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Tweak says, "go team firecrotch!"

Sherlock Holmes (ifimnothungry) wrote in colligo_threads,
@ 2012-09-10 00:18:00

Entry tags:

clint barton, sherlock holmes

WHO: Sherlock Holmes & Clint Barton
WHAT: Coming face to face with his brother's personal assassin wasn't the best way to start a morning, but it was certainly invigorating.
WHEN: September 10th; Morning
WHERE: Joch yn y Tywyllwch
RATING: PG
STATUS: In Progress

Caffeine was one of the few vices of Sherlock's that nobody insisted on depriving him of. In fact, many had often said if it allowed him to survive without the others, that he was more than welcome to indulge just as often as he liked. Coffee, while never his beverage of choice, offered exactly the sort of indulgence that he needed that morning, feeling overly drained from the restrictions placed on them by their holy overlord, particularly the restrictions on being able to see his very real, very lovely live in (well, all right, he lived in with her) girlfriend while they were occupying (presumably) the very same room. He'd left early that morning, intent that the lab was a much better place from him to stay during the day because even if he didn't have any specific work to do, he could still see everyone there. Much like he could see everyone here. Having a limited number of individuals from his reality here did work out in a slightly beneficial way when these sort of things came along, but that didn't mean it didn't bother him to not be able to talk to his brother or see Irene like he wanted to. Even if he couldn't imagine what it must be like for people who has nearly their entire cohort here and were cut off.

Like the man that had just stepped in the door, in fact. Sherlock's attention was drawn across the room as the little bell gave a signaling ding of a new patron. He always moved to inspect them whenever they entered. Morning people were always the most interesting, those ones with that extra bit of determination in their step, and a wash of intentions that the others didn't always carry around. This patron, however, was more familiar than the other locals that wandered into the shop, and while they certainly hadn't met in person, Sherlock knew him more than by reputation.

After all, it wasn't every day that Mycroft put a professional assassin on his payroll.

"Holmes," His name was called by the barista behind the counter, and reaching up to take his cup, reclined against the counter, eyes pinned on the man across the room, sweeping over each details from his clothing and appearance (working out, jogging, most likely) before his eyes paused and lingered on the artificial appendage, his gut knotting for a long moment as he was viscerally reminded of just what and why had caused the archer to come into possession on the limb. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little (well, a lot) responsible. After all, it had been him that Mycroft had been aiming to protect by murdering Moriarty. And instead, this man had taken the brunt of the hit instead.

That thought coupled with the feelings that were steadily becoming more familiar and much easier for him to name caused Sherlock to duck his gaze, eyes dropping to the lid of his coffee cup before he took a long, lingering sip in an attempt to calm his buzzing mind. Not that he could divert his eyes for too long because the archer made for an intriguing puzzle. There was a lot there that Sherlock couldn't quite break just from a swift glance at him in his workout clothes, and yet, he still wanted to know.

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tobeunmade
2012-09-14 06:00 am UTC (link)

It was early, early enough that Canton was still asleep, when Clint went for his morning run. He'd briefly considered waking him, but figured he'd give it a while before he started dragging the other man out of bed at the truly ungodly hours of the morning that were his workout time. He'd just wake him up with sex and coffee when he got back, and then they could share a shower before work. Water conservation was important after all. And wasn't it weird to think of his schedule in terms of another person? Clint wasn't complaining, since Canton had been kind of amazing once they'd finally pulled their heads out of their asses and resolved their sexual tension. It was just new. And different. And kind of nice. Fuck it, he'd get Canton a scone too.

He'd hit the range first, going through his paces there until he was sure his skills hadn't slipped, before he hit the sidewalk for his regular run. He'd figured out the perfect route, taking him around the city and ending up at one of the better coffee shops in the city. From there, he could walk back to his place to cool down. It was a system that worked for him. As he ran, his iPod played the workout mix Tasha had made him as a joke, all Pat Benatar and Bon Jovi and other upbeat songs with shooting puns. He knew she'd meant it to poke fun at him, but he actually enjoyed it. He wasn't sure if it was more because of his love of puns or his love of defying Tasha's expectations.

Stepping into the coffee shop, drawing more than a few interested glances for reasons he couldn't even begin to guess considering he was pretty gross and sweaty after his run, and feeling slightly awkward from the attention, he made his way up to the counter and rattled off an order to the girl there with military speed and precision. One coffee with milk and sugar because Canton was bound to be relaxed after the night before, one caramel hazelnut macchiato because fuck you he was feeling awesome and so what if he had kind of a sweet tooth today, and two blueberry scones because he really was implementing a subconscious reward system where awesome sex was rewarded with baked goods. There was nothing wrong with that.

He'd just finished paying, leaving a more than decent tip in the jar because he remembered working shitty jobs to make ends meet and he knew how hard it could be, when he heard a familiar name called. He'd spotted Sherlock, of course, when he first came in, having taken in everyone in the small shop and categorizing them based on threat-level. Still, he hadn't expected to be in a position where talking to the guy would probably be required. It was awkward being around him, considering the guy's hate-on for Moriarty. He could only imagine that his very presence was like some weird manifestation of failure for Sherlock. It made him feel itchy. And it wasn't much better on his end, because thinking about Sherlock made him think about Moriarty, and that, in turn, made him think about hanging from his arms in a warehouse and getting ripped apart by a sadistic demon. Not exactly fun times.

"Barton." The sound of his name pulled him from his musings, and he gathered his order, shooting a look at the other man. "So, bossman's brother," he said casually, "feel up to giving me a hand?" Because how better to break the ice than terrible puns about the thing making them both uncomfortable.

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ifimnothungry
2012-09-17 09:41 pm UTC (link)

Sherlock had rather long ago developed an aversion to being referred to, in any way, shape, or form, as Mycroft's brother. He much preferred it when Mycroft was the one falling back into shadow, having to tolerate being overshown by his baby brother's performance, and as that seemed to suit Mycroft just as well, it was a balance that had set the two of them rather at ease. Of course, it wasn't as though Barton would have a reason to be able to recall his name right off, so Sherlock could forgive him. Granted, he hadn't expected to be called out at all, so the fact that he had been unbalanced him just a little. Shifting his attention back to Barton, the briefest pause there to recover himself barely noticeable to most eyes (of course, this man was trained to observe so Sherlock couldn't assume that he would miss anything), and extended a hand to take something out of the order that Clint had gathered to make it simpler for him to carry.

"Sherlock," Sherlock said, a certain emphasis in his voice. "Just call me Sherlock, if you will... Clint, yes?" Not that Sherlock really needed the clarification, but it apparently put people more at ease when introducing yourself if you didn't already know everything about them. Of course, putting people at ease was rarely Sherlock's style, but he figured he could make an exception in this case. Even if, as his gaze shifted over the order, he was tempted to make it relatively awkward again.

"She must be tolerant," He said, glancing back up at Clint with a hint of a smile. "To not mind you going out so early in the morning, but I suppose when it comes with the promise of pastries..."

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tobeunmade
2012-09-18 03:19 am UTC (link)

"Right," Clint said with a decisive nod. "Sherlock. Got it. And it's Clint...yeah." He more than understood how frustrating it could be, growing up with an older brother everyone knew. He'd always been Barney's brother in the orphanages and the few foster homes they'd lived in before invariably being sent back. In the circus, things had shifted, and suddenly Barney had become Clint's brother and Hawkeye's brother. Sometimes Clint thought that maybe that was when things between them had fractured, when his world had stopped revolving around his brother. All those years, in different places and on the street, he'd always relied on Barney and, because of that, had done whatever his brother wanted. In the circus and after, he had missed the way Barney had come to resent him and, eventually, to hate him until it was too late. Until his brother had abandoned him, broken and devastated, in that hospital after Swordsman's betrayal. Until Barney had ended up on the other side of his arrows when he was stupid enough to trust Trickshot. Until he had his brother's blood on his hands. So, yes, he completely understood the complexity of brotherly relationships.

But he didn't say any of that. He didn't know the guy and any attempts to empathize with him would have just made things really awkward. Besides, he wasn't exactly good at all that feelings crap. He was more the type to flail internally at any situation that required a shred of emotional intelligence. Canton was helping him come to terms with his own feelings, but that was the exception rather than the rule. Instead he just shrugged. "Mycroft and Sherlock," he said thoughtfully, "what the fuck did your parents think you guys were gonna do one day that they punished you in advance?" He gave a small smile as Sherlock actually moved to help him. "Thanks."

He almost laughed at Sherlock's words, but managed to hold in the reaction. It was an easy mistake to make, and he had to grin a little at stumping the man in such a small way. "Yes," he said drly, his lips quirking in a small, amused smile. "He is."

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ifimnothungry
2012-09-18 04:11 am UTC (link)

"It could have been Sherrinford," Sherlock said with a bit of a laugh at the question. Not that it was like he hadn't heard it before and rather frequently, particularly as a boy, when he introduced himself to a room full of Mikes, Marks, and Toms. "I am just counting myself lucky that Mummy didn't pick something worse," He said with a bit of a pause as Clint answered his other question.

Sherlock's features didn't really change much beyond a slight edge of irritation. It really was always something that simple that he screwed up. With all of the obvious signs there, both in body language and the size of the morning order that Clint had placed, a long enjoyable night followed by a morning run and then back home to the person he'd left behind had seemed all rather obvious. But gender. The blasted gender.

"It wouldn't be the first time I've made that mistake. And I doubt it is going to be the last. I swear, next time I'm assuming the same sex just to be spiteful of the odds."

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tobeunmade
2012-09-18 04:24 am UTC (link)

"You're right," Clint said, giving a snort of amusement. "That would be much worse. Not that I have much room to talk. Clinton Francis Barton isn't exactly the best name to have if you don't want to get your ass kicked." He'd learned to go by Clint at a young age, and to avoid mentioning his middle name if at all possible. The other boys in the children's homes hadn't exactly been the most compassionate individuals, made hard way too young by the lives they lived. He couldn't really blame them. He'd been pretty much the same for a while there.

"It happens," he said with a shrug. "People tend to assume the more 'obvious' answer. Hell, he spent a good month convinced I wouldn't be interested because he assumed I was strictly heterosexual. Guessing the wrong gender based on a coffee order isn't exactly the worst mistake a guy can make." Picking up the macchiato, he took a long sip and gave a pleased hum, not commenting on the fact that he was fairly sure Sherlock had thought the coffee was for him and the more stereotypically feminine drink was for his significant other, even after finding out said other was a man. Because he was overtly masculine and people assumed what seemed most obvious. Even genius detectives.

Glancing around the room for a topic of conversation, his eyes took in several things of interest. He wasn't called Hawkeye just because he made impossible shots. He was observant, and there was a lot to observe this morning. "Oh that's awkward," he said, gesturing slightly with his head at a couple in the corner. "They've just started sleeping together. She thinks it's going well, he's already looking for a way out. He wants to break it to her in public, because he thinks it'll avoid a scene, but he's going to have her latte in his lap in two minutes, give or take."

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ifimnothungry
2012-09-18 04:59 am UTC (link)

There was a strong look of 'impressed' in Sherlock's eyes as he glanced back over his shoulder at the couple. He'd stopped the tension in the man on his first pass through, figured that it was relationship related, but he hadn't focused too much on them after that. But now that he was, he could see each of the little signs. He'd heard that Clint was observant, but he had figured that meant just as observant as a weapon hand needed to be. Sherlock really should have known better than to assume that his brother would hire a lethal weapon without strong controlling facilities on the other end. "He really should have known better. All public does is invite an audience," Sherlock said, sipping his own coffee before turning his gaze back to Clint with a hint of a smile.

"And is rather more a pattern with me. Sometimes the simplest solution isn't always the right one," Sherlock said with a bit of a shrug. "But when you go with the long odds, especially with the easy stuff, it's much more likely to be wrong." After all, when one only has so many facts to go on, you just have to rely own tradition and behavior patterns to fill in the gaps. It was too bad that those were harder to track nowadays than they used to be.

"And... Francis?" Sherlock repeated after a moment, giving Clint a long long before grinning. "I suppose you're lucky that middle names aren't used much day to day."

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tobeunmade
2012-09-18 05:49 am UTC (link)

"Exactly," Clint said, his eyes still on the couple, nodding at the turn the conversation was taking and how the woman was starting to look more and more distressed as the man spoke. "It's obvious that girl's the dramatic type. It was just poor planning on his part. Not that there's any way he could have got out of it clean." He tilted his head. "He was drunk. She thought it really meant something. He's actually interested in her...friend, I think. Maybe her sister. This, children, is why you should never drink too much. You end up in bed with a crazy person." It was sort of nice, being able to just talk like this and not have the other person roll their eyes or look at him funny. Not that Canton would have done either. He was pretty sure he'd have been dragged out of the shop, or possibly to the restroom, to make out if it was Canton. The whole competence attraction seemed to go both ways with them. He definitely wasn't complaining about that.

"I get that," Clint said. "My problem is less...that, and more...I'm terrible when it comes to people I actually know most of the time. I..." he paused before he went with his default explanation. "I see better from a distance, I guess you could say. It's easier when there's a level of emotional detachment. It helps keep things objective." He shrugged. "Strangers though," he paused as the girl dumped her drink on the guy right on schedule. "They're easy, most of the time." He nodded his head toward another woman. "She just found out she's pregnant. She's a regular here, always drinks espresso. Very high strung. She's drinking tea today. She's convinced coffee would be bad for the baby and...like I said...high strung. She's going to go all out on that. The caffeine withdrawal won't be pretty." He grinned. "And that girl on the wall thinks your skinny, awkward hipster look is hot. She keeps licking her lips whenever you look her direction."

He stopped. "Clinton really wasn't much better," he said with a shrug. "I'm from Iowa...it wasn't exactly...I guess it was a family name. Or something? I'm not sure. I was pretty young when my parents died. Never exactly thought to ask them, and then they weren't there to ask." He looked down at the coffee. "I should probably get going before this gets cold. He probably won't be thrilled with cold coffee." He paused. "If you're going the same way, I wouldn't say no to company on the walk."

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ifimnothungry
2012-09-24 01:38 am UTC (link)

Sherlock traced his own gaze about the crowd, lingering briefly on the one that Clint had pointed out as finding his looking appealing and being momentarily alarmed that he'd missed such obvious displays. Especially as it seemed to only worsen now that his gaze had lingered for more than a moment. Ducking his head and clearing his throat, Sherlock turned back to Clint before offering him an expression that was unusually understanding for him, "Concern for someone's well being does complicate matters," He said, thinking back on the times where he'd pointed out the plainly obvious to Molly or Lestrade in hopes of helping them affect some necessary change in their lives only to be shut down. Sometimes people didn't want to hear the truth, no matter how much they needed to. "Though, it has always made reading someone easier for me." Just more painful when the revelations garnered were not particularly positive.

"I do suppose Americans have different standards of naming. Clinton could easily fit you in with the Eaton crowd back home," Sherlock said, not really sure how or if he should comment on the information about the parents. In the end, he figured glossing over it would likely be best. "I would say family name is a decent enough assumption. Unless they were training you up to be one of the Oxbridge boys."

Sherlock paused when Clint said that he needed to get back, mentally going over the Colligo road map in his mind before giving the other man a nod, "I can get there from that direction. If you're sure that you wouldn't mind." Someone unfamiliar being willing to talk to him was still a sensation that Sherlock was adapting to. Though, it was getting easier now that he'd been here long enough to actually start making friends.

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