so I am just curious, Kate says (she has not spoken in an hour, not that this is unusual, hawkeyes believe in the companionable silence of the First Caffeine of the Day)
is it always like this. bullshit and bruises
–bullet holes– (Clint’s leg really hurts)
and magic, and bullshit,
—that was bullshit twice—
just in general a life for which there is never and will never be enough fucking coffee the morning after?
pretty much, Clint says
… well right on then. we are out of coffee.
—bullet hole, Clint says. stairs. (Clint is not in the mood for stairs. stairs are not much fun with four good legs, they’re just plain fuckery with two good, one dodgy and one with a bullet hole.) Simone?
This month we have two bags of limited edition Nocking Point coffee by Stephen Amell of Arrow, the first five issues of the newest Hawkeye comic series, a “Make your own arrows” kit for the most archeryish holiday and a Robin Hood decal.
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The contest will end the morning of the 6th. Good luck!
(The one where @nourgelitnius prompts: Clint/Kate, Brooklyn nine-nine AU.)
“Why are you here?”
“A long, long time ago my mother made a mistake and married my father. Then the magic happened,” Kate rolls her eyes. “Captain Fury sent me. You know, to make sure the dog isn’t feasting on your bloated corpse. I’m awesome like that.”
“No talkie before coffee, Girly girl,” Clint says rubbing the back of his head. He’s shirtless of course, wearing unbuttoned jeans that had definitely seen better decades and…
“Are you wearing women’s underwear, Detective?”
“Purple,” Clint mumbles. he wrestled with the coffee pot, face disappearing into the pot as he gulps it down, absently reaching down to rub Lucky’s ears.
It gives Kate a moment to indulge in her favorite pastime, counting the scrapes and bruises on his skin. The freckles on his shoulders and the happy trail of dark blonde hair get double bonus points. Bandages are scattered on hip, ribs, shoulder, and forearms. The Stark case ended badly, more so for Clint than the perp he was chasing down.
It’s not that Kate hadn’t thought about climbing Clint like a tree (hello, abs), but they had the whole mentor/mentee thing going. The dude had skills. He was actually a pretty good detective, unfortunately he was fucking terrible at life. Like really fucking pathetic.
“What?” she says.
“S'too early for you to objectify me.”
“It’s ten past nine, old man,” Kate says. She glances down at her phone and taps on an app to open it.
“So is there, like, an allotted time for the objectification of shirtless men? Do I have to book an appointment?”
“What did I say?”
“That I’m the better detective.”
“What? You’re not even a detective.”
“Exactly,” Kate nods lining up three pink cupcakes on her phone. Kwazy Cupcakes was so made for her. Captain Fury should thank her. With a raise and a second lunch hour.
“It’s too early for words.”
“But not too early for you to be a loser.”
“Bite me, Bishop.”
“I would, but I don’t really want to get another rabies shot.”
Clint flips her the bird.
Clint’s ass barely had time to sink into his chair before the hairs on his arms raise and a chill settles into his gut. The chill might just be the Chinese food from the back of the fridge he had for breakfast. It might have been slightly fizzy sweet and sour chicken, but was more likely Captain Fury frowning at him.
“Oh, hey, Captain,” Clint says, plastering a smile on his face. He slides his hand up to straighten his tie. The tie was a purple chevron pattern, it brought out the color in his bruises.
“You’re late, Barton,” Fury says.
“Yeah, but only by six minutes. Six minutes is nothing, like a fraction of nothing. Rogers isn’t even here yet, or Kate,” Clint says. He knocks a pen off his desk and watched as it rolls to a stop at Fury’s gleaming shoes. Aw, pen, no.
“Detective Rogers has a doctor’s appointment to attend this morning with his pregnant wife,” Fury says. He shuffles through the stack of files in his hand. “As for Ms Bishop has a dance rehearsal, something to do with destroying the Cherry STEM Chicks at the next dance-off.”
“Those girls are vicious.”
“Indeed. Now, tell me where you are at with the Selvig street burglary?”
“You have a new lead?”
“Yes. Sort of,” Clint says. He scans the desks around him looking for an escape that wasn’t there. Romanoff and Hill stand by the coffee machine arguing over God knows what. Probably names for Rogers twins-to-be. Barnes is hovering around Romanoff’s orbit, like some broken satellite with only one working arm. Did satellites even have arms?
There’s a twinge of guilt there, at the cast on Barnes’ arm, but only a little one.
“No leads, no suspects, what do you have Detective Barton?”
“An amazing smile, and a drawer full of snacks,” Clint says. He offers up a bright smile, one to put Sarge’s or Wilson’s smiles to shame. Fury does not smile back.
“I want something on this case by the end of the day, Detective,” Fury says dropping a thick file on Clint’s desk. A cloud of Dorito dust wafts up and something with multiple legs scrambles across the coffee stained keyboard.
“I can do that,” Clint nods. He waves a finger at the inky spider wobbling off the keyboard. The poor thing only had five legs. “I’m gonna call you Archibald. You lost your legs in the great Cruller Battle of last Thursday. Your wife thinks you’re dead and is carrying on an affair with Sylvester the Cockroach that lives in the men’s room.”