(no subject)
Title: untitled
Rating: PG13 for language
Word Count: 1200-ish
Warnings: None. I think it's pretty safe.
Disclaimer: Yes, the characters are mine. All mine. I made them up 50 years before I was born (I'm magical that way). In fact, I demand royalties from Marvel. Pay me now or suffer the wrath of the lawyers I'm financing through the money in my change jar. Don't laugh, I might have a whole $20 in quarters. (i'm totally kidding, please don't sue me. except for the $20 in change part. that might be real)
Summary: Very, very mild crack!fic from the mind of someone who hasn't written a fic for a while.
Author's note: Attempted humour. You have been warned. Thanks to the lovely shenshen77 for her beta work.
"This is weird," Clint says.
It's a few seconds before Natasha acknowledges him. "What do you mean?"
He looks at her incredulously, but she seems oblivious, eating popcorn at a manic pace and staring at the TV. He feels a little crazy. "I don't know. Maybe it's just me," he reluctantly admits. He resigns himself to the movie, making a valiant effort to ignore the proceedings around him.
He is, however, a world-class fidgeter. Apparently. He had never noticed that habit of his before. Nat does though, and sighs. "Ok, what's wrong?"
He's starting to wonder if they're sitting in the same room. "I guess I've seen Tony and Pepper kiss before," he concedes.
"So what's the problem?"
"I...well, Bruce and Betty?"
She rolls her eyes. "Wow, Barton, loosen up."
He bristles. "It's not that."
"What is it then?" she asks impatiently. "I'm missing the good parts."
"Steve and Peggy? Thor -" and here he gets an enthusiastic foot to the face that he has to push away - "and Jane?"
Natasha looks at him blankly. Meanwhile, he hears a moan and he cringes, edging as far from the source of the sound as possible, and squishes himself against Natasha's side. The couch was not designed to seat six people. Especially when four of them were positioned horizontally.
"You don't think they're being a little bit...open?"
"Not really."
"I mean, don't get me wrong. They're consenting adults in committed relationships. But they're all making out. In the common room," he points out. "At the same time. Around us."
"Maybe they don't like the movie," she suggests.
Which is a terrible explanation, but the only one he has so far. "I guess that could be it."
She gives him the side eye. "What's the problem, Barton? Feeling a little left out?"
More like awkward, he wants to say, maybe like someone's creepy uncle, watching some of this go down, but she continues before he can. "Someone needs a girlfriend," she trills, in a half sing-song voice.
That was the last thing he needed. "Yes. Because that has worked out so well for me before."
"Well, if you had called Kate once in three weeks..."
“We were off-grid in fucking Turkey. I couldn't find a payphone.”
"If you're going to date civilians, you're going to run into that kind of problem."
"There was that one time she called and you picked up," he reminded her. "That went well."
"Your classified work phone was ringing. Why would I assume it was anyone other than Coulson?"
"Because I have caller ID! She told me I was too hard to reach!"
"I don't know what names you and Coulson have for each other in private. Katie could be one of them." Natasha shrugs, not particularly repentant. "I never liked her anyway."
"The feeling was mutual. She said something about how she couldn't trust me around someone like you."
"Ha! If only she knew. Everything she liked about you was actually me. The reservations at El Terrera? The Belgian chocolates? The fucking self-warming socks? I should pick your next girlfriend. Anyone you date is dating me by extension."
Their voices were beginning to rise but everyone around them was still too engrossed in their own...activities...to notice. "Oh yeah, that's reasonable. To have all my prospective girlfriends vetted by my co-worker."
"You call me at 3 am to rehash your dates. You are not an authority on what is reasonable."
"I don't remember you hanging up on me," he counters.
"You'd probably just call back."
"Admit it, you love hearing about it."
"It's like watching a trainwreck," she shoots back. "You can't look away."
"Okay. Since you have so much advice to offer in the realm of personal relationships, what would you suggest for me?
"Easy," she says. He's not sure how to feel about the fact that she has an answer prepared. "Someone in SHIELD. That way she won't think I have something to do with it every time you don't call for a few days. Someone who can't be bothered with romantic shit. You can never come up with anything, and I will not always be there to bail you out. And someone with low standards."
"And single?"
"Preferably, but I'm not picky. And she has to like me. I save your sorry ass on a regular basis. If she wants you back alive, she'll respect that."
"Anything else?"
"Can you find someone that doesn't make you miserable? I'm tired of your shitty girlfriends bringing you down."
There's something interesting about everything she's saying that's bringing about a very uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. "My favourite part of a bad date is calling you to talk about it."
"You live a very sad life."
"I don't think you've ever liked any of my girlfriends."
"Not my fault you don't know how to pick them."
"You hate romance."
"Just another term for shitty foreplay. Which by virtue of my last job I am a fucking expert in."
"I'm your best friend. Your standards can't get lower than that."
"Well, don't rub it in."
The gnawing feeling in his stomach is growing. He feels incredibly stupid, like it should have been obvious all along. "I...should we- I mean...have you -"
"Barton," she says sharply, without opening her mouth, and all of a sudden, his cheek stings.
His eyes snap open (were they closed all this time?). He's on a bed in the medical bay. He can't feel his right leg.
Natasha is hovering over him. "Oh thank God, you're awake."
He opens and closes his mouth a few times before the words come to him. But first things first. "Did you just slap me?"
"I didn't have time to wait around for you to wake up."
That was a yes. "Uh, what happened?"
"You got shot. Based on the way you were mumbling, it was laced with something good. Bruce is guessing an experimental hallucinogen. He's looking into it."
He has a mental image of being hit by a blowdart. The way they take down apes in the jungle. Real dignified. He groans. "Did I say anything incriminating?"
"Couldn't hear much of anything you said. I'm not even sure most of it was in English. Anyway, do you want to call Olivia and tell her you're ok? She's called your phone six times already. I answered once." She smirks. "You may have to do some damage control."
"Yeah, uh, maybe I'll wait till I feel better."
"Not a bad idea. She's pissed." Natasha tosses him his phone and it lands neatly and softly on his stomach. She's on her way out the door when she stops her.
"Hey Nat? What do you think about Olivia?"
"I dunno, nice girl. Terrible boyfriend though. And then there's that bitch he works with that keeps answering his phone."
"You don't like her," he observes.
"She doesn't like me," she corrects him. "Huge difference." Natasha hesitates. "Why?"
"No reason," he says, trying to keep his voice light.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" She stops abruptly and squints suspiciously at him. "What did you dream about?"
"Nothing," he lies.