fake!mm for nick-kolya

[hasthehighground]

Clint's sitting in one of the worn, overstuffed leather armchairs by the fire tonight instead of the rafters because... well, because he's over forty, so fuck you he totally ranks seniority over most of the kids in this bar. He has earned this armchair.

His feet are propped up on the coffee table, and he's currently paused from his reading to eye the empty sofa speculatively. He's pretty sure he could get away with borrowing one of those throw pillows. But... moving.
 

Comments

[made_a_name]

The sofa gets claimed.

Sorry, Clint, but it was there. Except the guy who drops onto it isn't sorry at all.

Don't ask what is outside his door. There is mud involved, splatters up his jeans from his hiking boots (well-made, well-worn). Leather jacket, longish red hair, three-day stubble (no weapons); he looks weary, does the man who claims the sofa.

Despite being neither tall nor particularly large (under his clothes he is dancer-lean, his movements balanced but Not Dangerous), he manages to claim whole sofa much like a cat would.

He has, he would say, fucking earned this sofa.

[hasthehighground]

Clint mouth briefly tightens in petty disappointment, but his expression clears on observing the new occupant.

Huh.

"You," he says, raising his voice and eyebrows slightly, settling back slightly in his chair, "look like a man in deathly need of coffee. Tea. Hot caffiene."

His waitrat's going to be back any minute to check on him, anyway.

[made_a_name]

Tea, black with strawberry jam and-

"Coffee," Kolya says, passing a hand over his face before opening his eyes and looking over. They are a perfectly normal shade of green, the kind that also look blue or hazel depending on the lighting.

"Insert quotes about selling souls and horses and kingdoms for want of a decent cup of damn coffee here." He's so tired, it's almost like being drunk. Or high.

[hasthehighground]

"Pretty sure they don't run that price-y here," he says, mildly entertained.

Oh hey, look, a rat. Not his, but whatever. Clint gestures for two more coffees and hands his empty mug off.

"One of the few places in the world not overrun by Starbucks? I'd be jealous, but it doesn't sound like a vacation spot."

[made_a_name]

"Work in the middle of rural nowhere," he says, sitting up slightly. "'Sides, Starbucks has sold their soul for global domination, they just forgot to also ask for good coffee."

[hasthehighground]

"I'm a heathen," Clint admits easily. "I'll drink any coffee you put in front of me, if it's strong enough.

"Not tea, though. My wife has standards." He breathes a laugh. "What sort of work're you doing? I'm in cities for the foreseeable future, assuming I don't suffocate from paperwork."

[made_a_name]

"Project management," and then he grins, easy and open like good old Nick would. "I know a little of paperwork."

[hasthehighground]

Clint's eyebrow quirks slightly as he realizes: con artist. There's a certain level of trustworthiness that to an ex-carnie reads either con artist or Captain America, and unfortunately Clint's met the latter.

"It's not secretly the love of your life, is it?" he asks, as the coffee comes back. He accepts his mug. "Because I might piss you off, if it is."

[made_a_name]

Kolya is not so tired that he doesn't notice the way the American isn't quite as casual any more, and mentally he kicks himself.

Well done, Kolka, just use the sledgehammer there

He snorts. "Fuck no. But you know what the bosses are like."

[hasthehighground]

Clint tips his head in the universal gesture for you said it, not me (except he clearly agrees).

He takes a sip of coffee.

"Clint Barton, by the way. California, 2013."

Forgive him if he's taking Earth for granted, with the mockery of Starbucks.

[made_a_name]

"Nick Romanoff, currently travelling, but likewise." It's all said easily enough, but 'Barton' and 'California' and '2012' make him look at Clint's face a bit more closer.

The man, had, after all, seemed familiar.

[hasthehighground]

... this again?

Clint laughs, straightening in his chair. "Well, knowing this place... If your boss is a terrifying person with an eyepatch, we might already know each other. Sort of. In the weird, sci-fi sense."

[made_a_name]

Kolya has a coffee cup in his hands, and it really shouldn't be threatening. And it's not. Not really. But there is a hint of suspicion now, a loose stillness coming from a man just a little too tired to be as subtle as he could be.

"Yeah? What kind of weird sci-fi sense?" He's smiling a little, and it's mostly just bemused and curious.

[hasthehighground]

Clint should feel more on edge than he does; Romanoff in any body is a threat. (But Romanoff is smart, and they're in public in Milliways. He's safe, as long as he stays in the chair.)

"People come here from worlds that are really only a tiny bit different? I've met other versions of myself a couple times, and uh -- someone I'm not a fan of. One of me was a woman, and my wife encountered her during a really hard to fake time I went through last year, so ...," Clint shrugs.

"My wife's the," he makes a small gesture with his fingers towards Nikolai, and grimaces apologetically. "Con artist Romanoff I know."

[made_a_name]

He's silent for a moment, sipping his (much needed) coffee.

"Fond of archery, are you?" he asks at last, expression and tone neutral with the lack of persona-emotion.

[hasthehighground]

"Eh," Clint says, making an amused face. (It might as well be subtitled hey, look, Romanoff, I am relaxed!, which would work a lot better if Nick was his Romanoff.) "I've been known to dabble."

[made_a_name]

"Dabble is it," he says, bland now spiced with dry. "With those shoulders?"

[hasthehighground]

"You'd be surprised how many people can explain it away with genetics and weekends at the gym." Clint smiles, with a half-shrug of what can you do. "I'm not sure fond's the right word for how I feel about archery, but ... you know, it's a constant."

[made_a_name]

Beat.

Beat.

Sip of coffee.

"My wife's the same," Nick says at last.

[hasthehighground]

"I was hoping not your husband, because it'd be insulting if the universe decided to change up this," he points a finger towards his face, and turns it in a circle "on me."

Clint's tone is easy, but his gaze a bit more serious. He knew from the start that Nick was exhausted, but with the number of tells he's been dropping -- even if they're small enough most people wouldn't pick up on them -- speaks to a level of tired that's frankly worrisome coming in from what's presumably a mission.

[made_a_name]

There is a grin, small and more sly than inviting. It's far more genuinely him than the openness he pretends.

"I wouldn't worry. You've both even got the same nose."

[hasthehighground]

"Good," Clint says, laughing. "Surprised you didn't realize right off, then.

"I'd probably peg you and Natasha for first cousins, if I had to guess a relation."