Upside: while looking for my dearly departed notes, I did find a tiny text message fic I wrote between Clint and Natasha from the night of the gala in Lost Causes. Natasha got an “I GOT LAID” text that night, and this is that conversation.
(Because I sometimes want to pause in the middle of my WIP and just be nice to the characters for once. Apologies for any typos, it’s 8am and I
can’t find my glasses am too lazy to look for my glasses.)
Bruce woke to the smell of French toast. Blinking awake, he shuffled out into Clint’s apartment in his fleecy pajamas.
Clint was standing at the stovetop, flipping the last two slices of French toast for breakfast. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said.
"Morning," Bruce said, giving him a hug from behind and a kiss on the shoulder. "How’d you sleep?"
"Like a dog on Benadryl," Clint said, plating the last slice. "Chased rabbits all night. You?"
They ate breakfast at the kitchen island and it was amazing, because French toast. Bruce was just settling into the couch, looking for a documentary on Netflix to kickstart his brain, when there was a knock at the door.
It was Tony Stark with a box of puppies.
"What the actual fuck," Clint said, but it was a pleased what the actual fuck, because PUPPIES.
"Can you guys take care of these for the day?" Tony said, tipping the puppies out onto the kitchen floor. There were like a dozen of them, all different breeds. "There are literally hundreds of them in R&D right now. I can only kiss so many."
Clint picked up a golden retriever puppy and eyed it suspiciously while it licked his nose. “Okay, but why do you have a surplus of puppies?”
"The interns started playing around with portal technology and accidentally built a portal to a slightly altered dimension of earth, you know how it is," Tony said, waving a hand. "Anyway, all these puppies just started pouring out, and also a pterodactyl and an indescribable shape I probably shouldn’t tell you about."
"O…kay," Bruce said slowly, picking up a floppy little basset hound puppy. "Did you—"
"The shape caught a cab to Newark, and the pterodactyl has been contained, yes," Tony said. His phone beeped. He checked it and swore. "There are puppies in the Mark VII. I’ve gotta go." He fled, leaving Bruce and Clint alone in their pajamas with a whole bunch of wiggly, adorable puppies.
"What are we supposed to do with all these puppies?" Bruce said.
"I have a plan," Clint said. "Jarvis, call Natasha."
Natasha came over with wee pads and puppy food and toys that jangled and squeaked, and the three of them spent the morning playing with puppies and watching Pixar movies. By afternoon, the puppies had mostly exhausted themselves and were lying in small furry heaps around the living room.
"What’s for lunch?" Bruce asked.
"I have prepared deconstructed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches," Clint said, petting th ehead of a beagle who was snoring on his chest.
Natasha frowned. “Is that a Gordon Ramsay recipe?”
"It means I’m covered in puppies and the ingredients are in the cupboard, make your own damn lunch."
After lunch, they all napped on the couch under a blanket of puppies. Bruce only dozed for a little while and spent the rest of the time cradling the basset hound puppy (whom he’d named Richard Feynman) in the crook of his arm and watching the end of Monsters, Inc. The apartment was sunny and warm, and his feet were tangled up with Clint’s and a pit bull’s, and Natasha looked more peaceful than he’d ever seen her with that tiny greyhound lying across her stomach and that cocker spaniel puppy sitting half on her head.
It was a really nice, relaxing day, and the clean-up wasn’t even that bad.
The next day, Stark Industries and the Avengers hosted a puppy adoption event. Every one of the puppies went to a good home, including the pterodactyl. (And Richard Feynman’s new mom said Bruce would be welcome to visit any time.)