19. 'It made me think of you'
It took Clint three tries to get his key in the door, splinted fingers not cooperating, let alone the tiredness that was conspiring with gravity, barely letting him lift his arm. Finally the door creaked open in front of him, and he let out a monotone cheer which turned into a despairing groan when he was prevented from collapsing inside by a wall of black leather. He slumped forward, flopping down far enough to rest his head on the cool smoothness of a shoulder, and resigned himself.
"Fuck it, fine," he said. "Take me, I'm ready."
The words were a new development, and intonation? Well, Clint was waiting with bated breath.
"Death threats come as standard, right? Well this is me resigning myself to my fate." Clint was honestly too exhausted to move but he spread his hands at least, welcomed the sweet release of oblivion with enthusiasm if not energy. "Have at it."
There was a moment of stillness, long enough that Clint could almost hear the calculations, and he'd love to say he cared about the outcome but it had been a long fucking week, long year, long life, and there were only so many fucks a guy could farm. We're sure not in Iowa any more, Toto.
Then there was a sigh, exasperated, one of those tiny signals that the killer robot wasn't so much of an automaton as he liked to pretend to be, and then the world was shifting all around him as the Soldier ducked and planted a shoulder squarely in Clint's belly, lifting Clint in a fireman's carry that was almost comical, what with the height difference and all.
"Holy shit, you're strong," Clint said, involuntarily.
"Keep that in mind," the Soldier said, monotone, and Clint imagined it was supposed to be a threat but that wasn't the way he was gonna take it.
Goddamn, he wished he could take it.
The stairs clanked loudly under heavy boots, which Clint decided was some form of protest; he had ample experience of the fact that the Soldier could move silently when he wanted to. And then there was one of the violent upheavals of motion which Clint's possible concussion didn't appreciate, and he was sprawled on his back in the middle of his bed, rumpled sheets and discarded underwear and all.
"Buy me dinner first," he said, reflexive, and that was another hint of the man behind the mask, that gentle flush that kissed his ears like Clint could only dream of doing.
He was distracted, though, by a movement among his mostly-white sheets, and he painfully turned his head to see a blue-eyed white kitten picking its way clumsily towards him. As soon as it noticed it had his attention it opened its tiny pink mouth and let out a demanding mew that was far louder than its tiny body should permit.
"What." His turn, this time, too tired and confused and discombobulated to manage to make it much of a question.
The Soldier shrugged, watching the kitten like he didn't want to meet Clint's eyes.
"It was pathetic and alone," he said after a second, running a metal finger, so carefully, along the length of its spine to its tail. "It made me think of you."
