Work Text:
Candles
Clint hates smelling things with a burning (no pun intended) passion. Scented candles, air fresheners, perfume, anything like that, he hated.
So when Loki suddenly had a candle advent calendar, Clint knew his headaches were going to be daily.
~Pine Trees~
“We already have a real tree for Christmas! Why do you need a candle that smells like the tree?!”
The trickster lounged on the plush armchair nursing a book; he had the green devil lit up on the coffee table.
“It makes this boring place smell pleasant…” he turned a page.
Clint was done. He didn’t want to have a headache every day for the next month. He noticed the advent calendar sitting on the countertop in the kitchen. A diabolical plan hatched itself… he would just burn them all for Loki.
“Whatever…” he acted and casually made his way to the kitchen.
Thor and Steve jumped off the elevator-when did it get here? - and they went straight to the fridge.
Damn. Thor wouldn’t let him do anything to make his brother upset and Mr. Right would probably lecture him on being nice and try compromising with Loki. Pfft like Loki would do that.
Clint made his way to the elevator, he’ll just have to find a better time.
~Vanilla~
He could smell it in his vents. No. He shouldn’t be able to smell them. The archer paused his game of COD and sniffed in each of the five connecting vents. He had to find this culprit and save his haven. Don’t mess with the birds nest.
Two hours of an excruciating search later and he found a little white candle just sitting in the middle of the path. He was about to blow it out when it went poof!
This means war.
1:00 am.
The tower was quiet with everyone sleeping. Everyone except for a certain archer, who was currently lighting the fireplace under the flat-screen. The advent calendar sat on the table behind him filled with all of the little buggers. Once the fight was big enough, Clint took the miniature paper building and threw it to the flames.
11:00 a.m.
“AH! My candles!” Loki starred in horror at the fireplace.
His look of grief turned to one of fury. Absolute fury. Clint ran for it. He was a dead man.
That one vanilla candle was Clint’s torturer for the next two months.