Clint Introduces Tony to Cheap Bourbon

Clint slumped against Tony's expensive outside walls and watched as the streak of light in the night sky came closer and closer. He hadn't come up to the top of Stark's tower to wait for Tony to show back up, but whatever. The blur transformed into an elegant red and gold metal suit, and slowed, hovering above the crazy contraption Stark had built that would strip the suit from his body and send it back to its alcove.

Clint wondered which suit Tony had chosen before jetting off early yesterday morning. They seemed to have multiplied every time he wandered into Tony's workshop. Tony didn't mind him hanging out there, when Clint was bored. Tony's music collection was awesome, and Tony always had his rock blaring. Tony treated him pretty much the way he did his robots, ordering Clint to root through his tool boxes for various screwdrivers or ratchets and to lay them down on the workbench so Tony could grab them.

Stark and his aversion to being handed things. Clint wondered when Tony had picked up that little phobia. He'd noticed it not long after moving into the tower for their mandatory three weeks away from S.H.I.E.L.D. Nat said he'd had it when she'd been undercover as his PA.

Whatever.

Clint knew other people found his fondness for being up high weird. It made him annoyed sometimes, the looks they'd give him, so he wasn't inclined to do the whole glass house and stones thing about somebody else's non-mainstream habits.

Tony dropped down onto the platform and Clint drank from the bottle in his hand, watching his fellow Avenger emerge from the suit.

Tony was in deep shit with Cap. And Fury. Natasha would give him one of her killer looks. Well, she would have if she was here. Unlike him, she was back to work. S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent her to sniff around and find out what the Hand, those demented ninjas, were up to these days.

Clint took another swallow and watched Tony walk towards the elevator. "Hey. Iron Man."

Tony started, and turned around. "Barton?"

"That's me. Otherwise known as the World's Greatest Marksman." Clint gave a little flourish with his hand. The one that wasn't holding the bottle.

Tony snorted. "Little full of yourself, aren't you? World's Greatest Marksman?"

"It's what I was billed as when I worked in the circus. It was plastered on the banners and the grinders would talk me up." Funny how he always started thinking about his time under the big top when things got shitty. "Like this, 'Hawkeye, the World's Greatest Marksman.'" He imitated the cadence of circus showmen who were drumming up business.

Tony walked over to him, looked down at where he was sitting in the shadows, and frowned. "Old Bardstown Gold? That's what you're drinking?"

Clint studied the bottle. "Sure am."

"You know there's a lot better stuff around here to drink," Tony said, quirking an eyebrow up.

Clint shook his head. "It's your stuff. Not mine."

"So you went out and paid, what? Eighty or ninety dollars for that?" Tony held out his hand and then impatiently snapped his fingers a couple of times until Clint handed it over.

Tony upended the bottle and took a hefty swig.

"Fifteen," Clint said. And there had been times when even that much was more than he could afford.

"Hmm. It's not absolutely awful." Tony handed the bottle back and Clint took a small swallow. He wanted to be able to walk to his room under his own steam.

Tony dropped down next to him. "I know why I'm in no hurry to go inside, but why are you out here?"

"Can't a guy just hang out on a rooftop?" Shit. That sounded too... forlorn or something. He needed to watch his mouth. Clint Barton was dealing with the shit that had happened to him. That was his story, and he was sticking to it. He almost laughed at himself then. Right.

"Sure." Tony reached into a pocket on his flight undersuit and pulled out two small packages. He held one out to Clint. Shrugging, Clint took it and tore open the snack. He leaned his head back and tossed an almond high in the air and caught it in his mouth.

Tony dumped a few nuts into his hand and tucked the package away. He started pouring them from one hand to the other.

"JARVIS told me about Coulson." An expression crossed Tony's face that looked suspiciously like sympathy.

Clint just threw another almond in the air, but caught it again with his other hand. "Yeah. Fucking pneumonia. Medical's banned visitors till his white blood count gets better."

"Sucks."

"Yeah." Clint took another swig of bourbon and passed it over to Tony.

Tony took a sip, and then passed the bottle back. "What is this cheap shit? Comfort alcohol?"

Clint laughed a little. "Uh-huh. From my misspent youth. Hell, it beat drinking Strawberry Hill."

Tony shuddered. "Ugh. Bad, very bad memories about Strawberry Hill and boarding school. So. S.H.I.E.L.D. not ready to take you back yet?"

"Stark..."

"Well, you are out here moping, and I don't think it's just because of Agent's pneumonia or Romanoff's departure." Tony popped the almonds in his hand into his mouth.

"Golly gee. Tony Stark really is a genius."

"Sarcasm becomes you, Barton. So, shrinks dragging their feet about clearing you?"

"Anyone ever tell you you're a nosy son-of-a-bitch, Tony?"

"Do I even need to answer that, Legolas?" Tony held out his hand for the bottle and Clint passed it over.

Fuck it. Just, fuck it.

Tony gave him an intense look, like Clint was a robot with a malfunctioning part. God, the man could be one hell of a curious son-of-a-bitch.

Clint muttered, "Ah, fuck it." He stared at Tony as the seconds ticked by, then gave in. "I was doing pretty good at snowing the psych eval team, until they brought in an empath. She gave me a thumbs down. Now I've got mandatory therapy to get through before I'm cleared for S.H.I.E.L.D. missions." He glared at Tony. "But you. We're all pissed at you, Tony."

"What for? Apartments not working out? Want to repaint? I know you love the archery range, don't even tell me you don't." Tony coughed this time when he took another long pull at the bottle.

Clint shook his head. "I'm cool with staying here and you paying my rent. I'm easy like that. I wasn't attached to my old digs or anything." Tony handed him the bottle back and Clint swallowed another mouthful.

"So, what's the word on the rest of the gang? Our three-week agreement to stay put here together is over. Romanoff want to split, or Rogers?"

"I don't know about Steve. Nat's okay with hanging out in the tower for now. I think she's in love with her bathtub, and she – don't you blab this to her, Stark- well, she feels okay hanging with the team."

"She luvs us," Tony smirked.

"No," Clint drawled. "But she feels connected. She's got our backs, and not just during missions. Tasha doesn't do that for many people. Coulson, me. Maybe Fury. And now Steve and Bruce and Thor. Even you."

"Even me? You sure about that? I halfway expect laser beams to shoot out of her eyes when she's pissed at me." Tony made an exaggerated scared face.

Clint poked him in the chest. "You're still in one piece, aren't you? Even when you're being an annoying shit. You're lucky she already left on a mission and it's only Cap and me to ream you out, considering what you just got done pulling."

"Oh. So you guys know about that?"

Clint snorted. "S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't stupid, Tony. Neither are we. We found out. And Tasha might reserve the right to take you down, but she's not going to let any bad guys have that privilege."

"So you sharing your booze with me is reaming me out?" Tony snickered, and it pissed Clint off.

"Yeah. My plan is to give you a massive hangover. I hope you'll be hovering over the toilet for hours."

"It'll take a lot more than swallowing some of this swill." He reached for the bottle and Clint handed it over.

"You're an idiot, Tony."

"Sticks and stones, stones and sticks." Tony sounded almost gleeful and it pissed Clint off even more.

He
scowled at Tony. "You're on a team, asshole, and you should have told us what you wanted to do. Hell, I'm bored. I'd have come along just for that reason."

"This wasn't Avengers' business. This was me cleaning up my own damn mess." Tony scowled right back at him and took a long pull from the bottle.

"We would have helped."

"My mess." Tony said, slowly, deliberately. "My weapons in the wrong hands. I made it go boom, problem solved."

"You didn't have any backup. You didn't inform S.H.I.E.L.D. that you were going for that Ten Rings weapon cache. Man, Coulson's gonna be pissed when he reads the report." When he was well enough to stay conscious for more than fifteen minutes at a time, Clint thought. And that didn't look to be any time soon.

"You're not cleared for S.H.I.E.L.D. missions anyway, Barton." He handed the bottle back to Clint, who took his turn at emptying the sucker.

"Fuck S.H.I.E.L.D. grounding me," Clint growled. "Am I an Avenger, or not? I'm not asking S.H.I.E.L.D. for permission when it comes to an Avengers mission."

"Chill, man. Nobody's saying you aren't an Avenger. And I don't give a rat's ass if you don't jump when Fury tells you to hop to it. But. This. Was. My. Mess. I brought those weapons into the world and I should be the one to take them out when they're in the wrong hands. Me. Get it? I'm responsible." Tony's dark eyes looked fiery, no trace of the sarcastic, suave smart-ass that the public loved to watch.

Clint glared at him. "We were worried about you, you asshole. And Pepper's going to skin you alive."

Tony winced. "I know. I had a short conversation with her after the mission. And by short I mean she hung up on me."

"So that's why you're drinking with me out here?" Clint felt his anger with Tony melting away.

Tony looked out at the city lights and stayed quiet for a minute before he coughed. "Well, it's, oh, twenty percent of why I'm still here. Maybe twenty-eight percent. I'm willing to go with twenty-eight percent."

"So what's the other seventy-two percent about?" Clint could do math. Sure he didn't know squat about stuff that would get Stark and Banner all excited, like quantum mechanics and equations that took up an entire wall space, but hey, he could do percentiles.

"Hiding from Rogers?" Tony grimaced. "Well, that's, uh, say thirty, thirty-five percent. If you're mad about my little solo act, then Cap sure ain't gonna be happy. I'm a genius. I can extrapolate data."

"Still leaves thirty-seven percent of... what?"

Tony grabbed Clint's head and planted a sloppy kiss on his forehead. "There's your other thirty-seven percent. Let's never talk of this again. Give me that cheap crap. If I've got to listen to Captain America chewing me out, I'm for sure not going to do it sober."

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