That American Dream (it'll get you everytime if you're not careful)
A Word: I write odd. Backwards and forwards and skipping big chunks of scenes. Which often leaves me with a ton written and no connecting material between the first chapter and the end chapters. Chapter 8 and part of 9 was that connecting bridge I've been missing for a while. Hence the multiple uploads. If I were smart I'd space them out, but I'm an impatient type of person in the end and I'm sure many of you out there are too. Please forgive these quick chapters. Or revel in them. Your choice really.
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Clint knows Nat got lucky when he comes in from a day spent on a range. Both the windows in the apartment are open, but there's not much of a breeze airing out the place. Nat's perched on the couch, her eyes lazy, as she silently laughs at Steve who looks like he's trying to fix a fan Clint swears he saw in the dumpster that morning. Steve fumbles the screwdriver when Clint comes in and quite obviously doesn't look up.
Clint grins at the hostile glare he gets from Nat. Her stare warning him of dire consequences if he does something to discourage this new change in their relationship. Clint slumps down onto the couch next to Nat and makes a show of watching the commercials, and pointedly doesn't say a single word. He's a good wingman after all, he's not going to cockblock Nat. Not yet at least. He'll wait until Steve loses some of his shyness to start needling them.
The heat of the glare on the side of his face is Nat's way of letting him know she's ready for this eventuality. Ready and willing to engage in bloody retribution.
"You're both ridiculous," Steve says suddenly, breaking the silence. Clint looks over with Nat at the man who is watching them from the floor with a kind of ridiculous looking grin. He laughs and pushes the fan pieces to the floor. Getting up and pushing at the both of them until there's enough space on the couch for him too.
They end up with Nat half sprawled in Steve's lap, Clint's legs under her and over Steve's legs. Steve doesn't flinch or shy away from Clint's sprawling, and Nat looks like the cat that got the cream, the bird, and a whole family of mice. It's a look that Clint's only really seen on her after a long mission goes their way in a grand finale of fire and blood.
She's content, and Clint couldn't be happier for her.
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Clint eventually bites the bullet and moves into the room Tony promised to hold for him, because even as great as they get along Clint has come to enjoy having some privacy. It's not that bad.
Tony stops showing up unannounced, overriding the door locks, the third time Clint pins him to the walls with a few arrows through the loose cloth of whatever shirt he was wearing. Banner gives him a considering look after he learns that and insists that Clint start calling him Bruce. Tony looks slightly alarmed at that conversation.
Clint doesn't see much of either Tony or Bruce. Tony flits around the world like a hummingbird on crack, and Bruce is perfectly content to put down roots in the labs. Most of his meetings with the two men occur in the elevators.
He finds himself gravitating to Steve's apartment despite having a two room suite with kitchen and living room of his own. He's grown familiar with Steve's one open room though and he finds himself returning to relax. Steve's not always in. Nat's taken to dragging him around the city on her own, and Steve has started spending more time in SHIELD facilities. Taking advantage of the gyms and ranges.
There's no noise coming from the apartment when Clint arrives with a six-pack of bottled root beer and a box of glazed donuts. He knocks quickly anyway, just in case. There's a pair of strappy heels tucked under the table next to the front door when Clint picks open the lock and lets himself in. He hooks his foot around one and pulls it out further. Nat had placed them a little too far under the table, Steve's more likely to see them if he trips over them.
Steve's fridge is greener than it was the last time Clint had seen it. An entire shelf filled with the same containers of cut vegetables that'd appeared in Clint's new fridge the day after he moved into the tower. Clint moves aside a tub of garlic hummus that he's surprised to see for the soda. Nat usually stays away from pungent smelling things when charming is called for on missions. He checks the freezer quickly, but the only things there are the same boxed dinners that Clint's sure Steve only bought because he thought he had to. There's no stack of various cuts of steak ready to be thrown onto a hot pan to be seared until it's hot enough to eat, but still disturbingly bloody and possibly mooing.
Watching Nat eat a steak she prepares herself is an experience. One that brings shark attacks to mind.
So, Nat's doing fine. She's still holding back some, but it doesn't look like she's retreating fully behind a mission mask. Not bad. Steve probably does need to be eased into the full extent of what dating Nat entails.
Clint grabs a doughnut and pokes around the rest of the apartment. There's a discreet black bag in the bathroom that he doesn't need to look through to know is filled with tampons and pads. Tucked out of sight and easily missed by Steve. Unlike the second toothbrush or the few cases of some of Nat's more neutral makeup. There's a few books that aren't new on Steve's shelves and don't look like the kind of reading the man would do unprompted. There's a single strand of red hair wound through the tines of a small black comb on the dresser. Clint doesn't go through Steve's clothes because that might just be a little too creepy. He already knows that there'll be at least two shirts folded up into the stack that smell just like Nat instead of whatever detergent Steve uses.
It's little things. Things that seem thoughtless and accidental except that Clint knows Nat.
Each item has been carefully examined and placed to her exacting calculations for the best effect. No matter where Steve is in the apartment, there's something of Nat in sight to remind him of her. It's a methodic approach that Clint decides to let go on. It's no more or less crazy than some of the steps that he's seen on magazine covers claiming to know how to get and keep men. Besides, Steve isn't as paranoid as Clint. He'll probably not flip out over the bit of manipulation like Clint had when he found her scent all over a shirt he damn well knew she'd never touched while he was around.
She's insinuating herself into Steve's life bit by bit, but, to be fair, so is Clint. A little.
There's a worn purple blanket folded over the back of the couch that he'd never bothered taking with him when he left. The not-so-decorative couch pillows are his too, and while they're ugly as sin they're also comfortable as fuck. There's a book or two on the shelf that neither Steve nor Nat would read, and the couch dips perfectly as he lays out on it. Blinking at the three chairs in the kitchen before pulling the blanket down and dozing off.
Just for a bit.
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Clint knows he's grown comfortable with Steve, truly comfortable, when he wakes up to the creak of springs and uneven breathing instead of the sound of the door scraping open. He rolls slightly so that his back is to the room and he can bury his face in the blanket. Steve's quiet, like the soldier he still is, used to the communal nature of open barracks and the unspoken nature of ignoring things. Nat, on the other hand, doesn't give a damn, and isn't even trying to stay quiet.
It's hard telling if this is another one of Nat's manipulations or tests. Steve's gone with it so Clint doesn't think it matters anymore. He makes himself doze off again. The noise fading away until actual words draw him back to consciousness. "-mind?"
"He has his own suite," Nat says and Clint rolls over. Stretching until his spine cracks and yawning wide. "He can deal."
"Do I get to know what I'm dealing with first?" Clint asks as he folds the blanket back up. Steve's by the fridge, fully dressed, and Nat's still on the bed in one of Steve's shirts and nothing else.
"Steve wants to make dinner," Nat says immediately.
"Oh," Clint squints at the stove. "Something big?"
"No, not really," Steve says immediately and then looks so sheepish that Clint expects a bunch of grandma's to come buy and start clucking at him. "My oven doesn't work though."
"And the stove top," Nat adds, her lips pursing in a small smile. "We had to throw out some marinated pork last night."
"Huh," Clint shrugs as they all turn to look at the appliance. It's clean looking, sure, but apparently there's a reason it came with the studio. "Yeah, no problem. Whenever you want, go ahead. I think Tony gave us all access, and Jarvis knows to let you both into my place anyway."
There's a silence that Clint almost misses until he looks up and catches the tail end of a series of speaking looks being exchanged. Clint feels a pang of pain that fades fast under a warm and fuzzy feeling that wants him to coo at Nat in a way too close to suicidal for comfort.
"Thanks," Steve says, a little slow, but truthful in his sincerity.
"We'll leave you the leftovers," Nat says as she rolls herself into the white sheets on the bed. Pulling a pillow close and looking like she has every intention of napping the day away.
"And the dishes," Clint says because he's not an idiot. He's cleaned up enough food messes that weren't his own to know Nat's dislike of the chore is almost pathological.
Nat ignores him, and Steve comes back with two drinks. Clint flips the TV on and turns the volume down before flipping through the channels. Stopping on a news channel when Steve makes an interested grunt. Clint lets the talking heads wash over him and relaxes while Steve seems to be paying attention. It's nice and comfortable, and Clint half dozes.
The feeling that the other shoe is going to drop is still there but Clint's used to living on borrowed time.
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