Clint | Bucky | Wanda
MON 15 JUNE
[7:54PM]:
wyd tonite?
[7:59PM]:
barton? ?
He's late.
Thirty five minutes late.
Clint keeps throwing furtive glances over his shoulder at the clock nailed up high on the wall. It ticks by slowly, in a way that almost feels like it's mocking him. He's really not even that worried. After all, this is a dish he's thrown together dozens of times before, with much less time to do it in. The sauce (which is full of garlic and mushroom, and delicious crispy bacon) is simmering uncovered on the stove. It's not rocket science, but it can still be a little touchy. Clint can't stop fussing over it.
The very last thing he wants is overcooked pasta.
Well, actually, the very last thing he wants is for Pietro to have slipped over. Again. It isn't raining anymore, so the ground isn't muddy and damp, but it's been an hour, and Pietro said he would only be gone for half that time. Clint pulls out his phone and dials Pietro's number. When the call immediately cuts out and goes straight to voicemail, Clint frowns and dials a second time.
Then he remembers.
Oh.
It's a little bit of an overreaction on Clint's part. His house is somewhat isolated, sure, but it's not in the middle of nowhere. He has relatively friendly, polite neighbors. For once. Clint tells himself that he'll give it five minutes, but doesn't even get to three and a half (yes, he is counting it down to the second, his eyes glued to the clock) before he starts plotting where to look.
The woods aren't too dense, and it's still light out, so—
So, of course, Pietro shows up as if on cue.
His footsteps are heavy and solid on the porch. The door swings open and Clint is greeted by a cheerful bark. He turns and watches as Pietro pads through into the living room, with Lucky trotting along at his heels. Pietro winds up his earphones around a faded pink iPod and tosses it onto the couch, pausing to give Lucky a fond pat on the head. He doesn't look even a little out of breath from his run, dressed down in a white long-sleeved running top, with thumb holes, and a pair of black Nike tights.
"For a guy who gave himself the nickname Quicksilver," Clint says, taking a long swig of beer. He sets the bottle down on the counter. "You're really not that quick."
"Sorry." Pietro grins, a touch sheepish.
"No, you're not."
Pietro laughs, and the sound is followed by a solid thud as he unlaces his sneakers and leaves them scattered all across the living room floor.
"You're right, I'm not." he says. "It was very, very beautiful outside. You should have joined us."
"Maybe tomorrow."
"Good." Pietro nods. "Then we can see who is faster."
"Oh, you know, I think it's actually supposed to rain." Clint says. Lie. A big, fat lie. "Maybe the day after tomorrow."
"Really?"
"Maybe."
Pietro went out for a jog, since his ankle healed up nicely over the weekend (which was mostly spent indoors, on the couch, binge-watching Lost in between long naps). It wasn't sprained or twisted, only a little swollen, but that went down overnight. Clint decided to not go, because a) he's very aware of Pietro's competitive streak, and "which one of us is faster?" isn't really a question that he needs answered. And b) dinner.
No leftovers or pizza, or Chinese takeout.
Clint said he would cook.
He wanders over to the stove, his back facing Pietro as he tends to his sauce. It surprises him—how quiet Pietro can be when he wants to be. He walks up directly behind Clint, wraps an arm around his middle, and pecks him on the cheek.
"I have something for you."
"What, another joke? I'm all ears."
"Don't look."
"What?"
"I'll be right back."
Clint doesn't look, even if he is tempted.
The front door swings open and shut, then Pietro's heavy footsteps echo down the hallway. When he reappears in the kitchen, he pointedly clears his throat.
"Is it," Clint begins. "A book."
"No."
"A motorbike?"
"You can look."
The sauce has two minutes or so left to simmer, and the pasta just needs a little bit longer to cook, so Clint steps away from the stove and gives Pietro a wary smile. His jokes sometimes leave a lot to be desired. The last thing he expects is to find Pietro standing there with a flower in his hands.
A red rose, to be precise.
"Is that for me?"
Pietro twirls the rose between his fingers, a broad smile working its way across his face. He dips his head to kiss Clint, again, this time on the lips, slower, a hand cupping his jaw and the other resting lightly on Clint's waist. Oh, okay. It makes Clint dizzy. He's surprised by all of this, by the way Pietro is kissing him. Things between them have been pleasantly domestic. Comfortable, is the word Clint would probably use, but he's enjoyed it. A lot.
And this, Pietro's mouth on his and that hand tightening on his waist, feels nothing at all like that. Clint slides a hand around to the back of Pietro's neck and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss.
Dinner is an afterthought.
It doesn't occur to Clint to pull away, to tend to the sauce bubbling on the stove and the pasta that is probably very close to being done, not with the way Pietro's pressed up against him. It's easy, he thinks, to lose himself in this, in the feeling of Pietro's hands on him. Clint only pulls back when he has to, a little dizzy.
Pietro lifts his fingers to his lips, like he's cherishing the moment. Clint's eyes track the movement. He's done it before, too, and he can vividly remember how it felt: the pleasant tingle sweeping over him, how he could barely think or breathe, so giddy that all he wanted was to—so, he didn't know what he wanted, only knew that he did want. The heat of Pietro's gaze lingers, even when he's gone, moving over to the table and dropping into a chair.
"That was," Clint trails off.
Sweet. Unexpected. Kind of romantic, really. He watches as Pietro smirks, fiddling with the rose. A second later, it ends up in between his teeth. Clint isn't surprised. Pietro grins at him, somehow, even with that rose in his mouth.
Clint laughs, warm and sudden. "What's all this?"
"I'm seducing you."
It sounds like there should be a huge question mark at the end of that sentence. Every time Clint thinks he can't fall a little more hopelessly, stupidly, in love, Pietro does something like this. Pietro makes it easy for Clint to love him. So easy.
"Aren't you full of surprises."
Pietro plucks the flower out from between his teeth and winces. He curses in Sokovian as a small bead of blood appears on the tip of his thumb. Clint makes him wash it under the tap, then tells him where to find the box of Band-Aids, because kissing it better sadly won't work.
"Nice move, Quicksilver." Clint says, pulling the sauce off the stove. "That was real smooth."
"I was being romantic."
"You stole it right out of Mrs. Reed's garden, didn't you?" he asks. "I'm surprised you didn't cut yourself to pieces. Does it hurt?"
Pietro steps around Clint carefully, stretching up for one of the higher cabinets that has an old tin full of medical supplies. "Not as much as when I fell from heaven. That hurt much more. This is only a scratch."
"I thought you were supposed to be seducing me," Clint says, in the middle of draining the pasta. "Not yourself."
Dinner is seconds away from being ready. Pietro sips on his beer and picks at the Band-Aid wrapped around his thumb. Clint adds sauce, chives and cheese, then tosses it all together and dishes up. The sauce isn't burnt, and the pasta isn't over or under, thankfully. It smells kind of amazing. And, according to Pietro, who insists on being super vocal, it's so good. Really good. He goes on and on about how much he loves pasta and Clint, but especially pasta. He follows that last remark with a wink, reaching across the table to squeeze Clint's hand.
Then he goes back to his plate.
"I didn't know you could cook. Not like this."
Clint shrugs, and takes a sip of beer. "It's not something I do a lot. Or just for anyone. It felt like a fettuccine kind of night, I guess."
"Did it?" Pietro asks, eyes crinkled with amusement.
"Yeah. Who doesn't love pasta, right?"
"And you don't do this often?"
"Not really. Well, my other boyfriend loves pasta. I cook whenever he's over." Clint smirks.
Pietro places a finger to his lips, still chewing away on a mouthful of pasta. "And this boyfriend. Is he over here a lot?" he asks, reaching for his bottle of Heineken.
"He's upstairs right now."
"Is he?"
"Yep."
"Do you like it," a pause, between sips of beer. "When he stays over here?"
Clint's mouth curves up into a soft smile. He gets the distinct feeling that Pietro's not really talking about an imaginary boyfriend anymore. With a sigh, Clint gets up from the table and grabs a bottle of white wine and two glasses. His beer is empty, and Pietro's is close, and this also feels like a white wine kind of night. He brings it all back over to the table and sits down.
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I like it when he's here. Of course." Clint nods, and pours himself a glass—pausing to ask if Pietro wants one, too, which he does. "Is that a trick question? It kinda feels like a trick. What's not to like? He's pretty good company."
"That almost sounds like a compliment."
"Almost?"
"Almost." he nods.
"If I had to pick out one flaw," Clint begins. "It'd be that you—sorry, he. He steals all the covers. All the time. And he always picks the worst shows. I don't know how, but you do it every single time. It's like a skill."
"You like it when I steal the covers." Pietro says, spearing a piece of bacon on the end of his fork.
"Oh, I do? That's news to me. Why do I like it?"
"Because you get to steal them back."
"Like I even get the chance."
Pietro looks way too pleased with himself. It suits him. Happiness suits him. They drink wine and talk about all of the things that Clint imagines they would have talked about on their first date, if this had been it. But it wasn't. It was spent at a busy little carnival, eating cotton candy, holding hands, playing games and stargazing from their spot on a hill. It was a perfect night.
But there are less nerves this time around, Clint thinks.
A second date.
He hasn't been on one of those in years.
Of course, there are certain topics that they gently skirt around (family, relationships, careers. Clint's more than happy to leave all that baggage at the door tonight) but that hardly restricts the conversation. And soon enough, it nearly turns into a game of wanting to know more. It's all very serious stuff, obviously.
"Cake or pie."
"Oh, that's tough. Are we talking pecan? Cherry? Apple?" Clint asks. He's slumped back in his chair, empty plate pushed aside, and a glass of wine in his hand. He rests the glass carefully on his thigh, gripping the stem.
"Yes," Pietro says. "All of them."
"Or cake. Any cake at all?"
"Mhm."
"Pie. I got one," Clint says. "Favorite ice-cream flavor?"
"All of them in one giant bowl."
Clint lifts the glass of wine to his lips. "That's a good one, babe. Your go."
"Would you rather," Pietro begins. His eyes dart around the room, like he's still trying to think of a question, and something in here will help. "I have one. Do you believe in ghosts?"
"Sometimes."
"Your turn."
"Three things on your bucket list."
"My bucket list?"
"Yeah. Things you want to do. Achieve. Whatever." Clint says, with a vague wave of his hands. "A list of things. Maybe not even a list, but just something you've thought of doing, or wanting to do. You gotta have three things."
Pietro chews on his lower lip, his face closed off in deep thought, before he smiles. "I thought of it. Well, I want to travel. The only places I have ever been are America and Sokovia."
"Good. That's a good one." Clint nods. "There's a whole world out there. What's the next one?"
"Jump out of a plane."
"You're on your own there, man."
"Go diving. With the fishes, and you wear those—uh, the goggles." Pietro waves a hand around, in a way that is probably supposed to represent snorkelling. "But above the water, not very far under. That would be nice."
"We could go together."
Pietro smiles, and underneath the table, one of his hands squeezes Clint's knee. "We will."
After dinner, they sit on the porch for a good half hour, at least. They drink wine and gaze up at the stars, and it's probably the best second date that Clint's ever had. He leads Pietro inside, then rummages through a box of old records and cassettes, and lots of other junk that he'll sort through much later on, until he finds a tape labelled 'MIXTAPE 0.3' and decides to throw it on.
It's nothing like the first time they danced together, or the time after that, but it's still good—better, somehow, now that it's just the two of them.
By the time they climb into bed, it's almost midnight, and Clint is sure that this is definitely the best second date he's ever had. Pietro falls asleep in his arms, head buried in the crook of Clint's neck. He keeps playing the night over and over in his head. Instead of overthinking any of it, Clint closes his eyes and falls asleep.
TUES 16 JUNE
"Are you awake?"
Clint is semi-conscious. He's been that way for at least an hour, dozing on and off, catching glimpses of sunlight and the freckles on Pietro's shoulders. It's a lazy kind of day, he thinks. He wakes earlier than Pietro, most of the time. Out of habit. An early riser for all the jobs that just couldn't wait. Clint smirks, eyes shut, with his back still facing Pietro.
The younger man nudges him in the side.
Ouch.
After a beat, Clint answers. "No. Nobody's awake here."
"I knew it." he says. "This is romantic, yes?"
"No, it's not. Go back to sleep."
"Yes, it is." Pietro insists. He kisses a spot behind Clint's ear. Then his lips brush over Clint's shoulder, the nape of his neck. "You were pretending to be asleep, so that you wouldn't wake me."
"Oh, yeah." Clint says dryly, even though Pietro's right on the money. "I'm real sweet. I should get the Boyfriend of the Year Award, especially after last night."
"Mm. We'll look into that."
A particularly nosey, one-eyed golden Labrador abruptly interrupts. Clint sighs and reluctantly climbs out of bed. He stops by the bathroom first and splashes some water on his face, then heads downstairs to gather up some breakfast. It's nothing at all like the delicious scrambled eggs Pietro whipped up (after all, Clint's not a Breakfast Wizard) but it's good enough.
They eat cereal in bed and share a cup of coffee.
Apparently, Clint's low on coffee, too. He jots that down on the shopping list. Milk. Beer. Detergent. Eggs. Candy. Bread. More coffee. A lot of the last minute requests are from Pietro, but Clint scribbles them all down anyway. Vodka. Gummy bears. Pietro drops his head onto Clint's shoulder, downloads Trivia Crack and several other apps that Clint doesn't even catch a glimpse of, before settling on KleptoCats.
A cat app, of course.
"These are your cats." Pietro explains. He holds up the iPhone and gives Clint a tour.
"I'm more of a dog person."
"You only have two so far. This one is Lilo." he continues unperturbed. "And I named this one Hawkeye."
"That's cute. You download anything else?"
Pietro closes the game, flicks through half a dozen apps: Archery King, Cooking Fever, Fruit Ninja, and an app for music that Pietro signed into, so that Clint can access all his favorite songs. There are other games and apps, but Pietro is easily distracted and starts playing something called Temple Run. Clint reads one of Laura's old books—The Time Traveller's Wife, he even reads an excerpt out to Pietro—and drains the last of the coffee.
It's nearly midday, next time Clint glances at the clock.
"Unless you wanna live on cereal, we'd better drive into town. Grab a bite to eat." Clint says, pressing a quick kiss to Pietro's temple, who then yanks the covers up over his head and burrows in closer against Clint's side. "I know. Trust me, there's nothing I want more than to stay right here in this bed with you. But we can't."
But I'm hungry, he thinks. And out of coffee.
"I don't want to leave."
"There's this gelato place," Clint begins.
Apparently, that's all he needs to say. The covers come down and a bright-eyed, slightly ruffled, Pietro appears. "I do like gelato." he says and sits up, carding a hand back through the spikey ends of his hair. "Is this a date?"
Clint considers that. "If you want it to be, yeah."
"I do."
"Then it's a date."
Pietro perks up considerably at that. "Like last night?"
"You bet."
A soft, chaste kiss is pressed to Clint's lips.
He reluctantly drags himself out of bed, to shower and to possibly shave, and doesn't expect for Pietro to join him. But he wants to. When he asks if that's okay, Clint nods, unable to string a proper sentence together. And then his phone rings. It takes a good twenty seconds to find it, at least, buried deep under the covers.
[11:46AM] INCOMING CALL: LAURA
Clint's finger hovers over the Decline button.
"I should probably take this."
"Work?"
"Not really. Sort of."
Pietro looks sleepy. He looks like how Clint feels on the inside, without a second cup of coffee. But he also looks warm. Comfy. It's a cute look, his clothes wrinkled, fluffy hair poking up wildly.
"Can it wait?" Pietro asks.
"Go ahead. I'll join you."
By the time Clint finally answers, Laura hangs up.
A new voicemail notification pops up shortly after. Laura politely asks Clint to call back, so he does, dropping onto the edge of the bed. He waits and waits, until she finally picks up, voice full of warmth. And familiar, even after all this time.
"Hey. Hi."
"Laura. How can I help you?"
"Oh, I'm just calling to say hi. It was nice—seeing you. That was nice." a pause. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
Clint runs a finger along his jaw, quietly deliberating over his answer. It's not like he can say: yeah, you are, I was actually about to go shower with my twenty-five year old boyfriend. Instead, he says: "Nope. What's up?"
It isn't a very long chat. Mostly, she just wanted to say hi, to check in after bumping into them outside of Baskin-Robbins, to arrange a lunch of sorts. A way to reconnect, talk things over. Clint nods along, sure, but keeps eying off the hallway.
He listens as the shower starts up.
"Yeah, I'd love to. Things are just a little busy right now. I could maybe do something next week." Clint says. He's fairly certain that most of this week has been completely booked out by Pietro. "Maybe. Gotta check."
"Next week works for me."
"Did you wanna come over? Grab the rest of your stuff. If not, I guess you could always swing around after."
"No, no that makes the most sense. And I'd like to see Lucky again, so, that works." she says. "What should I bring?"
"I got it. Don't worry about it."
"How is he?"
"Who? Pietro? He's," he trails off. "Peachy."
"I meant Lucky." Laura says, with a quiet laugh. "But that's good to hear. So, next week. It's settled."
"Yep."
"I'll text you? Or call. Whatever's easier."
"We'll figure something out."
"Okay. Well, it was good to hear your voice. Talk soon?"
Clint smiles. "You bet."
The call disconnects. Clint stands and throws his phone onto the bed; it disappears somewhere near the pillows. He runs a hand over his face tiredly, and sighs, because somehow, he always gets talked into these brunches and lunches. Always. Laura is pleasant enough, but he's still not thrilled about taking a walk down memory lane.
His iPhone chimes from underneath the pillow, but Clint ignores it. Whatever it is, it can wait. Clint makes his way down the hall. The bathroom is already filled with steam; it fogs up the glass, makes the air sticky and humid.
Pietro sings in the shower, Clint learns.
"Hey." he says, jutting a hip out to lean against the basin. It's steamy, that's for sure. Beads of sweat roll down his neck. "Wow, it's hot in here. Want me to go wait outside? I can do that. I can go."
"What did you tell her?" Pietro calls back.
Oh.
"Yeah, that was Laura. What gave it away?"
"I heard you talking."
"She wants to meet up." Clint explains, crossing his arms across his chest. "I told her maybe I could do something next week, but I'm all booked out this week. Can't do it."
"Good."
"Yeah?"
Pietro hums softly in response, then starts to sing. It's in Sokovian, Clint thinks, and quiet enough that it's almost drowned out by the water beating down in the shower.
"Well?" Pietro says, a moment later.
"Uh, sorry?" Clint says. "Sorry. I should've told you it was Laura calling, not work. I don't know why I said that, and then all I could think about was how much I'd rather be in here with you. Sorry. I'm a little rusty."
"Get in," he says. "Before I use all the hot water."
A nervous huff passes Clint's lips. It sounds more like a weird, strangled laugh. Maybe it is. After all, the two are now making small talk about tiles and color coordination while Clint undresses. Tiles. Clint laughs, again.
This is—new. Unchartered territory.
Still, he tugs at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one swift movement. His checkered pyjama bottoms are the next to go, then his briefs.
It all ends up on the bathroom floor.
Clint's breath hitches as he steps inside the shower, hot water spilling over his shoulders. He dips his head under the spray of water, revelling in the warmth, eyes slipping shut when Pietro presses a slow, lingering kiss between his shoulder blades. A finger traces along Clint's spine, lingering a moment, before pulling away.
"We should," Clint trails off. "Talk."
"You want to talk?"
"No. No, I think we're good. We're good, right?"
"Very."
A second kiss is placed between Clint's shoulder blades: feather-light, lips barely grazing the skin.
The kind of thing that drives him crazy.
When he turns, Pietro's hands go to his face, urging him closer until there's no distance left between them. Pietro kisses him, light and sweet, and just enough to get Clint dizzy. It's intoxicating. They break apart, but there's still barely any room left between them.
The shower cube wasn't exactly built for two.
It's a little crammed, and hot, the glass screen fogged up with steam. Clint can barely breathe, but he chalks that up to this, to the kissing and touching, and Pietro's eyes burning into his own. Clint's blood is thrumming, and his skin tingles with each barely-there touch. Beads of water dribble down Pietro's skin like raindrops, Clint notices. It becomes impossible to look away.
He chases a droplet with the tip of his finger, following it along the curve of Pietro's neck, down, down the hollow of his throat. Pietro sways forward, presses his forehead against Clint's, eyes squeezed shut.
"Tell me," Pietro says. He exhales a long breath, lips full and red. "If I should stop. Tell me if—if you want to stop."
"I'm not gonna do that."
"Then tell me what to do. I don't—we haven't ever,"
Pietro trails off, breathing heavily. He seems nervous, in a way that he's rarely allowed himself to be around Clint. The most they've ever done is kiss, so Clint gets it, really. Nerves are totally understandable. Clint's even feeling a little apprehensive himself. Thing is, he's had plenty of experience. Years of it. He always knew.
"Tell me what you want." Clint says, gentle, and maybe a little breathless. "And we'll go from there. We can take it real slow. We got time."
"I want to touch you."
Clint takes one of Pietro's hands and places it over his sternum. All traces of hesitation fade from Pietro's touch as his hand slides lower and lower, sweeping down his torso. He bites at Clint's bottom lip and kisses Clint, hard, crowding him up against the glass.
His lips are soft and wet and warm, kissing along Clint's jaw and his neck, then ghosting over the bullet scar on Clint's shoulder.
[1:07PM] INCOMING CALL: BUCKY
[1:08PM] MISSED CALL: BUCKY
"We don't need those."
"But we might."
"Really?" Clint asks, exchanging a dubious look between Pietro and the row of canned potato crisps on sale. Buy two, get one half price. "I don't know about you, babe, but I'm not big on dill pickle flavored Pringles."
Pietro's nose crinkles. "I don't want that." he says. "What about the Sour Cream and Onion?"
"Yeah. We can get two."
The grocery store is pretty empty, with only a few stray shoppers passing by every so often. Which is good. And safer, really, since Pietro insists speeding to the end of each aisle, trying to be quicker every time. Keep up, old man, he shouts out, every single time. Clint follows along behind him, carrying the groceries that he wasn't able to throw into the cart before Pietro sped off.
Okay, so there are a few occasions where he has to talk Pietro out of several purchases ("we already have three packets of gummy worms" "put that back" "I don't think we need a cheese wheel, babe" "do you even know what kind of fruit that is? Yeah, neither do I" "no" "we already have four packets of gummy worms") but apart from all that, it's actually kind of fun, which isn't a word that Clint would usually associate with groceries.
"We're stocking up for a couple days," he says, as Pietro returns with an armful of canned goods. "Not the zombie apocalypse."
"But we might—"
"Do you even like canned corn?"
Pietro sighs, like Clint's ruining all of his fun.
"No."
"We can keep the tomatoes. C'mon, let's go."
[2:44PM] MISSED CALL: WANDA
Much later, after they make it to the store and back, after Pietro has an afternoon nap, Clint decides that he wants to paint. He has to do something with himself. They end up in the living room, staring at the unfinished job that Clint can't help but feel slightly self-conscious about. It's been months since he actually completed a project on the farm. He takes Pietro through the basics, stands up behind him, bracketing his body, and shows him how to use the paintbrush properly.
Pietro eventually gets the swing of it. Thankfully, there's a thin sheet of plastic spread out over the floor, and he's in a pair of old clothes, so it shouldn't be too messy.
The old clothes belong to Clint.
A slim red and blue flannel, and faded black jeans.
It's almost a perfect fit. The shirt is slightly oversized, with the sleeves hanging a little too long, fully covering Pietro's hands. Clint doesn't know how that happened. It probably just got stretched in the wash. Pietro doesn't seem to mind, since he picked the shirt out himself, and he simply rolls the sleeves up to his elbows.
Clint keeps stealing glances of Pietro out of the corner of his eye, and smiling to himself, as if to say, you're here. I can't believe it. This morning you were in my bed and in my shower, and now you're here.
Of course, things don't exactly run smoothly.
Pietro is trouble, plain and simple. Clint already knows this. It was obvious from pretty early on, but still, he can't help but let out a squawk of surprise when the younger man dips his hand into a paint tin and slaps Clint square on the ass.
The imprint it leaves behind is—
Wet.
A huge, white handprint.
Clint's halfway up a ladder, and he startles at the touch. "You happy with yourself?" he asks, craning his head to get a proper glimpse of the handprint. "Oh, you are, aren't you? That's great. That'll never wash out."
Not my problem, says the big, wide grin plastered across Pietro's face. His hand is still covered in white paint, despite the large mark left behind on the back of Clint's jeans. He looks down at his hand, then pointedly back at Clint. Uh-oh. Clint knows that look very well. That wolfish-grin, and that glint in his eyes. He's plotting something.
"Might wanna rethink you next move, kid."
Slowly, Clint climbs down from the ladder, and wonders whether if it's even worth the effort to change into a new pair of pants. Probably not. He's tried getting paint out of denim before, but didn't have much luck (not that it's a huge loss, really. That cheeky smile on Pietro's face kind of makes it worth it. Makes him want to stick around, not run off and do laundry).
"You got a little something," Clint says, gesturing to the spot on his own face.
A dot of paint is drying on Pietro's jaw. He reaches out to wipe it away, only for Pietro to lean back, eyes narrowed. He cleanly avoids Clint's touch.
"It's right there."
"I don't think so, old man."
"What?"
"You will try to get me. I know this trick."
Clint sets his brush aside and down onto the edge of the paint tray. It drips slowly, dots of white dribbling from the fine hair ends of the brush. "There. It's gone. Nobody has to get any paint on them."
And then, of course, Pietro completely disregards Clint's gesture and lurches forward, the hand coated in quickly-drying paint going to Clint's jaw, pulling him in close for a sneaky kiss. The soft drag of Pietro's mouth against his own is so many things at once. Mostly, it's a distraction. Clint doesn't even notice the hand sliding up his jaw, around to the back of his neck, up, up, to tangle in the ends of his hair—coating them white. Clint breaks away from the kiss.
"Oh, that's great." Clint sighs. "You gave me tips. Frosted tips. Awesome."
Pietro blinks, all faux innocence. "I thought we could be matching." he gestures to his hair which definitely isn't a tacky, frosted-tip style. It's white, or gray.
Silver.
Whatever. The point is, they definitely aren't matching.
"I call bullshit."
"Do you? Good for you."
"C'mere."
From there, it escalates. Rapidly. Clint doesn't know how it changes from a simple slap on the ass to an all out war, but he's glad that he spread plastic sheets and old papers over the floor. Newspapers crinkle beneath their bare feet as Clint darts forward and pulls Pietro against him, painting a blue stripe down the side of his face. The paint dribbles all down his jaw, and when Pietro wipes at the area, it only smears.
Clint's covered in spots and thick smudges of paint.
He ends up on the floor, somehow, newspaper crunching underneath his back, and Pietro's weight bearing down on top of him. The brushes are gone, forgotten, in favor of this. Of touching each other and fumbling with the buttons on paint-sticky shirts. Clint winds an arm around Pietro's neck and pulls him down closer, always closer.
It isn't at all how Clint saw his afternoon going, but when Pietro smiles down at him, his hair askew and the ends colored blue, he knows that he wouldn't change a thing.
Not a single moment.
Pietro peppers hot, fervent kisses along his jaw, a hand fumbling once again with the buttons on Clint's shirt. It can be a little tricksy, he knows, so many buttons and what feels like so little time. But they have time. So much of it, in fact, that it makes Clint feel giddy. He helps Pietro through it.
"You can slow down," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
A soft laugh passes his lips when he feels Pietro smiling against his jaw.
You're here, Clint thinks.
And then Pietro's mouth is on his again, and he's kissing Clint like he's never kissed him before, a hand slipping below the waist of his jeans. It would make sense that, only seconds later, a car would pull up outside, and the sound of Bucky's smug voice would echo down the hall.
Clint's never going to live this down.
Not that he even minds that much, really. Once, yeah, he might've cared that his clothes were askew, the buttons not properly buttoned up, that his fly was sort of down, and his mouth all kiss-swollen.
But not this time.
Steve, at least, has the good grace to look—well, he's not really embarrassed. He looks guilty, when Pietro appears in the hallway to greet them, and Clint follows shortly after, looking noticeably dishevelled. Bucky, on the other hand, doesn't even look a little bit sorry. With a big, shit-eating grin plastered across his face, he swings an arm around Clint's shoulders and steers them towards the kitchen, because Steve brought food along. Bless him.
Halfway through the meal, Steve smiles and says, "You know this doesn't actually count for brunch, right?"
"Can't get out of it that easy, Barton." Bucky winks.
"I figured." Clint sighs.
"Oh, and just a heads up," Bucky leans in, but when he speaks, his voice isn't even close to a whisper. "I thought you might wanna know your shirt's inside out, man. And it looks like you missed a couple buttons, too, lemme get those for you. I'll just—"
Clint swats Bucky's hand away. "I got it."
"Nice hair, Guy Fieri."
"Nice face. Jerk."
[5:13PM]:
Hi, Clint. I tried calling earlier. is Pietro there?
[5:22PM]:
pietro isnt here right now...leave a msg after the beep
[5:23PM]:
bEeeEeEEeeeeEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEeeEeeeP
[5:27PM]:
Very funny, Piet.
[5:31PM]:
How is it? Is everything ok?
[5:34PM]:
good except the old man has very bad taste in movies
[5:36PM]:
ha. I'm sure that he does.
[5:38PM]:
....
[5:41PM]:
Oh, it's terrible here.. Trust me. I make the kid breakfast and dinner. He gets piggybacks and gummy worms. It's awful. No fun is being had at all. But you're welcome to join us, Wanda. Swing by.
[5:44PM]:
If it wasn't clear, it's me. Clint. The actual owner of this phone. And I'd like to circle back to that comment about my taste in movies.
[5:45PM]:
We're sorry about missing your call earlier. Didn't mean to make you worry. We had people over.
[5:51PM]:
I'm glad to be hearing from you both now. Will you join us for dinner, Clint?
[6:02PM]:
Tonight?
[6:04PM]:
I sort of have plans. Or I guess I had something planned. Whatever. My thing can wait. What's the occasion?
[6:10PM]:
No, not tonight. Thursday. Piet didn't mention it?
[6:14PM]:
I don't remember. Does that make me a bad boyfriend?
[6:15PM]:
Wait, was it supposed to be like a birthday thing?
[6:17PM]:
Not at all. It will be dinner with the four of us. Vision and myself. You and my brother.
[6:20PM]:
This will be the only night that Viszh has off for awhile and I wanted him to finally meet you. It just happened to be on your birthday..
[6:24PM]:
Finally? You guys talk about me or something? :-)
[6:35PM]:
Or something
[6:37PM]:
Sounds fun. Count me in, kid.
[6:40PM]:
Wait. I got one rule: no eulogy. And I need alcohol.
[6:42PM]:
Deal. :)
[6:45PM]:
I knew you were warming up to me.
[6:47PM]:
For now. Xx
"Sit still," he says. "And stop fidgeting."
"I don't see what any of this has to do with—"
"Give me your right hand," Pietro insists.
Clint warily extends his hand, the palm facing upwards, his eyes roaming over Pietro. He looks warm, and snug, a blanket draped loosely over his shoulders. It's a date. The third, to be precise. Since they never actually made it to the gelato place, Clint decided to surprise Pietro with an evening under the stars. In the back of his truck, with a picnic blanket spread out, and a stack of pillows that he gathered up from the guest bedroom. Now, though, the two are sitting cross-legged, and facing each other.
He dug out an old book on constellations, but Pietro is much more interested in reading Clint's palm (not that Clint minds; he goes along with it, even if he's still a bit skeptical).
"Alright, Mr. Fortune Teller. I gotta know one thing," Clint says. "Do I lose my hair? Tell me I don't."
"What?"
"You're predicting my future, right?"
"No, I'm reading your lines." Pietro taps a finger against the inside of Clint's wrist, then slowly drags it across his upturned palm. His touch is gentle, and fond. "There are four. Heart, head, life, and fate. But not everyone has the fate line."
"Oh."
"Some lines are short, but there are always three."
"How many have I got?"
Pietro squints, bowing his head to get a closer look. He narrows his eyes critically. "Four, I think. We will start with the heart. It can be read in either direction, from this finger," he touches a spot just below Clint's pinkie, then traces a steady line linking it to his index. "To this one."
"Alright."
"Yours begins in the middle here, see?"
"Is that bad?"
"It means you fall in love easily."
"So, it is bad."
"Mm. This line here is your head line," a soft smile curves up the corner of Pietro's mouth, and his eyes seem to twinkle as he continues, "And it means creativity."
Clint tries not to stare, but his eyes keep slipping back to Pietro's face. He looks warm, and snug, and like home, and Clint's pretty sure that he's never felt this before. Not this intensely. He chews on his bottom lip, like he's deep in thought, considering Pietro's words about falling in love too easily, and creativity. He's probably got a point, Clint has to admit. He did fall very easily for Pietro.
"Yeah? What's next?"
The tip of Pietro's finger runs over the skin near Clint's thumb, and travels in a slow arc towards his wrist. "Your life line," he explains. "Yours is curvy, meaning you have plenty of energy."
"Should I be worried? For a life line, it's kind of short."
"Don't be silly, old man." Pietro dismisses. "The length of the line does not indicate length of life."
"Awesome."
"Your fate line is the line of destiny."
"That old thing."
Clint's never been a huge believer in fate or destiny. He knows that Pietro is, sure, but he's more of the belief that good things happen just because they can, and the same goes for bad. Sometimes, things just happen, and it isn't fate or destiny, or luck. It just happens.
"A deep line like this one here means," Pietro continues, voice shaking Clint out of his thoughts. "You are strongly controlled by fate."
WED 17 JUNE
The farmhouse sits comfortably on two acres of land. It isn't raining, so they take a long walk in the morning, with Lucky eagerly leading the way forward. In the afternoon, they sit and eat lunch under the shade of an old tree, and Clint tells Pietro a little more about his time in the circus. Then, they sleep on the grass, a green checkered blanket spread out underneath them.
It's quiet, the noise of distant traffic is muted, and barely reaches Clint's ears. He probably dozes for just over an hour before Pietro's voice stirs him.
"I don't want to move. I won't."
"Fine by me. We can stay right here."
"Why would you ever want to leave a place like this? It's so," he murmurs. "Peaceful. Quiet."
Clint hums softly in agreement, eyes still closed.
Of course, there are days where he feels isolated. Some days, it gets the better of him. There are brightly colored houses lined up in the distance, a row of neighbor's that Clint doesn't know that well (or at all, really). His house is surrounded by trees and a tall, weathered barn. It can get a little lonely, and it can get the better of him, but today isn't one of those days. Pietro is warm and snug, tucked up close against Clint's side, a hand resting lightly on his chest.
Today feels like paradise.
Beside him, Pietro shifts on the blanket.
"Was the farm you grew up on like this one?" he asks, and the weight on Clint's chest is gone.
Clint slowly opens his eyes and finds that Pietro's now on his back, blinking up at the sky, at the warm light that filters in through the leaves of the Sycamore tree. Clint shakes his head. That's another story entirely, he thinks, pushing himself up so that he's sitting. He runs a hand over the grass and picks up a twig, fiddling with it for a moment before he answers.
"Not really."
"What was it like?"
"Cold."
And loud. So loud that it was years before he could fully block it all out. It was solemn, too, and always felt like something bad had happened, or that it soon would. The familiar weight of Pietro's hand on the back of his neck draws Clint back to the present.
"Do you want to go back inside?" Pietro asks, suddenly much closer than he was a moment ago.
"No, I'm good out here."
"Come, ljubavi. We'll go for walk then."
Pietro stands, dusting pieces of grass off his pants. He holds a hand out for Clint to take and wiggles his fingers impatiently, probably hoping that it might hurry him up.
He takes Pietro's hand and doesn't let go.
There isn't all that much to see that Pietro hasn't already seen, but he's still as curious as ever. Clint points out the trees he planted, shows Pietro the inside of the barn; a old red tractor sits in the far corner of the room, and the countless license plates that Clint has collected over the years, some old and faded and a little rusted, are nailed to the wall above his workbench. There really isn't much to see, so they go back outside.
Eventually, the picnic table that Clint built when he and Laura first moved in comes into view. He leads Pietro to it and sits down.
"Will you just—can we sit? Just for a moment."
"This sounds serious."
"No," Clint shakes his head. "Maybe. I guess that's up to you to decide. There's something I need to tell you, and I thought maybe we should be sitting down for it."
The table itself is weathered, but still in good shape, all things considered. Large blocks of chopped wood are scattered across the lawn. Right. Clint keeps meaning to get to those, and stack them all away in the barn until winter. Pietro slides into the seat across from him.
"I need to tell you something."
Without even missing a beat, Pietro says, "Is this about the other night? The night of your party?
"Yeah."
"Is something wrong? Between us?"
"Not even a little." Clint assures. "We're good. More than good, actually."
Clint lifts a hand to the back of his neck, and rubs at the area. He spares a quick glance at Pietro, who looks wary, a slight crease forming between his brows. There's no way he could know about Tony and the almost-kiss. He doesn't know, Clint thinks, but he deserves to.
"It's about Tony."
"He tried to kiss you."
"You saw that?"
Pietro nods, and he doesn't look angry or sad, only a little confused. "Yes, I saw all of it."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"I was waiting,"
"For what?"
"For you to tell me."
"And I wanted to. You gotta believe me, I did." Clint says, and stretches across the table, wanting to take Pietro's hands in his own. He decides at the very last moment not to, that it should be Pietro's call. "I didn't want to ruin this."
"I saw him try to kiss you."
Pietro sounds angry, now, like it's taking twice as much effort to get the words out. A thought passes across his face like a shadow, and he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing on it for a moment.
"Then I saw you pull away from him." Pietro's eyes land on Clint, then, and his expression softens considerably. "I know why you kept it a secret. Because you didn't want it to hurt me."
"I don't want that. That's the last thing I'd ever want."
He looks down, temporarily averting his eyes.
"There's something else. Not about Tony, but Laura. It's," Clint begins. He casts his eyes skyward; impossibly blue, and bright. Clint temporarily closes his eyes against the gentle afternoon light. Then he turns to Pietro. "I wanted to tell you, but it never felt like the right time."
"Whatever it is," Pietro says.
The rest goes unspoken.
You can tell me.
No more secrets.
"Laura wanted kids. Always. And I knew that." he nods to himself slowly. "She thought I'd make a good dad, but I wasn't sure. Yeah. That was the only thing we ever really fought about. Then one day, things changed."
"What happened?"
Clint drops his head a little, his shoulders twitching in a jerky shrug. His mouth moves, but no actual words come out. Not right away.
"It didn't work out the way we hoped. We tried IVF, but it just wasn't happening. Some things aren't meant to be."
He's come to terms with it.
That life—it isn't even something that he wants anymore, no, not even a little bit. A long moment stretches out between them, before Pietro stands, and drops into the spot next to Clint. A hand comes to rest lightly on Clint's thigh; it's a comfort, having him close, knowing that he's not going anywhere.
"You should have told me sooner." Pietro says. "I would have listened."
It's gentle, not angry.
He kisses Clint's temple.
"Didn't know how." Clint manages. "I didn't know."
Pietro exhales a shaky breath. "Oh, Clint. You should tell me these things. Don't keep them all inside."
"Yeah, well, my timing's always been pretty crap."
"I think," he says, words measured, careful. "I think that you had to wait until you were ready. I understand."
Clint spreads both hands out on the table, drumming his fingers against the faded wood. "When I saw her, it just brought a lot of things up. But I should've told you right away. I wanted to."
"You're telling me now," Pietro says quietly. "And that is the only thing that matters."
~*~ happy belated Valentine's Day ~*~