— Eckhart likes to press your back against his chest as much as possible without making you uncomfortable, as if he were afraid you would slip away if he didn't hold on
— He enjoys cuddling or showing affection in public with your permission. He's proud to say that he's undeniably your's
— He likes to be the big spoon and curl his lanky form around you with his arms around your waist, but enjoys the occasional indulgence of being the little spoon with his nose nestled in your neck, your fingernails dragging delicately up and down the back of his head
— This boy falls asleep within minutes if he's comfortable and embracing you. He'll wake up startled in an hour or two, and profusely apologize for weighing you down for so long. You giggle and dismiss him, saying that you didn't mind at all, and actually found it touching that he could be so relaxed around you
— He's a nibbler, so expect very soft bites on your neck, shoulder, shell of your ear, etc. He's always tempted to leave marks, but doesn't want to do anything that could hurt you, even if you insist on it
hawkeye
— Hawkeye always asks if you're in the mood to cuddle, in case you're busy or just not in a cuddling mindset. He's very mindful and observant of your mental state and tries to act accordingly to your subtle behaviors
— He'll carry you in his arms or give you bear hugs to spoil you, but his favorite position is definitely being the little spoon. Nothing beats the way you trace shapes on his back and then wrap your arms around his chest, pulling yourself closer against him moreso than pulling him against you
— He enjoys cuddle conversations. He'll ask about your day, or week, or what you want to do over the weekend. He asks of your dreams and aspirations and your past— anything that helps him get to know you better, and encourage you to have an outlet for your thoughts
— Hawkeye will idly run his hands over whatever part of you is convenient as you speak, like your forearm, wrist, and the lines of your palm. He likes to feel your scars, veins, bumps, moles, the curves of your bones or whatever else is adorning your skin, and memorize every inch of your body
In the weeks since you’d been cornered in the alleyway between your home and work, mutant-human relations have been in a steady but constant decline. The news regularly covers scenes where mutant-friendly businesses have been picketed by angry humans. Apartment complexes where mutants live are vandalized. You keep your head down, and hope that no-one will notice you. You really shouldn’t be too surprised when someone tossed a Molotov cocktail into your open living room window.
Shattering glass is what startles you out of sleep. The yowling of your cat by your bedroom window has you scrambling out of bed. Your brain is still cottony as you fling open the casement, letting Sprinkles out. The feline hops out onto the fire escape and wails again.
That’s when you notice the smoke.
Coughing, you pad out of your bedroom and into your kitchen, where you can see fire — fire — flickering off of the cracked linoleum. The smoke and the rapidly growing flames have you blinking back tears and swearing loudly. Someone pounds on your door.
”Help,” you cry out. “I’m in here!”
The fire is between you and the front door. Shit. You scramble to get back into your room, grabbing an empty duffel bag on your way past the utility closet. When you get into your room, you slam your door shut,
You toss clothes haphazardly into the bag, grabbing the comfiest that you can find. Now you remember why Professor X had told your class why you needed to keep a bag packed at all times.
”Humans… normal people… don’t always understand what’s different, and they can be dangerous. It is always best to be prepared to move.”
You have gotten too comfortable in the little life you’ve built for yourself, and this is the result. Stupid, stupid, naïve, you scold yourself, sliding your clunky old laptop in amidst the soft sweatpants and worn t-shirts. This is why you listen to your elders, dumbass.
Biting your lip, you briefly debate digging around in your closet for the delicate gold chain that you’d been given when your family dropped you off at Xavier’s so many years ago. You scoff to yourself. It’s the only thing you have of them; it’s a non debatable necessity.
You’re on your hands and knees waist-deep in the junk that you’ve tossed into your closet when someone taps on your window. You don’t hear them at first, finally wrapping your fingers around the knotted gold chain. They knock on the white-wood frame this time. You hear them and stand up too fast, smacking the back of your head against the lower clothes bar.
“Fuck!”
Rubbing your hand over the newly-formed goose egg, you turn to your window with a scowl. Your apartment is three stories up and the fire escape’s ladder to the ground is always rusted stuck — there’s no way anyone could climb up it. “Who are you?”
”What, you don’t recognize me? I’m hurt.”
That voice… You definitely recognize it, but you can’t place where you’ve heard it before. How do you know him? “Who are you?”
The man slides in your window like it’s second nature. He’s wearing a mask-hood hybrid. A super? He pulls the cowl back, and recognition dawns on you.
“Clint?”
“Hey, sweetheart. Miss me?”
You splutter at his use of ‘sweetheart’. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, but what the hell are you doing here?”
He raises an eyebrow at you. “Do you really want to have that conversation while your apartment is on fire? Come with me, I can keep you safe.”
Safe, right. Safe is good. You spread your hands out in front of yourself. “Lead the way, oh mighty one.”
Clint makes to grab your duffel, but you beat him to it. “Nope, there’s delicate stuff in here, man. I’ve got it. Can you give me my cat?” He looks confused, but then you point at your incredibly dumb cat; he’s rubbing up against Clint’s legs. The man scoops Sprinkles up and hands him to you. The little idiot is purring like crazy. You unzip the bag and let Sprinkles sit on the top of the clothes before zipping it up.
Clint snorts. You roll your eyes. Sprinkles does look a little ridiculous with just his poofy head poking through the zipper. In your hurry to get to the window, you brush up against the doorknob and hiss. It’s hot enough to burn your skin now. You clap a hand over the burn.
”Okay, I’m good to go. Can we go now?” Your voice shakes with the pain. You’d never been good with injuries in school, and that hasn’t changed over the last two years.
”Yeah, of course. C’mon.” Clint helps you through the window and onto the metal platform of the fire escape. It’s cold outside, and you remember that a weather anchor had predicted snow later on in the week. Clint waves you towards the stairs going up. “This way.”
You give him a very thorough side-eye. “Shouldn’t we be going down?”
Clint jerks his head at the angry crowd below. “You sure you wanna go down there right now?” You shake your head. He nods. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now come on, I have a place where you’ll be safe until we can get you to Xavier’s.”
The two of you spend the next few minutes climbing up the fire escape before reaching the roof. Clint hasn’t even broken a sweat, you notice. Meanwhile, you’re panting and bracing your hands on your knees as you catch your breath. “How,” pant “are,” gasp “you,” wheeze “not,” deathrattle “dying?”
“Because I’ve trained nearly every single day of my adult life to do stuff like this,” he says. You place a hand on your chest, as if that will stop your heart from leaping out behind your ribs. Clint frowns. “Are you okay?”
“I’m… fine,” you say, breathing heavily through your nose. “Just… give me… a minute.”
Sprinkles meows at you. You idly scritch begins his ears. Your heart rate slows to a more manageable pace, and you swallow past the lump in your throat. “Okay, I’m good, I think. Unless there are more stairs. If there are more stairs, just let me perish.”
Clint gives you a strange look. You shrug. Stairs suck; you’re not afraid to voice your opinion and you tell the archer as much. He rolls his eyes.
Smoke is beginning to cloud the air. “So…” you breathe in and cough. “How do you plan on getting us down from here?”
Clint holds up a finger and makes a one-eighty turn, muttering. You strain to hear what he says, but he’s just far enough away that you can’t quite catch it.
Something sizzles and sparks beside Clint, and you scramble backwards as an orange portal — a portal?! — opens. While you’ve seen some weird shit in your life (Logan peeling potatoes with his claws while on kitchen duty was pretty fucking weird at the time, okay?), this really does take the cake. You’re pretty sure that the orange circle is permanently emblazoned on the inside of your eyelids. It’s bright.
“Go on, I’m right behind you.” You hadn’t heard Clint approach you, and in your surprise you shriek, pitching headfirst into the portal. As you fall, the only thing you can really concentrate on is not squishing your cat.
Your shoulder hits the ground hard, and you groan. Sprinkles meows and licks one of your fingers. Clint’s shoes appear in your peripheral vision as he offers you a hand.
“What the hell was that?”
“Dimensional portal, à la Doctor Strange.” Clint pulls you upright with little trouble when you grasp his hand. You don’t let go of his hand. “It’s safe here, I promise.”
”Where is this place?” You peer at your surroundings. It’s a beautiful building, whatever and wherever it is, with heavy woods and plush carpets and a distinctly art nouveau vibe to it. If you hadn’t just tripped off of the roof of your apartment building and landed inside of another one, you might have relaxed enough to ask questions about the history of the place, but you did just trip through a portal, so your lack of questions could be forgiven. Clint opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts across the room.
“This is the Sanctum Sanctorum,” a man in a red cape says as he glides down from the balcony above. Your eyebrows rise. “I am Doctor Stephen Strange. You must be a mutant from Agent Barton’s quadrant.”
“Pleased to meet you,” you say, and then you introduce yourself, pulling your hand out of Clint’s in order to shake the man’s hand. Doctor Strange then returns to the second floor, leaving you alone with Clint. You turn to him, your hand finding a place on your hip. “Alright. What’s going on? Why were you oh-so-conveniently near where I lived? I could’ve gotten away from the rioters just fine on my own.”
“My people — the Avengers — and your people — the X-Men — have joined forces temporarily,” Clint tells you. “There’ve been… threats… against mutants with the new tolerance laws that were passed recently. “
“That’s it?” You are distinctly unimpressed and it shows in the curl of your lips. “Mutants have dealt with worse in the past. What’s so big about this that Professor X has strangers evacuating mutants? Why hasn’t anyone contacted those of us who don’t live at the school anymore?”
Clint runs a hand through his hair. “Uh, well, we’re — I’m — not sure. It’s all very hush-hush, and I’m not an A-list Avenger, so…” He spreads his hands out before him. “I wish I had more information for you.”
“Alright, then,” you sigh and glance around the foyer of the Sanctum. “Is this where I’m supposed to stay? Or is there another stop on this ‘Underground Railroad’?”
”Huh? Oh, ha ha. Funny.” Clint doesn’t sound amused but the corners of his eyes are crinkled up, so you count that as a successful attempt at humor. “No, this is just a pit stop on the way to Xavier’s. Do you have a hoodie or something in that bag of yours? We’re gonna have to walk to my place before I can get you to Xavier.”
“What is it?” Clint asked. “What happened? Who died?”
“I think I just felt an emotion.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Oh nope, never mind. It was just a bit of indigestion. We’re good.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“It was worrying,” you said, indignantly. “I was scared. Oh no, that’s two emotions. Nope, nope, gotta go, gotta walk away. Must be something in the air. Uh, uh. Nope. Bye, Clint.”
Chapter Notes: There is a brief, nondescriptive mention of the Reader vomiting.
As a recent graduate of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, you are well-versed in the skill of remaining undetected by the general populace. You have a nice, steady job working in a second-hand shop in a neighborhood near to the Hudson River. The woman who runs the store is kind enough and doesn’t ask questions that you don’t want to answer. Your landlord is of a similar mindset, content to leave you to your own devices so long as you pay your bills on time.
You don’t draw attention to yourself and that is exactly how you want it to be.
Now, given your abilities in manipulating biological matter, Professor Xavier had wanted you to stay on as a member of the X-Men (and maybe even as a mentor to future students). You firmly turn down the invitation. All you wanted to do was to live out your days in peaceful solitude.
Naturally, that doesn’t happen.
On your way to work one day, you are cornered by a trio of thugs who want something you are not willing to give to them. When your back hits the brick wall in the alleyway, you instinctively panic. All it takes from you is a touch of your fingers against the first man’s bare neck to cause him to collapse into a pile of unresponsive flesh.
You’ve never used your powers to intentionally harm anyone before. It is a horrifying experience. Your breakfast makes an unwelcome reappearance.
“You fucking freak,” the second man seethes, grabbing for you before you have a chance to raise your hands again. “Mutant bitch.” He pins your wrists against the wall. His breath stinks of vodka and stale tobacco. You wrinkle your nose and turn your face away.
“Let me go!” Your cry bounces off the alley walls and goes unheeded as the man crowds into your space. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of your neck. It leaves your skin itchy, the lingering feeling reminding you of bugs crawling underneath your skin.
The third one is opening his mouth to probably shout more slurs at you when a new guy clears his throat.
“Maybe it’s just me, but my mama always told me that it’s rude to call a woman names.” Your attackers whirl around to face the man interrupting their fun.
“Shut the fuck up. She’s less than human. She’s a fr—” Number Two doesn’t get to finish his sentence; you pull your hand back in disgust as he melts into a separate flesh pile next to his buddy. Some of his reverted matter lands on your chest. Gross gross gross ew.
To his credit, the newcomer looks less disturbed than you feel.
Number Three (the only one left) suddenly seems to realize that since you’ve liquefied his companions, there’s nothing standing between you and him to stop you from doing the same to him. You’re seriously considering doing exactly that, too. See how he likes being attacked. The thought is harsh and callous and everything you’re not. The scary thing, though, is that you one hundred percent mean it. The newcomer steps between the remaining thug and the only exit of the alley.
“C’mon, man, apologize to her and then I’ll let you go.” His eyes are hard and you wonder if he’s really just going to let the goon walk away from all of this. With the way his arms are crossed and his feet are planted, though, you doubt it. You remember watching students spar at Xavier’s, and that’s a fight-ready stance if you ever saw one. This man clearly can scrap, and is comfortable with it, too. The thug seems to realize this, and he tenses, body taut like a bowstring.
“B-bullshit!” He cries. “You’re lying!”
Mystery Man narrows his eyes. “Huh. I guess you’re not completely stupid. You’re right; I was going to beat some sense into you, since you’re so keen on attacking defenseless women and all,” he glances at you, a small smirk quirking his lips, “but I don’t think she’s defenseless, after all’s said and done. What do you want to do about him, Miss?”
Melt him melt him melt him make him gone.You’re still simultaneously outraged and horrified, so it takes you a minute to recognize and process that the man’s last question was directed at you. You clear your throat delicately, flicking biological matter from your work blouse as you think of an appropriate answer. “I—”
Number Three bolts before you can finish speaking. Your mysterious savior intercepts him. Both men go down in a flurry of yells and grunts. Honestly, with all the noise you’ve been making, it’s a wonder that nobody has called the police on you yet.
Finding a better vantage point is easy — there are mountains of trash surrounding the nearby dumpster, and you clamber onto the top of it, thanking your lucky stars that you’d worn your ratty old sneakers today instead of your new mary janes. The scuffle continues on below, and you watch with trepidation.
Good Samaritans don’t actually exist, so who is this guy, and why is he defending you? He’s clearly well-trained. Is he a mutant, too?
No, you realize. He doesn’t look too much older than you — maybe thirty, at the most — and you don’t recognize him from Xavier’s. So who is this man?
Number Three lets out a pained yell as Mystery Man jabs his elbow into the former’s nose. You wince. The sound of the cartilage cracking sets your skin crawling, and you shudder like your cat does when you stroke its spine.
”Are you done?” The stranger holds his arm against Number Three’s neck, effectively pinning him to the ground. He waits until the other man nods, still choking on his own blood. You slide off of the top of the dumpster and make your way over to the two men. “Good. Now get outta here before I change my mind.”
Number Three scampers off, whimpering like a kicked dog.
”You didn’t have to do that, you know,” you mumble, helping the man to his feet. “But… thank you.”
Mystery Man grins charmingly at you. His eyes are a very pretty shade of blue-green, and the shiner he’s now sporting on his left cheekbone makes them seem more blue than green. “It was nothing, really.” He sticks his hand out. “Clint Barton.”
You shake his hand and introduce yourself. “I can, um. Fix that up for you, if you’d like.” You gesture at his face. Clint raises his eyebrows, then winces.
”Really? Where’ve you been all my life?” You snort.
”Hiding away from the world.” Your voice is sardonic as you run your fingers lightly over his injury, willing the cells to speed up his body’s natural repair process. It fades from red to blue to green to yellow in the span of about thirty seconds, and the swelling goes down immensely. “Are you hurt anywhere else, Mr. Barton?”
“Clint. Dick got a good kick in my ribs, but — ah, shit, yeah, no, that’s probably cracked.” He lifts at his shirt, revealing a rapidly purpling bruise on his right side. “Could you—?”
“Of course,” you say quietly as you kneel beside him. His skin is hot under your fingers. Your hands longer on his side longer than they need to as you work up the courage to ask him a question that’s been bothering you since he first appeared. You keep your eyes on the ground beneath your feet. “Why aren’t you running?”
“Huh? I’m hard of hearing, sweetheart. Gonna need you to look at me when you talk.” Flushing at the impudent usage of the endearment, your ears go red and you look up at Clint. He’s got a small smile on his face. “Could you repeat the question?”
You acquiesce, and he shrugs. “Well, you were being attacked, so it only makes sense that you’d use your abilities to defend yourself. You don’t seem like the kind of girl to just up and zap a man for no reason at all.” He wiggles his fingers, miming sparks flying from his hands. You giggle.
”Fair enough, I guess. Could I ask you one more favor, though?”
”Shoot.”
”Could you not mention me, or, uh, my abilities, to anyone? It would be hard to relocate, especially with all the anti-mutant sentiment going around recently.” Clint tilts his head to the side as he thinks, then nods. “Sure thing.”
You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Clint.” It feels as though a weight has been removed from your shoulders. He offers you a hand, which you gratefully accept. Your knees pop as you stand. “Ugh. I hate that sound.”
“Getting creaky in your old age?” You glare up at him, but your expression softens when you spot the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. A glance at your phone reveals that you are running late. Shit.
”Good afternoon, Clint. Thanks for helping me out.” You don’t wait for him to reply, leaving Clint standing there staring after you, a thoughtful expression on his face.
The walk to your workplace goes quicker than you expected, but then again, you’re not walking so much as jogging. Thankfully, it’s about as busy as New York City proper in your neighborhood; nobody pays you much — if any — attention. The bell hanging over the door jingles.
There are already some customers in the store. Double shit.
“Where have you been, kid?” Kitty, your boss, descends upon you like a flock of vultures (or, one giant vulture), her head bobbing up and down on her skinny neck. “You’re over an hour late, I—”
She takes note of your ruffled appearance and the dirt on your clothes. “What happened to you?”
”Some jerks decided that they wanted to play. Some random guy helped drive them off. May I use the bathroom to clean up, Boss?” You raise your eyebrows as you ask your question and Candy waves you off.
”Yeah, yeah, go on. Are you alright?”
”As good as I can be, Boss. I swear I’ll put in overtime this week.”
”Good, good, that’s good. Go get cleaned up, then help that woman in the green jacket.”
