“5 and 6 with Bucky please” requested by @barnesdeservestheworld 865 words. Yes, it’s me again. Last prompt request so I figured we all deserved a little fluff. Warnings: Language, Sexual Innuendos (yes again..)
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, exactly?" "Is that… lipstick, on your collar?"
Christmas Party | Tower
Bucked walked over to the bar with a spring in his step,
which didn’t go unnoticed by Natasha. She narrowed her eyes at him and slid a
glass of whiskey in front of him.
“Thanks, Nat.” He turned his back to the bar and took a long swig of the amber liquid, letting it warm his throat.
“You look pretty cheerful for someone who doesn’t like
Bucky didn’t reply, his eyes landed on you. A cocky grin spread
across his lips as he watched you leave the room he had just left. Your hair
was a mess and you fidgeted with the hem of your dress, trying to yank it down
so it would cover your thighs.
He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, watching with an
amused look on his face as you stumbled slightly and regained your balance. His
brain replayed the events of the past twenty minutes. If he focused hard enough
he could still hear your breathless moans and fell your hot breath on his neck.
No, that’s a bit of an understatement. ‘Anxious’ might be a better way to put it. ‘Petrified’ would be just as kind. The street just outside the window of this quiet little bistro is completely devoid of tall silver-haired Russians with heart-shaped smiles, despite Viktor having sent him a message about how he’s on his way over at least five minutes ago.
- six identical pairs of jeans
- four grey t-shirts that came in a pack at Target
- one pair of worn out Converse
- that shirt with the bullseye on the front
- tac suit and combat boots
- black jacket, no drawstrings in the hood, zipper sticks
- hanging bag that holds the suit he bought because Coulson told him every gentleman needs a suit - two nice button down shirts, also Coulson - custom screen printed shirt that just says ARROWS across the front
- three Polos, tags removed, wrinkled and obviously worn
Why three Polos? Why does Clint Barton own three Polo shirts?
Clint takes Natasha finally-off-probation Fury’s-really-paying-me-for-sitting-in-a-holding-cell Romanoff shopping. She needs something besides S.H.I.E.L.D. issue t-shirts and sweats. Clint takes her to a strip mall. Target, one of those discount outlet stores, a shoe place with BOGO deals. Natasha is offended. Shopping trip over, “I am not getting out of this car, Barton,” and “Is this a joke to you?” and “Doesn’t your nation’s capital have Sephora?”
Clint doesn’t know what the fuck a Sephora is or why it’s relevant so he gives her a “You know what, Red??” and turns the car around straight back to S.H.I.E.L.D. because there’s nothing wrong with Target.
Coulson asks why they’re back so soon.
“Because she’s insufferable.”
“He took me to Target.”
“I’m so sorry” sincerely from Coulson.
They try again the next day, minus Clint. It’s awkward at first, sure, but Coulson takes her to get a Prada jacket and matching boots and he finds a Sephora and doesn’t complain when she spends an hour playing with makeup. They have a nice lunch, real actual vegetables, nothing fried, no burgers, cloth napkins and a glass of wine each.
“I should get Barton something,” she says over dessert. A thanks-for-not-shooting-me gift.
“Oh?” is all Coulson says, all polite interest. He’s going to make her ask. He probably wants her to elaborate on why she feels like buying Clint a gift.
“Do you know what he likes?” she finally asks. Coulson considers for a minute, looking thoughtful.
“How about a nice Polo shirt?”
That’s easy enough. Natasha picks a deep purple one and has it wrapped in tissue paper and put in a box. No wrapping paper though. You don’t wrap thanks-for-not-shooting-me gifts, too formal.
Clint feels a little guilty by the time they get back. Natasha looks happy, way happier than after their shopping trip the day before. He feels even worse when she hands him the box, a present, and he really doesn’t deserve a present.
He opens it anyway and it’s a stupid collar shirt. He doesn’t even own a shirt with a collar, unless you count the two button downs he’s never worn.
He hitches up a grin and says “Thanks, Red!” in a believable tone and lifts the shirt out of the tissue paper. Natasha’s smile is for him now, and he knows he’ll wear the dumb shirt.
He does wear the dumb shirt, because he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. He tries to find something positive about it, but it isn’t even Hawkeye purple, it’s a few shades too dark. It has three little buttons near the top and he doesn’t know what to do with them, and the collar itches and touches his neck, and some of the other agents ask him what’s up with the shirt and some of them make a game out of playing a whip cracking noise on their phones when he walks past, on the days he wears it.
Coulson presses his lips together, trying to hide a smile, every time he sees Clint in the Polo and he knows Coulson pushed Nat into buying it. He gives Coulson sneers when he catches him grinning.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he lets it fall out of rotation in his wardrobe. He puts it in front of the button downs and behind all his other shirts, in order of fancy-ness should Nat ever be in his closet and ask about it, because he absolutely didn’t shove it back there unceremoniously to be rid of it.
Coulson, for his part, starts to feel bad about using Natasha for a prank, and as Clint’s birthday gets closer he pulls her aside and confesses, just in case another Polo was in Clint’s future.
“Don’t apologize!” Natasha says, eyes bright, bouncing on her toes. “This is WONDERFUL!”
And she’s gone, back down the corridor.
Clint gets another Polo for his birthday, light blue, to match his eyes Natasha says. He gives Coulson the finger while Nat’s back is turned.
This one puts her in mind of the purple one, and she asks about it, so now he has to wear two of the stupid collar shirts.
It’s Christmas a few weeks later and he doesn’t even want to open his gift from Natasha because it’s a shirt box. It doesn’t rattle, but it crinkles a little when he shakes it. It’s exactly the weight of another Polo shirt, but surely she doesn’t hate him that much–
It’s another Polo shirt. Bright red. At least the bloodstains won’t show up when he pounds Coulson’s face in.
No gifts for New Years, thank God. He wears the stupid purple collar shirt to the S.H.I.E.L.D. office party. Natasha grips the collar at midnight and pulls him down to kiss his cheek, and just for a moment or two he doesn’t hate the shirt so much.
The feeling doesn’t last. It’s business as usual after the holidays and he corners Coulson in his office, but not to punch him for the dumb prank.
He’s all “How do I tell her without hurting her feelings?” and “I hate my life I can’t wear these dumb collar shirts anymore. Can I be a nudist? Would she buy that?”
Clint sounds so distraught and genuinely concerned that Coulson puts his pen down and looks up from his file and tells him “Natasha knows you hate the shirts. She’s doing this on purpose.”
It takes a minute for it to register. Natasha’s just Natasha now, not Natalia or the Black Widow or even the same girl he tried to take shopping at a strip mall. Natasha Romanoff pranked him. Intentionally. On purpose. For fun.
Clint pulls his phone out of his pocket and presses it to his ear.
“Asshole!” he says when she picks up, but he’s smiling, a stupid grin that bleeds through into his tone.
“You’re dead, Romanoff!”
Gansey longed for Glendower like Arthur longed for the grail, drawn by a desperate but nebulous need to be useful to the world, to make sure his life meant something beyond champagne parties and white collars, by some complicated longing to settle an argument that waged deep inside himself.
“They said there’ve always been rumors of akingburied somewhere along this spirit road,” Ronan said. His eyes held Gansey’s. “They think he may be yours.”
That sense that Gansey was both young and old, that he’d only just arrived, or he’d always been.
His noble and oblivious and optimistic friend was slowly opening his eyes and seeing the world for what it was, and it was filthy, and violent, and profane, and unfair. Adam had always thought that was what he wanted— for Gansey to know. But now he wasn’t sure. Gansey wasn’t like anyone else, and suddenly Adam wasn’t sure that he really wanted him to be.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if I find him, Noah. I don’t know what I’ll be if I’m not looking for him. I don’t know the first thing about how to be that person again.”
He was aking. This was the year he was going todie.