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.
 

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[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."