Tim McGraw
It probably says something about Clint Barton that he can be scared out of his mind, and still have to hold back raucous laughter at Phil’s therapizing voice. Okay, it definitely says something about Clint Barton, but really, Phil’s forced-calm tone is worse than Dr. Phil on Vicodin, and Clint is about to suffocate to death keeping in a peal of giggles.
Of course, this entire event would likely be infinitely funnier if Clint’s entire new life, which largely hinged on Phil not being evil and corrupt and, oh yeah, using him, is teetering dangerously close to massive conspiracy territory. But who’s to say. Maybe the paranoia adds a hysterical element to the comedy.
Clint’s trying not to jump to wild accusations, but when you’re sitting in a feelings circle with Iron Man, Captain America, the toughest Black Widow, and a debatably retired SHIELD agent, it’s safe to bet something is afoot.
“Clint, anything to add?” Phil asks.
Clint has less than no idea what is going on, considering he’s been a little busy focusing on his next move to really delve into whichever emotional problem Phil is trying to fix today with about the same level of effectiveness as 5 Minute Crafts. In truth, while Clint’s made his living in thinking on his feet, most of Clint’s long-term ideas tend to go horribly pear-shaped. Like when Clint ended up holding a bazooka full of cocaine while surrounded by a Columbian firing squad, or when he was imprisoned in Hong Kong for blowing up a firework factory while temporarily feral from cobra venom, or when he was permanently exiled from France for bitch slapping the pr-
“Bucket hats should never have made a comeback.” Clint offers.
Phil doesn’t waver. “While the topic was “dealing with the consequences of actions”, I appreciate the effort. You still dug deeper than Tony, with his answer of “what do I know about consequences? I’m literally rich”.”
“It’s true.” Tony defends. “According to Tik Tok, my taxes, and my Instagram bio, I am very much a capitalist.”
Phil takes a moment to rub at his eyes with the meat of his palms, but his tone never wavers. “This weekend is three days, so I’d like you all to pair up with someone and do an activity. Any sort of activity, as long as it takes more than an hour and is completed before class on Wednesday. Also, since your group hospital trip proved to be so productive, I’d like you all to “hang out” tonight.”
Tony raised a hand, waving it wildly back and forth. “What if I have other plans, Agent?”
“You don’t,” Phil deadpans. “Class dismissed.”
The bell rings and they all file out, Clint and Natasha rushing past the gathering crowd of students and dipping into the library to confer.
“Is it just me, or is Phil getting way better at this whole fake teacher thing?”
Tasha grabs a hold of his shirt, shoving the both of them into the most secluded corner, a little nook farthest from the entrance and tucked between two bookshelves and a wall.
“Hush, we need to plan who we’re going to partner with.”
“Relax, this isn’t exactly covert espionage, this is high school.”
She elbows him in the stomach, hard. “And both of us are only versed in the former. High school is a far deadlier, and more uncharted arena than any secret military base or diplomat’s skyscraper, and every student far more desperate and nihilistic than any adversary we’ve ever faced.”
“Isn’t that a bit of an-“
Oh no, Tasha had crazy eyes again. Which meant she was completely sure of herself, and Clint better shut up and fall in line, or else serious pain would soon follow. That and she was almost always right in the end.
“Yesterday I watched Wade Wilson break three of his fingers with a physics textbook to get out of taking a quiz. The quiz was ten points, Clint. Ten.”
“Wade’s always like that.”
“We got to school with Iron Man, but nobody cares. Everyone is more invested in the war the theater kids waged on Stark after he hacked the PA system to blast the Cats soundtrack the musical than his secret superhero identity.”
“The theater kids deserved it for putting on Seussical again. Every damn year.”
Natasha crossed her arms. “Last week the senior class president bit our principal for taking away her pudding cup.”
“Without hyperbole, I would do exactly the same thing, potentially even more, but point taken. Teenagers are unhinged.”
If humming could be smug, or at least conveying of the emotion “well, duh”, then Natasha's noise of agreement certainly was. “Thank you, now, I think you should partner with Steve. He probably knows more than the both of us combined, after all, Captain America is SHIELD's darling. By all accounts, Steve Rodgers should be a champion of the people, but then again, when has history ever been altered to prop up the supposed heroics of a white man.”
“Got it, recon, lite. I’m your man.”
Clint considered the insane possibility of just asking Phil to reveal the matters at hand, but of course, that plot wasn’t nearly convoluted enough. Of course, if Clint was wrong, and Phil truly was some fairy tale villain puppeteering a master scheme, then Clint was truly fucked. More fucked than in the circus, more fucked than in any shitty group or foster home, more fucked than he’s ever been before.
Fuck.
Natasha’s face remains impassive, but she elbows him again, lighter this time. Natasha isn’t one for flowery speeches or pep talks, but he can feel the shared comfort, the reassurance, in the gesture.
“Relax,” she parrots his word. “If everything goes to shit, I owe you a coke.”
He shakes his head, tension leaching from Clint’s shoulders. “More like-“
“Who’s doing coke?” Tony asks, head popping over the top of the bookshelf. The short bastard must have climbed it, just to interrupt their conversation. “Are you guys hooking up?”
“No,” Clint shouts, at the same time, Natasha says the word with mild disdain.
Clint rounds to her. “Wow, rude, I am so desirable.”
Natasha only rolls her eyes.
“Sorry,” Tony says, but his tone is in no way apologetic. “It just seemed the least strange explanation for why you’re huddled in the corner of the library .”
Clint says. “We’re appreciating literature.”
Tony raises an eyebrow. “In the dictionary section?”
“Oh no.” Clint delivered dully. “You’ve discovered our greatest shame, we can’t read.”
“Like all women, I am illiterate.” Agreed Natasha.
“Sounds legit. Anyways, I’m throwing a little shindig for my bestest pals. If Agent wants us to bond and get all touchy-feely, who am I to deny his whims?”
“You're throwing another party? You do remember what happened last week, right?”
“Not really, no, I was pretty drunk.” Tony swung his legs over the top of the bookshelf, landing between Clint and Natasha, uncomfortably close to both of them. “Regardless, I’m not even throwing a party, because Bruce strongly vetoed that delightful and completely genius idea, and I’m not going to anger him--this time--because he has a lot of blackmail on me.”
“You actually want to just… hang out?”
“No idea where this crazy rumor where I’m “eccentric” and “high-maintenance” came from, rather than the truth that I’m a complete salt-of-the-earth type, but I’m deeply saddened by the slander.” Tony looks down at his shoes, trying to keep his tired frown in place and not laugh. “Be over at seven-thirty!”
Tony runs off, probably to cause other manic pixie crimes, but Clint can’t help but stare at the space he once occupied.
“See,” Natasha says, “I told you teenagers are terrifying.”
*
“What are you planning, Tony?”
“Nothing!” Tony gasps. “Why, Bruce, perish the very thought.”
“Right,” Bruce grumbles. “You just invited the entire group over out of the entirely non-self-serving kindness of your heart.”
Tony grinned. “Precisely, glad we’re in agreement.”
Bruce grunted but didn’t press Tony further, probably too impressed with Tony’s social skills and ability to build interpersonal relationships. Or he knew better than to engage with Tony when he was on one of his funky little crusades, but it’s definitely the former.
The front door buzzer rings. Showtime, baby.
“Jarvis, let him up.”
Bruce glances off from the table where he’s doing homework. “It’s barely 7, who could that be?”
“Thor,” Tony says conversationally, “He must be early. Or, oops, maybe I told him the wrong time.”
“Tony,” Bruce says carefully, “I’m going to break your spine like a glowstick-”
Bruce’s very detailed threat is caught off by Thor strolling out of the elevator.
“Thor, buddy, pal, welcome.”
“Thank you, Anthony, your house is most high up.”
“Stop, you'll make me blush. So sorry, but I accidentally gave you the wrong time. I feel absolutely ridiculous, but everyone else is arriving in half an hour.” Tony tries to decorate his features with a bashful expression, but he can’t help the smirk which shines through. “Don’t worry, Bruce will entertain you while I finish setting up. Feel free to get comfortable--intimate--even. Take off your shoes, maybe your shirt.”
Thor smiles. “Marvelous, what wonderful suggestions.” He disappears down the hall, peeling off his shirt without missing a step.”
“I'm going to kill you,” Bruce says, trailing after Thor. “I’m going to kill you so much. At least four times.”
Tony can’t help himself, he’s simply too good at matchmaking. He shouts after Bruce’s disappearing form. “Try the Master bedroom! There’s so much space to get intimate and comfortable”
Tony hums, pouring a bag of chips from “Market Basket” into a bowl, and a carton of blueberries into another. Rule #1 of any get-together: always supply provisions of the snack variety. Sliding the bowls onto his ottoman, Tony calls out for Jarvis. Rule #2: music is a go. Tony mentally cards through the classics--Doja Cat, Ari, Phoebe Bridgers, Lizzo, Willow--before deciding on Taylor Swift, and a sure-fire fan favorite. Finally, as per Rule #3: cold guests are stabby guests, Tony tosses the fluffiest blankets in his repertoire onto the couch. Perfection.
Of course, Captain America is the first to arrive.
“Hello.” Cap offers, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I brought fondue.”
He holds out the pot, passing it off to Tony. The boiling cheesing makes the metal vessel too hot to hold, and Tony nearly sends the melty goo all over his floor in his haste to set the pot down. Truly does Steve has a knack for establishing awkward silence.
“Thanks, Champ.” Tony offers, “I’ll get some bread.”
Cap waits to stand stiffly by the door as Natalie and Clint arrive.
“Are you sure about this?” Natalie whispers, evidently unaware of how thin the elevator doors are.
“He’s playing Taylor,” Clint whispers back. “Taylor is for baddies, not bad guys.”
The elevator opens with a bing, and Clint looks around for a moment before, in lieu of a greeting, states “Wow, this place is even nicer when I’m sober.”
This pleases Tony.
“What’s on the agenda, Mr. Stark? Dancing? Debauchery? World domination?”
Tony makes a “pfft” sound, tossing a couple blueberries into his mouth. “I did that all last week, tonight is movie night.”
For a moment, Tony almost thinks he’s thrown Clint for a loop, but then he slides into Tony’s designated spot on the couch. “I vote Hunger Games, but Nat’s gonna want Black Swan or Jennifer’s Body.”
“No can do, Katniss, I promised Bruce the converted position of movie selector.”
After all, Tony didn’t want Bruce too mad at him. Not more than usual anyways.
Summoned by the sound of voices, Bruce returns with Thor in tow. Somehow, Bruce has talked Thor back into his shirt.
“Hello, Comrades.” Thor waves. “Sorry for the delay, we were in the bedroom.”
Bruce and Steve proceed to make a nearly identical, adorable little choking noise as Thor, wholly unperturbed by his own implications, seats himself in Tony’s second favorite spot on the couch.
“Not like that,” Bruce says quickly.
“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “They were on secret business.”
“That’s why Thor’s hair is so big. It’s full of secrets.” Clint adds.
Thor stares in confusion, a mirror of Steve’s equally perplexed expression. “I assure you, my hair contains zero falsehoods.”
“Oh my God, oh my God.” Tony hisses. “Sorry, Brucie, movie privileges revoked. We’re watching Mean Girls right now. Stevie and Point Break need education on the gospel.”
*
Truthfully, Tony can’t even give a name to the reason he invited his group over. He could always use more friends, loves to be surrounded by people and noise, centered in the dazzling spotlight, but why them? Call them bizarre sorts of kindred spirits, more scarred-up barely adults somewhere Antarctica south of normal, or maybe it’s convincing pure and simple. Maybe Tony’s just lonely, wants to feel something warm in his chest that for once it isn’t the glowing reminder of the arc reactor of the burn of vodka.
But this- this is nice. Peaceful, sweet.
“She’s a lesbian,” Nat says.
“You said that about Mean Girls. And Heathers. And Clueless.”
“I was correct. Regina George, Veronica Sawyer, and Cher Horowitz are all lesbians. As is Vivian Kennginston.”
“Is she really a lesbian, or are these movies marketed towards teen girls in the 80s and 90s just so undertoned with misogyny that any form of feminism or independence reads as inherently gay?” Bruce asks.
“Both, it's camp” Natasha replies. “Thor, please confirm the lesbianism.”
The seating arrangement, which had drastically shifted since the start of their marathon, now consisted of Bruce and Tony cast out on the loveseats, with Nat, Steve, and Clint occupying the couch. Clint sporadically fell asleep, alternating between resting his head on Nat’s shoulders and hurling sarcastic commentary at the screen. As for Thor, who’d quickly been relegated to the floor, he now sat with his back pressed against Nat’s legs.
Typically, she’d be halfway through clawing out anyone who dared to so boldly enter her personal space’s eyes by now, but Thor had a calming presence. Despite being like eight feet tall, somehow he still projected an aura of safety, as Nat’s hand could attest, busily braiding Thor’s hair into complex plaits.
“Oh yes, these characters are quite clearly women who love women.”
“See.” Nat gloated. “We've spoken.”
Clint woke up a moment, immediately throwing popcorn at the screen, and at the face of Warner Huntington III. “Get a life.”
Tony turned to Steve, who’d been relatively quiet the entire time, other than occasionally popping in with questions, watching the masterpieces enraptured. “Learn anything?”
“Oh, yes,” Steve said seriously. “Elle Woods is a trailblazing bisexual, and pink is the color of revolutions and important business.”
Nat gave him a pat on the cheek. “Precisely.”
As the credits began to roll and more popcorn began to fly at misogynistic faces, Bruce checked his watch, eyes widening at the time. “Crap, it’s past 2 am.”
Nobody made any move to leave, but a generally grumbling went up around the room.
A strange sense of familiarity settled over Tony. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m going to go out on a limb and guess none of you really have parents.” Tony was not corrected. “So, why don’t you all just stay here?”
“Like a sleepover?” Steve ventured.
“It can be.” Tony grinned.
Clint sprawls backward across the couch. “Do you have face masks?”
“Do I have face masks?” Tony scoffed. “Do I have face masks? Of course, how do you think I get my skin perfectly smooth?”
“Thousand dollar treatments?” Offered Nat.
“Virgin’s blood and baby teeth?” Injected Clint.
Bruce gave him a look. “Healthcare?”
Ignoring the slight maligning in favor of cooking up a new project, Tony rushed over to the kitchen. “I have coco and girly magazines.”
Thor glowed, unbelievably jubilant. “The sort with the tiny marshmallow?”
“Only the tiniest.”
“Alright,” Steve spoke authoritatively, with the sort of decisiveness that made all around him agree. “We’re in.”