Yeah, she did, and it's better than nothing, but I was kinda hoping—. (eh, it's nothing. it's fine. he waves his hand in place of finishing the statement, and shrugs. it looks much the same as it ever had, if he's honest, the exception being only a handful of mostly subtle differences. it's not that he doesn't (didn't) spend much time at home — he does, when he's not at work — but his time is mostly spent trying to catch up on sleep, or training, or hanging out on the rooftop with his neighbours. )
I have a habit of breaking them.
( she'll find the tv remote poking out from behind a cushion (pink) on the couch, and when she turns on the tv, there'll be classic cowboy movie after cowboy movie with the exception of one singular channel that shows dog cop. similarly, there'll be an assortment of western pulp novels in the bookcase, more than clint truthfully owns, but it's evidently an attempt by aurora gone slightly overboard.
he doesn't immediately answer her question, instead making his way upstairs — it's a loft apartment, with a small mezzanine housing his bed, his wardrobe, and the one-and-only bathroom. from there, he calls down to her— )
As long as my coffee pot's in the kitchen, nothing important. ( he doesn't have anything important, really, not except his bows. the thought occurs to him and he decides it's a little sad, so he doesn't vocalise it. (if she looks for it, she might notice a landline on the wall in the kitchen — an anachronism, or a quirk of clint's? who knows!). )
—And I had a thing behind the curtain on that wall next to the kitchen.
( "a thing".
a corkboard with a map of the world, pinned polaroids, and an assortment of sticky notes with illegible (clint's) handwriting. it's probably not there. )
no subject
I have a habit of breaking them.
( she'll find the tv remote poking out from behind a cushion (pink) on the couch, and when she turns on the tv, there'll be classic cowboy movie after cowboy movie with the exception of one singular channel that shows dog cop. similarly, there'll be an assortment of western pulp novels in the bookcase, more than clint truthfully owns, but it's evidently an attempt by aurora gone slightly overboard.
he doesn't immediately answer her question, instead making his way upstairs — it's a loft apartment, with a small mezzanine housing his bed, his wardrobe, and the one-and-only bathroom. from there, he calls down to her— )
As long as my coffee pot's in the kitchen, nothing important. ( he doesn't have anything important, really, not except his bows. the thought occurs to him and he decides it's a little sad, so he doesn't vocalise it. (if she looks for it, she might notice a landline on the wall in the kitchen — an anachronism, or a quirk of clint's? who knows!). )
—And I had a thing behind the curtain on that wall next to the kitchen.
( "a thing".
a corkboard with a map of the world, pinned polaroids, and an assortment of sticky notes with illegible (clint's) handwriting. it's probably not there. )