Avengers (the movie) Fic: Out of The Frying Pan, Part 2 of 2
Title: Out of The Frying Pan
Characters: Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, other team members
Rating: Probably R for language
Warnings: Spanking, and Schmoop I don't think there are any major SPOILERS, but read at your own risk
Summary: Steve's an old-fashioned guy
A/N: Inspired by a prompt on avengerkink. Thanks to ficwriterjet and astrangerfate for putting up with all my emailing about ridiculous things. Also, I'm not a weapons expert or medical person - just a suburban girl trying to have some fun - so if you're knowledgeable about such things you'll probably find mistakes. Just saying... :)
Part 1 here.
The first thing Clint notices is that his right arm is tangled in something. He cracks open an eye, recognizes the sling. There’s a dull ache at the back of his skull, and a little more pain coming from his bicep, but all in all it’s not bad. He goes ahead and opens his eyes, impressed by his own resilience. “I’m alive.”
“And observant,” Banner remarks, setting down a notebook he’s holding and approaching the narrow bed.
“I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Clint boasts, his left hand feeling for a control to raise the bed. Banner beats him to it, punching a button that finally sets the bed in motion.
“A damn lucky one, too,” Banner says, as Clint is slowly eased into a sitting position. “You lost a lot of blood.”
“Superficial graze,” Clint tells him, glancing around the small room for any sign of red hair.
“It’ll heal, the abrasions, too. If you follow my instructions,” Banner adds, his gaze following Clint’s with curiosity. Then, “Looking for Natasha?” he asks.
What? Clint scowls. “No.”
Banner smirks. “Because if you were looking for Natasha, I’d tell you she’s debriefing Fury. Left a note for you, though,” he says, holding it out to Clint. Clint reaches for it, surprised when Banner waves it playfully from reach. Clint glares, and Banner chuckles. He offers the note again, this time allowing Clint to snatch it from him.
Clint spreads the folded paper open with his left hand, eyes scanning the Black Widow’s elegant scrawl. He tries not to wince at the blunt message. Apparently his arrow isn’t going to find its way into her quiver for a very long time.
“Everything okay?” Banner asks, crooking an eyebrow.
Clint forces a grin before crumpling the paper in his fist and tossing it toward a nearby trash. “She says I’m a prince among men.” Banner shakes his head in disbelief. “Why am I here?”
“Because you were dumb enough to believe flying solo was a good idea?” Banner suggests sarcastically.
“No,” Clint drawls. “I mean here in Medical. Why didn’t the Captain call S.H.I.E.L.D. to take me out of there?”
Banner huffs, a soft sound of exasperation. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“That’s why I asked,” Clint tells him, his own patience wearing thin. No, he’s not a genius or god or even a hero; he’s just the guy who fires the goddamn arrows. Anything outside of that is pretty much a crap shoot.
Banner sighs. “Captain’s going to want to talk to you.”
“Too bad,” Clint mutters. “No offense, doc, but I don’t need another lecture on how there’s no ‘I’ in team.”
Banner holds up his hands. “Entirely up to you,” he says. He studies Clint for a moment, his scientist’s eyes too perceptive for Clint’s liking. “He sat with you on the Quinjet; you seemed to find him comforting.”
Clint swings his legs over the side of the bed. “As interesting as that is?” he snarks, ignoring the sudden head rush as he gets to his feet, “I think I’m going to be on my way. Where are my clothes?” he asks, fingers fumbling with the sling as he looks for something more to wear than the thin hospital pants he’s got on.
“Ah, ah, ah!” Banner tuts, and actually has the balls to smack his hand away. “The sling stays on, doctor’s orders. And you really should be resting.”
“I can rest when I’m dead,” Clint retorts, stepping around him and pushing through the double doors with every intention of finding some clothes and some privacy, preferably in that order. Unfortunately, the lounge is already occupied. Rogers, Stark, and Thor cut short whatever conversation they're having to stare at him in surprise.
“I’m not sure that’s our best solution,” Banner contends, apparently still on Clint’s heels. “Our patient’s a little impatient,” he explains to Rogers.
Oddly, the Captain doesn’t seem annoyed by Clint’s appearance. “How are you feeling?” Rogers asks, forehead furrowed in what almost appears concern. It doesn’t make Clint nervous, exactly - Clint never gets nervous - but the focused attention is unsettling in ways he doesn’t like to think about.
“I’m fine,” Clint replies cautiously, not entirely certain what tactic the guy is using now.
“Good,” Rogers says, his expression relaxing just a bit.
There’s an awkward pause. “Thanks for the ride,” Clint offers, because contrary to popular opinion, he does have some manners. “If I can just get my clothes, I’ll get out of your way.”
“Not before we talk.”
And here it comes. “What do want me to say, Captain?” Clint wants to know. “That I’m sorry I took that shot, or brought down that hovercraft? Because I’m not,” he tells the soldier. “And if you have a problem with that, then you’re right, and I don’t belong here.”
Rogers’ brows draw together. “I never said you don’t belong here,” he replies calmly. “I said you were an asset.”
“I shoot arrows, and I’m damn proud of it,” Clint snaps. “I’m not some kid you have to humor.”
“No, you’re a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in desperate need of a spanking,” Rogers retorts.
A rush of heat floods Clint’s face; he vaguely registers Stark’s raised brows. “Why, Captain, I’m impressed. And here I thought you were so vanilla.
Thor frowns. “How does Steve Rogers possess this flavor?”
“Later,” Banner assures him, monitoring the situation with a wary eye. But he doesn’t have to worry; Clint has this. He’s not about to be intimidated by some overgrown jarhead who thinks he’s his father.
“I don’t work for you,” Clint reminds Rogers. “You’re not my boss.”
“But you want me to be,” the Captain claims, folding his arms and pinning Clint with a level gaze.
Huh? Clint stares at the man for a moment. Rogers is serious. Clint shakes his head, offers a short huff of derision. “I didn’t realize Stark’s ego was contagious.”
Rogers drops his arms, stepping into Clint’s personal space. “You want me in control; you want this team - and you’ve gotten so used to not wanting things that it pisses you off,” he tells Clint. “Well, too bad. You want my trust, my approval?” Rogers demands. “Have the courage to stick around and earn it.”
“Fuck you, Captain.” Clint manages to make the last word an insult. Rogers’ eyes flash with frustration, and from somewhere to his right, Clint hears Stark sigh.
“Okay,” Banner intervenes in the very conciliatory manner he has when he’s not impersonating the not-so-jolly green giant, “Let’s just - ” The doctor stops short as Rogers’ hand grips the back of Clint’s neck and steers him toward the sofa.
“Get off!” Clint snarls, attempting to jerk from Rogers’ grasp, only the super-soldier’s hold is unshakeable, damn it.
“I’m not sure this is the physical therapy doc had in mind,” Stark remarks casually, as Rogers starts to lower them to the couch, and just fuck no. Clint balks and twists, but he’s got one good arm and no superhuman strength, and he finds himself wrestled over Rogers’ lap, the guy’s muscled arm a heavy band snaring his waist. Unwilling to concede defeat, Clint grits his teeth and keeps struggling, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin.
Blood loss and exertion don’t exactly go together, and Clint feels himself tiring. He might not be able to fight the prick - who throws a punch at Captain-fucking-America, anyway? - but he tries every evasive maneuver picked up at S.H.I.E.L.D., and a few from his circus days as well. Even with the sling, his efforts would have already overcome any ordinary captor, but Rogers isn’t ordinary; not anymore. The Captain’s simply holding him, like a tantrumming child restrained by a longsuffering parent.
“Enough; you’re going to hurt yourself,” Rogers warns, managing to sound worried, as if this humiliation isn’t just what he’s been hoping for.
“Better me than you,” Clint snaps.
*
“Better me than you.”
Steve frowns. Does Barton really think Steve is going to harm him? The guy reminds him of the feral kittens Steve used to find in the Brooklyn alleyways, the ones that glared at him for weeks until finally succumbing to his coaxing voice and soothing hands. Steve eventually found homes for them with friends and shopkeepers, and if they remained a little aloof, they still had a taste of human kindness, somewhere warm to sleep. Some of them he never could tame, though, and those either starved or froze to death, their emaciated carcasses eventually devoured by rats. Barton is panting heavily now, and Steve decides he’s allowed enough.
“Hold him, Tony. I don’t want him tearing stitches.”
Tony glances at Bruce, who shrugs. “Might help.”
*
“Might help.”
Clint tries to ignore the flash of betrayal at the exchange. Of course Stark and Banner are with the Captain. Clint is the odd man out here; always has been.
“This is Midgardian custom?” Thor inquires dubiously, as Stark approaches and sits to Clint’s left. Clint shoves at him with his good arm, but then Rogers is lifting him, and Stark slides in under his chest anyway.
“No,” Clint snarls, pausing in his struggles to glance up at the demigod. “This is Rogers and Stark being asshol- shit!” Clint complains, as an open handed slap scorches the seat of his pants. He glowers over his shoulder at Rogers, only to have Stark push him back against the men’s laps.
“Watch your mouth,” Rogers scolds mildly, like he’s not even pissed, the bastard.
Clint flushes again, the fingers of his free hand curling tightly into the sofa cushion. “Am I supposed to beg for mercy now?” he taunts, but the words come out hoarser than he’d like.
“Steve Rogers has promised you shall come to no lasting harm,” Thor vows.
“That’s not what this is about,” Rogers tells him.
“Then would you mind getting on with it?” Clint’s no stranger to torture, no stranger to any kind of cruel or unusual punishment the super-soldier might dish out. He sucks in a breath and grits his teeth, eyes screwing shut when the sick fuck tugs the hospital pants to his knees. The first smack to his ass takes him by surprise; then the second and the third. By the time Clint registers that this is actually the end-game, Rogers has already fallen into rhythm, his arm swinging in careful, measured cadence.
“Is this supposed to be a joke?” Clint growls, stiffening in their grasp. Because yeah, the Captain’s hand is hard and the blows smart, but it’s hardly the level of retaliation he’s accustomed to. Even as a kid, he knew how to take a beating, could take it without a sound, his body curled to protect his most vulnerable parts.
*
“Is this supposed to be a joke?”
And Steve thinks that idea might be more injurious to Barton than any physical consequence he can muster.
“Am I laughing?” Steve asks. Beneath him, Barton lies tense as his stretched bowstring and twice as dangerous, and Steve knows he has to get this right the first time.
“In the kid’s defense, you’re not exactly Mr. Chuckles,” Tony has to point out.
Steve sighs. “It’s not a joke,” he says, continuing to brighten Barton’s backside. The sharp crack of palm against skin bounces between the lounge walls for several minutes, the sound causing both Thor and Bruce to shift uncomfortably on their feet. Barton isn’t fighting the reprimand, but he isn’t showing any signs of accepting it, either. If anything, Barton seems confused by the proceedings, and Steve wonders how lacking the guy’s childhood really was. Frowning, Steve eases up on the strength of his spanks before addressing his errant team member. “Are you listening?”
*
“Are you listening?”
Clint’s jaw tightens. His ass is burning like a four alarm blaze, and now he’s supposed to invite Rogers’ ridicule?
“We have all night,” the man reminds him.
“He has all night,” Stark’s voice drawls. “I’d rather be doing something else.”
The Captain ignores him. “Clint?” Rogers says, using his first name this time. “I asked you a question.”
“Of course, I’m listening,” Clint fires back, trying to ignore that the bastard is still doling out his ridiculous vengeance. “Is there anything else to do?”
“You’re one of the bravest soldiers I’ve ever seen.”
Clint blinks. Who is he - What?
“I’ve never known anyone that has your skill or accuracy with a bow,” Rogers avers.
Clint swallows around the sudden tightness of his throat. “Shut up,” he rasps, closing his eyes against the praise and trying to focus on the heat lighting up his backside. “Just - ”
“You’re smart, agile, and despite your antisocial tendencies, you care about people, and think they’re worth saving.”
“You fucking asshole,” Clint chokes, struggling for leverage with his free elbow only to be flattened again by Stark. And if the next few smacks are that much harder, it’s worth it.
“But so are you,” Rogers states firmly. “And as long as you’re part of this team, you’ll defend yourself as vigilantly as you do others, or this is where we’re going to be. Every time.”
It’s a goddamn promise, Clint realizes. Even as a kid in the orphanage, he knew enough about Captain America to know that he always keeps his promises. But Rogers has it wrong; Clint’s not that scared kid anymore, counts on himself. That’s safe, that’s what works - why can’t that be enough? “When are you going to - I don’t need you,” Clint grinds out, ignoring the sudden prickling of his eyes. “Don’t you get it?”
“Maybe we need you,” Rogers says gently.
Clint shakes his head, blinking fiercely against his blurring vision. “Don’t kid yourself.”
“You presume to know our feelings on this?” Thor asks, and Clint doesn’t need to see him to sense his disapproval.
“You think I’m reckless, a liability,” Clint repeats, the words bitter on his tongue. “You don’t want me on your team.”
*
“You don’t want me on your team.”
Steve blinks at the unexpected claim, allowing his now aching hand to drop to Barton’s thigh.
“I’m reckless,” Tony insists. “You’re just annoying.”
“Tony,” Steve hears Bruce say, with his usual forbearance. “Shut up.”
“Tough crowd,” Tony mutters.
“I never said I didn’t want you on this team,” Steve maintains, and why does he suddenly feel like every jerk who ever picked him last for kickball?
“Didn’t have to,” Barton says, releasing the couch to rub his knuckles across damp eyes. “Everything I do pisses you off.”
What? Steve frowns. “I’m not pissed,” he says, his cheeks warming slightly, and why do people have to say everything these days? “I, well - ”
“This is a safe place, friend,” Thor encourages, apparently embracing the opportunity for manly sharing.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Tony gripes. “Do I have to do everything? He was worried, Cupid. In case you didn’t notice, you were nearly crushed by an eight-ton hovercraft. And that was before you decided to go all Rambo on the rest of the bad guys.”
“We were all worried,” Bruce puts in.
“You were - I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Barton repeats numbly, as if they hadn’t caught it the first hundred times. “A trained assassin.” He blinks again. “A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t have a concussion?” Tony asks Bruce.
“I won’t risk members of this team unnecessarily,” Steve says sternly. He means it, too. He fights every bit as much for the person beside him as he does for his country; maybe a little more.
“Yeah, because you like me so much,” Barton drawls sarcastically, then stills. The silence is long enough for Steve to wonder if the guy’s about to pass out. Then it comes, careful and more than a little suspicious. “You’re saying you like me.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m saying I like you,” he agrees, pleased when some of the tension seems to drain from Clint’s limbs.
“As do I,” Thor vows.
“Me, too,” Bruce admits, grinning at the unexpected turn of events.
“Well, you know I don’t like you,” Tony quips, leaning back on the sofa. “Or you,” he informs Steve. “Any of you, really. So are we just going to sit around and do each other’s hair, or can we finally get back to me cleaning you guys out?”
Steve wonders why they play poker at all, when Tony just finds ways of returning all their money. With interest. “You guys go ahead,” he tells them, lifting Barton just enough for Tony to slide out. “We’ll be there in a few.”
“Fine, but if Barton’s still not wearing pants, I’m not either.” Before Steve can respond, Tony strolls from the room, lips pursed in a carefree whistle. Bruce and Thor follow in short order, and from somewhere down the hall, Steve can just make out Thor’s puzzled inquiry.
“Who is this Mr. Chuckles?”
Steve shakes his head, a small smile curving his mouth. He turns his attention back to Barton, giving the man’s nape a comforting squeeze. “You okay?” Steve asks. The guy feels like dead weight over his thighs, and Steve knows the events of the day are finally catching up with him.
*
“You okay?”
“Peachy,” Clint tells him. “Ahh, Captain?”
“Steve.”
“Yeah, sure,” Clint says. “Steve. Are we done here?” Because lying bare-assed over his team leader’s lap is getting more than a little awkward.
“You going to be part of the team?”
“As much as I can.”
“Then we’re done here,” Rogers confirms, reaching to draw up Clint’s pants before helping him to his feet. Clint’s surprised at how tired he is; the pain in his bicep is manageable but persistent, and he has a feeling sitting won’t be comfortable for a while, either. The room sways slightly, like the bow of a ship, and Rogers reaches to steady him.
“I got it,” Clint says, just before Rogers wraps an arm around his waist.
“Don’t be an idiot.”
Clint sighs. “You’re not gonna let up, are you?”
Rogers smiles. “Nope.” He guides them slowly into the corridor, taking pains not to jostle Clint’s injured arm. “It’s kind of my thing.”
Yeah, no kidding. But this time, Clint finds he doesn’t really mind. At least the guy’s on their side, and besides, Clint has bigger problems at the moment.
“So… Natasha,” Clint begins.
“What about her?”
Clint slants the man an uneasy glance. “Just how mad was she?”
Rogers considers. “Know how Bruce is when he turns into the big green guy?”
“Yeah?”
“Little madder than that.”
“Oh,” Clint says, and Rogers chuckles.
“Apologize and take her some flowers.”
Clint frowns, imagining what kind of damage Natasha might be able to inflict with a simple bouquet. “You really think that will work?”
“Why not?” Rogers shrugs. “Women can’t have changed that much.”
Clint glances at Rogers again, and nope, the guy is perfectly serious. Clint’s mouth twists into a smile. He’d better stick around; at least for a little while.
Steve might need him after all.
Characters: Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, other team members
Rating: Probably R for language
Warnings: Spanking, and Schmoop I don't think there are any major SPOILERS, but read at your own risk
Summary: Steve's an old-fashioned guy
A/N: Inspired by a prompt on avengerkink. Thanks to ficwriterjet and astrangerfate for putting up with all my emailing about ridiculous things. Also, I'm not a weapons expert or medical person - just a suburban girl trying to have some fun - so if you're knowledgeable about such things you'll probably find mistakes. Just saying... :)
Part 1 here.
The first thing Clint notices is that his right arm is tangled in something. He cracks open an eye, recognizes the sling. There’s a dull ache at the back of his skull, and a little more pain coming from his bicep, but all in all it’s not bad. He goes ahead and opens his eyes, impressed by his own resilience. “I’m alive.”
“And observant,” Banner remarks, setting down a notebook he’s holding and approaching the narrow bed.
“I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Clint boasts, his left hand feeling for a control to raise the bed. Banner beats him to it, punching a button that finally sets the bed in motion.
“A damn lucky one, too,” Banner says, as Clint is slowly eased into a sitting position. “You lost a lot of blood.”
“Superficial graze,” Clint tells him, glancing around the small room for any sign of red hair.
“It’ll heal, the abrasions, too. If you follow my instructions,” Banner adds, his gaze following Clint’s with curiosity. Then, “Looking for Natasha?” he asks.
What? Clint scowls. “No.”
Banner smirks. “Because if you were looking for Natasha, I’d tell you she’s debriefing Fury. Left a note for you, though,” he says, holding it out to Clint. Clint reaches for it, surprised when Banner waves it playfully from reach. Clint glares, and Banner chuckles. He offers the note again, this time allowing Clint to snatch it from him.
Clint spreads the folded paper open with his left hand, eyes scanning the Black Widow’s elegant scrawl. He tries not to wince at the blunt message. Apparently his arrow isn’t going to find its way into her quiver for a very long time.
“Everything okay?” Banner asks, crooking an eyebrow.
Clint forces a grin before crumpling the paper in his fist and tossing it toward a nearby trash. “She says I’m a prince among men.” Banner shakes his head in disbelief. “Why am I here?”
“Because you were dumb enough to believe flying solo was a good idea?” Banner suggests sarcastically.
“No,” Clint drawls. “I mean here in Medical. Why didn’t the Captain call S.H.I.E.L.D. to take me out of there?”
Banner huffs, a soft sound of exasperation. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“That’s why I asked,” Clint tells him, his own patience wearing thin. No, he’s not a genius or god or even a hero; he’s just the guy who fires the goddamn arrows. Anything outside of that is pretty much a crap shoot.
Banner sighs. “Captain’s going to want to talk to you.”
“Too bad,” Clint mutters. “No offense, doc, but I don’t need another lecture on how there’s no ‘I’ in team.”
Banner holds up his hands. “Entirely up to you,” he says. He studies Clint for a moment, his scientist’s eyes too perceptive for Clint’s liking. “He sat with you on the Quinjet; you seemed to find him comforting.”
Clint swings his legs over the side of the bed. “As interesting as that is?” he snarks, ignoring the sudden head rush as he gets to his feet, “I think I’m going to be on my way. Where are my clothes?” he asks, fingers fumbling with the sling as he looks for something more to wear than the thin hospital pants he’s got on.
“Ah, ah, ah!” Banner tuts, and actually has the balls to smack his hand away. “The sling stays on, doctor’s orders. And you really should be resting.”
“I can rest when I’m dead,” Clint retorts, stepping around him and pushing through the double doors with every intention of finding some clothes and some privacy, preferably in that order. Unfortunately, the lounge is already occupied. Rogers, Stark, and Thor cut short whatever conversation they're having to stare at him in surprise.
“I’m not sure that’s our best solution,” Banner contends, apparently still on Clint’s heels. “Our patient’s a little impatient,” he explains to Rogers.
Oddly, the Captain doesn’t seem annoyed by Clint’s appearance. “How are you feeling?” Rogers asks, forehead furrowed in what almost appears concern. It doesn’t make Clint nervous, exactly - Clint never gets nervous - but the focused attention is unsettling in ways he doesn’t like to think about.
“I’m fine,” Clint replies cautiously, not entirely certain what tactic the guy is using now.
“Good,” Rogers says, his expression relaxing just a bit.
There’s an awkward pause. “Thanks for the ride,” Clint offers, because contrary to popular opinion, he does have some manners. “If I can just get my clothes, I’ll get out of your way.”
“Not before we talk.”
And here it comes. “What do want me to say, Captain?” Clint wants to know. “That I’m sorry I took that shot, or brought down that hovercraft? Because I’m not,” he tells the soldier. “And if you have a problem with that, then you’re right, and I don’t belong here.”
Rogers’ brows draw together. “I never said you don’t belong here,” he replies calmly. “I said you were an asset.”
“I shoot arrows, and I’m damn proud of it,” Clint snaps. “I’m not some kid you have to humor.”
“No, you’re a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in desperate need of a spanking,” Rogers retorts.
A rush of heat floods Clint’s face; he vaguely registers Stark’s raised brows. “Why, Captain, I’m impressed. And here I thought you were so vanilla.
Thor frowns. “How does Steve Rogers possess this flavor?”
“Later,” Banner assures him, monitoring the situation with a wary eye. But he doesn’t have to worry; Clint has this. He’s not about to be intimidated by some overgrown jarhead who thinks he’s his father.
“I don’t work for you,” Clint reminds Rogers. “You’re not my boss.”
“But you want me to be,” the Captain claims, folding his arms and pinning Clint with a level gaze.
Huh? Clint stares at the man for a moment. Rogers is serious. Clint shakes his head, offers a short huff of derision. “I didn’t realize Stark’s ego was contagious.”
Rogers drops his arms, stepping into Clint’s personal space. “You want me in control; you want this team - and you’ve gotten so used to not wanting things that it pisses you off,” he tells Clint. “Well, too bad. You want my trust, my approval?” Rogers demands. “Have the courage to stick around and earn it.”
“Fuck you, Captain.” Clint manages to make the last word an insult. Rogers’ eyes flash with frustration, and from somewhere to his right, Clint hears Stark sigh.
“Okay,” Banner intervenes in the very conciliatory manner he has when he’s not impersonating the not-so-jolly green giant, “Let’s just - ” The doctor stops short as Rogers’ hand grips the back of Clint’s neck and steers him toward the sofa.
“Get off!” Clint snarls, attempting to jerk from Rogers’ grasp, only the super-soldier’s hold is unshakeable, damn it.
“I’m not sure this is the physical therapy doc had in mind,” Stark remarks casually, as Rogers starts to lower them to the couch, and just fuck no. Clint balks and twists, but he’s got one good arm and no superhuman strength, and he finds himself wrestled over Rogers’ lap, the guy’s muscled arm a heavy band snaring his waist. Unwilling to concede defeat, Clint grits his teeth and keeps struggling, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin.
Blood loss and exertion don’t exactly go together, and Clint feels himself tiring. He might not be able to fight the prick - who throws a punch at Captain-fucking-America, anyway? - but he tries every evasive maneuver picked up at S.H.I.E.L.D., and a few from his circus days as well. Even with the sling, his efforts would have already overcome any ordinary captor, but Rogers isn’t ordinary; not anymore. The Captain’s simply holding him, like a tantrumming child restrained by a longsuffering parent.
“Enough; you’re going to hurt yourself,” Rogers warns, managing to sound worried, as if this humiliation isn’t just what he’s been hoping for.
“Better me than you,” Clint snaps.
*
“Better me than you.”
Steve frowns. Does Barton really think Steve is going to harm him? The guy reminds him of the feral kittens Steve used to find in the Brooklyn alleyways, the ones that glared at him for weeks until finally succumbing to his coaxing voice and soothing hands. Steve eventually found homes for them with friends and shopkeepers, and if they remained a little aloof, they still had a taste of human kindness, somewhere warm to sleep. Some of them he never could tame, though, and those either starved or froze to death, their emaciated carcasses eventually devoured by rats. Barton is panting heavily now, and Steve decides he’s allowed enough.
“Hold him, Tony. I don’t want him tearing stitches.”
Tony glances at Bruce, who shrugs. “Might help.”
*
“Might help.”
Clint tries to ignore the flash of betrayal at the exchange. Of course Stark and Banner are with the Captain. Clint is the odd man out here; always has been.
“This is Midgardian custom?” Thor inquires dubiously, as Stark approaches and sits to Clint’s left. Clint shoves at him with his good arm, but then Rogers is lifting him, and Stark slides in under his chest anyway.
“No,” Clint snarls, pausing in his struggles to glance up at the demigod. “This is Rogers and Stark being asshol- shit!” Clint complains, as an open handed slap scorches the seat of his pants. He glowers over his shoulder at Rogers, only to have Stark push him back against the men’s laps.
“Watch your mouth,” Rogers scolds mildly, like he’s not even pissed, the bastard.
Clint flushes again, the fingers of his free hand curling tightly into the sofa cushion. “Am I supposed to beg for mercy now?” he taunts, but the words come out hoarser than he’d like.
“Steve Rogers has promised you shall come to no lasting harm,” Thor vows.
“That’s not what this is about,” Rogers tells him.
“Then would you mind getting on with it?” Clint’s no stranger to torture, no stranger to any kind of cruel or unusual punishment the super-soldier might dish out. He sucks in a breath and grits his teeth, eyes screwing shut when the sick fuck tugs the hospital pants to his knees. The first smack to his ass takes him by surprise; then the second and the third. By the time Clint registers that this is actually the end-game, Rogers has already fallen into rhythm, his arm swinging in careful, measured cadence.
“Is this supposed to be a joke?” Clint growls, stiffening in their grasp. Because yeah, the Captain’s hand is hard and the blows smart, but it’s hardly the level of retaliation he’s accustomed to. Even as a kid, he knew how to take a beating, could take it without a sound, his body curled to protect his most vulnerable parts.
*
“Is this supposed to be a joke?”
And Steve thinks that idea might be more injurious to Barton than any physical consequence he can muster.
“Am I laughing?” Steve asks. Beneath him, Barton lies tense as his stretched bowstring and twice as dangerous, and Steve knows he has to get this right the first time.
“In the kid’s defense, you’re not exactly Mr. Chuckles,” Tony has to point out.
Steve sighs. “It’s not a joke,” he says, continuing to brighten Barton’s backside. The sharp crack of palm against skin bounces between the lounge walls for several minutes, the sound causing both Thor and Bruce to shift uncomfortably on their feet. Barton isn’t fighting the reprimand, but he isn’t showing any signs of accepting it, either. If anything, Barton seems confused by the proceedings, and Steve wonders how lacking the guy’s childhood really was. Frowning, Steve eases up on the strength of his spanks before addressing his errant team member. “Are you listening?”
*
“Are you listening?”
Clint’s jaw tightens. His ass is burning like a four alarm blaze, and now he’s supposed to invite Rogers’ ridicule?
“We have all night,” the man reminds him.
“He has all night,” Stark’s voice drawls. “I’d rather be doing something else.”
The Captain ignores him. “Clint?” Rogers says, using his first name this time. “I asked you a question.”
“Of course, I’m listening,” Clint fires back, trying to ignore that the bastard is still doling out his ridiculous vengeance. “Is there anything else to do?”
“You’re one of the bravest soldiers I’ve ever seen.”
Clint blinks. Who is he - What?
“I’ve never known anyone that has your skill or accuracy with a bow,” Rogers avers.
Clint swallows around the sudden tightness of his throat. “Shut up,” he rasps, closing his eyes against the praise and trying to focus on the heat lighting up his backside. “Just - ”
“You’re smart, agile, and despite your antisocial tendencies, you care about people, and think they’re worth saving.”
“You fucking asshole,” Clint chokes, struggling for leverage with his free elbow only to be flattened again by Stark. And if the next few smacks are that much harder, it’s worth it.
“But so are you,” Rogers states firmly. “And as long as you’re part of this team, you’ll defend yourself as vigilantly as you do others, or this is where we’re going to be. Every time.”
It’s a goddamn promise, Clint realizes. Even as a kid in the orphanage, he knew enough about Captain America to know that he always keeps his promises. But Rogers has it wrong; Clint’s not that scared kid anymore, counts on himself. That’s safe, that’s what works - why can’t that be enough? “When are you going to - I don’t need you,” Clint grinds out, ignoring the sudden prickling of his eyes. “Don’t you get it?”
“Maybe we need you,” Rogers says gently.
Clint shakes his head, blinking fiercely against his blurring vision. “Don’t kid yourself.”
“You presume to know our feelings on this?” Thor asks, and Clint doesn’t need to see him to sense his disapproval.
“You think I’m reckless, a liability,” Clint repeats, the words bitter on his tongue. “You don’t want me on your team.”
*
“You don’t want me on your team.”
Steve blinks at the unexpected claim, allowing his now aching hand to drop to Barton’s thigh.
“I’m reckless,” Tony insists. “You’re just annoying.”
“Tony,” Steve hears Bruce say, with his usual forbearance. “Shut up.”
“Tough crowd,” Tony mutters.
“I never said I didn’t want you on this team,” Steve maintains, and why does he suddenly feel like every jerk who ever picked him last for kickball?
“Didn’t have to,” Barton says, releasing the couch to rub his knuckles across damp eyes. “Everything I do pisses you off.”
What? Steve frowns. “I’m not pissed,” he says, his cheeks warming slightly, and why do people have to say everything these days? “I, well - ”
“This is a safe place, friend,” Thor encourages, apparently embracing the opportunity for manly sharing.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Tony gripes. “Do I have to do everything? He was worried, Cupid. In case you didn’t notice, you were nearly crushed by an eight-ton hovercraft. And that was before you decided to go all Rambo on the rest of the bad guys.”
“We were all worried,” Bruce puts in.
“You were - I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Barton repeats numbly, as if they hadn’t caught it the first hundred times. “A trained assassin.” He blinks again. “A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t have a concussion?” Tony asks Bruce.
“I won’t risk members of this team unnecessarily,” Steve says sternly. He means it, too. He fights every bit as much for the person beside him as he does for his country; maybe a little more.
“Yeah, because you like me so much,” Barton drawls sarcastically, then stills. The silence is long enough for Steve to wonder if the guy’s about to pass out. Then it comes, careful and more than a little suspicious. “You’re saying you like me.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m saying I like you,” he agrees, pleased when some of the tension seems to drain from Clint’s limbs.
“As do I,” Thor vows.
“Me, too,” Bruce admits, grinning at the unexpected turn of events.
“Well, you know I don’t like you,” Tony quips, leaning back on the sofa. “Or you,” he informs Steve. “Any of you, really. So are we just going to sit around and do each other’s hair, or can we finally get back to me cleaning you guys out?”
Steve wonders why they play poker at all, when Tony just finds ways of returning all their money. With interest. “You guys go ahead,” he tells them, lifting Barton just enough for Tony to slide out. “We’ll be there in a few.”
“Fine, but if Barton’s still not wearing pants, I’m not either.” Before Steve can respond, Tony strolls from the room, lips pursed in a carefree whistle. Bruce and Thor follow in short order, and from somewhere down the hall, Steve can just make out Thor’s puzzled inquiry.
“Who is this Mr. Chuckles?”
Steve shakes his head, a small smile curving his mouth. He turns his attention back to Barton, giving the man’s nape a comforting squeeze. “You okay?” Steve asks. The guy feels like dead weight over his thighs, and Steve knows the events of the day are finally catching up with him.
*
“You okay?”
“Peachy,” Clint tells him. “Ahh, Captain?”
“Steve.”
“Yeah, sure,” Clint says. “Steve. Are we done here?” Because lying bare-assed over his team leader’s lap is getting more than a little awkward.
“You going to be part of the team?”
“As much as I can.”
“Then we’re done here,” Rogers confirms, reaching to draw up Clint’s pants before helping him to his feet. Clint’s surprised at how tired he is; the pain in his bicep is manageable but persistent, and he has a feeling sitting won’t be comfortable for a while, either. The room sways slightly, like the bow of a ship, and Rogers reaches to steady him.
“I got it,” Clint says, just before Rogers wraps an arm around his waist.
“Don’t be an idiot.”
Clint sighs. “You’re not gonna let up, are you?”
Rogers smiles. “Nope.” He guides them slowly into the corridor, taking pains not to jostle Clint’s injured arm. “It’s kind of my thing.”
Yeah, no kidding. But this time, Clint finds he doesn’t really mind. At least the guy’s on their side, and besides, Clint has bigger problems at the moment.
“So… Natasha,” Clint begins.
“What about her?”
Clint slants the man an uneasy glance. “Just how mad was she?”
Rogers considers. “Know how Bruce is when he turns into the big green guy?”
“Yeah?”
“Little madder than that.”
“Oh,” Clint says, and Rogers chuckles.
“Apologize and take her some flowers.”
Clint frowns, imagining what kind of damage Natasha might be able to inflict with a simple bouquet. “You really think that will work?”
“Why not?” Rogers shrugs. “Women can’t have changed that much.”
Clint glances at Rogers again, and nope, the guy is perfectly serious. Clint’s mouth twists into a smile. He’d better stick around; at least for a little while.
Steve might need him after all.