clint "idk the archer or something" barton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brandingproblem) wrote2023-01-10 03:10 pm
brandingproblem) wrote2023-01-10 03:10 pm
open post
overflows, misc psls/memes, starters that don't seem to fit anywhere else, etc
overflows, misc psls/memes, starters that don't seem to fit anywhere else, etc
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Sadly, Phil found he had missed Stark as well. Maybe it was a side-effect of his resurrection. Which Stark and Banner were eagerly studying. He was fairly certain they had taken more of his blood and run more scans on him than all his years as a SHIELD field agent.
Tonight, he was working late. He always worked late. The semi-late night hours were the only time he could work peacefully. Mostly peacefully. There was no way to know when Stark or Banner might have a late night experimentation session. Small explosions and electrical problems were more common here. Fixed faster here than at SHIELD but more common.
Phil had his jacket on the back of his chair. His sleeves rolled up but his tie was still on. Casual dress for Agent Coulson. Soft jazz played in the background as he wrote reports and read through dossiers on potential operations for the Avengers. Being the whole team's handler was a familiar if daunting task.
When he heard the door to his office open he knew it was one of the two people who had unrestricted access to his floor at any time of the day. Even when he wasn't in his office.
He doesn't look up until Clint sits down in the chair in front of his desk and a cold beer also gets set down. Phil saves his work then sits back, studying the beer for a moment and then Clint, one eyebrow raised.
"What's this for?" he asks, a bit curious. Something has brought Clint to his office this late at night. There are plenty of things it could be spread out across the years they've known each other. Phil can wait until Clint wants to tell him.
Besides, the cold beer looks pretty good even though he's never been much of a drinker.
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Hm. The word date feels loaded. Romantic dinner implies that, but saying romantic dinner date feels bigger and more complicated than just plain romantic dinner.
Set that thought aside for later. The important part here is that apparently something that Phil thinks will get him all hot and bothered is playing dress-up with his favorite agent in hand-picked fabrics made to suit him from an actual tailor and not off the rack. A flirty tailor, no less. It isn't as though Clint's a stranger to measurements and outfits that fit him like a second skin, but his SHIELD uniforms are intended to be practical for his job. That they show off his assets very well is an unintended bonus. And he doesn't pay for them.
And he does own a suit. It's a perfectly suitable suit for more important and fancier occasions. But it's definitely off the rack because that's cheaper, he doesn't have his own go-to normal clothing tailor, and because frankly it just seems like so much work for something he's not going to wear often. But. If Phil wants...
"You're gonna have to restrain yourself," Clint suggests with a smirk, even if he gives the place a dubious once-over. "I'm thinking with ropes, but if you need something sturdier, we can always upgrade to chains."
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tfln @ hottestofmesses
All the time because you like to hear yourself speak.
You only knew since you think everyone wants a piece of you.
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He skates by pretty well between Natasha's help (and helping Natasha), focusing on the job, trying to mesh with this team, trying to save the day. He raids some of Stark's liquor when some of the others escort the problem child of the Odinson family away to share quiet commiseration with Natasha, too. There's the absolute exhaustion that sets in when Stark comms them all to say he's found a shawarma place that's still willing to serve food in spite of the damage. There's falling back somewhere safe and sound for a god damn shower and a change of clothes while people debate what happens to said problem child and the cube, whose jurisdiction does all that fall under, and those are arguments that are over his head and he wants no part of.
Mostly what he wants is to crawl into a deep dark hole for a solid week. He figures he'll come out of that looking worse for wear, but able to get back to work without too much problem. This will not, of course, be allowed. Not by Nat, not by Fury, and definitely not by Coulson.
Coulson who's still in medical under intensive care.
But at least it means he's alive.
No, no hole for Clint. Fury generously gives them all some time to themselves, gather to bid the god and his shitty little brother farewell, get their heads on in a way that resembles straight, and then it's the debriefs. Clint hasn't been looking forward to this part. Technically, he and Nat are the only SHIELD agents, and Rogers is...well, if Clint were feeling not terribly generous, he'd say property, and it means they're the only ones absolutely required to come in and do the whole familiar shebang.
There's a nasty, unavoidable hitch with Clint. Of course. Because agency being stripped away and minds being altered and causing a lot of damage and gathering up a lot of SHIELD's enemies are all things that can't just be neatly swept under the rug. It's questions, and it's tests, and it's questions and tests and questions and tests and he barely keeps track of the days that pass while trying to determine if he's a threat, if there's still some part inside his brain that didn't get shaken loose that's ready to obey a different master, and by the time Coulson can have visitors, he feels like he's been turned inside out, and by the time Coulson's ready to get moved out of a medical room and back to his own bed, he's too ashamed and exhausted and raw.
Even if his own bed feels way too big and empty.
Eventually Natasha, either because she's a good friend like that, or at Coulson's behest, tells him to go see his fucking boyfriend. It's practically an order. Clint says he wants to wait until Coulson is better, and that gets her downright pissed and makes a very nasty threat that has a 50/50 shot of actually happening if he doesn't get his ass up and moving.
Honestly, it's a good way to try and get him going. Instead of stuck in place, circling and circling and circling. She's good at dislodging thoughts like that.
So is Coulson.
The thought of the man gets his chest tight, but Clint gets up, he moves, he ignores any and all looks he gets, uses the freedom he has to go...finally pay a visit. Why does it feel like going to an execution?
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Maybe for just a fun night out, he'd set up at the bar for easy refills and potentially roping in other people. But if they're gonna talk, and it sounds like maybe they might end up talking, then being tucked away in a booth is better. Which is what Clint does. He's already turning a beer bottle in his hands by the time he sees the former Winter Soldier come in and waves him down. There's another beer already sitting out for him.
Do not mind the bandage across his nose. Frankly, Clint being at least somewhat injured when he's away from home is a fairly standard sight.
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[So.
It's not how he expected his night to go. Had probably expected a text from Steve involving a team exercise; that's fairly routine at this point. Not so much the made-fun-of formal phrasing of the invite, but the intended outcome, sure.
This was not the intended outcome, and he couldn't be happier for it.
And there are a lot of ways this could go. Thankfully, one of Clint Barton's specialties is flexibility. Not that he intends to put every decision at Steve's feet, but he's easy (heh) to work with, would prefer to defer to whatever Steve's comfy with. Is this a thing he's been sitting with for a while? Is it weird, is it awkward? Is this spur of the moment? Because it's definitely not the first time Clint's thought about Steve and the possibilities of things they could get up to, extracurricularly. Might be the first he's thought Steve could feel the same way.
There's a joke in here somewhere, he knows, about sex as a team building exercise. Not sure how much Steve might appreciate it, but there's a lot that ends up surprising him about ye olde icicle.
In spite of/because of the joking about what he may or may not wear at night, Clint is, in fact, dressed. But for a night in. Plain tee, cozy sweats. Funny as it might be to see Steve's face if he opens the door buckass naked with not a hint of shame. Don't think he didn't consider it. He isn't nervous, not really, but he does find himself pacing around the place doing some little acts of cleanup with the sudden bout of anticipatory energy he's got. The kitchen's not a disaster area, the couch looks cozy and fuck-on-able, and the bedroom looks like a place you could bring someone to for a fun time instead of a gremlin cave.
And whether Steve wants to talk things out first or go right for the quickest source of fun, Clint's determined to be ready.]
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Clint grunts a noise of acknowledgement and switches to doomscrolling news. Until Natasha's burning gaze makes him glance over at her.
They have an entire conversation with looks, something that unnerves Bruce a little and absolutely entertains Tony until it annoys him that he's left out of the loop. She's noticed, in fact thinks they have been shockingly obvious. Bruce, not at all engaged with anything that's been going on around him, belatedly speaks up: "I dunno, I think it's okay in here." Without even looking up.
Clint's look-speak indicates that he's pretty sure Nat's the only one who's noticed a thing. And she would. She isn't going to say anything, but if she ever decides it might be effective blackmail material, or just really funny, she might threaten something down the line. (Probably the latter, just to see the look on Tony's face.)
She eventually, with a dramatic eyeroll, unfurls herself from her cross-legged perch atop the bar and ruffles his hair as she goes by. "I'm not covering for any of your bruises," she says lowly in his ear, and he simply grins stupid at her in return.
Ten minutes more or less go by, and it's his turn to utter something noncommittal about probably going to the range if it isn't too hot, does not expect to be called out on it if he's not there anytime soon, and wanders off. He makes a stop at his own place, more decorated than he presumes Steve's is. It's a home away from home, with comforts of his own. There's no real telling what's going to happen (besides a good time), and given that he's pretty sure that Steve doesn't have much of a dating life going on no matter what Nat's tried to suggest to him, he feels like it's a pretty good guess Steve's isn't exactly fully equipped for said good time. But, hey, maybe he is! No judgement. Still gonna tuck a small bottle of lube in a pocket. Checks himself in a mirror, likes what Nat's ruffle has done to his hair, ponders whether he should show up divested of some clothes as well, decides he likes the idea of being unwrapped for show.
He makes his way to Steve's and knocks. Oh, sure, there's little digital doorbells, and little digital keypads, and digital everything. But Steve's oldschool. He'll probably appreciate a good old fashioned knock instead.
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What he lacks in subtlety, though, he makes up for in being damned stubborn.
Why is he tracking Clint? Because Clint's a member of his fucking team. Because he cares. Because he's worried, and has more than enough compassion (and intelligence) to know that he has good reason to be. Without Clint having lost his family? Maybe Steve would have left it (and Clint) alone. With them gone, there is not a snowball's chance in hell Steve's going to do that.
He doesn't know what kind of reception he's going to get when he finally tracks Barton down to Mexico. He isn't expecting it to be a warm up - not with the 'tracking him down' part in play, though he knows Clint's not exactly running from him. It doesn't matter in any way that stops him.
It does matter just enough that he makes a point of choosing an outdoor location during daylight hours, making damn sure Clint has seen him on the street and approaching directly from the front. "You're not an easy guy to find."
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sᴄᴏᴜᴛ sɴɪᴘᴇʀ ʙʀᴏs & ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ
He thinks, briefly, about using it — and then remembers that he has other people that need him, other people he needs. People who aren't answering the damn phone; communications go briefly spotty. The ones he can reach don't give him promising news. He doesn't have time to wait for satellites and phone companies and gaps in service to level out, or to keep trying calls that cannot be completed as dialed. He gets in his van, and he drives.
The homestead is eerily quiet when his van creeps up the rural road. No birds, no animals, no neighbors, no kids in the yard. Nothing. Nothing. It would be enough to make the hair at the back of his neck stand up, if he had any. It feels haunted here, and it's the oppressive air that has him parking a little ways off, strapping up with a handgun in a holster, and quietly walking the last couple hundred yards on foot — in case someone's ransacked the place, in case someone's squatting, in case he needs to do something about it all.
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ᴍɪsɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜᴛʜ & ɪᴛ's ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ's ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ
There lies the dumbass himself, sprawled out on his back, chest heaving, nose gushing blood, absolutely spent in the outfield of the shitty public park baseball diamond six or eight blocks from his house. Beside him, the asshole responsible for the aforementioned broken nose lies heaving as well, Frank's pretty sure he popped a black eye in there at least. Now, both of them are utterly out of steam, and he can't actually remember a fight ever ending after he ran out of rage before today.
A few silent, still seconds pass.
"Alright listen," he starts, his voice hoarse and ragged and beat. "How 'bout this. I won't call you a pussy if you don't call me a pussy, and we say it's a draw."
Because... full transparency, he absolutely cannot remember anymore what made him throw that first swing. It seemed like an unforgivable offense some five minutes ago, but the jerkoff kids that had been around at the time have all already scattered, and it's just the two of them left. So. Nobody else to judge.
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