Namor & Clint | Thursday Afternoon

[x-hawkeye.livejournal.com]

Namor finds Clint at the archery range - snark, sarcasm, and attempts at humor ensue.


It had been a remarkably loud afternoon at the mansion. People talking loudly in the hall. People talking loudly in the dorm. Even the pool — a normal refuge — had been full of others splashing about. Idlers. It wasn’t that Namor didn’t like people, but really he only liked them when they were being useful. Or interesting. He would settle for interesting.

Namor, ever resourceful, had already finished two assignments, completed emails home, caught up on his reading for his next classes, and gotten a good workout in despite the white noise.

Twang.

Post-workout, he had figured that going outside was the safest bet to find some quiet. The winter cold seemed to keep most of the mansion residents indoors. The teen had found a good spot near the volleyball courts to relax.

Thwunk.

Namor gritted his teeth. He had been patient, honestly. This was too much.

Slap.

The Attilani stalked toward the solitary figure at the archery range with enough cold rage in his features to rival the weather, but stopped short when he could make out the target dummy. All of the shots were perfect. Now this, this was…

“Interesting,” Namor interjected as an icebreaker.

Clint paused, another arrow nocked, and looked over his shoulder. "Cause that's totally what I'm aiming for - interesting you." Eye still on Namor, he lifted the bow, pulled the string back to his ear, and released. The arrow flew true, landing dead center in the target's chest. "Pun definitely intended."

He rolled his eyes. "What is it with you Americans and constantly explaining yourselves?" A beat. Namor sighed, "Wait, don't bother. The last thing I need is sarcasm." He made a shooing motion as if to erase that line of conversation completely. "Is your weapon broken?"

"No, why would you think it's broken?" Clint asked, genuinely confused. He checked the bow, then turned to face Namor properly.

"Bows are supposed to be quiet weapons. I could hear you from all the way across the green."

"It's the type of target I'm using," Clint said. "Straw or something softer would be quieter. Actually, hitting a person or something made to simulate flesh would be a lot quieter, too. The target's backed by wood."

Namor stared at the target in consideration. "Do you have lots of experience hitting live targets?"

"Not live, per se. I mean, I hit lots of Slendermen when they kidnapped us and stuck us in a parallel dimension," Clint said, quirking an eyebrow.

There were a lot of potential follow up questions here — Slendermen? Parallel dimensions? — but Namor was not the type to dwell on curiosities. "You are clearly excellent at hitting large, stationary circles. What's the challenge here?"

"Before you got here, my eyes were closed," Clint said, shrugging. "There are moving targets here, but I haven't set them up for the day."

His companion nodded, focus adrift in calculation. "Did you view the target and then close your eyes? Or did you reposition yourself and then fire blind?"

"I looked, then moved. Mister Summers and Logan say my mutation involves heightened spatial awareness, like stuff in relation to me. So I've been trying out different things to test that. They started me with a pool table, then I got interested in archery." Clint tipped his head to the side. "Why?"

Namor gestured toward the arrows littering the breadth of the range. "We practice to improve. I just question the value of repeating the same thing many times when you get the same result each time. Do you have to concentrate to hit that accurately?"

"Sort of," Clint said, shrugging. "I mean, once I know where something is, it's kind of like I can pinpoint it wherever I move. Or, if it's moving, I can sort of see where it'll end up. At least that's how it is with Ultimate Frisbee. But it's not like it takes up all my focus."

Namor refocused his attention on the archer. "You can blame my Uncle Karnak for this. He can see weakness, and overly encourages critical thinking. I think he would enjoy how abstract your talents are." There was no hint of apology in his tone.

Clint snorted. "No problem. Considering I didn't know there was anything to my mutation besides my eyesight until I got here and Logan made me take some tests, I figure I'm doing okay."

"Spatial intuition sounds much more useful than never needing glasses. You must have been pleased."

"Well, I'm not displeased. But I don't guess I think about things the way you do. What's up with your wings?" Clint dipped his chin to indicate Namor's ankles. "Were you pleased when you got them? Or did you always have them?"

Namor's expression darkened. He did not follow Clint's queue with his eyes, but unconsciously started digging one shoe into the dirt. "The wings came when I was eleven. Flight is very useful."

"See, your mouth's saying one thing," Clint said, hooking his bow over his shoulder, "But your eyebrows are saying something totally different. Were people jackasses about them?"

His response was icy. "I've found that people are often jackasses."

"Word, man," Clint said, offering Namor an actual smile. "Word. But y'know those people aren't usually worth knowing. I mean, who wants to hang out with jackasses? You did that frowny face, angry eyebrow thing at them, right? You have some impressive angry eyebrows."

Clint didn't get a smile back, but he did get a smirk. "A glare can be more effective than any ten words. I play to my strengths."

"Smart," Clint offered. "Not that you strike me as stupid. Wouldn't have gotten into Columbia otherwise." Unhooking his bow, he tipped his head to the side and asked, "You know how to shoot?"

Namor's smirk eased into a comfortable smile. He took all compliments as a matter of course, but it was uplifting to have a fellow student recognize his gifts. It was his turn to shrug. "I'm built more for punching." He made a mock jab to illustrate the point.

"Yeah, the super strength you mentioned. You do a lot of hand to hand stuff? Or did you concentrate a lot more on strategic stuff? I saw you talking about chess on the journals the other day." Clint wasn't necessarily the best chess player in the world, but his continued participation in Chess Club had taught him a thing or two.

"I did a lot of hand-to-hand and staff combat training at A-B-SAE," Namor rattled off with casual familiarity with the acronym, "And, of course, lots of diplomacy and business strategy. Chess is the most common parallel people use to talk about strategy."

"A-B-SAE?"

"A-B-S-A-E," Namor clarified. "The Amaquelin and Boltagon School for Abilities Enhancement. Kind of a mouthful, so we use the short version."

"Gotcha," Clint said, nodding. "I'd use the short version, too." Tipping his head to the side, he asked, "So you wanna play a game of chess?"

Namor arched his impressive eyebrows playfully, "Are you sure? I will not hold back."

Clint snorted. "If you did I wouldn't get any better."

Namor had his own bark of laughter at Clint's expense, "And you said that we do not think about things in the same way." He made a mocking gesture, "Come at me."

"Uh, dude," Clint said, "I'm not gonna come at you. I like my face the way it is. I was talking like. A chessboard and some chairs and maybe some popcorn while I try to figure out how you're gonna kick my ass figuratively."

Namor deflated, his reply flat and frustrated. He wasn't good at humor. "Americans and their pop culture. I was joking." He did perk up as he added, "There are many ways of kicking someone's ass. Let's go find a chessboard."

Reaching over, Clint gave Namor a pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, dude. We'll find you a funnier sense of humor."

It was Namor's turn to snort. "If there are extra ones lying around I haven't seen them, and I've been to the bottom the sea."

"I'll check at the top of some trees for you," Clint said, tipping his head toward the mansion. "C'mon, there's an awesome chess set in the rec room on the second floor."