"You've gotta stop doing this."

This isn't the first time you've come home to find your partner laying on your couch in some state of disarray, and it won't be the last.

Clint has a habit of crashing anywhere convenient—or inconvenient—after doing whatever Hawkeye does, and your apartment is always somehow the closest place.

"And don't pretend your hearing aids are dead so we don't have to have this conversation. I know you just changed the batteries yesterday."

You know him too well.

Clint gives you a look from his sprawled position on your couch. His suit is torn in multiple places, a bruise is forming on his jaw, one sleeve of his suit is ripped into a makeshift tourniquet.

He looks* * rough.

"In my defense,"

He says, his voice a little more sluggish than normal.

"You're much closer than my apartment."