Loki nodded along, though he actually understood very little of what was said. “T’is no real bother, nothing worth mentioning methinks.”
“Loki. I need you to tell me when you need or want things,” Clint said plainly. “I am not a mind-reader, and while I don’t like it when you try to order me around, if you’d ask nicely I’ll get you whatever you need. If whatever you need is peace and quiet because you have a headache, I need you to tell me that instead of pretending it’s okay.”
“I, ah…better. My head hurts.” Loki nodded, closing his eyes for a moment before glancing back over to Clint. “Where are you taking me?”
“We’re going to drive straight across the country and into California. I have contacts that can get us into Taiwan from there, which is a non-extradition country,” he informed Loki. “…You should have told me your head hurt sooner, I would have stopped,” he offered softly.
Loki cringed, sticking his head out the window once more. He barked out what may have been the smallest of laughs as Clint sang along.
Clint grinned, glancing over at Loki. That was totally a laugh. When the song ended, he turned the radio down to a murmur. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” he told the god. “How you feeling today?”
Loki had spoken too soon. Clint immediately launched into an enthusiastic rendition of Thrift Shop the moment it came on.
It was in no way intended to spite Loki for that comment.
“Barton. Barton stop this right now.” Loki growled, resting his chin on the window with a grumbling huff.
Clint stopped - to switch the station to classic rock. “Aw yeah,” he said happily. “A singer in a smoky room. The smell of wine and cheap perfume!” he howled along soulfully, delighted.
Loki huffed out a sigh of relief as Clint’s singing ceased. His head hung half out the window, a lazy smirk on scarred lips as he turned to his companion. “I thought you would never stop…”
Loki had spoken too soon. Clint immediately launched into an enthusiastic rendition of Thrift Shop the moment it came on.
It was in no way intended to spite Loki for that comment.
Two hours later, Clint was halfway through singing along with the radio to “Die Young” by Ke$ha and showed no sign of stopping as they drove through Pennsylvania. “This state is ridiculously fucking huge,” he muttered once the song stopped.
Clint hummed his agreement, eyes closed as he began to drift off. “Ain’t the first time I took off running,” he mumbled. “‘M good at running from this kinda shit…”
“I believe you. Trust you, perhaps.” That was a lie, Loki clung to the comfort but there was little trust left for him to give.
“Don’t. Don’t trust anyone,” Clint continued mumbling. “That’s how they get you…” he trailed off, already half asleep.
“Shu-ush, Clint. You’re gonna make the kid an’ I blush.” Watching him with Jude, she felt a small rush of affection for her friend. Jude stared up him, blinking a little but not fussing at all. “The one an’ only. It was between that or Patrick but Jude seemed t’stick. Jude Anthony Harvey.” Winter laughed softly when she heard him start to hum the song. “You’re good with babies.”
“What can I say? I’m great at things that start with ‘b’. Bows. Boats. Babies. Babes,” he added with a grin. “Uh… bananas? I don’t think you can be great at bananas, scratch that one.”
“And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don’t carry the world on your shoulders, for well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder,” he sang softly, bopping Jude’s nose lightly.
“Winter, I’m in love with your son,” he said with a straight face. “It’s like Twilight. I am a werewolf. He is your vampire baby. I have imprinted on him.”
“Completely not jokin’,” Winter assured him before holding up a hand. She’s practically bouncing on her feet as she heads back to her office. After a few moments she’s bringing out a smallish bundle wrapped in a TARDIS blue blanket. “Oh you forget that we already have one of those runnin’ around. Jasmine’s finally hittin’ that age. Mind you she sleeps like her father.” She carefully hands him over, murmuring to mind the wings when she does.
Clint gazes down at Jude with an awestruck look. “Hey, baby boy,” he murmurs softly, holding the child close. “Oh, look at you. You’re gorgeous, just like your mama.” He presses a careful kiss to the top of the baby’s head. “Guessin’ he was named after the Beatles song, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he begins to hum it.
“Don’t need luck. Just good aim.” The little smirk that dents into stubbled cheeks couldn’t possibly be misinterpreted as anything else other than knowing, Heugh gesturing loosely to the manilla file sitting under his briefcase.
“Don’t worry about it, shit happens. Lucky I’d found it or we’d both be in the dog house.”
“Well, good job you,” Clint says dryly, taking the folder and pulling a pen out of his pocket. He begins to finish it up, sighing at it. “So how’s shit been with you?” he asks conversationally, figuring that’s better than an awkward silence while he scribbles away at the stack of papers.
