Clint should have known that it wouldn't be easy. After all, both he and Bruce were part of "Earth's mightiest heroes" or whatever nonsensical name the media was calling them today. Planning in advance, buying tickets to the revival of Gilbert and Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance (which Clint loved beyond distraction because, honestly, he wanted to be a pirate king when he grew up) was just tempting fate. And sure enough, the call came that afternoon. Clint was wheels up in less than forty minutes, heading to central Asia on a fact-finding mission with Natasha (read: decide whether to blow it up or not), leaving the tickets on his dresser and the reservation cancelled. He came back on a stretcher, nothing major, just some cuts and bruises that the doctors insisted were much worse, forcing him to stay off his feet for two days. First thing he did after that was to demand Tony get HD satellite in the medical rooms. At least Bruce brought him take-out food rather than the tasteless lumps that came on those school cafeteria trays, and he used his Flynn Rider smolder to force Bruce to watch Kung Fu Hustle.
Next, he hit the half-price ticket booth, scoring decent same day seats for the revival of An Ideal Husband. But H.Y.D.R.A. decided to steal a prototype serum from a lab in D. C., kidnapping the scientists in charge of the program, and Clint traded his dress pants in for his uniform on the helio-copter. Bruce lost Clint's favorite purple shirt when he changed, and the big guy left with the retrieval team, gone for hours chasing down the missing people. Clint was asleep, head tilted back against the wall of the copter, when Bruce finally boarded and stretched out beside him for the ride home. Debriefing took longer than the actual fight and made Clint wish he could put an arrow in each damn stack of paperwork a dozen times over.
Every time he tried to make plans, things went awry. Bruce got caught up in the lab, working on a countermeasure for one of Doom's new weapons. Clint ended up in Malaysia, tracking some covert Skrull look-a-likes. They simply couldn't catch a break. So Clint decided to quit trying and just take the chance when it arose – and not long after he got back he found himself with nothing to do while Bruce was in the lab. Sauntering in, Clint propped a foot up on a stool and waited, drumming his fingers to the song playing in his head.
"Ballroom Blitz?" Bruce asked, lifting his head and taking off his glasses. Clint shot him a cocky grin.
"You up for some Italian food? I know this little taverna, a mom & pop place that makes great mushroom risotto and the spaghetti is to die for. It's not far." He made the question light and quick, no pressure, even though it did matter … a lot.
"I could take a break." Bruce stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Give me a minute to change …"
"Nah, it's not that kind of place. I go in there in sweats sometimes. Vinyl booths with plastic checkered tablecloths. You'll be fine." Clint waved his hand. "Besides, the longer we take to get out of here, the more likely we'll get one of those calls."
It was close enough to walk, just a few blocks, tucked in a tiny corner of an old department store building, tall ceilings with tin tiles and weathered wooden booths. Clint was glad to see that he'd timed things right, a little early for the dinner rush; one of booths was open. Alberto's youngest daughter, Chrissy, was on hostess duties, and her little boy, Giovanni, was coloring, swinging his feet off the edge of the chair she'd pulled to the hostess stand.
"Come here often?" Bruce asked as they slid into the booth, taking a laminated menu from the holder on the table.
"We have got to work on your pick-up lines," Clint laughed, relaxed for the first time in days. "When I first moved here, I rented a place over their old location. Maggie, the mother of the brood and the best cook ever, makes me take out if she sees us on TV. She'll have it waiting just in case I drop by." Clint snagged the first piece of garlic bread from the basket as soon as it arrived at the table.
The front door opened,and three young men entered.
"Where is my son?" growled the dark-haired one on the left. "Damn bitch. Can't keep me away from my boy, you hear?" He stepped closer, menacing Chrissy where she cowered behind the small podium, tucking the little boy behind her. A gun appeared in the man's hand, waving just in front of her face, and the diners ducked under their tables.
"Well, shit. My luck sucks these days," Clint muttered to Bruce. "This can't end well." And, damn it, he hadn't brought his bow or his gun, only a couple knives tucked away, what he considered the bare minimum of weaponry.
"No, Rick" she stammered. "I'll call the police. You're violating the order. You can't hurt him anymore." The little boy buried his head, trying to hide. For the first time, Clint noticed the bruises on the boy's arm, just under his shirt sleeve.
"Don't give a shit about no orders. He's mine. And you of all people know I can do what I want." He pointed the gun at her, but she held firm despite her own fear, protecting her child.
The growl that sounded didn't come from any of the men; Bruce looked at Clint with green-tinged eyes, his hands griping the edge of the table.
"I've got this," Clint said, taking a second to slip a comforting hand over Bruce's. "Be ready if I need back up." Rising from his seat, he moved to the front of the restaurant, three sets of eyes focusing on him. "Now boys, this is no way to make friends and influence people. The Neanderthal act doesn't really work on women, so you might want to rethink your whole approach."
"Stay the fuck out of this," the second guy spoke.
"Umm, Teddy, I think I know …" the third guy started, but he clamped his mouth shut at a glare from the other two.
"This is not your problem, man." Teddy's gun was tucked in his waistband, reflected in the glass of the window behind them. Clint did a quick recon – three guns and at least two knives.
"Actually, it is. See, I'm on a first date, and I need to make a good impression." He gave them his best Natasha Romanoff smile-of-death. "And you guys are fucking that up."
"We're supposed to be scared of a fairy?" Teddy sneered. "You make me sick. What's the matter? Can't get it up for a woman? Or you just want to be ridden, you stupid …"
Clint lashed out quickly, knocking Teddy back into the third guy, sending both crashing into the entryway and half out onto the street. Spinning, he elbowed Rick in the face; Teddy barreled back, fist aimed for Clint's head. Dodging, Clint took Teddy's gun in one smooth motion as he cuffed him in the back of the head, hard, slamming his face down on the nearest table. Teddy slid to the floor, out of it, and the third guy ran, disappearing into the evening.
"Alright hero," Rick said. "You're not faster than a bullet. Sit your ass down. Now." He held his gun to Giovanni's temple, holding the struggling boy as he backed towards the door.
To Rick's surprise, Clint begin laughing. "Dude. Wrong answer. Put down the gun or you are so seriously screwed."
"You are fucking crazy," Rick began, but his tirade was cut short by a roar as the Hulk smashed his way out of the booth, head against the ceiling and shoulders hunched over. Other diners scrambled out of the way, piling up against the walls or in the corners.
"Scumbag." Clint said. "Meet my date. Hulk. Meet scumbag."
"Put boy down. NOW." Hulk ordered. Eyes darted for a moment, looking for an avenue of escape then Rick dropped the boy and ran for it. Clint scooped up the crying child, rolling them out of the way as the big guy made short work of catching then smashing Rick a few times for good measure. Unfortunately, that also involved crashing through the glass storefront onto the street.
"Come to Nonna." Clint turned to find Maggie just behind him; Giovanni wiggled, reaching for his grandmother, and Clint gladly handed him over. "Well, I've been hoping you'd find a nice young woman and settle down." She looked at the Hulk as he unceremoniously dragged Rick over to dump him beside Teddy. "But you never do things the same way as others, eh? He eats well I imagine? Men should have good appetites."
"Maggie, I'm sorry about…"
She shook her head and narrowed her eyes. "You helped my family. Couldn't touch him, the policeman said, not until he violated the protection order. But now he knows if he messes with us, we have you and your young man who will take care of him." With a harrumph, she settled the boy firmly on one hip. Clint's eyebrow shot up at the thought of the Hulk as his 'young man.'
"Boy okay?" Hulk asked, squatting down to eye level. Giovanni peeked shyly up, tears streaked across his cheeks. "Need chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better." That got a tremulous smile from the boy.
"I like ice cream," Giovanni said in a whisper to Maggie. She laughed and the Hulk beamed at both of them.
"Chocolate ice cream," Hulk declared. Clint shook his head, amazed as always by the big guy.
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"A whole loaf of garlic bread?" Bruce asked as he ate the last of his order of ravioli from the take-out pan. He sat cross-legged on the floor in a t-shirt and sweats as they finished off the food Maggie had pressed into Clint's hands. She'd insisted they wait until the three big bags were full before they left the family behind to deal with the police.
"And a pan of baked ziti," Clint added as he rested his back against the Bruce's couch. "Plus a whole family size serving of tiramisu." He pulled a round aluminum pan with a white lid out of the last bag. "But Maggie put in a regular order for us to share." He popped off the lid and scooped up a bite, closing his eyes to enjoy the creamy goodness.
Bruce shook his head.
Clint eyed him skeptically. "Hey, I sedated him with good food. Besides, I'm learning that there's more to him than just smashing. He was, well, gentle with Giovanni tonight." He ate another bite. "There's a lot of you in him actually." He offered the pan to Bruce. "Want a taste?"
"Yes, I do." Leaning onto his arms, Bruce kissed Clint, tongue tasting his mouth, licking a smidgen of the dessert off Clint's lips as he pulled away. "That is good." He kissed him again, taking the pan and sitting it out of the way so he could close the distance between their bodies.
"Alright, I'll be Inga, then." Clint ran his hand down Bruce's jaw. "And what did you get from the transference?" Bruce looked confused. "Man, if we're going to do this thing, you have to watch Young Frankenstein. Classic Mel Brooks."
"Do you want to?" Bruce asked. "Do this?" Stroking his hand down Clint's arm, Bruce lingered on the bicep, finally capturing Clint's hand own where it rested on his thigh. Clint looked at their hands, Bruce's slimmer fingers intertwined with his muscular, callused ones.
"Oh, hell, yes," Clint breathed. "We are so doing this."
Bruce's other hand reached forward, caught the soft cotton of Clint's t-shirt, scrunching it up and pulling Clint upright, kissing him again, parting his lips, exploring with his tongue. Heat spiraled in Clint's gut; he dragged his hand through Bruce's hair and down his neck.
"I am sorry to interrupt, Dr. Banner, Agent Barton, but we have an incursion on level seven," Jarvis's said. The men broke apart, startled by the announcement, just as a distant vibration shook the floor.
"Aw, hell," Clint scrambled to his feet, offering Bruce a hand up. "Your lab."
Bruce cursed. "Fate's a real bitch lately and it's pissing me off."
Clint grinned on his way out the doorway, seeing the change already taking Bruce, eyes glittering green. "At least get out in the hallway first, big guy. Smashing the door means no privacy until it's fixed. And don't eat all the tiramisu before I get back." With a wink, he was down the hall and headed to the fight.