He was late. Again. The power cut out some time around one in the morning, killing his alarm clock but not his phone, which cheerfully went off at full volume an hour past the time he had planned on getting up in the first place. It was Natasha, reminding him that they were to meet at the Tower that morning and totally not prompting him to get his ass in gear save for the part where she really was.
He showered and reached for his jeans only to remember that he had done a load of wash the night before and forgot it downstairs. Thankfully, he remembered to actually switch it to the dryer before he passed out and, thankfully again, it had finished the cycle before the power cut. He hauled the basket all the way back to his place and tossed his ratty sweatpants to the side to pull on a semi-clean outfit, stretching and yanking on denim that so totally shrank because he swore they fit before he washed them.
He managed to button his jeans with minimal discomfort and tugged on a t-shirt chosen at random, shoved his feet into his Chucks because they were his favorite outside of his boots and he didn't know if he could handle the buckles and ties pre-caffeine, grabbed his keys and was on his way only fifteen minutes later than if his damn alarm had actually gone off. True, he was short breakfast, but Stark always had edibles stashed away that he could and would consume once he got there. More importantly, Stark always had coffee and it was always the good stuff.
His car made a death rattle of a noise about four spots further away than he had originally planned for parking, but he managed to get it mostly between the lines in the ramp and called it a win. Only the team really parked in the secured section anyway, with very few exceptions, so it wasn't like anyone was going to call him on the crap job.
He jogged into the lobby to find the concierge/receptionist/likely armed guard watching him with a decidedly unimpressed expression upon her delicate and corporately-proper features. "You're late," she singsonged at him.
He shrugged and grinned and countered with, "Only like ten minutes, so this is practically early for me."
"True," she laughed, and gestured towards the private elevators that would take him where he needed to be. One was open and waiting because Stark and his tech were freaky and scary that way, and soon enough he was exiting to the main residential level, inhaling the scent of French Roast and fresh pastries.
Nat looked him over once, shook her head, and poured him a giant mug of the good stuff. "Rushed?" she guessed after he had taken his first scalding sip. He belatedly realized he hadn't shaved and possibly forgot to run a comb through his hair post-shower, but he was dressed and semi-awake so that totally counted.
He rested his elbows on the counter and debated whether he could make a grab for the breaded goodness now, or wait for someone else to be the first, but noticed Nat's eyes were determinedly not on breakfast. "Stop checking out my ass," he complained. He shifted and felt the tighter than usual fabric try to move with him.
"It's a good look on you," she insisted with a barely concealed huff of laughter. Whatever had caught her mood certainly amused if nothing else as she normally would have kept it to a smirk.
"Jeans shrank and they were the only clean ones and I was in a rush and whatever," he waved her off. He gave in and reached for a croissant, not at all surprised when Bruce and Steve immediately followed his lead.
"And the shirt?" she prompted just as Steve paused and asked, "Who's Ferris and why does he need saving?"
He looked down and sighed. Then swore. Skin tight grey cotton boldly emblazoned with the tag line from Ferris Bueller's Day Off stretched across his shoulders atop darker-than-his-usual-denim-now-that-he-took-the-time-to-notice-it jeans that mostly fit at the waist but were tailored far tighter the entire length of the leg. Also, the jeans themselves weren't just darker, they were dyed. To a blue that was nearly a shade of purple. At least they almost matched his shoes. "That totally wasn't my laundry, was it?" he guessed.
Natasha shook her head and actually let a full laugh burst forth before she hid it behind her brioche. Bruce offered that it could be worse and he would know because he was constantly ending up half-clothed in various places around the world, and then suggested the obvious choice for the next movie night. Given that it really could have been worse because at least he wasn't naked this time, everyone else pretty much let it go at that.
Tony didn't actually arrive until Clint was on his third croissant, even though he lived in the Tower itself. He took one look at Clint, raised his eyebrows and commented, "Because the dark-rimmed glasses would ruin the whole perfect marksman persona."
Clint flipped him off as was his due and they eventually moved on to the actual team meeting where he thought up a thousand and one comebacks, mostly thinking about the glasses he did wear as part of his gear that protected his eyes and limited the glare and were designed by Stark himself. They did not have visible rims and, even if they did, they would not be black. That would completely screw up his sightlines.
Post-meeting, Tony wanted him to check out some new prototypes he had been poking at and promised him pretty shinies if he stayed, so he did. He also promised him his own mechanic would take a look at Clint's car that JARVIS had totally tattled about, which was even better. Of course, one of the prototypes exploded in their faces, streaking Stark with black goo but only really causing the tiniest of tears in Clint's borrowed shirt.
"I'll have a new one sent to your place, same size and crap," Tony insisted. "Whoever you stole that from won't know the difference."
Considering it was probably Brian's from the second floor and the man was stoned more often that not, it was a fair assumption. He probably wouldn't notice the improved version, or even the damaged one, if he even noticed it had gone missing in the first place at all.
Clint knew better than to count on Tony's promises though, especially when the supposed genius was faced with a tech-related problem like resolving the prototype. He accepted the mechanic because it wasn't like his car was moving anyway, took some fancy-ass cover shirt that was a little weird in the upper arms and a lot weird in the pattern but otherwise fit, and called it a win.
Stark offered one of his less flashy cars as a loaner, but Clint declined. The only place to store it would be less than secure, and there was no way he'd risk the inevitable damage to it by the assholes he loosely called neighbors. Low-end for Stark was high-end for everyone else and the thing would stand out like a sore thumb, or possibly a giant flashing neon sign that read "come chop me now."
Tony's usual driver Happy was currently on assignment with Pepper and the rest of the team had scurried back to whatever it was they did when there was not an eminent disaster lurking about. He didn't trust cabbies after an incident in Monaco, so he lied and said he was good to go and used his own fancy-ass phone to sort out the train and bus routes to get him home.
He wasn't as recognizable as Cap or Thor, but a few people knew what he looked like and taking public transportation was just inviting questions and talking and all those related annoyances. He grabbed his set of headphones from under what might have been a slight pile of takeout boxes and trash in the back seat of his car and put them on even if he didn't actually play any music through them. He wouldn't limit his senses that way, not when alone in an unsecured location, but the sight of the honking monstrosities that he had been gifted with for a holiday or birthday or something that was no doubt significant in the recent past should be enough to deter the worst of it.
He tossed on his spare set of sunglasses as well figuring they always worked in spy films to aid in the whole incognito-ness of it all, and slouched in a seat near the exit, pretending to zone while staying on alert the whole time.
Of course, it was that whole staying alert thing that made him notice that, well, he was noticed. He got a few looks and a few double-takes but, as planned, most people left him alone and didn't poke him, prod him, or make him interact with them in any sort of active way. He caught more than one person sneak a pic on their phones, and so he used a wonderful little device Stark had added to his and Nat's to scramble the signal so that there would be no tweeting, tumbling, or terrorist notifications. Also, it supposedly could corrupt the data too if he really felt like being an asshole.
He got off a few stops from the one closest to his actual apartment building and walked the rest of the way, headphones draped around his neck as he dodged at least two tails that may or may not have been related to TMZ. He picked up a spare pack of beer from the liquor store and a pizza from Vic's and finally made it back to his place around sunset.
He kicked off his shoes and his too-tight of jeans and sat on his couch in his boxers to munch on greasy pepperoni and sip on some cold microbrew. He flipped on the television and scrolled through the very few options that didn't come in with static or the annoying flash of an intermittent signal, pausing on some gossip thing because a show he liked should, in theory, be on after it. He then set down his beer and set down his pizza and banged his head against the back of the couch with a bout of profanity that would have made Rogers blush.
His phone rang and he glanced at the name before he picked it up and greeted his usual partner in crime with, "I'm never going to live this down, am I?"
"Never ever," Natasha agreed with the serious the situation deserved, which was to say not very much at all. "I think you managed to out-hipster the hipsters. They are jealous and looking to sue for infringement."
"Tony?" he asked, already afraid of the answer.
"Just expect to see every possible angle of that outfit on every terminal you get near for the next year and a half and you'll be fine," she assured him. All things considered, that wasn't too bad. Of course, she had to add, "He's also looking to expand the Avengers' branded merchandise to include skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts."
"Fuck me..." he sighed.
He hung up before she could cackle because she deserved some dignity even if he had none left for himself. He then tossed his phone to the side, rethought the action, and picked it up and turned off the volume to all but emergency alerts and chucked it over on top of a pillow before he reached for his beer again. There wasn't enough lager in the world to wash this day away, but he could certainly try.