Work Text:
“Aren’t you finished yet?” Tony grumbles, wincing as the needle pierces his skin.
“Almost,” Clint replies. He ties off his current suture with a practiced knot. “One more to go.”
“This is taking forever,” Tony complains. “I should’ve just gone to fucking Medical...”
Pausing briefly, Clint raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? You wanted to tell them what happened with Nat?”
Tony doesn’t respond—only gives a slight hiss of pain as the needle dips in again. The two are currently in Tony’s private bathroom, the mechanic sitting on the closed toilet lid while Barton stitches the three-inch gash over the other man’s shoulder blade.
Clint huffs out a laugh. “Thought so.”
Tony glances down at his watch. “You’ve been at it nearly half an hour already. What, are you fucking quilting back there?”
Clint tugs the next thread a little harder than strictly necessary, causing Tony to bite his lip to suppress a whimper. “This is an art, Stark,” the archer declares, “not a science.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, the numbing time for lidocaine is, in fact, a science and it’s making me far less appreciative of your so-called”—he puts air quotes around the term—“art.”
“Hey, at least you got lidocaine,” Clint points out. “When I sewed my own toe back on during a three-week undercover op in Panama, I would have been thrilled to—”
Tony cuts him off, “If I have to hear that goddamn severed toe story one more time, so help me God, you’ll be the next one getting stitches.”
Clint scoffs, “And I guarantee you, I won’t be nearly as much of a little bitch about it.” He ties off the final thread. “Done.”
“Finally,” Tony grunts as Clint pours antiseptic over the wound.
Once finished, Clint pulls out a handheld mirror from the sink drawer and angles it so that Tony can see his handiwork. “Well?” he asks with a grin. “What do you think?”
Tony squints at the reflection in the mirror. “What did you—” He cuts himself off when he reads the ‘HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA’ stitched into his back. “Barton!”
Clint spins on his heel. “You’re welcome!” he yelps as he races out of the room.
Tony heaves out an exasperated sigh as he gets to his feet. “Stabbed in the back by two teammates before breakfast…” he grumbles. “I fucking hate this compound.”
