Work Text:
Nothing exciting ever happens in Steve Rogers' particular neighborhood in Brooklyn. Sometimes it's lonely, but more importantly it's quiet - it's an environment that really lets him detach from the workday and unwind. And the best spot for that is usually the little corner he calls his studio.
That's where Steve finds himself on this particular night - he's been trying to finish this portrait for days, even though the clock's ticking closer and closer to two a.m.
He pulls his earbuds out as the sudden flashing blue and red lights draw his attention to the far windows. Now, he can hear more sirens rushing to the apartment complex across the street, and the distressed murmur of its inhabitants echoes loudly even with the windows closed. Steve tucks his pen behind one ear and leaves the shading on the metal arm unfinished. He almost knocks the easel over as he rises.
It's the first really cold night of the year, yet people fill the street directly below his building. All eyes are trained on 2100 as a second, then a third, fire truck halts to a stop in between the crowd and the scene. Steve sees families huddled for warmth in robes and slippers, faces creased with worry, and not a few angry-looking residents on their cells. Without another thought, he grabs his favorite hoodie and hurries out the door. Might not be much, but he's gotta see what he can do to help.
Down at street level, everything is louder and more chaotic than he could have imagined from the view above. Firefighters and policemen keep yelling for the crowd to move back, back, keep back, while the displaced residents shoot off urgent pleas and questions of their own. From the chatter, Steve discerns the fire started on the third - or maybe fourth, yes, sure it was the fourth - floor, and it was all Mrs. Henderson's cat's fault, the hell-beast, or that maybe it was actually Mr. Grills, dozing off and dropping his cigarette…
Basically, nobody knows anything. At least Steve's seen plenty worse.
So he continues to weave his way through the crowd. Half his building seems to be down here, too. Luckily, no one looks too distraught, considering -- or worse , suspicious. Steve moves on, towards 2100's farthest entrance, and he promptly stumbles into a gap in the crowd -- and he immediately sees the reason why.
Leaning against a lamppost is the most miserable-looking man Steve has ever seen. He's a stubbled blond whose breath comes in quick, visible puffs into the frigid air. Strong arms are crossed tightly over his bare chest, and Steve follows the muscled lines down to where they disappear into a thin pair of purple boxers. He's wearing nothing else, unless Steve counts the golden mutt huddled against his legs.
Steve's pretty sure Half-Naked Man lives in the doomed building. Steve's also pretty sure he's staring at Half-Naked Man, but everybody else is too consumed in their own worry to notice. Half-Naked Man hasn't noticed it, either, since he's practically boring a hole into the asphalt with his own gaze.
For anyone else, this would be the perfect opening. Steve knows Nat would be all over this guy in an instant - probably literally. Or, if he and his friends saw this guy at a bar, Bucky would have any number of pick-up lines locked and loaded. But Steve has never been quite that smooth. His attempts usually begin with something more like, "Uh, hey…"
Half-Naked Man looks up at Steve's greeting, and he answers with a crooked smile. The dog watches this interaction and cocks its head.
"Are you okay?" is the next and totally original line that pops out of Steve's mouth. Good one, Rogers, he hears Bucky chide.
"Aw, I'm doing fine," Half-Naked Man huffs a laugh. "It’s not that cold out."
"Really? I think I could see those goosebumps from ten feet away," Steve admits.
Half-Naked Man looks down at his body as if he's seeing his outfit for the first time. Steve considers this an invitation to take in the view again.
"Okay. You might have a point." The dog sighs and lays down, settling over Half-Naked Man's feet. He chuckles. "Lucky sees through all my bullshit."
Steve answers with an easy laugh of his own and extends a hand. "I'm Steve. Steve Rogers."
"I'm Clint Barton. Nice to meet ya, Steve." Clint's grip is firm and sure, but an involuntary shiver betrays him once again. Here's an opening Steve can work with.
"Would you like my hoodie?" he chances.
Clint mulls this over as he hugs himself tighter. "But then you'll be cold."
"Nah, I run hot." Which isn’t a total lie. Before Clint can protest again, Steve unzips his fleece and hands it over. After all, he's still got a t-shirt and sweats.
Clint practically snatches the hoodie and shrugs into it. It's a little big on him; Steve can tell he has broader shoulders than Clint. But Clint actually sighs happily once it's on. "Okay. Thanks. Much better," he allows.
Steve grins. So what? Who cares if this guy he just met just happens to look damn good wearing his hoodie?
Well, Nat or Bucky would care. They'd rib him for days. What was it that Buck used to say? Something like, 'Steve, you couldn't hit on a hot guy if he landed in your lap?' This is close enough, and luckily for Steve, neither one is here.
"You know, this kind of thing happens to me all the time."
"What? Being naked in public?" Steve arches an eyebrow.
"Hey now - only half naked, man! These are an important detail!" Clint points directly at his boxers. "But seriously. Just stupid shit like this. I wasn't paying attention when the fire alarm went off."
"Guess not."
Clint doesn't seem to care. Since it led to this meeting, Steve doesn't either. "By 'not paying attention,' I mean 'asleep.' Don't hear that well, either." It's then that Steve notices the hearing aid in Clint's ear. "Missed the first fire alarm, took the firemen banging on the door and Luck barking up a storm to actually get me up. Didn't really think about clothes." A beat passes, then Clint continues.
"Good thing you came along then, eh?" He actually winks.
Below them, Lucky sighs again. Steve hopes it's just dark enough out to cover his blush.
"I try," is the first response that comes to mind, and oh shit, he's actually flirting, isn't he? If only his friends could see him now. Suddenly, he's got this shit down. To an art.
"So what brought you out here?" Clint asks. "I don't think you live in my building?"
"Nah, I'm across the street. I figured I'd see what all the commotion was…see if anyone needed any help. I was…drawing."
"Well, you found what you were looking for, huh?" This time, though, Clint's the one who looks Steve up and down. Doesn't even try to hide it. "Wait. I don't think artists have pecs like that."
"I don't…how can you tell…I'm not an artist!" Steve splutters, wondering what else Clint has noticed. Thank God for the dull yellow glow of streetlight.
"Pencil behind the ear, dude."
"It's a hobby."
"Uh-huh. I'm sure."
"I'm not that great, I promise."
"I could be the judge of that."
Clint throws him another roguish grin, and that's how Steve invites him upstairs. It's only because he's being a nice guy, totally chivalrous like usual, not at all captivated by scruffy good looks, minimal clothing, and a cute dog. Right? Right.
Clint lets out a long, low whistle when he crosses the threshold. "Nice place you got here, Steve." Lucky immediately pushes past them to curl up in a ball on the couch and Clint laughs. "Dog's never wrong."
Steve mutters his thanks and, remembering, moves to take down the easel, suddenly embarrassed. Clint stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Ha. Called it. Who's the dude with the metal arm?"
"Oh, 's'just Bucky. Friend of mine."
"It's good," Clint replies. "Real good. Serve together?"
"How'd you know?"
"Couple things. The way you carry yourself, that build--" Steve doesn’t miss Clint's intent gaze "--the US Army blanket my mutt's made himself home on."
"You got me. Army intelligence, and that's all I'm allowed to say," Steve finally musters.
"Or what? You'll have to kill me?"
"Yup."
"Just be gentle about it," Clint smirks, but before Steve can say anything else he turns to the easel and starts flipping through pages on the sketchpad. "Got anymore? Seriously, this kind of work shouldn't be stuck hiding in an apartment…"
"I've, uh, got a good eye," Steve replies. Can't help it, he licks his lips as he watches the muscles in Clint's side ripple under his skin as he moves.
"So you do." Clint's facing him again, the sketchpad returned to Bucky's portrait.
It's a lot harder to hide his flush in the bright lights of the apartment. So instead Steve turns away, swallows, and composes himself. He beelines it for the kitchen.
"Would you like a drink? Coffee, water…beer?"
Clint leaves the easel and casually drapes himself over most of Steve's couch. "A beer would be great after this night, honestly," he answers. When Steve returns, Clint looks at home as he could be. Steve's hoodie has slipped mostly off of his shoulders, since he'd never zipped it up anyway, and his legs are splayed with one hand resting lightly on his stomach and just above the waistband of those thin, short boxers. Steve hands Clint a bottle, and as Steve takes a swig of his own he thinks that despite his earlier confidence he might just be in over his head.
He sees Clint gently, subtly nudge Lucky with his foot. The dog takes the hint and jumps off the couch, settling onto the floor next to the coffee table instead. Then Clint pulls the old Army blanket to his lap. Steve immediately sits down in the vacant seat and wonders when he started getting seduced in his own house.
It's time to fix that. Nat or Bucky would have this under control. If they can do it, so can he.
"So what do you do, Clint?
"You probably wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
"Well," Clint takes a long smooth drink and runs a hand through his messy blond locks. "Archery. I teach kids to…" and he mimes the nocking and shooting of an arrow with an imaginary bow, sound effects included.
"And that explains the bandages?" Steve boldly, lightly touches the bandage wrapping Clint's right, nearest bicep.
Clint looks down at Steve's touch, then back up at him. "Kids have terrible aim!" Then his gaze drifts to Steve's window where blue and red flashes continue to splinter the black night. "Really hoping the fire doesn't reach my floor. I'd lose all my gear."
Steve shoots a sidelong glance at his easel. "That would be terrible."
Clint shrugs. "I guess I'd figure something out. I mean, if they could handle it in the Stone Age I could handle it now, right?" Instead of waiting for a reply, Clint tilts his beer towards Steve's for a toast.
"Guess you're feeling better," Steve ventures after a few moments.
"So much better. Thanks Steve, really couldn't thank you enough. This hoodie is the shit." Clint sets his beer on the coffee table and stretches, arching his back off the couch. Now the hoodie's fallen to his elbows, if that, and they're back to where they first met.
This is it, Steve thinks, the opening he really needed. If only his friends could see him now.
"Yeah.." Steve sets his beer down as well, licks his lips, steadies himself.
"But I bet my bed is a lot warmer."
Clint grins and stands, Steve's hoodie now discarded in a heap on top of the blanket, his boxers riding lower than ever before. Steve follows suit and they meet halfway in a rushed first kiss, more fumbling than graceful, trying not to trip backwards over the coffee table or the sleeping dog. Clint mumbles something against Steve's cheek about him leading the way, and so he does.
The next morning, Steve awakes with Clint curled into his chest, his purple boxers lost somewhere near the bedroom door and where his dog now lies content at the foot of the bed.
Neither man minds too much when they find out that Clint can't return to his apartment the following night, or the next, or even the next one after that.