"It's nothing," Clint says, crossing his arms over his chest, even though there's no way he's fooling anyone, even with his wings swept back behind him and lowered so they aren't standing up over his shoulders. They're still utterly visible, a pile of grey and brown feathers that are nothing flashy, but still more than enough to condemn him. "You didn't see anything," he adds, glaring at Bruce in threat that they both know he can't follow up on.
"You--" Bruce starts, then stops to fuss with his glasses to buy himself time, stopped in the doorway to the examination room.
"Yeah," Clint snaps. "Me. Close the door."
Bruce does, stepping inside even though Clint's standing around shirtless, stripped down to his mission pants. "How did you keep those hidden this whole time?"
"What?" It's not the follow-up Clint had been expecting, and between that and the quizzical tone, it takes the wind out of his sails enough that his reflexive anger bleeds away into confusion.
"Your uniform is a vest," Bruce points out. "There's no room in there for wings."
"How do you turn into the Hulk?" Clint counters, and lifts a wing, holding it out to consider the span. Bruce is right. It's way too big to fold away under his uniform. "They can fold away." He shrugs. "But away."
Bruce starts to come closer, then doesn't. Curious and wanting to poke, and maybe have Clint do a few turns, but restraining himself.
"There's a device you can be fitted with so you can't," Clint tells him. "Then they're there all the time, but I don't have one." Obviously. "I mean, I did, but--" he shrugs, and gestures, vaguely indicating the room they're in, full of SHIELD equipment.
"Okay," Bruce says.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"Yeah." Bruce scratches his arm. "I was worried when they pulled you off alone."
Right. Of course Bruce and his paranoia had worried. "You know I work here, right?" Clint asks anyway. "You know Fury invites me to barbeques? And I'm Hill's number one choice of catsitter?"
That gets an uncomfortable shrug, because it's not like Bruce isn't aware of those things, and now he's let his distrust of basically everything lead him stumbling right into Clint's personal, classified business.
"They just wanted to see if I'm still flap-flapping," Clint tells him, and gives a couple tiny wingbeats to demonstrate. "I've tried to unfold them through my gear before, and let me tell you, it's not a good idea."
"Then--"
"Falling reflex. The vest keeps me from completely blowing my cover."
"Maybe we can work something out." Bruce steps closer, then pauses and takes another step, and Clint takes pity and bends a wing forward for him to inspect. His fingers are careful as they ruffle through Clint's feathers, feeling out the underlying anatomy. "Between me and Tony, I think--I mean, if you want to tell Tony. Do you want to tell Tony? Or the others? We can forget I ever saw this."
Clint snorts. "You're not going to forget you saw this."
"No," Bruce agrees, his fingers still moving through Clint's feathers. It's a nice feeling, and Clint fluffs up a bit in reaction. "But I can keep a secret if I have to." He's working his way up the wing, poking around up by Clint's shoulder, feeling out the musculature. "Can you fly?"
"I could."
That makes Bruce pause, hands stilling at the join of Clint's wing and back. His hands are warm, and Clint fluffs up a bit more, lifting his wings up a little and causing Bruce's hand to slide onto bare skin. It makes Bruce smile, Clint notices, just a small, barely-there quirk at the corners of his mouth. Too soft a look to really be amusement.
"You have to stay in practice to fly," Clint points out. "I haven't had the--" freedom, space, safety. "Time."
"Oh." Bruce sounds disappointed.
"I had a little stint in a show," Clint explains, "But since then--" he shrugs. "You know how it is, out in the big bad."
He's trying to play it light, but Bruce's face changes anyway, the soft, fond look turning dark. Angry and sad, and then his hands fall away from Clint's wing. "Yeah. I know."
"It's fine," Clint tells him, twitching back the wing that he hadn't realized he'd moved towards Bruce, following his retreat. "Nick got me, then I was here, and now I'm an Avenger. Everything's great."
Wingfic - Bruce & Clint
"You--" Bruce starts, then stops to fuss with his glasses to buy himself time, stopped in the doorway to the examination room.
"Yeah," Clint snaps. "Me. Close the door."
Bruce does, stepping inside even though Clint's standing around shirtless, stripped down to his mission pants. "How did you keep those hidden this whole time?"
"What?" It's not the follow-up Clint had been expecting, and between that and the quizzical tone, it takes the wind out of his sails enough that his reflexive anger bleeds away into confusion.
"Your uniform is a vest," Bruce points out. "There's no room in there for wings."
"How do you turn into the Hulk?" Clint counters, and lifts a wing, holding it out to consider the span. Bruce is right. It's way too big to fold away under his uniform. "They can fold away." He shrugs. "But away."
Bruce starts to come closer, then doesn't. Curious and wanting to poke, and maybe have Clint do a few turns, but restraining himself.
"There's a device you can be fitted with so you can't," Clint tells him. "Then they're there all the time, but I don't have one." Obviously. "I mean, I did, but--" he shrugs, and gestures, vaguely indicating the room they're in, full of SHIELD equipment.
"Okay," Bruce says.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"Yeah." Bruce scratches his arm. "I was worried when they pulled you off alone."
Right. Of course Bruce and his paranoia had worried. "You know I work here, right?" Clint asks anyway. "You know Fury invites me to barbeques? And I'm Hill's number one choice of catsitter?"
That gets an uncomfortable shrug, because it's not like Bruce isn't aware of those things, and now he's let his distrust of basically everything lead him stumbling right into Clint's personal, classified business.
"They just wanted to see if I'm still flap-flapping," Clint tells him, and gives a couple tiny wingbeats to demonstrate. "I've tried to unfold them through my gear before, and let me tell you, it's not a good idea."
"Then--"
"Falling reflex. The vest keeps me from completely blowing my cover."
"Maybe we can work something out." Bruce steps closer, then pauses and takes another step, and Clint takes pity and bends a wing forward for him to inspect. His fingers are careful as they ruffle through Clint's feathers, feeling out the underlying anatomy. "Between me and Tony, I think--I mean, if you want to tell Tony. Do you want to tell Tony? Or the others? We can forget I ever saw this."
Clint snorts. "You're not going to forget you saw this."
"No," Bruce agrees, his fingers still moving through Clint's feathers. It's a nice feeling, and Clint fluffs up a bit in reaction. "But I can keep a secret if I have to." He's working his way up the wing, poking around up by Clint's shoulder, feeling out the musculature. "Can you fly?"
"I could."
That makes Bruce pause, hands stilling at the join of Clint's wing and back. His hands are warm, and Clint fluffs up a bit more, lifting his wings up a little and causing Bruce's hand to slide onto bare skin. It makes Bruce smile, Clint notices, just a small, barely-there quirk at the corners of his mouth. Too soft a look to really be amusement.
"You have to stay in practice to fly," Clint points out. "I haven't had the--" freedom, space, safety. "Time."
"Oh." Bruce sounds disappointed.
"I had a little stint in a show," Clint explains, "But since then--" he shrugs. "You know how it is, out in the big bad."
He's trying to play it light, but Bruce's face changes anyway, the soft, fond look turning dark. Angry and sad, and then his hands fall away from Clint's wing. "Yeah. I know."
"It's fine," Clint tells him, twitching back the wing that he hadn't realized he'd moved towards Bruce, following his retreat. "Nick got me, then I was here, and now I'm an Avenger. Everything's great."
"What was it? Some sort of--"