#castlehawk

1.

California’s not usually Frank’s scene. There’s too many gleaming white smiles plastered onto plastic faces. He prefers the east coast where everyone’s depressed and honest about it.

“You gonna keep checking your guns until these terrorists just give up and go home, or are we ready to go?” Clint flashes him a bright smile, although it’s a shade too genuine for Frank to really resent it.

“I like to be prepared. Just one of my rules,” he says, finally sliding his Glock back into place and giving Clint a short nod. “We all got rules, right? Helps us do what we do.”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint says, suddenly mock serious. He shoulders his bow to take Frank’s face between his hands, archery gloves pressing hard enough to smush his cheeks together. “My rule is no falling in love, got it? I know I make it hard, but I got no time for romance. I have a tight schedule of kicking ass and taking names to stick to.” He gives Frank’s head a little shake as if he’s gotta rattle some sense loose. As if Frank’s the type to go and fall for someone that easy. It’s classic Clint Barton humor. The kind of jokes that you have to keep reminding yourself to hate. The kind of funny that rubs you the wrong way until you blink and it doesn’t. Greater men than Frank have fallen to the charms of Clint Barton, but Frank’s specialty is putting up walls, so he counts himself safe.

“Agreed.”

“Great.” Clint’s smile is slow and mischievous. “Then let’s go catch some terrorists.”

“You know how much cooler you would sound if you said ‘Let’s go kill some terrorists?’” Frank says, but he follows Clint down the dark hallway anyways. He doesn’t look back, just sparing a half-assed handwave over his shoulder.

“There’s nothing cool about murder, Castle. That’s my other rule.”

>>==========>

There’s gunfire all around him, pinging off of exposed metal and concrete and generally raining down hell. Frank sinks his knife through flesh and his fourth guy goes down with a scream, clutching at his shoulder. Frank takes a second to tell himself that wasn’t quite murder while he kicks another guy hard enough to feel bone snap under his boot. If he gets medical help in the next few hours he’ll be alright. If he doesn’t, that’s someone else’s problem.

He pulls his Glock out of its holster to put a few rounds into goon number six, and wonders about Clint’s stance on permanently maiming. He’s not just gonna leave terrorists with perfectly good hands lying around during a firefight, ready to drag themselves over to a discarded weapon and take his team out from the sidelines.

Frank hears the seventh guy coming up behind him almost too late. Almost not enough time to sidestep the swipe of his knife, grab him by the arm, and wrench his shoulder out of his socket. Almost. The guy goes down like a screaming pile of bricks, and Frank can tell by the shouts behind him that Clint’s preoccupied, so he shoots him maybe a little closer to some essential organs than is strictly nonlethal. Whatever. There’s bullets flying around the place like confetti. The guy could’ve got hit by friendly fire. Frank’s got plausible deniability.

He turns toward Clint then, finger already tightening on the trigger, but freezes as soon as he takes in the scene.

There’s six guys already on the floor and only one of them is still moving enough to try and pull an arrow free from his thigh. Four more are swarming Clint and he takes down two in a motion so smooth Frank actually can’t tell if he drew a breath or not. He nocks two arrows and takes the other two out in one shot. Frank must’ve made some kinda noise because Clint spares him a glance, shooting him a blinding smile and fuck Frank and his walls because that’s an armor piercing round right there.

“Marry me,” he chokes out, realizing he’s standing there gaping like an idiot in the middle of a firefight and not quite caring. Clint’s face does a funny little show, going from surprised to disappointed to an eye roll in moments. He settles on scrunching up his nose just a bit, shooting another goon without looking so he can fix Frank with a critical stare.

“No. Jesus, Castle. We talked about this.”

“I changed my mind,” Frank says. A spray of bullets gets annoyingly close to his face, so he lobs a knife at the source. “C’mon. Right after this. You, me, city hall.”

“I told you, my schedule’s booked.” One of the last few guys tries for a kamikaze charge at Clint, and Frank hasn’t even taken aim before there’s an arrow sprouting from his chest.

“We could do it now,” Frank tries. “I bet one of these guys is ordained.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, turning back to finish off the last few with laser focus. “I hear that’s the number one fallback plan for ministers. Terrorists, all of ‘em.” The last goon goes down and Clint steps back to survey the damage. “Alright, Castle. How many of these guys did you kill?”

“Uh,” Frank says. The floor is slick with blood, and he offers Clint an apologetic shrug. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

2.

Frank’s boots thud against tile as he races down the hallway after Clint, ducking as bullets and goddamn lasers go flying past.

“Remind me why I agreed to help you with Avengers business again?”

“Because you like watching my ass while we run for our lives?” Clint tries, taking a sharp right and not bothering to check if Frank follows. He does. He’s not letting that ass out of his sight. “Because deep down you’re a good person?”

“It was the first one,” Frank grunts. Another laser blast goes past, mere centimeters from his face. Goddamn lasers. They leave the air behind them crackling in a way bullets never do. It’s putting him on edge.

“Backup should be here soon,” Clint says as he skids around another corner. “Then we won’t have to keep retreating.”

“If you hadn’t lost your bow, we wouldn’t have had to run in the first place.” Frank swears they should be going in circles by now. Fucking AIM bases. Fucking AIM bases and their goddamn lasers and Clint. Motherfucking. Barton.

“Not my fault,” Clint shouts, diving out of the way of a laser that somehow ricochets off the wall. “Dunno how I was supposed to know a putty arrow would react with a vat of acid like that. And I took down half the base, didn’t I?”

“Stealth mission,” Frank grunts. Their next turn is even tighter, and he hits the wall with his shoulder before bouncing back. The AIM agents are falling further and further behind, their shots getting sloppier, but they’re still too close to lose in their labyrinth of a base and Frank and Clint can’t keep this up forever. “You said this was a stealth mission.” The hallway they’ve turned down is slightly wider than the others, and Clint falls back slightly to run at Frank’s side.

“Carry me,” he says, and Frank glares at him. Clint’s panting and his face is flushed, but he’s a far cry from out of breath.

“I always fucking carry you,” Frank says, but he scoops Clint up anyways, somehow wrangling him into a bridal carry without falling ass over teakettle.

“Rude,” Clint says, immediately squirming out of Frank’s grip and throwing himself over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry. “We’ve worked together like twice.”

“And yet,” Frank says, not bothering to finish his sentence. He’s going slower now under Clint’s weight. They have a decent head start on the AIM agents, but whatever Clint’s trying to do better get done soon. He feels Clint fumble with the holsters on his back, and then he’s drawing out the rifle Frank keeps strapped to him.

“Keep running,” Clint says, like Frank’s about to stop.

“Start shooting,” he gripes back. He feels Clint go still, digging his elbow into Frank’s shoulder to steady himself. The sound of bullets and lasers gets closer, and Frank can practically feel the shrapnel nipping at his heels.

There’s one shot, then four more in quick succession. Clint pauses to take a deep breath, and then five more shots ring out. He hears a strangled shout of pain, and then they’re not under fire anymore.

“Woah there, Castle,” Clint says, giving Frank a pat on the ass like he’s some kinda horse. He skids to a stop too fast just to be an asshole, and Clint goes tumbling over his shoulder.

“Don’t ever make me do Avengers shit again,” Frank says, bending over to catch his breath. Clint just beams up at him from the floor, practically hugging Frank’s sniper rifle. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon, and his cheeks are flushed bright red.

“That was hot though, right?” Clint says. “I feel like that looked totally hot.” Frank’s too busy clutching at the stitch in his side to agree. Clint closes his eyes, letting go of Frank’s rifle to let his arms flop out at his sides. “You think you could do the princess carry again? That was definitely hot.”

“I’m saving it for the honeymoon. You gotta say ‘I do’ before I bust that move out again,” Frank says, and Clint opens his eyes just so he can roll them.

“Nuh uh. Figures. I always end up going for the good Catholic boys.”

“Really?” Frank knocks the toe of his boot against Clint’s shoulder and he snickers.

“No.”

3.

There’s a dog barking somewhere in a far off alley. Police sirens are blaring, but they’re always blaring in Brooklyn. Frank’s boots skid against wet asphalt as he stumbles, falling back into the shadows and clutching at the wound in his side. He’s lost a fair amount of blood. He can’t tell exactly how deep the wound is in the dark like this, but he can tell it’s more than a scratch. He’s walked away from worse, but Frank’s not stupid enough to think this isn’t bad.

He grits his teeth and stumbles again, careening into a trash can that falls over with an ear-splitting crash. Somewhere out there, the dog starts barking louder.

“Fuck,” Frank spits out, letting his head fall against cool brick. He’s not sure exactly what part of Brooklyn he’s even in. He lost Kingpin’s men a while back, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to risk being seen while he looks for some kind of street sign.

The brick of the brownstone Frank’s collapsed against is kind of soothing. The cold against his face edges into his brain slowly and makes a nice contrast to the pain pulsing in his side. He lets his boots skid out from under him, sliding down to sit in the shadows. All things considered, Brooklyn isn’t the worst place to die. Frank lets his eyes slide shut and listens to the barking dog draw closer.

>>==========>

There’s a wet tongue slobbering all over Frank’s face, and the smell of dog breath pulls him back into reality. He groans, lifting his hand to bat the dog’s face away, but somebody’s already pulling his snout back, scolding him gently. Frank cracks his eyes open to see a familiar face, blond hair as unkempt as usual and blue eyes darkened with worry.

“Clint?”

“Jesus, Frank. Warn a guy before you show up in his neighborhood with a stab wound, alright?”

“Didn’t mean to end up in your neighborhood,” Frank says, and Clint’s face shifts just a little, a cloud of hurt falling over all the worry.

“Okay. Yeah, that’s- that’s kind of worse. You just planned on bleeding out in a back alley without giving me a heads up?”

“I thought you were in California.” Frank’s mouth feels like sandpaper. He pulls himself up enough to take in his surroundings and realizes he’s in a bedroom. He’s in Clint’s bed.

“I’ve been in town for about a week,” Clint says. He passes Frank a glass of water that was waiting on the side table. Frank takes it gratefully, almost draining the cup before he speaks again.

“You didn’t call.”

“Neither did you,” Clint says. He finally lets go of the dog he’s been holding back by the collar. A one-eyed mutt that seems to blend in seamlessly with the soft disarray of Clint’s place.

“I thought you were in California,” Frank repeats. “Otherwise I would’ve.” He puts the glass back on the nightstand, not bothering to smother his groan of pain. He can feel stitches in his side. Clint knows the damage.

“How’d you get stabbed?” Clint asks, pushing aside a purple t-shirt that Frank definitely doesn’t remember putting on to examine his well-bandaged side. Most of the light in the room is the warm glow of a lamp, but sharp white light is spilling out from an open bathroom door where Frank can see the contents of a first aid kit strewn around the sink.

“I was a thorn in Kingpin’s side.”

“So he put a knife in yours,” Clint says, still so close. He runs his thumb over the top of the bandages, and Frank feels himself shiver. Clint sits up a little more, his face a few inches from Frank’s. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen Clint this serious. “I ordered pizza. Before you showed up, I mean. I saved some for you.”

Frank groans, loud and shameless, and grabs Clint’s arm to pull him just a little closer.

“Marry me,” he says.

“No,” Clint answers, but he still leans in and presses their lips together.

4.

“You- really? You have intel on MODOK and you won’t tell me? What the hell, Frank?” Clint’s on the genuinely-pissed side of joking, but he’s sitting on Frank’s couch, wearing Frank’s t-shirt, and patching himself up with Frank’s bandages, so he can’t find it in him to do much more than smile.

“C’mon, Hawkeye. Don’t be dumb. You’ve worked for SHIELD. You know information ain’t free.” Clint huffs, throwing a pad of gauze Frank’s way. He just grins and lets it bounce off his chest.

“See, I thought we just shared things with each other. I thought this was a relationship, not just some kind of exchange of services.”

“Sure,” Frank hums, sitting forward so he can run his hand up Clint’s ankle. Clint kicks him away half-heartedly. “But my source went through hell to get this particular intel, so it’s going to cost you.”

“Fine,” Clint says, sinking back into the couch and glaring at the TV. “What do you want for it?”

“Marry me?” Frank asks, sliding his hand up to rest on Clint’s thigh. Clint just crosses his arms, keeping his glare on the screen like he gives a shit about Mythbusters.

“No, fuck you, Castle. Settle for a blow job like a normal boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Frank says, grinning even wider. Clint’s cheeks turn pink and Frank can see him struggle to keep his eyes on the TV.

“I said what I said.” Clint’s voice is a little softer. Still pissy, though. “So? You really gonna withhold intel from your boyfriend?”

“You play a dirty game, Barton,” Frank says, sliding his hand up to play with the hem of Clint’s t-shirt. His t-shirt. Clint finally looks back at him, something genuinely affectionate undercutting his glare.

“Yeah, I play a dirty game. Sure. ‘Marry me,’ Jesus Christ.”

5.

“Marry me,” Frank pants, breathing his words against the sweat-damp skin behind Clint’s ear. He rolls his hips and Clint gasps, arching up into him and scraping blunt nails across his back.

“No,” Clint says, biting his lip hard as Frank presses him further into the mattress. “Fuck. No- Oh god. Do that again.”

Frank obliges and counts Clint’s moan as a consolation prize. He presses his fingers harder into Clint’s hips and slides his lips down his jaw.

“Yes,” Clint groans, nails digging into Frank’s back. “Yes, yes. Frank, right there. Fuck, yes.” Frank bites a mark into Clint’s neck and does his best to reduce him to nothing but ‘yes.’

+1.

There’s still bullets whizzing by overhead, still bad guys with guns searching the complex, trying to track down Frank and Clint. They’re holed up pretty good for now, out of sight of any cameras and sheltered enough from gunfire behind layers of steel and concrete. They’re nowhere near free, but Frank watched Clint take out four guys with one arrow and get a fifth on the rebound not twenty minutes ago, so he’s not sure he can keep going without getting the question out of his system and the damn box out of his pocket.

“Hey,” Frank says, tugging Clint back from where he’s peering around their barricade. “Hey, is this a bad time?”

“For what?” Clint asks, and he searches Frank’s face for a moment before he looks down at the ring box sitting open in his hands.

“Marry me?” Frank asks. “While I’m down on my knees and all that.” Clint’s staring at the little red box, and Frank can’t tell if the paleness in his face is from surprise or just blood loss.

He blinks and then looks back up at Frank, fury glinting in his eyes.

“Fucking what?” Clint hisses, just barely quiet enough not to give away their location through the cacophony of gunfire. “Are you kidding me? ‘Is this a bad time?’ Yeah, Frank. It’s a bad fucking time.”

“Is that a ‘no,’” Frank asks, still too high on adrenaline and the thrill of a good fight to do anything but smile.

“Are you serious? Fuck you, ‘marry me,’ I got shot!” Clint gestures emphatically at the gash in his leg.

“You got shot a little,” Frank corrects. “I’m not hearing a ‘no.’” Clint’s jaw clenches and then he grabs the box out of Frank’s hands.

“You’re the worst,” Clint says, pulling the ring out and tossing the box to the side. “Some fucking husband you’ll make. Yes, okay? Yes. Come on, put it on me.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Castle,” Frank says, sliding the ring onto Clint’s left hand. It’s subtle, just brushed steel with a short message etched into the inside. It fits perfectly, and Frank feels a surge of happiness no adrenaline rush could match. He leans forward, trying to catch Clint’s mouth in a kiss but only managing to plant one on his cheek as he turns his head away.

“Nuh uh,” Clint says, biting his cheek like he’s holding back a smile. “If you think I’m gonna be Clint Castle ‘til death do us part you’ve got another thing coming. Our kids’ll get prime alphabetical rank with Barton and I’m not letting you take that away from them.”