This is the first time in Bruce's natural life that he can count himself as the lucky one.
That's really, really mean, but the way Clint is feeling now, he'd probably tell him anyway. But no, they're all in the surprisingly large quarantine facility in SHIELD HQ, and Bruce is in quarantine-within-quarantine, sequestered in a little cubicle all to himself, the lights dimmed. Clint can just see him through the door; he's kind of sprawled across the bed, in his post-Hulk passed-out mode, his mouth open, and Clint just knows he's snoring like a chainsaw.
Bruce is not lucky because he got his own bedroom. Bruce is lucky because the fucking Hulk is fucking immune to fucking-
Clint can't even say it.
Part of that is because he doesn't know what to call it. Tony has been calling it multiple things, but has settled on "Super Axe"; Thor refers to it as "the golden mist"; Steve just says "the, um, spray"; Natasha hasn't said anything about it at all. Natasha's contribution has been to stand around and look unamused, because, in fairness, she called it. You fight with mad scientists, sometimes shit goes down, and when she'd yelled that Thor shouldn't hit the weird, weeping plant with Mjolnir, he should have listened. But Thor hit it alright; he hit it hard enough that the thing practically vaporized, spraying all of them with the whatever the fuck.
No one outside quarantine has a clue what to call it either, but then some fucking nerd on the medical team- Clint has no problem with nerds, Clint has been known to enjoy their kind, not just because they always have the coolest toys, but in this case he can be forgiven for using it pejoratively- this motherfucking nerd calls it fucking sex pollen, and now they're all nodding their heads and congratulating him on his naming skills.
The point is that Bruce isn't contaminated, they don't think, so he's in there sleeping his Hulk off while Clint tries not to think about his dick for thirty seconds.
His own dick. Not Bruce's dick. Though now that he thinks about it-
No. Bad Clint. Bad, bad Clint.
Clint shuts his eyes and focuses on his breathing. He's sitting in a chair against the wall, and stuff is going on around him. There are people in hazmat suits fixing up quarantine rooms; Clint knows what they're putting in there, but he tries not to think about it. The large monitor showing the feed from observation is over his head, and Steve is talking to the scientists on the other side, his voice calm and Captain-ly despite the fact that his cheeks have been red from embarrassment this entire time, and Clint thinks about how close they are together, how he could get on his knees and-
Oh, for Christ's fucking sake.
He opens his eyes in time to see the hazmat crew leaving, which is right about the time Fury says, "Captain Rogers," from the monitor, immediately followed by a, "Where's Barton?" that Clint can hear the frown in.
Clint stands up immediately, super careful not to get within three feet of anyone else, and turns around to face the monitor. "Sir."
"Gentlemen," he says. "Agent Romanov. I am officially notifying you that I have put Section 65 into effect." Natasha makes a sort of contemplative sound; Steve startles when she grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him towards one of the isolation rooms.
"Seriously?" Clint says to her, and she turns back towards him, shrugging at him before shutting the door behind her and Steve.
"Uh," Tony says, looking around at them in confusion. "Anybody want to share with the class?" Tony, out of all of them, definitely looks the most ridiculous; while everybody else managed to-
Behind them, the door to Natasha and Steve's room opens and a big wad of clothing comes flying out.
Everybody else managed to get spare clothes, but for reasons no one enumerated to Clint, Tony is standing there with in just a hospital gown, which he's wearing folded over and tied around his waist. Easy access, Clint thinks, because no matter how he looks, Clint would still throw him down and fuck the shit right out of him.
That one Clint allows himself. Tony is easy and Pepper doesn't care, so fuck it.
"Section 65," Fury says, "is the part of the paperwork which you signed when you became a consultant- and don't give me that 'I didn't know what I was signing' shit, because you put your damn thumbprint on it and that's all that matters to me- that covers the responsibilities and rights of one person of your choosing. That person not only acts as the agent of your medical proxy, but is allowed, for example, unrestricted access to you in situations other than-"
"-or to potentially take your place in a-"
Who the hell is his Section 65? When's the last time he changed it?
"-or, under the right circumstances, to use-"
Something's not quite right about this.
"-and of course, given the threat of alien invasion, it's possible that-"
"Motherfucker!" Clint shouts, when it suddenly hits him, and everyone turns to look at him. Fury tilts his head, giving Clint his best 'You have a ten second head start' glare. "Um," Clint says, ashamed. "Not you, sir."
"What I am telling you, Stark," Fury says, staring at Clint for another moment before turning to look at Tony, "is that since you appointed that person while in full control of yourself and gave them those responsibilities, I have decided that they will be authorized to assist you."
"Oh," Tony says, sounding relieved. "Sounds good."
"Sir-" Clint starts, but Fury stares him down.
The airlock opens suddenly, and Pepper steps through, just like Clint knew she would. Tony gives her a grin that makes Clint's toes curl. "Hey, babe," he says, and before Pepper can even respond, Tony just picks her up and throws her over his shoulder. Pepper, because the two of them are so made for each other that it's sickening sometimes, just fucking laughs, protesting in that way that's not really protesting, hitting him on the back until he slaps her ass. "See ya," Tony says, carrying her into one of the rooms and slamming the door.
"And then there were two," Clint says under his breath.
Thor looks unconcerned, nonchalant even, but the Hammer of the Gods is making itself known through his pants, and damn. "I signed none of this paperwork," Thor says. "What am I to do?"
"I'll go with Thor," Clint says quickly, then presses his lips tight together so that he can't beg for it.
Thor looks at him seriously, putting his hand on Clint's shoulder, and Clint really wants to climb him like a tree. "Barton, my friend," he says. "I would not do such a thing to you. You have made your choice. I will respect you in this."
Thor turns away before Clint can start giving him puppy-dog eyes, which is probably for the best. "We're aware of your situation," Fury says, nodding. "We wanted to consult you before deciding how to proceed."
"Anyone who wishes to come to my aid will be welcomed as a friend," Thor says, so apparently Clint isn't his friend right now. "I swear by Yggdrasil that they will not come to harm."
"I volunteer!" someone in the observation room shouts, and Clint presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. Fucking nerds. "Um," he adds in a quieter voice. "Uh, what I mean, Director Fury, is that-"
Fury shakes his head. "Thor, is that good for you?"
"Of course," Thor says. "Let him come."
"Get to quarantine, Valdez," Fury says, and Valdez hurries off as quick as his two little legs can carry him.
Fury turns around, talking to the scientists, and Clint just kind of stands there, trying to decide if he's more pissed off or more horny; it's a close race. He doesn't know how far the observation room actually is from quarantine, but Valdez is there in a flash. He's this tiny dude, and Clint looks at the two of them skeptically. But Thor slaps him on the back and gives him a bear hug, and Valdez looks like he might swoon, and they go off together, happy as can be.
When Clint stops watching and turns back around to look at the monitor, Fury is looking straight at him, and Clint jumps. "He's almost here," Fury tells him, and Clint doesn't ask who. "You're lucky he hadn't left yet."
Clint rubs his forehead; he stops, suddenly finding his loophole. "Sir," Clint says. "Section 65 can be overridden." Fury raises his eyebrow at him. Clint can't believe what he's about to do. It's not that he objects to the thought of taking it from Fury, because really, who would possibly object to that; it's more that he's about to proposition his boss- who, it cannot be overstated, is Nicholas fucking Fury- in front of a bunch of SHIELD's best and brightest. "In cases of duress, Section 65 can be nullified if the Dir-"
Fury held up a finger. "Consider what you are about to say to me, Specialist Barton," Fury says. "Because I am not going to do what you are going to propose, and I am going to say so in front of all these people. Think very hard about whether or not that's what you want to happen right now." Clint very wisely doesn't say anything. "If you would like to accuse me of covering my own ass by putting you in this situation, please feel free, because that is what I am doing. You are not yourself, and normal-you made your decision already. Deal with it."
Someone offscreen says something, and Fury turns to listen. "He's here," Fury says to Clint. "Good luck, Barton."
Clint sighs, crossing his arms. He keeps looking at the monitor, but there's no one looking back at him; they've abandoned him, the bastards. He really, really hates all of them, despite the fact that he feels like he could let about six of them take turns on him right now, just put him on his back or his stomach or his knees and-
The airlock opens.
"Good afternoon, Specialist," Coulson says, as he steps through, looking as intimidating and put together as usual despite the fact that he's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.
"Afternoon," Clint grumbles.
"This way, I think," Coulson says, opening the door to the last room and holding out an arm in invitation. Clint sighs, resigned to his fate at last.
He walks past Coulson and into the room. He doesn't touch Coulson, and Coulson doesn't touch him.
Fucking great, Clint thinks. Because a nice long stay in quarantine with his goddamn ex was just what he needed to make this day complete.