Clint | Wanda
MON 8 JUNE
Love. The word hangs heavily in the air, lingering between them. Clint's up and on his feet, waving one hand around vaguely, while the other is currently jammed in his mouth as he chews on the edge of a blunt nail.
It's not like he doesn't mean it, because he does.
He means it so much that it feels like his chest is going to explode from the pressure of it. For months, Clint's had a lot of trouble distinguishing truth from lie: Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry about it. No, it doesn't hurt that Laura and I split up. My shoulder's good. Business is going great. Stark didn't break the heart that nobody knows I have. You're just a kid that I don't even like.
This, though, feels like a truth. Clint's willing to run with it.
Or, at least he was willing to run with it. That is until he notices the strange look on Pietro's face. Something that makes Clint's insides feel all uneasy and jittery, and not in a good way. He's not sure if the heart hammering away in his chest, thumping incessantly against his ribcage, could handle the rejection.
"You love me." Pietro says, and he's still staring at Clint like he's an alien, or like a head has sprouted out of his shoulder.
And, truth be told, Clint's not sure which option he would prefer, but he's leaning towards the alien thing - that, or the extra head protruding out of his shoulder, instead of knowing that Pietro's looking at him like that, because of love.
Love. Stupid, ill-timed, all-consuming.
"What, like it's a big deal? It's not." Clint says, too fast.
He's surprised that Pietro even manages to make sense of the words, but he does, and it doesn't seem to be what he was hoping for. And it's not really how Clint wanted it to go either, but it is what it is: something else that Clint can add to the list of things he really screwed up.
"Not that big of a deal." Pietro deadpans.
"It doesn't have to be."
Bad answer. Wrong answer. Apparently, trying to make it into less of a big deal only makes Pietro get all flustered, and frowny. His lips draw into a thin, pale line, and there's seriously way too much frowning going on. He looks so fucking hurt, like he's actually stung by Clint's attempts at downplaying the whole ordeal, and Clint wants to punch himself in the face just to wipe that look off of Pietro's.
Maybe it'll make them both feel a little better.
Pietro shifts on his feet, like he's unsure of himself (or of Clint, maybe). "What does that mean?" he asks.
It's a mess. Clint's good at making those. He wishes that he knew what it meant, what any of it meant. Instead, he's just one big, nervous, rambling mess. All he wants to do is fix it, maybe rewind time and erase all of it from Pietro's memory.
"Listen, I didn't even realize I said the L word." Clint weakly explains. "This wasn't something I planned, if that makes it any better. We can go back to how it was before. Just pretend that it didn't happen. That includes you, Wanda, I know you're listening in from the kitchen."
By this point, Pietro's shut down, with his walls up high.
Zoned out, and far away from Clint and his stupid, stupid rambling. He's got his arms crossed over his chest and he's-yep, he's definitely pouting, but not in a cutesy and only a little annoyed way. He seems stunned, and that doesn't fade at all, when he next speaks. It couldn't come soon enough, really, and Clint's almost relieved to hear the sound of his voice, even in such weird circumstances.
"I-" Pietro opens his mouth, closes it. He shakes his head slowly, like he's turning a decision over and over, and he can't make up his mind. "But you did say it. That you love me. You said it."
Clint nods, then reaches out to pat Pietro's shoulder, but aborts the movement halfway there, because seriously, a clap on the shoulder is the worst thing he could do right now. Dropping his hand back down to his side awkwardly, Clint glances away, looks down at the socks on his feet, the carpeted floor, the pieces of a pillow fort scattered all around them.
He's hesitant about meeting Pietro's gaze again. When he does, it's just a whole lot of nothing. A blankness, that's somehow worse than that scrunched up, pained look from before.
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did."
So, that was probably the worst thing Clint could do right now, judging by Pietro's, well, everything. Face, posture, body language. He blinks, a lot, like he's experiencing the same type of malfunction that Clint's mouth is apparently suffering from.
Less than thirty seconds later, Wanda breezes through the room with a handbag draped over her arm and a set of shiny, colorful keys in her hand. "I'm going to the store."
"I think I will join you." Pietro says and he's halfway out the door before Clint even registers that he's leaving.
"But you don't have any shoes on." is all Clint manages to get out, and is rewarded by Pietro flipping him the bird. It isn't like he doesn't deserve it, because he does. Such a fucking mess, Clint thinks, as Pietro ducks back inside to pull on the pair of old boots that belong to Clint.
He doesn't say that though.
He doesn't say a damn thing.
Pietro's gone, out the door, down the stairs, gone. Wanda lingers in the hallway, returning inside only to smack Clint quite literally upside the head. He deserves it. Once she's gone, Clint's left standing in an apartment that isn't his, in clothes that don't belong to him (they're oversized, warm, and smell faintly of Pietro) and he's alone.
Alone, just like he wanted to be for so long, until he didn't, until Pietro came along with his bright smiles and his shit taste in movies, and he swept into Clint's life like a storm, throwing everything else into complete and utter chaos.
Maybe he'll finally get his wish. He wanted to be alone for so long that he forgot how good it felt to not be. Thing is, he's never been great with love. He's only ever wanted to stay with the ones that would crush him and, eventually, inevitably, break his heart (re: Tony Stark).
Clint cards a hand through his hair and shakes his head. This is exactly why he shouldn't be allowed to speak, ever, because he's pretty much an expert at putting his foot in his mouth. He excels at it, actually.
And then there's Pietro, with his heart on his sleeve and his big blue eyes, and Clint probably doesn't deserve him. Actually, he knows he doesn't. Clint drops down onto the edge of the couch and puts his face into his hands.
He sits there for a good twenty minutes, at least, before he realizes that the Maximoff siblings aren't coming back anytime soon, and he can't really blame them. He'd stay away, too, if he could. Clint's itching for a cigarette, of all things, and rifles through a couple drawers and cabinets in the kitchen before finding a crumpled packet, hidden away in one of the lower drawers, along with a brass Zippo lighter. He swipes his phone up off of the kitchen table, steps into a pair of shoes that clearly belong to Pietro-judging by size, and also a little by style, because they're huge, way too big for Wanda's dainty feet. They're also black and white Adidas high tops, which Pietro's talked and talked about to Clint for hours-and then he heads up to the roof.
Wanda mentioned it earlier that morning at breakfast, over a bowl of soggy cereal; something about the view, the sunset, and how lovely the sky looks with all its shades of pink and orange, right before night creeps on over.
Right now, though, in the smack bang middle of the day, it isn't much to look at: clear blue skies and a bright sun, sure. Two hideous beach lounge chairs that are multi-colored, ugly, and not even a little inviting, along with a tacky pink flamingo and a garden gnome. There are some very dead plants scattered across the rooftop, all brown and shrivelled. Clint reaches out to pluck a leaf off of a nearby plant and closes his fingers around it, but it crumbles to dust in his hand. He pulls a face and wipes his palm off on his sweatpant bottoms.
Except they're not his, not really.
Clint toys with the hem of his V-neck shirt, for a moment. Another one of Pietro's belongings. It's rolled up to the elbows on Clint, and not because it's too big like Pietro had teased him about earlier, but just because. Then, without thinking, Clint turns and ducks his head towards his shoulder, inhaling the lingering scent: minty, some sort of washing detergent, and Pietro's cologne.
"Great work." Clint mutters, dropping down onto one of the lounge chairs. "You really screwed this one up."
He's surprised to find that it's actually pretty comfy, despite looking uncomfortable and kind of on the crappy side. It's the less ugly chair, at least; a mix of orange, yellow and white stripes. Clint reclines in the beach chair, crosses his legs over at the ankles, and switches his phone on. He plucks a cigarette out of the faded packet and holds it between his lips, unlit.
Camel.
Not really Clint's favorite brand, but, when he's the kind of guy that stress smokes after accidentally blurting out the L word during a conversation about pillow forts and Frozen, with his boyfriend that shares an uncanny resemblance with one of the main characters from a movie that Clint's only watched once and never again, he can't really complain. Well, he can, but he won't.
A text comes through from Wanda, buzzing against Clint's thigh. He keeps the smoke poised between his lips, dangling, as he reads the message and types up a swift reply. And then another, because any remaining self-control he possessed has gone out the window today, apparently, and anything is possible.
[12:49PM]:
We shouldn't be long. Make yourself at home.
[12:53PM]:
Tried that already and it didn't go so well.
[12:57PM]:
Look, I know I screwed up. No one's surprised. I should've just stopped talking and now I don't know what to do about it. Everything else is kind of a blur. Pietro left and then you hit me and I don't know what to do next. Will you be gone long? Don't let him overdo it. You know what he's like.
[12:59PM]:
Yes, I know what Pietro is like. I also know that this isn't a conversation you should be having with me, Clint. Whatever happened, it's between the two of you and no one else.
[1:03PM]:
I get it. I'll leave you out of it.
[1:06PM]:
You should. But it's a little late for that, isn't it?
Clint's eyes slip shut. He finds himself nodding along in agreement, because yeah, it's definitely a little late for that. It's way too late for regret, and wanting to redo a moment that was supposed to be something warm and special, not this, whatever this is. He cracks an eye open and peers down at his phone when it vibrates again. Clint swipes open the lockscreen and reads the entirety of Wanda's message, not just the preview.
[1:11PM]:
You were wrong when you said that love isn't a big deal. It is. My brother's only ever loved three people in his entire life - me and our parents. That's it. I think he wanted this moment to be a little different than what it was. That doesn't make it a bad moment though.
[1:13PM]:
His face. The second I said it, he got this look. I just had to take it back so he'd stop looking at me like that.
[1:16PM]:
Like what?
[1:18PM]:
....
[1:20PM]:
Like maybe he felt the same. Or didn't, and he never will. It just scared me, alright?
[1:26PM]:
Don't tell him I said that.
[1:30PM]:
I won't.
[1:34PM]:
If you're still there when we come back, then you can help me with dinner, because Pietro never does We're having risotto.
[1:35PM]:
I'd like it if you were there, but the decision is yours to make. X
I'm not a runner, Clint types up, but it's a lie. He didn't run away from Laura, sure, but he might as well have. It's not like he made that much of an effort towards the end. Sometimes, every so often when Clint's had a little too much to drink and is dancing on this side of nostalgia, he wonders if it would've been kinder to leave, to avoid all of the mess that came shortly after.
Unsure of what to say, or how to say it, Clint switches his phone to silent and sets it down on the ground, sliding it underneath the lounge chair. Then, he flicks open the lid of the Zippo lighter with his thumb and strikes down on the wheel three times before the flame catches.
Once the cigarette is lit, Clint knocks the lid of the lighter back down and tucks it into the half-empty Camel carton.
The sun beats down on the rooftop, harsh and nearly blinding. Clint blinks, hard, but still sees spots in his vision as he glances away. He drinks up the warm rays, letting it soak into his already sun-kissed skin, and draws back on the smoke pinched between forefinger and thumb; lazy, unhurried. Pietro's shoes are more than a size too big, and hang off of Clint's feet loosely.
He exhales a cloud of smoke, then tips his head back, reclining further.
After he's finished with his cigarette, after he stubs it out on the concrete until the specks of amber fade away to nothing, and there's only a thin trail of smoke left, wafting up into the sky, Clint's eyes slide shut and he dozes off. Not for long, though, but it's good while it lasts. His dreams are fuzzy, yet sweet, somehow. Pietro's there, smiling at Clint from across a bustling crowd at a neon-colored carnival, across the kitchen table, a crowded room full of faces that Clint doesn't recognize, or care for. It doesn't last. Clint's brought back into the present by something nudging at his ankle.
Clint frowns, cracking open an eye, then the other.
The cigarette packet falls from Clint's lap and onto the floor as he sits up, practically jumping out of his skin. Pietro's eyes flick down to the shiny shoes on Clint's feet (a little scuffed, sure, but pretty much perfect apart from that) before travelling back up to his face. Clint's legs already feel unsteady, so he doesn't even try to stand up.
"I thought you were gone. That you went home." Pietro admits, arms folded across his chest. He's standing right in front of the sun, blocking it from beating down on Clint. "But here you are, sunbaking on my rooftop. Should I fetch the sunblock?"
He moves, then, a little to the left, and Clint has to lift a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the light. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, hanging a lot lower than it was before, it's later. That's all Clint's got. Later. Possibly hours, and probably not minutes.
"That's not what I'm doing." Clint argues. "And since when is this your rooftop? You own the building, do you? I'm not sunbaking."
Pietro considers that, humming quietly. "Well, that's what it looks like." he says, shifting so he's blocking the sun again, keeping the harsh rays out of Clint's eyes and off of his face. He tilts his head to the side "Were you smoking?"
"Bad habit."
"Mm."
It's painfully anticlimactic. Clint's heart is still thumping away in his chest cavity, and he wants nothing more than to reach out and tangle his fingers with Pietro's own, to kiss that spot below his collarbone, to brush the strands of silver out of his eyes. Instead, he looks down at his hands, as if he's inspecting his skin for flecks of paint, searching for something that isn't there.
Above him, Pietro makes a point of clearing his throat, drawing Clint's gaze upwards.
"We're gonna talk about it now, aren't we." Clint murmurs. "Alright. If we're really doing this, I might as well start. I'm not taking it back. Sure, I didn't even realize I said it, but I still meant it. I do. Yeah, it'd just about kill me if you didn't feel the same, but something tells me you do. Or did, before I screwed it all up. To be fair, you had this look, like you didn't-"
"You read minds, do you?" Pietro interrupts, amused. The corner of his mouth is pulled up at the corners, like he's fighting a smile. "How do you know what I'm feeling, or what I'm thinking? You don't. Not unless I tell you."
"Alright, so I'm no telepath, but it seemed obvious."
Clint moves to stand up at the exact moment that Pietro takes a step forward, sitting precariously on the edge of the lounge chair. One of his hands brushes over the exposed skin of Clint's ankle, just above the high tops that are shiny and pristine, and definitely not Clint's. Too big, too unscathed, and not really Clint's style. He usually goes for paint-splattered combat boots. Pulling himself away from his inner musings about shoes, Clint glances up at Pietro, who looks deep in thought.
Not lost, just deep in thought. Quiet reflection, apparently, that's not meant for Clint's ears. Still, he doesn't disturb the silence with some smartass comment, or another ill-timed confession, even if he might want to. He sits and waits, quiet, patient. A little on edge, hoping that Pietro will come back to him.
"Did you," Pietro's voice breaks a little. He tries again. "Did you mean it? Yesterday, before I left for the store, before any of this happened, you said that you could love me, but you weren't there yet. I want to know what changed. Will you tell me? And don't joke about it. Just tell me what changed."
"I did."
Pietro's face says it all, really. "In such a short time?"
"What, so you've never had a realization hit you out of nowhere?" Clint asks, sinking back in the chair. "It was sudden, like a smack in the face. It felt a little like that, I guess. When I realized." Like all the air was sucked out of my lungs, he almost adds.
"Mm. You still took it back."
"Because I thought that's what you wanted."
The wind picks up a little, then, blowing Pietro's hair around wildly, streaking the long strands across his face. Clint sits up, moves so that he's closer to Pietro and his narrowed blue eyes. A hand curls around Clint's ankle. Deft, slightly calloused, fingers slide up the back of his calve, up, up, to curl loosely around his knee.
"Why don't you ask me, hm?" Pietro says. "Ask me what I want, old man, instead of guessing. That only leads to this. To misunderstandings. Just ask."
Clint nods, a little breathless, maybe. He's struck with the sudden urge to pull Pietro into his arms and hold him close against his chest. "I should probably do that, yeah." he pauses, hesitating. "I'm just-I'm no good at this. Any of it. When I've got something good, I ruin it. And I always let the good one go. And you, well, I think I fell too hard and way too fast. That's not usually how it works with me. Not really."
"Oh? Then how does it work?"
"I haven't had many lasting relationships."
"That makes two of us."
"But you're young," Clint begins, and, when Pietro throws him a mildly annoyed look, he swiftly adds: "Younger. Come on, quit looking at me like that. You are younger than me, so you have plenty of time for, y'know, adult relationships."
"And that's what this is? An adult relationship?" Pietro tilts his head to the side, curious gaze sweeping over Clint and his slightly ruffled attire. "You know, you don't look that much older."
Clint's smile comes unbidden. "You really hate that I'm older than you, don't you? Yeah, that's right. Wanda told me everything. She told me all about how you brag about being the older twin, even if it's only by a couple minutes. This, though, this gap between us, is more than a couple minutes. We're talking years, Quicksilver. Not minutes, but a whole decade."
Pale wisps of hair spill across Pietro's face and into his eyes, like uneven, badly cut bangs. "Would you still be saying this if we had met a decade earlier?"
"Babe," Clint says gently. "If we'd met ten years ago, this would be a very different conversation. Actually, I don't think we'd know each other at all. You'd be fifteen and I'd be the age you are now, so no, I wouldn't be saying any of this. We wouldn't know each other. I don't wish for that - that we met a decade ago, because none of this could've happened. I'd just like a couple extra years. That's all. Three, maybe four. I was different back then. Might've been easier."
"I like you how you are now."
"So you do like me? I'm glad we got that cleared up." Clint smirks. "You had me worried, kid. Worried that my charms had worn off."
A hand shoves Clint back, down onto the lounge chair. Pietro follows shortly after, crawling right up into Clint's lap. The angle is a little awkward, since Pietro's still injured and Clint's hyperaware of that as the fair-haired man fists a hand in the front of his shirt and pulls him up, closer, as if it's somehow possible to have less distance between them when they're already as close as physically possible on the crappy orange and white and -
Clint forgets all about the stupid chair when Pietro ducks his head and captures Clint's mouth in a heated, almost bruising, kiss.
Now, that leaves him breathless. When he pulls back, there's a faint, subtle pink color to Pietro's cheeks, and a smile playing on his lips. Clint slides a hand around to the base of his neck, fingertips grazing over the fine hairs there. It makes Pietro's skin erupt in goosebumps. Or maybe that's because of the slightly chilly breeze that washes over them and sends strands of his hair astray again.
"What do you want?" Clint asks, before he realizes the words have even slipped out of his mouth. "You told me to ask, so I am. Whatever it is, I'll do it. Just say the word."
There's something devious underneath Pietro's smile, lingering a moment, before he shakes his head and puts on a very serious face. So serious, in fact, that Clint's own smile falls away, out of fear that maybe he finally pushed it too far and screwed up too much with the whole L word thing.
"I want to know why you said it wasn't a big deal." Pietro nods, as if reassuring himself that yes, this is what I want. A glint still remains in his eyes, though, that says, for now. He's fickle by nature, Clint's come to learn, but he's not really one to talk.
"Because I thought that's what you wanted."
"Why would you think that?"
Clint chews on the inside of his mouth. He keeps a hand planted firmly on the back of Pietro's neck, when he answers. "It's stupid, now that I think about it." he says, hesitating. "You didn't even see the messages."
"Messages about what?"
"About love."
"What about it?" he pushes.
"See, I-well, I said that I could love you. That I could feel that way, someday, and I wasn't there yet. You remember that, right? When you stopped answering, before I knew why," he pauses. "I started thinking that maybe it had something to do with me not saying it. That I loved you. And that was why you weren't texting back."
"You thought I was upset with you."
Clint nods belatedly in agreement, because that's exactly what he thought at the time, until he learnt that the reason behind Pietro's silence was a little more sinister. He averts his eyes, momentarily, and thinks back on earlier that day, how he went into full panic mode, tried to do damage control before the situation could escalate and get any worse (surprise, it could and it most definitely did, but then again, Clint's mother always did say that life got worse before it got better. He's still not sure how much he believes in that though).
"Well, you weren't answering, so I guessed it was because of me." Clint admits. "Yeah. I was so worried about not being ready to say it that I didn't even think about whether you were ready to hear it. You're so goddamn young. Stuff like this, it's heavy, and I thought I'd give you a choice."
"By taking it back?" Pietro asks. "That gives me a choice, to do what? Leave?"
Then, he turns his head inwards, unintentionally mirroring Clint's earlier actions, when he stopped to inhale the lingering scent of Pietro's cologne on his borrowed clothes. Pietro's lips brush lightly over the inside of Clint's elbow. There's a soft exhale, cold air ghosting over bared skin, before Pietro lifts a hand up to rest atop of Clint's own, where it's still resting lightly on the back of his neck. The black tape wrapped around Clint's fingers must feel coarse and irritating, and catch on Pietro's skin, because the younger man pulls a face, pulls Clint's hand away from his neck and brings it down between them.
Gently, Pietro turns Clint's hand over and traces the deep, worn lines of his palm, examining it closely. He runs his index finger over callouses and faded scars, dipping lower to brush over the crease and bend of his wrist, the faint throb of a steady pulse.
"Yeah." Clint says, a beat late. He shifts a little, but, with Pietro's knees planted on either side of his thighs, it's difficult to move that much. Or at all, really. "If that's what you wanted. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it and come on too strong."
Pietro hums quietly, like he's giving Clint's answer some consideration, though probably not a lot since he's still very fixated on tracing the lines of Clint's hand, over and over, as if he's memorizing them. Putting them away for a rainy day, something to remember him by.
"Do you want to know what I think?" Pietro asks, finally, and it makes Clint release a breath he didn't even realize he was holding in.
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead."
"I think," he trails off, a smile on his lips. "I think you love me and I think this scares you. And before you go and do that," he holds a hand up, pressing one finger against Clint's mouth to actually, physically, shush him. "Just wait. Listen. Are you listening?"
Clint, a fully grown man who's on the brink of turning thirty-five, actually considers petulantly biting on Pietro's finger, just because. He doesn't do it, though, even if he does give it a full ten seconds of serious consideration. In the end, he simply nods along mutely, even tacks on a smile just so he can watch Pietro's smirk spread further across his face.
"If it scares you, maybe that's a good thing, no?" he dips his head a little, to get a better look at Clint's eyes. "Maybe this is how you know it means something. You love me, yes? That's all it is. Love."
He says it differently, this time around. He says the word love like it's something he's only just realizing - like maybe it's finally sinking in, now, and it makes him look at Clint like he's only just seeing him for the first time.
There's something cocksure and pleased about it, though, that warms Clint right up. It's contagious, and erases whatever lingering doubts that Clint once clutched to his chest. He's barely given a moment to breathe before Pietro's on him, again, peppering kisses along the underside of his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. Pietro's so pleased with himself. With this, with them, and Clint can't stop the quiet, breathy laugh that spills between them.
Somehow, he's not scared anymore. Not even a little.
Clint winds his arms around Pietro's shoulders and pulls him down, so that he's pressed snug against him, chest-to-chest, because all he's wanted to do since Pietro walked away was hold him. Find him, keep him, hold him. There isn't much room on the longue chair for both of them, but Clint's resigned himself to the fact that he's not moving.
Ever.
Not if it means disrupting this sweet, tender little moment.
He buries his face into the crook of Pietro's neck and stays there, until the sky changes all around them (from blue to pink to orange), until it grows darker and colder, and even Pietro's arm draped over Clint's waist, heavy and solid, isn't enough to keep him completely warm. It's only when he feels Pietro shiver against him-it's barely noticeable, really, except it's kind of hard to miss it when they're like this, so close that not much goes unnoticed-that it occurs to Clint to go back inside. He climbs to his feet, after Pietro does, then crouches down low to gather up his phone and the borrowed cigarette carton that he has every intention of returning. Eventually. He's just grateful that these sweatpants have pockets.
Slowly, they head inside and down the stairwell; all lazy, unhurried steps, and intertwined fingers.
Pietro keeps stopping Clint along the way to pull him in close for quick, hurried kisses. They're acting like a pair of lovesick teenagers that can't keep their hands off each other. Impatience rolls off of Pietro in waves as they reach the apartment door and he proceeds to crowd Clint up against it, dipping his head just enough to be able to capture Clint's mouth, with more heat behind it this time.
More teeth and tongue, and wandering hands.
Dizzy with love, or lust, or both, Clint allows himself this: to indulge in Pietro, in the same way that Pietro is indulging in him, by running his hands over Clint's broad shoulders and down his torso, fingers snagging in the front of his shirt. He learns the curve of Clint's spine, the way his back arches when Pietro sucks a spot on his neck hard enough to leave a mark.
It's deliberate, of course.
Almost everything about Pietro is deliberate, even if he's just doing it to be an asshole, there's always a motive.
Like, when he kicks Clint's ankle, hard, under the table to provoke him, or when he shoves the last slice of banana bread into his mouth to stop Wanda from having it, it's done with intent. More often than not, Pietro acts with the intent to piss off, or annoy, but not always. Sometimes, he just likes seeing what kind of reaction he can draw from others, especially Clint. He's a curious thing, even more so now, when he's got Clint wedged between himself and the door, his hands planted firm on the older man's hips.
"I like you in my clothes." Pietro murmurs, as he trails an index finger along the V part of Clint's V-neck, the hollow of his throat. And, despite belonging to Pietro who is really only a couple sizes larger than Clint, the shirt is surprisingly tight. It's a snug fit. "Except maybe not my shoes." he adds, an afterthought.
"Well, you ran off with mine first, Quicksilver. What was I supposed to wear? It was either these," Clint says, and makes a point of sticking his left foot out. The shoe, unlike the shirt, isn't a tight fit. "Or nothing at all."
"And what would be so bad about that?" Pietro asks, all wide-eyed and faux innocence. "About nothing at all?" he braces an arm against the door, an inch above Clint's head.
Clint considers that. Really, truly, genuinely considers it. And then Wanda opens the door, and they both go stumbling inside the apartment. Clint's a little more off balance than Pietro, since he was the one pressed up flat against the door with a very insistent, very curious, Pietro leaning up against him, all sharp angles and long legs.
Which is probably why Clint ends up on the floor, flat on his back.
A loud oof escapes his lips as Pietro's full weight comes crashing down on top of him. Clint blinks up at the ceiling, at Wanda's unapologetic smile as she peers down at them (she looks amused, more than anything else) and then he looks at Pietro, who was this close to kneeing Clint in the crotch on his way down.
"You're heavier than you look."
"Šupak." Pietro scowls.
"Rude. I don't know what you said," Clint says, with his legs still tangled up around Pietro's, and an ankle hooked behind his knee. "But I know it wasn't a nice word."
"I only know nice words." Pietro argues, and Clint's never heard a bigger lie in his entire life. Okay, maybe he has, but still. It makes Clint shake with laughter, because he knows for a fact that Pietro has a filthy mouth on him.
Clint shoves at Pietro's shoulder playfully, to make him move. To climb off, dismantle, whatever. "Yeah, right. I call bullshit on that." he cranes his head and squints up at Wanda. "Your brother's a bad influence. You should hear all the bad words he taught me last night. He's a very bad influence."
"Not nearly as bad as you, I think. Weren't you supposed to help with dinner?" her emerald eyes are fixed on Clint. Then, she throws a dishcloth at him. It lands somewhere off to Clint's right, not quite hitting him in the face like she probably hoped it would. But even though she sounds annoyed, she doesn't look it. If anything, she's practically beaming at Clint, like she's happy for them.
Above him, Pietro buries his face into the front of Clint's shirt and sniggers, not quietly enough to be missed.
Wanda's attention is suddenly drawn elsewhere. "And you were supposed to fetch him, brother, so you're no better." she says, voice light and teasing. "Go clean up before I finish up in the kitchen. There's still time. Go."
It takes a lot more effort to stand up than it did to fall down, Clint discovers. Pietro slowly disentangles himself from Clint, crawling off like he's got all the time in the world, like there's not an impatient (yet, still fond, pleased) looking Wanda hovering over them. Once he's on his feet, he extends a hand to help Clint up and makes a pretty exaggerated grunt of effort.
"You are much heavier than I thought you were, old man. Much heavier." he says, wincing as he presses a hand to his side.
"Don't use my lines on me."
Pietro peels up the corner of his t-shirt, allowing Clint a glimpse of the grizzly bruises splattered across his chest. Sculpted is the first word that comes to mind. The next word is blurted out once Clint realizes Pietro is playing him, acting like he's hurt when he isn't, just because he can.
"Asshole."
"Oh, please." Pietro rolls his eyes, then slings an arm around Clint's shoulders, drawing him closer. "You love me."
Clint doesn't even falter. "Damn right I do."
Wanda makes a mean chicken and mushroom risotto.
It's far better than any of Clint's many failed attempts at recreating the dish. According to Natasha, the expert in Italian cuisines, his risotto is subpar and gluey. Clint has to agree. It's nothing at all like what Wanda serves up to them. He pretty much licks the plate clean.
The night is glaringly different from the morning, which was spent tangled up in Pietro's bedsheets, reminiscing about family and loss, and all the jagged, ugly topics in between. It's different from the afternoon spent apart and then together, up on the sunny rooftop with faces buried into chests and arms wrapped tight around shoulders.
He's not sure why that is, why it feels so different. An almost imperceptible shift. Maybe it's got something to do with confessions of love and interrupted make out sessions. Whatever the reason, Clint doesn't mind. He doesn't want to think about it too hard either, because that has a way of ruining it.
Apparently, the good mood is infectious. Clint's never seen Wanda smile this much. She stays up with them, late into the night, even though she has to work tomorrow; she's the only one that does, since Pietro's called off for the week due to his still tender injuries, and Clint's happily self-employed. It's a little after 10PM when she says goodnight.
Clint's elbow-deep in soapy warm water, washing up plates and pans, because the cook shouldn't have to clean, when Wanda comes up behind him and squeezes his forearm lightly. He looks at her from over his shoulder and fixes her with a smile.
Then, she stops by where Pietro's still seated at the table, picking idly at a bowl of M&M's. She kisses his temple before disappearing down the hallway. The floorboards creak quietly beneath her feet, before the door to her bedroom clicks shut, and the apartment grows quiet.
It doesn't last.
But then again, Clint didn't expect it to.
A chair scrapes against the tiled kitchen floor as Pietro stands up, too loud in the silence. He slots in perfectly behind Clint, arms bracketing his body on either side as he grips onto the edge of the kitchen counter, with his chin resting on Clint's shoulder. Exhaling quietly, Pietro noses along the back of Clint's neck, before pressing a kiss to a spot just behind the shell of his ear.
Clint has to stop himself from shutting his eyes and sinking back against Pietro, from leaning into his touch. He scrubs at a floral-patterned dinner plate and, once it's clean, leaves it to air-dry on the plastic dish rack.
There isn't much left to do, after that, only a couple more plates and some cutlery that Clint gets through fairly quickly, even with Pietro attached to his back the entire time. Clint's definitely not complaining. He's like a very affectionate sloth, or koala bear, except not.
Except better. Pietro pecks him on the cheek (a chaste, parting kiss) before backing away, and Clint finds that he immediately misses the warmth. He wants to chase after it, but doesn't.
When he turns around, Pietro's sitting back down at the table again, gleefully sorting through the bowl of M&M's and plucking out the blue ones. He pops a handful into his mouth and, once he realizes he's being watched, a broad smile breaks out across his face. There's blue all over his teeth, Clint realizes.
Plopping down into a chair at the kitchen table, right next to Pietro's own, Clint picks up his glass of red wine by the stem and swirls the dark, rich liquid around. It's almost empty now, and Clint's definitely on his way to being pleasantly buzzed, which is exactly what he needs after a day like today.
"Mm. I love chocolate." Pietro says, stained blue. It's all blue lips and teeth and tongue - this becomes obvious to Clint after Pietro scrunches his nose and pokes his tongue out, just because he can. Then, he sticks out his hand and asks, "Want one?"
"Just one?"
"Two, maybe. Depends."
"On what?" Clint asks.
He holds Pietro's gaze above the rim of the cup as he lifts it to his lips and drinks, nearly finishing all of it in two large sips. And, for some reason, he can't shake the feeling that the M&M is somehow tainted, like Pietro's already put it in his mouth, or licked it, or dropped it on the floor, because that's totally his style.
Pietro wriggles impatiently in his chair. His shoulders jerk upright in a half-hearted, weak attempt at a shrug. "On how nicely you ask."
"I don't want any." he says, tipping the rest of his wine back. Finished, he sets the glass aside, then gently bats Pietro's hand away, but it doesn't go very far. After stuffing the chocolate into his mouth, he drops his hand down to rest on Clint's knee, still chewing away happily.
"Your loss."
"Oh, yeah. Big loss. Something tells me I'll get over it."
There must be something really fascinating about Clint's sweatpants, because Pietro can't seem to draw his eyes away from them, brows knitted together in a slight frown as he stares at the spot where his hand is resting on Clint's leg. He has an intense look about him, too, which really should've been Clint's first clue that something was up. The second: he stopped talking, which is something he rarely does.
"I want to go to bed." Pietro blurts out, at the exact second that Clint gently asks, "What's going on with you?"
The apartment grows quiet again. Faintly, somewhere off in the distance, Clint can make out the sound of traffic, of loud cars and blaring sirens. It's soon drowned out by the sound of Pietro's voice as he gets to his feet and tugs on Clint's hand, urging him to stand.
"Will you help me?"
"Sure." Clint nods. "Wait, with what?"
Pietro's smile remains, even if he does roll his eyes pretty dramatically, mock offended at Clint for not listening. His fingers curl around Clint's wrist, leading him away from the kitchen and down the dimly lit hallway. "With my bandages. I need to check them before bed. Will you help me, since you're the expert at these things?"
"Y'know, it doesn't really feel like a compliment when you use air quotes." Clint says, but follows Pietro down the hallway all the same. Somewhere along the way, their hands are disentangled.
He feels something like anticipation building in his chest as they step into the semi-darkness of Pietro's bedroom (he's not sure why, but it's there all the same). Clint closes the door behind them, upon Pietro's request, sealing the room in silence.
Light spills in through the cracks in the curtains, a yellow-orange glare. The bed is still unmade, clothes and belongings scattered haphazardly across the room. Everything looks just like it did that morning, but it doesn't feel the same.
Not even a little.
Pietro pulls his shirt up and over his head, but it gets stuck halfway around his head. He makes a noise, something disgruntled and low and cute. Whatever he says, it's muffled by the fabric of his t-shirt. Clint, being the decent boyfriend and human that he is, doesn't laugh. Okay, so maybe he laughs a little, but it's low enough that Pietro probably misses it.
"Hey, I got you. I got you." Clint says, tugging the shirt the rest of the way off. He tosses it aside, doesn't really see where it lands, on the bed or on the floor. "There you go. All better. Now, I can-"
The press of Pietro's lips against his own is enough to make Clint forget whatever he was just about to say. It's not a frantic, hurried kiss. Not heated or impatient, but tentative. Like he's testing, trying, before he loses his nerve. It's definitely not unwelcome, or unwanted.
He pulls away far too quickly.
"Better." Pietro hums. "Much better."
Clint nods mutely. Doesn't even remember what he was in the middle of saying, until Pietro asks him to repeat it. Both impatient and curious to know what was on the tip of Clint's tongue, before Pietro kissed all of the sensible thoughts right out of his head.
Silver wisps of hair spill across Pietro's face again, and stick to his forehead, damp with sweat, in places. Clint lifts a hand to cup Pietro's cheek, then brushes the pad of his thumb over a sharp cheekbone, mindful of the small grazes and bruises. Pietro exhales a sigh, and smiles, his blue eyes trained on Clint; sharp, curious, warm. Maybe even a little nervous, as they dart around Clint's face, taking in every detail.
"Now, I can take care of you."
A/N: Clint's birthday bash is coming up. Who's excited?
Translations:
Šupak: Asshole.
