Carnie

Eggsy has no idea what they’re talking about. He hooked up with Stark because he wanted to; Barton would be no different. But Clint keeps asking, like he’s got a personal investment in where Eggsy puts his dick.

“Stark’s fun. Easygoin’–at least, he knows how to be. And…” He thinks his words through, wondering just why it is he feels he owes Clint an explanation.

“I wanted to see if someone that smart would be interested in rompin’ around with the riff-raff.”

Maybe it isn’t so much that Eggsy feels obligated to explain. 

It comes out raw, a little hoarse. 

Clint does a lot of shit just to see what the people around him will put up with. He’s not super, he’s expendable. Not to Nat, he knows that, but to The Cause, to the Avengers.

“Yeah, I get that.”

“I think you need to slow your role oh ‘brave and fearless social media warrior’.” He’d even let the ‘baby’ comment slide just because the guy was playing along. Though he was pretty sure the butt load of alcohol was somewhat responsible.

“Only the pretty ones.”

Thoroughly amused at his own joke, he lets the stool smack back down to level ground and leans in like he’s imparting a great secret.

My mother was a beautiful woman. They all said so. No one who knew me then is still alive.

 He is thoroughly thrown off. And it’s funny that the only rhetorical question Clint has asked all week, is the one Eggsy actually feels compelled to answer.

“Why not you?”

He’s got to be out the door in an hour, ready for a day of deep, deep cover. But Eggsy is sat on the floor in his hotel room, and Clint Barton has just asked him why they haven’t hooked up.

( Is this a thing? Is this his life, now? Is this the Curse of Tony Stark? )

“Bruv, I wasn’t aware it was one or the other. Stark’s Stark, you’re you. Different people… both good, yeah?

–Why not you? I got no reason. God’s honest.”

It’s Eggsy’s turn to sigh, to rub his cheek and think carefully about what he’s going to say next.

“Hey, that’s all the answer I needed.”

He keeps it light, keeps it easy. Like hell won’t freeze over before he takes a pity fuck from a newborn from across the pond. He keeps it like he’s talking about the possibility. 

He isn’t. 

All he’s talking about is the truth. 

No reason. 

Not a chance. 

“You say that, but you keep askin’. Have I asked about your personal life, bruv?”

Eggsy isn’t going to answer a damn thing before he knows the purpose behind the question. (Nothing is ever free.)

“–Or is it that you think it reflects poorly on my character?”

One of these days, he’s going to run out of little pieces of himself to give to people. There ain’t a whole lot of Clint Barton left, but that doesn’t stop him from tearing off chunks and handing them out like communion wafers. 

“Thing that gets me, I keep thinking...”

He stops to scratch at the stubble on his jaw, blowing out a long breath. 

“Why not me? I know Stark’s got money, but you’re not exactly hurting in the back account department. You’ve got all your own spy gear, gadgets that would put him to shame.”

Clint’s got enough shame to fill St. Mike’s. 

@hawkbxtt

“It’s half-four in the mornin’, so I hope you feel special.” He’s in Baghdad. 

A beat. Two. Why does Barton care? And why does Eggsy care that Barton cares? 

So many questions.

He shouldn’t answer. The screen lights up with some stupid selfie JB took, all bright eyed and grinning. 

But he does. He always does. Just in case. 

He crams his hand into the bag of popcorn, trying to take as many kernels as possible in one go. Invariably, he’ll spill a quarter of whatever he’s managed to grasp in the distance between the bag, and his mouth. The seagulls love him.

“Who d’you think could win more of these games?”

Clint would have anything involving aim on lockdown, but Eggsy’s not sure how the rest of them would pan out. There’s a little roped-off section to one side of the boardwalk, boasting a sign that reads 21+. A pop-up casino. 

“How’s your roulette game? I ain’t talkin’ about the Russian kind, either–I know how you are with those.”

A hand at the base of JB’s spine, leading the way with gentle pressure as they duck into the casino. It’s a calculated risk. This isn’t exactly San Francisco. Just enough touch to maybe throw the guy off of his game. 

You take whatever edge you can get. 

He hands JB a twenty, and hands over one of his own, pinched between his index and middle fingers. 

It’s easy to think of Tony, to think of Rhodey telling the story of Tony asking him to blow on his dice. Might have to pull that one out of his bag of tricks too. 

“Go on then, sweetheart. Make your bet.”

It’s the first real smile he’s worn in days. It feels unfamiliar.