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Clint dreams of ice and water and a cobalt chill settling into his bones. He dreams of Loki pushing his long, white fingers into his mouth and down his throat and pouring himself inside and when Clint wakes he is sweating, choking, screaming.
Clint is pretty sure it starts with the pretzel, because his life is just that fucking ridiculous sometimes.
It’s after HYDRA has pulled another one of their ‘we are totally taking over the world this time guys, see? SEE?’ stunts and they’re all stuck on clean up duty because just winning the day doesn’t seem to cut it anymore with the press. The Avengers are hazardous. The Avengers cost the city money. The Avengers need to find a way to take down legions of aliens or robotic soldiers without crumbling a few buildings in the process.
Steve is chatting to a growing group of reporters while Tony flips his faceplate back, sighs loudly and starts making obnoxious comments behind him. Clint watches the way Steve’s shoulders tighten, how the line of his jaw turns stiff as he grinds his teeth together.
“Rogers is a saint,” he tells Natasha. The corner of her red mouth lifts upwards, very slightly.
“He’s not that annoyed.”
Thor has already left, late for a date with Jane, and Clint is hanging back, opts to stay by Natasha’s side with his bow still in hand, an arrow notched and ready because one does not become close to the Black Widow without starting to pick up on her paranoia.
Also, he’s pretty sure he saw that cyborg over there twitching.
He’s still looking at it, eyes narrowed, string pinched tight between his fingers, when Bruce rounds the corner, naked, munching on a soft-pretzel wrapped in paper.
Some of the camera crew swing around to follow Bruce’s naked ass as he approaches. Tony looks over, grinning, and offers Bruce a wink when he lifts an eyebrow in return.
Bruce stops next to Clint, which is kind of annoying because now the cameras are on him.
“Hi,” Bruce says.
“Long walk?” Natasha asks.
“Not really. Just a few blocks.”
“In bare feet.”
Bruce looks down, makes a quiet hm sound, like he had forgotten.
The Hulk, occasionally, listens to Steve. He doesn’t attack anyone on the team and tends to avoid civilians so long as there is something more dangerous around to keep his attention. It’s still an impossible task to integrate him into any kind of formation and Bruce, nearly without fail, goes missing for an hour or so after the fighting is finished. Sometimes, Steve takes it upon himself to dig Bruce out of the rubble or Tony will fly around until he spots him.
Mostly, however, Bruce just makes it back on his own, naked and dirty and as casual-as-you-like.
(Once, he was gone for three days and Fury had been convinced that the bastard had slinked out of the country. He sent feelers and hijacked satellites to find him, and then Bruce just reappeared in the lab one afternoon, pale and ruffled and acting like nothing had happened at all.)
Clint says, “Where the fuck did you even get that?”
“Vendor gave it to me while I was walking by. No charge.” Bruce takes another bite of the pretzel, looking at the food in his hand thoughtfully for a moment before offering the rest to Clint.
“Want some?”
“Any good?”
“I may not be the best judge of that. Pig slop would sound like a delicious treat to me right now.”
“We need to start carrying around a bag of snacks,” Natasha says, crossing her arms and not looking over.
Clint shrugs. He tips forward, weight shifting to his toes, and sinks his teeth into the warm, soft bread, biting it straight from Bruce’s hand because he is not setting down his bow just yet. Bruce laughs, loudly, like he’s surprised. His chin lifts up a little more and Clint raises his eyes, notices the sheen of sweat gleaming at Bruce’s throat, the dust matted against the hair on his chest. Bruce pulls the food back until it tears.
“Not bad.” Clint swallows. “Nice fellow, that vendor.”
“Mm.”
“Might have been nicer for the guy to give you some pants, though.”
“It’s not a perfect world,” Bruce says. The lines around his eyes are deeper when he grins, but he doesn’t look much older for it.
After Loki, Clint dedicated nearly three weeks to doing nothing more than sleeping, drinking, working through a mild extensional crisis, and talking to Natasha.
Natasha had brought him water and sat on the edge of his bed, pushed open the blinds when she got tired of him moping and every now and then shoved him into the shower or dragged him along with her on walks. She told him stories about what he missed, about Rogers actually being the perfect, patriotic dream of a man all the comic strips had promised, about Stark’s egotistical crap and about Thor’s sad devotion to a brother that had long been lost to him.
And Banner. She told Clint about Bruce over a large plate of pasta, licking sauce from her thumb as she recounted the way he had slammed down his hands and screamed in her face, fucked with her because he knew that she was fucking with him, pretending to be coy and presently harmless and not like she was ready to plant a bullet into his skull.
“He impressed me, actually,” Natasha said.
“And then he tried to kill you.”
“Well, so did you. And he apologized.”
With someone else it would have been an opening, an implication. But this was Nat, and this was him, and the two of them had moved beyond that kind of bullshit a long time ago.
“So, what? You like him now?”
Natasha shrugged and stole the rest of Clint’s garlic bread, which was probably the best answer he could have expected.
Tony offers them all an invitation to stay in Avengers tower because he’s weird like that.
Natasha thinks he’s lonely.
Clint agrees to move in after his second week of insomnia, wanting a change of scenery and knowing that if he goes Nat will come with, even if she bitches about it.
It’s different. It’s off-putting. Clint has a shower that he has to talk to in order to change the water temperature. He has a bedroom that tells him the time of day and the weather outside and displays holographic maps and graphs over his view of New York. There is a gym and a shooting range in the basement with targets that replace themselves.
One morning, Thor flies through the window while Clint is making breakfast. Steve joins them, and together they eat through five packs of bacon because it is literally all Clint can find in Tony’s freezer.
“You are so rich it is ridiculous,” Clint tells him.
Tony just smirks. “You have no idea, Barton.”
Clint still can’t sleep. He closes his eyes and it feels like his skin is shucking off. He wears sweats and heavy shirts to bed, covers himself in blankets and tucks his head beneath the sheets like a child and it doesn’t help, doesn’t make him feel any less exposed or so vulnerably human.
He starts wandering into the labs at night once he gets sick of watching old episodes of Stark Trek and realizes that Bruce and Tony are always there until sunrise anyways.
The thing is, Clint likes bothering people. He likes getting under their skin so deep that they’re clawing at their own flesh just to dig him back out. He’s used to being told to shut up, to get lost, to people rolling their eyes and turning their backs to him because he’s Barton and that’s what he does.
Natasha says things like that are the reason he’s so fucked up, and she’s usually right about these kind of quirks.
But then there is the moment when Clint discovers that Bruce holds himself above the rule that Barton pisses everyone off at some point. No matter how much Clint hovers, nags, sits in his lab chair and asks stupid questions while Bruce is in the middle of important shit, that knitted veil of utter calm and patience Bruce keeps himself so tightly swaddled in refuses to unravel.
Bruce answers Clint’s questions. He swivels the computer screen around and points at things, repeats himself when he uses terminology that flies over Clint’s head and smiles sheepishly about it, like he’s sorry, like he’s embarrassed about being so clever. Clint thinks it’s probably an act, a little thing Bruce has learned to do because it makes people feel more comfortable with his intellect, makes him seem unassuming and harmless and incapable of being anything more than a bumbling scientist.
Clint tells him, “I’ve got you pegged.”
Bruce looks at Clint from over the rim of his glasses. “Excuse me?”
“You. You are full of shit.”
Bruce snorts and ducks down to peer into his microscope, denying nothing.
Tony is different. He ignores Clint except for when he doesn’t, when he can’t, because Tony is incapable of not rising to a challenge. He begins interrupting himself mid-sentence to snap at him. Barton, touch that and I will skin you. Barton, get out of the way. Barton, what the hell are you even doing here?
Sometimes, Clint looks at Bruce while Tony is bitching, and Bruce will be hunched over his desk, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, fingers ghosting over a printout or one of Tony’s holograms.
And if Bruce isn’t entirely caught up in his work, if he’s listening at all, he’ll be smiling.
Tony cracks.
“Christ sakes,” Tony says, tossing a screwdriver over his shoulder. “Okay, fuck this. I am done. Banner? Come along.”
Bruce catches the screwdriver, one-handed, and starts turning it round between his fingers. “Come along where?”
“Barton and I are going to watch Primer and I am going to mock the shit out of him when he has no idea what’s going on. You in?”
Bruce looks at Clint out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, absolutely.”
Bruce makes him a new arrow.
Except that’s not really what it is. What he gives Clint is very small and needle-thin, made to be attached to the body of one of his existing arrows. Preferably one that’s not going to explode.
Bruce pushes it across the table while Clint is eating breakfast, saying nothing but “Hello” and moving on towards the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee.
“What's this?” Clint asks.
“Tracking device,” Bruce says. “Figured it may have come in handy last week when we lost the perp, so I rigged one up. You fire the arrow, you miss, but that attaches to the target anyways and they’re none the wiser.”
“One: we have tracking devices. Two: I never miss.”
“One: This is better and unlikely to be picked up by any instruments. Two: I meant purposely.”
Clint holds the needle between his forefinger and thumb, raises it to eye level and squints.
He says, “For a guy as paranoid as you, I am shocked that you would actually offer SHIELD a new toy to play with.”
“It’s not paranoia and I got bored,” Bruce replies, sipping at his coffee. “Also, I gave it to you, not SHIELD. And I’d know if you used it on me.”
“How’s that?”
Bruce grins, and there’s something in that, layered beneath the ease and of his smile and the relaxed way he leans against the counter.
“Like you said, you never miss.”
“Oh my God.”
Natasha grips Clint’s wrist and flings him over her shoulder like a ragdoll. When he rolls back to his feet she’s standing with her arms crossed, hip cocked, her red hair pushed back from her face and damp with sweat.
“You’re out of it today, Barton.”
“You say that like I’ve ever managed to beat you.”
“You’ve been off your game for weeks and we both know it. Seriously, just fuck him already.”
“Why don’t you fuck him, huh?” Clint snaps, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. There is a small smear of blood across his knuckles when he pulls it away. “Also, who are we talking about?”
Natasha makes a disgusted sound and turns away, snatching up Clint’s water bottle and drinking from it heavily before tossing it to him.
Clint catches it and says, “Thanks.”
“He’s interested, just so you know.”
“What?”
“Banner.”
“Jesus Christ, what, did you ask him? The hell, Nat?”
“We talk. It’s a thing.”
“Yeah, well, who says I’m interested in him?”
“Please.” Natasha hoists her gym bag over her shoulder. She turns back to Clint and places a hand over her heart. Her lip quivers and she blinks rapidly, her eyes suddenly wet and glassy.
“Have sex with him, Clint. For me.”
“God that is creepy. You really missed your calling as an actress, Tasha.”
“I promise, I’m only exaggerating how much this would mean to me very slightly.”
It all goes wrong when a grenade gets tossed into the middle of the fray and doesn’t explode. It clicks, hisses, and releases a gas straight into Clint’s face that makes him forget, makes him backhand Steve when he steps too close.
It lasts for ten minutes (Natasha cracks her knuckles into his jaw and Tony grabs him by back of the neck and throws him to the ground and things go a little hazy before snapping back into focus) and it leaves Clint fucked up for days.
Bruce had opted out of the mission but is there for the aftermath. He touches Clint’s bruised face and split lip back at the tower, asks questions to determine if there’s fracture that Clint only says yes or no to.
Bruce says, “Do you want something to help you sleep?”
Clint smacks his hand away. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Bruce only shakes his head because he is never offended, never takes anything to heart since when he does the words stick and it’s always a tricky thing, trying to peel them away again while keeping his cool. He puts on his glasses and tucks his fingers beneath Clint’s chin, shines a light into his eyes.
Clint says, “If I had my bow in hand—”
“You didn’t.”
“If I did—”
“You weren’t yourself.”
Clint sneers. “Yeah, thanks. Tell me, is that comforting to you? When people look at the shit storm you leave behind when you hulk out and go ‘oh, it’s cool you didn’t know what you were doing!’ Does that help? Does it make you feel better?”
“People don’t say things like that to me.” Bruce straightens and pushes his glasses up. “But that’s different, anyways”
“The hell it is.”
“The Hulk isn’t mind control. He’s my own self-indulgent bullshit and rage. I’m not--” Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, drags two fingers across his mouth. “We’re the same person, just not at the same time.”
“That makes no fucking sense.”
Bruce walks away. “Yeah, I know. I’ve had an identity crisis or two in my day, believe me.”
Clint doesn’t say anything. When Bruce turns back he offers him a weak painkiller that Clint promptly plucks from Bruce’s open palm and drops into the garbage. Bruce shrugs and goes back to his test tubes, leaving Clint to wander about, fidgeting and poking at things that he probably shouldn’t be touching. Bruce glances at him from time to time, rubs his fingers together and licks his lips, but stays silent.
When Clint gets bored enough he stretches out on the futon in the corner, knits his hands behind his head and closes his eyes.
It’s a bad idea. Of course Clint is going to fall asleep and of course he’s going to dream about a glowing spear sinking into his chest, cracking his ribs apart and piercing his beating heart.
(Loki’s eyes are bright blue and his teeth white and long when he grins. Clint is babbling, scraping up every ugly, rotten piece of himself he can find and spilling it all into Loki’s lap and Loki takes and takes until there is nothing left in Clint to give and--)
When he wakes up he’s shuddering, clawing at his chest. Bruce is standing across the room.
“Are you awake?” Bruce sounds calm, utterly collected. Detached and unconcerned.
Clint, maybe, says, “Yes”. Maybe says, “Obviously” or, “Fuck off”. It’s all on the tip of his tongue and he doesn’t know what manages to get out.
“Tell me your name,” Bruce says.
Clint can’t catch his breath. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and pushes until red spots bloom against his shut lids.
Bruce asks, “Who are you?”
“Clint. I’m Clint Barton.”
“Say it again.”
Clint does. It feels like déjà vu, each time his name tumbles out of his mouth, like he had forgotten and is only now remembering right, yeah, that’s who I am.
Bruce sits next to him, pushing a glass of water into Clint’s hands.
“Fuck,” Clint says.
“Yeah.” Bruce pauses, and then, “I used to do that, back before I really understood what was going on with me and the other guy. I’d wake up somewhere, wouldn’t know where I was or what happened, and I’d just think: ‘I’m Bruce Banner, I’m Bruce Banner now even if I wasn’t an hour ago and I won’t lose that’. Kind of like a mantra.”
“Thought our situations weren’t the same.”
“They’re not. It was a long time ago.”
Clint drinks his water. “It works pretty well.”
“Feel free to steal the trick.”
And maybe that’s when it really starts. Maybe the pretzel had just been a thing and maybe Bruce making him little trinkets for no reason had just been nice.
Maybe it just starts with Bruce and his hollow voice, his sad eyes and calm certainty, his glasses hooked into the collar of his shirt and his hands neatly folded between his knees. Bruce is precise and controlled except for how he isn’t at all, except for the pit of rage he keeps simmering in his gut, bubbling beneath his skin and boiling over whenever Bruce takes a moment to think about just how much he still hates everything his life has been.
It’s fascinating and kind of heartbreaking at the same time. Clint looks at Bruce and thinks of how the everything seems taper off when he reaches over his shoulder and draws out an arrow, how Clint makes the world smaller, how everything becomes compact and balanced for the second that hangs between himself, the arrow, the target, and how he ruins all of that once he releases the string.
Bruce brings Clint another glass of water and Clint lets their fingers touch, drags his nails lightly across Bruce’s knuckles before pulling away.
Clint asks Tony if he’s fucking Bruce.
Tony actually looks away from his computer to answer.
“Um, okay. Let it be known that Banner and I have a very special, magical bond. A relationship founded upon the mutual acknowledgment that I would happily sit around and jack off while listening to Bruce lecture about quantum physics.”
“Okay,” Clint says. “That clears up nothing at all.”
“He’s smart. I like smart.”
“Right.”
“But no, we are not fucking. I have, like, a girlfriend, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Just checking,” Clint says.
“What, you moving in?”
“Tasha keeps telling me I should.”
“Clever girl, that Romanov. Do it. If there is one thing Bruce needs in his life it’s a good lay from someone who can take it.”
“Meaning?”
“C’mon Barton, we’ve all seen him naked. They don’t just call him the Hulk for nothin’.”
There is a mess of a month when they barely see each other because Clint is tracking some mercenary group and Bruce is busy being clever and productive in Tony’s lab.
But then there’s the day when it all comes to a head, when the group strikes a bit too close to home with the biological weapon they’ve been rigging up, and Clint calls the others in because fuck if he’s taking this one on alone.
When it’s over, Clint finds Bruce before Steve or Tony. He actually trips over Bruce’s ankle while picking through the rubble for any discarded arrows he can salvage.
Bruce is half-sleep, resting against the wall of a building, head tilted to the side, his body covered in a fine layer of grit and dust. The kick to his leg gets his eyes blinking open, and it takes him a moment to focus on Clint.
“Hey,” Bruce says.
“Hey yourself.”
Bruce looks good. He shouldn’t, because they all just spent four hours trying to kill a hoard of mercs and their giant pet tentacle monster that, at one point, tossed the Hulk clear across the city. There is some kind of thick, stinking goo slicked through Clint’s hair and red welts spiralling up his arm from when a tentacle got too close. His nails are dirty and there’s sweat in his eyes and when he licks his lips he tastes blood.
Bruce just looks dusty, drowsy, like he took a nap and slept for too long and is having a difficult time really waking up again. Clint watches as he holds out his hands, blinking slowly as he runs his fingers over the flat of his palm, brushing away little specks of gravel.
Clint asks, “Is it weird?”
“Hm?”
“When it’s over? Turning back?”
“It varies. Sometimes it’s awful. Sometimes I feel like I could just get right back up and run a marathon. And sometimes, well.” Bruce smiles a little.
“Sometimes it makes you seem high?”
“Is that how I’m acting?”
“Kind of.”
Bruce chuckles, shaking his head, rubbing a finger across his bottom lip. “Lightheaded, I guess. Help me?”
Clint takes Bruce’s extended hand and pulls him to his feet, gripping his arm when Bruce stumbles.
“Hey,” Clint says again.
Bruce cants his head, his eyebrows tilting upwards.
Clint moves his thumb across the dust on Bruce’s skin, drawing it up against the curve his neck. Strange, to think of what Bruce had been half an hour ago, corded muscle and unstoppable force and rage and rage and rage. It should be harder than it is, to match Bruce to the monster he becomes, when Clint can stand this close to him and feel the jut of his bones beneath his fingers and see the bags under his eyes.
The corner of Clint’s mouth lifts into a smirk.
“Who are you?”
Bruce laughs, ducking his head. His hair tumbles forward over his forehead and eyes, and Clint takes a moment to admire the way the sunlight slants off the arch of Bruce’s bare shoulders.
And then Bruce grabs Clint by the front of his shirt, drags him in close and murmurs against his lips, “Why don’t you tell me, Barton?”
They skip the clean up.
Bruce, contrary to popular belief, prefers enclosed spaces. He likes being able to press his back into the corner of a room, to cross his arms and stand in one place and still see everything that’s going on.
Clint is different. He needs the distance, feels boxed in and like his sight has been reduced to tunnel-vision without it. But Bruce, Bruce is always being dragged into the thick of things no matter how hard or how often he tries to claw his way out, so he adapts. He hunkers down and settles in so he doesn’t have to struggle anymore.
Clint pins him to the bed and makes an absolutely disgusted sound.
“A single? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“It’s all I need.”
“We are taking this to my room.”
“Your room is three floors away.”
“What, afraid you might not last that long, Banner?”
Bruce wraps a leg around Clint’s waist and roles them over, nearly sends them both right off the fucking mattress.
“More worried about you,” he says.
Clint grabs Bruce’s waist and yanks him down, arching his spine and rutting against him. Bruce throws his head back and Clint scrapes his teeth over his throat, curls his fingers into Bruce’s hips and starts sucking a bruise into the dip of his collarbone.
“Jesus Christ.” Bruce drags his fingers along Clint’s scalp, digs his nails in, and when Clint looks up Bruce’s eyes are dark and hooded and burning green.
Clint dreams of rustling leaves, of damp heat and the scent of upturned earth. He wakes when Bruce shifts in his sleep, tucking his face into the space between Clint’s neck and shoulder.
“Done and done,” he tells Natasha.
She offers him a thumbs up without looking away from her report.
A week later he finds Bruce on the roof, sitting with his legs hanging over the edge with a cigarette wedged between his lips. The roof is Clint’s spot. This is a well known thing and Bruce really has no right to be hanging up there.
Clint flops down next to him anyways, drops his elbow into his lap and his chin onto his curled fist. Doesn’t complain.
“Those will kill you, you know.”
Bruce rounds his lips into a small ‘o’ and blows out a smoke ring. “No, they won’t.”
“That so?”
Bruce looks at him, frowning. “Haven’t you read my file?”
“Do you have any idea how long your file actually is?”
“I’m sort of invincible-slash-immortal.”
“Ah, right. That whole deal.”
“Yep.”
“What about, like, old age?”
Bruce goes very still before taking a long pull from his cigarette. “Let’s not talk about that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m honestly not sure and the idea that I’ll be stuck this way until the Earth crumbles is absolutely terrifying.”
Clint says, “Fair enough.”
Clint doesn’t do romance. Kissing is one thing, sharing a bed is another, but to actually buy someone dinner and flowers, to woo them over with flirty little smiles or soft touches, it all just seems so goddamn exhausting to him.
It’s why he tries dating sometimes, normal women outside of SHIELD, just to see if anything’s changed. It never works. Clint’s relationships tend to fall under the category of fuck buddies, and he likes it that way. He wants to be able to go down on someone and watch a movie with them afterwards like nothing’s changed.
Bruce crushes the cigarette beneath the sole of his shoe, flicks away the crumpled filter, and Clint notices the tremors running along his fingers.
Might just be from the chill of the night air. Might not.
Clint bumps his shoulder against Bruce, drags his nose along the line of Bruce’s jaw and then presses his lips to the skin beneath his ear.
Bruce leans into him, smoothing his palm over Clint’s thigh, cupping his knee. His hand is warm and steady.
Clint has these moments when he’s a bit of a moron.
This is one of them.
He is crouched in a tree and he is stupid, stupid because the vantage point is all wrong and he should have been able to calculate that beforehand and how he has to go find a new spot which means he gets to run around and make himself vulnerable, a sitting duck, and--
The Hulk lumbers by beneath him. Clint doesn’t think, just sees the opportunity and drops down onto his shoulder without asking.
The Hulk starts, jerks and twists, reaches around and nabs Clint by the back of his collar.
“Whoa, shit, hey!”
The Hulk dangles Clint in front of his face, teeth barred, nostrils flaring. Clint has never really gotten a great look at the Hulk’s face before. In battle the Hulk is never still, always running around or leaping over buildings, a huge, massive green blur of wrath and chaos that Clint keeps in his peripheral vision but never needs to really focus on.
From this close, Clint realizes that the Hulk doesn’t look all that different from Bruce. He has his jaw and nose, his stubble and the small scar on his chin. His hair is grey or white at the temples, curling slightly. Clint can even picture him with a pair of glasses.
(We’re the same person, just not at the same time.)
“Uh,” Clint says. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to surprise you. Please don’t squish me.”
The Hulk presses his lips together, a thin line forming between his brows. Clint wants to freak the fuck out because he knows that look, recognizes the grimace because it’s what Bruce does when he’s annoyed. It’s the face he makes when he’s sitting in the conference room, listening to Fury talk about something that he doesn’t agree with.
The Hulk snorts and actually roles his fucking eyes at Clint before tossing him onto his back again.
“Birdman needs to be more careful,” he says. Clint feels the vibrations from his voice shudder up through his feet.
“Yeah. Birdman will definitely consider that next time. Can we head over there now, maybe? Um, north?”
When Tony takes down the last of the enemy, the Hulk starts shrinking while Clint is still balanced on his shoulders. There’s no warning, no signal. The Hulk just stops moving and Clint is suddenly aware that he’s getting closer and closer to the ground. It happens so rapidly that Clint doesn’t so much jump away as he does lose his balance and tumble over. He lands on top of Bruce --well, mostly Bruce--, who is awake, who blinks up at him as his eyes fade from green to hazel to brown.
Bruce starts laughing, his voice a little too deep at first, too harsh and rough, before it’s suddenly just him, with his slanted smile and the lines at the corner of his eyes.
Steve looks over, eyebrows raised.
In Clint’s ear, Tony says, “Guys, timing.”
Natasha calls something out, but Clint can’t hear it over the sound of Thor’s booming laughter.
“Get off,” Bruce says. “You’re heavy.”
Bruce doesn’t look tired. He doesn’t look roughed up or worn down. He needs to shave, and there are leaves in his hair.
Clint smirks and brushes them away. “Why don’t you make me, oh powerful and mighty Hulk?”
Bruce grins, and does just that.