peter x clint wild wild west au!!
(i’m really bad at confining myself to three sentences with these two)
In small towns such as Clint’s, outlaws are the worst thing that could possibly stumble through town (other than a sandstorm, of course). Every so often some highwayman would discover their little community, and usually said community would be absolutely defenceless, losing its riches and horses and sometimes its women to the dastardly invader. Most towns, however, don’t have sharpshooters like Clint Barton.
He lines up his shot, making sure his arrowhead is perfectly aligned with the man on the palomino horse currently stampeding down the main road. Clint has set himself up at a high vantage point-- the balcony of Sheriff Fury’s office. He waits until he can recognize the varmint, and then when he does, lets out a low, familiar groan.
This outlaw is no generic robber, no sir-- the rust-red hair, boyish grin, and thick thighs give him away. Peter Quill is one mischievous son of a bitch, and Clint hates that his heart gets all a-flutter at the sight of the man. He doesn’t lower his bow, calling down to the man instead. “Hey! Star-Lord!”
Peter looks around in confusion before identifying the source of the voice, and when he does he pulls out and cocks his dual pistols. There’s a smirk on his face the size of the setting sun. “Glad you remembered my name, Hawkeye.”
Clint definitely does not stammer or get all flushed like a virginal youngster. “Put down the guns and get off the Milano, Quill.”
Raising one of the guns in surrender but keeping the other one steadily aimed at Clint, Peter tilts his head in the direction of the local saloon. “How about you buy me a drink and then we can talk shop? Or do you not... wet your whistle anymore?”
Clint frowns and Peter smiles, and for a moment neither of them move. Finally, Clint lowers his bow. “Only if you don’t screw me over again like last time.”
The bandit nods, lowering his gun. “As I recall, you rather liked being screwed over, Clint.” He rides off in the direction of the saloon, and Clint is left to watch him go, wondering how on earth he’s getting himself into this again.
