Again, just a little snippet from the closet to prove that I still exist. Updates on new stories are works in progress, which are currently on hold until I figure out a way to make my bills pay themselves. :P
With a small grin still lighting his face from his chance meeting with Sharon on the stairwell, Steve keyed open his apartment and stopped short in the doorway. Staged laughter crashed into him. A second later, the obnoxious commotion was repeated. He stiffened. The noise could only be coming from his television set, the one that SHIELD left for him when they assigned him the room, the one he didn't need and didn't want but kept in his living room anyway. He hardly knew how to turn the new-fangled contraption on, let alone how to program it to receive stilted comedies from the Eighties. Never before having had an intruder in his house, Steve was unsure whether it was common practice for the burglar to sit down for reruns of cheap sitcoms or not.
Carefully, he closed the door behind him without a sound. Slipping down the hallway, keeping his back to the wall, he made his way further into the apartment. The shelves SHIELD had filled with decorative bowls allowed him to peer around the corner. Without taking his eyes off the flickering shadows cast on the cream-colored walls by the light from the T.V. screen, he bent and retrieved his shield from where it leaned against the woodwork.
Avoiding the boards that would creak beneath his weight, he sneaked up on the couch and the inhabitant he could just see the outline of lounging upon it. His shield held in his right hand, arm near chest level in a defensive position, he advanced and was about to demand the mysterious prowler identify themselves, when they did so without his urging.
"Come on, just tell her you love her!" the figure on the sofa shouted, leaning forward enthusiastically, as if the fictional characters from a thirty-year old recorded show could hear him.
Lowering his weapon, Steve sighed and flipped on the light switch. A surprised groan left the other person as they threw an arm over their face to block out the unexpected brightness.
"Ow." A muttered exclamation.
"What are you doing here, Barton?" Steve questioned as he set his shield on the floor. "I thought you were in New York."
"I got bored," Clint shrugged, shutting off the T.V. with the touch of a button.
"So you decided to travel the two hundred miles from there to here?" Steve inquired skeptically, coming over to stand in front of his uninvited house guest.
"Hey, when Tony Stark lets you borrow his private jet, you don't say no to a little vacation," Clint explained, reaching toward the coffee table for the bottle of beer he'd purchased from a diner down the street and taking a swig.
"And by 'borrowing' you mean…?" Steve raised an eyebrow.
Clint paused mid-swallow and looked up at the suspicious captain. He gulped down his mouthful quickly. "Well, he might not know it's missing yet. But he obviously wasn't using it so it's completely okay for me to have it," he excused himself.
Steve shook his head, snorting. "You don't change, do you, Barton?"
Lips curling into a smirk, Clint stretched back into the couch cushions, bringing his arms up behind his head. "What can I say? I make routine look good."
"Why are you really here?" Steve inquired quietly, seeing right through the other man's casual attitude.
Smile fading, Clint bowed his head a moment before looking back up at Steve. "I never could get anything past you." He rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "It wasn't my idea to come here." At Steve's unspoken question, Clint tugged up his the leg of his pants to expose a bulky cast.
Steve sucked in a sharp breath. "What happened?"
"Long story short, my calf and the grill of a pickup don't mix." Clint regarded his injury nonchalantly.
"Does it hurt?" Steve knelt and inspected it more closely.
Tossing a hand at the blond head by his knee, Clint responded, "Nah, it's fine."
Steve frowned but didn't press the issue further. Rising, he started for the kitchen to fix refreshments for his visitor. "You still haven't told me why you're here," he reminded.
"Oh, right." Clint shifted into a more comfortable position. "It was either this or the hospital for three weeks."
Nearly stumbling in surprise, Steve whirled around. "You're planning on being here for three weeks?!"
"Is that a problem?" Clint aimed the inquiry over his shoulder while scanning the television remote for the button he wanted.
"Well, no, but…I-no, I guess not," Steve spluttered a protest before changing his answer to agreement. "Did you bring any spare clothes?"
"No."
"A sleeping bag?"
"Uh-uh."
"Toothbrush?"
"Nope."
Steve threw his hands in the air. "How is this going to work?"
"I dunno," Clint twisted around, folding his forearms over the back of the couch and resting his chin on them. "You're the Man With The Plan. I was hoping you would figure something out." He smiled innocently.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve blew out a breath. "Okay, I'm going to make some popcorn and then I'll think of something."
"Yeah!" Clint cheered. "This is gonna be the best three weeks of my life!"
A cell phone shrieked out a pounding ring tone and Clint lazily dug it out of his pocket, reading the caller ID. "Oops. It's Stark. I guess he noticed the missing jet."
Steve rolled his eyes and headed off to prepare the snack, wondering how he was going to survive three weeks with the unusual archer.