This is… okay, yes, this is pretty ironic, considering Clint’s nickname and all. But still. He doesn’t get why he has to be the only one to be hit by Loki’s spell. He doesn’t understand why Loki would use a spell like that. No, really, what’s the point? It’s not like he’s gaining anything by doing it, aside from having Clint take out his anger on anyone who dares look at his new appendices a little too closely –read: everyone.
They’re not even ugly or anything. They’re brown with lots of white spot –or white with even more brown spots, depends how you look at them, and Clint can’t do that without going cross-eyed or something. But hey, that’s not the point right now.
The point is, Clint has wings attached to his back and it looks ridiculous –not to mention that he’s knocked more vases over in the past hour than he did in the last twenty years. It’s getting seriously annoying, to be honest- Clint would rather not think about it too much.
He leaves the battlefield on foot and nearly throws a fit when he realizes that taxis aren’t an option in his predicament.
“I hate my life,” he mutters, which prompts Tony to chuckle in his com:
“C’mon Katniss, it could be worse!”
“You’re not the one with freaking wings sprouting off your back, Stark!”
“Aw, don’t be so angry, at least now you can fly! You can fly, you can fly—”
Clint doesn’t wait for Tony to finish singing the Peter Pan song before he grabs his com and throws it to the nearest bin, where it lands with a metallic sound that helps loosen Clint’s shoulders somewhat.
“I didn’t know destroying S.H.I.E.L.D-issued material was a therapeutic activity.”
Clint turns around faster than you can say ‘Caw ca—I mean, fuck’ and finds himself face to face with none other than Phil Coulson, official Loki survivor and winner of the Secret Race for Clint’s heart three years running. Clint is pretty sure if he didn’t have the training he does, his face right now would become the dictionary illustration for ‘mortified’.
“Stark was being a dick, Sir.”
“He’s just frustrated because Rogers won the first place of GQ’s best butt contest again.”
Clint is very aware of that. There’s a rumor going around in S.H.I.E.L.D facilities that Phil rigged the votes, but it’s impossible. Everybody knows Coulson is way too moral to do that kind of thing, not for that kind of things… thankfully, neither Clint nor Natasha have the same scruples.
“Come on,” Phil says after they share an amused smile, “I’ll give you a ride to the tower.”
“Uh, Sir, I’m not…” Clint points to his wings, knowing full well he’ll have to do a debrief about them at some point. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“Don’t worry,” Coulson says, “I’ve got an open car. We’ll stop at Starbucks so you can get coffee and tell me how you managed to make Rogers win that contest again.”
Clint can feel his wings flutter in happiness, and it takes some effort to keep his face straight when his back is betraying him so thoroughly. Coulson, however, just smiles and gestures him to an open jeep he parked on the other side of the street.
“How do you feel about muffins?” He asks, and Clint thinks maybe, the wings thing isn’t so bad after all.
(Somewhere in a bedroom of undisclosed location –but tastefully decorated, if Tony may say so himself- the God of Mischief is chuckling.
“There was no bird joke,” Tony says –not pout. Tony Stark doesn’t pout.
“They’re going for coffee alone and outside of work. It’s a date and I win, Stark.”
Tony sighs and consoles himself by coming up with references to throw at Clint’s face later on.)