I Don't Believe We've Met

Reindeer Games

Clint couldn't understand it.  He couldn't wrap his mind around how you could have developed feelings for someone like Loki.  The man had obliterated a fair chunk of New York City, betrayed his brother more times than countable on both hands, and had what he would call the biggest god complex he had seen if the man wasn't already one.  Of course, his experience with Loki wasn't exactly the best, and he was still harboring some pretty significant hard feelings for the man even though years had passed.  It was something that you couldn't understand on your own, nor could anyone else, unless they had been controlled in the same way that he was. 

He also couldn't understand how you were still alive; you had been at the tower for nearly a week when he noticed that the food supply was barely changing outside of what he had used.  As he stood in the center of the kitchen to compile a grocery list for FRIDAY, he wasn't sure of what he was seeing and began to worry.

"Hey, (Y/N)," he called out to you in the next room, "you're eating, right?"

"Sure," you called back inattentively.  "I eat all the time.  Can't stop, actually.  Yep, food and I are best friends."

Clint turned and stepped into the doorway, leaning against it with a lift of his eyebrow in skeptical consideration; you didn't look any worse for wear, but he hadn't really had to pay close attention before, either.  "Okay, I can't tell if you're being serious or sarcastic."

"Hmm, I suppose that means my level of sarcastic mastery has hit its peak."

"Shit, you were a master when I met you," he shrugged, turning back to his work, "but you work for Stark, so I shoulda known it would only get worse.  So, anyway...you eat, right?"

"Yes, Barton, I eat.  Now stop babysitting."  Knowing that this conversation would only get worse, and that you were likely to lose anyway, you thought it might be best to let it lie and make a run for it.  You stood up from the couch, leaving the TV on to throw Clint off, and turned to make a run for the elevators on the far side of the room and furthest away from the archer.  Clint wasn't technically your babysitter, per se, but he sure was acting like one.  He woke you up in the morning, made most of the meals, and made sure that you got to bed at a reasonable hour of his choosing each night.  It was a little suffocating, but it wouldn't be enough for Tony to pull you back to the compound where you belonged.

"Woah, hold up.  Where do you think you're going?"

"To my room...Dad."

"Don't give me that crap, (Y/N)," he pointed at you sharply, "I'm not your damn babysitter, okay?  I'm just worried, that's all."

"Not your job, but I appreciate the effort.  I'm just going upstairs to do some work.  I still have a job...well, actually two jobs to do, and I'm falling behind because I don't have my office down here, and because Stark won't let me go to HQ until this is all over.  I can't just keep sitting here when work is piling up."

"M'kay, but hold on," he stopped you, a hand up to keep you there and a quick turn towards the refrigerator.  When he turned back, he had a few different fruits and a cup of yogurt for you to take with you.  "Here, at least eat this.  It's been a week and the only things missing are what I ate.   If I let you starve to death, that's not gonna play out well for me."

"Fine," you huffed, hurrying across the room to take them from his waiting hands, "but only because this is about you."

"No arguments here.  It's always about me."

~~~

Back at the compound, business was moving forward as usual, with the team doing their best to not get into trouble while you were away; as their publicist, you had to clean up any public messes, so they had agreed to be on their best behavior for your sake.  Not that they were careless with you around, but they sure weren't rule followers that you had left behind to fend for themselves.