Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clint isn't good at a lot of things. But he can break into places like nobody else he's ever met, and it's a pretty handy skill set to have. It means he never has to pay rent, for one thing, even if he's come close to getting shot for trespassing a few times. The important part is that they've all missed, at least so far, so he keeps on keeping on.

Tonight's target is a townhouse. He'll be able to get the lock open easily, the only hard part will be avoiding the notice of the neighbours. But it's more than manageable, in fact, a teenager could probably get in. Which says a lot about local security, but oh well. Could be worse, right? In and out, he gets some stuff to pawn and the rich owners get to whine at their insurance and get everything replaced. Win win.

It turns out not to be some rich guy's bachelor pad. The living room is empty apart from a tv older than he is and a leather couch that's half shredded. And the kitchen isn't better, holding a handful of appliances that scream 'fire hazard' at him and a camping chair. The fridge has maybe four things in it, and the cabinets are empty apart from seasonings, ramen, and paper plates.

“Goddammit,” he swears, putting his hands on his hips. This place was supposed to be a good hit. No way he can pull anything worth taking out of here. And then the floor creaks behind him. He whirls, bringing up the empty gun he brought along as a 'just in case'.

“What are you doing in my house?”

“Dude, I'm surprised you even call this place a house. I've seen rat traps that look better suited for human habitation. You live like this?”

“How else am I supposed to live?” The man moves forward from the living room into the kitchen, moon lightening his hair. No, Clint realises, it's dyed like that, or something. He sits down in the chair and curls his legs up underneath him. “You can take whatever you want as long as it's not the food.”

“There's not much else.”

“Guy's gotta eat.”

Well, yeah. Everyone does. But Clint is puzzled. Is there a reason this guy isn't freaking out at finding a stranger with a gun in his house? “Are you all right, man?”

A shrug. “Depends on your definition. I'm alive. That's good enough, isn't it?”

“You're living off ramen in a place that should be condemned. I'm pretty sure that's not living. Not even close to qualifying.”

“Then it's a good fucking thing that it's not your decision to make.”

Okay, that makes Clint frown. “Dude, do you want me to call someone?” He doesn't get a verbal answer but the guy glares at him. “Seriously, this lifestyle isn't healthy.” More glaring. “You got family or something somewhere?”

“Not any more.”

Oh. Oh. “I'm sorry. Lost my big brother a couple years ago. He was...”

“Everything. My little sister, she was everything, too.”

They're both quiet for a minute. Clint doesn't know what the other guy is thinking about, but he'd bet it's as painful as his own memories. “Even if she hated you, she'd hate seeing you like this.” For a second he thinks the man is going to jump up and murder him with his bare hands, but he just tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

“A good thing she isn't seeing me, then.”

He can't say much to that. It's depressing, really, for a lot of different reasons. Not least among them is the fact that this dude can't be older than maybe twenty-five, but he's speaking like a dead man walking. It's weird, and not in a good way. Clint lets himself out, leaving the stranger curled up in a camping chair and staring at a dingy kitchen floor.

He comes back the next night with pizza. “I'm here,” he yells up the stairs, and waits. No answer but the guy from yesterday shows up at the top of the stairs. “I have food and Pepsi.” Still no answer but he's joined a minute later. Circled like he's a campfire and the other man is a hungry wolf, but still. “Do you have a name?”

“Pietro.”

“Neat. European? I'm Clint. Born and raised in the middle of Iowa, nothing too exciting. Your accent says cool shit, though.” He holds out the pizza box and Pietro has the nerve to take the whole thing. Well then. “Aw, c'mon, man, you can't just not share.”

“Says who?” There's almost a smile, but not quite. Clint will take it.

“Gimme a break,” he complains. Pietro rolls his eyes but gives the box back, at least. Clint takes out three pieces and returns the others, not really caring. He came here to share, after all. And once he gets going, Pietro can really eat.

After a while, the entire pizza is gone, which seems to surprise both of them. “So why does Clint want to break into a place he broke into yesterday just to feed me?” Pietro asks. He's curled up in the chair again, and Clint wonders if that's where he always spends his time. During the day he could probably sun like a cat.

“Figured you could use some food. Real food, not that prepackaged junk. I'm not saying you're a charity case or anything. Just that pizza's good.”

“Yes it is.” Pietro leaves it at that for a few minutes before speaking again. “Do you like men?”

“I have been known to like both men and women.”

“Then I know how to thank you for the pizza, no?” The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile for a moment and Clint realises that once upon a time he was probably a charmer.

“You know, you don't have to,” he points out, because of course he does. Clint Barton is a lot of things, but sensible isn't always one of them. “I mean, if you want to, that's cool, but I didn't feed you just to have, have leverage or whatever.”

“If you were that kind of man, you would not have bothered with feeding me first. And you wouldn't have come here twice.”

Okay, he kind of has a point. Clint just shrugs a little and scratches at the back of his neck. “I mean, if you wanna. Not really gonna say no.”

Pietro gets up almost lazily and crosses the kitchen. He puts his hands on the counter to either side of Clint and kisses him, offering more than demanding. Clint cups a hand around his face and tilts his head ever so slightly, taking advantage of Pietro giving him the lead. Their kisses grow harder, until Clint has a firm hold on his hips and his half-hard cock is pressing into the other man's thigh.

“You're sure you're okay with this?” he asks, pulling back for just a second to pant against his cheek. He wants, wants a lot, like he hasn't in a while, but he still has to make sure. Even if it seems like the two of them are more than on the same page.

For answer, Pietro sinks to his knees, sliding his hands up the inside of Clint's thighs. He nudges his nose under the hem of his t-shirt and nips at the leather of his belt, where it's pulled through the buckle. In response the blond shudders, hips thrusting forward in anticipation. The fact that it feels really damn good is almost more than enough. As the younger man's fingers work at his belt and zipper, he slides a hand to the back of Pietro's head, fingers curling in dark hair. “I think that's a yes?”

“I think it's time for you to stop talking,” Pietro murmurs, mouth pressed against the front of Clint's boxers as he speaks. The movement is a far more convincing argument than the words. Rather than acting on the slight promise in his words, Pietro mouths and nips at Clint's thighs, leaving little marks here and there. By the time teeth scrape over his hip, and Pietro drags his underwear down with his mouth, Clint is aching and impatient.

Pietro obliges the unspoken begging in the blond's whine. He does so slowly, teasing with his actions that he's reconsidering, until Clint is whimpering with nearly every touch of Pietro's tongue on his skin. But it's worth it when the younger man finally mouths at the tip of his cock, sucking and licking in away that makes his knees buckle. Rather than complaining, Pietro makes a humming noise and nudges one of Clint's knees over his shoulder.

Then he gets down to business, taking the blond's cock down his throat until he's almost choking on it. A corner of Clint's brain tells him that his grip has to be painfully tight in Pietro's hair, but he can't really mind too much, because this is a really nice end to his recent dry spell. Every so often Pietro makes a soft noise, like he needs more, and Clint answers with a soft shush that seems to answer well enough.

He warns him when he's close, but Pietro doesn't pull off. If anything he doubles his efforts, one hand sliding up the inside of the other man's thigh as the other grips his hip with enough force to bruise. In moments, Clint's whole body goes abruptly loose with the release of hormones. Making a fuzzy, pleased noise, he loosens his hold in Pietro's hair, petting him a little before sliding his leg down.

“Real good,” he said softly, nudging a finger under Pietro's chin to make him look at him. “You did real good, baby.” The endearment slips out on accident but it doesn't seem like it's wholly unwelcome. “I think you deserve at least a little bit of a reward.” He shifts, slots a leg between Pietro's, and hears the soft, shuddering gasp his movement elicits. “Kinda sounds like you like that.” Rather than speaking, Pietro presses open-mouthed kisses to his hip and stomach, a wordless begging that Clint understands.

He kneels himself, knees planted on either side of Pietro's leg as he gently pushes the other man back against the floor. The young man's eager to kiss, to touch, and he obliges. “Easy, now,” he warns softly when Pietro ruts up against him, splaying a hand over his stomach. He knows the light brush of fingertips on flushed skin is going to be torturous, but it's within Pietro's power to take the reins. Instead he whimpers, fingers imprinting the skin over Clint's hips, and lets him do what he wants.

And Clint enjoys it. He's feeling a little lazy, but he wants to repay the favour, to make Pietro feel like he'd just felt. It seems like he is, if the little breathless moans he receives are any indication. Clint presses the heel of his hand against the bulge in Pietro's pants, rocking his hand back and forth ever so slightly.

“Pozhaluysta,” he whimpers, head thudding back against the floor. “Clint, Clint, please.”

What can he say to that but yes? “Easy, honey, I gotcha.” He undoes Pietro's pants with one hand, slipping his hand down the front of his boxers. From the first touch of his hand on his cock, the young man begs him, in a soft flow of mingled English and what sounds like Russian. And Clint enjoys taking advantage of his willingness, of making him gasp and beg. It feels good to still have that effect on someone.

“Easy, now, behave,” he says when Pietro jerks his hips up into his touch. “You're gonna get what you're looking for.” And he does. Clint knows what he's doing, in general. What guy doesn't? But Pietro is so fucking expressive with his reactions that he starts learning what he likes best just from their short interaction. “Just ask for it, baby.” And Pietro does, he screams for it, in fact.

Clint moves his hand faster, slicking Pietro's length up with the precome leaking from his cock. It feels better like that, he knows, and he experiments with a little twist at the base of his cock that leaves Pietro breathless for a second. They're making a hell of a racket but he doubts either of them care. Neither of them are trying to quiet themselves, even if the constant, soft words are a private thing.

“I'm almost-” Pietro manages, swallowing hard. Clint keeps him from talking more by kissing him, aggressive and needy.

“Go on,” he murmurs. Pietro sobs out his name as he comes, body arching up to press against his. Clint is there for him as he comes down, murmuring quiet words in his ear and letting his weight rest on him. “I think that was pretty good for some pizza,” he mentions a few minutes later, when their breathing has settled.

Pietro huffs out a breath and turns his head to the side, stretching. “If you think so.” He moves to get up but Clint only lets him sit up, kissing him again once he is.

“Let me stay the night?” he asks, nipping at his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Pietro answers. He moves to get up again and this time Clint allows him to, getting up and offering his hand to help the other man stand. “There's not much here, though.”

“I hear Denny's does takeout now. Between that and Pizza Hut, I'm sure one of us can make up the rest.” Clint pulls his boxers up and goes to grab his jeans. Pietro simply steps out of his sweatpants and leaves them laying on the floor before leading the way upstairs.

As he'd said, it isn't much. Just a mattress on the floor, with a few blankets and a pillow. There's a few boxes sagging against the far wall, bearing the weight of dirty clothes tossed on them, but otherwise there's not even curtains on the windows. Clint figured it would match the rest of the house but hadn't really expected this. Well, he'll work with it.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Pietro tells him, moving a door down to what Clint assumes is the bathroom. He hears running water as he sits down on the bed, and then Pietro reappears, a sheen of water across his thighs and stomach. He's naked and goes to get another pair of boxers from the pile of dirty clothes before flopping down on the mattress. Clint rolls over and nudges a leg between his, tucking his nose into the back of his neck.

“Good night, Pietro.”

There's a pause, almost long enough that Clint thinks he might not have heard him, before there's a soft, “Good night, Clint.”

He snuggles down with a blanket draped half over one shoulder. Pietro is warm, even if the starkness of the house is still a little weird. But he feels inexplicably comfortable here, and not just because the sex mellowed him out. There's something different about this guy... like he doesn't say that about all of them. Clint knows he falls in love too easily. Even with that, he'd swear this really is different.

But all that is a thought for another day. For now Clint's tired, warm, and in company. He's gone through worse, figures both of them have if Pietro is hiding from something the way he is. He's already asleep, though, if the way his breathing evened out is any indication. Clint feels oddly touched by the faith placed in him. Either that or Pietro just doesn't care if he's murdered in his sleep. Whichever one it is, he's falling asleep himself, to moonbeams on bi-coloured hair in a nearly empty bedroom in a shady New York neighbourhood. There's worse, he thinks, and then he's thinking of nothing at all.

Chapter Text

He wakes up alone. It's mid-morning judging by the way the light is coming in through the windows. Clint yawns and stretches, wondering if he should get up and look for Pietro. The warmth of the bed convinces him not to go anywhere until he realises he has to use the bathroom. Eugh.

When he's done he wanders downstairs in search of Pietro. “I knew it,” he said softly. The other man is curled up in the camp chair again, but in the sort-of daylight. His eyes are closed, and if he isn't asleep, he's close to it. The morning light is still pale and washes out the little colour in his clothing. For a second Clint almost wonders if he's dead, but then the younger man stirs.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, both silent. And then Pietro gives a little yawn that the blond immediately mentally compares to a kitten before nestling his head back down. He doesn't seem tired, but Clint honestly has no idea what to think of him considering that he's never seen him in daylight before. He'd sort of wondered if he was a vampire or something. Evidently not.

“You know, there's a bed upstairs,” he mentions, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Pietro just shrugs a little so Clint leaves him alone. He grabs his phone from the kitchen counter where he'd left it lasts night, making a face when he sees that it's only got about twenty percent of battery left. There's a couple missed texts, which he answers with a quick I'm fine, had a good night. If it weren't for the rise and fall of Pietro's chest, Clint wouldn't even know he was alive. “Do you like dogs?” Another shrug in response. “Cats?” More shrugging but Clint thinks this one is slightly more agreeing. “Recreating Spanish naval wars under the full moon?” Pietro sort of stares at him at that one.

Clint tries to get him to talk for another five minutes or so before giving up and just leaning back against the counter, fooling around on his phone. Eventually it beeps a low-battery warning at him. “Last night was magical, darling, but I think I've gotta go.” He crosses the kitchen, presses a kiss to Pietro's messy hair. The young man blinks at him like he hadn't even realised there was someone else in the room. “I'll see you around, okay?”

He makes himself stay away the next two nights. And then he shows up with three pizzas, a cat carrier, and a duffle bag of his stuff. Subtle, Barton. “Pietro? I get that this is probably weird or something, but I have a cat.” Only since yesterday, but that's between him and the kitten. The house is quiet, so he just adds, “We'll be in the kitchen.”

Leaving his duffle by the front door, he carries the pizza and the cat into the kitchen and sets all four on the counter. The cat is mewing, wanting to be let out, and Clint can totally understand that. He just sort of wants to know if Pietro is home before he unleashes the hyper little guy upon the world. Or upon the living room, anyway.

By the time Pietro ghosts into the kitchen, Clint gave in. He's holding the kitten against his chest, again wondering how such an absurdly loud purr can come from such a tiny creature. Pietro stops when he sees the cat, but he smiles, something that seems surprisingly heartfelt considering how little emotion Clint's seen of him so far. Well, besides the kitchen sex.

“Wanna hold him?” he asks. Pietro nods almost shyly. “Name's Raptor.” The kitten makes a complaining little noise when he's moved from Clint's chest, but Pietro simply takes him over to the camp chair and curls up with Raptor pillowed on his stomach. Clint is about seventy percent sure he can hear both of them purring. He lets them do their thing, grabbing pizza for both the humans as he helps himself to the paper plates.

“It physically pains me to say this, but you cannot live off pizza.” He smiles when Pietro gives him a pouty glare. With an orange tabby kitten vibrating away and kneading at his t-shirt, he doesn't look very intimidating.

“You were never invited into my home, Clint. You can't complain about it.”

“Oh, trust me, I can complain about everything. My brother, he always said...” Clint hesitates for a moment, then plunges on. “He always said that I'd complain if God himself gave me a truck full of money on the Las Vegas strip.” Barney hadn't been a very complicated man. He liked to drink, liked to have pretty women, liked to spend money. And he'd been far from the best role model, dying a criminal. Yet Clint still misses him like hell.

Pietro doesn't say anything, just takes the offered pizza plate and carefully moves Raptor to his lap so he can sit up to eat. The kitchen is pretty quiet until the kitten gives a loud, insistent meow. From where Clint is standing, it sort of looks like Pietro startles at the noise. He certainly stares at him like he has no idea what to do with him.

“He's probably hungry,” Clint mentions, setting his plate down. “I brought his food, hold on.” And a lot more, but that's beside the point. A minute later, he comes back with a can of cat food and two bowls. One he fills with water and sets on the floor, the other he dumps the contents of the can into. Raptor wiggles until Pietro lets him down and trots across the kitchen floor. Somehow his awkwardness is just adorable.

With his paternal duties finished, Clint grabs his food and goes to sit down next to Pietro. He sits between his knees, not really minding when Pietro uses his head as a plate rest. After he finishes, he just shoves his plate off to the side a little and sits half-sideways, using the other man's knee as a pillow of sorts.

“Not looking for sex for the pizza this time?” Pietro asks. He only half sounds like he's joking.

Clint shakes his head a little. They're both quiet again, like the morning a few days ago, until inspiration strikes. “Something better,” he decides, getting up. He offers Pietro both hands and pulls him up when the younger accepts, leading him into the living room. Flopping down on the couch, he tugs Pietro down on top of him, giving him a quick kiss. But as he'd confirmed a few minutes ago, he's not looking for anything serious. Instead he tucks Pietro against the back of the couch and snuggles into him.

Pietro doesn't seem to understand what's up. “What are you doing?” he asks eventually. In reply, Clint reaches up and buries his fingers in Pietro's hair. He gets a sinful-sounding moan when he starts massaging his scalp, and there's no more questions out of him after that. He settles down instead, not leaning into Clint or being needy but still clearly enjoying it.

Even though sex is great – really great – Clint can honestly say he usually prefers it like this. Just two guys cuddling on the couch, relaxing. Pietro seems like he sleeps a lot. He sort of wonders if that's something that he should worry about, then brings himself harshly back to reality. They've seen each other three times, including the present. Neither that, nor them having sex, has given Clint any right to worry over him.

“Go to bed with me?” he asks. “Just bed, nothing else.” Pietro nods, seemingly sleepy, and gets up after Clint does. Raptor comes to investigate the sound of their movement from the kitchen. Clint picks up the kitten and his water bowl and carries both upstairs to the bedroom. He figures there's not much in here that the kitten can get into trouble with, and the two of them will be able to keep an eye on him for a little while. He closes the door behind him and sets Raptor down.

Pietro is sprawled across most of the bed, face down. Clint smiles a little, puts his phone down on the windowsill, and kicks off his shoes and jeans. He sits down on the side of the bed and rubs his hand up and down the young man's back, firmly at first before he pushes the t-shirt up a bit and lightly trails his fingertips against naked skin. Pietro says nothing but shivers lightly.

Finally Clint stops pestering him, giving the dip of his back a little swat before rolling over him an laying down. Raptor is off doing whatever kittens do; Clint's pretty sure he saw him burrow into the stack of boxes a little while ago. “Hey, Pietro?”

“What.” It's flat, guarded almost, like Pietro isn't sure he wants to hear.

“I just... I know you're not okay.”

“Fucking perceptive, you are.”

The venom in his voice isn't too harsh, but it's unexpected and still stings a little. “I'm sorry,” Clint apologises quietly. “You don't owe me or have to talk. But I'm here.”

“You said I wasn't your charity case. Make up your mind.”

“I know. And you're not. Just...” Clint doesn't know what to say after that so he stays quiet for a bit. “Tell me about your sister? You loved her a lot, even I can tell that.”

He thinks Pietro is going to throw him out at first. But then the irritation fades from his eyes and he starts talking. About his little sister, his malysh Wanda. Their mother would braid flowers into her hair, taught her to make a crown from wheat stalks and how to sew. She learned to dance by standing on their fathers' feet. When they lost their parents as children, she'd comforted him instead of the other way around.

Pietro doesn't talk for a long while after that. Clint rests a hand halfway up his back, and it's only when he does that he realises Pietro's crying. And then there's only one thing he can do. He tugs him into his arms, whispering apologies into his hair. “She loved you so much,” he says quietly. “I can tell.”

It isn't long before Pietro quiets. When he does, he rolls over, pulling away from Clint's touch. “I shouldn't have told you so much.”

“I'm glad you did.” Clint moves around him carefully and goes to retrieve Raptor. He sets the kitten on Pietro's stomach and lays back down, propping his head up on one hand. The cat settles as soon as Pietro starts petting him with one finger, kneading lightly at his shirt within a few minutes. Clint is no cat expert, but he knows when the little one falls asleep.

“Why are you here, Clint? With your pizza and your cat?”

“Because you're not a charity case but I still want to take care of you. I've always wanted to take care of people. And if it's a cute guy like you, who happens to give some amazing head, those are bonuses. I'm not going to say it's entirely because it's the right thing to do. Nobody's nice like that, even those Avenger folks that are going around saving the world all the time.” Clint's many things and a pessimist is one of them.

Pietro seems to be thinking things over and finding them acceptable. “As long as you provide the pizza, I will provide the sex,” he suggests.

Not the answer that Clint was expecting, but okay. “As long as you know you can tell me 'no' whenever.”

Pietro nods. Clint nods. And that's about that. Simple, he guesses. Raptor's purring has slowed down now that he's asleep, but it seems like Pietro's almost ready to go back to sleep himself. There's gotta be a reason that he spends so much time curled up somewhere in the dark. Besides him possibly being a vampire, though Clint's not entirely given that theory up yet. He's seen some weird things.

He reaches a finger out, traces patterns on Pietro's cheek and temple. “Would you date me?” he asks, knowing it's a stupid question that'll probably get a stupid answer.

Instead of turning him down flat, Pietro just sort of shrugs. “I don't know you. And you don't know me.”

“Yeah. But hell, people used to get married without ever having seen each other. I ain't pulling out the rings for you, no matter how pretty you are.”

That makes him smile, a little. “Maybe,” Pietro answers him, thumb stroking Raptor's head. He turns his head to look at Clint a little, like he's evaluating him. Clint hopes he doesn't look entirely like a moron. “Maximoff.”

“Eh?” Is that some kind of Russian curse? Or a blessing maybe? But Pietro smiles instead, like he said something funny.

“My last name. You should know, yes?”

Probably, yeah. Damn it, Clint once again fell in love with a guy before knowing his full name. “Barton for me. Ain't much of a name. Yours is a pretty mouthful, though.” Pietro Maximoff. It connects the right way somehow.

“Clint Barton is a good name. You don't like it?”

“Never really thought to like it or not before,” Clint admits. “My brother's name was Charles, he hated it for some reason, only went by his middle name. Shortened it to Barney. Used to smack me upside the head if I called him Charles, especially if I was teasing him.”

The past is in the past, however, and Clint doesn't need to keep dwelling on it. Instead he settles himself on his stomach, puts a leg over both of Pietro's and an arm across his waist. Damn kid is an inch taller than him at least, but there could be worse faults in their possible relationship. He asks a question about Pietro's mom, answers the same one for himself. Pietro asks more than he answers, but Clint gets the sense that he's just not familiar with people caring about him.

Somehow they manage to talk for a long time. It's past midnight when Raptor wakes up and wanders off. Pietro lays still for a moment, then takes the initiative in a move that sort of surprises Clint. He lays half on top of him, one hand curved around his hip. The position is amazingly comfortable, which the blond is more than okay with.

“You said 'maybe' earlier,” he mentions.

“I did,” Pietro agrees.

“And now?”

“I think... maybe.”

Clint makes a protesting noise and Pietro smiles in genuine amusement. “You will learn in time, Clint Barton. All right? For now, you should be quiet.” They both are, for a while. Usually silence bothers Clint, but this time around, he really doesn't mind.

Chapter Text

He wakes up to Pietro cuddling him, which is kinda nice. Clint kisses his forehead, then his cheek, then his nose, little butterfly kisses to slowly wake him up. It seems like it works, because Pietro smiles as soon as his eyes open. “Hey,” Clint murmurs. The younger man snuggles into him and murmurs a lazy greeting in return, one hand coming up to rub at his hip. “I've got an idea.”

That makes Pietro curious, he can tell. Clint doesn't answer his look, instead shifting to lay on top of him and pressing kisses down his chest, nosing under his shirt and nipping softly at his ribs when he gets to his sweats. He bites the jut of his hip a little harder, enough to leave a mark. Pietro whimpers under him, one hand grabbing at the blanket and the other at Clint's shoulder.

“I don't know if I trust my dick in that mouth with all the biting you've been doing,” he says when Clint mouths at him through his pants. The blond's pretty sure it was supposed to be a joke, but Pietro just sounds breathy with want. And hell if Clint doesn't like the idea of that better.

“Well, I have very good reason to want it to stay intact,” Clint points out, and tugs down the other man's boxers. Pietro doesn't say anything after that, just moans, but it's clearly not supposed to mean anything close to 'stop'. The grip in his hair is painfully tight but he doesn't try to get him to be gentler, just takes him deeper. And clearly his technique leaves nothing to be desired, even if he hasn't done this for a while.

“Fuck,” Pietro whispers. Clint laughs a little and kisses up his body to press lips on lips.

“Good?” he asks, grinning when Pietro just groans in response. He kisses him again, letting his weight rest on him. The other man is pliant and warm, but still has the presence of mind to slip a hand into Clint's underwear. “Shit, yeah,” he gasps, thrusting into his hand. It's Pietro's turn to smile then, and he's adept at making Clint want more.

His fingers tangle in Pietro's hair, tugging his head back and kissing and nipping at his neck. The blond leaves a hickey right in the hollow of his throat, and is proud of himself for a brief moment. Then Pietro has him distracted, and his body feels like it's on fire as he chokes out the other man's name. “God,” he swears under his breath, panting against sweaty skin. He nips at Pietro's ear, maybe a little harder than intended, and huffs out a sigh as he lays on top of him.

“You're heavy,” Pietro grumbles, but he nuzzles into his hair, spreads his legs a little so Clint fits a little more comfortably. He brushes Clint's hair back and smiles when he nuzzles into his touch. “You're not allowed to fall asleep on me.”

“Says who?” Clint whines, but he slides off to the side. Coincidentally, he also slides onto the floor. Pietro snorts at that and rolls onto his side to watch him. “Not a word, you.”

“Oh, believe me, I have many words,” the Sokovian teases. “Are you going to fall asleep down there?”

Clint thinks about it then shakes his head. “Nah, 'm gonna get up.” But he stays laying on the floor for another minute before actually getting up. Raptor almost trips him up a couple seconds later, although he doesn't give the cat attention at the moment, instead going to the bathroom. When he comes out, the feline is sitting there waiting for him, tail twitching around his back paws. “Hey, buddy.”

Pietro joins him in the kitchen not long after he stuck the pizza in the microwave. Raptor meows upon seeing him, and Pietro picks him up, smiling at Clint. They eat sitting on the floor, backs against the wall and leaning into each other. Raptor ignores his own food to try to convince them to share pizza, but Clint swats at Pietro's hand when he goes to feed him.

“He has plenty of his own food,” he protests when he gets a dirty look. “And human food can be bad for him.”

“You're still mean,” Pietro decides. Clint just chuckles and kisses his cheek.

“We should go to the store,” he decides. “Get some food, maybe another chair so we don't have to eat on the floor all the time.”

“I don't want to go anywhere.” At Clint's puppy eyes, he relents, but he still grumbles about it while eating, while getting dressed, and while they walk out. He locks the door behind them, at least, and takes Clint's hand when he offers it. “Where are we going?”

“I dunno. What's the nearest big store?”

“Big store?” Pietro repeats, and Clint thinks he picks up a note of uneasiness in his voice.

“Unless you want to go somewhere small. I think there's a neat kind of farmer's market a couple blocks to the right.” Pietro says nothing but tugs him to the right, which is answer enough. “So you're a one-on-one kind of guy, huh?” He just gets a shrug and Clint stops, pulling him around to face him. “Hey, we don't have to go anywhere, we can stay inside.”

“No, I'm fine. I just don't like crowds. Having a lot of people around...”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“I doubt it,” Pietro grumbles under his breath, turning away from him.

“I do,” Clint insists, not letting him go. “You don't have to talk about it, but if it's anything like PTSD, I get it.”

Pietro tugs on his hand a little, wanting to keep moving, and Clint lets him. They walk on in silence, the younger man leaning into the other. “Why?” he asks as they stand at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn.

“My dad wasn't a good guy. He hurt me an' my brother a lot of different ways. And even after we ran away, the next guy I thought of like a dad, he left me half dead. Then I killed my brother. It was an accident, I didn't know it was him, I swear, I never would have-” Clint's words cut off, breath and pulse quickening.

“Hey, it's okay,” Pietro whispers, squeezing his hand. Clint whimpers softly under his breath, shaking, and Pietro hugs him. “It's okay, it's okay.”

“God, I'm sorry,” Clint says long minutes later, pulling back and pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. “I didn't mean to-”

Pietro silences him with a kiss. “You can't control being scared. I won't ask you to.” He lets Clint hug him, face buried in his neck, and wonders when the hell he became reasonable like that. They cross the street, but Pietro sits him down on the first bench he comes across. Instead of saying anything, he just sits there next to him, knees pressing together.

“Thanks,” Clint says after a while.

“Do you want to go back?”

“Nah, I'm good now.” He doesn't get up at first, waits a bit longer, but he holds his hand out to Pietro once he's standing. “I was a small-time thug, and my brother was a cop, I guess. We split up when we were teenagers. Well, he left me to figure out his own life cause I was holding him back. My words, not his. But I shot a guy that was shooting at my boss and next thing I knew...”

“It wasn't your fault.” And then, because he can't stop himself, “There was a boy in danger, and I was able to get him out of the way, but I got hurt. Badly. I was dead, for a little bit, and my sister didn't know I came back. She thought I was gone forever.” He leaves it at that, because what else is there for him to say?

They don't talk the rest of the way to the store. But when they get there, Clint perks up a little, looks more like the man that broke into Pietro's home and came back the next night wanting to take care of him. He wonders if it was an act then, too, but quickly realises that this Clint has a different fragility to the veneer. Previous Clint was fine, and even though the sharing thing was kind of nice in a 'wow you really trust me' way, Pietro kind of wants that Clint back.

If it hadn't been for Clint's minor breakdown, they probably would have spent half the day exploring the store. But as it is, they only spend about an hour there. They get the chair and groceries as planned, and a cat tree, four-foot table, and cooking utensils as unplanned. Clint shamelessly steals the shopping cart, and Pietro isn't about to tell him to put it back, although he's not sure when they'll go shopping again or even why they went today.

When they get back home, Raptor meows insistently at them like he's demanding to know why they were gone. He also ignores the cat tree it takes another hour to build in favour of the box it came in. Clint mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'fucking cats, this is why I like dogs'. Fortunately the table and second chair take no time to set up, although Clint goes upstairs rather than sitting down.

Pietro finds him curled up in bed. He joins him, combing his fingers through the older man's hair. Clint has nothing to say, for once, but he makes a murmuring sound that tells Pietro it's good that he's there. “You said that Wanda loved me,” he mentions. “I think that your brother loved you too. Very much.”

“We were all we had. For a long time. Knowing he was gone... that I...”

“It hurts. And you don't think you will get over it. But sometimes you find a reason.”

“Do you have a reason?”

“Sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I think that it is very easy to get to the roof and it is a very long way down. There's more of the second. But every day is different.”

“Promise you won't try to, while I'm here?” Clint asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

They don't talk but they think about things, and some of it hurts and some of it doesn't. Clint is, as usual, the one that gets them both out of bed to eat something. Pietro realises that that's going to be the (likely only) healthy habit in his life. But Clint pulls out ingredients and actually cooks, which stuns him, because he's burned things by leaving them in the microwave too long. The last person to cook for him, specifically, was his sister, and before that, his mother.

But it feels right to curl up in the camp chair and watch Clint put together meat and rice and vegetables. Raptor wanders in and jumps up on the counter, which also feels natural, as does Clint tapping the cat on the nose with a spoon. They talk about books over dinner, Pietro mentions the location of the nearest library. When the other man suggests they go sometime, he agrees without really thinking about it. Getting out of the house is fairly unusual, except for occasional nocturnal runs to stock up on ramen and candy bars.

Clint's upset his life already, moved in with a cat and bought him furniture and made him food. Pietro thinks he should be afraid of this, be reconsidering what he's doing with what's left of his life. But instead he sits on the floor in front of the couch, leaning back against it with Clint's knees on either side of his shoulders. They watch some movie that the blond conjured from somewhere as he works tiny braids into Pietro's hair, and Raptor scratches up one of the kitchen cabinets while they're distracted in the living room, but he doesn't really mind. It feels comfortable and therefore he will leave it alone and risk it becoming something he could get used to, even though the ever-cautious voice in the back of his head is warning him he shouldn't.