It was almost a ritual by now, Tony stumbling in at random times, always hours after Clint had called it quits for the day and fallen into their bed. The first time it had happened Clint had damn near taken his head off. It had been after a bad fight, both with the team and later just with Tony, and he hadn’t expected a mostly drunk billionaire, reeking of whiskey, to all but fall on him just as the sun was peeking through the tinted windows of Clint’s room. He’d realised who it was in about the time that it had taken the knife to get to his hand and he’d kicked Tony out instead, terrified by what had almost happened. A repeat performance the next night showed that Tony apparently didn’t remember or didn’t find the threat of imminent death to be a deterrent, which considering the man in question, Clint assumed it was even odds each way
( ... )
Horatio stepped walked onto the beach and took a deep breath. The salty air filled his senses and with it took away the scent of death that had been haunting him all day. He loved his job but on days when he couldn't get the smell of decomposing bodies out of his nose he couldn't wait to get away. To come home and walk along the beach. To fill his senses with the sea. Kneeling down he rubbed his hands in the surf, not caring that his suit pants were getting wet, and rubbed the salt water over his face. Cleansing him.
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