3. Chapter 3

Tony Stark had inherited and then destroyed his father's legacy of sound business decisions. The Stark's had once owned the liquor distribution for the entire North East region of the country, until Tony tried to drink the inventory dry after his father's death. His father's partner Obadiah Stane staged a takeover bid and the resulting legal cat fight ruined whatever was left of the business. Tony had managed to keep his trust fund, and with that and a few months in and out of various rehab clinics he started over with Stark's Bar. It was small but successful, and within a couple of years Tony bought a bigger venue down the block and started producing dance parties, inviting internationally renowned DJs whom Tony knew personally from his previous, jet-setting, party-boy ways to come and spin. But whatever else he put his mind to, he didn't seem inclined to mess with the dive bar that started him back on the road to prosperity.

Phil had been there several times over the years, always on business. Despite some overlap, neither Stark's Bar nor the Malibu Nightclub was actually competition for SHIELD. For one thing, the town was big enough to support both enterprises with spare left over for smaller, less well run clubs and bars; for another, Tony and Fury didn't get along but they respected each other enough not to duke it out. They were the behemoth gorillas of the city and they knew that competing head-to-head was a quick way to guarantee mutually assured destruction.

The long tall blond called Captain America, though, was looking to be the wedge that would drive them to war. More accurately, it was the Black Widow. Fury was not used to people saying no to him and he was taking it personally. But Phil had heard through the grapevine that the team at Stark's Bar was tight knit and if Captain America left, chances were good that the Widow would follow. That was a very big "if," especially if the rumors Sitwell passed along about Rogers and Stark dating, or at least flirting, were true. Stark held on to what he thought belonged to him, ruthlessly. Phil still smarted from the verbal smack down he got from Stark when he tried to steal his bar manager, Pepper Potts, out from under him. Not that Phil would ever let Stark know that.

He showed up at the bar early. He was going to have to trap Rogers into talking to him, before or after, although Phil was selfishly hoping it might happen "after" so he could catch the show. He was only human, and really wanted to see what Rogers could do with those long, long legs.

Pepper eyed him suspiciously as he walked up and settled at the bar. "Phil."

"Pepper. How's business?"

"Too good to warrant a visit from you," she said, putting his drink down in front of him. She never forgot a drink, and had started pouring his whiskey sour as soon as she had seen him. Phil was yet again driven to regret at not being able to woo her away from Stark's.

He opened his mouth to answer when his attention was grabbed by a blind man making his way to the bar. He carried a white cane but he wasn't using it, walking precisely between the tables and chairs with the cane tucked jauntily under one arm. His sunglasses were dark and slightly oversized, and looked good on him despite being out of place in the dim club. What really struck Phil was that the man was built: compact and tight, muscled from top to bottom like a soccer player or a middleweight boxer. He had the attitude as well, a slightly belligerent expression and a defensive posture that screamed "fuck off and leave me alone." Phil was glad to oblige and turned back to Pepper.

She was fixing another drink and ignoring Phil. As the blind guy settled down a couple of seats over, she pushed the beer at him. "One."

He frowned in her general direction. "Two."

"Orders, Clint. One. You remember what happened last month."

"That had nothing to do with beer and everything to do with jerkwads spilling their drinks."

"One."

"I can still take you in a fight, woman!" Clint grinned at her, looking a bit crazy with the glasses hiding half his face. It was oddly adorable and Phil choked on a laugh. Catching the sound, Clint jerked his chin towards him. "Who's your friend, Pep?"

"Phil Coulson, from SHIELD. Phil, meet resident smart ass, Clint Barton."

Clint held out his right hand, holding it randomly in front of him and waiting for Phil to pick up the slack. Phil leaned over and grabbed it, giving a firm, friendly shake. "I thought the resident smart ass was Tony."

Clint shook his head. "He likes to think so. He's smarter but I beat him in charm, wit, and sex appeal."

Phil wasn't going to argue that last point, so nodded in reply before remembering that Clint couldn't see him. "If you say so," he offered instead. He took a moment to give Clint another subtle look over (justifying it to himself with the slightly creepy thought that Clint wouldn't notice). His first impression that Clint was all muscles was right, but he revised it on closer inspection because of Clint's carriage and the way he moved. There was grace there, and it was strangely at odds with what Phil would have sworn was a military bearing. He was handsome without that sheen of "pretty" that so many gay men tried for. Clint was comfortable in his masculine, rough-hewn looks.

In short, the guy hit every single one of Phil's buttons. Phil took a sip of his drink and looked up to see Pepper smirking at him. He gave her a bland glare and she just shrugged.

"SHIELD's that big club southside, right?" Clint asked, taking a swig of his beer.

"Yes. Most popular club in the city."

"As long as you don't count the Malibu," Pepper said with a feral grin.

"And we don't." Phil raised his tumbler at her in salute.

Clint settled against the bar, angled towards Phil, one solid, muscled leg stretched out, braced against the floor. His jeans really did not hide much and Phil was having a hard time pretending he didn't notice.

"So, what, you're slumming?"

"Yes."

"Ouch," Clint laughed. "You letting that slide, Pepper?"

She sighed heavily. "He's here to talk to Steve, I think. Fury hasn't had any luck stealing Natasha so he's trying the next best thing."

Phil frowned at her all-too-accurate assessment, and wondered if there was a mole at SHIELD, although he knew Pepper really was smart enough to figure it out on her own. Fury wasn't being too quiet about his intentions.

Clint whistled. "Wow. Way to aim high, there, Phil. Good luck with that."

"Thank you," Phil answered, trying for his driest tone. Clint tipped his head back and laughed loudly, his throat working with the sound and Phil had to look away. Pepper's expression switched from smirking to surprise. Phil ignored her too.

"You know Steve's not going to drop Tony, not for all the money you offer him. He's high minded. He's got ideals. He's fucking loyal."

"There's no such thing in this business." Phil turned the tumbler in his hands.

Clint paused, seeming to consider the words. "Yeah there is. Just maybe not for you." Clint's entire body closed off, turning towards the bar and his beer, and Phil got the distinct impression that he had just been dismissed.

"Phil's a good guy, Clint. Don't be an ass." Pepper slapped at him with a dishtowel. Phil watched in shock as Clint's hand struck out and grabbed the towel with unerring accuracy, yanking it out of Pepper's hands.

"He's here to buy Steve, Pepper."

"Steve's a big boy, I think he can fight Phil off." Pepper rolled her eyes.

"I'm just under orders. Fury wants the Black Widow for his new initiative, that's all." Phil sighed into his drink. "If I don't at least talk to Rogers then Fury will put me on closing mop up for a week."

Pepper and Phil shuddered in tandem. Clint was ignoring them. Phil almost convinced himself that he wasn't disappointed by that.

Since Clint seemed more interested in his beer for the time being and Pepper had other customers, Phil took the hint and wandered over to a table. Tony had renovated the interior a year ago when the club night started picking up steam and both Captain America and the Black Widow joined the roster of dancers. Before that the dancers had mostly been go-go twinks with bad rhythm gyrating on dance platforms scattered around the place. A couple of those platforms were still in place but the main action happened on a new, small center stage. It boasted a shiny, professional pole going floor to ceiling, and Phil could tell that its anchors were reinforced. It was a serious piece of equipment meant for hard use. He knew that wasn't for the Black Widow's sake. She was 130 lbs maybe, and her act rarely included a pole other than as a prop, even if Phil was certain she could spin with the best of them. The pole was meant for sterner stuff, and that probably meant Captain America. Phil ordered another drink from the baby-dyke waitress Pepper sent over and settled in with a sense of expectation.

Over the next hour the club filled up but Phil had made sure to get a table on the low rise where he'd have a good view of the stage. The DJ/announcer warmed up the crowd with some dance favorites before calling on the opening act, who was apparently a crowd favorite if the reaction was any indication.

"Welcome Hawkeye to the stage, boys and girls! And get your bills ready, you know he can smell money!" The announcer roared as the crowd broke up with laughter. Phil made a mental note, because if he couldn't get Rogers or Romanov, he might at least grab some up and coming new act.

His attention was caught by Clint walking towards the stage, his cane out in front of him and making ridiculously wide sweeps to clear the crowd, who parted like butter. He stumbled and Phil frowned, because Clint was clearly putting on an act with his buffoonish wobbling about. He fumbled, his arms out, and acted like he got turned around. Phil glanced over at Pepper, who was ignoring the whole thing as if it was something Clint did all the time. Phil hoped that whoever Hawkeye was, he wouldn't give Clint shit for interrupting his act.

With a few backwards steps and a confused look on his face, Clint crashed into the stage. Phil jumped up, hating humanity while everyone started laughing at the blind guy, but then Clint…rolled. Easily finding his feet, he threw the cane like a javelin to the back of the room as the crowd started yelling even louder. The cane landed in an empty planter with such precision that Phil doubted Clint's disability. He looked back to the stage to see Clint changing his sunglasses out for a sleeker wrap-around pair that fit almost like goggles, with an adjustable band. He flicked his other pair through the air and Pepper caught them with a smile.

"She caught 'em, right?" He yelled the question, and the crowd went crazy.

Phil sat down in his chair slowly as understanding finally dawned.

Clint nodded towards the DJ and music pumped out of the speakers. Grabbing the pole, Clint started dancing.

Phil thought with shock that the word "dancing" did not do justice to what Clint was doing to that pole. It reminded him more of the complex, artistic performances of Cirque de Soleil: Clint walked up invisible steps as his amazing arms pulled him up the pole before he turned over and slid down, then twisted to kick his legs out and somehow flipped in mid-air, landing upside down again with his back to the pole. Holding the handstand, Clint curled his ankles around the pole and undulated his body slowly, every muscle moving in waves before he grabbed the pole with one arm and lowered to the floor.

Clint was still in his jeans and casual button down shirt, but as he pulled himself up off the floor he started unbuttoning. Phil's hard on got painful. Clint had on a sleeveless tank top under the shirt he was peeling off his body as he easily stood on one leg, the other wrapping around the pole again. As soon as the shirt was tossed to someone who was clearly an adoring fan, Clint started up with the circus acrobatics again. His arms were works of art, thick and meaty but not overbuilt, incredibly strong and flexible as he caught himself a half-dozen times in mid-air somersaults on and off the pole. The pole's reinforcements made a lot more sense, because Clint was hitting it like a gymnast even as he kept stripping down like a man born to be naked.

He pulled the tank off quickly while dangling from the top of the pole, whipping it like a lasso before letting it fall into the crowd which had not stopped cheering since he started. Phil could barely hear the music over the noise, and wondered why Clint wasn't a headliner. Phil couldn't imagine Captain America outdoing Hawkeye. He tried to surreptitiously press his palm to his dick under the table, willing it down, but then Clint planted his feet wide apart, leaning so only the top of his back rested against the pole, then flicked the buttons on his fly one by one. His face was tipped up just a little, and that with the sunglasses reminded Phil that the guy who was stripping down for 200 of his closest friends was completely blind. There was a slight sheen of sweat on him by then, and he was breathing heavily. Phil knew the business, knew that Clint was using the slow slide of his hands over his hips to distract his audience while he caught his breath for a few seconds…but Phil didn't care, watching greedily.

Thought flew out of his brain when Clint rolled to face the pole, edging his jeans down inch by inch as he dry-humped with slow, languid rolls of his hips. The crowd was literally going insane and so was Phil, staring at the firm, rounded cheeks of Clint's ass and his thick, hard thigh muscles as they flexed, pure fucking in motion.

Finally down to a pair of bright purple and satiny low-rise hip-briefs, bright with the shine of sweat and flushed with exertion, Clint went into his big finale. He grabbed the pole and made love to it as he twisted around and over it, keep himself low to the bottom, rubbing every part of his body against it. Phil thought he was going to come in his pants if Clint kept at that too long, but finally Clint pulled himself up to the top and then glided down in an easy spiral, setting his legs spread wide at the bottom, leaning back on his hands, sucking in air as sweat poured off him in rivulets. The metaphor of the pole resting up against his balls was lost on exactly no one as the audience started howling and wolf-whistling.

After a few seconds, Clint started the typical stage crawl around the edge so people could put money into his pants. He scooped up whatever people had thrown on stage as he went, and it did seem like he already knew where the money was. He slapped hands away that were too touchy feely but he smiled the whole time, and no one got mad. With another backwards shoulder roll, he stood up against the pole and raised his fists full of cash in the air, presenting his body like a work of art to his audience. It was possible his chest was waxed but there was a fine treasure trail that snuck down his six-pack belly into his briefs and Phil tried not to think about following it with his tongue.

The lights went out.

Phil panicked for a moment, but the laughter of people around him suggested it was part of the act. When the lights came back on, Clint was nowhere to be seen. It made sense, because he didn't need lights to get around, but Phil was still disappointed. He sat with one hand pushing down on his dick and his other clinched around his tumbler, knowing he was covered in sweat just from watching. It had been a long time since a dancer got to him that badly.