"Free my green, Mr. Oinkers. I require snack." He wrestled with Mr. Oinkers plastic stopper, struggling to remove it from the porcelain swine.
He stopped, took a deep breath, and pulled.
He fell back with a yelp, tumbling over the other side of his bed and getting trapped between the bed and the wall. "Ow."
Clint took the money out of Mr. Oinkers and pulled himself out from behind the bed, panting with the effort and the strain on his weak core. Putting on his ratty hoodie Clint stepped out of the apartment, on the hunt for Doritos. He was gonna have words with Mr. Coulson in the morning. How is a man to live in these conditions?
A whine interrupted his thoughts.
Clint looked down as Lucky looked up, pinning him in place with his big, pleading eye. Eye, singular, given that the big dumb goofball had lost the other in a fight with a squirrel when he was a puppy. Lucky whined again, his ears pinning back as he begged Clint to take him along. Clint rocked on his heels, thinking. On one hand, he would be back in twenty minutes easy, on the other hand...
"Aww man," Clint sighs, unhooking Lucky's harness from the coat rack. He has one hell of a time actually getting Lucky in the harness with how hard his tail is wagging.
Clint got weird looks from Mrs. Peterson in the elevator, which;
1) rude– and 2) hypocritical
Because, yeah, he may be wearing his PJs and (oops) no shoes, but not all of us have our shit together Mrs. Peterson. At least Clint isn't the one escorting his demonic hellspawn of a beagle outside at two in the morning.
His dog is a Good Boy, fuck you very much.
Mrs. Peterson's beagle (whose legal name is Lassie, but Clint just calls her Court Case) lunged at Lucky as soon as the elevator doors opened, tugging on her leash and practically foaming at the mouth for the chance to take a chunk out of him. Lucky, bless him, was totally oblivious to the aggression of the other dog, wagging his tail harder the closer she got to him. Because survival instincts are for suckers, I guess.
"Watch your dog," Clint says, keeping Lucky's leash short as he carefully steps into the elevator, avoiding the snapping jaws of the demon pretending to be a lapdog.
"Oh, she doesn't bite," Mrs. Petterson says mildly.
Clint eyed Court Case, who regards him with eyes as black as coal that burn with the eternal flames of Hell. Looking into those eyes, Clint knew that she wouldn't hesitate to rip him to shreds if given even a little slack.
Forgive him for being doubtful.
Clint shuffles closer to the wall.
At the sound of the elevator ding, Clint got the fuck out of there before Court Case could gnaw through Mrs. Peterson's hand to free herself. Lucky trotting along at his side, a dopey grin on his face.
The crisp night air punched him in the face, he sagged in relief, having thought he'd never live long enough to see the sunrise again. The cold pavement on his bare feet is not so relieving, walking around barefoot in New York City is an ER trip waiting to happen. At the same time, his shoes were all the way upstairs, ugh.
Clint, in his eternal genius, didn't notice that the shop in front of him was dark.
Grabbing the handle and pulling, Clint slingshot himself into the door. He peeled himself off of the glass with a groan, blinking at it in confusion.
The neon 'closed' sign stared right back at him with its unwavering red light.
"Aww, no," Clint wails, giving the doors another fruitless tug.
Lucky whined as his constant tail wag slowed to a light sway. He pawed at the door and when that proved to do absolutely nothing, stuck his nose into the crack between it and the doorframe, sniffing and whining again
"I wanted treats too!" Clint tells him, throwing an arm up. "What, they have operating hours now? Since when? Is it the economy, did the economy do this? Pft, thanks, Obama."
Obama is not the current president, but Clint is too annoyed to care at the moment. It's half-past two in the morning and all he wants is some darn Doritos.
He sighed and tugged at Lucky's leash. "C'mon, Luck. No treats here."
Lucky reluctantly pulled himself away from the door, following Clint's lead. His tail completely ceased movement which had never happened before. Lucky wags his tail in his sleep. Luke's corner store just made his doggo sad and that, my friends, has just lost them their best customer.
Well, for the next couple of days at least. Until Clint gets over his little grudge. Nothing would keep him away forever. They have really good slushies.
Luke's was out, but Clint was nothing if not persistent, and nothing, not even God, was gonna stop him from getting his hands on a bag of Sweet Chili Heat Doritos tonight.
Today? Time gets confusing after midnight.
Clint was halfway back to HQ (his apartment building). He had planned on getting his shoes before he hit the town again but then Mr. Ronalds, who lives in his car, parked in the IMAX parking lot, appeared out of nowhere. Like some kind of chem teacher phantom.
"Clint!"
"Hi, Ron."
Ron says hello to Lucky, taking a knee. He ruffles his fur and coos at him, which is a pretty common reaction to seeing Lucky. Lucky loves it too wagging his tail and licking Ron's face, his previous melancholy forgotten. "What are you doing up?"
"I just– and then– but we didn't have any– So I– and we– and Luke's was closed for some reason!"
Ron nods along, like any of what just came out of Clint's mouth was at all legible to anyone who isn't an exorcist. "You woke up with a craving."
"But we were out," Clint says, he was somewhat frayed at the edges and breathy despite having only walked three blocks total. For a guy who Played Sports, he was paradoxically unfit.
Ron stood, leaving Lucky's belly sufficiently rubbed. "What did you want?"
"Doritos. But, hey, get this: we didn't have any."
"That's rough, man."
They stood in relative silence, only being broken up by Lucky's panting and his tail hitting the pavement over and over. But also by Clint's long, wordless whine of desire.
Desire for the siren song of Doritos, vibrating in his jawbone.
Desire for the flavour powder, like ambrosia on his tongue, sweet and hot and perfect.
Desire to get his hands on the delicately curvy body of the Doritos bag, to take it to bed and to slowly pull it apart, drawing it out so that the moment he finally goes for it is just that much sweeter–
"–lint." Fingers snapped in his face.
"Mmm?"
"You zoned out for a second there."
"Oh." Clint clears his throat. "Yeah. Sorry. Got distracted."
Ron eyes him curiously before shrugging. "O... kay. See you in school?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Ronalds. Two more weeks 'til Summer Break is over. You excited?"
"No," Ron deadpans.
"Haha! Okay!" He gives Ron finger guns and beats a hasty retreat.
Clint, distracted as he was by getting the fuck out of there, didn't happen to see Mr. Ronalds pull a bag of Doritos out of his car. Because, if he had, he would probably have taken Mr. Ronalds' Best Chem Teacher Ever mug away, because a man who pulls that kind of shit doesn't deserve the title.
"Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock," Clint chants as his fist pounds on the apartment door across from his own. Normally he wouldn't have the audacity, but Principal Fury is out of town for the week which means he can't kill Clint for waking him up.
"Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, kno–"
"What?!" Natasha hisses, flinging the door open. Her hair is a mess and she has an overnight mask on. If any of their friends heard about that she'd have to slowly torture him before casting him into the harbour, so he decides to just... Not to mention it.
"Hi, do you have Doritos?"
Natasha stared at him for all of two seconds before slamming the door in his face. Lucky wags his tail faster at the jarringly loud sound.
Clint shrugs. "Worth a shot."
–––
"Clint!"
Clint looked up to find Natasha perched on her window sill, her facemask now wiped off, her hair combed, and her makeup flawlessly applied (how the hell she did all of that in the five minutes it took for him to get outside is up for debate) in her hand is a bag of Sweet Chili Heat Doritos.
Clint gaped. She pops one in her mouth, the crunch audible from three floors below. Lucky whines, licking his jowls.
"She-devil!"
Shrugging, Natasha smirks and eats another Dorito. Licking the powder from her fingers, moaning wantonly. Clint can only glare.
She arches a brow. "Ask Tony. He's an insomniac."
Clint sputtered, flapping his hands around like a mad man. "Tony lives in Brooklyn."
Natasha nodded, grinned. "In a mansion. In a gated community. Either he or Thor are going to be your best bet, and they live on the same street, so..."
"I– you– Ugh! Friendship ended!" He storms off in a huff.
"Where are you going?" Natasha calls after him.
"Brooklyn I guess!" He whirled around and stomped back towards the building. Pointing a finger up at her face. "To Bucky and Steve's, not to Thor's or Tony's!"
Natasha tsked, looking both disappointed and amused. "Bucky and Steve live in a duplex. Bucky has three sisters and Steve's stomach is a black hole. You honestly think they have chips to spare?"
"Wow," Clint drawls. "Can't believe you're poor-shaming our friends. They aren't even here, Natasha."
Clint stomps away again, barely catching Natasha's sarcastic 'have fun!' He flips her off over his shoulder. Through his nagging irritation, Clint couldn't help but feel like he forgot something.
He was two blocks away before he realized he had forgotten his shoes again.
"Aww, man."
3:34 AM
Birdboi: bucky
Birdboi: bucky
Birdboi: hey
Birdboi: bucky
Birdboi: bucket
Birdboi: buckaroo
Birdboi: ducky
Birdboi: bucko
Birdboi: blanket
theASSet: wht
Birdboi: u up?
theASSet: well i am NOW asshole
theASSet: what do u want
theASSet: ?
Birdboi: come 2 ur windo
theASSet: clint i swaer to god
Birdboi: do it hoe
Bucky's light clicked on. Clint waved jauntily at his fellow teen, who looked about ready to gut him on the spot.
Clint's phone rang.
"Hello?"
"What the fuck," Bucky hisses.
"Oh Hi, Bucky. How are you?"
"Fuck you," Bucky says, in that endlessly charming way of his. "It's three in the morning, what is so important that it couldn't wait until afternoon?"
"Oh! Right! Do you have any Doritos?"
Bucky blinks, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. "I cannot verbally communicate how furious you just made me with that single sentence."
"Is that a no?"
Bucky smiles; it's the same smile he puts on before he shoves his foot up someone's ass. Clint has just enough common sense to feel nervous about it.
"Eat shit and live, Barton."
The line went dead and Bucky drew his curtains. A second later the window went dark.
Clint sighed and walked ten paces to the other yard. Looking up at the window and checking for signs of life before he switches his contacts.
Birdboi: hey steve
Birdboi: steve
Birdboi: steeb
Birdboi: stove
Birdboi: stevent
starspangledbuttcheeks: omg what
Birdboi: that was fst
Birdboi: come 2 ur wino
starspangledbuttcheeks: no
Birdboi: plz
starspangledbuttcheeks: ugh fine
Steve's window is thrown open. "What?"
"Hi," Clint says.
"Hi. Are you not wearing shoes?"
"Irrelevant. Do you have Doritos?"
"Man, I wish."
"Boo!"
"Sorry." Steve shrugs sheepishly.
Clint waves him off. "Whatever."
"Hi, Lucky!" Steve calls, waving excitedly at the dog.
Lucky wagged his tail and woofed, not quite a bark but getting there. A floofy brown and white head pops up at Steve's hip moments before Dodger props himself on the windowsill. Dodger barks and Lucky musters a full bark in response and soon both dogs are howling into the very early morning.
"Maybe leave!?" Steve suggests over the racket, which was beginning to wake the neighbours. And, oh boy, they were not happy.
"Good plan!" Clint shouts. He waves at Steve before lifting Lucky (like he was some kinda lapdog and not a seventy-pound mutt) and hurries away.
"So I have a friend who lives here..."
The security guard's flat look isn't very promising.
"Name?"
"Sorry?" Clint asks, blinking.
The security guard sighs. "What's your name?"
"Clint Barton."
The security guard turned to their computer and began tap-tap-tapping away at the keyboard. Clint watched their fingers move with a sinking feeling.
The security guard stopped typing and looked at him. "Friend's name?"
"Uh– Tony Stark."
The security guard laughs but types it in any way. Pressing the enter key and shaking their head. "Nope," they say, popping the 'p' obnoxiously. "You aren't on his list."
Fucky fuckity fuckcakes. He should have said Thor, he's been on Thor's list since middle school but Natasha usually dealt with security and he panicked.
"I–I actually know someone el–"
The security gave him a look. He recognized it from his rambunctious youth –coughtwodaysagocough– as the look security guards get when they're this close to calling the Real Police, and then you'll be in trouble, son.
Oink, oink, you win this round.
Clint backed away from the security booth.
"Sike," he whispers, helping Lucky over the wall. Once he was sure his dog was safely on the other side, Clint stretched and got ready to do some sick fucking parkour.
"Middle school gymnastics, don't fail me now."
He ran at the wall and boosted himself up the side, clapping his hands on the lip and pulling himself over. He overestimated and landed in a heap of bruises, minor cuts, and leaves, having landed in some poor rich person's azaleas.
Lucky whined and licked Clint's fingers. Clint couldn't miss the way his tail was moving at 300mph. At least one of them was having a good time.
Clint rolled out of the bushes and onto the cold, unforgiving ground.
"I'd call that a mission success. Places like this don't have cameras, right? Right?"
Clint looked around shiftily, taking Lucky's leash in hand. "Well, let's try not to find out."
He and Lucky sneakily passed through yard after yard, just barely avoiding detection by what was no doubt four fully armed strike teams and at least 2,000 cameras.
"Dum dum dumdumdumdumdumdumdumdumdu– duna duh! Duna duh!" Clint hummed under his breath as he army crawled through someone's backyard playground. Lucky trotted merrily along in full view of the massive windows.
When Clint finally made his way into Tony's yard, he was tired, dirty, and scared in more ways than physical.
He's not the same man that hopped over that wall –he checks his phone– fifteen minutes ago.
He's changed.
Anyone would be, seeing what he's seen, doing what he's done... That being said, he came here for a reason. He has a mission. He's never failed one before and he isn't about to start today.
Clint walked around to the front door, his shoulders tense, his head held high. He knows what he has to do.
He regards the front door like the barrel of a pistol. Should this be his last night on earth, he wants to go out... With a bang.
He looked down at Lucky and shed a single tear. Lucky's warm black eyes (still so full of hope and life and wonder) locked with his.
"Will you ever be able to forgive me?"
Lucky's tail beat a repetitive rhythm against the tile.
Clint nods. "I understand. Brothers." He holds out his hand. "Paw."
Lucky's hand clasped his, solidifying their bond as BFFs (battlefield friends forever).
He pulled his keys out of his hoodie pocket, took the one Tony had given him and used it to unlock the door.
Lucky wagged his tail harder. He loves Tony.
"We're in."
Clint stood in the doorway of the monumental pantry. He had searched high and low, left and right. He had scaled the hardwood shelves, had seen things only really fancy rats had seen before. He knew the Stark pantry like the back of his hand (has he always had that freckle?) He had left no stone unturned.
He was a broken man.
All of this work, all of the blisters on his feet, all of the lost sleep was for... Nothing. He had failed. God had stopped him in his tracks, as though evoking His name had been taken as a challenge.
He was a fraud, a sham, an absolute buffoon.
Well, he could still go to Thor's but what was the point? Why bother, when he was so thoroughly dejected? He doesn't think he can handle another heartbreak tonight.
Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, orphan, had a pantry full of healthy snacks and a single bag of puffy Cheetos.
Clint closed the pantry door behind him and folded himself onto a shelf. He curled into the fetal position and ignored Lucky scratching at the door. Maybe, if he's lucky, he'd be mistaken for a snack and eaten. Wishful thinking, perhaps.
He closed his eyes and let himself become one with the pantry.
–––
"Clint!"
Clint yelped, jolting up. Hitting his head and groaning, he rolled to the side. He yelps again when he finds the floor to be missing beneath him as he falls the four feet to the ground.
"Ow."
"Not to be rude or anything," Tony hedges, nudging at Clint's thigh with the toe of his boot. "But what in the fresh hell are you doing in my pantry?"
"Mopping," Clint mumbles into the floorboards
"Nope, got that part. I was thinking more, how did you get into my house?"
Clint peers at him, frowning. "You gave me a key."
"I– Oh, shit. I forgot about that."
"Mm."
Tony sighed and set his bags down before pushing his hair out of his eyes. "So why are you here?"
"I was looking for Doritos."
Tony blinked, just once, very, very slowly.
"Doritos."
"Yeah. I went to the store but it was closed so I asked Nat if she had any, and she said she didn't but then she actually did, then I asked Steve and Bucky but they didn't have any either and Nat told me I should ask you or Thor so I came here –after Steve and Bucky's– and I never made it to Thor because you didn't have any and I was sad about it so I folded myself into the snack-shelf and tried to atrophy."
"Fair enough," Tony says with a shrug. "What kind of Doritos did you want?"
"Sweet Chilli Heat."
Tony hums and begins rifling through his bags. After some shuffling, he pulled an onyx bag out of its plastic prison.
Clint could do nothing in that moment but finally accept that God is real and is a very nice person.
He went from lying down to sitting up so fast that he gave himself a head rush. "Where did you go?" Clint took hold of the offered bag like one might take hold of an infant made of glass.
"7-Eleven. Where did you go?"
Clint sighed contentedly, rubbing his face up and down the slippery surface of the bag. "Doesn't matter. I'm home now."
"Uhh... Do you want me to give you two some space, or..."
"Well..."
Tony grimaces. "Nope! No. Offer revoked, I didn't say anything."
Shrugging, Clint continued stroking the Doritos bag. Like a cat.
Clint turned his eyes to Tony's bags and– wow, did he buy the entire 7-Eleven?
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Sleep is for the weak," Tony scoffs. He slumped. He could sell the bags under his eyes on Etsy. "Oh boy, is being strong ever overrated."
Clint opened his mouth –probably to say something, but it's Clint so really, who knows– when his phone rings. Fishing it out of his hoodie pocket, he frowned.
"Anyone important?" Tony asks, unloading the bags and sorting through them in earnest. Putting the snacks away on the shelves, sorting them by colour, Tony was distracted enough to not notice Lucky sneaking in close and stealing away with a bag of Funyuns.
"Debatable," Clint says, finally picking up his phone. "Hi, Dad."
"Hi, Clint. Question: where are you?" Phil Coulson asks, surprisingly calm for a man who found his son AWOL at four in the morning. It's difficult to say who got it from who, given that Clint was adopted.
"I'm at Tony's."
"Oh. Why didn't you leave a note?"
"Okay, so here's the thing," Clint proceeds to go on a very long rant involving Doritos, Court Case, Luke's Corner Store, Natasha, Steve and Bucky, and about six separate members of Parliament, somehow. He ends it with, "And that's why I didn't leave a note."
"I had a bag of Funyuns," Tony mutters. "Didn't I have a bag of Funyuns?"
"Yeah, Lucky took them," Clint says, fingers twirling in an imaginary phone cord.
"Son of a bi–" Tony sprinted out of the pantry.
"Okay, son. Are you sleeping over?" Phil asks.
"Uhh..." Clint puts his hand over the receiver. "HEY, TONY!"
"WHAT?"
"CAN I SLEEP OVER?"
"SURE!"
"Yeah, I'm sleeping over," Clint says, uncovering the receiver.
"Alright, have fun. Do you need me to pick you up tomorrow?"
Clint, shoeless and frail, definitely needed a ride home tomorrow, which is why the first word out of his mouth is, "Naw."
"Okay. See you tomorrow."
"Yeah, see you tomorrow. Love you."
"Love you too."
Phil hung up and Clint sighed. Looking around the no-longer barren pantry, he decided he should probably help Tony with catching Lucky. Because he was a good friend and also loved chasing his dog.
–––
"Agh!"
Shoving Lucky's face away, Clint made another dive for the spilled chips, his tongue barely gracing the surface before he was pulled away by his hood.
"Let me at 'em!" Clint cries.
"No!" Tony hisses, giving his hood another tug.
Clint squawked. Twisting in the hold, he manages to get enough slack to throw himself back at the ground. Lucky barks and lunges after him and Clint pushes him away from his precious bounty.
He doesn't get nearly as close as the first time before Tony's hauling him away. Clint kicks and screams, but Tony's grip is unrelenting this time.
Clint watches in horror as Lucky scarfs down his Sweet Chili Heat Doritos. He takes it back. God is a cruel bitch and deserves everything coming to him.
It happened like this:
Clint and Tony had been chasing Lucky all around the mansion for nearly half an hour. Tony had chased him into a long corridor with three open exit points. Lucky, tail wagging furiously, was none the wiser to the planned ambush.
Tony had chased Lucky to the choke point, and when they had gotten close enough, Clint had sprung out from one of the exits to cut Lucky off. Lucky had panicked, dropping his bag of Funyuns to give himself more wiggle room. They had him pinned good, though.
When Clint was close enough to grab Lucky's leash, he took his chance and lunged, inadvertently placing the Doritos bag between him and Lucky. Lucky, knowing the deliciousness that lied within that bag, had made a grab for it.
And, in the ensuing tussle, the bag had torn open, spraying chips and powder clear across the corridor. Like arterial spray, vital and devastating.
After that, it was full-on war. Man and beast turned against one another in horrid combat.
Beast had won.
"You have forsaken me," Clint whispers to the man he had once called a friend.
"I've–? Jesus Clint, I'll buy you another bag if you want it so bad. Were you seriously about to lick them off the floor? Get a fucking grip." Tony cuffs him on the back of his head.
Clint had to admit, he had a point. Oh, how far he had fallen. (Not very, but even when you're barely floating, rock-bottom is still pretty far to fall).
"Grip has been got."
"Sure it has. Are you coming?" Tony asks, keys in hand.
Clint stands, dusting chip dust off of his pyjama pants. "Lucky," he says, gaining the mutt's attention for a fraction of a second before he returns to licking the floor. "Car."
Suddenly, Lucky is stood by his side, almost vibrating with joy, his tail a yellow blur behind him.
"Car rides, huh?" Tony asks Lucky, who barks excitedly upon hearing his favourite word. Tony smirks. "Well, you're gonna love my car, buddy."
Clint is not a Car Guy, but Natasha is, and from what Clint has gleaned from conversations with her, Tony's car is, simply put, bitchin'.
Not that Lucky would notice, or care, so long as it went vroom.
When they get to the garage (which is surprisingly tame. Not small, but not cavernous either) they find out that Lucky does love it –which is unsurprising, he's never met a car he didn't love. He tap-toes while he waits for Clint to open the door, his tail beating against the side of the car.
Tony laughs and unlocks the door. Whining, Lucky paws at the door until Clint pops it open. Lucky doesn't even wait until the door is fully open to squeeze inside. Clint ducks in after him.
"You can sit in the front you know," Tony says as he buckles his seatbelt.
"No kidding? Radical." Clint climbs into the front seat, elbowing Tony in the gut and face more than once. He apologizes each time it happens, eventually having to keep up a continuous stream of apologies. Settling into the passenger's seat, he offers Tony one last apology.
"You are shockingly uncoordinated for someone on a sports team."
"Yeah, it's kinda my thing."
Tony turns over the ignition and backs out of the garage. "I pity your Captain."
"Nooo! Pity me! I'm pitiable!"
"I will do no such thing."
Clint crossed his arms and pouted, ignoring Tony laughing at him.
To Clint's absolute delight, it's the same person at the security booth, and he gets to watch the utter bafflement cross their face, followed swiftly by the confusion of 'wait, didn't I not let that guy in?'
Ha! Classic. Gets him every time.
"Sid?" Tony prompts.
Sid shook their head and opened the gate.
"Thanks," Tony says. Pulling out onto the street, Tony rolls the window up. "Okay, 7-Eleven for chips."
"Can I get a Slurpee too?"
"Yeah, sure. We'll get something for Lucky while we're there, too."
"Score," Clint mumbles into Lucky's fur. The mutt had crawled into his lap shortly after they had left Tony's, and even though Lucky was really heavy, Clint didn't mind.
Clint slurped at his slushie, and if the car seat had more space, he would probably be kicking his legs back and forth.
"You woke Bucky up at three in the morning to ask for Doritos?" Tony asks around a mouthful of gummy worms. They had ended up getting more than they had planned at 7-Eleven, but Tony hemorrhaged money every day and had barely put a dent in his inheritance.
'Perks of your hella dead parents being buttfuck rich,' Tony had said on more than one occasion. It was a toss-up on if he was using the humour to deflect or if he really didn't give a fuck. Given that it's Tony, chances rest on the former.
"Yeah. I don't think he was very happy with me."
"No, I don't think he was. Or is," Tony says.
Scrolling through the messages from Bucky that Clint had gotten throughout the night, Clint can't help but feel a bit afraid, even though he knows Bucky would never physically hurt him.
The confusing, surreal pranks Bucky has been known to pull are far, far worse than physical violence. That man goes for your psyche.
Bucky once spent a shitload of his time, money, and energy leaving large amounts of produce on Brock Rumlow's porch in the dead of night. Bucky was a hell of a shot and would use a BB gun to blow out their cameras whenever they put up new ones. Rumlow came to school an absolute wreck, barely able to sleep at night knowing that the Produce Reverse-Bandit was lurking somewhere in the darkness. Bucky did this for a month, and he didn't even stop because he got caught. He stopped because he got bored.
The only reason Clint knew about it is because Steve had told him about it. And the only reason Steve knew is because Steve and Bucky tell each other literally everything.
The point is Clint really does not want to fuck with that.
By the looks of it, he already has... Or maybe Bucky just wants him to think that he's going to mess with him, and is already messing with him!
Fuck, he's already in his head. Clint's flown right into the spider's web. Taking a deep breath, he checks his phone.
4:56
theASSet: lol kinda looks like a guy drowning huh
theASSet: haha wouldnt drowning suck? lol
theASSet: lol
theASSet: clint, wouldmt it suck
Clint frowned and switched his contacts.
BirdBoi: i think ur bf is threating me?
starspangledbuttcheeks: o no
starspangledbuttcheeks: whad id he say?
Clint took a screenshot of Bucky's texts and forwarded them to Steve.
starspangledbuttcheeks: oh, youre good
BirdBoi: im good?
starspangledbuttcheeks: yea
starspangledbuttcheeks: hes DEFINITELY threatining u
BirdBoi: wow
Clint blocks Steve's number.
"Asshole," Clint says, sipping at his slushie.
"Who?" Tony asks, shovelling another wad of gummy worms in his mouth.
"Steve."
"Wh'deb h' bo?" Tony struggles to ask around the gummy worms, steadfastly refusing to just... eat them faster.
"I told him that I thought Bucky was threatening me and he told me that Bucky was definitely threatening me." Clint sighs, swinging his legs up on the dashboard. Tony makes a noise of protest and bats his legs down. Clint gives him a hurt look.
Tony finishes chewing and swallows the gummy worms. "My car, my rules."
Lucky barks, perking up from the backseat. The treat stick dangling from his mouth falls to the floor and Lucky goes diving after it, tail wagging energetically.
Clint opens his mouth to complain but Tony mimes zipping his lips and points to Clint's still unopened bag of Doritos. "Eat your fucking chips."
"With my mouth closed?" Clint asks, cocking his head and trying to work out the logistics of that.
"Oh my God." Tony turns the music up and dumps the rest of the gummy worms into his mouth.
With shaking, reverent fingers, Clint pulled open the Doritos bag. Reaching in, he pulled out a chip and brought it in close. He took a big whiff of it, its artificial scent hitting him like a fresh breeze on a hot day. He opened his mouth, brought the chip close, and let it hover over his teeth and tough for just a moment before taking a bite.
He moaned, the incredible flavour of the powder rolling over his tongue, honey slow and just as delectable. It was like coming home from war, kicking the door open and finding his corn-chip wife in bed with her far more attractive Doritos-powder lover. It was the sweet satisfaction of eating their bastard child in front of them while they watched on in horror. It was the firm weight of the candelabra in his hand while he bashed–
"Dude," Tony says, turning the music down. "It's just a chip."
And it was good.