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What are we even watching?" Jason carefully lowers himself in between Clint and Natasha, balancing the tray with snacks. Because he's the least prone to "creative sitting", a.k.a. the only one who doesn't move the whole damn time (Clint), or use someone else as a pillow (Clint and Nat), or end up upside down (Clint again) he's the mandatory snack holder and middle spot. He could advocate louder for Clint to get a coffee table, but he likes being in the middle spot, and doesn't want to jeopardize it by adding unnecessary furniture.
"Star Wars," Natasha answers as she arranges a blanket over Jason's shoulders.
It's the casual affection in it that still hits Jason like a brick to the face. But nicer. A nice brick. Jason hasn't been the size or shape to get fussed over for a good while now. And even before his post-death growth spurt and whatever the Pit did to him... After his mom died it had only been Alfred to come close to fussing, and only when he was sick.
When the blanket has been draped to satisfy her standards, Nat looks at the tray, and then at Jason. "Where's the knife for the guacamole?" Like that's a reasonable request.
"It's a dip." Jason is 95% sure she's fucking with him, but who knows how the Russians eat their guac.
"It's a spread," Natasha counters. Fucking with percentage just got raised with 4,5.
Clint takes the bowl of offending produce off Jason's tray and dips his finger in to taste it. "It's a salad. Now hush you two, here comes the good part."
On screen a group of what looks like stormtroopers is fighting a group of skinny droids.
"I didn't know they made a cartoon." Jason hands Clint a breadstick, to trade him for the guac.
"Hmm. Sure," Clint answers and absentmindedly takes a bite. "Oh, still warm. Mmm."
On Jason's other side, Nat has picked some cheese to nibble on, and leans her head on Jason's shoulder as they watch. Jason lets himself relax more against the backrest, enjoying the closeness.
A bearded man with a fancy bathrobe and lightsaber combo joins the stormtroopers. That can't be right. Wait. The armors look more like... Shit. What was that other hype. With the baby... Mandalorians! Mandalorians plus jedi versus droids, Jason nods to himself. Scifi isn't really his thing, but he has watched six movies of Star Wars with Damian and tries to keep global track of whatever spin off has taken Clint's interest.
A coffee table would be nice to put his feet on, Jason muses. He might peruse the second hand market for one of those pretty leather footstools.
One of the Mandalorians takes off his helmet, revealing a grizzled, old face.
"Aren't they supposed to keep their helmets on?" Jason hands Clint a nacho with guac.
"Thanks. What? Why?"
Nat taps Jason on his arm, signaling he should hand out food both ways, so he gives her a nacho too.
"Because that's their code? I don't know. Seemed stupid to me." Jason helps himself to a breadstick with guacamole, grinning when Natasha sighs next to him. "Dip," he clarifies.
"I don't think there's a rule about taking off their helmets." Clint sounds thoughtful, eyes still glued to the screen. With his right hand he reaches towards the tray, so Jason hands him some cheese.
"Oh come on. It was a major deal in that other series, remember? We were all sad for baby Yoda that he never saw Mando's face."
Clint finally turns around to glare at Jason. "Groku."
"Bless you."
"These are clones," Natasha intercedes, explaining exactly nothing, and uses the distraction to dip her own breadstick in the guacamole.
"The Mandalorians are clones?"
It spurs Clint into a long and heated explanation about the clones, the Mandalorians, the different time lines and other, to Jason completely uninteresting, Star Wars facts. But he loves watching Clint enthuse over something, so he smiles and nods at appropriate times, and feeds both his assassins snacks in between.
They can pry the middle spot from his cold dead hands.