"I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that you don't have a flying suit stashed anywhere," Clint says, from the bathroom and sounding muffled. Tony thinks he's probably poking at his face, trying to assess the damage, or possibly just admiring his bruises.
"That would be a good guess. Considering I am the world's handsomest hobo. Not a lot of places to stick an Iron Man suit when you've got a duffle bag and a shopping cart."
Clint snorts, and doesn't comment on Tony's dramatic retelling of what had really been more of a series of simple, but not awful safehouses. Mostly small apartments rented under a pseudonym and three layers of cover identity. It's not like he'd learned nothing, hanging around with Natasha. Hanging around with Clint was a bit different. Clint seemed to prefer the evasion tactic of going to ground and possibly actually living like a hobo. He's got a dusty coat and canvas backpack, in battered Army green, and his boots look like they could use a good burning and replacing. He looks tired.
"I was hoping you'd have--"
Whatever Clint's saying disappears into the sound of water as he gets the shower going. Tony yells, "What?" but the repetition isn't any clearer, so Tony flops down across the saggy motel bed, legs bent and with his feet still on the floor, and lets Clint talk to himself until he realizes he's not getting a response.
"Tony?"
"Sorry. I don't speak monologue. Tell me this isn't a sign you've turned to the dark side, because I promised Steve I'd shoot anyone suspicious and ask questions later."
The water cuts out. "You saw Cap?" Clint calls, without getting out of the tub, probably still covered in soap and shampoo, but coming to sharp attention.
"We can trade notes when you're done," Tony returns, not wanting to yell back and forth, both out of exhaustion and because he's gotten in the habit of keeping a low profile. Amicable shouting in the thin walled motel might not be the most suspicious thing, but better to not draw any attention they can avoid.
"Where did you see Cap?" Clint insists, water back on, scrubbing off fast before he's back in the bedroom, towel around his hips and hair dripping into his face and down his neck. "Tony?"
"New York. We got a pizza. It was a nice date."
Clint gives him an unamused look and crosses his arms. There's a new scar cutting across his chest, from shoulder to sternum like someone's tried to slash him open.
"Holy shit, Barton."
Clint follows his gaze, then shrugs.
"Please tell me someone took care of that for you."
"Oh sure," Clint says. "I just walked into a place and handed over my Avengers club card, and they said--"
Tony huffs and drops his head back to the mattress, eyes fixing on a water stain on the ceiling. "How the mighty have fallen?"
"I used a burner identity," Clint says, an apologetic tone in his voice, like he hadn't expected Tony to worry, when Tony had spent the last several months close to writing him off as dead. "Then I went out the back way as soon as I was stitched up and had some drugs and before they could bill me. I did kind of wander around stoned out of my head for about half a day, though."
"Oh, you did not. And stop dripping on the carpet before they charge us for that."
Clint laughs, a dark sound, and repeats, "How the mighty have fallen," back at him, as he walks away again.
"Sorry I can't put us up in a nicer place. I know I got you accustomed to a lifestyle and all that."
Clint makes a noncommittal sound from back inside the bathroom, then comes back in a t-shirt and boxers. "You're still buying me dinner though, right?"
"Ah, the more things change."
"Or we can split the instant oatmeal packets I have in my bag. I'm not picky."
"Okay, fine. Dinner's on me. Finding weapons will be your job."
Clint drops onto the bed, bouncing Tony, then drags his bag up to rummage through it, looking for clean clothes and tossing socks and rumpled t-shirts onto the bed cover until he gets to a pair of jeans that he pulls out, then leaves draped over his lap while he packs everything back into his bag. A precaution in case they have to run, done unthinkingly. An automatic thing now.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
momijizukamori
Re: tumblr anonny here! - On The Run, Clint/Tony
Date: 2017-02-19 07:04 pm (UTC)"That would be a good guess. Considering I am the world's handsomest hobo. Not a lot of places to stick an Iron Man suit when you've got a duffle bag and a shopping cart."
Clint snorts, and doesn't comment on Tony's dramatic retelling of what had really been more of a series of simple, but not awful safehouses. Mostly small apartments rented under a pseudonym and three layers of cover identity. It's not like he'd learned nothing, hanging around with Natasha. Hanging around with Clint was a bit different. Clint seemed to prefer the evasion tactic of going to ground and possibly actually living like a hobo. He's got a dusty coat and canvas backpack, in battered Army green, and his boots look like they could use a good burning and replacing. He looks tired.
"I was hoping you'd have--"
Whatever Clint's saying disappears into the sound of water as he gets the shower going. Tony yells, "What?" but the repetition isn't any clearer, so Tony flops down across the saggy motel bed, legs bent and with his feet still on the floor, and lets Clint talk to himself until he realizes he's not getting a response.
"Tony?"
"Sorry. I don't speak monologue. Tell me this isn't a sign you've turned to the dark side, because I promised Steve I'd shoot anyone suspicious and ask questions later."
The water cuts out. "You saw Cap?" Clint calls, without getting out of the tub, probably still covered in soap and shampoo, but coming to sharp attention.
"We can trade notes when you're done," Tony returns, not wanting to yell back and forth, both out of exhaustion and because he's gotten in the habit of keeping a low profile. Amicable shouting in the thin walled motel might not be the most suspicious thing, but better to not draw any attention they can avoid.
"Where did you see Cap?" Clint insists, water back on, scrubbing off fast before he's back in the bedroom, towel around his hips and hair dripping into his face and down his neck. "Tony?"
"New York. We got a pizza. It was a nice date."
Clint gives him an unamused look and crosses his arms. There's a new scar cutting across his chest, from shoulder to sternum like someone's tried to slash him open.
"Holy shit, Barton."
Clint follows his gaze, then shrugs.
"Please tell me someone took care of that for you."
"Oh sure," Clint says. "I just walked into a place and handed over my Avengers club card, and they said--"
Tony huffs and drops his head back to the mattress, eyes fixing on a water stain on the ceiling. "How the mighty have fallen?"
"I used a burner identity," Clint says, an apologetic tone in his voice, like he hadn't expected Tony to worry, when Tony had spent the last several months close to writing him off as dead. "Then I went out the back way as soon as I was stitched up and had some drugs and before they could bill me. I did kind of wander around stoned out of my head for about half a day, though."
"Oh, you did not. And stop dripping on the carpet before they charge us for that."
Clint laughs, a dark sound, and repeats, "How the mighty have fallen," back at him, as he walks away again.
"Sorry I can't put us up in a nicer place. I know I got you accustomed to a lifestyle and all that."
Clint makes a noncommittal sound from back inside the bathroom, then comes back in a t-shirt and boxers. "You're still buying me dinner though, right?"
"Ah, the more things change."
"Or we can split the instant oatmeal packets I have in my bag. I'm not picky."
"Okay, fine. Dinner's on me. Finding weapons will be your job."
Clint drops onto the bed, bouncing Tony, then drags his bag up to rummage through it, looking for clean clothes and tossing socks and rumpled t-shirts onto the bed cover until he gets to a pair of jeans that he pulls out, then leaves draped over his lap while he packs everything back into his bag. A precaution in case they have to run, done unthinkingly. An automatic thing now.