Owner	Pose
Clint Barton	Clint had decided Dresden was right, the best way to find out about the mark was to go to Castiel himself. It'd been a bit since he'd seen the angel, and Clint would be lying if he said he was entirely sure what to expect. If nothing else, he wanted to see if the chair he'd sent had arrived. A nice leather thing, expensive too, but seeing that Castiel had healed his hearing, Clint felt splurging was alright. Coming up the stairs to the second floor Clint checks the address on his phone again, then knocks on Castiel's door.
Castiel	When the chair arrived, Castiel was perplexed as only an angel pretending to be human can be. Chairs were not a thing of heaven, and while he sat upon them in the guise he wore here upon earth, having one delivered to his very own door was another matter altogether. It had taken him over a week to sit upon the thing. As luck would have it, Castiel is home when the knock comes. And for once, this thing of humanity is something he understands and acknowledges. Knocks mean someone is at your door. When this happens, you go to the door, open it, and look suitably annoyed. Or so he had witnessed. The angel crossed the still nearly barren expanse of his apartment to throw open the door, a suitably annoyed expression upon his face. "Yes?"
Clint Barton	Clint wasn't privy to Cas' thoughts but if he had been, he'd be amused. Though faced with the gruff greeting and annoyed expression of Castiel at the door way, Clint was anything but, actually he was a little nervous, you'd have to know him well to see it though, he always amped up the bravado when he was nervous. "Hey, figured it ought to be me who drops in unannounced this time, you got time to talk?" he asks, leaning on the doorframe.
Castiel	Ah, and there's the beauty of Castiel. What others might not know or notice, he is often privy to - whether by aspect of his Warrior nature, or the fact that so much of what humans (especially) think and feel can be plucked from the surface of their thoughts. Though, in this case, the angel is not certain why the man is nervous. Only that he is. Some small consideration given to the thought that perhaps it is a matter of the fight they had had in this very spot. Indeed, Castiel's wall still bears the traces, the angel able to heal all manners of human ailment, but not mend some cracked and dented plaster lathing. "You wish to talk." The annoyance of the door answering mitigated to a flatness of not undertanding. Typically, all he has witnessed is the annoyance. He has no playbook for what comes next. But, as with so many things human, the angel bows to the lead of the other. Clint has suggested talking, and raised the question of the matter of time for it, and the angel has plenty of that. "I see. You mean to come inside to hold a conversation." There is a pause between utterance and action, but for Castiel it's an infinitely shorter time than usual. For Clint, however, it may be an interminable space of silence before the angel steps aside, leaving the other room to pass on by and enter his apartment.
Clint Barton	Clint meets that first silence with a smirk, "Yeah, that would be good," he says. He didn't know what Cas' neighbours thought of the angel in their midst but he was pretty sure Castiel didn't want him talking about marks and angels out side his door. Clint lowers his hand from the door frame and then when the wait goes on, he finally just asks, "Can you-" But Cas is already moving. Clint shakes his head and walks inside. There the chair and the wall damage are noted. Clint flinches at the second and smiles at the first. "I see you got the chair I sent," he remarks, the original delivery had no sender listed on the invoice.
Castiel	Even as Clint is asking.. the angel is moving aside. It's almost comical in the precision of the timing. As though Castiel had waited for *just* that exact moment for move, punctuating the impatience of the mortal with a subtle 'so there'. However, it is more likely that the angel merely does not perceive time as those with a finite existence do. Not that it makes it easier to bear them and their eccentricities... Clint's acknowledging of the chair that sits nearly mid centre of the room - exactly and precisely where the delivery men had dropped it off - gets a slight furrowing of the angel's craggy brows. "You sent the chair. I do not understand. Why would you send a chair?" It's not that Castiel forgets the conversation about furniture, for he doesn't, it's more that the conversation and the arrival of the piece do not equate to the same thing in his mind. The one, the conversation, merely an intellectual exercise as to what is done and expected. The other, the arrival, a thing to be puzzled over. What does one do with a chair? Besides sit in it. It seemed a rather confusing thing. Did one allot so much time to perform the sitting? Was this something of a daily or a weekly chore? And what if one did not do it? Did one merely brush that off, or was one required to sit longer the next time? And why did one sit in a chair? Was it to facilitate contemplating the walls? Or was there some other function that one performed there? The things seemed to make sense in one setting, and not another. Like a bar - where the boilermakers where. You sat in order to be served the boilermaker. Others eexpected you to maintain the seat until the drinking was done. Somehow the sitting signified the act of consuming. But here? In his apartment? The chair seemed a lonely and forlorn thing without purpose, and in truth all Castiel had done with it so far was stare at it. "I am done with the chair," he announced without preamble. "You may have it back now."
Clint Barton	Their dance by the door /did/ seem planned on Clint's part which if anything only served to endear Cas to the archer. He could appreciate a good gag if it was well done and that one had been. Or, so it seemed. The odd placement of the chair didn't surprise him in the slightest and he finds himself unable to anything but smile. Clint turns, examining Castiel's face for signs of deception or mirth. "What? You really don't get it?" Clint says and lets out a sigh. "This place has no furniture, figured a chair might be a good place to start." Completely unaware of how puzzling the chair was, Clint carries on, smirking a little bit more with those final remarks. "You're done with it? Cas, it's a chair, you keep it at your place for whenever you need to sit."
Castiel	Clint's answer to the matter of the chair only serves to perplex the angel further. For every thing he thinks he begins to understand, two more crop up in its wake that he does not. "Why would I need to sit? There are no boilermakers here." As though that suffices to explain the matter fully to his own satisfaction, and should to Clint's as well. It isn't as though Castiel hasn't seen furrniture in other abodes, merely that the connection between the fact of and the necessirty or usefullness of do not equate. A sword has a purpose. It is a symbol of power, but also a weapon. A man who carries a sword with authority speaks of prowess with the blade. Suggests that his word is one to be listened to and respected. One who carries a blade they way Castiel does is one who should be feared. The whole manner of the Angel of the Lord an extension of that blade, a keen edge weilded in the service of He Who is All. It is a thing understood in any language. But the chair? Castiel turns and regards the thing, sitting squat in his apartment as it does. "I do not think I understand this as well as I should." Of course, when you do not need to eat or sleep or rest or any other number of things that mortals do, there are less reasons to comprehand the value of the simple act of sitting and relaxing. Even if that simple act eats so many of the precious minutes alloted to those who wear human flesh and immortal souls.
Clint Barton	Clint blinks, did he just say boilermakers? "Do you mean the drink or the guys who make boilers?" Clint asks out of pure curiosity. He suspected the first but not so strongly discount the second entirely. Peering in Cas' mind was a strange thing. Clint moves over to stand next to the chair, running his hand over the still pristine leather. "Sounds like you don't, no," Clint says. "You have a chair, to relax, a place to sit and get off your feet and enjoy some quiet, rest, you do rest don't you?" he asks. This was totally not the topic he'd come to discuss and yet, he was totally involved with it all the same.