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His phone won't stop ringing.
Clint drags his pillow over his head, pressing his face into the mattress. He can't breathe, but it's almost enough to block out the chorus of Sexy Back. Natasha had thought it would be hilarious, and it kind of was at the time. Now, Clint just wants to punch Justin Timberlake in the face. He'd left his hearing aids in overnight and the skin behind his ears feels raw. If he could move, he'd take them out.
On the thirteenth ring, when he runs out of air, Clint snatches his phone from the nightstand and jams it against his ear. It hits too hard and pain ricochets around his skull, adding on to the hangover from hell. The hearing aid buzzes angrily at him before settling down. Clint groans and clutches his head pathetically.
He's never drinking with the Russians again. Never.
"What," he snaps. There's a jackhammer in his brain set to high impact and Clint cannot, for the life of him, find the off switch.
"Clint Barton?" The man on the other side asks. He sounds as confused as Clint feels.
"Don't have a credit card, don't want to buy anything, fuck off and let me be hungover in peace." Clint ends the call and stuffs his face back into his pillow. He's supposed to meet Natasha for lunch at some nebulous point in the future and should probably get up. But the bed is so comfortable. There's a blessed moment of silence and then-
I'm bringing sexy back-
"Oh, my god what?" Clint cradles his phone between his ear and the mattress, giving up on any hope of going back to sleep. His stomach churns. He wonders if he can make Natasha bring him something greasy, fatty, and headache killing.
"I have your luggage, and I have the sinking suspicion that you have mine," the same man as before says. "I'm in town for two days and need it. Can you man up and deal with your fucking hangover long enough to trade?"
"What?" Clint rolls out of bed, staggering towards his suitcase in the corner. He'd grabbed it at baggage without paying much attention, already a little buzzed from the complementary drinks. The only good part about flying to the UK is the booze. Clint's sure of it.
He flips the tag, and that's definitely not his name. James Barnes is written in neat hand across the top of the tag, New York City the origin point. The bag is definitely the same as his, right down to the stitched logo on the bottom, but when he opens it he's met with a metric ton of black clothes and a hunting knife that definitely shouldn't have made it through security.
"Sorry, Jamie," Clint says. He scratches his stomach, tilting his head away as he yawns. He looks down and, yeah, the boxers aren't his either. Whoops. "It looked like mine."
"Never call me that again, Clinton," James says sharply. Clint snorts. "The switch? I need my stuff."
"I'm staying at the-" Clint pauses, tries to remember the name of the hotel, and is not surprised when he fails. "Uh, hang on."
"You're a mess," James says. Clint doesn't disagree with him. He opens the top drawer of the nightstand and rifles through for the mandatory stationary. It's pink, which is probably Natasha's idea of a joke. She's awful. Clint loves her.
"The Urban," Clint says victoriously. James makes a sound of derision that Clint chooses to ignore. He rattles off the address and pokes at the half-busted coffee maker. "Bring breakfast."
"I'm not bringing you breakfast," James says before the line goes dead.
Clint makes the coffee too strong, considers putting on pants, and ends up getting sucked into a Jeremy Kyle marathon. It's awful, and the accents are almost too strong for Clint to make out, but he can't stop watching, no matter how hard he tries. He's still in just James' boxers when someone knocks on the door. He thinks they belong to James. He could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first time.
The man outside the door raises an eyebrow and looks down. He's carrying Clint's suitcase in one hand, the other curled around his stomach. It looks kind of… plasticky. It takes Clint longer than he's proud of to realize it's a prosthetic.
He's wearing Clint's t-shirt under his jacket. It's tight around his shoulders, outlining his truly impressive pecs. The fact that the purple stripes look totally out of place with the scowling face is just a bonus.
"You didn't bring breakfast," Clint says.
"You didn't put on pants," James replies. "I think we're even." He waits for a moment before waving his plastic hand at the door. "My stuff?"
"I don't know, man, purple suits you." Clint snorts at the dark look James sends his way.
He takes a step back and ushers James in, shutting the door behind him with a quick snap. Most of his headache is gone and the lingering nausea has passed, but his stomach is still grumbling. He pats it soothingly. Once he has his own pants, he can call Natasha and get food.
When he turns around he's graced with the smooth, wide expanse of James' back. James is hunched over his own suitcase, the hunting knife hidden from view, digging through his clothes. Clint takes a moment to appreciate it before shuffling forward to stand next to him. The harness holding his prosthetic on is dark against his skin, crisscrossing between his shoulder blades and under his arms.
"Not that I don't mind the view," he says, kicking at the discarded shirt on the floor, "but what's the rush? Also, how'd you bypass security with that butcher knife? It's a little impressive, I'll admit it." James looks back over his shoulder, his dark hair hiding part of his face, and presses his lips together.
"I have clearance," he says after a moment. He pulls out an incredibly boring t-shirt and pulls it on over his head. His hair gets tangled up, wild like he's just been in a windstorm. Or in bed. Clint's open to both options. "You have the same for the gun sewn into the back pocket of your luggage?"
"Hey!" Clint turns his suitcase over, ready to rant about breaking into a man's personal belongings, but the stitches are still solid, everything all accounted for. James raises an eyebrow. It reminds Clint a lot of Natasha. "Bet my clearance is higher than your clearance."
"Can I get my underwear back now that we've established that you're an idiot?" James pushes off his knee with his good hand, kicking the lid of his suitcase closed. He glances down again and Clint grins.
"If you really want them," Clint says. He tucks his thumbs into the waistband and pushes them down and off, stepping out of them neatly. It's maybe the smoothest he's ever been. He poses for a moment, hands on his hips, shoulders back, head held high. "You sure you don't want to reconsider breakfast?"
Clint misses lunch with Natasha. James leaves his boxers behind and Clint's missing a shirt when he packs up his stuff at the end of the week. Clint steals James' suitcase from baggage claim in New York and waits.
He'll call to give Delta a thanks in the morning.