[ buckshot is my bread, and I'll drink whiskey instead of water ] [ OPEN ]

[nailsthetarget]

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.

Comments

[quiptionary]

Despite the confusion over the whole Ronin-Hawkeye-Ronin hey-weren’t -you-dead thing back home, Peter’d generally liked Clint. Being a Secret Avenger or New Avenger or plain ol’ Avenger or whatever the remains of the resistance were calling themselves on any given Tuesday hadn’t been the best of times, but he’d liked the people well enough. So far, despite the hair cut and facial bling, this one had pretty much kept up with that theme of possessing that odd likability that came with being a hero wielding medieval weaponry in the modern era. And this one liked fruit loops.

“Aren’t you manly paramilitary types all about the protein bars and hating on joy and toucans everywhere? I’m pretty sure I saw that in the SHIELD sign-up fine print. Somewhere. You know, in the back.”

Peter looked at the box of sugary goodness that was oh, oh so close, then rolled his head back to look at the kitchen, which was only a good flip and a scuttle across the ceiling away, but at the moment that was so far. A decision was made in an instant, and rather than going for his own bowl, Peter did a quick web-snap to fetch the box and started munching down like they were potato chips. Sweet, colorful potato chips from heaven.

“But even Nick Fury likes Saturday morning cartoons. I’ve seen it.”

[nailsthetarget]

"Most of us are, but me? I like cereal. I'm man enough to start my day with a magically delicious sugar rush. Can't say that I'm surprised that you do, too."

Saying that he was young at heart was something of an understatement. Usually, Clint would have ribbed him some, but he was tired and drugged and more interested in watching Maury reveal who the real father was.

"You're from the world where Fury's a white guy, right?"

[quiptionary]

“Muh-huh.”

Large man-child that his wife, friends, and acquaintances may call him, Peter had been raised with some manners, and not talking with your mouth full was one of the more thoroughly ingrained ones. He paused to swallow and wipe the sugary crumbs off his face with the back of one hand.

“But his utter toolishness is one of those universal constant things. Like Thor having a hammer, Fury will be one-eyed and manipulative.”

[nailsthetarget]

It was a good thing that he didn't talk with his mouth open, because some deeply-ingrained dadinstinct would have made Clint rebuke him for it. He might not have his kids anymore, but he still had his kneejerk dadisms.

"Man, you don't even know." Clint hooked his finger in his cheek and pulled back, showing the gap in his back molars. "That's where my control implant used to be. And I'm my Fury's best friend. Your Fury? Yeah, the guy's a tool, but he could be a hell of a lot worse. You guys have Fury Lite."

[quiptionary]

“You need better friends.”

This could turn into a “My Fury’s a Bigger Dick’ contest quickly, but beyond the fact Peter didn’t like talking about his own brain-washing experiences, the many ways Nick Fury ended in tears for everyone involved was not something he wanted to think about. Nick was here, he was out to blow things up, and dreaming of the million ways that could end in Armageddon was one bit of stress Peter didn’t need on top of the rest.

“Also, remind me to never sign up for the SHIELD dental plan, no matter how catchy the logo may be.”

[nailsthetarget]

Was there any good way to say all my friends have screwed me over, except for Jan---and she's going to die? No, there wasn't. This was more sharing that Clint was prepared to do. Talking about the implants, about Fury, that was more than enough. Six months ago, he would had to have been doped up to his eyeballs on sodium thiopental to say even that much.

But these 'Avengers' were open books. They were friendly people---dangerously so. They pressed and they pressed, and they didn't let up on him. Their honesty begged for reciprocation, and if he was going to keep living in the frat house, he had to give some things up.

Jan had made a deal with him. She'd asked---begged him, really---to pretend. Pretend to be nice, pretend to be normal, pretend to be a hero. Nobody in this world, save for Loki, had any idea of what they were truly capable of. If she wanted to pretend that they were even half as good as these hooligans in spandex, he wouldn't cock it up. He owed her that much.

"I've got friends." He took a large bite of soggy cereal. "Jan. The dog. They count."

[quiptionary]

“Would you like a hug? I’m sensing this is a hug moment.”

Peter had never really gone out of his way to make friends…it just kind of happened. Sure, his near superhuman stubbornness and tendency to just stick to people (pun entirely intended) helped the matter, but it couldn’t account for all of it. He just liked people and, apparently, people liked to be liked. Even people like Matt or- once upon a time- Tony, who were usually pretty good at the fortress of solitude routine one way or another. While he understood that method just worked for some people, the fully solitary kick wasn’t one he could do or, if given the chance, watch others do.

He didn’t so much get up and move as shift his weight to the side and pour himself off the arm on to the couch proper. He was still more or less crouching on the cushion, however. Peter hadn’t sat like a normal person in the comfort of his own home since he was fifteen, at least not without his aunt or wife there to disapprove him into it, and he wasn’t about to break that trend now.

[nailsthetarget]

Clint side-eyed him, scooting over to give him a little more room on the couch. One of their many Craigslist plunders, the couch wasn't that big...and, well, Clint took up a lot of it just by being his big ol' self.

Why couldn't he sit like a reasonable person? That had to be hell on his knees.

Sometimes, superheroes made Clint feel old. Sure, he was a top dog, but his body wouldn't take another ten or fifteen years going full-tilt like this. The only reason that doesn't bother him is that he doesn't plan on being around that long.

And it's not that he's suicidal. No, he's not courting that dim dance partner, not anymore. He's just pragmatic. A realist.

"Dude, no. That's gay."

[quiptionary]

"Ah, there it is. The tough guy insecurity. I was beginning to wonder if you'd left it in your other dimension. Or if science had somehow finally managed to breed a bigger, stronger ego."

There was something about running around New York in skin tight spandex that led to a disproportionate number of gay comments in Peter's time- including from Danny Rand of all people, Mr. Yellow Booties My Man Partner Bought Me himself- and he'd always more than rolled with it in his years. There was nothing wrong with it, it just wasn't him. But it was always fun to watch the eyebrows raise when he and Johnny were in a room together.

"But, seriously. That's messed up. The tooth thing, not Jan and the dog. They're both cute, cuddly, and so pass for man's best friend."

[nailsthetarget]

"I'm not insecure. Just not so big on the touching."

Because really, when the closest thing you have to a male friend is Nick Fury, the best you're going to get is a brofist that may or may not stab you in the back.

It was weird, to him, how all the heroes of their world seemed to be friends. Like, with no secondary reasons. No political motivations, no funding or benefits or anything. They all just...hung out. And had barbecues.

The closest they got to that were White House dinners and the few times that Laura had insisted that he bring his coworkers over once in a while. At the White House dinners, he'd played with the kids and ignored the President---he hadn't voted for that guy, that was for fucking sure. At the Barton family dinners, he'd played with the kids and ignored Wanda and Pietro playing footsy under the table.

"Yeah, well. That precious circus origin your Hawkeye has isn't my life. The implants were one of the more bearable parts. But whatever, you know? That's life. You deal."

[quiptionary]

Peter resolved then and there, in the dark, webby recesses of his mind, that this Hawkeye would not be leaving the dimension without a hug. A patented Parker dear-god-is-he-sticking-to-me-help one, which even Matt Murdock had had to become resigned to over the years. It was all just a matter of timing. Timing was especially important in this case as Peter was pretty sure that, unlike Matt, Clint would actually follow through and set his bed on fire while he slept in revenge if it wasn’t at the perfect moment. If not just outright stab him in the neck with an arrow in front of God, Barkeye, and everyone.

“Crazy place you kids come from.”

Peter wasn’t going to say it was worse. Comparing the levels of pain people had gone through was worse than useless, it was flat out impossible. There wasn’t anything be gained in weighing suffering. So, it wasn’t worse, but hearing Clint, Jan, and other Peter talk about it did make him wonder.

“And, speaking of crazy lives, while I’ve got you all doped up and out of quiver range…that was some vacation you all skipped off to.”

[nailsthetarget]

"Crazy? Maybe. But there's no place like home."

Not that it'd feel like home if he ever went back. He knew that he'd only be going back to bury his wife and children and wait for Jan to bite it.

"Peter. Believe me when I say that I could kill you with that box of cereal if I really felt like it---doped up or not." But he didn't feel like it, because Jan would be pissed and he wasn't in the mood to move. "Ask Jan about what happened to my nails, sometime. If you're feeling ballsy."

He didn't want to talk about it, not particularly. And he'd heard Jan tell the story. Even though she hadn't been there, she made it sound pretty fucking great...but he had nixed the 'he was like a househusband RAMBO with a thirst for terrorist blood!' description for any future retellings.

[quiptionary]

“And ruin your aura of mystique? Never. Do you mind if I keep that death via cereal box on the back-burner? It’s better than some of my other ones.”

And almost certainly better than the one he’d eventually be getting back home, if things kept up at the rate they were going. Eeesh. If he kept up with this one, Clint was going to get him into a good ol’ fashioned Spider-brood, which no one deserved to go through. Least of all the visiting members of the Spider-family and friends gang.

“Though, on using mundane objects as projectiles. The smallest member of my personal franchise and her partner in crime are in the house for a, er, unspecified period of time. So, while I’m sure you’re nothing but a gentleman at heart and would never shoot first and ask questions later,” ahem, “please don’t throw things at any random young ladies in the house…and just how serious are we about the dog attacking redhead things, again?”

Maybe he should have given Rikki a heads up on that. Oops.

[nailsthetarget]

"I know I've got a rep, but," Clint finished his bowl and set it aside. He stretched out, hands folded over his stomach. He could feel his ribs creak whenever he took in an overfull breath. Yeah, being fully human sucked, sometimes. "Have I taken a shot at anyone in this house? No. And unless it's in my mission parameters, I don't raise a finger against a women. Period."

It wasn't a big thing, but he felt like it was what separated him from wife-beating maniacs like his world's Hank Pym. Work was work, but when he was off, he had personal ethics and codes that he stuck to.

"I'll call off the dog. That's Jan's fault, anyway. If she could get away with it, she'd probably fry Natasha."

[quiptionary]

"Better safe than mopping up bloodstains at two in the morning, that's my philosophy. Or is, now that I've bunked with Wolvie."

Peter glanced over as Clint shifted around. It'd been so long since he'd had an injury that'd kept him off his feet for more than a day that he couldn't even remember what this processes was like, except from the spectators point of view. Magically induced illnesses and all that didn't count, as far as he was concerned. But he did know enough to not make it noticeable that he was noticing.

"And poor Widow. Or poor Jan. I can't decide which would out scary the other in that one, all I know is I want to be there watching when it happens."

[nailsthetarget]

The last thing that he wanted was to be reminded of the fact that he was seriously screwed up...and that it'd all been his fault. He was touchy enough about the mistakes he had made without them being brought up again and again.

And Jan had definitely been bringing it up. Again. And again. She didn't tired of telling him what an idiot he was.

"It wouldn't be pretty. I don't know what your Jan was like, but mine doesn't pull punches. I've seen her do things that the Geneva Convention wouldn't know what to do with."