do less harm
"Tony fucking Stark," Clint says, and throws his book--there's really only one that he thinks of as his book. Maybe the book--onto the couch then flops dramatically after it, twisting a little to avoid landing on it and jabbing himself with the corner. It's in surprisingly good shape for having been actively lugged around for the better part of two decades and change, despite having been run over once and dropped in a puddle at least twice.
If nothing else, that would have convinced Clint of it's realness. It's magical realness. Hah.
"Oh god," Kate says, when he repeats the thought out loud, "Don't try to make literature jokes at me. You're not fooling anyone."
Clint pulls the book out from under himself to consider it. Now that he's an adult, it's pretty obviously a kid's book. A little bit oversize, the cover decorated with the simple stylization of books that were meant to have a dust jacket. He does kind of look like a dumbass carrying it everywhere.
"You might have to water my plants," he tells Kate, flipping it back open and resting the bottom of the spine on his stomach.
Kate says, "Right," in a dubious tone, and glances around the apartment, the little shit. "You know," she says, and Clint flips her off before she can get started with her commentary on the dessicated remains in his pots and how, for a wizard, he has the ungreen-est thumb ever.
At least he can keep dogs alive.
As if on cue, Lucky rests his head on the edge of the couch and rolls his eyes beseechingly. "G'boy," Clint tells him, babytalking to annoy Kate. Lucky huffs dog breath at him.
"No going," he says, a long canine whine, drawing out the -oooing, and his tail thumps pathetically.
"Don't worry," Clint says, turning back to his book where, two days ago, his name had appeared next to the listing On Assignment and Assignment Location: Stark Tower, 200 Park Avenue, Manhattan, NY, "If anything happens, Kate will feed you and take you on walkies and pick up your poop and stuff."
"I'm not sure I'm supposed to be helping you with your shit," Kate tells him, and, "You're the worst Advisory ever."
"Hah," Clint says, "I'm not advising anyone right now. I'm on assignment," and glares at his book again. Says, "Could there be one aspect of my life that does not include Tony Stark? He's--" Clint's not even sure how old Tony is, "too old to be recruited," he finishes, a little awkwardly.
"I was fifteen," Kate says, and Clint gives her a look, because while that is old for a kid to be wizardishly open to believing in bizarre possibilities, he can't quite come up with a snappy remark about it.
It doesn't seem quite right to, either. Considering the reality of those bizarre possibilities.
Instead he says, "Yeah. That's totally the same."
-----
Tony had thought his coffee machine was recalcitrant before, but now it has opinions on his caffeine consumption and a snippy, self-righteous tone, like an affronted teenager. Or maybe like a nagging, offended mother.
(Fine. Drink yourself to death,) it burbles, (Give yourself an ulcer. See what I care. Every morning I have to watch you stumble around, skipping breakfast and do you know how sour coffee is? On an empty stomach? It's a blessing if you're not drunk while you do it.)
"Shut up," Tony says, and squints at the pot, "Brew faster."
(I'm brewing, I'm brewing,) the coffee machine says, in a tone that would be accompanied by an eye-roll if it were human, (The thanks I get.)
"I appreciate you looking after me," Tony tells it, because the guilt trip is familiar and that sentence, said contritely enough, usually mollifies Pepper enough that she doesn't outright resign on him.
(Aw, don't mention it,) the coffee machine says, changing it's tone and sounding bashful. It burbles a little faster.
-----
"Congratulations," Clint says, barging into the tower with that apparently SHIELD-encouraged lack of respect for private property. "On not getting killed." He looks extra pissy today, and Tony's not sure what it's about but then Clint continues, "Or so I assume. Unless you're not done and I just got sucked into someone else's Ordeal and you're about to get us both into some kind of horrible situation." He says it with an implied wouldn't be surprised, and waits for Tony to catch up.
"Oh," Tony says. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh. I had a nice semi-retirement going. Thanks a lot."
It's an act. Probably. Clint's retirement wouldn't have been semi if he was, as the manual put it 'an unwilling spirit', and Tony's always known that Barton was full of shit, but this is living proof.
"How are you semi-retired?" Tony says, "I just got roped in. Right before that tesseract business. You might remember it. Or maybe not." He's not really all that clear on what Clint's side of things was like, or what memories he's retained.
Clint gives him a poisonous look. "That's what you get for building your towering monument to yourself practically on top of a world gate," he says, but his tone is a lot milder than his expression, and even that clears into weariness after a second, then into some kind of exasperated humor before he reaches into his bag to pull a book out and tosses it open onto Tony's table.
Tony looks down at it just long enough to recognize his name in clear, dark letters and to register the size and style of the book, then back at Clint. "Do we need to get you hooked on phonics, Barton?" he asks.
Clint snorts and looks like he's just barely managing to not make a face. "Fuck you, Stark," he says, "I was nine."
Nine? It must show on his face, because Clint's amused look comes back and he touches the picture-heavy pages of his manual with something that might be fondness and might be nostalgia, before he says, "Don't tell me you didn't know you were old for the offer? Like--old."
"I may be a bit more mature," Tony starts.
"Old," Clint repeats, interrupting, "The average is around twelve." Then, "It's probably your lack of a grip on reality. I guess it's working to your advantage." His tone clearly says if you consider it that.
Tony's manual had said a lot about a wizardly sense of joy and wonder, but Clint's coming off kind of cynical. He tactfully doesn't mention it.
Instead he asks, "So how does your assassinating people and this preserving life business go together?" And okay. Maybe that's not a step up, tact-wise, but Clint just turns his manual around so the pages are right-way around for him and shrugs, looking at Tony's name on the page again like it's poison.
"Figure I break about even," he says, "At least I'm reducing my footprint." And that just brings up all kinds of uncomfortable feelings. Tony tries to tamp them down, and can't quite succeed. His stomach crawls a little uncomfortably.
"I wasn't offered this because I'm an amazing public speaker, was I?" Tony asks, thinking about the notes on persuasive speaking and language aptitude. The description really doesn't fit Clint, who seems to think "and stuff" constitutes informative elaboration.
"Hell if I know," Clint says, "You and Bruce are the ones who are all with the working of the universe and the quarks of the atoms or whatever. I just--"
"Just?"
"Try to keep a few plants alive and businessmen from catapulting themselves into alternate dimensions."
Tony's not sure how plants fit into that, but he offers Clint a salute with his coffee mug anyway. "A worthy pursuit," he says, "especially that second part."
"Eh," Clint says with a shrug, "It's just that the clean-ups kind of a pain."