Clint groaned, grimacing as the sunlight filtered in through the window and onto his face. “Christ...” Rolling onto his stomach to bury his face in the pillow. “`Y `uckin' `eeaa...” he grumbled to no one in particular. Last night was a bit of a blur at this point. Somewhere between the harsh rejection and the Steve laying him in bed he'd taken in a large quantity of alcohol...
Slapping a hand onto his alarm clock, Clint twisted the small device to face him, lolling his head to the side just enough to peek at it. “Eleven AM...” he mumbled to himself, noticing something that wasn't usually atop his nightstand out of the corner of his eye.
A folded piece of paper sat beneath two little blue pills, a tall glass of water just centimeters away. Sitting up, carefully, Clint leaned over and picked up the glass, using his free hand to grab at pills. Advil, he read, before popping the pills into his mouth. Bringing the glass to his lips, Clint then picked up the little note, unfolding it with skillful fingers.
I'm not sure if this'll help, but Tony says this is how he nurses a hangover. You were pretty drunk last night, though, so...we'll see. By the time you wake up, breakfast will probably be cold, but I'll leave you a plate in the microwave.
Clint scoffed, chuckling quietly to himself as he pulled the glass away to set back on the nightstand. Sometimes it was crazy to think a guy like Steve even existed; it was easy to see why Tony had the hotts for him.
Stretching with a quiet groan, Clint padded into the kitchen donning his 'I'm-obvously-hungover' sunglasses—or, at least that's what Bruce called them. Tony had a pair, too, only his were notably less flashy than most of other pairs. The man had an unusually large collection of sunglasses, more than a man ought have.
“Hey!” Tony called, leaning over the kitchen counter. Well speak of the devil.
“A little early for you to be up, don't 'cha think?” Clint quipped, still waiting for that Advil to kick in.
“Not really!” he beamed, returning his attention to whatever device he was working from today.
“God, you're scarily happy...” Clint grumbled in response, making his way over to the microwave, where he hoped Steve had remembered to keep his food.
“Oh, I'm sorry. Is my good mood irritating your hungover ass?” Tony asked sarcastically, not even bothering to look over his shoulder as Clint re-closed the microwave door and pressed a few buttons to start heating the leftovers up.
“A little bit, yeah. Why are you in such a good mood anyways?”
Tony was quiet too long of a moment and Clint was forced to look over at him, brow cocked.
“No reason,” he stated finally, almost sounding as if he was trying too hard to seem casual.
Clint was just about to question the long pause when Steve entered the room. It was deathly silent for another long stretch of time, save for the microwave, and it occurred to Clint that a look had been exchanged. A look that explained everything Tony was attempting not to elaborate on. Clint's own knowing look must have been spilling from the bottom of his sunglasses, because Steve's attention was suddenly on him, a smile tugging at his features.
“Good morning, Clint. Seems like you're doing a lot better.”
Clint just shook his head slightly and pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head. “Whoa, this is weird...you mean you guys—whoa. I feel like I just found the condoms in my parent's nightstand.”
Steve immediately flushed a bright red, opening his mouth to object, but Clint just threw up his hand and laughed quietly, simultaneously moving to grab his fork and open the microwave.
“Hm?” Tony asked, obviously too focused on whatever he'd been doing to be an active participant in the conversation.
“I-It's not what you—”
Clint just laughed a bit harder, tapping his sunglasses back into place as he manuvered around Steve, who was already flushed from the tips of his ears to the base of his neck. “Save it, Cap. It's okay. I'm happy for you guys,” Clint cut in, digging his fork into the eggs.
“Save what? Happy for who? Barton, what the hell are you going on about?” Tony called after him, making no attempt to chase the archer. “Shit...” Tony added as soon as he thought Clint was out of earshot.
Clint just laughed a bit harder, and plopped down onto the couch. Bruce was already settled at the other end of the couch, flipping through the OnDemand options. “What? You saw Steve and Tony?” he asked, as if it were already old news.
Nodding, Clint brought his thumb up to wipe as the side of his mouth, “You say it like I'm the last to know.” Bruce stared at him incredulously before looking back up at the TV. “You're kidding.”
“They've been dropping hints at each other for months now.” Bruce paused, flicking back and forth between two channels, before settling on FX a few second later, “...Actually, if it weren't for your drunken self last night, asking about their 'date', I don't think Steve would've caught on.”
Clint smiled around a full mouth, teetering gently from side to side proudly, “So I, single-handedly, got Captain America and Iron Man together after months of sexual tension? Nice. I should get an award or something for that.”
“I don't think they give awards for that sort of thing, Clint,” a deep, demanding voice stated. Peering up to find Steve staring down at him, arms crossed, the archer swallowed hard.
“It looks like you guys are having a moment, so...I'll leave you to it,” Bruce said, standing up to leave. Steve watched the scientist meander off, looking a bit lost before trotting down to the lab.
Clint brought another spoonful of potatoes to his mouth as he watched Steve from below. “Scho. Am I in trob'l or schum'in?” he asked, not bothering to swallow his food this time.
“If I were here to talk about your table manners then yes...but since you're not actually at a table, I'll let it slide.”
Downing the food in his mouth, he watched Steve make his way around the couch, seating himself a cushion away. He threw an arm over the back of the couch, and took a deep breath as he glanced over at the TV, allowing himself become distracted by the the man speaking on loop about whatever was relevant to Hollywood and pop culture.
“So...how long have we been...obvious...I mean...” Steve was beginning to go red again, his gaze shifting back in Clint's direction. “We realized last night we'd been a little more than apparent to each other but...I guess we didn't take into account that others could see out actions as well...”
A smile perked up the left side of his mouth as Clint stuffed himself with another forkful of food. When he'd swallowed, a chuckle poured from him, “Let's just put it this way, Stark was a bit more obvious than you were. But I think everyone'll be glad to hear you guys are...closer now.” Laughing at his own lame joke, Clint stabbed one of the sausages that remained. “Well...” his smile faltered, “everyone except Fury.”
Steve's face twitched in confusion, “I don't see why that's any of his—oh.”
Shrugging, Clint bit into his sausage.
“Regardless, Fury knows me well enough to recognize that I wouldn't let something like that get in the way of crime fighting. We're not children. We know how to prioritize.”
“And what about PDA? Would you really want Star Magazine writing full page reports on Tony's supposed elicit affairs?”
Steve dragged a hand across his face, shaking his head. “Clint, we're not dating.”
“So you're just fucking him, then?”
Heat rushed to apples of Steve's cheeks, as his face curled in mild disgust, “I'm gonna have to end this conversation, right now.”
Clint couldn't help but laugh again, finishing off what was left of his breakfast, “Fine by me. Like I said, the thought of you and Stark bumpin' uglies is just—” he paused to shiver, “traumatizing.”
Steve lifted a hand, blinking wildly in both shock and appall. “Your terminology will never cease to amaze me, Clint,” Steve finally mumbled, unsure of how else he could possibly respond. “I...anyways...”
“Anyways. That's not all you came to talk to me about...?” Clint asked, chuckling lightly as he set the plate on the coffee table.
“No, I...” Steve suddenly became more rigid, more tense than he'd been a minute ago, “Tony told me he helped you get into Coulson's office...to deliver a rose...for Valentine's Day.”
Clint scoffed, leaning back into the arm of the couch, “He did, did he? Damn Stark can't keep a secret to save his life.”
Steve shook his head, “Don't blame him...he was just...worried.”
Clint scoffed again.
“He has a heart you know!”
“Yeah, made of cold hard metal.”
“Give the man some credit! The only reason he told me was because I told him you'd been drinking...”
“...So he assumed I'd been rejected, and he wanted you to double check.”
Steve was silent, looking across at him with apologetic eyes.
“Yeah. I was rejected. Mystery solved.” Clint rose to his feet, looking every bit as bitter as he felt.
“Don't give up, Clint,” Steve called, watching the archer storm around toward the back of the couch.
Stilling, Clint turned back around and crosses his arms, just as Steve had not but ten minutes before. “And why shouldn't I? He made it pretty fuckin' clear he's not interested.”
“When's the last time Coulson arrived and the crowd cheered? When's the last time anyone even offered him a thank you? When's the last time anyone besides Fury, Natasha, and I didn't regard him with some sort of disdain in their tone? He's a respected man, Clint, but he's not everyone's favorite. Now, I don't know about you, but if I were in his shoes I'd take your come on as some sort of joke as well. The man needs some affection...or at least a friend...a friend besides his boss. It might take a bit but...don't...don't give up on him, Clint—I...I just...I have an inkling.”
Clint stared at him dumbly, running over the words in his head again. “...It was a bit much, then, huh? ...The rose?”
Steve just laughed, airy and light, “Think smaller...like say...engaging in some casual conversation.”
Finally a smile graced Clint's features, “...Thanks, Steve.”
A quiet laughter was heard as the super solider pulled himself onto his feet, “Of course.”