Author's Notes: posted a prompt for this at the kinkmeme and promptly lost it. So, I may be filling it myself. This was totally supposed to be mostly a five times Darcy watched Clint shave. And now it's not. Hope no one minds the detour. Rating for language and adult situations, because well, Clint and Darcy. Title from a Burma-Shave jingle. Carla Smith has shown up occasionally as a cat-wrangler/assistant for Nick Fury in the comics.

I do not own the Avengers, which are properties of Marvel, but since Marvel has owned my zombiefied self since I was 5, I figure it works out in the end

In Cupid's Little Bag of Trix Chapter 1

When Jane got her research tsunamied by SHIELD (again), Darcy had been finishing her Masters in D.C. Jane had called her up to beg help on a question about which government agency was best to appeal to when a super secret government agency was trying to disappear your lifework. Darcy suggested wikileaks.

A week later SHIELD was offering her a job, which was apparently part of Jane's negotiation. And Pepper Potts countered (because she'd been listening when Jane rambled about how excellent Darcy was at wrangling science types) and Coulson had compromised.

Darcy supposes she's sort of a lobbyist in training. She bounces between New York and D.C., around Stark Industries and SHIELD liaison offices at the base of Stark Tower There's a trick to learning by osmosis how to manipulate insanely powerful people into seeing things her way and handing over blank checks and open permission slips, while wearing shoes that cost more than her mom's first house. But Darcy caught on pretty quickly, following Pepper, her staff and an agent by the name of Carla Smith.

As a card carrying member of the pessimist's liberal club, she meant to be totally outraged at the amount of money she more than suspected got "redirected" into SHIELD'S blacked-out bank account. And the amount of tech that could be helping people that just got used to blow shit up.

And then the guys limped in from their villain of the week and it was totally crystal that it was only the insanely expensive and exactingly researched how not to die when you get shot, (dragged exploded and dunked into pools of acidic Jell-O filled with Avenger-eating bacteria) outfits, gadgets and weaponry that kept any of them alive. Cap was only wearing half his cowl and his uniform was in shreds. Stark looked like he was going to need the jaws of life to get out of his armor and about a third of the paint was gone. Hawkeye and Widow had holes in their uniforms and bandages on a lot of exposed skin. Even Thor looked ragged around the edges. All of them were wearing those thousand mile stares that said that epic amounts of booze and bullets were going to be expended in the next few unwinding days.

Darcy was pretty much on board after that. Though she appreciates it when Stark looks at her while he says, about a year after Loki's it's all about me tantrum, that the derivative research from the Iron Man suit's filtration and the arc reactor was going to revolutionize saltwater desalination tech. And that he's got people installing the first ones in North Africa for a test run. And that she gets to go oversee it all to report back on popular reaction.

That's pretty damn awesomely glass full even for a pessimist.

Of course, when she comes back, it's been three months since she's been anywhere near as shiny and la-di-dah and packed with overfed, over stimulated, overexposed tourists as Avengers Plaza turns out to be. Since it looked like a third of the building got smashed in the last doombot thing she caught glimpses of on the newsfeed, she has to go through the main entrance. And then someone grabs her hair and she has to elbow her way free, because the taser's way the hell at the bottom of her bag.

Then there's a tour group in the lobby. And someone calls out to her when Darcy is supposed to be one of the faceless minions. So, maybe, she panics a little when she ducks into the first door she sees. And turns the lock, closes her eyes and leans against the door, trying to remember what her physical training instructor had said about breathing through your nose as opposed to through your mouth.

She opens her eyes to see the room she's picked for her escape.

Which is apparently a very well appointed men's room. Really nice. She's been in one or two.

No particular reason.

But this one has a lounge and decent lighting and televisions and several really well lit mirrors in several configurations.

And a Hawkeye.

A shirtless, damp, covered in lather with a razor in his hand Hawkeye.

Um. She can't help blinking.

'Cause, ya know. He's quite a fucking eyeful. Even with a shirt.

Though she should probably close her mouth. And breathe.

She's met him. The real him, Clint Barton, Agent of SHIELD. In New Mexico he'd been the least thuggish and hottest of the jack booted thugs. He'd tossed back her iPod when (most) of the equipment got returned.

After the whole Loki thing she'd seen him once or twice when she got called in to help Eric transition back out of zombiescientist mode after Jane recalled that Eric had always liked to dote a little on Darcy. Barton had clearly been dealing with his own issues from that, and no fucking wonder. He's been sort of shuffled away from SHIELD…just for a while, is the official line. Hawkeye's now an independent contractor. It means they still need Hawkeye, they just don't want to be bothered with fixing him. So they'll let the Avengers house him until he's clearly back together and not about to start lining up killshots on friendlies again. Darcy's got no illusions about the people she works for.

She gets invited to the pizza, movie and beer things that the Avengers do, when she's in New York. Jane makes sure of that. She feels uber responsible for dragging Darcy back into the hush-hush crap, so Jane tries to make up for it by getting her former intern in on the fun stuff, not just the running, we're all running now shit. Hawkeye's usually there. And he's funny and sharp, way more than she'd expected from a cool assassin type. Barton always seems to have some little prank going. There's that quirky little half smile thing he does that she's completely unable to not smile along with. She's been rolling with her little crush, happily at a distance. Eyecandy for the nights she spends with Jane, to distract Darcy when Jane gets swept up in the maelstrom that catches her when Thor turns on his charm.

"Ms. Lewis? Darcy?" Barton's not exactly smiling now. Nope, he's pretty well looking at her like he just stumbled on her gnawing on a leg of a chair or something.

Yeah. She might still be staring at the way water is dripping down his forearm. That's a really nice forearm. Veins are sexy. Who knew?

"Hi. Umm. There are...tourists? I guess. A lot. And it was...Someone recognized me and...Why are you shaving in a public restroom?"

"Staff only, actually."

She maybe remembered sticking her thumb to the recognition plate.

Clint looks her over. Hair all tangled, panting, and pale, Darcy Lewis clearly needs a bolt-hole and jesus fuck, does he know what that feels like. So, he can roll with the slightly odd situation. "Uh, my bathroom got trashed yesterday and this one is directly connected by a vent shaft to my bedroom. "

Darcy blinks huge dark blue eyes at him as her brain tries to catch up with her. "Oh. I'm sorry about your bathroom." Fuck, Darcy. Not like a good chunk of other New Yorkers aren't completely homeless now. Again. She personally wouldn't live within a ten block radius of Avengers Plaza. Except when she's working or hanging out with Jane, who practically lives here when Thor's in-house.

"Well, what can you do? Giant fucking flying laser shooting robots." He shakes his head, like this is my life now, wtf.

She can't help a smirk. "Yeah, tell me about it." And he recalls the first time he met her and has to grin which sparks her to a real smile. And...wow. She's got a pretty killer smile, all wide mouth and sly eyes.

"I'm gonna hang for a minute...till the horde clears out or gets a little less bloodthirsty." Uh, if that's okay?"

"I gotta… ah..." he waves his razor. "Got a meeting in a few."

"Yeah, I'll just…hey look...cartoons." She glances at the leather sofas and picks the one in his line of sight in the mirror to watch Spongebob. Where, it so happens, she can see him in the reflecting mirrors at the other end of the room.

He shakes his head again and goes back to shaving. It was nice of her, he thought; to pick the seat he could easily see her from his place at the sink without having to turn his head. He wonders for a minute if she got some briefing on how to handle him and then thinks, Nah, Barton. She's just decent. Imagine that.

The thing with being a super secret assassin, though, is you can tell if you're being watched. And Darcy is watching, whether she means to or not. In the reflection of the mirror he can see her intent on the way he draws the safety blade down around his cheekbone and shakes the foam away. He keeps going and does his best to ignore it until she bites her lip, all plump and crimson.

He would really like to...

Fuck. He thought he'd gotten over that. Flustered, he draws his eyebrows down and almost glares at her in the mirror.

"Did I miss something?" And Christ, she blushes. All the way down to those gorgeous...fuck. Damn it, he hadn't meant to embarrass her.

"I, ah, just. You do your thing, sorry." Guys shave, Darcy. Razors, lather. Maybe not any of the ones you've dated. But, you know, hot guys ten years older. They shave instead of buzzing themselves with electric trimmers. It's not hot. It's just maintenance, for fuck's sake. Stop staring.

Clint hesitates but starts again, on his jawline. He's got a rhythm. This is just a routine duty, methodical and fairly quick considering it's, you know, a razor against his throat. Wow. Hawkeye's got a nice, long tanned throat. Holy crap, Darcy. Maintain. She swallows and looks back at the TV where a sponge is karate-ing a squirrel, but just for a second.

And he's watching Darcy watch, now. Clint lifts his chin and pulls the razor up his neck. He's working slower, taking a more careful stroke to reveal the bare skin as he observes the places her eyes touch and he's not sure why...but it's doing something for her. She's lost that manic buzz she'd burst in with, looking scared out of her wits. Her breathing is nice and slow now, her posture notched back down from fight or flight to something that's almost lazy, with her feet curled towards the sofa.

But he's done and there's no reason to drag it out further. Somehow, Clint feels almost reluctant to rinse his blade and tuck it back in his kit. She looks relieved when he pats himself down with the towel and goes to pull his t-shirt over his head. There's a little clatter when Darcy moves, really fast for a civilian, if not quiet. She's saying okay, good timing, gotta go. And she's gone, out the door before he can emerge from the shirt, again. Fuck.