That American Dream (it'll get you everytime if you're not careful)
A Word: Because it doesn't matter what you got going through your head. You would stare at that ass if it was in front of you, even if you weren't really conscious of doing it. By request; this will end up being Steve/Natasha and Clint/Bucky. Eventually.
.
.
Steve Rogers has a studio apartment in Brooklyn. It's something he's fought hard for, both with SHIELD and Tony to rent. The neighborhood isn't the greatest, but Clint's seen worse. Hell, Clint's lived in worse himself. Would still be living in worse if his block hadn't been flattened in the invasion leaving him with the tricky dilemma of choosing between the sterile shoebox of SHIELD barracks or the private-less opulence of Stark's tower.
He couch surfs for a while while debating the two different kinds of hell, but the number of couches he can crash on has drastically decreased in ways that Clint doesn't like to think about too hard. The fact that he ends up at Steve's place within a week isn't a surprise to him.
Natasha has a small place tucked away in the basement of a building no one but Clint knows she owns. The only reason he knows she has a place outside of the barracks is a combination of his paranoia and the fact that she let him find it. Nat's place is hers though, and Clint respects her silent request to leave it that way. There are few enough things that she actually wants that he goes out of his way to respect her space. Even now he won't go to her.
Coulson has an apartment too. A nice place near a well maintained park and the most ridiculously yuppie string of two table bistros that could be found in the city. The situation with Coulson was still complicated though. Fury was carrying on like the reports of the man's death weren't wildly exaggerated, and that some of his top agents hadn't been around the day he came in a little puffier -swollen actually- around his good eye than usual and started using SHIELD resources to find very specific Captain America trading cards. Clint would have crashed Coulson's totally unoccupied wink-wink-nudge apartment except the Look he'd gotten the one time Nat and him had strolled in to see that he was in fact breathing promised unholy things if either of them messed up whatever new op he and Fury had cooked up.
Sitwell had cheerfully kicked Clint to the curb after four days of constant bickering that'd been fun for them both, but threatened to turn too violent when they started debating whether or not Severus Snape was bad or good guy. He stayed with Hill for one night only. Not because of any conflict with either of them, but because she was a deep sleeper who lived under what sounded like a punk mariachi band made of vampires who only practiced from midnight to 5 AM. Clint had shown up on Fury's doorstep, not expecting to sleep there, but just to see that one vein in his head pulse.
Going to Steve hadn't even been a thought until Nat saw him eying one of the homeless shelters and gave him the man's address.
"I don't mind the couch, really," Steve says, even as Clint spreads out what is probably half of the man's own bedding on the couch, and normally he'd be all for taking advantage until the other person wises up and starts saying no. But that couch!
It's an insanely ugly grandma couch that still smells a little like powder but is hands down the most comfortable thing Clint has ever had the pleasure to sit on. He's not giving that thing up without a down and dirty fight. Not even to Captain America, or his kinda dorky alter-ego whom Clint found himself liking more and more off the field. "Nah, you wouldn't even fit, Cap. Let me have it tonight."
"Alright," Steve hovers uncertainly for a while as Clint plops a thin pillow down. Clint watches the man for a moment as he snaps a blanket over the couch.
Steve Rogers looks lost for what to do next, and that only reminds Clint that the man has only been in this new age for a few months. Clint can almost see him trying to figure out if what he's done is actually good enough or acceptable in this time as opposed to what he thinks is good enough and acceptable.
"Seriously, I'm fine," Clint falls onto the couch feeling the cushions mold around him just perfectly as he gives Steve a grin. "Thanks for letting me stay the night."
"It's not a problem. I'm not really used to being on my own like this. I always- well, it was nice having company?" Steve grins back and Clint nearly swears out loud. Would if it wouldn't make Steve think something's wrong. Because Clint can read in that smile how much he means those words.
Steve Rogers is lonely and lost in a world that probably wouldn't make much sense to him even if the city wasn't recovering from the devastation of the invasion. SHIELD has minimal contact with the man outside of briefings and the few missions that they'd managed to talk him into. Tony is Tony, and could go from smothering to MIA on the drop of a dime. Banner is holed up in the depths of Tony's tower and only the occasional report of sightings at a nearby tea shop keeps SHIELD informed of the man's continued presence in New York. Clint doesn't see the scientist wandering too far from his new cage willingly. Nat-
Well, Nat has her own problems with socializing, but Clint takes it as a good sign that she gave him Steve's address.
"I get you," Clint says as he stretches out on the couch. Folding his hands over his stomach and enjoying the fact that it's just long enough to hold him. He's nowhere near tired, but things are heading towards awkward and he really doesn't want that right now. "I'll get dinner tomorrow,"
"Sure," Steve accepts gracefully and turns into his own bed. Flicking off the few lamps until the only light is coming through the windows. More than enough for both of them to see by. Clint closes his eyes and just listens as Steve settles into the bed in the corner. It creaks and groans under his weight. The sheets rustle until he finds an acceptable position to sleep in. Then, the only sound is the ever present sound of the city and their soft breathing.
It's 10 PM and Clint is wide awake. Clint opens his eyes and studies the shadows cast by the light outside on the ceiling. He doesn't move because the noise might jolt Steve out of sleep, and, despite any evidence to the contrary, Clint knows how to be a good house guest. He kinda wishes there were a wall between them, or even a screen. Something that'd make him feel less guilty about moving around. Clint stretches his fingers, one by one, and decides to deal with it. It's not like he hasn't had to stay still in worse conditions for hours on end before.
Twenty minutes of silence later the bed creaks and Steve laughs. His voice is low and rueful, "I don't actually get to sleep before midnight most days."
"Stark'd have a heart attack if he heard you say that," Clint squints as Steve clicks on a small lamp attached to the wall with an arcane pattern of duct tape. "But, yeah, I'm usually up til one or two most nights."
"Tony has some really strange ideas about what people used to be like," Steve manages to wince and grin at the same time. "Television?"
"Why the hell not," Clint kicks the blanket away and swings his legs off to sit up.
The TV on the wall is big enough that it almost certainly came from Tony, but the minimal interface when Steve turns it on and flips through he channels speaks a lot more about Banner's involvement than anything else. Steve's got the hang of it, and Clint wonders how much time the man spends watching it.
"It helps," Steve says as he settles on something that looks vaguely science fiction, and completely 80's. "I think I've learned more about the world through movies and programs than anything else."
"That's kind of a terrifying thought," Clint eventually says after watching a man twitch strangely while being shot. He hates scenes like this, he's shot too many people to be fooled by squibs and fake blood. "Not surprising, but still terrifying."
Clint feels Steve's shrug and decides to see how much of the world Steve has actually seen in the morning. Maybe correct a few things that he knows Steve has to have picked up wrongly from the media. For that night though, they watch late night movies until they both pass out on Steve's comfortable couch.
.
.