iiiiii’m posting a lot tonight but i’m cleaning out my old google drive accounts and might post abandoned bits of things, such as this deadpool/hawkeye fic that died a very long time ago:
The thing about Clint Barton, despite sometimes being a living disaster, is that he’s got these cowboy good looks, muscles in appropriate places and always looking bruised and strung out even though all he’s done is wake up and drink two pots full of coffee and read. Who reads anymore. Books. He’s curled up on his shitty couch with his bare feet tucked under his leg, looking like a little kid in a too-tight t-shirt that Wade is 100% sure originally belonged to Bishop, because it’s got a weird v-neck that’s stretched over Clint’s clavicle and says: bitches get shit done in bright purple letters.
Oh, and Wade knows all of this because he’s watching from the fire escape.
What? He’s got a crush. Shit happens. Fire escapes get climbed. It’s fucking Shakespearean.
He’s considering his plan here, because all he had up until the point where he was sitting and gazing into the window with his chin in his hands was A) stalking can be romantic in the right contexts, right? He’s trying to come up with a legitimate B) when he looks up to see an arrow pointing at his head because of course there’s an arrow pointing at his head. There’s a pretty high statistical likelihood that there will be an arrow pointing at his head at any point when he’s in Bed-Stuy, just based on experience.
“What the actual hell,” Clint deadpans, when Wade throws back his hoodie and smiles at him.
“Hey, peaches,” he says.
“What,” Clint repeats, “the actual hell.”
“I brought donuts,” Wade says, fishing around behind him to pull out a greasy bag.
Clint squints at him before opening the window completely and stepping up enough on the window frame so he can scout out the surrounding area. Making sure Wade’s not a double agent, here to attack him with backup. He’s so well-prepared.
“You’re alone?” Clint asks.
“Never, when you’re in my heart,” Wade replies.
“Alright,” Clint says. He reaches out to take the bag from him, steps back through the window, then locks it behind him. Wade watches, because Clint doesn’t own curtains or blinds or anything, like a particularly adorable clueless college freshman, as Clint drops back down on the sofa to eat the donuts with one hand and hold his book with the other. He ignores the fact that Wade’s now pressed up against the glass, gaping at him.
Playing hard to get.
Wade can work with that.
oh my god, they were roommates 