They'd had weeks of not seeing Clint, or hearing from him. No word other than SHIELD's standard sounds-like-information run-around, and then, with no word, Clint just reappeared, showing up at the tower wired and exhausted. Too strung out on stale adrenaline and lack of sleep to actually go to sleep, oscillating between bristling and snapping and strained attempts to joke and banter, until Steve had realized what was going on and had wrestled him down.
Clint hadn't gone easy, because, well, Clint, but also, Bruce thinks, a little more charitably, because he'd had to be aware and alert and in control for so long while everything went to shit around him in spite of it, and now the need to stay on guard was layered over his own innate stubbornness. But even stubborn as Clint was, he was tired and maybe a bit shaken up and no match for Steve's firm patience.
"Got him?" Bruce asks, not whispering, but keeping his voice low. Clint starts to look up, but Steve stops him with one big hand on the back of his head, fingers tightening a little, pressing into his scalp and neck. Clint tosses his head a bit, like he's going to duck out from under it, but it's only a token rebellion, because he stills pretty soon, letting his breath out in a long huff as he gives in. He relaxes under Steve's hand. Pushes into it, a little. Bruce is never sure if, at this stage, Clint's aware that he does that or if it's unconscious.
Steve murmurs, "Good, Clint," and smiles at Bruce, warm, pleased with himself and with Clint, "Yeah. I think so."
They're at the kitchen table, which seems to Bruce like an odd place for this, but Steve seems perfectly at ease even as Clint fidgets, down on his knees by Steve's chair. He keeps trying to glance around to take stock of the room, check and re-check their locations, even though Steve is sitting right there. Even though Bruce makes sure he talks often, if not constantly, to give Clint something to track him by.
Clint keeps trying, and Steve keeps stopping him, offering gentle praise when his eyes go back to the floor in front of him. Clint's arms are by his side, hands against the floor, like he's ready to spring up at any time, but his fingers move absently against the texture of the hardwood in a sort of anxious frustration. Clint's letting Steve keep him there, but he hates not being in control. Giving it up makes him antsy every time.
"He's settling kind of slow," Bruce says, and Clint stiffens a bit, hearing them talk about him over his head. Steve gives him another warning squeeze, thumb digging in this time at the base of his skull. Clint makes a soft noise and for a second Bruce thinks he's going to push back, but then he subsides again. Steve pets him.
"It's fine. Let him take the time he needs," Steve says, and his smile is grim. They both know why Clint's having a hard time. Clint's mind must have gone there too, because he shudders under Steve's hand.
"Easy there," Bruce says, almost reflexively, "We've got you now."
"I can't," Clint says, and it's not clear what he's referring to. He sounds ragged. "I can't." He pulls his head away from Steve's restraining grasp, jerkily looking around. His eyes are too bright with exhaustion and something like panic.
Steve catches him with both hands and forces his head back down, and, when Clint starts to reach for his wrists, says "Those hands come up and I will tie you." His tone's not gentle now, but stern, leaving no room for argument. Clint struggles a little, then relaxes again, obviously forcing himself to do it, and his hands drop slowly back to his sides. He takes a deep breath, then another, and stays put when Steve lets him go.
"You're done fighting, Clint," Steve tells him, his voice low and soothing again, "You hear me? You're home and you're safe and I promise no one will hurt you." His hands go to Clint's shoulders, stroke over his arms. Clint leans a little into it, slowly quieting again. Makes a soft mm sound in response when Steve goes back to stroking his head.
Bruce waits until he's been still awhile, even his fingers relaxed and unmoving, then gets down next to him. Puts a hand on his back and says, "Clint? I'm going to check your dressings. Stay how you are."
Clint glances at him, eyes flickering over just briefly before he drops them again. He doesn't raise his head. Bruce murmurs, "Good. Good, Clint," and tugs up the hem of his shirt. Makes sure the bandage taped over his ribs hasn't come loose, the way it's been doing when Clint moves too much. The skin around it is dark with bruising, and Bruce doesn't want to think how close Clint probably came to serious, serious injury. Possibly to being killed. It's no wonder he's jittery.
The bandage wrapping Clint's left arm is stained, bleeding through a little, and Bruce changes it. Clint tilts his head a little to watch, but his expression's lost its wary edges. He barely even blinks when Bruce finishes and gives him a little pat, saying, "Done." Now that he's stopped fighting Steve--for the most part--Clint's fading a bit. He leans against Steve's leg, a little hesitantly, like he thinks Steve might not allow it, but Steve pulls him closer, his hand shifting to Clint's far shoulder.
"Shh. We've got you," Steve says, and lets him rest there while Bruce goes to get plates off the counter and set them on the table. He hands Steve a glass of water and Steve uses Clint's hair to pull his head up, a gesture that should look rough, but is instead oddly gentle. "Drink," he orders, putting the rim of the glass to Clint's mouth and tipping it carefully.
Clint obeys, taking small sips, turning his head a little when he's had enough and Steve sets the glass back on the table. Clint's gaze follows it, then goes to Steve's face, waiting, Bruce thinks, for permission to get off his knees. He'd had been too wired to eat properly and he's probably feeling it now that he's calmer, and with the smell of food so close.
Bruce finishes setting the table--as it were. It's mostly plates of reheated leftovers, along with whatever they could fix easily-- and takes a seat. He rests his elbows on the table and, folding his hands together, says, "Clint," and then waits for him to look away from Steve, to make eye contact. When Clint does, Bruce smiles gently. Shakes his head. "You're staying there."
There's a second where Bruce thinks Clint's going to balk. Clint keeps looking at him, searching his eyes for a little too long, almost uncertainly, and Bruce anxiously waits for the flush of humiliation, for all Clint's defenses to slam back up.
It doesn't come.
Clint nods a little and settles back, accepting it as easily as Clint ever accepts any push. Bruce lets his smile widen, relieved and fond. When Steve's hand settles on his shoulder, Clint dips his head a little, not bowing it again so much as just dropping his gaze. Then Steve says, "Come on," and holds a piece of meat for him, close but not so close that Clint doesn't have to reach for it.
Clint hesitates, glancing up again--checking their expressions, Bruce thinks, and gives him a smile and an encouraging nod--then takes it tidily in his teeth, one of his hands coming up a little as he leans forward, until he catches himself and relaxes the arm. Steve grins at that. Says, "More?" and at Clint's nod, holds out another piece.
For a while he just feeds Clint, getting food into him, switching out with Bruce now and then, taking turns so they can eat their own dinner. Making Clint wait sometimes, which he does, quiet and patient until one of them offers him another bite. Bruce gives him an apologetic smile after one of those waits drags on, and he catches Clint starting to fidget again.
"Hey. Easy, Clint. We haven't forgotten you," he says, and offers him a piece of sandwich. A small square of stacked bread and meat and cheese, and then another. Clint has to stretch further to reach Bruce, has to lean towards him and eventually he tires of balancing and slides a hand out to support his weight, glancing up as he does it to make sure it's okay.
"You're fine," Bruce tells him, holding the piece of bread and cheese he has pinched between his fingers a little further out, so Clint can reach better, "Just keep them down."
There's a touch of lips and tongue at Bruce's fingers this time. Either Clint's getting too tired to be careful, or he's having to make enough effort to reach that he's worried he'll drop the food. Bruce gives him more and this time the touch of tongue is clearly intentional. Steve notices and looks amused.
"Behave yourself, Clint," Bruce says, and sees the flash of a grin, quickly stifled. Clint's quiet, like this. He hasn't been forbidden from talking, but he mostly doesn't. He does push back, though, and Bruce isn't sure if that's what this is, or if it's just Clint settling enough, finally, to propose his own ideas.
His own bad ideas. If he thinks Bruce or Steve is taking him to bed for anything but sleep after this, when he's injured and exhausted and barely pieced back together, then he's sadly mistaken. Bruce feeds him a piece of fruit, holding it by the end so Clint can't reach his fingers. The rebuff is gentle, really just thwarting his advance, but Clint frowns before taking the fruit in his teeth, delicate as a cat. Maybe a little offended.
Bruce says, "Clint," warningly, and Clint glances up, still chewing, then swallows. Then sees Bruce's stern expression and tilts his head a little--his don't you think I'm charming look--and Bruce can't help but smile, because while he can hold out against Clint being stubborn, it's harder when confronted with Clint's sort of ridiculous flirtation. Even when he recognizes it as Clint angling for control.
Steve recognizes it too, and catches him by the back of his shirt, careful that the fabric doesn't pull around his throat, and hauls him back from his lean towards Bruce. Holds him in place, his hand on the back of Clint's neck. There's no admonishment, though. Steve just pats him when he stills and brings the water glass down again. Makes him finish the rest of it. Clint makes a protesting noise as the empty glass is pulled away and Steve almost looks like he wants to roll his eyes.
"More, or are you just being a pest?" Steve asks, but it's fond. He won't rebuke Clint when his stability is still so precarious, when his small defiances are just Steve's promises of safety finally sinking in. Clint's going to buck and nothing worse will happen than Steve reeling him back in and waiting his rebellion out, and eventually it'll sink in that he's really safe with them.
Clint hesitates, then dips his head a bit--and Bruce isn't going to inform him of that tell, the way it always telegraphs the exact moment that Clint decides to give in, because it's so useful, sometimes--and after a moment leans his temple against Steve's knee. "More."
Clint doesn't like to ask for things when he's on his knees, so Steve lays a hand over his head for a moment, approvingly, says, "Food or water?" Clint leans a little more, snaking his arm around Steve's leg, just a little, keeping his hand close to the floor.
"Water."
Steve refills his glass and holds it to his mouth again, careful not to tip it too fast, to straighten it when Clint stops drinking. "Enough?"
Clint shakes his head, and Steve gives him a second before tipping the glass again. Clint drinks, then sputters, and reflexively brings a hand up to push the glass away. Bruce sees the moment where he realizes he's done it. He freezes, hand halfway to Steve's, the other tightening on Steve's jeans, over his ankle. He tries to fix Steve with a glare, but it's ruined by his slight coughing--water going down the wrong way.
Clint doesn't apologize when he messes up. Doesn't usually wait to hear their opinions on it either, bailing before there can be a consequence or flipping straight into the offensive. It breaks Bruce's heart, a little, that he slams from soft and trusting to daring Steve, to trying to stare him down.
Steve doesn't rise to it. Just sets the glass down and wipes spilled water from Clint's face. "Sorry," he says, and rubs Clint's back until he stops coughing, "You okay?" He runs a hand along Clint's arm, guiding his hand back down. "I--You're being so good, Clint. That was my fault, alright? I'm sorry."
It always seems to take him by surprise, when Steve lets him off the hook, despite the fact that Steve almost always does, that they're both careful to never reinforce Clint's expectations of being hurt. Clint looks suspicious for a second, then he relaxes. His grip on Steve's jeans loosens, and he drops his head back against Steve's knee. Nods, quiet again, like Steve's mistake and his moment of alarm had never happened. Clint's forgiving for someone who doesn't expect the same and Steve looks down at him with a small smile that Bruce can't quite decipher.
Steve feeds him a few more bites, and Clint takes them obediently, barely lifting his head to do it. The tips of Steve's fingers disappear into his mouth every other bite or so, but now it really is just Clint not bothering to be careful. He's leaning more heavily, his cheek pressing against Steve's knee in a way that's more than just resting there. Bruce pulls his chair closer, careful to not make too much noise sliding it over the floor.
Asks, "Everything okay?" and ducks to get a better look at Clint's face.
Clint doesn't look at him, but he's not really looking at anything. He blinks in a flutter, like he's trying to regain focus or maybe like he's struggling a little to keep his eyes open and takes the piece of food Steve offers him, tongue grazing Steve's fingers. He turns away from the next and Steve puts it back on the plate.
"Enough?" he asks, and Clint nods. His hand leaves Steve's ankle, coming up past the boundary of what could be considered the limit of keep them down, but Steve doesn't comment. Clint's not doing it to rebel, and he looks uncomfortable, even as he settles still further against Steve, his whole body leaning now. His hand goes gingerly over his ribs, and Bruce makes an exasperated noise.
Clint looks up then down at his hand, and Bruce thinks he finally feels safe, because all he does is give Bruce a questioning look. Asking for permission even though the crime's already done.
"Go ahead," Bruce says, gesturing at Clint's other hand as well, releasing him from the instruction, and exchanges a look with Steve, worried that Clint's hurting, but relieved that he's willing to show it now. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Didn't hurt before," Clint says, like Bruce has released him from his self imposed quiet, too. "Medical gave me some stuff."
"Clint," Steve starts, like he's starting on a lecture. Then he sighs and asks, "My room, your room, or Bruce's?" His hand is on the back of Clint's neck again, not holding him, but just resting there. Clint grins a little like he wants to make a joke or say something suggestive, but Steve cants him a look and he lets his breath out.
Then after a moment says, "Couch?" And at their doubtful looks, adds self consciously, "C'mon. You're gonna banish me to a different floor? You guys aren't going to bed yet. " because Clint won't just outright ask for company and Bruce isn't sure if he wants to sigh at it or roll his eyes.
"Sure," Steve says, "But if you get uncomfortable--" and Clint lets himself be pulled to his feet with a flippant, "Yeah, yeah," but lets Steve support him when he turns out to be a little shaky.
"Hey," he says, leaning into Steve maybe a little bit more than he really needs to, if the sly humor in his eyes is anything to go by. But the smile he gives Bruce is almost serious as he says, "Thanks." It's not about the couch, or the hand up or the steadying grip and Bruce pats his shoulder, glad to have him back. Bad ideas and all.
"Anytime, Clint."