Natasha flailed an arm in his direction and flopped it down on Clint's lower back. He moaned. She peeled up his shirt.
"You have," Coulson said, the words echoing through the haze of his hangover, "a tramp stamp."
"Blrrr," said Clint.
"It's a flower. Weed? Plant."
"Aaaaaaamn," Clint agreed.
"I think," chimed in Tony, who was upside down on the couch, "that the plant is dying."
"Nooooooo," protested Clint.
"It'll be fine," said Coulson. "Just water it."
"Mm," said Clint, before falling back asleep.
"That day was an excellent day!" boomed Thor. "Feasting, revels, green mead, tribal decorations--I feel as though I have died in glorious battle and come to Valhalla, with all of my friends in tow!"
"Die." Natasha's arm flopped angrily in Thor's direction for a moment.
"No," Thor replied sternly. "I will not."
"If I'm still drunk," said Bruce, who was tucked under a table in the corner, wearing green socks, Steve's cowl, and nothing else, "but my head hurts and I'm nauseous, am I hungover?"
"Drink more," said Tony sagely.
"Okay."
"Do not drink more," said Coulson, attempting to stand up from the armchair. He was wearing a suit, as always, shirt buttoned, tie snug around his neck, cufflinks present and accounted for. There was only one problem. "Stark."
"Yes."
"Why am I wearing one of your suits?"
"Dunno."
"And why is red?"
"Why aren't all suits red, is the better question," said Tony.
"No talking." Natasha picked her head up enough to glare at all of them. "Or death will happen."
"You are adorable," Thor decided.
"Die."
"No."
"Where's Steve?" Coulson said, after Thor tried to pet Natasha and she somehow knocked him flat on his back without appearing to move. He was laughing happily.
"I have his hat on," said Bruce, tugging at the tiny ears on either side of the Captain America cowl. "It's very tight."
"It makes your skull look super skinny," commented Tony, who was still upside-down. "I like your head. It has nice headbumps."
"I'mma water all the plants," said Clint decisively, before lurching to his feet, turning in a complete circle, and lying back down.
Coulson, inspired by Clint's example, made a valiant effort and stood up. The world was spinning. He was pretty sure that was a result of Guinness, and not a warning sign of an impending attack. Nonetheless... "Thor?"
"Yes, Son of Coul?"
"A, stop calling me that, no matter what Tony says, and B, is the room spinning?"
Thor took a moment to survey his surroundings. "No, Coul's son, it is not."
"Very good." He took a step forward and then sank to the floor. "Stark, you have very nice carpets."
"Bruce has nice headbumps," Tony replied, as if it was a competition of some sort.
"All of 'em," Clint agreed. "An' flowers an' stuff."
Natasha started petting Thor's hair. He started braiding hers. After a moment of consideration, she allowed it. About the time that Thor finished braiding half of Natasha's hair in neat cornrows, Steve came in.
IDEK [2/2] Avengers, btw!hoosierbitchMarch 17 2013, 18:08:26 UTC
"Cap'n 'Merica's gonna be real angry," whispered Clint. "Hide all the tattoos."
"All of them?" Coulson asked. Clint nodded and tugged down the collar of--of one of Coulson's undershirts. Over his heart there was the tattoo of a hawk, which Coulson had seen before; under that, encrypted in one of the first codes Coulson had taught Clint, was his name.
"You have to water it," Clint said blurrily, curling around Coulson's knees like a pillbug. "Or it'll. I dunno. Dry."
"I am very disappointed in you all," Steve was saying. Bruce had his hands over his ears--unfortunately, over the cowl's fake ears, leaving his own uncovered--and Tony was holding a pillow to each side of his head. Natasha was still petting Thor, her eyes blinking slowly like a satisfied cat. Thor was listening attentively. Coulson, who, by all rights, should be standing by Steve's side, explaining about propriety and notoriety and responsibility, stroked a hand down Clint's back. Clint mumbled happily and curled tighter.
"My socks are green," Bruce interrupted, staring at his feet. "And I have no pants."
Steve looked around the room, sighed, and went back out.
"Merry Saint Patrick's Day!" Thor called after him. Everyone in the room groaned, Thor's epic voice resounding through their inebriated bones. "Next weekend, I shall introduce you to one of Asgard's finest holidays. The mead is not coloured, but the quantity imbibed is comparable. It shall be a tale for the ages."
"Or a tale for Time," muttered Tony. "They'll give us a whole goddamned spread. They hate me."
"All the plants," Clint agreed, before falling asleep with his head pillowed on Coulson's thigh. Coulson looked down at him, at the garish red of his suit, and then over at Natasha's happy face.
"Izzat...mrphl."
Natasha flailed an arm in his direction and flopped it down on Clint's lower back. He moaned. She peeled up his shirt.
"You have," Coulson said, the words echoing through the haze of his hangover, "a tramp stamp."
"Blrrr," said Clint.
"It's a flower. Weed? Plant."
"Aaaaaaamn," Clint agreed.
"I think," chimed in Tony, who was upside down on the couch, "that the plant is dying."
"Nooooooo," protested Clint.
"It'll be fine," said Coulson. "Just water it."
"Mm," said Clint, before falling back asleep.
"That day was an excellent day!" boomed Thor. "Feasting, revels, green mead, tribal decorations--I feel as though I have died in glorious battle and come to Valhalla, with all of my friends in tow!"
"Die." Natasha's arm flopped angrily in Thor's direction for a moment.
"No," Thor replied sternly. "I will not."
"If I'm still drunk," said Bruce, who was tucked under a table in the corner, wearing green socks, Steve's cowl, and nothing else, "but my head hurts and I'm nauseous, am I hungover?"
"Drink more," said Tony sagely.
"Okay."
"Do not drink more," said Coulson, attempting to stand up from the armchair. He was wearing a suit, as always, shirt buttoned, tie snug around his neck, cufflinks present and accounted for. There was only one problem. "Stark."
"Yes."
"Why am I wearing one of your suits?"
"Dunno."
"And why is red?"
"Why aren't all suits red, is the better question," said Tony.
"No talking." Natasha picked her head up enough to glare at all of them. "Or death will happen."
"You are adorable," Thor decided.
"Die."
"No."
"Where's Steve?" Coulson said, after Thor tried to pet Natasha and she somehow knocked him flat on his back without appearing to move. He was laughing happily.
"I have his hat on," said Bruce, tugging at the tiny ears on either side of the Captain America cowl. "It's very tight."
"It makes your skull look super skinny," commented Tony, who was still upside-down. "I like your head. It has nice headbumps."
"I'mma water all the plants," said Clint decisively, before lurching to his feet, turning in a complete circle, and lying back down.
Coulson, inspired by Clint's example, made a valiant effort and stood up. The world was spinning. He was pretty sure that was a result of Guinness, and not a warning sign of an impending attack. Nonetheless... "Thor?"
"Yes, Son of Coul?"
"A, stop calling me that, no matter what Tony says, and B, is the room spinning?"
Thor took a moment to survey his surroundings. "No, Coul's son, it is not."
"Very good." He took a step forward and then sank to the floor. "Stark, you have very nice carpets."
"Bruce has nice headbumps," Tony replied, as if it was a competition of some sort.
"All of 'em," Clint agreed. "An' flowers an' stuff."
Natasha started petting Thor's hair. He started braiding hers. After a moment of consideration, she allowed it. About the time that Thor finished braiding half of Natasha's hair in neat cornrows, Steve came in.
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"All of them?" Coulson asked. Clint nodded and tugged down the collar of--of one of Coulson's undershirts. Over his heart there was the tattoo of a hawk, which Coulson had seen before; under that, encrypted in one of the first codes Coulson had taught Clint, was his name.
"You have to water it," Clint said blurrily, curling around Coulson's knees like a pillbug. "Or it'll. I dunno. Dry."
"I am very disappointed in you all," Steve was saying. Bruce had his hands over his ears--unfortunately, over the cowl's fake ears, leaving his own uncovered--and Tony was holding a pillow to each side of his head. Natasha was still petting Thor, her eyes blinking slowly like a satisfied cat. Thor was listening attentively. Coulson, who, by all rights, should be standing by Steve's side, explaining about propriety and notoriety and responsibility, stroked a hand down Clint's back. Clint mumbled happily and curled tighter.
"My socks are green," Bruce interrupted, staring at his feet. "And I have no pants."
Steve looked around the room, sighed, and went back out.
"Merry Saint Patrick's Day!" Thor called after him. Everyone in the room groaned, Thor's epic voice resounding through their inebriated bones. "Next weekend, I shall introduce you to one of Asgard's finest holidays. The mead is not coloured, but the quantity imbibed is comparable. It shall be a tale for the ages."
"Or a tale for Time," muttered Tony. "They'll give us a whole goddamned spread. They hate me."
"All the plants," Clint agreed, before falling asleep with his head pillowed on Coulson's thigh. Coulson looked down at him, at the garish red of his suit, and then over at Natasha's happy face.
"I match your hair," he told her.
"Shut up and sleep."
He did.
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