FIC: "The Sixth of July," Avengers, Foursome, 2/3
(previous part here)
Chapter 2: Bombs Bursting in Air
From: Iron Man
To: Capsicle , Agent
, Legolas
Subject: shooting tournament, bitches
seeing as the supervillains of the world seem to be hiding from this crappy weather, i have decided to hold a competition. a competition that involves shooting things.
assemble on the 47th floor this sat at 1pm. szechuan gourmet takeout will be there. if you are not there, the first contest will involve hunting you down.
inviting you three because natasha would win and kill us all in the process, and bruce has a fear of exploding things that is a disgrace to the scientific community.
yes, barton, you will have a handicap.
ts
&&&&
Clint steps into the first open door on the 47th floor, following the scent of chili oil, and bursts out laughing. The room's the size of a hotel ballroom, the sort of place to seat a small crowd for presentations, but all chairs have been removed. A huge display screen covers the far wall, and it's displaying the distinctive 8-bit opening screen of Duck Hunt. A table near the doorway bears what looks like the plastic Zapper guns Clint remembers from downtime in the barracks, nearly twenty years ago. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," he says slowly.
"Handicap number one," Tony says, and Clint turns to see that (of course) Phil and Steve got there early. "Give Barton a firearm that he hasn't used for hundreds of hours on the range."
"Fine, I get it, but you can't be serious. The accuracy on these is crap. I need something that'll hit what I aim it at."
Tony just smiles knowingly. Phil's looking a bit exasperated at the showmanship -- thank God -- but Steve's leaning back comfortably against the table, amused. "Try one out," Tony says. "Hit it, JARVIS."
As Clint picks up the gun, noting it's a bit heavier than expected, the screen switches to a familiar pixellated tableau of grass, tree, and sky. A brown dog -- god, he remembers hating that dog -- gets a scent and dives into the grass.
Then the duck flaps its way out of the grass, and Clint's ready to fire at the first twitch of movement, except that the fucking bird is flying out of the screen, racing for the exit. Clint's training kicks back in after the split-second of shock, and he shoots the duck neatly in its eye; it lets out a squawk and falls down, and the hologram dissolves into nothing a few feet above their heads. "That is," Clint starts, stops, and then just grins.
"Admit it," Tony says. "I'm sexy and you know it. Hey JARVIS, turn on auto-handicapping on Clint's gun."
"Engaging handicap," JARVIS says, and suddenly the gun's trembling in Clint's hands, as if he were holding it in a strong wind or a moving car. Another duck flies out of the grass, and Clint still hits it dead-on, but it takes an extra moment of focus and mental calculation to compensate.
"And that'll adjust automatically if you start kicking our asses too much. Tell me how awesome I am," Tony says, and he strides over to Steve and wraps an arm around his waist. "I'm awesome, right?"
Steve looks like he can't decide whether to kiss Tony's puppy-dog expression or avoid feeding his ego. "That was pretty keen," he says at last, and gives Tony's lips a quick peck.
"'Keen,'" Tony repeats to himself, then brightens. "So! Here are the rules. We'll start with a few free-for-all rounds without handicaps, to get everyone used to the guns. First person to shoot a duck gets points for it, double points for head shots. Don't worry, it'll get harder. Questions?"
Clint looks at the others. Phil's surveying the room, probably already calculating his best sniping position. Steve raises one hand, which makes Tony raise a pointed eyebrow. "Yes, Boy Scout Steve?"
"What's the prize for winning?"
"Great question. I thought about making the prize a night with me, but that's not really fair to me, because I can get nights with myself whenever I want, right?" (Clint can already see the furrow of a headache between Phil's eyebrows. ) "So the prize is this: winner gets to ask each of the losers to do one thing for him. Sound fair?"
"I am so looking forward to the new quiver you'll be making me," Clint says, and just like that, it's on.
Unsurprisingly, Clint kicks ass at the first rounds. What's more unexpected is everyone else's strong showing. Makes sense, Clint guesses; Steve's got enhanced everything, Phil's frighteningly competent with every weapon ever invented, and Howard Stark's son probably had semi-automatics instead of Legos to assemble. Regardless, Clint uses the time to catalog their styles and weaknesses, the shots they're more likely to fumble. He's not just the world's best marksman because he has a steady hand, after all.
After a break for food, the real fun begins. Each round introduces new challenges: reduced lighting, tiny birds, birds that can fucking teleport, and one memorable round in which a hundred swarming birds rise up like a cloud of locusts, and it's less a matter of beating the others to the shot as shooting, aiming, and shooting again.
An hour or two in, just as Clint's beginning to break a sweat, he takes aim at a duck with the size and hyperactivity of a hummingbird, and the room falls pitch black, save a blue glow from Tony's direction.
"Well, fuck," Tony says.
"Not part of the game, I take it?" Phil asks.
"Nope. But I don't hear any explosions, so that's a good start. JARVIS?" Silence.
A second glow lights up Phil's corner of the room. He holds up a bright white rectangle and quirks the corner of his lips. "Flashlight app."
"Careful, Steve, you might be losing your Boy Scout title," Tony says. The light of his arc reactor marks his movement across the room, toward the door. Clint's eyes have adjusted enough to see him grip the handle and pull it, but the hallway is just as dark as the room had been.
"Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto!" begins to play from Tony's direction. He pulls out his phone and jabs the screen. "Talk to me, JARVIS."
"Good afternoon, sir." JARVIS's crisp syllables are faint but clear through the speakerphone. "Avengers Tower is under no outside threat that I can ascertain. However, we are experiencing technical difficulties."
"Cause and nature?"
"The blue-energy experiments which you directed me to run appear to have caused a limited electro-magnetic pulse in the lower levels of the Tower. Standard and emergency power above the twelfth floor has been disrupted."
"Awesome," Tony says, his voice sharp with sarcasm. "Give me some good news."
"Repair crews are already en route, and the arc reactor powering the building was, like your own reactor, immune to the EMP's effects. I estimate one point eight hours until restoration of rudimentary power lines, depending on the extent of the circuit damage."
A metallic thud probably indicates Tony's head hitting the door. He takes a deep breath, then turns around; Clint can just see the contours of his face in the blue light. "All right, gentlemen. Looks like our choices are to walk down thirty-five flights of stairs in the dark, or to wait here until we get the elevators working. Given that we've got food, company, and a nightlight," he taps his chest, "my vote is for avoiding the Stairmaster routine."
A hand touches Clint's elbow, and he fights the urge to jump; damn Phil's ninja skills. Clint draws Phil in closer and kisses him at the base of his earlobe. "If Stark's going to drive you stir-crazy, I'll keep you company going down," he says softly into Phil's ear.
A quiver passes through Phil's body, something Clint recognizes as a muted laugh. He speaks back, just as softly. "My cell phone's on if anything comes up. But if I go down there, I'll have to get back to the projects I put on hold for this afternoon. Seeing just how quiet you can be when I do this?" Phil's hand ghosts over Clint's fly, and Clint bites his tongue to suppress a gasp. "Considerably more appealing."
"If I recall," Clint murmurs back, sliding his fingers around Phil's ass, "you're usually the one who has trouble keeping quiet."
A cough from across the room jolts them out of the moment. "Um, I don't want to interrupt, but I can ... pretty much hear everything," Steve says.
"Oooh, are Agent and Hawkeye getting naughty across the room?" Tony asks. "Tell me more, tell me more."
"We can go into a different room if you want," Steve says, pointedly ignoring Tony.
"I've got a better idea." As he speaks, Tony walks over to the corner where Steve's voice has been originating. "Let's have a nice friendly game of truth or dare."
"You are fucking kidding me," Clint says flatly. "Last I checked, Tony was the only one here who's a teenage girl."
"And what a mutually enjoyable time that last check was," Tony shoots back. "C'mon, it'll be fun. We can learn things about each other, like Agent's first name, and make Steve do things that'll make him blush, like saying a four letter word."
"Fuck you, Tony," Steve says mildly. "But I've got nothing to hide and nothing better to do."
"Wait, you know what truth or dare is?" Tony asks.
"Sounds like a party game that involves telling truths about yourself and doing potentially embarrassing things. Am I close?"
"Sexy and smart," Tony says, his voice coming from right next to Steve. A second later, Clint hears a soft intake of breath from their direction.
Before they can get too distracted, he says, "Sure, I'm in. It's not like I can't lie."
"Isn't that against the spirit of the 'truth' part?" Steve asks.
Phil's voice is low and amused. "Lying to you, Steve, would be a sin against Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Lying to Tony is more or less my job description."
"Agent Coulson, I am hurt," Tony says. "So you're in?"
"Fine. I doubt you can make me regret it too much."
"Challenge: accepted," Tony crows. "Okay, children, gather 'round over here."
By the dim light of Tony’s arc reactor, they relocate into a rough circle on the carpet -- Clint's leaning against Phil, and he suspects that Steve and Tony are doing the same -- and Tony explains the rules to Steve, with occasional interjections by Clint. "Agent!" he finally says. "As the resident figure of authority, you can go first."
Phil's hand tightens slightly on Clint's arm, but then his thumb resumes stroking soft over his skin. "Tony. Truth or dare."
Tony pauses for a moment, then says with confidence, "Truth."
A longer pause follows, so Clint tries to predict what Phil’s going to ask. On the one hand, Clint thinks, sex-and-relationships questions are traditional for the game. On the other hand, this is Phil, who can inject gravitas into any occasion -- except, of course, when he chooses to surprise everyone by not doing so. "Tell me this,” Phil says. “What's the most effective way to shut you up?""
"Distraction, obviously," Tony replies. "If I'm talking, it's because nobody has anything better to say, so give me something to occupy my attention. Or my mouth," he adds in a purr.
"I'll keep that in mind." Clint's pretty sure that the other two can't hear the amusement in Phil's firm tone. "Your turn."
"Great. You're up, Barton."
"Truth," Clint shrugs.
"Hottest sexual experience you've ever had. That didn't involve anyone in this room."
Clint laughs. "Way to jump right into the gutter. Hmm. So, before I got on the straight and narrow, I spent a while on the streets, doing whatever it took to stay afloat -- theft, construction work, sex work, small-time drug dealing, you name it. These four guys were living together, and one of them hired me as a birthday stripper for his roommate-slash-friend-with-benefits. They were friendly and pretty hot, so I ended up doing good business with them -- mostly drugs, but I didn't say no to being paid to have a good time with them. Anyway, this one time I was dropping off some E, and they invited me to stay and try some with them. Let's just say that I didn't leave the house until the next day. And that some of that acrobat training came in handy. It wasn't even that kinky, just bodies and sweat, all of us wanting to touch each other, going up and up in this crazy spiral of orgasms and cuddling."
When Clint stops talking, the room feels very still, and he realizes that even Phil's thumb stopped stroking. "Uh," he says, suddenly awkward. "Was that TMI?"
"No," Tony says, and his throat sounds a little dry. "I would not characterize the amount of detail you gave as 'too much.'"
Oh. "Sweet," Clint says, feeling smug. "Steve, truth or dare?"
"I, uh. Dare?"
"Ste-eeve," Clint says, prolonging his name with relish. "There's one tradition about Truth or Dare that Tony didn't mention. See, at some point in the game, one of the dares has to involve kissing someone else in the room.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “So I dare you to make out with Phil."
"Do I get any say in this?" Phil asks, dryly.
"Are you saying that you'd want to turn down kissing Steve Rogers?" Clint asks, and receives silence as his answer. "I figured. Chop chop, Cap."
Clint expects the attempt to be more clumsy in the near-darkness, but apparently the arc reactor is enough for Steve's super-vision. Steve crosses over and kneels in front of Phil, then places one hand on his shoulder. "You sure you're okay with this?"
"Very," Phil says, and Steve kisses him.
Clint wishes desperately for better light. This is no peck on the lips; Steve has one hand cradling the back of Phil's head, and Phil's arms are around his torso, pulling them tight against each other. In the silence of his and Tony's drawn breaths, Clint can hear the wet sounds slipping out of their mouths, the panting for oxygen, the occasional punctuation of suction lost or clacking teeth. Phil's making a low, keening sound, like he couldn't possibly get enough of this, and Clint can just imagine him memorizing every detail of the moment, the way he does with every good thing he doesn't think he's deserved.
Steve's body bucks up against Phil instinctively, and the movement tips them off-balance, sending Phil falling back against the floor until Steve catches and balances them with one arm. Their faces draw apart, and Steve extricates himself without saying a word, just breathing in and out, quick and uneven.
"You really did not need to stop," Tony says to Steve under his breath, and Steve exhales a single half-laugh.
"Yeah. That --" Steve begins, his voice cracking, then coughs to clear his throat. "That was. Wow. Tony, truth or dare?"
"Dare," Tony smirks.
"Good choice," Steve says, and then a grin breaks out on his face that is positively devious. "I dare you to maintain skin contact with Phil for the rest of the game."
"What? That's not a dare, that's a punishment."
"Watch your tongue, Stark," Clint glares. "You should be so lucky."
Steve just looks at Tony silently and pointedly. After a wordless battle of wills, Tony heaves a sigh and scoots over to the opposite side of Phil from Clint. "I am not holding your hand," he says, and instead puts one hand at the nape of Phil's neck, on the thin ribbon of bare skin between collar and hairline. "But speaking of awkward situations, I don't actually think you've gone yet. Truth or dare?"
"Truth," Phil says.
"Mmm, okay. How long have you and Legolas here been together, anyway? Before Loki attacked, you said you were seeing a lady cellist, and suddenly you're moving into Clint's floor of the tower a month later."
Clint and Phil glance at each other. "Does Bangkok count?" Clint asks.
"Definitely not."
"Okay, what about Provincetown?"
"That was for an op, so again, no. You going to let me answer?" Phil follows his question with a kiss to Clint's neck, softening his tone. Then he turns to Tony, who's been leaning awkwardly toward him to maintain his skin contact. "I was telling Pepper the truth. I'd known about my feelings for Clint for quite some time, but he was one of my two best agents, and initiating any kind of relationship would have meant that I couldn't have him working for me on my operations. So I tried dating outside SHIELD. Never really worked out for me. When I woke up after Loki's attack, Clint ... informed me that my feelings were reciprocated. And I figured that life's too short to push away what I want."
"I think I might be getting hyperglycemia by proximity," Tony mutters, but his voice is missing its usual sharp tone of cynicism.
Clint just pulls Phil towards him for a kiss, his hand overlapping with Tony's on Phil's neck. When he breaks the kiss, he doesn't let go; there's something nice about the casual contact, skin on skin on skin. "Love you too, babe," he says quietly.
Phil gives him a fond look, then focuses on Steve, who's now sitting alone on the other side of their small circle. "Steve, pick your poison."
"Truth, I suppose." He offers Phil a shy smile. "Not that 'dare' worked out that badly for me, last time."
"I'm glad to hear it," Phil says. "In that case, let me ask something that -- you don't have to answer it. I can ask a different question if you prefer."
"Whatever it is, I don't mind," Steve says.
After a brief pause, Phil nods. "All right. Clint said that you might be interested in trying something together. Here's my question: what would you be getting out of it?"
Clint's not sure which of them moves first, but he feels his fingers interlace with Tony's instinctively, a dual instinct of apprehension and reassurance. It takes a few moments of silence before Steve answers. "I figured out pretty fast that what most people call being a hero is just a matter of doing what you ought to do, instead of what you want to do. Took me a lot longer to realize the other side of that. When people think you're a hero, they're liable to assume that you only do things because you ought to do them, not because you want to."
Steve looks away for a few breaths, eyes fixed somewhere distant, and Tony reaches out his free hand to rest on Steve's knee. It feels like the completion of an electric circuit, Clint thinks: all four of them connected by touch, no longer alone in the dark. Then Steve continues. "All of you are my team. I want you all to be happy, and it seems like doing this would make you happy. But I know that's not enough for you to hear, because I'm not just a hero to you; I'm a man and a friend. As a friend, I -- I like you, Phil. You're probably the bravest and most loyal man I know. And I think I'd like getting to know the other parts of you, too. And as a man? Hell, the thought of -- well." It's hard to see color in the dim light, but Clint thinks Steve's blushing. "Thinking about you, like that, does things for me. Is that answer enough?"
The expression on Phil's face is -- Clint's made a career out of watching Phil's expressions, and this one is utterly new. He's reminded of an op they had once in Belarus, out in the woods, on the cusp of spring. He sat in his perch for hours, trying not to let shivering mar his aim, and while he waited, he watched the ice thaw on the surface of a stream. One crack would thread through the white, then another, until a new chunk would crumble away and reveal a fresh patch of running water. Phil's face is softening into springtime.
"Can I?" Phil asks, and Clint wants to say yes, of course, and also please don't forget me, but he knows he wasn't the one being asked.
"All right," Steve says. Tony's fingers are tight around Clint's.
Phil doesn't move.
Clint sees Tony squeeze Steve's knee -- just a flicker of a movement in the darkness, but then Steve shifts forward, and he's on his knees flush against Phil's body, kissing him hard and eager. Steve's momentum carries the two of them backward, and Clint and Tony soften but don't break the fall, and then all four of them are horizontal, with Steve pressing Phil to the floor with mouth and arms, hips making urgent half-thrusts.
They're all so close that it's hard to see anything, but Clint can feel and hear everything -- the way that his hand pillows Phil's head, feeling each arch and shudder; the needy murmur of Phil's voice against Steve's lips, whispering words lost between their kisses. Clint's turned on, incredibly so, but this is for Phil and Steve, so he just holds Phil's body close to his and wraps his free arm loosely around Steve's back, guiding everyone's limbs into something approaching comfortable.
He feels a slight twinge of disconnect from the bodies wrapped in his arms, present but not involved -- and then Phil breaks away from Steve's kiss and tilts his head toward Clint, saying, "Clint?" in a small, undone voice that somehow conveys thank you and I love you and I need you here too. So Clint leans in and breathes the familiar scent of Phil's hair and skin, and then he tugs Phil's earlobe between his teeth, enjoying the whimper it elicits.
Clint works his way down Phil's neck, leaving lingering, wet kisses and sucking gently on the skin where he can feel Phil's pulse beneath his lips. "So fucking gorgeous," he whispers in Phil's ear, and Phil's mouth is occupied with Steve's, and his hands are curved shamelessly around Steve's ass, but his breath stutters and his hips jerk upward helplessly.
Somewhere on the other side, Tony's doing filthy things to Steve's collarbone and raking his fingernails down Steve's back, muttering "that's right, baby," and "god, you're sexy like this." Steve and Phil are still rutting against each other like it's their last chance, their kisses growing rougher and less precise; Clint can feel Phil trembling the way he does when he's close to coming, still fully clothed.
"I," Phil pants, "I need --"
The lights come on.
At first, nobody moves. The fluorescent lights are blinding, and Clint blinks his eyes to adjust. By the time he can see without squinting, Tony's already pulled himself away, standing up from the floor. "Wow. That was." Tony takes a steadying breath; Clint's never seen him quite this rattled. "So I should definitely get down and see what happened. Which I'm mostly saying because I don't want you to think I'm running away. Okay? Great."
Tony's halfway out the room when Steve gets up, giving Phil an apologetic look. "I should make sure he's doing okay. But -- thank you." Steve's shirt is rumpled, his hair's a mess, and his lips are pink and still damp -- from Phil's lips, Clint thinks, and somehow that makes them even more erotic. Steve looks ravished, and the khaki slacks he favors aren't doing anything to hide his body's interest; Clint's half-tempted to tackle him back down and finish what they started. Before he can act on the temptation, though, Steve's following Tony out into the hall.
That leaves Phil, now propped up on his elbows, and Clint. Phil looks at least as despoiled as Steve, but on him, it's a look that Clint's happily familiar with. "Hey there," he says, and gives Phil a gentle kiss. "How're you doing?"
"I'm fine," Phil says automatically. He still looks stunned. Phil lifts a hand to his face and traces his thumb over his own lips, first bottom, then top. "I'm fine," he repeats.
Clint grazes one hand over the still-prominent erection in Phil's pants. "Want me to finish what we started? I mean, I know that blue balls aren't supposed to be fatal, but you're looking like you're shooting for an exception."
That brings a small smile to Phil's lips. "Yeah." Then he turns and really looks at Clint, and his voice snaps back into focus. "Yeah. Can you -- can you use your hands? I'd really like to be kissing you right now."
"Can do," Clint says, returning the smile. This, he knows. He climbs over Phil, straddling his legs, and gently undoes his pants and slides down his briefs. Phil's achingly hard, leaking pre-cum. Clint slides three fingers into his own mouth, licking them nice and wet, then grasps Phil's cock, savoring the muted gasp in response.
"Love you," Clint says, and he bends down to kiss Phil. They kiss long and slow, eyes open, so that he can see Phil's pupils widen and darken with each stroke. "Love you." Clint twists his hand around Phil's dick, firm and patient, falling easily into the rhythm they've both learned well. Phil's eyes never leave Clint's face, and he doesn't say anything but the occasional quiet whimper, then a long, voiceless sigh as he comes into Clint's hand.
Clint wipes his hand off on his own t-shirt, then settles back down to embrace Phil, holding him through the aftershocks. Only once Phil's breathing has returned to a steady cadence does he turn to speak. "What happened earlier was pretty remarkable. I hope you don't regret any of it. But the best part is always going to be coming home to you."
And Clint knows that what he's saying, in the ways that Clint needs to hear it most, is I love you too.
(continued here)
Chapter 2: Bombs Bursting in Air
From: Iron Man
To: Capsicle , Agent
, Legolas
Subject: shooting tournament, bitches
seeing as the supervillains of the world seem to be hiding from this crappy weather, i have decided to hold a competition. a competition that involves shooting things.
assemble on the 47th floor this sat at 1pm. szechuan gourmet takeout will be there. if you are not there, the first contest will involve hunting you down.
inviting you three because natasha would win and kill us all in the process, and bruce has a fear of exploding things that is a disgrace to the scientific community.
yes, barton, you will have a handicap.
ts
&&&&
Clint steps into the first open door on the 47th floor, following the scent of chili oil, and bursts out laughing. The room's the size of a hotel ballroom, the sort of place to seat a small crowd for presentations, but all chairs have been removed. A huge display screen covers the far wall, and it's displaying the distinctive 8-bit opening screen of Duck Hunt. A table near the doorway bears what looks like the plastic Zapper guns Clint remembers from downtime in the barracks, nearly twenty years ago. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," he says slowly.
"Handicap number one," Tony says, and Clint turns to see that (of course) Phil and Steve got there early. "Give Barton a firearm that he hasn't used for hundreds of hours on the range."
"Fine, I get it, but you can't be serious. The accuracy on these is crap. I need something that'll hit what I aim it at."
Tony just smiles knowingly. Phil's looking a bit exasperated at the showmanship -- thank God -- but Steve's leaning back comfortably against the table, amused. "Try one out," Tony says. "Hit it, JARVIS."
As Clint picks up the gun, noting it's a bit heavier than expected, the screen switches to a familiar pixellated tableau of grass, tree, and sky. A brown dog -- god, he remembers hating that dog -- gets a scent and dives into the grass.
Then the duck flaps its way out of the grass, and Clint's ready to fire at the first twitch of movement, except that the fucking bird is flying out of the screen, racing for the exit. Clint's training kicks back in after the split-second of shock, and he shoots the duck neatly in its eye; it lets out a squawk and falls down, and the hologram dissolves into nothing a few feet above their heads. "That is," Clint starts, stops, and then just grins.
"Admit it," Tony says. "I'm sexy and you know it. Hey JARVIS, turn on auto-handicapping on Clint's gun."
"Engaging handicap," JARVIS says, and suddenly the gun's trembling in Clint's hands, as if he were holding it in a strong wind or a moving car. Another duck flies out of the grass, and Clint still hits it dead-on, but it takes an extra moment of focus and mental calculation to compensate.
"And that'll adjust automatically if you start kicking our asses too much. Tell me how awesome I am," Tony says, and he strides over to Steve and wraps an arm around his waist. "I'm awesome, right?"
Steve looks like he can't decide whether to kiss Tony's puppy-dog expression or avoid feeding his ego. "That was pretty keen," he says at last, and gives Tony's lips a quick peck.
"'Keen,'" Tony repeats to himself, then brightens. "So! Here are the rules. We'll start with a few free-for-all rounds without handicaps, to get everyone used to the guns. First person to shoot a duck gets points for it, double points for head shots. Don't worry, it'll get harder. Questions?"
Clint looks at the others. Phil's surveying the room, probably already calculating his best sniping position. Steve raises one hand, which makes Tony raise a pointed eyebrow. "Yes, Boy Scout Steve?"
"What's the prize for winning?"
"Great question. I thought about making the prize a night with me, but that's not really fair to me, because I can get nights with myself whenever I want, right?" (Clint can already see the furrow of a headache between Phil's eyebrows. ) "So the prize is this: winner gets to ask each of the losers to do one thing for him. Sound fair?"
"I am so looking forward to the new quiver you'll be making me," Clint says, and just like that, it's on.
Unsurprisingly, Clint kicks ass at the first rounds. What's more unexpected is everyone else's strong showing. Makes sense, Clint guesses; Steve's got enhanced everything, Phil's frighteningly competent with every weapon ever invented, and Howard Stark's son probably had semi-automatics instead of Legos to assemble. Regardless, Clint uses the time to catalog their styles and weaknesses, the shots they're more likely to fumble. He's not just the world's best marksman because he has a steady hand, after all.
After a break for food, the real fun begins. Each round introduces new challenges: reduced lighting, tiny birds, birds that can fucking teleport, and one memorable round in which a hundred swarming birds rise up like a cloud of locusts, and it's less a matter of beating the others to the shot as shooting, aiming, and shooting again.
An hour or two in, just as Clint's beginning to break a sweat, he takes aim at a duck with the size and hyperactivity of a hummingbird, and the room falls pitch black, save a blue glow from Tony's direction.
"Well, fuck," Tony says.
"Not part of the game, I take it?" Phil asks.
"Nope. But I don't hear any explosions, so that's a good start. JARVIS?" Silence.
A second glow lights up Phil's corner of the room. He holds up a bright white rectangle and quirks the corner of his lips. "Flashlight app."
"Careful, Steve, you might be losing your Boy Scout title," Tony says. The light of his arc reactor marks his movement across the room, toward the door. Clint's eyes have adjusted enough to see him grip the handle and pull it, but the hallway is just as dark as the room had been.
"Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto!" begins to play from Tony's direction. He pulls out his phone and jabs the screen. "Talk to me, JARVIS."
"Good afternoon, sir." JARVIS's crisp syllables are faint but clear through the speakerphone. "Avengers Tower is under no outside threat that I can ascertain. However, we are experiencing technical difficulties."
"Cause and nature?"
"The blue-energy experiments which you directed me to run appear to have caused a limited electro-magnetic pulse in the lower levels of the Tower. Standard and emergency power above the twelfth floor has been disrupted."
"Awesome," Tony says, his voice sharp with sarcasm. "Give me some good news."
"Repair crews are already en route, and the arc reactor powering the building was, like your own reactor, immune to the EMP's effects. I estimate one point eight hours until restoration of rudimentary power lines, depending on the extent of the circuit damage."
A metallic thud probably indicates Tony's head hitting the door. He takes a deep breath, then turns around; Clint can just see the contours of his face in the blue light. "All right, gentlemen. Looks like our choices are to walk down thirty-five flights of stairs in the dark, or to wait here until we get the elevators working. Given that we've got food, company, and a nightlight," he taps his chest, "my vote is for avoiding the Stairmaster routine."
A hand touches Clint's elbow, and he fights the urge to jump; damn Phil's ninja skills. Clint draws Phil in closer and kisses him at the base of his earlobe. "If Stark's going to drive you stir-crazy, I'll keep you company going down," he says softly into Phil's ear.
A quiver passes through Phil's body, something Clint recognizes as a muted laugh. He speaks back, just as softly. "My cell phone's on if anything comes up. But if I go down there, I'll have to get back to the projects I put on hold for this afternoon. Seeing just how quiet you can be when I do this?" Phil's hand ghosts over Clint's fly, and Clint bites his tongue to suppress a gasp. "Considerably more appealing."
"If I recall," Clint murmurs back, sliding his fingers around Phil's ass, "you're usually the one who has trouble keeping quiet."
A cough from across the room jolts them out of the moment. "Um, I don't want to interrupt, but I can ... pretty much hear everything," Steve says.
"Oooh, are Agent and Hawkeye getting naughty across the room?" Tony asks. "Tell me more, tell me more."
"We can go into a different room if you want," Steve says, pointedly ignoring Tony.
"I've got a better idea." As he speaks, Tony walks over to the corner where Steve's voice has been originating. "Let's have a nice friendly game of truth or dare."
"You are fucking kidding me," Clint says flatly. "Last I checked, Tony was the only one here who's a teenage girl."
"And what a mutually enjoyable time that last check was," Tony shoots back. "C'mon, it'll be fun. We can learn things about each other, like Agent's first name, and make Steve do things that'll make him blush, like saying a four letter word."
"Fuck you, Tony," Steve says mildly. "But I've got nothing to hide and nothing better to do."
"Wait, you know what truth or dare is?" Tony asks.
"Sounds like a party game that involves telling truths about yourself and doing potentially embarrassing things. Am I close?"
"Sexy and smart," Tony says, his voice coming from right next to Steve. A second later, Clint hears a soft intake of breath from their direction.
Before they can get too distracted, he says, "Sure, I'm in. It's not like I can't lie."
"Isn't that against the spirit of the 'truth' part?" Steve asks.
Phil's voice is low and amused. "Lying to you, Steve, would be a sin against Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Lying to Tony is more or less my job description."
"Agent Coulson, I am hurt," Tony says. "So you're in?"
"Fine. I doubt you can make me regret it too much."
"Challenge: accepted," Tony crows. "Okay, children, gather 'round over here."
By the dim light of Tony’s arc reactor, they relocate into a rough circle on the carpet -- Clint's leaning against Phil, and he suspects that Steve and Tony are doing the same -- and Tony explains the rules to Steve, with occasional interjections by Clint. "Agent!" he finally says. "As the resident figure of authority, you can go first."
Phil's hand tightens slightly on Clint's arm, but then his thumb resumes stroking soft over his skin. "Tony. Truth or dare."
Tony pauses for a moment, then says with confidence, "Truth."
A longer pause follows, so Clint tries to predict what Phil’s going to ask. On the one hand, Clint thinks, sex-and-relationships questions are traditional for the game. On the other hand, this is Phil, who can inject gravitas into any occasion -- except, of course, when he chooses to surprise everyone by not doing so. "Tell me this,” Phil says. “What's the most effective way to shut you up?""
"Distraction, obviously," Tony replies. "If I'm talking, it's because nobody has anything better to say, so give me something to occupy my attention. Or my mouth," he adds in a purr.
"I'll keep that in mind." Clint's pretty sure that the other two can't hear the amusement in Phil's firm tone. "Your turn."
"Great. You're up, Barton."
"Truth," Clint shrugs.
"Hottest sexual experience you've ever had. That didn't involve anyone in this room."
Clint laughs. "Way to jump right into the gutter. Hmm. So, before I got on the straight and narrow, I spent a while on the streets, doing whatever it took to stay afloat -- theft, construction work, sex work, small-time drug dealing, you name it. These four guys were living together, and one of them hired me as a birthday stripper for his roommate-slash-friend-with-benefits. They were friendly and pretty hot, so I ended up doing good business with them -- mostly drugs, but I didn't say no to being paid to have a good time with them. Anyway, this one time I was dropping off some E, and they invited me to stay and try some with them. Let's just say that I didn't leave the house until the next day. And that some of that acrobat training came in handy. It wasn't even that kinky, just bodies and sweat, all of us wanting to touch each other, going up and up in this crazy spiral of orgasms and cuddling."
When Clint stops talking, the room feels very still, and he realizes that even Phil's thumb stopped stroking. "Uh," he says, suddenly awkward. "Was that TMI?"
"No," Tony says, and his throat sounds a little dry. "I would not characterize the amount of detail you gave as 'too much.'"
Oh. "Sweet," Clint says, feeling smug. "Steve, truth or dare?"
"I, uh. Dare?"
"Ste-eeve," Clint says, prolonging his name with relish. "There's one tradition about Truth or Dare that Tony didn't mention. See, at some point in the game, one of the dares has to involve kissing someone else in the room.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “So I dare you to make out with Phil."
"Do I get any say in this?" Phil asks, dryly.
"Are you saying that you'd want to turn down kissing Steve Rogers?" Clint asks, and receives silence as his answer. "I figured. Chop chop, Cap."
Clint expects the attempt to be more clumsy in the near-darkness, but apparently the arc reactor is enough for Steve's super-vision. Steve crosses over and kneels in front of Phil, then places one hand on his shoulder. "You sure you're okay with this?"
"Very," Phil says, and Steve kisses him.
Clint wishes desperately for better light. This is no peck on the lips; Steve has one hand cradling the back of Phil's head, and Phil's arms are around his torso, pulling them tight against each other. In the silence of his and Tony's drawn breaths, Clint can hear the wet sounds slipping out of their mouths, the panting for oxygen, the occasional punctuation of suction lost or clacking teeth. Phil's making a low, keening sound, like he couldn't possibly get enough of this, and Clint can just imagine him memorizing every detail of the moment, the way he does with every good thing he doesn't think he's deserved.
Steve's body bucks up against Phil instinctively, and the movement tips them off-balance, sending Phil falling back against the floor until Steve catches and balances them with one arm. Their faces draw apart, and Steve extricates himself without saying a word, just breathing in and out, quick and uneven.
"You really did not need to stop," Tony says to Steve under his breath, and Steve exhales a single half-laugh.
"Yeah. That --" Steve begins, his voice cracking, then coughs to clear his throat. "That was. Wow. Tony, truth or dare?"
"Dare," Tony smirks.
"Good choice," Steve says, and then a grin breaks out on his face that is positively devious. "I dare you to maintain skin contact with Phil for the rest of the game."
"What? That's not a dare, that's a punishment."
"Watch your tongue, Stark," Clint glares. "You should be so lucky."
Steve just looks at Tony silently and pointedly. After a wordless battle of wills, Tony heaves a sigh and scoots over to the opposite side of Phil from Clint. "I am not holding your hand," he says, and instead puts one hand at the nape of Phil's neck, on the thin ribbon of bare skin between collar and hairline. "But speaking of awkward situations, I don't actually think you've gone yet. Truth or dare?"
"Truth," Phil says.
"Mmm, okay. How long have you and Legolas here been together, anyway? Before Loki attacked, you said you were seeing a lady cellist, and suddenly you're moving into Clint's floor of the tower a month later."
Clint and Phil glance at each other. "Does Bangkok count?" Clint asks.
"Definitely not."
"Okay, what about Provincetown?"
"That was for an op, so again, no. You going to let me answer?" Phil follows his question with a kiss to Clint's neck, softening his tone. Then he turns to Tony, who's been leaning awkwardly toward him to maintain his skin contact. "I was telling Pepper the truth. I'd known about my feelings for Clint for quite some time, but he was one of my two best agents, and initiating any kind of relationship would have meant that I couldn't have him working for me on my operations. So I tried dating outside SHIELD. Never really worked out for me. When I woke up after Loki's attack, Clint ... informed me that my feelings were reciprocated. And I figured that life's too short to push away what I want."
"I think I might be getting hyperglycemia by proximity," Tony mutters, but his voice is missing its usual sharp tone of cynicism.
Clint just pulls Phil towards him for a kiss, his hand overlapping with Tony's on Phil's neck. When he breaks the kiss, he doesn't let go; there's something nice about the casual contact, skin on skin on skin. "Love you too, babe," he says quietly.
Phil gives him a fond look, then focuses on Steve, who's now sitting alone on the other side of their small circle. "Steve, pick your poison."
"Truth, I suppose." He offers Phil a shy smile. "Not that 'dare' worked out that badly for me, last time."
"I'm glad to hear it," Phil says. "In that case, let me ask something that -- you don't have to answer it. I can ask a different question if you prefer."
"Whatever it is, I don't mind," Steve says.
After a brief pause, Phil nods. "All right. Clint said that you might be interested in trying something together. Here's my question: what would you be getting out of it?"
Clint's not sure which of them moves first, but he feels his fingers interlace with Tony's instinctively, a dual instinct of apprehension and reassurance. It takes a few moments of silence before Steve answers. "I figured out pretty fast that what most people call being a hero is just a matter of doing what you ought to do, instead of what you want to do. Took me a lot longer to realize the other side of that. When people think you're a hero, they're liable to assume that you only do things because you ought to do them, not because you want to."
Steve looks away for a few breaths, eyes fixed somewhere distant, and Tony reaches out his free hand to rest on Steve's knee. It feels like the completion of an electric circuit, Clint thinks: all four of them connected by touch, no longer alone in the dark. Then Steve continues. "All of you are my team. I want you all to be happy, and it seems like doing this would make you happy. But I know that's not enough for you to hear, because I'm not just a hero to you; I'm a man and a friend. As a friend, I -- I like you, Phil. You're probably the bravest and most loyal man I know. And I think I'd like getting to know the other parts of you, too. And as a man? Hell, the thought of -- well." It's hard to see color in the dim light, but Clint thinks Steve's blushing. "Thinking about you, like that, does things for me. Is that answer enough?"
The expression on Phil's face is -- Clint's made a career out of watching Phil's expressions, and this one is utterly new. He's reminded of an op they had once in Belarus, out in the woods, on the cusp of spring. He sat in his perch for hours, trying not to let shivering mar his aim, and while he waited, he watched the ice thaw on the surface of a stream. One crack would thread through the white, then another, until a new chunk would crumble away and reveal a fresh patch of running water. Phil's face is softening into springtime.
"Can I?" Phil asks, and Clint wants to say yes, of course, and also please don't forget me, but he knows he wasn't the one being asked.
"All right," Steve says. Tony's fingers are tight around Clint's.
Phil doesn't move.
Clint sees Tony squeeze Steve's knee -- just a flicker of a movement in the darkness, but then Steve shifts forward, and he's on his knees flush against Phil's body, kissing him hard and eager. Steve's momentum carries the two of them backward, and Clint and Tony soften but don't break the fall, and then all four of them are horizontal, with Steve pressing Phil to the floor with mouth and arms, hips making urgent half-thrusts.
They're all so close that it's hard to see anything, but Clint can feel and hear everything -- the way that his hand pillows Phil's head, feeling each arch and shudder; the needy murmur of Phil's voice against Steve's lips, whispering words lost between their kisses. Clint's turned on, incredibly so, but this is for Phil and Steve, so he just holds Phil's body close to his and wraps his free arm loosely around Steve's back, guiding everyone's limbs into something approaching comfortable.
He feels a slight twinge of disconnect from the bodies wrapped in his arms, present but not involved -- and then Phil breaks away from Steve's kiss and tilts his head toward Clint, saying, "Clint?" in a small, undone voice that somehow conveys thank you and I love you and I need you here too. So Clint leans in and breathes the familiar scent of Phil's hair and skin, and then he tugs Phil's earlobe between his teeth, enjoying the whimper it elicits.
Clint works his way down Phil's neck, leaving lingering, wet kisses and sucking gently on the skin where he can feel Phil's pulse beneath his lips. "So fucking gorgeous," he whispers in Phil's ear, and Phil's mouth is occupied with Steve's, and his hands are curved shamelessly around Steve's ass, but his breath stutters and his hips jerk upward helplessly.
Somewhere on the other side, Tony's doing filthy things to Steve's collarbone and raking his fingernails down Steve's back, muttering "that's right, baby," and "god, you're sexy like this." Steve and Phil are still rutting against each other like it's their last chance, their kisses growing rougher and less precise; Clint can feel Phil trembling the way he does when he's close to coming, still fully clothed.
"I," Phil pants, "I need --"
The lights come on.
At first, nobody moves. The fluorescent lights are blinding, and Clint blinks his eyes to adjust. By the time he can see without squinting, Tony's already pulled himself away, standing up from the floor. "Wow. That was." Tony takes a steadying breath; Clint's never seen him quite this rattled. "So I should definitely get down and see what happened. Which I'm mostly saying because I don't want you to think I'm running away. Okay? Great."
Tony's halfway out the room when Steve gets up, giving Phil an apologetic look. "I should make sure he's doing okay. But -- thank you." Steve's shirt is rumpled, his hair's a mess, and his lips are pink and still damp -- from Phil's lips, Clint thinks, and somehow that makes them even more erotic. Steve looks ravished, and the khaki slacks he favors aren't doing anything to hide his body's interest; Clint's half-tempted to tackle him back down and finish what they started. Before he can act on the temptation, though, Steve's following Tony out into the hall.
That leaves Phil, now propped up on his elbows, and Clint. Phil looks at least as despoiled as Steve, but on him, it's a look that Clint's happily familiar with. "Hey there," he says, and gives Phil a gentle kiss. "How're you doing?"
"I'm fine," Phil says automatically. He still looks stunned. Phil lifts a hand to his face and traces his thumb over his own lips, first bottom, then top. "I'm fine," he repeats.
Clint grazes one hand over the still-prominent erection in Phil's pants. "Want me to finish what we started? I mean, I know that blue balls aren't supposed to be fatal, but you're looking like you're shooting for an exception."
That brings a small smile to Phil's lips. "Yeah." Then he turns and really looks at Clint, and his voice snaps back into focus. "Yeah. Can you -- can you use your hands? I'd really like to be kissing you right now."
"Can do," Clint says, returning the smile. This, he knows. He climbs over Phil, straddling his legs, and gently undoes his pants and slides down his briefs. Phil's achingly hard, leaking pre-cum. Clint slides three fingers into his own mouth, licking them nice and wet, then grasps Phil's cock, savoring the muted gasp in response.
"Love you," Clint says, and he bends down to kiss Phil. They kiss long and slow, eyes open, so that he can see Phil's pupils widen and darken with each stroke. "Love you." Clint twists his hand around Phil's dick, firm and patient, falling easily into the rhythm they've both learned well. Phil's eyes never leave Clint's face, and he doesn't say anything but the occasional quiet whimper, then a long, voiceless sigh as he comes into Clint's hand.
Clint wipes his hand off on his own t-shirt, then settles back down to embrace Phil, holding him through the aftershocks. Only once Phil's breathing has returned to a steady cadence does he turn to speak. "What happened earlier was pretty remarkable. I hope you don't regret any of it. But the best part is always going to be coming home to you."
And Clint knows that what he's saying, in the ways that Clint needs to hear it most, is I love you too.
(continued here)