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He maps out Bruce the way he maps out a battlefield: Safe (where he won't get harmed), Vulnerable (where he will) and Bull's Eye (where he can shoot to harm).
Safe: here, the crook under his arm, where he rests his head against his chest. He feels safest here, especially after a particularly extravagant fight, with Hulk handling more than he can chew (or, in this case, stomp/throw). Oh god, there had been that incident, with the building collapsing on top of him and Tasha-- he had no idea for whom his heart pounded for-- and it was only half an hour later, when they (meaning everyone else except him; he'd been too shaken and Thor had taken him aside to feel utterly useless, to feel the tremors running through his fingers and oh god, he had been torn with looking away and keeping an eye on them) managed to get enough rubble off to see that Hulk had used himself as a dome for Tasha. He threw his arms around Tasha, then Hulk and then refused to leave his side until Bruce was back and he got to throw his arms around his fucking mad scientist.
Vulnerable: his wrists, where he could feel the flow of blood and the beat of his heart. When Bruce is injured, he takes his wrist and feels the steady beat, on loop eighty times per minute and it calms him; reminds him that Bruce is fine. It became a habit of his, to catch Bruce by the wrist, and automatically count the beat. At the start, it had been exactly that, just that. But later on, he'd feel Bruce's beat speeding up, every time he linked his fingers around his wrist, every time their eyes would meet, until the time came when his beat would start speeding up at the thought of Bruce's beat speeding up.
When Bruce is asleep, he presses it against his chest, imagining their beats pounding simulatenously; imagines that that is the drum they march on, the song they'll call their own because they're in synch and they're alive and they're together.
Safe: his fingers, rough from his experiments, rough from Avengers business but always gentle, always as kind as he is. He presses his lips to each digit, each colored stain, murmuring the chemicals that caused each one.
There is a particular one, it's a light pink color, with a scar smack down in the middle. He hovers, unsure whether to plant a kiss on that or not, recalling the experiment that had gone wrong, all because of him, stupid, stupid him who should have stepped back a second earlier--
He nuzzles it instead, an apology pounding against his skull, that he can't get out. Bruce has insisted that it's fine so much so that, for a week, he'd snap at him when he'd be caught staring at the bandaged hand, mouth opened to speak.
Vulnerable: his eyes. He has a hard time looking away, has stopped fighting it long ago. Beautiful and honest and devious, if he wants it to be. But Bruce can be unpredictable, can be a man who'll spew sentence after sentence on physics, on the formation and death of the stars and probably the entire movie of Star Wars but sometimes, he is silent. Late at night, he retreats within himself, absent mindedly tracing patterns on his shoulder, only making grunts of agreement when he thinks appropriate. Sometimes his eyes go far, so far back that he can't keep up.
He doesn't know what to do when this happens but he always look out, for when Bruce returns; when he feels more like himself. It's in his eyes, the way they crinkle as he smiles at him (finally, he will think to himself), sometimes teary-eyed, sometimes dry and he finds himself hoping for the day when Bruce will tell him why.
Safe: his hair, when he cards his fingers through it, when sweat makes it cling to his forehead, when tiny droplets of water fall from it, after a bath, and he wants to trace where it comes from--
When he pulls and tugs at it and Bruce growls, swears and bites whatever body part his mouth is hovering over or kissing, pressing himself closer and arching his back.
Vulnerable: His mouth, oh god, his mouth. When Bruce grins, he grins like there's nothing wrong, like his hypotheses turned out correct and he grins back because, half the time, he's there.
When Bruce has his hands on his hips, his mouth is roaming, exploring his lips, down his neck, skipping his collarbones, his nipples, gives a teasing lick along his stomach and aims straight for his cock, whether or not they are naked. And, oh god, Clint has to plant one hand firmly over his mouth to stop himself from letting the entire mansion just where they're doing what.
But mostly, it's his smile that gets him, the one he gives when he's just woken up, when he's just had a cup of coffee made by Cap or when he runs a finger along the hills that are his knuckles.
The smile he gives him when he returns from his faraway places; it comes slowly, a slow lengthening of his lips, curled upwards and he whispers, "Hi. Tell me what's in your mind?"
It calms his mind, reminds him he can finally take a breath.
Bull's Eyes: here, he thinks as he makes tiny crosses on Bruce's chest, right where his heart is. Three means I love you, a reference he hopes Bruce won't get until he's had the balls to say it out loud. And crosses mean kisses or promises or danger and he means all three.
He means the kisses, means it every day when he gets to press his lips against Bruce's, feel the warmth spreading to his cheeks. He means every kiss to each bone composing his ribcage, every kiss he places along his femoral and brachial arteries, a reference he does hope Bruce understands.
Because he also mean the danger because this can be dangerous. He might make all the promises and give all the kisses but, in the end, this is fucking rare for him, this kind of intimacy, this kind of relationship and he's afraid that one day, he might hurt Bruce and lose everything. Because the truth is, he wants this but he's afraid to want too much because he doesn't know how long this will last.
*
Bruce grumbles, eyes closed and turns to face Clint, a small frown on his face.
"Why're you still awake?" he mumbles.
"No I'm not," he says just as quietly, tucking his hair behind his ear, rubbing said ear afterwards. He hears Bruce huff with disbelief.
"Believe me, you are," he argues. He opens an eye and peeks at Clint. "Nothing's wrong, is there?" Genuine worry seeps into his voice, rough from sleep. He reaches out, to run his hands over Clint's cheek or the new wound by his shoulder but Clint intercepts, rubs his fingers against Bruce's wrist, feels the pulse jump and react at his touch. He swallows and hopes it's not obvious.
"Noooo," he drags out. "Go back to sleep," he adds, covering Bruce's eyes with a hand; doesn't take it off until he feels his lashes flutter shut.
"Clint."
"Yeah?"
Bruce opens both eyes this time and looks at him. Looks at him as though he were running his hands over his skin and dipping down his spine. The silence that grows in the room suddenly makes him restless.
Then Bruce smiles and it's small and kind of dope-y but that's all right.
He's sure his own smile is just as dope-y.
(And this will do for now, he thinks. He's not ready to march into battle, he's not going to wage some metaphorical war against this. He discards all the things he's labelled Safe and Vulnerable and Bull's Eye because jesus, Bruce is not a battlefield; he's what Tasha would call special, what Cap would call his beloved. Bruce is, well, he is beside him, shoving him for bed space and consequently tickling him with his elbows.
And it will do.)