Who: Scott and Clint What: Babysitting II: Electric Boogaloo Where: Scott's apartment for a change. When: After these texts.
There was glass everywhere. He'd been aware of it, vaguely - of it glinting in the red glow of the living room's overhead lighting, clinking as he moved the cushions around on his couch to look for his phone, the small pieces that had embedded themselves in his socked feet - but it wasn't until the promise of company that he actually stopped to examine how much of it there was. The glass top coffee table couldn't have been that big. Scott eyed the empty wooden frame, considering, and ultimately decided he didn't care. The more pressing problem was that Clint was going to be here soon, probably expecting to feel things at him.
Maybe he ought to clean up. Or maybe he ought to just leave it - the glass was mostly confined to the living room, anyway, and there was no reason to go in there now that the television was out of commission. Hell, maybe he'd even manage to convince Clint to just drop off the booze and go, and it wouldn't be a problem at all.
The latter seemed like a solid enough plan. He was still drunk enough that it didn't feel too inconsiderate to turn down the opportunity to commiserate.
Because Scott wasn't thrilled at the prospect, admittedly. He was drawing ever closer to sober, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was something messy like feelings - he'd had his fair share of those in the last forty-eight hours. Piling Clint's on top of them was unappealing at best. He'd probably want to do all that hugging and reassuring shoulder clasping and.. no, Scott was really hoping to avoid all of that unpleasantness. He just wanted to smoke a few cigarettes and hash out how he might steal a teenager from her dorm room. By himself. Was that really so much to ask?
The knock at the door was his answer. Scott hauled himself to his feet - when had he sat down again? - and shuffled toward the door. The momentum of opening it brought his shoulder into the door frame, heavily, and Scott remained leaning against it almost casually, like he'd meant to do it. The door drifted open before he thought to pull it in close to his hip, blocking Clint's view of the inside. "Thanks." He took the bag with a poorly-bandaged, still-bloodied hand, and quickly went to root around for what would hopefully be a pack of cigarettes. "How much did it run you? I'll will you the total, it'll be funny."