April 16 2014, 3pm
SAM/CLINT DUKING IT OUT OVER WHO'S THE BEST BIRD
The pattern starts forming: after the big missions, the normal humans on the team tend to have shit to do in the medical floor Stark made for the Tower. And they tend to have to stay there a while.
It’s not like it’s on purpose or something anyone is conscious of, but the Steve Rogers and Bruce Banners of the world basically can shake off the gaping intestinal wound and finish watching the film they’d had on pause since being called out to fight aliens. The Clint Bartons and Sam Wilsons, on the other hand, have to wait for neck braces and dislocated shoulders to be fixed.
The first time it happens, Barton just nods to Sam and sits in stony silence for the twenty minutes it takes a nurse to bandage all the abrasions on his arms—arms which, of course, he hadn’t bothered to even clothe let alone wear significant kevlar protection. Sam’s got a pretty significant gouge out of his left shoulder so he’s not entirely up for conversation either.
The second time, Sam’s there because one of his own wings erupted and is sort of stuck in his back. Barton’s there because he fell badly and something’s wrong with his right foot.
"Taking the bird thing a bit literally," he says after a half hour.
Sam blinks. He honestly thought they weren’t ever going to talk.
"Fuck you and the bow and arrow you rode in on," he says.
Somehow, that makes Barton grin.
The third time, Barton’s whole left side is covered in burns and Sam’s just got a sprained wrist but he’s in no rush because clearly every doctor in the entire building so be dealing with the dude whose left side is entirely covered in burns.
"You get that I’m the one with the wings, right?” Sam says.
Barton grunts but it’s sort of a quizzical grunt so Sam continues.
"I mean, of the birds on this team," he says. "Let’s count how many of us should actually be jumping off cliffs into pits of fire."
Barton huffs a laugh.
"Because one of us earned their bird name," Sam says. "And the other’s all talk."
"Your face is all talk," Barton says, his voice gravelly and strained.
"Yeah, but my face can fly.”
The fourth time, they have matching bullet wounds. Nobody says anything and the machines just keep beeping quietly.
The fifth time, Barton’s jaw is broken so Sam takes the opportunity to explain how if he wanted to pick a bird based purely on eyesight, there are better options than a hawk. Falcons, for example. Super good eyesight.
The sixth time, it’s clear Barton—Clint, he corrects when Sam says it out loud—has been watching some Planet Earth. Sam decide’s to call him “Cooper’s Hawk” for a while.
"The male is smaller than the female," he explains. "Seemed appropriate."
"Fuck you,” Clint says, grinning.
December 9 2012, 12pm
So I just had to join in on the Hawkeye Initiative bandwagon, it’s just so… full of empowerment.
And then I went totally overboard.
Even gave them suggestive captions.
I feel like a predator drawing this.
(but Tony’s face! <3!)
YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS POST.
August 20 2012, 11am
#can we just take a moment to appreciate #that Clint #while holed up doing a job of watching all the scientists working away #managed to work out BEFORE the quantum physicist exactly what the fuck is going on #with the tesseract #by using pure logic #it also shows that even though Nick chastises him for doing his whole ‘brood in the rafters’ nesting thing #that Clint was paying attention the whole damn time #this is the guy who can fire arrows without looking #who can calculate on the fly the trajectory needed to lodge an explosive arrow into a propeller #I will punch anyone who says Clint is useless or a deadweight because he’s squishy-human and is only good for being a marksman #because he’s deceptively smart #and plays that close to his chest