Characters: Tony Stark and Clint Barton
Summary: Clint got a ticket and it's all Tony's fault.
Verse: This sort of transcends movie verus comic universe idea and just goes for a cracky version of the essence of the characters.
Rating: Teen for language and drunken shenanigans
Spoilers: Absolutely none.
Warnings: Tony Stark.
Disclaimer: They are mine, all of them! Okay, not really, but that would make me happy.
Big thanks yet again to shanachie_quill, who as always, helps save my comma-happy ass.
This is the third of my "Texts From Last Night" mini-table stories.
The mini-table information is here.
And the AO3 link here.
“Barton! How’s my favorite archer today?” Tony’s boisterous voice was a needle in Clint’s brain that proceeded to explode once embedded.
“I’m the only archer you know,” Clint grumbled.
“How is it you’re so lively this morning?” Clint asked, suspicious and seriously peeved. This was Tony’s fault somehow, he was sure of it. And if it was Tony’s fault then Tony should pay. He should in fact be paying right now.
“I may or may not still be drunk.”
Clint considered Tony’s answer. If he was still drunk then he was not yet to the hangover phase which mollified Clint’s anger if only marginally and probably temporarily. “Tony, what the hell did we do last night?”
“Oh, you know, in the words of Thor: we drank, we fought, we made our ancestors proud.”
“Is that so?”
“Absolutely,” Tony said.
“That’s not what the ticket says.”
“I don’t recall needing tickets to any of last night’s events.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad. Drunk and disorderly? So we had a little fun.”
“The ticket read, ‘Found nude in tree.’ So I repeat, what the hell happened last night?” Barton had woken up in a jail cell, thankfully not nude, but in sweat pants and a t-shirt that was definitely not one of his unless some time during the drunken escapade he had attended New York City’s Police Academy… Or raided an apparel store which Clint thought might actually be a possibility.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Tony asked.
“Well, I don’t need to go through the whole night if you remember half of it.”
Clint squeezed his eyes shut, pausing in his barefoot walk towards his apartment on Seventh in an attempt to make the fuzzy shapes in his head into comprehensible memories. “I remember we brought down that mad man with his robot controlled wild animals and then we had to get people from the zoo to help us tranquilize all the animals loose in the city. After that, you recommended the pub on Ninth. Seems like everyone came out, including Steve, even though he swears he can’t get drunk which is funny because I’m sure I remember … Oh God, karaoke, Tony really? Do I remember Karaoke?”
He bit his tongue before the next words came out of his mouth; as an image of belting out ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ passed through his mind. This was followed by the memory of telling a thankfully nameless blonde that it was his theme song and he’d shot more than one person through the heart. His groan at the recall was happily soundless.
“Ah, yes, but that wasn’t my fault.”
“Tony, everything is always your fault.”
“Now, now, that’s just the hangover talking.”
“This is not a hangover. I don’t think they have a word for this, but it’s not just a hangover. You know what? Forget the semantics, what happened after that?”
“Things get a little fuzzier there.”
“Tony,” Clint said with a voice sharp as one of his arrows.
“As you know, Steve has difficulties getting drunk.”
“Steve can’t get drunk.”
“Now that’s generally true. Yes.”
“What do you mean, ‘that’s generally true,’ Tony. It is true.”
“If you remembered more of last night, you’d know that Steve can get tipsy.”
“Even if that’s true, even if Steve did somehow manage to get drunk,” Clint paused for moment to consider what he could remember from the night before. “I’ll admit is the only explanation for Steve participating karaoke is drunkenness, but I still don’t know what that has to do with me.”
“Steve needs a little extra help getting there.”
“Oh God,” Clint said, not knowing what else to say.
“I may have slipped him a little something extra.”
“You roofied him?!” People on the street turned to stare at him.
“You sound like I wanted to date rape him. I was just tryin’ to help a friend let loose, help him kick back with the boys. What I may have forgotten to anticipate is the, ah, social nature of drinking.”
“Oh no. Oh no. Tony, are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”
“I’m telling you that you might want to go to the hospital for a blood test as it should allow you a decent defense for that ticket you got.”
“You’re paying for my lawyer.”
“And the blood test I’m about to take.”
“And you’re bringing me some shoes!”
“Well, now, Barton,” Tony hedged.
“Shoes, Tony, size twelve,” and Clint hung up.