The Control of Tension

Chapter 12: Strung

Bruce and Hulk don't get along for a while after that, but it's no worse than it has been after some of the more disastrous experiments in pursuit of a cure. It's a familiar enough feeling, this wordless, conceptless rumble of unhappiness, of discontent. And now Bruce has new tools that allow him to keep better control under more circumstances; even if Hulk trusts him less, Bruce trusts himself more. Overall, that's a tremendous gain.

It's mostly discouraging because of what they almost had.

A dialogue.

That would be something with unimaginable value - to talk, negotiate, communicate with the Hulk. Bruce wonders for a while if this is going to be his new cure, the thing he chases after while forgetting to live the life he has.

But Clint doesn't let that happen.

Clint pokes him until he goes out, to eat with the others, to play games, or sometimes just to sit on the roof and feed the pigeons. Clint comes into the lab, mentions archery practice, and winks, and often Bruce will follow, to practice or just watch, depending on his mood. And when all else fails, an unexpected kiss will still derail the momentous freight train of Bruce's thoughts.

And apparently Hulk still trusts Clint, because there are a few minor bumps in the road but overall, nothing disastrous happens when Bruce feels comfortable enough to continue their nightly experiments.

Some nights Hulk lies close to the surface. Clint is focused, on these nights, every motion deliberate and slow. He holds Bruce's face in his hands as he kisses him, keeping the distance constant and the pressure minimal. Their lips touch, grasp, intermingle, tug, slide, embrace; but there is no force in the kiss.

Bruce wants to jump out of his skin; he wants to flip them over and crush Clint's beautiful body under his, put his tongue down Clint's throat, fuck him hard. But Bruce stays glued to the bed, filled with the terrible wonderful heat, gasping and squirming under his lover.

"Clint, please," he says, and his voice is the only thing he's not keeping a tight hold on. He'll say anything in a moment like this. "More, please, I need you."

They don't ever talk about this, about how very fucked up they both are, that Clint loves to walk this edge and see how much tension he can master, can hold in its place with his hands. This is trust; Bruce trusts Clint to play this dangerous game; he trusts Clint enough to show him this tension that seethes under his skin, that no one else gets to see.

Clint respects that tension, but is not afraid of it; he takes hold of it, draws it out, aims and looses it.

When that's left Bruce spent and drowsy, then he can have everything he wants - to wrap himself around Clint, press his fingers into the beautiful muscles, kiss him deeply, give him what he needs in return.

Other nights are like tonight, and they're more and more common.

Bruce always does his yoga meditation and visualization, but tonight it's working better than usual. He breathes, imagining the skin all over his body becoming softer, the muscles more lax, the bones heavier. He imagines each bone sinking through his flesh and into the bed, then floating off, independently of the others. He imagines his breathing in filling him with light, and his breathing out carrying away his tension and anger.

When he's nearly asleep, Clint prods him gently, telling him to roll over. Bruce obeys, and he's rewarded by strong hands kneading and rubbing away the tension remaining in his muscles, in his neck, under his shoulder blades, down his sides and spine. The fingers push and slide, filling Bruce with a content warmth everywhere they touch. The Other Guy is deep and dormant inside him, anger subsided to annoyance like a lion's roar become a kitten's purr.

This is another thing they don't talk about; how they like the warm, normal, comforting things when they can get them. How Clint would give anything to make Bruce happy. Bruce has tried to argue, to give more than a simple murmured "thank you" but Clint always shushes him. Bruce has learned to accept being taken care of out of necessity - he needs this, the peace, the lack of demands, the careful measure Clint takes before every touch.

On these nights all Bruce needs to keep him flat on that bed is gravity, pulling drowsily at his limbs. There isn't much said but there's so much in the way Clint touches Bruce, always careful, always reverent, but confident, sure, solid. And every twitch, every sound that Bruce makes, Clint watches, notes and responds.

Tonight Clint fucks Bruce, deliciously slowly. Bruce's entire body seems saturated with lazy pleasure, and all he does is soak in more and more of it, more than he believed he could hold.

Bruce's eyes are closed and the side of his face lies against the pillow. Clint's teeth and tongue are on the back of his neck now, warmly enveloping, gently pressing, slowly moving against him. One of Clint's hands is wrapped around beneath Bruce, against his stomach at the moment. This is all part of the warm haze of pleasurable things that are happening to Bruce. But mostly Bruce feels Clint inside of him, a slow and steadily rhythmic movement that is everything, that fills him until his every nerve is singing.

Clint's mouth moves to press kisses to Bruce's shoulder, some only lips, some with the sucking of tongue and the delicate scrape of teeth. The focus and intensity of it make Bruce feel wanted, valuable, as Clint seems to savor every inch of his skin.

Clint slides in again, the hand on Bruce's stomach tightening, sliding lower, as if to draw them even closer together, and Bruce gasps as fingers brush even more sensitive skin; everything is coming together, the warmth and pliability painstakingly pressed into every one of his muscles, the hungry kisses along his back, Clint hard and steady inside him, and now fingers moving across and taking hold of his own erection - everything, everything is warmth and fullness and wonder and sensation. Bruce can't help but tense a bit now, legs pressing into the bed, eyes opening wide, all of him feeling as if he's coming alive, being pulled into exquisite shapes, like a bow bending under tension.

Clint's hand moves against him, and speed and friction increase elsewhere as well, and Bruce breathes in as if he has never tasted air in his life, and every muscle tenses fractionally as the universe turns itself inside out in ecstasy. Light consumes his sight and time breathes, expanding and contracting, and Bruce wonders if this is what it's like to be relativity.

Clint moans at the feeling of Bruce tightening around him, and wraps his arms around Bruce, holding tightly as he nears his own climax. Bruce is gradually melting back into the bed as the hot pool of satisfaction spreads from his stomach, out into his whole body, and he savors Clint's last few thrusts through the haze, along with the panting breaths that accompany them, as signs that Clint is enjoying this thoroughly as well.

They move against each other for a few more time-stretching moments, then still.

Peace creeps in, breathing deepens and slows, and Bruce finds himself more than half asleep despite the solid weight of Clint on top of him. He smiles lazily, not really minding, but eventually regains the motivation to prod Clint with an elbow until he stirs and rolls off. Bruce turns just enough to place a kiss on Clint's shoulder, then drifts to sleep, too sated to care about the mess.

The next time he drifts to awareness he's been cleaned up and covered with blankets, and there's the sound of a shower from nearby. Bruce feels briefly guilty, then decides it's not worthwhile and lets sleep have him again.

Bruce wakes up to see Clint has been watching him, and the sharp, patient eyes crinkle as they catch his own. Bruce shifts, stretches a little and watches right back. They quietly drink each other in until something on Bruce's face causes Clint to frown a bit and say, "You just started thinking. Too early for that. Cut it out."

"Nope. Can't," Bruce replies good-humoredly.

"Then tell me what's going on in there."

Bruce frowns ever so slightly, almost more wistful than anything else.

"You do too much for me," he says. "You don't need to be so perfect."

"Yes I do," the archer replies, and though his tone is light as always, Bruce can tell he's dead serious. "Because now that I have this I'm not ever going to let it go."

Bruce smiles, running an appreciative thumb over the muscles of the archer's arm.

"That's good to know," he says.

Clint rolls a little, leaning over Bruce, playing with his messy brown hair and wearing a soft smile. "Yeah? You like being the one thing I don't want to live without?"

Bruce closes his eyes, savoring the feeling of closeness he gets from these words and these touches.

"Yeah," he agrees, moving his hands to Clint's back, less an embrace and more a reminder, a reassurance that the man beside him is real and isn't going to disappear in the morning sun like a mist.

"Because you love me?" Clint half-whispers, in a voice part cocky, part wondering and in awe of what he's got. There's a smile in that voice so wide Bruce can see it with his eyes still closed.

"Because I love you," Bruce says, opening his eyes, one hand moving up to scrabble in the short hairs at the back of Clint's head. "And because Hulk trusts you, and if we lost you I don't know what we'd do."

Bruce watches Clint's eyes carefully for any sign that his words are giving the archer second thoughts. They widen slightly, but then begin to shine, and Clint's smile only widens.

Then he brings his lips down to Bruce's ear, nose burying itself in the wild brown hair, and he whispers, "Love you too, Bruce. Love both of you."

Something uncurls inside of Bruce, and he smiles, and he can feel the Hulk smiling along with him. Tentatively he gives way, and Hulk moves his arms, tightening them around Clint, just enough to claim and to comfort.

For the first time he can remember, Bruce feels nothing but joy.

He relaxes further into the moment, tightening his hold around Clint just a fraction more on behalf of himself, breathing in the scent of the archer and rubbing his stubbly cheek against the other's.

Clint, who had been playing with Bruce's hair, pauses, looks up and says, "Something just changed."

"Hulk's decided he's talking to me again," Bruce admits. "Guess he thinks if you love me, I can't be that bad."

Clint beams at him. "That's right, Big Guy. Our Bruce is worth all the trouble he puts us through." Clint's hand moves down out of Bruce's hair to cup his cheek, and he kisses Bruce, just a bit deeper than usual, knowing, sensing, that the Hulk is not about to interfere.

The sense of accord is back, and Bruce returns the kiss wholeheartedly, happy, full of emotion, and at peace.