Miles, Wanda, & Clint | Science & Entertainment (backdated)

[xp_hawkeye]

Wanda drops by Clint's lab, taking Miles by surprise.


Wanda paused in the doorway to Clint’s lab and peered around. It was shockingly organized considering how his actual living space could look like on occasion - chaos was probably an accurate description - and she took note that he could actually live like a human being when he wanted to.

“You’ve locked yourself away in your ivory tower for some time,” she commented, spotting him at a worktable. “I’ve decided to come by to make sure the baby squids hadn’t finally gotten to you.”

The first voice to answer her was not Clint’s. Instead, Spanish curses came from an 18-year-old standing in the middle of the lab, wearing only black boxer-briefs and some unusual mechanical devices on his wrists. When Miles actually saw who the interloper was, he swore again and disappeared from sight.

Clint chuckled. “Hey, Wanda. You know Miles, right?” He hadn’t even looked from the fabric and mechanical bits he had his hands and tools buried in. “I’m working on improving his suit. No squids in sight, though I’m sure they’d appreciate a visit from their mom.”

“I’m not their mother,” came the automatic reply, “no matter what you’ve told them.” Wanda was trying not to laugh because she could vaguely recall what it was like to be an embarrassed young adult. “Sorry, Miles!” she called out, no hint of laughter in her voice. “I promise to start knocking from now on.”

A pair of discarded red gym shorts and black ribbed tank top in the corner of the room floated aloft of their own accord, as if donned by a bashful phantom. The air shimmered as a dressed Miles reappeared. “Oh, hey, Cassandra. Just, uh, Project Runawaying here.”

“Cassandra?” Clint asked, glancing up briefly before returning to his work on the suit. He just needed to finish working the armor panels into the material… next, the wireless tech and pairing it with Miles’ wrist controls.

“You never played Dragon Age?” Miles asked. “I totally would’ve taken you for a gamer. Cassandra’s this templar who is just perpetually fed up. She kinda sounds like her. Say ‘ugh!’”

Wanda’s lips twitched, though it was hard to tell if she was trying not to smile or frown. “While I don’t agree with you, I did embarrass you so, fine - ugh.” It might be that she was in slight agreement with Miles but she would never tell him that.

Turning back to Clint, she peered around him at the items that covered his work table but she couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it. “I recognize one item on that table,” Wanda said, “and that’s your pencil. What on earth are you two up to, especially considering Miles’ state of dress when I came in?”

“Seeing if I can keep him from spending a million dollars on baby powder,” Clint answered, shifting one of his tools into his mouth. He continued, “You should’ve seen him trying to get into this. I just needed his measurements for the new armor inserts and the wireless tech that’ll basically keep the suit standing and stable… let him step in and out of it.”

“Other Spidey had this idea of, like, one of those vacuum storage bags?” Miles added. “So it’s like wrapping yourself in a trash bag, press a button, and now you’re in a zentai suit. Not that this is a fetish or anything. It actually might be for him, sometimes he’s kind of a pervert. But not me. It’s a time-saving measure.”

“Huh.” It was still a little disconcerting to realize that Miles was Spider-Man. Wanda was used to watching students grow into being able to do superhero feats, not having them come into the mansion already doing them. “How much time will the changes save you?” she asked, curious.

Sometimes it seemed being a spy was simply - easier. There were plenty of downsides but not having to squeeze into a costume was certainly a plus.

Miles looked at Clint for an accurate answer. “If it works the way he says it will, many minutes? I won’t have to wear it under my regular clothes, at least, which’ll get rid of some of the chafing.”

"Yeah, many minutes. Less wiggling and scrunched spandex in awkward places," Clint said, having raised his eyebrows as he'd listened to the younger man natter about fetishes. Taking the tool from his mouth, he finished, "And somebody needs to have a talk with you about kink shaming. Liking how people look in zentai suits — or whatever their preference might be — doesn't make them perverts."

In deference to Clint’s generosity for helping him with his costume, for a second time, Miles nodded and did not argue the chastisement. “It’s just, with the way things are going, we need something tougher, but the X-Men costumes aren’t going to cut it. Not nearly enough movement. And I’m sorry to whoever designed them, but they’re ugly.”

Wanda snorted in amusement. “I’ve heard rumors that they’ve come a long way,” she said, walking around the table slowly as she tried to make sense of the various bits. Though there was not much luck there, she routinely had issues with regular, everyday tech. This was out of her league and then some.

“Your powers certainly call for needing the flexibility that some of the X-Men don’t need, though a few might be interested in Clint’s tinkering.” Wanda grinned over at Clint. “Feel like becoming the mansions tailor, Barton? If you actually put pockets on things, you’d make a killing.”

"Utilitarian pockets, maybe. I've seen some dudes with pouches everywhere and that's just not the look I think anybody's going for," Clint muttered. "Hey Miles, c'mere. I need your arm."

Miles obediently approached Clint and held out his arms. “Braaaaains,” he zombie-moaned. “You know, pouches are tactical. You can keep all sorts of things in pouches. Batman has pouches. That’s like his thing.”

"Batman's not a mutant," Clint replied. "But I guess there are some interesting gadgets on his tool belt. We'll talk about it later." Then, sliding the sleeve of formless material up Miles' arm, he continued, "Hold the top part at your shoulder for a second. I'ma hit a button, then I need you to tell me how it feels." Reaching over, he hit a button and watched as the fabric cinched up tight to Miles' arm.

“Ooohhh, now that looked fancy.” Wanda leaned against the table so she could get a better look. “Did that feel as fancy as it looked?”

A high-pitched yelp escaped from Miles. “Feels like a blood pressure cuff over my entire arm. Too tight!” He breathed a sigh of relief when the material loosened and slid off. He handed it back to Clint and massaged his bicep to relieve the ache. “What’s this made of, anyway?”

"A highly classified non-Newtonian liquid that a friend of mine loaned me. Indefinitely. It's been refined and upgraded from what went into your other suit. The liquid armor plates are thinner but cover a larger area, so they're lighter and they won't restrict your movement quite as much. That's just the stuff stopping the bullets — each panel's also contains a mesh network of nanotech that I co-designed after the whole Barrow fiasco," Clint mumbled, frowning at the fabric again as he fiddled with the tightening mechanism.

Turning to his laptop, he adjusted the fit based off of the data collected moments ago. "Uniform constriction, fine motor control, excellent ranged slash melee protection… contained between two layers of super-thin spandex. And it's latex-free."

“It can do all those things but without the latex, what’s to stop me from getting pregnant?” Most of what Clint said sailed right over Miles’s head, so cue a joke. “All it needs is a GPS and Waze and I’m all set.”

Miles wasn’t alone, Wanda had no idea what Clint had been going on about, though the ‘stopping bullets’ part sounded intriguing. “I was going to ask if there’s anything this thing can’t do?” she laughed. “I hope you’re going to be giving him an instruction manual when you finally hand it over.”

"It's got built-in bluetooth," Clint said with a snort. "You can sync it to your phone and do voice commands." Looking up toward Wanda, he continued, "But it definitely can't stop bombs or trains or anything like that." He picked up one of his tools specifically so he could point it at Miles. "Also, if your webbing doesn't work for whatever reason, it's not gonna keep you from going splat. It'll just contain all your liquified bits. So avoid that."

“Pfft, I can stop a train myself. I already did that, back when there was that big fire in the city.” Technically, it took both Miles and Peter together to do it, and it nearly tore their arms off, but who’s counting? “Bluetooth, though. Excellent. I can sext on the go I mean text on the go.”

"Heh," Clint half-laughed. "Sexting. You're lucky I like you and your boyfriend too much to electronically cockblock you both."

Miles raised an eyebrow. “That’s censorship. You gonna forward my emails to SHIELD next?” Maybe that response was a little confrontational, especially given Clint’s generosity here. So Miles followed with some light-heartedness. “I’ma tell Matt on you for being a snitch.”

Wanda didn’t even try to hide her amusement. “I’m pretty sure Matt’s well aware of his brother’s flaws.” Her smile got a little more evil. “Try telling Natasha, though, I think you’ll get better results that way.”

"Pfft," Clint scoffed. "It's not censorship if I don't actually do it. Besides, I wasn't serious. Though I don't sext, myself. Phone sex works way better, since I think people attempting to read my texts in general want to strangle me half the time. That just does not set the right kinda mood. And also, Tasha totally has more dirt on me than Matt."

“You use your phone as a phone? Bruh. Retro.” Miles smirked. “Also, strangling doesn’t set the right mood? That’s a thing, though. And you accuse me of kink shaming.”

"I mean, yes, it's a thing. It's just not my thing? And anyway, there's a specific way to do safe erotic asphyxiation. Violently strangling someone isn't it. So even if it was my thing, it still wouldn't set the right mood," Clint said, snorting softly.

Off to the side, Wanda briefly ran a hand over her face. “You know, my brain just helpfully reminded me that Miles cannot legally drink in this country, so now I feel like a dirty old woman for even being in this room.”

“I can vote! And I’ve had sex,” Miles protested, having been hit in a sore spot. “I’m eighteen, not twelve. Speaking of.” His phone chirped, signaling a text, and a smile involuntarily appeared when he saw whom it was from. “It’s Bob — never mind, this is important. I, uh, can we finish this another time?”

"Sure," Clint said, quirking an eyebrow. "Just shoot me a text when you wanna come back down. Tell Bobert I said hi."