A Trickster's Guide To Wooing A Hawk

By: stop-the-fading

BLAME CHESH (especially since this chapter - and it's special guest star - are dedicated to her)

Day Four: Your Kitten, Should You Choose To Accept It…

"You know, if I take you with me, people are going to be trying to cuddle you all day," Clint remarked as his new friend stared up at him from her perch on his thigh, all floof and innocence and malevolent golden eyes. "They might even do that creepy baby-talk thing."

The kitten mewed her displeasure, her teeny tail flicking pointedly.

"Oh, they so would."

She levered herself up to plant her front paws on his bare chest, stretching as far as she could to nearly headbutt him on the chin. She was a bit too short to reach, but he dutifully kissed her between the ears anyway, trying to ignore the sudden sharp pain of two claws digging into the flesh of his thigh.

"You have some freakishly long claws there, sweetheart."

Delicate ears twitched at the endearment, her evil eyes narrowing slightly.

"Well, I'm not about to name you," he defended as she continued to stare him down. "If I name you, I have to keep you."

Hopping off his leg (and digging those infernal claws in perhaps a bit more than necessary), the kitten sat with her back to him and proceeded to ignore him vehemently.

"You don't keep cats," a soft voice spoke up from the doorway, which, Clint remembered with some chagrine, Natasha had left open when she'd stomped out earlier.

"Oh?" Clint raised his eyebrow at Bruce, who was watching the interaction with an obscene amount of amusement.

"You haven't had a cat before, have you?"

"No," the archer answered shortly, reaching out to pet the kitten cautiously and left awkwardly patting the bedspread when she skittered away and ran straight off the edge of the mattress.

Bruce crouched down, sliding the door shut so she couldn't escape, and held out one hand for her to sniff. As she did so, he glanced back up at Clint, who tried his best to keep his hurt from showing. He must not have succeeded fully, because Bruce grinned apologetically.

"I have. They're very proud, even as kittens, you know. More dignity than most humans, which isn't all that surprising, when you think about the state of humanity in general. You don't keep them; they keep you."

Clint leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. "I'm not really into being kept."

"That's not really an option," the quiet scientist replied. "One way or another, they own you. Real cat people, though, they don't mind it. They love it, even."

"Not me."

"Well, maybe you're not a cat person."

Clint shrugged. "Guess not. I wouldn't know. It's…been a while. Since I've had a pet, I mean," he explained, eyes shadowed with things he didn't want to think about.

"They were worshipped once upon a time." The kitten clambered up Bruce's leg, clawing her way up to his shoulder and pressing her nose to his ear curiously. Gently, Bruce reached up to stroke her along the spine. "They're pushier than dogs - you pet them when they want to be pet, play with them when they want to play, feed them what they want to eat. People think dogs are more high-maintenence, or that they're more loyal, but cats are fiercely dedicated to the people they've adopted. Their human is theirs, and they don't like sharing. Not like dogs, anyway, which are more pack-oriented, and do better in large groups."

Clint could hear the kitten purring from across the room and frowned at her. "Well, she seems to like you more than me; maybe you should keep her."

As though on cue, both Bruce and the kitten looked up at him in exaspiration. "You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?"

"I heard proud, worship, pushy, high-maintenence, and something about being owned."

Rubbing her cheek against Bruce's jaw, the kitten leapt somewhat flailingly to the floor and padded over to inspect an interesting bit of lint.

"She's not my cat," Bruce said simply. "And I already have a proud, pushy, high-maintenence creature trying to own me."

Clint snorted. "Tony can be pretty possessive of his science boyfriends."

"Yep."

The kitten batted at the bit of lint, springing backwards when it drifted towards her and landing, splay-legged, a good two feet back. She then pelted across the room and skidded into the bathroom, sliding across the floor and knocking over the trash can before making a valiant effort to scale the shower curtain.

"Oh, for…" Clint rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It's a piece of fluff, Shire!"

"Shire?"

Pausing guiltily in the process of entering the bathroom to retrieve the little ball of energy before she tore the plastic curtain from its rings, Clint narrowed his eyes at Bruce, daring him to laugh.

"Like…the Cheshire Cat, y'know?"

"I figured," Bruce said quietly, not laughing at all, but smiling as though something very pleasing had just happened. "I won't say it's really original, but at least it's not 'Fluffy' or 'Mittens'."

"I will never, ever name any living creature 'Mittens'," Clint spat disgustedly. "What kind of bastard do you think I am?"

Shrugging, Bruce stood up, dusting off his pants unnecessarily. The sudden motion caused Shire to let go of the curtain and slip down to the floor, making a bee-line for Clint and scaling him instead. When she was safely perched in his hair (and he was probably bleeding in several spots, being that he was still wearing only his boxers), she peered at Bruce, daring him to make a wrong move.

The doctor only smiled, slipping out the door and vanishing down the corridor.

Clint stared after him for a moment.

"Sometimes," he said mildly, reaching up to wiggle his fingers at Shire playfully, "that guy scares me more than the Hulk."

Shire grabbed hold of his fingers, nibbling at the tip of his pinky in response.

She refused to get down so he could dress, forcing him to wear his only button-down shirt so he didn't run the risk of getting trapped in a pull-over with an angry animal with claws. When he bent down to pull on his trainers, though, she opted to descend to his shoulder, peering over at his laces with deadly intent.

"Just try to stay out of trouble, okay," he pleaded as he made for the door.

He had decided, between sullenly ordering (begging) Natasha to leave him alone and actually sitting up in bed (which took a hell of a lot of willpower), that he wasn't going to tell anyone what was going on this time. He wasn't about to go through another day of evaluations and teasing and creepy stares. He was going to figure this fuckery out by himself, if it took him the rest of his life.

His first stop was Tony's lab, because a lot of the weirdness that went on in his life seemed to originate there. He crept along the corridor stealthily - or, as stealthily as a grown man wearing a Hawaiian-print shirt and tiptoeing down a hallway with a kitten perched on his shoulder as he hummed the Mission: Impossible theme could creep. A man had to enjoy life once in a while, right? So what if he looked like a senile pirate? It would only be recorded for all to see on the security footage, right?

As he neared the lab, the sounds of a tense argument could be heard.

"…ever consider going back into showbiz? Because you have stripper-thighs."

"That's obscene, Stark."

"No, my recurring dream about the Human Torch is obscene. Your thighs are just an observation."

"Do you ever just not talk?"

"Not if I can help it."

Humming curiously to himself, Clint peeked around the open doorway and peered into Tony's lab.

It was, as ever, a disaster area. Half-finished projects were left here and there, wires and bits spilling out like some much intestine. There were three coffeemakers stationed about, and all three were running, churning out the nectar of the gods. Tools, blueprints, and empty coffee cups littered the place, and in the center of it all was Stark, sitting cross-legged on the floor, covered head-to-toe in grime and elbows-deep in something deadly-looking. The machine, cradled in his lap, had jagged bits of panelling spearing outwards, and clanked ominously every few seconds. There was an acrid smell in the air, like smoldering hair, and Clint couldn't stop himself from cringing away for a moment.

Steve towered over the genius, arms crossed, looking torn between being concerned and being furious, settling on a sort of nervous frustration. He was bare-chested and barefoot, and seemed to have just wandered over from the training room.

"Fine, whatever," he was saying. "I just wanted to make sure it was nothing serious-"

"A minor technical difficulty," Stark muttered, seemingly paying little attention to the superhero fretting over his safety. Clint noticed the tiny smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, though, and gnawed on the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning, as well. Stark liked that the captain was worried for him. This was an interesting development, indeed.

"There was smoke-"

"Dummy had it handled, for once."

"-lights were flashing, alarms-"

"Jarvis is a worrywart. Look, Stephanie," the genius continued, cutting off whatever Steve had intended to say next, "I know you think I'm a little unhinged-"

"Way to understate."

"-but believe it or not, I know what I'm doing. Or do you think everything I've ever successfully invented was a fluke?"

Steve hesitated, frowning deeply. He appeared to be upset by the insinuation that he didn't respect Tony's abilities. And idea of an idea was blooming in Clint's observant mind. "You know I don't think that, Tony. That doesn't mean accidents can't happen, though."

"Aw, you do care," Tony jibed, pursing his lips for a moment before yanking something silvery and sharp out of the bowels of the…thing in his lap. "I'm touched."

"In the head," Steve muttered, stalking out.

Clint leaned against the wall casually, not even trying to hide, as Steve marched past him, a walking cloud of confusion and irritation. Once he'd rounded the corner, the assassin entered the room.

"So."

"You coming to babysit me, too, Artemis? And can we talk about the tourist look for a second?"

"No. Wasn't Artemis a chick?"

"Your point being?"

Rolling his eyes, Clint hoisted himself up onto a mostly-cleared worktable and pried Shire off of his shoulder, scratching her behind the ears as he watched Tony critically.

"I didn't actually have you pegged as Freedomette."

There was a loud clang and a muffled curse as Tony wrenched his hand from inside the mechanical carcass, shaking it out a bit. "A what?"

"You know, a Captain America fangirl."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Right. And you weren't just flirting shamelessly with poor Steve."

"Of course not."

"And you weren't watching his ass as he left."

"Why would I?"

"So you wouldn't mind if Natasha went ahead and had him for the night."

Tony's head jerked up, a genuinely alarmed look plastered across his face, and Clint almost felt bad. "I didn't think he was her type," Tony hedged, sounding as though he was talking to himself.

"Oh, he's not, but you know how it is when you haven't gotten any in a while."

"No, actually, I don't," Tony drawled smugly, turning his concentration back to whatever cannibalizing he had been doing.

"Great. I'll let her know-"

"Okay," Tony cut in. "Okay. Say, hypothetically, I was flirting with Captain Clean-Cut."

"Why don't we say, literally, you were flirting with Cap…with Steve," Clint offered.

Rolling his eyes, Tony tossed a wrench over his shoulder and reached for something pointier that put Clint in mind of a dentist's drill. "Sure. Fine. Whatever. I was totally flirting with Steve. Why is it your business?"

That shouldn't have hurt, but it did. He had forgotten for a moment that, for all they were supposed to be a team, and despite everyone else feeling perfectly at home and having their little slumber parties and movie nights and what-have-you, Clint just wasn't part of that circle. He was the anti-social one, who didn't have science-y things to giggle about or Earth 2012 to experience for the first time. He had Natasha, and that was fine.

Lone wolf, he reminded himself, rubbing Shire's chin and allowing his usual aloof armor to click into place. He imagined it would look a lot like Tony's armor, whirring and clinking with cold, metallic precision. He wasn't pack-oriented, not like this rag-tag bunch of scruffy mutts. He was alone, which was how he liked it.

"Not my business at all. Just an…observation," he replied, lifting Shire back to his shoulder with one hand, using the other to salute Tony lazily. "But, just so you know, he thinks you're making fun of him. The guy got bullied enough before he became a superhero, I don't think knocking his books down and kicking over his block tower is going to make him like you."

Striding from the room before Tony could come up with an appropriately snarky reply, Clint grumbled to himself. He hadn't even managed to poke around for clues. What, was he Cupid all of a sudden? Why was he even bothering to stick his nose into these things?

The rest of the day was similarly unproductive. Thor, who had not seemed to like Shire, going so far as to back up a little when she hissed at him, had seen or heard nothing unusual in the past few days (the days he could remember, Clint reminded himself), but promised to remain vigilant and alert his teammate, should anything arise.

Natasha was no help whatsoever. Granted, he had to be very careful around her, because despite his continued annoyance over her disbelieving him the last few yestodays, he knew she was frighteningly in-tune with his ways and moods, and he was not keen on having to talk to Dr. Pierce again. The man was infuriatingly glib, to the point where Clint was sure he was somehow related to Stark.

The idea of approaching Steve while he was pounding the ever-loving crap out of a sandbag did not appeal to Clint, but he did so anyway, and even managed to slip in a bit of reassurance that none of the team were out to pick on him.

"I talked to Tony earlier," he had said blandly, pretending he hadn't noticed Steve tensing up, "he seemed to be wound pretty tight today. Too much coffee, I guess. I think all the caffeine's melted his brain-to-mouth circuits."

Steve had huffed a laugh at that, relaxing minutely, and Clint had mentally patted himself on the back. Agent Cupid's work there was momentarily done.

Clint hadn't really thought about it before, but in retrospect, Tony had done little but flirt with Steve after their first calamitous mission as a team. Whatever weirdness remained (and Clint suspected it had a lot to do with Tony's daddy issues and Steve's nineteen-forties sensibilities), it was slowly being eaten away by…whatever this was. He wasn't such an asshole that he'd try to force it, or meddle any more than he already had, but he hoped, for their sake, that they worked it out, one way or another.

His last stop was to see Bruce, who took one look at Clint and had to bury his face in his hands to muffle his snorts of sheer glee. If nothing else, it was heartwarming to see the restrained doctor looking so relaxed.

"I'm sorry, is there something funny here?"

"N-no. S-s-sorry, just…"

He let the man laugh, shaking his head bemusedly, and skillfully drew him into a casual conversation about litter pans and catnip, worming out what information his could about the last few days (and making mental notes, because whoever thought cats weren't needy were out of their minds). Unfortunately, kitty trivia aside, his investigation turned up zilch.

Trudging back to his room, Clint picked up the expected envelope on his pillow, curling up on the floor with Shire (who soon took to gnawing on his shoelaces) and inspecting the note inside.

'My Dear Hawk,

Your ordeal the day before was not intended, but you can be so very difficult, so very stubborn. You rage against me like a wild creature, ever defiant, refusing to be tamed. What you do not realize is that I have no desire to tame you. I love you as you are, and wish only that you could return my honest feelings.

Please meet me at The Pool at 7 o' clock tonight.

Ever Yours,

A Secret Admirer

P.S. - She is a very special creature, your new pet. She will surely love you as I do, for we are very much alike. Please do not reject her, as you have rejected all other tokens.'

Rolling his eyes, Clint stared down at Shire. "You wouldn't happen to know who dropped you off here, would you?"

She ignored him, because clearly the little frayed ends of stitching that held his shoes together were much more fascinating than any of his pointless human troubles.

Sitting up, Clint rifled through his bedside table and fished out a pen.

'I like Shire just fine,' he scribbled on the back of the letter, 'but you're really starting to piss me off. Never Yours, Hawkeye'

"Think this crackpot'll get the message," he murmured, grinning when Shire mewled at him in her tiny kitten voice. He curled back up on his side, his grin melting into a soft smile as she nuzzled his chin, her whiskers tickling his jaw.

' -you're not hopeless or helpless/ and I hate to sound cold/ but y-'

Sighing, Clint lazily reached up and nudged the clock onto the floor. "I guess he got the message," he muttered.

"Who got what message," Natasha's voice greeted him from across the room.

Clint snorted. "Oh…no one."

"Right."

"Don't."

Blinking, Natasha cocked her head at him. "I'm sorry?"

"If you wish me a happy Valentine's Day, I will shoot you."

She raised one eyebrow, setting down her magazine and hopping off the desk. "You've really got to work on that aggression, Clint," she suggested as she sashayed out of the room.

Pulling his pillow up over his face, Clint laughed.