The Morning After... [locked to She-Hulk]
Clint's up early, as usual. A leftover from all the way back to his carny days: Once the sun peeks over the horizon, he can't usually manage more than an hour's sleep.
He's out of bed gingerly, the better to leave Jen to sleep, and into the shower. He keeps the singing to a minimum, not wanting to disturb his houseguest, because he knows he can't carry a tune properly; Clint's always had to turn the music up high enough to drown out his own voice when he gets the urge to sing. He brushes his teeth in the shower, making sure to shave by touch while in there as well.
Twenty minutes, and he's in the kitchen, putting the coffee on, and checking the news, while taking inventory of the refridgerator. The lady would probably appreciate some breakfast, after all.
A low whistle of surprise at how little precisely is in his fridge, and he frowns, trying to remember the number of the local grocery delivery service. Can't run out and get anything. Jen would think poorly of him if he were gone when she woke up, and he likes her too much to want to disappoint her.
He paws through the phone book for a good ten minutes. Clint is sipping strong black coffee when he finally finds the number. He orders enough to make several good meals for two, and relaxes, wandering back into the bedroom to root out a clean pair of jeans for around-the-house lounging. He slips into them, and sits on the corner of the bed, watching her sleep. It's not often he sees Jen this vulnerable. It's interesting.
He's out of bed gingerly, the better to leave Jen to sleep, and into the shower. He keeps the singing to a minimum, not wanting to disturb his houseguest, because he knows he can't carry a tune properly; Clint's always had to turn the music up high enough to drown out his own voice when he gets the urge to sing. He brushes his teeth in the shower, making sure to shave by touch while in there as well.
Twenty minutes, and he's in the kitchen, putting the coffee on, and checking the news, while taking inventory of the refridgerator. The lady would probably appreciate some breakfast, after all.
A low whistle of surprise at how little precisely is in his fridge, and he frowns, trying to remember the number of the local grocery delivery service. Can't run out and get anything. Jen would think poorly of him if he were gone when she woke up, and he likes her too much to want to disappoint her.
He paws through the phone book for a good ten minutes. Clint is sipping strong black coffee when he finally finds the number. He orders enough to make several good meals for two, and relaxes, wandering back into the bedroom to root out a clean pair of jeans for around-the-house lounging. He slips into them, and sits on the corner of the bed, watching her sleep. It's not often he sees Jen this vulnerable. It's interesting.