for greenisnteasy

[beenunmade]

Being back home was akin to being in Hell.

The friends he had made in Arkham had been some of the closest one's he had ever had in his entire life. As a sniper, Clint had always been closed off from the world -- an arm's length away from being close to anyone. The situation in Arkham had been something that threw him completely off kilter. Bonds were made, he loved, he lost. He experienced the life S.H.I.E.L.D agents typically did not experience when they had decided to become lifers for the cause. When he had woken up in his standard issued room -- a familiar yet sinking feeling happened upon him in the silence of it all. It wasn't difficult for Clint to find his sea legs once again. He didn't move into the Avengers tower when...normal!Stark had called him up with the invite, regardless of the fact that Natasha had done so. Thor hadn't been there. Thor didn't count. He'd taken one of his close friends back to Asgard to do whatever horrors they can do to someone who betrayed them such as Loki had. Things had changed for Clint after life in Arkham, what anger and hate he carried was gone for the things it should have accounted for but otherwise he had pushed his allegiances aside.

He was no longer Fury's soldier. No longer his sniper despite the fact he had been going on mission-after-mission for the man since his return. Anything to get away from the helicarrier for just a little bit longer. It honestly took him a little more than three months before he had gone AWOL during a mission in Romania. After taking down the mark, of course, it filled the hole inside him just a little bit longer before he turned off communications with the handler who had been in charge of him on this certain mission. Kenneth Winston, an unassuming man. He didn't hold the same sort of statue as Phil had. Wasn't as rigid as Hill had been. Wasn't as amusing as Sitwell. And not as watchful as any of them combined. Or even remotely close to them. Clint abandoned everything, taking up his bow, quiver, and a backpack he had prepared while they had been on the trip before ditching his new personal shadow. It hadn't been even that difficult. Clint already had the jump on him to begin with as he had separated the moment he had confirmed the hit before slipping back into the shadows.

That was about three weeks prior to his arrival in Peru. By boat, of all things. He had wired all the money he had from his bank accounts to a remote account in Egypt. Cashed out during his stay there before once again disappearing into the wind. S.H.I.E.L.D. had trained him to be the best, the stealthiest. He wasn't going to disappoint them just because he had made a run for it.

The last he had heard from Banner was that he had ditched the tower after the cold realization that Tony didn't remember anything from their trip to Arkham sunk in. Tony was with Pepper, head over heels for Pepper in fact. Clint had heard it when he had bought a magazine and offered some kid a buck to read it to him in disjointed English. Another buck for the attempt before patting the kid's shoulder and heading off in whatever direction he felt like going. Holding up a picture of Banner and asking if anyone had seen that man would have brought Bruce unwanted attention. If he was going to find him -- he was going to find him by pure luck or amazing tracking skills. He knew the doc's M.O. When Bruce had first gone in the wind after the Blonsky incident, it had been up to Clint to keep an eye on him for a couple months until they had established a good connection. Day in and day out. Clint was forced to watch from awkward perches, staring down at the unassuming man as he moved through the shadows, moving through the back streets children's parents would warn them about. He kept to himself, lived as he could and made do with what he had.

Barton had come back from the detail envious of him in some twisted way. Of course, it had all been shrugged off. Being invisible in a place where a dirty blonde man with blue eyes stuck out like a sore thumb was nearly impossible, but Clint had made it work. Clint had been at this for weeks now and the search was coming up empty. It was...aggravating to say the least. But getting into bad shit was something Clint had been an expert at back in the day. All it took was paying off a couple people before getting into a small circle of people who wanted to capture Dr. Bruce Banner to legitimately find out what made Hulk tick and replicate it was simple. They didn't need to trust him. All he needed to show them was an old photograph he had taken of the Hulk, claiming he had been after him before he took out his team and they were eating out of his hand. "The American" they called him, it was enough to get them to buy that he could possibly just get Banner to come to them. Or at least find out where he was with the resources they had as opposed to the ones he did. Leading them to Bruce was non-negotiable. They'd be dead before they even got to see the flash of his purple shirt.

In a perfect scenario, for the criminals, Bruce would have been home. They would have discovered that Barton was not who he claimed to be and they would have run away with their prize. In reality, Clint was already up in his perch. A rooftop that seemed just a hair away from the building Banner had found himself living in. The idiots had broken into his small apartment, ransacking the place after they noticed that he hadn't been there. Their leader, Henri, had made himself at home on Bruce's bed. Lounging. Clint was supposed to be the eyes -- keeping a look out for the good doctor so they would be ready for him. It was easier if people knew they fuck what they were doing. Clint's beyond perfect eyesight had caught Bruce three blocks down, heading in their direction.

It didn't give him a lot of work-room. But it had been enough. The first to be down for the count was the get-away driver parked right below Clint. Clint had just been kind enough to call the authorities about a stolen vehicle. It honestly took longer than he would have hoped for, but results were still the same. The next was the drop. The archer leapt between the buildings before sliding down the wall, grabbing onto the window ledge before pulling himself into the vacate room next to them. There had been a purpose to it.

Clint moved, slipping into the hallway before pushing Banner's door in carefully. Three men versus...well, someone they couldn't wish to beat. The first was easy. Clint had slid one of his knives through the bottom of his jaw, kicking him back into the second guy. Henri's reaction time was slower than expected. Yelling at him in the language he had no fucking idea what they were saying to him. He disarmed the second guy by grabbing his wrist, twisting it behind him with a painful snap before slamming the man's head into the wall. Once. Twice. Henri had made the move to attack Clint from behind before Clint kicked his leg around, slamming into his "boss's" throat and sending him reeling into the fridge. Damn pity too. Clint knocked the second guy to his knees before snapping his neck efficiently. Getting his head knocked by a Bruce's computer was not a good thing. A haze automatically lifted over Clint's world but still he didn't drop to the ground. He just spun around and tackled the other man. Henri had some advantages over Clint. More built, taller. But he didn't have knowledge on his side. He didn't have the experience Clint had nor did he have the speed. Clint knocked him into the adjacent wall before delivering a punch to his gut, knocking the wind right out of him.

Clint used the man as leverage, wrapping his arms around him before kicking off the wall and yanking him hard to the ground. Henri decided for the wimp's choice, going for the gun one of the men had dropped. Shots fired. Clint stilled. His arm hurt like a motherfucker as he continued to lay there before he was rolled onto his back by Henri, muttering something under his breath before Clint lunged right back into action. His legs moving up and locking the man's head in by his thighs before twisting his body hard and Henri slacked against him before he kicked him off with a boot to the face. Clint laid there for a moment, listening to his own heavy breathing. Well...he was out of shape.

Comments

[greenisnteasy]

Bruce simply just didn't belong in New York anymore. Maybe he never belonged in the first place -- no, no, he definitely didn't. If Arkham had never happened, things between himself and Tony would have worked out this way regardless. Tony has Pepper, and Bruce has no business being somewhere where he's recognized. It isn't that he thinks he should drop out of society completely. These places he picks to relocate, they're not exactly the least populated areas he can find. They're teeming with life, almost rotting with it in some areas, blooming with it in others, and isn't that the divide he straddles? Just a little too much life, just enough to be destructive.

No, Bruce just doesn't want to matter to anyone. It's simpler that way. Cleaner. The freedom that comes from running away is more than just shaking off the government, or dodging assholish soldiers looking for a grudge match. It's about anonymity; it's about walking into a room and if there are eyes on him, it's because he's the American doctor, or that naked man who'd come begging -- but even then, that's easily enough forgotten. He'll be their doctor; he'll come into their homes and treat their wounds and not ask for much in return -- money more often than not, but food too, or clothes, or sometimes a place to stay, just for the night.

The tower, with Tony, is the picture of extravagance. Of excess. Of comfort and luxury. Bruce is never comfortable there. Walking down the street in his shoes that are just a little too small, his shirt just a little too big, his pants just a little too scratchy, his stomach just a little too empty -- this is better. This is far more comfortable. This is Bruce living at rock bottom, and where is there to go from here but up? It's the only way a pessimist can find any optimism.

So sure, Bruce is content in a way out here. He's cut ties; he's doing good in the world; he's scraping by and no one looks at him like a time bomb waiting to go off. No one looks at him like Tony did either, or Betty. But Betty's gone and Tony, his Tony? Well, who knows. He's content on his own; he prefers not mattering, because then it's easier for people not to matter to him. It's when they matter that it hurts.

He thinks about them all every day, in no particular order, some days one more than the other. Phil and Clint, Loki and Kenzi -- god... They hurt. The dreams he hates are the one twisted in green, but lately the more he dreams of some rundown university barely keeping itself together, he almost wishes for the warped ghosts of the Hulk's memories.

He's letting himself feel the pain of their loss -- part of his heightened understanding of his relationship with pain, you need to let a little in if you want to get over it, but really Bruce is a masochist, a self-punisher -- as he heads for home, more distracted than he should be, but not distracted enough not to notice the sounds of a fight in the home he's set up here. He almost turns around and just runs, leaving behind whoever decided to break in, but then he hesitates because...

He isn't home. Who are they fighting?

He creeps in as quietly as he can, shrinking in on himself and making himself as invisible as possible. He smells the blood but doesn't register it at first, not until he sees it, and the crumpled bodies, and there, two moving --

One moving.

Clint Barton just killed a man by twisting his head around, using his thighs, and Bruce's apartment is full of dead people, and Bruce isn't even sure if he's supposed to be next.

But he doesn't think so. He hates SHIELD with all his available passion -- which is a lot -- but Clint? Clint still feels like an ally. And Bruce isn't an optimist but he thinks these people are dead because Clint was keeping them away from Bruce.

"Clint?" he asks, uncertain, taking a half-step closer before he stops. "Are there any more?"

[greenisnteasy]

Bruce has been to Africa, but only briefly, mainly to get from one place to another while being slightly more difficult to track. He's never stayed, but that's exactly why he and Clint are there. Bruce feels a little like he's showing Clint the world, and he's aware that wherever they go, it isn't like Clint's going to have something like doctoring to keep him busy and keep their pockets full. He'd wanted to go somewhere interesting for Clint, somewhere Clint could stay busy, but they might have the chance to hide, too, in a large population. Egypt -- there's bound to be so much to do in Egypt, museums to go or tourists to pickpocket (oops) or childhood curiosities to explore.

And maybe Bruce is charmed by the idea of taking Clint somewhere he could wander and learn and rediscover things that he'd thought were cool as a kid. Everyone has a mummy phase, right? There are pyramids here and a kind of romance and the political unrest they need to keep them undercover. Okay, so Bruce's enchanting ideas are mixed with utilitarianism, but still.

Probably the people he's been treating know where to find the white doctor whose Arabic is surprisingly good and his bedside manner gentle, and Bruce has never liked that element of this job -- far too easy to find him -- but he does his best to go back home following a twisting route that might throw off or at least bore whoever's following him. He has a little more money and some things to make dinner, the bag hanging from his hand as he taps out the appropriate signal on their door before opening it up and heading inside.

"Honey, I'm home," he calls, more cheerfully than someone who has to negotiate new ways to knock on the door practically every day so the person inside can know they aren't about to be flushed out of hiding.