the final(?) instalment in the daredevil/marvel shit post series ft. ideas from my best friend and now including (a fairly accurate rendition of) Clint Barton
Clint feels his phone buzz from it’s place in his back pocket. He pulls it out and sees notifications from a group chat titled “😎🖤the super bitches🖤😎”. Opening up the chat, he sees four separate photos from four different people: Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, Karen Page and Frank Castle. He had become buddies with them a while back, during the clean-up after the battle of NY.
The photo from Matt shows him from a side angle, a clearly comical, shocked expression on his face, with a pair of ugly, brightly coloured shades on top of his usual pair.
The one from Karen is a shot of her staring directly at the camera, wearing at least three pairs of the same garish sunglasses as Matt’s, all stacked on top of each other with a balance that impresses even him.
The one from Foggy was clearly taken mid-scuffle, as he is caught in a headlock by Matt, who, still wearing both pairs of shades, has taken the photo, holding the phone out of Foggy’s reach, and Karen in the same deadpan expression and balanced glasses behind them. They are both trying to get two pairs of the sunglasses on Foggy, who, as far as Clint can tell from the strange angle and shaky photo, is trying desperately to get away.
The final one is from Frank. It’s a selfie of him crouching by a semi-open window, throwing up a peace sign with his free hand and his snipers gun resting in the crook of his other arm. Behind him is a clear view of a warehouse, its floor littered with the bodies of what Clint can only assume is -- was -- a crime gang. Frank too wears incredibly garish, neon sunglasses, one pair on front and one on the back of his head.
Clint sees all this and sighs. He packs up stuff and hops softly down from his rooftop perch. Once inside the house, he grabs his spare quiver of arrows and his bow, and kisses each of his kids (all currently scribbling with pencils at the kitchen table) on their forehead, signing a goodbye. Noticing him leaving, Laura asks where he’s going.
“Avengers business?” She signs.
Clint sighs and, with the expression of a long suffering but endlessly supportive friend, pulls out a pair of bright violet sunglasses from his quiver, opens them, flips them upside down, and puts them on.
“Nope,” he signs back, “I’ve got a party to go to.”
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