Work Text:
He should have expected this, really. After all, Clint was a SHIELD agent who'd been sent to take out the Black Widow, and now he was an Avenger. All these things really pointed out that he was a deadly, highly capable assassin.
Bruce just hadn't thought about it like that. Clint was always so gentle and easy-going with him. It wasn't quite the same as Tony's fascination with the Other Guy and his need to pick Bruce's brain every once in a while. None of the others really treated the Other Guy like anything other than a monster, or maybe Bruce in a big green suit.
Clint knew he had a personality though, and would go up to him at the end of the battle and say, "Hey, big guy. Smashed enough yet?" He seemed to understand the Hulk.
He certainly understood Bruce. Clint liked to come by the lab, but he wouldn't talk endlessly like Tony did, rambling on about anything and everything and haphazardly tinkering with all the equipment. Tony was an engineer, and that... Well, Bruce really had nothing against engineers, but it meant that Tony disliked the research bit, and instead of just letting Bruce's experiments and machines sit, he was always looking for ways to improve them. Bruce had had to deal with the mass spectrometer being in a hundred pieces all over the lab for a couple weeks before finally getting a new one on Tony's dime. He finally got the old one back a couple weeks ago, but it didn't work quite right.
The point was, Clint would come by and just sit and watch. He'd check Bruce's math (Clint was a little shy about it, but he finally confessed to really liking numbers and said he'd stolen some calculus textbooks from libraries in towns the circus had stopped in) and alert Bruce when one of the computers crunching numbers had the results ready for him. He showed genuine interest in Bruce's work and would occasionally ask questions about it, but they were far from annoying. They were thoughtful, intelligent questions that showed that Clint wasn't just watching, he was observing. He was learning, he said, because it was something that Bruce obviously loved to do, and if Bruce liked it, then Clint wanted to know more about it.
Clint was creative in the kitchen. Bruce was acceptable: he'd lived in an apartment during college and grad school, so he could technically cook, but he was pretty happy with take-out and easy dishes. During his travels of the world, he'd lived on what he could get, and sometimes the people he helped out would be grateful and insist he stayed for a meal. Bruce had fallen in love with Indian food, but he struggled with it. The recipes from the books never tasted quite like the food he'd eaten in cramped, too-hot houses in the slums, or the meals cooked by his landlord's wife in the tiny room he'd rented. He knew he was following the recipes perfectly, but he thought there was something different about the chicken tikka masala cooked in a modern kitchen with a book he'd bought from some New York bookstore and the one cooked with four kids underfoot, all shouting and playing while their baby sister cried so hard she could barely draw breath between wails, served finally in mismatched bowls at a table with a crate supporting one corner.
No, Clint's food certainly wasn't like that either, but he had recipes from the circus. He made stew out of everything but the kitchen sink, and he knew how to fry practically anything. His baking was fine if he followed the recipe perfectly, but he was always tempted to change it up somehow and then it would come out wrong. But he'd laugh it off and eat it anyway, because he'd learned very young that you don't waste food no matter what. He confessed to Bruce that it was probably why he often ate too much. Bruce understood; he'd grown up in a household kind of like that, too.
Clint's humor was juvenile and off-color. He cracked inappropriate jokes at inappropriate times. They made Bruce smile though, and that made Clint beam. He loved Bruce's smile.
So maybe it kind of was understandable that Bruce had sort of dissociated Agent Barton from Clint. And maybe it made sense that when seven Hydra operatives decided to kidnap Bruce and keep him so drugged up that the Other Guy couldn't come out, Clint became that deadly assassin again.
Bruce had no idea how long it had been. He knew only that he'd been kidnapped and was so heavily sedated that he was pretty sure for the past five minutes (or forever, or thirty seconds) that he was having an out of body experience.
He was awake though, which he hadn't realized at first. And he hadn't known that Hydra had kept him asleep for as long as they'd had him.
But Clint knew. And he wasn't happy that Hydra had kidnapped his boyfriend and taken him to their lab hidden away in northern Canada and kept him restrained and sedated.
Clint neglected to alert any of the other Avengers to where he was going. He had a single purpose right now: seek and destroy.
Because no one messed with Clint Barton's property.
It wasn't a very large base. It had maybe forty Hydra agents and seven scientists who were studying Bruce's condition, so to speak.
Clint checked the tension in his bowstring. One explosion, in a wing not too close to where Bruce was being held. Wait for Hydra to go on high alert. Second explosion, further away. Begin diversion tactics.
Go in. Kill. Rescue Bruce.
Clint had his second explosive arrow ready at his feet. The first one was nocked and aimed. He exhaled, grounding himself, using sniper tactics to keep his heartrate down.
There was something thrilling about staying cool, calm, and collected while he systematically destroyed his enemies. The adrenaline would kick in once he'd finished and then he could enjoy the high. It probably wasn't a healthy mental state to have, loving the hunt and the kill so much, but Clint thought it made him a better agent.
He loosed the arrow and smiled at the fireball. Within seconds, Hydra agents were milling about like ants, trying to contain the situation and find out what had happened.
Clint was already on the move, second explosive arrow ready. He couldn't wait long; if Hydra suspected it wasn't an accident, they'd move Bruce.
The second explosion was bigger and flashier. Clint had never thought of himself as a pyromaniac or anything, but he did love the colors of the flames and the way they licked at the building in the aftermath of the explosion.
He didn't have long to admire them though. The first part of his diversion had already begun. Hydra would think they were under attack by multiple enemies, while Clint competently and quickly took them out from inside.
There were three Hydra guards with snapped necks lying on the ground. Clint stepped over the last one, then bent down and removed the keycard clipped to the guard's belt and swiped it through the reader at the door. It clicked and a green light blinked. Clint carefully opened the door.
Bruce was lying on a table, strapped down from head to toe. An IV bag hung from a pole, the end of it snaking to the vein in Bruce's arm, where it was taped down. Bruce's eyes were open but unfocused. The IV bag seemed to be empty though. Clint removed it and patted Bruce on the cheek.
"Bruce, wake up," he said. "Look at me. C'mon, I know you can, babe."
Bruce blinked sluggishly. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. He couldn't move. Was that Clint above him? No, he had to be hallucinating. Why would Clint be here?
Clint frowned and began undoing the straps. Clearly Bruce was still heavily drugged, but it was very quickly wearing off. Most drugs didn't last long with Bruce, due to his altered state.
Shouts came from down the corridor. Clint left off at Bruce's ankles and shut the door. There wasn't anything to barricade it with, but that didn't matter. He rushed back to Bruce's side and finished undoing the restraints.
"Bruce, can you hear me? I'm gonna move you off the bed and put you on the floor, okay? Stay right there."
Bruce blinked again. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a sort of grunt.
"Yeah, it's me. It's Clint." Clint lifted Bruce off the bed. The scientist flopped like a rag doll, unable to control his limbs or even support his own head. Clint leaned him up against the wall in a sitting position and knelt between Bruce's legs. "There are thirty-two Hydra guards between us and the exit. I won't let any of them hurt you." He looked into Bruce's eyes, which were still struggling to focus on Clint. "You're gonna be okay," Clint said. He rested one hand on Bruce's thigh. "In ten minutes the drugs should wear off enough for you to move. I can help you walk." He waited another moment for a response, but Bruce still couldn't speak, and he wasn't entirely sure that Clint was actually there anyway. Clint rose and pushed the bed over to the door. It was a heavy-duty bed, a thin mattress on top of a solid steel frame in case Bruce managed to resist the drugs enough to transform. Clint opened up the door and pushed the bed over so it was blocking most of the doorway. It would do as a shield.
The first Hydra guard rounded the corner and was dead before he could trip over his fallen comrades. Four more weren't far behind though, and they opened fire. The bullets thudded into the bedframe but couldn't make it through three solid feet of steel. Some of them whistled overhead to embed themselves into the opposite wall.
Firing an arrow would require Clint to be exposed for long enough to be shot by Hydra's automatic weapons. He pulled out his sidearm, backed up just a bit, and took note of their positions.
Four shots. Four guards went down, a bullet between the eyes each.
They couldn't leave yet. Bruce's fingers were twitching and his eyes had finally managed to focus, but there was no chance he would be able to walk. They'd have to wait.
Clint pulled out four arrows. He wasn't sure how many soldiers would come at them next, but he could take out four before they realized he was shooting at them. It was part of why he loved his bow.
He heard footsteps around the corner. Someone was running towards them. Clint steadied the bow and pulled back on the string.
There were seven guards this time. He managed to take out two with a single arrow, but that still left two more guards, and they were clever enough to dive back behind the wall and try to shoot him from there.
By Clint's math, there were twenty-two guards still alive, and they'd be cautious about approaching him now. There was only one exit from the cell where Bruce had been held, which was a mixed blessing. It meant they didn't have to defend more than one exit, but their escape route was blocked.
But Clint had a plan. He always had a plan.
After a few more moments of the guards spraying the back wall with bullets, Clint raised his voice and cried out. The hail of bullets continued and then stopped. The guards peeked out cautiously.
Idiots. Clint shot them both and then turned to Bruce.
"How are you doing?" Clint asked softly.
"Clint?" Bruce struggled to get his legs underneath him. "What..."
Clint grasped Bruce's hand. "You were taken by Hydra. I'm rescuing you. In a few more minutes you should be able to walk, but I think the sedative will keep the Big Guy from coming out for at least another half hour. But it's all gonna be fine, 'cause I'll get you out of here safe."
Bruce reached his other arm out and ended up just flailing while he tried to regain his balance. "How?"
Clint straightened him out and picked up his bow again. "I've got a plan."
Twenty guards, one captive, one SHIELD agent.
Four more explosive arrows. Dozens of exit options.
There was no question that Hydra soldiers would be waiting for them just around the corner. Bruce was mobile now, not quite walking straight, but at least staying upright, and if he leaned on the wall as a guide then he moved fine. It wasn't fast, but Clint didn't plan on leaving any survivors.
Clint silently made his way down the hall to the corner, Bruce following behind. He peeked around it cautiously. Five more guards stood between him and the locked door that lead to the main part of the base.
"What the hell," Clint whispered, and drew an explosive arrow.
It blew a hole through the door.
"Don't look," Clint said as the smoke cleared. The guards had suffered a fate much worse than the door, and Clint didn't want Bruce seeing the limbs and blood. Clint looped Bruce's arm over his shoulders and helped him past what remained of the bodies.
Fifteen to go.
The explosion had attracted the attention of the remaining guards, of course, which resulted in Clint and Bruce holing up in some sort of office. It had second entrance that they quickly covered, and Clint killed six of the guards before they had to make a break for it through the other entrance, running down a hall to some barracks.
They encountered two more soldiers there, and Clint made quick work of one, killing him with an arrow, but the other put up a fight, tackling Clint to the floor. They scuffled, fighting dirty, until Clint got a knee into the guard's groin and an elbow into his eye, and then efficiently snapped the man's neck.
"Wow," Bruce said from where he was leaning on one of the bunks, unable to do much more than stare.
"Seven left, right?" Clint said breathlessly, wiping blood from his nose. He could feel bruises rising on his torso and one tooth was a little loose, but the adrenaline was coursing through his veins now and the injuries wouldn't slow him down.
"Yeah." Bruce stood up straight again, a little wobbly still, and pressed his lips to Clint's. It was a sloppy kiss with no grace; Bruce hadn't regained the necessary motor functions for that, and Clint wasn't expecting it. Clint kissed him back gingerly, then pulled away.
"We'll pick this up again later," he promised. His face set into a hard mask again. He wasn't Clint. He was Agent Barton. He was an assassin. He was a killer.
And Bruce completely, totally, unarguably belonged to him.
---------
"So," Bruce said once Clint had shut their bedroom door, "tell me again how you went to a Hydra base on your own to save me."
Clint laughed and crowded Bruce, pushing him back until his the backs of knees hit the bed. The other Avengers had been shocked when Clint and Bruce returned and insisted Clint tell them the whole story twice. "Well," he said, tilting Bruce's chin up, "some bad guys stole my boyfriend and I had to make sure that would never happen again."
Bruce shivered. Clint's eyes were dark and his voice eerily calm, much like it had been back in the base.
It turned him on more than Clint could know.
"Please," Bruce whispered.
Clint captured his mouth in a long, hard kiss. Bruce's lips parted willingly and Clint's tongue dove in hungrily, one hand tangled in Bruce's curls at the back of his head. When they pulled apart, Bruce was breathless and flushed, his legs as weak as they had been when he was recovering from the sedative. He panted and looked into Clint's eyes.
Clint was a killer, an assassin, more dangerous than a loaded gun. He was cold-blooded, but he sure as hell wasn't cold-hearted.
And he was going to fuck Bruce into next week.