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Clint is bored. Bored and tired. It’s the perfect combination for vegging out in front of the TV. With a bag of M&Ms in hand, he makes his way into one of the entertainment rooms. Bruce is already there, reclining in a chair with a book. “Hey,” Clint calls, and Bruce nods distractedly in return. “Sports Center going to bother you,” Clint asks, waving the remote.
“It’s fine,” Bruce says, and Clint sprawls over the couch and flips on the TV.
He catches up with the wide world of sports for a while, grumbling under his breath at any of the stupid decisions and poor performances from his teams. Still bored, he arches his head back to see Bruce still immersed in his book. “What’re you reading,” he asks, and flips over, intrigued, when Bruce blushes a bit.
“Just some—just some nonsense,” Bruce says vaguely. “A break from the science journals.”
“Yeah, but what is it,” Clint asks. Bruce shifts uncomfortably in the seat. “What, is it some kind of trashy romance novel?” Bruce’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. Clint laughs. “Really? Oh man, come on. You have to tell me which one. What is it, like, In the Gardens of Our Love, or something terrible like that?”
Bruce just glares at him. “Yeah, nice try, green bean,” Clint says. “I don’t scare that easily. And I urge you to remember that I am a master assassin. Which means I am a sneaky son of a bitch. So I’m going to find out what that book is eventually. It’s in your best interests and sanity of mind to just tell me now.”
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses, sighs longsufferingly, and holds up the book for Clint to see the cover. “No,” Clint whispers in horror. “No.”
“It’s a guilty pleasure,” Bruce admits. “I mean, I know it’s not good—“
“Not good,” Clint cries. “It’s a travesty!”
“Oh come on,” Bruce argues. “There are worse books out there. I mean, In the Gardens of Our Love? If that was a real book, you know the plot would be worse.”
“No,” Clint says. “Because there would actually be a plot.”
“Oh, there is so plot in this,” Bruce says, waving the book a bit.
“You can’t seriously like this shit, Bruce,” Clint argues.
“It’s not—okay, it’s kind of shit, but I can like it if I want,” Bruce retorts.
“They’re—they’re insulting,” Clint rages. “And I’m not even a woman!”
“I see how it’s bad, I really do, but isn’t feminism all about choice?”
“That is not a choice! It’s stalker-ish and extreme dependency. The only lesson it gives is that a woman needs a man in her life to function and have any worth. Do we even need to touch on all the emotional abuse? It’s unhealthy!”
“Sounds like you know a lot about it,” Bruce comments with a smirk.
“Natasha read them,” Clint says. “I walked into a lounge to see her setting them all on fire a couple of years ago. But, come on, green bean. You’re a super smart guy. You—you just can’t be ok with these books. They’re mindless and just a pathetic example of self-insertion.”
“I’m not claiming that they’re up there with classic literature,” Bruce argues. “And I can like something mindless if I want to.”
“Those things should be outlawed,” Clint raves. “They fuck with hundreds of years of myth. I mean, come on, they fucking sparkle in the sunlight.”
“Yes, it’s foolish—“
“She didn’t even look up anything about vampires when she wrote them. She just picked a monster and ran wild with her own weirdo fantasies.”
“So she took some artistic liberties,” Bruce cries. “It’s a fictional story, Cupid. Are you going to write J.K. Rowling hate mail because dragons don’t exist?”
“Explain to me how dragons are fictional,” Clint demands. “Loki was riding one through the tower like it was a pony last week. We’re not going to have a decent kitchen for weeks!”
“Ok, bad example, but you know what I mean,” Bruce retorts. “Twilight is just a story. It’s not hurting anyone.”
“Except for all the impressionable teenaged girls reading it,” Clint says. “They think this sort of thing is romantic, so that sends a message to guys that it’s ok to be a creepy ass stalker and watch them sleep or some other weirdo habit.”
“Says the guy who builds nests and watches his teammates through a scope on his off time,” Bruce snorts.
“Hey, I’m just watching the flock,” Clint scoffs. He shakes his head with great disappointment. “I really can’t believe you read these.”
Bruce sighs, “I already admitted that they aren’t good. Can’t you just let me have them as a guilty pleasure?”
“No. You’re better than this.”
“Than what? It’s a stupid story.”
“Damn straight. Give me that book. I’m going to pull a Tasha.”
“What? No,” Bruce cries, scrambling up in the chair as Clint reaches for the book. “I paid for this. It’s mine. You can’t burn it.”
“Stark doesn’t even use that logic on us, and we break way more expensive shit than a Twilight book. Give it.” Clint climbs up the chair after Bruce. It wobbles and falls back. They go tumbling. Bruce doesn’t have any combat training, but he’s got pretty good reactionary time. He’s up fast, hurrying to get away from Clint. But Clint is a boss at hand to hand, if he does say so himself. Bruce doesn’t get far before Clint tackles him.
“Ouch! Get off me!”
“Give me the book!”
“No!”
“Just give it to me and this will all be over painlessly!”
“I’m going to scream rape if you don’t leave me alone!”
“Stop making light of serious women’s issues, Jolly Green!”
“What? I’m not—! Fuck! Get off me, Cupid!”
“Give me the book first!”
“No!”
“Do it!”
“NO!”
“DO IT!”
And looking back, maybe wrestling and baiting the guy with the overwhelming rage issues that make him turn into a giant, invulnerable monster wasn’t Clint’s best idea.
``
“Oh, hey, new promo pics for The Hobbit,” Darcy comments over breakfast one morning while playing on a tablet.
“Awesome,” Clint says, looking over her shoulder. “I need to reread that before the movie comes out.”
“Oh, you’re a Tolkien fan,” Bruce asks, stirring cream into his coffee.
“Who isn’t,” Clint asks. “Did you even see those movies?”
Bruce chuckles. “Of course I did. And they were excellent. No doubt this movie will meet all expectations as well.”
“Blow them out of the water, is more like it,” Clint says, dropping into the seat by Darcy and pulling the plate of waffles closer. “But I’m going to miss all the old bromances from the trilogy. Merry and Pippin, man. That’s where it’s at.”
“I think Sam and Frodo had a much more meaningful friendship,” Bruce says.
“Get out,” Clint says. “Merry and Pippin all the way. They were cousins and best friends.”
“Sam and Frodo were best friends too,” Bruce points out.
“Yeah, but there was that weird master and servant thing going on with those two. Not to mention all the homoerotic undertones. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with a guy banging another guy, but they were pretty frou-frou about it,” Clint comments.
Bruce frowns. “It was the strength of their friendship that allowed Frodo to get the Ring to Mount Doom. He would never have made it there without Sam’s support.”
“Not saying that he would have,” Clint says. “I’m just saying that Merry and Pippin were way better. And if that’s not your cup of tea, then Legolas and Gimli. They put aside thousands of years of prejudices and became such good friends that Gimli got to be the only dwarf to ever get to go on the death boats.”
“They aren’t death boats—“
“Close enough,” Clint breezes over him. “Point being, Sam and Frodo are lame, and you are lame for thinking they even stand a chance in Middle Earth’s Next Top Bromance.”
“Can you please stop ruining literary classics,” Bruce asks.
“Says the man who reads Twilight.”
“That has nothing to do with this,” Bruce snaps. “This has to do with your need to undermine what is actually the most beautiful relationship in the entire trilogy. Literally, their entire world would have been destroyed if it hadn’t been for Sam’s love for Frodo.”
“His butt love for Frodo,” Clint mutters.
And when it’s all over, Darcy, standing covered in wet plaster, throws the cooling coffee in his face before stalking off to tell Tony that a Hulk-out has ruined the new kitchen.
``
“For being such a smart guy, you sure are wrong a lot,” Clint comments.
“You aren’t going to change my mind on this, Robin Hood,” Bruce says.
“But they just don’t make sense,” Clint argues. Bruce turns to him with a deadpanned expression. “Ok, fine, they make sense, but in that same way that a cheeseburger makes sense, but isn’t it so much better with bacon?”
Bruce continues to look unimpressed. “Did you make it out of middle school?”
Clint laughs obnoxiously. “You’re funny. Funny and wrong. Katniss picked Peeta, and you’re going to have to come to terms with it.”
“I realize that she picked Peeta,” Bruce says. “But I am allowed to have my opinions, and I think she would have done better with Gale.”
“Please,” Clint cries. “Gale can’t connect to her like Peeta can. He didn’t go through the Games. He’ll never understand.”
“That logic doesn’t make any sense,” Bruce says. “What you’re saying there is that a person can only connect to others with like experiences. A solider who comes home from the Middle East could only find connection with another soldier who served over there.”
“That’s not entirely—“
“That’s exactly what you’re saying,” Bruce says. “I can’t ever find a partner unless they get bitch slapped with gamma radiation. You can only connect to another assassin. Oh, and if that’s the case, the Natasha ship has sailed. She’s been making some pretty big eyes at Barnes.”
“Plenty of other lady spy fish in the sea,” Clint waves his hand dismissingly. “And back to the matter at hand. I’m not saying that’s how it works with everyone, but Katniss, especially after losing her sister, yeah, she would need someone who gets it. And Peeta’s the only one who does. And I’m no saying she didn’t have something going on there with Gale too, but Peeta wins.”
“Maybe Gale doesn’t understand exactly what it was like in the Games, but in every other aspect, he gets Katniss. He understands her on a far more fundamental level. Besides, Peeta’s only good for the bread jokes.”
“OK,” Clint says, poking a stern finger in Bruce’s direction, “while those bread jokes are beyond hilarious—and I swear to God, I don’t know how we didn’t get kicked out of the theater when you made that comment about frosting cupcakes—“
Clint doesn’t get to finish the thought, because Bruce has dissolved into a fit of giggles, and at the memory, Clint can’t help but start to laugh too. It really had been a perfect joke, but at a completely inopportune time. The movie had been so quiet during that cave scene, and Clint and Bruce had been trying so hard to not burst into fits of laughter. Clint had even been forced to hold his nose shut to keep from snorting. Both of them had had tears falling down their cheeks by the time the soundtrack had picked up again.
Bruce’s laughter suddenly turns into something closer to a roar, and the La-Z-Boy is in ruins. Clint blinks at the sheepish green beast and wonders, “How the hell did that one even happen?”
``
“CUPID TAKE IT BACK,” the Hulk roars, great fists slamming into the floor where Clint had been standing just seconds before.
Clint retaliates with an arrow that erupts into ropes that wrap around the Hulk. It doesn’t do much good. A quick flex, and he’s free again, but it gives Clint time to run down the hall, yelling over his shoulder, “Never! Snape’s allegiances are dubious at best, and he continuously displays that he isn’t a hero.”
“Just because Snape not always nice, Cupid think him bad man,” Hulk hollers, smashing his way down the hall after Clint. “Snape not nice but not bad.”
Clint hops up on the staircase banister and slides down. “Snape is vindictive and obsessive!”
“Him love Lily Evans,” Hulk counters. “That love not always good, but him love her!”
He leaps down the stairs, catching Clint. Curling into a ball, they slam down through the floor. There’s dust and plaster everywhere, and Clint coughs. They hit the ground with a much more metallic crunch than he was expecting. Kicking and jumping, Clint has a few seconds to see that they’ve crashed down into Tony’s workshop, and Hulk has landed on one of the cars.
“He’s a shallow man,” Clint argues, running over the roofs of the cars. “He only turns back to the good side because he wants to get in Lily’s pants.”
Bellowing, Hulk rushes after him. “You no appreciate his complexities!”
Cars are being thrown around, and behind them, Tony is screaming obscenities. Clint dives under a table, and Hulk charges in. Tools are raining down, and Clint throws his arms over his head to keep from getting clonked.
“BOTH OF YOU STOP!” Then comes the distinctive sound of Cap’s shield being thrown and landing it’s hit. The Hulk stops dead in his tracks, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at Steve over his shoulder. Clint peeks out from behind some big hunk of who-the-hell-knows that Tony’s building. The workshop has definitely seen better days.
Steve and Tony are in the middle of the wreckage. Steve is standing there with that patented disapproving frown, and Tony is on his knees, cradling some mess of machinery. “Dummy, you poor stupid hunk of junk, speak to me, buddy!” The robot whirls pathetically. “JARVIS, emergency robot surgery!”
And from one of the workbenches, Tony then proceeds to absolutely lay into Clint and the Hulk. “What in the actual fuck is the matter with you two? I build you rooms for this sort of shit, Hulk. Do you even know how much those cars cost? And you almost killed Dummy! It’s ok, buddy. I’m going to fix you right up. Maybe even make you actually competent. But seriously, how old are you two? What were you even fighting over?”
“Harry Potter,” Clint answers and winces when Tony whirls around with murder written in his dark eyes.
“YOU ALMOST DESTORYED MY WORKSHOP AND KILLED MY ROBOT OVER HARRY FUCKING POTTER?” And then he starts to sputter unintelligible noises, and it’s possible that he might be foaming at the mouth. Even Steve takes a step back.
Wide eyed, Clint says, “It’s entirely possible that we were arguing a similar point, Jolly Green. After all, don’t we both agree that while Snape is not wholly good, he is also not wholly evil?”
“Hulk can agree to that,” he answers.
“Perfect,” Clint says. “Now let’s get out of here before he stabs us.” And they race out of the room, leaving Steve to try to keep Tony from having a complete mental breakdown.