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Hawkeye hasn’t been seen for a week. After that last battle in Central Park, he vanished into the maze of ductwork in Stark Tower, and even Natasha can’t find him. Only periodic scans by Jarvis reassures the team that he’s alive, and in good condition.
The kitchen is quiet in the morning, and that’s that way that Bruce likes it. It gives him a chance to drink his tea, eat his toast, and generally wake up without the annoyance that is his team mates. He loves them dearly, but sometimes they are just so /loud/.
Green tea brewed and steeping, toast slathered with a generous helping of butter, Bruce sits sleepily at the table, resting his elbows on the scarred surface, and just breaths. At least until he hears a gentle peeping sound from the vent on the wall above the oven.
Curious, he looks up in time to see the plastic covering shaking and juddering, before it pops free. Carefully, Clint leans out of the hole, lowering the covering to rest on top of the oven. With the ease of long practise and the grace of an acrobat, he turns and twists, exiting the vent.
He stands on top of the oven,and Bruce doesn’t think that’s entirely hygienic.
“Morning, doc,” Clint says casually as he turns back towards the vent, where the peeping sounds have increased.
“God morning, Clint,” Bruce returns.
“Slow down, Red,” Clint chides the vent. “Greenie, stop pushing your broster.”
“I beg your pardon?” and Bruce rises from his chair.
“Okay, okay, Red, have it your way,” and Clint lifts something from the vent. He turns, hops down from the oven, grabs Bruce’s hand, and deposits something small and yellow there.
“Please don’t drop Red, she might decide to attack your ankles” he instructs, before stepping back onto the oven again. “Right, Greenie, your turn.”
Its a duckling, Bruce decides. Small, yellow, fluffy, and currently peeping at a high pitch.
Greenie is plonked down beside Red, and Bruce brings his other hand up. Carefully, Clint removes three more ducklings from the vent.
“Clint?” Bruce asks, passing his two back to the archer, who is petting the rest of the ducklings on the floor.
“Yes?”
“Why does Tony have ducklings in the vents?”
“It’s nice and warm in there for them,” Clint explains, without answering the question.
“I suppose it would be, but why ducklings?”
“Everything has to live somewhere, doc,” and Clint is either focused on his fuzzy friends, or deliberately being obtuse. Bruce suspects its the latter.
“You do realise that Tony will be making suggestions involving orange sauce when he spots them?”
Clint gives Bruce a scandalised look, and covers what might be the ears of the nearest duckling with his finger tips.
“Language, Banner!”
It certainly isn’t the strangest thing Bruce has seen, watching Clint shepherding the little yellow horde towards the door. It’s rather sweet, actually.
The door is abruptly flung inwards, but Clint checks it with his body, bouncing it back at the entering Tony Stark, who is promptly hit in the face.
“Mind the ducks,” Clint says calmly, encouraging his charges out past the confused and bleeding millionaire.
Tony looks like he is at a tennis match, head turning backward and forward, as Bruce hands him some kitchen roll to stop the bleeding from his nose.
“Ducks?” he asks.
“Ducks,” Bruce confirms solemnly.
Tony thinks about this for a minute. “Orange...”
An arrow embeds itself in the wall next to Tony’s head.
Wisely, the words are left unspoken as the happy peeping vanishes in the direction of the elevator.