Chapter Text
Clinton Francis Barton, you were retired, you dumb prick. Happily retired. You had your old lady, you had your kiddos, had your dog, had nothing to do and almost nobody giving you orders. And you fucking blew it, didn’t you? Clint, you stupid sack of shit. Now look at you, man. Officially in your forties, still trying to be an Avenger. Forty years old, no super powers, and yet here you are. What were you thinking.
That is what Clint mumbles to himself every morning over the screech of his alarm. Or some close variation thereof. He slaps the bedside table at least ten times trying to find the demon-phone, which is screaming out rooster crows on a loop because he had once had a major lapse in judgment that had caused him to think, Surely, that will be pleasant to wake up to. God, was he ever wrong.
He jams his feet into the leg-holes of his rumpled pajama pants and pulls on the t-shirt that’s perpetually draped over his headboard, and he wanders into the bathroom to take a piss and brush his teeth, usually without so much as glancing at his hair. Coffee first. Pretty later.
Most of the time, living at the (New) Avengers Facility was pretty cool. It definitely had perks - free food, all the training equipment an archer or spy could ask for, nice living quarters, and, for the most part, pleasant company. And it was almost free. Tony Stark didn’t exactly charge rent - in fact, he hadn’t asked anything of them at all. He’d even offered to make room for families and plus-ones, if they’d wanted. Unfortunately, Steve Rogers and his big stupid morally-superior face had made a few suggestions when the place was first established. “We should take turns training the new recruits,” he had offered innocently, looking down on all of them from atop his high horse. “We can do it on a rotation, so that the burden doesn’t fall on just one person!” And with him figuratively twisting their arms like that, everyone had no choice but to nod and smile and tell him what a fantastic idea it was.
Consequently, Clint now gets to enjoy several weeks during which he usually manages to sleep in, followed by a week of hellish pre-dawn torture that would inevitably bend his whole sleep schedule over a table and fuck it sideways, no spit, no reach around. Added bonus: while still grouchy and bleary-eyed, he has to drag himself outside and deal with a bunch of green agents, none of whom he was permitted to “accidentally” kill. Should have stayed retired.
Like hell he’s going to suffer alone, though. Granted, his choice of company happens to be the one person who hates new recruits more than he does, and she hates getting up early more than - well, anyone. Clint can only hope that after so many years of companionship, he’s got the “bribe Natasha” thing down to an easy science.
He shuffles down the long hallway that runs alongside the spacious common area. All of the living quarters are on his left, at the North side of the building where everyone can enjoy a balcony and soft natural light all day. He grabs the handle of Natasha’s door and holds still until the light on the panel above his hand flashes from yellow to green.
When Nat and Clint both have occasion to bunk with their teammates at the facility, they will, without fail, end up indulging in their long-standing tradition of catching up over a shot or ten. After the second time one of them had been forced to drunk-text Tony for help getting past the high-tech locks on their quarters, Tony had made sure that both Natasha and Clint’s handprints would open either respective door. They just needed to agree on a designated door opener before they were too belligerent to care who caught them passed out on the common room couch.
Clint barges in without knocking and gives Nat his most obnoxiously cheerful, “Good morning, sunshine!”
Natasha is uncovered, face-down, spread-eagled and braless. Unlike most days, she’s actually wearing some underwear, thank God. One of her socks is still hanging on, while the other has been flung across the room. Clint smirks. There’s his graceful princess. He almost takes a picture to send to Laura. His wake-up call has had no effect whatsoever. Nat’s still snoring. Now, if she didn’t respond and didn’t keep snoring, he’d know she was faking it. Keeping that small tactical advantage is the only incentive against gleefully informing her that she sounds like a clogged lawnmower when she sleeps. He gives her a few seconds, but when she doesn’t stir, he goes straight to his trump card. “Natasha. Donuts,” he says softly, and shuts the door. He doesn’t wait up for her - just heads straight for the kitchen. If she’s not dressed and sitting at the table in five, he’ll go back to check up on her, because she’s probably dead.
Clint knows that Tony’s in the kitchen long before he sees him. The hiss of the Mastrena’s steam-wand flushing out is a dead giveaway. Nobody else uses that thing. Tony’s the only one who has the wherewithal to concoct some Cafe con Bullshit Starbucks drink at five in the morning. Clint yawns loudly as he enters to announce both his presence and his discontent, and starts filling up the normal-people coffee pot with good old tap water. “Pulled another all-nighter, Stark?” he asks. Tony turns to him, surprisingly bright-eyed, as he pulls a triple into a pair of shot-glasses and dumps them into his foamy milk. Clint knows that one - it’s a machito? Machachito? Macchiato. Yeah. One of those Tony-drinks.
“Why does everyone assume I don’t sleep?” he asks, tone flat and accusatory, but hardly serious. “Every time I get up early, somebody inevitably makes a comment. I started taking drugs for that, like, a year ago,” he shrugs, leaning on the granite counter and taking a noisy sip of his girl coffee. “What about you, Barton? You look extra grumpy.”
“Just sorely in need of my coffee. And a new job, but hey, you know, it’s whatever,” he chuckles.
“Here, let me pull you a few shots. It’s quicker.”
Clint fills the filter basket with his pre-ground Maxwell House, shaking his head with a grimace. “Nope.”
“Come on, Barton. Let me be your barista. Make you whatever you want,” Tony offers, trying to tempt him. “You look like an Americano sort of guy.”
The coffee maker starts to bubble and whine. Clint tries again, this time with feeling. “Nope.”
“Alright, fine,” Tony concedes as he makes the fucking drink anyway.
Clint is more than content to sit down at the counter with his empty mug and listen to the Cuisinart whisper sweet promises of wakefulness into his hearing aids, but he’s not exactly surprised when Tony can’t manage to stay silent for a full minute.
“Did you know--”
Oh, Clint loves it when Tony starts a sentence with those words.
“--that the espresso machine was invented in 19--” he mumbles a year, “by Luigi Bezzera?”
“Wow. Neato,” Clint interjects, in the tone of voice usually reserved for when Cooper tries to make him look at “awesome” roadkill on the highway.
“He was a businessman. His employees got coffee breaks, but those were kind of running long, cutting into productivity. So, this guy invents the single-serve espresso machine and boom , productivity goes through the roof, and we get to enjoy the caramelly, delicious result.”
“Well, man, that sounds like some capitalist horseshit if I ever heard it,” Clint remarks, making use of the brew-pause feature to pour himself the first available cup. He adds a little cold water and a packet of Splenda to it, hoping that it will make Stark’s asshole clench. It seems to do the trick.
“You know, we do have a French press,” Tony comments.
“But it doesn’t make the bubbly noise,” Clint replies in a mockingly childish voice just before taking two manly gulps of his sweet, cheap coffee.
“We also have, you know, like, a big beautiful cabinet over there that is brimming with options that are not Maxwell House.”
Clint drains his cup even though he doesn’t strictly care to drink his coffee that fast. It’s not really about enjoying it at this point, anyway. It’s about spite. “Yeah, but are they good to the last drop?” he taunts.
“Um, they are good in the first place, which is a marked improvement over that mass-produced, unethically-sourced, robusta junk. In all seriousness, they should be sued for that by-line. It’s reckless endangerment. You could use those dregs to remove calcium and lime deposits from your plumbing. No telling what it’s doing to you.”
“Mmm,” Clint groans, pouring another cup. “Yeah, you sold me. I need a product that’s going to take the calcium deposits off my plumbing in the morning.”
“Jesus, Barton, make sure to flush when you’re done--Rogers! Captain, here you go. I made you a cup of coffee.”
Apparently, Steve hadn’t expected the kitchen to be so crowded, because he’s wandered in wearing nothing but sleep pants. Clint watches him almost turn tail and skitter back to his room to put on more clothes, but Tony shoves the Americano into his hands before he can escape. Steve is usually up before anyone else, but Clint gets the sense that deep down, he’s not much of an early bird. He always spends ten minutes wandering around the kitchen with one eye half-open, looking like he can’t remember what year it is. He cradles the hot cup in his palms for a few seconds, staring at it, until his brain catches up with his surroundings enough to become suspicious. “What’s in it?”
“Water. Espresso. Definitely not urine or magnesium citrate because why would I do something like that?” Tony explains, stirring his macchiato.
Steve scoffs at the apparent challenge and takes a sip.
Tony watches him calculatingly, keeping one eye on Barton. “What do you think? Better than that swill Barton likes to throw down?”
Steve takes a second sip. “I can’t really tell any difference.”
Oh, Captain Rogers, you are a hero, Clint thinks with a smile. Even a simple “no” would have hurt Tony less. Clint taps another Splenda noisily into his cup, enjoying the way it makes that little vein stand out on Tony’s temple.
Steve takes another mug down off the little tree where they hang by their handles. This one, he fills from the pot, which has now almost reached its fifteen cup capacity, minus Clint’s two half-servings. The Americano gets dressed up with a heavy dose of cream and sugar. By the third spoonful that Steve stirs in, Tony is struggling to force his scowl to look like a grin. Steve tries his coffee again and looks far more satisfied this time, then picks up both cups to take back to his quarters.
“Hey, I can whip one of those up for Sarge, too. Really, no problem. He might have better taste than you,” Tony presses.
Steve shakes his head. “Oh, no, no, that’s fine. He’ll be fine with this. As long as it’s hot, he’s happy. I’d hate to waste your good coffee,” he deflects graciously, hurrying back down the hallway to get out of the crossfire.
Tony recovers quickly, turning back to Clint with a smile. “There’s a joke to be had here. Something about tall, hot, Americanos and Barnes not being able to handle two of them in the space of one morning. I don’t know, I’ll clean it up and save it for tomorrow.”
The Cuisinart beeps, which means five minutes have passed. Clint turns to the kitchen’s entryway, already knowing that Nat will be standing there in a camisole and leggings with her hair in a bun and expression belying her hatred for all things that occur before 0900.
“Where’s my fuckin’ donut, Barton?”