[ buckshot is my bread, and I'll drink whiskey instead of water ] [ OPEN ]
WHO: nailsthetarget and YOU
WHAT: Clint healing. Crankily.
WHERE: Fratvengers house
WHEN: anytime after Clint gets back
WARNINGS: Clint
SUMMARY: The Fratvengers couch has been taken over by a huge, angry archer. Good luck getting the remote back.
Clint didn't mind his lack of enhancements, usually. He took a strange kind of satisfaction in the fact that he had never been 'roided up, needled, super soldiered, or mutated. He was 100% redblooded human American male, and he still kept up with all the people who'd let science fuck up their insides. In fact, his reflexes were even better than Captain America's---compared to him, his trigger-finger was slow.
It was a point of pride until he got hurt---because then, being human just meant he had to slog through the boring, time-consuming process of healing naturally.
Clint hated being cooped up. He hated being slow. He hated when he felt his age, when old injuries ached, when he felt like a liability. After he'd had his sorry ass dragged back to Manhattan, all he'd wanted to do was go to bed and not get up again. The public humiliation rankled him; he knew he was one of the best of the best, but all he'd done was show how good he was at fucking up.
Jan knew that he would retreat into his room, so she'd made it impossible for him to do so. Bitch was punishing him. She'd not only locked his door, but she'd booby-trapped it so that touching the doorknob gave him a severe electric shock. Undaunted, he'd climbed in through the window, but then Jan took away his painkllers, so he'd had to make a tough decision. His love of painkillers had made that decision for him, unfortunately.
Apparently, he had to 'learn how to play well with others'. And 'include his friends in whatever he did'. And 'be nice.'
Clint Barton didn't want to be motherfucking nice. He wanted to put his fist through something---or someone---and exchange his ribs for a new set.
But he was exiled to the living room, so he had to deal with licking his wounds in front of everyone. He ate sugary cereal wrathfully and made it very clear to everyone that he was in control of the remote until further notice. Unfortunately, the TiVo was still mourning lost love and only recorded the Lifetime channel. He'd threatened it, but to no avail. Hank had 'made it better', and it'd fallen in love with Reed. The thing had been useless ever since he'd left.
He hated everyone. They were all fucking crazy.
WHAT: Clint healing. Crankily.
WHERE: Fratvengers house
WHEN: anytime after Clint gets back
WARNINGS: Clint
SUMMARY: The Fratvengers couch has been taken over by a huge, angry archer. Good luck getting the remote back.
Clint didn't mind his lack of enhancements, usually. He took a strange kind of satisfaction in the fact that he had never been 'roided up, needled, super soldiered, or mutated. He was 100% redblooded human American male, and he still kept up with all the people who'd let science fuck up their insides. In fact, his reflexes were even better than Captain America's---compared to him, his trigger-finger was slow.
It was a point of pride until he got hurt---because then, being human just meant he had to slog through the boring, time-consuming process of healing naturally.
Clint hated being cooped up. He hated being slow. He hated when he felt his age, when old injuries ached, when he felt like a liability. After he'd had his sorry ass dragged back to Manhattan, all he'd wanted to do was go to bed and not get up again. The public humiliation rankled him; he knew he was one of the best of the best, but all he'd done was show how good he was at fucking up.
Jan knew that he would retreat into his room, so she'd made it impossible for him to do so. Bitch was punishing him. She'd not only locked his door, but she'd booby-trapped it so that touching the doorknob gave him a severe electric shock. Undaunted, he'd climbed in through the window, but then Jan took away his painkllers, so he'd had to make a tough decision. His love of painkillers had made that decision for him, unfortunately.
Apparently, he had to 'learn how to play well with others'. And 'include his friends in whatever he did'. And 'be nice.'
Clint Barton didn't want to be motherfucking nice. He wanted to put his fist through something---or someone---and exchange his ribs for a new set.
But he was exiled to the living room, so he had to deal with licking his wounds in front of everyone. He ate sugary cereal wrathfully and made it very clear to everyone that he was in control of the remote until further notice. Unfortunately, the TiVo was still mourning lost love and only recorded the Lifetime channel. He'd threatened it, but to no avail. Hank had 'made it better', and it'd fallen in love with Reed. The thing had been useless ever since he'd left.
He hated everyone. They were all fucking crazy.