#give me this man in a floppy hat dammit

[calicos-clones]

Beach Wine Mom Crosshair is forever cannon in my head and is the only way TBB will end.

[captain-hischier]

rivals - nico/nolan

just a little something for @c-hartwriteshockey ! 

prompt from this prompt list. 

30. we’ve been hockey rivals since we were five but you just transferred to my team and i didn’t know you got hot

a/n: i changed the prompt a little to fit the story. enjoy!

The news is shocking, to say the least; finding out that your biggest rival in like, the history of rivals has been traded to play for your team. Of course it had to be the fucking Pats, Nolan thinks ruefully, slowly dragging tape over his socks. He remembers his first time playing against the Pats, remembers getting destroyed 4-2, remembers punching the shit out of Wagner and feeling justified when they toppled to the ice. But most of all, he remembers a scrawny kid - Hischier was his name - who looked like a baby deer on the ice. At the time, he had reveled in the defeated look in his eyes before they got their asses kicked. He shriveled when the sadness on Hischier’s face turned to excitement. And - while he has no proof, this definitely happened - Hischier winked at him. He had to be physically restrained from his teammates, otherwise he would’ve killed him right then and there. 

He’s totally passed all of that now. His behind’s in the past, as Pumba would say. 

Their coach walks in and says some random bullshit like we’re Wheat Kings and we treat everyone with utmost respect and this rivalry is gone now and stuff like that. But the end really catches his attention.

“...Nico Hischier will be here any minute, and I don’t want anyone doing anything stupid.” 

Nolan makes a noise he will definitely deny in the future, and Kaspick puts a grounding hand on his knee. 

“Keep it together man,” Tanner whispers harshly. “We know how you feel about the Pats but this is real shit.” 

“I know. I feel like I should give some sort of speech or something,” Nolan whispers back. 

“That’s a great fuckin’ idea, bud,” Tanner snorts, and gets two arms under Nolan’s. He shoves him to the center of the locker room before Nolan has time to push him back. “Captain’s got something he wants to say, listen up dudes.” 

“Uh,” Nolan starts off lamely, voice impossibly flat. He gives Tanner his best stink eye before clearing his throat. “What coach said. It’s important that we don’t treat Hischier any different than each other. We bring him in with open arms, and we continue on like we did before. Nothing’s changed, we just have a new face in the locker room, so don’t act like a dick. Uh, yeah.” 

“Nice speech,” a voice says from behind him, making him jump. He presses a hand to his heart - yep, still beating - and turns around. He’s greeted by a man with flawless skin, big brown eyes, and a lovely smile. “I’m Nico.” 

Wait. 

“Nolan,” Nolan responds slowly, processing. The last time he saw Hischier - Nico, god - was a little over a year ago. There’s no way this was the same person. This person has arm muscles the size of his thighs, and floppy brown hair that he wants to tug on. 

The two shake hands. Nico waves a little to the room, and god, Nolan wants. 

He goes around the room to shake hands with everyone, and Nolan returns to his stall. Definitively not shaking. He internally screeches - he hopes he internally screeches - and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Dude, hide your fucking boner,” Tanner mumbles, elbowing him. Nolan panics and scrambles to look down, forgetting he has hockey pants on. 

“I fucking hate you,” Nolan grumbles over Tanner’s annoying laugh.

“Well, if you’ve got one, you better conceal it now. Nine o��clock.” 

“What the fuck does that even mean.” 

As if one cue, Nico plops down right next to them. “Coach told me I’m rooming with you on roadies.” 

“Awesome,” Nolan grits out, stares right into Nico’s smile, and wonders how the hell he’s going to figure this out. 

-

Their next roadie just had to be in Regina. 

Nolan sits alone on the plane because he can’t be bothered, and he has a scowl on his face when he sees Nico and Tanner playing cards on the plane. He finally hears Nico’s laugh, and he wants to kiss the smile right off his face. 

-

Of course, the game against the Pats is a total shitshow. 

He gets in another fight with Wagner and puts him down a second time before getting ejected, and he’s forced to listen as Nico scores a hat trick against his former team. 

Fuck. 

-

Nolan gets to the hotel before Nico does and busies himself in angry-reading his book. He doesn’t even know what it’s about - he thinks it has something to do with magical cats, but who cares. 

The door slams open and his book clatters out of his hands. It lands ungracefully on the floor, pages torn and bent. Nico flops on the bed (very gracefully) and Nolan just wants to kiss his throat. 

Instead, he gets up and sits on the bed next to the deadweight body before he can restrain himself. He runs a hand up and down Nico’s back a few times before he gets tense. 

“What are you doing,” Nico says flatly, muffled by the pillow currently smothered by his face. 

“I, uh. I’m not really sure.” 

Nico lifts his face off the pillow and glares at him. “Well don’t fucking stop now.” 

His face is smushed and his eyes are bleary and yep - Nolan definitely wants to kiss him. A lot. 

But apparently he takes too long, and Nico beats him to it. 

He doesn’t kiss back, not yet, but Nico kisses with enough force so he doesn’t have to. His lips are soft and pliable, and Nolan lets himself bask in the feeling of having his insides melted before pulling away. 

Nico whines. “Why’d you stop,” he pouts, and his eyes are wide. 

“I just. Nico,” Nolan groans, putting his face in his hands. 

“Why are you being so weird,” Nico furrows his brows together. 

“Dude,” Nolan laughs, indignant. “We’ve been hockey rivals since we were drafted but you just got traded to my team, and I didn’t know you got hot! I’m processing!”

“Oh, you’re processing now?” Nico giggles, sticking his hands in Nolan’s hoodie. “Can I give you some more things to process while you wait?”

“Are you fucking-” Nolan moans, rolling his eyes. “Is that seriously the best you could come up with.” 

“Hey, it got you to smile. I did my job right.” And that - that makes Nolan’s stomach tumble down a flight of stairs. 

“So, do you. Do you maybe want to try this?” Nolan stutters, and his voice shakes. “Like. With me?” 

Nico’s smile softens, and he grabs Nolan’s hands, intertwining their fingers. “I definitely want to try this.” 

Nolan’s smile grows wide, and he leans down to kiss Nico.

But, of-fucking-course, Tanner chooses that exact moment to bust in their room, carrying a bag of Bugles and two sodas. 

“Hey, I brought you some snacks,” he starts. “Oh, fuck.” 

Nolan doesn’t have a book to drop this time, so instead his stupidly long legs betray him and topple over the bed, leaving him in a heap on the carpet. 

“God dammit, Tanner.” Above him, he hears Nico giggle softly. Traitor. 

“So I guess you don’t have to hide your boner, eh?” Tanner says, waggling his eyebrows. 

Nolan shoots to his feet, and Tanner drops the chips and runs for his life. 

Behind him, Nico is cracking up, full-on kicking his feet in the air and dying. 

“Oh, shush,” Nolan mumbles, smiling, as he climbs back on the bed. 

“Make me,” Nico says, and pushes a hand into Nolan’s hair, lightly tugging. 

“Oh, it’s on,” Nolan laughs, and tackles him to the floor. 

[fifteenleads]

all in a day’s work (1/?)

Bungou Stray Dogs  x  Cells At Work.

.

Atsushi grimaces yet again before the mirror. As he thought— the red uniform jacket looks horrible on him. It was supposed to be tailored to his size, but the bulky sleeves aren't doing wonders for his short arms at all. The blue jeans are straight-cut with the edges folded up twice over, even after the quick alteration job. They promised to replace the pants with custom-fit ones as soon as possible, but who knows how long that will take?

At least they let him keep his black fingerless gloves. The standard white ones would only be wasted on him, given how... bloody the work gets.

"Sighing again, Atsushi-kun?"

Tanizaki emerges from the other row of lockers, an eyebrow raised in amusement. Unlike Atsushi, he chose to tie his jacket around his waist, the dark red inner fabric contrasting well with his faded jeans. Today, he wears an off-white v-neck sweater instead of the usual black roundneck. The lighter shade brings out the color of his eyes better.

"Nice outfit, Tanizaki-san," Atsushi comments, by way of greeting.

"Oh, this? Naomi offered to dress me today," Tanizaki grins, a little pink coloring his cheeks. "She's always excited to see me off to work everyday, it's a little embarrassing, really."

"I heard. She's almost graduating from the Marrow Academy, right? Good old days." The three of them were born from the same bone marrow, and Naomi had taken to calling themselves siblings ever since they have been assigned to the same dorm.

Tanizaki laughs at the memory. "Kinda? Can't say I miss being whacked by a wooden sword, though!" Their macrophage teacher, Ozaki, is known to be very strict on the erythroblasts during RBC training, but for good reason and good results. Even now, Tanizaki refuses to admit it, but his time at the Academy definitely helped his work performance by large; the year-end Rookie Award he got was definitely not just for show.

"Same here," Atsushi agrees. "Do you think we'll get to pass by the spleen today?"

"I'd rather not," Tanizaki turns up his nose at the suggestion. "I'd like to go see the dendrites, though."

"Oooh," Atsushi hums curiously. "I heard Ranpo-san's been asking after you since the other day. Do you need a wingman?"

"L-Look, let's just get to work, okay? We're running late," Tanizaki huffs, going back to retrieve his hat. Atsushi puts on his own, a floppy red forage cap that completely covers his white bangs. This, too, the wardrobe department would replace sometime later along with his pants, but it would have to do for now.

"AN-5509," he recites to himself, inhaling deeply before putting on his game face. "Okay, let's go."

.

"Your oxygen for the day, sir," Atsushi enthusiastically hands off the sealed package to the recipient, who curtly signs the slip over the small counter. The cells in this apartment complex have been affected by a scrape wound nearby, and are now being kept awake for days on end to meet the rapid cell division quota. Must be stressful being an epithelial cell, Atsushi observes.

"Is there anything else?" the cell glares at him, near-bloodshot eyes accentuated by deep eyebags. Atsushi gives the cell a small smile as he bows, before pushing his trolley back to the elevator. Another trip to the lungs, before he can finally clock out.

All in a day's work, he thinks.

The nearest route to the lungs from where he is would require passage through the pterygoid plexus, an inconvenience Atsushi is more than willing to avoid during this time of the day due to the heavy foot traffic. He decides to use a venule located half a kilometer away; the extra walking would help develop his leg muscles while helping him get there faster.

Half an hour passes by in a flash as Atsushi let his mind wander while traversing the curved road. He slowly returns to reality as he notices more red blood cells in the open area. From the maxillary vein, it should be easier to get to the lungs now. He starts to pick up the pace once more; Tanizaki said he'd wait at the alveolus so they can clock out together.

Just then, the earth rumbles, then shakes more violently. Small cracks give way to an explosion, sending large chunks of concrete flying.

Atsushi, too, is sent flying back a few meters, landing face down with his ass sticking up. Before he could even scramble back up, the ground shakes again as loud footsteps approach. Then:

"Well, isn't this cozy? Just the right temperature, and plenty of nutrients, too!"

A sharp claw swipes across just a few centimeters from Atsushi's forehead, and he flinches hard, eyes widening in fear. At the center of the wreckage stands a gang of purple humanoid creatures with bladed tentacles, jeering and leering at the terrified cells looking on from the periphery. "We like it here," their leader declares smugly. "From now on, this area is ours!"

As if on cue, the other creatures spread out, rapidly sending out their blades in a circumferential fashion, causing the cells to run away en masse. From the periphery of his vision, Atsushi sees a platelet knocked over by the ensuing stampede. Adrenaline kicking in, he runs over and picks up the child, hugging them tightly as he weaves his way through the panicking crowd.

'Lungs, lungs,' he thinks to himself while ignoring the persistent hammering in his chest. He has to make it out of this alive with this child, at least!

Atsushi trips over a raised crack on the road. He rotates his body by instinct to land on his back, the resulting impact sending shockwaves of pain through his hips and spine. The platelet in his arms holds him tighter, wailing loudly. Atsushi desperately wills his legs to move, but they remain powerless. He grits his teeth through the pain and fear, trying not to cry. 'Move, Atsushi, dammit!'

The cold sweat suddenly drenching him, however, tells otherwise.

Two of the invading creatures rapidly approach them, bundles of thin tentacles pointed at them at the ready. Atsushi does not hear the incoming taunts, all other sound deafened by the rapid pounding of his heart. It can't end like this!

"Red blood cells run from bacteria, not fight them!"

"You'll never survive outside the marrow, you good-for-nothing blast!"

"You're no hero, AN-5509! When will you ever learn that?!"

No... no...

His eyes remain wide open as a large, pointed claw comes down at him fast.

"Antigen sighted."

Just then, a black dagger hits the tentacle, sending it off-course. The creature looks around frantically at the source of the offending blade, before a spurt of blood bursts from its back. The other one falls, too, not a second later. Atsushi could only gape at the swift extermination, both creatures lying dead with black blades buried in their backs.

A man wearing a tattered black cape over bloodied white military fatigues approaches them, his dirty combat boots making loud crunching noises on the ground. Atsushi rolls himself to his side in an effort to stand up, but is instead pulled up violently by his collar, causing him to almost drop the platelet in shock.

Jet black eyes glare intensely at him from beneath a white cap, and Atsushi could practically feel himself being burned by the full force of the man's presence. He gulps in anticipation as the man bellows:

"Fool! Why didn't you run away?! Do you really want to die that quickly?!"

Atsushi's throat is still too parched to make any sound. The man's strength betrays his short stature and very pale complexion, unruly chin-length black hair ending in tips of white only contributing to his ferocious glare. Atsushi's lips part as they quiver in fear; it is as if he is being thrown suddenly from the frying pan into the fire.

As soon as it started, however, it ended just as quickly.

The man's eyes narrow as they regard Atsushi with disgust. Atsushi could barely react before he is again thrown back to the ground. This time, he lands on his stomach, almost crushing the crying child in his arms. It takes a few moments before Atsushi remembers to breathe.

Static noise breaks through the crackling sound from burning buildings. The man unclips the radio from his belt and curtly gives a report:

"This is R-3192, 'Akutagawa', of the Neutrophil Division. Threat has been eliminated."

.

(1/?)

[dammit-stark]

the great marvel vs dc debate: as understood by hawkeye

hey remember that phlint comic con fic i mentioned the other day? yeah well this is it. 

Clint/Phil, rated G

Summary: Phil Coulson is a certified nerd who loves everything Captain America and works at the SHIELD headquarters downtown as a Level [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. He loves his Harry Potter-loving, future nerd of a niece so very much that he agreed to give her mom a break and bring her to comic con with him this year. Clint Barton is strictly Not A Nerd but it turns out there isn’t much of a market for fancy, handmade bows and arrows beyond comic conventions, and where there’s money Clint goes, so he finds himself at these things at least once a month and they’re usually pretty dreadful because he has exactly 0 idea what’s going on but hey that one guy dressed as captain America is really hot maybe nerds aren’t half bad.

[Read it on AO3!]

“Hey, you! Yeah, you- you Brown Guy! Get away from those!” Clint barked, tearing his eyes away from the handsome-looking soldier eyeing the custom coasters across the aisle just in time to see a kid dressed in some brown cloak fidget with one of Clint’s arrows, dropping it, “These are really expensive! Be careful!"

The Brown Guy just snickered and ran off, his whopping four foot tall body disappearing into the masses easily.

“Dammit,” Clint said, left to stare at the shards of an arrow in bits. The hot guy across the aisle moved to a different booth, farther away.

“Did I just hear you call that kid dressed as a Jawa a Brown Guy?” Veronica, Clint’s booth neighbor, leaned in, practically snorting with laughter. She had bright purple hair and glasses the size of her face and made awesome prints (mostly with acrylic paint and digital applications, but she used almost every medium), lots of them, and created pins of characters and actors that sold like hot cakes (if hot cakes had pictures of hot guys in intimidating fighting stances printed onto them).

“How am I supposed to know what he was?”

“You don’t know what a Jawa is? They’re in the first Star Wars movie, on Tatooine. Ringing a bell?” Nothing. Literally just a blank stare from Clint, “They’re the guys in A New Hope that sell Artoo and Threepio to Luke and Uncle Owen.” Still nothing. Veronica sighed, exasperated, “Why are you here if you don’t even know what a Jawa is, Barton?”

“Oh, Veronica, Veronica, Veronica, such a simpleton,” Clint said, scooping up the broken arrow pieces, “I do it for the money, that’s all. I would much rather be anywhere but here, but sadly this is where I find myself this weekend. I have no clue about any of this nerd stuff.”

“Well then, Barton,” Veronica said, giving Clint a rough clap on the shoulder and a wild smirk, “You’re in luck because a panel just started on the other side of the hall and it’s supposedly going to be a super popular one so business is about to thin out. Plus, Amy said she could guard my booth for awhile just in case. I can freely explain to you the intricacies of The Con. And Star Wars. You definitely need a lesson on Star Wars.”

Clint looked up just in time to see the handsome soldier shopping for coasters move into the masses that were heading in the direction of Veronica’s Super Popular Panel.

“Okay, I’ll listen. I don’t have anything better to do, I guess.”

“You better,” She said, taking a big sip of Mountain Dew and looking like she was about to start talking a mile a minute.

“You gotta explain who the people in the red, white, and blue soldier costumes are, too.” He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, he really did.

Veronica just smirked, like she knew all of his motivations, “Oh, don’t worry Archer Boy, I will, I will.”

////////

A flash of a red and black floppy hat (if that's what you would call a hat) rammed into Clint’s booth just as a harried, high pitch voice yelled from somewhere deep in the crowd, “Just because I let you dress up as Harley Quinn does not mean you can act like her! Come back here, missy!”

An overwrought BatMom of some sort appeared out of the crowds and reached for a handful of the back of the red-and-black checkered costume. But it was too late. An entire bow had ruptured, it’s string peeled right off the wood by the unruly hand of a child (Clint hadn’t even know that could happen to his bows, but children apparently found new ways to destroy things every day).

“Oh. My. Goodness. I am so, so sorry, sir. I’ll pay for it, I promise,” The BatMom was already pulling out her wallet, “How much did it cost?”

Clint shyly told her the price of the bow and she practically dropped her wallet.

“That much? I-I can’t afford that, I’m so sorry. Could I possibly buy something a little less expensive? What can I buy for, um, $65?”

Almost nothing. That bow had cost $300. Clint was losing money left and right today. He really hated comic cons.

“You could buy one of these arrows, m’am. I really appreciate this,” He smiled, trying not to show on his face that he was doing the math in his head of how many other arrows he’d have to sell to make up for the loss of this single bow and the Jawa's broken arrow.

“Well, I’ll buy it.” The BatMom reassured, keeping a tight grip on the back of Harley Quinn’s costume (whoever Harley Quinn is, Clint had no idea). The little girl was already trying to inch toward Veronica’s booth, or the coaster one across the aisle.

Clint started to make change and BatMom was getting antsy, practically hissed at her daughter to sit still for once for once in her life.

“So what are you two dressed as?” He said, just to pass the time and make things less awkward.

“Are you kidding me? You don’t know who we are?” BatMom said, as if he were crazy.

“No?”

“Well this little runt is Harley Quinn, and she’s not usually this bad, I swear, she’s just excited. She loves it here. And I’m Batman, obviously.”

“Isn’t Batman a… man?”

“So what?”

“Alright, I respect that,” Clint said, trying to make his chuckle as non-threatening as possible, “So what are you, from Star Wars or something?”

Clint could hear Veronica trying not to laugh from her booth.

“No… we’re superheroes.” Clint could tell that BatMom was wondering if she was being pranked or something, her face twisted and she looked towards the ceiling as if she'd catch some sort of secret camera.

“Like Captain America?”

“Well, kinda, but they belong to different universes.”

“Different universes? What does that mean?”

Veronica appeared, out of nowhere with a huge smile, “Go on, Batman. I’ll explain to our archer friend why Marvel and DC fans will forever be at war.”

BatMom smiled, “Well, good luck then. Again, I’m so sorry, sir. Have a good day!”

And she scurried off, just like that, with her daughter pulled tight to her side so she couldn’t run off again, leaving Clint alone with Veronica to get an earful on why Marvel and DC were completely different.

/////

The next time a kid showed up, Clint held his breath. He couldn’t afford another lost arrow. But instead, the little girl with her cloak and her yellow and black scarf and her wand just looked up at him with her wide, innocent eyes and shyly smiled.

“Can I help you?” Clint asked, hesitating. The sweetness could be a trap, the calm before the storm.

But instead, the little wizard (or rather witch, as Clint is corrected later) smiled at him and said, “Your bows and arrows are really pretty.”

“Thank you,” Clint said, because she may be a kid but he worked really hard and all compliments were appreciated, no matter how small, “Do you like archery?”

“It’s pretty cool, I guess, like Katniss!”

“Yeah, sure, like Katniss.” That was usually what people thought of when he talked about archery nowadays, it used to be Robin Hood. Not anymore. Now it was just all Katniss, all the time. Clint missed the days of Robin Hood (and the occasional Annie Oakley, which didn't completely make sense, but it was still appreciated).

“Katie, please don’t run away like that!” A voice appeared, out of nowhere, from the depths of the crowd, red, white, blue, and… hot. It was the Captain America from earlier, the one that Clint had been checking out as he checked out coasters. And apparently he had a daughter which meant there was probably a wife or significant other of some sort not far behind. Damn. But then, the cosplayer frowned and opened his mouth again, “Your mom would kill me if I lost you. Do you have any idea how easy it would be for my sister to kill me for losing you? With ease. She’d have no problem with it. None.”

Oh. So it wasn’t his kid, it was his niece. It appeared that there was still hope for Clint Barton and the Hot Cosplayer afterall.

“I’m so sorry,” Fake Captain America said, turning to Clint and oh, “She’s a curious one. I hope she didn’t bother you.”

This was his chance. Clint smiled as charmingly as he could, “Not at all. She was just explaining Katniss Everdeen to me.”

The stranger wrapped his arm around his niece, chuckling almost to himself, “She does like Hunger games. I’m Phil by the way, and this is Katie.”

“It’s Nice to meet you, Phil. You too, Katie. I’m Clint. I own Hawkeye’s Collectables." He widened his smile, just a little, to somehow make himself seem amicable to the max, hoping Phil would get the hint, "Here’s my card.” Clint hoped that the fact that his cell number was written on the back of the card was hint enough to call him. He didn’t want to blatantly ask this stranger out in front of his niece. Now that’d just be rude, right?

Phil smiled down at the card and Clint loved it, felt his stomach bloom as Phil spoke, “Thanks, Clint. So you make these all on your own?”

“Yeah, from start to finish at my studio.” Clint tried not to sound like he was boasting, but well, he was very proud of his craft.

Phil examined a nearby bow, “They’re amazing.”

Clint couldn’t help but smile, “Thank you so much. And y'know, I really like your costume.”

Phil smiled, so fucking wide it was unreal. Clint was gonna go for it. He really was. Just ask outfront, not wait for all that complicated dating subtext. The signals were there, right?. He just had to go for it, “Listen, I couldn’t help but notice-,”

But then he stopped because a beautiful redhead dressed as one of those people from Star Trek appeared seemingly out of nowhere and wrapped her hand around Phil’s elbow in such a familiarly intimate way that it made Clint’s stomach do a nose dive.

“Phil! I was looking everywhere for you!”

“Oh, Nat! Look at these bows! Aren’t they amazing? Clint here made them himself,”

Nat really looked at them, leaned over Phil to do so, like she was judging them, ranking them in her head, and maybe Phil wasn’t single afterall, this woman was certainly beautiful enough to be Phil’s girlfriend or wife or whatever. Nat smiled and Clint felt himself burn, almost vicariously, “These are really cool,”

“Thanks... I guess.”

Nat turned back to Phil, “Come on, the cosplay contest is about to start. You can totally place again, maybe even win!”

Katie got excited, too, started tugging on Phil’s sleeve, “I wanna see you win, Uncle Phil! Come on! Come on!”

Phil rolled his eyes at the two girls and looked at Clint, “It was nice to meet you.”

“Good luck with your contest,” Clint replied and slumped against his table. There was once again no point to Comic Cons apparently. Not without the hopes of hot guys dressed as Captain America.

////

The next day when Clint received a text from someone saying that they were Phil From The Con, he was ecstatic for approximately 0.2 seconds before he remembered that Phil was most likely completely and utterly Straight and Taken. Damn.

So he did what any mature and reasonable adult would do. He ignored the messages. Dealing with his problems would obviously be too difficult. Obviously.

When Clint was laying on his couch watching Dog Cops and his phone rang, the caller idea reading the number that Phil had texted him with, Clint (very maturely, by the way) threw his phone to the other side of the couch, conveniently underneath one of the ratty purple throw pillows so that the ringer was muffled, and pretended that he had no idea what that ringing sound was.

Clint received three more texts before the end of the week when they just stopped coming altogether.

Clint went back to his everyday life. He crafted some more bows, made replacement arrows, scheduled his next con, did whatever he could to take his mind off of the texts dinging from his phone. Thankfully, Clint received a particularly expensive request through his website that allowed him to take his attention away from Hot and Straight Phil and onto working on the order.

He liked to personally deliver the more expensive orders himself. It was sort a place of pride for him. So as he finished up the customized product, Monday came around and he packaged up his work and set out for the address on the email. It was nearby anyway, only a 15 minute drive. Once at the correct address, Clint maneuvered the package to the door and waited patiently for the customer after hearing a muffled, “I’m coming! Hold on!” From within the condo.

It was a medium-sized, modest, uber-modern condo that looked barely lived in, like the owner had somewhere better to be all the time. It was entirely different from Clint’s apartment, that looked like a tornado had hit it no matter what the time of day it may be. The door opened just as Clint began contemplating how many items he left out just on the path from his front door to the couch and how long it would probably take to tidy that area up (too damn long).

Clint gasped, “Phil?”

And sure enough, Phil stood there, smiling like he was the smoothest motherfucker in the entire world and well, granted, Clint had not seen that coming. But here Phil, the very person he had been avoiding for over a week and a half, stood in his nice and tidy house with his probably-girlfriend probably somewhere in there, answering the door wearing a ratty old t-shirt with a faded Captain America logo printed across the front.

“Hey, Clint. How’s it going?”

“You- um-,” Clint seemed to be having difficulty speaking, “You ordered something?”

“Yes, I believe I did,”

And before Clint could stop himself he found himself blurting, “Why?”

“Because I like you,” Phil said, so effortlessly, so easily, like it wasn’t something that Clint had been struggling to put into words for over a week and a half.

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?”

“You know,” Clint said, gesturing, “Nat?”

Phil honest-to-god snorted aloud, “Natasha is not my girlfriend. And trust me, she never will be. We just work together and well, let’s just say that neither of us exactly swing that way.”

“Oh. Oh.” Clint said dumbly, “So you-?”

“Yeah, Clint, Yeah.”

“Oh. Well, um, in that case, would you like to go out sometime?”

That trademark Phil Smile that Clint found himself loving returned again, “If you promise to respond to my texts, Clint, yeah, I’d love to.”

“Good,”

“Would you like to come in?”

Oh boy did Clint ever want to. But, nerd or no, Clint knew nothing real about him, and he had kinda liked the mystery, the waiting while it had lasted, “Not today, Phil,” Clint said, like some sort of half-promise, “Not today.”

Clint left, inadvertently forgetting all about the bow that he had made for Phil, leaving the wooden masterpiece on Phil’s doorstep, like part of his heart or his soul or something, left right outside of Phil's home to face the weather and all its irony. Clint only remembered it after he had already started the car, considered it a gift to Phil, and drove off.

At the end of the month, when Clint was looking over his bills (Phil made him do things like that, it was cute how heated he got about Clint doing Adult Things because they were Important), he found a mysterious entry of money without identification, equal to the price of the bow.

Almost like somebody had hacked his accounts and imputed just enough money to repay him for the bow. Weird. The name said something like Fury, but Clint didn't know a Fury. He'd certainly remember a name like that. Oh well.