This chapter is dedicated to JenJo, who requested to see Steve staying at Clint's. Sorry it took so long to write it but here it is. Enjoy!
With a quick nod to a fellow agent, Clint headed down the Helicarrier corridor. His footsteps were muted by the clumps of mud which had gotten wedged in the boot treads during his long trek through the Louisiana swamps, chasing some random arms dealer. Deciding to clean them, he hopped on one leg, using his fingers to pick at the bottom of his raised shoe. Dislodged dirt plopped onto the deck and a passing pair of computer technicians glared at him.
"What? I'm just giving the janitor something to do," Clint shrugged. As they stepped around him, giving him a wide berth and still fixing him with disapproving scowls, he felt the need to call after them, "It's what he's paid to do!" They turned the corner, taking their haughty judgement with them. "Ah, whatever." Clint brushed a dismissive hand through the air after them.
He switched to bouncing on his other leg, using his right hand to scoop out the mud, while his left hand dug around in his pocket for his security card. Distracted as he was with clearing his boots, he didn't look up as he swiped his card through the slot at the side of the door to his quarters. So he didn't see the super soldier standing inside it until he banged his nose on the broad torso.
"Ow," Clint muttered, not because it hurt but because it seemed like the appropriate response. He absently rubbed at his nose, smearing mud on its tip.
"Sorry!" Steve hurriedly apologized. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Clint replied automatically, stepping across the threshold into his room and giving Steve a quizzical look. "How did you get in here?"
Steve sheepishly fished his security card from his pocket. "Top clearance. It opens almost any door on this ship."
Clint considered that fact for a moment. "Cool," he finally decided. "And what brings Captain America to the higher altitude?"
"Fury wanted me to speak to some of the new recruits," Steve explained, tucking away his card.
"Uh-huh," Clint hummed before raising an eyebrow. "So what's with the duffel bag?"
Steve glanced down at the luggage in his hand almost guiltily. "I'm not going to be here that long so I didn't think it was worth having a room arranged for me and you did say..." he trailed off, reaching into his leather jacket and producing a crumpled post-it note.
A chuckle rumbled in Clint's throat. "Oh, yeah. I almost forgot about that. It's been so long, I was beginning to think you were never going to take me up on that."
"I can go if you don't want me here," Steve quickly offered, taking a step toward the door.
"Wow, you really don't know how to invade someone's personal space, do you?" Clint shook his head in faux disappointment. "Even after the wonderful example I set for you."
Steve's shoe crossed the threshold and Clint held up a hand. "Whoa, whoa. Wait a second. I didn't say you could go. You can't just use your security clearance to break into my room and then hit the road."
When Steve still looked unsure, Clint compromised. "At least let me give you the tour. Then you can decide whether you want to stay or not."
Setting down his bag beside the door, Steve accepted. Clint nodded once and turned around.
"All right, we'll start with the living room-kitchen-dining room-den-study." He gestured to the area they were standing in. "Of course, you probably already saw everything while you were lurking in here before I got back."
"I was not lurking," Steve protested. "And I didn't move from the entryway, I swear. I got here just before you did."
Clint shrugged and crossed the small space, stopping in front of a mini fridge. He tugged open the door, scanning the contents. "So this is the fridge," he announced unnecessarily. "Help yourself to whatever you find in it." He pushed aside a six pack of beer, fishing out a Styrofoam take out box. "I just can't promise the quality of anything you find," he warned, setting the container on the counter and opening it to find a baked potato. He cocked an eyebrow and tilted the box so Steve could see inside it. "Take this for example. I have no idea when or where I got this," Clint informed him, humor in his voice.
Steve wrinkled his nose. Tossing the box in the garbage can, Clint reached instead for a bottle of beer. He offered one to Steve, who politely declined. After sliding into one of two chairs at the single table, Clint popped the lid off his drink, took a swig and used the bottle to point to the laptop sitting on the table. "That's what passes for a TV around here," he stated.
Nodding absently, Steve walked around the small space, noting all the little odds and ends that distinguished the archer's quarters from all the others on the Helicarrier. Chunky fridge magnets in primary colors spelling out the word 'awesome' held up a newspaper clipping of the entire Avengers team. A smile spread over Steve's face at that and it stayed there as he moved on to the counter. Near the sink cutting into the center of the counter, a microwave oven was kept company by a potted plant, hardly larger than Steve's fist. He bent down to inspect it closer.
"Is this-" he scrutinized it carefully. "Is this a cactus?"
Clint rose from the table, laughing. "Yes, it is."
"It's tiny," Steve commented, intrigued.
"Doesn't mean he doesn't pack a mean punch," Clint asserted, leaning his elbows on the counter and gazing fondly at the plant. "Isn't that right, Bob?"
At Steve's uncomfortable shifting, Clint straightened and explained, "I always wanted a pet. I tried goldfish but it turns out that being away on missions for weeks at a time makes it hard to take care of animals. On the plus side, they made for a nice snack."
"Oh," Steve replied, unable to tell from the agent's straight face whether he was joking or not.
"Come on, the tour's not over yet," Clint suddenly changed topics, leading the way through a thin doorway, Steve following.
"Here's the bedroom and in there's the bathroom. Okay, now the tour's over," Clint concluded, setting his beer on a side table by the bed as he sat on the mattress and began unlacing his boots.
Steve hesitated in the door frame, not wishing to intrude. But Clint spared a moment to wave him forward, so Steve came in and stood in front of a wall of lockers that served the purpose of a closet. Purple lights, the kind that he had only seen on Christmas trees, were strung around the room, casting everything in an odd shade of violet, which was offset by the sunlight coming through the single window on the other side of the room. Beside the standard issue bed, the little table was cluttered with knick-knacks.
A framed photo of Clint and Natasha, his arm around her shoulder, was angled so it faced the bed. There was also an ornate hourglass, which reflected each light bulb and sent fractures of purple dancing across the room. With its sides little more than a jumble of colored stickers, a Rubik's Cube patiently waited for solution. Behind that, a stack of trading cards were fanned across the table's surface and Steve felt his stomach drop at the images printed on them. His own face smiled confidently as his hand snapped out a sharp salute. Steve swallowed hard. He recognized those cards. He knew who their previous owner had been. But if Clint held any resentment, he didn't show it. Quickly moving his eyes over, Steve frowned at the final object.
"Uh, Clint, what is that?"
Cramming his boots under the bed, Clint glanced over his shoulder at his collection. "The Rubik's Cube? It's a-"
"No, I know what that is. I meant that." Steve pointed to it.
"Oh, that's a lava lamp," Clint stated.
The eyebrow climbing his forehead displayed Steve's confusion.
Upon seeing his companion's facial expression, Clint found himself unable to pass up the opportunity to tease the captain. He reached over and quickly rotated the base so the 'made in China' sticker faced the wall. "Yeah. With real lava," he added. "From a volcano." He nodded sagely.
Once again, Steve was unsure if Clint was joking or not. The idea that lava could be kept in a glass tube was preposterous. And although he had never seen it before, he was pretty sure lava didn't look like that. But, then again, in this new century anything was possible. Not to mention, Clint seemed so sincere. What would he gain by lying about something like that? Yet, Steve still wasn't entirely convinced. But he was willing to drop the matter and move on to more important things. Such as the ceiling.
"Um..Clint? Why do you have a target painted over your bed?" Steve inquired politely, staring at the black lines.
Clint began snickering. "You know, you're the first person who's noticed that."
"If Fury knew about it, he'd bust you for sure," Steve observed.
"I'd like to see him try," Clint smirked, removing the knife from his belt and setting it in the drawer of the side table. "Hey, don't give me that look. You know I'm too valuable an asset for him to kill." He confidently laid down on his bed, lacing his hands behind his head.
"That doesn't mean he wouldn't drop you off the edge of the Helicarrier just to teach you a lesson," Steve pointed out.
Slowly, Clint sat up. "You might have a point. Do you know how to get spray paint off an aluminum-steel alloy?"
Steve shook his head, chuckling quietly.
"Come on, Cap. You can't let Fury do that to me," Clint begged theatrically, thrusting folded hands toward Steve. "I like heights. But I don't like falling from them!"
"I'll put in a good word but I can't make any promises," Steve compromised.
"Eh, that's close enough for me," Clint shrugged, flopping back on his bed.
Fond amusement lifted Steve's lips and his posture relaxed. Initially, he had reservations about accepting Clint's invitation. But so far, the archer had proved to be a reasonable host. Although, Steve knew it would take him a while to get used to Barton's sense of humor. It was difficult to distinguish sarcasm from honesty.
Crossing one knee over the other, Clint flapped a hand in Steve's general direction. "Go ahead and make yourself at home."
Happy to oblige, Steve was about to settle in for the next couple of days. Until he realized there was nowhere for him to settle. His brow furrowed as he scanned the meager contents of the agent's quarters. There were only a few pieces of furniture in Clint's possession and none of them had been built to support a sleeping super soldier.
"Um..Clint?"
"Yeah?" Clint glanced up at Steve.
"We may not have thought this all the way through," Steve suggested.
"Oh?" Clint sat up, curious. "Why's that?"
"Well, I don't mean to sound rude or anything but...where am I supposed to sleep?" Steve inquired.
For a moment, Clint did nothing more than blink. Steve blinked too. Suddenly, Clint burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
Between laughing and gasping for air, he finally managed to get out, "You're right. I didn't think this through at all."
Steve couldn't help himself. He had to join in with a few chuckles of his own. "I suppose I could sleep on the floor in there," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the rest of the apartment.
That set Clint into a fresh fit of giggles tinged with embarrassment. "I invited Captain America over just to have him camp out in my kitchen. Boy, I am some friend, aren't I?"
"Yeah. Somehow this doesn't seem fair," Steve teased, grinning. "When you invaded my house, at least l let you have the couch."
"I have a bean bag chair you can use!" Clint brightened, pointing at the cabinets where said object rested in storage.
"Oh good. So I get a pillow. Anything else?" Steve ribbed.
Shaken by his laughter, Clint fell over onto his mattress. "Help yourself to the bath towels if you get cold!"
"I trust you treat all your guests this well," Steve smirked.
Finally wrestling his mirth into submission, Clint was able to smother his grin long enough to apologize. "I really am sorry, Cap. I guess I never thought about how tiny this place was. I'll talk to Fury and have him arrange a room for you."
"No, it's fine." Steve held up a hand. "I'd rather be here."
"You mean you'd rather live out of a duffel bag, while sleeping on a floor that hasn't been mopped since..." Clint paused. "While sleeping on a floor that hasn't ever been mopped instead of getting a whole room all to yourself?"
"I fought in World War II. I've slept on worse," Steve assured. "Besides, I think I'd prefer the company here." He shrugged happily.
A pleased smile curled Clint's lips. "All right, then. Welcome to the Hotel Barton."