To Know His Is to Love Him
Chapter 2

He's in Target one day, looking for un-scented shampoo when he realizes he's not even shopping for himself.

It stops him short, face still scrunched up in a frown over the ridiculous pricings, and it takes a few moments for his brain to reboot after the revelation.

He's only had one serious relationship in his life and that never progressed past the leaving a toothbrush in the bathroom medicine cabinet stage. There was a time he wasn't used to sharing his space with another person… But then fucking Captain America and his rag-tag group of superhero rejects happened.

Glancing over the items in his red shopping cart, Sam remembers he only came there for more disposable razors. But those stupid chocolate turtles that Clint likes were on sale. And he was really tired of finding his sock drawer being raided by Steve, so Fruit of the Loom was in order. Buck has a thing for canned pastas (Sam chalks it up to years of being a solider. He remembers eating the worst kind of processed crap the first time he was on leave. Years of mess hall slop and MREs doesn't exactly build a discernible palate. And though there are years of differences between their war tours, that's one thing that hasn't change. Also, Spaghetti-Os are really good.) Nat had a preference of not smelling like anything after a shower (because hello, super spy and all) so he finds himself stocking up on fragrance-free everything soap related.

Hence the hair isle.

And yeah, he hasn't even gotten his razors yet. But the cart is full of crap for people he's not entirely even sure he likes (okay, that's a lie)… but sure do spend an unnecessary amount of time at his place, even though his name is the only one on the lease and they all have much better digs at Tony's newly Christened (and totes not overcompensating for anything) Avengers Tower.

"Mother fuc─"

His phone rings, sparing the old lady a few feet away from his curse and sparing him from her judgmental look. He fishes it out of the pocket of Steve's leather jacket and answers without looking.

"Tampons."

His frown deepens at Nat's voice.

"What?"

"I need tampons. The non-applicator kind. Also you need some disposable pie pans. Clint's trying to salvage that roast chicken carcass in your fridge."

Sam doesn't even know where she's been the past few weeks, but he's pretty certain he locked everything behind him and set the alarm before he left. But what really burns his ass is that he doesn't know how she knows he's shopping.

And this isn't the first time. He may or may not have a habit of checking himself over for the tracking devices she obviously has to be planting on him (honestly he starts to figure it might be an implant… there was that unexplained sore spot on his right ass cheek a few months ago and things got really awkward during his paranoid attempt to get someone to check for him.)

"Okay?"

Nat hangs up without replying, and Sam dutifully makes his way over to both the feminine hygiene and kitchenware isles. Standing in the checkout line he starts to ponder if there's some way all these purchases can become a tax write off.

::

There's a glass of wine waiting for him when he walks in his door. Clint hands it to him while simultaneously snatching a few bags out of his hand. The whole place smells like sautéing onions and garlic and his stomach gives an aggressive rumble. He doesn't realize how hungry he is until then.

And that tampers his irritation a bit. Clint could probably open up his own restaurant if he wanted; he's that good in a kitchen.

Sam hangs up Steve's jacket (he starts leaving it there whenever he's away on missions and Sam figures it's an excuse for him to come back. Not that he's complaining though. And he definitely doesn't enjoy wearing it or misses him or anything. It's just convenient, okay? Shut up.)

Nat's in the living room camped out, bare feet tucked under her with the TV going, a bag of chips on the table and an entire liter of peach soda he already knows she won't share.

Sam dumps the rest of the bags on the kitchen breakfast bar before heading her way, glancing at the flat screen.

"Real Housewives?"

"Yup."

She shifts over on the futon and he settles in next to her while Clint putters around in the other room. He kind of wants to call out to him to find out what's on the menu for the night, but he's not sure if the guy's hearing aids are turned up enough to hear him (he really has no love for reality TV, though Natasha can mainline an entire season of Top Model without even moving) or if he's wearing them at all (and Sam's not sure what to do with the realization that he's comfortable enough around him and in his place to do that.)

An episode and a half in, Clint slinks in and plops down next to him, throwing his arm carelessly around his shoulder.

"Pies are almost done," he says as he leans forward enough to snatch up Sam's almost empty wine glass off the coffee table. "Can we change this crap?"

Natasha tosses the remote his way before getting up to unpack the rest of the Target bags. Clint flips aimlessly through channels before finally settling on the news.

"So," Sam starts. "Pies?"

"Yup, my Aunt Tina's pot pie recipe."

He nods, grabbing his glass back to finish off the last few sips. The weather comes up and they watch silently for a few minutes.

"Temps supposed to drop down tonight." Clint says after a while.

Sam already knows where this conversation is heading and he's shaking he head without even consciously thinking about it.

"No Barton! It's not gonna happen."

Clint's face gets all adorably scrunched up.

"Come one, just for the night? You don't want him to freeze out there, do you?"

Sam tries to pull off the Unmoving Parental Unit Face his mother was notorious for.

"That mangy mutt still has some fur left. It's not going to get below freezing. He'll survive in that… that thing you built him."

(That thing was a thing he salvaged out of some balsa wood, a few nails and the pillows and flannel sheets Steve and Bucky destroyed in some erotic escapade that Sam is still pissed he wasn't there for. Clint claims it's a dog house. Sam is just glad his backyard is surrounded by an 8 foot fence so his neighbors won't complain about the complete offense of it all.)

Nat breezes back through and reclaims her previous spot, this time settling her legs on both their laps.

"It's name is Lucky. And he likes Vienna Sausages."

Sam doesn't ask how she knows this. There's already a bag of dog food that's sitting in the corner of his laundry room for a dumb ass animal that only really likes Clint (who's hardly ever around.) And sometimes Bucky. But defiantly not him. And it's not fun when he's trying to feed him and he's growling over his food bowl (that once was a soufflé thing that his sister got him. He knows he shouldn't be so upset about a dish he's never had a use for, but it's the principle of it all that gets him huffy.) Knowing it's preference for canned meat that isn't specifically dog food related is just a little too much for him.

Clint's hand slides up the leg of Natasha's pajama pants absentmindedly, stroking her skin with his thumb.

"Just for the night? He won't make any trouble."

Sam almost rolls his eyes.

"I think you'd better check those pies. They smell like they might be done."

It's a poor attempt at a change of subject, but Clint doesn't call him out on it. Instead he squeezes his shoulder briefly before hauling butt back to the kitchen. He and Nat share a look when he's gone, and all she does is shrug her shoulders before asking him to pass back the remote.

::

Hours later he wakes up from a nightmare and Nat's standing in his bedroom doorway in just a tee and her underwear.

The sight of her chases away his thoughts of Riley and endlessly falling. He sits up while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"What's up?" He asks.

There's enough ambient light coming through his curtains to catch her smirk.

"Barton's snoring."

It's a lie. Sam knows it just a much as she does. None of them make that much noise while sleeping. They wake up from it just as quietly as they fall into it (when it actually comes… all of them are case studies for insomnia) unless of course those bad memories start reeking havoc on them.

He figures she heard his thrashing. It's not the first time and won't be the last. But Steve's not there to sooth him back to sleep, so he throws his sheets and comforter back as in invite and she slides in the bed with him.

They spoon, her very well shaped rear pressed hard into his crotch. Her feet are cold, but he ignores that in favor of catching the scent of Clint's favorite aftershave clinging to the space where her shoulder and neck meet. His hand slips under her shirt and he suddenly thinks he really misses breasts.

"You need a girlfriend."

Her voice is all husky with sleep and that really does a thing to him.

He buries his face in her hair and takes a few seconds to reply.

"Working on it."

There's an implication there. But neither one of them call it out.

::

Clint's flea ridden dog is sitting on the side of his bed when he wakes up later.

The dog's owner is also wrapped around him like a koala with one hand shoved down the front of his boxers and it's still one kind of wake up he hasn't gotten used to.

Sam stays awake long enough to hear Nat and Steve's voices drifting in from the kitchen (and wow he's back and he'll be able to properly great him once Clint stops acting like they're attached twins) and there's the smell of waffles or crepes being cooked drifting in the room.

He eyes the maybe lab, maybe retriever mix with narrowed lids and all it does is licks it's chops after an unimpressed yawn, before settling down on his hardwood floors that already have too many scratches and grooves in them.

There's no way he's getting his security deposit back.

And he's gonna have to bomb the place.

::

After breakfast he heads to the shower, only to realize he forget to get his razors.

But he's been making due with Nat's lady Bics for a while now. So he'll live.