I'm Friggin' Hawkeye
fin.
Thinking back, he’s sure what he did was a tiny bit dramatic, maybe even a slight overreaction. Thinking back, it might have possibly been immature.
Then again, ‘thinking back’ never bodes well for Clint Barton.
The first time it happens, it’s at a charity auction event. The highest bidders spend nearly a half-million dollars for an hour with Tony, closely followed by $400,000 for Steve, twenty-five thousand less for Thor; Sam and Natasha’s time garners an even two-hundred thousand apiece, and Bucky’s hour raises hundred and twenty-five thousand. Bruce, to his own surprise, is bid upon for a winning total of $115,000. It’s a painful blow to Clint’s pride (or what remains of it) to only get eighty-thousand. He knows that there are bound to be jokes at his expense once they’re all back home in the tower, and he doesn’t even have someone who looks interesting as a consolation prize. The person who won sixty minutes of his life looks like he spends hours upon hours locked in a library with stuffy old books; his face has the expressions of a slab of stone. But he paid for Clint’s time, so Clint has no choice but to follow through.
By the time he’s standing in the elevator up to the communal floor, Clint has been called every “C” name from “Caleb” to even fuckin’ "Clyde", had his ass grabbed roughly with no warning multiple times, and suffered through the most revolting, unattractive, unsexy make-out session of his life. He pushes the night’s events to the back of his mind as the lift emits a soft beep and the doors open to reveal his team – minus Thor – gathered around the living room. They’re all still in various degrees of dress; Natasha is still completely dolled up, not a hair out of place, whereas Tony is down to his pants and the plain white tank he usually wears under his dress shirts (or in the workshop; how that man has any white clothing left would be a mystery if he wasn’t a billionaire), his shoes kicked off and in a pile under the coffee table. Steve has changed from his suit into a pair of cotton pyjama pants and a fitted T-shirt. Bruce is in his khakis and the navy button-down he wore to the auction, and Sam is wearing something similar; Bucky is the least-dressed of them all, wearing only sweats that are far too worn to be good for Clint’s heart.
Tony glances up from the conversation he’s having with Bruce, hands gesticulating wildly but coming to a stop midair when he catches sight of Clint. “Hey, Bird-Brain, how was your night? Give him eighty-thousand dollars’ worth of fun?”
That’s strike one.
The second time it happens, they’re in a large assembly hall, sitting in a line behind a table. Glasses of water leave rings of condensation on the flimsy tablecloth as they take drinks as needed; a sea of faces are turned toward them, and dozens upon dozens of eyes are focussed intently on them. Occasional flashes from cameras light up the room as pictures are taken. Clint doesn’t even remember why the team is here for this specific junket, but with Natasha sitting right beside him, he’s just going to sit here and smile. Or, well, not smile, but certainly not going to make waves by making a spectacle of himself.
With a quiet cough, the moderator brings the audience to attention, states the rules of the junket, and gives the go-ahead signal. The reporters, who range from New York Times and Daily Bugle to HuffPo all the way to Buzzfeed, thankfully wait their turns to ask questions or cast judgment - at first. It isn’t long, however, before Tony’s reverted back to saccharine snark and pointed barbs, and Steve has that smile on his face that nobody but the team can tell is fake. Natasha has the patience of a saint and is wearing her perfectly-serene-and-happy-to-be-here mask. Bruce is surprisingly calm in the face of so many strangers making inquiries about their lives behind closed doors, the damage caused every time he Hulks out, the latest photos making their rounds on gossip blog about the giant green ball of rage-and-smash cuddling with the penguins in the zoo; Sam is honest, earnest, in his attempts to prevent the critical statements from getting under his skin, and Bucky… Well, Bucky doesn’t say a whole lot, even when he is asked direct questions about his past, and those questions are immediately shot down by both Tony and Steve as soon as they’re uttered.
And Clint doesn’t speak one word during the entire hour, beyond a greeting and farewell. Nobody looks his way, nobody asks anything of him, and nobody seems to even notice he’s there. The instant the moderator relieves them all of their duty of presence, Clint is gone, dodging and weaving around the rest of the team, disappearing around the corner before any of them can say anything. He knows – really, he does – that not being questioned is probably the best thing for all of them; Fury gets that little twitch in the corner of his eye, the little quiver in his trigger finger, any time Clint opens his big mouth, and Natasha has threatened on more than one occasion to kill him for making their lives difficult by speaking when he should’ve remained silent. Tony’s really the only one who finds Clint’s fuck-ups hilarious, since it usually gets Steve’s unimpressed glares off of him and onto Clint. Bruce stays out of everything, because confrontation in regards to Clint’s Epic Word-Vomit has proven to be a catastrophic idea, and Thor tries so hard to understand how Clint can go from “What happened was…” to “Why the fuck are you shooting at me, I’m the good guy!” But when one can’t figure out how an explanation turned into a plea for their life, how are they to explain it to someone else? Sam, poor Sam, usually drags a seething/confused/angry Steve away from the argument and forces Cap to spar until he can speak without sounding like his voice is a tripwire to a ticking time bomb. Bucky does his best to avoid all of them when emotions are running high, which, yeah, that’s smart.
But damn it, Clint actually made a promise to be on his best behaviour this morning, and it’s all gone to waste. He was just decoration in the background, and that?
That’s strike two.
He’s gone out of the tower five days in a row, alone each time, and received no recognition. Well, there was that one guy who shrieked “It’s Cupid!” at the top of his lungs, but as he was completely blitzed out of his mind, Clint ignored him, ducked his head, and disappeared around the corner before anyone could pay attention.
Five. Whole. Days.
And now, on the sixth day, Thor and Sam are with him; Clint made an announcement via JARVIS that he was making a Starbucks run, anybody want some? and ended up with a demigod and a veteran-turned-VA-worker-turned-superhero trailing behind him discussing the comparisons between medication and Asgardian mind-fixing spells (okay, so that’s not what Thor’s called them, but Clint can’t remember the term Thor used, so ‘mind-fixing’ will do).
They’re a block away from the coffee-shop when a group of people waiting at a crosswalk catch sight of them; a dozen faces split into wide grins, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, acknowledgment of my presence, he thinks – right before he’s unceremoniously shoved aside so the civilians can fawn over bright blond hair, huge muscles, big blue eyes, and a charming smile. Someone even goes so far as to ask Clint to “take a picture of us, please, holy shit, I can’t believe I’m meeting superheroes!” Clint thinks about protesting on the grounds of hey, asshole, I’m a superhero, too!, but then other people are shoving phones into his hands, so he bites back his cursing and starts taking photographs instead. For an hour.
That’s strike three.
Nobody bothers looking in his direction, even as he settles onto the bench-seat. He pushes the cover up, examines the instrument, and puts his fingers to the keys.
"When you’re on a team with the Hulk and Thor, and we’re all up there on the movie screen, will the people believe that I’m not quite as tough? Will anyone even notice me? But listen, I’ve got powers, too; they’re pretty sweet. I promise I can do so much more than just archery. I’m serious, guys."
An intern on the administration floor slows as Clint gets more wrapped up in his task. An R&D scientist glances up from the tablet in his hand, staring slack-jawed at the man playing piano and singing in the middle of SI’s lobby while wearing a tac-suit and a quiver strung across his back.
“I’ve got a collection of scarves and berets. I play trombone in a ska band. I once got to second base on my Tinder date, and my cat has got its own Instagram. I tell you now: I kick ass at Mario Kart. This year I played an extra in Paul Blart. I can open a pickle jar. I’m friggin’ Hawkeye. Maybe I’m as super as they are."
More people are stopping, filing off lifts, moving away from the stairwells and elevator banks; some look amused, others confused, the rest unsure of whether they’re being pranked or not. There are a multitude of phones being held up, aimed at Clint, and he feels a sort of maniacal glee as he continues.
“So maybe I still haven’t lost my virginity, but when I bowl, I always score at least seventy – after six beers,” here, a low chuckle flits around the group, and he nods to the nearest woman. “Yes, I know ‘bout Captain America’s strength, and the Hulk becomes a towering man. But I got seventh place in my fantasy league, and I once butt-dialed Jean-Claude Van Damme. I’m tellin’ you now, when I go to Chipotle, I get free guac. I flirt with the cashier, and she says I rock. I own water-resistant socks. I’m friggin’ Hawkeye. Maybe I’m as super as they are.
“Maybe I’m super as they are. Maybe I’m as super as they are.”
The notes drift away into silence, but the quiet doesn’t last long; within moments, the lobby is full of cheers and applause. Clint rises to his feet, bows, and walks away. He got what he wanted.
And if the videos on YouTube reach a higher view-count than both the video of Tony and Steve getting caught with their hands down each other's pants, and a cat “playing” Chopsticks on a toy piano, well, Clint’s not going to complain.
Then again, ‘thinking back’ never bodes well for Clint Barton.
________________________________
The first time it happens, it’s at a charity auction event. The highest bidders spend nearly a half-million dollars for an hour with Tony, closely followed by $400,000 for Steve, twenty-five thousand less for Thor; Sam and Natasha’s time garners an even two-hundred thousand apiece, and Bucky’s hour raises hundred and twenty-five thousand. Bruce, to his own surprise, is bid upon for a winning total of $115,000. It’s a painful blow to Clint’s pride (or what remains of it) to only get eighty-thousand. He knows that there are bound to be jokes at his expense once they’re all back home in the tower, and he doesn’t even have someone who looks interesting as a consolation prize. The person who won sixty minutes of his life looks like he spends hours upon hours locked in a library with stuffy old books; his face has the expressions of a slab of stone. But he paid for Clint’s time, so Clint has no choice but to follow through.
By the time he’s standing in the elevator up to the communal floor, Clint has been called every “C” name from “Caleb” to even fuckin’ "Clyde", had his ass grabbed roughly with no warning multiple times, and suffered through the most revolting, unattractive, unsexy make-out session of his life. He pushes the night’s events to the back of his mind as the lift emits a soft beep and the doors open to reveal his team – minus Thor – gathered around the living room. They’re all still in various degrees of dress; Natasha is still completely dolled up, not a hair out of place, whereas Tony is down to his pants and the plain white tank he usually wears under his dress shirts (or in the workshop; how that man has any white clothing left would be a mystery if he wasn’t a billionaire), his shoes kicked off and in a pile under the coffee table. Steve has changed from his suit into a pair of cotton pyjama pants and a fitted T-shirt. Bruce is in his khakis and the navy button-down he wore to the auction, and Sam is wearing something similar; Bucky is the least-dressed of them all, wearing only sweats that are far too worn to be good for Clint’s heart.
Tony glances up from the conversation he’s having with Bruce, hands gesticulating wildly but coming to a stop midair when he catches sight of Clint. “Hey, Bird-Brain, how was your night? Give him eighty-thousand dollars’ worth of fun?”
That’s strike one.
________________________________
The second time it happens, they’re in a large assembly hall, sitting in a line behind a table. Glasses of water leave rings of condensation on the flimsy tablecloth as they take drinks as needed; a sea of faces are turned toward them, and dozens upon dozens of eyes are focussed intently on them. Occasional flashes from cameras light up the room as pictures are taken. Clint doesn’t even remember why the team is here for this specific junket, but with Natasha sitting right beside him, he’s just going to sit here and smile. Or, well, not smile, but certainly not going to make waves by making a spectacle of himself.
With a quiet cough, the moderator brings the audience to attention, states the rules of the junket, and gives the go-ahead signal. The reporters, who range from New York Times and Daily Bugle to HuffPo all the way to Buzzfeed, thankfully wait their turns to ask questions or cast judgment - at first. It isn’t long, however, before Tony’s reverted back to saccharine snark and pointed barbs, and Steve has that smile on his face that nobody but the team can tell is fake. Natasha has the patience of a saint and is wearing her perfectly-serene-and-happy-to-be-here mask. Bruce is surprisingly calm in the face of so many strangers making inquiries about their lives behind closed doors, the damage caused every time he Hulks out, the latest photos making their rounds on gossip blog about the giant green ball of rage-and-smash cuddling with the penguins in the zoo; Sam is honest, earnest, in his attempts to prevent the critical statements from getting under his skin, and Bucky… Well, Bucky doesn’t say a whole lot, even when he is asked direct questions about his past, and those questions are immediately shot down by both Tony and Steve as soon as they’re uttered.
And Clint doesn’t speak one word during the entire hour, beyond a greeting and farewell. Nobody looks his way, nobody asks anything of him, and nobody seems to even notice he’s there. The instant the moderator relieves them all of their duty of presence, Clint is gone, dodging and weaving around the rest of the team, disappearing around the corner before any of them can say anything. He knows – really, he does – that not being questioned is probably the best thing for all of them; Fury gets that little twitch in the corner of his eye, the little quiver in his trigger finger, any time Clint opens his big mouth, and Natasha has threatened on more than one occasion to kill him for making their lives difficult by speaking when he should’ve remained silent. Tony’s really the only one who finds Clint’s fuck-ups hilarious, since it usually gets Steve’s unimpressed glares off of him and onto Clint. Bruce stays out of everything, because confrontation in regards to Clint’s Epic Word-Vomit has proven to be a catastrophic idea, and Thor tries so hard to understand how Clint can go from “What happened was…” to “Why the fuck are you shooting at me, I’m the good guy!” But when one can’t figure out how an explanation turned into a plea for their life, how are they to explain it to someone else? Sam, poor Sam, usually drags a seething/confused/angry Steve away from the argument and forces Cap to spar until he can speak without sounding like his voice is a tripwire to a ticking time bomb. Bucky does his best to avoid all of them when emotions are running high, which, yeah, that’s smart.
But damn it, Clint actually made a promise to be on his best behaviour this morning, and it’s all gone to waste. He was just decoration in the background, and that?
That’s strike two.
________________________________
He’s gone out of the tower five days in a row, alone each time, and received no recognition. Well, there was that one guy who shrieked “It’s Cupid!” at the top of his lungs, but as he was completely blitzed out of his mind, Clint ignored him, ducked his head, and disappeared around the corner before anyone could pay attention.
Five. Whole. Days.
And now, on the sixth day, Thor and Sam are with him; Clint made an announcement via JARVIS that he was making a Starbucks run, anybody want some? and ended up with a demigod and a veteran-turned-VA-worker-turned-superhero trailing behind him discussing the comparisons between medication and Asgardian mind-fixing spells (okay, so that’s not what Thor’s called them, but Clint can’t remember the term Thor used, so ‘mind-fixing’ will do).
They’re a block away from the coffee-shop when a group of people waiting at a crosswalk catch sight of them; a dozen faces split into wide grins, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, acknowledgment of my presence, he thinks – right before he’s unceremoniously shoved aside so the civilians can fawn over bright blond hair, huge muscles, big blue eyes, and a charming smile. Someone even goes so far as to ask Clint to “take a picture of us, please, holy shit, I can’t believe I’m meeting superheroes!” Clint thinks about protesting on the grounds of hey, asshole, I’m a superhero, too!, but then other people are shoving phones into his hands, so he bites back his cursing and starts taking photographs instead. For an hour.
That’s strike three.
________________________________
Nobody bothers looking in his direction, even as he settles onto the bench-seat. He pushes the cover up, examines the instrument, and puts his fingers to the keys.
"When you’re on a team with the Hulk and Thor, and we’re all up there on the movie screen, will the people believe that I’m not quite as tough? Will anyone even notice me? But listen, I’ve got powers, too; they’re pretty sweet. I promise I can do so much more than just archery. I’m serious, guys."
An intern on the administration floor slows as Clint gets more wrapped up in his task. An R&D scientist glances up from the tablet in his hand, staring slack-jawed at the man playing piano and singing in the middle of SI’s lobby while wearing a tac-suit and a quiver strung across his back.
“I’ve got a collection of scarves and berets. I play trombone in a ska band. I once got to second base on my Tinder date, and my cat has got its own Instagram. I tell you now: I kick ass at Mario Kart. This year I played an extra in Paul Blart. I can open a pickle jar. I’m friggin’ Hawkeye. Maybe I’m as super as they are."
More people are stopping, filing off lifts, moving away from the stairwells and elevator banks; some look amused, others confused, the rest unsure of whether they’re being pranked or not. There are a multitude of phones being held up, aimed at Clint, and he feels a sort of maniacal glee as he continues.
“So maybe I still haven’t lost my virginity, but when I bowl, I always score at least seventy – after six beers,” here, a low chuckle flits around the group, and he nods to the nearest woman. “Yes, I know ‘bout Captain America’s strength, and the Hulk becomes a towering man. But I got seventh place in my fantasy league, and I once butt-dialed Jean-Claude Van Damme. I’m tellin’ you now, when I go to Chipotle, I get free guac. I flirt with the cashier, and she says I rock. I own water-resistant socks. I’m friggin’ Hawkeye. Maybe I’m as super as they are.
“Maybe I’m super as they are. Maybe I’m as super as they are.”
The notes drift away into silence, but the quiet doesn’t last long; within moments, the lobby is full of cheers and applause. Clint rises to his feet, bows, and walks away. He got what he wanted.
And if the videos on YouTube reach a higher view-count than both the video of Tony and Steve getting caught with their hands down each other's pants, and a cat “playing” Chopsticks on a toy piano, well, Clint’s not going to complain.