the precision of the fall

HIATUS NOTICE

    Well this wasn’t going to bite him in the arse later. Not at all. “Killing” demons was always such an ugly thing and he found such an ostentatious measure to be terribly distasteful. There hadn’t been the time for a proper banishing circle, however. What had possessed the man not to run like hell from something John truly doubted he’d had the pleasure of seeing before that very moment. He sighed wearily. At least it had been a dry summer asofar.

    “I wouldn’t thank me yet, Sunshine.” John replied, deeply unamused and in no mood for his quips. “May’s well stick close, tho. Where there’s one there’ll be a half dozen more.”

An eyebrow raises at the nickname, though a glance back to where the thing was - now no longer but a memory, and a bad one at that - has him giving lenience. There are far worse things to be called.

A roll and he’s up with deceptive ease, neck cracking and head canting as fingers flick through to settle his hair once more. From the corner of his eye he glances over John, considering options. Skin prickling for fact that he knows an imposition when he sees it and, unsurprisingly, said thing is currently him. Yet...his tongue clicks softly. “Half dozen? Feel like I got my fill for the week...” Right. His hands find his pockets and his shoulders shrug. “Still think I should say thanks. Just in case the bow ain’t enough for the next five or so. So, thanks..." And a hand worms out to hover. "Name's Clint."

                  redwing,  like  the  damn  fool  traitor  he  is,  caws  his  agreement  of  clint’s  statement  and  it’s  that  point  that  sam  throws  his  hands  up.  a  losing  battle  indeed.  ‘  i’m  cranky  because  you  kicked  off  the  damn  covers  again  so  I  woke  up  less  than  three  times,  freezing.  ’  he  sniffs,  snidely,  and  damn,  when  did  he  start  sounding  like  his  mother  ?  around  the  same  time  he  started  living  with  clint.  funny,  that.  

                 ‘  the  only  things  haunting  me  right  now  are  all  the  bad  choices  we  made  last  night.  ’  but  there’s  a  jerked  nod  of  approval,  now  that  that  damn  eyesore  arrow’s  not  sticking  out  of  the  wall  like  a  needle  in  a  pincushion.  ‘  keep  waving  that  arrow  shaft  and  me  and  see  where  it  ends  up.  ’  a  warning  with  no  heat,  sam  tires  of  this,  back  and  forth,  it’s  too  early  to  be  doing  without  coffee.  without  hangover  omelets.  so  that’s  what  he’s  turning  to  do  now.  it  feels  a  bit  like  he’s  rewarding  bad  behavior,  but  you  can’t  win  them  all.  

                  ‘  this  is  the  same  look i use  to  school  steve  when  he’s  done  some  dumb  shit  too.  goad  to  know  it  has  a  universal  effectiveness.    ’

“maybe I wouldn’t need the cushion between us if someone didn’t decide to try out for the usa soccer team in their sleep.” is he really that inconvenienced though? not particularly. not by sam’s doing at least. last night’s actions still dance in his head - a loud tap dance that punctuates just why there really are no good decisions made after 1am.

the moment sam starts heading for the kitchen, however, clint follows. tamed by the promise of food not made by his hand. the arrow shaft twirls in his fingers as he takes a seat at the island. chin resting in a hand. shaft sill spinning idly, methodically. unphased when redwing swoops low overhead to settle on his very own perch above the fridge.

"same look you give yourself in the bathroom mirror after waking up next to me?” the smirk is all that, tease and a very light fondness, if you look just right. there’s a certain comfort clint finds in waking up knowing there’s someone else there. just a shove, yell, or flick of a finger away. “so maaaaaybe we shoulda stopped at the third place. but c’mon.” and the shaft stops, gently poking sam’s arm. smirk brightening. “It was fun. I’m a goddamn joy.”

with that, the shaft is thrown in a neat arc, finding a home in the trash can. “so what’s for breakfast, chef?”

         “i’ve  seen  those  films!  most of  them  at  least.  because  it’s  round  and  shiny.  they  also  think  they  can break  it…”

a bright laugh follows that. “think they’ve never picked up a comic book, right? or seen that discovery special they ran on you. or that history channel program. or the two hour long nova special. which had a GREAT section on the physics behind your shield slinging. you watched that one yet?”

he absolutely refuses to say he is cranky. that would imply a fit for unreasonable purposes. no, he is simply annoyed. you would be too if something with entirely too many eyes decided you looked tasty. (it’s a hard life being a snacc.) he looks up, wiping slime from his eyes, squinting at the smoking man who looks entirely too pleased with himself, magically just out of range of the arch of guts.

“‘Ninety-four percent sure’,” she repeats slowly, incredulity spreading in waves across her face. Really? Really? In spite of the fact that she knows who he is, Pasha’s starting to have doubts. Were the Avengers reckless? Yes. Did they break into an apartment based on borderline unfounded information? Apparently Hawkeye did.

Note to self: Renegotiate this liaisonship posthaste.

“So…what? You thought you’d just break into an unguarded apartment, find some evidence, serve some justice?” She lowers her gun slightly, pacing forward, senses on high alert—just in case. “Ever occur to you that it might’ve been too easy for you to get into this place?”

There’s a brief moment he considers claiming he didn’t hear her, if only because when you put it like that? He might have been a bit rash here. But experience has given him a wealth of tried and true knowledge, and he’s banking on that and the fact the van that has been sitting outside his apartment for the past two weeks led him here.

Though she does have a point, considering the lock on the door hadn’t even been attached to an alarm. He frowns, hands lowering. “I was more hoping it was less ‘planned trap’ and more ‘moment of bad judgement’ but...” Damn it.

A hand goes to his waistband, knives carefully hidden. Fingers drag over a handle as he scans. “Don’t suppose you saw anyone comin’ in, huh? Cause now that I think about it I haven’t a voice since following the van here...” A frown. “Which way did you come in?”