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caiusbackupTitle: Advantages of the Superhero Business
Author: Caia
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: Clint at a cocktail party; or several ways in which he is not, actually, Ollie Queen (and a few ways he is). A few hints of drunk Tony/Clint.
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likeadeuce requested Tony and Clint, drunk, before Tony's alcoholism got to be a huge thing. So this is set *way* long ago, during the days when it was Cap, Hawkeye, Quicksilver, and Scarlet Witch on the Avengers. Slightly edited from the version that appeared in likeadeuce's comments.
Clint really *loved* this business. He'd gone way up in the world, from a carny to a thief to a superhero who lived in a mansion and saved the world and hung out with living legends and went to cocktail parties with Tony Stark (which wasn't *actually* more fun than robbing his warehouses with his Natasha, but it tended to get him hit slightly less often).
The problem was, there weren't enough ladies around to appreciate it. There'd been some at the party, sure; rich girls and rich women in dresses that would have fed him for months even *after* the fence, some of whom were happy to listen to his tales of daring-do.
(Although more of them clustered around their playboy-inventer financier, which was totally not fair, even if he *had*, in fact, been feeding Clint for months now. And of course around the elderly blushing Captain America, and for that Clint didn't really blame them, even though of course he *would* out loud.
Those who tried clustering around Quicksilver didn't tend to stay very long. There was something seriously wrong with that man.)
But none of the ladies that there *were* were anything like Natasha. Wanda was the closest, but well, he'd tried chatting *her* up and even when he'd managed to evade that brother of hers, she was hardly welcoming. Something wrong with the both of them, clearly.
How was it that he'd signed up for the Avengers and wound up fighting beside an out-of-date super-soldier and a couple of paranoid Eastern European mutants?
He sighed. Well, at least the booze was good. Temporarily bereft of an audience, he pulled a glass off a passing waiter's tray--this party didn't even have attractive waitresses.
He took a sip. It wasn't clear quite what it *was*, but whatever it was, it was probably expensive.
"Enjoying the party, Hawkeye?" Clint turned around to see that he'd been addressed by his host. Apparently ladies were getting scarce on Tony Stark's side of the room as well. A glance around the room confirmed that the party was starting to break up: there were many fewer guests and he didn't see the Maximoff twins, either. Figured they would leave early.
"Not quite as much as fighting Dr. Doom!" Hawkeye said. "But more entertaining than the Swordsman. And better catering than either."
Stark laughed. "I'll send your complements to my staff. I'm sure they'll be glad to hear they serve better drinks than Dr. Doom."
"They'll have to work to match the entertainment value, though!" Clint launched into a long and rather embellished account of the adventure and, in particular, how he had saved the Avengers nearly single-handedly. Tony might not be a lady, but what the hell--he might as well know he was getting his money's worth. "And then I took out this new arrow of mine, the boxing glove arrow--"
"A what?"
"You know, an arrow, only instead of an arrowhead, it has a boxing glove. It's great for disabling without wounding."
"That doesn't sound very aerodynamic." Stark still looked like the innocent playboy but Clint was suddenly reminded that he *was*, in fact, regaling an engineering genius.
"Well, maybe I made that bit up. Makes for more, you know, variety than just the usual arrows and the usual punching. I've got some other arrows, though, that really *do* work..." Clint went on for a bit on that, with only a few interruptions by Stark for physical clarifications--and advice, too.
"I should have my labs design you some new ones." Stark grabbed another two drinks from a passing platter, thanking the waiter by name as he passed, and gave one of them to Hawkeye. "To shooting a better arrow!" he drained his glass.
It was probably the drinks, but the suddenly sounded much more hilarious to Clint than it usually did, even when he had chosen to play up the phallic symbolism of his archery. "Now, Mr. Stark--" he said.
"Tony."
"Tony--it's not just the fancy arrows that matter. You gotta be able to shoot them."
Tony laughed, with somewhat more dignity than Clint felt *he* could manage. But then, Tony was presumably a professional cocktail party conversation-maker. "Well, if you let me help you make the arrows...maybe you can take me to your targets and give a poor billionaire a few lessons?"
There seemed to be some innuendo going on there. Or maybe there wasn't. Clint was getting a too drunk to bother even trying to puzzle it out. Or to care, really. "Sure. If you think you're up for it." Stark could read *that* challenge however he wanted.
"Oh, entirely." Stark's smile was beyond Clint's ability to read.
"To the lab, then?" Clint asked.
"Tomorrow." Stark smiled. "Arrows in the morning, shooting in the afternoon. Provided Dr. Doom and the shareholders don't attack, of course."
Clint smiled. "You're on." He did love this business.
Author: Caia
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: Clint at a cocktail party; or several ways in which he is not, actually, Ollie Queen (and a few ways he is). A few hints of drunk Tony/Clint.
Note:
likeadeuce requested Tony and Clint, drunk, before Tony's alcoholism got to be a huge thing. So this is set *way* long ago, during the days when it was Cap, Hawkeye, Quicksilver, and Scarlet Witch on the Avengers. Slightly edited from the version that appeared in likeadeuce's comments.Clint really *loved* this business. He'd gone way up in the world, from a carny to a thief to a superhero who lived in a mansion and saved the world and hung out with living legends and went to cocktail parties with Tony Stark (which wasn't *actually* more fun than robbing his warehouses with his Natasha, but it tended to get him hit slightly less often).
The problem was, there weren't enough ladies around to appreciate it. There'd been some at the party, sure; rich girls and rich women in dresses that would have fed him for months even *after* the fence, some of whom were happy to listen to his tales of daring-do.
(Although more of them clustered around their playboy-inventer financier, which was totally not fair, even if he *had*, in fact, been feeding Clint for months now. And of course around the elderly blushing Captain America, and for that Clint didn't really blame them, even though of course he *would* out loud.
Those who tried clustering around Quicksilver didn't tend to stay very long. There was something seriously wrong with that man.)
But none of the ladies that there *were* were anything like Natasha. Wanda was the closest, but well, he'd tried chatting *her* up and even when he'd managed to evade that brother of hers, she was hardly welcoming. Something wrong with the both of them, clearly.
How was it that he'd signed up for the Avengers and wound up fighting beside an out-of-date super-soldier and a couple of paranoid Eastern European mutants?
He sighed. Well, at least the booze was good. Temporarily bereft of an audience, he pulled a glass off a passing waiter's tray--this party didn't even have attractive waitresses.
He took a sip. It wasn't clear quite what it *was*, but whatever it was, it was probably expensive.
"Enjoying the party, Hawkeye?" Clint turned around to see that he'd been addressed by his host. Apparently ladies were getting scarce on Tony Stark's side of the room as well. A glance around the room confirmed that the party was starting to break up: there were many fewer guests and he didn't see the Maximoff twins, either. Figured they would leave early.
"Not quite as much as fighting Dr. Doom!" Hawkeye said. "But more entertaining than the Swordsman. And better catering than either."
Stark laughed. "I'll send your complements to my staff. I'm sure they'll be glad to hear they serve better drinks than Dr. Doom."
"They'll have to work to match the entertainment value, though!" Clint launched into a long and rather embellished account of the adventure and, in particular, how he had saved the Avengers nearly single-handedly. Tony might not be a lady, but what the hell--he might as well know he was getting his money's worth. "And then I took out this new arrow of mine, the boxing glove arrow--"
"A what?"
"You know, an arrow, only instead of an arrowhead, it has a boxing glove. It's great for disabling without wounding."
"That doesn't sound very aerodynamic." Stark still looked like the innocent playboy but Clint was suddenly reminded that he *was*, in fact, regaling an engineering genius.
"Well, maybe I made that bit up. Makes for more, you know, variety than just the usual arrows and the usual punching. I've got some other arrows, though, that really *do* work..." Clint went on for a bit on that, with only a few interruptions by Stark for physical clarifications--and advice, too.
"I should have my labs design you some new ones." Stark grabbed another two drinks from a passing platter, thanking the waiter by name as he passed, and gave one of them to Hawkeye. "To shooting a better arrow!" he drained his glass.
It was probably the drinks, but the suddenly sounded much more hilarious to Clint than it usually did, even when he had chosen to play up the phallic symbolism of his archery. "Now, Mr. Stark--" he said.
"Tony."
"Tony--it's not just the fancy arrows that matter. You gotta be able to shoot them."
Tony laughed, with somewhat more dignity than Clint felt *he* could manage. But then, Tony was presumably a professional cocktail party conversation-maker. "Well, if you let me help you make the arrows...maybe you can take me to your targets and give a poor billionaire a few lessons?"
There seemed to be some innuendo going on there. Or maybe there wasn't. Clint was getting a too drunk to bother even trying to puzzle it out. Or to care, really. "Sure. If you think you're up for it." Stark could read *that* challenge however he wanted.
"Oh, entirely." Stark's smile was beyond Clint's ability to read.
"To the lab, then?" Clint asked.
"Tomorrow." Stark smiled. "Arrows in the morning, shooting in the afternoon. Provided Dr. Doom and the shareholders don't attack, of course."
Clint smiled. "You're on." He did love this business.
