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Exigent Circumstances

650 | Bruce/Clint | PG (KB: bloodplay)

Sometimes shit goes wrong. They’re the goddamned Avengers. and it should mean that they’re pretty great at their jobs and things rarely go as pearshaped as they can in the field?

But they still go pretty damned pearshaped.

Like apparently Tony has these “friends” that moonlight as yellow beekeepers, and they’re all pissed that Tony won’t let them play around with his suit. Clint gets it, but then they come out with these blue lasers and airplanes with crazy shit. They’re doing well until they get the Hulk with some sort of crazy medication and then it’s just Bruce Banner, who is falling way too fast to be healthy.

Tony and Thor manage to get him to the ground in all his naked glory, but there’s a lot of fucking blood and Clint just watches from his perch. Nat and Steve are on the ground, and there is literally nothing that anyone can do until after the fight. And it’s a long fight, a constant changing of positions and power, and Clint is out of arrows well before the end of it.

“I’m checking Banner,” he says, because he’s useless right now. They’re under heavy fire, and most of it is crazy shit. He has an acid burn on his arm. It’s not fit for normal humans out there; Nat and Cap seem to be having more trouble than is normal. If this is the end, it seems wrong to have Banner die alone because he can’t be the big guy right now.

Banner’s tucked into an alcove, some place where he’s mostly safe. There’s still blood everywhere, and he’s got a nasty cut on his chest from where Hulk took the dart. It looked like a toy against Hulk’s bulk. On Bruce, the dart took a good chunk of skin.

“You okay, Doc?” Clint asks. He sets aside his bow. It’s no good to him right now. He has some first aid supplies in his quiver, just some gauze and med tape, but he’s not sure that it’s going to be enough.

Bruce watches him warily, and Clint can see the edges of Hulk trying to get out. Banner knows they need the big guy, and he doesn’t want to be sidelined like this. “Give me the tape,” Banner says, and he tries to reach out, but his hand falls kind of limply.

“Some nerve damage, then,” Clint says, like it’s nothing. “If we can stop the bleeding--”

“You can’t touch me,” Banner says, and there is a bass growl to his words now. He’s angry, maybe a little scared. It’s strange to see Banner that angry, his eyes wide and lips pinched. “Not without safe gloves.”

Clint rolls his eyes, getting the gauze over the open wound as much as possible. Blood is warm and sticky against the calloused tips of his fingers. “We’re probably going to die here anyway.”

Bruce tries to shift away. “Please, do you have med gloves in your bag?” His eyes flash green and then go back to dark brown. “I can’t--No one else can catch this.”

“No medical gloves, but I have some anti-bacterial wipes, if that will make you feel better after you’re patched up.” Clint gets another piece of gauze taped down, trying to ignore the way his heart is pounding.

He has an open wound on his arm, and he is trying to patch up Banner. The protocol is to treat Banner’s condition like a blood borne pathogen. Clint is a risk taker, sure, but this is a huge risk, bigger than he should be taking.

Bruce’s blood is under his nails, over his fingers, and it’s only when he has the worst of it bandaged, he sits back and looks at his hands. “How poisonous is your blood?” he asks, and he makes it light, like it’s a joke that he could be dying.

“Tell me if you’re feeling very, very angry,” Bruce says. He manages a smile, and Clint grabs the anti-bacterial wipes to start to try and clean up.


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June 2013

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