Bobo The Clown.
Clint had never hated anyone more than that stupid painted man sitting atop the dunking booth.
Usually, he could handle the insults, ignoring them as he passed by with Natasha, or Tony, or whoever he had dragged along to the carnival that year. Technically, he would've been thrown out if he didn't have someone else with him. He had been... Banned from attending without supervision.
Not that it had had anything to do with Bobo The Clown.
Maybe.
Bobo The Clown's job was to provoke the carnival goers to spend money on trying to dunk him. Clint knew it was all a rouge. He knew that there was no reason to listen, no reason to take the time and let the kid on the stool have it. No, usually, he just stayed as far as possible from the booth to avoid his taunts from getting under his skin.
This time, however, he had gone too far.
Nobody insulted Pietro but Clint.
Nobody.
"Clint," Pietro murmured, clutching the stuffed penguin in his arms, never having intended to give it to Wanda. That thing was his, pink glitter eyes and all. "Don't do it."
"Too late," Clint snapped, handing the cashier a twenty and taking one of the ten baseballs he was given.
"Awe, is that your boyfriend back there?" Bobo taunted, ignorant to the steam practically coming out of the archer's ears. "He's kinda ugly, but it's not like you could to better."
Clint. Was. Furious.
"He's not my boyfriend," he hissed, teeth grinding. "We're just friends."
"Sure, that's what they all say. You've clearly got the hots for him. He's lucky; nobody else would take him up. How much is he payin' ya for showing him out?"
"Will you shut up?" Clint barked, gripping the ball too hard. He closed one eye, drew his arm back, and threw it as hard as he could.
Bullseye.
A ringer buzzed and the clown fell in, dirty water from previous soaks rewetting his pants and shirt. He laughed and rolled his eyes, letting the drop go over his head.
Clint, on the other hand, was not done.
"Back for more?" he taunted, cracking his fingers and casually leaning against the back of the tank. "Tired of hanging with that mismatched disaster? I understand, I'd rather spend time with me than him any day."
Clint shut his eyes and let all the bad things he was thinking (for example; the casual murder of a carnival worker) flow out of him before letting rip the next ball. It smacked the red dot, lever dropping and seat giving way to the cold water below.
Bobo giggled, a high pitch mockery of faint acceptance trailing from behind the bars of his enclosure. "Good job! Are you only buff in that arm? That's no way to impress your bf!"
Pietro took a step forward, reaching a hand out to Clint, who was practically seething with rage at this point. His face was red, he was sweating, and his knuckles were white from where he gripped the ball tighter than his bow in battle. "Clint? Maybe you need to walk away."
"Are you kidding?" he half laughed, half huffed, a smirk spreading across his face as he rolled the ball around his fingers. "I'm just getting started."
As soon as the actor was back up on his stool, the ball went flying and he was sent flailing into the tank below. A crowd had begun to gather at this point, watching as the archer struck out the ever hated clown that reeked havoc through the fairgrounds.
