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When they arrived at the mansion, there were hardly any goodnight wishes exchanged among the Avengers, or more than a lazy greeting to Jarvis, who received them with his usual cordiality. None of them expected to get tangled up in a chess game between Kang and the Grandmaster as their pawns on their way to visiting Tony in the hospital, but one rarely can predict what waits for them in the next corner every day.
Clint would hardly complain, he loved being an Avenger more than anything in his life, but this time he would prefer to take himself to his bed as fast as possible.
The multiple fights with the Stimuloid, the Squadron Sinister and time travels left him drained of all energy, to be laying close to dream sounded like heaven right now.
After a slack: “‘Night, crew” Clint finds his way through the halls to his room. It’s not until he’s in the privacy of his quarters that he downsizes to his more manageable, 1'91 meters height. The blue harness that hugged his chest tight felt of the heavier metal, a sigh of relief ran on his lips as he took it off along the belt.
As soon as his feet were free of the same-matching-blue boots and changed from his red pants to more comfortable clothes — leaving his costume forgotten on the floor — the bed felt the sudden heavy weight of his body hit it.
Clint closed his eyes, expecting to fall in the easiest sleep.
…
Well, he didn’t.
All fatigue that’s been following for hours left his body when more needed.
He hasn’t had a chance to catch up with his thoughts since the Stimuloid showed up, and now it’s the only thing chasing him.
It’s kind of petty, immature and infantile even, like when one of the cool kids compliments your shoes and it’s the only thing you can think about all day, but he can’t help it.
“It was a valiant effort, Clint. I’ve never been prouder of the man who succeeded me as Giant-Man!”
He would be lying if he said he didn’t think about it at least twice a day for the last few days.
Like a broken record, his mind has been playing it over and over again, he wasn’t sure anymore what was part of the real memory or the fantasy he built around it.
Hank said it like that, simple and plain, he didn’t have to think twice, like it wasn’t a big thing. God, and maybe it wasn't, and it was just Clint making a big deal of it.
He remembers the quick rambly apology he uttered before that “Sorry… to let you down… Hank. Guess I got too big for my britches, but still too small to fill your old boots” Clint covered his face in shame as he shrank, he couldn’t look at Hank, fearing the look in the eyes of the older one.
Feels his cheeks burnt with how quickly he apologised, and even more embarrassed when all Hank had to say was how proud he was.
But no matter how hard he tries, he can't stop thinking about it. It brings him a warm feeling, a stupid smile draws in his mouth unconsciously when he plays it for the millionth time in his head.
He lays down in his stomach, cheek squished against his arm.
Hank’s been nothing but supportive since he decided to take up his old mantle as Goliath, even if he stole the costume Janet designed for him, Hank’s own Pym particles and disobeyed direct orders — like if that was anything new — from T’Challa. And lately, Clint feels more drawn to him, every time he touches Hank, his skin feels more sun-like than he remembers. He wants to dig up between his arms, rest his head against the shoulder of the scientist and stay there until he grows gray hair.
Slide his hand down Hank’s arm until it meets his and interlace their fingers together, meet the corner of his neck and wonder how he smells.
He turns his back to the door at the other end of the room now, in a fetal position, seeking to reach the warm he wishes for folding up in himself. And if he tries to resemble his fantasy by interlacing his own fingers with each other as his heart flustered, that’s between him and his pillow.
Would Hank comb his hair with his fingers? Or let his hands crawl to his jaw to hold his head still and give Clint a simple kiss on the forehead?
Maybe his face would gravitate closer to Hank’s, their breaths feel like one. Clint could even tilt his head a bit, close enough and kiss h—
“Oh no, no, no, no.” The — ex — archer grabs the pillow where his head rests and covers his face with it, gagging his growls. The blush that’s been burning against his cheeks turns too hot to ignore now, as he begins to realize.
He pushes his face even harder in the pillow, as if that would help.
But now he ran too deep in his daydream to escape from it, his mind is like a dog without a leash while he imagines Hank kissing him gently, with his hands at the sides of his face, perhaps even caressing one of Clint’s cheekbones with his thumb. Clint’s hands clinging through Hank’s hair while a sigh flees from his mouth.
And even if his mouth is needy Hank would keep their kiss tentative, too affectionate, pressing multiple kisses on his closed mouth, cradling his face as if it were a prize, something worth to care about.
He wonders if banging his head hard against the wall will be enough to make his spiralling delusion stop.
The tanned red reaches the tips of his ears, having no other choice but being the spectator of the very scene of his own making.
It’s not until the first sun rays filter through the curtain that his eyelids begin to weigh again, and somewhere in the five of the morning he falls asleep.
Maybe in his dreams Clint thinks again of him, maybe the thoughts don't stop, in the next morning he wakes up screaming in his pillow again and kicking his feet against the couch out of frustration. But no one outside of the doors of his room knows that, at least he can pretend nothing happened and talk to Hank with a smile on his face — and a heart racing a little too fast — like he didn't imagine him giving all the kisses he thirsts.