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Let it never be said that Clint Barton didn’t play to his strengths.
When he was asked to get to know Cap for team-building purposes, he wasn’t sure what he could possibly have in common with the old man. He seemed so uptight and bleh.
But then, Clint noticed that Cap never stopped moving. Ever. He was constantly studying tactics, training, sparring, doing debriefs, working out. He never stopped, unless he was sleeping, and even then Clint couldn’t be sure. Well. Clint knew what he had to do.
He cornered Cap one day in the common room, where he was mixing up one of his gross protein shake things that had a bajillion calories in it for his super-soldier metabolism but tasted like dirt. Clint wandered over to the coffee pot and poured the entire thing into his personal travel mug (God bless the internet) and turned around, bracing himself on the counter.
“So, Cap,” he started.
“Steve,” Cap said.
“Huh?”
“My name. It’s Steve. Or Rogers, if you prefer. We’re off the clock, right? As much as we ever are.”
Huh. Okay.
“Huh. Okay. Anyway, Steve,” wow that was weird, “you got plans tonight?”
Ca--Steve finished pouring his gross drink into his star-spangled travel cup--which, so on brand it hurt, wow-- and faced Clint, surprise writing on his all-American face.
“No?”
Clint snorted. “Do you not know? Its cool if you do, no big. I just thought maybe you’d wanna hang. You know, since we’re off duty and all.”
Steve looked suspicious, which almost hurt until Clint remembered that the person who interacted the most with Rogers was Stark, and it was mostly to make fun of him. So, yeah, suspicion was fair. “What did you have in mind?”
“Not much, a movie, lots of pizza-you look like a guy who could do damage to some pizza and honestly that’s my favorite type of person-just relaxing. My place, 7 pm. I’ll text you the address.” Clint saluted with his comically large mug and walked out, leaving a dumbstruck Steve Rogers behind him.
---
When Steve actually showed up, Clint was honestly a little surprised. He’d been pretty certain he would be spending the evening alone but was not at all disappointed that that wasn’t the case. He showed Rogers where he could put his jacket and helmet before leading the way to the living room, where his frankly impressive collection of movies and about 20 pizzas waited for them.
“That’s a lot of pizza, Barton. How much do you think I eat?”
“Well,” Clint drawled, “since I can eat about four, and I know how many calories are in those gross shakes of yours, I figured it was best to round up. Besides, leftover pizza is amazing. Almost better than fresh pizza.”
Clint went to the kitchen and grabbed the cooler he’d stashed there, placing it on the floor in between the two of them. “Alright, so we’re gonna be here a while. I hope you don’t have anywhere to be because I can’t allow you to leave until you’ve become thoroughly acquainted with a friend of mine.”
“And who’s that?”
Clint looked over, seeing Steve sitting ramrod straight, plate of pizza perched on his lap, bottle of Coke (yeah, Clint had sprung for the good real-sugar stuff) from the cooler set perfectly on the coffee table. He’d even put it on another plate like a makeshift coaster.
Unacceptable. This guy needed to RELAX, and Clint was here to do that.
“John McClane. Settle in, Rogers, and get ready to Die Hard.”
---
Two movies later and Clint was making headway on Project Veg Out. Steve was slouched on the couch, plate on his stomach and feet up on the table. It could get better, though. They still had three movies to go, so Clint had hope. He was modeling the level of “no fucks” he was hoping his padawan could achieve: socked feet sprawled on the coffee table, whole pizza box on his torso, head just barely propped on the back of the couch from the pronounced slump he was in. It was the perfect relaxed posture. He had hope.
---
By the time they were ready to start A Good Day To Die Hard, success had been achieved. Clint could barely see Steve behind his pizza boxes, there were empty Coke bottles everywhere within arms reach, he’d finally taken his shoes off and Clint was almost positive he’d seen him unbutton his jeans for more room. A man after his own heart.
By the time they finished the movie, Steve was passed out on the couch. Clint used all his considerable spy training to gently move the boxes and bottles out of the way before tossing his trusty couch blanket over the sleeping super-soldier and turning out the lights.
Mission Accomplished.