Jumper

Who says that??? ‘Cuppa joe?’ Peter thought to himself, a bit hysterically, easily keeping pace with the man’s sedately paced strides. He had no clue why he was going along with the whole thing, except maybe to better reassure the guy that, yes, Peter really was not planning on committing self-murder.

He was struck from his thoughts when his companion came to an abrupt stop, spinning around to face what Peter realized a moment later to be the foretold café. 

It was pretty nice looking, both from the outside and from what he could see through the windows. The place was called ‘Mellows,‘ written in soft green, swooping letters, and it opened up with a set of double doors that the blonde pushed in for himself and Peter.

Once he stepped inside, a wave of coffee-tinted smells wafted over him, and his stomach growled loudly, making his face light up fire-truck red. He could almost pretend his temporary escort hadn’t heard if not for the faint twitch of his lips.

As it was, Peter dealt with the mortification with as much dignity as he could muster, and the two of them maneuvered over to the line.

“What can I get you?” the man finally broke the silence, and Peter immediately waved his hands around in front of himself in denial.

“I have my own money,” he protested firmly, shaking his head, and to this the man actually pouted. Pouted. Peter gaped at him.

“My treat,” the guy insisted. “I dragged you all the way here, it’s the least I can do.”

Peter fumbled over his words, trying to find some way to deny him without sounding blatantly rude. He floundered, stuttering out a few incoherent words before he finally resigned himself to his fate. “Ah, o…kay,” he ended up stiltedly saying, giving a grimace of a smile. “Thanks, then.”

“No problem!” the man said cheerfully, jutted out bottom lip disappearing without a trace. Peter squinted his eyes at him. They stepped forward to the front of the line, and the blonde greeted the cashier with the same exuberance. “I’ll have a black coffee and a strawberry shortcake, and he’ll have…” he trailed off, glancing over encouragingly at Peter.

Peter floundered again for the second time in just as many minutes, very much so being the type of person that needed to have a premade script to what they were going to say when ordering. “The - uh, I’ll have the…” he glanced frantically for the cheapest item on the menu. “plain glazed donut,” he finished.

Peter’s company turned back to the cashier, adding, “And a mocha and chocolate lava cake too would be just great,” and Peter stared at him, horrified, and desperately hoped they weren’t for him. It felt too much like he was taking advantage of the whole misunderstanding. 

The blonde shot a carefree wink at him and Peter’s soul withered, just a tad. 

-

“So,” the man started up as soon as they’d sat down with their food and drinks, Peter now having both a donut and lava cake on top of the surprisingly good mocha he’d been given. “You into any sports? Soccer, basketball, baseball, tennis, archery?” the blonde prodded, and Peter stared at him for a moment, completely blindsided. His brow twinged downwards a hair as some indistinct idea brushed against his thoughts.

It was… odd the way that archery was tacked on to the rest of them. Odd in a way that niggled at something in the back of his mind but refused to come to the forefront.

Well, the whole question was out of place, period, but Peter mentally shrugged his shoulders and gave a hesitant reply, tugging slightly at his long sleeve hoodie. “Ah, I’m not… really a sports person,” he winced. “Asthma,” he excused lamely.

The blonde made a sympathetic noise, mouth too full of cake to give a verbal response. Peter waited patiently for him to finish choking it down and follow it with a large gulp of scalding coffee that had Peter wincing. “That sucks,” the man said bluntly but still somehow managing not to sound rude. “Any hobbies?” he asked instead.

Peter nodded along easily enough, taking a small sip from his own drink. “I’m in robotics and my school’s decathlon team,” he admitted. He wasn’t really sure where exactly the guy was going with the conversation, but it didn’t seem like it was for some weird reason or anything.

“That’s great!” the man exclaimed, leaning forwards slightly. “I’ve got a friend who’s really into the whole robotics thing, or, well, engineering in general. He’s kind of an ass- I mean,” the man coughed, and Peter’s lips twitched up, “he’s annoying sometimes, but he’s awesome with the whole…” he gestured vaguely.

“Mechanics?” Peter tried.

The blonde snapped his fingers, picking his fork back up. “Yeah, that. Mechanics, Engineering, STEM stuff in general,” he rambled on.

“That’s awesome,” Peter said genuinely. “Would I know who he is?” he asked curiously.

The guy choked on his shortcake, hacking up pieces of it back on his own plate and a bit on the table as he thumped a fist against his chest, trying to clear his windpipe. “I-” he coughed a couple of more times, “-I’m not sure,” he strained out.

Peter stared at him dubiously, mostly because that reaction was as suspicious as anything. He was starting to rethink his whole spy theory. “Alright…” he dragged out, ending it in somewhat of a questioning pitch.

The man gave him a thumbs up, restuffing his face just as quickly as he’d… ejected from it. Peter muffled a snort.

“Do you have any hobbies?” the teen asked back, nibbling a small piece of cake off his fork.

The man hummed agreeably, swallowing audibly. “Yeah! I’ve got archery and pranking the sh-crap out of people, if that counts, and that first one’s more of a… hm, nah that’s it,” he finished rather vaguely, but Peter had to crack a smile at the second thing.

“What’s your best prank?” he asked interestedly, a commiserating sort of grin pulling at the corners of his lips. He’d done his fair share of stunts on Ned, and he still held fond memories of his friend screaming like a banshee after one particular escapade.

Clint returned the expression in earnest, a gleeful sort of smile lighting up his face. “It’s hard to even choose,” he admitted, fingers tapping quickly against the tabletop. He looked to the side, eyes narrowing contemplatively for a moment before they brightened up with the rest of his features. “I’ve got one,” he announced, leaning forward eagerly. “Ca - uh, my other friend, can be a serious stick in the mud sometimes, yeah? He’s got all these rules he wants everyone to follow or he’ll give you his patented disappointed stare that just cuts right into your soul,” he shuddered, and Peter let out a little laugh. The blonde shook himself, pulling himself back from the tangent. “But the point is, he’s got all these rules, and, well, what’s a rule unless you break it?” he grinned impishly.

Peter, being the very diligent rule follower that he was, put on a mock stern impression. “To follow?” he suggested reprimandingly, shaking his head slowly in pure disappointment. 

His companion scoffed, placing a hand against his chest in indignation. “You dare say such words? In my own home?” 

Peter looked around himself pointedly, then raised an eyebrow.

The blonde broke character first with a laugh and treated him with a wide grin that Peter returned, not even realizing how comfortable he’d gotten in the man’s presence till it jolted him like a bit of a shock right then.

He couldn’t really bring himself to mind, though, since he was pretty sure the dude was a genuinely nice guy. Sure, he might be hiding some stuff, but so was Peter. Plus, his danger sense hadn’t flared up at all since meeting him, and even the faint edge that’d hum against his skin in warning of someone with ill intentions hadn’t made itself known.

With that thought in mind, Peter continued the conversation.

“So what was the prank, then?” he prompted.

“Ah!” the guy said, recollecting himself and still grinning. “So, it was less of a one and done thing and more of a whole day event,” he admitted, pushing around the last strawberry on his plate. “It started off with me putting blue hair dye in his showerhead, which was fantastic,” he chortled, “and I put whoopie cushions on literally every place C- my friend usually sat, and, lemme tell you, he really let ‘em rip,” he laughed outright, and Peter joined in, trying to picture a grown man with blue-dyed hair repeatedly making farting noises everywhere he sat for an entire day. “I was in the vents cause he definitely knew it was me and I was not getting close to that, and there were a whole bunch of other things that I won’t get into right now, but pretty quick he got tired of it all and just left, yeah?”

Peter nodded along, and his impromptu friend (?) smirked.

“Wrong,” he laughed evilly. “I got that engineer friend I told you about to work on the prankee’s motorcycle and we rigged the horn to go off every few minutes and sound…” he trailed off, squinting at Peter. “Indecent,” he settled on, and Peter choked on the insinuation.

“Dude,” Peter managed to get out, laughing.

“That’s not all,” the blonde cackled. “We switched his bed with a hot tub that we put his covers over so when he laid down he fell right in!” he exclaimed with pure delight.

Peter stared at him, mouth open but still quirked up in the corners. “That is… amazing,” he breathed, huffing out a laugh and shaking his head.

The other did a little mock bow, smirking. “Why thank you,” he grinned. “I thought Cap’d end me for a quick minute there,” he admitted cheerfully, throwing his head back to take a huge swig of his coffee.

And then, a sudden realization hit Peter with all the gentleness of a brick to the head. His smile didn’t fade so much as it froze, but he was quick to cover it by taking another large bite of his cake, thoughts racing as every sluggish notion he'd had seemed to click right into place.

The spy-esque earpiece, the combat outfit, archery, Cap - as in, Captain, as in Captain America. 

Because Peter was pretty sure now that the person across from him was none other than Clint Barton, AKA an Avenger, AKA Hawkeye.