Chapter Text
It should probably have amazed Kate what one can get away with on the New York subway, but as a lifelong New Yorker, nothing amazed her about the subway at all.
“I could have sprung for an Uber,” she said, hauling Clint half-slung over her shoulder, and both their quivers and bows, onto the subway car. Every part of Kate hurt. Parts of her she had previously been unaware of somehow even managed to hurt. “Like, maybe not executive-level, but at least Uber X.”
“It's like 6 stops, Kate,” mumbled Clint, “my rib's bruised, not broken. And I really can’t afford to bring down my rating.”
“You know, it's actually kind of nice riding the subway when you're covered in blood,” Kate mused. “People are actually giving us their seats. That's so nice!”
“I hate when people say New Yorkers are rude,” replied Clint.
“This, right here, is a testament to the human spirit,” said Kate. “Let's get us home, Hawkeye.”
And they sat, in amiable silence, past Lafayette, past Clinton and Washington, past Franklin. Up the stairs they hobbled onto the street, past the bodega and the laundry, and that optician's office that looked like it had been there since the 1930s but barely ever seemed open, and onto the apartment. There were always too many stairs when they came back like this. Kate set Clint down first, as gingerly as she could, onto the sofa. Then she set the weapons down in a ragged heap by the door, greeted Lucky, who bounced and wagged his tail so hard she almost worried it was going to fall off, as though he knew there had been reason to worry that they may not have returned at all. Then she shuffled to the bathroom, kicking her boots off as she went, to fetch the first aid kit before sitting down to assess their respective damage.
“So are we ever gonna talk about that thing that happened?”
>>----->
That thing that happened.
The thing in question, not so much a thing at all as a gesture, had happened about a week earlier.
Clint did not want to go to the pool party. Kate was his exit strategy. If it was awful, forty-five minutes in, Kate would feign oncoming headache and Clint, being the responsible plus-one he was, would take her home, thus having done his social duty without having to endure too much awkward, enforced fun. Besides, Kate was looking forward to an opportunity to show off her new swimsuit: it was on the athletic side of fashionable – because form, in this case, was nothing without function – and it showed off her shoulders. Kate liked her shoulders. They were strong. They were shoulders that carried mountains. They were the shoulders of an archer.
And damned if Tony Stark did not throw a quality shindig, thought Kate. The drinks were good, the company was positively buzzing, and the meze was of the sort of calibre that Kate wondered how many falafels she could get away with stuffing into her purse without being conspicuous. Clint leaned into her as nonchalantly as he could.
“Kate, I don't think that's where food goes,” he whispered.
“Clint, there's nothing in your fridge but marshmallows and milk,” she said, “just... just stick these in the freezer for when we're too beat to order in. These falafels are the business.”
“Yo, Hawkeye!” Tony appeared between the two of them, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders. “If you're not too busy on babysitting duty, there may be an opportunity to do handsfree Jell-O shots off of Thor's abs. And try the dolmades, they're fierce!”
Kate bristled.
“Babysitting duty? What the hell was that?” she sighed as Tony floated away into the crowd, ready to fake a crippling migraine - or better yet, food poisoning - at any moment.
“Ignore him,” counseled Clint. “Tony's... being Tony. That's just how he shows people he likes them.”
“Fine,” she said, stepping out of her shoes as she lifted her gauzy sundress. “I'm taking a dip. You coming?”
Clint nodded, leaving his shirt and shoes with Kate's by the side of the pool.
“No way,” he said, as they padded carefully into the water. It was by no means warm, but comfortable under the sun. “This is my favourite song.”
It was only then that Kate made a proper effort to listen to the music beyond the swell of jumbled party conversations. Not one she recognised straight away, but the harder she listened, the more it seemed the kind of asinine, swaggering metal that rarely held her interest - something about a gun?
“This is not your favourite song,” she corrected him.
“Okay, okay, not favourite,” he conceded, “but it's Kiss! Love Gun!”
“Love Gun, Clint?” she narrowed her gaze at him. She was near fully immersed in the water now, bouncing softly from one foot to the other. Clint sunk in, slowly kicking circles around her. “Overcompensating machismo, much? They might as well have called it 'Please Touch My Weenie' for all the traction that line's gonna get with the ladies.”
“I don't think that's got the same ring to it,” argued Clint. The sun and the pool threw his softly pink t-shirt tan into relief, and the spray of pale little freckles across his shoulders.
What a dork.
“I dunno,” she reasoned, “have you ever tried it?”
“Please touch my weenie, Kate,” he said, eyes wide with mock-pleading. His fingertips brushed over her side as he passed; whether or not it was done with any intention, the effect was the same.
“Hmm, nupe,” she grinned, although she would be lying to herself if she said she had never thought about it. “Besides, everybody knows the sexiest weapon is the arrow, not the gun.”
“That so, little birdie?” asked Clint.
“You know as well as I do, Hawkeye,” she teased, closing the gap between them. “With a bow and arrow, you've got the tension, the anticipation, a slow burning build, and finally, release. Straight through the heart.”
“Granted,” he said, almost breathless.
“A gun's not even a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, just one disappointing, premature... bang,” she continued, punctuating the last word by pressing a finger into Clint's chest.
“Dammit Katie,” he whispered, closing his hands around hers, “you win.”
The sun seemed to go out when his lips brushed over hers, almost clumsily. It was no longer the buoyancy of the pool that left her weightless. There was no blaming it on sunstroke or sangria. She loved his stupid face and his t-shirt tan and those damn freckles. She still thought the Kiss song was dumb.
“Shit, damn, oh no,” Clint stammered, floating back a few paces, looking at everything but Kate as he clambered out of the pool. “This is... bad. Can we just forget, I am so, so sorry. I'm gonna... baba ghanoush.”
Kate stared, slack-jawed, as Clint all but ran from the pool.
“You. Futzing. IDIOT,” she said, to no one in particular, gathering her things as quickly as she could. This was bad.
“Jell-O shots, Bishop!” Tony called after her, but she was already out the door.
And that was how Kate found herself, like That One Girl At Every Party, walking home with her Louboutins in one hand and a purse full of falafels in the other, hoping no one had seen the kiss, really hoping no one had seen Clint panic, and praying no one had seen her cry. What a loser.