Work Text:
It’s easy enough when the Tracksuit Draculas are after them to look, notice, and enjoy herself for a second and then get on with it all. They’ve got Barton’s Car and Barton’s Girl and Barton’s Quiver of Ridiculous Unlabeled Trick Arrows to catch up to and traffic heading toward New Jersey is scandalous at the best of times, so Kate doesn’t really think about it until they’ve sent Barton’s Girl off on a plane out of JFK to God knows where and she’s crashing on Barton’s couch, phone in one hand and a beer that he slipped her as a 'thank you for crashing your car into my car' present in the other.
(18:31) Kate Bishop: I need your gay wisdom.
Barton turns on the TV in time for the opening theme of Dog Cops. As if on cue, Lucky pads out of the bedroom and flops his head onto Barton’s leg. Barton grins and pats the couch and Lucky hops up between the two of them.
(18:34) America Chavez: always here for gay wisdom. what’s up?
(18:35) Kate Bishop: Clint has hot abs.
Kate taps her phone on her knee and takes a long gulp of beer. It’s not great, but it’s not as bad as it could be, considering the man who bought it. She feels just slightly tipsy. Maybe she'll just stay that way for a while.
(18:37) America Chavez: that’s the opposite of gay wisdom
(18:37) America Chavez: what do you need me for?
(18:39) Kate Bishop: Tell me Clint doesn’t have hot abs.
She glances to the side. Barton is half-lying against the opposite arm of the couch, Lucky trying to climb on top of him. He downs half of his beer is one go and laughs at something on Dog Cops.
(18:40) Kate Bishop: PLEASE tell me Clint doesn’t have hot abs.
(18:42) America Chavez: sorry girl
(18:44) Kate Bishop: This is an emergency. Clint Barton can’t have hot abs.
(18:45) America Chavez: too late
Kate presses her beer bottle against her forehead and curses Barton’s Girl, whatever the hell her name is, for making Barton take off his shirt. He’s probably really good at sex too, with fingers as dexterous has they have to be to hit a target with three arrows at a time; she wonders if he could get her off as fast as she can get herself off–
"Fuck," she swears out loud, and covers it with a hasty sip of beer. Barton doesn’t seem to notice.
(18:53) Kate Bishop: Help.
(18:55) America Chavez: no can do, bishop. try not to jump him
(18:57) Kate Bishop: Lol we just saved his girlfriend from Russian mobsters. I’m not hitting that. The bros will come after me.
The end theme music of dogs cops starts playing. Barton shoves Lucky off his lap and yawns, stretching his arms. Kate can’t help but glance over, allowing herself one long sweep up and down his chest before she turns back to her phone.
(18:58) Kate Bishop: New plan. Let’s get coffee. Barton too hot for his own good.
(18:59) America Chavez: you’re weak. meet you at daily press
(18:59) Kate Bishop: Thank God.
Barton stands up before she has the opportunity, tugging his shirt over his head. Kate ducks her head down and stares at the label of her beer. “I’m gonna shower,” he declares. “Stay if you want.”
"I’m heading out, actually," she replies. "Maybe I’ll be back later. Someone has to watch your sorry ass in case you get laid again."
Barton snorts. “If only.” He tosses his shirt on the couch and heads off toward the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a quiet snap.
Kate stares at the shirt as if it had personally offended her, then kicks it off of the couch and heads for the door, shaking her head. “God dammit, Clint.”
~
"–And then he just comes charging out of his building trying to pull on his shoes while he's running! Who does that?"
"Clint Barton, apparently."
"Exactly! So then I pull up and he jumps into my car with his shirt thrown over his shoulder and then tells me to drive! Like I'm some sort of... Some sort of... Taxi service for half naked superheroes!"
"Uh huh."
"And then he gets mad at me for looking! I mean, what was I supposed to do?"
"Drive?" America offers innocently.
"I did drive, but only after he put his shirt on."
"And then you crashed your car."
Kate looks indignant. "I did it for strategic reasons! If I hadn't crashed my car, the weird Russian bro gang would have kidnapped Clint's weird girlfriend."
"You strategically destroyed a nineteen seventy Dodge Challenger..."
"Yep."
"Which is a really sexy ride, by the way..."
"I know."
"...because of Barton's abs."
"Yea– wait, what? No!" Kate sets her coffee down on the table. "I crashed the Challenger because I'm a badass superhero who saved Barton's girlfriend's life!"
America shakes her head and grins. "You got it bad, girl."
"I don't, though!" America doesn't look convinced. "I don't. Having anything for Clint Barton other than vague concern is stupid."
America raises one eyebrow. Kate throws a crumpled up napkin at her.
"He's a futzing disaster, you know?"
"I think all of New York knows that."
"Yeah, whatever, the whole East Coast probably knows, I know." Kate frowns. "Maybe the West Coast too, I think he was there once."
"Amazing that it's still standing," America says.
"Yeah, really."
"You would have thought that the pure force of his chest muscles would have destroyed the entire state of California."
Kate reaches over and steals her cup. "You don't get this anymore."
America grins. "It's okay, you can keep it. I know you'll need all the energy you can to keep up when you're hitting that."
Kate looks around the table for a second, then slumps in her seat, frustrated. "I'm out of things to throw at you."
America's smile widens and she raises one hand up in the air a few inches in victory.
Kate drops her head onto her folded arms. "Seriously, though, what do I do?"
"Ask him to put his dick in you?"
"My whole everything just clenched up."
"It's not like you have any better ideas."
"He doesn't want to sleep with me."
This time, both of America's eyebrows go up. "You asked him?"
"No. God, no. He, uh, told me on the phone one night. After we robbed an illegal circus."
"You what?"
"Cirque Du Nuit? It was in the news? Clint's old carnie mentor was there and I shot some dudes in the eyes–"
"You what?"
"They were trying to kill me first, it's not my fault. And I totally Domitain'd their asses, by the way. Anyway, then he called me and told me that we should work together and that he didn't want to sleep with me."
America wrinkles her nose. "What a charmer. What did you say?"
"I told him good because he's old enough to know better and then I agreed."
"And now you want to sleep with him."
"No. Not really..." Kate shrugs. "I mean, I can just look, you know? Nothing wrong with looking, even when you're doing a car chase with a bro-mob."
"Go ask him if you can just look, then?"
Kate snorts. "How is that gonna work?"
America shrugs. "Just be like 'hey boss, your abs are sexy and I want to look at them when there aren't human lives on the line'."
"And then what?"
"And then look at them and go think about them somewhere in private."
"You're the worst."
America shrugs. "I can't deal with you straight-lovin' people. You trash all of my suggestions, every time."
"No, no, you're right." Kate rubs one hand over her face. "Better get it out of the way before something happens, right? I don't want to have to, like, be in disguise and touching him or something and get distracted."
America steals her cup back to raise it, then drains the last few sips. "To abs, whoever they may be on."
"Cheers," Kate mutters, and whacks her cup against America's perhaps a little bit harder than necessary.
~
She isn't back at Clint's Bed-Stuy apartment for another few days - he's out of town and she's arguing with her father and things get away from her until she's camped on his couch with Lucky in her lap and fresh coffee in her hand while Clint sits on the floor by her feet and finally labels all of his remaining trick arrows. He finishes off another quiver's worth and drops them all in, then stands up and stretches. The exposed sliver of skin catches her eye and before she can think better of it (or think about it at all), she says, "hey, Clint?"
"Hmm?" He stretches just a little higher, then drops his arms with a satisfied-sounding sigh. "What's up?"
"Can you... Um..."
"Maybe?"
"Can you take your shirt off for like ten seconds?"
"What?"
"Fifteen at most."
Clint blinks at her. "Uh, why?"
"Just because."
"Because...?"
"Because I don't want to sleep with you either but that doesn't mean that your chest isn't pretty nice and probably looks better when I'm not driving a getaway car?" Kate blurts out in a rush.
Clint stares at her for several long moments, then mutters something that sounds like "oh, what the hell" and strips his shirt off over his head.
Kate stares, unabashedly - she asked for it, she refuses to be embarrassed until she's out of his eyeline - and has to admit that maybe it might have been a little bit worth it. Clint, even though he subsists on pizza and Chinese and rooftop barbeque and straight-from-the-put coffee, is ripped in a way that is quite frankly unfair. She presses her lips together and lets her eyes wander up and down, committing everything to memory. She feels Clint's gaze on her and flushes a little, and he flexes in response and it helps diffuse the tension.
"You're an ass," she says, kicking out at him with no real fire behind it.
He tugs his shirt back on and she won't pretend she's not a little bit sorry. "Your idea. Hand me that quiver."
She grabs a half-full quiver from the other end of the couch and trades it for his full one. "There. And, uh. Thanks?"
"That's for helping me catch the girl and the car and the bros," Clint says, sitting back down on the floor and picking up his pen. "You want to see it again, you gotta earn it."
Kate punches him in the arm and he laughs and things go back to normal, but she almost looks forward to earning it again.