Chapter 5: Soap, Nail Polish, and Bar Stools

"Have I ever told you how much I hate you Clint? Like legitimately, wholeheartedly hate you."

Tony's words echoed through the empty public bathroom he now found himself standing in. The brunette was hunched over a sink trying, as he had been for some time, to catch his breath. Clint was two sinks down, hands cupped under running water, splashing the cool liquid on to his face.

After escaping from their bakery prison, Clint's plan had been simple: run. Run and get as far away from their captors as possible. He had pulled Tony through the streets of Budapest, snaking through back alleys, weaving around buildings, only stopping when they reached a more populated area of the city. He had purposely chosen a convoluted, indirect path hoping it would prevent or at least delay any pursuers from finding them. Tony, while perfectly capable of running the distance they had, was anything but happy about being forced to. He had bitched and moaned the entire way, and didn't appear to be anywhere near the end of his rant.

"No one was following us Clint! We could have jogged here, or maybe speed walked. Maybe then my lungs wouldn't be burning up from the inside, along with most of my other organs," Tony grumbled from his sink.

The inventor looked tired, more so than Clint had ever seen him. Not even after spending a week pent up in his lab tinkering with no sleep, only coffee, had Tony looked as run down as he did now. But, Clint supposed, that's what you look like after being strapped to a chair for over twelve hours and beaten.

Tony's eyes though, big and brown as ever, were still glinting with passionate hatred. Whether it was directed towards himself or their not-so-successful kidnappers the archer was not sure, but at least Tony had something to keep him going.

"Or here's a novel idea!" Tony barked. "How about next time you take me somewhere, if I ever let you, don't take me to the central hangout of the Hungarian fucking Underground!"

"You're such a baby Stark," Clint retorted. "Don't you know how to have a little fun?"

"Fun? Did you just say fun? Barton, you messed up little prick." Stark raised from his hunched position over the sink, pivoting on his heels to face Clint. "Fun is sitting in a Jacuzzi surrounded by several well-endowed women wearing Iron Man themed bikinis. Fun is running around the house naked singing "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" while Pepper chases you, ranting on about the reporters scheduled to show up at any moment."

Tony was leaning against the sink now, his voice rising in both volume and pitch as he continued.

"Fun is forcing you and Bruce to remake the "Single Ladies" music video with me, which turned out fabulous by the way, Beyoncé loved it, but that is beside the point! There is no possible way that being tied to a chair and beaten could ever, ever be viewed as fun. Name one person Clint, one person, who would willingly do and enjoy that!"

The philanthropist finished his sentence, crossing his arms to emphasize his pout. He was clearly waiting for Clint to answer him. The archer complied immediately.

"Wade Wilson." Clint calmly replied, crossing his arms as well. He stared at Tony, watching the man open and close his mouth several times before finally responding.

"Ok fine. Wade would fricken' love that kinda crap, but that doesn't mean this isn't entirely your fault! Because it totally is."

"My fault!" Clint shouted back. "It was your Natasha impersonation that made them get violent! Never have I giggled imaginary boobs!"

"Or real boobs for that matter."

Silence fell between the two men after Tony's comment. Clint looked to his companion, eyes narrowed at the slight. Their eyes were locked together, Clint wearing his best scowl and Tony trying not to laugh at his own wit. The inventor was only able to hold his laughter in for a few seconds before it sputtered from his mouth in loud rolling bursts. Clint turned away, hiding the small smile now adorning his features.

"Just wash your face off Stark; you look like you've been through hell."

"I wonder why?"

Tony did not pursue his grumblings after that. He stood in silence, along with his partner, both diligently trying to clear their faces of any marks. Nearly all evidence hinting to the activities of their previous night were removed, but try as they might, they could not remove bruises with soapy water.

"This is going to be a problem," Clint mumbled to himself.

The archer poked and prodded his purple and red splotched face, thankful his visage had not swollen to ghastly proportions. As it stood, it was going to be hard enough to slip into a crowd unnoticed. Looking like they had just gotten attacked by a swarm of bees would have made things that much more difficult.

"Fuck. They're bound to be out looking for us now. We'll stand out like a sore thumb in public."

"Or rather, a sore face." Tony added. Clint did not appreciate the pun.

"This is serious Stark. How the hell are we going to hide these bruises?"

There was a brief silence in the men's room as they both thought. Tony tried to remember the street outside the bathroom. He had not seen much of it, before he had been shoved off the sidewalk, but he had a general idea of what was out there. The cobblestoned streets had been lined with people and tables, cafés now bustling with the lunchtime rush. A few stores had been set up too, no doubt drawing a large portion of their customers from the restaurants. And tourists, there had been a lot of fanny packs out there as well.

"I think," Tony stated questioningly, just now remembering something he had seen "I saw a beauty salon outside."

The billionaire let the idea ride, waiting to hear the archer's response.

"No."

The answer was firm; Clint was clearly opposed to the idea. Naturally this made the plan perfect in Tony's eyes.

"Oh come on Hawk Boy! They could do a nice job covering up these bruises; maybe they offer massages that would be nice. Oh! They could fix my hair. It's a mess right now I can't be seen like this."

"No. I'm not going to get my hair done amongst a bunch of chattering women. Besides, unless we want a beer or need to insult someone, neither of us could speak to any of them."

Clint's arms were crossed against his chest as he shook his head in protest. Tony was in front of him, hands flying as he described the wonders of a trip to the salon.

"Can't speak to them, what nonsense! We're in a touristy area they might speak English, or Russian. Hungary is ex-Union, well ex-buffer state, somebody speaks Russian here."

"No Tony, we're not doing that."

"Can you think of anything better? Can you Barton? Hmmm?"

Clint opened his mouth, but could find no words to say. He honestly had no other plan to speak of. They could attempt to relieve some women of their concealer, but there were no guarantees they would find powder to match their skin tones. Plus his pickpocketing skills were a little rusty, and he didn't fancy the idea of getting caught stealing makeup from purses; or Tony laughing at him for getting caught.

"Cliiiiiiiiiint you know you want to. You know you really do."

"What I really want is a nap, on my couch, at home, away from this hellish vacation you forced me to take."

The statement was truthful, but said without any energy. Tony could see the archer's eyebrows unfurrow ever so slightly, his mouth filling back out as his thin-lipped grimace unwound. His resolve was breaking; Clint didn't want to go, but he wouldn't maim Tony for taking him there.

A smile once more adorned Stark's face. He chuckled heartily as he began to pseudo tap dance around the floor in front of the archer. His dance number came to an end with a grand twirl, and he laced his fingers around the marksmen's wrist.

"We should get out nails done! It's been so long since I went with Pepper. It is very relaxing and a little buffing and clear polish is good for anyone. Clean nails are sexy nails." Tony claimed as he made his way towards the door, Clint forced to walk in step behind him.

"No Tony. No, no, no, no, no!"

"Ooo, whatever they are doing is working wonders on my nails. Birdy, tell them they're doing a fabulous job would you?"

Clint observed the scene laid out in front of him with slight amusement, but mostly exasperation. Tony was the picture of ease, reclined in a massage chair hands spread to allow two nail technicians access to his fingertips, bare feet soaking in a pool of bubbly water awaiting their turn to be groomed. He moved barely a muscle when talking to Clint, elevating his head off the cushioned headrest mere centimeters to achieve eye contact.

"You're so damn weird Stark," Clint grumbled as he rolled his eyes at his ludicrous friend. Even so, he complied with Tony's request thanking the women before returning to his brooding.

He had indulged Tony (or at least that's what he was telling himself) and let the man drag him down the sidewalk. Just as the billionaire had said, there was a beauty salon down the street, wedged between numerous other shops. The large window at the front of the store was filled with displays, showcasing numerous beauty products. Four beauticians had been visible through the glass plane, all sitting idle save for one who was expertly cutting another woman's hair. The philanthropists, overjoyed that Clint could not shoot down his plan on the grounds of an empty shop, wasted no time in entering the shop.

Not that Clint would acknowledge it, but Tony had been right about something else as well: while no one in the shop spoke more than a few words of English, one woman spoke Russian and another German. Clint could easily communicate with both women, which only encouraged Tony to stay. It had only taken fifteen minutes to successfully cover their bruises; one to purchase the makeup, ten for the women to expertly apply it, and four for Tony to fuss over which skin tone to use.

Clint should have made the billionaire leave after that, he really should have, but he hadn't. He had delayed for one fatal moment, a span of time just long enough for Tony to spot the massage chair/pedicure stations. Stark had been dead set on getting a massage and figured he might as well get the whole package while he was at it; after all he was on vacation.

So Clint had been forced to sit in the salon for nearly an hour, watching Stark prove he was every bit the "full-tilt diva" he accused others of being, checking every face that passed by the window. The archer had long since switched to his mission mindset and did not enjoy sitting idle while on the run any more than a mouse enjoyed dangling over a cat's mouth. Every instinct he had, developed by years of training and real life experience, was screaming, commanding him to run. These commands were joined by another more troubling thought in his mind, one that grew louder with each passing second. A persistent thought telling him that yes, that purple nail polish on the shelf would go fantastically with his mission-suit.

He really needed to get out of here before he did something stupid.

"Tony, this has been real fun and all, but we need to leave."

Dark eyebrows raised in an incredulous manner, perfectly matching the tone of response.

"Clint please, my cuticles are a mess. I'm not going anywhere."

"Now you're just doing it to annoy me, you have to be," the archer muttered, hands pressed against his face sliding from chin to forehead. "Three days ago you were in your garage, covered in motor oil, shirt ripped and stained, body running on nothing but coffee and AC/DC. If you care so much why didn't you get a manicure then?"

"You'll never know Barton, you'll never know."

"Stark, you've got three seconds to get out of that chair before I pull you out."

"Now, now" Completely forgetting there was someone working on his nails, Tony lifted one hand to wag a finger at his companion. "Unknot your panties and pull them out of your ass Barton, you'll be much more comfortable that way."

Clint sneered at the self-satisfied grin that accompanied the billionaire's statement.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me the plan."

"What plan?"

"The plan," Tony answered simply. "The plan involving you telling me who employed the little asshole that messed up my face and what you intend to do about him. I know you know who he is, I saw the look on your face right before you head-butted the interrogator."

The inventor's tone of voice had changed. It was no longer the heavily sarcastic, light-hearted teasing tone, but something altogether more serious with a generous portion of stubborn. It was the tone of voice he used when telling off annoying reporters, or when someone on the Board of Directors from Stark Industries hinted that they'd like him to start redesigning weapons. It was the "I'm Tony Stark which means I do what I want so fuck off" tone.

"Fine you can get your nails done, brat."

Had his smile grown any larger, Stark's face would have split.

"I should hang out with you more often Legolas. You let me get away with a lot more crap than anyone else. Now spill, I want all the details."

"Where do you want me to start?" Clint responded with an eye roll.

"The beginning would probably be a good starting point."

Clint's voice affected a dreamy tone as he sarcastically began his explanation.

"Many years ago on the corn filled plains of Iowa-"

Clint just couldn't help himself. Was it his fault that he felt the pathological need to return the annoyance and sarcasm his partner had previously given him? No. Was it his fault that he slipped into and exaggerated his natural Midwestern accent when he noticed the philanthropist's eyebrows lower in irritation? Probably.

"A second child was born into the Barton family, a child destined for greatness."

Strangely, it made him happy speaking in the accent. It had been so long since he had. Working, or really living at SHIELD for so long had instilled in him an east coast phonetic pattern that had replaced his original lilt. Tony wasn't nearly as amused.

"Not your beginning!" Stark protested. "If I wanted to listen to that again I would re-read your file."

Clint was astounded.

"There are only two people with enough clearance to access my file Stark. How did you get your hands on it?"

The inventor interrupted his manicure once more, this time raising both hands to mime typing on an imaginary keyboard.

"I have my ways," he proclaimed. "I wanted to know every member on my- the team. You and Miss Thigh Choke were the only two I didn't receive any information on. Whether that's because you're two super spies or you weren't even supposed to be part of the initiative originally, I don't know."

"You read Nat's too?" Clint asked, choosing to ignore Tony's possessive slip of the tongue. He didn't feel like trying to figure out whether he meant my as in "I'm the leader/bankroll for the team" or my as in "You're all my play things." It was probably a little bit of both

"Well sorta. Most of the stuff in her file was so heavily encrypted it would have taken me hours to get to. I figured that was the secret stuff Nat only tells you, so I left it alone."

"Wow, that's surprisingly considerate of you…"

The two men paused, silently avoiding emotions as they tended to do. Until of course, Tony realized Clint had successfully redirected the conversation.

"You little shit! You know avoiding the conversation isn't going to get you out of here any faster. Just tell me what I want to know."

Clint chuckled and then actually started the conversation Tony wanted to hear.

"His name is Oland Karkov, a real nasty small time arms dealer. Before the invasion he floated just below SHIELD's radar; big enough to cause problems for local authorities, but too small to compare with most stuff SHIELD deals with on a regular basis. The most the Director ever did was assign junior agents to keep tabs on his operations."

Tony rose ever so slightly in his seat, sitting up to get a better view of the archer. He was obviously interested in there the story was going.

"He was always very good at organizing and covering his tracks. Any leak of information or talkative person was dealt with swiftly. Interpol hunted him for a few years and never found enough evidence to do anything. When Loki ran through my mind looking for suitable allies to help take down SHIELD, he recognized this. He became the main supplier for the pre-portal preparations. So naturally he is at the top of SHIELD's most wanted list, along with everyone else who helped."

"Ok," Tony nodded. "So what are we going to do?"

"Same thing I always do. Find him, and get rid of him." Clint spoke firmly. "I can't afford to wait any longer for exact orders from HQ and I don't have any time to waste dropping you off. You'll have to come with me."

"Sweet! Let's go then!"

Tony's voice was bristling with excitement. He was ever the fan of a good spy movie, or story, especially the few Clint had actually told him. Actually being part of one was an exciting prospect.

"Where do we go first Double-O-Raven?"

Clint stared at the man blankly, trying to interpret Stark's latest attempt at a clever nickname.

"Is that what it sounds like when you try to mix a James Bond reference mixed with a bird pun, because if so it sounded extremely lame and should never be repeated."

"Yeah," Tony inhaled slowly, sounding ever so slightly ashamed. "I've done better."

"Whatever." Clint returned to the mission at hand. "If we're going to do this, you have to promise me three things. You have to take this seriously, you need to listen and obey everything I say, and above all else you cannot be your normal idiotic, impulsive self. Understood?"

"Yeah, yeah understand."

Clint knew all too well that billionaire had distaste for following orders. A highly dangerous covert mission was no place for straying from plans and forging your own path. In Clint's experience disobeying orders had always led to injury and other bad things. There was one exception, but even that change in plan had led to injuries and spawned many more missions with more injuries. Clint needed Tony's sincere agreement, and stared down the man until he received it.

"First thing first. We go back to the bar and see what the bartender knows."

Tony did not look pleased with this aspect of the plan, but the woman crouched by Tony's feet interrupted any possible protests. She looked to Clint, knowing he could understand her.

"She wants to know what color you want your toenails Stark. Clear coat like your fingers?"

"Hmmm, no I want color." The inventor tapped his chin. "I'm thinking red. No, gold. No, red. No, both! What do you think Clinty dearest?"

Clint shook his head and watched as the inventor pointed his fully manicured hands at the wall of nail polish. The archer eyed the various shades on the wall, skipping over a certain color of interest, and verbalized Tony's request to the technician.

"I think you're way past eccentric and are now just crazy."

"I don't like this place any better in the morning."

The two men were once more standing in front of the infamous ale house. It was practically abandoned at half past noon, occupied by only one person other than the bartender. Tony stood before the building, much like he had the night before, face contorted in dislike. Clint wholeheartedly agreed with the billionaire. In the daylight the bar looked even more dilapidated, the crumbling structure now fully visible, chipped stone and rotten wood now in plain sight. But they needed more information than just the name of one man, and the bartender was the only solid lead they had.

"Ok interrogation roles," Clint finally spoke, choosing not to address Tony's comment. "I'll be the smooth, down to business, seasoned cop kinda guy. You get to be the man who brings up seemingly irrelevant things, but makes them threatening in a secretly batshit crazy serial killer kinda way."

Tony nodded.

"Steve Buscemi. Yeah I can do that."

"Let's try to keep this from getting physical, ok?"

They shared a nod, both ready to get started. Clint pushed through the front door for the second time in 24 hours. The small bell over the door tinkled, signaling their entrance. The bartender looked up from the counter, taking a break from wiping to inspect his new customers. He smiled brightly, ready to welcome the men until he recognized who they were. His lips lowered instantly as did his eyes, which gazed down upon the bar he was furiously wiping once more. He waited to see what Clint and Tony were going to do. Once they made a move towards the bar the older gentleman turned away from the room, intent on disappearing into the back room.

"Now, now," Clint chided. "Do you really want to take this somewhere private?"

With one hand the archer gestured around the bar, pointing out the few witnesses that would keep things from getting too rowdy. He quickly crossed the threshold, Tony in tow, making his way to the very bar stools they had perched upon before.

"I... I no speak English," the bartender replied weekly. He clearly wasn't nearly as comfortable with the situation as the superheroes were.

"I was humoring you last night, ordering in Hungarian. I think you do, and I think you have information we want."

"It's nice to see you found a replacement stool for the one I broke," Tony interrupted. "They really are nice stools." He ran his hand over the faux-leather cover if the unoccupied stool closest to him. "Do you think you would be able to find more if another managed to get smashed again?"

Clint had to keep himself from audibly groaning. He appreciated Tony's attempts to assist, but the man was anything but subtle. Too many B-list action movies he supposed. Thankfully the bartender was actually intimidated by their actions, rather than entertained.

"I don't know about men who came in here last night."

"Oh I never said anything about those men, but now that we're on the subject." Clint donned a rather nasty, sneer like grin. "You sure cleared outta here real fast when they came in. Are you sure you don't know anything, anything at all about what they do?"

Clint looked the man directly in the eyes, staring him down, waiting for him to crack. In the background Tony chattered on about the actual bar itself, the bartender's clothes, and how it would be a real shame if they ever got stained.

"Where do they hide? What are they planning?"

"I don't know, I really don't know! They always stopped talking when I came around and they never called their employer by name, only "the boss" or things like that."

The man was frantic.

"Did I ask you for their bosses name? Do I need to repeat my questions?" Clint's tone was menacing, a perfect match for his scrunched, shadowed expression.

"B-but..." The man swallowed, collecting his thoughts as best he could. "They did mention one name quite frequently. Alexi... Alexi Vontas I think. He's having a party soon, one they're invited too."

The man offered this information tentatively, clearly hoping it was what Clint wanted. It was, and the archer rewarded the man with a smile. He stood from the bar and walked towards the door, not wanting to spend any more time in the rundown establishment.

"Come on Tony, we have a party to crash."

Tada, Chapter Five! Thanks to anyone who's stuck with this story so for. I feel I should let you know that the rest is all planned out (like 99%) so it should update smoothly, provided I don't get distracted. All of your reviews, favorites, and follows are appreciated. I love you all.

Also Clint and Tony know Wade because of reasons.