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They say that in the heat of battle everything slows down. Other fighters described it as if serenely moving through water; his own master likened it to slow-motion. Clint had never felt that—he thrived on the quick thrill of the takedown, strike first and never have the opportunity to ask questions. It’s what he did, high up on his perch.
Aim. Snap. Fall. It was rote by now. Reflexes toned on back alley streets and battlefields leant him the ability to look after his own teammates as well. Black Widow was up against three ugly-as-sin aliens, but he knew better than to even the odds. She didn’t take kindly to help, and he had the bruises to prove it.
Cap and Iron Man were working together—seems like the couple’s therapy was really working out for them—while Thor was circling overhead, bolts of lightning charring those on the perimeter to bite-size pieces.
As much as he liked his team, there was one member in particular he was worried about. Perhaps it was stupid to worry about the Hulk (the guy was damn near impossible to kill on a good day, and these pieces of shit didn’t even rate on his color-coded scale of what-the-fuckery), but the archer did. He paused in notching another arrow.
Something was wrong.
He couldn’t see Bruce anywhere.
“What’s the handle on Lean, Green Fighting Machine?” he yelled, hoping his voice was picked up through the fighting.
“Bit busy,” Natasha bit out.
TWHACK, TWHACK, TWHACK. Nat relaxed out of her fighting stance as her three assailants fell to the ground, arrows through the dead center of their sloping foreheads. The look on her face promised retribution, but right now Clint could have cared less.
“Now you’re not. Where’s the Hulk?”
He watched her scan the battlefield even though the both of them knew that little escaped his own sight. She shrugged at him, pivoting on her back foot to sink her widow’s bite into an unsuspecting bug’s mandible. Cursing, Clint grabbed one of his last remaining arrows and reached for his grappling hook. A big ugly destroyed his arrowhead mechanism, so he had to waste precious seconds screwing the hook on manually.
Double-checking everything for security, he took a deep breath and vaulted off the sky rise. His body twisted on command, even as the wind whipped through his hair and clothes, stinging vulnerable flesh. He fired his grappling hook a few feet from the pavement, gripping the tether with his non-dominant hand and gritting his teeth. The sudden skid to a halt wrenched his shoulder back and tore a chunk of skin from his arm.
Arm on fire, Clint untangled himself from the cord and soldiered on, right arm limp and useless. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He needed to find Bruce. He needed to make sure he was safe with his own eyes.
“Incoming!” Captain shouted as Iron Man took to the skies. Clint curled useless, clumsy fingers around the metal of his bow, darting into an alleyway as one of the bigger drone aliens skittered past on eight legs. He held his last arrow in his left fist and made a snap decision. The slimy fuckers would just have to wait.
He climbed through rubble, chewing on his lip until it was as raw as meat. He wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to completely dislocate his elbow joint too. Nat was going to kill him for being so reckless on a mission.
Again.
“Big Green, you there, buddy?” He called out, not really expecting an answer. His grip tightened on his bow when he heard a low, pained groan coming from a pile of rubble. Did a civilian get caught in the crossfire? He kept his solitaire arrow near him in case of ambush and pushed forward cautiously. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine…”
Oh fuck. “Banner.” He exhaled, voice faint to his own ears. “Wh—how?”
The brunet smiled, and it was the single most beautiful thing the spy had ever seen, as bruised and battered as the face that smiled was. The scientist sat up, grimacing and pulling deep, uneven huffs of pain through his nose. The left side of his face was completely smeared in blood from a forehead cut. Scraps of clothing hung around his frame, preserving just a little of dignity.
“Can you…can you move?”
Bruce indicated the huge slab of concrete crushing both his legs with a wry tilt of his head. “I think that’ll be a little difficult for me right now.”
Clint winced, because yeah, that was a stupid ass question. He knelt down by him, setting his arrow down and soothing a hand down his friend’s arm. Touch…was important. Touch had saved him so many times before—gave him something to focus on; stopped him from going into shock. He only hoped it would help Bruce too. “Couldn’t the…Other Guy do it?”
“Can’t…he’s…not there.”
“How?”
“I don’t know!” Bruce snapped, but there was no telltale green glint to his eye or tint to his skin. He slumped as if that small act of anger drained all his reserves, and Clint didn’t like how ashen he was becoming. “I got hit with something. Some sort of laser? Turned back.” Bruce’s eyes slid shut. Clint’s heart hammered in the silence. No.
He slapped the other man’s cheek a few times, forcing the man to look straight at him. Bruce’s eyes were glazed over, but at least he was alert. “Stay with me. You can do it. It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. C’mon.”
The brunet’s tongue came out to lap at a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth and laughed, clutching his broken ribs. He shook his head, tilted his head up, and froze, eye wide at something over Clint’s shoulder. On reflex, the archer turned to look and swore. Three large drones blocked their only exit, claws out and eyes acid-bright in the darkness. He fiddled with his earpiece but only got sharp static in return. Oh fuck. What were they going to do?
Bruce gripped his fingers, and the archer could practically hear the man’s muscles trembling. “You need…” He shifted, a loud, wet gasp of a punctured lung heralding his movements. “You need to get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You need to.”
“I’m not.”
“Dammit, Barton. Leave.”
Clint smirked, picking up his arrow and inspecting the tip against the pad of his thumb. “Nah. I don’t run. Besides, you think I’m going to let these fish-eyed freaks take me down? Stay put, pudding, I’ll be back before you know it.” His cocky grin faltered as the aliens slithered closer, mandibles clicking and hissing. He needed to say this before it was too late. “I…Bruce. I lo—“ He was never one for words, not when actions better suited his purpose. Desperately, he curled his mangled fingers into blood-stiffened locks, sliding his mouth against Bruce’s. It wasn’t the best kiss he had ever had—not even in the top twenty—yet Clint could have sobbed at the perfection of it. He tasted salt and rust and clung on harder.
They broke apart, Bruce’s eyes suspiciously misty. Clint shuddered out a breath, knowing what he had to do. He staggered to his feet, nails digging crescent-shaped grooves into the palms of his hand. “I’ll be back,” he promised, wrapping himself up in broken confidence.
“You better be, Clint.”
With one last smile, softer, truer, Clint lifted the arrow high and charged into the fray.
This time, everything felt like flying.