Chapter One

They never planned on getting drunk, actually, despite Natasha's thoughts on the subject. It wasn't something they sat down and strategized. They were just three guys out on the town on a Saturday night. Three guys just looking for a couple of drinks.

A demi-god, a SHIELD marksman, and Tony Stark.

They'd found a cosy little pub off the main road, where most of the drinkers had been too far gone to recognise the billionaire or notice the fact that one of the party was apparently Shakespeare. Nice place, really. Good tequila. Clint would know, having had more shots than he could count on both hands and possibly feet. He'd lost track of the exact number once he'd gotten up on the countertop.

"Natasha said you couldn't dance," Tony said quite seriously, balancing his glass on his forehead.

"We-ell, t'll teach you not t'believe 'er, amiright?" Clint responded just as seriously, standing on one leg with his arms waving about in the air. Not quite dancing, to be absolutely honest, but as close to it as anyone in the pub could get. "Amiright?"

"Aye, comrade!" Thor boomed from where he sat propped against a chair. "Thou art indeed most gifted in the field of the dance."

Clint bowed theatrically and lost his footing on the counter, knocking over someone's glass in the process of righting himself. Everything went downhill from there.

"Hey fuck you, Fairy Princess!" the drinker growled, glaring at the smashed remains of his drink. "I was enjoying that!"

The archer crouched down on his haunches in front of the drinker, looking remorseful. "Now look, sir, I'm very sorry f'your loss, an' when I say sorry I mean actu'lly, abs'lutely sorry, an'–"

The man grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him backwards off the counter. There was the deafening sounds of glass shattering, and the barkeep shrieked in outrage.

Thor was on his feet in an instant. "Friend, that was uncalled for," he rumbled, swaying slightly where he stood.

"And you too Goldilocks. Fuck you as well."

Tony laughed hysterically at that. "Goldilocks! That's a good one, Thor. I might use it."

The god of thunder frowned at the drinker. "I think thou needst to calm down, frie–"

"And fuck your mother!"

"How dare thee!" Thor roared. In a single stride he was beside the man and had grabbed him round the throat with one hand, lifting him off his stool. "How dare thee bring my mother into this!"

Tony took a swig from his second glass, grinning. "Whoo, you're in for it now, buddy."

"I'll have thee know, mortal, that my mother is the fairest, most divine woman to grace the nine realms. Thou art not worthy to even speak of her, thou troll-grubbing, Nifl-dwelling–"

"Hoooo, boy," Tony crowed.

"–yqelk-dying, dung-eating djwehr-sire!"

"Yeah!" Clint yelled in outrage, sticking his head above the counter top. "Asshole!"

The man flailed in Thor's grip, his face turning an interesting shade of purple. The blonde giant released him, letting him slump back down onto his bar stool, gasping for breath. Thor folded his arms, waiting for an apology.

The drinker coughed once, put a hand to his throat, then looked up at Thor. The demi-god smiled expectantly.

"Get 'em boys!" the drinker bawled.

Clint could never quite recall what had happened after that. He remembered vaulting over the counter and joining the fight with the kind of enthusiasm that only a drunk man can muster. He remembered the barkeep throwing his hands up and retreating to a back room where, no doubt, he had a few drinks himself. He remembered Tony, unsteady on his feet, throwing wild punches that only met their mark occasionally. He remembered the fight spilling out onto the street, and Thor turtling about five of the drinkers around on his back, trying to shake them off. He possibly remembered grabbing a handful of darts on his way out, and could almost recall having an unholy amount of fun dancing around in the fray aiming for peoples' arses.

He knew it wasn't a good sign when he woke up in Stark Tower with a homeless man beside him.

"Afternoon," the mad said pleasantly. "Name's Burt."

"Howdy," Clint groaned, flinging an arm across his eyes to block out the sun. "God, Tony, couldn't have put some curtains in your stupid glass tower, could you?"

There was a sigh from behind the couch. "It's tinted, moron. Voice controlled. Jarvis won't let me."

Jarvis' clear, cultured voice sounded through the speakers. "I'm sorry, sir, but you're drunk, and I do seem to recall you installing a protocol in which I am never to hand over control of Stark Tower when you are inebriated."

"I would never."

"You were drunk at the time, sir."

"Ah." There was a pause, and then Tony hoisted himself up and over onto the couch, sliding down next to Thor, who was still sleeping peacefully. "Where's Captain Scold?"

"Steve Rogers is currently on the phone with Director Fury. It would seem they are discussing your late-night escapades, sir."

"Well shit," Tony said. "That's sure to end well."

"Indeed, sir."

"I can hear the snark in your voice, Jarvis. Watch it. I'll reprogram you."

"Certainly, sir."

Clint laughed, holding his aching head in his hands. "He learnt from the best, Stark. I'd be flattered, if I were you." He struggled into a sitting position and squinted around the room. "Jarvis, where's Natasha?"

"Agent Romanoff is currently sorting out the paperwork involved with bringing an unauthorised civilian into Stark Tower."

"What unauthorised– oh, is that you?" Clint asked Burt.

The homeless man grinned, showcasing an impressive lack of teeth. "That's me."

"How'd you even get up here?"

"You guys invited me."

The archer shrugged and put his feet up on the table. "Can't say I remember doing that, but I'm gonna take your word for it."

There was a metallic hiss. The elevator doors slid open and Natasha stormed into the room. Clint sank lower in his seat, hoping she'd forgotten he was here. She hadn't.

"Agent Barton, a word with you." Her voice lashed through the air like a metaphorical whip, almost as dangerous as the real thing. Clint winced and glanced over at Tony. The billionaire made a slicing gesture across his throat, smirking. Clint gave him the finger.

Natasha stood at the top of the stairs leading down to the sunken lounge. She didn't look impressed. In fact, she looked like she wanted to take someone's head off. Clint approached and stopped directly in front of her, one step lower. They were the same height.

"Agent Romanoff," he said.

"Agent Barton."

There was a tense pause, broken only by the sound of Thor's snoring. Natasha's intense green eyes narrowed imperceptibly. That was the only warning Clint got.

Within the space of a couple of seconds Natasha had pounced, caught him in a headlock, and sent them both tumbling down into the lounge, grinning wickedly as she fell.

It was no small wonder that Steve almost had a heart attack when he walked into the room; Natasha's legs were wrapped around Clint's torso, her arms holding his head fast, completely immobilising him. It must have looked a little strange. Tony was perched on the back of the couch, laughing at Clint's failed endeavours to get free. A moment later the Captain was laughing as well, the words he'd been about to say forgotten.

"Don't just stand there," Clint choked. "She's killing me, Rogers. The Russians are gonna win if you don't do something drastic. For God's sake man, where's your patriotism?"

"Wrong war, Barton," Steve chuckled. "The Russians were an ally."

Clint made an attempt to twist the Widow's arm away from his windpipe. Natasha's thighs tightened crushingly around his ribcage. "Jesus," he gasped, grinning.

"Guys, c'mon, you know what Fury said about role-playing weird sexual fantasies in the lounge room." Bruce had slipped in through the stairwell, his arms full of papers, and was watching them with a dry smile on his face. "And anyway, he wants to see you three and your new friend." Bruce jerked his chin in Burt's direction; he'd fallen asleep beside the god of thunder.

"Fury's here?" asked Tony.

"I was meant to tell you he was coming," Steve said apologetically. "I got distracted."

Natasha's grip tightened one last time, almost cutting off Clint's air supply. "Say you're sorry for being a drunken idiot and putting the safety of the team at risk."

"Thor and Stark were there too!" he wheezed indignantly. "And anyway, if Tony wants to let homeless men into his Tower I don't see why he shouldn–"

"Say it."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry for being a charming bastard and putting the safety of the team at risk."

Natasha released him. "Good enough." She rolled to her feet and arched her back, smiling. "Now go say it to Fury. Hopefully he'll only ground you for six years."

The archer clambered to his feet with a little less grace. "Oh, everything'll be fine. I'll just grovel for a bit. Remind him of all my good qualities, offer my eternal servitude or something. That always works. Fury's in love with me, didn't you know? Can't say what he'll do to Stark and Thor, though."

"Go now, before he insists upon the eternal servitude," Steve suggested, reaching over to wake up Burt and the god of thunder. "I don't think he's in a very good mood."

"Surprise," Clint groaned, and made for the elevator.