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Phil was positive that some deity, somewhere, had it out for him. There was no other explanation for the string of laughably bad luck that was his life.
The deity must have also had a sense of humor, because he was woken, just the same as every morning, by the whispers of the two mice camped out on his bedside table. Well. He said bedside table. It was really an upside down milk carton, with a small nest of socks it was no longer worth darning tucked up next to a candle. Steve and Bruce were the only two who regularly used the sock-nest, but Pepper and Rhodey were known to occasionally join them when Loki (the nastiest cat ever to breathe, who liked tormenting mice once he’d caught them, which worked to Phil’s advantage because it gave him time to swoop in to the rescue with a broom) came prowling too close to their home in the kitchens.
“Good morning, Phil!” Steve waved cheerfully at him as he blinked blearily awake. Bruce gave a small nod of greeting, which was to be expected as he was not a morning mouse. Steve was the exact oppose. Phil wasn’t sure why they were friends, but he supposed stranger things had happened.
“Good morning, Steve, Bruce. Do either of you know what time it is?”
“Just past seven. You have at least an hour before anyone else gets up.”
Phil groaned, rubbing at his temples. “I may as well get started, then.” He levered himself out of bed, pulling on his clothing – worn and patched in places, but still very comfortable – while he waited for his brain to wake up all the way. Steve raced up his arm to cling to his short collar, but Bruce (still half-asleep) just accepted Phil’s offered hand and curled up where Phil deposited him in his pocket.
Teeth brushed, shoes on, and passengers arranged, Phil descended the creaking stairs of the attic to begin his day. He started in the kitchens, dropping Steve off to chat with Pepper and Rhodey as he built up the fire and set everything up so that it would be ready for him to make breakfast.
He scooped out a portion of the chicken feed in the sack beside the door before heading into the yard, scattering the feed to the waiting birds. The chickens didn’t talk to him, and neither did Happy, the horse that almost never left the stable, or Thor, the bloodhound who spent half of his time sleeping in the sun and the other half being way too enthusiastic about everything. It was just the mice.
This probably said something about Phil’s sanity, but he wasn’t inclined to examine it all that much, in case it turned out to be true.
Chickens fed, he tended to Happy and set out a plate of food and a dish of water for Thor, and then swept the entire courtyard, before going back inside to start breakfast.
At eight o’clock on the dot, the bell for Fury’s room rang, immediately followed by Maria’s and Jasper’s, and cries of “Coulson!” could be heard from three different corners of the house. Phil sighed, fished Bruce out of his pocket and deposited him on the counter with the others (it was never a good idea to tempt fate, and he didn’t really want to have to explain to any member of his-step family why he had a mouse in his pocket), and then carefully balanced all the trays of food he had just finished making and started out of the kitchen.
Thankfully, today was not a day that Loki tripped him on his way up the stairs. Damned cat.
“It’s just, he seems very lonely, don’t you think?” The king asked.
Natasha nodded her agreement, waiting for him to get to the point. It would happen sooner or later, and in the meantime, there was tea and an excellent spread of pastries for breakfast.
The king considered the air in front of his nose for a long moment, before nodding as if very satisfied with something and declaring, “yes, that is exactly what we will do.”
“I’m sorry, sire,” Natasha interjected gently, “What is it, exactly, that we will do?”
“Throw a ball, of course!” exclaimed the king, grin stretching out of his face. “For Prince Clint’s birthday! We will invite all the young ladies of the land, and he will find a lovely young fiancée, and then all of the inheritance troubles will be dealt with and I can go faff about somewhere tropical. It’s perfect!”
Natasha privately resolved to make sure she invited a fair number of the nice and more attractive young men to the ball as well, but smiled at the king’s genuine enthusiasm. “A wonderful idea, sire. I shall take care of it as soon as I have convinced Prince Clint to greet the sun this morning.”
“Excellent!” he stood, clapping her on the shoulder as he left the breakfast table. “Knew I could count on you! Remember, his birthday’s next week!”
“It’s the day after tomorrow, sire.” Natasha said calmly, rising as well.
Clint would just have to suck it up and get out of bed, she had things to do today.
“But Nat, I don’t want to marry a nice young lady. I definitely don’t want to marry a nice young lady I met at a ball somewhere. Can’t there be like, an archery contest for my hand or something? I could win it myself, and stop worrying about it all. Father’s just going to have to stop carrying about this ‘grandchildren’ thing and accept the fact that adoption is the best he’s going to get.” Clint whined at Natasha during his morning workout.
She turned the page of the budget that she was reading and shrugged from her position perched on his back while he did pushups. “That would be a strong position if your father actually knew you would rather marry a nice young man.”
“My point about the ball still stands.” Clint muttered.
“It will be a lovely ball. I’m planning it, after all. And throwing it on your birthday. Which is the day after tomorrow. A royal ball, the day after tomorrow. So stop complaining, because all you have to do show up, look pretty, and dance with someone to make your father happy, and then we can go back to plotting to find you someone who won’t let you run this kingdom into the ground. Have you seen these numbers? They’re a disgrace.”
The bickered back and forth for a while, as Clint finished his work out, before parting ways. Clint went off to avoid his tutors and shoot at things in the gardens, and Natasha went to go terrorize the palace staff into producing a truly spectacular royal ball in slightly less than two days.
So, business as usual.
The poor, exhausted man in the livery of a footman from the royal palace was leaning against the doorframe when Phil answered the bell.
“Are you okay?” he asked, peering with concern at the footman’s face, which was a rather worrying shade of grey.
He was waved off. “I’m fine. I have a message from the palace. Terribly sorry for the late notice, please pass it on, have a lovely day, I must be off.” He handed over an envelope.
“Are you sure you don’t want some water?” Phil called after him, but the man was already halfway down the drive, presumably to the next house. Shrugging, he went to deliver the envelope to Fury.
He couldn’t have anticipated the contents of the envelope being an invitation to a royal ball, and he definitely couldn’t have anticipated the royal ball being the next day, so Phil was a little bit put out when he was the one yelled at about the late notice before being drafted to find Jasper’s favorite tie, fix the hems on three of Maria’s dresses before she decided to wear different shoes and then he had to fix two of them a second time, still somehow find time to make, serve, and clean up dinner and…
Yeah. Somewhere, that deity definitely had it out for him.
Phil finally collapsed into the rickety old rocking chair he kept next to the kitchen fire at eleven that night, and it wasn’t later only because his step siblings had gone to bed early to get their beauty sleep. On the bright side, that meant that they would probably sleep in, which means he had time to finish everything. Rolling his eyes at the idiotic amount of focus and preparation for the prince’s stupid birthday ball, which Phil was pretty sure basically everyone of eligible age was invited to – the prince was pretty famously reluctant to get engaged, and it was no secret that the king was starting to get nervous about it – he threaded his needle and got to work fixing the pocket’s in Jasper’s dress slacks.
After a few minutes, the mice joined him. Phil let their chatter wash over him, too tired from the day to contribute too much, as he worked. When he was finally finished, around midnight, he held out the end of his thread to Pepper, who obligingly bit it neatly off at the end.
As he gathered up Steve and Bruce to return to his tiny room in the attic, he traded good-nights with Pepper and Rhodey.
“Phil?” Rhodey called after him as he reached the kitchen door. Phil turned around and raised and eyebrow; the mouse shuffled his feet and tugged at the tiny uniform jacket Phil had made him, uncharacteristically nervous. “You… we think you should go. To the ball. You work so hard, you should get to have a night of fun.”
Phil smiled tiredly at the tiny, dark brown mouse. They were good friends, really, and he was lucky to have them, even if talking to mice did turn out to mean that he was crazy. “Really, I was just looking forward to an evening of not having to deal with them. I could even get to bed early, for once. Thank you for saying so, though.”
Rhodey smiled back, and wished him goodnight again, before following Pepper into their nest.
“Tasha, no. I look like an idiot.” Clint attempted to cross his arms sternly over his chest, but failed because of the massive puffs of lace that apparently constituted sleeves. He settled for propping his hands on his hips and glaring at the kingdom’s Grand Duchess (the force behind anything actually getting done, a well-known fact in the palace) in the mirror.
Technically, Natasha’s position should have been held by a man, but when her predecessor had died of completely natural causes over dinner one night (Clint had never trusted pea soup since, either way) and it had become clear that she was the only one in the palace competent enough to do the job, everyone had shrugged and dealt with it. They’d even changed the title, but no one had ever bothered with the uniform, which didn’t faze Natasha, who Clint suspected had gotten the damned thing tailored to hide more weapons than the ceremonial sword in.
Anyway, what this meant was that Natasha looked very dignified in her dress uniform with the neatly tailored pants and total lack of lace, and Clint was stuck looking like a cake factory had exploded on him. She very helpfully was not laughing at him externally, but Clint knew her very well. She was in hysterics underneath that blank face.
“But your highness,” she said, perfectly even-toned, “it’s the latest fashion. Simply everyone will be wearing something like it, though of course not quite so grand.”
“Fashion can go stuff itself.” Clint decided. “I can’t move, and I look like an idiot. It fails both the ‘comfort’ and ‘attractive’ tests. It has to go. Burn it.”
Natasha, of course, did no such thing, but she did at least help him out of the jacket. “You do realize that you will be expected to be wearing something nice, yes? And your father will have my head if he thinks I haven’t dressed you for your very best success with the young ladies.”
At Clint’s glare, she calmly added, “and of course, the young men.”
“That’s not what I meant, Nat.”
“Of course, your highness. You know, if you really wanted the best chance, we should probably abandon the jacket entirely, and also strip the sleeves from your shirt. Possibly just abandon the shirt as well.
Clint sighed, reaching out to sort through the jackets on the ornate, rolling clothing rack that Natasha had managed to get into his rooms – probably through use of some form of black magic, because there was no way that thing fit in the door. He pulled out something simple in a deep purple that didn’t appear to have any ornamentation other than thin black piping at the collar and cuffs. Shrugging it on, he turned back to Natasha and spread his hands out to his sides. “Happy now?”
“Elated,” she said dryly, reaching over to tug at the jacket so it sat properly on his shoulders. “It will do.”
“It better,” he muttered, but he stood obediently still while she did up his cuffs and fussed over his hair.
Phil had finally gotten rid of his step family, sending them off to the ball in a rented carriage, because there was just no way poor Happy was up to the journey to the palace and besides, Maria had kicked up a fit about showing up with “that old nag.”
He decided that his pleasant evening alone was going to start with currying Happy, because even if he only spoke to mice he was sort of offended on the horse’s behalf and felt the need to make it up to him. The mice joined him in the stable, settling on Phil’s shoulders (Steve and Rhodey), in his pocket (Bruce) and on his head (Pepper, who at least didn’t pull his hair too hard when he moved too fast). Phil had a pleasant conversation with them while brushing all the dirt out of Happy’s fur, Thor sprawled out in a snoring heap in the doorway.
What all this meant was that Tony’s grand entrance was totally ruined, because it woke Thor, who was startled by the soft “poof” noise so close to his ears and thus bolted back into the stable, knocking Phil’s knees out from under him and sending him and all the mice tumbling into the hay. Happy, thankfully, did not step on them, but he also didn’t do anything about the intruder brushing glitter off of his sleeves, so no bonus points there.
Tony stood in the doorway to the barn, hands on hips, and peered over his sunglasses at the chaos on the ground. “Wow, okay, I totally see why you need my help. I take back everything, Jarvis, this man is in grave need of the Stark treatment if he ever wants to catch the prince’s eye.”
Phil looked around, but couldn’t see anyone who the stranger might have been addressing as Jarvis, so he decided to ignore that part and focus on the important bits. “I don’t, actually, want to catch anyone’s eye. That’s why I’m spending the evening in the stables, instead of attempting to fashion my step sibling’s cast-offs into a suit to go to the ball. Thanks all the same, if you could just be leaving… who are you, anyway?”
He was treated to another unimpressed look over the sunglasses.
“I,” intoned the stranger grandly, “am Anthony Stark, your Fairy Godmother. Call me Tony. Now, Phil, let’s get you ready for this ball!”
“Look, Mr. Stark, Tony, whatever, I really don’t want to go to-” Phil tried to argue while he fished the mice out of the hay and returned them to their preferred perches.
“Nonsense!” Tony grinned down at him, drawing attention to what Phil was pretty sure might be the dumbest goatee he’d seen in a long time. “Of course you’re going. It’s how this goes. Poor guy doing chores for his ungrateful step family after the tragic loss of both parents, sneaks into the ball with some help from yours truly, and then you and the prince fall madly in love with each other and live happily ever after. That’s how it always goes. C’mon, up up up! No time to waste if we want to get you there fashionably late, as opposed to just embarrassingly late!”
Strong hands tugged at Phil’s arms until he was upright and facing Tony, who carefully picked straw out of his hair for about five seconds before apparently getting distracted by Steve, who was crouched down close to Phil’s collar and trying to draw as little attention as it is possible to draw when one is a fairly large mouse wearing a bright red, white, and blue shirt.
“Aww, look, you even have little critter friends! I am definitely in the right place, okay now, step one is… Jarvis, what’s step one?”
Phil was beginning to wonder if some strange, drunken crazy person had just happened upon his stable – because seriously, what kind of man introduced themselves as ‘your Fairy Godmother’? – when a voice from nowhere responded in calm tones, “Sir, step one is the outfit.”
“Right, that’s it, rags to riches, thanks Jar, okay Phil you stand heeeeeeere,” Tony manhandled Phil out into the center of the courtyard, stepping back to survey his surroundings before nodding, apparently satisfied. “Okay, now, what’s the stupid word…?”
“Is there going to be magic?” Phil asked politely, deciding to humor the drunken crazy person, “Only, Pepper is allergic to strawberries and we never know how that will react with anything else…”
“Hmmmm? Oh, right, well, any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, blah blah blah, magic isn’t real kid. But your little mice-y friends should probably clear off anyway, this can get a bit technical.”
Steve gave him a friendly pat on the ear before they all jumped ship, so apparently the mice, at least, believed the crazy man. Okay then.
Tony was messing around with a stick that occasionally sparked different colors. Cursing under his breath, he whacked it against his palm and grinned with deep satisfaction when it glowed blue.
“Yeah baby, we are in business. Alrighty, one nice suit, coming right up. Bibbity-bobbity-what-the-fuck-ever.” He pointed the stick at Phil.
Nothing happened.
Phil raised his eyebrows, but Tony didn’t seem too worried, just smirked over his stupid sunglasses and waited until Phil looked down.
He was, indeed, suddenly wearing a nice suit. It was kind of disconcerting – given everything else about Tony that he’d seen in the last few minutes, he had expected something much more… flashy in between the rags and riches.
“Okay.” Said Phil evenly, now prepared to accept the fact that the drunken crazy person in his courtyard might actually be his Fairy Godmother, who did not believe in magic and wore sunglasses at night. “So, how am I getting to this ball?”
“Aha, transportation!” Tony looked around the courtyard, rejecting the pumpkin that Steve helpfully pointed at out of hand: “No, don’t ever use vegetation as a basis for a vehicle, trust me, it’s just not worth it.”
Bruce gave a little cough and Tony wheeled around to peer down at the mouse, who was sitting on the edge of the wheelbarrow. He grinned approvingly. “Excellent job, little science mouse, that’ll work.”
Ten minutes and the start of a massive headache later, Phil found himself sitting in a carriage that was propelling itself while Steve – newly, and apparently temporarily turned into a tall human with blond hair and a really endearing, shy smile – drove and Bruce (still a mouse) chatted with Tony on the seat across from him, using words that were several syllables above what Phil was prepared to comprehend right now.
He was also wearing glass shoes, for reasons he didn’t understand, because Tony had spouted something about tradition for a while before being distracted by Bruce.
They were surprisingly comfortable, actually.
“Perfect, exactly fashionably late!” Tony exclaimed as they rolled up to the stairs of the palace. “Go forth, have fun, charm the prince, and hey – midnight is no time for a party to end, so you’ve got until three before it all wears off and you’re left wearing your ancient, patched clothing. Also, Steve will go back to being a mouse. And the carriage will go back to being a wheelbarrow.”
He shoved Phil out of the carriage with a bright grin and a shout of, “have a good time, dear!” before slamming the door and apparently giving Steve directions as to where to park the carriage. Steve shot Phil an encouraging smile before waving and driving away.
Bemused, Phil walked up the steps, noticed that there was a footman announcing everyone’s names, and immediately turned around. He had not just showed up so that he could get announced, noticed by his step family, and dragged home.
Some exploring led to a side door, which led down a hallway and out a different door into a beautiful garden. Satisfied that being at the palace would make Tony happy (and maybe less crazy), and he wouldn’t actually have to attend the party that he could hear from here, Phil decided to wander the garden instead.
He nearly tripped over the man lying in a bush.
“I am so sorry-” he started apologizing before the man rolled onto his back to peer upwards at him and he felt all his words dry up in his throat. Beautiful, piercing eyes squinted at him, before crinkling at the edges as the man grinned secretively, raising a finger to his smile.
Clint was positive that Natasha had found him and come to drag him back to the party, so he was pleased to find it was actually a stranger, who wouldn’t know that he was supposed to be schmoozing with really, really boring, vapid noble ladies instead of hiding in the gardens. He levered himself up until he was standing in front of the stranger.
“Hi,” he said softly, ignoring the fumbled apology that the man had tried to give, “I’m Clint.”
“Phil.” The man sad, apparently having recovered from his loss of words. “Are you hiding from anyone in particular.”
“Nah, just humanity at large, and Natasha, but only because she’d drag me back there. It’s quieter out here.”
Phil smiled a little, understanding, and Clint was startled to realize that he was quite attractive, in a plain, understated sort of way. “It is pretty overwhelming.”
Clint smiled back, deciding to be presumptuous and reaching out to settle his hand on Phil’s lower back and guide him down the path.
“Let’s go find somewhere less overwhelming, then. You seem sensible, and like you have more to talk about than lace.”
“Oh god, that lace fad needs to disappear soon. It’s all my sister wants to wear, and it’s such a pain to hem…” Phil made a face, but didn’t do anything to reject Clint’s hand, which Clint was going to take as a sign that he was doing okay.
They ended up in Natasha’s room (because it was hopefully the last place she would look), splitting a bottle of wine Clint had stolen during the preparations and hidden away for the inevitable disappointment of the ball, and talking. For hours.
Clint was surprised with himself. He hadn’t realized he was actually capable of conversation without Natasha’s subtle hand signals guiding him.
It was a nice night, and Phil was a really nice person who didn’t seem to mind that Clint was pretty touchy-feely, and was actually playing with his hair, which was nice. Clint was on his way to falling asleep when the hand in his hair stilled abruptly.
“Shit,” said Phil quietly, eyes fixed on Natasha’s ancient clock, “is that the time?”
Clint opened his eyes and squinted at it. “2:54? Yeah, I guess we’ve been talking for a while.”
Phil cursed again, and started to squirm out from under Clint, which was just not fair because he was comfortable, dammit.
“Sorry.” Phil said, continuing to make is his way off of Natasha’s sofa, “I have… a curfew. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” Clint asked lightly, teasing, “Sort of sounds like something you can ignore.”
Phil smiled down at him, squeezing his hand before standing. “I can’t, actually. Sorry.”
And then he totally cheated. He bent down and kissed Clint gently, and it was very distracting, and that’s why he didn’t get off of the sofa for a solid thirty seconds after Phil had disappeared out of the door.
And then he nearly crashed into Natasha, who probably demanded to know what he and a stranger had been doing in his room and why hadn’t he put in more than a five minute appearance at the ball, but honestly Clint was not listening at all as he barreled down the hallway after the soft clinking of Phil’s shoes (“Glass? Why glass shoes? Whose idea was that?” “I said basically the same thing, but he insisted. I think he’s crazy. I’m mostly just glad they haven’t shattered and stabbed me yet.”).
Natasha followed him, still demanding answers, but as he burst out of the door and distantly heard a clock ring three, Phil was nowhere to be seen.
One glittering glass dress shoe sat inconspicuously next to a potted treat at the bottom of the stairs, like it was embarrassed to have not fallen elegantly in the center of the steps right in front of Clint. But that was a stupid idea, so ignored it in favor of picking up the shoe and walking back towards Natasha.
She must have seen something on his face, because when he announced that he would marry the man the shoe fit, she didn’t call him out for being clearly deranged. Just accepted the shoe and led him to bed and tucked him in and asked, right before she blew out the candles and left him for the night, “Is this really what you want?”
Clint was pretty sure it was.
“Phil! Phil, over here!”
The tiny voices led Phil a little ways off of the road to find Steve and Brue sitting on a tree branch at approximately eye-level. He smiled tiredly at them and held out a hand for them to scamper down and perch on his shoulders.
Taking a moment to remove the shoe he hadn’t lost (it seemed like no shoes was more sensible to walk the ten miles home in than a lopsided one shoe on one shoe off), he filled the mice in on how he had not actually gone to the ball at all, strictly speaking, but how he had met a really nice young man.
“Wait, did you say his name was Clint?” Steve asked, gripping Phil’s collar in excitement. “The prince’s name is Clint!”
“It’s a very common name,” Phil hedged.
Bruce nodded in agreement, “It is. But Tony said there isn’t anyone else in the palace named Clint, and no Clints were invited, so. Statistically speaking, the odds are pretty low that someone snuck in who happened to be named Clint.”
“Oh hell.” Phil realized, slowing his brisk pace down a bit. “I think I’m in love with the prince.”
“Tony is going to be unbearably smug.” Bruce grumped. Phil chose to ignore that, since it suggested that he would have to see the headache-inducing man again, and he was planning to deny it had ever happened at all. Talking mice were plenty of crazy for him, thanks.
They made it home as the sun was coming up, and Phil collapsed into bed, totally exhausted. Pepper and Rhodey had apparently made the journey up to his room, because he fell asleep listening to Steve and Bruce fill them in on Phil’s summary of the night’s events.
He woke up the next- well, later that same morning, to be perfectly honest, to the sound of his door locking.
This was highly unusual for several reasons, the first of which being that no one in the house was ever up before him. And they definitely weren’t up at – Phil squinted at the clock – seven thirty.
He contemplated ignoring it and going back to sleep. Being locked in meant no breakfast, yeah, but it also meant that no one was going to yell at him to wash the floors. Again. As if he didn’t already do that enough.
Steve’s voice changed his mind, though. He sat up, rubbing blearily at his eyes, because two hours was definitely not enough sleep to deal with whatever this was. “What is it?”
“There’s someone from the palace!” Steve squeaked excitedly from his position on the windowsill, peering out with the other mice at the front yard. “They have your shoe!”
Phil put two and two together and got, ‘shit, Clint is trying to find me’ and also ‘shit, my siblings are going to be all over this I think Jasper and I have the same shoe size.’
“Right,” he announced, getting out of bed and pulling on his most presentable clothing (only two patches in the shirt!). “Clint is clearly an idiot who thinks that shoes only fit one person ever, so someone needs to break that or something and I will show up with the other shoe and also, you know, introduce myself, because we did not do the stupid thing where we don’t tell each other our names when we meet.”
Steve saluted him and ran off with Bruce, presumably to go break the shoe, squeezing their way under his door.
Tony’s view of the world was clearly skewed if he had thought this plan would work, Phil considered, kneeling down next to the door and pulling out a set of lock picks. The lock was old, but also rusty, so it took him a few minutes longer than he would have liked to get the door open; it finally clicked, though, and he grabbed the other shoe and nodded a quick ‘thanks’ to Pepper and Rhodey’s encouragement before bolting down the steps.
When he reached the foyer, he stopped just outside the door, suddenly unsure of his entrance. The redhead he had nearly run into the night before was introducing herself to Fury. Apparently she was the Grand Duchess, which was probably good because Phil was pretty sure he’d heard gossip that she and the prince were inseparable and that meant Clint had probably told her his name, which would make this easier.
There was a crash from outside, and as everyone turned to look Bruce went streaking across the floor, running between the Grand Duchess’s legs. He was closely pursued by Loki, who in turn was chased by a very enthusiastic Thor, who knocked the Grand Duchess off balance.
All eyes were locked onto the shoe as it glittered in its arc to the floor. The Grand Duchess made an elegant dive for it, but Steve was suddenly tangled in her hair and she missed, distracted.
The shoe shattered all over Phil’s nice, clean floor, and he decided that the dead silence that followed was a perfectly acceptable time to make an entrance. He walked over to the Grand Duchess and gently fished Steve out of her hair. She sat up, with surprising dignity for someone who had just landed on the floor with a mouse in her hair because she broke what was probably being labeled as something stupid like Prince Clint’s Only Hope of Finding His True Love. And she accepted his hand, which was surprising, because he was honestly expecting her to just start yelling at everyone in the room and have done with it.
He pulled her up and smiled the blandest smile he knew how to smile. “I’m so sorry for that accident, ma’am, but I think I have a replacement..?”
And he pulled the shoe out from behind his back and pretended he wasn’t aware that Steve was sitting in it, because really the Grand Duchess’s face was much more calculating than shocked and he hadn’t planned for that. She smiled at him, a sharp little thing that somehow opened up her face a lot more than a sweet grin, and did something completely unexpected.
She shook his hand, accepting the shoe gracefully with her other hand. Miraculously, she did not comment on Steve, and also managed to not drop him. “I’m Natasha.”
“Phil.” He said, having a weird sense of déjà vu.
“Perfect, Clint will be thrilled. He’s kind of an idiot, you’re going to have to forgive him for not realizing that people have the same shoe sizes.” Natasha used the grip she still had on his hand to start dragging him out the door while everyone was still in shock. “Do you have anything you need to take with you, or can we leave for the palace now.”
Surprised, Phil froze for a moment before responding. “I don’t have anything particularly important, no, but um. There are these mice…?”
She waved the hand holding the shoe surprisingly carelessly. “No problem, I’m sure. Have them meet us at the carriage, yeah?”
And so Phil looked helplessly back at Bruce, who had escaped Loki’s claws and was now perched on the railing of the stairs. He received a tiny thumbs-up, which he guessed meant that everything was settled, so he gave up trying to make sense of his life anymore and instead allowed Natasha to tuck her arm through his and lead him out the door and down the drive.
They had to pause halfway there for Phil to crouch down and scoop up the rest of the mice.
Clint had laughed at him when he showed up at the palace in his ragged clothes and carrying three mice (Steve seemed quite taken with Natasha, who apparently didn’t mind having him cling to her collar and ride her shoulder), and demanded to know why he would think that Clint could possibly care what he wore when magic (or advanced technology or whatever) wasn’t involved or how that would be more of a scandal than the prince being gay; then he had kissed Phil and that was, apparently, that.
They got married three months later. Tony crashed the wedding, because of course he did, and spiked the punch, because of course he did. The mice, who had become regular sights around the palace by now and had made friends with both Clint and Natasha (neither of who actually spoke Mouse but did a passable job of playing charades), cheerfully neglected to warn anyone and watched with Tony while the guests made fools of themselves. The wedding party was famous for prominently featuring neither groom, as they had scuttled off somewhere as soon as their vows were said and the King had left to “faff about somewhere tropical and await the news of adopted grandchildren, Phil here seems capable enough between him and Natasha nothing will fall apart.”
They spent the night in a tree in the garden where they had met, avoiding Natasha and sharing a bottle of stolen wine and quiet kisses.
(It was perfect.)