"I've Suffered Shipwrecks" [2/4], Avengers, Clint/Loki

[paperclipbitch]

It’s the mid-afternoon lull between lunch and people getting off work and requiring cake. There’s a couple of students in a ludicrous amount of scarves taking advantage of the free wifi while eking out lattes, and a mom with a sleeping toddler in a stroller looking like she’s relaxing for the first time in about a month, but the rest of the place is tidy and quiet. Nat is sipping a chai tea and reading My Sister’s Keeper with a studious expression that Clint doesn’t buy for a second.

“So what are you doing in my apartment with a bunch of strangers and a crate of wine for two hours a month?” Clint asks, because there’s only so many times he can clean the coffee machine out.

“Having a book club,” she replies in a bored tone, turning a page.

Clint props his chin on his hands. “Shouldn’t you all switch venues and take turns or something?”

“Did you eHow book clubs?” Natasha frowns, reaching for her tea.

Clint just looks at her until she marks her place with a sugar packet and looks back at him, holding his gaze without blinking. This game never works, which Peggy reminds them both as she comes out with a tray of freshly-frosted cupcakes from Steve. “I don’t know why you haven’t learned that by now.” She starts arranging the cupcakes on the cake stand they keep in the counter, tutting occasionally until Clint obediently blinks and looks away. Peggy rewards him by handing him a pink frosted cupcake, smirking just a little.

“What do you think of the book?” she asks Natasha, giving her one of the green frosted cupcakes.

Natasha shrugs. “Babies are weird.”

“I’m not sure that was Jodie Picoult’s message,” Peggy muses, before one of the students waves her over by clicking at her.

Clint and Natasha eat their cupcakes and watch. Whatever Peggy says is too low for them to catch, but the guy pales and starts nodding frantically and repeatedly.

Peggy swishes back over looking pleased. “Another double shot latte, please, Clint,” she says sweetly.

Sometimes Clint has no idea how they manage to have repeat customers.

=

“Tequila and bubble wrap,” Darcy suggests.

“Wasn’t that the theme you wanted for my birthday last year?” Jane asks, frowning.

“No themes,” Natasha cuts in firmly. “No costumes, no crepe paper, no mixtapes.”

“Worst. Prom. Ever,” Darcy mutters.

“I didn’t have a prom,” Clint tells her. He had a lot of life experiences growing up, but prom wasn’t one of them.

“I did,” Jane says, looking happily nostalgic. “I had the greatest dress. I looked kind of like a meringue and I didn’t eat for a week beforehand, but it was the greatest dress.”

“My date tried to feel me up in the parking lot,” Darcy says, in the same tone of delighted recollection. “I broke his nose and three of his fingers.”

Thor, who has been sitting quietly at the end of the table feeding Pru all this time, looks suddenly alarmed. He squeezes the baby a little too tightly and she gives an annoyed squawk.

“It’s not something you have to worry about for another seventeen years, Thor,” Clint points out. “And I’m pretty sure any future dates Pru has will be appropriately scared shitless by the fact you’re a million feet tall.”

Thor looks down doubtfully at his daughter, who is today dressed in a little fluffy suit with bear ears on top. It is, Clint has to admit, pretty adorable.

“When she’s big enough I’ll teach her how to dislocate a guy’s jaw without breaking a nail,” Nat offers.

“Thank you,” Thor says gratefully, still clutching Pru protectively to his gigantic chest.

They’re supposed to be making vague plans for their break-up anniversary party next month, but Clint knows Natasha just wants to order in as many crates of cheap alcohol as they can afford and he’s quite happy to allow Darcy and her iPod dock to handle any form of music they might want. The pages torn from the back of one of Jane’s copious notebooks are, currently, completely blank, and will probably stay that way.

“I bet Steve was homecoming king,” Darcy decides. “Like, someone we know should’ve gotten a tiara.”

“Steve was little and nerdy at school,” Peggy announces on her way past with a tray of cokes, since she’s the only person not on her lunch break. “His best mate got the crown. Steve didn’t get abs and a decent haircut until college.”

“Steve doesn’t have a decent haircut now,” Clint protests.

“There is nothing wrong with Steve’s hair,” Thor declares immediately, and then looks a little shifty when they all turn to look at him.

“Well,” Darcy cuts in smoothly, “we can’t listen to anyone who has Barbie as a style icon, can we?”

Clint looks back at the blank sheets of paper to find that one of them now has tiaras written in Darcy’s loopy scrawl at the top. He glances at Natasha and she shrugs minutely; a mutual decision not to try and fight it.

=

It’s not like they have a standing lunch date or anything like that, firstly because Loki’s appearances at the cafe are pretty erratic, secondly because Clint’s pretty sure Loki would try to punch him if he used the word ‘date’ even as a joke, and thirdly because Loki is ridiculous and kind of an asshole. But, more often than not, Clint finds himself eating his lunch at Loki’s table, in a space he always finds cleared amongst Loki’s notes.

“I have copies of your books coming from Australia,” he informs Loki on Tuesday afternoon, enjoying the way Loki’s whole body twitches and he then has to hit the backspace key several times.

“Secondhand?” Loki asks, voice a study in casual.

“I thought about it,” Clint says, “but then I realised that whatever I spend on them will basically come back to me because you drink a gallon of tea a day, so I actually paid for them. You’re welcome, and stuff.”

Loki’s staring at him, expression torn between thoughtful and horrified. “Are you going to read them?” he manages at last.

“Nah, my coffee table’s wobbly. It’s driving me mad. Turns out your second novel is just the right thickness to get it level again.”

Loki huffs in his favourite you’re an idiot way, switching his attention back to his laptop. Clint grins and takes a sip of his coffee, slumping against the wall of the booth.

“Are you coming to our party, Loki?” Natasha asks on the way past. Her tone is bored and neutral, which means that she’s actually interested in the answer; it’s a neat trick that it took Clint months to figure out.

“No,” Loki tells her, and she winks at Clint.

“It’s usually just alcohol and all our friends making out with each other,” Clint tells him. “It’s not like you have to bring a present.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “I still don’t understand why the two of you are having this party.”

“Haven’t you ever broken up with someone who you still want to be friends with?” Clint asks.

Loki seems to actually consider the question, mouth pursing in thought. “I haven’t,” he decides at last.

Clint nods. “Well, that makes sense. Your life is actually an Adele song, after all.”

The outrage that spreads across Loki’s face is kind of perfect. For a split second, Clint thinks he’s actually contemplating punching him. This isn’t a problem because Clint’s ducked more punches than Loki’s ever tried to throw, and anyway it’s kind of fun to get him that riled up, the glitter in his eyes.

“You know nothing about my life,” Loki says, flat and hard and final, his voice a fuck you.

Clint scrapes up a smirk anyway. “Case in point,” he shrugs, and lets Loki throw a balled-up napkin at him.

=

Clint comes in just before lunch to start his shift to find Peggy lingering in the kitchen doorway, apparently watching whatever’s happening inside with interest. Since Steve’s cheerful singing along to Broadway classics is old news and he’s actually competent enough to cook things without setting stuff on fire, Clint can’t imagine what’s going on.

Tony Stark has turned up again; his suit jacket and shirt are hanging off the door to the walk-in freezer, while he’s wearing his tie around his head like he’s going for a Rambo sort of look; it’s possible he is. He’s also elbow-deep in bubbles.

“We own an actual dishwasher,” Clint points out, adding: “does Pepper know you’re here?”

“Yes, mom,” Tony sighs, like he isn’t a crazy person prone to pulling disappearing acts. “She’s putting out fires.”

“Literal or metaphorical ones?” Peggy asks.

Tony shrugs. “What’s a party without both?”

The windchimes tinkle and Peggy turns to greet their latest customers; Clint watches as Steve expertly flips pancakes and Tony continues to wash their cups, getting liberal amounts of soap all over his t-shirt.

“Is he bothering you, Steve?” he feels compelled to check.

Steve looks over his shoulder to grin at him. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures Clint.

“You could handle me,” Tony says. “That was an invitation, though now I hear it aloud it’s kind of a cheap one.”

“Peggy will kick your ass if you lay a finger on Steve,” Clint warns.

“How about you?” Tony asks.

“I’ll be standing back and taking the photos for US Weekly,” Clint shrugs. “Either of you want coffee?”

“Always,” Tony grins.

Clint texts Natasha when he gets back out into the cafe. Now we have psycho billionaires who let themselves in and wash our dishes for us.

Maybe we should make a sign, Natasha responds. And a moment later: Loki is out of his mind, are you aware of this?

Clint takes three orders and starts getting coffee ready, shooting off a quick: ?

Reading his first book, Natasha explains.

It takes Clint a moment to realise what’s happened. STOP LETTING YOURSELF INTO MY APARTMENT AND STEALING MY AMAZON PACKAGES BEFORE I GET THEM.

Bruce says he’s crazy too, Natasha texts back, ignoring him again.

Are you reading Loki’s book over Skype to Bruce? You are, aren’t you?

Natasha doesn’t reply, and Clint groans between his teeth as he takes a tray of espressos over to a group of exhausted-looking students.

“Cheer up,” Peggy orders, “you’ve got another seven hours of this.”

There’s the sound of a plate smashing in the kitchen. Clint pinches the bridge of his nose, and Peggy just laughs at him.

=

Irresponsible Friday Cocktails have kind of been pushed aside this week. Darcy has brought Starbucks cookies she ‘rescued’ before they could end up in the end-of-day dumpster and Peggy’s mixing mojitos by decimating the mint plants Steve’s been growing on the windowsill while Steve makes tragic faces and doesn’t say anything.

Pepper and Phil, however, are both on their phones, occasionally scribbling messages to each other on a pad of post-its that Clint is pretty sure they brought with them.

“What does Phil do for a living again?” Peggy asks, frowning.

Natasha shrugs. “I think you need security clearance to know.”

“But you’ve known each other for years!” Steve points out.

“It’s something to do with the government,” Clint tells him, waving a hand. “He wears a suit and gets pissed with people a lot and they pay him for it.”

“No,” Pepper’s voice cuts into their conversation, “I’d like six crates of champagne, I’d like them on the Thursday, and I’d like a discount.” Her tone brooks no argument. It’s terrifying and sexy in equal measure.

“Six crates of champagne?” Darcy echoes, and Natasha and Clint shrug. “Awesome.”

Phil - and later, Pepper - has always organised their parties for them, since Natasha and Clint have always been pretty terrible at getting stuff to happen in a reasonable and timely fashion.

While Phil gets scarily monosyllabic on the phone to a caterer’s - apparently they don’t have to provide their own food, which is cool - Darcy tells them about a trip she’s going on with Jane next week to some kind of physics symposium in Florida.

“She’s presenting a paper on... something, so I’m there to make sure she wears real person clothes and also to use the hotel pool,” Darcy explains while Peggy tops up her mimosa.

“Aren’t you going to go to any of the talks?” Steve asks.

Darcy grins. “The university’s paying for all this so I’m going to lay around the hotel all day eating out the mini bar, and then Jane will come back in the evenings and I’ll eat out-” Clint shoots a warning glance at Steve, and Darcy swiftly changes her sentence into “- the hotel buffet.”

Natasha hides her grin behind her hands.

Peggy has apparently been eavesdropping on Phil and Pepper’s calls, because as she leans forwards to grab another cookie she says: “are you guys seriously having an ice sculpture?”

“Oh dear lord,” Nat mutters, getting up and going to wrestle Phil’s phone from his hand.

Later, she climbs into Clint’s bed, smelling of rum and toothpaste. It’s dark but he can tell by feel that she’s stolen a pair of his pyjamas.

“I’d have called you a cab,” he says groggily, twisting in the sheets.

“I’m on the early shift anyway,” Natasha replies, curling herself around him with the ease of practice. “Don’t steal the covers.”

“You’re the one who steals the covers,” Clint corrects her.

Natasha tuts, soft in the dark. “Don’t make me have to choke you with my thighs, Barton.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he responds dryly, and shifts before she can make good on her threat.

=

Natasha’s dealing with someone who tried to run out on their bill - Clint glances up occasionally but the arm she’s got around the guy’s throat is still only a threat rather than anything he’ll have to step in for - and Peggy’s distributing dishes, so Clint stays where he is and keeps reading. Loki’s book is actually crazy but if you can cope with the overuse of adjectives and the fact it’s frequently pretty unclear what’s actually going on, who’s actually speaking or if anyone’s actually speaking then it’s gripping and intense stuff. Nat still has the second book in the series; apparently she hasn’t finished it yet and isn’t going to give it back until she has, which says a lot.

Clint doesn’t look up until a shadow blocks his light; Loki’s turned up at some point and is glaring pointedly at him. He folds over the edge of his page and slides off his stool.

“Green tea, right?”

Loki is still staring at the book. “Are you trying to wind me up?”

Clint shrugs. “I was at least going to read far enough in to do a good job of mocking your characters to your face. Also no. Everyone reads when we don’t have massive lines of customers.”

He fills up the teapot while he waits for Loki to stop looking quite so psychotically paranoid; for one thing, Peggy’s already got that on her list of personality disorders Loki probably has that mean you should stop poking him to see if he’ll explode, Clinton.

“Anyway, you’re hardly ever in on Saturdays,” Clint points out.

Loki gives an awkward, one-shoulder shrug. “My brother was driving me bloody mad,” he explains.

“You have a brother?” Clint asks, pouncing on the information, while Loki looks like he’s instantly regretting opening his mouth. “You’ve never mentioned him, that’s awesome.”

“It’s not,” Loki mutters, looking longingly at the teapot.

“What does he look like?” Clint continues. “Is he a better-looking version of you?”

Loki looks like he’s been slapped, and Clint wonders if he’s finally pushed too hard. “I’m sorry I’m not good-looking enough for your establishment,” he snips out in the sharpest of tones.

Clint can’t work out if he’s hurt Loki’s feelings or if Loki’s feelings are just permanently hurt all the time anyway, a raw nerve with a kicked puppy expression.

“I didn’t say that,” he shrugs, keeping his voice light, “but you do really work the not-sleeping not-eating crazed artist look. You could carry groceries in those bags under your eyes.”

He doesn’t really think about leaning forward and brushing his thumb over one of them until Loki flinches away, expression startled.

“Can I have my tea yet?” he demands, though he doesn’t sound nearly as annoyed as he probably intends to.

Clint pushes the tray with the teapot and cup on it towards him, and isn’t thinking about a split-second touch of skin at all.

=

Peggy’s apartment is very tidy and very compact and looks kind of like she took the Ikea catalogue suggestions on how to make the most of your space seriously. It has actual design in it, rather than I just chucked some furniture and a lamp in here.

“Your place is nice,” Clint observes, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Is that why I’ve never been here before?”

Peggy rolls her eyes and continues the (very brief) tour. “This is the kitchen, please don’t burn it down, and if you eat my Pop Tarts I’ll call in sick without warning. And then we’re back to the living room; the sofa’s a futon so you should be pretty comfy.”

“Well,” Clint says, “you’re already beating out Darcy and Jane with the futon thing.”

Nat’s holding her book club tonight - Clint’s considering bugging his apartment for the next one just to find out what she’s actually doing - and Darcy and Jane are on their holiday, so Clint was forced to go find different people to put him up for the night, since Nat won’t let him stay in her apartment for whatever reason.

“Good to know,” Peggy smirks, kicking off her work shoes and then going to line them up in the hall.

“I never knew you were so tidy,” Clint can’t help remarking.

“Military,” Peggy shrugs. “It never really leaves you.” Clint stares at her until she sighs and says: “I forgot to mention it, didn’t I. Well, it’s a fairly short story that I’m not going to tell you tonight, so you should get us some beer from the fridge and I’ll find something on my Tivo.”

Clint obeys her but gets sidetracked by the photos stuck onto her fridge door with magnets; a lot of them involve Steve with a variety of ill-thought-out haircuts, and another dark-haired guy. He’s overheard Peggy and Steve talking about mutual friends of theirs that the rest of them haven’t met, but he has no way of working out which one this is.

He walks back into the living room and hands Peggy her beer. She sighs. “That’s Bucky, he isn’t my boyfriend anymore, he’s in Afghanistan now, sit down and watch this Modern Family marathon I recorded.”

Clint holds his hands up in surrender. “Yes, sir.”

Peggy nudges his knee with hers. “You and Nat aren’t the only one with complicated relationships with your ex.”

“So I’m learning,” Clint murmurs, and takes a gulp of beer.

=

Roundabout questioning has established that Thor got his daughter as a result of a cousin naming him guardian of Pru if anything happened and then dying in a car accident. The whole thing sounds like a made-for-TV movie; not that Clint’s ever mentioned it to Thor, who is all smiles and charm but also kind of looks like he could rip your arm off and beat you to death with it if you ever pissed him off.

It’s actually impossible not to like Thor; he’s earnest and sweet and always sincerely interested in things to a degree that would probably be unnerving if he didn’t give off such a puppyish air. He’s also really, really gorgeous in a jockish way Clint wasn’t previously aware appealed to him. Still, even though Steve determinedly won’t talk about it and blushes a lot if any of them try, it’s painfully clear that none of them get to hit on Thor until Steve’s at least tried and failed. Of course, at this rate, it’s going to take approximately three years for Steve to even work his way up to actual flirting, but for the moment it’s kind of nice just watching them flail about like kindergarteners.

Peggy is spending her break cuddling Pru and sipping a cup of tea, making faces down at the still extremely little girl. She’s in a lacy romper suit with a matching hat; at some point Clint is going to bring up the fact that the baby is better dressed than everyone else in this cafe at barely five months old.

Nat’s keeping a careful distance but looking thoughtful.

“You should get her fairy wings,” she remarks, and Clint hides his laughter behind his hands as Thor’s entire face lights up.

The three of them are bickering over sizes and etsy and whether Pru could somehow accidentally hurt herself on them when Clint goes to get the latest load of dishes from the kitchen. He’s not really surprised to see Tony’s turned up again, today in diesel-soaked jeans and a faded Led Zep shirt. Pepper says they’re doing this whole rehabilitation thing that involves not-actual-rehab, since Tony went all Amy Winehouse about it, so if they don’t mind him hanging around then at least it keeps him out of trouble. And he paid for the industrial toaster that he tried to dismantle, so it could be worse.

Tony sketches a salute from where he’s perched on top of the dishwasher making Steve laugh, and Clint nods back, grabbing the mid-morning brunch plates from the counter.

“Tony’s back,” he tells Peggy and Nat once he’s served everyone.

“That’s because he’s imprinted on Steve,” Nat shrugs, eyes on her phone screen where she seems to be looking at tiny things made of gauzy fabric. Clint makes a mental note to mock her a lot this afternoon. “He’s going to try and move in sooner or later.”

“Tony?” Thor asks in what he probably thinks is a casual tone.

“Tony Stark,” Peggy explains, rocking a squirming Pru. “You know, the pretty one who’s always on Time magazine looking like he needs a haircut.”

Thor is doing his murder face, and Clint thinks ah.

=

“Is there a reason you seem to basically live here now?” Clint asks Loki. “Because at this rate there is going to be no green tea left in the city.”

“My brother is being particularly bad-tempered and tiresome,” Loki replies, not looking up from his notebook, tapping his pen against his lower lip. “I have no desire to be in a house that contains him at the moment.”

Despite Clint’s best attempts to worm out more details about Loki’s mysterious brother he has yet to get anything; possibly Loki’s just being his usual pretentiously mysterious self, or possibly he’s still paying Clint back for the is he a better-looking version of you thing. Either way, he’s got zip. But it’s nearly lunchtime and there’s a space amongst Loki’s notes that’s just big enough for a plate and a mug, so there’s still time to work on it.

The windchimes jingle and Clint doesn’t bother turning - Peggy’s around, she can deal with it - until a man’s voice says: “oh, hey, you hung them up.”

Clint doesn’t know exactly when he and Nat met Bruce; it was a few years ago and they both fell for him in a way that didn’t ruin their relationship but didn’t do anything for it either. Bruce is a scientist - a good one, from the little of the scientific community that Clint knows - and a sweet, slightly socially awkward guy; at least until you make him angry. They all suffered through the anger management courses and the therapy and the medication that didn’t really seem to work; Bruce was terrified of what he could end up doing while lost in a rage haze, and in the end when he saw a course in India that was meant to help with self-realisation or something he took a sabbatical at the university where he worked and left.

Only then he didn’t come back.

Bruce is standing in the doorway of the cafe looking shy and happy; he’s tan, and thinner than Clint remembers him being, and his hair is a mess of curls and he still can’t dress worth a damn, and Clint thinks he actually leaps a table in order to get to him and pull him into the world’s most frantic, relieved hug. Bruce squeezes him back just as tightly, burying his face in Clint’s shoulder, and Clint is babbling things like you are such a fucker and don’t leave for that long ever again okay. He refuses to actually cry, but his eyes might be thinking about it.

When they finally pull apart Bruce keeps his hands on Clint’s shoulders, studying his face carefully.

“Seriously, I’m letting Nat use her ninja killing skills on you if you even think of leaving again,” Clint insists, adding: “why are you here?”

Bruce smiles one of his worn, gorgeous smiles and says: “like I’d miss your anniversary party.”

Clint shakes his head, laughing, and Bruce’s hands drop from his shoulders. “Nat’s going to be so glad to see you,” he tells him. “And then she’s going to punch you in the face, just so you’re warned.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Bruce agrees in the second before he’s ambushed by a delighted Peggy.

Finally remembering that they have customers who might want stuff, Clint sweeps his gaze over the rest of the cafe. Everyone looks pretty contented, though they are all staring bemusedly at the reunion, all except-

Loki’s gone.

=

“You’re dressing up,” Natasha orders.

It’s easy for her to say; she has an array of sexy formalwear for reasons Clint has never managed to quite figure out so turning up in something slinky but classy wasn’t exactly difficult. She’s taking curling tongs to her hair right now, drinking white wine straight from the bottle. They started drinking midway through the afternoon, so tonight should go with a bang.

Bruce is slumped on Clint’s bed playing a game on his iPhone and wearing the black eye Natasha gave him surprisingly well. At least he knows that sudden shocks of violence are how Nat expresses affection; Clint’s kind of bored of having that awkward conversation with people.

Clint sighs and hunts around in his closet for the bag containing his one and only suit; he doesn’t wear them so he doesn’t feel the need to own loads. A good one is enough.

“I thought you were going to marry Nat in that suit,” Bruce observes quietly, beckoning for Natasha to hand over the wine.

“So did I,” Clint replies, casually offhand.

“No, you didn’t,” Nat corrects. “You thought if we ever got married it’d be in a Vegas wedding chapel with enough alcohol inside us to kill normal people. Mostly ‘cause you were too chickenshit to propose.”

“That’s ‘cause you were the one who wanted to do the proposing,” Clint protests. “You planned a whole speech and everything.”

“The really disturbing part of all this,” Bruce cuts in conversationally, “is that I know you two never actually discussed any of that.”

Clint shrugs. Being in love with Nat was a whole thing, a whole other life, one where he called her Tasha and she called him things in Russian that could have been darling or idiot or potato for all he fucking knew. She said that she thought love was for children, back in the early days when they were mostly having energetic sex with occasional breaks to - sadly literally - lick their wounds, and so Tasha never told him that she loved him. Not once, not ever. But after a couple of years she didn’t have to for him to know, and that’s one of those things that they’ll both have to live with.

Nat’s not Tasha anymore and never will be again, but it doesn’t matter like Clint used to think it would.

There’s a crash from the cafe downstairs; Bruce facepalms. “I swear you two just collected crazy people while I was gone.”

“Had to do something to pass the time,” Natasha shrugs, slipping her feet into her heels.

“What she said,” Clint agrees, and flaps his tie at her until she rolls her eyes and comes over to help.

=

There’s no ice sculpture, thankfully, but there is a fuckload of champagne, which Tony assures them is actually a unit of measurement in situations like these. Steve, Phil and Peggy have shifted all the tables and the cafe is crowded with the friends that they’ve somehow managed to hang onto all this time.

Nat smacks Clint’s ass before giving him a boost so he can stand on the counter, while everyone shouts speech! Pepper at least had the forethought to relieve him of his champagne glass before he started clambering all over the furniture, so when he gestures vaguely at everyone no one gets showered with alcohol.

“When I first met Natasha she was calling herself Natalie and doing something so classified and illegal I still don’t know what it was. It was Budapest, I was travelling with a circus, she took a gun to my head and I think I tried to strangle her. I woke up in the morning to find she’d stolen my underwear but left the number of her burner phone on my right forearm.

“Now it’s years later and we run a cafe together and I still sometimes daydream about strangling her, but I’m glad you’re all here tonight even if none of us will remember this tomorrow because for some reason we’re letting Tony Stark mix the cocktails.”

Everyone claps him as he somehow manages to get off the counter without injuring himself, stumbling into...

“Hi, Phil’s Terrifying Co-Worker Maria,” Clint manages, as she grabs his arm to steady him. “I didn’t know you were here, that’s awesome.”

Phil’s Terrifying Co-Worker Maria rolls her eyes, but they don’t all call her that for nothing. “Happy Anniversary,” she says, before pushing him backwards into Nat’s arms.

“Hey, Phil’s Terrifying Co-Worker Maria,” Nat says brightly, dragging Clint away with her to where Bruce is slumped in a chair with Peggy and Darcy in his lap. Since Bruce only met Darcy a couple of hours ago, this is a sign of the fact he’s really too awesome to exist.

“That is not the story you told last year,” Darcy tells Clint.

“No,” he agrees, accepting another glass of champagne from Steve, who thinks he isn’t drinking tonight, but Clint’s been watching Tony and Pepper spiking his drinks for the last few hours so someone had better be around to scrape him off the floor later.

“So is it more true or less true than last year?” Jane asks.

“You tell me,” Clint replies.

“Didn’t last year’s have sharks in it?” Peggy frowns.

Natasha’s drunk enough for giggling, and she presses her face into Clint’s shoulder. “You’re no help,” he tells her.

“Last year’s did have sharks in it,” she agrees. “I don’t know if that makes it better or worse than this year’s story. I didn’t give you a burner phone number. I just accidentally put that cell in with my laundry.”

“Don’t ruin the mystery,” Clint tells her, downing half the glass in one swallow. “Otherwise how will I come up with something cool for next year?”

Nat rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

=

The next day is... unpleasant.

Clint wakes up in his own bed with Natasha on one side and Bruce on the other and no recollection of anything that went on after Tony’s third round of Winter Soldiers. Clint has no idea what he put in them, but judging from the soupy state of his brain it was probably liquid cocaine. Tony is not coming to any of their parties ever again.

“I think I’m dying,” he informs the ceiling.

“Suck it up,” Natasha replies croakily. “You didn’t even have any of those things Stark was calling a Hawkeye. Nothing should be that shade of purple.”

“I did drink a shitload of Black Widows though,” Clint protests. “The ones that were like eight types of vodka including one kind I think Tony brewed himself in a bathtub.”

Natasha groans softly and then shifts, making the mattress sway alarmingly.

“Oh God,” Clint says as a thought occurs to him, “oh God, what if Steve has alcohol poisoning? What if we killed Steve? Oh God.”

“I will kill you both if you don’t shut up,” comes Bruce’s voice, muffled by the pillow he’s apparently trying to suffocate himself in. “Peggy probably got Steve home.”

“The last I saw of her she was making out with Phil. Or maybe Phil’s Terrifying Co-Worker Maria. Or maybe both of them,” Natasha responds.

“No,” Clint says. “No, my brain cannot do that. No.”

“I mean it, I will kill you both and then blame Stark’s devil cocktails,” Bruce insists. “Go back to sleep or go away.”

The cafe is closed since no one was optimistic enough to think they could work today, but Clint can’t bear to think of what state the place must be in. He’s not brave enough to go downstairs until someone’s cleaned up the worst of the broken glass and the unconscious partygoers.

Natasha slowly gets herself upright and out of the bed - she was always terrible at lie-ins - while Clint drags more of the covers over his head.

“Do not steal my yoga pants,” he warns her.

“I can’t hear you over the sound of how comfy your yoga pants are going to be,” she responds flatly, and a couple of minutes later pads from the room.

She comes back very quickly. “Steve’s naked in your bathtub,” she informs him.

Clint can’t process that properly, but in any case he’s not going to be able to get out of bed to see. “Take a photo for later,” he responds, and drifts back into sleep.

=

It’s good having Bruce back; he’s mostly staying in Nat’s apartment (“on the couch” she tells Clint pointedly, which is annoying because Clint’s damn well invested in this now, actually) and at some point is going to have to talk someone into giving him and his genius brain a job, but for now he seems happy enough helping out in the cafe, flirting with their regulars and cooking the handful of dishes he learned to make in India.

Pru adores Bruce, because everyone loves Bruce; Thor brings her in looking like he hasn’t slept in about three days, rocking the grizzling baby in his arms. Within a minute of being handed over to Bruce, Pru calms down to hiccups and then falls happily asleep.

“I think you might be magical,” Thor tells Bruce earnestly, while Clint brings over a jug of coffee and a mug and leaves them both next to Thor.

“She’s a sweetheart,” Bruce responds, letting her wrap little fingers around one of his.

That’s the thing about Bruce; he might be an awkward scientist with a bitter twist to his smile, but everyone in the world loves him. It would be impossible not to.

It’s just as well they have Bruce and his awesome baby skills to distract them all, because Thor is currently acting like he’s never met Steve in his life, and it’s making Steve look like a wounded puppy. His sad face is actually horrible to look at; the first time Tony sees it he offers to build Steve his own art gallery if that would make it stop. Clint is pretty sure that Tony is a lot of the problem, but he’s not sure how to explain the situation to everybody in a way that isn’t going to lead to hurt feelings, possible relapses or confessions of emotions that nobody wants to talk about yet.

“Did I miss the memo about this place turning into a soap opera?” he asks Peggy, who is what passes for sane in this place.

“It came while you were moping about Loki,” she responds, and then skips off to take an order before Clint can chew her out for it.

Clint isn’t moping, okay, there’s nothing to mope about. Loki is totally within his rights to get a box of green tea from the supermarket or whatever and save a fortune in hanging out at their cafe, it’s totally okay for him to not come in for over a week. Clint doesn’t care, the guy’s obnoxious and clearly emotionally damaged as all fuck, he doesn’t miss him or anything, there was just a certain level of expectation that got raised or whatever, anyway, it doesn’t matter. At all.

“I wanted to meet your psycho boytoy,” Bruce complains during Irresponsible Friday Cocktails, while they all have a picnic based on food Darcy stole from her workplace. Clint’s not sure Darcy’s plan to take Starbucks down from the inside isn’t just a plan to get as much free shit at possible, but he’s not going to point this out.

“Loki’s nobody’s plaything,” Nat responds, “and he’s definitely not Clint’s.”

“I hate all of you,” Clint announces, and he isn’t sulking, nope, not even slightly.

=

The cafe is nice when there are no people in it, when it’s just Clint and the radio on low and the half-light as he cleans the floor and wipes down the tables. Some nights it’s more fun with the others, but it takes a lot longer and lacks the peace of Clint on his own in this place he’s helped to create.

When someone knocks on the door he assumes it’s Peggy forgetting her purse again or something, but it isn’t.

Loki looks more exhausted than ever, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks. “Natasha says you miss me,” he says, flat.

“Natasha’s a fucking gossip,” Clint responds, but he steps back and waits until Loki realises it’s an invitation to come inside. “And how did she even find you?”

“She spammed the messageboards of my website,” Loki tells him. “I’ve had to give her a lifetime ban, of course.”

Clint bites down a smile, because that’s his girl all over.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” he says instead, gesturing to where he’s got a plate of half-eaten leftover cheesecake on the go. “Doesn’t your brother feed you?”

“He tries,” Loki responds, mouth halfway between a smile and a scowl, “he has a few other things on his mind.”

Clint walks over and perches on one of the counter stools, picking up a fork. “Come on,” he says, and gestures.

Loki rolls his eyes but comes and sits on the stool beside him, reluctantly picking up another fork. “This motherly attitude you have is unnerving,” he tells Clint.

“It’s cheesecake, Loki, not a goddamn proposal,” Clint replies, and glares at him until Loki obediently starts eating.

Steve makes a mean cheesecake, even if Clint says so himself, and he’s always secretly glad when there’s some left over. Loki, for all his whining, is clearly enjoying it too, though he glares whenever Clint tries an I told you so expression. It’s almost nice, if by nice you mean ‘kind of awkward but at least not actively hostile’, which is frankly how most things in Clint’s life have gone.

It’s still unexpected when Loki slides from his stool to stand between Clint’s thighs, the corner of his mouth flicking into a smirk at the way Clint’s eyes widen before he curves a hand under Clint’s jaw and kisses him.

Clint’s body gets with the programme before his brain does, hands falling to Loki’s hips to pull him closer, lips opening at the first swipe of his tongue. Loki tastes like cheesecake - of course - and his mouth is warm, inviting, teeth tugging teasingly at Clint’s lower lip. Clint moves a hand to tangle it in the back of Loki’s dark hair, bracketing Loki’s waist with his knees, sucking his tongue until he feels the way it makes Loki shudder. He has no idea if Loki was planning this or if it’s as much of an accident as it feels, and maybe if they’d just managed this weeks ago it would all have been a lot easier.

Loki’s mouth shines in the half-light when they pull apart to breathe, eyes glittering and dark, and his fingers are shaky against Clint’s skin when he whispers: “you want to fuck me, right?”

The words slice through Clint and his response is a handful of ragged kisses that he presses to the warm wet curve of Loki’s mouth, fingers clenched too tight in his hair. If Loki wants anything more coherent from him then he isn’t going to get it, but he thinks he probably gets the picture.

=

It’s just as well that Clint lives above the cafe because just getting Loki upstairs was sheer torture; they both nearly fell down the stairwell when Clint was exploring which parts of Loki’s jawline were most sensitive when scraped with teeth and wouldn’t that make for an awkward ER visit.

Loki is impatient, all warm shifting skin under his hands when Clint finally manages to wrestle him out of his sweater and button-down - seriously, the guy needs to invest in t-shirts - but he makes delicious little noises when Clint maps his skin with his mouth, stinging bites and swipes of his tongue that don’t so much soothe as tease. Clint’s as good as anyone at hurried, frantic fucking - he and Nat practically made an artform of swift but mutually beneficial orgasms in bathroom stalls - but if he’s got the time and the bed then he’s damn well going to be thorough, no matter how many times Loki digs insistent nails into his hips.

“Are you always this frustrating?” Loki demands when Clint’s placing a line of wet kisses down his stomach, stopping occasionally to blow over them just to make Loki shudder.

“I haven’t even started,” Clint responds, digging his thumb into one hipbone until Loki wriggles, spilling a gasp.

“No wonder Natasha broke up with you,” Loki snips, and Clint decides that his task for the night is to find out what it takes to make Loki stop bitching.

It’s not until he’s managed to strip them both naked and Loki is writhing against him in a way that’s both really, really hot and also clearly screaming get the fuck on with it, Barton, that Clint has a sudden moment’s worry that he no longer owns condoms and lube, what with the way most of his friends get laid more often than he does and help themselves to pretty much all his belongings.

When he turns back from his luckily successful hunt in his nightstand drawer, he finds Loki’s rolled onto his knees like he thinks that’s going to encourage Clint to hurry up. Clint likes to take his time, get his moment right, and anyway the more insistent Loki gets the slower Clint wants to take this. Possibly the amount of satisfaction he gets from winding Loki up isn’t healthy, but the curve of Loki’s spine and the swell of his ass deserve his full attention.

“Clint-” Loki begins, voice cracking, as Clint crawls over him and pushes him down into the sheets, pressing the lightest of kisses to the nape of his neck. “What-”

“Shut up,” Clint responds, mouth against Loki’s spine, “and maybe you’ll actually enjoy yourself at some point.”

“Is that a threat,” Loki says, breathless, and Clint doesn’t dignify that with the yes that is his answer.

He kisses his way down Loki’s back, hands braced on his hips to stop him squirming, listening to the way Loki’s breathing tightens the lower he gets. He’s quiet, though, and Clint allows himself the briefest smirk of satisfaction before nips an ass cheek, spreading Loki open with his thumbs.

Loki makes a strangled sound when Clint touches the tip of his tongue to his entrance, teasing him with tiny barely-there licks before he relents and presses his tongue inside him. Loki’s voice breaks on his name, startled and wanting, and Clint hums a little, licking deeper into him. He knows he’s good with his mouth - you don’t escape from sex with Natasha if you’re not - and the little helpless sounds Loki’s spilling into the sheets are delicious, gratifying. Loki’s thighs shake when Clint slides a finger in alongside his tongue, pressing deeper until Loki growls a mangled expletive, bucking against him. Clint likes him like this; likes taking him apart so that he can’t hide behind that blank and superior expression anymore.

For all his determination to take his time, Clint’s cock is aching, demanding attention, as he scissors two fingers into Loki so that he can lick between them, opening him torturously slowly. He grinds his hips into the sheets, searching for something like relief, humming into Loki again to make him shudder, push back into his fingers and tongue.

He knows he’s broken him when Loki starts mumbling please, raw-voiced, trying to clench around him and get more. Clint eases his fingers out, shifting back, allowing Loki to tumble into a shivering heap on the mattress. He slides the condom on and lubes it, dragging his fist slowly over his cock, aware of Loki watching him with sharp, hungry eyes.

“Do you-” he begins, picking up the tube, but Loki shakes his head.

“Do not drag this out any longer, Barton,” he says, but his voice is too desperate to be bitchy anymore.

Clint pushes him onto his back - Loki’s eyes widen momentarily but that’s not something Clint’s going to deal with right now - and kneels between his spread thighs, taking a couple of slow breaths before he presses his cock to Loki’s entrance. Loki catches his lower lip between his teeth as Clint begins to push inside, slow, slow, forcing himself to keep breathing and not just slam inside, not just fuck him hard and deep until Loki’s begging him to let him come. He buries his face in Loki’s throat, bracing shaky hands against the mattress, waiting for Loki’s body to adjust around him.

“Fuck me,” Loki hisses into his hair, hips shifting restlessly, trying to gain leverage that this angle can’t give him, and Clint feels the words deep in his stomach. He shifts, pressing Loki’s thighs into his chest as he changes angle, drawing out slowly so that he can shove back in, faster than Loki’s expecting, fast enough to make him shudder all over. Clint doesn’t give him time to get used to it, building up a frantic, determined rhythm that steals all the breath from his lungs, managing to find the angle that makes Loki let out desperate moans, nails clawing Clint’s back and hips, demanding, too breathless to voice what he needs aloud. Loki’s fingers dig into one of Clint’s ass cheeks, trying to pull him deeper, and Clint bites into his shoulder.

They’ll both be bruised tomorrow, bruised and sore, and Clint doesn’t give a shit, working a hand between their bodies to wrap it around Loki’s cock, jerking it mercilessly fast in time with his thrusts. Loki is hissing, swearing, inarticulate and needy, and it doesn’t take much to make him come, clenching so tight around Clint it’s hard to fuck him through his orgasm. Clint keeps moving though, fucking slowly into Loki’s suddenly-lax body, watching the shudders of aftershocks rippling under his skin, his flushed cheeks and bitten-red mouth.

He’s gorgeous is the last thought he has before he comes, his face pressing into Loki’s sweaty throat as he shivers through it, Loki’s fingers clenched in the back of his damp hair.

It takes a moment before he can pull out, tugging off the condom and chucking it blindly into his trashcan.

“Fucking hell,” he manages.

Loki scrapes together a smile. “Quite.”

Clint lies and stares at his ceiling until he gets his breath back and his heart isn’t pounding in his chest, and then he mumbles bathroom and rolls off the mattress, legs shaking and the air cold against his skin.

He’s splashing cold water against his face when he hears the front door slam. He turns it off and stands in the silence for a moment, bracing his hands against the sink.

“Son of a bitch.”

=

continued here