Sometimes I think about how many little things we probably do every day that would totally mess up the reasoning of a Sherlock-Holmes-style detective.
Like the other day we went to the cinema and I was wearing a shirt with no pockets so I put the ticket in my trouser pocket. The next day I was wearing the same trousers and I put my hand in my pocket and found the ticket there.
Now, I have a certain selection of things I always have in my trouser pockets and I don’t really like having anything else in there because it confuses my hands when I want to get something, so I took the ticket out. And I wasn’t near a rubbish bin, but I was wearing a shirt with a breast pocket. So I put the ticket in the shirt pocket.
And I thought: if I get interestingly murdered, the Sherlock-Holmes-style detective is going to deduce that I’m wearing the same shirt that I wore yesterday. Because it’s got a cinema ticket in the pocket with yesterday’s date on, and why on earth would anyone put a cinema ticket in the pocket of a shirt unless they were wearing the shirt when they went to the cinema?
Which is a bit of reasoning we would all find totally convincing if it came from a Sherlock-Holmes-style detective. But it would be wrong. Because actually there are so many other explanations for things once you take account of the fact that people are often slightly eccentric in completely trivial and unguessable ways.
“Samuel Vimes dreamed about Clues. He had a jaundiced view of Clues. He instinctively distrusted them. They got in the way. And he distrusted the kind of person who’d take one look at another man and say in a lordly voice to his companion, “Ah, my dear sir, I can tell you nothing except that he is a left-handed stonemason who has spent some years in the merchant navy and has recently fallen on hard times,” and then unroll a lot of supercilious commentary about calluses and stance and the state of a man’s boots, when exactly the same comments could apply to a man who was wearing his old clothes because he’d been doing a spot of home bricklaying for a new barbecue pit, and had been tattooed once when he was drunk and seventeen* and in fact got seasick on a wet pavement. What arrogance! What an insult to the rich and chaotic variety of the human experience!”
omg so steve and bucky are super close right? so close that everyone, literally /everyone/ (the media, shield, avengers, /tony/) think that they're dating. tony doesn't cope well.
Steve thinks it’s funny up until he finds out there are legitimate documentaries in which they interview the Howling Commandos, all of whom think Steve and Bucky are in a relationship.
"Son of a bitch," Bucky says from beside him, and throws popcorn at the black-and-white screen. "Dugan, you asshole, I told you that story in confidence.”
"I’m pretty sure they all knew we kissed that one time as teenagers," Steve says, and then pauses to chew popcorn. "Huh."
"Hmm," Bucky says, turning his head but not taking his eyes off the screen.
"Nothing," Steve says. "Just- I thought they knew we weren’t actually in a relationship."
Bucky snorts. “Why, you offended?”
"How dare you think I could be offended by our timeless love,” Steve deadpans, and turns to Bucky, holding out his arms. “Come here, you big lug.”
"Fuck off," Bucky shouts as Steve all but leaps on him, making kissy noises. They’re locked in an epic wrestling match, complete with exaggerated kissy noises that are half-laugh, when they hear Tony say, "Oh."
They both twist awkwardly to see Tony white-knuckling a cup of coffee in one hand and a doorknob in the other, his smile strained. “Sorry,” he says. “I- JARVIS usually tells me if someone’s getting frisky in the room I’m walking into. Sorry,” he says again, and walks out, closing the door a bit too hard.
Steve blinks at the closed door. “Shit,” he says, turning to Bucky with wide eyes. “Bucky, shit.”
"They think we’re together," Steve says. "I always thought they were joking, and we always went along with it, didn’t we?"
"Yes," Bucky says slowly. "Because it’s hilarious, why are you- ohhhh, shit," Bucky says, barking a laugh. "That’s why Stark hasn’t been flirting back! I thought it was because you stink at flirting."
"Shut up," Steve says, sticking him in the ribs with his elbow, and Bucky yelps and the wrestling resumes.
Or, it resumes until Clint walks in, makes a face and says, “Ew, god, not on the couch, c’mon, guys,” and walks back out.
"We should probably tell them we aren’t dating," Bucky says, voice muffled from biting Steve’s shoulder.
They do it at breakfast. Everyone’s eating, and Steve makes sure the whole team is in the room before saying casually, “You all know Bucky and I were never actually together and never will be, right,” at which point Bucky snorts into his cereal and everyone turns to stare at them.
Except for Tony, who hunches further over his coffee.
"Uh," Bruce says, and then coughs. "Steve, you know we’re perfectly fine with-"
"I’m aware, thank you," Steve says. "I’m also aware that Bucky and I have only ever just been friends."
The staring doesn’t stop.
"We’re very close," Steve tries.
"I walked in on you making out yesterday," Clint frowns, and Steve sighs.
"We were wrestling."
"All of the Commandos said you were together!"
"Yeah, well, we were in very close quarters and Bucky and I have been friends forever-"
"Look, we love each other, okay," Bucky cuts them off, raising his hands. "And maybe, maybe we’ve macked on each other a couple of times, but that was out of curiosity, and also, c’mon, we’re both really hot. But we don’t have fuzzy feelings for each other, right, Stevie?”
"Fuzzy friendship feelings," Steve says. "But no romantic feelings."
"You call him Stevie,” Clint points out, and Bucky shrugs.
"Yeah, ‘cause we’re close. Still not dating." Bucky shovels more cereal into his mouth. "Thought we’d tell you guys. For reasons.”
Steve kicks Bucky under the table for adding that last bit, and that turns into a foot-wrestling match that eventually knocks the table over.
Later, when Steve is sitting in Tony’s lab, Tony puts his soldering iron down and says, “It does make more sense, now.”
Steve looks up. “What does?”
"Bucky telling me to ask you out last week," Tony says. "I thought he was making fun of me, which didn’t add up, because Bucky and me stopped being dicks to each other about a year ago. He did a whole speech about how good we’d be together."
"Yeah? You gonna ask me, then?"
"I’m," Tony says, and scrunches up his nose at his own outfit. "I was supposed to do it with a tux on, and probably some flowers, but-Steve, would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?"
"Love to," Steve says. "Is eight tonight good for you?"
"Eight is great," Tony says, and Steve grins before getting out his phone to text Bucky, thanks, jerk.
His phone vibrates seconds later: you’re welcome, punk. i’ll accept tony’s thank you in the form of a new gun.
The thing that sucks about mental illness is that if you aren’t depressed enough, suicidal enough, bad enough, nobody cares. Nobody cares until you reach their standard, and that standard is when your problem is bad enough to effect them
The amount of people who can relate to this makes me equally incredibly sad and immensely angry
Protests aren’t so sexy and revolutionary to white motherfuckers when black people do it for self-defense, huh. I like this selective picking and choosing of what constitutes as the “right” kind of retaliation and what’s “wrong.” Your racism is as obvious as the sun in the sky, you V for Vendetta geekass bitches.