Disclaimer: Nope, don't own.
A/N- Just a quick little one shot that was bouncing around my brain. When I was sick. So I'm not even sure how much sense this makes...oh well.
They barely make it through the door, hands scrabbling to remove the layers of clothes in the hurry to find skin (Need skin, must have, need to touch, need, need, need). The alcohol from an hour before thrums through them heats them and draws them closer together. Something falls off a shelf and shatters when Clint shoves too hard but they ignore it, backs hitting the wall, bare chests and mouths pressed so close together, teeth biting, tongues sucking.
The other man literally climbs his body, legs coming up to wrap around Clint's waist and he groans from the extra weight and the sudden pressure right where he needs it. They're not going to make it to the bedroom.
Clint presses forwards trapping the other man against the wall and gets a hand between them, getting zippers and buttons out of the way, reaching and grabbing, lining up them up and-
::
The next morning Clint peels his eyes open, rolls over to check the clock and groans because it is still far too early in the morning. His phone keeps up it's insistent ringing next to his bed though so with a grunt he reaches out and grabs it.
Tony's voice shoots through his skull and the fog of his hangover to remind him that they have an appearance in an hour and a half. He makes a joke about the bar the previous night (where Tony and Steve were the only sober people) and asks if Quicksilver is still there.
Clint squeezes his eyes shut and chances a glance at the other person still in his bed, snoring lightly. There's something beautiful about the way his silver hair falls down over his pale skin. He stops that train of thought- he's not supposed to think that, not allowed to think that. He isn't allowed to have this.
He hangs up promising to be on time and heads for the shower.
When he gets out, Pietro has wrapped himself up in all of the blankets and is watching him with cool blue eyes that Clint can never read.
"I've got to go." He says, scrambling to find the rest of his Hawkeye costume in his closet. "Avengers duties." And winces as he's saying this. Because Quicksilver is off active duty at the moment for…personal reasons.
"I see." Pietro says, sitting up.
Clint is momentarily struck breathless as the sheets pool around the other man's waist, showing off even more pale skin. His eyes are drawn to the dark bite mark that he knows he left. What he wouldn't give to be able to do it again without the help of the alcohol. Because that's what got them this far, that's what got Pietro into his bed. And. And he knows that Pietro has already realized what a mistake it was and Clint won't see him for a long time.
"Make yourself at home." Clint says because he knows Pietro won't be here when he gets back. In fact, he's not sure when he'll see the other man again. He pastes on a smile he doesn't feel and at the last moment leans in and steals a kiss.
He pulls back quickly and strides out of the room.
::
Clint thinks that they should just stop having Avenger appearances because they get attacked almost every time.
As it is, he's tired and sore when he finally manages to make it home a couple of hours later. He has his own room at the mansion but this time around he needed a bit of space.
Space. He has lots of that. Maybe too much of it.
He stops just inside of the door and blinks in surprise.
His tiny kitchen table is set for two, there's something that smells great cooking and Pietro is standing in the middle of it all looking smug. Probably because Clint is dumbstruck.
"I- you made…you're…" Here, his mind supplies helpfully. Pietro is still in his apartment even after Clint was sure he'd have left.
"The news said there had been an attack so I knew you would be late." Pietro turns back to whatever is cooking and the only way this would be more surreal is if the other man were wearing a kiss the cook apron. Clint wonders if he can get him to wear the one Jan bought him.
"The beef stroganoff is done." Pietro raises an eyebrow at him as if to say, well?
Clint snaps out of his daze, decides to go with it and settles in at the table.
"More alcohol?" Clint smirks; taking in the bottle of wine that he figures has to be very expensive.
Pietro rolls his eyes and pours himself a glass.
"Alcohol doesn't work very well on me." He says, smug and Clint feels like the clue bus has hit him. "I do not get drunk."
Oh.
He feels himself grinning and digs into the food, somehow not surprised that it's good.
And half way through dinner a foot brushes against his own, and it's not hand holding or anything (which Pietro would probably have some scathing remark about) but Clint returns the touch, feet tangling together and thinks maybe he can have this.