First nights were hard. Clint came home hurt, scarred, scared, cold, and Bruce was always there. He'd carry Clint's go-bag, and they'd joke and laugh, just good ol' Agent Barton and his partner Doctor Banner, until they were home safe. The door slid shut tight and locked. No one disturbed them - someone started a rumour that Bruce got off on Clint being hurt and filthy and that they fucked like rabbits the nights Clint came home. Both of them wished it were true.

They never corrected the rumours, because it bought them privacy when they needed it most. Because nights like that weren't about sex. Love? Yes. Sex? No.

Clint would watch the door close, and his entire being would change. Shoulders sagging, eyes losing all their usual sparkle, the happy-go-lucky smile gone, aging a decade in a moment. Bruce would put the bag down and unpack it, while Clint roamed around the little apartment listlessly, picking things up as though he'd forgotten what a photograph was, or a book. They wouldn't speak. Wasn't any point. The questions were the same, and the answers were likewise.

Eventually, the bag was unpacked, and Clint had proven to himself that he really was home and safe, then he moved close to Bruce and listed into him. Bruce knew. He cuddled Clint back, tightly wrapping him up in an embrace like he'd never let him go, and they'd stand there like that until Clint could bear to move apart again. He never went far.

Bruce would slowly, carefully peel Clint's layers off of him - jacket, fleece, tact vest, tee - and treat the injuries he found, undo the field dressings gently. A bruised collarbone, glass impact, grazing bullet wound, abrasions, cuts, bruises, sprained wrists, ankles, knees, a broken shoulder once. He'd fold the clothes to go to the laundry the next day, and try not to be upset seeing the blood on them. It hurt Bruce's heart.

He'd gently coax Clint to the bathroom, where he'd shower him off to warm him up and cleanse his skin and injuries. Bruce would talk about his work, Tony, the various shenanigans people got up to on the helicarrier, and Clint would listen silently but for the occasional hiss or gasp of pain. Bruce would apologise and not make eye contact. They both knew it had to be done, but it didn't make it any easier.

Bruce always dressed Clint in loose, comfortable pyjama pants, all in a range of bright colours to offset the black-white-grey starkness of his uniform. The bright orange ones were personal favourites. Bruce then dressed every injury with care no other doctor in the world could give Clint, and he'd pop out some narcotic pain relief to take the edge off so Clint could sleep. Then it was to bed.

Bruce only wore boxers at night or he'd cook in his sheets, and Clint would be so endlessly patient, watching Bruce strip down from a little bundle of covers on the bed, not a word uttered at all. He knew by now that comfort was coming, his security blanket was feet away and coming to be next to him, he just had to wait. Bruce locked up, turned the lights down, and slipped onto the bed beside Clint.

Bruce settled then just held his arms open, and Clint magnetically migrated over to him, snuggling close, tangling their legs together, his arms about Bruce's waist, nose against Bruce's collarbone, hiding away from the real world in his partner. Safe. Comfortable. Loved, for the first real time in his adult life.

Then they'd talk.

Clint would tell Bruce everything, every detail of the mission, the kills, the deaths. Every horror Clint saw he told Bruce, because Bruce wanted and needed to know. Bruce would stay quiet mostly, cuddling closer when Clint cried or his voice wobbled as his told Bruce every graphic horror he'd witnessed.

Clint would fall asleep first, he always did, exhausted from tears and fear and adrenaline, and Bruce would stay awake. All night. Clint stirred almost hourly, sometimes quietly, sometimes screaming in fear or pain, and Bruce stroked his hair, kissed him gently, promised he was safe, until sleep claimed Clint again.

Bruce thought a lot on those nights. Sometimes bitterness, that S.H.I.E.L.D could do this to one of their own, or fear that one day Clint wouldn't come back, or rage that it wasn't him in pain. What he wouldn't give to take this all away from Clint, unto himself, to suffer it instead.

The nights would end. For a few days, Clint would be fragile, and Bruce would be by his side throughout, and then routine would settle him down again, he'd heal, he'd be okay. Then there was another mission. And another night of pain, fear, and yet love, too.