Chapter Text
Clint is pissed.
Clint is so pissed he’s starting to lose sight of the myriad of sensible reasons to not be pissed. This is just Tony and it’s just a harmless joke and they’re fighting about coffee of all the fucking things and the barrage of messages and emails was just a very Tony thing to do. No big deal, if he felt like being sensible. Which he frankly doesn’t, because it’s Monday and he’s tired.
Furthermore, Clint has the capacity to be a petty bastard. A far greater capacity than he lets on to his fellow Avengers, with the exception of Natasha. Natasha not only knows about what a bitch Clint can be, she thrives on it, feeds it, provokes it, and then celebrates it. Usually with a shot, because that’s what best friends do. Without Nat around, maybe this little disputation wouldn’t have escalated so drastically, but she had found herself wide awake after her two long johns and her cup of (normal fucking) coffee this morning, and she had come down to help him train his field agents out of the goodness of her heart.
The text messages had started just as Clint was briefing the new recruits on the itinerary and they had continued at five minute intervals for the rest of his workday. The second that Clint had dismissed the trainees, he and Natasha had gravitated together, noses practically touching, and the vicious echo chamber tête-à-tête of Can you believe, What’s his problem, He’s such a fucking, So immature, Has to have the last word, and He can eat my had immediately started in earnest. It took the two of them mere minutes to whip up a metaphorical whirlwind of brutal shit-talk, and then Clint had set out for Tony’s workshop on a kill-mission while Natasha had run out to buy some greasy take-out Chinese over which they would inevitably continue bitching about Stark until both were full and satisfied. In the course of their late lunch, they concluded that Tony had created Ultron and sent half the team to a maximum security floating prison over his stupid Accords, and had thereby relinquished his right to be an irritating ass-bandit.
“So. How do we hurt him?” Natasha asks, scraping all the vegetables she’s picked out of her lo mein onto Clint’s plate. “My suggestion is hot coffee water-boarding, but you know...that’s why I’m not in charge of our revenge fantasies anymore.”
Clint groans as he sits up from his nest on the couch and cranes his neck to get a view of the kitchen. Sam, Steve, and Wanda have apparently all run out of important things to do. Looks like they’re trying to bread and fry things that they’ve found in the freezer. Clint briefly considers yelling at them before he remembers that they’re not his kids and that’s not his kitchen they’re fucking up and it’s not his problem if they make themselves sick. “Hey, Cap, what’s the best way to hurt Tony?”
“Beating him over the head worked pretty well,” Steve shrugs, taking an experimental bite of what looks like a hamburger designed to kill a lesser man.
“We should drop cars on him again,” Wanda suggests with a fond smile, carefully maneuvering something unidentifiable out of their pot of oil. Clint is suddenly incredibly jealous - a guy with three kids ends up cooking a lot of frozen fries, and it would be pretty sweet to drop them in the pan from seven feet away with your mind and not get popped on.
“Oh, no,” Sam interjects, shaking his head as he wipes tears from his eyes (Clint can smell the onion he’s slicing from the common room couch). “Hit him in the ego. Just let him know you’re cooler than him. He hates that.”
“Aw, you think I’m cooler than Tony?”
“Of course you are,” Wanda assures him.
Sam and Steve’s eyes meet and they mutually agree to remain silent.
“Neither of you are cool,” Natasha scoffs. “Sam and I are the only cool Avengers.”
“Okay, but shut up--wait, I’ve got an idea,” Clint says, throwing a fortune cookie at her. “So, that coffee he makes? It’s total bullshit, right?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “I’m in the mood for it sometimes.”
“No you’re not, not anymore,” Clint says firmly. “Or you’re uninvited to my Halloween party.”
“Yeah, it’s trash. Fuck his dumb coffee,” she ammends hastily. Clint has a long tradition of sending his children to a babysitter on Halloween so the grown-ups can behave like animals, and Laura is one hell of a bartender. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna call our whole team up here and see if anyone can tell the difference between his Americano and latte shit and my regular coffee - you know no one’s going to be able to taste a difference. The only reason Tony or anybody else drinks that garbage is because they’re an elitist asshole and I’m going to show them all the light.”
Natasha chews thoughtfully on a bite of egg-roll. “Okay. May I be honest with you?” she asks sweetly. “Sounds pretty dumb. Sounds like all you’re going to do is annoy everyone and waste a bunch of coffee.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“If you are dead set on this, Clint, I’ll support you. But hear me out: we could still just slash his tires and then go watch Star Trek.”
“Do not slash anyone’s tires, Natasha,” Steve calls out from the kitchen. “Last time you got an idea like that I had to bail you and Buck out of jail.”
Do it, Wanda mouths behind his back.
Clint makes up his mind. “No, I want to prove him wrong in front of the entire team. He won’t listen to reason? Fine. He can listen to statistics. The Avengers prefer real coffee,” he proclaims loudly, like he’s planting his flag on a new shore.
“Fine, whatever,” Natasha laughs, mouth full. “Call the gang up here. Let’s do it.”
“You have to do it.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t use my phone again this month.”
“I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here today,” Clint says flatly, addressing the team at large. The common room is packed with Avengers - Wanda and Vision are being weirdly close on the love-seat; Rhodes, Scott, and Tony take up one couch, with Peter perched on the arm, picking webbing out of his hair and stuffing it into the pockets of his jacket; and the other couch is occupied by Natasha, Sam, Steve, and Bucky (whose arm appears to be missing a few non-essential pieces). All of them look like they have some idea of why Clint requested a so-called “emergency meeting.” Clint figures that the prevailing theory is Stark’s public execution. They’re on the right track.
Stark raises a finger rather demurely. “Ooh, because you’re a petty bastard.”
Clint adjusts the volume on one of his hearing aids. “This fucking thing’s messed up again...” he gripes under his breath, then reaffixes it in his ear. “But yes, Tony, that’s exactly right. We’re here because you’re a petty bastard.”
“Guys,” Tony sighs. “We already do the birthday-drinking intervention, the holiday loneliness intervention, and the yearly ‘what you’ve invented is a crime against God and nature’ intervention. Is three per annum not enough?”
“Oh, wait--you forgot the interventions where me and Barnes try to get you to seek help for your PTSD,” Sam interjects.
“Oh, what PTSD?” Tony snaps defensively.
Nope. Coffee now. Trauma later. “Tony: meet me in the kitchen. Make eight Americanos and eight lattes, no foam.”
“Okay, but the foam is sort of essential to the definition of--”
Clint snaps his fingers and points to the kitchen, like he’s telling Cooper to do the dishes. “Do not make words. Make eight no-foam lattes.”
Tony throws up his hands in surrender and saunters out of the common room. Clint steps close at his heels, marching him toward the Mastrena.
The team heaves a collective sigh and toes begin to tap impatiently in time with the bubbling coffee pot and the hiss of the steam-wand.
Bucky is the first to speak up. “Do you think they’d notice if I left?”
Sam manages to look at every Avenger except Barnes. “Did you guys hear something?”
Steve gives a forced chuckle - he doesn’t want to be here either, but he’s willing to indulge his teammates to a point. He pats Bucky’s knee. “Clint and Tony are just - they’re just messing around, Buck. Let ‘em have their fun.”
Scott shifts in his seat. “Um, Barton was not wearing his ‘fun’ face, Cap.”
“Can I just go?”
Sam squints. “There it was again.”
“Go where?” Steve challenges.
“Bed.”
Peter speaks up excitedly. “So they’re just in there making a bunch of coffee, or…? I’m not getting what they’re fighting about, exactly. Do we get to try the coffee? Like, drink it?”
“No, we have to snort it, like cocaine,” Sam deadpans. “How else you try coffee?”
“Yes, Peter, I think that Mr. Stark and Agent Barton intend to force all of you into a comparative tasting of their preferred coffee-brewing methods,” Vision provides. “Although, I’m not certain why I am here.”
“You are here because I have to be,” Wanda informs him, settling her chin on his shoulder boredly.
Rhodey dons an exaggerated expression of realization, as if crucial information has suddenly dawned on him. “Okay, but hear me out, everyone. We could all just leave.”
“But--I mean, but what if we want to try the coffee?” Peter asks guiltily.
Rhodes presents Peter to the group with a flourish. “The child has volunteered as tribute!”
“Oh, let’s let Clint have his revenge fantasy, kids,” Natasha requests. “Tony got pissy this morning because Clint said he didn’t like Tony’s fancy coffee and so Tony sent him texts and emails every five minutes while he was trying to train agents and now Clint’s phone’s not working right,” she explains, rolling her eyes at the pettiness of the whole situation (knowing full well that she helped instigate it).
“I must accept a portion of the blame,” Vision chimes in. “I did assist Mr. Stark in the endeavor.”
“Vis,” Wanda scolds, slapping his arm, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“That may be beyond the scope of my capabilities, but I’ll attempt it.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Come on, Buck, just humor them. Then we’ll go watch the Wizard of Oz or something.”
Sam snorts. “Fourth time this week you two have watched that movie, isn’t it?”
Rhodes raises his hand in warning to silence Sam. “Shh, Wilson--they think we don’t know what sex is.”
Steve awkwardly removes his hand from Bucky’s knee and fidgets with the hem of his shirt as the rest of the team nods in agreement, except for Peter, who lets slip a soft, wide-eyed, “Oh my gosh.”
“Barton, look, I don’t know if I touched a nerve, earlier, but doesn’t this seem a little extreme?” Tony smiles sweetly as he empties his last pitcher of milk, pouring and holding back the foam with a spoon single-handedly.
“Nope,” Clint grins in response, pouring cold 2% into a cup.
“This,” Tony continues, glancing over his shoulder at the counter, “doesn’t strike you as, I don’t know, maybe--overkill?”
“Not really, no.”
“Then prepare to taste to taste the bitterness of defeat, my friend,” Stark shrugs with a competitive glint in his eye.
“Only bitterness around here’s those burnt-ass, blue-blooded coffee cinders you just steamed.”
“Did you know that bitterness only appeals to the most highly evolved palates? There’s some really neat science behind it but I’d hate to bore you--”
Clint ignores him and clears his throat loudly from the kitchen foyer. “Gentlemen, ladies, transformers - if you would,” he beckons, gesturing toward the island counter.
He and Tony have filled its surface with thirty-two biodegradable cups full of coffee. Sixteen black, Sixteen with milk, but otherwise all indistinguishable. On the bottom of each, out of the team’s sight, Tony and Clint have marked each cup with a T or a C, and then shuffled them. Should be a blind taste-test.
The team seats themselves on the barstools while Tony hops up onto the kitchen counter and leans against his his precious espresso machine, intentionally looking down on Clint.
“Quick show of hands--who thinks they prefer Stark’s coffee?”
Tony’s hand, fingers wiggling, is the first in the air. Peter snaps to attention and puts his up, too. Rhodes follows. Bucky’s drifts upward grudgingly.
Tony gives Peter a thumbs up. “Good man, Spidey. Colonel, thank you. Mr. Barnes! Welcome to Team Iron Man.”
Clint’s jaw drops. “Barnes, what the fuck? I went went to prison for you, man!”
Tony manages to look offended on Bucky’s behalf. “Barton, he’s a person and he’s allowed to make his own choices. Bucky, don’t let him dehumanize you like that. You’re free.”
“Steve gave me some of his this morning,” Bucky explains disinterestedly. “It was alright.”
“Who likes my coffee?” Barton interrupts.
Nat and Wanda raise their hands first, followed swiftly by Sam and Scott.
“Cap?” Clint and Tony press, almost simultaneously.
Steve shakes his head. “Both definitely have their merits,” he deflects, firmly but politely. “I’m going to abstain.”
“Uh, Tony doesn’t know what ‘abstain’ means, Steve,” Clint replies cuttingly.
Peter, the sweet, innocent child, attacks this like he’s back on the high-school debate team. “Well, Captain, I’m just saying, Mr. Stark’s is ethically sourced and made from a higher quality variety of the Arabica bean and it’s really good with that hazelnut syrup,” he argues in a single breath.
Tony grins approvingly. “Nice pitch, Parker. Steve, if you won’t listen to Barnes’ good sense or your own taste-buds, at least listen to the pleas of this humble boy from Brooklyn.”
“Uh - it’s Queens, Mr. Stark--”
“Shush, we’re appealing to his heart, not his mind.”
Peter nods with eager understanding. “Okay.”
Steve laughs and throws his hands up. “I like ‘em both,” he maintains.
“Yeah, you think you do,” Clint smirks, passing him two cups of black. “But the truth will out.”
Steve scoffs fondly at Clint’s intent gaze and takes a sip of both. Every eye in the room is on him as his eyes narrow with careful consideration, and then shrugs. “Really - both of these are excellent--”
“Stevie, just pick one so we can leave,” Bucky says with a rare, unnerving smile.
Steve takes another drink from each cup and holds the liquid in his mouth thoughtfully this time. Finally, he slides one cup forward. Tony descends from his counter-top throne to pass him two cups with cream. Steve makes his choice after only one drink this time, and puts the left cup forward decisively.
Tony picks up the two cups he selected to check the letters and winces. “Oh, my, my, lookie there. Ouch. Barton - last chance to call it quits and save yourself the humiliation.”
Clint checks the letters for himself.
Two points for Tony.
Fuck. For the first time in his life, Clint finds himself wondering if he could beat Captain America in one-on-one combat. He sets his jaw resolutely. “This is not over.”
Tony simpers. “Your funeral. Okay, we’re two-oh out of the gate. Vision, keep track of the score.”
“Nat, you keep track, too. I don’t trust the robot.”
“Agent Barton, if I had a preference, I would rather that Mr. Stark lose and learn some humility,” Vision admits.
Clint backpedals hastily. “Yeah, man, absolutely, keep score,” he concedes.
Tony checks the next set of cups and passes them to Sam. Wilson makes a hell of a show over it, hemming and hawing and hoping to keep everyone in suspense. Finally, he puts two cups forward.
Clint lifts them up, and decides he hates Wilson slightly less than Steve. “Point for me on the black coffee, point for Tony on the girl-drink.”
“Vision,” Tony smiles. “I believe that makes us three-one in my favor.”
“So it does,” Vision confirms pleasantly.
Clint’s eyes fall on Peter. Oh God , does he ever want to win this one. Almost as bad as he wants Rhodes. He and Tony set the cups in front of him. He says thank you four separate times. An agonizing five minutes later, the poor kid’s sitting there with four empty cups, looking confused. “I-I, uh...I mean, I’m just not sure--”
“Which ones were Tony’s?” Clint snipes.
“Yeah. No! It’s just that I can’t tell which one I liked better. Without the hazelnut syrup.”
Tony rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully, then gives Peter Steve’s half empty cups. “No rush. We’ll come back to you.”
“Three-one,” Vision supplies.
Lang’s up next. He takes a generous gulp of each and casts his votes confidently with a smart nod. “May the best archer win.”
That earns a smug smile from Tony, which stiffens deliciously as he peeks under the cups. Clint snatches them from him to confirm his suspicions and passes one back to Scott for a toast. “Three-three, baby!” Clint all but shouts.
“Fuck, yeah, man!” Lang agrees, downing the rest of the coffee like a shot. “Oh, shit, sorry,” he cringes at Peter.
“How you doing over there, Spidey?” Tony asks nervously. “You ready to do this?”
“Um.”
Clint, emboldened by his victory, gives him Sam’s cups. “Let him think, Stark. He’ll make the right choice.”
Vision announces, “Tied at three-three--”
“Yes, we all heard, thank you.” Tony sets Wanda’s cups in front of her with an imploring look. “You know, of everyone on this team, your powers? Definitely the coolest.”
Wanda doesn’t keep them waiting long, but once again, the vote is split. Tony’s latte, Clint’s black coffee. She shrugs apologetically as Clint checks the latte. “The other one was a little cold,” she reasons.
“Tied at four-four.”
Parker dabs at his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and then sheds it. “Hey, uh, Wanda?” he asks, wetting his lips shyly. “Can I…?” She re-shuffles her cups and slides them down to him at the end of the counter.
Rhodes doesn’t cut any corners. He cups his hand over each sampling and takes in the aroma, then takes a sip of each, and then a full drink, holding every mouthful on each set of tastebuds respectively. Clint prepares to accept the loss gracefully and lets Tony check the cups.
“Well,” Tony says, tight-lipped and emotionless. “It’s okay, Rhodey. I’ll be okay. We had a good run.” He shoves the coffees back across the counter.
“You’re kidding me!” Rhodey gasps. “No.”
“Six-four, in Agent Barton’s favor, I believe,” Vision predicts correctly.
Clint hasn’t felt this much pure, unbridled joy since his first child was born. “Ahaha!” he roars, pumping his fist. “Oh, that was beautiful.”
“Aw, Tony, I’m so sorry,” Rhodes laughs, covering his eyes.
“No, no, we’re good. We’re good,” Tony promises with a wave of his hand, then taps a finger against his cheek. “Come on. A betrayal like this, you could at least kiss me, buddy.”
Rhodes is too busy dealing with the end of his friendship with Stark to take much notice when Parker whispers a few Excuse me ’s and Sorry ’s behind him and makes off with his cups.
Clint is very suspicious that Barnes’ votes are totally random. He takes a disinterested sip from each cup and silently selects the Americano and the coffee with cream. Whatever, he’s still winning. He’ll take it.
“Agent Barton leads, seven to five.”
Tony shoves his way past Clint to present Natasha with her selection of coffees. “You remember a couple of years ago when Barton had Wanda help him beat you up?”
Natasha picks up a cup and tips her head inquisitively. “Was the that same year you tried to have me arrested?” she smiles, raising it to her lips. Clint gives her an approving nod.
She tries all four. And then Clint starts to get really anxious, because he knows that look. Surprise. Confusion. She’s not sure. “Nat,” he chuckles nervously as she takes a second pass at them.
“Got it,” she replies tersely, pushing two cups forward. Clint chews the inside of his cheek as he watches her almost slide one back and change her vote. She stays.
Tony checks one, Clint checks the other.
“Aw, shucks, Romanoff,” says Tony.
“Bitch,” says Clint.
“No! Shit! I take it back! Can I take it back? Re-do,” Natasha begs, slamming her palms down on the granite.
“Ah-ah,” Stark taunts. “You’ve made your choice. I’ll get the War Machine suit altered to your measurements by tomorrow.”
“You are uninvited to my Halloween party,” Clint declares, pouring her coffees into the sink with disgust.
“Yeah, we’ll see what Laura says about that,” Natasha snaps back.
“I thought you had my back!”
“I thought I was supposed to pick the one that tasted better!”
“Tied at seven-seven,” Vision interrupts.
“Alright, Peter, let’s put this matter to bed,” says Tony, brushing past Clint’s shoulder. “What’s it gonna be?”
“I’m really trying to make a decision, it’s just that at first I wasn’t sure which I liked better and they all tasted pretty great even though weren’t very sweet and I usually put a bunch of sugar in mine, or, you know, when you make it for me, you do that thing with the hazelnut syrup, which is honestly my favorite coffee that I’ve ever had, but it’s just that without that, I guess they’re all just starting to taste the same and I’m really having trouble picking because it’s just very hard to think.” He manages to take one last swig of a black coffee before he gags.
Barnes is the first out of his seat, and thank God he’s fast - he gets to Parker in an instant, wraps an arm around his waist, scoops him up off the barstool, spilling two of the coffees in the process, and manages to have the kid’s head over the trashcan by the time he pukes.
Everyone except for Clint, Scott, and Vision has to avert their eyes and cover their mouths. The resident dads are fortunately just as desensitized to the sight of vomit as the robot with no sense of smell.
And Peter vomits a lot. There’s a good three minutes of nothing but awkward, guilt-ridden silence from the adults, punctuated by Parker’s chokes and heaves as he empties the liquid from his stomach. Once a full minute has passed without another wave of it, Barnes leans down to ask, “You eaten anything today?”
“Mountain Dew,” Parker rasps wetly.
Bucky lifts him up and throws him over his shoulder. Peter just groans, arms dangling limply. “I’m going to take him to medical,” he announces laconically, and leaves.
Steve clears his throat, gives Clint and Tony a sharp glance, and jogs after him.
Tony has to keep the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth and nose. “You know,” he says diplomatically. “Um, in hindsight…”
“Yeah,” Clint finishes for him.
“For the record,” Vision pipes up, leaning over to study the cup that’s spilled across the tiles. “It was the Americano which caused him to vomit. I believe that puts the final score at eight to seven in favor of Agent Barton’s brewed coffee.”
Clint winces sympathetically at the garbage can. “Yeah, I don’t think we’re playing anymore,” he concedes humbly.
“Good call,” Tony concurs.
But Clint can’t really be blamed when he turns discreetly toward Natasha and almost says something. It doesn’t take her long to read the minute change in his expression. She raises her cup ever-so-slightly in Clint’s direction with a smile in her eyes, mouthing, Cheers, bitch.
Collateral damage happens. It’s a cruel reality of war. Anyway, Parker heals up quick. And yeah, maybe his teammates now think a little less of him. Maybe he and Tony have both shown their asses and they'll be hearing about it for the next month.
Doesn’t change the fact that he fuckin’ won.