Rachel & Clint | Sunday Afternoon

[x-hawkeye.livejournal.com]

Rachel seeks Clint out to ask him a very important aeronautical question. Very important. The conversation from that point meanders. A lot.


"ARMS!" Rachel yelled, barreling through the corridor that ran parallel to the labs and towards the tall, well-muscled (which only half-explained the nickname, really) figure that appeared to be just exiting one of said labs. The psion was half running and half flying (it was kind of hard to tell), the intent look in her eye spelling trouble for anyone that got in her way.

When she skidded to a stop before her target, feet planted firmly on the ground and breathing unlaboured, it became apparent that she had likely not gotten much sleep (or food) in the recent days. Hell, the bags under her eyes were large enough to stow the luggage of a family of four for a five day trip to Italy, never mind the way the baggy knit sweater hung from her thin shoulders. There was an almost manic gleam to her impossibly bright green eyes.

"I need you to put an end to an argument. (A very important argument)." She didn't actually think that it was possible for Clint to hear the parenthesis in that statement, but Rachel dug her teeth into her bottom lip for a moment anyway. "How much do you know about planes?"

"About as much as I know about boats," Clint said, eyebrows rising a little. "Which is kind of a lot. What's the argument I'm ending?" There was something slightly off about Rachel - he didn't know her well, but he could spot microexpressions like it was nobody's business. He was basically a human lie detector when it came to reading people and, just for a split second when she'd said the argument was very important, her face had shifted a little. Not the way she held herself, per se - it was just something odd.

"(Boats!) Another time for that. Planes," she insisted, fingers carding impatiently through her hair. "Although it does kind of sort of maybe involve a boat. (Because, y'know, the Spruce Goose.)" Rachel rolled her eyes. "Anyway. Hughes F-4 Hercules. Flight-worthy, or not? For long distances."

Cocking his head a little as he processed the odd shifts in Rachel's expressions, Clint answered, "Its lifting capacity and ceiling were never actually tested - it proved flight-worthy for about a single land mile at seventy miles per hour, 135 feet above the water. Obviously, at that altitude, it still experienced ground-effect. It's supposed to be able to cruise at about 250 miles per hour for 3000 miles at nearly 30,000 feet - but like I said, never actually tested. Why?"

"Hah!" The girl crowed triumphantly, a bright grin lighting up her face for two precious seconds. "(But you can get that off the internet.) Second question: Cloaking tech - does it work on wood?"

"Right, because I have the internet stored in my brain," Clint said, snorting softly even as he made himself not react to the truly disconcerting changes taking place around Rachel's eyes from one sentence to the next. "Actually, I think I know a dude who does have the internet stored in his brain, so I'll let you have that one." He considered the cloaking tech question for a moment before cracking a smile. "No, it doesn't work on wood. There's a TV show that used that idea to con a mark, though. Where are these questions coming from? And have you eaten? Because I'll be honest, you look like you could use a sandwich."

She blinked at him for long moment as though considering his question. Then: "Do you think we could do it though? (Because I think we can, mate.)"

"What, make stealth tech for a wooden plane?" Clint asked, keeping his smile pleasant and amused rather than wary as her expression shifts kept coming. "I mean, theoretically. Stealth tech is made with a birch composite, so it might be workable. But again - why?"

"Because --" She paused again, head cocked to the side like a robin listening for its mate. "I can? For science. (It's just theoretical) and it'd be kinda amazing?"

There was a moment of clarity in her eyes when she met his gaze straight on and it was like she realized how fucking weird she was being. And he could tell something was up, even as he was humouring her. She bit into her lower lip again, glanced away and rubbed tiredly at her eyes.

"Sorry," she said. "I haven't slept in a while."

"Hey, no problem," Clint said, shaking his head. "You never answered the question about if you'd eaten. Have you overlooked that in addition to sleep?"

"Maybe? I got... (distracted)." She smacked her forehead against her palm with a surprising amount of force and started to turn away (because omg she did not need someone to witness her break down). "Brain won't shut up. So I'm gonna go, right? And uhm. Maybe do something about my life." (Call Jim.) (Or Angelo.) (Angelo wouldn't know what to do.) (To shut her brain up??)

"Hey, hang on," Clint said, reaching out to touch Rachel's shoulder. She was a mutant - she had to be, if she was here. He didn't know what her powers might be, if she had anything in addition to the personal shields he'd seen, and he hadn't actually been around many out mutants, but maybe this was something he could help with. Probably not, but it was worth a shot. "Take a breath and slow down for a minute. Let's get you something to eat before you y'know. Go do something about your life."

She tensed at his touch, the soldier almost coming to the fore before Rachel inhaled sharply and shoved it away. She glanced up him through lowered lashes and messy fringe. Then she let out a gusty breath. "Okay."

Clint dropped his hand almost immediately, the tension in her shoulders giving her away the same way the deer in the headlights look had when he'd asked her out in the attic. "Cool, let's head up to the kitchen." He had no idea what was going on, but he'd do his best to help Rachel settle.

Later, when she was seated gingerly on the edge of the counter seat, Rachel tapped a nervous pattern on the table top. (Morse code.) Bright eyes watched Clint as he moved around the kitchen, making her a sandwich, just as he had promised. (What a strange familiar stranger.) (Nice though.) (You mean the arms?)

Rachel wished her brain didn't feel so heavy, partially from being up for 40-odd hours and partially because the voices just wouldn't shut up. It was getting difficult to differentiate between one voice from the next, or between her own thoughts and their incessant chatter. (Had she or had she not stood in front of a mirror in her room and carried out a debate on aeronautical engineering with herself?)

Sitting a turkey sandwich on the counter in front of her, Clint said, "Rye, mustard, turkey, tomato, lettuce - deliciousness on a plate." He started making one for himself, as well. It'd taken him a minute or two to realize she was spelling out S-O-S in Morse Code, he was a little rusty on that, but once he'd figured it out, he responded. Q-S-L. I acknowledge receipt. He had to make do with the plate he was fixing his sandwich on and finding excuses to move around the kitchen to clack it in the right rhythm was a little silly, but something was definitely going on.

He situated himself at the counter across from Rachel and finally just drummed out another response. S-I-T-B-K-R-E-P? Sit rep?

Her fingers stuttered to a halt. Then, calmly (too calmly), she reached out and picked up the sandwich and took a healthy bite with a sound of appreciation. Then she tapped out: R-M. I have interference.

Clint took a bite of his own sandwich, humming low his throat because it was pretty good. The Morse Code continued. Q-R-X? Should I wait?

C. Yes. She chewed and swallowed. "This is good." She was suddenly reminded of Matt. Her midnight Matt and her sandwich stealing tendencies and his ineffective protests. She smiled, fondly, and took another bite. Her fingers tapped out another rapid pattern - No immediate danger. Then: Danger unknown. "Could you grab some OJ for me?"

She hummed lightly, content for the moment, nevermind how weird they would look to any passers-by right then. The pressure of a multitude of unseen ghosts lifted just a little as she wrapped the warmth of his steadfast calm around herself like a security blanket and her heart, never having quite calmed since she and David had arrived at the mansion, slowed to a more sedate pace. It felt strangely like peace.

"No, no. It's like the... headspace that we psis can access in one way or another. Like a metaphorical level of existence tied to the physical world. (Nothing to do with any of those philosophies.) So like when I used my TP on you, I was manipulating a thread of ectoplasm in the Astral Plane that you can't see for all of your mutation, but which affected both you and me in the physical world. Some mutants (like me) happen to be able to actually enter the Astral Plane fully as opposed to just borrowing odd bits and pieces and manifesting them in the physical realm in one way or another."

"I wonder if that's what the Bifrost Bridge goes through," Clint said, setting the pack of frozen meat on the counter before waving his hand as if to clear the air of his question. "Nevermind, not important." He considered Rachel, brows slightly furrowed. She was a puzzle he was trying to solve. "There've been examples of people manifesting physical reactions - psychosomatic reactions to perceived violence. Then there're the Catholics and their Stigmata. But I don't... think that's what you're experiencing. You said you've been checked out, the Professor would know if someone was doing something. Hm."

"Yup," she popped the 'P' and returned the juice carton to the fridge, leaning against the door with a miserable expression on her face. "This is all me. Multiple voices in my brain. Inside. Around me. Hovering. And they just won't shut up. (I already said that)."

The redhead cut herself off and glared at a space to her left for a second then smacked her forehead with her palm again with a frustrated exclamation that sounded vaguely like 'fucking Xorn'. "Maybe I'm developing a multiple personality disorder."

Except David said she wasn't and he would know, so.

"Hey, don't smack yourself around. No matter how hard you hit, you're probably not gonna knock anything loose," Clint said, still frowning a little. "I'm not a medical doctor, so take this with a grain of salt - have you had an MRI done? Like, if the voices are pretty constant, the ghosts are around, maybe a scan would show what part of your brain is active when they're there?"

One slow blink followed another before a smile broke across her tired face. "Smart cookie," was all she said. "No harm trying, right?"

She patted her jeans pockets out of habit, knowing that she didn't have a phone yet. But that was okay. She would go hammer down David's door and distract him from whatever shit was not going on in his brain at whatever point in time. And he would listen to her and humour her and somehow make her feel better for a while just like Clint had-- Oh.

"Thank you. I mean, I'm sorry to dump all this crazy on you. But thank you for being so incredibly nice (sweet) to a perfect stranger," her smile turned sheepish as she studied the mark on his face. "Who totally (bitch) slapped you for no good reason. (I shouldn't have fallen asleep here.)"

Clint tipped his head to the side. "Are the ghosts vocalizing through you? That makes sense - the microexpressions, I mean. And you're welcome. You're not a perfect stranger. I did ask you out, after all. And you've got some wicked weapon specs in your brain. Besides, it's been a while since I got bitchslapped. A couple months, at least. Keeps me on my toes."

"Kind of? I'm too tired to stop them right now," she admitted. And she wasn't an idiot. He had totally let her slap him -- Again, just really glad she hadn't used her powers on him. "The weapons specs... also not really mine. (I have some pretty intelligent voices in my brain right now.) I'm usually more of a... blow shit up kind of person."

The twist of her lips was wry this time and she leaned over and poked him in his still-red cheek. "Glad I didn't blow you up. And it's a good thing I didn't say yes to dinner -- way too much crazy for you to deal with here."

"I dunno, I made you lunch," Clint said, amused. "Besides, you're talking to a guy who literally met a demigod and came away from the conversation slightly drunk with suggestions for arrowhead modifications. It's not like I haven't seen some out there stuff. I'm sure there's an explanation for things. And maybe if this is happening because of the Astral Plane stuff you'll be able to figure out a way to undo it or something." He paused for a moment, then asked, "So the voices - are they all like, different people?"

"Uh huh. More or less," she said vaguely (distractedly). "It's a bit hard to explain. My brain feels so full I can't distinguish one ghost from another mostly. But then there are some more distinctive voices. Like, there's a weapons engineer and a (paranoid) soldier. I'm not sure but there was also a pilot. And a suicidal (teenager).

"And I hate to break it to you but if this is because I'm intrinsically damaged from my time in the Astral Plane, it's probably going to take a small miracle to fix." She massaged her temple with the heel of her hand. "You can thank the soldier for the bitch slap by the way. (But they're not always there.) Yeah, sometimes they come and go. Sometimes they're just there. Silent. Staring."

"Well, that's kind of creepy - no offense meant, of course. But silent, staring people are always pretty creepy - that's like the basis for half the horror films ever made. Except for the classic ones. Those are more like, 'Oh, let's prey on man's innate fear of the unknown and the violence of the natural world and also blood.'" Clint paused, then cleared his throat. "Does anything help to calm the voices down?"

Rachel gave him a pointed Look. (Which said: If I knew we wouldn't be having this conversation.) "You did," she shrugged. "I also knocked myself out with a tranq about three days ago -- that worked. But I woke up with a migraine and even louder ghosts."

"Well, if you've got a paranoid soldier running around, they probably didn't like getting tranq'd. I don't imagine the weapons engineer would, either - God help anybody who tranq's me when I'm in the middle of a project. Dunno about the teen. The pilot, though - that's why you were asking me about the Spruce Goose, isn't it?" Clint quirked a brow.

"Hah!" Rachel scoffed, shaking her head before carefully making her way back to the kitchen counter and leaping lightly up to perch on it. "I am a paranoid soldier and a pilot. It's just that in the face of Crazy, I'm not so much worried about people out for my neck as I am being destructive in a bout of madness." (You're saying too much) "Am I saying too much? Anyway, the Spruce Goose was between myself, the pilot, and a rather vintage sounding lab tech. (I think.) (No?) (Oh, the carpenter.) Of course."

It was fascinating, watching the conversations happen in snapshots of microexpressions. He wasn't a hundred percent sure, but he thought he might be able to differentiate between the voices based on the shifts in facial muscles when they were bickering. "I don't think you're saying too much. I just wish I could help more. I mean, you can borrow all the calm you like. It's just I'm used to being able to figure things out so I can respond accordingly."

"Well, when I figure it out, I'll let you know?" She sighed, swinging her feet lightly. "In the meantime, I appreciate it, but I can't guarantee that I won't take you out every time I wake up. I just--" she made an abortive hand gesture towards him, gave a defeated sigh and shrugged again, unable to complete the sentence anymore.

"I could always wear a helmet," Clint offered, just to see how she'd react.

Green eyes narrowed at him then Rachel cracked a small smile. "What, the Rugby kind?"

"Or football. At the very least, I could use a mouth guard," Clint said, maintaining a straight face by force of will alone.

"Go on, laugh it up," she huffed and threw the nearest object at hand (a coaster) at his face, which he plucked out of the air. "You wouldn't be laughing if I'd actually blasted you through the wall(s)." (You'd be dead.) (Probably.) (Remember Molly?) (Balls.)

Rachel paused and cocked her head to the side to survey him. "You're new here. Have you been around mutants much, Clint?"

"Not really. Not people who were open about being mutants, anyway," Clint said, shaking his head. "I mean, there's my brother, Matt. But he's just got the like. Super senses thing going on. He's blind but everything else is really, really heightened for him. We made a pretty decent pair growing up - super eyes, super everything else. Not that I knew I was a mutant at that point." He quirked a smile. "Beyond that, I've mostly... done what I could to try and keep mutants off the radar when possible. SHIELD snapped me up right after I got my PhD and I transferred to SWORD after basic training. Ish." He left out the part where Directer Fury and SSA Coulson had buried his test results when he came up positive for an active x-gene.

Matt. Matty. Sandwich maker. (Her Matt.) Small world. (Worlds.) "Well," she said slowly, not wanting to come across as condescending or rude. But this was a point that she felt very strongly about getting across to him. "Sometimes, mutants can actually be very dangerous. And I'm not talking about the evil kind of mutant. I'm talking about danger arising not by choice or intent but by design. (Or sometimes due to circumstances.)"

She held up a fist towards him and a shield snapped in place around it, glowing faintly blue. "Telekinesis. There are a couple types of TK. For some it's the ability to move physical objects with their minds. For others, it's the ability to throw up force fields." She gestured at her hand. "Then there are those who can also harness energy and throw it about with destructive force. There are other types of manifestations, but those are the main ones. It's not always so clear cut, though. And-- (I'm going to have to draw you a table and everything, aren't I?)"

Clint chuckled. "Well, a chart would be nice, I guess, just for categorization. And I know there can be unintentionally dangerous manifestations - you see those on the news most of the time. Justification for the Mutant Registration Act. For bigots to bully people." Actual anger sparked through him for a moment before he shoved it down - this wasn't the time or the place. "I know a kid who got himself in trouble with SWORD. All kinds of people wanted to have at him. That's part of the reason I'm on vacation at the moment. They shipped me to Alaska and then tried to make my PTO use it or lose it."

The redhead smiled softly at him. "You're a good man, Clint. But my point is... my TK extends to beyond just shields." The one around her fist pulsed strongly before she let it collapse into itself. "I have killed men more firmly armoured than a footballer with it. So trust me when I say that a mouth guard and helmet isn't going to cut it if I get startled awake by the effin' ghosts again." Her fingers moved gently through the air, as though she were stroking his still slightly swollen cheek before she dropped both hands into her lap. "We got really lucky there."

Nodding, Clint said seriously, "I see what you mean. And I appreciate the warning." Then he smiled again. "Try not to worry too much about me, though. I understand why that'd be a stressful situation and I'll definitely be careful, but I've got a little more going on than just the eyes. So for me personally, it might not be as bad as all that if you TK'd me into a wall. Probably. Not that I want to experience that." He finally sat the coaster on the counter beside her.

"It's not as simple as being thrown into a wall--" Rachel wrinkled her nose at him and sighed. "I think you're not going to appreciate what I'm saying until you actually see it for yourself, birdbrain."

"I can do that," Clint said, meaning it. He didn't consider himself an expert when it came to mutations of any kind. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to consider himself anything even close to an expert, particularly given the range of different mutations that were possible. "You've obviously got more experience with this than I do. Still, I wouldn't mind seeing it in action at some point - y'know, when you're not being startled awake."

"Or haunted by ghosts who may take over my body at any given time?" The defeated expression she wore was not one she wore often or by choice. But it did seem likely with each passing day. At that thought, she strengthened her telepathic shields which had been bolstered by Charles.

"What, like possess you?" Clint said, somewhat more alarmed by this possibility than he'd been by anything else during the course of their conversation.

"It's a possibility we can't dismiss," Rachel quirked a sardonic brow at him that belied her genuine worry. "If we chart the trajectory thus far: I've gone from sensing them to hearing them to having them speak through me. What's next?"

"How long has it taken you to get to this point - what started when? If you really want to chart the trajectory, you have to know the timing to accurately project the next development."

"It started... 15 days ago (when I first arrived). Started hearing them 10 days ago. I started arguing with them the day before yesterday." And of course today she had been smacked on the back of her head and made to see a vision of... her and Matt? The frown lay heavy between her brows and she reached up to rub at it. "Physical sensation started today."

Clint started running through mathematical equations, integers, exponential equivalents, accounting for dates as well as the length of time between them - maybe it was even more specific but there was no way to get that information. Except they were in a mansion full of mutants and one of the most powerful telepaths apparently ran the place but that was including unknown variables and it would be better to work with what he had. What he had wasn't much.

Settling on the stool near where Rachel sat on the counter, Clint pulled his phone back out of his pocket and started typing everything he did have into a few different probability programs he'd designed.

One of her ghosts started chattering about some mathematical equation of some kind, but it was quickly drowned out by the yammering of the rest. So Rachel closed her eyes against the onslaught of noise in her mind and hummed a nonsensical tune under her breath while she waited for Clint to satisfy his instinctive urge to solve problems with math and science. She would probably be interested on some intellectual level, but she was just so exhausted.

It was several long minutes later that Clint, no closer than he'd been before to figuring out the root of the problem or a solution, frowned and clicked his phone off. "How's your telepathy thing work?"

"You're going to need to be a bit more specific than that, mate."

"You asked me to give you my hand earlier when you borrowed my zen - is physical contact necessary?"

"No," she said, opening her eyes to peer at him. "It helps and requires less effort to control than if I were to do it across a distance. Which is important because I didn't want to be dipping into your thoughts and stuff."

"So if I said you could borrow my zen whenever you need it, you could do that?"

"Uhm, yeah?" Rachel blinked at him, not quite sure what he was getting at. "Though if I do end up falling asleep I can't maintain the connection."

Clint frowned, then shrugged. "So it'll be a stopgap measure to keep the voices from taking over and to keep you from panicking. And if you go to sleep and they wake you up or whatever - I don't know." He gestured at the air around his head. "If they wake you up, just start borrowing from me again. And, y'know. Lock your door so no one can walk in while you're sleeping?"

"I already do, Arms. Even if, y'know, I live in a mansion full of mutants who will be unhindered by something as simple as a lock." However, for her to use him as her grounding block, she would have to know where he was (at all times) and he would have to be within a certain distance considering that her telepathy was still all kinds of whacked from her trips down the Spiral.

But as Rachel looked into his baby blues and read his desire to help coupled with his frustration at his inability to help, the redhead found the corners of her lips quirking up again. She couldn't possibly burst all his bubbles in one day. So she lifted one hand, palm facing upwards, and wiggled her fingers at him in invitation.

"Yeah, I gotta admit," Clint said, putting his hand in Rachel's. "If I really wanted to get into a locked room, not much could keep me out. A well-placed bit of explosive does wonders for locks. Maybe you should put up a sign."

Her only response was a low chuckle before he felt a fleeting sensation running up his arm from where their fingers were now intertwined. It felt like... warmth, contentment and a surge of gratitude that almost completely masked the underlying threads of anxiety and pain.

"That," Clint said, cocking his head to the side. "That's weird. Not bad. It's just... huh."

Amusement filtered up to him through the connection and there was a spark in her tired verdant eyes as she painstakingly set up a feedback loop to wrap his (protective, concerned, frustrated) calmer feelings around her again (she wasn't that unselfish after all, to give without taking). It still took some effort, but it was one she was willing to make.

"You're supposed to say 'you're welcome, Rachel'," she teased lightly.

"You're welcome, Rachel," Clint parroted, laughing a little. "I hope it helps."