Namor & Clint | Tuesday Afternoon

[x-hawkeye.livejournal.com]

Namor finds Clint on the roof. They talk. Some snowballs get thrown. It's all good.


Clint was bundled up, gloves and a scarf on in addition to his hat, his coat, and his jeans. He was also wearing thermals, but he wouldn't admit that to anybody, not even Maddie. God only knew how much fun she'd have teasing him about his long underwear. But he'd pulled them on before his jeans because Christ, this arctic vortex two thing was totally crimping his loner style. It wouldn't be much use to go up to the roof to think if he lost his nose and his ears to frostbite, after all.

There was another student on the roof then, although Namor had initially meant to only go as far as the flyer's platform. He wasn't wearing thermals, or a jacket, or even a hat. Namor was dressed simply in a tank top and jeans. He had intended to write some emails with his tablet -- now abandoned with his shoes near the flyer's platform when he had heard movement on the roof -- between some flight exercises, which also meant his jeans were rolled up to expose his wings.

It was a rare thing for Namor to be driven to explore by curiosity, but he was in an unexpectedly good mood. It was a crisp weekend afternoon. He had very little to do. Why not see what was pounding along the roof? It wasn't long before he was hovering close enough to be within earshot of the bundled up Clint. "You know," he offered appraisingly, "there are many warmer places to avoid people in the mansion. Also: you need a tissue."

Glancing over his shoulder, his breath frosting white in the air, Clint looked at Namor and his eyes narrowed. "Show-off," he replied, though he did stick his hand in his pocket to see if he had any tissues. He was pretty sure he didn't actually need them, but his face was kind of numb so it was a little hard to tell. "Also, I'm not being antisocial," he continued. "I'm thinking. There's a difference. My head's clearer the higher I go."

"I find avoiding people is one of the best ways to think clearly. I can see why you'd want the roof, though. Running into people in the mansion tends to result in shouting." Or, at least, it did for him. It did not occur to Namor that he was, perhaps, not a very good barometer.

"Shouting?" Clint asked, brows rising now. "Who were you shouting at?" He didn't usually pay attention to gossip, though the mansion was a rumor mill if ever there was one to be found. Mostly, he preferred to keep his head down, hang out with his friends, make sure his dog wasn't chewing things up, and do his homework. Or, like right now, he liked thinking.

Namor waved it off. "It means very little."

"Well, just so you know," Clint said, "Most people don't get into shouting matches just walking down the hallway or whatever. Are you gonna make me look up at you or are you gonna come down here and talk like an almost normal person?"

"We're not even close to normal," Namor said in deadpan as he landed casually on the rooftop. There was a tiny shrug offered in consideration of Clint's statement. That girl was likely telling everyone. "Hope Abbott and I had a difference of opinion."

"Wait, you and Hope got in a shouting match?" Clint's voice, his face, even his body language bled incredulity. "How'd you manage that? She's like the calmest person I've ever met."

Namor frowned, "I accused her of trying too hard to marry a royal, she claimed that I was unworthy of my title." He broke eye contact as if suddenly finding a piece of roofing tile fascinating. "I lost my temper, she found her's."

"Dude," Clint said. He couldn't even fathom saying something that'd piss Hope off enough to make her yell. "So you basically said she was nothing more than like. A brood mare or something who was auctioning herself off to the highest bidder?" Reaching down, Clint gathered up enough snow to make a respectable snowball and then tossed it at Namor's chest. "Dude."

Namor's attention snapped back to Clint with mild disinterest as the snowball struck true. A serious attitude settled over him, "I did not say that." A pause. "Exactly."

"Okay, so you didn't say that exactly, you just sort of said it." Clint snorted. "Dude, do you have no douchebag radar? Like, an internal indicator that goes, 'Oh, hey, I probably shouldn't say that cause I don't want to be a total douchebag?'"

This was met with an indignant frown. "I won't let a few harsh words get in the way of being honest."

"There's being honest," Clint said, speaking slowly as his breath turned white and his nose continued to freeze. "And then there's being an ass."

"Listen," Namor said with a resigned slump of the shoulders, "I have trouble with words when I'm angry. It's something I need to work on." If he was more self-aware, it would have been "trouble with words all the time."

"Ah," Clint said, nodding as though that made perfect sense. "Let me help you out with that." He bent down to scoop up another handful of snow. "Every time you're a douche, I'll throw something at you. Snow's easy for the moment, but chess pieces, straws, maybe pillows if you pull it on a Friday night. It's called reinforcement. I learned about it when I took PD to obedience classes. And... you can have some goldfish crackers when you're nice. Negative and positive reinforcement."

Namor's frown deepened. He stiffened from his momentary lapse of self-recollection, eyes now wide. "Are you comparing me to a dog?"

"No," Clint said, snorting. "It's the same thing parents use on their kids. But you're too old for me to put in timeout."

"Well, like you could find a cage to hold me," Namor relaxed at this. He arched an eyebrow, "Wait. Americans throw things at their children to teach them manners?"

"No, Americans put their kids in timeout as a form of negative reinforcement. Do something you're not supposed to do and you have to sit in a chair in a corner by yourself for five minutes. If you get up, you get another five minutes added on. If you're good, you get to go play again. And maybe you get a cookie. Which is why, as your positive reinforcement, you could have goldfish." Clint rattled it all off like it was totally logical. Obviously, Maddie was rubbing off on him.

"Why a goldfish?" Namor was still skeptical. He'd heard enough fish jokes in his life to be ready to pounce in defense.

"Because they're cheap, delicious, and come in packages that will last a while," Clint replied, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small baggie. "See? Cheesy deliciousness in goldfish form."

"Oh." The tension bled from both Namor's tone and shoulders, replaced by something more mischievous. "Clint, did I ever tell you that your mother was a horse?"

Clint blinked as he tucked the goldfish back in his pocket. "No?"

Namor's mischief evaporated almost as quickly as it came. "You shoot like a girl."

Squinting at Namor, Clint asked, "You're trying to be funny, aren't you?"

"I am attempting science," was his answer as Namor threw a snowball in his direction. "Bird-brain."

Clint waited until the last possible moment, then ducked and let the snowball sail overhead. "Your logic is not Earth logic, your dudeliness."

Namor frowned at the miss and prepped another snowball. "Just trying to gauge what level of 'douchery' is too much, you half-witted commoner."

"Ha!" Clint said, actually laughing. "Right." He scooped up another handful of snow and watched Namor for a moment before feigning a toss at the other teen.

"And they said you don't miss anything." Namor fell for the feint, but lobbed his own snowball anyway.

Clint tossed his snowball, nailing Namor's forehead even as he dodged the ball of snow that came hurtling toward him. "I don't," he said, smirking.