"fight me" steve
He didn't mean to end up face down on the floor in the alleyway. He really didn't. But, Steve is a little shit, and he ends up face down on the dirty ass floor of the alley way behind the bar, with a bleeding nose, split lip and maybe a broken bone or two, but most definitely a shit ton of bruises.
It wasn't Steve's fault entirely, yet he couldn't must the courage to mentally admit he had some responsibility. I mean, his intentions were good...ish. And he didn't wanna be a bystander, obviously. So he did what he had to do, and he threatened to punch the guy if he said another word to the girl sitting at the bar alone.
Nevertheless, he had that aching in this body- not the physical one (although now that we've mentioned that, ow!) but rather, the mental ache to just fucking fight someone. See, that's where the "ish" part comes in, the part which Nat calls "Fight Me" Steve ("It's not even catchy!" Steve exclaimed the first time she called him that, but she flicked his forehead and he slumped back into the couch and continued watching the movie), the part of Steve that just needed to fight someone, good cause or no cause at all, Steve was ready.
It also didn't help that Steve was "fucking ripped, like Godly-looking and shiny and shit," as Clint said, the first time he had walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist- needless to say, they were great roommates. Clint even says he would go gay for him, "and Brad Pitt because that man is honestly a motherfucking work of art, like can you even believe it!" (this was before Derek, but more about that later). So, simply put, Steve was quite large (not in that way, you perv! But yeah also in that way), and most people perceived him as a threat.
"Fight Me" Steve was born while he was living with his aunt Clara in Brooklyn, after a few years of moving there when his mom died. Now, as the story goes, please keep in mind, Steve was, at that age, what he would like to call "a skinny little motherfucker." The kid barely had any meat on his body, he was pale, small and weak- lots of illnesses held him back as a kid, but that's beside the point. One day, walking home from school, little Steve Rogers saw Billy Thompson, a bigger boy in 5th grade, picking on Lucy Oliver, a girl in Steve's class. Steve, promptly forgetting about his size (or lack thereof) had decided to walk up to Billy and punch him square in the face.
Steve went home to Clara, sat at the dinner table eating spaghetti, and when his aunt Clara asked him where he got the bruise on his face and bump on his head, Steve slurped up a noodle, smiled and said: "Lucy needed help, so I helped her."
Clara decided on that day that her nephew really reminded her of her long gone brother-in-law, and that night, she cried in her bedroom about Steve's future, praying he wouldn't be hurt forever and hoping that God, one day, would give Steve Rogers the right life to help people.
Flash forward to Steve in the alley way, throwing punches at a guy much bigger than him (and that says a lot, since most guys aren't bigger than Steve), and the guy pushed him against the wall, causing Steve to collapse on the ground, clutching his head.
"Don't fucking mess with me again, faggot," the man above him said, and kicked Steve in the face one more time before stomping away, in the opposite direction of the bar. Steve was on the floor for what felt like hours, when he heard-
"Steve!"
Clint Barton was jogging towards him, and Steve lifted his head from the ground slightly to see Clint's face, which didn't look happy.
"What the fuck man, I leave you alone for legitimately ten fucking minutes, and I find you like this," Clint had reached where Steve was and crouched down.
"'M fine, Clinty," Steve lifted himself up and say against the wall. "Some asshole was threatening this girl at the bar, I had to do something."
Clint had a firm grasp on Steve's shoulder, "So you took him out into the alley and let him beat the living shit out of you?" he asked rhetorically. "Logic."
"Someone had to-" he winced, his chest was killing him. "Someone... someone had to stop him."
"Stop trying to be a fucking hero, the world doesn't need saving, Steve," Clint shook his head. "C'mon, let's go home," he said, and he helped Steve up from the ground and started leading him out the alley way.
"Clint, I'm not trying to be a hero-"
"You just wanted to fight someone, yeah yeah," Clint rolled his eyes. "I know the whole deal, Steve." Steve was limping, walking slowly as Clint lead him to the car.
"It's not that, it's-"
"Rogers, I may be dumb sometimes and I do stupid shit," he paused, "But I am not dumb enough to pick on someone larger than me."
"But-"
"Pick on someone your own size, Steve."
"She wasn't sticking up for herself, I had to do something," Steve insisted, as they reached the car.
"I'm never leaving you alone in a bar again," Clint rolls his eyes, and opens the door to help Steve in, who had flipped Clint the bird in response to his statement. Clint walks around the the driver's seat, opens the door and slides in.
"I'm taking you to the ER, Steve."
"No."
"Too fucking bad."
Steve didn't have the energy to say anything else, so he didn't bother protesting as Clint pulled out of the driveway.
"Damn Saturday night, and you ruin it by fighting the first thing in sight," Clint mutters, looking into the mirrors of the car. "Should've known."
***
The night in the emergency room wasn't particularly eventful. Steve walked in clutching onto Clint, and the nurse gave him a once over and rushed him to the first room she could find. When a particularly nosy nurse asked "who the fuck would even mess with a guy who looks like him," Clint rolled his eyes and muttered "good question, I've been asking myself that for three years now."
On the drive home to their apartment, which was a block away from the college campus, Steve (literally high on pain meds) was clutching onto his chest, which had two broken ribs (not to mention the concussion, and the nearly broken finger and nose). He was quietly sitting in the passenger seat, looking at Clint intently.
"Clinty?"
"Yes?"
"Do you ever think... do y'ever think that maybe we aren't alone in this Universe?"
"Go to sleep Steve."
"No, but really."
"Steve?"
"Yes, Clinty?"
"Shut the ever-loving fuck up."
"Okay."
A few minutes pass, and Clint was finally comfortable in the silence, content with the hum of the engine and the road under the wheels of the car. He sipped his terrible hospital coffee, when-
"Clint, do you think anyone will ever love me?"
Clint practically spit the coffee out of his mouth.
"I feel like..." Steve started to talk, looking up to the car ceiling. "I feel like I'm so nice and cute, and no one loves me."
"Steve."
"Yes, Clinty?"
The car was now pulling into the driveway of their apartment, and after parking it, Clint turned to Steve and looked him in the eyes.
"Don't ever change, man," Clint says fondly, and puts his hand on Steve's shoulder. "Not for anyone, or anything."
"Clint?"
"Yeah, Steve?"
"You're nice."
"Alright let's go, you're going into bed, Captain," Clint rolls his eyes for what felt like the millionth time tonight. He opens his door and runs over to the other side, and helps Steve to the front door of their home.
"I'm a Captain, Clint?" Steve had a faraway look in his eyes. "That's so cool, dude, does that mean I can fly?"
Clint stuck the key into the lock and pushed the door open. "Man, what does one have to do with the other?" and Steve opened his mouth to answer, and Clint says "Never mind, don't answer that," and ruffles his best friend's hair.
Getting Steve into bed was easy, but getting Steve to let Clint go was... not so easy.
"Cliiiiintttttt."
"No."
"Come sleep in my bed, we can cuddle," Steve insists.
"Steve, that's weird as fuck," Clint says, but then recalls the time when he and Steve got wasted and ended up cuddling on Nat's couch (there is photographic evidence, as well).
"But I wanna cuddle," Steve whines.
"No, not again. This is not happening," Clint retorts.
"Fuck you," Steve says with a sleepy smile on his face.
"You wish," and Clint ruffles his best friend's hair, and walks to the door and shuts the light. "Good night, Captain."
"Nighty night, Clinty," a sleepy voice quietly replies.
That night, Clint pulls out a bottle of scotch and drinks for his friend, Steve Rogers, who was too good for this damn world.