To say that Clint hadn't responded well to leadership would be an understatement. He'd never had to bend to someone else's will before on the field. Usually he was tossed a mission and allowed to run through it on his own terms. He was king because he was alone.

The Avengers were a different story.

He hated it. He couldn't stand it at first.

Steve was the big kahuna during battle, and he was efficient, ruthless, and dead-on almost 99 percent of the time.

Clint was there to get pissed about that one percent.

He'd been okay with it when they had to fight Loki. He had just been mind-tripped and not having to develop his own plan of action was a bit of a relief. But afterwards, when doing this became a thing of theirs, he'd gotten a little pissed off.

Steve was twenty-three. Why the hell they expected a twenty-three year old to boss him around was lost to him.

It had taken a lot of missions. A lot of arguments and mistakes until they finally realized that they had to reach some sort of middle ground or they were going to get each other killed. Steve started laying off the orders and Clint started conceding during moments of stress.

But he still wasn't sure whether he liked Steve the person. Because, and he was an expert on this, Steve was on complete lockdown. It was scarily perfect. He had a wall most communist Germans would be proud of. The guy was seriously unaffected by everything. Some days Clint wanted to poke him just to see if he was actually there, because there's no way someone could be that unemotional.

It had taken a long time for that to come next, for Captain America to start dissolving into Steve.

Clint was a funny guy. He knew that. He didn't quite remember what he'd said, but Steve had paused for a long second, smiled, and laughed. He'd thrown his head back and laughed. Jesus, it was so…strange, but it so refreshing because in the four months he'd known Steve, he'd hardly even seen the guy smile.

Apparently Tony thought it was weird too, because he'd sputtered into his coffee cup and slammed it on the table. "Oh my God! It has emotions! And that's what you laugh at? Clint? Not me? Jesus, what is this, some sort of SHIELD takeover? I'm wounded. I'm just wounded."

After that, Steve started to loosen up a little bit. Clint started noticing his personality quirks. Steve chewed his fingernails all the time, bit his knuckles when he was stressed, would cave like an avalanche when presented with old movies, and paid extreme attention to the Avengers. He was could give lessons how to be a protective dad one-oh-one.

It was the biggest red flag in Steve's wall. He was a desperate guy. He would take a hundred bullets for any of them silently and willingly.

And the first time he actually did, Clint finally dropped his this is a professional relationship game and started being good friends with Steve. It was depressingly easy, now that he looked back on it. Steve had saved his life countless times, made an omelet that could be topped by no one, and didn't make any qualms when Clint checked the door locks three times before they went down for the night.

Clint was still waiting for inevitable letdown, for Steve to finally drop from some sort of injury, be it physical or emotional, but he never did. He was a lean-mean, bad guy destroying machine. He was also Captain America. Clint forgot that, too.

So he didn't know why he was thinking about his now, searching a decrepit apartment building for a supposed family that had yet to leave the warzone.

"Hey, Clint." Steve called from down the hall.

Jerking his head up, Clint wondered what could possibly be wrong—maybe Steve found the family—and proceeded down to the other room. He nearly ran into Steve as he took the corner.

"What's the problem? You find them?" Steve looked at him funny. He stumbled back a few steps, Clint's arm shooting out to grab him. "Whoa, you get hit? What happened?"

Steve blinked, eyes oddly wide, and his hand drifted up to the back of his neck. "I think you're going to have to take point on this one."

"What? Why?" Clint asked, worried.

Steve groaned, an alien sound for him, and plucked a dart out of his skin. His eyelids fluttered, and Clint spent a good second thinking oh, fuck me until he lunged and barely got an arm around Steve's neck before they both hit the ground. It was the best he could do because bruises were manageable, concussions were serious. With Steve tucked against his hip, he pulled an arrow from his quiver and traced it around the room.

There was a scratching sound, and then the walls started on fire.

"Oh, shit, shit, shit. Steve," Clint shook his shoulder. "Steve, dude, we gotta go." He rolled Steve to his back and pressed his knuckles to the other's sternum. Nothing. Nada. No fucking dip. "Steve, please. Come on, don't make me carry you outta here."

Flames started licking at his feet, the heat flushing his face.

"Damnit! I'm going to hold this over your head for weeks!" Clint growled, angry and worried, hoping to God that he was only dealing with a tranquillizer and not some sort of Super Soldier poison.

But first things came first.

Muttering obscenities, because muttering was what pissed off people did, Clint lugged Steve to a sitting position and started hauling him over one shoulder. He could feel all his cartilage start to depress. He'd done this before; he could do this again. He lunged forward, staggering to his feet. With so much weight on his right side, he almost tipped back to the ground, but rearranged Steve with a lopsided lurch.

There was sweat dripping down his temple, his knees were creaking, but Steve wasn't even twitching and this sucked. Clint hacked on thick smoke and half-jogged out into the hallway. His eyes were burning, and he felt Steve's arm hit his ass. "Wow, cop a feel when you're unconscious. Real classy." He nearly dropped him, but tipped back over to the other side. "Jesus, kid, you're all arms and legs."

He looked down.

"Oh, you bastard. There are stairs."

Downward momentum would help him out. Balance, however, was an issue.

Steve hadn't moved at all.

Clint conquered the stairs like a pro. His lungs were aching, joints popping, every muscle he had was burning, but soon he was looking at a front door. It was propped open, and he practically ran into the street. Exhausted, he fell to his knees, sliding Steve off his shoulder, making sure to catch him with one arm, before he pressed his hand to his ear.

"Thor, Iron Man, Hulk, anyone, Cap's down. We need a flight outta here."

Damn, he was out of breath.

Apparently Thor wasn't that far away, because his arrival was announced by a crackle of thunder and stormy clouds. He landed next to Clint with a loud thud. His appearance was countered by the graceful entrance of the Iron Man suit.

"What has happened to the Captain?" Thor asked, looming imposingly over Clint's form. His shadow was a grateful reprieve from the bright sunshine.

Tony was immediately crouching next to Steve. "JARVIS is telling me it's just a high-strength tranquilizer. It's got to be, to take him down like that."

Clint, focused on catching his breath, attempted to heave out, "It was in the upstairs room. He just fell down. Don't know why they didn't go after me. Room started on fire after that. Had to haul his ass out. Seems like a shitty assassination attempt."

"That's odd." Tony commented offhandedly. He started mumbling after that, probably talking to his computer guy.

Sitting back on his heels, Clint looked down at the prone form next to him. "He's heavy."

"Well, not much we can do here. I got Hawkeye. Thor, take Baywatch over here."

Thor, like it was the easiest fucking thing on the planet, gathered Steve into his arms like he was a baby. Now that's how to fuck with a guy's dignity.

Clint was tired, and he was sore, and he was really tired, and that was just not fair. "B-but he's—he's… he's huge. And he's heavy," he sputtered out.

Laughing, Thor tucked Steve into one arm, pulling his hammer out with the other. "I find your statement to be blasphemous. The Captain is not heavy! None of you humans are!"

Clint narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, well. Fuck you."

"Clint didn't mean that. He's just mad because you stole his Cheerios yesterday morning." Tony grabbed Clint's hand and lifted him to his feet. "Be careful with the insults, would you? Last time someone hurt his feelings, lightning took down my systems for a week. And Pepper wasn't happy. By Female Uterus Law, that made Natasha unhappy. And that made Clint a very sad man."

Clint paused for a long moment. "He's still heavy."

And alive, he forgot to add. Alive.

Sorry. Clint's gotta potty mouth in my mind. He just does.

And I wanted people to carry Steve. It feeds my funny female fetish. He's always the strong one, until he's not. :)

Really, if you're going with Chris Evans' size, he's not that big. Like, I'm seeing a solid 195-200. Of pure delectable hotness...

Anyways, one of these days, I'll actually be attempting a multi-chapter story! It'll be intense. And full of Steve-pain. Yes, with the hyphen.

I've yet to decide whether this is humor or not. It's... my FFF. Funny female fetish. Winning.

Is the title the most unoriginal thing you've ever read? Probably. I honestly went blank.