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Day 17
Clint slept hard when he finally slept. After his minor freakout and deciding to feed himself and therefore fix his stomach issues, it really is too bad JP missed his express confusion and resulting revelation that he had /just missed the guy/ thanks to the wing sing left overs.
Maybe it's better that way.
Clint slept on the new couch that night. He could smell again, so the smell of expensive leather was nice. Nice enough that when he jerked off later that evening, he made special care not to make a mess of it.
Evening all aside, he was pumped and ready to go the following day. Like he packed a lunch the following day, that's how pumped he was. With his Yogi Bear lunch box and everything—because people seemed to steal things less often in kids lunch boxes and because…Yogi Bear. Duh.
Thermos full of coffee and douchebag sunglasses on, he set out for M.T. It was the smartest place to gather intel after all. The guy was a mutant. He found him at the eight ball, earlier. How many normie-looking dead sexy cajunsaside from Remycould there be in M.T.? At least he'd gotten the guy's name this time.
Clint traveled his way to the slum neighborhood and started off where he knew the trail was cold, but existed: the eight ball. Not as cold as Three-Eyed—er, Atomic, but it'd do. Saddling up to the bar with his happy little tin lunch box, Barton ordered a couple of drinks to make the bartender and bouncers happy, tipped well, and asked around about a guy named JP. Has a brother. Saw them here shooting darts with one of the D'angelis kids, dunno which one, Italian families bred like nuts, especially crooked ones. Clint knew Vitale's face, but not his first name. Just that he was part of that crew from a former intel block that turned into nothing for SHIELD, but for a troublemaking agent who enjoyed sleeping with men sometimes and didn't like bullies? Yeah. He kept note of the mob families as a pet project.
It was always a different story.
He needed to find JP because Clint owed him money. Because Clint heard he was in town and wanted to catch up. Clint was working on getting a part in for JP's car, or some other bit of news. Never that JP owed him anything. People were more likely to give you bad intel to throw you off the scent if that were the case. Mutants generally had each others backs that way.
He /could/ tail the D'angelis kid, but what was the challenge there?
He was rerouted down toward a shop by the tenement, then off toward the grocer for someone who knew someone who said they heard JP got a new place, but didn't know where, but someone over here heard something about it.
Pieces formed up while Barton asked around. Slivers of the whole picture. Yeah, he hung around with the mob kid, who was friends with his brother and also slummed it on Thursdays with the winged kid who plays at atomic over at this bagel joint on the east side. Speaking of the east side, somehow this Jewish kid was involved. He fixed toasters or something over at that Mexican dude, Rosario's, place.
Sometimes nosy cat ladies were the best. Nosy women and old men who sat in front of shops all day were an amazing source of information, and loved to talk.
His lunchbox was empty now, and thermos dangerously low, so he got a top off at a diner for a buck and headed toward the address where supposedly his guy camped out at. Something was going on there, but he wasn't sure just what. The details were still covered in a fog of war. So instead of actually breaking in to a place he wasn't certain on, it was time to make camp. New York was great for that. Alleyways and high buildings made for great scouting.
Barton walked down the street on the far side to scope the spot out; collar up, shades on, lunchbox dangling as he discretely took the cross street. The building…was really pretty unimpressive. Which was sorta the point, one might suppose. No car in front. Huh. Well, okay. He could wait it out.
grmble
He could wait it out, but first he needed provisions. Mmm. Provisions. Like the cafe down the road. That pie looked amazing.
DAY 17 - The Hunt Begins
Eight Ball wasn't a total bust. Authorities know JP spends near all his free time there. What was almost barely a footnote was that one of the darts had blue smudges on them. Iiiiinteresting. Not surprising but always an interesting find.
Day 17- Late Afternoon
JP slept in. The truth was with the rain on and off he was going to have to fix that leak. When he finally woke up in the couch, under the blanket, and more importantly under the plastic tarp of visqueen he noticed something unsavory. Puddles.
There was water collected on the tarp. Now how to move that to get up to take a piss and not get water everywhere? Yeah that was going to be the challenge.
"Note to self. Sleep hugging a bucket." He sighed and carefully gathered teh crinkle plastic sheet in such a way he could baby-dishwater this thing and dump the runoff water out the window.
There was a sideways crab walk carefully balancing the awkward bundle with all of the rainwater collected precariously. he reckoned this is what maids of honour had to go through and solemnly vowed he prolly wasn't ever going to get married in the foreseeable future to spare some poor gal this pain. Ugh. Now. The window, "Ummm…. right." Carefully on one foot the half-dressed bayou bad ass balanced on one foot and tried to reach out with the other to ju…work… his toe …through the… hole… in this sock…there! He poked the window with his big toe and bonded to it taking the moment to un-do his new latch and streeeeetch like a yawn making the window a gaping hole. and
SPLOOSH!
Out the fire escape down to… ah well. Living above the garage meant no neighbours below you.
"There." That was satisfying. Though now that he really thought about it he could have nudged that with his elbow. Well… damn. But he was able to do it the hard way which he totally gave himself double points for.
Dark brown eyes drift out the window. He lost contact with the main event yesterday but he had enough to know he did well. Still. shit was what it was, and if he wasn't industrious enough, what very little he owned would all be soggy in two days time.
Right, off it was to hunt caulking, a caulking gun (both of which he was certain Elmo could leverage for him), and some provisions to fix that skylight. His nose wrinkled. It was supposed to be warm and humid by now. It was in Louisiana. Here it was still cold and still dry.
The crisp afternoon air filled his lungs and he dug clothes out of his duffel bag. "Sev," He called out pulling a clean shirt over his frame. "Sev, I'm headin out t'get some stuff t'fix that window. You see that possum runnin round here tell em that half a bagel is mine." Because negotiating with marsupials has slowly become something they were doing now. "i'll leave the keys for you if you need em." Because what did JP need fucking car keys, or any keys for ever?
Well, he needed keys for when he wanted to hold on to Clint's window latch to watch the chaos he made unfold. But Barton didn't know that. In fact, Barton knew very little. Barton was sitting on one of the buildings a block and a half down, watching the garage through a tiny spy scope he brought that fit nicely into his pocket. Never leave home without it. Sipping on a thermos of coffee. Hanging out with a couple of distressed pigeons wondering who the new guy was, and if he had any food.
Lookie, lookie. JP, you tall drink of sexy.
Clint watched a familiar car and a familiar driver pull out of the garage and hang a louie. He hadn't seen a lot of movement, and a quick look inside the windows didn't seem like anyone else was in. No tricks. No roommates. At least none he saw yet. The building seemed small, too. A single apartment over …
…what the hell was going on downstairs?
That's your cue, Barton.
Clint stood up, grabbing his thermos and his tin lunch box, flipping the lid down and startling one of the birds into angry coos and strutting around like he owned the place. Show off.
Tromping down the fire escape wasn't the sneakiest thing he'd ever done, but who was he hiding from? Just the guy driving down the streets of New York. Seemed plenty safe. And honestly, acting like you weren't sneaking was the most effective way to sneak, anyway. Stomping down the ringing metal until he hit the pavement a block and a half away in an alleyway, Clint paused when something caught his eye.
Well.
Nose.
He did owe JP for the Wing Sing…hmmm.
***
Twenty minutes later he walked across the street with his Yogi Bear in one hand and a piping hot pizza balanced on the other. All the way up to the front door.
It was only breaking and entering if you broke stuff, right?
His favorite bump ket in hand, Clint balanced his lunch box on the pizza and bumped, shimmied and shook the key home and gave it a twist. The tinny clatter of his lunch box falling off the box following.
"Aw, Yogi. No." Clint mumbled with a shove of the door open into…what the fuck is this place? It sorta looked like a garage or warehouse…maybe. But damn ill equipped. Huh. Peering inside, Clint craned his neck and arched an eyebrow. "This isn't weird at all…"
Picking up his lunchbox, keys vanished into his pocket again, nudging the door shut behind him with one foot, still peering around cautiously. Weird. He took it back. It was weird. But the living quarters were definitely upstairs, so maybe that'd make more sense!
Inside
The garage has 2 lifts in the floor and their state of being was up for question but one imagined they worked. The space was open and there stood a tall red tool chest along one wall and a workbench and drop sink along the side. Hard to place what the intent might be but two metal roll up doors was pretty nice.
There was also another so one of the bays had a pull through to an alley? Something? There was a dart board hanging on the door to teh washroom down there and something that might be an office or a closet. Damned weird.
Notably, Clint wasn't wrong. The door he came through was opposite the concrete and metal stairs that went up to some second floor. Inside there…well that was just going to be a different sort of odd.
And here Clint thought he lacked furniture.
Both residence did have something in common though: Clint's 2 arm chairs.
Seems the loft had a kitchen, empty but functional, with repaired cabinets with mismatched pulls, a pool table that stood in the middle of everything that needed to be refelted likely but had plywood and tools on it that it was serving as an upstairs workbench in the empty studio space. And also yes CLint's 2 arm chairs under the blanket JP owned and the sheet plastic protecting it from the ever drippy skylights from when it rained. But hey, who didn't want roof access right in teh main area.
Aside from that the fridge had a couple beers, a jar of olives, and butter.
To be more fair ti looked like 2 walls got framed in and got drywall finished on them. No doorway complete though. That would take better wood.
"Well," Clint began as he looked around the garage. "He's either got a garage, or a really keen place to kill people." A duck of his head into the washroom and the office and/or closet, he did smile when he saw the dart board. Looking for that faded blue smearing on the spine same as the one at the bar.
Stomping up the metal stairs to the second floor, Barton made himself at home with a funny chuckle as he spotted his arm chairs under the blanket and plastic, reaching to peer under it with a pluck of his fingers. "At least you two didn't run off with Bob, huh? You decide you liked him better?" The blond set his pizza and lunchbox down and looked up at the skylight.
"Huh."
Well, that sucked.
Whipping the wet plastic back, he dropped into one of the 'bed configured' armchairs and sighed blissfully as his head dropped back. Taking a load off for a moment, his attention cued in on the ceiling, examining the trouble there when a stray droplet from the night before divebombed and fell on the bridge of his nose.
"Huh."
Letting it sit there, Clint closed his eyes and pulled a corner of the blanket around his waist. It was cold, but the place just smelled like the guy. The chairs did. The blanket. "You silly bastard. You sleepin' here?" Clint mumbled and stretched, looking around the rest of the room.
The mismatched cabinets and pulls, the walls without the doors, the floor, the—huh.
Barton stood up and pulled the plastic back over the chairs to walk over and examine the work bench/pool table. "Aw pool table…no," he half way cringed and sighed at the felt. A good look at the workbench as well, because you can tell a lot about a man by looking at his work space.
A quick duck into the kitchen and steal a beer, he wandered into the room that JP was trying to make with that wall with no door, still looking for a bed room of any sort.
Inside the Gearhead Garage apartment
Barton stood up and pulled the plastic back over the chairs to walk over and examine the work bench/pool table. "Aw pool table…no," he half way cringed and sighed at the felt. A good look at the workbench as well, because you can tell a lot about a man by looking at his work space.
A quick duck into the kitchen and steal a beer, he wandered into the room that JP was trying to make with that wall with no door, still looking for a bed room of any sort.
The framed off rooms actually had… wow, no furniture in them. There were a couple boxes and a pretty kickin windowsill that was partly cracked for ventilation. There also seemed to be that duffel bag of JP's that had- well there was one of Clint's missing shirts and various bits of gear, clothes, and the few belongings he toted around with him. The few belongings included a handgun, a kazoo, a ring of keys he's collected over the years, and a picture of a little girl sitting on a dock feeding ducks attached to the wall with a thumbtack and a crayon drawing tacked up behind it.
There was also a cat in the windowsill, a russet brown cat with green eyes and short fur. He lounged in that sunbeam like he owned the place. Eyes closed to near-slits, tail tip flicking idly back and forth every so often when a particularly nice breeze blew through. yaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwn and streeeetch, and then back to sleep. It's a rough life.
Leaving his Yogi Bear lunch box and the box of pizza on the floor in what he was going to call the 'living room', Barton wandered into the first room with the stacked boxes. Inspecting the place, the blond intruder shoves his douchebag sunglasses up into his hair and gives it all a once over.
Ceiling. Yep. Has one.
Walls. Yep. Some of those.
Steadying a hand on the open doorway, Barton squeezed and shook the wall to check for give, leaning a thick shoulder into it. "Not bad," mumbling as it apparently met approval and the archer lifted both hands up, bracing into the empty doorframe, hanging there while he took in the measurements of the room, staring at the boxes. Tempting. "Hold your horses. Not yet," talking to himself in a low mumble, Barton tilted his head at the animal on the windowsill.
"He's got a cat." Clint squints at the animal and the open window. "Maybe. Or his strays are nicer than mine. Didn't see that coming." Leaving Sev unharassed for the moment, Barton shoved out of the one doorway and rolled into the other one.
Jackpot.
He strolled smoothly into the room, making it right for the hanging photograph, squinting speculatively at it and the crayon drawing. Hands shoved into his pocket.
Severin rolls his head to one side and cracks one eye open to track Barton as he makes his way into the room. Then he glances down at the box of pizza, then back at Barton, watching as he approaches the drawing. The cat stretches, slowly, recognizing Lobster Guy from the bar. There's a soft plop as his furry feet hit the ground and he begins to pad his way over in the direction of the man standing in the middle of his living space. prrrr prrr prrr The cat rubs up against Hawkeye's leg, demanding attention. Look, if you're going to break in, you're going to pay homage to the cat, or risk getting bitten. Them's the rules.
The drawing was one, presumably made by the child in the expert fashion of 5 year olds stylistically. It's labeled with all the general things addressed 'à: papa, de: amelie' with stickish figure drawings of them on a patio? Deck? Flat surface with :) expression on the people in the figures.
Clint tilts his head at the drawing, leaning slightly closer to note the photo. A crooked half a smile touching his mouth when he feels his legs getting headbutted and leaned against. Looking down quickly at the mound of fur weaving around his legs. "Whoa, hey. You're friendly."
Yeilding to the demands of the currently feline occupant, Barton takes a knee, holding his hand out for him to inspect. "You don't got a collar, but you like people huh? You one of those neighborhood cats with five homes and different names?"
"You're an idiot, Barton," Clint mutters under his breath while he reaches to scritch lightly between Sev's pointy ears. "Keep asking it questions, stupid."
Pushing back up to his feet, Clint looked around the room once again, and the duffle bag shoved full of JP's and his clothes. "What do you think about this guy, Cat?". Meandering over, he kneels down next to the bag and starts digging in, pulling out shirts and pants left and right. Sock. Sock. Underwear. He pulls out a wrinkled green tee shirt from the bag and snaps it out to look at it.
" A streetcar named desire…" Barton reads outloud and smirks. Stripping off his plain faded purple tee shirt and stretching that sucker on around his slightly bulkier muscled frame, snickering to himself. "There you go, Lapin. Now…huh." Sitting on the floor, surrounded by JP's clothes, he looks around and for the cat. "Kitty? Kittykittykittykitty?"
Oh Clint, if only you knew how friendly. Severin inspects the offered hand, checking the grooming of those nails before he's scritched between the ears. His eyes squint shut and he prrprrprrs contentedly as the questions keep coming. Oh, all the homes that he has slipped into through the pet doors. So many homes. So many adopted families with a wide variety of cuisines to partake in, kids' beds to sleep in. The possibilities are endless.
When Clint goes over to the bag with JP's clothes in it, Severin wanders over and sits down next to it, the tip of his tail twitching a little bit. He cocks his head to one side when Clint asks what he thinks about his brother. «Well,» Severin thinks, without actually projecting it to Clint, «He doesn't have terrible taste when it comes to bringers of food.» His head cants a little bit to the other side as Clint pulls off his shirt, «Or in attractive men, for that matter. I think I'll let him keep you.» When Clint looks around calls for him, he strolls on over and climbs right into the man's lap where he sits on the floor. «You may pet me now, Bringer of Lobster and Pizza.»
"Hey, Cat—whoa, okay then," Clint is clearly not precisely used to a cat's natural entitlement and holds his arms up a little, away from his body as Sev makes himself at home in his lap. The Looney Toons bulldog and kitten come to mind with Clint's diffused confusion as to what was going on.
"All right then. Maybe you are his cat. Make yourself right at home in my lap," Clint amuses himself with a stupid joke and gets to the petting, sinking his fingers into Sev's fur across the cat's shoulder blades and down his spine where it seems 'safe'.
Fool.
"I'm more of a dog man, myself, Cat. But you don't seem so bad, huh? You like pizza?" Clint offers, leaning in over Sev to shove clothes back in the duffle bag once again. Shoving his dirty one in there with the rest for JP to find later. "Not bad digs you got here. You enjoying my chairs? What do you think about a hammock?" Again with the fucking hammocks! "Oh…" Clint sets his hand down on Sev's chest, feeling his ribcage rumble. "You don't hate me all that much I guess."
Severin seems safe enough, at least, he hasn't hissed, or bitten.. yet. Nope, he seems to turn himself around and then plops himself down comfortably in Clint's lap to be petted. He yawns expansively and then drapes his chin over the poor man's knee and continues to rumble with contented purring, vastly entertained, and contentedly lazy.
It's the mention of pizza that regains Sev's attention. He can smell it over there, warm and hot. His head swivels around and he looks in the direction of the box. The palm against his chest doesn't seem to bother him either. He peers up at Clint for a moment and gives him a bit of a head-butt before climbing out of his lap and going over to the pizza box where he grabs the lid with his teeth and manages to open it. Talented. He then drags said box over to where Clint is sitting and grabs a slice by the crust, pulling it onto the opened box top where he begins to tear toppings off and eat them.
Scritch, scritch, Clint is content to scritch the fluff of brown in his lap, on his chest when that seems safe. The rumble is pleasing and all, so he doesn't seem to mind in the least. That's something you don't get with dogs.
Shoving clothes back into the duffle bag by handfuls, he watches the cat jump up and start dragging…the box? Confused, Clint's mouth drops, brows knitting together while he sits cross-legged on the floor. "—the hell? You got a pizza cat." He barked a short laugh and scrubbed a hand through his hair and shrugged, half climbing over to snag cheese that was stretched from Sev's piece and drops it in a lump on top of the cat's piece. "Hey man, you earned it."
Taking his own slice, loaded up with meats and veggies, he just threw it all on there not knowing what JP liked. Reclining on one arm, Clint threw his legs out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, chewing on his own two slices, eating them like a sandwich. Barbarian.
Looking around the room once more, sharp, stormy eyes take in the details. Speaking around the bites, "What do y'think, Cat? Throw a hammock in here. There's gotta be some studs in the ceiling. You ever hung a door? That sucks. Could do that. Mm. Not like there's a shortage of things to screw with in here. The roof's shit." Again, like he's gonna get an answer. He eyes the Cat again. "Damn, I hope I didn't just poison you."
Severin makes his way through his piece of pizza, devouring it, sharp little teeth gnawing on the various toppings and then pulling at the cheese which requires sometimes stepping on it with one paw to hold it down and tearing with his head. Cats are not built for eating pizza, but that doesn't stop him, not at all. When the cheese is dumped on top of his piece, he eyes Clint and then seems to give him a meow for the assist before continuing on.
But it's when Barton asks about the hammock that he finally hears a voice, loud and clear in his head, with that same cajun accent that JP has, but in a different voice «You planning on movin' in, Lobster Guy? I mean, I like hammocks and all. As for being a lot of things to screw with… hah. You don't know the half of it.» The cat then continues to go on gnawing on the crust, looking up idly to say, «Shit, if pizza's the thing that done gets me, that'll be some sweet irony»
At first, Clint opens his jaw up and tries to pop his ear. Fuck that was weird.
… … … …
Clint stops with the pizza sammich in his mouth, not quite bitten off, that sea-before-the-storm gaze turned on Sev, but doesn't seem expressly wide as he sits, frozen.
… …
Bite.
Chew.
Staring at the cat with suspicion.
"Am I goin' nuts, or was that you?"
«Well, I wouldn't discount going nuts, but it was also me.» Severin replies, looking back at Clint with that green-eyed gaze, licking cheese from his whiskers.
… …
A heavy silence makes itself at home around Clint while he stares down at the brown cat.
"Huh."
Well. That's. New.
Barton places his pizza sandwich down and places his hands on his knees, leaning forward to stare at the fuzzy animal, trying to catch his eyes. In the most sincere, plain voice, Clint states, "That's really screwed up, man."
The brown cat that is Severin polishes off the remainder of his slice of pizza before going for a second, dragging it up and out of the box. He doesn't seem to mind the staring at all. In fact, he probably eats a little more delicately because eyes are on him. That does not stop cheese from getting stuck to his whiskers and sauce from getting on his nose, which he licks at. When he notices that Clint seems to be trying to actually catch his gaze, he stops mid-chew, a bit of pepperoni sticking out of his mouth and the voice in Clint's head says, «Are you trying to hypnotize me or something?» But then that very sincere statement seems to amuse Severin to no end, «Would it be less screwed up if I were something else?»
"No," Clint admits, looking away from the cat to pick up his pizza. "No, I wasn't trying to hypnotize you. I was making sure that was actually you and I wasn't finally losing it." Sighing under his breath, the weary archer leans back, propped up on a hand, staring down at his pizza.
"What? No. It's screwed up that you let me rub you, man," Clint points out with an arched brow above the other. "Groping on JP's roommate wasn't on my list, but, eh." He looks back at his pizza and takes a bite, struggling with the cheese briefly as it stretches in a long bridge. He speaks through his teeth, then speaks around it, "I mean. I assume yer not really a cat. A feline sort. Your voice sounds like a man's, so I guess you're a cat." He sighs and shakes his head. "Unless you're an alien. Seems less likely."
Somewhere in the second room there's a higher pitched voice and tiny scratchy feet shuffling around.
«So it's not weird to scritch a cat when he can only communicate through purring and meows, but it's totally unacceptable when he can express his appreciation in words? That's messed up man, and speaks to a certain degree of need for subjugation of the animal species in order to warrant affection. That, or a sense that human beings are less worthy of random affection than animals, which is sad in its own way.» Severin opines as he continues to tear at his piece of pizza. The cat is waxing philosophical while sitting on the floor eating pizza off the top of the box lid with the guy who broke into their apartment.
"Yeah, okay, Cat," Clint doesn't bother to get into unpacking all that. Mostly because that language tells him right off that this guy's from a different world than him, so he simply points out, "I'll grab the next woman I meet's tit and give her a ruffle, and I'll let you know how that goes." Munching to the paired crusts, Barton goes for another single piece this time, leaving the crusts in a pile in front of him. "Oh, bar guy. Yeah. Don't pretend it ain't different. You're not a cat—you're a cat-shaped-man. That's the difference. Talking cat alien would've been fine and dandy."
The scritching and whatnot in the other room ignored.
«Nah, you gotta grab her tit and give her a ruffle after you break into her apartment and try on her brother's clothes,» Severin points out, smugly. Then he licks his lips.
Clint doesn't seem to have any problems with what he's doing right now and shrugs a shoulder as he pulls off a mushroom and pops it in his mouth. "We're playing a game. Can't make me feel bad when he's got my chairs in his livingroom and already has some of my clothes in here." Barton pats the bag. "You're deflecting."
«Sure, but I live here. So I'm allowed to play games, too. At least I played the "pet me, feed me" game and not the "alligator attached to your leg" game,» Severin says, stretching from nose to tail and then wandering off into the far side of the apartment. There's some shifting about and rummaging going on before he strolls back out in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, both of which are his own, in man-shape. He gives Barton a grin and goes into the fridge to get out a couple of beers. He offers one to the guy on the floor and says, "Sorry. I didn't mean nothin' by it really. I'm jus' fuckin' with you."
"Oh hell no," Barton grunts. "Once was enough, thanks." He waves off the offer of alligator attacks. "Not saying it wasn't better, but now all I can think of is how I had a full grown naked man in my lap, rubbing his chest." Clint arches an eyebrow. "Not that I wouldn't do that anyway. Not that I haven't done that anyway. Just unexpected. Sometimes I wish people'd greet each other than way. Come on."
He continues eating and musing about what pieces to play now that he's seen the board, legs stretched out and partially reclined. The blond sits up smoothly with a flex of his core rather than shoving himself up on his arms, reaching out to take the offered beer. "Thanks. Yeah, I figured."
Severin's smile is positively feline, even in his natural form, which might lead one to wonder just how much is shared between the two forms, after all. "I mean, sounds like a fine evenin' to me, but I've got a guy, and he's the only one who gets this form naked in his lap." He gestures from head to toe, vaguely. "Boundaries, eh?" Which doesn't mean that the man is dead, or won't flirt. He looks around and says, "I don' plan on gettin' in the middle of yer game none. Jes' leave my stuff out of it." He chuckles, and tips his beer back. "An' the picture of Amelie's like.. sacrosanct."
"Oh yeah?" Barton notes with vague interest, following Sev's hand up and down simply by merit of watching the moving object. Or so he says. "Eh, you're penis non-grata anyway until we're done playing our game. Brothers get weird about sharing."
Looking back over his shoulder to the photograph of the little girl. "Yeah, I got that impression." He doesn't bother getting into how much he may or may not know, there. Just agrees, simply.
"I guess I sort of lost this round, since I got caught. Damn."
Severin chuckles and takes a swig from his beer, watching Clint look over at the photo. He doesn't ask how much he does or doesn't know. So long as the ground rules are set, he doesn't much seem about to pry, either. He's as much entertained by this game he and JP have going on as much as anything else. "Nah, he says. I'm gonna finish this beer and then slide on out like I was never here. Besides, don't you have to get caught by /him/ for it to count?"
"Between you, me, an' the possum in the bedroom.. I didn't see nothin'."
Clint turns back to Sev and wobbles his hand back and forth, tipping the beer likewise. "We haven't really set the rules too much, but I appreciate it. This was just a day for scouting anyway. Feed the guy. Make sure I got the right joint. Get the lay of the land." He shrugs a muscled shoulder, made more pronounced by stretching JP's shirt over his frame. "I won't mess with your stuff now that I know you're here, though." His eyes set securely on Sev.
"And I won't mess with you now that you know I'm not a cat," Severin grins. "The possum is actually a possum, though… and it does bite." He lifts his beer in a good-natured salute. Finishing off the bottle, he takes a moment to appreciate JP's shirt stretched over Clint's form. Setting the bottle off where such things go, he gives a little bit of a salute, and then he grabs his wallet off the counter, shoving it into his pocket, and he's off for the stairs. "Have a good one, Lobster Guy."
Clint flashes a grin back at Severin. "Eh, now that I know you're not a cat, I'm cool." he takes a hard pull off the beer and gets to his feet and grabs for the pizza box, following back into the living room.
"Wait. There's seriously a possum?" Shoving the remaining pizza into the fridge, Barton cranes his neck around to try to get a glimpse of Severin. "Cat! Are you messing with me?"
Severin pauses on the steps and laughs, "Yeah. Every so often JP will feed, wrestle, or otherwise mess with an animal thinking it's me. This is how we get possums."
Clint's eyes lid, arms folding loosely over his chest as he fixes Sev with a skeptical look. "I'm starting to think that the felon is the /good/ brother, you know." A corner of his mouth twitches, dissolving the expression into a wry and humored on. "All right I'll look out for possums. See you later, Cat. I'll be sure not to bitch next time I give ya belly rubs."
Severin grins sidelong and says, "Oh, he's the good brother, he's just bad at not gettin' caught." And with that he gives a wink and a wave, and he disappears down the steps.
After his encounter with Severin, Clint pulled the pizza box out and pulled the pen out of his pocket to scrawl a 'lobster' of sorts on the inside of the lid, before putting it back in the fridge, half eaten. He'll have to make up for that later.
Another deep inhale of breath, leaning a hand on the counter, Barton looked around the space. "Well, shit. He's got a roommate. That makes surprises harder." He meanders back to the workbench to piddle around with whatever he has on that piece of plywood for play with while he thinks, glaring lightly at the floor as a whole.
His eyes drift toward JP's bedroom. Where the possum supposedly stays sometimes. Inhaling and exhaling a measured breath, he ran back down the stairs and out into the garage briefly. Then outside into the alleyways surrounding. Scavenger hunt!
The archer returned to the living room with a cardboard box, a broken paint stir stick, and some spare flexible wiring. He set up his usual 'Jean-Pierre trap' and wandered to the fridge to grab a fresh beer, putting it underneath as bait. The wire wrapping from the end of the stick to the beer. It was a kid's trap, and obvious, but that's what made it funny.
No squibs, no nothing. Just a 'hello'.
Clint was satisfied with 'hello'.
Okay not satisfied, but it would do. Hey he found the guy's pad, that should be worth something.