clint "idk the archer or something" barton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brandingproblem) wrote2023-01-10 03:10 pm
brandingproblem) wrote2023-01-10 03:10 pm
open post
overflows, misc psls/memes, starters that don't seem to fit anywhere else, etc
overflows, misc psls/memes, starters that don't seem to fit anywhere else, etc
no subject
Sadly, Phil found he had missed Stark as well. Maybe it was a side-effect of his resurrection. Which Stark and Banner were eagerly studying. He was fairly certain they had taken more of his blood and run more scans on him than all his years as a SHIELD field agent.
Tonight, he was working late. He always worked late. The semi-late night hours were the only time he could work peacefully. Mostly peacefully. There was no way to know when Stark or Banner might have a late night experimentation session. Small explosions and electrical problems were more common here. Fixed faster here than at SHIELD but more common.
Phil had his jacket on the back of his chair. His sleeves rolled up but his tie was still on. Casual dress for Agent Coulson. Soft jazz played in the background as he wrote reports and read through dossiers on potential operations for the Avengers. Being the whole team's handler was a familiar if daunting task.
When he heard the door to his office open he knew it was one of the two people who had unrestricted access to his floor at any time of the day. Even when he wasn't in his office.
He doesn't look up until Clint sits down in the chair in front of his desk and a cold beer also gets set down. Phil saves his work then sits back, studying the beer for a moment and then Clint, one eyebrow raised.
"What's this for?" he asks, a bit curious. Something has brought Clint to his office this late at night. There are plenty of things it could be spread out across the years they've known each other. Phil can wait until Clint wants to tell him.
Besides, the cold beer looks pretty good even though he's never been much of a drinker.
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Clint obviously gets sent out, too. At least some of them are still fully SHIELD agents alongside running with the Avengers. He still manages to get home as often as he can. There's just the added hiccup of some of his missions being a little more intensive and to do with something more than the usual spy faire.
It's working pretty well. Fury's always someone very hard to read, so if he's annoyed at all this, or if he's proud, if he's taking the credit or if this was the plan all along, well, the man's holding his cards so close to his chest they might as well be embedded in the skin. So there's no sabotage, and in spite of the bad blood, it's all working as intended. He's pretty sure Natasha let Fury have it to some extent. Clint hasn't brought it up. Stay under the radar. Get the job done as well as he's physically able. Keep going.
Tonight is quiet. It's never silent, not with several floors of R&D always buzzing somewhere below, but Clint's done his training at the firing range, hit the gym, had a cold shower, and feels...like it's too quiet. Like something's buzzing under his skin, and he knows better than to try and convince some of the lab geeks to go have a night out with him.
So. Beer and Coulson.
They've talked. Sporadically, in stops and starts, in inconsistent chunks. Coulson's the type to also put his head down, not to hide but to push himself through every obstacle. Hasn't asked what the conversations/arguments with the others were like. They're all getting used to the man who was their reason for unity as, well, still being their reason for unity, but by being present and alive. For god only knows how much longer.
Like there's a ticking time bomb in Coulson's chest.
The answers from the sciences bros have been inconclusive, and Clint tries not to let that bother him. It is what it is, and they'll deal with things as they come. He's had to live with Coulson dead before, and he knows he isn't blamed by anyone whose opinion matters. No one here has treated him any different for what happened.
Had even joked that Stark should pour some gold or something special into the Loki-shaped dent in the floor, though that got overridden pretty quickly in the rebuilding and remodeling.
The door opens easily for him. Of course he and Natasha are allowed on Coulson's floor, all the time, anytime. And he tries not to feel bad about the fact that no one's got free roam of Clint's own floor. Not even Nat. Tony's the only one with access codes to everyone, something initially fought but eventually relented for the fact that it's his damn building. Jarvis makes some funny company and otherwise gives them privacy unless asked for or in case of a medical emergency.
So. Beer. Coulson. Coulson's not a big drinker, likes to keep his head clear, but a beer won't kill him. Probably.
"Company. And a break. World's not gonna end if you peel your eyes away from it for ten minutes." Clint kicks his feet up on the desk, sitting at a jaunty angle. "If you don't want it, I'll drink for both of us."
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"Now that you've said it, you've jinxed us." Phil takes the beer and sits back in his chair. No feet on the desk. His lower back can't handle that.
He lets the silence stretch for a moment. They can sit quietly together very well. Phil has patience and he genuinely likes the quiet. There's no air of expectation here. They can drink quietly together or they can talk. Phil's door is open to Clint for many, many reasons. That's one of them.
"Can't sleep?" he asks after those few beats of silence. He takes a sip of beer, swallows and after a moment it doesn't make him dizzy or feel strange. Things that effect his mind, which is already messed up, are an unknown now. He isn't sure what will unlock or what might get twisted.
Nightmares are not uncommon around the tower. All of them from Phil to Steve Rogers have seen terrible things. They've done terrible things. No one sleeps easily every single night in this building. Phil has had some good late night conversations with everyone. He finds Dr. Banner to be a good listener and funnier than most would assume.
But this is Clint. Phil knows some of his nightmares. They share some nightmares given their long history of missions together. It might be one of those shared nightmares.
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Hm. The word date feels loaded. Romantic dinner implies that, but saying romantic dinner date feels bigger and more complicated than just plain romantic dinner.
Set that thought aside for later. The important part here is that apparently something that Phil thinks will get him all hot and bothered is playing dress-up with his favorite agent in hand-picked fabrics made to suit him from an actual tailor and not off the rack. A flirty tailor, no less. It isn't as though Clint's a stranger to measurements and outfits that fit him like a second skin, but his SHIELD uniforms are intended to be practical for his job. That they show off his assets very well is an unintended bonus. And he doesn't pay for them.
And he does own a suit. It's a perfectly suitable suit for more important and fancier occasions. But it's definitely off the rack because that's cheaper, he doesn't have his own go-to normal clothing tailor, and because frankly it just seems like so much work for something he's not going to wear often. But. If Phil wants...
"You're gonna have to restrain yourself," Clint suggests with a smirk, even if he gives the place a dubious once-over. "I'm thinking with ropes, but if you need something sturdier, we can always upgrade to chains."
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"Behave yourself," Phil says with a hint of a smile. "And maybe someone will get restrained later."
He opens the door to the shop and puts a hand on Clint's back to guide him inside. The inside is unassuming as the outside and looks more like a craft store with bolts of fabric stacked neatly and a single sign that pointed towards the dressing rooms.
"Leah?" he calls into the shop. "I brought someone to meet you."
Leah is a woman in her sixties with wildly curly grey hair and coke bottle glasses. She's a little hunched from age but comes around the counter without hesitation, clapping her hands together. "Phillip. Who is this? You've never brought me someone before."
"This is Clint Barton. He wears off the rack," Phil says to throw Clint immediately under the bus of Leah's attention.
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Right up until Phil just casually chucks him under the bus. Normally this is not a thing that Clint would mind! Lots of suits come off racks! There is nothing to be ashamed of! But in front of a bespoke-making little old lady tailor? Leah seems momentarily aghast before then getting excited. The glint in her eye kind of excited.
"Uh," Clint fumbles for a moment, "this is just a--" Gift? God. That sounds really stupid and too intimate. Who does that? Gifts a wholeass suit. Besides Phil, apparently. He closes his mouth, effectively ending that sentence, before trying again, even as he awkwardly goes where Leah eagerly beckons. "It's for a special occasion."
Is it? That seems innocuous enough.
"What kind of occasion?" she asks, unfurling some measuring tape with practiced ease. "Funeral, wedding, red carpet? Different cuts and different colors for different tones."
Uh. Shit. "What do you normally do for Phillip?" Because he has to try it out.
She flaps a hand at him. "He has suits for everything; don't change the subject."
"I'll defer to your judgement, ma'am. And his. He has a much better idea of how this all works than I do." Technically. SHIELD uses a lot of scans and biometrics and shit more often than not these days, but they still have practical people who take measurements and pick fabrics and add stylized details.
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tfln @ hottestofmesses
All the time because you like to hear yourself speak.
You only knew since you think everyone wants a piece of you.
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And you're only proving I'm right. As usual.
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He skates by pretty well between Natasha's help (and helping Natasha), focusing on the job, trying to mesh with this team, trying to save the day. He raids some of Stark's liquor when some of the others escort the problem child of the Odinson family away to share quiet commiseration with Natasha, too. There's the absolute exhaustion that sets in when Stark comms them all to say he's found a shawarma place that's still willing to serve food in spite of the damage. There's falling back somewhere safe and sound for a god damn shower and a change of clothes while people debate what happens to said problem child and the cube, whose jurisdiction does all that fall under, and those are arguments that are over his head and he wants no part of.
Mostly what he wants is to crawl into a deep dark hole for a solid week. He figures he'll come out of that looking worse for wear, but able to get back to work without too much problem. This will not, of course, be allowed. Not by Nat, not by Fury, and definitely not by Coulson.
Coulson who's still in medical under intensive care.
But at least it means he's alive.
No, no hole for Clint. Fury generously gives them all some time to themselves, gather to bid the god and his shitty little brother farewell, get their heads on in a way that resembles straight, and then it's the debriefs. Clint hasn't been looking forward to this part. Technically, he and Nat are the only SHIELD agents, and Rogers is...well, if Clint were feeling not terribly generous, he'd say property, and it means they're the only ones absolutely required to come in and do the whole familiar shebang.
There's a nasty, unavoidable hitch with Clint. Of course. Because agency being stripped away and minds being altered and causing a lot of damage and gathering up a lot of SHIELD's enemies are all things that can't just be neatly swept under the rug. It's questions, and it's tests, and it's questions and tests and questions and tests and he barely keeps track of the days that pass while trying to determine if he's a threat, if there's still some part inside his brain that didn't get shaken loose that's ready to obey a different master, and by the time Coulson can have visitors, he feels like he's been turned inside out, and by the time Coulson's ready to get moved out of a medical room and back to his own bed, he's too ashamed and exhausted and raw.
Even if his own bed feels way too big and empty.
Eventually Natasha, either because she's a good friend like that, or at Coulson's behest, tells him to go see his fucking boyfriend. It's practically an order. Clint says he wants to wait until Coulson is better, and that gets her downright pissed and makes a very nasty threat that has a 50/50 shot of actually happening if he doesn't get his ass up and moving.
Honestly, it's a good way to try and get him going. Instead of stuck in place, circling and circling and circling. She's good at dislodging thoughts like that.
So is Coulson.
The thought of the man gets his chest tight, but Clint gets up, he moves, he ignores any and all looks he gets, uses the freedom he has to go...finally pay a visit. Why does it feel like going to an execution?
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Well, not permanently. He's technically dead for eight seconds during his first surgery. The doctors bring him back though. Phil Coulson has a lot to live form.
The days in a HUB medical facility blur together. Phil loses a lot of time after his surgeries in a drugged stupor. When he's sensible enough to remember what he says and what people say to him he demands to know the condition of his agents. Of Clint. It's easier for him to stay bound in a hospital bed when he knows Clint his alive. The Avengers saved the world. It's good news but the best news is Clint's free and alive.
The knowledge that Clint's waiting for him is enough to make Phil be a good patient. He hates medical almost as much as his favorite agents but he hides it better.
It takes entirely too long to heal enough to be moved back to his own place and then it's depressingly empty.
There are lingering signs of their shared life. Clint's hoodie left on the back of a chair. A second set of hearing aids. But it's clear the man himself as not been here and hasn't been here in quite some time. Of course, he's just as bad as his missing boyfriend.
Phil doesn't call. Doesn't pressure Clint. He hobbles around his apartment, trying to do as much as he can but even getting dressed is a long and arduous battle. Phil keeps the pain on a dull edge with painkillers but he never takes the prescribed amount. He hates falling asleep on the couch.
Fury tells him to stop working but Phil has a tablet and keeps trying to stick his nose in on the recovery, repair, and rebuilding efforts.
Until there's a knock on his door. "One minute," Phil calls because it takes him a long time to get up from the couch. He has to spend a few seconds catching his breath after, pressing a hand against his side.
"Clint." He can't help the pleased relief in his voice when he opens the door. He's reaching for him before he can think better of it and pulls him into a hug.
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He's really thinking about it, too, just jimmying the lock open and saving them both some effort, but Phil makes it to the door and is so--so pleased, so relieved, and already hugging him before Clint can actually process Phil being alive and on the way to well.
So a funny thing happens when you turn traitor even temporarily, and it's that you turn into a pariah and a leper and nobody really wants to do a whole lot of interacting with you until you're cleared. The most touch he's gotten outside of Natasha has been docs running their tests, taking down numbers, poking and prodding and sticking leads on him and prepping him for so many brain scans he wonders if he won't be getting Hulk-y soon enough.
Has he frozen? He might have frozen. He makes himself crack the ice and put his god damn arms around his god damn boyfriend that he hasn't seen since before something poked its fingers into his brain and wrapped around his heart. The man's alive. And even up and about. That's worth celebrating with a hug.
"Hi, Phil." A little strained. Should he be here? Should he just make an excuse to get his things? Shit, no, then that sounds like a breakup...
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Maybe for just a fun night out, he'd set up at the bar for easy refills and potentially roping in other people. But if they're gonna talk, and it sounds like maybe they might end up talking, then being tucked away in a booth is better. Which is what Clint does. He's already turning a beer bottle in his hands by the time he sees the former Winter Soldier come in and waves him down. There's another beer already sitting out for him.
Do not mind the bandage across his nose. Frankly, Clint being at least somewhat injured when he's away from home is a fairly standard sight.
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Of course, there reason he was most keen to do it was on display the second Clint was flagging him down. In front of him was the man that Natalia easily was the closest with since she'd gotten out of the Red Room, hell, she'd given her life for him it had sounded like even. Some longing point in his heart that ached for the past wanted to know more of what she was like, if she was happy, all those things that he'd never gotten to hear about from anyone without it being weird. Hopefully he could coax some out of him as the night went on.
"Hey man," he says sliding across the table and taking the extra beer that's sitting there for him and pulling it up for a drink, "so I gotta ask, this whole Rogers the musical bullshit? Did he actually call you the best shot because I was sniping for him in the fuckin' 40's that jackass."
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"It's cuz I'm the best shot," he says with easy confidence. In knowing that he's right. At least with a bow. "Especially on that team. Wait--" He sets the beer down and squints. "You saw it? Tell me you didn't sit through the whole thing."
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[So.
It's not how he expected his night to go. Had probably expected a text from Steve involving a team exercise; that's fairly routine at this point. Not so much the made-fun-of formal phrasing of the invite, but the intended outcome, sure.
This was not the intended outcome, and he couldn't be happier for it.
And there are a lot of ways this could go. Thankfully, one of Clint Barton's specialties is flexibility. Not that he intends to put every decision at Steve's feet, but he's easy (heh) to work with, would prefer to defer to whatever Steve's comfy with. Is this a thing he's been sitting with for a while? Is it weird, is it awkward? Is this spur of the moment? Because it's definitely not the first time Clint's thought about Steve and the possibilities of things they could get up to, extracurricularly. Might be the first he's thought Steve could feel the same way.
There's a joke in here somewhere, he knows, about sex as a team building exercise. Not sure how much Steve might appreciate it, but there's a lot that ends up surprising him about ye olde icicle.
In spite of/because of the joking about what he may or may not wear at night, Clint is, in fact, dressed. But for a night in. Plain tee, cozy sweats. Funny as it might be to see Steve's face if he opens the door buckass naked with not a hint of shame. Don't think he didn't consider it. He isn't nervous, not really, but he does find himself pacing around the place doing some little acts of cleanup with the sudden bout of anticipatory energy he's got. The kitchen's not a disaster area, the couch looks cozy and fuck-on-able, and the bedroom looks like a place you could bring someone to for a fun time instead of a gremlin cave.
And whether Steve wants to talk things out first or go right for the quickest source of fun, Clint's determined to be ready.]
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Steve has spent more time curating and cultivating his relationships to be a certain way—at arm's length and professional. It's lonely, sure, but it's easier to be the dependable one on the team, someone that others can confide in and trust to do the right thing or make the right call. This whole thing with Clint certainly isn't any of that though. Probably. Not that he would call it a mistake; it's just unusual for him to follow up on being so bold.
And that's how he finds himself at Clint's door, a bag of takeout and beer in one hand while the other hovers halfway to knocking. He's not the kind of person to back down, especially when he's curious to see where this might go, but... they could have talked about this more? Should they? Would that kill this mood that's sort of settled between them? Maybe he should do his best to skip over whatever awkwardness there might be and just go for it. The anticipation is certainly burning through him a lot faster than the nerves, and when he finally knocks, Steve simply stands there and does his best to relax.
His gaze slowly settles over Clint when he opens the door. ]
Hey. [ His smile, though slight, is more than warm enough. ] Glad you decided not to wear the suit.
[ Or answer the door completely naked. It's a thought that lingers there as he steps inside and continues the charade of friends – or coworkers? – just spending a quiet evening together. He knows that isn't the case, and if he's completely honest, they might not even make it to the food first. ]
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Clint grunts a noise of acknowledgement and switches to doomscrolling news. Until Natasha's burning gaze makes him glance over at her.
They have an entire conversation with looks, something that unnerves Bruce a little and absolutely entertains Tony until it annoys him that he's left out of the loop. She's noticed, in fact thinks they have been shockingly obvious. Bruce, not at all engaged with anything that's been going on around him, belatedly speaks up: "I dunno, I think it's okay in here." Without even looking up.
Clint's look-speak indicates that he's pretty sure Nat's the only one who's noticed a thing. And she would. She isn't going to say anything, but if she ever decides it might be effective blackmail material, or just really funny, she might threaten something down the line. (Probably the latter, just to see the look on Tony's face.)
She eventually, with a dramatic eyeroll, unfurls herself from her cross-legged perch atop the bar and ruffles his hair as she goes by. "I'm not covering for any of your bruises," she says lowly in his ear, and he simply grins stupid at her in return.
Ten minutes more or less go by, and it's his turn to utter something noncommittal about probably going to the range if it isn't too hot, does not expect to be called out on it if he's not there anytime soon, and wanders off. He makes a stop at his own place, more decorated than he presumes Steve's is. It's a home away from home, with comforts of his own. There's no real telling what's going to happen (besides a good time), and given that he's pretty sure that Steve doesn't have much of a dating life going on no matter what Nat's tried to suggest to him, he feels like it's a pretty good guess Steve's isn't exactly fully equipped for said good time. But, hey, maybe he is! No judgement. Still gonna tuck a small bottle of lube in a pocket. Checks himself in a mirror, likes what Nat's ruffle has done to his hair, ponders whether he should show up divested of some clothes as well, decides he likes the idea of being unwrapped for show.
He makes his way to Steve's and knocks. Oh, sure, there's little digital doorbells, and little digital keypads, and digital everything. But Steve's oldschool. He'll probably appreciate a good old fashioned knock instead.
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He might have a reason soon, now that he knows that Bucky's not dead, but as much as he's tried to, he hasn't managed to get a lead on where he might be. He's willing to be patient, but he's not willing to live like a saint. The serum had some unexpected side effects and one of those was an increased libido. Since he and Bucky had never been monogamous before - chalk that up to the fact that being queer was simply not accepted back in their day - he doesn't think that a romp here and there with a friend will be a deal breaker.
Especially because he had no idea that Bucky was even alive.
He spends seven of the ten minutes lost in thought, but then he shakes himself out of his funk and gets to work.
First, he makes sure that he has what he needs for whatever they decide to do. He has lube, and condoms even though he doesn't necessarily need them. He folds the spare blanket and sets it on the couch, and finally strips off his pants now that they've decided on a more private venue.
He's debating on making some coffee when there's a knock at the door.
Steve walks over and opens it, grins when he sees Clint standing there. "I guess as the saying goes: coffee, tea, or me?" he jokes.
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What he lacks in subtlety, though, he makes up for in being damned stubborn.
Why is he tracking Clint? Because Clint's a member of his fucking team. Because he cares. Because he's worried, and has more than enough compassion (and intelligence) to know that he has good reason to be. Without Clint having lost his family? Maybe Steve would have left it (and Clint) alone. With them gone, there is not a snowball's chance in hell Steve's going to do that.
He doesn't know what kind of reception he's going to get when he finally tracks Barton down to Mexico. He isn't expecting it to be a warm up - not with the 'tracking him down' part in play, though he knows Clint's not exactly running from him. It doesn't matter in any way that stops him.
It does matter just enough that he makes a point of choosing an outdoor location during daylight hours, making damn sure Clint has seen him on the street and approaching directly from the front. "You're not an easy guy to find."
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He's pretty sure she's the only real reason he's been allowed to do this as long as he has. Because he's good, damned good at disappearing, but she's always been better. Assumes that she's been tracking his movements (at the very least, predicting his next moves) and simply letting him be, keeping anyone from going after him. Or probably at least strongly suggested he be left alone.
In the wake of the devastation, all that was left of the team huddled together in various states of action or inaction in New York, he'd felt so suffocated, like crawling out of his own skin because screaming about it wouldn't have felt like enough. There were five hundred million things to do, and at the very same time, nothing to be done. He had stuck around for as long as he could, but the despondency was too much, and he simply vanished from his room one night.
Nothing has felt right since.
The idea of going back surfaces every once in a while. And that never feels right, either. The pain inside of him always feels fresh, and when he looks around the places he goes to, sees the pain and damage left behind? It's easier to reach for bitterness and anger. The mighty Avengers (and the backing of an entire advanced country) couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. And with half of them gone, what's the point?
Clint doesn't do well without a mission, though. His aimless wanderings to try and keep off the radar only make him restless. And as he moves, he sees the inevitable: the gaping power vacuums being filled, desperate people getting preyed upon, devastated communities ravaged.
And if the Avengers can't, won't do something about it, well.
Steve does the smart thing catching him out in the open like this. Clint's been casing warehouses and the surrounding areas, rooftops, back alleys, easy entrances and exits, places to slip off into the night and disappear, ways to slip in unnoticed, places he can perch and watch from. Trying to sneak up on him wouldn't have been wise, and in the dark or the confines of a building might have been worse.
God. This isn't supposed to happen. Not Steve of all people.
"Yeah, kinda what years in the business does." Didn't disappear well enough, but maybe his activities have drawn enough attention. Clint doesn't bolt, even if part of him wants to. That instinct of having been made, get out before there's trouble. But he doesn't make any approach, watches keenly. "You're not supposed to be here."
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sᴄᴏᴜᴛ sɴɪᴘᴇʀ ʙʀᴏs & ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ
He thinks, briefly, about using it — and then remembers that he has other people that need him, other people he needs. People who aren't answering the damn phone; communications go briefly spotty. The ones he can reach don't give him promising news. He doesn't have time to wait for satellites and phone companies and gaps in service to level out, or to keep trying calls that cannot be completed as dialed. He gets in his van, and he drives.
The homestead is eerily quiet when his van creeps up the rural road. No birds, no animals, no neighbors, no kids in the yard. Nothing. Nothing. It would be enough to make the hair at the back of his neck stand up, if he had any. It feels haunted here, and it's the oppressive air that has him parking a little ways off, strapping up with a handgun in a holster, and quietly walking the last couple hundred yards on foot — in case someone's ransacked the place, in case someone's squatting, in case he needs to do something about it all.
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He'd be forgiven for thinking the place is well and truly abandoned. But there are some sounds of life coming from inside. Someone banging around, could be drawers opening and closing, feet hurrying up stairs and then back down again. Could be a robbery. Could be some unfriendly neighbors helping themselves to the remains of the Barton family homestead.
What happens instead is the moment Frank sets foot on the first porch step, Clint hauls the door open, gun in hand trained right between Frank's eyeballs. His eyes are wide, wild, but his voice is a low growl of warning: "Don't even think about it."
But reality catches up, the who in front of him recognized as friend rather than foe. He blinks, once, twice, mouth falling open but no other sound coming out. His finger flies from the trigger, gun lowered to his side. And all at once, he looks so lost.
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ᴍɪsɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜᴛʜ & ɪᴛ's ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ's ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ
There lies the dumbass himself, sprawled out on his back, chest heaving, nose gushing blood, absolutely spent in the outfield of the shitty public park baseball diamond six or eight blocks from his house. Beside him, the asshole responsible for the aforementioned broken nose lies heaving as well, Frank's pretty sure he popped a black eye in there at least. Now, both of them are utterly out of steam, and he can't actually remember a fight ever ending after he ran out of rage before today.
A few silent, still seconds pass.
"Alright listen," he starts, his voice hoarse and ragged and beat. "How 'bout this. I won't call you a pussy if you don't call me a pussy, and we say it's a draw."
Because... full transparency, he absolutely cannot remember anymore what made him throw that first swing. It seemed like an unforgivable offense some five minutes ago, but the jerkoff kids that had been around at the time have all already scattered, and it's just the two of them left. So. Nobody else to judge.
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He knows he gave as good as he got. He knows from the way he could feel the crack of the asshole's nose under his fist, and from the feral way they went at each other until the ferocity died and the exhaustion started winning.
Barely been in this city for five days, and here he is getting into a beatdown. Is that what a New York hello is like?
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" is the absolutely genius thing he can hear leaving his mouth in response. Huh, funny, he doesn't remember telling his mouth to say his inside thoughts like that.
But a draw's a draw, and so long as this guy doesn't start up again, they can leave it at that. He starts to try and prop himself up on an arm. "Should probably get some ice on that." Oh wow, kid's a horror show right now, huh?
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