He didn't really wake up. It was more like he could feel layers of sleep peeling away until he lay fully conscious with both eyes tightly shut, in the darkness, contemplating the great mysteries of life.
Mystery number one: why did his mouth taste like he'd spent the night licking the interior of a dumpster?
Finally gathering the courage to prise his eyes open, Clint stared at the roof for a good several minutes as this contemplation continued. He took in a mental scan over his body. Everything seemed to be in working order, outside of his brain, which was pounding furiously against the interior of his skull like it had some kind of personal argument against him. Upon deciding he wouldn't die if he decided to move, he began to slowly sit up.
The singular movement was enough to send his surroundings (the darkened kitchen, as he was quick to work out) spinning. With a groan he steadied himself against the leg of a nearby chair, resting his head against it until he was capable of moving again.
When he looked up, he was unsurprised to find Tony sitting at the kitchen bench with a newspaper held up to his face, as though he for once was actually taking an interest in something outside of the world of Tony Stark. His eyes flickered around the room; he assumed it was early morning, but the lights were off and the blinds tightly shut, giving the illusion it was still dark out. Clearing his throat, Tony lowered the newspaper and tossed it aside, staring intently at Clint - or at least Clint thought that was what he was doing. His eyes were covered by a dark pair of sunglasses.
"Can you believe," the man broke the silence with a gesture to the newspaper, "they had the balls to suggest I was flying my suit drunk at the parade?"
Apparently Tony didn't take an interest in anything outside the world of Tony Stark.
Running his tongue over his teeth in an effort to clear the taste from his mouth, he ran a hand over his eyes and stared up at the other man curiously. "What time is it?"
"It is six forty-five AM, Saturday morning."
He groaned again and set his head drop into the crook of his arm, which was still resting against the chair. "Did we sleep through Black Friday?"
"Well, you did. I expect better of you Legolas. You seemed like the kind of man that can hold his liquor."
He doubted the man had woken up much longer before he did, if the glasses were anything to go by, but let it slide. He got up and unsteadily made his way to the bench, his sore muscles cramping in protest. Tony handed him a coffee, which he accepted gratefully, taking a swig of it to get rid of the horrible dumpster taste. It helped, but only marginally. "Have I been sleeping on the kitchen floor since Thursday night?"
"No, you were in the living room. I dragged you in here once I woke up."
Clint snorted softly and took another drink from the mug of coffee. As he did so, Steve walked in, looking obscenely cheerful for the hour of the morning. With a jaunty hello, the supersoldier made his way over to the curtains and went to pull one open before being pounced on by Tony.
"No. Bad Steve. We are vampires now."
Steve dropped the curtain in surprise and stepped away, looking over at Clint with some alarm. "I don't understand. Is this a Twilight thing?"
While Tony looked ecstatic that Steve had just mentioned Twilight, even if it was in relation to vampires (he insisted it was actually about fairies and that the series' existence was an insult to the vampire name), he shook his head. "No. It's just, we're quite hungover, and light-"
"I'm quite hungover," The archer corrected. "I'm pretty sure he's still drunk."
Tony pulled a face and shrugged, unwilling to admit that was probably true. He returned to his seat, Steve agreeing to leave the room in darkness when he saw how Clint flinched once the curtain was pulled back. They sat in silence, neither of the men seeing any point in enquiring how Black Friday had been.
It wasn't long until they were joined by Bruce. They all gave him the awkward early-morning nod of greeting; Bruce returned it, chuckling quietly as he made his coffee. "Well," he remarked, turning around, "It's good to see the two of you awake."
This was met with vague grunts, aside from Steve, who smiled at him. The archer's head was now resting on the cool bench; the nausea obviously had yet to fade. Stark was glaring at the newspaper through his dark sunglasses, making a halfhearted protest when Bruce abruptly pulled it from his hands and unfolded it with the intention of actually reading it, as opposed to glaring at it and muttering under his breath about 'that Jameson bastard' printing lies.
"I should probably warn you," Bruce said to the two men cheerfully, "Expect a call from Fury."
Both froze and looked between each other with mirrored expressions of panic as Steve began to laugh. Struggling to smother his laughter, he turned to walk away, shoulders still shaking as he retreated from the room. As he left, Natasha walked in past him, turning her head to give a puzzled look at the man's laughter. She shrugged and approached the coffeemaker. Like Tony, her eyes were covered by a pair of dark glasses, and in one hand she clutched a packet of prescription painkillers. Gulping a few down with a mouthful of coffee, she ignored the concerned looks she was receiving; she was recovering from a skull fracture, and her head hurt. Now that she was sober she could see how drinking had been an absolutely horrible idea, but wasn't that the life story of every drunk? And she was no drunk. Not to Tony levels, anyway.
Agents Romanoff and Barton, and Mister Stark, a video call is coming through for you from SHIELD. Shall I-
"Yeah, put it through, Jarvis." Tony nodded as Fury's face dominated a wall to his left. He faced it, crossing his arms and awaiting his lecture for whatever he'd supposedly done while drunk, ready to deny everything with the ever-reliable claim of "you have no evidence of that happening, sir."
"Mister Stark. Agent Romanoff. Agent Barton. Good morning." Fury's voice was gruff and seemingly more aggressive than usual. His glare, twice as large as it would have been in person, was twice as intimidating. "Do you know what this is about?"
The three looked between each other. The two agents had stood to attention the moment Fury appeared, but he lounged back on his chair, giving his superior a nonchalant shrug. Fury's eye narrowed and his frown deepened as he watched the man.
"This is about your behaviour on the night of Thanksgiving."
Tony snorted, flicking up his sunglasses and taking a sip from the coffee Clint had abandoned. "With all due respect, sir," a favourite phrase of his, "I don't entirely remember the night of Thanksgiving."
"And the two of you?" This was directed to the assassins, who looked between each other and back to the floor shamefully. Their silence was enough to admit they didn't remember Thursday night either. Fury visibly sighed, closing his eye briefly as he silently prayed for patience. "Natasha, did you really think drinking with a head injury was a good idea?"
"A lapse in judgement, sir. It won't happen again." Natasha's voice was quiet, full of guilt, but he couldn't tell if she actually felt any remorse at getting screaming drunk and wandering through New York, singing carols at the top of her lungs. It wasn't the behaviour he wanted - or needed - from a field agent; but with her, and likewise with Agent Barton, he could let it slide. Just once.
"Stark," he began, but the man held up two hands defensively.
"You can't get angry at me for something I don't remember - but I'm guessing if you're angry, it was awesome."
Bruce chose this moment to cut in, fearing that his friend was going to say something incredibly stupid and get them all in trouble. "Sir, I am sure-"
"Shut it, Banner." Fury glared down from the projection, as though he placed quite a bit of blame on the physicist. "I've had the videos removed from youtube, which I can assure you was no easy task. I hope you're all aware this is your second strike and any misdemeanours after this will result in serious consequences."
"Wait," Tony piped up, "There's video? Can I watch it?"
Fury gave the man a stony glare. "No."
His words went unheeded as the man seized his laptop and began to type rapidly. Bruce covered his mouth with one hand as he struggled not to laugh, biting his lower lip and pulling a face in an effort to maintain some kind of composure. "Sir, if you don't give him permission to watch it, he's just going to figure out how to do it himself."
The director turned his glare onto Bruce and went to say something before they were both silenced by Tony calling for JARVIS to "access the backdoor into the SHIELD Avenger Initiative files, code fourteen-twelve". Bruce coughed to cover his laughter again as the assassins crept from the room with identical grins on their faces. "Sir, it appears Tony has installed a hole in your systems. Is there anything you don't really want seen?"
Their boss muttered something about Stark's fucking nerve before the transmission ended and Bruce burst out laughing, clutching at his stomach as he wiped tears from his eyes. The inventor looked up from his laptop with a small grin, glad to finally see his friend so happy. He chuckled quietly and with another flurry of typing had pulled up the video.
"Want to watch?" He asked. Bruce shook his head, still smiling.
"It's okay. I can remember it a bit better than you can. Just try not to antagonise Fury again, okay? He pays us."
Tony snorted. He earned more money in ten minutes than SHIELD gave any of the Avengers in a week but he was willing to concede Bruce had a point. "That might be the case, but if he ever fired any of you, you would all still be welcome here. You should know that."
Bruce paused in the doorway with a puzzled smile crossing his face. He looked back to see Tony staring intently at his screen, chuckling every couple of seconds. He shrugged, shook his head and walked away.