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Dying is a Difficult Thing

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Clint folded his arms and glared at the man lounging on his couch. "You're dead."

Coulson raised an eyebrow. He was dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt which Clint was fairly certain had been swiped from his closet -- except, thinking back, maybe Clint had swiped it from Phil, first. "That's still fewer times than you," Coulson said, nonchalantly.

Clint just glared harder. "Okay, technically the one time I just faked my death--"

"Same here," Phil interrupted, inclining his head down towards his chest, at the bandages Clint knew where there but couldn't quite bring himself to check, just yet.

"We weren't actually dating at the time," Clint countered. "So it doesn't count against me."

Phil just looked at him again, eyebrow up as though there wasn't even a need for words to counter Clint's argument.

"You're still buying the pizza," Natasha said.

Clint swung around, glaring at her. "Your vote doesn't count. You're, like, 90 years old."

Tasha did a little eyebrow-raise of her own, challenging Barton as she perched on the arm of the couch near Phil.

Clint just made a scoffing sound. "Oh, please. I could take you." At that, both of her eyebrows went up -- mirrored by an expression of equal disbelief on Phil's face. Clint shook his head, clarifying, "Not in a fair fight."

"Be glad you can't take me," Tasha said, half-smirking at him. "Since that's how I freed you from Loki's control, by beating the crap out of you."

"See?" Clint pointed at her, backing up half a step in case she decided to yank him over the back of the couch if he got within striking distance. "I wasn't in my right mind, which gave you the advantage."

Tasha just gave him another single-raised eyebrow. Beside her, Phil settled back into the couch cushions, an expectant look on his face.

Clint glared at each of them, then sighed. "I'm not buying the pizza."

"Technically, you're still behind-- or ahead?" Tasha shot a confused look at Phil, who shrugged. "You've been fake-dead once and real-dead twice, and Phil has only been fake-dead once. So. You're buying." She gave Clint a smile, swinging her foot against the couch. Phil stretched a little, as though trying to get comfortable and Clint just kept glaring at them.

"You faked your death, too," he finally said, but it came out sounding sullen, like a pouting nine-year-old.

"Still not really-dead," she replied.

Clint continued to glare at them, then he suddenly looked at Natasha. "Wait, I was only real-dead once. I was fake-dead twice."

But she shook her head. "Real-dead twice."

"It was fake-dead," he retorted. "We were--"

"Actually, it's both," Phil interrupted. "He's been fake-dead twice and real-dead twice."

Clint looked startled. "I have not! Wait. Was I?" He tilted his head, and his lips moved slightly as he counted back. After a moment, he shook his head, shoulders slumping. "I have no idea." Before either of the others can say anything, he held up his hands. "I'll go place the order for pizza. But I'm not getting any with pineapple." Clint shot a glare at Phil as he said it, though it was quite a bit softer than his earlier glares.

"Pineapple has medicinal qualities," Phil just said calmly. "Helps with healing."

"I've heard that," Natasha said, nodding at him.

"I hate both of you," Clint said, as he yanked a cell phone out of his pocket. "Tomorrow I'm going to ask Fury to assign me to a new team. And I'm going to start sleeping with Steve."

"He likes Tony," Natasha said, shrugging one shoulder at him.

"I'll sleep with both of them," Clint countered, then he said into the phone, "Hi, yes, I'd like three large pizzas, one pepperoni, one cheese and tomato, and one Hawaiian." He rolled his eyes as he said the last. When Phil and Natasha smiled at him, he just flipped them off.