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Steve had stopped counting after the twentieth time. He looked up to the ceiling and soon his vision was filled with Clint’s grinning face. “This is becoming more and more frequent.”
“Yeah, only cause you keep going easy on me!” Clint squatted nearby, pressing a bag of ice to Steve’s (rapidly blackening, he guessed) eye. “Don’t think I can’t tell.” He was smiling good naturedly anyway, helping Steve sit back up. Clint was right – Steve pulled his punches, mostly because they both knew that if he was going at full power, Clint would be floored in minutes.
But it wasn’t fair. Clint had the better technique, better footwork, and he was more agile and limber. The only thing he lacked in was Steve’s serum-fueled strength. Neither of them talked about it, though, and Clint was happy enough teaching Steve the techniques Steve might really need one day, facing a stronger (Clint doubted it, but Steve didn’t) foe.
Which resulted many times in Clint being able to punch somewhere vital. Most of the time it didn’t really affect Steve, but a punch to the eye did hurt. “Tony’ll probably pull some kind of joke.”
Clint laughed and patted his cheek affectionately. He eased the ice off and started to roll an egg on the bruise. “Won’t be Tony otherwise, would he?”
--
It was probably the hundredth time Steve was seeing the same thing. Clint slung over the Hulk’s shoulders like a rag doll, bleeding from a wound somewhere. Unconscious. Tony was hovering nearby, undoubtedly chewing the insides of his cheek in worry inside his suit. Natasha had appeared somewhere, impatiently combing dust and rock particles and matted blood from her hair. Thor was sweaty, a deep cut (who had managed to cut Thor?) running down his arm that he was completely ignoring, and Steve himself was certain his legs would give out if he moved even a little.
He forced his legs to work as he made his way over to Clint and the Hulk. “How is he?”
The Hulk snorted and gingerly shifted Clint to his arms (every time, Tony would later complain about how he’d been thrown to the ground when Hulk had caught him unconscious, and Natasha would point out that Clint didn’t have a suit that could absorb the impact). From the angle, Steve could see that Clint was bleeding from the thigh, but Clint himself had managed to wrap something around it before he’d passed out from blood loss.
Coulson appeared soon with an extra shirt for the re-shrunk Bruce. The medical team shuffled all of them into the van and Clint onto a stretcher, tying a tourniquet around Clint’s thigh. Steve reached over and placed his hand on Clint’s cheek, and the pained frown on Clint’s face softened.
--
“Clint,” Steve said for the thousandth time, “it’s okay. I’m right here. Shh, it’s all right.” He cradled Clint in his arms, feeling Clint tremble in his arms like a newborn deer. Clint had an ability to make himself incredibly small when he wanted to, and Steve gathered Clint into his arms. “I’m right here.” He smoothed his hands down Clint’s back and rubbed it in circles until he felt Clint let out a shuddering breath.
When Clint finally uncurled from his fetal position, Steve tucked Clint into his chest and didn’t ask questions. After all, he didn’t need to ask. Clint had screamed Loki’s name over and over again, begging for it all to end before Steve could finally rouse him from his nightmare. Steve was pretty sure his shin was bruised from the kick it’d received while Clint was thrashing, but he couldn’t even register the throb.
“I hate him.” Clint mumbled into his chest, and Steve hummed in reply, knowing the best thing was to not reply. Steve could feel the hot tears as they dropped down onto his shirt, but he said nothing about it. Steve had an idea of what had happened when Clint had been under Loki’s control. Clint had never mentioned it explicitly, but Steve wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen Clint’s bruised hips and thighs, and the way Clint used to react whenever Thor touched him. He’d also been present for most of Clint’s nightmares.
Steve tugged Clint up and pressed a kiss onto Clint’s forehead, thumbing the tears away. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You know that.”
Clint punched him half-heartedly in the ribs. It hurt, a little bit, and now that Clint was sniffling and grumbling embarrassedly about his crying fit, his leg was starting to throb. But it was nothing he couldn’t ignore in favor of pulling Clint flush against him and rubbing his arm until both of them fell asleep again.
--
A million times wouldn’t be enough for the everyday things. Steve reveled in waking up early for his morning workout and having Clint grumble and pull him back down into bed. He loved walking out of the shower and finding Clint still in bed, pillowing his face into the sheets as complained to JARVIS about the sunlight. He loved coaxing Clint out of bed with his cooking, but he loved it even more when Clint got up, grumbling, and put his own amazing cooking talents to use.
And he liked snuggling, mostly because Clint loved snuggling. He would have never guessed it, but Clint was incredibly tactile. He loved to touch, to feel, and Steve had absolutely no complaints. Clint hugged and snuggled and rubbed any chance he could. When the Avengers had their movie nights, Clint pressed himself into Steve’s chest, tangling their legs together and idly drawing patterns into his stomach.
They also painted together – mostly it was Clint reading (Clint read, and abundantly, too) and Steve painting Clint, but sometimes Clint would get up and start fiddling around with the charcoal and the pastels Steve had on the side and draw surprisingly good still life and animals. Steve had a picture of the red-tailed hawk that Clint had done while New York City’s beloved hawk had perched right outside of their windowsill. (In exchange, he’d given Clint the portrait he’d drawn of Clint while Clint was drawing the hawk. The irony of a drawing of Hawkeye drawing a hawk wasn’t lost on Clint, who took it down and laughed at it with Tony. It currently hung framed in their common area.)
Steve really appreciated the little things, like the way Clint stuck his tongue out when he was concentrating on his cooking, or the way Clint held the paintbrush awkwardly in his left hand and still managed to produce something beautiful.
--
If Steve could pick something to put on loop for an infinite amount of time, it’d be Clint telling him I love you. Clint wasn’t stingy in his love – he said it so many times it could have lost its meaning, but it didn’t because every time Clint’s eyes would crinkle in a half-moon smile and he’d beam so happily Steve knew Clint wasn’t abusing the phrase.
It was the first thing Clint said in the morning and the last thing he said at night before he fell asleep. He always snuck in a quick peck and gripped Steve’s face and looked into his eyes when he said it before a battle, and if he was conscious afterward he’d be covered in dirt and sweat and sometimes blood but he’d be laughing when he shouted it to Steve.
Clint would say it out of nowhere. Sometimes he’d be reading next to Steve when he painted. Sometimes he’d be baking cupcakes. Sometimes he’d be brushing his teeth. Sometimes it was after sex. Sometimes before, mostly during.
And sometimes they’d just be on the couch and Clint would be plowing into his lap in his usual display of affection, rubbing his cheek on Steve’s chest. “Hey, Steve.” Clint said, and his mumbling tickled Steve’s side. Steve answered by massaging Clint’s neck. Clint looked up and smiled, and Steve smiled back. It wasn’t his I’m-going-to-kill-things smirk, or his I’m-actually-laughing-at-you-not-with-you half-grin. Or even his you’re-my-friend-and-I-like you grin, or his Tony-you’re-an-idiot-but-also-my-best-friend face. It was warm and completely lacking his usual sarcasm. “I love you.”
“Yeah.” Steve said, bending down to kiss Clint. “I love you, too.”