InsaneJournal

Hank and Clint
Who: Hank and Clint
Where: Hank's room
What: Make up and make out (log in progress; rated adult!)



It was sometime between three am and dawn. That was always the worst time for Clint. Everyone with any sense was asleep and the whole world went still. Too still. He needed constant motion to keep one step ahead of his thoughts, constant stimulation, and these early mornings were nothing but time to lay in his bed, staring blearily up at the ceiling and hating himself with a passion.

He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up with Hank, one of the truly good things in his life. The hell of it was, his reasons had seemed so water-tight when he'd broken things off. Hank was getting too close, was becoming too vital. Clint had to put some distance between them before things went to hell and Hank was lost for good. He couldn't survive that. He didn't want to survive that. He was already too God-damned attached and he wasn't sure he was surviving it now.

Clint turned on his side, knees drawn up, and stared across the dark room. His stomach was tied into a series of intricate knots and it was ridiculously hard to draw in a deep enough breath. His thoughts kept turning over themselves, panic and longing warring in him. He had to keep his distance. He couldn't stay away. Hank would hurt him. He was hurting Hank. He could pick up and leave any time he wanted. He was ready to hand himself over to be tied down at last. This could be his home. Any home he had would be destroyed.

He missed the way Hank sometimes snorted in his sleep, and his stupid, big, freezing feet.

"Damn it," Clint said, rolling out of bed and stumbling blindly toward the window. He remembered locking it earlier, before forcing himself to go to bed, but if it were unlocked... He tugged and it opened easily, the lock busted. A sign. A lucky sign. Or at least, he was going to take it that way. He slithered out onto the sill and began to climb, moving toward Hank's window with grim focus. He didn't think about what he'd do when he got there. He didn't think about whether Hank would want to see him. He just...went.

Clint pushed open Hank's window--also unlocked; another sign--and slid inside. He shut it behind him, moving silently in the darkened room. Teddy had gone back to Brooklyn the day before, so Hank's was the only breathing he could hear, drawing him toward the bed. Clint padded close, pausing to look down at Hank's sleeping face before moving to perch on the edge of his mattress, near Hank's hip. He hesitated, then reached out and gently shook Hank's shoulder before he could second-guess himself.

Hank had finally finished packing...an hour ago? maybe? With everything ready to be placed in storage or taken along for the ride home -- his clothes stuffed carelessly in suitcases, his book tenderly tucked into sturdy boxes -- he'd been asleep as soon as he hit the pillow.

Now, though, he was jostled out of sleep, sitting up in a bleary panic before he blinked, managing to recognize Clint's shape. "Oh," he breathed, relieved...and then remembered that Clint's sudden appearances weren't normal anymore. They hadn't spoken in weeks. He fumbled for the glasses on his bedside table, his contacts out for the night, and said again, "Oh."

"Hey," Clint said. "Um. Sorry. Is this a bad time?"

"I was just resting my eyes." He shifted, sitting up straighter, fighting the odd urge to pull the sheet up to his chest.

"Oh. Is that really a thing?"

"No. Not pertaining to me, anyway."

"Oh. Okay." Clint reached down to fiddle with the trailing end of the sheet, not meeting Hank's eyes.

"Were you just in the neighborhood?" Hank asked, teasing gently.

He looked up, brows knit. "I live-- Oh. Um, yeah. Just driving by."

"It's nice of you to stop in," Hank said gravely. "I would have made cookies."

"Are we okay, then?" Clint asked, surprised it had been this easy.

"I...no. I don't know." He sighed, shifting. "I don't even know what happened, Clint."

"Oh. Okay." Clint shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his hands again.

"Are you all right? I was worried." He smiled a little, wry. "I should have asked before."

"I'm okay," he said quickly. "I didn't get hurt or anything." He was sporting a few bruises now, of course. Clint had been picking more than his fair share of fights.

"Hmm." There was a bruise on Clint's wrist that begged to differ, and another time, Hank would have touched it, sighing. "I meant emotionally."

Clint shrugged a shoulder. "I dunno. Are you okay? I made you pretty mad."

"I missed you more than I was mad," Hank confessed, and now it was time to sigh.

"I...I think I've forgotten how to start and end the day without you," Clint admitted, watching Hank from beneath his lashes. He was perched on the edge of the bed as if ready to take flight at the first sign of rejection, shoulders tense.

He couldn't help but smile. "And you said you weren't good at poetry."

Clint relaxed at the smile, rolling his eyes. "That didn't even rhyme or anything, Hank."

"It doesn't always have to." A pause. "So we're friends again?"

"Actually," Clint said slowly, "I was hoping I could convince you to be my boyfriend."

Hank's heart seemed to flutter in his chest. "Pardon?"

Clint was up and across the room in and instant, visibly agitated. "I mean," he said, backpeddeling. "I mean, I want-- I want you to be-- I was thinking. We could be best friends. And have sex. And I haven't been seeing anyone else anyway, so until we decide to change things, I guess we could be best friends and have sex together and not have to worry about anything else."

"Oh. You mean go back to friends with benefits?" That was...a relief, and disappointing, all at once.

"I don't know. Yes? I just-- I don't know! Yes."

"Take a deep breath and think for a minute, Clint!"

"What do you want?"

Hank closed his eyes for a moment, considering it. Finally, he said, "I'd like us to be friends like we were a few weeks ago. And...yes, I'm not going to lie -- the sex is appealing."

"Luck won't be a problem anymore," Clint said, slowly moving back toward the bed as if he couldn't resist Hank's draw.

Inexplicably, Hank felt nervous, even as his belly tightened at the sight of Clint stalking toward him. "How do you know?"

"Because I'm not going to let it."

"Thank God." He shifted over in the bed to make room for him, not even thinking about it, and held open his arms.

Clint climbed into the bed and onto Hank, tangling his fingers in his hair. He tipped Hank's head back in one fluid, graceful move, pressing in to lick into his mouth with a low noise.

It was like they'd never stopped, or like they'd never done this before at all, or both. Hank gasped into the kiss, tongue tangling with Clint's as his arms came around him, fisting the back of Clint's shirt.

Clint straddled Hank's hips, pushing him gently down onto the bed. He followed his slow descent, never breaking the kiss, hand cradling the back of Hank's head until it touched down amongst the pillows. Clint made another low, needy noise, thrusting his tongue deeper into Hank's mouth with a jerky rock of his hips.

Hank growled in agreement, a low, entirely sexual rumble in his chest. He was nearly nude, just wearing boxers, so he felt the thrust all the way down to his toes. Shivering, he arched to rock back against him and tugged impatiently at his shirt.

(TBC)