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It’s late. Or early. Clint’s got no fucking clue; his internal clock is all out of whack. Whatever time it is, he’s exhausted, which is why he fell asleep slouched over the bar counter in the Tower’s penthouse in the first place when he got back a few hours ago.
He’s been gone a little over two weeks on an op with Sitwell, sitting and waiting and entertaining himself because Jasper’s decided to go and become an upstanding SHIELD agent all of a sudden just because he finally got bumped up to Level 7. Those kinds of ops, where Clint’s on his own perched in a nest for days on end, always leave him with an itch for physical company when he gets back.
Used to be he’d spend his downtime after those kinds of ops wrapped around Phil in there bed, but that’s not really an option anymore.
So he came up to the penthouse when he got back ‘cause that’s where Bruce and Tony were, Tony tinkering around with holo screens while Bruce spliced some food together. They were lost in their usual haze of science-talk, so he’d popped out his hearing aids and conked out—close enough to people he trusts to settle the itch, but silent enough for uninterrupted sleep.
Except now his sleep’s being interrupted. By popcorn—fucking hell?—of all things. A kernel bounces off his temple and Clint groggily gropes around for a hearing aid, slipping it in with practiced ease. “What, Tony,” he growls into the marble countertop.
“Your phone won’t shut up, Cupid. And normally I’m all for some Shatner, but what in Hell possessed you to download the goddamn dubstep mix? That shit is an affront to the very sound waves themselves. You’ve scarred JARVIS for life. There are certain trends on the ‘net I’ve done my utmost to shield him from, and then you go exposing him to it willy-nilly—”
Clint’s about to rip his hearing aid back out and pass out again when his phone trills, “She blinded me with science!” in William Shatner’s incredulous tone followed by trumped up synthetic beats.
Clint overcorrects trying to sit up and has to catch his feet on the bar to keep his chair from toppling all the way back as he answers the call, forcing a level of alertness into his voice. “Jemma-belle! What’s the sitch?”
Jemma skips past all social niceties and jumps straight in with, “What’s the best way to hit on someone?” She’s whispering and her voice is a little breathless, echoing down the connection like she’s holed up in her bunk on the Bus.
“Depends,” Clint shoots back, righting his chair and reaching across the counter to sift through Tony’s liquor collection.
“On what?” Jemma hisses.
“Well, is it a guy or a girl?”
“Ah, um.” Jemma clears her throat. “A…girl?”
Nodding to himself, Clint sloshes some vodka into a finely cut tumbler. “Alright, so you’re probably gonna want to go for the whole element of surprise thing—”
“Right, sure.” Clint can tell Jemma’s bobbing her head in agreement, her eyes taking on that not-all-there look that means she’s jotting down mental notes.
“So you come up behind her,” Clint continues. “Get a good grip on her hair and pull—”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Get her neck good and exposed and then—BAM.” Clint tosses his head back and pours the vodka down quick. “Quick jab to the throat. If you hit her just right, she won’t even be able to scream.”
“Clint, no!” Jemma sputters. “Not hit a girl, hit on a girl! Honestly! What would I need to know that for? How do I go about asking her out?”
Clint supposes that makes more sense than Jemma calling him up for combat advice. Except no, not really at all, because Clint’s a solid go-to for shit like that and never the guy anyone’s ever considered to have good people skills. “Huh. Like, compliment her, I guess? And then maybe ask her to dinner? Or a movie? I’m not really sure where the flowers thing comes in to play, but maybe try that? Unless she’s allergic.”
Clint does a quick run through of the Bus’ recent missions, looking for possible Lady Love suspects. Jemma hasn’t been off the Bus lately except to analyze a bomb site, so far as he knows. No one new in her life, so then it’s most likely someone already there. May or the hacktavist. May’s hardly Jem’s type, so that leaves Skye, which is doubly interesting ‘cause he’s pretty sure Little Lion Man’s been nursing a crush on her too. He should look into that sometime—soon. And he really needs to start hanging out with Tony less; the nicknames may be getting out of hand.
Jemma sighs and there’s a faint thunk, probably hitting her head back against something. “I can’t help but notice that you’re making it sound an awful lot like you’ve never asked a woman out before.”
“Uh, yeah? Maybe because I haven’t?” There’s a headache forming behind Clint’s temple, but he eyes the bottle of vodka speculatively anyway. This kind of talk isn’t something he prefers to be sober during. “I mean, yeah, I’ve propositioned a few, but I’m guessing you’re not looking to fuck and run here.”
“No, I was hoping for something a bit more permanent.”
“Right. Uh, hold on a sec.” Clint moves his phone away from his ear and turns his head toward the mad scientists plotting over stew and crackers. “Hey, Bruce! How would you go about asking out a gal? My little sis needs some pointers.”
Bruce startles at his name and some soup dribbles down his chin. Mopping it up with the ratty sleeve of his hoodie, Bruce asks, “Your…sister? I thought you didn’t have—ah, nevermind. You just ask her somewhere, don’t you? Is this a trick question?”
“I recommend a bribe!” Tony butts in. “They’re less likely to say no if you soften ‘em up with a present first.”
Rolling his eyes, Clint turns back to his phone. “Yeah, so, just ask her on a date, Jem.”
“Yes, thank you, that never would have occurred to me,” Jemma snipes. Clint listens to her take in a deep breathe, most likely to settle her temper, though Clint knows her well enough to know that once she’s good and agitated, it takes her a while to cool down. “Honestly, how is any of that meant to be helpful? How do I ask her out? Oh, well, you just ask her,” Jemma mocks.
Clint sighs. “Look, just—if there’s something you know she likes, then think of a date kind of thing that works with that. Then you bring it up with her and hope she says yes.”
“Right. Nothing to it.” Christ, Clint thinks, feeling his headache grow in a complete lack of sympathy. Poor kid sounds like she’s been rejected already.
Clint massages at his temple before reaching for the vodka and taking a swig straight from the bottle. “Don’t be wishy-washy about it, though, okay? Have a time frame in mind.”
“Okay.”
“But don’t make it set in stone. You never know what her schedule might be.”
“So have a contingency plan in place.” Jemma sounds more on even ground at that, like she’s already fantasizing about compiling spreadsheets for all the relevant data. What did Clint ever do to land himself constantly surrounded by the brainy kids?
“Exactly.”
Clint thinks she’s about to end the conversation as abruptly as she started it, but she says hesitantly, “Clint?”
“Yeah, Jem?”
“What do I do if she says no?” she asks quietly, a telltale wetness lurking in her tone that means tears aren’t far behind.
Clint lets himself smile with the kind of open fondness he’d afford her if they were talking in person so that his voice comes out warm as he promises, “Then you say the word and I’ll bring the ice cream.”
“Thanks, Clint.” Clint can make out a faint sniffle, but Jemma sounds like she’s pulled herself back together.
“Anything for you, Gibraltar.” The line goes dead a second later. Clint thumbs off his phone and tosses it down on the counter. Replacing the vodka back with the collection, he catches sight of Tony and Bruce grinning at him. With a huff, he tells them to fuck right off and yanks out his hearing aid again. He’s out in under a minute, drooling all over Tony’s fancy counter.