This originally started because Historymiss challenged Copperbadge to a Tony-off. Knottahooker got roped into setting the rules because she is a shameless instigator. Sadly, it didn't end in a threesome. A collection of fics brought together and judged by you, my loyal readers. See the FAQ for more information.
This was the closest race I've ever seen in a throwdown. The difference between first and second place was FIVE.
First Place: Latveria is for Lovers by copperbadge
Second Place: Dating for Dummies by scifigrl47
Thank you, authors and readers, for participating! I hope everyone had fun!
Sci and Sam, you can post your fics wherever you want to post them. I’m going to go through today and add in author credits. If you don’t want your fic displayed here, just let me know and I’ll take it down (but I hope you’ll let it stay).
Again, thank you all for participating! You've been awesome.
FYI, the links to the fics are crashing the Tumblr iPhone app. Not sure if anyone else is having this issue, but I figured I'd bring it up in case it affects voting. I had to copy the links to the fics and open in a browser for reading, then find a laptop for voting.
Thanks for letting me know! I can't replicate the problem on my iPhone, though. Sorry for the inconvenience!
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"Officially," Coulson said, "we'll be there as honeymooners on a tour of Europe. Unofficially, we have a target and a kill order."
"Well, that's not very romantic at all," Clint complained, boots propped on Coulson's desk. The first time he'd done that, Coulson made him scrub his boots until you could eat off them; since then he scrubbed beforehand for the sheer pleasure of being able to put his feet on the desk. Coulson was awfully good for his personal hygiene, among other things.
"I suspect Hill is not terribly concerned with how romantic our mission is," Coulson answered, mouth drawing up in a small smile.
"She should be. Valentine's Day weekend and I'm tracking some treason case through eastern Europe? Beautiful architecture, quaint food, delightful atmosphere -- there goes Clint, throwing knives."
"Well, she did essentially assign us a European vacation for Valentine's Day. I felt it was sort of thoughtful."
"Hill's thoughtfulness I can live without," Clint grumbled.
"It's the first chance we've had at this particular target, and could possibly be the last," Coulson said. "SHIELD radar generally pings six months late on her. We're lucky to have this lead. And she's not a traitor; she's a foreign national."
"Traitor, spy, whatever."
"Former spy, current mercenary."
"Fine, but if we get done early you're booking us a ski chalet somewhere nice," Clint said, popping a handful of trail mix in his mouth.
"You wouldn't know what to do with a ski chalet if it bit you on the ass," Coulson replied.
"I know what to do with ski chalets. They're for sex and hot cocoa."
"We could do that in my apartment."
"Yeah, but we've done that in your apartment, a guy likes a change of scenery. Be a romantic for once in your life, Coulson."
"I'm very romantic."
"Then you'll have no problem with the ski chalet scenario. I hear they're cheap in Latveria, because nobody in their right mind goes there."
"Latveria's not so bad. Von Doom's at least trying for the tourist dollar."
"Well, I remain unimpressed. Who is the target, anyway?"
Coulson consulted the file. "Natalia Alianova Romanova, aka Natasha Anna, aka Natya the Red, aka Natasha Romanoff. She's KGB-trained, supposedly. Kills for money. Not the kind of person with a long life expectancy at any rate, but she's become a thorn in SHIELD's side lately."
Clint's expression barely flickered. "Sounds interesting," he said, and picked a raisin out of the trail mix, tossing it across the desk. Coulson caught it in his mouth and grinned, teeth bare. "When is wheels-up?"
"Two hours. Pack cold-weather gear and your weatherized recurve. What do you want from the armory?"
Clint pondered the ceiling briefly. "Grab the the fifty-ought, one belt of the knives, and some small arms."
"Done."
"And none of those fucking taco MREs, those are disgusting."
"I'll make sure to requisition the new strawberries, whipped cream, and body chocolate MRE," Coulson said, deadpan.
"Still not romantic, just kinky," Clint replied, swinging his boots to the floor. He bent over the desk, kissed Coulson briefly, and leaned back, saluting. "Meet you at transport. If you don't bring body chocolate I'm going to be sad."
***
The temperature in the area dropped sharply while they were still over Hungary. By the time they'd touched down at the border and crossed into Latveria on forged papers that the guards didn't examine as closely as the wads of cash folded up inside them, Clint was glad for the bulky down jacket that kept him warm and hid the collapsed bow under one armpit. They picked up the airdrop with their arms from a convenient field on their way in, and made it to the capital city well before nightfall.
Coulson, who spoke reasonable Latverian, convinced the owner of the small inn where they were staying to give them a room overlooking the central square where their target was supposed to be meeting an arms dealer on neutral ground. Word was that the dealer had new Stark small arms to sell, which pre-market were worth their weight in gold.
Clint sat at the window, chewing on a small winter apple and checking sightlines on the square. His plan was not as simple as Coulson's, and he didn't like lying to him, but Phil was...understanding of Clint's occasional aberrations, and Clint had found it better to ask forgiveness than permission. Or easier, at least.
"Hey, how far do you trust me?" he asked, glancing over at where Coulson was laying out an assortment of weapons on the bed.
"Not as far as I can throw you," Coulson replied without looking up.
"I dunno, I've seen you in PT throwing around the newbies, you could probably throw me pretty far."
"You're not a newbie. Why do you ask?" Coulson's eyebrow raised, though he still wasn't looking at him, instead focused on assembling the sight for the fifty-ought. "Is this a relationship thing? Or a mission thing?"
"Mission, mostly. Latveria's got some complex architecture. You may not be able to spot for me on this one."
"You're not thinking of taking a rooftop? You'd be hard-pressed to stay on one, all the ice around here."
"No. I'm thinking the Innocent Bystander."
"Hm. You haven't pulled that one in a while."
"Well, we don't know where she's going to be, we don't know what she's going to look like, and we don't know how long she'll be there. If I've got boots on the ground and your eyes in the sky, as soon as she pops I can find a perch and do my duty for God and Country."
"But I can't give the order," Coulson said. "If I can't see you, or her..."
"Nope. I'm on fire-at-will from the moment I leave the room."
Coulson laid the sight aside and came to the window, leaning his chest against Clint's shoulder. "You know I trust you that far. What's this really about?"
"What if I said it was better for you to plead ignorance if something goes wrong?"
"Then I definitely wouldn't trust you with the Innocent Bystander."
Clint looked up at him. "What if I said I'd have a present for you when the mission is over?"
"I'm not five, Clint, I'm not easily bribed with presents."
"Bet you weren't easily bribed even when you were five."
"No need. I was an exceptionally well-behaved child."
Clint butted the side of his head into Coulson's chest. "How far do you trust me?" he repeated.
He felt Coulson's hand come to rest on the other side of his head, fingers disordering the short, bristly hair there. "Whatever it is you need to do. Just don't get killed. This mission wasn't cheap."
"Do you ever wish we were normal?"
"No. Once in a while I wish you weren't such a devious weirdo, but I make do." Coulson scrubbed his fingers through Clint's hair and stepped away, heading for the bathroom. "Be ready early tomorrow, I want this done fast. Our ski chalet awaits."
***
Clint's plan was, more or less, simple. It was nearly streamlined, and he felt that if Coulson knew about it he'd probably be proud of his logistical thinking. Along with his bow, he'd brought a blowgun, which was essentially just a plastic tube. He could prop the blowgun on his left arm while it held the bow, draw with his right, blow a tranq into Natasha's neck and simultaneously shoot the arms dealer with a mildly explosive arrow (really it would barely wing him). In the excitement, he would ziptie and drag a drugged Natasha Romanoff to safety.
Or, well, given Coulson's likely reaction, less "safety" and more "disappointment" but he could live with that. He couldn't live with killing Natasha. Not particularly because he liked her -- though he did -- or even because he knew her that well, because he didn't. They'd met twice in his pre-SHIELD years, and neither time had involved long confessionals about personal lives or feelings. But all sentiment aside, he'd seen her at work, and Natasha was efficient and effective, like a well-built machine. It was a shame to wreck something so perfectly designed and balanced.
SHIELD didn't appear to be aware of the extent of her talents, or they'd have sent him to recruit her instead of kill her. Which he was planning on now anyway, so that was fine. Besides, Natasha wasn't unreasonable, and she owed him a favor.
(It would occur to him, years later, that perhaps SHIELD was fully aware of what Natasha could do, and Hydra, pulling strings, had been the one to give the order for her death. Perhaps they had both been good little soldiers a little too unquestioningly.)
At any rate, the plan was simple, comparatively speaking, so when Natasha strolled up into the square, Clint spotted her with something approaching excitement.
"I've got eyes," Coulson said in his ear.
"Me too. Damn, she looks good," he added. She'd trimmed her hair short, framing her face nicely, and even in the plain local clothing she cut a nice figure. She'd never been what he'd call awkward, but the last time he'd seen her she'd had a certain raw, gangling quality, too fresh from the wreckage of her former life and homeland. She'd grown into herself, he supposed. Then again, he'd grown up a lot since then as well.
"Fire when ready," Coulson said, and Clint kept watching her, waiting for her to stop somewhere so he could find cover and execute Plan Awesome. For a sniper at his level, being cut loose like this was a nice act of trust -- Coulson couldn't spot for him, so he was on his own, and Coulson trusted that when he could fire, he would. He shifted his weight and felt the blowgun slip along the line of his spine, the arrows in a hidden pocket press against his thigh, the bow's weight in the touristy rucksack with the Canadian flag on it that he was carrying.
Natasha took a seat at an outdoor cafe. Clint headed for a bakery that had a low second-floor balcony with a good sightline and an overhanging tree. Coulson said, "She's about to have company."
And then Clint started noticing a lot of people were wearing the uniform of what passed, locally, for police.
"There's more than one problem," Coulson answered, tension rising in his voice.
"So many problems," Clint agreed, backing away from the nearest guards. They began to charge the cafe where Natasha was sitting and he found he had no choice; he turned, running ahead of them, heading straight for her while the locals scattered.
And then Natasha, God bless, took out a gun in one hand and a flashbang grenade in the other, threw the flashbang directly to Clint without pulling the pin, and started shootin' cops.
"Hey boss, I think we're gonna miss that ski chalet," Clint said, pulling the pin on the flash-bang. "Also, cover your eyes."
He lobbed the canister into the biggest knot of Latverian guards, missed completely whatever Coulson had to say about the matter in the ensuing explosion, and with ears ringing, took out the explosive arrows. He saw the nose of the fifty-ought's barrel emerge from the window of their room overlooking the square, as Coulson prepared to provide cover. Behind him, Natasha yelled defiance and, who knew, probably began strangling men with her ankles or something.
He reckoned he flattened a good even dozen of the guards with his arrows before there was a searing heat in his left leg, which promptly and traitorously buckled under him as he fell.
***
When Clint woke, he could hear gunfire in the distance, but close-to there was only the sound of dripping water and soft breath. He kept still, doing an internal catalogue of his injuries -- sharp pain in his thigh, dull ache above it, bruises all up and down his back -- and then realized he was shackled to something, both arms raised over his head.
He opened his eyes to a dim, tidy little room with sparse furniture, and Natasha Romanoff wringing out a rag in a basin of steaming water.
"Well," he croaked, and she looked up. "That didn't go to plan for anyone, did it?"
"I don't know," she said with a half smile. "I flushed out pretty much everyone who was looking for me, and killed many of them. And I have a hostage now. I think I did very well."
He huffed and looked up at the ceiling. "I'm not wearing any pants, am I?"
"No, but you have maintained your quiet dignity."
"Don't expect that to last," he said.
"You took a bad hit to your leg. I've got a tourniquet on it to stop the bleeding. You were sent here to kill me."
"Well, yes and no," he said. "Did you find the tranq dart?"
"I did." She cocked an eyebrow at him.
"Let me out of the shackles and I'll explain."
She considered this, while Clint tried to look helpless.
"We're pinned down here," she said. "They have guards at the end of every street."
"I assume the gunfire is your would-be business associates?"
"The Latverian guards will rip them to pieces, sooner or later. Good riddance to rubbish," she added. "But it means for now we're stuck here. In case you were thinking of doing anything stupid."
"Aw, you do remember me."
She smiled as she leaned over to free his wrists. "You're a very memorable man, Barton."
He sat up, rubbing circulation back into his hands and wincing as the tourniquet cut into his thigh.
"Is this lace?" he asked, picking at the fabric. It was purple and filmy, more decorative than his usual field dressings.
"You're lucky that bra was old," she answered.
"It is my color," he said, as he examined the wound. It was ragged but clean, and when he experimentally eased the tension on the binding, it didn't start spurting blood, so he was probably okay. It was painful, and it was worse when he took the binding off entirely, but he hissed his way through it and set the blood-pocked purple lace aside.
"If you give me my comm, I can call some cavalry," he said, not enjoying the way she watched him.
"Not just yet," she replied, and when he reached for it anyway, a gun just appeared in her hand. He froze, then lifted his hands and leaned back. "Just because I like you doesn't mean you aren't a prisoner, Barton."
"Well, as long as we're being friendly about it," he sighed. "What is it you want, Romanoff?"
"So much," she sighed, mock-put-upon. "I want to know who sent you to kill me."
"SHIELD," he said promptly. It wasn't like it was a secret.
"Who at SHIELD?"
"That's above my pay grade."
"Don't give me that. You're a curious man, a critical man. You didn't just blindly charge in here."
"I was running a secondary black op," Clint said. "I didn't have a choice."
"So you were just going to kill me. Without questioning anything."
"I was not!" Clint said indignantly. "I was going to pretend to kill you and then cleverly flip you to the side of my employers."
"You're a fool," she said.
"Well, you rescued me. It doesn't reflect well on you." Clint sulked. "Also you ruined my romantic weekend I had planned."
"Romantic weekend in Latveria? How much was she charging you?"
"Rude. He's a very nice man and he always pays for dinner."
She raised an eyebrow. "Sugar daddy?"
"I'm fucking the boss."
Her eyebrows crinkled. "Nick Fury? I had not heard that about -- "
Clint burst out laughing. "Oh my God! No! MY boss. Fury's BFF. He's my handler. You'd like him. Lemme call him and I'll introduce you."
"I'm getting tired of your games," she said, and sat down on top of him, cuffing his wrists together behind him in a smooth, liquid motion.
It actually hurt like a son of a bitch. She straddled his thighs, all her weight falling on his wound, and even though it was agony it was also awesome. The second time they'd ever met, they'd spent fifteen hours together in a safehouse hiding from a mutual enemy, and they'd spent at least six of that having sex. Natasha was a beautiful woman, but she was also a good match for him. They were...compatible. And that didn't happen often for Clint.
"I'm in a committed relationship," he managed through the pain, teeth grinding together. She shifted, and he whimpered into her cleavage. (There wasn't really any other place to whimper into.)
"Tell me who sent you."
"I told you, I don't know. SHIELD SHIELD SHIELD!" he managed, as she shifted again. "If I'd asked who wanted you dead they would have suspected," he panted. "I couldn't risk being taken off the mission. They don't know I know you ow fuck ow."
She paused, then knelt up just enough to take the pressure off the wound. "SHIELD doesn't know you know me," she said skeptically.
"Not as far as I'm aware. If they had they'd have asked me to do a writeup for your dossier," he said, considering dislocating his thumbs just to get the cuffs off so he could push her off him. "I swear to god, Natasha, I wasn't going to kill you, I was going to flip you. SHIELD isn't like other places. If I vouch for you I can bring you in from the cold."
There was a fleeting expression on her face, mostly a tightening around the eyes -- he knew what it was like to have nothing but your wits and weapons, knew what it was like to be drifting through a world that was an endless combat zone. When he'd come into SHIELD, sometime in those first few weeks, he'd broken down and cried with relief twice. Privately, in the quiet of his safe, warm quarters, but nonetheless.
"My handler can bring you in. He's probably working on a way to get us out of here right now. If I give my word about you, he'll trust it. They'll trust me, they'll trust you," he said.
"Why would you do that?" she asked.
"Because you're amazing," he said, and she dropped onto his leg like a stone. "Jesus wept woman what do you want from me?"
"Don't let me interrupt," said a voice from nearby, and Natasha rolled off him in a flash, guns raised. Clint doubled over, gasping.
"Phil, don't hurt her," he managed. "Natasha, please, don't shoot my boyfriend."
There was a long silence, mostly filled with his retching gasps. When he managed to look up, they were eyeballing each other like angry cats. Neither had put their guns down.
"So," Natasha said finally. "You're the boyfriend."
"And you, I believe, are the ex?" Coulson replied. He had one hand up slightly, a peaceful gesture. It was mitigated somewhat by his other hand, also raised, but with a gun in it.
"You don't get to talk right now, I'm sure somehow all this is your fault," Coulson continued. There was an explosion outside. "Still, I have to say I'm having fun."
"God forbid killing me be boring," Natasha retorted.
Clint watched in horrified fascination as Phil gave her his best grade-A eyeroll. "As if that was ever going to happen."
"What?" she said, just as Clint said, "Wait, what?"
"SHIELD is unaware of your previous relationship," Phil said. "I'm not. Now, how about you put the gun down, Ms. Romanoff, and I'll put mine down, and we all walk out of here?"
"With you?" she asked. "As your prisoner?"
"As my guest," Phil replied. "Or alone. If you want. But you won't make it another six months on your own. I think today proved that."
"Can we," Clint said, and they both looked at him like he'd forgotten they were there. "Can we have this conversation somewhere else? With painkillers for me?"
"Ms. Romanoff?" Phil said.
Natasha, stunningly, holstered her gun. "Do you have an exit plan?" she asked. He held up his hand, a wait gesture. There was a second explosion outside and he nodded, lowering his hand.
"I do now," Phil said, which was how Clint found himself being carried by a Russian mercenary, piggyback style, to a large delivery van, where he and Natasha were tucked into the back behind some kegs while Phil donned a beer delivery-man's uniform and reacquainted himself with the particular sensitivity of a Latverian-made stick shift transmission.
***
They rode in silence for about an hour; Clint didn't want to push Natasha into possibly trying to kill him with foreplay again, and Natasha seemed like she was considering her next move pretty hard. If Clint had only learned one thing from SHIELD, it was the power of being quiet.
When they stopped and the truck doors opened again, Clint blinked against the mid-afternoon light as Natasha slipped out, leaning back in to help him hobble down. Phil put Clint's arm over his shoulders and assisted him down a narrow drive to --
"You actually fucking booked us a ski chalet," Clint said, eyes huge and round.
"Doubles as a safe house," Phil said. "We need to wait a few days until things calm down before we try to leave. There's hot cocoa inside."
"Are there prescription painkillers?"
"Yes, and mini marshmallows."
"Sold," Clint said, leaning on Phil's shoulder while he unlocked the door. Natasha was watching them, a peculiar expression on her face. "You coming?" he asked her.
"I do like cocoa," she admitted.
By the time Clint was settled on a large couch with a blanket, a mug of cocoa, and a lot of drugs in him, Natasha looked entirely bewildered. He remembered that feeling, too. Phil Coulson at his most diplomatic was like a soft down pillow covered in a cheery flannel pillowcase.
Gently being used to murder you.
Natasha didn't seem to realize what was happening any more than he had when he joined SHIELD. Phil was kind, deferential, and absolutely expectant that she would do everything he told her to do, from helping him clean Clint's wound to accepting a thick blanket and a spot on the couch to eating a bowl of the noodle soup he cooked them for dinner.
"So," Clint said, when he'd emptied his own bowl of soup. "Let me get this straight. You knew we were coming for you."
"I knew someone was," she said. "I set the trap to see how many there were. As well as you, the guards, and the men who said they could sell me guns, I counted at least two other factions who were likely there to kill or kidnap me. It's really flattering."
"Okay, and you," Clint said, turning to Phil, "knew Natasha and I knew each other, and that I wasn't going to kill her."
"On occasion," Phil said, "you are adorably like a puppy who got into the dog food bag and thinks I won't notice he has kibble stuck to his nose."
"I'm a very good spy," Clint said petulantly.
"You're my favorite spy," Phil replied. "I'm just a better one."
"So of the three of us the only oblivious one was me and my little black ops school project," Clint said. Natasha and Phil looked at each other, then both of them nodded. "Well. Valentine's Day is ruined."
"Valentine's Day isn't until tomorrow," Phil said, setting his bowl aside and rising, helping Clint off the couch. "And I think it's time you got some rest."
Clint, woozy from the wound and the drugs, still managed to catch Phil's eye and telegraph his growing concern with Natasha's docility; Phil's own eyes flickered and he nodded almost imperceptibly as he walked Clint to the bedroom, where a huge bed with an ornate wooden headboard was piled with blankets.
"Oh, for snuggling," Clint said, pleased, and let Phil undress him down to his bandage and a pair of spare boxers, sliding under the covers. When he was lying down he caught Phil's wrist, kissed the inside of it, and said, "Don't let her murder you."
"So little faith in me," Phil replied, smoothing his hair. "You rest. I'll handle Romanoff."
He left the door open, which was nice, and Clint could hear snatches of conversation from time to time as he drifted. Natasha, to his surprise, did most of the talking. At one point he heard her say she owed Clint, which was nice to hear someone admit; he heard Phil tell her that she had red in her ledger, which was a nicely poetic variation on a standard recruitment pitch, and after that it was silent for so long that he drifted to sleep, confident that at least if she did try to kill him, Phil wouldn't go quietly.
***
When he woke, what felt like a couple of decades later, the sun was just rising through the window, and the bed was unusually crowded.
Natasha was curled up against him, legs carefully tipped away from his to avoid the wound, face pressed between his collarbones. On her other side, Phil was lying with his chest to her shoulders, head above hers. He was propped on one elbow, a book held open on the pillow with his other hand. When he saw Clint was awake, he smiled.
"This seems awkward," Clint said.
"It was the most effective solution on a number of levels," Phil replied. "Besides, it's not like you haven't shared a bed with her before."
"How is she even allowing this?" Clint asked.
Phil, shockingly, raised the hand holding the book and smoothed down her hair. "Life outside is lonely. You know that. I've specialized in strays for a long time, Clint."
"You don't keep all of them," Clint said hesitantly. After all, Phil had been single when they fell into bed for the first time, and before that he'd never heard rumors of him sleeping with any of his agents. He'd gone looking, too, with an odd sort of hope.
"No. Just you," Phil replied. "But maybe her. You like her, don't you?"
"She did torture me," Clint pointed out.
"She sat on you. You've had worse."
"Heartless," Clint told him. "Yes, I like her."
"Good. So do I. She balances you well."
"I'm sorry," Clint said, "Are you talking about a work partnership or some kind of threesome situation? I don't mind sharing, I'm just curious."
"I suppose that remains to be seen, and depends on her," Phil told him. "In the meantime, she is a newly valuable, newly vulnerable asset to protect. She should understand that this is a fresh start, and that she will not be barred from the warmth again. This was an easy, harmless way to show that."
Natasha huffed against Clint's chest, puffing hair out of her eyes. "How long have you known I was awake?" she asked Coulson, rolling a little to look at him.
"You woke up before Clint did. You probably woke him," Phil replied. Natasha turned to glare at Clint.
"Not my fault you were pretending to sleep," Clint said.
She pulled the blankets over her head, irritated, and rocked until they were tucked neatly around her. "I'm not sleeping with you until SHIELD makes me a job offer."
"You don't have to sleep with either of us at all," Phil said.
"No, you I like, that will be fine," she said, voice muffled by the blanket. "Barton I reserve judgement on for now."
"Happy Valentine's Day," Clint told him solemnly. "I got you an angry redhead."
"Just what I wanted," Phil replied.
"Americans!" Natasha roared, still muted by layers of blanket.
"You'll get used to never knowing if he's serious or not," Clint informed her. "In the meantime, I'm wounded, someone owes me breakfast in bed. Coffee at the very least."
Phil slid out from the blankets, stretching and pulling a sweater on over his pajamas. "Natasha?"
"What?" she asked. "I'm not getting anyone coffee."
"What would you like, cocoa, coffee, or tea?"
The slight fidgeting of the lump under the blankets stilled. "Tea, please," she said, as if she expected this was some kind of trick.
"Sugar? Honey?"
"No thank you, sweetie," Clint said. There was a quiet laugh from the blankets, and then Natasha's elbow bumped him in the stomach.
"Honey," she said.
"Back in a few," Phil told them, and when he was out of the room, her face emerged from the blankets. She gave Clint an intensely questioning look.
"Don't look at me, he must have taken a shine to you," Clint said.
"Did he mean it, about keeping me?" she asked. There was an awful mix of hope and resignation in her voice.
"Only if you want to be kept," Clint said.
"I don't know how to be kept."
"That's fine," Clint replied, pushing himself up to sitting in anticipation of cocoa. "I can teach you."
"I'm sorry I sat on you," she said.
"It's okay, I've had worse."
"Good, because you owe me a new bra."
He laughed, stealing back some of the blankets. As the smell of coffee brewing drifted in, he decided he'd deliver the new bra with the offer letter from SHIELD that Phil was probably already wrangling for her over email while he made breakfast.
Steve almost choked on his coffee. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked up. "She's like SEVENTEEN," he said, his tone somewhere between horrified and deeply, deeply disapproving. Sam hid his grin behind his coffee cup, his eyes sliding back to Natasha.
She let out a faint sigh, but her eyes were dancing. "She is not seventeen," she said, forking up a bite of her omelet. "She's twenty, almost twenty-one, and therefore, just a few years younger than you, old man."
"She's seventeen," Steve muttered, sinking down behind his newspaper.
"SHIELD does not hire seventeen year olds to be field agents," Natasha told him. "Fury has made some questionable decisions-"
"Hell right he has," Sam muttered into his cup, and Natasha kicked him under the cover of the table, the toe of her boot finding his ankle with unerring accuracy. Sam winced and shifted his seat sideways.
"But he does not hire seventeen year olds. He does, however, hire prodigies with brilliant tactical minds and a unique skill set," Natasha said. She stood, all grace and ease, and picked up her dishes, carrying them over to the dishwasher.
"And a pretty face doesn't hurt, either," Sam said with a grin. "That's how we ended up with Steve, right?"
"With Steve, it was more like the fit of his..." She leaned a hip against the counter, one hand twirling in mid-air. "Uniform."
"Ignoring you both," Steve said from behind his newspaper. He rustled it for extra effect. Sam grinned at him. Man was a piece of work, he really was.
“Your loss,” Natasha said. “You're going to be spending Valentine's Day alone.” She paused. “Alone.”
“I'm used to it,” Steve said, from behind the paper. Sam wasn't sure if he sounded amused or grumpy or a little of both. Steve poked his head to the side, glaring at her from around the edge of the sports pages. “Aren't you?”
“Keep this up, and I'll go looking for that Barbershop Quartet of yours,” she said, pushing away from the counter.
“We're gettin' the band back together,” Sam said.
Steve switched his gimlet gaze to Sam. “Don't encourage her,” he said, his lips twitching.
Sam held up his hands. “I wouldn't dream of it, Cap.”
“If I waited for encouragement from either of you, I'd die of old age without anything being done,” Natasha said. With a flick of her fingers through her red hair, she headed for the door. “I'll send you Daisy's number, Steve.”
“SEVENTEEN!” Steve yelled into his newspaper, and Sam gave up on keeping a straight face.
“She's not going to give up,” he said, as soon as Natasha was safely out of earshot.
“Uh-huh,” Steve said. Not looking up from the story he was reading, he stood and walked over to the counter. “She's pretty stubborn.”
“Don't think 'stubborn' is the right word for it.” Sam sipped his coffee, his eyebrows arching as Steve leaned his paper, and his elbows on the counter. The thin fabric of his jogging pants pulled tight across his ass, and Sam paused, mid-sip, to enjoy the view.
“Yeah, well, I can be pretty stuborn, too,” Steve said. He glanced back over his shoulder towards Sam and Sam jerked his head up, doing his best to not get caught checking out his friend's rear. “Toast?”
Sam shook his head. “I'm good.” He leaned back in his chair, rocking it back on two legs. “She's not going to give up,” he repeated.
“We'll see,” Steve said, dropping a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. “She's gotta run out of ladies eventually.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Sam reached for the financial pages. “SHIELD has new hires every day, so I think she can keep going pretty much indefinitely, Steve.”
“Then I guess we'll see which one of us gets fed up first,” Steve said.
“I'm putting money on you,” Sam said. “Just so we're up front. I'm selling you out, man, because that woman is scary when she sets her mind to something, and it seems she's set herself to shaking you out of your sad bachelor life.”
“I can take it,” Steve said. Sam snorted, and Steve turned, his eyebrows arched, his lips parted. “You don't think so?”
“I think crazier men than you have tried and failed.” The toast popped, and Sam handed Steve the jam without being asked.
“Yeah, well, I'm not real enthusiastic about a date with a some dame who's-”
Sam choked on his coffee. “Did you just say 'dame?'” he asked, grinning. “God, you sound like my grandpa sometimes, Rogers.”
“Bet you Grandpa's better company at breakfast than you, Wilson,” Steve said, setting the plate of toast down in the center of the table. Half of it didn't have jam on it, and Sam reached for a triangle. “Thought you weren't having any,” Steve said, dropping into his seat.
“Yeah, you know I'm a liar, that's why you didn't drench all of it in sugar.” Sam took a bite. “Anyway, 'dame?'”
“I'm not taking advice on slang from you.”
“What, I'm hip.”
“Uh-huh.” Steve took another piece of the toast. “Anyway, if I was gonna date someone, it wouldn't be some random set up.” He gave a one shouldered shrug. “I think I deserve a chance at a real relationship, and I don't know much, but I know I'm not getting that with Fury's latest teenage prodigy.” He glanced up, his eyes meeting Sam's. “Gotta aim high, right?”
Sam paused, then went back to chewing on his toast, an idea already forming in his head. “As high as you can manage, Cap.”
*
“Have you considered asking Nat out?”
Steve paused in the act of moving a chair. “No,” he said. He set the chair down with more care than the act deserved. “Why, are you?”
“I think you should.” Sam grinned at him. “She's the only woman you've given the time of day to since I've known you.”
“I like her,” Steve admitted. “And I trust her. Doesn't mean I want to date her.” He reached for another chair. “Contrary to modern opinion, a man and woman can be friends.”
“But you do like her,” Sam said.
“Never said I didn't.” He crossed the room. “In fact, I'm pretty sure that I've made it clear that I do.” He smiled at Sam, his face lighting with it. “I like you, too.”
“Only because I'm still letting you crash at my place,” Sam said, grinning back. “While your apartment's been fixed by the world's slowest contractors.”
“I appreciate that,” Steve said. “Not enough to ask Nat out.”
“Why not?” Sam asked. “It's almost Valentines' Day. Perfect time to give it a try. And there's still time to get reservations. I mean, you're Captain America. You can get reservations.”
Steve shook his head, grinning to himself. "You don't give up."
"Family motto, my man." Sam spread his hands, gesturing at the classroom space. "It's how I acquired my massive empire."
Steve paused in the act of moving chairs into rows to look around. "Seems respectable," he said, his voice full of laughter. "How many extra sessions do you have this week?"
"Well, the VA likes me to change up the group sessions before potentially stressful holidays," Sam explained, pulling another batch of brochures out of his bag. "Romantic ones are sometimes the worst, a lot of these people are dealing with relationship struggles already, nothing like a good marketing push to make you aware of your personal failures, you know?"
"Who needs marketing? I've got you and Natasha for that," Steve said.
"Uh-huh," Sam said, grinning. "I'm more effective, anyway." He finished setting up the table and set his bag aside. "So the VA wants me to do an extra two drop in sessions this week."
"Which means you're actually doing four," Steve said, amusement clear on his face.
Sam pressed a finger to his lips. "Shhhh. What the VA don't know don't hurt 'em, right?"
"You crazy rebel." Steve looked around. "You good?"
"Yeah, thanks for the hand. You staying?"
Steve shook his head. "Maybe one of the regular sessions. But if you're expecting new people..." His voice trailed away. "I don't want to make this harder for them."
"Expecting, no. Hoping for?" Sam leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "Always. Always hoping for a new face or two." He grinned at Steve. "Go. Ask Natasha out to dinner. Place on the corner's still got roses, I saw 'em in the window."
"She's at work."
"So am I, doesn't keep you from hanging around!"
Laughing, Steve headed for the door. "Have a good night, enjoy fighting the good fight."
"Always do."
*
"Here." Sam pressed his card into the kid's hand. The ones showing up for his counselling sessions were getting younger every day, and damned if that didn't make him feel old. He resented that, but not enough to interfere with his job. "You need to talk, you call me."
Carlos's shoulders twitched up, his brown eyes flat when he looked down at his boots. "Yeah, okay," he said. There was a dead note in his voice that prickled the back of Sam's neck, and he straightened up.
“I gotta pack up, it'll only be a few minutes, but would you mind sticking around? Not many people here this time of night, don't like heading into the parking lot alone this late.”
“Yeah, of course.” His posture changed, in an instant, his head coming up, his shoulders going back. Purpose. Loyalty. He was used to being an extra set of eyes, used to being backup, used to watching his squad's back. He was comfortable with that role, he could understand that.
Sam took his time picking up, talking the whole time, looking for an in, a connection, watching for signs that he was pushing too hard or digging too deep. But Carlos was smiling, just a little, by the time Sam slung his bag over his shoulder. “Okay, thanks, man. Let's go. You need a ride? Even to the metro stop? I can-”
Carlos was already shaking his head. “No, it's cool. I'm grabbing the bus, stop's just outside.” He hunched down into his jacket. “It's been hard getting used to the cold again, but I kinda like it, you know? I'm not gonna miss the sand, or the heat.”
“I skipped beaches myself for a while,” Sam agreed, walking easily next to him as they headed for the main doors. “But you'll start missing palm trees and girls in bikinis soon enough.”
“I don't know, I'm-” Carlos stopped talking, catching Sam's arm.
Sam glanced up, catching sight of the familar form leaning against the lightpost in the center of the parking lot. The light was bright against Steve's pale hair, and his high cheekbones were flushed red with the cold. He exhaled, his hot breath condensing in the air, wreathing his head as he looked over at them. His blue eyes were sharp when they met Sam's, but his face was calm and his smile was easy.
"See?" Sam said to Carlos, who was still hovering right next to him, tense in the way that only a man expecting an attack from every possible angle can be. "Good thing you walked me out here. This guy's clearly up to no good."
"Just looking for my federally mandated veteran health care," Steve said. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, resting them easily on his thighs. Every movement was deceptively casual, as he made it clear that he wasn't armed, and wasn't a threat.
Sam wasn't sure which of the two was more of a lie.
"You okay?" Carlos asked Sam, his head tipping in Steve's direction.
Sam nodded. "Just fine, this is my friend Steve. If you come to the regular Wednesday sessions, you'll meet him."
Steve waited for Carlos to decide how to handle the situation. When the kid held out a hand, Steve took it, shaking it. “Glad to meet you.” His eyes flicked towards Sam. “You coming to the Wednesday night session? You should. Good group.”
Carlos shrugged. “I'm thinking about it,” he said, and Sam resisted the urge to fistpump. That was more than he'd gotten the kid to agree to so far. He'd take it as a win.
“You better,” Sam told him, and Carlos spared him a small smile and a nod before he headed back towards the street. When he was out of earshot, Sam looked at Steve. "You're scaring away my patients,” he said, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder with a grin.
"Your patients are made of sterner stuff," Steve said, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "How'd it go?"
Sam lead the way to his car, turning that over in his head. "Got a ways to go," he said at last. "As always."
"Some battles are ongoing," Steve said. He glanced at Sam, a slight smile creasing his cheeks. "You hungry?"
"Why, you buying?"
"I could be convinced to spring for a burger."
Sam considered that, opening his trunk to drop his bag inside. "I could go for a cheeseburger."
"Hey, I offered a burger," Steve said, his lips twitching. "You want cheese, you can pay for it."
"I'm going for bacon, too, then I'm skipping out on the bill," Sam told him, chuckling under his breath. "You're gonna eat half my fries, anyway."
"If I'm paying, I'm gonna eat all of your fries," Steve said. He waited until Sam's laughter tapered off, then gave him a quick sideways glance. "You okay?"
"Fine," Sam said. "Why?"
Steve looked away. "More sessions mean more stress for you, too."
Sam took a breath. The air was cold and sharp on his lungs, and it felt good. "That's true," he said at last. "But I'm not burned out yet, Cap. I got this."
"Let's work on not burning out at all."
"Wow, you want a lot," Sam said.
"I'm very demanding," Steve agreed.
"And you worry like my mother." Sam grinned at him, "C'mon, there's a diner like a block from here, they'll be cheap enough, and greasy enough, for you."
"I'm telling your mother you said that."
"Tell my father I said that, I'd like him to kibbitz with someone other than me."
*
“I'll make you a bet,” Sam said, the words short and choppy, almost matching the pounding rythm of their feet.
“Oh, you will, will you?” Steve asked. He wasn't running full out, and Sam knew it, but he was taking their morning run seriously. He always did.
“Yeah. If I win, then you have to take Nat to dinner.”
Steve grinned. “You aren't going to let this go, are you?”
“Easier to give in and give it a try,” Sam pointed out.
“Why are you so determined?” Steve asked. They took the corner at a quick lope, and Sam had to concentrate on regulating his breathing for a second. This early, the air was brutally cold, and he sucked in a breath through his nose.
“Maybe I just want you to be happy,” he managed at last.
“What makes you think I'm not happy?” Steve asked. He shook his head. “I'm happier than I've been for a long time, Sam.”
Sam nodded. “I just throught-” His hands went to fists at his sides, and he kept running, focusing on the slow, aching burn of his legs. “I'll lay off.”
Steve nudged him with one elbow. “Tell you what,” he said, eyes dancing, “fair's fair. You win this bet of yours, I'll ask Nat out.” Sam grinned and Steve held up his index finger. “Once. I make no promises after that.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam said. He'd expected triumph to feel better, to be honest, but he shook off the thought. “Once is enough.”
“And if I win, you'll let it go and let me find my own dates,” Steve said. He held out a hand. “Deal?”
Sam grabbed it, giving it a hard shake, and never missing a step. “Deal.”
“Okay,” Steve said. “What's the bet?”
Sam sucked in a breath, waiting for them to turn the corner, heading down the shorter side of the reflecting pool. “Whoever makes it to the far corner of the reflecting pool first wins,” he said. Steve stared at him. Sam grinned at him. “Any objections?”
Steve nodded. “What kind of a handicap do you want?”
“None.” And with that, Sam took off, his arms pumping, his legs chewing up the ground. There was a beat, a second's pause, and then Steve was after him, long legs and superior strength bringing him even with Sam in a heartbeat. In a moment, he was even with Sam, and then, passing him.
Sam sucked in a breath and poured on the speed with everything he had left. One step, then two, then three and he was there, grabbing Steve's shoulders and heaving himself up. He latched on, an arm around Steve's neck and his legs around Steve's waist.
“What are you-” Steve jerked under him, more from shock than from the sudden addition of Sam's weight, but Sam held on, shoving himself half over Steve's shoulder, one arm outstretched. As Steve stumbled forward, Sam's fingers cleared the corner just ahead of Steve.
“I win!” he yelled, laughing. “Ha!”
“I am going to dump your ass in the reflecting pool!” Steve said, but he was laughing. “Get off of me!”
“Nope! I'm safe here!” Sam clung to his back, ignoring Steve's efforts to shake him free. “Hey! Hey, watch- We're both going to-”
They both froze as a couple of female joggers came by from the other direction. Two of them steadfastly refused to make eye contact, but the third was laughing as she passed by. “It's never boring when you two are out,” she called as her friends hustled her along.
“We live to serve, ma'am!” Sam called back.
“You're going to get us arrested,” Steve said. He didn't sound as upset as Sam expected him to.”
“Steve?”
“Sam?”
“I won.”
“I am going to throw you in the reflecting pool.”
“Never took you for a sore loser, Steve.”
*
"Seriously, Steve. Give it a try. Ask her."
Steve didn't glance up from his notepad. "I know what the answer's gonna be, Sam."
Sam shrugged. "Maybe you don't. You'll never really know until you man up and ask her.”
Steve sighed. “Fine.” He looked up. “Nat?”
“Yeah?” she called back from the living room.
“Do you need toothpaste? I'm going to the drug store today,” he called.
“I told you I did.”
Steve looked at Sam. “I knew what her answer would be.”
Sam stared at him, unimpressed. “Wrong question.”
“That's the only one I want an answer to,” Steve said. He was trying to hide a smile, and Sam knew it.
“Steve wants to know if you have a date tomorrow night!” Sam called.
“Steve knows I don't,” Natasha yelled back.
“Why are we yelling across the house at one another?” Steve asked. “When did this become a thing that we do?”
Sam ignored him. “Steve wants to take you out to dinner.”
Natasha leaned into the kitchen. “Oh, 'Steve' does?” she asked, smiling. She leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Is this true, Steve?”
Steve closed his notebook. “It's true,” he said, a faint smile on his face.
“Cause you sounded a lot like Sam there for a while.”
“I have a cold,” Steve said with a straight face.
“I have a headache,” Sam said. “So we're even.”
Nat shook her head. “You do realize,” she said, her eyebrows arching, “that he's going to make you pay for this, don't you?”
“He'll thank me later,” Sam said. He glanced at his watch. “Gonna be late for work. Both of you, do me a favor, take this seriously, wear something nice.”
Natasha tipped her head to the side. “I'll wear a dress if you do,” she said to Steve.
“I don't have the legs for it,” Steve said.
“You're both impossible,” Sam said.
“Want me to pick up tissues before work? We're almost out,” Steve asked, tapping his pencil against the cover of his notebook.
Sam sighed. “And cough drops.”
Steve grinned. “You got it.”
*
Netflix was really letting him down tonight.
Sam sighed and stopped the movie. Maybe it wasn't the movie's fault. In fact, he was pretty sure it wasn't the movie's fault. But it was easier to blame the movie than to really think about the fact that he was sprawled out on his couch with some really bland take out Chinese food and his Netflix queue on Valentines.
Also, that he was seriously trying to watch a romantic comedy. And finding it neither romantic nor particularly comedic. “This might be a low point in my life,” he said aloud, his head falling back. “May be. Why am I kidding myself? This is the low point of my life.”
He doesn't want to examine exactly why. But he was pretty sure it had something to do with how nice Steve and Natasha had left when they'd left. He stopped, frowning to himself. He checked his watch. A long time ago. What the hell were they up to?
And that was a question he didn't want to examine too closely. He turned the movie back on and zoned out.
He might've fallen asleep, or he might've started another movie without thinking of it. Either way, when the front door slammed, he jerked upright and he hit the pause button. “Hey! How'd it go?”
Natasha stalked through the living room. She was wearing a very hot little black dress and a pair of heels that made his feet hurt just looking at them. She spared him a glance. “There was some collateral damage,” she said, and her hair was a flyaway mess, and there was a significant rip on the hip of her dress. “But we survived.”
Sam gaped at her. “What the hell did you DO?” he asked. “Did you have dinner? You were supposed to have dinner.”
“We gave dinner a pass. Fury's orders.”
Sam groaned. “What did you do.”
“Invaded Yemen,” she said, and then she was out the other door and heading for the stairs. “I got first shower.”
Sam stared after her, looking up when Steve came in, dressed in what had once been a very nice black suit. It had seen better days. “We tried,” Steve said, shoving a hand through his hair before he collapsed on the couch next to Sam.
“Tell me she's kidding,” Sam said.
“She's kidding.” Steve paused. “It wasn't Yemen.”
“Was just having a nice dinner too much for you?” Sam asked.
Steve took a deep breath, his chest expanding with the force of it. “Apparently,” he said. His tone was almost apologetic. His head fell back, his eyes falling shut. “I tried. For you, Sam. I tried.”
Sam sighed, pushing himself up. “You did try. I appreciate it. Want me to make you a cup of coffee, Cap?”
“I will love you forever, Sam,” Steve said, and he was already half asleep when he said it. And Sam told himself he didn't mean it.
And Sam didn't want him to.
*
A hand settled on his shoulder. "How's the ice cream, soldier?"
Sam waved his spoon in the air. “Fantastic.”
“Wow, even for you, that was a painful level of sarcasm,” Natasha said. She had a towel wrapped around her shoulders and her damp hair was in waves around her face. She slid into a chair next to him, leaning her arms on the tabletop. "So, how was your Valentine's Day?"
He gave her a look. "I'm sitting alone in my kitchen in my shorts, eating ice cream straight from the carton." He tried to hold back a smile, but there didn't seem to be any point in pretending to be pissed about this. "How do you think it went?"
"Sounds like my dream Valentine's day,” Natasha said. She held up a spoon. He wasn't sure when she'd snagged it from the drawer, but he somehow wasn't surprised.
“Get your own, you mooch,” he said, but he pushed the carton towards her. She dug in without a trace of shame. “I swear, I'm gonna start charging the two of you rent.”
She shrugged. “I don't live here,” she said. “I just steal a bed so you don't notice that Steve's moved in and has absolutely no plans to move out.” She folded her legs under her on the chair. “So, your machinations have failed.”
“It was worth a try,” Sam said. He sighed, and Natasha pushed the ice cream back in front of him. He took a spoonful. “I mean, if he doesn't want to date, I gotta respect that, but I really thought that you were what he was waiting on.”
She shrugged. “He loves me, but he's not in love with me.” She licked a drip of ice cream off the back of her wrist. “I don't take it personally. I don't think he's currently batting for my team.” She paused. “If you get my drift.”
He didn't, not for a long moment. Then, Sam stared at her, his spoon hanging limply from his fingers. "You're shitting me." She arched her eyebrows, her lips closing delicately around her spoon. Sam leaned back. "You're not shitting me."
"I shit you regularly," Nat said, her eyelashes fluttering. "But at this exact moment? No. I'm not." She hooked the tip of her spoon over the edge of the container, dragging it towards her. Sam didn't bother fighting her for it; not even Ben and Jerry's was worth getting stabbed.
"You spend all of your time, ALL of your time," he said, spreading his arms wide, "trying to hook him up with every woman you've met in the last ten years."
She licked her spoon, a careful sweep of her pink tongue. "That is true."
"I'm pretty sure I've watched you suggest half of the female agents we work with," Sam said, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Well, I've suggested closer to all of the female agents we work with, but you came in on this game rather late," she said, almost apologetic about it. "You missed the really fun bits at the beginning, where he was still trying to come up with reasons to shoot someone down." Her teeth flashed, white and bright. "By the time you entered the picture, he was mostly just saying no and not bothering." She rested on one fisted hand. "Which says something in and of itself."
Sam gave her a narrow eyed look, and her head tipped forward. "Under most circumstances," she pointed out, "he's scrupulously polite." She braced one foot on the edge of her chair. "Unless someone's shooting at him, he does his best to adhere to the-" She paused, and waved the spoon through the air like a magic wand. "The niceties."
Sam folded his arms on the table. "And you think that him just going 'no' instead of being polite about it, you think that means something?"
"I think that means everything." Another innocent look. "Don't you?"
"I think it means that you're getting on his nerves." Sam rocked back, bracing his chair on two legs. "A couple of months ago, woulda said he didn't HAVE nerves, but then I watched him throw a guy through a sheetrock wall, so..." He shrugged. "You gotta watch out for that."
Nat grinned, a sharp, bright flash of teeth. "I'll take my chances." She dug the tip of her spoon into the ice cream, her lashes sweeping down to shield her eyes. "But what does it say that after going through the agent directory with a highlighter, he still hasn't managed a single date?" She glanced up, her smile sly.
"He doesn't date people from work."
She ate another bite of ice cream, taking her time with it. "Or," she said, tapping the bowl of the spoon against the side of the carton, "I should've been looking at the other half of the agent directory." Her eyebrows arched. "I thought I could get him to fess up, if I kept nudging, but he's stubborn."
"Private," Sam said.
"Intractable," she corrected. "So while your valient efforts to hook him up with me have failed-"
"Miserably," he agreed, making a play for the ice cream. She let him have a spoonful before she retrieved it.
"For some reason, he humored you.” She gave him a wide-eyed look. “And when I asked him how his Valentine's Day went when I was heading out of the bathroom and he was heading in, he grinned and said it was getting better. Now that he was home.”
She pointed her spoon at him. “Get up there and ask him out yourself, Cyrano. I'm not interested in being your stand-in, you lovesick dope.”
“What?” Sam asked.
Natasha sighed. “Steve wants you.” She leaned back to the ice cream. “And you want him. Don't you?”
Sam considered that. “I got him a cupcake,” he said at last. His face felt hot, because now he felt stupid. Stupid and turned on to the point where he was kind of dizzy. That might've been contributing to the stupid. He liked it. “It's in the fridge. It's got-” He pressed a hand to his face. “It's got a little jelly heart on top. Oh, God, I'm a fucking idiot.”
“Is it his favorite kind?” she asked, smiling.
“Lemon with raspberry filling,” Sam said, letting his head fall into his folded arms. “I got a cupcake for a guy I tried to set up with our female friend. I'm really not fooling anyone, am I?”
“Nice choice.” Sam looked up in time to catch her smile. “And you're fooling Steve. Somehow.” She shook her head. “I don't know where this sudden, inexplicable modesty is coming from, but it doesn't suit you.”
“I am modest as all hell,” he said. “First place in modesty, that's me.” He wasn't really sure what he was saying at this point. His brain was still stuck, at least a little on 'Steve wants you,' and it was such a nice place to be stuck, he wasn't fighting it.”
“So modest,” she agreed. “You're also kind, funny, loyal, smart, not at all intimidated by him, you stood by him when you had every reason to run, you've got as close to shared life experiences as he's likely to find without a time machine, and you're not hard on the eyes.”
“I do have an ass on me,” Sam said.
“It's a thing of beauty,” she said. “I'll miss watching him stare at it with those puppy dog eyes of his.”
“Problem,” Sam said, his head spinning.
“Yes?”
“He has lousy taste in baseball teams.”
“Oh, baby. You both have lousy taste in baseball teams, you're meant for one another,” Natasha said without missing a beat. She stood. "I'm taking off for the night, it's been a long day. And I'm taking your ice cream."
She was halfway out of the room before he got his wits together. "Wait, no, you're not, what-"
Nat glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Sam." She pointed her spoon at him. "I just set you up with Captain America. You're lucky my finder's fee is only half a pint of Chunky Monkey and a favor to be called in later."
“That favor's gonna be a bitch, isn't it?” he asked.
“You have no idea.” She paused in the doorway. “I'll be back tomorrow.” One eyebrow arched. “You look like a screamer, and I need my beauty rest.”
“I am not a screamer,” he said and that was probably a lie, okay, that was totally a lie.
“Honey, I've seen him naked more than you have. You will be.” She was gone before he could come up with a retort for that.
It was probably for the best, it wasn't going to be much of a retort.
He took the stairs two at a time, almost at a run when he reached the hallway at the top. He was going to take a second to collect himself, to catch his breath, but Steve threw open the door of the bathroom, hips wrapped in a towel, and sweet Jesus, that was a lot of hot, wet, well muscled Steve. Sam nearly crashed into a wall.
“Sam?” Steve braced his hands on the doorframe, his brow wrinkled, his face creased in worry. “What's wrong, are you all r-”
“So, wanna go out with me tomorrow?” Sam blurted out.
Steve stopped, mid-word, his mouth hanging open. And then, as Sam watched, delighted, a heavy flush rolled up his neck, staining his cheeks and his ears. “Wow,” Sam said, grinning. “You are the whitest white boy.”
“You're just noticing that now?” Steve said, clapping a hand over his eyes.
“You're cute when you blush, that's all, this is gonna be fun.” His breathing still hadn't quite gone back to normal, and his face felt hot, but Steve was grinning behind the cover of his hand, and Sam grinned back. “How far down does that go?” At least down his chest. It was lovely, really. Sam appreciated it.
Steve sucked in a breath, straightening up. “Never really checked,” he admitted. His head ducked forward, then tipped up again, his eyes bright from below the fringe of his dark lashes. “Wanna find out for me?”
Sam leaned in. “You inviting me in?”
“Have been for a while,” Steve pointed out. “You're the one who wasn't getting the hint.” He leaned in, and Sam met him halfway.
For a first kiss, it was pretty damn good.
“Do you put out on the first date?” he mumbled into Steve's mouth, and Steve was laughing into his. It felt amazing, a hot sweet press of bodies and lips and
“I put out before the first date, it'd seem,” he said. “Race you to my room.”
Due to some extenuating circumstances (not mine), I'm going to push back posting the fics until tomorrow. I'll push the rest of the timeline back as well so everyone has time to read and vote.
Thanks for sticking with me! The fics will be up tomorrow around 3:00 Eastern, rain or shine!
Hey, participants! The fics must be emailed to me with titles, ratings, and applicable warnings at knotta(dot)hooker(at)gmail(dot)com by 11:59pm Eastern on Friday, February 13th! If you've already sent it and I've responded to you, you're good.
Voters/readers! The fics will be (should be) up on the Saturday the 14th, and voting will begin then! Remember that only LIKES will count as a vote. Feel free to reblog and share as you wish, but they won't count toward the final total.
scifigrl47: Well, this is the time of year for sappy romantic fic. And I kind of want to have the “Valentines Day didn’t go so well” fics. Fake married, pining, “I planned a romantic evening then THE FIRE NATION ATTACKED”
THE RULES:
-Each fic must be less than 6,000 words.
-Has to include, if not Valentine's Day, then a date or romantic plan of some sort that goes horribly (or hilariously) wrong. The pairing is up to you.
-The fics must also include at least one of the following: ice cream, lace, a blue ribbon, or action figures.
-The fics must be emailed to me with titles, ratings, and applicable warnings at knotta(dot)hooker(at)gmail(dot)com by 11:59pm Eastern on Friday, February 13th.
Any and all questions can be emailed to me at knotta(dot)hooker(at)gmail(dot)com or sent to my askbox on tumblr.
Good luck!
-Knotta
scifigrl47, copperbadge, perrysian
ETA: REMINDER: The works cannot be posted to Ao3 or anywhere else before the end of the Throwdown! The voting depends on anonymity, so posting them elsewhere defeats the purpose.
