Chapter Text
Phil’s only just moved back to New York. It’s after eleven, his new apartment is a mess of misplaced furniture and half-open boxes, he’s sweaty, exhausted, and starving. Stark had offered to send him a bunch of professional movers to do the heavy lifting, an interior designer to get everything squared away, but he’d been too stubborn to take the man up on it and now he was regretting his decision.
A poor decision he now realizes, as he trudges to the shower in misguided hope of having the knots in his shoulders loosened by the hot water. The throbbing in his knees confirmed that flash of insight, and was enough of a chastisement to force him to set aside his pride, at least enough to take the man’s advice on a good pizza joint and call PizzaGrams.
It was a horrible name - a horrible premise really - and where it certainly offended Phil’s sense of taste, he had to admit that Tony Stark knew good pizza. The eccentric engineering genius had assured him that the pie would be well worth the show, though his snickering suggested he was getting one over at Phil’s expense. Unfortunately at that point, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Fed up with the world, the entire, messy process of moving, he couldn’t be bothered to scroll through Yelp and anyway, Stark’s jokes had never been malicious in nature.
Tapping on the link to the pizzeria’s website, he’d keyed in the coupon code Stark had texted him and picked the #5 Special at random, tossing his phone away into the clutter, intent on nothing more than his shower and a change of clothes.
Of course, now that he was thinking a little more clearly under the spray, he suspected that he should’ve taken the time to actually look through the specials before he ordered. He didn’t really care what came on the pizza - he was hungry enough even for pineapple tonight - but he was dreading the actual singing.
Or dancing.
Or… whatever it was that came along with a pizza-gram.
Climbing out and toweling off, he began to contemplate all the different ways he might get out of receiving anything more than the actual pizza, up to and including faking the chicken pox with baby powder and a washable red marker. He actually liked that one quite a lot, but in the moment it seemed like far too much effort when he could just snatch the pizza and close the door on whoever delivered it. Let them sing from the hallway if they had to.
Besides, he didn’t have the energy for much more than tugging on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt at the moment, slipping on his glasses to give his eyes a rest.
Wandering back into the living room, he surveyed the mess disinterestedly while patting himself on the back for having thought to pack an overnight bad. A hold-over from his days in the Army, Phil knew how to pack; the little black duffle bag had been the first thing through the door. Pajamas, toothbrush, DVDs and a six-pack - it had been a godsend to shower and brush his teeth, and given that he’d judiciously kept the couch clear and located his wayward laptop, he would be able to relax with a drink and movie for a few minutes while he prepared himself to suffer through the horrors of singing pizza delivery that awaited him.
Weaving carefully across the mini disaster zone, he crossed behind the kitchen island and opened the fridge, gleaming and empty save for his beer. Grabbing three, he popped a top with a quick twist and sent the cap skittering over the granite countertop.
Granite, lord.
He was really coming up in the world wasn’t he?
Run-down studios, Army barracks, shitty walk-ups in bad neighborhoods, and now here he was, in a fancy apartment in Stark tower of all places, complete with granite countertops and panoramic views. There was a state-of-the-art gym and a pool in the building somewhere, twice-monthly laundry collection and grocery delivery, optional cleaning and turn-down service - and Phil still wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to truly settle in to the place.
It made sense to live in the tower - he was Stark’s new head of security after all, on call twenty-four/seven - but then again he’d always been bound and moved by Tony’s every whim, ever since the day he’d made the miscalculation of befriending the man by saving his life in Afghanistan. He’d couched it as being convenient for Phil to move in, and yes, it was in that it would certainly cut down on his morning commute, but he wasn’t stupid. This new living arrangement would make it exceptionally difficult to escape the man-boy genius on a good day, nigh on impossible when Tony got some crazy idea into his head and started gunning for Phil’s attention with a vengeance.
Shuddering, Phil crossed himself and took a long pull on his beer before dancing his way back to the couch. Glaring accusingly at the coffee table, which had the audacity to perch itself innocently against the far wall and well out of reach, he threw his feet up on a stray cardboard box and popped The Fellowship of the Ring into his laptop. One and a half beers later he’d mellowed considerably and had almost forgotten about the gimmicky, singing pizza delivery he was waiting for, at least until a sharp, rapping knock sounded against his front door.
Speaking of gimmicky, singing pizza delivery…
Ugh.
Setting his open bottle on the floor, he approached the door with a suspicion he usually reserved for cafeteria coffee. If there was somebody in a mascot costume out there…
Fingers on the deadbolt, he pressed his eye to the peephole to get an idea of just exactly what he was in for.
Huh.
Not much apparently - the glass was fish-eyed and a little hazy, and only provided him a view of a smudge of black over beige, a hood against Stark’s corporate wallpaper. Have to fix that - it wouldn’t do for the head of Stark Security to slack off when it came to his own home-safety precautions, not to mention the dozens of other employees Tony kept on-ground.
Shaking his head at his own poor stalling techniques, Phil sighed in resignation, flipped the lock and pulled the door open, ready with some nonsense excuse sitting on the tip of his tongue.
An excuse he promptly swallowed when he froze in the doorway like an idiot, staring dumbfoundedly at the delivery boy on the other side as a distinctive strike of heat flashed through his body.
Holy hell.
Who were the pizza places hiring these days?
Not pimply, brace-faced teenagers, that was for sure, because the man standing on his doorstep was exactly that - a man. Delivery boy didn’t even being to cover it. This guy was gorgeous, a couple inches taller than Phil and broad across the chest, dressed in a black leather motorcycle jacket covered in gold zippers and studs. Black cargo pants were tucked sloppily into unlaced jump boots, tight across the hips and belted with more glittering gold buckles and Phil felt his body tense, nerves tingling. This man felt for all the world like an assassin - muscled, still, deadly - and Phil certainly knew the type, but he’d never been hit so hard by a wave of hot-danger-pretty-pissed in his life.
Blinking himself out of his stupor, he dragged his gaze back up, back to a face half-shadowed by a black hood. All he could see in the lowered light of the hallway was a strong jaw and a harsh mouth, lips ticking at one corner in the beginnings of a sneer that made him swallow thickly. Lifting the plain white pizza box balanced on his palm, the man drew back slightly like he was going to fast-pitch the thing, chin jerking up to reveal sharp, shadowed, khol-rimmed eyes. Meeting Phil’s gaze he faltered on the threshold, stuttered just a little as he pulled up short, eyes narrowing and mouth curling into a frown. It seems like an eternity passes between them in that moment, a clichéd electric shock that saw Phil’s heart beating painfully in his chest, and left him unsure if he was about to be kissed or kicked.
Shit, where had he packed his taser?
Taking a step back, the man lowered the box and squared his feet, and Phil recognized a fighting stance when he saw one. Shifting his own weight, he prepared to slam the door pizza be damned when a low, gruff voice stopped him.
“You’re not Stark.”
AVAVA
The # 5 Special didn’t get ordered all that often. The # 7, sure, that one got called in all the time, but everybody loved The Hawkeye. He was charming and polite, sweet, but a little bit playful, a little bit of a good-natured trickster. The # 5 though, The Ronin, that one was… an acquired taste.
Don’t get him wrong, the pizza was damn good, just like everything Bruce turned out of his super-science ovens, but the delivery that came with it… well.
Suffice it to say that The Ronin was only ordered by certain regulars, and Tony Stark was not one of them.
In fact, Tony Stark only ever ordered the # 1, The Captain America, a Brooklyn-style pepperoni pizza with a side of good ole boy-next-door Steve Rogers. The crazy genius had become such a consistent regular since Bruce had introduced them all that they’d taken to calling him Pepperoni-Tony around the shop, teasing Steve relentlessly about his blatant admirer. Hell, at this point the billionaire had practically funded Steve’s art school tuition single-handedly through his outrageous tipping habits. Gross part was that Steve seemed to like him right back, the ass, but neither of them seemed willing to actually do anything about it.
Still, it made it easy for Clint to slip into his Ronin headspace for the night when Tony’s key-code went through the system. Rough, dark, domineering, it was a gimmick, a mask he wore along with the costumed black and gold, but the undercurrent of anger was all Clint. If Stark thought he could string Steve along like that just to drop him for someone else he had another thing coming. Didn’t matter that they weren’t actually a couple - expectations had been created over the last two years and Clint was fully prepared to shove his pizza down his throat, box and all when the door of Stark Tower’s Apartment 2634 swung open.
But it wasn’t Stark.
Startled, confused, he heard himself snarl the accusation and saw the man in front of him steel himself, saw his eyes narrow.
“No,” he replied, calm but insistent, the voice of a man who knew how to take control of an escalating situation. “Just a friend. Phil. Coulson. Stark only recommended the place. How did you…”
“He gave you his code,” Clint said distractedly as the realization hit him.
Shit.
That was against the rules.
Straightening out of his instinctive fighting stance, Clint lowered the pizza box and took a step back.
“Stark’s a regular,” he explained - though maybe not for much longer. “Wasn’t expecting… you.”
Excuse made, Clint took his chance to look the man up and down. Calculating behind thick-rimmed glasses, trim, muscled, and ready in an Army Rangers t-shirt, a little older but no less attractive or commanding for it…
Clint like-y.
“Sorry to disappoint,” the man replied dryly, and oh, daddy has claws. “In that case feel free to hand over the goods and go.”
Arching an eyebrow, Clint frowned before shaking his head minutely, stepping back into his Ronin role.
“I don’t think so,” he growled, making it a threat and a promise on one breath. “You get what you pay for Coulson. The Ronin Special - dinner and a show.”
“That’s really not necessary,” he protested, but Clint had already shouldered roughly past him into the apartment, playing up his character and wondering just exactly why the guy was so adamant about getting his pizza and seeing him back out the door.
“Most people look forward to this part,” he purred silkily, putting the pizza down on one of the many boxes standing around the cluttered space. Seemed a little soon to be ordering a stripper if he’d just moved in, but who was he to question how the guy got his stress-relief. “First time?”
“You could say that,” the man, Coulson, answered. Don’t usually go for singing pizza. Or dancing pizza. Whatever you’re going to do.”
“Oh I’m gonna dance for you Coulson,” he rumbled, dark and hoarse and dangerous. “And you’re gonna sit and you’re gonna like it.”
He shouldn’t. This guy wasn’t tested, wasn’t vouched for no matter how hot he was, but Tony’s suspected betrayal had put Clint in quite a mood tonight and he was deep in his Ronin headspace now, willing to play with this new person, this man with the nice muscles and the Rangers t-shirt who looked like he could actually take Clint if he had to. Who scowled at Clint’s orders but sat down in the middle of his couch with a short huff, who looked like he might put up a good fight against this before he finally submitted, whose pale, soft throat looked vulnerable and bare, made Clint want to wrap his fingers around it gently just to feel his pulse jump, to feel him swallow.
But that was what Ronin did wasn’t it, what men and women who ordered the # 5 were looking for. A little scare, a little nervousness, a little rough treatment, but still safe knowing it wouldn’t go any further than that, no lasting impressions be they physical or otherwise. Just a single night, a blip in their otherwise quiet lives before Clint put his clothes back on and left them to their pizza and their other vices.
Spying a laptop sitting open on a nearby box, Clint ignored the fact that the guy was apparently a Lord of the Rings geek and took a thumb drive from his pocket, plugging it into the port. The paused movie immediately minimized itself thanks to Bruce’s coding - no doubt helped along by Stark - and instead brought up Clint’s music, the opening beats of Barry Adamson’s Can’t Get Loose setting his nerves alight.
God he loved this, this sense of power, control. Felt good, and hell, it was even fun most of the time. Coulson certainly wasn’t the worst-looking client he’d ever had - it wouldn’t be a hardship to dance for him.
Sauntering forward, leading with his hips, Clint tugged off his fingerless gloves, stuffed them into his pocket and ran his hands down his chest. The man on the couch had gone silent and wide-eyed, staring like a shaky virgin, but he doubted that was true. There were a couple of empty bottles on the floor and maybe it really was his first time with a stripper, but in any case it wasn’t going to stop this. The music had already grabbed him and his body was swaying with it; flexible, sinuous, and sensual.
Never let it be said that growing up in a circus didn’t come with a few advantages.
Sliding his palms down over his thighs, Clint slunk forward and loomed over the couch, looked down with a wicked smirk as the music whispered smoky lyrics in his ears and he slid the zipper of his jacket down, one slow, painful inch at a time. Peeling the leather back off his shoulders, he let it fall to the floor and sank to his knees on the couch, straddling Coulson’s legs. The man made an almost-imperceptible sound in the back of his throat, leaning away from him as his hands came up and landed flat on Clint’s chest, palms firm and warm through the fabric of his cotton t-shirt.
Mm, that was nice, but that was against the rules too, and Clint grabbed his wrists roughly, pinned his hands against the back of the couch.
“Club rules boss,” he growled in the man’s ear, clicking his teeth in a mock snap that sent a shiver through the man beneath him. “No touching, at least until we get to know each other better.”
“Not necessary,” Coulson said tightly, and Clint firmed up his grip reflexively, ready in case he got… insistent. “Off. Now.”
Well that wasn’t what he’d been expecting, and it set Clint back on his haunches with a surprised jolt, one eyebrow cocked in confusion as he set the man’s wrists free. He was still leaning back and away from Clint, and he raised an eyebrow of his own as he waited for Clint to oblige, but his surprise had gotten him a little stuck as the song finally faded off and left them in silence.
“Please,” he added flatly, and that was enough to prod Clint into action, jumping off his lap and backing up a few paces, tilting his head to one side as Coulson stood and rubbed his wrists, frowning.
“Aw hell,” he muttered as realization struck for the second time that night, “He didn’t tell you.”
“What?” Coulson snapped, glaring in Clint’s direction. “That I was ordering a…”
“Stripper?” Clint finished.
Shit.
He’d seen that look before.
“A dancer,” the man corrected, tone deceptively light.
Clint scoffed.
“Sure,” he sniffed, picking his jacket up off the floor and slipping it back on, zipping it up and taking refuge in Ronin’s armor.
This was not the way he’d been hoping this night would go.
“I’m sorry,” Coulson said as he turned to take his thumb drive from the computer, stuffing it into his pants pocket and pulling his gloves back on. “I didn’t…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Clint replied gruffly, pulling his hood up over his eyes before he turned to face him. “Not your fault. If anything I should probably be the one apologizing.”
As much as it sucked to see the derision on Coulson’s face he could understand the shock, getting a lap dance from your delivery boy out of the blue like that. Not exactly consensual when one of you had no idea what they were in for.
“Stark’s the one who’ll be sorry,” the man muttered under his breath, then he pinked, dragged a hand through his hair before moving toward the kitchen counter. “Let me get you a…”
“Charge it to Stark’s account,” he shrugged. For whatever reason, he really didn’t want to take this man’s money. “Enjoy the pizza.”
Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the apartment, closing the door just a little too hard behind him.