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It was around two thirty in the morning when Clint decided that, you know what? Fuck it, enough was enough, he was going to sleep. Well, rather, it was Bruce who had had enough. He gave an exasperated sigh, told Clint that he didn't have to stay up to keep him company (his exact words were, "If you knock over that bunsen burner one more time, you will say good-bye to certain bits of Clint Barton.") and gently pushed him in the direction of his bedroom.
Which was fine, really, Clint thought as he stumbled into the cool hallway and tried not to trip over his feet (or hear Bruce's snicker when he nearly did). How Bruce managed to keep his erratic sleeping hours, Clint couldn't say. He supposed he should count it a good thing that Bruce still found time to sleep every night, unlike Stark who went on days without it.
Point being: Bruce had been tinkering about something concerning velocity and how certain chemicals should be bubbling upon contact. The fact that Clint couldn't even name said chemicals was his signal that yeah, all right, you fucking win Bruce, I'll go hit the sack.
The mansion was cold at this time in the morning. After one too many incidents of Hulk accidentally smashing through the concrete and falling all the way to the front hall, it was decided that Bruce should have one of the bedrooms in the ground floor, which was conveniently close to the lab Stark had thoughtfully set up for him.
Clint pushed the door open, yawning as he did so. He was tired; spent the entire afternoon trying to get rid of mass-produced electronic gadgets that were mind controlled. Sadly, Stark was away for reasons he forgot (probably. Or didn't listen to know, more likely) and Bruce had still been on his way from a convention.
When they had returned, Bruce had coffee to pass around everyone, although not without trying to make a comment about his hair. A particularly excited razor had managed to snip his hair in various places, leaving patches all over his head. Cap and Thor, thank god, at least kept their amusement to themselves. Natasha's smirk spoke enough volumes to mortify him.
Clint could tell Bruce had wanted to say something, with the way the corner of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. Knew that Bruce wanted to laugh by the way he was biting his bottom lip and how he had held back his drink for a heartbeat.
("Don't," Clint had growled. Bruce had settled for a comforting pat on his shoulder before giving him his coffee. Then the bastard had ruined the moment by ruffling his hair.)
But that was then and after a couple of hours for himself, he had been good again. Now, what he wanted was sleep. He took off his shoes and socks. Reached out for Bruce's sweater, which had been hanging off the back of his chair, and slipped it on as he flopped on the bed.
Bruce always left it out there, his sweater, because he knew that that was Clint's favorite piece of his clothing. It was old, all the way from his college days, when explosions weren't just a scientific observation-- they had also been fun to create. Clint knew this because he had asked Bruce why there holes along the hem, collar and sleeves of the sweater. Had told him he liked it because it was warm but left out the bit that he liked having something from Bruce's younger years.
He wriggled until he was under the comforter, slightly thankful that Bruce wasn't there to witness such grace. Sighed as he stretched into a more comfortable position and let sleep take over.
He woke up some time between It's Morning and Who Cares. There was movement right beside him and it took him half a second to remember he was in Bruce's bed. Instead of reaching under his pillow for a gun that wouldn't be there, he rolled over.
Clint was a restless sleeper but, thankfully, he always stuck by his side of the bed. Today (last night?), he had managed to reposition himself so that, when he faced Bruce, he was actually facing his chest and had to tilt his head up to look at his face.
Bruce was turned to his side, one hand tucked under his head, an elbow poking out from under the blanket. (The blanket was Clint's; a peace offering when they found that Clint had a tendency to steal the comforter even if he hadn't been using it.) He took slow, deep breathes, eyebrows not bunched over some equation or experiment, mouth not quite in a curve.
Clint leaned forward, wrapped an arm around Bruce's waist, dragging half the comforter with him. He pressed his cheek against the elbow. Wondered if it would be too humiliating if he was caught rubbing his cheek against it.
When he peeked a look back at Bruce, Bruce was peeking back at him, through eyes half-lidded by sleep. Frowned when their eyes connected. Huh.
"Awake already?" Clint asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"No." His arm was shoved away as Bruce rolled away and off the bed, naked except for boxers, heading to the bathroom. Oh, right. Full bladder, okay. Bruce dealt waking up with one-worded sentences, laced with irk and punctuated with growls and grunts. Clint's learned to wait it out and it worked.
The flush from the toilet echoed as he stepped out ofhe bathroom and climbed to bed. He shoved the arm Clint had spread on his side, his own hands still damp from being washed. Dragged it back over his waist when he had settled in.
"Better?" Clint asked. Bruce might have murmured a yes, no or shut up, geez, Clint. Clint grinned and closed his eyes. Tapped his finger against Bruce's waist, in time with his humming.
"Is that-- is that the opening theme from Sesame Street?"
Clint froze and holy shit, this is worse than rubbing his chin against Bruce's elbow. When he dared to meet Bruce's eyes, they were equally wide with shock. Shock mixed with amusement and a certain type of fondness that meant Bruce was never going to let this down. Clint licked his lips, opened his mouth but had no idea what to say. Sadly, Bruce knew what that meant.
"After making fun of my guest appearance in Sesame Street, you have it stuck in your head now?" Oh yeeaaah, definitely amusement. He was doomed. He should never have agreed to accompany Bruce that day. God, he should have stayed behind and not caved in to those pleading eyes and that bottom lip, jutting out.
"Go back to sleep, Banner." Clint closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to face Bruce's smug grin.
"Sunny days, sweeping the clouds away..."
Doomed.
They both managed to doze off, which meant that, when Clint woke up, he was tangled differently beside Bruce. Arms tucked close to himself, this time, one leg hooked over Bruce's. Bruce was giving him a soft smile.
"Looks good on you," Bruce said quietly, poking on the holes on his old sweater. He traced the fading logo printed on the chest, licking his lips every now and then. Clint followed his tongue disappear into his mouth, only to have it appear. What a tease. Even if Bruce didn't realize it.
"It'd look good better on the floor. With the rest of my clothes. While we-- c'mon babe, don't laugh! I'm allowed to want things at any time."
"Right, right, sorry." Bruce clamped a hand over his mouth for assurance, eyes still crinkling at the edges.
"Time is it?" Bruce mumbled a while later, against Clint's temple.
"Who cares?" Bruce gave him a sigh that clearly told him that he did and that c'mon, time to get up, we've indulged for too long.
"No we haven't," Clint replied to his imagined conversation. Bruce laughed as if he had been doing the same thing, mapping out a silent non-verbal conversation with Clint.
Still, Bruce shifted; turned away from Clint to grab his watch. Clint tucked his face against the curve of Bruce's spine.
"Shit. Shitshitshit." Woah, that's a load of shit.
Clint would groan at himself later. Rigt now, he threw an arm around Bruce to keep him from getting up.
"Clint," was all he said but Clint knew the words behind that tone.
"We don't have to get up. The experiment can wait," Clint tried to reason, his voice muffled where his mouth was pressed against Bruce. Bruce squirmed.
"If I'm not in the lab in eight minutes, it might explode."
"Cool."
"This isn't my house! I don't have the right to just destroy anything I please, if I can avoid it." Clint would have probably mentioned that Hulk didn't mind destruction every now and then but he supposed Bruce's pause meant he was aware of that and guilty about it.
"So? Stark enjoys the occassional explosion," he said instead.
"Yeah, but Steve wouldn't."
Damn. Clint could picture Cap now, arms crossed, frown disapproving. Not to mention, it was slightly intimidating when you knew he could snap you in three different places if he wanted to.
"Five minutes."
Dammit.
"Fine, fine; you got me, babe. I'm up," Clint gave in with a grumble, taking his arm off. Bruce scrambled out of bed, grabbing the clothes he'd shed and left on the floor. Clint took his time sitting up and rolling his shoulders.
"There should be a ban on mentioning Cap when I'm trying to cuddle," Clint said, not taking his eyes off of Bruce as he stretched, before slipping on his shirt.
"Aaw. I was hoping if I talked about him long enough, you'd take the hint and invite him." Bastard. Bruce winked and slipped on his shoes, racing outside and straight to his lab. Clint followed him until the doorway, not yet daring to go outside when he hasn't used the bathroom.
"Coffee?" he asked Bruce's retreating figure.
"Tea, thanks and please!" Bruce answered. He paused half way down the corridor, hurried back and gave Clint a quick peck on the lips.
"Ugh, morning breath." Clint wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. Bruce rolled his eyes and kissed him again.
"Two minutes," he reminded when Bruce pulled away and prodded him to the direction of his lab. One more peck and Bruce sprinted down the hall.
All in all, the beginning of a good day.