Clarice & Clint | Monday Afternoon; Namor & Clint | Later Monday Afternoon

[x-hawkeye.livejournal.com]

Clint calls Clarice to ask for a favor.


Clint hit Clarice's number in his phone and held it up to his ear as he went through the items he'd decided to take with him in his duffel bag. The tablet was downloading all kinds of relevant information about geography, politics, geopolitics, currency, trends, and anything else he could think of that might be helpful for somebody who'd been in a cryotube for thousands of years. But if his plan was going to work, he'd need some strategic assistance from his newest purple friend.

Answering her phone when it chimed, Clarice tapped her headset. "Pixie Express," she answered, typing on her computer in the medlab. She had a 'tranquil landscapes' music playlist playing softly in the hopes that it would help soothe her nerves. So far, it was relaxing, but she was still annoyed at stupid little things, so....maybe she needed more than just music?

Chuckling, Clint said, "Hey, 'rice. Think you can spare some time in the next twenty-four hours or so to do me a favor?"

"It's going to take more than twenty-four hours to fix your wardrobe, Barton," she replied automatically with a grin, "but I've got some time off. What you need?"

"I'm thinking of 'porting our surly friend somewhere else, y'know. A show of good faith kind of thing. I'm gonna clear it with Summers, but I was wondering if you'd be up for the 'porting part."

"You only love me because I bypass silly things like customs and paying airlines," Clarice teased with a put-upon sigh. "Payment? I'm not helping a former spook and a dude that pre-dates social security without reason," She didn't work for free, just for really cheap.

"I mean, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that was part of the reason I love you, but it's not the only reason," Clint said, grinning now. "What would you like? I can get you all the coffee you might want or maybe this fabric a friend of mine's working on..."

Not a bad proposition. "Fabric," Clarice agreed immediately. "Where do you want to go anyways? I'm thinking somewhere remote, but with water for crankypants. Point Nemo? Tristan da Cunha?" She could do whatever.

"I was thinking a beach, but like. Are either of those islands? He can fly, so it's not like he'd be trapped, but I'm thinking remote is best, yeah. Minimize the amount of potential exposure."

"Both are islands," Clarice assured him. "Point Nemo is the furthest point from anything in the Pacific Ocean. It's not inhabited. Tristan da Cunha is the most remote inhabited place. Or there's always Easter Island," that was fun for giggles with the awesome giant heads. She liked those.

"Let's go Point Nemo," Clint said. "With my luck, the stone heads on Easter Island would mean something to him and we'd get sidetracked by how the modern world had violated some sacred pact between his people and the gods of grass."

Snorting and rolling her eyes, Clarice had to agree, not that she was going to say that, "Bring tents," she suggested, "and let me know when."

"I'm pretty sure we won't need a tent, I don't think he'll decide to stay there. But I'll have my phone so I can call you if I need someone to chuck a tent to us. Or if I need you to pick me up because he's just straight up abandoned me."

Clint was either overly optimistic or naive. She wasn't sure there was a difference sometimes. "Make sure you have a global satellite phone and satellite internet," she replied. "You're gonna need it out there. Beautiful place, but the shopping sucks."

Laughing a little, Clint said, "I'm covered on that front. Promise. Thanks for your help."

"Anytime," Clarice replied, "Talk to you later," she added, tapping the headset to disconnect the call. Now she wanted a snack. Damn Clint.


With Clarice's agreement, Clint goes to see if Namor would be amenable to a change of scenery.


Clint had a knapsack thrown over one shoulder, a duffel over the other, a tablet in his left hand, and a phone in his right as he walked down the mansion hallway. Reaching Namor's door, he paused, checked the hall to make sure no one was in the immediate vicinity, and knocked. Then he waited.

"You may enter."

Eyes turning Heavenward for a moment, Clint took a breath and then opened the door. "Hey," he said, eyebrows raised.

Namor was sitting on a twin bed reading a book someone had seen fit to let him borrow -- "The Old Man and the Sea" was almost scratched out on the spine. The man was still shirtless, and the rest of his worldly possessions (namely one trident) sat propped against a wall or stacked neatly on top of the standard issue dresser. He had gotten back his original costume, though. It laid folded with a set of mismatched clothes that looked to be more out of a garage sale than a catalog. Namor had several day's growth of beard.

"Well," the Atlantean replied drolly, "I see that someone has taught you manners."

"Yeah, looks like they haven't made any progress with you, though," Clint said, stepping into the room. Shrugging the knapsack off his shoulder, he caught it on his wrist and held it, along with the tablet, out to the other man. "I brought you some stuff."

Namor eyed the bag and tablet suspiciously. "Archer, I trust you can understand why I may be skeptical of any," and he gestured idly with one hand, "gifts from you."

Sticking his phone in his pocket, Clint pulled the drawstring on the knapsack and held it open to Namor could see inside. "It's got food and some clothes that actually match, rather than stuff that looks like someone robbed a clothesline in Louisiana in July. The metallic-wrapped pieces are the food — energy bars, protein bars, there's some energy drinks in there, too. I wasn't sure, with your powers, what your metabolism would be like." Pulling the drawstring tight again, he tossed that to the end of the bed, as far from the other man as he could get it without it actually toppling to the floor.

"And this," he continued, "is an electronic tablet. I've loaded a bunch of information on it, everything I could think of that might be useful to you."

"And not one arrow. Another improvement. Archer, you may actually be civilized."

Despite the quip, Namor's expression narrowed as the full weight of his attention was finally upon Clint. "Tell me why you would care."

"There's a lot of reasons," Clint said, shrugging with the tablet still extended toward the other man. "But mostly, I figure if I was in your position, I'd want as much information as I could get."

This earned the man a single raised eyebrow. "If I were in your position, Archer, I would see no benefit to helping a landless king. What do I have that you want?"

"Knowledge," Clint answered simply. "You have knowledge of a time that we've only got the vaguest myths of. I studied that tube you were in for months — it was fascinating, but it's gotta be, what? Just the tip of the iceberg, right? Like, what was Atlantis like? Culturally, scientifically — your people were obviously far more advanced than we are now. You've got — it's like this blend of science and something else. I haven't been able to figure it out. I want to know about it. Learn."

Just for a moment, the ice of Namor's demeanor shattered to show... was it longing? Homesickness? Whatever it was, the cracks were quickly recemented with anger. "Do you also want our weapons? My home — my shining jewel that was Bensaylum — is gone, mainlander. Stolen from me. I am told its ashes have been scattered and forgotten."

"I don't want the weapons," Clint said, shaking his head. "I want to know who stole it from you. I want to try to figure out what happened after that, why a place and a people that were obviously remarkable disappeared so completely."

Namor stood, cheeks burning, to equalize the footing between them. "Why are you — any of you backwards apes — worthy of this knowledge? These people here, these Xavierites, have demanded very much the same knowledge with coy, shallow promises of 'assistance' to only placate me."

He broke eye contact, composing himself; now more king than dragon. "There is always a price, Archer. I have been denied my rightful chance to make my betrayers pay in blood. That is the cost of this knowledge."

"I..." Clint swallowed the urge to say something pithy about time machines. It was obvious Namor was very upset. Still. "I can't promise you the blood of your enemies, I'm sorry. I can, however, promise to do everything within my power to help you find Atlantis — to get back as much of what was taken from you as it's possible to find." He wasn't sure that would be good enough, but it was all he had.

"Of course not."

There was a beat before Namor next spoke, and all of the emotion was drained from his voice. It was not, however, disinterested. "You would to be my guide to this modern world, then?"

"If you want a guide, sure," Clint said, quirking a brow. "But is that what you want?"

"I grow tired of these questions. Answer me. I desire to rid myself of this place and see the world instead of devoting this new life to studying. Atlantis is hiding in none of your books or machines."

Namor closed the small gap between them, looming. "I will offer you the knowledge you desire, Archer, as I want a guide who is not just another puppet of this Xavier. Show me the hidden places and forgotten corners of this new world."

"Yeah, I'll be your guide," Clint said, extending a hand to the other man. "So you wanna get started now, or you wanna go back to reading... The Old Man and the Sea?"

Namor took the hand with a strong grip. "I will expect nothing short of your best," and this was paired with a sideways glance at the duffel bag, "I do hope that this is not it. Take the time you need to prepare."

Clint grinned. "Excellent. I didn't relish the idea of sleeping in a tent on an island in the middle of the Pacific. Let me make some phone calls."