Author Note: originally written for a comment_fic prompt.


Campfire Stories

"Come on," Tony goads, dropping onto the couch next to Bruce without spilling a single drop of his whiskey. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

Clint thinks that he's invading Bruce's personal space more than anyone else would dare to, and not just physically, and maybe that's why Bruce lets him.

"My first year at college," Bruce says and then adds, with a self-depreciating smirk, "I would have been happy with a kiss at the door."

"Aww, how sweet," says Tony, transferring the whiskey to his right hand and throwing the other around Bruce's shoulders.

"The day I became I warrior I also became a man," Thor declares.

"Which would be when?"

"We do not count years in the manner of your people," says Thor, "but I think it would be thirteen."

"Huh." Tony downs half his drink like it's water. "Well that's me beat. I was fourteen. She was hot. What about you, Cap?"

Clint wonders if anyone has informed Tony yet that Steve can't get drunk. He certainly hasn't, because watching Tony ply Steve with drinks in the hope of getting god only knows what is all kinds of amusing.

"I haven't," says Steve and he doesn't sound embarrassed about it at all.

"Really?" says Tony. "Not ever?"

"Too busy saving the world," Steve tells him and Clint swears that when the Captain lifts his glass to drink it's to hide a smile.

"We can fix that," says Tony and Steve just shakes his head at him.

"Some of us like to wait for the right partner, Tony."

"Fine, fine." He raises his glass to Steve and finishes his whiskey, downing the second half. "And what about our Master Assassins?"

"No," says Natasha succinctly when Tony turns to her.

It's always a thing of beauty watching Tasha smack Tony down and Clint knows that she can do a lot more than a simple 'no' and a glare of death, even if those alone are making Tony shift uncomfortably in his seat, but Clint also suspects that the answer to Tony's question, for Tasha, is that she either doesn't know, or can't remember, or can't trust what she remembers.

"I tell the story about losing my virginity as a ghost story around campfires," Clint says, moving from where he's been sitting on the staircase to perch on the arm of Tasha's chair and drawing everyone's attention. "I have emotional problems."

"Don't we all," says Tony.

He laughs, rolls his eyes, and gets up to pour more drinks, for himself and anyone else who's glass is less than half full. Clint makes a mental note that the very mention of emotional problems makes Tony back off and doesn't retaliate when Tasha pinches his arm hard enough to leave a bruise. He knows a thank you when he feels it.