Clint Has a Pout and Porter
Clint Barton did not pout.
Usually.
But he heard a rumor when they returned to the palace from the weekend camping trip with the guys that brought out all his latent, bratty, inner teenage boy.
Darcy had a scavenger hunt for Bucky. With knives and truncheons, and … best-worst of all, grenades.
He heard there were even surprise explosions.
It sounded awesome. So sue him, he wanted in on that.
Explosions were his favorite things, after coffee and pizza and his bow and Pizza Dog and Kate. Top five for sure. (Pizza Dog and Kate tie for fourth. He loves them both equally. Don’t make him choose.)
But Darcy blew stuff up without him and Clint just didn’t know if he could get over that. He thought they were bros.
“I thought we were bros,” he whined when she skipped into the alcove on the top floor of the archives where Clint like to sit to watch the comings and goings from the palace. “A bro wouldn’t have an awesome knife scavenger hunt for one of her favorite assassins and blow stuff up without the other two. You know how I feel about that, Darce.” He scowled.
He did not pout.
Not even a little.
“To be fair, the explosion was an accident.”
Maybe a little.
“That’s not helping! You know how much I love surprise explosions. You’re the worst.”
Darcy’s magical mariachi boy band appeared to play the sad going away song from that show in the seventies starring Bill Bixby with the guy who turned green.
Her voice sounded sad when Darcy turned to leave and stopped by the door. “I understand. I’m sorry, Clint. I didn’t want to blow stuff up without you. Bucky just felt left out of your camping weekend and I wanted to cheer him up.”
That made Clint feel like a shit. (Thanks, Darce.) Because Bucky loved explosions, too.
He sighed.
Darcy sighed.
Ten seconds of humming silence passed.
“Well, I guess, if you’re too busy pouting, I’ll have to get somebody else to find all that beer I hid for you.”
Clint’s head whipped around toward the door. “What beer?”
“The six cases of Yuengling Black & Tan I asked a friend to pick up on their way from Midgard this morning.” Her cheeks dimpled.
Dammit. He loved Black & Tan.
“With those little sun dried tomato appetizers from that bar we used to go to in Philly?”
“Clint.” Darcy eyed him. She was not smiling.
“No, yeah, right, of course. Silly. The beer will get warm if we stop to make snacks.”
“Right,” Darcy deadpanned. “Because warm beer would be terrible.”
“Not as terrible as missing surprise explosions.”
“It's not too late to return the beer, Clinton.”
“Going!”