So I needed to write some fluff. Boy howdy. Here's fluff. Thanks to dysprositos for totally ninja beta work. No warnings other than light Tony/Clint slash.
The words echoed in Clint's head as he turned the key to unlock his apartment door: "Come on over to my place tonight. I'll cook for you."
They weren't unreasonable words. Clint could cook. He could cook a mean steak, a passable risotto, and what his neighbors swore was the best pot of chili in a three mile radius. He liked to cook, too, and he really only got to cook for himself and his neighbors when he had the chance. No, the cooking bit didn't bother him. It was the 'my place' bit of the equation that was suddenly a problem.
He swung the old wooden door open and sighed as he stepped into his foyer. Had he even thought about the last time he'd looked carefully at his apartment before he spoke this morning? As he stared at the two baskets of laundry in the foyer, the layer of dust on the small, antique desk and the pile of newspapers in the corner it was clear that he hadn't. Besides, it was his apartment.
Tony had done a double take at the mere fact that he had one. "An apartment? Where?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "Why do you have an apartment? More relevant, why did I not know you had an apartment? You have an apartment here."
Clint had ducked and grinned, shrugging his shoulders. "I like my own space sometimes. I had it before everything happened, didn't see any reason to get rid of it." He stepped closer to Tony. "You didn't know about it because we never get a chance to plan dates. When's the last time we planned to go out together?"
Tony glared and then relented. "Okay, never. I still can't believe I didn't know about this, though."
He had a point. He and Clint had fallen into bed together a couple months ago, high on adrenaline after a mission and letting jokes turn into reality ("What, you wanna fuck me, Stark?" had led to arms crossed over a black t-shirt glowing faintly blue and a wicked grin. "Well, yeah. Actually," and this had led to one of the best nights of Clint's life).
They fell together after more missions, and then they stayed together after a few, playing pinball and video games and drinking and watching movies until the next mission came up and then falling together again. Clint did go home every few days to grab clean clothes and say hi to his neighbors, and he stayed home when Tony was out of town at meetings, but he never thought to mention anything to Tony.
"Sorry?" he offered, not sure how to read Tony's reaction. "You don't have to come over." He stepped back and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets.
As he hung his jacket up on the coat rack inside the door and headed through to the kitchen, he looked at his watch. Three hours. He had three hours to clean and cook. 'I can do this,' he thought, until he opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for condiments and a bottle of beer. Shit. Add grocery store to the list of things to do and the three hours suddenly looked unworkable.
He straightened up, closed the door, and looked around. Bills and mail were strewn across the counter. He scooped them up and headed into his bedroom to throw them on his desk. He groaned again. His bed was unmade, and he cursed his stupid habit of only keeping one set of sheets on hand because fuck if folding a fitted sheet wasn't impossible. He usually just washed his sheets and put them back on the same day.
He quickly put the mail down and then tore the pale green bedspread off the bed, threw the pillows on the floor after taking them out of their pillowcases, and yanked the sheets off. He went to the hallway closet where he kept his washer/dryer combo (he hated Laundromats with a passion and swore once he started collecting a decent paycheck that he'd never use one again) and threw the sheets in to wash.
He headed back to the bedroom and threw the clothes that were still on the floor into his hamper, dug in his bathroom closet for the Lysol, and gave the room a generous spray. When he put the bottle back in the bathroom, he realized that was a pretty big priority, too.
Tony loved shower sex. Of course, he'd probably take one look at Clint's shower and call it out for the shoebox it was. The two of them would have to mold into each other to fit. He stood looking at his bathroom (pale green with yellow accents and fake fern hanging in the corner) and sighed.
His place. He'd invited Tony Stark over to his place. Who does that?
"No, I want to come over," Tony said with an easy smile when Clint backed away. "I need to see what kind of wallpaper you have. Does your furniture match?" he added, and pulled Clint in for a kiss.
"I'm an adult with a well-paying job, Tony. My furniture matches." He tilted his head and wrapped his arms around Tony's back. "No robots, though."
Tony looked confused. "Wait. Who cleans your place for you if you don't at least have a Roomba?"
"Those things are menaces," Clint retorted, stepping back.
Tony laughed. "Good ol' fashioned elbow grease, then?"
"Yeah," Clint replied. "Maybe I'll get my boyfriend to help me out later," he said, and laughed hilariously at the horror-stricken look on Tony's face.
Filing the bathroom onto his mental list of things to deal with, he trudged back to the kitchen. First things first, he decided. He'd promised food. He needed to come through on that bit, even if he had to confine Tony to his kitchen the whole night because he didn't get to the rest of it. So he threw his jacket back on, waved at Ken, the old man in a polka dotted jacket who sat on the front steps, and jogged down the one and a half blocks to the store.
Thirty minutes and another wave to Ken later, he was shoving a twelve pack of beer into his fridge (screw Tony's liquor tastes. If he was coming to Clint's place he could drink beer for a night), potatoes into the sink to rinse, and salad fixings and steaks on the counter. He threw the steaks on a plate and dug his favorite spice rub out of the cupboard. He sprinkled the meat, covered it with foil and stuck it in the refrigerator next to the beer.
With a sigh, he pulled one of the beers out and opened it with his World's Biggest Spatula souvenir bottle opener/fridge magnet. He took a deep pull and ran his hands through his hair. Priorities. He turned on his stereo and began picking the place up.
Twenty minutes later and he was scrubbing down his sink and shower, spraying the bathroom with Lysol, and heading out to collect trash around the place. After a quick trip out to the alley dumpster, he came back inside and assessed the situation.
The dryer was on, so the sheets should be done in another half hour or so. The place was picked up and the bathroom was clean. He opened another beer and washed his hands at the kitchen sink. He thought maybe he could do this. He still had an hour before Tony was supposed to come and the place was at least presentable.
He looked around as he took another drink. God, his place was small.
Really. It was the size of Tony's bedroom if you really looked at it right. A foyer and short hallway led to the kitchen, and the kitchen did have good appliances. The place was old, though, and the black paint on the cupboards was chipped, and there was hardly enough room for two people to work in the kitchen. And even though Clint had refinished the breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living/dining room area himself last year, it still looked weathered and worn.
The dining room and living room were one; Clint had used his couch and a half bookshelf to divide the room, and while he did have matching furniture, he only had room for a couch, a recliner, and one armchair around a big-screen TV. There was another bookshelf in the corner, and his dining room table was unfinished oak, a project he kept meaning to get to but never found time.
It occurred to him that if you stood in the right spot in his living room, you could see his whole apartment without moving, including the bedroom.
Sighing again, he grabbed a dust mop since he had time and ran it over the wood floors. He finished that and was scrubbing potatoes along to The Raconteurs when he heard a knock at the door. He turned the music down, dried off his hands, and went to the door, wondering if maybe he'd missed an announcement of a building barbeque. The neighbors were prone to those and he tried to join in when he could.
He opened the door and stepped back. "Tony?"
Tony stood there in jeans, black tennis shoes, a black t-shirt, green dress shirt untucked, and a black suit jacket. He was holding a bottle of wine and looking rather uncomfortable. "I'm early," he said with a quirk of his lips and held the bottle out to Clint. "I, uh, well. I'm early," he sighed with a sheepish grin. "I couldn't wait."
Clint laughed and stepped back and gestured him in, reaching for the wine bottle. "You couldn't wait. To get here?" he shook his head incredulously.
Tony let Clint close the door behind him and then followed him to the living room.
"Here, Tony. Stand right here," Clint said. He probably shouldn't do this, but he was suddenly nervous and holy hell, this whole thing was a very bad idea. He might as well get the embarrassment over with. He positioned Tony in the middle of the room, turned him toward the kitchen and said, "There. You can see the whole place from here." With Tony Stark standing in his living room after claiming to be excited to get here, Clint thought surely the disappointment would come quickly.
Tony had three mansions. Clint had three rooms.
Tony spun in place slowly, ignoring Clint's sarcasm and looking around. He grinned at Clint and took an exaggerated step to the left and spun again.
"No roombas at all?" he asked seriously.
Clint felt a little of his tension slip. "Nope. Cleaned the place in two hours. Oh, except for the sheets. I didn't get the sheets put back on the bed."
Tony stepped close to Clint and brushed his lips to Clint's. Clint let himself be leaned into, holding Tony up as they kissed languidly. Tony leaned back after a minute. "I like it. Here, I mean. It fits you."
"Small and cramped?" Clint asked snidely.
"Compact and gorgeous," Tony countered, and leaned in for another kiss.
Clint laughed and the tension left almost completely. "Come on in. You can scrub potatoes while I throw the salad together. Then you can help me put clean sheets on the bed while the potatoes bake."
"I can build you a robot that scrubs potatoes. I can do that. It won't be menacing at all," Tony said, following Clint to the kitchen.
"Tony. I like cooking," he replied as he pulled a carrot out of the bag on the counter.
"How do you scrub potatoes?" Tony asked, completely serious, turning to Clint and holding up a potato.
With a chuckle, Clint picked up the vegetable brush he'd been using a minute ago . "Here."
Tony took it and stared. "They make a potato cleaner? Really? Dad went into the wrong business," he muttered as he turned the water on in the sink.
They spent the next half hour drinking the wine Tony brought and prepping the potatoes and salad. Well, Clint prepped the food and Tony rifled through his kitchen drawers pulling out tools and demanding explanations.
"Why the hell does a spy need a julienne knife?"
Clint glared at that one. "You don't like shoestring fries?" he retorted.
Tony got a delighted look on his face and demanded that they have at least a bowl of shoestring fries with their steak. "I saw a deep fryer over in that cupboard. I bet I could rig it to self-clean if you'll let me."
Clint shook his head. "I can't believe I invited you into my kitchen."
Tony was quiet for a minute and Clint looked over at him as he sipped some wine and stared at Clint, eyes open wide and a shadow passing over them.
"What, Tony?" Clint asked, and he put down the knife he was using for a moment.
Tony shrugged. "No one ever has, you know."
Clint didn't follow. "What?"
Tony smiled his sad smile, the one Clint really didn't like to see, and took another drink, finishing his glass. As he poured himself some more, he said, "No one's ever offered to have me over and cook for me."
Clint's hand stilled and he watched Tony carefully. "No one?" That couldn't be true. Tony had been with more people than Hugh Hefner, or so he liked to claim.
Tony shrugged and turned back to Clint. "Nope. Not even Pepper. She was working for me all the time and we spent most of our dates grabbing takeout. She hates to cook, and she was always over at my place anyway. . ."
The implication of what Tony was saying hit Clint in the gut. He put his own glass down and stepped close to him, reaching out for his hand.
Tony shrugged, letting him take it. "Everyone usually likes to spend time at the Tower or at a mansion. They like being catered to."
Clint grinned. "I like it, too, sometimes." He laughed out loud and Tony looked puzzled by his outburst. "Tony, I was scared shitless that you'd take one look at this place and bolt. It's the size of your bedroom."
Tony smiled back. "To be fair, my bedroom's pretty big, as far as bedrooms go."
"Mine's a postage stamp compared to yours," Clint chuckled, leaning in and stealing a kiss.
"Are we comparing sizes, now, Barton?" Tony replied, stealing the kiss back and pulling Clint in close, his hand drifting down to Clint's belt.
"Not something we should do in the kitchen, Stark. I do have a pincushion sized bed where that can happen more comfortably."
"A bed with no sheets on it, according to you," Tony said, laughing and leaning back.
Clint sighed. "Yeah. You were early." He leaned in and touched his forehead to Tony's.
"I couldn't wait," Tony said quietly.
Clint ran his thumb down Tony's cheek and over his chin, staring into the gorgeous brown eyes that he loved so much. "Give me five minutes."
Tony nodded and stepped back. Clint shoved his wine glass back into his hand and stepped toward the hallway to grab the sheets from the dryer. He heard Tony mutter to himself, "Yeah, I like it here."
Clint hollered over his shoulder as he leaned over the dryer, "Next time you'll have to come for the neighborhood barbeque on the roof. My neighbors will love you."
"Of course they will," Tony called back, following Clint. "I'll bring shoestring fries!"