winterhawkkisses:

345.

Pizza tastes best cold, a little rubbery, between 3 and 5 am. Clint’s done the research, okay, he knows.

That sounds kinda facetious, but it’s more true than looking at him’d have you believe; his food blog is all kinds of successful, racking up the awards, paying for his apartment building and the endless medical bills for his dumb dog. He’s the kind of guy who’s invited to restaurant openings, now, shambling up in a purple Henley and worn jeans, grinning lopsided and embarrassed at the press. Somehow, he’s ended up friends with Tony Stark, who couldn’t stop laughing when Clint’d compared some up-and-comer’s escargot to ‘bronchitis backwash’ and kept inviting him over to insult craft beers.

So pizza maybe isn’t exactly what he’s known for, but pizza’s what he knows best. Cold, rubbery, 3-5am and, inconveniently, a 24 hour cooling off period for optimal rubberisation.

Now night pizza, it ain’t exactly a culinary wonderland. Tends to the dregs and the good-enough-for-drunks, poorly presented and with a focus on the smell. Clint has been lured by skilful wafting too many times to be anything other than wary when he walks past the new place on 9th, takes in a lungful of basil and garlic and cooked meat and melted cheese.

It’s the pizza sweet spot, 3.45 with the night shaking out its feathers and settling in all warm and close, clouds holding in the last of the fall’s remaining heat. The air in his apartment had felt a little too thick for breathing, but out here it’s fine and beautifully fragrant, and he’s heading through the door before he even takes note of the name.

There’s a note taped to the counter – ‘display cases are for assholes, good food is worth the wait’. Clint’s, frankly, a little in love, even before the beer-cap bead curtain clatters and the most beautiful man to ever scowl like he wants to kill him steps through.