the two of us out of here before something in here does something you can't recover from." Outside the sky darkened further, and Bruce's face took on a quality of double vision, one version assessing and full of dark humor, the other terrified and full of grief.

The sudden fear Clint felt was forceful and overpowering; it lasted only a moment, a half a second, before he shoved it deep, deep down where it ought to be, but in that moment he came to a realization: he had no control over this. This was Bruce's mind, all the things in his head, whatever demons he had, all ready to rear their heads and eat them both. But then Clint shoved that away, put on a face of determination, and tried to focus in on Bruce, though he swam before Clint's eyes. "I have to wake you up. I'm not sure how, but I will. Nothing in your head's gonna stop me, Doc." No matter how terrifying it might be.

The assessing face sparked with challenge before disappearing, leaving only the Bruce that was afraid, looking around him at the black, rumbling dark sky and shaking his head. "No, no, not here, not here ," he muttered urgently. The room's appearance shifted slightly, glimpses of a crowded restaurant or a school, before Bruce's terrified eyes locked on Clint. "Not. Here," he growled, and mashed his eyes shut, putting his hands over them.

He and the storm blinked out of existence, leaving Clint in a hollow shadow of a sunlit room.

"Fuck."

Clint looked around the room, his entire body tense as a bow string. He felt like he'd just watched a shit storm go down and hadn't been able to do anything about it. Of course, maybe that was for the best; he was rather fond of his limbs, and didn't like the idea of having them mentally ripped off by whatever was rearing up out of Bruce's head. But now Bruce was gone, and he'd have to find him again; maybe even have to explain himself again. Hell, this was shaping up nicely.

Bruce was nowhere to be found, and as Clint slumped his way towards the window, he bemoaned his luck. The storm was gone, but without Bruce's attention this place was sure to become less and less distinct. He needed to go and find him again; he headed for the elevator, feeling ill at ease.

The storm was now farther away, but it still grumbled outside the windows, raging at him as well as it could.

"You know what?" Clint said to the air, ignoring a coil of fear in his gut at the grumbling storm. "If something's comin' for me, then it better hurry up, so I can kick its ass already." Okay, maybe provoking the powers that be was a bad idea, but Clint was feeling a bit sour about losing his target. Again. He pressed the elevator button, glancing nervously at the storm outside none the less.

The landscape wasn't sure what to do with Clint now that Bruce's attention was elsewhere. The floor under Clint's feet slowly got softer until suddenly he was standing in a huge toothy mouth.

For a moment Clint spaced out, simply from the unreality of the situation, eyes wide and pupils blown in a panic because this was not normal. Buildings, landscapes, odd shifts in whether? Yeah, that was cool, he could deal with that.

He could not, in fact, deal with being eaten. "I was kidding; I don't actually want to be killed by Bruce's monsters. Truce, I call a truce, is that fair? Does that work for you, oh giant possessor of fine dental care?"

There was a deep rumbling vibration around him, a hum, just a very large one, and it ended on a sort of inquisitive note, if one had the presence of mind to hear it. The tongue underneath Clint's feet twitched, though in fact it was attempting to stay still, and the teeth separated a little, not enough to let Clint out, but enough to let light in, and some of the noise and chaos that was outside.

Clint refused to slip and fall. He would not fall onto a tongue; it wasn't going to happen. So he kept himself steady at the slight movement, and tried to figure out exactly what was going on as he stepped carefully and slowly forward, trying to see what went on between the baring of teeth, blinking at the light. He couldn't make much out, and looked about like he would see someone to ask. "Are you going to swallow me?" He asked the mouth at large. "Please don't, if you were thinking about it."

The huge rumble of noise was this time noncommittal, and slightly grumpy, and then there was a jarring shudder, coinciding with a crash from outside. After that, the great throat made a noise that was indisputably a growl.

Clint flung his hands out wide, ducking his head as the world bounced around for a moment, and then he bent his knees, bracing himself. If the growl coming from the back of that mouth meant anything, it meant Clint was about to have a not-so-great time. "Okay, so, giant mouth breather is going to get in a fight? While I'm inside? Awesome, this is definitely great."

Green-tinged lips drew back from the teeth, and another purposeful growl sounded. The robots outside came into focus, cold metal things with dead eyes that surrounded them in a circle.

Clint's eyes tracked the now visible movement, concerned by the fact that robots were possibly coming to kill them. Him. Well, both him and the person whose mouth he now occupied, he supposed. He'd begun to guess at who was restraining from swallowing him, but he didn't want to think about it too much. "We gonna smash robots today? Awesome."

Hot, moist breath blew through the great mouth as it laughed. Then the whole place juddered forward, and robots began to fall under huge green fists.

Clint thought it was a bit strange to experience a laugh from the inside, but didn't have much time to think on it as he went crashing forward, going to one knee to keep himself from falling flat, and watching the action he could see through the teeth. His assumptions, of course, had been right.

"Hulk, your diet has really gotten out of hand, man. Just don't eat and robot parts and I think we're good, though."

Hulk smashed his way through the wall of robots and ran, taking great breaths and looking worriedly at the sky, great breaths huffing over his tongue.

Clint went wheeling backwards as Hulk looked up, only to be puffed forward by the force of his breaths, deciding he was going to have to swallow his pride or literally be swallowed. He opted for losing his pride and grabbing onto the tongue like he and it were long lost friends. "I'm going to die."

The tongue curled protectively around Clint in response, lifting him in a little hollow like a bowl. The storm above them roiled and cracked with thunder, and Hulk ran, finding a place, a cavelike overhang, and crawled into it before opening his mouth to let out the damp archer.

The trip was not ideal, but the destination was sure a hell of a lot better, and when the mouth finally opened to release him Clint went out, prepared to kiss the ground as he climbed out from between green lips and dropped to a stone cave floor. He swayed for a moment, and wiped his hands on his pants (which helped absolutely nothing at all) before he let himself look around, and then up at the Hulk. "Buddy, I never want to be that close to your insides again. At least you seem to brush your teeth."

Hulk grinned a frightening grimace for a moment, then he stood and walked to the mouth of the shelter, peering out at the encroaching storm, which was in an increasingly dark sky.

Clint was cautious as he peered towards where the sky seemed to be draining of color, looming dark and vicious. It was an ominous sight, with the Hulk's back to him, silhouetted by the roiling storms.

"Any idea what's out there, big guy?" he called, though he was sure he wouldn't get a response. It made him feel more stable, talking like nothing was wrong.

Hulk glanced back at Clint before returning his eyes to the storm. "Bad," Hulk rumbled. "Hulk protect."

Clint shifted on his feet, nervous energy practically crackling across his skin, static in the air. "Well, at least I'm not completely alone, then."

"Not alone," Hulk agreed, although he didn't look comforted by the prospect. Black tendrils were starting to descend out of the sky, reaching for their shelter.

Clint swallowed, sharp eyes watching that darkness with a keen feeling of dread. But he couldn't allow that to effect him. "You're the toughest guy in the world, yeah? We'll be fine, " he insisted, mostly to himself.

Hulk crushed the tendrils as they approached, and black goo splattered everywhere, and the cavern where they sheltered rocked with each blow.

Clint ducked farther back into their shelter, ducking down to keep himself small, make himself less of a target. He felt useless, for a moment, watching the Hulk destroy the tendrils of darkness, whatever they may have been, before he summoned his bow to his hands, gripping it and rising.

With the appearance of the bow, the tendrils seemed to rear up, making themselves appear larger, trying to block out the light.

Clint watched the blackness rear up, but instead of backing down he leveled his bow, quiver resting between snugly between his shoulder blades. "Really, y'all are just pissing me off now."

The tendrils leaned in, and Hulk smashed, crushing them against the floor of their shelter, against one side, but they just kept coming, more and more.

"Tick tick boom," Clint muttered, sending off an arrow and pressing the release on his bow once it slipped between the tendrils, exploding in a blast of heat.

In that flash of light, everything changed. Clint was now standing alone in the rubble of a building, a lab, maybe.

Or a school. Scorched lockers lined the floor above. But the scene was a sketch, flashing between clean clarity and vague destruction.

Clint immediately dropped his stance, looking around himself with a careful, discerning eye. The world was too inconstant for him to make a proper assumption, but things seemed like they might have been concrete places, just broken fragments of those places. Burned out lockers; destroyed lab equipment. Desolation.

He moved forward on tentative feet, eyes sweeping all around. "Hello?"

There was a noise, a tentative whimper, from behind a fallen lab bench. A small, curly brown head peeked out, and two wide eyes stared at him.

Clint jerked towards the sound, eyes flickering anxiously, before they landed on the wide eyes staring out at him. He moved forward, surprised. "Hey, hey, are you alright?" he asked, putting his bow on his back as he moved.

"Yeah," the child said, rising a little more so that his entire face was visible. He was a teenager, but small, thin. He looked around at the chaos with awe, confusion, and fear. Then he looked back at Clint. "This never happened," he said.

Clint's brow furrowed as he looked this kid over, and then around at the destruction. "It looks like it happened," he quipped, looking back with his eyebrows raised. "But, hey, I'm not entirely sure what 'it' is, so maybe it didn't happen."

"I wanted it to happen," the boy said. "Really badly. But it never does. It never comes out right." He ran his hands through his hair in a thoroughly Bruce-like gesture.

Clint paused a moment, looking over the area more thoroughly. This was a school. Lockers were torched, hanging off their hinges, like an explosion had occurred. Things began to flicker a little more clearly before Clint's eyes, and inside his head. He'd wanted it to happen. "What were you trying to do?" he asked the young boy, unable to parallel him with the man he'd come to know. He was so small. But just as destructive.

The boy scowled. "I just want everyone who's stupid and mean to go away and leave me alone," he said.

Clint rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at him. "And you thought this would work," he said, not really seeking an answer. "They were pretty awful to you, huh?"

Bruce examined the newcomer critically before he spoke. "Had worse," he said, almost casually.

Clint's eyes dimmed for a moment, like he didn't want to process that. Bad enough to want to blow up a school wasn't the worst? "How much worse?" he ventured to ask, looking the boy over carefully. Bruce's younger self seemed willowy, but underneath he seemed lined with barbed wire.

Bruce's jaw set, and his eyes tinged with suspicion. "Why?" he asked. "What do you want?"

And out came the spikes. "I don't want anything," Clint replied; everyone kept assuming he wanted something, god. "I do want to help you, though. I can help you."

Bruce looked at him for a long moment. "That never happens right either," he said. "But...." He looked around at the damage. "As long as I'm dreaming." He gave a smile far too bitter for his young face.

Clint bit the inside of his cheek, keeping himself from scowling. The look on his face, the place around them, it left a foul taste in the back of Clint's throat, and he desperately needed to fix it. "This isn't a very good dream, kiddo. You've gotta want something more."

Bruce shook his head. "I can't keep anything I want safe unless I can get people to leave me alone." He kicked a piece of rubble and it tumbled across the floor with a hollow, echoing noise.

Clint felt like he was out of his depths, trying to find words for this young Bruce who, even at this age, felt like he was losing an uphill battle. "Can't anyone help you?" he asked, looking around, stepping over towards one broken locker without purpose, simply moving to ease his tension. "Do you have to do it alone?"

Bruce sighed. "Someone would have to be paying attention, first. Well, my aunt tries."

"People are blind, deaf, and dumb more often than not," Clint quipped, looking back at Bruce. "They don't notice shit 'til you tell 'em." And no one ever tells, he knew that.

Bruce glared hard at Clint. Maybe his eyes had a little bit of a green glint in them. "Don't know how to explain properly," he said. "People don't make sense. Words mean different things when they say them. I must be explaining it wrong, because people say to ignore it or suck it up... or that I deserve it."

Clint's brow knit together, and he turned his head, examining some destroyed bit of metal on the ground. He felt a sense of deja vu, and locked his jaw against it. Bruce, here, focus. "Whoever says something like that to you is shit," he spat, before he shook himself out of it and turned back towards the boy. "Never listen to someone who tells you you deserve something bad. They're all wrong." There was a fierce feeling in his chest that he couldn't quite swallow down.

"Nobody told me," the boy continued. "Nobody taught me how to not listen. Who was I supposed to listen to? My... my dad was the one who said that stuff the most, and then he went to prison and my aunt said he was getting help. That people would teach him how to be better." He looked around at the mess. "I thought maybe if I got sent to prison that someone would help me too. But this never happened. I tried. But it didn't work. And all I got was people wanting me to help them make bombs." He sounded way too tired for someone so young.

Clint couldn't help Bruce. Bruce was already grown, his life was already lived, Clint couldn't erase the pain he felt, the broken bits inside him. But this wasn't the same Bruce, this was someone younger, someone who'd been so desperate he'd built a bomb to try and end it, and Clint wanted to fix it. So bad. "This never happened," he repeated, slowly. "Good. God, that's good. You know what that means?" He tried to lock eyes with the boy, gaze fierce. "This means you might still have to deal with idiots and jerks, but you won't have to think back on what you did. You won't have to regret this. You won't give yourself a good reason to say you deserve it." But he did. Bruce had plenty of reasons to convince himself he deserved it. But at least this one thing wasn't added to the list.

"But it's here, now," Bruce mused, "and so are you. Are you here to save me?" One last little spark of wonder, hope and idealism was in the boy's eyes, watching Clint, the man who was taking the time to listen to Bruce and try to help him set things right.

"I am," Clint said resolutely. He didn't know if he deserved a look like that, that was the look a hero received, and Clint wasn't a hero. He just wanted to help. "I'm here to save you from anything I can, because you sure as hell deserve to be saved."

Bruce just stared for a moment, trying to absorb the impossible information. Then his face lit up with a somewhat shaky smile. He shuffled towards Clint, watching for bad reactions as he approached.

Clint didn't move as Bruce came closer, not wanting to scare him off as he watched the small kid, whose shaky smile was so much better than that bitter, wary expression he'd held before. Clint had this kid's hope in the palms of his hands and he'd be damned if he was going to break it.

Bruce reached out, and when Clint made no move to draw back, the boy threw his arms around Clint's chest, clinging and breathing loudly, not quite sobbing.

Clint was tentative as he reciprocated the embrace, arms circling the boy gently as he swallowed his own reaction, keeping his emotions in check. This was Bruce. This was the meek doctor who sometimes smashed monsters. And he was clinging to Clint like he was the last anchor in his world. "You're alright, kiddo," Clint said, gently patting his back. "Let it out."

Bruce's hands balled up in the back of Clint's shirt, and his breathing got rougher as he relaxed and sagged against the archer, mushing his face into Clint's chest.

Clint wondered what this meant as he kept the kid wrapped up tight in his arms. Could he really save Bruce, whether he was this age or not? Could he get him out of his own head before the dark thoughts that had seemed close to swallowing his younger self got the real him? He wasn't sure he even wanted to answer. Clint let out a weary breath and pressed his face to the kid's hair, reassured only in the fact that at least this part of Bruce was better off.

The boy's breathing settled, and he leaned more heavily against Clint, as if he were dozing off. Then his form slowly and peacefully dissolved, leaving the feel of his deep, slow, restorative breaths in the surrounding building, and everything slowly righted itself, the rubble reforming, the scorch marks vanishing, as if the damage had never been.

Clint straightened up, breathing in deeply as he looked around, watching the world right itself out of its mangled mess. He let out the breath after a moment, slumping and rubbing a hand over his eyes. "This never happened," he murmured, a sigh of relief. Now he had to move on.

The hallways of the school shifted slowly as Clint walked through them, less lockers, more architectural flourishes, but still with that institutional feel of a building heavily used by a horde of young people day after day. Over-sturdy, over-cleansed, used but not lived-in. A university building.

Admittedly, Clint had never gone to a university, but he started to recognize the feel and shape as he walked on, eyes flickering curiously about as the world became more liquid, composing itself slowly into that which it saw fit. He looked down at himself, his weapons now gone, his clothes looser, casual. He made himself fit the mold of the place he now entered; he wondered what he'd face next.

Sounds began coming from the classrooms, laughter, lecturing, questions. The doors at the end of the hall stood open, revealing a large lecture hall, built like an amphitheater.

Clint glanced around as the place began to come to life, curious, and when he looked ahead and found a door ajar he decided that was probably where he was meant to go. He headed towards it, stepping up his pace, tennis shoes squeaking on a linoleum floor.

A Bruce sat in one of the seats near the exit, scribbling into his notebook. He was still thin, but had come into his adult height, and was wearing an ancient-looking brown sweater.

Clint decided he wouldn't just march in there and interrupt whatever head space this Bruce was in. He would go in a bit more prepared. With a pencil in one hand, and a notebook in the other, he waltzed in like he'd gone there a thousand times before, moved a row behind Bruce, and plopped down in an empty seat.

Bruce glanced behind him when he sensed the motion, and, when he didn't see anything to be concerned about, he went back to his notebook.

Well, that worked, at least, was all Clint could think. Now he'd just have to figure out a way to talk with this Bruce without triggering some hectic explosion, as Bruce's mind was wont to do. He decided tearing off a small piece of paper and bouncing it off the back of Bruce's head would suffice. "Psst," he said, leaning forward in his chair.

Bruce's eyebrows nearly climbed off his face, and he turned to stare at Clint with a "Yes?" sort of expression.

Don't mess this up, Barton. "What class is this?" he asked, running on pure improv. Dummy. Well, he never said his improv was very good.

"Statistical thermodynamics?" Bruce answered in a whisper, one of his eyebrows threatening to lift off entirely. "Why?"

Clint tried to keep himself from coughing up his brain. Thermo-what? But he didn't say that, just shrugged. "Just...trying to make sure," he said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Oh, no, he definitely didn't belong in a room like this, but he had to stick to Bruce, and Bruce had to be a genius.

Bruce looked at him for a moment, frowning. "Do you need help?" he whispered finally.

Clint glanced up towards where a lecture was apparently going on, and then back to Bruce, nodding his head. Even if this school wasn't real, it left him anxious. "Kinda. Maybe. Just a bit."

"Okay, well, you remember the basics from last class, right? We're reconciling the atomic and subatomic rules and probabilities with the observable properties of a macroscopic system in equilibrium. So we're discussing gas in a mechanical ensemble. What do you have so far?" Bruce tried to peer at the stranger's notebook.

Clint's face went completely blank as Bruce 'explained' what they were learning, and his eyes went a bit wide before he pulled the empty notebook closer to him, trying to seem nonchalant as he brushed his hand over the page. He tried to sound slightly less stupid than he felt as he replied a hurried, "Yeah, that makes sense, totally got that. Absolutely." He looked from Bruce to his paper. Oh god, he didn't even know half the words Bruce had used, let alone the concept.

"Are you sure you're in the right class?" Bruce asked him skeptically. "There's an Intro to Thermodynamics in Hall A right now, I think."

He couldn't just jump ship now. "No, I'm, uh, pretty sure this is the right class," he said, chuckling, though it came out a bit strained. He cleared his throat. "And, I mean, you seem nice so no harm no foul if it's the wrong one," he said, shrugging and actually managing a less panicked smile.

Bruce looked at him for a while longer. "Well, I know most of this, so... if you want, we could head out to the library and I could help catch you up? I don't want to disturb the class."

Clint lit up, smiling at Bruce. He'd always thought Bruce was a nice guy; this just proved it. "If that doesn't bother you too much, that'd be great," he said, grinning crookedly. It helped, too, getting Bruce alone. Better to try and talk with him.

Bruce packed up his things quietly and rose from his seat, shuffling his way out into the hall. He looked to see that Clint was keeping up before slipping out of the building, across a tree-lined avenue with a pleasantly chilly breeze blowing through it, and into another building, this one quieter, and full of the smell of books.

Clint followed quickly after Bruce, making sure he didn't lose him, and glanced around absently, a quiet college campus, people dotting the grounds here and there, indistinct, nothing really noteworthy. Once they came into the second building, the library, Clint took a deep breath, both for the smell on the air - he may not have been a huge reader, but he did love libraries - and to speak. "I'm Clint," he said, trying to be polite.

Bruce looked at him for a moment. "Now that I hear your name, you seem familiar," he said. "Have we had other classes together? I'm Bruce." He led the way to a secluded corner with a couple of comfortable chairs and a small table.

Clint realized he probably should have used a fake name. He rolled with it, though. "Yeah, I think you might be in one of my other classes or something; I've seen you around, at least." He plopped down into one of the nice chairs, grinning.

"You should have, if you're far enough into the physics curricula to be taking Statistical Thermodynamics," Bruce said, smiling self-consciously. "I've kind of been in every physics class I could possibly fit into my schedule."

"You must be a real whiz-kid, huh?" Clint asked, smiling admiringly. "I mean, either that or you're really dedicated to some kind of science cult, one or the other." This kid really knew how to pack on the knowledge pounds, that was for sure.

Bruce shrugged. "I like science. It's got a consistency of meaning that nothing outside of it and math seem to have. You can depend on numbers and measurements to mean the same thing, objectively, to people all over the world in all kinds of different contexts. It's... reassuring."

Clint listened with interest, watching Bruce thoughtfully as he spoke. "That actually... makes sense," he said, a bit disbelieving. He had just kind of assumed Banner was into science because he was a genius, not because it reassured him on some baser level. It reminded Clint of his love for physics (well, at least where it applied to his bow), because it never changed. He could rely on his bow hitting home.

Bruce smiled, looking at the other man. "So you need a little help figuring out what's what in the ever-tenuous link between particle physics and analytical mechanics? Well, you are not the only one. It's a little bit... complicated."

Clint nodded his agreement. "Yeah, uh, I wouldn't mind a little rundown, since you seem to know what you're talking about." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. He almost felt like he wasn't talking to a distant part of Bruce's head, like he was actually here with a nerdy little college kid asking about science.

"Well, it's like... there's no way to know what every individual atom is doing, right? But there are some things that you can measure to narrow it down. The same thing is true of any system too complex to see every part of at once, like the human brain. There's no way to open it up and read it all like a book, but you can get a general idea."

Clint listened intently, nodding along as Bruce spoke. "Yeah, I think I know what you mean," he said, thoughtful. "You can't figure out the whole picture without understanding the smaller portions first, and you have to fit those smaller portions into understandable sizes, right?" Like watching from a distance and understanding the small intricacies of the room before understanding the targeted area as a whole.

"Exactly. So if you know what kind of atoms and molecules are in a system and all the different ways they can act and interact, you have a better chance of knowing what might be happening on the smaller scale from just a glance at the larger scale. The same way that if you know what kind of elements make up a person's personality, and what they're capable of under a range of circumstances, the easier it is to predict their actions in the future."

Clint nodded, tapping absently at his knee as Bruce spoke, before he perked up with interest at the last example. He paused, glancing towards this Bruce, this younger version of the man he knew, and wondered if he wasn't here to learn science for a reason. "So, say, you see a person at points in their history that were essential to their personalities; you'd be able to better figure out how they'd react on a larger scale?"

Bruce gave a little half-smile. "You're not really a physics major, are you?" he asked.

"Well..." Clint rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling sheepish. "Ah.... You could say 'no', but that's such a final thing, it's more a 'not at the moment' kind of thing."

Bruce shook his head ruefully. "Okay, why am I really here?" he asked, setting aside his notebook.

Clint rubbed his palms on his knees, shifting in his seat a moment. "Well, you could say I'm here to... help you."

Bruce frowned curiously. "With what, exactly?"

Clint pulled a face, making a so-so motion with one hand. "Well, uh, that's kinda complicated. Like, 'you're gonna call me nuts' kinda complicated."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "What, like a conspiracy theory? I've been known to believe in a conspiracy or two."

Clint chuckled, muttering, "Why doesn't that surprise me?" before he looked back to Bruce, blowing out a breath. "Okay, you believe in conspiracies? Think less conspiracy and more... Inception." He paused. "Shit, that movie hasn't come out yet. Uh," he wracked his brain for a good way to explain.

"Alright, I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, I don't have the time; I'm not, technically, here right now. And, uh, neither are you."

"Well, that seems fairly existential of you," Bruce said, playing it off as a joke to see if it flew. Just because his peers were smarter than they had been before, didn't mean he was free from jealous people trying to yank his chain.

"It's not, uh, like a metaphor or anything," Clint said, a bit more insistent. "You said you'd recognized me, right? I seem familiar? Can you really remember me in any of your other classes? Or is it a different memory?"

Bruce's eyebrows drew together in confusion, and he put his face down into one hand. "You're not real, are you? I've finally cracked under the weight of my own brain."

Clint couldn't help a surprised chuckle. "No, you haven't gone crazy or anything; I'm real." He waved a hand down at himself. "Just, I'm not this young, though I'm just as dashing. We're in your head - well, I'm in your head, got myself jammed in here to get you out, and I guess you could say this me isn't quite real, but I'm not a figment of your imagination so you're good there, I'm just...." Clint paused. "I'm babbling."

Bruce just blinked at him for several seconds. "You're in my head, and you're here to help... get me out of it?" He frowned in confusion.

"We'll, yes and no," Clint replied, letting out a frustrated breath. "See, you're asleep. Out cold for days. I'm not here to get you out, I'm here to wake you up."

Bruce nodded slowly, absorbing that. "I don't know why, but I trust you," he said. "So what do we do?"

Clint shrugged halfheartedly. "I'm not entirely sure. I mean, I think I'm beginning to see... what my target in this is, but it's so complicated; your head's like a smorgasbord of confusion, and the only thing I seem'ta have done right is help littler you. Which... led me here." He paused, scratching his head thoughtfully. "'Fact, that's the only time things ain't tried blowing up in my face."

Bruce laughed bitterly. "Strange, you'd think my childhood would be the last place someone would want to go poking around...." He got out his notebook again. "So are you looking for some way of reconnecting me to the outside world? That sounds like something I could get on board with."

"Well, I mean, I'm pretty sure it was littler high school you, I haven't met little-little you yet," Clint said, before he brightened into a smile. "You're gonna help? Because that would be amazing, you're some sorta genius and I'm in way over my head. I need a goal to shoot for, else I can't get it done."

"This seems like a good place to start," Bruce mused. "I connect to people here. Harvard. And not just because we're studying the same things. It's better than any part of my life that came before. Sometimes I look back at my life and wonder if it didn't really start the first day I arrived here."

Clint couldn't help finding that unbelievably... sad . But he was glad Bruce had at least had this place to think fondly on. From what he'd seen so far, there wasn't much else. "Good. Then maybe this place won't try and eat me." Clint had to wonder where the team lay in Bruce's memories; was it fond? Or were they just another sour spot Bruce was living through?

"I'm not actually sure if I want to know what else you've seen," Bruce said with a touch of worry. "But this investigation seems like it's both necessary and revolutionary, and I'm really not the kind of person to drop a line of inquiry just because it has potentially unpleasant results. So, Clint. What can you tell me about the inside of my head, and how might we go about waking me up?"

"Well, you're a younger version of you right now, so you probably won't know half'a what I'm talkin' about, but I'll give you a quick rundown." Clint paused, holding out his hand to count on his fingers. "I've chased you around some foreign village where people didn't have faces, followed you to a lab where I couldn't come in 'less I was clean and concise - guess you got a thing about structure, eh? - then you jumped outta window and ran into the city we live in now to hide, and when I finally got to talkin' with you, you went and had a freak out and there was some nasty storm headin' our way, but you disappeared and I guess you... ate me?" Clint paused, looking over to Bruce thoughtfully. "This ain't too much for you, is it?"

Bruce looked slightly disturbed. "The city we live in now - so I know you from after the time I spent here. It sounds like there's been some time in between. And running and hiding - I'd hoped I was more or less done with those things. I guess not so much."

"You've been through... a lot," Clint says, making a face as he scratches the back of his head. "I mean, you've probably been through a lot before this, I mean, you spit me out and I ended up in a blown up school, so I guess you've just been havin' it tough since... forever."

"High school." Bruce cringed a bit. "Not the worst part of growing up, but definitely unpleasant. I suppose that's a bit true for everyone, though."

Clint shrugged. "I wouldn't know," he replied, before he frowned. "I'd hope that ain't common, though; I mean, you didn't tell me much, but I can guess it wasn't nice."

Bruce shrugged in return. "There are a lot of troubled kids. And this doesn't seem to all be literal interpretation of my past. I never did end up blowing up the school. I... hope... I haven't actually eaten anyone." He looked at Clint worriedly. "I'm not sure how much danger you're in, here."

"No more danger than I'm used to." Clint rubbed his hands together, ignoring his own worry. He'd be fine; he always was. "I'm more worried about gettin' you up and at 'em than what I gotta worry about in here. I mean, it can't get too much worse, right?"

Bruce looked back at Clint sort of blankly. "Worse than wanting to blow up a school because of some fairly typical nerd-taunting?" He bit his lip. "Okay, listen. Clint. There are places in my mind where you really don't want to go."

Clint looked at Bruce for a long moment, gaze intense, before he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm sure I won't want to, but I'm not pulling the strings, here; I'm not even sure if you are, frankly. I mean, I wouldn't mind a bit of a... warning, as to what I might meet, but I'll be... fine. Mostly. Probably."

A suddenly harsh breeze rattled the windows next to them, and Bruce startled. He looked at the ancient stained glass with a look part fear, part thoughtfulness. "The problem with that is, a lot of it's been put away. Shut up tight. Because if I think about it, I lose myself to it. And with you shut up in here, it's not just myself I'd be losing."

Clint's eyes flickered towards the window, warily wondering if this was the signal of his next violent shakedown, before he looked back to Bruce, frowning. "That's...." He paused, before he rubbed his eyes. "Okay, shit, no warnings. I can deal with that. I'm fine with that. I'll be fine." He looked to Bruce, this young Bruce who just seemed like a kid who'd seen too much, and clenched his jaw. "I'll be fine. I'll get you awake, okay?"

"I hope so," Bruce said. "You seem like a good person. I wouldn't want you to get stuck, caught up in... this." The windows rattled again, but Bruce buried his nose in his notebook, ignoring it this time.

Clint's gaze drifted towards the windows, and he spoke carefully as he watched the vibrating glass and what he thought might have been a storm gathering beyond. "I won't get stuck. I've been in some shit, before; this'll be a cake walk, I'm sure." He darted his eyes towards Bruce, for just a moment. "No worries, Bruce. We'll both be fine."

"I don't know what I can do to help. But I know that I hope you succeed, and since this is my head, maybe that will help." Bruce reached out, somewhat tentatively, his hand hovering over one of Clint's.

Clint looked from Bruce's hand to his face quickly, before he gave a crooked grin and gripped the outstretched hand. "That's help enough for me," he said, feeling lighter. He had someone in here rooting for him, at least.

Bruce sighed in something like relief, gripping Clint's hand in return. The windows didn't rattle any more. "I changed my circumstances once, with help," he said. "Let's hope it can happen again."

"I've never found something I can't fix, and this situation is no different," Clint replied, nodding as he patted his other hand atop Bruce's. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard from here. So long as he could get through to Bruce, keep him feeling safe, he was sure he could do this.

Bruce squeezed Clint's hands once more, then let go, turning back to his notebook. "So what's this idea you have about getting this done?"

"Well," Clint started, rubbing his chin as he thought. "'s'just a theory, but nothin' good happened 'til I helped younger you. I mean, I didn't do much, but it helped enough to straighten things out, and then I ended up finding my way here. I'm thinking that's how I'm gonna have to do it. Head around and help where I can 'til I find the real you, not just the younger pieces broken off."

"So I'm somehow just a branch of a tree that represents the whole of me, one that was most active here, in college. Right now, more than anything, I'm about scientific collaboration. Coming together to figure things out and make extraordinary things happen." He turned curious, but slightly worried eyes on Clint. "When did that change, do you know? What happens to me to make me run again?"

Clint wanted to avoid Bruce's eyes, so young, so hopeful compared to who he was now, even after he'd stopped running. "You... got into an accident, during a job," he started, keeping his gaze steady, serious. "Afterwards you had a part of you that became... something else, and there were people who chased you because of it. But you've stopped running. You're a part of a team now." He wanted to drive that point home. "No more running."

Bruce nodded slowly, absorbing. "I've always been a little... not careful enough," he agreed. "If I was just a little more methodical and less in a hurry to find things out... well, that bomb would have gone off."

Clint watched Bruce thoughtfully, before he glanced down and shrugged. "Well, I can't speak for you, but I, for one, am sure as hell glad you hurry through things. One bomb didn't go off and one experiment created something unexpected that's saved a lot of people, so that's a win/win in my opinion." Sucked for Bruce, though, but he kept that to himself. He was just glad to have the Hulk on his team.

"I guess it's just part of me," Bruce said a bit regretfully. "So, listen. I don't think I need any more help here, I'm happy enough at this point in my life, and curious about what else is going to happen. So it might be time for you to start moving again. I'm glad to have you in my corner on this, though." He smiled shyly.

"You're right, I need to get goin'," Clint replied, though he was a bit regretful to leave this part of Bruce behind. Happier times were a lot more welcoming, but he couldn't sit around forever. "But, hell, you were sure a nice break from the chaos." He gave him a crooked grin, patting his shoulder as he moved to stand. "Like a nice bit a sunshine before the storm really hits."

Bruce returned the asymmetrical smile. "Even now, I don't often get compared to a ray of sunshine," he said ruefully. "It's good to be appreciated. Feel free to come back if you get new info and you want to hash anything out."

"This'll be my save point," Clint replied, glancing around the library, just to remember it. Maybe he could think himself back here if he needed to. If that was how things worked in this place. "You're my sunshine Bruce, yeah?" He said, chuckling. "Now I just gotta...leave somehow." He looked towards the door. "That might be as good a start as any."

Bruce gave him a sparkling-eyed little smile, and a wave, before returning to his notebook.

The air outside was breezy still, not quite stormy, but windier than it had been before, with the air of something trying to move things along. Leaves scraped against the sidewalks, and there was a faint smell of smoke.

Clint lifted his head, just feeling the breeze for a moment, before he cut his eyes across the grass, carefully observing the world around him. He was going to keep that little smile of Bruce's in mind from here on out, just to keep himself focused. As he looked for the source of the smoke, walking along towards the smell, he couldn't think of anything more important in this mess than that smile.

Everything shifted a little with the wind as Clint walked, and soon he came across an open area with a bonfire at the center, and people gathered around, celebrating. One of them was a young woman in an overcoat, with long, dark hair.

Clint paused his steps, shaking his head briefly. He'd almost dazed out as he'd walked, and now there was a glade and a bonfire before him and he wondered briefly where he was. It didn't much matter, though; this was obviously his next destination, and as he cut glances across the gathered celebrators, he slipped closer.

The place had some of the same college campus feel, but a very different atmosphere, with a darkening sky, students yelling, running around, and making out against the background of the huge fire, which changed direction with the wind. The woman with the dark hair was the most easy to see clearly, even when the lighting didn't account for it. She almost shone with her own internal light.

Clint didn't pay much mind to the rest of the people around, eyes drawn to what they were allowed to focus on, and he approached cautiously at first, before he decided that wouldn't work in a setting like this and instead stepped forward with confidence, coming to stand beside this woman, who seemed to burn while the others were mere silhouettes in comparison.

"Hello," was all he said, looking towards the fire and only glancing briefly at the woman.

"Hey, have you seen Bruce?" she said in a sweet, curious voice. "He said he'd meet me here." The fire seemed to lean in and listen for his answer.

Clint only paused for a short moment, wondering who this woman was. "Uh, I think I saw him earlier," he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Should be here soon."

Her face lit up with the brightest smile, delight written all over her. "You did?" she asked. "That's great! I was starting to think he's avoiding me."

The fire flared, flames leaping even higher.

Clint glanced towards the fire, worriedly for a moment, before he looked back to her. "I'm sorry, but I don't seem to know your name," he said, smiling. "I'm Clint. And you are?"

"Oh! Betty," she replied. "Betty Ross." She held out a hand to shake. "You look really familiar, but I guess I've never introduced myself."

Clint shook her hand, smiling at her, but couldn't help feeling a bit surprised. This was Betty. The Betty Ross. He may not know a lot about Bruce, but he did know a little bit about the Ross' and where they lay in Bruce's story from the parts of his file Clint had read. "Yeah, I've seen you around too, I guess we just never met properly," he replied.

She smiled warmly. "Well, any friend of Bruce's is a friend of mine," she told him.

Around them, the party was getting rowdier, people singing and the clinking of bottles and maybe an argument or two, and the fire dimmed momentarily before flaring back up again.

Clint couldn't help understanding why she glowed brighter than the rest. Her smile was like honey. "So.... How long have you and Bruce... known each other?" he asked, trying to be offhand as he glanced briefly around at the rest of the gathering.

"Oh, a few months now," she said. "It can take some persistence to get through his shell."

The fire flared larger than ever, and a fistfight had broken out near them, shouted swears and limbs flying.

"Oh, I know," Clint replied, nodding at Betty's words, about to say more when he noticed the shouts and swears and turned, frowning. "What the hell's goin' on?" he muttered, glancing back at Betty before he went to have a bit of a closer look.

Immediately the fire roared up, spreading into the grass in their direction, licking out with the wind to blast heat across their faces. Betty stood where she was, her pleasant expression not changing.

Clint jumped back in surprise, looking back to where Betty stood - and realized with a start that the growing feeling of ease he'd had in his stomach was probably something he should have been paying attention to. Something felt... wrong.

One of the brawling kids threw a punch that just barely missed Betty, swinging her long dark hair out behind her. She didn't bat an eyelash, just watching Clint curiously. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

Clint's eyes widened. "You...." He paused, unsure of where he should tread. "Nothing seems off to you?" he asked, eyes moving between the fire, and the fight, and Betty. He'd move her, but he wasn't even sure if he could touch her at this point.

She looked around, incidentally dodging a gout of flame without seeming to notice it. "Not really," she answered, still smiling politely.

None of the chaos seemed to affect her, and Clint had to wonder if Bruce's mind simply couldn't hurt her. "So, um...." He paused, frowning. "You wanna go look for Bruce? Maybe he's lost." At least that would get her away from flames and fistfights.

Betty frowned back. "You think so?" she replied. "He knows his way around pretty well."

The fire was spreading, growing, and flames had begun to lick at her coat.

"It's dark; maybe he can't find his way." Clint couldn't just watch her burn, so he swallowed whatever worry he felt at the action and reached out to grab her arm and pull her away from the fire.

"Hey!" she protested, stumbling a little. "What was that about? And I'm supposed to meet him here, I think I should stay." The fire was huge and wild now, advancing slowly, and the heat of it beat against their faces.

Clint couldn't let her get hurt. He felt a bit panicked, but he knew he had to convince her, not force her.

"I lied. Bruce asked me not to tell, but he didn't want to come. You should go find him."

She crossed her arms. "Well, if he's not coming, I don't see why I should leave the party." Her fingers drummed against one elbow. Fire now licked up the back of her overcoat, charring it in one long streak from the hem almost to the shoulder.

Clint was officially done talking; he grabbed her, yanking her away from the fire and whipping off his coat to smother the flames. "Damn oblivious."

"What the hell," Betty yelped at him.

Before either of them could do anything else, the fire moved, leaping and enveloping them both in bright orange heat. It didn't hurt; it set their clothes ablaze, but not their hair, and on Clint's face and hands it was warm, almost but not quite unpleasantly so, and slightly tickly.

At first Clint let out a shout of surprise and tried to pat the flames from his arms, frantic, before he realized it didn't altogether hurt, and stared at the flames where they licked his arms. "What the hell?"

Betty frowned at him, confused. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"You're not...?" Clint stared at her, the flames on her, the flames still spread across his body. Of course she wasn't seeing this. Of course Clint just seemed crazy. "I'm... I must be seeing things, is all," he said, still trying to subtly pat at his flaming arm.

"Oh, the fire?" she asked. "Don't worry, this fire's very nice." She smiled at it fondly as it destroyed the last of her overcoat and started in on her blouse.

That made even less sense. "You see the fire and you're not... worried?" He looked down at his jacket, smoldering to nothing. "What do you mean, 'it's nice'?"

"Bruce wouldn't believe me either," Betty said, slightly crossly. "Says it's in the nature of such things to be dangerous. Which is ridiculous." She held a gout of fire in her hand as the rest consumed the sleeves of her blouse past the elbow. "See? It's perfectly friendly."

Clint mimicked her motion curiously, watching flames dance across his fingers with fascination for a moment, before he looked back to her. "What kind of fire is this, then, if not the dangerous kind?"

"The best kind," she said with a smirk. "The most careful, darling kind. The kind Bruce is full of."

Clint raised a brow, looking between Betty and the flames. He'd seen bits and pieces of what Bruce was full of, and gentle fire hadn't been something he'd have thought of. "What do you mean?"

Betty looked at him a little oddly. "I see it all the time," she said. "In everything he does. But he's been avoiding me. Afraid it would burn me right up. But I'm pretty sturdy." She stood almost naked now, but smiled at him unabashedly. "Not that it would burn for anyone who wasn't."

"Guess that means I'm lucky I don't burn up easy," Clint replied, not quite as unabashed as he glanced away from Betty. So the flames were...what? Bruce's passion? Something he thought would burn up everything around him, everything he loved? Clint was just glad that the flames only burned his clothes; he was sure some wouldn't stand up under the heat.

Betty grinned brightly at him. "You really are," she said.

A crack of thunder sounded overhead, and for the first time, Betty looked worried.

Clint looked away from the fire towards the sky, feeling his apprehension return. "I'm guessing that's bad, huh?" It was a pretty obvious question; seeing Betty's expression as anything other than happy was a pretty clear sign.

"It's not good," she agreed.

The thunder got louder, and with it came a sound almost like an enormous human voice, yelling indistinctly.

"What should we do?" Clint asked, glancing towards Betty briefly. "Run? Hide?" Could you hide from a storm that shouted like a man? Probably not. Bruce's storms seemed to stretch on for miles upon miles in his mind.

"There's nothing you can really do about a thing like that," she said, before fading into nothing. Big fat raindrops began to fall, fighting with the fire, trying to put it out and leave only muddy ash.

"Shit." Another voice of reason down for the count. Clint didn't know what to do, but he felt like the fire still stretched across his flesh was better then the water trying to smother it, so he hunched his shoulders to hide from the rain, flicking his hand out to grip an umbrella. "That is so handy," he muttered.

The fire licked curiously at the umbrella, melting the edges, but then retreated back to Clint as the raindrops rolled down and sizzled against the fire.

It began to pour, and all around Clint was mud, some sizzling and glowing orange but very quickly most of it was black and dead.

The black clouds overhead reared up, growling thunderously. "Banner," they seemed to boom.

Clint started, unwilling to peek out from beneath the umbrella, feeling like protecting this flame was important. "Not here," he said to the ominous voice in the sky, tucking down and heading away from the open area.

The fire clung to him, burning bright against his skin. The rain beat down harder, falling in sheets and making the ground slippery and treacherous. "Banner," the thunder boomed.

Clint kept his stride careful, squinting and trying to find a path to follow, other than the murky steps ahead of him, lit by his own personal flashlight. "You can't have him," he muttered to the sky. Whatever grumbled and growled for Bruce overhead couldn't have him, or his fire, dammit.

The cloud formed itself into the shape of a man, still looming over the landscape like a specter. "Banners are monsters," he boomed.

Clint paused in his trek, turning to look up at the sky from beneath his umbrella, mindful of the rain. A man in the clouds; how fitting. "I only know one Banner!" Clint shouted, knowing this was probably a bad idea but whatever. "And he's the furthest thing from a monster I've ever met!"

The fire hid behind Clint, shivering in terror at the cloud-man. The cloud-man sharpened and became more distinct, but no less huge, dark and threatening. "We all are," he growled.

"Well that's ominous," Clint said to himself, almost feeling like he needed to comfort fire. "'S'all good, just a big cloud man being bitchy." And then Clint squared his jaw, shouting again. "Who the hell is 'we'?"

"My father, myself, and my son," the man rumbled. The rain did not let up, but the pattering noises all seemed to arrange themselves to amplify the voice.

"So you must be Papa Banner!" Clint didn't know squat about Bruce's father, but if the man was up there proclaiming himself and his entire line of kin to be monsters, he couldn't have been a very nice guy. "Well, I can't say I agree with you; Bruce is very nice!" Maybe he shouldn't taunt the giant cloud man so much, he thought.

The little remaining flame had crawled up to the back of Clint's neck, now, licking at his ear. The looming man continued to speak.

"No. He's dangerous. Freakish. Like me. And I destroy everything."

Clint wished he knew how sentient this flame was. How far gone was he that he wanted to comfort it, shelter it?

"No, you're wrong! Bruce is so much more than that! Bruce helps people; he's not a freak and he's not a monster!" He felt angry now, because even if this was supposed to represent someone else, these clouds, this voice, he knew that this was in Bruce's head. Something that still drowned him, still snuffed out his fire.

The flame flared up as Clint defended Bruce, warm against his neck but still cowering.

The looming figure laughed darkly. "If you think that," he said, "you'll only get hurt."

Clint felt bolstered by the warmth at his throat, a grin pulling across his lips. "Naw, I'm tough, and Bruce wouldn't hurt me! Bruce is the nicest guy I've ever met; you can keep your scare tactics, cause I ain't leavin' him. Not if it means he's stuck in here with you."

For the first time, the cloud-figure developed a face, and that face loomed closer, snarling. "You'd defend him! She defended him too!"

Clint was startled, and he shifted back, but he quickly stood his ground once more. "Who is she? Because I bet she was a hell of a lot better than you if she was defending him," he spat back, feeling his stomach twist. This was a bad idea.

"It doesn't matter," the sky rumbled. "She's dead now." The looming eyes gleamed coldly.

Clint recoiled from that, gritting his teeth. " What? Fuck it, I don't care who she is; she defended Bruce so she had to die? What the fuck?" He was getting angrier, this smug man in the clouds was really pissing him off.

"I was born a monster," the form in the sky said. "Of course I killed her. There wasn't any getting away from it."

"No one's born a monster!" Clint shouted, fists clenching. "You decide to be a monster, you make a choice after life hands you your cards! You can't excuse murder like that!" He could feel his thoughts swirling in his head. Who was she? What kind of bastard was Bruce's father? What did he do to Bruce ?

The man growled unintelligibly, reached out a great hand, and backhanded Clint, sending a heavy wave of icy water against him from head to toe.

Clint spluttered and went stumbling far backwards, suddenly drenched, and with a sudden fear he reached to touch the back of his neck, where the flames had been cowering, a chill running down his spine.

The flame licked at his fingers from where it now perched, trembling, in his hair.

Clint sighed with relief at the heat there, and turned a fierce glare at the looming figure, his bow materializing in his grip as his protector mode kicked in. "Is that what you do? Beat on people smaller than you when they don't agree with you?"

At the sight of the weapon, the man drew back a little, then shifted into cloud again, drifting sideways. The rain also started to let up.

Clint was surprised by the sudden reversal, before he realized what the familiar weight in his fist was. So that cloud, Bruce's father, was nothing but a bully and a coward.

Clint reached up to touch the fire in his hair. "We're good; once the rain stops, you'll burn nice and big again."

The flame crackled at him, spreading out and banishing the water from his hair and neck. The sky lightened marginally, showing up purple in streaks between the clouds.

It felt a lot better now, with the oppressive clouds dispersing and the sky peeking through. "Thanks, sentient fire buddy," Clint said when they dried him off, a grin on his face. "Best fire ever."

The landscape spread out around them, flat and empty and muddy. But the fire was cheerful, curling around more and more of Clint again.

Clint didn't much mind the gloomy landscape, boots now on his feet, heading in any direction. He wasn't sure where to go, now, but the fire comforted his indecision. He now understood why Betty had loved it so much.

The landscape continued, flat and barren, for a very long time. But eventually, there were trees, and perhaps a tiny building on the horizon.

Clint followed along the landscape, eyes ever scanning the flat, motionless area, until his eyes spotted something in the distance and picked up his pace.

It wasn't civilization or anything, it was still the middle of nowhere, but it was definitely a man-made structure, a tiny cabin with a chimney empty of smoke.

A cabin. Huh. So Clint was on to his next destination, then. He wondered what might be here to mess with him this time. There could be any number of things waiting for him in a cabin. He didn't slow down, though, just kept trudging along, talking to the fire on his back. "You know, if everything wasn't always trying to kill me, I'd probably like it in here."

The fire crackled with something like laughter, perching on his shoulder and watching the cabin approach with eagerness.

The outside of the cabin showed very little about who or what might be inside, but it was in good repair, windows dark, but not boarded.

As Clint came level with it, he put his hands to his hips, looking it over critically. Nothing popped out at him that might say monsters inside, so he huffed a breath and went towards the door. "Well, I don't have much to lose, do I?" And he knocked. Knocking first seemed better than barging in.

Bruce opened the door, looking bedraggled and thin but not so much younger than when Clint had met him. His wary eyes peered out at Clint. "You shouldn't be here," he said.

Clint blinked in surprise; he hadn't been expecting anything quite so straightforward. That was probably a testament to how crazy it was in Bruce's head. "Naw, I'm definitely supposed to be here; nowhere else to go," he replied instantly, looking Bruce's thin frame over with keen eyes.

"No, no one should be here, it's not safe," Bruce muttered in reply, but almost to himself, and in contradiction to his words he stepped aside so that Clint could come in, almost as if he couldn't help himself.

Clint was careful as he stepped past Bruce, glancing around the small cabin curiously. "I'm sure I'll be safe, don't worry," he replied absently, turning to give Bruce a bright smile. "I'm careful like that."

The room was cold and bare. but as soon as Clint stepped inside the fire on his shoulder flared up, bright and hot, as if it were trying to fill the entire room.

The image of the little cabin, with this weary, too thin Bruce, was a sad one, and Clint was glad the fire burned hot enough to warm it up, if just a bit. "So, seems like this place needs something to brighten it up. Maybe a little paint. How 'bout a plant or two?"

Bruce just blinked at him, taken aback. "What are you... this isn't a home. It's a cage."

"This is a cabin," Clint replied, furrowing his brow. "I don't think I've ever seen a more easily broken cage than a crumbly little cabin." He looked around again, thoughtfully. "Could still use some paint."

"It isn't supposed to be pleasant." Bruce shook his head. "Remind me who you are, again?"

"Oh, I'm Clint," he replied, looking at Bruce with a grin. He'd almost forgotten; different Bruce, different memories. "Nice to meet'cha. Now, about this cage...." He crossed his arms over his chest, pulling a thoughtful face. "Maybe you could add some nice pictures to the walls."

"I'm not going to venture out into civilization just to get home decor. " He peered at Clint. "You do know about... the Other Guy, right? That's why you're here?"

"Nope. I'm here for you," Clint replied, smiling over at Bruce. "Though, yeah, I know about the Big Guy. I'm not dumb." He rubbed his chin. "Okay, maybe not pictures; I'm sure there's flowers outside somewhere. Brighten up the place a bit."

Bruce frowned at him, mostly confusion with just a little hint of heartbroken longing. He sat, leaning up against the stones of the cold fireplace.

"He's not... he's not just a myth, you know. He's a real danger. Hunting Hulk is not a fun holiday outing like trying to find the Loch Ness monster."

Clint paused his musings, and shifted from light and joking to a more serious expression in an instant, moving carefully towards Bruce. "I'm not here to hunt you, Bruce; I'm here for you. Understand?" He went to squat at the other side of the fireplace, frowning over at the thin man. "I'm here to help."

Bruce looked at him once more, intensely examining the man who'd intruded on his hideaway. "You really mean that, don't you?" he asked.

The flame migrated off of Clint's shoulder, dropping down and settling itself in the hearth, finally managing to make the room feel truly warmer.

Clint's eyes flickered to the fire, and he smiled softly, glad it found the proper place to warm. While it had been a comfort to Clint, Bruce needed it much more.

"Of course I mean it," he replied, looking back to Bruce after a moment. "I want to help, in whatever ways I can. If that means going out and buying you a damn couch, I will." He gave Bruce a smile, bright and warm.

Bruce sighed. "It's not that simple," he said. "I'm out here to protect the rest of the world from the Other Guy. I can't let you take the risk of being here." He looked incredibly tired as he said that.

"You're not a danger to the world, Bruce, and you're certainly not a danger to me. The world's seen worse shit than a big guy with a temper, and it'll keep seein' shit worse than that." Clint made a face, looking slightly frustrated. "You don't have to torture yourself to save a world that ain't ever done shit for you, especially when you're not a danger to it."

Bruce shook his head, not even knowing where to begin. Eventually, he just let his head sink into his hands.

Clint was unsure for a moment, before he scooted across the short distance and reached out to Bruce, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Hey, I'm sorry," he murmured. "I get why you lock yourself up, I do; you're scared to hurt anyone. That's why the world's so damn lucky you got the big guy, and not someone else."

"You don't know," was all Bruce could say, shaking his head. "You don't know."

"Then tell me," Clint replied, squeezing his shoulder, looking earnestly at him. "Explain it to me, Bruce, please."

"I've already done so much damage, hurt so many people. I don't understand how you could even begin to think I'm not dangerous. It isn't... it just isn't worth it. It's not." Bruce tried so hard not to lean into the warmth that Clint and the fire provided, but he was rapidly failing.

Clint moved himself even closer, carefully, and smiled softly at Bruce. "I know you have the potential to be dangerous, Bruce; but... but I know you won't hurt me. You don't want to hurt me. So you won't." He glanced down. "You're worth it, Bruce. You are."

"That's not how it works," Bruce croaked. "God, I wish it were, but that's not how it works. I hurt people I really don't want to, and... I just can't. I can't see that happen again."

"You won't, dammit," Clint said, determined. He felt useless, because he couldn't reassure these things, he couldn't guarantee them. But he wanted to, he wanted to be able to help Bruce. "You won't watch someone you care about get hurt. I won't let it happen to you again."

Bruce laughed helplessly, like a sob. "No one should know I'm here," he said. "You're probably not real. I'm probably hallucinating from lack of food. But my brain... it's just stubborn enough to invent one last friend so I can't go in peace, so I have to watch someone else get hurt before I go."

Clint had wanted to resist, to respect Bruce's space, but something gripped Clint's heart and tore at Bruce's words, and he moved forward, folding the smaller man into his arms, holding him tight. "I'm real, I'm real and I'm here for you, Bruce, I'm here to protect you, you don't have to protect me."

Bruce's shoulders began to shake, and he leaned into Clint's embrace helplessly, letting out his grief. There was so much he knew he should say, so many more reasons for this blessed friend to keep away, but Bruce couldn't make himself say them.

Clint didn't say any more; he just gripped Bruce tight, held him against his chest and rubbed his trembling back, trying to reassure him in his touch. He rested his chin atop Bruce's curls and kept him tucked carefully in the circle of his arms.

Bruce kept his arms tight about himself, not letting himself reach out, even as he sobbed into Clint's chest.

"It's...It's gonna be alright, Bruce," Clint murmured, passing a soothing hand over his back, trying hard to show he cared. "It's gonna be okay. I promise."

Bruce sniffed. "I wish I could believe you," he whispered.

"I wish I could convince you," Clint replied, just as softly. "But even if I can't convince you, I'm still gonna make it okay for you."

"I don't know who you are but I recognize you," Bruce said, mumbling without moving from where he was still curled up against Clint, his sobs having quieted. "You feel safe. That's part of why I think I must be dreaming. I know you're a friend, somehow, but I've never seen you before."

"We've met," Clint said, keeping his voice low and careful. "We've met before in different times and places. Not in dreams but...but in memories. Partly." He passed a careful hand over Bruce's hair, letting out a soft sigh and ruffling those soft curls with it. "Bruce...I need you to trust me, because you are my friend. And I'm trying to help you. But this cabin, this cage; it's not real. The wood, the walls, the mud outside; it's not real. But I am. And I'm here to bring you back to the real world."

Bruce took a deep breath, letting himself, just for a moment, believe that he was safe and Clint was safe and everything was going to work out. He let the fingers in his hair lull him. Then he focused on what the other man was telling him, and lifted his head to look at Clint in confusion. "So I am dreaming?" He didn't seem that alarmed by the prospect. "Hallucinating? Whatever?" He sighed a little. "What have I got to come back to?"

Clint's brow pinched, and he rubbed his hands over Bruce's shoulders, looking him over for a split second; his tired eyes, his weary expression, his skinny frame. This Bruce almost felt more real than the one he'd met in real life. Like this Bruce showed so much more of the truth than the real Bruce would ever allow.

"You have...a team. A family." Clint ducked his head forward, looking into Bruce's eyes intently. "People who care." And then he cracked a smile, a crooked grin. "And you've got me. I ain't half bad, really."

Bruce sat up a little, rubbing his eyes. "And how long do I get to keep all that, before everything goes wrong again?" he asked wearily.

"For as long as you want it," Clint said, his smile falling. "Bruce, it isn't going to break apart. Those people outside of your head, they're damn sure determined to keep you. And you can count me as one of them. We won't let everything go wrong for you. Not again."

Bruce looked as if he was about to deny all of that, shake his head and then sink back into himself, but then his eyes landed on the fire burning brightly in the fireplace. He looked torn.

"I can't guarantee the world'll be perfect, Bruce, or that it'll just be easy; but I can promise we won't leave you when it gets tough." Clint's eyes flickered to the fire, the warmth that he knew Bruce could give off. "Let us...let me be here for you. Please."

Bruce sighed. "I don't know if I can do that again," he said. "But, okay. I'll try."

"That's all I'm askin'," Clint said, patting his arm affectionately and grinning. "I'm not expectin' you to come out and be some happy-go-lucky, all trusting ray of sunshine. Trying's good enough for me."

Bruce gave a bitter twist of a smile. "You really do know me, don't you?"

"Not as well as I'd like to," Clint replied. "But, yeah, I really do know you."

"So, things get better," Bruce said, staring into the fire. "Did I figure out how to get rid of the Hulk?"

"No." Clint shook his head, shifting to sit back and rest his hands in his lap. "But you've learned how to control it. For the most part."

"For the most part." Bruce's eyes skittered to Clint. "And that seems safe to you? Right now, I don't see how any amount of the Other Guy could ever be considered safe."

Clint shook his head, frowning. "He's not as dangerous, not... not as mindless anymore," he replied, looking at Bruce intently. "The more you learn to control it, the safer he becomes. He'd never hurt the team, at least I'm sure of that."

Bruce took a deep, deep breath, reaching out for Clint's hand. "That... is a lot to take in," he said. "That's something I wouldn't have thought of. All my worst fears are of him being out of control, and when I think about the future, the only thing that seems acceptable is to have him completely gone. So you... whoever you are... can't just be a figment of my imagination." He lifted his other hand to partly cover his face. "I'm going to have to deal with that middle ground."

Clint took Bruce's hand tight in his, and his grin was crooked and pleased. "Don't worry; once you wake up you'll remember me, and you'll feel a hell of a lot better when you're not locked in here. You're safe out there. You're free." Clint squeezed his hand. "I'll make sure it stays that way."

"It's not me being safe that I'm worried about, Clint." He frowned, but at the same time he couldn't help but smile. That there was someone so determined to be his protector, even though he knew what Bruce was, what he'd done. He clung to Clint's hand.

"Hey, even big, tough guys like you need protecting every now and again," Clint replied, chuckling, and he reached out his free hand to ruffle Bruce's curls affectionately. "I mean, you can't be tough all the time. Everybody needs someone to lean on."

Bruce sighed damply. "How long have we worked together? How much have you seen of him? Is he... how is he?"

"I've seen quite a bit of him; we've been working together for a while." Clint gave a shrug. "He's good. Keeps big monsters off my back, smashes the bad guy. He's a friend too." He smiled, nodding.

Bruce shook his head, smiling a bit but clearly overwhelmed, face flooded with awed disbelief. "He's not...he's not just a monster?"

"Well, no," Clint replied, like it was obvious. "He's saved all of our asses before. He saves people, Bruce; you save people. You're a superhero."

Bruce made a noise that was just barely more a laugh than a sob. "A superhero. Well, I can't say it never crossed my mind when I injected myself with a derivative of the supersoldier serum." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the stone of the fireplace. "I just... I wanted to make myself better. And from what I've seen up until now? I ended up making myself much, much worse." He looked at Clint sideways, out of slitted eyes. "It's good to know that something good comes out of it all, eventually."

It made Clint's stomach a bit queasy, the idea of how destitute this Bruce was, bitter and without hope. He wasn't sure how to make it better; he knew he wanted to. So he grinned, perhaps a bit too brightly. "Hell yeah, man; you've saved the world." He clapped a hand onto Bruce's shoulder, squeezing. "Kicked aliens' and gods' asses. It was awesome." The memory twinged a bit for him, but maybe it would make Bruce feel more... hopeful.

Bruce shook his head again, just a little. "I think that might say more about how much shit happens to the world in the future than it says about me. Aliens? Gods?" Bruce scoffed a little. "Not surprised a human weapon of mass destruction has come in handy."

"Yeah..." Clint shook his head, huffing a bit. "It's some shit. I'm just a guy with some pointy sticks, and, trust me, Gods and aliens threw me for a loop too." Then he smirked, looking at Bruce sidelong. "Though, I don't know about 'weapon of mass destruction'. I'm sure the Other Guy's a huge pile of cuddles. I mean, he's probably just really in need of a blanket and some tea, don't you think?" He hoped maybe he could get a laugh. A chuckle. Maybe a less bitter kind, too.

Bruce's smile was pained. "Now I'm sure you're overselling him," he said. "Just... don't sugar-coat it, okay? I'll have to deal with the reality sooner or later."

"He fights the bad guys. He hasn't hurt any innocent people. Really; it's better. You can control it." Clint made a face, huffing. "If it was bad I'd tell you. Trust me."

Bruce hummed thoughtfully, chewing on his lip. "That's not exactly something I can take on faith," he said finally. "Not right now." He smiled a little, squeezing Clint's hand. "But it's very good to hear."

Clint's smile returned, and he squeezed Bruce's hand back, brightening. He was glad to see Bruce smile. "I get it. Seems hard to believe. But you'll see."

Bruce sighed with relief, and the sky outside seemed to lighten just a bit. "So, we're friends?" he asked Clint.

Clint's smile paused on his face, as if undecided, before he frowned. "Well, sorta," he replied, wrinkling his nose. "I haven't gotten to know you much. You and Stark are science buds; I'm not very smart. Just a... circus kid with a bow and arrow." His smile came back, though. "I'd like to be friends, though. I admire you, Bruce. You're a tough cookie."

Bruce's eyes practically bugged out of his face. "Stark? As in, Tony Stark?"

Clint blinked, before he realized: Bruce was a huge nerd. Of course he'd already heard of Tony Stark. "Yeah, the one and only. Real douchebag, but you and him are thick as thieves."

Bruce shook his head. "That almost sounds more unbelievable than the Hulk playing nice. I hate Tony Stark. I hate everything he and his company stand for."

That sent Clint aback. "What? You two are like, bestest buddies, I'd be surprised if he didn't have a friendship bracelet for you." And then Clint paused, his brain catching up with his mouth. "Oh. Oh. This is before the overhaul. You're from before Stark stopped making weapons, aren't you?"

Bruce blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, last I heard he was manufacturing some of the heaviest artillery on the planet. I mean, I can't say I've never found military funding tempting...." He sighed. "But in my experience it makes it really difficult to come out on the side of benefiting the world." He eyed Clint curiously. "So what's Stark into now?"

"Superheroing, mostly. Making my job difficult." Clint shrugged. "Also clean energy. His arc-reactor... thing, it powers his entire building."

"Huh." Bruce nodded. "Yeah, that I could see." He turned to Clint again. "But you're the one who showed up here. In my... memories, from sometime in the past?"

"Well, yeah; I volunteered to come in here and get you," Clint replied, nodding. "It's your memories, just a little wonky, I think."

Bruce sighed again. "Well, it sounds a lot better out there than it does in here," he said. "How's the rescuing me going?"

"Uh..." Clint glanced around, and then smiled at Bruce a bit guiltily. "It's goin' good. I mean, I think. You seem... your head seems... brighter. So I think what I'm doing is working. I hope."

Bruce hummed thoughtfully, and then he laughed a little bit darkly. "If you think the way to get out of whatever this is is to fix my issues... I think you may be in a little over your head."

Clint huffed, a bit offended. "Hey. I'm always in over my head. But I think I can do it." He smiled hopefully. "I'm determined to. And I don't quit." Well, he couldn't quit, literally, but Bruce didn't need to know that.

Bruce shook his head. "There are some places that - trust me - you don't want to go. I suggest you come up with another strategy."

"I don't think there is another way," Clint replied, brow furrowing slightly. "You're hiding, somewhere in this mess, and the only way for me to get from one place to the next is helping you. I'm kinda limited on ideas outside of that." He shook his head, looking over at the fire, still burning bright. "If that means I gotta dig through some kinda hell in here... then so it goes."

Bruce let go of his hand to grab his upper arm and look him in the eyes. "Listen. The last thing I ever wanted to do was drag anybody down with me, all right? So be careful."

Clint looked to Bruce with surprise, and he opened his mouth, ready to say Bruce wasn't going to drag him down, that Clint was going to drag him up, but he went quiet, knowing when it was best not to protest. "I'll be careful, Bruce; I promise." He pressed a hand over Bruce's own where it gripped his arm.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Thank you for this." He leaned back against the stones a little more, and the fire burned bright, hot and steady.

Clint nodded in silent reply, watching him with a curious, steady gaze. Bruce cared so deeply, and he hardly knew Clint at all. It made Clint know all the more he had to protect him.

Bruce, in his relief, felt all his tiredness come over him, and his eyelids drooped where he leaned against the fire-warmed stone.

Clint watched him, keeping himself quiet, and couldn't help a small, amused smile. It was so much better to see the man relaxed.

The scene dissolved around Clint as consciousness faded from this version of Bruce, and soon Clint found himself sitting in a small canoe on a wide lake, the surface still as glass except for the ripples created as tiny insects skimmed the surface. The air hummed with their peaceful activity.

Clint looked around at the still surface around him, slightly startled, but not so startled as he had been before. He breathed in the fresh air.

There was an oar in the bottom of the boat, and a small island nearby, with not much more than one enormous tree, some kind of evergreen, the top pointing high into the sky.

Taking the oar in hand and putting it to good use, Clint pointed his little vessel at the small island, curious as he began to row. Symbols seemed to hold so much meaning, here in Bruce's mind. His eyes flickered over the evergreen, thoughtfully, and wondered what this might mean, or if, perhaps, it was a memory.

Insects continued to skitter across the water, in patterns and arcs, getting a little confused when they encountered the boat. Some of them went around, some followed along curiously. Some leapt from rock to rock on the island's shore. There were hoppers and dragonflies and large fantastic insects that might have existed only in Bruce's mind.

Clint's eyes absently followed the movement of the bugs, whether things he recognized or not. He rowed on, wondering idly at the stranger creatures, the larger ones, the ones that leapt about and the ones that zipped about on quick wings. He didn't question it, however, slowing his rowing as he came closer to the island shore.

The tree had strong branches at regular intervals, practically laid out like a welcome mat, and it was a short-needled tree, not the kind of pine that had branches sticky and dripping with sap.

Clint pulled himself ashore and stepped off onto the rocky beach. Setting the oar down on the boat he looked around, absently, before he went towards the tree, looking up into its boughs. There seemed little question as to what he should do. He needed to get a bird's eye view anyway; he'd been on the ground much too long. Willing a pair of gloves over his calloused fingers, Clint patted the bark at the base of the tree, gave the area around him one last glance, and took hold of the closest branch, moving to pull himself up.

The insects still skittered across the water, and the higher Clint got, the more obvious it became that they were moving in some kind of larger pattern. The island was not the center of that pattern; far from it. The insects, and their movements back and forth and around, and their ripples on the water, all focused on one point on the distant shore - a rocky, fortified outcropping that looked gray and foreboding.

Clint climbed high into the tree before he paused for a breath, gripping the base of the tree and turning to scan the horizon. He saw it, then, the pattern of the bugs, the dark, bleak place promising a none-too-pleasant time in the near future. Well. The calm times had been nice while they lasted.

The insects swirled in and out of the structure, and between one glance and the next they became honeybees around a hive, carrying their burdens in and flying back out in search of more.

Clint's brow furrowed at the sight, and he wondered if his eyes were failing him as he kept a firm grip on a branch, raising his other hand to shade his brow and squint to see the structure more clearly. Bees?

Bees.

Well. Bees. Clint wasn't much for bees, but he supposed he might as well go figure out why there was a giant hive of them. He started to climb down from the tree's heights.

The surrounding surface was no longer water, but a gently waving field of purple-blue flowers which the bees flew over, stopping here and there.

Clint felt like he'd tripped and gone through the Twilight Zone. But he continued his descent until he was ankle deep in flowers, looking out over the swaying field with slight confusion.

Bees landed on him curiously as they went about their pollen collection, but they always returned to their hive, that central hub.

Clint could deal with bees. It was a bit surreal, wading through flowers as bees buzzed about, but he supposed heading towards the hive would be his only logical next step. So he did.

Everything got bigger - or Clint got smaller - as he approached the hive, the flowers as tall as his waist, the bees as long as his arm before too long. But they still ignored him, going about their business, crawling in and out of the huge golden structure.

Clint felt very much like he was walking into the very depths of Alice in Wonderland. He remembered absently as he walked, as he felt the sun on his face like all those years before, reading the book after some kid at the circus had left it in the stands, struggling through the bigger words, refusing to ask his brother for help. Bruce's mind was so much like that story. Clint didn't like to think he was Alice, but as the world got larger - or as he shrunk - the feeling it left was a very distinct one.

But the bees didn't talk - not to him, at least, although the hive hummed loudly with Clint's approach. Clint was now the same size as each of them, small enough to fit inside the strange, humming, waxy doorway.

Clint was a bit more careful as he approached, eyes flickering about the outside world one last time before he edged his way into one of the hive's doorways, looking at the waxy edge before peeking inside and looking around.

Bees crawled everywhere, humming their songs, gathering in hordes across great swathes of hexagonal cells, dancing between each other in patterns as they spoke to each other in their own language about what was outside.

They didn't avoid Clint, they treated him like just another bee, brushing against him as they passed in the little corridors of the hive, but not stopping to note him.

Deciding he was safe, Clint walked with a bit more confidence, heading further into the hive and absently gazing about at the bumbling bees, the soft insect bodies that buzzed past him here and there.

He wondered, absently, where this was taking him, but he didn't dwell on the thought. He would go where he was led, that was all, it would seem. At least the bees seemed completely uninterested in him.

The surroundings became more dusky and indistinct as Clint left the entrance behind, and then there was only the warmth of close quarters and the hum of industrious labor, which changed, morphing into the hum and clatter of machinery, as if in a factory, and then to the patter of hard rain on a thin roof. He was in a hallway, now, lit only by the occasional soft flash of lightning from the windows in the room at the end.

Clint hated it when his sight failed him, and the way the world faded into peripheral white noise for his eyes made him a bit edgy. The sounds became a bit disconcerting, and he had a brief flash of wondering at where he was going, before he was suddenly in a hallway gazing down at the flash of lightning and heaving a breath of relief. Even in the darkness he could see more than the fuzzing indistinctness he'd been left with before.

For lack of anywhere else to go, Clint went forward towards the room at the end of the hall.

There was barely a sound from the room, which was eerie in the rainy darkness with its array of little chairs set atop little tables, legs sticking up to form shifting horned shadows with each flash of lightning. The presence of another being was almost lost in the pounding of rain on the roof. But from one corner, there was a startled, ragged inhale.

Clint's eyes flickered about the dark, ominous room, darting between each shifting shadow, shoulders pulling taut as unease began to build in his chest. With each flash of lightning he oriented himself with the room, shutter shots of the space burned into his mind, but before he could turn to examine the rest, he heard the drag of a startled breath and he whirled, startled himself and peering towards where the sound had come, eyes narrowed against the ink-black shadows writhing about. "Hello?"

There was no more noise, but there was a tiny lump of shadow in the far corner, a tiny Bruce, hair inky in the blackness but pale face, pale tiny hands raised and clasped over his mouth, stood out when the light passed over him.

Clint sucked in an audible breath at the sight, eyes widening as his pupils dilated, adjusting to the low light. He took a careful step towards that little figure, voice a whisper. "Hey... you okay?" He wasn't sure what he was dealing with yet, so he stayed a short distance back.

Bruce edged away from the newcomer, wedging himself as tightly as he could into the corner, and he kept his hand over his mouth as he shook his head "no."

Instead of coming closer, Clint crouched, trying to make himself smaller, unintimidating. "Do you need help?" he whispered, watching the frightened little Bruce. "I can help...."

"You can't," replied a very small, very quiet voice. Then he looked as if he were trying to find words for why, and couldn't. Instead tears started rolling down his face.

Clint edged a little closer in his crouching, reaching out a hand to the tearful boy. "It's okay," Clint murmured, face scrunched with pain at the sight. "It's okay, I'll help you, don't cry...."

"It's not okay. It won't be okay." Bruce's breathing got rougher as he curled his arms around himself.

"It will be," Clint insisted, moving ever further and taking a deep breath, practically on his knees. "What's wrong? I'll fix it."

"My mom...." Bruce barely got those two words out, and then he was shaking too hard to talk, a hand back over his mouth to quiet the sobbing. It made him look like someone far older than the tiny body he was in.

Clint was far beyond his depths, wading through this murky pain surrounding the boy, but he felt a sense of déjà vu, an ache in his chest for a mother long gone.

He came forward, and gingerly touched the edge of the boys wrist, swallowing hard. "I - " He couldn't find words as he looked at this scared, tear-streaked face.

Bruce's eyes came up, watching where Clint's hand was touching him, with surprise and the potential for fear, but when he saw how careful and gentle Clint was being, there was wonder there, instead.

When Bruce didn't immediately jerk away, Clint allowed himself to relax marginally, bringing up his other hand, palm up, an offering, a sign of peace. "I'm not here to hurt you," he murmured softly, face open and honest. "Can I... can I help?"

There was one of those moments where there seemed to be two of Bruce again, like double vision, one face hard and suspicious, the other open and hopeful. When they came back together, the boy just looked scared.

"You're nice to me, like my mom," Bruce said. "So you might die." He didn't move, either towards Clint or away.

Clint hid his wince, jaw clenching briefly before his face smoothed out once more, keeping his own reactions at bay. This wasn't the time. "I won't die," he replied quietly, giving a small, reassuring smile. "I'm strong; you don't have to worry about me." Swallowing, Clint shifted where he crouched marginally. "I'm strong enough to keep you safe, too."

Bruce looked at Clint long and hard, examining him to see if that could be true. "My mom was strong too," he said finally, tears starting up again.

This time, Clint couldn't fight the pained urge in his chest, moving slow and careful as he wrapped his arms around the little boy, making sure his touch was light, but there enough to be reassuring. "I'm sorry," he murmured, throat tight. "I'm sorry, but I promise, nothing's going to happen to me. Not while I'm keeping you safe."

Outside, the thunder roared like a howling beast and the rain pounded down even harder, and Bruce breathed nervous and unsteady for a moment before whining with relief and crashing face-first into Clint's chest.

Clint allowed his arms to tighten marginally around Bruce, and he rested his chin atop the boy's head, taking a long, deep breath. "It's okay, kiddo," he murmured, blinking back a sudden wet burn in his eyes. "It's okay, I got you. You're safe with me. I promise."

Bruce cried for a while, clinging to Clint's shirt, but soon enough he tilted his head back, looking up at Clint's face curiously.

When Bruce's crying subsided and he pulled back, Clint turned his eyes down to him as well, offering a smile to the boy. "You okay, little guy?"

Bruce's eyes turned to the storm outside. "I'm hungry," he said. "But I... don't want to go home." The boy trembled at just the thought.

"Then you don't have to go home," Clint replied, glancing towards the window and then back to Bruce. "Where do you want to go? What do you want to eat? I'll get you there."

"Wanna stay here," Bruce said, muffled, into Clint's chest.

"Then we'll stay," Clint replied, absently petting the kids hair and glancing about. He wasn't even entirely sure where here was, but if Bruce wanted to stay, then they'd stay. "I've... got food, too," he said, hoping the pack on his back would just happen to have a little something for the kid.

"Animal crackers?" Bruce asked hopefully, still clinging hard to Clint's clothing.

Clint couldn't help smiling softly at Bruce's excitement, and he reached around to shuffle a hand into his bag, managing to grab up a bag and pulling it around. Lo and behold: animal crackers. He grinned, giving them to the boy. "There you go, kiddo."

Bruce smiled damply, taking the bag and opening it painstakingly, fishing out a camel and contemplating it before putting it in his mouth. Next was an elephant, which he held out to Clint.

Clint took the elephant carefully as he watched Bruce's little face, wondering what was going through his mind in that moment, before he popped the cracker into his mouth and gave a close-lipped smile. "Thanks, bud."

"Do you like animals?" the boy asked Clint solemnly after he'd worked his way through half of the package of crackers.

Clint nodded his head just as seriously, wondering why the boy asked. "Yeah. I love animals," he replied, raising a brow at Bruce.

"I'd like to be an elephant, or a rhinoceros, or a dinosaur," Bruce said, then lay his head down on Clint's chest with a sigh.

"Elephants are cool," Clint replied, blinking down at the kid against his chest, gently patting his hair. "Big and strong and super smart."

"Yeah," Bruce agreed. "And they can pick up things with their noses." He shifted against Clint's chest. "Are you gonna make me go home?"

"If you don't want to go there, then you don't have to," Clint replied, shaking his head as he looked down at the boy. "I'm not making you do anything. You get to decide, kiddo."

"I always have to go home eventually," Bruce sighed. "They don't let me stay here at night. And it's scary with no one else here." He shivered again, leaning into Clint. "Home's scarier."

Was this his school? "I'm here," Clint murmured, wrapping the boy up in his arms to warm him. "You can stay here as long as you want. You don't have to go home. I promise."

Bruce snuggled into Clint, relaxing, going limp. "Stay here forever," he mumbled.

"As long as you want," Clint replied, heart warming as the boy relaxed, rubbing his back gently.

The boy slept, but the storm raged on outside, endless and fierce, and there was no daylight, not for hours. Clint kept watch over little Bruce, unwilling to let anything happen to him. A fierce protectiveness had gripped him, and now he waited up, watching the storm, holding the little boy gently.

After a few hours Bruce stirred, waking up slowly with the warm, comfortable arms wrapped around him. He frowned in confusion a little as he opened his eyes to the stormy blackness of the schoolroom. Then his fingers tightened where they were bunched in Clint's clothes.

Clint's mind had drifted as the boy slept, wandered far enough off that when the fingers tightened in his shirt they didn't register for a moment. And then Clint was blinking and looking down at Bruce, confused. "Oh, hey, kiddo," he began, smiling. "Sleep well?"

Bruce blinked up at Clint, and then he nodded. "You're still here," he said.

"Of course I am," Clint replied cheerily, even as his heart clenched. "Told you I was here for you, kiddo."

Bruce curled himself up tighter, thinking of all the things that had always been, that were gone. "That's good," he said.

Clint frowned slightly, rubbing the boy's back gently, before taking a breath and brightening. "Hey, you awake now, kiddo? Because... because I think we should go where the storm can't reach. I could try and take us there, if you'd like."

Clint wasn't even sure if the idea he had would work. But this Bruce was just a child - he was hurt and scared and Clint needed to fix that.

"Storm can't get in here," Bruce said. "That's why I stay." The child didn't change except that he examined Clint closely, and his eyes became more knowing. Just a little more like grownup Bruce.

Clint watched him, thoughtfully. "So you're stuck waiting out the storm?" he asked, frowning as he glanced towards the window.

Bruce's face crunched a little, watching the windows too. "I don't think it's going to end," he said.

"Everything ends," Clint replied, shaking his head. "Especially storms. They weather themselves out all too soon; I've had a few of my own." He smiled at Bruce softly. "Nothing lasts forever."

Bruce hummed thoughtfully, and laid his head down on Clint's chest again, still watching the storm. "It'll get better?" he asked.

"Yeah," Clint replied, carding a hand through Bruce's curls. "It can be hard, but it always gets better. There's happiness waiting at the end of every storm. Even yours."

Bruce rubbed his face into Clint's shirt, not wanting to look at the chaos outside any longer. "I wish it would go away now," he said, just an edge of a whine to his voice.

Clint rubbed one curl between his thumb and forefinger, absently, and flickered his eyes to the window. That storm, raging on and on. He didn't say anything, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully.

"Me too, kiddo," he mumbled after a long, pondering moment.

"Everything's just bad," Bruce said, clinging to Clint's shirt again. "Things get better for other people, but maybe I'm different."

"Hey, no," Clint replied, hushing him gently. "You'll be alright, just like everyone else. You've just been on your own, kiddo. People can't get through everything on their own." He paused, patting Bruce's back. "That's why I'm here. I'm here to fight your storm with you, bud."

Bruce swallowed hard. "My dad says..." he started, but he couldn't continue.

Clint looked at Bruce, frowning, and furrowed his brow. "What does he say, Bruce? I bet you he's wrong."

Bruce took a deep, steadying breath before answering. "Dad says I'm like him, that we're built wrong, we're monsters."

Clint's eyes widened slightly, and the idea that anyone, the boy's father or otherwise, could look at something so small and frail and say monster set his blood a-boil. "What did I tell you? Absolutely wrong." He shook his head, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "You can't be a monster."

"No, but...." Bruce's breaths started to go ragged again, and he clutched at Clint. "Dad's really smart. He knows a lot."

"I know a thing or two, too," Clint replied matter-of-factly, wrapping his arm back around Bruce protectively. "I've met monsters, bud. You're not one of them." He tried to smile for him. "Do you wanna know how I know?"

Bruce nodded, eyes glued to Clint's face, desperate to learn what made a monster and what didn't.

Clint leaned forward, like he was imparting a great secret. "Their eyes, Bruce. It's all about the eyes." He nodded, solemn. "You look a monster in the eyes, and you can see straight to the evil they got inside. Your eyes aren't like that; trust me. I've get pretty good eyesight myself."

Bruce watched Clint's eyes for a long moment after that, studying him. "Then why does he say that stuff?" he asked at last. "I hope you can really tell. Mom said he was wrong but I don't think she could tell."

"I can," Clint promised. "And you know why he says all that stuff? He's scared of you." Clint looked at Bruce seriously now, looked the little boy in the eye. "Because he's a monster, and he's scared because no matter how much he tries he can't turn you into one. You're too good, so he's scared."

Bruce curled up in a tight little ball against Clint. "No, because... you're like Mom. She said I was precious and good. But she said she'd be okay, too."

Clint took a deep breath, touching the boys hair gently. "Your mom...." He began, unsure, face pinched. "She was right. You are precious. She may not have... been able to, to - " he grasped for words. "She couldn't keep her promise, but that doesn't mean she was wrong. Sometimes people can't keep promises, sometimes the bad things get them. But that doesn't change facts. Your mother loved you, and she knew exactly what you were when she looked at you."

A wave of rain battered at the windows.

"But she couldn't tell about Dad, and he was the most monstery of anyone. I don't know how anyone could be worse. And I'm half made of him."

"Do you think your mother loved him?" Clint asked, looking at him with a frown. "Because... my ma loved my pa, and she never saw that he was a real monster. Love can do that."

"I don't know," Bruce said, looking miserable. "But I know she loved me."

"I...." Clint felt like he was turning in circles with this. "She did. She loved you, but that doesn't mean what you're thinking."

Bruce watched Clint's hesitation with a worried frown, tensing in case he needed to get away. "See, I'm smarter than people think I should be. So's my dad. He says it's because I'm like him. And I scare people when I'm too smart."

"People are stupid," Clint replied, scowling. "There's nothing wrong with being smart. People just don't like for others to have an upper hand over them." He shook his head, letting out a breath. "That's why you and your dad aren't alike, bud; you're smart, but you don't hurt people with that smart. You've never hurt anybody for fun, have you? 'Cause your dad has. And that's what makes him evil."

Bruce looked uncomfortable and hopeful and scared all at the same time. "I don't think so," he said. "But he says it, an' he says it. All the time. I don't know how to not believe it."

"You have to remember that, even if he's smart, and even if he's your dad, he can still be wrong, bud." Clint patted Bruce's shoulder, reassuringly. "He can still be wrong, and he is wrong. You're too good to be evil like him."

Bruce just curled up, dejected, and outside, the storm raged even harder, the wind howling and the crashing of thunder near-constant now.

Clint huffed a breath, trying to look at his face, frowning softly. "You don't believe me, do you? You think I'm wrong?"

Bruce shrugged, hiding his face in Clint's shirt, not knowing what to say.

"It's okay if you don't believe me, for now, but someday you're gonna have to realize your dad ain't god. He doesn't know half as much as you'd think, and he doesn't know a quarter as much as he thinks." Clint shook Bruce's shoulder gently, a playful gesture. "He's a man, like e'rybody else. Gets it wrong, does bad sh - stuff. Lives, dies. You don't have to believe me, but you also don't have to believe him."

Bruce took a breath, and he uncurled just enough to wrap his arms around Clint's middle, holding tight.

Clint wasn't sure what to do with the little boy, so he just took a breath and brushed his hair back gently, letting him find comfort. "You're alright, little guy. I got you, bud."

"Okay," Bruce murmured in reply. "The storm'll really end?"

"It will," Clint replies, nodding resolutely. "I'll go out and stop it myself if I have to."

Bruce looked at him with wide eyes. "But it's a storm, " he said incredulously.

"Well, yeah," Clint replied, shrugging. "I've fought weirder things." He grinned, bright and self-assured. "Heck, I'm sure I could go out there right now and stop that storm, if it'd make you happy, bud."

"Don't go," Bruce reacted immediately, clinging tighter. "You'll get hurt."

"Hey, hey; I'm not gonna get hurt," Clint murmured, frowning. "I do pretty good in a stretch. Besides... sitting in here won't make any storm pass. Hiding sometimes doesn't work."

Bruce looked unhappy, but he nodded. "How will you fight?" he asked. "What can I do?"

"I've never fought a storm before. I'll improvise," he answered, before his lips quirked. "And you... I dunno, buddy. You think you can fight a storm with me? I'm not letting you get hurt."

"Then I won't let you get hurt either," Bruce said with determination, although his lip wobbled with the very real knowledge that adults got in over their heads and got hurt all the time.

Clint winced. The kid shouldn't have to worry about him. Even if the Bruce he knew was a grown man, this one was just a child, and children shouldn't have to worry about adults. "If you wanna help me, I won't tell you no. We can face that big, bad storm together, right, bud?"

"Yeah," said Bruce, though he shook like a leaf as he said it. "It's safe here, but I don't want to be here forever."

"You don't need to worry," Clint murmured, ruffling Bruce's hair gently. "I'm a superhero. I'll keep you safe, even when you go out into that storm. I got you, bud."

"A superhero," Bruce repeated, looking at him with wide eyes, settling just a little. "Okay. Let's go.

"Got it," Clint replied, carefully getting to his feet and holding out his hand to Bruce with a grin. "You can be my sidekick."

Bruce grabbed Clint's hand, holding it hard, trying not to flinch as the wind howled outside, and the clouds roiled in the blackness.

"Come on," Clint urged, trying to keep Bruce's spirits up as he led him out of the corner, towards the doorway he'd first entered. "We've got this."

"What's your powers?" Bruce asked, following closely, trying his best to be brave.

Clint had never been asked that before. "Super eyesight," he replied as they headed down the darkened hall. "I see everything."

"Oh... cool." Bruce squeezed Clint's hand again, trusting him to lead them right to the double doors outside. The wind continued to howl, faster now, higher pitched, as if trying to remind them of its power.

Clint kept himself from worrying. There was no point to it. He felt himself pull back the string in his chest as he walked, aiming his sights. All he needed was to find his target, protect this boy. Perhaps this was what he needed to do to free Bruce? Either way, there was no turning back. He knew that as he looked for the exit and held Bruce's hand tight.

Through the glass doors they could see the clouds gathering, solidifying until one great fist raised to beat against the glass. The doors shuddered with the impact, but didn't break. Bruce crowded to Clint's side, but didn't back away.

"Knock knock," Clint said, just a bit nervously as he gripped Bruce's hand, before he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. This storm was not a friendly one. But he wasn't about to be cowed as he approached the door. "No solicitors," he muttered under his breath.

The figure of cloud roared louder, and developed two huge glaring eyes, which sparked with lightning and glared in at them angrily.

Bruce wanted so badly to shrink back from it, to go back to his safe corner. But instead he looked up at his new superhero.

"What do you see?" Bruce asked him.

Clint looked down at Bruce for a moment, and then turned his eyes back to the clouds, trying to be the hero this kid needed. His lips pulled up at the corners, and he grinned. "Well, I see a big storm with a whole lot of bark and no bite, and a little, weak man hiding behind it."

"Bit pretty bad when I was out in it," the kid muttered. But he looked at Clint with trusting eyes, anyway. "How do we fight?"

How do you fight a storm? It had backed off pretty quickly when Clint had brought out his bow last time. So that's what he pulled out with his free hand now. "Well, that's a good question," he said, looking down at Bruce. "We avoid getting beat up by the storm and I think we can get to the man. Maybe some explosive arrows too. How's that sound?"

"Okay," said Bruce, watching the bow and quiver appear, not nearly so inclined to dismiss things as dream or illusion as his older selves. "Could I have a shield?"

"Of course," Clint replied, inclining his head and letting go of Bruce's hand, willing the strongest shield he could think of into existence. It may have been a garish red, white and blue, but at least it was light. He held it out to Bruce, smiling brightly at him. "Here ya go, bud."

Bruce's face lit up. "Do you know Cap?" he asked as he hefted the disk in front of him, already feeling much braver about facing the storm. "Did he let you borrow this?"

"Cap? Me and him are best buds!" Clint replied, grinning proudly. "I'm sure he won't mind me borrowing it, especially if it's for a good kid like you. He was teeny-tiny once, too, so he gets the need." He ruffled Bruce's hair, smiling.

"Yeah," Bruce said, smiling bigger now.

The storm-man's eyes crackled angrily, but at the moment, Bruce wasn't afraid, and the roiling black clouds drew back from the door a few feet.

Bruce's smile made Clint weak with relief. This little kid could be happy, he really could. Clint could beat this, save this little guy. "You ready to fight, bud? You got Captain America's shield, too, so nothing can get through that, man."

"I'm ready," he agreed, facing the door with determination but still sticking close to Clint. The storm howled at them through the door, showing a huge mouth full of teeth made of lightning, but Bruce barely flinched.

Clint nodded, jaw setting as he looked out into that mouth of lightning, those thunderbolts he was sure wanted to tear him apart and turn him to ash. He'd still fought scarier.

He went to the door, making sure Bruce was at his side. "He doesn't scare us," he said over the howl of the wind, just before he lifted his bow and shouldered open the glass door.

Bruce ran out, actually a little ahead of him, holding Cap's shield and protecting Clint's legs with steadfast determination. "You don't scare us!" He yelled at the storm. "We're superheroes!"

The figure snarled and twisted, its lightning-studded mouth drawing wide with a howl, and then plunging toward them, big enough to envelop them both.

Clint came behind Bruce, letting loose an explosive arrow - trial and error would show how well that worked against a storm, and Bruce's little rallying cry made him grin. "That's right! Superheroes, Bruce!"

As the storm came forward, however, Clint scooped Bruce up like a doll around the waist, pulling him and the shield out of the direct path.

The explosives made the creature pop like a water balloon, and crash like a breaking wave over the school building, where they had just been. It heaved up from the ground and re-formed, muddy and bulbous and slow, and started towards them again.

Bruce clung to the shield, eyes wide and fixed on the figure.

Clint laughed triumphantly, and aimed another arrow, standing at Bruce's side. "He's not even very strong, bud," he called over the wind, letting another arrow sing through the air at him. "This should be like squashing a bug, Bruce!"

The second explosion rocked the figure again, the water settling on the ground, and then it was just a man, overcoat closed against the rain, still with those fierce, hateful eyes focused on Bruce as he approached the two of them. Bruce didn't move.

Clint paused only a moment, arrow notched, and watched him with a glare, standing protectively next to Bruce. "Back off before I stick you full'a holes," he growled, never taking his eyes off the ratty little man.

The man may have been small, but the shadow he cast with the lightning behind him was huge, and Bruce wanted to shrink away, but he watched, waiting to see what Clint would do as the man shuffled closer.

"I said back off," Clint growled, shooting an arrow at the man's feet, feeling a slight unwillingness to shoot a man in the chest in front of a child. "Not another step towards this boy."

"You're really not afraid of him." Bruce looked on with awe as the shadow fell away, like it was burst by the arrow, leaving just the wet, bedraggled man.

There was a disruption, something like static, as the scene shifted slightly. The rain continued, falling in sheets, but now Bruce was older, closer to his college self, looking down at his father's body laying on the grass of a graveyard.

"He really was just a man," Bruce's voice ground out. "And I killed him."

Clint blinked and the world was fizzing into something different, the child he'd protected gone, replaced by an older, harder face, though still young. He took a breath, lowering his bow as he looked down at the limp body, blood already washed away by the pelting rain.

He said nothing for a long time, eyes flickering only once between the body and Bruce, before settling on the man - boy? - and blinking away the water from his face, humming a soft breath as he inclined his head. "So you did," he murmured, unsure.

"I didn't mean to," Bruce protested. "Or - at least, there was part of me that didn't mean to. I've never been entirely sure if there wasn't something else in my head, something dangerous. Just like he always said." He was shivering, drenched, eyes locked on the body in front of him, but still somehow made himself heard.

Clint reached out at that, clasping Bruce's shoulder hard and squeezing. "He was never right," he replied, fierce. "Wanting to kill a man like him... It definitely doesn't prove him right, not in any way." He let his bow and quiver dissolve, replaced by an umbrella in his grip, hefted to hide from the water's torrents.

Bruce turned to look at Clint, then, and recognition lit his eyes. In another blink, he was the same man that Clint had eaten Shawarma next to on the day aliens had tumbled out of the sky.

"Well, I think that's just about the worst of it," he said, inclining his head down to the body that still lay at their feet. "It's funny, I didn't even remember this, not until now. It's smaller than I could've imagined. But maybe that's because I've seen so much worse now. Seen so much destruction and pain and madness that one dead man, pushed a little too hard in the heat of the moment - it's still grim. But it's not terrifying." His mouth quirked a little, not happily. "Not compared to the other things I've done and seen."

"We've all done and seen shit that's not pleasant," Clint replied, shrugging his shoulders as he pulled his hand away from Bruce, only so he could hold the umbrella over them both. "Comes with the life, or comes with the path we got in that life; ain't nice, but it's what we're dealt." He looked down at the body for a long moment, and then back to the man he'd met, but almost didn't recognize now, for all that his views on him had changed.

"Frankly... he deserved it. Outta anything you've done, this?" He jerked his chin towards the man. "Was probably for the best. I'dda done it too."

Bruce laughed quietly, darkly. "I guess I really am at home in a nest full of superheroes," he mused. "I should probably stop running, huh?"

"Run? Bud, if you wanna, sure, go for it. Nobody's gonna make you stay if you don't wanna. But...." He leaned over, bumping shoulders with Bruce, trying to lighten his mood. "You don't have to run anymore. We're your family now. We can help you, keep you safe, all that stuff that comes with families and superheroes." Clint grins, bright. "We ain't so bad, yeah?"

Bruce smiled. "No, not bad at all," he said. "I think... I'm done running, for now."

The rain let up as he spoke, and then everything lightened, and dissolved into a haze of white. Then, Bruce woke up, blinking up at everyone gathered around him.

Clint had been out an hour, tops. No one had traveled more then a few feet from the bed during the time, either pacing or simply moving to move, unwilling to leave their teammates alone. Loki, however, had not moved an inch, standing over the sleeping figures like a vulture, with Thor at his back, watching him. Loki almost looked disappointed when Bruce awoke, blinking bleary eyes up at his teammates, crowded around.

Clint, who'd slumped forward onto Bruce's hospital bed, one hand pressed against the doctor's arm, and who'd snored for the duration of this very serious mind-meld with Bruce, woke more slowly, letting out a muffled groan into the blankets as he did.

"Welcome back to the world of the living, Banner," Loki said, lips curled with distaste.

Tony looked up from his phone at the sound of Loki's voice, and he grinned when he saw Bruce waking. "Hey, you okay, Brucey? All brain cells present and accounted for?"

Bruce rubbed at his eyes as he attempted to focus in on the world around him, the crowd around his bed now staring straight at him. The regard didn't bother him nearly so much as it would have, not terribly long ago.

"Yeah," he said, smiling at Tony and the others. "Yeah, I think I'm pretty okay." He turned to Clint, resting a hand on top of the one the archer had laid on his arm. "What about you, Clint? I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but... I'm pretty sure you just put yourself through a lot for me."

Tony raised his eyebrows at the familiarity that really hadn't been there before, the new ease of Bruce in the presence of the others.

"My head hurts," Clint mumbled, turning his head to the side and peeking up at Bruce with one eye, a small smile pulling at his lips as he saw him, awake and alive and well. He, of course, remembered everything, every detail, because while Bruce had dreamed it, he had lived it. And it was such a relief to see Bruce alright after all he'd seen.

"I'm okay, though," he sighed, squeezing Bruce's arm fondly as he sat up, popping his neck as he did. "All in a days work, right, bud?" He yawned, rubbing his eyes with his free hand, and grinned.

Loki observed this with amusement and annoyance in equal measure, while the others watched in as much confusion as Tony at the sudden camaraderie between the two who had hardly ever really spoken.

"Yeah," Bruce agreed, smiling back, only a little bewildered. "All part of being a superhero, I guess." He knew the face in front of him so well, now. It was odd. "But I'd like to thank you, all the same."

"Well, hey, you're welcome," Clint replied, grin turning smaller, fond. "Gettin' to see your pretty face in the wakin' world's a good enough thanks for me," he said, reaching out without much thought and ruffling those now familiar curls.

Bruce ducked his head a bit self-consciously, blushing a little, but he didn't seem to object. He even leaned into it just slightly.

"Hey, now," said Tony. "I'm getting kinda jealous now. Does the spirit journey thing earn you cuddle points? Should I've gone in after all?"

"I'm pretty sure that would have been an unqualified disaster," Bruce told him. "As much as I admire your intellect, I in no way want your brainspace mixing with mine."

"You can be jealous all yah want," Clint replied, sticking out a petulant tongue at Tony before he grinned. "I did the spiritual journey bull, so I get the cuddle points, tech-head. Hands off."

"So it went well," Steve murmured.

"And everyone's alive," Natasha pointed out helpfully, watching Clint with a crooked brow but saying nothing more.

"You're welcome," Loki piped up for good measure, grinning when Thor frowned at him.

Bruce frowned just a little, his eyes examining Loki and then gravitating back to Clint. "You let him put you in my head?"

Tony winced a little. "Hate to admit it, but we ran out of ideas. You were napping pretty hard, Big Green. I would've taken the plunge, but...."

"I know," said Bruce. "Thank you for taking your promise seriously." His eyes flicked to Tony with a small smile, but then returned to Clint, still concerned.

Clint shrugged his shoulders, looking at Bruce with an expression of what can you do? "Well, we had to get you out, bud. You were conked out hard enough that we thought you might...." Clint frowned, shaking his head to clear the thought. Bruce was fine now. "Well, let's just say I ain't keen on watching friends die."

And again Clint smiled at Bruce, kindly. "Don't worry about it, though, man; it was safe enough." He reached out to wrap on Bruce's forehead gently with his knuckles. "I knew bouncin' around in your noggin wouldn't be too dangerous."

Bruce looked at him mildly incredulously. "I'm not sure what you'd see as too dangerous, then," he objected, but he was smiling fondly.

"Going into Tony's head would probably be dangerous, honestly - all that ego might explode if it mixed with mine," he replied flippantly, smirking, though he didn't look away from that smile. It was a good look.

"Ohh-kay," Tony said, widening his eyes at the two of them pointedly. "That's it, if you two are well enough to sit there and make googly eyes at each other in between insulting me, I think I've got better things to do than stay and witness that."

Bruce blushed a bit more at his words.

"So jealous, Tony," Clint said, finally looking away from Bruce and rolling his eyes. He looked back at Bruce, grinning and giving him a conspiratorial look as he leaned closer so he could mock-whisper to him. "Tony thinks I'm stealing his science bro, Bruce...."

From behind them, Thor cleared his throat, and, though he was glad to see his friends well, he made a slight face of displeasure. "I must return... my brother to Asgard, friends. I am sorry to leave so soon, Banner, but know I am very glad to see you well."

"Thank you, Thor," Bruce said, nodding. "Loki." He ignored the squabbling of his two best friends.

Two best friends. Now that was something. Bruce blinked at them.

"Hey, why don't I see you two out," Tony said. "Make sure the Goblin King here gets back to his palace." He ushered the two Asgardians out of the room.

Thor marched Loki out quite seriously, while Loki pondered the failure of his plan. Oh well. At least it had been something interesting to observe.

Natasha was the second to bail, looking between the two and jerking her chin towards the door. "Getting coffee," was all she said, patting Clint's shoulder as she passed and grabbing Steve to drag along with her.

"So..." Bruce said. "You know all my deepest, darkest secrets now, I guess? Or a lot of them, anyway. I... don't know how to feel about that."

Clint looked at Bruce, and then away, pursing his lips. "Guess I do." He hadn't really thought of it like that. Now he realized the things he knew were probably things Bruce had kept to himself for... a while.

"Well, since I know so much about you, we can level the playing field - I've got plenty of dirty secrets, if that'll make you feel better," he said, shrugging. "You get free access, if you want."

He trusted Bruce, too. He... knew, if Bruce had his secrets, he'd never tell.

Bruce thought back over his dream, thought about the part he remembered most clearly, the part before he woke up. Clint standing beside him, squeezing his shoulder as he looked down at the body of his father, telling him he'd have done the same. The look in his eyes as if he knew the weight of that kind of action, and still meant it.

"I think I've got enough to carry," he responded. "Unless... you want someone to talk to. Who you know would understand."

The offer held something Clint hadn't expected, an openness he hadn't thought he would gain. Even if the subject was a bit grim in his mind, his lips pulled up into a small smile. He hadn't really let himself think about the parallel, hadn't wanted to bring his own messed up fears into Bruce's head, but out here, in the real world, it was safe.

"Thank you, Bruce," he said, clasping a hand over Bruce's and grinning something fierce. "I might just take you up on that. Not right now, since we just, you know, finished a whole fun adventure together. But someday."

Bruce laughed gently. "Maybe we've had enough life-changing revelations for a little while," he agreed.

Clint smiled, before leaning an elbow on the bed and glancing towards the door. "I wonder if we could sneak out of here, do you think? The others have abandoned us, it would seem."

Bruce stretched a little, taking stock of his body, which was only slightly stiff. "Sneak out, huh?" he asked. "Where to?"

"I dunno; wherever," Clint replied, shrugging. "Anywhere that isn't a hospital. I mean, you're probably hungry, too, since you've been, like... sleeping for a while now."

Bruce shrugged a little. "I'm used to it. Or, I have been, before." He smiled slightly. "Now that I remember that that kitchen is real, though, I do want to get back to it."

"Good idea. Get some food in you before you waste away," Clint said, standing and reaching out for Bruce, grinning. "I can cook a mean beans on toast, but if you want anything more complicated you might have to help."

Bruce's eyes crinkled as he got himself off the bed, stretching again. "I'd love to. Anything in particular you've wanted to try making? We'll probably need to stop for groceries anyway... not sure how well everything in my fridge will have fared while I've been out."

Clint shrugged as he watched Bruce stand and stretch, smiling softly. "I dunno. I'm not picky with food; anything you want, man, I'll probably eat." He paused, making a face. "Unless it's Tony's 'health juice'. That stuff is just... wrong. It's terrifying." He shuddered.

Bruce laughed a bit. "The great mysteries of pulverized food," he said, testing his legs by walking towards the bathroom. He continued speaking through the open door as he got cleaned up and dressed. "It's funny - I think it's something like the suits. Tony made them, so he knows everything about them, and they just seem normal to him. But to everyone else, they're kind of terrifying." He stepped out, ready to face the world.

"Sounds like Tony; oblivious to his own level of terrible," Clint replied, shaking his head with a chuckle. He opened the door for Bruce, gesturing for him to go first after he'd glanced down the hall. "We're all clear. Let the sneaking commence, Doctor Banner," he said, voice a tone of mock seriousness.

"Sometimes you need a little denial about your terribleness levels," Bruce responded as he walked out, not quite a joke. "How do you feel about cilantro? I think I might be in the mood for tacos. Real ones."

"Tacos? You really know the way to a man's heart," Clint replied, pressing a hand over his heart and grinning as he followed after Bruce. "Honestly. That sounds great." He bumped Bruce's shoulder. "Any terribleness levels can be ignored by good food."

It was really pretty disorienting, how comfortable he suddenly felt in Clint's presence. There were no secrets to keep, no chance of judgment. He even pushed back a little against Clint's shoulder, something he probably wouldn't have even done with Tony, though the two of them were so close in so many ways. It wasn't like this, though.

"I'm going to make so much food," he told Clint. "I don't want to be used to going hungry any more."

The feeling that washed through Clint at Bruce's words could only be described as relief. A great relief, because he still had all those other Bruces at the back of his mind as little reminders, and one from not so long ago, so thin and unwell, was something he didn't want to see again. Ever.

"Good. You look better with some meat on your bones, Doc; we'll bake you some cake in celebration, huh?"

"Cake sounds nice," Bruce agreed. "I'll make sure to get eggs."

Bruce was wobbling a bit by the time they got back, loaded down with food and ideas and ready for a cooking marathon. It always settled him, which was why he cooked for himself, but he didn't often cook for anyone else.

"Come on, gimme some of that before you hurt yourself," Clint said after they arrived, grabbing up some bags from the man so he could go set them on the counter. "I hope you're good at this, 'cause I'm hopin' I won't have to power through it like I've done with Tasha's pancakes. Atrocities, really."

"I think I do all right," Bruce said, smiling around at the neat kitchen which had once again become familiar. "I don't... usually cook with anyone else, though, so it'll be a little bit weird sharing the space. You've shared my head, though, so...." He waved a hand as if in welcome. "Do you want to help chop vegetables?"

Clint quirked a crooked smile and nodded. "I'm ready to help wherever you need," he replied, going into the drawer and tugging out a knife to cut up vegetables. "And don't worry; I'll try my best not to get in your way, bud. I'm pretty good about that."

Bruce smiled, and he got Clint set up slicing onions and peppers while he started some beef browning, then opened a couple of avocados.

Clint set to work at his job of slicing of vegetables quite happily, you could say, smiling to himself as he worked. There were things, questions, rattling around in his head, but he was waiting for the right moment to ask, so he just focused in on the vegetables for now.

Bruce started some tortillas warming, then put the onions and peppers into a second pan to sautee, giving Clint a couple of tomatoes and a smaller onion to dice. Then he rinsed the cilantro, smelling it with a smile. "I was serious about the cilantro - do you know if you like it? A lot of people hate it, because it has a strong flavor that some people associate with soap or chemicals." He held out a leaf for Clint to try.

"I've never had it," Clint said with a shrug, pausing his dicing and wiping his hands so he could take the leaf curiously. "I've had some weird stuff, before, though, so...."

He sniffed it curiously, before he shrugged and popped it into his mouth.

Bruce watched his face as he tasted. "I can leave it on the side if you're not sure about it," he said. "Either way, I'm going to get everything set up now because this all smells really good and I'd like to be eating it."

Clint chewed thoughtfully. "It's not bad," he said, offering a smile. "I think I'll try it on the side." He looked to the chopped vegetables he'd finished. "And hell yeah, let's get this stuff done. I'm starved, and this smells heavenly."

Bruce looked around at the space, at the food. "It is, kind of," he said, oddly soft. Then he put the food that was ready on the bar, leaned up against it and started constructing his first soft taco eagerly.

Clint watched Bruce work, smiling softly as he did. He always worked with such care; he wondered how he'd never really noticed before. "You should'a been a chief, Bruce. You'd'a been good at it."

Bruce laughed. "I have been, now and again," he replied, "when I felt like it was safe to be in one place long enough to get a steady job." He finished the taco with a generous amount of cilantro. "Well, I'm going to eat this one now, so you dig in, too, okay? No fancy plating today."

Clint smiled at the thought, before he shook his head and focused on the food, going about making his own. "I played a chef once; well, I mean, I wore the outfit. Again, I'm great at beans on toast, but...." He shrugged, smiling as he folded his own taco up.

"Well, you've got to start somewhere," Bruce said once he was finished his first couple of bites. "When I was in Mexico, I started with beans on tortillas, but then you just have to keep looking for new things to try." He finished his taco and settled onto one of the barstools as the food hit his stomach, looking immensely grateful as he contemplated whether to make another or take a moment to just sit.

Clint took a bite of his own taco and hummed happily at the taste. He was hungrier than he'd realized. "Maybe I'll try learning; this taco's great."

He leaned his hip on the counter, looking towards Bruce. "I always burn stuff. Just ask Tasha about the fire I set on the Helicarrier. It was, uh, intense."

Bruce smiled as he started constructing a second taco. "There are a few basic rules that can stop most kitchen fires," he said, "but some are just chaotic enough to fall outside of those patterns. One thing I didn't learn until I started spending time around Tony? Don't put rice cakes in the microwave."

Clint huffed a laugh around a bite of taco, before he swallowed and smiled. "Sounds like quite a lesson," he replied, taking another bite of taco to mull that amusing image over.

The topic of fire, however, had resurfaced something he'd been curious about, he so he finished off his taco and dusted the crumbs off his fingers, looking to Bruce. "Speaking of fire," he began, looking bemused. "I was just thinking - do you remember the fire?"

Bruce frowned, looking out into space for a moment, and then he froze briefly. "The part with Betty," he said. "Yeah, I have a general sense. It wasn't...." He looked away, self-conscious once again, and didn't continue.

"Don't mean to bring it up if it's not something you wanna talk about," Clint tacked on at Bruce's reaction, scratching the back of his head. "I was just curious, 's'all. It was a nice fire." He smiled, shaking his head. It had been so reassuring. But he wouldn't bother Bruce if he didn't want to talk about it.

"No, I... I guess it's something I want to figure out, myself," he said. "I'm not entirely clear on it? I mean, it was definitely... me feeling something. The way I felt about Betty... I didn't think I'd ever feel that way about somebody again. And I mean, I don't, not exactly. But...." Bruce bit his lip. "I think the fire was something more basic. A need to be close to someone."

Clint softened considerably at that, looking down as he mulled that over. "Needin' to be close?" Leaning more heavily on the counter, Clint regarded Bruce. "I think... yeah, it felt like that. Just a... the warmth'a bein' with somebody."

Bruce relaxed visibly when he seemed to take that well. "That's not something I've really let myself have," he said, slanting towards Clint. "Not for a long time."

Clint gave a crooked smile as he looked at Bruce with a fond gaze. "You should try it again. Would do you a load'a good," he replied, tilting his head thoughtfully at Bruce. "'Sides, anybody'd be lucky to get your kinda warmth, bud."

Bruce let out a breath, and he leaned into Clint, letting his forehead come to rest against the archer's shoulder. "It's funny," he mumbled, "I'm starting to believe that."

"Good," Clint murmured, a bit more quietly, and he made sure not to move, almost holding his breath, like he'd done with that fire. Hold still and become accustomed to it. Don't scare it away, or blow it out. He reached up his hand and, very gently, ran his fingers through Bruce's curls. "That's very good."

Bruce made a small sound, not quite a whine, and leaned in closer, hooking an arm around Clint's waist. He wasn't the small child that had slept draped over Clint's chest in the dream, but he remembered what that was like, remembered that it was okay.

Clint let out a soft breath of surprise, before he was curling his own arm around Bruce, turning a bit so he could pull him gently closer. He hardly hesitated, still carding his fingers gently through Bruce's curls. The man was warm and solid in his arms, and it was a good feeling. This was the real Bruce - he wasn't going to dissolve in Clint's grasp. And that felt good.

Bruce relaxed a little further into Clint's arms. "Thank you for this," he said. "Thank you for saving me."

Clint's hand came to rest at the back of Bruce's neck, and he held him all the closer, leaning a cheek against his hair. "I'd do it again. You're worth it, Bruce; you're so worth it." His voice was soft, but fierce. He didn't want Bruce to forget it. Clint felt a sudden intense knowledge that he would do it again. He'd go through any hell for this mop-topped scientist.

Bruce hugged Clint tight, feeling a knot loosen inside him. He trusted Clint not to lie to him - and the evidence was there. Clint had come after him, knowing the risk to himself. Clint knew him, inside and out, now, and stood by his choice.

"Thank you," he couldn't help saying again, voice strained with the emotion it tried to convey.

"You're welcome, bud," Clint murmured, rubbing a hand down Bruce's back reassuringly. "You're so welcome." He felt warm and comfortable, holding Bruce. It felt right. The young and the old all mixed into the new. With that thought on his mind, Clint hummed with pleasure and pressed a kiss to Bruce's curls.

Bruce took another moment to enjoy that, then, not moving away, he lifted his head. "Clint?" he asked, watching the archer's face. "What if the fire did mean more than that?"

Clint looked at Bruce, brow furrowing only slightly in confusion, before his gaze turned soft with a hesitant realization. "I'm here for it," he replied, gingerly. "All that fire was... it was good. What else might it... mean?"

He didn't want to assume too quickly, but... his heart fluttered with a breath of hope.

"Honestly, I'm still trying to get my mind around it," Bruce said quietly. "And, I mean, I don't want to read things wrong and mislead you by accident. I'm still a little worried that it's mostly just me needing someone, after all this time, and you're the one that's here. But that's not what it feels like. You feel so important. And... I'd really like to kiss you."

Despite himself, Clint's cheeks flushed red, and he smiled, a bit surprised, a lot pleased. "It's okay. I'll stick around while you figure it out." His hand moved from Bruce's back to his shoulders, and he grinned. "But, in the meantime... I'd love for you to kiss me."

Bruce leaned forward hesitantly, watching Clint's face to be sure it was okay, but the moment Bruce's lips brushed Clint's, he felt warmth and want overtake him, and he pressed his mouth against Clint's, eyelids falling.

There was a moment of pause, of breathless anticipation, just before their lips brushed, and it felt like the first lick of those flames across his skin--warm, soft, gentle. And then, just as swiftly as before, Clint was engulfed and he lifted his hands to cup Bruce's face, precious between his palms, and he kissed him back, eyes closed and lips firm, wanting.

Bruce still kept a tight watch on himself, as always, so he was careful as he continued to kiss Clint, not going much farther than just the two of them pressed together, holding tight to each other. It turned loose, soft, but stayed closed-mouthed, as Bruce carefully kept the amount of restraint that would allow him to pull back if he needed to. But he very much didn't want to stop, not entirely, not just yet.

Clint only pulled back when he needed a breath, and then only an inch, lips still hovering over Bruce's. Clint had kissed many people in his time - he was a handsome man, he knew, and there had been plenty who agreed with him - but this kiss, it was different. It was chaste and sweet and tender, and it held a thousand different things in it that he couldn't name. It was Bruce against him, and perhaps that was what changed it. All he knew was that when he pressed a second kiss to Bruce's lips, just as sweet as the first, it felt good, and it felt right, just like this.

Bruce pulled away from Clint's lips, but remained happily in his arms, and ducked his own head just a little until he was looking up at Clint through his lashes. "So it seems like this is something," he said, just a little bit breathlessly.

Clint had to swallow hard when he looked down at Bruce, his face warm as he resisted the urge to duck his own head. Instead he rubbed his hands gently across Bruce's shoulders before moving to wrap one around his waist. "It's...something, alright," he murmured in reply, reaching up and brushing Bruce's curls with the tips of his fingers. "Something good."

Bruce smiled, his eyelids dipping again at the feel of the soft touch. "Yeah," he agreed. "Would it be bad to say I'm glad this all happened?"

"Naw." Clint's hand brushed down to Bruce's cheek, running his thumb over his cheek. "Not unless it's bad that I agree."

Bruce stepped away, then, just beginning to feel overwhelmed, but he kept smiling, and he snagged Clint's hand with his own before it slipped away. "Maybe we'd better eat a little more, before it gets cold," he said, gesturing back to the food.

Clint easily let Bruce go, squeezing Bruce's hand with a crooked grin. "Yeah. It'd be a real shame to waste all of this good cooking," he said, chuckling. "Can't finish your dessert before your dinner, right?" he couldn't help teasing.

Bruce blushed deeply, but he still smiled, intense and amused. He felt warm all over, and he still had the sneaking suspicion that he'd died and gone to heaven, that between this space, safe, comfortable, and with everything he could want in it, and someone as warm, open and beautiful as Clint to share it with, things were just about perfect.

He wasn't cold, not anymore, and he was just beginning to hope that he never would be again.