Bruce is far too cautious and far too mistrusting to think that what Clint's wearing might be any indication of his current loyalties. He's clearly been here "keeping interested parties off his back," which could be SHIELD's bag as much as anything else, and he'll believe in the conspiracy of the man until he has proof to the contrary. He and Clint never had had a conversation about Arkham; he'd pulled away, and honestly, Bruce had too. He feels Phil's loss every day, and Clint had been a painful reminder of that. Is a painful reminder of that. Of what they'd shared, not exactly a romance, but definitely a deeper kind of friendship than Bruce had ever been allowed to have before.
And maybe, just maybe, Bruce had been afraid to ask. If he asked then he would know, one way or the other, and one was so much less bearable than the other.
The dead bodies are creeping him out. Bruce has killed enough; enough people have died thanks to him, and now there are more in his living room, but the murderer is Clint and he'd been protecting Bruce -- on SHIELD's orders or not -- and that's infinitely valuable to him. Unspeakably valuable. He'd come to help SHIELD at least in part because they'd helped him stay safe.
"A postcard might've been less effort. And nicer to my floor." But come on. This place is a shithole. It's just a shithole with a roof and some cheap, salvaged technology that... appears to have doubled as a cheap, salvaged weapon.
He glances over the bodies one more time before he comes to kneel at Clint's side. He has his doctor bag in hand already, but he needs water to clean the wound.
"How could I not have missed your dramatic entrances?" It's on the tip of his tongue to mention the ceiling vents, and his eyes meet Clint's for a second before he chickens out. He lightly touches his arm instead, gently holding it so he can inspect it.
no subject
Bruce is far too cautious and far too mistrusting to think that what Clint's wearing might be any indication of his current loyalties. He's clearly been here "keeping interested parties off his back," which could be SHIELD's bag as much as anything else, and he'll believe in the conspiracy of the man until he has proof to the contrary. He and Clint never had had a conversation about Arkham; he'd pulled away, and honestly, Bruce had too. He feels Phil's loss every day, and Clint had been a painful reminder of that. Is a painful reminder of that. Of what they'd shared, not exactly a romance, but definitely a deeper kind of friendship than Bruce had ever been allowed to have before.
And maybe, just maybe, Bruce had been afraid to ask. If he asked then he would know, one way or the other, and one was so much less bearable than the other.
The dead bodies are creeping him out. Bruce has killed enough; enough people have died thanks to him, and now there are more in his living room, but the murderer is Clint and he'd been protecting Bruce -- on SHIELD's orders or not -- and that's infinitely valuable to him. Unspeakably valuable. He'd come to help SHIELD at least in part because they'd helped him stay safe.
"A postcard might've been less effort. And nicer to my floor." But come on. This place is a shithole. It's just a shithole with a roof and some cheap, salvaged technology that... appears to have doubled as a cheap, salvaged weapon.
He glances over the bodies one more time before he comes to kneel at Clint's side. He has his doctor bag in hand already, but he needs water to clean the wound.
"How could I not have missed your dramatic entrances?" It's on the tip of his tongue to mention the ceiling vents, and his eyes meet Clint's for a second before he chickens out. He lightly touches his arm instead, gently holding it so he can inspect it.
"How badly are you hurt?"